The Photograph

A brief attempt at a book review.

Having been used to long sentences that extend to paragraphs of their own, my reading the first few pages of Penelope Lively’s “The Photograph” brings a sort of mild discomfort. Lively isn’t shy with fragments; I am - maybe it’s the green lines that appear in my word processor when I use them. But this seeming tolerance (or appreciation) for unorthodox linguistics I soon learn is Lively’s way to push the narrative forward using the viewpoints of her characters, all of whom are in various modes of guilt and crisis after a photograph twists their shared pasts and unshared secrets. By the time the story reaches the chapter on precision- and accuracy-inclined Oliver Watson, I notice that the brilliance of Lively, being “in perfect command of the form”, is in full swing.

The long and short of the story is this: via a buried photograph, a husband discovers several years after his wife’s death that she had an affair, and not just with some other man, but with her own brother-in-law. While the characters each get a chance to let the reader know what they make of the turn of events, not all of them are believable. The tale is a suspenseful foray into forgotten memories and curious strangers, and though the grand ending was just as I had predicted (or at least had a good inkling of), what’s best to consider in “The Photograph” is Lively’s uncanny grasp of human psychology.

“She is reverberating still. But he hears only her; he himself is extinguished. What did he say to her? Goodness knows.

“He looks up from the spread photograph and stares out of the window, struck by this. Odd. All that swilling speech in the head comes from others, never from oneself. It is they who say things; you do not reply. There is no exchange; vital evidence is missing. And I’ve never been what you might call lost for words, thinks Glyn.

“Interesting. The operation of memory would seem to be largely receptive: what is seen, what is heard. We are the center of the action, but somehow blot ourselves out of the picture.”

And so after these words I stop to think of my own past conversations. Remembering would make for some sentimental recall, a grateful recollection of what I had said to whom during when. However, and a little unexpectedly, I’m not always successful. In this ironic manner “The Photograph” risks being forgettable, but with the possibility of serendipitous intervention, I find no memory is too deep to remember.

Street Walking

Drink when you’re thirsty; eat when you’re hungry.

This is good advice howsoever one takes it. Of course it must have been what folks used to call common sense. But the anxious generation of today, we drift often into isolation, and fear what we think is abnormally real to us. Take me for instance: with a self-imposed ‘public journal’ moratorium, I was afraid of what would (or has) become of my writing, and I wasn’t willing to take the risk of incurring the contempt or scrutiny of my readers. Not yet at least, I half-convinced myself. In so deeming I became a victim of subjective anxiety instead of a victor by common sense.

But what then becomes of someone who just walked over twenty blocks of Manila to reach his home? Thirsty and hungry to write about it, that’s what. Thus I am again partaking in this potpourri of ruminating prose, if only for the sake of both wit and an urge to tell a tale…

I am officially bankrupt until the next payday, you see. I’d have pawned my necklace for a day after I realized nine pesos for a jeepney ride from my Tomas Morato office to Mayon Street won’t cut it, but as it happened I am not that vulnerable to desperation. So I rode to where my coins would take me farthest, which happened to be Sto. Domingo Church, just right past Araneta Avenue.

In spite of the distance, the evening stroll felt good. For how often is one forced transportation by foot? I was able to savor the soft breeze which crept under from the row of trees by the sidewalks, where vendors of grilled chicken intestines fanned coals to a bright red hue, and where construction workers exchanged banters while sipping from soda bottles. I noticed that on the rough stretches of asphalt the street lamps cast a pale diffusion of orange, only to be sliced by an occasional pedicab or tricycle zipping by. Then a tricycle driver whistled at me to inquire if I needed his service, so I shook my head to say no. Can’t afford another ride, I kept myself from saying, a ride which I have no right to be interested in.

The walk took almost an hour. Turning the last corner, I bumped into Rey Boy, an idyllic youth of about thirteen, maybe fourteen. “No taxi?” he asked, and immediately I remember the curious smile in his big, round eyes when we used to play basketball together. He had a junior-sized Spalding in his hands, which upon seeing me he had stopped dribbling: “Hey LeBron, no taxi?” (He’s Dwyane Wade, by the way.)

With a wink I answered, “No money, rather.” That sounded honest, but more importantly it sounded sensible. And soon as I stepped into my humble abode, I drank a full glass of cold, cold water.

***

Memories ("How We Keep Ourselves from Falling Asleep in the Office" Edition):



Now who looks like s/he isn't wearing paper?

Authentic, Not I

Notice to whom it may concern. Write less, read more, write better.

I think I’ll stop writing for awhile, or I think I’ll make others think that I’ll stop writing for awhile. There is too much of my self-absorption being revealed in this public diary (a confused paradox, essentially speaking), and my everlastingly vainglorious preoccupation with youth speaks too loudly whenever I stop to read what I’ve written.

Of course I might not stop completely, but if the urge proves itself to be utterly irresistible, the proof will be left unpublished. It mustn’t be very healthy, or prosaic, to be writing confessions all the time and having these out in the open, especially when it is not forgiveness the writer is after. I am after authenticity, fictional and otherwise; and authenticity, it is not called when nothing but my own dismal lamentations and philosophical pretense are magnified by the microscope of the written word. (Count the number of ‘I’s in this entry, for indulgent measure.)

Instead I shall be reading. I shall make it a point to do so. I will make the act of reading so pure and imperative a point that I’ll be sacrificing nights out for it, because alcohol sometimes blurs memories, and other times it distorts them, and recklessly. I am even willing to watch less HBO. After all, the decision certainly has merit. I say this not so much while taking into account the objective benefits of books in general as justifying the extravagance I have recently lavished on acquiring them in particular.

Anyway the titles have been lined up - they have been for a long time – and to my addition, I have a whole parcel from which I can choose what comes first. The notice arrived today from the Quezon City Post Office, indicating that a box of books has arrived from New York (courtesy of a very good friend); and while I have yet to finish one half of about a dozen books I bought over the past month (or two weeks?), nothing is stopping me from racing to the claim counter the day after tomorrow’s national holiday.

Nevertheless, this self-imposed moratorium is more precautionary than necessary. Maybe I just want to have more to write than ‘vulgarity is the new discreet’, and indeed I ought to preach a more controlled battle cry than ‘literature over love; love over logic’ (such sticky sentimentality, this is what it is). Though I reckon with the usage of the word freely and flimsily, I truly have been a dilettante – in its least flattering sense. It is about time I modify the lexicon a little.

Wherever my conviction stands now, a disclaimer is hereby presented. There is a possibility that sooner rather than later, an entry might be published, and that my direction might change - in the words of Dmitri Karamazov - with the “swiftness of lightning and unexpectedness of an Arabian fairy tale”.

It might take a song playing on the radio, while I am on the road in a shabby cab and fragments of rain trickle down the passenger window. Or it might take the ripping speed of the metro train being muffled by the distant gazes of motionless commuters. A kite, perhaps, is what it might take, flying against the intense wind of the October sky and over the rusty iron sheets on which the kite-flyer is pulling the string, just pulling the string, and letting it go. All it takes is a sublime reality external to my self - experienced in great wonder and understood in mute fascination, because evidently there is a stark contrast between wonder at one’s world and fascination with one’s self. The latter I have been writing about since time immemorial - and to an extent I am writing about it even now -, but to have something else to consider, something more than one’s self and nothing less than what is really beautiful… it renders one inarticulate.

And it is only from thereon forth that I can write what is true.

41 Macopa

Our most gracious hosts.

Yesterday I listened to the sounds of Glenn Miller and sipped warm cups of Philippine Liberica – both (in their own respects) an acquired taste, and each a kind on its way to extinction. The sound of an old serenade is of course, sweet as music can get, while the coffee is strong and bitter…just about how I like it. Without cream, no sugar, and warm as the coldness of weather needs it to be.

And so in the most old-fashioned of photo shoots during which Dan used his dusty lens to capture, his eyes to see; wherein Maui gulped more cups of coffee in one afternoon than I’ll do in a day; and in between which I sat on an orange Little Tike indoor swing, in an empty basement, without swaying or saying anything…there must be some measure of unabashed truth in proclaiming we had fun. In a rainy afternoon, on location at the roomy and snug 41st house along the street of Macopa, we sipped and smoked and exchanged some few quiet words, and we had fun.

The howl of the orchestra from our hosts’ hidden speakers sounded so strange and ancient it was almost familiar, and the bitter blend of coffee might have intensified, had I put a teaspoon of sugar, the taste of a microscopic crystal. So I let things as they were, so to speak, and let the tiny yet significant accomplishment sink in that I had finally written a scripted story that wasn’t about me. (Admitting that mustered greater humility than I’ve been used to.)

As a gentle breeze crept into the house’s garden parlor, I remember thinking that too few people, in too few occasions, like sweetness and strength and bitterness all at once. Even fewer exude so, unless we include hopeless romantics and unreciprocated lovers all still standing. For to be sweet to the world, and to gather strength as we live in it, and to accept bitter realities which come to pass – it’s quite a tall task, and one which requires a painstaking amount of practice. (Such profound rhetoric, I can only contrive under terribly high doses of caffeine.) And it is something I can only truly understand in my thickest moments of lunacy.

An example of these moments was when a startlingly accurate aura reader once told me: “I am not sure about reconciliation, but go ahead with your life Migs, and cross the bridge when you’re there.”

“You really do love dearly,” he added. “But keep in mind that a prayer can help.”

A bittersweet foretelling to be foretold, I must say. But it’s one that can strengthen a resolve, and it’s a truth which in the same ancient tradition demands a man to bear his tidings. Bear them, accept them, and accept them freely with a pious gratitude, regardless of preference and no matter the consequence, for the art of respectfully taking in what is served us is a lost art – lost, I can even say, almost to the point of extinction.

At 41 Macopa, in the musical austerity of Glenn Miller and his orchestra, before some quaint cupboard of ‘barako’ beans brewed and blended, I mused upon all sugar-free reality. And I had fun.

Lost and Longing

I cannot say it is easy for me to tell which poetry is good, and which isn’t. I am not much a reader of measured verse, and surely I am not at all a writer of sublime rhymes. Nevertheless -and despite my fundamental reluctance to publish that which I didn’t write-, I would like to hereby share a piece by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the several lines of which were used in the masterful “In the Bedroom” by Todd Fields.

I must refrain from an interpretation, lest I be chastised once more for my worship of youth (or worse, my ignorance of poetry). That is what skinheads have a tendency for, someone once told me rather insolently, and though I’m scheduled for a good shave tomorrow, I shall leave it up to Mr. Longfellow here to describe what one might lose –or gain, depending on how you look at it- when he grows old. More than once I had taken the risk of romanticizing the few rough whiskers on my chin; it is, as I've learned, a risk in futility.

So here goes. The poem is entitled “My Lost Youth”---

Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thunder'd o'er the tide!
And the dead sea-captains, as they lay
In their graves o'erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighbourhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the schoolboy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

And Deering's woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

Comedy of Purse

Photo by Budo (who else?).

Looking through the glass pane, I buried my hand deep into the cotton pockets of my grey slacks, struggling and scooping for the coins I remembered I had. It was almost two hours past my designated lunch break, and I was rather hungry. But appointments are to be kept, and religiously, too, especially for a man who cannot live in peace without his threadbare leather wristwatch.

Looking through the glass pane and at the reflection of my colleague, whom I had my back to as we were so positioned, I felt the sudden pangs of an oppressed starving stomach. What a bloody nuisance that my watch ticked louder now…and I just had to leave behind my wallet inside the car.

Looking through the glass pane, I nevertheless decided that this time was no time to skip a meal. Anything that could hold the growling until after the meeting would do. But the sense of desperation only grew upon the realization that my stainless steel cigarette holder held no more cigarettes –no, not a single stick left for my salvation.

“What shall I eat?” I muttered to no one in particular. “I’m hungry.”

“What are you getting?” my colleague asked.

“I don’t know. Whatever I can afford, I guess.”

Looking through the glass pane, I finally managed to rest a handful of coins on my sweaty palm. In a blurred vision and with an observant mind, they seemed to even glisten a bit. A decision was finally made.

I was about to insert ten pesos in the coin slot of a vending machine for an attractively wrapped chocolate bar when finally, the client called.

Two Worlds

Libreria is the finest version of Café Chantant I know in Manila. Many times I had tried to set a date with my parents over the place for some warm cups of Cordillera coffee and conversation, but so far this hasn’t yet materialized. Always it is either I am stuck in a meeting or they are with friends to meet some other engagement; circumstances never seem to allow me the pleasure of introducing the sanctuary to my folks.

I’m sure mother would love to hear the Bacharach medley the pianist often plays Thursdays, and that before she takes a lavish slice of the blueberry cheesecake she’d first be humming, softly and gently, the words of what must be a familiar romantic song. And father surely would order a strong bitter blend, then take a long curious sip of it, then carefully mutter a few words of approval. This is good coffee, he shall perhaps say, and please don’t make me take all those sugars.

In the meantime I’ll be happy to watch them digest and critique and review the food, the music, the interior, the prices, and the book selection. Why I spend so much on a most obscure café is a question I’ll set aside with other neuroses, to be considered later (maybe never). Instead I shall be busy welcoming them to one of the worlds I know and to which I have come to endear myself -this world of awfully uncomfortable wooden chairs, polite waiters, and a shiny black Yamaha piano which I wish I’d never forgotten to play. I shall be busy enjoying their company, which I am shared less and less as the years pass and as my life takes more roads and uncertainties. Maybe I’ll even buy each of them a book, depending on the budget but of course via my insistence. Here, pops, you’ll love this Elia Kazan biography, and ma, stop judging by the covers!

Although I may never be this willing a gallant, I figure class can be impulsive when you are offered to take your parents under your own wings, however which way, big or small. I dare say every human relationship thrives on impulse.

Nevertheless, I set off Saturday night for Harbour Square, the sun-hardened row of al fresco bars and restaurants just across the Manila Bay, where hobbyists photographed the orange waters in the afternoon. It was, of course, along the marble streets by Libreria where I was coming from; but as I watched the sun sink down at the end of the horizon, blurred momentarily by a rising plume of cigarette smoke, it seemed that coffees and conversations were truly a generation away.

Gretta

'Photographic memories.'

I cannot remember names to save my life.

Of course, “Mojo Jojo” is something that is quite likely to stick at the back of anyone’s head, especially if this man, who is about to become my newest colleague, has been introduced as one of the most popular radio DJs here in Manila. The nickname alludes to a certain character in a certain show which had had a successful run in Cartoon Network, but as it is, I cannot confess to having watched Powerpuff Girls to save my life either. Nevertheless, Mojo –without the Jojo off the air waves- is indeed the twenty-fifth employee in our firm, and with his entry I am reassured that I haven’t yet the incapacity to forget anything or anyone with a tad bit measure of distinctness.

Last night, after having driven the man to his place in Ortigas, another colleague and I were left without sanity but with the folly of challenging each other to a memory game of “Yes, there is Mojo Jojo, but what are the names of the three Powerpuff girls?” (This is what too much caffeine intake can lead to.)

Five silent minutes went by. And then I announced in exaltation: “Buttercup!”

After a few more moments digging into what we cannot remember she finally came up with a quick, matter-of-factly retort: “Bubbles.”

Two down. Score tied. One more to go. Digging even deeper and gathering my eyebrows even tighter, I had almost staked a claim to genius by saying the name is at the tip of my tongue, but I could only go as far as fabricating a team of new Powerpuff Girls. Daisy? Lollipop? Gretta?

“Gretta,” my counterpart laughed. “Right…Gretta.”

Frustrated, I decided instead to employ the most human of means to summon what I had forgotten. I began humming the theme song of the show, all in the hopes of discovering the answer that might have lain in the lyricist’s words. But I struggled with a line that was gone beyond recall, so I wished I was young enough again to be able to evoke no more vivid a memory in life than a simple children’s jingle.

Without necessary surrender, the two of us silently contemplated other things as we rolled past the blinding lights that led to my home in Quezon City. We watched the places and faces blur in motion; empty taxis were aplenty, and fewer and fewer workers retiring after a day’s work were seen at the street. The starry midnight sky looked clear and beautiful.

We finally turned left to my street; in front of the house, we bid each other adieus and good nights while exchanging promises that surely, in the morning, we’ll be able to break the frightening demarcation between what has been stubbornly forgotten and what can be unabashedly remembered. This was, after all, about as mentally competitive as we can get after having gone through a grinding six-hour corporate planning session with a client. Nobody will admit to being tired, only crazy.

So this morning I woke up to the familiar beeping sound of my cellphone. It wasn’t the alarm, nor was it an incoming call. It was a text message which effectively declared who was the victor in this seriously silly game of memory revival, and who had been so obstinate as a fool in scandalously pushing Gretta in her rightful place as the third Powerpuff Girl. The message read---

“Blossom.”

Wonderful. At least I still know who Mojo Jojo is.

Disconnected

As Manila was battered to ruins by the angriest wind in eleven years; in a world far away from the colorless spectacle of trembling billboards and flying iron sheets; with polite disregard for the people’s infant hope that the failed lights fail no more…I finally found myself, albeit temporarily, in a state of seclusion.

I had craved for it, if only to catch up on books unread. Having gradually endeared myself to the exquisite bitterness of coffee (Americano) and tea (Java green), I had longed for a good day of solitude, literature, caffeine and nicotine. Innocently, the typhoon presented the opportunity for just that, and although the single candle, the flickering light of which brooded over the green walls of the dark bedroom, gave little justice to all my straining and squinting, I decided to complain about nothing; not the disconnection, not the mirthless murmurs of neighbors talking politics and Meralco, not the torment of surefire business backlog, and not the general destruction caused by the storm, which, if thought about from one of its many angles, may betray such a sense of terrible apathy on my part.

It’s like I were inside a bubble. A green (or pink) veil of bubble whereby I could see everyone outside panicking over the loss of a frail house’s roof, or the loss of Internet and power, or any kind of loss which caught them off-guard and left them rattled and cold and cross about the circumstances. And inside the bubble I sipped my coffee -or tea if I wished- and turned the pages of whatever I’d snatched from the shelf, occasionally glancing up at this other world, this other reality.

You can’t keep still, an old stranger once told me. Indeed, I can’t, but for a good day I was offered the experience of what it would be like if I were able to and if I were allowed so. I was offered the bubble, bad timing be damned.

And keeping still, it wasn’t as splendid an experience as I had conceived. While literature is as healthy an occupation as any, even if you couple it with two almost harmless vices, I’m beginning to realize solitude has nothing to offer you when you’re young -nothing exclusively sublime, nothing so profoundly peaceful as to keep yourself from sharing it together with the rest of the world, nothing without indifferently giving you a dose of solicitude. (Can’t one see what senseless philosophical jargon this premature seclusion has led to?) It is much better being alone with others than being alone by yourself; much more likely of one’s success to be confronting a storm with others than confronting contradictions from within.

There will always be, as I had divined in the darkness, a lingering need for human connection. At least for me there is.

***

Memories:



Aquarists Reunited in Shangri-La.


Batangenos.



Emo-ness. (Budo D.G.)