‘TWAS some years back in Agoo, La Union where a psychic healer prayed smack over my brows to pry open the so-called third eye. I was told not to womanize too much as such a habit causes the peephole into another reality to gather wool— most likely pubic hair—over the extra eye. I reasoned with the healer that only a nun could drop a habit and she’ll probably be taking a bath or indulge in something more interesting to watch.
So that thingy between the eyebrows is now open for business. Open but not as gaping though as the splayed thighs of a maiden doing a split maybe a banana split.
I was told that the extra sense of sight would allow me to heal ill folks. I shirked from that task, stymied at the prospect of actually causing afflictions to fade away. With a toast followed by a thirsty swig of suds, I made the point clear: “Here’s to the wound that never heals! The more you scratch it the better it feels.”
I was warned that with that augmented sense of sight I’d be seeing things out of the ordinary, even out of this Third World. Did I sound excited at the possibility of seeing ladies without a stitch on even if they’re wearing an entire closet of wardrobe?
Would I be flabbergasted at the sight of their original unaltered bods showing through despite the layers of silicone injections on the upper labia and the mammaries, about three tablespoons of add-on make-up, and four or five kilograms of blubber and suet liposuctioned off the thighs and tummies?
Thus I wondered aloud at the possibility of setting my extra eye on such horrors and abominations now well ensconced in present-day reality.
Nope, those weren’t the things I was supposed to see with the enhanced sense of vision.
For starters, I’m supposed to see disembodied spirits and ghosts.
Fine by me. An eyeful of ghosts and wandering spirits might be quite a sight. And in the following days after the third eye’s gala opening, I was having a grand time with spirits. Well, a lot of ‘em were not unlike the djinn in the Aladdin tale, trapped in a suitable vessel to keep their powers intact. The spirits I communed with even came in fancy labels and high-sounding names. Carlos Primero. Absolut Vodka Currant Flavored. Ginebra San Miguel. San Miguel Pale Pilsen. Johnnie Walker. Lambanog Quezon. Each packed quite a kick even as I tried to shun their intoxicating company.
Too, reliable informants let me in on a wicked secret—certain local government officials throughout Metro Manila are in cahoots with ghost employees who bob up like pop up ads on certain days when their powers are at their peak, usually at the 15th and 30th of each month.
‘Tis sad I’m not yet imbued with the powers to exorcise such ghosts, even ghost projects that can rake in tunnels of monies for the powers that be behind ‘em ghosts. I’m told that taxpayers unwittingly proffer offerings of hard-earned cash in a puny bid to appease such wraiths and malignant presences.
The third eye is still peeled open and is still seeing wonders and horrors unfold like the curtains on a theater of the absurd.