Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
It's a great honor for me to be the third member of my family to receive an honorary doctorate from this great university. It's an honor to follow my great Uncle Jim, who was a gifted physician, and my Uncle Jack, who is a remarkable businessman. Both of them could have told you something important about their professions, about medicine or commerce.
I have no specialized field of interest or expertise, which puts me at a disadvantage talking to you today. I'm a novelist. My work is human nature.Real life is all I know. Don't ever confuse the two, your life and your work. The second is only part of the first.
Don't ever forget what a friend once wrote Senator Paul Tsongas when the senator decided not to run for re-election because he had been diagnosed with cancer: "No man ever said on his deathbed I wish I had spent more time at the office."
Don't ever forget the words my father sent me on a postcard last year: "Ifyou win the rat race, you're still a rat."
Or what John Lennon wrote before he was gunned down in the driveway of the Dakota: "Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans."
You will walk out of here this afternoon with only one thing that no one else has. There will be hundreds of people out there with your same degree; there will be thousands of people doing what you want to do for a living. But you will be the only person alive who has sole custody of your life. Your particular life. Your entire life. Not just your life at a desk, or your life on a bus, or in a car, or at the computer. Not just the life of your mind, but the life of your heart. Not just your bank account but your soul.
People don't talk about the soul very much anymore. It's so much easier to write a resume than to craft a spirit. But a resume is a cold comfort on a winter night, or when you're sad, or broke, or lonely, or when you've gotten back the test results and they're not so good.
Here is my resume:
I am a good mother to three children.
I have tried never to let my profession stand in the way of being a good
parent. I no longer consider myself the center of the universe.
I show up.
I try to laugh.
I am a good friend to my husband. I have tried to make marriage vows mean what they say.
I am a good friend to my friends, and they to me. Without them,there would be nothing to say to you today, because I would be a cardboard cutout. ButI call them on the phone, and I meet them for lunch.
I would be rotten, or at best mediocre at my job, if those other things were not true. You cannot be really first rate at your work if your work is all you are.
So here's what I wanted to tell you today: Get a life. A real life, not a manic pursuit of the next promotion, the bigger paycheck, the larger house. Do you think you'd care so very much about those things if you blew an aneurysm one afternoon, or found a lump in your breast?
Get a life in which you notice the smell of salt water pushing itself on a breeze over Seaside Heights, a life in which you stop and watch how a red tailed hawk circles over the water or the way a baby scowls with concentration when she tries to pick up a Cheerio with her thumb and firstfinger. Get a life in which you are not alone. Find people you love, and who love you.
And remember that love is not leisure, it is work. Pick up the phone. Send an e-mail. Write a letter. Get a life in which you are generous. And realize that life is the best thing ever, and that you have no business taking it for granted. Care so deeply about its goodness that you want to spread it around. Take money you would have spent on beers and give it to charity. Work in a soup kitchen. Be a big brother or sister. All of you want to do well. But if you do not do good too, then doing well will neverbe enough. It is so easy to waste our lives, our days, our hours, ourminutes. It is so easy to take for granted the color of our kids' eyes, theway the melody in a symphony rises and falls and disappears and rises again. It is so easy to exist instead of to live.
I learned to live many years ago. Something really, really bad happened to me, something that changed my life in ways that, if I had my druthers, it would never have been changed at all. And what I learned from it is what, today, seems to be the hardest lesson of all. I learned to love the journey, not the destination. I learned that it is not a dress rehearsal,and that today is the only guarantee you get. I learned to look at all the good in the world and try to give some of it back because I believed in it,completely and utterly. And I tried to do that, in part, by telling others what I had learned. By telling them this: Consider the lilies of the field.Look at the fuzz on a baby's ear. Read in the backyard with the sun on yourface. Learn to be happy. And think of life as a terminal illness, becauseif you do, you will live it with joy and passion as it ought to be lived.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
My room and my daily planner are contradictions. If you walk in (after pushing the door forcibly because it doesn’t open all the way because of the mattress on the floor and the bags I hung at the back of the door), you’d think it was an abandoned warehouse. Everything is in disarray- cabinets vomiting books, the closet door parted because the underwear drawers are stuffed to the brim with socks, boxers, and briefs, a locked suitcase with a conspicuous padlock lies on the floor with magazines on top, towels hung on the headboard, laptops on the pull out bed I never use, my comforter carelessly strewn on the rumpled bed, swim goggles and speedos on the chair, reference books, novels, DVDs, photocopies, projects, a manuscript, lotions, scents, chargers, and Kelly forceps (Wtf?), bags, shoes, slippers, my Clinical uniform, and a mountain of laundry litter the rest of the surfaces.
Yet in the middle of the pile are my planners (yes, three of them). They assure that everything gets done on time and future plans are set. One is for school and travel, another is for budget, bills and taxes, and the third is for fitness (ang arte!) which records my weight fluctuations, diet, dates when I last exercised (may kasama pang smiley face pagnag swim or gym)- and sometimes, if I get really crazy, I calculate calories I burned and calories I consume.
The standing policy in our house is: whatever you do, don’t touch my stuff! Sure, a snake or a scorpion may possibly be living in the crevices of that mountain of laundry, but once, all hell broke loose when a well meaning household help cleaned my room without my knowledge, and in the process, lost an important document. We had to sort the trash downstairs and comb the house to look for the item. She never attempted to clean my room again. Amazingly, even if everything was in disarray, I knew exactly where I put each item- and if someone moved it I’d know.
So there, I’m probably crazy and I’m a slob. Three cheers for acting normal today!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
I felt the pressure on my ears- I equalized just as the Divemaster had taught me. Three people in a giant soup- that was what we must have looked like. Suddenly, the seafloor diappeared from view- what appeared to be was just darkness below. I felt a slight flip of my stomach.
30 Feet below Sea Level
My mouth and throat felt dry from the oxygen, but I dared not to swallow and let some saliva moisten it- I could accidentally let go of the oxygen regulator- and at 30 feet underwater- that can’t be a good thing.
I followed the gaze of the Divemaster and the British guy- just ahead, illuminated in a ghostly glow was an enormous gunboat. It looked as dead as it was dreary, seemingly foreboding as it threatened to swallow us.
There were less corals now, and only but a few fish swimming past. It was as if living things avoided the desolate spot.
The Divemaster turned to us and signaled “follow me”.
The was no sound except for the constant hiss of my regulator and the gurgling sound of bubbles as they rose to the surface. We swam deeper towards the boat.
50 Feet below Sea Level
It began as a whisper of fear. A slight knotting of my stomach, which suddenly spread to the rest of my body. To my horror, I recognized it as a sign of a panic attack.
I began reciting prayers in my head to try and calm myself down, while trying desperately to swim towards the Divemaster so I can signal that I needed to surface.
“Oh God, oh God.”
My legs felt like lead, and one of my fins were loose. I finally was able to grasp the Divemaster’s ankle. In the dim light, he turns to me questioningly.
Shit! I racked my brains- what was the signal for distress? I couldn’t think anymore, all I wanted to do was get out of that place. I was hyperventilating now, and I could see the oxygen bubbles swirling about.
He signaled CALM DOWN.
I continued to struggle through his grasp, wildly signaling and pointing up. Take me to the surface!
“Oh God, he doesn’t understand. Take me up!” I screamed in my mind.
I remembered what he said during the lesson: do not inflate your vest so as not to rise to the surface rapidly. Fuck it.
I began to kick. Kick and swim towards the surface. Finally, he understood. He signals to the British diver, grabs my vest, and slowly pulls me towards the surface.
At the Surface
I had never been so happy to see the sun, and the wind whipping my face. I let the warmth flood through my body. I bobbed up and down on the surface of the water, and the Divemaster and the British diver went back underwater.
I swam to where our boat was.
At lunch time, while we had our portions of food, the British guy’s wife told me, “You know, one of the best ways to overcome your fears is to get right back on.”
“Oo, nga Sir. Meron pa kayong isang dive. Turned out I only consumed barely half of my previous oxygen tank, and had another for the second dive, which was already paid for.
They all turn to look at me for my reply. It was, by far, one of the craziest things I’ve ever done- I smiled and said, “Sure, where’s the next wreck site?”
Sunday, November 23, 2008
I care more about human interest stories- that’s what I usually write about. And by “human interest” I actually mean the three “K’s”: kalandian, kalokohan, and kabayotan (from the Visayan word “bayot”= gay). So I contemplated for a while on whether I’ll turn “serious” about writing.
One afternoon, during an Operating Room Techniques lecture, someone interrupted my “reading”.
“My boardmate, wants to meet with you!” She whispered.
“Guy or girl?”
I was beginning to lose interest.
“She was reading your book that she borrowed from a friend of hers. I told her you’re my classmate.”
That was not the first time it happened. I get e-mails and comments out of the blue- usually from students, saying that they’ve read my book, they liked it, blah blah blah. At the mention of my book, I usually get mixed emotions- 60% happy, 40% embarrassed. Or maybe it’s the other way around when it’s a Lit professor or God forbid a real writer who reads my work.
While scholars won’t go around knocking down doors to forage for the last few copies of City Girl, the book did surprisingly well and got a good reception from the “young ones” (a term I call anyone under 25). The last copies, I found out later, were being rented out by a local bookclub (I gave them samples when the book first came out) - and was always off the shelves, circulating among students of local schools.
I could guess why: my friend told me the girl was in stitches, reading about how I used to slather Extraderm on my ass, or asking the lady at registration about my “one times one ID picture” (how I read “1x1 ID picture” when I was in high school), or my antics with guys. I was the gold standard of bloopers, especially during my heyday- and I’m actually glad she did enjoy those anecdotes (at the expense of my ass-skin though).
All the same, I tried reading Albert Camus and Ayn Rand (and basically other writers whose books are usually yellowed with age, tucked at the far end of the book case) – as recommended by a gentleman who said that a promising writer should read works of existentialist writers, objectivism, blah blah blah. I almost fell asleep after reading the fifth page.
Really, I tried. If there’s anything I learned from that experience, those are:
1. People tend to have preferences to a specific style of writing, and forcing them to explore other styles won’t always work.
2. As accused, “generation me” might be as lazy as perceived, when it comes to reading existentialist literature, at least (in my case).
3. If you have insomnia, try reading those books. You’d be out cold by the tenth page tops. (Ok I’m kidding)
And most importantly- writing is also about finding a target audience. It is a business, after all, and those sheets of paper aren’t free- so you need people who like your writing to buy it. I’m worried I can’t move beyond the “easy read” type of writing style (or for now at least), but I think I just found my niche.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
I sat on the cold tile of our small bathroom, with bottles of pills in my pocket. Today, I thought, I’ll end all my troubles. The incandescent bulb cast long shadows, making fixtures look like grotesque puppets laughing at me.
Weeks ago, I was as vivacious as any fifteen year old- an active member of the student council, a consistent honor student, a girl with a loving family and good friends. The trouble started when I got involved in the family problems of my ex-boyfriend. Towards the end of the school year, I had a lot of requirements that I needed to accomplish, otherwise I will not be given clearance and consequently won’t be permitted to enroll.
My parents and siblings prodded me constantly. Overwhelmed with hopelessness, I sank into depression. One day, I found myself alone in our house, I thought: this is it. I calmly collected all pills and medications I could find around the house, took a last look around and went into the bathroom and locked myself in.
It really is true what they say- your life flashes before you when you are about to die. Memories flooded my mind- happier times, and happy places and then I knew it would be extremely difficult for me to let go. I suddenly found myself crying uncontrollably. Something compelled me to walk out of the bathroom, whose walls had begun to feel like they were closing in on me.
Sunlight hit my face, and I walked slowly towards the bookcase where a framed photo of my family was displayed on top. Randomly, I picked up a book and noticed a yellow sticker on the spine. I recognized it immediately.
My heart was filled with warmth again, and I was reminded why I’ll never, ever be alone. The passage on my sister’s book was one of the greatest lessons I ever learned, it read: “Jesus is Saving You.”
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Many things have been said about blogging: some writers would consider it as an incubator for ideas, which later becomes the seed from which their literary works grow, others think it is a great way to communicate to a multitude of people without the trouble of having to individually contact each person; most bloggers like myself use it simply as a form of self-expression, and finally for some, as Pinoy Penman Butch Dalisay would put it, it is a venue for shameless self promotion and cheeky exhibitionism.
Regardless of the motives, a person’s blog becomes an extension of himself- an online avatar if you will, which all denizens of cyber space would be free to judge and criticize after scrutinizing the blog entries. Therein lies the big difference between keeping a pen-and-paper diary and a personal blog. Perversely, I have this penchant for blurting out the most intimate details of my private life in my blog- as a way to purge strong emotions or simply rant about my problems and injustices, hoping to find solace in online friends who would tell me they’ve had the same predicaments and that “everything would turn out alright.”
Whenever a blogger posts an entry online (even anonymously), one wouldn’t expect secrecy- because someone is bound to stumble upon it and unravel the truth. We all know that risk, and take it nevertheless. In my case I simply let it all hang out, though I get a nagging feeling I might have revealed too much. The emotional catharsis that comes with the revelation, however, is usually well worth it.
I’ve always been worried how people would think of me, considering the fact that I live in a very conservative society and that I have this nonchalant attitude toward things considered taboo (like sex, for instance). I write about my relationships, in a manner that is as frank as a friend who would lean close to your ear to whisper juicy details, though I try very carefully to use the right words, so as not to lean toward vulgarity.
I remember an incident that happened sometime ago, right after I posted a vignette about a certain affair:
I was walking along, minding my own business when a girl suddenly came up to me and said: “I read your blog!” And gave me a knowing look. I blushed.
Sometimes, the opposite happens. A schoolmate confessed he could relate to what I wrote, and went on to say that reading my entries had become a habit for him and that he would download and save them so he could read at his leisure.
I think that all writers, whether from the past, the present, or the future, whether they are “serious writers” or not, simply want the same thing: for others to bear witness. Isn’t that what were all trying to do? To prove we exist, that we live in these times, and that we want our stories told.
I am not trying to justify that blogging is the new literary frontier- this is still subject for debate. In the meantime I’ll keep blogging, not for popularity or any other reasons, but because it’s fun.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I had known Nathan since I was eight. We went to the same Catholic Elementary School. He was a cute chubby kid who happened to have the same interests as I did- we both collected comic books and trading cards, we were both in the children’s choir, and we were both into drawing.
He was my best friend, up until the first year of High School, right before he left for the states. I remember a particular time, it was during the second grading period, when he started hanging out with other kids.
I had no idea, whether it was because I missed him or that I was jealous that he was keeping others company instead of me, but I made a dramatic outburst in Homeroom. We were gathered in a circle (consisting of students in our row, he was at the far end of the room with another group); I started telling my mates that I noticed Nathan and I hardly spent time together anymore, unlike before when we were inseparable. Midway through my story I had begun sobbing, Maricel Soriano style. Our teacher made her way to our group, and patted my back gently to comfort me.
Towards the end of our first year in Divine Word University HS, he told me that his family will be moving to the US. As a goodbye token, he gave me this sort of shiny master key to remember him by.
On the way home that day, I took it out of my pocket and held it to the light. Then I swung my arm as hard as I could and threw the key in the air. It glinted for a moment before it disappeared behind the cogon grasses beside the road.
And then I never spoke about him again in front of my other friends.
Monday, November 10, 2008
I couldn’t speak- or scream for that matter to get anyone’s attention. There were only three of us diving, and both men were ahead of me. My bounding pulse sounded like drumbeats signaling impending doom as I struggled to catch up. I saw the bright yellow fins of the Dive Master a few meters ahead of me, and looking up I saw but slivers of light coming from the surface- but growing faint as we went deeper.
The muscles of my legs were beginning to ache. I tried wildly to signal to my Dive Master that I was having trouble, but he was almost beyond my reach and I couldn’t just inflate my vest to float to the surface suddenly- my ears had to adjust constantly to the pressure underwater and if I surface very quickly it might be harmful for me.
“Fuck! I’m going to die here…”
“Boss, I-try nyo mag scuba diving.” The man from the resort said.
“He doesn’t swim,” I told the guy of my beau. “I can, but I’ve never dived before, and don’t you need certain hours of training in a pool before they allow you in the open sea?”
“Ang Discover Diving, sa mababaw muna mag-start tapos dun kayo tuturuan ng basics. I-try nyo po, Php3,200 lang para sa dalawang dives. May kasama ng lunch yun.”
And that’s how it started. Early the next day, we found ourselves in a small outrigger boat speeding into the sea for an hour to reach the dive site: a Japanese Gunboat which sunk more than 60 years ago during the Japanese-American war.
The boat anchored near the shore. The Dive Master fitted the equipment and threw them overboard. I watch the tanks strapped to the backpacks floating despite its heaviness. “Take pictures of me.” I said to my beau as I got into the water. I was wearing a wet suit and I thought I was so cool.
The Dive Master taught us the basics in the shallow water: how to breathe using the regulator, retrieving your regulator, what to do when your mask gets foggy, and the most important thing: hand signals. You certainly can’t speak underwater, so you rely on hand signals to tell the Dive Master certain things- if your oxygen is low, if you’re ok, or if you’re in trouble.
We were ready.
We descended slowly. The British guy was ahead, followed by the Dive Master, and I lagged behind. The corals were stunning- an explosion of colors and exotic creatures (which you never really appreciate that much when you just snorkel).
The Dive Master turned to me questioningly, and I gave him the signal for “Ok”.
We went deeper… (to be continued)
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Rain clouds and hints of lightning and thunder could not keep them away. After a particularly vicious Miss Pintados contest (wherein the grace period for contestants to pause and think during the Q & A was apparently 1.5 seconds, and if the lady fails to answer coherently- and fast, she gets booed off the stage), all roads that night led to RTR Plaza for the Ginoong Leyte contest.
With the promise of up close sightings of rippling muscles and barely-there briefs hardly concealing raging hardons (do producers coach them or something? Bark to contestants like, “I want all schlongs up in the air by the time you boys march on stage!”), the first row was of course filled, almost exclusively, by gays.
My beau happened to be visiting me during the Tacloban fiesta. I had previously thought of a way, on how to coax him to allow me to watch the pageant with him without losing the “intellectual and poised veneer” I had worked so hard on maintaining. Turns out, there is no intellectual and poised excuse to watch a male pageant. I wanted to see men in skin-tight, thin, almost see-through speedos. There, I said it. I am as capable as the next queer to squeal when they see big muscles posing.
Being the great boyfriend that he was, he consented. Armed with my 10 megapixel, 10x optical zoom camera, we braved the crowd and wrestled for a place inches away from the stage. Lights dimmed, and dramatic music blared from the speakers…
And out came the contestants in their Tribal Wear (aka indigenous materials glued to their thongs). They danced and pranced onstage, much to the delight of the gaping audience. Eeeeeeee! One tranny dressed like Jlo on crack, was screaming her head off. One still-in-the-closet teenager recorded the number on his phone.
The contestants introduced themselves and which part of Leyte they were representing. A half-German lad (with a particularly bazooka-like bulge in the front of his bahag) stood out because of his towering height and sharp featured face. The rest were a selection of pinoy boy-next-door types, with some surprisingly handsome, artista-like candidates.
The emcees came onstage, a tired-looking gay man and a woman dressed in what appeared to be a shower curtain. They greeted the crowd, introduced the judges, and thanked a volley of sponsors. “And now! Let us meet our candidates in their futuristic wear!”
Screams. Jeers. Out came the contestants in their futuristic wear (aka tinfoils and sequins glued to their thongs). One played peekaboo using his gossamer cape- revealing a generous bulge inside his white skivvies. Click, click, click! Cameras worked overtime.
During the question and answer portion, the crowd seemed a bit more forgiving to the men. Even though the artista-looking guys were stammering and practically being fed the answers by the emcees, there wasn’t a single “boo” heard.
“Male pageants like Ginoong Leyte is a vehicle where we can showcase our culture and history of our province. It doesn’t intend to objectify men.” Said the gay emcee piously.
Hah! Objectify, schmobjectify. We all came here to see bulges, my friend. Even the women audience can attest to that. Oh well, those guys knew exactly what they were getting into, joining that contest- and I bet you showcasing Leytenean culture was the least of those reasons.
The winner? The 9 incher, I mean, the half-German guy from Ormoc.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
song: just so you know
they've always invoked both feelings of desire and disdain in me. men appeared in many forms: the bullies in elementary school, my high school crush, my college friend who i slept with for the first time...
and my first boyfriend-
or was that technically a relationship? the extent of our interaction consisted mostly of him going to my dorm and fooling around with me until my roommate knocks insistently on the locked door. there were no discussions of "let's move in together soon" or "where is this going?", which probably explains why i never heard from him two months after we met for the first time at that party.
i've always had a penchant for good-looking guys (who doesn't?), and i dedicated my friday and saturday nights in malate or galera to ensnaring the "perfect guy". in the haze of liqour and raging hormones, i'd inevitably jump into bed with them. but these trysts ended up for me, almost always, with tears and goodbyes.
and then there was one:
it began with e-mails for about a month. he bought a copy of my book, and one day asked if he could have lunch with me. he must be a little crazy, i thought. i mean, this guy lives in manila and for two years now i have been based in tacloban. he said he'd take the plane and go on a day trip.
admittedly, the romantic in me was delirious. i've never met the guy, but how romantic can you get? my first boyfriend couldn't even take a tricycle to buy bread from the baker, but this guy will take a plane ride.
there is a twist of course. he's older than me- not that i consider age a hindrance, but it could be difficult to meet in the middle. we have different sensibilities, tastes, philosophies- after all, we are in different places in our lives. and i also thought: what would people think? this wasn't exactly the "cute young couple" scenario i've always imagined.
when we made it official finally, i was prepared to bridge the gaps- adjusting to his lifestyle, meeting the people around him- and he did the same with me. i realized what i've always missed in my previous relationships: compromise and commitment. during the most trying times in my life he was there: my mother's passing, my grandmother's hospitalization, and all those little trials in day to day life.
with him, i've learned to look beyond the surface- beneath appearances, behind rose-colored glasses. i began to see the good qualities in people like kindness, generosity, and compassion.
i'm far from that twentysomething boy who searched for the perfect guy and found none. i'm an adult in a loving, grown up relationship, and even up to now he still makes my heart leap.
i'm so lucky to have found a man like you, happy 6th hun. ;-)
He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to die for his country.
He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father’s; but he has never collected unemployment either.
He’s a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.
He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing and 155mm Howitzers. He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk.
He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark.
He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must.
He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional.
He can march until he is told to stop or stop until he is told to march.
He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity.
He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and swears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry.
He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle.
He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts. If you’re thirsty, he’ll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food.
He’ll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.
He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job.
He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay and still find ironic humor in it all. He has seen more suffering and death then he should have in his short lifetime.
He has stood atop mountains of dead bodies, and helped to create them.
He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed.
He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to ’square-away’ those around him who haven’t bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful.
Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great-grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not "just" a boy.
He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over 200 years.
He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding.
Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
How long had I been sitting here?
I am shaken out of my reverie. The cup I hold in my hand had lost its warmth. Slowly, I get up and place it in the dirty sink.
Laughter. I turn to look at the old ladies who seemed to enjoy themselves with a pitcher of tuba. Their words are a blur. All I hear are muffled voices, all I see are wrinkled skin, sun spots on their hands and faces, and missing teeth.
I’ve been thinking, you know. I still get those fits from time to time, but I’m alright. I brought flowers, by the way.
Roses- wrapped in newspaper. Not as fancy as the bouquet I once gave, but it comes from the same place. I unwrap it slowly and place it under the faucet, and let the water flow through the stems.
Rivulets of water met, and bled through my fingers. Is it at all possible, that you are still as real as the petals that have fallen off from these roses? Or perhaps I’ll just wake up, and realize this was nothing more than a figment of my imagination?
I almost got the answer. But it flew from my mind just as quickly as it had come.
Perhaps, like all other secrets, they are hidden. In that forest just behind, where leaves grow as thick, and block out the sun.