Episode XII: An Ode to Shurmann the Snail
When I was in elementary, I took a stab at my first short story.
It was called Shurmann the Snail, and although I would later claim that the main character was European to account for the spelling of his name, it was basically about a snail relentlessly searching for his shell in the middle of winter. It was a rather dramatic story, I have to admit, with poor Shurmann freezing to death in the middle of an open field. It was a rather horrific ending for such a young writer - a point my teachers would later raise in the presence of my parents - re-emphasizing the idea of a supposedly innocent individual, dying cold and alone in search for the one thing that meant so much to him.
And with the years, however, I’ve been asked to write about other things.
And maybe if I’d learn to take good advice, things wouldn’t corrupt themselves into what they are. Other things - my friends have told me - about cars and sex, music and film, alcohol and the menthol taste of murder along the Makati curbside. My peers would grab the back of my head and tell me than there are a trillion and one other fucking things to write about - anything other than “this melodramatic bullshit”, I’ve been told.
It seems that having this journal has somehow degraded public-opinion of me into some feeble touchy-feely, weeping-heart just aching for a hug every five fucking seconds. But then again, I never denied that I wasn’t.
It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything, I admit. And as I stretch these fingers along this keyboard like legs along a pair of long-forgotten worn-thin jeans, one realizes that writing is like some strange form of remembering. A familiar strangeness and at the same time, a comfortable awkwardness. Much like the recovering of stagnant memories swept under the rug of I-want-to-forget, one writes to remember, and never the other way around.
One could then say that I’ve been absent for so long because, for a time, I almost forgot. That would be a good thing, I admit. But then again, I wouldn’t have anything to write about. Not really.
I’ve been asked if I’ve ever written about other things. But, of course, I was afraid to admit that I hadn’t. Or that I couldn’t. Or that maybe it had been a mixture of both, or nothing at all. I quickly skimmed through my modest portfolio of pieces in the archives of my head: a decade’s worth of short stories, poetry, scripts, plays, essays, articles and elementary scribbles. Then I noticed a subtle yet prevalent theme that strung all of my pieces together: loss.
I don’t think about her so much anymore. Not really. And though I sometimes find myself lapsing into moments of bitterness, a quick cigarette usually helps. But I still think about her, yes, for to admit otherwise would be the greatest lie of all. We write to remember, after all, and never the other way around.
And I remember Shurmann and how I had written his death with the nonchalance of an eleven year old. And if ever something like this was never worth reading, you would’ve skipped this entry along with all the others. But if I were to confess that I wanted to remember her, then to write about anything else would be a sort of slow forgetting. Something, I realize, that I’m not yet ready to completely do.
the otter side
It was called Shurmann the Snail, and although I would later claim that the main character was European to account for the spelling of his name, it was basically about a snail relentlessly searching for his shell in the middle of winter. It was a rather dramatic story, I have to admit, with poor Shurmann freezing to death in the middle of an open field. It was a rather horrific ending for such a young writer - a point my teachers would later raise in the presence of my parents - re-emphasizing the idea of a supposedly innocent individual, dying cold and alone in search for the one thing that meant so much to him.
And with the years, however, I’ve been asked to write about other things.
And maybe if I’d learn to take good advice, things wouldn’t corrupt themselves into what they are. Other things - my friends have told me - about cars and sex, music and film, alcohol and the menthol taste of murder along the Makati curbside. My peers would grab the back of my head and tell me than there are a trillion and one other fucking things to write about - anything other than “this melodramatic bullshit”, I’ve been told.
It seems that having this journal has somehow degraded public-opinion of me into some feeble touchy-feely, weeping-heart just aching for a hug every five fucking seconds. But then again, I never denied that I wasn’t.
It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything, I admit. And as I stretch these fingers along this keyboard like legs along a pair of long-forgotten worn-thin jeans, one realizes that writing is like some strange form of remembering. A familiar strangeness and at the same time, a comfortable awkwardness. Much like the recovering of stagnant memories swept under the rug of I-want-to-forget, one writes to remember, and never the other way around.
One could then say that I’ve been absent for so long because, for a time, I almost forgot. That would be a good thing, I admit. But then again, I wouldn’t have anything to write about. Not really.
I’ve been asked if I’ve ever written about other things. But, of course, I was afraid to admit that I hadn’t. Or that I couldn’t. Or that maybe it had been a mixture of both, or nothing at all. I quickly skimmed through my modest portfolio of pieces in the archives of my head: a decade’s worth of short stories, poetry, scripts, plays, essays, articles and elementary scribbles. Then I noticed a subtle yet prevalent theme that strung all of my pieces together: loss.
I don’t think about her so much anymore. Not really. And though I sometimes find myself lapsing into moments of bitterness, a quick cigarette usually helps. But I still think about her, yes, for to admit otherwise would be the greatest lie of all. We write to remember, after all, and never the other way around.
And I remember Shurmann and how I had written his death with the nonchalance of an eleven year old. And if ever something like this was never worth reading, you would’ve skipped this entry along with all the others. But if I were to confess that I wanted to remember her, then to write about anything else would be a sort of slow forgetting. Something, I realize, that I’m not yet ready to completely do.
the otter side