Talk about morning eye-poppers that are as good as caffeine to get you up and running on a Saturday morning.
This morning, when I opened my email I found this -- what would've been a picture perfect way to tell the story of a former president's passing.
Only, MB got the wrong president.
--Hi Mich! Thanks for the photo.
Just when I thought how rewarding it must be to listen to him read passages from his literary masterpieces, I was shocked to learn that Frank McCourt, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Angela's Ashes, had succumbed to cancer last July 19. The news of his death pinched me to the core, his old age temporarily forgotten as the image of him braving through a miserable childhood in Limerick rushed back into my head.
The news of his death saddens me more than any other story of someone passing on.
I still picture him - little, innocent Frankie - with his stories, dreams, and confessions. And as if his memory were mine, I look back in between pages of the endearing rags-to-riches tale that propelled him to literary greatness; of how he pedalled his way out of poverty to becoming one of the most respected figures in the literary world. But beyond that is the charm written along the paragraphs of McCourt's books. And even deeper than his insights is a gift of generosity. More than words, more than humor, McCourt is simply brilliant.
"If you live past 65 you're responsible to the rest of humanity to pass on your insights, that's why you're allowed to live a little longer... So if I'm here, there's a reason I'm here."
- Frank McCourt, (August 30, 1931 - July 19, 2009)
Picture: Frank McCourt author of 'Angela's Ashes' at his Roxbury home in 1999. (TOM BROWN / HARTFORD COURANT / August 9, 1999)
Great news, sad love stories, and everything in between:
-- Browsing through some of my posts, I realized how easily I could've lead my life into the path of boredom and resentment, and that it's only a matter of time before I completely turn into a cold-hearted office psycho.
-- All I've been doing in the past two months was work -- breathing, eating, and polishing positive work ethics only I was too keen on observing. I may be one of only two remaining honest people in the world.
The things I missed and those that I deliberately forget:
-- Fierce ambition
-- Non-existent love affair
-- Challenging workload
-- Shitty admirers
-- Brilliant friends
-- Great conversations
-- Warm hugs
-- Familial crap
My dad called just before noon to tell me about the special lunch they were having and I got to talk to each member of my family. My mom, as always, was worried about my health, my brother starts his sophomore year next week, and my dad mercilessly teased me about my arms. It all went on for about fifteen minutes - the happiest fifteen minutes of my life - that it almost felt normal. Almost.
This is the part where I rant about people who lack initiative, about hypochondriacs who barely contribute to their communities, about people professing their ultimate love for God yet plot revenge against their former superiors, about people in general.
We all have flaws and live in the same unfair society that wears a mask of integrity. We fail at certain points in our existence and make up for it by learning (cliches, cliches) about our mistakes and, hopefully, trying to steer away from the causes of past downfalls. We get born, learn to walk, begin to study about life in general, learn to curse everything, put effort into repenting and sinning or vice versa, collect medals, realize how we are always at the crossroads of temptation and deliverance...Yet we manage to stay afloat, stay happy despite financial landslides and sorrowful matters of the heart, and exert effort in dancing in the rain despite the fear of getting struck by lightning.
This is the part where I'm supposed to thank somebody - God, my parents, my friends, strangers - for putting me on earth to leave my mark. The part where I'm supposed to say "Hey, I couldn't seem to stay away from incompetent morons who love to depend on me for the tiniest scrap of crap, but it's okay 'coz that means I'm responsible..." but enough is enough. I mean, I can be an unbearable beeyotch most of the time but at least I work hard and try harder to work hard on my own so that I wouldn't have to bother people.
You assist them wholeheartedly (team effort so to speak) and then just when you thought you're going along well, the know-it-all idiots forget all about your efforts and start yakking about how crucial their job is and that no one in the world could compete nor compare to their suffering in order to get the job done. Oi! And they profess to be religious? Didn't you just hear them plot about tearing someone's face into shreds? Worse, they let you in on the secret plan, which makes you an ally, which in turn makes you part of the whole scheme to put someone's life in jeopardy!
I don't get it why people just don't get things. Period. I mean, one instruction about the most common of common methods ought be enough but there they go, asking (and whining) about the same Excel problem that was discussed yesterday, and the day before. Toasted brains, anyone?
Shyet...
This is the part where I [am supposed to] take a deep breath...
And say thank you for finally getting it out of my system.
*Bow
It's my mom's birthday!
I don't know how old she turns today nor how independent she's become since my brother went to college. And I don't want to imagine how fit and slim she's been since the day she started preferring climbing mountains to sweeping the living room floor.
I'm certain about her being past fifty, even though her 25-inch waistline doesn't say so. At times, I'm afraid about her feeling lonely for not having my brother and I to take care of anymore. But then I forget how strong she is despite her 4'11 frame, a survivor in her own right, tried and tested by the pros and cons of growing up with 13 siblings in a conservative household run with iron fist.
It was the same household that defined her strength. It was the same strength that almost tore our relationship apart and then helped stitch up the holes in our hearts. She's a lover of peace and prefers tranquility, but she never backs down on any crisis, even if it means reporting her own brother to the barangay captain for trespassing on her property. These days she spends most of her time on the farm where cobras roam free 'til my mom spots them and crushes their heads with her mighty stick.
The last time my mom and I chatted was when I told her about wanting to ditch my job in Cebu to work in some government office in Butuan instead. She gave me the word wallop, a verbal smack that still throbbed from time to time. I suppose she was right about the whole 'big city-big opportunities' sermon, it's just that for the first time in my life I actually want to be with her. For the first time in twenty four years I actually want to restart a life in Butuan - the place I swore never to set foot on again - because I know her life would be easier with me by her side.
I never told her this. I guess I'll never have the guts to bare my soul to my own mother. I may never tell her how I missed hearing her voice in the morning amid the chorus of the neighbor's roosters, and of how much I enjoyed bonding over prime time soap operas and late night shows on our ten-year-old TV freshly stripped of its cable connection.
She may never see this blog and I may never express how I feel. But then again, one hug is all it takes for her to get my message.
They wrote a love story squeezed out from the many scenes of a soap opera. The handsome pair whose ordinary tale of courtship is spread in the most unusual fashion. Them holding hands, him smelling her hair, and her whispering something into his ear become fine prints in most lifestyle sections. Little sparks of laughter mean fireworks, and every hint of argument clings rapidly into the grapevine.
***
Her prince charming came proposing not on a white stallion but on two dusty objects called feet, with nothing but wildflowers and everything she had hoped for back in the days when her definition of happiness was to love. And so she loved with all her heart, tearing away pieces of her youth for the prince who had quite become the horse - mighty indeed but with a humdrum mind always heading to the same direction.
***
They talk like old friends and keep each other's secrets from the world that pale to the one they've created for themselves. Her tears become his reasons, and his reasons become her fears. Exchanging hugs and kisses mean little compared to the hours they've spent loving life and discovering its treasures, to preserving joy in the midst of despair, to mourning and understanding why in the end, people need to separate.
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