Over three months have passed since my last lengthy entry bypassing New Year and Valentine's Day. On a cold afternoon of March, I sat before a vast expanse of rice field, so green and picturesque, its fresh air sought by urbanites who wish respite from the clamour, exhaustion, and pollution of city life; its verdant beauty a healing landscape to soothe one’s weary eyes.
Every now and then, I would peruse a few pages of Jane Eyre to thin the remaining chapters of the book, along with The Travelling Cat Chronicles by Hiro Arikawa—for my literary fancy wouldn't focus on one genre alone.
For more than a week I had taken temporary residence at my older sister's place, a favour extended due to her husband's business trip, thus, leaving her alone with the baby.
For more than a week, I had had my irregular routine, which most people would deem “fixed”, but to me, nay, for it felt more like it was “broken” to normalcy. Accustomed to my own schedule back in the city, the first few days in the country had been a little trying to endure. No one would sympathise with my sufferings for they are privileges to many.
“Oh, baka, I am so glad to hear your voice!” I cried in both misery and relief when Lancelot picked up my call on the 5th day of my stay. I was to go back to the city with my younger sister the day before, as the older sister's husband had already returned, but since we were to come back again soon (no more than a week later), to celebrate my niece’s 1st birthday, they thought it best if I remained and the younger sibling to depart home to check the matters with our cats, who, during our absence, were under the care of her boyfriend. That way, we'd be saving money that would be spent for my back-and-forth travel expenses.
Oh, but did I lament in silence upon this alteration!
For four days, I relished the thought that soon I would be returned to my own room, to the freedom of doing my leisures uninterrupted, of sleeping and waking up whenever I want—only to have a dreadful shadow dim that light of anticipation.
Don’t get me wrong. It is a lovely place. They live in a newly established subdivision with so little occupants for the time being. All houses bear the same charming appearance (upper floor painted white; lower floor grey), save for how you arrange your front yard. People are still settling in so some front yards are still bare. When you step out, it's as if a scene from an apocalyptic film where all the residents have evacuated or simply gone. With the population still scarce, for a misanthropist, it is a nice enough place. And people in the island speak a different tongue so you have a good excuse not to socialise with anyone because of the “language barrier”.
And the backyard? Nothing short of refreshing! A sea of rice fields with a little island of trees in the middle, exactly my view from where I was seated, as was described at the start of this entry.
Now, fetching as I find the setting to be, unfortunately, it didn't feel like home to me. If anything, it was drudgery. It’s a drudgery to be with a Monica Geller. I understood, of course, that I was not on vacation, but dear God, everything has to be clean and in order all the time! And then I realised, to be a wife, and most of all—a mother, is the most exhausting occupation in the world.
My sister is amazing. How does she do this?
Even with my newfound interest in becoming a housewife last year, I didn't imagine it this way.
“I'm really starting to see how a paradise it would be to become a housewife while there's still no child in the picture, and your traditional husband is more than happy to have you home; knitting, crocheting, learning how to cook, or painting, baking, sketching, reading, gardening, and so many more. Of course, the best of all would be writing a novel, so if all goes well according to hopes and wishes, I could help my dearest partner and contribute with the finances. And maybe by then, I would be ready to have a child.”
Notice how I didn't mention “cleaning” there. That's because in that imagined life, I have a maid.
Joke's on me now cos in my present case, I was the maid.
But will I?
Will I ever be ready to have a child at all?
Please don't think I harbour any aversion towards my dear niece for I adore the little thing with all my heart. However, tending to an infant is an utterly draining task, most especially if you are an introvert and prefer the quiet.
You have to:
When you’re in a mall and you find a familiar face, say, a friend, and that friend of yours has a baby, spending 5 minutes of what was listed above is fine.
Anything more than that is…
Borrowed energy.
Forgive me but it’s painful to affect vivacity and borrowing energy from tomorrow.
One time, I was asked to read to my niece, so I grabbed one of the baby’s books that contains about 10 pages. There's only one line on each page, like:
So I finished reading the entire book in less than a minute.
“The hell was that?” my older sister, who was listening from the kitchen, irritably said. “Try adding more story into it, will you?”
She wasn't in a pleasant mood so her snappish despotic tone only deepened my longing for home.
So I added more story into it, as demanded. Just minimal because it's a baby. And then the witch made a derisive comment that made me wish for time to tick even faster so I could go back home. She said it was lousy, then added: “And you call yourself good in English?”
Are you kidding—it's a baby! She was barely one year old! She couldn't even say her name for god's sake!
Concealing my indignation with phlegmatic reaction, I added more tales into the confounding infantile book with complex vocabulary this time. And it still wasn't enough! She told me to speak slowly because I was narrating it at a moderate speed.
Being with her suddenly felt akin to enduring father’s presence…
So I really, really, wanted to go home.
Not to mention the eager anticipation of setting sail once more, which, previously, I so feared with anxiety, for, having never travelled through a ship before, and my terror for oceans, poisoned my mind with horrid thoughts of a tragic accident similar to what befell the Titanic.
On the 11th of March, the night of my departure, I wrote to Lancelot:
“Baka, I will be boarding a ship for the first time in my life tonight, sailing through a dark and foreboding territory where my greatest nightmares lay hidden and deep. The weather has not been so good lately.. Shall it ever sink, know that I will haunt you for the rest of your life and visit you in your dreams as succubus.”
To which he replied with a “WTF” and 10 laughing emojis (I counted).
But how could the prospect of my death be a laughing matter to him?
The ferry set sail at 10 in the evening, traversing a dark abyss of water under a night sky devoid of stars and moonlight. Our bed was a few steps away from the railing. A lifesaver—the one shaped like a donut (its word is lost in my vocabulary but I will google it later) was placed conveniently in our reach. Because of it, my thoughts conjured images of me being thrown overboard… I don't know how to swim so I could only struggle so much before I completely sank, and I imagined the donut aimed at me, and I, fighting a grasp for it.
Dreadful thoughts…
But it can’t be helped. I thought waves would rock the ship back and forth enough to summon not only nausea from my system but also the injection of trauma into my brain; instead, to my surprise, it turned out to be the most splendid form of conveyance I ever had! The gentle waves lulled me to sleep and to wake up to the fresh ocean breeze was simply exquisite! Still terrifying to venture a look by the railing but this journey proved remarkably agreeable. Though scary, it felt like a brief vacation because the journey was 6 hours long.
So now, imagine my disappointment when the excitement of boarding a ship once more was crushed when they all decided I extended my sojourn.
“I am so exhausted here,” continued my despair to Lancelot, my voice weary.
“Are you very busy?” he asked.
In a miserable tone, I whispered: “People here eat three times a day!”
“That’s… good?” he replied, sounding perplexed.
“I have to wash dishes three times a day…”
“Oh, baka.” He proceeded to laugh, finding amusement to my misery. “You lazy baka.”
But he didn't get it. It wasn't just the mundane, menial job alone. We must dine together and I especially hate that because then the witch would talk about my plans in life, which, by the way, until now, I still have no idea about!
She'd regard me with her judgy little eyes and in a disdainful manner, ask: “Do you even have any plans at all?”
Instead of enjoying the food, I dreaded it. I’d try to eat as quickly as I could just to avoid that awful conversation, putting me on the spot and pressing me on with the same questions when I would provide no answer. I've never been so motivated to work a 9-5 job just to escape these uncomfortable meals.
I didn't share that with Lancelot. I was too tired to explain. However, I related to him how tedious it is tending to a baby.
“I have to interact with her… And when I do, I have to be happy and cheerful…”
In the evening, after a year or more, I finally managed to finish reading Jane Eyre. With the relentless demand of domesticity, every stolen moment of respite was savoured like I would a vanilla ice cream on a hot and scorching day. These breaks, precious and limited, were usually enjoyed during the baby’s slumber, or when my younger sister was the one taking charge of its care, whilst the older witch prepared the little babe’s food.
I don't know why it’s difficult to hold my focus and attention when it comes to literature now, even before when I had all the free time in the world. I remember breezing through the copious pages of the first two books of The Stormlight Archive, each containing around 400 000 words in length, yet it only took me perhaps a month or two to finish the two books subsequently.
Jane Eyre only has 125 000 words and it took me ages to complete the perusal. So when the protagonist, Jane, recalled her situation at Mr. Rochester’s estate “a year ago”, for, at this time, a year has passed in the story and she was already residing elsewhere, it truly did feel like, to me, a year had literally transpired since then. I held no fondness for Mr. Rochester as her partner so I was glad when she left. While I hold an affinity for older men, I rebelled against Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester’s pairing. The heroine is literally still a teenager and Mr. Rochester is 20 years her senior, which means that their age gap is older than her age. Though it may be common during that period, the characters in the book have even expressed concern about the number, so to me, it was absolutely weird and unsettling. Not to mention he was downright manipulative. I rejoiced when she abandoned him and didn't surrender to his passionate and desperate pleas despite her strong desire to give in.
The introduction of St. John provided a novel spark of interest, which enticed me to root for their union. But reading more of this new society of Jane Eyre, I felt so poorly for the girl for this bastard of a clergyman proved to be even worse. Dictating Jane to marry him not for love but for God, his “master”? That not marrying him would basically send her to hell—LMFAO. It was at this point I thought to myself Jane should meet more men. The fuck. Even though St. John is the epitome of a Grecian beauty, as Jane had described him, in comparison to the flawed, hideous yet passionate Mr. Rochester, he was unbelievably horrendous. I guess that was his character's purpose in the book, to bring the readers to sympathise with Mr. Rochester. At least with him, Jane received so much love and affection. St. John is cold and doesn't endeavour idle pleasures, so to be with him would be so exhausting and life-draining. When he said he wanted to marry Jane because she was made for “labour” and not for “love”, I simply lost it. Because what the actual fuck? If somebody said that to me, I would laugh so hard on their face they would think me mad. He really made Mr. Rochester in such a better light that when he reunited with Jane, it moved me. So much as to evoke human tears. How couldn't I when Mr. Rochester, previously robust and whole, is now reduced to an invalid? But it wasn't his diminished condition which stirred me fervently. It was how I imagined returning to my lover and finding him the same: blind and amputated.
Oh, but I cried at the love they have for each other! For to me, Jane’s love for Mr. Rochester bore the intensity of my love for someone. That I would love him unconditionally even if he'd lose his vision. That in the sea of men in perfect form, it's still him I'd choose to spend eternity with.
To be honest, this moved me more than Wuthering Heights. (Why are the men in the Brontë sisters' works so problematic?)
And, oh. I just searched. The donut lifesaver is called a lifebouy.