*I mean slime. (Estrella Espejo, ditto)
123 I beg your pardon, Estrella. You mistake me when you insinuate that I view “psychotic” as pejorative. Some of my best friends are psychotic. I use the term as it accords to Mürk’s astute taxonomy of personality. In a magisterial lecture, simply and elegantly known in English as “The Theory,” the famous Finn from Lima, Peru, in enigmatic prose that, unfortunately, also sounds like Woody Allen on acid (Finns aren’t really known for their clarity, plus Claro Mürk had that Peruvian thing—kind of a Carlos-Castañeda peyote-killed-my-brain brand of humor), established his tripartite Strüctür of the Hüman(ité). Incidentally, orthography, for Mürk, illustrated the “[de]sign of the arbitrary,” a central tenet of his handwriting. Some texts classify his taxonomy into “the neurotic,” “the psychotic,” and “the pervert”—but I understand Mürk himself had always regretted those particular translations. These Strüctürs are basic to Hüman(ité) and are not necessarily pathological, Mürk explained, unless, he said, when applied to full-blooded Scandinavians, “who are all a bunch of damaged neurotics.” Claro Mürk, as we know, was bi-cultural, among other bi-identities. (Dr. Diwata Drake, Naantali, Finland)
124 In extremely small, extremely hard to decipher handwriting, the following passage ends the entry, but the handwriting indicates the thought was distinct from the main text, a spider-scrawl of grief: “I guess even now I mix up Mamá’s death with her many deaths on the stage: which is the illusion? It’s hard to ask that of a boy, and for a long time I could not escape the sense that Mamá would come back, take off the pretty stage dress, and boil barako for me.” (Trans. Note)
125 Psychotic or not, these lines say that your petty catfights, Estrella and Dr. Diwata, are not worthy of the boy Raymundo’s grief. (Trans. Note)
Entry #9
Raymundo Mata
Latinidad de Jose Basa
San Roque, Cavite
“My Family”
His father disowned him. Publicly, in the plaza. Don Raymundo Mata (it’s said he clipped his surname, Mata Eibarrazeta, to fit the badge on his uniform) whipped his son, my Papá, el genio Jote, through the fiesta crowds with the blunted leather of his old Guardia Civil lash. Some say it was a cynical drama, a ploy to keep the family’s lands. It worked. My grandfather, God Bless His Soul, was a peasant’s son from the hills of Jaca, in Spain, a displaced soldier from the Pyrenees who never returned to his cursed hills. Yes, he missed Jaca’s barren mountains and the drunken wine brawls that contaminated his stint as a barman in a neighboring mountain town, Aretxabaleta! The old man hated Cavite’s lushness, the gleaming untouched Bay. Ah—Jaca. Now there was a town for you! People in Jaca broke their backs for grain to grow! They waited four years for the next rain! You think your lives are miserable? Hah! People do not understand life if they do not know how it was in Jaca!
I myself dream of going to Jaca one day, not to mention the red wines of the mystical village, Aretxabaleta!
For his oldest son to become a scholar, not a soldier, that was unfortunate—but to be with actors and demonios, that was dumb.
It was the second son, my uncle, Tio U., who kept the peace. He’s the hero of this story. When my uncle was born, no one noticed his awkward head, a family trait, or the vague look of his soulful eyes. Except for his feeble eyes, he bore nothing from his father, who knocked furniture over in blind rages.
My gentle uncle watched the rampage, with useless shame.
My gentle uncle followed in his brother el genio Jote’s footsteps, but he never caught up. He didn’t have the guts, the stamina, or the katsila nose. His was a bit bulbous, more like a hill than a monument. But el genio Jote shared his adventures with his brother. He took his little brother to the dances, the fencing matches, the debates. The younger boy read the books el genio Jote read. My uncle even memorized my father’s speeches, not knowing they were generous helpings from the letters of Montaigne. In the end, it made sense: priesthood became my uncle’s calling—the vicarious life.
The brothers’ paths forked.
The university kicked my father out, but my uncle succeeded, in his own way. He was no trailblazer. Tio U. took the synodal exam and patiently waited for the results. They gave him a small parish, San Felipe. It was really just a cul-de-sac, and he was only an assistant, a coadjutor, though his grade could have made him curate. But he never complained. “Not everyone can be Burgos,” he said with a hint of bitterness. (Yes, he meant the famous canon of the bishopric of Manila, May He Rest In Peace!) He liked his church because from the windows you could look out on the Bay.126
I would like to conclude this essay to explain once and for all that my uncle did not encourage the soldiers of San Felipe to riot. Tio U. took care of me when my father left. It pains me to hear the slander. Beat me up again, but my uncle the padre is no filibustero.127 How could he turn traitor? He was a scaredy-cat. He could never be a man like my Papá, his brother. He didn’t have the spirit, the gonads, you know—huevos. That’s just his character. He’s a man of God. Why would he disguise himself in a priest’s outfit128 129 130 and incite insurrection in Burgos’s name? He was a man of faith in more ways than one. Yes, he met Burgos—but who hadn’t, in the narrow alleyways (and I use the word narrow with double senses!) of that college they attended? He did think Padre Burgos was a bit—tense. Too wound up. A northerner, you know: Tio U. was uncomfortable with the type.131 132 But the Guardia Civil knew they were wrong to lock my uncle up. As proof—the court returned to
