powerless

i have this strange dream sequence. i like how the word 'strange' rolls on my tongue; it adds to the disjointed sensation i get when i listen to sigma by secret garden. it's a scene straight out of "gladiator", sans the warrior hordes of the invading roman centurions. fields of wheat stretch for miles, blown by a gentle, omnipresent breeze. the sun is in my eyes, low in the western sky. as the violin scuds to the top of the melodic line, i raise both my arms above my head, palms pressed together. then i part the clouds swiftly in a downward arc as my knee rises slowly towards the center of my body. i row down a stream and as my hands glide back towards the sky, it lingers at my waist. in the next instant, my right hand sweeps across my body and draws the bokken tied to my left hip. i feel the wooden blade flat against my left palm before resting it against my forehead, the curve of my arms shielding my eyes from the sun's glare as i gaze at sempai before me. katas move slowly across my mind, swirling between us, making mincemeat of time that will not stop its steady march. in his eyes lie years of gentleness hidden behind a mask of steeliness. of course i must kill him, as he will me. in the deadly dance that follows, life is fragile, leaping off the tips of our swords, breathing frenziedly between the neck and the blade before it is parried and we jump away from each other, breathing raggedly, continuing the kata that must lead to the only resolution: death.

the hakama's pleats brush against my legs as i twist under his sword's lethal swings. my toes dig into the earth as i pause, the penultimate moment. then my left knee shoots forward, right leg behind me extended, my sword held gently, but surely, in a final slash across his jugular and heart. the only echo resounds off the distant hills: "hhhhaaaaaaiiiii....!!" 1 - 2 -3 seconds. his blood runs down into the valley. then i push off the balls of my feet and stand against the setting sun. our silhoeuttes are still, gi flapping around our bodies. then we touch the hilt of our swords and bow slightly to each other.

why not

long time ago, i wrote in my other blog that the "high life" was not for me. i was saying this in connection with having met my husband through teaching theology at university.

reading over this 'those-were-the-days' blog entry, there was so much i wanted to show, so much i wanted to establish in this cyberworld. i shan't link to it because i don't want those kinds of details occupying the foreground of your reading mind. i like this present set-up where you deal with my ideas without having to wonder where i'm from or what i do in this lifetime. (although i'm sure that we all want to do some exegesis of the person, know his context so we can better appreciate the story)

anyhow, i've always taken for granted the fact that i'm not cut out for the inner-lane existence, the yuppie life, the fast-track career. i used to think i was. i butted my head applying for some high-profile jobs in the past. there must have been a reason then for my turning down some offers and for getting rejected by some, too. i did have a two-year stint with a telecommunications company after my volunteer year. i remembered thinking, "i want to feel money in my hand. money that doesn't disappear the minute i get it."

sure, i had fun driving around on my own gas (literally), buying things i fancied, going to parties here and there... but it didn't seem to be enough. i was bored. i needed something more. i just didn't know what. so in my 2nd year in the corporate world, i started my MA. my boss then thought i was doing an MBA. when he found out i was doing an arts degree, he exclaimed, "what the hell will you do with that???" i must have killed him in my mind with a thousand flying daggers, but i also must have forgiven him for his jack-ass comment. of course he was in that silly thought-box that said, "if you want to make it big, you'll get an MBA." all i could hear in my head was this retort: "that's a load of horse-shit. why the hell would i want to be stuck with a boring MBA? hellow..." i mean, the corporate was boring me to tears and he wanted me to get an MBA? i'd be like a dog chasing his tail, nowhere near any answer. or satisfaction. i must have come into the realisation somewhere down the road that it wasn't so much that i wasn't getting enough; it was that i wasn't doing what was right. it wasn't so much a matter of things i hadn't yet done, but of doing things the proper way.

i know that after 8 years of teaching english, i feel burned out. my colleagues don't think much of me in this field; i can't do anything inspiring to prove to myself (or to them) that they're wrong. i consider this belgium stint a hiatus to recoup. i am trying to reaffirm what my strengths are and what i can realistically accomplish and for what i can aspire. i've recently discerned that in spite of my being burned out with teaching english to spoiled (read: rich and materialistic) college students, i still want to teach. there will be silly students, those who just want to get the latest cell phone or buy the latest fashionable things, but sometimes, they may just be mirroring my own silly ideas of what youth should be like. i mean, that's what being young is for, right? to make silly decisions and act in silly ways. sometimes, i think, i may have forgotten that i had been young once. with silly concerns. when this strikes, i realise that maybe those atenistas in my classroom weren't so bad after all. and that's when i just miss the whole teaching enterprise. i don't even have to teach english anymore (although i would still consider teaching english language and poetry, given the chance). if i'm to be happy in it, it would be music.

but i never miss being an up-and-coming corporate lackey. i just don't. i'm just not cut out for the daily grind. working fixed hours. pouring out my talents for profit.

i'm the kind of person who needs a job to fund my dreams. the pay is incidental; what is central is enjoying what i do. i get becky bloomwood moments, especially during sales. i yearn for tons of money if only to be able to buy cool sports wear or those boots i've been eyeing for months, or this nifty turtleneck that would look good against that new coat i got a few weeks ago... but these moments are like pebbles skittering across the tops of waves. once the urge passes, it's gone. until the next stimulus. until the next covetuous moment.

and having said all that, i hope to have come closer to asserting why... not.

language bind

i think in english. lately, i wish i could think in my real mother tongue. not in those major languages like french, german, spanish, or chinese. my own tongue. sometimes one gets tired of listening to these *toot! (something unkind)* spout the wonders of their language, which, they assert, is a major language on the world stage. i want to go back home and sit next to the south china sea and watch the warm blue waters wrap itself around my ankles. and hear the languages of that country. i want to look into brown faces, into eyes unsullied by cynicism and faithlessness. among the simplest of peoples, it is easy to see why faith does not die.

here, among privileged citizens who know their rights, among people who have never experienced destitution, desperation, and plain fighting for a place in a jeepney or bus, the complacence, the smugness, is suffocating. soft laughter, thin foie gras on biscuits, glasses of wine, all the trappings of life over here. just listen to them deride anything and everything that is 'other' than who or what they are. and oh, listen to them talk ad nauseum about this wonderful expression in this language, or this fantastic place in northern europe, or this obsolete book in some obsolete book shop, or this and that piece of data that's all too intellectual and none too real. watch them devour pages and pages of theory and see them lost in a world inhabited by real people who watch mtv and drool over the latest stars on the red carpet of the golden globes or the oscar's.

pity the mollusk that seeks refuge in its shell only to find itself swooped up into someone's net and sucked out for pleasure in a stiff stuffy restaurant with muted laughter and conversation. where have those nights gone? when one could sit around a bonfire on a tropical beach, san mig in hand, smoke curling lazily to the stars, and talk about politics, one's dreams for the nation, and the hope of helping others in need.

it's just one of those days. or nights. there's this ennui that can't be shaken. it's so tempting to believe that all this world needs is self, self, and self. how tiresome. utterly so. hindi ko makita sarili ko sa salamin. nasaan na ba ako naroon? ay ay gajod.

home is where again?

if i'm wearing the right clothes, i'm in "it". the right moment. in the classroom this afternoon, i was decked out in classic belgian oral exam-wear: collared blouse, dark trousers, accent scarf, black overcoat, boots. as it has in the past, it helped boost my confidence and mask my insecurity. and i was delighted to discover that 6 degrees can be a very pleasant experience. i didn't have to be bundled in my normal student clothes of sports jackets, jeans, and rubber shoes. and i actually tried to tie my scarf in a feminine way; not in the usual bunched-around-the-neck-to-ward-off-the-cold way.

one year of looking at other people in the streets is finally rubbing off. this place has grown on me. i can feel it seeping into my marrow and settling comfortably on a settee. it's not hard to peer under the frosty facades of belgium. i was engaged in another one of those stare-down contests with the central library clock, which stood haughtily against a shockingly clear blue sky, daring him to hang his head. i lost.

i was perfectly content to meander along the way until my steps found home. but home isn't here, it's a continent and 7 time zones away, a little voice whispered. is it, i countered. home is with your energetic, bubbly, fresh-faced students, the ones you miss like crazy, another voice piped in. no, home is a few blocks away, over a little hill and down a cobbled street and up a tiny stairwell... my thoughts petered out. not in that cosy house tucked at the foothills of antipolo that watches the floods rush by in june?, wheedled voice number one. in my mind's eye there crossed a vague remembrance of strong wet drops on my windshield, the wiper whipping back and forth in vain. then a stronger image gripped me: imelda marcos and gma in what seemed to be an embrace, today's banner photo, at malacanang. i stifled an overwhelming desire to throw up. how could i go home to that? home is waffles and yoghurt and wool and turtlenecks and maillots. stern-faced bankers barking at me in stilted english, making me look like the fool they believe i am.

i don't want to go home anymore. because i am home.

sunrise and sunset

when the soul seeks rest, it makes its way on invisible latitude lines towards the west, where the darkness kisses it first. when the bats of tuguegarao emerge from their cool caves at precisely 1820 hours every day, on the dot, guided by a preternal hand that points them towards the gathering dusk, they cannot ignore the need to feast. in the gloam, the world teems with life. when only the orbs of eyes gleam in the dark, the soul is replenished, the body renewed.

just before day breaks, in that blackest moment before aurora's blush rims the eastern edge of the world, there one finds the deepest peace.

apollo's orb-laden chariot, streaking low across the eastern sky, is time for the soul to rejoice and dance. life-giving warmth infuses the entire being. another day. newness blossoms and morning glory embraces eternity in the span of 24 hours that is its lifetime. until the sun once more dips beyond the horizon and leaves us in shadow.

so it is with jumba night. you can find me here when darkness is draped over the soul. when these are thrown open in the morning light, my bikini self is ready for another day of baring flesh.

hot babe

unprotected love, even just once, can bear fruit in that indescribable miracle called life.

the other night i dreamed that my 2-year old son had gone from 2 to 20 and no longer wanted to sleep beside me. i woke up with a yawning hole in my chest, gnats of fear nibbling at the edges. there my toddler lay, breathing peacefully, all of 2 years and 8 months. i embraced him gently and waited for the light of day to brighten the room.

in that hazy world between fiery bursts of temper and blissful lassitude, i recall the times i yearn to be single again, to be accountable to no one but my whims, where the world is a snug fit around my shoulders and every additional piece of furniture exists at the fingertip of complete control. i sit very still, paralysed for endless lifetimes until the moment passes and the sun's slant has changed degree.

until recently. there was this irrational urge to cast aside all the questions and doubts nagging me the last months: if you have a baby soon, you'll not be able to travel. what about your plans to see europe? there's still so much to see. you've made so many new friends; how the hell will you be mobile now? heck, a family package of three is unwieldy enough and you still want to burden yourself with a fourth member? then there are all those potentially fun sleepovers in hidden corners of suburbia where only the unmarried are invited. (i asked a good friend why people thought only singles got lonely; one could be in the company of relatives and friends and still want a change of scenery is my perennial lament. the answer was horridly simplistic - singles are more flexible. ergo... )

the pendulum has swung slowly, irrevocably, to the other side. suddenly, this degree i'm pursuing means nothing. (when has it? wry smile) i've been tucking away memories and friendships into the heart's album the last few days; the uncharacteristic warmth of january has helped me to store these thoughts away lovingly as i wander among leuven's countless soldens and promoties. when the son turns 3, i pray to be on the way with his playmate. he is so affectionate towards other babies. intuition whispers he'll make a cool kuya. have i still something to prove as a mother? why this surging desire for the swollen abdomen? (aha, i know: i get my porn star boobs back!) and what timing, too! how the hey now do i do the "lande" routine this coming summer if i'm in oversized pants and tops? and what about the drinking sessions with my new friends...?

there's no turning back. i'm a crazed monster beckoning to those millions of xy-chromosomes. come to mommy, now. *lights out*

a whole new world...

it's a new year and i'm free! my home base blog is in another space but i can't change the settings. the not-being-able-to-blog-until-it's-revamped is an itch i have to scratch. i had to blog. again! (that's deontic modality for you!)

but now i want to keep myself in check this year. if i knew any html, i would like this blog to be in dark reds and heady purples. don't know why. my other blog has become too light-colored, too pastel-y, too tweetumsy i fall asleep just looking at it. zzzzz...

i believe in setting resolutions for the new year. i remember some of my old ones.

* for 1997, i vowed to be happy. 1996 was the worst year of my life (--- at the time. looking back, it remains unrivaled in the oh-help-me-god department).
* for 2001, i vowed to make Him happy. it's been 3 years and 9 months since that time. i will keep going --- "to infinity and beyond!"
* for 2004, i vowed to do a phillip booth, reminiscent of his poem "first lesson". to quote the favorite line: "lie back to the light year stars and let the waves take you to shore."

and for 2005? what does svelte rogue desire in this exciting new year? aside from the elusive state of being svelte, as i am forever rogue, i do have these gimme-gimme desires:

@ finish every single thing i begin, and to finish it well
@ cook better
@ learn dutch and german
@ enrol in piano and voice
@ make a new baby

my top 5 list. i'll leave the i-pod and car for 2006.

welcome to my new world! this year is a different adventure. i can smell it on the dew lounging on the hairless twig outside my window.

welcome home, svelty.