To my first playmate

Dear She,

We weren’t given the chance to have grown up together. Your family moved away right even before we even reached our teens. Yes, we spent some summer sleepovers together in our grandmother’s house during a few vacations. But we never shared secrets and stories and gushes over our school crushes. We did not bond over music. You didn’t like Dido and Eminem in grade school, so we never really shared earpods. We did have DVD marathons though, or was it VCD? We watched bad movies, covered our eyes while Claudine Barretto and Rico Yan shared an overtime kiss in Got to Believe. You laughed at me when I cried over that Rugrats in Paris scene where Chuckie longed for a mommy. You even sang “I want a mama who lasts forever” while I cry every time. That was hell embarrassing. Those were my few growing up memories with you.

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I no longer remember this day, we had fonder memories than playing with these hats.

We were each’s first playmate and each’s first bully. We neverhad Barbies. We played with rag dolls instead, in our make shift kubo our fathers built for us. I remember us running over to our tita’s hammock. I remember you making fun of me and I making fun of you. I remember how we pulled each other’s hair when we disagreed about things. I remember you running away with my nth pair of slippers because you just wanted to piss me off. You have made me cry until I turn gray.

I was envious of other kids who have shared great and even stupid memories of growing up with their cousins. We never helped each other escape for a date, never spoke about our first kisses, never sneaked out for a night out with friends, and never lied to save each other’s ass. I miss you then. I already missed you during the time we spent apart. And now, all I know is that I have no choice but to miss you for a much longer time.

These memories now, I cannot fathom whether forlorn or favorable. I cannot understand if tears coming forth these remembrances are of sorrow or joy. Your exempt from life is but a liberation from your 2-3 years battle from Cancer. I only seek comfort at the idea that you are in a better and safer place right now.

Until then, She. For now, watch us from up there. Be your husband’s inspiration, your kids’ guardian angel, the grown ups’ (parents, grandparents, uncles, and aunties) strength and wisdom, and of course, my partner in crime from up there.

Everyone misses you.

P.S. Only during the weekend have I known you kept a diary the time you knew you had and fighting cancer. How I wish we exchanged notes then, or composed entries together. But it’s too late now. I just hope your kids will read it so that they’d know how much you loved and wanted to have lived more lives with them.

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Root of Romanticism

Dear Love, we’re in a poetry book I’ve read innumerable yesterdays ago

This is an image taken by Jenno, my latest addition to my “Favorite People” list, during our random trip to Intramuros one bipolar-weathered afternoon.

I would be lying if I say this is not of utter beauty, sans the bias that it’s my boyfriend and I in the portrait. I did not actually think our picture would turn out this way since we never planned of taking nice photos anyway. We just wanted a trip to the National Museum, an Intramuros walking tour, and an illegal tag along of Carlos Celdran’s tour.

I would say this image is too beautiful for me to judge aka apply art/photography criticism to. But as far as resonance and wonder is concerned, I would give a million words for a praise.

I found this photo rather dear to me. It reminded me of photographs found in Rolando Carbonell’s Beyond Forgetting. It’s one of the earliest poetry books I’ve read. My grandfather gave it to me in grade school because of my penchant with novels and poetry as early as then. It was about love – found and lost. It was about waiting – its toils and pains and triumph. It was about our souls – torn, broken, crashed. It was about emotions – kept and subdued, professed and demonstrated. The images spoke the same. They breathed every printed word. They pierced thoughts, induced thinking, leading to reverie. Even an innocent 10-year old’s heart was tugged. I might even consider this one of the foundations of my tendency to romanticize. (Mark this entry as Exhibit A)

Later on I found out, the author was my grandfather’s high school friend. It felt like I actually met him.

The book is still with me as to the moment I write. I browsed through the pages after seeing image above. The book may have aged, leaves brown and crisp. But its words are still intact, its images radiated as before.

 

This is NOT a Birthday Blog…

…because this is about me, my dear love for writing and our years together.

I have been writing for god-knows-when-time I started holding a pencil. The first I wrote was a story entitled “The Sad Fish” in red-blue-red sheets of paper, which I believe my mother kept in some buried place of the house after showing off to my aunties and uncles how genius I am. Until now, they all believe I’m good in writing.

However, I don’t think I am utterly gifted in writing. I am no Shakespeare and I know no rules in writing (except for grammar, of course). I shied away from Language and Literature in college because I didn’t like writing to be a chore and I don’t want to be too critical of myself when doing so. I write when I want to write. I write what I like to write. Shallow or contemplative entries, that’s what have been keeping my pen alive these years.  My former blogs can attest to that. Yes, that was my premature writing phase when my blog was a compilation of love-hate relationships with this and that. Add the fact that I don’t consider capitalization in most posts, but I’d rather say those entries are allusions to ee cummings.

But there is growth and a lot more to it. Like keeping journals to myself then, to lifting the pages, publishing and sharing them on the internet now. There might just be a few who care to read and listen, and that’s enough. Not everyone needs to know about everything, while I too, curate my own pages and decide what to put into writing. It’s a matter of privacy. I’m no sister of the president, you know.

I don’t even know what’s the point of me yakking about this, actually. Well, it might be because I don’t write creatively now. I’m not pertaining to rhyming poems, ok. But to writing short stories and the like. I must have forgotten since I got busy with work. Yuppie thing, yes. However, work afforded me to more ideas and possibilities I’d rather plant on myself than to fictional characters. Thus, I might stick, or let’s say write majorly about myself and what’s going on rather than incorporating and inventing. This makes me feel so mature I’m sticking to reality, come on! But hey, I’m serious.

So, 23’s going to be a year all about me and whoever’s around.

Again, this is not a birthday blog, just a little glance upon me and my dire passion of sorts with writing. Birthday blog will come soon, perhaps when the month ends. My birthday is always a month-long celebration anyway.

Oh yes, birthday blogs – personal tradition aka annual writing project. Good thing, every year, something significant comes up. 🙂

Day 9: Dear P,

You used to be my brother’s best friend. You used to spend long hours playing cards and video games at home.

I was eleven when I overheard your mom tell my mom how much you liked me. Your visits gradually declined since then. You don’t piss me off as much. Until you never came by again.

Your mother surprisingly dropped by my college graduation. She sent me your regards. I only wanted to reply with a little girl’s love letter.