Echo

So my house and I survived Glenda-formerly-known-as-Gloria. There were actual times when I was praying like a child (as in on my knees by the bedside) because I was just so scared. My room has that attic-y feel; it has windows all over and is actually I suppose an extended attic. So I could see the thunder and lightning (and you know how I hate them…) I felt like Lt. Dan when he was daring God to send an even greater storm to their shrimp boat. Except of course, he wanted more rain, while I just wanted the madness to stop. And then in the midst of everything, the rain-thunder-and-lightning combo just stopped. Stopped. Like somebody pulled the plug.

I went out to the balcony to look at the onslaught’s aftermath and saw branches on the ground, gurgling water drain ka-thingies that line the street (what is their official term?), and amazingly…a butterfly. I thought it was dying because it was flying really low, but it went under the shade-y part of my balcony, lingered for a bit, and then continued to fly away.

I was flabbergasted to see such a sight. Did it actually think it would survive another downpour. Where will it go? Did it have a deathwish? And how in the world did a butterfly get here?

I swear, this ongoing quasi-relationship with butterflies is freaking me out.

I’ve never really believed in wishing wells. Well, I’ve never believed in Santa Claus nor in the Tooth Fairy neither. Not the Boogey Man. None of them. It’s hard to believe in those things especially since I grew up reading the sort of books children were not supposed to be reading yet. In other words, not enough of those Fairy Tales. I mean, I read them, but I so quickly graduated to those other books so early on. Besides, someone once told me (when I was much younger) that the real "fairy tales" that the those lunatic Grimm brothers wrote were actually more morbid than the Disney version.

I say this now because I feel like I’m drowning. In a wishing well. Except the only coins that bog me down were hurled by none other than myself…during lapses of logic.

Stupid, stupid, stupid wishes that cannot come true. And Sadako agrees.

I’ve tried to start this entry several times but I always end up with something so utterly vague. I realized I have a very Shopgirl-NY152 kind of blog (You’ve Got Mail.) Talk about everything, without the personal details. I suppose it whets the appetite of the chance-reader, but really, I suppose there’s a perverse joy in talking about so much without actually revealing anything.

These days, I’ve been crying a lot. I suppose it’s one of those episodes again, creeping back. (Why did I allow her to keep badgering me that way? All it did was to open those stupid can of worms…) Also because July’s half-way done and soon it’ll be August and then the -ber months begin. And then December.

Also because, damnit, I can’t sleep. It’s funny what insomnia does to me. Funny how I used to refuse the night-shift, when in fact, the hours I "keep" nowadays are just that. There comes a point in the night when I stop panicking over the fact that I’m still awake, it’s almost 3 (if you’ve watched that Emily Rose thing…you’ll understand…what with the ghosts in my house and everything…), and I’m actually exhausted from being up and yet not sleepy. There’s that ever-so-fleeting moment of clarity when questions jack-in-the-box into my consciousness. And then like a disgruntled dislocated shoulder, I pop right back into my muddied reality.

Last night the question was, "Am I happy?"

And despite all appearances, I’d have to say no. Great relationships notwithstanding (oh, how I love my Bear) it still boils down to that infernal, missing goat.

It’s sometimes maddening to let other people read my work. Not for fear of any grammatical errors, of course. (I’m sorry, I do boast.) It’s that whole stereotypical peeking-into-the-soul experience when people read my stories. Mostly because most of my stories (what am I talking about? ALL) are more like journal entries than an actual attempt to look at life through somebody else’s eyes. Maybe that’s why I can’t really be a writer-writer.

Anyhoo, I let some of my friends read some of my stuff and as a result, a whole can of worms have littered the place. Funny how truths left carefully buried in layers of finely, painstakingly, chosen words can still manage to overpower me…even if they are my truths. I’m still reeling from the aftershocks, but at the end of the day, I saw that one worm decided to stay. And since I’m big on caterpillars lately anyway, I decided to celebrate this fact by posting one of the stories I have that is more or less safe to display.

I wanted to Palanca-ize this once, but now, I dunno. I found out there was a minimum number of pages per short story entry, and this is too short (so it’s safe to read on, dear voyeur.) I didn’t really want to bastardize it by lengthening it for the sake of requirements, so I’m leaving it as is. I actually let my students last year (tama ba?) read this, so they already know it. Of course, I think I edited it to fit the theme of the discussion (hehe, hey, it’s my story anyway…)

I wrote this because I had another issue in mind that I wanted to express. Something more obvious in the story, I suppose. Back then, I really did want to leave. Now that I’m preparing my soul to be displaced from this country, it has new meaning. Now, I have to leave. And no, it has nothing to do with romantic love anymore, but everything to do with the worm that decided to stay.

Anyway, you-know-who-you-are, this is for you. You wanted to read it, so here it is.

***

April 8, 2004

She tried to dig the sand with her toes without actually moving the rest of her body. She was engaged in a rather sober flirtation with the crashing waves. The moon was rising, the shore along with it. She wasn’t actually wet yet, but the shore inched closer and closer, and the waves, seemingly just for the hell of it, would splash her from time to time.

She looked into the deepening darkness. The sky was also taunting her into thinking of an exact color to describe what she saw. Once, as a child, she hit her shin on purpose. She had wanted to know how fast a bruise would form. The sky reminded her of that bruise.

A huge gust of wind blew and she could smell the day winding down. Dinner being cooked, bonfires being stoked.

He came silently behind her. She was unaware of him for quite some time and he took the opportunity to look, no, see her. He looked away. It was painful to see her. Peripherally, he saw her look at him, also in the periphery. He looked at her again and saw she was still digging the sand with her toes. They stood silently, looking at the same sinking, not-so-blinding-now sun.

Again, that stillness. He sighed loudly, resigned. He reached out, tested a hand on her forearm. She did not pull away, but she didn’t stir. He tried his other hand on the other arm. He watied for a reaction. None.

He wrapped his arms around her. He smelled her hair, the pungent smell of the day fighting the sweet, dying smell of hastily washed hair. He held her tighter.

Then she broke down. Their bodies facing the bruised sky, they held each other weeping. It was easier to hold and weep together this way, without actually seeing each other.

"Please," he said.

An eternity.

But. She released herself from the self-made shallow grave of her feet, turned to him. She looked at him and he weeped.

"No," she said as she raised his head, forcing him to look at her while he cried. And she cried, looking at each other the whole time.

And then the waves finally touched her feet. Night had finally arrived.

I am, you know ;-). Jorel, if you’re out there and reading this, I know that you know that I am. Hehe.

Honestly though, this weekend was a whirlwind of seeing old friends and new friends and it’s been fun and weird and sad and happy all at the same time. It’s like popping a spoon into a bucket of mystery flavored ice cream (although studies have shown that the mystery flavor is almost always just plain sugar and it’s the mind playing tricks on the fools that actually believe that such a flavor exists and(!) that the ability to name it is just within their grasp…evil, opportunistic, manipulative capitalists…I bow down to you) and I say that only in an effort to not use the often-quoted Forrest Gump-ism on the mysteries of chocolate picking (although I just did, now didn’t I? Dang’it…)

I go into this ridiculously long, run-on complex sentence to prove a point. Much like the social butterfly that flits and flies and flutters from flower to flower (oh, shut up, your Sex Ed teachers really ought to find new metaphors for such things…) I would very much like to go back to my caterpillar-ish roots and just settle on a leaf for a bit.

Except now I’m not really sure where my leaf is. And can butterflies still go back to being caterpillars? Why this misconception that the butterflies are the beautiful counterpart and thus the end product? Caterpillars are beautiful in their potentiality. With caterpillars, you can imagine what colors they’ll be. Butterflies have a horrible tendency to just become brown and yellow and depressing. I mean, when was the last time you saw a purple, maroon, and perriwinkle butterfly? Because those were the kinds of butterflies I use to (and still) draw.

So give me caterpillars anytime.

And so where did my point go?