To Satch Conta

He is no legendary baseball pitcher, be he is sure a legend to me.

To Satch
Sometimes I feel like I will never stop
Just go on forever
Till one fine mornin
I’m gonna reach up and grab me a handfulla stars
Swing out my long lean leg
And whip three hot strikes burnin down the heavens
And look over a God and say
How about that!!!!

I have come across this poem a dozen times. He told me this is where he got his nick name, but I am not really sure about that. But it is only today that I have actually felt the connection of this poem to me. Seemingly, it is trying to tell me something. The words stop, forever, mornin, stars are just a few of the words I actually love. However, it is the last line that got me into thinking at the moment, why this poem has been drawn to me again, on his very birthday, on a typical Monday, just when I am starting to feel that the world is conniving against my fall again. I am sure he is trying to give me a little push, to throw those strikes and have faith in the heavens that I too can actually say: “How about that!!!”

I actually named my daughter after the legendary pitcher, Satchel Paige. But the truth of the matter is, I named her after Satch, the man I will always be proud to call my father even if we have had our histories of craziness during his lifetime. He shall always be a legend to me.

Happy Birthday, Papa. 

Kisses to the skies,



For Maki

I always wonder where connection comes from. As for the kind of connection I have with you, I figure out it has something to do about words. So I come back to where I first met you, where I first talked to you, where I first got to know you—your words. It is more about the way you write than what you write that I have come to think that you are truly promising. For strange reasons, I have come to like having you around even for a chat, an exchange of ironies, a cup of coffee, a random walk, a senseless thread. This connection started when I discovered that you write with your heart even if blood drips from it. I discovered our connection here. You come to like I were your mother and you were my child, but it would be cruel to say that you might be the daughter I never have because I do have a wonderful daughter, and you do have a great mom. On the other hand, you are my special born, a child conceived from a connection of words that spell realities about life and love. I am really glad I can talk to you and you can talk to me. May this connection lead to more long walks, more coffee breaks and more sentence completions. Happy Birthday, my Maki. I could not think of a fitting gift for your Sweet Sixteen than this, but of course, there will always be a nice coffee treat if we have time to spare. Love you.

Photo on 5-28-15 at 3.39 PM #3

First Hour in the Morning

I knew was doing the right thing not minding the puddles of rain and how stepping on them stains my legs on this drizzling Tuesday.

First stop: I was annoyed for the second time this week (and a dozen times over the past week) by hard-headed jeepney drivers who continued to bark on passengers to get on even if they were not at the proper loading zone. I snare at them just about every morning because I am a firm believer that the way to beat their non-abiding tendencies is not to tolerate getting on a jeepney where it is improper (and I am more annoyed by passengers who are equally insensitive). Just when I was about to curse the day as I walked away from the situation when I would have to give a lecture on a public utility vehicle driver a lesson on traffic rules, somebody offers me a ride. Thanks Kaye for taking pity on your former teacher and letting her hitch on your flashy car.

Now at my office, where I look forward to a coffee date with myself, I felt glad despite the fact that I timed in 28 minutes late, because it was exam week anyway so I had plenty of time ahead to take pleasure on my latte. It was also a bonus when the canteen served choco rotti as coffee mate. Thanks canteen lady for adding to sweetness to my bland coffee life.

Just when I was about to wrap up my 15-minute coffee break, the birthday girl served puttanesca as thanksgiving. She started talking about prostitutes in Italy who were to tired to cook and just sauteed pasta that is why the pasta was called puttanesca. Thanks Di Rose for the trivia, the pasta and the opportunity that I might skip lunch today. And happy birthday again.

All these things happened at the first hour of the morning. At least there are three things to be thankful for at the first hour. They would be enough for me to go on for the rest of the day.

Good morning, Tuesday.