The Secret Lives of Children and Friends

My mother told me that she had rung Rosie yesterday.

"How did she sound?" I said.

My mother's face broke into a big smile and she said, "Oh, she's fantastic. She's doing incredibly well. She's almost finished her dissertation and she's going out with a lovely boy called Simon. She needed £200 to buy a new printer for her computer so that she can print her dissertation out."

How little our parents know about us. Do my children lie to me?

- Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction, Sue Townsend


The secret lives of children. My parents, for instance, don't know the demons I wrestle with, the intensity of my tooth problems, the extent of my smoking habit, my relationships with my friends and family. For sure, it's better that they know nothing of it. The question is, do they REALLY want to know? Do they, somehow, somewhere deep within their subconscious, not want to know? Do they want us to forever stay little children? I don't want their noses in my business, at the same time I want them to know how I turned out.

The secret lives of friends. How much do we know of our dear, dear friends? Outside of projected habits, of expressions and recycled jokes, outside of the hanging-out-in-cafes, how much do we really know?

The secret lives of parents. What did they have to give up? All we know of our parents start from the day we were born. Anything before that is just a story they tell us. How much of it is true? How much is held back? Do we want to know?

*****

I've been trying for the past hour to divert the attention from my toothache elsewhere. Nothing's working. Everything triggers a throb of pain: the light from the lamp, the ticking of the alarm clock, the tapping of the keyboard, the hum of the air conditioner downstairs, the blinking stand-by light of the sub-woofer, the computer screen, the creaking of the bed, the colors of my room, the darkness behind my closed eyes. The pain is driving me to madness. I imagine if I had a gun right now, I wouldn't even think twice about using it: aim it at my temple and pull the trigger. Blow my fucking brains out.

My teeth problems started when I took up smoking. I remember a time when people complimented my teeth, when I was encouraged to audition for toothpaste commercials and advertisements. All this before I was a smoker.

I remember my brothers' friend Sujie, how miserable he would be when I squirmed with my toothaches. He would run out to the Mercury Drug Store on Tandang Sora Avenue, the closest one that's open, at 3 or 4 a.m. and get me some painkillers. I don't remember which brand I popped back then. Ponstan, maybe. He would offer me a lit cigarette for instant and momentary relief. The gestures touched me. He was like an older brother to me.

*****

I look at windows in apartments, and as I watch people's curtains sway with the soft breeze, I wonder mightily about their lives, about their furniture, about their troubles and their luxuries. I wonder if they have it going better than I do, or if they have it worse. I wonder. I remember Khadija, and how we shared this little pastime. It's strongest when I'm in a moving vehicle, and I'm looking out the window.

*****

Jet Lag is the kind of movie that I don't want to end, and yet, drives me crazy from wanting to know what the ending will be. It's not very original; I know I've seen better foreign films, better romantic comedies. But Juliette Binoche, and Jean Reno, and that old French charm makes a world of difference. I notice little things, like Rose's man Sergio's lines, how they were written so that he sounds more cruel than he probably is, to turn the audience off. Or how the whole plot revolved around two people, how unrealistic it was that the people around them didn't seem so important, but that they were constantly on the phone with them. Or those little signs of Change: the decision to forgo make-up 'just this one time', or the description of the dream house. Little things. I like to think that I've evolved from a movie buff to a proper film critic.

*****

The story of Freckles, have I mentioned it? I lost her last month. My cousins were over for a night of movies and karaoke, and the boys were sent out to buy food. Of course, them being valedictorians, one of them “forgot” to close our front door, a door that never shuts. Next thing we know, My Cat Formerly Known As Freckles And Now Just Miming was gone.

She is, in human years, about 21 years old. She is a university student now. She's out there somewhere, hanging out with alley-cats, discovering the outside world, getting drunk on dirty water, getting high on catnip, discussing cat-literature with her bohemian kitty-crew.

I am a bad cat owner.