I am sittng at a ledge outside the SM Fairview mall, illuminated by one lamp post that is soon bound to extinguish. It is half past 10 in the evening and the mall is closing down, calling it a day; unfastening its individual parts as one would do Lego blocks. I hear the sound of tires skidding in the highway right outside, their horns blowing for who knows what. I am writing. I seem to have lost interest in that one craft.
I feel mad writing about the abstract. Whoever reads this the first time will never understand. I have learned recently that there are many things in the world to which we give space even though it is never absolutely necessary. This is one of those things.
I say that it is the night of the grotesque (or the Night of the Grotesque, it doesn't matter) because of the uprising in my core of a number of things that I could only surmise as so painstakingly real yet hauntingly surreal that I cannot quite put a finger on them within the lobes of my brain. They are my definition of the grotesque. I do not heed them very often. Yet, intriguingly, they are very real, ready to eat at me, whether I permit or not, to show me how things are and how much I am trying to refrain from their reality.
I write romanced by a play - a theatrical act, the first one I have watched in the beautiful haven that I can finally call my alma mater. I am laded with the word "Oresteyas", hanuted by beautiful concepts of love and hate; salvation and revenge. The very first play of my stay and I feel enamored with the diversity of emotions spewing at me at a night like this. I had felt this way the year before about an art exhibit. I feel stronger coming head to head with what is Filipino: Filipino art at its best.
The city lights of Katipunan could not compare to those of Intramuros, not even of Vito Cruz, if only in the sense that I felt more sentimental walking away from them an hour earlier. I was cold yet whole. Unafraid; free, as though I could do anything. Fluttery, along with the roaring of the trucks as they whirred down the avenue. No picture could speak on its behalf. I felt great coming out of that gate tonight. Uplifting to the soul; sacred to the heart. I had lost this feeling recently that I had forgotten how it felt to be romanced. I never wished for it anymore. Or maybe I did, more and more each day, but could never quite admit it to myself. Perhaps, I didn't want to be disappointed.
Yet, here I am, reminiscing about it. Knowing that it is real. That the InTACT session was real. That Block TR is real. That the CBA was real. That catching up on RAW at the Rizal Lib was real. That the buildings and the benches and even the trees are real. That getting the call last summer was real. That the Ateneo is real. That everything is just so completely and absolutely real that I could never figure out what it was that I was doubting. What was I so afraid of? I am here. This is real.
The flower in my hand smells sweet. It's the perfect flower. It's a sampaguita, the national flower. I could never feel more at ease knowing that I had bought it from her: the young lady that was trying to sell it to the last groups of people exiting the mall. I had made the mistake of sitting far from her, thinking that she would be stubborn. I made another mistake when I did not go to her when I asked how much the flowers cost, prompting her to walk towards me. She is pregnant, I realize. Then, I made the next mistake of getting so dumbfounded that I eventually forgot to offer my wafer, though I had it prepared.
She left after the next sale. I watched the transaction, and it made me sad. I wish to see her again.
This is the uderlying ugly usually associated with what is grotesque. Unadulteratedly ugly. If only people could see how much people like her work hard for the money - no drama, just the flowers and the child in her womb - then maybe, the world would be a much better place. If people just see people, and surrender to this notion. If people could just try.
I feel sad and ugly because of what transpired. Guilty, for lack of a better word. Guilty, in the sense that I do not quite understand. Is it because that I have so much? Is it because of the nice home, nice clothes, and even a good, if not, the best education? Is it wrong for one to have all these things when here are these people, striving to achieve ends meet? Trying to actually exist? Was it some act of God to be randomly selected this way? To become the person writing this useless prose and not as the next girl inhaling the sweet whiff of sampaguita which she relentlessly offers to all these people that seem too busy to even acknowledge her diminutive presence?
I am ending this recollection with the cars still whirring, theirs horns still blowing. The rate has slowed down. The wheels easily slipping down the road. The lights are fewer. Everything - a quite drab of the city - a nostalgia within nostalgias, masked by the heaviness of one heart. Rapid walks towards home. A night's reflection, one that refused to appear for so long, illuminated by freedom and glory and independece and everything realistically ugly that accompanies them.
The world surely could not be worse. The world should be so much better than how it is now. We just have to look towards what is more out there, and make it real.
The flowers smell really nice.
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