This was a journal entry I wrote two months ago (Caution: Extremely loooong read):
It’s 7:52, but out here, the hours don’t really make a difference. All people follow the same pattern, time is but a measurement of similar chores to abide by and get over with. By 6, all lights are out and all that’s left of the day are silent sighs and the sound of crickets.
We decided to stay over here in our house since Wednesday, amidst all the boxes full of stuff left to be unloaded, an empty space for a couch and the ceaseless energy of three insane cats. There are tremendous fixes and re-arrangements to be done, I’m not sure if we can even finish them all by first week of October. We take things step by step. And believe me, at that pace, the energy seems to be running out already (as well as the finances).
I used to think that being a housewife is incredibly easy. Afterall, all housewives, even with the schedule and housework they have been accustomed to always seem to have time for small talks with the neighbors. But you couldn’t imagine how intrinsic the work is. It’s exhausting (or maybe I’m too old?). I used to work 5-6 days a week, do the laundry then clean my mom’s house on my restday yet by 12 noon still have the time and energy requisite to travel to Bocaue and engage in extracurricular activities with Jigs, AND, by the end of the day, still be bursting with energy. But now, well, when the clock strikes 7 in the evening, I already feel like a tiny piece of wax wilting of flame. Boy, am I aging or what?
When you examine it, you’ll find that the probable reason is really, being a housewife is not at all, plain. The work is a series of strenuous physical exertions, a hurdle of sorts. Multitasking 2 or 3 activities at any given time, whatever the condition might be. And you actually have no reason not to, procrastination is not at all excused. Because it would mean that another person would go hungry as well – and unfortunately it’s someone you so care about- or that a surprise visit might effect a criticism, or that a pet will go ballistic and scratch that carpet you just bought, or the plates might smell and taste of roaches, or that you will get bitterly upset that the work is too simple but you just can’t. It’s an amazing bunch of cause-and-effect.
Especially for me whose husband eats four times a day, which means, yes, I have to cook/prepare food 4 times per day also, at the same hour, or else he’ll feel faint and might explode in a temper. I don’t even have t o ask what time I should cook anymore; just an hour or two after I made a previous meal, I would need to reheat the skillet again.
Anyway, I wouldn’t say my life has turned boring – just a bit more calculated, perhaps – but I do miss working and the city. I was watching the news this morning (yep, I already watch the news, don’t ask), the traffic in Manila unparalleled as ever, and it kinda felt surreal. Dreamy, like a part you saw in a children’s flick when you were 6. I wanted to jump into the TV – if that were possible – and be right there, amidst that dirt road and hilong talilong fucked-up maze you call Manila. The last time I saw an open road full of cars was a month ago, and I’m not even counting that as a visit because we came to merely run errands. I am not a fan of huge capitals neither am I impressed by skyscrapers but I definitely miss the city. How screwed up it is, the chaos, young people burning with ambition, consciously beating the red light to get to job interviews and demanding bosses, the smell of gas fighting with the faint scent of trees, streets that never run out of light. The jolt of energy, sadness, love, soul, anger, uniqueness and imitation, hunger, all at once. Manila banks on its people, it capitalizes on this vast blend of cultures – Caucasians, Blacks, Muslims, Catholics, pure Filipinos or those pretending to be, eccentrics, lunatics, goody-two-shoes, contrived, not, wrecked, the dreamy. The laughter doesn’t sound the same, one story is not the same as another. There have been millions who have walked that path, and each of them carried a different story of a different weight. Everyday is not the same day in Manila. It might seem like it when you’ve been living there all your life and your focus has turned centripetal (versus universal), but try transferring to a much quieter place and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Amidst this storm and blackout, I have. My stay there the whole 25 years has been for the most part, tragic. I was mugged, harassed, lost friends and pets, had my wedding brought to an almost evident sham, got drunk to the point of absolute forgetfulness, was plagued by depression at one point or another. At that rate people would say ” I wouldn’t wanna go back there. It’s horrible.” But too, it’s been one of my several homes for an extended period of time. And I will always miss it, will always want to return, will never burn bridges with it despite its love for the superficial, its ugly exterior. It’s something I don’t have here. The in-laws are a different story – afterall, mostly everyone has quirky in-laws whether they are in the city or in the province. Up here, they kill the lights too early and laugh at the slightest of humor. I am happy, I love my husband and being his on-call slave for 24 hours, and it’d always be a delight cooking for him and seeing him so content with my cooking, but a part of me clamors for Manila. If I had the privilege to choose over practicality and reason I’d still choose to work there.
This is how I become a bit more productive during brownouts and when he’s already asleep. Did I tell you he sleeps between 7 to 8 in the evening?
