Thursday, February 16, 2006

stacked up packages, part 2

My dog Dorothy

That's me, horsing around with my niece and nephew while waiting for Christmas dinner

Clouds flirting with each other outside my bedroom window


stacked up packages

It might not be the best time to relieve one's mind of piss, or of scum, or of dirt baggage accumulated through years of somnolence. I've always spoken of memories as packages neatly tied by paper strings and nicely stacked up in some dingy part of my brain. They're always there but I'm not so sure which box contains which memory. Fine dust only adds to the confusion. I sneeze if I so much as finger through its raspy surfaces. These memory packages, whatever they contain, still feel luscious on my skin, though. Luscious and confusing. Like ketchup in your orange juice. I do not know how to regard them sometimes. They are no longer part of the soul that birthed them. Stacked up boxes take on a life of its own, as they are wont to do.

Tonight might not be the right time to relieve my brain of memories. The second month of the year is only halfway through. It's not right to bring all the boxes out and clean them one by one like children who have just mucked about in the park. Rituals follow the caprices of the moon. No maddened lunar voice has told me to do the 'memory-cleaning' ritual yet.

Why would I want to claw at mounds of memories, both rancid and creamy, when I am quite busy creating one at the moment? I have my hands full. This moment is the life. That cheap white wine gulped from huge coffee mugs is the life. The now. Like getting lost in a labyrinth of slimy alleys, in the midst of illegal aliens with awful accents selling imitation goods, for which my friend and I haggled unsuccessfully. Like connecting with an old friend and checking out chicks at the other table in a crowded fast food joint, even as we pluck old remembrances from the air like ripe mangoes. Like horsing around with nephews and nieces while waiting for Christmas dinner to get cooked. Like goofing around with my dog, Dorothy, who incessantly runs around my feet or clambers up my lap to have her belly scratched. Like swapping stories with my aging mother while the late afternoon sun heaves forgotten mantras. Like hearing the crisp click of the door knob against the jamb of my new room. Like bringing individually wrapped pieces of cheap milk chocolate to the canteen, pretending they are orgasm-inducing Swiss chocolate. Like playing the first movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata at high noon, my fingers straining to breathe life to boring delicatissimo passages even as my mind yearns to play the third movement in the distant, possibly unrealizable future. Like touching your face while you are curled up in bed, breathing out the song of your dream, a sad song, really, that reminds me of your imminent departure for the States. Will you remember me when you're already there? Will the same memories we have so beautifully created here tide you over the way they would my soul?

Irrelevant questions.

In an irrelevant world, it is almost blasphemous to ask irrelevant questions like these. Memories do not always provide consolation to the weary, nor succor to the lost. They merely sit quietly in that forgotten corner, smug and comfortable with their nice paper strings and dusty surfaces.

I, too, sit in front of my window at the end of the day, contemplating on the gathering cirrus clouds as they flirt with each other in dizzying oranges, pinks, purples, and yellows. I untie the paper string and open a package and smile at what I see. I had been so busy creating memories that I didn't notice I had been happy during that time. It's funny that I don't notice that. Only when I look back can I say that I had been happy. Truly happy.

And I only have flirty, garish clouds with me now to witness that happiness.


Friday, February 03, 2006

my teacher's titties

When I was in kindergarten, I remember having a blast peeking through my teacher's blouse to have a look at her titties. Before you conclude that I have been a maniac since I was five, let me tell you that it was nothing sexual for me. I didn't have a boner while watching her bosom jiggle as she bent over to pick up books and stuff. Besides, doing it with a woman 40 years my senior isn't exactly the kind of thing that would make my blood do the boogie up and down my penis shaft. It's like making out with your own mother. Oedipus Complex is just not for me. And it wasn't boob-envy either, if there ever is such a concept.

I just enjoyed looking at her breasts. That's all. The fact that it was taboo made the experience more exhilarating. It was like conquering the unconquerable.

She wasn't a bombshell or anything. Far from it. Aside from being fairly advanced in age, she was probably the worst teacher I've ever had. I was so afraid of her that I would rather pee in my shorts than ask for her permission to go to the bathroom. I used to cry a lot in the classroom, too. I was the type of kid who would wail hysterically if my father so much as left the parents' waiting area to go pee. I just couldn't stand the thought of being alone in a room full of strange kids herded by a terrible teacher who exposed her titties every time she bent over. And she didn't even wear a decent bra. It was yellowed and tattered at the edges.

She had this strange habit of dismissing her pupils' brilliant answers as sheer luck. I had no idea why she did that. All I knew was that I grew scared of her day after day. Being the only pupil who required a guardian to be always present during class, I, naturally, was already marked by this teacher. She had nothing but disdain for me and my behavior. She sneered at me most of the time, which caused me to clam up even more, and, of course, gawk at her titties longer.
Strange how kids have such dirty thoughts. Or was it dirty at all, considering the lack of sexual intent? It probably was my way of getting back at her. Surely, having some pupil ogle at your titties is a small price to pay for traumatizing kids who peed in their shorts. Since she was my very first teacher, she became the epitome of what a teacher should be. I had the impression that all teachers were monsters who were always ready to growl at you and then show you their titties. This made me become an introvert all throughout gradeschool.

Things might have been different if she hadn't been like that. If she had only worn a blouse that wasn't too loose, or a bra that could actually conceal what it promises to conceal, then I wouldn't have probably turned out the way I did (a horny bastard, that is). Of course, it's much too simplistic to blame everything on my teacher's boobs. That's totally unfair to mammary glands in general. At any rate, I sort of enjoyed seeing her ancient bosom (yes, go ahead, you can cringe now). I just wish she had already outgrown her old habits. Otherwise, we would eventually have kids who would associate titties with gall bladder problems.