One Last Dance

Waltzing, he sweeps her across the ballroom as I watch in envy. She is perfect.

It is probably rude to ask a girl to dance on her wedding day but I will do so anyway. After all, he has a lifetime to dance with her. This is my last chance.


Afternoon radio music

Just a fool to believe I am everything she needs, Patrick Swayze croons. She’s like the wind.

I crank up the volume. Soon, I’m waltzing in the living room with the cocktail in my hand.

You dance like the wind, I tell myself. You need no man to do that.

Strawberry Martini

Bionight: I gave in

Yeahp, I finally went to the party I had been evading in the last three years and it wasn’t a disappointment. Here are the top three reactions:

  1. Oh, they take the theme seriously.

The theme was Olympia so we were supposed to dress up as Greek gods and goddesses. I absolutely love Greek mythology but I was feeling a little rebellious so instead, I showed up in a classic gray and black empire-cut dress.

Well, actually, it was only partly because I was feeling rebellious. It was mostly because I hate white dresses. Being a five-feet tall lady with a baby face, wearing a white frock makes me look like a thirteen-year-old on her Confirmation day.

In my obnoxious dark dress and plum and pink makeup, I certainly looked awkward in a sea of white and gold. Well, at least my shoes were gold (they are flats, by the way). Ha!

  1. Uh, they call that dancing?

Ahh, drunk dancing — that’s what it’s called. It was really amusing to watch your friends in their wildest on the dance floor.

Who’s that already sprawled on the floor? The party’s barely started!

Look at that. I don’t think he can feel his limbs anymore. Haha.

Wait… OH MY G — is that lap dancing? *covers eyes*

It was fun, really, until they drag you in. I wasn’t prepared for that. I know basic chachacha and samba but they wouldn’t work with EDM. Really, I tried. So I just clapped me hands and joined the train (which seems to be a party staple anywhere). After a being a killjoy in the past three years, that’s the least I can do for my friends.

  1. These cocktails are nice.

Especially the mango-flavored one. I would have had more if only my legs did not start feeling like jelly. But I still prefer Shirley Temple though. I miss fishing the cherry at the bottom of the glass — just the best reward for enduring alcohol.

But nobody seemed to mind what they were being served. They just drank and drank until they’re tipsy enough to do drunk dancing (see #2 above). They seemed to have so much fun. I am happy for them.

To be honest, it was not really one of the greatest times in my life. But it was fun, in a way, and my friends loved that I gave in this time. It was just that I am still not ready to let myself loose. I guess I am really not made to be wild. It’s fine, isn’t it? 🙂

And she danced with him

I want a man who can dance.

I met many but not one danced with me. Then, here he comes.

His timing is bad and he steps on me. Yet, he is the only one who dared to ask me dance.

A new song begins. “Let’s try again, shall we?”


He with two left feet

What was I thinking asking her to dance?

Me with two left feet. She with feline grace.

Yet she smiled. “Let’s try again, shall we?”

I will a hundred times, if only to get enough of those crescent eyes to last me a lifetime of her, dancing in my dreams.


Waiting For the Deadline

Did you see my thinking cap? It must be lying here somewhere. I have been looking for it for weeks now but it seems like it is eluding me.

Last Tuesday morning, I made a list of all the things I expected to accomplish during the long APEC Summit Holiday. Now three days have passed and the list remains the same — no entry is yet crossed.


Instead, here are the things I did for the past three days:

  1. watched Romeo and Juliet three times (once each day, starting Tuesday);


  1. recited Juliet’s monologue in the famous balcony scene again and again in the shower (because I can’t sing);


  1. started reading Anna Karenina (I need to read the book before I watch the film adaptation);


  1. memorized Pablo Neruda’s The Queen (how I wish I were that queen!);


  1. played with my hair by putting it up in foam rollers as I watched Britney Spears’ music videos (and I remembered how I fell in love with dancing because of her);


  1. tried to replicate Britney’s parts in Me Against the Music while in the shower (even the speaking voice gets tired and yes, I take looooong showers);


  1. and currently, writing this rambling post.

And you know what’s horrible about all this? It is the fact that I feel not even an ounce of guilt for my indolence. It seems that I truly believe that my excuses are valid reasons.

Not in the mood, not in the right condition, not the right weather, not the right pen, and the list goes on. Mere excuses, all lies.

It is not that I am not trying. On Thursday morning I actually managed to get out of bed at 3 A.M. to start studying for two upcoming exams. But after the ceremonial cup of coffee, I found myself scribbling about random things that seem to pop out of my head endlessly and the next thing I know, it was lunch time.


I know what is wrong — I am not interested in what is in my to-do list. That is why I always find a way to evade it. Maybe if my to-do list includes more of literature and history instead of studying hefty science books, I would have been halfway through it now. Or I maybe even finished by now. Nature versus nurture must really be the recurring theme of my dear life.

Hoping that Saturday morning will see more light as Monday approaches. As always, my thinking cap magically appears when the deadline looms. Deadlines are my lifeline.


Wish me luck!



“Dance like nobody’s watching.”

While walking along Maria Orosa Steet one quiet Friday night, I saw two teeners dancing to disco music — literally dancing in the moonlight.

It was a long weekend and the otherwise busy street was practically deserted. The stores were already closed except for one eatery from which the blasting music was coming from. There were few diners, all of them distracted by the girls who seemed oblivious to the fact that all of us, diners and passers-by, were staring at them.

Honestly, I think they knew. They just did not care. They shimmied, waved their arms, and tossed their heads as I looked on, feeling a mixture of amusement and envy. How I wish I could do just that — dance like no one is watching.

I love to dance, even back when I did not realize that I do.

My mother always gleefully recalls how, at age one, I would be made to stand on a table while Macarena is playing in the radio. Much to their delight, I would willingly wiggle my fat body in odd ways that made all of them laugh. Then, she would often jump to when I was four, when I was made to represent my nursery class in a kiddie pageant. I was painfully shy and I just would not participate as enthusiastically as the other girls did. But when the talent portion came, she would proudly recount, I suddenly shined.  I was dancing as if I forgot about the audience.

In high school, I somehow managed to tame my stage fright and joined the dance troupe. I was not one of the best nor was I one of the popular dancers but I loved being there. The group gave me an outlet to express myself when the spoken word just would not suffice. I found a way to make people see me. I found a way to say, Here I am.

But in junior year I was made to realize that my grades are dropping consistently so I decided, out of desperation, to lighten my extracurricular activities and focus on my school work. Dance troupe was the first to go. Since then, the only connections I have with dancing are waiting for the next Step Up installment and watching old episodes of Dancing with the Stars (but to be honest, sometimes I am just ogling Derek Hough).

Quitting was not a big deal for me then. I thought it was just a hobby. Until I started getting strange cases of tarantism. For example, there was that one time in the supermarket. I was then choosing what brand of shampoo to buy when Thinking Out Loud started playing in the speakers. I swear I wanted to just drop my shopping basket and dance, right then and there. But of course I did not. That would have been disruptive!


This used to happen only rarely but lately, I noticed that I have been being bitten by the dancing bug quite frequently. It happens when I am strolling in the mall. It happens when I am supposed to be studying in the library. It happens when I am in the shower. It happens when I am counting sheep in bed. It happens anytime, anywhere. Every time, I hear a voice that urges me.

Do it. I know you want to do it.

But I tell her, No, what would people say?

That is the problem. It is no longer about quitting so I could focus on studies. I am now quitting because I am afraid of what other people might think. I am afraid that they might not like me dancing. I am afraid that I am not good enough.

But the voice is persistent.

You’re not dancing for them. You’re dancing for yourself.

And I realize that she is right.

I dance not for show. I dance not for pleasing others. Rather, I dance because there is too much music inside of me that somehow has to break free. I dance for myself.

So the next time the dancing bug bits me again, I will drop whatever I am doing and dance. I will just pretend you are not watching.


What Is A Poet?

A poet is a dancer―
The paper is his stage.
Wrapping his fingers around his pen,
He performs a passionate tango,
A seductive rhumba,
A playful boogie,
And a long, long waltz
With life.

A poet is musician―
The pen is his instrument.
Every word is a note,
Every verse is a song.
His poems are his voice
That can break the glass windows
Of every prison
Where music can’t be heard,
To coax all the menacled
To sing along with him.

A poet is an artist―
The paper is his canvas.
With nature as palette,
And emotion his brush,
He garbs beauty with colors garish and harsh
But cloaks the grotesque in richer hues
To paint a picture of a world
That all has dwelt
But never felt.

A poet is a student―
The paper is his notebook.
Life gives the lecture,
And he has to listen,
But sometimes he slacks
And fails
But he learns
And becomes the teacher in turn.

A poet is a scientist―
Words are his specimens.
He dissects them to pieces
To see,
Then unveil
The magic of their secret microworlds,
Then try to arrange the broken pieces
To make something new,
To make life bearable.

A poet is a child―
Words are his toys.
He plays and wonders
Then asks
Then go back to his toys
That are never the same
As every answer
Prompts new questions.

A poet is every man―
Poems are his life.
Poems tell his story
That could be yours
Or mine
For every poet
Can be you
Or me.