In Memory of Putot

Last night, July 10, around 7 pm, Putot died. A few minutes before I arrived home.

I was just getting out of the car when my brother Lilet who assisted me park told me that Putot had just died.

Putot had been sick for two weeks now. It started with a red lump on his right eye, then recently with some wounds on the sole of his right foot. We gave him human medicine for pain, which I hope didn't mitigate his illness. We gave him milk in make-shift feeding bottle. My sister fed him with her hands. But he wouldn't eat. We cleaned his wounds with water and alcohol and put hospital bandages on them. But he would remove the bandages after a few hours. Perhaps, he just wanted to please us what with the care we put into the cleaning and dressing of his wounds. Yesterday, he was still responding to touch. I would normally pat him and scratch him on the back every morning before leaving for work. I didn't expect that yesterday would be the last time I would touch his white fur. Had I known, I would have carried him in my arms as I used to do and sung him a song like a baby.

I entered the house and the tv set was hushed down. The voices were low. My sister-in-law's voice was controlled while telling me how Putot died. Only my 3-day old nephew's cries raised an octave higher than all the hushed sounds combined.

I went to the kitchen and found my sister seriously crying without a sound, only the rush of tears told the world that her heart was crushed. Putot was her favorite.

My other brother Buboy was sitting by the door smoking looking after Putot who was already enshrouded with a blanket. My youngest brother Jun was digging a grave in the backyard while my mother was holding the flashlight.

Downy, I was told, cried and turned his back against Putot who was lying dead just outside his cage. Kunot had, I'm sure, given him the doleful, watery-eyed look. Pika must have, inside, died her own death.

Putot died. And it was not just a dog's passing. It was death in the family.

Putot and Downy

Pika

Kunot

In Memory of a Family Member

There are four human-dogs in the family: Pika (from picachu, sometimes called Peka, as my father is fond of calling him, is the mother-dog); Putot (the singing dog, "putot" as in putol ang buntot); Downy (the tiger-looking blind dog); and Kunot (the youngest, but the tallest and biggest monster-dog taken "by little" force from our neighbor). Kunot was born in 2005.

Let's go back to my calling them "human-dogs." All of them have certain human characteristics. All of them are treated like one of us. Pika can walk with the aid of my mother and sister to the barangay hall for an anti-rabies shot. She, yes, a not-bitchy female dog, wakes you up in the morning, and whenever you are asleep. She is a hug-me dog. She likes to be pampered, scratched on the furry, cottony back. She eats like a lady, taking only small bits of her food at a time. All three other dogs are scared of her despite her charming, lady-like demeanor. You need only call her name when one of the dogs is misbehaving and the latter will hide the tail between his legs.

Putot could sing. You need only give the tune and he will carry on with it. He was also the dog symphony conductor. When he starts singing, all three other dogs would follow. Like Pika, Putot was white, very clean white, without the long fur. He would sleep only when my sister Cynthia is beside him. When she is out and is on vacation somewhere, Putot could not sleep, walking and whimpering.

Downy, the blind dog, isn't blind when he was born. The child of Pika and the brother of Putot, Downy lives in a P1,600-cage with regularly-washed "tailored" mats. The cage was bought when he and Kunot had a serious dog-fight resulting to my sister's badly bitten hand. Downy and Kunot never saw each other eye-to-eye. The mortal enemies. We don't know when and how the bickering started, but we can only guess it is due to jealousy. Downy started going blind early last year. And in December 2007, he went completely blind. We all think it was due to the several wounds he got in the eye from his constant fights with Kunot.

Kunot, the monster-dog, is MY dog. He loves food, food, food. He barks and the room reverberates. He sings with the dog symphony and he has the tiniest voice. Kunot is the adopted dog in the human-dogs family. He knows how to knock on the door and breaks the door if you don't open it. He is the mocha dog with the dark brown collar without it he looks like one of those asong kalye. But then again, all our dogs are asong kalye.

Because they exhibit human attributes we treat them like human beings. I am not sure what came first - they acting like humans or we treating them like human beings that resulted to them acting like one of us.

We don't allow them to eat spoiled meals. With or without rice crisis, they are part of the rice ration. We cook rice for them even if no human family member feels like eating rice. They eat what we eat. We wash their dishes after each meal. We serve them clean drinking water. Kunot sleep in my room. Putot slept with my sister. Pika with my mother. Downy in his 1.6K condo. We bathe them with special dog soap which is more expensive than what we use. We clean after them like babies when they pee and poo.

We talk to them. We call them baby. We hug them. We kiss them. We love them.

Downy, Putot, Pika after bath

God isn't a Gift to Mankind; He is the Gift-giver

I have a nephew named JM. His parents are not married. I don't know the back story of his parents - my brother, his father, and Lesley, his mother. But what I do know is that since JM was introduced to us, our family has realized love in his form. JM is love. JM is the son, not only a nephew or a grandson, in the family. We gave him everything we thought he needed. Giving him presents was a gift returned to us. It was what it meant "in giving that we receive."

The eyes that glittered. The laughter and the shrieks of joy. Those were the gifts he gave us. Oh, what we would not do for him! These things I have been reminded when I was in doubt of what God is to me. Of what I am to God.

I am God's child. I am God's JM. And no matter what the religious say about God, this is the only truth I hold on to. I am God's child. I know what it was like to love a child, a son. And loving is just wonderful. Giving is great. And I can never love JM the way God loves JM and me. I cannot start to imagine how much that love is!

God knows what I want even before I ask. I know what JM wants and needs even though he cannot speak yet. Still, I would love to hear JM tell me what he wishes to have.

So the question is, do we still need to ask God for something we are sure He already knows we need? The answer is YES. I remember a story about a barber and a man with long untidy hair. The barber knows that the man badly needs a haircut, but the barber will not touch an inch of the man's hair unless the man comes to him and asks for a haircut.

God, like the great Father that He is, wants us to come to Him like a child to his dad. We should not be afraid to ask and ask and ask. Forget about people telling us we should not treat God like a genie or a department store. God is way beyond what people think of Him to be. God is our Father, no more no less. And if you have been a parent, you know what a real parent is.




God bless!

Duran Duran and the Worst Thursday of My Life

April 10, 2008 - Thursday.

Almost a month ago, I made a mental note in my mental calendar about April 10, 2008. I was on my way to Gateway in Araneta Center when I saw a poster of Duran Duran's Red Carpet Massacre Concert in Araneta on this date at 8 PM. I swore I would never miss it for a wedding, my own even.

Days following this, I told my sister I was going to the concert and if she did good I might take her with me.

The reality of work, of life, of normalcy stepped in. April 10, 2008, 7 PM, an hour before the concert, I was home. I forgot all about the concert. Oh, fcuk it! "And I wanted to DIE, so I asked ME to DIE, But fear is in MY soul. Some people call it a one night stand, but I can call it SUICIDE!"

How could I forget Duran Duran? How could I forget Simon Le Bon and Nick Rhodes. Forget the Taylors, but not Nick! Shit!

This is a wake up call. I can forgive myself for landing on bad lovers and boyfriends. I can understand myself giving priority to professional career over my own family. And God forgive me for not hearing mass every Sunday! But not, not forget Duran Duran!

Jeepney Drivers and Old Ladies and the Man Above

Yesterday was the Prez's birthday. That meant going to Makati the second time this week. It also meant taking the jeepney and the bus again. Yes, I still am too chicken to drive in the big city.

But it was one of the best days of the recent years.

The jeepney driver conducted his trade like a pro, like a very dignified pro. He called the motherly commuters "mommy" and asked "paki bilang po kung tama ang sukli." He addresed everyone with "po" and always said "thank you" each time a fare was handed to him. There truly is dignity in every work we do, in every job there is. And people can truly make simple things grand. That driver could have made a great COO or VP for Customer Service! You think of that and you remember the assholes in your offices, assholes in coat and tie, assholes in Floursheim and Lumberjack, assholes in corporate pigeonholes, in impeccable corporate English fcuk-you's.

And you feel good meeting common workers like that driver and you thank God for showing you some human decency and you realize all is not lost.

I got off the jeepney feeling alive, walked a little to the national road. While I was about to cross the street, I noticed an old lady rooted to the ground and was uneasy looking at all types of vehicles, big and small moving to and from the old San Pedro National Road. She was just about two feet from where I stood so I asked her if she wanted to cross the street. She looked up at me (she had this little stoop) and nodded and said timidly "opo." She must be about 80 years old and she addressed me with this ennobling Filipino word "opo"! She must have been standing there long and nobody cared to help her cross the street! Argh!

So I moved to her left and took her hand and we crossed the street together. Since the old lady couldn't walk fast, I signaled the vehicles to slow down as we crossed the road. When finally we got to the other side of the street, I released her hand and she looked up at me again. This time she smiled and said, "Salamat po." I was too stunned to say anything, not even "Ingat po kayo."

A jeepney driver and a grandmother made my day yesterday. They made me forget the wrongs done to me recently. They gave me the answer to my questions: What do you feel knowing that God also loves those who hurt you? What do you feel knowing that God forgives even those you cannot?

Meeting those two blessed individuals made me realize that I have a good life, not because I am good, but because God is. That I am blessed not because I believe, but because God is merciful. That God allows me to see real beauty in human beings not because I asked him to, but because He wants to show me He does exist, even if sometimes I doubt it.

Desire Is The First

By Bliss Cua Lim

Desire is the first to be colonized
and the last to be freed.

Before and behind me,
my strong, scarred mothers,
weak only where their men were concerned.

How long before I learned what was owing to you,
what was owing to me,
brought up to believe that loneliness
was lack of that which echoes in operas I sing poorly,
love, which brought all heroines to death.

No, we must not seize pleasure at each other's expense:
how could we then condemn
that mindless ease made possible by
the unlamented labor of those without song?

Too many dare to be beautiful but not to be brave.
But sisters surround me on ancient afternoons,
calling out canticles with throats thick with tears:
god has not responded, but we must sound our power.

Song For Unrequited Love

By Bliss Cua Lim

You turn towards me and your face fills the frame.
All spaces and moments collapse in these eyes, this smile,
the sudden rush of tenderness that seizes me.

I long to nourish you like the night.
I want to watch over your strength as you slumber,
and tend to the sinews of your softness.

If only it were possible,
I would woo you without compunction,
and when I won you, would
cherish you as shadows do that shelter
the wounded, exquisite lineaments of the moon:
with the grateful ardor of lovers who know
contingent evenings cede to the obstrusive dawn.

Creek Line

My room is parallel to the creek that used to reek with garbage some years ago. Now, it only has slow moving, smell-free water on rocks surrounded by small plants which I cannot name because I'm neither a botanist nor an environmentalist. There are trees outside my room - mango, jackfruit, banana (not a tree, but a plant?), kamias, and guava (which is now just a dead wood). These I can name because, well, I eat them.

And I wonder why can't the rest of nature's bodies be this way - from junk to greens? Better yet, why can't everyone be like my mother? Early in the morning, one can hear her sweeping the grounds with a broomstick (no, she isn't a witch) which is more like a prayer than a clockwork. Later, she will carry all the swept trash to the old pig sty to burn them. The smoke becomes the trees' breakfast of bacon and tea.

My mother has learned the language of the wind that my room is no longer a victim of unwanted smoke that used to turn me into a human tinapa.

And often, I write my blog in this room. My blog so named, the Creek Line.

And yes, mother is down by the creek, cleaning the area for the day ahead.

Miscalculation

I don't usually drive on a Monday. Not when the stretch between Soutwoods Exit and Filinvest Corporate City Entrance is one hell of an obstacle course. Lanes change in head spinning regularity, the road you're on now may be the road blocked off later. And signs and barricades prove useless when you are on the road with blood-thirsty jeepney and bus drivers always ready for the kill for the extra minutes they can snatch to get ahead at the terminal line or pick passengers at the landing of Magallanes Interchange.

But today is an extraodinary Monday. I took a jeepney to Alabang via Susana Heights. Over the bridge and down the long SLEX highway was nary a sign of traffic congestion. Holy Monday!

I reached my office building. I looked around me and the side street parking was almost empty. I hate coming to work after 8 as there are usually no parking space left for me. The guard always nudges me to use my slot at the basement parking, the steep and narrow basement parking. Thanks, but no thanks.

Being the boss, I was approached by one of the staff to confirm 9:05's meeting. I asked if there is any reason why it should not push through. One said yes. I thought it was valid. I asked for the best time this morning. My OM texted me 11:30 a.m.

So between now and then, I am free to nurse my still throbbing third molar and take things sitting down while the anti-biotic meds massacre all my body's bacteria, both good and evil.

The Absence Of

Darkness is the absence of...
Hunger is the absence of ...
Death is the absence of ...
Lie is the absence of ...
Problem is the absence of ...
Failure is the absence of ...
Hate is the absence of ...
Sin is the absence of ...
Boredom is the absence of the Internet.

I read somewhere that all negative things start with the absence of something. You think of something that's negative, and you know it is because of a certain lack. We just can't get enough. Not enough love. Not enough money. Not enough food. Not enough opportunities. Not enough zest. Not enough fun. Not enough power. Not enough influence.

And i stop to think, is it really the absence of life or not enough love for life. Is it really the lack of great things to do or not enough joy for what's before us?

Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it. And yes, I read that somewhere. I read a lot and i can't get enough of it.

An Email Dated November 20, 2004

i dug through my e-mails searching for the key to my forgotten password so i may blog again the creek line. and burried deep is an e-mail sent on my birthday four years ago. from you. leo.

both scorps, you and i believe in the supernatural, in the unseen, in the unknown. but we try to keep sane. no, not try. we are sane. we just believe in things most sane people don't.

both scorps, we enjoy what most people enjoy. but we enjoy it with the madness of the wicked, of the shameless. and the same madness forgives us for not wanting it the longest time one endures before one dies. wanting it.

both scorps, our humor is our own. we laugh at them who don't. we conceal mirth for pleasure. we love. we lust. we forgive. we sin. we own up. we cry. in the dark. and smile with eyes on the ground and hands on our lips.

i wonder what part of the globe you are now. i can't read latitudes and longitudes. all lines are the same to me. no verticals. just horizons.

On the Meaning of Life

What is the meaning of life?

This is a question directed at you. In another way, this may be asked:
HOW DO YOU GIVE MEANING TO YOUR LIFE?

You learned in your English class that to define something, you have to consider the following:

1. Physical characteristics – color, texture, smell, sound, taste
2. Purposes or functions
3. Examples
4. Strengths and advantages
5. Weaknesses and disadvantages
6. Opportunities
7. Threats
8. Limitations

These are the framework and fundamentals of your life. Some of these are just accidents which may be natural or self-inflicted.

You fill in the blanks in your life to get to your destiny and to understand fully its meaning.

The journey, according to Paulo Coelho in his book The Alchemist, allows you the wisdom of experience that makes your discovery of your treasure at your backyard more meaningful and life-defining.

You have to allow yourself some failures. Perfection happens after the rain and the storm – when there is calm and the beauty of the rainbow soothes your strained spirit and seemingly irreparable soul.

The journey also makes way to self-discovery – how you measure up to the challenges of the moment and how you sum up the addends of the previous fights. You fight a good fight you don’t lose. You are the victor of every fight when you can, with dignity, make either defeat or victory define you.

Remember that when you lose, another warrior becomes the victor. It then becomes your destiny whether his victory is one for the books or one to be mocked about.

You win for the victor the applause he deserves. The victor wins for the loss you can be proud of. This we know because warriors attract their match.


(Insights taken from the interview with Paulo Coelho at Glasgow in September 2007.)

Lessons in the Bin

yesterday i flung all of life's lessons into the bin.

i destroyed the cloak of experience and wore nothing but the truth, naked as it has always been described.

i closed my eyes, took a harrowing breath and knocked at your door.

i did not prepare a speech. i did not come prepared at all. no smart moves. no cotton candy smiles. no baby breaths.

i only had a lousy line that said "..."

and i was happy. and i didn't care what other women would say or think about this girl who was once already a woman.

I Quit

Do you know what makes things sadder than they are? Proximity.

I have suffered four years being away by several time zones from the one for whom I have allowed my life to be put on hold. And I can't start to explain how painful it was, how I cried when I saw him reduced to a mere computer monitor. And I'd touch the surface of the screen, instead of his warm, smooth skin. And countless were the times I would do anything to fly to him. But then, where I was concerned, only dreams could grow wings.

And I thought that was the most difficult part of being me. Until.

Every day, we take the same path home. Except that we go the opposite ends. Every day, we take the same stretch of road. Our eyes gaze at the same horizon. We breathe in the same square kilometer of air. And I can easily run to you and not lose oxygen.

But I am over waiting. With him I waited for the distance to close. With you I’m waiting until I lose interest. Which doesn’t seem to happen. So I quit.

To Myself the Day After the End of the World

What did I tell you about yesterday?
Today is another day.
Today makes your worries of 24 hours ago things of the past.
(Yeah, cliché, so what? Isn’t life one great rhetorical routine?)

Did you end up in the evening news?
Did you die?
Were you annihilated? No.
Did your hurt lead you to numbness?

Or the opposite?

Aren't you happier now?
Doesn't the morrow look more promising today?
Don't the clothes fit perfectly again?
Your hair, the most beautiful?

You needed yesterday's darkness to see fireflies in the night.
You needed the tears to buy back the smile you pawned for a second's madness.

Do you still breathe?
Does it still hurt?
Do you still wait for the one who has given you up for something you're not?

You enjoy shopping and you go to the malls
for clothes and shoes worship. You don’t have to quit shopping now.
You are not done buying things for yourself.
But this time you don't use currencies.
You spend your life by either living or wasting one day out of it.

Move on by living your life one doomsday at a time.

To Myself On the Day the World Would End

You are going to make it through this day.
This day will pass too, like the other days.
It may be longer this time,
but it will end because the sun has to set later,
and the late night news has to broadcast.

Chances are your situation isn’t all that bad
for you to end up in the evening news.
It is just pain.
It is just the inability to breathe properly
without tears.
It is just voices in your head asking questions
to which you have no answers. Yet.
It is just you hurting now.
And when this day is over,
we will know if the hurt will turn to numbness,
or death.

Today will be over. Rest on that truth.
(The truth is a soft pillow. But it can also be stone hard. Take your pick.)

Don’t Go Out Alone Into The Night

Baby,

We understand your need to see the world,
to know what it is out there.
We can tell you what they are,
what they mean,
what's beneath them,
but of course,
you wouldn't take the lessons from us –
you want to learn first hand.

Quite a few times you heard must-not-be-heard words from us
and you'd almost always cry,
but instead of showing us the brave tears
you'd go out into the night in your bike
returning only when the lights were out.

We never liked any of the girls
you introduced as your girlfriend.
Either they don't have the bearing
and refinement of our little sister
or they lack the intelligence I’d hope they possess.

But you're your own man.
we will give you that, but –
please, don't go out alone into the night.

Stop! Poetry

Why don’t we stop reading poetry
then maybe we can see the real poetry
of life twice removed each time a poet
attempts to cramp life into still words
for readers to inanimate?

Second-hand imagination when
put on paper is paper cup
in the King’s banquet

;
an ethical hacker
behind the firewall
at the break of the code.

What Were You Thinking, Calling Yourself Stupid?

you did the right thing. and if now you feel a little regretful, in doubt if all your sleepless nights had been worth all the wakefulness when you ached thinking, second-guessing what he wasn't doing -- that, dear me, is part of your healing.

didn't it feel wonderful walking, and you not thinking? only the rise and fall of the pavement told you where you were. wasn't it exhilarating just breathing in the air, while you choked back the tears you thought were coming? and then you changed your mind because suddenly you remembered you're done crying over some-flawless-man-off-in-the-distance-and-when-he-moved-closer-you-knew-he-wouldn't-do-at-all years ago. (oh, dear sylvia!)

be glad that you have helped an individual realize that he cannot always be at the receiving end.

find bliss in the thought that he will never meet another one like you no matter how many lives he lives.

still, wasn't it a lot better walking than waiting for him to agree to an eye operation for the non-blinds?