when perfection comes...

[levity]

... try and capture the moment, since it won't last. Yes, the cynical, pessimistic, paranoid vice-president of Garnet is saying that perfection exists. Because it does, maybe more often than we would like to admit, because perfection is not always recognised- that's one of its features. I sound like I'm advertising. What the hell, if perfection were being sold, would it need advertising? I don't think so...

I'm saying that perfection exists today, because today I believe that it does. Never mind Jamil and his arrogance. Never mind my sickness and my missed requirements. Never mind my iPod's not working. Another feature of perfection is that it's not all-encompassing. Only one thing can be perfect at a time.

And another feature of perfection is that it isn't perfection for everyone. It's just perfection for some lucky entities.

I believe that perfection exists, because over the past three days I have been experiencing a lot of it.

~o~

 

The stars were coming out as I gazed at the sky from the car window. Well, they probably already were out to begin with, but sometimes we think things begin when we first see them, when we first notice their existence. I was with my family then, and it was late, about half past eleven. We- me, my parents, my brother, and my grandmother- were on our way to Greenhills, and the night was brilliant.

The stars could hardly be seen against the bright lights of the city and the violet sky which was clouded somewhat with large pale pink puffs of pollution. The moon blinked down upon humanity, the humanity that polluted the skies and the earth, the humanity I’m not supposed to rant about now since I'm talking of perfection. It- the moon, not humanity- was large and silvery-white, a beautiful, cratered half-circle that seemed so out-of-this-world it was hard to imagine how anyone could have possibly compared it to cheese. The stars tried to join the moon, but they seemed to fade when placed beside its brilliant light. This is only in terms of brightness, though: the stars, like miniscule garnets against a plush velvet backing, were by no means less beautiful than the moon.

 

This was yesterday night, and Greenhills was mostly closed when we got there, but that did nothing to dampen my spirits. The bookstore was still open, and so we were still able to visit, and we were still able to pass by Starbucks. When I remember that night I will remember stars, the wind, and chocolate chip frappucino.

 

~o~

 

This is today, after dinner. The normal chatter of the family- my family- is evident, especially at the dinner table, and yet beneath all this there is another layer of chatter going on, between me and a classmate of mine. I doubt that it can be called chatter- more like an exchange of witticisms, or even a hidden argument, a fight concealed by playful words and laughter and teasings. Not a real fight, though- just another one of the minor skirmishes that are so fun they are practically perfection in themselves.

 

~o~

 

This is today, but even earlier. It is at church, the church in Greenhills, called Santuario de San Jose. Many turn to look at the family sitting in one of the pews at different points in time, some due to the logo on the boy’s shirt- that of the International Mathematics and Science Olympiad-, some due to the boy’s habit of scratching during the Our Father, some due to the girl’s insane laughter, which she had unsuccessfully tried to muffle. Insanity in church for which they- we- would be rebuked later may not seem like perfection. It didn’t feel like perfection at first. But sometimes you aren’t aware of perfection when it happens.

 

I just know that I’ll always remember this day when I remember the church in Greenhills.

 

~o~

 

This is Friday, at around three in the afternoon. It is at Pisay, at the creek, the last place one would think of finding perfection. I had always loved the creek- it is, was, and most likely forever will be one of my favorite places in the world. Odd, that a favorite place of mine is a dirty tributary of a larger river that is polluted by various, mostly unknown wastes and lived in by creatures that have mutated due to those wastes. Then again, I am odd.

 

Each group of people has its own special set of snapshots. Despite  the initial awkwardness and prejudice between these people, and the eventual tiredness and repugnance, there are always some events that will  forever bring a smile to the faces of the people there, that will forever be looked upon with fondness, that will be remembered when life in that group  of people is looked back on.

 

That afternoon at the creek was one of the class’s snapshots, that  rather late afternoon almost the entire class spent cleaning the creekside. They took turns the two brooms and dustpan, occasionally criticizing whoever was cleaning or shouting instructions. Those who were not working at a particular point in time- a lot of people, given there were only a few cleaning utensils- were clustered by the foot of the bridge, by their adviser, talking and laughing and randomly shouting things and exchanging crazy, corny jokes.

 

That class is Champaca 2009, without its president. We spent a lot of time then complaining about our president and his incompetence, and his audacity to run as batch rep.

 

Our slogan of sorts, and the quotable quote of the day, by Verge: “Tatakbo si Jamil bilang batch rep. Vote Gian Dapul!”

 

I had said, “Basta walang bumoto kay Jamil!”

 

And they wouldn’t let me try my hand at cleaning, since I didn’t and still don’t know how to sweep.

 

~o~

 

This is Friday, but before the creek cleaning. A group of six girls moved from spot to spot in Pisay, first at the back lobby, then to the grandstands, then to the front lobby, then to the flagpole area. It seemed like no place in Pisay was perfect enough for them. As they walked around Pisay, playing music, singing at times, always talking and laughing at old memories and inside jokes, they radiated the friendship that everyone subconsciously wishes to have, the friendship so strong you don’t care about what your friends think about you, you know they’re on your side always, the friendship so brilliant you don’t have to pretend, you are always encouraged to bring out your true, uninhibited self, the friendship whose luck to be part of makes you so exultant you’re insane. That kind. It’s rare, but it happens. Like perfection. For all I care, that kind of friendship is perfection.

 

Those six girls are JoMiKeAdDaAn, and, despite its reunion being perfection, I wish we had had more time, because all eternity isn’t long enough to enjoy a friendship like that. But time is one thing we can’t control, that is never there when we need it, that always insists of slipping out of our reach.

 

~o~

 

This is Friday, but after the creek cleaning this time. I was with my best friend and someone who won’t forgive me for throwing a wallet at his face. In other words Guia and August, and to be honest, I love talking to them, and even more so do I love talking to the entity who texted while we were there, chattering and arguing about wallets and forgiveness to no end. The fights. The laughter. The mocking of my pretend vanity. The amusement at my then-textmate’s reaction to my pretend vanity. The hilarity at bad grammar in a sign-up sheet left at the gazebo, and at the fact that there were trays from the caf on the beams supporting the gazebo’s roof.

 

I’d give quite a lot, even the wallet I threw at August, to bring back that afternoon.

 

~o~

Perfection.

It may not be for you, but it is for me.