DRAWING THE HAND
By: Iris P. Concepcion

My little five peso Golden Gate pad is all tattered and filled with my own undecipherable handwriting. I grab it whenever I encounter men with a vocabulary of Hefner proportions, the melting alps off my level of comprehension, travelling as they were with shoes and the impending TRO's that could ruin huge, huge public relations retainers. They lurk between the rejected and the second spotters normally.

I likewise write anything on it when faced with on-the-spot hilarity like the washed stuffed toy floating inside a pail, sleeping as if sunbathing in the Ritz. This is the comical, glistening frame on my way to the loo. It is a fat toy who is in perpetual sleeping mode.

As I am scribbling on this page, a kid grabbed it and did little drawings of a hand on it. Instead of sketched nails (she bargained for just two sheets, I gave her four) to imprint his young Rembrandt powers.

What she did is this: she placed little television sets on these nails and they kept on playing over and over again if we are going to transport this into the table of impressionable advertising creatives.

My argument not to give in to the boorish, flat, alcoholic bent on the tailers is precisely this. They could not clean up their own life as relationships tumble in bins. They throw this out to people who have better wits to throw their misgivings back to the world by delivering good deeds.

If they can't do it right on the family, they are going to bluff and fake and bungle it on the larger play of transformation.

For sticking by my side amid the howl and noise, thank you selected people of the universe.

It is tough getting out a sculpture of worldclass value to yacking barbarians. This I just realized, with laughable results.

God knows they are the only reason why we stay calm and sane.

From the words of Conrad de Quiros, once more:

"How many of us can do what she has done? Easy to be brave when you’re far from danger, not so when you’re heading straight for it. How many of us could have looked at how formidable the enemy was, and gone on to do what she did anyway? How many of us could have looked at how arduous the journey was, and gone on to do what she did anyway? How many of us could have looked at our children, at the scary present we were throwing them in and the uncertain future we were putting before them, and gone on to do what she did anyway?"

I repeat, women in this country have more guts and balls than our rather girlie, mouthy, nagging males who just yack and yack and yack and swipe back by mentioning genitalia. They are sissier than the real sissies themselves.

In the real world of interplay, they never count.