for you and you...

I hate starting with the word "I," it's like seeing Narcissus down that body of water again, mesmerized by his own looks. But hate is too strong a word, so they say. Let's take the word hate and replace it with dislike. Ergo, I dislike my starter. Gee, I must've ran out of words and go-juice.

I know (here I go again with the word I) I have been telling your stories, catching raw emotions through words, imprisoning them in paragraphs and sentences for you to read and ponder on. My, I have been taking the limelight for quite a time. Which puts us back to the intro on Narcissus - and I would like to change that for now.

Like any other story tellers, there will always be a time to pause. The tale must end. If the fabric of existence is truly seamless, the weaver still must sleep. I haven't ran out of ideas to write or stories to tell. I sure do have to tell you about the red inked masterpiece that changed a lady's life, the shaking truth about perennial love between a couple that stood beyond the test of time, a kid's last wishes that made me cry and had shivers down my spine, another kid's request on bringing back home someone he misses every single day, the bond of friendship we had beyond distance, a young dad's book travels, the guy I so know who has been lying to himself about certain undeniable feelings towards another who is just, well, waiting (c'mon, you still and DO love her). Those stories and many more - when I am back, if ever I can get back. Will I say "hope floats" again? I guess not, the last time I did, it was a wreck.

But for now, say, I switch on the light bulb - no, not the one on my place, but there, right on top of you. Say I am giving you this chance to speak up, ask questions, tell me stories, about you, about people, even about me, if you like. Say, it is your one million dollar chance, to shut me up and have my ear.

And like some scholars' belief that the last phrase connects with the incomplete sentence that begins the book (or the blog title for this instance), implying an unending cycle, so I end mine with applying such thought.

Go on, don't be shy. Take off your shoes. Take my hand and tell your story to the girl who has...

p.s. je t'aime (you and you)

FROM WHERE I SAT, ambivalently facing the kinked wires of a newly-bought techy hardware inside our purple clinic, an out-of-nowhere SMS from a Waray made the whole shebang around me screech and come to a standstill.

Must it be?

I suddenly found myself in the shoes of Doubting Thomas – taking his point on seeing and believing. It took me approximately five minutes to read and reread the message before my disarrayed cognizance was able to conclusively grasp what it was remarkably conveying, and only when my phone hanged out of flooding missives did I finally believe the news.

Apparently, you must’ve wondered (I don’t normally presume, but let this just be a given for now) or have been trying to decipher the enigmatic grammatical ribbits and riddles in my hiatal posts, just as how my friends have frequently asked the ins and outs of my forsaken musical bent. Well then, it’s high time to crack the codes, break my silence and play the music.

After being able to perambulate the red-carpeted hallways and finally receiving the much-awaited piece of paper bearing my name and degree, I have submitted myself and half of our batch to a certain didactic sanctuary where we have been construing medical and nursing tomes since March ‘til June, accompanied by cups of noodles and browns, siopao, and pot-luck lunch-ins (Ji-in’s crabs, my dad’s Bisaya adobo, Mark’s empanada and meringue, Lovely/Ate Tess’ paksiw, Sanchez’s hamonada, Cha-Cha’s kitchenomicas, and Joyce’s kiwis).

Not only that, ten days prior to the major juncture, had we gone uphill for intensive self-reviews. It was when we seriously burned brows (ten days, what have we?), established deeper friendship (talk about taking a bath with a friend), gained pounds (there’s gargantuan box of pizza every day, plus tumultuous supply of softdrinks and chicheryas) and rediscovered faith (the novenas we pray as a group every night). And I wouldn’t ever forget the fact that I screamed and cried when two of my friends dragged and carried me to the dreary, bloodcurdling room 215. The hullabaloo, you bet!

Then again, we were at the point of mild-to-moderate anxiety on the said day. I confess, I cried after the first day. Actually, we all did. I had to phone my mom to calm me down. It was toxic. You wouldn’t even know if you have a 50-50 chance of making it. The only consolation we had was while on the coaster and back, the heavens suddenly cried with us. Having known as such as a blessing, we heaved a sigh.

From where I sit now, I heave another sigh – not out of despair, but of sheer happiness and contentment – licensed and registered. And yet, after abandoning the black and white keys for so many years, I face them again while glancing on the note sheets upfront, and my fingers will struck three keys from F and seven notes from G, putting into melody Beethoven’s last quartet.

Muss es sein? Es muss sein! Es muss sein!

(Must it be? It must be! It must be!)

= = = = = = = =

Nightingale Memoirs: A must see 5-min crap vid

Roll Call of thank you's to the following:

Him Up Above - for answering our prayers and being there with us, as always

Dad ‘Ching – the one who keeps on reminding me to aim high
Mum ‘Ching – the one who’s been keeping me on time
Beryl ‘Ching – the one who I want to be
Yzsa ‘Ching – the said “twin”
Glenn ‘Ching – the older brother whom I call "GUAPO," he calls me Guapa also :p (uwi ka na!)
Nanay Sever – she who rocked my cradle
Tita Licia – she who gave morning surprises since my childhood
Tita Germs – she who prayed fervently
Tita Eve – she who wanted to hang an insignia out of my success
Dr. Tinay Ho – the doctor and kabarkada of the author
Baby Griggs, RN – cousin in London who will be back home this holidays
Karlo Mikhail – bro-in-law to be, the very first few who congratulated me and posted my full name (gosh!)

Dr. Ofelia Sisno and CDU College of Nursing Faculty – for the prayers and support
CDUCN non-teaching staff and school bus drivers – for the song and laughter you have given us all during our harrowing ordeal
UP reviewers, Dr. Cruz of FEU, Mr. and Mrs. Factor of UST, and the rest of the reviewers – thank you for helping us
Good Shepherd Nuns and staff - for the prayers, food and accommodation

Nalyn – one of those who texted me that night, a soon-to-be nurse
Eng’r. Martin – need not to mention
Anne Menguito, RN-RN – fellow examinee, double RN degree coz of the june leakage issue
Eng’r. Joane – thank you sis!
Eng’r Irene – closest friend whom I rarely talk to
Eng’r Chester – the one who said “chin up kendz!”
Mommy Connie – for the comforting text messages during the darker days
Mommy Lexa – for making me laugh things out
Dencio – for naming me “enigma” during those days
Dyanika - online friend who first knew about this
Leslie - for the inspiration to do good

Mark M., RN – he was the most guapo guy I saw during my first days in CDU
Joyce O., RN – the one I am most of the time with, but we’re separate entities
Charlene Y., RN – the brainchild in our group, pambato sa among class
Guada S., RN – probably the most industrious student, complete pirmi notes
Ji-in P., RN – the Korean chick you dare not argue with
Lovely M., RN – David Schumacher wanna-be
Terene D., RN – the one who complains why I never replied to her text messages (sorry walang load)
Christian O., RN- the Olof jokes he had, which I truly miss
Anna G., RN – the one whom I call Anna Banana
Cathy R., RN – the business woman in our class
Cheryl R., RN - I want to know how she gained weight :)
Colet M., RN – “Beh” ng class
Eden B., RN – boxidor namin
Jan L., RN – he rarely attends reviews, pero certified brayt jud!
Jefferson C.,RN - haha… SPO!
Johanna N., RN - lunchmate, remember Papa Banana Ketchup?
Patrick B., RN – ok na imong thyroid?
Keith Z., RN - are you on a diet now? :p
Kelly T., RN – the one who dragged me to the haunted room
Marjorie T., RN – beauty queen
Mika S., RN – just like Charlene
Niña D., RN – mukuyog nako next time wall climbing
Rex, M., RN – the guy who named me Munchkins
Sheila T., RN – wardmate!
Trisha R., RN – SBO pres sa among time
Fritz P., RN – adopted ng class naming, the guy who carried me to the haunted room

And the rest of the board passers I cannot mention anymore. This post is rather too long. But congrats to us all!

Viva Nightingale!

ASK ME. Yet the probability that I will give you a shrug or reticent beam might just be as high as the temperature rising in our very own highly-urbanized nooks, or just about the same as the degree of curiosity and skepticism heard over breaking sound waves that were tethered by two wireless telecommunications whatchamacolit.

BUT EVEN BEFORE I let my fingers hammer the keys and morph myself as a girl who took her shoes off and prodded into this realm of tethered words with bare feet, the footsteps of this lady were the ones I have been following.

IT WAS SOLITUDE inside the white cab with tattered coal black leather seats that mattered to her at that very moment.

And that crumpled piece of paper neatly folded inside an undersized manila envelope.

She remembered the look on the lady’s face, and her trembling fingers that held the cold brew. After pefunctory “Hi’s” and “Hello’s,” she had no words for her, then.

Silence.

She detached a page from a notepad and started scribbling circles. Three circles. Two arrows. Three names.

Me. Him. You.

She drew another arrow under Him and wrote “Him chasing Me.” She drew another under You and wrote “You chasing Him.” She added “Who’s chasing you?” and wrote in caps “NOBODY.”

The woman she was with said nothing. Still, she waited the silence out. The woman shook her head in exasperation and lighted a cigarette. Smoke twirled around her head, that enveloped her Clinique-prepped face.

The lady tapped her cigarette into an ashtray, looked at her in the eyes and said, “What is it in you that’s not in me?”

She sighed and tried to reach her hand. After all, she knew the lady was a good woman, though fierce and unyielding sometimes. But before she could even touch her, the lady said, “Although I know I could have loved him more, I knew, from the very start, that he’s not the right one for me.” She stood up, hurriedly hailed a cab and left her dumbstruck.

It probably was too much for her. But just when is reality too much for anybody?

She wondered.

The cab she rode swaggered against dust, dusk and gust. She gazed back at that little piece of crumpled paper, leaned back and closed her eyes.

nota bene: Bato-bato sa langit, ang tamaan ‘wag magalit.

HE EASED the car into a corner, obscured by the murky-gray shadows of the trees in close proximity.

She was looking out the car window when he pulled over - the very mo she had given him the directive.

‘Why?’

She said nothing.

He waited amidst her deafening silence and blunted affect since they knocked back a cup of hot mocha at the center of the bustling city night life.

She shook her head in exasperation and muttered a few phrases he could barely hear.

‘What?’

‘Just because.’

‘Because wha--?’

But before he could even get to that last word, she opened the door and took off her shoes.

‘Ankle’s been aching every night, gotta get rid of this pair soon. Home’s just a few steps anyway.’

‘I know you, what’s with the temper?’

She gazed at him. ‘Probably. But you cannot know my heart. For how can you know that someone when you yourself are trapped in insurmountable long lost love you so wanted to have back. Take that as hypothetical.’

She opened her bag, took out a red pen and a quarter-sized yellow post-it, scribbled a few words and left it on top of the steering wheel.

‘U don’t knw me.’

He choked.

She closed the door - shoes at hand, bag on the shoulder - and flaccidly toddled the side road.

Stuck inside the taciturn black SUV, all he could do was gaze up at the rear view mirror. He watched her go home on foot, under the amber glow of the night lamps.

*** I live my life in chapters. Each has its utmost inimitability. And just like any book, this is one of my favorite pages - written in response to his post My Angina Girl.***

RUN.

Though people die everyday, nonetheless, death is certainly a frustrating phenomenon to those who have been left behind. And the flowers, the tears shed, nor the prayers fervently rendered can’t make amends to the demise one has to put up with.

Miserable. I'd be more than miserable thereafter, and vivid memories would haunt and bung up the grief-stricken me for all time.

And from then on, I will start hating the sight of flipflops, the way those looked on her feet would just make me squirm and make the cold weather without her more eerie. I will start hating the tint of blue, for it will only take me back to the time when the emails we have exchanged kicked around our favorite hues. I will start hating the deep Bisaya terms I especially have mustered for her, she chuckles every time she hears them. Along with that, the stupid childish lingo (xe for kasi, weho for pareho, duno for I don’t know, and many more) we use in SMS. Those things and many more, I will incessantly detest and hark back to. I will miss her. We will.

Having lived for 22 years, she's probably one of the lovely people I have come across with. Bubbly and eccentric like me. Her name is Janica. To some, she is Jan. But for me and Ryan, she is simply our Ate Jae. A Cagayan-on (is that how you folks call yourselves?) with beauty and brains.

But no, she isn’t dead yet.

So what’s up with the post intro? Well, for reasons unknown, she wanted her name etched on the net and a local daily on the day she dies. When things go bonkers, she relentlessly bugs me to write something like this. I have no choice but to surrender to her whims, and move my head up and down.

Okaaaayyy...

I told her I certainly will when she already have those halos or horns (whatever she will have).

I have met her -- no, I haven't really met her (only Ryan since I can't be there at CDO)-- personally, that is. But we did bump into each other's blog sometime last year and since then have exchanged mails and text messages. For the record, she is the #1 fan of the Ryan-Kendi love team . And to the very few who knew about Remember December, she’s the brains behind it all.

Indeed, it’s quite hard to acquire the knack for choosing the right adjective for her, hence this lil bizarre tribute can hopefully atone (at least) for what she did, and that the blogging community will know how lucky we are to have her as a friend, ate, textmate, email buddy, Dr. Love and many other roles she has played in our lives.

Well, I don’t wanna wait for her death. And I certainly won’t let her be a failed statistic (but I will still be there during her schizophrenic attacks as she did with mine).

With these, the friendship we have will be more indelible than ink.

nota bene: Kudos Ate! More years of friendship! Love yah! And to the rest of the fund drive contributors, we owe you all. To Ryan’s Dad, for logistics and support, thank you po! Thank you from the deepest recesses of our hearts.

THERE COMES a point in your life when all you wanna do is bury your head on a big purple pillow, hands outstretched with fingers exploring the elevated ridges and deep grooves of your eggcrate matress, sigh, and tell yourself I don't wanna wake up anymore.

For months, I have fancied on getting hold of a certain pill - the one with a hole shaped like a letter V at the center. The last resort to keep me sane, yet numb from all the harsh realities in life.

You're the queen of pain Kendz, Ryan told me once. Yeah, maybe I am. And maybe Alanis and Sting could've been grateful yet in a huff on my own version of the song I repeatedly hum in times like this.

Labels: anhedonia, somnolence