Old and still untitled but i swear ill continue this

If you really want to know about it, you’ll probably want to hear about where I was born, and what my privileged childhood was like, and how my parents were such good parents.  But I’d rather not start the conventional way.  For one thing, conventional is boring.  And for another thing, the details of my pre-adult life aren’t telenovela material anyway.  So let’s fast forward to something I actually want to tell you about.  Let’s fast forward to about six months after college, when I finally start to feel a stirring in my soul, so to speak.

Where I want to start telling is the day I was walking towards the LRT Edsa-Taft train station and I found out that trains were indefinitely suspended because of a fire that happened near the Libertad stop.  You probably read about it on the newspapers.  It was probably the second or third fire in that area in a span of just two or three months.  Unbelievable.  I couldn’t believe how that area could be so fire-prone, and I couldn’t believe that I had to take a jeep all the way to Vito Cruz.  This was just the second leg of three of my daily journey to work, and I was looking forward to the strong, refreshing air-conditioning and the people-less-ness of the train.

While in the aircon-less, people-ful jeepney, I was wondering why I accepted the job at the Senate in the first place.  I mean, one of the reasons why I chose to study in Ateneo despite all my high school friends going to La Salle, was that I didn’t have to see Taft Avenue everyday.  I didn’t have to endure the unpleasant odor, the unbearable traffic, and the sheer ugliness of it.  Ambience was always very important to me, and the Jesuits’ campus and its surrounding area had a more study-conducive appeal.  Little did I know that four years later, I would find myself everyday treading the very road I abhorred because it was en route to work. 

To answer the question about working at the Senate: it was the first job offer.  But ‘first’ wouldn’t exactly be accurate because it was only thing I applied for.  So I wasn’t really waiting for any other offers at that time.  It was the only thing I applied for because even if college was drawing to a close, I purposely put myself in a state of denial about it.  I didn’t join the horde of fellow students rushing to have their CV’s photocopied 100 times so they could submit these to each and every booth in the first wave of job fairs at school in November of our senior year.  I didn’t go to the resume-writing tutorials and the mock job interview sessions offered by the guidance office in December either.  And in January, I wasn’t one of those going from building to building in Ortigas Center and/or Makati, dropping off CV’s at every floor that had ‘HR’ on it.  Yes, so you could say that I was really buried deep in denial.  But it wasn’t really so much that I feared having to work.  Being nonchalant was more of a defense mechanism because I did not get into law school.

I forgot to tell you about that little detail.  Sometimes, when you would rather forget about something, chances are, you actually do.  It’s a futile attempt everyone does to get something undone.  But since I’m being honest with you and since you can’t really undo anything that has already happened, yes, I did not get into the one and only law school I applied for.  The University of the Philippines says that my undergraduate grades were not good enough.  At 21 years old, I felt my world shatter.  Disappointment and regret began to sink in as flashbacks of the parties and instances of youthful abandon played through my mind.  Law school was supposed to be vindication for my less than serious attitude towards academics in college, and now that it was off the plate, I felt lost.

Come February, I had finally gotten over the denial-which-was-really-bitterness phase, and it dawned on me that considering that graduation was one month away, maybe not applying for a job was not exactly a good thing.  So I made my resume and browsed through my cell phone contacts list, wondering if there was anyone I could send my resume to who could help me.  Then I the number of my former Political Science professor who was only teaching part time because his day job was at the Senate.  I remember he gave me an A, and thought he must still remember me and be kind enough to refer me to his boss.  So I emailed him my resume, and a few weeks later, I found out that I got the job. 

The funny thing about all these is that I actually landed a job before those people who went to job fairs, mock interviews, and the Ortigas and Makati offices did.  I guess everything – choosing Ateneo, failing UP Law – they happened for a reason.  But I can’t help wondering if I did the right thing.  If I happened not to do one of those things, if I altered just one step, would the outcome have been the same?  Would I still have been in that aircon-less, people-ful jeepney to Vito Cruz then? Or would I have been in a better job?  Or maybeworse?  Anyway, that was what I was thinking about at that time.  The jeepney ride was a long one.

When I got to Vito Cruz, the Indian-looking girl was already there with a big smile on her face.  That was a first, she being there ahead of me, hence the big smile.  It’s a daily thing we have meeting for a cup of coffee at Starbucks Taft before the final stretch of the travel to work, and she always, always arrived 30-45 minutes after the designated time.  Goddamn the fire at Libertad, my record had been broken.  Andrea, that’s her name, was someone I considered a friend aside from being just a colleague.  We instantly clicked when we met on our first day of work 6 months back coz she liked to smoke, drink, and read books.  We also found the same things funny.  And what better foundation is there to begin a friendship than common vices, pastimes, and a sense of humor?

But we always got into arguments.  Maybe it’s because we’re together all day, everyday on weekdays, that our friendship semi-regularly starved for an argument.  I remember a day I was picking on her love for poetry.  I was prodding her to give me a concrete reason why she loved it so much.  She was educated at the Philippine Science High School, then she took up Environmental Science in Ateneo, then she went to Japan on a scholarship for post-grad studies in Chemistry.  Typical nerd.  So wasn’t reading and writing poems uncharacteristic of the stereotype she ought to embody?  So one day I was pestering her for a satisfactory answer and I told her no, ‘Simply because!’ wouldn’t be satisfactory.  And this was simply because ‘Simply because!’ was what you said when you didn’t know what else to say.

You wouldn’t believe how she answered me.  She quoted a poet in response to my question.  As Marianne Moore said, she explained, “Poetry is ‘a place for the genuine.’  It’s a place for ‘hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, and hair that can rise if it must’” Jesus Christ.  My mouth hung open for a few seconds after she said that.  I was shocked because of two things.  First, I admired her ability to effortlessly quote a poem verbatim.  Secondly, I was debating with myself inwardly if that was a satisfactory answer.  ‘A place for the genuine’ yeah, right; that wasn’t even a genuine answer from her precisely because it wasn’t hers!  Sadly, I still believe that

poetry isn’t anything

but a bunch of

            cut up

lines.

--------------------

One good thing about being a lowly positioned employee in the government is that filing for a leave of absence is hassle-free.  Absolutely hassle-free.  You see, my mom had invited me to tag along on her business trip to Prague.  Since we had enough airline mileage to cover my airfare, all I had to do was get a green light from work.  And when I asked my boss for permission to be gone for ten days, all he said was, “No problem, just make sure someone else does your work while you’re not here.”  And when I asked a colleague to cover for me in my absence, all he said was, “No problem, just make sure you take a lot of pictures.”  Amazing.  You have to hand it to these people. You have to hand it to the system.  Can you imagine if it were this easy to take a break from school where the teacher would say, “No problem, just make sure someone else does your homework while you’re not here?”  That’s student nirvana right there.

But the problem about getting comfortable about anything is getting too comfortable about it.  That’s what I was thinking of on the way to the airport.  What if when I get back, I regularly arrive at work after lunch?  That would save me lunch money and the rush hour commute.  What if I don’t go to work at all if I don’t feel like it?  What if I go to the beach if I wanted to, and just make sure someone else did my work for me while I take pictures of the sea?  Now that’s an interestingly tempting thought.  In my mind, I was the most corrupt person alive. 

Since my mom was in Prague for business, I was to go around city alone, which was fine with me.  And so armed with a subway map, some cash, and a great sense of adventure, I set out.  Now the first thing you would be astonished about Prague is the fact that their subway stations don’t have turnstiles.  All they had were ticket-reading machines that would stamp your ticket with your time of entry.  You paid a certain amount for a ticket that was good for the first 20 minutes including all transfers.  If your travel time goes over that, you buy another ticket.  But then you didn’t actually have to buy the tickets to get on the trains because all you had to do was walk past the machines!  But the people there bought tickets.  Unbelievable how theirs is a mature society for that system to survive.  And considering that they’re just getting back on their feet from Communism, you’d think the Czechs would have loads of trapped activism inside them.  But no, most everyone there was honest and rule abiding.  Imagine trying that out in the Philippines.  The Metro Rail Transit (MRT) and Light Rail Transit (LRT) would go bankrupt in a day or two, tops.  I’m not kidding.

The hours seemed to pass by quickly in what they call the ‘land of a hundred spires.’  I call it the ‘land of déjà-vus.’  A turn on the road, and you’d be confronted by an alley, another turn, and you’ll be trapped by a cul-de-sac, then before you know it, you’d seem to be right smack where you began.  And you probably are.  It’s so easy to get lost, but you won’t be pissed one bit because everything is just so beautiful.  Prague is a microcosm of European fantasy.  It’s the perfect mixture of Baroque boldness and Gothic gloom.  In spite of its demented spires and towers, you’ll feel like you’re living a childhood dream.  As you walk on its cobbled stone streets, looking for that famous hole-in-a-wall bar, it’s as if you’ve been time-warped into the 12^th century.  And as you make your way up what they call Petrin Hill, admiring the foliage, you’d be lured to the top as though by a distant sound of music, bringing out the Julie Andrews in you.  The hills are alive with the sound of music, with songs they have sung for a thousand years…

Of all the wonderful places I went to during my 10 days there, that was what really had me, Petrin Hill.  Since the funicular was under repair, I had to endure the one-kilometer uphill climb.  On my way up, I was like Tereza in Unbearable Lightness of Being, who ‘paused several times to look back.’  Just like her, I saw ‘the towers and bridges, and the saints shaking their fists and lifting their stone eyes to the clouds.’  But unlike Tereza, I wasn’t going to the top knowing I was meant to die; I was hiking up and feeling as though I was born again and was meant to live for years and years.  I felt invincible and immortal.  I felt I could do anything I wanted to do from then on.  Seeing the whole city fit into one frame, I never thought I would see such splendor with my own eyes.  Pictures could never do it justice.  You should’ve been there. It really was the most beautiful city in the world.  I wanted to just sit there and never leave. 

But I had to leave because it was getting dark, and I wanted to get some alcohol into my system.  I chanced upon a pub called Bar and Books.  It was the most sophisticated bar I’ve ever been to in my life.  With its interior decorated in rich leather and dark wood, complemented with book-lined walls, it made me feel rich and smart.  It’s the kind of place where people probably talked about philosophy or history or literature, and where they come up with world-changing ideas while enjoying the finer things in life.  It’s a venue for epiphany and luxury, a setting for fiery debate.  But it’s the drinks that make it in that place.  It had a vast range of wines and whiskies and cocktails.  Too bad it cost an arm and a leg, though.  So after one glass of whisky, I left and looked for a cheaper alternative.

Prague was definitely literary heaven.  As I walked through the students’ side of town, I saw writerly cafes and poetry reading pubs.  If Andrea had been there, her eyes would have ‘dilated,’ her hair would’ve ‘risen,’ and she would’ve died.  And you should’ve seen how they enshrined Kafka.  There was a Kafka Street, a Kafka Square, a Kafka museum, and even a Kafka walking tour.  It was amazing.  Even if I didn’t like Kafka, I found the way they paid homage to him so amazing.  You can’t help feeling how great of a guy he must’ve been.  It made me wonder why we didn’t have that stuff for our Nick Joaquin.  I guess Mr. Joaquin was right when he wrote that ours was a ‘heritage of smallness,’ a ‘tingi society.’  Our very own street vendors, who are content with selling cigarettes one stick at a time, reflect our culture as a people adverse to anything big and lasting.  We never did anything more for Nick Joaquin after giving him a kick-ass funeral.   My younger brothers don’t even know him at all.  And no offense to Mr. Joaquin, but do you know of any Filipino writer who has written a novel?  And I mean a real novel: long, solid, and arresting like say Anna Karenina or War and Peace or Gone With The Wind?  Probably not because there’s probably none.  All we have are short stories, novelettes, and poems.

Anyway, so I ended up in a cheap pub at that part of town.  Drinking alone made me realize how fun it was to be my own company; back home, I almost never had myself to myself.  With no one to talk to, I decided to people-watch.  Have you ever tried people watching?  You should, it’s amusing!  I observed a couple fighting and in my mind, I was making up their conversation.  You’re having an affair with that girl aren’t you?  Admit it!  No I am not, she’s just a friend!  Then, when I got bored with that, I started thinking.  Of the plan.  College. Check. Work. Check. Car.  Will be checked when I get my bonus in December.  What’s next?  Post grad studies?  But in what, and where?  I am not sure about the what yet, but the where would definitely be in Europe.  Not in Prague though, or in any non-English speaking country.  But wherever it is, it must be beautiful. Then, just as I was to take another sip from my glass, this guy on the next table comes over.

Sprichst du Deutsch? Big smile.

No, do you speak English?

Shakes head.  Raises his glass.  Hahaha, prost!

Smiles.  Raises my glass.  Hahaha, cheers!

I thought he would leave after that, but he didn’t.  He just sat there smiling at me.  He wasn’t bad looking at all.  And it was my first time to have an actual person with bluish greenish eyes so close to me.  Such beautiful eyes.  I wondered if it changed color during the day or something.  Then it got a little awkward after about 30 seconds so I finished my drink, gestured my goodbyes, and left.  (Un)fortunate how the language barrier has saved me from getting picked up.  It would’ve made a good story though, me getting picked up by a German guy on my last night in Prague. 

When I was on the plane back to Manila, I didn’t feel like I was really on it.  It’s this thing about me and goodbyes.  I don’t actually feel the leaving – me leaving a place, me leaving someone, or someone leaving me – during the actual leaving process.  Then when it sinks in after some time, I feel worse than depressed.  I feel worse than depressed because I believe that every parting experience deserves a proper goodbye, an apt confrontation of emotions, an acceptance of reality.  Not the numbness I was feeling on that plane.  Anyway, I felt I needed to do a proper goodbye to Prague because I don’t know if I’m ever gonna have an opportunity to go back again.  So I wanted to write about it.  I was thinking of doing some sort of memoir, with every single place I’ve been to in it.  That way, it would serve as both a goodbye and a remembering.  But I couldn’t get started on it because all I was thinking was: How to write. How to write.  How to write pretty.  I read a friend’s essay and I find it beautiful.  I read past works of mine and I find them corny, insignificant, boring.  So I ended up writing nothing and drinking a gazillion glasses of wine to fall asleep throughout the flight.  Upon landing, I was picked up at the airport by my brother and boyfriend. 


February 2009