the year that zipped past

reprinted from my multiply site, here goes:

today i turned 38.  i lamented, jokingly, to my high school friend and co-scholar yesterday when she rang me on my mobile:  “iris!!!  we’re nearing the big four-oh and i still haven’t had my reflections on turning a year older yet!!!  oh no!”  to which she responded in mock despair, “shaddap!  i’m in denial!  i’m not even thinking of such big numbers anymore!”

when i turned 36 in 2007, i (mistakenly) thought that it being my chinese astrological year (year of the pig/boar), it was an auspicious time in my life at that point, having lived three full cycles of animals stopping by buddha’s bedside to get assigned their own constellations.  i entered that year with so much confidence and happiness, impervious to so many things that could possibly go wrong.  i felt invincible even if i wasn’t.  i was on top of the world even though it would be a brief precursor to a dizzying spiralling crash to the bottom of an abyss that took me a year and a half to climb out of.  i was brimming with happiness and unbridled possibility.  i felt young and vibrant.

i don’t feel any of those this year, two years hence.  although i celebrated a most wonderful birthday last year in the company of people i consider lifetime friends made in belgium, this year i find myself more subdued and thoughtful, even.  but not in any forced way.  it’s just the case for me, coming from a weekend ago when i was so drunk i had to park my car on the shoulder of C-5 while trucks, vans, and what-have-you sedans honked their irate horns at my weaving trunk, and my eyes were puffy from too much lacrimosal activity induced by excessive inebriation, that i approached my coming of the age of three-eight with more than an ounce of prudence and wariness.

that rafa won the australian open for the first time in his first trip to the final was not lost on me.  he had made history in tennis terms and yet i was lost in an ocean of indifference at home where no one except my oldest son shared a thread of passion for the sport.  i had trudged through the past four months without any internet connection at home, living off the opportunities at ateneo, in between checking papers and consultations to get moments of cyber-love that i had taken for granted all my 4 years and 9 months in leuven, where i had 24/7 high-speed cable/LAN access to anything my heart desired, and it was most often live streams of my favourite sport, tennis tennis and even more tennis.  from davis cup to atp events to non-masters events, i was not to be denied.

yet since landing on these shores, i’ve had to go without my usual dose of sports forums, blogging, and news about my favourite athletes.  i’ve lost my way as far as my football knowledge is concerned while over in formula one land, the global recession and the off-season training that have changed the sport at such a dizzying pace have slipped by me, unnoticed, as the weeks marched past.

and today, just like that, i am 38.

and joyously, wondrously so.

i can’t explain why, exactly.  maybe it was having fun at last saturday’s dinner party at my parents, a party they threw in sonny’s honour for his finally becoming a doctor of theology?  the easy banter with my parents, my siblings and their spouses, my nephew and nieces?  the flowing wine and beer?  the jokes?  i did not feel any of the painful issues of the past hurt me in any way.  all i can remember was having fun.  lots of it.  a first in my long search for happiness as far as immediate family are concerned.  a source for inner celebration and jubilation.

maybe it was rafa winning his third grand slam in 8 months on a third different surface?  trumping roger federer, he of 13 slam titles to his name, in achieving this amazing feat?  that he did it with so much authority, barely 48 hours after a thrilling 5 hour and 14 minute semifinal against fernando verdasco?

maybe it was my bestest friend inviting me to dinner at this lovely, ambience-filled restaurant near tomas morato called a touch of l.a. with its beautiful wood interiors, amorsolo paintings, pugon oven, and warm candles, over platefuls of seafood and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon that contributed to this delicious lassitude?

or was it the surprise videoke party at music match afterwards with old friends?  as ea told me not a little bit drunkenly during that super fun singing fest, “lara, the best thing you can do this year is to reconnect with your old friends.  forget about making new friends (which has been the nagging advice of my best friend that has shaken my confidence of late); da best ang mag reconnect!” for no strange reason, ea’s sisterly affection and loving words settled more comfortably in my gut last night.  she also said that she liked the influence sonny had over me and not for the first time in my 7-year marriage did i agree wholeheartedly with her assessment.  the man is truly a blessing, my secret weapon, my one true thing.

with sonny these words ring true:  what does it profit a [wo]man to gain the whole world but to lose h[er] soul in the process? i will never be materially rich with my husband, but the wealth of love and peace he has gifted me in the last 7 years have more than given me multiple rebirths and endless wonderful self discoveries.  he has made it more than possible to be happy with myself and to be happy with others and the world around me.  i am most blessed by his presence in my life and not a day goes by without my reminding him of his beauty and loveliness.

and now, on the first day of my 38th year, i wish i could have less eyebags than i do, or less fat hanging from my arms for my royalty wave, and less puson for my skinny jeans…  but i have also gained a warmer dynamic with my students that eluded me in my pre-belgium teaching days.  i have gained so much insight from being the mother of two, precocious, sweet, funny, intelligent sons who teach me constantly, every single day, what truly matter in life.  children are god’s gift to humanity and it is in our best interests to care for their best interests.  they are our ultimate salvation.  my kids ultimately restored me to myself, to which my older son will tell me, “mama, you did it yourself.  you’re the best mama.”

happy birthday to me, lara!

so there you have it

just like that. inevitable.  shit always happens to people like me.

so be it.

in your darkest hour, your angel holds you most tightly.

25 things i hate about you

1. how you always present yourself as a friend and insist that you’re the best there is.
2. how you constantly let me down as a friend.
3. how you bend everything to suit your needs.
4. how selfish you can be…
5. … and insensitive…
6. … and arrogant.
7. how you think you’re god’s gift to intellect and friendship.
8. how i allowed myself to be pushed around by you in the hopes of your reformation.
9. how i trusted you with my heart and how you didn’t even notice.
10. how you have no real balls, the cojones that count.
11. how you think you have the right to treat me like shit.
12. how you call others a jerk when you’re the bigger jerk.
13. how you think everyone else is inferior to you.
14. how you actually believe #13.
15. how effing spoiled you are.
16. how i allowed myself to give in to your whims.
17. how you think you’re always the aggrieved party.
18. how you never see how you trample on a person’s most precious and fragile emotions.
19. how you think the world hasn’t seen the best you have to offer.
20. how you aren’t even be the best the world can have.
21. how shabbily you treat women in spite of your proclamations to the latter.
22. how damn sexist you are.
23. how narrow-minded you can be.
24. how hurtful you can be.
25. how you broke my heart and never felt sorry.  not one bit.

f@ck your unprofessionalism

a week ago i get a frantic phone call on my mobile from a good friend, E.  she has a singing gig in the works and their group is trying to get ten singers to commit.  their regulars are awol so they ask me if i can pitch in.  i rethink my class schedule for the day and mentally plan out a make up day for my kids.  E is waiting expectantly so i say yes.  i get an SMS the next day for a sunday 2 pm rehearsal.

nota bene: i already had the flu when E rang me but i told her that if i’m well enough for the coming gig, then i will go.

to continue, i nearly do not make it to the rehearsal due to my illness over the weekend.  i wake up on sunday not fully well but send an SMS to the group head that i will be there anyway.  i come a few minutes past 2 and only 4 of us are there.  the other singers, i am told flippantly, will be coming at 3.  no apologies given. none should have been expected in the first place.  it’s like waiting for a toad to grow class with a snap.

i look at my watch, thinking of the hour already wasted.  my plan to go to church at 4 is scrapped.  i shrug and chat with the other people there.  tammy is making a big production of how sleepy and tired she is and mutters a few surly words from her perch on the sofa.  same old, same old, i think.

three other singers trickle in and at 3.10 we start vocalising.  things are going along slowly (we actually have to tap notes for the lone baritone and tenor, people who are supposedly regulars of this group).  an hour later, E arrives, huffing and puffing.  i turn to her delightedly, unmindfully abandoning tammy who is, by this time, irritatedly helping me and another newbie, A, learn the soprano parts of a song that, MIND YOU, i taught her many years ago.  that point bears remembering.

suddenly tammy is screaming at me.  “i have no patience because i’m sleepy!  you!  i’m talking to you!” at this point she’s actually pointing at me with her dirty fingernail.  i’m taken aback but ignore the gross insult inherent in her tone.  i think to myself in a flash of annoyance, “don’t you get bitchy with me, hussy, i taught you this song!” instead, i cajole her with, “after all those years i was patient, now it’s your turn.”

and the brat won’t have any of it.  we’re all supposed to take her shoddy line of reasoning that her sleepiness is the cause of her shitty behaviour.  what is your problem, tammy?  my eyes are beginning to narrow and some of the younger singers sense an explosion.

but i’m not that person anymore.  not the choir leader who puts stupid people in their place.  i mean, tammy is acting like a complete idiot and classless bitch but i let her do as she pleases.  things are different now.  then she shrieks, “i was explaining to you where to go in the piece and you turn and talk to someone else!” of course i just happened to turn and talk to the person who got me into the gig, E.  i say, “i’m sorry if i did that.” to which she shouts back, “you should be!”  her voice is hard and brittle.  that sweet soprano voice is a thin veneer of hollowness over that black little heart.  i reply through gritted teeth, “i AM sorry.”  the continuation in my head is, “what more do you want, you cretin? you owe me an apology for being such a diva with nothing to back it up, hello!”

and from then on i ignore her.

i didn’t ask to be included in this event; they included me.  i don’t need to sing to affirm my greatness; they’ll forever need to sing to search for theirs.  in vain, i might add.  although i have missed singing in a choir, i can do without this crap if and when i do choose to sing.  i sang with the brussels madrigals for a year and i thrived in the company of consummate professionals who knew their music, who didn’t need to have notes pounded away for them at the expense of precious hours, and who knew how to respect other people similarly talented as them.

i won’t take this abuse from low-flying singers who think that just because they have normal day jobs in their lives they can throw their puny weight around.

the sight of tammy treating her boyfriend like shit in front of the group made me cringe.  and the sight of the group taking all the pushiness meekly was just as bad.  what’s worse:  a cantankerous hag or a group of minnows who will never know any better?  my vote says tammy.  only because she has been exposed to better things.  because she has seen how true greatness is subsumed by humility.  you may have been the premier soprano back in the day, tammy, but that talent has gone to waste.  you’re a shadow of what you could have been.  batter my poor, sobbing heart.  not.

but i’m not going to be a proselytising marm.  i’m just going to be the haughty genius the group yesterday has pinned me down to be.  you want to play hard ball, people?  game on.  let’s see you try to take me down ON MY TURF if you can.  let’s just see.

oh, the whole lot of you can just go to hell.

now i’m just so weary i never want to see your faces ever again.  masarap ang buhay ko. i don’t need problems that look like you.

it’s time to go

just the other day i said hello to you… — angela bofill

a new chapter in my life has begun and blogging doesn’t figure in it actively. not the money-making, relentless kind. i’m back in the world of work where my students take precedence and i’m in a world of mommy-hood where my children are the centre of my existence.

and then there’s the world of living and loving i inhabit with S, whose companionship, love, and unbroken support have me protected until the end of our days together.

i’m still at my portal but the busy bee days are over.

it was one helluva ride and i met so many people because of it, and made many lifelong friends. abbey, jey, ting, emer, charlotte, cbs, apol, karla… some of you have never met me, some of you have, and to those i’ve never met, i am warmed by your patience and non judgemental ways. to those i’ve met, i know you can’t forget me ever

i met some people online who thought they knew me and could judge me but the actual version of me is the best of all. to those who wrote those ugly nasty emails and acted like petty classroom/playground bullies, i’m glad you’re gone. the whole lot of you. you were the humps i had to endure and who, frankly, taught me nothing about cyberspace or blogging. i’ve read so much about people’s private lives, and the open book love story between husband and wife has got to be the worst. if you can’t get your intimacy together, it shows because you bring it online. the smoochiekins words don’t mask the emptiness. all the forced humour laden with insulting judgements about people sell, though, so traffic in cyberspace is yours to hoard. as for the palengkera types who’ve never had the privilege of actually meeting me, you never will.

i’ve met more people who are kind and thoughtful and life in the real world is still more fulfilling and vibrant than life lived through blogging. i’m going back to my tiny crack in the internet and only those who really know me will find me and my real name on facebook, and a few peeks of me on multiply. otherwise, it’s good night and lights out for this virtual dream home.

adieu. paalam.

i couldn’t see the sunshine through the shadow

… i couldn’t seem to find a soul to care… — the light of a million mornings

this weekend marks the day of the dead for catholics worldwide. for filipinos, this is the time of year to trek to the graveyards of the dearly departed, set up camp for an entire weekend, and reconnect with friends and relatives from far and near.

i’ve never had this ritual to observe in my own family. thinking about it, i’ve never had much of a family to begin with. by this i mean a family with whom you celebrate the “ordinary”, even if it means celebrating it with the ordinary masses. my father says that the rich exist to rule the poor. a joke? perhaps. but it is the operative premise at the heart of our family dynamics. as for the notion of family as a social group in which one crafts loving memories to keep you in good stead in your later years, this is hogwash in mine. at least the one where i’m JUST a daughter, always a CHILD.

the family that has embraced me through most of my adult life has been the family i have had to seek and stake out as mine. and the members are almost never my relations. friends have become more sacred to me than family and i think this has always been the case since i was much younger, only i couldn’t articulate it, i couldn’t make much sense of it, i probably wasn’t sure myself.

my own blood relatives will tell me that family is merely a construct to make people feel good. on my part, i embrace the construct because i need to feel good. to counter the hollowness of having blood relatives but no good, fuzzy, warm memories, i’ve had to carve out many special places in my heart for good, fuzzy, warm memories to reside, to help make me whole, to erase the hole my eternal yearning for real family has left within.

i’m the perennial traveller, who must seek happiness and joy through adventures, inhabiting the wilderness where no joy, hope, or light have yet penetrated.

i always told S that leaving belgium would mean a slow kind of death for me. no space to mourn, no place to go when sadness descends. i always dreaded returning to the country of my birth as i knew it is a place populated with blood relatives and “friends”. it is a place where loneliness thrives robustly among the multitudes. and the fracas. the cacophony.

i know i cannot chase after the affirmation of my own blood family. i was away for five years and came back to a reception shrouded by their impressions (not even factual ones) of me from years ago. i have family who cannot see that people do change, that yes, it is possible for radical change to take place and flower. bloom and thrive. to succeed in quiet, unusual ways. in my family, you have to jump the highest, shout the loudest, be the funniest in order to be recognised. but that rule applies only to me. if i don’t suck up to the powers that be, i am nothing. worthless. selfish. thoughtless. in their eyes.

can i allow them to appropriate me for myself? after having to live with them for half my life, during the crucial formative years? the answer is a resounding NO.

there is no happiness or joy for me in the ancestral home. i suspect it is the same for my older brother who has officially been spurned by the pompousness of the elders. the older sister they badmouthed for the past 8 years is now the resident favourite flower. whimsy whimsical. can i blame my sister for striving to be the good girl to the biological parents? no. it has never been my siblings’ fault that the parents dispensed favour arbitrarily. we were made to fight each other, turn against each other, go on the sly for extra treats, to pull one over the other in a constant melange of lies, lies, and still more lies.

there is heartache that can haunt several more generations and i hope this can stop. already my older son is beginning to feel the strain i’m under and i can do nothing to stop it from touching his pure, innocent soul.

help me in this shadow hour, my lord. help me to protect my children and make them happy beings who need not achieve anything to get my love. help me to shower upon them the love, care, and peace that they need in order to be happy, joy-filled individuals. by your grace, in the palm of your hand, nothing is impossible. help me to remember this always. help me to surrender all my pain to you so that i can smile once more. it’s been too long.

this weekend is a trek to the netherworld. may it culminate in a walk away from death and into the light.

from schotel to dilis

a large part of me is adjusting slowly to new life in the homeland, the parts resisting making me ask for a knife with which to attack Pinoy food at Recipes in Shangrila while surrounded by my comforting group of bading friends from Vox Pacis.  or maybe in the subconscious insistence to not eat rice at every meal.  to this day i still only eat rice in the evening.  tina, marlu’s assistant, commented softly on my brown bread sandwich earlier.  “wow, healthy.”  after pulling out the mouldy part of the bread, i smiled wanly.  healhy indeed.

the stomach hasn’t adjusted fully.  the most stark manifestation of this was during my dental visit last monday.  during the endless drilling, my innards began to churn.  i made a total of three trips to the loo, armed with beng’s stash of toilet paper, and each time it happened, it was when i was trying to conjure happy thoughts.  only the ‘happy’ thoughts of brusselsestraat and the roundabout in front of exotic world and the uncertain climb towards camilo torres seemed to unlock an unnameable sadness in my gut which threw all my internal organs into a frenzy.

i’m still overwhelmed by the crowds everywhere — on the street, in the MRT, in the malls on a sunday, in the university campus during semestral break, on the village streets at any time of the day — and the constant noise humming from so many people speaking at the same time.  everywhere. 

the best friend forcefully told me to assist him at a wedding last saturday, to play some of the songs for the liturgy that he was confident i would still remember in spite of the fact i had not played in a church in over two years.  “you need to get out, to get socialised.”  and how.  i stumbled into a former high school buddy, a glee club mate, a former student from my dalaga days, and an ex-boyfriend with pregnant wife in tow all in one afternoon.  the shock of having to interact with people from the past was a bit much for me that day and i wonder how my belgian buddies ever thought i was not shy nor an introvert.  i certainly wished i had been one in those sudden encounters.  i was not ready to face the world yet.  to smile and chatter the afternoon away, detailing my return and all its attendant tasks.

my re-entry into professional life entails digging into the archives of the school of humanities, reading files, surveys, and reports on the school’s progress through the years, and i find that so many things have changed.  the proliferation of pathways in my college alma mater, the mushroom-like buildings for the business and social sciences schools, the student food kiosks, the different new odels of automobiles on roads with u-turn slots i have not yet memorised is overstimulating.  to say i’m overwhelmed is an understatement.  i’m drowning.

i haven’t had time to mourn my losses.  to acknowledge how deeply i miss my friends.  i know they’re doing well.  somehow. somewhere within. i just know.

praguian moments

“what was your most striking moment in prague?”

caught off guard, i could not reply comprehensively. the last image that had leaped at me had happened just a few minutes before, that of his father’s wide blue eyes looking up at me from where he was kneeling beside the swimming pool in the lush garden, casually garbed in a pullover and jeans. “why would my father’s eyes be the most striking thing in prague?” his question was incredulous and i could hear the subtext in his words: are you out of your mind? so many things from which to choose and you — goodness me! — elect my father’s eyes? i mean, what the —???

as i had over the last three days, i struggled to keep up with his long strides (we’re talking at least 6′5 here to my diminutive 5′1, and my unproportionally long legs to short torso ratio did *not* help me one bit, and i have my battered feet to show for it), and managed, “i don’t come across too many blue eyes in my life so that would rank pretty much up there, yes.” i left unsaid the rest of my thoughts: old buildings, art nouveau architecture, tourists aplenty, sedate river cutting through the heart of the city, impressive performance halls, these are a dime a dozen and any major city would boast their own, no matter how historied or storied it may be. not blue eyes that look at you with intent, however, and see you. really see you, as though for the first time.

one three-hour opera and scrumptious dinner later, i still did not have a clear answer to that question. the sights and experiences i had undergone over the weekend were stitched together seamlessly; i didn’t know where one moment began or ended. there was no respect for time in the tapestry — the images swam fluidly in my mind’s eye, overlooked by an unchanging sky of white clouds, promising rain without fulfillment, giving no inch of blue to bathe the capital in a different light.

hillary-ous!

ok, this got me seriously cracking up. loved it!

enjoy the show feefol!

outside the rain begins

the tatami was alive with bodies thumping heavily from tori throws.  dries had just been “creative” (his word) on me, ducking a millisecond before i could put my hands on his shoulders and push him as hard as i could.  instead, i found myself flying through the air, the fluorescent bulbs streaking before my eyes as the ceiling became the floor and the floor seemed miles above my head.  as my body banged on the tatami with an ungraceful thud, i heard a cry cut short on the breath followed by laughter.  it took another millisecond for me to realise it was me.  dries was beaming at me, proud of his handiwork, bless his devilish soul while robin, our sensei, was looking our way with a mix of concern and mirth.  ”thank you, thank you!” i gasped, struggling to stand up again and prepare for another attack on the preening dries.  ”that was fast — but liberating!  i can roll with the punches — throw me anything, i’ll survive!”  dries nodded appreciatively, purring, “that’s good… for a moment there i thought you would hate me…”  (ah dries, if you didn’t have such blue eyes, or if you hadn’t been the kindest soul in leuven my first day on the tatami, this would have been a battle enjoined…  )

————
me:  what do you say in the end?  domo arigato gozaimashita?

michaël:  yes, but much faster than that.  (repeats long japanese phrase above in a flash of breath)  just like that, no?

me:  hmmm, ok…  but why does robin say it in a high singsong voice?

michaël:  in japan, the louder and the longer you say something, the more respectful you are.  if you say it in a curt, abrupt manner, it means you’re in a position of power… you can afford to be “rude”.  but it’s normal for them.

me:  ahhhh…  (chewing on the thought of the 6 foot 3 robin *not* being the authority figure on the tatami)

————

floating. weightless.  there were creatures moving relentlessly before my eyes and i shook my head to clear it, hoping the creatures would fly away.  my vision cleared and i was kneeling on the mat in my dogi, hair tied back in a pony tail.  i prayed it would hold as i prepared myself for another night of being thrown by these creatures and hopefully, getting to throw some of them, too.

my body was slow tonight.  instead of catching up as it normally does to the slew of dutch instructions and quickness of motion, my mind back-pedalled, matching the sluggish movements of my body.  i was panting now, heat trapped between my skin and dogi, a furnace suffusing my face with a red glow.  robin kept looking at me, a bemused smile on his face.  he said nothing.

————

on our way out of the dojo, i tried to catch up with stefaan and robin.  blabbered about needing to study the documents my boss had sent me for the next semester.  i didn’t want to look at it, i chattered, doubling my pace to keep within a foot of their looping strides.  

“i want to enjoy this nothingness, this perfect state i’m in…” my voice trailed off, eyes skittering over the uneven asphalt hugging the side of the road, trees shaking their leaves in the night breeze.  mid-september and we were having an indian summer, heaving with the last throes of warm, balmy evenings.  my denim jacket was tucked away in my gym bag, unneeded, unwanted, but a comforting presence nevertheless.  earlier michaël had told me that i was obviously out of sorts on the tatami; “i could see it in your eyes”, he said, smiling at me sympathetically.  ”i lived in japan for one year, and three weeks before i left, my mind was just…”  his hands mimicked bombs exploding, his eyes widening for effect.  i stared at the blue orbs, focusing on the dark irises throbbing in the centre.  ”but that was just one year, lara…  and my heart was…” he tore at his chest.  i looked away, turned to the mirror in front, and bowed to the centre spot where the picture of o-sensei was usually placed.  if kristof had come to training, that is.  as one of the founding members, he was the keeper of the sacred image.  when i straightened up, michaël was preparing to bow to imaginary o-sensei, too.  as if he and i had an unspoken pact to pay homage to our memories.

a quick succession of blips sounded as stefaan extended his arm towards his new car, fingers pressing on the black buttons of his key.  lights blinked, signalling that the doors were unlocked.  robin turned to me.  ”i had a friend from japan, who lived here for a year,” he said.  i looked up at him distractedly.  he continued.  ”she trained with us, too.”  mmmm, i thought, deciding to sit in the back.  let the long-legged ones take the roomier front seat, i hummed.  robin was still speaking.  ”the last few trainings she attended…  she looked just like you did last tuesday… she was glowing, too.  as if she were so happy.”  

i laughed.  ”me?  glowing?”

“i didn’t mean to say that you’re radioactive or anything…” robin chuckled at the thought.  ”it’s hard to explain.  like it’s something from within…”

i entered stefaan’s new car half-blindly.  wonderingly.  happy?  glowing?  radiant?  since when did someone  describe me thus? 

i floated all the way home.  skipped dinner.  there were butterflies in my stomach.  probably a million of them, in an explosion of light.