JASMINE IN MY MIND

When I got home that night as my wife served dinner, I held her hand and said, I’ve got something to tell you. She sat down and ate quietly. Again I observed the hurt in her eyes.

Suddenly I didn’t know how to open my mouth. But I had to let her know what I was thinking. I want a divorce.. I raised the topic calmly.

She didn’t seem to be annoyed by my words, instead she asked me softly, why?

I avoided her question. This made her angry. She threw away the chopsticks and shouted at me, you are not a man! That night, we didn’t talk to each other. She was weeping. I knew she wanted to find out what had happened to our marriage. But I could hardly give her a satisfactory answer; she had lost my heart to Dew. I didn’t love her anymore. I just pitied her!

With a deep sense of guilt, I drafted a divorce agreement which stated that she could own our house, our car, and 30% stake of my company.

She glanced at it and then tore it into pieces. The woman who had spent ten years of her life with me had become a stranger. I felt sorry for her wasted time, resources and energy but I could not take back what I had said for I loved Dew so dearly. Finally she cried loudly in front of me, which was what I had expected to see. To me her cry was actually a kind of release. The idea of divorce which had obsessed me for several weeks seemed to be firmer and clearer now.

The next day, I came back home very late and found her writing something at the table. I didn’t have supper but went straight to sleep and fell asleep very fast because I was tired after an eventful day with Dew.

When I woke up, she was still there at the table writing. I just did not care so I turned over and was asleep again.

In the morning she presented her divorce conditions: she didn’t want anything from me, but needed a month’s notice before the divorce.
She requested that in that one month we both struggle to live as normal a life as possible. Her reasons were simple: our son had his exams in a month’s time and she didn’t want to disrupt him with our broken marriage.

This was agreeable to me. But she had something more, she asked me to recall how I had carried her into out bridal room on our wedding day.

She requested that everyday for the month’s duration I carry her out of our bedroom to the front door ever morning.. I thought she was going crazy. Just to make our last days together bearable I accepted her odd request.

I told Dew about my wife’s divorce conditions.. . She laughed loudly and thought it was absurd. No matter what tricks she applies, she has to face the divorce, she said scornfully..

My wife and I hadn’t had any body contact since my divorce intention was explicitly expressed. So when I carried her out on the first day, we both appeared clumsy. Our son clapped behind us, daddy is holding mummy in his arms. His words brought me a sense of pain. From the bedroom to the sitting room, then to the door, I walked over ten meters with her in my arms. She closed her eyes and said softly; don’t tell our son about the divorce. I nodded, feeling somewhat upset. I put her down outside the door. She went to wait for the bus to work. I drove alone to the office.

On the second day, both of us acted much more easily. She leaned on my chest. I could smell the fragrance of her blouse. I realized that I hadn’t looked at this woman carefully for a long time.. I realized she was not young any more. There were fine wrinkles on her face, her hair was graying! Our marriage had taken its toll on her. For a minute I wondered what I had done to her.

On the fourth day, when I lifted her up, I felt a sense of intimacy returning. This was the woman who had given ten years of her life to me.

On the fifth and sixth day, I realized that our sense of intimacy was growing again. I didn’t tell Dew about this. It became easier to carry her as the month slipped by. Perhaps the everyday workout made me stronger.

She was choosing what to wear one morning. She tried on quite a few dresses but could not find a suitable one. Then she sighed, all my dresses have grown bigger. I suddenly realized that she had grown so thin, that was the reason why I could carry her more easily.

Suddenly it hit me… she had buried so much pain and bitterness in her heart. Subconsciously I reached out and touched her head.

Our son came in at the moment and said, Dad, it’s time to carry mum out. To him, seeing his father carrying his mother out had become an essential part of his life. My wife gestured to our son to come closer and hugged him tightly. I turned my face away because I was afraid I might change my mind at this last minute. I then held her in my arms, walking from the bedroom, through the sitting room, to the hallway. Her hand surrounded my neck softly and naturally. I held her body tightly; it was just like our wedding day.

But her much lighter weight made me sad. On the last day, when I held her in my arms I could hardly move a step. Our son had gone to school. I held her tightly and said, I hadn’t noticed that our life lacked intimacy.

I drove to office…. jumped out of the car swiftly without locking the door. I was afraid any delay would make me change my mind…I walked upstairs. Dew opened the door and I said to her, Sorry, Dew, I do not want the divorce anymore.

She looked at me, astonished, and then touched my forehead.. Do you have a fever? She said. I moved her hand off my head. Sorry, Dew, I said, I won’t divorce. My marriage life was boring probably because she and I didn’t value the details of our lives, not because we didn’t love each other any more. Now I realize that since I carried her into my home on our wedding day I am supposed to hold her until death do us apart.

Dew seemed to suddenly wake up. She gave me a loud slap and then slammed the door and burst into tears. I walked downstairs and drove away.

At the floral shop on the way, I ordered a bouquet of flowers for my wife. The salesgirl asked me what to write on the card. I smiled and wrote, I’ll carry you out every morning until death do us apart.

That evening I arrived home, flowers in my hands, a smile on my face, I run up stairs, only to find my wife in the bed – dead.

The small details of your lives are what really matter in a relationship. It is not the mansion, the car, property, the money in the bank. These create an environment conducive for happiness but cannot give happiness in themselves. So find time to be your spouse’s friend and do those little things for each other that build intimacy. Do have a real happy marriage!

I only have this to say: W-O-W!

See, even inmates can summon inspiration. I saw this from my cousin’s FB but did not figure out how to make the video appear in my blog until today. They are the “Dancing Inmates” from Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center (CPDRC), a maximum security prison. It was so lovely of Michael Jackson’s long-time choreographer Travis Payne and dancers Daniel Celebre and Dres Reid to visit and teach them this choreography from THIS IS IT.

(A poem by M. Angelou)

There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win
its service to my side
are useless as wounded pride,
and much more painful.

Click to listen.

“Marlene says her son went into hiding because they knew they were up into an influential person – the victim’s father – and couldn’t possibly find justice in the country. But if her theory is to be believed, if in fact her son is the victim of a conspiracy, then wouldn’t his innocence be his prime defense?” – R. J. David, PDI, 01/24/2010

Watching Marlene Aguilar spew defense for her son Ivler leads me back to a remarkable story my Nanay and Tatay repeatedly told in my childhood. Those storytelling sessions by the way, mostly happens when one of us did something wrong. For the record, I hold the distinction of committing the most of our little “crimes” from fist-fighting with my cousins to bawling with my younger sibs over television channels. In short, I was the most suplada. Hmmmm. But take note of the ‘was’.

My father would tell us the story of a young man about to be sentenced to death. As his execution comes near, the jail officials asked for his last wishes. He said he only have one: to see his mother for the very last time. The latter came to bid her son’s last request. On that certain day, the son asked: “Mother, why did you not tell me what I was doing then was unjust and wrong? Why didn’t you correct me when I did so many bad things in the past? And now I am going to pay those with my life…”. The mother said tearfully, “..because I love you that much, son! I could not bear to see you hurt or unhappy!”. With that, the young man asked if he can kiss his mother, but instead he bit his mother’s ear so hard until she bleeds and cries to death.

How violent. My young mind did not bother validating if it was a true account though. All I know is that having heard of it countless times inculcated in me the crucial role played by parents in the lives of children. Parenting is like cooking in many ways. Never set the fire too low for it will leave your meal uncooked. Never set the fire too high, or you’ll end up eating a piece of charcoal. Marlene seem to epitomize that and gives  parenthood such a bad name. In most of her interviews (that I watch despite my irritation), I can see her attempt to cover up the real issue and bring the limelight to her instead. Is this what a mother’s supposed to be? No wonder her son grew up that way. Am I being judgmental? Perhaps I am. Perhaps not? Who in his right mind would shoot a complete stranger simply because a  misunderstanding ensued? Traffic altercations doesn’t give anyone, not even a HOT young man (lets qualify that as being born to alta/high profile parents with looks enough to attract a horde of fans), the license to murder humans. I wonder if he has any blood relations with Mayor Ampatuan.

Mistaken Identity. So they were claiming innocence. And yet, there are the more innocent ones who had been dragged to this. 26 year old Jason Aguilar from Bulacan was detained for having been mistaken as Ivler. He worked as welder in Qatar to support his family in the Philippines. We learned later on that aside from mistaken identity, he was also a victim of illegal recruiters. Some recruitment agencies have no heart. They’ll suck your blood until you become lifeless!

I felt bad knowing that Aguilar was arrested by the Qatari police and had to stay for seven days in prison with no idea why he was jailed in the first place. He doesn’t even know the story behind Mr. Ivler and yet he had to endure all that. I mean, he wore the same clothes from day 1 to day 7. What if it had been one of us? I for one could not think of better ways to get out of the situation sane and intact. Had Marlene Aguilar surrendered her son the first time an offense was made, no innocent people will be involved. What if it was you?

Extra Bragging Rights. For the nth time, Ms. Aguilar did not fail to mention her books, her son’s being a former special forces member, her works of art, but never really answered questions about the road-rage shooting incident (one with a stranger and the other with Ebarle’s son). Of course people have every right to fair trial but as a popular adage goes “res ipsa loquitor”. The only thing missing is court trial. If he is innocent, as his camp claims — why did he go into hiding? Why should Marlene Aguilar deceive the police and the people that his son suddenly went missing? People are not that stupid. They can easily detect it when you’re lying under your teeth. The last time you were blaming the Americans as the root and cause of your son’s plight, now you’re asking them to “rescue” him.

To be continued

Lately, my inner censor prevents me from blogging. I do keep a small notebook where my scribbles and outlines are contained but I wonder why I can’t compose a sensible entry. Psychologists, according to Erica Jong, has a more appropriate term for this. Flow state (characterized by the suspension of the sense of time, the obliteration of self-consciousness, and the feeling that we are doing something for its own sake and not for its own outcome). That flow isn’t really working for me over the past few days. Most people rely on liquor, drugs, etc. to create something, a poem, music, story…Unfortunately for me, I don’t do such things just so I can tune in with my self or with the world.

(Click to listen to the background music.)

However, last night while checking my high school yearbook – I saw an old picture inserted within the pages. Flashbacks came rushing like heavy torrents of water. Perhaps my flow state has some connection with the visual.

The year was late ’90s and I was actively involved in community theater. Being a development communication student in Ateneo de Naga at that time, I saw it both as an opportunity for praxis and personal growth to be part of such an endeavor. I helped mobilize a group of talented children and youth into a theater group that will serve as advocates for child rights protection. That’s also when I appreciated more the beauty of development work, the passion that drives NGO/GO/PO workers to plunge into marginalized areas, reach out to the disadvantaged and be an agent of change. Devcom is not a basic science but an applied one, making it an integrative discipline and lending itself to dynamism and people-centeredness. I knew right then that I took the right course in college.

Life was quite simple then. I devoted much of my time attending rehearsals and presentations. We are a group of 25-30 people: casts/characters, props men, technicians (the ones in-charged with lighting and sound effects), the bus driver and the NGO staff (the brainchild of such advocacy tool). We literally jumped from one barangay to another, spoke with village leaders, mingled with other youth and children. In our own little way, we were able to break the culture of silence among typical families in the countryside as far as child rights is concerned.

On a more personal level, it is indeed such a pleasurable experience recalling how each member’s relationship with one another had improved dramatically. We became closer and were comfortable telling our own joys and pains, even our own secrets. The theater group made us into one big family of friends. After my class, I’d go straight to BCAT’s Training Dorm with a big smile plastered on my face. We get reprimanded from time to time. As young people, you see, we can be stubborn and hardheaded. But anyway, all of us often looked forward to a couple of days of get-together and practice. I remember the times I couldn’t get my lines straight and when I did “hahaha” a hundred times so I could sound as sinister as my character required. Our routine meant continuous rehearsing to have a more realistic presentation.

Every time a play is on the way, we gather at either BCAT or Penafrancia Resort. A hired bus (the one driven by Tiyo Roslin who passed away last year, God bless his soul) would take us to the training center then to our destination. Sir M would often tell us, “what an experience huh! you traveled all the way from the mountains just to visit another mountain!”. That is because we mostly go to places with no access to electricity. Good thing we had a ready generator. The areas often required walking because of steep slopes. If its rainy, we need to walk barefoot. We spend the nights on some elementary school buildings as well.

A stage play means setting the backdrop (sometimes using only an open space or a basketball court/no stage at all), preparing all the music and lighting effects, doing the customary throw-lines, putting on the customes, applying make-up, characterization, etc. At one time, we ran out of hairspray — my friend JJ used an egg white as a substitute and smothered it on my hair. Yaikks. But when you’re ready for the role, you dont care even if you smell like a rotten cheese.

The day succeeding each play was also memorable as we often go swimming or doing picnic. The picture I posted was in fact taken at Malabsay Falls in Panicuason.

Noel Cabangon’s “Kanlungan” (the background music) was our anthem… reminiscent of our Shibashi mornings, an exercise we did for years while the group was still intact and functioning. I remember “separating the clouds”, the “rotating wheel”, and “balancing chi”.

Ahhh, those were the days! Half of all my happiest memories combined were in it, which is why I treasure those moments so dearly.

Surprise, surprise! I got all excited this morning after seeing some old copies of National Geographic Journal at the market, dating as far back as 1977. So “high” the feeling was, I only left the stall after taking with me issues that belonged to the ’70s and ’80s era. My seeming affinity with antiques, relics and the likes is magnified as well when I am some place historical such as the time my Humanities class (several years ago) went to Vigan for a field trip or when I traveled to Iloilo and saw Miagao Church for the first time. Priceless!

And to complete this entry, I included my version of “Dream a little dream of me” as background music. The original was sung by Louis Armstrong.

So here they are:

April 1977

February 1979

February 1986

inside NGJ 1979

Hippies era.

February 1987

October 1984

Just for the fun of it, I recorded one of my favorite songs called “It’s too late” by Carole King. The song (from King’s Tapestry Album) bagged a Grammy’s in the ’70s. But hey, I wasn’t born yet at the time it became a hit. Take note of the lines that got flat. Haha. I was actually inspired when my husband posted his version of Beatles’ Oh Darling in his blog and so I came up with my own using my magic sing. Now you know how I sound like when I sleep at 2 am and wakes up at 6 the next day.

Here’s the full lyrics:

IT’S TOO LATE

Stayed in bed all morning just to pass the time
There’s something wrong here, there can be no denying
One of us is changing, or maybe we’ve stopped trying

And it’s too late, baby, now it’s too late
Though we really did try to make it
Something inside has died and I can’t hide
And I just can’t fake it

It used to be so easy living here with you
You were light and breezy and I knew just what to do
Now you look so unhappy, and I feel like a fool

And it’s too late, baby, now it’s too late
Though we really did try to make it
Something inside has died and I can’t hide
And I just can’t fake it

There’ll be good times again for me and you
But we just can’t stay together, don’t you feel it too
Still I’m glad for what we had, and how I once loved you

But it’s too late, baby, it’s too late
Though we really did try to make it
Something inside has died and I can’t hide and I just can’t fake it