Happy birthday

Happy Birthday, Mama

I miss you now just as I had when you'd just left.

I have never forgotten you; not a single day.

The finale

Does it even matter? When a candle burns out and all that is left is that lingering tendril of smoke. And although you know that this continues into infinity, infinity is not something you can perceive even in that singular moment of happiness you have bottled up in your mind. It ends. It fades when your life ends. And maybe it is as they say. Maybe your entire history does flash before you as intensely as a technicolour cartoon. But, also, maybe it fades like the remnants of a dream that your mind grapples with to recall upon waking. You claw at it as only a wave struggles to hold on to the shore. But until it freezes over, as it might, but never will, but maybe... until then, it is simply lost. It is, hopefully, recycled into that pool of dreams and realities of existing life - a remake - the actors change yet the plot remains the same. And maybe, like that wisp of smoke, you linger as well; now everywhere as a gas is everywhere. And maybe you can see everything and other things you have never (until now, that is) been able to. And maybe you are able to see how some other being has taken your story and lived it better. And now you know with poignant certainty that you were wrong, as you forever will be. Was it despair? Was it then apathy? Was it, finally, an utter, terrible sense of contentment that made you think that you were brave enough to leap without the harness? We who are left to ponder may even find some degree of comfort in attempting to break it down into stages, a series of logical decisions, without which, creatures such as ourselves seem to be left floundering... as if the universe (in its infinite magnitude) can be summarized into a pattern.  And maybe we can use the sciences and maths and better minds to feel a little less helpless, a little less insignificant.  But the truth is that we (like you, like a million others such as you or I, and what we do and what you have done) are but tawdry remakes of the past.  Vanity has ever been our nature... that primal need to be beyond mere existence.  So we tell stories of the times we lived and the times we loved, and the times we lost; sometimes true, often false, often glazed with literature, as if any of it truly matter, as if the echoes of our voices are loud enough to last an eternity... as if we can be as stars (but even the light of stars die).   And sometimes when we tell them well enough, they are remembered by those we leave behind, but often they change nothing.   Vanity... when we dress up the earth with flowers and monuments of those who now are as inconsequential as a speck of dust on the vase by the window.  Truly we know that there is nothing more needless than an epitaph or a eulogy but to allow us a moment to be less afraid of the utter pointlessness of it all when it ends.

Did you find that poets have rendered a lot more profundity to death than it, in reality, has? Was it as sweet as the songs profess?  Or did you panic in that final fleeting moment when you realized for sure that the ripples made by your dramatic dip into that ocean of oblivion were no different from those left by many others when they did not cancel each other out? Or had your apathy run so deeply that there was nothing but silence? And just as quietly as you left, so do we remember you in silence... until the natural loudness of living wakes us from our stupor, until once again we forget the irony of life.

For Mama

A year ago today I was on a plane back to Manila, the entire time, praying I'd still make it, I'd still see her. Despite not having gotten any sleep the night before, the quiet 8-hour flight offered my worries no reprieve. Two nights back i awoke from a terrible dream of my papa(grandfather) dying, and not the gentle rolling of the waves outside nor the comforting creaks our ship made at the caress of the ocean could put me back to sleep. In my heart I knew something had gone terribly wrong. When we finally hit land I reluctantly checked my phone messages - Mama was very sick, call home as soon as I can. I did just that and knew from the forced calm in my Dad's voice that she hadn't much time to live.

If you've lost a loved one, or... even if you haven't, you'd still have some idea of how it feels like to be struggling against time to make it to their side before they leave. I literally felt sick, queasy, and on the whole unsure whether rushing to the plane's exit hatch at full speed, yanking it open and jumping straight out would get me home that instant or not. But logic is sometimes merciful and the saner bits left of me told me that probably wasn't the best idea. "Hang on, Mama. I'll be home", became a mantra... consciously, subconsciously screaming out of my soul. I tried to remember how she was, tried to dig up old memories and dust them up like grade school books and uniforms you'd keep in boxes in the spare room. I tried... but I was afraid to stop praying for her soul to hold on... for even a few more hours. I remember I'd read from this paranormal book my dad used to have, of one being able to astrally project the soul to loved ones...or other people... if one concentrates enough. I've tried it on numerous occasions, and have always failed. The book said you (the project-or) should be able to communicate with the projectee... be able to see them; but I guess spirits don't do overseas communications. All I could really do was hope...that on some deeper unknown spiritual plane her soul got the message.

I finally reached Manila at about 2100 h; the moment I landed I whispered I'm home. I'd felt... relieved, in some way, for having already arrived at the same soil, but also... overwhelmingly sad. I would have to wait the night to catch the next plane back to the province. And although my luggage and my heart were heavy I couldn't sleep. I tried to pass the night around the city, drinking in its darkness and depravity; but even its most scandalous scenes could not shake my numbness.

I'd been calling home every now and then, hoping her condition would somehow miraculously improve with my arrival, as it sometimes does in sad-happy movies. Nothing has changed, they told me. I wasn't happy, but fair enough, miracles are hard to come by these days. I had to take another 4-hour bus ride to my hometown, happy (under the given circumstances) that I was nearing my objective. For a moment I thought to head straight to the hospital, but I was filthy, and I didn't want to greet mama in that state, so home I headed.

The tricycle neared the house... my heart was hammering like mad at my chest. The place was slowly...carefully shaping itself into a scene I'd always dreaded imagining in the past. I could see the grotesque blue canvas customarily marking a filipino home in mourning, decorate the outside of our house where once Mama's orchid garden colored. I was feeling then lightheaded, cold and clammy. My head said maybe it just meant they were having some form of party. But The tricycle stopped and from outside our gate I could see candles... lighted candles in the daytime, horribly unnatural in the glow's intensity. My aunt...or my grandpa...took me. I could barely remember who it was, because the candlelight blazed ever strongly... ever more prominently in front of me, and everything else was white noise. I knew I'd been too late. I could feel my heart cave in, just collapse under the sheer weight of absence of the person I'd flown home to see. I was angry... I was furious, that she hadn't waited... that she hadn't held on long enough for me to get home. I'd thought my will was strong enough to make her spirit stay... And for a while there I wondered if she loved me enough, or if she loved me at all.

They said her heart gave several times the past few days, but always, she'd struggle to come back. They told me that when they told her I was coming she smiled. They told me she died the night before.. at around 2100 h - the same time our plane touched Philippine soil, the same time I'd said I'm home. The anger drained from me like caffeine after a coffee high, and I felt weary. She did wait for me. I know that. And although logic is merciful, it still fails to explain why the soul holds on to a promise made from a million miles away. It's been a year ago today, and while the rest of the living world turns, I remember Mama. I too will be home someday.

To Mama on her Birthday

I didn't get as much sleep as I hoped I would. All night last night I thought of my family who so graciously felt they needed to inform me of every Filipino dish they'd cooked for my Mama (grandma) and Papa's (grandpa) birthdays. They had crab, grilled jaw of giant fish, unlucky chicken that strayed into the wrong yard on the wrong day, pork, all the yummy goodness I so sorely miss but absolutely do not need (yeah yeah...enough with the fatty jokes).

Mama would have been... what? 78 today? 77? It's sad that I don't even know that simple fact. I think it's because I'm just terrible at dates and ages... and names...and faces... ok so maybe I have premature Alzheimers. No... I think it's because she's always been around all my life... like the mango tree in our front yard. It's been there for so long, God knows how old the damn thing is. But it has always been a constant. All other fruit trees in our yard have fallen... and have been replaced by other fruit trees... the guavas that mama used to lovingly wrap in paper to keep the worms away, have died. Man... those were big-ass guavas. We used to have a coconut tree but it had to be cut down on account of it dropping its nuts at a whim. It didn't even have to be a windy day. We had a cherry tree that had cherries of all the lovely colors of the rainbow in the summer...which we cut off on account of me falling from it. Having fruit trees was convenient if you had a chock-full of kids in the house with nothing to do on lazy afternoons. At least the grownups never worried about us kids stealing fruit from the neighbors. Or we let them think that. As kids there really was no greater thrill than fruit theft.

Now most of these fruits and all of mama's orchids have been replaced by grass and sand and weed...none of us could grow a mad orchid like mama can. It's her birthday today and I honestly can't say how old she would have been. But this is because I never bothered to know. She was there; a constant... something... someone I came home to on Christmas and holidays and school breaks. To me, mama stayed always the same... always there... never growing old. I couldn't tell you how much white hair she had on her head because she always took care to dye it while I watched in fascination as she used a front and back mirror so expertly... when all my spatial coordinates were whacked when I get in front of a mirror. I could not tell you how her skin felt like paper... because she'd always taken the care to lotion up after a bath. I could not tell you how her muscles started to sag at the weight of the years and the mortal body falling hopelessly decrepit under it because everytime I came home from gradeschool...then highschool...and then university...she hugged me so tightly I could only feel her love and joy at my return. I could not tell you how tired she must have felt on Christmas mornings when she had to wake up to make us our hot cocoa, while papa went down to the baker's for our hot pan de sal. Nor can I know how annoying we kids... that's right...like 20 of us... must have been, jumping around her bed when all she needed was peace and quiet for her heart and rest for her tired bones. We never knew because even if sometimes she would yell at us to be quiet she still had on her a smile and a loving touch and the biscuits she kept for us in the afternoon never hurt either.

It's her birthday today and although I try to find solace in prayer and thought and remembrance, I still wish so badly she were still around. If she were I'd never ever miss giving her a single birthday card and a kiss. Thank you. For the cocoa, the white sheets, the mended clothes, the yelling, the embraces, the waiting up, the waiting for us. I would have told her now, Mama... Happy Birthday. How old are you? I never knew because you always tried to hide the years from us.

Photographs are a poor excuse...

Just got back from a trip to Jenolan Caves up at the Blue Mountains. Two days and a half of no contact with the outside world, no phones, no internet... there was just me (and family) and nature. Right now I'm sitting at my computer, looking over the photos I've taken... shot after shot of stones and rock and crystals and fossils, reliving.. no... trying, but failing to recapture the awe of seeing the caves for the first time. The crystal formations were just breathtaking. The cave rooms ranged from the minute to vast domes with high ceilings that rival the Sistine Chapel in its magnificence.
The photo below is sadly one of the best I've taken of the crystals in one of the caves of Jenolan. They are called the "crowned jewels", and rightly so. My photographs hardly do these wonders any justice.


On the second day of our trip i went to 3 different caves, seeing the light of day only briefly for lunch and then back again into worlds unknown. There are over 400 caves in Jenolan, and even now more and more are being discovered. Only a handful of these are sacrificed to the public to satisfy our petty curiosities. I saw underground lakes of the clearest water you wouldn't even know it was there until you look hard at it. The water was just crystal clear, unmoved, untouched... filtered by layer upon layer of earth above. I was looking at and could not help but stare at the fragile shoals and delicate helictites that might have been formed millions..or even billions of years ago.. noone really knows just how ancient these marvels are, and I just felt complete gratitude and thanks and awe wash over me like rain... to the maker of all these, for giving us still the chance to ponder at the unknown and the beautiful. Words and pictures... no camera can capture the beauty of these caves. Thankfully I have memories... but they fade in time and evolve... adding detail, losing grandeur. But there will always be the knowledge of having been there at this one point in time and taking it all in. So if you ever stop to breathe in garden air or bathe in a ray of sun, do say thanks.

constipated

Wow.It has been a while since I last wrote.You'd think it's easier writing when you've all the time in the world to do it. Not particularly so. But I shall try... to relieve this...verbal constipation.
Ugh..must...write..must..
it's easy... one letter at a time..
one word..words become sentences..
sentences..no..phrases..
stutt---stu--stutter..ing
my brain..letters..arrrgghhhh
wwwords..
can'ttt write...
brain
stuck...to.. nothing...

goodbye cruel world

Frozen

I could count with the fingers of just one hand the number of times in a year that I get sick. Today is one of them. As I do all other days I got up at 0540 h, took a minute shower and jumped into my uniform and went to breakfast. But today, unlike other days we had to get suited up for squadron photos up Mt. Ainslie (emphasis on Mt), that means elevation, that means strong winds, that means a good view, that means ass-freezing cold. It was, oh about 1 degree? Felt more like -10 to me. My eyes were watering as I would look stupid closing my eyes for a photo shoot. So, I opened and half smiled while feeling my eyeballs freeze in their sockets. I could barely move my fingers, my face felt like cardboard. My feet... don't even get me started with my feet. They felt dipped in iced water. All in all it wasn't the best photo shoot. By then I felt the beginnings of a cold... aching head, cloggy nose. Thank God for the warm buses that brought us back to the academy. But it doesn't end there. We had to do our physical fitness test (not the highlight of my day) which I passed, miraculously. I was running, sucking in gulps of iced air, feeling the pain but not the good warm burn that normally goes with it. I literally could not feel my legs... and that's not because of the run... I just found that I wasn't sweating at all. I felt like I was wading through icy water. But with a little help from my friends and the Big Guy I did reach that finish line... grudgingly. When I stopped running I just could not breathe, feeling my lungs just staying contracted, feeling all that trapped heat just surging up to my head. I thought this couldn't be good. And it wasn't. Got back to the blocks and sneezed probably 10 times in a span of what? 5 seconds? Hey, that's a record if anything. I'm having a massive headache and a runny nose. The best part is that the day isn't over yet. :(