Lost Memories

I have forgotten to write about how I lost my phone to an imagined in-dire-straits pickpocket a little less than a month before coming here.

I suppose my initial irritation was due to the thought of those forever-lost phone numbers, full-of-sentiment-and-never-to-be-read-over-and-over-again messages, the practical my-bank-account-information-was-stored-there! anxiety.

I suppose I failed to make the loss important, as after a while, I recovered some of those numbers. I forgot all about those once-all-too-important messages. I was excited over the prospect of going to Japan and buying a new phone--and I did get to buy a new, more-savvy keitai denwa here in the Land of Technology.

But tonight I came across a poem by Constantine Cavafy called Morning Sea, and I remembered why I should've mourned the loss of that little thing.

I remember going home from work, speeding down cliff-side roads in 150-percent-capacity jeepneys and seeing how many different faces an ocean can assume, depending on time of day, weather, and yes, even moods.

I remember an opaque sea, almost like a dance floor, where an imagined partner would guide me into a slow slow dance, ending up with me missing a step and being swallowed by cold, thick saltwater, inch by inch, while he calmly looks on, as if I deserved it for stepping on his immaculately-shined shoes.

I remember a furious sea in San Joaquin, battering anybody insolent enough to try and invade his territory--spewling wave after wave of water-wall, that my stupid attempts at a dawn swim ended with me sprawled, defeated on the shore.

I remember a slumbering beach, slowly waking to the rising sun and cheerfully reflecting the sky's mild oranges and romantic lilacs and gleefully echoing wind-song.

I remember smoking along evening shores, keeping lonely driftwood company and watching late-day joggers, stray dogs, and lovers kissing in the shadows.

I have forgotten all that when I lost that phone, that little piece of convenience--or cause of irritation. I have forgotten all these memories, these memories hurriedly input on message-outbox, as more often than not I would find myself in the mood to write, but weaponless. Armed only with that phone.

And in those time, that phone became more than just a convenience, or an irritation. More than just a way for people both loved, liked and hated to search me out of my dark-hole and bother me. It became my best friend, the keeper of my darkest thoughts, privy to my inner-pain, my untold joy, my celebrated or cursed aloneness.

After Morning Sea, I now remember why I should've mourned that handy sometimes-journal, that ready-for-any-mood confidante, that old and comfortable friend.

So, once again, memory has left me with nothing but sadness, and a half-hearted attempt at rationalizing another loss in my life. And I fervently hope, that my imagined dire-straits pickpocket truly needed my friend for food on the table, or made his daughter happy on her birthday, or even made his own life a little more convenient. For any other reason I lost those memories, and the only friend who shared them with me is unbearable. It would be like losing them all over again.