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A very long update

What a week it’s been: I was actually productive. I’ve only lately realized how poorly I managed my energies last year. This time I’ve started to develop some useful habits—like waking up around 5:30 am and leaving early to beat the traffic, and attacking my backlog with the determination of a worker ant.

My life’s theme these days seems to have something to do with ticking off items in to-do lists. I don’t know what explains this frantic energy. Perhaps it’s the constant awareness of what this year means for me, a kind of age-consciousness. But I think the bigger factor is having overcome a desolate period in my life, which had stretched over several years. I was just so closed, and the mood swings were truly frightening. Each time I was happy, I’d actually be afraid, knowing that the next black wave was already gathering in the horizon. (In the ninth elegy of the Duino Elegies, Rilke refers to happiness as “that too-hasty profit snatched from approaching loss.”) Yes, I was a sad creature. I can only shake my head at all that was lost, especially over the past year.

Now that it seems I’ve found me again, I feel like the tempted one in the poem Ordeal by Romanian writer Nina Cassian, in which the Fallen Angel tantalizes you with the loveliness of existence. This line is particularly apt: “... your shoulder blades will hurt from the imperative of wings.” Ah, to say yes to this angel! In the silence of my heart, I can already hear phantom wings beating overhead. As I go about my day, I hear this constant refrain: When? When will my time come?

* * * *

Writing is one of those things that give me unadulterated bliss. I guess this is one of my many “blessings,” which must be honored as such. I need to give it a central place, this art.

In line with this resolve, some weeks ago I sent my poems to Philippines Free Press. Then last week, my friends from the 47^th Dumaguete National Writers Workshop congratulated me in our e-group. That was how I found out that three of my poems—“Metamorphosis: A Vigil,” “Discourse,” and “28” were published in the February 28 issue of the said magazine, page 39 to be exact. I was so elated, I went to National Bookstore across Taft the next day, and bought three copies (one to keep, one to give to my dad in the States, and one to give to my mentor, Ma’am Marj—who by the way, had a hand in “Discourse” and “28”). I still can’t quite believe I’d been published in a national magazine, one with a prestigious literary section. I feel both humbled and proud, but above all, thoroughly, ecstatically, and orgasmically satisfied.

“Discourse” is the one people seem to like the most. I like to think it says so many things about not being able to say things. It’s not only about the perceived failure of some of our relations, but also about the failure of any medium, be it logic or art. We feel and know so much more than what we can communicate, or are “allowed” to communicate, by the conditions of our world and by the limitations of language itself. And yet, that we can meet at all, even blindly, is already miraculous. I love this poem (and I want to think of it as not really “my” poem, but that of the persona), because it’s about her sweet frustration. Thanks to everyone who loved it too!

But while I find poetry sublime, and am so grateful that I was able to learn this craft at all, what I really want to master is the art of fiction. I think the energies of poetry are introverted. It takes an altogether different sensibility to be a storyteller. An important change has occurred this year, which is propelling me toward what I ultimately want to do, a dream whose realization is neither poetry nor philosophy. I am still gathering my material from life. While there has been no writing yet, there is a new way of seeing. It’s like there’s this little person who leans back comfortably in some couch (which is red, somehow) in my brain, her fingers steepled, speculating about why certain things happen, what could’ve happened, and what will happen next. It would’ve been funny if it weren’t my life she’s speculating about, my relationships, my triumphs, my car crashes. But to be fair, there’s a new bravery that seems to come from her, a sardonic outlook, one that blesses the villain as much as the protagonist, the tragedy as much as the happy ending. I love this new girl.

I’m not sure why I hadn’t looked through her eyes until now. Perhaps a new organ has developed from the forge of something like pain, though that word fits the experience like a grain of sand represents the Sahara.

* * * *

For a long time, I’ve struggled with what I thought was my lack of fit in certain aspects of philosophy, that discourse I’ve chosen as a career. I know I’m a philosophy teacher, but am I a philosopher? Do I want to be? But lately, I’ve been taming my shadow, namely logic and argumentation. As a result, when I teach my philosophy classes now, there is a new subtlety in my reasoning, a new facility of expression, even a deeper reading of the texts, though I hope that doesn’t sound too presumptuous. Verbal sparring used to stress me out, but now I seem to enjoy it. Philosophy need not be a bloody battle so much as a pleasurable game. There’s an art to it, even though it may be highly cognitive. I guess the trick for me is to balance this aspect of my life with more aesthetic and physical pursuits, so I wouldn’t feel so “trapped” in philosophy. (Speaking of physical pursuits, there’s a class I’ve been taking daily now which will go on till March 20, and which has been incredibly enjoyable for me. What it is will be a surprise. All will be revealed in April, when the skills learned shall be appropriately demonstrated at certain, uhm, events. Walang manghuhula kahit alam ninyo na!)

In any case, going back to my philosophical renaissance, last Friday I was invited to the Rogationist Seminary College in Merville Park, Parañaque (see picture above), where I sat as a panelist during some seminarians’ defense of their thesis papers, eight of which were presented. For the first time in a long while, I came to an appreciation of what it is that we philosophers do. Perhaps the setting had a lot to do with it; and the energies of the people involved, in particular the students. That was exactly how thesis defenses ought to proceed. We’re a community of philosophers who recognize that the search for wisdom is a cooperative endeavor, and that the getting there is already pleasurable in itself. It was lovely, the playful exchange of ideas, whose speed was awesome but whose elegance lingered in the mind, like the pleasant aftertaste of good food. Some papers that stood out for me include the one about Donald Davidson’s philosophy of action, which considers the role of motivational dispositions (e.g. beliefs, emotional states, etc.) in our moral choices; the one about the animal rights movement and the treatment of animals in the Philippines; and finally, the one that valiantly defended Immanuel Kant’s highly abstract and virtually impracticable duty ethics.

Having been invited as a guest lecturer at the San Carlos Seminary in Makati last year, I’ve come to love such enclaves of the spirit. The students tend to be quite appreciative, dedicated, and respectful, so open to philosophy. It was a welcome change, as I’m so sick of the spoiled brats and self-proclaimed rebels I often encounter in my milieu. These seminarians should remind them of Socrates’ message, that humility is truly the beginning of wisdom.

* * * *

Today is International Women’s Day. While there are crucial privileges that come with being male, given the current setup of human society, I’m glad I’m female, and I’m thankful for the strong bonds I have with other women in my family and network of friends. While I was at the Rogationist College, I couldn’t help thinking that if I were male, I definitely would’ve considered going into the priesthood. Being a nun doesn’t seem to be an equivalent endeavor. Perhaps, if I had lived in pre-Christian Britain during the era of the Mother Goddess, I’d have been one of the priestesses of Avalon. I guess we must never forget that at least, She has survived in our myths, and in that in our own ways, we can keep Her alive in our rituals and narratives. In relation to this, Dr. Marj has sent me this quote from Marge Piercy’s poem, The Sabbath of Mutual Respect: “Habondia, Artemis, Cybele, Demeter, Ishtar, Aphrodite, Au Set, Hecate, Themis, Lilith, Thea, Gaia, Bridgit, The Great Grandmother of Us All, Yemanja, Cerridwen, Freya, Corn Maiden, Mawu, Amaterasu, Maires, Nut, Spider-Woman, Neith, Au Zit, Hathor, Inanna, Shin Moo, Diti, Arinna, Anath, Tiamat, Astoreth: the names flesh out our histories, our choices, our passions....”

Lately, I draw courage and integrity from Artemis, the goddess of the hunt. For a long time, due to my “inner Cartesian” (a phrase that tickles my friend Mike), I had always identified with Athena, and during long periods of forgetful passion, Aphrodite. But I think Artemis, of the full moon, of the wild creatures, of the defiant virginity, represents the best part of me.

Left: Apollo and Daphne by John William Waterhouse. Fittingly, a wood nymph under the auspices of Artemis, Daphne, also embodies my myth these days. Daphne escapes her pursuer Apollo by turning into a laurel tree. Similarly, what I need now is self-preservation. So many things are unfolding inside me, which I must permit no one to distract me from. In any case, I believe that any heterosexual woman must always nurture her inner Daphne, whether or not she’s in a relationship. Because we are socially conditioned to be the caregivers, we often forget to care about ourselves and our own pursuits. This doesn’t necessarily mean you must forsake romantic love, only that—even if there is much love in your life—it should never be the raison d’être of your existence.

Revolutionary

So many synchronistic events—or meaningful coincidences—seem to be happening lately. (I’d have said “blessings,” but the religious connotation might raise some eyebrows, hehe.) Maybe one way of explaining synchronicity, to use C.G. Jung’s term, is that the self-consciously rational ego is beginning to listen to the higher Self. And so there is a new way of seeing, into the unfolding of a larger story, where you’re a main character and not a detached observer. Does that make any sense?

In any case, I am glad about this precious new perspective. Perhaps now I can follow the bread crumbs out of the woods of hesitation and vague melancholy, emerging in a clearing where the stories are waiting—to be lived, imagined, worded. For the first time, I think I can see it, the possibility of writing fiction. (There, it’s out!) I’ve been putting certain things in place for this end. There’s a writers’ workshop that I’ve applied to, and if my short story gets accepted, I’d be going to another city in southern Philippines this May. (Knock on wood!) I also plan to enroll in next term’s fiction class in the MFA program. I had let things go over the last six months—ironically, right after the Dumaguete workshop—dropping my lit classes and focusing almost exclusively on philosophy.

There’s a partial explanation, which I’ll try to tell here.

I want(ed) to be a serious philosopher. There are so many projects you can do, in a place where you are given the means and resources to do it, among really smart and interesting people who also happen to be your good friends. I had made philosophy at La Salle my life. I still love it. But there is a greater passion in me that clashes with what appears to be an important premise of this discourse—i.e. abstraction—so that sometimes I would wonder if there were only two choices: (1) Change the terms of the discourse, or (2) Get out of it. As I don’t plan on leaving it, I guess I just have to do philosophy differently—or at least, differently from an imagined “mainstream.”

The Argument, I’ve learned to appreciate. Critical thinking, I’ve learned to balance with critical feeling. But I want nothing to do with abstraction. I want what is concrete: I want the poetry of Heidegger (post-Being and Time), of Nietzsche, of the literary existentialists. Abstraction is just one stream in philosophy, headed toward the murky lagoon of obfuscation and triviality. Follow instead a numinous, raging river toward the ocean, where the mind and the heart can be one.

Last year, while a part of me did enjoy it, another part felt trapped in the discourse of philosophy, where I’ve been in for more than a decade now. It’s only recently that I finally realized how I can change my direction. There were many signposts, but let me name six, in chronological order.

1. Last year, I discovered Alessandro Baricco. Ma’am Marj once suggested that I read his novel, Ocean Sea, after I had submitted to her an essay making use of that most infinite of metaphors—the sea. (Ah yes, me and the sea.) I was riveted to Baricco's novel. It said everything (and more) that I would have wanted to write about the sea and life and relationships and good and evil and love and hate and adventure and art and spirit and healing and God. I bought all his books, devoured them and realized: He is my kind of writer! I want to write like him! His craft embodies the sensibility I was so far only just trying to imagine. So I did some research on Baricco, and found that he was mentored by the Italian philosopher and existentialist, Gianni Vattimo—a philosopher of art and of time, and a scholar of Friedrich Nietzsche. Now, there are many philosophical novelists, but Baricco is it for me. He. Is. It.

2. On a particularly long and dark night, a comet streaked across the sky—beautiful, short-lived, and sad. But it illumined the dark path ahead of me, so that I now know now where I need to go. While its beauty had ravished me, its real power was in its tragic and necessary disappearance. Its absence became me.

3. Then the Book Angel brought me another gem: Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, her memoir of her spiritual journey. I hadn’t realized that it was an international bestseller, or that its author was listed by Time as one of 2008’s 100 most influential people. Having ripped through the book, I can see why. She tells the story of her harrowing divorce, the tumultuous affair that followed, and her travels across three countries—Italy, India, and Indonesia—in order to find herself again. Her writing style is so accessible, and her attitude so positive and inspiring. There were so many quotable passages for me, about overcoming depression, learning to be alone, finding the courage to go for what you really want, showing true compassion for others, and above all, listening to God. This is what I loved best about the book: Its imperturbable spiritual center. Everything spoke to me, as though she were a doppelganger who was recounting—from the perspective of a survivor—the things that I myself am only just going through. Of course, I’m not going through a divorce or anything like that, but like Liz Gilbert, I’ve made so many wrong turns in the karmic labyrinth of love. Far too many.

Left: Elizabeth Gilbert. In any case, as I told my good friend M.R., the author so inspired me that I finally realized what I want and need to do for the rest of my life. For some reason, since I turned 28, I’ve been propelled into a crisis, feeling the weight not just of my literal age but the burden of my own expectations of myself. Many of my peers were moving on to The Next Stage. Commit to something, make a commitment, be committed (to an institution?!). So many things had needed to happen, and fast, which I think is what 2008 was all about. I learned so many things, but mostly how not to do things, how not to be careless with your own heart.

I am still in crisis (of the Saturn Return, Ma’am Marj had once said to me, “You do know that it runs for seven years, right?”). But for the first time, I can see what’s ahead of me. Three words: Travel, writing, and love, but love in the most general sense. While I’ve done a lot of traveling just last year, I’m not sure if I had truly appreciated the places I had seen. I carried so much baggage with me. Now I’ve been unloading it, as quickly as I can manage, which is still a gradual process. All I know is that I need to go out there, literally, and actually be there, figuratively, so that I can have something to write about and so that I can expand the boundaries of my love.

4. Some relationships with important women in my life were rejuvenated. M.R., for example, has listened to me articulate and process my crisis over the course of many dinners at Mall of Asia, and many moments of looking out at Manila Bay. We've been best friends since high school, but have grown even closer now. I've been quoting Gilbert's book to her via SMS, and two weeks ago I finally got her her own copy. (So far she says she's enjoying the book.)

Meanwhile, I found an old college friend, Jolina Mallari, in Facebook. She was my classmate before I changed majors from Political Science to Philosophy (and before she shifted from Economics to Psychology). We used to hang out all the time, attending debut parties and going on out-of-town trips with our friends from the DLSU Aikido Club. (Yes, I used to practice aikido!) Eventually, we gravitated to a larger world out of that barkada when I became the Editor in Chief of The LaSallian and she became the Student Council president. We had such a memorable conversation over dinner at Greenbelt some weeks back. Being an intensely religious person, she talked about her relationship with God and the man He has chosen for her. I told her I was very happy for her. We also talked about our respective careers and money and Moving Forward in One's Life, etc. I think she's a few steps ahead of me, but then again, each one of us has a different journey. Way to go, Jols! Below: With Jolina.

Finally and most importantly, I opened up to my mom. The story of our relationship is too personal to reveal here. Suffice it to say that last year, I've been a prodigal daughter of sorts. But I'm back, and I hope that some of the things I've been doing now can make up for how much I hurt her last year. I love you, Mom.

5. I also realized who my life guru was. It’s a sacred story that is still unfolding, and I am praying for a favorable outcome. But I am very certain about it, because, after all, it is something I’ve always known. It’s not a huge secret, either, as her name appears many times throughout my writings. Sometimes I fancifully think that she is the Viviane to my Morgaine, though I still have so much to do to even be remotely worthy of Avalon. (Who knows? Maybe ultimately, I’m really more of a Gwenwyfar, distracted by Lancelet, then eaten up by depression, exiling herself in a cloister. Then again, the lost girl may be one part of me, but she’s not the leading role anymore. Or at least, I hope so.)

6. Finally, I recently saw a film that two great ladies recommended to me. It’s up for the Oscars, but I don’t think it’s been released in the Philippines yet. Revolutionary Road, starring Leonardo DiCaprio (as Frank Wheeler) and Kate Winslet (as April Wheeler), is based on the novel by Richard Yates. It’s about a couple living in 1950s American suburbia, who married before they figured out what they really wanted. Now, they have the trappings of what society defines as the good life: A big house, children, and a high-paying job for Frank. But Frank detests his dreary office job and April feels stifled and restless at home. Emotionally disconnected, they go through the motions of marriage and family life. Things turn around when April gets the idea of moving to the family to Paris, where she could support them by getting a secretarial job and Frank could finally figure out what he really wants to do. They are ecstatic for awhile because of this plan, until Frank changes his mind when he gets promoted at work and April accidentally gets pregnant with their third baby. Below: DiCaprio and Winslet in Revolutionary Road.

I loved the way the story dramatized the dilemma between staying in your comfort zone and going after what you really want. When what’s at stake is Your Whole Life, it’s not so easy to take risks. But you have to. The alternative is misery and death—for what is a meaningless, empty life but death itself?

One of my favorite scenes in the movie is when April tries to convince her husband to follow their dream, by appealing to the truth they had known all along: “Tell me the truth, Frank. Remember that? We used to live by it. And you know what’s so good about the truth? Everyone knows what it is however long they’ve lived without it. No one forgets the truth, Frank. They just get better at lying.”

I guess we really know what we want. The ego may not always be aware of it, but the higher Self knows. Fighting the destiny you have freely made for yourself will only cause so much suffering. I have gone through so much suffering just to get here. At last, I think I have finally decided to break with the past and go forward.

And that is truly revolutionary.

Elasticity

Today, I realized that the old contours of my life have snapped back into place, with the almost-comforting elasticity of a rubber band, after all the stretching of last year. With a dazed recognition, I pushed open the door to the aloneness in my consciousness. Carefully, I swept away the dust of nostalgia, pushed out the ghost of another presence. It’s important to organize things, to cleanse even the memory of the body.

Back to me.

Then I realized, as I began to relearn the old ways of aloneness, how limiting it feels sometimes. With my mild claustrophobia, I need always to be at the edge—on the aisle seat, for example, or beside the sea. When I used to live in a condominium by myself, I wouldn’t even close the bathroom door while I was in the shower. After trooping up and down Taft Avenue looking for the perfect place to rent last year, I had finally settled on a condo unit for its huge glass windows and view of Manila Bay. That’s how I want to live my life: With an eye toward sky or sea, that which is infinitely beyond me.

But the rubber band has been released, has snapped back into a tight, inscrutable circle. It feels... anti-climactic, like a wrong turn in the plot. I shall have to rewrite the story then, commence the outward movement, but in another direction this time.

* * * *

A catalog of things to care for or care about, which I noticed today:

At the office, Koala and Tarsier were preoccupied with their virtual dogs at Facebook. They invited me to try it, and I said, worried about a phantom pet that hasn’t yet experienced my abandonment, “Oh, I don’t know. What if I end up not having enough time for him? Then he’d be sad.” I was genuinely concerned about this.

Driving back to Pasay after a ludicrously expensive dental procedure, I passed by a middle-aged woman weaving around the cars during a red light, trying to sell ropes of sampaguita. She had a noticeable limp. She’d earn in 50 years, maybe not even then, the amount that was extorted from me today while I was on the dental chair.

On the flyover from Edsa to Tramo Street, I passed by a woman of indeterminate age, dancing in place, nude, soot all over her body. I said a quick prayer for this person.

And over dinner tonight, Mom and I heard the new mother next door singing no recognizable song (as she does nightly) to her baby. Every so often, from the assorted domestic noises coming from that house, including the marital quarrels that were more riveting than a radio show, a thin cry would emerge, as it did tonight. “Hear that?” Mom said. “The baby is learning to respond to her!”

So much needs to be loved.

But because so much needs to love.

Let life stretch me then, as far as my elastic heart can take.

Au revoir, Tristesse

“They [Zen Buddhists] say that an oak tree is brought into creation by two forces at the same time. Obviously, there is the acorn from which it all begins, the seed which holds all the promise and potential, which grows into the tree. Everybody can see that. But only a few can recognize that there is another force operating here as well—the future tree itself, which wants so badly to exist that it pulls the acorn into being, drawing the seedling forth with longing out of the void, guiding the evolution from nothingness to maturity. In this respect, say the Zens, it is the oak tree that creates the very acorn from which it was born.”—Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia

Lately, I’ve been going to Mall of Asia just to gaze at Manila Bay, or the portion of it visible from the seawall at the back of the mall. Of course, I’ve been a fan of this place since it first opened two years ago. I’ve always loved standing before a body of water, especially the sea. When I was a kid, our parents would take me and my sister to the tabing-dagat near the Cultural Center in Manila. When I would get lung infections, which was often, my mother the doctor would prescribe a trip to the tabing-dagat where the breeze could cure me. In retrospect, I think the culprit may have been all the dust in Pasay City and especially in our tiny house. Thus, I’ve come to think of the edge of the sea—where sand or rock meets the lashing foam—as my great outdoors, or at least, the closest I could get to it in my smoke-choked urban life.

Right: Woman at the Window by Salvador Dalí. This image is on the bookmark Ma'am Marj had given me, along with this note, "For those days of looking out to sea!" Now as an adult, I’d been sick lately, and have been making a pilgrimage to my trusty place of peace almost everyday over the past several weeks. During the worst of my illness, which is emotional and psychic rather than physical, I would think that as long as I could see the water, I shall be all right. I’d sit in a café beside the bay, my journal open before me, awash in the terrifying orange sunset. Or sometimes I’d just sit on the ledge among lovers or groups of friends, just inhaling the breeze and watching people, curious about these strangers’ stories. On one occasion while I was waiting for a friend, she suddenly appeared by my side and interrupted my reverie with a warm hug. “Kitang-kita kita agad!”, she exclaimed. “Yeah, kasi ako lang siguro ang nag-iisa dito,” I replied, rolling my eyes.

But mine was a solitude in the wake of an angel’s visit, not the dreaded one from a demon, which used to assail me frequently at around this time last year. It’s a time that can just as well be called “The Great Before,” a time of unconsciousness about the extent of my depression. Then something happened that shook me out of that dead time. It seems that sometimes, the heart would seek the rain obsessively: Better the life-threatening typhoon than the life-threatening drought. Of love, Kahlil Gibran wrote, “And when he speaks to you believe in him,/ Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.”

Now the storm is over, and everything is different.

For one thing, I can write again. For a time, I had let it all go; perhaps I needed to—not just my words, but everything that had anchored me to this earth. I had wanted to be one with the storm, and I was. Now that it is spent, and I have dealt with the worst of the wreckage, I am sensing the force of what needs to exist, what wants to shoot out from the damp soil and bloom.

* * * *

One evening, a decision finally coalesced, and I drove to the tabing-dagat intending to perform a ritual. It was night then, and drizzling a bit. I stood before the sea, the greasy light of the street lamps illumining the concrete strip of restaurants. Scattered laughter and distracting music wafted to me, but did not puncture my bubble of peace—not even when a group of teenagers approached my space and hoisted themselves on the ledge. I walked away, until I came to a spot where I could reasonably talk to God.

Left: The amazing book by Elizabeth Gilbert, where I got the idea for this ritual. More than a decade ago, I used to be very religious. I think maybe I’ve always been a spiritual person, even though my religious beliefs have evolved and vanished at some point, at the height of my attraction to (atheistic) existentialism. I don’t think one can be in philosophy and remain uncritical or unreflective about the religion one is born into, choiceless. But this doesn’t mean that matters of the spirit will not haunt you. (Like the word “God,” I think of “spirit” as a manner of speaking that doesn’t refer to a substance.) This longing for spirit haunts the writings of the existentialist writers, for example when Jean-Paul Sartre describes the intensely human experience of abandonment, or when Friedrich Nietzsche refers to the cyclical mystery of the eternal recurrence. In us resides the Godly, not necessarily inside churches or through priests, those these may or may not enhance the experience of the divine, depending on where the individual is on his or her journey.

One of the consequences of my soul’s storm was a recuperation of certain vital relationships—with God, whom I hadn’t prayed to in a very long time; with my mother; with some old friends; with some mentors. And yes, with my Self. I had distanced myself from them last year, choosing to live in what Martin Buber would call the manufactured heart beside the other heart. These places inside me were equally real; it’s just that the other space would have died in the harsh sun of the world’s truth. Nonetheless, it was no less true, because I made it so, but now its time is over. I am whole again: that compartment has merged with the other chambers. Evidence of this mending is I can write again. Oh, how I can write again!

So, I was back in the arms of God, enveloped by the infinite sea-space of his heart, which could absorb everything that was weighing me down. I started praying:

God, please take from me my immense sadness. I don’t want it anymore. I’ve lived with it for as long as I can remember. Please take from me all the hurt and anger and disappointment, frustration, jealously, attachment. Most of all, please take the paralyzing nostalgia. I offer up my sadness to you, for safe-keeping, because I cannot take it with me where I need to go. And I want to go, God. I am sick of this place of heartbreak. I have had enough. I no longer want to be here! I am ready to move on! I want to move on. So please take what used to be my world, what I wouldn’t let go of, everything that is preventing me from becoming what I need to become. I trust that in Your infinite power, You can do all the worrying and regretting and longing and mourning for me. I cannot do any of it anymore. I am leaving all of this now, with Your blessing, in Your keeping. Thank You. Amen.

A synchronistic poem that says everything

Risk
By Anaïs Nin

And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.

Rilke, again

I immensely enjoyed my graduate class in Phenomenology and Existentialism today. This term I'm trying a new "structure." In previous courses, I'd lecture now and then, and assign a topic for each student to present. This term, however, due to the nature of the subject matter--nothing less than (human) existence--I thought we could just sit in a big circle and discuss the philosophical texts in a quasi-literary way. So far, our discussions have been great! We just exchange insights and observations based on the readings for the week.

This week, we read some forerunners of existentialism in literature, i.e. Fyodor Dostoevsky ("The Grand Inquisitor"), Franz Kafka ("The Imperial Message"), and Rainer Maria Rilke (the second and ninth elegies of "The Duino Elegies"). I especially liked going back to Rilke. It's been a couple of years since I was first enamored by his poetry and his message about the fleetingness of everything, what we called the "onceness" of things. Here's an excerpt from the second elegy, translated from the German by Stephen Mitchell:

But we, when moved by deep feeling, evaporate; we
breathe ourselves out and away; from moment to moment
our emotion grows fainter, like a perfume. Though someone may tell us:
"Yes, you've entered my bloodstream, the room, the whole springtime
is filled with you..."--what does it matter? he can't contain us,
we vanish inside him and around him. And those who are beautiful,
oh who can retain them? Appearance ceaselessly rises
in their face, and is gone....

And from the ninth elegy (on the question of "why then have to be human," when we could just as well have been a laurel):

But because truly being here is so much; because everything here
apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way
keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.
Once for each thing. Just once; no more. And we too,
just once. And never again. But to have been
this once, completely, even if only once:
to have been at one with the earth, seems beyond undoing.

Our class talked about the sadness that seems to accompany our sense of time passing. I drew their attention to the fact that this cycle of poems is an elegy, which addresses a profound loss. A laurel would not be conscious of its impending death, and so, even though it is temporal, would not be tragic. But for us, when we are reflective enough, we feel the poignant onceness of each thing: A kiss, a heartbreak, a birth, a poem. These will never come again, because each event represents a unique configuration of self, other, place, and time. We are evanescent, like air freshener: "... from moment to moment/ our emotion grows fainter, like a perfume...."

Why this nostalgia over a fact of life? Why do we seem to desire permanence, love's grand dream? Why can't we let go without the knee-jerk sadness?

So I've been resurrecting some of my old writings...

... and just realized how bulky everything is, from my previous blogs. Maybe four years' worth of writing, I imported from blogger. Now I don't know why I even bothered! :-p

I wanted to write again after a dry spell of several months. Writing-wise, it's like somebody had stuffed cotton into my mouth: even in my head, the thoughts were muffled. But lately, I've been hearing the call of ideas again, even though I'm so out of practice in wording them. So I guess I may post some new stuff here, even though this whole thing feels so clunky right now.

* * * *

I feel I am almost hopeless with regard to my creative output. After having attended a (i.e. the) national writers' workshop last year, I was only able to produce two or three poems. I didn't even have the courage to show them to Ma'am M.

I do know that the art of writing requires so much discipline. What I've realized recently is that--for me anyway--good writing comes from disciplined living as well. That means living toward the soul's direction. I'm sorry to say that I was lost in the woods. Now, when I think about starting again, I get this image of me with my head down, perhaps standing before the mists of another Avalon, a place in my mind where I used to write from. A centered place; a place of belonging. My home. Can a prodigal daughter still part the mists, and go back home?

(Below: Morgaine prepares to part the mists, with Viviane behind her, in Mists of Avalon)


What will she do if she can't? Where will she go?

* * * *

On a lighter note, I recently saw The Curious Case of Benjamin Button at Greenbelt, with the bears. I had heard good stuff about it, and wasn’t disappointed. It’s based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, about a man who is born old and then progresses through his life steadily growing younger. He is almost the same age as his “soul mate” in the movie. They finally become lovers in their late 30s, when their physical ages coincide—after that point, she grows older and he grows younger.

(Below: Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button)


Time passing is an intensely human experience. The ultimate enemy of love is not people, but time. Would that I could keep my love within a bubble that melted those relentless timepieces. But I myself am in time, and the only place where love can be preserved is memory.

Do watch this movie. It teaches you that it takes the perspective of a lifetime to appreciate the preciousness of everything.

Lost and Found

By Noelle Leslie dela Cruz

Roger was gone again. His food bowl was empty, and he’d drunk all his water, spilling some on the floor. Wet paw prints led out of the house. Carla thought the doggie door was still swaying a little, though it could just as easily have been the wind. She dropped the Filipina Barbie doll—the newest in her collection—and made for the door. As she opened it a tiny crack, a spray of rain water blew into her face, and she giggled.

“Carla! Close the door,” she heard Dada say. Obediently, she shut it and skipped to where her father was lounging on the sofa, surfing TV channels.

“Roger left again!” she said, climbing on his lap.

“Did he?” Dada absently patted her hip, absorbed in a basketball game.

“Yes!” She practically bounced. “He does it every 3 pm. I don’t know where he goes!”

“Maybe he’s just outside, sweetie.”

“Let’s find him!”

Dada finally looked at her. “It’s raining. You’ll get sick, and you have to go back to school tomorrow,” he added, touching her nose with his index finger.

“Why can’t it be a holiday everyday, so we can stay home like this?”

“Because then, people won’t go to work and they won’t earn any money and we won’t be able to buy food and keep this house. Now, let’s just wait for Roger to come back. You know Mommy will get angry if we went out in this rain.”

Carla sighed heavily. “Mommy won’t mind. She’s asleep.”

“She would know.”

Carla didn’t think so, but kept quiet. Mommy was always asleep, from morning till night. She never left the bedroom. Carla would go in sometimes, curious, climbing on the bed, and her mother would suddenly start and open her red-rimmed eyes. But she would only look at Carla dazedly, as if she didn’t know her, and go back to sleep.

Carla picked up her doll and stroked the gown, tracing the beads and lacy hem. It was called a “saya,” and she had a picture of it in her coloring book. This Barbie was her favorite, because it was the only one that had long black hair all the way down to her waist. Her eyes and coloring were different too. She had almond-shaped eyes and her skin was the color of coffee with too much cream in it. Tita Jenny had bought it for her—she named her Kayla—because she had lost another doll with the same name, except that one’s hair was blond. Now she loved the black-haired Kayla more, and rarely thought of where that other Kayla had gone. She thought that maybe she was looking for her Ken, because Carla never got any Ken’s, and maybe that blond one felt lonely and left. But sometimes Carla doubted this because dolls couldn’t really walk, despite what her best friend Pauline had said, even though Pauline was the smartest girl in first grade.

A scary thought suddenly occurred to her. “What if Roger doesn’t come back?” she asked Dada.

“Of course he will. All dogs know where their home is.”

“But the blond Kayla didn’t know how to get back,” she said, and felt panic rising up her throat, through her nose, welling up in her eyes, scrunching up her whole face.

“Hey! Now don’t cry.” Dada stood up with her in his arms, rocking her gently and patting her back. “Your doll is just somewhere around the house. As for Roger, he’d be back by tonight.” He walked to the window and they looked out at their backyard. She could hardly see anything through the downpour, not even a hint of Roger’s white tail.

Eventually, her sobs subsided, and she felt her eyes getting heavy. She rested her cheek on Dada’s shoulder and forgot about Roger for awhile.

* * * *

As Dada was clearing up the dishes after dinner, Carla heard the doggie door creak. Her heart jumped at the unmistakable sound of dog’s nails scraping on the wooden floor.

“Roger!” she cried, and the pudgy spotted mongrel emerged from the living room and into the kitchen, his tongue hanging out. “Where have you been?” She gathered his small but heavy body into her arms.

“See? I told you he’d come back. He’s probably hungry,” Dada said. He went to the foyer and came back with Roger’s bowl, refilled now with dog food, and set it down on the floor.

As Roger devoured his dinner, Carla patted his head, singing to herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father assemble her mother’s dinner on a tray. Dada fed everybody. He cooked, too, except on weekends when they would all drive to her Lola’s house in Laguna. There, they would eat the food that Lola prepared, Mommy would hole herself up in their bedroom, and Dada would go out with his old friends from town. And Carla would play with Roger. She missed Laguna, but Saturday was—Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday—still four long days away.

Carla promised herself that before the week ends, she would find out where Roger went every 3 pm. At least, she thought that was when he usually disappeared, because every time she noticed him missing, she would hear the three o’clock habit. Tita Jenny always had the TV on, after she fetched Carla from school and she would stick around till Dada arrived. The screen would show a picture of Jesus with his bleeding heart wrapped in thorns, and a man’s voice would recite a prayer. That was how Carla told the time of Roger’s disappearances.

* * * *

Carla ran down the road excitedly. Roger was lopping ahead of her, so fast she was afraid she won’t be able to catch up. The disembodied praying voice was droning in her ears when she’d heard the doggie door creak. She’d whipped her head around in time to see a white tail disappear behind the door panel. Tita Jenny was in the bathroom and had just flushed the toilet. Carla had slipped out the door before her aunt could come back into the room.

Cars, vans, tricycles, and the occasional bus sped down the road, and Carla carefully kept to the pebbled path along the side. At the end of the road, she could see the school that Tita Jenny attended. It was really a group of buildings. Her aunt had once brought her along, and she met her aunt’s classmates and some of her teachers, some she called “Doctor” although they weren’t really the kind who poked at you and gave you medicine. “Doctors of the soul,” Tita Jenny gravely said, and Carla believed her.

Some houses were very close to the school, like their own place. Dada didn’t have to drive to go to work. Carla knew her way around because she was often at the playground near the building where Dada went; of course, someone was always with her, Tita Jenny usually. But she also remembered her Mommy taking her there maybe once or twice, a long time ago, Carla hadn’t met Pauline yet, and Mommy still laughed and talked to the other women at the playground.

Roger turned to a narrow street. Carla hadn’t been there before. The huge trees almost completely blocked out the sun. The path was littered with overripe Macopas, and a swarm of insects flew around her legs as she passed by. A breeze caressed her face. She suddenly wanted to sit in the shade and lean back against a tree, until someone came looking for her. The dog’s pace had slowed down; she could keep up with him now by walking.

Then Roger stopped in his tracks, tail wagging, body pointed rigidly toward a small white house. It had a pretty red door. A pair of bougainvilleas flanked the porch, their blooming boughs curving around a trellised archway. Enchanted, Carla approached the house with the dog by her side.

The door opened and an old man stood at the threshold. He was quite tall, and behind him, Carla could see the yellow glow of a lamp. She also glimpsed a set of couches that looked invitingly soft, and a wall of books. It reminded her of the small library at home, where Mommy used to stay a lot, typing away at her laptop surrounded by piles of books.

“Hello, doggie. I see you brought a friend with you,” the man said. All his hair was white, but he wasn’t balding like her Lolo. His eyes were chinky and watery. He had a big, too-straight nose; when he peered down at her, she thought he looked like a bird cocking his head to see better.

The man squatted and held out a biscuit to Roger. The dog leapt and bit into the treat. “This your dog?” he asked, patting Roger’s head.

“Yes,” she said, her eyebrows drawing together at the thought that this man possibly had the keeping of her dog every afternoon.

“I met him on a walk some weeks ago. He followed me home and we sort of got into a ritual of feeding and walking. He’s addicted to these biscuits.” He winked, drawing out another piece from his pocket, to Roger’s crazed delight. When Roger was hungry and excited, he could really howl. His stubby legs propelled him a good two feet from the ground as he snatched the biscuit from the air.

“Say, you look familiar.” The man said, sitting on the porch so that he was eye-level with her. He pinched his bottom lip thoughtfully. “You look exactly like a former student of mine. Tess was her name.”

“That’s my Mommy’s name!” Carla grinned. “Tess Borja, ‘cause that’s Dada’s surname, and mine too. My full name is Carla V. Borja. V. is for Vasquez!”

The man stared at her for a few seconds. “Do your parents know where you are?”

She looked down, where Roger was curled up and leaning against the man’s foot. “No...”

“Wait here,” he said, and disappeared into the house. When he came back, he was holding a cordless phone against his ear. “Jenny? It’s Dr. G. I think it’s your niece who just arrived at my door, with her dog.”

She heard disjointed squawks, and imagined her young aunt becoming teary-eyed with relief.

“Yes, yes,” Dr. G. was saying. “You can come pick her up. In the meantime, I’ll think we’ll have some cookies and discuss literature and philosophy!”

She perked up at the word “cookies,” but didn’t care for the last part of what he said. Happily, she and Roger followed the “doctor” into his house. In the kitchen, she sat down at the table while he opened a cupboard and brought out a jar of chocolate chip cookies.

“Are you really a doctor?” she asked around a mouthful of Chip Ahoy!

“Not really. I can’t cure anyone. That’s just what the people on campus call me, because I have a degree.”

“A degree?”

“Yes. Something you study years and years for, at the end of which you write a paper as thick as an unabridged dictionary.”

“Can you really heal my soul?”

“Come again?”

“That’s what Tita Jenny said your kind of doctors do.”

Dr. G.’s shoulders were heaving with laughter. “Perhaps, in a manner of speaking. There is much to heal us in philosophy, as the Stoic Seneca would say. But no matter how much you learn, it’s really up to you how you use that knowledge, to either heal or harm yourself. Tell me,” he leaned forward, suddenly intent. “How is your mother?”

“She sleeps a lot,” she said. “She’s sad.”

“Did you know, your mother used to be my student. Do you want to know who her favorite philosopher was?”

“What’s a philosopher?” Carla asked, her eyebrows drawing together. That was what Dada used to call Mommy, when they were arguing a lot, long before she became sad and never argued with him anymore. But Carla knew that fighting was something they did for fun, because after so many, many words they always laughed afterwards. “You philosophers!” Dada would say. Or sometimes, “You sophists!”

Dr. G. rubbed his chin for a moment. “A philosopher is one who loves ideas, and tries to live based on the wisest choice among these ideas.”

“Like it was my idea to follow Roger?” she asked.

Dr. G. leaned back on his chair and smiled, watching her closely. “Now, do you think what you did was right?”

An image of the closed bathroom door flashed in her mind, and the doggie panel swinging back and forth. “I didn’t think about it. I left before Tita Jenny came out of the bathroom.”

“Why is that?”

“Because she doesn’t want me to go out.”

“So you acted on the idea that going on an adventure is worth risking your Tita Jenny’s anger, or perhaps that the need to know is worth giving up the safety of your home.”

She nodded slowly, remembering the feel of the wind on her face as she ran after Roger, as cars whizzed by in her peripheral vision. How she giggled to herself thinking that she’d finally solve the mystery of where her dog was going.

“But here’s what I want you to think about,” Dr. G. said. “Did you weigh those ideas against other considerations? What if you got hit by a car or a stranger took you away from your family? Would you still think that going out is worth the risk?”

“No...” She frowned, then said, accusingly, “You’re like my Dada.”

“Of course. I know your father. He was my student too. So Carla, what I’m saying is that one job of the philosopher is to think about different ways of looking at things. We figure out which one is the most rational or logical, and we try to live our lives by that.”

“Can that make you happy?” She asked.

Dr. G. seemed taken aback by her question. Though his eyes remained on her, she sensed that he was no longer looking at her. His expression reminded her of Dada’s face sometimes, when he would suddenly drop his fork and talk to himself. “Can that make you happy,” Dr. G. echoed her question, looking at a point somewhere above her shoulder. “Not necessarily. Nothing can make us happy.”

“So philosophy didn’t make Mommy happy?”

“No. But Carla, I wanted to add that while nothing outside us can make us happy, we can think of certain things as reasons for happiness. But in themselves, these things don’t make us happy. We do.”

She thought of her two Kayla dolls, the one she had lost and the other that she had learned to love more. “I think I know what you’re talking about!” she exclaimed. “And I think I like philosophy.”

Dr. G. grinned, and she saw many wrinkles radiate from the corners of his eyes. But whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the doorbell. He got up, saying, “I think that’s your aunt.”

Tita Jenny breezed in, babbling her thanks to the old man as she headed straight to where Carla was sitting in the kitchen. Carla tried her best to look sorry, but knew that her young aunt wouldn’t scold her the way Dada would (if he found out). But when Tita Jenny said, “Wait till your father hears about this,” real tears gathered in Carla’s eyes. She dragged her feet all the way to Dr. G.’s front door, Roger at her heels.

Before he closed the door, he told her, “Your mother’s favorite philosopher was Albert Camus. Next time you and Roger drop by, I’ll tell you about the myth of Sisyphus. But bring your aunt this time, okay?”

“Okay!” Carla agreed happily.

* * * *

Carla learned to look forward to 3 pm as much as she looked forward to going to Lola’s house in Laguna, perhaps more. Lola didn’t tell her stories or talk about philosophy the way Dr. G. did. Carla loved Lola’s homemade bibingka, but she also liked Dr. G.’s chocolate chip cookies. Once or twice he served her and Tita Jenny some spaghetti that he cooked himself, while Roger of course always got his biscuits. While Tita Jenny watched TV in the living room or chatted endlessly over the phone, Carla and Dr. G. would sit in the kitchen or out on the porch, just talking, the dog lying lazily at their feet.

She loved looking at the pictures he showed her. One was a painting of a man named Socrates on the day that he was condemned to die. He was said to be the wisest man in all of Athens, simply because he knew that he knew nothing. Her best friend Pauline didn’t know that sometimes, she told Dr. G. He had also showed her a painting of a man pushing a huge boulder uphill, explaining that his name was Sisyphus and that the gods had given him a really horrible punishment. He was supposed to push the rock up to the top, where he knew that it would roll back down. And he was to keep doing that, forever and ever and ever.

“Why does he do it?” she’d asked.

“Because he has learned to love his fate, Carla. And that takes a kind of courage that not a lot of people have—to do what you have to do, even knowing that in the end, our efforts may fail.”

Since then, she’d thought hard about everything she’d “failed” in, and wondered whether or not she had given up on them. First there were the math exercises she found hard to concentrate on. Then there were the things she sometimes lost and would cry over for days until they turned up again. She’d even made a little list of the missing items she was still looking for: The blond Kayla. A pink eraser. Her favorite Mickey Mouse mug that she got all the way from Disneyland, when she and Dada and Mommy had gone to California to visit her grandparents.

Then there were the times she would go to Mommy’s room when no one was looking and try to wake her up, but she wouldn’t wake up. From afar, her mother looked like Sleeping Beauty. Her hair was wavy and long and hung over the side of the bed, just like that of a fairy tale princess. But when Carla got closer, she would see the circles under Mommy’s eyes, and she’d look more like the dark queen then, with the lines in her brow and her tightly compressed lips, as though even in dreams she was somehow suffering.

Dr. G. had said that Camus—a French philosopher whose funny name was spelled differently from how Carla would have pronounced it—was Mommy’s favorite. He said that she read all his books and wrote many papers about his ideas. Interested, Carla plucked a book from Dr. G.’s shelf that had Camus’ name on it. Turning to the first page, she read aloud, hesitatingly because she didn’t know how to pronounce some of the long words: “‘There is but one truly serious phi-lo-so-phi-cal problem and that is....’ What’s this word, Dr. G.? ‘S-U-I-C-I-D-E.’”

He looked up at her from where he was sitting on the couch, snapping his own book shut. “Suicide,” he said.

“What does that mean?” She’d heard that word before, but no one bothered to explain. But she knew that it was a bad word and it had something to do with why her Mommy was sad. “Is it when you’re always sleeping?” she guessed.

He sighed. “No. It’s when...” his voice trailed away. Tita Jenny had switched off the TV and had walked up to him, arms crossed over her chest. Carla sensed their eyes say something to each other, something she couldn’t understand. She hated when big people did that. They did that all the time when they were talking about Mommy and they would suddenly notice that she was in the room.

“Remember Sisyphus?” Dr. G. finally asked.

“Yes...”

“Suicide is something he’s decided not to do, even though his task is so hard.”

“So suicide is like giving up on your rock?” Carla asked.

“Yes, my dear.”

She put the book back in the shelf and sat beside Dr. G. She reached down and rubbed Roger’s upturned belly. After awhile she said, “So Mommy gave up on her rock? Suicide is something she tried to do. That’s what Pauline heard her mom say.” Her words sounded very loud in the suddenly quiet room.

“She didn’t really do it,” Tita Jenny said, kneeling on the carpet so that they were eye-level. She rubbed Carla’s shivering arms. “And she would never do it.”

Carla thought of how Mommy looked that morning, sleeping so deeply, as if she lived a whole life behind her eyelids, in a world where she laughed or cried or shouted or danced or agued. Carla suddenly wanted to go home. She wanted to run to that place where Mommy went, where the blond Kayla went, and her pink eraser and the Mickey Mouse mug. Before she knew it, she was up and running toward the door. She thought she heard Tita Jenny and Dr. G.’s pursuing footsteps. As for Roger, he was already loping beside her, the one she loved, had lost, and had found.

* * * *

Carla ran into the house and headed for Mommy’s bedroom. She collapsed on the bed beside her, sobbing uncontrollably. For the first time, Mommy sat up, dazedly, and awkwardly held her in her arms. Then she heard Tita Jenny and Dr. G. come into the room. “Dr. G.!” Mommy gasped, so softly Carla thought she was the only who’d heard it.

Mommy’s bed was so soft and her arms felt so warm around her. Carla’s sobs finally subsided and she fell asleep. Then she woke to the sound of Dr. G.’s voice.

“So all that Camus stuff, the existential revolt—you can’t really live up to it, can you?”

There was a pause. Carla wondered who he was talking to. She opened her right eye a crack and saw that Mommy and Dr. G. were seated at the small table beside the window.

“I’m trying,” Mommy said. Her voice was whisper-soft and Carla had to strain to hear it.

“Well, I know you’ve never been a happy person, at least not when you were my student ten years ago. But so many of us are unhappy, and yet continue to live. Oh, I know there’s a name for what you have. Manic depression. Bipolar disorder. This is not to belittle the incredible pain you must be going through, simply by being conscious. But can’t you at least find something to live for?”

“I think that’s what makes it sadder, that I have every reason to live. It makes me feel so much more guilty... and lost... when suddenly I realize I don’t want to.” She paused. “I mean, if I didn’t have Carla and Jay, I’d understand why, but I do have them. And the black waves....” Her soft voice cracked. “ ‘The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.’”

“Sylvia Plath,” Dr. G. said, after awhile. “The poem about the flowers in her hospital room, while she was recovering from a suicide attempt.”

“‘Tulips.’”

Then there was a long silence in which no sound was heard except the drizzle outside and the clink of a spoon against a cup, as Dr. G. stirred his coffee.

“Since you’re in a quoting mood,” he said. “‘It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me.... At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks towards the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.’”

“The hour of consciousness,” Mommy said. “‘One must imagine Sisyphus happy.’”

“It’s hard, more than anything you’ve ever done—or will probably do—in your life. But don’t give up, Tess. Be stronger than your rock.” Dr. G. paused and later, his empty coffee cup clinked against its saucer. “Isn’t that right, Carla?”

She started and sat up, staring goggle-eyed at Dr. G. She also noticed that her mother was smiling, for the first time in months. It was only a faint smile, the kind you wondered if you only imagined it, like in that famous painting of a woman named Mona Lisa. But Mommy was smiling, and her lips stretched even more when her gaze focused on Carla.

“Hey sweetie. Dr. G. says you’d lost your doll. Guess what I have here.” She got up and went to the closet, emerging with a blond Barbie doll in her hand.

“Kayla!” Carla couldn’t believe it.

“I think you left her on my bed once,” Mommy explained. “I may have picked her up, stuck her in the closet along with the beddings and forgot all about her.”

Carla jumped down from the bed and ran to Mommy, hugging her waist. She was crying, but wouldn’t let go long enough to get the doll. She felt Mommy’s arms come around her, felt her fingers run through her hair.

“Don’t cry, sweetie,” she said. “Now I need to lie down for awhile. But later we’ll all sit down to eat. I invited Dr. G. to join us tonight.”

Carla nodded and let her go. Later that evening, Dada arrived and Tita Jenny and Dr. G. stayed for dinner. Dada didn’t have to prepare Mommy’s tray. Instead, she came down the stairs, fresh from a shower, looking more like a princess than a dark queen. But her eyes reminded Carla of an old dog they used to have, Max, just before they put him to sleep. He had cancer, and had whined pitifully for several days. His eyes had been hazed with pain, and she knew that in those days, he wasn’t really seeing her anymore.

As though she sensed her stare, Mommy looked at Carla. The corners of her lips quivered, as if she couldn’t decide whether to smile or to cry. A fanciful image came to Carla’s mind, of Sisyphus concentrating his whole weight in his shoulder as he pushed against the rock. She even imagined small pebbles rolling down the hillside as the boulder moved up, one millimeter at a time. Mommy’s struggle for a smile was like that. She would achieve that brief, shining expression, then after all that effort, it would fall away from her face only a few seconds later.

In the end, Mommy’s teeth flashed, and Carla grinned back. And all around the table, they were wore big smiles.

Epiphany

"And by the time I reach 80
I would have fallen in love with
An entire city.
All the people on the streets
Would follow me down with
A knowing. All hate gone. All sorrow.
The word absence would not make sense."
--Nerisa Guevara, 27

How morning comes over your eyelids sometimes, snatching you from behind the skirts of sleep. And out the window, the bay lies placid, gray, as the city opens its many eyes. A thought glints like the sharp reflected light from a car's side mirror, plying the 8 am traffic. Impossible to guess where they had come from, which homes they locked to go to work, which avenues they'll stream through like salmon, swimming against the current of last night's dream. Suddenly the city looms with the velocity of focus. And then it makes sense: that poet's ode to some future wisdom, from thousands of days coming at you like lightning cracks through your neurons. To fall in love with life's violence; to let the sadnesses disperse like street dust. To let the morning in.