Some Kind of Life (First Part)

It was a sort of Thanksgiving; an unspoken promise to the Weatherman that once we walk out of the woods together, I will take him to the ridges of Tagaytay and spend a night chasing the clouds. 

And so during my periodic breaks at work last week, I have been checking AirBnB for possible leads. First to be crossed out are the condominium units. While they offer fancy accomodations, the thought of people spending the weekend in droves in Tagaytay would have easily turned me off. 

Next were the cottages and apartments. A few caught my fancy but I was too late to make a move and so my preferred houses were booked first by somebody else. It was only last Friday that I had come to a decision - after realizing that the Weatherman and I have been together for years, living as couples minus the kids; that I wanted this weekend staycation to happen in a place that could exceed our ideal home. And so I looked on and found a room in a house overlooking the fields. Beyond is the Taal Lake with the silhouette of the volcano. 

At first I had my reservations. The place we would rent wasn't just in Tagaytay, it was at the heart of the most exclusive gated club in the city: The Tagaytay Highlands. I had to pay in cash, which I found too steep for my budget. The nightly rent was similar to a three-star hotel, except that you can enjoy some bliss and solitude since the 10 acre guarded community had very few houses and even fewer residents who likely treat their properties like grand vacation houses. 

But what made me decide to book the room was the thought that we have never done this kind of adventure before and in all the days we made pilgrimage to the ridges, never had we set foot in the Highlands. 

We arrived at the meeting place in Crosswinds at past 4 in the afternoon. Showing up way past the agreed time, my first gesture upon meeting the host was to apologize for being late. I couldn't tell that we took our sweet time packing our bags nor we spent some reflection time at the Little Souls Sisters Convent while doing a videocall with my mother, who took her time to pray for everyone she knows. 

The host was kind enough to overlook our disrespect of his time, and instead, quipped at me for not telling that I would be arriving with a male companion. He did merge together the two single beds in our room as I have requested for a comforter to be included. Later, he realized that when I said "partner" during our call, I was referring to a male companion, which he admits he rarely host. After showing us the amenities of our quarters (wifi connection, wall air conditioner, and a water heater whose plug won't fit in the socket), the host turned over the room. It would be the last time we would see him during our stay.

- to be continued - 

It Comes In 3s

I got my results and became part of the Statistics on Thursday.

A first cousin, who I haven't met in ages had coughing bouts and fever spells the same week I did. Her results revealed that she was Covid Positive on Sunday.

Another first cousin, someone I haven't met in a lifetime (lol), thought it was a simple case of allergies. She was sneezing and coughing until they thought of having her saliva-tested last weekend and the result came out - positive. 

That is three in a week. Happened under different and peculiar circumstances, and I had a weird feeling that our misfortunes had something to do with the general cleaning I did in our old house in Santa Mesa.

---

You see, that almost-century ancestral house never runs out of kababalaghan stories. From fair-looking beings greeting you out of nowhere to invisible entities poking you in the middle of the night, you name it and the tenants would likely tell it. When the sibling was still a toddler, she was delirious in one of her fever spells. The tawas session revealed that she was being toyed upon by the duwendes. A half-brother, who once lived in the farthest corner of the house dreamed of seeing shadows watching over him. He was sick of tuberculosis and needed to be isolated. 

He recovered weeks later.

Despite its haunted reputation, everyone believes it's a lucky house. All children (those who enrolled at least) were able to complete their studies and lead better lives despite the odds against them. No one who lives in that house ever got seriously sick (at least that's what the elders and the current tenants say.) So I treat the house with reverence, and in my desire to bring back its better days, I may have inadvertently triggered the elementals who lay undisturbed in its deepest recesses for decades.

Desperate to understand the connection between my transgressions and the peculiar affliction that came down to my family, I was likely granted an audience. In one of my dreams, I was back in the same room I cleaned the week before. There was an assembly of shadows and I was asked to speak and air my side. I said that I thought of cleaning the house and putting lights in my mother's abandoned room to bring it back to its pristine form. In my thoughts, I wanted that place to shine, even host more tenants who might benefit from the house's generosity. I do not recall apologizing, but I knew that I spoke with selfless intent and that I conveyed my desire to become the custodian of the house. The shadows were silent. I do not recall feeling their wrath or anger. Meanwhile, I saw a bunch of children gleefully peeking out from the second floor kitchen's low ceiling. 

Later on, I would learn from the caretaker that these assembly of entities were the same entities the tenants randomly come across when they tread along the unlit corridors. 

---

The next morning, I partially got my sense of taste and smell back.

The Fallout

Our world came crashing down on the night I found out I was Covid positive.

Those persistent, disruptive coughing bouts were the most glaring sign. Those moments when I had to take in more air and breathe with little discomfort in my chest were already a takeaway. And those mild fever spells, which immediately disappear when I take paracetamol were the biggest red flag of them all. And yet, I played down my symptoms, believing they were something else.

On the day I arrived at the Weatherman's unoccupied house in Cavite, I started losing my sense of smell, and then my tastebuds also started to fail me the next day. Then the uncontrolled bowel movement soon followed. By Saturday, the day after I learned of my real condition, the list of all the common symptoms was at last, present.

At home, they were frantic about the condition of the Matriarch. She was one of the most exposed, being my close contact. Another close contact was asked to quarantine in our old house in Santa Mesa and this setup leaves the house more vulnerable than it has ever been before. The Brother-in-Law, sensing our state of disarray, had decided to stay over and help look after his children. His presence somehow gave us a sense of relief and order was restored to a house that has never seen a crisis of this magnitude.

Closer to the front, I started contemplating about my fate. The guilt and shame that comes with being the afflicted break you into pieces. You begin to feel anxious about your 74-year old mother; the children at home who were unvaccinated; you look at the Weatherman taking care of you, who just assumed his Covid status since he didn't take the test, and see the mess you have unleashed upon the world. In consolation, the Favorite Aunt, who is also the family doctor, said it was nobody's fault; that it was bound to happen sooner than we all think. Despite this being a lie, I try to keep her thoughts in heart while my mind drifts from one doomsday picture to another. By nightfall of Saturday, on my second night in quarantine, the chest pains were more pronounced, like my lungs were being filled with concrete, that thoughts of being rushed to the hospital became a real possibility. But I had no way of measuring my oxygen saturation so I wouldn't know.

Meanwhile, another aunt who was checking up on me confided that her daughter, a first cousin, were also showing symptoms similar to mine. She would take the test that weekend and would later find out she is Covid positive as well.

That's two in the family in a week, and we have not even seen each other in ages.

Statistics

Tuesday. 

It all started with throat discomfort. It was itchy and somewhat painful, but I paid little attention as it was not that bothersome, to say the least. I was bent on renovating a corner of my mother's old room in our ancestral house in Santa Mesa and my one-track mind meant that it should be done without delay.

That same week, I played Tropico 3 until the early hours of the morning, only to wake up a few hours later to work, prop up my garden, or do some errands at home like going to the market to procure our needed foodstuff. I had also been constantly coated with dust all the time, from piles of scrap paper, dried mouse shit, to moldy clothes that I had to throw away. For two days, I went home exhausted, and then I would take a bath without even resting.

Wednesday.

The throat discomfort developed into a cough. I also had a slight fever that I still paid little attention to. Who would have thought those were already the tell-tale signs. It was only when the coughing became more frequent and more forceful that I knew something isn't right. I was afraid, deep down, but my intention to leave home to isolate myself elsewhere was what I had in mind.

The sibling, having seen colleagues getting afflicted with the virus didn't wait any longer. She had me reported to the Favorite Aunt for being a possible suspect. I woke up with a simple message from her, Thursday morning.

"Magpa-RT PCR Test ka na."

I also received permission to evacuate and quarantine elsewhere.

That same day, the results came in and my world came crashing down.

Thus I was added to the Statistics. A number nobody wanted to become.

The Old House In Santa Mesa (First Part)

People say that when you are about to hit 40,  your priorities change. You begin to think about your holdings, you worry about the kids (in my case, my nephews and niece), and you spend much of your energy trying to put things in order because your gut feels time is no longer by your side. 

Since the start of the second pandemic year, I have been gradually taking over the custodianship of our ancestral home in Santa Mesa. Nothing fancy. It's more like being the eyes, arms, and legs of my mother (and her sisters) who are the real patrons of the property. I have been a passive player for much of the year - so much that I even went to great lengths to avoid getting involved with tenants' payments. But since last week, I made some big moves that I have never expected myself.

The plan was to put some new electrical outlets and LED lights where my mother's room used to be. It was at the farthest corner of the house and for 20 years, it was largely abandoned. We don't even know if the receptacles out there are still functioning. Last time I checked, the room was a rat-infested bodega with moldy clothes above the aparador, dead roaches on the floor, and scraps of partially gorged paper everywhere. 

A tenant, whose room was flooded downstairs moved in recently to occupy the kitchen outside my mom's quarters. Her arrival somehow dispersed the gloomy vibe pervading in those places. More importantly, her transfer provided a convenient excuse to finally make some big renovations in case we decide to make my mom's room available for rent someday.

Once I was able to make arrangements with the electrician, reclaiming the abandoned areas of the house before nature renders it unfit for habitation immediately commenced.

- to be continued

Move

There was a time when walking from our house in Santa Mesa to my gym in Malate was my warm up, before some heavy and repetitive steel plate lifting tore my muscles apart. And there used to be a time when I could not fathom how some people would refuse to walk for a block or two, and instead preferred to ride a jeep, or cab, or whichever was available. And there used to be a time when people around my age would get exhausted simply by walking around UP Sunken Garden while talking about the mundane stuff, or anything that comes to mind. 

Years after acquiring the Toyota Revo from the Favourite Aunt and completely rejecting all forms of physical activity,  I would finally understand.

There is no doubt that in the past years, I have grown exponentially in body girth and mass. Last time I checked (which was early this year), I was 50 lbs overweight. I am now considered an obese person, whose health precariously hangs in the balance. I would have liked to return to the gym, but like lifelong and nurturing lovers who have parted ways, unexpectedly, the magic isn't there no matter how you try to find it elsewhere.

And the consequences are fast catching up. The heavy and constricting breaths are more apparent now. The sagging layers of skin add more years to my age, and the occassional discomfort in my groin area might be a symptom of a more serious body ailment. However, given this pandemic, a trip to the clinic might not be forthcoming. It is just fortunate that I have turned my back from the vices before they too add to the strain my body is already recieving.

But should I cease posting blog entries, it would likely mean I stopped moving, permanently, or the muses who continue to prop me suddenly walk away, leaving me unable to write a single word that would cascade into a story.

Still, there are attempts to regain some lost ground, like when I bought from Lazada (an online shop) - that was having a sale this month - resistance bands, which I have yet to use, or when I thought of walking from home to Quiapo with a trolley bag in hand to perform my palengke duties. The latter, I was having second thoughts because it has been ages since I walked that far from home and I would be brisk walking under a 9-in-the-morning sun. With Electronic Dance Music ceaselessly pumping uplifting beats directly into my head, I managed to reach my destination with barely a sweat. It was a far cry from my long jog from one end of the Malacanan to the other, but this demonstration would do, should I decide a repeat attempt in the days to come.

Race Against Time (Last Part)

Previously on L'Heure Bleue

IV.

The week after my mother received her last dose of Sinovac, I became a strong advocate of vaccination. I have seen friends suffer from the effects of Covid so I told anyone within earshot to get the vaccine, no matter what the brand is.

Persuading the boyfriend, though, was another story. Being a person with a disability, it was necessary for him to get immunization as soon as possible. Getting the jab isn't the problem as he has always been a man of science, but like everyone, he had second thoughts about getting the China-made ones. He preferred doses with higher efficacy like the one being offered by Moderna or Pfizer. In the end, he decided to wait for the vaccines to be procured by their office. It might be months before it gets shipped, but at least, it was from a more reputable pharmaceutical company.

He also said he had already signed up for it.

But I digress.

V.

Mid-May and the surge of Covid cases at the beginning of summer had somehow ebbed. It gave everyone a sense of relief, while in other countries like India, Covid deaths numbered a thousand every day. Health experts suspect it was a new and more contagious variant. Meanwhile, the vaccine rollout in the metro continued unabated and the Weatherman had, at last, received a schedule. At the same time, a vaccine is being offered by his doctor so for him, it was just a matter of choice.

I would have preferred his doctor's vaccine even if it was less effective. It had mild side effects and the doctor would be the one to administer it. Knowing firsthand that she would just be a call away if problems come up, I think it was a worthwhile tradeoff. I told him to ask the doctor's advice and she shared the same insight. The next day, I drove the partner to the clinic. The inoculation process was fast and true to our expectations, he barely felt the side effects.

It would have been a different story had he taken the Astrazeneca being offered by the local government.

VI

The days in between the Weatherman's first Sinovac dose and the fateful morning, when I showed up at the Moises Salvador Elementary School to inquire about getting a vaccine and going home with my first jab were of little consequence. Life somehow became mundane. We were clandestinely doing road trips again going to the Sierra Madre - seeing breathtaking vistas for the first time, and we were finally meeting friends, even if we had to keep ourselves some distance as told by the doctors. The only other highlight was the boyfriend's siblings getting their jab as walk-in patients. 

On the day I got my immunization, one of the kasambahays got hers and so was the brother-in-law. 

When I completed my Sinovac doses a month later, only one extended family member (an elderly uncle, who would rather believe in hearsay than facts from her doctor sibling) remains defiant of the vaccine. 

This, so far, was our journey and we did race against time to protect those closest to our hearts. The Covid explosion in India and then in Indonesia, where mass graves had to be readied for the huge number of deaths, had finally arrived in the country last August. 

Known as the Delta Variant, it spreads thrice as fast as the original Covid strain from last year. And the vaccines that give us immunity, will eventually lose their efficacy. 

It is just a matter of time.

Credit

Race Against Time (First Part)

I.

When the first batch of Covid-19 vaccines was flown in from Beijing last March, a family member was able to secure a vial and got a jab ahead of everyone else. It was of course, unacceptable, unspeakable even. But knowing how wretched the system was, anyone with military connections can secure a slot. Besides, the vaccines were avoided like flies back then. Hesitancy was so high that even healthcare workers refused to get inoculated by anything coming from China. So the government gave the first batch to anyone willing to be Sinovac's "Guinea Pigs." And there were a lot of them, actually. Born out of desperation, they signed up without even knowing the side effects of the inactivated vaccine.

II.

I was adamant to get the jab. In fact, I was once called out by the woke children on Twitter for saying, "why should I take the vaccine from the same country where this virus came from?" They said it was a racist remark. I retorted, "mama mo racist," just to taunt them back.

But my outlook began to change when I learned that the Favorite Aunt got it. Sinovac was offered to doctors, nurses, and other healthcare workers and she was among the first to sign up for vaccination. The side effects were minimal. "Inantok lang ako," she claimed, and with the second wave last summer leaving us in a weeks-long state of anxiety, I signed up my mother when slots were assigned for the elderly.

III.

A month after a family member received a Sinovac vaccine ahead of everyone, the local government of Manila had announced that it will be inoculating the city's educators. It was Mid-April and the priority will be the elderly. The news broke out on the eve of the mass vaccination event. I immediately called the Favorite Aunt to seek her advice. She was very supportive of my decision to have my mom get the Sinovac vaccine. The next day, I drove her to the Palacio de Manila in Ermita to get her dose and as the needle found its way into her arm, her eyes revealed how terrified she was.

My mother was listed as one of those on the waiting list that morning. It turned out that the teachers belonging to the city's elementary and high school system were the ones scheduled that day, not the educators from the country's state universities in the city. As we were considered walk-ins, we almost went home, resigned to the idea that we would have to postpone and get another schedule. The series of miscommunications made us think that we would have to wait until the afternoon for our turn. With God's grace and my unyielding persistence though, we discovered that the queue had disappeared an hour after we arrived at the site.

She was among the first seniors to receive her first dose.

Inspired by our accomplishment, the Weatherman's dad had his first jab in another city the next day.

- to be continued - 

Minecraft

 

Post originally published on Instagram

Early this year, I bought my nephew Minecraft after he promised that he will improve his math grades. His turnaround wasn't stellar, but I decided to keep the end of the bargain. After all, I was doing far worse, academically, when I was his age. So I thought, why must we impose expectations when those same set of expectations simply left me upset, disappointed, and resigned with my mediocre quiz scores back when I was still an elementary school student?

These days, he was showing off his creations on that app. The last time, it was a sophisticated house with lots of rooms and even fixtures. Now, it was a zoo with exotic birds and even a panda, pixilated and digitized so it would exist in a sandbox video game. And while he barely got my attention, I was aware of how this will shape his way of thinking and perceiving things. What he is doing, unconsciously, is creating his own imaginary world, and along with it, he is putting his vision to work.

And that makes me so proud.

---

I do not know a lot of gaming apps and how they work on mobile devices, but for a kid, barely 10 years old to engage in world-building and being good at it is something to celebrate.

Because we don't teach creativity these days.

And as someone who had spent much of his childhood playing video games - learning world history from it (Civilization), learning astronomy from it (Master of Orion), learning urban planning and transport management from it (Sim City and Transport Tycoon), and learning storytelling from it (The Sims), I would rather see him getting immersed in his worlds and creating objects as he envisioned them than playing games that promote senseless violence and wanton destruction.

And who knows where his creativity would take him one day.

If only we could imagine.

Lenin complained of a sudden headache a few nights ago and it was immediately followed by a surge in body heat. 39.0 when we took his temperature. As he wasn't displaying the usual symptoms - cough, sore throat, or runny nose, we asked if he had trouble breathing. He said no, but instead, he complained of a tummyache. Having a fever and stomach discomfort these days is already a cause of alarm. Children are no longer spared from the Covid 19 Delta variant. Some are even dying from it. And so the next day, his grandparents from the father side traveled all the way from the highlands of Cavite with a MedTech to get his bloodwork done, and to also perform an Antigen test. That same day, the results came in. He had no infection whatsoever and his White Blood Cell count is normal. We would just have to wait for the Antigen results. 

Lenin still had a high fever that night.

We are supposed to be used to our kids getting sick. Diego had lots of hospital confinement and even Den had one. But this time, things are different. All the hospitals in Metro Manila and the surrounding provinces are swamped with Covid patients. Some people now even die in parking lots. So it is very difficult to imagine should one of us needs to be rushed to the hospital. We might not even get accommodated. 

It was a sleepless second night as we watched over Lenin while waiting for his results to come out the next day. I worked, I played Stellaris, I even went to Quiapo Church at daybreak just to seek another favor and ask the Nazareno for an intercession. The results got delayed for a few hours and so was my bedtime. 

At the back of my head, I would like to believe it wasn't Covid. The Favorite Aunt and I made sure everyone's already vaccinated just before the Delta Variant became widespread. I took that sliver of hope into my sleep hoping that when I wake up, things will get back to normal.

And it did.

The Antigen result showed that it wasn't Covid19. Lenin's condition has also improved significantly. While another round of bloodwork is still needed to make sure it isn't Dengue, we are hoping that we are out of the woods and that Lenin is now set on a path of recovery. 

Daybreaker (Rinavia Remix)

Previously on Daybreaker

"Indigo sky. Lovely. This is the reason I love daybreaks." I posted on Twitter. I've always been a sunset person. The one you'd see staring blankly into space as the sun disappears on the horizon. But there are times I turn my back and crane my neck to the east. It's difficult for a nocturnal person to chase the sunrise, but seeing the world in slumber, about to open its eyes to a new day is a sight worth waiting.

There is nothing amusing to fall asleep at past noon, only to wake up when evening falls. Joyless it is to regain awareness (after sliding from one forgettable dream to another) only to sink into the realms of confusion as the absence of sunlight robs you with the perception of time. Occasionally, sleep knocks hours before midnight, only for me to regain peak wakefulness when everyone is already in bed. With silence as my companion, I start my day during the hours of the wolf, which extends around lunchtime, and then the circadian rhythm renews another cycle.

This has been my body clock ever since the Weatherman decided to look after his siblings. When the 3rd ECQ was announced early this month, he had to be the Kuya once more. Their father, the once head of the household, is already living with his sister and is looking after his nephews. Someone has to step into his shoes and direct the affairs of the house.

The Weatherman's absence had forced me to move my sleeping time way past sunrise. Not only do I dread the thoughts of nightfall, but in the early days of his return to his familial duties, the significant other also found it difficult to catch that much elusive sleep. So I kept him company only to realize we're still up at past 7 in the morning.

Make no mistake. Sleeping past brunch time has already been a habit, especially when there is a need for long-distance driving outside the city. The only difference now is the seemingly unshakeable pattern and the hours when drowsiness finally catches up. It's not healthy anymore.

And so, this is the nth time I would likely go to bed sometime around noon. And though the daybreak wakefulness has its perks (the sights and sounds before sunrise still leave you a little bit hopeful of tomorrow. Also, less human exposure means lesser chances of catching and passing along the Covid 19 virus), I still yearn to return to a more conventional sleeping pattern. 

Nobody wants to be the sole person awake when everyone has gone deep into slumber.

Post Sinovac Imbroglio (Last Part)

Previously on Post Sinovac Imbroglio (First Part)

So I was prepared to pursue the path of self-isolation if that would spare my loved ones from the virus. I was completely sold to the idea that I caught it sometime before the jab and the vaccine simply triggered the infection. The Weatherman was suggesting that I should see a doctor - his doctors - just to be sure. But I told him that in doing so, I would have to tell where we have been and the activities we did. I might put a lot of people in an inconvenient position.

Eventually, we warmed to the idea of consulting the Favorite Aunt first. She is a doctor, after all, and all the medical emergencies in the family had to go through her. So I called her on the third night and told her all about my symptoms - from the mild fever, to the red spots appearing all over my body, to the thin layer of pus already forming over the part of my skin that I scratched and scraped aggressively the past few days. She asked if I was experiencing something else. I assured her that I had no cough, nor sore throat, nor had difficulty breathing. Based on my account, she said that my Psoriasis might have been infected, so she prescribed antibiotics and antihistamines just to keep me from mutilating my skin.

She was right.

Two days later, the fever was gone and the red spots I have been seeing would ripe into purple rashes that leave a stinging sensation when the skin is triggered. The Dermatologist I consulted explained that it might be directly linked to the vaccine as there were documented cases of people experiencing the very same side effects days after taking the jab. She prescribed that I double the dose of the Levocetirizine that I was already taking.

When Sinovac was introduced in the country last summer, I was one of those who spoke strongly against getting it. I even said that why should I get the vaccine from the country where the Pandemic started. I was called out for that statement, of course. But my sibling, in her desperation, volunteered herself to be one of the first to be inoculated. So was the Favorite Aunt who took the jab ahead of everyone.

Their side effects were very minimal.

A month later, my mom received her complete dose and aside from falling out of the bed (because she was too sleepy to see where the pillows were), her side effects were inconsequential. Sure, there were doubts about the efficacy of their vaccine, but the other doctor friends on social media were insisting that the best vaccine is the one that is available.

Soon after, I was telling friends and loved ones to take Sinovac. Even the Weatherman had completed his two shots.

So when I took it months later, my faith was unshakeable. I even brought my brother-in-law and the kasambahay with me to the vaccination site so they can have their first dose too. They experienced no adverse reaction, unlike me, whose case was different. There was even a point where the Favorite Aunt and I were having second thoughts of getting the final dose as its effects on my body might be worse. On the fifth day after the first symptoms appeared, however, the rashes began to disappear. My limbs also no longer feel like it was hacked into pieces every time I had to limp all the way to the bathroom to pee. And while the body still reeled every time the nerves flare up and the stinging and itching sensation force me to run to the nearest scratch post (which is usually the corner of the wardrobe), there was no denial about my recovery. 

The end is in sight.

Barely a few days before my second week of inoculation and I was completely healed. We still do not have any explanation as to why my immune system had gone berserk upon receiving the inactivated virus (it was my first time to experience such adverse side effects from a vaccine) but the Favorite Aunt was confident that Sinovac was effective. Even the doctors she had to consult herself said the bodily reaction was within the threshold that I was allowed to take the second dose...

...a decision that has now become a life or death matter given the arrival of a much more potent variant from India.

Three days from today, I am set to receive the last dose of the China-made vaccine. Though the side effects are still unknown, I am somehow relieved that I have learned enough not to panic like what had happened during my first ordeal. 

Post Sinovac Imbroglio (First Part)

At first, there was the well-documented heaving of the arm - the part, at least - where the needle had pierced the skin. Forced out from the syringe was a vial's worth of re-engineered proteins, proteins that form a part of the viral molecule that has been turning our world upside down for almost two years now. I would have believed that it was the first step in achieving immunity and we were, for our part, have announced that I have taken the jab to the collective joy of everyone. But it was just the beginning. The agony would happen a day after the lull of the body had finally put the mind at ease.

On the third night, my body felt like collapsing unto itself. Muscle aches and soreness kept me from getting out of the bed and the cold hands and feet have succeeded in generating enough body heat that I had a mild fever before I've gone to bed. 

The next morning, the symptoms have disappeared, except for the sudden flaking of the skin where psoriasis has gnawed steadily into my left leg. I even had enough strength to go out of the house and had the car's registration renewed. But all those struggles to walk to the nearest ATM booth a few blocks away from the LTO office might have taken a toll. It didn't help that instead of going home to recuperate, we drove to Farmers Cubao to buy some flowers for the Weatherman's sister. She was celebrating her birthday that day.

So I limped all the home from the parking lot with a body pulped and shivering from the cold. Before going to bed, I took a Paracetamol in anticipation of the onset of fever. That evening, my temperature shot beyond 39.0 degrees celsius. 

By then, all symptoms point to the dreaded Covid virus. My chest was heaving. I had difficulty breathing. To make sure I was within the threshold, I held my breath for at least 15 seconds before pushing the air out my lungs. Lower than that count would mean I was running out of oxygen. To protect my family and to put to rest their suspicion, I just step out of the room for bathroom breaks and meals. Only the Weatherman stayed with me throughout my ordeal.

The next day, my skin began turning crimson red and it was very difficult to get out of bed. I moaned in pain every time I tried to get up. My left limb felt it was hacked in two, and all those aggressive and often violent skin scratching had infected my psoriasis. I had to drag my left leg across the hallway and into the master's bedroom toilet to pee.

On the third day, anxiety began to cloud my judgment. The only thing missing from the list was a bad cough or a mild sore throat. Had the symptoms of Covid continue to present themselves, the plan was to gather enough strength, make the most daring and outrageous drive to the Weatherman's house in General Trias in Cavite to isolate and keep my condition a secret, except to my mom. 

Who would have thought such a bold plan to protect me, and my loved ones backfire spectacularly right before my eyes?

- to be continued -

The Barbie House

 

Previously on L'Heure Bleue: Preserver of Worlds | The Barbie House

"Kuya pakibaba yung dollhouse at yung maleta ko mula sa taas"

It was my sister who sent the message over Facebook Messenger last week. My reaction: Seenzoned. Disinterest had kept me from sending an affirmation.

A few days later, my sister sent another message.

"Yung dollhouse naibaba nyo? Ilang araw na ako kinukulit ni Castro." 

Castro is my sister's third child, which, unfortunately, I wasn't able to introduce in previous entries given my absence in Blogging.

At this point, my answer was "no." I knew the rickety house would collapse in less than a day if you leave it at the mercy of toddlers (the younger siblings) and youngsters (older brothers). Rough hands, clumsiness, and crude playstyle would simply break the remaining brittle links that connect the plastic components together. 

I also had no faith that it can be set up inside my sibling's small room. Lack of space has always been a problem at home and having that pink plasticky house placed on the ground would simply add to our burdens. I spoke these thoughts to my mother, and she supported my arguments. 

My decision was final.

But this wasn't what I told my sister. 

You see, she was supposed to leave for work-related activities in the province. She would be gone for a week and would have to isolate herself elsewhere for another week once she returns. Her distance and absence would mean telling her that I would take out the wretched toy from the overhead cabinet. In reality, no Barbie House would ever be reassembled. I would simply say we couldn't make it stand and it would put the idea to rest.

But Castro was also persistent, and although the 3-year old artistic child wouldn't pester me about the toy, like children of his age would do to their uncles, he would ask my mother about my plans of letting him play with the house.

Then came the news that my sister's work-related travel was canceled because of Covid19. 

Friday came and I had an out-of-town excursion set the next day. Our destination had a poor Globe signal and this would mean being gone without any form of communication to check the folks back home. To keep everyone preoccupied in my absence was at the top of my head. Better to keep them busy rather than finding out who picked fights and who got into trouble upon my return home.

And so I flipped around and asked the Hermit (our household helper) to bring down the Barbie House and just let my sister assemble the structure. It would be a great bonding moment for the kids, and should the house not stand, it would be easy to convince everyone not to bring the toy out - ever again.

Before leaving the house the next day, I took a small carton box out of my cabinet. It's tiny,  human-like replicas I lodged between the educational toys on the top shelf of the children's bookcase outside my room.

The dolls belong to me - a remnant of an age where boys were frowned upon when they chose to play with girls' toys. Those dolls are for my nephew, who wanted to play with the dollhouse - like it was meant to be his toy.

---

As it turned out, the Barbie House was almost never assembled. My sister had to put adhesives just to put the pieces together. She said, it took her 2 hours to make the brittle structure stand and not wobble. She even wanted to adorn it with fairy lights to cap her achievement.

When I checked out Castro when I returned home, he was already playing with the dollhouse along with the Barbies I left behind. Contrary to expectations that he would simply groom the dolls, he was actually hosting a "tea party," with the rest of the figures - from Peppa Pig to Paw Patrol invited for the "housewarming."

And for a brief moment, what I saw was not my nephew but another kid, from another age, who would sneak out and play with the dollhouse in secret. Unbothered by what other kids or adults would say, he would immerse himself in his world, weaving fantasy stories that he still remembers to this day.

Safe Space

 

"Whenever I give advice to people about sleepovers, I told them that if they really wanted to avoid trouble or pleasure of having an “incident” with someone who invited them to their place, which they just met personally for the first time, they should decline the invitation.

Also, I told them that if they liked the guy so much - that they are willing to take the pleasure of doing it with them then they should accept the invitation without showing any hints of hesitation.

It used to be my rule, and Bloomberg Boy* would attest to that."

Previously on After Eden: Gerumatori, Last Part

We come from a generation where sexual harassment was seen as normal. Concepts like safe space or even consensual displays of affection were yet to be conceived. The entries, written decades past tell of a time when going to a jump-packed, barely lit dance club would mean holding on to your cock before some random drunk guy grabs it inside your pants without your permission. To decline such a gesture would result in that same guy, gaslighting you - accusing you of being "nagmamaganda." when all you've ever wanted is to be left alone in peace, or at least, cruise around until you find someone whose attraction you find mutual. 

In those days too, we are pretty aware of how we started, that we are either a product of our environment, bullied into submission because of our perceived softness, or worse, victims of sexual abuse inflicted by a cousin, a friend of a friend, or even a stranger. I knew of guys who were taken advantage of as a kid. Some were even rape victims who were forced to accept their lot until it became their way of thinking. To come out remains unthinkable, and most of us had either buried our past while keeping a lifetime of resentment or for others, pass along the trauma by reliving it without the other person's consent.

And so the cycle of abuse continues.

I bring our stories to light after reports of sexual harassment surfaced on Twitter early this month. The accused were well-connected within their organization and held a sizeable clout in their respective social circles. They were known too, for perpetuating the much-derided Cancel Culture whose victims include some of my friends. So imagine how their acts of non-consensual sex created a controversy that is tearing Twitter apart. It didn't help that the people tasked to protect the victim seemed silent on the issue, with one dissenter resigning from her post after the rest refused to issue a stronger stance against the abusers. This all happened on the very month we should have been celebrating Pride. Instead, the festivities were muted, and would forever be marred by these transgressions. 

Weeks have already passed and the accusers were nowhere to be found. Their friends, who used to be the most vocal about these issues paid more attention to those who demanded transparency and accountability. I myself no longer expect a closure. The least that could happen is that the harassers can no longer "preach" and "condone" the rest who don't subscribe to their ideology. It is already a fitting punishment for me.

Unfortunately, the revelations didn't stop with them.

However, as the party goes on and the cruising intensifies, more and more guys start to flirt with the kid. I even tried exchanging stares at some of them in hopes that they get my clear and assertive message to back off.

But some of them are too slow to pick it up that’s why I have to position myself in front of Gerumatori as he stands against the cruising wall, while I looked at his sides in hopes that nobody would ever outflank me.

Early today, a well-known Spoken Word artist and the brainchild behind some of the more celebrated Boy-Love series to air on the local internet was accused of sexual harassment. The accuser is none other than one of the actors who played in his series. The details of the assault remain a closely guarded secret. But knowing how these acts of violence happen, it all began with an innocent and harmless physical contact followed by thoughtful words of admiration dropped here and there. When these acts were permitted, a bolder approach is applied next - some flirty words sent over Facebook Messenger intended for the victim, the physical and non-consensual body contacts become more pronounced and disturbing, the personal space being violated, and the relations of power getting blurred between the predator and the prey. 

We know of these things not just because of personal experience, but because in more ways than one, we have learned to read the mind of a person actively looking for a lay. The lack of safe space allowed us to be creative with our approach and used our knowledge to manipulate our engagements before things got out of hand. 

Seeing things as they are now, I am glad the kids have begun speaking up and the voices condemning these unspeakable acts of people who should have known better are louder than ever. And though the past may not be altered and our broken generation will have to live out with the scars inflicted upon us, there is something to look forward to in the future. 

I just hope that in the dawn of my awakening, I may have done things that have spared some souls a rude and violent introduction to a life they chose to live.

I may not have shown it, but I loved it every time he does baby talk. It constantly reminds me that he is still young… It reminds me that for a time, I was like him - who used to dream of having to hang out with some guy much much older than me.

For at 17, I was in my first year in college, and it was one of the most difficult periods of my life, where I have to constantly wage a war against an emerging presence that would soon become the homosexual me.

At 17, he is perfectly in control of his homosexuality. Something, most of us never got to realize at that age.

The Techno Revolution, Unnoticed

"It has always been a custom to duplicate every bit and part of me in a medium other than the hard disk. In a time when floppy drives were used to store data, I had three crates of diskettes whose sole purpose was to serve as repositories for DOS Games I copied from the computer shops in Recto."

- Stirrings of a Techno Revolution

Ten years ago, I wrote about this need to back up my files in a redundant fashion after a system error almost wiped out the digital contents of my desktop's hard drive. 

It was a different time. I still use dial-up for my internet connection. I play alternative rock and dance songs on cheap mp3 players. I still get my music from Limewire, or sometimes, from pirated CDs purchased in Greenhills or some other places in the city. 

In those early years, having a laptop - after giving away my first one to my ex - was still a distant dream and having an external hard drive was merely wishful thinking. 

It was insanely expensive and I could not afford such luxuries.

But in the fullness of time, I was able to subscribe to a broadband connection. I waited, patiently, for Skycable to be available in the neighborhood and when their service was finally offered, I was among their first subscribers. At around the same year, the desktop computer was replaced by a laptop, which I was able to buy with my savings.

A few years later, the broadband connection was upgraded to WiFi. Wireless connection finally found its way and after having to endure living in antiquity for ages, our house became at par with homes connected to a wireless network. 

However, the mp3s in my compact discs and hard drives were made obsolete after subscribing to Spotify. The app allowed me to stream every song I have in my music library. The service also lets me listen to virtually any artist from genres I barely heard before. For the first time, I was able to discover and listen to artists I barely know; my musical knowledge has expanded beyond my imagination.

---

Technology has immensely changed everything and looking back from where we started, the sea change afforded us barely enough time to see the value, of the unimaginable leaps we made to get to this point - where we spend each day trying to make better use of Netflix, or how not to forget to turn off Globe's data internet when the broadband's connection works fine, or just like today, take appreciation knowing that I was able to buy an external hard drive four years ago. I still use it for storing the films and TV series I dug on PirateBay.

Some things never change.

I would have let this rumination come to pass if not for the urgent need to back up the files of my second laptop. Not only is the machine ripe for a reformat, but I also thought of upgrading to SSD drive so that the Weatherman and I can play Cities Skylines without crashing the game.

Playroom

Consider this a "mema" entry; a flexing of the mind while contemplating the narratives to publish. Unplanned, but written with thoughtful consideration, I am left grappling for words to collect the contents of my head while Diego, now a seven-year-old boy, decides to bring his wooden bricks into my quarters and make it his temporary playroom for this evening. 

Of the four kids we are now raising, he would persistently make attempts to extend his zone of control into my room. In fact, earlier today, he was knocking at the door and calling for the Weatherman's name hoping he would be let it. I didn't pay attention, and instead, trailed my gaze on the petty fights and wokeness hell that is happening on Twitter. 

This evening, he succeeded. Maybe, I was just too unbothered while he made those incoherent play sounds, such as "woooooahhhhh ahhh ahhh," or "tshhhh, tsshhhh," while tapping the wooden cabinet beside him to make louder noises. On normal days, I would just tell him to play elsewhere, but I don't know why there's a sudden relaxing of the rules this time.

All I know is that I was meant to write about another story, but here I am writing about the most mundane stuff while admiring my nephew's gift to recreate scenes only he could appreciate.

And as I lay down on my bed while trying to shun the garbled words and the incessant "shhhsss... shhhhhsss..." out of my head, Diego continues with his bricks play. I then come to a realization that this sudden decision to let him take his toys and play with very little restrictions (he cannot put his wooden bricks on my bed), must be drawn out from a very early memory, when it was I, doing those silly sounds and recreating my imaginary worlds in someone else's room. 

There's comfort in remembering. 

I have the entire night to toil for money, and anytime soon, another distraction (or dinner call) will put this child's play to rest. This pause, however, while purely accidental, is much deserved.

Taking The Wheel (Last Part)

Previously: Taking The Wheel (First Part)

Cruising the SCTEx at 100 kph, motion slows down in one's perception while speed remains unchanged. While I do not understand the physics behind the phenomenon, it happens, especially on an empty highway with little road features to get your mind distracted. But the nippy breeze coming down from the mountains was a welcome relief. The Caraballo flanks the right side of the road when you're going to Subic, with the very pillars of the expressway, planted along the foothills. Being close to the uplands, the wind carries the scent of the mountains, of undisturbed forests and razed fields, tended and watched over by the Aetas who have lived off the land for generations. Across the metal barrier to the left is the lowlands of Pampanga. The plains are a sight to behold and while visible signs of civilization point to an ever-changing landscape, the sight of Arayat shrouded in clouds, reminds you that some things will never change. 

Getting there was a journey in itself and I have a lot to be grateful. It has been two years since the Favorite Aunt thought of giving away her Toyota Revo so that my mom would have a car to use. I returned to the driving school to sign up for a refresher course. While I have always known how to drive a car, histories and the lack of confidence on the road kept me from taking the wheel. It didn't help that I have always found joy in commuting and Manila, the city that I've always known, is walkable, especially when cars are non-moving. But I could not stand having to chase taxi cabs during rush hours only to be declined to get a ride when I am with my aging mother. The indignity was unbearable, and the inconsideration of taxi drivers, even when you're with a senior woman with a disability makes your faith grow less in humanity. It didn't help that car-sharing apps like Grab could not be relied on so there were times I had to push my mom's wheelchair long distances just to find a ride home.

In the beginning, I would have wanted the Favorite Aunt's other car - the Toyota Altis. It was compact and in my head, thought, it was far easier to maneuver than a cumbersome AUV. While I have driven something bigger - like my dad's FX - I have always wondered how I would steer those family-sized automobiles with motorcycles cutting you from blind spots. And so, I let my thoughts ran across, even telling my aunt that I'd be happy to buy her Altis. But my mother's sister had other plans and looking at hindsight, wisdom sprung from her decision.

For the household had multiplied since Baby Diego was born. He was followed by Baby Castro and just last year, Baby Bella became my sister's fourth child. A five-seater car would not fit a family of 10 and this became evident last Christmas when I had to bring home four kids and four adults from my Favorite Aunt's place.

Baby steps. That was how the first days were when I finally mustered the courage to take the wheel. When my mother had to stay at my aunt's place for a week, I did my first solo practice driving and ended up at a nearby church. It was a milestone, followed by a long drive from Santa Mesa to Bicutan the next day. My aunt's driver guided me as I cruise the Skyway. 

They say that in driving school, you only get familiarized with the machine and learn the traffic signs you find along the road. Real learning comes while stepping on the gas, crossing intersections with fast-moving cars and getting to destinations on your own. And so I did, despite the setbacks of the past and in spite of the near misses that I still carelessly commit. I have been to places I would never get on foot - to Mt. Purro in Antipolo, to take the Weatherman to his retreat, to my mother's social engagements whether with friends or family, to the Manila Doctors Hospital, when Baby Bella was about to be pushed out of my sister's womb.

I have been to destinations, too many to even mention. And in every place I step my foot on after parking the car, I always carry the thought that the journeys I have been were once-upon-a-time aspirations. Whether it be that late-night cruise, days after the NLEX Connector Road was opened to the public, or that trip to Santa Clara one early morning while I did my practice driving, all I know is that there's a time and place for everything and 19 years after sneaking out my father's Toyota FX while he slept soundly in the master's bedroom, I've finally arrived at my destination.

Weeks before the first drive to Subic, I often check Google Maps to chart the next possible destination just outside the city. I was cautioned not to venture too far for I am driving a 17-year-old car. But the Weatherman had to attend a wedding and while he was fine commuting to the venue and just staying at a hotel somewhere in Olongapo - with me, I have always seen out of town trips as a chance to create those rare and memorable bondings. The Weatherman and I both enjoy road trips and him being the navigator, I knew this wedding road trip is something we do not want to miss. And so after getting permission from the Favorite Aunt herself, I brought the Revo for a last-minute checkup. Getting the green light from the mechanic, we left the city at 5 in the morning on a balmy Saturday, the first week of April. 

Subic Bay and Morong were the farthest destinations we've reached so far, farther than I've ever imagined in the one and a half years I've been driving. A record was broken. There's no longer any limit to where I can take the car.

Taking The Wheel (First Part)

Previously: Driving Lessons

Sometime around the year 2000, my father's driver slowly inched the Toyota FX into the narrow driveway in our cramped compound. It was past 1 in the morning and as I waited for my dad to go to the master's bedroom to retire, me and Darwin, a college friend, would make hasty preparations to sneak out and test drive the car into the near-empty streets of Sampaloc. The driver bestowed his reluctant approval.

Those days, all I wanted was to drive the car to Kelly Heights in Antipolo to watch the city lights blink on the horizon. It was my ultimate senti trip - a long-forgotten tradition of pouring your heart out to another person and unburden yourself before the eventual hardening of emotions come daybreak. But because I was too lazy to get a driver's license, I was reduced to sneaking the car during early mornings, hoping I won't get into trouble. 

But luck ran out one evening.

I was backing the Isuzu Gemini - a car that was given to me by my dad, which I passively declined because of its obsolescence (I was hoping he would gift me a Toyota Corolla '98 instead) - out of the driveway not knowing I was already backing against a neighbor's car that was parked across the street. I did get a mouthful from my mother that day. Not only was I driving without a license, but also it cost my dad 4K to have the damaged car fixed.

My confidence behind the wheel crumbled after that accident. And when you get reminded of that first driving school experience, which you hated so much, might as well abandon learning to drive at all. So in the years after, aside from the occasional refresher courses I took from time to time, I was never really comfortable stepping on the gas, shifting gears, and finding my way into Metro Manila's snarling traffic.

That was until my mother's driver decided to work abroad in 2013. 

Days of Disquiet, Nights of Rage

Previously: To Die For Digong

My parents are both social change activists, who, in their youth, marched in the streets and had run-ins with authorities. My dad (bless his soul) was imprisoned during Martial Law, and my mom, who is a Sociologist held various posts in Non-Government Organizations after Democracy was restored. In a home where liberal ideas were openly discussed and somehow encouraged, I grew up knowing more than what the average kid did. In my youth, I saw Conrado de Quiros, Cheche Lazaro, Solita Monsod and Randy David as my champions. To say at least, I was informed, and this was amplified by the college program I took at the University. And although I never became a Journalist by profession, in every essay I wrote and in every spur-of-the-moment thought I posted on Twitter, I tried my best to speak the truth. 

Or at least, pass along the message.

I thought this worldview would have escaped me as I sink deeper into matters of domestic concerns. But no. Though I have refrained from writing anything political after the present powers that be took charge of the government, I continued to speak out against the wrongs of this administration. From its decision to allow the Dictator to be buried at the Libingan ng mga Bayani, to the brutality that is the Oplan Tokhang, nothing seems right about how we are governed. Two years and counting and all I can think of is how we are sold to the Chinese, how the TRAIN law will make more people poorer, how the plunderers were set free and are now making a political comeback, and how the media outlets critical of this government are being bullied to submission. With Fake News proliferating on the internet, and friendships broken because of the Dilawan/DDS divide, it seems there is no hope in sight. And the people who I once looked up to in my youth appear to have grown silent as we edge closer to a new kind of dictatorship.

There are times I wish I would just wake up and realize that everything is just a nightmare, and that, the candidates I have chosen have won last elections. But the painful truth spoils your newsfeed with bad news every day, with barely a pause to absorb the impunity and corruption done under this administration. And it seems the struggle will drag on as the worst is yet to come: The idea of "Federalism" is being peddled in the countryside as we speak of a no-election scenario in 2019. Should this become a law, local political families will have more say in the government, allowing them to rule like princelings in their own little fiefdoms. Also, Marcos Jr inches closer to getting the elected Vice-President unseated knowing his family can bend the Supreme Court to their will (Hello Sereno impeachment). Things have now become so ugly that I have started shunning friends who continue to justify this regime. 

I will remember each one of them, and judge them solely for what they stood today.

May this be the last time I would write about how fucked up this country is. While hope remains for a sunnier tomorrow, I am more inclined to believe that the damage done has become so irreparable, it will change everyone once this freak show had seen its final run. 

The Preserver Of Worlds | The Barbie House

At a time when our helpers were solely preoccupied with looking after my younger sister, and I was left to my own devices, as long as I don't leave the confines of our ancestral house in Santa Mesa, the afternoons were spent sneaking into that tiny room that connects my mother's bedroom to her private bathroom. On some days, I would climb into cabinets and bookcases and reach into my father's stash of adult magazines, undisturbed on the topmost shelf. At grade 5, I have yet to understand that a sexual intercourse leads into baby-making. I just look at the pictures and get fascinated with the couple's lusty facial expressions. But on other days, I would plunk myself next to the same cabinet, where my younger sister's most important toy was assembled by our father. Given to her by our stateside relatives, her Barbie House was my perversion when boys of my age were supposed to play something else.

Little can be said about my play style. There was Barbie and there was Ken. I would sometimes make them love (by simulating the pumping scenes and bent-over positions I've seen in the porn magazines) but most of the time, I stuck with my fantasy role play where Barbie was a goddess who was harassed by evil dolls who wanted the pink and plasticky house for themselves. Eventually, Barbie and Ken did adopt a kid (another action figure) who I called Miko. It would grow from there - becoming sophisticated - until I found myself assembling an "army of light" made up of tiny action figures who would protect Barbie. Ken would turn into a villain, and an angry Guile doll (from Street Fighter, which was a gift from the same relatives abroad) became the reluctant hero.

I would eventually abandon the Barbie House and the dolls after my sister told tales of my exploits to our parents. I don't recall being scolded, but the discovery was enough for me to turn my attention elsewhere.  The fantasy role play would go on for years, with Guile, and a new Barbie Doll, which I bought from my own allowance. She would become the new goddess. 

Miko went missing. I would never find that toy again.

As my sister and I get older, we would find new hobbies leaving the doll house untouched. It would be disassembled, put in a plastic bag, and was among our belongings that were moved when we settled into our new house. The disassembled Barbie House would be kept inside the closet, under the bed, and when there was no more space in my sister's room, it would eventually find itself dusting in the veranda. It was the part of the house that I claimed for my garden plants ages ago. Still, it would take years before the thought of taking out the foldable doll house from its bag and clean it would take place.  

"Kuya sa iyo na itong mga dolls ko." My sister pleaded when she learned that I was boxing all my toys. I was already getting hooked on PC games, and I was fast outgrowing my action figures. Only one doll from her, including Guile and my own Barbie, survived the passing of time.

To restore, what was considered a junk, takes a generosity of patience and a sliver of craftsmanship to accomplish this project. Dirt and grime coated the surface of the Barbie House, while its interiors were barely recognizable because of mold and other traces of plant life. It did not help that the delicately-painted wallpaper sheets were peeling off. To clean the entire thing with soap water and dish scrubber might worsen the damage wrought by neglect.

But these concerns didn't matter. I was bent on cleaning the doll house and reassemble it after being forgotten for more than a decade. So scrub and rinse I did, until my own worries were washed away. Credit to its maker, the house and what remains of its furnishing did look vintage after they have been left to dry. The problem, however, lies in how the structure would stand up. While the beams supporting the roof are still intact, its locks were already broken. The walls, which also serve as the base would not snap. It felt like building a house of cards that would anytime fall apart.

I would have given up and simply put back the house inside its bag if I were not bent on writing about the experience. The Barbie House is still my sister's possession, despite my initial thoughts of giving it away. But it mattered to me more than just a toy. It was my wellspring of creativity and the beginning of my journey toward self-discovery. Many years later, I would still recall the house while playing the Sims on my PC.

The perversion of my childhood is now an accepted adult pastime.

"It has to stand up," I mumbled as I connect the sturdy blocks that would make up the pillars that would carry the weight of the doll house's roofing. To bring back a semblance of my childhood, I brought along some action figures who once revered the dolls. Meanwhile, the pillars worked - briefly - until they became too wobbly to support the structure. The playtime approach has to be modified.

I need to think practical, like my dad.

Using duct tape (which I was supposed to use to patch that hole on my mother's bathtub) the locks were sealed and the beams were bound together. What took hours of realigning and snapping the walls to the roof was done in minutes. The Barbie House finally stood, like it did, the first time I snuck into that tiny room to play with my sister's toys.

"Ang galing naman." my sibling affectionately said when I let her see the reassembled doll house. "Pakita mo kina Lenin ha?" She insisted. "Okay lang sila maglaro diyan." Her remark left a smile on my face. I have bright hopes for my nephews.

Gazing at the Barbie House from a distance, just before I disassemble it again to store it somewhere away from the elements. I didn't see a toy coming back to life. Instead, it was a personal monument rebuilt - albeit for a day - to celebrate the being I have become.