Coffee Break

Traveled over stick and stone

my feet are worn and so is my soul

I contemplate to be saved

by myth known to mist alone.


Oh guardian of the morning sound,

tell me where peace can be found

eternal and overflowing

as water falls in many forms

the life it ends in few brick walls.


I journey on through jungle leaves

Through dirty steppes, through desert sand

Through mountain rocks ten times a hill,

I seek to find and find I will.


And in an instant I stand before

A giant mass of black galore

A solitary statue of past and future

A shadow which casts a thousand worlds.


Gray, undetermined tower of molds

You despise and yet behold

The beauty you radiate

Fills me whole and then I watch and be told.


You have come to seek the truth,

Please be aware for I will tell your soul

When everything is finished, I make you a brick

To fit in this body of decaying stone.


I am saved, I scream to have and to hold

The tower of mercy before me

A ruin of souls

A tower of power alone in the sea

And now my destiny is filled

eternally.

This was a commissioned write up for a souvenir book.


In a little village of Navarre, every stone of the Javier castle walls, every sombre brown hill and valley, spoke of war. It was within this gloomy battlements of Xavier on April 7, 1506 that a child was born. The child was christened Francis, an appropriate name for the child born in the week of our Lord's passion, sharing the name of the Saint who had borne the wounds of Christ in his living flesh.

Francis grew up carrying a desire to excel in his academic pursuits, and his ambition was deeper than the mere desire to excel personally. He had all the pride of birth and race added to the reserve and determination that were innate in his noble goal. Yet his strength of will, ambition and pride were transfigured by his irresistible charm. The rare but priceless gift of personal magnetism eludes comprehension, and Francis had this in a supreme degree from the beginning to the end of his life.

It was in the morning of austere earthliness when Francis took his last glimpse on Xavier. He embarked on a long journey to Paris, dreaming not of love but of fame and glory to be won. He spent his days in the university pursuing the dreams and ambitions he painted in glorious colors. But his triumphs were tainted with fleeting emptiness. Moments came when his complacent thoughts about the future went into a mysterious disturbance. Gradually taking shape in his mind was a yet indistinct ideal of sacrifice, that began to replace his former enthusiasms. His lingering vision of a comfortable existence spiced with scholastic brilliance took on the aspect of a dying ambition. Born in him was a vague but surging desire to transform into a man with a spirit and heart that reposed in God. Soon he began to know what ambition could really mean, as the insistent thought gained distinctiveness and force. He wanted to live dangerously and for a great cause.

Francis sacrificed his profession, the end of his academic pursuits,as he had already sacrificed his wordly ambitions. His was one generous nature which knew no half measure, a heroic soul that feared nothing but its own limitation. His travels to the unknown were the greatest trials of his life. In the stifling atmosphere of India and the Far East, he persevered in the life that was vile. Continually sick, wasted by heal and racked by fever, yet, his spirit still rising above his worn body. He preached on Sundays, made peace, silenced obscene oaths and songs. He was the prophet who walked in advance, rousing sleepers and pointing the way to spiritual progress. He cried aloud in the wilderness, preaching his crusade.

Today the name Francis Xavier is a magic evocative name, it conjures up visions of tropical seas, of hot Indian plains, of a Malacca and Japan with people as unmapped and as mysterious as the dark side of the mystic moon, and the most significant of all is the vision of a noble man who lived in these exotic realities, a man who offered himself to the weary and lost, a man whose heart and spirit reposed in Christ.

When Francis died, the greatest mission undertaking ceased. The great soul of Xavier had flown to God. But a flame had been lighted, a flame that would never die. His spirit remained, inspiring many to continue the work of trailblazing that never ceased.

Short Story

Once there was a pretty girl whose name was Cherry Joy and she lived in a chatel at the edge of the woods with her father, mother, brothers and sisters. If there was one thing that made Cherry Joy easy to remember was the fact that she loved strawberry shortcakes. There was a patch of strawberry shortcake bushes growing nearby but they had strawberry shortcakes only on special occasions, such as birthdays and Christmas, much to Cherry Joy's dismay. But she was a pleasant lass and could easily forget her troubles, specially when they were as silly as that.

One midsummer's day Cherry Joy fell in love with Blueberry who was just as in love with her. They were neighbors actually, but it took a certain magic in the summer air to coax love to blossom unexpectedly between them. They spent many happy times together, enjoying each other's company, watching the sun set from beneath the branches of Cherry Joy's special secret oak tree.

Her three little brothers liked Blueberry for he was a good-natured lad and often went fishing with them in that little sparkling lake in the middle of the forest. Her two older sisters liked him too, for he would help them gather berries and nuts from the deeper part of the woods which they were usually scared to go in by themselves. But Cherry Joy had one sister who didn't like Blueberry, not because she found fault with him but because she was jealous. Sour Grapes wanted Blueberry for herself. Yet there was nothing Sour Grapes could do, the way things were. So she watched and waited for her chance.

Now, unfortunately, Cherry Joy's father had the tendency to believe that all bad things said about boys, specially at that certain age, were true while most good things said about them were untrue. Sour Grapes had taken to tattling lies about Blueberry and Cherry Joy to her father. Such were her lies and so did her father believe Sour Grapes, that one night when Blueberry brought Cherry Joy home a little later than her curfew, Cherry Joy was forbidden to see Blueberry again. Cherry Joy pleaded saying that she loved Blueberry, his car had a flat, and that they hadn't done anything wrong. But her father was deaf.
There was no possible way for Cherry Joy to tell Blueberry that she was forbidden to see him for her father had not allowed her to leave the house nor was Blueberry allowed to visit her. A few months later her father relented and Cherry was glad to be free again. But as she left the house in search for Blueberry, she saw him and Sour Grapes hand in hand underneath the shade of Cherry Joy's special secret oak tree.

Heartbroken and her grief unbearable, Cherry Joy ran back to their house and into her room where she pined away. And not even the promise of unlimited strawberry shortcake could console her.

Many Christmases ago, my little brother refused to go to bed on Christmas Eve even after being told that it was time for him to sleep.

"I wanna wait for Santa Claus," he said.

"But he does not want to be seen," I reasoned with the 5-year old, wide-eyed kid.

"But, why?"

"Because that's the rule."

Our family always prepares for a festive Christmas Eve, and that year was no exception. My father, a genius in the kitchen, whipped up dish after dish of typical Batangueño food. Kaldereta, Apritada, Pochero, Morcon etc. But the Noche Buena wasn't the highlight of evening. It was the youngest of the brood who stole the limelight. He had learned several Christmas songs and was singing them gleefully to us. Each time he got stumped... which happened at the beginning of several stanzas, we'd butt in and supply a line or two. Santa Claus is Coming to Town and Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer were the best. The adults sang along the lines of the ever popular "you better watch out, you better not pout" and the recital of reindeer names in the lovely ode to Rudolf. Indeed, with the youthful enthusiasm and anticipation by the little boy with the infectious laugh, the teens and the adults were somehow reintroduced to the magic of Santa Claus and the childlike excitement of the holiday season.

And so every Christmas Eve, while our mother tries desperately to send kid brother to bed, Santa aka our father arranges the gifts and carefully counterchecks the "list" tucked in the branches of the Christmas tree. At midnight we’d all gather at the dining table, but not before we check under the Christmas tree for gifts with our names and our Christmas socks for goodies and money.

That year, my brother had made his Christmas list by himself for the first time. He didn't want us to read it. And our mother sternly warned my sister and me to not, under any circumstances, sneak behind and take a peek at our little brother's precious list. But of course we looked, the minute we got a chance. And the joke was on us, because the list was an enumeration of stuff he wanted which we already knew about. Toy trucks (he even wrote the brand), video tapes, computer games, hot wheels, etc. The surprising part, other than that he didn't misspell anything, was that the list was relatively short. Our brother, even back then, was already showing the trait that he would display unto adulthood, he's not materialistic. And that's the irony considering how "materials", "stuff", "gifts" take over people’s lives during Christmas season.

There's something stressful and comforting about Christmas rituals. Stressful because there's a certain expectation to do things that people are supposed to do during this time of year, like decorating, the mad-rush to the stores to shop for the relatives and the godchildren, deciding to attend or not to attend parties, or to accept which particular invitation.

But ah... they are also comforting. There's the familiarity, the soothing feeling of being around family while doing some things that have become an annual practice. There’s the general happy disposition of people everywhere.

They say that as people grow up, it takes away some of the fun out of Christmas, because let's face it, grown ups have problems, grown ups worry over different things. But for my family, Christmas is a family tradition. And so this year, I will embrace Christmas with much vigor. I will welcome it with joy. I will sit down for Noche Buena and not think about anything else but the food before me and the effort that was put in preparing them. I will not take away the surprise by telling my parents and family what I want to get for Christmas. I will sit down and slowly open my gifts. I will savor Christmas just like I did as a young child years ago.

And I might even stay up with my brother and sing Christmas songs with him, as we wait for Santa to show up.

There's a part of me inside my head, inside my heart, inside my soul, that no matter how I circle around it I just can't touch nor bear to scrutinize for very long. The core of all my pain, that bright sharp pinpoint of pain, pain, pain. It is cold, a coldness that's even deeper than spine chilling freeze. It's hard, diamond hard. It is there and it's stuck there, embedded in my self. It is part of me that won't come off, won't go away. Won't even diminish.

All this pain seems to be caused by the disintegration of my belief in my self. Reason concludes that I ought to let things be, let life go on the same. Because nothing I say or do, at this point will matter. Everything will come easier on time. And understanding too... perhaps. Yet emotions rage in confusion and in waves of black despair. And the child inside is throwing tantrums, demanding that something be done NOW. And with that comes the anxiety that if I don't do something now, there will not be any guarantee that I will be able to do anything at all later on.

Nothing stays the same. And that kinda makes it hard to keep focused. I lose track of my dreams, what with the perspective constantly changing. It's far easier to forget everything else along with the pain than to remember and constantly hold a grudge against myself for being so stupid. Besides, no change, no growth, no life. Living, really being alive, is a constant process not a state of being simply alive.

Life goes on, even after I thought my world has fallen into rubble. It goes on and on and on. The world moves on along with it and so I go along else be left behind, forever living in a past that won't go away. I can't give up. It's too easy to just stop and stagnate and not care and despair and wallow in self-pity. Too easy. Nobody said life was easy. Nobody said life was fair. I've learned to stubbornly move on through the confusion, through the pain. What won't kill me will make me stronger. I live, taking one disaster at a time.

The future remains unwritten. Nobody knows what's going to happen next. There are probabilities, certain things that become predictable (like the season and city traffic jams), but no one is certain what tomorrow may bring. There is still a chance that I can make it to where it is I want to go. I can still forge a better life out of the mess I created on growing. No one can tell me otherwise, it is my life after all. My future is a riot of colors, wild and crazy, neither dark nor bright.

The future remains undecided. Today I make the choices that decided my future. I am scared of the unknown. Who isn't? But I take a deep breath... and flip a coin.


Disclaimer: This is fiction. I wrote this for an essay book I am working on. I have no personal angst whatsoever. Life is beautiful and I love mine.

The wedding march was played. A Mercedes Benz came in and the spotlight was focused on it as it pulled up at the main entrance. All eyes were pulled towards it like iron to magnet. Veronica, radiant in her beautiful, white wedding gown, and accompanied by her bridesmaids, stepped out of the car. Near the altar, at the other end of the main aisle, stood Christopher. As the bride walked down the aisle the choir sang a capella. A shot rang out. And the gym went dark.

When the lights came back on, all were focused on the groom who was carrying his bride in his arms laughing out loud. The lights went out again.

That describes the opening scene of SHOCKS, a musical tragic-comedy and social commentary play subtitled “How to Kill the Bride on her Wedding Day.”

The script relates a tragic love story between two characters that are so different in many aspects. But the script goes beyond the conventional rich-boy-meets-poor-girl plot. It also expresses the sentiments of students living out a life of friendship, love, and survival, without neglecting social issues such as premarital sex, responsible parenthood, agrarian unrest, poverty and discrimination. It is a whimsical love story weaved in the common life of students that can draw us in yet make us ask striking questions and can open our minds to the often ignored realities of life.

SHOCKS features familiar contemporary songs from the Cranberries, Celine Dion, Julia Fordham, Barbra Streisand, Martin Nievera, Regine Velasquez and the Eraserheads. It also features cuts from the musical Les Miserables, the Disney classic Beauty and the Beast and the Lion King. It is the brainchild of Juan dela Cruz, a Xavier University alumnus , and choreographer/director/ performer Nelson Reyes.

SHOCKS will run every Friday and Saturday until December 20 at the Xavier University Little Theater. Matinee is at 3 pm and the regular show starts at 7 in the evening. For ticket inquiries please call 09178992300.