I should have written this a week ago, exactly on New Year’s Day, but I was too busy enjoying my self-imposed vacation that I decided to hold off on any work-related activities (including writing this Spoonful). I finally went back to work with a vengeance on Monday, but my PC died on me, perhaps heralding the beginning of an unpredictable and challenging year.

I don’t mind surprises, and I don’t mind challenges, either. My experiences the past half-year have taught me to embrace them. And I’d like to believe my gut when it tells me that 2004 may be my most exciting year yet! (Or, maybe, that’s just me putting on double rose-colored lenses.)

* * * * *

New Year’s Eve was a simple, solitary affair. I spent the hours leading up to 2004 cooking a simple pasta dish, after which Paul and I spent over an hour watching the fireworks from our favorite hideaway by the bay.

Up there on that rooftop, everything seemed bright, lovely, and—I’ll use the term again—enchanting. The streets were ablaze with lights of different colors (those by the airport runway were the most fascinating of them all), and they were virtually empty, save for a few whizzing cars here and there. Light show after light show erupted across the metropolis’ skies, and we amused ourselves by guessing which fireworks originated from what place—and what events were being held there. Of course, the Makati area seemed to be the liveliest of them all, although what seemed to be Alabang or Las Piñas—or even Cavite—surprised us with their own showers.

Imagine the fireworks display over New York Harbor on the 4th of July. That’s probably the only show which I know will rival what I have seen that night. It was as if the lights were performing a symphony of their own, with different colors, styles, “textures” (I can’t find any other way to describe it), and rhythms blending harmoniously to form a cohesive piece. It was the best fireworks display that I have ever seen in my life, and I thank all those homes and establishments who have spent tens of thousands of pesos on fireworks for giving me a truly memorable evening.

* * * * *

But the best part… oh, the best part, my dear friends, was not the fireworks display that greeted the new year, but the morning sun that ushered in a bright new day!

After taking a pre-dawn drive to greet some friends, we rushed back to the rooftop in time for some early morning sunshine. You would not believe how white everything was! The sky, instead of being tinted blue, and orange, and lavender—as the early morning skies usually were—was a study in monochromatic white and silver. Everything was just so bright that the sky looked more pristine and… heavenly than usual. We could hardly look up anymore, and we spent a good number of minutes gaping in awe. It was a morning unlike any other, and it was the perfect way to greet what could be a perfectly good year.

* * * * *

As we sat at the edge of the ledge, looking, as Paul said, “like two little schoolchildren atop a little hill,” we saw two birds circling the building, soaring up, then dipping down, then curving this way and that. Paul wondered if they were a pair, because although they seemed to be moving along wildly different paths, they were still flying in the same direction.

We observed the little creatures for a while, who seemed to be enjoying that little side trip of theirs, until Paul concluded, “They’re a pair, alright.” Then we went back to face the glaring sun in peaceful silence.

* * * * *

That scene, especially in the context of our New Year celebration, made me think about life and relationships. All too often, we expect our partners to be traveling along the same road with us, walking beside us to hold our hands, behind us to catch us if we fall, or in front of us to lead the way. It seems to me that we haven’t yet accepted that partners can lead completely separate lives and walk distinctly separate paths, but still look towards the same direction, share a single vision, and therefore maintain a loving and supportive relationship.

Moreover, when we think of “paths”, we imagine narrow stone walkways, marked trails, or anything with boundaries—instead of a wide open space where we can choose whichever way to go. What really struck me, more than seeing the pair of birds go off separately then fly again in unison, was the figure of the path they flew on.

Imagine curved lines that run parallel for a while, then intersect and form a figure 8, then go off in wild directions, then somehow run parallel again. Our childhood, educational system, and corporate cultures don’t seem to encourage that kind of route. Somehow, everyone is conditioned to run a linear course, to do things one-by-one, step-by-step, instead of being allowed to experiment and find a path that fits.

Worse, we expect our partners to travel on exactly the same path where we are, leaving the poor fellow to awkwardly find his place on that road.

* * * * *

I’ve always compared myself to a bird. Nelly Furtado’s song “I’m Like A Bird” became my anthem at one point in my life, and that metaphor stuck to me even more after that surreal morning. Like a bird, I want to fly off in different directions, surveying and enjoying the view along the way, and perhaps learning about life in those parts of the sky. I want to bask in the brightness of the morning sun, and I want to feel the glow of life as I flap my wings and go up, then down, the round and round my little world.

And, like the birds that we saw on New Year morning, I want to fly with a partner who can go off on his own way, but still come back to share the view and the rest of the journey with me. Is it that little schoolboy with whom I shared the view atop a little hill? Only time can tell. Happy 2004, everyone.

This morning, however, I got a totally unexpected treat when my sweetie called me at 4:30 a.m., telling me that he was going to drop by in 15 minutes with something he had to give me. To the rest of the world, 4:30 is an ungodly hour, but to us, it’s a perfectly good time to come calling.

He showed up at my doorstep shortly before 5, with a small bunch of red flowers in his hand.

It was just the kind of thing to make my day—or even my week. Or maybe even longer than that.

To all those guys who want to get the girl, take this hint.

(Of course, you may not be allowed to visit at 4:30 a.m., but try to be creative and see where this takes you.)

Then, after a lot of chit-chat and catching up, he pulled out another red pill from his bag of tricks: this really funky, trippy¸ in-your-face magazine called The Stick Insect Hunter (“the website you can bring to the bathroom”). Published by artist, photographer, writer, and creative genius Andy Maluche, it features 36 pages of amazing (if not twisted and perverse) artwork, photography, and scribblings. It carries most of the content from his weblog, http://dont-touch-my.com, and has enough wit, sarcasm, toilet humor (literally), and creative genius to last me several weeks.

His style is eons apart from my own, but here was another red pill staring me at the face.

I highly recommend it to anyone and everyone seeking a little bit of artistic inspiration, as well as a good ol’ kick in the b—. Okay, it may be a little offensive to some, but it’s worth a look-see anyway. And, mind you, the magazine is beautiful… even if the website comes across as amateur and “mishmashy”.

Here are a few interesting lines I stole from page 28:

Doubt is creativity.
If there is doubt, then there must be an alternative.
By doubting you automatically create an alternative.
The urge to find an alternative is what makes an artist or scientist.
As an artist you should doubt everything, even truth.
Don’t try to find the truth.
What are you going to do with it once you found it? (sic)
Find security in doubt.
Art doesn’t make sense.
So you have to do it fast before you realize that.
Before the ugly doubt beast starts gnawing at your insides.
That is the other doubt—the destructive kind—
Self-doubt.

I may not totally agree with everything he says, but I find it interesting, nonetheless.

So… here’s to art, creativity, genius, and red flowers before dawn.

Enchanted… That may very well have been the state I was in last Monday, as I looked down on Manila from the tower on which I stood. Below me, lights from Roxas Boulevard, Makati, and the nearby airport were winking and swaying, as if a young dancer in the midst of a slow and seductive tango that leaves one feeling ethereal and suspended in time. The lights hypnotized me and seemed to speak to me in hushed and tender tones: “Shhh… shhh… It’s okay… relax… relaaaaax…” I felt weightless, ageless, and worry-free.
The stars above seemed to be speaking the same language, as Taurus, Orion, and The Pleiades—the only constellations I could recognize then—winked at me and shushed me to sit down. “It’s a beautiful night,” they seemed to murmur, “what are you standing up in three-inch heels for? Sit down and enjoy the view, for crying out loud!”

So sit down I did.

Moments like this are rare in this bustling metropolis of several million people, where my days consist of slaving over a PC with my back hunched and my eyes almost kissing a 14-inch monitor, or communing with dirt, sweat, and tricycle belch as I commute my way around to clients who don’t even pay on time. My life is a frenzied one; if there isn’t a deadline to beat, there’s always someone to meet. Oh, and let’s not forget the staple stressors of the credit card company that demands payment now, the niece who wants to play outside no matter how warm the weather is, and the sibling or friend who runs to you with a heavy burden to unload.

Thank God for rooftops.

It wasn’t even my rooftop to begin with, and it wasn’t my calamansi and rum concoction, either. But it was this sense of borrowed time, borrowed space… borrowed comfort drink that made the moment even more… transcendent. I didn’t buy this moment; I didn’t demand for it; and maybe I didn’t even deserve it. But it was given to me by some unknown force so I could silence the critics, the editors, and the slavedrivers in my head… and really just listen… Listen to the faraway hustle and bustle of cars on Roxas Boulevard, to the slow slapping of the waves (there were few, anyway) on neighboring Manila Bay, to the hushed conversation of Paul, Iggy, and Lisa beside me, and to my soul, this mad, restless spirit that always wants so much of itself.

My soul is the greatest slavedriver of all, and I’m glad the lights and the stars shushed it a bit to give me a few hours of peace.

Yes! Up on that rooftop by Manila Bay, I felt peace and serenity for the first time in many, many months. Borrowed serenity on a borrowed rooftop.

It amazes me how it seems to take so much for us to escape our daily grind and find refuge in a familiar and comfortable place. This building-with-the-rooftop has become my second home, and yet I hardly visited the rooftop, the terraces, or the swimming pool below for some quality time with myself. The same goes for my room at home; I have surrounded it with my favorite books, photos, magazines, and candles… and yet I never sit still in it long enough to enjoy my prized possessions.
It always takes an almost-extreme situation for us to really value the things that are just right there beside us. Why is that?

In this wild, wired world, why can’t people sit still and not be accused of being indolent, unproductive, or foolish? Why must we always be standing up and moving about?

Of course, you all know that this question is directed most of all to myself, the only person to blame for this frenetic lifestyle that I have been submerged in. It is I who keep the time, I who crack the whip, I who push myself to the limits of insanity, and I who have no choice but to face the floodwaters every time the dam of my soul breaks.

I thank God for Monday evenings on rooftops—with glasses of calamansi juice and rum to soothe the soul. I thank Him for the lights and stars that lend wonder and serenity to these rare occasions. Most of all, I thank Him for the company of friends and loved ones, without who this moment would have just been another cold night spent in solitude and silence.