I Love Riding the Jeepney

Hands down, I’d choose the jeepney over a bus (the smell inside an airconditioned bus can give me a dizzy spell), a taxi (oh so costly), and the MRT train (you’d rarely find a seat inside as it’s always crowded). The jeepney can go far distances and deliver you to your destination without hurting your pocket. Minimum fare of P8.00 is reasonable for a maximum of four-kilometre ride. The farther the destination, the more you have to pay, of course, but it’ll simply be a matter of a few more pesos.

In my earliest 20s, I’d take the bus to go to work, position myself by the window and gaze down at plush cars cruising along the highway. The dream of belonging to the class of private motorists had kept throbbing all those times – until I experienced having my own car in my mid-20s and found out it wasn’t that big a deal for me. Even though driving (high-speed driving at that) remains an activity I delight in, not having a car doesn’t plough a deep hole into my existence. Continuous residence in locations where everything is accessible factors in my decision to forego car ownership, I guess.

The jeepney driver is indubitably the king of the road here. He isn’t, however, a sweetheart to the foreigners staying in our country. Who could forget the former Miss Australia who – after marrying a Filipino and subsequently migrating to the Philippines – had sworn via the media, “Jeepney drivers just drive me crazy.”

That reminds me of an unforgettable incident, or rather spat on the road between a jeepney driver and an expatriate which occurred several years ago while I was on my way to an appointment. When the jeepney I was riding on started swerving erratically, little did I know some kind of road tussle was already taking place. Our driver must not have been aware who he was going head to head with behind the dark-shaded windows of a private red car. A few minutes of outdoing each other on a busy street went on before the red vehicle did manage to cut ahead and stop in front of us, blocking our way.  A fuming expat (an American, I conjecture) got out and, with a gesticulation – both his hands clasping his head – equivalent to “You so stressed me out by what you’ve done,” began arguing with our driver in the most restrained manner he could summon. The jeepney driver listened; at the same time rebutted with a few brief statements of his own in an effort not to lose face during the argument. But both his broken English and confidence couldn’t save him. So before he completely ran out of our second language, he decided to sincerely extend an apology – in full “carabao English” (without letting go of his tiny bit of “attitude” however). The scene was beginning to turn quite comical. The foreigner just stared at his opponent, shook his head, went back to his car and drove away.

“Whew! I just spent all the English I’ve been saving my whole life,” our jeepney driver blurted out.

*

The wisest thing to remember when you are inside a moving jeepney is to grasp on to dear life as the driver may hit the brakes all of a sudden. It’s like this: It’s lunchtime and he’s feeling famished, or his urge to pee has been getting stronger and stronger. But he still has to reach his boundary where he could empty his vehicle of all passengers. As a result, he imagines himself a greyhound chasing an ultimate prey. Heaven help whoever or whatever’s on his way. Well, I am practically used to it. The jeepney rider that I am a big chunk of my life, I’m perfectly wary that when the man behind the wheel steps on the  “screeeech” pedal,” we passengers would, in a matter of seconds, find ourselves all in the front of the jeepney – sitting side by side with the driver himself.

Alright, that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but you sure get what I’m trying to illustrate.

There are jeepney drivers who are kind, helpful, cheerful, and humorous – in spite of the fact most of them barely finished secondary education. Similar to other Asians, we Filipinos, admittedly, can be mulish when it comes to ingesting and heeding discipline on the road.

Yes, I used to own and drive a car. But years of, ahem, soul-searching and spending a fortune on repairs and maintenance led to my dawning of a lifestyle that doesn’t really necessitate going places in my own private vehicle; Especially considering the inconvenience of heavy traffic, difficult parking, incessant increase in fuel cost, and having to pay annual registration fees.

One more thing I love about riding jeepneys: you never get lonely. Solitary car driving could make you feel practically that – isolated. Inside my favourite public vehicle, you are not alone as you’re face to face with your co-passengers. Most of them don’t mind that the happenings or drama in their lives being spilled out, during a conversation with their companions, are for everyone to hear. You also won’t be reprimanded for gawking at what they’re wearing or lugging: their bags, their sassy cellphones, and sundry other accessories; I confess to having a penchant looking at commuters’ shoes and females’ prettily pedicured toenails while en route. My most favourite, though, is watching cute pets being hand-carried by their owners – tiny dogs and cats and, yes, even roosters.

All types of people here ride the jeepney; except for the mega-rich who, every now and then, come up with the absurd notion of scrapping the nation’s principal public transporter. They decry it for its primitive exterior; for being smoke-emitters and, therefore, air polluters; for being road bullies; and because jeepneys, they contend, are merely road clutters.

“Keep on dreaming,” rebukes 80% of the population who rely on the number one means of transportation in the Philippines, “Jeepneys are here to stay.”

I believe so; which makes it a sure thing my fondness for riding jeepneys will continue forevermore.

December Babe Musings (And I Bid Farewell To My Monthly Musings. Remember Though, I’m Still A Babe)

I was five years old when I first realized how much Christmas means to me. My siblings and I would occasionally choose to sleep in the living room, and certain mornings my eyes would open to our glittering Christmas tree with silver-foil leaves. It made me smile. The colour sparkled with the sunlight coming through the windows – making it a more beautifully enchanting sight. I kept closing and opening my eyes so the feeling inside me wouldn’t fade away. My spirits since then have been fastened to the magic spell of the Christmas season.

Santa Claus had been sweet, too, when he gifted me with a charming plastic baby doll – in spite of its immovable arms and legs – the first time. I was thrilled. His arrival had become an anticipated event in the three or four years that followed – until that Christmas day when he brought me house slippers as presents. (And oh, I forgot to mention how I caught my mother in the bedroom during dawn laying down those gifts from Santa)

—–                                    

*Fast forward several years to get to this day*

The kiss of December’s cool winds I have always awaited. Days of bluer skies, extravagant celebrations, as well as jovial moods from everyone have arrived. After all, it’s the merriest month of the year – which provides no room for somber themes and exhausted emotions. Yet the season’s perpetual essence stands before me to look me in the eye – defending its presence. How do you define a period that now represents my deepest loss?

As days go by, I ponder on the coming grand display of fireworks I’ve always looked forward to every eve of January 1 since I was a child. Will I be able to enter the feeling safely in watching them with thrill and awe again, I wonder.

Some evenings I walk along the streets… I pause from time to time as I linger and allow all those alluring Christmas dazzles to mesmerize me. But in spite of the majestic array of colourful lights everywhere, I feel numb inside. I was hoping their radiance would be the balm my grieving soul needs; that their brilliance might help in raising my spirits up to align with the stars at night. Even so, the glamour around could not be sufficient to deliver the original essence of Christmas for me.

Resurrection is out of my reach now. Carrying on is all I can manage. If what’s left of my world still affords me to live for tiny joys my heart can embrace – then it’s my task to flash the smile I can manage, find simple pleasures around, laugh at this world’s silliness, and cart myself hopeful towards a brand new year.

—–

I’m not, however, ending this year with just another soliloquy of my heartache. I’ve come here, too, to say goodbye to the mandatory monthly musings that has been compelling me to bring a post out each month. The reminder is necessary no more because I conjecture I’ll be writing anyway whenever I can.

Yeah. Short short hair. Got a cut just last week. Maybe I’ll grow it long again middle of next year.

Fast lives do slow down. With most of my life strapped to my back, my blog will continuously get attached to the recurrence of my reflections and thoughts induced by ineluctable folds of common sense. But if you are ever wanting of a brief conundrum at any time in your life, simply recall how this blogger has repeatedly bungled life’s bundle of contradictions.

As I bid farewell to my monthly musings that has sustained my blog for two years, may you also not forget…that I am forever your babe.

November Babe Musings: Of Kings and Vagabonds

It can get daunting. Thinking of the remaining lessons life has yet to teach me. Sustained by a life that has hoped for a destiny that believes in undying love and happy endings – with the people I have loved – I can never get used to setting a place for the “unexpected guest.”

I often get tired of being viewed as a woman of strength. Or as an indestructible one. Because I truly am not. Not all the time, at least. I’m no different from the rest. At times when child or job concerns overwhelm me, I curl up in bed; wanting to hide away from it all; wishing a higher power would transport me to my personal utopia – where I could feel like “I’m the King of the World.” Imagining of that special place where I could surrender to every thing my heart asks for.

There is nothing solid on this blogging sphere I sometimes lose myself into. Yet we are all in need of an alternative realm to help us in momentarily escaping our blistering truths and chained existences. And I, for one, didn’t come here to alter the state of humanity – which is a boh-ring and futile endeavour (I’ll have better luck coercing a carabao to sing). Nor have I come to impress anyone with some novel ideas, or the freshest perspectives. So please hear me as I say this one more time: I come here simply to put my f#%king thoughts down.

Only through writing can I bare my true feelings, my wounds, my blunders, my joys, my despair, my silliness, my sentiments. That this art is darn hard work I’ve learned to struggle with. But similar to most of the things in my life I gradually warm up to – be it a task or a way of living; either bringing me pleasure or adding up to my advantages – there is nobody and nothing that could stop me. A few have deemed me quietly driven, headstrong, even cold-hearted at times … “There she stays put.” they might infer once more. Well, my time isn’t up yet. I still aim to claim my place in the sun.

Phrases, thoughts, and lines…meaningful in their own way. They walk beside me; under the moonlight, in the rain, by the sea, in movement together with the restless sky… Dispensing with whatever deadwood that’s surrounding me. Eventually.

Oh, I’m going to be a vagabond writer someday.

*****

October Babe Musings – Can Cash and Politics with Conscience Go Hand in Hand?

I’ve never liked politics, although I normally give my support to my favored political candidates by voting for them during election periods. Our incumbent president is one person I trust because he has vowed to remain true to the ideals of his well-loved parents. I can tell he’s doing his best. Other than that, the drama of Philippine politics is one area I don’t want to waste my time on.

These days, I can’t endure hearing anymore updates on the Pork Barrel scam which has nastily shaken up our country in recent times. What could be exciting in learning yet of another case of utter mishandling of funds by our government authorities? Surprisingly this time, the most popular members of the Congress and the Senate are figuring in the scandal. We’re talking about billions of pesos here, which has been manipulated to fall into the personal pockets of the wrong people instead of benefiting the right constituents. It’s embarrassing how the Philippines has become known widely, not just for its endemic poverty, but also for its deeply-corrupt officials.

Many are convinced the Marcos family, who had ruled the country for 20 years, set the perfect example of how the top leaders of a nation could get away with it all despite cases of plunder and murder that had been slapped against them. Imelda Marcos and her children currently are still enjoying their freedom, their wealth, their ostentatious lifestyle, and are even occupying congressional seats here as representatives of their home province. Unbelievable. We filipinos are that forgiving, I guess. Now it seems amoral fellows have come to rely upon the annals of misbehaving officials who were left unpunished – and to the forbearing nature of us ordinary citizens in the aftermath of their abominable financial deeds.

Personally, I don’t understand the psyche of anyone who can be ok with taking something that isn’t theirs in the first place. That’s outright stealing, of course, which is a crime. Eternal damnation isn’t part of my spiritual fears, yet I would never want anyone to suspect of my soul as negotiable if the cash was enticing enough.

As a tangent, you could also say borrowing money has never been a habit of mine. Alright, so neither is the habit of lending money, I admit (yep, don’t wonder why I’ve got few friends :-)). It is likely to lead to distasteful relationships, unpleasant circumstances – and the ramifications can be pretty heavy. I don’t know; the concept and practice of loan make me uncomfortable. Now you understand better why having a credit card is not my style.

Why does everything have to be about money in this world?

I guess this post states one more reason why I think I was born in the wrong country. Or the wrong planet. Or whatever.

A 20-peso bill with the image of Malacanang Palace – home of the Philippine president

September Babe Musings – My Thoughts on Being a Full-Time Blog Reader and an Occasional Blog Writer

The number of blogs I religiously follow can be counted and summed up using the fingers on my single hand. I can’t accommodate more than that. Unfortunately, two of my favourites have closed down – apparently for good. One is a by a female therapist, the other, by a male systems analyst; both of whom comfortably employ figures of speech in their expressions like no other. A third one – who writes with bounce in his words and can engage anyone in a deep intellectual exchange at the snap of a finger is threatening to follow suit – which leaves me with only a couple of blogs I can visit whenever I spend time on the blogosphere. I admit that doesn’t bode well for the blog euphoria I’ve been savouring here for more than a year.

Perhaps it’s the blogosphere’s way of telling me it’s about time I came up to gratify myself with my own “stuff.” Ah okay, I’ve been thinking of writing short stories soon anyway. But my joy in reading has always taken precedence over my joy in writing. And as a reader, I have a propensity to remain loyal. The bloggers I’ve followed for more than a year can attest to that. On the proviso, however, that the blogger writes remarkably well (ahem, grammar and punctuation perfection an utmost requirement; If not, extreme intelligence and out-of-this-world metaphorical style can make up for the imperfections. Cmon, it’s my predilection and I can say what I want in my blog. :-)) It’s a relief to have found kindred souls who embody similar ideals and sentiments. It’s priceless to learn and get to know of others out there who feel the same way I do about certain matters. Since I am fond of both reading and writing, I consequently have taken a liking to the entertaining value of commenting. By that, I get to read a lot and also get to write a little. Quite convenient, eh? (Happy me)

It seems consistency is a hard virtue to cultivate or hang on to for the majority of highly talented people. But I somehow understand. What writer doesn’t get the feeling from time to time of wanting to puke on his or her own words? Yet I’ve seen bloggers who carry on relentlessly with the art regardless of lack of readership and zero feedback. Amazingly inspiring. The writers who keep on turning up with excellent prose and poetry even if it looks as though they haven’t got any followers and are practically “talking to themselves” have me in complete awe and admiration. Their kind continue to earn my compassion and respect.

Which brings me to the issue about how some bloggers lose interest when they fail to get the Freshly Pressed seal. I still don’t get some bloggers’ hankering to win the nod of the WordPress peeps. Somebody has to enlighten me as to what’s really the big deal in getting that kind of attention. Will the blogger get paid? Will he be able to procure a contract with a publishing giant for the “recognition?” Will he even be handed out a choco chip cookie for it? Aside from losing the privilege to blog in peace, it looks like replying to identical comments over and over again from various bloggers who turn up from nowhere is agonizing. What’s more, those bloggers who flock to Freshly Pressed pages as one-time visitors – are totally beyond my comprehension. Aren’t they aware they’re pretty much zombie-like in their mass clicking of the Like button and making uniform comments, only to disappear – never to be seen again – on the FP’d blogger’s very next entry? Worse, they seem to not even have read the prized article. No wonder a huge chunk of the FPressed beneficiaries closed shop within a few months. They must have bumped their heads somewhere and had that precious Aha moment to want to start all over again.

On a similar note, I’ve had commenters who had come here assuming I’d be enthusiastic to play the politics of the blogging world. I’ve only got this to say: Please don’t ever assume this blogger couldn’t tell the obvious fact you didn’t read what she had written. Nobody is that stupid I believe. Any discerning blogger knows if all you did was glance at the title or read a short paragraph in the middle or at the end of the post. You very well know I am not after the quantity of Likes or comments my blog post can garner. I confess I may have been guilty of the particular deed once or twice in the aggregate years of my residence on WordPress – for the elementary reason I had a hard time comprehending an unexciting piece the first time. But I always made sure I came back to reread what I had missed. If I took the time to comment or simply Liked your post, it’s a guarantee I did read your work.

And maybe I ought to put a Disclaimer here, too. Just like what a blogging buddy did on his wonderful blog. Clicking Like or ostensibly Following me won’t automatically engender reciprocity. If you’re that good and your subject engrosses me, I will read your stuff. For sure. Even if you pretend to completely ignore me. And if you happen to be handsome or funny and smart or possess all three, well, what can I say? I am forever yours.

I may just be kidding, of course.

August Babe Musings – The Power of Beauty

I have not been in the mood to write recently, but my monthly feature of babe musing has somehow been compelling me to turn up with a post once a month. Gratefully, I always find myself a bit happier as soon as I start writing down whatever has been bubbling inside my mind. I’ll be setting aside my attempts at verbal gymnastics temporarily and try to write more spontaneously this time.

I’d like to touch on the subject of eye appeal for this particular post because it’s the quality I am destined to lose sooner or later; made poignant by my having to face the mirror each day of my life. Besides, who wouldn’t want to deal with this subject especially if it has the promise to make us feel better or more beautiful and youthful? The concept of beauty is no doubt equivalent to the concept of youth which has never ceased being a negotiable asset everywhere, every time. Men make no bones about winning the love and attention of pretty young things even if they act start acting funny around them. Which automatically means you could get more easily what you want from men if you’ve got “the power of beauty (plus youth).”

I can’t totally fault the opposite gender for that because frankly, I prefer handsome men, too (What about younger, you ask? That’ll be another story for another post). When I was in college, there was this guy who liked me and wanted me to be his girl. He was delightful in conversations and could make me laugh practically non-stop for two straight hours. The problem was I just couldn’t make myself fall in love with his face. I chose the other guy with the dashing facade, yet with blander sense of humor. A choice I came to regret in retrospect.

But let’s get back to the subject of beauty in a woman. For a start, I have to tell you: I wish my nose were different, my forehead narrower. Morgan Fairchild has got the perfect nose, in my book. And I also wish I were taller. In my secret life, I’m Angelina Jolie. Minus her history of drug use, minus her past with Billy Bob Thornton, and definitely minus the six children (Oh, the twins can stay, they’re so cute I won’t mind).

beautiful lady #1 – Sharon Stone

My parents did put a lot of weight on external matters. They were convinced the ultimate success of a woman is largely measured by her physical attributes – and how she makes use of them to her advantage. In parallel, an aunt and two of my paternal half-sisters won the major title in national beauty competitions in some distant past. They subsequently married guys from well-to-do families. What’s more, my mother had unceasingly been infatuated before by the allure of showbiz she constantly dreamed of one of her children making it as a movie star.

It was literally my elder sister who had had the potential to make it huge – as backed up by the never-ending praises she got from everyone for her apparent good looks since we were children. Her facial features are more regular than mine. She’s taller (she’s 5’3, I’m 5’1) and has fairer skin. She’s nearly perfect – and I’m not exaggerating. She’s smart and talented to boot. As a consequence, she made it successfully in the field of broadcasting and married a guy from a rich family. What about me? Shucks, don’t ask.

beautiful lady #2 – Lucy Torres – a filipina

Truthfully, all my life people have labelled me on the side of beautiful – for the principal reason that I am a “mestiza” (with mixed blood), even though I can never be considered drop-dead gorgeous. No way could I match my sister in most aspects so I appeased myself with whatever God-given assets granted to me in birth. An amusing incident three years ago gave it more credence when a customer, who had been frequenting my booth at my other job to buy tickets, casually said out of the blue: “You aren’t really beautiful. You just look striking mainly because of your fair skin.” Whoa. Hmm… Did that surprise or offend me? Not much – except for his temerity in telling it to me straight and his opaque purpose for doing so. I have always been aware of the truth of his statement anyway, and it somehow validated my own long-time perspectives about my looks.

It’s true that here in my country what’s generally accepted as beautiful connotes regular features and some rubric measure of prettiness. Like most Asian countries, we also have our definition of a standard beauty. My mother had once remarked how she found Jackie Onassis unattractive even though the latter had been hailed as one of the most beautiful women in the world. By the same token Angelina Jolie’s beauty isn’t the popular benchmark of a gal’s loveliness here.

beautiful lady #3 – waitaminit. That’s me! Yes! And don’t you dare object. 🙂

Here’s another thing you should know about me: I associate beauty with smell. You think you’re beautiful? Ok, but how do you smell? You see, I went to a neighboring Asian country a few years ago and found out that more than one-third of its population is made up of nationals from another huge Asian country which used to be a British colony. These people have dark skin (to my surprise) and inexplicable, pungent smell (because of their diet, I suppose) – their odor excruciatingly strong I almost fainted every time I was around them. Yet it was appalling that they are arrogant snobs who carry within them an air of superiority over other Asians, especially filipinos. I don’t know why. Perhaps they’ve been thinking all this time their species are endowed with a higher proficiency of the English language. Oh yeah? Frankly, they aren’t that good. As I watched them then act insolently towards others, I could only think, “Get real, you smelly people.” 🙂

Well, my real point is, cleanliness – both in looks and smell – is essential to make it on my list.

If I had to choose between beauty or brains, say, between looking exactly like Salma Hayek or possessing prolific writer Margaret Atwood’s cerebral skill, I’d go for the former. No contest. Yes I know; looks eventually fade and Miss Hayek will end up looking like a raisin after dozens of years, just like the rest of us will. But hey, at least I’d have a shot at marrying a multi-billionaire (she’s some very rich guy’s wife now, fyi) and romancing Antonio Banderas in a couple of films.

For the meantime, I am tired after teaching my English-deficient students all day in my job that pays little with non-existent perks (Whatta life). Please leave me in peace now so I can lie down in bed and begin fantasizing I am Angelina Jolie (with a clean-shaven Brad Pitt in tow).

July Babe Musings (Yet There Exist Uncertainties)

Nothing momentous to share of late. Various demands on my time and my quotidian routine are probably contributing to my current lack of dedication to write on this blog. Writing has never been easy for me anyway. To boot, my regret for not developing the right foundation with regard to reading and writing in my much younger years still weighs on me every so often. It would have made a difference I’m sure. I could have been a lot better at wordsmithing, and writing about any theme would have been a snap. Alas, I’ve always struggled at every single item I manage to pen here.

It seems I’ve overdosed as well on putting out mawkish materials that make me feel nauseated every time I review my prior posts these days. I’m itching once more to delete them all. At the same time, I’m aware the never-ending process of discerning my voice here through the odd congruence of my love for the people around me, my moderate degree of contentment, my inevitable melancholy, and my low-grade indifference continue to unfold. They might have already combined in abbreviating my essence, too.

For now, no foolish, unrestrained feelings have been confounding me since my heart has earlier on been freed from the shackles of needless emotions. I have waited for so long to arrive at this placid station in my life. Very liberating, in fact, as it has afforded me to think more clearly and focus better on loftier goals. Yet could it be that the sweetness I used to spread around is gradually turning into some hard and bitter marrow of truth?

And then there also have been countless times when I feel like I’m walking around empty. As if I were only half alive. Because the impact of my massive loss early this year still weighs heavily on me. I sometimes even find myself turning away from anything that would remind me of the joys I lapped up in times gone by.

Since when have I started learning to feign ease even though my spirits inside are dying one by one? It’s no use pretending I’ve completely moved on. I’ve gotten tired of anyone who’s eager to dictate to me the manner on how I should put my one foot in front of the other. For the truth is, my dearest one who has left the realm of the physical world continues to hold primary residence inside my mind. Yes, there has never been a day that he fails to enter my thoughts. It seems my sense of loss has indeed infiltrated an undiscovered region. A kind of sadness seems bracing itself to settle by my side permanently and I’ve become jaded enough to allow its impending presence. Or maybe my broken heart has gotten underway in finally surrendering to eternity.

Still, the reality of how we’ve been all living on borrowed time is palpable. More than ever. So I’m doing my best to secure my world from a fated rupture. I’m taking shelter in constructive diversions hoping they would help eclipse my reality no matter how short a time. The simple details of this life I’ll try my best to keep on cherishing – privately. I can indulge on looking at the drama of the drifting clouds in my sky above and know it’s all I have for that moment. To desist from taking the present moment for granted. It ought to remain as a promise to myself. After all, I’m still entitled to whatever is left for the merits of my future.

Yet I wonder if I ever would find again the stories I had lost through the midst of those painful times.

June Babe Musings (Certainties To Hold)

You can only measure me by the amount of love and devotion I have given you. If they have not been enough for you to regard me back, then the door is waiting for either one of us to step out. For I am that much willing to risk your extinction from my heart and my mind.

You were right in supposing I had wanted you to be true to me. I have long been finished with dishonesty, unfaithfulness, and insincerity. They had already filled up my cup of bitter tea from times past.

I could hold hands only with the truth of who you are. I don’t need a presentation of your unsullied version. You and I are both aware it does not exist; no matter how my esteem for you repeatedly blur the faults you might have had. As for me, I could have been just like you. Because I’ve yet to expose my dark heart which I may do so in increments.

I award my compassion easily. It has been one of my undeniable truths. On the other hand, I have not always been prepared to get hurt. Which is never good for someone like me whose affections tend to eclipse my necessary common sense. Who tends to keep in her heart what she must let go. But what woman wants to lose her sensibilities in the end?

“Nothing I accept about myself can be used against me to diminish me. I am who I am, doing what I came to do, acting upon you like a drug or a chisel to remind you of your me-ness, as I discover you in myself.” —Audre Lorde

There’s nothing wrong with asking for a little more from life. I want beauty. I want greatness. I want peace. All side by side with the freedom that I’ve preserved to enjoy. I may or may not deserve the petitions I send out to my universe. Regardless, I am bound to claim my privileges.

Let the rain of your beautiful words and wisdom pour into my soul. Through them, we will be united in our shared losses, hopes and dreams. How can I feel empty in the company of these faithful friends, when they have nursed me and propped my disposition through all these years?

I cannot deny my need for inspiration that will catch my visions. My need for an infinity of spirits. That will break in through my life stages. That will go about seeking my lost stories…to help remind me of the girl I used to be.

We seem to be living in a world where everything we’ve leaned on has almost always disintegrated into dust. Granting that the evolution of my convictions is far from complete, I cannot belong to the kind who submits to standpoints most came to believe so easily. In the same vein, you may not be acquainted of this willingness in me to abandon the tenets I’ve nurtured that could no longer save me. How I frown upon disagreements, conflicts and confrontations. Yet I cannot apologize for what my mind has come to know.

If people ever felt the suspension of ease in and out of my candour, atonement on my part would remain to be not an option. I couldn’t have held my ground fostering the absence of frankness in my heart. My whole life has never been about making amends for who I truly am. I’ve even thought of myself as being special. Somehow. Maybe I’m wrong. But maybe I’m right.

Never have I dared disquieting the stillness of somebody’s universe – yet I committed the error of thinking people operate at a similar plane I do. Since I have adopted this medium to cobble my contemplations and true tales with reasonable comfort, it would be too late to back out now.

Not all strengths shine in visibility. My essence may humbly walk the quiet backstreets…while intermittent courage fairly keeps on supporting me in my moments of adversity; at this point in time when nothing else stands as a complete shelter from the ferocity of those rougher winds.

I wish to love only those whom I choose. Save my love and appreciation exclusively for people who are able to return them. I’m gradually learning to cut my losses. I am getting there. Heaven help me.

It’s possible to feel like I have run out of fresh beginnings. Pretty much the same feeling when I had fallen from grace many a times. It would be then that I start second-guessing the remaining good things worth seeking for.

Let us hope my emotional disconnect is a temporary one, as I continue to search for a better tomorrow that will sit well with my heartaches.

——

(*Take Heed: You can’t make the mistake of thinking I’m referring to anyone here. This is purely about exercising my writing muscles and my hankering to utilize an imaginary muse. 🙂 *)

May Babe Musings (Rehabilitating My Writing Circumstance)

The sentimental in me won’t give this site up. This blog has served me well as I continue to be appreciative of my overall blog journey. I’ve enjoyed reading the blogs of the sparse authors around WPress whose avant-garde writing talents are way off the charts, at the same time that I enjoy rendering my prose here in the form that best suits my style and temperament.

I originally had intended for this blog to serve as a journal. Like a diary in its truest form. I’ve already put too much of my essence in this blog. With – Horror of Horrors – images of me and my family to boot. Still I can’t manage to let it all out most of the time – for one reason or another. You see, I’ve no intention at all to rile anyone up with how I see or interpret things my way. Some folks could find my notions either peculiar or radical, not to mention my concern that someone might take offense – or worse, think I am casting aspersions or getting personal with anyone. No. Ruffling feathers isn’t what I came here for. I really just want to put my f*^#ing thoughts down.

Nothing much could lead me to destruction except for the consequences when my foolish heart lords over my hard-earned wisdom, or when I’ve unintendedly worn it on my sleeve. When my hazy emotions start bungling my reasoning faculty, the best course could only be to write things down. For better clarity.

Sylvia Plath in her element

Ergo, I’ve decided to put up another blog, where I can slam into whatever in me that was screaming to be let out. Perhaps then I can get bolder. No holds barred. The subject of religion will be included. No issue to dodge even if matters start to pummel or tear away too much flesh.

It’s a blog as well for my tiny forays. Where I can tinker with the different arts in the repertoire of my written skills – hopefully spreading tinges of sangfroid and sass to my blogging adventures. Subsequently serving my readers some tea of both light and dark in the diffusion of my presumptuous notions. Pretty slick huh. (So how do you like me now? ;-))

Maybe this time I’d be able to dabble a bit on, ehem, poetry. Finally. I intend that it be the blog where I can speak of love, like a silly girl barely out of high school. Talk about sex even. Hey, I’ve seen some blogs do it. If they can do it, so can I!   Okay, (calm down)  I’m just kidding. I’m not good at description narrative so I’m sure I won’t have any success in writing about it even if I try to.

Rest assured, if the entries are safe enough for your viewing, they get imported here – for this site remains to be my principal, most valuable, and dearest blog.

What about my son, for whom I dedicate all this so that he may know me better as a person someday. The question is: Will he fully comprehend everything – heavy stuff and all – I’ve written here? He’s no longer a baby (I still treat him as such from time to time though). He just turned 21 a few weeks ago. I had a heart to heart talk with him years before. He already has full cognizance of his Mom’s circumstances and life’s imperfections. My son, whose sense of deep peace I get to envy at times, will understand. That I am sure of. One more thing, he also knows how wacky his mom can get.

God, how I love my boy.

Meanwhile, let me hop aboard yonder ship, in case my juncture has begun to roll in to my dear readers’ psyche.

****** The About page in my new blog******

I believe myself a rational being. Which is why I want to take on writing with a new sharpness. A new faith.

I’ve built up this other nest. In this new domain, may the atmosphere of love, beauty, and truth most especially, prevail. Along with my diction, my heart, my visions, my soul. After all, I still aim for a most serene existence – punctuated by wilful or accidental happiness. That I may dance with the never-ending promise of a rainbow, after the thunders unforgiving and the punishing rainfall. May it touch at my own secret thoughts from my own secret self…before the words eventually, are carried away by the winds.

My rose garden is now ready in full flight.

Cherry blossoms are splendid, too. And I think I love her lipstick shade.

April Babe Musings (Asking for A Little More from Life)

Results of the Social Weather Survey on Life Satisfaction were published in the newspaper Businessworld yesterday. It says 81% of Filipinos are satisfied with their lives. Of the 81%, 33% are “very satisfied” and 48% “fairly satisfied.” On the other hand, 14% said they were “not very satisfied” with their lives, while only 5% were not at all satisfied.

My students who come from a prosperous Asian nation, with high dissatisfaction quotient and alarming suicide rate, constantly marvel at how Filipinos can afford to be happy, satisfied, and kind despite our lack of material wealth. They subsequently ask me how we are able to arrive at such a degree of genial disposition in a bit of relaxed demeanor. Truthfully, even I get bemused as to the possible explanations available. So I’ve done a little reading for verification and ruminated on a few realities to be able to answer their question.

Money is essential to our well-being – we don’t deny that – although we can very well manage to be in good spirits without it. There’s this Filipino mentality: “As long as loved ones are together, it matters little what kind of food is served on the table.” Nothing could be truer than that. It’s just the way it is here. We learn to get by with unanswered prayers. We soldier on in the face of pain and poverty. Yes, slum areas proliferate in our every city but rarely will you notice scowls on faces among the residents there. Why? Acceptance is worth embracing for the majority of us. Flexibility is another prime element. Toss us in any part of the globe and you’d be amazed by how willing we are to endure anything for the sake of survival. It surprises me as well how psychotherapy is not that popular a remedy in our country because we simply turn to family and friends for the airing of our inner disturbances.

Make no mistake though: We surely are gonna be happier with enough money. Or more than enough of it (I guess). At least I am.

*****

My Life Satisfaction: Not easy to contemplate on after having gone through my most devastating loss early this year. But barring my recent circumstances, these questions must be answered honestly:

Q: Am I satisfied with my life?

A: Yes, contented (they’re similar I suppose?), too.

Q: Am I happy?

A: Most of the time, in fact.

Thinking carefully about it, what is there not to be pleased about?

My life is not without blemishes though. My son and I could highly sense that we disappoint each other from time to time. It’s a constant struggle the two of us face – just like in most parent-child relationships (if we all are going to be honest about it). He’s nevertheless aware he is my true reason for living.

These days, my son is glad to see me dancing and doing sit-ups again. He could only exhale in relief considering how two months ago he had voiced his concern to my mom and sister of my severe grief for the loss of my Dearest One. Maybe I owe him an apology for letting him see me feeling so helpless and in despair during those critical times. The despondence over my loss is something I now have to live with, which I try hard not to harbour – because every time I do, or for every moment that I remember my Dearest One, I still die a little. More than a little, to be precise.

I just had a haircut, by the way, which means I am currently sporting shorter hair. I had originally intended having a haircut last January. Love how I feel about my hair now since I’ve worn it long for several years.

Reading has been saving my life for as long as I could remember. Reading and music and nature. And more recently, writing. That is why blogging is one of the best things that ever happened to me. My work has given me structure and pleasure, too. I am an ESL instructor on weekdays and at the same time an online lottery agent who has to generate computer tickets for bettors every Sunday (my operator’s day-off). That has been basically my life for six long years. I must be thankful for having these jobs – considering the never-ending grim state of our economy and the high unemployment stats; not to mention job opportunities for someone at my age are getting more and more scarce. Yet there’s this undeniable truth I got trapped in this cycle for so long. As a result, my attention and energy had been snatched away, which I should have had in the first place bestowed upon the people I’ve treasured my whole life. The few people who truly matter to me.

However, it’s too late for regrets. The business of living is what all of us must get on.

Traveling is one my remaining aims in life. How I long to be able to see the wonderful sights in Italy, New Zealand, Australia, and the U.S – so I’m gunning for sufficient funds for my probable trips to them in the near future. There’s also this wish that I’d somehow manage to find new friends who do share my interests and are on the same intellectual level with me. Friends who are not into any religious cult; are not into watching telenovelas; are not into the latest gadgets (Filipinos are crazy about the latest cellphones and texting, gotta admit that); most importantly, friends who don’t believe in, omg, ghosts and UFOs! I don’t want to sound smug or a snob but rarely can I find people here, er, cannier than me. And I’m not even smart or intelligent. Now how do I reconcile that? 🙂

I’ve been visiting You Tube recently. So delighted to have found this song which I haven’t heard for decades. When I was 10 years old, my favourite playmate and I would go over the many cassette tapes of his Dad -who happened to be an American- in their living room and we always ended up choosing this particular classic. He, with his light brown hair and skin fairer than mine, and I would sing our hearts out with this breezy song on our bright summer days. Definitely one of my unforgettable and charming memories.

Man, why don’t they make songs like this anymore.

********

Baby, baby, falling in love
I’ve fallen’ in love again
Baby, baby, falling in love
I’ve fallen’ in love again

You and me for eternity, in love, we’ll always be
Young and free and naturally the way it’s got to be

-Fallin In Love by Hamilton, Joe Frank & Reynolds