in the desert

April 6, 2017 § Leave a comment

One rolls down my cheek.

I didn’t make an effort to stop the others from following.  The tears somehow quenched my soul, though it was never enough and I wanted them to keep on going.  My heart was pillaged by the vultures of fate, but I didn’t want to forget.  I wanted to remember the pain because it was a consequence of a happiness worth keeping.  Unlike how I dealt with the others in the past, this time I was willing to walk with it.  Like an old shirt I’d never bother changing out from.  Like a scar from a battle that left an impression.  Like that extra ear pierce I’ve always been planning.  If someone finds me along the way, in that unlikely event, then I can only hope they’ll be able to accept the decrepit state I will be in.  For underneath will always be the hope that I run into the same oasis.  Not a kind Samaritan.


March 26, 2017 § Leave a comment

I was looking for something today.

Last night I finished a late night 10km run and in spite of that I still went to the gym this morning.  I thought it was the expended calories, but it struck me that beyond an expected higher than usual appetite, I was satiated and yet the feeling lingered.  I tried to look for it at Netflix, thinking it was entertainment.  I found myself crying in some random father-and-son scene but I somehow knew the tears were not falling for the movie.  In fact I was just intermittently paying attention to it, shifting between reading random articles I plucked from the usual harvest grounds.  I went to Swati’s room for awhile, perhaps I just needed some company.  It was good, but we both knew we both had work to do.  Aside from that, Sunday is the worse day to hang out because of the weighted feeling of Monday.  We talked a bit, yet still the vacuum gnawed at me.  I finally decided to take a walk, and ended up calling my dad midway.  The conversation helped, it’s true home is one of the things I miss, and him.  I missed my mom too.  We talked for a good hour, and I decided to go back to the dorm instead of walking further as I had originally planned.  I doubted I’d find it anyway even if I exceeded last night’s running distance.  When I got off the lift to our floor, I walked towards the balcony.  I swallowed my pride and admitted that I was feeling thoroughly lonely.  I could not understand for who it was that my soul was yearning.  I held back the tears as I made my way to my room.  It’s probably just PhD.  I am sure in a couple of months, the travails of doing a doctorate will be something I just look back to.

But the truth is, I’m not sure if this consuming sensation will ever leave me.

zorbing with Crabby

February 26, 2017 § Leave a comment

As always, this woman always comes up with the craziest ideas – and I love her for it.  We bought a voucher for 2 rolls down in a zorb ball, but ended up passing off the 2nd roll (I had motion sickness quickly).  I thought it would feel like an easy and fun roll down the low incline, but I was wrong.  At least now we know how it feels like to be rolling down a hill while trapped in a barrel.  Some peculiar questions can be answered after all.

day marker

February 5, 2017 § Leave a comment

“The nun Wu Jincang asked the Sixth Patriarch Huineng, “I have studied the Mahaparinirvana sutra for many years, yet there are many areas I do not quite understand. Please enlighten me.”
The patriarch responded, “I am illiterate. Please read out the characters to me and perhaps I will be able to explain the meaning.”
Said the nun, “You cannot even recognize the characters. How are you able then to understand the meaning?”
“Truth has nothing to do with words. Truth can be likened to the bright moon in the sky. Words, in this case, can be likened to a finger. The finger can point to the moon’s location. However, the finger is not the moon. To look at the moon, it is necessary to gaze beyond the finger, right?””

at the twilight

January 18, 2017 § 2 Comments

There is a sight I love seeing.  In school, inside the engineering building.  In the afternoons, around half past 3.  Along the corridors or around the benches, I see them preparing to leave.  Decked in their pressed shirts and blouses, with fine patterned prints.  With their bags and gold watches, looking like they’re going to see no less than the mister or the missus.  Perfumed subtly and styled in pomade, they wait for each other at that certain hour.  The familiar faces of the uncles and the aunties who take care of the dust, litter and green patches.  It’s a sight that puts a smile because I also see the hard work they put in the mornings – dressed with the same uniform and going about their cleaning.  Without much of a chatter, but maybe a tune or some lyrics.  Even a nod or greeting from their well-aged faces can easily change the mood of my musings. To some, it may be a sad reality that someone’s grandparent is still working.  But to them, it may be everything, knowing that they’re still contributing to something.

They gather their belongings and hail the next bus that will bring them.  Til the next morning.

A tribute to the elderly people who keep this city-state clean.


January 3, 2017 § Leave a comment

There was a time that I wrote letters.

The thoughts seemed to flow out willingly then.  I was generous in words but never superfluous.  I committed myself to a thought before I wrote it down.  I never fawned, but neither was I curt.  I was definitely verbose, yet how could I not be?  I didn’t want to regret not being able to say what should have been said.  And to me at that point in time, most things should be.

Then I grew up, faced the impermanence of relationships, and witnessed reality like they never used to write of.  Or perhaps I just had never read of before.  Suddenly, some things didn’t seem to matter.  I love you at this moment, but I’m aware of the possibility that I might not on the next.  Should you still know how I feel right now?  I wasn’t sure anymore.  I was hurt by disappointments and let down by people I loved.  People I wrote to.  And eventually, they just became people I would have written to.  Would it matter to them if I bothered?  Does it matter to me?  One day, I just started taking the easy route of answering “no”.

Other things occupied my time as well.  I could rarely afford the clarity that helped me reach my thoughts in the past.  One could argue that I made less effort to have that.  I start paragraphs, and end them in drafts.  Or the trash.

I have also reached greater depths in my ruminations about life, humanity, love and spirituality.  Some are too uncomfortable to be written and the idealist in me tries to shut them down.  At least not write it down.  It affects my ability to write, as I disdain the idea of me writing fodder.

But time and again, I am gripped by the desire to write to people who profoundly, or even just gently, affect my life.  Not just because I need to tell them, but because I’ve always believed that some people actually need them.  I’ve always fancied being an instrument to a person’s realization about themselves.  To help them see the goodness that they’re not aware of.  Not all letters are easy to write though.  Some fill you up, but some drain your soul.  I guess it’s writing enough happy ones to have enough heart to write the hard ones.

This year will be a time I write letters.


Christmas with Crabby

December 19, 2016 § Leave a comment

Ever since our first year here in Singapore, we’ve been going to Orchard to see the Christmas lights (except for one year haha).  There’s an insane amount of people in Orchard during Christmas usually, but it’s always enjoyable with my Crabby Pattie. <3

letter to heaven.7

October 28, 2016 § 3 Comments

Dearest Inay

I dreamt of you today.  I’m again frustrated that I only remember the last few scenes when I wake up.  We were in a spacious building, and they had an exhibition of glass-paneled structures that looked like churches.  All the glasses were stained with colors.  I was looking around.  And so were you.  You called me over to where you were and exclaimed you found a good night light for me as you handed a smaller replica of the stained-glass church I was previously admiring.  I examined it slowly and tried to figure out how the stains were made.  You wandered somewhere else, and I walked over.  You were putting a small light against a wall and held it at an arm’s-length, perhaps trying to imagine how it would look like in some place in your mind.  It was a simple light.  Just a dim yellow, square one.  You were covering it with a piece of paper, as you usually do with night lights.  You never liked them too bright.  “Inay, ano yan?  Night light niyo? (What’s that for Inay, your night light?)“, I asked.  “Night light namin ni Ama (Your dad and I’s night light)“, you said while still looking at it.  You looked healthy and fatter, and in fact you had your wig on.  I don’t recall dreaming of you like this before.  In my past dreams you didn’t wear it; also a slightly thinner version more reminiscent of your later years.  As always, the me in my dream ends up crying when I start talking to you.  And this is always the point where I wake up.  My eyes are dry though in reality.

The rain was about to start when I woke up this time.  I reached for my phone and told Ama and Gab about my dream.  I told them you looked happy.  Nostalgia set in and so I’m compelled to write.

You never left me, I now realize.


October 14, 2016 § Leave a comment

I recently finished reading Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore.  As with most of his novels, I am left dazed after the experience of having gone through an apparent literary lifetime with his characters.  What separates his brand of fiction is that it isn’t the same as typical fiction novels which operate in the same laws as the real world albeit with details that never really happened.  It doesn’t border on fantasy or sci-fi either because although supernatural things are a common content in his stories, there is no effort at all to explain their rationale and mechanism.  Murakami often presents them as a matter-of-fact, which you are then expected to digest as acceptable if you’d like to see through the entire story.  And interspersed through these fictional worlds that float in between reality and fantasy are strings of wisdom that are true in both sides.  What’s even more interesting to me is how Murakami’s prose functions more like poetry in that the meaning is not straightforward either.  They’re more like metaphors woven into a symbolic statement that may mean different things to different people.  To both the author and the reader.  Although quite a few lines struck me, I’ve elected to write only about those that gripped me.

In traveling, a companion, in life, compassion.

On a personal level, I do thrive from chance encounters with strangers who “accompany” you in life even for a while.  It’s true that not everyone we meet, whether we’d like it or not, is intended to stay in our lives forever.  Nevertheless, like compassion, when we find them, we’re grateful, and that’s what keeps us going.  Initially I thought that if I wrote this line, I would have written “hope” rather than “compassion”.  But looking back on the times that I felt hope, I realized they are indeed moments tied to compassion.  It is compassion, through empathy, that we make real connections.

Closing your eyes isn’t going to change anything.  Nothing’s going to disappear  just because you can’t see what’s going on.  In fact, things will be even worse the next time you open your eyes.  That’s the kind of world we live in.

The context of this line was when Nakata was forced to watch the coldblooded murder of cats.  Bringing this into the context of our times, murder is happening everywhere as well, and at a more heightened awareness for everyone who has internet access.  A lot of us may be guilty turning a blind eye to all these atrocities, especially when we feel helpless in resolving them.  But there is truth to the line that while we live in our own little box, the world may turn out worse the next time we do decide to see what’s going on.  Just now, values and perspectives are changing.  Morals as well.  And perhaps the next best thing to do if at all we can’t really help directly is to stay informed about the world around us.  To care a bit more, be more open to other perspectives and understand why people do such things.  Not just by condemning seemingly straightforward evil, but trying to dig up the cause of such negativity.  Just because we live a life where we see no reason to commit such sins means we are not capable of doing so should our situation change.  And it is our responsibility to make sure that our morals stay intact then no matter the situation.

Artists are those who can evade the verbose…Most great poetry is like that.  If the words can’t create a prophetic tunnel connecting them to the reader, then the whole thing no longer functions as a poem.

I guess this is just a realization for me why some lines strike me as poetry and some don’t.  I felt this as I was reading some of the excerpts from Michael Faudet’s Dirty Little Things (it isn’t his fault, I now realize).  Perhaps it’s not a matter of just the artist’s skill but as well as my own experience which allows or prevents me from experiencing their poem.

The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future.  In truth, all sensation is already memory.

There’s so much bitter-sweetness in the fact that indeed all sensation is already a memory.  And delving into it further, aren’t all our important memories sensations as well?  There will always be feelings associated with them, and likewise it’s those feelings that make them precious.  The memory of my mom calling me “Baby”, or the sensation of comfort that you get from a mother’s voice.  They’re almost interchangeable.  While it’s true that not all sensations are committed to memory, one can argue that the reason we don’t commit those other sensations as memory might be due to the fact that we’re not entirely feeling them.  Either consciously or unconsciously, we pass off from those experiences.

Perhaps most people in the world aren’t trying to be free, Kafka.  They just think they are.  It’s all an illusion.  If they really were set free, most people would be in a real bind.  You’d better remember that.  People actually prefer not being free…Rousseau defined civilization as when people build fences…The people who build high, strong fences are the ones who survive the best.  You deny that reality only at the risk of being driven into the wilderness yourself.

I’m not sure how relevant this line is now given that globalization and migration promote lowering down these fences.  And although they come with a lot of advantages, there are also a host of challenges such as terrorism, epidemics, resource prioritization and allocation, etc.  Perhaps this is why some people still insist on keeping those fences high, because they’re acutely aware of the fear of living in an open society.  They in fact don’t want to be free.  They just want to be comfortable.  And who doesn’t, really?  We’re used to the security of our houses, our communities and our consciousness.  Opening up demands more from us.  Honestly, I also deal with the question of how to better equip myself in this borderless economy without losing my sanity.  It is perhaps finding a balance of sort in positioning yourself out there without losing your own ground.  It’s a continuous iteration of learning how to live.

Pointless thinking is worse than no thinking at all.

This is largely self-explanatory for pointless worries.  Easier said than done though.

Symbols guide us to the roles we play.

This line was what actually triggered me to write a post.  There are a lot of symbols in our lives, and they come in many forms.  A diploma may guide you in your career choices, a ring may remind you of your role in a marriage, and the fact that you live in a mansion or a shanty elicits a certain behavior from you.  But when I thought about symbols, the first thing that came to my mind is the gold bracelet I have on my wrist.  It’s my great grandmother’s in fact, but I started wearing it when my mom passed away. In truth I didn’t attach any significant meaning to it aside from just wanting to mark the memory of her.  It comforts me to know that I carry a reminder that I am her daughter and to some extent her legacy.  I don’t see it as a talisman nor do I look at it when I need to make important decisions.  It’s a symbol that means something relevant only to me, and what it symbolizes does guide me in playing my role in this world.

Every one of us is losing something precious to us…Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again.  That’s part of what it means to be alive.  But inside our heads – at least that’s where I imagine it – there’s a little room where we store those memories…you’ll live forever in your own private library.

I love it when cliche statements take an entirely new being when we take their converse.  Just like the other day when I watched Boyhood and I heard the line “the moment seizes us” instead of the usual “seize the moment“.  We’re constantly taught to acquire while we’re alive.  Sure, perhaps you don’t subscribe to acquiring money, wealth and power.  But we still strive to acquire memories, acquire experiences, acquire relationships, acquire wisdom, inner peace and the list goes on.  So when I read how living is actually equated to a continuous loss, as opposed to the idea that we can only stop acquiring when we die, it made me pause and ponder.  But Murakami added the important caveat that loss is just one part of it, leaving out (that we do gain otherwise) as something we should obviously know.  But it is an important recognition that we should welcome loss.  While it’s hard to not be unhappy about certain things we lose, it allows a more graceful acceptance to be keenly aware of the fact that it’s part of it.  And that we can always take comfort in their memory should we need to.

This is probably why my greatest fear would be to lose all my memories.




October 3, 2016 § 3 Comments

Woke up with no plans and finally did not resist Swati’s orchestrated birthday planning for the first time in 4 years.  (I usually insist that she play down her gifts because I’m not really into elaborate birthday celebrations).  Mamow sent me a heartwarming video to start my day where he blew my first cake in celebration of my 28 years on Earth.


He even made spaghetti (Kuya Rey made it under his supervision, according to him haha).  Inay was there as well, literally and surely in spirit.  My cousins Erin and Erika also sang happy birthday to me over whatsapp and it was really nice hearing their voices across the miles, and I especially loved the thought that despite our massive age difference, I have these lovely and affectionate cousins.  All the messages I received from family and old friends reminded me of how thankful I should be for all the love in the world that has been generously given to me by God.  Finally, the highlight of my day was celebrating it with the master planner, Swati.  She MADE me a birthday cake, took me to Chili’s for lunch and dragged me into doing the reverse bungy ride at Clarke Quay (she’s been trying to convince me for the longest time).  I was scared out of my wits before the ride but the view at the top was worth it.  Always a memorable experience when I’m with her whether it’s my birthday, her birthday, or not. <3  She even gave me a gift and a bottle of sweet messages at the end of the day.  I just love this human being so much.

you can watch the complete version of our Gmax ride here

IMG_20161001_120859.jpgmy second birthday cake of the day,made by Crabby

dsc_0910-01-01Crabby Pattie

dsc_0934-01served the wrong margarita, but that hardly rained on our parade

dsc_0941-01making full use of this love-padlock installation at Clarke Quay, too stingy to buy our own locks

twinning poses by the river

dsc_0959-01more than 3 years of friendship through mad laughter, shallow arguments and the contented kind of happiness. Thank you, Swati :)


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