In Other Words

Wahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!! Akala niyo kayo lang ang me bagong post ha?? Wahahahaha! Ako din! Eto o.....

"Fools live to regret their words, wise men to regret their silence." -William Henry

To begin with, allow me to introduce myself. I am D3*67 Mistress Gaga, from the Poka race in the farthest region of the planet Badmouth, located in the Andromeda galaxy. It is a great opportunity for me to able to meet the Human race of the planet Earth, to mingle with these kind and beautiful people.

They have befriended me, welcomed me warmly to their place. And I, with all my heart accepted their invitation. However differences will always be differences.

It is really difficult to cope up with the changing and strange happenings I've experienced here on Earth. Despite the happy memories I had with Humanity, there was a backlash to my being an alien. My culture is far way different than them. My personality which was richly nurtured from my own people, the Pokans, became disastrous when I decided to cohabit with the Humans for a little longer.

Back home, my race was blessed with the gift of the gab, we were extraordinarily best in our facility of language. Communication was never a problem for us. It was always our tradition to use our voices, the greatest gifts from the Most Intelligent Being. It is considered a taboo to refrain from talking, however for morality's sake, none was allowed to speak lies, but only the truth. We were always honest and frank of our doings and feelings, making it a lot more easier to converse, heal, learn, and be informed.

The word speechless is never found in our dictionary, so when I get to study a language subject on Earth, I was flabbergasted when a classmate replied, "I'm speechless" when the teacher threw a question. Another phrase I would never forget from hearing my Human friends talk is, "No comment!" The Pokans would either kick me in the shin or slap me thrice if I won't say anything when I am asked, though it had never happened and it never will.

Words can either hurt or heal. It's true, but at the endpoint of every thing that has been said, words are still the best healer. When we're hurt just a comfort of a friend's little words lightens, when we need assurance, a simple OK suffices. So being hurt is just a part of the process of healing. Let me remind you that hurt is temporary, if you've been hurt by barbed words, take it easy, it's not intended to kill you in an instant. Like barbed wires, barbed words are meant to warn you. It means caution.

Speaking the truth is just as important as breathing fresh air. It was a culture I've acquired from my people to never take back what you've said. Your words are the language not just of your mind but of your emotion and your soul. We are not afraid to speak, because we know, we are talking only of the truth, and are concern of only the truth.

It was also odd for Humans to take in deeply the words said, as if each and every letter in their alphabet was toxic that it needs care in handling when spilled. They believe in regret, especially in saying something bad. Human Beings are so inclined into saying good things, whether it's the truth or what they so-call white lie. You had to be careful not to say something bad, for it may hurt the person, even if you think it's the truth. On the other hand, Pokans talk like there's no tomorrow, they talk as if every second is precious. So whatever comes out from their mouths are really what they think, feel and believe...in that moment.

I told a story yesterday, and I surprised you today with a contradicting story, so don't be shocked to hear me talk another different story tomorrow...that's how we are. That's how Mistress Gaga is.

However I talk, I only speak the truth, of what I see or hear is true, of what I believe and prove to be true. Opportunities, words, and time are three things you can never take back. I take responsibility of the consequences of spending each one, in any way, and I have no regrets.

Love me or hate me...

Yours truly,

..........Mistress Gaga

Wahahahahaha...may new post na ako! Wahahahaha!

I am different from you..I am who i am..I am the person you do not know and will never know...For I am someone without identity..I show my reaL seLf to the worLd..Yet the reaLity which is hidden from everyone who stares at me..They see the different...They see the unreaL...They see not me but the one they expect to be me..I taLk a Lot..But i speak onLy one thing..Yet peopLe hear different meanings..But i dont know if there's anyone who Listens carefuLLy..I move careLessLy and with no direction...and no one should care..I am free and happy...Though my Life can't bear...Is what you see in me reaL or fake??Am i HAppy or is it my facade?Think whatever..No one is perfect..Don't brand me somebody...Nor expect anything from me...

..I am the CHANGE that forever will be UNCHANGED..

The Cloudwatchers

He’s gone.

I keep repeating to myself the painful truth that my best buddy will never be able to sit with me for another guy talk that last for a whole day—ever again. It upsets me that he haven’t sent me mails or made a call since last year. But, just a week ago, I had—what I never thought would be—the last chance to meet him. I saw Lawrence, at the early age of twenty-two, cold and lifeless—on his funeral.

I walk along the pavement of the town plaza like a zombie—without spirit—without emotion, while munching peanuts and having deep thoughts.

It didn’t bother me if people see me like this and think I’m crazy. Anyway, they don’t have any idea what happened to me or the pain and sadness I am into now for losing a good friend.

What I need to know now is: why did they leave this early? And for what purpose do God intend for also ending his life? I sit myself on a wooden bench, look up at the puffy clouds, and search for the stupid answers.

“Look! There’s a nice spot!”

We all looked at Jasmine’s direction. She was pointing to a huge boulder of rock at the other side of the hill. We all beamed. We finally found our “new territory”. The five of us—Esther, Jasmine, Kirk, Lawrence and I, sat on the grass beside the boulder. Then, everybody fell silent . . . they were, like me, gazing at the clouds—hypnotized by its leisurely movement.

“Whoa! An angel!” Esther exclaimed when she noticed a clump of clouds formed into a figure.

“No, it’s a phoenix, stupid,” said Kirk.

“Hey, it’s changing into a—a warrior with a sword and . . . a shield! You see, his wings transformed into them!”

“Over there guys! It’s a huge hand with one elongated finger!” Esther said again.

“Yeah . . . it’s pointed at the warrior.”

We spent the whole afternoon just watching and making up stories out of the figures of the clouds. The following day we met at the same spot, and again watched the clouds. Then, every day we did the same.

It was until one afternoon when our group of five was lessen by one. Esther didn’t come to our new territory, and the next, then the next. We became worried at the same time curious. What could have happened to her? So, we decided to visit her home and found out that she had accidentally cut her pinky with a knife while slicing onions. She was too embarrassed to see us that even after persuading her to come play with us again, she wouldn’t. However, after days of pressing her, she finally did.

As always, we watched the clouds, drew figures and made up stories. This time, we gave a solo time for each to tell his own story, with no interruptions supposed to be, but I guess we’ll never change. Ha-ha. The first was Lawrence, pointing to the sky, he began, “hmm . . . Once, there was a huuuge spaceship! And suddenly it came across a horrible alien monster!”

“Hahaha . . . That doesn’t resemble an alien monster . . .”

“Shut up Esther, it does for me ok? Anyway, here’s the story: the spaceship came from a faaaraway planet looking for a nice place to land and rest. But, on their way, a gigantic scary-looking alien monster in a form of . . . an asteroid—teehee, the cloud’s transforming, you see—and they shoot at him!—wait . . . the spaceship’s disintegrating—oh! The monster was too powerful that he crushed the spaceship in just one blow . . . then BANG! End . . .”

“Nah, poor story . . . now here’s mine. Listen,” it was Jasmine. Before she began, she smiled and winked at me. “Look at the clump of clouds just above Lawrence’ poor spaceship. Can you see a—cake? That cake is a very magical pastry, don’t you know? It never runs out . . . And it tastes sooo yummy that you can live forever with just only that! There are chocolates, candies, marshmallows, butter, cookies, jellies, and blah blah toppings and fillings. The icing’s very creamy, too . . .”

I looked at her ogling round eyes as she spoke with passion. I felt pity for her because it had always been her wish to have a beautiful cake on her birthdays, but she had quite the contrary. Even after she spoke, she looked so sad.

Then Kirk interrupted with his usual unusual stories, “Ahem . . . Ladies and gents, I welcome you to another story of the Silly Mango Vendor of Purok 2-A. It was after a hard day’s work in the market selling green mangoes. He packed all his stuff, including his cell phone and pushed his cart home. While he was walking, a fast car nearly ran his tattered cart—”

“W-w-wait . . . can you please point to us the clump of clouds your making your story about?”

“Oh . . . yeah—well . . . alright! I’ll change it! It’s about that cloud—looking like a sheep . . . so now, the sheep loved to dance—and oh—he dances Wowowee’s hits and he wanted to be a real man and to live in the city. So, one day he went to the city and shaved off his wool. Guess what happened next? He wore a poodle-hair wig! He joined Wowowee and went on meee-meee-meee all the way ‘till he died of a cold!”

Next was Esther. She made up a story of the three figures in the sky. There were two taller figures and between them was something smaller. The three were connected by thin wisps of clouds on their middle. Esther interpreted them a family. The clouds looked like they were dancing so she said that they were very happy. “But, one day, the father left his family. He said he’ll buy pizza but he never came back . . .”

“Did he die?”

“Hmm . . . maybe . . .”

“No way, he just bought some pizza; he might be taken by the pizza goblins or that sort of weird stuffs . . .”

“It’s your turn now.” They all looked at me. Mine was nothing cool or exciting, I’m really bad at story-telling and interpretations. It was just about a dog missing and finding his loving owner after losing his way in the streets.

And it was all just memories. Unmoving, I blankly stare at the clouds. Where could they be now? It had been years since we saw each other—the complete five—six years before Esther doomed herself by straying through worldly pleasures of sin. How could we, her only friends, have abandoned her at those times when we knew of her parents’ separation? Then, it was Kirk who made a scandal in college by allegedly beating a teacher out of anger. But, I believe that the teacher does deserve it. To quote Kirk’s description of that teacher, “he’s a screwed up demon hog, and he’s too bald, smelly, stingy, and foul for a professional.”

Aside from that scandal several years ago, I never heard of anything else from him until now. Once, a rumor reached me. He strangely dropped out of college and left the town. He was heard laughing and whistling noisily in the streets one evening, disturbing the sleeping neighbors, and throwing stones at the gates of some houses. He was merrily telling everybody that he’s leaving that forlorn town, that he was on his way to find a big profit business, and buy a luxurious doghouse for his pit-bull and find a six-foot tall international model for a wife.

Another rumor says he was stabbed to death in a brawl one evening in another town. He was exchanging sarcastic jokes with a hot-tempered man in a bar, which later ended into a bloody fight. If the rumors were true, that leaves me, Lawrence and Jasmine in our supposed-to-be five-man friendship.

One year ago, after Lawrence get to board on plane, I lost contact with him the next few months. And just this year, his hopes of piloting a plane died with him on a crash. And Jasmine? She went to work abroad two years ago. I’m hoping she stays safe. I’m glad she frequently emails me, that’s how I get to know her status every now and then. She promised to go home this December; I’m looking forward to it.

“You’re all red Jasmine!” they teased her.

“I’m not!”

“What did you see in the clouds? C’mon tell us!”

She glanced at me briefly, and then looked down. What’s with her? She was about to tell her story when she grimaced and blushed so red and wouldn’t continue. We all looked puzzled, that we gazed to the clouds and tried to find what made her uneasy. From east to west, west to east, south to north, and north to south I glanced. Then, something caught my sight. Something you can never see by scanning each and every clump or wisp of cloud. You had to look at the vast sky as a whole, by then, you could see the two distinctive figures distractingly entwined to each other. They looked like giants, united, falling down to earth. Then, I understood why she blushed to that image. Haha . . .

“Nice image you drawn from the clouds! Interesting,” I said to her, flashing my most mischievous grin. Her eyes widened and she ran away.

When it was my turn to speak, I hesitated for it would be another boring story, plus I am still distracted by huge image of the clouds. The others never discovered what the both of us—Jasmine and I—saw that day. I laughed to myself, we had our secret.

Watching the clouds, I still can’t find the stupid answers. There’s no peanut left.

The clouds . . . the clouds . . . what’s with the clouds? We loved to watch it . . . we always watched it. And my friends, they’re all gone now—leaving me and Jasmine. This is crazy—no—that’s stupid! That’s not the answers I’m looking for. But . . . it seems it is . . . the stupid answer that I actually don’t want to take. . . I don’t know if I should believe such weird thing, but . . . was it God who formed those clouds those days? Then, ignorant and innocent as we were, made up stories from it which unknowingly was our—reality.

They died out of child’s play. We weaved our own fate, and the clouds were too cruel to deceive our innocent minds. Today, I still mourn of a great loss—my best bud Lawrence. Our circle of five is now reduced to two. But despite the ill-fate of our friendship, my boring life, and, though I can still read the subconscious ache of her discontented childhood, I am able to share my life with the woman I have always loved—my Jasmine.

Then again, I can’t help but let myself be taken away by the mystery of the clouds. Now, I get to see a piece of the whole picture. As the clouds move, divide, combine, disintegrate . . . we move with it. And the truth is—me, Jasmine, Lawrence, Kirk and Esther—we all live in the clouds. And despite the distance in place and time, we will always be never too far apart.

Finished

3:37 am

October 14, 2009

The Lotto Dealer

The bulb on the front door of the house flickered as it tried to light up the middle of the darkening streets. Inside, the television buzzed tirelessly and the dishes and steel clinked as they were being washed clean. The forty-six year old man of the house, Mr. Antonio Dimawili, sat comfortably with one leg elevated on the arm of his favorite couch in front of the television. The couch was moved out from its proper place and was now positioned too close to the TV set. Behind him on a long couch beside the front door sat his twenty-five year old son, Antony. The young man was holding a cell phone on one hand, but both of them were intently concentrating on the war-movie as it reached its climax.

There was a knock on the door. Both men jumped, looking distracted by the sudden interruption.

“Go get the door,” Antonio ordered, waving a hand which held the remote control.

Antony went to the door and turned the knob open.

“Good evening Tony,” a big-busted middle-aged woman greeted him.

“Good evening too, Nang Dorin.”

“Aba! Dorin, come in! Come in!” Antonio’s loud voice echoed inside the tiny town house. His body was now turned to the woman. Antony closed the door behind them when the woman was finally inside. Dorin sat beside the young man on the long couch. She pulled open the zipper of her belt-bag and took out a small notebook, a stub of Lotto receipts and a ball pen.

“Cory!” Antonio called for his daughter who was busy washing dishes in the kitchen.

“Yes Papang?!” she called back. Cory turned off the faucet and wiped her soaped-wet hands

with a clean towel hanging on the refrigerator’s handle. She fixed her shoulder-length hair,

pulled a lock at the back of her ear, and hurried to the living room.

“Yes Papang? What is it?”

“Where’s your Mamang?”

She didn’t answer yet when she saw Dorin sitting beside her older brother. She sighed and pouted her lips in disapproval. She gestured to their backyard, “. . . feeding the dogs outside.”

“Tell her Dorin’s here.”

She rolled her eyes, and scratched her neck, “Okay, Pang.”

Cory went outside to the backyard. She saw her mother pouring food into a worn out gallon-sized empty bucket of ice cream. Flanking her were two white spaniels, with grimy coats you would mistake these mutts as rags. Mrs. Thalia Dimawili's a couple of years younger than her husband. Her hair was tightly pinned into a bun, was slightly skinny, and had an angular and wearied face.

“Nang Dorin’s here, Mamang,” Cory sneered at the name when Thalia bent down quickly to get the empty bowl.

“Oh, Dorin! I almost forgot!” She handed the empty bowl to her daughter then spoke with a pressured tone, “bring this inside the house, dear . . . and don’t forget to lock the backdoor, okay?”

Thalia didn’t wait for a reply, and hurried inside the house. In the living room, Antonio and Dorin were talking about a constant player of Mahjong who just won eighty thousand pesos in the First-Two-Digit Lotto draw last week. Both turned their heads toward Thalia. Dorin spoke in excitement, “Taling, we were just talking about Fe Lamangan! Have you heard about the latest buzz on her?”

“Who? That shrewd Mahjong player at Maurine’s?”

“Yes! Well, I met her kumare while I was walking along Alunan Avenue this afternoon, and she told me that Fe Lamangan won the draw last week . . . Eighty thousand pesos,” Dorin leaned forward as she spoke.

Thalia covered her mouth, and her eyes widened, “No kidding! Eighty thousand?! What were

her numbers?”

“She wagered in the First-Two-Digit Lotto draw, 26 and 18 for two hundred pesos. Luckily, her numbers were drawn that day!”

“Wow, she’s indeed lucky, that gambler of a widow!”

“Hey, Taling, told’ya you should’ve wagered on 26,” Antonio butt in.

“The taga-suma gave me the numbers 06, and 23. The numbers were at least a bit closer to 26,” His wife replied. Her husband just snickered, still focused on the TV screen.

Dorin flipped a page of her lotto receipt stubs. Hastily, Thalia sat between Dorin and Antony. She said, “I think I’ll go with 15-41 and 02-37, thirty pesos for each, First-Two. And . . . 08 for fifty pesos, Last-Two.”

Antonio added, “11 and 14 for fifty pesos each, that’s for Last-Two-Digit draw.”

The Lotto dealer wrote down Antonio and Thalia’s numbers on one receipt.

“Okay, that’s all. Can I pay you tomorrow?” said Thalia.

“Uh—sure, but you still got a balance of two hundred fifty pesos, though— ”

“I’ll also pay you that tomorrow, don’t worry Dorin,” Thalia said, a little annoyed by the reminder of her debt. Dorin slid her things back inside her belt-bag, “I’ll just bring these in the Lotto outlet in KCC tomorrow. Well then, I’ll be going.”

Both of the women stood up, then Dorin bade them goodbye. Antonio turned to her and did the same. When she was finally gone, Thalia sat beside her son on the long couch. Cory came to join the rest of her family in the living room, and then told her mother she needed three hundred pesos to pay to a school organization tomorrow.

“Your Papang gave you five hundred pesos last week. Don’t tell me you spent them all?” Mrs. Dimawili said.

“Huh! That was really intended for that week only!” Cory argued. The men were just silent, still focused on the movie they’re watching.

“Listen Cory, I only have five hundred pesos left in my wallet, and I can give you three-fifths of it if you’d want a hunger strike for the next seven days.”

Cory groaned. “Fine. I understand that that big-busted parasite will be sucking your wallet again tomorrow . . . C’mon, when was the last time you ever won? Ten years ago?” she paused to heave a sigh, “Sweet dreams!” She turned away and went to her room. Mrs. Dimawili raised both hands and rolled her eyes in exasperation.

The movie was finally at its end, so Antonio spoke, “Ah, it’s finished. Shall we check what’s drawn in the Lotto tonight?” He changed the channel.

The lotto show has already started. Antonio and Thalia Dimawili were silent as they waited for the 45-ball jackpot draw to begin. Antony yawned beside her and started texting on his cell phone, then after a few boring minutes he went to his bedroom and slept. The jackpot draw was about to begin, where the winning First-Two-Digit and Last-Two-Digit numbers were based. Thalia rubbed her eyes and squinted as she focused on the TV. The balls were now being rambled, and then drawn one by one in respective order. 15—came the first ball.

Thalia gasped, it was hers! If her 41 would be drawn, she’d win almost fifteen thousand pesos. Another ball was drawn—the number . . . 13.

“No! That was so close!” Thalia exclaimed.

“Well, let’s see the Last-Two-Digit draw,” Antonio said.

They waited for the Last-Two-Digit ball to be drawn . . . And the last digit for today’s ramble lotto is . . . the number two-zero. None of their numbers were drawn. Thalia cocked her head back and groaned under her breath, “Ah! What a waste, Antonio! Such a waste I tell you!”

“It seems that luck’s not on our side tonight, Taling. We’ll try again . . . maybe tomorrow— ”

“My number will be drawn next time and we’ll get rich. We’ll start a business and get very rich!”

Antonio didn’t say anything but Thalia continued talking about how she’ll receive the big

amount of money if her numbers would be drawn in the Lotto next time, her future plans for her children and for themselves.

The next day, Dorin visited the Dimawili residence again. Thalia wagered, and this time with a bigger amount of money. Unfortunately, as always, her numbers were not drawn in the Lotto.

When she finally realized the amount her debts to the Lotto dealer had surmounted, she began to panic. She worried how she will be able to pay Dorin since she spent almost the family’s entire budget now. Her husband was dismissed from work a month ago, she couldn’t earn enough to pay for her debts and provide her family’s needs on her own. Thalia thought she couldn’t face Dorin now, she would hide and her family would help her.

“If Dorin ever comes again, tell her I’m out or I had an emergency or anything! Just don’t let her know I’m home, do you understand—both of you?” her teeth clenched in anxiety and fear as she spoke to her children.

The next time Dorin came, the children followed what their mother ordered, until the Lotto dealer was now trying to demand Thalia’s presence and that she should pay her debts.

“Where’s Taling your mother?! I know you’re hiding her somewhere! She has to pay her debts or I’ll call the police!”

“We don’t know Nang Dorin, she never returned since two weeks ago,” Antony lied.

The visits became more frequent, in the morning and in the afternoon, and the Dimawili residence would sometimes lock all their doors and never turned on their lights even at night to avoid people, especially Dorin. Thalia never left the house for the next two months, for fear of being caught by neighbors or worse, by the police.

One cold early morning, the backdoor of the house stood ajar, and the bulb flickered as it dwindled into darkness. The streets snoozed in silence, and only a sound of dripping water echoed within the tiny residence of Mr. Antonio Dimawili.

........................................This was written for a Creative Writing class (LIT 143) during the first semester of my fourth year in college.

Frozen In Bliss III: Neichzebnig

The faeries sang their sorrow,

The sirens played their fury,

The muses lamented their torment,

The pixies cried their grief.



The land of pleasure and majik, Neichzebnig!

For once it had been an enchanted kingdom of spirits,

Now grace has forsaken thee.

No more than a barren place of forlorn creatures,

No more of the colorful paths of floras to welcome me.

But violets still strive on such harsh enchanted earth,

For a tale of long ago still roam in eternal mystery:

The Grim’s love and the violets;



Vaalkvothura! The continent of great Lords and warriors!

From where The Grim was conceived,

Its soil from where The Grim was nurtured.

And the violets from the kingdom of Neichzebnig

With her greatest love a faerie once planted ‘em,

And with all her heart sent them to faraway places,

And with all her soul embraced each with beautiful memories.

The petals traveled through the invisible tunnels of Neichzebnig,

To the hollow sunken valley at Vaalkvothura’s edge.

There lived The Grim

In solitude,

In madness,

In nothing,

In darkness.



Love and death go together, it was said.

What of violets and The Grim in the tale?

What of love and death?

The tale of long ago of The Grim’s love and the violets,

Mysterious death of the lovely faerie of violets

And the mysterious love of The Grim.



I stand frozen on grassy lands.

At the center of the world here lies

Great power of will and pride.

So long had been my stay,

On so far I’ve come astray

Minds in shattered array

Of old memories and tales.

The Great Lord of Tundr my master,

Has called forth a war to beget peace.

What peace my Lord?

On to this land of wonder and bliss?

For heavens, should I not weep?

For death, should I not fear?

Does hearts of the living count not to the King?

I serve thee by heart, and by the crown hurt returned to me;

Torment crushes me for leaving paradise,

With rues I fled your palace.

My Lord’s beautiful face in wrinkling desperation,

I could not bear to see,

Not a sight of ebony locks

Or that hazel orbs that sees through souls.

Pardon me my dear Lord!

Thy crystal staircases I yearn no more

Or the Mangroves in the snowy alps of Tree Hills invites no more.

Thus swears to forget thy loves ardor!

I rest myself on my poet’s endearments,

Free me from pain and guilt of fleeting passion!

My Lord, my love, and what of you?

My poet, my man or my lover too?



In Neichzebnig my poet been,

Told me stories of the spirits’ plight

Gave me handful of violets in delight!

Ah, he silence me with whispers

With melodious tunes of lovely verses,

Like faeries and muses, sirens and pixies,

A male spirit of beauty lost in the majikal kingdom of Neichzebnig.

And I adore him.

And the owl by his side,

The lips that never cease with sweetest words,

Or caress mine in gentlest way.

My dear poet’s from somewhere he said,

My faith, such could be a lie!

Hear his music not so ordinary,

Flowers dance with him in glee;

For nothing and nowhere and no one alive,

In Vaalkvothura can compare to thee,

In enchanted Neichzebnig could you only be,

With spirits in the land of pleasure, majik, and beauty;

Neichzebnig, the most magnificent place mortal eyes could see.

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