(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.
Mar 16, 2003
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.
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