Dog Days of My Summer

By

Kim Jardeleza

Imagine this: Boisterous laughter from children running in a dusty unpaved provincial road on a hot summer day. A cornucopia of art; colours, tradition and culture in one scene. Staged from the road outside your front window, you almost imagine having the best seat in the opera house. What was once an irritating singing of antics (’’Morion, bu-bungi. May *** sa binti...Hinabol ng pari…” C’mon, you know how it goes.) whose lyrics have never really been credited to anyone, now a living tradition; a piece of the olden days.

I always remember how it was back then, those were the scenes. Those are the memories that trigger a nostalgic day dream. The summer days spent in a happy little island almost unknown to any other person living a few regions away; my sleepy little home town.

I was not aware of how lucky I am to be born and raised in a place where tradition, religion, culture and beauty exist in almost everything in harmony. It is my realization that the things that make me go back reminiscing my childhood days are the dog days of rustic summers where every child is free to roam the streets until six in the evening. Where bruises and knee cuts are signs that you have enjoyed the dirt and bike. Where the ringing of church bells cues the praying of Angelus, taking the hands of the elders saying “mano po” and the fetching of parents for their children lost in the middle of a feisty game of ‘piko’. And arriving home with the scent of the day’s sun in one’s hair. Those were the days.

Every local child’s summer would not be complete without seeing a “Morion”^[1] during lent. This is the best of the best days of summer that I have etched in my memory. Folks coming home from the city and my cousins staying for a week driving the whole household mad with all the simultaneous sound of shouting, laughing, giggles and baby cries. I remember my first real glimpse of a Morion as a child. I must be three or four. It wasn’t a pretty sight. I confess that I did not grow out of my fear of the legendary morions until I was ten. Then, the beach. Of course. There’s this place we call “isla” where the whole family goes to as a tradition. It is not really an island but a cove, just looks like one. I can’t remember the first time I got there but photographs show I was months old when my parents introduced me to the place. Must be why I love the island life.

In the island, there were times when clean water was scarce and a flock of town people would go down the river to do their laundry, which was a thrill to their children. This means pure unadulterated fun and a good excuse to make a picnic out of a house chore. Then detours to the park and the rice field, as “armoseco” seeds cling to the lining of my shorts means I have evidence clinging in my clothes pointing to where I’ve been.

The simple charm, the humility of the people and their big hearts these are what I grew up to. The home made fish balls ni Tagle and Mang Ben’s dirty ice cream in the afternoon or bananaque^[2], kalamay^[3] at ‘snobol’ ni Ate Germa sa silong.Oh! and the "pinaltok" at "tutong" ni Nanang Ogie. I miss those now. How could I forget my skill of climbing trees: mango, aratiles and that guava tree where I practiced my flying powers (in the latter years to come I also enjoyed climbing gates and our veranda). And one of the best things that I ever owned, my tire swing Papa made with his bare hands (I appreciate that now). Where I made fights and friends---of course they’d make up with me to use my swing. Then the picnics in the park. Bike lessons in the tennis court (I didn’t learn from that). Kite flying (or watching the big boys) in the field, thereafter nagging Papa to make me a kite too (he did, out of pad paper which he tied to a sewing thread and we tried to fly it while riding the bike in the school grounds). And when I have been bad, there’s the thrill of sneaking through the window to the adjacent bedroom window of a friend when I am grounded. Then on a quiet passive night would subconsciously find myself gazing through the night sky imagining what would be in the future (yeah, I was a sappy child) wishing time would take me there fast. But then again, I shouldn’t have.

As the last days of childhood never presented itself with a farewell party. It was gone and I never knew when exactly and how it left. Little fragments of memories when there was no guilt in letting yourself get drenched in the rain. Then somebody telling you “para kang bata”, when all you thought you are still. The late nights you stayed out with your friends just to admire the beautiful sky and wait for falling stars, you unconsciously trying to figure out the constellations but all you ever got was Orion’s belt. And yes, a few falling stars brushed the horizon that night.

^[1] Morion, a person donning centurion mask and costume as a sign of penitence. Popular during lent in the island province of   Marinduque with the Moriones Festival.^[2]Bananaque is a deep fried banana in a stick with caramelized sugar ^[3]Kalamay is deep fried banana doused in flour.

Fifty Shades of Grey: A Review

Fifty Shades Of Grey Trilogy 

BOOK 1: Fifty Shades of Grey

 I've heard and read reviews which were generally saying it's crap. But all the social media frenzy pushed me to meet this famous Christian Grey and sate my curiosity. In the end, the cat just wished she was that girl who fell into Mr. Mercurial's office.

Having read reviews and all, I had no high hopes honestly. So as I turn my first page and meet the becoming of every girls dream alpha male, I always knew he'd be that typical Adonis with a dark side. And he was, as described by the author: copper just-fucked hair, gray eyes, straight nose, sculpted lips. More? owns his own business empire, a helicopter, a jet, a catamaran...everything! Though, that dark side got me wrapped around his finger (most girls were). He is exciting, but damn Steele's character can be so impossibly boring! I got to the mid part of the first book and was tired. Yes, it was so poorly-written I started to drag my eyes through it stopping for anything exciting because I just hate it when I don't get to finish a book I started. It was a flick of good fate that the last chapter was a cliff-hanger (Anastasia Steele left Christian Grey after their hot tryst in the Red Room of Pain). That made me turn to the first page of Fifty Shades Darker.

BOOK 2 and 3: Fifty Shades Darker & Fifty Shades Freed

These parts reek of sex. So much of it. Not just vanilla, but an introduction to the Red Room Of Pain's S&M. The parts were okay but still, could've been sexier. It got to the point where it was all redundant you could almost tell  "Okay, time for sex!". It was full of it and it was exhausting.

Good parts. Of course, there were good parts. The thrilling "crazy ex-sub", "Charlie Tango's disappearance drama", " Jack's revenge", "hot car chase", "steamy elevator scene" , the "romantic piano scene" (wish they didn't cut that off in the movie.) and the heart-wrenching part where Steele tells Grey the hurtful opposite of her feelings to save his sister.

 Sum:

I'd say 'Yes' to "poorly-written". But the story is something else. It is revolutionary; a step ahead

opening a glimpse of what is still a taboo up to this day of liberalization. It's not one's average romantic/erotic novel, there's more to it. Pushing all the critics and reviews I've seen aside, it could've been better. Typical vanilla to BDSM... it's all raw, pure, unadulterated truth. (Although I hated Anastasia Steele's character when she becomes so impossibly stupid at times.) To the coy and overmodest, we who enjoyed the fifty f*cking shades of Christian Grey are no nymphos.

The making of this not-so-perfect-but-oh-so-damn-sexy-Adonis in the person of Christian Grey is genius (to compensate with the poor writing skills.) Yes GENIUS! (Sorry haters!).  "Laters, baby!"

I’m Writing These Demons Down…

I’m writing this for the relief of my own heart. The burden and hurt and all the pity I’m struggling to let go of. This is not my story. I may not tell it accurately and maybe biased with my own judgement and feelings. But the love and care that person deserves is untold that I know, I feel the burden he’s carrying. I may not know the whole of his story because he never let people see beyond his words, his face. There is no villain here. It is up to the reader to lay his own judgement.

I never knew when it began. I may never find out. When the first cut was made and became a wound. I may never find out how the blood spewed and how tears broke in silence. Like the thoughts he kept inside his head. Words that never left his mouth to be heard and contemplated upon. Thoughts that may have invoked other thoughts. But little stories. Bits and pieces of voices and truth come in the most unexpected places and time. When relief is nowhere to be found but only on the shoulder you’re allowed to rest your burdens on.

Who am I to tell you this? Nobody.  Just a voice. Something to be a reason of hurt, annoyance, curiosity, even shame.  There is no real story; no plot, no body, no twists not even an ending. I can only tell you shards of his life, a flash of his memory that I have etched on my own. I may not be there when and where it all happened, but what I know it is worth telling; his unsung melody which has always been a threnody to most. Like autumn after summer.

He was a child, born to be strong of the mind and heart. But the universe could be unforgiving and unfair. Nobody to cry on, nobody to talk to, no one to assure him that he’s got his back. Familiar with the wrath of poisonous pedagogy and all the demons it stirred and bred within him. A wraith was born and would hunt him and all who’s around him. Though you cannot alone blame him for it. Nobody wanted to be hunted down by his own demons. And almost always get inside your head.  I wondered why he almost never talked about his childhood, at least not with happy memories. There’s always this could have’s and what if’s… ‘only if’.

I figured that some were not blessed with happy childhoods but when they are surrounded with good, happy people growing up, it could change what he would be in the future. Like braces to crooked teeth, or better yet, a guiding wire to a bonsai tree.

He may have his rough and strong exterior but there’s a child inside that armour.

And the reckoning yielded and brewed a storm, a war, a wall. As the wound lingers, it sips deep inside an abyss your mind wouldn't dare imagine. Time alone may not heal, and then maybe nothing ever could. And love is only palliative.

Do you know him now?  Do you know him really, or you ‘know’ who he is just because he is what he does? Do you know his mind? Have you ever sat down with him and asked what he really feels? What has been eating him for years? There's a lot to be uncovered from this man. We may never thoroughly unbound him from his binding. But you'd know him better when you meet his demons.

A Realisation

Every relationship has its place in time. Each matures in its own pace. But what is constant is growth. We all have our little notion that "it will never change". But that's just us talking in our little time capsule, unaware of what's really happening outside. Because in order for something to survive, it has to grow and adapt with every little thing that changes with time. And with every change, comes different wants and needs. What remains stagnant wilts and dies. And is soon forgotten. We may not realise it but we are here because of the same.

A View Through Rose-Colored Glasses

"No matter how much you try to be strong, there is still this one person who's bound to make you frail.
No matter how much you guard your heart, there's gravity to pull pain near.
The best thing about being hurt is that not everyone can inflict it on you.
Because the best blow comes from the one you love the most
But you'd still love him for that.
He is your strength and weakness at the same time."

You just don't know it...

Sometimes I die a little inside when  I realise that  it is what it is and not a thing more.
Sometimes I think of it too much that I imagine taking out my hypothalamus and tweaking it.
Sometimes I feel stuck because of an imaginary boundary we subconsciously conjured.
Sometimes I feel like letting it all go, but more often than sometimes I talk inside my head and say that I don't want to lose you (even if I'm not sure if I am gonna have you).
And everytime that I feel taken for granted, I hang on still.
Because I have this weird feeling that I am never going to forgive myself if I let you go.
It's crazy how one person can take over a part of our brains and without even knowing hurt you, break you, make you feel foolish.
Like how you smile like an idiot over old messages.
And how you relate every damn thing living and non living to him.
It sucks. But it feels right.

It's staring me in the face, that big capital S. Laughing and doing its tongue wagging exercise. Its eyes alight with humor and taunt. Its voice piercing my insides like blades. Fogging my head with its malodorous breath. Forcing me to wake up from this poorly fabricated story.