I greeted him hello; he waved me goodbye.
I wrote a book review on "BUT FOR THE LOVERS" by Wilfrido Nolledo. I called his book weird. What followed was even wierder. He went to the ICU the same day. He died two days later. This must never happen to a superstitious man like me.
I bought his book long time ago, together, I think, with "America Is In the Heart" by Bulosan. Never had a chance to read it until it was mentioned in the FLIPS group. I told my sister to get it from my storage. She said she looked and looked but it was nowhere.
So I went. It's been years since I checked out my storage. I opened it and if there was anything that it reminded me of - it was a tomb.
Death was painted all over it. Dead books. Dead authors. Dead singers. Dead writing. Dead past. Everything is dead.
But I thought, who's afraid of death?
So I started to write a free text on my computer about entering my storage. Then I read the book. It took me a while because my winter allergies started attacking me again. Then my job became very busy that I had to work everyday. Then I had to continue training for my first marathon this year. Then I had to deal with pain all over.
I just could not find the time to read any book.
Besides, BUT FOR THE LOVERS was not an easy read. Until I reached its middle and off I went reading.
I was mesmerized by its play of words. By its uniqueness. By the fact that Nolledo and I seem to like writing weird things.
I wrote my review and posted it on FLIPS.
Earlier that day, Mr Nolledo was sent to ICU.
And what I wrote scared the s--- out of me. Because now I understand why I checked my storage and found it so dead. Now I understand why I suddenly thought of dead authors and singers and writers.
Perhaps Mr. Nolledo had a unique way of influencing things. And if he did whisper in my consciousness the things I wrote, I thank him for the great privilege. He is a Philippine treasure.
I think he pulled his last trick on me. Yeah, yeah, yeah, he's mystery.
...praised by New York Times Review as "stunning" in its first publication...
I finally visited my storage - and looked at things I kept all these years. Books, lots of books; some read, others not. There are boxes and boxes of assorted items: a glass figurine, old computer components, detergents, clothes, blankets, and my thirteen year old diaries. I call them contemplative diaries, I wrote them to straighten out my mind, and to direct my thoughts. It's awful to look at things I accumulated through my thirteen years living in America.
I see a little box containing a rock from Pinatubo. My father told me it's the closest I could get to the dangerous eruption. I visited Pinatubo twice since then. Then I see all the papers I prepared to get me hired as a Therapist in the US. That was thirteen years ago when America to my mind was this wonderful escape from my country's misfortunes. A way to save my family. Like Zorro, maybe. Like William Tell, I don't know.
My immigrant experience is an experience worthy of a novel itself, another one that I'd probably write and write about, assuming someone might find it readable, or at least understandable. I love to write about the things I go through, only because I want to keep my experience captured forever, like pictures...though unlike pictures, it doesn't fade. Writing makes my experience linger as fresh as a new day everyday. It smells as good as a newly brewed coffee.
I find my coffee maker, the one I used for years until I became allergic to coffee. How I ended up with so many allergies in the US I'd never know. I find Filipino casettes, I don't recall anymore who the top Pinoy singers were when I left. I believe they were Martin Nievera and Gary Valenciano. But certain singers keep me Pinoy forever: Rey Valera, Florante, Asin, and of course, Ric Manrique Jr. and Sylvia La Torre, really, it's always 'of course' when it comes to Bakya Mo Neneng and Leron Leron Sinta.
I take a look at all the Pinoy books I accumulated through the years. My gay books. My classic books. All of them standing along the walls of the storage, like heads of dead corpses in the catacombs of Italy. Begging me to read them all. And I couldn't. There is a limit to one's reading capability. I want to write. I want to exercise. I want to work seven days a week. I want to, argh, I've got so many wants and I can't get them. I place a CD in my CD player.
Ella Fitzgerald is singing Summer Time and Someone To Watch Over Me. You listen to who? My co-workers wonder who Ella Fitzgerald is. Or Nina Simone. Or Edith Piaf. Even Mahalia Jackson they don't know. They're the ones I listen to, I say. Singers? they ask. Of course!
...Summertime and the livin is easy, fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high, your Dad's rich, and you Mama's good-lookin', so hush little baby don't you cry....
And I don't even know if these are the exact words. Ah, don't I just love these jazzy tunes, these show tunes, these - I can't believe I have copies of "The Producers" and "Rent". These Broadway musicals have special meanings - "Producers" brought to life the dead spirit of NY post 9/11. "Rent" creator, whatever his name is, died without seeing his creation top Broadway. Ain't that sad, you spend your entire life trying success and when it's there, you're dead.
Dead - this word no longer threatens me. I used to be so frightened of death until - wait a minute! - what do I know about death? I see death everyday and what it is is nothingness; it's a split second existence without a concept of time or space or anything. Why would I be afraid of a one second moment? No matter how many billions of years pass by when I'm dead, I won't know. It is a temporary change between lives and existence. I believe that even if Jesus were to take me to his House I surely wouldn't know what would happen in the world from that point on. I surely wouldn't be sitting by a window watching the world go by. Who wants to watch the world go by anyway? What I know of the world is what I know about it now - that somewhere in the Philippines, there are so many stupid politicians trying to run it. So there! That is what I know. Do I care?
Not anymore. There are certain things you can not stop. The Fall of Bastille for example. The revolutions in Russia for example. The revolutions in China for example. And then, you can't stop reading a book entitled "But For The Lovers by Wilfrido Nolledo".
Wilfrido who?
Well and well again! Wilfrido Nolledo's book ain't an easy read. At least to me. I wanted to give up its reading after the first fifty pages because, well, it requires somethin' to comprehend, I say somethin' because it is not your typical novel where you see men walkin' and talkin' and plottin' in an expected order. It's a novel that drives me crazy even now because I still don't know what that somethin' is.
It bombards me with millions of images in a stack revealed without any arrangement. The order becomes clear only somewhere close to the end. But in the end I don't know anymore if the characters were real or symbols. Weird really.
Is this novel a poem in prose? Or prose in poem? Would a poet understand it better than me who is non-poet? Is this novel about World War Two (it's time frame) or is it about history (characters composed of natives, Spanish, Japanese, Americans) or is it a social commentary ( struggle between a businesswoman(Tira) and her impoverished tenants) or is it about brutality ( heads rolling, women being raped, Japanese soldiers murdered ) or is it just plain wild ( an exotic dancer turns into a male, a landlady demands to be f---- by male tenants who could not pay rents, and the worst of all, a woman biting a lethargic man's penis until the head is cut off as the building collapses on both, ouch!) or is it about love (Amoran and "the" Filipino girl whose name isn't mentioned) or is it about the Philippines symbolized by "the" Filipino girl whose name can not be mentioned? I can go on and on sharing with you the images and theories that linger in my mind - believe me - there are lots of them in this novel. But some images I can no longer recall. And there is also the big possibility of me misinterpreting these images.
Was this novel written when Salvador Dali was hot?
Another thing about it is its English mastery where every word seems to be plucked out of a mountain of words. Like a novel that painstakingly weighed the use of words. It reminds of the current lamentation of Filipino educators who claim that the lustre of Filipino English in the 1960's has been totally wiped out in this generation.
Was it written in the midst of hallucination? Or some psychedelic imagination in multiple colors like the Hippie colors of the late sixties?
Was it written at a time Pablo Picasso was hot?
Was it written using magic realism to the max?
I may never be able to tell you anything about this novel that came out of our country when we were still the best Asians around.
It is a novel whose style is as contemporary and experimental as our time today. But it is not an easy read. It is not one you'd consider a potential bestseller.
And finally, But For The Lovers reminds me again of the Filipino generation who witnessed the destruction of our country because of the savagery of war. The same generation who wept loud as they saw their Philippine flag replace the American and Japanese flags after the Liberation. The same Filipino generation who built the Philippines as one wealthy and intelligent and peaceful nation in the decade fifties and sixties. The same Filipino generation who are rolling on their graves in disgust and anger at the current generation who don't seem to give a damn about the country that was trusted to them.
--next for my reading: The exotic tales of Australian based Filipina writer Merlinda Bobis' WHITE TURTLE
