Psychic Clutter

It was a relief, to finally speak about the things left unsaid, esp. about the domestic situation that I covered in my previous blog entry. For a long time I felt I was all alone in the position of confronting the matter head-on. It also didn't help that I didn't want to hurt my sister-in-law's feelings, nor my nephews'. This time, I know I have already done the damage by the precise nature of writing about it in a blog. It's like unloading a large black bag of psychic trash in a field. It's another kind of pollution, another kind of eco-clutter that is more psychic in range. Wrath is one of the seven deadliest sins and perhaps I am guilty. But wrath also gave birth to creative inspiration, to concentration, and to finding one's philosophy about approaching wrath. Can you imagine all the people logging on to their blogs and unloading all their thoughts, just like me? I am amazed at the computer's ability not only to store all that soup, but also how it manages not to let that soup leak.

Nakatulong talaga ng malaki na malaman ko na 'yung attitude rin ni Nick sa bagay na ito ay mas confrontational. Lahat kasi sila'y umiiwas. Hayaan mo na siya, marerealize rin niya 'yun, masesettle rin niya 'yun, kagaya nga ng winika ni Bert o ni Des. Ganu'n pala ang epekto kapag nakikita mo mula sa labas 'yung eksaktong sitwasyon na nakita ng mga kaibigan tungkol sa iyo.
That obstinacy not to take part in improving one's situation, one's clinging to that sliver of hope that perhaps, change will come. Hindi talaga darating ang kaligayahan sa buhay ng kusa, kailangang likhain ito. At para malikha ito, kailangang likhain rin mula sa kawalan, mula sa kalat ng kung ano-anong mga pagpasya, pagkabigo, pangarap, ang sarili. I am a consequence of all the things that I have done and failed to do, of all the things that I have thought and felt and have actually created. I am a construct of all the things that I have read, whether they are real books or real texts that breathe life. Lahat ng pinili kong maalala, lahat ng pinili kong kalimutan, lahat ng kusa kong naaalala, o nakalilimutan.

Kagabi, nasaling na naman ng aking asawa ang sugat na di na gumaling galing. Sinabi niya sa akin na bakit ko linalakad ang nominasyon ni Rene para sa national artist samantalang bago siguro si Rene, dapat ang tatay ko muna. "He is a great writer." To which I replied, "Of course he is. Everybody knows that. And I acknowledge it with all my heart. It just so happened that there are so many things that I have to do at hindi ko na alam kung ano ang uunahin ko." And then before I knew it, an image flashed from my memory: there he was bald, tanned and skinned to the bones with that disease that ravaged all the vitality he once had. There he was with his throat, with that hole, all possibilities of speech taken away. A hand, that same hand that simultaneously stroked my hair fondly when I was a child, the hand that gave me pen and paper to draw and write with, the hand that constantly tapped the typewriter keys in all those years spent in imposed solitude, that same hand that pushed me away and slapped me. The biggest obstacle that I have with what my husband is asking for is my past. I am now forty years old and yet I know, deep down, that I have been emotionally crippled by the experience of being the unloved daughter. It is no exaggeration to say that I have found my father, the nurturing father that I needed, in Rene. It is also sad to realize that even my dead mentor had issues involving his family, for he also alienated his own kin. I feel for them, because I was in that same position with my father and his sullen art.

We can re-create our family, we can redefine family. I have my own family now, which I would truly defend with my last breath. The friends that I have are also my family -- some of them, many of them, have all passed on literally, and figuratively. I'd like to think that some day, when I do meet my own father, that there would be no more hurts. Because even if I always assume that I've moved on, there would always be that slip, and I would remember. Perhaps there is a reverse movement somewhere, and I just haven't learned that -- yet. Nang narinig na ni Bert ang paliwanag ko kung bakit, hindi na siya nagtanong, o nagpilit na gawin ko iyon. Salamat naman -- at saktong ipinalalabas sa tv ang Milan nina Piolo at Claudine, isang kuwento sa karanasan ng mga OFW sa Italya. Tiyempong nasa eksena na ng aking epiphanic moment 'yung pagkikita nina Claudine at Piolo sa isang plaza na maraming mga kalapati. Talagang ibong mang may layang lumipad ang karanasan.

Siguro, ngayong naungkat na ito muli, puwede kaming magkita ni Coralu, isang kapwa guro at kaibigan, na ibig gawin ang pagtitipon ng mga sanaysay ni Papa. Nagkausap na kami ukol dito, katunayan, ibinigay ko na rin sa kanya ang tomo ng mga sanaysay, papeles, clippings. Isang maliit na porsiyon lamang iyon ng katawan ng naisulat ng aking ama. Narito pa sa bahay, diyan sa isang filing cabinet sa sulok, ang kanyang mga journals. Paminsan, kagaya ngayon, sumisigid ang guilt at habag sa sarili sa pag-aalala. Kahit na anong intellectualization ang gawin ko tungkol sa bagay na iyon. Kahit na isipin ko ang ilang mga oras na ibinuhos ko sa sesyon ng pakikipag-usap sa mabait na doktorang si Marge Holmes. Dumaraan ang lahat ng ito na parang tren na mabilis na mabilis, at nasa estasyon ako't nalilito kung sasakay ba ako sa susunod na tren o magpapaiwan na lang para sa susunod pa, kung mayroon pa.

Siguro, nakasakay na nga ako sa ibang tren. Dahil heto ako, buhay pa, dilat, mulat, at kahit paano'y may kaunting natutunan sa karanasan.