She and Her Cat

Today is Global Shinkai Day, and the following post is a transcription of one of Makoto Shinkai's short films, Kanojo to Kanojo no Neko (She and Her Cat). (Nihon'go to English translation by KickAssAnime.)


The season was the beginning of spring, and that day, it was raining.


Sec. 1 [Introduction]


That's why Her hair, and my body too, were heavy with humidity. The air surrounding us was saturated with the immensely pleasant fragrance of the rain. Phone rings.

The Earth on its axis turned quietly without a sound, and in this world, Her and my body continued to lose heat peacefully.

I am currently not at home. Your business, please.

That day, I was picked up by Her. That's why, I am her cat.




Sec. 2 [Her Days]


She was kind like a mother, and beautiful like a lover. That's why I quickly became enamored of her.

She lives alone and leaves for work every morning. I don't know the details of Her work nor am I interested, but I very much like the way She looks leaving the room in the morning. Her long hair, properly tied up, the faint smell of cosmetics and perfume. She places Her hand upon my head. "I'll go and come back, OK?" she says aloud. She straightens her back, and with a pleasant sound echoing from Her shoes, She opens the heavy iron door.

A smell like grassy places wet with rain in the morning remains for a while.


Sec. 3 [His Days]


Summer has come and I have a girlfriend too. It's the young cat, Mimi. Mimi is small and cute, and really good at being spoiled, but after all, I like a woman who is more adult. "Mimi, like Her."

"Ne, Chobi."

"What is it, Mimi?"

"Please marry me."

"Ne, Mimi. I've said this numerous times, but I have an adult lover."

"Not true."

"It's not, 'not true'."

"Let me meet her."

"You can't."

"Why?"

"Ne, Mimi. I've said it numerous times, but we'll have this kind of talk after you've become more of an adult. Or something." This kind of conversation goes on forever.

"Please come over to play again, OK? Definitely, OK? Really come over, OK? Really, really come over, OK?"

In this way my first summer passes, and gradually, cooler breezes begin to blow.




Sec. 4 [Her Loneliness]


One day like that, after a long, long telephone conversation, She cried. The other line is cut, then a busy tone remains. She hangs up. I didn't understand the reason, but She cried for a long time by my side.

I think She is not the one at fault. Only, I am always watching. She is always kinder than anyone else. She is more beautiful than anyone else. She lives more earnestly than anyone else.

I can hear her voice, "Da're ka... da're ka... da're ka da're ka... da're ka tasukete."¹




Sec. 5 [She and Her Cat]


In the darkness that has no end, this world that we are aboard continues to revolve. The season has changed, and it is now winter. The scenery of snow that, to me, should be the first I've seen, I have a feeling I've known it from long ago.

The winter mornings are late, so even when it becomes time for Her to leave the house, it is still dark outside. The sight of Her engulfed in a very heavy jacket makes her seem practically like a big cat.

She, who wore the scent of snow, and her slender, cold fingertips, the sound of the black clouds streaming by far in the upper sky, her soul, and my feelings, and our room... the snow inhales the sounds of all, but only the sound of the electric train that She boarded reached my upright ears.

I, and probably Her too, this world, I think we like it.






____________________
[¹] "Someone... someone... someone someone... someone, please save me."

The Persistence of Memory, Second: Clouds and Cobwebs

I heard screaming. My eyes snapped open and I turned around just in time to see a metal door closing. What I thought were voices turned out to be the shrieking of rusted doors on hinges. Then there was a rattling of gears and chains, and in another second, a thud.

The stillness in the air made me think of walls -- four-sided, all-enclosing, air-constricting -- but looking away from the door, finally taking in the surroundings, I find myself outside. Clouds were within my periphery, and below, a vastness of empty space. I was afloat -- my flesh pulsing with veins and skin and organs of gossamer.

A memory flickered to life before me -- like a slideshow or a silent film. I was fourteen, the day after I came out to a childhood friend, the first boy I fell in love with. I'd just woken up, the cobwebs of a distant dream disentangling from my eyes. I was feeling the same thing then as I am feeling now -- the inertia of a body floating in mid-air, free from any push or pull, when nothing and everything is wrong at the same time.

"What am I supposed to feel?" my fourteen-year old self said, to no one in particular. "What am I supposed to feel?" my present self echoed. The clouds never answered, nor did the cobwebs, as clouds and cobwebs are wont to do.

The Persistence of Memory, First: Thorn

It was about this time when it happened, when I felt something cold snake through my veins. Fever, blue-fingered and mist-eyed, she sidled herself beside me and gave my neck a lingering kiss. I pulled my jacket closer, zipped it three-quarters up, and tried to sleep. The twilight wind was gentle as a mother's touch, whispering sweet nothings as a lover would, but sleep did not happen. The shivering in my body danced with the vibration of air on my skin, and it calmed a storm foreign and further in my mind.

I opened my senses partly, only for a second, and I saw my hand pale and cold and trembling. My vision fell to my wrist, and it glowed white and silken in the moonlight, tainted by a vein with beautiful hues of super-saturated green. "Strange," I whispered to the atoms of dark and shadow. "It looks like a thorn."

And as I slipped into unconsciousness, I heard a voice not unlike mine and thousands of planets away, "Get me away from here," but it did not happen. Then I heard a scream.

The Unwiring

It felt good being away from the Internet for a few days. The unwiring gave me the chance to finish the fourth book of A Song of Ice and Fire -- finally. It's been quite a long time since I spent almost all the waking hours of one day just reading a book, I almost forgot how mind-numbingly pleasurable it was -- especially if the book's such a compelling read. I was hoping to stretch A Feast For Crows a couple more weeks, but having the willpower of a ruinous, crumbling cracker, I devoured the last third in one sitting, to my utter shame. I'm still proud tho. Having read all four books of the series, it feels as if I have stepped into the tightly-guarded stronghold of that elite society of geeks patiently waiting for the fifth, A Dance With Dragons. Crossing fingers that the news regarding its September 2009 release holds true.

I have also just finished watching the first season of Battlestar Galactica. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. I guess it held enough entertainment value for me to watch all thirteen episodes plus the miniseries in one day at least. After seeing the final scene of the thirteenth episode, it felt like the entire first season was merely building up to something greater. If the hype is to be trusted, I should start meditating in preparation before I finish downloading the subsequent seasons.

Sunday was the last Internet-free day, and it was spent with a friend -- first at Bookay Ukay (where my friend purchased two Norman Wilwayco books, Responde and Mondomanila), then at UP Diliman, then, the rest of the evening until midnight, at Jaime Velasquez Park in Makati. For close to eight hours, we did nothing but sing songs mostly from our high school soundtrack -- "vagina rock," as my friend called it. This one, however, managed to wind its way several times into our randomly-generated playlist (I miss Endo).

I got home by 1:00am with the Internet reactivated. I was a bit disappointed since I was hoping to read (and maybe even finish) House of M, but I shelved the idea for the meantime -- I have three days' worth of feeds to catch up on. My degenerate Internet non-life is back on the weave!

My Bucket Is Bigger Than Yours

Weekend will be over in an hour. Not that it would matter much to someone like me, but if it gives one time to hang out with friends, talking until the wee hours of the morning over several bottles of beer, then weekends have their special brand of charm to look forward to -- even for someone like me.

One of the things brought up by a friend was how every person's perception of his or her worth can be compared to a bucket. The size of one's bucket is proportional to the perception -- the breadth and girth, if you will -- of how much space one needs to fill until a sense of satisfaction is achieved. He talked about his parents, how they didn't have very lofty and grand ambitions, but their buckets are at the brimful with contentment. His mother moreso, since despite having a very modest-sized bucket, she still radiates waves and waves of positivity that are influencing those around her.

I thought about mine for a few moments and decided that I'm fine with my bucket. Not a sizable one, true, but I feel I have enough satisfaction sloshing in me already. Ever the honest soul, my friend told me he wasn't convinced. He does admit that there are times when he sees contentment glowing in me, but there are also times in equal measure when that contentment shapes itself more into what seems like resignation -- with a little hint of resentment and regret. My resolve thinned when he mentioned that because... well... it's true.

Somewhere, miles, miles, and many more miles away, I thought I heard a rock splinter, leaving something hollow, yawning with the passing night wind. I downed several gulps of beer to fill in the newly-emptied space. This bucket is full, a thought formed, unbidden. Golden liquid spilling over the edge, glowing amber in the moonlight. I laughed at the idea. "My bucket is FINE," I insisted, and drank again. I heard my friends laugh with me, and I was glowing, and I was glad.

Insert Lame Fair Pun Here

So I was at the UP Fair last night with two friends. I was shamelessly bounding all over the place like a doped-up idiot, and I'm partly putting the blame on the bottles of Red Horse we've downed before heading over the fair grounds. And the other part -- it was my first time to experience the famed and fabled UP Fair. (As well as my first takoyaki experience.)

Someone told me someone dies each year. I was hoping to get in on the action, but altho there was an incident near the stage while Giniling Festival was performing, there wasn't any bloodshed. Ah, well, it was still fun.

My friend's quote for the evening: "Don't cry out loud, for crying out loud!"

The Eternally Distracted Child

Once again, I am being asked by my mother to write a 50-item Values Ed. test for 6th Graders in her school, and once again, I am finding myself heavily distracted by other things. Dragons, to be exact. Cute, cuddly, baby dragons that need hours and hours of attention and click-spamming in order to fully evolve into the mighty and legendary beings they are destined to be. Meanwhile, the test has been left forgotten after item number three.


Dragon Egg Needs Your Warm Tushie!
I am a 12-year old trapped in the body of a 26-year old.

Twenty Five Random Things

After much nudging and tagging, I finally got this done. There's nothing like a good, long meme to get one's idle fingers a-typing. All tagging will be done on Facebook! And so, without further delay, my list of five and twenty:

1. Sailormoon is as much a part of who I am as my porn collection is or my surname. My moral compass is based on one question and one question only: What Would Usagi Do?
   
   
2. Also, because of Sailormoon, I learned how to read and write in Hiragana and Katakana. This started from when I was 11 all the way through High School. It was a slow and informal process, picking up what one character means and letting it stick. It actually felt like a scavenger hunt. I'd come across one character in a Japanese grocery, and then months after, I'd see a new one in a Sailormoon sticker. This was all before I got hooked into the Internet so I can't look everything up all at once, but I think it was more fun learning that way.
   
   
3. I love stand up comedy.
   
   
4. I am still waiting for the DVD release of Endo.
   
   
5. Walking cleanses me. Sunday nights are the best times for very long walks. I'd have a soundtrack playing, a book in one hand just in case I feel like sitting down, and a basic route in my head which I modify along the way. Unplanned walks are good, too. The most recent one was from Katipunan to Cubao, along Aurora. By the time I got on the bus along EDSA, my feet were sore and my legs were aching but my mind and body felt blissfully clean and empty.
   
   
6. There is a clock mounted on my bedroom wall frozen at 5:54:45.
   
   
7. Sinigang na Baboy remains uncontested at the top of my Favorite Foods list.
   
   
8. I have more books than I do clothes. The shirts I wear are mostly my brother's (my younger brother's), and the two pairs of jeans I alternate weekly are my father's. Clothes have never been a priority for me. Books first, then food, then clothes.
   
   
9. My room used to be my grandmother's. There is an altar with old statuettes of saints which bear witness to ANYTHING I do here. Plus, I have been tasked to change the sampaguita wreathes on each statuette every morning.
   
   
10. My aunts still call me by my childhood nickname, Pong.
    
    
11. I used to collect two DC titles: Justice League and Legionnaires. Justice League America, from after Breakdowns (issue 61, I think), on through Zero Hour, until the Satellite group disbanded (issue 113, I think). Also, Justice League Europe until they became Justice League International. I collected no more than ten issues of Legionnaires however, but my love for them wasn't any less true. It was during my comic-collecting years that I really began appreciating the English language, as well as the mighty fine art of drawing.
    
    
12. When I was 10, I used to watch The Sword In The Stone on Betamax everyday after getting home from school.
    
    
13. Mountain Dew is my favorite poison.
    
    
14. I love Neverwinter Nights. I can play it a hundred times over and never get tired.
    
    
15. Ever since I read the short story Saturday Night from the first Ladlad book about ten years ago, I have taken on the name Podi Alejandro as a pseudonym and as an online moniker.
    
    
16. I have an inexplicable aversion towards the number 6. Whenever I encounter lists or do things in sequence and it would threaten to end at the 6th or 16th or 26th, and so forth, I stop at either the 5th or the 7th item. I will breathe easier when I turn 27 in June.
    
    
17. I was heavily obsessed on a guy named Randy during my senior year in High School. It was such a major part of my life that it needed close to three years to run its course.
    
    
18. I seriously think TJ Trinidad is my soulmate. Seriously.
    
    
19. When I turned 8, I was given P100 for my birthday. The high I felt was enough to push me into going to the toy store by myself and pick up three board games that caught my fancy. When I was paying for them, the cashier told me my money wasn't enough. I remember feeling more confused than embarrassed, but not for long. The lady behind me -- a kind-looking, middle-aged Caucasian woman -- told the cashier she'd pay for my board games instead. By then I'd realized what I'd done, and I flushed red in embarrassment. I managed a squeaky "Thank you," before dashing on home.
    
    
20. I am top.
    
    
21. I am bottom.
    
    
22. I don't watch TV. Not too much, at least. When I do, it's only cooking shows or whatever's on Nickelodeon. Everything else I want to watch, I leech off the Internet.
    
    
23. I'm still just a child, really.
    
    
24. I don't believe the world will end on December 21, 2012, nor do I believe in anything heralding the end of days. It has simply, completely lost its power when I realized All Men Must Die. Valar Morghulis.
    
    
25. I press Ctrl + S too much.

The Consequence of Silence

And it's almost like a corny movie scene
but I'm out of frame and the lighting's bad
and the music has no theme.
And we're all so strong when nothing's wrong
and the world is at our feet.
But how small we are when our love is far away
and all you need is you.

(K's Choice, 20,000 Seconds)

Say, something happens. The way ordinary things happen in an ordinary day. Something inconsequential, something irrelevant. You are sitting outside with a friend, on the sidewalk maybe. Not talking; just watching kids at play under the afternoon sun. A car drives by, the children move to the side for a while, barely registering a break from their banter, as if a giant hand pushed them all at once to one side of the road, then are released. You look at the kids, both you and your friend, and they resume their playing in the middle of the street.

It was quiet, relatively, until you hear a low thrumming coming from above and behind. A helicopter, you thought, confirming even without looking up. The approach became louder, more imposing, and becomes more like a jackhammer in the sky than anything else, really. You and your friend look up, and a few seconds after, the violent insistence faded into a low thrum once again. Both of you are still looking up, though, and you feel like you want to say something. "Well that was unexpected," was what you could have said. Or maybe, "Huh. Been a while since one of those passed by." But for some reason, you chose to remain quiet. The silence stretched on, yet both of you were still looking up. The words were scratching at your throat, but the silence has stretched past a point where anything said would have sounded awkward. Late. Inconsequential.

Hence the month-long silence. Things happened, as if insignificant, inconsequential -- the death of an aunt, my sister's marriage, the days and days spent getting drunk with friends -- and for me it seemed enough that they happened. It has been becoming easier and easier for me to let things go and let things through. I wade into a river, and I neither oppose its flow, nor do I follow it. I stay in the center and let the water flow through me, cleansing me one moment and soiling me the next, never caring either way. This calm, this surrender, has been the closest thing to peace I have experienced.

I think it was a low thrumming at first, when I heard it coming. It wasn't long before it turned into something louder, however. Something imposing. A violent insistence. A jackhammer in the sky, maybe. A persistent knocking. A mobile phone ringing. "I'm here at St. Clare's with your sister and her husband. Can you call up Loyola Memorial and ask them how much it would cost to cremate a fetus?" I got up from the bed, my eyes thick with sleep, but my mind quickly sharpening to a dagger point. "OK, I'll call back," I managed to say.

A couple of hours after, I was with my mother, entering the hospital room where my sister was confined. They were still waiting, her husband said, for the baby to move further down before extracting it completely. It wasn't a miscarriage. The water bag broke and the five-month old fetus needed to be aborted. I held my sister's hand. "We saw him smiling yesterday, me and mother, during my ultrasound. He smiled and he yawned and he was so healthy," she said. I couldn't say anything back. "You're young and strong," was what I could have said. Or maybe, "We all did our best. We're here for you." But the silence stretched on and past the point where anything said would have sounded awkward. Late. Inconsequential.

The pounding is still there. The violence, silent as it is, has never been more oppressive, and something needs to be said. That baby has been a hope for me. His birth has been a beacon, his squalling as he leaves the comfort of my sister's warmth a sonar for the beginning of rest of my life. I told myself things are going to change when I become an uncle. Things happen, though -- a car passes through, a helicopter appears out of nowhere, a baby dies -- but life goes on despite the silence, and my river will flow, cleansing and soiling, leaving moments lost in its wake.