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Go, Julfe!
03.23.09 (4:41 am)   [edit]
Wet bodies, sexy hips, never-ending fun, luscious food, and specially-made tropical drink are once again carpeting the glinting, powdery beach of the country’s best tropical island. Boracay.

It’s heaven to note that in my more than 24-year stay here on earth, I’ll be witnessing the best of summer and have a share of fun in the island.

I’m a natural-born, full, and not to mention, blue-bloodied Aklanon. My Bisaya accent, outlandish taste, and Hiligaynon fluency can testify to that, but I hardly had a great time in the island.

I seldom went here if not for a once-in-two-year Boy Scout Jamboree, a self-proclaimed tour guiding of a visiting friend or a relative though I barely know a place or a friend in the island, or a forced solicit of approval of my mom or dad to believe I would be doing an exclusive charity work with my elementary or high school friends for the welfare of my future and the society. And more of the usual, good-sounding endless advices of “take cares and avoid this, avoid that”, which later boiled down to one great, Boracay get-away.

It is during those times when lying seems to be a great provider of joy, no, ecstasy. It is during those times that I realize and made fully aware that all of praise-worthy litanies and adjectives that can be paired with the kindest word called charity could be heartwarming, deceiving, enjoyable, and at the same time, dangerous.

Anyway, Boracay is about 30 kilometers or one-hour away from my hometown Tangalan but I hadn’t had the chance to stay more than 24 hours and seldom had the luxury to have a taste of tempting dishes, experience awesome breakthroughs of grand hotel facilities, or bring home a remarkable souvenir to brag for my coming in the island.

But this summer season, I want to be ready. I should be ready.  A lot of condoms, energy drink, give-aways, beer will be for free. So good luck to me.

1 Comments
 
reviving
03.18.09 (2:20 am)   [edit]

it's been a long while since my last update of this page. a lot of things already happened.

see? my last post was all about the feelings i had before leaving Philippines to work in Kuwait last June 2007 but after more than a year and a month, August last year, i'm back in the Philippines because of some inevitable circumstances and, i believe, a justifiable cause.

after working as a host, food server, bartender, and restroom cleaner in an italian restaurant called Carino's Italian Grill in Kuwait, and later assigned at an American resto called Big Al's, i left Kuwait and went back to the philippines with an empty pocket.

in fact, i even asked my father, with unbearable shame, to send me P10,000 for my plane ticket back to the Philippines, in our province in Aklan.

i had to go home or if not i might not be able to go home sane. i know it. the pressure in my work was as hard as sweeping the dust off the desert and waxing the parched ground under the scorching heat of the sun.

some of my fellow OFWs had been good and supportive to me maybe because they had to or they really were but almost 80 per cent of them were self-centered and envious with anybody they thought had the edge in anything.

i may not convince myself or other people that my decision of leaving Kuwait was not a sign of irresponsibility but I don’t care.

i’m safe home.
2 Comments
 
i just hope suicide is not the greatest escape
06.08.07 (5:41 am)   [edit]
This past few days, as I was too busy washing my clothes and preparing the necessary things and papers I need to bring with me abroad, I had this sudden strange feeling, a mixture of fear and guilt I suppose, over whether I really wanted to go abroad or not. I am confused, not really afraid, of how my life would turn to be if I am already there. I’ve been dreaming of going abroad, yes, but not this way, not because of this is my dream alone. The thought of living this dream and pursuing it the way I don’t really want to, and its repercussions make it harder for me. I should have thought about this before. I took Bachelor of Arts Major in Journalism at UST, graduated last March 2006 with the help and mercy of God. With that four stressing but victorious years, I left my kind-hearted classmates with fine memories, and finally met my parents and my dream with bundles of new words and realizations at heart. At long last, I thought to myself, I would be a journalist, something that I myself had never imagined I would be. But right now, as I wake up each day here in Manila waiting for our agency to inform me about the availability of my plane ticket to Kuwait— to work as a food server and a host at a restaurant— the thought of it makes my day and my future days too dark for myself, it as if night is squeezed inside my iridescent pot of dreams, and later blot even the redness of my blood. My love for writing is just like a mother’s love for her son. Back in college though, (even until now) I find it hard putting words in paper the way my classmates do. I always praise them the way they use words correctly, or the way they invent them to look as if it really is the precise word or set of words to use. It amazes me how they write them as if they are talking and acting in front of you, as if you are physically present to the places they describe, and sometimes even convince you that the conventions you have are actually not the conventions that they know and respect. They are such powerful writers. How much more the way they speak their brains and imaginations and rationality out! I used to stutter a lot during recitations— it is as if you are speaking live in front of a broadcasting network, in front of lawyers, that makes you forget the shape of the earth, that it’s better to give up or withdraw a scintillating, good orgasm in exchange of avoiding shame you will get when you have nothing convincing or something witty to say. (I know you won’t believe that the last phrase with that orgasm stuff is true. I am just exaggerating but that’s how my classmates actually are; they are halimaw-witted, but of course do not look like one.) But that usually happens though. I just laugh the thought of it; it’s not that big deal in my case. I know my classmates are used to it. I always hide that envious feeling of being halimaw at speaking well if not with full fluency, of having those great and odd minds, the way they put life and reality in words, and give them life inside paragraphs. It even amaze me the way those tiny punctuations convey my classmates’ deepest feelings, the way they prick, the way they move themselves and the reader, the way my professors agree in utter admiration. But now, I find it odd, ridiculous how I managed to choose to leave that promising job, and later find out that I also leave my closest friends who patiently search for those pastures we once started to discover, through bottles of beer, in front of videoke machine. We used to talk a lot about politics and the way our government leads us and I want my classmates to know that I really learned a lot from them. Add to it the sexual fantasies and student life’s ups and downs; tips on how to date women, or at least make them notice you. The spirit of opened beers and died cigarettes shared with my closest friends remind me how useless it is, if not totally regretful, to pursue and then leave writing— it is like catching those comforting whisper with your fist from your loved one, and sending them back to the air. I can still remember that fateful night before I left home in Aklan last April 19. Everything is not yet carefully planned though I have anticipations of my need to go back to Manila immediately whenever the agency ask me to do so, to complete my medical exam and submit requirements. We are in the kitchen, the three of us; I was with my Mom and Dad. We used to talk a lot and as I can see it, they somehow agree with the things I say, or the things I am forced to say, or what I want to do— (after all, it is always they and their dreams for us that always matter to me. I had never dreamed a dream for myself alone; God knows how much I love my family more than I do with myself. I believe I had never been selfish to them.) — or maybe they agree to every thing that I say because they do not want to frustrate me, or maybe they avoid to say things against what I believe things are— that kind of conversation, a father-mother-son talk rarely happens; I used to live and grow apart from them. Seated at the kitchen are the three of us whom I consider the king, the queen, and I, the mighty jack of the family. The king and the queen reminded the jack to always ask God’s guidance, that jack should always be careful because the king and queen could not bear a dying or killed jack. Bottles of beer and kinilaw shrimps laid before us can testify to how my Mom and Dad spoke their love to me. Their words are moving just like my classmates’— those words that seep inside you and inspire you to dream and try harder. I can even taste how the dying shrimps get carried away; I can taste the salt of their tears. Before we bid goodnight with each other, not verbally though, I never knew that would be the last, that all I can do now, right now, is to hope for our mutual safety to see each other again. I hardly slept that night. I thanked God, I prayed to Him which I often do but for an unknown reason or intervention, made my tears stream, that I did not usually do because I had long been convinced that crying is only for kids, that adult ones should remain strong and hold their tears, their heart should be hard as steel. But I know that those lines of tears are special— they do not usually come out without reason. The next morning, my heart broke. The agency called, that same day, I had to go back to Manila. With not too many baggage at hand, I left the place I hope I should have stayed longer; the home that I realize now, right now, I never had spent a half of my existence. I always long for its simplicity and being natural— cold when it’s raining outside, and as hot as Paris Hilton during summer, that even our rattling electric fan though working and somehow fanning itself still feels hot. There’s nothing too special with our family, we are just a typical family in the province who are used to adjust meager income of the parents for their family to sustain. It is just that ours is a big family— I should have ten siblings, but unfortunately three were already dead— so I have seven siblings left— I am the eldest and proud of it. The little ones, at their young age drink beer, and we usually do that (but not when there are a lot of people watching), with our numerous cousins whose names I sometimes forget. Our home usually smells that of dried fish— that’s because fish is what we used to cook— we are mad to go fishing— me, my Dad and uncles, our cousins, and even our moms. We are “crazily” mad about fish and fishing. I am just too thankful to God that our family tend to avoid to be and to live like them, those fishes— who go separately when they are old enough to swim and discover oceans for themselves, that when they do grow and come back to where they are born, they no longer remember their past or their family. They even eat each other. Our kitchen sink is usually smeared with sardine sauces, our frying pans with strands of noodles. When I was still in elementary and high school, I used to like them much— pale noodle soup, sardines, and dried fish during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. No complain is heard, only the clinks and scratches of forks and spoons, sometimes a shriek from any of my siblings because his/her part of the viand is grabbed from his/her plate. But I loved that scene— how I long now to have the ineffable feelings of that young age. The sky was gloomy when Negros Navigation’s Virgin Mary, at 5pm of April 19, 2007, finally pushed itself against the waves. Waves are sometimes cunning, you do not know if they want you to go back or force you to go forth, just like the waving hands of a member of the family, or a friend left behind Dumaguit pier gates— they raise their hand to wave, the other hand to wipe their furious tears. Or if not holding to that position, clasping hard that glinting steel at the gates to control tears from falling, with utter sadness of shouting— be careful! to their departing loved ones, their weak but striving voices barely heard because of the waves’ splashing against the ship’s grinding engine. --or barely heard because the one leaving, his faculty of hearing— just like I was then, is already occupied with his own sob. If only ships have feelings that can absorb and bear its passengers’ crying hearts, if only ships are easily touched with this dreadful and emotional scene— it would probably drown itself to stop families from departing, or probably trick the captain and his map to go back where it once docked. That night, while still inside the ship, I observed things and people, as I believe they also did at me or at our fellow passengers. I figured out that every passenger had the same throbbing hearts, that we share the same sentiments, the same thoughts of our family, for our family, that we won’t see each other for so long, only voices over telephone or a limited words reflected from one’s phone’s screen. Those feelings of emptiness which are once occupied and satiated with their loved ones’ smile, or their favorite place’s welcoming warmth of air— the things that they can actually call their own, or their own. It is sad to think that sooner or later, the next day, the day when the ship finally docks to Manila, the fresh wounds they have and the emptiness they bear will be emptied by time and be filled with new ones, beautiful and soothing at first glimpse and first touch— gradually, which will then heal those wounds and fill those empty spaces in your heart. A harder to accept reality is that sooner or later, the places we left, the feelings we both shared and the people we learned to love and abandoned, even our own true self will no longer be our own. Someday, just as I see myself in the next days and the four long and struggling years in Kuwait, I shall see myself seated in a corner— not once but maybe hundred or thousand times— my body bent, my face resting at my knees, my hands clasping, embracing no one but my own. This I feel will surely happen to me, or to anybody I learned to love. In fact, I slowly feel it now.
1 Comments
 
pinakakawawa
12.16.06 (12:34 am)   [edit]
Hayaan mo muna akong magmura. Putang-ina.

 

Kung hindi lang talaga masarap uminom, itataga ko talaga sa batong hindi na ako iinom.
Kagabi ay pumunta ako sa gym. Kahit late ako sa opisina, hindi ko nagawang i-set-off yung time ko para makumpleto ang 9 required hour dahil naghabol akong makauwi nang maaga makapag-gym lang. Di na rin ako nakasama sa Racqueteers sa Cubao para sa sportsfest badminton ng kumpanya para makapag-gym lang. Hindi na rin ako nag-mall para makapag-gym lang. Pero anong  sawimpalad dahil nang dumating ako sa bahay at matapos makipagkuwentuhan sa boardmates ko, tinext ako ng kaibigan ko na may inuman sa gym.
Inuman! Bigla akong na-excite. Tang-ina, may INUMAN!
Pero naiisipi kong kailangan ko munang mag-gym dahil mahigit isang linggo na rin akong di nakapagbuhat dahil sa tindi ng schedule at trabaho.
Pero okay naman kasi sa gym raw ang inuman.
So pumunta ako. At nakikain. Sa wakas, nakakain na rin ako ng hapunan. Madalas kasing isang beses na lang akong nakakain sa isang araw. Ang dahilan, maniwala man kayo o hindi, simple lang ang dahilan. Wala akong pera. WALA AKONG PERA!
E sa wala akong pera e. Marami akong utang. Tinalo ko pa ang pinakamahirap na empleyadong may-asawa at anim na anak dahil ako, single na nga at wala nang ibang inaatupag kundi sarili lang e natuto pang mangutang. Sa katunayan, ang natanggap kong sahod noong katorse ng Disyembre, pinambayad ko lang sa utang ko. Lahat. PEro may natira pa naman sa akin. Isanlibo. Tae di ba?
Balik tayo sa Red Horse. So ‘yon na nga. Pagkatapos naming kumain, busug na busog ako. Kasama ko si Jeff, si Dan, yung isang kalbo na hindi ko na matandaan ang pangalan, si Kuya Rommel na may-ari ng gym, at si Mailyn.
So hindi na ako nakapag-gym dahil nabusog ako.
Nag-aaway na naman kami ng utak ko kung bakit kasi kumain ako ng marami. Di tuloy ako makakasundot (“sundot” ang terminolohiya sa “madaliang pagbubuhat”).
At yun na nga, uminom kami. UMINOM KAMI. At natuwa--- tuwang-tuwa na naman si gago.
Masaya ang kuwentuhan. Mayroon pang isa kaming kasamang hindi ko akalaing ganoon pala kadaldal. Ipinaglihi sa karaoke. Isipin mo ba naming hindi ko ‘yun kailanman narinig na nagsalita sa gym pero nung gabing iyon, shit, tang-ina talaga, tinalo ako. Tahimik na lang kami e. Sumasayaw-sayaw pa siya sa gitna at namimisil ng utong.
Nakaubos ako ng maraming Red Horse. Masarap. Niyayaya ko pa ‘yung iba kong kasama sa videokehan, as if naman andami kong pera, pero di na sila sumama.
Ang topic ng gabi: pag-ibig, panliligaw, paghahanap ng trabaho, disiplina, trabaho sa opisina, at Japan. Pero dahil may mga pasok pa yung mga kainuman ko kinabukasan, umuwi sila at umuwi na rin ako. Pagdating ko sa bahay, medyo matagal pa bago ko naramdaman ang pagkahilo.
Shit, PUTANG-INA, LINTE, YAWA, BAO, IBID. Bilat inana. SAkit talag sa ulo. Parang mabibiyak. Parang kahit lapitan ako at yayain ni Kristin Kreuk, Diana Zubiri, at Katrina Halili ay mahihirapan ako. Tang ina talaga. Kahit anong gawing posisyon ay nasusuka ako. Ang init pa ng pakiramdam ko. Pinagpapawisan ako sa likod na akala mo ay hirap na hirap ako sa pagtae.
Ang hirap. Hanggang ngayong 4:15 na ng hapon, Disyembre 16, ang sakit pa rin ng ulo ko. Kaya kahit anong yaya ng mga kaopisina ko kaninang lunch na uminom kami bago pumasok sa opisina at 1pm, hindi talaga ako uminom. Tumatanbling na yung San Mig Light na masarap at nakapang-iinit sa harap ko ay hindi ko pa rin ininom.

Uminom na rin ako ng Biogesic pero masakit pa rin ang ulo ko. Badtrip. May lakad pa naman kami ng mga kaibigan ko mamaya. At malamang may inuman. Siyempre, libre. E wala nga kasi akong pera. Sana gumaling na ang sakit ng ulo ko. Nang makainom na ako mamaya. Kawawa ako di ba?
0 Comments
 
busy boy
12.12.06 (1:35 am)   [edit]

Ten fleeting days to go and I'll finally go home to our province. Every day is an exciting countdown to leave my lifeless and tremendous routine in the city. Though I haven't bought our ticket yet, I am still confident that it will not hinder my thirst to finally go home. It sounds as if I am really struggling here.

There's no doubt about it. I always feel tired really. I hardly get a 6-hour sleep each day. I am lucky enough if I get 4 or 5 hours of sleep each night.

How can I possibly adjust my time by the way? I have a lot to do; I engage a lot on the things that I know are not really that significant. But I want it; I want them to be a part of my routine. Here goes my everyday not-so-wasted time(s):

5:30 am - my yellow and glittering alarm clock is banging inside my ear canal to my eardrum so I usually wake up during this time

6:00 - after 30 minutes of watching tv (Unang Hirit), and a lot of sound trip or meditation, I finally go to CR to pee, poo-poo, and take a bath. (and sometimes, depending in my mood, my 30 to 40 minute stay in the CR is extended; don't ask why)

6:40 - time to go out of the CR, others are already irate waiting for their turn to do the same thing

7:20 - I am probably ready to go to office

8:15 or 8:30 - I'm in the office now! At last, after a few bumps on somebody's head (haha, exagg) and a lot of skin to skin and heartbeat contact, I'm on my table mixing my coffee (Great Taste), 500 ml C2, and raising my fork with Lucky Me! Supreme. But this does not usually happen though. I usually come to office at 9 or 11! What?  This 9 or 10 or 11 arrival usually sucks and scares and shits the crap out of me.

Given that I come early at 8:30 or 9, I start my day editing or assigning or suggesting illustrations for journals in specific subjects.

10 - Recess time until 10:15

12 pm! Lunch time babies! Until 1.

3pm - Recess. Again. I always wait for this especially if I want to chat with my friends or check my email or friendster account. You know, there are a lot of people e-mailing me.

5 - time to go home! Hurrah! At looooong fucking last (and lust)! The long office day is over. But heck--- HAVE I COME TO OFFICE EARLY FOR ME TO ENJOY THE BENEFIT OF 5 O'CLOCK EXIT?

6 - Usually, San Mig Light or Red Horse proudly stands in front of me.

8:30 - I usually hurry up to look for a jeepney to Blumentritt! I need to go to gym or play play badminton! The calories are pumped right inside my stomach; their spirits are screaming right inside my head: SET US FREE! ----OR---- Red Alert time with my brother until 1am! Never mind and/or forget the supper or the midnight snack.

11 pm - Terribly TIRED, DROWSY, and POWERLESS. Time to wash my underwear and socks. Or if I have still the guts and the power, watch tv.

1:00 am - after saying a prayer, time to be vigilant and observant. Is there somebody awake? Is it too dark not to be noticed dealing with Mr. Bate? Then go!

Come another day.
0 Comments