Giving

The Art of Giving is very much like the Ability to Respire. As a common rule, it is necessary that one inhale a certain amount of air before one can exhale anything. This is also true for giving; you must first have something to give. How much can one inhale? Well, this depends on mainly two things: one’s innate lung capacity and one’s training to utilize it to the fullest potential. Everyone, hopefully, is born with a standard lung capacity that allows an optimum amount of oxygen flow to keep him or her functional. Some people are born with a larger-than-average lung capacity; some, like athletes, orators and opera singers trained themselves to develop either a larger lung capacity, and/or the ability to use it to the fullest potentials. Continuing the analogy, if you are alive, than it is most certain that you have a capacity of things that you can readily give. How much you can give, therefore becomes a function of your training on giving. An opera singer may have voice trainings, which includes training to inhale a gradual increase amount of air, and then throwing the air out to project one’s voice and make the tones rounder. This is true for people learning to give, at first one may not have much to give, but as one receives more and more, one will find it easier to give more and more back. However, no matter how much air you inhale, it is known facts that you will never be truly able to exhale all of it back out. There will always be a certain amount remaining inside you. This is important because you can never truly give all that you have, even if it is your best, you should always save something for yourself to build upon for the next time you give.

My Father - The Camera Man

The eye of the LORD is on those who fear Him, on those who hope in His mercy.

—Psalm 33:18

The other day, I was sitting there going through the recess of my mind, searching for memories of my youth. Strangely, much of what I recalled during this exercise were not animated scenes that one may expected, but instead stationary photographs of certain episodes.  What is even stranger, one central figure to my life seems to be absent from most of these photos. There were a lot of photos of my mother and me together, of my mom alone, or me alone. Yet, there were very few in which my father was part of it.  I was puzzled at first, being the psychology student that I was, I began to wonder if I was suppressing some sort of Oedipus complex. They say that when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes; and it bothers me greatly that if I should be dying, my memories should contain so little of my father. So I sat and ponder the reason for my father’s absence, and then it came to me, it was simple. The reason my father was missing from most of my photos was because he was the one behind the camera most of the time.

Thinking back, my father was always the cameraman in the family. Wherever we go, whatever the occasion is, my father is the one charged with the camera. I say, “charged?, but more or less he volunteered for it. He has got the steadiest hands in the family (no offense to my mom), and he doesn’t seem to mind not being in the pictures. Always, he would be the one urging us to pose for a memory. I can see him now, concentrating behind those lenses, motioning us into place. Rarely would my father pose for a photo himself; he usually waves it off whenever we asked if he wanted to be in a picture. I don’t believe it has anything to do with shyness, after all, my father is a pretty good-looking man if I do say so myself.  Yet, for some reason, the day he became the family man, my father took on the responsibility of being the cameraman. For him, it was important that there were memories of mom and me together, of me growing up through the years. Always, at those special events of my life, he would be there bustling about snapping pictures. Filing them away, documenting the memories, and expressing his love for his family the way he knows how. The stern man that I knew as a child became an incredibly dotting one when it comes to taking pictures. He wants us to be imprinted in the best possible way on a picture, and so he would go the extent to make sure that the angles are right. I am not saying my father is a professional photographer, but if ever there were anyone who worships his family and paints them in the most desirable and loving light, that person would be my father. My father took pride in those pictures; to him, they are a testimony of his good works. He may not be in those photos physically, but like most aspects of our lives, he is the architect of making it possible, and making it memorable. As I sit there and reminiscent, I realize what an act of sacrifice it was, a gesture of tenderness that I have failed to appreciate all these years. To be willing to take pictures of your loved ones, and risk being somehow neglected in the memory process … that speaks volumes on the duty and love of a father. A father who is forever present in low profile, but continuously demonstrating his great affection in the minute things that truly matters.

A Budding Romance

Have you ever walked along a beach, and watched the sandpipers dance with the waves?  It is a fascinating ritual of nimble scurrying back and forth the reclining water edges as the waves recede on and off the shores; a mutual tango of relinquishing and reclaiming the sacred grounds between ocean and land. There is something fascinating about this staccato dance between the vast ocean and these petit birds. On one hand, you have the stern sea periodically smoothing the sand; on the other hand, you have the timid sandpipers constantly imprinting their impressions on the sand. It is quite a joy to behold, and in many ways this dance reminds me of human attempts at love and success. Often, we stand before the vastness of our dreams, looking, pondering. Gently it beckons to us alluringly; and timidly do we venture forth, hoping to build up the courage to dive in. We will rush forth, only to beat a hasty retreat when it surges up close. In love and the affairs of the hearts, are we not the same? Do we not look at the greatness of romance and succumb to its call? Do we not skitter towards it, testing the water, waiting for reciprocity? Then, when it builds and rushes towards us, do we not shy away for fear that we may drown in it; flailing our arms wildly about lest we be swept off our feet.

Since the days of our ancestors, humans have developed a lasting affair with the sea. From walking upon the sandy beaches, scaling the heights of the lighthouses, to sailing across it. The sea is an insurmountable entity, with seemingly endless horizon. It poses itself to us as something we should conquer, it taunts us to pursue it to the ends of the earth, and to land where we may and should. Yet, we are like the sandpapers, dancing upon the shores, gazing at it longingly, forlornly. I guess that is why we like to collect seashells and pebbles from the beach, for they are the token of our dreams, a souvenir to bring with us when we turn and walk away from the calling waves. And when we stray far enough, we will take out that seashell and put it in our ears so that we may hear the beating of the waves, and be reminded the deep-seated calling of our dreams.

My Shadow

I love my shadow, I like how it is a better manifestation of me, taller and grander without giving away my disfigurement. I like how it is there to remind me that I exist physically and metaphysically, even when I feel invisible, as it is the product of me being corporeal enough to obstruct the paths of light. My shadow can do no wrong, it can accomplish no malice, for it lacks all the internal conflicts of its owner. It merely exist, a constant companion, a quiet follower and leader in the midst of my daily chores. I am never alone, for it dances with me, a puppet on the wall. My shadow is my friend, it passes no judgement but offers a sympathetic presence. Indeed, my shadow is my friend, and long do I dread the day I cast it no more.

Piano

Last night I felt it once more, beneath the full moon and the starry skies. I felt it tugging gently at my heart, probing my inner soul until I can no longer ignore it as I usually do. It called out to me, resonating like a clarion bell across a willowy meadow. Haunting, whispery, but nonetheless building momentum, it gathers itself for an assualt against my vulnerable self. Emotions that were previously tucked away and inerted, seems to gravitate towards it. Awaiting for that one moment when the dam may break. Normally, when I feel it coming, I would snuck away into the night and find her - the stern lady dressed in black with the skin of white ivories. She was always there, neither smiling nor frowning, just patiently waiting. She expects nothing, nor does she demands anything. Never judging, she would sit and listen, allowing me to lead the conversation whichever way I pleased. No one else has come to know me as she did, anticipating my whims with such clairvoyance. No one understands me as she did, for no one else has peered into the depth of my soul as she did. How perfectly she responds, drawing upon my emotions she can be passionate like the thunders rolling, or she could be quiet and timid like rain drops slowly falling. Indeed, when I feel afflicted with the overwhelming yearning for a companion, I would go to her and pour out my soul  to my heart' s content.  She was my confidente, my one true soul mate... and now she lies far away. Who can I turn to, who can withstand the turbulant storm of my being and make music with me? Who else possess the same sensitivity to my touch, easily reverberating and amplifying my every whim. Alas, I am out on my own. Vulnerable beneath the lovely skies, feeling the true burden of being lonely as can be, without an outlet for my romantic notions. 

Ode to Her

Cara signora bella,

I praise God that you were born a lady, and I a man, that I may adore you from afar, and worship the grounds on which you float by.

You are the sunshine that brightens a darken day, the moon that brings assurance to lost travellers at night. You are the stars which veils the earth with a nostalgic haze.

You smell of spring flowers, and radiate with summer's passion. Your remind me of autumn breeze's sweet caress; your presence ever so refreshing and magical as winter's first snow. 

I adore you, I worship you. No fine wine can intoxicate me as you have. You are not merely beautiful, but an inebriation in motion. Look not towards me for I fear I may drown in the ocean of your eyes. Smile not that bewitching smile at me less my soul be lost, my heart cast asunder from my body. 

Indeed, I dare only to love you from afar, I admire you with reverence liken that of a sacred religion. 

You are my muse, my inspiration. I may be eloquent, but only because you per chance exist to be the melody. You are the embodiment of ideals, an actualization of quizotic dreams. You are a lady, and I thank God I am a man.

Mid-Autumn 2006

I like the full moon, I like how it veils everything with a silky glow, creating an ambient haze. Often times, I find it to be simply bewtiching to stand there beneath the clear skies and gaze unto her face. How fickle she seems, often disappearing for periods of time, but she always come back with that mystical smile of hers, showering the serene earth with her magical presence. On nights when the moon is whole, I feel as if I am the lone wolf given the chance to connect with the pack again. For when the moon is high and full, the wolves would arch their heads and howl, communicating with each other despite the distance. Similarily, I would look up to her, and be contented in knowing that somewhere out there, across the vastness that parts us, those whom I hold fondly are looking at the same moon. We are thus re-united in that giant mirror in the sky, our thougths reflected and relayed to each other's soul. At least, that is my hope. The seas and the mountains may be in the way, but as long as the moon becomes whole, so shall the company that were once dispersed meet in the medium of the sentimental heart. 

That being said, the full moon does not just signify the reaffirmation of an old alliance, but the confirmation of new allegiances as well. the new moon should be a symbol of the meeting of both the old and the new acquaintances until the circle is complete. Alas, that is my ideal notion. No matter how alone I may feel, the moon is a steadfast reminder that we are all completed somehow by others who entered our lives. That while these individual may not be always present, they are an integral part of us, that we are always whole as long as we remember them.

So on this night, I propose a toast to all my friends out there, to my family, and to those whom I have just met. May you always be blessed with good health, and good humor, and may you remember that each of you complete me as a whole. 

Rain

There is something comforting about the steady beat of raindrops pattering down from the heavens above - pity pat, pity pat, pity pat. It feels so carefree, as if each drop has not a care in the world of where it falls, as long as it makes a little splash or ripples where it lands.    Although a lot of the people I have come across find the rainy weather gloomy; I somehow really like it. I find that when it rains, the world seems to slow down for me, that I can take a step back and truly admire everything about me. I can be an observer, and watch as the people about me either huddle closely under shelters of sort or hurdle across pavements to dodge the tiny little drops- I enjoy watching their different reactions. 

I love how little children seem to enjoy it the most, dressed in their brightly coloured rain gear, they would go about splashing in puddles, often finding the biggest one to stomp their boots in; the glee on their faces each a Kodak moment. Contrasting strongly are the adults, especially those in business suits... there is usually a frown upon their faces, their eyes gazing towards the heavens as if in silent lamentation. Adults tend to have this frantic look about them in the rain as if each drop of rain threatens to discolour the world they live in. How did it happen? At what point in life did we decide to avoid puddles? Was it when we caught a cold and our mothers scolded us for playing outside in the rain? Was it when we fell in a puddle once and heard mocking laughter from others who have "rise above" the simple pleasures of playing in the rain? Why did we become so self-conscious?   

I remember back in my college days, it rained so on certain days, and a bunch of us would get into the worst clothes we can find and just stomp around in the rain. It was chilly, but it was oh so freeing. Afterwards, we would have some hot beverages and huddle about laughing at what we did. What memories they were, we were without care, miles away from our scolding parents, frowning adults; and we did what we felt natural... ok, so singing and dancing in the rain may seem a little crazy, but it was fun. Why did we stop? Why do I feel the need to suppress this urge of mine to stand in the midst of the rain, even with an umbrella? Is this fear of getting wet and "dirty" really rational? I say loosen up, and go out to play in the rain. Enjoy it, and if you listen closely, you may perhaps hear the symphony of heaven's orchestra luring you to dance.    

September

I can't believe it is September already, summer is slowly waning and the welcoming breeze of autumn is beckoning to those who choose to venture out in the evenings. September has always been an interesting month for me, it is a month of beginnings where schools start and students return to gain more knowledge. It is when trees began their cycle of renewal by gradually purging their branches of leaves in preparation for winter cleansing, but not before putting up a spectacular display of colors. For me, life begans with September...  at least at the very end of it when nature changes it colors overnight, a final burst of glory before the phoenix becomes ashes awaiting re-birth. September is the month that I step back to evaluate events of the past year as I prepare myself to bid welcome to another one in my advancing years. 

So here I am, with a bottle of cool wine, awaiting for September's gentle entrance once more. Let me toast to the memories and lessons experienced this past year, and let me drink to the begnning of many more wonderful things during my twenty-fourth year of my tenure on this transitory earth. 

On Broadway

Who came up with the idea of musicals? What compel them to have this notion that at every corner, whether things are going swell or not, you can simply break out a song and people around you would join in? How did they envision that everyone would be singing the same tune and dancing to the same tempo? What world were they from? I would love to talk them, even if it is in a dream, because I have tried to do these things in my life - and it doesn’t work. Try whistling a tune, and people would stare daggers at you. Try humming a song while strolling with a bounce in your steps, and pedestrians will cross the streets to avoid you. Sing close to a child, and it is most likely the parents will fend you away with a stick object of sorts. Indeed, the only other person who came close is called Michael Jackson, and you all know how well liked he is. Where did they find all those balconies, and the front porch swings where guys can swoon the dolls with serenades of adoration and devotion?

Expressing versus Exposing: What color is your underpants today?

I feel there is an increasing pressure on women to expose their beauty as opposed to expressing it. Exposing is easily done, just be dress in something scandalous, revealing much skin. Expressing, not so much. Expressing is subtle, yet efficient. It lies in the slightest gestures, and the postures. It is hidden in the positioning of the wrist, the arching of the neck. It is about glancing quickly in the right direction at the moment, and smiling so ever briefly. Its ephemeral, its ethereal, but its effect is long lasting. Clad like a beekeeper, a woman can still appear exotic. Her beauty amplified by her expressions.

Is it because guys are becoming less capable of appreciating the subtle suggestions of beauty that women feel the need to expose more? Is the male species losing his ability to let his imagination run wild prompted by the merest hint of beauty? Ah, if only women understand the full extent of the power they wield upon the male species. If only we can all learn how to let our beauty seep through without exposing so much, then perhaps we can return to the realm of exotic beauty... beauty that is born from the expression of one's virtue, wit and soul. Otherwise, we may as well return to the era of clothing optional days.

Afterthought: On the other hand, I guess it is also a good thing that women feel comfortable in exposing so much. It can be viewed as a sign that they are comfortable with how they look, or that they trust men.

On Romance

Romance is essentially a guessing game that involves a repeated and reciprocal process of testing the waters, daring to reveal a bit more of yourself each time you feel secured - until eventually you are completely comfortable with being totally vulnerable with each other. Before that critical stage, it is a series trial and error, a willingness to face the danger of being hurt or played the fool. Yet, it is not a reflection of your imperfection when love is not returned, but rather a sign that you are not complimentary to each other. Nor is it a sign of weakness to have yield yourself to another unwittingly, but a glorious triumph of our faith and hope in humanity. For no other sentine beingl risk as much as we humans do for want of a companion to behold, to share and bear witness to each other's lives

Friend's Reply:

"i think you're wrong...true romance isnt about revealing yourself in pieces or testing any waters, because both of these things suggest fear. And fear has no place in romance nor in any relationship for that matter. Fear is for those that have something to hide. For those that feel ashamed of themself. The truth is, romance is about giving someone happiness without expecting anything in return. Not about recieving love, but experiencing your own for yourself and for the other person. There is no trial and error, because there are no results that you should expect. Expectation only leads to disapointment, and completely short changes the experience which is really the important part."

Mi voyage

 My travels for my job has taken me city-hopping across the United States for the past two months. It has been indeed fun and enlightening experience to have gone and seen the different parts of America. I enjoyed the opportunity to meet different people, and see how Americans from all overlived. Before this, I had never quite understood why Americans are so particular where their hometown is.  As a tour guide during my college days, I noticed that fellow tourists love to identify themselves with their hometowns. They are not just Americans, but they are of a particular state and a specific town. They trace their lineage as well. 

Now that I have seen with my own eyes some of these places, I can see why the denizens of these places are so proud of where they are from. America, despite being a melting pot of cultures, is still in effect, a country of small towns and heritage. The American dream is a local realization of a bigger picture. Every person may dream of going elsewhere, the Big Apple, and the such, but they recognize the importance of where they are from, their past relative to the present. It is like a testimony of "I may be here now, but where I am from is what got me here, and I want you to understand that."

I for one is a stranger to this land. Yes, I have spent the past five years of my life here, and I have come to identify myself as a Virginian of sorts. Some of my fellow Virginians may choose to denounce me on this claim, stating that I wasn't born here, I am not an American citizen etc. However, I would like to point out that I was educated in the second oldest college in this country; and was baptized, confirmed and served in one of the first churches of this nation, I have done all this while in Virginia. In more ways than one, I have walked in the footsteps and shadows of all the famous Virginians who were amongst forefathers of this nation. Therefore I feel I have the right to claim myself a Virginian despite what others may say.

Even so, I must also admit to the fact that I am a wayfarer. A dragonfly who touches upon the pond ever so lightly before taking off again. A hummingbird buzzing about from flower to flower, petal to petal for nectar. I honestly do not know where home is... they say home is where the heart is, then I will tell you that my heart is scattered across the globe where a familiar face may be found. even as I am typing this, I have loyalties spread far and wide, across oceans and nations. My parents and immediate blood relatives are overseas in Thailand, Hong Kong and China. My friends, the many whom I hold so dear to my heart are dispersed across their individual places geographically, mentally and spiritually. So where is my heart, where do I belong? Nowhere I suppose except in the hearts of those who choose to remember me. 

My physical maybe stationary in one place, and perhaps that place can be called a temporary home/shelter. Yet my spirit and heart take no sanctuary in one single place physical, they seek no asylum within the confines of race, city nor any human measurements. I am a wild being, restlessly seeking serenity and tranquillity in the midst of unrest. Perhaps I am destined to be a sea of grey for those who prefer black and white.

The Spoken Word

Words, specifically the spoken words, are powerful; let no one convince you otherwise. You may have been brought up with phrases like “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words never will.” True, words don’t necessary break bones; they do something much worst, they can shatter souls. Words can penetrate where no physical blow can fall, and when misused can do far more damage to the person. Of our five senses, you can refrain from touching; you can close your eyes and not see. You can shut your mouth and pinch your nose, but you cannot turn off your ears. Oh, we are all very gifted at selective hearing. Just think about the times you have shut your parents and teachers out… even to my voice right now. But the reality is nature did not provide us with the mechanism to close off our ears adequately short of bursting our eardrums. Words invade us, bypassing all natural defenses to touch our inner souls - incorporeal to the incorporeal.

Indeed, the spoken word is so powerful that it was used by the Judeo Christian God to create the world and command a people. The Greeks call it Logos, and define it as the underlying reality of all things; the “Way” things should be. Interestingly enough, the word Toa in Chinese can also mean “Speech” as well as the “Way”. Which goes to show that ancient culture holds the spoken word in high esteem. In fact, for the longest time, people were measured by their words; the quality of their speech, their power to debate and profess. From Cicero to Churchill, history has shown us that great statesmen were often great orators, individuals who can inspire passion in the masses with words. Of course, the reverse is true; just think of our beloved president (President Bush).

Anthropologists, sociologists, historians and scientists alike all agreed that language is the foremost indicator of development. Just think, many of our ancestors preserve the identities of a people through oral tradition. The original guardians of a culture, a people, were the storytellers, the shamans, and the gurus. Even to this day, every religion preserve its morale and virtues through story telling. Words form these stories, words of meaning, words of power. As humans, words give us power over things. When we seek to name things, when we tell stories to explain things, we use words to place ourselves above what we seek to control. The spoken word can alter the course of lives. It certainly can affect our moods. The soft spoken, the harshly said, and the passionately professed, influences the listener who in turn may pass it on to others.

In short, words are powerful. The quality of our vocabulary denotes our intelligence, it reflects heavily on our personality and the pride of a people. Therefore I urge you from this day forth, don’t open your mouth and utter so lightly. Treat each and everyone of your words carefully for who knows what they may result in. Thank you.

Thoughts on Life

Life is confusing, but that is the point isn't it? We all seem to want to find some sense of security, to feel certain and be secured in the concrete. Yet, often times, we neglect the fact that it is the mystery of life that makes it worth living. True, it is nice to have a comfort zone, to have foreknowledge. Often times, I look back and wish I had done certain things differently, but  the truth is, I can't. 

In my head, things went differently. I imagine myself to be more suave. I picture myself as someone who has the elegance to glide about with ease. A person of charisma, charm and grace. Instead, I must admit that I am rather awkward... but that is ok, because I am learning  to be better. Its like dancing... by my standard, I am still a pretty lousy dancer. I am still very awkward, but compared to where I was a month ago, a year ago, I have more confidence in asking people to dance with me. I am slowly beginning to enjoy dancing more, and it shows. I asked this one really good dancer why she chose to dance with me, she just shrug and said "because you smiled a lot." It was that simple... it wasn't my skill (or lack there of) that made her willing to dance with me, but the mere fact that I enjoy dancing that got to her. 

Perhaps that is how I should  lead my life. I may not have a lot of money to go spending on luxuries. I may not be a talented individual who shall scale mountains and rescue nations. But I can learn to enjoy each moment of it. To smile often, and to encourage other to do so. I shall catch hold of the simple, and sometimes finer points of life, and just enjoy it.

I shall learn to be like Pierre Dulaine (portrayed by Antonio Banderas in the flick TakeTthe Lead). Here is what Beth Sullivan of WM Flat Hat said of him

"Watching Dulaine use dance to unfold life lessons to kids who do not have the luxury to explore them on their own is fascinating. He is not a reproachful, holier-than-thou moralist. Instead, he is simply a man who has personally embraced the finer aspects of living and wants to share that grace with others. A relic of chivalry, he is mercilessly ridiculed by the students for opening doors, demanding to hear thank you and playing Gershwin. There is something to be said for patience and politeness, though --they both pay off. The students begin to value the gentle advice he offers. Though he appears passive and wimpy, he is actually strong beyond measure; hes an urban Don Quixote. "

Maybe that is who I shall become, not some big shot lawyer or doctor, but a simple urban Don Quixote. I think that would be grand, wouldn't you agree?

Faire une promenade sur la rue d'ete

Seeking for some more laughter in my life,
I wandered the streets this night. 
Looking through windows, 
watching people sitting on the side cafes.
I ponder why in the amidst of all this gaiety,
a smile cannot be found on my face.
Why do I feel the burden of the world upon me, 
when in truth I have nothing to worry
On this hot summer evening, I took my promenade.
An observer, a stranger amongst happiness midst.

A Walk with Sorrow

Since Joy was busy, Sorrow came and visit me instead.
Cloaked in a dress of solemn gray, hands as cold as ice,
She clasped my hands in hers, and we took a stroll side by side
Down along memory lane.

Images that were once filled with happiness now tinged with sadness
As Sorrow invoke  her doleful charms. 
How strange to behold all that was wonderful are now marred.
Sorrow by my side, tilts her head and smile that ghost of a wistful smile. 

Lament? No. There is beauty even in sadness, 
As if Sorrow, in her serene way, begs me to remember 
That she is after all the dear sibling of Joy- her sister.
Without her saturnine presence, sweet memories can not be. 

Quietly, silently, she relay to me,
"Human, remember this, you know of true happiness
Only because you are aware of the tragedies of the human condition.
Therefore, do not spurn me but love me as you have Joy"

And I said to her,
"If I can hold you, and keep you that you may visit no other, I would.
I would give up Joy, if it means you will stay by me and away from she whom I hold dear.
Give me her sadness that she need not feel even a hundredth of it"

Sorrow shook her head,
"Sadness is not yours to take, but my to give.
Hear me once more, only through me will you know of happiness.
Why then deny her that by depriving her of me?"

And then Sorrow left my side as I awash my eyes with tears.
My head upon the pillow that is wet, I awoke to sun rays seeping through.
Was it a dream? Nay, Sorrow was here, and she left her mark upon me.
A tinge of relieve shadowed by sadness. 

El Chino Salsero

I have always loved to watch people dance. I think it all began with my mother's love of watching all those musicals featuring the greats like Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, Ginger Rogers, Eleanor Powell and The Nicholas Brothers. As a child, I was mesmerized by the carefreeness in which the dancers perform a complex routine. I was drawn to elegance that these people seem to carry about them. I was captivated by that small knowing smile of content upon the lips of dancers. I have often dreamt that someday I too will be able experience the euphoria of being able to move with such grace, to truly experience what it feels like to dance "Cheek to Cheek" with a girl, or at least "Make 'em Laugh". Unfortunately, I never quite dared to venture out onto the dance floor myself. Let's face it, I am a really awkward guy. My motor coordination skills were at best mediocre. Most of all, I can never quite imagine myself ever possessing the confidence to sustain me through the trial and error phase. I imagine I will have a hard time to "Pick myself Up" due to the embarrassment I would feel. I am at such a level of self-awareness, that I know I will paralyze the moment I step onto that hard wood floor, and have a girl in my arms. 

Actually, before even getting close to the floor, there is the problem of finding a girl who can tolerate my clumsiness. If dancing is a game of avoiding to be stepped on by the guy, I think the girls will find that I am exceptionally gifted at finding toes. Having been educated in an all boy's school didn't help. If I don't trip over myself trying to ask a girl to a dance, I will definitely trip her all over the place. I would need an insurance sales representative standing at my side, requesting all who dared to dance with me to sign all these forms to ensure that their medical insurance covers all injuries incurred from a bout of dancing with me. Such was my deposition when I finally worked up the courage to go dancing salsa. 

To say I can dance salsa would be an insult to all those who actually salsa (please note that salsa is both a noun and a verb. When the verb is done right, the noun will follow often accompanied by adjectives like caliente and passion). I guess the reason I was motivated to try salsa was because of all the dances I have seen, this was the one that seemed to be most down to earth. There is a playfulness in salsa, a luring passion that seems to entice me to join in its sensual rhythm. The music itself is alluring, an invitation to move freely and sway with ease. There is a subtle grace, but what I love most about it is the passion. Where most ballroom dances feature grace and class, salsa emphasize entertainment and passion. It is about enjoying oneself in the company of others. There is a childlike playfulness reflected in the mocking imitations of certain rigid European dances. As if the creator of salsa were making fun of how restricted the European dances were, and to show people how real dancing should be done. 

I must confess I am addicted. My head is filled with the beat of salsa. When I allow myself to turn away from work., my thoughts become immediately filled with images of different moves in salsa. Looking back, I have come a long way from being the shy kid who loved dancing but never dared to try. My journey in salsa has just began, but its effect on me has been substantial. No longer am I as rigid, and conscious as I once was. I am beginning to inherit the playful nature of it, to learn to humor oneself, and to make light of the daily restraints that confines us. I am beginning to understand where that knowing smile on dancers originate from. It comes from allowing oneself to be free, it comes from losing oneself to the music. Salsa asks us to live passionately, to truly live. In order to live, we need to enjoy, to be playful, and to feel the closeness of others around us. It is a powerful and twirling embrace, one enriched with spicy flavors.

Who is that candle for?

Always at midnight, just before I close my eyes and surrender myself to peaceful slumber, would you surface from whatever recess you have hidden and intrude upon my consciousness. Whatever mental resolutions I have placed to keep you at bay during the day melts as I near that weary state. Always, you come with a candle in your hands. Though damn candles, the penetrate the darkness that i have enshrouded myself in since that day we parted so abruptly. I know I have I have said arrogantly that I shall be able to swipe you from my mind... as you have apparently done so with me in your life, but alas, it is not so. I still cannot comprehend how it is possible that you can simply walk away from five years of relationship as deep as ours and still remain stoically upright. I have always credited you as being strong, stubborn, spirited... but never heartless. Yet, you seem to prove me wrong. I know not whether to be proud of you, or insulted that you seemed to be able to carry on with life after we part ways, especially when my life seemed to stopped the moment you left. But there you are, carrying yourself with such dignity, such strength. You proved yourself to be the woman that I fell in love with, possessing every quality that made you endearing to me all those years. How ironic though that I can not be there to tell you that. I see you, day to day, but do you see me? Have you thought of me since then? I know you no longer speak with out mutual friends, I see them from time to time. I see you have detached yourself from all that reminds you of me... how can you be so cold? Yet I know we did not part in anger, for even after much time has passed, you remain single. Why don't you get out of that black dress and go out. Have some fun, smile a bit. You have created a hole in my life when we part... but I sure hope I haven't created one in yours. Go out there, go on, meet another guy. If you are going to be heartless and pretend to forget me, why not go all the way and be with somebody else. Why do you still appear before me each night, breaching all my mental defense and torture me. Go, find your true beau, and free me from the torture of feeling like I may perhaps have ruined you. So why don't you leave me be?

By the way, why do you always go to that little catholic church on the corner? Who are you lighting that candle for? You have never done that when we were together, in fact I recalled I was the religious one. You used to tease me mercilessly about my rosary, what made you change...? Ah, does damn candles you lit, they are bright... but they are pretty...