conveniences essa guierra
Conveniences by Essa Guierra
Copyleft Š Essa Guierra 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
conveniences essa guierra
1. I called Madeleine a few minutes ago and she didn’t even bother picking up her phone. I am somewhere in Makati, getting hammered with a bottle of cuatro cantos I bought for personal consumption. She, on the other hand, is lost and doesn’t want to be found—at least by me. Metro Manila has seventeen segments spanning over 600 square kilometers of decrepit space and mayhem. With at least 10 million souls languishing at its belly, it’s pretty much impossible to actually pinpoint where Madeleine might be right now. If there was a demiurgic broken line connecting our specific positions (like what they have in children’s activity books and maps of constellations) it would have been stuck somewhere in traffic, or lost in the chaos of transiences—or she just wouldn’t let that broken lines from me find her.
But what’s important was that Madeleine was elsewhere—faraway, distant. The distance between us was excruciating at first (I learned that after spending what seems like suspended time with her), but I also learned how to just embrace this yearning. She promised she’d talk to me soon. But I am starting to feel the faults and cracks in promises—the prelude to losing faith. The spaces between us would fold back to zero. Similar to the distance before we met. Then. Absence. The absence of distance constitutes proximity. Or at least, separation.
2. I dialed her number four more times just to make sure that her phone isn’t just unattended. I placed the calls at random intervals. Madeleine checks for her phone at least every thirty minutes and I am fully aware of that. The first time we were together and her batteries were dead, she couldn’t stop talking about not being able to get her worried Mother’s texts. But as sure as I was, the phonecalls were left unanswered. Maybe she’s staying at her Mother’s place, eliminating the need to check her phone every now and then. Maybe she left her phone somewhere unattended—her apartment, at school, this new bar in Morato, or her boyfriend’s apartment— anywhere is really a guess.
Madeleine always finds herself in the most random of places— mostly unplanned—and this specific act of aimlessness was what made our lives cross in the first place. I have the free spirit inside of her to thank for that. And on the side, maybe the convergences of the universe’s pulse, for providing the conveniences of confluence and context.
3. For all intents and purposes, her real name isn’t even Madeleine. I called her Madeleine the whole time I was with her. And as if she was just playing along in this unspoken game, she finds nothing wrong with it. Although Madeleine sounds like a reference from a children’s show running a few years back, the name recalls no further endearment. Similar to everything that has transpired then, her new name only implies convenience.
If a new universe is birthed every time we meet someone new, I don’t want it to be tainted with spoils from our previous worlds. At the same time, although subconsciously at first, I was thinking about the faults that would have happened once I register her real name in my mind. That weekend reeked of possibilities. And possibilities, however pure their intentions might be, are still unwritten stories just waiting to be actualized—and ended. Possibilities dress-up both as inferno and paradiso. And if these possibilities turn bitter and gray, at least I wouldn’t register regret with her real name—I’ll only remember Madeleine.
4. The funny thing is, most of my friends from her side of the city were aware of my spontaneous skirmish with Madeleine . They have become first hand witnesses to our preliminary forays during that wee-morning state of inebriation. But also like alcohol, euphoria would soon be washed up and one must face the complications tied up with the morning after. As soon as the bitter taste of beer was replaced with churning stomach acids, doubt sets in, flushing from all sides of the room we slept in, but most importantly, emanating from her side of the bed.
I tried asking her what's happening. We spoke that night with murmurs and kisses. I never got a clear reply from her but the will to just keep what's going on between us then was savagely clear. Escape. During the long commute home, there was nothing left between us but long silences. Although we skipped the night away locked tightly in each other's arms we were slowly pulled apart and escorted back into awareness by the lies we keep on committing. I've never felt more safe and at the same time, vulnerable, than during my brief encounter with her, and that's just me being perfectly honest.
5. Madeleine woke me up the next morning with a peck on the cheek. "I need to go home na," she whispers unto my half-asleep ears.
I tried reaching for my phone to check for the time but it was stuck under our friend’s pillow. There we lie, motionless, in a room with no windows. With no natural lighting, we were robbed of our concept of time. It could have been anywhere between two in the morning, or five in the afternoon three days later. On the other hand, time could have stopped—and I’m quietly wishing for this possibility. In the background, the air conditioning churns out a calm yet distracting wail that muffles what we were trying to say.
This is the sound of monotony. Which is closely related to the sound of constancy. Although I am fully aware that all would be lost once we leave that safe space we built, I can't urge myself to argue with her about staying. Time would ultimately restart itself into its proper movement. But similar to the conveniences that tied our lives briefly together, it is also convenience that demanded her to stay with me for a bit more. There are no buses to Manila during this time, I said in an effort to convince her. After responding with her quick usual scoff, we were back to being locked together, trying to sleep everything away, attempting to freeze time, as if reassuring each other of the promise of the new day and of going home and of getting rid of this escape. Her body spoke of possibilities. Or at least, of lying about possibilities.
6. I am quite aware that everything starts in perfection. And it’s all downhill starting from there. A brief moment of suspended history, a metaphorical spark if we presume, has the ability to send off a chilling sensation that spreads chaos, or at least change. Beginnings constitute promises—at some point even lies—of all the things that are quietly waiting for us. Like ripple in still water, the curving movement of molecules reorganize themselves into a single focal point—a vacuum of singularity where everything started. When a friend introduced me to Madeleine the previous night, the band onstage was already on their final song. The party was winding itself to a close, and there we were, at front, attempting small talks as if following the unwritten rules of social etiquette.
If not for the conveniences provided by that night, our conversation would have ended once that bar in West Avenue closed down: we won’t be looking for food at three in the morning in Timog; we won’t be having more beer in that old run-down snack-house at Sct. Tobias; and most of all we wouldn’t find ourselves in an overcrowded bed with three other friends in a small town located four hours away. But perfection would soon reveal its first cracks. Thin lines would soon crawl for its way as if trying to escape the focal point of singularity. Pockmarks turn to jagged edges, and like the sound of crashing glass and blaring horns, the crescendo breaks into overture. The universe would then rid itself of its folds and creases, pulling us back into our separate worlds. Totality is given the responsibility to shift back to normalcy.
7. We talked of meaningless things during the bus ride back to Manila: Electrical wires, Smoke, fog, and smog, planning a trip to Makiling. With her body’s weight shifted towards mine, I felt a sense of calmness coming from her. A few minutes later and she was already asleep. She deserved that rest. After a weekend of spontaneity, it is only rational for her to at least crave for a few minutes or so of sleep before she picks up her life from where she left it—a buwelo before zipping out. The little field trip provided a much needed pause for our separate lives.
But however tangled—and mangled—they might have become, going home provides an inclination on the possibility that our separate worlds are well, separated.
I do not belong to her world.
And she—no matter how much I would have wanted—does not belong in mine.
I woke her up when the buildings were starting to crawl towards the heavens. “We’re almost here.” She stared blankly at my face and smiled. I smiled back and gripped her hand: tight enough to echo my fears of what would happen next, but light enough so it wouldn’t hurt her. Time starts moving again.
In a few moments, atoms are back to their regular programming and quantum particles would return to their usual spins and charges. Our shared world would split into two distinct and separate worlds. There was suddenly an urgent need to restructure pronouns. Us decays into you and I.
We separated with a farewell kiss in Cubao. It’s a little bit funny how these farewell kisses work: they won’t be farewell kisses if there lies a possibility of meeting again. It’s even funnier thinking about how I don’t really fare well with farewells—especially when there is no intention of saying goodbye in the first place.
8. Shortly after separating, I was drinking beer at her usual spot with common friends from her side of the city. Madeleine would be nowhere near. Our friends ask me what happened after our group left that bar at West Ave. A few stares from my companions during the weekend and they would tell our friends that nothing really interesting happened. The moment they asked me for the specifics —about what happened between me and Madeleine that night—is the moment I try changing the topic. “Do you guys remember how so-and-so got so wasted he tried picking up a fight with one of the band guys?” I said, treading lightly along the lines of conversation. A few waving of the hand and imitating how so-and-so bulked up his shoulders and flicked his forelocks sideways would have them laughing along. And I was right. A few minutes would pass and the group would ultimately forget about asking me what happened between me and Madeleine. That story is not supposed to be told here. At least for me, honestly believing that with an incomplete, the story is still on its draft form and the ending still subject to change.
9. The reason why I found myself drinking beer that specific night is that I was hoping that Madeleine would be there. She wasn’t returning my calls what more my messages. The rules of convenience dictate that the pattern in which people move makes them predictable. Deep inside, I was rooting for Madeleine to be there. And that was only logical because she usually chooses this spot amongst the hundreds of bars sprawled over the city. Five bottles in and she still wasn’t there. The bar closes and I am left disappointed. I rode the late night bus back to my side of the city. The most difficult thing to think about then, was how Madeleine was elsewhere in the city. Everything in the city seems connected— buses, taxis, trains, people—but being in the same city as her only made me feel more distant. I sent Madeleine a text message before sleeping: “at least text me when you receive this.”
I woke up the next morning with nothing short of a reply.
10. Although I was hoping for her to be there that night, I didn’t even know what to do once Madeleine shows up. Do I confront her about what happened during that weekend. Or at least clarify things up. Memories gently fog up like a dimly lit windowpane during the coldest nights of December. And yearning starts to fill the spaces left blank by forgetting. The distance between us doesn’t contribute positively to this as well.
If cosmic intervention permits—with a little dash of convenience— I’m pretty sure that I would be left speechless if hypothetical Madeleine suddenly shows up in this hypothetical bar. Not wanting to spoil this hypothetical moment with eery silence, I would approach her, running, and hug her, hold her tightly with my arms, and whisper: I would gladly be your escape again if you needed. She might not even react to this. At the surprise of most of my hypothetical friends present there, hypothetical Madeleine would push me away and say in actual audible words what I have only surmised from our previous encounter.
“What you wanted that time was obvious kasi, I just gave you what you wanted.”
The hypothetical world would then crash back into the oblivion of reality. And Madeleine—hypothetical or not—still wouldn’t show up.
11. A few weeks would pass and I’d be sitting in a bar somewhere in Quezon City. From the corner of my eyes, I’d catch a glimpse of someone whose face looks quite familiar. I’d tilt my head towards her direction to get a proper view. She notices me and looks back. Feigning innocence, I’d slowly shift my head and take a long sip out of my beer. If only for a brief moment, I would be quite surprised with the calmness I would feel upon recognizing her face. I would squint my eyes in an attempt to remember. It’s getting late and I’m getting drunk. She looks exactly like her but I know she isn’t Madeleine—not anymore.
12. Apparently, some stories are written and finished without a clear ending. Or not all stories follow the plot line where everything ends with a graceful bow with the audience clapping along. A story is looped on repeat like a broken record. The ears are slowly numbed into disfamiliarity. After a few repetitions the start shifts into endings and ending shifts into beginnings. Defamiliarization works this way. And although remembering counters forgetting, the more we remember, the more details we forget, we change. In the end, we paint memories as how we remember convenience. A few nights ago I was just drinking beer in an unfamiliar bar at West Avenue. The band on-stage was playing an upbeat song that provided what remains of the two a.m crowd with music in the dance floor. Lights flicker in random patterns of red and blue. At a distance, half-away from the moving bodies, but half-near to listen and nod in unison with the crowd, was a girl.
13. Approaching her, time grinds into a halt. Similar to how certain events that hold cosmic significance dance itself into preludes. If that scene was part of a film, I would surely remember it as happening in black and white. A chiaroscuro of fork-roads and alternate universes would be created with every step taken. Vignettes of all sorts would paint this moment in a million possible scenarios. The collapsing distance between us breathes out possibilities. I tapped her lightly on the shoulder: Hi, I’m Tony. Her lips slowly rearrange itself from an emergency room flat line into the brightest crescents of the moon. “I’m Danielle,” she says.
14. “No, you are Madeleine.”
Essa Guierra is a human being