Four Seasons

This May, millions of my countrymen will once again troop the polling stations to cast their votes for the legislative and local elections. In a country where elections are often smeared by fraud and money politics, I cannot help but worry of another disorderly and full of political drama election day. Even as of this writing, the drama has already begun. The last time I voted, I chose the lesser evil. Frankly speaking, I saw no one capable of running the government. I never believed the campaign vows, from one aspirant who promised to readily uplift the lives of the Filipino people; to another who said that every child would enjoy good education. The administration party boasted a well-developed social welfare programs. The opposition claimed the best pro-poor agenda. Okay, leave me alone! “I'm so tired of being here. Suppressed by all my childish fears. And if you have to leave I wish that you would just leave. 'Cause your presence still lingers here. And it won'...

“Each second, the leaves shiver at every passing breeze, a little too afraid that they might shake off from their tight cling. Every day is a decision for them to either stay on top or to let go. Every falling is not dying; it’s a sweet touch of God.” She said “I love you” and hung up the phone. A little girl ran towards her asking “Is daddy at work?” She nodded and gave the child a tight hug – a profound love that very instant, I saw. I was glancing at them, a photo-perfect mother-daughter pair under the shade of a pale green tree. Leaves were falling on them and sprinkling her every kiss attempt and the girl’s every giggle of anticipation. Only the leaves could render a clear testimony of the sugar-coated whispers they, at that time, both exchanged, like music to their ears. The trees inspired me to write. There was a day I accounted the number of leaves that have actually fallen. Hundreds. No, thousands of them did bid the branches farewell. While I am trying to fo...

Among the popular theories of the origin of the term HOBO, I chose the contraction of HOmeward BOund. There is only one reason for opting that. This article is about Brule. About home. Watching and listening to Brule and the AIRO band on the night of Friday the 13th, established a thought that home is where the real music is. Paul LaRoche (stage name: Brule) through his distinct Native American music, inspired the audience with his family life – how tensions became triumphs, how identity and reconciliation fulfilled a dream and how his love for his family and culture sent a message of hope to all those who continually love his music. It was a blissful feeling. I felt a stirring touch of tranquility in every strum of the guitar from his son, Shane, hum of the flute from her daughter, Nicole and beat of the drum from the talented Moses. I admit, never in my entire life had I experienced this genre of music, not ever. The long existence of Western music in my country has much to ...