Home leave.

[MANICHAEAN]

TWO HOURS TO TOUCHDOWN


The stewardess came to him and touched his arm gently.

“Would you like some breakfast sir?”

He had been drifting in and out of consciousness since boarding at two a.m back in Doha.

“This must be a bit like dying” he thought, (or hoped). A transient equipoise between mortality and eternity.

He thought of those that had already made the journey.

He had no fear of dying, only of the pain in some of those cases spoken of in restrained whispers.

The shuffling feet of his father, reduced to denial and drinking whiskey to suffuse the pain of the cancer that was eating him up inside.

“Does he know he only has a short time to live?” I had asked the ward doctor.

“He knows” was the reply.

“But he never mentions dying!” I said.

“If he does not raise it, don’t mention it” he advised.

Then my thoughts went back to Africa and the “ma gardi” who caught the fever. And he shook day after day, and his eyes were wide and his stare trapped, looking out. Despair lay upon him like a closing coffin lid. And his companions from Niger had one morning immersed him in the water tank to abate the fever, but he died the next day.

“Do you want the tropical fruit with the vanilla yogurt?” the stewardess asked, laying out the white linen napkin, “perhaps followed by the omelette?”

[Delta40]

Wow what an appetiser! I loved:

his eyes were wide and his stare trapped, looking out.

the journeys he refers to and can only assume there will be much more to come before he reaches touchdown.

very strong writing.

[Jack of Hearts]

An interesting concept. This reader feels you've done good work in coming up with the idea of weaving in and out of the character's consciousness due to fatigue, and tying the memory of the death of his father to it was an interesting decision.

Stylistically, the piece fell middle of the road. There are devices here that are strongly stream of conscience but the style is not committed that way. Here:


The shuffling feet of his father, reduced to denial and drinking whiskey to suffuse the pain of the cancer that was eating him up inside.

This is not grammatically proper and you knew that when you wrote it. But breaking the rules has not been justified in the piexe, the reader feels, so this is jarring. What is the nature of the narrative? It doesn't seem to be wild, anything goes- and it doesn't seem to be sympathetic to the way the character thinks (but certinly what he thinks)... but then there's this odd little piece. Perhaps more decisions could add more definition and style here.

What the reader liked was that it (like everything you write) is readable and not clunky. At the moment it seems a bit nebulous in where it may be heading (or perhaps it's a one off? The reader get's the feeling there's more to follow...).




J

[MANICHAEAN]

Thank you Delta. Glad you enjoyed it.

Actually I found this extract of the overall story a bit morbid in retrospect, but then, that was how I was thinking at the time, and so down it went.

Be thankful it was not one of my dreams! Future developments are on ground level and a bit lighter.


Dear Jack.

The writer appreciates your perceptiveness and grammatical highlight.

I find it difficult to respond regards your points on; “streams of conscious”, “style not committed”, and “nature of the narrative,” but I just don’t think in those terms when writing, (albeit, once again I find it fascinating, the way you dissect!).

My fear would be that if I applied this way of thinking after writing, then I might lose the essence.

Let me try and explain it better in terms of how the story evolved. I was 75% through a night flight from Doha to Manila, that period when you have had enough of fitful sleep, booze at high altitudes, in flight movies etc, and you just think, (or in my case write on the back of an exit visa sheet!).

You are not thinking of style or aspects of consciousness. The bit on my father and the guard was true; the rest were reflections on what one witnesses in bad times in life and the current totally different situation.

Does that make any sense?

In a story like this one, the writer is too involved to be sympathetic to himself.

Best regards
M.

[sweety]

An Irish saying : A drink precedes a story.
Welcome back.
S.

[Jack of Hearts]

Salamat.

The reader is interested enough to continue reading (and hopes you have not forgotten your other thread, "A Chinese Place in Time").



J

[MANICHAEAN]

THE HOTEL IN MANILA


Who said romance was dead?

A wedding reception was in full swing in the cavern size reception hall that was the luxury gateway to the Peninsular Hotel, Manila. Men with the traditional barong linen shirts which hung loose over their trousers & the ladies, young and old dressed to kill, with bright shoulder less dresses.

“Bit of a do!” I mentioned to the clerk as he was booking me in.

“Yes sir. At the moment we are having one wedding a day” he informed me.

We proceeded with the bags along the extensive corridor of the tenth floor and passed a group of photographers nearly at the very end, next to my assigned rooms. Glancing through an open door, the bride was being worked on by hairdressers, and family and friends.

“Please, please no photographs!” I joked, averting my head and covering my brow, in a poor imitation of Brad Pitt seeking attention.

Anyway, the suite was spacious and comfortable and expensive, and after wallowing in the huge bath for nearly an hour, I repaired to the ground floor watering hole, closed on my last visit.

Most of the 250 odd guests from the reception had proceeded on into one of the main function rooms and the exuberant strains of “Moon River” Filipino style emitted from inside.
“God help the poor buggers, once they start on the karaoke!” I thought.

The new bar named Salon de Ning was certainly something of a surprise in comparison with its more restrained predecessor. Dark brown and black walls and ceilings, big crowd, some of it a spirited overspill from the reception. And this was before the karaoke! A mock internal staircase, led up to a mock internal door. Candlestick holders on the bar top that would have done credit to a witch’s coven provided a wavering light in the room and adjoining alcoves.

What appeared to be a genuine, but incongruous Mexican with a hard face went through the ritual of cutting, piercing and warming a cigar. Some patrons watched; discreet and appreciative. The air was full of smoke, and talk and laughter and a girl with a sad face, who I presume was on the game, kept giving me furtive looks.

But that was no longer my scene and I proceeded to work my way through quite a few Kentucky bourbons I had never encountered before, in strange unopened bottles. That being duly noted, it is a rule in my Irish lineage that every drink has to be tried at least once in a life time. And so, eventually replete and mellow, I returned back to my rooms, past small groups of tipsy wedding guests, meandering around the reception enclave. Management and security in sharp formal suits looked on benevolently.

Have you ever tried getting a good night’s sleep when a couple are rutting next door? Bumps and moans and laughs and screams and what seemed like the furniture being rearranged! And so it was the next night too, with a new couple starting on life’s journey of marital bliss. I’m sure I heard on the second night a voice cry out “My mother never told me about this!”

Perhaps it was the bourbon playing tricks on my mind?

But now I’m checking out to get the early internal flight up to the Provinces. Still a few loud stragglers moving around telling themselves they’ve had a good time. The limo is here. I’m swept away. With a bit of luck I might get a better night’s sleep tonight!

But then; let’s recall those words of succour and erudition from times past;

“She loves you Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!”

[BeagScribhneoir]

I like your first post, and agree with what Jack of Hearts said about the interesting concept of drifting in and out of consciousness, but I noticed that you change from talking about the character in 3rd person during the first half but revert to 1st person in the latter half.

I personally prefer the second half where 1st person pronouns are used because it adds a sense of extra emotion which is received by the reader in a more personal way, rather than just a descriptive way as in the first half. I also feel that the use of 1st person best suits writing like this where there is just one or two main characters as it conveys emotions more clearly and to a better degree for the reader. :)

Nevertheless, I did enjoy it, it made me want to read more and what I've written I hope you take on board positively. :)

As for the second post, who is this character? Is he rich? Is he famous? Why is he here in the first place? It grabbed my attention, and I really do want to know more of this fellow, thus making me want the next section. Great stuff!! :D

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear BeagScribhneoir
Interesting points you make and of course I take them positively. One of the constructive aspects of this forum is that people are not afraid to express their views. Everyone gets a buzz if a story goes down well, but a salutary kick when needed never goes amiss.
When writing, I jump deliberately in and out of past and present, reality & dreams. First & second person are not spared either, because as you rightly note, the effect on the reader changes their perceptions. Give it a try!

The character? Who knows!
Best regards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

Whoops! Have posted twice! M

[MANICHAEAN]

A GAY PRESIDENT?

I’m reading the local newspaper, representative of a standard of Philippine journalism that would not have much trouble, suffusing a flush to the cheeks of a hardened Fleet Street hack and its full of innuendoes regards the current Presidential incumbent. He does not like to start work before 9am, rarely stays after 4pm and whisper, whisper; he is 50 and still a bachelor.

Come on out and say it. You think he is gay!

I’m trying to be rational. I think I performed admirably last night. Fatima was smiling and singing as she cooked the bacon and eggs this morning. Perhaps that makes me a suitable Presidential candidate? For goodness sake, the man’s father was shot when he was a small boy and his mother, who became President after Marcos was overthrown, poured love all over him. He is the product perhaps of his circumstances.

Then I thought of other similar cases. Prime Minister P.J.Patterson of Jamaica, a country where “batty boys” as they are derogatorily referred to are locked up and beaten. The Jamaican attitude is one of total incomprehension that with an island packed with superb looking women, that a man can be interested in another man. When Marlene Ottey returned home with her Olympic Gold for sprinting, she would normally have been embraced by the PM at Norman Manley Airport. Patterson was off with his boyfriend and it did not go down well.

And then there was Field Marshal Lord Kitchener. If you were a guest at a stately home in Victorian times where he was also a house guest it was advisable to place the sofa or the valet across the door when you retired to bed. For the veritable, large and insistent Field Marshall would brook no opposition to his advances. “Women are all right, but you can’t beat the real thing!” was his motto.

I thought back to the bar on a camp in the Middle East when asked once by a rather staid new arrival what it was like there?
I expounded on how there were 16,000 men with no women, and the average length of a tour was 5 months.
“Good God” he said “How do you manage?”
“Oh, It’s ok” I replied “You just have to pace yourself!”

[MANICHAEAN]

THE HAIRDRESSER


The first thing I noticed, being a perceptive type of individual, was that upon entering the hairdressing salon in the Philippines provinces, that my supposed male barber was in realty a female “coiffeur“.

I must confess to having ascertained a certain degree of unease at this turn of events, in so far as I had entered this establishment like a patriarch from the Old Testament with an abundant mop of hair covering well over my ears, and a long white beard of luxuriant foliage.

“Can you do beards?” I enquired in my best imitation of Moses, apprehensive about presenting an inscribed tablet of stone.

“Oh yes sir” she replied demurely, settling me back into a chair, taping something like a stretch elastic strip around my neck and tucking me in nicely with a white sheet around my upper torso, somewhat akin to a grown up’s bib.

I should perhaps explain that in South East Asia, where labour costs are very cheap, that a simple thing like getting a haircut is extensive in content and pushes the boundaries of hairdressing way beyond that experienced in a Western style set up.

And this young lady proved no exception to the rule. The exercise encompassed for example the following as de rigueur:

Haircut.
Beard trim.
Razor cut around all the edges.
Moustache scissor trim.
Eye brow scissor trim.
Removal of hair from: nostrils, ears & upper back.
Hot towel to the face.
Head, neck, shoulder & back massage.
An applied selection of different lotions and after shaves.

But on this occasion, the young aspirant, was going for gold. In between telling me that she was separated with three children to support and enquiring as to my current status, she proceeded to remove my socks, roll up my trouser legs and with hands and thumbs that would have done credit to a Clydeside crane operator pulling levers all his working life, proceeded to knead , pull and click my ; arms, hands, fingers, feet, toes, soles and lower legs.

I could not help but reflect that her ex-husband must at some point have tapped out a submission somewhere in the bedroom and returned back to his mother’s home cooking and less ardent attentions!

In fact even now, twenty four hours removed from the event, I still recall with an element of sheer terror as to when she applied what seemed like a full nelson around my neck, told me to “relax” and then proceeded to click in one movement what seemed like my full vertebrae from neck to lower spine!

I tipped her well. In fact I doubled the bill from the original 200 pesos. It is academic as to whether this was out of fear or an appreciation of her zeal. I do however remember her asking me upon leaving, to fix her up with a new husband or boy friend, preferably American. Any takers?

[MANICHAEAN]

ALTERNATE MEDICINE

Graham Greene once wrote of a famous architect, who had lost his faith in everything, that he had not “felt any pain at all in twenty years”. And in Greene’s novel “A Burnt Out Case“ there was somewhere within, the words from one of the author‘s characters;
“Sometimes I think that the search for suffering and the remembrance of suffering are the only means we have to put ourselves in touch with the whole human condition.”

We could of course read these sentiments as an essential distillation of this author’s work. Pain is indispensable to a fully-realised life: “happiness annihilates us: we lose our identity”.

With this somewhat academic perspective in mind, I cannot help but relate to a somewhat new situation in my household in the Philippines since I have arrived back on home leave.

It all revolves around the reality and aspirations of alternate medicine in this country. Let me begin by explaining that there is no such thing as free health care here.

You pay.

If you are forced to go to the doctor, invariably there is a notice on the wall informing prospective patients that in order to be treated for serious conditions, one is required to submit items such as land deeds in lieu of non payment. Treatment for blood pressure, so straight forward in terms of prescription drugs in most Western countries, is almost like taking on a lifetime’s mortgage here. Diabetes and the like. Well, you might as well roll over!

Having said that, Filipinos are adaptive. In a medical emergency, the hospital will treat you. And no money? OK, you work the debt off as an unpaid hospital cleaner or carer or as a porter.

One can begin to appreciate the significance of alternate medicine here. Some enterprising souls carve out a little niche doing herbal gardens with various plants being used in traditional ways to help cure different ailments. Then there is the village medicine man or woman, normally elderly and respected, operating from home. A small donation will secure passed on knowledge of the cures of yester years.

Which brings me to my related experience on this trip. Since arriving back, a succession of visitors have appeared at the front gate to see my wife. The reason? She has purchased this machine via a Korean supplier that in shape looks like a construction workers tool box. It is white, enamelled and complete with leads, dials, a mat and various hand held composite flashing bulbs that can be applied to different parts of the body. It is basically heat treatment, but by Harry, is it popular!

The supplicants turn up daily at the casa Manichean , informed by word of mouth of this marvellous machine that cures everything from: headaches, arthritis, muscular pain to general malaise. For all I know, the wife is venturing into treating heart conditions, gout & shingles!

For the cost of a contribution towards the electricity bill, plus I presume a small mark up, there is a regular pilgrimage through my front garden to the thatched kobo house at the side where my wife and the house help provide dedicated, frontier challenging medical relief. I’m even thinking of buying them white coats and opening a reception to say; “Please wait here, the doctor will be with you shortly”

But, I must refrain from sneering, as three days ago I was bitten several times by some unknown tropical insect. I woke up at 3am with my left leg throbbing and noted a general inflammation around the upper ankle region.

Well, you’ve guessed it! Out came the machine. She would brook no suggestion of seeing the doctor, or prospective associated costs for creams and antibiotics. The machine had been paid for, it had proven its worth on the local community, “Lie on the bed and keep quiet.”

It must have been about an 40 minutes later that I emerged from a bedroom that emitted odours of burnt crackling. Not only had she applied herself diligently to my insect bites, she ventured forth further and had a go at the varicose veins as well.

I’m not sure if I’m going to survive another home leave like this!