Unsent Letter #1: You

Dear —,

I was not sure what made you stop from writing to me. I didn’t know what I said in my email that you ignored my succeeding messages. Did I stop being mysterious to you? Had I become too real for your own comfort? Was my letter harmless? Was my letter devoid of poetry, of desire, or of fire? Was it too normal? Too ordinary? Am I too old for you? Did I open  myself up and you didn’t like it? I demand an answer. No, maybe not anymore. But as always you try to be mysterious, unreachable. I ask myself if I am too pedantic. Perhaps, I am. I didn’t say nor pretend that I am a goddess waiting in front of your door, exposing myself, naked. I am myself, I am me.

I offered you my friendship, because I couldn’t say in my letter that I wanted to taste you. Yes,  I would love to. I wanted to be there in a same room with you, with your eyes, not your camera, looking at me, aiming at me. But it wouldn’t be me if I mentioned those things. I am a well-guarded person. I am an Asian. Though, not conservative, it would be against my intuition, my morality. I am not only a woman, but I am also a mother. I have to be responsible. Besides, if there would be one thing that could make a relationship work, it should be first and foremost the building of trust and compassion. And what formula could it be but friendship. I would lie to you if I didn’t hope that we could be more than friends.

As they say, it is now history. It is now over. I cannot deny the fact that you are talented. I cannot deny that you make breathtaking pictures. Did you know how much they mesmerised me, touched me as if it were your hands that touched me? Alas, this madness, this cruelty, is now finished. It was a week-long torment of lack of sleep and loss of appetite and, and, and… I was angry with myself because I revealed myself to you. And you didn’t. It somehow pains me to think about it. It is unfair. But life is unfair. I am disheartened. No, I don’t hate you. And I don’t hate myself now. I should not expect anything at all in the first place. It was inevitable. How could not a woman fall into you, your words, your pictures that knock the consciousness? I did. Beautiful words. They don’t mean anything now. Nothing. You are full of drama. I don’t want any of it. You are Nothing to me now. You are a lesson learned.

An Ode to Moon-tripping

The moon, La Luna, der Mond, la lune

There are so many fascinating stories about the moon–from myths to occult. There was a time I dreamt about the moon. It never occurred to me what was its meaning. All I saw was a band of snakes gobbling up the moon and the stars. They were crawling up in the sky, large snakes that scared the hell out of me. It was so vivid I thought it was true. There was our old house, my childhood house, the coconut tree, the roofs of the neighbours and then voila, the snakes coming ready to swallow the moon. The sight of huge snakes fascinated me but it also gave me a double dose of fear  when I saw the moon in one of the snakes’ mouths. The sticky tongue lashing out at the surface, I wanted to run away, but where? So the only way was to wake up. I did and was relieved that it was only a dream.

R was also a fan. Every time we took a trip to Z, the country house, he opened the windows wide and stared endlessly at the moon. He used to call me then just to tell me, “How big is the moon tonight, E.” I stood next to him and together we watched its delicious roudness.  He loved its shadow falling to our bed. Of course, in the country we were not afraid of the thieves/burglars entering our house. Our bedroom was facing the garden, shutting off the lampshade, the moon was the only light.

One time after R’s funeral I thought I saw shadows in my son’s bedroom. Of course, it was only the moon. If something else was there I did not know. I forgot all about the moon for months. Not minding its presence. Looking at the moon then just reminded me of R. So, I stopped believing in it, adoring it. Until the pain subsided day by day. Months, years passed by, old habit has come back. In fact, I even began to urge my son to do the same. Every time the moon shows up, I poke my son telling him how beautiful the moon is, the satellite. He starts to appreciate it, praise its beauty. One night he even tried to follow it and was baffled when it followed him back, like I did when I was a child. He is even surprised when he sees the moon during the day asking me why it is so. “It is not yet dark!” No matter how many times I explain why, he doesn’t believe me.

I love the sun, it is nice, but the moon is nicer. It is mysterious, it evokes your sentiments, it is also erotic. I feel lucky that my flat is directed toward the moonrise. I can enjoy its fullness, its redness or  yellowness tremendously. Sometimes, these little things make me happy, make me appreciate that I am still alive.

Follow the Sun

One of Barri Gotic's side streets, viewed from the Museu Picasso's window

A year ago returning to my birthplace after almost a decade living in Vienna, I found myself with a new purpose. Every year, on R’s death anniversary, I will follow the sun, follow the sea, stop being sad and begin to be happy.

Because Manila is too expensive for two people (albeit a mother and a 6-year-old boy), we settled on taking a trip to Europe. Barcelona came into the picture after Madrid. Influenced by Jose Rizal‘s writings and books about him, I decided to trace his footsteps in Europe. He was in Vienna, all right? But his first country was Spain, particularly Madrid.

But Madrid, like Vienna, is cold in winter. Perseverance, research and advices from a few people brought Barcelona to my attention. So there. On Christmas Day we flew to Barcelona and made a vow that it is going to be a ritual.

Crazy market at La Boqueria

Our days in Barcelona were successful. We were sad a few hours before our flight back to Vienna, but our hearts were bursting with joy because we were there. No wonder the positive reviews of some people I know, they prefer Barcelona over Madrid. It has character, it has energy. It is pulsating with life. It is not perfect, but it is not trying to be. Vienna is prim and proper. Vienna is perfect. It is clean and it is orderly. Barcelona is somewhat dangerous, it resembles a mischievous boy, vying for your attention, courting you, winning your love. Vienna is a well-behaved child, always obedient, always neat. If it rebels, the old folks will be scandalised, because it has changed its attitude. They abhor change. They want status quo. Barcelona is not like that. At least, in my impression.

Follow the sun, follow the sea, along Barceloneta

Noticeable was the people’s reaction toward a crying child in the Metro. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with the young girl. By the looks of it, she was in pain or she was really offended by her parents. No one was complaining, no one was shouting and no one was sending evil looks to the girl and/or her parents. Until an old woman came up to her, asked her what was wrong and after a while gave her a candy. Her parents were there so the girl took it, stopped whining for a little while. When the old woman came back to her seat, the girl started up again. This time louder, stronger. Still, no one raised a voice, no one told them to get out from the carriage.

In Vienna, it is often that people will give you mean looks if you cannot hush your child. Worse, words such as bad mother and unruly child will be thrown at you. Once I was on a bus, a boy next to us suddenly threw tantrums. He began to wriggle, shouted at his mum, and howled as if there was no tomorrow. His mother was powerless, couldn’t stop her child. Until an old man yelled at them and ordered them to get out. I was shocked. I think everyone was. Still, this was not the first time. An old woman sitting next to Boo was annoyed when he started to sing, telling him to stop. Keep quiet and sit still, she said. Of course, I was petrified. He wasn’t doing anything bad. He was 3 or 4 then. I told her to mind her own business. He wasn’t loud, he was just happy.

Scenes from La Rambla

Perhaps, I saw Barcelona in my tourist’s eyes. Everything was magical, the people were all dears, even the darkest corner was worth to be photographed. I swear when we were at the Plaza Reial after an hour-long stroll along La Rambla something pungent caught up our noses. The Boo was posing in front of the helmet statue when I noticed a yellowish puddle where he was standing. I didn’t inspect it of course, but I am very sure that when the tourists are gone and these restaurants/coffee houses are close, questionable persons hang out here and relieve themselves at the same time.

Ah, I don’t want to think about it. We enjoyed Barcelona and that’s the most important thing. I don’t turn a blind eye. It has its faults. When we were waiting for the Metro, the PA announced not only once but many times that we should take care of our belongings  as there were roving pickpockets. Along La Rambla, I was extra careful of my bags and the Boo, inspecting everyone, I didn’t want to be duped by strangers waiting for the right moment. I heard so many horror stories concerning this famous alley. It is exploding in different colours, smells and mixed languages, still if you don’t pay attention, you will just be another victim.

It was the last day, our trip to La Rambla had come to an end. For the last time I wanted to see another ouvre of Gaudi. But time was not on our side. So I told the Boo, next time, there was always next time. One never knows when. Perhaps, next Christmas again.

Columbus, up there