Entries for June, 2005
June 1st, 2005
KUMOT Posted in **para kay Embers Humupa na ang alinsangan ng magdamag, naririnig na muli ang pagaspas ng mga dahong isinasayaw ng malamig na hangin umiihip, sumisilip, nanunubok bago tuluyang magpawala ng ginaw Sa mga gabing tulad nito masarap magbalot ng kumot maglunoy sa himbing ng pagtulog dulot ng manipis na telang yumayakap sa buo kong pagkatao. Payapa ang isip, panatag na babaybayin ang daigdig ng panaginip kahit pa nagdadabog mga patak ng ulan sa bubungan. Hanap ka sa tuwing magbabadya ang unos nakaugaliang sumukob sa mga bisig mong tila kumot--- noong una pumapawi ng takot, kumakalinga kalaunan, siya rin palang sasakal at kikitil sa laya. Maging ang puso natuturuang mamaluktot, Kapag nasanay sa mahabang tag-araw na walang kumot. Mangatal man ang laman sa muling pagsiping sa ulan hindi na babalikan pumpon ng telang nakatunghay sa paanan . Anne Stephanie Cruz
2 Lived to Tell
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June 2nd, 2005
The Perfect Person Posted in Love and other Disasters by: J. M. Whitaker
For as long as I can remember, I have been searching for the perfect girl. Since I was old enough to begin longing for female companionship, I have been on the hunt. I guess it started out as just a simple dream or fantasy, not unlike most of us. The strange thing about it was that it never stayed just a dream or a fantasy. The more people I dated, the more times I was let down, the more I hungered for that perfect person, the one that would fill all of my needs and desires, the one that would never let me down. I dated girl after girl. Some of them were great while others got me into some trouble. Some of them made me laugh, but a lot of them made me cry. Through my journey, I found a lot of joy and a lot of sorrow, a lot of happiness and a lot of pain, but never the perfect girl. I had dreamed about her. Dark hair, darker eyes, a slim figure tinted golden brown from the sun. She had an accent and could play the cello. She would love to talk, but wouldn't expect me to talk too much. She would always ask me how my day was and would always have a smile on her face; absolute perfection. I began to devise methods in how I would meet the girls I would date. I knew I wanted an intelligent girl, so I hung out in libraries and museums. I meet this real crazy girl at a library after school one day. She was smart and sexy and, well? crazy. I would rather not go into a lot of details about it. Let's just say she had some real deep-seated anxieties about our relationship and, consequentially, our break up. I knew I wanted an artistic girl, so I went to music stores and coffee shops, I even tried a couple of classical concerts. I met this wonderfully cute girl who dressed really dark and loved to write poetry. She was great, we used to stay up all night long talking about the silliest things, but she ended up dumping me for some guy who did drugs and rode a motorcycle. I got into a car accident with a girl driving a Pontiac Sunfire. She had no driver's license or car insurance, but she did have a really great smile and the prettiest hair. Instead of calling the police, we called in sick and went out to eat. We dated for a while but eventually came across an irreconcilable difference in opinions. She didn't always feel the need to come "straight home" after work. Okay, to be honest, toward the end of our relationship, she rarely came home at all. Then there was the girl from the International House of Pancakes. She was an exact replica of my personality. I mean if you had met us both over some Internet chat room, you would swear we were the same person using multiple screen-names. Sounds sweet, huh? Have you ever considered marrying yourself? Have you ever thought about growing old together, just you and yourself? We both found that the whole idea of finding that "perfect person" was to find someone different from yourself to fulfill the empty spots within you. I searched every where. I left no rock unturned, no leaf moved aside, but to no avail. After much pain and heartache, I began to believe that the perfect girl just did not exist. Then one day, I found her. Her name was Malia. She was from Hawaii, raised in Italy. She wore silk pajama pants to bed. She had written a novel. She loved the beach and hated cats, just like me. She had silky, dark and curly hair that swayed perfectly if the breeze was right. She had a caramel colored body, etched out of a block of pure perfection, and her face was that of an angel. From the very first time I saw her, I could not seem to take my eyes away from hers. She was like a siren, calling my name, beckoning me closer to her, even when she was asleep. The attraction was complete, with no faults, no annoyances. Every time she spoke she mesmerized me and every time she moved she amazed me. She was... well, perfect. Oh, and did I mention she played the cello? We spent all the extra time we had together. We spent so much time together that we decided to move in together. We were paying rent on two places, but one of them was doing nothing but collecting dust. We would sit on the porch when it rained and hold each other. We would lay on the beach and soak up a sweet combination of sunrays and pina coladas. Life was good. No, life was perfect and I knew it just couldn't possibly get any better than it was right then and there. Two years later, Malia left me for a career-opportunity at a really prominent university in Europe. There were no harsh words, no angry feelings, not even any sad good-byes. She was so perfect that if she wanted to leave, I wanted it for her. That is, until she was gone. I cried for days, and began to drink for weeks after that. I felt as if my life was over, that the only reason that I had existed was gone, and every breath I took from that moment on was a futile attempt to hold on to something I later found I never had: The Perfect Love. Malia was perfect. She was perfect in each and every single way, but was not. Our love for each other was a deeply committed one, but it was far from perfect. I know that now, but if I could go back in time to tell myself that in an attempt to save myself from all of that pain and suffering, I fear I would not have listened to myself. I slept with many women, sometimes a different girl every week. I drank excessively and spent all of my money on temporary satisfaction. Anything to ease the pain. But the pain did not ease, it only grew stronger. It became a vicious circle of self-inflicted torture that eventually brought me to my knees and forced me to open my eyes to the real world. But not before it made me a bitter man. I was wiser, but to this day, the decisions made left a coldness in my eyes that made my heart appear as lead to anyone who dared look. I became a loner, staying home on the weekends, saving my money for a healthy but lonely retirement, having accepted my fate. I was to be alone for the rest of my life. Kathy with a K. Actually, her name is spelled Kathyrn. Quite peculiar, but I didn't think so until later. For the longest time, I never even knew her name. But she was a sight for sore and lonely eyes. I saw her at work. I was her boss (actually, I was her boss' boss) and did not want to risk the chance of even speaking to her. She was just too beautiful, and I had become a beast with a past too horrible to mention. I would just watch her as she passed my office every day. She didn't walk, she frolicked, and I would sneak out for a break whenever she did just to watch that frolicking. She smiled every time someone spoke to her, a smile like the early morning sun, and her eyes were so dark that you couldn't see her pupils, only the glimmering from the light that made her eyes look like two bright stars. I was under her spell and I didn't even know her name. One day, watching her outside, I convinced myself to ask around about her. Find out her name and maybe even find out if she was seeing someone. Just as I had decided that she spoke to me. Kathy with a K. She ended up asking me out, you know. I told her I couldn't that night because I had to work late. Actually, I was too scared. I called her and asked her if she wanted to go to Starbucks after work the next day and she agreed. It turned out to be the most romantic night of both of our lives. We were both still pretty new in town and didn't really know our way around. I had no idea what I was going to do or where I was going to take her next so I winged it the whole way. Like I said, it turned out to be the most romantic night of both of our lives. It was perfect. She was not perfect, but neither was I. We both carried a truckload of emotional baggage and we both had a mountain of flaws. But it was perfect. She would always forget to plug in her cell phone at night, but I would always remind her. I couldn't do laundry worth a flip, but she showed me how. She could never get to work on time, and she hated to drive, but we both had to be at work on time so I drove us both there. Whenever she was slacking I was always right over her shoulder, and when I would lose track of what I was trying to do, she would help to keep me focused. We complemented each other in every single way. Neither of us was perfect, but we were perfect for each other. When you're out there looking for that perfect person keep these things in mind. People change, no matter how hard they try not to. As you grow older you mature, and with each new level of maturity come different ideas, different needs and wants. The person who was perfect for you at twenty could be the person you hate when you're thirty-five. You have to find some one who will grow with you, change with you, laugh with you and cry with you. A person who fills in where you lack, a person whom you can fill in for when they are lacking. But what about the perfect person, you ask? They do not exist. Even Malia was not perfect because the perfect girl in my dreams was supposed to stay with me. There are no perfect people, only people who are perfect for each other. | |
Peanut Butter Highs Posted in The problem with a sugar high is that can crash anytime. Giddy as a schoolgirl in pigtails, I feasted on peanut butter sandwiches today. My supervisor Divine brought with her a bottle of locally-made peanut butter (they taste better than Skippy in my opinion) and shared it with everyone. Now, next to chocolate, peanut butter is my second sweet tooth craving. I could subsist on peanut butter cookies and milk for breakfast, or, a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. I was tempted to eat a spoonful of the gooey mixture and just let it stick to the roof of my mouth but that would have been too embarrasing. (I remember Brad Pitt and his peanut butter addiction in Meet Joe Black, he looked adorable licking off the last traces of peanut butter from a silver spoon.) For those who do not know, I am a borderline diabetic. Sugar, and that includes peanut butter, is only allowed in moderate doses. If not, blood sugar rises and you get what is called a sugar high. And boy, was I high today. Poor people from Pinoypoets who had to put up with me, I think I was chatting with everyone who was online. Ugh, the hazards of being a peanut butter addict and a cooped up writer! I dropped by Andoy's blog today and I was surprised to find my name in a couple of entries. Apparently, this kewl dude passes by every so often and reads this page. Here's his May 23 entry: "I met Anne Stephanie through the Pinoy Poets' yahoo groups. There were a lot of emails going back and forth from that group last week, and she was loud. She wanted to be heard and she was participating like crazy. Finally met her last Friday when we met at the General Assembly. And she was very animated and excited. I was glad to meet her." We've been chatting like old pals in the egroup eversince. He has also simmered down to calling me Steph, and today was another day filled with crazy exchanges triggered by yet another of his poems. But you know, reading that comment made me think long and hard. I relaized I may be spreading myself too thin online. Granting that PP is the only escape I have from these four constricting walls, it may be a tad difficult for the rest of the group to digest why I am too eager to read another writer's work or comment on them. Or the fact that I am too willing to jump into a conversation because I am sick of office gossip or twiddling my thumbs during downtime. Hmmm. Best to tone down a little and go back to reading ebooks Angel's LSS: Myself Thinking 24/7 Reading List: US State Lottery Group News Differential Diagnosis: I wanna go home! | |
I hope I did not embarrass myself too much, and if I have, I do hope there's a way to save face. 
. Thanks for the wake up call, it came at the tail end of my sugar high. Cheers Andoy!June 3rd, 2005
Lukewarm Posted in A cracked tooth from sipping hot chocolate
Angel's LSS: I Miss You by Incubusfollowed by ice water leaves me wondering how you can scald my tongue with lukewarm affection Stephie 6.03.05 Differential Diagnosis: Thank God its FRIDAY! | |
June 5th, 2005
Next Flight Out Posted in My former housemate Melissa recently handed in her resignation letter. She's quitting as List Manager for the direct mail marketing company where we both work to chase her longtime dream of becoming a lawyer. She got into UP Law School! Mel and I joined IML four years ago and within that span of time she had fallen in love a couple of times, got her heart badly bruised but managed to get back on her feet again. She now has Enrico Luis, a little over a year old, her source of inspiration and only pride and Joy. I'm glad that Mel's taking the next flight out. I would too, had circumstances been different. I would want nothing more than go back to the media and really write again. The daily grind of looking for stories and the rush of beating deadlines would feel like a homecoming for someone who sits nine hours a day answering emails and writing advertising pieces. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I just want to point out that I miss my old job. Writing has and will always be my only passion. But there's a world of difference between the kind of writing that I enjoy doing and the kind that I breathe in and out at work. I just miss the old days. And I am glad for people like Mel who get thrown a lifeline before being forever swallowed by mediocrity. I hope mine would come soon, but until then I'd bite my tongue and take my day to day sub existence like a good soldier. | |
Pamamaalam Posted in By: Stephie Huwag ka sanang magtatampo kung ilang araw mula ngayon magpaalam ako bilang anghel mo. Hindi naman ako nangakong sasamahan kita habang panahon. Huwag din sanang ikasama ng loob mo ang hindi ko na pagtawag sa'yo, pati na rin ang matabang na pagsagot ko sa bawat pangungulit mo sa akin sa opisina. Nagkamali ako. Hindi pala natin pwedeng ipagkibit balikat ang lahat at mag astang walang nagbago sa pagkakaibigan natin. Akala ko pwede nating dayain, na magagawa nating kalimutan ang kung anong naramdaman natin ng gabing iyon sa isla, pero lulan din pala ng barkong pabalik ng Maynila ang mga alaala ng duyan sa ilang. Iniwasan nating magkita ng halos dalawang buwan at napaniwala natin ang lahat na sadyang abala lang tayo sa samutsaring gawain kaya hindi nila tayo nakikitang magkasama. Binalak nating lumabas nung minsan, pumayag ako kahit kinakabahan, pero buti na lang ikaw na rin ang naunang umatras. Hindi pa ako handang makita ka. Ayokong tumingin sa mga mata mong naghahanap at naghihintay ng tugon. Nababasa ko ang mga tanong kahit hindi mo bigkasin, dama sa bawat buntong hininga ang pagpipigil ng damdamin at talos ang pag amin na walang kahihinatnan ang sitwasyong kinasasadlakan natin. Hindi ako manhid. Naramdaman ko ang higpit ng yakap at init ng haik sa pisnging iginawad mo sa akin bilang pagbati.. Alam kong tumulay rin sa iyong katawan ang bolta boltaheng kuryenteng gumulat sa akin. Kapwa tayo natigilan at ang katahimikan ng ilang sandaling iyon ay binasag lamang ng kabog nang ating mga dibdib. Nalilito ako. Nakakaramdam ng takot at pangamba, pinipilit bigyan ng rason at paliwanag ang lahat ng nakikita ko at naririnig mula sa'yo. Bakit hindi natin maiwasang maghawak kamay habang nag uusap? Bakit yumuyuko ako kapag nakikita kong pinagmamasdan mo ako na tila gusto mong sauluhin ang bawat sulok ng aking mukha? Siguro, tulad ko, naririnig mo rin ang bawat tick tock ng orasang gusto nating takasan. Kung maaari lang sanang hilahin ang mga segundo at hadlangan ang napipintong pagwawakas ng kwentong tayo ang pangunahing nagsisiganap. Kaso hindi pwede. Sa ayaw natin at sa gusto, kailangang magtapos ang palabas na ito. Lamang, may iiyak sa pagsasara ng telon. Ipahintulot mo sanang ako na ang magpaalam. Payagan mo na akong lumayo bitbit ang masasayang alaala ng pagkakaibigang iningatan ko at minahal. Ayoko nang hintayin pang mapatid ang gahiblang sinulid na tinawid natin sa isla. Aalis na ako bago mahuli ang lahat. Ayokong abutan ng liwanag mo ang puso kong nagkukubli sa dilim. | |
June 6th, 2005
Bibliophiles Posted in Got a message from Andoy bright and early this morning and he wants to pick my brains as to how much of a bookworm I am. Well, Andoy since you made me feel a little more loved by your message this rainy Monday, here goes. The last book I bought: Five books that mean a lot to me that I really liked: 2. Anne Rice's Memnoch the Devil---We all have questions about religion and faith and Memnoch seemed to mirror mine. I was a Catholic school girl through and through but I must confess my faith then had no roots. Three years later, after finally having had a personal encounter with God, I reread Memnoch. The book now serves as a reminder of how much my spiritual life has grown. Faith ceased to be word I merely use in sentences, it is now something I live out and profess everyday. 3. Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea---I remember reading this book when I was 8 and bored one summer afternoon. Santiago's story was my introduction to reality: bringing home the fish partially eaten by sharks after a long and tiring struggle taught me that early that life isn't just about winning trophies but how you go about playing the game. 4. Arthur Golden's Memoirs of a Geisha---I only read this novel recently although I've been intrigued by it for a long time. It certainly isn't one of the best books ever written, but the narrative is poignant and for me, gave an honest representation of a geisha's life, their culture, and the society they lived in. Sayuri's story appealed to me because like every other human being, she was looking for love : an honest to goodness relationship that went beyond sex, expensive jewelry and kimonos, and elaborate tea ceremonies. 5. The Bible---If there's one book I wish I have read earlier, it would be the Bible. Like Andoy, I echo the sentiments of Jesus of Sirach in the book of Ecclesiastes..."to everything, there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens". It is for me a source of wisdom, inspiration and hope in the most trying of times. I only started reading the Bible two years ago, but I do try my best now to read a few verses everyday. It nourishes my soul. Tag 5 people and have them fill this out in their blogs: | |
June 7th, 2005
Calling All Angels Posted in **for sketchesdomain and for everyone else in need of an angel in their lives.
by: Train
I need a sign to let me know you're here | |
Dreamcatcher* Posted in Message Received: "I know the feeling, tried poetry too when I was young but got busy earning a living. Now I lost the touch. Go ahead, soar. Catch the dream." There it hangs by my bedpost, Though dulled by age Never let go of the dream, you would always say Time had been kind, If only I could, *Legend has it that dream catchers filter nightmares with a spider web of sinew and preserve a child’s innocence by allowing only good dreams to pass through. Feathers attached to the dream catchers are meant to assist the flight of good dreams. This one’s for my dream catcher on his 54th birthday….I love you Daddy.
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June 8th, 2005
Blue Angel Posted in **Yes, even angels feel sad. This week had been especially challenging for me, causing me to doubt myself and my abilities. Saddest of all, I don't think I'm cutting it as a writer, much more a poet. Perhaps all along I've been living a lie. Don't worry guys, I'm doing my best to smile. For now, this is my song. Can't Take that Away They can say anything they want to say | |
June 10th, 2005
Bouncing back to life Posted in I have an infinite well of sadness from which I draw tears from. They never dry up, and sometimes, like a dam, even comes to a point when it's about to break and overflow. As the scriptures say, there's a time to laugh and a time to cry. Inversely, there is also a time for one to square her shoulders, wipe off the last traces of sadness in one's eyes...and smile. If you've noticed, water renews...it makes flowers bloom and grass to sprout anew. For me, tears work the same way. After you're all cried out, your spirit is reborn and you find within you strength and courage to face more of life's challenges head on. My writing had always been my pride and joy, and its something I can no longer hide. I miss the human interest stories I used to write---the kind which told of people who lead inspiring and admirable lives. I miss beating newspaper deadlines and working to get scoops. It was a career I traded four years ago for the almighty dollar. Perhaps its time to come home to my humble beginnings. Life was harder, hours were longer, but the writer within me smiled at the end of each long, tiring day. I cannot keep on running away from my dreams. I pray that God will lead me where HE truly wants me to go, and that I be humble enough to submit myself to HIS will. I'm keeping the Faith and offering everything to HIM who knows what is best for me. Thank you Bambina, Levi, PNF, Chelly, Miel and my angel, Francis for all the words of wisdom, inspiration and support. Hi. This your angel, once again online. | |
June 12th, 2005
Father and Daughter Byline Posted in Happy Fathers Day to all Dads! **I'm glad my Dad kept a file of the first article we co wrote. Its a he-said, she-said kind story, definitely not a Pulitzer prize winner, but I will always hold this close to my heart. (This was published in the Family Section of TODAY sometime in 2000 and was also syndicated online via Adobo dot com.) ~stephie Overseas Filipino worker and father Roberto Cruz reflects on life separate from his family and how he and his family has adapted to the separation of family and breadwinner. With more and more Filipinos seeking better paying jobs overseas, this story at once touches the heart and raises this question: how do families remain whole when a parent must work abroad? The billboard by the freeway carried the picture of a smiling young father lifting his small son in the air. The message read: “To be a father is to be there.” Driving at 75 mph, I had no chance to check what company advertised on that billboard. But it was enough to bring out again that ever-nagging question: What am I doing out here in the States when my kids are back there in the Philippines?The lifeline Millions of Filipinos have left their families behind to work in another country. The reason is always the same — to be able to earn money they are incapable of earning back home. To almost every Filipino, the opportunity of working in a foreign land is a chance of a lifetime. This is almost like winning the lottery. This is the chance to give the family a better life. I did not start too badly in the Philippines. I would say I was even doing fine. I had a good job - teaching in the collegiate level plus I had some small businesses on the side. Then the economic downturn in the country got the better of me. Enrollment in the school where I was teaching started to plummet and my small businesses were no longer making money. My daughter was about to enter college and my young boy had just started school.My take-home pay could no longer meet the ever-rising expenses. I was running out of excuses every time my daughter asked for money for school expenses and my young boy asked for toys. I started feeling like I was drowning in rampaging floodwaters. When the opportunity to work abroad presented itself, it was like somebody had thrown me a lifeline. The trade-off Heading for the US to work, the only thing that occupied my mind was the liberation from the financial burdens I had while in the Philippines. The effect of working in a foreign country on my family life did not even cross my mind at that stage. Being a first-timer at working abroad, I failed even to consider how my children would react to and be affected by my absence.The first few years were really tough. Those were the height of homesickness. Contact at home was limited to letters and an occasional voice tape because phone service in the Philippines at that time was still in the Jurassic age. And postal service was nothing to be proud of either, so by the time a piece of news arrived, it was already a bit of history. Think of how parent-child relationships can be maintained in that manner and you will have to think of redefining the concept of parenthood.The effect on that relationship showed when, after three years’ absence, I went home for a visit. My son, who was five when I left, was almost a total stranger when I came back. True, he was there at the airport to meet me. But there was no hug, nor was there a kiss. He just asked me what took me so long to get out of the airport. This was the boy who, just three years ago, would sleep beside nobody else but me. This was the boy who I could not shake off my leg every time I had to go out of the house. Suddenly, it dawned on me that this was a trade-off for whatever little financial reward working abroad would bring. It took a great effort on my part to partially cement the relationship between my son and myself. My daughter was not a problem. She understood why I had to go. We both exerted great effort to maintain the relationship. But not always. There were times also when she had to nag me to come home for good, saying there was no need for me to work in a foreign land because we are not so badly off anymore (as if my working abroad had nothing to do with that).Cyber father With the improvement of telephone service in the Philippines came the Internet. The country finally entered the Digital Age. To every Filipino working in a foreign land this was a great development, more important in significance than man's landing on the moon. This means constant access to communication facilities. This means communicating with their families more often. Anytime, one can call home to check on what is going back there. Anytime, children can call their parents for that important news like being on top of one's class or asking for a bigger allowance. The most important thing is that despite the great distance, parents and children can somewhat bridge the gap by frequent communication.Now, my daughter and my son each have a cellular phone so I am able to call them anytime, even when they are out of the house. Now, my phone will ring in the middle of the night for my daughter to report to me that her little angel of a brother accidentally got his ear pierced by his classmate's spiral notebook wire. This comes on top of the constant stream of e-mails that we send each other almost everyday. Whenever we catch each other online, we exchange instant messages. From time to time, my daughter reports on the mischief committed by her brother. I usually respond by sending him an e-mail containing what my daughter refers to as 'cyber sermon' or on-line scolding and nagging.Sometimes, they call me a 'cyber father'. But still, we are closer to each other now than during the first few years of my work here in the US. To be a father To be a father is to be there. To be a father is to be readily available when the children need him. But, to be a father also is to be a provider. To do this, he may go anywhere, no matter how far, to give the best to his children. The question is: is the trade-off worth it? OFW CHILD By Anne Stephanie Cruz I wear Guess?, Levi's, Esprit, Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, Giorgo Armani and Liz Clairborne on ordinary days and imported suits on formal affairs. My apartment has all the gadgets and equipment to make life easier. Last summer my Dad bought me a car. He can afford to, he's been in the US for almost eight years. My meager pay as a journalist cannot sustain my lifestyle. I often charge more than I can afford to pay on my credit cards. My 11-year-old brother Robert finished the Harry Potter volumes in one month, after he completed his Pokemon collectibles set. It's okay. If we run out of money we call Dad, the peso-dollar exchange rate is high anyway.Many people envy us for the good life we have. While not exactly wealthy, we never go hungry or run out of money to pay the bills. Relatives and old neighbors used to say “asenso na kayo, nasa Amerika kasi ang Daddy mo.” But in those eight years, while my classmates' eyes would open wide at my new watch or ask to try my Tommy Girl cologne, it is me who silently envies them.My high school graduation, my trip to Singapore as a varsity debater, my 18th birthday, my inclusion on the Dean's List, even my first by-line in Today. Dad missed them all. He would have probably bought every copy in the streets and showed them to every person he knew. But he was not there, he was thousands of miles away. He was working in America to provide a better future for my brother and myself.True, once there, I never heard him say “wala akong pera,” whenever I said there were projects in school. I got to pay my tuition on time and my allowance was no longer counted to the last centavo. New clothes and shoes arrived in boxes before the previous ones were even worn-out. And the brands…wow! But a child needs more than that.I was turning 15 when my father left, and for a while I blamed myself. I thought it was my consistent asking for new clothes and money that drove him away, or probably the thought of going through all that again when my brother becomes a teenager himself. For months I asked Dad to come back, even offered to work my way through college. I even promised not to ask for new things anymore just so he'd come home. But he said no. He said that, as my Dad it, was his responsibility to see me through school and provide for our needs.He didn't know that we needed him more than we needed all of these things. There was no Daddy to pick Robert up the day he fell from a bike and scraped his knee. There was no one to teach him how to face the bullies in class. Up to now he doesn't know how to drive a nail through a piece of wood. Through the years I lost track of the number of times I said, “if only Dad were here,” whenever something went wrong or there was a situation which I felt was too difficult to handle.I have always been a Daddy's girl, so it tremendous effort on my part to move on and become independent. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate fully the sacrifice my father made. He went to the US without telling his own mother and siblings. Having grown up in a closely-knit family, he says my Lola would walk to Church on her knees for him to stay. That's why I get angry at fellow OFW children who would squander their allowances smoking, partying or going on gimmicks. How dare them throw away money that is literally the product of their parents' sweat and tears. Don't they know that besides the unforgiving work hours, it’s the loneliness and longing for home that cuts deeper wounds in their parents' hearts? Not being able to be there for them to share in their small victories and day-to-day struggles.My brother and I would gladly give back what we have so Dad would come home. But he has to stay, Robert will just be entering high school next June. I offered to work abroad in his place, but again he refused. He says he doesn't want me to experience the pain of being away from one’s family, of being alone in a foreign country and being treated like a third class citizen.I was given a car not because I asked for one, but because I go around the city a lot as a reporter. My Dad is concerned about me riding cabs late at night. He said he doesn't trust the taxi drivers. My brother Robert gets to buy all the Pokemon and Harry Potter items he wants because he's consistently at the top of his class. When I come home at night from work, he’s already finished his homework and cooked rice for our dinner.My Dad says we deserve the good things we have because we’ve been good children. I believe he was also scared that we'd end up like some of our old neighbors. The father was a seaman for many, many years. By the time he came home, his eldest son was already a drug addict and his three daughters all married without finishing school.I often pity my Dad because he worries about us too much, especially my brother, who’s both a genius and a klutz. He ends up spending a fortune on phone calls just so he could check on us every so often. That's the price an OFW pays. He or she becomes an absentee parent and feels guilty about it. With millions of OFW children in the country now, I don't believe its because our parents are not here that so many bad things are happening to the youth. Young people get into drugs, premarital sex or other vices because they want to and it should not be blamed on their parents. Being an OFW child, we have more opportunities to better ourselves. We can be independent and self-reliant, at the same time we are blessed with financial ease.And although he sometimes says that all we do is ask for money when we call, I know my Dad is proud of us. He may be lonely because he's far away, but he knows his sacrifice has paid off — he has raised his children well.
*Epilogue: Dad finally came home three years later, after surviving surgery and interferon treatment for kidney cancer. My brother Robert is now 16 and an incoming freshman at UST, while yours truly is still doing my best to follow my dreams. | |
June 13th, 2005
The Apple Tree Posted in There was a huge grin on your face when you showed it to me yesterday---a precious souvenir from America that you hope will take root here in your native soil. Nothing more than a twig really, with but a few newly sprouted leaves. You said you soaked it in water for 48 hours, just to see if it will live. I almost laughed, who would be crazy enough to plant apple trees in this hot, humid climate? While everyone else has papaya and guava trees, you want to grow apples in our front lawn. Then again, we have English roses in the garden-- their life spans a lot shorter than locally grown ones, but still, you water and tend these flowers like they were given to you by the Queen herself. In full bloom, the red, white and yellow roses are quite sight...except that they wilt too quickly, way before nosy neighbors could have a chance to stare and admire their beauty. Now, you planted an apple tree, another piece of the American Dream you try to take home everytime you fly in from Los Angeles. The whole house already smells and feels American eventhough we live in the middle of verdant rice fields in Bulacan. I remember you saying its best to live away from the city because life in America was already too fast and too frantic for you. How come you still bring back a part of that life in huge balikbayan boxes and LBC crates? Everything from curtains to plates! You didn't miss anything. Even our fabric softener and dishwashing paste comes from the States, or, we get the American brands when we shop at Waltermart. Would you want us to start picking our own apples, Dad? I wanted to ask as I see you hunched over the scraggly twig. Sweating profusely under the harsh sun, you planted the cutting in fertile ground, carefully selecting a shady portion in the garden. Apple trees gives good shade, you reassured me. You could have planted a Talisay. And then softly, while my kid brother vacuums the carpets in the living room, you tell me you're flying back again to LA before Christmas. | |
June 14th, 2005
Depression Posted in **for all us who have been here and learned from the experience. If you ask me where I am right now i’ll say somewhere between teardrops and a smile it’s a sanctuary I run to at times to empty myself, collect half-sighs untangle my emotions from its pretzel state— detoxify. Here, cobwebs are magnified and admired, its intricate pattern of silk, beautiful compared to my own tattered web: a maze of crossed signals, intertwined issues unresolved to this day, with me hardly able to keep it together. It’s a good place though, lets you slowly sink to the bottom thoughts free to bounce on down feather pillows, drifting floating in a womb of meaningless dreams until you decide to get up, snap out of it and rejoin the world of the living. I do not come here to command time, I’ve frozen each day I care to replay like a newsreel because I want to, I still need to wallow in oblivion and dwell on my indecisions savoring the bliss of temporary ignorance because I choose to. My feet have yet to touch solid ground. A.S. Cruz 6.13.05 | |
June 15th, 2005
Pinoypoets’ Anniversary Night @ Conspiracy Posted If you’re a writer, a poet, an artist or simply a lover of literature, better block off Tuesday, June 28 on your social calendar. Pinoypoets (PP), an online community of literary enthusiasts, will be holding its first anniversary bash at Conspiracy Bar in Quezon City. | |
June 17th, 2005
I Bruise Easily Posted By: Natasha Bedingfield I bruise easily | |
June 20th, 2005
Making a Difference Posted in ** Just the kind of email that brightens a Monday morning. A ninety-one-year-old woman died after living a long, dignified life. *"When someone lies to you, it teaches you that things are not always as they seem. The truth is often far beneath the surface. Look beyond the masks people wear if you want to know their heart. And remove your own masks to let people know yours." *"When someone holds a grudge against you, it teaches you that everyone makes mistakes.When you are wronged, the most virtuous thing you can do is forgive the offender without pretense. Forgiving those who have hurt us is the most difficult, the most courageous, and the most noble thing Man can do. 24/7 Reading List: Five People You Meet in Heaven Differential Diagnosis: Sleepy | |
Pagtawid Posted in *Isang pa cute na tulang nabuo habang nakikipag patintero ako sa mga jeep at bus sa Casimiro nung Huwebes ng gabi. Wala lang. Tanga talaga akong tumawid eh. Hanggang ngayon Simple lang naman diba Pero ba’t saksakan pa rin ako ng duwag? Gusto ko laging may kasabay sa pagtawid. Kampante akong nag aantay sa sidewalk Walang lingun-lingong sumugod ako patawid, Pero huli na nang makita ko ang ilaw na kulay pula. | |
Si Almira at si Teacher Steph Posted in "If you cannot feed a hundred children, feed one child."~Mother Teresa~ Sabado ng umaga ng makilala ko si Almira. Palibhasa'y ilang linggo na akong hindi nakakapag bigay ng oras sa mga batang tinuturuan namin sa SLG center kaya hindi ko alam na may mga bago na pala kaming mag-aaral. Teacher Steph ang tawag nilang lahat sa akin duon, pero hindi ako guro. Ang ibang mga kasamahan ko sa grupong Charismatic ay mga lisensyadong guro na siyang nagtuturo sa mahigit 20 batang lansangan. Nasa ikalawang taon na ang teaching mission ng SLG, at isa si Almira sa mga bago naming estudyante. Maliit siya para sa isang walong taong gulang na bata. Pero kung iisipin na umabot siya sa ganuong edad na halos walang makain at salat sa tulog, hindi na nga nakapagtataka. (Mabuti na lang at hindi rin siya sing rungis at sing gulo ng iba niyang mga kaklase.) At dahil may ibang kusinerang naka duty nung Sabado, si Teacher Steph ang napag utusang magturo ng personal hygiene sa mga bata. Aray ko! Isa ito sa mga gawaing tinatakbuhan ng halos lahat ng mga worker dahil kailangan dito ang sikmurang sintigas ng bakal at pasensiyang mahaba pa sa pisi ng saranggola. Inisip ko pa lang na isa isa kong paliliguan, sisipilyuhan, lilinisan ng tainga, gugupitan ng kuko at bibihisan ng uniporme ang mga batang sinuyod yata ang dumi ng buong bangketa ng Casimiro sa kanilang mga katawan parang gusto ko nang umatras. Pero naisip ko din, kung walang magtuturo sa kanila ng tama, ano pang silbi ng misyon ng grupo? Inuna kong papaliguin ang mga boys na hindi na kailangan bantayan. Gulpi de gulat na lang kapag naglalaro ng tubig o nagsasayang ng sabon at shampoo (sabay sigaw na hoy bernardo! hilurin mo ang likod nyang katabi mo hanggang pumuti). Sumunod ang mga paslit na kaylilikot at takot yata sa tubig kaya nakikipaghabulan pa kay Teacher Steph. Ay talaga namn pong grabe ang dala nilang dumi. Nangutim yung puting bimpong ginamit kong pangkuskos sa likod, kili kili, leeg, at mga talapakan nila. (In fairness, pagkapaligo, nagsiputi silang lahat!) Dito ko napansin na matatagal na palang nakatayo sa likuran ko si Almira. Nanunuod habang pinaliliguan ko yung ibang mga bata. Bumaling ako paharap sa kaniya at tinanong kung anong pangalan niya, "Nene po", marahan niyang sagot. Pinagmasdan ko ng ilang segundo ang bata, kupas at punit punit ang suot na ternong tshirt at shorts pero hindi nanlilimahid sa dumi. Sabay kong pinaliguan sina Almira at Rhea May, isa niyang kaklase. Ngunit dahil mas bata si Almira kinailangan turuan pa ito kung paano ang tamang paraan ng paglilinis ng katawan. Nalungkot ako ng sabihin niyang nuon lang siya nakapaligo sa isang tunay na banyo--"yung may tubig na umaagos sa gripo Titser", dagdag pa niya. Kadalasan kasi, sa mga butas na tubo ng tubig lang sila umiigib ng pampaligo, di kaya nama'y duon na mismo naliligo sa kalsada. Matapos ang ilang minuto nang sabunan at hiluran, nagbanlaw ng tubig ang tuwang tuwang si Almira. Habang nagtutuyo ng tuwalya nagkukuwento siya na nagsisimula na silang mag aral magbasa, magbilang at sumulat. Nang matapos magbihis, binati kong na ang ganda niyang tignan sa malinis na puting blusang pahiram sa kanila. "Titser Steph, sa isang linggo po ba paliliguan niyo uli kami?" tanong ni Almira. Halos mabasag ang puso ko habang pinagmamasdan ang kumukislap niyang mga mata. At kahit katanghaliang tapat nag unahang pumatak ang mga luha ko. (Gusto ko siyang yakapin at hagkan, bagay na alam kong hindi niya nararanasan sa loob ng tahanan. Isa siyang paslit na sermon at kurot ang inaalmusal at sa murang edad ay mataas pa sa kaniya ang bunton ng damit na nilalabhan.) Isang tipid na ngiti lamang ang naisagot ko kay Almira. Sabi ko sa sarili ko, kahit wala akong panahon, gagawa ako ng oras para makapag serve sa mga batang ito kahit ilang oras lang tuwing sabado. Sa totoo lang lahat ng kaartehan ko sa katawan nalilimutan ko kapag naiisip ko ang hirap na binabata ng mga musmos na ito. Maswerte nang masayaran ng kanin at ulam ang mga sikmura isang beses isang araw. Lahat ng klaseng abuso dinadanas nila, may isa kaming alagang ibinenta ng stepfather niya sa kumpare sa halagang P500! Nabuntis ang dalagita at ngayo's may 7-buwang sanggol na. May ilan ding mga bata na labas masok na sa bilangguan (dinadampot sila ng DSWD o kaya ng mga pulis at kinukulong kapag nasa kalsada pa nang madaling araw) at nakakaranas mabugbog. May ilang binatilyong naabuso na rin ng mga bading, pumapayag sumama kapalit ng kaunting perang maiuuwi sa nagugutom nilang pamilya. (Hay Lord...bakit po ganito? Ang alam ko po mahal ninyo ang mga bata. Hindi ko po gustong tanungin o kwestyunin Kayo pero hindi ba napakabata pa nila para magdanas ng ganitong pait at pasakit?) Sa dalawang taon na teaching mission, 6 na sa mga batang ito ang nakabalik sa normal na paaralan. Bagamat huli pa rin sila para sa kanilang edad (yung ibang 12 anyos, nasa grade 4 pa rin at may isang 13 na grade 1 pa lang pero mukha naman daw ma-a-accelerate kasi bibo at listo!) masaya kaming nasa eskuwelahan sila at wala sa langsangan. Kahit pa sabihing ipinapangilak namin sa iba't ibang komunidad ng SLG ang pamasahe nila at galing lamang sa donasyon ang mga bag, sapatos, uniporme at ibang gamit nila sa eskuwela, malaking bagay na para sa amin to. Pero para sa akin, ang pinakamalaking pagbabago nila wala sa panlabas na kaanyuan. Marumi pa rin sila at amoy araw. Kadalasan nakatambay pa rin ng walang tsinelas sa may kanto ng 7-11 sa Casimiro. Ito ang hindi nila kayang bilhin: na kapag may isa sa grupong napadaan lalapit silang lahat at isa isang magmamano. Na kung sumagot sila ngayon may po at opo...na marunong silang magrosaryo. Alam kong hindi namin kayang baguhin ang mundo. Daang libo ang mga batang lansangan dito sa Pilipinas. (Maliit lang ang grupo at kadalasan kapos sa pondo. Sa isang araw ng pagtuturo pinagkakasya namin ang P500 sa maghapong pagkain ng mga bata at ng mga worker, at lahat ito galing sa love offering ng mga members.) Pero sa mahigit 20 batang inaalagaan namin panatag ang kalooban kong may nagbago. May pag asa na sila ngayon. Sa simpleng pagbasa, pagsulat at pagbilang, sa pagbabalik sa paaralan, unti unti na nilang binabago ang guhit ng kanilang mga kapalaran. Sina Almira, Rhea, Maricris, Benjie, at lahat ng iba pang batang inaalagaan namin---may pag asa na silang makaahon sa kahirapan sa susunod na mga taon. Tulad ng sabi ko kanina Teacher Steph ang tawag nila sa akin. Nanliliit ako, wala naman akong naituturo sa kanila. Ang mga batang ito ang nagtuturo sa akin kung paano magpakatoo at magpakatao. Nakatala sa isip ko ang mukha ni Almira magpahanggang ngayon. At lagi ko siyang aalalahanin sa tuwing may kakaharapin akong pagsubok o paghihirap. Isang batang paslit ang nagturo sa aking lumuhod at tumingala sa langit upang magpasalamat sa Ama sa lahat ng biyaya at grasyang patuloy Niyang ibinibigay kahit hindi ko hinihingi. Panginoon,salamat po sa mga batang tulad ni Almira na sa kabila ng kahirapan sa buhay sinasalubong ang bawat umaga ng may ngiti sa kaniyang mga mata. | |
June 22nd, 2005
Unwritten Posted by: natasha bedingfield I am unwritten, can't read my mind, I'm undefined | |
June 23rd, 2005
Lightning storms and showers of Blessings Posted in There are moments when everything goes well, but don't be frightened. Jules Renard I feel so blessed today, just about brimming with happiness. I will unabashedly say: Thanks be to GOD! I was on my way to our community outreach last night when I witnessed a rather elaborate and extended lightning storm. Normally, I'd walk as fast as my two flat feet can carry me for fear of getting drenched, but this time, I didn't. I stood transfixed as sliver upon sliver of lightning flashed like a silver knife trying to slice away at the sky. I shuddered inwardly at the epiphany: I have been waiting for lightning to strike, God didn't send me just one, but a fierce display of lightning. It's just that it rained somewhere else last night. *** Waking up late and moving lazily, I expected to get to the office at 8.30 or so. But lo and behold! Moses could have very well parted the red sea for me today for I got to work in record time---just 10 minutes, prompting me to believe that angels are smiling down at me today. No, it didn't stop at that. I was browsing the web a few minutes later and decided to check on the news. I felt like a million dollars when I saw my name online (well, I always see my name online and in print but this is different!) under my poem Dreamcatcher . Yes ladies and gentlemen, I was published today, for the first time in 12 years. My PP family was the first to know and congratulate me (love yah Jheric!) and then my Dad. I could feel him beaming on the email (yeah, he's my biggest fan and my worst critic ever!) Indulge me please. http://you.inq7.net/express/06222005/exp3-1.htm I think I am finally catching the dream. Again. All glory and praise to the Lord! | |
June 27th, 2005
Coffee Poems Posted in **An ode to my caffeine addiction. My dearest Mitz, here's my lesson for the week: thou shalt not drink venti latte on an empty stomach. I swear, this nausea is killing me. Made two coffee poems last week. One to complete the Starbucks trilogy started by Mitz and my beloved Andoy, and the second one, a tribute to Gerry's tepid lovelife. Caffe Latte We are all given the ingredients of happiness, but the mixing is left to ourselves. – Ethel M. Dell Standing hand in hand Your eyes probed mine in question, To you, Unsparing lovers prefer latte over anything else. We are latte, A.S. Cruz My cup is a far a cry from the concoctions enjoyed This cup is enough to keep me company A.S. Cruz 6.24.05 Differential Diagnosis: Nasusuka at Nahihilo :( | |
I Love Rubber Bands Posted in **Sometimes I want to ask God why I get more than my fair share of tears and heartaches. Sigh. Cried buckets again in Malabon last Sunday. Mom's at it again. Thank God for sending me rubber bands when I need them most. Oh, and here's praying for Miel, Chelly, Vicky, Beng and Norway. May you rubber bands find you in time. God Bless! By: Bo Sanchez | |
June 28th, 2005
Tell Me Where It Hurts Posted in **my song for the week. but i prefer that someone sing it to me. sigh. i'm picking at scabs today by: MYMP Why is that sad look in your eyes | |
June 29th, 2005
Pinoypoets Night @ Conspiracy, more than just a success! Posted in **same message I posted sa groups, nag re request ng kwento ang mga kuyang nasa ibayong dagat. Ang saya saya ko, special mention ko lang my beloved Andoy, Mitz and my kuya Jheric for making the night extra special for me...labs ko kayo! The event started at around 9 pm with the arrival of my beloved Teddyboy Locsin na kahit may sakit eh pinilit pa ring makadalo sa ating anniversary. By this time Conspi was buzzing with life and filled to the rafters (palampasin na lang ang lapses sa grammar) with guests, students and most especially, mga prominent figures from the academe and the literary world (yun po yung mga names na binaggit ni kath kanina). Sa Filipino, di mahulugang karayom. Teddyboy was set to read Sestina for a Jazzman by Ehmong. I was beaming with pride when he asked to meet him. (delivered in the crisp accent only Teddyboy could do) "I would like to meet the poet, Mr. De Borja". Clearly, he was impressed when he saw how young our Emong was. He even asked if the piece had been submitted or enetered in any contest. As he got up on stage, Mr. Locsin even explained to the crowd what a sestina was and relayed an anecdote on how his late father had always tried to teach him to write poetry, but he was never able to. He added that reading Ehmong's poem is the second best thing he can do. He read beautifully (shempre love ko ito no!) but was not ashamed to pass on the applause to the poet. (sobrang proud ako sayo emong *hugs*) After Teddyboy, the crowd was treated to several songs. Party, party muna while the hosts and the organizers were frantically escorting more guests to their seats. Ay grabe, punong puno talaga yung Conspiracy! At around this time, naluluha na ako. Shempre kasi tula ko na yung babasahin ni Nerissa. Feeling ko "made" na ako kagabi. Na kahit inabandon ko ng 12 years ang pagsusulat ng tula, it has found me again. Kuya Andoy and Mitz were holding my hands as Nerissa (in her captivating voice) read my Dreamcatcher. sniff sniff.... Actually, I think I can still hear the applause ringing in my ears. Ganun naman yata ang naging pakiramdam ng lahat. Edz was starstruck ng basahin ni Gary Granada ang tula niya...yun tipo bang dati nagpapa autograph lang tayo sa kanila, bumibili ng mga libro o nanunuod ng performances, ngayon they are lending a voice and a character to our poems. Sarap ng feeling! The readings went smoothly and the program itself was seamless. Pamatay ang performance ni Rolly Inocencio! Ito ang thespian...kung pwede lang pumalakpak ang mga dingding at makihiyaw nangyari na sana. Imagine nyo naman na tula ni Jonar ang binasa niya! Lethal na combination po ito. Ang sweetheart of the night pa rin ay si Maam Chingbee. Sayang idol kris wala ka dun hehehe. Andun ito sa nabura kong email....hindi lang enthusiastic ang mga readers at guests natin about poetry. They were burning with passion! Talagang love nila ang panulaan. Lahat nakikinig sa pagbabasa, lahat nag che cheer lahat very generous sa applause. Sinong magsasabing patay na ang poetry? Kung nanduon kayo kagabi at narinig ninyo ang readings sa open mike sasabihin ninyong hindi pa rin pala nilamon ng commercialism ang mundo...that there are still people who believe in the power of the pen and thrive in the sublime appeal of the printed word. I was thinking what the hell am I doing here? I do not deserve to be in the company of geniuses such as these people. There was this guy (Kramer, sino to) who brought the house down with his delivery (memorized mga kuya) of his aso poem. May alaga siyang asong mataba na kinatay para ipakain sa pesteng kongresman na di naman dumating sa araw ng piyesta. He brought the house down with his Red Horse piece (talo ka medel, belat!) na talaga namang performace level! At ang lakas ng powers ni Angelo Suarez...dumadagundong ang boses habang nagbabasa. Panalo ito sa audience impact. Kagabi ko lang din na realize na fan na pala ako ni Magda (I love you Magda!) sa pagbabasa niya ng Oyayi (with matching makapanindig balahibong humming) ramdam na ramdam ang pain ng persona. She also treated us to one of her own poems, one she knew by heart and delivered with such aplomb (may bayad ito, akala mo!) na napanganga ako. This woman lends vibrance to any character she assumes...and her voice? ethereal. Hindi ko makakalimutan ang poetry reader ni Makuy, na nagyosi pa sa entablado. Madami pang bisitang nagbasa ng kani kanilang mga tula. Ang assessment ko sa mga ito, dati akala nila wala nang puwang ang poetry sa buhay ng tao, pero natagpuan nila ang PP and suddenly they're not alone anymore...mga tulang binasa o nirecite nila galing sa baul, nakalimbag sa puso at isip at kagabi lang na i share sa marami. Sa pagtatapos ng gabi, ngarag na ang mga taga PP. Hulas na ang mga make up at masasakit na ang mga paa, pero masaya. Sa mga ngiti at group hugs na pinagsaluhan namin, there was this unspoken message na syet! nagawa natin. Nangyari ang isang gabi na dati panaginip lang. PP ceased to be an egroup...flesh and blood na tayo, kinilala ng mga pinagpipitagan at respetadong pangalan sa lipunan, sa akademya at sa panulaan, at tinanggap ng karamihan. And although my feet were throbbing from wearing two inch heels, I went home ecstatic. Proud na proud ako sa PP, sa lahat ng miyembro, sa lahat ng tulang ginawa ng grupo. Alam ko kayo rin. Tulad ng sinabi ko kanina, partial at unofficial lamang ang kwentong ito...these are the only things I can recall in between bouts of Tequila and San Mig Light. Antayin nating magising ang iba. Muli, happy anniversary sa ating lahat. Archie, malamig na ang kape ko.  P.S. Ang galing galing mga hosts na sina Ergoe, Edz, Van at Kramer...at home sila sa stage at oo nga pala, namigay kami ng sandamakmak na condom | |
MABUTI PA SILA Posted in Love and other Disasters **my senti song for the week. haaaaaaaaay. By: GARY GRANADA Mabuti pa ang mga surot, laging mayrong masisiksikan Mabuti pa sila, mabuti pa sila Pigilan n'yo akong magpatiwakal | |
June 30th, 2005
Let it GO Posted in **thank you Ruel for sending me this email. It was just what I needed this morning. by: JD TAKES There are people who can walk away from you. And hear me when I tell you I don't want you to try to talk another person into staying with you, loving you, calling you, caring about you, coming to see you, staying attached to you. | |
Hang Over Posted in By: Anne Stephanie Cruz There’s a certain comfort derived from each wave of nausea that passes; the lightheadedness, the after taste of regurgitated bile, insides churning and heaving as one doubles over and retches—only to barf air. It’s reassuring to smell cigarette smoke in my hair, stray locks sticking to a forehead slick with sweat, traces of nicotine clinging to thumb and forefinger the morning after. The dry mouth, a reeling head and senses struggling out of stupor are easier to account for than the how’s or why’s of inebriation. There’s no sober explanation for finding solace in a cloud of smoke and a shot of tequila--why laughter flows jigger after jigger, and inhibitions are released by hastily drawn puffs of strawberry-flavored cigarettes. Cherry red polished fingernails bitten to the quick, tracing half circles on maple-varnished tables. Making love to Jose Cuervo, sucking in DJ Mix, we are an unholy trinity of vice passing time, purple eyes keeping watch as the black crow of the evening exits to dawn. If only I’d wake up feeling sick, unable to remember the bitter taste old heartbreak left in my mouth. How I wish I could spew out minced words and cutlets of memories and just flush, flush, flush. But I’m one of the cursed few who never get hung over. Tough luck. | |
Both Sides Now Posted in By: Judy Collins Bows and flows of angel hair and ice cream castles in the air | |
