19 posts tagged “exercise”

half the time, i fall in love with women. during those hours, i realize that they are so much more interesting than men. every woman seems to emanate mystery; especially when she is quiet, when you can't tell whether she is happy or sad. women have a look about them that makes you think of something soft and kind of blurry around the edges. this gives them an elusive air, both transient and unforgiving. makes them seem like they're the ones who are hard to hold on to; hard to keep.

****

today, i watched a woman cross the street. i could not help but notice the way her shoulders slumped a bit and her dress just sort of hung onto her body like a tired, sleepy child. her ankles were showing and they were very pale.

****

when women love, it is with a wholeness that is beautiful. see her stir her lover's coffee, a smile playing on her face once in a while. see her reading a book -- she bites her lip between sentences. when she sleeps, her left hand is nowhere near her body but is shot outward. it's almost as if she's reaching for something. she is.

****

it is a secret how women know when to love or move away. some do not admit to this; thus, the hurt. but we do know the exact moment a lover decides to turn away forever, or when the weather in his heart changes, or when a child learns that growing up is everything.

****

inspite of all logic, i still fall in love with men. or, more specifically, with one man. i love him even if i know that the sinews of his body hold no honesty. when he tilts his head to listen, i know it is not me he hears but maybe, the ocean, always something unreachable.

when he takes me in his arms, a home forms in that small space our bodies occupy. and it is different from the home i know that is inside me; far simpler than the secrets hiding between my legs, the outrageous twists of my wanting.

but this, with him, makes me feel final and whole. which is the greatest deception, really, because the real curse is  that he can never belong to me, nor to anyone else, for that matter. none of us can ever keep any one of them --inspite of the shared fruit, the sudden fall.

such is the rule of the world.  

why things never work

you walk out the door and feel how cold it is. you forgot to put your slippers on so now, what you're feeling are the bathroom tiles, all feverish with forgetfulness. it takes you precisely 7 minutes to do your business. then you are done; there's nothing else to do. you push the curtains which separate the living room from the bathroom with your one good hand and try to wander in the dark. you haven't done this for quite a while. frankly, the idea of it scares you; the way many anonymous things did as you grew older. people say that it's not a question of trust anymore, it's more about what and how much you can digest, then spit out of your system. in the dark, you have to have the resilience of a cow --fleshy, homily face, low expectations. while you are walking around, you realize that through your window, you see a tiny sliver of white light shyly peeking behind all that blueness.

(the sky is a bruise and the secret love in your head) 

you are astonished by how hopeful this light makes you feel. you believe, suddenly, that if you whisper something NOW, someone in the world will understand what you meant to say all along. this thought gives you a sense of peace. it makes you laugh HAHAHAHAHAHA! peace is funny! that didn't make any sense but nothing really does when you're walking in the dark and it's 3 in the morning and a rooster crows all of a sudden and you get surprised and you TRIP! on a tiny red ball that your dog played with last night. you fall on your backside and you whimper a little, realizing how you were right to be afraid; how easily one can get so many things wrong.

On her 8th birthday, her father, who was their town hospital's resident surgeon, asked her to come visit him. It has been a long time since he invited her over. Upon hearing about this invitation, her mother lays out her Sunday's best on her bed and prepares a ham and cheese sandwich for her. Her mother lets her take a bath then dresses her slowly. Years later, she'll remember this moment; she will remember seeing the laugh lines on the sides of her mother's mouth, standing out softly in the sunlight.

While her mother is getting dressed, she smooths her white skirt out and looks at the polka-dotted red and blue blouse she is wearing. She tugs at her ponytail then puts her hair in her mouth.She likes how her hair tastes like - a little like hay but sweeter. She passes the time imagining that she is a gelding, waiting for its rider.

When they get there, her mother asks if she can talk to Doctor Surgeon Dad. He obliges her and asks Lucy to stay with Nurse Ella in the ER. The thing that she likes least about hospitals (because she has been to 5 others, all located in different towns) is the way they smell. She used to believe that if she reached out, she could touch the scents emanating from these walls. But she no longer believes that because she is already 8, almost a grown up. Plus, she tried it last year and when she peaked inside her hand, she found nothing.

******

Her father was the kind of man whose presence females were always aware of. He was not a particularly tall man but he had a commanding air about him, a kind of aura that was different from all the other men Lucy had seen. She could not explain really what it was but it always made her think of excuses to stand closer to him, to smell him.

She does not see him all the time for he left home for vacation since last year. When she thinks about asking him,  she stops herself for fear of what his answer might be. Lucy privately thinks that she is mature and realistic and that everything will fall into place, eventually.

*******

They step into a ward which is darker than the others. Lucy notices that her father is clutching her hand tighter. She wonders about this room, why there are a lot of beds with covers on them. Some beds are empty and look startingly white. It doesn't smell bad here, Lucy thought. Maybe this is a special room.

Her father turns to her and says, Lucy, I am leaving you here tonight.

Why? What room is this, Father?

It's the hospital morgue.

Morgue?

This where we keep those who have passed away.

Those who are dead, you mean?

Yes.

But why are you leaving me here?

For you to know what it is like. I do not want you to grow up afraid of things you do not understand, Lucy.

Lucy thinks about this. She can always use the "kid excuse" and let her Father know that she is brave enough to do this but not now. Maybe sometime when she is 13 or so.

Her Father stares at her sliently. She understands that this is a challenge that he has set up for her.

But if you get really scared, you know where to find me. I won't be doing my rounds tonight. I'll just be in the room.

The room he was referring to was his doctor's room. Dr. Malachi Madrigal, MD in big, gold letters tacked on the door. His room had a patient's bed, his nurse's small table and his big, oak table that he and his wife bought in China. There is a Picasso painting on one of the walls. A vase of tulips stands on his table, along with a photo frame holding a picture of Lucy when she was five.

Lucy by now, is imagining how comfortable that room seemed. She thinks about how she would be closer to him if she stays there. She can tell him the joke about the possum and the giraffe.

She bows her head and tells him that it's okay.

*********

Years after, she'll remember this night and will speak of it on various dates or in classes when she is encouraged to share something unique about herself. At first, she laughed when she saw how surprised, shocked, and skeptical they looked when she told them about it for the first time.

But as years passed, she grew tired of telling it and just said she had nothing to share, that there was nothing unusual about herself.

********

Sure, at first, she felt afraid. Her teeth were rattling and she came up with strategies on how not to see them. She sat with her back to the beds in one corner of the room. When she grew tired of this, she lay down on the floor and drew a blanket to her small body and cried a little because it felt so uncomfortable. Then, she just kept running around but could not keep it up. A lot of times, she closed a hand over the door knob, ready to bolt out and run to Father, but she could not find herself going through it. It would mean that she was a coward and Daddy may never return home. Ever.

Afte a few hours, she decided to just stand in the middle of the room. She closed her eyes and listened. She heard nothing at all. When she opened her eyes, everything was still the same as it should be.

********

The next morning, at exactly 8am, there is a knock on Dr. Madrigal's door. Lucy peeps in and says, I'm ready to go home now.

The boy who would very much like to have his own life said to his parents one day: Mom and Dad, I'd like to go and make a living. What kind, says the father, who is smoking his Pall Malls and reading the day's newspaper. I don't know really. I just want to be a part of a part of a part of something that would reveal who I really am. So his dad says okay and his mom says okay, since she always just agreed with whatever Father had to say. So out he went, a few pesos jingling softly in his pockets and a duffel bag slung on his shoulder. He vowed he would never come back, but inside he knew he never really left.

*****

So onward with the journey of the boy who would very much like to have his own life. What I forgot to mention in the beginning is he went back home, just to get his car, mind you, and the other things that he would like to bring along on his journey. In the car were some old CDs, a Kafka book that he has never bothered to read, along with other books he filched from his father's library. He also brought his pet turtle - which is safely in its bowl, half-filled with water.While he is driving, he notices that water in the bowl swishes and spills. He does not think this is a problem. And he does not know where to go but remembers how he heard someone once say that the world was his home. His. It boggled the mind to know that something this vast and varied owed him something. It made him feel important. He shifts slightly in his seat and checks his reflection on the rearview mirror.

*****

Throughout the journey, he met a wolf, a bat, an old woman by the seaside who fed him strange meals that made him hum songs that he thought he forgot. He also encountered a band of thieves, laughing gypsies, and a walrus that fell in love with him and begged him not to leave.

This is what he tells himself.

*****

What really happened is he wandered into a small village where he worked for an Indian in his craft shop. They sold pots in the day and drank quietly at night, each seated in his own corner, pondering the world. Everyday, the boy thought, this is the day. I'll be leaving in a couple of hours. But there was always something that needed to be done; always a kink that he could not get out of. Little by little, the boy who would very much like to have his own life sold his belongings because he needed to eat. The books had to go. The car went a long time before. The last thing that he let go of was the turtle, which was hard to take care of. He told it Let us forget each other and released it onto the small creek located in the next village. He watched the turtle move slowly towards the rocks. After a few seconds, he walked back home.

*****

Years and years after,  he finds that there is no reason for his life. No reason really why he left home, no reason why he stopped in this village, no reason why he never left. It is really the course of life for many; even now when we think that we are strong enough and have conquered everything possible. What the boy now knows is that there is nothing here that indicates a home; nothing here for anyone at all.

The last word she was asked to spell was qanun. She repeats the word to herself, softly, so that the others would not hear her and rest easy on their bums. She tries to think of what the word would taste like if it was a piece of fruit. Salty; tangy aftertaste, most probably. It's a yellow word. A little orange. She rocks a little on her heels.

Etymology please.

Arabic qânûn, from Greek meaning measuring rod; akin to cane

Definition.

It is a string instrument found in Near Eastern traditional music based on Maqamat. It is basically a zither with a narrow trapezoidal soundboard.

Qanun. She whispers it to herself. She is not ready yet.

She eyes the judges. The bespectacled man is looking really bored. And that old lady has her hat on wrong.

Qanun.

She stares and stares at the world before she takes the plunge.

Qanun. Q.. A... N... A ... N

Biblical. Like Canaan, that place they learned about last Sunday in school. God's place.

God will/ might save her.

She wipes moisture from her eyes. Don't cry yet. Not now. Wait until they say...

I'm sorry but that's not correct.

She bows a little, coughs into her hand, and steps off the stage.

Dinner at the MacKenzie's

First thing: Make eye contact. Be polite. Always say,

please pass the salt/vegetables/potatotes. You are dependent

on everyone on the table but nobody

will tell you that this is the case. It is best to start a conversation

with the people seated beside you. Nowadays, it does not matter

whether it's with the person in your right or left side; most

probably, they would have the same

stand on things, same issues they'd like to move you

over to, but again, they are not aware of this. Indulge their private delusion that

they are the most interesting people you will ever meet

in your lifetime. Smile and say that's wonderful! or frown and

say that's too bad, accordingly. Believe that you are doing well in dealing with the situation. 

It is okay to think about other things while dining. You are not the inventor of

nostalgia or boredom. It is okay to think about your

children - dreaming the dreams of the innocent, unknown to you now.

But be alert, in case someone asks you about

the oil spill in town. You'd look

strange if you said nothing, offered no opinion about the world. It might render you

unfeeling for life, a nomad who does not fit in the grand scheme of things. 

Keep your hand gestures to a mimimum so that

you wouldn't feel so spright and ugly afterwards, remembering

your nervous, big hands and wondering how you 

have landed here at this peculiar time in your life. If

someone drops something, keep quiet so that you would

not let on that you have noticed, or else everyone

will turn their attention on you the whole night. And you would not like that. Best

to keep still so that you can move along to wake up in the morning

and feel nothing for your wife beside you, for the life you have decided to lead.

When they bring in the scented water, dip your fingers in it, slowly, so as not to

show that you are not used to all this; are not here at all but you are back in that 

cold nipa hut and waiting with your mother for 

the big, fresh

potatoes that your father hauled in from the fields today.

In the water, you think you see your face, but it is his - your father's 

expression bewildered and saddened now 

by your wet, pink hands.

Tonight, it's her turn to wash dishes. He walks away from the table and tries to collect his thoughts.

With his back turned to her, he listens to the clatter she makes cleaning up. Can she never be more quiet? he thinks. It's simple enough - getting things together. Plates go near the sink, glasses in the sink because they're the ones that get washed first. As usual, she gets everything muddled up. More so tonight. He feels it - how removed she already is, as if she has already left.

He chuckles a little and thinks he's better off. Tonight is her last night here. Nobody knows yet, he thinks. Well, she'd better tell them, considering that it was her decision to leave and not his.

He tries to look like he is not sulking. Even if she isn't looking, he does not care.

So it boils down to this. She leaves after all. Curtain call and everyone's happy.

Curiously, it becomes silent in her area of the room. He looks to see if she is okay. He cannot help it.

It is humid tonight. Tendrils of her hair are clinging on the back of her neck. He wants to fix it for her but he can't now. He sees soap suds stuck on the length of her right arm from washing the dishes unmethodically, I wonder how she gets this dirty.

Not like her. He summons her image in his mind, an image that he has retained in his memory since the last time they saw each other. Was it six months ago? Five? He doesn't have the luxury of counting days past. He is now free to count the days that he should be looking forward to. Free to love the person he knows he kept choosing over everyone else for 9 years now. 

He thinks of her chuckling softly. So unlike this girl, washing dishes, who has become a stranger to him. He tries to look at her objectively, like a woodcutter would a tree before he makes the cut. There is nothing remarkable about her. Is it because she is so familiar to him now; as familiar as this house which he grew up in, as habitual as morning coffee? 

He tells himself that he does not care.

She catches him looking at her and smiles her sad smile. She pities me for staying here, for not going where she is going. She pities me or she loves me. Funny how things change.

"I'm going out. Be home after a coupla hours."

He takes his army jacket and goes out into the night.

I've seen her. She wears a red-striped apron, tied surely and wisely around her waist as if she is always afraid that it would fall off and leave her extaposed. She is as thin as one of the Somalians I've seen on a picture once. She also has brown skin, like she has been kissed by sunshine many times. A strand of her hair keeps falling out of her neat bun and she tucks it in and looks around, hoping that no one has seen her . I have but I don't count because I'm just eight and have baby fat.

I go to her every Sunday, after mass. I tell my parents I'm going to meet some friends but really, I'm just going to the mall to see her. I stand by her stall, watching her put delicious cookies into small paper bags for customers who do not care about her. Maybe they're afraid of Mr. Fields. But I'm not. One day, I'll earn enough money and go to her and say "You never have to work here anymore." Just like how my dad said it to my mom before he got l-a-i-d o-f-f and started drinking. One time, I saw Mama hide a bruise under her left shin. She saw me look at it and she covered it with the hem of her skirt and said, "Bobby let's play." Mama thinks I don't understand but I do.

Mrs. Fields, she won't get no bruises from me. I will love her and love her so much and she'd feed me little bits of those crunchy cookies Mama likes so much. And I will be un-fat and su-sesful and very strong. And Mrs. Fields, she'd be so darn happy, she'll change her last name to Santos.

for A who says please before killing anyone