At some point in a horror movie, a character will tense up and say, “Shh! Something’s out there!” The apprehension is justified. There is something out there and it’s up to no good. You can bet your hundred bucks on it (or if a film’s in IMAX, at least three times that).
The real world? Not so neat. (I am not inclined to dwell on the irony in that statement, given I was just talking about horror flicks. Neat? Hah!) If it were, your Facebook inbox wouldn’t be chock-full of updates on the quizzes your pals have taken: Who’s your soulmate? When will you get married? — or, When are you going to die? Not that they believe any of it (I think). There’s just too little certainty out there, and if you really want to know how little, try asking those whose status says “It’s complicated.”
Or maybe I’m just talking about my own age demographic. We’re the new mid-lifers, you see. Quaint term, isn’t it? I should hear myself talk. When I was younger, I told my friends that I would rather be dead than forty. Forty was old. It was where you found yourself after you had ceased having fun, reeking of decrepitude and complaining about this bad hip, that aching joint, and where in hell did I put my glasses? “Can you imagine us, smelling of Efficascent Oil and still doing this?” — this being a pot session with my college friends Binggoy and George (and Efficascent being a balm for many an ailment associated with old age) — “And I’d say, ‘Oi, George, do you remember the late Binggoy? We sure had fun back then, no?’” We thought that was hilarious. With dope, everything was.
Binggoy did indeed die young. Too young. In fairness, he never said he wanted to. He wasn’t given to morbid musings. In my defense, I will say that I meant what I said when I said it, which was easy since I was a long way from forty then. Not so now. I’ll be there in a few days and I’ve never felt so alive. Never wanted to be more alive. You would be forgiven for asking what had happened in the interim.
For one, life has been good to me. I have never been sick in a major way, spent time in a hospital, or opened my body up to science. Sure, my back hurts from time to time and my eyesight is no longer perfect; it’s not like I haven’t heard of reading glasses or Omega Pain Killer (no Efficascent for me; it smells something old, like Brylcreem or Three Flowers Pomade). If there’s anything to complain about, it’s that I am increasingly forgetful these days. But I won’t start now. Some things I would rather forget anyway.
I have friends. Good ones. They know who they are. I read somewhere that a person is shaped more by friends than family. I assume my pals approve of what they have made me into because I have not lost one so far. To the extent that I am my parents’ offspring, I can’t complain. That’s fodder for this blog, no? Next to Kris Aquino, that is.
And food, of course. But I don’t need to tell you that.
For another, the world has become both smaller and bigger. Back in college, computers meant WordStar, dBase III, Lotus 1-2-3. That had us feeling so tech-savvy. Go ahead — laugh. I bet there’s a dial-up modem in your past. Then Google came along and life as we knew it was never the same again. For every thing you wanted to find, Google offered a million more you had no idea existed. Last week I looked up kalamansi, which I have always referred to as Philippine lime. Imagine my chagrin when I learned that it is more orange than lime! Who knows what else I might have gotten wrong? Come to think of it, maybe that’s why I only have five regular readers.
The Internet is a fascinating place, for reasons that are sometimes less than savory. You can lie about your age, for one. I’ve never had cause to do that. I just happen to think that I was born at the right time — not too early to have been emotionally scarred for having to wear bell-bottom pants and not too late to have missed the thrill of living under, then overthrowing, a dictatorship. I watch cable, send e-mail, and text on my mobile and wonder at these marvels for having grown up with black-and-white TV, the post office (have you even been to one?), and party lines (“Hello, party line? Can I please use the phone now?”). My generation’s demented imagination gave rise to Freddy Krueger and Michael Myers. And Jason Voorhees, too, before Hollywood resurrected him over and over again, then sent him into outer fucking space. I got it, all right: He’s out there.
My birthday’s approaching and I am getting worked up over fictional villains. Way to go, indeed. If the cliché is to be believed, I will soon have a whole new life ahead of me. Positive thinking I am a big fan of, although I must also report than when you’re about to turn forty, you are only too aware of what you’re bringing to the party. It has been a long trip, after all. What stuck? What’s changed? What needs fixing? What next?
Two words: Stay. Tuned. I wish I could tell you what lies ahead but I’m as clueless as you are. All I know is that there is something out there. There always is. It won’t always be to my liking, that’s for sure. Life is never as neat as the movies. That’s okay. I kinda like it that way.
This post has no comments.
Post a Comment