wrestling with love, like water, as you drown

1
It is nearly midnight and the five-year-old boy lies awake in bed. He is crying noiselessly and will continue to do so until he falls asleep. This has been going on for ten nights now, since witnessing his grandfather's funeral.

He is not grieving over the death of the loud and grouchy old man he barely knew. He is mortified by the knowledge that someday he too will die, lie in a tight coffin and be burried in the ground.

2
When the editor got to his office, a young man was waiting for him.

The young man was seated opposite his secretary's desk. Chatting animatedly, they noticed him only when he was close enough to hear what they were talking about—movies, apparently.

The editor knew the young man was waiting for him because, like many young men—and sometimes, though rarely, women—who came to see him, he carried a big brown envelope.

The editor had a lot of respect for these aspiring writers. He rarely admired their talent, but he always did their dedication, discipline and perseverance to finish and polish their beloved novel or collection of stories. Still, he would quickly dismiss them after taking their manuscript and promising to read it.

And when he was not in his office, it was Loraine's job to send them on their way. So, now, he looked at her for some sort of explanation.

"I..." she began, then just bit her lip and looked down.

The editor noticed the young man's good looks and that was all the explanation he needed.

3
The boy is eleven. It is the morning after he went up on stage with his mother and father to receive his 1st place award in an art competition in school. With the door of his room slightly open, he wakes up to his father's voice. His father is in the living room, in front of the TV while talking to his mother.

"Can you believe that?" his father was saying. "Can he even draw a dog?"

The boy tries to go back to sleep, but he can't. Once his eyes are opened, his mind would always be flooded with beautiful scenes, forms and colors, which he will never again paint or draw.

4
"Have we met?" the editor said, closing the door behind him.

"No, sir. May I sit down?" The young man exuded confidence and self-assurance that could only come with money, education or accomplishment, if not age and experience.

He didn't want to admit it and he had no clue why, but the editor felt intimidated. "Yes, of course."

The young man looked around his office, at the several two- to three-feet stacks of manuscripts, on the his desk, on two other desks, and on the floor, waiting to be read.

Feeling himself gaining some upper hand, the editor said, "So, what do you have for me?"

"A biography, sir," said the young man,"of my father."

The editor tried to think of a celebrity or public figure who might bear a resemblance to the young man in front of him. A few minutes passed.

The young man cleared his throat.

"Sorry. Your father was?"

"Daniel Alfredo Ruiz."

"Daniel Alfredo Ruiz." He studied the young man's face again.

"I am his clone."

5
The boy is thirteen and it is a Saturday. Like most boys his age, he spends almost the entire day out in the street playing football.

Though he is not very tall, he is quick on his feet and has good reflexes.

And he could kick. The older kids even joke that his legs are bionic.

When the boy comes home for lunch, his mother notes how dark his skin has become. His father, who has never watched him play, says, "Is he even good? All he ever does is stand around."

6
"So your father told you all about his childhood?"

"He didn't. I remembered... saw it in my dreams."

"Ah, yes. I hear that happens with clones."

"At first I thought they were just regular dreams, dreams of myself--it was myself and my face that I was seeing after all. And in dreams, no one really talks, no one really calls out a name, though people can communicate with each other and you know what is going on. These dreams being vivid and my being able to remember them clearly when I'd wake up did not make me suspect anything. I only began to realize that these were my father's memories when I was around fourteen years old, and in my dreams I--or who I thought was I--got older and began to look more like my father, how he presently looked, the way he walked and talked, the lines on his face."

7
Through luck or good sense—or maybe both—the man never married any of the five to seven women he had introduced to his family at birthday parties, christenings and reunions. He knew that his family—his brother, sisters, mother, aunts, uncles and cousins—felt that it was a failure on his part, but he just found this amusing. He had enough good sense to realize that he was too emotionally wounded to live with a woman for a long time.

8
"How much did these memories of your father's childhood, particularly the unpleasant events, affect you emotionally and psychologically, especially when you were growing up?"

"No more than what I saw in movies and on TV, or the stories I read in books. Fortunately. Not in any way close to how they affected my father."

"You're the first clone to write about the life of your genetic parent, from memories genetically passed on to you. I have to admit that that's quite novel. Even if your father is not a famous personality, I think we have something here, something marketable."

9
The boy is now a man. A father, though not a husband.

At the nursery, he cradles his newborn son, cloned from his own flesh and blood. His eyes well up, as he vows to make a good man.

1

It all began with an itch, this love. An itch that became a discomfort, then a pain like an ingrown pimple.

It turned out be an infection.

'It's sty,' said the young pretty doctor, after visually examining the inside of his left eyelid and feeling the outside with her delicate fingers that smelled of isoprophyl alcohol. The rest of her smelled of perfume, floral with citrusy notes. And with her face only inches from his, he was holding his breath while his pulse quickened.

'Sty?'

'Kulite.'

'Erm... kulite?'

Sensing his confusion, she added, 'It doesn't always manifest as a sore outside the eyelid. Sometimes the sore is on the inside, like in your case.'

Even as a kid, he had never believed for even a minute that kulite was the result of being a peeping tom-he had peered into his fair share of holes in walls and slightly-open doors but had never even once gotten the mark of shame on his eyelid. Still, he couldn't help but blush in front of the young pretty doctor.

Again, she seemed to notice this. 'It's just a simple bacterial infection,' she said. 'Nothing to worry about.'

She was short, probably no taller than five feet and two inches, but her ample hips and buttocks stretched her blue jeans. Though he was mostly agnostic--with pantheistic inclinations whenever he smoked pot or dropped acid--he thanked god that her white doctor's coat came down only until a bit below her waist.

"I'll just prescribe you antibiotic eyedrops," she said.

That's it? he thought, as she wrote down the prescription. Yesterday he had been worried about going blind or even dying, but now he was disappointed that it was not anything serious. He didn't want to go yet. He wanted more time in the hands of the young pretty doctor, even if it meant more tests-blood, urine, x-ray, MRI, pap smear or anal probe.

Fortunately, she said, 'Come back in a five days for a follow-up.'


2

It turned out that she wasn't really a doctor. Not yet, at least, technically, according to the Professional Regulation Commission, the Philippine Medical Association and other authorities on the matter. He found out about this when he was back in the hospital for a follow-up.

The soreness inside his left eyelid was gone, and actually felt better than ever, but he was back.

"Where's Dr Medina?" he said.

"She's not here," said the receptionist.

"What time will she be in? I can come back when she's here."

"She can't see you."

"Why?"

"She's just an intern. She's assigned to another department now."

As he looked around for somewhere to sit, he noticed for the first time the other patients going in and out of the hospital, coming to and from their appointments and tests, bandaged in various body parts, some in wheelchairs or crutches, others walking unaided but slowly and with obvious difficulty. Though this did not give him some perspective, it was not a total waste. It gave him an idea.

"So," he said, as he turned back to the receptionist. "What department is she in now?"

The receptionist eyed him suspiciously, but only for a minute. A young, fairly attractive—albeit odd—young man asking about a pretty intern—anyone could see what it was about.

"Urology."

He thanked her and quickly went on his way. Not to the urology department, not yet. Neither was he on his way to buy chocolates and flowers—it wasn't his style. He intended to see the pretty young medical intern in a few days, after he'd acquired a urological condition.


3

He was happy to know that he didn't need to have a kidney problem to see a urologist. Gonorrhea was enough.

While he unzipped his pants, he was worried about either of these two happening: 1) he would get a boner (what with the pretty doctor's face only a couple of inches from his exposed manhood) and she would be offended; or 2) he would be so nervous that he would shrink to the size of a peanut. But when she began to swab samples of discharge from the tip of his penis, he was turned on and nervous at the same time, so arousal and shrinkage cancelled each other out.

Feeling confident, he said, 'Dr Medina.'

'Yes?' She stood up and smeared pasty pale-yellow liquid from the cotton bud to a glass slide.

He pulled up his boxers and pants. 'I'd like to see you again.'

She took off her latex gloves and met his gaze. 'I'll be in Gynecology next week.'

I found a cool place to chill,  
like Paris.  
In your kiss
the lip-smacking goodness  
of Krispy Kreme donuts and crispy pork belly, combined,  
but without the guilt,  
cholesterol   
and calories.  
In your cupboard  
I found a bottle of 80 proof bourbon-- 
I hope you don't mind  
if I pour myself a glass  
or two.

 on my head.
You have some on your
cunt.
I said, "It's because you use that a lot."
You said, "Does that mean you use
your head the most?"
"No," I said.
"It's because I don't have hair
on my heart."

In 30 minutes
I refreshed my inbox 10 times,
checked my Facebook 5 times,
looked at my mobile 8 times.
Then I realized I didn't know what
I was waiting for.
I wasn't expecting anything important--
e-mail, text message,
comment or confirmation.

Maybe I was
subconsciously
hoping for enlightenment,
an epiphany,
something to help me get through the boredom
and loneliness that comes
with this whole business
of breathing in and out,
eating and shitting,
fucking and fighting,
creating and destroying.

So what are you waiting for?
Call.
Text.
Comment.
Poke.

 

the left side of the bed,
I prefer the right.
You lie on your left side,
I on the right,
so every night we have
our backs to each other.
You once said this means we're not
communicating with each other.
I say, how difficult would it be
to learn to sleep on the other side?

to get rid of it,
since
the beginning.
We took vitamins,
tried
to drown it
in all-natural herbal remedies,
and poison it
with noxious-smelling concoctions.

But it persists.

There are good days,
I admit,
when it seems to have
disappeared
and we don't even think
about it.
But
on bad days
every turn of the head,
every gesture,
every touch that's meant
to be loving
would cause it to leave its ugly marks--
when we're sleeping,
when we're in the car,
when we're out having dinner.

I guess
we just have to
give up,
admit defeat,
face the truth that it's
not going away.
So let's just be
happy together
in spite of
our itchy scalp and flakiness.

the white space
the empty hall
the venue

You're
the ceremony
the party
the event

talked to her,
accepted the job,
thrown a punch,
hopped in the car,
asked her out,
answered the phone,
opened the door,
bought the ticket,
held her hand,
stayed a while longer,
arrived on time,
passed the test,
told her you loved her,
everything would have been
different,
better.
And you
would have missed out on
the more life-enriching,
character-building,
soul-strengthening
experience of looking back
with regret
and ultimately
acceptance,
the realization that
nothing is important
and everything is valid.





-------------
Reposted because I added a few lines.