Monday, July 28, 2008

I’m sorry to have bothered you
I was mistaken by my inadequacies and tries
My emotions have fooled me into thinking
That you were the one

I’m sorry to have put you less at ease
I apologize
For my haphazard conviction of lies
That fooled me into thinking---

My only regret is how I missed having known you
And the way you are
I would have missed talking to you about
The Pacquiao fight and your thoughts on migrant lives...

I would have liked us to be friends
If only just that
But just that is what I long for
To share each others stories, to listen to each others lives.

…Yet somehow I still hope I did not miss the chance!

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Clinging on to you is not what it should be
But that I am slowly attaching to your being
I have always been one yet no apologies
Will come from me for who I am

And I don't think it is wrong anyway
Or at least I simply cannot change
The way I was built
From the death of my father

But I have learned to cope with the absence of loved ones
Yes, I have learned---

That daydreaming is a powerful aid for the young
And that laughter is able to release one's own tensions
And to imagine a picture of us dancing for a while... well,
That is simply me still thinking I can dance!

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Some small speck in the inner side of my brain is triggering an autonomic response throughout my body that self-organizes my organs in a unitary mode to tell me I simply don't want to love again. My frontal lobe reacts with reason and tells me it's just a fleeting emotion. I am here now with my temporal lobe suggesting to type my motivations so my occipital lobe can suggest to my amygdala to stop fretting about something that my heart just don't want to comprehend. Argh. I'm tired. Am gonna go to sleep, my medulla has grown tired... am only anxious of what my delta waves would cause me later to see.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Am fresh out of words. Pictures for you all, from a nice camping trip we had in recent past. Memorable times!!! :))

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

A different kind of love, but love nevertheless.
And such profound sense of kinship, grounded in the fight both for and of the poor.
For sure, Ka Bel will be missed, if not already.


(excerpt from
Philippine Daily Inquirer, First Posted 01:19:00 07/03/2008)

The day after “Ka Bel” died, my father sent me an email urging me to go to the wake for the party-list representative. He said Crispin Beltran was once his boss and one whom he deeply respected, and he felt it was his filial obligation to offer flowers and prayers at his wake. But since he was away in Maastricht, the Netherlands, on a scholarship, he asked me to go his place.

I’m no leftist; I’m not even politically inclined, as some of my schoolmates have probably noted. So when I put on my denim pants and rubber shoes to go to Manila’s Quiapo district to buy some flowers, I thought that I was merely doing what my father had asked me to do: to offer flowers and prayers for a dead man.

When I got to Quiapo, I searched the flower vendors at the side of the church, trying to imagine what colors my father would have wanted. I stopped at a nondescript stall with green, maroon and pink flowers, not just the usual yellow and white. The vendor told the white or yellow mums would cost P100, but if I picked assorted colors it would cost me P150.

I tried to bargain, and she brought down the price of the latter to P140.

I asked if the funeral wreath came with ribbons. “Extra P20 kung may ribbon,” she said.

I did not bother to haggle anymore. Then I handed her a piece of paper on which I had copied the epitaph my father wrote: “Pagpugay sa dakilang anak ng uring manggagawa, Ka Bel; Ang buhay at alaala mo’y titis ng pag-asa sa pakikibaka ng uri. — Kas. George.”

The vendor was shocked by the long message. I figured that she was used to writing only “Condolence and sympathy” on the ribbon. But she talked so loud that the other vendors came over.

“Santissima! Kay Ka Bel mo ba ibibigay?” a vendor of Lego-like toys asked.

I nodded and smiled.

“Diyos ko, Mare, huwag mo na singilin!” she told the flower vendor. “Kay Ka Bel naman pala eh. Kapatid natin iyon sa pakikibaka.”

They called their friends, who were selling trinkets worth P10 or less. One of them offered to do the writing, declaring his handwriting was the best. Others shared their opinions about Ka Bel. Some told the flower vendor to add more flowers on the wreath.

“Nakakasama kasi namin sa rally si Ka Bel,” the friendly toy vendor explained.

“Oo, at wala siyang paki kahit mga mahihirap kami,” the man with the nice handwriting chimed in.

Some asked me if I was going alone, or if I was with a leftist group. I politely told them that I was going on behalf of my school organization.

When they asked me what school I attended, someone said, “Mabuting may mga matatalino pa ring sumusuporta sa mga mahihirap.” I did have the courage to tell them I was no leftist.

Finally they finished the wreath, beautifully done. The flower vendor told me that with all the additions, the wreath was now worth more than P200, but she was giving it to me for free as her own offering for Ka Bel. A vendor of plastic bags gave me a big red-and-white plastic free of charge. And while I was preparing to leave, a cigarette vendor came with a small bouquet of white mums and asked me to bring them to their champion. Then they all bade me a cheery goodbye, while asking me to extend their condolences to Ka Bel’s family. I rode the jeepney to Taft Avenue with a heart that was never more deeply touched.

Had my father been here, he would have gone every day to the wake. He would have go to Ka Bel’s funeral, marching with his buddies in the labor group Kilusang Mayo Uno, sharing pictures and stories of Ka Bel and the KMU. He probably would not have thought of asking me to go with him, knowing that I am not interested in rallies and leftist organizations.

But maybe it was a good thing that he was away and had to ask me to do this. I never would have come so close to the poor and neither would have known how deeply they felt about Ka Bel, their “brother in the struggle” against poverty.

Consuelo Maria G. Lucero, 17, is a third-year Bachelor of Arts in Comparative Literature student at the University of the Philippines in Diliman, Quezon City.

Thursday, July 10, 2008


We were together in another lifetime
We played in the sand, we soared the skies
We lied in the twix of the moonlight
We carried each other in each other's arms

We were together in another lifetime
When stars twinkled behind the sun
When my heart was yours
And yours was mine

We were, at one point the truest communion
Our hearts beat like the snail in the sand
I love you then, you never left my arms
We were truly happy, then, in another lifetime

Saturday, July 05, 2008


...So, how do you make it? Hehe.

Post script. Congratulations!!! May you be flowered with daisies!!!

Thursday, July 03, 2008

My cousin just told me that his foreman's name is not listed in the staff personnel at his work anymore. I know his foreman. He is my uncle's good friend. He is a good person, smart, full of hidden jokes, and one of the now rare breed of artists practicing balagtasan. I guess his story goes something like this:

He came to America in search for livelihood. He left his family back home. As it is customary for Filipinos, he worked two or three jobs at one time, just trying to earn some money to send home. He's been doing this for a while, and was able to make enough to be able to build a house back home. Recently, he helped my cousin to get in the same job and trained him for the line of work that they're doing. My cousin learned pretty quick and, like many Filipinos, feel indebted to him. Utang na loob is inherent in every Filipino. A few years back, he applied for his family to come over and for some reason, he was denied the opportunity. What he ended up doing then was to go back home every year to spend time with his family, and after every short visit he comes back to the US to make ends meet. The last time, however, he went home for a funeral, and after two weeks, comes back to work. He spends a few days at work, then left again; this time, without any notice. He went back home; maybe for good, this time...

...I was talking to a friend a few days back. She told me she is fascinated by stories of migration. I told her, "Well, you know, the story of Filipino migration is a sad story, with broken families and many lonely lives. We migrate not for fun but mainly for circumstances against our will." She insisted she still likes to know these stories. I continued on feeling how sad the stories are, though I too would like to know their stories, even if for a different reason as I perceive.

Part of me wishes that my uncle's friend, the foreman, finally decided to go back home. Home, to where his heart is. I think everybody deserves a life around people they love. And I still continually feel bad about the plight of many Filipinos. I do long for the day when we migrate no longer in search for bread and butter (or for many Filipinos, in search for rice and bagoong, hehe). I do long for that day, when we live our lives once again, and explore our world whenever we want, to bask in the beauty that there is, to be truly free and not be chained by what, in the end, are simply unnecessary hardships bestowed to the hardworking people of Man.

Tuesday, July 01, 2008

An old favorite poem of mine. circa 1999


I really just want to see you, and gaze your smile
I love the way you do
I want to see you when you talk about
All the different things that makes you jump on your feet

And laugh, my heart beats twice
Every time you do

I can be your secret admirer, as how it looks for now
The shyness of professing my new found love
And the tingles you cause me to bear
I can but tell you how you affect me

In beautiful ways I never felt
Like this before

And even though you shine your beauty in another world
I see you from where I am
I am happy knowing you are there and if just for that
I come undone by the troubles that veer through the clouds

The westward chill I no longer feel
Rather the warmth you gave me

And in the tug-of-war between the run and the still
Can't make me move to steer
Because I m quite happy just to surround myself
With all your beauty---

But the moment I touch your soul... behold
I can affect you like no one has ever told you so.