Ang Estudyanteng Buotan

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

 

 

Here I am furiously typing J. Neil Garcia’s words onto my laptop’s word processor and outside, the Dumaguete weather isn’t being all too-friendly again. The three-minute power interruption that occurred a while ago proved little help to the cold I am experiencing from the university library’s air-conditioning units. Of course I blame myself for wearing denim mini shorts and a loose T-shirt again.

 

 

 

ode to my drinking buddies

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Must we always laugh, I would like to

Ask you. Dear friends, you are sunshine

Rays on this night of merriment; I melt and you

Keep the rest of us in the mood for more.

 

Just as we down brew after brew, we find

Ourselves

Loose and ready for the world. We know no

End, for the night

Is young and so are we; for the

 

Best part of the night is when we realize the

Eagerness of our youth: how we long for the

Right times and the right lives, coupled with

The right people. And

 

Now that we think of it, youth

Is almost a funny thing that we laugh and drink some more,

Never mind the stares of them

Other customers and La Tienda cashier.

 

Must we always build each other up, I ask you who

Expertly guns our rum and Coke, and beer.

We (or maybe just I) seek answers and the looks on your faces say yes.

 

Pulutan of chips and cookies—cookies, for Britney’s sake!— have

Run out, and we decide to buy no more. Rest assured

Every drop counted; our jovial night out is drawing to a close.

 

Mine is this night of living,

As well as memories you have shared. I foretell a

Retrospection in the morning—a new perspective at

Staying alive.

Who Done What?

Friday, May 8, 2009

What happens

an hour and a half after

a semi-rambunctious bunch of friends

have dinner at ChowKing?

 

The sauce container,

serving number and spoon

they brought home with them

will tell you the answer.

Rebirth of Sorts

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

If it weren’t for this deal of writing every day for a month, my blog (or Facebook Notes) would probably never see the dawn of new posts. For this summer anyway. I know I promised myself to bring the writer in me back to life, but it seems that I can’t even add a single paragraph to any 300-word write-up I start. And because I believe in the power of teamwork, I have agreed to do this thing with Steph just so we could practice our writing skills (if any, LOL). So the consequence for not posting for the day is to treat the other with food. Fair enough since Steph and I are not really spenders (kuripot, in other words) and are trying hard to lose the extra arm-and-hip baggage.

So, yeah. This is me boldly stepping up to the challenge. Or not. In any case, wish me luck for the next 29 days. I hope the last of my creative brain cells don’t die on me at such an important (and desperate) stage of my writing life.

Hasta la mañana!

When Another Word-filled Paper Comes

Saturday, April 25, 2009

His apology came in a letter-sized bond paper, typewritten, as handed to me by an unfamiliar hand. There was nothing fancy about it—in comparison to the many pages of parchment paper I’ve read through tens of times before finally throwing them into a black garbage bag. To be honest, I was afraid of what it might come across to me this time. I hope my apprehensiveness did not show as I took hold of the blindingly white paper, and smiled almost lopsidedly at the stranger, his messenger, in front of me.

Of course it began with my name—and at that very moment I realized that I do not want him calling me that anymore—and the dreaded comma; an early warning that a vomit of words was sure to follow. Here goes, I thought.

By now I’m too familiar with his writing style: disclaimer, introduction, all-about-him paragraph, point, point, point, hopes and prayers, reiteration-slash-reassurance (that, frankly, sounds more for someone else—him?—than for me), take-care conclusion, “brotherly” closing line, his name.

What surprised me was that I couldn’t feel any concrete emotions while, and even after, reading the letter. Despite mentally pointing out a few lines in which he sounded “holy” again, I wasn’t irritated. And despite mentally counting the number of sorry’s, I wasn’t moved either. I do know in my heart (or whatever organ is responsible) that I’ve shoved things past me now, so I guess the biggest question I could ask myself is, “Am I practicing forgiveness or plain indifference?”

Some people would define forgiveness as an avenue to rebuild relationships or start anew. What about that? Considering that I only want to act cordial towards him now, minus the will to befriend him again, roughly translates to un-forgiveness of sorts, right? But I don’t want to be that person who remains bitter without even knowing it. Is indifference an end product of not having the heart to forgive and/or forget?

Still, a friend told me one could forgive and be indifferent at the same time. Maybe so. I mean, I read several articles and stories of high profile crimes wherein surviving victims forgive their offenders, but don’t necessarily pull out the case. If it is in this context that I can justify myself, then it is not to say that my being indifferent is a punishment he has to suffer from, but something to point out that forgiveness also understands my human need for security and ability to learn from mistakes.

Whatever.              

To you who is probably the only one weird enough to send what could be personal e-mails through another person, I hope you learn to forgive yourself for anything that you might be feeling sorry about, because to tell you honestly, I think it’s what you need most–to have that peace. I’m reading your letter one last time then onto the trash it goes. I forgive you (even without your apologies), but I’m sticking with indifference this time.