ENVIOUS OF CARING

 Let me have them step out of tarot cards and call them The Lovers because that's what they are literally. Last night I went out to dinner with my friends, The Lovers. We had a pleasant evening reminiscing about the days when we were young, when we would go out to a bar in Ermita, where some of us would drink and others would sing. I particularly loved Omar Khayyam on M. H. del Pilar. It was a simple bar. On one wall was painted a portion of a verse, which ended with “a jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou.” Across it was a bar with stools. Below it tables and chairs.

We liked going there. Gon would collect from each of us – five pesos but on paydays twenty. Ordinary days we would just have beer and peanuts. On payday we would have dinner – pork chops and potatoes.

Freddie would pick us up in his rickety VW Beetle whose front passenger door was wired together because sometimes it would close and other times it would not. We were a whole bunch of people who piled into that car – Carmen, Jean, Gon, EG, Freddie and I. At Omar we would meet with others. There was no romance in that group, only friendship and laughter. We would sit drinking beer, chatting, laughing. We would stay until I don't know what time then we would cross over to the Luneta and eat balut before heading for home.

We were in our 20s then. Young. Brimming with laughter. Refusing to think of the hard times that lurked in the shadows waiting to pounce on us soon. We just wanted to have fun. I remember sitting at Omar Khayyam waiting for a familiar figure, an old famous doctor, to walk in. I think he was over 60 then, maybe he was my age now. He was short, always dressed in starched whites, always alone sitting at the bar drinking and staring blankly ahead of him. I think he drank scotch, interminable scotch. He would arrive later than we and, I suppose, he would leave long after we left. I think now that if I had the energy to walk to a bar I would be like him, drinking alone, drinking to death. That's worth a thought.

     Anyway, this morning I had to go to Fairview where we have a kiosk and check on it. I decided to sit on a bench nearby and watch the people who passed to give me a feel of the market we were trying to serve. There were a few pregnant women who walked by alone. There were a few older couples. They walked together like they did not know each other, each one staring forward obviously involved in his and her own thoughts. Then she turned to ask a question. He responded without looking. Those moments told me they were together. Otherwise they seemed covered with indifference. Long married, I thought. Bored. No longer excited in each other's company.

     Then there were the college students who walked by in small mixed crowds. Always there was a couple holding hands or exchanging touches, like they could not keep their hands off each other. They were the ones really interested in life. There was a bouyancy about them, a sparkle in their eyes, a lilt in their voices as they passed. There was a young couple who walked past, arms sort of sliding against each other. Then they held hands. Then he put his arm around her shoulders and they walked on talking.

     That moved me. All my life I wanted to walk with my man that way, with his arm flung over my shoulders, both of us talking and laughing. My husband was tall enough but not affectionate enough. My tall boyfriends were never affectionate enough and my short boyfriends were not tall enough to do it. Suddenly I felt sad. I will probably die without experiencing that sweetness ever.

     But wait. Was it really part of youth? I thought about The Lovers. They were sweet too. She in her 60s, he in his 70s. They could not keep their hands off each other too. I am envious of them, the trust they have in each other, the way they care about each other. You can feel all that just being with them. And when finally I am just with one of them, I sense the caring and longing for the other to call or text good-night. So it isn't youth that I'm envious of. I am envious of the caring.

     But what the heck, I say, as I turn the key to my dark apartment and head for my bed. It's out of my control. You either have love or you don't. You either find it or you won't. You had two beers and some wine. That was pretty good. Now go directly to sleep.

TEACHING MEN TO WRITE

What is it, this tension I feel?  Is it because I'm seeing my oldest grandson, Powie, for lunch?  No, I am genuinely excited about that, Have even figured out the menu that I will have my driver buy.  Just two big sticks of delicious barbecue and the eggplant relish sold down the street.  Good old-fashioned Filipino food to alleviate his years in San Francisco.  What am I talking about?  They have delicious Filipino food available there.  Well, I throw myself in for comfort.  No, that's not the tension I feel.

What is it? It hovers between tension, anxiety, eagerness, a tightening of the chest so breathing is somewhat constricted, though not too seriously.  It's just a feeling that this old body is slowing down but pleasantly.  I think I am genuinely looking forward to something, to an event that will happen probably soon.  I just wish I knew exactly what it will be.

So no, it is not tension after all.  It's looking forward.  I think I am looking forward to teaching writing again.  This all began over lunch with my second grandson, Nicc.  He asked me to teach him how to write and that moved me.  Okay, I said, I will open a class for you but this time it will be for men only.  Why?  Because in my previous classes I noticed a minority of men and they were often cowed by the women.  Women have easier access to their right brains.  Men are stronger in the left brain.  I have to learn how to open up their right brains so they can flow with my process and become better writers.  This very thought excites me.

Lat night I took down the book I use for my writing classes and began to study again.  That is what adds a buoyancy to my life these days, the new thing I will be doing in a few weeks.  I will be teaching men how to write.

That is immensely exciting for me.

What'll I Do?

What'll I do when you are far away and I feel blue, what'll I do?
What'll I do when I am wond'ring who is kissing you, what'll I do?
What'll I do with just a photograph to tell my troubles to?
When I'm alone with only dreams of you that won't come true, what'll I do?


Those are the words of one of my most favorite songs that later on became the theme song of the film The Great Gatsby.  I love that song.  It reminds me of my life, which, come to think of it, was full of heartbreak. Some hearts, I broke.  Others broke mine.  We left a path cluttered with broken hearts so until one day I said, That's it!  No more heartbreak for me.  I am done with all that.

Then I decided to set up this blogspot and what do I see?  The scandals of my life, inaccurately written about, in the internet directory.   I wonder who wrote them.  I think they are probably young gays who love to gossip and don't care at all about accuracy.

So let me write about my own life then to straighten out the facts in the gossip.  In 1963, 48 years ago, I got married to Ramon Nakpil Tapales, Jr.  Then he was 28 years old and I was only 18.  I was a very young bride.  That marriage is dotted with three beautiful children, all girls, nicknamed Risa, Sarri and Panjee.  Six-and-a-half years later, in June 1969,  I left Ramon Tapales and found a job at Avellana & Associates, an advertising agency.  I took all my three daughters with me.

Let me tell you that it hurts to break your marriage.  It rocks you even if you know you cannot continue anymore.  You don't know how to deal with your pain.  You feel lost.  Your old friends shun you when they see you as a single but then the husband calls you later and asks you out on a date and you are shaken.  Why?  You wonder.  What does he think?

Soon after I ran into Roman Cruz, Jr., who told me he was unhappy with his wife.  Also he was very intelligent and our minds matched.  My marriage was already broken. I started to date him.  First error -- I dated a married man.  We dated for around two years.  Then I found myself pregnant with his child.   In June 1971 we decided to live together.  We had one son, Gino.

During this time Ramon Tapales, Jr. was dating Cory Quirino.  He got a Dominican Republic divorce from me and married her in Hongkong.  On December 15, 1977, Roman Cruz Jr. and I separated.  Now I realize we both underwent major mid-life crises. He turned 40, I turned 33 and we messed up our relationship royally so we separated.

Many years passed.  Did you read that?  MANY YEARS PASSED.  Maybe two or three years.  Then one day a close lady friend called me at the office and asked me if I had heard who Jun Cruz's new girlfriend was.  I said no and I also said I wasn't really interested.  She said I would definitely be interested.  It was Cory Quirino.

I thought that was a bad script.  I thought if one of my writers had given me that script I would have scolded her for being so tacky.  But it was real life.  What can one do?

Then the rumors began to fly again.  People said Ramon was Roman's woman-taster.  All sorts of tasteless things like that.  I am surprised however that this story is still on the net.  I think Jun and Cory got together in the 1980s and stayed together until the EDSA 1 revolution.  If that is the last important date then that happened 25 years ago.  That's how old this gossip is.  It is at least 25 years old.  Why is it still there?

These days I have reached the ending of the song.  I am 67 years old.  Roman A. Cruz. Jr. is dead.  Ramon Tapales, Jr. is 77 years old and happily married.  The principals in this play are all old.  The play has become definitely uninteresting.  The important thing to remember is that was life 25 years ago.

Searching for my blog site I came across a question addressed to a younger girl apparently nicknamed Tweetums also.  Why Tweetums?  someone asked and she had no real answer to give.  I have one.

My father read the book Seventeen, written by Booth Tarkington.  It is a genuinely silly book.  The main star is a young 17-year-old boy who meets this silly 15-year-old girl with whom he falls in love.  She talks baby talk.  She sees a cute sweet little dog and she says What a tootums tweetums wittle dog.  Well, my father fell in love with the word tweetums and gave it to me as my nickname.  My father died when I was six months old.  So my mother kept calling me Tweetums until I turned into a grandmother and shortened it to Twee.  So. . .

What'll I do with just a photograph to tell me troubles to?  I have my blogspot now.  Maybe I'll tell it to you.

When I'm alone with only dreams of you that won't come true, what will I do?


Sigh!  These days I will just sigh.

FREAK OUT FRIDAY

It is ten in the morning and I am finally more settled at my desk.  I will have lunch with my 21-year-old grandson, Nicc, whom I adore, and I cannot wait.  I am also feeling a bit uncomfortable because I know that fairly soon I will have to scold some sales ladies we employ.  They are very stubborn about how to handle their store displays.

I am in charge of Yzabelle in Kultura, Shoemart's store.  We cannot agree on how the goods will be displayed.  Everytime I go there I get driven up the wall by the way the single stand is fixed.  Everything is shown so nothing rises to the surface.  The shelves are crowded so nothing stands out.  We have a Pinoy line, I cannot find it.  We have a Rizal line, I cannot find it either.  Everything is so goddamn crowded.  They fix it in front of me then after I leave they return it according to their standards.

Here's where the difficulty is:  their standards.  They shop wherever they shop, maybe at the market near their homes where all the goods are laid out the way they lay it out in Kultura.  So they bring that mentality to work.  I have to tell them that the shoppers in Kultura are different.  That style of displaying is for people of their class.  The shoppers in Kultura belong to a higher class.  How do you teach them that?

First, I hate talking about class.  It's not right in a country that pretends to be a democracy but actually has a caste system and each level has different tastes.  How can I teach them to set aside the class thing and to focus on the store's class instead of their own.  So here's another thing I hate to do but I have to do.  It's moments like this that make me want to quit my job and just go home and have a quiet life.  But then I know that that kind of life would bore me too and this is probably the best life I can have right now.

Haaay naku.  I hate what I have to do.