COLUMBUS WENT TO MY HOUSE
By: Iris P. Concepcion

Once upon a time, there was a running story about toes that never seemed to end. The saga started somewhere in 1818 when the blinking, pointed brassiere was still a blonde and was engagingly throwing pieces on Sean Penn. She did not look at the world in that kind of spectre then but continuously, to the point of sounding like a broken record,she simply nagged, howled, recited poetry, convinced kids with nary a care then to speak things they should not be afraid of speaking as things unfold quite stirringly in her cocooned world.

All beneath this is not ( she is not doing geezer stuff to add anything to her person like additional say, strawberries or nuts or cream: she was taught to be thankful whether or not she has pennies inside her pocket) an aspiration to whiten her legs; no, it is all about joining people together for a common purpose in that, they could enjoy their freedom under a roof of responsible artistry which, when seriously imposed, beget genuine and better human living conditions (add this up to a sum: happiness). That's all there is to it if you scratch the surface, isn't it?

When one is genuinely inspired, hurdles seem to banish to dust; work becomes more as an invitation similar to good foreplay---the vibe can do so much. Even with desolate surroundings hounding, more than the desire to have them attain material want must be the inner craving to have these people armed with fulfilled selves, wanting to wax melodies, write words, hum in content, walk in space suits under a scorching heat, get empowered by enjoying food that does not shortchange in palate, smiling on good pavements on which they can walk leisurely and pick their noses to.

She does not preach; she wanted everyone to travel, why not, (the world is free to those who keep it alive) but under the auspices of a satisfied, earned keep.

Now, the transition to the "I" word.

Freakingly, I am still reading stories of the feet with sustained shock and hilarity at times. Yes Ma'am, the young 'uns are having the time of their life even if it sucks like tornado sometimes. If you really skin, pare down, peel away the puff that normally goes around in circles, you shall find that all these people are the same except for one thing: some pretend to be reckless and bold but are truly afraid inside, while those you call as stutterers, retards and inexperienced do so because they never lose track of their purpose: this is a world meant to give smiles to, not degrade it.

Experience the joy of Star Trek spaghetti food; insane people talking with sense; cute puppies having it better in South Park missions than a virgin; shock finds like F. Panopio is dead, the novelty singer, and he looks like someone in sweater--eerie-; shouting matches on the streets over marital bickerings ("Inaagaw niya ang asawa ko!" and the barangay captain meddled to referee the scuttlebutt, in the middle of the road, while an election rally is about to begin nearby----seriously, this topped the survey of the most Bronx-type of melee you can ever imagine and you get the point finally).

I find joy that someone with terrible nasal intonation can breed people like angels---so what if he does not share some of my convictions; that someone so rugged down in clothes can have spectacular vocal pipes. These are my affirmations that God never meant everyone to be perfect. Otherwise, He will just be cloning Himself.

Back to third person reference.

She had exacted lines that bordered on confessional tones, oh she did. She was moved that some of her conversations drew some mild dew drops unto the cheeks (that is release; I can't see a shrink for I AM a shrink). I hope I did the world good when I could allow people to view things in a manner that fulfills rather than demeans. She had rode in first class vehicles at one point in her life so she could not be lured into doing evil things for the same reason. I don't know, God has other plans that Reason itself could not argue with.

Yes folks, it is about feeling good inside: even billionaires or zillionaires see this important ingredient. When you are fulfilled inside, you can walk down in any alley, horrific or not, always, always, hopeful.

When you look forward to a day wearing this, somehow you'd know, these are the kind of people who could make dreams truly real.

("Shut up Mom!", autistic son implodes. "You sound like a paperback!")

("Mea culpa son, mea culpa," Mom replies, knowingly.)