Us & The Strange Library

Our prone attachment to Murakami stems from the idea that his literature was a piece in our own love story. We were a new, young couple then. We lured each other to fascination as we read the “Second Bakery Attack” together. We had a hunger that we have until now. In the beginning of our relationship, we emailed each other links to “On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl.” Those stories laced us into a shared space of consciousness . It helped us form the fondness we enjoy now. It’s literature that helps me fill my own void, with a girl that jumps into that void with me. Many of the stories, after all, are a creative description and attempts to understand loneliness and grief, strangely with many laughs along the way.

And now we have a child, and another one on the way. My void is still there, but it’s really getting cozier with more people in it.

It’s Christmas Eve. D. will be out shopping for maternity clothes and some groceries. I. and myself decide to sit it out in a coffee shop. It was near empty at 10am, rain falling against the window pane. December was cold and wet this year. He warmed up to bread, butter, pieces of dried fruit. I sat beside him with mocha latte and eggs Benedict. He behaved so well, I often forget he’s just four years old. Ready with a hotspot and power bank, I left him to his iPad. But he seemed more interested with the book I brought.

He must’ve been attracted by the art, by the wide eyes on the cover that stared curiously at him. So we shared this story with a familiar fascination. It was a perfect Murakami that involved a labyrinth in library, new leather shoes, a bird/a voiceless girl, the mother waiting at home, a sheep-man and an old man who wanted to fatten and slurp a little boy’s brains. And this one is filled with artful visuals! You were sold and into it like a moth to a flame.

I recited every word as you sat in my lap, blurting it out with all the enthusiasm and animation I could muster. I made a few footnotes on the side, making sure you don’t get traumatized about going to libraries, without necessarily killing the spirit of the story. You weren’t scared, you said, even after the part with the black dog with green eyes and a jewel-encrusted collar. Instead, you responded with such delight and that immediately emitted and transformed into mine. I had a second cup of coffee, savouring how much happiness I’ve been gulping.  It’s how I sometimes feel that this world of voids, lost shoes, the seeming unfairness to fair people, balls and chains, uncertainties and accidents sometimes conspire to bring me to an otherwise perfect moment. We were reading a story and weaving our own.

Days after Christmas, you crave for more. Your attention is caught by the book sitting in our shelf. You ask me to read it to you again.

What you won’t understand now, I suppose, is how you’ll need to dig and jump into your own well one day. I honestly can’t tell you how that’ll go for you. But early indications suggest that you’ll make a really cozy void.

One day, please let us jump into that void of yours.

Random and Unfiltered Scenes from my Endearing Days of Ordinariness

Take none of it for granted, I thought. Write whatever happens.

I’m home at 5.30am after another QBR and client visit. I love how it feels like cutting classes, but legally. I might miss getting nicely suited up when I no longer have this job, I thought. I had to work some more, while munching on vanilla almond cereals with nonfat milk. As soon as he’s up, I read a book to I., his eyes still puffy from sleep. He’s in his Woody costume. Hours later, I’m juicing carrots, apples an s and cucumbers while working some more. I run a 35:29 6k on the treadmill after four rounds of a pretend-battle game with I. He was Wolverine and I was Sabertooth. D. cooks a broiled chicken this for lunch. Compliments to the chef. Work’s done at 1:30 pm. I do toy reviews with I. and we explore the Salvador Dali section of the Museum of Modern Art App on his iPad. We do rescuebot toy reviews. I have a 2.5 hour nap. We walk to the Savemore to pay pills (electric, cable, phone, and water) and have a fantastic 15-peso turon with langka. Chicken sandwiches for dinner. I have coffee, and finish reading a story from Katrina Tuvera’s collection.

It’s only 8.30am and I’m home! We do Transformers toy reviews then do lessons – Q, R, and S today. I download some music, then read Guess How Much I Love You with him again. I covered some errands: water, folding clothes, some clean-up. I slept four hours. We head over to Rockwell and have a sandwich at a Deli: prosciutto, salami, lettuce washed down with apple juice. We get those Messy Bessy dish cleaners. For dinner, D. makes a scattered sushi and sashimi.

Friday. We do the lessons – T, U, and V, along with drills writing his name. We re-read a story from the Spongebob graphic novel, and Dr. Seuss’ Oh the Thinks You Can Think. We build Lego Stars. The best part of the day was I. being scared of the “ugly” lady in the lessons book. He covered it with his hand while his other hand held a pencil while writing the letters. He’s a sleepyhead at 5pm. I go for a 6k run. Nice and quick I’m oozing with endorphins. I finished Katrina Tuvera’s short story collection. Fulfils my craving for local literature and physical books after reading so many on the ebook reader. It was a lonely dinner alone, they were both asleep already. More music downloads, listening to Spotify, then the dishes before heading to work again.

Saturday. Pizza and premium beer for lunch. We go to the park in Greenfield to meet up with with our home’s architect to give him a token gift. Murakami’s Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki And His Years of Pilgrimage. I. ran around, chasing the huge bubbles at the park. D. and I. have tokoyaki balls and pad thai from the market. We drop by Mandaluyong for a brief visit. We have more beer and pizza at home while doing some chores – clothes and shoes.

Sunday. 10km Run at 58:00. Not the fastest but feels awesome. We do the groceries, lunch, and read Three Billy Goats Gruff and the Littlest Turtle. We recite proverbs. In the afternoon with go Trick or Treating at Rockwell with little P. M, and L. We had dinner at Wooden Spoon – Seafood Kare Kare, Dinakdakan, Stuffed Pechay. We had drinks at the Chili’s after – beer for the gentlemen, margaritas for the ladies. And nachos. At about midnight, I head out to visit my niece E. It was the only time mama had to head out.
Fast forward to one of these days in December. I was home at about 10am. We make a hotdog sandwich, and have D.’s menudo for lunch. She was craving for canteen food.I washed the dishes and called the bank to request a waiver on my annual fee. I read portions of Winnie the Pooh on the ebook reader with I. We read “But not the hippocampus.” Lessons on the iPad using Leapfrog’s Mr. Pencil. I take a 3-hour nap. In the afternoon, a do a 6.1 km bike ride and run a 35-minute 6k. The December breeze hugged my sweaty skin and the city glowed with Christmas decorations. I do a batch of laundry when I get home, we have dinner, and do the dishes.

Today. I clean the bathroom, do the floors, vacuum the couch. We have leftover pizza and chicken for lunch. We decide against going out for the groceries – there will be ample time this week as we’ll have a holiday break. And I.’s finally recovering from his cough. I read a Bino Realuyo book while having coffee – Arabica with Dark Chocolate Swiss Miss, along with  butter cookies, bread and butter. We read I am Thankful Each day, Three Billy Goats Gruff and the Cat in the Hat. D. threw up in the bathroom and when I see her that way my world crumbles. Someday, the males will bear the babies. But I’m glad she’s fine. She even gives me a massage later in the day. I wanted to go for an outdoor run but it rained right when I was dressed up. So I do 10k on the treadmill while D. cooks Mongo and Ampalaya. I ate like a construction worker. She asked me to buy chips, rice, a roll of tissue and gummy bears for I. I head over to Savemore and they’re both knocked out when I get back. I do the dishes, then shower. I fix myself a vodka and fizzy apple juice, with Davao pomelo on the side while I’m punching letters on the keyboard. I liked the Tranquillity with a Beat playlist: unobtrusive and anonymous with right amount of groove.

On the Right to be Tired

My own parents, at the retired age of 67 and 65, are still actively engaged in their respective lines of work. They’re sleeves-up, hands-on, and walking-the-talk. Mr. A is an elected public servant, and Mrs. A runs a small food business, the beloved Bunny Bunch, catering mostly to overseas placement agencies nearby and taxi drivers.

It’s not unusual to see more seasoned citizens to still be working.  I remember (as one writer put it), a twilight-zone-like experience at a McDonalds in Singapore. They had stores manned by elders instead of a perky, hyperactive crew who looked like they were injected mountain dew directly to the vein. This wasn’t the same set-up in Manila though; probably because there aren’t too many jobs around and even a service crew spot is considered lucrative.

So it was still unusual to see elders working at fast food chains that underpay their overworked staff.  In recent months, there's been a battery of protests in the US by McDonald's and fast food workers. We need more of that here and fight out the limited freedom, the paralysis of choices brought about the the greed of the rich enabled by Capitalism. The elder workers, most especially, should be paid right - if not more.

One of them greeted me this morning. I was travelling from one of the farther sites, and I had to stop by for coffee and apple pie as my eyelids were heavy and I was getting sleepy on the wheel. McDonald's was a convenience I can't deny. The elder crew who greeted me was wiping the floor, big smile, multitasking, firing on all cylinders as he glowed with his “good morning” by the door.

The age and the uniform didn’t appear to match. But when I look at him as I gulped my coffee and gobbled my pie, I didn’t feel pity, or guilt, nor did I condescend. I saw him as a paragon of persistence. I myself was tired and beaten. People like him, and my parents, stripped me of the right to be tired.

A lot of folks who are supposed to be retired are still toiling in physically/mentally demanding occupations – as carpenters, as call center workers.  I remember how I romanticized the elder who pushed the shoe repair cart, and in ways that I should keep quiet, I’d like to think that I helped with respect and dignity rather than just charity. I write again because we collect these experiences. It is connecting us the way a bundle of apparently simple, worthy experiences - make us look at our life and affirm why we keep pushing our rocks.

And while it looks like a long way away, my hairline is receding we are really growing old.

Well Then, Once More

I ran the half-marathon course of the Run United Philippine Marathon last October 5th. I knew I wasn't going to hit a sub-2, but I felt stronger compared to my last 21k race. This time, my training was more robust and I finished at 2:12. Not my best and could be better, yeah. But what was truly rewarding was the steam I had left towards the end, like I wasn't all used up or exhausted. The feeling at the finish line was to want to go through the race again. Beaded beautifully in sweat, that medal dangling on my chest, I asked myself, "When's the next one?" The endorphins kicked in my head, I looked at the open sky, and smelled the 6am air rising from the grass of the race village. I'm walking slowly, stretching, but I'm high, as though earth is moving on my favor.

 

Here's to the fate that we love, and everything we do again and again. We squander this love, and do not surrender to just a single piece of joy. We say, “Was that life? Well then, once more.”

 

A few days ago, D. and I received an answer to the question I asked myself after the race. The bun in her oven is six weeks and baking, coming this July 2015.

I remember our reactions when we first saw the results on the pregnancy test kit, or when we went to the doctor to confirm. We didn't jump for joy. I didn't announce it to the neighbors nor did we post it on social media. We had a more sober reaction. It called for a drink. I opened the chilled bottle of Stolichnaya in the ref, and made a vodka seven. It was calm, quiet, celebratory toast. Our reaction did not at all mean that we weren't excited. Our excitement remains unwavering as our happiness has just multiplied. This time we're just more complacent. The first experience of having a child will not diminish that of our second. We're stronger now, as some of the fears that we've known before will be assuaged by experience.

 

And we are so happy for Kuya I. We will be able to grant both of them the opportunity, the powerful bond with a sibling. "I hope it's a boy!" He says. He wants to call the baby Human Torch, and we all could be the fantastic four. Hearing him say that, we light up.

 

We know that the seemingly irreversible dysfunctions of this country, the declining state of the environment, the mere difficulty of living, of having another mouth to feed, makes one rethink the prospect of bringing another child into the world. We knew though, in our hearts, that having a child, and this time a second child, is a repeated expression of our profoundest affirmation of hope. We know for a fact that with our first one, we were not hardened by the daily grind, nor were we disheartened by the chores, errands, exhaustion, the changing of diapers, or miscellaneous surprises that caught us blindsided before. We loved it, we loved being parents, and being at our best at raising children who will be wiser and respectful towards life and the lives of others.

 

We look forward to more of the reading, of watching how a child’s innocence form itself into consciousness, a butterfly coming out of a cocoon. We look forward to the smell of baby cologne wafting through the air, crisp linen scent, the subtle sweetness it leaves in the air. Because in our minds, our souls were stirring, singing in a chorus, and we started seeing ourselves in a circle of four.

 

Yes, we are ready. We are ready to love and give everything, all over again.

Funny Love Stories Versus Capitalism

Oh, dear diary. My youth has passed, but the wisdom of age hardly beckons. Why is it so hard to be a grown-up man in this world?

I read Gary Shtyengart's Super Sad Love Story around the time Israel was bombing Gaza with weapons that are probably financed and politically backed by powerful Jews in America. My FB profile bore the flag of Palestine, formed in a ribbon, standing with them.

Shortly after, the umbrella revolution of Hong Kong begins. China, drunk with its self-discovery as global superpower, quells it, apparently by having the triad’s thugs beat up peaceful protesters.

And while people continue to try to occupy, the world is still owned by the 1%

In the meantime, we are now on iphone 6 and IOS 8.2 while Samsung is beating up Apple in sales.

The book is a preview of the bleak future. The cards we have right now, what's happening around us now, is a tell that Styengart delivers elegantly and effectively in a self-deprecating romantic comedy. Simultaneously, it is a satirical culmination of capitalism, a critique on the culture of consumerism. While the US markets collapse, corporate greed (merged or acquired by the Chinese) has taken itself to the point of exploring physical immortality!

China is the world leader and superpower. The dollar is “yuan-pegged” and American is deep in debt, crushed in a financial crisis. People are judged and constantly monitored by literal credit poles and are described as HNWI (High Net Worth Individuals) or LWNI (Low Net Worth Individuals). We go around with “fuckability” ratings. The new fashion is "onion skin" jeans and "total surrenders"or underwear that comes off with a press of a button.

Shtyengart infuses the book with a new language and a culture. This language and culture is a monster, and our generation, already lost to our electronic lives is its baby stage. The iPhone grows up to the “apparat” and we dive deeper into that digital limbo. “Images” is an actual university major and “assertiveness” is a minor. Acronyms has bastardized language and “streaming” and “scanning” as opposed to reading, tarnishing all wisdom.

I read this book in its electronic version, and it’s seemingly intentional how the people of the future despise the smell  of books. The protagonist goes,

“You’re my sacred ones.” I told the books. “No one but me still cares about you. But I’m going to keep you with me forever. And one day I’ll make you important again.” I thought about that terrible calumny of the new generation: that books smell.

Like many books about the future, this one has a glamorized nostalgia glorifies the present time. New YorkCity is given an eloquent tribute.

Noah told me that there’s a day during the summer when the sun hits the broad avenues at such an angle that you experience the sensation of the whole city being flooded by a melancholy twentieth-century light, even the most prosaic, unloved buildings appearing bright and nuclear the edge of your vision that when this happens you want to both cry for something lost and run out there and welcome the decline of the day.

The trees held fast, but the cityscape was in constant flux. The skyscrapers framing the lower half of the park looked tired of their history, stripped of commerce, the executive upper floors staring down into empty lobbies and concrete plazas where lamb kebabs and hummus spreads once fueled the world’s most storied white-collar workforce. Soon they will be replaced with curt, smart residential units with Arab, Asian and Norse designations.

New York, as it is now, is a melting of cultures. It celebrates and hinges upon this blending, as it attacks American Xenophobia. And this is supposed to be a funny story, and I laugh at the racial stereotypes that were presented precisely. The Korean mom goes:

How do you think you have Mommy for? Anyway, you have trouble write to me not only when you need money. When you work lawyer Mommy proud of you and you do not ask her for money. You will be proud because you help Mommy and family. Family is most important, otherwise, why GOD put us on earth? …Revernd Cho say all young people have special path? Please tell me if you know, other wise we look together. And keep Jesu in your heart, it is important! Also there are Korean boys everywhere. Go to Korean church and you will find date.

Perhaps it isn't so precise, or I haven't looked hard enough. I've been trying too look up a reference of this supposed Korean Proverb, to no avail: 

Beyond the mountains, according to the old Korean proverb Grace had once told me, were more mountains. We’d only just begun.

Gary Shteyngart, with girlfriend Mabel Hwang;
photo by Melissa Hom; from New York Magazine

The Ghost's Perspective

The wholesome-is-awesome pace of my family-centered life settles in a consistent trend. Work is stressful, the travelling makes me lose my bearings even more quickly but I've more or less adapted in settling with it in my own amicable way. 

The truth is I spend the largest slice of my time with family. I have consciously chosen to enjoy conversations with I. and D. At age 4, he sings Yellow Submarine and Strawberry Fields Forever, and duets with D. on songs from Disney. Spending time with them is something like being introverts, altogether. Nonetheless, I allocated alone time and ran 71.5km last August including an organized half-marathon. 

I've made the most progress in reading this year, thanks to the ebook reader. When Haruki Murakami's new novel came out in bookstore shelves, I rewarded myself with the First American Edition and smelled all the creaminess out of the paper. I finished it in a week. Reading it and holding it was like making a sugary, intangible feeling - tangible. And I know I will find the time to write about that separately. And with everything that occupies our time - we had renovations going on at home.  

I do not find a sense of fulfillment in work. I will not glamorize the lifestyle it has enabled, nor romanticize how the industry I belong to has supported the economy and generated 1 million jobs. But I do find fulfillment in what I do outside work. If I lose my job, I know I have found how to sustain what truly fills me with joy and continue striving to shape life with some meaning.  

For all that I've received, I am thankful. I step away from myself now and become a ghost that looks at the spot where I am. It's not so bad. I go back and tell myself never to take this fleeting thing for granted. 

As a family, we have lunches and dinners out every so often. A Sunday or two ago we were at a Korean restaurant. The sun had just set. We start with romaine lettuce, kimchi, drink barley tea. We order a platter of meat. A waitress grilled the meat at our table: thin short ribs, beef top blade, beef chuck roll. The smoke rises in my face. 

There goes the ghost. I hear it beneath the fizz, humming a quiet Sunday piano piece. It's familiar. Joe Hisaishi's playing the theme from Spirited Away.