QUESTION NO. 22
What does it take to be human?
Aug 12, 2003
Jul 25, 2003
Jul 16, 2003
May 29, 2003
THE ULTIMATE TRUTH
Last Entry
With the controversy spinning on Melvin's work, Mark agreed to meet him inside a church one Wednesday. Mark asked Melvin why he chose the church to meet him. He replied that his apartment was no longer safe for any form of conversation with so many people invading his privacy.
"So what is it that you're going to tell me," Mark inquired.
"I want a way out," said Melvin. "I never expected it to be this way. I was just minding my own business."
"I know what you mean," Mark was sighing. "Do you have any plan?"
"Yes," was the reply. "Please help me."
The last word of Melvin came out like a plea from someone who had been burdened with something that he did not deserve. Mark agreed. He said he'd take care of it and use the connections he have. He also implied that some of the people he knew were big fans of him, and would be more than willing to help.
"Melvin," said Mark. "I know you more than you think I do. What is it that you're really afraid of?"
"Responsibility," was the soft answer. "All these years, I just wanted to try something different. But not this way."
"Was it the need to be heard?" his bestfriend asked.
"Frankly no," he was looking straight at his eyes. "It's not a deep longing to be heard, rather it's a deep longing to speak."
He then continued, "When I wrote that book, all the time I was speaking with myself."
Mark was silent. Melvin still said, "I came to believe that when you want to do something passionately, you can do it. Then the world would not become a hindrance. It would help you rise up to the place where you ought to be. For me, that is the secret of life; to find your place in this world."
"I thought it was just work," Mark said.
"No," he said. "What I was doing was purely play. Why? Because I came to love my work."
A week later, a press conference was called on the sudden death of Melvin Santos, author of "The Spring Lies Eternal." Having no relatives, his body was cremated and was given to Mark Lopez. Authorities said that it was a coronary disease that lead to a stroke.
He left a note for Mark to read. In front of television crews and journalists, Mark told the world of Melvin's last words:
"What may be the ultimate truth for you could be the biggest lie for me."
In a few short years, there were allegations by some people that Melvin was seen running naked on a beach in the South. At the same date that the author of "The Spring Lies Eternal" was said to have been seen, someone was using the pages of his book as toilet paper.
Last Entry
With the controversy spinning on Melvin's work, Mark agreed to meet him inside a church one Wednesday. Mark asked Melvin why he chose the church to meet him. He replied that his apartment was no longer safe for any form of conversation with so many people invading his privacy.
"So what is it that you're going to tell me," Mark inquired.
"I want a way out," said Melvin. "I never expected it to be this way. I was just minding my own business."
"I know what you mean," Mark was sighing. "Do you have any plan?"
"Yes," was the reply. "Please help me."
The last word of Melvin came out like a plea from someone who had been burdened with something that he did not deserve. Mark agreed. He said he'd take care of it and use the connections he have. He also implied that some of the people he knew were big fans of him, and would be more than willing to help.
"Melvin," said Mark. "I know you more than you think I do. What is it that you're really afraid of?"
"Responsibility," was the soft answer. "All these years, I just wanted to try something different. But not this way."
"Was it the need to be heard?" his bestfriend asked.
"Frankly no," he was looking straight at his eyes. "It's not a deep longing to be heard, rather it's a deep longing to speak."
He then continued, "When I wrote that book, all the time I was speaking with myself."
Mark was silent. Melvin still said, "I came to believe that when you want to do something passionately, you can do it. Then the world would not become a hindrance. It would help you rise up to the place where you ought to be. For me, that is the secret of life; to find your place in this world."
"I thought it was just work," Mark said.
"No," he said. "What I was doing was purely play. Why? Because I came to love my work."
A week later, a press conference was called on the sudden death of Melvin Santos, author of "The Spring Lies Eternal." Having no relatives, his body was cremated and was given to Mark Lopez. Authorities said that it was a coronary disease that lead to a stroke.
He left a note for Mark to read. In front of television crews and journalists, Mark told the world of Melvin's last words:
"What may be the ultimate truth for you could be the biggest lie for me."
In a few short years, there were allegations by some people that Melvin was seen running naked on a beach in the South. At the same date that the author of "The Spring Lies Eternal" was said to have been seen, someone was using the pages of his book as toilet paper.
May 27, 2003
THE ULTIMATE TRUTH
Entry No. 5
Robin was a teen-ager, a loner and someone you'd see sitting on a corner reading a book or sometimes talking to himself. Classmates describe him as weird. Police reports indicated that he had family problems and couldn't seem to handle pressure very well. He had no real friends and his home is not the kind of place one would want to stay in. He came from a broken family.
The news spread like wildfire causing many people to think about the book Melvin wrote. The issue now revolves on whether the authorities must ban the book or prevent adolescent kids from reading it.
It was a bright sunny morning. Clutching his copy of "The Spring Lies Eternal", Robin murdered his parents then shot himself after. On the book was an underlined phrase "Since the life we have here feels like hell, everyone would go to Heaven."
Luis was quite a normal boy. He had friends. His family came from a long line of well-respected teachers. He had everything anyone could think of to have a comfortable life. He had good looks. He had a car of his own and his allowance is doubled as compared to other kids his age.
At school, he was brilliant. He was also part of the soccer varsity team. On the day Luis was found hanging on his room, he had a copy of Melvin's book lying on his bed. It was open on a certain page that said, "I am fifty, but I've never been twenty. The sad thing is, my mind had already been burned-up even before I had the freedom to use it."
And so it was decided.
Melvin's book, at first, was banned from being sold to minors. Later, certain religious groups accused him of blasphemy and urged the government to totally ban the book. It was a violation of the basic right of freedom of expression so politicians who were quick to ride on the issue said that, "Freedom entails responsibility. It is our responsibility to filter what's wrong or right for our children. Though we cannot hold the author responsible for the consequences of what he has written, at least we can do something to prevent another tragedy."
Entry No. 5
Robin was a teen-ager, a loner and someone you'd see sitting on a corner reading a book or sometimes talking to himself. Classmates describe him as weird. Police reports indicated that he had family problems and couldn't seem to handle pressure very well. He had no real friends and his home is not the kind of place one would want to stay in. He came from a broken family.
The news spread like wildfire causing many people to think about the book Melvin wrote. The issue now revolves on whether the authorities must ban the book or prevent adolescent kids from reading it.
It was a bright sunny morning. Clutching his copy of "The Spring Lies Eternal", Robin murdered his parents then shot himself after. On the book was an underlined phrase "Since the life we have here feels like hell, everyone would go to Heaven."
Luis was quite a normal boy. He had friends. His family came from a long line of well-respected teachers. He had everything anyone could think of to have a comfortable life. He had good looks. He had a car of his own and his allowance is doubled as compared to other kids his age.
At school, he was brilliant. He was also part of the soccer varsity team. On the day Luis was found hanging on his room, he had a copy of Melvin's book lying on his bed. It was open on a certain page that said, "I am fifty, but I've never been twenty. The sad thing is, my mind had already been burned-up even before I had the freedom to use it."
And so it was decided.
Melvin's book, at first, was banned from being sold to minors. Later, certain religious groups accused him of blasphemy and urged the government to totally ban the book. It was a violation of the basic right of freedom of expression so politicians who were quick to ride on the issue said that, "Freedom entails responsibility. It is our responsibility to filter what's wrong or right for our children. Though we cannot hold the author responsible for the consequences of what he has written, at least we can do something to prevent another tragedy."
May 23, 2003
THE ULTIMATE TRUTH
Entry No. 4
With whatever phenomenon there was on thenovel he wrote, the public accepted his story with an enthusiasm unprecedented in its time. Phrases coming from the book like "What is the secret of life? You'll know it when you're dead," were very popular among students and academicians. For them, here is an author who could speak in plain language the secrets of one's existence.
Other popular lines from the book were, "If the world would stop believing in love, would love cease to exist?" For many booklovers, it was also a love story set on a passion to feel, to test one's limit, and to define the thin line between illusion and reality.
There were even radio discussions on what he meant on phrases like: "Life is an illusion because it is only our mind that makes out what our environment is showing"; "If freedoms means letting go, then we are free to feel pain. The consequence is not the end
but a beginning. The start of a wonderful new feeling reminding us that we exist"; and of course; "The true search for God is a search for who we really are."
So was the popularity of his book that several web sites were set-up on the internet so people could freely discuss what he said. He was invited on different television programs but he declined them all. Matter of fact, he hated the attention he was getting. As one avid follower would say, "It is the sheer honesty of his work that makes us feel human." Nonetheless, he refused every move to make himself more popular. His book did all that.
Melvin never questioned the wisdom Mark had. He was his friend and he knew his genuine concern for him. They were friends since their school days and the trust they have for one another is like that of brothers. On a Friday that they met, Mark gave Melvin a warm hug congratulating him on the success of his book. He said it was sure to be controversial because it was different. In fact, it contained to many people "The Ultimate Truth". The truth that people have been searching for too long: the truth that everybody
wanted to hear.
He even stated that, "It's a litany of questions dying to be asked." He was just worried though. Mark was afraid as to what extent the book can influence people. Melvin just shrugged at the thought. It seems he was not affected by the popularity he was getting. Until one day, with the events that happened, he himself began to feel afraid on the influence he had weaved out.
Entry No. 4
With whatever phenomenon there was on thenovel he wrote, the public accepted his story with an enthusiasm unprecedented in its time. Phrases coming from the book like "What is the secret of life? You'll know it when you're dead," were very popular among students and academicians. For them, here is an author who could speak in plain language the secrets of one's existence.
Other popular lines from the book were, "If the world would stop believing in love, would love cease to exist?" For many booklovers, it was also a love story set on a passion to feel, to test one's limit, and to define the thin line between illusion and reality.
There were even radio discussions on what he meant on phrases like: "Life is an illusion because it is only our mind that makes out what our environment is showing"; "If freedoms means letting go, then we are free to feel pain. The consequence is not the end
but a beginning. The start of a wonderful new feeling reminding us that we exist"; and of course; "The true search for God is a search for who we really are."
So was the popularity of his book that several web sites were set-up on the internet so people could freely discuss what he said. He was invited on different television programs but he declined them all. Matter of fact, he hated the attention he was getting. As one avid follower would say, "It is the sheer honesty of his work that makes us feel human." Nonetheless, he refused every move to make himself more popular. His book did all that.
Melvin never questioned the wisdom Mark had. He was his friend and he knew his genuine concern for him. They were friends since their school days and the trust they have for one another is like that of brothers. On a Friday that they met, Mark gave Melvin a warm hug congratulating him on the success of his book. He said it was sure to be controversial because it was different. In fact, it contained to many people "The Ultimate Truth". The truth that people have been searching for too long: the truth that everybody
wanted to hear.
He even stated that, "It's a litany of questions dying to be asked." He was just worried though. Mark was afraid as to what extent the book can influence people. Melvin just shrugged at the thought. It seems he was not affected by the popularity he was getting. Until one day, with the events that happened, he himself began to feel afraid on the influence he had weaved out.
May 19, 2003
THE ULTIMATE TRUTH
Entry No. 3
Melvin decided to become a writer. The idea crossed his mind one day when his phonepal told him that he "could catch words in the air and make sense out of nonsense". Yes, he had a phonepal. On the long wait for the morning, Melvin found it an easy escape to talk to strangers on the phone. He met this girl who refused to reveal her real name. Instead, they created code names to hide who they really were. Melvin laughed at himself for he was acting like a teen-ager.
Being the impulsive person that he had become, he bought a computer and started to "scribble" words in the word processor. He liked it. He discovered in him an innate passion to write. It was a practical choice as he himself though. Most of his life, he typed things for other people and wrote letters that did not appeal to him. Besides, he can now put his ideas into his work plus the freedom to say what he wanted.
It was an easy task for him. All he had to do was to connect things and make some sense on how they are linked. He no longer felt the restrictions that he grew accustomed in his old life. His ideas were from observing people and making a stories out of them. With this at hand, he set out with his new goal, which is to create his first novel.
Things were happening so fast that on the fourth Friday that Melvin and Mark met, Mark's reaction came with a question. He said, "So now you're a writer. I wonder what you'll turn up next time we meet." But Melvin wasn't really listening. He was walking towards the dancefloor. His bestfriend's face stared in disbelief.
The first few months flew and by this time, Melvin had the first draft of his novel. It was about an ordinary person given extraordinary twists in life. The title was "The Spring Lies Eternal." It wasn't much, not really literature per se. But what made him satisfied was the
contentment he had while writing his book. Being a neophyte in the publishing industry, he hired an old lawyer he knew back at his office days. He wasn't really worried whether it would be published or not. For him, his part had been done. Now it's time to write another book.
But in just two weeks, he could not believe that some publisher actually took notice of his work. His attorney called him up so that they could arrange a meeting with the publisher. Even the negotiations were simple enough. His lawyer, who acts as his agent,
would oversee the royalties and other details he did not care to find out. There were just one if waiting to be answered. And that would be - if the book would sell.
The funny thing was, the publisher and his lawyer seemed to be more excited than Melvin. He just took everything in stride. For him, the real pleasure lies in writing, the rest are just details. So after two months, the book hit the market with a surprisingly warm welcome. On this event of his life, he never expected it but things would really take a huge turn.
Entry No. 3
Melvin decided to become a writer. The idea crossed his mind one day when his phonepal told him that he "could catch words in the air and make sense out of nonsense". Yes, he had a phonepal. On the long wait for the morning, Melvin found it an easy escape to talk to strangers on the phone. He met this girl who refused to reveal her real name. Instead, they created code names to hide who they really were. Melvin laughed at himself for he was acting like a teen-ager.
Being the impulsive person that he had become, he bought a computer and started to "scribble" words in the word processor. He liked it. He discovered in him an innate passion to write. It was a practical choice as he himself though. Most of his life, he typed things for other people and wrote letters that did not appeal to him. Besides, he can now put his ideas into his work plus the freedom to say what he wanted.
It was an easy task for him. All he had to do was to connect things and make some sense on how they are linked. He no longer felt the restrictions that he grew accustomed in his old life. His ideas were from observing people and making a stories out of them. With this at hand, he set out with his new goal, which is to create his first novel.
Things were happening so fast that on the fourth Friday that Melvin and Mark met, Mark's reaction came with a question. He said, "So now you're a writer. I wonder what you'll turn up next time we meet." But Melvin wasn't really listening. He was walking towards the dancefloor. His bestfriend's face stared in disbelief.
The first few months flew and by this time, Melvin had the first draft of his novel. It was about an ordinary person given extraordinary twists in life. The title was "The Spring Lies Eternal." It wasn't much, not really literature per se. But what made him satisfied was the
contentment he had while writing his book. Being a neophyte in the publishing industry, he hired an old lawyer he knew back at his office days. He wasn't really worried whether it would be published or not. For him, his part had been done. Now it's time to write another book.
But in just two weeks, he could not believe that some publisher actually took notice of his work. His attorney called him up so that they could arrange a meeting with the publisher. Even the negotiations were simple enough. His lawyer, who acts as his agent,
would oversee the royalties and other details he did not care to find out. There were just one if waiting to be answered. And that would be - if the book would sell.
The funny thing was, the publisher and his lawyer seemed to be more excited than Melvin. He just took everything in stride. For him, the real pleasure lies in writing, the rest are just details. So after two months, the book hit the market with a surprisingly warm welcome. On this event of his life, he never expected it but things would really take a huge turn.
May 17, 2003
THE ULTIMATE TRUTH
Entry No. 2
The first few weeks of his newly found life was never dull. He tried things he never did before. Things like sleeping on a morning then waking up early at night to watch television 'til his eyes grew tired. He had cable installed in his home and had a marathon
of movies moving before his eyes.
He tried painting. He would scribble images, though not on canvas, but on the walls of his apartment. He would try sculpting using clay. He would then build a display stand, trying his hands on carpentry. He would put some of his works there. He made pottery and built objects that had no real use but he just wanted to do something so that his hands would not be idle. Melvin dared not call it art but was accused of it in the future.
During the first Friday that he and Mark promised to meet, the first question his bestfriend asked him was, "When did you start smoking?"
The bartender asked for their order. Since Mark has to work from eight to five, sometimes eight to eight, they agreed to meet at nine o' clock and stay there until eleven. Melvin, as far as Mark knew, drinks only beer. And he can handle as much as two bottles only. You can imagine the look on his face when Melvin said, "This time I'd have tequila, then whisky, then bourbon."
They talked about how Melvin was doing and Mark kept saying how it was at the office. He would soon get the promotion promised to him with a hint that Melvin would have been in the same position if he did not resign. He talked about the raise he would get and the other perks of the promotion. Melvin did not seem to listen. In fact, he was eyeing the dance floor.
Entry No. 2
The first few weeks of his newly found life was never dull. He tried things he never did before. Things like sleeping on a morning then waking up early at night to watch television 'til his eyes grew tired. He had cable installed in his home and had a marathon
of movies moving before his eyes.
He tried painting. He would scribble images, though not on canvas, but on the walls of his apartment. He would try sculpting using clay. He would then build a display stand, trying his hands on carpentry. He would put some of his works there. He made pottery and built objects that had no real use but he just wanted to do something so that his hands would not be idle. Melvin dared not call it art but was accused of it in the future.
During the first Friday that he and Mark promised to meet, the first question his bestfriend asked him was, "When did you start smoking?"
The bartender asked for their order. Since Mark has to work from eight to five, sometimes eight to eight, they agreed to meet at nine o' clock and stay there until eleven. Melvin, as far as Mark knew, drinks only beer. And he can handle as much as two bottles only. You can imagine the look on his face when Melvin said, "This time I'd have tequila, then whisky, then bourbon."
They talked about how Melvin was doing and Mark kept saying how it was at the office. He would soon get the promotion promised to him with a hint that Melvin would have been in the same position if he did not resign. He talked about the raise he would get and the other perks of the promotion. Melvin did not seem to listen. In fact, he was eyeing the dance floor.
May 15, 2003
THE ULTIMATE TRUTH
Entry No. 1
He decided that he have had enough of the old life he had so he quit his job. The truth is, he doesn't have any idea what lies ahead of him after he made his decision. It was just a spark of the moment, having worked as an office clerk for eleven years, he really felt he needed a break. Confident that his minimal saving would last him for more than a year, he ventured into the world unknown instead of being content with the security that his work offered.
No one could really blame Melvin. He was the type who graduated college on time, started to work on time, and managed to become independent on time. He doesn't have a wife because as he reasoned out, there was no one to meet at the office except old maid Bertha, who seemed not to take notice of him too. He did not take his non-existent lovelife as a curse but a simple problem that would be resolved in its own time. Needless to say, he patterned his old life to a time plan he himself made. There was a time for everything and everything has its own time. Using the term he used on the only book he wrote, it was a boring life.
One Friday, the last day of his stay at work, his officemates gave him gifts and threw a small party for his early resignation. Frankly, it was for him one of the few happy occasion that happened in his days at the office. A thought came over him that it is true that people never truly value the existence of someone until that someone would be gone.
He wanted his departure to be as silent as possible, no fuss whatsoever. Everything must be in order even for the last time. Talking with his boss one afternoon, he revealed his plan of quitting work and handed out his resignation letter. Melvin's boss was reluctant to let him go. He had earned the trust of the company and even stated that;"it would be a great loss for the corporation" and a word of advice was made. "Things would never be the same for you," his boss said. He knew that. But that was what he wanted; he wanted things to be different.
His best friend Mark cautioned him of being too hasty on deciding. He warned him that it would be very difficult for someone his age to find another job. When one is over thirty, at the middle of one's life they say, people find it unwise to go venturing into something new. They say you're too old for a new career and too old to learn something else. By that time, you are expected to stay where you are. After several futile persuasions, Mark, who also happen to be his companion at work, gave in. They agreed to meet at a local bar downtown twice a month on a Friday just to exchange pleasantries.
For Melvin, the plan was simple. There was no plan! He was to have a good time. A month before he resigned, he promised himself that things would be different. This time, he would take over.
Entry No. 1
He decided that he have had enough of the old life he had so he quit his job. The truth is, he doesn't have any idea what lies ahead of him after he made his decision. It was just a spark of the moment, having worked as an office clerk for eleven years, he really felt he needed a break. Confident that his minimal saving would last him for more than a year, he ventured into the world unknown instead of being content with the security that his work offered.
No one could really blame Melvin. He was the type who graduated college on time, started to work on time, and managed to become independent on time. He doesn't have a wife because as he reasoned out, there was no one to meet at the office except old maid Bertha, who seemed not to take notice of him too. He did not take his non-existent lovelife as a curse but a simple problem that would be resolved in its own time. Needless to say, he patterned his old life to a time plan he himself made. There was a time for everything and everything has its own time. Using the term he used on the only book he wrote, it was a boring life.
One Friday, the last day of his stay at work, his officemates gave him gifts and threw a small party for his early resignation. Frankly, it was for him one of the few happy occasion that happened in his days at the office. A thought came over him that it is true that people never truly value the existence of someone until that someone would be gone.
He wanted his departure to be as silent as possible, no fuss whatsoever. Everything must be in order even for the last time. Talking with his boss one afternoon, he revealed his plan of quitting work and handed out his resignation letter. Melvin's boss was reluctant to let him go. He had earned the trust of the company and even stated that;"it would be a great loss for the corporation" and a word of advice was made. "Things would never be the same for you," his boss said. He knew that. But that was what he wanted; he wanted things to be different.
His best friend Mark cautioned him of being too hasty on deciding. He warned him that it would be very difficult for someone his age to find another job. When one is over thirty, at the middle of one's life they say, people find it unwise to go venturing into something new. They say you're too old for a new career and too old to learn something else. By that time, you are expected to stay where you are. After several futile persuasions, Mark, who also happen to be his companion at work, gave in. They agreed to meet at a local bar downtown twice a month on a Friday just to exchange pleasantries.
For Melvin, the plan was simple. There was no plan! He was to have a good time. A month before he resigned, he promised himself that things would be different. This time, he would take over.
May 3, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 4
But the clothing of the night, with its dark seams and black vesture, could not keep within its cloak the entirety of the secrets it held. Such an irony that a time for rest could be a time of torment for some – the stars being silent witnesses, keeping vigil, providing hope that there would be no rain on the break of dawn.
The garden within her father’s house became their refuge, safe from the prying eyes of men. Amelia would wait for him by her window, discreetly let him in, and then lead him to the garden that was their lonesome. She would check if the governess was fast asleep while he waited at a corner – silent, discerning, and alert at any movement from the entrance door.
Amelia was more beautiful than the previous nights of their tryst. With her high-bridged nose and skin as pale as the moonlight, she could illuminate any room with her knowing smile. Her blue eyes and straight black hair, a heart-shaped face with a delicate chin – in the eyes of Francisco, nothing could be more gentle, a breath of fresh air he would volunteer to be engulfed to.
On his part, when Francisco was young, the midwife predicted that his handsome face and slightly tanned skin would bring him far. But she also warned that some people are afraid of such beauty, like those of butterflies whose wings are said to cause blindness.
Until the first crow of the rooster in the morning, Francisco and Amelia would talk and stare at each other, each with deep admiration and interest. The flowers and plants around them, lit up by a single candle that Francisco made, were the same colors as the conversations they had. Amelia would run her hands on his wavy hair while he rested on her lap. They would hold hands, tighter each time they suppress a muffled laugh. She found out that the scars on his arms were caused by melted wax spilled one time when he was eight years old. With a loving gesture, she held that arm and rubbed it with her cheeks.
“Francisco, I’m beginning to be afraid,” Amelia whispered.
“What are you afraid of?” Francisco asked.
“I think the governess is beginning to get suspicious,” she replied.
“That’s what you said last week, when you asked me to stop bringing you roses,” he said, smiling.
“Well, yes. But this time it’s different. I don’t know. There’s just a fear within me that I can’t put out. I don’t know what it is but it’s there.”
Amelia stood up and continued. “I know you might find it stupid but it’s just there. Something I could not fathom, and it’s making me nervous.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of my dear,” he tried to calm her fear. “I don’t think the governess would say anything to your father. With him gone, you still are the master of the house. In the first place, who do you think would your father believe?”
“Don’t you see,” she suddenly said. “Everything is bound to be revealed. I’m not afraid of the wrath of my father. I’m more afraid I would never see you.”
Francisco gave a soft laugh. “No one could stop me from seeing you. I may be poor but I’m not a coward. I would tell my father about us and ask him to speak to your Papa.”
He went beside Amelia and wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t ever be afraid. When your father comes home today, tell him about me so I could come and visit you anytime. I promise to work hard for us. With you by my side, I know I could become whatever I want to be.”
The next moment was silence, with a thousand words it spoke. It was as if they danced on a silent tune played by the atmosphere of night – the warm embrace, the look upon their eyes – and when their lips had touched, both of them handed one another courage. They say that even if the future may be bleak, no amount of darkness could stop the radiance of a couple in love.
“Amelia, will you marry me?”
Tears slowly fell down her face. “Would you really want to marry me?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Oh Francisco, I would be very happy to be your wife.”
He almost shouted out of joy. Like a child given a precious gift, he glowed like the sun. “Please do tell your father of our plans. Today would be the beginning of a wonderful journey for both of us. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” said Amelia.
Just then, the first crow of the morning was heard. Francisco left Amelia; both of them flooded with joy, with the promise of the coming dawn. They agreed that arrangements within their families would be made that day. Nothing could go wrong.
That morning, Amelia’s father arrived from Madrid. He brought with him lavish gifts for Amelia; clothes of the finest thread, silk and jewelry, adornments each of high value.
“Papa is in a good mood,” she thought. “Thank God. Wait ‘til he hears the news.”
While they were having coffee, she decided to tell him of her plan to marry Francisco. Her father’s smile suddenly turned into a frown and slapped her pretty face. It turned out that the gifts he brought were from a high ranking public official that he had arranged to be wed to Amelia.
Entry No. 4
But the clothing of the night, with its dark seams and black vesture, could not keep within its cloak the entirety of the secrets it held. Such an irony that a time for rest could be a time of torment for some – the stars being silent witnesses, keeping vigil, providing hope that there would be no rain on the break of dawn.
The garden within her father’s house became their refuge, safe from the prying eyes of men. Amelia would wait for him by her window, discreetly let him in, and then lead him to the garden that was their lonesome. She would check if the governess was fast asleep while he waited at a corner – silent, discerning, and alert at any movement from the entrance door.
Amelia was more beautiful than the previous nights of their tryst. With her high-bridged nose and skin as pale as the moonlight, she could illuminate any room with her knowing smile. Her blue eyes and straight black hair, a heart-shaped face with a delicate chin – in the eyes of Francisco, nothing could be more gentle, a breath of fresh air he would volunteer to be engulfed to.
On his part, when Francisco was young, the midwife predicted that his handsome face and slightly tanned skin would bring him far. But she also warned that some people are afraid of such beauty, like those of butterflies whose wings are said to cause blindness.
Until the first crow of the rooster in the morning, Francisco and Amelia would talk and stare at each other, each with deep admiration and interest. The flowers and plants around them, lit up by a single candle that Francisco made, were the same colors as the conversations they had. Amelia would run her hands on his wavy hair while he rested on her lap. They would hold hands, tighter each time they suppress a muffled laugh. She found out that the scars on his arms were caused by melted wax spilled one time when he was eight years old. With a loving gesture, she held that arm and rubbed it with her cheeks.
“Francisco, I’m beginning to be afraid,” Amelia whispered.
“What are you afraid of?” Francisco asked.
“I think the governess is beginning to get suspicious,” she replied.
“That’s what you said last week, when you asked me to stop bringing you roses,” he said, smiling.
“Well, yes. But this time it’s different. I don’t know. There’s just a fear within me that I can’t put out. I don’t know what it is but it’s there.”
Amelia stood up and continued. “I know you might find it stupid but it’s just there. Something I could not fathom, and it’s making me nervous.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of my dear,” he tried to calm her fear. “I don’t think the governess would say anything to your father. With him gone, you still are the master of the house. In the first place, who do you think would your father believe?”
“Don’t you see,” she suddenly said. “Everything is bound to be revealed. I’m not afraid of the wrath of my father. I’m more afraid I would never see you.”
Francisco gave a soft laugh. “No one could stop me from seeing you. I may be poor but I’m not a coward. I would tell my father about us and ask him to speak to your Papa.”
He went beside Amelia and wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t ever be afraid. When your father comes home today, tell him about me so I could come and visit you anytime. I promise to work hard for us. With you by my side, I know I could become whatever I want to be.”
The next moment was silence, with a thousand words it spoke. It was as if they danced on a silent tune played by the atmosphere of night – the warm embrace, the look upon their eyes – and when their lips had touched, both of them handed one another courage. They say that even if the future may be bleak, no amount of darkness could stop the radiance of a couple in love.
“Amelia, will you marry me?”
Tears slowly fell down her face. “Would you really want to marry me?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Oh Francisco, I would be very happy to be your wife.”
He almost shouted out of joy. Like a child given a precious gift, he glowed like the sun. “Please do tell your father of our plans. Today would be the beginning of a wonderful journey for both of us. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” said Amelia.
Just then, the first crow of the morning was heard. Francisco left Amelia; both of them flooded with joy, with the promise of the coming dawn. They agreed that arrangements within their families would be made that day. Nothing could go wrong.
That morning, Amelia’s father arrived from Madrid. He brought with him lavish gifts for Amelia; clothes of the finest thread, silk and jewelry, adornments each of high value.
“Papa is in a good mood,” she thought. “Thank God. Wait ‘til he hears the news.”
While they were having coffee, she decided to tell him of her plan to marry Francisco. Her father’s smile suddenly turned into a frown and slapped her pretty face. It turned out that the gifts he brought were from a high ranking public official that he had arranged to be wed to Amelia.
Apr 26, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 3
Salvatore Narvaez did not wish to see his youngest son set out to sea, if not for the grave consequences that befall the young lad if he would stay, or to the danger of a life being constantly pursued, where one’s freedom is limited and has to turn his head every once in a while to guard against those who wish him harm. No, he reasoned, as he tried to search for another way. But they were poor. Hard enough as it was to be consumed by poverty, harder it was to be the subject of a cruelty designated between the impoverished and the rich. He could not blame Francisco, whose youth exhibited all the markings of an idealist, and the subterfuge offered by being young – invincibility – which made them feel safe from the aftermath of their folly. Neither could he blame Amelia, for she, too, can be considered a victim. Indeed, her deep blue eyes sparkled with the tears running down her cheeks when he and his son saw her, knowing that a simple glance could mean goodbye, and that love is not what it often seems to be, a package handed on one’s lap, a mystery that could never be fully comprehended.
There had been two attempts on the life of Francisco, both he narrowly escaped. If there’s one thing that Salvatore should be thankful for, it was the fact that his son was still alive. One fine morning, while the former was delivering candles that they made, two men charged at Francisco with daggers waiting to be plunged. If not for the quick response of the neighborhood, who quickly hid him at one of their cellars, the candles Francisco would deliver would have been lighted on his grave. After learning of the incident, Francisco confessed to his father why those men have tried to slain him.
It was on one of those long walks toward the market in Barcelona that Francisco caught sight of the most beautiful creature he saw. Standing by the window of her room, Amelia, who just came back from Paris with her father, tended to a pot of rose waiting to bloom. Like a child mystified by a sight he never saw before, for a moment he felt that he could not breathe freely, stop dead, suspended on where he stood. When the young lady looked out and saw him, she gave him light smile – the kind of smile that greets an early morning – and continued with what she was doing. Francisco looked around him, then behind him. He could not believe that an angel would take notice of his existence, furthermore, endow him with the sweetest smile he could remember. He slightly waved his hand and Amelia covered her mouth to laugh, such fine intricacy it was among women, able to wield even the movements of their body to define and redefine man’s concept of beauty. Then suddenly, an old man appeared behind her and motioned her to close the window.
For the cautious, boldness is a form of stupidity, cloaked in disguise of bravery - and passion, it’s biggest accomplice. Even before the sun was up, Francisco would pick roses and stealthily climb beneath Amelia’s window. Later, he would pass the same street as if nothing had happened, take a glimpse on where he left his precious flowers, and smile at Amelia if chance would permit. This he did for one week. Then one day, while climbing the low fence to submit his offering, a letter was tied to a string hanging on the pot of rose. It was addressed to “The Rose Bearer.” Quickly, he read the note and it said, “Meet me tonight at one in the morning. And thank you for the roses.”
Needless to say, Francisco did not sleep while waiting for the passing of midnight. Twice, he scrubbed his body with water and scented oil. With heavy steps denoting excitement and nervousness, he made his way to Amelia’s house. She was waiting for him.
“Thank you for the lovely roses,” Amelia, in a low voice, said while she smiled. “I knew it was you.”
He could not speak a word. It was as if everything stood motionless, and that fraction of a second seemed like forever. If moments could be seized and held within one’s hand, he would have kept this instant on his pocket, free from the harm of the outside world, and that certainty which is change. They say that love could be fathomed in different degrees, and the wise when confronted with it could not be as wise as an imbecile, but when their eyes locked in a trance, Cupid with his folly must have felt no responsibility. The choices we make are ours alone; Francisco and Amelia did not see any distance, for love they say is blind, blind enough to see what other senses have failed to decipher.
Entry No. 3
Salvatore Narvaez did not wish to see his youngest son set out to sea, if not for the grave consequences that befall the young lad if he would stay, or to the danger of a life being constantly pursued, where one’s freedom is limited and has to turn his head every once in a while to guard against those who wish him harm. No, he reasoned, as he tried to search for another way. But they were poor. Hard enough as it was to be consumed by poverty, harder it was to be the subject of a cruelty designated between the impoverished and the rich. He could not blame Francisco, whose youth exhibited all the markings of an idealist, and the subterfuge offered by being young – invincibility – which made them feel safe from the aftermath of their folly. Neither could he blame Amelia, for she, too, can be considered a victim. Indeed, her deep blue eyes sparkled with the tears running down her cheeks when he and his son saw her, knowing that a simple glance could mean goodbye, and that love is not what it often seems to be, a package handed on one’s lap, a mystery that could never be fully comprehended.
There had been two attempts on the life of Francisco, both he narrowly escaped. If there’s one thing that Salvatore should be thankful for, it was the fact that his son was still alive. One fine morning, while the former was delivering candles that they made, two men charged at Francisco with daggers waiting to be plunged. If not for the quick response of the neighborhood, who quickly hid him at one of their cellars, the candles Francisco would deliver would have been lighted on his grave. After learning of the incident, Francisco confessed to his father why those men have tried to slain him.
It was on one of those long walks toward the market in Barcelona that Francisco caught sight of the most beautiful creature he saw. Standing by the window of her room, Amelia, who just came back from Paris with her father, tended to a pot of rose waiting to bloom. Like a child mystified by a sight he never saw before, for a moment he felt that he could not breathe freely, stop dead, suspended on where he stood. When the young lady looked out and saw him, she gave him light smile – the kind of smile that greets an early morning – and continued with what she was doing. Francisco looked around him, then behind him. He could not believe that an angel would take notice of his existence, furthermore, endow him with the sweetest smile he could remember. He slightly waved his hand and Amelia covered her mouth to laugh, such fine intricacy it was among women, able to wield even the movements of their body to define and redefine man’s concept of beauty. Then suddenly, an old man appeared behind her and motioned her to close the window.
For the cautious, boldness is a form of stupidity, cloaked in disguise of bravery - and passion, it’s biggest accomplice. Even before the sun was up, Francisco would pick roses and stealthily climb beneath Amelia’s window. Later, he would pass the same street as if nothing had happened, take a glimpse on where he left his precious flowers, and smile at Amelia if chance would permit. This he did for one week. Then one day, while climbing the low fence to submit his offering, a letter was tied to a string hanging on the pot of rose. It was addressed to “The Rose Bearer.” Quickly, he read the note and it said, “Meet me tonight at one in the morning. And thank you for the roses.”
Needless to say, Francisco did not sleep while waiting for the passing of midnight. Twice, he scrubbed his body with water and scented oil. With heavy steps denoting excitement and nervousness, he made his way to Amelia’s house. She was waiting for him.
“Thank you for the lovely roses,” Amelia, in a low voice, said while she smiled. “I knew it was you.”
He could not speak a word. It was as if everything stood motionless, and that fraction of a second seemed like forever. If moments could be seized and held within one’s hand, he would have kept this instant on his pocket, free from the harm of the outside world, and that certainty which is change. They say that love could be fathomed in different degrees, and the wise when confronted with it could not be as wise as an imbecile, but when their eyes locked in a trance, Cupid with his folly must have felt no responsibility. The choices we make are ours alone; Francisco and Amelia did not see any distance, for love they say is blind, blind enough to see what other senses have failed to decipher.
Apr 7, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 2
Little by little, piece by piece, like teardrops forming a downpour. Father Narvaez, with his right leg still buried on the ground, laid back on the soil and fervently tried to put things in perspective. It was not because he felt weak, neither does the weight of the world seem to hang on him. What grew heavy in his heart was the fact that it seemed that all things are either blown by the wind, or that life is like a leaf - slowly descending from a great big tree - from its birth then falling to the ground. Soon it would be forgotten, and all markings that would be left is a single twig, where once it tried to feed the caterpillars, and gave shade to numerous little insects. It was a full moon that night. The mango tree seemed to be silent, as if paying reverence to Luna, unnerved by an intruder beneath its branches. Scanning the fruits that would soon be ready by May, Father Narvaez grew accustomed to the grasshoppers singing their serenade, and to the chirping of the kulisap, which seemed to last from dusk ‘til dawn. But tonight was different. A strange kind of silence emanated all around him, like the sound he heard during a solitary meditation in Rome. It was not an eerie sound – unsetlling maybe, but never fearful - a silence encased in a strange melancholy. A silence that was so loud he could practically hear it screaming on his head.
He then chanced upon a spider, slowly weaving upon its web. Nestled high, secured from the torrents of the rain, the spider was unmindful of the curious eye staring at it as if it was a novelty, something to help the priest contemplate on his musings. He noticed that the moon was slowly moving, right above the web, just like it does on a total lunar eclipse. He noticed too, the changing of the color of the moon. From a bright whitish yellow, from the illusion produced by the movement of the earth, and from the spider’s web clinging on a branch, the moon seemed to be turning into a red round plump tomato, almost ripe, yet not in its fullness. “The moon is a big red tomato,” he grinned.
Staring at the moon right above the spider’s web, Father Narvaez had let his mind be drowned by the flashbacks of his life slowly turning into crystals. “Maybe Death is grinning upon me,” he thought. Right there and then, he embarked on a journey that was his past. He should have taken it as a sign, a premonition of some sort, the conversation he had with Father Damaso, and the latter’s complaint of the barbaric ways of the indio, or his distrust upon a Filipino priest like him. Indeed, the execution of Father Mariano Gomez, Father Jose Burgos and Father Jacinto Zamora at the province of Cavite made evident the deep animosity between colonialists and natives, even among the servants of God. The fat Spanish priest who served San Diego for twenty years did not bother to say it on his back, instead, like a whiplash he declared, “I bet that you - Father Salvador Narvaez , that you would not last for five years without being corrupted by the indios - and all the things the Holy Church has taught you, would be burned down into ashes. Everything is bound to happen. Lintek! Mother Spain’s effort to civilize you and your people is just a waste of time.” Those words left a vile taste in his mouth.
Now that he was beginning to think about it, he also remembered how Mang Turino, Father Salvi’s gardener, warned him that the latter was not in a good mood when he stopped by San Diego’s church. The slightly thin priest with a crooked nose was to assign him to a parish that needed his assistance.
“Good morning,” he said in tagalog, alighting a coach, looking at the gardener trimming a sampaguita bush on the garden at the back of the church.
“Good morning po,” Mang Turino bowed his head.
“Is Father Salvi in?” he inquired.
“Yes he is Father,” the gardener replied while staring at his slightly brown skin. “But I wouldn’t go in there if I were you just yet.”
Father Narvaez was curious.
“Well, humbly speaking Father, I know things. Maybe it would be better if you go back at noon, right after Father Salvi has taken his siesta.”
“Why is that?”
“This morning, as soon as the morning prayers were said, and the church bells were tolled, Father Salvi shouted angrily at the sakristan mayor and asked for tsokolate-a.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked.
“Tsokolate-e would mean a light cocoa drink. Tsokolate-a would mean a strong, thick cocoa drink. And that makes the difference.”
Father Narvaez gave a soft laugh and dismissed the gardener. He continued to walk towards Father Salvi’s parochial residence.
That was a turning point in his life, that by some sort of scheme, he was thrown to a farming village called Malamig, where he now lay - taking a journey that started at the outskirts of Barcelona - while looking at the sky beneath the spider’s web, and the moon was red, looking like a plump round tomato.
Entry No. 2
Little by little, piece by piece, like teardrops forming a downpour. Father Narvaez, with his right leg still buried on the ground, laid back on the soil and fervently tried to put things in perspective. It was not because he felt weak, neither does the weight of the world seem to hang on him. What grew heavy in his heart was the fact that it seemed that all things are either blown by the wind, or that life is like a leaf - slowly descending from a great big tree - from its birth then falling to the ground. Soon it would be forgotten, and all markings that would be left is a single twig, where once it tried to feed the caterpillars, and gave shade to numerous little insects. It was a full moon that night. The mango tree seemed to be silent, as if paying reverence to Luna, unnerved by an intruder beneath its branches. Scanning the fruits that would soon be ready by May, Father Narvaez grew accustomed to the grasshoppers singing their serenade, and to the chirping of the kulisap, which seemed to last from dusk ‘til dawn. But tonight was different. A strange kind of silence emanated all around him, like the sound he heard during a solitary meditation in Rome. It was not an eerie sound – unsetlling maybe, but never fearful - a silence encased in a strange melancholy. A silence that was so loud he could practically hear it screaming on his head.
He then chanced upon a spider, slowly weaving upon its web. Nestled high, secured from the torrents of the rain, the spider was unmindful of the curious eye staring at it as if it was a novelty, something to help the priest contemplate on his musings. He noticed that the moon was slowly moving, right above the web, just like it does on a total lunar eclipse. He noticed too, the changing of the color of the moon. From a bright whitish yellow, from the illusion produced by the movement of the earth, and from the spider’s web clinging on a branch, the moon seemed to be turning into a red round plump tomato, almost ripe, yet not in its fullness. “The moon is a big red tomato,” he grinned.
Staring at the moon right above the spider’s web, Father Narvaez had let his mind be drowned by the flashbacks of his life slowly turning into crystals. “Maybe Death is grinning upon me,” he thought. Right there and then, he embarked on a journey that was his past. He should have taken it as a sign, a premonition of some sort, the conversation he had with Father Damaso, and the latter’s complaint of the barbaric ways of the indio, or his distrust upon a Filipino priest like him. Indeed, the execution of Father Mariano Gomez, Father Jose Burgos and Father Jacinto Zamora at the province of Cavite made evident the deep animosity between colonialists and natives, even among the servants of God. The fat Spanish priest who served San Diego for twenty years did not bother to say it on his back, instead, like a whiplash he declared, “I bet that you - Father Salvador Narvaez , that you would not last for five years without being corrupted by the indios - and all the things the Holy Church has taught you, would be burned down into ashes. Everything is bound to happen. Lintek! Mother Spain’s effort to civilize you and your people is just a waste of time.” Those words left a vile taste in his mouth.
Now that he was beginning to think about it, he also remembered how Mang Turino, Father Salvi’s gardener, warned him that the latter was not in a good mood when he stopped by San Diego’s church. The slightly thin priest with a crooked nose was to assign him to a parish that needed his assistance.
“Good morning,” he said in tagalog, alighting a coach, looking at the gardener trimming a sampaguita bush on the garden at the back of the church.
“Good morning po,” Mang Turino bowed his head.
“Is Father Salvi in?” he inquired.
“Yes he is Father,” the gardener replied while staring at his slightly brown skin. “But I wouldn’t go in there if I were you just yet.”
Father Narvaez was curious.
“Well, humbly speaking Father, I know things. Maybe it would be better if you go back at noon, right after Father Salvi has taken his siesta.”
“Why is that?”
“This morning, as soon as the morning prayers were said, and the church bells were tolled, Father Salvi shouted angrily at the sakristan mayor and asked for tsokolate-a.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked.
“Tsokolate-e would mean a light cocoa drink. Tsokolate-a would mean a strong, thick cocoa drink. And that makes the difference.”
Father Narvaez gave a soft laugh and dismissed the gardener. He continued to walk towards Father Salvi’s parochial residence.
That was a turning point in his life, that by some sort of scheme, he was thrown to a farming village called Malamig, where he now lay - taking a journey that started at the outskirts of Barcelona - while looking at the sky beneath the spider’s web, and the moon was red, looking like a plump round tomato.
Apr 4, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 1
When Father Narvaez accepted his fate at the hands of the gentlest people he knew, he reasoned that time, faith and destiny are crossbreeds - locked up in an eternal entanglement to say which conquers which, and to whom man must pay tribute. He would remember clearly how his father, Don Juan Narvaez, told him years ago, while the former was lying on his deathbed, that there are very few instances when one could see clearly, like crystals shining from a distance, the flashback of ones life. You see it on the face of your newborn child, a memory that one would forever keep. And on moments when Death pays you a visit, with a serene solemnity that touches your bone with a coldness freezing than a damp December morning, and still has the courtesy to smile at you and say that you have been given the privilege to wait for the final blow of his reaper. And on instances like this, as Father Narvaez murmured though no one could hear him, when hope was all that he could ever hope for, and that solitude was no more than a discipline he was beginning to get acquainted with.
He closed his eyes for a while, trying to remember what it felt like to run against the wind. He knew he might never do that again. With his right leg, the stronger leg he has, buried from below the knee to the ground, he felt pain reserved only for the dead. He recalled the English poet Shakespeare, and how he said on Sonnet 71 how vile this world was, with vilest worms do dwell. He sensed strange sensations, like tiny needles pricking on his flesh. He could not move. Immobile from the punishment he volunteered for, the only freedom he had was to think and to let his mind wander. But even that could be exhausting, more tiring than a hard day’s of work tending vegetables and fruit trees. During his days at the seminary, he figured that the best way not to sleep, is to try with all your might to sleep instantly. On nights like this described herein, when the world does not rest because of the anguish of those who can’t sleep, Father Narvaez have had recited all the prayers he could think of, memorized by his heart, seeking redemption on every discontent the mind could offer. But the mind has strange ways of bringing up memories, memories of the things we seek to bury on the fragments of our imaginations.
He had been provided shade under a large mango tree - it was to be his shelter for the remaining two weeks - a privilege not given to other offenders. But his was a special case. The town of Malamig and its inhabitants were torn on the issue of punishing Father Narvaez. Some were begging for mercy while others were strict on their resolve. The elders were adamant on the belief that they hold, the same faith they see as their aegis against any harm brought from the outside. In the end, Ka Bianong, the eldest and the wisest in Malamig, the same person Father Narvaez spent countless moments talking with, drinking strong coffee with, and helped the former take care of his beloved cabbage patches, said in audible whispers so that the rest could hear: “Let the priest decide his fate. He could leave Malamig in peace, or he could suffer two months fused on the grounds we dwell.”
He was taken to the nipa hut the villagers renovated for him when they were convinced that he had no plans of leaving their town. They explained the details of his options. For him, it was a long and arduous journey. Two years to be exact, only to fall back to scratches, only to try to rebuilt the trust he had earned at the hands of the hard-working people he grew fond of, and only to see for himself that faith could never be thrust on the throats of those whose religion is tied up to their own survival. He could have packed his things and rode a horse towards Lilio, Laguna, or Majayjay, or Magdalena. Instead, he sorted the things he would need. His mind was made-up. He would try to do what Christ did to the people of Israel. By the time the sun was perching itself on a clear sky that was that morning, Father Narvaez had already dug two feet on the secluded grounds where the largest squash could be seen, the reddest tomato could be admired, and every imaginable vegetable that the ground would permit to grow could be looked upon in all its glory. With his right leg buried to the ground, secured and not able to move the slightest bit, that was to be the partial tombstone that Father Narvaez had chosen to commit.
Entry No. 1
When Father Narvaez accepted his fate at the hands of the gentlest people he knew, he reasoned that time, faith and destiny are crossbreeds - locked up in an eternal entanglement to say which conquers which, and to whom man must pay tribute. He would remember clearly how his father, Don Juan Narvaez, told him years ago, while the former was lying on his deathbed, that there are very few instances when one could see clearly, like crystals shining from a distance, the flashback of ones life. You see it on the face of your newborn child, a memory that one would forever keep. And on moments when Death pays you a visit, with a serene solemnity that touches your bone with a coldness freezing than a damp December morning, and still has the courtesy to smile at you and say that you have been given the privilege to wait for the final blow of his reaper. And on instances like this, as Father Narvaez murmured though no one could hear him, when hope was all that he could ever hope for, and that solitude was no more than a discipline he was beginning to get acquainted with.
He closed his eyes for a while, trying to remember what it felt like to run against the wind. He knew he might never do that again. With his right leg, the stronger leg he has, buried from below the knee to the ground, he felt pain reserved only for the dead. He recalled the English poet Shakespeare, and how he said on Sonnet 71 how vile this world was, with vilest worms do dwell. He sensed strange sensations, like tiny needles pricking on his flesh. He could not move. Immobile from the punishment he volunteered for, the only freedom he had was to think and to let his mind wander. But even that could be exhausting, more tiring than a hard day’s of work tending vegetables and fruit trees. During his days at the seminary, he figured that the best way not to sleep, is to try with all your might to sleep instantly. On nights like this described herein, when the world does not rest because of the anguish of those who can’t sleep, Father Narvaez have had recited all the prayers he could think of, memorized by his heart, seeking redemption on every discontent the mind could offer. But the mind has strange ways of bringing up memories, memories of the things we seek to bury on the fragments of our imaginations.
He had been provided shade under a large mango tree - it was to be his shelter for the remaining two weeks - a privilege not given to other offenders. But his was a special case. The town of Malamig and its inhabitants were torn on the issue of punishing Father Narvaez. Some were begging for mercy while others were strict on their resolve. The elders were adamant on the belief that they hold, the same faith they see as their aegis against any harm brought from the outside. In the end, Ka Bianong, the eldest and the wisest in Malamig, the same person Father Narvaez spent countless moments talking with, drinking strong coffee with, and helped the former take care of his beloved cabbage patches, said in audible whispers so that the rest could hear: “Let the priest decide his fate. He could leave Malamig in peace, or he could suffer two months fused on the grounds we dwell.”
He was taken to the nipa hut the villagers renovated for him when they were convinced that he had no plans of leaving their town. They explained the details of his options. For him, it was a long and arduous journey. Two years to be exact, only to fall back to scratches, only to try to rebuilt the trust he had earned at the hands of the hard-working people he grew fond of, and only to see for himself that faith could never be thrust on the throats of those whose religion is tied up to their own survival. He could have packed his things and rode a horse towards Lilio, Laguna, or Majayjay, or Magdalena. Instead, he sorted the things he would need. His mind was made-up. He would try to do what Christ did to the people of Israel. By the time the sun was perching itself on a clear sky that was that morning, Father Narvaez had already dug two feet on the secluded grounds where the largest squash could be seen, the reddest tomato could be admired, and every imaginable vegetable that the ground would permit to grow could be looked upon in all its glory. With his right leg buried to the ground, secured and not able to move the slightest bit, that was to be the partial tombstone that Father Narvaez had chosen to commit.
Mar 29, 2003
Mar 21, 2003
Mar 19, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Last Entry
XII
I got inside our house using the window of my room. Pretending that nothing happened, I stayed in bed waiting for the morning. I went down when breakfast was being served. I saw my mom and my sister sitting at the breakfast table. My mother looked at me both happy and angry. She did not say a word though. My sister welcomed me with her smile.
I heard my father complaining about something while preparing for work. He got out of their room and saw me. He just nodded, signifying he’ll talk to me later. Just as he was about to sit down, I don’t know who started it but my parents started to argue about something.
Instinctively, I got my diary from my lap and set it on the table for them to see. My sister did the same. We were both looking at them. I could see tears lining up on my sister’s face. I tried not to cry and gave my parents an intent look.
My dad got silent. My mom looked at us and nodded that they understood.
They both stood up. They went to the veranda. There, they talked. Pretending to eat, I saw both of them explain things to one another. My mother cried. It was when I saw my father held her hand that I stood up and went to my room.
XIII
On my bed, I got a ballpen and opened my diary. I just have to talk with someone. I thought about the days that transpired. I saw the faces of my sister, my mom, and my dad flash before my eyes. I knew that everything’s gonna be fine. Hell, maybe this is part of being a family.
Among the thoughts that were my flashbacks on that instant, it was the fresh memory of Mina and how we met that was so clear. No song could be heard on a radio that’s turned off but I felt songs singing inside of me. Like a love song that you sincerely hear but has no tune, it swayed me to music I never knew existed. It was the simple details on how we became friends, and on how she touched my life in a way I may never forget.
I wrote a single word on my diary that day – Mina. Never mind that she was twenty-three and I was barely thirteen years old. That word contained the truth of my coming to adolescence. It welcomed me to a world where some things could be a lie, yet everything could have a purpose. If what I felt wasn’t love, then I don’t know what I’d call it. You just never forget your first
Last Entry
XII
I got inside our house using the window of my room. Pretending that nothing happened, I stayed in bed waiting for the morning. I went down when breakfast was being served. I saw my mom and my sister sitting at the breakfast table. My mother looked at me both happy and angry. She did not say a word though. My sister welcomed me with her smile.
I heard my father complaining about something while preparing for work. He got out of their room and saw me. He just nodded, signifying he’ll talk to me later. Just as he was about to sit down, I don’t know who started it but my parents started to argue about something.
Instinctively, I got my diary from my lap and set it on the table for them to see. My sister did the same. We were both looking at them. I could see tears lining up on my sister’s face. I tried not to cry and gave my parents an intent look.
My dad got silent. My mom looked at us and nodded that they understood.
They both stood up. They went to the veranda. There, they talked. Pretending to eat, I saw both of them explain things to one another. My mother cried. It was when I saw my father held her hand that I stood up and went to my room.
XIII
On my bed, I got a ballpen and opened my diary. I just have to talk with someone. I thought about the days that transpired. I saw the faces of my sister, my mom, and my dad flash before my eyes. I knew that everything’s gonna be fine. Hell, maybe this is part of being a family.
Among the thoughts that were my flashbacks on that instant, it was the fresh memory of Mina and how we met that was so clear. No song could be heard on a radio that’s turned off but I felt songs singing inside of me. Like a love song that you sincerely hear but has no tune, it swayed me to music I never knew existed. It was the simple details on how we became friends, and on how she touched my life in a way I may never forget.
I wrote a single word on my diary that day – Mina. Never mind that she was twenty-three and I was barely thirteen years old. That word contained the truth of my coming to adolescence. It welcomed me to a world where some things could be a lie, yet everything could have a purpose. If what I felt wasn’t love, then I don’t know what I’d call it. You just never forget your first
Mar 18, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 6
X
I would never forget that afternoon. We had the grandest time. We went to every store that perked our curiosity. Acting as if genuinely interested, we’d ask the salesclerk a litany of questions then get out with brochures at hand. We ate ice cream, read a few good comic books at the bookstore, and had a long walk.
We also went to the same park we were before. We held hands like it was the natural thing to do. We talked, we played, and we watched couples become extra sweet, much to our amusement.
After eating a quick dinner, we knew we were both exhausted. Coming back late at the boarding house, she excused herself and said she was ready to sleep.
I knew it was a crazy idea but that was the time when I woke up in the middle of the night. I went to her room and found her sleeping like a child. I silently approached her. I sate beside her bed, looking straight at her pretty face. I didn’t care whether she’d go angry or not. What I knew was that I had to let this feeling out.
I thanked her for the kindness she had shown me. In audible whispers, I told her that I wish I were born on a different circumstance so she’d find in her heart to more than just like me. I was so sorry. Damn sorry for not being able to help her.
But what pained me more was the idea that I must let her go. Like a child letting go of his first blanket, I was afraid. Why does love have to come in painful packages? I knew she’d never be mine. With school finally over, I may never see her again. With that thought, tears welled up on my eyes. Before she could hear me sob, I ran back to my room.
XI
Before the sun had risen, I already had my things packed. As I was about to leave the apartment, I could hear Mina crying inside her room. I decided to see what’s going on.
“Mina, I thought about what you said about my family and stuff. I’ve decided to go home.”
She tried to wipe the tears away from her face. I came near her and we embraced like old friends do.
“Hey, everything’s gonna be alright,” I said.
She was sobbing so hard that my shoulder felt wet. After a few minutes, she managed to smile.
“So, you’re leaving. That’s good. Your parents may already be worried sick.”
“Are you sure you can manage?”
“Of course I can, kid,” she was trying to laugh.
“Well, thanks for everything.”
As I stood up, she dried her tears away and led me to the door. She gave me one last hug and kissed my forehead.
“Be good kid. I’ll miss you.”
With that, I turned to leave.
Entry No. 6
X
I would never forget that afternoon. We had the grandest time. We went to every store that perked our curiosity. Acting as if genuinely interested, we’d ask the salesclerk a litany of questions then get out with brochures at hand. We ate ice cream, read a few good comic books at the bookstore, and had a long walk.
We also went to the same park we were before. We held hands like it was the natural thing to do. We talked, we played, and we watched couples become extra sweet, much to our amusement.
After eating a quick dinner, we knew we were both exhausted. Coming back late at the boarding house, she excused herself and said she was ready to sleep.
I knew it was a crazy idea but that was the time when I woke up in the middle of the night. I went to her room and found her sleeping like a child. I silently approached her. I sate beside her bed, looking straight at her pretty face. I didn’t care whether she’d go angry or not. What I knew was that I had to let this feeling out.
I thanked her for the kindness she had shown me. In audible whispers, I told her that I wish I were born on a different circumstance so she’d find in her heart to more than just like me. I was so sorry. Damn sorry for not being able to help her.
But what pained me more was the idea that I must let her go. Like a child letting go of his first blanket, I was afraid. Why does love have to come in painful packages? I knew she’d never be mine. With school finally over, I may never see her again. With that thought, tears welled up on my eyes. Before she could hear me sob, I ran back to my room.
XI
Before the sun had risen, I already had my things packed. As I was about to leave the apartment, I could hear Mina crying inside her room. I decided to see what’s going on.
“Mina, I thought about what you said about my family and stuff. I’ve decided to go home.”
She tried to wipe the tears away from her face. I came near her and we embraced like old friends do.
“Hey, everything’s gonna be alright,” I said.
She was sobbing so hard that my shoulder felt wet. After a few minutes, she managed to smile.
“So, you’re leaving. That’s good. Your parents may already be worried sick.”
“Are you sure you can manage?”
“Of course I can, kid,” she was trying to laugh.
“Well, thanks for everything.”
As I stood up, she dried her tears away and led me to the door. She gave me one last hug and kissed my forehead.
“Be good kid. I’ll miss you.”
With that, I turned to leave.
Mar 17, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 5
IX
On the second morning I was staying with Mina, I saw her walk out of the room with only a loose T-shirt and panties on. But that’s beside the point.
We had a breakfast of instant noodles and settled down at the couch on the sala to watch a movie.
The day before, she was so busy with some papers so I stayed at my room trying to keep myself busy by reading. Her studies would be complete after she passed her term paper. The only time we were together was when we had to go out for dinner, which was actually our lunch.
After putting on the betamax, she placed herself beside me. After a few minutes, she settled down on my lap as if it was a pillow. I sorely wished she wouldn’t hear my heartbeat. I felt it was going to explode. It was only in the middle of the film that we started talking.
“Have you decided yet?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve been thinking.”
“Don’t you want to call your parents? They might be worried sick.”
“I’ll do that, tomorrow.”
“Believe me, you don’t really hate them. It’s just the things they do.”
It made me silent. I agree with her. It’s just that I don’t want to show it.
A few minutes later, she then said, “I also ran away from home. But that was a long time ago.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story. I thought I had enough,” she cut her sentence. “Have you ever wondered what would happen if we could come back in time to correct all the mistakes we made?”
“No, I haven’t thought of that.”
“Tell me what you think.”
I pondered on the question then finally answered, “I don’t think we’d be happier then as we are now.”
“How come?”
“Because,” I was at loss for words. “Because that’s not the way things are.”
She was not looking at me nor at the television. “Maybe mistakes has a purpose. Not just to learn from them, but maybe to make us complete.”
“Have you ever wanted to go back in time to correct your mistakes?” I said.
“More than a thousand times.”
An awkward pause. She continued with another question.
“Have you ever thought that there’s always a purpose in life? That maybe the stars are really people confused with their own existence?”
What was I to say? Instead, I said, “Is there something you want to tell me? A story perhaps.”
She then stood up and took a cigarette from the table. She straightened herself from the couch and took deep puffs. Looking at the ashtray, she poured her heart out.
“I once fell in love with a man older than I am. I was seventeen and he was forty-one. Well, at least I thought it was love. Maybe it was my youth. It was more than the physical attraction that bowled me over. I guess it was the thought of actually being special.”
I could tell that she was trying to act with composure. That everything was fine. She continued.
“Well, he has a family of his own. For a while, I believed things would work out but it never did. I ran away from home. He works abroad and has tons of money. Maybe out of pity, he sheltered me on this prison cell. That’s why I study hard. I need to graduate so I could start all over.”
“Why don’t you come back home?”
“My parents won’t accept me. We are poor. Poverty is our way of life. And, you know how traditions are when it comes to having sired a child unwed.”
I did not know what to say.
“I also have a child. They don’t have a kid so my daughter’s with them. I could not possibly support her so I agreed with the arrangement.”
She then lighted another cigarette and brushed my hair with her hands.
“Hey, don’t fret. I have things under control and I do have a plan,” she was half-smiling. She then wrapped her arms around me.
“My tears ran dry a long time ago,” she said.
It was around noon. Though she was shaking, she managed to invite me out.
Entry No. 5
IX
On the second morning I was staying with Mina, I saw her walk out of the room with only a loose T-shirt and panties on. But that’s beside the point.
We had a breakfast of instant noodles and settled down at the couch on the sala to watch a movie.
The day before, she was so busy with some papers so I stayed at my room trying to keep myself busy by reading. Her studies would be complete after she passed her term paper. The only time we were together was when we had to go out for dinner, which was actually our lunch.
After putting on the betamax, she placed herself beside me. After a few minutes, she settled down on my lap as if it was a pillow. I sorely wished she wouldn’t hear my heartbeat. I felt it was going to explode. It was only in the middle of the film that we started talking.
“Have you decided yet?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve been thinking.”
“Don’t you want to call your parents? They might be worried sick.”
“I’ll do that, tomorrow.”
“Believe me, you don’t really hate them. It’s just the things they do.”
It made me silent. I agree with her. It’s just that I don’t want to show it.
A few minutes later, she then said, “I also ran away from home. But that was a long time ago.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story. I thought I had enough,” she cut her sentence. “Have you ever wondered what would happen if we could come back in time to correct all the mistakes we made?”
“No, I haven’t thought of that.”
“Tell me what you think.”
I pondered on the question then finally answered, “I don’t think we’d be happier then as we are now.”
“How come?”
“Because,” I was at loss for words. “Because that’s not the way things are.”
She was not looking at me nor at the television. “Maybe mistakes has a purpose. Not just to learn from them, but maybe to make us complete.”
“Have you ever wanted to go back in time to correct your mistakes?” I said.
“More than a thousand times.”
An awkward pause. She continued with another question.
“Have you ever thought that there’s always a purpose in life? That maybe the stars are really people confused with their own existence?”
What was I to say? Instead, I said, “Is there something you want to tell me? A story perhaps.”
She then stood up and took a cigarette from the table. She straightened herself from the couch and took deep puffs. Looking at the ashtray, she poured her heart out.
“I once fell in love with a man older than I am. I was seventeen and he was forty-one. Well, at least I thought it was love. Maybe it was my youth. It was more than the physical attraction that bowled me over. I guess it was the thought of actually being special.”
I could tell that she was trying to act with composure. That everything was fine. She continued.
“Well, he has a family of his own. For a while, I believed things would work out but it never did. I ran away from home. He works abroad and has tons of money. Maybe out of pity, he sheltered me on this prison cell. That’s why I study hard. I need to graduate so I could start all over.”
“Why don’t you come back home?”
“My parents won’t accept me. We are poor. Poverty is our way of life. And, you know how traditions are when it comes to having sired a child unwed.”
I did not know what to say.
“I also have a child. They don’t have a kid so my daughter’s with them. I could not possibly support her so I agreed with the arrangement.”
She then lighted another cigarette and brushed my hair with her hands.
“Hey, don’t fret. I have things under control and I do have a plan,” she was half-smiling. She then wrapped her arms around me.
“My tears ran dry a long time ago,” she said.
It was around noon. Though she was shaking, she managed to invite me out.
Mar 16, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 4
VIII
Things were not looking up at home when school was over. Mom and dad started to have fights for reasons they won’t tell. As much as possible, they don’t want us to see them quarreling but my sister and I could hear the entire racket from our rooms. In the middle of the night, I could hear glasses and plates being thrown and all.
That was the time I decided to run away. I never pondered on where I should go. Hastily packing-up some clothes on my bag, I stealthily walked out of the house while my mom and dad were fighting.
I walked for about a mile not really knowing where to go. My entire savings amounted to only two weeks of allowance and I was getting tired and hungry. Reaching the road that leads to my school, I saw Mina buying softdrink at a store. I told her that I ran away from home. She offered her place. She said her boardmates were all home and she has the whole place for herself for a week.
Thought it was about midnight. After putting my things on her apartment, we went to the park to talk. Somehow, I felt relieved by just being close to her. I forgot for a moment the problems I was having at home.
We talked about my family. She gave me advises and agreed that maybe it’s only right for me to run-away to let my parents know how I feel about the whole thing. I simply adore her. After all the things I did, she’s still the same person I knew.
“Louie,” she said while looking at the stars. “Tell me your thoughts about the countless stars staring at us right now.”
“Stars don’t have eyes,” I laughed.
Not being a wisecrack she normally was, she only smiled. “Someday, you’ll find a star you could call your own. And all the other stars won’t matter.”
“What if I tell you I may already have found it.”
I was nervous. I felt my pulse rising. She opened her mouth and I held my breath.
“Come one, let’s buy some snacks and some cigarettes on the way home.”
She never mentioned anything about what I said. After eating the snacks we bought, she led me to a vacant room and kissed my cheek to say goodnight. I lay in bed thinking about my family, about Mina, about myself, my diary, and about the stars and what she said about it.
Entry No. 4
VIII
Things were not looking up at home when school was over. Mom and dad started to have fights for reasons they won’t tell. As much as possible, they don’t want us to see them quarreling but my sister and I could hear the entire racket from our rooms. In the middle of the night, I could hear glasses and plates being thrown and all.
That was the time I decided to run away. I never pondered on where I should go. Hastily packing-up some clothes on my bag, I stealthily walked out of the house while my mom and dad were fighting.
I walked for about a mile not really knowing where to go. My entire savings amounted to only two weeks of allowance and I was getting tired and hungry. Reaching the road that leads to my school, I saw Mina buying softdrink at a store. I told her that I ran away from home. She offered her place. She said her boardmates were all home and she has the whole place for herself for a week.
Thought it was about midnight. After putting my things on her apartment, we went to the park to talk. Somehow, I felt relieved by just being close to her. I forgot for a moment the problems I was having at home.
We talked about my family. She gave me advises and agreed that maybe it’s only right for me to run-away to let my parents know how I feel about the whole thing. I simply adore her. After all the things I did, she’s still the same person I knew.
“Louie,” she said while looking at the stars. “Tell me your thoughts about the countless stars staring at us right now.”
“Stars don’t have eyes,” I laughed.
Not being a wisecrack she normally was, she only smiled. “Someday, you’ll find a star you could call your own. And all the other stars won’t matter.”
“What if I tell you I may already have found it.”
I was nervous. I felt my pulse rising. She opened her mouth and I held my breath.
“Come one, let’s buy some snacks and some cigarettes on the way home.”
She never mentioned anything about what I said. After eating the snacks we bought, she led me to a vacant room and kissed my cheek to say goodnight. I lay in bed thinking about my family, about Mina, about myself, my diary, and about the stars and what she said about it.
Mar 15, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 3
VI
I asked my mother if she ever read what was inside my great grandfather’s diary. Tucked inside an antique cabinet, it is not that hard to take away the bundles of rope that served as the journal’s lock. She said no and reasoned that that was the specific instruction of her mother. She then went on lecturing about the virtues of keeping a promise. She implied that she was given trust to take care of these family treasures and she does not intend to break the tradition. Indeed, volumes of diaries were safely gathered at our cabinet. The oldest of which was the diary of my mother’s great grandfather.
What I thought was an easy task turned out to be a grueling labor. After exhausting my thoughts on the lists that I could write, I started to scribble whatever it is I felt at that moment. From the entries one would see curses, and mostly the word ‘boring’ repeated more than a hundred times. There were even entries of incomprehensible words done by mixing up the letters of the alphabet.
I listed down the alphabet from A to Z, then Z to A. I had about five entries of that. I would often tell myself how I hated that task. I felt trapped by a tradition whose real value I don’t understand.
VII
Mina was not that pretty but she’s not that ugly either. I really don’t know what transformation came over me but it prompted something inside urging me to imply what I feel. I never listened to love songs, but suddenly, Barry Manilow started to sound cool. As ever man is supposed to act everytime they felt what I felt, I did all that. I gave her flowers. I tried as much as possible to see her everyday.
“Hey,” she said one day. “What’s that behind your back?”
“Oh, this,” and I laid out a book. “My mother reads this kind of stuff. Thought you might like it.”
It was a Mills and Boone pocketbook I bought at a discounted bookstore. I gave it to her.
“That’s sweet,” she said as she received it. “I’ll try to read it.”
“Mina,” I paused. “There’s a note inside you might want to read.”
“Oh,” she leafed through the pages and found my note written on a stationary I took from my sister’s collection. She browsed through the letter and smiled.
“Know what,” she winked. “With more practice, I bet you can become a great letter writer.”
With that, she took off by saying she has some catching up to do.
That incident gave me the courage to give her the ring wrapped around the petals of a rose, the very first poem I made for a girl, and those little things I never knew I could do. I told her it’s all about the friendship she gave me. Setting aside courage, I needed bravery to tell her my true feelings.
All in all, her reactions were all the same. She just said thank you. I didn’t mind. I was happy with that. I knew she liked me. It’s just that something, just something deep inside, is also telling me I wanted her to more than just like me.
Entry No. 3
VI
I asked my mother if she ever read what was inside my great grandfather’s diary. Tucked inside an antique cabinet, it is not that hard to take away the bundles of rope that served as the journal’s lock. She said no and reasoned that that was the specific instruction of her mother. She then went on lecturing about the virtues of keeping a promise. She implied that she was given trust to take care of these family treasures and she does not intend to break the tradition. Indeed, volumes of diaries were safely gathered at our cabinet. The oldest of which was the diary of my mother’s great grandfather.
What I thought was an easy task turned out to be a grueling labor. After exhausting my thoughts on the lists that I could write, I started to scribble whatever it is I felt at that moment. From the entries one would see curses, and mostly the word ‘boring’ repeated more than a hundred times. There were even entries of incomprehensible words done by mixing up the letters of the alphabet.
I listed down the alphabet from A to Z, then Z to A. I had about five entries of that. I would often tell myself how I hated that task. I felt trapped by a tradition whose real value I don’t understand.
VII
Mina was not that pretty but she’s not that ugly either. I really don’t know what transformation came over me but it prompted something inside urging me to imply what I feel. I never listened to love songs, but suddenly, Barry Manilow started to sound cool. As ever man is supposed to act everytime they felt what I felt, I did all that. I gave her flowers. I tried as much as possible to see her everyday.
“Hey,” she said one day. “What’s that behind your back?”
“Oh, this,” and I laid out a book. “My mother reads this kind of stuff. Thought you might like it.”
It was a Mills and Boone pocketbook I bought at a discounted bookstore. I gave it to her.
“That’s sweet,” she said as she received it. “I’ll try to read it.”
“Mina,” I paused. “There’s a note inside you might want to read.”
“Oh,” she leafed through the pages and found my note written on a stationary I took from my sister’s collection. She browsed through the letter and smiled.
“Know what,” she winked. “With more practice, I bet you can become a great letter writer.”
With that, she took off by saying she has some catching up to do.
That incident gave me the courage to give her the ring wrapped around the petals of a rose, the very first poem I made for a girl, and those little things I never knew I could do. I told her it’s all about the friendship she gave me. Setting aside courage, I needed bravery to tell her my true feelings.
All in all, her reactions were all the same. She just said thank you. I didn’t mind. I was happy with that. I knew she liked me. It’s just that something, just something deep inside, is also telling me I wanted her to more than just like me.
Mar 14, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 2
IV
My sister started writing on her diary when she was just ten years old. We never talk much, her being older than I am by three years. By the time I was old enough to be influenced by computer games and video arcades, my mother saw it as an opportunity for her to finally persuade me to start a journal of my own. I complied, thinking I could outsmart her by scribbling nonsense on every page of my little notebook.
After she bought me my PC, I would proudly wave at her the page where I scribbled nonsense on my diary. Sort of telling her that I’m doing my part of the bargain. As I’ve said earlier, no one among us reads another family member’s journal. That was a golden rule. My mom would smile. I would laugh hysterically at the back of my mind thinking that I outsmarted her.
At first, it seemed like an easy task. I started writing down all the animals I could think of. That was entry number one to entry number five. Then, I listed down in a letter-like fashion all the elements in the periodic table until I fill up a page. That was entry number six to entry number eleven. There were times when I would just sing a song and write the lyrics down. I figured that after two years, my mom would no longer need to be assured that I write on my diary.
Sample: August 24, 1989 (Entry No. 1)
Dear Diary,
Ants antelope armadillo anteater bear butterfly bat bird bobcat cat camel caterpillar catfish carrion candor dog duck deer dragonfly dogfish eagle elephant eel earthworm falcon fish flying fish fox, etc., etc., etc., . . and so on, and so on. . . .
V
“Hey lighter guy,” she said. “I never thought I’d see you here. What’s up?”
I flashed a smile.
“Aren’t you gonna speak up?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I answered.
“Want a smoke?” she was teasing.
“Sure. But not here. The guards might see us.”
“Okay,” she replied. “I’ll treat you to a sundae, ok.”
“Alright.”
We went outside the campus and went straight to where the college guys hangout. I was waiting for her to buy me a cigarette but she did not. Not knowing how to start a conversation, I just sat there, mixing all the stuff on my sundae. She stared at me for awhile as I was about to say something. I just closed my mouth.
“Aren’t you going to say something? I mean, hello! Do I have bad breath or something?” her eyes were wide open and I managed to smile.
“What do you want me to ask you?”
“Well, anything. Normal people are supposed to get acquainted, aren’t they?”
“Okay,” I said, smiling. “What is it again that you want me to ask you?”
She opened her mouth in disbelief.
“You are weird, aren’t you?”
Even before she was able to finish that sentence, I murmured.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“What?” she shot back. “Okay, okay. Let’s just eat.”
She concentrated on finishing her sundae.
“You really love ice cream, don’t you?” I asked.
“You really are weird, aren’t you?”
One could tell that we were having a good time.
“Well, weirdness is - ” but before I could finish my sentence, she continued.
“Well, I like weird guys. The last time I met someone like that was. . . .” she did not finish her sentence. There was an awkward pause.
“I have a question. Why do you want to hang-out with me?”
She looked at me, as if trying to answer my question in silence. “Well. . . . you look nice and. . .”
“And?”
“And. . . you look like my brother.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll race you towards school.” With that, she sprung from her feet and ran towards the gate. I followed her though my bag was being a nuisance. I almost fell.
I looked at my watch. It was almost five.
“Bye,” she said. Then she gave me a light kiss on the cheek. She then ran away.
“Hey,” I yelled.
But she was gone. I brushed my hand on the side of the cheek where she kissed it. I bought my first cigarette that day.
Entry No. 2
IV
My sister started writing on her diary when she was just ten years old. We never talk much, her being older than I am by three years. By the time I was old enough to be influenced by computer games and video arcades, my mother saw it as an opportunity for her to finally persuade me to start a journal of my own. I complied, thinking I could outsmart her by scribbling nonsense on every page of my little notebook.
After she bought me my PC, I would proudly wave at her the page where I scribbled nonsense on my diary. Sort of telling her that I’m doing my part of the bargain. As I’ve said earlier, no one among us reads another family member’s journal. That was a golden rule. My mom would smile. I would laugh hysterically at the back of my mind thinking that I outsmarted her.
At first, it seemed like an easy task. I started writing down all the animals I could think of. That was entry number one to entry number five. Then, I listed down in a letter-like fashion all the elements in the periodic table until I fill up a page. That was entry number six to entry number eleven. There were times when I would just sing a song and write the lyrics down. I figured that after two years, my mom would no longer need to be assured that I write on my diary.
Sample: August 24, 1989 (Entry No. 1)
Dear Diary,
Ants antelope armadillo anteater bear butterfly bat bird bobcat cat camel caterpillar catfish carrion candor dog duck deer dragonfly dogfish eagle elephant eel earthworm falcon fish flying fish fox, etc., etc., etc., . . and so on, and so on. . . .
V
“Hey lighter guy,” she said. “I never thought I’d see you here. What’s up?”
I flashed a smile.
“Aren’t you gonna speak up?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I answered.
“Want a smoke?” she was teasing.
“Sure. But not here. The guards might see us.”
“Okay,” she replied. “I’ll treat you to a sundae, ok.”
“Alright.”
We went outside the campus and went straight to where the college guys hangout. I was waiting for her to buy me a cigarette but she did not. Not knowing how to start a conversation, I just sat there, mixing all the stuff on my sundae. She stared at me for awhile as I was about to say something. I just closed my mouth.
“Aren’t you going to say something? I mean, hello! Do I have bad breath or something?” her eyes were wide open and I managed to smile.
“What do you want me to ask you?”
“Well, anything. Normal people are supposed to get acquainted, aren’t they?”
“Okay,” I said, smiling. “What is it again that you want me to ask you?”
She opened her mouth in disbelief.
“You are weird, aren’t you?”
Even before she was able to finish that sentence, I murmured.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“What?” she shot back. “Okay, okay. Let’s just eat.”
She concentrated on finishing her sundae.
“You really love ice cream, don’t you?” I asked.
“You really are weird, aren’t you?”
One could tell that we were having a good time.
“Well, weirdness is - ” but before I could finish my sentence, she continued.
“Well, I like weird guys. The last time I met someone like that was. . . .” she did not finish her sentence. There was an awkward pause.
“I have a question. Why do you want to hang-out with me?”
She looked at me, as if trying to answer my question in silence. “Well. . . . you look nice and. . .”
“And?”
“And. . . you look like my brother.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll race you towards school.” With that, she sprung from her feet and ran towards the gate. I followed her though my bag was being a nuisance. I almost fell.
I looked at my watch. It was almost five.
“Bye,” she said. Then she gave me a light kiss on the cheek. She then ran away.
“Hey,” I yelled.
But she was gone. I brushed my hand on the side of the cheek where she kissed it. I bought my first cigarette that day.
Mar 13, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 1
I
No, it was not the time I gave her a ring wrapped around the petals of a rose. Neither was it the time I made her a poem; words picked up from an old dictionary, like broken pieces of glass. The sweetest thing I ever did for Mina was when I woke up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. I kissed her lightly on the cheek, and whispered apologies for failing to give her more.
I may never find out whether she heard my plea or not. If she did, she did not show it. I felt free that day, like looking at myself from the outside. For the very first time in my life I knew I was real. And whatever I felt that moment was something I could hardly describe. I cried. I shamelessly cried that night and I’m not embarrassed to admit it.
II
I keep a journal because my mother won’t possibly buy me a personal computer unless I have a diary of my own. I come from a long line of diary writers. The memoirs of my great grandfather are displayed along with the family antiques. We’re supposed to be proud of our heritage, having been brought up from a lineage of academicians and all those intellectual eggheads.
I mean, I don’t blame my ancestors for starting this endeavor. It’s more of blaming myself for not meeting their expectations. Come to think of it, it took a lousy PC for me to start writing down the chapters of my life.
I know it sounds weird but my family never reads another member’s diary. The journals of the dead are just kept as reminders on how voluminous their struggle has been to put us where we are today. Maybe my mother has a point in saying that writing a diary serves as a reflection and a continuos meditation on the mortality we have. For all I know, half of what is written on my journal is nothing but lies. I lie to tell the truth, that truth that I keep to myself, the same way I utter the softest whisper to make myself heard.
III
“Can I have a light?” she said, looking at the lighter on my hand.
“A what?” I replied.
“A lighter. You know, the one you use to light a cigarette.”
“Oh,” I managed to say. “Here.”
She lighted her cigarette. She took two deep puffs before returning it to me.
“Do you smoke?” she asked.
No. I just keep one. For emergency and stuff.”
“And stuff, huh?”
“Yes,” was all I could manage to say.
“Are you new here?” she inquired, not looking directly at me and acting as if bored.
“No. I was born on this town.”
“Not much of a place, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve seen better.”
Frankly, I didn’t know how to react. She was right though. I grew up on a place where one would rather sleep than spend the night out.
“I’m from the south,” I can tell that from her accent. “Ever been to the south?”
“I don’t travel much,” I replied.
“Well, there really isn’t much to talk about my place. I come from a countryside where ricefields are everywhere and it is quite green all over.”
I just let her talk. High-school students were now flooding the gate where we stood.
“Know what I sorely miss about home?” she finally looked straight at me, cigarette at hand.
“Your family?”
“No, dumb ass,” she smiled. “I miss the little hill I call my own. There, I could spend countless hours looking at the stars.
There was silence. Weird. After three hasty puffs from her smoke, she brushed me goodbye.
“Well, got to go,” she said.
She walked swiftly away from where I am. I stood frozen, able to follow her only with my stare.
Entry No. 1
I
No, it was not the time I gave her a ring wrapped around the petals of a rose. Neither was it the time I made her a poem; words picked up from an old dictionary, like broken pieces of glass. The sweetest thing I ever did for Mina was when I woke up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. I kissed her lightly on the cheek, and whispered apologies for failing to give her more.
I may never find out whether she heard my plea or not. If she did, she did not show it. I felt free that day, like looking at myself from the outside. For the very first time in my life I knew I was real. And whatever I felt that moment was something I could hardly describe. I cried. I shamelessly cried that night and I’m not embarrassed to admit it.
II
I keep a journal because my mother won’t possibly buy me a personal computer unless I have a diary of my own. I come from a long line of diary writers. The memoirs of my great grandfather are displayed along with the family antiques. We’re supposed to be proud of our heritage, having been brought up from a lineage of academicians and all those intellectual eggheads.
I mean, I don’t blame my ancestors for starting this endeavor. It’s more of blaming myself for not meeting their expectations. Come to think of it, it took a lousy PC for me to start writing down the chapters of my life.
I know it sounds weird but my family never reads another member’s diary. The journals of the dead are just kept as reminders on how voluminous their struggle has been to put us where we are today. Maybe my mother has a point in saying that writing a diary serves as a reflection and a continuos meditation on the mortality we have. For all I know, half of what is written on my journal is nothing but lies. I lie to tell the truth, that truth that I keep to myself, the same way I utter the softest whisper to make myself heard.
III
“Can I have a light?” she said, looking at the lighter on my hand.
“A what?” I replied.
“A lighter. You know, the one you use to light a cigarette.”
“Oh,” I managed to say. “Here.”
She lighted her cigarette. She took two deep puffs before returning it to me.
“Do you smoke?” she asked.
No. I just keep one. For emergency and stuff.”
“And stuff, huh?”
“Yes,” was all I could manage to say.
“Are you new here?” she inquired, not looking directly at me and acting as if bored.
“No. I was born on this town.”
“Not much of a place, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve seen better.”
Frankly, I didn’t know how to react. She was right though. I grew up on a place where one would rather sleep than spend the night out.
“I’m from the south,” I can tell that from her accent. “Ever been to the south?”
“I don’t travel much,” I replied.
“Well, there really isn’t much to talk about my place. I come from a countryside where ricefields are everywhere and it is quite green all over.”
I just let her talk. High-school students were now flooding the gate where we stood.
“Know what I sorely miss about home?” she finally looked straight at me, cigarette at hand.
“Your family?”
“No, dumb ass,” she smiled. “I miss the little hill I call my own. There, I could spend countless hours looking at the stars.
There was silence. Weird. After three hasty puffs from her smoke, she brushed me goodbye.
“Well, got to go,” she said.
She walked swiftly away from where I am. I stood frozen, able to follow her only with my stare.
Mar 9, 2003
Mar 7, 2003
ALTERNATE REALITY
Last Entry
All in all, I’ve killed seven people. No sense in telling you the gory details on how it transpired. Be content on the fact that I did not kill them without a purpose. They were not senseless. They provided me the revenge I needed on the men who murdered my family. Dog eats dog, they say. For one thing, I also got the money I later stole from them. It made my miserable life somehow bearable.
But no more talk about that. I’m afraid I might bore you. Instead, let me tell you about a dream I had last night. It’s kind of weird when you think about it. I remember the details vividly and I think it’s really out of this world. Anyway, I just need to tell you the story.
This dream I had is about a creature so cumbersome in nature yet so fiery in its eyes. I have seen the eyes of someone who has the same effect on other people. I take it that head of mobs don’t often have to be big in stature but their eyes must have the ferocity of a lion.
As I was saying, this creature is like a rodent though it looks more like a raccoon. It only lives on a particular island that I really don’t know where. The creature would climb down trees only at night and when the sun is up, it would climb back up and sleep for hours.
According to my dream, scientists have found a very disturbing behavior of this animal. They know that it feeds on little insects but they also found out that these creatures often visit houses. It would creep stealthily into the windows of the islanders’ homes and stay there. It is as if it’s guarding them from something evil from the outside. It would perch itself by the window and feast on mosquitoes and other household insects.
Still, according to my dream, people on this island have accepted this as a fact of life. Locals have called this creature “sleepwatchers,” mainly because of what it does. However, during one experiment regarding sleep patterns on that particular island, there was a sudden rapid eye movement on the person they were observing. This happened at exactly the same time a sleepwatcher was coming over. They shooed the creature away. On that instant, brain impulses from the sleeping person also started to wane. He began producing soft moans. The researchers tried to wake him up but they couldn’t. Fearing he might be suffering from a stroke, they tried to resuscitate him from deep slumber.
Suddenly, there were loud moans outside the house. More than a dozen sleepwatchers suddenly lined up from nowhere as if chanting a song. The sound was like that of a person dreaming. The scientists were in shock. They have heard of sleepwatchers doing that but they took it as sort of a mating dance.
The person suddenly stood up, opened his eyes, looked around him, and then went back to sleep as if nothing happened. The sleepwatchers also disappeared.
“Maybe it’s the chemicals spewed from it’s behind that transpired what happened,” said one researcher.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” cried another.
“Maybe still,” said one, “there are things that we really don’t know. For all it’s worth, maybe there are creatures whose brains are more sensitive than ours that it sees through our dreams.”
In my dream, a sort of documentary don’t you think, the locals not knowing what the sleepwatchers are really capable of doing, slaughtered these gentle creatures in great numbers.
----------------
Now I’m here at my cell. I committed myself here. The cops are good enough not to abuse me. They said I needed help. With the help of my grandmother who came with me, I told the investigator of the dreary things I did.
The fact that I confessed is because I don’t want them to get ahead of me. Before they can put me in, I’ve decided to surrender. Conscience? No. It’s more of quitting while I’m still ahead. A few minutes from now, I’m sure the investigators would visit me in this cell. They would ask the same questions. I already told them twice the things that I did. No sense in telling them over and over again.
Fact is, I think the investigators here got things all mixed up. They would come in pairs with no guns while wearing white robes.
“I pity her,” said one who came to see her.
“I could imagine the trauma she went through,” said the other.
“How about her mother?”
“She died while she was still young,” said the bearded guy.
“Is it okay if she hears the things we are talking about?” cried the other.
“She’s into a state of shock. Alternate reality.”
“Incest. How many cases do we have here?”
“She’s the only one who killed her father.”
With that, I could not help but laugh. What the hell are they talking about? The whole thing about incest is the funniest thing I could imagine. It’s so funny I can’t help but laugh. It makes stomach ache I want to cry.
Last Entry
All in all, I’ve killed seven people. No sense in telling you the gory details on how it transpired. Be content on the fact that I did not kill them without a purpose. They were not senseless. They provided me the revenge I needed on the men who murdered my family. Dog eats dog, they say. For one thing, I also got the money I later stole from them. It made my miserable life somehow bearable.
But no more talk about that. I’m afraid I might bore you. Instead, let me tell you about a dream I had last night. It’s kind of weird when you think about it. I remember the details vividly and I think it’s really out of this world. Anyway, I just need to tell you the story.
This dream I had is about a creature so cumbersome in nature yet so fiery in its eyes. I have seen the eyes of someone who has the same effect on other people. I take it that head of mobs don’t often have to be big in stature but their eyes must have the ferocity of a lion.
As I was saying, this creature is like a rodent though it looks more like a raccoon. It only lives on a particular island that I really don’t know where. The creature would climb down trees only at night and when the sun is up, it would climb back up and sleep for hours.
According to my dream, scientists have found a very disturbing behavior of this animal. They know that it feeds on little insects but they also found out that these creatures often visit houses. It would creep stealthily into the windows of the islanders’ homes and stay there. It is as if it’s guarding them from something evil from the outside. It would perch itself by the window and feast on mosquitoes and other household insects.
Still, according to my dream, people on this island have accepted this as a fact of life. Locals have called this creature “sleepwatchers,” mainly because of what it does. However, during one experiment regarding sleep patterns on that particular island, there was a sudden rapid eye movement on the person they were observing. This happened at exactly the same time a sleepwatcher was coming over. They shooed the creature away. On that instant, brain impulses from the sleeping person also started to wane. He began producing soft moans. The researchers tried to wake him up but they couldn’t. Fearing he might be suffering from a stroke, they tried to resuscitate him from deep slumber.
Suddenly, there were loud moans outside the house. More than a dozen sleepwatchers suddenly lined up from nowhere as if chanting a song. The sound was like that of a person dreaming. The scientists were in shock. They have heard of sleepwatchers doing that but they took it as sort of a mating dance.
The person suddenly stood up, opened his eyes, looked around him, and then went back to sleep as if nothing happened. The sleepwatchers also disappeared.
“Maybe it’s the chemicals spewed from it’s behind that transpired what happened,” said one researcher.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” cried another.
“Maybe still,” said one, “there are things that we really don’t know. For all it’s worth, maybe there are creatures whose brains are more sensitive than ours that it sees through our dreams.”
In my dream, a sort of documentary don’t you think, the locals not knowing what the sleepwatchers are really capable of doing, slaughtered these gentle creatures in great numbers.
----------------
Now I’m here at my cell. I committed myself here. The cops are good enough not to abuse me. They said I needed help. With the help of my grandmother who came with me, I told the investigator of the dreary things I did.
The fact that I confessed is because I don’t want them to get ahead of me. Before they can put me in, I’ve decided to surrender. Conscience? No. It’s more of quitting while I’m still ahead. A few minutes from now, I’m sure the investigators would visit me in this cell. They would ask the same questions. I already told them twice the things that I did. No sense in telling them over and over again.
Fact is, I think the investigators here got things all mixed up. They would come in pairs with no guns while wearing white robes.
“I pity her,” said one who came to see her.
“I could imagine the trauma she went through,” said the other.
“How about her mother?”
“She died while she was still young,” said the bearded guy.
“Is it okay if she hears the things we are talking about?” cried the other.
“She’s into a state of shock. Alternate reality.”
“Incest. How many cases do we have here?”
“She’s the only one who killed her father.”
With that, I could not help but laugh. What the hell are they talking about? The whole thing about incest is the funniest thing I could imagine. It’s so funny I can’t help but laugh. It makes stomach ache I want to cry.
Mar 5, 2003
ALTERNATE REALITY
Entry No. 4
The first kill I made was the time I was eighteen years old. I sell cigarettes and stuff at night to augment our income. My friends would stay with me until the late hours of the morning. Mostly, those who buy from our makeshift store are drunkards or men who simply couldn’t find sleep at the comfort of their homes.
I admit that some of my friends do engage in prostitution. It’s good for business. Their customers would buy from me packs of cigarettes and candies. Sort of a way to impress my friends. It’s a simple operation. A car would slow down in front of us. The driver would open the windows of his car then first ask for a cigarette. Then he’d ask us if there’s someone he could spend the night with. The price is then negotiated.
Both heterosexual and gay customers would visit our place. I would also get some sort of bonus from them. My friends said that it’s for permitting them to use my place as a negotiating area of some sort. They wouldn’t tell me straight in the face but I was becoming more like a pimp. They never urged me to try it mainly because I don’t want to.
Then one night, about two in the morning, when their patrons have picked up all my friends, I was left alone waiting for them to come back. A red car slowed down in front of our stall. He did the same routine. The man is not that old, most probably in his late thirties. You could tell that he’s a closet gay. He slid down the window and asked for a menthol cigarette. I gave it to him. He asked if he could have some candies. I gave him some. But when I asked for the payment, he replied curtly that he has no small bills. He then showed me the rolls of bills in his pocket. Frankly, it was the biggest amount of money I have seen in my whole life.
He said that he could give me some of the thousand bills in his possession if I would go with him. At first, I said no. But when he pulled a gun out of the drawer in his car, fear and rage inside me flickered.
“Either come with me or I’ll have to force you into something we both don’t want,” the man said.
“The store, “ I replied.
“Leave it,” he was grinning, “You’re store is not as much as what I would pay you later.”
Mainly out of fear, I stepped inside his car.
“We’ll go somewhere private,” he said.
I was silent. Things were happening so fast that it begun to make my head spin.
“I want you to do something for me,” he said. “I want you to put your mouth on my stick.”
I managed to say that I don’t know how.
“You’ll learn,” was his reply.
I asked him that shouldn’t it be the one giving oral sex.
He answered back, “The customer is always right, baby.”
We drove for about twenty minutes before we stopped inside a subdivision on the outskirts of the city. He opened his zipper.
“Come on, I want to enjoy this,” he said. He then pulled my hair and shoved my mouth to his thing. It was disgusting.
“Wait,” I said, “I want a downpayment.”
“What? Okay, wait,” the man said.
I caught him off guard. I ran out of the car. There were empty lots around where grasses as tall as I am abound. I felt the blades of the grass hitting me on the arms and the legs but it did not matter. I heard the man following me. It was obvious that he’s drunk with illegal drugs.
My legs were failing me so I sat down and waited.
It was then that I prayed, incoherent words that all meant, “Please, God. If you truly exist, then stop this man. Show me a sign.”
But even before I could finish with my prayer, the man was right behind me pointing his gun at the back of my head. I turned and saw the menacing smile on his face. Up to now, I could not erase that picture of his face from my mind. He then slammed the butt of the gun on my face. I was half-conscious.
He then pulled down my shorts and inserted his penis into my anus. The pain was more than I could imagine. It’s not the physical pain that almost made me crazy but the humiliation and utter disgust for the whole thing. I then realized my utmost hate for life and my existence. As he was thrusting in a maniac way you can imagine, he was laughing at the same time. He was moaning and grunting at the same time.
“Animal! You don’t not deserve to live,” I cried.
This seemed to please him more, painfully thrusting on what seemed like an eternity.
I wanted to live. Regaining my strength, I forced my hands to form a fist. Still shaking and still on that awkward position, I threw sand on his face. It caught his eyes. In an instant, he was off me.
He swung his gun from side to side shouting curses. With his pants down, I struggled to get mine up. I then kicked his legs. He groaned in pain. He was off balance. He dropped the gun. Struggling to get it, he caught one of my arms. With that, I pointed his .45 caliber at his forehead. I pulled the trigger. Blood splattered on the grass around us.
“It’s over,” I told myself. He lay sprawling on the ground.
What made me unlike the others who kill is the fact that I clean my act after I made my revenge. I wiped my fingerprints off the gun and saw some drug paraphernalia he at his car. I wiped the seat of the car where I sat. I scattered the drug paraphernalia around him then made my escape. I also took his money. Thinking the about the hot meal I had the day after, I told myself that everything was worth the thrill of the kill. Plus all his money became mine.
I don’t know whatever happened to the investigation but owing to the fact that local police are incompetent enough not to check out details, I was never convicted, not even accused. The investigation ended as an abuse of illegal drugs which led to suicide.
I never told my friends what really happened. I just told them that I had to rush home because I need to go to the comfort room. The truth is, I burned all my clothes then came back to gather the things at the makeshift store. I acted normal enough. I still sold cigarettes at the place until I’ve decided that I could earn more by killing.
Entry No. 4
The first kill I made was the time I was eighteen years old. I sell cigarettes and stuff at night to augment our income. My friends would stay with me until the late hours of the morning. Mostly, those who buy from our makeshift store are drunkards or men who simply couldn’t find sleep at the comfort of their homes.
I admit that some of my friends do engage in prostitution. It’s good for business. Their customers would buy from me packs of cigarettes and candies. Sort of a way to impress my friends. It’s a simple operation. A car would slow down in front of us. The driver would open the windows of his car then first ask for a cigarette. Then he’d ask us if there’s someone he could spend the night with. The price is then negotiated.
Both heterosexual and gay customers would visit our place. I would also get some sort of bonus from them. My friends said that it’s for permitting them to use my place as a negotiating area of some sort. They wouldn’t tell me straight in the face but I was becoming more like a pimp. They never urged me to try it mainly because I don’t want to.
Then one night, about two in the morning, when their patrons have picked up all my friends, I was left alone waiting for them to come back. A red car slowed down in front of our stall. He did the same routine. The man is not that old, most probably in his late thirties. You could tell that he’s a closet gay. He slid down the window and asked for a menthol cigarette. I gave it to him. He asked if he could have some candies. I gave him some. But when I asked for the payment, he replied curtly that he has no small bills. He then showed me the rolls of bills in his pocket. Frankly, it was the biggest amount of money I have seen in my whole life.
He said that he could give me some of the thousand bills in his possession if I would go with him. At first, I said no. But when he pulled a gun out of the drawer in his car, fear and rage inside me flickered.
“Either come with me or I’ll have to force you into something we both don’t want,” the man said.
“The store, “ I replied.
“Leave it,” he was grinning, “You’re store is not as much as what I would pay you later.”
Mainly out of fear, I stepped inside his car.
“We’ll go somewhere private,” he said.
I was silent. Things were happening so fast that it begun to make my head spin.
“I want you to do something for me,” he said. “I want you to put your mouth on my stick.”
I managed to say that I don’t know how.
“You’ll learn,” was his reply.
I asked him that shouldn’t it be the one giving oral sex.
He answered back, “The customer is always right, baby.”
We drove for about twenty minutes before we stopped inside a subdivision on the outskirts of the city. He opened his zipper.
“Come on, I want to enjoy this,” he said. He then pulled my hair and shoved my mouth to his thing. It was disgusting.
“Wait,” I said, “I want a downpayment.”
“What? Okay, wait,” the man said.
I caught him off guard. I ran out of the car. There were empty lots around where grasses as tall as I am abound. I felt the blades of the grass hitting me on the arms and the legs but it did not matter. I heard the man following me. It was obvious that he’s drunk with illegal drugs.
My legs were failing me so I sat down and waited.
It was then that I prayed, incoherent words that all meant, “Please, God. If you truly exist, then stop this man. Show me a sign.”
But even before I could finish with my prayer, the man was right behind me pointing his gun at the back of my head. I turned and saw the menacing smile on his face. Up to now, I could not erase that picture of his face from my mind. He then slammed the butt of the gun on my face. I was half-conscious.
He then pulled down my shorts and inserted his penis into my anus. The pain was more than I could imagine. It’s not the physical pain that almost made me crazy but the humiliation and utter disgust for the whole thing. I then realized my utmost hate for life and my existence. As he was thrusting in a maniac way you can imagine, he was laughing at the same time. He was moaning and grunting at the same time.
“Animal! You don’t not deserve to live,” I cried.
This seemed to please him more, painfully thrusting on what seemed like an eternity.
I wanted to live. Regaining my strength, I forced my hands to form a fist. Still shaking and still on that awkward position, I threw sand on his face. It caught his eyes. In an instant, he was off me.
He swung his gun from side to side shouting curses. With his pants down, I struggled to get mine up. I then kicked his legs. He groaned in pain. He was off balance. He dropped the gun. Struggling to get it, he caught one of my arms. With that, I pointed his .45 caliber at his forehead. I pulled the trigger. Blood splattered on the grass around us.
“It’s over,” I told myself. He lay sprawling on the ground.
What made me unlike the others who kill is the fact that I clean my act after I made my revenge. I wiped my fingerprints off the gun and saw some drug paraphernalia he at his car. I wiped the seat of the car where I sat. I scattered the drug paraphernalia around him then made my escape. I also took his money. Thinking the about the hot meal I had the day after, I told myself that everything was worth the thrill of the kill. Plus all his money became mine.
I don’t know whatever happened to the investigation but owing to the fact that local police are incompetent enough not to check out details, I was never convicted, not even accused. The investigation ended as an abuse of illegal drugs which led to suicide.
I never told my friends what really happened. I just told them that I had to rush home because I need to go to the comfort room. The truth is, I burned all my clothes then came back to gather the things at the makeshift store. I acted normal enough. I still sold cigarettes at the place until I’ve decided that I could earn more by killing.
Mar 4, 2003
ALTERNATE REALITY
Entry No. 3
It could rightfully be called that those I killed were victims. They were victims of circumstances. It’s not cold-blooded murder. It’s merely what the situation called for. Emperors and kings massacred hundreds of thousands yet history perceives them as men of great honor. Generals plan their tactics on the comfort of their headquarters while ordinary soldiers die on the battlefield. No, what I’m saying is not entirely new. But looking at these things on a perspective of someone who actually killed someone, it justifies the action committed. It also strengthens the fact that there are more who are worse than me. I have killed because I have to let all the pain within me out. Without the thought of taking my vengeance, my life would have been over by now.
My last victim was a Japanese tourist. You can meet their kind on the lonely yet busy streets of the tourist belt. It’s very simple. You could approach them to ask for the time and they’d get the hint. After offering you to eat or drink at the sleazy bars lining up along with hotels and motels, they’d invite you up to their room for another drink or two.
Smoking a cigarette, I waited at his apartment while he took a shower. Inspecting his belongings and pocketing some of the money he had, I decided to make a run. But the Japanese came out naked. He was a pervert. He pulled down my pants with haste and started murmuring words I did not understand. He gave me a blowjob while I was lying down.
After a few minutes, I told him I needed to drink. Teasing him, I tied him in bed. Libido has no conscience they say, much more, libido has no brains. It’s the mother of all stupidity. I even turned the stereo at high volume.
Convinced that he can’t let go without extra-effort, I went to the kitchen. Instead of opening the fridge for water, I turned the gas out of the stove. After smelling the gas, the Japanese shouted what sounded like curses. I lit a lighter, and then threw it at the screaming tourist. I then proceeded to call the only guard on duty. I knew the buildings in that area and checked the security set-up they have for occasions like this. Then there was a loud bang. The stove exploded sending flames into the air.
With the heat throbbing on my whole body, I managed to hide behind the entrance door. After the guard came in, I jumped for his revolver. He is the only witness I knew who saw me coming in with the Japanese. He must also be eliminated.
Using his service revolver, I shot him at the back of his head. I buried three bullets in his body before killing the tourist with the other three bullets. The fire was raging around me. Before stepping out of the fire exit, I threw the gun inside the fire.
“Neither fingerprints nor any evidence would be found after they subdued the flame of this room,” I told myself.
On the dark alleyway below, I made my escape.
Entry No. 3
It could rightfully be called that those I killed were victims. They were victims of circumstances. It’s not cold-blooded murder. It’s merely what the situation called for. Emperors and kings massacred hundreds of thousands yet history perceives them as men of great honor. Generals plan their tactics on the comfort of their headquarters while ordinary soldiers die on the battlefield. No, what I’m saying is not entirely new. But looking at these things on a perspective of someone who actually killed someone, it justifies the action committed. It also strengthens the fact that there are more who are worse than me. I have killed because I have to let all the pain within me out. Without the thought of taking my vengeance, my life would have been over by now.
My last victim was a Japanese tourist. You can meet their kind on the lonely yet busy streets of the tourist belt. It’s very simple. You could approach them to ask for the time and they’d get the hint. After offering you to eat or drink at the sleazy bars lining up along with hotels and motels, they’d invite you up to their room for another drink or two.
Smoking a cigarette, I waited at his apartment while he took a shower. Inspecting his belongings and pocketing some of the money he had, I decided to make a run. But the Japanese came out naked. He was a pervert. He pulled down my pants with haste and started murmuring words I did not understand. He gave me a blowjob while I was lying down.
After a few minutes, I told him I needed to drink. Teasing him, I tied him in bed. Libido has no conscience they say, much more, libido has no brains. It’s the mother of all stupidity. I even turned the stereo at high volume.
Convinced that he can’t let go without extra-effort, I went to the kitchen. Instead of opening the fridge for water, I turned the gas out of the stove. After smelling the gas, the Japanese shouted what sounded like curses. I lit a lighter, and then threw it at the screaming tourist. I then proceeded to call the only guard on duty. I knew the buildings in that area and checked the security set-up they have for occasions like this. Then there was a loud bang. The stove exploded sending flames into the air.
With the heat throbbing on my whole body, I managed to hide behind the entrance door. After the guard came in, I jumped for his revolver. He is the only witness I knew who saw me coming in with the Japanese. He must also be eliminated.
Using his service revolver, I shot him at the back of his head. I buried three bullets in his body before killing the tourist with the other three bullets. The fire was raging around me. Before stepping out of the fire exit, I threw the gun inside the fire.
“Neither fingerprints nor any evidence would be found after they subdued the flame of this room,” I told myself.
On the dark alleyway below, I made my escape.
Mar 3, 2003
ALTERNATE REALITY
Entry No. 2
I was thirteen when I first had a fight. Lining up for clean water, the bully of the neighborhood would insist that others give him way. I, as well as other kids my age, have tolerated his behavior for much too long. He wasn’t big, he was just vicious. Sporting a tattoo on both sides of his arms and chest, it was an open secret that he picked pockets to live. Kicking buckets aside to clear his way, I would step aside and let him through. What I could not forgive was when he pinched my butt instead of the spanking that he gave the others.
“Peklat (Scar),” he said. “Move aside or I’ll whip your ass.”
Having seen what my grandma did to a neighbor a few days ago, I pulled his hair. This irked him a lot. He slapped me on the face then went on to punching me on the nose, the chest – then he started kicking me while I was down.
“That should serve as an example,” he shouted.
I cried.
“Ohh, a cry baby,” he teased.
If menace and mockery could be done so skillfully, this was one. The others laughed with him. Inspired by the attention he got, he went on this time cursing my parents.
“Lousy child,” he said. “You want more!”
He sounded serious.
With whatever strength I could not imagine, I kicked him but to no positive result. The next thing I knew, I was again down at the pavement. My face now bloodied, flashbacks of my family came pouring in on my head. Reaching to what turned out to be a strip of metal, I plunged the rusty object at him. It him on the right leg. Blood came spurting out. He wailed in pain. I scratched him on the face then proceeded with several punches. Tears were trickling down my face.
Seeing him down, I felt pity. I was almost even compelled to offer him a hand. Conscience – it was a fatal mistake. He threw his body at me and we came scrambling on the sidewalk. By this time, people were around us. No one even stopped us. The noises around came spinning on my head. I was so sure that I would die that day. With the bully on top of me, I felt my strength slowly fading.
It was here that I managed to feel a stone right above my head. I reached for it. With a sudden swoop, it hit him on the head. I saw him roll on one side. I then blanked out.
Entry No. 2
I was thirteen when I first had a fight. Lining up for clean water, the bully of the neighborhood would insist that others give him way. I, as well as other kids my age, have tolerated his behavior for much too long. He wasn’t big, he was just vicious. Sporting a tattoo on both sides of his arms and chest, it was an open secret that he picked pockets to live. Kicking buckets aside to clear his way, I would step aside and let him through. What I could not forgive was when he pinched my butt instead of the spanking that he gave the others.
“Peklat (Scar),” he said. “Move aside or I’ll whip your ass.”
Having seen what my grandma did to a neighbor a few days ago, I pulled his hair. This irked him a lot. He slapped me on the face then went on to punching me on the nose, the chest – then he started kicking me while I was down.
“That should serve as an example,” he shouted.
I cried.
“Ohh, a cry baby,” he teased.
If menace and mockery could be done so skillfully, this was one. The others laughed with him. Inspired by the attention he got, he went on this time cursing my parents.
“Lousy child,” he said. “You want more!”
He sounded serious.
With whatever strength I could not imagine, I kicked him but to no positive result. The next thing I knew, I was again down at the pavement. My face now bloodied, flashbacks of my family came pouring in on my head. Reaching to what turned out to be a strip of metal, I plunged the rusty object at him. It him on the right leg. Blood came spurting out. He wailed in pain. I scratched him on the face then proceeded with several punches. Tears were trickling down my face.
Seeing him down, I felt pity. I was almost even compelled to offer him a hand. Conscience – it was a fatal mistake. He threw his body at me and we came scrambling on the sidewalk. By this time, people were around us. No one even stopped us. The noises around came spinning on my head. I was so sure that I would die that day. With the bully on top of me, I felt my strength slowly fading.
It was here that I managed to feel a stone right above my head. I reached for it. With a sudden swoop, it hit him on the head. I saw him roll on one side. I then blanked out.
Mar 2, 2003
ALTERNATE REALITY
Entry No. 1
As far as I was able to remember anything, my mind and body had already been wrought to endure a lifetime of pain. Only those who were treated unfairly could understand justice in the form I have fashioned. I take other people’s lives and hold them in my hands. In a strict sense it’s just a profession, something to help me survive in a world where dog-eats-dog. Bite my bullet! In the face of death, I could just as well grin. I laugh at the situation I’m in then stare at my past. This is sweeter than being on the other side of the circumstances.
My father worked as a farmer for a rich landlord back in the province. I was nine, young enough not to do anything on that fateful day, yet old enough to remember the faces that did us harm.
Not being able to meet the quota of crops set by the haciendero, the harvest of my family was burned. They later came to our house and brutally raped my mother. Screams begging for mercy and pity came from my father, both like a curse and a hopeless plea. He was a coward – an image of fear secured on my mind. I knew he could have done something – anything – but he did not. After an hour that seemed like an eternity, both of them were dead. Seven gunshot wounds were found on my mother’s body. My father only had one. The shameless cry for mercy from the head of my family is something I would never forget. From that time onward, I have decided never to suffer the same fate they had. My father is the biggest coward I know!
I lived with my grandmother who decided to take me far away from the place I was born. We left the jungle of the provinces and settled on the concrete swamps of the city. Not much difference. We still live on a land not ours waiting to be evicted by the police or some goon hired by the landlord. In fact, we moved from squatter to squatter more than the number of times I had my haircut. At every place we had to move to, security could not be found.
I remember things quite clearly. My grandma had a fistfight with a neighbor over a measly five-peso. I could have told her five pesos is just a drop of blood from my earnings right now. Once, she suffered a broken nose for allegedly selling cigarettes on someone else’s territory. I admired her. She has the bravery of ten men and the courage to assert herself. Later, as she would tell me, everyone needs to be brave in order to survive.
The pain of my childhood was never buried on the nightmares I had. In fact, it became a daily routine. The scream of my father echoing on my head – and the sight of my mother being painfully raped. I never told anyone about the constant dream I had. I made a promise that I would be strong. If I think about the past that I had, the only cowardly act I knew I have done was not having the courage to kill myself. I’m coming to terms with that thought. The agony of defeat is something that never crossed my mind. I was too strong for all of them. Suicide was never an escape. It was an alternative.
I have a scar on my head, on my shoulders, and on my neck. It’s an eyesore to an otherwise pretty face as grandma used to say. But I take the ugliness of my scars not as a blemish but a ceaseless reminder of things that needed to be done. The scar I would create for my revenge would thrust deep into their souls. The bastard I blamed would pay dearly. And he did. Every pain, every anguish are embedded on this marking. Everytime I look at the mirror, it strengthens my resolve to continue with my revenge.
Entry No. 1
As far as I was able to remember anything, my mind and body had already been wrought to endure a lifetime of pain. Only those who were treated unfairly could understand justice in the form I have fashioned. I take other people’s lives and hold them in my hands. In a strict sense it’s just a profession, something to help me survive in a world where dog-eats-dog. Bite my bullet! In the face of death, I could just as well grin. I laugh at the situation I’m in then stare at my past. This is sweeter than being on the other side of the circumstances.
My father worked as a farmer for a rich landlord back in the province. I was nine, young enough not to do anything on that fateful day, yet old enough to remember the faces that did us harm.
Not being able to meet the quota of crops set by the haciendero, the harvest of my family was burned. They later came to our house and brutally raped my mother. Screams begging for mercy and pity came from my father, both like a curse and a hopeless plea. He was a coward – an image of fear secured on my mind. I knew he could have done something – anything – but he did not. After an hour that seemed like an eternity, both of them were dead. Seven gunshot wounds were found on my mother’s body. My father only had one. The shameless cry for mercy from the head of my family is something I would never forget. From that time onward, I have decided never to suffer the same fate they had. My father is the biggest coward I know!
I lived with my grandmother who decided to take me far away from the place I was born. We left the jungle of the provinces and settled on the concrete swamps of the city. Not much difference. We still live on a land not ours waiting to be evicted by the police or some goon hired by the landlord. In fact, we moved from squatter to squatter more than the number of times I had my haircut. At every place we had to move to, security could not be found.
I remember things quite clearly. My grandma had a fistfight with a neighbor over a measly five-peso. I could have told her five pesos is just a drop of blood from my earnings right now. Once, she suffered a broken nose for allegedly selling cigarettes on someone else’s territory. I admired her. She has the bravery of ten men and the courage to assert herself. Later, as she would tell me, everyone needs to be brave in order to survive.
The pain of my childhood was never buried on the nightmares I had. In fact, it became a daily routine. The scream of my father echoing on my head – and the sight of my mother being painfully raped. I never told anyone about the constant dream I had. I made a promise that I would be strong. If I think about the past that I had, the only cowardly act I knew I have done was not having the courage to kill myself. I’m coming to terms with that thought. The agony of defeat is something that never crossed my mind. I was too strong for all of them. Suicide was never an escape. It was an alternative.
I have a scar on my head, on my shoulders, and on my neck. It’s an eyesore to an otherwise pretty face as grandma used to say. But I take the ugliness of my scars not as a blemish but a ceaseless reminder of things that needed to be done. The scar I would create for my revenge would thrust deep into their souls. The bastard I blamed would pay dearly. And he did. Every pain, every anguish are embedded on this marking. Everytime I look at the mirror, it strengthens my resolve to continue with my revenge.
Feb 25, 2003
Feb 17, 2003
TONIO AND THE BLUE LIGHT
Last Entry
The young Tonio was dressing up for work when he arrived. He explained that he has no more home to go to and asked if he would take him. His past-self agreed. And so it was settled. He was to live there for the rest of his remaining life.
The young Tonio later quit his job and had his own home built. After a year, he got married, settled down, and introduced the future Tonio as a long lost uncle.
The first year was a bliss. However after a few short years later, he found out that the girl he longed to marry before was not the angel she seemed. Often, he would see his past-self and Sonia arguing about money. The young Tonio, having had no education, could not find a job to maintain their status. They were losing more money than they were earning. He decided it was time to open the second envelope.
One morning, after a heated argument between the couple, he called young Tonio and encouraged him to buy lottery tickets. He said he was sure to win. Inside the envelope were three consecutive winning numbers that he copied from the library from the future. His young-self obliged. True to his words, they won. Now, they were richer than ever. But just like anyone who couldn't understand their own human nature, he did not expect the turn of events that he would forever curse.
The young Tonio first entertained the idea of putting him on a home for the aged as suggested by his wife. He had to admit that he was getting weaker all the time and had needed much more attention than before. They also left him with just a nurse when the family decided to go on a vacation abroad.
Tonio did not anticipate the deep hatred he had for his relatives. When he was a child, he blamed everyone for the death of his parents. He had to swallow that bitter pill called reality on an everyday basis. He could no longer enjoy the money they have since he was bitter; things are't just worth the way he wanted to.
He felt the treatment given to him was unfair. After all, he was the one responsible for the family's wealth. When the young Tonio came back, he decided to tell his past-self the truth.
The young Tonio, probably blinded by wealth or was it the innate greediness in him that he himself did not know, thought of his future-self as crazy, completely nuts.They simply wouldn't believe his story. He reasoned the lottery tickets as proof, young Tonio said it was just luck, a form of repayment for the harm done to his parents. Trying to convince his past-self over and over again, young Tonio got fed up.
Sonia and young Tonio decided to send him to a mental institution.
It was on a cold December morning when it was finalized. Tonio is no longer fit to stay at their home.
And what is the future Tonio to do? No one would believe his story and no one knows the truth. For them, there was no such thing such as a time machine. He was locked in a mental hospital. He himself even started believing that he was crazy. He never expected any of this to happen but it did. He could only explain that fate had played dirty tricks on him.
One night, in his cell, he shouted, "The tragedy of my life is nothing more than just a malicious joke from someone who created my existence."
He cried all night. In order to pacify him, he was permitted to roam the corridors. The next day, he was found dead, electrocuted while touching the bulb of a blue Christmas light.
Last Entry
The young Tonio was dressing up for work when he arrived. He explained that he has no more home to go to and asked if he would take him. His past-self agreed. And so it was settled. He was to live there for the rest of his remaining life.
The young Tonio later quit his job and had his own home built. After a year, he got married, settled down, and introduced the future Tonio as a long lost uncle.
The first year was a bliss. However after a few short years later, he found out that the girl he longed to marry before was not the angel she seemed. Often, he would see his past-self and Sonia arguing about money. The young Tonio, having had no education, could not find a job to maintain their status. They were losing more money than they were earning. He decided it was time to open the second envelope.
One morning, after a heated argument between the couple, he called young Tonio and encouraged him to buy lottery tickets. He said he was sure to win. Inside the envelope were three consecutive winning numbers that he copied from the library from the future. His young-self obliged. True to his words, they won. Now, they were richer than ever. But just like anyone who couldn't understand their own human nature, he did not expect the turn of events that he would forever curse.
The young Tonio first entertained the idea of putting him on a home for the aged as suggested by his wife. He had to admit that he was getting weaker all the time and had needed much more attention than before. They also left him with just a nurse when the family decided to go on a vacation abroad.
Tonio did not anticipate the deep hatred he had for his relatives. When he was a child, he blamed everyone for the death of his parents. He had to swallow that bitter pill called reality on an everyday basis. He could no longer enjoy the money they have since he was bitter; things are't just worth the way he wanted to.
He felt the treatment given to him was unfair. After all, he was the one responsible for the family's wealth. When the young Tonio came back, he decided to tell his past-self the truth.
The young Tonio, probably blinded by wealth or was it the innate greediness in him that he himself did not know, thought of his future-self as crazy, completely nuts.They simply wouldn't believe his story. He reasoned the lottery tickets as proof, young Tonio said it was just luck, a form of repayment for the harm done to his parents. Trying to convince his past-self over and over again, young Tonio got fed up.
Sonia and young Tonio decided to send him to a mental institution.
It was on a cold December morning when it was finalized. Tonio is no longer fit to stay at their home.
And what is the future Tonio to do? No one would believe his story and no one knows the truth. For them, there was no such thing such as a time machine. He was locked in a mental hospital. He himself even started believing that he was crazy. He never expected any of this to happen but it did. He could only explain that fate had played dirty tricks on him.
One night, in his cell, he shouted, "The tragedy of my life is nothing more than just a malicious joke from someone who created my existence."
He cried all night. In order to pacify him, he was permitted to roam the corridors. The next day, he was found dead, electrocuted while touching the bulb of a blue Christmas light.
Feb 16, 2003
TONIO AND THE BLUE LIGHT
Entry No. 4
"Right on schedule," he thought. This is the time when his past-self would come scrambling in the office to start his chores. He remembered clearly the lack of sleep he had during those days. After selling newspapers, he would then become a janitor.
"Stupid boy," he thought. "Doesn't he know that all the things he worked so hard for would be gone in an instant?"
"What took him nearly ten years to save would be gone in a matter of seconds," he sighed.
While waiting for his past-self, Tonio begun to imagine the endless possibilities and opportunities that he can offer himself on that instant. Clutching the check inside the suit, he also checked the envelope he brought from the future. It took him a hard time to get what's inside that packet. He had to enter the city library, checking out old archives of newspapers.
Standing outside the door of the building, he couldn't help but reminisce on the moments of his life. Up to now, he still remembers Sonia. He can still recall her small lips, soft eyelashes, and eyes that spoke. Everything about her was beautiful. For the first time in years, he again felt the pain brought about by a love that never transpired.
Tonio managed not to say hi to the guard whom was his friend in the past. "He was such a nice man," he thought.
The guard was about twenty years older then him then. But looking at him right now, it felt funny seeing that he is himself is older than the guard. A few moments later, he saw himself walk in. Would the Tonio of the past recognize him, he thought. Maybe not. His right leg was limping and he had grown accustomed to wearing a beard. The white on his hair was quite evident and the sparkle in his eyes were now gone.
He stared at himself when he was young. He couldn't believe how time changes a man. The energy emanating from his past-self and the eagerness to pursue a dream was what he saw in him. If he did not know what would happen, he might have felt proud.
Tonio watched his young-self enter the building, say hi to the guard, and then run for the stairs. He felt compelled to say to his past-self not to run because someone left a ballpoint at the stairs where he would eventually slip. And the young Tonio did. He now remembered quite clearly that that was where he got his scar on the left side of the cheek.
Yes, he said to himself. This is all true. This is not just a dream. Dr. Gonzalo's time machine works. He was in the past. He could see himself. He could touch his youngTonio if he wanted to. For once in his life, he also felt he had control.
He decided to stroll the city for a few hours. He ate a restaurant he couldn't afford before. Dr. Gonzalo had indeed planned everything. He had stacks of old cash which he would later give to his past-self as well as with the check. He went to the mall and actually bought something. He went to most places he failed to see when he was young because he had no money. He felt free.
When it was almost seven o' clock in the evening, Tonio decided to go to the town plaza to see himself sell cigarettes and stuff. He sat near the waiting shed where he knew he would have a better view of his younger-self. A few minutes later, young Tonio arrived.
It's the same routinely things he did. Looking at himself working like a horse and thinking of the latter past of his life, he felt pity for himself. He almost cried if not for the people around him. The pain of the past kept springing-up and the ache he went through crept like a cold wind covering his body. Again, flashes from the past, his childhood, the orphanage, and up to the day he had an accident flooded him. He got up, went to the nearest hotel and felt his tear drop during the rest of the night.
"Tomorrow would be different," he promised.
After a restless night, Tonio decided that it was time to change his past. Today would be the day where he and his past life would finally reach their dreams. It was time to get the comforts out of life. It was also the time to change history.
Putting on the clothes he bought yesterday, he made his way through the same office building he first visited. He had a plan cooked up. He would tell his past-self that he was a long lost relative and that the purpose of his visit was to make up for the cruelty endowed him by his relatives. He would also give him the check worth a million pesos and do more than that. He would also give him the second envelope if chance would permit.
It was not that hard to do. He found himself curios and courteous at the same time. His past-self agreed to meet with him during the morning break. They went to a restaurant and told his past-self to order whatever it was that he wanted. He also showed him the check.
They later went to a bank. The disbelief in his young-self turned into deep gratitude. Tonio told young Tonio that he could do anything with the money. He also told him that he might want to get married and this would solve the issue regarding finance. He advised that he must at least learn some trade and encouraged young Tonio to study. In short, he told him everything he dreamt of when he was young.
The young Tonio, somewhat still bewildered by the events that transpired, offered him to stay. He said he'd take care of him and they could both enjoy the luxuries of life. He said he'd think about it and went back to the hotel.
It was another sleepless night. The offer made was a hard one to resist. After thinking that he'd go back to the same state he left in the future, he was really torn between going back where he'll forever remain poor. By the time the sun was setting, he went to the park to witness the blue light. It was his gate back to his own time.
At the park, he stared at the tree beside him while waiting. Then suddenly, a blue light appeared from nowhere. It was time.
As he was about to enter the portal, Tonio saw a bum not that far away. He was dressed in the same clothes that he had only it's too dirty. The bum looked like him. Suddenly, he was afraid. What if what he was seeing was his future? Would this be the same fate he would have? Maybe it was more than the fear of being left out in the streets, or the thought of forever enduring poverty that he stepped back. Tonio ran to the place where young Tonio lived. He forever missed the chance to go back to his own time.
Entry No. 4
"Right on schedule," he thought. This is the time when his past-self would come scrambling in the office to start his chores. He remembered clearly the lack of sleep he had during those days. After selling newspapers, he would then become a janitor.
"Stupid boy," he thought. "Doesn't he know that all the things he worked so hard for would be gone in an instant?"
"What took him nearly ten years to save would be gone in a matter of seconds," he sighed.
While waiting for his past-self, Tonio begun to imagine the endless possibilities and opportunities that he can offer himself on that instant. Clutching the check inside the suit, he also checked the envelope he brought from the future. It took him a hard time to get what's inside that packet. He had to enter the city library, checking out old archives of newspapers.
Standing outside the door of the building, he couldn't help but reminisce on the moments of his life. Up to now, he still remembers Sonia. He can still recall her small lips, soft eyelashes, and eyes that spoke. Everything about her was beautiful. For the first time in years, he again felt the pain brought about by a love that never transpired.
Tonio managed not to say hi to the guard whom was his friend in the past. "He was such a nice man," he thought.
The guard was about twenty years older then him then. But looking at him right now, it felt funny seeing that he is himself is older than the guard. A few moments later, he saw himself walk in. Would the Tonio of the past recognize him, he thought. Maybe not. His right leg was limping and he had grown accustomed to wearing a beard. The white on his hair was quite evident and the sparkle in his eyes were now gone.
He stared at himself when he was young. He couldn't believe how time changes a man. The energy emanating from his past-self and the eagerness to pursue a dream was what he saw in him. If he did not know what would happen, he might have felt proud.
Tonio watched his young-self enter the building, say hi to the guard, and then run for the stairs. He felt compelled to say to his past-self not to run because someone left a ballpoint at the stairs where he would eventually slip. And the young Tonio did. He now remembered quite clearly that that was where he got his scar on the left side of the cheek.
Yes, he said to himself. This is all true. This is not just a dream. Dr. Gonzalo's time machine works. He was in the past. He could see himself. He could touch his youngTonio if he wanted to. For once in his life, he also felt he had control.
He decided to stroll the city for a few hours. He ate a restaurant he couldn't afford before. Dr. Gonzalo had indeed planned everything. He had stacks of old cash which he would later give to his past-self as well as with the check. He went to the mall and actually bought something. He went to most places he failed to see when he was young because he had no money. He felt free.
When it was almost seven o' clock in the evening, Tonio decided to go to the town plaza to see himself sell cigarettes and stuff. He sat near the waiting shed where he knew he would have a better view of his younger-self. A few minutes later, young Tonio arrived.
It's the same routinely things he did. Looking at himself working like a horse and thinking of the latter past of his life, he felt pity for himself. He almost cried if not for the people around him. The pain of the past kept springing-up and the ache he went through crept like a cold wind covering his body. Again, flashes from the past, his childhood, the orphanage, and up to the day he had an accident flooded him. He got up, went to the nearest hotel and felt his tear drop during the rest of the night.
"Tomorrow would be different," he promised.
After a restless night, Tonio decided that it was time to change his past. Today would be the day where he and his past life would finally reach their dreams. It was time to get the comforts out of life. It was also the time to change history.
Putting on the clothes he bought yesterday, he made his way through the same office building he first visited. He had a plan cooked up. He would tell his past-self that he was a long lost relative and that the purpose of his visit was to make up for the cruelty endowed him by his relatives. He would also give him the check worth a million pesos and do more than that. He would also give him the second envelope if chance would permit.
It was not that hard to do. He found himself curios and courteous at the same time. His past-self agreed to meet with him during the morning break. They went to a restaurant and told his past-self to order whatever it was that he wanted. He also showed him the check.
They later went to a bank. The disbelief in his young-self turned into deep gratitude. Tonio told young Tonio that he could do anything with the money. He also told him that he might want to get married and this would solve the issue regarding finance. He advised that he must at least learn some trade and encouraged young Tonio to study. In short, he told him everything he dreamt of when he was young.
The young Tonio, somewhat still bewildered by the events that transpired, offered him to stay. He said he'd take care of him and they could both enjoy the luxuries of life. He said he'd think about it and went back to the hotel.
It was another sleepless night. The offer made was a hard one to resist. After thinking that he'd go back to the same state he left in the future, he was really torn between going back where he'll forever remain poor. By the time the sun was setting, he went to the park to witness the blue light. It was his gate back to his own time.
At the park, he stared at the tree beside him while waiting. Then suddenly, a blue light appeared from nowhere. It was time.
As he was about to enter the portal, Tonio saw a bum not that far away. He was dressed in the same clothes that he had only it's too dirty. The bum looked like him. Suddenly, he was afraid. What if what he was seeing was his future? Would this be the same fate he would have? Maybe it was more than the fear of being left out in the streets, or the thought of forever enduring poverty that he stepped back. Tonio ran to the place where young Tonio lived. He forever missed the chance to go back to his own time.
Feb 15, 2003
TONIO AND THE BLUE LIGHT
Entry No. 3
Because of the incidents, Tonio was more determined than ever to succeed. He took poverty as a curse that he must break free from. He worked doubly hard.
At four, he would have already waken-up to distribute newspapers at stalls. By six, he would walk to the office where he worked as a messenger and as a janitor. He would also sell candies and cigarettes at the basement floor to to augment his income. By 5 pm, he would then be selling aside, from candies, balut, penoy, and other native delicacies. On Saturdays and Sundays, he would take out garbage for the rich, act as a gardener, or take any odd jobs that he might find. By the time he was thirty, he had saved a decent amount of money to start a small sari-sari store that he thought his future wife could manage. Somehow, he felt secure.
However, whether it was fate that played dirty tricks on him or it really was a curse sent out to haunt him, his simple dream was extinguished in an instant. Selling cigarettes and balut and penoy one night, basket at hand, he did not notice a speeding car as he was about to cross a street. It him hard on the right leg. It almost crippled him. It was a beautiful luxury car, one that Tonio dreamt of owning one day. Luckily, someone saw the incident and rushed him to the hospital. It was Dr. Gonzalo, a scientist that would help him change his life forever.
Dr. Gonzalo did more than just save Tonio's life. His right leg was almost crushed. He now needs a splint for support to help him walk. The money he saved wasn't even enough to cover all the hospital bills. He was thirty, finding another job with his condition would prove to be very difficult.
Dr. Gonzalo came to the rescue. He offered Tonio a job doing household chores. He also shouldered the rest of the bills that he needed to pay.
The good doctor lived in a mansion beyond the outskirts of the city. Tonio later found out that Dr. Gonzalo was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He also learned that he was not a medical doctor but a physicist. On his house he has a lab, which he seemed to work on night and day. Inherently an academician, Dr. Gonzalo had devoted his life researching and discovering. Being super rich, he did not have to work at all. Plus, there were grants coming from different institutions that enabled him to work freely. Night and day, Tonio would hear weird noises coming from the lab.
Knowing very well his situation in life, Tonio tried to return the kindness the scientist have shown him. He served him loyally, making sure that his meals were hot, that his home was well kept, and that he was at his disposal if ever he needed him. A friendship found on servant and master was soon formed. Tonio was allowed to live with the doctor and was trusted with some of the secrets of the house.
During midnight, when Tonio would bring food to the lab, they were able to talk mostly about each other's lives. Most of the time, the scientist would tell him about the wonderful machine that he was working on. It was also on one of these talks that the scientist found out about the famished past he had, the way he worked hard to reach his dream, then falling over and over back again to poverty. He also told him about his being a volunteer orphan. When asked by Dr. Gonzalo what his greatest dream was, he said that it was to become rich. No matter what Tonio did, he could not help but entertain the thought of being more than well to do.
For almost twenty years, this has been the life of the two. The scientist devoted his life building this mysterious machine while Tonio served him faithfully. They were both past fifty by this time. Then one day, Dr. Gonzalo called Tonio inside the lab. Here, the scientist asked him a very serious question: a question that would change his destiny.
The machine seemed to be finished although there was one final step that was needed to be done. It needs to be tested on a human to see if it works. Being the prototype that it was, there were no guarantees on the consequences posted. There was also no assurance on the safety of the subject. The machine Dr. Gonzalo had spent countless moments with is a time machine. It is now finished with the final step waiting.
Dr. Gonzalo explained all of this to the now ageing Tonio. He asked Tonio what his biggest dream was and how he could make it possible to come true. Tonio had flashbacks of his youth. Thinking that finally he would be able to cheat the miserable life he had, he agreed that he would test the machine with himself if the scientist would help him device a plan that would eventually make him rich.
Tonio reasoned that since they were both old, they could not be held liable to any consequence the disturbance of the time frame might produce. They also reasoned that they were dying and the risk Tonio would take would be little as compared to this amazing discovery.
Both of them then worked on the plan. Tonio was to be transported back to the time when he was still twenty-four. There, he must observe himself for one day to find out if the machine had really transported him back in time. Dr. Gonzalo provided a cash check, written on an old checkbook, worth one million pesos. Tonio was to slip this check to his past-self. Tonio's dream would finally come true.
By the third day, Tonio must go to the park inside the city and sit beside a bench to wait for a blue light. This would be his gate to come back home to his own time. The plan was as simple as that. The bargain included the money that Tonio knew he wouldn't enjoy, but his other self would. And this bothered him. Because of this, he made a plan of his own.
When the day of the plan arrived, Tonio went to the lab dressed in a fine suit Dr. Gonzalo gave him. After wishing each other luck and hugging like old friends do, Tonio went inside the machine. There he sat and waited. A few minutes later, a blue light appeared. He felt strange sensations swimming across his body. He felt he was being deformed.
After what seemed to be like an eternity, Tonio woke-up. He was at the park where Dr. Gonzalo told him where he would be. Scrambling to get-up, he brushed the dirt from his suit and started to walk towards the office he used to work at, exactly twenty-eight years in the past. It was early morning, about six-thirty.
Entry No. 3
Because of the incidents, Tonio was more determined than ever to succeed. He took poverty as a curse that he must break free from. He worked doubly hard.
At four, he would have already waken-up to distribute newspapers at stalls. By six, he would walk to the office where he worked as a messenger and as a janitor. He would also sell candies and cigarettes at the basement floor to to augment his income. By 5 pm, he would then be selling aside, from candies, balut, penoy, and other native delicacies. On Saturdays and Sundays, he would take out garbage for the rich, act as a gardener, or take any odd jobs that he might find. By the time he was thirty, he had saved a decent amount of money to start a small sari-sari store that he thought his future wife could manage. Somehow, he felt secure.
However, whether it was fate that played dirty tricks on him or it really was a curse sent out to haunt him, his simple dream was extinguished in an instant. Selling cigarettes and balut and penoy one night, basket at hand, he did not notice a speeding car as he was about to cross a street. It him hard on the right leg. It almost crippled him. It was a beautiful luxury car, one that Tonio dreamt of owning one day. Luckily, someone saw the incident and rushed him to the hospital. It was Dr. Gonzalo, a scientist that would help him change his life forever.
Dr. Gonzalo did more than just save Tonio's life. His right leg was almost crushed. He now needs a splint for support to help him walk. The money he saved wasn't even enough to cover all the hospital bills. He was thirty, finding another job with his condition would prove to be very difficult.
Dr. Gonzalo came to the rescue. He offered Tonio a job doing household chores. He also shouldered the rest of the bills that he needed to pay.
The good doctor lived in a mansion beyond the outskirts of the city. Tonio later found out that Dr. Gonzalo was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He also learned that he was not a medical doctor but a physicist. On his house he has a lab, which he seemed to work on night and day. Inherently an academician, Dr. Gonzalo had devoted his life researching and discovering. Being super rich, he did not have to work at all. Plus, there were grants coming from different institutions that enabled him to work freely. Night and day, Tonio would hear weird noises coming from the lab.
Knowing very well his situation in life, Tonio tried to return the kindness the scientist have shown him. He served him loyally, making sure that his meals were hot, that his home was well kept, and that he was at his disposal if ever he needed him. A friendship found on servant and master was soon formed. Tonio was allowed to live with the doctor and was trusted with some of the secrets of the house.
During midnight, when Tonio would bring food to the lab, they were able to talk mostly about each other's lives. Most of the time, the scientist would tell him about the wonderful machine that he was working on. It was also on one of these talks that the scientist found out about the famished past he had, the way he worked hard to reach his dream, then falling over and over back again to poverty. He also told him about his being a volunteer orphan. When asked by Dr. Gonzalo what his greatest dream was, he said that it was to become rich. No matter what Tonio did, he could not help but entertain the thought of being more than well to do.
For almost twenty years, this has been the life of the two. The scientist devoted his life building this mysterious machine while Tonio served him faithfully. They were both past fifty by this time. Then one day, Dr. Gonzalo called Tonio inside the lab. Here, the scientist asked him a very serious question: a question that would change his destiny.
The machine seemed to be finished although there was one final step that was needed to be done. It needs to be tested on a human to see if it works. Being the prototype that it was, there were no guarantees on the consequences posted. There was also no assurance on the safety of the subject. The machine Dr. Gonzalo had spent countless moments with is a time machine. It is now finished with the final step waiting.
Dr. Gonzalo explained all of this to the now ageing Tonio. He asked Tonio what his biggest dream was and how he could make it possible to come true. Tonio had flashbacks of his youth. Thinking that finally he would be able to cheat the miserable life he had, he agreed that he would test the machine with himself if the scientist would help him device a plan that would eventually make him rich.
Tonio reasoned that since they were both old, they could not be held liable to any consequence the disturbance of the time frame might produce. They also reasoned that they were dying and the risk Tonio would take would be little as compared to this amazing discovery.
Both of them then worked on the plan. Tonio was to be transported back to the time when he was still twenty-four. There, he must observe himself for one day to find out if the machine had really transported him back in time. Dr. Gonzalo provided a cash check, written on an old checkbook, worth one million pesos. Tonio was to slip this check to his past-self. Tonio's dream would finally come true.
By the third day, Tonio must go to the park inside the city and sit beside a bench to wait for a blue light. This would be his gate to come back home to his own time. The plan was as simple as that. The bargain included the money that Tonio knew he wouldn't enjoy, but his other self would. And this bothered him. Because of this, he made a plan of his own.
When the day of the plan arrived, Tonio went to the lab dressed in a fine suit Dr. Gonzalo gave him. After wishing each other luck and hugging like old friends do, Tonio went inside the machine. There he sat and waited. A few minutes later, a blue light appeared. He felt strange sensations swimming across his body. He felt he was being deformed.
After what seemed to be like an eternity, Tonio woke-up. He was at the park where Dr. Gonzalo told him where he would be. Scrambling to get-up, he brushed the dirt from his suit and started to walk towards the office he used to work at, exactly twenty-eight years in the past. It was early morning, about six-thirty.
Feb 14, 2003
SONNET ATTEMPT
(para sa 'yo. kilala mo kung sino ka)
Ask not my heart for I would not forgot
The light in your eyes, the world you let me see
When the day sleeps remember me not
Where on the road have lead you to me.
Who can say what the heart does speak
As we count the moments of our everyday
For life is a mystery we seek
One can pray and yet run away.
Like the wind passing by my window
Or the ceiling I stare at before I sleep
Not all that is left would be my shadow
And the memories I would forever keep.
Weep not for you should know
On each passing time, how much I love you so.
(para sa 'yo. kilala mo kung sino ka)
Ask not my heart for I would not forgot
The light in your eyes, the world you let me see
When the day sleeps remember me not
Where on the road have lead you to me.
Who can say what the heart does speak
As we count the moments of our everyday
For life is a mystery we seek
One can pray and yet run away.
Like the wind passing by my window
Or the ceiling I stare at before I sleep
Not all that is left would be my shadow
And the memories I would forever keep.
Weep not for you should know
On each passing time, how much I love you so.
TONIO AND THE BLUE LIGHT
Entry No. 2
When he was around 16-years old, he decided to step outside the orphanage. Being used to the hardships of life, Tonio entered odd jobs from being a janitor to messenger to a newspaper vendor. Being taught the religious ways, he did not engage in any illegal activities though he gambled a little. He was desperate. He wanted a better life when he discovered the lottery.
Playing the lottery provided him more than just a chance to win. For him, it also gave him a sense of freedom to dream. Like what would he do if he won this amount? He would spend countless hours daydreaming of that day. He wanted so much in life. He figured that he could get these things if he had money.
Tonio met a young girl at one of the offices he had worked for. He quickly fell in love with her, though knowing that it would be next to impossible for her to take his love seriously. He started courting the girl by leaving flowers at her desk every morning; much to her pleasant surprise. He would also try to write love letters though the grammar is not that good. He was content with just doing these things. But one day, the girl found out who he really was. He was turned down right away. The boss, fearing that he might do something stupid like stalk the young girl, fired him at once.
And this was not the first time he was turned down. In fact, it was a series of heartbreaks that almost made him crazy.
Then there was Sonia.
Sonia gave him hope that he is capable of loving and being loved. She was different from the rest of the girls she knew. She works at the place where Tonio was the janitor. It may sound unbelievable but she accepted Tonio for what he was. In fact, she did more than that. She reciprocated the love he gave her. For Tonio, it was the happiest moment of his life. With this feeling at hand, he believed that nothing could go wrong.
But this is not so.
After more than three months of a rather blissful relationship, Sonia was sent by her parents abroad refusing to accept Tonio. He was poor. They said that he was not worthy of the love Sonia would give. He was poor. They said that their daughter has no future being with him. He was poor.
They simply couldn't accept him.
Entry No. 2
When he was around 16-years old, he decided to step outside the orphanage. Being used to the hardships of life, Tonio entered odd jobs from being a janitor to messenger to a newspaper vendor. Being taught the religious ways, he did not engage in any illegal activities though he gambled a little. He was desperate. He wanted a better life when he discovered the lottery.
Playing the lottery provided him more than just a chance to win. For him, it also gave him a sense of freedom to dream. Like what would he do if he won this amount? He would spend countless hours daydreaming of that day. He wanted so much in life. He figured that he could get these things if he had money.
Tonio met a young girl at one of the offices he had worked for. He quickly fell in love with her, though knowing that it would be next to impossible for her to take his love seriously. He started courting the girl by leaving flowers at her desk every morning; much to her pleasant surprise. He would also try to write love letters though the grammar is not that good. He was content with just doing these things. But one day, the girl found out who he really was. He was turned down right away. The boss, fearing that he might do something stupid like stalk the young girl, fired him at once.
And this was not the first time he was turned down. In fact, it was a series of heartbreaks that almost made him crazy.
Then there was Sonia.
Sonia gave him hope that he is capable of loving and being loved. She was different from the rest of the girls she knew. She works at the place where Tonio was the janitor. It may sound unbelievable but she accepted Tonio for what he was. In fact, she did more than that. She reciprocated the love he gave her. For Tonio, it was the happiest moment of his life. With this feeling at hand, he believed that nothing could go wrong.
But this is not so.
After more than three months of a rather blissful relationship, Sonia was sent by her parents abroad refusing to accept Tonio. He was poor. They said that he was not worthy of the love Sonia would give. He was poor. They said that their daughter has no future being with him. He was poor.
They simply couldn't accept him.
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