No More Maple Syrup

What gets me is how it all happened in a week. Exactly seven days ago, I was, as my friend Maita put it, all in trance with my so-called father. I had it all planned on a Saturday. I knew my life would be different come Sunday. . . . We called the theatre ‘The Big Space’ because it unlimitingly catered to all our emotions. The grant zoutes, shasaes and cartwheels were freely executed *. Free, that’s the adjective. I entered the big space on a Saturday afternoon. I felt the thrill and excitement of expressing myself again. The show would start at 6pm. I ran across Joey, the stage manager, on my way to my designated dressing room at the far end of the backstage. He was the busiest of all. “Is our princess ready for her big night?” he said. His SM Kit was wrapped around his hips. His right hand held a roll of masking tape he used for plotting positions, his left busy with jotting down measurements. Before I could answer him, Joey was again preoccupied with counting and cutting and pasting. I watch him for a few seconds but realizing he’d already forgotten what he had just asked me, I went on. Besides, he was not done yet with instructing the props men for the backdrops. I saw the battens lowered a little from the ceiling but they were still bare. As soon as I got to my dressing room, I changed into my danceskin. I had just started tying my hair into a knot when Maita, the freak-out girl, came rushing. “Girl! Girl! Check this out!” she said in a voice much like a teenage-mother bearing her child. “What? Wait, it’s good you’re here. My pink tutus can almost pass for granny’s veil. Did you bring extra?” I told her. “Can you check this first before the goddamn tutus?”. She handed me a small piece of blue Post-It. The awful handwriting on it read 89 Caimito St. Q.C. Maita just watched me. “Maita! I only have an hour to get myself ready for our show. You know that. But still you can afford to give me an anonymous address without any explanation and you actually expect me to waste more minutes staring at you and wait till God-only-knows-how-long for you to at least give me a clue. Tell me, is this where pink tutus are lent for free?” I blurted out. “Hold it!” she cut in, “The NBI guy you dated three weeks ago, do you remember him. Well…we’ve been communicating, you know. He wanted me to be some sort of a beautiful bridge between both of you. For all we know I can’t be the ordinary overlooked type. I’m too sexy, that’s one thing…” “Maaaaaaaaiiiitaaaaaaaaaaa!” “Hedroppedbyawhileagotogiveyouthis.Hehasaflighttonightsohecan’twaitforyou.Hesaidifyourfantasydad’snamewasEduardoReyes,youcanfindtheguyonthataddress.” She hadn’t breathed at all. It didn’t sink in my head instantly. I had my moments in the show. I did my routines perfectly, or so the remarks said. I never noticed. Half the time I was searching the audience. Funny, but every aged man I saw I imagined as my father, watching me, proud of her dancing princess. Considering it’s my first performance as a lead, it was weird that I didn’t feel nervous. I was so lost in thoughts. When the show was over, I quickly packed my things and rushed to the nearest Pancake House. Strangely, no one asked me why I was in such a hurry. No wonder. The ever-so-spieling Maita had spread the word. It was good enough, anyway. At least I had the night to myself. And to my dad. I waited until the butter melted before pouring maple syrup on two pieces of pancakes I ordered. I had been forcing myself to follow a serious diet months before the show but even I failed to keep myself away from my dearest pancakes. They were my source of equilibrium. I ate them when I’m sad, or angry, happy, confused, excited, and especially when I felt different things all at the same time. Just like now. And never without the maple syrup. As I indulged with my sweet treat, I looked around the place. It’s nine o’clock and everyone was grabbing anything under the moon for dinner. What caught my attention was the man, probably in his late 50s, occupying the table across mine. He was nibbling on what seemed to be Clubhouse sandwiches and French fries. He looked stressed. Perhaps he had a long day in his office. His green longsleeves were already full of seams. For a moment I felt like approaching him to ask if he happened to live in 89 Caimito St. Q.C. or if his name was Eduardo Reyes. Thank heaven earth came to me and I didn’t. When Mom was still alive she used to tell me dad was good-looking. He was tall and dark and gorgeous. Along with that he was also handsome in the pocket, a total hunk in his time. I heard a lot of stories of him buying this and that for Grandma just so he could take Mom out for a date. At the time when I was starting to establish my dancing career and what’s left of the little inheritance I got from Mom was only a thousand, I imagined Dad knocking on my door with bags of groceries enough to last me a month. I told myself if Dad only knew I fed on noodles for straight weeks he would ran to my house and bring me to the nearest Pancake House. Or probably he would bring boxes of hotcake mix, dozens of eggs, and bottles of maple syrup. I knew he would even help me pay for the house’ mortgage and wouldn’t have allowed the bank to take Mom’s car. Perhaps he would buy me a new car and let me live with him in his rich man’s house. I knew he would, if only he knew. But he didn’t. He might not even know I was half-expecting him to come. He didn’t know. I’d tell him. Tomorrow. I’d tell him everything tomorrow. I got his name and address. There was no more reason to delay our meeting. What was left was the preparation for the much-awaited day. I quickly finished my pancakes and hurried to my apartment. At the back of my mind I knew tomorrow would be an uphill battle. The sun still shone at the east. The cling-clangs of Manang Loven’s kitchen utensils on the adjacent unit indicated that this day was as ordinary as the others. But I knew it wasn’t. I was busy applying mud pack on my face when Maita came. “Hey girl! Bought us pancakes and maple. You did great last night. I heard some big name proposed a restaging.” she said. When she saw my newly made toenails she blurted out, “So, the girl’s on for something. Ummm…what time are you going to your fantasy father?” She made me laugh. Dear Maita, she’s so good at fishing information. As if she was born to it she started throwing questions at me. She even volunteered on accompanying me. “I can manage. Don’t worry I’ll update you. By the way, can you relieve me for tonight’s baby ballet class? Or maybe you could be the new teacher from now on. Who knows I might not need to work tomorrow.” I told her. If not for my almost impolite insisting Maita wouldn’t have left at noon. I slammed the door shut as soon as I had pushed her ninety pounds out the front door. Five minutes later, I could still hear her voice. “Girl, if in case you change your mind I’ll be at the studio. We can cancel the pointees tonight if you want. Girl? Girl?!” Well, she was so sweet to want to be a part of the most important time of my life but I wanted to do it alone. Besides, it was not like the blind dates we normally share together. Four o’clock was the perfect time to go to Dad. That way I could easily leave before dinner if things didn’t turn out well. At 2 p.m. I was already scanning my closet. I took my white sleeveless MNG blouse and flared jeans. I’d worn both only once. I gave my shoulder-length hair a hundred brush strokes. I put on some accessories, a nice belt, and my sexiest stilettos. I added some color to my face to complete my look. Hawaiian Ginger scent of Calgon also came in handy. At a quarter to three, I opened my front door. There I was, dressed to kill, ready to discover a missing part of me. 89 Caimito St. I didn’t know the name of the village or barangay so it took me a while. The cab fare cost me almost half-a-thousand before the driver finally located the place. I let the taxi stop at the corner. I wanted to enjoy the thrill of walking to the house. I stared at the street sign for a while then composed myself. I dug all the guts I could. Then off I went. It seemed to me that the Caimito Street neighborhood was exactly how I imagined Dad’s place would be – a quiet and civilized environment. The first house at my left read #67. I walked fast. The road was empty. 69…71…73. I wondered how Dad exactly looked like. If only Grandma didn’t burn all pictures of him when he left, I would’ve had an idea. What if he changed name? What if he already transferred home? The thought stopped me. 81… How could I forget all the possibilities? What if my NBI date had made a mistake? What if Dad wasn’t residing in 89 Caimito anymore? And if he still did, what if he’s presently on a business trip? Or what if he went shopping? Should I wait for him or should I just come back some other day? Should I leave a message then? With whom would I leave the message, anyway? Oh my God, what if dad has an arrogant wife? I hope he’s there to save me from facing a real monster. And if he’s there, what would I tell him? How would I introduce myself? Oh, Mom’s name would ring a bell for sure. I retreated to what Maita would call graceful brisk-walking. I didn’t care about my thin heels anymore. 83… I was sweating. 85… I looked down. I’d never felt so nervous. In fact, my heart was beating faster than in any of my shows. For every performance, the bigger the audience the more nervous I got. But now I only had to see one person. I didn’t even need to perform. But I couldn’t control my trembling knees. 87… My stomach ached. I felt like vomiting. I felt cold but I was perspiring. I needed a doctor. I needed a toilet, a bed, medicine, hot & cold compress. I needed an emergency room! 89. My tote bag fell to the ground. From the street, I could see the façade of a turn-of-the-century two-storey house. Its light green paint seemed to need recoating. The Bermuda grass on the lawn was of dark green and brown colors. The doorbell button was missing. The gate was ajar. I called the names of every saint I knew and slid in. There were four steps up to the front door. I climbed up and felt jumpy. The nervousness I felt was replaced by excitement. I knocked three times and waited. There was no answer. I knocked again. Maybe he hadn’t heard me because I was hearing loud sounds of what I figured out as coming from a musical instrument I could hardly recognize. “Hello? Anyone there?”. My voice fought the loud music. I knocked harder this time. “Heeellooooooo?!” After what seemed like forever the music stopped. “Who’s there?” a deep manly voice said. Dad’s. I never heard it before but my hard knew it was his. “Who’s there?” Dad repeated. “Ammm…I just wanted to ask something, Sir.” I replied. Later I realized how awkward it was for a daughter to call his father ‘Sir’. “Can you wait a second? I’ll just put a shirt on.” “No problem, Sir.” I thought my heart couldn’t beat any more faster but it did. My feet felt as if I had my grand zoute suspended on air permanently. Could it be true that I was standing in front of Dad’s front door, waiting for him to finish putting on his shirt? There was no single sound of footstep but when Dad spoke again his voice was as loud as it was earlier, coming from the other side of the wooden door, “Are you still there? I’m sorry you had to wait.” his voice brought me back to consciousness. Everything was really happening. The door opened. “Come in. What can I do for you? Come in, come in.” Our eyes met through the same almond-eyed gaze. There I was looking at a gray-haired old man in his wheelchair. “Come in. Suit yourself. What is it you needed to ask?”, he insisted. I made a long deep inhale and said, “Sir, do you remember Luisa Martinez? I’m Lyka, her daughter.” I myself could hardly hear my voice. I was watching my fingers, both hands gripping my tote bag. “Oh yes, of course. How could I forget?” He turned his wheels and moved a few meters away from me. We were both silent. “You’re our daughter.” he finally said. “That’s what I came here for, Sir.” “How do you call your mother?” “I call her ‘Mom’, Sir.” “Call me ‘Dad’, then. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.” I fought my tears and I knew he did the same. Both of us didn’t want to be too emotional in an already emotional situation. But the connection was there, more than that of the bloodstream. Dad turned to face me. Watery eyes accompanied his smile. Just like mine. We spent the rest of the day looking at pictures of him and Mom, reading Mom’s love letters, and sharing tales from long years of separation. I learned that he lost his legs from diabetes. He’d been living alone since his family migrated to the states five years ago. He didn’t tell me why he stayed, though. He never even explained why he left Mom. I didn’t ask. It suited both of us just fine to avoid confrontation of the pains that 24 years of endless questions had brought us. What’s important was the sense of fulfillment I knew we both felt. . . .We are holding a pre-cast party today at Dad’s. Maita and Joey stayed with us overnight to help me unpack my things. The rest of the gang will be arriving in a while. Joey is busy mixing his green tea while Maita prepares sandwiches. Dad and I are munching on homemade pancakes with liquid Nutra Sweet. Everyone’s already in at four. Dad plays his accordion. We accompany him with our shanaes, pas d’boreis and relevaes*. Tomorrow will be the restaging of our show. Dad will be there on the front seat, clapping his hands, proud of his dancing daughter.

Trapped

The coffee could no longer perk her up. She’d been browsing the files for hours and now felt a little weight on her back. Her left hand found a gentle way of rubbing her temples, the right reached for the second drawer of her worn-out office table. On the drawer, beside the 4-inch thick bundle of receipts for reimbursement was her best buddy, Mortin migraine pain caplets. She readily took one and immediately closed her eyes. Just as she was about to doze off, the phone rang . She reached for the headset as her legs rested against the side of the table. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”, a deep masculine voice was on the other line, sounding like a baritone who just rose from sleep. “Oh, and why should I?”, she said,. “Why shouldn’t you?” “I’m busy.” “And so you were last night.” She was silent. She stared at the open window, her hands found her temples again. “Look, we could have lunch together. I’ll go fetch you in a while…” “Bye”, she cut in. After replacing the headset she stood and walked to the window. She stayed there, as if surveying the quiet neighborhood of New York St. though the half open door of the Boston Gallery she could see a few of the paintings included in the ongoing exhibit entitled “Libog”. She had checked out the exhibit pieces the other day and felt like slamming some on the artist’s head. Oh, well, the paintings are good anyway and if not for the title I wouldn’t be thinking that the artist sees women solely as objects of arousal so might as well leave the freaking amateur in his quest of filling his stomach, she thought. As much as she wanted to hate the exhibit, she couldn’t deny that she was aroused by those naked bodies beautifully rendered in oil. In fact, she even considered purchasing one that shows a naked woman standing beside a french door. She wanted it. She saw herself in it. But of course, she couldn’t. It wasn’t a proper thing to buy. She tried to recall all the cases she had reviewed earlier. One was a girl raped twice at Ylanan St. in UP Diliman. The girl was 14, the rapist still unknown. Another was about a woman molested by a younger brother. The girl was awakened one night by her teenager brother’s head between her thighs, under her nightgown. She was dumbstruck. The brother just got up and said, “Sorry sis, peer pressure eh”. Hell, she gets a lot of these reports everyday. She reviews all of them and writes papers about them for different institutions. That’s how she earns a living, if one could consider P6,000 a month a living as compared to the P30,000 she was getting when she was still writing for Cosmopolitan. She said she needed a sense of fulfillment that her previous work couldn’t provide her that’s why she decided to starve. Well, she doesn’t starve at all. She goes out with guys who feed her. This wasn’t the first time a man called asking why she never bothered to announce she was leaving for the office and definitely not the first time she hung up on a man who either invited her out for a meal or offered her a ride home. She’d had one night stands. She’d also been in love. Once, a few years ago. The room was half lit, her body clung to Jake’s nakedness. It was one of their usual meetings – a day in her apartment, a whole day of discovering each other’s minds and bodies. There was already a sense of familiarity. Sex seemed almost like a ritual. And that afternoon, after making love she embraced him and stayed beside him. But this time, she didn’t close her eyes, she remained staring at Jake’s dark brown eyes. “Have you thought of settling down?”, she asked him. “Marriage? Why do you ask?”, he looked surprised. “Emma and Archie announced their engagement last night at Correen’s party. They seemed so excited”. “Send them my congratulations. They seem like a nice pair.” She touched his face, his forehead, his skin, his bones. How gorgeous he is, she thought. He was elated. It went on for a time, the gentle kisses and adoring touches. She never felt so happy. She was orphaned at a young age and shifted from one aunt to another. All those years of never belonging made her someone who searched not for a lover but for someone to love. She had so much love to give and Jake was willing to receive. With him, she felt needed, especially during these meetings, these afternoons of making love. Now that she had given her whole being to him, she wanted to have his child. “Baby, how about having a kid?” Jake was silent. On days like these, she usually met some guy for lunch. It was only the 10th of the month but she was broke. Yet she was too troubled to arrange a date. She checked her planner and made a note to see the doctor at four. She told her officemates to tell anyone looking for her that she would be away for 2 weeks. Outside, the sun oppressed her. She crossed the street but averted her glance from the gallery. Further off, she avoided looking at the Church as she passed. A few meters from the PETA office she turned left and slipped inside a shanty. “You’re here”, a male voice uttered. The house was almost unlit. Only a little light came from the half-open window. “I had to. I’m not feeling well. I’d just get a nap and be back at the office by 1.” “How come you don’t visit me anymore?” “I need to rest.” “Just because I don’t have any more money to give you just…” “Shut up! Don’t start…I’m not in the mood.” The wheels of the wheelchair rolled to a few feet in front of her. Now revealed by the light of the window, she saw the thin frame of the man. He looked gaunt, so different from the handsome man that he was a few years back, when he still had both his legs. “Look at me Cecille. Look at what you’ve done to me then tell me to shut up.” She stood still, not a bit moved. The place was still the same as she had left it. No curtains, no decorations. The only furniture was a single bed with dark blue coversheets. Damn if she could ever sleep here. Something stunk. The bathroom, perhaps. Well, what do you expect from a disabled man, she thought. Everything was turning as she had planned for the man. The man, his eyes a little watery, said, “I know why you’re here. I’ve figured out why you are away for months then suddenly show up a few hours. I know why you enjoy staring at me like that.” “Oh really.” “You can’t be clever all the time Cecille.” “Shut up! I don’t need any more of your goddamn illusions!” She surveyed the place once more. Hell, she couldn’t waste another minute in this terrible place, she thought. She turned and walked to the door. “Please Cecille, not again. Stop all these stupid things.” “I need to go back to work. Take care.” She went out and slammed the door behind. She walked fast, making sure nobody had seen her. A few blocks more and she returned to her normal pace. She rode a jeepney to her apartment at Cambridge. She no longer cared that she might have been responsible for the accident. She no longer depended on anyone. Still, she was getting tired of the affairs, the men. She entered her room. The light purple walls and white curtains used to relax her. The enormous collection of books on the wooden shelf beside the television used to gladden her. But now that she could see the Blue Cross strip on the bedside table, everything else in the room seem to contribute to her troubles. She saw the books, the essays, the surveys, the papers on women’s studies that both enjoyed reading and rereading. She was delighted with the fact that she knew a lot about those writings, that she was a part of them. She felt a deep affinity to those texts. She felt relieved knowing that there were many women who were as unfortunate as her. But today was different. She held the strip. There were two purple lines on it. She rechecked the package for instructions. She had read it this morning but her mind still insists on taking a second look, half-wishing there would be changes. Single line for negative, 2 lines for positive. This is the first time she used the particular brand. Could it be that this brand is not reliable enough or that it had already expired, she thought. No, she knew it’s positive even before the test. Four o’clock – she’s going to the quack doctor to get rid of this mess. Nobody’s going to know. Nobody should know. It would be easy, as always. She just had to rest for a week or so then everything would go back to normal, she told herself. Now, she should just revise her writings in preparation for the vacation. She reread the files. She rechecked the notes. She edited her works. She’s good at this. Even she can’t help but be agitated by her mixture of words and phrases that not only suggest but impose justice to the oppressed gender. Well,,, she’d been doing this for years, and she couldn’t go wrong. She had already discussed almost every kind of issue, be it rape cases, battery, or harassments. There’s only one thing she could not touch on. Probably because not too many complaints are forwarded about it. But there was one just a couple of months ago. She never attempted to write on it though, because she’s so afraid she might not do it well. Or she could be very bitter. The particular case record is still on file in her computer. It was about a woman asking for financial support from her ex live-in partner who abandoned her after hearing about her pregnancy. The woman was only 20 years old, her child a few days more than six months. Some of their pictures were printed out, placed on the corkboard. At 2 pm, she picked up her personal journal. After writing her a few paragraphs, she flipped on the pages and tried to figure out the exact date she failed to use protection and with whom she had sex with within that period. She kept record of every man she had dated, the place where they’d eaten and stayed for a night or so. Some receipts she even pasted on the pages. She must be 2 months pregnant because it happened exactly 2 months ago with a guy named Chris Toledo. According to her journal entries, it was an unexpected meeting and she was not prepared. Entry #58 = 75 Amorsolo St. San Lorenzo Vill = 893-4571. She stayed with this man in his house for two days. She placed a bookmark on the page and placed the journal beside the pregnancy test strip. She packed some of her clothes and went off. A few meters from her place was a sari-sari store. She stopped, bought a bed of headache tablets, and made 2 phone calls. She took a cab to a clinic in Sampaloc, Manila. The whole time Jake was asleep she was just staring at him. She couldn’t help but get excited at the thought of finally building her own family. If you came from a broken family or you simply didn’t have one, the tendency is you swear to God you’ll do everything to make yours a perfect one, and that’s what I’m gonna do with my family, she thought. “What time is it? I have to be back at mom’s by 6.”, Jake uttered between a series of yawns. “It’s 5.”, she answered. Jake stood, and walked to the bathroom. She also stood, hurriedly grabbed a towel from the closet and handed it to him. In her closet, under the pile of clothes, the pelvic ultrasound report was in a brown envelope. She took it. She wore her nightgown and waited till Jake finished his bathing. “I have a surprise for you.” She was seated on the rear side of the bed. Jake continued to dress up. “I went to the doctor yesterday, and this is what I found out.”, she said, handing the envelope to him. “Look at it”. Jake opened it and read. She just stared at him, still so excited. But moments after, she still couldn’t see the twinkle in his eyes that she’d been dying to see. “Cecille, I really have to go now. Don’t worry, I’ll see what I can do with this stuff? I promise to find a doctor to get this stuff out.”, he said as he walked to the door. “What do you mean get the stuff out?” “To get the goddamn stuff out as soon as possible before it gets really dangerous for you.” “I don’t understand. I’m okay, you don’t have to worry about me. We just have to settle things with your mother, with my job, with..” “Are you out of your mind? You’re actually thinking about continuing the stuff, aren’t you?” “I am not out of my mind and can you stop calling our baby stuff!?”. She was crying now. Her voice was shaking. “Cecille, you know pretty well we are not ready for this. I still have plans. You can’t keep that baby. I’ll call you later, okay. We’ll find someone who could help us remove that.” “I can’t believe this Jake! Tell me we’re not going to do anything to harm this kid!” “I’ll call you later, okay.” She grabbed his arm before he could open the door. Her face turned crimson and her limbs trembled. “We will build our family Jake. You and I and our baby. Everything’s gonna be okay. This doesn’t have to happen.” “Yes, we will. But not now. You have to wait for the right time. We still can’t. Please understand. Mom and I are leaving for the States tomorrow night. A good job awaits me there. Not now Cecille. Not now!” “No! You can’t go! You are not going to leave me Jake!” He held her hands and walked her to her bed. He knelt in front him and looked straight to her. Only their breaths separate their faces. “Look, I have my future perfectly planned. I love you, you know that. But we still can’t settle down. There are a lot of things that I still have to accomplish. I have responsibilities. I have a family. I see it’s hard for you to understand this because you only have yourself. But please understand, I have a family. My mom still needs me. We can’t keep that baby.”, he said. All the while she just stared at him, silent. “If you really want that baby,” he continued, “go on. But don’t expect me to get married this soon. Don’t expect me to be with you. I’m leaving tomorrow. If you really want that, ask yourself if you can do it alone. I could just help you when I come back, but not now. Not this soon.” He gently kissed her forehead and started to go. He didn’t make it to the door. She quickly got a long shear and stabbed him with it. He fell to the ground. She continued stabbing his legs until he lost consciousness. She called the police and reported the incident. “It was an accident”, she told them. Jake’s leg was amputated. He remained unconscious for quite a time. By the time he regained his consciousness he saw Cecille beside his hospital bed, still in the same nightgown. When the police asked him questions, he told them to stop the investigation because he wouldn’t file a case against his girlfriend because anyway, it was really an accident. Ф Ф Ф Mrs. Dela Fuente, as the president of this women’s organization you must learn that Cecille Ruiz is guilty of all these. Yes, you can tell me she has done a lot for this institution and it is really very peculiar of her to be the person that I am now telling you she is. You can read her personal journal if you’re still confused. Every single thing I told you today is written in her journal. A few other facts are results of our investigations. A man named Chris Toledo reported to us having received a unanimous gift delivered by LBC a day after he received a threatening phone call from Ms. Ruiz. It turned out the gift was a little fetus that Ms. Ruiz claims as Mr. Toledo’s baby. The gift comes with this note: I know men can’t support their babies. I know what happens to women abandoned by men after pregnancy. I know what happens to babies abandoned by their fathers. We have another informant named Jake Pascual who told us Ms. Ruiz’s whereabouts. You can talk to him but I have to tell you he is also under surveillance. Psychiatric tests showed his obsession with Ms. Ruiz and also tendencies to kill her. He lived near this office. He kept himself from any other person except Ms. Ruiz for a long time. I am also a woman, Ms. Dela Fuente. I am also concerned with all the campaigns you have against gender violence. But you have to be very careful. We would likely appreciate it if you would check all the cases Ms. Ruiz has worked with over the 7 months she stayed in this organization. She has her own motives and I believe she doesn’t take any case different from hers. At the present, Ms. Ruiz is under recovery from her latest and, according to her, 5th abortion. Mr. Toledo filed a case against her. I am suggesting that you also charge her because in any way your organization is capable of. But let’s wait until the results of her mental tests are out. By the way, we traced a file from your records. Year 1983, a woman named Marissa Ruiz asked your organization’s help regarding claims for financial support from a man who impregnated her and then abandoned her. The man died in a car accident. The woman committed suicide. Cecille Ruiz is their daughter. #

colors and strokes

I chance upon one foreign artist's collection of works and found myself speechless. It was silence out of overwhelming owe, yes. But it's much more.
I was stiffened by the realization that there are just so many things that used to enjoy doing. I had a fascination with colors, hues, shapes, lines, curves and shadows.
The collection reminded me of a little girl who spent hours and hours with a set of crayons and her mother's used bond papers. There was even one time when the little locked herself in her all for one whole day in all tears when mom refused to buy her a set of oil pastels. She's the kind of girl who'd use all her convincing powers to turn an afternoon of playtime with friends an art session. She drew all her experiences and thoughts. She drew her emotions, her sadness, her joy, her longings, her dreams, her pain, her losses. She created her world, a world of colors and shapes that contain her being.

As I stare at the little girl's hands, now that they've grown into a woman's, i can't believe what I see. The nails that always has a pigment or two in now so tidy. Well, it's not the neatness now that matters although the manicure sessions were regularly planned.

The little grew as a woman. But she's no longer herself. She has lost the colors and hues that used to brighten her innocence.

I bid goodbye to school, started a career in the realm of mechanical corporate "handicraft", moved from one house to another then back, had a taste of what it was like to be unfaithful, separated from a so-called husband, found a good friend and lost him at once, and got used to endless clashings of principles with mom --- all within a year. And who knows if a stronger bump is still coming, besides, there's still over a month before the year ends.
In all those crazy melodramatic scenes I can't believe my life had in history, I never stopped thinking, contemplating, having a hard time to decide if i should call myself stupid or not.

The good friend I lost told he knows I'm tired of the drama. Am I, really? I guess I'm afraid to face the fact that I'm living a helluva dramatic life. I mean, who wanted drama in the first place?

I am starting this new blog inspired by a blog entry i read yesterday which says writing is like hooking up with a muse. You must share each day with the muse to keep the relationship going and really try to consistently do so. There will be times when you just couldn't think of something sensible to write, but even in those times you have to write. At least, in case the muse decides to call it off with you, you can outrightly say you kept the relationship going.
And so... i start this site with the promise to keep in touch with the muse.

i've had too many episodes crammed up, which gives me much more reason to write; to be able to track down my own musings.