Scribbles on My Notepad

Credo of a Son, Brother, Friend, and Believer

2009-01-10T06:21:00.000-08:00

I believe in simple reasons more than profound explanations.
I believe the truth that truth is relative. What is true to you may not be true to me.
I believe the most important things you learn at school are the things you learn about yourself.
I believe sandcastles are made to be crashed unto by the waves.
I believe sex is more sacred to those who already lost their virginity.
I believe there's more to people than what is in between their legs.
I believe in loving and being loved, and that these don't always go hand in hand.
I believe crying is more intense without tears.
I believe in dreams and their meanings, no matter how profound or simple they may be.
I believe in happy ever afters and that I'll get mine someday.

A World to Share

2009-01-02T12:09:00.000-08:00

Let me begin with the idea that truth is relative. Truth is relative in a way that things true to a person may not be true to others. It is a simple idea. Too simple of an idea, in fact, that more often than not we abandon the rationale behind it.

We all live in different truths. We all are from diverse societies with different customs, from different socioeconomic backgrounds, and were raised in unlike family dynamics. Thus, we have different awareness about different subjects. This may explain why we have different opinions, views, and ideas about different matters concerning the world. But it is in our differences that we contrive a similarity among us. How so?

The world is blessed by an estimated 6,677,563,921 individuals all different from one another. All of us have different abilities and have unique experiences.Often, these differences become sources of quarrels and misunderstandings. Ethnocentrism and individualism are a few of the things we blame. I once asked a friend if he is proud being Filipino. He answered, “I am neither proud nor ashamed to be a Filipino, since I believe that nationalism promotes discrimination, hasty generalizations, and prejudices about other countries and their people.” An answer common to individuals who have a strong belief that the world is becoming a global village. But I say, we are in a global village.

As what a blog I read a few months ago says, "In call centers, customer representatives answer phone calls from the United Kingdom. After their shift they drink coffee served at an American coffee chain whose brewer was made by an appliance company in Japan, which in turn manufactures different appliances and exports them to countries like Indonesia and the Philippines." I believe this is how the billions of people on earth are connected. And in these connections we remain Filipino, and British remain British. We still all are different and unique from one another. It is in our differences that we derive the competence that exists in our industrialized world.

We can still be our unique self, be proud of it, and not cause misunderstandings if we take notice of the idea that we may have different truths but it is in these truths that we derive our realities. It is a reality that somehow our truths interact. My reality as I type this non-fiction in a software program was given to life by the reality of a factory worker in Mexico. We both have our truths but somehow our truths interact to produce a simple reality that we live in the same world. It is in our experiences that we share a commonplace. And it is in our desire to better ourselves and better others that we create a vibrant world.

These interactions exists even in microcosms such as the classroom and the office. No matter how different you are from the rest of the room somewhere and somehow all of you derive communality. For, it is in our unique and simple contributions to the world that a dynamic reality is created for everyone to share.

Queen

2008-10-28T13:26:00.000-07:00

It was a bad night for her. Business wasn’t good. So she stepped out of the bar and decided to go home. It was the one in the morning but it seemed that the night was still young. The neon lit signs and the dilapidated lampposts in the district made the streets have an odd glow reminiscent of inexpensive Christmas lights they had when she was a kid.

As she walked the alleys, she dreamt of being a queen in some far away place. Childish and silly but to her it was a thoughtful reverie. She imagined a silk shawl covering her arms from harsh December winds. She thought of having a flowing pink skirt that covered her legs—something she has flaunted all her youth. She dreamt of drinking the finest wine that heals her chapped lips with every touch of its rich texture. She pictured things she never had, things she couldn’t possibly have. She walked her way in her stilettos. With each step was a wish that was strong and sincere.

She turned right at an eskinita leading to her hovel in a squatter’s area. She never liked walking in that eskinita, its dark path lighted only by the moon’s glow. Suddenly, a gush of wind hurled into the street forcing her to hug herself in search for relief. And as she walked past a vacant lot, she heard an eerie voice that gave her chills in the spine. The voice was calling her. She walked faster but the voice seemed to follow her. She walked faster and faster. The thought of the girl robbed and raped a few days ago in the same area gave her shivers.

When she turned back she saw nothing but the overwhelming darkness she crossed. The voice asked her to look down. And so she did. She was then awed by what she saw—a duwende.

Startled, she stood there as she looked carefully at the duwende. The duwende had an innocent aura. He had pouted red lips that adorned his smooth porcelain like face. His eyes were radiant blue that almost had a hypnotic feel.

She stood there staring at the duwende as he told her stories about his kingdom. He told her about the magnificent feasts he has in his palace. He showed her fresh fruits from his banquet—grapes as purple as the midnight sky, strawberries as red as blood. He gave her sweet smelling flowers from his garden. All of them in full bloom. He showed her jewels of all sorts—pearls, diamonds, among others. He offered her relief from all the worries of the human world only if she would go with him. He wanted to make her his queen.

The duwende started singing chants of some weird language not known to mere mortals. It appeared that he was wooing her, or rather spellbinding her. But she made the duwende stop and told him she didn’t want to be his queen. The duwende graciously acknowledged the rejection. And all of a sudden, he disappeared.

As she walked hurriedly, she thought of the possibilities if she had agreed to be the duwende’s queen. But she knew better, she never wanted to be a duwende’s queen neither did she wanted to be any man’s queen. For now, she’s her patron’s other queen. But she knew one day she would be her own queen, or so it seemed.

She then reached her palace—a shanty made of plywood. She rested for tomorrow she’ll be a queen.

A Very Odd Feeling

2008-08-25T10:52:00.000-07:00

He ran in the middle of a rainy night. Wearing a red raincoat he breezed into the cold. Uncertain as he was were the steps he made with his two feet clad with a pair worn out rubber shoes. Squeak, squeak, squeak…was the sound it made. With each foot that hurried into the ground was a splash of water that dashed its way into the air. With each pace he gained, a thought lingered—“I need to get there. I need to get there fast.”
The street’s neon lights gleamed like it was a busy Friday. Rays of color scurried with him as he made his way to the crowd rushing to go home. Another step and an old woman got her skirt all splattered with water as he plummeted down the wet pavement. He started to sprint as he regained his composure. “Come back here,” the old woman said. A petty sorry was all that he could hastily shout back.
He ran again at the same pace he had earlier. He ran swiftly. He ran and ran. Exhausted, he arched his way into a dark alley lighted only by the flicker of a ramshackle lamppost. Drenched with sweat and rainwater he stopped and looked at the shadow hiding in the darkness. As the shadow approached his direction, tears started flowing out his eyes. “It’s you,” he said, “you waited.”
“Yes, I waited. I waited for you,” the shadow replied.
“But…”
Then the shadow hugged him tight.

He woke up with the sound of rain falling on his room’s windowpane. He woke up thinking what a very odd feeling it was.

The Girt at the Café

2008-08-25T10:45:00.000-07:00

As I entered the café for an ice cold coffee, I couldn’t help but look at the girl who was sitting at the third table by the window. She’s not the usual pretty girl you see around campus. She wasn’t wearing any bangles, nor necklaces, nor earrings. She wasn’t showing off any of those Juicy Couture hand bags nor Gwen Stefani’s designed bags for LeSportsac, instead she carried with her a simple black sling bag just like the ones you can buy at Baguio. She wore a simple white tank top that almost looked like a sando shirt I have at home, and a pair of knee length denim shorts. She looked like one of the girls you usually see on magazine spreads minus all the glamour. She was a breath of fresh air in a place full of Paris Hilton wannabes.

She was whistling a familiar tune and tapping her feet, though it was very noticeable that the tapping didn’t match the whistling. After some time, she might have noticed that I was staring at her. She stopped the tapping, then the whistling, and then gave out a cute loud laugh. I wondered what was funny, I wasn’t aware of anything hilarious at the time. All that I know was she had beautiful brown deep set eyes that beamed as she laughed.

She stopped laughing as a girl came and tapped her on the back. She stood up and hugged the girl in return. The next sight shocked me. The two of them passionately kissed one another not minding the crowd around them. I am sure the crowd was just as shocked as I was.

As the two of them left, she looked back at me and gave me a smile. All that I can do was smile back.