my mind…my heart

Unlike any other moments when I am stirred to write and words just pour forth, this is when I am moved to write but when I searched my brain, it was just blank…the void broken only by thoughts so incoherent I found it hard to write it down; the only ones understandable are the questions and the waves of realizations fracturing the inner silence.

I was so near it, so certain of what I am capable of giving. It was so close…so close I already touched it…but it touched me first and though in the beginning it was fleeting, it left a mark and opened the wall, ever so gently…

No, it did not break the wall down; it held each single piece that made up its structure with such tenderness…it was never a force but warmth, one that slowly melted the ice so cold it can burn; one that I did not even know was there until I saw puddles forming, from the melted patches.

The warmth, it was so encompassing it was slowly becoming a part of me, the sunshine of an otherwise velvety gloom; but I realized that too late…I was only able to touch it when it was retreating. I touched it too late…

I touched it, I felt the warmth and then it was wintry again, in its retreat leaving behind its wake a feeling so surreal I would have thought it was but a dream if not for the puddles. I cannot even stretch out my arm to reach for it, not that sunshine, for I cherish it so much I could not imprison it…but I am left with that single ray of light, one that ensures that there is warmth left to get by, yet even that I know I can never hold, for it can only be near for a moment and then it too will be gone…

Splat……splat……splat……splat…splat…splat…splat splat
splat splat splatsplatsplatsplatsplat–that rain-made rhythm could have been
irritating had it not been for a funny-frustrating-crazy fact–our house, which
we rent for 2,700 PhP is way too cheap given that along with the house and the
divider, which is the only furniture that we found when we first came in,
except of course of some fixtures like cabinets (three of them), are “freebies”
that we did not know came along with the deal; a “falls”, a “stream” and a “powerful,
all-natural air conditioning system”.

<blink, pucker brows> “huh?! What?!”

Oh…yeah, I understand the confusion so allow me to elaborate
further…

We have been staying in this apartment for 16 years already
(nope, you don’t have a bad eyesight, it’s 16 YEARS ;-P ), and since the
very first month that we lived here, the price we pay for the rent increased
only twice (initial reaction: “oh, how kind of the owner!”), not out of
benevolence, sorry to disappoint you, but out of the fact that since then, the
condition of the apartment has become so bad, but the owner would rather not
enjoy an additional income than care enough to have it repaired. And so we
ended up with the three “freebies”.

The first “freebie” is the drip that comes from both ceilings
of our two bedrooms, whenever it rains; and “drip” is even an understatement at
that, I think it’s more of a dribble. You see, when you go to our bedrooms on a
rainy day, you will not just see beds, tables and all else that you can
associate with a bedroom, but you’ll also see big pots (yep, pots as in “pots
and pans”), sporadically distributed around each room.

“What the…is your room a kitchen too?! and are you into
catering? …the -big pots-…”

No…we just need the pots in the rooms to collect the water droplets. I
don’t blame you though <grin>, the sight makes me laugh too because it
makes me think of “mass” cooking, more like mass boiling actually, because there
is just water in the pots; except, maybe, when a rat will be unfortunate enough
to end up swimming in one of them, after getting in (and not being able to get out)
because of the misconception that there maybe be food inside, them being pots
and all. Ummm…”mass” cooking (or mass boiling, whichever) minus the fire…you’d
think we’ve suddenly become like Harry Potter who can conjure up a fire to do
the job, in the absence of a stove… err…stoves because there are many pots? It
is becoming a perpetual display of pots mind you, with the season which is
rainy, not to mention MSU’s microclimate; so we constantly bump into the pots,
especially when the light is out at night, hurting ourselves in the process; we
always hear the relentless sound that the dribble makes, which is fast becoming
like a rhythm in its consistency, it would not be a surprise if anyone of us
will start dancing to it (rhythm being a dancer ;-P); and I sometimes find
myself just staring at the constant drips that fall in, with so close an
interval, one boisterous drop after another — thus the “falls”.

The second “freebie” is the watercourse that gets inside the
house through the kitchen wall…

“Okay, so you do have a kitchen separate from your bedroom
after all…”

I was trying to assure you of that <wink>, now let me
get back to the second “freebie” — it is the driving rain that does it…it starts
as a rivulet that eventually develops into a creek, if the rain is relentless in
its pouring. Its way in, being the badly cemented kitchen wall; its outlet an apparently
invisible “ocean” in our living room that only “whoever it is that wanted us to
have it” can see. I don’t understand why we had to be provided with a “body of
water”; there is no need, really. I mean, they (the ones in charge of the
distribution of water for our domestic use) don’t give us enough water yeah,
but I don’t think the “body of water” that comes in through that kitchen wall
qualifies as an addition to the amount that we need every day, for some
reasons, and one is the source being a canal (yeah, EEEWWW!) and so we can not
find any use for it at all; not drinking or cooking (never!), not even for
cleaning the house or doing the laundry, and most definitely not for bathing,
which, I am beginning to think is, for some nauseating reason, why we are given
that and the “falls” (which can easily become a “shower” too!)…we do take a bath
frequently you know…so it should not be the reason, not to mention that fact
that we smell way a lot better than that water does, with or without having to
take a bath… Talk about a really bad taste huh? We don’t get it as often as the
“falls” though, thank God! But when we do get it, we always end up “in [shallow
not] deep water” — so the “stream”.

The third “freebie” is the really cold draught of air that
gets into the house via the ceiling, or the absence of it, in the kitchen
(another proof that we do have a kitchen ;-D ), so when you look around that
part of our house, you’ll see a bottle of “slumbering grease” in the form of an
edible oil, and that is always. You see, because it is so cold, we don’t have
trouble with waiting long for anything hot to cool down (I’m actually referring
to cooked food but well, it can also apply to “hotheads”).

“I’m afraid I don’t get it…”

Okay, further explanation…someone (I won’t say who, sorry
hahaha) always storms into the kitchen in a fit of rage and then comes out of
it calmer, if not smiling. That powerful huh? Oh and the food…well, if you know
Pork Sinigang then you will understand. When I cook that, I always find the
mixture of the soup, the tomato juice and the liquid pork fat nice to look at;
and I know you’d agree that a good-looking food deludes one to thinking that it
tastes good too, although it is not always true, as in my cooking’s case, me
being a dreadful-good-only-when-fate-favors-me cook. Now, to continue, I always
leave the kitchen feeling satisfied that I did well, only to come back a few
minutes later, to fill an already-empty soup bowl, and find out that in place
of that delicious-looking (just looking, not tasting–I would not dare claim
that) soup I left in the pot, is a liquid with vegetables, and some orangey goo,
the mixture of the fat and the tomato juice now gel-like, floating on it as
decoration. A classic example of cooked food becoming too cold…

“Wait! You mentioned pot…are those the same…”

No! That was a different pot I used …not one of the ones we
use for catching raindrops, those are way too big for cooking food that’s only
good for six persons you know. We use those too of course, but only after we
get to clean it up thoroughly, (no rat ever swam in one of those don’t worry,
it was just an “if”). Okay so where was I? Oh, the cold food…well, it does not
just end there because the cold draught gets into the dining room and the
living room too, add to that the cold draught that gets into the bedrooms through
eight (four in each room) big jalousie windows. So we always close the kitchen
door to minimize the volume of cold air that gets in, which helps, albeit a
little. We still end up having a “cooler-like house” though, and unlike any air
cooling system that one can easily regulate, this air cooling system that we
have, or we want to not have, is self-[un]regulating. So although we are not
close to any hazard that a mechanized air cooling system poses, since what we
have is natural, we too cannot turn it off (no one can, unless otherwise there
will be major changes in the microclimate here, which is possible but would
take another lengthy scientific explanation that I will not anymore go into, in
the interest of not wanting you falling asleep thus not finishing this write-up);
so we have no choice but to bear with the cold — consequently the “powerful,
all-natural air conditioning system”.

“Then why don’t you fix the house yourselves?!”

Simple, because the owner will not give us permission to do
anything because he does not like the idea that we will be deducting any
expenses that will be incurred for the repair, to the amount that we pay
monthly. So we’re stuck, with no other inexpensive place to go (because other
inexpensive places are even worse), making the most out of what we have and looking
at things at the funny side. And me being an environmentalist, I’m more
inclined to looking at things the environmentalist’s way…I’m sticking to the
word “environmentalist” because although I graduated with the degree of
Bachelor of Science in Environmental Science — not with the degree of Bachelor
of Science in Environment [BS Physics – Physicist, BS Chemistry – Chemist, BS
Environment - Environmentalist <impish chortle>] — which would
technically make me an “environmental scientist”, I am hardly a scientist, and
am not even close in intellect. It’s just "environmentalist" then…

It is a fitting blend don’t you think? An environmentalist,
living in a house that is one with the environment — “falls”, “stream” and
“powerful, all-natural air conditioning system”.

Penned from the hand of a jaded warrior, words poured forth

as the mask shattered and tears cascaded one after the other,

of a spirit bereft, perplexed and wanting…

When answers, however hard t‘was sought, was never found

and all that is certain is the ceaseless anguish borne in
silence,

of a soul fragmented, feeble and longing…

For each day is hardly lived, not even each minute each
second

and all that is despondently desired is for things to make
sense,

by a heart so imperceptibly beating…

The faint strain of the melody of the song
“Return to Pooh Corner” reached my ears and off went my thoughts, wandering in
the woods…to where great camaraderie is, unbounded by the complexities of what
we have come to consider as life; to where one is reminded of the essential,
the simple joy of loving and being loved, with a heart that is genuine,
unpretentious — The Hundred Acre Woods — a place where the basis of
friendship is not how well one can talk about politics and science, but how one
can talk of even the most nonsensical and be accepted; where the basis of
acceptance is not how one can socially fit in and measure up to everyone’s
expectations, but how one can show his frailty and still be given a chance;
where the basis of giving is not because of the anticipation of getting
something in exchange, but because of the happiness that can be found in
sacrificing for others; and where the reason why one sacrifices is not because
one wants to be recognized, but because one loves.

I spent a few minutes memorizing the lines
of that song and some more hours learning how to play it with the guitar. I was
somehow able to get a glimpse of what Kenny Loggins so artistically pictured
out using the lines of that poetry, but it was not until I got to the woods, to
the house at Pooh Corner, sitting on a couch with Alan Alexander Milne’s “The
House at Pooh Corner” that I was able to fully understand. Behind the childish
illustrations; beyond the outwardly silly lines, further down what we can only
see as a shallow naïve story; is a view of life that only the unsophisticated
can see, an approach to life that only the guileless can do, a response to each
circumstance that only the uncomplicated can give…something that we can only do
when we do not just use our minds but let our hearts feel as well; when we look
at things as would a child, a knack that most of us has sadly lost, a capacity
that we have mistakenly thought of as something to be shoddily tossed aside in
favor of knowledge, wealth, fame and power.

We have failed to maintain the balance and have
lost so much…what we have gained in exchange, we have failed to see, are
immaterial, because we have forgotten the essence of the heart of a child. For
only with a child can another child talk gibberish, and still be embraced as a
friend; only with a child can another child be honest enough to admit his
mistake and imperfection, and still be easily forgiven and warmly received; only
with a child can another child take and not be hounded on giving something in
return; and only with a child can another child feel valued, free from any
other motive but love.

The book is a reminder of our own “woods”, where
each of us used to run around as a child, and of all the things that come along
with it–nursery rhymes, cracked makeshift baseball bats, coloring books,
drawing pads, lost pencils, lullabies, broken toy cars, star gazing, bald
Barbie dolls, favorite pillows and blankets, soiled baseball caps, daydreams,
tree houses, fistfights, baby talk, stubbed toes, picnics, scraped knees, hide
and seek, bleeding noses, missing tooth, new bicycle, nightmares, imaginary
friends, illusory monsters in the closet, pets, friends, family, bedside
stories, all the made-up characters, which is in fact why Winnie the Pooh, the
bear with the very little brain, timorous Piglet, officious Rabbit, grouchy Eeyore,
playful Tiggur, worldly wise Owl, motherly Kangga, darling Rooh, Christopher
Robin and the rest of the gang came to being, and many more; the song a
testimonial that we can choose to keep all these with us, and that when we take
the wrong turn, we can always return to that woods.

Loggins wrote that lyric long ago, left it
in a corner along with all the memories of his childhood, but returned for it
when his child came, seeing the world again through the eyes of what he once
was, a boy. His bundle of joy reminded him of how he was, how he saw things as
a child, so simply yet untainted and thus oddly satisfying. It brought him back
to where doing the mundane, (for those who have gone out of the woods and
willfully disregarded it, and to those who have been there but have not enough
memory of it), can bring so much delight to those who have managed to keep the
child within them, and those who have finally found their way back to that
house at Pooh Corner.

…written last July 20, 2007

My psyche has been so boxed of late that in so many attempts to inscribe my thoughts out, I have always ended up going through a now-all-too-familiar routine–ripple of inspiration, booting of computer, blankly staring at the screen, writing down some words, mentally shaking the head, writing down some other words, staring off to space, refocusing to the screen, mentally shaking the head harder, writing down a word, closing the screen without saving anything, and frustration…To those who really know me, I seemed so lost; to those who would like to think they do, I seemed withdrawn; to those who do not, I looked perfectly fine–all of them were at some point right, for I have become so lost in my desperation that I had no choice but to withdraw and hide behind a sunny mask; one that inevitably breaks when the day winds-up. Such was my state that the shortest answer that even I found difficult to give, in response to the question “How are you?” was, “Fine.”

Life is beautiful, that I know, but the past days I found that hard to believe…because I have been trying to deal with the feeling that everything about me seem to be so uninteresting; that nothing exciting is happening and nothing exciting will ever happen; that nothing ever comes my way except waves of pain, I can’t even look forward to a new day for the fear of being hurt again, which made me realize that one experience that was so long ago left me cynical and doubly defensive; that I am merely surviving each day, not living it. I struggled hard, fixated in the wanting to find logic in every single episode…something that I should not have done.

There were so many details that I have missed, details that to me appeared minute to the point that I considered it trifling…because I have been concentrating so hard on wanting to know why there are fractions with less vibrant colours even dark and ominous, thus failing to see that that, in itself, is its beauty. I was fastidiously poring over every single line, instead of waiting for the Artist to finish and be able to look at the painted canvass as a whole. I was like a wannabe-aesthete who insisted on looking at the work of art even before it was even completed and ending up unsatisfied, unfulfilled…

Life is, after all, like an abstract painting. Its episodes, like the individual strokes of that painting, can sometimes be comprised of incoherent colours that, at first glance, do not seem to depict anything concrete, at least not until the painter satisfactorily says he has completed his work to perfection. Each single coloured detail, on its own, though relevant, seems insubstantial, one-dimensional; yet with even just a single stroke missing in the picture, the painting will never appear as beautiful as it is with everything in place, and thus no single detail, however small and seemingly insignificant should be overlooked and considered as inconsequential.