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...I have tried, in Merleau-Ponty's words, "to give the past not a survival, which is the hypocritical form of forgetfulness, but a new life, which is the noble form of memory."
- Nancy Mairs, (Remembering the Bone House, 1989)

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Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Out of the light, into darkness, in the blink of an eye.

Life moves too fast for me.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Christians and drinking sessions

We make friends with Jose Cuervo, too. Tequila shots and vodka-laced fruit juices, cashew nuts and cakes with strawberry icing. TLB and a round of good spirits, fresh out of Sunday service, up to the wee hours of Monday morning. Such an absolut-ly fantastic time, yes.

In lieu of September birthdays:

"Nung una kong makita yan, naku, akala ko suplada. Hindi namamansin eh," She gives a demonstration of my blank greeting stares and I laugh. "Saksakan pa ng tahimik. Pero ok naman pala. Belated happy birthday, Joy. Cheers!"

"Joy, approve ako kay Sir Rico*. Cheers!" He says it with an air of authority and they laugh when I blush.

She twinkles and proclaim, "Isa sa pinakamatalinong babaeng kilala ko. Mahal ko yan, sobra! Cheers!" I blow her a kiss.

"Ayos magmensahe. Maikli pero malaman. Sana piliin nya ng husto ang mapapangasawa niya! Cheers!" He dimples deeply, shy for saying more than three words, and I hold my glass up high.

"Ang pangit mong magalit, Joy. Kakatakot." Everybody chuckles. "At bastos ka pa rin, hindi ka sumasagot sa text. Hehe. Cheers!" I launch into an impassioned anti-technogadgets debate and someone tells me to shut up and save it for a rainy day. I obey.

The last tease erupts with a single word, "Pastora!"


I cringe and the moon smiles down at us. The table is happy, though the morning promises hangovers, slight headaches for some. We are content to be here, our faces seem to say. Sleep seems so far away. I look around, my lips tasting of salt and calamansi, my belly glowing warmly, and I feel thoroughly blessed.

Cheers, aye. Breaking the silence of midnight has never been more fun.

*no, Em. not John Lloyd-lookalike.

Sunday, September 12, 2004
Encounters with the numinous

    Mustard seeds and sycamore trees. Chariots of gold and fire. Arctic kisses and breakfasts of milk and honey. Tear-stained eyes, nail-pierced love. Confessions,
burning, burnt. Holy,
hopeful laughter.

Flock songs, pastoral calls. The joys
    of ministry. Blood,
    of the lamb, on the cross, by my hand.

Genesis 32:30. Peniel, the prayer mountain.

I will be still.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004
"When the last teardrop falls..."

Play this when I die. Somebody, please.

Wednesday, August 25, 2004
It must be the rain

I am - once again, so much like days and memories of many ninth kalends past - in limbo.

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