This blog is a finalist at the 2007 Philippine Blog Awards, News and Media Category.
I have to concede now for the following reasons:
1. This blog is the non-journalist blog among the finalists:
* By Jove!
* Cyberbaguioboy
* Inside PCIJ
* RG Cruz, Observer
2. This blog pales in comparison with the other nominees for the said category.
I am rooting for By Jove! or Inside PCIJ.
Congratulations to the other finalists and good luck!
Surprised that this blog was nominated at the 2007 Philippine Blog Awards under the Socio-Political category.
Wow.
I am still in shock, and to whoever nominated this blog, thanks. Just the same, just looking at the nominees is enough for me to concede defeat. It is a great honor to be nominated together with the other great blogs, and that is enough for me.
Congratulations to the other nominees!
(Basically a copy-paste work from here.)
Starting this week, all tech-related discussions are posted at TechWatch.
This blog will still contain cultural, political, and social commentary. Thank you.
It was the first time since a century or so that I had a semi-nightmare. Semi, because I did not wake up screaming nor sweating profusely nor sitting up immediately. Besides, it was not really horrific. Hence my reaction.
I was in in a long slumber, an attempt to subdue my unwanted hunger for human blood. It was good while it lasted – I’m not sure how long it lasted, undisturbed in this decrepit mausoleum in a private cemetery. Awake because of a dream that brought back tears to my still sleepy eyes.
The dream reminded me of times past, centuries ago. The dream reminded me that I had parents and siblings.
—
I am in a cavernous complex with two huge doors. The one on the right is calm, subdued; on the left is fiery and violent. Between the two is clearly a receptionist’s desk; a young lady sitting behind the desk, entertaining visitors. It is a long line, actually. She directs the people on either doors.
I do not know what I am doing here. My brother is with me, which surprises my till now. After all, I have not seen him since – I can’t remember. Maybe centuries ago.
So we line up, like the rest, and wait for our turn. The people have the same look – sad, gloom. Even my brother looks that way, even if I know he is glad to see me.
Coming closer, people who are directed to the left door usually turns violent, clearly not wanting to go there. Two men in clearly police uniform force the recalcitrant to enter the left door. What’s in that door?
After a long while, it is our turn to be entertained by the lady. She is around her early 30s, simple in manner and dress, not a stunning beauty but pleasant. In front of her is a monitor.
***
The next few lines were a blur. I was asked to enter the door at the right, and my brother tried to follow, but he was stopped. He was told to enter at the left.
***
I still can’t believe what a benevolent young man had just told me. That I am in Heaven, and my brother is in Hell. I cried when he told me that my brother is in Hell. We are not different from each other, I told him, so why am I here and he there?
The difference, he told me, was in the manner of death. He did not explain further, but he told me I can learn for myself. Now, I am just awaiting approval for my request. I am returning to earth, to find out the truth.
***
Our house looks the same since the day I left it. However, the spirit of gloom is so palpable; I immediately felt sad when I stepped foot on the stairs. We are poor ever since, and I almost cried at the sign of deep poverty that pervades the air.
The windows are dilapidated, some are torn out. Most of them are dark, uninhabited. Only one room looks to be occupied. Soft sounds of sobbing emanates from this room.
Entering the house, I immediately understood the spirit. The light is muted, almost dark. The smell of death is in the air. Sobs of grief are clearly audible. I cried.
At the center of the room, in a makeshift box, lies a body. I am hesistant to look; I already know who’s lying in that decrepit box. I know I am prepared for whatever is in there.
I am wrong.
Seated beside the box, my mom and dad are crying silently, trying to console each other, and failing. Falling into the warm embrace of my brothers somehow alleviated the sadness, but not enough. There is still the box, a dark foreboding of why I am here.
Taking a look at the box, I almost fainted in shock and anger. Inside the box is my brother’s body, mutilated, violated. His limbs, arms, and head are cut off. There is a hole in the chest, near the area where the human heart is.
Now I understand why my brother is in hell. He is seeking justice. And I am the one who has to render it.
***
The people had wrongly thought that my brother was a vampire. How foolish of them. If they only knew that the one facing them is a real vampire.
I just came from the cemetery after the cremation. In the town plaza, a party is clearly going on; the sound of glee is in the air, the smell of alcohol is obvious. It seems that everyone is here, celebrating.
I will allow them this short period of glee. After I get what I want, the festivities are over.
***
And after all seeing the flood of human blood coursing through the lifeless street, I know that justice is served. I know now that my brother is in Heaven, and for that I am happy. I know he will take care of our parents and brothers. I am content.
And I am in Hell, in his place.
—
Wiping away the tears, I went out of the mausoleum, gazing into the stars deep in the cold night. I hate to be reminded that I have a past, a happy past, a sad past. I do not believe in dwelling in what had gone before; what’s done’s been done. Afterall, all the past brings to you – to me – is unending sadness. A longing for a family. A love that never was.
Frank buyer will get negative feedback.
I won’t buy from that person, then.
When I was in second year high school, 5PM signified two things. One, it was time to go home. Second, it was slam-bang action time.
Nope, it is not what you are thinking.
The rage back then among teenaged boys was three words – World Wrestling Federation (now WWE).
Back then, WWE programming were seen on channel 9 (or was it 13?), showing Superstars of Wrestling. Pay-per-views were shown several months behind. And later episodes of Superstars were more on talk and less on action.
So imagine 10 or more boys, waiting to see their wrestling idols bang each other to bits on the small screen. And with Superstars transformed into a talk show, raging hormones pushed these boys into action.
The third floor of our school was our wrestling ring; 5PM meant noisy kids doing Heaven knows what. Teachers were busy packing up so that they could go home immediately, paying no heed to the ruckus in the third floor.
The third floor was the usual metropolitan public school corridor, all concrete, with red tiled floors and concrete railings where one can sit comfortably (but of course not allowed, since it was the third floor). The place was not conducive for physical games that involved head bashing, hits in the chest and back, elbows to the face, and so on.
One afternoon, the wrestling action got so heated, everything were a blur of black and white (school uniform) until a tinge of red appeared. I cannot remember clearly now who did it (I have a nagging feeling that I did it), but someone hit someone’s head to the door. I mean, someone held a classmate’s head between his arms and body, forming a ram of sort, and went on to bang the head in a door. BAM!
Good thing it was a minor wound, or we would have been in deep trouble then. The rusty red blood had somewhat led us to a more circumspect life. We were content with watching Superstars, until we lost interest, like any other impressionable teenager.
But, I am still watching Raw and Smackdown! and the pay-per-views; until Solar had wisen up and offered pay-per-views as pay-per-views. Ca-ching! Solar bodyslams its way to the bank.
My maternal great-grandmother (I don’t know her name)
Antonio D. Bernardo
Peter Y. Wong
Buenaventura Corpuz
Conchita S. Bernardo
Yue Che Wai
Jebb B. Bayocot
And to those who are unremembered
In memoriam….
Antonio D. Bernardo
Peter Y. Wong
Buenaventura Corpuz
Conchita S. Bernardo
Jebb B. Bayocot
Yesterday, I was at Quezon City General Hospital to donate blood. Here’s a shot of my arm during the “bleeding”:
(Click on the image to enlarge)
My aunt is due for an operation, and as per hospital policy, she needs to present blood donors to replace the blood units that will be used in her operation. So I was tagged together with my cousin-in-law. The cousin-in-law was rejected as a suitable donor because he went to Mindoro last month (Mindoro is – I think unfairly – tagged as malaria country, together with Palawan).
I was actually hesitant to donate blood; it would be my first time, if ever, and I have an aversion to hospitals in general and to syringes and needles in particular. When I was tagged as a donor, I was hoping for a lot of things so that I would be rejected as a blood donor – high blood pressure, high blood sugar, etc. (If you don’t like to donate blood, have a tattoo, or have your ears pierced).
So, yesterday morning, after filling up a form, my weight, blood pressure, and pulse were recorded (aside from being overweight at 75 kilos, my blood pressure was normal at 120/80). Then I was asked to buy several things: surgical gloves, syringe, medical slides. I was up for blood testing. Uh-oh. I passed the first screening.
After buying those things, I went to the doctor. He tied a rubber band on my left arm, looked for a suitable blood vessel, inserted a needle (ouch!), and took some blood. Placing a cotton ball wet with alcohol on the inserted needle, he pulled it out, and it was over. I was asked to wait outside the “bleeding” room.
A few minutes later, I was asked by the nurse the last time I ate, and I told her six am. She replied back that I refrain from eating until the donation is over. Uh-oh. I passed the second screening.
Then the moment of truth. I was asked to go inside, went to the sink, and washed my right arm with water and liquid soap. After that, to the bed. The doctor passed to the technician a blood bag, which has a two-inch long needle. She (the technician) tied a rubber band on my right arm, wet it with Betadine and alcohol, looked for a large blood vessel, and poked me with the two-incher (super ouch!).
It was surreal. I thought I would feel something (aside from the pain coming from the poke), like getting dizzy or feeling tired. But I felt nothing, really, except from numbness in the right arm due to the rubber band and from the open-close movement of my hand.
I thought I would faint when I saw blood flowing out from me. No such thing, though. I even took a picture. It lasted for 15 minutes or so, in the process watching At Home Ka Dito. I was asked to rest, and I thought I would finish It Started With A Kiss. When the doctor was about to lock the door, I asked if I could go out already. So I went home (alone), with limited movement in my right arm.
I am not sure if I can do it again, but I still have three months to go before I can give blood again. Cross the bridge when I get there.
LOGGINS TRIVIA:
My blood type is O.
