One Ever After

Heart Lore

In a sea of people, my eyes will always search for you.

Why does love have to be complicated? Penguins have demonstrated that it isn't, or doesn't have to be so.

A prevalent lore says that during the breeding season, the male penguin picks out a mate from groups called rookeries which can include thousands of these waddling sea-birds. I don't know how the feathered suitor can tell the difference. He must have fixed a steady gaze on a certain female penguin and said, blinking, Such a distinctively large head, adorably perched on a short neck.

Or he could have expressed his feelings in a calm, well-bred penguinese gab that sounds like an old car failing to start, Utterly lovely. The upright posture is elegant. Or in quiet admiration of her legs and webbed feet that are set far back on her elongated body, he may have turned to her in wordless appeal.
  
At this warm approval, pleasure must have pulled at the would-be fiancee's beak, but she'll pretend she has not noticed.

After making a choice, the male goes and finds five smooth stones and, one by one, lays them at her feet - perhaps, like a nervous first-timer in a singles bar, tapping his flippers against his streamlined body. Although penguins don't sweat, he must have felt a bead forming on his plumes. 

The would-be fiancee must have forgotten to breathe when this happens. She could have moved casually away, with no visage of eagerness and gaws, Hmmm, noncommitally, but with a sweet laugh. It's all she can do, not to jump up and dash toward his tuxedoed handsomeness.

At that moment, I can imagine that they will fall into rapt quietude like onlookers at a seance awaiting the appearance of some divine spectre. The female tries to honk, but she finds there is no sound when she opens her beak. Then, after a suitable period of silence, a glance between them will convey their mutual satisfaction. Beguiling him with a smile, she gaks, I accept, in as ladylike a tone as she can manage.

The backward-facing fleshy spines that line the inside of the suitor's mouth are parched, but he manages to squawk an enthusiastic response. Great! 

The male will angle his head toward his mate after which they'll toboggan on their bellies happily, using their flippers and feet to slide their bodies forward along the ice. 

Time will loop in on itself from this day forward, when they first meet and fall in love, and life will be measured out in One Ever After.

Sag-In: Legend Of The Banana

Heart Lore

My bedtime stories didn't come from books, but from tales told by Lil' Boy. I miss their innocence. Their charm. Here is one that I love and remember.

On me your voice falls, as they say love should, 

like an enormous, 'Yes.' - Philip Larkin

When the world was still new, spirits and ghosts roamed everywhere, Dadee starts, staring up at the ceiling. My eyes get big. With riveted attention, I am hanging on his every word. I don't have the breath to say anything.

A brave and beautiful young girl named Raya would always search for these spirits, he says in a crisp voice. One day, she heard someone call her name, 'Raya!' When she looked up, she saw a handsome young man.

My mouth drops open. Dadee's voice lowers into a whisper. His name was Sag-in. He confessed that he had fallen in love with Raya.

What happens next? I ask with unusual patience. They got married and had a child! Dadee answers with a smile in his voice. And they lived happily ever after, I applaud with a grin.

A gesture of Dadee's hand negates the thought, No. He gives an uneasy laugh. But Sag-in knew that his time on earth was short-lived and that he had to return to the spirit world soon. I watch Dadee make a shrugging gesture with his hands. Ohh, I sigh, my heart twisting in a braid of disappointment and sorrow. My smile stiffens and dissolves.

But he was going to leave a part of him behind, he says consolingly. Raya saw a bleeding heart on the ground. My heart must have missed a beat. I'm scared stiff.

Dadee continues with a straight face. She planted it and took care of it until one day, long green leaves sprouted from the grave. Soon, the tree bore a fruit that is shaped like a heart. Raya lovingly caressed it believing that this could be Sag-in's heart until it slowly opened and long golden fruits sprouted from it.

I squint in an effort to understand. My eyebrows bunched in a scowl, I ask raising my voice, So that's where we get the banana? From Sag-in's heart? 

Dadee simply continues in a creaky voice. She peeled and bit the fruit and heard Sag-in's voice telling her, 'Yes, Raya, it is my heart. Take care of this plant. Its trunk and leaves will give you shelter and clothing. The heart and fruit will be your food. And when you sleep at night, I will stand and watch by your window. I will stay by your side forever.' 

Dadee's voice trails off into a mumble as the night outside, vast and menacing, clamors at our windows and seeps through the cracks of the house. 

By the story's end, I have drifted into sleep and abandoned myself to my dreams.

Talking Clock

The Hands Of Time

Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind. - Hawthorne

Never have I been so conscious of time - of that which remains to me, of its passing, its tides - than now. It's my tenth year as manager in a high technology center. Work, it seems to me, has been a juggling act, a series of balls and blades and flaming torches to be kept in the air for as long as it takes. 

In the last couple of years, my Pyramid talking clock has been my wingman. Primly perched atop my desk console, it announces the time as I arrive. It.Is.Seven.O'Clock.A.M. I grumble, Bright though not early, but on the dot. I'll check the download, I acquiesce submissively to the first order of the day. My smile is thin. I fix it with a direct gaze. It peers at me, amused.

Pyra is triangular, a petite four by almost six inches tall with a three-inch girth. Slim and lightweight, it faithfully alerts me with a loud signal to upcoming departmental meetings. All hands on deck. I nod in resigned agreement. Testing new operating system, the summons blares. Coming! I flare back in a rasping whisper.

Around midday I drum my fingers on the arm of my chair, thereafter impatiently pressing my clock's top button. Is it time for lunch yet? It tells me, in a clear androgynous voice. It.Is.Twelve.O'Clock.P.M. I sniff gratefully. On the way out, I check the beeper tethered to the pocket of my lab coat in case I need to be pulled back from my delicious seven-layer burrito lunch to troubleshoot the 'screen of death,' our epithet for a computer freeze. 

Over the dense repetitiousness of my workweek, certain things have occurred like clockwork: beta-testing new procedures, writing instructions, training lab techs, battling the call, System down! It's the latter that makes everyone scamper behind the scenes, while a low-level but well-spoken technician is sent upfront to assure users, Just a hiccup. All will be well in a nanosecond.

In retrospect, I'm not sure why I've bought this timepiece. Maybe because its hourly reminder diminishes my sense of solitude. Maybe because punctuality is the virtue of the bored. I lean toward it slightly and lower my voice, parodying a confidence. I can't be late when Big Brother calls, can I?

It seems like a long day. I feel exhausted, not the clean exhaustion of completing a workout at the gym, but a kind of weariness, the feeling of being transparent, insubstantial, as though my body would offer no resistance if the wind had chosen to lift me into the sky. I'm squirming in my seat.

Then, joy of joys! Pyra announces, robot-like, in a monotone voice. It.Is.5.O'Clock.P.M. I stifle a yawn. I bid it goodbye, waving my hands dismissively. See you in the morning, I say almost inaudibly. It looks like it's nodding, absent-mindedly. 

I move my mouth in the motion of a smile I do not feel.

Big Ben

The Hands Of Time

How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon. 

My goodness how the time has flown. - Dr. Seuss

It's my first European trip. With arms folded, I hold my gaze for a long time. Big Ben! 

My eyebrows flicker in recognition of one of London's best-known landmarks. It's the Great Bell of the clock at the north end of Westminster Palace in London. Stunning! I say under my breath, my eyes crinkling with pleasure. 

Everything is in perfect focus. The tower stands 316 feet high against a clear and boundless sky. A massive thirteen tons of creation! All my sentences rise at the end like helium balloons.

My expression changes to one of curiosity as I listen to a litany of Big Ben's credentials.
This incredible mammoth creation has been called the prince of timekeepers - the biggest, most accurate four-faced striking and chiming clock in the world. Its clock dials are set in an iron frame 23 feet in diameter, supporting 312 pieces of opal glass. The surround of the dials is gilded. 

I clear my throat as I read from the tourist brochure, Domine salvam fac reginam nostram Victoriam Primam. It's the Latin inscription on the clock dial's base. I let my voice trail for a moment. It's a prayer of supplication, O Lord, keep safe our Queen Victoria the First. I assent to the invocation. So be it, lowering my voice like a child exchanging secrets. I piously raise my eyes to the sky. 

For an instant, everything is unnaturally still. Then Big Ben exhales a thousand sounds. The brush of the wind over the iron-framed spire echoes into a thousand and one tapping sounds, moving from place to place through the far bank of the Thames and Westminster Bridge. Its voice reverberates, as pigeons lift from the eaves of the tower, squawking at the intrusion. 

I walk along, a little starstruck, as the deep pealing of its bell sweeps the city in steady, rhythmic strokes. I listen, caught up in its constant, knowing pattern, the simplicity of it, the slowness. 

It feels like this whole moment is fragile somehow and, if it shifts too much, it might break.

My Lord, What A Morning

When Time Stood Still

At 8:07 am on January 13, 2018, a cell phone emergency alert warning of a ballistic missile threat inbound to Hawaii was sent to island residents. It took officials nearly 40 minutes to correct the false alarm.

My Lord, what a morning,

When the stars begin to fall, you'll hear the trumpet sound,

To wake the nations underground. - Negro Spiritual

I remember the day well.

It was a picture-perfect morning in Waikiki. Dawn came all too quickly. I awoke to a spill of sunshine on my face.

I pushed open the shutters, allowing the soft light to wash into the room. An egret that had perched on an anchored canoe at the Outrigger's went off in a sudden clap of wings into the deep, cloudless blue of the sky. At the water's edge, a group of surfers walked past, holding their boards. In the distance, the swells were slowly rising, forming waves that seemed to collide before immediately cresting again.

Beyond this side of the island, there was only vastness.

When the initial cell phone alert broke at 8:07 am urging residents of Hawaii to seek shelter because of an impending missile strike, it seemed as if all had been compressed into one mournful note. It was an elegy. A requiem.

I heard the words, but they refused to form any meaning. I sat there in painful silence for a minute. I heard my voice slowly swallowed by it, and couldn't work out what to do with my hands.

So, this was how it would end - a warm gust of wind would exhale my way and I'd disappear forever. All glory would vanish. All greatness gone. It confounded me how fragile human life was – how lives were nothing but dead letters on the wind, scattered and disposed of, burned or thrown away.

Pacific Command had previously given an estimated fifteen minutes for people to take shelter. It wasn't much time at all, plus where does one go?

Time had slowed to an agonizing crawl. It blurred past as if in a fever dream.

In those fifteen minutes of what I thought would be my final morning, I roamed the deep places of my soul in search of familiar faces – of family, of those whom I love, and even those whom I might miss, no matter how little I had in common with them. As I did that, in an instant, a thousand secrets I had built and saved flooded my mind.

My face softened at the memory of the home I grew up in, miles across the ocean: the inescapable place, the place to which my heart's compass always turned. I couldn't stop the flow of details, the flow of images in my mind.

I shut my eyes for a moment as I bade farewell to everything, and at once everything turned in perfect synchronicity. I felt a kind of tranquility.

Then at 8:45 am, a cell phone alert broke my reverie. The first warning had been a false alarm. Repeat. False Alarm.

It was as if a heavenly choir had started singing and releasing doves of peace. Thank God! What an outrageous gift.

There is going to be a Next Day.

Glockenspiel

The Hands Of Time

It is a gorgeous morning, the sky so blue and the air so sweet that it will have lifted the heart of the most sullen person. Everything is so alive, just sort of pulsating, moving all the time.

I'm among those on Marienplatz in Munich who are all faces with mouths open as if to receive honey from the sky. A hopeful grin on my face, I crane my neck waiting for the town hall Glockenspiel to come to life. Daily at 11 am and 5 pm, and in the summer at noon, it chimes and portrays two stories from the 16th century. I check my watch. Eleven am. It's time! 

On cue, 43 bells start chiming. Life-sized figures come into view, reenacting the fantastically expensive and sumptuous marriage of Bavarian Duke Wilhelm to Renata of Lorraine in 1568. 

I'm swept up by the enthusiasm around me. I visualize the solemnity of the church ceremony. The bride will bat her eyes at the groom as the priest instructs, Bitte antworten Sie mit 'Ja.' Please answer, 'Yes.' She takes a deep breath, taking her time to answer, Ja. The couple take each other's right hand. Ah, without love, everything else is meaningless, I croon. 

A royal joust with mechanical knights on horseback follows. I can almost hear a squire yelling out, Is there among you any gentleman who for the love of his lady is willing to try with me some feat of arms? 

The challenge will be answered, I will deliver him from his vow. Let him make haste and come out of the castle. After the squires have taken their stations, the tilt begins. Glaring in outrage, they meet each other roughly with spears.

I'm now looking with more intensity at the next scenario, the coopers' dance. The coopers, who make the barrels in which beer is stored, are highly respected in this city known for its breweries. Twenty-five colorfully-dressed figures swing hoops of fir branches. 

A festive atmosphere prevails. A man scurries over, puts a hand to a lady's waist, and whispers, Lass uns tanzen. Let's dance. He whirls her around the dance floor. She keeps the rhythm on light feet, dancing gracefully. They look happy as they spin around in circles making me think that after the music stops, they will still dance to some melody unheard by mortal ears. 

For a finale, a small golden rooster at the top of the Glockenspiel chirps quietly, Kikeriki! three times, marking the end of the spectacle. Everything has seemed to happen at once within the fifteen minutes of the show.

I stride through the plaza, the sound of my footsteps preceding me. I don't know how long I'd been walking, but I feel I've traveled a great distance outside time. With light steps and an easy heart, I cross toward St. Peter, the oldest parish church in the city. 

All has been merged in a dream as extraordinary as it is perfect.

First Watch

The Hands Of Time

The butterfly counts not months but moments, 

and has time enough. - Tagore

I'm in high spirits. I'm turning twelve and graduating valedictorian of my elementary class. In two months, I'll be a high school freshman riding the Blumentritt jeepney to and from Roxas High. A milestone achievement for me! I mumble with a broad grin.

But what makes me very proud and preoccupied as well is my commencement gift of a Waltham wrist watch from Godmother Esang. I love how its gold nugget-style band glistens against my skin. I beam in admiration of the contrast between its black dial and gold-tone face. Look! I show it off to Eldest Brother. It's automatic! He gives me an appropriately impressed smile.

I've been so attached to my new possession that I'd only reluctantly relinquish it on the tocador dresser to take a bath. But most other times, I'd wear it with a sense of dizzy exhilaration, walking around the house as if I were walking on air, swinging my arms back and forth.

If I could, I would have flown, punched through walls, and gone faster than a speeding locomotive to single-handedly give the answer to anyone who dares to formulate a question with the word time in it. But not without ceremony. I'd furrow my brows as I narrow my eyes thoughtfully and peer over my Waltham's face. Planning my pause to perfection, I then loudly clear my throat and answer grandly in my most professional voice, Hrmpp... it's 3 pm - or whatever the time happens to be.

Ask me what family activity is forthcoming and, with every ounce of authority I can muster, I'd announce, Time for dinner! or Dance-O-Rama is starting! - then walk away giggling like a maniac.

Have I mentioned that I also wear my watch to bed? I'd lie awake as long as I can and with an outstretched arm, let the half-light glimmer on it. As the day ebbs, I turn toward the shy moon. I like watching it stare down at my Waltham.

Then, at that fluid boundary between night and dawn, the hands of my watch dutifully point to six o'clock. Tandang rooster in assonance lets out a loud, Kikirikí! Up on my light feet, I tug back the curtains and squint at the small portion of the sun's rays illuminating the sky. The fainter stars have begun to disappear. I hurriedly wake up the brothers. Gising na! 

Later, as Mum sings tonelessly to herself in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, I'd excitedly assure her, I'll keep an eye on the time so Dadee won't be late for work. Um... and also, I continue breathlessly, I'll be sure to let you know when it's time to tune in to 'Gulong Ng Palad.' Literally translated as 'Wheel of Fortune,' 'Gulong' is her favorite afternoon soap opera. I can tell she appreciates my over-indulgent helpfulness because she nods in seeming satisfaction.

With a sense of elation, I give my Waltham a gentle pat, as my eyes dance to the transparency of the morning.