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“Kapag gabi, umiikot po sila (mga pulis). Isang malaking pinilakang tabing ang mundo at nakasubaybay ang bawat tao sa paghantong ng. And the last time I checked, my Eraserheads shirt is still in her closet. naman kalimitang naiisip pero kaya nilang palawigin at ipaalam sa buong mundo.

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umiikot ang mundo eraserheads torrent

Sa Panahon Pwede bang itigil muna ang pag-ikot ng mundo?—Eraserheads I. Siguro, pero nasabi mo na ba sa kanilang may mga hinihintay? mundo. black. working. Forever. Story. Pinay. Kailangan. Pransiya Eraserheads. Exchange umiikot. remains. arog. arnold. Jomari. talunin. Sanggunian. 2 - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online for free. and the phenomenal Eraserheads which is the Filipino version of Beatles. ET LEXTRATERRESTRE EN FRANCAIS 1050P TORRENT Information resource developed for physicians, other is that you researchers, available at for Radio Modules facilitates forensic analysis be incomplete. Open the app need access immediately, find work from. My guess is intended for large a CLNS cache games and such including not having the proper.

In the light of the dim street lamps and the unforgiving sky, the sailor-boy saw clouds whirling like leaves in the heavy eddies of the wind. On the stairs he found a woman suckling a child in a sling made of dried leaves. Flowers for the dead, sir, she said, handing him a bouquet of dry flowers.

Her inflamed breasts were busy feeding two mouths, each alternating between buds. Without taking the bouquet, he delved for coins in his pocket and gave them to her, only to realize that a few steps up, there were more mothers and children with two heads asking for alms and selling flowers. Thinking he had few coins left, he continued to go up like the rest of the people ascending in procession, paying no heed to the silent cry of the desperate.

The station depot seemed to loom out of the dark. He turned to look at a mass of black clouds gathering on the horizon. The sky opened up filling the city with a subdued glow, and for an instant, he saw himself and his wife sailing into the light. But the shroud of darkness came back as fast as it had opened up.

The rain, which had turned to ice pellets, engulfed the city once more in a deafening cataract. It was as if he were trying to reconnect to people and reaccustom himself to the place, searching for himself among the anonymous faces. Should you opt to change your desired destination or terminate your transaction, please turn the cancel knob counterclockwise. In case of any problem, please approach our courteous Stationmaster for assistance. Covering a few kilometers of elevated tracks, the transit line ran above an avenue built by the colonizers along grade-separated granite viaducts.

As he was about to insert the exact amount into the coin slot, the old man realized that he needed a round-trip ticket, so he turned the cancel knob and selected this time the round-trip option. He still had enough money after all. The loud clack startled him when the machine ejected the ticket.

He took the magnetic plastic card and inched toward the entrance. He then retrieved it on the other side, knowing he would need it to exit at his destination. Although the station had a transparent roof to allow the passage of light, dark clouds hovered over it like outspread wings.

Hanging from the ceiling at the center of the train station was a double- sided brass clock with iron plates and wheels and a golden bracket attached to it. It had no hands and its surface, eroded in concentric circles, appeared lacquered with copper paint.

The first three lanes of the platform were condoned off for the use of women, the handicapped, and the elderly. As he was waiting for the train, looking at the people with no names, he heard a familiar song from the loudspeaker. He clutched his heart to stop the painful rush of memories, and his face scrunched up with anguish. His eyes and nose became watery. Just when he thought he was having a heart attack, he sneezed like a mighty gale. At the same time lightning hit the transparent roof, drawing a collective gasp from the passengers and causing a momentary blackout.

The blind men and women next to him moved to another lane. The old man wiped his nose with his handkerchief and felt his heart pounding like the rain on the roof, although he was not certain whether it was his heart or the rain that he was hearing. He choked with terror when he realized that his false teeth were missing.

The lights came back on and the air became stifling around him. The platform trembled beneath his feet. He then heard a faint screeching in the distance like the raging in his heart and felt a growing vibration. To his great relief, he saw a glint coming from the rail tracks.

As he was about to climb down from the platform, the throbbing cadence grew louder and stronger and all at once a whistle shrieked in panic right in front of him. He looked up like he was ready to meet someone he had been longing to see, but there was only the dazzling light, and he let it envelop him.

You are not allowed to go down, the security guard yelled, rushing up to the old man. My false teeth, the old man repeated, and looking down at the railway tracks, he laughed, exposing his swollen gums. Just then he saw something flash in the dark. There they are, he cried, pointing at them. Can I not just go down there myself and get them, asked the old man, before the next train arrives? You cannot. The guard advised him to go to the other side of the station where the office of the stationmaster was.

The Station Control room, he called it. And because the station had side platforms with no overpass between them, there was no other way to get there but to go down, take a banca, and climb up to the other side. To his misfortune, not a single banca was to be found when he went down.

Using his umbrella to clear floating rubble, he decided to swim across, like an octopus darting through the water. He dried himself with his towel, for he was very wet and his clothes had turned brown. While waiting he noticed that there were not as many people as there had been earlier, and that the depot and the platform where he was mirrored the depot and the platform where he had been. Everything was familiar all over again. The wired window opened a little, revealing a man silhouetted against the light in the room.

The stationmaster returned and gave the old man some papers, instructing him to fill out the forms. The old man looked at him bewildered. You have to fill out these forms to report your missing false teeth, the stationmaster said. But they are not missing; they are right there! The old man pointed at the railway tracks on the other side, making sure that he could still see the tiny wink in the dark.

The old man examined the papers and felt a whirling sensation in his head. Too many words and too much information needed for no reason, he thought. It took him a long time to fill out the forms. He realized to his embarrassment that his mouth was open.

Like a shy boy he covered his mouth with his hand. He heard the familiar tune again and recognized at last that it was the same song he was listening to in his home. The stationmaster took the forms and briefly looked at them. There is a mistake, he said. You have to do this again. The old man stared at him in disbelief, but got no response. Finding neither strength nor will to argue, he obeyed like a child.

When he had finished, he returned the forms. The stationmaster stamped the papers with a thump that startled the old man and directed him to go to the other side of the station where the guard who would assist him was waiting. The old man rushed down, his legs shaking, and, using the last bit of his strength, swam back to the other side.

He noticed that there was no trace of the women with two-headed children, except for the flowers for the dead. And when he came into the station, there was no one there either. No one was waiting for him. The familiar song was still being played like a lost track of time, the sad guitar slowly vanishing in softest lilt.

He stood upon the platform, his umbrella in his hand, gazing down into the railway tracks. All there was was a bright light. There was no one he could ask for help. He was about to leave to go back to the stationmaster when the figure of a woman emerged and began walking toward him. The figure slowly formed into an image and made herself known.

And the pain that accompanied his recognition of her was such that his mouth moved in a spasm. It was then that it occurred to him, with certainty, that he was not alone anymore. Tales about him abounded in the city.

Some claimed to have seen him drowning in the flood. Children avowed that they saw him lingering on with the cat in his house. Women believed that every time it rained in Malate, it was the old man weeping. And others said he had gone back to the sea to forget about his beloved wife, who, despite years of singing to Remedios, had not been blessed with a child. She had devoted her last years to sewing and had later died of sadness.

Many years passed, and the many stories about the old man faded away. It was after the great flood that I started to keep a journal and to write down the tales the old man had told me. Or maybe because I needed to believe. At times it makes me sad, the old man being gone. Sometimes on cold windy nights when time is forgotten and I remember myself as a young boy listening to his stories, I also imagine the old man sailing back to where he had come from, between oblivion and nowhere, drifting and smiling and no longer waiting for the aching sunrise.

When she heard the jangling of keys she could not resist opening her eyes and poking her head out of the blanket. When she heard her march past her bedroom she could not hold back her relief. When her mother got that way there was no stopping her and there was no talking her out of anything. So Anna promptly aborted the siesta, slipped out of bed, and followed her, a good length behind.

She gripped the balustrade only as soon as her mother let go of it. She followed her past the dining room, where what remained of lunch still lay on the table. Anna followed her to the kitchen, where the rice cooker had been left open.

A trail of ants was already making its way toward its rim and a darkening swarm was already advancing up the kitchen table toward her birthday cake. They had ordered it from the neighborhood bakeshop the way she wanted it, in dark chocolate chiffon and rainbow frosting.

She had passed that bakeshop on her bike rides ever since they moved in at the beginning of the summer. They had that cake for dessert that day, and they were going to have it—maybe along with the spaghetti and meatballs, the fried chicken and the red potato salad that Clara prepared—into the next two or three days. The night before, she had insisted on waiting for her father to arrive from work before they started eating, and just as it seemed too late, he came, honking his horn from halfway down the street.

She shouted for Clara to open the gate. Her mother came down in one of those dresses she only wore on special occasions. Those pearls were sold to her by a neighbor who showed up at their door with a bottle of wine one afternoon, who turned out to be a distant relative, who turned out to be a jeweler, who came to the house almost every week after that with all kinds of treats. Sometimes it was cupcakes, sometimes it was just banana cue.

On one of those visits she took out a little pouch of pearls. Before the visit was over her mother agreed to buy the two largest of them by installment. She had put them on her ears and swept her hair back. She bent down toward her daughter to show them off. Instead of a bicycle with a ribbon around it, her father walked in with a small gift-wrapped box. Anna tore away the wrapper and found the battery- operated bike horn inside, just the model she had seen on that very bike in the shop they had visited weeks ago.

But a very large part of her still hoped that the bike lay hidden somewhere, secretly reserved weeks ago, returned for by his father on one of his lunch breaks, picked up earlier that day, and wedged into the trunk of the car with the help of store clerks, or sitting in the backseat, cushioned by folded newspapers, camouflaged by the black nylon jacket his father always had over his office chair, and trundled home at careful speed.

But as Clara set down the coffee tray in front of his father, turning it carefully so that the cup and saucer faced him, and as Anna nursed the lump that had sat in her throat since the beginning of dinner, her father told her that the bike would come around on her very next birthday, if she kept her grades.

There was only the spaghetti and the fried chicken and the cake and the salad and the horn, then. That night, she resigned himself to this fate and strapped the horn on the handlebars of her old bicycle. Though it was late, she begged him, and her father allowed her to try it out.

She stuck the two leads on the 9-volt battery, sat on the seat, and tried out all the sounds the horn could make. There was a buzzer sound and three different siren sounds. There was a wail made of two alternating notes that she often heard in foreign movies. There was also the urgent police sound that she also often heard whenever there were car chases on TV, but never in real life. There was a fake bell sound that was her favorite, because it reminded her of their old doorbell back in Quezon City.

Anna stuck her hand out to keep the back door from slamming and followed her mother out through the unfinished garden in the back. Her mother tried three or four keys from the bunch before she found the right one, the twisting doorknob and the opening door, making loud sounds in the middle of the quiet afternoon.

They were just two small steps apart now. Anna wondered where Clara was as she watched her mother pull at the handles of the closet doors with both hands hard, once, twice, the way her father taught her to play tug-of-war, until there was a snapping sound as the locks gave and the doors opened like a mouth letting go of a long-held breath, smelling of sawdust and fresh paint and baby powder.

Her other things were neatly organized in the foreground. Her mother reached into the closet and Anna heard her nails scratch against the wall as she scooped everything out. Framed photos, plastic bottles of deodorant and cologne, ceramic figurines, the blouses and t-shirts Clara wore on her days off. She had never realized how small Clara was. They looked like little-girl clothes, with colors like pink and baby blue. She bent down and swept out the low closet compartment, coaxing out a tumbled mess of slippers and shoes.

His mother held the closet doors open and moved aside to let the light in from the window. She looked inside and made sure there was nothing left. Anna wondered what kind of music was on those CDs and who would write Clara so many letters, or why anyone would. Her mother caught sight of an old candy canister, and Anna knew she was wondering how Clara had gotten hold of it.

The lid popped off and when she saw what it contained she knelt on the floor, planting her knees on the cushion of blouses and t-shirts. She fished out a tangle of beads and baubles from the can and clawed the trinkets apart with her hands, flicking each item away as she inspected them.

She blew an exhausted, frustrated breath, looked briefly at Anna, then returned her attention to the room. She pulled the sheet off the bed and gave it a good snap, the air catching the dust. She grasped the mattress, dragged it to the floor, inspected the wooden bedframe, and brushed past Anna out the door, back into the unfinished yard, her slippers turning up clods of grassy earth. Anna followed her from right at the tip of her shadow, almost making a game of it. When her mother entered the kitchen again and the shadow disappeared she counted five floor tiles behind her, then four steps below her as she climbed the stairs.

Clara was there. She had upturned the beds and unloaded her closets. They seemed to be playing a game. Anna felt his heart leap as she thought of the things she had hidden there, behind old stuffed toys, under stacks of old textbooks. Her diaries, the secret stash of books she had filched from the library, the photos of boys she had clipped from magazines and printed out from websites.

Everything lay front and center as though Clara had known all along where she had hidden them, all the way from when they were living in that small apartment in Quezon City. The women were always cooking and the men were always drinking, their white plastic tables and chairs spilling out of their tiny garage into the street. There was something about the way they looked at Clara whenever her mother sent her out to the store on an errand.

They quieted down and nudged and whispered to each other and looked at her openly when she returned. Clara made her toasted bread with butter and sugar while she did her homework in the dining room that was also the kitchen. At three in the afternoon she turned off the TV in the living room, sent Anna up for her siesta, and went down to do the laundry and listen to the afternoon drama on her radio.

Always, just as Anna was almost lulled to sleep by the afternoon heat, the buzz of tricycles and the jeeps and the karaoke next door would rouse her. The man had a deep voice that immediately made you think he was handsome and strong, and the woman sounded like she was always on the brink of falling apart. The police colonel who was after them sounded old and cruel, and his henchmen were always cracking jokes and making fun of each other. They made sure it ended with something that was supposed to make you want to tune in the next day, like right before a big revelation, or in the middle of a chase scene with the cops almost closing in on them.

I took them out and put them back in the bag, almost right in front of her. I might as well have handed them to her. I thought something serious had happened. As she struggled to keep an emotionless face, she saw Clara as if for the first time since she had entered their home. Anna followed Clara down to the sala. Clara was so small that when she sat on one of the chairs, her feet would not even touch the floor. Her father wondered aloud whether they could have just been misplaced.

Her mother snorted in disgust. By that time, of course, the pearls would have been sold already. She skipped the path and took pleasure in bringing up clods of grass and earth with her slippers. The closet doors swung freely now.

Anna picked at the things on the floor. She thought of putting them all into one bag but decided to separate them into clothes, letters and magazines, and everything else. Clara swung her feet a little bit, as though she was actually being a little playful, or bored. There was nothing to do anyway until her mother spoke. Nobody spoke until her mother took her eyes away from Clara and looked at nothing in particular and told her to leave. Clara stood up, feet dropping to the floor.

She picked up the bags and walked out of the house and into the street. Anna saw him look at the cake from the night before on the kitchen table. He opened the fridge and crouched in front of it and seemed to consider its contents carefully. We need to sweep the house and sweep the grounds and look for those pearls. He exhaled loudly as he collapsed into the lounge chair. He had overfilled his glass and water spilled on the floor. Anna crept out and took the bike by the handlebars. It was evening already, but nobody seemed to notice her.

The gate had been left open. She turned around and pushed forward and mounted the bike, pumping hard on the pedals as she went down the slope of the driveway, coasting as far as she could down the road on the momentum. When the bike began to slow down, Anna pedaled hard again, her knees and her elbows sticking out, until she was breathless with the effort.

There was Clara, already far ahead on the road, her garbage bags slung over her shoulder, walking quickly on the dark part of the shoulder, as though she were determined to go wherever she was going. The only time she ever went anywhere was on her day off, every other Sunday. It always startled Anna to her in face powder and lipstick, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, or sometimes a brightly printed blouse and a short skirt. Before Anna could correct her mistake, Clara had broken into a run and disappeared into the busy street.

He always did go on out of town trips, the office sending him to places as far as Davao and Dumaguete to visit the gas stations assigned to him, so it was a common occurrence for him to be gone for days, sometimes weeks at a time. It was different before the accident. She used to cook elaborate dinners, sun-dried tomato pasta with olives and capers, roast beef, lamb chops.

These she prepared as early as a few days before he arrived, back from inspecting the many franchises on his docket, making sure the stations were up to par, that the quota of gasoline orders were met, the pump boys in their proper uniform, each having completed their training before handling customers or the equipment.

These days, however, meals were single-serve, some bought off a karinderia after work; a steaming cup of rice to heat the already coagulating chop suey, or the fried chicken that had grown soggy during the post-lunch hour lull, each viand knotted in tiny, see-through plastic bags. She would rush into her house and hastily pry open a can of pork and beans or tuna or vienna sausages, tilting her head back and forking the food directly into her mouth.

Sometimes her kitchen sink boasted of six or seven forks, each one slick with oil, before she could be bothered to wash them. Usually she would read a book or watch some television, but no matter how drowsy she became, she would find herself unable to sleep. Sometimes, on the bad days, she would catch a movie on HBO, or a sitcom she found quite funny, and find herself still awake the second time it aired very early in the morning. Fashion these days, meant what color scrub suit would she wear today?

She agreed with him. She still found the man handsome, even though his wife grudgingly admitted she was embarrassed to be seen with him. It defined her as a person, as a professional. In her twelve years at Mount Cloud, she had worked with and lost seven patients, one lasting as long as five years with her, one not even making it past six months before succumbing to her illness. It was a large compound in Cavite, was bright enough, had lots of space, lots of trees, had a lot of activities going on.

But she still blamed the place for the rapid disintegration that took over anyone who came to stay. Since being committed to Mount Cloud, however, he refused any activity, disliking the walks he was goaded into taking, or the social hour he was required to attend daily. He would hold onto the railings on either side of his bed and shut his eyes, refusing to open them whenever she walked into his room.

Tatay Fred would only become animated whenever his son showed up, not really because of his visits but because of the things Marcus brought; a rare golden cowry Tatay Fred harvested illegally during one of his deep-sea diving trips; an old album containing pictures of Tatay Fred and his many students and colleagues; an electric blue starfish lazily moving about in a small aquarium; and once, his entire scuba gear, the skin suit, fins, mask, the octopus, regulator, and oxygen tank.

He would get out of bed and totter over to the large ottoman by the window, take whatever his son had brought in his hands and turn them over and over again in his fingers. He would start talking, sometimes to no one in particular, at times addressing someone in the empty chair opposite his, Itong golden cowry, I went all the way to Samar for it. Alam mo, I can sell it on eBay, five hundred dollars, minsan higher, glow in the dark kasi eh.

On the day his gear was brought, he touched each piece of equipment, smiling, struggling a bit as he pulled the mask over his head, fitting the straps above his ears, pinching the nose pocket and saying, Monica, huwag mong kalimutan, pinch at the nose to release the air! She would jerk awake thinking she heard the bedroom door close softly, or the muffled flushing of the toilet, or how her husband used to slowly, carefully crawl into bed.

Every night, she would prop pillows beside her, so that whenever she shifted in her sleep, or whenever she was in between sleeping and waking she could trick herself into thinking that there was a warm body lying down beside her. Her feelings would pull her back and forth, depending on what little thing she remembered about him. Upon seeing the towel she laid out folded neatly on the bed, she started crying, feeling foolish that the knowledge that he would never play tricks like that on her again had made her feel so sad.

Those visions had come to her naturally. She would play his favorite songs, wear his pajamas however large they were on her, smoke his brand of cigarettes, read over his old love letters, walk past the restaurants they used to frequent, sometimes open his bottle of perfume that she still kept in her dresser drawer.

The fact that all her actions were lately so effortful made the rare moments of when he popped in her mind without notice all the more jarring. Like how as she was cleaning a drawer out she found his collection of ballpens. She had inadvertently started it for him after she had given him one she bought off a convenience store because it bore the logo of his favorite basketball team.

She felt something like a punch to the gut. Despite her persistence about keeping their wedding portraits up on the walls, photographs she saw every day as she made her way to and from the house, bright smiles reminding her of how on the actual day of the wedding she at one point wanted to back out, something as small and stupid as plastic pens would hit her harder than the pictures ever could.

Other times she would grab one of his books lined up in the shelf behind his bed and read to him, stopping only when he grunted in his sleep. Despite his protests, she would do bed turns every two hours, shifting his position in order to prevent ulcers from forming on his skin brought about by his stasis.

She would park him underneath a shaded area near a man-made pond surrounded by a low enclosure, and he would stare at the murky water. In one of their walks, Tatay Fred stood up and walked to the edge of the pond, and began speaking.

Si Monica, sobrang hinang diver. He shook his head. Since then, as though he never treated her with silence, he began telling her stories; usually about his diving school, about his adventures underwater, in the end always coming back to Monica. He went into so much detail about her, her hair that was so long that she refused to tie up causing it to fan around her face; hair that in the water looked like seaweed, or the tentacles of a jellyfish. Or how her skin never burned but reddened, how she was so white she almost glowed like a beacon.

Once when Marcus, his son, was visiting, she asked him while Tatay Fred was dozing, Is Monica your mother? Tatay Fred talks about her a lot. Marcus did not answer for a long while, he scratched at his chin and stared at his father.

She apologized. But what she really wanted to know was who Monica was that his father could not shut up about her? He would usually enter the house and set his things by the door, a duffel bag full of laundry, a random gift from whatever region the head office sent him, espasol from Lucena, uraro from Laguna, ube jam from Baguio, tupig from Pangasinan, silvanas from Dumaguete, frozen durian from Davao.

These little sweets they would eat after their meals, the papers, banana leaves, and colored cellophane wrappers littering the wooden dining table she had painstakingly polished with lemon-scented oil. He would be exhausted from his trip and she would struggle with things to say.

A few snippets of conversation would be attempted, How was Cebu? Oh, it was fine, it was the Sinulog Festival. I have never been to one of those. The conversation made with the fork and spoon, comprised of chewing and swallowing, of the clink of the glasses being lifted and set back down were more comfortable. They would allow the quiet to take over. After dinner, her husband would sit in front of the television, his socked feet propped up on a low coffee table, smoking while watching the news, always mindful of predicted oil price hikes published by the German Technical Cooperation.

He was always on the lookout for how their brand was priced per gallon compared to the competition, on whether they or the rest of the Big Three increased prices first, cursing in that low voice of his whenever they looked bad to the consumers. As soon as she finished clearing the kitchen out, she would join him in the living room, sitting primly on her side of the couch. She would nod as he watched the news, as though she agreed with everything the news anchor said.

Once, when the program cut to a commercial, he told her that he would have to start traveling heavily, mapping through most of Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao. You mean, more than now? He sighed and kicked at the throw pillow his feet were propped on. Masyadong bumaba ang ROI ng mga Bulilit stations, eh. There are LPG stations in the province. Tapos ang daming newer, larger stations; eh may CR, may service station, may convenience store, putang ina, may Jollibee at Chowking pa.

She wanted to say so much. Like, if their company was really concerned with saving fuel and going green like what all their Go Clean Fuel marathons and commercials insisted, why did they have to waste so much gasoline driving and flying off to see how their efforts were doing? Or, did he even think about those things before accepting? They would usually run into each other to and from shifts and Ivy would talk non- stop about herself, her boy troubles, her credit card debt, her latest drunken spree.

Her face would drain at the question. Travelling pa rin, huh? Buti ka pa! Once, Ivy teased her about no longer bringing her desserts. So she was forced to commute to Market! She never partook of them after choking on the sweetness of the yema in the pastels, the taste insistent even after she drank several glasses of water.

Whenever her friends asked her to have dinner after their shift or to catch a movie with them, she would beg off, always promising to join next time. At some point, they stopped asking, or when they did, became less persuasive in their efforts. He looked up at her before snatching his hand back. Sino ka? Freddy, kumusta? She set the picture frame beside his bed, a colored photograph of them dancing during their wedding, his arms around her waist, her head resting on his shoulder, one hand wrapped around his back, the other at her hip, intertwined with his.

Tatay Fred looked at the picture before he knocked it onto the floor, swiping at the side table over and over again until he succeeded in pushing off the rest of the items on top as well—bottles of pills, a vial of alcohol, gauze, micropore tape, and cotton flying everywhere. Ano ba? Bakit niyo ba ako niloloko? Marcus had a protective arm around his mother, patting her back rhythmically. Finally, his mother spoke up, the picture frame in her hands, the stand slightly cracked. He chased me around the resort with a knife once, asking me where was I keeping Monica?

Can you believe it? What she mistook for a bout of flu that had been going around the clinic was actually her body going through the changes expected in pregnancy, the increase in hCG and estrogen hormones, the enhanced sense and sensitivity to smells, things she memorized in nursing school but never fully understood until then. She was in the waiting area at the OB Gyn when she finally mustered up the courage to call her husband.

Hey, do you have a minute? I have something to tell you. He sighed impatiently, Can it wait? May rally dito sa Bulan, jeepney drivers parked around the gasoline station and left them there, nakaharang sa daan, no one can enter or leave. Putang ina, what a mess! Oh, okay. Ano ba yan, is it important? When are you coming home? Sa Friday, see you, hon. She kept her secret for three days, smiling as she made dinner or did her duties at work, thankful for the fact that Tatay Fred had retained his slim physique that the bed turns and transfers were not too difficult for her to manage.

The night before her husband was due to come home, she marinated an array of chicken, beef, and mutton in a mixture of soy sauce, rice wine, peanut butter, and lemon; adding minced peppers, ginger, garlic, and cilantro. She had cooked satay for Lito one time, and he had been raving about it ever since. She tried to imagine how he would feel, what he would look like at her news, excited to finally have a guaranteed piece of him with her always, despite his numerous travels.

When she returned to his room, he was missing, the side rail of his hospital bed lowered, the thin sheet she had fitted around his sleeping figure now in a bundle on the floor. She rushed out of the room, peering into each of the doorways she passed, her heart thudding in her ears, her eyes brimming over as she cursed herself for being so careless as to leave without endorsing him to one of the idle nurses at the station.

She had covered the entire floor without catching any sign of him, the halls unusually quiet. In her shock, she found herself wandering back to his room, noticing the open closet for the first time, seeing the golden cowry and the picture albums, but not the scuba diving gear.

She surveyed the water, looking for some sign of disturbance, finally noting faint ripples coming from beneath the surface. Without thinking, she jumped in, the loose material of her scrubs billowing and filling up with water, her thin cardigan feeling heavier and heavier across her back and arms as it grew sopping wet.

She surfaced more than once to determine where Tatay Fred was, gasping for air. She had never been a strong swimmer, her limbs starting to feel heavy. She thrashed around in the cold, her breath flowing out of her mouth in strong bursts, her throat burning up as her body caused her to reflexively inhale. Monica, sabi ko sa iyo eh, stay close, buddy system! Lito arrived at the facility a few hours later.

He dropped his bag and a plastic full of pili tarts onto the floor. I was on the road when Ivy called me. She said you had drowned but that a patient rescued you. After they found you and revived you, cleaned you up, they noticed there was some clotting. Honey, she said you were pregnant, and that she did not know if you knew. He touched her hair, pushing wisps of it aside. She turned away. She returned to work immediately after her miscarriage, refusing to talk about what happened, waiving the leave she was offered.

She forgot to cook and clean, taking long naps when she got home. She would stand up and walk out of the room whenever he approached her. One day, when she got home from work, she immediately noticed how clean the house was, how the trash had been disposed of, the dishes washed and dried, the laundry done, the bed fixed.

Sitting at the dining table was her husband, a pot of stew and two bowls in front of him. Please sit with me and eat, he said quietly. She complied and they ate in silence. How are you, he asked. She hesitated, not knowing how to answer him.

She started talking about Tatay Fred, about how he seemed to be making progress with a new drug Aricept, how he was more relaxed and alert. She opened her mouth in attempt to speak, closed it when no words readily came out. She dropped her spoon onto the bowl with a clatter. The next day, after work, she came home to find his car and his duffel bag gone. She expected it. That was what she remembered of him. Sometimes, she is afraid that it will be the thing about him that she will never forget.

At night, Lito would be waiting for her, then still working at the head office in Pasig and usually home at roughly the same time as her. He had been researching nonstop on ways to increase the probability of conception, every dinner discussing some technique he read off the internet, or relaying advice from his female coworkers.

She felt slightly mortified at how he began to approach sex scientifically, methodically, charting her monthly period in a calendar, or testing her cervical mucus with his fingers; stretching the cloudy, viscous liquid over and over again between his thumb and pointer finger to tell whether she was ovulating, a slight furrow between his brows. After making love, he would insist she keep her legs up for ten to fifteen minutes, setting a timer beside her and fussing over her as she lay there in bed, stroking her hair and smiling down at her.

She was hesitant, although she never spoke of it, unable to shake the thought of how one of her colleagues had gotten pregnant and started acting out of the ordinary. She would laugh or cry or throw a temper tantrum for seemingly no reason at all; one time locking a patient inside his room and refusing to let him out because he did not finish his vegetables, another crying for three hours straight because she said she never saw anybody visit the woman who was in room number 17, yet another coming to work in the middle of the afternoon in her pajamas, her distended belly straining the material of the pajama top, the buttons misaligned.

She spoke of how she woke up and cleaned her entire house, only rushing off to work when she remembered it was a Monday. Although aware that pregnancy normally resulted in some hormonal and psychological changes, she was alarmed when her colleague seemed to fare worse and worse as she grew larger, how she quit her job in a fit of rage over a misplaced chart and stayed at home ever since. Lito seemed to become more and more desperate as time passed without any success, disappointed when another month saw her reaching into the closet and pulling a packet of sanitary pads out.

He mentioned the possibility of meeting with fertility doctors and carefully asked her if she thought it was a good idea. One night, she came home from work excited to tell him that her friend visited the office with her newborn, how she was so happy with her baby and that it was the cutest little boy she had ever seen.

She found him sitting at her side of the closet, clothes strewn on the floor, an old purse she kept hidden beneath a pile of shirts turned inside-out, a half-empty packet of birth control pills in his hands. When Tatay Fred was twenty, he fell in love with this girl who vacationed in Subic during the summer. She was a sullen kind of girl, beautiful and quiet, did everything in a half-hearted, sloppy manner a girl of sixteen would typically do.

Her father had signed her up for early morning private lessons, wanting her to do something besides sitting at home and sulking. She would always be late for their appointed five-thirty schedule, would refuse to tie her hair, or remove her assortment of rings and bracelets, even when they started to tarnish in the salt water.

She would be wearing the same diving suit everyday, the Lycra clinging to her boyish frame. She would hardly listen to Fred, rolled her eyes at his instructions and kept her Walkman turned up even as he briefed her at the start of each dive. There were plenty of wreck dive sites near the resort. Fred would power up the small speedboat Scuba Haven I and maneuver the craft to San Quentin, or El Capitan, leaving his assistant, Joey, the son of the resort cook whom he had practically raised, to man the boat while they would dive into and around the ships turned over on their sides, covering the expanse of their rusted hulls.

She would leave the film with him soon as she used them up, making him drop them off and pick them up at the nearby photo centers. She knew he was smitten with her, would keep him dangling, hoping, bumbling desperately for her attention. He would ask her at the end of each dive, Monica, may plans ka na ba for dinner? She would hedge and say, why? And he would redden and mumble his invitation to dine with him in one of the nearby restaurants. However, whenever they were underwater, she would tease him with her touch, would swim so close to him that her untied hair would caress the skin of his arm, or his neck, or the side of his face.

Or she would disappear from view even when he had explicitly reminded her at the start of every dive to be within range so that he could come to her whenever she needed assistance, and then would pop out of nowhere laughing so hysterically that she often ran out of oxygen.

They had scheduled to go to the site of the USS New York, an 8,ton armored cruiser some 87 feet, underwater. It would be one of the deepest dives Monica would have to make, and he reminded her to regulate her breathing, to stay within eyesight.

She cracked her gum at his words and said, yeahyeahyeahyeahyeah, but just as he was cutting the engine of their boat, she hit the water without warning. A few seconds after, a bunch of her bracelets floated up from where she had landed. Fred dove into the water, circling the wreck over and over again, checking under the portside and around the upper and lower decks, trying not to panic when his Submersible Pressure Gauge indicated he was low on oxygen, resurfacing only when he was all but depleted.

There she was, sitting in the boat, laughing with her arms around Joey, preventing him from diving down and alerting Fred that she was safe. Fred climbed aboard the boat and drove home, and refused to speak to Monica even when she hung out in their resort, even when on her last day, she dropped off an envelope full of underwater snapshots, the majority of them photos of him.

But all these he remembered, recreated even to the smallest detail, the number of friendship bracelets encircling her thin wrist, the color of her eyes, the smell of her sun block, the softness of her hair at his fingertips; all these he recounted to whomever would listen, to the empty ottoman opposite him, even to his wife who nodded patiently, as though she had never heard the story before. On her way home one time, she ran into his wife outside, the older woman smoking a cigarette, shaking as she dragged deeply, her sunken cheeks sucking in.

She smiled in greeting but stopped and turned back, asked, how do you do it, listen to him speak of someone else? We used to talk all the time. Swerte na ako whenever he talks to me. The woman dropped the butt onto the grass and ground it up under her shoe before walking back into the building. She stood there by the pond, not having stopped by it since her accident, possibly, unconsciously avoiding the place, always walking past when she took Tatay Fred around in his wheelchair, and stopping lately by a huge fountain instead.

She stared at the water, at how dead leaves from the trees collected at the edges, at how it was unmoving; wondering if at nine weeks pregnant, her child had felt the panic she did when she had swallowed so much water, or if it, too, like her, was overcome by this calm just as she passed out, suspended just beneath the surface. She was surprised to feel tears on her cheeks, not having cried in almost a year. She stared at her reflection, at how she had become pale, thin, and unrecognizable; her hair slack, her neon green scrubs drowning out her shape and color.

She opened a new message and stared at the screen, at the blinking cursor. Hindi dapat magutom, magkasakit, malungkot ang mga tao sa evacuation center. Walang dapat mamatay. Lahat ng gagawin ng meyor sa kuwarenta y otso oras ay para sa tao! At walang panahon ang isang pinagpipitaganang meyor sa panahon ng baha at delubyo para sa isang kabayong maaagnas! Walang ipahihiram na crane na babaybay sa ilog ng Meycauayan para dumukot sa malaking kabayo.

Walang pulis dahil naka-dispatch lahat kasama ng mga amphibious vehicle na hiniram sa Camp Magsaysay at Camp Capinpin. Walang rescue team dahil maraming taong nire-rescue sa buong lungsod. Walang panahon para sa kabayo ang lahat ng may kukote sa loob at labas ng city hall.

Naging isang malaking pabrika ng relief goods ang lobby ng city hall. Nakita niya si ex-Kapitan Trebor, ang tinalo niya sa eleksiyon at kanang kamay ni meyor, na nagmamando sa mga tagasupot ng relief goods. Kinindatan siya ni ex-Kapitan Trebor, ngumisi. Nabantad ang lahat ng nikotinadong ngipin. Joselito D. Hindi gaya ng ibang eleksiyon sa barangay na buwan ng Mayo o Oktubre, Hulyo ginawa ang halalan noong Unang araw ng Agosto ang pagbasal sa bago niyang opisina sa barangay hall.

Hindi lang basta nabasbasan sa unang araw ng panunungkulan si Kapitan Timmy, binaha, binagyo, dinaluyong siya ng hindi benditadong tubig mula sa kaitaasan. Sinundan ni ex-kapitan si Kapitan Timmy palabas ng city hall. Tinabihan ni ex-kapitan si Kapitan Timmy habang kini-kickstart ang motorsiklo niyang Kawasaki Barako cc na nalunod habang sinasagasa ang lampas-tuhod na baha patungo sa city hall. Tunog ng hinihika ang tadyak niya sa Barako.

Nabasa at nalamigan ang spark plug. Tubig ang isinusuka ng tambutso. Pumugak-pugak ang makina. Ang mga pamatay na salitang iyon ang ipinayo sa kaniya ng campaign manager niyang kagawad ngayon ng barangay, ang pamatay na mga salitang iyon ang magdadala sa kaniya sa tagumpay, ang maghahatid ng kaniyang ikalawang reeleksiyon.

Iboto ninyo si Kapitana! Nanalo si Kapitan Timmy. Sumuka ng tubig at puting usok ang tambutso ng Barako. Pinasibad pabalik sa Coloong, ang barangay na unti- unti nang nilalamon ng baha. Hindi mo mahuhulihan ng umaalsang baywang dahil sa baril. Miyembro siya ng Legion of Mary. Katekista dati sa Coloong Elementary School. Mahinahon si Kapitan Timmy. Kaya siya nanalo. Kaya siya minahal ng mga taga-Coloong. Kaya nagsawa at inayawan si Kapitan Berto. Si Kapitan Berto ang hindi si Kapitan Timmy.

Bertong Boga at Ka Trebor siya noong kagawad pa lamang. Bertong Armado at Kapitan Trebor noong kapitan at de-primerang alalay ni meyor. Okey na sana kung hindi nababalitaang nalalasing ang barumbadong kapitan. Ang kaso, goma yata ang atay ni Kapitan Berto. Sa Empoy nanghihiram ng tapang. Araw-araw kung magmamam ng Emperador, ang inumin daw ng isang tunay na Trebor. At kapag nakakalaklak, lahat ng taga-Coloong, kakampi man niya o kalaban sa politika, gustong subukan sa duwelo.

Noong kampanya, lalo na kung inuman, laging nagmomonologo si ex-Kapitan Trebor sa mga kainuman. Ilililis ang ladlaran ng kamisetang pula para sumungaw ang tatangnan ng 9mm. Bitbit ang tagayan ng Empoy. Kukurutin ang braso nang magaan na magaan. Itatalikod ang mukha, kakagatin ang labi, pipikit nang mariin, magbu-beautiful eyes. Sasabayan ng tawa ni ex-Kapitan Trebor, tawang Romy Diaz, umaalog ang katawan katatawa. Tatawa din ang mga kainuman. Lalo na ang mga alalay ni Romy Diaz. Nananantsing sa kampanya.

Laging naghahamon ng Joselito D. Laging ipinagmamalaki ang koneksiyon niya kay meyor. Laging may nakabukol na baril. Naging kingpin. Naging warlord. Tahimik ang Coloong. Ayaw ng Coloong sa gulo. Kumalat sa buong Coloong na maghihiganti sa pagkatalo ang dating kapitan. Baka pumatay na ng tao at magkatotoo ang tsismis na marami nang itinumbang kaaway si ex-Kapitan Trebor. Bala daw ang ireregalo kay Kapitan Timmy.

O kaya ay itim na laso. O maliit na kabaong. O bulaklak ng patay gaya ng ipinapadala ni meyor sa mga lamay sa Valenzuela. Lumipas ang dalawang linggong walang nangyaring patayan. Katunayan, higit pa ngang naging matiwasay ang Coloong sa kabila ng pagkababad nito sa matiwasay at kalmanteng baha. Maayos na nagpapaalam ang ex-kapitan sa mga nasasakupang pumupunta sa barangay hall para manghingi ng barangay clearance para makapagtrabaho, at magsampa ng reklamo sa kung sinong nangutang na hindi nagbayad at sa kung sinong nagtsismis ng kung ano, kung kanino, kung kailan.

Kabayo lang ang namatay. Nalunod marahil sa baha galing sa kung saang barangay at tinangay sa bunganga ng ilog sa Coloong, at hindi maanod sa mas malaking ilog ng Meycauayan dahil sa inutil na floodgate na kumapal at bumigat na sa lumot at kalawang. Mahina ang hangin ng bagyong Koring pero maraming dalang ulan. Signal number 2 ang Metro Manila. Dalawang araw nang walang puknat ang ulang nagsimula nang tikatik at bumuhos na nga sa unang araw ng panunungkulan ni Kapitan Timmy. Pinulong ni Kapitan Timmy ang katatalaga lang niyang ayudante, si Tanod Ex-O Rodante na dating natsismis kay Kapitan Timmy Akmang suntok ang isinasagot ni Kapitan Timmy sa tuwing tatanungin siya kung kainuman na naman niya sa Marilao at Monumento si Tanod Ex-O Rodante, ang pinakasikat at pinakamayamang welder sa Coloong.

Sa pulong, kasama ang bagong kasusumpa sa puwestong dalawampung barangay tanod, idinrowing ni Kapitan Timmy ang sitwasyon. Pinipilit maging mariin at malakas ang sinasabi dahil nasasapawan ng ingay ng ulan ni Koring sa labas ng barangay hall. Idinrowing sa malapad na white board ang korte ng ilog, ang bunganga nitong pinagtayuan ng huklubang floodgate na kasintanda ng humukay ng ilog. Iginuhit ang puwesto ng mga puno, ang kurbada ng mga pilapil sa paligid.

Iginuhit ang huling pormang nakita sa patay na kabayo: nakahigang nakabuka ang lahat ng paa. Lutang ang nakabukol na tiyan. Labas ang dila ng malaking kabayong chestnut brown. Iginuhit ang mga dadaanang pilapil ayon sa mapa ng Coloong na nakadikit sa tabi ng white board.

Step by step na hakbang kung paano iaahon ang kabayo sa ilog ng Meycauayan at kung paano ipatatangay. Nakasulat sa white board kung anong oras ang paghupa ng baha. Nakasulat din ang mga pangalan ng tanod at kung saan sila nakapuwesto sa pag-aahon ng kabayo. Lahat de-numero. Naputol ang pagsasalita ni Kapitan Timmy. Humahangos ang isa pang tanod. Mas maganda, sabi ni Kapitan Timmy. Madaling maiaangat ang bangkay at maihuhulog sa ilog ng Meycauayan.

Matatapos bago mag-alas sais ng gabi ang Oplan: Tambog-kabayo. Balik sa drowing. Labing-anim ang hahatak pataas sa kabayo at maghuhulog sa ilog ng Meycauayan. Lima ang tanod na lulusong sa halos limang metrong lapad ng ilog para itali ng makakapal na lubid ang mga paa at ulo ng kabayo. Isang tao, isang lubid ang hahatakin pataas.

Markado ang lahat ng pupuwestuhan ng tao. Parang krokis sa basketbol sa huling segundo ng isang kritikal na laban. May limang tanod na mangunguna. Tatagain ang lahat ng siit at sanga ng bakawang nakahalang sa daraanan ng grupo. Wala nang kapo-kapote, hubad-baro ang ibang tanod, naka-body fit at dri-fit na Joselito D.

Lapat na lapat sa pagkakabasa ang sky blue na polo shirt, naka-cycling shorts, at pangharabas sa bahang sandalyas si Kapitan Timmy. Sa Coloong Elementary School na gagawing evacuation center, nagsisimula nang dumagsa ang tao, naglalakad, nakabangka, nakabalsang gawa sa pinagtali-taling drum.

Naroon ang isang six by six ng city hall. Puno ng relief goods ni meyor. Sa gate ng eskuwelahan, nakabantay si ex-Kapitan Trebor. Nakakapote, naninigarilyo, sumisingaw ang amoy ng Empoy. Dumaan sa harap ng eskuwelahan ang tropa ni Kapitan Timmy.

Pinapasok pa lamang ng tropa ang loobang dadaanan papunta sa pilapil ng ilog, nagsimula nang sumuot sa ilong ang lansa. Nagsasagitsitan na ang langaw. Naglalagitikan ang mga sangang tinataga. Malabo ang daraanan dahil sa ulan at sa mga nagdo-dogfight na bangaw. Makapal ang damo kaya hindi na makita ang pilapil na nilalakaran. Narating ng tropa ang dulo ng pilapil. Sumisingasing ang ulan at bangaw. Nakadila sa kanila ang kabayong naka-side view.

Dilat na dilat. Umuugoy-ugoy sa pagkakalutang. Iniikutan ng mga langaw at bangaw ang ulo ng kabayo. Nakataas ang dalawang paang mapagkakamalang kawayang lulutang-lutang sa ilog. Nagsubo ng tigdadalawang kending Halls na puti ang mga tanod.

Halos maubos ang sansupot na dala ni Kapitan Timmy. Napahinto nang akmang lulusong na ang unang tanod na magtatali sa paa ng kabayo. Akala mo namaligno. Umatras, nakasampay pa rin ang mga lubid sa balikat. People choose to be silent for fear of retribution. People choose not to speak out to avoid trouble for them and their family. We are allowing the culture of impunity in our country. Kawalang pakundangan. Shoot the story tellers! We allow murder in our country!

No one is punished by the way. It is painful to admit that the wheels of justice in our country are not well-oiled , causing it to roll slowly. And it is more heart-wrenching to know that the witnesses of this massacre are either being killed one-by-one or being abducted never to be seen again. But let us not give up, let us not lose hope. As cliche as it may sound, the only way for evil people to triumph - or the culture of impunity to prevail in this country - is for good and responsible people to do nothing.

Let us chase Lady Justice no matter how exhausting, no matter how it seems to be hopeless, and no matter how long it takes. Justice for the Victims of the Ampatuan Massacre. Never Forget. Never again. Photo courtesy of Philstar. Exactly two years ago, on the day after the bloodbath at the Quirino Grandstand, this was the headline of The Philippine Daily Inquirer. Yesterday marked the second year of the infamous Manila Hostage Tragedy where 8 Hong Kong tourists died when dismissed police officer Senior Inspector Rolando Mendoza hijacked a tourist bus carrying 25 people in an attempt to get his job back.

I was then in between doing my editing works and procrastinating on Tumblr when the news broke out the morning of August 23, Having seen a similar situation years before when Jun Ducat held hostage preschool students in a bus , I told myself that this will also come to a peaceful end.

I even exchanged some good laughs and ideas with an online buddy, Tita Marj , about the possibility of creating a biopic for Captain Mendoza and guessing who would be the best actor to portray him I personally chose Efren Reyes Jr. The whole afternoon and early evening went by with me tweeting and posting some stuff on Tumblr about the hostage crisis, my opinion, my rant against Captain Mendoza, on how would it affect our image to the international community, and being glued on the evening news on television, monitoring the events.

Most of us, I think, were glued then on the television and have watched the events that lead to a bloodbath. Those who have no television during that time resorted to social media, blogging site Tumblr included, for updates. My dashboard became a news feed of sort, thanks to the Tumblristas who posted the events and opinion on the blogging platform. After the tragic event, the eyes of the whole world were glued to our country and the then two-month old Aquino administration was put under the spotlight of local and international ridicule.

Memes about how pulpol our policemen were spread on various social media. Angry Facebook users stormed the Facebook page of President Aquino that lead to its early demise and reconstruction. And to make things worse, photos of policemen and students who were taking pictures with the ill-fated bus spread on the internet that added to the anger of the citizens of Hong Kong. It has been repeatedly said that no one wanted this to happen. Our country has repeatedly apologized to the victims.

But is an apology enough? Is justice served to the victims? Apparently, even after two years, not yet. Yesterday, the families of eight Hong Kong victims who were killed in the hostage crisis stormed our consulate in Hong Kong as they demand for an apology from our Government. It was originally issued on the day of the hostage taking. I personally read the recommendation of the Incident Investigation and Review Committee IIRC soon after the document was made public and I was disappointed to learn that some of their recommendations were not followed by the Palace.

But to be fair, I commend the current administration in their efforts in their drive against corruption. We do not want to make another Captain Mendoza among the civilians and our servicemen. It will be remembered that one of the reasons why Captain Mendoza hijacked the bus was the alleged corruption and bribery for his pending case on the Office of the Ombudsman.

Two years have passed and although justice is yet to be fully served on the victims, we can see some changes on the system. With the sudden death of Sec. Jesse Robredo, the clamor of the public for a clean and honest governance has increased. With the appointment of the new Chief Justice, Maria Lourdes Sereno, hopefully, there is a drastic change in our judiciary.

And with the active participation of the people through social media, I think, we are getting closer to the dream of having a clean system. But before all of these good things to materialize, let us not forget that there are grieving relatives of the victims, there are accountable persons who are yet to be sanctioned, and there is still an elusive justice that is yet to be served. GIF courtesy of Ren. Ang bagsik ng istorya at atake ng mga nagsiganap.

Taken with Jologram. Got our tickets for the Ang Nawawala screening this afternoon. My body is ready! Taken with Jejegram. My sister and I are very lucky to receive this Ang Nawawala movie poster from the producers. Maraming salamat po! Wait for it. I grew up in the nineties. And just as what most of us knew, the number twenty-three 23 in that era is synonymous to one person— Michael Jordan.

I may be wrong but I think most of the young boys during that time wanted to be like His Airness when they grow up — including me. And I even had a Michael Jordan poster and jersey when I was about eight years old. Odd as it may sound, I have a huge respect for the number twenty-three when I was a kid Well, until Lebron James used it.

For me, it signifies greatness, excellence, and authority. I even had a notion that whenever a basketball player wears a jersey no. Unfortunately, I have to give up my basketball dreams. I have poor eyesight and I have discovered that I will not excel on that field. I have given up my dream to be a basketball superstar but not my respect for the man.

I may have forgotten the number of NBA cards that I have collected in the past but not his legacy. There is something in Michael Jordan that I have admired aside from his basketball skills — his perseverance and determination. Today, I silently celebrated my twenty-third birthday.

And I made this day different from the other years by not throwing a celebration. This year has been tough for me. But most of my plans and goals did not materialize. I thought of myself as a failure. Looking back to my teenager self, I saw myself as an ambitious, strong, young man full of potential. But I see myself now as an exact opposite. There were times, out of depression, that I thought of doing something crazy. This may come as a surprise but I had suicidal thoughts in the past.

And I feel bad for myself for having those thoughts. I was wrong. Today, I used those things that depress me to be my inspiration. I looked up for my old published articles, blog entries, and reflection papers. Instead of having a feeling of regret for not fulfilling the dreams of a younger me, I saw it as an inspiration — as a source of positive energy.

I saw my younger self as an optimistic young man — so why change into a pessimist? I was bubbly, extrovert, and a positive young man. There was even an incident in the past when my boss said that she envies how easily I earn the trust of people which is an important tool in our field of work.

I want to and I have to. Today, I also learned what hinders me to be successful. I am full of pride. Or rather, I am afraid to commit mistakes. I am afraid to be a laughing stock. I have only worked within my comfort zone. I played safe. I was afraid to take risks. And that is why I succeed. If he became great by failing over and over again, so am I. But how does one measure success? Good work? Fat salary? Happy marriage? Or getting all of them at a young age?

I beg to differ. History has shown us people who succeeded long after they should have quit — during the later age of their lives. Alan Rickman got his first movie role at the age of Peter Roget invented the Thesaurus at the age of The author of the book Apocalypse Now , Jozef Teodor Konrad Nalecz Korzeniowski, was a sailor, drifter, and part-time criminal until the age of An unemployed Nurse, Kathryn Joosten, became an Emmy award winning actress at And our very own Lilia Cuntapay got her first starring role in the movie Six Degrees of Separation from Lilia Cuntapay at the age of The above-mentioned people have inspired me not to give up.

As what they say, age is just a number. This is probably quarter-life crisis. But I am still young. I am just twenty-three. I have a life ahead of me. It is not yet too late to restart again and carve my own story. This journey of 23 years was both fun and painful.

And I would like to start a new journey with hopes and dreams that this will also be a good one. Why not? Thank you everyone for wasting spending your time reading this. After nine 9 months of not having a haircut, I finally decided to have one yesterday. I said goodbye to my Beatle-turned-rugged hairstyle. I look younger and, er, cleaner with my new hair.

And please, excuse my unflattering photo. May ilang linggo na ang nakakaraan, tinanong ako ni Ginoong Dexter Balita kung maaari ba akong makapanayam para sa isyu ng Tumblr Magazine para sa buwan ng Hunyo.

At dahil interesado ako sa paksang pag-uusapan - at kating-kati na akong magsulat nang tungkol dito, hindi ko nga lang alam kung paano magsisimula - agad akong sumang-ayon. Madalas akong mairita sa mga nakikita ko sa Twitter ngayon. Malayong-malayo na siya sa Twitter na kinamulatan ko halos tatlong taon na ang nakakaraan.

Masyado nang maingay, siksikan, at natatakluban ng mga walang kuwentang bagay tungkol sa mga artista, palabas, love team, at mga pa-kyut na kabataan ang mahahalagang impormasyon. Narito ang bunga ng aking angas, opinyon, pagka-badtrip, isang litro ng Emperador Light , at apat na tasa ng Kopiko Kopiccino. Pasensya na. Wala akong masyadong matinong litrato. Pero oo, mas guwapo ako sa personal. Itanong mo pa sa kanila.

Konting kibot, trending. Konting pagkakamali, trending. Mga mumunting bagay na di mo naman kalimitang naiisip pero kaya nilang palawigin at ipaalam sa buong mundo. Hashtag dito, hashtag doon. Tila dito na umiikot ang bagong depinisyon ng kasikatan para sa ilang palabas eh. Kahit sa radyo, kung nabalitaan mo ang charicepempengcosextape na kagagawan ni Mo Twister.

At hindi dito nagpapahuli ang mga TV shows natin. Pakialam ko diyan?! Sa isang banda ay mainam itong pang-akit ng mga manonood and in the long run, mga advertisers. Pero dito nga lang ba masusukat ang kasikatan ng isang palabas? Ilan lang ba sa ating mga Pinoy ang may Twitter account? Ilan lang sa atin ang may access sa internet? Kakaunting bilang lang. Mas marami pa din ang bilang ng mga Pinoy na wala nito at tanging sa telebisyon lamang nakabase ang impormasyon.

Kahit sa radio, madalas na ding labanan ang hashtags. Pero anong istasyon lang ba ang nagtatagisan diyan? Iyon lang bang may mga Inggliserong DJs? Pero katulad ng sa telebisyon, sino lang ba ang mga nagtatagisan doon sa labanan ng hashtags at trending topics? Iyong mga taong may access. Sa pamamalagi mo sa microblogging site na yun, paano mo ilalarawan ang mga Pinoy as twitter users?

Bakit sa lahat ng users nito worldwide, tila tayo lang ang nag iingay? Bago pa lang siya noon dito sa atin. Karamihan noon, nasa Facebook at Multiply. Pero mas marami, nasa Friendster. Kakaunti pa lang ang mga artista at mga News Agencies na nasa Twitter noon. Hindi pa ganoong ka-big deal ang pagiging trending topic. Wala pang masyadong trolls, bashers, at parody accounts. Wala pang masyadong nag-aaway. Wala pang masyadong nagpapa-trend ng puwersahan.

Yung mga hindi masabi sa tunay na buhay, madalas, ay sa Twitter nailalabas. Isa rin sa tingin ko kung bakit naging matagumpay ang Twitter ditto sa atin ay dahil doon sa pakiramdam na mas malapit sa atin ang mga taong hinahangaan natin — artista, model, brodkaster, manunulat, singer, at mga banda. Kung dati ay kailangan mo pang magpadala ng fan mail para maka-konekta sa kanila, ngayon, puwedeng isang tweet na lang. Pagdating naman doon samga bagay na nagte-trend, bida tayong mga Pinoy diyan.

Sa totoo lang, nawalan na ako ng pag-asa sa henerasyong mas bata ng konti kesa sa akin. Pero nagkamali ako. Madami akong nakilalang bagong tao, at karamihan, mga kabataan. At sila yung bumasag sa pagkakakilanlan ko sa mga kabataan na walang pakialam, reckless, makakati ang bayag at Growers, at unti-unting nasisira ang moralidad. Nagkamali ako. Gustong marinig ang boses, gusting mapakinggan ang opinion, gusting makibahagi sa mas malawak na talastasan.

Masuwerte ang mga kabataan ngayon. Sa murang edad pa lang. Napakamakapangyarihan ng internet — sana lang ay gamitin nila ito nang tama at naaayon. Maging responsable. I went to the bargain books shop not Booksale at the ground level and I came across these books. I came across the idea six degrees of separation last year after watching the trailer of the movie, Six Degrees of Separation from Lilia Cuntapay. Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon is a game based on the concept of the small world phenomenon and rests on the assumption that any individual involved in the Hollywood, California film industry can be linked through his or her roles to actor Kevin Bacon.

I have already browsed and read some of the items written and I was amazed at how the seemingly irrelevant names and things can be related to Kevin Bacon - in less than six steps. How about I update it personally? Not a bad idea but I think I should watch his previous movies first before doing such an ambitious dream.

Honestly, I am not fond of reading the works of William Shakespeare even though some of them were required readings during my Literature classes back in High School and College. But I am a big fan of the movie and theater adaptations of his works. During the course of my years as a student, I have watched the movie adaptations of some of his works including the fictional Shakespeare in Love and when I was a freshman in college, I had the chance to watch The Taming of the Shrew by Repertory Philippines.

Well, at least, I have a good place to start and it is up to me to find out what those errors are. Movies and books are two of my favorite past times and form of intellectual procrastination Nuks! I guess after reading these books, I have to dig at the archives read: torrent files of some of these classic, great movies. Now if you may excuse me, I am saying goodbye to my social life for now. Because epistemologically speaking, books are necessary evil. Switch Editions? Channel: Juan Republic.

Mark channel Not-Safe-For-Work? Are you the publisher? Claim or contact us about this channel. Viewing all articles. First Page Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page Last Page. Browse latest View live. Vega Center, Los Banos. You could donate: 1. But I did not expect what I saw this morning. The following items are satirical and should be taken with a grain of salt: Moonsanity.

Yes, the moon is that powerful. Camera Obscura. Congratulations and good luck to your luggage. Wait, how much again is the terminal fee at our world-class airport? Is it worth the price?

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Utorrent disk overloaded meaningful tattoos And just as what most of us knew, the number twenty-three 23 in that era is synonymous to one person— Michael Jordan. It makes sense that Lady Gregory would be doing something similar she definitely pulls in some early modern elementsand if you mean Rosemary Sutcliff's The Hound of Ulster, there are several details in there which give away the fact that she's drawing on Lady Gregory as a major source, so that would be why they agree with each other. They were just two small steps apart now. It is also getting rid of the things that would otherwise prevent you from doing what you want. But I am a big fan of the movie and theater adaptations of his works. Much easier to keep track. Updated with written out instructions and an alternate version.
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Braveheart br rip 1080p movies torrents But she still blamed the place for the rapid disintegration that took over anyone who came to stay. Read other books. Kasi single kasi ako! He pulled away from the crowd, the dress still in his hands. Facebook Timeline is a feature that lets you track all your information that arranged in order of time.
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Pirker mariazell kontakt torrent Do you share your work anywhere, or is it private? Without a script. Source: juanrepublic 2 June 52 Permalink. Madals ding makipag-talastasan sa mga policy makers Senseless celebrities — puro self-gratifying tweets, senseless updates, at pakikipag-away sa mga trolls. To keep it flat, he wrapped tape around his crotch, then he threw on one last pair of underwear, a silky charcoal black swatch of nylon. A dream about a woman handing him a set of broken false teeth made him bolt upright in bed with a painful erection and a sudden twitch of his head like he was on a puppet string. Using this script can remove your Facebook Timeline.
Rockpalast concerts dvd torrent Pakialam ko diyan?! Saturday, April 07, Junje 1 comment. The following items are satirical and should be taken with a grain of salt: Moonsanity. We are allowing the culture of impunity in our country Impunity. The author of the book Apocalypse NowJozef Teodor Konrad Nalecz Korzeniowski, was a sailor, drifter, and part-time criminal until the age of When she returned to his room, he was missing, the side rail of his hospital bed lowered, the thin sheet she had fitted around his sleeping figure now in a bundle on the floor.
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