flight of stares

At some point, staring at the wet laundry on the clothesline swing from side to side brings me to a boat scene, some twenty-five years ago, when seawater, instead of a midmorning wind, lulled me into catatonia.

To a four-year old, getting lost on a long stretch of shore, with same-looking cottages everywhere, is a twilight zone. When you are dwarfed by your relatives, they being thrice your height, a foreigner trying to help, he four times your size, is a behemoth bending down to devour you. The harsh German accent on his English was probably a clue. Where are my parents? he asked. Tired of crying and walking, I turned and walked away, pretending to be more annoyed than scared. He and I were after the same thing after all: my parents. He asked me to come back, as others did, Bicolano accent in their Tagalog, and I ignored them all. At some point, the shore would end. I would find my parents. My parents would find me. Or hunger would deprive me of power, just as my toy robots stop marching when the batteries run out. But I had no expectations. I kept walking.

I remember riding a small fishing boat, one with frames of bamboo for balance, on both sides; the hum of its motor a distant drone, the voices of an uncle and the boat owner behind me. I squinted at the lazy sun muffled behind a carpet of cottony clouds, and I kept to myself. Maybe it was my reward for wandering back to my family's cottage, after nearly three hours of walking.

The motor is turned off. We began to drift. The sea, when you're so far away from shore, is not as postcard-still as it looks from the cottage. It tilts, like a slow prelude to a tidal wave that never really comes. And our boat is gently shoved and rocked and left alone. Thin beams of sunlight escaped the clouds and struck the sea, like a xylophone, and tiny mirrors bounce off the water like music, and like music they fade, as sunlight is curtained once more by cumulonimbus clouds. I should get lost more often, if this much quiet is the prize.

Now, twenty-five years later, I stare at wet clothes. The Encyclopaedia Britannica on my PC spreads out the entry I am looking for: "Catatonia." To a near-thirty wanderer, there comes a point when the wandering has to stop, something should dampen this imaginative wanderlust. I think it was Socrates who said that to be free of attachments is to see Beauty pure and immortal. If only Beauty could pay my immortal bills, to which I am always attached.

I close the window, silencing the scene of clothes and boat rides, and continue reading. One day I will find a cure for my catatonia, and on that day I will cease to be myself; I will be completely practical, consistently cheerful, with all my anti-social genes replaced by happier ones.