I consider my written pieces a river. Philosophical or metaphorical, I cannot step into the same river twice. And no two rivers are alike, similar or comparable. It is extremely rare that two rivers (works by others) may share the same watershed, the same headwaters, the same numerous tributaries or end their journeys in the same delta.
It is not like comparing apples to oranges, which is a bit far off. Rather, it is postulating that no two apples are alike. Like rivers. The Amazon may have inspired the Yangtze; the Nile may mirror the piety of the Ganges; the Thames may reflect the majesty of the Danube; polluted Pasig may shame Magat and Agno in exterminating aquatic life. Needless to say the waters and debris that flow in and through them are ever different.
Only their contributions to the march of civilizations are of parallel significance. So are all man’s written thoughts, in their small way of nurturing both construction and deconstruction of civilizations. To the former a desired contribution as an end, modesty aside, this reflection is intended.
A few weeks ago, I turned 75 and reached three-fourths of a century. Whereof I speak it is not too distant for me to reach the point of role reversal. When parents become children and children assumed the role of caring parents. Like, when a son treats his father as his own helpless boy. The boulevard to senility may be wide but not lengthy. Whatever is done by aging travelers should no longer be harmful to society. The lonely road to senescence should be glorious, prideful, devoid of shame, even HUMILITY. When common men, working men reminisced their drab and colorless lives and make mountains out of mere anthills of accomplishments, when aging men salivate in euphoria of tiny happiness as young men and as young fathers, what pain and harm can they still inflict others and their community?
WRONG, harm there will still be; so the critics of the impeachment court might say. And cite retired Justice Serafin Cuevas and Senator Joker Arroyo who in their twilight years are perceived to be deconstructing what is being built as the straight path against corruption. Old but still fighting and employing wisdom to unacceptable cause. There’s the rub: Cuevas and Joker are uncommon men.
The wide and short road to senility I think involve two kinds of men including women: the nobody and the somebody. A nobody needs no matter how inconsequential to be a somebody even just with talk. Not so for some bodies, leaders and achievers during their prime. They were in the limelight all their life. Conversely, even just talk, the nobody needs a Consuelo de bobo from no other but himself. While to the somebody there’s hunger but always there’s instant satiation for recognition and appreciation.
By way of invention consider two Mall Scenarios: The first scenario in Canada– at the Urban Eatery of Eaton Centre, six seniors were drinking coffee and chatting. Three newcomers were introducing themselves. The first one said, “I am a retired PNP PO4, forty years in the service. I was closed in sikyu of Mayor Villegas. I know the Mayor better than his wife. I was widowed early and had two wives but all my eight children finished college.”
The second one chimed in, “I started as an elementary school teacher but I retired as district supervisor higher than a principal. I have three of my kids, working as nurses in the US and; two kids here in Toronto working as computer technicians.” One of the old timers tried to impress: “I have been here 15 years. During the last few years, I had two cataract operations, right knee replacement, and last year I had a quadruple by-pass. Know what? I think I spent not more than 10 dollars for all the surgeries.”
To pee the highest (pataasan ng ihi) is a favorite game of young boys during my time. For seniors today, the game may persist but remains a harmless mental and bladder exercise.
Second scenario at Megamall in Mandaluyong City. Four sickly-looking old men were drinking buko juice at the food court. The healthiest looking one said, “Namputa mga pare ko, akala ko di na tayo magkikita pa. Tagal na rin. “
The other one said, “Mula sa Munti, di ba nalipat ka sa San Ramon, tapos nagging magsasaka sa Iwahig?” Sagot ng tinanong, “Tama Pare, 30 taon din, dalawa ang naging watiwat ko, nagkaroon kami limang anak. Awa ng Diyos, ayos lahat ang mga anak namin. Si Mayor ang nagbigay ng pasahe ko.”
“Ikaw Pare muntik ka na mabulok sa Munti dalawa kasi ang itinumba mo.” “Ako naman mga Pare ko, palagay ko hindi na ako magtatagal. Patong –patong na raw sakit ko sabi ng doctor. Baka hindi na ako makarating sa darating na taon.” “Mga Pare, relak na lang tayo. Baka pag nang holdap tayo, pagtawanan na lang tayo.” The last one said: “Pagabi na lang tayo dito. Mamaya ang laban ni Pacquiao, baka malibre tayo.” Pare, Papano mo nga pala pinabura yung tattoo mo, eh kulubot na?.”
That’s fictional two scenarios of bragging old men, productive no more, mostly harmless ; still contentious to make the highest pee.
An ordinary movie I saw tick me off to write this river (este this essay). It is about a young son’s gross incredulity of the story of his dying father’s young life. I saw BIG FISH twice, the second time after a few years. I was struck by the daughter-in-law’s seeming understanding of her father-in-law’s story, than by his own son. Albert Finney, Ewan McGregor and Marion Cotillard contributed superb performances. I will see it again to discern a third interpretation if I see it in the library shelves. And was it a Canadian film!
OH, about the boulevard from senility to the grave. From my readings if I recall right, Johnny Weissmuller, US Olympic swimmer and the only authentic TARZAN before he died at age 79 in Acapulco, Mexico was viewing repeatedly all day, everyday his Tarzan films.
