To dye or not to dye?

Gigi de Beaupre

To dye or not to dye?

Casting tensions, anxieties away in this beach house

Casting tensions, anxieties away in this beach house

Simple joys...

...for a simpleton such as I. Yes, I am that. I never quite shook off the 10-year old in me. The thing with retaining that child is getting to a state of happiness is easy-peasy.

Mababaw ang kaligayahan ko. Easy to please, can adjust to any situation with a sense that it's a new adventure, can seek out friends like they were playmates even if they live in a far part of town because, well, play, when you're almost 59 and he is 75, can take the form of verbal jousts (we can't play hit the can anymore or climb trees to gaze at the view, our bodies have turned traitors as far as physical exertions are concerned). Right, Rustie?

Rustie hasn't aged a bit; he hasn't mellowed either. He remains belligerently bull-headed about certain adult themes. Here we are on the 10th of December lunch. His apres-lunch companion has accepted she can't coffee anymore with him but can sip a frap, and, dear barista, please don't be stingy with the cream! After this picture was taken in Imus, Cavite, I had to run off to UP Diliman for the jampacked Handel's Messiah, a story in itself. He waved me off with, "I wish I can go with you, but I will listen to Handel as though I were there with you."

A certain reporter-reviewer I know, who has the initials PAT and organizes concerts now and then, is portrayed in his tux. He's singing, accompanied by a music goddess. Spike-haired companion sings second voice. Doodled the night before Dec. 9.

If you haven't seen the Dustin Hoffmann-directed film Quartet, please do. It features folks like these who live in separate realities of their own, guided by private musical soundtracks. Thank you, Chit Roces Santos, for more pointers on social graces so I can try to be less of a social disaster. All doodles by Vergel O. Santos

I guess I'm this 10-year old who, like Peter Pan, refuses adamantly to be in the exalted ranks of mature persons who own property, hold steadfastly to jobs, have a car or maybe two or three parked in their carports in exclusive villages, buy the latest accoutrements that begin with a small "i" and other similar adult ways--the very thought of them, aray! a pain in my fat ass. Maybe 'tis the reason I can't live with a materialist or pragmatic philosophy but only agree on the analysis of the great social divides. Where does that put outsiders, i.e., kids like me?

Sometimes that can be dangerous, a playmate in my autumn years warned me. Because once a child is crossed, s/he reacts with the fury of a child, too.

Korek siya dyan!

But since this is that wonderful time of the year, I'm gonna let many things pass, forgive myself as I forgive others. Christmas and Easter tide are the best times for those.

Here's to ice cream man Jojo who has made the Kapitolyo-Pineda barangays in Pasig his work area. Every afternoon he pushes a stainless steel cart. Inside are pools of ube and cheese ice cream. The flavors change daily. Here's to milky and sunny days ahead! Life with love is beautiful.

Jojo, the ice cream man who brings joy to the children of public schools in Barangay Pineda and to one person in adjacent Kapitolyo. See you again, Jojo who evokes pictures of Clausy Ho! Ho! Ho! whenever I hear his bell tinkle in mid-afternoon.

Ice cream man's, ice cream cans, glass of ice cream photos by lactose-intolerant but defiant Babeth

Keeping the light burning clear (2003-13)

Nothing like an old friend who is himself in the midst of a transition--from publisher to illustrator-media commentator--to capture the marks of time on this blogger's face. Another friend, probably a sister from another mother in another lifetime, once warned me about shifts in paradigms and mindsets in order to adjust to the new millennium, "but at all times, keep the light burning clear." Pen and ink portrait of a nearly 60-year-old freelance writer-painter by Vergel O. Santos

Ten years ago, sometime in the last half of the year, I attended a workshop after I had just quit my nth regular job where I lasted, oh, three months. Before that I had walked out on another job at another office which I had served, although at various times so there are gap years, from 1983 to 2003.

Unbelievable record for me, but in between I found jobs as an office administrator, newspaper copy editor, corporate communications office hack, magazine staff member, politician's go-to person during a re-election campaign (he won, by the way, by the skin of his teeth, 12th place in the senatorial race of '92), full-time mom and housewife (don't ever let anyone fool you into calling these roles a vocation; it is work, and hard work at that), then back to the same office with which I had a love-hate relationship until I had it up to here and quit again (that's enough material for a manuscript gently passed off as fiction).

Back to the workshop. A few nights ago while packing for another trip North of Metro Manila, I found a handwritten note (to myself) on the subject of "life changes." I think it's a product of one of many workshops I attended as I proceeded to heal myself from burnout from the many roles and many jobs I had to do.

Before the workshop happened, I had taken up freelance writer-occasional concert organizer Pablo Tariman's invitation to join the musical (and adventure) outreach of pianist Cecile Licad to Muñoz City in Nueva Ecija, Pinto Art Gallery in Antipolo, St. Paul University in Tuguegarao, Cagayan.

The long journey ended in Banaue, Ifugao, after we zipped through Isabela to visit a jail where Pablo's daughter Kerima was once held as a political prisoner.

Banaue was just a side trip (Ms. Licad and son hadn't been there yet), an overnight's stay, on our way back to Manila, but as I like to put it, life has a way of happening. We were nearly trapped in a knee-, almost thigh-high mudslide that we had to wade through for more than a kilometer on bare feet to get to a safer side where a van sent right away by then Muñoz City Mayor Nestor Alvarez waited for us to whisk us off to a smaller airport in Nueva Vizcaya.

There Licad, son and director Marilou Diaz-Abaya (who was like an older sis to the pianist) piled into a helicopter that took them home to warmth and safety. Pablo and I chose to remain behind and chuckled all the way to Muñoz where we washed the remains of the mud off our feet, had a light supper, then went home with unforgettable memories.

As I packed for this recent trip, I also found the negatives of photos I took from that provincial classical music gig. My partner went to town recently to have these contact prints made before I decide to have any photo enlarged. It took him more than an hour to find a photo store that still did contact prints and developed photos from negatives. Within 10 years, how technology has changed, indeed.

The contact prints show Ms. Licad in some solo shots; others show her with her son Otavio Meneses, now the late Ms. Diaz-Abaya, Pablo, Mrs. Rosario Licad, Dr. Joven Cuanang. There is one shot of now the late Behn Cervantes, then directing a play at the Central Luzon State University. There are village elders from Ifugao and cultural dancers from the Banaue Hotel, and now and then, the blogger can be seen.

These photos I took with a point-and-shoot, or what others call, idiot-proof camera. Guess who's an idiot? Definitely not the photographer who had enough sense to keep these keepsakes of a time gone by.

Draft essay on life changes from 2003:

In 22 days, I'll turn 48. But I'm not going to wait to hula to the music of "Hawaii 5-0" before I initiate certain things that I have put aside because I have been busy getting and spending and laying waste my powers.

I've had my hair shorn by a barber--the Gupit Dos or Number 2 cut--and have been going around town since May 17, feeling like a bloated version of Sinead O'Connor.

In a couple of days, the man I've chosen to spend part of the time of my life with will send my UP Diliman transcript of records so I can enroll in a fine arts program and not have to pay a peso for my units. I said to myself that I've got to finish the course before he's put to pasture by the university we love in a few years.

This means living more frugally since I'll have to go on leave from the company I've worked in for a total of nine years. Ah, story of my life--broken service record because in the firm's first years, I took a leave of absence that stretched to 12 years.

My eldest daughter, now a college sophomore, turns 18 next week. I told her over the weekend, as I was shaping plans for myself, "Kimi, let's race. Let's graduate together in 2007."

Two daughters and my mate wondered what course I'd take.

"Oh, probably what I intended to major in originally which was AB Humanities until my parents brought me to a psychologist cousin so I could be talked out of it."

How tentative I was about going to journalism school!

When Dean Armando J. Malay gave me an "Inc." for not following instructions during the finals in his Introduction to Journalism class, I vowed that I would shift my major if I didn't get a decent grade after my removals.

I took another test in his Vinzons Hall office. He barely glanced at my copy and said, "Okay, maybe I'll give you a grade of 2.75."

"Huh?" I looked at him.

As usual, his eyes were turned upwards. In my mind I was rehearsing how I'd tell my parents about my decision to shift to the AB Humanities program or even to Social Work and Community Development until Malay grunted and, continuing his guessing game without thoroughly going over my copy, said, "You get a 2.0."

Looking back, I find it funny how a measly figure can put you on a certain path. And after 27 years on that road, I finally see a chance to do a leap of faith to try another.

Paper, pen, ink, VOS and the art of the doodle

If I can do half as good a pen-and-ink portrait the way my former editor, Vergel O. Santos, does, I think I don't have to force myself to learn how to cook and I can live on serviette art for the rest of my days. Sorry I can't use the word "napkin" even if I attach the descriptive "paper" before it.

Someone said the reason people look glum in their portraits is it's hard to hold a smile. Although I wasn't posing formally for a sketch, in the strict sense of the word, the doodler captured the surly girl in me. My partner would rather use the word "mischievous."

That's Pablo Tariman, the music reviewer and impresario reborn, on the left; it doesn't quite capture his milky and white disposition that day.

VOS drew from memory his former colleagues at Manila Chronicle: Amando Doronila and Rolly Fernandez. If this were my work, I'd call it, "Seriously, guys" or "Two serious guys and a typewriter."

To complete the cast of characters who had a laugh-out-loud lunch on People Power Day (it fell on same day as the Oscar awards ceremonies, but the lunch was repeatedly postponed so it had to go through) at the mother branch of Milky Way on Pasay Road, Makati (clockwise): VOS, his wife Chit Roces, Pablo and the matron with the downturned lips. Can't wait for VOS to finally mount a solo show.

Perfect Timing

On July 26, 1984, a singing quartet serenaded a newly married couple, one Babeth Lolarga and one Rolly Fernandez, at their reception at Nielsen Tower on Makati Ave. The musicians just rendered two songs: "Bayan Ko," which moved their godfather Armando J. Malay to stand up and raise a clenched fist all throughout the singing, and "Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Old Oak Tree," a lighthearted ditty that took the edge off the first song.

Forward to the same day and month 25 years later. There were more than 25 songs sung that evening at Cafe Juanita. Days before, the fretful newsman in Fernandez worried that GMA might just spoil everybody's plans, including ours, by declaring a state of emergency at her hopefully last SONA. His fear never came to pass. But six days later, the death of Mrs. Aquino began galvanizing Filipinos again to unite against injustice, corruption and the assorted excesses of GMA. And once again I see yellow ribbons wherever I turn--around pine trees, at the Volante Pizza parlor's posts, etc.,--and the cheesy song about receiving a letter telling me I'll soon be free is so very in again.

One of our anniversary singers, journalist Vergel O. Santos, once winked at our First Draft group of women writers, saying: "Don't you just think that getting married is all about perfect timing?

These poems from Edel Garcellano's blog www.theworksofedelgarcellano.wordpress.com do not quite follow the line cuts he did. My stubborn computer refuses to follow the cuts and stanzas that Edel used to fashion these three verses. So they appear here like prose poems (sorry about that, Edel):

7.

A.
Anniversary

In a cafe, 
they are all smiles
 as she confides 
over the microphone
 she & her groom 
leave well enough 
each other alone – 
neither too near
 nor too far –
 unlike igneous rocks 
that upon close contact 
spark a fire.
 Goethe’s
elective affinity of desire? 
This: 
the secret of the feast
 that stood the text 
of their own conjugal times.
 & If the merrymaking 
among friends,
 who open doors
 for the bride’s flair,
 tells a story 
for all to learn,
it must have been
 Solomonic 
for a bonding
 to steer clear
 of short-lived passion,
embracing instead
 the cool danger
 of reason.
 Gold medal
 for him 
visible with ascetic grin?
 Applause for her 
who collates goodwill
 of kith & kin?
 A toast to hearts 
who beam
 at the fairy tale
 rendition 
worked out 
with delicate precision.

B.

At 11pm 
the celebration 
was almost 
done
 but the singers 
were still belting out 
nostalgia 
as if they had 
just begun
 to feel the heat
 of fun.
 Outside Cafe Juanita
 of post American
 Tertulia,
vibrant 
with old world air
 & yellow lights
 from lamps 
wrapped by 
silk gowns,
the rain had stopped,
emitting a scent
of late-night 
cool.
& after the formal
 settling of the bill,
 rearranging of chairs,
plucking of wine bottles 
off the tipsy tables, 
the couple 
would drive home
 a few blocks away, 
as if overwhelmed
 by love’s 
strange declaration.

C.

They came,
singly or in packs, 
to be with the couple
 despite the heavy 
rain.
 They, who stood 
through thick & thin 
of accounted years:
 laughed at the same
 tried jokes;
 exchanged warm toasts;
 heard the chorus
 of ersatz troubadours 
that drew 
the night to a close.
What is there
 to expect 
after the celebration 
of beatitudes?
 Another 25 years
 of magical struggle
 & passionate hope.

Photo by ANNA LEAH SARABIA.