INSIDE A VOID AND I FOUND A SINEGWELAS TREE. QUAECUMQUAE…

I wanna sulk in the corner. I want it to rain. A drizzle will do. Then I could just snug under the sheets and turn into fungus the whole day. Maybe for the rest of my life.

Quaecumquae…

December 15, 2006. Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, People Support, Makati. It’s 11 pm in the evening. Umiskapo ako sa office with the blessing of my boss. So, is it still iskapo?

Bagbag, this morning, flew off to Amsterdam. Then to France. Then to some island in the Bahamas, a little island France hasn’t nuked yet. Echoes from the lifestyle of the rich and famous? Not!

Bagbag is on his way to his next assignment as a UN medical volunteer. His destination would be Haiti. There, coup d’etats have been raised into an art-form. The Philippines’ merely pales to compare. As a UN Volunteer, my hubby will be serving the UN forces as a physician. Why my Bagbag? He’s the only physician in the Philippines who specialized on voodoo. No, he’s not from Surigao. Marikina, rather. But, hey, an international physician nonetheless. That’s my Bagbag.


There I see my Bagbag go somewhere... but not away.

Last night, Bagbag and I were both Lea Salonga immersed in last-night-of-the-world histrionics. But I refused to let go of some tears. The very same countenance I was harboring when my sister died a month ago. Honest. Serious. With unfeigned sincerity. Gods! Why do I feel that nobody believes me? C’mon, throw me the benefit of the doubt here. My hubby is away for six months and I could be depressed anytime soon. I may be your next-door type of bully but I still have a heart. I was born with one, if you may ask.

Quaecumquae…

Apologies aside, I’m actually a softy before I became a toughie. The mushy me ended up in the monastery somewhere in Mendiola. When I began wearing the bully character, I was made to believe that such persona is governed by some rules that have to be played inside out. Ordained under Rule No. 66, a bully should – must! - never show an emotion in the physiological level. The bully is only allowed to keep it inside, but must never let blood rush to his face in times of embarrassment (in fact, must not know the word embarrassment), get rattled when nervous, weaken in the knees in times of adulation, loose footing on solid ground at the sight of a crush, teary-eyed at the sight of Danish black chocolate. A bully has to keep his passion out of people’s sight; hold it with restraint and name it instinct. A gut-feel. Recall your classical studies and you will recognize that a bully is your 20th Century version of a Stoic (it’s time to open your dictionary, honey). Wait, why am I talking about myself?

Quaecumquae…

I don’t even quite sure why I’m writing this entry. Months after I was blogging, I heard somewhere that blogging is the electronic version of a diary, only open to the public. Or simply an upsurge of emotion poured over the keyboard, consequently ending up in the net. A journal.

Is it? I didn’t know that. I thought blogging was a way to show off. Joke (but I can also be serious about that statement).

As theorized, blogging happens when one has to unload bothersome thoughts, ideas, what-have-you’s. However, that idea doesn’t seem to stick with my present predicament. I feel empty. After Bagbag left, there seems to be a deep void existing between me and beings around me, whether animate or inanimate (go get that dictionary again, dearie). I can’t seem to feel my friends’ company, or realize that I was in a café. O, is that a bottle of beer in my hand? If I was having sex, I could be so faking it. At some point, borrowing from Praxedes, I lost my happy feet. No inspiration. But I’m still writing.

When inspiration fails, there’s always talent. Huh!

Quacumquae…

December 25, 2006. Tabang, Guiguinto, Bulacan. Took me some time to finish this entry blamed solely to a line-up of parties. Lat night, Christmas eve, my high school best friend, Anabelrama, and his family adopted me for Christmas eve. Imagine me having a wholesome Christmas in provincial Bulacan complete with a mom (Anabelrama’s mom), a niece (Anabelrama’s daughter), and two sisters (Anabelrama and Anabelrama’s wife). Had so much fun trying to keep Bagbag away from my thoughts by downing anything on the table. Provided it doesn’t move. After gift giving, everyone slept and I was left making some finishing touches on this entry. The cool air, the cool light, and the cool music (ILOVE Limewire) altogether made me realize that I have so much blessing to count this year.


A sumptuous gift from Anabelrama

This morning, I was having coffee at Anabelrama’s backyard overlooking a stretch of rice paddies. At the middle of the yard was a sinegwelas tree. I remembered my childhood in Negros. There was one at my mom’s garden. Unlike this one standing at the backyard, it was enormous. And like the sinegwelas trees I have seen, it looked old, sick, and dying all year round. Or all of the above.

Man, they’re so ugly. Which is good. I have seen so much beautiful things during this season. I, seeing this tree, suddenly contemplated on the essence of ugliness. They bare fruit.

Whatever…

PS. I only have two Christmas greetings: a) Happy birthday, Jesus!; and b) Ang Pasko ay nasa Puso. Merry Christmas, Puso!

Take your pick.