bucolic in V-fib

I’m back.

The previous episode has come and gone, and it has been more than half a year since the last entry. Within that interim, I finally realized what my constant familiars have been griping about. My entries do seem just a tad confusing, peppered as they are with affectations—totally unnecessary words and turns of phrase, which are seemingly-clever and incomprehensible at first read…or the second read, for that matter. Going back now, I felt the whole episode should have been called distress in bucolia for all the agony I’ve inflicted on my hapless readers, which in this case is barely none since I’ve only written to a select number of friends who I’m quite sure have given up by the second sentence. It’s no wonder I got a less than stellar response.

And here, I should commend (and be grateful to the high heavens) to the three who did make a tremendous effort to respond.

• Ben, who would always be misunderstood by so many and who I never really appreciated as much as I should, for the comment. I apologize for the distress, dear friend. And even though you barely understood what I wrote, the effort was well-appreciated. But most importantly, I truly value your unceasing ability to make me laugh.

• Anak Tintin, who amidst her own turmoil, has provided me with the much welcome and most consistent form of response via comments and correspondence from her blog on the two entries I wrote for her. I am quite aware I have disappointed you so many times and it will forever boggle me how you could still be there for me and consider me a pseudo-parent after all this time. Boggling or not, I do appreciate your friendship, but more so, the constancy no matter where I am.

• Tina, who I can always rely on to supply a much-needed acknowledgement (although I would rather be caught dead than admit to this), for the comment and an actual reply in correspondence form, which could be seen from her blog. When everybody else has given in to my desire to be left in peace, you stubbornly held on and refused to let go. I’m glad. And for not allowing me to be alone during special occasions even when I specifically asked for it, thank you.

So with that pretty much self-indulgent acknowledgement (merely here to make me feel warm and fuzzy) out of the way, let’s proceed.

Where to, Ms. Daisy? Nowhere is my calculated guess. There’s no shifting when gears have taken root. But I’m just being confusing again.

It’s quite interesting to always be writing that I’m back when I’ve never really felt as if I left. But if only to acknowledge “the absence of pain, suffering and angst” (writing, in a sense), I shall use the tired/tiring/tiresome phrase to indicate that I’m writing/blogging again. The era of bucolia is now a terminal patient and I’m about to pull the plug. Another era begins. The correspondence form shall give way to a weekly article on anything and everything or nothing…I simply refuse to care anymore. Or maybe I’m just bored senseless and feel that it’s unfair so I might as well bore other people with my pointless harangue. Either way, this blog is officially resuscitated, but nothing is ever going to be the same again.

Family Business

written December 17, 2008

Unfortunately, peace and freedom has become a previous favorite shirt that is now worn out and refuses, out of sheer temperament, to fit. Better to give it away than to keep it festering inside the closet, hoping for slimmer days to come, thereby giving it the power to sow pain and resentment in the future.

I’m currently in room 403 of East Avenue Medical Center. The name itself should put horrors into a person too terrible to indite. Personally, the aversion to this place stems from it being the most likely suspect in my Mom contacting Hepatitis B. But that’s a story compositively unimportant to today’s events and should be told at another time. At any rate, it’s the evening of my Mom’s 3rd death anniversary, and the eve of her 64th birthday (that is, if she were still alive), and the day before my 33rd birthday (that last information was of course gratuitous at best). It is quite fascinating how I came to find myself at this place on this particular moment. But the fascination may be entirely and singularly my own so I’m temporarily tempted to hedge my way through this entry. Still, the events of the day presumptuously breathes much activity, which in itself is remarkable as I find life these days providing me with few, only enough to engender a reasonable facsimile of plain existing.

But here.... My older brother (Kuya Jaydee) and I arrived last night in Manila for the purpose of being with the family and visit the cemetery for my Mom’s death anniversary. The next day, while preparing to leave my younger brother’s (Archee) place in Makati , Kuya got a call from my father (who slept at my aunt’s house in Valenzuela) with the plausibly shocking news that he was hit by a jeepney while crossing Sangandaan (near Baesa) on his way to DENR. He was, in fits and starts, calling from Quirino Medical Clinic with injuries and that we should proceed there right away. Now picture this: three brothers who received critical news about their father should have been scrambling towards the door and zooming their way from Makati to Novaliches, right? Well, they should. But this is what actually happened, or as much as I could remember since I basically zoned out after the last sentnce left Kuya’s mouth. First there was obvious disbelief, then probable shock, then minor irritation, then...nothing. Archee’s wife (Vhie) was looking for the inevitable fear and worry. Well, nobody could accuse me of not trying because I did try to summon those particular emotions. But there was absolutely nothing. I know that for most people, this notion is terribly screwy and absurd, almost on a tabloid headline level. Ut it is what it is. I’m not even gonna list down the justifiably valid reasons and circumstances that eventually led to me and my brothers to react like this (or not react for that matter). This is not about that. I may be brutally honest but I’m not a believer in washing dirty linens in public, or I think that's how most writers put it. I did find an intense urge to write about what happened as it happened, without judgments. But as always, the reader has the right to make his or her own.

The whole day was spent stitching up my father’s head (5 stitches near the right temple), tending to the gashes and bruises (a big one, or so I heard, on his left butt spreading to his back and thigh, which was where he was initially hit by the vehicle), xrays for fractures (thankfully none), and a CT scan (I have yet to hear of the results). By that time, everybody was at the hospital including my father’s youngest sister (Ate Nini), and her daughter (Eena), the other younger sister (Ate Chuchi), her husband (Tito Oyen), and both my brothers. A charming scene perhaps, but I was’t there. While all these were happening, I was at Eternal Garden with my niece (Iyah), Vhie, and Tita Eve (Mom’s sister). The four of us eventually found ourselves at Trinoma where we ate a late lunch, bought stuff and had photos printed for Iyah’s christening on Sunday, and basically waited for news. Archee eventually arrived at 5:30 pm to take his wife and daughter home, while I was assigned to take Tita Eve home to Valenzuela. I arrived here around 9:30 pm with my father’s bag and a blanket. I went out for a quick grab of coffee (the canned variety), mineral water and cigarettes at 7/11. By ten pm, Kuya left for Makati. I have been writing here since. I’l probably reread this book of correspondence between father and son poets Louis and Allen Ginsberg entitled, Family Business. Poetic irony or not, I hold all that is written here to be truthful and undramatized and unexpurgated.

This room is comfy enough, airconditioned but rather drab. The walls are painted a sickening beige with strips falling off in certain places like pockmarks. The curtains are quite new, almost of the same color as the walls but with slightly orange-y tones. The bathroom door’s knob is broken and could not be locked. There are two mismatched hospital beds, with two yellow plastic-covered cartolina signs (printed black with the letter A and B) posted on the wall atop each bed, and anotherin between them with the unsurprising “No Smoking” statement (the word printed in red, no less). I’m seated on a plastic chair beside another door that leads to the porch with a view of a portion of EastAvenue and ABS-CBN from afar. It’s also a place to smoke cigarettes, I was told by Kuya, obviously used by my father awhile ago. I’m not yet sure if I’m going to use it since the whole compound is supposedly cigarete smoke free. But the night is still young.

It’s only half passed 11 in the evening. I still have around eight hours, which I would probably spend awake, until Ate Nini arives again to check up on his brother. It’s going to be a long time of trying to ignore the fact that there’s another patient and another “watcher” with us in the room (it’s semi-private). I’m sure they’re both kind people, but I’m starting to think I’m not.