We are Suffering

The suffering that has been brought upon us, while it does not necessarily redeem, nor is worshipped, becomes an expressed aesthetic. A loquacious, grouchy teenager, and a middle-aged New Yorker who wears his scarf in the most sensible fashion – these are the protagonists, these are the suffering.

Flesh out the suffering in us, dramatize its complex layers so that we do not just watch passively, compel us to actively perceive, and you’ve got a movie that makes a stain in our minds. And it’s a stain we don’t want to wash away.

Shame

My favorite scene from the movie covered in a spot-on review by Anthony Lane of the New Yoker: "Take the wordless subway ride, early in the movie, that finds Brandon, impeccably swathed in coat and scarf, sitting diagonally opposite a young woman. To witness the back-and-forth of their flirtation is like watching Nadal versus Federer on clay. Topspin smiles are dinked across the car, lips are slyly moistened, and McQueen even lobs in a late twist, as the woman proves to be wearing not just a kindly smile but a wedding ring—a combination guaranteed to stir our hero’s loins. The entire sequence is perfect, and PG-rated, and if “Shame” had stopped there it would have been a poem." Read more here.

Margaret

On the final scene, the mother and daughter sit on a performance of Offenbach's Tales of Hoffman in the New York Opera House. In catharsis, they both explode in tears. Thomas Caldwell of Cinema Autopsy described this scene in a most interesting review:  "... a strong case that narrative art – like cinema – still has the power to transcend reality and emotionally connect with people when everything else feels muted by cynicism and resignation." The full review is here.

Perhaps the suffering is conquerable. It might have been a feeling of transcendence from narrative art, or contemplating the poetry in the scenes. I couldn't rationalize my sense of optimism after watching both of these movies, but I am relieved that the optimism isn't feigned.

Little Fish

In the heart of a busy avenue in Quezon City normally clogged by cars and jeeps, a corner leads to an exclusive village of uniformily-built, four-story townhouses. The gates are tightly secured, and despite the pollution, this place had the tall, manicured trees you'd typically find in Tagaytay.

It's a Sunday afternoon, not too blazingly hot, and the clubhouse is where our niece J. is celebrating his 4th. We had home-cooked spaghetti, chicken, along with ice cream and pork barbeque while children frolicked in the pool. It was the stuff of our own childhood dreams, their earth-memories in the making.

The little one loves the water and smiles with pure joy. Mommy, especially in a bathing suit, shows her beautiful flesh in the sun. Today, I'm the Daddy who drives the big van, then sits by the poolside reading a back-issue of the New Yorker.

I amuse myself with how the patrons of farm-to-table resturants in New York wait an hour for a table. When the hour is up, they get a text message. They scramble, as though they're about to miss a flight, as the table is held for five minutes.

I read the feature about a face in the crowd in Occupy Wall Street. Inside my head, my thoughts do their own swimming. Corporate greed has such a powerful feorcity that it diffused and drove out the occupiers in Zuccotti Park and dispersed the movement. A line in the article goes: "You worked all your life and you're a good person and it doesn't matter. You're really prone to getting fucked." Months later, the 99% kept getting fucked while economies endure gut-punching recessions. The corporations are unscathed. Despite my awakening as part of the 99% who kept getting fucked, I am still guiltily thankful for the job I love to hate.

I've always thought about what Fathers think as they watch their kids enjoy in swimming parties. I'm glad it's not all feelings of fluff. It's not a self-congratulatory thought, and it's also note one of desolation and desperation that drives the greedy. It is always of hope that these little ones by the pool will do it right. And so we do.

At Twenty-Seven Months

When we have children, we become (more hopeful) children all over again. As though all this time (until now), we only pretend/ed to be adults. 

I didn't learn to draw well enough, but here's what we drew together. (Mommy does it so much better!) I guess re-learning is a much as a treasure as learning.

While reading the other day, you described the pictures in the books: "monkey eating an apple." "Santa holding a present." From the books, you even recognize personalities: Jesus, Van Gogh, Nietzsche. But mostly, you'd rather see animated characters from cartoons or talking animals. We won't take your childhood away from you by teaching you what is Post-Impressionism or Existentialism. You'll find that out on your own. 

Before you sleep and I take off to work, you say "Good night Daddy . Take care, Daddy. I love you, Daddy." When you get naughty and we respond to your naughtiness, you counter with "Hug Mommy. Kiss Mommy." 

Together, we learn and re-learn. From ABCs to counting, the names of things, grasping language, singing nursery rhymes. Together, we do the silliest things and the sweetest things. 

In the blink of an eye, you'll be a whiny teenager sporting an unruly haircut. Maybe you'lld read Nietzsche and Camus, maybe you won't. You might say things like: the hourglass of existence runs quickly. But these days, we live in a realm of discovery and fascination that's inherent to a child. Magical is an honest emotion to describe what we are going through. So we insist to be always with you. In the theory of eternal recurrence, all this magic is happening always.

And all over again. As you sieze the day, you'll understand you don't only live once.