But I guess I should've expected it. I didn't see her yesterday, when I was wearing my favorite shirt. So what better way for the universe to thwart me (as it often does) than to make our paths cross today? Today, when I'm wearing a bunch of stuff I just pulled out of my cabinet because I'm going to a library in U.P. on a Saturday and there aren't going to be too many people there when I come and she's probably not going to be there when I come and I'm probably not going to stay long, anyway. I'm going to grab the books I saw yesterday, have the parts I need photocopied because we're not allowed to take them out anymore, and be gone.
But, tragedy of tragedies, I walked into the CAL library and she was there. In the library. On a Saturday. Yes.
On the table in front of her was, literally, a pile of books that would have reached up to my knee if it was on the ground. And a lot of papers. And I mean a lot. She was so absorbed in whatever stuff she was reading and writing that, for the first time, I had been in the same room with her without her giving me that look of weariness that I'm quite sure now is of me and my advances. Or maybe I just didn't see her do it. Because I myself avoided any chance of meeting eyes with her, and sat in one of the other tables so as to put her far behind me. So as to render myself needless of looking at her. Even if only for the few minutes I'd be there.
++++++
It was the first day of class and because it was an English class, I was only too happy to come to the classroom early. The nearest available seat was in the middle row, beside this girl with short black hair but long bangs hiding her face from me. I took it. As soon as I was seated, I snatched a look to the side and saw the pale face of the Chinese-looking girl beside me. She was wearing glasses and slouched her lanky frame in a shy position, as if to hide her being from me, from the rest of the world.
"Can I see your Form 5?" I started.
She didn't say anything. She just looked at me suspiciously, but reluctantly handed over her Form 5 as well.
"Twenty thousand Pesos!" I exclaimed. I also know her name now.
"Your batch's tuition is so expensive now, after the tuition hike." I continued. And I like her name.
I handed her back the Form 5. We didn't talk much for the rest of the semester.
++++++
I opened my notebook and looked at the titles of the books I tried to borrow yesterday for use in my term paper about John Milton's Paradise Lost. But I wasn't allowed to borrow them due to the new CAL library rule: ALL books are for ROOM USE ONLY.
- The Complete English Poetry of John Milton
- Milton's Epic Characters by John Steadman
- The Moral Paradox of Paradise Lost by John Seaman
THEY WEREN'T THERE!!! The three books I needed weren't there. All the other books I read yesterday but didn't need were there. The three books I needed weren't!
I looked again and found that, in fact, one of the books was there: The Complete English Poetry of John Milton. But it's an earlier edition than the one I saw yesterday. An earlier, brownish, vandalized, more battered-up edition. I opened to check if it will suffice as replacement. All the books of Paradise Lost, check. Line numbers and annotations, check. Good. Everything I needed was there. And more. Vandalisms also littered the pages. I gritted my teeth at this, but, what was I supposed to do? I took the book and went.
On my way back to my seat, I passed by her. There she was with all the books she needs for whatever infernal purpose. When I took my seat, I couldn't help but look back. She didn't see me. I wondered what she was so absorbed in reading.
++++++
We were asked by the professor what our favorite poem was. I thought it only natural to answer "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe, whom my High School friends kept teasing me was me in a past life, because a big part of my writing style was inspired by him. Not to mention, we were both born on January 19. And, yes, The Raven really is my favorite poem. But it wasn't my turn yet to speak.
It was hers. And, lo and behold...
"I have two favorite poems, actually. The Raven, and The Bells, both by Edgar Allan Poe."
I fretted at this. My answer was not going to be unique anymore. Or at least I wasn't going to be the first to mention it. When my turn came, I mentioned a poem by a nobody, something I found in fictionpress, which, honestly, I did like as well. But not so much, I couldn't even remember the author's name. I just wanted to cite something unpopular so that I'm sure I will be the only one to give that answer. Haha.
But I took a secret delight in that. So she likes Poe, too, huh?
It was hers. And, lo and behold...
"I have two favorite poems, actually. The Raven, and The Bells, both by Edgar Allan Poe."
I fretted at this. My answer was not going to be unique anymore. Or at least I wasn't going to be the first to mention it. When my turn came, I mentioned a poem by a nobody, something I found in fictionpress, which, honestly, I did like as well. But not so much, I couldn't even remember the author's name. I just wanted to cite something unpopular so that I'm sure I will be the only one to give that answer. Haha.
But I took a secret delight in that. So she likes Poe, too, huh?
++++++
She must have seen me by now. I'm sure of it. She's just not saying a word. That's how she denies me: by not doing anything.
I saw one of the assistant librarians returning some books to their shelves. I thought it best to wait and maybe the books I need will get returned. I would have to endure being there with her for longer.
I started reading from the ghastly edition I had at the moment. Absent-mindedly, and perhaps in desperate want of a distraction, I started counting the syllables in each line of Milton's poem. Most of them had ten lines. But occasionally, an eleventh syllable spills over, and some lines would fall one or two syllables short of ten. There doesn't seem to be a pattern for this. Milton didn't confine himself too much in meter, I guess. But what have I learned that I could use in my term paper? Nothing. In essence I wasn't doing anything.
I could hear the turning of the pages far behind me. I wondered what was she doing at the moment.
I saw one of the assistant librarians returning some books to their shelves. I thought it best to wait and maybe the books I need will get returned. I would have to endure being there with her for longer.
I started reading from the ghastly edition I had at the moment. Absent-mindedly, and perhaps in desperate want of a distraction, I started counting the syllables in each line of Milton's poem. Most of them had ten lines. But occasionally, an eleventh syllable spills over, and some lines would fall one or two syllables short of ten. There doesn't seem to be a pattern for this. Milton didn't confine himself too much in meter, I guess. But what have I learned that I could use in my term paper? Nothing. In essence I wasn't doing anything.
I could hear the turning of the pages far behind me. I wondered what was she doing at the moment.
++++++
We were at the ground floor, by the photocopy lady. Upon dismissal in that English class, the professor had given us an assignment that we needed to photocopy, and those among us who didn't have classes right after went together.
I was having a conversation with some of my classmates about this book, Dune. I hadn't really read the book, but I got to play a computer game based on the book. Beyond that, I know nothing about that universe. Still, the people I was talking with were so enthusiastic that they managed to keep finding stuff I could relate to. We kept on talking and talking. But in essence, we were doing nothing.
When they started talking among themselves, and when their topics went far beyond my knowledge of the world of Dune, I inched away from their huddle and turned to the busy photocopy lady. I waited for her to finish, and thought that it was the most sensible thing I could do at the moment. And I thought that if they looked at me, I would probably look like the loser standing there all alone not talking to anyone, which I'm quite used to being branded as anyway.
But then again I wasn't alone.
I turned and saw her also waiting there, not talking to anyone, not doing anything. She seemed to regard the photocopy lady with eyes of - I now realized - perpetual observation. And weariness.
I was having a conversation with some of my classmates about this book, Dune. I hadn't really read the book, but I got to play a computer game based on the book. Beyond that, I know nothing about that universe. Still, the people I was talking with were so enthusiastic that they managed to keep finding stuff I could relate to. We kept on talking and talking. But in essence, we were doing nothing.
When they started talking among themselves, and when their topics went far beyond my knowledge of the world of Dune, I inched away from their huddle and turned to the busy photocopy lady. I waited for her to finish, and thought that it was the most sensible thing I could do at the moment. And I thought that if they looked at me, I would probably look like the loser standing there all alone not talking to anyone, which I'm quite used to being branded as anyway.
But then again I wasn't alone.
I turned and saw her also waiting there, not talking to anyone, not doing anything. She seemed to regard the photocopy lady with eyes of - I now realized - perpetual observation. And weariness.
++++++
In serious need of distraction, I stood and went back to the shelves. Maybe the books I need were there now. Surprise, surprise. They weren't. I passed by her table again on my way back to my seat. I saw that a lot of the books on her table were thick, black, hardbound books. When I took my seat, it struck me that that was how the edition I wanted looked like. Could it be that she has the books I need? Could it be that the universe is, once again, toying with me, and that happenstance is driving us both to pursue the same thing?
++++++
I was on the third floor of the CAL building, watching the activists' program on the second floor atrium. A semester has passed since I left her and that classroom for the last time, as casually as I leave it everyday. As if she had not enthralled me the entire semester. As if I did not need the reassurance I gave myself that this little crush would die soon. A semester of not seeing her has passed, and it still hasn't.
Activist leaders were coming up front to speak before the mass of people wearing red. I remembered my own glory days. Days of speaking before a mass audience like such. Days of being our High School's unconventional Student Council President. Unconventional because I dared to rebel. I dared to rebel against the CAT system. I dared to speak out against unbecoming actions of teachers. I dared to condemn my own batch for oppressing lower batches. I dared to be known as critical of the School's Administration. And before the year ended, I dared to punch a hole in our classroom's blackboard in protest of all that has been left unsolved.
But those days were long-gone. And when I look back at them, I can't help but see how, while I was condemning narrow-mindedness then, I had been quite narrow-minded myself. I was quite the revolutionary, yes. Ask my High School teacher and she'd tell you she seriously thought I'd end up as a rebel in the mountains if I go to U.P.. But those days were gone.
As I turned to leave the activists to themselves, they started chanting their usual chants. One voice stood out to me and stopped me in my tracks. It sounded like a little girl's voice, but yelling with all the confidence of an independent woman. I turned and saw her there among the people wearing red, screaming social change, screaming revolution as I did before.
Activist leaders were coming up front to speak before the mass of people wearing red. I remembered my own glory days. Days of speaking before a mass audience like such. Days of being our High School's unconventional Student Council President. Unconventional because I dared to rebel. I dared to rebel against the CAT system. I dared to speak out against unbecoming actions of teachers. I dared to condemn my own batch for oppressing lower batches. I dared to be known as critical of the School's Administration. And before the year ended, I dared to punch a hole in our classroom's blackboard in protest of all that has been left unsolved.
But those days were long-gone. And when I look back at them, I can't help but see how, while I was condemning narrow-mindedness then, I had been quite narrow-minded myself. I was quite the revolutionary, yes. Ask my High School teacher and she'd tell you she seriously thought I'd end up as a rebel in the mountains if I go to U.P.. But those days were gone.
As I turned to leave the activists to themselves, they started chanting their usual chants. One voice stood out to me and stopped me in my tracks. It sounded like a little girl's voice, but yelling with all the confidence of an independent woman. I turned and saw her there among the people wearing red, screaming social change, screaming revolution as I did before.
++++++
"Here it is." I heard the voice of the library's photocopy guy say, somewhere behind me.
"Okay, how much is it?" Her voice answered.
"Will you be having something else photocopied later?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll charge you later." said the photocopy guy, before the sound of his footsteps, I observed, placed him on his way back to the photocopy machine.
I couldn't help but look back at her. She still wasn't looking at me. I couldn't see the titles of her books from where I was, though. I decided to turn my head back at the aged book I was holding before we meet eye-to-eye. If she really had one or more of the books I needed, maybe I should just go there and talk to her. She would hate it, I know. But she wouldn't show it...much. She can't help but be diplomatic.
"Okay, how much is it?" Her voice answered.
"Will you be having something else photocopied later?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll charge you later." said the photocopy guy, before the sound of his footsteps, I observed, placed him on his way back to the photocopy machine.
I couldn't help but look back at her. She still wasn't looking at me. I couldn't see the titles of her books from where I was, though. I decided to turn my head back at the aged book I was holding before we meet eye-to-eye. If she really had one or more of the books I needed, maybe I should just go there and talk to her. She would hate it, I know. But she wouldn't show it...much. She can't help but be diplomatic.
++++++
She can't help but be diplomatic. Like me. That's what I found out the second time we were classmates. We talked more that semester, because we were groupmates in some of the group activities. But mostly she still kept to herself.
In one of those group activities, we decided to report on the status of religion in the Victorian Era of England. Well, actually, it was I who decided that our report would be on religion. I used to be Catholic, but had undergone what some people might call a "state of confusion", though I personally don't like using the phrase. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I had renounced religion and am now agnostic. And am now grabbing every opportunity I get to expose religion for the oppressive force it really is.
Being agnostic myself, I wanted to report on the alternative traditions prevalent in the Victorian Era, like deism, atheism and agnosticism. But I already had another topic assigned to myself, and I didn't want to monopolize the discussion by reporting on two topics. So guess who volunteered to work on the alternative traditions?
She delivered it better than I thought she would, actually. But I could still see the awkwardness with which a Catholic reports on practices usually considered taboo. After class, I asked her how it felt like, and if it was okay for her to report on such matters.
"It's okay. Because, actually, I'm in a state of confusion myself."
I wanted to pat her on the back right then and there. State of confusion, huh? I think I know the feeling.
In one of those group activities, we decided to report on the status of religion in the Victorian Era of England. Well, actually, it was I who decided that our report would be on religion. I used to be Catholic, but had undergone what some people might call a "state of confusion", though I personally don't like using the phrase. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I had renounced religion and am now agnostic. And am now grabbing every opportunity I get to expose religion for the oppressive force it really is.
Being agnostic myself, I wanted to report on the alternative traditions prevalent in the Victorian Era, like deism, atheism and agnosticism. But I already had another topic assigned to myself, and I didn't want to monopolize the discussion by reporting on two topics. So guess who volunteered to work on the alternative traditions?
She delivered it better than I thought she would, actually. But I could still see the awkwardness with which a Catholic reports on practices usually considered taboo. After class, I asked her how it felt like, and if it was okay for her to report on such matters.
"It's okay. Because, actually, I'm in a state of confusion myself."
I wanted to pat her on the back right then and there. State of confusion, huh? I think I know the feeling.
++++++
Right. Talk to her. Just check if she has any of the books I need. Go go go go!!!
I stood up, turned, and started walking, only to find out that she wasn't there by the table. Her books and papers were still there, though. But I decided against checking them myself, lest she returns and finds me going over the stuff she was reading. All the while I was thinking of these, I kept on walking. I couldn't stop prematurely, I would look stupid, especially to her in case she was watching. I kept going and going and going ... to the only other place in the library I've gone to that day: the shelves.
When I got there, I wanted to bang my head on one of the shelves and topple it, to create a domino effect that would bury me in hundreds of books. I started looking around for which shelf would cause the desired effect, but I saw something else. Within arm's length, beyond the shelf right in front of me, was her. She had her back turned to me and she was talking to the photocopy guy who was stationed there. Apparently, she was already paying. That means she'll leave the library soon as well.
As much as I had been wanting to be rid of her, I wanted to grab her then. She was so close. I could take one step to where there would be no shelf between us, and then I could grab her hand and ask her to stay. I could stare right into her eyes as if to make up for all the times I did not, and beg her to stay.
But she would deny that. She would deny me.
I stood up, turned, and started walking, only to find out that she wasn't there by the table. Her books and papers were still there, though. But I decided against checking them myself, lest she returns and finds me going over the stuff she was reading. All the while I was thinking of these, I kept on walking. I couldn't stop prematurely, I would look stupid, especially to her in case she was watching. I kept going and going and going ... to the only other place in the library I've gone to that day: the shelves.
When I got there, I wanted to bang my head on one of the shelves and topple it, to create a domino effect that would bury me in hundreds of books. I started looking around for which shelf would cause the desired effect, but I saw something else. Within arm's length, beyond the shelf right in front of me, was her. She had her back turned to me and she was talking to the photocopy guy who was stationed there. Apparently, she was already paying. That means she'll leave the library soon as well.
As much as I had been wanting to be rid of her, I wanted to grab her then. She was so close. I could take one step to where there would be no shelf between us, and then I could grab her hand and ask her to stay. I could stare right into her eyes as if to make up for all the times I did not, and beg her to stay.
But she would deny that. She would deny me.
++++++
"Got a few minutes?" I texted her one night. "I want to talk to you about something. I know you're weary of me by now, but this could be the last thing from me you would be weary of. Hehe."
"It's okay." She replied. With a smiley.
"I know, like me, you can't help but be diplomatic ... But I'll have to ask you to be brutally honest this time. Okay here goes ... You've known it all along, haven't you? Or at least you've suspected it?"
"Suspected what?"
"That I like you."
"It's okay." She replied. With a smiley.
"I know, like me, you can't help but be diplomatic ... But I'll have to ask you to be brutally honest this time. Okay here goes ... You've known it all along, haven't you? Or at least you've suspected it?"
"Suspected what?"
"That I like you."
++++++
I retreated deeper back into the shadow of the shelves. She was still standing there by the photocopy machine, having some trouble getting her coins or something. I kept my eyes fixed on her as I stepped behind the shelf that contained the books on John Milton, where I knew she would not see me even if she looked. But from where I could still see her.
I heard the wheels of a cart nearby. I turned and saw it was one of the assistant librarians, returning books to their respective shelves. I looked at the Milton shelf and the books I needed still weren't there. But in order not to look stupid to the assistant librarian, I pulled one of the books from the Milton shelf and opened it in front of me. My eyes, however, stared beyond the book, and beyond the shelf from where it came.
She had finished paying. She was on her way back to her table.
I closed the book. I tried to follow her. I emerged from behind the shelves and followed her. I was right behind her. She was so close. I could tap her shoulder. I could call out her name. I could quicken my pace and walk beside her and say hi.
She turned a corner and went back to her table. I kept going forward and went back to mine.
I heard the wheels of a cart nearby. I turned and saw it was one of the assistant librarians, returning books to their respective shelves. I looked at the Milton shelf and the books I needed still weren't there. But in order not to look stupid to the assistant librarian, I pulled one of the books from the Milton shelf and opened it in front of me. My eyes, however, stared beyond the book, and beyond the shelf from where it came.
She had finished paying. She was on her way back to her table.
I closed the book. I tried to follow her. I emerged from behind the shelves and followed her. I was right behind her. She was so close. I could tap her shoulder. I could call out her name. I could quicken my pace and walk beside her and say hi.
She turned a corner and went back to her table. I kept going forward and went back to mine.
++++++
She would probably hate me if she found out that I still had not given up. Not even after she told me she likes somebody else.
But the truth was, I had given up. The time draws near for me to leave this country. I'm not expecting us to be together. I'm not even expecting her to like me back. I just want to do one last thing for her before I go. Maybe just to make me feel like I left something behind.
I had given up. But that doesn't mean I have to stop liking her. No. It doesn't mean I get to stop liking her, either.
But she can't find out I'm planning something, or else she might think I'm still making advances. It is for this reason that I asked one of her friends if she (the friend) could promise not to tell anyone about what I was going to ask her.
"Yep," she replied in text.
"Do you know when her birthday is? It's just an item in my to-do list to do something for her before I leave this country."
"January 19."
"January 19! Haha. Very funny. Go ahead, make fun of me. Hehe. But, seriously, when is it?"
"Why? That's serious. January 19."
"No joke? So you didn't know that that's also my birthday?"
"Nope. Haha. Amazing, isn't it."
But the truth was, I had given up. The time draws near for me to leave this country. I'm not expecting us to be together. I'm not even expecting her to like me back. I just want to do one last thing for her before I go. Maybe just to make me feel like I left something behind.
I had given up. But that doesn't mean I have to stop liking her. No. It doesn't mean I get to stop liking her, either.
But she can't find out I'm planning something, or else she might think I'm still making advances. It is for this reason that I asked one of her friends if she (the friend) could promise not to tell anyone about what I was going to ask her.
"Yep," she replied in text.
"Do you know when her birthday is? It's just an item in my to-do list to do something for her before I leave this country."
"January 19."
"January 19! Haha. Very funny. Go ahead, make fun of me. Hehe. But, seriously, when is it?"
"Why? That's serious. January 19."
"No joke? So you didn't know that that's also my birthday?"
"Nope. Haha. Amazing, isn't it."
++++++
I took a look at the book in my hand, the one I picked up randomly. A Preface to Paradise Lost by C.S. Lewis.
But my mind was nowhere near the book, or Milton, or my term paper. It was on how the universe had thus far toyed with me and my feelings, drawing up all these illusions of an uncanny connection existing between me and this girl, only to regularly slap me in the face with the fact that we will never be together.
I looked back at the table where she sat. She wasn't there anymore. The papers were also gone. She had left. My heart sank. But my mind rejoiced. Good riddance.
The books she was reading were still there, though, stacked up in a pile. I got my things and moved to that table. Perhaps she really did have the books I needed.
I started going through the books in the stack. Jane Austen. Jane Austen and the War of Ideas. Jane Austen the Novelist. They were all on Jane Austen. Nothing on John Milton. Of course. She was doing her term paper on Jane Austen for the class where we were classmates.
I was sort of glad that she wasn't looking at books on Milton. If she was, that would just be another insult added to the myriads upon myriads of insults this obsession has already bombarded me with.
But she was gone. And I had best get my own work done.
I opened Lewis's preface again. And this time my mind was on the book. I was doing my term paper on the character of Satan from Paradise Lost, so I glanced at the table of contents for anything on Satan. Chapter XIII: Satan. How appropriate.
I turned to Chapter XIII and read on:
I shut the fucking book.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Though this may look like a short story, this is actually Creative Non-Fiction. In other words, this is a true story. Readers of my previous blog posts would realize that I dragged in some of the metaphors I've used in earlier posts into this composition. And I've also repeated a lot of what I already said in my previous posts. That's because I want this composition to stand on its own and be self-explanatory. And I'm not shitting about what's written in C.S. Lewis' preface. See for yourself. The book is A Preface to Paradise Lost by C.S. Lewis, published in London by the Oxford University Press, in 1965. Go to Chapter 13. That's page 94.
But my mind was nowhere near the book, or Milton, or my term paper. It was on how the universe had thus far toyed with me and my feelings, drawing up all these illusions of an uncanny connection existing between me and this girl, only to regularly slap me in the face with the fact that we will never be together.
I looked back at the table where she sat. She wasn't there anymore. The papers were also gone. She had left. My heart sank. But my mind rejoiced. Good riddance.
The books she was reading were still there, though, stacked up in a pile. I got my things and moved to that table. Perhaps she really did have the books I needed.
I started going through the books in the stack. Jane Austen. Jane Austen and the War of Ideas. Jane Austen the Novelist. They were all on Jane Austen. Nothing on John Milton. Of course. She was doing her term paper on Jane Austen for the class where we were classmates.
I was sort of glad that she wasn't looking at books on Milton. If she was, that would just be another insult added to the myriads upon myriads of insults this obsession has already bombarded me with.
But she was gone. And I had best get my own work done.
I opened Lewis's preface again. And this time my mind was on the book. I was doing my term paper on the character of Satan from Paradise Lost, so I glanced at the table of contents for anything on Satan. Chapter XIII: Satan. How appropriate.
I turned to Chapter XIII and read on:
"Before considering the character of Milton's Satan it may be desirable to remove an ambiguity by noticing that Jane Austen's --"
I shut the fucking book.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Though this may look like a short story, this is actually Creative Non-Fiction. In other words, this is a true story. Readers of my previous blog posts would realize that I dragged in some of the metaphors I've used in earlier posts into this composition. And I've also repeated a lot of what I already said in my previous posts. That's because I want this composition to stand on its own and be self-explanatory. And I'm not shitting about what's written in C.S. Lewis' preface. See for yourself. The book is A Preface to Paradise Lost by C.S. Lewis, published in London by the Oxford University Press, in 1965. Go to Chapter 13. That's page 94.
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