By: Iris P. Concepcion
As a manner of purging his juvenile demons that had taught him to write about gnomes and bugs turning into men, Franza Kafka, that existentialist exponent of literary paradise, self-healed himself through his "Dear Father" diaries.
The highly psychological writer is very consumed with his portraits of fathers as tyrants with their knavish and warped sense of authority. He had thus invented the most horrible and weirdest characters that are still as avante-garde now as when they were years ago.
I do not have memories of this fierce and towering like monster figures wielding rods as a result of bursting tempers.
My own father bought me ill-fitting shoes that he returned to stores for the right size even if it means travelling for eight straight hours.He merely admonished me to keep quiet when he is receiving visitors at the house. I also remembered him drawing Big Bird of Sesame Street for my own sketching fulfillment. He had taught choruses to children using native songs from Denmark, the United States and Scotland. We had a vinyl record and songbook for this repertoire. This came free if you had subscribed to the Readers' Digest which my parents did. He barked at me when I commit infractions. He drank with his friends too. Nonetheless, I have never seen him absent from our meal tables. He was always punctual.
Today, I shall address again the world through this bretheren of the male pack; a bevy of ubiquitously butt-shaped homo sapiens whose own confessions had me mock-self my own attachment to senseless concerns. They have thrown away a pricey item as a protest for mistreating their clueless (that was before, this is now) offspring. They got mad and storms came afronting from heaven, giving thunderous roars and bellows. Woe to people who had received the wrath.
First off, I need to find alternative words to "Dear Father". I could use "To The Male Members Of The Dietary World" but one of your own could have already expanded his imaginary stick in Snape manner cutting me down with : "Strike that out!"
Curtains opening, allow me to start this in a traditional form.
Dear Fathers,
Yesterday, I saw some intricately pruned pine trees up on the road like an orchard park. Your daughter has wandered off to Yala's Wongsaang 1 Road on foot as she normally does in Manila. She had passed by acres and acres of land devoted to educational buildings. Instead of business establishments, the massive structures house numerous children yearning to learn. Everyone seems to be thirsty for knowledge here. Science-themed parks, formal and non-formal education (my biological one had insisted on this), technical campuses and tutorial centers abound. It looks like a frenzy warpath onto mental spunk, sponged and dunked to rebuild the face of the future.
Unlike your constant admonitions in the past for your daughter to avoid speeding vehicles, Yala has spacious sidewalks for pedestrians. This has made her strides stress-free.
Remember Aenid, the consciousness of being, when you had to give screws and bolts (in both literal words and symphonic hardware tools) to maggots as a means to protect thy daughter from offensive aesthetics? You had forewarned her of paradise. She found this to be closer. Yala's government agencies are built respectably. By that she means, without a sense of mediocrity. They are huge, well-painted and visually pleasing. Its Hall of Justice is like Clark Kent's imaginary building. Picture-perfect that your daughter found herself utterly ridiculous in her stained but beautiful clothes, astounded that a province can look this. She is flabbergasted that what she had read from books may be accomplished easily.
She had travelled outside the vicinity too. Campuses that had been left as derelict, worn-out that need rehabilitation. She had met articulate and amiable teachers from here. Theirs is a contrary view and like what you had taught me, she needs to find her own screws and bolts to protect herself for being free. She had done enough preaching to know the difference between respect and comfort. Your daughter is treated well and you need not worry. She will not develop boils in this readily-equipped environment. She adores meeting builders.
On a lighter note, she had discovered a street version of pancakes yesterday. It made her sweat, similar to a gym work-out. It is only six baht (huk in Thai) and it is delectable in a manner of disciplined delectability. Made from "kai" (egg), it is a waffle with coconut (buko) fillings.
You have shown her the evils of the world, she is now shown the goodness and bounty that she needs to rediscover if only to find her sense of universal self. Not exactly nirvana but a haven of mutual assent to community development, done in the correct manner.
She shall visit temples again, where prayers are offered to divinity gods. The people's religiosity here is not folksy: it reverberates to the silent forces of the unsung Nature, swept by the verbal hushes of winds. It could be the reason for the residents' contentment here. Even its cemetery looks like a park.
Always, but always, fathers, she knows the reasons why these utopian concepts click here. Material wealth is subservient to the Higher Being upon whom everything is designed.
That, to your daughter, is likened to the morality plays and dialogues of the ancient times. Between good and evil, God makes a succinct distinction.
She still eats chocolates and has been reawakened to the wonders of milk. She misses the banters of the thugs but she is thankful that she has not seen a beggar tugging at her shirt on her way to the shops.
She had discovered one thing too in this area. If something goes awry dear Fathers, you only mention one word.
7-11.
It is convenient as that convenience store can possibly conveniently convene.
I am playing on my words but isn't that the gist why I was sent away, for Gretel to appreciate the wonders of blue hues and other forms without the biscuit-housed witch?
I am waiting for your answers. I shall not fail you in treating dreams like my own body.
You clean them everyday for better use in sun and merry. (This is grammar-spocked but more poetic, I believe).
P.S. I love its train station; it is duskier than the blazing sights of airports, my favorite hotels in the world. Yes, you read it right. To this offspring, airports are the best hotels in the universe.