Jarvis Diaries

I haven't been writing in NNK, but I found a new way to scribble things. I do not have access to NNK every time a bulb lights up, but Jarvis (the phone) has always been there. And then these things happened:

There, in the bottom drawer, is where I’ve kept them.
All sorts of them.
Tonight, I’ve let them out, let them took over.
I know this is wrong.
I know, I know.
But how do I stop them?
They stir inside of me.
Flagrant, alive, leaving grazes all over my soul.
And I’m inches away from being swallowed.

“You’re brave aren’t you?” Mom asked as she turned to face me, a palpable attempt to catch my eyes. I didn’t bother to return the look. And as the van trudged along this dirt road under a cloudless sky, the question just hang around and floated along, restless… finding out answers seems debilitated.

The sky looks so beautiful.
So why are you lonely?
The sky holds billion of stars.
And why are you there?
The sky is looking down at you,
And you only have to look back, to look up.
Little girl, look up. Just look up.


Where has she gone?

I was young when I had this exigency of taking this blindfold off. I was expecting shafts of light to blind my vision, but all I see are bodies throwing themselves into this pit. Ruins, smoke, and sunset.

I want the blindfold back, but how? I could almost hear them cry, those people. The cacophony drowning every inch of what remained of me. They know that another one is gone. And if they could take me back, they were not entirely sure.



Chances. They never run out.
More photos here.


It's almost Father's Day

And you’re not here.  Well, physically that is.

It was because of that handkerchief my mama had her hand clung onto, when she was carried into the operating room. I’ve only noticed it when she was in the recovery room, when a nurse allowed me to go in. The air smelled sterile, and mama was lying on the hospital bed. And as she floats in her cloud of unconsciousness, waiting for the medicine to wear off, your hankie was neatly placed on her pillow, on top of her head.

You never stop being there. Thank you, I love you and I really miss you.


Dear self

I know you are tired.

You are this bottle that is completely filled up, bursting with the unnecessary. You just want every cell that makes up your body to just explode. But you wouldn't be seen up in the sky; you will not become one of them that cover the entire night sky like a blanket.  You are unfinished. So go and empty yourself, that you might be filled again, hopefully with the right things this time.

You are tired, but you are not dead. You can still go farther, so be still.



Adorable emcees for the Send Off Party: Tisha Sevilla and Jessica Pedro. 

Sir Chally awarding the MassCom students who excelled in numerous competitions

My gold medal and my ugly chipped nail polish (I also have a silver Benedictine medal, certificate of recognition for winning the best class presentation for Obra Kulasa 2013, and a Meiji Chocolate that came with it but they aren't exactly photogenic. I think I need to learn handling a camera more.)

Two days ago, I had my first great achievement as a student. I don’t quite remember having been awarded way back in high school. Well, I won fourth place in a writing contest during kindergarten, but that wasn’t quite of an accomplishment anyway. During high school, I had a group who joined a lantern-making competition at Emilio Aguinaldo College, but sadly, we failed to get in. I also remember joining an essay contest, but with my lack of appreciation in general knowledge, it led me to my immediate failure.

The moment I stepped in college, it wasn't an abrupt 360-degree change for me. It was gradual. I first learned that there are different kinds of people, and through that I started building up walls around. I knew how to get out once in a while, but I also knew when to step back and return to my hamster ball.

It was quite a journey, my college life, and the Senior Send Off party made me think of fragments of things I went through, and how they were able to make and mold me into who I am now. Honestly, I had a slight expectation on who would win. But the moment Ms. Lomibao announced that our group won the best thesis under the Plan C (Campaign) category, my mind went completely blank. I could hear others cheering in the background, but they didn’t matter. What mattered was the truth. And I had a hard time accepting that the voice floating in the air was one. I didn’t shed tears. I think it was a defense mechanism I’ve been practicing. It was really working, and my practice seemed paying off, until Sir Chally, our thesis adviser congratulated us and hugged us as a group. Those simple things, unexpectedly, triggered the traitor tears that betrayed me. I got back to my seat looking at the clock that hung above the cabinet of trophies. And I wondered how many 6:30 p.m.s in my life I will remember like this.

Oh. It was not exactly 6:30, but  it was close enough.


I’ve always had a soft spot for people who fall under the marginalized sector. Three years after my father died, I’ve had tricycle drivers as one of my inspirations. Aside from the train, riding a tricycle was part of my routine when going to school and going back home. I’ve never been acquainted with one of them, I never really got to know their names, and I certainly do not know their story. But I think I know what they’re doing it for. And although I do not know the extent of their sacrifices, the idea that they’re going through a lot makes me feel that the world indeed is unfair, and that I am not alone.

I looked at street vendors next. I noticed the dark circles that form under their dead beat eyes, and I could feel the roughness of their worn-out hands by just looking at them. I could just imagine the condition of their lungs, but the state of their overall health and security is what concerns me the most.
I then started observing different kinds of people; few of them include sanitary engineers since I spend most of the time in school. I think of their every day routines, and I’ve always wondered if ever they get tired. I mean of course they do. But what do they do to keep them going?

We’ve conducted an FGD (Focus Group Discssuion) earlier with the manongs and manangs of our school. This outreach program was part of our requirement as an organization (Environmental Society), but it was also an opportunity for me to know them better. I was secretly giddy about the whole thing, and I also secretly want my testimony to be part of their discussion, but I had to run a few errands that I failed to actually listen to them.

I wanted so much to hear their story, but I wanted them to listen to my story more. I’ve gone through a couple of things for the past twenty years, and I know that what I went through is only a half of what they actually had. But the thing is I want them to know that they’re not alone, that I am with them, and that they are with me. I want them to know that they’ve done things not solely because of their own capacity to surpass storms, but because there’s a hand that pushes them forward, stops them if it’s not the right time, or shelter them when things have gone too much to handle. I wanted them to know that. But I didn’t speak. For some reason, I did not.

Thankfully, the FGD ended successfully, and both the officers and the participants were very much thankful for the involvement of each and every one. The organization gave out towels, shampoos, soaps, toothpaste, and free lunch, but I wish we could give them more. I wish to talk to them more, and if given the opportunity, I would. But whatever they picked up from the discussion, I wish that it gave them a broader shoulder to carry their loads.

The actual FGD, with two of the organization's officers as facilitators.

They wanted a photo before they take their lunch, which was really sweet of them.