I believe I've already mentioned that I look forward to taking afternoon naps on the floor whenever I can, on those rare weekends when I have some do-nothing time. In between wakefulness and slumber, that brief link between life and death, I'm transported back in time, to very random scenes and moments in my life. Most of them are from my childhood, among the happiest times in my life, when innocence reigned supreme, and life's cares were non-existent. Some from my youth, to the primordial stirrings of my soul, when the future lay before me, and everything seemed ripe for the taking. None, it seems, come from recent events. Maybe memories have to be a certain old to qualify. The scenes and events are not made up, as in a dream, but real ones played back in random. They're all very lucid, their smells, tastes, and sounds, all within my senses' grasp.
I can smell our sweaty bodies, as Benjie and I wrestled on the lush grass in Mom's well-tended garden, and with a thunderstorm at summer's end, the wild, raw scent of the first raindrops meeting hot, parched earth and vegetation. At times I feel the anticipation of family gatherings; outings, too; and not to forget my homesickness on each first school day after either the summer or Christmas vacation.
I smell the wonderful aromas in the air-conditioned dining room of Panciteria Moderna, which used to be a landmark in Sta. Cruz, Manila, but now sadly defunct, as we waited for our order to arrive; and hear the wonderful cacophony of plates, spoons, forks, and those petite bowls used for sauces and soups, as they are brought out from the kitchen and rapidly put down and arranged on our table. As we were a big family, we always chose a big, round table with a lazy susan, which us children would often turn into some kind of game show roulette, with disastrous results for the condiment bottles and the linen.
I feel the thrill of reading my very first "love" letter, the culmination of months of pleading with her to acknowledge, no matter how even grudgingly, receipt of my missives. I kept that one in a secret place and read it furtively each night before going to bed, savoring every word and punctuation, even analyzing the strokes and pen lifts, trying to discover any hint of reciprocal desire. It was pretty straightforward, almost business-like, but then in some parts it held mystery and promise. I clung to those for a while. She wrote very well even at our young age, and perhaps she went on to keep the world captive by her magical, mysterious, teasing words.
I don't know exactly how it happens, this time traveling. Could be from too much sentimentality. At my age, it feels like an indispensable accessory, like what goes well with clothes or gadgets. It goes well with someone who has come to grips with life's finiteness. Or it could be from something with a more scientific basis. When I nap on the floor, I lie on either side, using both arms as a kind of pillow. I contort my arms to support my head, and in the process possibly restrict blood flow to my brain. Consequently, my brain may think I'm on the verge of death, and scenes of my life flash before me. Is any other explanation plausible?
It's no surprise then, that I've become sort of addicted to napping on the floor. This isn't saying that time travel is my sole motivation. Napping has its own merits and attraction. I have to admit that I do it not only during my do-nothing time, but also during my I-pretend-I-have-nothing-more-to-do time. Sometimes I think procrastination is just so sweet. Maybe it keeps me sane. It also probably keeps my dreams beautiful. Dreams are wonderful as they are, so detached from reality, so innocent, so promising. They have nothing to do with what we can or cannot, may or may not, accomplish. They lead their own lives, have their own personalities. Putting off things preserves their status quo. Trying to make dreams come true essentially ruins them at times. From a pure, unadulterated state, they now pass on to the realm of materialistic endeavor, of greed and selfishness. They become plain objectives, the stuff of temporal pursuits, sorely lacking the nobleness of their original form. Dreams should be left to themselves, to wander aimlessly as they please, to inspire us if we want them to, or sow discontent and rouse us from lethargy, or make us feel belittled for our lifetimes. Dreams are their own intricate beings.
