notbuk

hahaha… tagal ko ng hindi nagsusulat! yeah! nakaka-miss! anyway, I wrote this one for English class kaya todo haba. hahaha… nagdugo ilong ko dito ng ilang oras. haha. nwei, enjoy na lang. btw… hi jen! special mention ka dito! love yah! ;p

            "My heart is beating, bursting out of my chest. I’m full of anxiety because after a decade of separation, I’m about to see you once again. I strip you naked, unzipping your padded black jacket and behold, your majestic body is standing bare in front of me. I squint my eyes in disbelief because I’ve never seen you in your vulnerability for a while. I touch your curves and voluptuous figure; and I can’t help but slap myself because this scene is surreal for I thought this would never happen again. After an eternity of amazement and awe, my heart beats faster than ever as I spread my legs, rest your back to my chest and lock you with my thighs. I rest my chin on your shoulders and moved my hands on your smooth, light-brown colored skin. I felt at home. I felt comfortable. Finally, we’re back together again my dear Esmeralda.

            I got the gadget that would establish the connection that we once lost. I take it out of its hideout. I take a deep breath and prepared. I stroke your strings with this gadget and tried to play the music that was very dear to me, the song that we used to make with every encounter that we had. I place my fingers, the fingers that were conditioned to give justice to your potential. The dexterous and muscular fingers full of calluses that used to run through your neck and your strings. I start stroking but something doesn’t feel right. It seems that your body is slipping from the lock of my things. My right shoulder is getting cramped with all of the stroking while the fingers on my left hand are hitting all of the wrong positions on your strings. Embarrassing. I sigh in dismay and recall what happened when we got separated.

            It was two months ago when we were preparing for our recital. Whenever the clock stroke 12 midnight, we would have our evening sessions. We would start with the usual warm-ups and exercises before proceeding to the piece. It would usually take us about 40 minutes before we proceed with the next part of our session. After conditioning my rusty joints and stiff muscles, we would then proceed to practicing our piece. First, we would take it in a slow pace so as to practice the accuracy of my fingers in hitting (and memorizing) the right positions that would make the correct sound out of you. This would also enhance my stamina to maintain lengthy strokes. After the slow pace, we would then proceed to a quicker pace, the correct pace of the piece. In this way, I would be able to get used to the actual performance level of the piece. Our evening sessions would usually take us an hour and a half, preparing intently for our coming performance on the weekend of the last week of September. After our practice, we would end everything with the familiar tune, a Filipino lullaby done by a famous OPM rock band. After the final note of that tune, I would put your clothes back on and place you on your home by my dimly lit, wooden desk. Sometimes, I don’t even put your clothes back on out of exhaustion (or laziness) and jump straight to bed as you lie naked by my side. This usually was the set-up every night.

            One week before the recital, we had a rehearsal at the Abelardo Concert Hall, the actual venue of our recital. So far, this is probably the biggest concert hall that we will be playing in. Compared to Miraim where we used to have lessons, the Abelardo Concert Hall is almost three times the size of the hall in Miriam. We went to the back stage as I hold you with my trembling, cold hands. The first performer went well as I applauded him. Then, the next performer played and he did a splendid job as well. My teacher (who was sitting in front of the black grand piano on the stage) called on me and said that it was my turn. I marched with caution towards the chair at the center of the stage. Like what we used to do, I placed your back on my legs that are spread and locked you with my thighs. I looked around for a while but no matter how hard my eyes try to reach, it was useless. The spotlights were glowing like the sun that it blinded me from everything else. I tried to readjust my eyes to give the empty seats at least a glance but fog seemed to have covered the whole vicinity. All I could see was you. This is between you and me, just like our evening sessions.  I swallowed a spoonful of saliva, inhaled as deep as I could, exhaled with all my might and waited for my queue given by the piano’s brilliant introduction to our piece. After the introduction sounded, I started running my trembling fingers on your long and smooth neck, pressing your strings against them as dexterously as I could. While at it, I stroked with the proper combinations of force and gentleness using with the bow. The first movement of the piece was fast and running and I have to say that it went well. Now, the second movement was slow, just like a mother singing her lullaby to a baby to put the angel to sleep. Finally, the third movement was comprised of a big finale. The rehearsal went well and by that time, I mustered enough confident that we are going to redeem what we have worked for the longest time in the following week’s recital.

            The week before the recital was made of sleepless nights. I kept on tossing around my head images and thoughts for the coming recital. I sometimes imagine myself making a mess during our recital. For example, I might have a mental block that will totally demolish the strong structure of my knowledge in playing you. I’m also afraid that I snap one of your strings while playing. In effect, I end up getting out of bed, picking you up and practicing until my eyes and my whole body won’t allow me to proceed any further. The next day, I would receive a barrage of praises and people inviting their selves to our recital. I had no choice but to say yes because I also wanted to feel supported that might boost my confidence during the performance. Pressure mounted like a pile of garbage in Smokey Mountain. It kept on pilling and I don’t even know how I would dispose of it. They just kept on coming and getting even heavier.

            The morning of the recital came. Before proceeding to the back stage of the Concert Hall, I met some of my friends and family who were going to watch me. They bid me good luck, slapped a few palms and had a lot of hugs from the people who have been dear to me. Afterwards, I proceeded to our classroom for some warm-ups and exercises to condition my fingers for the performance so as to avoid immediate exhaustion and other probable consequences. I also had to check if you were in tune so that when we play our piece, we would give justice to the piece that a brilliant composer wrote.

            When we were good-to-go, we proceeded (along with the other musicians and my teacher) to the backstage of the Concert Hall. I was given final pointers from the teacher and she bid us good luck.

            The recital began and the cellists were the first to experience hell. I was the last among the cellists so I didn’t really feel tension. We stood at the backstage, calmly checking on you once in a while if you were in the proper condition. I also said to myself repeatedly, “Kaya ‘to,” until it was our turn to face the music.

            I glided through the stage’s shinny and newly waxed floor while carrying you with my right hand and the bow on my left. Again, I mounted your foot on the floor, piercing through the stage’s wooden flooring. I sat down on the padded steel chair and placed your waists between my thighs and locked you up. I held my head up to check if I could see my supporters in the crowd but there was nobody but a heavy pitch of black due to the blinding rays of the spotlight. I then realized that what we are about to perform was the sum total of all the effort that I placed on you. All the sleepless nights, the 12 midnight sessions and the countless hours of practice are equal to this defining moment. Fortunately, I was not at all bothered with all the pressure that I was saturated to. All I was concerned of was the two of us making music together, unveiling what we have done, and flaunting the fruits of our labor.

            The introduction sounded and I listened intently to it, waiting for the right time to begin our piece. I stroked my first note and ran through the first movement. As my cousin told me after the recital, “I made the other cellists look bad during the first movement….” I went through it as if it was an integral part of me; as if it came came along with me the night my creator gave life to me. Confidence was on my side so when I was about to strike the first note of the second movement. I gave it my all. To my surprise, as I slid my finger to the lower part of your neck to reach a high note, your footing collapsed! The hole that I made on the stage that I thought would hold you strong just didn’t make it. You slid out of my thighs so I had to pull your whole body back to its upright place between my thighs using my fingers while proceeding with the piece so I kept on hitting the wrong notes. Even the use of the bow became so poor due to all of the commotion. What made everything even more difficult was that the floor was newly waxed so you kept on sliding out of place because the only support holding you from moving are my thighs. Since my pants and your skin were slippery, whenever I move to different positions of your neck, your whole body moves along with it. This struggle went on until I hit the last note of our piece.

            It was a disaster! I can’t imagine how I was going to face my sister (who is also a musician and a pretty good one too) when the whole recital was over. I didn’t know what I would say to my teacher for she had been patient with me during the whole semester that we were having lessons. All I could say to my self was that I blew it and I couldn’t replace the events that took place. I won’t have another chance to redeem our hard work. That was our defining moment and I made a gigantic mess out of it. I kept on saying to myself that that event didn’t serve justice to all of the painstaking practices that we went through. I didn’t deserve to play in a slippery floor and make a complete fool out of myself. I am definitely better than the fool the people saw chasing after you as you kept on sliding away from me. SoI had to ask myself, “Am I not really made for you?”

            After my contemplation, I went to check on what’s left of the recital. I met with my supporters and I simply couldn’t show my face to any of them. I was holding myhead low the whole time. Some of the parents of the other musicians approached me and said that they liked my piece but in my head is a deafening tone speaking of failure and disgust. After a few greetings and small talks, I went to my teacher and said how sorry I was that I made her look bad in front of the audience. I even told her that I was going to look for another teacher, feeling that I wasn’t worth her time and efforts. Obviously she was upset with me, just like how upset I was with myself. But instead of pounding more negative shit to my body, she just told me what I could have done to avoid another instance like that. She told me that I should get used to using a stopper, a gadget made of chain that is connected to the foot of the chair in one end and your leg on the other. She also told me to loosen up and to make good on the next recital. But I didn’t hear any of this during that moment. I was still too busy pitying myself from the incident.

            I went out for a meal with the people close to me and then we went home. I carried you on my back and unloaded you underneath the flight of stairs going to the second floor of our house. From that day on, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t meet with you for a while.

There were nights when I lay restless on my bed, tossing and turning because I longed to be with you again. But I was too afraid to rekindle the bad memories that I had during the recital so I had to get used to not being with you for a while. After several days, I was able to get used to living without you. I spent more time on other things such as Church work, schoolwork, playing with the guitar, sports and wasting away in from of the computer. As for you, you were just lying there, underneath the stairs, waiting anxiously for someone to strip you bear once again. Beside you were my sister and brother’s violins. You must be steaming with jealousy because the violins were being used while you were just getting out of tune, kicked by accident, engulfing dirt and neglected as if you didn’t exist, as if we didn’t even spend a single moment together.

            Two months have passed ever since the recital.

Over the phone, I was talking to a girl about how she loved the sound of the cello because she went to a musical where the UST Orchestra provided the necessary music for the said event. We conversed about music for a while until she told me to play her something from you. At first, I was hesitant because for two long months, we have not seen each other. But I was particularly fond of this girl so I decided to give it a try. I rushed down stairs and picked you up. You were covered with dust that my contact lenses became itchy as dust particles fluttered into the air after I pulled you up. I sneezed a few times and rushed back to my room.

            Wanting to please the girl on the other line, I struggle to get the right notes out of you. I struggle to make the right sounds given the right amount of pressure on your strings to give life and make you sing with all your potential once again. I press my fingers on your strings and your neck once again, struggling to get the right positions. It was very painful. The calluses that I used to have are thinner now. The girl on the other line remains quiet as I close my eyes to feel the music that we used to make without any effort. After the Filipino lullaby, I just had to take a breather. So much effort was used on that particular event unlike before, it was a whole lot easier. Then, I ask her how I sounded. She says that I play well, but I say that I am not. We argue about this after for a while until she sort of convinced me that I could really play (or she really has no idea on what she’s saying). After a few more topics, we end our conversation as we say good night to each other.

            Hanging up the phone, I spend time with you once again. It is more difficult this time because my fingers have gone out of shape. The competence that I once had went down the drain. After playing a few old tunes that I used to enjoy, I clothe you and place you back to your old place beside my brown, wooden desk.

            I realize how you have been a big part of me. That no matter how immense an obstacle maybe, that is no reason for anyone or anything to stop following what one believes in. Sure, you were slipping out of me when while we were at the most defining of our togetherness (just like marriage) but that doesn’t mean that we are incapable. If the floor wasn’t slippery, I’m sure we would have done a better job. Or if I got used to using a stopper earlier, we would have pulled it through. I know that getting back on what we left two months ago is going to be difficult but that is not a reason for me to stop and quit. As long I believe that it’s worth it, I must and will work to squeeze out the best in us.

I’m sorry, Esmeralda for our separation. I’m sorry that I was weak and afraid. I’m sorry that for two months, you didn’t exist and considered you a mere musical instrument. Sorry I didn’t give justice to the one who gave you life. You maybe a cello but I gave you a name. and together, we have done considerably good things. You brought out the musician in me while I brought out the music out of you.