Saturday, December 31, 2011

nicotine love

It pains me to see how my life
Passes by
Burned to ashes
Slowly by threads and dried leaves
As the lips of a man
Suck my bottom
To take a breath
And puff a smoke to relax
His tensed fingers.

I nearly reached half
When comes a man in Ivy League
Enduring a spectacle
To the left
Took out a menthol.

Without word,
Without notice
A deep inhale—
Three seconds to four
The menthol touched my cinder,
my lip of wanton desire.

His lips of patience drought
As I pass fire
Into his lifeless roll
Happy to be consumed
And to share a love divine.

And as I burn I see him
Release the shards of mint
To the visitor's lip
Turning to ashes
As I too turn without vain.

Down the corner
We burn
From our masters' hand
Who said nothing but smiles
From their eyes emanating
Like our flicker burning.

For love like mine
Is worth the wait.
Without question nor force
Despite the long delay
And the heaves and ho's
In perfect time
In a hopeless place.

Note: I don't smoke. I just find the metaphor fitting.

Friday, December 16, 2011


The greatest explorer on this earth never takes voyages as long as those of the man who descends to the depth of his heart. (Julien Green)

I find my friends' wishlist utter funny because not one of them forgave "everlasting love" in their Christmas wants. Of course, it's quite a challenge for them because they're women and their ovaries have expiration dates. Some of them have already settled in secured relationships but the selected few—who are either in need of strangulation for the kind of blah relationships they are in or in need of plugging a cork on the mouths for the sighing and whining they always belt out—have never let a month without a bawl on Facebook about their star-crossed romances. If not having their boyfriends, my friends are already on the run in finding one. And I, well, I guess the park is too nice to hit a breakneck speed like that.

I've always thought that life is miserable without a partner. My folks have mentioned that life can get a little too sullen when you're aging and finding your space too spacious for yourself and a pooch. But just about that, I think space will work fine for me. Apart from circulating air that's good for the lungs, I needed a lot of "me-time" to think things over. I'm a sober thinker, that's an admission.

Pictures of some of my batchmates already fathers, some classmates cuddling their bundles of joy, sure do the world is creeping up from my back like a chill from Siberia, whispering to my ear that I'm not far from getting old and the twenties is the perfect time to at least go out there and search for your eternal penguin. But that's not just working for me.

And for that, despite the slew of lovelorn hopeless romantics surrouding me or the fairytales that almost all wanted, somehow, I think that even with the wintry chill that everyone uses to prop up an argument to have that someone to cuddle with—people have this knack of using your insecurity against you, eh?—I keep my cool with it.

Monday, November 28, 2011

ibsen's words

Rob the average man of his life-illusion, and you rob him of his happiness at the same stroke.
A video of a syringe withdrawing blood from an arm flashes on the TV screen. Somewhere at the back of my head, the finger of reality suddenly jumpstarted my switchboard. Then the video went on to resonate the voice of a man who testified that he has been doing "that" every three months since he's "jowa" is "positive." My instinct was right.

I checked what was on GMA News TV and as if by fate's design, the trailer for "Positibo" was showing. At the get go, it tugged my heartstrings. Without still knowing what the commercial was, I thought it is something proximate to me.

And so the sneek peek went on, the whole preview ended, and the ominous voice blasted from our speakers, "Positibo. Sabado ng 8:40 ng gabi sa Front Row. GMA News TV. Channel 11."

Tssss, that was all I said.

My mom, who was busying herself with a virtual deck of Spider Solitaire, glanced at the TV while the commercial was going on. If not for her curiosity and due respect, I would have flipped the channel midway through the trailer to Nickelodeon.

the pod

It’s a small world
Of familiar faces
That band of brothers
Whose briefs might’ve swaped
Already, among others,
When they sallied forth
Toward the tract
Of protrusions and depressions
One moment, or altogether
In some tiresome night
Or backdoor rendezvous
As rituals command
Hip thrusts and dislodging
During the chances of intervals
Veiled by the cloak of virtue

Never mind the saint
The chaste funambulist
Or the scarred
Who disfigured the mirror
And whence cavemen catch breath
Still afford to exclaim:
When a dry day ends
Turned them to bored lackeys
Among their company
So small, yet cramped
That virility slithers
Silent but intense
Along the cords
Of their names
And sinister secrets

Friday, November 25, 2011

AIDS virus group-N

Uninfected kids should be really, really, really, really careful these days.


Rare strain of AIDS virus moves beyond Cameroon
Agence France-Presse

A very rare strain of AIDS virus previously found only among a few people in Cameroon has most probably spread outside the West African country, according to a case reported by The Lancet on Friday.

The first identified infection with the so-called "group N" strain of the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) was found in 1998 in a Cameroonian woman who had progressed to AIDS.

Since then, more than 12,000 HIV-infected patients living in Cameroon have been tested for group-N infection, but only 12 cases, including two couples, have ever been found.

The new case, reported by French doctors, involves a 57-year-old man who was admitted to the Saint Louis Hospital Paris in January suffering from fever, rash, swollen lymph glands and genital ulceration.

The patient had high levels of a virus in the HIV-1 family, but tests to pinpoint the particular strain proved inconclusive. On February 9, the patient developed facial paralysis.

The French team then carried out further tests on blood samples, which were found to react in an antibody essay of the N strain.

Tracing his sexual history, the researchers believe the infection was "probably" acquired from intercourse with a partner in Togo, from which he had just returned.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

the distance of Proxima

Light years. From here. I see. Hope's ray.
I move. And kneel. And shoot. And miss.

Discern. Twin stars. One longs. For light.
That one. Who could. Renew. His sky.

But stays. On bends. And wears. Godot's.
To freeze. And dream. For one's. Reborn.

One star. Astray. From his. Reaching.
Still gleams. Nay far. Minute. But there.

But he. Defies. Eon's. Despair.
And pulls. The springs. And neaps. To sway.

And whence. I see. Crystal. Beckons.
Own light. Shutters. Cleaves me. To fall.

My self's. Distance. Stone's throw. Away.
Blinds me. And hope's. Star-crossed. In awe.

For I. Harks to. Gazers'. Prescience.
Of one. That will. Commence. New air.

Some say. A star. Out there. Exists.
Whose heat. Hits home. Hearts skip. A beat.

But Muse. Still weeps. The space. Deceits.
New star. Comes pale. Versing. A knell.

The bard's. Morose. Contents. Grieving.
And with. Dashed hopes. I hop. And hope.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

greater plane

Whenever I rummage too far in the realm of cyberspace, sometimes I end up dumbfounded whenever tabs are parading on the top of Google Chrome. And perhaps the most bewildering is I am sometimes reading hagiographies. (Encarta it.)

My sociology professor theorized that by human nature, faith in the Supreme Being is generally formalized during childhood, takes a dip during the adolescent to young adult years because of too much temptations, and as our lives progress to twilight and our heydays lose its glimmer, the more occasional we will kneel before the Sacrament.

But everything has exception: when the body takes the beating of the mundane world, a ray of heaven's light is suddenly casted on us.

My interest was once piqued on the thought of a patron saint for people living with HIV. Unfortunately, there is none. But here we have St. Peregrine Laziosi. (Google it.) Some say that he is the patron for chronic diseases, where HIV falls. The debate is open as to who really is to preside in the intercession of each and every HIV-positive's prayer.

Monday, October 24, 2011

a wound

Be Positive PH once emailed and asked if I could share my story to them. Here is my post.


A moment's wound for one could be a lifetime for others.

With a tone that sounded as if the Earth being round, an office mate of mine heralded to us that in dire cases when bandages are out of hand, a scotch tape is a good alternative.

I wasn't really minding the dude since it's midday and work is starting to nail us. If not because of the shrieking "OMG" of another lady office mate, I would go on ignoring them.

I turned to where the commotion was. Blood. I saw blood. Blood that spewed and unsightly at the finger of my office mate sitting next to me. And not just blood, a finger of his was covered with scotch tape in a vain attempt to substitute for the loss of bandage. So that was his announcement. Pwede rin pala ang scotch tape, no? he said.

The wound he's nursing was all too perfect for me to do the cringe: my neck muscle strained, one of my leg folded and suddenly raised, and my eye twitched. My cringe strings always get the pulling whenever a badly mended wound is in sight.

He took some time in explaining what happened. Apparently, the metal label of his netbook created a nasty slice on his finger without him knowing it just when he pulled out the contraption. As things happened quickly, it was painless. The next thing he knew was he was looking for a band aid, but the good secretary offered a pathetic solution to none that is scotch tape. He said the bleeding stopped, which was good, but his appendage was still soaking in sanguine splendor.

Saturday, October 22, 2011

sa likod mo

Disclaimer: This may be kinda creepy.

Too much My Ghost Story and Celebrity Ghost Stories on BIO leads me nowhere but to believe that there is zone between heaven and Earth that allows spirit to communicate and interact with the living for a moment's time. I've always been a believer of the afterlife, but it has come full circle when these two shows barraged me with testimonies of spirits trapped, visiting, or simply still lolling on Earth.

My mom's genes passed down a peculiar trait: a mildly open sixth sense. I and my siblings would like to believe that we are more capable of feeling the unearthly souls strolling upon us compared to our peers. And in the brood, I'd like to assume that I am the more "blessed" (Yes, I like to look at it that way.)

Thursday, October 20, 2011

qt: unrequited

I'm sorry to say this,
but those who are most worthy of love
are never made happy by it.
Do you still think men love the way we do? No.
Men enjoy the happiness they feel.
We can only enjoy the happiness we give.
They are not capable of devoting themselves
exclusively to one person.
So to hope to be made happy by love
is a certain cause of grief.
-- Madame de Rosemonde, Dangerous Liaisons

Saturday, October 1, 2011

one-way street

By way of sheer luck and mastered Googling techniques, I finally found the personal virtual space of a distant crush I've been fawning over for most of the days back in college. And whaddyaknow, nothing makes me more smitten than a boy who despite the wretchedness of heartache can still sound romantic.

I broke the news of my underrated feat to some of my college dudettes who knew of my ogling over him. He's a literature major. Suffice to say a man who perfected the art of personal harakiri. To puncture himself and let his feelings gush forth, what is immortalized by way of lyrical essay, poems, and the one I love the most, a staccato letter.

Under 20 minutes I've tranced. Eyes whirling. Mind throbbing. Crimson tide rushing. Unfettered panicking started to engulf me for reasons unknown to me. Line by line the pieces of puzzle showed a forlorn heart which he tried to salvage by clinging onto promises of reparation. Sent and letters unsent, he said, to the other boy he fell in love with.

Our overdue guessing game was over. I was right. My girl friends who also liked him made way for an admission that bruised the feminine psyche. "One of you, I suppose," a friend told me. That was a balm for the spirit.

He was a distant familiar face. On days when our college building was a perfect shelter for the afternoon smoltering heat, he was the needed zephyr. Their class isn't that big a population. And since they're a woman-dominated major, as ours too, boys are easily seen from the sea of skirt. If my memory would be correct in conjuring memories stowed in the depth of my past, he's a sheepish character. He walked laggardly, usually skidding his feet onto the years-olden tiles of the hallways adjacent to ours. He would innocently hold tight onto his bag strap, as if some cat is chained inside to prevent it from leaping out. And when I'd meet his eyes, quietly he would look away.

Years have gone by and bygones were bygones, he suddenly reappeared. For Fate's no good reason and reasons I wouldn't want to know either. It dawned on me that he's nursing a pulverized heart. His words, despite sullen, and apologies sincere to its core, fell flat for the man he loved. I couldn't blame the other though for it was he, he professed to the cyberworld, who took the run away. His is his personal life and no other could put resolution into it than him alone. Let he be his Oedipus and with that I step back.

It'd be fatal to put this up on where we've been following each other. That'd be a ticket to doomsday. At the very least, after so much egging and convincing from my daredevil woman-friends, I finally followed him. Some part of me died from guilt, but have resurrected when the revelation came that I was on his reading list already.

My thoughts are awashed, frittering away in the drizzle. And this post could easily perish when it squeak past through to the backburner. But I have to get this thought down else it may threaten the life it belongs to. This is badly written and perhaps will end up this way.

Of course I make no hint before him about my growing fascination for him. Let this be a one-way street of admiration. Like Northern Star rising. The one you can easily spot amid the crystalline twinkling of the stars scattered even on a mantle of darkness. The celestial gem that's seen but unknown.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

adjourn sine die

The long hiatus here in Blogspot is due to work, Facebook, and other blogging platforms. I find it more amusing to talk about non-HIV issues. Or, er, scratch that. The real reason is I've gone back on my feet after a serious battle with ARV side effects. With God's grace, I've regained the old flame to say the least that sometimes I don't feel that I'm sick.

Life's about that. You move on and forward from depression. Writing to me has been a therapy. I did only use this site to relieve myself of the harrowing and tremendously painful trauma of discovering HIV. It healed me as much as the Man Upstairs did. So, there's no point in wallowing and fretting. Life is dramatic enough.

This is the start of a very intermittent blogging. Adios to you my dear reader—for this moment. 'Til the next blog entry of which who knows when.

Neon lights, switching off.

Monday, August 29, 2011

hospital booboo

I was flipping through the channels and landed on Al Jazeera. World News came up and the report below (not exactly Al Jazeera's though) surprised me. My heart sunk low for the aggrieved patients. Here is a counterpart report of the Associated Press which Washington Times carried.


Taiwan hospital transplants 5 HIV-infected organs

By ANNIE HUANG, Associated Press
Monday, August 29, 2011

TAIPEI, TAIWAN (AP) - One of Taiwan’s best regarded hospitals transplanted organs from an HIV carrier into five patients, a hospital official said Monday, in what appears to be one of the most egregious examples of medical negligence in the island’s modern history.

The five are now being treated with anti-AIDS drugs, said the official at National Taiwan University Hospital in Taipei.

The official spoke on condition of anonymity because she is not authorized to deal with the media.

In a posting on its website over the weekend, the hospital said the mistake occurred because a transplant staffer believed he heard the English word “non-reactive” on the donor’s standard HIV test, which means negative, while the word “reactive” was actually given.

The hospital added that the information on the test result was given over the telephone and was not double-checked, as required by standard operating procedures.

“We deeply apologize for the mistake,” the hospital said.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

that viral giggle

How is he doing it on reverse?

The moment I discovered Anderson Cooper's giggle fit, (meltdown starts at the 2:28 mark, FYI.) I was almost glued to the laptop for hours. Aside from abusing the power of the replay button, Youtube once again resurrected what was once my faint admiration for this media man.

Never mind the long stormy weekend because Mr. Cooper's childish chuckles on AC360 days ago made my day. And more videos of him I saw in Youtube: he and his, Oh! I don't know how to call it. He and Kathy Griffin were especially cute during CNN's New Year celebration. The related videos allowed me to watch his stint when he subbed for Regis Philbin to double with Kelly Rippa, who on this video, cannot contain anymore what probably her hormones were telling her.

Friday, August 26, 2011

cumbersome pills

It was 10 am, an hour before I must take 3TC+AZT. After eating cereals, I went upstairs to wheel away time. I opened the laptop. Dab some words into an empty notepad. Creativity got the best of me that I managed to pull off an entry decent enough for the new blog that I just started.

A moment after, my dad called me for lunch. I begged off and told him I'd be coming down anytime later, but not that time. When I thought that my entry already made sense, I went down, ate lunch, and drank my Vitamin C.

The clock was hanging by the wall to my left. It said 2.30 pm. In a split second, my eyes widened. My neurons were firing on all cylinders.

"Mnemosyne, help me."

Monday, August 22, 2011

matters of disclosure

Disclaimer: A long read, and heavily opinionated. If you only want fun and excitement and do not want to delve with the musings of the HIV world, redirect to Cartoon Network's website. Kidding! (Or am I?).

I was blog-hopping here and there and I came across the blog of Mr. Rebirth. On his last entry, Mr. Rebirth was apprehensive about another blogger (Mr. Other Blogger) who had the balls of posting pictures and profiles of alleged HIV carriers on a gay social community site.

For things to be clear-cut, I stand by Rebirth's reasoning. The other blog, who allegedly made the effort of disclosing "positive" gay guys to inform, if not warn, the public about the presence of still sexually active pozzies in the world wide web, was appalling. It just shatters sensibilities.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

great sundays gone

This has becoming a concern for me. Weekly, there would always be a trial, and they always crop up every Sabbath day. So I ask: Will I face every Sunday with agitation?

As of writing, I just had my breakfast and a couple of rants to my mom. Patches of rashes have appeared once again. For someone who has been nearly dead sick on the bed for at least a month because of different gradations of rashes, this is frustrating. Very. Frustrating.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

round two

Two days after my last post, I would have known that I was only led through the eye of the storm for the second wave of Nevirapine rash hit me once again.

Sunday, August 7, I woke up to a usual pain, so usual that when I saw my torso in blistering red once again, my spirit sunk low. I immediately texted my doctor: "May rashes na naman po ako." She agreed to see me next day first thing in the morning. For the time being, she prescribed me again round-the-clock of paracetamol. Good thing for paracetamols they don't affect the brain, for if they did, I'm already drugged to death.

Friday, August 5, 2011

most unkindest cut

Even if I haven't fully recovered yet and the danger of having a mild headache could be underway, I will recount how God did not listen to my prayers and how the devil seemed to get a clutch on me.

Exactly a week after my birthday, I woke up to serious body and joint pains. I thought it was too abnormal because whoever got tired after sleeping. I'm already having a clue about what I am already experiencing but I'm trying to dismiss it.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

toward the cure

May the force be with them. Hope and pray for the success of this undertaking. Take note: News piece is dated July 12, 2011. Very recent.


'Hutch' gets $20 million grant to develop HIV cure

Seattle's Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center has been awarded a $20 million federal grant to study whether HIV could be cured by modifying an infected person's stem cells, part of a larger strategy by Hutch scientists to combat the virus that leads to AIDS.

By Roberto Daza
Seattle Times staff reporter

Altering an HIV-infected person's stem cells not just to combat the virus that causes AIDS, but to eradicate it was — to many researchers — a pipe dream. Even the idea of a cure, while in the forefront of their minds, was thought improbable.

But a cure is exactly what Seattle's Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center will be pursuing with a $20 million, five-year research grant announced Monday by the National Institutes of Health.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

dusting off

Atticus said that Jem was trying hard to forget something, but what he was really doing was storing it away for a while, until enough time passed. Then he would be able to think about it and sort things out. When he was able to think about it, Jem would be himself again.
It was the needed paragraph that got me off the hook from reading early morning yesterday. I thought the night was too late for me to continue to finish Harper Lee's book. But it's hard to put down a good book like that unless a universality was lent into words which will wring your head for the dumbfounding truth it evoked. And that was that.

Chapter 26 was fine for the night. I had to stop there. I had to stop not because the clock was warning me but because what Scout quoted from her father (Atticus) about her brother (Jem) resonated an abstraction of reality that I needed to be reminded of, a passage I had to dwell on.

spaced out

Few days back, I just turned 23. This time, I invited my college friends—a bunch of book lovers and level-headed ladies who long before realizing it, had already shattered their rose-colored glasses. Over chicken lollipops and gravied meat, they made me recount a romantic encounter. And in unison that spaced me out, their verdict was: "It wasn't love."

I didn't ask them if something's wrong with me. I knew the answer beforehand. But they all knew, as we most are, that love for me isn't spelled just how other construct it.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

by the ear

He sat surely on a white monobloc chair while intimating a story to the doctor. He just died. Suddenly died, he said. The doctor looked appalled. There was a wave of disbelief that etched on her face.

But being a man (or woman, at that) of science, she made her position known. But your friend could have been saved, the doctor said. You think he has AIDS already? The man seemed quizzed, and hinted affirmation.

The nurse suddenly butt in: Paano nangyari? The man tried to review the pages of his memory.

Monday, July 11, 2011

superbug strain

Scientists find first superbug strain of gonorrhoea

LONDON — Scientists have found a "superbug" strain of gonorrhoea in Japan that is resistant to all recommended antibiotics and say it could transform a once easily treatable infection into a global public health threat.

The new strain of the sexually transmitted disease — called H041 — cannot be killed by any currently recommended treatments for gonorrhoea, leaving doctors with no other option than to try medicines so far untested against the disease.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

laced water

For the sake of purgation, I will tell you how I planned to kill myself.

The first few weeks after receiving the "news" was my vulnerable point. I was lost, confused, afraid and traumatized rolled into one. The first sentence that always crop up in my mind just as I opened my eyes to greet the new day was: "I'm sick...forever."

Given my volatile emotions, devious bordering on the genocidal thoughts entered my head. I thought of suicide. I knew that I had the capacity to end all my misery if I would take my life into my own hands.

Thursday, June 30, 2011

qt: catharsis

Some people are afraid of what they might find
if they try to analyze themselves too much,
but you have to crawl into your wounds
to discover where your fears are.
Once the bleeding starts,
the cleansing can begin.
—Tori Amos

Friday, June 24, 2011

calm before the storm

Days ago, I received an SMS from my boss. It got into my core. I was deeply affected. He told me that for the past weeks, I've been showing a lackluster performance. I've been churning less outputs compared to my usual. In his words, my other superiors were already "noticing" that something's wrong with me. I was haranguing myself for I knew it was true. But, I do have a reason I unfortunately couldn't just tell. Explaining is not always an easy task to do.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Sappho of Lesbos

Originally written on July 10, 2008. Revisiting my old blog account, when I found this entry of mine:


If it wasn't for my two friends, whose giggles were already spreading like wildfire, my professor wouldn't be battling against the noise of our class, shouting, pleading for us to put our interest back into the discussion.

I was reclusive in my own world, in breathing silence, lest I would be dragged by the seeming immaturity of my two seatmates should I join their own way of saying "I missed you, slut," after one of my friends' hiatus. I was at the brink of ennui, when suddenly, one of the class discussants on Longinus' Sublimityrecited words from the greatest female poet of antiquity, Sappho, to embody how words should be organized.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

not another "Reactive"

In my hand was the last lab test result needed for my baseline. My head was swirling for seeing another "Reactive" again on the paper. I thought the last "Reactive" I'd like to see was on the HIV test. This was too much.

The downpour of rain cinematically coincided with the fresh wave of torment in my chest. Inside the cab on my way home, the driver might have noticed my peculiar silence. Normally, you would command the driver where to turn, especially in the innards of a district. But this time, he did the initiative in asking me if we'll take a left or a right or just straight ahead. He might have read on my face and the way I stared blankly beyond the pane of glass my anxiety.

"I have Hepatitis B. I have Hepatitis B? How? Perhaps he had too. Why? Just live with it."

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

someone’s got to give

Disclaimer: A long read as much as it is heavily opinionated. Not for the faint of heart. Kidding. Levity aside, it's a post after almost a month of blog-hopping, being exposed to HIV routine and the ponderings while commuting.

Had I known that I would contract HIV five years ago, I would have taken the issue seriously back then.

I was a newly-minted college freshman. It was probably the first few days of classes when some worn-out upper classmen went inside the room and educated us about HIV. To my recollection, they were two guys who still brought in some materials about the virus and all.

My memory is a bit rusty now but what I could just make out of the past was they were asking us if we knew HIV, if we knew that it wouldn't technically kill us but the opportunistic illnesses would, and how the virus would mess our immune system. Other than that—issues on condom use and all—I forgot.

But I can still vividly recall that as they continue to preach about the disease, I was a bit aversive because, "Hindi naman ako magkakaganyan. Bakit ko kailangang makinig." To me, it was a peachy try to educate some "seventeen-ers" whose sexual hormones are on their way to rage.

Fastforward to 2011. The memory now haunts me.

Thursday, June 9, 2011


Kung sakaling kapusin
Ang liwanag ng araw bukas
At sa paghuni ng mga maya
Sila'y mamaos at masamid

Kung sakaling kalan
Ang unang babati sa tandang
O magsikupas ang mga bulaklak
Talulot nila'y malanta

Kung sakali lang naman
Umaga ko'y biglang maudlot
Dahil sa kung saang lupalop
Naglagalag ang diwa ko

Ako'y magpapaalam na rin
Na bibitbitin ko
Mga munting iyong 'di mo
Inakalang pinagbilin sa akin

Sa lalim ng gabi, tinig mo
Ang huling himig sa aking pandinig
Boses mong ginoo ngunit mapaglaro
Tono mo'y pinatahan at hinele ako

Sa gitna ng dilim
Ang mga tala'y kumikislap
At ang tingkad ng buwan
Umukit sa'yong mga mata

Kung sakali lang namang kapusin
Ang liwanag ng aking bukas
Hayaan mo akong sinupin
Ang tamis ng huling gabi

I-a-alkansya ko ang tinig mo
Iseselyo iyong mga ngiti
Sa maliit na bagahe isisilid ko
Ang uwang nitong Buhay at Gabi

Bitbit ang latak mo, ako'y
Liliban, maglalakbay pakanluran
Kung saan magtatagal
Ang gabi ng tala't buwan

Took my cue from Edith Tiempo and Angela Manalang-Gloria. And, no. I am not even in love.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

the diameter of a prayer

Someone lit a candle for me. And then, I was not alone.

I finally met a doctor Wednesday last week. She's great. I went alone this time at PGH because I took the visiting-the-specialist routine as a personal retribution for the supposed mistake I did in the past.

A day before that, I, my mom and my sister went at NEC to see an HIV doctor at H4, but the most she did is to schedule me for an appointment. (Seeing a doctor there is on a by-schedule basis. You've been warned.) So I told both ladies that the next day, I'd like to see the doctor only by myself because I don't want to hassle them. But of course I lied. I knew that if I asked my mom to tag along with me at PGH she would gladly, but since I wanted to take this as an act of amending my past, I just lied.

Friday, June 3, 2011

self-made act

Kasalanan ko naman talaga. Hindi ko itinatanggi yun.

I was absent again at work. I decided to work out my lab tests so that my doc could already have my baseline for treatment, if needed in any way. First off was a private hospital, but they don't have the lab service I needed. And so does the second hospital. Before I left, the good (nurse/doctor?) told me to go to QI since I'm requesting for a TB-related lab test. Good, QI is just a jeep away from us.

At QI, finally, they have the service I was asking for: TB C/S—and it's costly for a government-run hospital already. Just after the attendant wrote the price, I knew my money was already short to fund myself. So I first went home and come what may.

tenuous strings

MAY 31–My thoughts are as incoherent as my feelings tonight.

I must be at sleep–I should be. Staying up late at night won’t do any good to me. But what’s the use of tossing and turning on my bed when somewhere in the corner of my consciousness, there’s a dint of reason enough for me to stay awake. I don’t know why am I affected so much. Or perhaps, just maybe, my alter ego was so influential this time around that I believe in him more than I should believe the real guy. But what’s there to believe with the other if he hadn’t or couldn’t (or wouldn’t–Oh Lord!) answer my question right off the bat. Once I was told, “The simplest questions are sometimes the hardest to answer.”


Here’s to the one more day tucked under my belt
To the last 24 hours I tried to live without worries:

Seven in the morning, the daily sentence begin
But two cups of rice at 11 set it aside
Sometime noon, I pay 30 coins to a man
and pass by a seventy-kilometer scenery

Anytime in the afternoon, there comes two stories
Of 604 words that makes gold out of mud
Dozen scribblings, three phone calls
An exercise of routine learned out of degree

Sun sets sometime at six, and somewhere
Inside me, mercury seems to rise
A funny sort of neon flicks before me
And the sentence finally reaches its meaning

The road ahead is dark, at seven streetlights glow
Stars cast a pale light of reverie and melancholy
Nameless faces scurry off to their roofed shores
Outside no soul ever wanted not to be at home

Walking down the path–
“There’s something with numbers I am afraid of
The more they grow, the more I stand alone”–

It takes to Church 61 steps of blind faith
Inside the room of 4 rows of 3 pews
Sits 2 women–one kneeling, one sitting
Them ever praying to the one miraculous bread

I unzip my bag and pull out 10 beads
Where my faith hangs on and death seems to peek
Here’s to the 873 soldiers that fight ’til the end
Against a deathly heirloom of that 60-minute heat

If I were to quantify my faith, courage, and hope
Numbers will come to reel in human scale
That one sentence outweighs gravity, physics
Making angels weep when faint prayer uttered

For the 6 women who held my heart
For the 172 new people by March
I was told, Savor the sorrow to soften the pain
Two hands clasped may save the day