I grew up believing my dad was Superman. No, scratch that. I grew up believing my dad was superman, batman, and spiderman combined. I honestly believe there was no greater dad elsewhere. Even now.

When I first fell in love with tennis and nobody would play with me, my dad would spend his lunchbreak with me hitting balls when the sun was at its hottest. He would quickly finish his lunch while I stand behind him waiting, clutching our rackets and off we would go to the tennis court and play. When I turned 16, he gave a rebellious youngster like me the best present a father could give. An empty house and a case of beer so I can invite my friends and discover what its really like to drink alcohol without fear of getting discovered and scolded. Some folks might frown on this but to a kid who’s in a hurry to grow and taste the adult world, a gesture like that spoke volumes about love, trust, and understanding.

But before I continue, no, my dad is not dead, nor is he lost. I’m just feeling uneasy because earlier tonight he got admitted to a hospital.

With my mother’s passing, papi is the only parent I have left and even the slightest hint of a cold or a cough sends chills down my spine. It’s kinda heartbreaking to see one of the most important people in your life go into a hospital room even if it’s only for a mild case of stomach flu. Once you’ve experienced a loved one go inside a room and leave without a pulse, things kinda take a more circuitous and nerve-wracking route. Everytime another loved one is admitted to a hospital, you can’t help but feel a little anxious.

Papi at his age, is now feeling the ravages of time. He is old, and where before he can easily shrug off any ailment he feels with a puff of his favorite cigarette or a hearty laugh, these days he has to see a doctor. And everytime he sees a doctor, my heart skips a beat. He may still be superman, batman, and spiderman all rolled into one, but there’s no denying that he’s mortal, and one day, he will have to kick the bucket like the rest of us.

Gad, even then, that thought is almost unbearable.

Rain falls when she goes out the door. It’s not always a downpour but somehow, there’s always that little drizzle that makes me think of water sprays from the angry waves in my hometown. The last time, she took 8 steps before she stepped out the door and got swallowed by the outside. I always get the morbid thought that perhaps it’s the last time I’ll see the contours of her back. I take a little sigh every time the door closes and a little prayer to send her her way.

If only I could, I would chain her to the bed so I could watch her every single minute. But love, as they say, is not about the embrace, it’s about letting go. Like being the wind to adjust their sails and bid the beloved a happy journey on whatever adventure she has planned.

I swallow all thoughts of possession as I hear the car go out the drive way. I didn’t bother to wave goodbye. I refused to entertain the nagging thought that perhaps it’s the last I’ll see of her. Her hair that she takes for granted, her everyday smile that she pimps out to her business associates, her special smile that she reserves for me. And those hugs– lately her embrace seems to be the only thing that I live for. I try to get as much embrace as I can whenever she’s around that I feel like a beggar asking for loose change.

Tomorrow. I know she’ll be back tomorrow when her business with life is taken care of, when all those little necessities have been ticked off her mental list. Tomorrow I’ll be waiting. waiting. waiting. For another serving of her embrace.

He takes a lancet and dips it into his finger. Blood flows, it looks so red. He feeds it to the machine, looks at the resulting number– 400. ‘It’s too high, time to take out the needle’ he tells me with a wry smile.

It breaks my heart seeing my dad inject himself with insulin everyday. He says it’s alright, but I tell him it’s not. It’s not right that it should happen to him. It’s not right. It’s not right.

‘It’s alright son.’ He repeats. ‘I’m fine.’ He says.

And it’s tragically funny because at a time when I should be comforting him, he was the one comforting me.

I haven’t read the Marquez novella but I will use its title anyway.

My granny is in the ICU waiting for the inevitable and though we do not wish it, death is something that has overshadowed everyone in our very extended family. We can no longer look at our grandmother and not think that sooner, rather than later, she will be on her way to join those that have gone before us. Lola, is, alas, in the twilight of her life, a really long one at that. She has survived her husband and a few of her children, something that a parent should never go through. She suffers from the ailments that a long life goes hand in hand with, a fleeting memory, slowed movement, and dulled senses.

My lola fits the stereotype of what a lola should look like as described in countless Filipino short stories—a loving repository of short stories, delicious food, and hearty laughter. But most importantly my Lola is the perfect hugging machine. One hug from her and I’m back to my kid self, always wanting to sleep beside her during siesta, trying to beat her at scrabble, and even forcing her to read my Umberto Ecco novels, some of which I can barely finish without getting a headache—but she read them all anyway.

I promised myself that one day, I will buy her all the dime store tagalog novels that she so loves to read. But apart from the usual hugs I haven’t been able to do so. And now she’s in the ICU. I would probably beat myself over the head with regret if not for the welcome news that she’s recovering very well. At least now I’m given a second chance to be true to my word, even if it’s only to myself.

I’ve long known that one of these days, Lola is gonna kick the bucket. But somehow I’ve always taken it for granted that that day is not gonna be tomorrow or the day after that. I can’t believe how foolish I am still. It had to take a trip to the hospital to wake me from the dreamland of my own making. It took a great scare to make me realize how fickle Lola’s situation is. At least for now, I’m given a second chance to never take for granted the months or days that Lola is still among the living, that I really have to do those things that I promised I would NOW. As tomorrow may already be a day too late.

You might be wondering what those people are doing there. Well they’re there because they’ve earned it. That I’m displaying their mugs doesn’t mean I’ve earned the right. But in these days of quickies, fastfoods, and scams, I will provide no excuses. Call it a whim, or anything, just not random.

These pics were taken off the internet. If anybody has a problem with that, just leave a comment and I’ll take the picture down, no questions asked. Or I could just ignore you.

Actually these are guys (most of them dead) who have greatly contributed to how I think or more specifically to how I write, mediocrity not being an excuse not to write; at least in my case.

Allen Ginsberg made me write really long lines and gave me courage to read those same lines to my mother who couldn’t be bothered to hear me out as she was watching a Judy Ann Santos soap at that time. Hmm, that probably is one of the standing reasons why I don’t care much for the girl. Neruda had me falling in love over and over again (with various women?? that is a secret I’d never tell). Marquez had me wishing that his books were much much thicker. Oh to hear Janis wail, or Jim croon, or to watch Kurt play his bass once again. And Jimi, who can play the guitar better than Jimi?

Alexander will always have me thinking about poetic justice, Ayn Rand made me believe in heroes, or supermen. Che made me want to go to South America.

Inspiration is everywhere. One can never want for inspiration. Just open your eyes.

Because I had diarrhea the magnitude of which approximates Ondoy’s proportions, I did not go to the office yesterday. I am still fit to take a cab and go to the business district but there are few advantages to staying home and riding the storm out. The toilet is closer for one, and I don’t have to wear anything from the waist below which significantly lessens the preparation time when I had to do number 2 again.

Because I had to stay very still so as not to shake up the fragility of my innards, I figured I might as well sit still in front of the computer. I was doing a lot of internet FM surfing when I remembered the anime Beck and how it really left a lasting impression on me. Having rekindled my love affair with manga, I checked if the anime version of MCS is the same as its manga version. What can I say, I’m bored and sitting very still.

I let out a little yell when I noted that the manga version of MCS has a continuation from where the anime version ended. I was looking at 72 chapters of unread material. I was in diarrhea heaven.

Although the written or drawn version is so much more blander than the moving version, I was still overjoyed at the thought of finding out how the MCS story unravels. Never mind that I couldnt here them singing, never mind that I couldn’t see them move around, the manga is still a compelling read. It was as if I only watched the anime a few days back. All the memories, pleasant and otherwise, came flooding back in. I got carried away by the band’s passion and their belief in their art. Something that I think we all could learn from.

I finished the whole 72 chapters in 15 hours and suddenly after the last page has been read, I felt as if a piece of my heart died knowing that Beck has finally ended and the guys that I admire will no longer have any more adventures or gigs or romances.

Everything stopped in Chapter 102 and blast it I really hoped there would be more. Perhaps an encore or something.

Everybody’s gotta feel bad sometimes. For some reason or another. I guess. It’s not the best feeling in the world but it happens. You just sit there, wasted, unable to lift a finger, feeling totally sucky and unimportant.

I’ve been through this psychological phase many, many times; perhaps more than most folks. And like most folks, I’ve experimented on getting out of that sickening pit. Sometimes food helps, or a little intimacy, even alcohol. Unlike most folks however I am not always successful. Or perhaps I’m just that bad in dealing with it.

I even tried the tried and tested method that some girls swear to whenever they need a pick-me-up; I shopped. But instead of seeing fluff and blue skies and hearing robins singing, I only smelled the stench of burning rubber (that would be my wallet in flames).

Some say Prozac helps, but I haven’t really reached that stage yet.

Maybe someday.