The Emotions Are Not Skilled Workers, Part II

You may have heard a snippet on the news about a ferry boat disaster and a bad storm. Fortunately, I was out of town when the typhoon had hit. I am happy to report now that I am safe and sound despite the fierce weather. Perfectly all right! In fact, the cup of brewed coffee I’m having here in Tata Benito’s on Inigo Street couldn’t be more agreeable. And, while my family in Manila may still be feeling the after-effects of Frank (what a silly name for a typhoon), they are also safe and sound, albeit growling in protest against a faulty Internet connection. If they were experiencing other problems, I certainly did not hear about it during the Skype call my mother had made to me the other day.

On the subject of my recent silence, I wish I could now give a satisfying explanation, but it’d probably be better if I explain it later. I don’t know when exactly, but soon enough. What I can say is that I did not stop writing; perhaps I had created the impression that I did; but that’s only an impression; perhaps no one noticed, in which case my writerly reputation (is there such a thing?) would be none the worse; I do have in my custody reams of notes and handwritten phrases in paper, chronicles of disposition-defining episodes; problem is, no matter how much I want to explore in writing (and through this public journal) these emotional curiosities of mine, their excesses and their general humourlessness, I couldn’t do it without causing a commotion – or couldn’t do it without timing it perfectly. So I’ve been writing away in private, waiting for time, letting it come to pass.

But “writing away” is how exactly I must battle, no? Putrid or profound a person’s state of melancholy may be (thanks, G!), and no matter how troublesome it is to stay on an even keel, I think that nothing is so focus-sharpening as writing away. Even if that’s not entirely true I still would not stop, if only for the sake of my own health.

In any case, I hope that you’ll forgive me for seeming so exhausted as to publish anything coherent. (I'm not really saying anything, am I?) And I hope that you’ll kindly treat me –even if it’s just now– first and foremost as a writer, in convalescence, picking the pieces up, resuming this life of letters, training myself to read and write between the lines, and opening myself to the possibility that this exercise will polish, uh – well, will polish skills.

Dear Reader

Hello there. How are you? Before this letter goes any further, let me first tell you that I am so glad that you exist. You don’t grow on trees, of that I am very much aware, so I am glad, and I’m a lucky man. I am deeply sorry that lately I haven’t shown enough of my being glad, and of the conviction that I am indeed lucky, as there have been dozens of tasks each day to keep me terribly busy. They’re all like flies and I am a bloody slab of meat. Or the man with an apron standing by the barbecue grill, holding a marinade brush and an abaniko for swatting. Depends on one’s sense of metaphors.

There’s the usual mail and E-mail: letters that aren’t always love letters. Plus, a big high school science fair –I am talking big, important corporate sponsors and thousands of really smart kids from all over the world– was held recently in Atlanta, Georgia: I didn’t cover it, but someone had assigned me the job of making it look like I did. The all-women’s volunteers of the auxiliary unit of the Manila hospital where I was born celebrated its centennial with a lavish and rice-less Saturday evening sort of dinner (yes, that sort), the script for which I had written. (But not voluntarily. Ha!) And then Erik Weihenmayer came to town. You know him? I posed for a picture with the man, too; drop me a line and then I can send the photograph to you. It wasn’t a very artistic shot, though. You’ll see that Erik wasn’t looking directly at the camera, and that I was trying with my hand to shield my eyes from the very severe sun.

Speaking of the weather, the city climate has been very disagreeable. Only the calendar is proof that it’s June. Right now it’s hotter than summer, and I am surprised that the heat could be so ferocious at this time of the year. Still reeling from the effects of a puerile romance, and still profanely irritated at the sight of brown-skinned ladies brandishing umbrellas that are meant to keep them from getting darker, I cannot handle anything that would make my disposition even more frenzied and overwrought than it already is. I cannot handle such mischievous heat.

So that’s why –aside from being busy– I have been in hiding and out of touch. And out of sight, and out of mind, and out of sleep (not even a sweaty siesta!). Out of my senses, too. To aid, supposedly, the necessary retirement into sweet slumber, I’ve been reading Kabbalah newsletters from my cousin in California, chewing paracetamol, listening to Natalie Cole, or taking sunless walks round the neighbourhood. Awhile ago, at about half two in the morning, my vacationing thirteen-year-old niece Nicole accompanied me on one of these walks. We got as far as three blocks from the house, to a small fluorescent-lit bakery where she then ate a cheesecake as big as an ashtray.

Anyway, what are you reading? What has so far kept you from missing my –ahem– flourishing prose? I am curious about your literary curiosities. As for my own, there’s this book that I am dying to read, authored by none other than Dr. Phil, something about the patently dangerous consequences of settling for love, but before you realise that I am actually being serious, let me talk no further about the subject. My present reading list, meanwhile, is composed of works by Oscar Wilde, Jonathan Ames (I have yet to find who is queerer of the two), Sam Lipsyte, and Tessa Hadley. And I am expecting a package containing volumes of Janet Flanner’s letters from Paris, which is rather nice to have the fortune of expecting.

So I’m excited. Like water coming to a boil. Anyway, dear reader, always know that I am still here to write. (Would that be a threat or a promise?) In the meantime, take care.

Best

The Emotions Are Not Skilled Workers

Pardon me, sirs. Something is under construction. And as Elliot Perlman suggests, the emotions are not skilled workers. They're not very well-trained.