6:45 PM April 4, 2003

I am awed at Filipino mis/maleducation. Just minutes ago, I was standing in line at National Bookstore Galleria, awaiting my turn to purchase my most recent treasure - Love in the Time of the Camera by Cebuano Simeon Dumdum. I contemplated the possible contents of the book and puckered my lips in anticipation.

"At last," I thought to myself, "Easy, entertaining reading. So unlike highly-charged Unbearable Lightness of Being."

Savoring the taste of triumph at having another book funded by my paycheck, a woman with brown, frizzy hair (I supposed it a product of a Sta. Mesa neighborhood parlor, whose gay beauticians were the likes of those who joined Charing Squad in Alas Dose sa Trese) pushed me aside. Yes, pushed, to get to one of the just vacant cash registers. Slowly, I felt my face turning hot, without thought, I yelled, "What the fuck??!?"

I waited patiently for my turn and here cuts in Miss Aegis look-a-like and robs me of my right to a fair turn, right before my eyes, infront of people, in a public establishment!! What the motherfucking fuck was that all about???

She couldn't look at me. I dug her grave on her back with my eyes. I fought the urge to fling my arms, snatch the scissors from the sales girl, and shear her head. First, because wearing blonde hair that looks freaking fake is a crime. Second, one should never step out of the house without brains and breeding. This girl has zilch. What she is, is some flak who looks like she just woke up from a deep sleep right after a terrible accident, where a torch burned her hair. To make matters worse, the people behind her followed her!

I had to do something. I blocked the way. One of them said, "Excuse me". I turned around, poker-faced and voice dead as stone, "Yes. I am waiting in line for one of these to finish. I'm waiting for MY turn."

No wonder the Philippines is still where it is. There are more people like them than people who have gone to good schools and environments. Social etiquette is on martial law. The subject is taboo, but everybody's in on it. I want to leave this country.



8:40 PM Greenhills

Uncertainty hovers above me. I do not know what future I have dealing with Mrs. P. Everything, the arrangement, the deals, the supposed career, seem to be a blur. She treats me more as a daughter than as her writer. I should be grateful for the special treatment, though. Sometimes, I really am. But knowing that the financial guarantee, the concrete sweet smell of crisp cash is far from now, I slump. I know my passion should alone drive me. But there are bills to pay, and a lifestyle to live.

Money does not define my world, but it helps in making me face my problems more with ease and grace. I also cannot deny the truth that if I didn't have any financial worries, I'd be writing more than what I do right now.

I am grateful for the introduction of Mrs. P into my life, and I know that someday I will be brought to greater heights in my writing career. I just have to be patient.

I sit here, now, in her garden, in anticipation of our meeting. I hope she presents me a mountainload to work on.

Life is short. I need cash.


9:00 PM

She sits at the edge of the pool, phone in hand, feet slowly grazing, circling the water. Waves increase the more vigorous she treads. I watch the movement calmly, wishing I had the life as easy as hers, and that I had a pool to wade in anytime I pleased. But then, why should I wish her life to become mine? She holds no freedom over herself. Her parents have already defined her life plan since birth. I, though battered, bruised, and tired, exist in the real world. I may not be able to plunge into cool, bluish pool at will, but I am able to plunge into life's mud and come emerge victorious, experienced, and cleansed. She is immaculate. I have walked on dirt. The hardened mud on my legs has made we walk farther -- without blisters on my feet.