SEEing through bLiNdNeSs

So when the time rolled around, I was in the depot waiting for her to pick me up. Amidst the clamor of the crowd, I could still distinguished her voice as she called out my name. I've missed her so much. It was not quite a long ride, sitting with her in the car and trying to fill-in the details of our 10-years separation. Her saving grace of humor didn't change over time. Her laughter sent a ringing sound on my head and a pounding beat on my heart. I haven't even noticed that we arrived until I felt a sudden halt. We both started our way out of the car. Not waiting for her to guide me, I reached for my suitcase and dragged it out. I felt her hand wrapped around my arm as we started to walk towards her house.

As we reached the top of the steps, I sensed that somebody had opened the door for us and I already had an idea as to who could that be. An affirmation was made when we were already introduced to each other. So he's Lucas, her husband. As we moved inside, I have this interest to know what kind of person she married. On the course of our small conversations, rudeness and insensitivity was evident. Or could he be just ignorant? That I do not know. Left-handed compliments were thrown on my face. But I wont give him a damn! Doesn't he know that I despise him more then he despises me? Perhaps my cold responses was interpreted to be appealing ones. That's better if that's what he thought.

When we sat down at the table for dinner, we had another drink. I was somehow overwhelmed for having her attention, filling my plate with food. As we ate, i made it to the point that I behave normally, as if I don't suffer from any impairment. From cutting the pork, getting the beans, to tearing my bread until the last gulp of my milk, I could feel his gaze following my every move.

After finishing everything, everybody seemed stunned as we just sat there. Finally, we got up and went to the living room. While having few more drinks, she and I continued to talk about the things that had happened to our individual lives. In between our discussion, several thoughts came across my head. Could we possibly have a wonderful life if we spent those ten years together? Would that be easier than sitting here with you and narrating the things that transpired since the time you stepped out of my life? Easier for me but difficult for you. I just don't know. I am not being cruel to the memories of my wife because she knew.Yes, she do know.

From time to time, her husband was joining in the conversation. I've tried so hard not to give him a hint of my grudge. Though he sounded so bored yet he never left the room. Then suddenly, I heard a familiar roar coming from elsewhere. I guessed he must have turn the TV on. Maybe trying to cope for what her husband did, she asked me whether I have one. Not wanting her to feel any guilt, I said yes and that I do have a colored and a black-and-white when in fact I don't have any. I could feel the silent devastation of her husband. But I didn't mind it at all. I lit a cigarette. How good hostess she was for she always made sure I'm comfortable. I said yes in her every questions even if I felt a little uncomfort because of her husband.

While he's watching the news reports, I'm into analyzing what had gotten into my head since the day I received her invitation. Is there something wrong with me aside from being blind? Or maybe there is something right there and then. My stream of thoughts had been interrupted when he asked me if I wanted to smoke a dope. Of course, I said yes. I don't want to turn down his dare.

"What do I smell?", I heard her say. Her husband's reply seemed blurry because it was her scent that blocked my head. Did she use a lavender scent of soap? I think so, because my olfactory nerves could never be mistaken. Her scent intensified as she sat right next to me on the sofa. How such a caring person she is. From time to time, asking me if I'd like to have some pie, if I'm comfortable, and if I'm exhausted and ready to hit the hay. I had a real nice time being with her again, this re acquaintance beats the tapes and this means a lot to me; that I told her. She just doesn't know how pleased I was when she said she felt the same way too. After that talk , she then dozed off to sleep.

Well, even if I don't happen to like her husband a lot but still there's something in my unconscious that drives me to know this man in a deeper perspective. So I chose to stay up with him. Maybe, he too felt a little awkward for I could hear that he's switching the television from one channel to another. After telling him that anything he'll watch is fine with me, he settled on the first channel. The room was filled with silence again aside from the sound coming from the set. I wasn't really giving full attention on the television when suddenly something about skeleton which the narrator mentioned caught my attention. Yes, I know what a skeleton is. After that, the narrator talks about a cathedral then a hush. I wondered what was shown on the screen. "There showing the outside of this cathedral now." I heard him say. Then memories lights a corner on my head. I remembered the only time I was inside a cathedral. That was ten years ago before she left. I could still picture-out the fiasco painting that she described for me. I also told him all the things I knew about a cathedral but then, that's it. Nothing more . So I asked him to add some more details. I could hear a bit of hesitation from his voice but then he continued. Hearing such kind of description that he made, my curiosity towards him grew deeper and it even clouded my angst on him. I doubted if he has into religion. Well, coming from him, he is not. Synchronously, she sighed in her sleep as if reaffirming that fact. There's something in her sigh that gave me an inkling as to who this man is.

Now all my rancor towards him has completely vanished. Perhaps, she married a nice guy after all. She had known that already but on the other hand, he did not. I think I just have to accept that she is not for me and that she's meant for him. I thought of something that might help him reach her, to reach her heart for it seemed that he's aloof and detached. Gripping on something that he couldn't let go. I must do something to set him free.

I asked him to bring me some heavy paper and a pen. He moved on to search for those things. I was left alone in the middle of that room with intertwining emotions and thoughts. Then he's back with all the stuff needed. We will draw. I wanted him to connect himself with his drawing. With my hands on top of his, we began.

He's not uttering a word. He seemed to be lost in his work. Yes, I think he needed to be lost first before he could find his complete self, his inner self.

I heard her voice. She must have woke up. I heard interest in her queries. She asked but no response from him. "We're drawing a cathedral," that's all I've said and we proceeded.

We continued until he had finally seen it.

That very thing, that I would want him to see.

SHORT STORY...wrapped in an enigma

According to Gilbert K. Chesterton who is a journalist, novelist and short-story writer himself, "there is no such thing on earth as an uninteresting subject; the only thing that can exist is an uninterested person". The same is true when it comes to short stories or any literary works, there is no uninteresting story; only an uninterested reader. It was evident in the article of William Boyd that it was the interested people, not the uninterested ones, who brought short stories into being. It seemed that interest breeds invention or development, so to speak. It was because of the readers' demands that triggered the writers to unconsciously derive a new form. It was those writers who pioneered the establishment of a literary development and brought it to the exaltation of its genre, giving rise to its distinct types and varied categories.

William Boyd had revealed how the short story undergone arduous evolution and persistent revolution until it was finally been recognized as a new literary form and became a tiny, perfect narrative. This narrative, as what Edgar Allan Poe pointed out, gives a sense of full satisfaction and there is something about their unique frisson escapes or defies analysis. We should understand that the shortness of the short story does not indicate its lack of essence nor infer its deficient content, but this just denotes its length of construct. Though it may be lesser in details compared to other discourses, still, it has the power to entice and convey its underlying message to the readers and we are even "given the rare chance to see in them more “than in real life”.

However, most people cannot appreciate the essence of a story. They merely watched it from afar, admire in dull silence without even attempting to travel into the world of the story and feel the emotions, savor the happiness, share the sorrow and partake in the actions. I admit, I'm one of them. When I first read the "Cathedral" of Raymond Carver, I find it inarticulate maybe because I did not read between the lines. But on the second time around, I did felt its awesome effect, didn't you?

The character of the blind man gave a very relevant appeal to me. Upholding the exact meaning of the word, what if I am in fact blind? I could possibly be as "blind" as the husband or even worse. I have realized how I was blinded by the sparkling glamour of what I see which shattered my view of reality and failed to experience its underlying meaning. The story had shown me how life could be that dramatically ironic. I think, it's time for us draw the line between living for the sake of merely living and living for the sake of life, per se.