Things you end up thinking of in a coffee shop
1) She sat there, book in hand, while painfully hipster music played on the speakers throughout the coffee shop. Some songs she knew, some songs she’s never heard before, but there were these songs which she knew she had in her iPod, hidden somewhere in all its 64GB glory, songs she once knew the words to but now cannot remember, words she can now only hum, songs which she struggled to remember, once known to her like her closest friends but now whose singers she cannot even recall. She can only hum, she thought painfully, as she tried to remember the days when she knew every line, every word, back then when there weren’t too many of them, songs which she always thought were somehow written for her.
2) The songs could barely be heard above the constant buzz of conversation — he just left me, I hope I graduate by April, thank you ma’am, here’s your coffee. She wonders sometimes how people always seem to have something to talk about, why can’t they just all sit in silence with mugs in hand, she wants to hear the music, hear the words, who cares if they all can’t remember who the singers are. She knows these songs better than these people who sit in idle chatter, unconsciously revealing too much of who they are and how they live their lives, making them fair game for possibly cruel judgment, while she sits quiet and uncaring, only waiting for the chorus not of the lives around her but of a song so foreign and yet so familiar, before she decides to take her books, stuff her notebook and pen in her bag, and leave the soon-to-be forgotten sounds and strangers behind.
Bagay na Pwedeng Gawin Kapag Hindi Makatulog #281
Pumunta sa search box ng Facebook. Hanapin ang profile ng mga taong minsang ginusto, inibig, o ginustong ibigin. Basahin ang mga wall posts niya o kaya ay tingnan ang mga profile pictures. Pwede ring tingnan ang tagged photos. Kung sadyang hindi sapat ang pagtingin lang, tingnan ang mga ito sa saliw ng mga kantang angkop sa nararamdaman (halimbawa, I Never Really Loved You Anyway ng The Corrs o I Just Don’t Love You No More ni Craig David). Pansinin kung paanong ang kanyang ngiti sa bawat larawan ay hindi katulad ng ngiting iyong naaalala. Maaari ito ay dahil sa matagal na mula nang huli kayong magkita o di kaya’y matagal na mula noong huli mo siyang maalala. Maaari rin namang iba ang ngiting iyong naaalala — isang ngiting ikaw lamang ang nakakita — pero wag masyado paasahin ang sarili, wag masyadong bigyang kahulugan ang mga bagay na minsan ay sinungaling — mga bagay na tulad ng alaala. Mas mabuting pansinin kung paanong ang kanyang buhay ay ayos lang kahit wala ka, masaya pa rin naman kahit wala ka. Gawin itong inspirasyon para hindi muling bumalik sa nakaraan. Kung contact mo siya sa Facebook pero hindi naman na talaga kayo magkaibigan ay pwede mo sigurong burahin siya mula sa iyong contact list, pero bago ito gawin ay mainam itong pag-isipan. Dalawa ang maaaring mangyari pagkatapos itong subukang gawin. Maaring makatulog dala ng pag-iyak sa sobrang kalungkutan habang pinagtatakhan ang pagiging mailap ng pag-ibig o ‘di kaya’y makatulog dala ng labis na pag-gaan ng loob habang nagpapasalamat na hindi kayo nagkatuluyan. Ulit-ulitin hanggang sa maubos ang contacts sa Facebook. Ulit-ulitin hanggang mahanap mo siya. Ulit-ulitin hanggang bumalik siya. Ulit-ulitin hanggang masiguradong kaya mo nang mabuhay nang mag-isa.
Of Stars and Tricycles
I remembered how much I envied her name that carried “Estella,” a name that means “star.” It was one of those days when I went to the Journalism Department to inquire about shifting, and then I saw her name on the door. Chit Estella-Simbulan, it said.
All this as I sat crying in the car, as I heard the unfortunate news from the radio — Ma’am Chit is dead.
I remembered how I would often describe her as a warm aunt or a cool mom, nevermind that I lost sleep for almost a week because of a final requirement for her class. That requirement had me typing away in a tricycle and editing articles in a jeepney, using my then handicapped laptop — its wires showing through a cracked hinge — while my classmates and I shared a laugh over how stressed and desperate we all looked. I remembered how she asked me about the CW subjects I had enlisted in before she signed my Form5, how I feared that she might not sign because some journalism professors think that journ majors are better off not taking CW subjects, only to hear her say “it’s good you’re taking CW subjects.”
To a professor whom I consider as a supportive mentor and surrogate mother, my sincerest prayers.
—
Ma’am Chit Simbulan died last 13 may 2011. This is my modest attempt at remembering her through writing my fondest memories of her.
To You (na naman),
*dahil di kita makausap nang ayos at di pa ata kita nahahanap, susulat ko na lang muna
A lot of things have been happening lately — things that, quite honestly, I wanted to talk to you about. But since there’s this nagging feeling that while I just might have been this close (yet again) to finding you, our own individual newness in terms of goals and priorities demand that we part so I probably am better off not saying anything to you because (1) you might miscontrue this as an attempt to keep you in my life which you are free to get out of at anytime you want and (2) if I tell you what’s happening now, I have a feeling that I will have this need to update you so I better nip this whole sharing-my-life-with-you thing at the bud. Whether or not this new exercise in distance would yield benefits for us both, I have no idea. I never get any ideas. Or not.
All I want to say is that while I was doing errands for a wedding earlier, I remembered you. I remembered all the reasons why I think I would never want to get married. I sincerely want to be “married” to our country, serving the people for as long as I could. I keep thinking how expensive a wedding is, and how the money could be used to help other people instead, you know? I’ve been having a lot of “instead of this party I would spend on this instead” moments. I hope you have the courage to stand by this country as much as I do. And if ever you’re not of this country, I hope you do for your country and your people the things I so constantly try to do for my own — if not more.
Whatever you’re doing right now, I hope it’s something that makes you happy. I mean, not just because it’s something you’re passionate about but because it’s something you want to sincerely do for the country. I’m not asking that you become a hard-liner. I just want you to be able to distinguish yourself from the others who only look out for themselves.
I’ve had some strong feelings for a very few people, and I would like to think that you will be able to surpass the dedication and commitment to principles that have made me respect them immensely. Or, at the very least, match them. At this point, some would probably think I’m crazy for demanding such things from you but I think you would perfectly understand.
I’m not sure if this passion I have now would last, but it’s been 5 years and so far it has only gotten stronger. I also know that I’m not the smartest person out there, and nothing excites me more than the idea that we could figure out things (or at least, try to) and learn and do more for this country than we ever thought possible. I know I cannot ask you to be with me; everyone knows you’ll probably find a girl better suited for you the moment you take a step away from me. But a country. You only get to call one country “yours.” And if I have to even ask first before you stand by her and do everything you can to help her, then this letter shouldn’t be even addressed to you at all.
I look forward to seeing you (again, if we have in fact already seen each other and we were just to shy to ask if we’re… you know). I know it’s a month before Independence Day, but I just thought that I better write this down the moment I thought of you and how much I wished you have the same feelings for our country. Until then, I am
Most sincerely yours,
Ayrie
PS. You could probably change my mind about not wanting to have a wedding. As you may know, all girls, at at least one point in their lives, have dreamed of becoming a princess. But our guests should donate to charity instead of giving us rice cookers and comforters and plates, k.
For Carlos
My craft in seventeen words: Things that are not required always end up being the things we enjoy and love the most.
My craft in fifteen words: One cannot possibly write anything without entertaining the thought of something or someone once loved.
My craft in (seventeen times fifteen) words:My writing is always nothing more than an attempt to preserve or alter a memory, as if the version I put down on paper is more real than any other version, as if to say that
is like that of a bonfire on the beach to which I sit close when I am cold
and yet to let it touch my body can mean nothing other than being burned,“
is perhaps more real than saying
or simply
as if to invent means to imagine and to imagine means to inhabit, as if I never held you in my arms at a time when you felt so much like home, even if you were never really constant in my life the same way my address stood unchanged since I was born, as if to say that you stayed in my heart even if you have left me long ago means that you are still here and not far away, as if to consciously look for a word that could change feelings of sadness to fondness does not necessarily mean lying (only restating), as if I have always known and dealt with what I feel about your presence and not your absence, as if it makes any difference to say I am waiting instead of longing for you, as if you were always mine and not simply your own.
Secrets
Okay. So let me get the basics out of the way. I came out of school, I was crossing the street, and then BAM! a tricycle hit me. No, wait a minute. It wasn’t actually a BAM kind of thing, it was more like a thud screeeeech and riiip. The passenger side of the tricycle hit me, my arm nudged squarely by the tricycle’s nose – kind of like when my brother nudges my rib with his elbow and it doesn’t actually hurt but just throbs a little, or like when a doorknob hits me at the back on my way out of a room and I can still manage to close the door without anger or the desire to break it into pieces. I would’ve gone all the way home feeling alright, if only this small jutting piece of metal didn’t catch the sleeve of my blouse and ripped it. It wasn’t a big rip, it was actually just a few stitches from the end of my sleeve. Truth is, it looked as if some ants just ate a tiny piece of my sleeve (some ants eat just about anything believe me) or it got caught on a small nail and I absentmindedly pulled away instead of carefully negotiating my sleeve out of the mishap (I panic way too easily). After the tricycle driver shouted “anak ng tinapa namaaaan!” he put his palm to his face and with the same palm brushed his hair away from his face, and he started to say things like “neng, tumingin ka nga sa dinaraanan mo, ‘di ka ba sinasabihan ng nanay mo kung paano tumawid, mapapatay ka sa ginagawa mo e!” and then drove away.
The truth is my mom did always remind me to look to the left before I cross the street and then look to the right before I cross the other lane of the street. And my mom knew everything. She probably knew I got hit by a tricycle before I even said it. Probably even before I even thought of saying it.
And so I didn’t say it. I walked into the house like nothing happened, trying to be as quiet as I could. My mom went out of the kitchen and walked into my room while I was taking my blouse off and she asked “what happened in school today?” and I said “nothing” and she picked up my blouse from my bed and saw the ripped sleeve, I knew she saw the ripped sleeve, but she didn’t ask and she never asked the way she asked me “what’s this?” when she saw what I wrote in my diary about hating my brother or the way she asked me “what’s this?” when she saw my math exam where I got a 58/60. I never gave her a good enough answer I guess; she always knew what was wrong or at least managed to ask around and find out what was wrong, and then finally she got tired of asking.
It took me a few weeks to notice, but I never saw any of my blouses with a ripped sleeve. At first I thought maybe it was still in the laundry, mom does the laundry once a week, but after two weeks I still hadn’t seen it – I knew I only had 6 blouses and I was bound to wear it again soon enough but I never did. Then again, I guess I should’ve known that I would never see it again, not until it was time for me to give away my old school uniforms away, it was unmistakable, it was right there beneath all the other blouses, that small almost unnoticeable rip, neatly stitched, the thread almost the same color as the blouse itself.
Learning Curve
I press the numbers 39464, as if reducing words into numbers can reduce the gravity of their meaning. Distance dictates that the phone be an extension of my hand and texting a substitute for conversation. And in the same way that a child acquires his own vocabulary by listening, my phone has learned to spell words it never can spell before you changed. 6864 became “mumi,” 69662 became “myoma,” and to say where the myoma was, 9662, “womb.” How one digit can change what is on the screen, each resulting to a new word, one completely unrelated to the other. I write them down, say them in abandon, as if articulating them makes them any more real, thus easier to deal with. As if the increased frequency of words I never once used in my life can help me learn and accept their sudden necessity, as if these additions to my phone’s limited vocabulary is similar to my own. There was a time when my phone would ask me to spell words out, a question mark appearing in an attempt to enter a word my phone does not recognize, but with a T9 feature so advanced it has begun to acquire my vocabulary based on the words I use, the things I say to the world. The question mark’s appearance has become less frequent, sometimes a surprise – especially when my phone can now spell “cancer” but not “caramel.”
Lessons from Mom
If only conversations transpired between us
while you were busy with the chicken and
I with the wire-bound photocopies of
texts I really should be reading, you would
have said, “Never mind the cooking shows,
the rules that they tell you. It is always wise
to use a head of garlic or more. The onions,
I say use only one, but you always insist
in using two and I guess there is wisdom in that.”
As a child, I would watch you in the kitchen,
moving to and fro, amazed with how everything
ended up smelling good, tasting good, despite
the refusal to measure ingredients, the sheer
disregard for math. I would sometimes ask if
I could chop the vegetables or stir the soup
while it simmers, but you would always say
“no,” and I would resign myself to watching,
taking note of your poor posture, even the
way you wipe the sweat from your brows.
And then there were days when you would
ask me to chop the garlic for you, sometimes
the onion (you knew how much I hated the
burning in my eyes, tears that don’t quite
fall). There was a time when you asked me
to peel gabi and I wouldn’t stop complaining
about how itchy my hands were, and you just
held my hands while pouring vinegar on the
rashes that have appeared while saying,
“your hands need more practice.”
Remember that time when I caught you reading
my notebook, the one with my poetry and attempts
thereof? I screamed at you, “What are you
doing!” and you were surprised at the sheer
anger I let out, said “you’re supposed to be
in school,” in an equally angry tone. I went out of
the house, said I won’t be back for the weekend,
and as I turned to look at our front door, you
were standing there, watching me quietly, my
notebook still in your bony hands (have you
always been that thin, that frail?)
The first time I asked if I could watch you
cook, you snapped at me, telling me to get out
of the kitchen — you didn’t want to be disturbed,
you were preparing lunch. Surprised by the
rejection, I went into my room crying quietly,
my face against my pillow, and fell asleep. By
the time I woke up, it was time to eat, and
for the first time in days, I was quiet while
dad talked about work, you about the garden.
Now
Let us jump off this cliff
and leave everything behind.
If there is any way for us to be
together when everything ends
this is it.
You and me
flying.
(17 September 2010)
—
Written in a time when I was categorically in-love with the word jump.
Learning Curve
I press the numbers 39464
as if reducing words into numbers
can reduce the gravity of their meaning.
For the longest time, my phone
has become an extension of my hand
and texting a substitute for conversation.
And in the same way that a child
acquires his own vocabulary by listening,
my phone has learned to spell words
it never can spell before you changed.
69662 became “myoma,” 6864 became “mumi,”
and to say where the myoma is, 9662, “womb.”
Fascinating, how the addition of a number
is a seeming metaphor to the growth
in that place where I once was, as if my
absence warranted a suitable replacement.
I write them down, say them in abandon, as if
articulating them makes them any more real,
thus easier to deal with. As if the increased
frequency of words I never once used in my life
can help me learn and accept their sudden necessity,
as if releasing them from thought will do some
good, give me some hope, bring out my strength.
There was a time when my phone would ask me
to spell it out, to type in the words despite a
T9 feature so advanced it can acquire my vocabulary
based on the words I use, the things I say
to the world. Now, it has become easy,the words
requiring no questions, no explanation. As if
it has already accepted the suddenness, all of it
irrevocable and final, your life being of no consequence.
Only this impermanence, this silence.
highreaching
