February 16, 2008
catesbool
Welcome
to Hundreds of Pictures, a new project which I have been
thinking of starting for more than a year now. I have finally gotten around to working on it in exasperation with self-absorption and in rebellion against too many creeping memories stored
away not just in my mind but in my laptop, the Friendster and Facebook pictures
I see everyday and the emails and SMS messages I get from people all over.
The project is based on a premise: a picture can tell a
hundred stories. Pick a hundred pictures
and you will be able to see ten thousand of stories. Too often, only one or two are told about
them. I don’t know where I will get the
other ninety-nine stories for each picture I will eventually select. They are stored away in other peoples’
memories. I would love to get two or
more of them. I can’t. I will satisfy myself with what I have and
pray there is somebody out there who is kind or has time enough to send me his
or her version of the story.
Allow
me to begin with this series with a bouquet of pink tulips. 
They were a gift from Mama Cynthia, that
beautiful and elegant woman who is a member of the Bayanihan and now lives in
The Netherlands. She works at an ISS
office dealing with student affairs. Occasionally, Filipino and other international students would bug her on
some concern or two, especially those dealing with the Immigratie or when it’s
time for selecting our courses for the coming terms. For the Filipinos working at ISS, we like to
chat with her in Tagalog to give us a nice warm feeling of being home with a
mother again, especially on cold and grey winter days.
I
can’t seem to remember why Mama Cynthia gave each four of us – Rommel, Jason,
Agnes and me – with a bouquet. This one
in the picture, they are Rommel’s since he was the one gifted with foresight
and picture documentation in the batch. I remember that Jason’s bouquet ended up in Agnes’ room up in Dorus 77
(I still remember her Room Number!). Jason
had hidden himself away in Gondelstraat near Schev for quite some time that
Agnes had taken his bouquet so they won’t just waste away. As for mine, I had placed them in a vase
similar to Rommel’s and had patiently chopped off their ends every morning to
prevent them from wilting away fast. I
had placed the bouquet on top of the fridge by the door so that they will be
the first things I would see when I open the door to my room in Bazarlaan 25
whenever I get in. It was around
February or March then. Spring was
already setting in but old man winter was still lingering in the air. I was depressed and grumpy and the bouquet
just helped brighten up my room and my spirits. I had especially liked the bouquet when people dropped by for dinner in
my kitchen and would remark on the sweet smell they emit inside the room.
Now,
I am borrowing my memory of the flowers I once lovingly put up in my room from
this picture taken by Rommel inside his room up at Bazarlaan 85 (his warm
tower). I remembered dropping by on a
bleary day in his room with nothing to do and I was just plain bugging him for
coffee.
vorstThe
more I look at his picture now, the more I remember the contents of Rommel’s
fridge: an assortment of half-empty
orange and apple juice, cold cuts, vorst,brown bread, spreads, eggs. I would sit
by on the lounge chair which he had by his window and put my feet up on his
coffee table with his books. Then we
would just have fun talking about things or he would be his usual autistic self
and work on his laptop while I look down from his window observing an
occasional biker or student passing by.
You
see the rack behind the flowers? Rommel
got it from an Old Batch. I can’t
remember if he got it for free or for a very cheap price (the Old Batch were
leaving and trying to dispose of so much of their things in a hurry). Agnes was the one who found it for him, I
think. From Dorus, Rommel and Jason had
climbed all the way to the 5th Floor of Bazarlaan to bring the rack
inside Rommel’s room. Dinner was served
by Rommel at that time (we try to celebrate such little things with dinners and
good coffee or tea). It had fit
perfectly inside Rommel’s room and he had neatly arranged his books along the
shelves, with coffee and breakfast items on the side. It added to the cosy atmosphere inside his
room.
And
the plant sitting on the right side of the picture? Another Old Batch left over. Rommel and I had given the plant a name. We called it Jessica, in honor of the donor. It was a beautiful green plant which Rommel
almost murdered when he absent-mindedly watered it with very hot water when he
was reviewing for the final exams. He
was not himself, he claimed. He had
already done a very good job of raising Jessica and because she was getting
bigger and the basket where she was originally planted could no longer
accommodate her size, Rommel had to transfer her to a bigger one. I was already convinced that Rommel is a good
father of Jessica until one afternoon, I got a message on my Yahoo Messenger
from Rommel telling me in a rather tearful voice that he accidentally poured
hot water on Jessica. We did not expect
the poor plant to live after that but Rommel made amends to her and prevented
himself from taking care of her when he is in half-crazy state of studying for
exams.
It
feels good to remember bits and pieces of details and writing about them. There is a chance that I will be able to
avoid Parkinson’s disease with this exercise. It’s a good way to spend a Sunday afternoon at home when my brain
refuses to absorb law book technicalities.
(My memories are my
own. I choose to let them belong to me but I choose not to let them kill me inside
forever.)
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