The Rock

  Behold a rock.. an innocuous, inanimate object. It sits unnoticed upon a pile of rubble. It does not demand attention or deserve a second glance. Its just an ordinary, uneventful, unimportant part of the landscape.

Yet who can say what this rock had witnessed? Perhaps if it had a mind and allowed to tell its story, it would tell us of the great upheavals in the vowels of the earth. It would tell us of the great mass from whence it was torn apart  by the forces that roil the planet. Perhaps it might relate another story, of which mankind may have had some benefit.

It might have been part of a great edifice, an essential component that held a monument together. Borne witness to a great civilization, sheltered the great and the  powerful, and had seen the the rise and fall of leaders, their capriciousness or heroism, their baseness and nobility.

What wars has it witnessed as men fought and tore down edifices that symbolized a hated regime? The rivers of blood that marked the pasage of generations, and the weapons that were wrought to destroy cultures and civilizations. It knew not of the dignity of the protagonists’ births, but perhaps discerned the sacrifice and nobility of their deaths.

Or perhaps, it could have been a part of a creation of art, lovingly shaped and crafted by the hand of a master to represent a thing of beauty, and admired for it symbolism and noble purpose. What dainty civilities must it have witnessed among its patrons? And what inanities and pretensions must it have heard among the critics in the crowd?

Maybe its just  an ordinary rock.  Best left alone in its grimy majesty atop a pile of useless rubble. It has had its 60 seconds of fame.  Let it be.

And so it is that a story among living and inanimate objects may be told. What tales could come out rational thoughts and what symbols can the written word paint?

Life is a canvass. And we tell our stories in various perspectives. Beyond the chaos, there is order, and amid the order there are intermittent rumblings of things to come.

Letters in the Sand

   The tide was out and the sunset cast red hues on the shore. It had a subduing effect on the remaining denizens of the beach as they went about their routine of frolicking and relaxing in the sand.

It was a scorcher of a day, and the party had just began. So I lugged a six pack and took off on my  own, preferring to enjoy the view to the merry making of friends and colleagues.

As i walked, I passed through many writings in the sand. There were abandoned sandcastles too, in various stages of disrepair. Some of them have been deliberately stomped on by some uncaring passer by, oblivious to the fact that it was lovingly shaped by another hand. I figured it might be a reflection of life.

I sat down by a mound of sand,  grotesquely huge and shapeless, but with unmistakably feminine endowments. Probably thought of and crafted by a hand and mind of vulgar taste. There, I enjoyed the sunset, sorting out thoughts in this majestic tranquility, and littering the sand with empty cans of beer.

What urged people to write their missives on a temporary medium like sand? I saw hearts, names, figures, affectionate and profane thoughts. What made them sculpt images that would eventually wash out when the tide came in?

The constant lapping of the waves was making me drowsy, so I decided to wade on the water’s edge. And as I made my way back to my temporary lodging, there lay ahead the thoughts of people who have come before me lying like an endless welcoming carpet on the shore.

The lights were beginning to flicker in the distance, and the tide was coming in. Somehow, the urge to make my feelings known to this strange and beautiful beach was over powering.

I just had to be a part of this jumble of humanity who had to leave something behind to mark my passage. So I picked up a stick, and with a grand flourish, wrote the biggest letters i could muster. It was a grand outpouring of passion, of rage, of frustration, of tender and wishful thoughts. In this rare solitude, I just had to release this heaviness in my heart.

After that frenzied activity, I sat to consider my work, finishing what remained of the six pack. I noticed that the waves were gradually licking at the edges of my drunken masterpiece. There was still enough light so I hung around, long enough to see the waters inundate my message in the sand.

Then it was time to head back to friends and company and once more wrestle with competing  thoughts of what has been and will be.  I wish it were possible to permanently leave my mental and emotional baggages to the waves.

Maybe next time I'll swim out to sea and never look back again. Then I shall see the eternal vain missives written on every shoreline in the world, expressing common thoughts such as those I have written, for friends, family, for lovers, here and departed, forever remembered in the shifting sands of time.

A Merfolk Tale

Once upon a time, there were mermaids and mermen. But they lived in different parts of the ocean. The mermaids lived in the Crystal Caves where lilies bloom, and the mermen lived in the starlit cove on lofts of coral above the seabed. It seemed that they had lived this way for generations, and hardly met. This is, frankly, mystifying, as they are not, as all species, capable of spontaneous regeneration. But that is not the theme of the story.

A beautiful mermaid, who lived in the Crystal Caves, had children, which bewildered the other mermaids. It was because the children were mermen who did not resemble their mother at all. Mermaids have red and golden tresses, pointed noses, captivating voices, beautiful and expressive eyes. But the brood whom the mermaid bore were strange. They had webbed feet instead of a fishtail with golden scales, had short black locks, bodies covered with green scales and had slit eyes, which, to the mermaids, looked fierce and terrifying. In their eyes, they were ugly creatures.

Now mermaids, like the fishes, lay their eggs on the corals during the season when it releases its spores to regenerate. And for some reason beyond my ability to explain, there is a magical event that takes place and the eggs are transformed into little mermaids… exact replicas of their mothers. The mermen, do the same thing, but in a different season, and in another location.

It was a stormy day in May when the beautiful one from the Crystal Caves strayed from her usual trail while collecting pearls from the oyster patch. She saw the merman who happened to be caught in a fierce eddy, swept by the currents of a passing squall. She reached out and plucked the strange creature from his predicament. He was quite muscular with webbed feet instead of a fish tail and had green scales all over. His locks were black and his eyes were slits that made him look menacing. But he was weak from the struggle with the powerful tide, and in gratitude, he told her of the land beyond the Crystal Caves and the lilies, where the stars light the sky, and where the corals form platforms and enclosures for their dwellings.

She had never heard of such a thing before and she listened raptly to his astonishing tale. She held his hands and asked if it were possible to see the place. But he told her that their places were separated by a barrier of strong ocean tides, and that he would never have met her had she not plucked him out of the vortex brought about by the passing storm. So he stayed for a while to tell her more about his place and the inhabitants of the starlit shore.

It was the time of the year when corals spawn and mermaids lay their eggs. And the time drew near for the seasonal observance. The mermaid told the merman of this ritual and was told in turn that they had something similar. So she invited him to the annual ceremony of the spawning of the corals. And he deposited his share of his seeds. Shortly, it was time to go and she reluctantly saw him off. He was clearly fascinated by the notion that he shared this world with beautiful creatures. He threw himself into raging currents and was swiftly borne back to the starlit shores.

Later, in the Crystal Caves, the beautiful one was pressed to explain what brought her odd offspring about. She told the mermaids of her encounter with that strange being and what he told her about the place and creatures beyond the Crystal Cave. She described how he had joined her in the spawning of the corals, pointing out that, mermen, have a similar ritual to generate, though held in a different season. The mermaids shook their heads in disbelief.

“What shall we do about them then?” they said, in reference to the merman progeny.

“Perhaps, we could make them our slaves.” someone suggested.

“They’re ugly creatures but they seem strong and would able to do work around the oyster patch.”

Everyone nodded in agreement. And a decree was passed by the mermaid council, that henceforth, all mermen in mermaid society shall be slaves. It was unanimously approved

As for the erstwhile merman, upon reaching the starlit shores, he often thought of the beautiful Crystal Caves, and the alluring mermaid who plucked him from the vortex. His heart ached to go back and once more hear her enchanting voice and to gaze upon her captivating eyes. As this story is being written, he is preparing  to return to the Crystal Caves where the lilies bloom…

A Swan Tale

 There are moments when the past is mirrored by the present. And this just had to go into the record for posterity.

Well heeled men, women and nuns milled around the ball room in a testimonial dinner for an alumnus of an old Dominican school. It was even more remarkable as there were blown up pictures in sephia of children in the registration area where most of the attendees gathered around. Pictures of a carefree age, when everyone became young again. It was a reunion of sorts for a grade school class from long ago.

Pleasantries and business cards were exchanged by virtual strangers who were once associated at one moment in time. We had no idea how those class pictures were resurrected from the archives, but there they were. Toothy grins with gaps, naughty smiles, collars awry from the horseplay, stern looking nuns and teachers. Some of them were present, albeit old and grey. Two of them came in wheel chairs, and sadly, some had already passed away.

There was a power point presentation of the old school activities, speeches from the organizers, and a lot of moist eyes as the past came alive in testimonials and well composed presentations. There was a lot of ohhs and ahs from the audience as they looked around for the owner of the picture as their mischievous smiles and candid poses flashed on the screen. An elegant looking lady, seated with the old nun caught my attention. She was crying and laughing throughout the presentation.

She was the alumnus for whom the testimonial dinner was tendered. She was introduced as the true daughter of our alma mater. Now wealthy and successful in her own right as a professional, she was cited as the school’s symbol of achievement. She came home from the US for this event. Into the stage swept a strikingly attractive woman. She looked vaguely familiar, but few remembered. But she certainly had the undivided attention of the men who were curious about what she had to say.

She said she was the daughter of that crazy beggar in our little town who lived under the bridge. When her mother died of illness, she was taken in by the nuns in an act of mercy and made to attend our classes. Her picture as a kid in our school flashed steadily on the screen while she was talking. A dark complexioned child with rumpled hair in a shabby, hand me down uniform and over sized shoes.

In a clipped and twangy tone, she expressed her gratitude to her benefactors, to whom she attributed her life and success. She recounted her hardships as she slaved for her education. How she thrived on donations and hand me downs for her books and clothing. And how she managed through sheer will and determination to finish a degree in engineering.

She recounted that point in time when the picture was taken. She was an orphan, brought to a Catholic school to attend classes with the children of  families that were considered relatively better off than the general population. She was relentlessly teased to the point of tears, ridiculed because of her lowly station, pushed on the stairs during recess, punched just for the heck of it, and a hairy caterpillar dropped inside her blouse as a prank. The men squirmed in their seats. We were the villains of that era.

She made sure to mention that those were just fond memories of a time in her life which she treasured. Then it struck us, that this was the same teary eyed woman who openly wept when our pictures were shown on the screen. It was a great speech, well received, and applauded specially for the inspirational and emotional content.

We made our way to the stage after her speech to shake her hands. Dang! She was beautiful. A fellow alumnus quipped that had he known she would turn out to be that way, he would have nagged his mom day and night to adopt her. But there we were, shaking her hands, ruing our reprehensible childhood behavior. But it was specially touching when the boys who were alluded to as the villains of her life came up to apologize. I told her I was the kid who dropped that hairy caterpillar in her blouse. The rest admitted to their respective underhanded tricks and asked for her forgiveness. She simply said, “I know. It was a beautiful memory.” And she called us by name, one by one, and hugged us. That was a teary moment when grown men cried. We all looked like we were blinded by the sun with hang dog expressions of shame and remorse. We were children then, and for a fleeting moment, were so once more.

Relics

 From a box of unscanned photos, the faces and candid shots jumped out and brought back a flood of memories.

I recall my first jaunt to Corregidor while it was still being developed by the Philippine Tourism Authority. There lay on the white pebbles of the Bataan side shore, a crummy enamel tub of unusual proportion. It was filled with sea water and the men told me they salvaged it from the wreckage of the Dona Aurora, the presidential yatch that sunk in the channel during the war. I was a young man back then, and they told me if I sat on it, the influence might rub off me and I might be a president someday.  Big deal, but what the heck! I clambered into MLQs bathtub and savored the sun drenched moment amidst the chatter of workmen around me. I do not know where they took it afterwards, but I guess it cut a niche in my memory.  And as i write about these relics, it figures prominently in my mind.

In the capitol of Pangasinan in Lingayen, there are on display an American Sherman tank and a Japanese Zero. This plane was the exact type which was used by the kamikaze at the tail end of the war, which they loaded with explosives and crashed on enemy targets. I could easily savor the moment as a young pilot sat on this plane contemplating his fate before the final moment. I could see his life flash before him, his parents, his sweetheart, his loved ones. I tend to wonder what his last thoughts were, and how those who knew him remember him now?

In the capitol of the State of Maryland in Annapolis, there is an enclosure where the original table and chair used by George Washington in signing the declaration of independence is on display. People who walk through that hall gaze and marvel at the significance of these inanimate objects that remind them of a time in history that shaped the future of their nation. It was an early day in fall when i paid a visit and surreptitiously slipped through the rope enclosure and had a friend snap a picture of me sitting on that chair. Some cheek! I almost thought I saw George smirk from his lofty perch on the wall as this Asian tourist dared lay his butt on his historic chair.

Sometime later, in the same time line, I was sitting on the chair of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Arizona in Phoenix, savoring the view from the pinnacle of judicial power and wielding the gavel that sealed  the finality of a decision. Then on the leather chair of the Speaker of the House of Representatives of the US Congress at the Capitol in Washington DC. This was not captured for posterity as guards do not allow cameras within the hall even if Congress is not is session. But the same blue carpet adorns the hall and has not changed since.

At the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, there I sat on the shell of the Apollo 11 capsule that brought Neil Armstrong back from the moon, wondering  at how this cramped shell of steel could have sustained the crew through its fiery reentry to the earth’s  atmosphere. Had the Wright brothers’ plane not been suspended on the ceiling, i might have climbed into that, too, just to get a feel of what it was like in an open cockpit of the first flying machine the world has known. what a jaunt.

But a faded brown and white picture caught my eye. It was that of my grandparents standing by an ancient wooden truck with wooden spokes on its tires. They stared out from the past, looking like derelicts in the fashion of those times. I could still make out the diminutive face of my dad when he was still a baby, cradled by his mother with his father’s arms around her shoulders. They are no longer around, but this photo is a reminder of their passage. I sure wish there was a way of bringing back that old wooden contraption.

As the photos  went through the scanner and saved into a disc, I wondered what to do with the old pictures. They have now been rendered in digital detail and preserved indeterminately through present day technology. Somehow, after saving these memories, they will wind up in storage someplace, as they already are, until someone in the distant future digs them up as another relic of a generation gone by. And i wonder what they would make out of it, as i think of the past now.

The Final Journey

  He gazed down upon the commotion around the hospital bed. A couple of nurses and a doctor were bent over his frail and wasted body. In a corner was his wife saying a prayer asking God to take care of him and comfort for herself.


He felt light and curiously very mobile. He had been tied down to a wheel chair for so long, endured the daily heavy feeling of cycling fluid through his peritoneals all day for many years. Surprisingly, he didnt feel tired. He had always been gasping for breath, and blacking out due to the deteriorated condition of his heart.


He listened as the doctor gave his final prognosis to his wife. "He’s gone. We’ve done the best we could for him." His wife nodded in acceptance and watched as they covered his body with a white shroud and wheeled it to the morgue.


Curiously, there was no feeling of aggravation, pity, or  grief.. just a lightness that comes from being freed from the prison of a frail and diseased body. He followed his wife down the sanitized corridors of the hospital and heard her break the news of his passing. He watched as his sons and daughter cried as they hugged their mother in their grief. His grandchildren were inconsolable, dazed with the idea that he was gone forever from their lives.


This was a new feeling. He could float effortlessly. And curiously, he could keep up with his family as the car barrelled down the freeway and back into the driveway and the familiar surroundings of the house which he had known for so long. He looked at his hands after he touched his loved ones, who did not seem to feel. They were not even aware of his presence. He observed them as they tiredly took dinner and went to bed crying and mourning his passing.


Curiously, time does not exist in this dimension. Once more he made the rounds visiting his other sons across the ocean. They were all precoccupied with their grief in their own ways, and all he could do was watch and marvel at his unusual ability to go wherever he wanted.  And curiously, there were no feelings of regret, or sadness. Just relief and awe and wonder.


He gazed upward toward the sparkling mantle of the universe. Out there was a tunnel of light that beckoned. Instinctively, and without prompting, he was drawn to it. And as he did, he saw other people, of all races. Men, women, and children… transitioning,  like himself, moving toward that direction. Remarkably, there was no stress or excitement. Just a calm and orderly proceeding, like it had been rehearsed to perfection in his lifetime. There were no attendant noise or merrymaking, either. Just peace, calm and quiet.


As he floated upward, he looked back at the sparkling lights of the city which he was leaving. Quite the reverse effect of gazing at the skies at night. The lights receded till they were just a dot and vanished forever… Just like the flume of smoke from the crematorium that consumed his remains. It hung for a moment, suspended in the air,  and was dispersed by a gentle spring breeze. Just like his earthbound life, it was gone in an instant. But he is on another journey. Homeward bound.


Back home, with the remains in an urn and pictures taken for posterity, the family gathered for a memorial. Friends and relatives came once more to comfort each other and remember. At the end of the ceremonies, as if in a single accord, they looked up, seemingly wanting to give their individual send offs. Wherever, you are, Daddy, Lolo, Junior, Uncle Ap, Pare, friend, or whatever they called him in his lifetime, …."may you have a good trip."


I guess I know better. I threw a salute to the sparkling skies and bid my father Godspeed and goodnight. We will  certainly meet again, sometime in the future. Perhaps well talk about about the wonders of that glorious transitioning  and that dazzling moment of our final journey to the stars.


Good night dad. Well miss you.. but only for a little while.