Saturday, August 02, 2003

Double Whammy

Wishes

I have my father's face. That's what most people who knew him would never fail to mention. I wouldn't know if that was true. I derived my limited memories of him on a 10inch-by-14inch framed photograph. A photograph which was not even an original since my Lola only commissioned someone to paint it from an ID picture of his. All other memories were gone as if they wanted to purge all the things that remind them of him. Not that they didn't love him. Of course they did, they still do. Maybe they just wanted to move on; and moving on wouldn't be easy if there are lots of things that will remind them of him. I should be thankful. They kept the picture.

I have always asked who the man in the picture was when I was a child. And I remember almost everyone will answer me, "That's your father." Then most often than not, it would be followed by countless questions: "Where is he?" "Why did he leave?" "When is he coming back?" Questions they had been answering but still, the answers just seem to elude me. He will never come back. That's the bitter pill I had to swallow. But swallow I did not.

Yes. I am still in denial. I just can't seem to accept the fact that he was long gone. Long before I could even learn how to walk. Sometimes I still feel that something inside me is missing. That something is forever lost. I felt deprived.

I have always envied kids who have someone to call Dad or whatever, simply because I don't have someone to call mine. All I have was a photograph. A nameless face had it not been for the people who introduced me to it. But what is a photograph? A photograph can't take you to the movies. It can't buy you toys. Neither can it play with you. But these are just things any kid could do without. I wanted more than these. I wanted someone to be there when I was sick. Someone to hold on to when I was down. Someone to guide me when I'm confused and comfort me when I'm afraid. I want a father. I remember I even asked my friends how it is to have one. Such a pathetic question to some. Not to me. I want answers. Sure I got them. But the sympathetic looks that came with it gave me more than the answers I was longing for. Even though how many times they would answer, I would never have a chance to know how or what it is. I should be contented on my what-ifs, my maybes and my wishes.

They say if you would make a wish on a shooting star, your wish would come true. The stars could all fall down from the sky, for all I care, but still, I wouldn't know the difference.



Seventeen

I died when I was six.

But my body still lies in state for nearly seventeen years. It still does; inside of me, away from the prying eyes of other people; lurking in the darkest, coldest part of my memory. For seventeen long years my body has kept its silence, while occasionally wreaking havoc on my psyche. It seems he doesn't want to be left forgotten. I know I should have a long time ago, but I just don’t know how to. Perhaps, I never will.
Nobody knows about it. I didn’t tell anyone of what happened to my body. I was afraid. I was afraid that nobody will listen, that nobody would care. I don’t think they’ll understand. Until, recently I had the courage to tell a few people about it. Even so, I was still hesitant.
My body was once a breathing flesh: alive, youthful, mortal. When he was still alive, I remember my body telling he wanted to be an architect. He wanted to build lots and lots of houses of various shapes and sizes but unlike any other house, his will never be shaken by any earthquake nor be blown off by any storm. He wanted them to be special. As special as the smile that beams from his soft, childish lips the day he got his first pair of shoes. That was seventeen years ago.
I still bring my body to sleep, oftentimes while singing the same sweet lullaby that mother used to sing to me when I was his age. And each time I sing that lullaby to him, my body lets out a familiar cry, but what puzzles me is that not a single sound ever escapes from his now-withered lips. I have always wished that he’d stop crying but he just kept on; until the last drop of tear wells from his eyes. Tired, he would creep back in his place, silently, never leaving a hint of his existence. There he would spend most of his time wallowing in self-pity, brewing the same anger and angst that have been pestering him.
Last night, a very bizarre incident happened. As expected, my body paid me a visit, as he usually does this past few weeks. I noticed my body was half as thin as he used to be. My body never reached that record size, save for one incident when he was forced to remember the cause of his death. Alarmed, I confronted my body about this but did not expect to get any concrete answer. He was, as always, wearing that same catatonic expression when he answered me. He told me that an invader had been sneaking inside his nook and keeps on bugging him. The invader has returned. And he, my body, was once again, afraid. Very afraid. From his story, I realized the invader was the same person that caused his death, the very person that stabbed him, not once, not thrice…I can’t even remember the exact number. Nor the exact details of how he really died. I just know that he died. Seventeen years ago.

It happened one night. Which particular night is not important; they were all the same. He was standing in front of the half-opened door of the bedroom upstairs; how he got there, he can’t remember. When suddenly two pairs of big, strong hands grabbed him from the inside. It was creepy inside the room but the owner of the pair of hands didn’t seem to mind. However, what’s creepier is the way the pair of hands had grown a pair of red, blazing pair of eyes. As the eyes grew redder and redder, the pair of hands started to travel the contours of his fragile body. My body trembled in anticipation of something that’s beyond his comprehension. He didn’t know what was going to happen.. He was starting to feel the hunger that the pair of hands felt. A hunger so insatiable that it can eat a whole body in one sitting. But the pair of hands is not hungry for just anything. Somehow my body knew what the pair of hands was hungry for. He didn’t know exactly what it was. He just knew that whatever it was, it was certainly not what he wanted He was afraid. That was the only thing he knew. He tried to reach for the door. He wanted to escape. But all hopes were nowhere to be found, for the pair of hands had started to anchor its weight on his waist. Pulling closer. Trying to reach for something. Closer. The next minutes was agonizingly long. He always wished that the hands of the clock will be just as lazy as he was during the morning, when he doesn’t want to leave the comforts of his bed. But it seemed the clock’s hands have stopped running. They, too, were afraid. They, too, were trembling as the room shaked. They, too, felt the tremor. They, too, felt the excruciating pain. They, too, were sweating blood. They, too, cried. A cry as loud as the sirens of the passing firetrucks. Funny, for the cry never reached anyone’s ear. The walls muffled the cry even before it reached the surface; never to be echoed back. Maybe the walls, too, were afraid. That was the last cry that ever escaped from the lips of my body. That was the last cry that accompanied him before his descent six feet underground.

Seventeen years ago

... a slice of bob's life.
11:16 PM

Aaahhh...

Got this from my inbox just recently. I don't know if you've already read this but still I'm posting it for some reasons. Here goes...

A farmer had some puppies he needed to sell. He painted a sign advertising the 20 pups. And set about nailing it to a post on the edge of his yard. As he was driving the last nail into the post, he felt a tug on his overalls. He looked down into the eyes of a little boy.

"Mister," he said, "I want to buy one of your puppies."

"Well," said the farmer, as he rubbed the sweat of the back of his neck, "These puppies come from fine parents and cost a good deal of money."

The boy dropped his head for a moment. Then reaching deep into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of change and held it up to the farmer.

"I've got thirty-nine cents. Is that enough to take a look?"

"Sure," said the farmer. And with that he let out a whistle "Here,Dolly!" he called.

Out from the doghouse and down the ramp ran Dolly followed by four little balls of fur. The little boy pressed his face against the chain link fence. His eyes danced with delight. As the dogs made their way to the fence, the little boy noticed something else stirring inside the doghouse. Slowly another little ball appeared, this one noticeably smaller. Down the ramp it slid. Then in a somewhat awkward manner, the little pup began hobbling toward the others, doing its best to catch up...

"I want that one," the little boy said, pointing to the runt.

The farmer knelt down at the boy's side and said, "Son, you don't want that puppy. He will never be able to run and play with you like these other dogs would."

With that the little boy stepped back from the fence, reached down, and began rolling up one leg of his trousers. In doing so he revealed a steel brace running down both sides of his leg attaching itself to a specially made shoe.

Looking back up at the farmer, he said, "You see sir, I don't run too well myself, and he will need someone who understands."

... a slice of bob's life.
9:01 PM

My head is a huge
arena full of dozen
gladiators
dancing to the tune of
“The Cheeky Song".




Okay, fine. This used to be "Asereje" but due to "some" insistent public demands (actually, there's only two) I'm switching over the not-so-cheeky-song." Nawala tuloy ang momentum...

... a slice of bob's life.
5:03 AM

Anger Management Take Two

Bad moods are slowly becoming me and this blog is transforming into an angst-ridden, not quite rollercoaster-y, ride into my ultra-boring emotional-see-saw life. I'm not sure if I was such a brat when I was just a toddler, or if I threw tantrums as frequently as any youngster would, but in the course of things, it really seems like I did. Some pretty mundane things could easily piss me off at times for no apparent reason. Basta mainit ang ulo ko ganun ako kairitable. In fact, kaya ako nandito ngayon kasi nagpapalipas ako ng init ng ulo, in the hopes that after writing this, my nerves have calmed down to their normal status. I swear I could easily punch someone in the face ... God, did I just mention that? I thought mood swings are just for ovulating women ? No offense meant to the opposite sex.

... a slice of bob's life.
3:00 AM

Have you seen Sandler's new movie "Anger Management"? I haven't. But after what happened the other day, I think I'm gonna put it in my "To Do List" the soonest possible. Ganito kasi yun...

Usually, my mom's the one cooking dinner but the other day she went to somewhere, which I understandably forgot, so she wasn't able to cook for us. Naturally, since, along with my nephew, we're only three persons in the house so who else would cook, syempre ako di ba? So there. Kahit buong maghapon na mainit ang ulo ko, I still managed to cook. I foraged for a couple of bangus in the fridge and fried, albeit grudgingly, the poor (NOT!) cold-blooded scaled creatures. Nasubukan nyo na bang magprito ng bangus? If not, then it's just wise to cover it while frying if you don't want it to behave like a dragon spitting boiling cooking oil on your face. Even so, habang tinatakpan mo, parang nanunukso pa yun, kasi may titilamsik pa rin dun pag oras na para baliktarin yung bangus. So ayun nga, medyo natilamsikan lang naman yata ako ng dalawang beses. And worse, it hurts! Dammit talaga. Okay na sana eh. Akala mo tapos na? Hindi pa. After all the culinary disaster, this really "cute, and adorable (????????)" kitty of ours, which by the way looks really like the one in "Early Edition", sneaked in and with lightning speed, ran outside the house with the fried fish as a prized trophy. THE FRIED FISH! Ang hayuff! Matapos akong matalsik-talsikan ng kumukulo-kulong mantika? GRRRRRR! Naturally, I chased the cat but to no avail. Makaganti lang ako kahit konti. (Ahmm, wag nyo ko sumbong sa kinauukulan ha? :D) Hanggang sa mapagdiskitahan ko yung ibang tao sa bahay (my brothers, na andun sa bahay nung time na yun) hanggang pati na yung dish cabinet, na medyo nagkabutasbutas lang naman yung cover sa isang suntok ko. :D Sama ko no? Well, anyway, at least napalitan na yun, medyo may kalumaan na kasi.. hehehehe. Pero masakit yun. Di pa nga magaling yung four cuts sa right knuckle ko eh.

So, what's the point of all those gibberish? Wala lang. Mainit lang ang ulo ko nung isang araw. Bakit ba, ha?

... a slice of bob's life.
4:28 AM

I'm all shiny, shimmery... (splendid?) and red as the succulent lechon that we devoured yesterday. Magbabad ka ba naman maghapon sa tubig, eh. But it's okay. I more than enjoyed it. Being in the water is quite calming and relaxing. Makes me wanna swim some more.

Do I look like a "BOY" to you? Yesterday, while swimming in the crowded pool, three ladies, apparently in their teens, approached me and asked if I could take their picture. And it went, "Boy, boy! Pwede ba kaming magpapicture?" Really, I didn't mind the favor at all. But in my head I was thinking, "Hey! Do I really look like a "boy" to you? Eh sa totoo lang mas matanda pa ko sa inyo eh! God! I'm 24, and you guys could be, what? 18, 19, probably 20?" Oh, well. Maybe I really am a man trapped in a boy's body. At least I didn't look like I were thirty. Heehee.

... a slice of bob's life.
5:05 AM

Watch Chicago! Catherine Zeta-Jones is never this better. And Richard Gere? Who knows, he can actually sing! Though I admit it didn't give me the kind of, to put it in Nei's word, "kuryente", that Moulin Rouge did to me, I'd say Chicago made it close enough. After all, it's not a romantic story to begin with. Anyhow, it's definitely worth your 60 bucks or so.

Does this one reminds you of something? Anything at all?...*grins*

... a slice of bob's life.
5:43 AM

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