The Perfume

It's not that easy living alone. I've been trying to live by myself for more than a decade now but the sad fact is that I still find even the narrowest of spaces oblique and cold. I will always be a warrior, a wounded one.

A warrior of light
is capable of understanding the miracle of life,
fighting to the end for something
in which he believes and, then,
listening to the bells that the sea sets
ringing on the seabed.
(Manual of the Warrior of Light)

***

I always find reading a refuge. This is one of those pieces I will never forget and will forever relate with.

Forwarded mail. June, 2001

THE PERFUME

As she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of
school,
she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked at her
students and said that she loved them all the same. However, that was
impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a
little
boy named Teddy Stoddard.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he
did not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy
and
that he constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be
unpleasant.

It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in
marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then
putting
a big "F" at the top of his papers. At the school where Mrs. Thompson
taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put
Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in
for
a surprise.

Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready
laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners. He is a joy to be
around."

His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well
liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a
terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle!"

His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on
him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest
and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."

Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't
show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he
sometimes sleeps in class."

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed
of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas
presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for
Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper
that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it
in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to
laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones
missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume. But she
stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the
bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her
wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long to say,
"Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to."
After the children left, she cried for at least an hour.

On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic.
Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular
attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come
alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the
end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the
class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the
same,
Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets."

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her
that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then
wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was
still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things
had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and
would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He
assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher
he had ever had in his whole life.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time
he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go
a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and
favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer,
the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.

The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter
that spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be
married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago
and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the
wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the
groom.

Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that
bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. Moreover, she
made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered!
his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.

They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs.
Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me.
Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me
that I could make a difference."

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said,
"Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that
I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."

New Sanctuary

Whole week has passed. It has not been hard for me to adjust to a new environment as I have thought. I am lodged here at an unknown flat, an unknown place where different modes of nuisance abound yet comfort and silence play intercourse like fighters drawn to dripping blood.

There’s not much to talk about a community of illegal settlers. They’re here to have roofs above their heads like anybody else. Houses here are a lot more decent than what you might think. Here in my rented space I have my own sink, my own bath, my own bed, a foldable table, a chair, an antique bed to look and gaze at when my eyes get tired of looking at words ad infinitum. Outside my dwelling is a garden where two tall trees stand. Their fruits and leaves occasionally fall and litter the ground.

Am always reminded by my portly landlord who always catches his breath to lock the gate and have a separate padlock for the front door. Just to be sure that my belongings will be secure from thieves. As long as thieves won’t learn to eat books I will definitely survive. I brought three big boxes of books from Baguio and they’re now lined up waiting to be read by this slacker in me who’s more interested in reading fiction M & M

Murakami & S. Meyer. Thank God they’re nowhere to be found.

The Bar, yes the Bar. Thinking of it gives me feverish thoughts. I want to believe there’s such a thing as sadism by way of loading your brain with too much information. But, the painting of Michael O’Toole remains an icon. It’s entitled Racing the Wind. A sailboat on a tough spot amidst rough waters. The strong wind drawn through high waves in a deep blue shade. I bought it three years ago. It now found its place on a barren white-washed wall. It would always follow its owner’s changing sanctuary.

***

A drifting message in a bottle has found its way to the shores, west. Thanks to you Lydia for filling something in me that’s long been empty. It’s just that I couldn’t find the right word to describe that filled space. I hope you continue to pursue your interest in learning to play the violin. A teacher once told me that it’s never too late to bow the strings and produce the most sacred sound on earth. I enrolled as a beginner back in December 2006 only after years of planning and yearning. It’s a joy to realize a childhood dream. Follow the beat of your heart always and you’ll find happiness.

Redemption

Today's the second day of our bar review and I am already exhausted because of the stifling heat. Yesterday's temperature surged to 38°C. The review hall's four heavy-duty air conditioners didn't work against the heat. Everybody still perspired and made their own way of fanning the heat out.

Don't have so much to tell you about how the review process is going. There's nothing to talk about yet because I'm still primping my mind. I have to pretend to be organized as yet and make a schedule. The sad fact is that there's so much trying involved. And that must not be. Call that the Great Squander. Yes. And I am losing balance.

The heat. Yes, the heat is stifling.

And there's a lot of Old school here. A lot of old man with hoarse voices. From the black woofers a blast from the past; a redolent feel of listening from a 60's radio show; from a vintage radio.

Bulging eyes, sagging face, thick lenses, the old man welcomed the 700-strong crowd like an announcer at a circus show. Welcome, welcome. If there's one thing I remember from his long speech it's about the call to Redemption. Sheer redemption, yes. “By way of passing the Bar, you will be redeemed of your mistakes, of all your sins from the past.” How true, how true.

Amidst the stifling heat, you indeed made a horrible assumption. And what is that you told about: “Yes we're willing to give you a mock bar after July. . .yes we, will. . .if (devilish grin) you will give us something for our effort.” Oh, please repair your air conditioning system first will you?

The heat. Yes, the heat is stifling. And I don't want to be redeemed anytime soon.

Magistrates at the Forest

Last night was a rather monumental evening. We had dinner at the renowned Forest House along Loakan Rd. at half past 8 with friends having a dismal experience over a research “deadbeat” action. You know, burning-the-midnight-oil-until-there’s-nothing –left-to-be-burned drama for the sake of keeping within the hour of donor moguls right up there. That’s what soon to be discovered donor-driven life is. (Credits for me please!) Hahaha

The resto’s country appeal is reminiscent of the log cabins of the by-gone era-the breathe of Legends of the Fall minus the sepia look on faces. People here come and go for the experience not much for the menu although the cakes are great. So we’re there last night full of gaiety fast approaching until we realized how the political crisis months ago was replaced by the food crisis, what a shocking transition.

We sat by the veranda which is close to a ravine, casually exchanged discourses until someone announced that the SC justices are there sitting at a long table. What they’re feasting I didn’t see; their mumblings I didn’t hear but I did see Justice Chico-Nazario’s face enthralled at being serenaded by angelic voices beside the piano. I thought probably an en banc decision is in the brew right there, that night. Maybe, deliberations in restaurants are becoming the fad again hehe or just maybe they’re just there period.

Personalities are populating the restaurant that night, indeed. After a while, a group of oldies sat beside our table. I recognized that the bald old man was Lumbera and the woman wearing thick glasses was Pantoja-Hidalgo; my cue was, okay, the group was talking about poetry. What do I expect?

After being “star struck”, for lack of term of feeling dumbfounded at the fact that I didn’t know about Tuesday’s being Personalities Night and that Wednesday’s is Ordinary Night, our group remained constant in dealing with the rice shortage. People in the province are lining up in NFA warehouses for 1 kilo of rice while families there in Sagada are much well-off with rations from DepEd. Sec. Yap was quoted as saying that what matters is the sufficiency of rice in the country and that he doesn’t damn mind if the people can’t afford it. Sufficiency, Yap, sufficiency. Being a mere minion, Yap lives true to the faith of his master. Because he don’t damn mind the price of rice, his master approves that the solution to this is to increase the wages of the labor force anew. Yes, and she’s an economist. Thank you Gloria but it’s like this: You want to increase your height, so that you won’t embarrass yourself any more by asking your assistant to put a high stool at the podium every time you address people, and drink Growee.

So we’re there at Forest House last night enjoying the evening with the SC justices and the men and women of letters of the land. I just don’t know but I feel like a scene in Storm in June is brought to life and the macabre in O’Hara’s Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos reenacted. Weird.

LlB, (Sigh)

“A white briefcase for you my child.”

“What’s inside?”

“Tools for you to beckon when you grow up. Did you say you wished to be a doctor?”

“Yes.”

Nineteen years ago when I was about to turn six, my father gave me a present encapsulated in a med kit complete with stethoscope, syringes, gauzes, matchboxes with Rx imprints on it, sets of syringes again, a pen, and a prescription pad. The tools were very much in place they don’t run about there assigned spaces even when you toggle the med kit. The syringes had a Velcro to secure them, so too are the stethoscope and the others.

I played around that med kit with my sisters, trying to be the astute role-player diagnosing the baby dolls and teddy bears of illnesses I have heard from eavesdrops. Little Ana has cancer. . .Baby has tuberculosis afterwhich I will doodle on the prescription pad like doctors do because I still don’t know how to write.

Eventually, everyone got tired of the new toy until it found its way a feet under the soil. Like old toys do. My mother believed that someone steals our toys but lore has it that at the least, two-year olds are dug deep into a hole at the yard. Chickens would run afoul at the hornet’s nest and would search for feed around the area with all the burrowing until the old toys are uncovered. It would always follow a scream of cacophony. . .from my mother. hehe

A year after that when my father had his vacation again, the same thing was his present to me. Apparently, my mother told him that the first white briefcase was destroyed.

A year after that I had a stethoscope, a real one.

Two years after that, he bought a whole set of medical encyclopedia.

A decade had passed, and I saw myself choosing between economics and mass communication. I chose the former because it sounded money and our family is in dire need of it. Reality bit me so hard I found myself, after earning degrees in economics and psychology, submitting resumes and getting rejected twice.

And then my father wanted to me to enroll to a college . . . of law. Apparently, because he wanted to use me to get back at his second wife for a breach of promise to marry-after all of his fortune went to the drain and it’s better if his son would pursue the case for free.

Four years after, I finally earned this law degree (although million steps closer to being a full-blown attorney in shining armor of his dream). I am consequentially happy. Far from being a law degree holder, I took a leave from self-torture (because there’s still the Bar) and I am waiting for someone to tell me something like: “You did one hell of a high-wire act. Bravo!”

I am consequentially happy, right. Because I never saw myself reach this far. And I want to end my life story with a happy ending the way the story “The Perfume” ended. There’s a million reasons to stay put when all appear to be in shambles. There’s my benefactor for one who remained the anonymous payor to a lot of paychecks. (Please, reveal your identity now!) And friends who dragged me all the way up to here not minding if I sustain bruises, cuts inches deep and all. Thanks to you.

. . And God who responded to a letter I sent Him on a stormy night.

I need nothing but prayers for the Bar. Please pray for me.

Shut Up JDV!!!!

I'm sure pundits have seen the recent interview of JDV in ANC regarding the controversial tripartite agreement between Japan, Vietnam and the Philippines that is the JMSU. The right word to describe it is: fanaticism.

JDV is so enthusiastic on the perceived results of the joint exploration going to the extent of defending it even if its validity and the regularity it went through is in question. I can't say that JDV hasn't flexed his oratorical skills this time. He was so articulate as usual and the substance of his rhetorics doesn't go by the humbug. The man behind me asked: Ricky Carandang wasn't able to crash the gates? He didn't because basically JDV was so domineering. I asked: Would someone like JDV allow himself to admit something which will make him a clown on national TV?

He boasted that Philippines will no longer take a longer route to find oil because the technical expertise of the Chinese will ensure that oil be produced and delivered to Filipinos from nearby Spratlys. He boasted that Filipinos will no longer be burdened by the high-priced oil and that electricity rates will go down. Oh well, then that'll be good for Juan dela Cruz. He bragged about the Philippines joining the bandwagaon of economic intergovernmentalism. According to him, the JMSU will pave the way for regional cooperation between Asian States. JDV said: Like the euro there will only be one Asian currency. . .the peso will no longer be a peso but will form part of a strong Asian currency. Like duh? so much braggadocio of you JDV, this is only a tripartite agreement Asia does not comprise of China, Vietnam and the Philippines only and the JMSU if you haven't dissected its essence yet, it is a joint exploration, you oil man! If there's a union it will create out of the agreement it will simply be a union of greedy and foolish states-the foolish states compromising whatever sovereignty that's left in them for the sake of what have you.

JDV, the statesman, right then and there averred that the JMSU will prevent war between claimant states. According to him, rather than the Philippines risking itself to go into war it should necessarily ink this deal. Yeah, and JDV is claiming himself to be a statesman while talking of a too sensitive topic such as a war too prematurely which even China has not been heard of mentioning. JDV also mentioned a jargon: the doctrine of auto-limitation. But, this doctrine could only be applied on the premise that an international agreement has been validly agreed upon which in the case of JMSU is not present and auto-limitation as far as I know does not definitely cover elements which create a State such as giving up part of the State's claimed territory.

Take for example the treaty between East Timor and Australia, JDV enthused. According to JDV, East Timor is now reaping the fruits of the treaty. The what? Clearly East Timor's experience is not parallel to the Philippines. East Timor is a new country which is prone to compromises while leaving its power of self-determination in the shadows. Philippines has been independent since time immemorial; it can't definitely act in the way East Timor gave up its claims over the Timor Sea. And again what fruits are you talking about? East Timor has nothing but the left-over from the buffet "bullish" Aussies had munched over. It seems you're not updated.

What else, JDV?

You might as well take a bow. The night is over. Please seal your lips forever.

Lost Tune

Rush of cold wind pounds heavily on the glass window creating silent noises; the creaking of the dilapidated door, the rustling leaves, the tranquil sound of wind chimes and howls from stray cats. The fusion of these sounds reminds me of a lost tune, melody and lyrics which kept on playing round my mind albeit so soft and low like the sound of a breath. The song which left me imagining about the beauty of a sunset, the smell of moistened hay in the morning, the tiny ripples in the river caused by the breeze coming from the north.

You’re lying in that small hut. Tired and exhausted by the day’s work. You feel the cold wind enter the little openings on the wall soothe your burned skin. The night is silent and you could see the crescent moon and wonder if you could really sit on its tail and fish stars. A blurred sound comes out from an old radio. You could barely hear and decipher the lyrics but the melody resounded a deep thought that crossed boundaries. It broke your heart. A teardrop for a barren and void feeling flowed through the temple into the ear.

The song is being sung by the cold wind. I have just finished reading Irene Nemirovsky’s two-part novel. I leafed through the pages once more.

“Music is a demanding mistress. You can’t abandon her for four years. When you return to her, you find she’s gone.”

. . .Like a passing glint of a coin submerging in a murky water as it catches the last rays of light? Still, I said to myself that I will be her lover forever even in absence; even in abandonment.

When I was a little child I remember asking my grandmother about a virtuoso she’d known.

“What had happened with your uncle’s violin?”

“It was sold after he got sick and nothing could be spent for his medication. It was the saddest part. To let go of something which became a part of his life.”

“Could we still find it and buy it back?”

“Of course my child, but not now.”

"I have few pesos here. Would this be enough?

A smile made her eyes glitter for a moment.

"If it could only be that easy my child. But, you could always wish for it if you want."