Smokey Himalayas

An abandoned waste land that cages in the garbagecoming from tons of Filipinos. The land fill is a place no one can withstand, the lingering scent of rotten fruit, burnt rubber and old diappers are engraved to one's senses. The stench filling up and nauseating to the bone, yet they continue to strive. In the slums of Tondo, Manila is q place no one can cope with, the Smokey Mountains.

Illegal or informal settlers as considered by society a label to Mang Isko and his grand children Marco, Pepe and Isay. They can be seen around the land fill collecting garbage to sell to junk shops, it takes Mang Isko a whole day to fill up his sack with metal, plastic, paper and other recyclables. Up on the miuntains are piles of more trash and metal. According to Mang Isko: "Sa hirap ng buhay at katandaan eto na lang ang kaya kong trabaho para sa mga apo ko. Dito din ako pinakilala ng mga magulang ko,  eto na din ang kinagisnan ng mga bata." The old man has been collecting scraps since his youth and until now at the age of 56. Society has been degrading those who are in these miuntains are struggling to keep theirselves alive. 12-year old Pepe told me that he had no money to go to school, the Himalayan-like mountains have been his playground and work ground. These people plead of one thing, that is to have a decent job; to support their  families. Having witnessed how they risk their lives, dancing in the steep sides to collect scraps. Trying to live up with the awful stench of garbage around them, it's common knowledge to have been awareof this but, steps haven't been taken.

Unemployment leads to poverty and people would do anything to survive and as for you? It's up to your choice. You make your future and theirs.

Everyday with My Morrie

Have you ever encountered such a piece of literature that just takes you back? The undeniable feeling of nostalgia washing you and reminiscing such memories, as if the writer just happens to know what you’re going through. This article happens to have that nostalgic effect.

Everyday with My Morrie is an article written by Ms. Priscilla Agaton, the article is based on Mitch Albom’s book “Tuesday’s with My Morrie”. The book showcases main protagonist Morrie who believes that teaching is an eternity, he can never tell when the influence stops that even on his death bed he continues to tell stories.

The article written paves way to emotions long forgotten or at least as what I felt, feelings kept away; the author wrote the article in memory of her ‘Morrie’. The author conveys the grief of loss and pain of loneliness, written in a formal aspect the article still brings the feelings which the she wants to reflect; the tone of the article was appropriate not confusing the feelings and thoughts of readers.

The article is a personal essay which was dedicated by the author to her ‘Morrie’ who was the late Ms. Lolita Lopez Cabangbang, the article conveys the writer’s thoughts about the death and reminiscing memories of her Morrie. Halfway through the article you will find yourself just admiring the piece even though such an experience is too personal the said article still gives a penny for the thought that there is purpose in pain.
Everyday with My Morrie showcases an experience that makes readers think of a new perspective in life, the art of moving on. God gives life and takes it away yet the memories will never fade, precious experience will live on forever with you. The art of moving on is not easy to learn although through the course of time you’ll just suddenly know, that it’s time to move forward.

I recommend reading this article, the bittersweet pain of loss, the grief of loneliness yet the strength from memories will surely inspire you to keep on living. The article is not just a personal experience but an inspiration to those who think that pain is pain, that life is unfair and that once dead can never live again.

My Name

Growing up my name had little to no meaning at all yet, it was given to such as myself. My name is quite unique a reason that made it’s way to my parent’s mouth, my name is not that sweet but masculine as what my father wanted.
In Gaelic my name means from a gray fortress a stronghold that is old and powerful a symbol of wealth and monarchy, a symbol of hope and prosperity. My name is a fortress ruined and gray bits of ivy seeping from it’s walls dents from a war of possession.
My name in Scottish means a garden of Hollies, a tiny flower we don’t know the name but we use as an ornament every Christmas. Shrubs that bloom slowly as the winter frost licks their stems and leaves, an aquafolicae that blooms even in the coldest climate. A small plant that grows from time to time. An evergreen tree that withstands the cold and a stronghold for the winter weather.
My name in Hebrew means peace an ever present peace at times of war, a belief that keeps one together. Ya’ara as they call a peace that seethes within their hearts, a peace that gives comfort and whole.
It is my father’s name and it has been passed on to me, personally I disliked my name it wasn’t fit for a little girl such as myself in fact it didn’t fit me in anyway. It was a boy’s name, a common American last name.
My name itself has its own unique meaning for me. Leslie is strong, like a fortress full of dents and crumbles ruins bearing scars of wars and knowledge; it bears the sadness within yet envelopes everyone with warmth and comfort. Leslie is evergreen growing even through the darkest of times and the coldest of situations, it is a Holly small yet full of hope and beauty as what I wished I to be.
Growing up my name had little to no meaning at all yet, it was given to such as myself. My name is quite unique a reason that made it’s way to my parent’s mouth, my name is not that sweet but masculine as what my father wanted. It is a garden filled with tiny hope, it is evergreen through the cold, it is a fortress full of learnings and experiences. It is the peace that helps everyone to gain faith again. That is my name, Leslie.

Tales of a Sedentary Traveler

They say to travel is to live, it gives the sense of existence the feeling of being alive, the undying and precious moment where one finds peace. The splash of cold wind against one’s face, the utterly beautiful scenery when you open your eyes, that one moment when you have escaped the prisons of the bustling city, traveling to marvelous heights and incomparable miles, to set foot on new land and culture. But alas, these all fades from my grasps when I wake as morning comes.

The emptiness of the room as the curtains are drawn, the morning breeze echoing and bouncing as I cruise the halls; cobwebs, dust bunnies, the same scenery over and over, oh what great it would be to travel not just only through a book but in hurtful and vivid reality. The aesthetic height of my house towers over such automobiles and public vehicles, the only sight I see until today. The familiar sounds of horns jumping against my skin, the howls, bawls and shouts of street vendors, people and children.

I have traveled the world. not in eighty days but within a few flicks of paper and the ruffling turns of pages, I have traveled within the solitude the house provides. Paris, the streets of Bourne, Lincolnshire, the alleyways of Derby and the bustling traffic in New York. Although there is one place I am akin to and it is where I wish to visit first when given a chance, the old city where time ceases to exist. Vigan City, Ilocos Sur.

The quiet flows of the river, the clacking of hooves against stone pavements, as if bustling bees people roam about and around, Vigan. The city located in the province of Ilocos Sur a city where culture is a top priority. People who travel out of the country often say that they travel because of the food, season, culture and tradition, it comes to mind that why travel so far when inside the country there are different cultures and traditions of our own?

Vigan is an island, which used to be detached from the mainland by three rivers - the great Abra River, the Mestizo River and the Govantes River. It is unique among the Philippine towns because it is the country’s most extensive and only surviving historic city that dates back to the 16th century Spanish colonial period. Vigan was an important coastal trading post in pre-colonial times. Long before the Spanish galleons, Chinese junks sailing from the South China Sea came to Isla de Bigan through the Mestizo River that surrounded the island. On board were sea-faring merchants that came to barter exotic goods from Asian kingdoms in exchange for gold, beeswax and other mountain products brought down by natives from the Cordilleras. Immigrants, mostly Chinese, settled in Vigan, intermarried with the natives and started the multi-cultural bloodline of the Bigueños.


The City has now become a tourist spot through the years, local and foreign tourist are welcomed and given the chance to ponder over the culture of Filipinos, the ruins of old heritage houses, the preservation of such buildings and the knowledge from museums and cultural heritage spots will bring you closer to the Filipino culture.

Although it has been such a tourist destination, the attractive surroundings aren’t the reasons for me to seek this town first. My Great Grandmother who passed away almost four months ago used to live there int he same town, the same ever busy streets, the same nature involved city, the same preserved town. Traveling is such a wonder, to be ale to see the real thing up close and personal is my dream, being cooped up and barred inside the stone walls of my house has kept me wishing, wondering, dreaming of the day to come.

They say to travel is to live, I say to travel is my dream. A dream I can never get like a star in the heavens seemingly so close yet so far away, the whispers of the wind calling me to look far, far beyond the walls of this house, to where I wish to be. To experience the splash of cold wind against my face, the beautiful scenery as I open my eyes, that one moment where I’m no longer inside the prison my so called house. To reach marvelous heights and incomparable miles, to set foot on new land and culture with no worries of waking up as if it was just a dream.

Hamartia

There is always a hamartia in this world nothing here is ever good enough for us, and it goes the same for me. My harmatia happened in the most no, to the most unforgettable person.
The Christmas day of my sixteenth year I sat across her as she looked back at me, it was just the two of us looking straight at each other, it was empty. The old walls hold nothing but emptiness and longing. It was then I broke the staring and leaned back against my chair, she isn’t going to be here anymore not this time around.
Her smiles that carry rays of hope wherever we go, her voice ever so gentle as she talks, her light touch as she wants a hug. It was never going to happen again, she was never coming back not this year nor the next. It was the first time again as I stare into her eyes, looking intently at her brown orbs that were corrupted by white; Cataract I told myself. She would only know me from my voice and my touch, she would smile as if there was no tomorrow as I tell her stories of how my day went even though she couldn’t see even though she barely hear.
Not this time around, not this season around. Looking at her made me feel queasy and broken. Everything is different now. She’s not going to be with us again. I stared deeply at Nana in front of me the smile she’s wearing was a Morning Glory that blooms as it rises, it was the smile that made me remind myself everytime she would be there, waiting for me to sing or tell her a story but she’s not.
Time was not a good friend to me, as I took my last glance at the picture in front of me and the body lying next to it everything is different now. It’s not going to revert back to the way it used to, as they move her away from me as the oven was lit up as her frail body came to contact with the cool steel bed she was smiling, even at that moment she went away happy. I didn’t cry not like them I only held a picture to my chest the one I stare into, I wanted to be happy as she did the same.
There is always a hamartia in this world for nothing here is ever good enough for us and it goes the same for me. As I stare into her eyes once more, as I place the frame down to where it should belong I come undone and close my eyes. This is a hamartia I can never live with but:
“There will come a time that all of us are dead and there will come a time no one will remember us or any of this, Oblivion is inevitable.” - John Green, The Fault in Our Stars.