In a rare occurrence, I remember a dream I had about a week ago. I was the same age I am now, but I grew up in a society 20 years back, in the height of the Marcos regime and martial law. I was a photojournalist of some sort which had just taken pictures of a really juicy story for the then-fledgling anti-Marcos newspaper, the Philippine Daily Inquirer, and I found myself in a bank trying to withdraw money for some reason or other.

Suddenly the bank was held up.

The armed muggers told everyone to drop to the floor and began taking valuables from people. One of them saw the bulky-looking canvas shoulder bag I was toting, and got interested in its contents. Of course, this housed my trusty Nikon FM SLR camera.

He saw the camera and began to snatch it away from the bag. I remember having the strangest feeling of wanting it back because the camera was my dad's in the first place. On impulse I lunged forward, wrestling with the man and telling him to give me back the FM.

Then I heard a gunshot...and I was dead. I could barely feel the impact as it hit my head.

For some reason I couldn't accept this fate, so I jumped back in time to when I was wrestling with the mugger. Instead of receiving a hot dose of lead, I sidestepped and managed to wrestle the gun away from him aikido-style.

And that's when I woke up.

If lucid dreaming is an art, I don't seem to have mastered it yet.
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When I think about this dream, I guess I got it because I got too spooked by the tales our resource person had in our interview.

For our Intro to Print course, we had to do an oral history of a Filipino journalist. Having met and listened to him before in a seminar for The LaSallian, I immediately thought of Jimmy S. Gomez, Associated Press staff reporter. The guy had so many tales of his stories, including those of his Abu Sayyaf interviews and his documented experiences with riots and tear gas inhalation.

Back in grade school I wanted to be a newsman.

Damn, I think now I know better.
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We may have not gone to Robinsons Place or Glorietta. We may have not gone to Alda's or Cibo for a great lunch. We may have simply spent four hours watching video CDs, kissing and eating delivered pizza and pasta.

But I enjoyed every minute of it, and that's what matters.

I love you my baby.