The Year Was 2011 (A Love Letter To The Future)

 

Previously

Credit

I hope, the next time I will write this way, Jay, you will find yourself on top of a scenic vista overlooking a breathtaking landscape. Better if you remain alone, as long as you're well-accomplished in ways you have dreamed of.

I hope you will get to finish your master's degree and stay fit. May you never give up the Olympic Bars and Steel plates all because you thought, you had enough of weightlifting.

And I sincerely wish that even though you never get to see your teenage dreams fulfilled, may your sublime aspirations of becoming a teacher, a crusader of the planet, a devoted and supportive partner be realized.

May you succeed in putting your house in order.

Because despite failing miserably in laying down and showing off your earthly feats, I can tell deep down that you have served your Creator well.

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 - 

PTSD

 

Bella, my sibling's youngest daughter began with a runny nose last week. Unchecked, the sipon progressed into a yellowish mucous blocking her nostrils, which needed to be treated with antibiotics. It would have been a classic case of the seasonal flu, but given our health condition, my panic-stricken sibling believes it is Covid. Our doctor aunt had already reassured her that it wasn't the dreaded virus as I have left the house the day after showing symptoms, and the children had no exposure from me. Besides, my niece started with a runny nose long after I was gone. This didn't convince my sibling, so she sought the opinion of her daughter's pediatrician who prescribed her medicines for a respiratory ailment. 

Like the doctor-aunt, she ruled out Covid.

Two days later, I was told the sipon had progressed into infrequent coughing. This has raised my Covid-obsessed sibling's anxiety beyond the roof, especially since his third son, Castro, exhibits cold-like symptoms as well. Today, even Diego, my sister's second is also said to be having sipon too that she told my mom, "hindi ko na alam ang gagawin ko."

I wouldn't blame my sister for her anxieties, but even the doctor-aunt said that it is not healthy anymore. If it were Covid, the matriarch should have been the first to experience the symptoms (and it is likely to progress swiftly) as she was exposed to me. But all indicators (her body temperature is being checked twice during the first seven days after her exposure) point to a healthy senior. No other person at home (asymptomatic or otherwise) also complains of a malady so it is safe to assume that all is well - except for the sibling who would likely continue to cradle worst-case scenarios inside her head.

Credit

As for me, the lingering effects of Covid would likely persist long after the government considers me a recovered patient. The cold climate of my quarantine house in Cavite and the gloomy weather these past few days somehow aggravate whatever discomfort I feel in my chest. The occasional coughing bouts brought by sticky phlegm and renewed feverish spells worry me, but it is the situation at home that leaves me disconsolate. 

I sometimes wonder when this would all end.

Tomorrow would be my last day of quarantine. If I were in a government isolation facility, the staff would have already asked me to pack my bags so other Covid patients could be accommodated. Technically, I should have already been out of the woods and on my way home. But I have been asked by the doctor-aunt to extend my self-imposed banishment for another week and rather suffer the insanity, indignity, and chilly reception I would likely receive at home - from the sibling - better stay far away for as long as needed. 

I have already caused others enough sleepless nights and disappointments.

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.

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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 - 

Monologues On A Rainy Saturday Afternoon

 Previously: Soundtripping On A Sunny Saturday Morning

Working on a beautiful Saturday morning is really bullshit. But since I have adapted already to this working lifestyle, I might as well enjoy it. Tutal, a Saturday work means extra income. Ok na rin to kahit paano.

Working on a Saturday is no biggie at all. You've been used to the hustle - for more than half a decade now. In fact, you even work on weekends. Sometime around your thirties, you realized that your salary will not be able to support your lifestyle - especially now - that you have 4 credit cards to pay, an 18-year old Toyota Revo that demands constant car maintenance, and a house that relies on your constant financial support to keep everyone's needs fulfilled.

One thing I like in the morning shift is that the bosses aren't here... well except for my ever-concerned supervisor who was hired two weeks after we started working on the floor. Having her as our supervisor means that she's more lenient and comfortable to work with compared to my other bosses and besides we share the same wavelength since we came from the same educational environment before we arrived here.

One thing that has changed is you no longer have to follow a fixed schedule. You go online and work as you please. In theory, you are the operations head: A lenient manager who leaves the day-to-day affairs of your colleagues to resolve among themselves. The owner of the company doesn't even check on you anymore. Either he is busy with his business affairs, or he has learned to trust that you won't fuck up on the job. And it doesn't mean that you leave things unattended. Technology has advanced tenfold that you can now observe, check on your colleagues' work, and be in constant communication with them with your smartphone. 

Anyway, as the music from the radio blared again, I've realized that they were still tuned in to Love Radio. My God, I was working straight for 12 hours yesterday and the whole time, it was tuned in to that friggin station. But of course, there's nothing wrong with Love Radio. In fact, it's kinda amusing to listen to novelty songs once in a while... but to listen the whole day, dude, I'm not committing suicide here... hellur!!!

Credits

Take for example yesterday, the Song to Memorize this week was a new song by Regine. Ampota, I heard it yesterday morning, then it was played again at around brunch time, then it was played again at around 2 pm, then again at 5 pm which matching sabay kanta from my colleagues here at work. It was the same with other songs. Anubayun, nauubusan ba sila ng patutugtugin?

Lucky for me, since I am in-jigs with my morning shift supervisor, I can ask her if I could change the station on our radio.

Anyway, since you have been working at home for almost a lifetime now, there is no need to accommodate colleagues who prefer a radio station different from yours. In fact, had you been working in the office, you can simply tell them to use an earphone so as not to disturb your inner peace. Would you believe that Love Radio is still around? They have been on the airwaves long enough that some kids won't even know what "Novelty" songs are. Regine Velasquez is still an icon but she is with the Kapamilya Network now. After building a career with GMA-7, she would sign up with the largest broadcasting network in the country (that is, before the President's lawmakers refused to grant them a franchise last year.)

If I have a choice, I'd switch it to NU-107, but since our happy radio only tunes in to three stations, I have no choice but to choose the two alternatives. I was lucky to find some super-conyo station today. I tuned it to Jam 88.3 and my morning and suddenly, my morning became inspiring.

Sadly, NU-107 is now a legend. Their station had an upsetting reformat a decade ago.

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What I prefer about my music is that it should be alternative/indie - meaning, only a few people know my music and fewer would appreciate it. I prefer light alternative over metal or some other genre that involves shouting and cursing. I like my songs to be melancholic, if not relaxing. I would really love to travel listening to songs that could make me contemplate things.

Years down the road and your genre has never changed. You still switch to Alternative Rock and Indie music because they take you to another place and another time, where you see everything through rose-tinted glasses and relive moments that your heart still remembers. 

Often, I download the songs I liked on KAzAA. That way, I could include it in my collection of MP3s (which I think could already be considered as one of the most diverse among the OUTSIDERs.) In fact, I think the only one who rivals my MP3 collection is James.

If only I could have access to more indie-light alternative music like today, then I'd spend most of my evening downloading songs as I compose an entry in my blog.

And no longer do you settle for bootleg copies. Gone are the music players and MP3s are so 2010. Kazaa is history and while you have remained an avid music playlist curator, your songs these days come from streaming and you listen on platforms like Spotify. You have your handy smartphone to download the app.

  

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Before, when I was often in the party crowd, I'd choose House Music over Hip Hop. Nun nga, I was engrossing myself with Diva House when my gangsta cousin from the US, influenced me to make space for Hip Hop in my genre. After our unforgettable party at Temple, where a nice lady made passes on me, I started adopting that genre - buying pirated Hip Hop CDs at University Mall if time allowed.

And house music? Well, ever since I dropped out of Malate, I've realized that its time has already ended. We would wait perhaps another year, before another mutation of club sounds appears on our disco bars.

Sad for toinks and arrjae eh? ganun talaga eh.

A lot of things have changed since you published this blog. You have never really found Hiphop and Rap music to your liking, Diva House lost its appeal sometime in 2010, the University Mall has likely become a derelict building after face-to-face classes were prohibited last year when the pandemic began. The Malate generation has likely outgrown their taste for clubbing and electronic dance music, and Arrjae, your dear friend has passed away a few months ago. 

Someday, we hope to tell his story one last time.

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For as long as I could remember, music has always been one of my best way of relaxation/find relaxation - From the enchanting voice of Enya and happy-go-lucky songs of Eraserheads during 2nd-year highschool; to the angsty, jaded songs of Green Day, Paula Cole and Alanis Morissette during 4th-year h.s.;

From Smashing Pumpkins, Cranberries, and a dozen of alternative bands during College and Trance, house, chill out when I started partying after graduation -

I think I've always been a sound tripper.

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But some things will always stay, and likely you will carry on until the end of your days. Music for relaxation is no longer about sound tripping to fall asleep or do repetitive tasks at work (you would likely find yourself updating your Spotify playlists instead). It is more about turning your car's stereo on full volume to relax your mind as you cruise along the Skyway. Green Day, Eraserheads, Paula Cole, and Alanis Morissette would likely leave you nostalgic these days instead of actually singing along the most gut-wrenching lines of your favorite songs. For what it's worth, we look back on a rainy Saturday afternoon just to amuse ourselves at how surreal life has changed. Because should you be blessed enough to have enough breaths for another 17 years, maybe, we would find the time to write back and tell us what your life has become.

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.

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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. 

The Perversion of Information

Back when the internet was a passing fancy and everyone had to connect to the "worldwide web" through cumbersome means like a dial-up connection, we thought we were seeing the beginning of a revolution; that finally, the free flow of information will allow for equal access to knowledge, and that, ignorance will somehow be contained.

Boy, we were so wrong.

Twenty one years have passed since the threat of the Millennium Bug was proven to be a hoax and here we are, still in need of fact-checking resources. Websites like Snopes and Fake History Hunter are on the constant lookout for viral social media posts as they are likely infecting the internet with inaccurate and often exaggerated historical accounts and disproven urban legends. Theirs is a constant battle, a never-ending warfare to set things straight and weed out tall tales from scholarly-verified facts. And in a time when digital lies and propaganda could shape the outcome of election turnout (like what happened during the last 4 years under Donald Trump), their presence proves more valuable than ever.

If only such gatekeepers could really compete with the spinmasters.

As it stands, Snopes and their associates are bound to lose as it is easier to peddle lies than embrace truths. Inaccurate historical accounts like the one shared on the photo appeal more to human nature as it is sensational, even scandalous. When you apply the sensational and scandalous and weaponize them into perverted knowledge like anti-vaccine, critical race, and flat earth theory, the result is having a group of people whose ignorant and toxic beliefs poison the collective conversation. 

And it is getting worse every year.

They say lies when told over and over eventually become truths and with truths often assaulted these days, it is just a matter of time before the more discerning among us finally succumb to whatever belief a groupthink dictates.

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 -

Taal

Trigger Warning/Dream Sequence

Taal had a violent eruption. It took place late at night, around 9 or 10 pm. I recall how the sky was full of stars. There was no moon. Then, in the direction of the volcano, we could see magma oozing out of the crater. Minutes later, black plumes signal a more violent pyroclastic ejection. The explosion was so strong and so powerful, I wasn't able to move from my spot. Since I was in a hilly position, I could see everything reaching us within seconds:

Volcanic rocks flying in every direction.

Clouds of hot gases that could sear every living thing to cinders barreling over like a tsunami on the loose.

In that dream, I think I was one of the dead. Prior to being rudely awakened from my sleep, I saw two women, talking to each other. I do not recall what they were talking about, but seeing their surroundings, vegetation have somehow returned to the grayed out landscape. In front of them was a pink ancestral house, its wooden carapace still caked in ash.

End of dream.

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 Breadlosers

Previously on After Eden: Happiness

Online bank transactions today include postpaid subscription payment to Globe, and a slew of credit cards payments for Mastercards, a JCB and a Visa. The total amount paid was 20K pesos, which is more than half of my take-home income for the month. A few days ago, I paid the entire household's water bill amounting to over a thousand pesos. In a day or two, the Internet and cable bills need to be paid, the house helpers Philhealth membership dues need to be updated, the lady who receives the parking rental fee will be following up for her payment too, and the list goes on. 

Not mentioned in the list of monthly expenditures are the car tune-up cost, the Revo's registration renewal is already long overdue as well, and since the matriarch no longer goes out to do her shopping activities, part of her retirement pay goes to grocery spending. This is separate from the weekly market visits to procure meat, fish, and vegetables. There are 11 mouths to feed three times a day, 7 days a week.

When I started blogging in 2004, I would have never imagined having to carry such responsibilities. Never have I foreseen how our lives would turn out, with my mother relying on me to keep her house running and my sibling, trying to make ends meet while keeping her 4 children's needs attended. It turned out all those woes and lamentations of having to make my 9 thousand pay last a month would pale in comparison, now that the amount of cash that passes through my hands is simply beyond everyone's imagination.

Including mine.

As our cost of living bloats every year, it is simply clear that running our house would mean acquiring more sources of cash. My sister's elder children would turn into teens in a year or two, the younger ones would go to school, and my mother's lifetime savings would finally dry up. And much as I would like to be emancipated from such burden, of having to balance our spending with our means to generate a larger personal income, the likelihood of striking on my own has become a pipe dream that I conjure every time I get fed up with our situation.

"Just hope that you will be earning a six-digit salary by then. Also, try to be extra grateful. Let's state the fact that you're no longer in the red, for now."

At 39, I don't think the previous breadwinners have to make such thoughtful calculations, and with no one to pull us should our backs are pushed against the wall, we are, by all intents and purposes,

Breadlosers.

Those Written After

We knew that as early as 2015, the age of Blogging is coming to an end. Twitter, a microblogging platform where we used to post our random stuff was gaining more appeal. The dearth of readers surrendering their love for long-form reading to instantly gratifying social media browsing hastened the migration of the community to places where they can still connect with their clique, leaving Blogspot like a ghost town, a shadow of its former self.

I have thought long and hard about abandoning this blog. After all, I could still weave words on Instagram which I could then crosspost on Facebook. Twitter, where I am firmly rooted remains my favorite haunt. And life itself needs no journal keeping. The present pass by without much fanfare and my everyday existence is affirmed by the Weatherman.

"So why are you suddenly manifesting during the Blue Hour again, Mugen?"

The answers, escape me, to be honest. Maybe the Blogger app afforded me to think about things and write them with ease? (In fact, I am writing this journal entry while lying on my bed - instead of working) The random checking of my old blogpost, and the need to somehow write a postscript prod me to keep the lights open. Or maybe, I am just a writer through and through, and like the gardening hobby that I kept from elementary, the urge to perform journal keeping resurface from time to time.

I do not know when the next hibernation will take place. But as long as the urge to write remains, stories I left hanging many years ago will be revisited in hopes that they too will be concluded, now that I tend to see the past through rose-tinted glasses.

Antipolo Senti Nights

For some reason, the same ridge became a testament to my dreams. I attempted to conquer my fears of driving just to be in that place with the one I will invite to keep me company. The thought of embracing the chilly silence, with only the same distant shimmering lights to bear witness to our moment of connection was the ultimate Emo moment I could imagine.

The Ridge Racer

It was the years before the turn of the new millennium. Dad would come home very late at night after spending the whole day at work. He would park the Toyota FX just outside the house, in a compound with a very narrow driveway.

As a nocturnal young adult, I would prep myself to sneak out. With my dad's driver as my collaborator, I would often make the escape - with Darwin, Christian or Eugene - my college buddies back then, for a short joyride around the neighborhood. So I turn the engine on, rev the gas pedal, and slowly inch my way out of the driveway and into the empty streets of Sampaloc. With no driver's license to show, no blessing from the car owner, and often, no guidance from an adult, it was a very stupid move. 

But back then, there was a sublime purpose for all those late-night practice driving.

"Balak ko lang naman makapagdrive hanggang Antipolo - ng madaling araw - kasama ang tropa at makapag-sentihan* hanggang umaga habang pinagmamasdan ang kapayapaan at katahimikan ng Kamaynilaan sa overlooking."

Of course, fate tells that I would never get to accomplish that goal. While driving an Isuzu Gemini - a car which my dad brought for me, eventually  - I accidentally dented the side of a neighbor's car. Having no proof to show that I was allowed to even start the car engine, I was nearly bought to the police station and because of the trouble I caused, I got a mouthful from my mom. Meanwhile, dad had to pay a huge sum for the damage. 

I vowed never to learn how to sit behind the wheel after that accident.

Until 2 decades later, when it was imminent that learning to drive would mean convenience for my household.

To master the road would mean getting to places, legally and responsibly. And one of those places I have reached was this hilltop restaurant next to Cloud 9 in Antipolo.

In one of those random, take-out early dinners with the Weatherman, he took a photo, while I was inside a Toyota Revo - a car I took custodianship from the Favorite Aunt over 3 years ago. Looking at the picture and remembering all those crazy nights I took my dad's car for a spin, It seems, I made a full circle.

I may not have spent the late nights musing about life and the future with my college buddies, but I get to spend a romantic evening with my lifetime partner in the same place I have dreamed of landing many, many years ago.

"Imagine mo ganyan ang backyard natin," The Weatherman pointed at the glimmering cityscape below. "Tapos napapaligiran tayo ng maraming mga puno habang umiihip ang malamig na hangin galing Sierra Madre."

Some dreams are still to be made.

Still Here

In the age of microblogging - no - spur-of-the-moment thought vomit sustained by social media platforms like Twitter, long-form writing has become obsolete. Ancient even. All evidence points to journal keeping becoming a niche pastime.

But still, this blog exists, and from time to time, a longing of the past and yearning to close old stories with here-and-now revelations let me drift into these forgotten shores. I might be geriatric when it comes to digital technology, but I try to use some current tools, like the Blogger app to find my way back and briefly reclaim this space. 

(It won't be too long before I drift out again)

And if you're wondering how vastly different the past half-decade was in comparison to the present, may this photo, which I conveniently pulled out from my phone's memory serve as a lesson to the great mistake of 2016. Photo aside, we've come a long way from encoding Java instructions so we can put uploaded photos from cloud platforms like Pictogram to Blogger.