Just when I was about to give up on this novel by Daniel
Handler … me finding it too juvenile, too American, too American juvenile ---
the many things a 42 year old Filipina struggled to relate to for the last 6
months that I’ve been trying to painfully read and enjoy this “break up”
book.
Three hundred fifty four.
The total number of pages. Twenty
pages the sum of all the pain.
I thought there was something fantastic, fabulous, extra
ordinaire, something uniquely heartbreaking .
Unique heartbreaking, a descriptive, definitive statement I invented a
few seconds just as I write this. My
exact allusion when I first got a hold of this book. Intrigued by how a broken heart looks and
feels like for teenagers. Something I never had. So I thought, my judgmental self, nothing
spectacular, nothing elegant, just pure shallow pain. Nothing beats a torn and worn recently broken
heart of 4 decades.
I was wrong. I
underestimated the power of a broken heart.
One that goes beyond age and ages.
My bad. I am so sorry Min.
Tuesday’s child.
11th of December.
After three major stops, all successful.
After a morning long of planning a possible meet up and possibly beer
and “tsokolate-eh” from what’s left of
our used to be our fave hangout in Remedios Circle , me and my “forever” BFF Nanat, another failed attempt. He’s watching a French film, that’s his
priority! Hump!!! :)
After feeling a little bitter not being able to check out
that Japanese store in Trinoma for that DVD bag in pink vintage (I have the
blue one already so it is really a must that I get the pink one, yeah, a must …
by all means, at all cost ahahah). Yet
still being able to maneuver a quick drop and shop at that new but dusty thrift
shop by the train station fo that lovable snowman .... a mug shot of that
dirteeh ol Mistah Frost am too lazy to post ;)
I jumped to that “ambrelata” mini bus, turned on my playlist at
the highest volume, and
started scanning what was left of Min and Ed.
That heavy feeling
leaf after leaf. Those tiny diamond in
the corner of my eyes again.
“Here we are at the bottom, almost empty.” Page 325.
“Do you do them in that old-fashioned code, like
daffodils mean I’m sorry I was late,
daisies mean sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friends, these things here
fanned out mean just thinking of you? Or
did you just have them throw whatever was pretty together?” Page 328.
“”But this isn’t
for me,” I said, and something crinkled in my fist. There was a crash on the floor, the crash of
letting go.” Page 330.
‘And you can’ stop thinking about me,’ I said., “is” what
it was in your note.” My head rattled
with bad arithmetic. … couldn’t stop thinking of who, I thought, a fraction I
couldn’t add up in my head. I needed
help, but you’re the only one good with a fucking protractor.” Page 331.
“Just the water riveting on the floor, an answer I knew,
gone out of the pretty vase.” Page 332.
“This isn’t a movie,” I said. “We’re not movie stars.
“My fucking virginity, I realized with a churning
lurch. You had seen everything, you had
everything. Showering together. Your body inside mine. You had every scrap of skin, and I had a
handful of petals in ne hand, somebody else’s flowers … How many times have you
been in Willows?” Page 333.
“I fled the street … You’re a goddamn athlete, you didn’t,
you weren’t there when I reached as far lost corner and stood heaving with my
hands full of all I had left. “ Page 334.
All pages turned.
I was looking aimlessly at Dado Avenue, diamond’s fell, but this perfect
wind, it dried them up just before they
reached a pair of pink but much colder cheeks.
Florence Welch speaks in mystical poetry … "And given half the chance would I take any of it back It's a fine
romance but its left me so undone
It's always darkest before the dawn ..."
Annette. Annete
was her name. She between Min and Ed.
