I’ve been busy building my website lately. It’s nothing big. Just a personal site. Something decent enough to, you know, show other people for business purposes or whatever. I’m just using a free web hosting service but it’s really nice. I like that it’s flash based and it’s really good for building portfolio.

I can’t wait to show it to the world.

Then, it reminded me of you.

I smashed it.

No, not really.

But I was just thinking—or staring blankly into space waiting for the next random thought to zap in was more like it—and bam! It hit me. That I could actually be right in the middle of a very significant milestone in my life and I may not even be aware of it. That I might in fact be at that point of (finally!) getting past mental adolescence and moving on to becoming a real mature person and I do not even realize it. Wow. Maturity. Something that I had least anticipated to happen to me at this point and time. Or even at all.

Lately, I’ve been doing some gardening. Yes, like digging dirt, sowing seeds, weeding, watering, harvesting and getting my hands dirty—literally. Like Farm Town, only real.

So what does this have to do with maturity?

See, this is just so NOT in my character! I’m growing plants for godssake. Plants! Do you know what they are and what it means? Plants are not lifeless objects. They have needs, they breathe, they grow and they can DIE. And this only means that at last now I am capable of taking care of something other than myself, and I am actually responsible for another living thing! There are lives at the mercy of my hands now. See? I’m practically god.

It’s amazing, really. Because I was never the person who stays in one place long enough to even witness the life cycle of a fly. Or even if I did, I was never really the nurturing type, which is why I’ve always known pets are not for me. While all my friends were all going gaga over their cats and dogs, all I could think of was their poop (the pets’, not my friends’, silly!) and how tiring and disgusting it must be to always be tidying up their mess.

You know what, I just had another aha! moment. This just might even be the first successful relationship I’ve been in to. EVER. And it’s with… a plant. Great. Oh well, at least it’s something alive. Also it doesn’t talk back or call me names, always returns the favor, we complement each other,—by exchanging gases, that is. Now you can’t really do that with a human partner, can you? No.—and most important of all it’s here to stay. Unless I accidentally (or intentionally) kill it and it dies, of course. Now you see how it is actually THE perfect relationship.

I used to say that even a cactus would die in my care. Well, what do you know, apparently I underestimated myself because now I have a plot (about sixty stems) of ready-to-harvest lemon basil which —wait for this—I grew from scratch! I know, right? Thank you, thank you. I’ve actually already harvested some and I made fresh pesto out of it and it was sooo good!

I also have mint, coriander and thyme in the garden. I’ve just started a batch of baby lettuce and next in the germination box is celery.

OKAY, enough crop talk. Pun not intended.

So just because I’m getting my hands (and nails and feet!) dirty, and because I am harvesting my own crops, am I now claiming myself as matured?

No, not really.
Or at least not entirely. But hey, this is a really promising start.

Care for some pesto pasta?

October 2005

When I was little I never dreamt big. All I wanted was something so simple, it didn’t need wishing wells and magic spells. It was a dream that I’d never told anyone.  Even my mother never knew about it. I never shared it to my friends because I knew they would never understand. I’d only end up being laughed at and teased. It was a dream that I wasn’t very proud of because it wasn’t like what most people wish for.  So when asked what I wanted to have when I grew up, I had to make up other dreams. I told “better” ones. I talked about big houses, cars, fancy dresses and money. I told them dreams other children had. But I knew those were not what I really wanted.

During “show-off” times, my playmates would always envy me for having to think of the “better” dream, or for coming up with the “cooler” ambition. Then they would try to beat me by talking about the most ridiculous things that no amount of coins tossed in a thousand wishing wells and all the powers of fairy godmothers and tooth fairies combined could ever put to reality. Try building a gold castle and filling it with candy–on the moon.

At the end of each day, after we decide who had the coolest ideas and ambitions, (which would almost always turn out to be me) my young playmates would leave jealous and frustrated. And I would be left alone to think of my other, real, secret dream.

Instead of a castle or a mansion of concrete and marble, all I really wanted was a small nipa hut. Outside, I imagine not a multitude of cars but plenty of trees, fruits, vegetables and flowers. Instead of filling my house with fancy food, candy and toys, I prefer it bare and unadorned. Maybe just a bed to lie on, and a set of table and chairs for four. I would imagine myself eating fried galunggong and tomatoes instead of lechon. Instead of a pool, I wanted a river, where I could swim, fish and sail my paper boats in. I never appreciated beaded gowns and dresses. Just loose, comfortable clothes. I even remember telling myself I’m not going to wear undergarments when I grow up.  I hated wearing underwear. Always made me wonder why wear something nobody sees anyway.

In my dream little nipa hut, I pictured myself living alone, very happy and content. I guess I still didn’t know you were supposed to share your house with someone when you’re older. Or at least have the option to do so. Or maybe I’m just really selfish even as a kid.

Thirteen years later, nothing much has changed. I still dream. Most of the time, in fact. I still dream of my little nipa hut. I still like eating fried galunggong and tomatoes. I still don’t like wearing underwear and I still choose cotton shirts and jeans over beaded dresses. I am still inspired by my little brown imaginary house. I’m starting to think about sharing it with someone now, though. Maybe a son, or a daughter. Maybe a husband. (But not necessarily both at the same time.) Perhaps even just a good friend will do. I still want a garden nearby my house. I still want to swim and fish in the river.

Until now, I’m still the girl who dreamt of simple things. The girl with weird dreams as a six-year–old and even as – (if I could call myself) a grown-up. Nothing much has changed. The years haven’t changed what I want.

Sometimes it just feels good to remember simple things from childhood and realize you’ve never really lost them. Just like now. It feels like as if my young friends have just left after one of those “show-off”  times. I could almost hear their tiny complaining voices and the smell of my sweat-drenched ragged shirt.

And once, again, I am left alone. Very much just like the old times. Only this time, I’m not making it up for anyone. This is no longer one of those “show-off” times. This,  is just what I want —a simple life.

photo: http://www.stuartxchange.org

A walking contradiction of myself.

Calm and composed on the outside, freaking out like hell inside–but only for the time being. A fraction of a second later I’d be all hyped-up as if I could bring the world down with one hand, while in fact deep down inside, I’d be holding everything together with faith not any stronger than a piece of clear adhesive tape.

Sometimes, I feel that in the midst of my struggle not to be against the binding norms of everyday existence, I just have to be on the opposite side of the battle I’m trying to win.

How ironic. It’s like for me to live this life the way everybody else does, I have to gather my strength in being different.

What destroys me, nourishes me.

I guess I would always be the other way around of things.

And I’d always be the one of a kind that comes in twos.

My ego. My pet ego. She has become so big a monster that sometimes I lose control over things and She just takes over. She needs it. And I need her. Without her I would  be just another weakling. And I would hate to be a weakling again. Weaklings get crushed. Weaklings lose. Weaklings die before everybody else. If I would be one, I should at least try to trick them all with a strong facade. Who knows, I just might get away with it and win. But then again, weaklings don’t win. They never do.

Slowly now it’s all crashing down on me.

I have become a slave of my own trade. A prisoner of my own chosen freedom, which ironically, was something I have worked so hard for.

And now I have nowhere to go.

I sit alone in a dark corner blaming me for bringing it to myself but I would still be so vain and proud that I could not even bring myself to say it out loud even in loneliness.

Rain makes mud. And I remember the day I had to literally run away from home because my father hated me so much, he nearly clobbered me with the hammer. As  I ran under the rain, I stepped on a mud hole, soaking my furry little foam slippers. Every step I made from there, it made a funny squishing sound. No, it wasn’t funny.

The noise rain makes as it falls on the roof. It’s always the same as it did on those Friday nights I spent making love to someone I never really learned to love, in a real dingy apartment that smelled of burnt weed and molds. No, it was not love.

Rain reminds me of  the one person I only ever truly shared myself with, and yes, perhaps loved. It was one of the happiest times of my life. Hours and hours of just talking and laughing and just being crazy. And walking  in the rain. We were soaked, we were cold, we had mud on our feet, but we never cared. We were happy.

I never really liked the rain. It reminds me of things I’d rather not remember, and things I’d never have again.