Journal of Dreams: A prologue

(My First blog Entry for 2021 about my dreams and a possible prologue of a dream examination series - Valred Olsim)

Growing up, I dream in my sleep a lot - the dreams are vivid, very real that they have profound effect in my waking life. Nevertheless, I learned to shrug them off because I thought that they are common experiences by people.

My view on dreams changed after my father died. After we buried him in Montanosa and we were about to drive home to La Trinity, I took an afternoon nap in his bed at their old family house. In my dream, he was assisting all of us in a convoy telling us that we can all go home, that it is now okay to go home. I was calling him to join us but he just stared at us. Then I woke up drenched in tears shouting “Papa!”. I dreamed of him frequently since then – the scenes were always about riding in a vehicle together, or touring around…the destinations were always unclear, hazy. Yet, these dreams have given me comfort in my grieving moments.

The experience made me value dreams better. Hence, I started paying more attention to what my dreams mean, not necessarily as indicators of the future or as a paranormal phenomena, but of how my subconscious work, or how my internal turmoil plays in my being. Perhaps, one of the example is the common dream of floating, or not arriving in a specific destination, which probably meant that I feel that my hopes of accomplishing my dreams are put on hold, or the feeling of unresolved goals. In recognizing these deep emotions, I can spot the source of my frustrations and stresses.

However, although I consider myself a logical person, I cannot help but be amazed on how dreams tend to serve as a warning to future happenings. For instance, prior to receiving the news of one of my life’s biggest failures, I already dreamed of being bitten by a snake. The fear it brought, and the huge feeling of loss actually happened. They say it is a difficult spiritual experience that we need to experience in order to grow. Whether it is a warning for an impending failure, or a subconscious scream of opening my eyes to my misguided confidence, dreams have become as much as a reality as my real waking life.

Last night, after a day that puts me in one of my career’s biggest challenge that involved being singled-out in a charge, I dreamed of joining (or being forced?) in a bicycle race. In my dream, I hesitated at first, telling the participants that I have not trained for the strenuous physical activity. Then, I went along with it for the experience, not expecting anything. Then, a steep hill climb which required carrying bicycles in a muddy uphill trail happened. With that, I somehow caught up with the rest of them who are more than 30 participants.

On my way to the top where I breezed through most of them for some reason, I was congratulated by faceless organizers telling me that I won 7th place. Although I didn’t win the top three ranks, I felt that I won because compared to them, I was just an occasional biker where they are real racers (Plus, the number 7 which is my favorite number, is a symbol of triumph). As a bonus, the dream showed that people paid attention to me and expressed their fondness of me. Number 7 also meant that one has spiritually matured after a long span of learning cycle.  

Whether this dream is a reflection or message of what is in store for me, or an expression of my confidence of my life quote that “whatever happens, we will not only survive but we will win”, I will take this dream anytime especially in our preset challenging situations.

A dream can become reality, and reality can become a dream...

Marching in January

The rank and file workers start the year with stories from their own hometown vacations, while those who have no other “ili” can only listen in curiosity. By nature, we prolong the bliss and joy of pure family time and rest period, by talking about them. The boys went to their mother’s Kapangan, the home of the Igorot Grand March, though they are also from Sagada, Buguias and Bauko, and Bontoc. Of course, their real home is still in La Trinidad and Baguio City.

Then the chat surprisingly turned deeper when “grand march” was mentioned, Cath (recalling her thesis) concluded that said Kapangan’s pride (grand march) is the result of the past’s culturally deprived generation, “the children will be admonished for simply holding the gong then”.  “…that is why they needed an outlet or alternative for their social yearnings” I completed, as the culture (though originally Polonaise) is like the Benguet’s “kinoboyan” which undeniably came from  western influence.

A debate with cultural purists is futile though I do not really have a quarrel with them. When the world spent centuries breaking barriers, and diverse colors have been woven to single human fabrics, it would be treacherous to live in the frozen bubbles of delusion. Our multi-cultural children and their culture are the evidence that the world has moved on, there is really not much things as pure anymore. Yes, we look back to appreciate, and learn, maybe reminisce…but we do not stay there for long, we have to march forward.

Our local grand march is characterized by unity (holding hands), and optimism/ perseverance (marching), which are the keys to a better workplace, organization, or community. The culture is perfect tone-setter for the whole year.

Today is a new beginning to improve. As long as we are alive there is hope to change ourselves, if not the world, for the better. January is a time of investments for the whole year, so we have to hit it running. Let us start marching in January.

Year 2014

Year 2014

I’m a 2-1-4 guy (Feb.14 or 2/14). When I bet on the lottery, I always bet on these numbers. 214 or “Am I real?” (2-am, 1-I, 4-real) is one of my favorite songs. Most ID nos. that were issued to me revolved around or contained these numbers. That is why it is no surprise that I view 2014 as “my” year.

Last year, I imagined everything in my favor for the upcoming year; finish Law and take the 2014 Bar examinations, complete my masters, and take my Phd, take a good appointive position, invest on something, and perhaps, live the life I earned. The year 2014, without a question ‘should’ be ‘my’ year.

Fate, or some divine hands must have had a different opinion. To my shock, I found out that I will be a father to a sweet little boy. Although I won’t ever regret such happening, the incident complicated a lot of things –relationships, work, connections…name it. Even though I won some small battles, a string of unforeseen events made me think that I will, imminently, lose the war; a judge failed me two times in a subject which is likened to a P.E. subject of the undergrad, my masters adviser had a research at Tacloban and no adviser was available, I turned down an appointive position because I expected to take the 2014 Bar, I lost time, money, and even property in the most inconceivable and most funny way possible to my deep regret and distress. It seems that the coming 2014, or its anticipation, is a curse to me.

Maybe it’s that clutter that made me stop for awhile in my teaching job, and to plea for a ‘roving’ schedule in my community service position. Although I have remedied most of my troubles, the 2014 timeline I spoke of and expected was delayed. For weeks I stayed at home and have gotten myself consistently drunk to forget the stress and depression of it all. I was a mess. A failure.

Then one morning, Vash, my little boy, crawled to me and looked at me with pleading eyes. In that moment, I understood what he meant; In all the years I had, I maintained the moonlight bandit that I am, the selfish prick who disregarded emotions after emotions, and the egoistic gunslinger who’d put his fun first before obvious priorities. I realized that 2014 is not really for me, but for others…most especially my boy.

Maybe that is the plan, the purpose of this surprising chaos: so I can spend my 2014 days baby-sitting. A year to be spent playing with him, feeding him, changing his diapers, and rushing to bath him on lazy mornings. Maybe all those things happened because this year is supposed to be a time for me to watch him do his own battles - his first crawl, first words, first steps...

Maybe I really owe this year to him, because maybe, it is  ‘his’ year and not mine.

My Bucket List

Surely if you have watched the movie having the same title as this article (starred by Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson), you should know what I will be talking about. A “bucket list” is practically a term for a list of “things that one wishes to do before he dies” or before one “kicks the bucket”. “Bucket” because we acknowledge that life is limited and our duty is to fill it with things – the good, the bad. The term originates from existential influence, although this existed in almost everyone’s thoughts from early history.

In this generation where modern lifestyle and, even environment suggest a shorter lifespan, younger people like us must have something in our minds to do, to become, or to have, before we kick the bucket of this very short life

.

Life for me is like attending a feast. Knowing my stomach’s limits, I will only have a taste of a little bit of everything – a little bit of grilled pork, fish, the cake, the salad, the steamed siomai – before I get full. It is the same with life; I know that I only have a limited time in this world that is why I want to experience a lot of things before I leave…before I kick the bucket and die.

I want to try a lot of things; to be a student, a teacher, an artist, musician, a bartender, politician, engineer, lawyer,..to be a father…, to write a book, to compose a song, to solve a complex math problem, to invent something, to travel…and the list goes on. I don’t want to grow old with regrets – of ‘should haves’ and ‘could haves’. I want to live.

I have a long list…..

1.       I want to love and be loved and return. (done!...Maybe, I think so..haha)

2.       To write a book.

3.       To have an art gallery.

4.       To have a band. (done!)

5.       To be a teacher. (done!)

6.       To finish 7 courses. (a lot more to go)

7.       To be a father. (happily done!)

8.       To be a ‘good’ father. (in progress)

9.       To travel in 14 countries. (11 more to go!)

10.   To sponsor a scholarship program.

11.   To create an artwork. (done!)

12.   To compose a song. (done!)

13.   To become a politician (done!)

14.   To try becoming a laborer. (done!)

15.   To be a contestant of a TV show.

16.   To join the American ninja warrior! (haha)

17.   To become a Lawyer!

18.   To earn my Ph.D.

19.   To build my own dream house!

20.   To age like Robin Padilla.

21.   To have my own blog. (done!)

22.   To have a ‘cool’ relationship with my son.

23.   To try bungy jumping and sky diving.

24.   To become a head of a public office.

25.   To invent something.

26.   To buy a mini- bus, replace the seats with beds, and travel with some friends.

27.   To make a relevant TV documentary.

28.   To sponsor a very grand reunion!

29.   To become an inspiration.

30.   To become contented if not happy J
       
      
      As they say, the last number in the bucket should be “contentment”.  That is what we do when when life throws us a bone. It is also the most important thing. A person who had experienced a lot of things but remains to be not contented is worse than that who experience a few but cherishes it with his own life. Life need not be grand and complicated, but if we are given the chance…should we not try some new things?

Sapay Koma: "August"

Almost two years after an experience of loss, tragedy, hopelessness, and even the toll of having enemies, I barely recognized my dreams and my goals. Everything became bleak, uncertain, almost confusing. To re-examine one’s life must be one of the most difficult stage of moving on. After my father’s death in that gloomy August, I lost the passion and drive to become what I dreamed of - I was depressed. Failure, it seems to me, has become a familiar visitor, a friend which stays, not really to taunt, but to keep me out from the brink of insanity. “This is life”, I muse from time to time.

But I’m not a kid anymore. I write about hope, and damn put my belief on it - that no matter how wrong things seem, it will always turn out alright in the end. I felt good about that idea, who wouldn’t? Acceptance, however, is most easily said than done. My father’s death has become the death of one of my dream’s purpose – to impress him, to prove that I can do things, to prove that I’m not immature. But then, all becomes irrelevant in the face of death.   That day, I also died. It is not what I want, who would want that anyway? but perhaps...it is what I need.

What did I need? What did a self-aggrandizing irresponsible prick want? Surely, I was heavily confused back then. It may have changed in the last two years. To a certain extent, I hoped that I gained a sensibility common to those who have experienced grief, or loss – humility, among others, and a deeper appreciation of life. A couple of years may not have totally changed me, nor was my experience the ultimate tragedy that may shatter one and mend the same anew to a better one (there are countless others who went through worse), I would like to believe that in those years, I did not just lose a life…that I also reclaimed one myself.

What’s the rush in August? I always ask. But, before I tell the story of August, one may wonder about that first week of December. It may not be that hyped month of hearts, but nevertheless a very interesting one; and that cold merry night after the shared boozed laughter…and two lonely people decided to spend a long special moment together. Ah, how can I make it sound romantic? The story is rarely found on the sheets and the pillows. The real story started when we received the biggest surprise of our lives.

I may have also surprised everyone. And believe me, I know the repercussions. But, for what it is worth, and after the painful gossip of politics, regretful comments, burning bridges, and what have you-- of ‘what ifs’ and ‘whys’ ,and, even if I may hurt that other one who might be waiting for me on the other side of the world, or even that other one in our neighborhood, how can I deny the existence of a very special gift? How can't I yearn to feel his first kicks in his mom's tummy? To see his sleepy eyes on his first day?  I couldn't. For me, telling the world, and having him in our home, and being a father, a good father, is the right thing to do. Even when my life is really full of wrongs, I wouldn’t dare add this on top of it. To tell the world that I have a son, is one of the better things I did in a long time. Indeed, it is, really, the right thing to do.

What’s my rush in August? Two years ago, I dreaded this rainy month for taking away one valuable life from us...But from that, it reminded me that everything has its own time and reason -- the rains may take life away, but it may also nourish and give another one. This August, the night must finally give way to the day, and just like the seasons, there is a time to be a kid, and a time to have one. Life, can't be meaningless after all...

                            - I will always be here Vash Gray !

Valentines day sucks sometimes :)

The fire police in the truck were chuckling, their job was already done when they got here. Apparently, of all people who might need them, they responded to the house of a Barangay Official (who is supposed to be one who responds to fire incidents). Alerts are high for them because King’s College threw in a spectacle of fireworks display, and the fire trucks, at last, will be roused to its duty. I get to beat myself from the analogy that I was supposed to be at the college to assist my co-teachers in the culminating program of the Foundation day. But, here I am in a wet short pants stained with charcoal because I have to watch the fireworks display from the elevated road and forget that I also left some flames beside the stock house that stored piles of dry wood.

So, what went wrong? The answer is simple, it is February 14. One of the most commercialized and sensationalized date in the history of humans, and fortunately/unfortunately, the date in which I have to be always identified with. My name is inseparable to ‘Valentine’s day’ because not only did my parents adopted “Val”, but also painted it “Red” to permanently etch that event’s color in my person. At least I was not named ‘Valentino’. 

Five hours ago, I was giving replies to text messages that I am in Manila, even though I’m just in my bed munching some chips while watching the TV, and hoping that this day will end. Earlier, I even applied for a birthday leave despite the knowledge that all members of the faculty are needed in the school event. I want to avoid people, avoid meetings…I wanted to be alone – just like last year, and even years before that.

Why do I have to do that? I have learned to run away from Valentines day, because of the stress of it – the high school pressure of having a date, and the jealousy that one feels when popular guys receives tons of love letters, while you stand there with ‘forever alone’ guys contemplating about your sad ‘fate’, or the stress of impressing someone, even if you are aware that you have just spent a week’s allowance.

I’ve been there, the ‘unpopular guy’, the ‘fat boy’ whose supposed sole purpose in the world is to be made fun of, and be a character of somebody’s joke. It’s not that I have not overgrown that ‘victim-mentality’, but I am surprised that even after 10 years, my tendencies in life are shaped by my interesting experiences in elementary and high school.

Sometimes, guys like me will never find ourselves perfect for someone. That is why even if we have grown up from that awkward appearance of highschool and start having girlfriends, we break it up because in the back of our minds; we never found ourselves to be lovable, and we have to break things up before the girl does. Of course, girls will passionately react to this, but let’s save that for a later ‘lovechika’ kunwari (haha). A girl once told me that I am afraid to get hurt that’s why I avoid relationships and commitment, and perhaps, she is right.

So, again, what went wrong? It is the date (period). If only it wasn't Feb. 14, I could’ve made it to our school event and not have to burn some old letters (and memories). I wouldn't have run outside to watch the fireworks display, and would have not forgotten that I am burning something which would have prevented the burning of the whole stock house, and would not have exposed myself to a bunch of grinning people who knew that it was my birthday and I was just hiding in my room to celebrate it. I can only tell them that; “Nu sabado tau nga mangan etoy ayan me inya?” (hahaha!) See my point when I said something about stress? 

What comedy! That I have to ironically burn a big candle light (the stock house) to celebrate my natal day (sabi ng mga nurse), and have to excite the emotions of the whole community on the sight of it.

Tsk tsk tsk…This is one of those instances when I hate Valentines Day!

P.S. : NO ONE GOT HURT IN THE FIRE ACCIDENT AND THE ‘TAMBAYS’ DID A GOOD JOB IN SAVING WHAT REMAINED, THEY SHOULD APPLY AS FIREMEN (Although I have to buy 2 by 2s and Empelights afterwards..”Dayta gamin ti madi na aglibre!’ hahaa) 

"Squatter"

He counted the men with powerful tools and concluded that they are almost as many as the thirty armed uniforms that came to assist them. The resonance of the beating and piercing instruments reminded him of the same sight five years ago – when ‘they’ demolished his make-shift home upon the court's order. The scars on his head are still throbbing.

His home is similar to the first house they beat with their metal claws; tearing the tin roof apart, kicking the wooden frames, flaking all the tin sheets which served as its cheap wall. In exactly five minutes, they’re done with it. A man with a plastic crown pointed towards his direction and for a moment he frost.

“Ket kasanu? Inya ngay garud ket saan yu nga kanya daytoy lote? Apay Ada TRO yu….?” they approached his home.

He didn’t really understood what TRO is, but, the sight of the gang with big metal tools clearly scared him. He understood that he has to go. “Sir, mabalin nga iparwar tayu pay dagitoy usar ko?”, he can only plead. The engineer batted his eye, he knew that the guy with a plastic crown hated his job. This job.

After pulling out his things, he reminisce the places where he found the bed sheets, the old plastic chair, the frying pan…even that old calendar with a pretty woman. He had felt joy on each event he picked those things because he can add them to his little kingdom. He was, after all,  born poor and had lived with his mother before she died. He didn't have a family since then. He came to the city years ago and managed to survive by doing any work that requires physical labor...it is the only thing that he can offer - his arms, his shoulder, his hips, his legs. These, he knew, won't last for a very long time.

The gang members with metal tools were laughing. It has something to do with one of them who joked about “squatters”. He is familiar with the term because he had heard it often, and have learned to shun it. However, he couldn't understand why one can laugh even on the sight of a grieving person. He only needed less than ten square meters for his life – a place to stay, a place to hide against the sun,  the chill, the rain. 

He heard that the owner already has a lot of houses. He only prayed for a box which he can run to. He wandered away and wept.

He asked God why some people have everything, and some have none; like his existence, his dirt-like existence. 

Another teacher's day

My student headed immediately to her seat with that stiff and noticeable heaviness. I gave her an 80 and I sensed that I have to do the ‘drill’ again. “Class..”, I waited for them to tone down, “…if you think that you deserved more than what I’ve given, please talk to me…”. This is just one of the ‘teacher’s drill’ that I try to avoid as much as possible; giving grades comes next to grading their papers. “If we have to adjust them because your scholarship depends on it…perhaps you can talk to me so we can come up with a way to adjust it…although, you have to invest extra hours on it”. I was consciously searching for a loophole in teaching ethics to justify what I just said, to no avail. “I’m so kind..”, I whispered to myself -  I wish that I was my instructor in college. I encountered heartless teachers; teachers who will fail you because you were unlucky enough to be 'targeted' in their 'dart-grading system', or because your haircut simply irritates them, and I came to the conclusion that indeed, I am still ‘nice’.

What happened with being contented with 75? I recalled that I even failed my Statistics subject, dropped two other subjects because the teachers are "mean" (plus my college-rock-and roll-habits and absences), and 80 is a depressing grade? Back in our days, we celebrate 75 like how we celebrate birthdays. So what is it today? I decided to finish giving the rest of my class their good/bad news before I resume my ‘lecture’.

“Grades are just numbers”, I continued, trying to recall random lines in drunken debates I had with college friends. “You know,  I can give you 98 or even 99, but can you justify it?” For three seconds, I let them absorb what I said. Their puzzled looks hinted me to continue, “Let us say you apply for work and they are impressed with your grades. They call you for an interview, a demo of some sort. Can you do it with the standards of a student who gets 99 as a grade? Most heads finally nodded to my relief; I don’t know if I can continue with the lecture anymore. It is time for another ‘life-story’ telling (which may be inspiring to some, and annoying to...many). I can show you my transcript tomorrow and you’ll laugh at it. It is not really a good sight to see…But, I am surprisingly here as your teacher…why? Not because of the grades, but experience, and not merely experience, but the skills you gain from it. Before we graduate, most of us are tutoring already. It means that when we graduate, may edge na kami. We get excited in job hunting and before we know it, madami na pala kaming napagdaanan. I realized that I am already 25 years old.

“Sino ba kasi mga working students dito? I’ll give plus…direct to the grade”. Their eyes finally gleamed and six proudly raised their hands. “I want certifications before I give it, and don’t ever think of faking one because I’ll call your boss.” Who am I to talk that way anyway? With all my past mistakes, I realized that it is all by duty as a mentor to encourage righteousness even if I am far from being righteous.

We have yet to dismiss our class after ten minutes but I decided to call it a day. I rushed to the faculty room avoiding eyes to hide my suspicious ‘early arrival’. I turned my laptop on, pulled my drawer and grabbed the thick yellow papers I failed to grade a week ago. Being a teacher really demands most hours of your life, especially the grading part. Two hours to prepare lessons, Five hours to draw X-marks and ‘check’ marks, another hour to advice students – I let out the usual sigh. Add your graduate school requirements and it usually and mysteriously forces one to go 'sleeping' or go 'facebooking' instead. I was heading out of the school when I realized that irony. "Kamusta ka naman buhay-teacher hehe" , I reflected as I walked away from the building.

Remembering my Father

A week from now will mark the first year since my father lost his battle against cancer. It was an afternoon of tears and heartbreak – I can still remember my two siblings holding his arms, my mom watching us as she was being comforted by friends and relatives – and we can only cry on the sight of him, weakened…dying. I remember his pale yellow skin as he shivered even with some heavy blankets, and the memories of our childhood as he carried us in his mighty shoulders flashed in my mind clearly.  I remember how I rebelled against him as a confused teen, and arguing with him endlessly to claim that I am smarter than him. I was an arrogant fool, and the time to show him how sorry I am had ran out. For the hundredth time, I asked myself if I  did something that made him happy, something that made my existence worthwhile for him. Sadly, I can only concede that most of the time, I was a pain in the neck. Regrets can pierce your heart so deep, especially in the face of loss, of death.

My father belongs to the traditional ‘Mt. Province family’ discipline although he was half Ibaloi. It can mean that he belongs to the school of warriors where the head of the family cannot really express emotions of connection. You can distinguish this by observing the ‘lambingan’ culture of the people from the lowlands, and comparing it to the family setting of the highlands. For most of us, hugging and kissing our family members becomes an awkward sight at a certain point of maturity, even though we actually love and care for them – most cannot even verbalize what they feel to their love ones. Such upbringing had put an invisible barrier in expression and communication in our family, but that afternoon was different. We told him that we love him, that, we will always do. We want him to understand that he will always be special and important to us. We assert forgiveness for any indiscretion, misunderstandings, from him, and from us, and even with grief…we told him that we will be okay. As he nodded in understanding, he gasped for his last breath – to say goodbye to this world – we gathered around him; his family, and his friends, then... he was gone.

I heard from many people that we can only realize the value of a person when that person is already gone. Indeed, it is true, and many times I cursed myself for not giving him more of my time when he was in his death bed. I was a selfish asshole, and I truly regret it – if only there is a rewind, a time machine of some sort, I could’ve changed things for him. Since his death, I’ve always dreamed of him, and no matter how logical I want myself to appear, I want to believe that he is visiting me, even in sleep.

This event in my life changed everything; my views, my ideologies, my tendencies. I don’t have a father to run to anymore. No dad who saves me from the bullies as a fat kid. No dad to bail me out on difficult situations. No dad to save me from trouble. No dad to give me a different perspective. No dad whom I can turn to for advice. I will be on my own from now on…and it is hard.

My father gave his last breath because we promised that we will be fine in this life. Hence, it will be wrong to give up because we weren’t raised as losers who give up. My father succumbed to the fight because he knew that we can manage to continue living – that, something will live on…that it is okay to die already.

I have seen his struggle with cancer; how he stayed awake for nights because of the pain, how he deliberately took more painkillers just for relief, how he became frail, how he lost his strength…how he died. Dying at 50 is almost unacceptable, especially when things have started to get better for the family. He could’ve been more, he could’ve done more.

It’s easy to say that; ‘life is short’, that ‘there is no permanence in this world’, that ‘everything is temporary’. However, it is hard not to be attached to the beautiful existences in this world. How can I not long for my father again? How can I not wish for that simple joy of his rare approval no matter how imperfect our relationship was? How can I not wish to see my father again?

I miss my dad…

Blues of June (Fiction)

It was in the rainy evening of June. He parked his car beside the gasoline station not too far away from the bar where he consumed his fifth beer. He turned the engine off but decided to keep the stereo on – he needed the DJ’s voice, at least the rare hit on good jokes to kill the boredom. After damaging his car in five identical occasions, he had learned to always give himself a few minutes to sober up before going home. The rain and that non-cooperating shield-wiper convinced him all the more that he needed every ounce of alertness to survive the road. At least, just for that night.

The DJ started to dedicate a love song; somehow, she was already finished with her last caller. “Another Chicago song”, he thought on the few opening notes he recognized from high school. He was not aware that he was smiling on the thought of it. Those memories of his high school life had succeeded in tempting him into playing with them again – it was already almost twenty years ago. He saw flashbacks of his few friends, his teachers, some events, and of course, the memorable people with it. They were good memories – the recurring image of his awkward self with a guitar, his club activities, his classmates, his stressed teachers…and of course, Myra.

 That thought of her almost drained the alcohol inside of him. He needed another drink, but he decided against it – it was still Tuesday, and he has yet to complete three designs for a client. At 33, he was a junior architect for ECO-house designs, a young company which specializes in ‘green-designing’. He was not sure if there is a bright future with it, but he was contented – he will own his little home after twelve years of salary deductions, and perhaps start saving for his old Pajero’s replacement. He remembered that his boss will have his chemotherapy next month, and the thought of a possible retirement that will advance his career made him feel guilty – ‘a man’s loss, will always be another man’s gain’. He sighed - again, the stress of it made him thought that high school will always be one of the best parts of his life.

The song switched to another ballad after another love quote from DJ Hillary Johnson - the best Side A classic, and he smiled. Old songs, bring back old memories indeed. He was ready to sing along with it.

“There are times, when I just want to look at your face, with the stars in the night…there are times, when I just want to feel your embrace, in the cold night…I just can’t believe that you are mine now…You were just a dream that I once know..I never thought I would -” he paused to check his phone, and continued,  “ …anything in this world, you’re all I need to be with forevermore..”

Slowly, he deliberately relived the memories of the first woman he truly loved. Myra was his classmate in high school, although she was first stricken by her endearing laugh in his first year. She was his team mate in scrabble, where he intentionally delayed their games just to spend more time with her. From there, a certain kind of friendship blossomed – he started a routine of visiting her in her mother’s clothing-store for years. She was the first girl whom he had truly loved. Too bad, Myra only considered him as a friend. Friend-zoned, you can say. She was the first girl to have given him the drowning feeling of hurt, of pain.

This event in his life changed him. His fear of the same kind of rejection forced him to reinvent himself; changing his awkward appearance with the cooperative stage of puberty and maturity, and developing an image that was easily acceptable for his new friends.  Eventually, he became the playboy he abhorred in highschool. A disguise he made to project desirability, or perhaps for Myra to notice him.

They met again in college and they dated. He guessed that somehow, his transformation helped. As young hearts then were easily swayed with doubts, they did not become an official couple until after they graduated from college. It was easy and difficult at the same time. Easy, because they have known each other since highschool. Difficult, because both are convinced that they are entitled to new things in their lives. More difficult for him because Myra was his first love, actually his only love.

Eventually, Myra went abroad leaving him the promise that if they are meant to be together, then they will always end up in each other’s arms – yes, that overly-used quote again. For a couple of years he submerged himself with work. It is the only way to make him forget that he actually misses someone. It did not take any longer for him to receive the news that she is already back in the country.

It was unbelievable for him when they spent many days together again. He thought of proposing to her after he will earn some money, perhaps in a year or two. Yes, he actually thought of marriage – she will be 26 or 27 when that will happen, which is perfect for her expectations. It was that easy for him to imagine, until Myra told him about ‘it’. She told him of what happened to her and her friend, or lover, abroad. And after the rush of tears, the words "I'm sorry, I don't love you anymore" sunk him deeper into the void.

He remembered that moment well, and he felt the pang again – he never truly moved on. “Why? .... Why?” Is it loneliness from being away? He did not really ask. “You promised…” is all he can mumble. Funny, how he expected too much. “I know,  I didn’t have a choice…” Choice? He pondered on what it really meant that day. It was not something that is not forgiven overnight, not after the feeling of betrayal, not after broken promises.

But, It was about three thousand nights since then, and they never talked again– not after he banned her name on his Facebook account, or after Myra went back to her work abroad. There were many nights like this, when he ponders on what could have been if he had forgiven her that time. However, that wasn’t the first time she did that – there was highschool, there was college, and even when they’re already working. He was just scared on what he will feel if she will hurt him again. It is not easy to let go of things - memorable things, beautiful things - but he worries on what will happen to his world. He cannot afford another heartbreak, especially from her, that is why he decided to let her go. He concluded, actually convinced himself, that some things are not really meant to be.

Just like his failures and inabilities, his desperation and loneliness...just like the rain which will always be there to drench him, he will always be haunted by the memories which he, ironically, holds dear.

He can't move on.

There were many nights like this, especially in June.

Sagada Love Story (Fiction)

 Would it be something that you would want to feel? Even if it’s this late? We could have had it all.

Five, no, about six hours.  Do you remember? The bumpy trail, your head on my right shoulder to show you proudly all the 'views' - an Ibaloi girl with an Ibontoc boy who is proudly showing Mountain Province? A young guy introducing his world, or perhaps attempting to confirm a part of his life to that woman who won his heart?

We arrived on a rainy day, on a stop to Sagada to see the place, particularly, the famous coffins and caves. We walked casually down to a road looking for an Inn. We finally settled with George’ s Inn. It must be the computer shop below it. Do you remember? I hope you do. We never even got to close that penthouse door. We were so in love. We can’t even get enough of each other. Do you remember? The kisses? The hugs? The warmth of our bodies. The passion we can only let go off when we fall asleep. Did we even leave our bed to see the attractions of the place?

Remember when we pulled the pillows and blankets outside to see the stars? We were lucky that before closing hours, we have bought a bottle of gin, and your favorite chips; that black Tortillos along with some vinegar. You really loved that then… I know, because I have come to love it too…

Remember when we walked in the rain. Those are what we saw in the movies, and we never really cared. We laughed about it. You called me “noisy slippers”, because of the way I walk with them. Do you remember when he had coffee on that little shop when we were dripping wet? Tell me that you do.

Do you remember the words that were supposed to be said when one wakes up first? “Good Morning beautiful..” if it was me who does. I never cared any of your words, because I always feel your kiss on my forehead, my cheeks…my lips. Do you remember our mornings? Our nights? Do you remember?

I know you remember when we painfully argued at Bontoc, the way I was jealous back then. When we never talked for two hours and thirty minutes in the van but finally made peace at Bauko, and started kissing again. When we reached Mt. Data and number 114 will be etched in our lives forever? When we (or I) got drunk at the fireplace and you dragged us to our room. Do you remember how happy we were? Do you remember any of  it?

Today, you stood there with that glorious wedding gown...and you are not waiting for me.

Death: Life's Final Page

by: Valred Olsim

They say life is a mystery to be solved, a riddle, the ultimate puzzle that can only be deciphered through living it. For centuries, writers and poets have written loads of literary pieces, not just to celebrate life, but to mystify the human experience called, “existence”. It struck me, however, as a cynic, that this proposition is trying to disguise the most important part of life: Death.

Sometimes, life is really simple; you‘re born, you live, and then ultimately, you die. Death, as a subject, has been always avoided, not just by conformist writers (which I’m already sick of), but nearly every soul you want to talk it with. None of us seems psychologically ready to the idea of permanent unconsciousness, whether to others or to ourselves. We always seem to deny the condition of being lost to nothingness and its cold grip that haunts our human thought. The idea is simply, terrifying and different from the day to day events that we are used to face. Death’s reality and its closeness have always inspired methods that would help us cope with the anxiety and fear that we repress. We disguise its power through mystification, religion, jokes and euphemisms such that we forget about its terror; much like hiding from the glares of a monster. We hide our eyes from its face, but still we spread our fingers just a bit, because there’s something in us that just can’t resist a peek.

Death is never the other side of life as others claim; it is just part of a vicious cycle that everyone will go through. The truth is, nobody knows what lies there; whether there is an after-life as they call it, or maybe nothing, but an empty vacuum. See, what scares us is our weakness and inability to know – our “innate fear of the unknown”. Still, we try to conceal its presence and live our life as though we can live forever.

I have nothing against the conformist and optimistic view of life and death. Certainly, it is not a crime to hide the dark and absurd reality of life by covering it up with flowers and rainbows. It’s just that I am bothered by how humans have become conceited even with its mortality; we have successfully reached the moon but have never visited our closest neighbor, we have made a lot of discoveries but have not discovered the secret to happiness, we have advanced technologically but have moved backward with out our ideals and values, indeed, we have forgotten the only thing that can humble us.

I have my own experience of watching a person you know or even you’re close with disappear from the face of the earth. It is painful; it takes a long time to realize that it is the nature of life that you must accept. I wrote about death not to scare anyone, but to remind us once more of studying how we have been living this temporary state. It is very evident that we have all been caught with the false and tempting promise of this material world; that, we are obsessed with the latest gadgets, money and property as if these are the only things in life. We have become soaked with vanity and triviality as if death is not looming in the corners. I wrote this for us to perhaps, stop for awhile and think about our lives and how we make every second valuable; after all, life is so short. 

Days of Age

My father logged out his facebook account and fell silent for awhile before he left the  computer table. He stood like he is still 35, far from what he looked like 18 months ago after he had his operation. Cancer. I’ve witnessed my friends, mentors, and my ‘lolos’ being devoured away by this disease ..after which, they cease to exist. Just when you thought you could still have the chance to talk to them..awan dan met gayamen. The absurdity of life is often reminded to you by the simplest pondering of everyday. Tonight, I saw a man who can still live for another 20 years.

My father proceeded to watch the evening news while I start to cook our dinner. My sister is already married and my mom is away from home about 3 years now, so naturally, “karne” nga kanayon ti maluto for us 3 guys . My brother is not yet home, I bet he’s on a night out – on a bar having his gig. I thought he could turn pro if only he can change some of his ‘rock and roll’ attitude, but then, he is rock and roll - just like me 6 years ago.

“Mangan.” (Eat) I called out, and prepared  our plates. I remembered that when I was in my first year college in my rebellious years, I had broken plates and glasses, after the occasional shouting and the screaming – ironically, I hated my father for his unmanaged anger on even the most mundane things, and often quarreled with my siblings because of reasons that I seemed to have forgotten. Tonight, there was only silence. “Kasano eskwela?”… “Ada bagsak ko ya…” I bowed to avoid his gaze. But he did not look at me, “istimarem ah nu next”  he said without any emotion at all. My typical dad. Back in college, even with the inviting explosion of demand for nurses, I took up “other” courses and shifted thrice – accountancy to political science to philosophy and finally to English literature, because it’s the easiest to pass…honestly. My undergraduate life was a joke, or shall I call it “rock and roll”. “Wen.” I said. I must have said that word a thousand times only to break them.

I finished my meal earlier and paced to the computer table. I thought I will just check my facebook for 5 minutes but I knew that ‘that’ will not happen – 5 minutes will turn to 1 hour to 2 hours to 5 hours. I suspect that FB is the reason why I failed the subjects. It’s really hard for a 23 year old guy, in a post graduate course who is, at the same time working, not to crave for a little bit of diversion or entertainment…in this case, Facebook (and occasional parties of course). “Single and ready to mingle”, I recalled while scrolling down on my FB status. And after a while, it caught my eye, I saw a link which my father posted and I saw a sign of a middle age crisis. It was a picture of a man with a quote which says:

“First I was dying to finish high-school and start college. Then I was dying to finish college and start working. Next, I was dying for my children to grow old enough for school, so I could return to work. Finally, I was dying to retire. And now, I am dying and I realize I forgot to live..”

My father, a 50 year old man who has yet to see his grandchildren, is evidently absorbed in a melancholic crisis of growing old. When I was in college, I fiercely debate for existentialism and even brand faith, the arts, and even entertainment as weaknesses to exist. I took the arrogance of sounding smart but now that I have succumbed to it, I realized that I have to live and pass through time, one year after another, to understand the ideas and feelings of the old and of course, the reason why they always tell me that I am  "too young".

In this life, the old is reminded by their impending demise when they see the young and see themselves in them. However, for us who are young today, soon, our skin will get wrinkled, our sight and hearing will get weaker, our body will be more fragile..,it will be a battle against time and disease, of this mortal age.,and soon we leave our names and possessions in our grave--not a professional, or a  doctor, a lawyer, or a wealthy man..but a decaying corpse. We, the young, shall also be reminded to take things slowly before we die.

So what is the meaning of life if this is how absurd it is? Is it in our own adventure or journey that will give us the answers? Perhaps.

With that conviction, we must move on from those questions to find answers..moving on even from regrets, from those mistakes.,and accepting that we are not any bigger than life itself. Perhaps, it is only then that we can understand…or perhaps, I can only put some words in this note to give me peace of mind.

(My father died about 7 months after I wrote this)