Thursday, February 19, 2004
It’s been too hot then too cold lately, and stressful. The other day, I thought I had a fever—and immediately suspected SARS, or bird flu. But, of course not. Andrea told me I’d been putting myself in a grinder for far too long, it had to happen; that this was my tired body telling me I needed rest. So, after completing the grades for my summer classes, I crawled into my bed, and turned off the whole world.
Days end. I suppose one will have to deal with that when February finally comes grinding to a halt: all of second semester and late nights working non-stop gone with the first sign of summer sun, and the first hint of academic responsibilities still to come far, far off. But June already leers with so much expectations. I have not said goodbye to my semester just yet, and now another semester threatens.
I do not want to become part of the grind.
I remember a weekend in Siquijor with the writing fellows from Manila. We did not lack for sunshine and surf, but there was always the slowly deepening dark clouds far off in the horizon. The boat ride home on a Sunday was a little too turbulent for comfort—all of 45 minutes being tossed by the waves till stomachs turned pretzel. One of them—who had thought what fun it was to be in a real roller-coaster ride—finally succumbed to nausea. I guess summer’s end is always like that: rains come down on your parade, waves toss you like frisbee, and you get heart broken once again by a beautiful boy (a poet, as usual) who knew no better.
But how I long for summer to start now.
It’s midnight. In the safe confines of my apartment. I have to battle with more natural elements: there are ants surging everywhere at the slightest hint of food, and since I live right beside a highway, there are dusts, too. But I like it here where I live. I am infinitely happier. What fascinates and deflates me all at the same time is the wind that brings into my patio an avalanche of dead leaves, and sometimes dirty plastic bags. I do not mind the leaves. The plastic bags, though, get my environmental goat.
I’ve come to locking myself in as well these days. Almost a year ago, four days after I moved into this apartment, I went home at 4 in the morning, then I woke to some noise, to find a woman rifling through my closet. She had my clothes piled on the floor. She had short hair, and a blue dress on, and she looked crazy. The first words that came out of my mouth was an incredulous “Who the heck are you?” When she didn’t reply, I said, “Get out. Now.”
And she did.
Calmly.
Like this was her apartment, and I was the interloper.
Then I went back to sleep, just like that, but after making sure I’d padlocked the gate. Sometimes, after that, I still could not determine whether it was a tired dream, or it was real.
Maybe she was the summer telling me I needed to wake up.
What makes my heart glad in this apartment are my bookshelves. I remember how my books use to lie haphazardly upon the big straw mat on my floor for the weeks when I first moved in. I finally decided to call in someone to build me, in a day, a workable set of shelves. Now I have one that runs the height from floor to ceiling—and wide enough to accommodate almost all of my books. I am so happy. Sometimes, I just stare, while sitting down at my fold-away dining table, at my perfectly arranged books (by alphabetical order of surnames), and then I know God is in His heaven.
I really have to go to sleep now.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
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