Musings at Katipunan Avenue, October 12, 2005

My day starts past 12 in the afternoon. The room is dark and devoid of any activity or sound, save for my breathing. I remember fighting of sleep early that night because of Neil Gaiman. (I can’t believe my friend Mich got to meet him during his book-signing in Manila!). I was…CAPTIVATED by his writing. I’m still not over gushing about how good Good Omens (written with Terry Pratchett) was—considering the book is about the apocalypse. I’m currently reading “Smoke and Mirrors”, a collection of Neil Gaiman’s short stories. Mich, my eternal “library” lent it to me. Next in Line is Ayn Rand’s “The Virtue of Selfishness”. I’m burying myself in books—those non-academic/non-I-have-to-study-for-my-exam-so-please-don’t-allow-me-to-sleep books— again. I love the semestral break. It leaves me room for getting more education. I love paradoxes.

Somehow, during the day, I started thinking about my father. Maybe it was that dream the other night. Maybe it’s because my friend Chona lost her dad to cancer just recently. Maybe it’s because I met up with one of my good friends again after months of not seeing each other (she started working) Our conversation ended in her tearful account of how worse her dad is getting at treating them.

He is terribly hard to deal with when he’s drunk. He rarely speaks when he’s sober, but when he’s had something to drink, he would go on an angry tirade and would spew out insults or insipid jokes—things they really do not deserve. She told me he has no friends. I’ve come to a conclusion that he’s terribly insecure and he takes out his insecurities on his children. I feel so bad that he’s treating them that way, considering how wonderful and responsible my friend and her siblings are. Looking at it the other way, I am thankful that my friend turned out the way she is despite her problem about her father. She is sweet, smart, rational, kind, and responsible. We, too, are what you’d call kindred spirits. She loves words, books and rainshowers as much as I do. (We just spent this afternoon solving a crossword puzzle together! ) Sadly, she has reached the point wherein she claims she couldn’t care less even if he dropped dead.

It made me miss my own father. He’s such a good man: he loves us, his children; he has never hurt us physically or emotionally. We aren’t rich, but he provided us with our needs. He encouraged us to get all the education we needed without confining us to classrooms and strict study schedules. He plays a good game of scrabble. (When he found out from my sister that I lost a lunchtime scrabble match to one of our bosses during my internship, he sent me a message that said “Ga, don’t forget: Never outshine thy master.) My father is far from being difficult. He doesn’t have any vices. The closest to that are probably chess and his chess books. He doesn’t talk too much, but when he does, his words are full of wisdom. My “bonding times” with my father can be compared to an I.Q. test—he does that all the time. He’d start bombarding me with questions (maybe this is where I got that penchant for trivia, now that I think about it) and would beam when I answer them correctly. Most of the time, it’s a series of problem-solving or mind games. When I do not know the answer, he’d explain it to me with such eagerness. (By the way, my father is a college math professor.) There was a time when I was ranting about something while he and my mother listened. When I was finished, I said, “Well, what do YOU think?” His reply both came as a shock and a surprise. When translated, it goes, “It’s up to you. You’re smart enough.” And that was all that I needed to hear to get things figured out. In two weeks, I’ll be seeing him again, and maybe I will tell him about today’s musings.

It’s past midnight. After submitting to a craving for caramel sundae at McDonald’s (take out), I left Starbucks and took a cab home. The taxi driver wasn’t up to some small talk, which was all the better for me as I was left to my requisite taxi cab musings. I noticed the absence of taxi cab music, and how different the cab ride was without it. I’m at the dorm now, and I’m making an inventory of all my apparel (I hope this works!) after noticing that I can’t find a lot of my favorite ones anymore. (I make a mental note to inform Ate Marge, our laundry servicewoman). It’s the old pre-sem-ender I-can’t-believe-I-have-accumulated-so-many-things slash How-will-I-pack-all-of-these-things panic that possesses every dormer. (Mental note: You have yet to book a flight, Lorie!”)

My books are still on the shelves. My clothes are strewn all over my bed for folding and packing (and inventorying, as planned). My brain is fully awake and is in the mood for more thinking. The insomniac that I am says good bye as more brain cells die tonight. I hear my friend in her room across the hall ranting to another friend of ours over the phone. She has had a bad day. I went there earlier to check on them (my best friend is her roommate), but opted to stay in my room instead. It’s 3 a.m. and I am left to musings.