A tribute to Nanay

She was there again, on the same seat, in front of the same television set, deep in the night--one old woman who must hang on steadily to her faith although each moment brings her painfully close to her life's end. That scene will doubtless become one of the pervasive images of my own old age. But for now, to me, she is a gallant soul, thankful for the little joys that crown a hard, misunderstood existence.

And for the happiness of once again feeling one with grieving Catholics all over the world, and especially in the Rome she may never see--her eyes now fading--I must thank the wonder of satellite transmission ... Long ago, I gave up ... rituals that had become extraneous to my very own personal faith. But those rituals may be essential to other people. And when television serves the interests of the many as well as the few, those who need the comfort of the rituals as well as those who hold on only to the strength of faith, then television is performing what we believe should be its ideal role in contemporary society--as the foremost instant chronicler of the rituals and actions of our time.

-- NBT

____________________________________

"Impressions," TV Times, 15-21 October 1978

Dear Family and Friends,

It has now been a year since Nanay left us. For the family, that year has been truly eventful. It has been an eye-opener, a valuable learning experience.

Many times, we have had to draw on the strength that your presence during her last days lent us. As our family remembers her on Saturday, we also wish the occasion to be our way of saying "Thank you!" to you for holding our hand, offering prayers, bidding her goodbye, and simply being there.

A Mass will be said for her and for those we love who are now with her--Tatay and Ate--at 6 p.m. at our residence. Dinner will be at 7 p.m. Please join us in paying special tribute to her.

-- NBT
_____________
31 July 1991

"Who cares about Beatrice?"

Had she lived long enough, my sister would have been swept in the tremendous energies of this time. And she would have shared equally in the tremendous fun of our lives. Yes, FUN. It is great fun to be married, 33, and free! Unfortunately, my sister was schooled in the traditions of Dante's Beatrice (Oriana Fallaci: Who cares about Beatrice?) and died before she could be free. She was always married, age a deep deep secret, and chained.

I am constantly amazed, continuously delighted, at the seemingly inexhaustible limits of the human personality. One moment, and I am playing mother, enjoying the timeless tactics of my two-year-old girl, a plump little doll with the bitchy precocity her mother never showed until she was 26 and safely over her grand and irresistible passion.

The next moment, and I am woman alone, browsing through the favorite shops which never fail to touch, with a thousand precious little discoveries, my capacity for delight and wonder: an old stone jar blooming with sunny chrysanthemums to warm a cold morning, a lovely old basket filled with statice to last the seasons, soft ruffly dresses and white vampy sandals, a baroque love seat blending with spare director's chairs, yarns of all colors for my embroidery and rugs, and painting upon painting on walls and floors and the exciting prospect of a new frame with the next installment.

One time, and I am active member in the sisterhood of ageless women, lingering over coffee at Grandma's, surrounded by endless talk of improvement and involvement, sharing quiet afternoons with comfortable friends over crafts that busy the hands and please the hearts, laughing at Annie Hall and loving Julia but also feeling for Valentino, meeting free women at every stop and with every call, realizing that the community grows only when each individual, each person, grows, too.

Another time, and I am artist aspiring, caught in the true loneliness of the real ones: of women gliding through the desolate landscapes of an Ingmar Bergman autumn, of Saul Bellow descending the depths of his quiet zone and Hannah Arendt cutting through the political theory of revolution, of Louise Nevelson whose personal drama towers over her bold sculptures.

Perhaps it is being 33 and married that makes me feel so alive and so free. It is age that has cured me of the feeling of intense misery at the small inconsistencies of the human race. It is the support of a man, with a separate identity and a different expertise, that has given me a new comfort in my relationships and a newly discovered energy for my pursuits. Every man I meet now is no longer potential lover nor potential husband, but individual and human, with something essential to say, if not to me, then certainly to somebody else.

I have learned to enjoy the quiet beauty of moments and places--a convivial dinner, the beach overlooking the infinite, moonlight over silvery waters--without investing them with the frenzied intensity of the young, who feel compelled always to search desperately for the keys that will open the mystic passageways to existence and reality. Even my personal agony, when it comes, is less black, less brooding, less brutish, more like a warm and comfortable cloak to wrap around my shoulders on evenings drenched with rain.

There is satisfaction in being able to do the watching, instead of thinking the whole world watches me, on occasions when others prefer to provide blustering and self-conscious entertainment. There is even greater satisfaction in finally being able to tell the truth (Albert Camus: What counts is not poetry. What counts is truth. And I call truth anything that continues.), unconcerned at last with the judgment of the rest: yes, the house took one whole year to build because there were times when money was scarce; yes, I look at the price tag first, and never mind what the salesgirls think; yes, I wear local cottons because, aside from the fact that I love them, I really cannot afford very much else.

And there is true intoxication in being able to do things at 33 that I would have considered atrocious when I was 20, my father's favorite daughter, and convent-school graduate: eating out alone, buying second best, telling my real age, riding in jeeps and buses, wearing costume jewelry (funky, punky, whatever, but I do choose with still old-fashioned taste), waiting for a friend at a basement food center with my needlepoint or a good book.

Life scares, of course. Self-confidence does not mean immortality, and I am afraid: a great many times. The human race will be here for generations more, but I shall be gone some day, who really knows when. I am afraid of having to leave before my children can learn to groove with the rest of the world, as their parents have learned to do. My energies may seem indefatigable today, but for how long? At 33, when I have the time to look over the edge, I suddenly feel afraid that I may not be around to see the people I love through their vulnerable years.

But life, to be trite about it, is a continuing process. And today's anguish is soon washed away in tomorrow's bliss. I console myself, easily. There is, says Joseph Conrad, a solidarity that knits, that "binds together all humanity--the dead to the living and the living to the unborn."

It is not death that matters now, but life. And life, at 33, is happy comfort and comfortable fulfillment.

My sister would not have wanted to die early had she foreseen
the fulfillment she could have known as a woman, self-confident and free.

--NBT


_____________________________

Fina, a local magazine for women, 1978

a final goodbye

we knew each other so briefly
more than a handshake, less than a lifetime
three years.

i looked at everything quite simply
just the parts, not the whole
three years.

you left me very suddenly
never alone, forever lonely
three years.

__________

11.14.73

3.53 a.m.

to him

(who now signs at 1571,
wears suits by pierre cardin,
has a private line)

~~~~~

how thriftily the words pass between us now
as if, searching somewhere for meaning
we had lost our claim to life
as if, in depths i dare not fathom
i dare not accept a failing
my pride rejects.

you say you must be fair and just
i insist i must be self-possessed
while between us slowly rises
this chasm i leave unnamed,
while joy and beauty we shared
oh so sweetly before
now pass unmentioned, untold.

if i say it's all my fault
shall things be easier between us
none of the sorrow that was before
none of the pain?
shall the loveliness that used to be
be ours once more
and all the love?

how thriftily the words pass between us now
how prosaic the days have become
how is the office, how are you?
hello, regards, goodbye
is it the end?

__________

18.9.70

8.10 p.m.

after two

there must be something wrong
somewhere
when i no longer hear
the church bells peal

when he no longer smiles
when i come in
or looks up to nod grandly:
"hello."

perhaps it's only that he's
tired
but suddenly my heart
cries.

did i displease him
the other day,
or is it simply that he
has ceased to care?

because
he no longer stays
after two.

___________

9.12.70

5:45 p.m.

to one

(who can never divine
this pain i feel)

~~~~~


i wait for some newscast
today is thursday the 23rd
and you?

your receptionist trembles
did you ring once or twice
and must she go in?

i wish to shout:
forget it
let him die!

but we are friends
or so i insist
despite everything.

so let it be
some friend says,
forget him.

i will,
if only i can.

___________

7.23.70

5.30 p.m.

to you

(who did not mind fern leaves
on your cupful of late afternoon tea
on a rainy september day)

~~~~~

one brown-faced madonna in her room
filled with the comforts
of the damned
insists:
this is something stronger than both of us.

she calls the canteen
requests for lunch--delivered, please--purringly
flicks on a button
to watch an afternoon show
on television,
searches for a book
or a magazine
from the shelves to her left,
writes a memorandum:
to r (who dared one morning
to bawl her out
for an ad that did not come out)
not through any fault of mine, she whispers.

while i labor
insignificant
in a noisy bustling newsroom
filled with impersonal shadows
laughing, chatting, typing
i know not what they do
only what they affect to do.

mea culpa,
i strike my breast: thrice, i think

tell me:
shall i plant vegetables?

___________

24.6.70

9.35 p.m.

i never laid claim to the whole of you

i never laid claim to the whole of you
only to the part that bore
the promise
of a golden man.

through all the days,
my thoughts of you
i filled
with the promise and the dream.
i closed my eyes to what is you.
i closed my eyes to what is real.

and she
with the dimpled charm,
does she lay claim
to any tiny part of you
which does exist,
which i can never know?

then
to her, i must
in honor
give you up.

for after all,
was there ever a golden man?

_________

20.5.66

11.20 p.m.

when my heart died in august, at age 19

it is august and i am here

how i wish i were not.
the nights are cold.
the mornings are hot.
the days are painful.

there is a garden and a full moon
once in a while, and a sampaguita bush.
but the garden is not ours.
there is no full moon tonight.
the sampaguita bush never blooms.

it is raining now.
icy water pouring down closed windows,
down unlighted doors.
angry wind dashing my fern leaves
against concrete walls.

the streets are empty
there are no stars
only a transparent film of limitless rain.
i press my hands against my eyes.
i must stop thinking for a while.

everybody has been kind.
they left the room to me
since five o'clock.
they have not minded
nor bothered
nor fussed.

except ka julia
whose kind heart could only give me
blessed treasures from her kitchen
a warm glass of milk
a boiled ear of corn.

i buried them both with my heart when it died.

__________

16.8.64

10 p.m.

it hurts somewhere

it hurts somewhere
deeply
a scar out of a million scars
painfully
a searing madness

in the recesses of some forbidden memory
it curls and gnaws and beats
the passion of sin
the fire of hell
breaking

far off i hear some air
born of the midnight rain
changing voices
adding volumes
salvation?

no.
only some half-forgotten dream
teasing
some love in september
transient

tragic.

___________

20.6.70

10.30 p.m.

Why is life so troubled for us you left behind?

The struggle goes on, for me you left behind, sometimes light and carefree, more often than not, heavy and laden with weighty problems and secret griefs. Sometimes, I am tempted to cross the street without minding the traffic, or take an overdose of sleeping pills, or simply get lost somewhere far far away where I can start anew with no thought for the past or the present. But it takes courage and strength to do those, and perhaps for all my fancy words, I'm still too much of a coward, too weak, without your presence.

I am deeply convinced that I am loser forever. People sympathize over the fact that I was always in black--for Tatay, for you, for Ate. And I am probably fated to wear black for other loved ones, if not in fact, then certainly in the realization of emotional loss, in the understanding that no man is ever really just one woman's.

E., R., G., V.--they are not the same anymore. They have changed much. In some ways I think we have all grown up though we never talk about it specifically; and even that, I sincerely believe, is a sign of growth. Exposed to different surroundings, faced with different problems, learning the lessons peculiar to each one alone, fighting a general but unspoken loneliness, seeking the answers to our very own personal doubts and uncertainties--can we help but grow?

We wake up each morning to the knowledge that there are no guidelines to living, that we have to seek our own shields, our own weapons, and that the future even then may not be ours to conquer. Every morning we have to caution ourselves against getting our feelings too involved--because we never know when things will end. And we don't want to get too hurt. As if there were ever such a choice.

At times like these, we have to put on a condescending smile and close the door to our inner selves or else we shall bleed red blood. You know how gullible we always were! Or perhaps, as Andres Cristobal Cruz warned me once, I must never make a mountain of despair out of a molehill of anguish.

Oh yes, the group still goes out. We laugh, we listen to jazz in some dim smoky place, we talk about life and existentialism and Indochina and all the latest news items over glasses of bitter, colored liquid, consume packs of cigarettes in cocktail lounges. There is fun all around, laughter, even a little flirting. But these do not comprise happiness, and since you left happiness has been a stranger to me.

From day to day, we discuss the personal inanities that govern our world, lend our energies to all the personal conflicts that continue to spice the time between the rising of the sun and its setting. The days roll by, like indistinguishable clouds, each one similar to the other--a continual waking and retiring, and sometime between, the tears shed for one's ineffectuality--while we cling on to songs like "MacArthur Park" and "Didn't We, Girl?" and recite T.S. Eliot and Rod McKuen like reckless, restless fools, as if our whole lives depended on how tightly we clung, as if our lives were nothing but vestiges of the reality we so desired way back in college.

You would have preferred that I stayed on where you found me, I know. Somehow, wherever you are now, I know you are a little surprised that I chose and preferred the sordid lures of the dirty city. I do want to go back where we met. But perhaps the time has passed for attrition. Perhaps the beauty that was then is past being recaptured.

I want to get out there, close to the earth and nature, close to you. But I also have a commitment I cannot turn my back on, somehow. Every day of my life, I am being torn both ways. Shall it be, for me, alienation or immersion? So many questions, and so many things to look for. Why can't life be simple for me, as it is for so many women I see walking around, holding on to their husbands' arms, possibly with an awakening growth around their middles and an ecstatic look in their eyes?

Every now and then, I wish to say "Hell!" to the world. What right has it to thwart so much in me that seeks completion? The search for a kindred soul, the need to defy everything that is hypocritical and phony in our society, the desire for nothing more than peaceful and quiet communion with the rains and the winds and the sun and all the elemental things in life, the dream of someday finding not anymore the meaning and value of life but simply a meaning and value for my life--these are desires that conflict, that cause so much anguish and pain.

Why must I, whom you left behind, wish now to go through the best and the worst only to realize that life is not a book to read nor a movie to watch nor a scenario script to memorize but an experience to live through; to give myself fully to every moment of my life and feel the heights as well as the depths; to see and sense the uncertainty in every step and yet take that step without hesitation, without rancor, without regrets; to know the tangibles as well as the intangibles and realize the difference between the two; to, as we progress through the years, build, demolish, and rebuild my own principles in life; to dream impossibles, raise problematics, size up existing orders, open doors, forge paths, search for truth, lose worlds, forsake dreams, and find them again; to continue to seek, despite recurring setbacks, "an ultimate meaning to one's existence that would make life worthwhile"; to battle with uncertainty and fear and the unknown and finally evolve a vision of living, pulsating, vital reality; to find ourselves after the grim years of growing up, suddenly integral--to really live.

Aldous Huxley says there are a million ways of arriving at salvation. Surely, each pathway is valid. And what matters to others if I choose to do it my way--to go through each moment with a smile of triumph, giving my whole self and soul to the movement of the time but keeping that one particle of myself to myself, still attached to the things that soothe if not cure, like poetry and art and beauty and literature and dreams...yes, dreams. What business do others have to preach to me their own equations for salvation?

Sad, isn't it? To be pulled in so many directions. To find no place carved out for me. To see so much that needs changing, to want to change them, and yet to know that one is neither big enough nor influential enough to do so. Then again, to want to leave the problems of change and activism to other people. To want nothing more than to lie down on dew-wet grass, close one's eyes, drink in the heat of the sun, the agony of inevitable twilight, the caress of the tropical wind against cheeks and hair. To walk barefoot in the park, holding somebody's hands, under a merciful summer rain, deep in the night.

Which one shall it be? Which one shall I choose?

Still missing you, even now.

___________________

18 September 1972

"A million coincidences"

Contemplating the little eccentricities of life as he sat (was it at a park in Paris?) and gazed at the wasted features of his schoolteacher who had been his first lover in his youth, the middle-aged man could not but marvel at "a million coincidences" that, on that particular day, brought them together once more in a communion of minds, if no longer of bodies and senses.

"A million coincidences." Was it not Aldous Huxley, in one of his earlier novels, who invested the phrase with the power and pathos of personal revelation? Who dares question that, indeed, a million coincidences must have brought us all together at this time in our lives, in this place, in this temper?

How many of the same books must we have read, philosophies we must have imbibed, tragedies we must have experienced, losses we must have overcome, options we must have chosen, for us to be bound in just this way in our earthly journey?

And we are nowhere near the end, either. Every single day, a million more coincidences will occur to gradually move us closer, you and I, to that crossroad where once more or never again or at last we shall connect, fellow travelers finding a brief consolation, or a fevered embrace, or a lasting meaning, to our individual journeys.

Do not call anywhere, any point, home. Refuse any promise of a final shelter, a true love. As long as we breathe, there will await us an infinity of possibilities, probabilities. The secret is to keep on feeling, growing, learning from each coincidence that ties us, whether loosely or tightly, in temporary communion.

I believe in miracles, in that divine intelligence that directs every little movement in our universe. For at the end of the day, by whatever name we may wish to call the Almighty and whatever gender we may ascribe to God, it is still those million coincidences, each one transfiguring all the moments of our existence, that cannot but assure us that, yes, there awaits, however brief, an exhilarating tomorrow.

Even if it's only in our minds and our dreams.
--NBT

_____________________________________
"Nightcap," The Evening Paper, 27 June 1996