A Compilation of Philippine Short Stories Written by Different Filipino Authors

Document - Luis Joaquin M. Katigbak

DOCUMENT
Written by: Luis Joaquin M. Katigbak

She has been using my word processor again. The new file's name winked out at me as I was scrolling through one of my directories. I checked it out, of course; it turned out to be a report on a recent forum on birth control in the Philippines. Fairly straightforward reportage--a good summing up of the arguments, a memorable quote here and there. Yet another well-written piece for the school paper.

Her files have slowly been accumulating on the data disks of my antiquated (yet serviceable) XT, much like graffiti collects on a bathroom wall, or gaudy stickers on a grade-schooler's binder, or any number of picturesque similes. But there is not the sense of violation of graffiti, and not the sense of frivolity of a child's stickers. These files are neither invasions nor mere decorations; they are essays, short descriptive pieces, reaction papers. Two or three of them are term papers. Sometimes, I think they may also be messages in disguise, which is why whenever I come across one of her unfamiliar filenames, I load the file immediately and read it with great interest.

On reflection, we have what I suppose must seem like a strange arrangement. She comes and goes; the people in this house are so used to her that they let her into my room even when I'm not here. My landlady is convinced that she's my girlfriend, which is not exactly true. A close friend of mine believes that I am nevertheless in love with her, which is not exactly true either. The truth is that I myself wonder sometimes about the nature of our relations, which is probably why I find myself looking for clues, falling into the spaces between her words on the green monitor.

At least she is not the kind of person who names their files in a mechanical, boring fashion; she does not care for the endless march of FILE1, FILE2, FILE3, and so forth. Her names are sometimes clear and obvious, like ARCELLAN.DOC for her report on the short fiction of Francisco Arcellana, but usually, their origins are obscure: MADNESS.DOC for a typewritten Economics assignment, STRANGER.DOC for a project proposal, CHAMELEO.DOC for a review of a rock album that had nothing to do with color-changing reptiles.

More clues, I suppose. Perhaps deciphering the strange logic behind these names would lead me closer to some revelation about her, and consequently, about us. Perhaps not.

I load one of my old research papers--a piece I did on Alan Turing's Universal Machine. I skim through the paper, making mental notes for an oral report on artificial intelligence I have to deliver next week. Then I save the file, though I've made no corrections or deletions. Constantly saving to disk is a way of reassuring oneself: yes, yes, it's there, I've got it. This imparts a false sense of security. After all, floppy disks are easily damaged by coffee or ketchup or molds, and even hard disks can be wiped out by an unidentified virus. I've learned the hard way that actual printouts are a more reliable way of storing written material. My drawers are choked with reams of computer paper, used and unused.

And yet I have never printed out any of her material for perusal away from the computer. I feel as though this might be some sort of transgression, that the difference between reading her work and printing it our is analogous to the difference between looking at something in a shop window and stealing it. Or perhaps I am not willing to admit a certain degree of involvement with the idea that there are hidden messages there for me to trace and decipher. I want to believe that I am a bored tourist in her country of words.

I return to the directory. It arranges itself in alphabetical rather than chronological order, so I am only mildly surprised when I come across another previously unseen file. It it entitled merely DISAPPEA.DOC, the eight-character limit once again lopping off the last part of the word. As i read through the file, I realize that this piece is different from all the others; it is neither reportage nor reflection. It is a story. I am mildly amused, for two reasons. The first reason is that I have always encouraged her to harness her imagination in this fashion; during our endless conversations, she has proven herself a master of the "what-if" scenario, the flight of fancy, the wild colorful burst of creativity and insight--and now here, before my eyes, is an actual story, proof that my advice does not always go unheeded. The second reason is that this means that now, she does not come here only under the pressure of deadlines, but also when spurred by artistic imagination. A subtle shift, to be sure, but meaningful nonetheless.

The story is about a women who discovers that she is literally disappearing, fading away slowly. First, there is a kind of blurring around the edges when she looks at her image in the mirror. In a few more days, her friends have trouble seeing her; she seems insubstantial. Unable to grasp at logical explanations, they offer her observations like "You know, you haven't been yourself lately." Some of them go out to have their eyes refracted by reliable optometrists. In a few more days, she is practically invisible: her friends and colleagues ignore her, and taxis speed by oblivious to her frantic waving.

The story is unfinished. While reading it, I find myself wondering something that I suppose all friends of writers wonder: is this piece somehow autobiographical? Of course, I realize that it is a work of fantasy, but I wonder how much of the protagonist's character is lifted directly from the author. Does she, in some way, feel insubstantial these days? Or is this whole work a message for my benefit? Does she believe that I am not paying enough attention to her? Does she want the nature of our relations to change? Am I oblivious to her hand waving in front of my face? Perhaps I flatter myself too much. This might very well be a warning of sorts, something to soften an inevitable blow. Perhaps she means to disappear from my life. Perhaps she is tired of my company. I believe that one should pass judgment on a story based solely on its merits as a work of literature, but still, I cannot help making these speculations.

If she were to disappear tomorrow, how long would it be before I forget about her? We have no official ties, not even memories of physical contact. No sweat, no saliva, no remembered tingle of sin. All we have are words, words that once flickered across a computer monitor, words spoken during midnight phone conversations, words shared while walking through streets and parks and shopping malls, words that formed comments, quotations, anecdotes, confessions and endless stories.

OFF.