Earlier last week, I decided to put down Ian Frazier's Gone To New York (what is supposed to be a travel book with tales and insights from an insider of the city) for a copy of Gilda Cordero Fernando's Sampler. I believe this is the point in my writing where I tell everyone (with shame and much trepidation) that Filipiniana literature is not something I dutifully immerse myself in. When Ricky Lee's Para Kay B came out last year, I tried to stay away from it telling myself that if the only Filipino literature I am able to enjoy is Jessica Zafra's, I am not worthy and will definitely be unable to appreciate the merits that make the books (and potential screenplay) a masterpiece. I'm still yet to pick up the book, but I always offer myself doubt. Even in my preferred literature.
Gilda Cordero Fernando's writing is no exception. I grew up hearing about her, learning about her, being so in such close proximity to touching her work only to draw my hand back because I feel unworthy, unripe, un... un. I tell myself, if I cringe at the neo-realist, almost always pragmatic (but superior) prose of Lualhati Bautista, who am I to try stuff (note that my sophomoric writing--unabashedly using the word, "stuff"--reflects my equally sophomoric taste on the literati) that writers themselves praise. She is original, I've heard she has a preference for ethnic fashion and a love for life lessons as well as the quintessential Filipino burgis. And if there is anything scary about legendary writers, it is eclecticism. It makes the dragon harder to slay, the elderly wand more elusive (blech at that analogy, please), the oracle harder to read. It makes the legendary...well, more legendary. Hearing about her made me realize she is not just a writer, she's an icon. A solid institution.
However, in a recent visit to the bookstore, I was able to catch a glimpse of Sampler. It was there right in front of me and I had the choice of choosing either (not both, I have limits) Margaret Atwood's Penelopiad or our very own in a halo-halo of prose, theater reviews, artwork and photographs. Idiot that I am, I chose to go with Margaret Atwood (because I have a goal of completing the copies of her entire body of work before I die). Only to go back to the store later on to score Sampler, my very first GCF literature.
It is not an unknown fact that I have dreams of writing, a career that if I do not get in this life then I am certain I got in the life before and will relive again in the next. I will not elaborate on why I cannot be a writer (okay, I will: it does not make the money I need for the lifestyle I want to live. There, slap me. I am too young to play the game and be disillusioned but here I am, falling in line. Hungry for the game), but I will tell you the best gem I got from this book: If you pursue what you want, the Universe will find ways to help you. Of course, the author worded it (and supplemented it) with a much better vocabulary and lots of stories that teach a wannabe like me to hope, but I'm only nineteen (Man, ain't the youth a convenient excuse?). That was when I began to realize that, well, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I will fall in love with this book. I did.
It is wonderful. What else can I say? I wish I could have something disengaging to say about the book. It seems to me that all the booky people do these days. People who proclaim a love for reading nowadays like to critic even the ones they truly love and are truly brilliant, I have no problems with that. It's just that I can't find it in my brain to smash the splendor of books I truly love.
I guess what I liked the most about the book is that it has made me feel so Filipino, in a way that is half-kooky, half-profound but all-in-all, welcoming. It's been a long-time since I last felt and got in touch with the gems of being Filipino, of towns that associate clams with the female sex, of aswangs that I used to want to see at night. It's always the little things that get me, both in reading and in real life. I read through all twenty-seven essays in less than a day, and harbored a little sadness when I found out (as I have been reading sporadically) that I have gone through every single one of them the second time.
My favorite, by default (and obvious recent circumstances I find difficulty in getting over), is Don't Smile At A Funeral. At page 128, the story starts as a letter.. to a friend perhaps of how a mother handles and handled death and elaborates on the many people the dying met during his last moments on earth. It was a pragmatic view of living (not dying) under a time. I do not like crying myself, it defeats the purpose of death and being stronger. The prose has allowed me to well--breathe, a sigh of relief really that thinking ahead doesn't mean I loved the departed less. Nor does it mean that my thinking ahead cajoled the Universe into taking them. What I like best about this prose is the role of the Fluffer. Fluffer, in my vocabulary is anybody who is (dare I say, doomed?) bound to make people feel good about themselves. It doesn't matter if they are having a crappy day or a really good one. Fluffers know that deep inside, we are all vain, and we like to get a kick out of being complimented. When I'm down and dying (hopefully useful only after fifty years upon writing), let this piece of word vomit remind the people around me that I like to look at the beauty of it all, to feel good about what's ahead. I like to extinguish the silly little voices in my head (my companions for the years to come), despair and doubt before I go. That is what I liked best from this piece. I found it comforting that exhaustive literature on death and dying say the departed do what they love to do in the after life--even if as an academic, my logical brain tells me to believe otherwise: the end is the end. I do not expect anything after this life but if it is any consolation, this piece of writing from the book gave my heart something to hold on to. Maybe. It is not a crime to believe and if I believe it hard enough, maybe. Do not cry at a funeral, for he who has left us here on earth is the one who is truly home.
Of course there are other pieces of writing I truly devoured because they tickle my fancy, as food, females and fantasy are truly a few of my raison d'etre. Sampler had a hodgepodge of them--one about a Filipino town called Quezon and the food the natives love to cook there, Ermita and the many small economies and social relationships it has had through the years and the Aswangs who, to this day, fascinate me and are my favorite kind of supernatural peril (I'd say collective human security threat but I can only have too much Global Affairs in me)--wrapped up in delicious Filipino fashion (think the banana leaf used to wrap your favorite sapin-sapin or pinangat) but realizing why is up to you, my unbelievable and invisible reader to read for yourself. They are great stories, wonderful ones that bring a little kick to the memory and quite a few pinches to the heart. Pick a favorite, and maybe like me, you too will realize that there is no literati too profound or too great for a person who needs to get in touch with her roots and read.
That, and follow your instincts. Always, always, follow your instincts.
