Baggage

December is my favorite month, even though—or probably because—it’s always a happy-sad time for me. Emotionally, it’s my season of storms. People hope so hard and dream so much at this time of year, and I absorb all the feelings around me. It’s not something I can pinpoint or name: not children begging in the rain, not a deserted classroom, not the giddy emptiness of nonstop shopping, not hearing about pre-Christmas break-ups. It’s all of these and none of these. I guess it’s just so heady to watch this concerted effort to live up to our twinkly decorations, so frightening to recognize this universal joy, preached in churches everywhere and verbalized between passing strangers, the social ritual of “Merry Christmas.” It’s like drinking in an entire ocean of wishes, and then swallowing one last drop—the wish that all of it would come true. [Image above by Nik Rawlinson.]

And so invariably around this time of year, I feel as though I were drowning. Would that I could crawl into an unbreachable nook in my heart, a virgin place that hasn’t been voided yet, where I can be safe from the sly overtures of the world. But I realize that all it takes is one total breakage; after that, it’s like there’s a hole in your chest where just about anything can come in. (Anatta, the Buddhist concept of the non-self, teaches us that if you long for the fullness of the universe, you must first become totally empty.)

There is an ad for an anti-depressant drug that features this round little fellow, the “Zoloft guy.” It reminds me of a creature in an online role-playing game, which—in its cute and seemingly innocuous way—absorbs everything in its path. I feel like I am this “Poring”: bobbing merrily along, oozing cheerful pinkness, carrying too much inside.



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Last night I stayed overnight at Les’s place, where I helped her pack for her 6 am flight today. While she was getting her affairs in order—taking care of bills, sending out last minute text messages—I’d had to pack and repack her stuff, making sure they didn’t exceed the weight limit. As I stuffed her suitcase with her rolled-up blouses and winter coats and toiletries and six thousand fancy belts, I realized that people carry so many things with them. No matter where we wander in the world, we hoist our entire lives on our backs: relationships, memories, needs, dreams. In that sense, one can never be completely free.

When we said goodbye at the airport, we were curiously impersonal, perhaps because we knew we’d see each other again. I watched her disappear down the terminal, and sighed. Airports. I hate and love them. They’re where my parents often come and go, an exit point into what I think of as the “real world,” a way station of exiles. Once upon a time, I left without really believing that I would come back. I’ve learned since then that leaving is but the first movement of returning. But right now, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish I could also leave and not look back.

A friend once told me that wherever his wife and children were, he considers home. He asked me where my home was, and I said that if what he meant by that is the place where I grew up and where most of the people I knew lived and where my livelihood is, then I am there already. But if by “home” he meant an intangible place, plotted in the secret geography of one’s soul, then I said no; I haven’t found that yet. Perhaps I am homeless in this sense, pushing around a shopping cart of belongings wherever I go.

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On a happier note, I seem to have been seeing so many of my friends this month, despite the whirlwind cramming for my dissertation. Incidentally, I made like the Tazmanian devil just to submit the proposal on time. Thankfully enough, it was approved, although I’m not happy with how the “defense” itself turned out. I was so sick of the paper itself that the night before the big day, I couldn’t muster the energy or enthusiasm to prepare a presentation. What else could I say that wasn’t already in the three-chapter, 101-page proposal? Privately I was like, Just ask me your questions and let’s be done with it. Rake me over the requisite coals while we demolish this #4 cheese pizza. Unfortunately, my chairperson was expecting something fancier than this informal tableau, so I was suitably chastised. I knew it was an important event, the defense itself, but for me the battle had been over the moment I printed out the last page. I was anxious to get back to my life. Really, I’m sick of this seemingly never-ending trudge toward a Ph.D. I’m still doggedly moving on, but from time to time, I do need to stop and roll my eyes.

Anyhow, now that I’ve succeeded in partially repressing that episode, voici quelques photos très jolies, du plus heureux coté de ma vie.



At a church in Villamor Air Base, during my daughter’s christening. Oh sorry, my goddaughter’s christening. :-) Michie (contemplating the picture): “Uy, bagay sa iyo! Magkaanak ka na rin!” Myself: “You’re right. Why not?” Except there’s a slight chance that the child might object to having been born for the same purpose that we buy a bag or a piece of jewelry—kasi bagay.

And Jamie Karoline becomes a Christian. I told Maricar, just wait till she takes a course on Nietzsche under me.


A last picture together before Les left, at Maricar’s house right after the church ceremony. I love this shot; once in a while I do get lucky.





With Lens and her daughter at Ä Veneto’s. Sedona is so cute here!


What a smile. My favorite picture of Fadi, my French teacher, who seems to be so fascinated by something.

I guess the past few weeks have been happy after all.