I can't sit with them

I think, have I been someone who loves reading books like many brilliant people I know, I would’ve been better in writing. All of my favorite writers are voracious readers and the smartest people I know owns a lot of books that they actually read.

Book junkies reading this can judge me all they want (some, who are my friends, may think less of me now), but I cannot sustain reading printed text over long periods. I just don’t have the patience and the EQ for it. It got worse now with my presbyopia which made it difficult for me to read anything in front of my nose.

I am saying this not because I’m proud of it, but because it is what it is. I mean, it’s not that I don’t read at all, it’s just not something I do for leisure. I’m not one that finds joy holding a physical book (I even know someone who sniffs pages) and read it obsessively from cover to cover. Simply put, I'm not too keen on reading books but not reading in general. 

I am not too well-attuned and I tend to zone out after a while. When this happens, I had to stop and put the book down otherwise nothing penetrates. The problem with this is that when I put it down, I hardly pick it back. There are at least about ten books I bought in my lifetime mostly out of impulse but never finished. For one, I never got past the first few chapters of The Alchemist. 

Most of the time when I read a book, there are parts of it I intentionally leave out. Say, one to two paragraphs, or sometimes even a whole chapter. Then I’d start flipping pages because I can’t concentrate anymore, then eventually I lose interest. It happens in almost every book I try to read.

Any author will be frustrated at me especially when the intention of every writer has always been that their book is read from beginning to end. I think they have a term for me: fractal reader — or is it? 

Reading a book for long periods can also make my hands feel numb. I’d develop this strain on my thumb for pressing on the pages while my other fingers support the book spine (happens most of the time on thick paperbacks). Once this happens, I put the book down— and I already told you what happens when I put the book down.

Not counting the ones I read for my book report in school, there are ones I did read and finish. Most of them are the light and amusing ones from our local authors like Jessica Zafra’s Twisted series and Womenagerie and Other Tales from the Front and Pam Pastor’s Paper Cuts and Planet Panic. I did read some Tom Clancy, Sidney Sheldon and Dan Brown. I loved Paradise by Judith McNaught but was not as stirred with her other novels. 

My choice of books might be sneered at by the pompous bibliomaniac snobs but here goes. I read chick-lit novels like Confessions of the Shopaholic or The Devil Wears Prada. Didn’t shed a single tear for The Fault In Our Stars (even if many friends swore that they did). I did finish the Hunger Games trilogy and actually liked it, but then got bored with another young adult dystopian novel, Divergent trilogy. I secretly read Fifty Shades of Grey E-Book during the idle hours in the office (and became quite an expert when it comes to reading in minimized windows).  

Please don’t hate me, but I have never picked up any from the Harry Potter series like, ever. 

I’m always fascinated at people who are so passionate about reading that they can talk for hours how much they love it. I envy the ones who’d feel some kind of orgasmic happiness when they’re inside a book store or library. I admire those who challenge themselves to read X number of books in a year. I love how some of them seem like they are living in the pages of the books they read because they enjoyed it that much. 

When I see my most admired people and their magnanimous book collection, I always ask myself: How can they do that? How can they read all of that? How can they have the time?

I wish I had that same kind of passion for books. But I honestly don’t think I’ll ever will. 

It dawned on me now that all my friends are book lovers. All of them but me. I imagined them sitting at a table with each reading a good book and when I come near they’ll look at me and say, “You can’t sit with us!”

Hissy

I don’t know if it is hormonal imbalance, aging, lack of sleep, anxiety, too much caffeine or a freaky amalgam of all these, but I have been feeling ‘out of sorts’ lately. I get irritated at people at the slightest stir, whether it’s with my rambunctious nephews, a noisy coworker, a car driver that honked at me while I was crossing the street, a nosy neighbor, a sloth-slow service crew—practically everyone can tick me off so easily.

Photography by Erkin Demir

I’m quite annoyed at myself as well when I’m like this. See, I’d ordinarily shrug off minor hassle and move on. After all, I believe it’s not the stress that would eventually kill us, but it is our reaction to it. I try every trick in the book when the negative feeling is brewing and most of it was a series of inhales and exhales. I wouldn’t want to react impulsively and regret it later on.

But yeah, it’s quite challenging not to snap at some people these days.

Last weekend, I went to buy my mom some takeout at a Filipino-Chinese fast-food chain. The groceries were already particularly heavy for my right shoulder and I’m carrying another tote bag on my other hand. I was swearing under my breath when I saw the long lines to the takeout counter and was thisclose to turning back, but the better part of me however, decided to stay and wait.

The line was moving at a glacial pace, thanks to this woman at the counter who was just standing there staring at the menu display board like it was Jason Momoa’s half-naked bod. It took her so much time to decide that she wanted a chicken over the shanghai lauriat.

Behind her was a father with a toddler throwing a fit for being there instead of the McDonald’s next door. I wonder why he can’t get the little boy to stop his outburst when people are already looking. And the high-pitched scream feels like a jackhammer inside my head.

No Happy Meal for you, kiddo.

I can feel the painful pressure pulsing in my temples and the bright lights of that crowded place is forcing my teary, swollen eyes to squint. It was also so noisy in there and many of the tables are either occupied or dirty. I can point out so many things in one spot that can trigger me.

D’yos ko po, I said to myself.

After several minutes, I finally got to my turn at the counter. I was no longer in the mood for niceties so when the female service crew greeted me ‘good afternoon’, I didn’t answer. Instead, I went on dictating my order that I have already memorized thanks to the long wait.

“Two pork chao fan with siomai top—”

“With drinks?”

“Wala po.”

She nods so I continued, “Okay, pork chao fan with siomai toppings, tapos—”

“Steamed or fried?” she interjects, which threw me off a bit, but I managed to answer steamed after realizing I was being asked how I want my siomai.

“Tapos isang siopao box na bola-bola.”

Punch. Punch. Punch.

A momentary pause and then, “Ilan pong siopao?”

I can’t believe this.

“Isang box. Yung tigatlo.”

Punch. Punch. Punch.

“Asado or bola-bola?”

Oh God.

“Bola-bola `nga.”

Punch. Punch. Punch.

I doubt that she got it so I was looking intently at the POS system to see if she punched the correct order. From there, I saw that she only punched one pork chao fan with siomai (instead of two) and the siopao box.

“Miss, dalawa po `yung—”

“Dalawa po yung siopao?

“Hindi!” now there’s exasperation in my voice, “Dalawa yung pork chao fan with steamed siomai tapos isang box ng bola-bola siopao!”

Punch. Punch. Punch.

I was about to rail at her but it was only then that I noticed the burn scars on her right cheek and ear. For a moment there, I froze—then looked away. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable if she sees me staring.

Punch. Punch. Punch.

After she gave my order total, I handed her my 500-peso bill. That’s when I saw that her right arm was badly burned as well and she has no thumb and index finger.

That hit me. The female crew is a burn victim. Maybe second, maybe even third-degree.

At that point, I felt guilty for being snarky at her. I mean, yes—she did have difficulty taking and understanding what I’ve ordered, and she interrupted me more than once, but I could have been more sensitive and considerate with her. I don’t have the slightest idea of what she’s been (or still going) through. Who knows if the burn had made it hard for her to hear? Or if the scars affected her motor skills and concentration? Or her stamina?

She handed me my number and my change using her three remaining digits. I gave her a smile and said thank you.

I sat on a corner table and watched her from afar. She was really having a hard time getting the customer’s order the first time, but I can see she was trying her best. Every once in a while, she’d leave the counter to serve drinks or take the tray out, then goes back to man the counter again. All I can think of at that time is how glad I was that the establishment is giving a chance by hiring people like her.

Suddenly I felt compassion and empathy towards that female crew. Here she was trying to make a living and I am giving her an attitude over something I could just let pass. It also left me reassessing myself; I realized how often I react to what I perceived as an inconvenience caused by other people. Perhaps it’s about time to be extra patient as not everything is about me.

I am still working on how I can successfully ignore the things that some people do that bug me, but I guess that’s the tita in me creeping out and making it all harder. The wick of my temper may be shorter than ever, but a little forbearance might just help. 

Deadz

I think it was two Sundays ago when my older brother told me that he dreamt that I died. It was so vivid that he described how it went, on how it started out sad and then scary until it got all batshit-crazy. 

…He said that when he looked inside my coffin, I was alive and was actually texting.
…That the next thing he saw was me running around (he said my wake was held inside a relatives’ compound) saying I am not dead.
...That people in my wake bolted out of there in panic seeing me alive (who wouldn’t?)
…My late dad was there during the commotion and said: “Kawawa naman si Vayie, na-embalsamo na `yan eh.”
…Then I went up to the stage (yes, there was a stage) and sang this song.

See, told you it was crazy.

I know most of us try to brush that thought aside but deep inside, we all have our own mental picture on how we want it to be when we’re already in that eventual state. This may be a morbid thing to talk about and some may not be comfortable in discussing it, but let’s take this lightly for now because just like everything else, we have our preference even when it’s about our own death.

Like how, if I ever get to choose, I don’t want it to be an open casket for me. Just like when my dad was still alive, he’d always tell us that he wanted to be cremated immediately and then on the wake it will just be his ashes inside an urn. He said he doesn’t want people peeking through his coffin and saying things like: “He looked like he suffered a lot.” or “He looked different. He lost a lot of weight.” — so yes it was all about vanity up until the very end.

When it happened, none of us wanted any of that for him and gave him a traditional viewing. The good thing about it was my daddy never looked so handsome, it’s almost like how he looked when he was in his early 40s, (a younger Rafael Alunan III). It was the exact opposite of what he feared people would say when they see him in such state. I think he got more compliments while lying in there than the last few years of his life.

I always say jokingly and not-so-jokingly to make every effort in making sure my corpse is pretty enough to be viewed. I want a flawless, airbrushed make-up finish in the right shade. That may sound so vain, but I don’t think that’s too much to ask. If people will come to see me for the very last time, I wouldn’t want them whispering to themselves, “Did they use a pink undertone Kokuryu summer cake on her?”. I mean, if they won’t go to great lengths prettifying me, then cremate me, pronto. I won’t be a beautiful corpse. Heck, I’m not even beautiful while sleeping.

I also don’t want to wear something white as I never liked that color on me, instead, I want to wear something in turquoise blue, one of my favorite colors other than black and red.

It would still be a Catholic funeral, with masses and prayers, but when it comes to my wake, I don’t want it to be a sad, somber affair. I want ‘80s New Wave songs to be played on a continuous loop. I want everyone there just having a good time snacking on Boy Bawang and Ding Dong while swapping funny stories. Promise, I won’t take that as disrespect of my memory.

Also, no eulogies, please. Everybody says only the nicest things about you when you’re already dead. And while I believe my spirit may be hovering around my own wake anyway—it defeats the purpose of such tribute when I’m already a cold corpse.

Unless you have a family mausoleum, you wouldn’t choose to be buried considering the sad state of cemeteries in the Philippines. That’s why even then I wanted to be cremated. I wouldn’t want them to place my corpse on the ground and leave there to be eaten by maggots. Good thing this is not open for discussion anymore since we’ll all end up in the same crematorium vault where my dad is now. (Once upon a time though, I wanted a Vikings funeral with flaming arrows to hit a pyre, similar to Frigga’s in “Thor: The Dark World”. Then again, where will I have my ship burial float? Manila Bay? No, thank you.) 

While we should all live with the end in mind, I hope that talking about this now won’t jinx me and this post becomes some sort of a premonition. That would be totally fuc*ed up.

But come to think of it, they say only the good die young. If that’s true, then I will be safe for now.