Wayward and Fanciful
Primal scream
"We were young. Heartache to heartache… Love is a fantasy."
Lost and loving the sound of my voice as I belted that out to for the heavens to hear, it took me a while to register that my girls were rolling around in laughter.
"Battlefield, Mom. Love is a battlefield," Sage corrected me.
"No, it's not," I disagreed, casting a fond – if a bit lascivious - look at my love. He was hunched over the wheel and doing his best not to go off the road as I took a break from assaulting the eardrums off me and mine. Sage's edit provided me with the opportunity to do the mother thing: "Love, my daughter, is a fantasy – and don't you forget it."
An editor edits, right?
An editor belts out the words, too, when she's had enough.
I've been eating, sleeping, waking the final edits on the 25th volume of the university journal for the last two weeks, and the work is far from over. My brain has just about turned to mush. Writers should take a leaf from Jojo Abinales and tell me when to stop – email me "send me the copy edit," would you? Let's get a move on here.
Times like these, I need to do a primal scream. Again and again and again.
My love understands. He also understands that I'd feel more comfortable belting out where it won't qualify as assault with intent to injure – like in the car with our daughters or where the scream would get drowned out by someone who does it for a living. Toto, they said, was coming to town.
Friday night was nostalgia night. Hubby and I lined up outside the concert hall to get tickets. The last time we did this was when we were dating. Lately, we'd find ourselves in possession of concert tickets some days before the event. Stuck in the midst of the perfumed throng Friday night, we belatedly realized why we had found it advisable to skip this step. I should have remembered also how someone tried to cop a feel so many years back as hubby and I lined up to get into a Gary Valenciano concert at the San Agustin Gym in Iloilo City.
Guess that would have been okay, too. It's been too long since I used my phoenix punch to draw nosebleed. I could use the exercise right about now.
Especially when we finally got the tickets. It was quite a letdown to be expecting Toto when obviously the band wasn't getting up the stage in toto. Refund? Never mind. Oh, well, Bobby Kimball can belt it out, so maybe I can still scream all I want.
We had an hour before the concert so we decided to go to dinner. On the sidewalk outside UP Anda, we bumped into Bobby Ramos and Rene Estremera.
"I saw your mom on TV. Wow, it's been a year since the Batasan bombing. How is she?" Bobby asked.
"Thanks for asking," replied my love. "Mom is… well, after the amputation…" Tito trailed off.
"What? What amputation?" exclaimed Bobby.
"Don't mind him," I reassured the man.
"Mom is doing okay, thank you," Tito echoed with a chuckle.
Kimball was a hoot. He was an hour late getting up that stage and he couldn't scream well enough anymore to bring me to catharsis. He jumped onstage looking like he was all set to do a friendly round of billiards in the family room. And every time he'd wail, he'd drink a gallon of water and rush back to the wings. That wasn't stage presence. That was the exact opposite. Don't you just hate it to see how the mighty have fallen? Damn thing is they land in our backyard.
His backup band was off, too. The only time I got a bit high on that gig was when someone at the back said "Ala una sa beinte pesos!"
Haaah… that almost got me reminiscing of the baylehan sa barrio and the traditional customs for socially approved interactions among eligible young gentlemen and the dalagang Pilipina. Gone. All gone. My daughters know where to find Queensland. And they're not even eligible yet.
Let's not go there. Queensland is where, according to three taxi drivers I talked to recently, teenagers do ala una sa tres cientos cincuenta pesos these days. They even record their orgies and pass them around come exam time. Scary. That just gives me more reason to want to wail until Sage's familiar starts climbing up walls – literally.
I'm cheap that way. No karaoke needed. And I do my wailing at midday, too. Well, most of the time anyway.
I said as much Sunday after lunch. Ever the understanding man, my love urged me to do Africa. Oh, bless the rains – it's coming down anytime now. I said I hadn't liked Kimball's take on that Robert Plant classic either. Hubby wanted to hear how Stairway to Heaven ought to be done so I didn't disappoint him there, too. See, you got to work in those interesting asides when you sing "…and the forest will echo with laughter (Does anyone remember laughter?)" That is the way to do it.
Liane got out of the bathroom wanting to do the soldier song.
Now, Liane here wants to be a rock star tomorrow. In the last year, she taught herself to play the piano and the guitar, and every time she feels she needs to be kind to me, she begs me to sing Unchained Melody. That usually happens past midnight. My daughter apologizes quite politely too when she can't find on the keyboard the particular note I'm hitting.
She comes down and wails along for Mr. Lonely/ who has nobody/ to call his own.// I am a soldier/ a lonely soldier/ so far from home/… She surreptitiously records our rendition, probably to remind her someday how lucky she is - and how far - her vocal chords have evolved from the mother tree. I wish that I could/ go back home//. (Hoo-wah-ooh-ooh-wohoo!).
With one last baleful glare in our direction, Sage's familiar slinks off to parts unknown. So do Liane and Sagey. Hubby is snoring. I'm all alone.
Outside the rain begins. The heavens heard.
I feel good. You know that I would now.