Coloring Book

Pero ang pinakamakulay sa lahat ng color sa color wheel ng buhay ay yung sinabi ni Carrie sa Sex And The City movie.
Masaya ang 'color' na yun.
For me, I like it Red Hot. Tulad ng nangyari kagabi. Masaya akong nakipag-coloring. Hihi

- Mel Beckham

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Inaya akong muli ng aking kaibigan na kulayan ang kanyang coloring book. Kung noong unang beses ay nagdalawang isip pa ako't nagsisi sa kinalabasan ng aking pagkukulay, ngayo'y ang pangungulila ng kamay ang siyang nagdala sa akin sa kanyang bahay. Hawak ang pulang Crayola, sinimulan kong padaudusin ang patusok na dulo nito sa imahe na gustong pakulayan ng aking kaibigan. Sa sobrang diin ng aking pagkiskis sa coloring book, ang matingkad na pula ng aking pangkulay ay bumabakat pati sa kabilang pahina kung saan ibang imahe naman ang makikita.

Ang imahe na kinukulayan ko ay larawan ng isang malaking bubuyog. Walang bulaklak ang kasama sa imahe at tanging ang bubuyog lamang ang makikita sa pahina. Malamig ang paligid at tanging ang liwanag lang mula sa lampshade ang gumagabay sa aking kamay habang ako ay nagkukulay. Ang kaibigan ko naman ay panay ang pakikiramdam kung lalagpas muli sa guhit ng larawan ang tip ng aking Crayola.

At lumagpas muli ito gaya ng dati at pinagtawanan na lang namin ang aking pagkakamali.

Tumagal ang pagkukulay ng mahigit isang oras. Sa tagal na ito'y hindi kami nagkaroon ng pagkakataon magkwentuhan at pati na rin ang magbalitaan sa aming mga buhay. Ang mahalaga'y makulayan ang larawan, at pagkatapos nito'y maari na akong bumalik upang ipagpatuloy ang aking kinahiligan sa pagsusulat.

Ngunit sa hindi ko maipaliwanag na dahilan.

Ang matingkad na pula ay unti-unting nagiging kulay maroon at pagkatapos naman ay kulay brown habang ito ay tumatagal sa papel. Hindi ko pinansin ang pagbabago, sapagkat nakatuon ang aking mata sa bahagi ng larawan na hindi ko pa nakukulayan. Ang kaibigan ko nama'y nakatuon rin sa bahaging hindi ko pa nagagawa.

Pareho kaming nakatingin sa malaking tiyan ng bubuyog na animo'y puno ng hangin na isang tusok lang ng karayom dito'y mabilis itong puputok.

Hanggang sa ang obra ay natapos naming mabuo.

Nais ko man itaas ang coloring book at ipagmalaki sa harap ng lampshade, subalit anong ipagmamalaki ang ihaharap ko sa isang larawang matapos maging matingkad na pula'y bumalik muli sa pagiging kulay abo nito?

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But I threw you the obvious
Just to see if there's more behind the
Eyes of a fallen angel,
Eyes of a tragedy

Here I am expecting just a little bit
Too much from the wounded
But I see, see through it all
See through, see you

- A Perfect Circle, 3 Libras

In Pursuit Of Perfection

Once upon a time, there was a bright, but often misunderstood pupil in Grade Five. He sat on the front row and would often sleep in class even if his teacher was at the climax of her subject discussion. Sometimes, he would keep himself awake by writing doodles on his notepad, or bite his dirt-covered nails until it makes a crunchy sound like those of a nail-clipper, or pick his nose and lick whatever gooey object that gets stuck on his right index finger. He was weird, and was declared an outcast because of his habits. His teachers were more inclined to focus their attention towards the mischievous ones - the kids who would hit a fellow pupil with his Coleman jug, or steal a perfumed pen or two from his seatmate's pink plastic pencil case, or compete with the teacher for attention by talking to his friends, who are on the other end of the classroom. Of course, I am a bit exaggerating, but who knows, this story really happened once upon a time.

Anyway this kid hated any subject that had to deal with numbers. His aversion towards anything that needed calculation was so severe, that he found happiness in getting a grade of 79 in all the four quarter periods of the previous school year. He was in Grade Four then. Yet, despite his malady in mathematics, he showed some potentials when it came to literature. Aside from Sibika, it was in Reading that he excelled best.

He loved reading anecdotes - even if he does not fully comprehend what the story was all about. Strange yet this kid understood concepts and meanings and moral lessons, even if sentences took his attention away from imagination. His secret love for letters was so intimate that he was almost at the brink of discovering the written words, when suddenly his teacher took away his dreams and accused him of plagiarism when she asked them to write a Haiku in class.

The Haiku was about a yellow cat,
who slept beside this boy in bed,
and purred and rubbed its furry body against his legs when it gets hungry.
and loved him the way a feline conditionally loved its master.

The kid was so inspired to write the Haiku that he even called on his doodling abilities to illustrate the cat embossed against a blue wall on an Oslo paper. He proudly submitted his work to the teacher, who outrightly declared that his work was a fraud.

Being a mere kid, he does not know how to plead innocent against her accusations. All his life, he was taught not only to respect the elderly, but also accept everything that was told to him by the elders.

And so he kept his guiltless soul within and accepted his fate as the pupil accused of copying from a book.

The best Haikus were plastered on the walls of each classroom the Reading teacher was handling. The pupil's Haiku was nowhere to be seen - no matter how he searched the walls for his misplaced work.

His hopes lie on the teacher, who might have realized that she was throwing a potential talent to waste. Maybe the night she chose the best works, she admitted to herself that her accusation toward her pupil was merely based on impressions and nothing more.

But she didn't retract her statement.

At the end of the quarter, the Haikus were returned to the pupils. The boy received a grade of 80 for all the hard work and inspiration and creativity that he poured on his Haiku.

He felt a slight tinge of pain, but being a young boy, he never understood how it felt like being betrayed by someone who inspired him.

Until many years later, when the man persistently remembers, and can now express in broken words what really happened during that turning point in his life.

The story of the little boy who was accused of copying a poem still haunts him whenever he begins to write. For he knows, that what the pupil submitted was inspired by his striped-yellow friend who followed him around the house with the tip of its furry tail proudly pointing in mid-air.

And when faced with the dilemma of writing; of the first rejection he received just when he was about to flap his wings and explore the landscape of letters.

The memory becomes a falling shard of glass, tearing his wings apart and pulling him back, face-first on the ground.