An Exchange of E-mails

Writing e-mails is so common today that I don't put much stock in those that I write and have written. It is part and parcel of my daily life. A means to an end. It is like breathing.

I despise it when I have to write one to explain myself, or to complain. Explaining and complaining waste my precious time. The former presupposes that I either did something wrong or failed to do something right; the latter, that someone failed to give me my due, requiring of me to raise hell.

And when I do (raise hell, that is), I delight in composing something that lambasts someone, reducing the person to a lifeless, quivering blob. Unfair treatment begets my rudeness and inconsideration.

I find pleasure and challenge when I have to write one to obtain something that I need or want, and then wait for the words to do their magic. I have my fair share of both success and failure. If I were younger and still very adventurous, I'll definitely use them to further my love affairs.

I've received those with good tidings and were well-meaning; as well as those that either accepted or rejected my proposals or pleas; and those that reduce me to helplessness, as in my sister's recent e-mail and my consequent reply:



Hi Kuya,

Sorry haven't been able to email lately. Just been busy at work and the kids. Eric's Dad finally pulled through and is now in a rehab center. The doctors recently revealed that he almost died which I had already suspected, but with some miracle, he made it through this time. He had some delirium at first, but all the chemicals they pumped into him is finally leaving his body, so he's becoming more aware of reality. He is still extremely weak, so they're having him go through a physical therapy regimen.

As for our Dad, he is doing good and per usual always in good spirits. His prostate procedure is on July 29 and shouldn't last no more than 30 minutes. Nothing really to worry about Dad. He has medical problems, but he always stays on top of it by going to his doctors regularly. He never waits until it gets worse. You are right about Mom though, we will never convince her to see a doctor. This past year, she has gotten more frail and you can hear her breathlessness. Whenever we visit over to their house, she always falls asleep now in the sofa unlike before. She can't even carry the babies anymore. She gets bruises all over which she tries to cover up. Benson suspects it's diabetes. I try to visit there as much as I can since I don't really know how much time we have with Mom or Dad, but most especially Mom. I try to make time for my kids to see them, so they can have some memory of their grandparents like we did with Nanay and Tatay.

Anyway, I'll be on vacation next week from work. Finishing some home projects and we'll be going to Las Vegas for some R&R with the kids for a couple days. I'm looking forward to that. I will try to get the letter out by this Saturday. Ordinary post is about 10-15 days I believe. I will send you an update email when I send it, so you know when to look for it in the mail.

Love, Bel



Belinda,

Your e-mail sort of drove home the point that I may not be able to see Mom and Dad in the flesh again. Of course, this thought has always been considered, but at all times relegated to the subconscious because of its unpleasantness. And now it has resurfaced.

I sort of envy you guys because you can see them whenever you want to. Spend as much time with them because we never know when. You know what I mean. Life's like this. This is why we make the most of the time that Denise is with us. Lots of things may happen when loved ones are apart.

You are right in making the most of your time with your children. The happiest times are when the children are still under your wings. If you will recall, we were one big happy family at Philam. We had difficulties, but still we were all together. Times like these fly like the wind. Before you notice it, the children will have gone on their own separate ways, chasing their own dreams.

Love,

Kuya

P.S. What happened to Eric's dad, by the way? Your e-mail was not that clear to me.

Adjustments

I choose my love stories discriminatingly. I reject those that are teary, very contrived, and melodramatic; with dialogues so unnatural, they could just as well be reading straight from script, uttering words one normally does not utter, even when in love. I like those that are out of the ordinary, the ones that are not commonplace, almost out of this world. Yet, they bring out love's strongest arguments. Like David and Elise in "The Adjustment Bureau."

A long time ago, I had thought that a single point in time may proceed to an infinite number of points, with each point being a "possibility," and each possibility may then proceed to its own infinite number of possibilities, and so on. It was an insight that came out of nowhere, and it gave me inexplicable joy.

I liked David and Elise's possibilities, the apparent randomness of it all; and, yet, predestiny always seemed to dictate that their paths crossed. It reinforces my belief that people were born either for greatness or mediocrity, either for joy or sadness, either for success or failure. Neither prayer nor saintly intercession would help if we had been doomed from the start. And neither calamities, man-made or otherwise nor other people's ill will would keep one from success. From the womb, one is ordained for any of these destinies.

If there were an Adjustment Bureau, then I hope they find my life worthy of some adjustments and fine tuning. My life has, so far, been simple and wonderful. I can't complain. But I am at a point that is like some dead neuron or synapse failing to connect to the other side. A jolt may be required to restart the progression to my infinite possibilities. The Bureau put David back on track. I wish it would do the same for me.

I liked David and Elise's doors which opened to surprise destinations. I can only imagine how it must feel to be able to open doors to possibilities. I haven't had that many doors in my life; or maybe I just did not see them. Maybe too many mundane concerns preoccupied me. And now, the doors have become more and more infrequent. How many more doors have I left? Or have they already run out?

Memories

They are rather magical, lively things. They often, for me, come without warning. Like when I'm doing a chore, or listening to music, or reading a book; and sometimes, at some instant when I've tasted a particular food, or smelled a particular odor, they suddenly become alive, each springing from a hidden recess in my mind.

Some of them come in manageable bits, which I can either encourage or suppress, depending on whether they are pleasant or otherwise. And some come in overwhelming torrents, leaving me with no other choice but to just hold on tight, and allow them to take me wherever they may fancy. I shed a tear or two at times, or else enter a trance-like state, oblivious to everything around me.

As I am trying to rid myself of excessive sentimental foolishness, including outdated, blind beliefs, and some useless parts of my conscience even, I consider memories as incongruous inconveniences, like specks of dust in my eyes, or a useless body appendage. They do nothing but add to the burdens of everyday living.

I started life on a happy note, in a family which is among the kindliest in the world. Hence, there isn't any direction left to go to, except toward atrophy; you know, like from bad to worse, plenty to poverty, healthy to ill, happy to sad, life to death. It is unstoppable. And memories merely serve to make more pronounced the rancor.

If I had no memories to drag along with me wherever I may go, then each day will be new. I can start fresh every morning, brimming with hope and anticipation, my vision unclouded by regret, or remorse, or fear. I can realize my full potential, without being weighed down by emotion or conscience. I may then become despicable to some people, a self-centered, ungrateful slob. But in reality, I will have become the perfect organism for life's largely unforgiving conditions. If there were no memories, life will become very tolerable, and will proceed mechanically, efficiently, profitably, unhampered by notions of right and wrong.

But memories are like addictive drugs. We crave them. We are enamored by them. They seem central and essential to our existence; as when we glamorize and exaggerate our lives through tales of our exploits, our conquests, and other largely misguided adventures and activities; as when we would rather waste our time reminiscing unrightable events, and other scenes steeped in inane nostalgia. This option is attractive enough, though, as it offers some sort of respite from the sustained banality of life.

When work does not occupy me, I lose the battle against memories. They dart from here and there, from different points of time in my life. The rational in me abhors the exercise; the emotional finds it delightful.

An Old Woman

On my way home tonight, I was stagnant, with dying dreams in my head. The cold air was heavy with filth and fumes, and I passed by houses hollowed and abandoned by memories both happy and bitter, its people moved on to fabled lands, while I remained, and hoped, and dreamt, and planned, and lost; consigned to the torture of reminiscences, forever in the limbo between failure and hope.

Then she was there: On a sidewalk, exerting her dominion over tattered treasures, oblivious to concepts of dignity, focused on surviving, making my whimpers apparent and embarrassing.

When I left, she was still there, and the forlorn, hopeless sight lifted my spirits up a bit. Though tinged with cruelty, the miserable among us find perverse comfort in the sight and smell of the hopeless.

Beginnings

We're done with the rituals of welcoming yet another year. I personally feel that a new year starts off as somewhat sluggish, probably from the daze and hecticness of the holidays that immediately precede it. Then, it slowly reclaims its lost pace, the swiftness by which the alternation of night and day becomes mechanical and unforgiving, never stopping for love or happiness or death or grief.

Time's unstoppability exacts a toll on my dreams. I have finite time and limitless dreams. I know I should move faster and do more, but while time moves forward in a straight line, dreams, or mine at least, flit and glide and fly to each and every direction they please. Chasing them sometimes throws me off-paths, and occasionally I get lost, losing precious time in the process.

I begin another year because time commands me to. I breathe under its dictates. It allows me bits of pleasure, though: Reminiscences of moments of love, moments of inexplicable insight and joy, of faith and hope. It'll keep me in suspense each day, bringing both strange and wonderful things to my doorstep. It will, at least, allow me beginnings.

Closure

This Christmas season should be missing out on the joys of holidays past, for my dear wife and their family, and for myself as well. My mother-in-law has been diagnosed with colon cancer in its advanced stage.

Events unraveled rather fast. I recall minor complaints of physical inconvenience every now and then; but nothing that would have made us even remotely think that a serious threat to her life was underway. We all went about the happy, deprived, problematic, and humid business of living our intertwined lives. We fought, argued, criticized, hoped, and dreamed; we loved each other nonetheless.

Then, as suddenly as lightning can strike on a clear, sunny day, the hibernating, frightful disease woke up from within her. It commandeered everything she had available: Her strength, her appetite, her lifespan, and her unfinished business. She now lives on shorter borrowed time and, although we don't discuss it, our common feeling is that this holiday season is the last she'll spend with us.

I share in the pain of everyone who loves this marvelous, simple woman: She who always hopes for the best, but contentedly settles for least and mediocre things. It takes little to make her happy.

I miss the liveliness in her eyes now. She has the look of resignation on her face. In all likelihood, she feels pain, but she does not speak to us about it.

My wife took after her. She perennially endures the indignities of a life lacking in material comforts, the outcome of my restlessness and imprudence. And if one day she will fall ill like her mother, I surmise that she would also be as resigned and uncomplaining.

It's all in God's hands now, as everything really is. Science can only offer to cure physical wounds, soothe some of the pain; love, kindness, and compassion prop up the spirit; but all life rest in The Great Arbiter.

Dream

This morning I woke up from a strange dream: I was cleaning a house in preparation for moving in. Then I noticed a figure looking out a window of the house facing my house. I was dreaming, and so I abandoned my task, proceeded towards that house in front, and entered it.

It was bare, devoid of furniture, the walls blank and faded yellow, save for a waist-high, dark-brown wooden cabinet with drawers. I opened the topmost drawer; it contained old photographs, some tattered, some almost crumbling, and all of them faded. They were of kin and friends I knew, and who all have passed away.

Suddenly, the people in the photographs were there, filling the house with chat and commotion. Some smiled at me particularly; one was noticeably insouciant, and while also smiling, she just went past by me. I kidded her about that. But dreams are so free-wheeling, no?

I then woke up (or was awakened by something), and had the urge to write the following poem -

Life is here, Life is
Now, a part of it is
Yesterday; but certainly it is not
Tomorrow;

Death, its kin,
has countless tricks
up its sleeves;
we outpace it each day,

Or so we think:
We eat, drink
and are merry;
we traverse many roads,

Some to great finds,
some to naught;
some to the loveliest of places,
some to the saddest of those;

We walk, we run, we fly,
straight towards coveted,
obscured goals; and oh, so fast!
Around a corner, Death waits, and smiles.