living by faith, dying for hope

"As the X-Men make their desperate attempt to get Hope to Utopia, the battle will cost them one of their own. Nothing will ever be the same."

MARVEL COMICS PRESENTS "X-MEN: SECOND COMING"
WRITTEN BY CRAIG KYLE and CHRISTOPHER YOST

ART BY MIKE CHOI COVER BY ADI GRANOV

APRIL 2010

*******

His death was handled well. Shaking and crying, still.

dear admutwenty (3)

Things have a habit of falling into place whenever I'm around.

That's what they say about me. See, I have this nifty ability to make things play out the way I want them to. It's pretty handy especially when I want something. I don't know which deserves more credit though - sheer luck, or my knack for devising clever and subtle machinations. Most of the time, I'd pick the latter. Yet there are days when I just know that everything's going to be five by five. Perhaps, akin to Paulo Coelho's statement, my mere wanting is enough to make the universe conspire to make it come to pass.

So there we were, standing at the left side of an otherwise busy intersection. It was deserted this time. It was just us. Alone, together; the red pedestrian crossing light looming on the other side.

Much as I felt like I'm dying from kilig, I couldn't stop myself. After all, we were just a few inches away from each other and I would be damned if I don't do it. I turned and glanced at you and ended up giving you a Hey-I-sorta-know-you-and-I-hope-you-acknowledge-this-since-you-kinda-know-me-too-type of nod and smile.

You nodded back, and I melted.

"That's a good read," you said pointing to the book on my hand.

It took a mighty lot of will power not to look away and squeal. Instead, I quickly retorted, "Really?" Even if I know that you have indeed, read it. "I'm just about to start."

"You have time to finish it before the movie screens here," you said. "I thought it was going to be shown a couple of weeks ago but I guess it was pushed back to June. I think."

"AdMUTwenty," you added as you extended your hand.

While caught in a revelry of your enunciation and voice (they're how I imagined them to be), and pretty much everything that is transpiring, my lips hinted of a slight pout, I said, "I know..." Wait. "I mean, I know the movie wasn't released here as scheduled," I yammered. "Mak. My name's Mak," I said as I shook your hand.

My mind raced back to earlier when I wanted to take a pass from my usual morning routine as I woke up late. Good thing the guilt took over. If I had not been late, I wouldn't have adjusted my schedule and I wouldn't have been here and I wouldn't have had this conversation, with you.

Indeed, at times, more often than you know, the universe does conspire to grant what the heart wants.

This morning was not one of those times.

Much as I felt like I was dying from kilig, I stopped myself from taking a glance. Despite the red signal, I crossed the intersection anyway. After all, there was no one but us. You followed, seconds after and together in silence we walked, separately.

*******

POSTSCRIPT. I'll be gone for a while but I'll see you soon. =)

roles (prelude)

"Siya lang yung sobrang persistent sa pag-pursue," you said with a hint of thrill in your voice.

"Eh ano ako, invisible?"

That's what I should have said but instead,

"Ah... ganoon talaga" faintly smiling on the other end of the line.

dear admutwenty (2)

I saw you look at me when I came in today...







at buo na ang araw ko dahil doon.

*******

POSTSCRIPT. I promise to smile back next time it happens. =)

making space, pt. II

As I was going home from the mall yesterday, I had the sudden urge to de-clutter. It's one of those shifts that logically follow a significant life event. Turning points like resigning from a job, getting your own place, ending relationships or having a baby, usually act as catalysts to make us wonder about ourselves (who we are) and life (what we want out of it).

I pictured getting rid of the stuff that my mom had long suggested I throw out. They are, after all, just junk - old examinations, board review materials and magazines that are not fit to be used for purposes other than kindling, collectibles that I have outgrown, broken toys that are no longer working, clothes that I haven't worn for years, receipts, memorabilia and other whatnots that are but pieces of my old life.

Even in vision, the purging proved beneficial. Now that I have fully decided to do away with those that weigh me down, I am certain of the promise that I'll feel a little less cluttered and a little less stuck after the exercise. Suddenly, that first step doesn't seem so daunting anymore. Indeed, there is a certain liberation that comes from making space.

making space, pt. I

My dearest mother never fails to remind me to clean up my closet. Every chance that she gets, and that's mostly when she can't make room for newly pressed clothes in the cabinet, she would tell me, in a very motherly fashion, to sort out my clothes - keep those that I still use and dispose of the rest. I have done that but apparently, I need to throw out some more.

On a similar note, she complains about the rest of my clutter. There are about five or more boxes that contain my personal belongings like books and magazines, DVDs, casette tapes and compact discs, more clothes, stuffed toys, collectibles, old notebooks, review materials, projects, and examination papers that go way back then. Ask a compilation of my Social Science surprise quizzes and I could most likely hand you a stack of 1/4s, arranged chronologically.

What my mother calls junk, I call treasure.

The cassette tapes, my first being Mariah Carey's quintessential album, Butterfly, remind me how much I'm into music and how long I have been inclined to the art. The Smash Hits magazines recollect the glory days of 90s pop which I am lucky to have in my life's soundtrack. The journals and old writings are evidences of my craft despite the quality, or lack thereof, of my earlier works. There is Raccoon, my stuffed toy, who has been on my bedside for as long as I can remember. That is, until we moved out. Old letters put into mind how much I have been valued and cared for by people. My high school memorabilia takes me back to the time when I was king.

I could go on but you already see the picture. I am sentimental and I hold these junk much like how I hold the memories attached to it - close to my heart. Herein lies the problem - I'm not one to easily let go.

longer still

Sun sets across the ocean. I'm a thousand miles from anywhere.

My pocketbook and my heart both just got stolen

and the sun acts like he don't even care.
- Jewel, Down So Long

*******

Sulong Morong. Bataan Day.

say it right

I haven't really given it much thought until she pointed it out.

"Don't you get tired of asking the same questions every single day?"

My mama has a point. Every morning, before I leave for the office, I take one last look at the mirror and ask anyone who’s around, most of the time it would be her, a litany of questions that include but is not limited to:

"Is my hair okay?"

"Don't I look fat in this?"

"Are my pants ill-fitting?"

"Can you still smell my cologne?"

"Do I look okay?"

And sometimes, even with one foot already out the door, I will turn around only to add, "I don't have anything on my face, do I?"

Normally, they would revert to me with a positive feedback for every question that I asked. Although I really wouldn't know if they're being honest, or they're giving out ear candies just to get me going. In any case, I believe that people are inherently good. Especially mothers. Most especially my mama.

So now that I have thought about it, I think I have developed a subconscious habit. One that is quite annoying, not to mention, exasperating. I mean if mama couldn't stand it...

Initially, I assumed that the practice was my own little way of overcoming insecurities even if I'm not one to dwell on such trivial things. Then again, I might be fooling myself, and see things rather differently. Twisted, differently.

Everything made sense though last Black Saturday as I was going through a friend's archive. I came upon an entry which tackled the five love languages as listed by a fellow named Gary Chapman. There was also an accompanying quiz that I recall taking a couple of years back. Out of curiosity, I took it once again and got the following results:

Words of Affirmation - 37%
Quality Time - 27%
Gifts - 23%
Acts of
Service - 13%
Physical Touch - 0%

"It makes perfect sense!" I remember thinking.

As I consider words, spoken or otherwise, as one of the most powerful tools created by man it naturally follows that I would think of it as perhaps, the most effective communicator of love.

I am quite sensitive with words. That's just how I'm built. I thrive on appreciative words and honest compliments. They're like honey to my soul. On the flip side, nasty remarks, thoughtless statements and even jarring silence leave scars that no laser surgey can fix.

So while Mark Twain once claimed that he can live for two months on a good compliment, it goes to show that I sort of need more than one.

dear admutwenty

Hey...







I’ve been meaning to say that for a while now.

*******

POSTSCRIPT. We’re getting better at the whole eye contact thing though. =)

dummy regressor

It will be two years, five days from now, since one of my best friends imposed a no-talk policy on me for 24 hours for turning down his invitation to go out. As we were so used to hearing updates from each other every now and then, 24 hours felt like eternity back then. At present, we could go on for days, or weeks even, without checking on each other or saying the merest of heys. When we do get the chance to talk, it's like we always run out of things to say even if it feels like there are a lot of issues that need to be discussed. I want to say I have grown accustomed to the new set up but there are times, or whenever I think about it really, that I am indeed saddened by the situation. But change is inevitable; and while the stubborn in me is averse to it, I know that I will ease my way into coping in due time.

I remember my kababatas. It has been over a decade and seven, give or take, since our last Holy Week together. The season has always been the most anticipated event for us. While the end of the school year pretty much signifies the start of summer, for us, Holy Week is that time when we truly feel liberated from the shackles of classrooms and assignments and teachers and more importantly, curfews. In between helping out with simple chores in the kalbaryos, the clique would set the itinerary for the next few days - color coordinate for the Wednesday procession, make pasyal on Thursday and end up at Wendy's Makati Avenue and over a round of Biggie fries and Frosty, debate which kalbaryo is the best, discuss if my cousin, who was my best buddy then, should say yes to our friend who have been courting her, or plan where our summer getaway will be, look our best for the Good Friday procession, then stay up really late on Saturday so we can party and watch the Salubong at dawn.

Indeed, those were good times but then I grew up and realized how juvenile and tasteless my antics with my clique back home were. True, we were cool and popular but we were also mean and vapid, well they were; and that was really all there is to it. It was an easy decision, actually. I had no qualms. I knew that it was time to say goodbye. Anyway, the group was on the verge of breaking up. Unencumbered, I entered high school and I was presented an entirely new world to explore and conquer. But that's for another story.

As I still live in the same neighborhood, I still see my kababatas around. Most of them, anyway. Some, I manage to share a jeepney ride with on my way to the office. Some, I see hang out in our usual tambayan when I come home late at night. We have always been cordial though, and by cordial I mean we are okay with a nod or a simple hey.

In those times or even in this moment, I wonder what would my present be if my past has been different. Would I have looked forward to celebrating this year's Holy Week? Would I have been out there having fun with the gang while waiting for Easter this point in time? If I never said goodbye, would I be a far cry from the person that I am right now?

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

april fool

It was a Wednesday morning.

Per usual, just before I left the house, I stood in front of the mirror to check if I was good to go. I was about to start my daiy litany of questions with my mom ("Okay na ba?", "Ayos na ba buhok ko?", "Okay na ba?", "Naamoy mo ba pabango ko?", "Okay na ba?", etc.) when my grandfather, who walked by at the most opportune time, stopped by our door way and said, like how he occasionally does, "Ang guwapo ng apo ko ah...".

However this time, he said, "Ang guwapo ng apo ko ah! Nakaka-bakla." He repeated it thrice. He was about to repeat it for the fourth when I acknowledged him.

Despite it being the most cringe-worthy I have ever heard, ever, I laughed it off and said, "Labo na talaga ng mata niyo, Lo! Alis na po ako." I was all smiles as I left for the office.

That's what I should have done but instead:

"Ang guwapo ng apo ko ah! Nakaka-bakla," my grandfather said.

I turned my head to look at him and with a tone of exasperation I snapped, "Tama na yang kasinungalingan na yan! Kung totoo yan at guwapo ako, matagal at marami na akong naipakilala sa inyo..." (I might have forgotten the direct object in that statement.)

Then I left.

I spent the entire day wondering about the possible repercussions of what I did. It wasn't so much of his comment and his remarkable choice of words. It was just badly timed. I missed breakfast, the one meal that is sacred to me. Of course, I will be slightly grumpy.

Anyway, it was a little troubling - to have hurt one of the few persons who see me as special. Ngayon, nabawasan pa ata yung nagsasabi na guwapo ako.