Purse Of Life

It’s already late in the night when I started packing my backpack for an out-of-town trip. The usual clothes and toiletries, cellphone, camera and its extra batteries were the mainstays in my backpack every time I travel. And then my coin purse.

My coin purse and I shared a very long history together. It was given to me by someone I used to get closed with many years ago. While the coin purse since stayed with me, I haven’t heard of its giver for a long time now.

It has been my constant companion wherever I go. It stayed with me in the campsites, the cottages, pension houses, hotels, garage and anywhere I can spend a peaceful night. It’s been to cities and the country sides, mountains and seas, sidewalks and parks, crossroads and highways. Every single possession I have in my backpack may go but not my coin purse. There is too much history in it. Too many memories and countless stories.




An acquaintance once made a comment about my coin purse. The first time she saw it her eyes popped out. I was taking it out from my pocket to pay for our food when I saw her shocked expressions. It was not long after when she offered to buy me a new one. I said, no. I offered no explanations.

Once, a travel mate, who knows my attachment to my coin purse, and I talked about it. She said that I should get a bigger wallet because if this boat we are on would go down with us, there will be no way to identify my body if all I have with me is my old and torn coin purse. I smiled. She smiled, too. She know her words fell on deaf ears.

Like wine, the older it gets the finer it becomes. Friendships get stronger with time. Pieces of art become more valuable as they age. My coin purse is none of these. But its loosen fabrics and torn linings witnessed, like no other person does, how I spent my life.

One Solitary Life

I was reading a book I read millions of centuries ago when I found a piece of paper inserted into it by its previous borrower. If there is one thing I am generous about, it would be my books. I always encouraged, coerced and begged my friends to read my collections of books. It always feels good to talk about books and its author.

Going back about that piece of paper inserted in my book. I think it was left there by accident or it was some sort of a Thank-You note. For whatever reasons and since it’s a Sunday, I decided I’ll publish it here and say “Thank you, too.” to its owner. Here goes...



He was born in an obscure village.
He worked in a carpenter shop until he was thirty.
He then became an itinerant preacher.
He never held an office.
He never had a family or owned a house.
He didn’t go to college.
He had no credentials but himself.
He was only thirty-three when the public turned against him.
His friends ran away.
He was turned over to his enemies and went through the mockery of a trial.
He was nailed to a cross between two thieves.
While he was dying, his executioners gambled for his clothing,
the only property he had on earth.
He was laid in a borrowed grave.

Nineteen centuries have come and gone,
and today he is the central figure of the human race.
All the armies that ever marched,
all the navies that ever sailed,
all the parliaments that ever sat,
and all the kings that ever reigned
have not affected the life of man on this earth as much as that
ONE SOLITARY LIFE.

How Soon Is Now?

It was my best friend’s 32nd birthday yesterday. She succumbed to cancer 13 years ago. She was 19.

We were in fourth grade when her family moved into my neighborhood. Although, it was only in high school that we became classmates, we spent most of our times playing in the “emburnal” in Santo Tomas Street.

She was always the silent type and I was the best opposite. We used to sneak out from home to gather seashells by the bay until we both reached the color of charcoal black. Sometimes, I'd climb a mansanitas at her request while she stayed in the ground catching the fruits I'd throw her. If she was the demure type, I was the never-mind-what type.

Although we have different friends in high school, we always walked home together talking about how our day went. After dinner we would sit by the "emburnal" and watch younger kids play the games we used to play. In school, she'd rummage my tornado-wrecked backpack to find my notebook and write our lessons in it while I was busy playing under the heat of the sun each noon break. We were happy then until graduation came.

We used to think that it was a harmless lump growing in her leg. A series of misdiagnoses by incompetent doctors killed her. Before that, her family lost most of their properties to finance her medication and her mother died before her, broken-hearted... unable to bear her daughter's agony.

I remember the day we buried my father. She cried like she was my father's daughter. It never crossed my mind that she would follow a year later and that I'd cry like crazy at her funeral. It was a nightmare one after the other.

I can't explain why it took me more than a decade to visit her grave. Distance was never an issue nor is time. But when I did it hurt like it's the first time I learned of her death. I still grieve over my loss. I guess it makes her uncomfortable.

There have been many best friends after her. One official best friend and a few unofficial best friends. Guess it would make her laugh to know that it took me 4 universities before I got my college degree. Probably I scared her out of her wits when I scourred the caves, climbed some mountains and dived to see some corals. She must have been smiling in heaven seeing I never changed and that I'm still the same person since the day she left until today.

Dear Annalyn,

My family and I still think of you. Very, very fondly. I'm still the same person you once played with in the "emburnal." Nothing has changed. The "emburnal" is still there. And I still looked at it like you were always there. The way we were always there. Wished you stayed a little longer, long enough to listen to me play this song.

THINK OF LAURA

Christopher Cross

Every once in a while I'd see her smile

And she'd turn my day around

A girl with those eyes

Could stare through the lies

And see what your heart was saying

Think of Laura but laugh don't cry

I know she'd want it that way

When you think of Laura laugh don't cry

I know she'd want it that way

A friend of a friend

A friend to the end

That's the kind of girl she was

Taken away so young

Taken away without a warning

Think of Laura but laugh don't cry

I know she'd want it that way

When you think of Laura laugh don't cry

I know she'd want it that way

I know you and you're here

In every day we live

I know her and she's here

I can feel her when I sing

Hey Laura, where are you now

Are you far away from here

I don't think so

I think you're here

Taking our tears away

Think of Laura but laugh don't cry

I know she'd want it that way

When you think of Laura laugh don't cry

I know she'd want it that way

Ulipon Sa Gugmang Giatay

By the time this blog is published, I presume the book Brusha sent me is already in her hands. It was a good read although we agreed that the author said nothing new. Any progesterone-loaded human being knows it by heart. Everything he said is a confirmation of what I believed in and practiced. And I'm sure I am not alone. It was a good thing I always have an excuse everytime I got an invitation to attend his talks. I guess...

I am not going to write about a review on the book. My personal history tells me that everytime I open my mouth and let out an opinion, I get myself screwed up and earn an enemy or two. Since there is not much difference about talking and writing, I will shut up.

But.... Hear me for my cause! The book can be summarized in the email sent to me by the same person who sent me the book. Scroll down...

If a man wants you, nothing can keep him away.

If he doesn't want you, nothing can make him stay.

Stop making excuses for a man and his behavior.

Allow your intuition (or spirit) to save you from heartache.

Stop trying to change yourselves for a relationship that's not meant to be.

Slower is better.

Never live your life for a man before you find what makes you truly happy.

If a relationship ends because the man was not treating you as you deserve

then heck no, you can't "be friends."

A friend wouldn't mistreat a friend.

Don't settle.

If you feel like he is stringing you along, then he probably is.

Don't stay because you think "it will get better."

You'll be mad at yourself a year later for staying when things are not better.

The only person you can control in a relationship is you.

Avoid men who've got a bunch of children by a bunch of different women.

He didn't marry them when he got them pregnant,

why would he treat you any differently?

Always have your own set of friends separate from his.

Maintain boundaries in how a guy treats you.

If something bothers you, speak up.

Never let a man know everything. He will use it against you later.

You cannot change a man's behavior. Change comes from within.

Don't EVER make him feel he is more important than you are...

even if he has more education or in a better job.

Do not make him into a quasi-god.

He is a man, nothing more nothing less.

Never let a man define who you are.

Never borrow someone else's man.

Oh Lord! If he cheated with you, he'll cheat on you.

A man will only treat you the way you ALLOW him to treat you.

All men are NOT dogs.

You should not be the one doing all the bending...compromise is a two-way street.

You need time to heal between relationships...

there is nothing cute about baggage...

deal with your issues before pursuing a new relationship

You should never look for someone to COMPLETE you...

a relationship consists of two WHOLE individuals...

look for someone complimentary...not supplementary.

Dating is fun...even if he doesn't turn out to be Mr. Right.

Make him miss you sometimes...when a man always know where you are,

and you're always readily available to him- he takes it for granted.

Don't fully commit to a man who doesn't give you everything that you need.

Keep him in your radar but get to know others.

Share this with other ladies.....

You'll make someone SMILE, another RETHINK her choices,

and another woman PREPARE.

The Charmed Ones

Three days ago I received an LBC package from my Brusha. It contained a book and dvd copies of one of my favorite tv series. Such thoughtful gesture.

I met her on the wedding of one of my closest friend. While I was asked to say a “little something” for the newlyweds, Bru was a gate crasher who tagged along with Bruviv another close friend of the bride. I’m sure she’ll put up a fight over my declaration that she gate crashed. Bring it on, Bru.

We became fast friends shortly after the wedding. There were so many things we shared in common that our chemistry was overwhelming. The magnitude and intensity of our “tupak” was unbelievably identical that we blame it on us sharing the same birth date. We have so much fun together and most of them were spent in front of coffees, beers and capris.

She was the first person to make me laugh when I got my first major blow of the year last April. I don’t want to go into details how she did it but it was enough to make me finished my dinner and looked at the brighter side. She beat all those family and friends who rushed to my side the moment I got the blow. If rushing to my side was a race, she was a major front-runner. That night, the magic words she said worked wonders.

“Bru, don’t be sad. I’m still proud of you. Always will be.”

And here she is again. Sensing my boredom, she sent me a book that made me laughed all the way. No, not by its content, it was a serious stuff, but by the sarcastic (?) comments she made on some of the author's theories. Inside the book was written :



Bru,

Read this you won't regret it. It's actually entertaining at the same time enlightening. Enjoy.

- S.

The dvd's were a charmer, too. It occuppied so much of my time everyday
since I got it. I saw it even in my sleep. Hahaha! The note accompanying it
was awesome.

Bru!

Here are your copies of CHARMED Seasons 1 and 2. The others will
follow. Maybe next year. I don't know.
Enjoy!

Blessed be.

-S.

P.S. Take care. I missed our jocular conversations over coffee much more the ones we have over beer and capri.

Return the book please. Coz after you read it, I'll be throtting someone else to read it. Si Mildred the friend I was with on our brief encounter sa SM. And thwart a co-teacher to read it too.

I am too cheap and too broke to buy you girls your own copy.

You'll all thank me.

- S.

If there is one thing I love most about life, it is the fact that I am surrounded with family and friends whose genuine love and concern is enough to make me love life itself. They are my gems. They are my precious find. And here is a picture of one of them. At the back of the picture was written :

Bru,

This smile will drive away your depression. You'll think that you're better off than this bitch. Hehehe!

- Bruha

Yeah, right. Laughed I did. She once called me "disturbed" and now she suspects I am depressed. Thank you very much. How can I be? There is not much reason for me to experience any "tropical depression". The weather is just fine.

Anyway, Bru, I know you will blow your top if you will see your silly grin published here on the net. Sorry but I can't help it. I just want you to know that I AM SO DAMN PROUD OF YOU, TOO. ALWAYS WILL BE.

Blessed be.

On William Diehl, et. al

After I said my little prayer and the OFFLINE sign remained as it was, I got up from my chair and felt little needles stinging my ass as I opened the door and breathed in some air. The air outside was as polluted as the air inside. Although, the air outside was a much better choice.

As I walked down Espiritu Street passing through thousands of ukay-ukay stalls, my happy feet brought me to a newspaper stand I used to frequent as a child. I was busy reading the screaming headlines of the day when I chanced to looked up the line of books neatly piled in the shelves. They are unread but old, torn and faded through long exposures to wind, rain, dusts and anything only-God-knows-what. And then my heart stopped beating. For a moment.

In my hand was a book written by William Diehl. My eyes popped out and my hands shook for a brief moment as the attendant looked at me suspecting I’m a nut-case with my dirty slippers, torn jeans and a weird reaction on my face as I held the book. The attendant stepped aside as I uttered a “My God” while I made my way towards Angela’s Ashes written by Frank McCourt. A travel mate recommended to me this book and said it’s a good read and it's her mother’s favorite book. And finally, I found Roald Dahl, an old favorite.

Luck comes not twice, not thrice but frice, I mean, four times. At least in my case. I almost dropped the three books when the attendant told me each book costs 25 pesos! I was beginning to question my own sanity by then and asked myself “Where in the world was I?”

As I entered the place where the air is polluted inside, I was no longer bothered whether they call the men from England, Canada and Australia as Kano. I just met three of the world’s most wonderful Kano : William Diehl from Georgia, USA, Frank McCourt from Limerick, Ireland and Roald Dahl whose parents are Norwegian.

I sat back facing the OFFLINE sign. It doesn’t bother me anymore. So before my ass begins to numb and droplets of saliva lands on my right sleeve I closed my eyes and pray : “Dear Lord, thank you for the three books you have given me today. You know I searched far and wide for William Diehl, eager to know Frank McCourt and was so excited to be reunited with Roald Dahl. I know you took trouble to know the desires of my heart and thank you for fulfilling it. Can I save you from more trouble and give you the list of the books I so desperately want? You can deliver them at my door or I can go pick it up. Whichever is convenient for you and your angels, is fine with me. Thank you. Please txt back. Amen.”

What's In A Name?

Running an errand kept me sitting on a chair for two solid hours while facing the OFFLINE sign. The friction between my ass and the chair under me was so irritating that killing the person next to me was a very welcome diversion from my boredom. No, actually, I was not bored. I only complained of the aching numbness in my ass.

Boredom has no place in a small town where two or three strangers can gather in anybody’s name and talk about his or her life or the life of others from cradle to grave. We were enclosed in one storey of a building, half of it looked like a congressional session hall and the other half looked like a street corner where everybody gathers for the latest update on the neighborhood buzz. I belonged to the latter half.

An elderly woman who spits out droplets of saliva every time she talks first complained about the air-conditioning unit which seemed to be the most useless appliance in the room. As she fanned herself she talked about her daughter who met a man from England in the internet. The “Kano” as what she called the man from England is a very good man and he sends them money regularly for their sustenance. As she talked about the generosity of their foreign benefactor her audience nodded in admiration to the man from England whom they called “Kano” and envied the fortune of the elderly woman who spits droplets of saliva every time she talks.

The elderly woman wasn’t the only one with a foreign funding in the room. As soon as she finished her story another one butted in. She married an Australian and her papers are now being processed and she is due to leave anytime soon. Another is pregnant courtesy of a man from Canada and the “Kano” is flying into the country within the week to be there with her when she delivers the baby. As I sat in the bench feeling the numbness in my ass crawling up my spine, I prayed to God to send some angels from the heavens on high and tell them that they could not possibly call a man from England, Canada and Australia as “Kano”. Their foreign benefactors would be gravely insulted should they ever find out they were called "Kano".

But before I say "Amen" I stopped myself and think. The "Kano" issue is so petty its not worth my prayer. The angels are too damn busy on some bigger issues that they don't concern themselves with how one should call the other. "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet". Yeah, right. Dollars would smell as sweet whether they came from Canada, Australia or England.

As I changed my mind and shifted from my seat, I said a little prayer and said Amen as soon as I finished. "Dear Lord, with all humility I ask You, please send some angels from the heavens on high and let them take away the OFFLINE sign. My ass hurts from the numbness and the numbness is now slowly crawling up my spine. My right sleeve is almost wet with saliva droplets and my head aches from the odor and the heat. Have mercy on your child that has to "Kano" story to share and no dollars to smell. Amen."

Don't Dream It's Over

I’ve been here, there and everywhere the past few days. Part of my game plan to forget the stunning, shocking, horrible defeat of Justine to the fat, big-eyed and weird French woman (they’re not my words, I tell you).

My happy feet brought me to as far as Barcelona. No, not Spain. It’s a remote place lined with long stretch of ash-colored sands facing the all too calm Pacific Ocean. As me and my Kuya waited for the fishermen’s arrival, I mentally note that the place is good for wind surfing. The charming waves were very inviting and the place is totally unexploited although the locals doesn’t seem to care on a potential tourist spot.

Far from the civilization and the attention of the powers-that-be, it broke my heart and scared the daylights out of my wits when I realized that we need to cross a rotten bridge that is ready to tumble at the faintest whisper of the wind. But cross we did.

Cross we did. And all in one piece. On our way back, my heart was heavy as I think about the rotten and ailing bridge. It is a disaster waiting to happen. Perhaps, the bridge is waiting for someone to go down with it.

Knock on the wood.