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.

Tonight I Write About Tata

Tonight, I write about Tata.


Tata was my last living grandparent. A little over a year ago, Tata passed away quite unexpectedly. I was here at the Metro when it happened. But my mind, over that entire week was with him.


Tata has always been sort of like a sentinel for me. He, in my own humble opinion, was my old man who I thought would never grow old.

He did.

But back in the older days, I have fond memories of Tata riding his bicycle, going around the old town. He is quite well known in the old neighborhood, and I can only surmise that this is because he was once the owner of the only restaurant/grocery/store in the old neighborhood. Tata used to own an old carpentry shop too. He had, in his employ a number of people who were then my playmates as a kid. I had waitresses as my yayas then. His carpenters were at my beck and call whenever I needed anything built - from small wooden chairs to mini tables as my playthings. My sister and I shared a small nook at the corner of the shop where we would build our little own world of made of wood, tools scrap metals. These days, one of my favorite scents remain to be the smell of fresh wood shavings. Looking back now, this might have been because this scent remind me of my youth when nothing and no one can touch me. Who could ever? My Tata was my sentinel - he stood guard for me, from all the possible harms that could hurt, down to the little scratches I got from playing around in his shop.

As a kid, I was a handful. I was spoiled rotten by my late Nana and by all my titos and titas. Whenever I would have my share of spanking from Papa during my younger days, I run to Tata's bedroom, and that was the end of my punishment. I would stay there until the late hours, watching PPP (Piling Piling Pelikula) and Box Office Hits from the old, yellow telly.

On most mornings, it was Tata's task to buy pandesal for the entire family. Even after our family has moved to another house, Tata, would always drop by riding his bicycle to give our morning ration of pandesal. He had also taken upon himself to get the previous night's trash so he can throw it in the dump site. This has been his daily morning ritual for as long as I can remember.

During the later part of his life, Tata has slowly become thinner and more sickly. His once stocky built has shrunk to a frail old man, yet he remained handsome, strong jawline and all. Despite his rheumatic joints, he continued to tower above us all, wide shouldered and well-postured. Tata remained his quiet, dignified stance, never bullying nor oppressing. He was a loving grandfather who never got mad, never demanded, and never imposed any rules.

It's been a little bit over a year since Tata has passed away. It isnt true when they say that time heals. When we lose someone we love, we are never, ever the same. And yes, we will be scarred forever. Time, however, has a way of making us feel better. Yet, the scars, however thin and light they become, will always be here.

Tonight, I write about Tata. Tonight, I feel my scars. And yes, over time, I have felt better about all that has happened. But I remember. And I know I miss my old man.

One Crappy Entry

It's 4AM and I'm staring at this almost blank screen. What to write, I ask myself. I lit a cigarette to help jumpstart my pondering process. And I've been hitting on long drags but the mind opts to laze around today.

The words in my head are all jumbled up. I have a couple of things that I want to write about but I find myself getting lazier and lazier with each letter I type on my keyboard.

So I keep on staring at this screen, wondering if I could ever muster anything to post today.

For now, this crappy entry will have to do. I vow to write something more substantial tomorrow. I hate this feeling of not being able to express myself as easily like I used to.

Maybe I should stop stop thinking too much for a bit.

Mid Year Question

Mid year review for 2011--
This year is full of surprises. A lot of changes has happened over the course of the last 6 months. I must admit, most of these has left me panting and astonished. Let me not get into the boring nitty gritties of my mundane life. (But) So far, I've left my old boring job for another boring one. In the last 6 months, I've also been more docile(!) in terms of handling altercations. I might have been feral and ferocious in the past, yes. But lately, I have been surprising myself because I have become more laidback and...yes, docile. I dent exacly know what changed. If, in the past, I found great joy in debating and trying to prove I'm right, these days, I just keep quiet and let other people believe what they want to believe. I have become more detached, but not apathetic. I still care about what's happening around me, but I have become less controlling. Good thing? I dont know. One thing that scares me about all these is the possibility of me becoming jaded. Could it be? Have I grown so old that I no longer find passion and intensity with the world around me? I dont know, but being 30 seems like an awful lot early to feel old. Something in me has gone astray, but I still cant figure out what. I've said this before and I will say it again - I need to feel passionate about something..anything. During the last few years, I have stopped, little by little, doing the things I love. I stopped writing. I rarely play the guitar anymore. I've stopped going out with friends. I don't feel as excited with my job anymore. I rarely ever paint and sketch. What stopped me from doing all these? That is the question.

Life's a Bliss with K

Ninety days from my last post was when I stopped being lonely.
About 8 months ago, I've learned to let go of old hurts and pains.
About 8 months ago, I've started looking at life through rose-colored glasses again.
It was utterly unexpected, yet awesomely thrilling.
It was, is a sweet, sweet ride to oblivion, where I was fully well aware of being alive and...
...being loved.

I never thought happiness can stay.
Life in this corner is a bliss.

Zombie

I woke up one morning and I was a zombie. I need to feel passionate again - about something. Anything.

My Little Piece of Sky

And as I write this, I'm right beside my window looking out. It's raining outside, and the clouds are too low, you think I could touch them. The rain's so fine its almost invisible. Yet I see them.

Something about today wants to make me look up to the skies. I should be somewhere else, doing something else. Yet I grabbed a chair, placed it right next to my window, and stared out. Do I see something? Should I see something?

I don't. But I suddenly feel that this is my place today. If something ever comes out of this, I'll tell you soon. For now, let me enjoy my piece of sky by my window side.