7 posts from April 2008

Blue hills

Times like this are the lowest points in my life.... It seems I am in a futile battle against myself.

I’m turning a year older tomorrow and I have been reflecting about what I have done and what have I become.. I do this each year, religiously. There are so many good things I can recall doing that have made fruitful by-products. But I have also done as many of the otherwise. So many have crossed me, to which I turned with wrath. But then, it could be the other way, I may have been the one who crossed against the line.

At this point, I can’t help but cry. Cry for the people I have hurt meaninglessly. Cry for the people I should have fun with to this day, but choose to alienate myself. I cry for the moments that I could have been better, but choose to stay as I am. And most importantly, I cried for the person that I could have become….my dreams…..my good intentions……my family……my friends….

But I’m not even half my life. I can still make things better. I can still be the real person I am inside. And the day after tomorrow, I’m going to start my campaign. I’m done with all my pains and heartaches. An hour of hapless cry is enough for this year. I wish people can be nice to me, life in general…but I don’t think so. Life is almost always unfair and that can never be change with all the tears I have shed in my entire life. But that’s what makes life so much more meaningful. And I’m grateful for all the hurt it caused me…I am far braver and wiser now. And whatever life throws on me, I know I can take it standing and smiling……

Ive seen people take little acknowledgement of their friends, family, and loved ones. Maybe if each one of us take time to read this story, we might have a change of heart--I JUST did!!

Best budz.3

 TWO FRIENDS WERE WALKING

THROUGH THE DESERT.

DURING SOME POINT OF THE

JOURNEY, THEY HAD AN

ARGUMENT; AND ONE FRIEND

SLAPPED THE OTHER ONE

IN THE FACE.

THE ONE WHO GOT SLAPPED

WAS HURT, BUT WITHOUT

SAYING ANYTHING,

WROTE IN THE SAND:

TODAY MY BEST FRIEND

SLAPPED ME IN THE FACE.

THEY KEPT ON WALKING,

UNTIL THEY FOUND AN OASIS,

WHERE THEY DECIDED

TO TAKE A BATH

THE ONE WHO HAD BEEN

SLAPPED GOT STUCK IN THE

MIRE AND STARTED DROWNING,

BUT THE FRIEND SAVED HIM.

AFTER HE RECOVERED FROM

THE NEAR DROWNING,

HE WROTE ON A STONE:

"TODAY MY BEST FRIEND

SAVED MY LIFE ".

THE FRIEND WHO HAD SLAPPED

AND SAVED HIS BEST FRIEND

ASKED HIM, "AFTER I HURT YOU,

YOU WROTE IN THE SAND AND NOW,

YOU WRITE ON A STONE, WHY?"

THE FRIEND REPLIED

"WHEN SOMEONE HURTS US

WE SHOULD WRITE IT DOWN

IN SAND, WHERE WINDS OF

FORGIVENESS CAN ERASE IT AWAY.

BUT, WHEN SOMEONE DOES

SOMETHING GOOD FOR US,

WE MUST ENGRAVE IT IN STONE

WHERE NO WIND

CAN EVER ERASE IT."

LEARN TO WRITE

YOUR HURTS IN

THE SAND AND TO

CARVE YOUR

BENEFITS IN STONE.

THEY SAY IT TAKES A

MINUTE TO FIND A SPECIAL

PERSON, AN HOUR TO

APPRECIATE THEM, A DAY

TO LOVE THEM, BUT THEN

AN ENTIRE LIFE

TO FORGET THEM.

SEND THIS PHRASE TO THE PEOPLE YOU'LL

NEVER

FORGET. I JUST DID.

IF YOU DON'T

SEND IT TO ANYONE,

IT MEANS YOU'RE IN A

HURRY AND THAT YOU'VE

FORGOTTEN YOUR FRIENDS.

TAKE THE TIME TO LIVE!

DO NOT VALUE THE THINGS

YOU HAVE IN YOUR LIFE, BUT VALUE

WHO YOU HAVE IN YOUR LIFE !

AND IF I HAPPEN TO GET IT BACK,

THEN I KNOW MY PLACE IN YOUR LIFE

I just wanted to share this beautiful story I've read 10 years ago.........

the bridges of madison county

The Bridges of Madison County

Bitter sweet, that’s how Robert James Waller pictured love in this best novel of his. I myself had to go through a sleepless night to finish the book because once you started reading it there’s no stopping. RJW definitely knows how to entice and keep his readers craving for more. He is a vivid story teller that you would even think that it just happened. You will feel that you are even included in the story, a third person who sees and hears everything transpiring in the book. I dare you to read the book and both love and get hurt like never before and never again.

It is a story that has the present-way back style. It all started with Michael and Carolyn Johnson contacting a novelist to write the story of their mother after they have learned how lonely their mother keeping her marriage with their father as she had an affair with someone she was deeply in love. It was only for them and the organized family they built why their mother stayed and kept herself from following the man she loved all her life.

Francesca Johnson was an Italian bottled of war and poverty who find her salvation with then Naval officer Michael Johnson. She left all her younger lifestyle to join Michael after the war was over. She had so much in her mind, dreams and ambitions she thought Michael will be very enthusiast to share with her. But Iowa was where they are heading to mother Michael’s children while he till the lands. It was a peaceful life but Francesca has a hollow longing for her dreams. She was bored despite the demurred smile she wears all her life.

It was In a late summer when she first met Robert Kincaid, the writer-photographer from National Geographic looking for the covered bridges of Madison County. Dressed in orange suspender over shirt and khakis, Robert Kincaid made the conventional fellows look because of how he dressed. On those times, sandals on men can cause stares and gossips. Guided by pointed directions, Robert found Johnson’s mailbox on his way to one of the covered bridges and was compelled of asking. That was when they met and that difference in Robert made Francesca’s sleeping longings and dreams alive again. She had not only pointed the direction but come along with the stranger in his pursuit.

Her family joined the fair in school and was due in few days, made Francesca unleash her need of adventure. Robert Kincaid at first look was the man she never had. Eyeing his every move and stunt as he took pictures on the Roseman Bridge at sunset, she admired the man even more. She invited her in and to dinner. He suggested something ‘silent’ to cook and that filled her emotions with admiration to this man who dress differently, calls his truck Harry, his dog Highway, and eats ‘silent’ food. This great feeling pushed her to go back to the bridge and tuck a letter of invitation to the man the next evening after their long walk on their lawn and out to the little road by their mailbox.

The next day, she heard Robert’s truck pass by. She went over her tasks and went to Des Moines for a dress. Afternoon came and Robert drove in. She made him bathe in the master’s which she demanded for construction with Michael while she slipped in her new dress. She cooked what he called ‘silent’ vegetables and ate over wine she kept in the cupboard. After dinner, she opened the cassette to a highway music which Robert recognized. They danced and one finally made love. These feelings, as she recounted, never happened to her in the long years of marriage to Michael.

Sun rising, Robert held Francesca again and again until finally he asked her to go out so he can took pictures. She leaned on a post with nothing but white shirt and denim pants that fits her just right. Days gone by with Robert and Francesca taking pictures on the seven covered bridges, eating, walking for miles, and making love anytime of the day. Robert finished his duties fast to attend to Francesca. They dined one time in Des Moines, not together but meeting there by the airport to escape malicious eyes and rumors. Small town that it is, they will be the talk of the town in minutes.

Finally, at dawn on the day Francesca’s family was due, Robert asked her to come with him. Francesca wanted to but she fears for her children, of what life was ahead of them if their mother ‘runs with a stranger’. Could Michael bear the insult and questioning of neighbors? She can’t afford to have a life she wanted with people she left behind suffering. She swears to God he asked again, she will come but Robert is a kind man. She will not take her away if she will suffer in the end. They made love for the last time. The time for him to go had come; he waved once and never looked back. Had he, Francesca ran behind until she can’t move no more and sat on his wake.

The afternoon Robert was supposed to go home; it was a joke that Francesca and Michael were also making their way to the city. Heavy rain and the cloud brought by Francesca’s tears made her not see him but just imagine his back, the way he was seated next to Highway and the knapsacks on the rear. As Harry made a final turn away, she cried openly while Michael was asking what was happening.

Robert left a number to Francesca, which she kept but never called. He too never called her because of the problem it may cause but he mailed her pictures. She sent her another through the national Geographic edition of the covered bridges. It went long this way, until Michael died. Francesca tried to call Robert but he cant be reached. He was somewhere 70 and she was in her sixties then. All her inquiries became futile. Until after a letter arrived with packages of cameras she recognized as Robert’s. He died and left her his cameras. His letter told her where he’d been: he went to Puget Sound because his body got tired but she never had a woman after her. She cried for the years they never had together and also died after few years with her yearly birthday ritual of reminiscing what transpired that late summer.

She kept a journal which she finally decided to let her children read after she’s long gone; which actually happened and why her story was being told. Her children cried fir her because both were taking their marriages for granted when their mother gave even her happiness for her marriage and family. This story moved the author so much he went to Puget Sound to investigate the life after the ‘covered bridges’ of the man Robert Kincaid. Libraries and neighbors didn’t help much, until he found a jazz man whom Kincaid became friends with.

This man became friends with Robert because he usually comes every Tuesday to his gig, drinks a couple of beer and left him a tip and salute. One day, he needs a picture for a gig and went to Kincaid. That day he asked about the woman in portrait and he asked him to walk with him. He has a dog but Highway was long gone. Harry was also through with his service life. He practically lived alone in a shack. When they reached the beach side, they sat and he started talking. He cried big tears as he recalled what happened on that late summer. He let out the billfold battered paper Francesca tucked in the bridge, the silver bracelet he carved her name, and her address. That also made Romer made a composition called Francesca. He let Robert hear it on the next Tuesday, and he went less frequent until no more. He looked for him and found that he died peacefully in his shack.

So sad story but definitely a good one to picture what love is… to whoever found it, please be careful as there are few who tasted but were denied of it forever just like what happened to this story. Love comes only once, it is vulnerable, but can last forever. Once you find it, keep it because you’ll never have the chance to have another. 

Aquino

Recently, a letter came out in the open claiming that it was a letter of the late Benigno Aquino to his only son. I'll post it here in theor hope of lighting some gray area. Here it is...

August 25, 1973

Fort Bonifacio
11:30 p.m.

My dearest Son:

One of these days, when you have completed your studies I am sure you will have the opportunity to visit many countries. And in your travels you will witness a bullfight.

In Spanish bullfighting as you know, a man—the matador—is pitted against an angry bull. The man goads the bull to extreme anger and madness. Then a moment comes when the bull, maddened, bleeding and covered with darts, feeling his last moment has come, stops rushing about and grimly turns his face on the man with scarlet :muleta” and sword. The Spaniards call this “the moment of truth.” This is the climax of the bullfight.

This afternoon, I have arrived at my own moment of truth. After a lengthy conference with my lawyers, Senators Jovito R. Salonga and Lorenzo M. Tanada I made a very crucial andvital decision that will surely affect all our lives: mommie’s, your sisters’, yours, and all our loved ones as well as mine.

I have decided not to participate in the proceedings of the Military Commission assigned to try the charges filed against me by the army prosecution staff. As you know, I’ve been charged with illegal possession of firearms, violation of RA 1700 otherwise known as the “Anti-Subversive Act” and murder.

You are still too young to grasp the full impact of my decision. Briefly: by not participating in the proceedings, I will not be represented by counsel, the prosecution will present its witnesses without any cross examinations, I will not put up any defense, I will remain passive and quiet through the entire trial and I will merely await the verdict. Inasmuch as it will be a completely one-sided affair, I suppose it is reasonable to expect the maximum penalty will be given to me. I expect to be sentenced to imprisonment the rest of my natural life, or possibly be sent to stand before a firing squad. By adopting the course of action I decided upon this afternoon, I have literally decided to walk into the very jaws of death.

You may ask: Why did you do it?

Son, my decision is an act of conscience. It is an act of protest against the structures of injustice that have been imposed upon our hapless countrymen. Futile and puny, as it will surely appear to many, it is my last act of defiance against tyranny and dictatorship.

You are my only son. You carry my name and the name of my father. I have no material wealth to leave you. I never had time to make money while I was in the hire of our people. For this I am very sorry. I had hopes of building a little nest egg for you. I bought a ranch in Masbate in the hope that after ten or fifteen years, the coconut trees I planted there would be yielding enough to assure you a modest but comfortable existence. Unfortunately, I had to sell all our properties as I fought battle after political battle as a beleaguered member of the opposition. And after the last battle, I had more obligations than assets.

The only valuable asset I can bequeath to you now is the name you carry. I have tried my best during my years of public service to keep that name untarnished and respected, unmarked by sorry compromises for expediency. I now pass it on to you, as good, I pray, as when my father, your grandfather passed it on to me.

I prepared a statement which I intend to read before the military commission on Monday at the opening of my trial. I hope the commission members will be understanding and kind enough to allow me to read my statement into the record. This may well be my first and only participation in the entire proceedings.

In this statement, I said: Some people suggested that I beg for mercy from the present powers that be. Son, this I cannot do in conscience. I wouldrather die on my feet with honor, than live on bended knees in sham

Your great grandfather, Gen Serviliano Aquino was twice condemned to death by both the Spaniards and the American colonizers. Fortunately, he survived both by a twist of fate. Your grandfather, my father, was also imprisoned by the Americans because he loved his people more than the Americans who colonized us. He was finally vindicated. Our ancestors have shared the pains, the sorrows and the anguish of Mother Filipinas when she was in bondage.

It is a rare privilege for me to join the Motherland in the dark dungeon where she was led back by one of her own sons whom she lavished with love and glory.

I ended my statement thus: I have chosen to follow my conscience and naccept the tyrant’s revenge.

It takes little effort to stop a tyrant. I have no doubt in the ultimate victory of right over wrong, of evil over good, in the awakening of the Filipino.

Forgive me for passing unto your young shoulders the great responsibility for our family. I trust you will love your mother and your sisters and lavish them with the care and protection I would have given them.

I was barely fifteen years old when my father died. His death was my most traumatic experience. I loved and hero-worshipped him so much, I wanted to join him in his grave when he passed away. But as in all sorrows, eventually they are washed away by the rains of time.

In the coming years, I hope you will study very hard so that you will have a solid foundation on which to build your future. I may no longer be around to give you my fatherly advice. I have asked many of your uncles to help you along should the need arise and I pray you will have the humility to drink from their fountain of experiences.

Look after your two younger sisters with understanding and affection. Viel and Krissy will need your umbrella of protection for a long time. Krissy is still very young and fate has been most unkind to both of us. Our parting came too soon. Please make up for me. Take care of her as I would have taken care of her with patience and warm affection.

Finally, stand by your mother as she stood beside me through the buffeting winds of crisis and uncertainties firm and resolute and uncowed. I pray to God, you inherit her indomitable spirit and her rare brand of silent courage.

I had hopes of introducing you to my friends, showing you the world and guide you through the maze of survival. I am afraid you will now have to go it without your guide.

The only advice I can give you: Live with and follow your conscience. There is no greater nation on earth than our Motherland. No greater people than our own. Serve them with all your heart, with all your might and with all your strength.

Son, the ball is now in your hands.

Lovingly,

Dad  

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