My Never-Ending Moving On Story :-)

I’m used to moving. Ever since I was four or five, my family have moved to 10 different apartments/houses. Our fifth move, when I was 16, was to our own house in Filinvest, Cainta. We all thought, at last, we have our own permanent home. I had my own room which I happily designed and decorated myself -- with pictures of my high school friends, and later on with college friends, with metallic confetti, with glow-in-the-dark stars, with my collection of Little Twin Stars on a side table and my main wall scattered with pictures of Nirvana, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Guns N’ Roses, PJ Harvey etc. I remember using two 1-liter Coke cases and the flat base of a white dish rack as a table for my boombox and an old car seat as a chair. It was a room I really, really loved because it truly reflected the many facets of who I was at that time. But four years after, our family had another financial crisis and my parents ended up losing the house they’ve worked so hard for. It was the one and only “moving out” I remember vividly. During our last night of packing, my best friend Toni and Kathy were there to help me. We were laughing a lot because at every nook and cranny they would find my hidden stash of cigarettes or a hidden makeshift ashtray full of ash and cigarette butts. We also found old pictures I’ve either torn or crumpled because it was with an ex-bf. And my dengue-meds, which the doctor ordered me to take even after taking them for almost 7 weeks in the hospital. No matter what I did I just couldn’t push down those damn meds anymore, I always ended up puking. So, I hid them from my mom, saying I took them as the doctor ordered. All into a trash bag these remnants of an old life went, and that was when the melancholia hit. I toured the house one last time. I went to my sister’s room, which was just across mine, to our study/library that used to house my many books, to the guest room, which was beside my room. I took one last look at our beautiful living room which used to contain our Victorian furniture, antique jars, vases, lamps and other curios, its high ceiling with wood panels where a crystal chandelier used to hang, the shiny marble floor, the off-white paint – I can still remember how during Christmas, no matter how good or bad that Christmas was, I would find peace and simple joy in just sitting in front of our xmas tree, enjoying the flickering lights and the shadows they made on the wall. I took one last view of our terrace, which was aside from my room, my other favourite part of the house because this was where my friends and I used to spend our afternoons banging our heads to punk/rock/alternative music, smoking our head off and drinking Alco pop (Bartles & James were our favourite then) or at night just having clean, relaxing fun, (coz my parents were already back home from work at that time), dancing, talking till morning. I can still remember our dining room, which we only used during parties. We usually ate at the “dirty” kitchen and small back lawn. I can still remember my parents' room, big and airy and full of sunshine. I took one last look at our garage where I accidentally bumped my dad’s old Mercedes, and the basement right beside it (oh my dirty little secrets haha), a rush of memories from my 18th birthday party where we transformed that area into a disco. And of course, how can I forget the garden and stairs in front of the house, which was also a favourite of mine because during that time there was always a scheduled black out, and my family & friends would sit around the garden and the stairs, sharing stories or just sharing the silence, the vast night sky, the stars … It was a big and beautiful house, it was witness to the many dramas of a couple handling a rebellious, impetuous daughter who had that young-and-stupid ready to defy all moment when she fell madly in love for the first time and soon after will experience her first teen-life-shattering heartbreak. It was a house where at times we felt least like a family and at better times, where we were really happy.

I can still remember how mixed my feelings were standing in front of that house one last time. We were all standing there, my mom, my dad, my sister and I, all facing the house and saying goodbye in our own quiet way. It was dawn, which made that moment more poignant and pregnant with meaning for all of us. I remember feeling very sad because I thought that that house was going to be where my parents will grow old together, with grand children in the future running around the house every now and then. I felt nostalgic and heavyhearted at the same time, remembering the sparkling, shiny moments we had as a family with all of our dogs, especially Dagul, our rottweiler, my dad’s most beloved, who we lost, mourned and buried in our side garden during one xmas season. I felt wistful for all the bad and good memories we were leaving behind, and also felt relieved and hopeful that we can start anew. And then I heard our collective deep intake of breath, as if we were all trying to absorb all the beautiful memories we have of the house and keep it within the safe walls of our heart. And then we exhaled. Looked at one another. All teary-eyed. All smiled. And my mom said “Oh well … let’s move on then.” And that’s what we exactly did.

My family has since moved 5 more times after that. There was another “move” that was a bit life altering again, but that’s another story which I think my mom or sister can better narrate since I was sadly not with them during the most crucial points of that time. Also, I was already living in BF at that time, at Ritchie’s house, already handling our own small business together. Four years ago, Ritchie and I moved our business out of their house and into a commercial space we rented, with simple hopes and dreams of succeeding and making it on our own. But alas, things did not go as we hoped, and we are sadly moving out of the first space Ritchie and I called our home. As the moving out deadline we’ve set for ourselves creep in, I can’t help but feel a rollercoaster of emotions, and to be honest, sadness and heartbreak are still far outweighing the there’s-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel shit. But as in everything in life, I know that this will pass. Ritchie and I (and Frankie) entered this door we called home, together, full of high hopes and dreams … and we are going out of this door, still full of high hopes and dreams, still strong and resilient, together. The sun always rises! :-)

Oh Life!

It was such a nice morning walk. The cool, crisp morning air, the wind making the dead leaves dance on the street, the sun still soft-gentle-gold, rising on the horizon, casting the street with a warm pleasant glow. Walking Frankie every morning and every night is like a calming ritual that helps me start and end my day with placidity. It makes me appreciate everyday the beauty of the simplest actions (like walking), the simplest gestures of Mother Nature (leaves dotted with dewdrops, waving brief sparkles & brilliance under the passing shafts of sunlight), and the simplest affirmations of love (Frankie slobbering my face with kisses). This morning I saw three birds playing in a puddle, each of them taking turns jumping in and out, their soft chirping a merry and joyful sound against the roar of cars rushing to their everyday battles. I, too, will be rushing to my own battle in a little while. I, like everybody else, will be dealing with things that are far from simple. During the course of the day, my demeanour will probably be not as fresh and light-hearted. I will probably at times fall into bouts of grouchiness, ill-temper, pessimism. But … there is that one pleasant thought …

This morning I planted my faith in simple things, and the world was a playground for birds. This evening, I will rest my faith again in simple things, hoping for my own puddle, whistling for the wind.

side note: I've learned another valuable lesson just now. Leave your bowl of cereal with milk, uneaten, on the table, far too long and it turns into something not pleasant. It turns into something like that foul-smelling slodge you puke out after a night of heavy eating combined with heavy drinking. Nasty stuff. Just like Life. Leave something good in your life unattended, ignored, taken for granted, and sooner or later it'll rot & leave you with nothing but a lifetime of regret (which translates to a lifetime of heavy drinking and puking out more of those nasty stuff).

-- Yes, an uneaten bowl of cereal is a valuable life-lesson for me. --

The Drunken Wannabe!

Because I’m a wannabe photographer / writer / traveller / bon vivant / witch / director / editor / druidess / dancer / singer / film critic / lyricist / poet / band aid (like Penny Lane in Almost Famous) / beach bum / backpacker / playwright / burlesque queen (haha! – think Santanico Pandemonium in From Dusk Till Dawn – wannabe remember?) / revolutionary / Manic Pixie Bitch (in contrast to the Manic Pixie Dream Girl, I mean let’s face it, I am no dream girl, yes even if it’s just a wannabe thing – my tummy can’t stomach it) / polyglot / environmentalist / feminist / jester / mermaid / trapeze artist / … I Wannabe Whatever/Whichever/Whenever. Everything that life throws my way, I say “Drink Up! Soak Up! Suck every last drop!” Yes, I WannaBe Intoxicated with this Mad Brewery called Life (everything about it – the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful, the lies, the truth, the fusion of all things disparate). I am a Drunken WannaBe. Kampai!!!!

Once I Was A Little Girl Too

Sometimes when I seem to be spinning within a vortex of madness and lunacy otherwise called “adult life”, there are times when I wish I am a child again, mom and dad’s little girl, safe and sheltered within their embrace. My childhood, as with everybody else’s, was not a perfect one. But within that imperfection were golden nuggets of happiness that mercifully shine on even as time raged through and tirelessly tried to erode it into non-existence.

I can still remember vividly how my dad used to take me to all the shows Lea Salonga had with the Sanrio characters. He used to carry me on his shoulders as he tried to squeeze his way into the crowd up to the front, all because he did not want his little girl to miss the chance of shaking the hand of Kiki and Lala (the Little Twin Stars). I loved the Little Twin Stars because, well because I love stars: they fish for stars, sometimes they are illustrated as having wands in a shape of a star and where little stars also come out, and mainly because Kiki has a star on his back which enables him to fly.




My dad indulged those girly fantasy whims, but he was also not afraid to treat me like a pal, his small little best friend who would accompany him to movies like “Gandhi”. So from my dad I learned to nourish my budding love for the whimsical and the fantastic, and also to love good movies. And having been exposed to films like Gandhi at such a very young age (I was 8), my dad also encouraged my love for freedom.



I remember my mom, who enrolled me in a ballet class, and would always stay throughout the duration of the class, beaming proudly at her little girl in her black leotard and pink tutu. She would also buy me all these books, hardbound ones, with beautiful life-like illustrations. She would always admonish me if eyes would stray to the “cute dolls” section of the store but let’s me have my way in the children’s book section. So from my mom I learned to love dancing and books, and thank God, to not really like Barbie dolls. I remember the only Barbie doll I had was given to me as a gift, and not even a week has passed when my mom found out how I had cut it’s hair really short, and how I had destroyed it’s dress, trying to make it look more “normal”. What I enjoyed as dolls back then were those battery-operated robots that can walk, make noises, and had this middle portion which looks like a small “TV”. It is no surprise then that later on in life I am to have a boyfriend who loves to collect robots.

Now, the Little Twin Stars are no longer popular. (Barbie I guess still is, although I don’t really know if they have ever tried to make a more “politically correct” Barbie. Whatever, I still don’t give a f*ck.) The fairy tales I enjoyed as a child have been revisioned and deconstructed in a thousand ways. Instead of siding with Dorothy and wishing to be like Cinderella, I now wish to be Elphaba (Gregory Maguire’s version of the “wicked witch of the west”) or be more like Danielle De Barbarac (the deconstructed Cinderella in the movie “Ever After” starring Drew Barrymore). Time indeed raged on and rages on, re-shaping life, destroying and re-building, wearing and tearing but also re-constructing, shifting plates, giving birth, burning and quenching all at the same time. This cycle can sometimes be too confusing, and sometimes too exhausting that sometimes, all I can do is sigh and wish to be that little girl again … Oh well, I live in the real world. I cannot be that child again (in the language I use right now, that’s just plain bull). But cheesy as it may sound, sometimes when I feel like giving up (like right now), I look at old pictures, or very simply, just close my eyes, and indulge myself with a nostalgia bath. And for a fleeting moment, I am rid of all my angst, my vanity, I am free of all the adult bullshit-trappings … for a sweet, fleeting moment I am that little girl again, walking out of a movie theatre with my dad proudly holding my hand, fumbling through a pirouette or an arabesque with my mom never looking embarrassed, reading aloud the books my mom bought for me, looking up to see my mom smiling like an angel, pride and love brimming out of her eyes … for that candy-coated ephemeral moment, I am perched on my dad’s shoulders, not a princess but a queen, the Stars always within my reach.

Love and Light for ALL

"All beings seek for happiness; so let your compassion extend itself to all."
~The Mahavamsa

Experience the love and joy an animal companion can bring to your home. Experience the kind of happiness that only comes out of allowing yourself to do good, the kind of bliss that comes out by allowing yourself to share that goodness towards all beings.

Please visit www.paws.org.ph and www.mefindhome.org today.

There is a song from The Smiths that goes “There is a light and it never goes out. There is a light and it never goes out ... “ PAWS (Philippine Animal Welfare Society) is that kind of light. But I believe everyone can be that kind of light. Support the HOMELESS, NOT WORTHLESS campaign of PAWS. Adopt a homeless animal. Make them a part of your family. Share that light, and don’t let it ever go out.

The Peristaltic Journey of a Goddess (First Draft)

The Peristaltic Journey of a Goddess

I saw the abyss
Where two bearded white men playing chess
(One was named Shakespeare and the other one ...
He had so many names, I can’t remember even one)
were talking about me and Lady Macbeth.
Was I gasping for air?
Lady Macbeth said “Unsex me here”
I heard a cry for moral order somewhere
I wasn’t gasping for air
I was drowning in blood
(an attempt at decency, for
they are actually putrid juices)
Don’t call me a whore!
I am Jezebel
Lady Macbeth is just unfulfilled lust
while I, I am the climax of all your sighs and desires
Lady Macbeth is nothing but a glorified gorgon
I am divine
I will take you to the promised land
taste angel-sweet hymns
suck on luscious-saccharine halos
Lady Macbeth is cruel
I am merciful
I will let you chew on my flesh when ravenous
Lady Macbeth and the ridiculous way she just ... faded
nothing but a wretched shadow that ate itself.
While Me, Jezebel, I
flew out of the open window ...
now being digested in this bitch’s brew,
getting ready to be excreted as a goddess,
who will lead all to a delicious kind of burning.