* Creating Enchantment *

What’s the use of having a blog when every time you want to write something personal, how you feel, for example, or what happened to you on a certain day, you’ll think that whatever you write can (and will) be used against you?

I’m not saying that I want to say bad things about other people that they eventually will hate me and insult me and dissect my blog entries and point out that everything I say is stupid. I just mean that there are some things that I wish to share with the world, but can’t, because I know that when certain people read it, they’ll interpret it differently (no matter how careful I am with my words), and there’s nothing wrong with that, really. Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion, what I really mean that I don’t like is those people who suddenly think they know you and that they’re close to you, and that they can ask you personal questions in real life, just because they’ve read your blog. I mean sure, when you put something out for the world to see, presumably, it’s okay for you to talk about it with strangers, right? So why be mad when someone who knows you in real life asks you about what you wrote?

I don’t know. It’s just different when your friends know things about you, different when people you don’t know and have never met also know things, and people you don’t even like will know things about you as well. LJ’s Friend filter function is good, but if you do that to all your entries, then the chance that a remarkably insightful stranger will chance upon your entry and give you a valuable opinion would be impossible.

I wish that instead of a “Friends” filter where you can let only your friends see what you’ve written, there’s something like an “Enemies” filter that lets you choose only the certain people who won’t be able to read your blog. Not that I have enemies, just, well, we all have people we know but we don’t like them knowing about our personal lives. Right?

I’ve come up with so many “quotes”, but I don’t know if anyone else has said them. Oh well, I’ll post them here anyway, because maybe you can use it someday. Hehehe. I don’t know if I’m the first to have thought of these (probably not), but rest assured that I thought of these on my own, and didn’t hear it from anyone else or anything like that.

“I finally know how it feels to fall in love. Now I want to know how it feels to be loved back.”

“Malunod na sana ko sa sarili kong luha.”

Okay, there’s only two of them for now, but I’ll think of nicer ones soon. I hope.

(Click on Image to Enlarge)

The poster already has these details, but I’ll say it anyway. The Filipinas Heritage Library is holding an Art and Writing Workshop from June 7 - 28, 2008. As much as I want to join, I can’t because it conflicts with my Japanese classes. It’s too bad really, I’ve gone on one of their workshops before (Travel Writing & Photography) and it was lots of fun. This one is also something I’m really interested in, but oh well, maybe next time. I’m putting it up here anyway in case anyone else is interested.

And now, it’s time for a short story. For those of you new to my blog (because this blog is kind of new as well), I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you that there will be some literary pieces like these from time to time.

I’m posting this para kunwari productive ako sa mga araw na’tong hindi talaga ako productive dahil kulang ako sa tulog. Sa totoo lang, ‘wag na ‘wag n’yong hahayaan ang sarili ninyong kulangin ng tulog. Masisira ang buhay n’yo. I’m not kidding.

The other reason I’m posting this is because I really haven’t written any stories in a while, and this being my latest attempt, I guess I’d like to know what people think so maybe I’ll have an idea of what people like to read, and I’ll be able to write more.

This is actually a bit experimental. I haven’t written many stories involving somewhat supernatural elements, so I’m not sure if I’m good at it. I hope you like it anyway.

TEXT MESSAGE

In desperation, Grace got her cellphone from her desk and typed a message:

You said you’d never leave me. You said it many times.
How am I supposed to go on without you?

Tears welled in her eyes as she sat on her bed, and pressed “Send”. She watched until the screen said “Message Sent”, and then unceremoniously dropped her cellphone beside her. She cried, not knowing what to do, or expect. But knowing that no one could help her, not right then, she just kept crying.

Beep!

She jumped, startled. And her tears momentarily paused. It was certainly a coincidence if one of her friends sent her a text message, exactly at that moment. She got her cellphone and pressed the button to read it. When she saw the name of the message sender in her Inbox, she dropped the phone. Had she read it right? Did he actually reply to her message?

Her fingers shaking, she reached again for her cellphone, and opened the message. It must be one of Michael’s sisters telling her that he wasn’t using that phone anymore, she figured. But she was wrong.

I’m sorry.

It said. At first, she didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t even sure if she was going to believe it, but when she thought about how it could be true, she started crying again. And then she replied:

What am I going to do now?

This time, she held on to her phone, looking at the screen closely.

Beep!

The message alert appeared after a few minutes. She opened the message, and read:

You’ll think of something. You’re one of the bravest people I know. You can get through this.

Grace furrowed her eyebrows. With less fear, and more anger, she replied:

If this is your idea of a joke, it’s not funny at all, she sent the message, and waited…

Beep!

If it will take a joke to cheer you up, I’d gladly tell you one, Your Grace. was the response.

She was startled. Your Grace, she read again. Nobody else called her that except Michael. And nobody but the two of them knew about it. It couldn’t have been a joke. It was definitely Michael on the other end. But… how? she wondered. And then asked; How are you doing this?

Beep!

The response came quickly: You wanted to talk to me, and so I replied. That’s all that matters.

Will you always be here, then? she wanted to know.

Beep!

No.

So… this is the last time?

Beep!

Yes.

Grace blinked, several times. She had a hard time reading now, her vision getting more blurred as she read more words. She read the three-letter word again and again. She didn’t want to accept it. It took her a long time to compose another message, she was feeling weaker by the second. But she forced herself to finish and send:

Why did you leave me?

She was heaving as she waited for her phone to beep. It was taking longer than the messages before. She panicked. What if the last one was really the last? Would he really leave her without saying goodbye?

Beep!

The message alert tone finally played. When she saw his name in her Inbox, she couldn’t believe it. He still replied. And his taking a long time to do so made her think that he probably really thought about it before he sent it. It made her think for a moment, that maybe he could still do that.

I didn’t leave. I’ll always be with you. I will never love anyone else. I am forever yours.

She shook head as she finished reading it, still unable to stop the tears in her eyes. “It’s useless, you idiot,” she said as she stared at his name indicated below the message. She read it over and over, so many times that she had no longer noticed when she’d let go of her cellphone, and fell asleep.

****

Beep!

Grace woke up. And immediately remembered that she’d fallen asleep with her cellphone beside her. There was a new message in her phone’s Inbox.

She opened it. It was from one of Michael’s sisters, Anna:

Grace, the memorial service starts in an hour. We know it’s hard, but we really hope you can say a few words to everyone. You, after all, knew him best.

She strained her eyes and read the message again. Right. Michael’s memorial service was today. When she left the hospital the night before, she’d cried until she got home. She only vaguely remembered his sister telling her that she had to give a eulogy in the memorial service today. She also vaguely remembered a strange dream.

She pressed the “Reply” button and told Anna that she would be at the chapel in half an hour. After sending the message, an alert saying her Phone Mailboxes were full appeared on the screen. She opened the Phone Outbox to delete her Sent Messages. When it had finished loading, she gasped. There were several messages in it, most of which were sent to Michael. She opened her Phone Inbox, and sure enough, the messages from him last night were all in there as well.

“It wasn’t a dream…” she whispered to herself.

****

“Michael’s phone?” Anna repeated, when Grace had asked her if they’d sold it or given it to anyone else.

“Yes,” she said. “Do you remember who bought it? Or is it with any of your relatives?”

Anna shook her head. “It came back in pieces. It was ruined in the accident. We… didn’t think of getting it fixed or anything because it was too damaged. We threw it away,” she said. “Did you… want to keep it?”

Grace shook her head. “No, it’s just that, I received this message from his number last night,” she said, and showed her cellphone to her.

“What? Where?” Anna asked, looking at the screen of Grace’s phone.

Grace looked at it. The messages were gone. “Wait,” she said. “They were right here,” she said, and then checked the Sent Messages to see if the messages she’d sent were still there, too. But they were gone as well. “But they were here!” she said, again on the verge of tears.

“Listen,” Anna told her, as she put her hand on her shoulder. “You’re tired, and you’re sad. Maybe you should get some rest. You don’t need to do the eulogy if you don’t want to.”

She shook her head. “No, no. I want to do it,” she said. “I just…” her voice trailed off and she put her cellphone back in her pocket.

“I’ll see you later, then,” Anna said to her as she walked back to greet more guests that have arrived.

Beep!

Grace jumped. She took her phone out, and opened the new text message that had just come. It was from one of her friends, giving her condolences. “I guess it must’ve been a dream after all,” she said softly, although she knew in her heart, that it really wasn’t.

END
10.Mar.2008 21:40

Nais kong masanay magsulat gamit ang dalawang wikang naniniwala akong pareho ko nang alam na alam. Ang isa, dahil nagagamit sa pang araw-araw na usapan (ito ‘yun), at ang isa naman, dahil nagsososyal-sosyalan ako ‘pag may kasamang ibang tao (No, that’s not true, I’m only making biro you know). Kung kaya’t napag-desisyunan ko na ang susunod kong mga isusulat dito ay gagamit ng parehong wika. Hindi ko na lalagyan ng pagsasalin ang mga ito. Malaki kasi ang posibilidad na ang mga isusulat ko sa wikang Filipino ay tungkol sa mga bagay na ‘di naman nakaka-interes sa mga hindi nagsasalita ng Filipino. Pero kung ang gusto mong paniwalaan ‘eh tamad ako, kaya ayokong magsalin ng mga isinulat ko, pwede rin naman. Hehe.

Kung nagtataka ka kung bakit ko ito naisipan, ‘yun naman ay dahil ayaw kong mawala ang mga bagay na natutunan ko. Oo, ibig kong sabihin na madalas ako nagsusulat gamit ang Filipino dati. Nung hayskul (at oo, Filipino ang salitang “hayskul”, itanong mo pa sa kahit sinong guro sa Filipino).

Nagsusulat ako noon para sa pahayagang Filipino ng eskwelahan ko. Mas-masaya kasi magsulat ng Filipino nun ‘eh, lalo ‘yung mga maikling kwento at tula. Simple lang ang mga salita. Halos lahat magka-sukat at magkta-tugma. At mas-makatotohanan ang dayalogo ng mga tauhan sa maikling kwento. At sa Filipino, pwede kang mag-English paminsan-minsan. Pero sa English, ‘di ka pwede mag-Filipino. Kasi kung gawin mo ‘yun, it’d sound so kakaiba like this, right? ‘Di kagaya ng kung sabihin kong “Hindi naman gaano weird ‘yung ganitong sentence, diba?”

Medyo naging mahirap din dahil aminin na natin, mas-nirerespeto sa Pilipinas ang mga pahayagang Ingles kaysa Filipino (kaya mas-malaki ‘yung budget nila para sa English newspaper. Totoo ‘yan, kasi kung ‘di totoo, bakit sila may scanner, kami wala? At saka bakit nung nasira ‘yung mouse nila, napalitan agad? ‘Yung sa’min hindi?! (wahaha lumang isyu :P)). Pero masaya pa rin kasi naramdaman ko na dahil nga hindi masyadong nakatutok sa’min ang administrasyon ay naging mas-malaya kami para gawin ang mga nais namin.

Kaya naman, titignan ko ngayon kung ganun pa rin ang mangyayari. Magiging mas-malaya rin kaya ang pakiramdam ko sa tuwing susulat ako gamit ang Filipino?

(Yes, I know I should be studying for my test on Saturday, but gallemit! I want to write!)

Earlier this evening my aunt handed me a sheet of paper with an article printed on it. I’ve completely forgotten the title now and didn’t even get to read it properly because she handed it to me while I was watching Friends, but I did remember the reason why she showed it to me in the first place–the byline had my cousin’s name on it.

“It’s her first published article,” she said. My cousin works for a magazine in Hong Kong, and has been based there for the past year or two. I’ve always known this, but for some reason (sheer stupidity, perhaps), I was surprised to hear that she’d published something she’d written. It was sort of a rediscovery for me, when I realized that my cousin is a writer. Isn’t she the first person I personally know (and am even related to) whose name I saw as a byline in something published? I even remember the event–my sister and I were sitting in her room, holding a copy of The Blue Flame (those of you who studied in St. Scholastica’s College in Manila know what this is), and my sister pointed my cousin’s name out to me. She’d written a poem (in Filipino, too!), and it was right in the middle of the newspaper’s centerfold. Sure, it was a high school newspaper, and it was a very short poem, but to a high school student, and her grade school cousins, that’s actually a pretty big thing.

I don’t know where my sister got the idea to start writing. It wasn’t because my cousin liked to write. Even before that incident with the newspaper, my sister was already writing all sorts of stories in her notebook. But I’ll admit, that I started writing because of them–my sister, and my cousin, I mean. I remember thinking how cool would it be, to have my name on a byline of the school newspaper as well. I think when I got to Grade 4 the next year, I tried out for our school’s newsletter right away (I didn’t get in until I was in Grade 5 though, and didn’t get anything published until I was in Grade 6). At first it was just because I couldn’t talk to my sister whenever she was writing, and having nothing better to do, I imitated her and started writing as well. Eventually I think, I liked it on my own, and have been writing ever since. Although anyone who’s read what my sister’s written would tell you that we have very different styles. But I’m starting to veer away from the topic.

I lost the knowledge that my cousin liked to write, some time around high school. She was in college then and taking up Fashion–more of an artists’ course than a writers’ (but I’m not generalizing, I know anyone can take up any course they want, I’m just saying that majority of the people I know who are into fashion are more artists than writers), and I figured that her writing days in high school were probably just a phase. She after all, liked to go out and party all night. She enjoyed house music, and the recent reading materials in her room consisted only of Vogue and other fashion magazines (I don’t even know their title -_-). Nothing wrong with that, I think she really enjoyed her course, and eventually her job as a copy editor at a fashion magazine. It was probably because she was focused more on fashion (and that includes buying clothes instead of books), that I forgot that she was interested in writing as well.

No, I don’t think this post has too relevant a point. I’m just proud of my cousin for having been able to combine her two loves (fashion and writing), and succeeding at making a career out of it. I think I forgot too that being a writer can actually be genetic, and that’s why I’m surprised when I hear that some relatives of mine have their written works published.

A few years back, another one of my cousins (although she’s a second cousin) got published in Youngblood, and while I’m aware that mostly anyone with a dramatic story can just send in their articles for this section and that you don’t necessarily need to be a writer to have your story published under this section, I am also aware that her article was still pretty well-written. The structure was good, the tone consistent, and she was able to get her point across. And that’s something not anyone with a dramatic story can do.

I’m wondering now why we don’t ever talk about writing whenever we have family reunions. Shouldn’t that be an advantage for us, since we have so many family gatherings in a year anyway, it should be fun to have a lot of people help us improve our craft. But I don’t know, I’m not really that close to either cousin I mentioned. And I’m already used to talking about writing with just my sister.

I guess I’m just happy to know that my family has a lot of interesting people in it. Well, all families have interesting people, I know, but I’m happy that some of those interesting people in mine are interesting, because they like to write. And although that kind of makes me the underachiever out of all of us since they’ve all already published something–my cousin, an article in a foreign magazine; my other cousin, an essay in the local newspaper; and my sister, an actual book, I believe that there’s still some time for me to catch up and come up with my own thing. Don’t our traits all come from the same gene pool, after all?

I believe the same is true for everything else.

After Blanche DuBois from A Streetcar Named Desire placed a colored handkerchief over a light bulb and in effect made the room she was in more colorful, she said:

If the world were that room, reality, a “light bulb”, this blog is my colored handkerchief, making my life more colorful.