Memento Mori

Remember death. In ancient Rome, a servant whispers this phrase to his triumphant general in
the midst of praises and high regards from his people. Killjoy as it sounds but the servant is
tasked to do this honorable job to pull back his general from giving in to his earthly delusions.
Artists Thomas Smith, Juan de Valdez, and Frans Hals, to name some, used skulls and bones as
tropes for this haunting phrase in various artworks especially in painting and in sculpture. During
the Victorian period, in line with the emergence of cameras, families belonging to the upper class
are willing to shell out just to bring their departed member back to life for a few moments. In
photographs, at least. The memory encapsulated in its borders is a reminder, both timely and
timeless, that death will knock on everyone’s doors, doing what he does best, then leave kernels
of memory on the doormat of those who will remember.

After all, memento mori is but a reminder to contemplate and to examine ourselves while going
with the flow of our life’s monotonous itinerary. Through our memory, we should learn; it
should steer us away from repeating a mishap; otherwise, it is like riding a bicycle at a high
speed and sliding a stick in the front wheel’s spoke, then blame Isaac Newton. Most of the time,
George Santayana’s “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it” never
sounded so convincing.

In times of silences, conversation-wise, remembering can be a lifesaver. When it is my turn to

share a story, I knock the listeners out with full details. Downside: people think I am lying when
I say I do not remember. I am condemned to remember then became obsessed with it. Having a
total recall of events—the vividness, taste and smell even, and the highly saturated details—also
relive the emotions, still intact, of that particular memory. Whenever we encounter a painful
memory, we ought to put it back to the shelf. But that painful memory can come in handy when
facing a similar situation.

Upon knowing that she has a soft spot for books, I messaged her on Facebook to visit a friend's
secondhand bookstore. For weeks, we find ourselves talking every night without realizing it is
already 2 in the dead of the night. Being born under the sign of Leo, I indulge in discussing
anything under my sun and she, being an Aquarius, has all the ears for stories, including my self-
centered leitmotif.

When she is at the limbo of unemployment, I asked her if we could explore bookstores, as well
as museums and souvenir shops in Intramuros. She will agree but only if I hold myself
accountable if anything bad happens to her. Moreover, she told her bestfriend that she is
spending the day with a stranger—the vagabond irregular student they see once a week in their
Sports Journalism class—and relay our last whereabouts, my profile to NBI in case she went
missing.

But on a serious note, she told me her freedom is only until 6 p.m..

In the last minutes of Pacquiao-Bradley II slugfest, I texted her that I am on my way to Doroteo
Jose Station. This is the first time that we will meet not as classmates but as friends sharing the
same interest in books, arts, astrology…and cats!

For the record, she is a minimalist: clad with plain black sleeveless top and a pair of skinny
jeans, with a black headband keeping her untrimmed hair at bay, revealing her face to top the
"nene" look. She is a woman of few words, consistent with her avatar presence, but also the
woman of thousand laughter; she is willing to step out of her comfort zone to discover new
things. Like a reporter, she leaves the talking to the interviewee then jab you with follow-up
questions. The way she carries herself and most especially her overall simplicity becomes my
dominant impression of her.

While everyone is rejoicing Pacquiao's victory in their houses, we take advantage of people's
absence in Avenida. On a daily basis, every corner of Avenida is blasted with upbeat medleys,
which are actually remixes of local and foreign pop songs, while shoppers rummage through
mini-malls, electronic stores, even sex toys stands, and thrift stores that are like hermit crabs
living in the shell of old cinemas which once gave Avenida the reputation as the "mini-Vegas"—
others even claim as "Newer York"—that left an indelible mark in Santa Cruz, Manila as the
showcase of civilization. One must endure the spirits of sweet corn and dried squid fluttering
from small grills, also the smog excreted from vehicles that snail on the avenue’s stretch.

But this time, the streets are cleared just for us, I thought.
We head to Mang Greg's bookstore in Cartimar Recto, initially a vinyl/CD shop; it is the same
bookstore which I had introduced to her blockmates a couple of months ago. Unfortunately,
Mang Greg is not around. Most of the stores are shut with its roll-down metal gates as well.
Good thing he always leaves his linoleum tables and monoblock chairs in the narrow hallway.
We set it up and rest for a while. Excited to have a much more fruitful talk, I brought out three
books: Vanessa Diffenbaugh’s Language of Flowers, Robert Frost’s Signet Edition of A Boy’s
Will and North of Boston, both mass market paperbacks; and Jane Austen’s Persuasion, trade
paperback. I give her the books for being a good company.

When we entered Quiapo Church, people are raising their palm leaves. The priest is already on
the aisle with his acolytes, rattling the aspergillum. The mass is already on its closing rites.
Quiapo Church echoes the drone of the rustle as everyone is singing their loudest praises,
clapping as if Jesus is on his mule again, passing through the hand-held arch of dried palm
leaves. "Did it burn you?" she said to me while droplets descend on us. If we did not enter the
church, we would not know it is Palm Sunday.

After museum-hopping and reminiscing our OJT days in Manila Bulletin the previous year, we
decided to visit Books From Underground. During the weekdays, this underpass is an artery that
swells with people that come from its three entry points—a vantage point for this bookstore that
disrupted the monotony of DiY stalls that sell slippers and shoes, t-shirts and jeans, secondhand,
gadgets even, and accessories.

The moment we descend the stairs, most of the stalls are still covered with waterproof veneer,
bulging with rearranged display cabinets, barricaded with plywood, and garlanded with chains;
not to mention, an unclothed half-bodied mannequin with a hyperrealistic face is placed at the
corner probably to startle passers-by in their peripheral vision.

The underpass lacks any sign of life except AJ, one of the bookstore owners, and his mother who
just arrived and are about to open to bookstore. Upon spotting Jessica Zafra's Twisted V in one
of the towering piles of pre-loved books, while chilling on a yellow monoblock chair, she asked
how much, then handed a P100 bill to AJ.

"I like Jessica Zafra not only because she writes so well but her tone. It is like she is raising her
eyebrows to you," she told us.
5 o’ clock strikes at the City Hall's clock tower.

We said goodbye, shook our hands tight. I watch her pass through the guards at the LRT Central
Terminal and leave.

The war-torn walls of Intramuros are primary witnesses to us becoming accustomed to each
other day after day: either we sit on this spot we claimed in front of Manila Bulletin while
cherishing the Manila-bay scented breeze, then make fun of raunchy couples around us; or we
remain tranquil at this porch, located between a restaurant and an art gallery at Muralla street,
which is a witness to countless men and women exchanging vows and champagne rains. Chained
to the heart of the porch is a swing that perfectly holds our butts while having a late afternoon
tête-à-tête. Nearby, a 4ft. tall cage houses a couple of Mynas that demand freedom but
nonetheless sing the words that fall in their basin. Also, there is a well, probably as old as the
walls, hardly reflecting our faces; lest Sadako might climb from its mouth and toss our coins and
our wishes back to us for being noisy.

This serene, isolated place is what we needed to regroup and to exchange ideas when we find
ourselves dealing with life’s daily challenges; it is comparable to Burnett's secret garden except
that pesky mosquitoes always attack us when sunlight no longer heaves through the wound of
vines, snaking from the metal spires.

She, being an air sign, has a way of fanning the embers of my will to live; not that we both have
interest in Astrology but there is something about this woman who is obsessed with stars and cats
and only being with her, the celestial bodies are waiting to be reassembled. Moreover, she
introduced herself as someone who tends to forget most of the time, yet she is the one who
pointed out that memory is my strength. Why yes, her arrival is my departure from my
monotonous life.

I am happy that this certain BPO Company has hired her. It became my habit to wait for her
shift’s end. I do not mind even if the trips always lead to Jerusalem. The moment I hop on the
bus, Ayala-bound, I can already feel the juvenile excitement rattling inside me.
After burning a couple of hours window shopping in Glorietta until its 9 p.m. closing time, I
spend the remaining hour at a vacant table in Starbucks outside while smoking and placing 25%
full coffee cups, tissues, ashtrays and whatever leftovers on my table as props. I also thank God
that a former classmate of mine also works in the same building as hers so I have someone to
talk to while smoking. Just like the old times in Antonio.

From where I am sitting, I have a clear view of the entrance. I find her face from people coming
and going for an hour. When 10 o’ clock strikes, I always hide behind the posts then sneak and
cover her eyes.

One night, she came out of that automatic glass doors in her white sleeveless shirt zipped at the
back, paired with black slacks, and round glasses that magnify her cheeks. I do not know if it is
just the Cobra I drank hours earlier but I find myself in aristea mode. It is finally time to risk the
line. Whatever happens, I am invincible.

A black Honda Civic is nearing us when we are crossing the road. Being the protective one, I
find myself sliding my hands from her shoulders to her palms, then pulled her back as if that car
will hit us. Obviously, the car has no intent and is barely 30 km/h. And in the darkened
underpass/ I thought oh God, my chance has come at last/ But then a strange fear gripped me
and I just couldn't ask. Imaginary Morrissey suddenly poops on my shoulder singing this line
from their famous song. I thought she will pull away. But she holds it anyway, locking grasps
until we part.

After sixteen months of this relationship, we have been through the boulevard where other
couples had come across: stopovers and checkpoints that give pop examination. Obviously, we
have received a final grade of 5 with no buts and reconsideration, in any form. How we took our
separate ways, let me just say some guy named Albert Camus is smoking his cigarettes in his
grave, giving the I told you so look. It is the petty arguments that have the greatest magnitude.
No longer we are traversing on the same wavelength.
As much as I do not want to resort to clichés, whatever we had has to end despite the good times
spent. Of course, I convinced her for another swing but as a result, whatever attempt of patching
up and negotiations is futile; it is only tantamount to more fissures until what is left of the
foundations is reduced into rubble. When life says no, it is an absolute NO. If Immanuel Kant is
still alive, I bet he would be the first to slap you and force you to say his name several times until
you get what he means. It is the end of the line. That is how things fall into place.

This is the thing: when one leaves us, it is the arrival—the same memory that once let loose
endorphins in our system—that we indulge in unreeling. And it sucks that it all ended. But what
sucks even more is that we tend to follow the grain of hope because we still believe. Our hearts
still believe. Some are lucky with their nth chance; some of these lucky ones only peed on it. But
one thing is for sure: some things are not really for us, meaning there are other things which are
for us up ahead and all it takes to leave the boring cat-mouse setup. You have been happy at
some point in your life even before that certain person made a cameo. Even my most nihilistic
friend has found his happiness in his own nihilist world.

Time really has a way of healing and it is to just keep on moving, even if we are limping. This is
much true. One may have moved on but one cannot take the first step without learning from
memory, tied to your whole being all these time.