Particular Moments

More Stars than There are

Neighborhood Tomboy

Down the street lives a family of newcomer-neighbors. Parked next to their side walk is a red, bulky pickup truck that rendered its respective portion of the street only wide enough for one car to pass through at any given time. The truck is always parked there. Other neighbors do not complain, neither do you—rumor has it that the husband is afflicted with brain tumor.

The adults are rarely seen out, but ever since their move-in, this side of the community has lightened up several notches. The children of the Red-Truck residence, being such active roamers as they are, really brought about a new air in this neighborhood full of folks who have settled here since the 60’s.

The boldest of the little ones is a girl, no older than 5 or 6 by appearance; she stands out like a protagonist before a subordinate, background crowd. More so an outside kid, she is always seen sporting slightly oversized T-shirts and knee-length athletic shorts; every now and then she’d have a baseball cap on backwards—a quintessential tomboy whose childhood is fortunately left untempered.

Never prim and pretty, but she is beautiful, no amount of androgyny could mask the conspicuous elements that so clearly identify her as who she is.


In the summer, she frequently rode her bright yellow, 4×4 motorcycle. Judging by the implied personalities associated with the parked truck, one could presume that the motorbike was a result of her father’s influence. But regardless of where her habits arise from, it was evident that she naturally enjoyed speeding up and down the steady incline leading to the turnaround at the end of the street.

The 4×4, designed more for rougher outdoor terrains—was let loose on flat asphalt roads.  She’d unleash waves of loud rattling throughout the neighborhood. As she made her way, one would hear the gradual amplifications her automobile’s distinctive droning: getting louder, closer, more and more vexing; then right before the noise burns through one’s last straw of tolerance, it’d slowly fade away as she drove off into the distance. The whole process would repeat; the volume of her motor revving would go up and down, getting closer and further progressively, like the affairs of a sinusoidal wave.

She’d wave her hand and smile with her dimples, showing an un-corrected set of juvenile teeth—squinting her eyes against the summer sun, she was a cheery rascal.


The fall comes and the place grows quieter. Perhaps due to some neighbors having finally made their confrontations, the Red Truck now belongs to the driveway. You often come home to a vacant scene, with no children playing in the streets. School, maybe—is summer the only and true time to rightfully be a kid?

You don’t like the mood change, for it has gotten so deflating.

Much to your surprise, a few afternoons back, as you pulled into the driveway, there she was again, walking down the street with the sun on her back; her pony tail had gotten long and frazzled, subtly fluttering from side to side as she walked in her distinctive gait.

The sight of her made you smile—how could this little person, merely a feet taller than a fire hydrant, while waddling down the sidewalk, encompass such promise and livelihood?

For a second, you couldn’t help but to have envied her untamed stage in life. Age and all that you have irreversibly become. The things that chronically cause you to beg, ‘how did I get like this?’ The things that you’ve become as time moved on; you have become them—without a clue as to how. You are terrified at how things have turned out; all the things that are seemingly stuck and cannot be shed off. Oh how you wish for an impossible shot at backtracking your steps.

But it was all okay. Just like the little tomboy is still around—just like how you and everyone else had accepted, even cherished her summer-time, deadening engine thrums.

Nothing hampers the spirit of youth, especially its embodied symbol of ever-uplifting hope. With age, certain things gray, and chance begins to offer fewer and fewer prospects, but there will always be youth to keep its neighbor’s lights on—its time defying innocence and energy manifesting themselves time after time, bearing the torch-flame of life forever long.

Small Disclosure

I try to refrain from writing in first person, for doing so, personally, tends to alter the weight of words—as in, the text begins to sound verbal, conversational. What is the point of writing when one writes as he speaks?

Then again, there is not too much purpose in furnishing up an idea so superfluously so as to fall into the trap of ostentation.  Honestly, as a human being (and therefore in possession of inescapable, innate egotism) I simply find it easier to get my thoughts across in first person.


Lately, between daily obligations, I have been settling for less and posting more pictures than this blog deserves; I am no photographer; my pictures are shallow. Critically, they would only be worthy of publishing unless I devote equivalent amounts of effort to their creation as I do to my writings.

Confession # One: my photos frustrate me—I only post them (for the most part) to perpetuate and satisfy the much unneeded urge for instant gratification: something the modern society has been very effective in opening people’s appetite for.

Will we, in time, learn to submit to the notion that significant progress, change, and accreditation has to occur gradually, through processes? As true affection require spans of time to solidify?


Confession # Two: A personal favorite:

Originally heard in the closing credits of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (2011 film adaption).

(you can sod it and go elsewhere if you cannot handle any spoiler that follows: watch the movie)—

Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross couldn’t have picked a more adequate song to wrap up the story, in which the protagonist Lisbeth, who’s spent her entire life not trusting anyone, bearing nothing but scar tissues, finally crossed path with someone whom she deemed righteous and harmless enough to confide in—only to eventually discover that, despite everything she did, from saving his life to rescuing his career, he was incapable of returning any sense of mutual affection. The movie ends with Lisbeth driving off into the darkness, seemingly gone forever, void of any elements of the sensational “happily ever after.”

A good, powerful ending; one that does not relieve but urges the audience to tap into their own feelings and think on behalf of the character, to see and relate. The ending was essentially, the movie itself.

As the song played, one could imagine Lisbeth in her mind, beckoning for answers to questions she has both for him (Mikael) and herself: is your love strong enough? Are you worth living and dying for?

More in context, was Mikael the end to Lisbeth’s suffering? Could she, through a trust in him, be capable of happiness for the first time in her life? At that point, anyone having been attentive would be aware that Lisbeth knew the obvious answer: having gone through her life, as difficult as it was, in which everything seemed to betray her, how could she be so foolish to have trusted anyone in the first place?

As such, the placement of this song more deeply acts as a rhetorical outcry to the viewers—I felt the lyrics interrogating the more elusive aspects of myself, almost doubting the integrity of the presumably established strengths of my own emotional boundaries—just how far will I truly go and how much I would sacrifice for someone to whom I hold dear? Do I have what it takes to care for anyone more so than I do for myself? I once thought I did, but this song made me think twice: was it self-deceit in claiming myself able?

But personal connotations go beyond the intended picture: I found the song reaching into every aspect of my life, down to my willingness to live another dawn. Somehow, every time I hear it, I am further reminded that I can do much more, as life and everything in it deserves that much more sincerity and effort from me.


Confession # Three: