And in my Head, An Octopus

A season of Spring Snow out in the green with specks of gold, in a country with neither spring nor snow. 

Spring Snow
by Yukio Mishima
ePub version 512kb, 394 pages

We can only surmise how many dissertations have been written to try to figure out why Yukio Mishima committed seppuku after completing his Sea of Fertility Tetralogy. It also seems like the wrong question to ask, especially when you’re reading him for the first time.

The richness of Mishima’s metaphors takes a life of their own. When I read Spring Snow it is as if a huge octopus sat in my head. The octopus started moving its hands – orchestrating the story in my imagination.  Take the ubiquitous kimono as a symbolism, for instance. The color, folds, and movement are intricately woven into the story.

"What it was he didn't know, but whenever this bright certainty seemed to shine within his grasp, the fluttering sleeves of Satoko's aquamarine kimono interposed themselves, trapping him once again in the quicksands of indecision."

It may not be the best comparison, but I succumb to saying how it often swiftly flew me to the feelings of aflutter as in a Jane Austen novel, or even Downton Abbey. The Japanese, as always, take the world’s best without forgetting their own.

So the novel was not just all nervousness and gushing excitement. The sorrows were so gracefully written, and the characters carried out their conflicts pitting elegance against logic.

This octopus sure works with such elegant hands.

Bloody Distractions, Growing-Up and Immortality

We are grieving, groping in this darkness in a path with no recovery. The what-ifs repeat themselves and we draw from the new emptiness inside us. No matter how strongly we handle these fresh wounds, we know we are permanently scarred.

The movies come as welcome distractions. On weekend nights, the couch turns into a twin bed, and we let the TV interfere with movies acquired as the millenials would.

Boyhood

It had the missing elements of a grandiose film I was looking for in the “Before” series: for one, a sensibility that was sustained with a powerful, 12-year stamina. Acting out what appeared to be “spontaneous” conversations were rehearsed expertly to the appearance of reality. You’d remember Before Sunrise/Sunset/Midnight as good films sometimes bordering on the so-so. Boyhood, to me, is a period-definitive magnum opus: more than a bold step, it is a creative, methodical, patient leap.

The first scene bursts brightly with Coldplay’s Yellow, and while the narrative is non-linear, the time sequences become recognizable through the soundtrack. The time was defined by both Britney Spears, but also by Phoenix.  A line from  Mishima in Spring Snow, spoken by Honda goes:  “You see that is the easiest way to establish the essence of our era--- to take the lowest common denominator.” This movie endeavored to present not just the lowest common denominator to define an era. It escaped the catch-all presentations of adolescent milestones such as acne, losing one’s virginity, the prom date, graduation. In it their places were the difficult conversations around those milestones.

“You know how everyone's always saying seize the moment? I don't know, I'm kind of thinking it's the other way around, you know, like the moment seizes us.”

Some lines were probably intended to sound silly – because that how it is, to feel things: our enlightenment, our awkwardness. Nobody comes out of it elegantly. And I’m thinking it’s never really too late grow up.

Only Lovers Left Alive

Creativity, genius, art, scientific progress: these are inevitable consequences of immortality. Vintage equipment, good books and music are weapons of choice versus an all-powerful boredom and disgust with humans. It’s a vampire movie tailor-fit for hipsters. It calls out pseudo-intellectuals too, bringing up literary controversies such as: Shakespeare is Christopher Marlowe’s ghost writer. He faked his death four centuries ago and he's been lurking in Morocco. The science of Galileo and Tesla, the music of Paganini – it was handed down to them because the vampires wanted "to put something good out there."

Tilda Swinton delivers a commanding performance as Eve. As a vampire  - she danced, listened to music surrounded herself with pillars of books (including recent ones such as Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace). They had iPhones, traveled red-eye flights.They drank blood from cocktail glasses as if it were shots of Patron. She tells her bored lover:

“How can you've live for so long and still not get it? This self obsession is a waste of living. It could be spent in surviving things, appreciating nature, nurturing kindness and friendship, and dancing.”

There’s a formula for immortality! There's the holy grail. But sometimes you have to resort to biting off someone’s neck.

Land Ho

A coming-of-old film, which is the senior equivalent of a coming-of-age film. A well-delivered road-trip comedy.

Some of the most earnest discoveries, the funnest things come later in life. This time around, you'd think you're never too old enough for anything: travel, drugs, being charming.

These two friends do get it: why waste the rest of your life when you can spend it surviving things? Appreciate nature, nurture kindness and friendship, dance. Reykjavik, Skógar, Jökulsárlón, Landmannalaugar, Gullfoss, Strokkur, and Blue Lagoon are the perfect places do all of it.

Francesco

The Pope Francis frenzy filled Manila's streets. He arrived a day before you decided to make your way into the world, rather too soon to come out of your mother's womb. The apostolic nunciature is less than a kilometer away from our house and when the pope's motorcade passes by, people come out to see him wave from his vehicle. Seven million of our countrymen heard him say mass. And while we weren't one of them, we follow him and believed profoundly in his crusade against greed in the form of the economic and political systems. And while we frowned upon his conservative views on gay marriage, he did open the doors of the church to other religions, atheists, and scientific ideas. We were touched by his genuine compassion for workers and the poor. The pope is also coming out with an encyclical in support of action against climate change.

We didn't know then if we were having a boy or a girl, but we knew Pope Francis would be your namesake. And little I. was right, he would have had a brother.

I was wrong about a thing or two. I saw D.'s pregnancy as a fragile one and as she wasn't as young, I thought she wasn't as strong as before. Seeing her bleed life out, I realized that she is strong as ever. We were ready, I thought. But we weren't ready for you leaving us before you can grace our lives. We weren't ready to fall off the cusp of our happiness.

We may try again, our doctor says. And one day things might even appear normal. We will mend, but there will be a special, empty chamber in our hearts that will always be meant for you. We will be peppered by what-ifs, both regretting what wasn't meant to be and thinking about  reaping the joys of what could have been. I know because I live this way. I had a brother who was born and died the same day. I took his name, wrote as him.

We live our lives not just as our own.

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.