In the last few years, I have been more of a reader than a writer. A lurker, more than the star of the show. I'm sure you know what I mean. In the past, I have always had this innate thirst to be the center of everyone's life. I wanted to matter, no matter what. I had that. And I thought I had it all. But at the end of the show, I realized, it was really nothing but that - just a show.
These days, I find comfort in being on the side. I've learned to enjoy to watch life go by. I feel no insane pressure to change the world. I have no need to make a mark. I am simply watching the world - as it should be seen. Naked and raw. Vivid and...unchanged.
Little by little, I've come to realize that the cause of great disappointment and pain is wanting too much, giving too much, and hoping for too much. It's not so bad to take each day as it comes, you know. Not bad at all.
Today, I find great joy in watching a dried leaf soar up when a big gust of wind scoops it up. I find it hilarious to spend hours with my dog and I just staring into each other's eyes. A new recipe which I perfected on the first try is an accomplishment. Waking up, and then having the luxury to sleep right back is one hell of a miracle for me. I am one with myself. I am at peace with my world.
I'm living my life. And I'm living it well. Not many people can claim that. When I'm older and life, for one reason or another may turn for the worse, I will make sure to look back here. I know I will find my way back. This is my road back to my corner. My own.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Same Old, Same Old
I've been through this once before. And maybe it's true when they say that practice makes perfect, because this time, I feel more at peace - or maybe numb. Same thing.
I'm starting over again. Yet again. Can I go through this again? I have only myself to blame. Same old, same old.
I don't know what's wrong with myself. Maybe I've fallen in love with the idea of growing old alone too much. I have envisioned myself to be an old, pathetic, melancholic woman who will live the rest of her life reminiscing about her wonderful, colorful history. Aah yes, history. That would be all there is at the end of the road. Same old, same old.
I'm starting over again. Yet again. Can I go through this again? I have only myself to blame. Same old, same old.
I don't know what's wrong with myself. Maybe I've fallen in love with the idea of growing old alone too much. I have envisioned myself to be an old, pathetic, melancholic woman who will live the rest of her life reminiscing about her wonderful, colorful history. Aah yes, history. That would be all there is at the end of the road. Same old, same old.
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
Chewii's First Birthday
I was supposed to start a photoblog for 265 days starting last May. Better late than never.
So let's start this with this photo.
In the picture with me is Chewii's mommy, Kay. Nice family pic we have here. :)
The night was awesome, filled with lotsa fun and running. With Chewii's dog guests, whaddaya expect? :p
Thursday, March 29, 2012
The Muse Visits
My muse visited me last night. She has been fleeting and evasive as of late, and her sudden pop- in actually surprised me. And yes, as always, my muse was, is and always will be a pleasant surprise. She comes and goes and never really stays. An interventionist, my muse, that’s her.I don’t think I have ever talked about her here. I’ll try to do it today. Pardon the shallow words I will be using my dear muse. You don’t deserve these trivial and petty sketch that I will do of you today.
As all writers and artists (which I like to associate with and consider myself to be one, thank you very much), I have my quirks, moods and temper that even I cant seem to understand. Much less control, if you know what I mean. When I write, I have to be in a particular mood which is beyond words to describe. As if in a limbo, strange emotions mix together to make me feel something like a combination of being thrilled, poignant, exultant and animated. Everything happens in a reflex. Writing becomes automatic. Sometimes I feel like its my fingers doing the thinking. In engulfs and swallows me whole while it stretches me thin at the same time. At the end of it, I would feel spent yet satiated. These, among all others are what my muse does to me whenever she visits.
Other writers talk about having writer’s block. I’ve had my share of that too. I define it as the time when my muse refuses to reveal itself. She hides in the cupboards. She veils herself beneath my curtains. And she holes herself under the bed. During these times, no matter how hard or pathetically I beg her to show a glimpse, my muse holds back. She remains stubborn and strong -willed, uncompromising and selfish. And I end up staring at blank walls and white screens – numb, unfeeling. Zombified.
So you see, my muse and I have a love – hate relationship. It has been this way for so long that I wonder if I would ever get to keep her for good. On most occasions I have almost given up on her. It seems like for the longest time, I have been chasing her and I have come no closer in capturing my most elusive inspiration.
But you see, last night the muse visited me. I was on my way to work, and just a few seconds before I stepped inside the cab, I had the sudden impulse to write. I didn’t have anything in mind, nothing concrete really. But my muse egged me on, not wanting me to lose the momentum. She wasn’t very patient, and during the 5 minute ride to the office, she has threatened to run off yet again. I couldn’t afford that. I could let her escape this time, after such a long time of waiting. So when I got to the office, this post was the first thing I did.
She’s left now. So end of post. Until then.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Weekend
Today, I give myself a break from the rat race. For a brief respite of 2 days, I am gonna forget about my meetings, my reports and all the stress I get from studying charts of accounts and financial hullabaloos. Today, I am gonna breathe slowly, and forget the world outside my little corner. Today, I live.
Weekend.
I will play with my dog. Dance with KG.
I will write one piece of literature. I will sing.
I might do a little bit of cleaning (very therapeutic!).
And I will cook a dish I've never cooked before.
Today, I live.
I will not mind if I don't take a shower.
And I will probably miss to floss my teeth.
At least for the next 2 days.
I will sweat it out and release my energy - just because I want to feel spent.
And make it up by sleeping for 10 hours straight.
Its the weekend. And I intend to squeeze every bit of it to live and to feel alive.
Have a wonderful weekend people.
Friday, March 16, 2012
365 Project: Planning Stage
I've been writing here since 2005. This blog has been a testament to my little corner of life on this Earth for the last 7 years. And yes, lately - more than lately actually - I have been ignoring this little piece of garden for uh, lots of reasons. Dont start asking. I will not be able to answer your questions in one seating.
In the meantime, let me sidetrack.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Bogas 3 Sneak View
These words that youread aren’t really words.
In these last few years of quiet, words have become a bit more than what they are. They have become voices – those little whimpers you hear when the going gets too rough. These words, too, have become laughter, melodic and warm – a bit like hot cocoa on a very cold, rainy night.
Oh but most importantly,these words – These words that you’re reading have become echoes. Soft echoes
in time that have stayed and remained. As if in an empty wide cavern that used to be so full and busy, all that lingers now are the traces of what was once there. Of what was once been.
I remember a trek maybe about fifteen summers ago in the deep Sierra Madres of Cagayan. There was this place called Callao Caves which was partly a tourist spot, partly ruins. The entrance of the cave has been converted into a chapel, and is always filled with people, mostly Catholics. Further down the path though, where it is darker, steeper and most likely dangerous, is the part which is not open to public. I remember getting lost in this dangerous place.
I wasn’t scared, and no I wasn’t exactly rearing to go back to the chapel which had somehow stifled my naturally-adventurous spirit. Instead, I plunged head-on, not knowing where each step would take me. After the initial up and down bumpy walk, I remember coming into an open space, which is lit by natural sunlight from a large hole five meters above me. The ray of light cast glittering dust directly to where I was standing. Suddenly, my surroundings became more quiet but instinctively alive. I could hear the drop of water from a stalactite 3 meters away! And the
leaves, yes the rustling of leaves from way beyond the hole above was very soothing to my ears. The very air around me seemed to have energy from within it. It was one of those split second moments than can evoke emotions to write
poetry or to make a painting.
I literally envision my life with the Bogases to the old feeling I had in that cave.
My life with the Bogas people was life full of contradiction. I’ve said this once, and I’ll say it again – it was a short time of driving free, the times when we counted destruction with thorns. We felt life, in fullness and in freedom, one part of life filled with madness and joy.
After everyone has left, I didn’t feel as much fire in friendship any more. I was not interested in having tight knots with people because in my heart of hearts, what was the point when everyone’s leaving one way or another. Of course I was wrong then. Life moves on inevitably and those that desperately cling to their past almost always drown in the miserable truth that the past is exclusively history. And so as I counted the months that led to years, and then to a decade, I was absentmindedly also trying to move on from life I had with the Bogases. My friend Mabelle will shake her head when she reads these lines I’m writing now – she will of course say, “We’re still here, alive and kicking” as the cliché goes. “Nobody changed, you know”. And for sure, I’d say, “Things change, people change, that’s the stark truth, who are we to dispute reality?” But us being us, we’d also most likely let our thoughts hang without necessarily agreeing with each other. And that’s the beauty of what we have now. I guess we’ve just learned to accept all that has happened without questions. Things were more difficult to understand in the early days. And one of the people who most likely felt it the hardest was Richard. If you’re wondering why it had to be him, don’t ask. Just look back. I’m sure you’ll get the answer you’re looking for. Just try to remember.
Remember.
This is so hard to do these days. Our get togethers have become rare and far in between, sometimes taking years before the next one. And when we do have it, I have always hoped to maybe talk about the old times, maybe laugh and reminisce about the old ways. But rarely does this happen. We do a little update here and there. And mostly it would be about people other than us. So these days, I end up knowing more things about the people we know, instead of each other. I don’t complain. Being together, albeit infrequently, is always better than nothing. Again, acceptance. Life goes on.
And so I write this 3rd book not in an attempt to talk about our past. As fiery, feral and colourful our past lives may have been, that is now almost exclusively history. Almost. In this fast and busy world we’ve embraced, echoes of the past are heard during quiet nights. But echoes are not stories – just memories. So what I intend to write is what happened after. What happened after Los Banos? What happened when people began leaving? And what happened to the people in this next life chapter of the Bogas people?
Read on.
In these last few years of quiet, words have become a bit more than what they are. They have become voices – those little whimpers you hear when the going gets too rough. These words, too, have become laughter, melodic and warm – a bit like hot cocoa on a very cold, rainy night.
Oh but most importantly,these words – These words that you’re reading have become echoes. Soft echoes
in time that have stayed and remained. As if in an empty wide cavern that used to be so full and busy, all that lingers now are the traces of what was once there. Of what was once been.
I remember a trek maybe about fifteen summers ago in the deep Sierra Madres of Cagayan. There was this place called Callao Caves which was partly a tourist spot, partly ruins. The entrance of the cave has been converted into a chapel, and is always filled with people, mostly Catholics. Further down the path though, where it is darker, steeper and most likely dangerous, is the part which is not open to public. I remember getting lost in this dangerous place.
I wasn’t scared, and no I wasn’t exactly rearing to go back to the chapel which had somehow stifled my naturally-adventurous spirit. Instead, I plunged head-on, not knowing where each step would take me. After the initial up and down bumpy walk, I remember coming into an open space, which is lit by natural sunlight from a large hole five meters above me. The ray of light cast glittering dust directly to where I was standing. Suddenly, my surroundings became more quiet but instinctively alive. I could hear the drop of water from a stalactite 3 meters away! And the
leaves, yes the rustling of leaves from way beyond the hole above was very soothing to my ears. The very air around me seemed to have energy from within it. It was one of those split second moments than can evoke emotions to write
poetry or to make a painting.
I literally envision my life with the Bogases to the old feeling I had in that cave.
My life with the Bogas people was life full of contradiction. I’ve said this once, and I’ll say it again – it was a short time of driving free, the times when we counted destruction with thorns. We felt life, in fullness and in freedom, one part of life filled with madness and joy.
After everyone has left, I didn’t feel as much fire in friendship any more. I was not interested in having tight knots with people because in my heart of hearts, what was the point when everyone’s leaving one way or another. Of course I was wrong then. Life moves on inevitably and those that desperately cling to their past almost always drown in the miserable truth that the past is exclusively history. And so as I counted the months that led to years, and then to a decade, I was absentmindedly also trying to move on from life I had with the Bogases. My friend Mabelle will shake her head when she reads these lines I’m writing now – she will of course say, “We’re still here, alive and kicking” as the cliché goes. “Nobody changed, you know”. And for sure, I’d say, “Things change, people change, that’s the stark truth, who are we to dispute reality?” But us being us, we’d also most likely let our thoughts hang without necessarily agreeing with each other. And that’s the beauty of what we have now. I guess we’ve just learned to accept all that has happened without questions. Things were more difficult to understand in the early days. And one of the people who most likely felt it the hardest was Richard. If you’re wondering why it had to be him, don’t ask. Just look back. I’m sure you’ll get the answer you’re looking for. Just try to remember.
Remember.
This is so hard to do these days. Our get togethers have become rare and far in between, sometimes taking years before the next one. And when we do have it, I have always hoped to maybe talk about the old times, maybe laugh and reminisce about the old ways. But rarely does this happen. We do a little update here and there. And mostly it would be about people other than us. So these days, I end up knowing more things about the people we know, instead of each other. I don’t complain. Being together, albeit infrequently, is always better than nothing. Again, acceptance. Life goes on.
And so I write this 3rd book not in an attempt to talk about our past. As fiery, feral and colourful our past lives may have been, that is now almost exclusively history. Almost. In this fast and busy world we’ve embraced, echoes of the past are heard during quiet nights. But echoes are not stories – just memories. So what I intend to write is what happened after. What happened after Los Banos? What happened when people began leaving? And what happened to the people in this next life chapter of the Bogas people?
Read on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)