Withered

I used to be dancing at the top,

with the winds that tickle my body,

birds that hum melody,

sun that shows my radiant beauty,

or rain that leaves dewdrops on my skin,

fruits that almost mimic my color

and brightens day by day,

nests that find comfort with my foliage

and branches that seldom dance with me

as I watched how buildings grow

like the pile of garbage across the street,

how vehicles run and blow black smokes,

how people walk hurriedly,

how people stroll,

how they throw an annoying guffaw,

how they can be so silent

and can be so calm

when they sleep beneath my shades

until the wind that used to tickle my body

shook me hardly,

the branches that seldom dance

removed its hold from me,

what they call “gravity”

drove me down

and the soils of the Earth

caught me

and gave

me a place

 to

rest.

The Pageant, the Palace and the Princess

I want to walk away.  The spotlights of the gymnasium are blinding my eyes and the cheers of the crowd shouting my name are breaking my eardrums. My deep red gown that shows the whole of my back, arms and cleavage already feels uncomfortable along with this heavy thing they call crown that they just placed on my head.  No, I don’t want to walk away. I can see my teachers smiling at me as if I am the most adorable person in the world and I could imagine my female classmates green in envy because I just won the title they have all been dreaming of.  I can see John, no I do not see him now, but the mad crowd might have covered him from my sight.  Maybe he did not really come.  That would be impossible, of course he is here.  He must be so proud of me.  Tomorrow, he will tell me how beautiful I am tonight and how much he loves me.  I will tell him I love him too and we will be a perfect couple.

                “Come forward Leizle,” the shout of that guy startled the thoughts battling in my mind.  I walk towards the pool of people holding cameras with the same confident poise and the same fake smile I’ve been wearing for the past hours.  My pictures will be feasted by many soon- these will be one of the photos in the school paper and these will be posted in Facebook.  Then, a talent manager or producer or movie director or such sort of person will see my pictures and will bring me to fame. Now, I am imagining exaggerated events again. I need to focus to stay beautiful.  The series of clicks and flashes seem to be forever.  I don’t like this.  No, I like this.  I really like this.

                After almost another dreadful, no, wrong… after almost another enchanting hour, I am at the backstage, changing my gown to a t-shirt, a pair of jeans and slippers.  I place my crown, scepter, sash and plaque of recognition in a paper bag with utmost care.  Someday, I will be bragging all these to my future children.  They will praise me and they will be proud of having me as their mother.

                I start my walk towards my house.  Daddy will hug me for the first time and will be sorry for not driving me to the contest venue because of his field works. Mommy will be happy when I’ll show her my awards and she will regret that she exchanged gracing the pageant for some client meeting that had been her usual excuse since I was in the first grade.  They will hang my plaque in our lobby along with the awards I reaped throughout my life.  Everyone will admire me.  They will tell Daddy and Mommy how blessed they are for having a daughter like me.  Dad and Mom will be proud.  Then we will have a dinner together after a long time.

                One more block and I am at my house.  I pass by the home of Martha.  I hate her because everyone likes her, including John, I think.  Of course not, John likes me, no one but me.  The flowers he gave to Martha may just be gestures of gratitude for some help she extended to her.  They mean nothing more, I know.  I pass by the small home of Karen.  I see the one and only vehicle her family owns- a cab.  Their cab is dilapidated; I would never wish to ride in such a vehicle again.  I wonder how Karen survived riding that cab every morning when her father drives her to school.

                At last, I am at the front of our house.  I stop to admire the splendor of the building and the exquisiteness of the landscape of the front yard.  Its beauty is a thing to behold.  This is a palace.  I am the princess.

                I press the doorbell and Ate Mayet, our housemaid, come running towards me.  She smiles when she saw the crown in the paper bag I am holding.

                “I know you will win, my alaga always win,” she says with a wide grin while freeing me from the things I have been carrying.

                “Where is mommy?”

                “She’s not home yet, maybe later.”

                “Daddy?”

                “He’s not here too.  They will be home Leizle, soon.  What do you want for dinner?”

                Of course, what would I expect?  I realize I have been imagining impossible things to happen.  Now, I don’t understand why tears would want to come out from my eyes.  I don’t know why my heart wants to shout something it had been carrying for a long time. I must be happy, very happy.   This is my night.

                “Nothing.  I want to sleep.”

                I run inside my palace, straight to my room, to my canopy bed and my soft satin pillows because I can’t hold the moisture coming from my eyes.

Ode to the Ikot Jeepney (that took me from CHK to Math building)

Watching it coming was a relief,

The yellow roof seemed to

Mimic the sun’s brightness as

It trekked along the rough

Cements of reality.  It halted in front of me,

As if saying  I’m your savior

Ride quickly.  I can feel its tires

Rolling again as the wind

Budged my dry hair and cooled

My face.  The air felt so good.

It made its journey to the

University Avenue, passed by

The statue of the Oblation,

Slowed as it approached a bump

In the road.  The whir

Of its machinery filled the air

Along the bunch

Of houses in the Residence area.

Then this high-powered, open

Automobile joined the cluster

Of vehicles in the Krus na Ligas.

The violent city was not a rigor

To its sturdy structure.

At some point, the wheels twisted

And entered the University gate

Carrying the iskos and iskas with pride.

As it braked hard, I joined the tumult

Of shoe wears, emerging from the jeepney,

Walking to where fate

Would take them.  I took

A deep breath, glanced at my watch

And grinned.

 I still have five minutes.

Wish Upon a Paper Star

Green star. I chose a green paper star though it doesn’t really look that attractive.  My mother told me to write my wish for Christmas at the back of the star so that some magical angels of Jesus will make it come true.  When we went to mass, my eyes lingered upon a huge Christmas tree made up of paper stars with a variety of colors.  My mom said one of those is mine.  I spent the whole period of the mass guessing which of those is my star.

            The memories were still clear as they used to be and I can still feel the horrible pain engulfed in my knees when I was tortured to kneel on a floor of salt and mongo seeds.  It was a punishment for breaking the star that was supposed to be the crowning glory of our Christmas tree that year.

            Let me explain it.  My mother was in the laundry room that time washing our clothes.  I and my little sister stole some chocolates from the refrigerator and we decided to escape from the eyes of the tiger by eating at the porch.  Now our porch that time was a devastating scene of Christmas decorations scattered everywhere.  My tongue was about to capture the sweetest stolen taste when I saw a bullfrog leaping towards me.  The excitement of tasting the chocolates was overshadowed by the fear of the leaping creature.  My poor feet ran in all directions until it stepped onto something hard, something precious- I thought I was dead that time.  I never told my mother of what happened.  She never knew that it was the frog’s fault.  She wouldn’t care anyway.

            You’d be surprised to know that the frog’s name was Dolly.  My sister named her after the first cloned sheep and until now, it didn’t make sense at all to me.  She thought the frog was her friend while I considered it a beast.  We always have a fight about that. It’s quite absurd when you picture it out.  More often than not, my sister will end the argument by reiterating lessons she know we both knew from our Christian Living and Values Education class.

            I consider myself fortunate for having been sent in a private sectarian school where I first experienced being shouted by a teacher because I forgot to make the Sign of the Cross before reciting “The Lord’s Prayer”.  My juvenile mind would always look forward every first Friday of the month when we’re obliged to the mass and holidays of obligation when no classes were conducted.  Students in our school were automatically considered as part of the elite class. Only few were privileged to enroll in the school.  When I asked our maid why her son wasn’t enrolled in the same school as I, she reasoned out that they’re poor.  “And we’re not?” asked.  She said we’re rich and I love it.  So, I spent my childhood thinking that we’re rich.

            The jeepney to school would pass by a beautiful scene of the sea kissing the sky.  It would always leave me admiring the beauty the world has to offer.  I was feasting my eyes upon the usual panorama unfolding before me when I suddenly bumped into the person beside me.  I dread that road repair project because it made the vehicle experience rude bumps.  Actually, I didn’t understand why that path had to be repaired when it wasn’t ruined in the first place.  I saw a big picture of two people beside the road that was under construction.  I recognized both of them.  They once visited our house during the town fiesta.

            I couldn’t describe how busy my mother was when those two persons in the picture confirmed that they will pay us a visit.  She hung curtains I saw for the first time.  The table cloth was at its best color.  These two men entered the house with two or three men in sunglasses and pistols following them.  I heard phrases like congressman and governor so I assumed that they held the position.  I was surprised how our maid managed to give them a wide grin while serving them a glass of soft drinks when I though she doesn't like them at all.

            By the way, I haven’t told you I curse but never at home unless if I want to kneel in another set of salt and mongo seeds.  A classmate in High school asked me if what’s wrong with cursing.  I told her I don’t know.  Nevertheless, she curses more than I do.  She once cursed a guy who would first touch my lips in two years time.

            Did I tell you that the chocolates we sneaked from the refrigerator bore the sweetest stolen taste? Now, I was wrong.

            The darkness of the night penetrated the starless skies when the whispers of two timid souls filled the cold breeze.  After a while I found my anxious lips sharing a moment of teenage sweetness.  I have to tell you it was worth more than all the stolen chocolates in the world.

            The world grew with me and the blazing flames of reality conquered my mind every now and then.  Mom told me I was still young.  She told me I had gone insane.  Her sharp words pierced through me. I don’t understand why I cried upon hearing what she said.  How I wish she would just let me kneel on another set of salt and mongo seeds.  With my confused views and principles, the world’s own perception and fast revolution rattle my mind.  Our maid gave me a pitiful look.  My little sister looked away.  Suddenly, the stolen chocolates, the frog, the sea-kissing-sun, the road under repair and the two persons in the picture didn’t make sense at all.  I felt all alone.  How I wish some magical angels of Jesus would help me.

            I forgot to tell my mom that the wish I wrote on the green paper star was still a blurred vision from my imagination.

My CW 10 teacher tasked us to write whatever it is that comes to our mind- random events random things, correlations between the paragraphs aren't even necessary.  Here is my output.  It's not good. I am no writer and this blog was not meant to be read by everyone.

Cheers!

DMD

Nostalgia and first post

August 17, 2012, 1:45 AM

It has been almost a year since I became 18 years old.  As cliché as it might sound, last year passed like a wink of an eye for me but looking back, a lot of things happened- happiness expressed, sadness augmented, lessons learned.  As I spend more years here in the University of the Philippines- I can feel how life wants to teach me a lesson.  The past year has been so intoxicating for me and it was during that year when my patience was severely tested, when I realized that my study habit wasn’t enough to fulfill the demand of my course, when I learned how to manage my time, when I taught myself how to find joy and hope amidst the orchestration of frustrating events.  Looking back further, I would reminisce my “high school self”- a girl full of optimism and hope and whose greatest concern that time was to study in UP.  Now, here I am, in the University of my dreams, drinking at least two cups of coffee each day to battle the peculiarly strong temptation of the bed, sleeping an average of 2-3 hours per night, making the library my everyday tambayan, facing the anxiety of “terror” professors, keeping up with the competence of BS BAA and forcing every inch of my body and mind not to waste any precious time.  The words I used were understatements of what I am experiencing now.  I think no words can describe the feeling of handling the life in UP.  The “high school self” in me was nowhere to be found.  Maybe, it was forced to hide because of the pressure that continues to engulf myself.  Worse, maybe, pressured killed it.  Yes, I am mentally and emotionally tortured here.  Yet, studying in UP is no regret.  It made me open to opportunities, made me learn from my own mistakes, taught me how to strive.  It is striving for the best and when you reached the “best”, there will always be something better, so you need to strive some more.  UP life is a never-ending story of striving- of pouring out every effort and exceeding what you once thought were your limitations.  Shallow and funny it might seem, but I would like to compare myself to a sponge once full of water.  The longer I stay here, the tighter the squeeze in me is.  You know what’s amazing?  Once upon a time, I thought I was just this sponge that after being squeezed hardly for a certain period of time will eventually lose every amount of liquid it has.  UP proved and taught me wrong.  Inside me are metaphorical “waters” waiting to be unleashed and yes, I need to be squeezed hardly for that “water” to come out.  It’s easier said than done, everyone. It requires a passionate sense of commitment and determination.  It’s the commitment that will willingly forego any supposedly happy days or friends’ outing to finish a case analysis or study for an exam.  It’s the determination that might shed some tears after failure and frustration but is willing to continue, no matter what happens.  UP honed me to have that commitment and determination.  Someday, I know this will all be worth it- the sleepless nights, the cups of coffee, the pressure, the stress, the tears.  Someday.