Distracted

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Dan: You think love it simple. You think the heart is like a diagram.
Larry: You've ever seen a human heart? It looks like a fist, wrapped in blood!
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from the movie Closer
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Before anything else, I apologize for having been dormant the past week. I felt my story of deaths had to linger on, not as a reflection of my state of mind, but as a way for me to analyze my subconscious thoughts by means of a short story. I do plan to write a sequel but I don’t want to force myself if I don’t get the nagging feeling for it.
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That put aside, I had a very interesting weekend. I met up with a pastry chef for dinner last Friday. We breezed through a multitude of topics over Thai cuisine. It was lively and very open, something I expected very much from a person born in early January. It’s much easier to talk to people who are open about themselves. You don’t have to dig for common interests and other shit just to feel you can relate. It’s too bad Chef may be leaving soon to pursue opportunities abroad. Good luck! May your wings bring you to other lands!
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Saturday night, I met up with another friend in Malate, a place I haven’t been to since the Meal. We met up in Café Adriático. We talked, well actually, Gray talked most of the time. I dunno what it was that made me quiet. The humidity? The 2 gentlemen staring at me from inside the café? My vulnerability?
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Gray’s life wasn’t gray at all. At 23, a couple of hours before midnight, one could already write an informal biography. We stayed out smoking, me under the refreshing ceiling fan that did my unruly hair some good. After finishing up the drinks, we transferred to BJ’s Gril, where I met some other dazers. I was a dazer myself back in highschool. Anyway, going back, Gray’s friends weren’t gray at all. If anything, their language was very colorful. There was Ricky, Winn, Bolex, Eugene, James, and this other guy, I forget his name. Past midnight when they were greeting Gray a happy birthday, I was out finishing my beer and enjoying the hiphop-then-club music in the background. It was enjoyable company, really, and I was pretty amazed at myself for being comfortable about it.

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We left around 2:30 in the morning. Gray walked me through to get a cab. The situation had been very familiar, only the reversal of roles was poignant. I was the one walked to. I received a few text messages from Gray and read and replied to them despite a minor headache from the booze. I was feeling quite vulnerable again that night yet my defenses hiked up high. Can’t help it. Perhaps the colors don’t match.
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Sunday, I met up with Chef and Wendy, a close friend. Wendy’s a cool gal. We watched Guess Who? in Greenbelt after sitting through conversation in Coffee Bean. I received a phone call from my closest closest friend. I was troubled of course, I knew very well how she felt during that time, and the way she described everything so succinctly, yet with such poetry … I nearly cried myself.

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In a way, I know how it feels to sever a relationship in perfectly amicable terms. I hate that there’s nothing to hate. I swear it can be the best revenge if you were heartless.
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The 3 of us ate dinner afterwards and bought toiletries in a pharmacy nearby. It was very comfortable. Back home, I had a little weekend panic attack again. It doesn’t quiet down, so it seems, and I found myself sending a message at 1:30 in the morning.
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The reply I got the next morning gave me the wake up call. And it’s all so clearer now, but I can’t say I’m not distracted.

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In the Passenger’s Case

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It was around 2:26 in the morning and the cab driver had not yet eaten dinner. On a holiday like that, it had been more difficult for him to find passengers all night. However, in a couple of minutes, on one of the well-lighted convenient stores he had passed by, a man with a large suitcase hailed him with an open hand. He rolled the passenger window down to inquire.
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“Where to?”
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“North pier,” the man said short-breathed, or it sounded like it coming from a small opening in the window.
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“Can you pay more to that? It’s a little far from here and you’ve got heavy load.”
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The man did not reply but he loaded the luggage in the back seat with much effort. He had a very earthen scent, as if he hadn’t taken a bath recently. The driver feared the car freshener would not suffice.
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After the door was shut, the driver got the meter going.
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30.00.
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Within a few seconds, they were back in the dark.
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“You going home to the province?” the driver inquired, assuming the man, like everyone else, was in a hurry to catch the last trip.
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“Yes,” was his brief reply.
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The man was staring anxiously outside the window, sitting uncomfortably to the right of the suitcase. He would glance on his watch every so often, then fidget his hand with which he kept the bag guarded. One cannot make out for certain, what he could have been preoccupied with. It became the driver’s way of knowing this would be another lifeless encounter with a stranger.
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The city was quiet, everything burnt yellow from where the light posts could sieve. For the driver, having lived in the area half his life, he could have been blind and still know his way around. The man behind the passenger seat only saw through the darkness.
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Everything seemed sleepy, except that the driver knew there was something amiss. He couldn’t quite point out what it was. During one of the stoplights, the driver looked up the mirror to check up on his passenger if he was awake. It would only take a minute or two before the red light turns green.
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To his surprise, the man was staring blankly at him from the windshield mirror. He couldn’t tell how long this had been going on.
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The man was missing his left eye.
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The driver kept his sights back on track, too disturbed by what he had witnessed. He still felt the uneasiness on his nape, he knew he was still being watched.
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Around 10 to 15 minutes past, with the ease of traffic, but with the unsettling calm, they were quite close to reaching the pier. He heard movement coming from the back seat, but he did not dare look up.
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“Don’t you get tired of your job?” the man spoke in a vacant tone, “driving around the city but not getting anywhere?”
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“No,” he replied after clearing his throat. “I’ve gotten used to this way of life,” he added politely. “Why ask? Where are you going to anyway?”
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“I’ve been in this city all my life, and even now, I’m stuck here,” the man replied, his white hair would turn yellow while they passed through another light post. “I’m not going anywhere.”
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He would check his watch again and fidget his hand with which he kept the bag guarded.
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“You should go on a vacation then. Maybe you need to see new surroundings, new places, new people. Do you have a family? What do you do for a living? …”
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The driver noticed the man was looking dead out the window again. He didn’t know if he pretended not to hear, but there was never a reply.
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“Where are you going?” he asked again politely.
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The man just kept silent. They were 3 stoplights away from the pier by now. The driver lit the signal light going right, the entrance to the North harbor.
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“Not there. Go to the one that’s closed,” the passenger spoke coldly.
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The cab took a sharp turn to the left from the right lane. It was a good thing there were no vehicles or people in sight. This place, after all, had been deserted for many years.
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The driver had become apprehensive. The man, physically, did not look like a criminal at all. He was old, slightly obese, his hair was white, his skin was dark and sun-dried, and he wore a faded scapular around his neck, which, to the driver, meant the man was Catholic. Still, he could not help worrying for his own safety. For all he knew, the man could’ve been carrying a suitcase full of explosives. It may have been illegal drugs or weapons. It could’ve been money. He imagined armed men hiding in the dark, waiting for a signal to come out. He thought this man might fear God, but not them.
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“There, beside the warehouse,” the man signaled with his hand.
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“Can I drop you off here instead?” the driver asked politely.
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“I can’t carry this bag all the way there. It’s too heavy.”
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The driver was silent. He needed a compromise.
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“Okay, I can drive you there but please, can you pay more for it?” asked the driver apprehensively.
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“Okay.”
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The cab rolled quietly through the dark, only the headlights paved the way. There wasn’t a car in sight, no people around. There weren’t even stray cats or mice. There were only 3 or 4 rusty-looking boats that looked abandoned. The place was lifeless.
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The man pulled up the car lock, which signaled the driver to slow down.
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“You can drop me off here,” the passenger said.
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He opened the door and tried to drag the suitcase out. It seemed very heavy indeed.
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“Please wait for me, I won’t take long. I just need to return this to them and I’ll get the money to pay you. I won’t take long,” the man said almost hurriedly. And in a few seconds, he was one with the darkness.
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The driver kept the lights on. He locked all the doors and kept his eyes closed. He was feeling every strand of hair on his body stand up. He scolded himself for having agreed to go there. He tried to convince himself the man would come back and pay him extra as he had promised. He felt he had no other choice anyway, it was a holiday and he had no luck getting by. It would only be a few minutes more he continued to tell himself. His eyes were shut but very restless.
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A few minutes went by. 5. 10. 20 minutes. 26 in total from the point he started counting. The man had still not returned. He started to worry.
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On the one hand, he felt frustrated having to drive all this way, having to wait this long and not get anything back. He felt it was a complete waste of time. Had he not picked the man up, he may have found someone else who wasn’t as eerie. On the other, he wanted to wait, he wanted to believe everything was in order; he just needed to be patient. He believed there was nothing wrong. He was stubborn and naïve like that.
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He suddenly felt the urge to urinate. He had been waiting a long time and he also needed to stretch. He turned off the lights; he turned off the engine and got out of the car. The sound of the water was soothing. The early morning air was chilly. He tried to look for a place to be relieved.
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Out of curiosity, he walked toward the warehouse. Everything was quiet and only the moonlight shown on its vast structure. There was a small gate to the center. It was slightly open.
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As he got closer, he was caught with a familiar scent. It was very earthen, almost putrid. He would smell it through the breeze on occasion.
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He continued walking closer to the entrance. He wanted to see more.
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From the slight opening, in the rusty gate, he caught sight of something that resembled a box. It was difficult to tell exactly what it was because it was very dark inside and the box didn’t look rectangular at all. It seemed overstuffed. There was what looked like oil all over the floor, black and thick, but all that occupied him still was the earthly smell of the air.
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And there on the inside, he realized, the box he had seen wasn’t really a box. It was a suitcase, the same one the passenger brought with him in the car. The driver was careful and checked to see if anyone was around. He couldn’t tell, except that it was a little too quiet. Something must have gone wrong with the deal, he assumed, and everyone left in a hurry. Perhaps they forgot about the suitcase. Perhaps whatever was in it is still in it, the driver mused.
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But, something reflected light, something metallic. It was a broken lock, one that had been attached to the suitcase earlier. It meant the case of the passenger had been opened.
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He lifted the unzipped flap to take a peak. It could have been money.
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As quickly as he let go of the cover, he was already out the gate, running as fast as he could. He was trembling so hard and his knees were almost giving way. His mind could not process well what he had seen, his face pale and unable to breathe well. The driver was near vomiting at this point.
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Urine was slowly trickling down his legs. He felt it, the warm water impeding his run. He could not help it, he kept remembering what he saw. The old man. His hair. It looked like his hair was torn out. He was squeezed into the bag like a fetus, except that, his parts weren’t arranged right. It was like, his body was cut up and haphazardly stacked inside. There was money scattered around with his clothes. They were soaking in his blood. At least that’s what he thought it was. It wasn’t oil on the floor all along.
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The man had lost, even his right eye. It had been jabbed with a screwdriver. He realized, it wasn’t a lock he saw on the floor, it was a ring. On a severed finger.
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He kept on running. Images came back, shot after shot. Wave after wave, splashing on the side of the dock. The putrid smell lingered. It was the smell of death.
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He was relieved to be back to his car. He could try to forget everything that had happened that night. He could, try.
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The lights on his car were on. It was so bright he could not see who was sitting in the passenger seat. He tried to sieve with his hand near his forehead. The engines began to rev. Soon, the tires were screeching and he realized his own cab was going at him. He ran the opposite direction, he, now utterly drained. He didn’t know where to run.
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But it was too late.
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Just as he reached the slender walkway leading to the boats, he felt his legs break from where his car had hit him from behind. His body was instantly thrown off into the dark space, the pain exacerbated as he landed face down on the hard water surface. He knew he would die, his legs would be of no use. Slowly his body sunk under water, the sound of the waves becoming less and less audible. His eyes burned with the salty water, and then he closed them unable to see anymore.
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The lights went off. They were not the car’s.
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The misfit in limbo

The world is a stage and all the men and women merely actors

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"You look so fine
I want to break your heart
And give you mine
You're taking me over."
-- Garbage 2.0

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April 12, 2005

And just now, I realized, I am attracted to sad people. I don’t know if I’m attracted to the person itself or if my infatuation draws its prehensibility from the existence of the emotional state they’re in. I hardly see myself as a rescuer, since I myself need the rescuing most of the time. I dunno. It’s all fucked up really.

I have this officemate who is totally not my type. The person is skinny, gangly even, sloppy and moves like a sloth. Although I admire the sense of rebelliousness in the way the person dresses – ordinary long sleeve shirt with slim-legged pants that are too long and unfolded, worn out leather boots close to being the cowboy kind, gelled up hair but still unruly, broken eyeglasses, and either a burnt sienna leather jacket or a brown corduroy blazer to withstand the cold -- everything still seems so unpolished. Often quiet, the only thing I know about this person is that there is fondness for unique films like the one lent to my friend, El Crimen del Padre Amaró and The Virgin Suicides. Aside from that, I don’t even know how old the person is.

Last week though, the person attempted to hang out with my group more often even when that meant extending lunch hour by nearly 30 minutes. I feel there was something the person wanted to say, something about a bad breakup, something about not being able to deal with the job well. I notice these things. I know there’s something amiss, especially when the person left for home during lunch break today on account of illness.

I want to know more. I am inadvertently drawn.

"Ye gods, how quick thine reply"

April 13, 2005

When I went to the office today, I didn't know that yesterday would be the last time I'd ever see the person again. Resignation can come so quick. And yet, in spite of this sudden departure, I had been left with pieces about a person I will never get to know.


I discovered about the debts, the aloofness, the sloth, the gangliness, the blank gazes -- these were all borne of an unfortunate addiction. A bad break up may have induced it weeks before, then again I'd never know.


Just as quickly as one leaves stage without any trace but whispers from the audience the dimming of lights, I am reminded of other acts, characters beginning to emerge with the flourish of applause, the focusing of new lights.

I caught glances again with that person I've never spoken to. There were two of them, friends they were, and although it would be self-conscious of me to assume they were talking about me, I honestly think they were. I hope they were. At least it would give me some parcel of reason to believe the play would end with an unforgettable finale.

I observed they're nonverbal movements like a spectator in a ballet performance. The spaces in between, the subtle eye contact, the balance of weight, the partial smile before leaving the stage. All the lights were at full intensity like the glaring sun at mid-day. I hope I have not presumed incorrectly.

I want to make a move. I want to start grafting the distance.

Come Closer

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"Where is this love? I can't see it, I can't touch it. I can't feel it. I can hear it. I can hear some words, but I can't do anything with your easy words."
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................. -- Alice (Natalie Portman)
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THe last time I caught her awake, she greeted me with a smile on our doorstep. She had always been warm like that, my grandmother, sitting on the wheelchair with her nurse. I'm not one with many spoken words, at least not with family, and no one had ever been an exception. Too close for comfort, too aloof with touch, with her I'm not as guarded.
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"Kumain ka na ba? Have you eaten?," she would always ask. Even if I were hungry, I would often nod with a slight yes.
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I usually take the space behind her where she cannot see me. I would tenderly caress the skin below her jaw, kiss her on the forehead and she would always smell so fragrant and young. She would continue talking to other people while I tuck her silver hair behind her ears and gently rub her extended earlobes.
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"Tawagin niyo si Amy magpaluto kayo ng pagkain. Call Amy and have her prepare something to eat," she would exclaim. She was never one to scrimp on food, never one to scrimp on affection.
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Lately she’s been asleep a lot. When she’s awake, she doesn’t quite remember me anymore, yet she still exudes that unmistakable warmth. She’s still the same person, yet altogether different.
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Sometimes I feel the same. Sometimes I feel I’ve lost my ability to scrimp.
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Sore Throat

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I'm not a sickly person and I rarely take in meds unless absolutely necessary. If I can tolerate the pain, I will, and perhaps down some vitamins for placebo treatment. I often get sore throat though, sometimes from colds, from drinking extremely hot coffee, regurgitating gastric juices or from singing way too hard. If the sore throat becomes worse, I get slight fever.

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Yesterday I don't exactly know how I got sick, but I guess it's because of the erratic weather we've been having. It had been extremely humid during the weekend and then all of a sudden, it rained Sunday night and it had been breezy cold throughout the day today. I was shivering in my seat yesterday and when I met up with r3dguy and his friend that night for our usual night cap, I wasn't feeling very well already. As a result, we went home earlier than usual. And you know me, I rarely go home early.

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Being the obstinate person that I am, I still managed to smoke a couple of sticks and justified that the dirt would do me good by improving my resistance to pathogens. I've always been stubborn, especially with health. Hehehe

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I had the best sleep last night! I slept really early, my body was warm and in a way, I was sorta delirious. Truly refreshing. At the office this morning though, I was still feeling a bit sore so whenever I talked on the phone, I had this nonchalant, disinterested voice with everyone.

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I remember when I was young whenever I had fever, my Mum would rub Vick's all over my back and on my neck and she would place a warm towel around my neck like a scarf. She would bring me water or juice to drink, check my temperature once in a while, have me take those candy-flavored Aspilets, and maybe give me a sponge bath before I go to sleep. It would make me feel better of course, mostly because of the adequate attention. I've always felt envy toward my brattier sister who used to cry her way for attention. I've never been like that. And I'm proud of myself for never being a brat.

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So yesterday, being 26 and all physically grown up, I had to take care of myself. I took a tablet of Vitamin C and drank lots of water and tea to help soothe my sore throat.

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Lying in bed last night, I wished someone were there to take care of me.

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"This world will be shaken by a whisper"

Smiling Halfway

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There can be so much sadness in a smile.
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Whatever this solitude brings forth,
it cannot be dealt with passively.
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In my mind I was embracing you against your will
caught up in the rapture of my silent restraint.
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