Scrolls from the Throne Room

Joel told me I did my patented fell-from-the-face-of-the-earth stunt again and I guess I did. But of course, it wouldn’t be without VALID reason. I got sick. I contracted the Christmas virus.

I thought it was my usual allergic-to-everything rash so I didn’t make too much of it. Except that my dad (who was sitting across the dinner table) couldn’t stand the sight of my red face and weeping eyes.

“That’s it!” He stood up and wiped his hand on a dishcloth. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

I looked up from my porkchops and glanced at my mom, wondering what was wrong with her again that we had to rush her to the hospital before she finished dinner. It turned out that my dad was referring to me and so I had to wave forlornly at what’s left of my porkchops and got admitted to the neighboring hospital.

Fortunately it was just an overnight stay. The dermatologist diagnosed it as P-something-or-other-Rosea, commonly known as the Christmas virus. I kid you not. Apparently, this viral infection goes around when the weather turns cold (hence Christmas season) and affects sensitive-skinned people. It’s not contagious (of course, I never acquire anything contagious. As Queen, I aim to be unique in everything, even illnesses) but is nastily itchy (like chicken pox). The virus runs its course of three weeks, after which the rashes subside and turn black. The black scars DO NOT go away. I’ll have to wait for another month before dermatologists could bleach the scars to my original color. And oh, have I mentioned that the rashes form the image of a Christmas tree on the person’s back? Again, I kid you not.

So here I am, trying valiantly not to scratch at the itchy red Christmas tree on my back and hoping that I’ll have it treated before the bikini season starts. After all, it’s passé to have a Christmas-themed “tattoo” in summer.

A rush of love swept over her as she looked up into his face, holding him tight. She burrowed her face in his neck as he shuddered from the throes of passion.
“I love you.” She whispered as he fell exhausted against her, his own face buried in her hair.

“You just don’t understand how I feel.” She told her friend Alex.
Alex had always been against the relationship, even before it started. It was a year ago when she first told Alex that James had been hanging around her.
“You watch yourself with that man. No good would come out of that relationship.” He warned her. “Mark my words.”
When she admitted that she was dating James, Alex slapped his forehead in disgust.
“You can’t judge our relationship. Only we know how much we love each other. We’re the ones who feel it, not you.” She insisted.
“When was I ever wrong when it comes to you and your love affairs, Leila?” Alex demanded.
She just laughed it off and promised him that she can take care of herself.
“Just don’t come crying to me when he breaks your heart.” He said. “And he will, you know.”

James propped himself on an elbow to look down into her face. He lifted a hand to brush her hair from her forehead.
“You’re amazing.” He whispered, a satisfied smile curving his lips. “I can’t get enough of you.”
She sighed happily, reaching up for another kiss.
What was Alex thinking? Actually lecturing her to give up this beautiful happiness she and James found together? She felt sorry for him. Perhaps he wasn’t fortunate enough to experience the kind of love she found.

It was difficult when James couldn’t fit her into his schedule. She had to adjust hers around his free time so they can spend time together. “Quality, not quantity,” she kept reminding herself when she feels neglected. “You knew what you were getting into when you fell for him.” She tried her best to understand. And in her head, she was prepared for anything.

But in her heart, she wasn’t.
She watched him as he buttoned his shirt and he caught her wistful face reflected in the mirror. He turned and dropped a kiss on her head.
“Don’t look at me like that, Leila. You know I can’t stay long. I wish I could, but the wife is getting suspicious.”
She just looked at him and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She learned to wait until he left before she gave in to her tears. When the door closed softly after him, only then would she curl into a tight ball of pain. “I love him. I love him so much but I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.”

Alex looked up from the newspaper. “I told you not to come to me-“ he began. But he saw her face. “Ah heck,” he said, rubbing her back soothingly as she sobbed. “Come on, I’ll buy you coffee.”

An ode to eleven years of wonderful friendship. Written February 6, 2001.

One Saturday night, while walking down the deserted street, a thought suddenly struck me. Weekend nights are usually spent with friends, hanging out somewhere, having fun. Why was I alone? I may have seemed pathetic and half-expected someone to say, “Hey girl, get a life.” Oh I do, my life revolved around the church, family and work. Don’t I have friends to hang out with? you ask.

A text message breaks into my reverie. “Where are you? Shall I send someone to pick you up?” my best friend asks. We were supposed to have a reunion with our former high school classmates. “Still in Manila.” I replied, smiling to myself. I could imagine them, a bunch of people in their mid-twenties, young professionals, some married with children, some still single and busy with post-graduate studies, most probably gorging on food and beer, wreaking noisy havoc in somebody’s living room. My friends. I could join them, I know, but I decided not to and went home to sleep instead. Anyway, they’ve always known I’m more of a loner and a homebody rather than a gimmick girl.

My sisters kid me that my friends either hang out at the Creek or at Central Perk since I spend most of my time in front of the television rather than with flesh and blood. I guess that’s how most people measure friendship. On films and TV programs, we mostly see friends who are together most of the time, doing things together, inseparable. There was a time in my life that I believed that too. That true friendship is measured by the amount of time you spend together, the number of gimmicks you attend, the hours you burn on the telephone lines. But I learned that there’s more to friendship. Being physically near doesn’t necessarily indicate closeness.

I have a group of close friends and we call ourselves CGs. Even before we gave our clique a name, we already hung out with each other most of the time, gravitating towards each other in a class of 30 students. We went through puberty together and shared a lot of the joys and pains of growing up. We also shared school assignments, projects, hairstyles, and boyfriends. Name it and probably the eight of us did it. But ever since high school graduation, it’s lucky if we saw each other once a year. But I think the strength of our friendship can be proved by the distance between us. Because despite that we manage to update one another of each other’s lives and come through for whoever needed support. Instead of taking us apart, we thrived on it. Maybe the space allowed room for us to grow individually and mature. Or maybe absence does make the heart grow fonder. Or maybe we just loved each other too much to make distance matter. It’s uncanny, but whenever I feel low, I receive email or text messages from one of them, reminding me that there are seven women out there who loved me for who I am and whom I loved back.

My best friend and I could go for months without seeing each other. We send text and email messages irregularly, particularly if there’s juicy gossip to share, but honest-to-goodness conversation? Nah. But we never doubt the reality of our friendship. We know we can count on each other when it matters, where it matters. I don’t have to have coffee with her every Friday night and waste hours chatting idly. Oh, once in a while we make plans to see each other and paint the town red (and blue and green and purple) but the point is, our friendship is already beyond that.

I am alone, walking in a deserted street, on a Saturday night. But not one of them would think it strange. Because they know that’s how I want it. There’s no need to go anywhere or do anything if I don’t feel like it. There’s no need to pretend to be happy if I’m not and vice versa. There’s no need to pretend to be nonchalant if I really cared and vice versa. There’s no need to lie. Because they know who I really am. There’s no need to see each other because we ARE together in our hearts and souls.

Happy 11th Anniversary, CGs!

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I don’t think man invented the wheels for me. Written November 10, 2000.

Whoever the inventor of the wheel was, I have a firm suspicion that he has something against me. I was three or four at the time when my eldest sister Pinky took me for a ride on her bicycle. We started in front of our gate and barely reached the street corner (which was just a few feet away from the gate, by the way) when we were suddenly lying on the hot concrete floor, wheels and limbs in a tangled heap.

I decided then to stick to my little orange kiddie tricycle. I figured it was safe because it was a sturdy little thing with large heavy wheels that couldn’t possibly topple over. But of course, I proved the impossible. I was riding it in our garage and was carefully rounding a corner when the tricycle was suddenly the one riding me. Needless to say, I left it in the garage to rot until my mother thoughtfully gave it to a younger cousin.

Then there’s my brother’s skateboard. (I was smart enough to leave my sister’s roller skates alone.) It had a very wide top and I thought I’d start by sitting on the board (instead of standing) just to get the feel of it. I got the feel of the wooden gate on my forehead instead when the skateboard rolled down the driveway and I found out that my little feet were poor brakes.

When I got older, I guess Fate thought it was time for me to try something bigger. I was a college kid then and rode the bus to school everyday. It all started quite normally (they usually do, take my word for it) and I asked the driver to drop me off in front of the school. He did. Literally. I barely had a foot on the pavement when the bus sped away, leaving me to roll in the mud on Taft Avenue (one of the main roads in Manila). When I regained consciousness a few seconds later, I got up, wiped the blood from my arms and legs, and thanked the man who handed me my broken bracelet. I entered the university looking like something my cat wouldn’t drag in and the guard asked for my ID haughtily, never mind that my jeans had been ripped (that’s for wearing my sister’s clothes without permission) and I was covered in dirt and blood. But he did wave me in nonchalantly when I showed him my student’s ID. That accident was hard to top so Fate gave me a break until I graduated.

Oh, but I have a friend Kerwin, who loved carting all of his friends in his Pajero for a gimmick at Makati City. He’s a very fast driver and I wouldn’t sit in the front seat of his car for all the tea in China. The scratch marks on his upholstery were made by my nails. Fortunately, we all managed to graduate safe and sound despite his Grand Prix driving.

But when I started working, I guess Fate decided that my vacation was over too. There was the time I was alighting from a jeepney when my cane umbrella hooked itself to the vehicle. The jeep dragged me along for quite a few meters until I managed to unhook the umbrella. The jeep continued on its way (the driver was oblivious to the fact that he had an unwilling passenger choking on the exhaust from his mufflers) while I picked myself up from the street, dusted myself and walked home. I had to throw away my shoes and stockings after that. They were in shreds.

There’s also the time when I was crossing the street when my shoe came off. I was trying to slip it on again when a tricycle sped towards me and knocked me off my feet. The driver probably couldn't hear my screams for the pounding rain but after a while I guess he realized that the thing stuck on his windshield was a person. He stopped obligingly so I could scrape myself off his vehicle before he zoomed off. I told my boyfriend how I got the bruises on my legs. He chided me for screaming for help in English. “You should use Tagalog so they can understand you,” he snorted.

There’s also the time when I was riding a van with some friends. We were heading home from a weekend at the Hundred Islands in Pangasinan. I was sleeping, curled up in the back with my feet tucked in under me for warmth. The driver suddenly braked and I felt myself sliding from the seat onto the floor (where my knees wouldn’t fit earlier). My seatmate Evelyn watched all this with horrified eyes and tried to help me by grabbing my shirt. She only succeeded in pulling my shirt over my head and I suddenly felt the cold air from the air conditioner on my bare back. Talk about adding insult to injury. My friend Cathy told me later that the accident was cheerfully recounted by her brother Tonton at their dinner table. Oh well.

But thank heaven for small favors. Even if my boyfriend was a fast driver, I didn’t figure in any accident while in his van. (Well, except for the time when the van started backing into the busy street while we were both in the backseat. That was entirely the handbrake’s fault. You should have seen my boyfriend dive for the pedals then, cheese quesadillas and all.) Thing is, he used me as a replacement for his broken speedometer. He gauged his speed with the rate my face paled.

And just when I thought I had it all figured out, I had another accident just yesterday. I was crossing Taft Avenue (Again? I hear you sighing.) when a woman suddenly grabbed me and used me as a shield against an oncoming Tamaraw FX Taxi. She probably mistook me for Darna, the Philippine Wonder Woman. “Bakit mo ba ako tinutulak?” (Translation: “Why are you pushing me?”) I screamed at her, remembering my boyfriend’s admonition to speak in the vernacular. She didn’t answer and didn’t even look at me while I struggled against her. She pushed me back in front of the taxi and ran to the other side. Then I felt the FX bump my right hip, causing me to spin like a demented top in the middle of the busy street. The taxi sped away while I was still whirling. When I finally caught my breath AND my balance, I crossed the street quickly, boarded a bus for home and promptly burst into tears. “Not again,” I sobbed. I felt truly exasperated with my misadventures. I seem to be doing something wrong to keep having these accidents. Fortunately, there’s never anyone else hurt in all my accidents. I’m always on my own when these things happen. I’m not sure if that’s a sign though. I must be doing something wrong. My sister suggested that the woman probably hated my pink and lavender outfit on sight and decided to have me killed.

So, don’t ask me why I’m not eager to have driving lessons even if the Wrangler in the garage is up for grabs. I’m not really anxious to add a new kind of vehicular accident to my impressive repertoire. Not while I’m here lying in a bed of ice packs, thank you very much.

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A hush fell on the crowd. They watched her dazzling white-clad form slowly ascend the dais and seat herself on the throne. A “cherub”, who is actually a dwarf wearing a cloth diaper, hastily arranged the flowers at her bare feet. He sat on a footstool at her right and strummed on his harp with more enthusiasm than skill.

She lifted her face to the expectant crowd. It was quite unremarkable save for angry red marks on her cheeks and forehead. There was a collective gasp from the barrio people presently sitting on wooden makeshift benches in her living room.

“It’s going to rain!” Murmurs erupted as farmers discussed the news in low voices.

Lea lifted a bony wrist and wiped her eyes at the back of her pristine white sleeve. A smear of blood stained the garment.

“A storm is coming!” One farmer’s wife wailed at the sight.

People who had patiently waited for her daily appearance in the “throne room” where she held court jumped up and started for the door, anxious about their crops and livestock. But not one left without leaving an offering of fruit, vegetable, or meat on the dais.

When the room cleared and the door firmly shut by Benjo the cherub, Lea abandoned the serene pose and started scratching wildly at her neck and nose.

“Auntie!” She cried, rubbing her red eyes furiously.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” A fat woman, also dressed in white, entered the room with a tablet in one hand and a glass of Coke in the other. Lea grabbed at the pill and swallowed it, washing it down with the Coke. She continued scratching for a few minutes before the medicine took effect and her skin returned to normal.

“I hate rainy days.” She sighed.

A year ago, Lea was one of the young aspiring actresses in ABS-CBN’s Star Circle stable. She appeared in several films cast as the neighbor’s daughter, or the second cousin, and once as the lead’s fellow fish vendor. Quite an ordinary girl with ordinary looks but with a burning ambition to be a star. She took acting and singing lessons to improve on her skills but to no avail. It seems that ABS-CBN is determined to make Heart Evangelista the next star, and not Lea Querubin. The world crashed around her ears when Heart was designated VJ for Myx despite the panel’s glowing praise about her audition tape. Lea walked home dejectedly and it seemed fitting for rain to start pouring down while she was indulging in her more dramatic moments.

That night, she had the flu and suffered severe chest pains. Her aunt, who was also her manager, rushed her to the hospital when red marks started appearing on her skin.

“She’s an actress, you see, so she really can’t afford to get these rashes on her face,” Aunt Celia chattered as she hovered over Lea and the doctor. The doctor nodded non-commitally but wondered who the “actress” was. Certainly not someone he recognized.

He prescribed anti-histamines and painkillers and subjected the young lady to a series of tests. Everything appeared normal, her x-ray, her ECG, even her blood and urine sample. Except that when it rains or even when it becomes cloudy, she goes into scratching frenzy.

The doctor’s verdict: “You’re allergic to rain.”

“What?!” Lea shrieked. “How can that be possible? That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Nevertheless, that’s our diagnosis. Just pop some antihistamines when it comes on and you’ll be fine.”

“But, I’m never going to be a star if I keep on like this!” Lea wailed to her cousin Benjo. He looked at his mother and they both shook their heads in sympathy.

“We’ll think of something, dearie…” Aunt Celia patted her shoulder.

The next day, Aunt Celia bundled her son and niece into a train and set off for the province, promising Lea that she’ll be a star as she always dreamt she would be. She rented a cottage in a remote barrio and started a rumor that a goddess was among them. She dressed her niece in long flowing white robes and her son was subjected to wearing something akin to diapers. She never let them socialize with the neighbors but gave the barrio folks tantalizing glimpses of the two at dusk (apparently watching the sunset on a hilltop) or at dawn (walking amongst the trees). The goddess was believed to have powers predicting the weather, while the cherub was “sent” to protect her. The farmers appealed to her to help them with their crops, offering to pay for her services, but “Manang” Celia was adamant.

“She cannot use her powers for profit. It is a gift from the gods,” she told them. “But since we are poor, I think the spirits would understand if you gave her donations.”

And so it started. Everyday, Lea would hold audience in the throne room while the farmers stared eagerly at her face, watching for any sign of blemish. A small pimple would send them scurrying to the fields to check their crops. Lea reveled in their worship while Benjo just shrugged his shoulders (after all, it was better than his old slapstick routine at the circus). The people sent Celia their donations and the family thrived.

There were times though when Benjo wondered if Lea would tire of it. Certainly she looked wan now, but then storms are particularly itchy for her. He was sorry for her but agreed with his mother that it was extremely profitable.

Lea sighed again and played with a daisy at her feet. Then she looked up at him, a pensive look on her face.

“What are you thinking?” Benjo asked, apprehensive.

“Young male studs as offerings,” she smiled. “After all, goddesses don’t have to be virgins.”

Benjo breathed in relief. They don’t have to lose their bread and butter after all.

Back to The Dungeon

Being the youngest of four children, I am my father’s baby. As such, I don’t need to do anything I didn’t want to do. And I definitely did not want to cook. It’s hot and uncomfortable in the kitchen and I hate perspiring. My eldest sister is one heck of a cook, though, which is probably why my mother did not mind my not helping in the kitchen. We each had our chores and I chose to do the clean up (woe to the one who dared sully my floor!). And so I never ever learned to cook (like my siblings never learned how to clean – but that’s another story).
Well, I did try once. I think I was ten at the time and I had this craving for hotdogs. I was too polite to ask anyone to fry them for me, so I just imitated what I’ve seen my mother do countless of times. Except that I turned up the heat too high and I used too much oil. And never did my mother hurl the hotdogs at the pan from the other side of the room. And she didn’t shriek like a banshee either. My brother heard the commotion I made single-handedly and tried to help by lowering the flames a little. I rewarded him by accidentally pouring scalding hot oil on his wrist. His skin burned right off and he sported a bandage for weeks. I never set foot in the kitchen again, and my family equally kept me out, using force if necessary.
But then there’s home economics in school. Needless to say, I barely made the passing grade after paring a potato to a tenth of its original unpared size (fortunately keeping all ten of my fingers while doing it). I also made a chocolate cake that can be used to mark a loved one’s grave. And oh, I remember this essay question on a final exam: “How do you cook rice? Please discuss.” I did. Confidently. Then my father was called to the principal’s office. He had to explain that yes, we do have a rice cooker at home, and no, he doesn’t allow me in the kitchen. How was I to know that there’s the primitive way of boiling rice in a saucepan?
There are a hundred other booboos I made, like making orange juice that tasted like orange-colored dishwater (if you were unfortunate enough to get to taste dishwater whatever its color), or serving fried eggs with shells, or using too much pepper (enough to start a worldwide sneezing fit), or making pancakes that can be mistaken for coals.
Oh, there’s the time I was able to make a tuna salad everybody liked – and no one died of food poisoning. You can hear my family’s hallelujahs clear across the village. I never tried making tuna salad again though, in case the first one was a fluke. I at least want that one triumph to remember.
However, now that we’ve all grown up, I realized that despite the feminist movement, women are still expected to know how to cook. When I voiced this thought, my mother complacently answered that I’ll learn when I get married. Well, I’ll probably be a widow before the honeymoon is over. Better to be a single for life then rather than hurry somebody to his grave (but then again…). But I did decide to take cooking lessons just in case I do decide to get married someday.
But that’s until this morning. My sunny side up resulted into an eggshell and coal omelet. My future husband had better like pizza. At least I know how to dial a phone.

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If the speaker spoke the truth, wilted flowers would be there to welcome me in the after life. Written September 25, 2000.

Following the Harry Potter craze, I was reading this book ‘So You Want To Be A Wizard’ by Diane Duane. It was a nice enough story, perhaps not in J.R.R. Tolkien’s league, but one particular passage in it hit me:
‘”You have to be careful with names, it says. They’re a way of saying what you are – and if you write something in a spell that’s not what you are, well…”’
Remembering what Shakespeare said about the rose being a rose even if it were called another name, I wondered then which is right. Do names really matter? Do they spell out our destiny? Are our names our fates? Or is it just a tool to know which is which and who is who? In Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman comic book series, a character once said: “I loved bein’ a kid. I was one of seventeen children. We were all named Wilkinson – I suppose it was roughest on the girls, but we all got used to it in the end.”
Some of the books I’ve read, the Bible not least, accord names with meanings which somehow sums up the person’s life. The person fulfills the prophecies made at his christening. Remember Abraham, John the Baptist, Simon Peter, and even Jesus Christ. Yes, somehow I do agree that our names are like DNA. Something that is indefinably ours and defines the core of what we are.
Take for example my eldest sister, Patricia Anne. She was named after Patricio (our great-grandfather ) and Anastacia (our mother’s aunt) who both shared her birth month (March). Even if Lolo Patricio and Nanay Tacia have different personalities, my sister somehow got the best (and the worst?) of their characters, creating a personality uniquely her own yet a memorial of her ancestors. She’s ornery, period.
Then there’s my brother, Paul Anthony. He was named after our grandfathers on both sides, Policarpio and Antonio. My brother is as hung up on his wife as the two old men were with theirs. And he got their short tempers too.
My other sister Pamela was named after my father’s favorite Hollywood star, Pamela Tippin. Although my sister isn’t in Hollywood, she certainly had a different temperament from the rest of the family. And somehow, we just knew she’s going to be a star in her own right someday, if she’s not one yet right now.
My niece, Caitlin Anais, was named after her mother’s favorite Sweet Dreams heroine and favorite perfume. Well, she’s as ‘kikay’ (girly) as Caitlin was in the novel, and she certainly thrives on perfume, badgering her mother, her grandmother, and me for colognes.
My other niece, the youngest in the family, is named Meghann Abigail. Meghann, after her mother’s favorite character in ‘Thorn Birds’, and Abigail, a nice godly name in the baby book. At four, she’s as melodramatic as the original Meg and as prayerful as the woman who helped Mary give birth to the Christ child.
In one of the seminars I attended for a christening, the speaker told us that children should be named after saints, so they should live saintly lives with special protection from their patron saint, and that these saints would be there to welcome them to heaven when the time comes. My cousin Rafela insisted that her name is close enough to St. Raphael. It struck us then that her boyfriend Arnel would have no one to welcome him, but then shrugged the fact since we aren’t sure if he would be welcome in the first place. My friend Angelica, however, is not taking chances. She plans to name all her kids with angels’ names. My godchild’s father, Arles, named his daughter Althea Corinne, names which connote a ladylike demeanor. And if I know anything about her parents, she’s gonna need all the help she can get from her names.
Even pets live up to their names. We once had a dog named after a Mafioso, and he got put down for viciously biting a passerby. Then there’s the ever lazy dog Sleepy, bad cat Robin (named after an action star known for his bad boy roles), and the Japanese Spitz Deedee, who is as nosy and noisy as Dexter’s sister.
But what about me? I was supposed to be named Jennifer (yup, the typical girl-next-door kind of name) but my siblings chose Azalea from the encyclopedia, liking the sound of the flower’s name. They still call me Jen or Ajen at home, but I was Azalea at school. And you know what? Ajen is as easygoing as Azalea is proper. And the Chalei that my closest buds know is wild and daring like you wouldn’t believe if you knew me by any other name. Then of course there was the time I called myself Chestnut and acted as spoiled as Nadia Montenegro who sported the name in the now defunct TV sitcom. As Nini, I was the serious British writer, who wrote about kids in London (never mind if I haven’t been there or anywhere else outside the Philippines). As Lea in college and the office, I was less staid than Azalea, but definitely more professional than Ajen. Whether this is a reflection of the people’s belief in the talents of the immensely popular other Lea (Salonga, who else?), I’m not sure but I’m also more confident in myself and in my talents as Lea. As Barbie, I’m very ‘kikay’ and vain and in love with pink. No, I’m not blonde and curvy like the doll, but people started calling me Barbie after my doll and accessory collection. Leababes, on the other hand, acts like a kid most of the time and is a lot more fun. When my nieces started calling me Tita Aji, another personality emerged, a more responsible and maternal one.
Do I have a multiple personality disorder then? Or do I just rise to the call of the name? So, what do you call me? To my mind, ‘Your Majesty’ is most preferable. Yes, I’ve been calling myself The Queen of the Damned since college. As the chief of The Bug (a little rag I used to edit) and the boss at the office, I wanted to instill fear to get the results I wanted. I figured I needed the ball-busting menace and bossiness the title accorded me, since being named after a flower connotes someone who is quiet and ladylike at best, and mousy and a pushover at worst. I’ve always thought that my name is inadequate to define me (hence my other names) but that’s until I realized that some azaleas also bloom in winter, and that has made all the difference.
How about you? What’s your name? And what’s your fate?

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