books and discourse

during those difficult weeks i found comfort reading David Sedaris' Me Talk Pretty One Day.
though my condition made concentration difficult, i managed through it, reading one chapter at a time or until as far as the running thoughts take over my imagination.
every line in every chapter of that book i wanted to highlight. they seemed funniest, the further i go, the funnier they seemed. this is not to discount the fact that the book itself was a collection of stories so each chapter would certainly be a different comical anecdote.

"Nobody dies on a Wednesday--hadn't these people learned anything?"

- from the chapter Learning Curve in Me Talk Pretty One Day

every time i highlighted i yearn for my reading friends. the more i highlighted the more i wish i still had them around--or at least had news ones to share the joy with. but there were none. At the end of every funny quote, funny line smothered in bright neon pink highlighter is the loneliness of knowing the end is nigh. there was comfort in knowing that the book and i shared these moments--i almost died laughing inside. and that's all to it.

i am sick and tired of sharing stuff on facebook; of posting about stuff i read and wishing to interest somebody to a meaningful discussion, like before 15 or 20 years ago, with my reading friends: sitting on a bench under a cool canopy of the school yard tree raving like maniacs about how great a book was and showing to each other the parts of great interest in the book (highlighted of course--but with just a pen or a pencil (too poor to get neon highlighters), skimming through each one of them, one after another, page after page, like how we would in a literature class.

but now, there is none. nothing viable for discussion beyond the deliberate curation of what should be in the public profile of these personalities--these commenters.

the books people read and reduced to a quote or two, from a page of a book recently opened, and closed, replaced back in the shelf once the beautiful, endearing quote has been retyped and posted on a status in facebook. the books and reading materials have been reduced to accessories, none of it provides room for eager discourse or enthusiastic analysis (over-analysis at times) of the things that one did not quite comprehend.

"...there's a reason regular people don't appear on TV: we're boring."

- from the chapter Nutcracker.com in Me Talk Pretty One Day

Pieces for Gogol.

He never tells me he doesn't want to remember.
Every time i ask him about things and memories about our old house he simply tells me, "I'm sorry Nanay, I've forgotten them all." He said all his memories of the past burned along with the house. 

When he was five he told me he wants to marry me. 

That I was the prettiest lady he's ever seen. No one, not even his father has even gotten close to telling the same things. He imagined if he married me we could stay forever as family and the time would not move and we would just remain like we are. He a five year-old and us young parents who refuse to get out of rental housing. Then he turned seven and went to formal school, got bullied, bullied somebody, had troubles with teachers, academics, and realized that no amount of wishing can stop time from turning, and him from growing up, and that pretty soon he would have to move out like we always told him to.  

When he was still a toddler his father would often find him, upon waking up in the morning, silently staring out our bedroom window, like waiting for something or somebody. Like an old man waiting to find reasons for existing. 

It didn't worry me at first then when it started happening regularly, I began to worry but just a bit. he seemed to young to be already neurotic, or even to be just thinking too much. Though i wasn't really sure if it was thinking that he was doing, or if he was just waiting for his morning pee to come. 

That one time, just recently, he told us Jesus can be so cool with a long hair, he can even go to school with it or do anything he wants because he is the son of God. And how he gave us an "aha! i am so totally confused right now, mother" kind of smile when we told him, "what does it matter, you are the son of Keith!" because he couldn't make it to saying that his father is 'nothing' compared to God. 

So he just goes on and says, "ah, why you keep telling me things too weird?"

and declares he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. 

sand

the sun now sets at 21:12.

the first i was ever in a summer night on a summer solstice was 3 years ago, in June. I suffered from a terrible jetlag and loneliness that sleep was difficult. Thinking about it, it was probably the loneliness that made sleep so elusive. Only a day into that different world and i already felt lonely.

but work has to go on and in the morning, i still had to clock in, had usher people in and out of the tour bus, take their photos, take down notes, ask relevant question, pull my jacket tighter when the summer breeze blew, tell everyone 'i'm-really-easily-cold' when they gave me bewildered looks seeing me cringe at the summer breeze, try to be useful, try to appear important.

truth is, the moment i hit puberty, i have been thinking of disappearing in this world.
no, it never involved suicide,though i would admit i did have countless of suicidal thoughts, the worst of them was happened i gave birth to my eldest, and the latest was last in December of last year. I trace both to postpartum depression; which might be true of the former, the latter, something i had to concoct because i could not think of any reason. There are days when the best feeling i could think of was the feeling of disappearing. at that time, when the feeling hit me, all i wanted was to briefly disappear. Maybe rest is the most appropriate word--rest but i remain invisible, at least for a week. However, people who chased that brief moment of disappearance realize only far too late that suicide is permanent and they simply cannot just walk back in like that.

I was at the beach and i settled my 11-month old son on the sand. he squirmed when his feet touch the gritty wet, black, sand, still warm from the late afternoon sun. I thought that if i walked further up the water i can just disappear. i kissed him several times and when i was about to go, a tricycle revving its engine appeared. it was full of a bunch of noisy people, whom i surmised was a troop of super-extended family. my son wailed at the sound of the tricycle engine and i came to his rescue, picked him up from the sand and cuddled him on my lap. he held on the neckline of my shirt like so tight i could have stood up and let him and he would still be hanging there like a pendulum.

"Let's us get back home," i told him like he'd understood. I put on the baby carrier and packed him in and started our way back. he placed his small hand on my face and left a handprint of sand. he squealed. he was happy, i guess, that we are both making our way back.


- FIN -

Remembrance of things past.

On the main door are Gogol’s artworks. The door is painted dark brown, worn and flaking on the edges. 

Standing by the door, to the left is Gogol’s triple-colored desk of yellow, red and blue. It's made of plastic and his Dad has 10,000 things he didn't like about that table but it has to stay there because it was a gift from grandma. On that horrible-looking plastic table is the landline telephone and my collection of Granta. Underneath the table is the large toolbox that houses not tools but the archives of the negatives and the cameras that Keith and I have been using to take photos in the last four years. Next to the horrible-looking tri-colored table is the rickety computer table, to which Keith also has 10,000 things to complain about but chose not to because we had that for super cheap. On the rickety table is a flat screen monitor, a mouse and gazillion of little things that for some reason keeps on accumulating. Post-its, receipts, prescriptions, pens that don't write anymore, pencils with broken lead. Things that are without use. The flatscreen monitor is hooked to a CPU on a bamboo chair that has been repurposed as a shelf. A plastic box of my work documents is wedged in between that repurposed bamboo chair and a gray TV shelf, which also houses the defunct DVD player. Along with the DVD player are Keith’s dry seals – one for his architectural profession and the other for the plumbing profession. The architecture seal has a red band to make it easier to tell which is which.

In the past we used the levels of the TV shelf as temporary holders for our cameras, especially the ones that we often used – the minolta x700 (deceased), yashica t4 and minolta sr-t 101. At other times it contained the kids’ toys—the matchbox cars or their motley crew of little people (molded plastic toy soldiers mostly). The plastic box that contains my work files has a translucent white plastic cover, with the most exposed part showing signs of age, fading and sagging. On that box is where the living room electric fan sits. Sometimes it is the orange fan, sometimes it is the white-and-blue. we interchange them to avoid over-heating especially during summers.

Across the TV, desktop computer, fan and that blue plastic box is the bamboo sofa with a few missing parts. One was from a playful kick and the other was a result of being submerged in the flood waters for hours. We kept the sofa even after the flood because it is the most rational thing to do. Things that can be re-use, repurpose, upcycle we have to. Every thing deserves a second life.

Between the bamboo sofa and the TV is a blank space that we intentionally left like that, without a coffee table because it is where my father sleeps on days he is with us. Also, we use that space to spread the mattress and camp to watch TV or in-house movie night on weekends. The bamboo sofa also serves as the divider between our narrow dining room, which is nothing but an assortment of a green square plastic table and three green monobloc chairs. The dining table is sagging at the center and cutter/knife scars. If not for the persistent mud stains on the corners where brushes couldn't reach, no one could tell it also survived the flooding in 2008. Along with knick knacks in the house, the bamboo furniture, and the fridge, the table floated when the flood waters reached beyond one meter. We did clean the green table, thoroughly. Almost. I didn’t realize the oversight until after about three years past that flood year when I crawled under the table to get the ball that Gogol threw. Gogol was aiming for me but he hit the gray refrigerated beside the table instead. The ball bounced on the ricekeeper by the corner of the fridge and rolled under the green table.

i squatted to have a look and decided to make a go for it. I lay prone and slowly crawled towards the ball. When i reached the tabled, I looked up to make sure my head had enough clearance from the underside of the table and there I saw, cobwebs and brown spots that had clung to the plastic like a permanent fixture. I grabbed the ball, threw it back to Gogol.

"There are spots of mud here that we didn't clean," I announced as I crawled my way out.

But everyone seemed too busy to hear. I called out to Gogol to resume our play, telling myself I find time to crawl back under and scrub it clean.

When the sun rose the next day, I rushed to make coffee for Keith and myself on the little electric coffee maker, which would be the best possession we've ever have--at least in making sure that our day starts right.

The mud under the table clung and remained hidden, now completely forgotten.

Lessons from the Fire, Pt. 3

We lived at the 7th unit, sandwiched between the 6th that is occupied by senior university students and the 8th that is occupied by the caretaker, a retired government worker and his  wife who seldom goes out of the house. We have been living in the unit for the last nine years. At first the apartment was just for my siblings, myself and my father who works in the city on weekdays. I was unmarried and pregnant, and it was expected that pretty soon my boyfriend would have to move in with us.

When our first son was born, Keith and I took over management of the house. We had to because our little family is the one already occupying most of the space. With a nanny and a kid whose space requirement is good enough for 10 people, taking over was the most logical thing for us to do. When it happened, nesting began. Pictures on the wall started appearing. Books started accumulating. Tools that are too many they should be inside a shed, started piling up in the little corner of our living room, right underneath the stairwell. I started accumulating my own things for the kitchen—a second hand oven, a waffle-maker, a blender and a cheapo mixer that my nanny used to ice our first son’s 7th birthday cake. When our son left toddlerhood, Keith and I found ourselves with just enough time to take on another interest. Our son was starting to enjoy being on his own more than being with us and the entertainment that comes with it. With new interests came the accumulation of cameras, then the art materials that came after we took an art class in the summer of 2012.

At some point, when the second son was born, Keith found himself some thousands of pesos away from buying what could have been the family's first Volkswagen beetle. He settled for a bike instead. Six weeks after I gave birth I found myself buying my very first mountain bike. It was a hard tail, red and white that is one size too big for me, but I rode it anyway. Then the riding got too comfortable albeit complicated. We realized we couldn't go riding the whole weekend and clean it in time to use for commuting to work the next day. There was no way but to hoard and our house found itself with more bikes that it can can store, some had to be kept outside, by the window, secured by chaining it to other bikes. The bigger ones were unofficially parked in the caretaker’s garage, along with his blue-green beetle that has seen better days. Our caretaker only offered his garage because he was so worried our bikes would get stolen. He has his own real-ugly-bike, way uglier than the ugly ones we had, but he treasured it so much that he knew exactly how it would feel to lose something that is logistically important.

Then the fire came. On February 28. The caretaker wasn’t there; he went to the other island to visit his family, bringing along his wife and things they would need for a weekend trip. He left his blue-green beetle and locked their unit. Meanwhile, everyone in our house was taking their afternoon nap—my sister coming home from a night duty as a nurse, my son resting from his fourth periodic exam and my husband, falling asleep beside our son. He was awaken by the sound of the water overflowing from the bathroom tub. Everything after that was just a blurry memory of him rushing to rouse my sister, turning off the main switch, dragging my bike with him but found it chained and calmly walking out the compound blanketed in thick brown smoke. Then minutes after, they found themselves by corner fruit stand, watching in horror as the red angry flames eat our history away. My son, clutching the pillow he slept on—the only thing he was able to bring out of the burning house, too young to comprehend, knew the fate of his iPad.

“What am I going to do now, my iPad is gone. My iPad is gone.”

Then that night he asked his aunt, “What will happen to Nanay [mother] now? Where will she sleep when she comes back? What will happen to us now?”  

The image of his childhood home burning was too vivid it kept on running over and over again, on repeat, in his mind. The next day, he came down with a fever. On their way home coming from the drugstore, he asked to be brought to the compound. He said he just wants to see it again. He said when they left the scene yesterday the house was still standing. Little did he know it will be the last he could come close to it. 

It was midday and there was nobody there when they reached the site. With a burning fever, he got out of the car, with him an unopened can of four-seasons juice he was supposed to take with his medicines. He stopped by the charred gate, securely locked by a new set of chains. He stared at the driveway, now quiet and peaceful with everything inside burned to pieces. In absence of the violent aftermath of the conflagration, that very midday where he stood by the gate could just be any hot, tropical midday with everyone napping inside their respective units. 

The blackness of the charred walls and the beams, windows, doors that were turned to charcoal were enough to tell him it was time to go. I wish I knew what went on his mind as he stared at the driveway where he first learned to walk. All the eight years of his memories in what he considered home summarized into black soot and gray ashes.


After what seemed to be five minutes of forever, he briefly said, "Let's go," and got in the car.
He never spoke about the house again after that.

It was too painful that the pain refused to be felt. It took several days for the numbness to fade and for hurt to sink in. I wanted to say sorry for being absent because maybe if I was there it would have never happened. In the parallel universe where I chose to forego my chances to leave, life goes on and we are still living in the house that we learned to love despite the rat infestation, the obnoxious cockroaches and the holes on the roof that seem to just magically appear during thunderstorms in the middle of the night—the kind that refuse to show themselves up when the caretaker comes to check for maintenance. 

In that parallel universe, Keith will continue working on his bike project and it will be completed, he will hand it to me and we will try how perfectly assembled it was, biking to the Cinematheque to watch a European movie or to the nearby biergarten for a radler fix. In the parallel universe, I will continue to worry about the Minolta x700 that is close to its end; worry where to get it fixed and worry if we will ever find another one that we will love as much. I will continue hoarding the books and Keith will beg me to stop buying until we get ourselves a bigger shelf or move to a bigger house.

But parallel universe exists in another universe that we would never see in our lifetime and things like this happens because it has to.

When the pain was gone and all that was left was emptiness, I requested Keith to visit the site. Maybe he could get a piece of what’s left of his drafting table. We could pour clear resin over it and make it a centerpiece for our new house. I wanted him to visit and scour the place for answers.


“We should just consider it gone,” he said calmly.

And I guess just need to move on.