Hames

The tides finally embrace
Its long-time lover
Immaculately veiled
As it marches. White
Kisses soothing
The parched
And the laden.

The joy of the morning
And witnesses throng.
The sky’s tenderness,
spreading its golden feathers
Waving in jubilation.

With wind songs joined
In chorus by the seabirds
Of nature’s pure harmony.
With sun’s soft light
Sealed a promise
Of love’s eternity.
This secret place
of your shores. 

Room gravitates with clacking sounds from T-square and triangles repelling each other at drafter’s boards. Blood races with time. Sweat drips left watermarks on vellum as inkblots nervously travels the maze of light pencil strokes. There were smudges of graphite dusting above the immaculateness of the paper that the fruity-smelled eraser had not breezed through. Then, forms of squares and circles began to metamorphose into a perspective with depth and of casting shadows meticulously calculated and shaded. I was peeking over my seatmate’s work and my hands are trembling in fear without knowing where to start.

My drafter’s board draped in salmon-colored grid paper  and vellum lay motionless for some minutes. Pencils started to rattle like little earthquakes at its sides. Then my fingers reach out the Pentel Pen and in desperation, I scribbled these words, “no fear, God is good all the time” on its wooden face. I fixed my eyes to the letters, and it appeared as if they began to switch places, jumping like shrimps out of water.

Dimmed visions ensued. I was blackened out. It was half past one in the afternoon, when somebody cursed the other and summoned him to speed up. I was driven like a nail to my senses cutting short a wasted lull. Then like a lightning, I was in a trance. Having invoked the muse, juggling pens upon pens and pencils upon pencils worth of architectural beauty, there was no chance of changing pace. Everybody is on the rush.

Then the noise grew like mighty cacophony of sounds from the drafter’s weaponry. From the other side of the desk, a poor lad accidentally poured water on the sheets, and in  final attempts of rescue, relentlessly waved a piece of cardboard to create pools of air to dry out the accidental and unfortunate wetness. My focus is waning but in great resolve, I need to be a victor over my own strength and exceed what my expectations can afford me.

Every stroke became a heavy etching on the vellum, emphasizing authority. Sketch lines became crooked, consciously hugging traces of sure, finite  lines. I panted and I am beginning to lose my breath. Two hours still, and time is up.  Sheets upon sheets I am flipping through plans and elevations. Of hit and misses. Of trials and errors. Worried to the hilt, if I could catch the time on its tail.

The bell rang. A flag to the finish line have been raised up.  Signals surrender.

The drafter’s board had witnessed a battleground, where black blood stained its wooden face and created slight ebbs and crest on it. Surprisingly alighted out of the tremendous pressure of the examination room. As if the weight of the world on its shoulder vanished after the bell rang.

That was five years ago. The drafter had become an architect.  And the battleground on that drafter’s board had ended on that once glorious day. Its glory that has waned among the many cobwebs of dust which strapped  its once perilous journey to the examination room.

And the day is coming, that these trembled hands will once again redeem its glory. With words “no fear, God is good all the time” written on its face, all will never be erased from one’s memory.  Surely, it will not fade through this architect’s humble life.

A neighbor who lives nextdoor had a caged lovebird hanging in the hallway in our apartment.  I was awakened one morning by its relentless chirping as if I was awakened by some familiar bird songs I once heard from my hometown’s parish church.  There was a surging of long distant emotions that was laid dormant through all these years.  A sanctified feeling of saintly wonder. The innocence of a child in his first communion.

In my reverie I remember that I was walking down there on the aisle to accept God. An obedience to one of His blessed sacraments.  Dressed in white, I clasped both hands as a sign of my faith, allegiance and devotion.  I remember the reverberating sound of the church organ, the ringing of the church bells, the whispered recitation of the rosary, the faint glow of the communion candles, the gleaming chandeliers above, the nauseating fragrance of gardenias, the painted figures of saints up in the ceiling, the adorned relics at the altar, the divine light that streams through the stained glass windows, the choir’s angelic voices and that familiar bird song.  All these things had engulf this child’s frailty. 

I felt afraid. Not because of the magnanimity of that space in which a child like me could not grasp. But because of the idea that I am surrendering to a God that can’t be seen.  That can’t be touched.  How could I ever let this Unknown guard and shield me, while knowing that I am in fact, facing each day without a father and a mother by my side?

But there is this divine force that has swept over me. An assuring voice that gently whispered,  herein I will find refuge and a constant companion.  That herein, is someone who will watch over me and will listen to every word I have to say. And I think then, that the birds perched at the church’s clerestory are my divine witnesses. Like angels in their joyful throng.  Singing their sweet songs as if revelling that another has triumphed to find favor in His sight.

From then on up to this age, I have tried to chase the divine light and that familiar bird song among the many churches I have been to.  To say my silent prayers. To ask for guidance. 

But I have grown impatient over the years. Trying to recollect that innocent moments I have felt during my first communion.  But it never repeated itself.  They are just some fleeting feelings of spirituality that meant little to me.

And these feelings had grown into spiritual discontent. Discontent among spiritual wolves cloaked in the veil of fractured holiness.  Of self-proclaimed shepherds misleading their own flock. Of ministers who pretended like kings in the higher places.  Of preachers who viewed the church as their fiefdom. Of this world’s manufactured spirituality.

I fled away. Far away and shield myself from the magnanimity of this world’s hypocrisy. Even in church, that once I thought to be my refuge.

Gone are those moments of that child-like faith. Gone are those moments that God communicates so closely and the doors of heaven are open for the innocent prayers I used to say. 

And there in the hallway, by the morning light,  I pulled a chair to sit beside that lovebird in the cage and listen to its chirping. I don’t know how long I am sitting there and drifted away from this realm. But what I felt is that I am ushered back to that same place where once, my innocence had been. And I felt that God is clasping my little fragile hands into His. The divine light and the bird song has finally returned by my side.

I just hope that this lovebird be loosened and set free from this cage, someday. Like me.  And savor freedom on its wings and fly. Basking in the splendid streams of sunlight. So divine.

I was searching through the friends list on my Friendster, when suddenly a name came accross my mind.  Yeah, I was looking for this friend for so long and now I am typing her name on the blank spaces anticipating that the search engines will come up with some positive results. Voila!! There she goes. She is all, well, right there in front of my eyes.

I read through her profile page and there I go clicking my way through her photographs.  Satisfied of what I have seen. I glanced through her friends list and to my surprise, she managed to keep track of almost all our classmates in grade school. For eighteen long years, I have tried to veer away for possible contact, I must confess. I just have this gut feel that my grade school life should be shelved like a book. Because I felt, it must end there.  Right there at the graduation night.

But tonight, my mind wanders back in time, and in disbelief on how we managed to age wonderfully through the years up to our primes. Some have proudly become mothers and fathers. Some still remained single like me.  Some are on the other side of the world.  Some have chosen to stay back in our hometown. But regardless of what each of us has eventually have become and have been to, the truth of the matter is, we will always be classmates.

That is one connection that binds us all.  That is one connection that transcends above social status, lifestyle preferences, idealogies, and religious differences. What matters, is that we came to know  an essential part of each other during those old school days.  That there are some things that had remained unchanged. Within. And that is what worth holding on.

And I am glad to reminisce those times. Those silly times, that you would rather forget, but you can’t. Puppy loves, crushes and the like. Bullying, crying games and spanking from teacher moments. Cramming for periodical exams, copying of assignments before classes begin and all sorts of cheating. Those mid-afternoon games we used to play like tumbang preso, patintero, chinese garter, hide and seek etc.

Ah, you would always remember the noisiest, the silent ones, the nerdy types (I think I am), the beauty queens and kings of the class. The tallest, the shortest, the fairest, the brainiest, the smartest and the laziest. And who would forget the one being assigned to list down the noisy and troublesome in the class, the class president? And the sergeant-at-arms in tow?

The morning cleaning times. The flag ceremonies.  The drum and bugle practices. The choir. The calisthenics.  The recess time, anyone? Oh, how about the district meet. The sports meet. The demo week. The Linggo ng Wika. The Christmas parties.  The Boyscout and Girlscout camping. And most of all, the recognition day.  Oh, I almost forgot the slumbooks, the songhits and of the spiders hidden on some yellow matchboxes.

I must admit, I enjoy most of the time climbing star-apple trees and perched among its branches like a monkey observing other school girls and school boys who either play in school grounds or just seating on concrete benches poring over some notes. And my memory of the grade school never ends with wonderment. Did I really have gone through that?  What a joy to be so young! Such an enjoyment! And who would believe that we are so far-away from being those silly school girls and school boys from what we are today?

I regret to have said that my grade school life should be shelved like a book.  I felt that  there is a need for a time that this book will be inevitably opened. And each of us who had became part of the book, should step forward into the light and give it some life.  Possibly,  to begin writing some new chapters on the book, about lasting friendship among us.  Definitely.  Definitely some of our paths will yet cross again. We’ll see.

I am sitting here. Stranger as I am. Finally, this is the freedom I always wanted. No one obliged me to be here. Just as my whole being in its truest moment. One with the wind and the sea.

I am sitting here. Just letting the blue sky engulf me. As I record each frame of sea images in my memory. I wanted to remember how the tides rush upon the shore. And the feeling of something has been unloaded. Of something that has been there all along and waiting to be found.

I am sitting here. Trying to befriend the seabirds and letting them believe that I am also one of them. Who could fly. And like the sea, I will be always be coming home. No matter how far my sojourns are.

I am sitting here. Without a care. Just breathing within me the solitude of keeping still. Trying to take in the magnitude of the universe and expanding my soul to the depths of the sea. As far as I can see, I will reach them and my spirit will be one with the waves. Silently it rolls, and I am in complete surrender.

I am sitting here. In contentment that any sea, even from far places are connected. No limits. No boundaries. Willingly to go where the wind chooses. In the distance the horizon faded into the sky.

I wanted to be on this same spot, sitting and let me remember that life has to be lived one day at a time. Where tomorrow will take care of itself and what matters is today.

These, in my quiet contemplation, I have known.

Among the fireflies

lies a woman waiting ablazed

with her passion to love.

Like a Venus in her shell,

where nocturnal creatures lay

witness to her secret rendezvous.

She hums a melody

dispersing fear, hoping

for her knight to come.

But the knight will not come,

she knows.

She wanders. She dreams.

Of some galant prince

from a faraway kingdom 

to take her away.

Of fairy godmothers

bestowing charm.

Of Cassiopea sitting in the sky

leading her to find.

A soulmate.

And out there

on the moonless night

she had her heart,

open wide. But only

the wolves and the owls will hear

her beseeching voices.

Imploring a knight

to touch her nakedness

among the stars.

Love

before sunrise…

I saw you there among the horizon, peering through the breaking of the first light. That gentleness like the morning star had me longing for more.  More of you from the previous night. Let me embrace you like the feathery clouds in their afterglow. How serene am I in your bosom. Not a care in this world.

in the harborfront…

I am here standing at the boardwalk. Waiting for your ship to come. With the seagulls hovering above me and the seawaves frolicking along the breakwater. I have been here since your last voyage. Of chasing your dream and your freedom. But I have learned to let you go, and learned how to have hope. That you will come back to me. You will.  And I am waiting still.

across the desert…

Like how the wind shapes the dunes, so your tenderness. Lovely as your affection embrace me in the moonlight. A thousand and one nights of dream. We are sharing the stars and the Orion guides us to discover the many secrets of our togetherness. I will sit here with you and let the wind softly whisper my heart’s song.

driving down the mountain…

Lovers we are among the long grass. I am driving down this maze, of finding a way to your heart.  Keep you lingering in my mind and I never stop from wondering.  Upon these rocks, the many faces of love etched by time. And stood witness to my deep devotion to you. I shouted your name out in the cliffs, and it echoes and created a lover’s melody.

watching the sunset…

Why do I feel sad, whenever the sun bades goodbye?  Why do I feel sad when the sun finally vowed out among the ridge in the distance? Am I afraid that the memory of you will also leave me too soon? Even if I tried to stop the hands of time from turning, I am in my sweet surrender.  But I know, that someday, in another time, in another place, there will be you and me.  I know that even if it’s not me who is there with you, I will always wanted what makes you happy.  And it is enough that I have loved you the way I could.

Hames

The world is one big classroom, I must say.  And we are all the students learning how to figure out life’s great lessons.  Just as we are looking at that big greenboard of countless possibilities of reading, of thinking, of testing ideas, of talking and of course, communicating.

We all sit there in our own chairs and desks doing what is required by our society. Taking up life roles quite unique to us and doing what is expected of us to do. And the challenge, is for us to contribute. To open up. To understand. To question. To clarify. To accept.  To be better.

And like most of the students, we have varied approaches to learning. Some diligent, some irresponsible, some bookish, some drifters, some enthusiasts etc. Same as true as how we do in our lives. No one in the class can contend who did well or who did not, but only the teacher, who had the lesson plan. The teacher who has the pen to write down the grades.  The teacher who is in the front like a mighty warrior quelling ignorance among us. 

They say, a teacher is a great influence to your well-being, second to your parents.  If the teacher has inspired you, there you’ll get inspired.  If the teacher has empowered you, then you’ll be of power.  And if the teacher make you see wider than you are used to, I bet, you will go a long way than you could ever imagine.

And the success of the teacher is not on how many doctors, lawyers, CEO’s and government officials they had produced.  But teachers who produce another set of responsible teachers and mentors in other fields enriching and nourishing.  The workplace. The community. The church.  The government.  The society.

Munad is the inverted name for “danum”, which in Ilocano (a Northern Philippine dialect) means water.  Under Iwag Palattao’s direction alongside with Dato, a Baguio resident artist, they formed a visual artist group of five which included myself.  I am the youngest and the least talented, and I don’t have that great artistic talent to venture out, other than just scribbling line figures.

Julius, a great friend I remember, the leader of Munad, approached me that time and asked if I am interested to join the group.  I was taken aback. Because, in my opinion, I am not inclined to visual arts. I said I am more into creative writing stuff. He said I can try and learn from there.

The next thing I know is that I was being introduced to a bunch of bohemian looking guys. Their eyes poring at me as if they are reading something. You know artists, they have a keen interest in observing things and personalities. I think, they are filtering me through that yardstick.  If I can truly express myself artistically, in visual artform.

Then Iwag, proposed for a group exhibit that was slated then to be mounted in two month’s time.  Each of us, are required to produce five visual painting pieces, either realistic or an abstract. I chose the latter. I came up with five, but only allowed to mount three.  They said the other two lacks depth of subject.

I remember the night before the opening of the exhibit, when I was asked to gather some dried leaves in the middle of the night. I hesitated at first but eventually I obliged.  That was the time, I felt that something has been stripped off out of me in the name of the arts. And the dawning of my free-spirited life occured.

I gathered a sackfull. Of dried leaves. Then Iwag, upon seeing me carrying it, grinned. Yeah, I think, he is also thinking about my initiation. Like in a fraternity. Then, I gave it to him and watch him fashioned it out on the museum floor along with sand and rice grain to form like a Japanese rock garden. I was speechless.  I can’t believe right before my very eyes an artist who can weave art like magic out of what can be considerd rubbish. It was awesome.

Then over the years, Munad goes on in mounting two more group exhibits.  And it somehow, lifted my self-esteem.  I was so thrilled looking at people stopping by my paintings and staying there for some minutes. What a joy to see, people interacting and discussing their thoughts over the paintings as if it is like a case study in contrast. And what more fulfilling it is, in actually explaining the meaning of your paintings over a group of artistic and intellectual people.  That was an experience no other.

That was the golden time for arts in Tarlac, when Tingting Cojuangco is still the governor of the province. She espouses the flourishing of arts in Tarlac by opening up Museo de Tarlac for painting exhibits and the like. Festivities are being held. Musicals like “Alikabok” had been staged at Diwa ng Tarlak. And there was a mobile museum doing the rounds in the barrios for people to experience visual arts closer to them.

One time, an uncle told me, that he was surprised that I am into painting through one of those mobile musem exhibits.  He is the driver of that mobile van.  And I can sense how proud he is touring my painting around the province and telling stories about me as his nephew.

That was the time, I produced a number of paintings over summers of each year. I had some paintings donated after that. Some are displayed at the university.  Some are in the government offices.  Some are with my trusted friends.  The mother of all my paintings was with Gerardo. I knew he is displaying it in his home.

I must say, when Julius approached me then, its like a water drop in my sleeping universe.  I never knew that this single invitation that I  accepted has created trickles and trickles of water until my consciousness towards arts grew like a river. And other artforms ensued. Poetry, university campus writing, theater, installation art, photography and this time blogging.

True to the form, Munad has been so symbolic to me in many ways.  It has opened myself to a lot of things. It has ushered me into that door of self-discovery. That I can be capable of doing something if I will just try and not afraid of failing. And the many waters of inspiration has quenched my desire to express myself creatively. 

I owe it a lot to my Munad group, though some of them are stationed in parts of the world, I know that there will come a time that the water droplets (as they are) will be gathered and create another wave from the rivers of beautiful inspirations of art.

The sweet girl has finally became a complete woman. A mother. As I watch little Rian in the webcam, kicking the football toy held by his mom, I cannot hold back the tears from welling my eyelids. I am so happy with this friend who once had the sweetest smile, with her good-naturedness and hearty laugh. I miss her so greatly.

So many years had passed. Thousand miles apart from islands to islands. Friends do come and go. But there will always be some friendship that is meant to last.  Whenever I remember  Che, my memories keep flooding in with happy thoughts. Of clowning around. Of joking around. Of running around like horses out in the playground. Of mimicking our classroom teachers’ usual mannerisms.  Of talking loudly along the hallway as if there is no tomorrow.

The zest for life has never left from her eversince. Or is it, really her lifestyle to be happy even if things around her are less likely ideal? I never had seen her crying over petty things.  I never had seen her quarelling with somebody else. She is our Mother Teresa.  She lead us to be more spiritual. She beams with positivism.

She just enjoy being young and free. But early on she has a well-defined purpose to become a better person. You will expect her looking always at the bright side of things. Being around her, is such an oasis, a place where you can have a respite among the oddities of life.

Her faith in God has somehow lead her to be a wonderful mom to Rian.  It never had in any moment dampen her will to be happy.  Her happiness somehow reflects on how Rian manage to kick his football toys in sheer enjoyment. Her jolly spirit is indelibly marked down on Rian’s personality.  And in her child’s eyes I see the happy kid I was once had the chance to become friends with. In her child’s giggly laugh I hear the infectious enthusiasm that she always had throughout the years.

These few frame images  in the webcam, shown how well my friend has become. But how well she had always been true to herself. And how wonderful person she had always become. And the fear, that maybe she too has changed immensibly, dissipated in the thin jolly air of laughter and joking around.

I know someday Rian will be proud to have a mom like her. I know someday Rian will realize how beautiful life is.  Sooner or later, he too will be one of those kids running around like horses out in the playground. And for that he will always be thankful of what he become a happy kid.