Jeepneys, Spare Parts, and Masses for the Dead, Not Necessarily in this Order

Yesterday was a Saturday and I departed from my routines a bit. I was first off to Pasay City to purchase parts for the family car which, like mortal remains slowly but surely reverting to dust, is being reclaimed by oxidation and wear-and-tear. I marvel at how it can go on, but it almost always sputters to life when one cranks the ignition, and happily takes to life's daily errands, including to places not so affected by the chaos and sickness of urban living. But I know that one of these days it will simply refuse to come to life and want to die like an honourable man, in which case I will have to go on another Saturday trip to Pasay and procure more parts, so I may bring it back to life and put some more years into it. I'm certain Man will go the way of my car: Body parts and organ systems will all become replaceable, and despite the continuing scourge of morbid diseases and illnesses, immortality will be as commonplace as the seven capital sins.

And who wouldn't like to go on forever? I most certainly don't. I believe that knowing we are mere mortals causes us to be as creative and prolific as we can be, fully aware that anything and everything can be over in an instant. This is the case for those who were destined to contribute significant and useful things to humankind. For those of us who are afflicted and suffer from real or imagined illnesses, and from psychological scars, and the sense of futility and hopelessness, mortality brings a welcome respite from it all.

But the responses to the question will be numerous. Immortality should be very attractive to those who have botox injections, lifts, implants, augmentations, and nip tucks; those who have become so used to the trappings of power; those who have amassed fortunes for hundreds of lifetimes. They will never want to die.

I've decided long ago to keep the car for as long as I can, not only because at the moment I simply cannot see how we can afford to buy a new one, but moreso because, like my beloved Aries in the States, it has always been loyal and reliable. These two qualities are treasures, and to dismiss them would be sheer folly.

From the car parts store in Pasay, I proceeded to the Redemptorist Church in Baclaran on foot. Walking was the best option since taking either a bus or jeepney would mean going the long route around the Mall of Asia and the defunct Uniwide Coastal Mall at the vast reclaimed land now called Coastal City. In the 60s, they started reclaiming land from the sea and they began in the area where the CCP, Folk Arts Theater, and PICC now stand. I recall one weekend afternoon when the family drove to the edge of this reclaimed land, where a new beach had formed. The place had become a curiosity to families in search of new destinations in 60s Manila. The sun was still high on the horizon, and I could see the looming outlines of at least two or three huge dredging barges, like prehistoric creatures risen from the sea, blockading Manila Bay. The new beach was almost devoid of any plant life, save for patches of wild grass here and there, and was pockmarked by little and big pools of accumulated water. I saw several dead fish lapped up by small, slow waves. Looking back on that scene now, it could have been and could still be utilized as a scene in an apocalyptic film.

I'm thankful that I remain in good health, making the long, hot, humid walk to the Redemptorist Church, while lugging shock absorbers and other car parts, bearable and somewhat pleasant. I was thrust in a sea of humanity and mercantile activity; a certain quick pace had to be maintained; hesitating or slowing down meant a mass of men, women, and children coming up from behind. I think when one wanted to look at or buy something, then quickly sidestepping, like a deft gymnast or acrobat, into a small corner, out of the way of the flowing current of humanity, was called for.

My business at the church was to offer masses for Mom's and Benjie's third and second death anniversaries, respectively. Life's concerns make me think of them less frequently now, but never less of them. They're part of many of my fond memories. This church also once held Mom's lifelong spiritual devotion, and a great many of her Wednesdays (with me in tow) were spent at this church, walking on her knees, pleading for I didn't know exactly what. Maybe she prayed for things similar to what I pray for now. Or maybe she was just thankful that our family was in one piece; survivors of life's rigours. I never would have been sure. I was just a child during those years, and it was oft told us that children's prayers find more favor in Heaven, and so I wondered what grown-ups like Mom pleaded for. Perhaps because I feel that life could have dealt me a better set of cards, I sometimes think that the rewards of the earth pale in comparison to what we pray for. Judging from my own entreaties, most people probably pray for fantastical things. Age, or probably disappointment from my numerous unanswered prayers, has mellowed the nature of my pleas somewhat. I now mostly pray for the benefit of loved ones and those they love. I probably have two decades more, three at most, before my own mortality takes me. And it might even be tomorrow or next week or next month, who knows? But so like the human that I am, I've inserted some self-benefiting "contract provisions," just in case. God just might find enough humor in them and grant me my wishes.

I kind of welcome these jaunts that happen once or twice a year, as they afford me the chance to go out of my radius of existence which, comparing to the breadth and width of what others have managed, is rather small and constricted. In the course of my over half-century life, I've only twice traveled halfway around the world, and in my country, only once almost along its entire length. That will be it, I suppose. No other distant, earthly journey is coming my way. I want to go further and more often, to see more, but like my love for watches, my love of adventure is sorely hampered by my limited resources.

The major part of my journey to Pasay City and back was in a jeepney, that outdated, inherently dangerous, polluting, uncomfortable, dysfunctional albeit useful relic from post-war Philippines. It continues to be the backbone of the archipelago's public transportation. My earliest recollections have jeepneys in them, the last glimpses of my final hours might have them, too. I might die in one, or be run over by one, considering how unsafe they really are.

Apart from being essential public transport, irreplaceable by buses or commuter trains, or other mass transport systems dreamed up by technocrats, bureaucrats, politicians, and other so-called experts in this country, lawyers included, the jeepney exists as some sort of a laboratory. Humans are subjected to the G-forces of sudden lateral acceleration and deceleration, with dear life maintained only by a grasp bar and prayers. Some hold on to the bar and pray, some either hold on or pray, and some let destiny take its course and do neither. I maintain some sense of caution in myself and hold on to the bar. At times I pray, not for dear life, but for some miraculous fortune that can vastly and immediately improve my existence. Like winning the jackpot in the lottery, for example. And then I wonder if I have a kindred soul in prayer among the other subjects in this moving lab.

Passengers in a jeepney share common destinations and, may I say, possibly common destinies. Traveling at breakneck speed, getting off is almost out of the question, and we thus place our fates in the skills and intentions of a total stranger. Which brings to mind that even with current technology, getting off of this planet en masse is still a dream. And even if we could, would many want to be pioneers in a strange, potentially hostile planet with unknown life forms and environmental patterns? The preference for familiarity is very strong in the majority of the species, man included. We only have one place to call "home," really. I thus wonder why many, myself included, cannot be more tolerant and forgiving.

I believe the world will be a better place if it can take its lessons from riding in a jeepney. Elbow room and leg room are practically unheard of, and on a sweltering day, the passenger cabin is a microcosm of different odors: Sweat, body odor both revolting and pleasant, cheap perfume, bad breath, the liberating scent of an enchanting woman and her newly-washed hair, diesel fumes. There have been instances, however, of beautiful women with beautiful long hair, with a vinegary smell. Could be the women or the hair, I couldn't be certain. And yet, for the entire duration of a trip devoid of any measure of comfort, through Metro Manila's hideous traffic, we are able to tolerate each other and our common inconvenient circumstance. Of course, I've been witness to some lively verbal skirmishes between passengers, but these are quite rare compared to the occasions of total strangers trading banter, sharing well-intentioned advice, as if among old friends. Who was it who said that, "Strangers are nothing more than friends who haven't met?" That was a wise guy there. Maybe he had the occasion to ride in a jeepney.

First Day of School

I've taken today and tomorrow off so I can accompany my son to his first two days of college life, mainly to make sure that he knows how to take public transportation to school and to go back home, and that he is well on his way to being more or less adequately settled and independent for this new phase in his young life. I see other parents like myself, patiently waiting for their wards, a bit annoyed by the sticky heat and humidity, but smug in the thought that they are around when needed. I think it is like this for mostly every young man and woman in our overprotective family culture.

I remember that well before my own initiation into college life, Mom made sure that I was sufficiently equipped to keep pace with other commuters each day, that I knew my final destinations, and that I took jeepneys with the correct signage on their windshields. She drilled me on these things, with almost military precision, going through the actual paces, the actual trips, so I could be familiar with the terrain. The breaks from training were, of course, our side trips to the movie houses, to indulge in her favorite activity. At times, I wondered if part of her eagerness to train me was because it provided her with the opportunity to indulge in her most favorite of pastimes. She was such a cinephile.

Not that I didn't myself enjoy those "celluloid breaks," because I in fact did. I loved walking with Mom along Escolta and Avenida Rizal; Azcarraga and Carriedo, too. Along the two former was more frequent. The first of the latter two was to go to movie houses like Dilson, Hollywood, Podmon, and to as far as Cinerama, at the corner with Quezon Boulevard. Such was Mom's stamina when it came to movies. She didn't socialize much, I mean, comparing her with the regular Filipino housewife who, I calculate, spends a fourth of their lives gossiping, I would say she lived a hermetic existence. She avoided pointless banter as much as possible, and when she got cornered by our nosy neighbors who literally barged into our home to gossip with her, she would lament at the day's end that she finished with her chores rather late due to someone's unwelcome insistence that they waste time together.

When I was about four or five, walking with Mom along Avenida or Azcarraga or Carriedo was always a treat. They were meccas of commerce, with every imaginable merchandise for sale, and people who hawk them. At times, out of sheer naivete, as we walked I picked up some of those small plastic toy trucks and cars that caught my fancy, or else a bundle of pastillas de leche or pastillas de langka. I truly thought I could do things like those, that the toys and pastillas were there for the taking. They weren't, of course, and the concerned tindera or tindero came running after us to inform Mom of my deed. I usually got a scolding right there and then on the sidewalk, and when Dad got home, Mom made sure he was fully briefed on the event. He was quite sure, though, that I didn't have the makings of a bank robber or a public enemy (or a politician, for that matter), hence, his often nonchalant reaction.

His nonchalance, however, was not to be mistaken for indifference. It was born of confidence, the kind he imparted to us children on our first day of school each year. He (and Mom, if circumstances permitted) would be present each first day of the school year, just to check on how we were doing. It was the kind of presence that saw us through our growing up years, the kind that made us feel that assurance and help were always nearby. Even as we now have our own lives, which may or may not be as what they have envisioned, looking back at their selfless act provides us with some measure of peace and some kind of hope. We feel compelled to pass this on to our own children, with the prayer that when the time comes, they too shall carry on with the "tradition," if I may refer to it as such. We are forever grateful.

Plain Transition

For the last three years or so now, I've welcomed the new year rather somberly, without fanfare or great expectations; dully even, and very tame compared to when I was much, much younger, full of hope, morally-upright, adventurous, and inured to the blows of misfortune. I have neither used fireworks, nor had resolutions or superstitious rituals. They never did work for me. Evil and misfortune have not been driven out of the world where I move. They're always there, like some vital organ or appendage.

There remains this faint prayer, though (more of a wish, actually), that I may have the courage to go through another year, despite the lack of anything major to look forward to; that January to December transpires in a blur, in order that despair will be brief, and will not take hold; and, of course, my regular pleas for the welfare and benefit of some people, including promises of heaven and earth in exchange for great riches. Might be that Heaven has become deaf to my supplications, or merely testing my resolve? If the former, then I'm done for the rest of my miserable life; if the latter, I'm hoping that all my senses are sufficiently intact for me to enjoy the coming of good things.

I do not wish to live to a ripe, old age, if that would mean being even partially reliant on another person to move the short distance between points A and B; or to purchase even the most basic of necessities; or to even be only marginally happy. Not for any of these. In fact, there are times when I feel I've outlived my usefulness, and that I should just sit back and watch life go by, and let everyone live as they please, and things happen as they will. The opinionated in me, however, often wants to take to the forefront of things. I always have something to say about something or someone, some good, some bad; and all of them are just opinions, some based on facts and some, merely on harsh criticisms. They maintain my participation in life's affairs. At other times, I'm totally disinterested in whether good or bad happens, or if anything happens at all.

I feel I've lost my desire for lofty dreams. Could this finally be elusive contentment? But I'm not really happy, though. Resigned would be the more appropriate word. I've much simpler pleasures now, because they are all I could afford. Every now and then I hear about other people's successes, and I always say to myself those could have been my own. I pined, planned, and lived for them! There is always the tinge of envy there, to be honest about it.

Life, I think, is simply too big a mystery I'm ill-equipped to understand and appreciate. Like my own set of eyes, my view of it is rather myopic. Thinking about it, I've not been very good at having foresight or being forward-looking. I'm this reflex and instinct person, and couple this with my being emotional and sentimental, they spell frequent disaster. My life seems to be a collection of one impractical decision after another, of one mistake after the next. I can't seem to get it right the first, second, third, or even fourth times. I may have been born to be this crass. I dream impossible dreams, and fight lost causes. I'm a man from La Mancha.

At night, as soon as everything falls silent, I hear those familiar sounds, the ones from when failures and uncertainty began. They're swishing, swooshing, thumping, droning monotones (chiming ones on Sunday mornings and afternoons), pleasing to an extent, and which can lull me to sleep, but not before causing me loneliness and regret. I've branded them "the sounds of being left behind."

I'm pretty certain my sins of commission and omission are among the reasons behind my crippled fortune. I've done some of the nastiest deeds on the planet, and have failed to do some of the most rightful ones. I've also broken many a mirror, and if the superstition holds some water, combining this with my sins would entitle me to more than a single lifetime of bad luck. My prospects are genuinely dim then.

Last new year's eve my son must have noticed my moroseness, and flatly declared that waiting for the new year wasn't as exciting as in years past, that there were less fireworks, fun, and anticipation. I told him that was rubbish. He is going to start college this year, and that marks no less than another exciting stage in his young life. So there. I've not outlived my usefulness yet after all. Someone still looks up to me for guidance and inspiration. I think now my own folks did the same thing. Our life wasn't easy, but at the time it sure looked like it was. They worked their magic and us kids saw life and the world with eyes of amazement and hope. I can't recall seeing them look defeated; pensive, yes, but never hopeless. I think they understood their roles and our expectations of them. They are a hard act to follow. In my eyes they will always be among the finest of the human race.

And so I must remain steadfast, firm in the midst of alternations of hope and hopelessness, with the latter taking a bigger chunk each time in its cycle, and the former gradually becoming unrecognizable and extinct. I must be firm (or at least appear to be), for the sake of those who still think I can pull them through life's quagmires, the small dedicated few who have nary a clue as to my ineptness and unworthiness. I must be around for them for still quite some time.

I'm aware I'm on a journey, as everyone else is. Long ago, I was awed by a lot of things along the way. It was a natural consequence of experiencing things for the very first time. I thought I would never run out of them, but right now I feel I already have. Or maybe there are still some left, and that they are more hidden now, not readily obvious or apparent, and so I have to look harder. There may still be a few laughs out there. Could be. We'll see.

A Fondness for Watches

I don't care at all for jewelry or the like, as I consider them to be women's domain, although from some of my readings, during the earliest days of recorded tribal history here and in other parts of the world, men fancied jewelry, trinkets, ornaments of precious and semi-precious stones and metals, as much as women did, linking these to their social status, or to skills in hunting or waging war. Over time, on the road to present-day, modern man, the jewelry have been replaced with other things, like fiefdoms, harems, slaves, gadgets, liquid assets, fast and exotic cars, and Cialis-aided sexual conquests. But there are those who still cling to the old norms; or maybe not: They're probably just vain or effeminate, or both.

I must admit, though, that up to the age of 11 or 12, I fancied those hand-made rings of either kamagong hardwood or stainless steel that could be bought from souvenir shops at Mines View Park in Baguio City. I bought them, not for looks, but for functionality. I wore them as I considered them handy in case I had to punch someone in the face, and be able to inflict some considerable degree of pain. No, I was not particularly a troublemaker, but I believed there are certain situations in life when you have to make your point using brawn. But my fancy for rings was rather brief, and from then on it was my desire to inflict pain thru other, more creative, more effective means, like hurtful words and deeds, or indifference, for instance. I realized that inflicting pain through pure muscle produces damage that is sharp but rather short-lived. It heals, like all physical wounds do. But the pain and wound from words that cut, and evil deeds that slice, are like stubborn, gangrenous sores that curse lives for good. My modus of hurting has evolved into something finer and more brutal.

And so in the natural process of growing old (though not necessarily becoming more mature), I progressively outgrew stuff, like clothes, games, toys, friends, ideas, beliefs, desires, and even dreams. But never my fascination with wristwatches. I don't know, but maybe I was born with it; it's in my genes. I am firstborn, and my coming into the world may have caused my parents much excitement. Or anxiety. Either way, they may have glanced at their watches more often than was usual, and (allow me to postulate a theory) this might have rubbed off on me as some sort of fetal imprint. I'm not so sure if this has sound scientific basis, but it is one of Man's passions to find every conceivable explanation for everything. It matters not if it proceeds from a logical premise, or is totally insane; there simply has to be one. It seems almost inescapable. Its lack is deemed as ineptitude, or guilt. We always try to explain ourselves, or to blame others, so long as it answers the question of why.

The very first wristwatch I ever owned was a gold-plated, manually-wound, Swiss-made Lyric Galaxie, with a white dial and leather strap. I got it for my 8th birthday, when I was in the third grade. It was rather smallish, perfect for a boy's wrist. It was also one of life's happiest moments, to finally possess my very own wristwatch, to be able to tell time at a glance, to be one with the watch-wearing crowd. I was among the handful in my class who wore a wristwatch, and it made me very proud. I always looked forward to wearing it, the final and most special part of my dressing ritual. I thought it looked becoming on my thin, pale wrist, complementing my entire being with an air of sophistication. I maybe glanced at the time on my wrist every three minutes or so, or whenever I could, always checking if time was ticking as it should, or if a speck of dust obscured its handsome face. Whichever it was, it wasn't really about doing a time check, but plainly wanting to look at the watch and enjoy its every curve and corner. It was actually an obsession.

The Lyric was hard-earned, the result of a promise and a child's determination. Mom promised that if I could tell the time at a glance she would buy me a wristwatch. It was a challenge difficult to pass up, considering my relationship with wristwatches. I then proceeded to perfect my time-telling skills. The drill consisted of being able to tell time instantaneously, knowing which hour is marked by the small hand, even if it's between two numbers, and which minute is marked by the big hand, without counting by fives, "five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five,..." I was drilled (by Mom and Dad, of course) at random times in the day, and at random locations. What time is it now? The question could have popped up as I awoke very early on a school day, with disheveled hair and morning breath and those "funny things" in my eyes Mom called "morning stars;" or as we prepared to leave for Sunday mass, as Dad backed out of the driveway' or as the priest gave his final blessing, signaling the end of the service, which was (and up to now) my favorite part of a church service. I've always thought that the majority of priests dole out long, boring, irrelevant homilies, and to endure an hour or so of it should be considered an act of penance in itself, thus absolving me of my wrongdoings. This is my opinion, of course, and the priests have their own respective ones, and they are always miles apart from mine. I've long stopped looking up to priests and their homilies as sources of inspiration. A good lot of them fraternize with my most hated animals - politicians and their minions - and generously dispense divine blessings to the rich and powerful, for the express purpose of getting favors in return. From these, their deeds, one can come to the conclusion that society's dregs, the impoverished, have limited or difficult access to the promises of Heaven.

I was resolute in winning my prize, and so did my best to pass the drills which lasted for some several months before my 8th birthday. The promise was fulfilled, and the determination, rewarded. The Lyric was on my wrist for the most part of my waking hours; at school, at home, to church, to kin's homes, on errands to the neighborhood sari-sari store, during family meals, and while struggling with homework. About the only place where I didn't wear it was inside the bathroom, I think. I never forgot who were instrumental in providing me with my new-found joy, and was grateful at every opportunity. Mom didn't have to call me twice to run an errand for her, and I shined Dad's office shoes for free. Benjie and I earned 25 centavos for every pair shined, and this was how we earned some money to buy all those things children like to buy from a sari-sari store.

I remember the time when we were invited for dinner by the Ellises at their home in Dasmariñas Village, along Pasay Road at the corner of Pasong Tamo. Jim Ellis was an American expat and was my dad's colleague. Together with his wife, Marsha, and daughter, Julie, they lived out a quite ordinary life in the Philippines. I thought Julie was cute, with her beautiful, expressive eyes framed by prescription glasses. She was blond, too, and was about my age. And I also thought she had the most magnificent toy, a battery-operated television which could automatically feed and show picture slides! I always looked forward to the family being invited over to the Ellis home, as each invite gave me an opportunity to seek out Julie and her toy TV. Not necessarily always in that order, though. Sometimes it was only the toy TV that mattered, at other times, only Julie. I believe I was at that age when my psyche was trying to strike out a balance between toys and the opposite sex, when it was constantly trying to decide which was more important. When I was courting my wife, that same psyche had fully developed, and neither TV programs nor movies, for that matter, held any sway, if you get my drift. I distinctly recall one time, while at the Ellis dinner table, Marsha asked me about my Lyric and who gave it to me. Not wanting to embarrass myself through an inappropriate response, I stared at the food on my plate, as if trying to look for clues and help in the rice and meat morsels. It took me some seconds to answer the very simple question, and our hosts and my folks probably thought I didn't hear, or that I was too shy. Or plain dumb. I took a glance at my Lyric and declared in grammar-perfect, Paco Catholic School English, "My mother and father gave it to me." Hooray.

The Lyric was my reliable accessory for many years, up to the time I graduated from high school. And when the original strap broke (I was about 12), I replaced it with a wide, brown, leather strap, something that was very fashionable in the early 70's. The two were together for something like two years, and when that strap broke (and went out of fashion), I replaced it with something ordinary and mainstream, something made of nylon. Looking back, the watch was a mute witness to some of our family's happiest moments (and sad and difficult ones, too), and to my awkward transition from young boy to early manhood, including my two episodes of being left behind at school and having to walk home, enabling me to discover hitherto hidden strengths, strengths that probably keep me going despite failures, disappointments, and a never-ending procession of gloomy scenarios.

I went through a succession of watches after my very first one, which I was forced to retire due to its glass case developing a crack and then popping out entirely. Mom's elder sister from Canada, whom she called "Diche," and who is also my godmother, presented me with a Timex watch during one of her homecomings. It was gold-plated, had a squarish case, and was self-winding, a technological upgrade from my Lyric. While it was nice, I was not totally faithful to it. I ached for the latest at the time, the Octo electronic digital LED watch. Its face was totally black, and the time was displayed as red, piercing, pulsating digits when one presses one of the two or three protruding crowns. It was space-age! The watch stores along Avenida Rizal each teemed with inventory of the Octo, square and circular cases, gold-plated and stainless ones, all very expensive and out of reach. I made up for my inability to purchase an Octo by making an almost daily detour to Avenida on my way home from the university, to ogle at Octos behind glass display cases. It's the story of my life, I think; always on the outside looking in, never on the inside.

Other watches came into my life, but I haven't been able to keep them all. One, a Titus Jetpower Super with 77 jewels, given by my maternal grandfather to Dad, and which I acquired through a combination of annoying persistence and creativity (actually a trade for my second Lyric Galaxie, also manually-wound but with a stainless steel case and stainless steel bracelet), burned in the Harrison Plaza fire sometime in the late 70's. I left it with a watch repair shop to have the cracked crystal replaced, but I was never able to get it back. Then in 1979, after Mom and Dad's sortie in the U.K.and the U.S., on a combination business and pleasure trip, Benjie and I were the more-than-happy recipients of Citizen LCD watches, the latest at the time. They were elegant, stainless steel, functional beauties, and we wore and showed them off. They don't make them like those anymore. Even Japanese watchmakers have fallen victim to the outsourcing phenomenon, and the Chinese now make or assemble their watches.

I have a dozen or so watches in my small collection, and I'm quite certain I will reach the end of my allotted time without being able to make it significantly sizeable. My dream watches are simply unattainable. Collecting watches isn't really for someone hampered by a lack of funds, definitely not for someone who has to make hard choices between buying watches and putting food on the table. Or who, if he chooses the former, becomes tormented by guilt for quite some time. But I maintain my attachment to watches, and there's no stopping it. Whenever I chance upon a watch store or a display case of watches, I must stop and take a look. It feels as essential as breathing.

One of my prized watches is a Seiko automatic chronograph, with stainless steel case and bracelet. It was a pasalubong from Dad, during one of his overseas trips. He was often on official travel as part of his job. This was in 1980, and this makes the watch rather vintage. I did some homework and discovered that this watch came out in 1969! The watch still keeps good time, having been serviced sometime in the late 90's by a master horologist in Bacoor, Cavite. I first brought the watch to the official service center, but the technician advised me that they no longer had the needed parts for it, and so he referred me to his mentor, one of the country's foremost watch experts.

Another prized watch is a Rado Diastar, black dial, gold-plated case and bracelet, and with small diamonds for numbers. It was a Christmas present from my wife in 1996. She spent a great deal of money on that watch, and although its price seemed incongruous to our economic stature back then (moreso today), it is a testament to how she will go to great lengths to cater to my every desire and whim. I'm one lucky bastard, for sure. And for sure I don't (and never did) deserve one of this world's most wonderful persons. For the reason that I have a most precious gift, I'm wanting in other things, and have failed in many respects. I've always held the belief that no single person is the recipient of every good thing Life has to offer. For each stroke of good fortune, there has to be a failing or misfortune somewhere. For every stroke of genius, there must be a disability or any other debilitation. It is never perfect. There is no perfection. There is always this gnawing need after the latest acquisition or conquest, and it makes our happiness short-lived, and our life, incomplete. Whenever I pine for something, the waiting and the dreaming are, to me, the most exciting parts of the pursuit. I'm still waiting for something, I know, but what?

I know this fondness for watches will be with me up to how old I'm destined to be, until death swallows me up, turning me into dust, but not my watches. If they take an interest, then my children can have my meager collection, and I hope they find either pleasure or utility, or both, in each of these fine, little, exquisite machines.