Posts Tagged Philippines


“I felt the beginning of a passion, hopeless in the long run, but very nourishing, for identifying myself with people who were not my own, and whose lives were governed by ideas alien to mine.” V. S. Pritchett in A Midnight Oil

In-between, there’s always a space. Whether between places, words, and people. Everything has its own space, even water is being divided with water bubbles, and nights including its  dense darkness is littered with glitters. These spaces allowed us to breathe, and think, and do things in transition.

A couple of months ago, i lost more than images of childhood, memories of summer, and time spent uncaringly putting rolled tobacco on my young and succulent lips. Those secret travels i made with cousins, friends, and acquaintances, hunting for spiders, fishes, and monsters that came alive one dreamy afternoon, when every kitchen in the neighbourhood blackened with soot and festivities become pregnant with cooked sweet potatoes, bananas, and laughter.

Most of these memories were interspersed with finding love on a bicycle i used to pedal around the city- in quaint streets, in hidden passages, and in secret lairs where fierce red ants and psychotic bees reign supreme, this is where love are tested waging little wars of attrition. The love i found, i share it with the sweetness of banana cue and curled-up sugarcane molasses. It was long ago, where everything is about adventure, where the world is a big playground, and our poetics rhyme with sweets peddled in the streets.

Sweets are important to remembering.

On all souls day, sticky rice cooked with coconut milk and brown sugar is our way to remember the lives of those who left us, differently, or Dad said so. This manner of cooking to summon memory left me together with the departure of my father.

I only have a few important leavings – September 2010 and February 2011, in-betweens are trysts.

October is a good promise, your eyes they disappear when they are delighted with the idea of drifting, but still you are a  puzzle. Today, i no longer have the patience to solve puzzles or anything that has similarity to finding solutions to a puzzle, i don’t want to think too much. i would want to think of things outside puzzles, as it is the planet is a puzzle.

Tonight it’s going to be different. Something else blared from the beat-box

It’s ahum, hoo, ahum haa, aho ahoooooo, hooooo, howew.

it’s a soft jumpy and jittery music playing in the background.

Let me tell you a story of a horse, that most people mistook for a lot of things. Last week my neighbours’ child who came home late with all the dried-up puddle on his face, cried out loud even during meals, the kid who developed the talent to cry and cry while chewing his dinner gained the ire of the horse, whom the child called the greatest living painter ever for solving the class assignment the boy took from school, as a punishment for singing without any reasons and continuously after the flag ceremony. The assignment known as the greatest punishment since, is a conversation in colors that varies in tones and hues.


White-absence-of-strokes-thickening-like-a-melody-of-distant-song-coming-to-life-on-the-canvass-of-your head.”

Or as how the village gossip got hold of the conversation.

The horse became a cow for plowing the wind as if it’s a ricefield, anticipating the coming of hunger. jumping, running as a melody – tom tom toom, tooom tom tom tom, pam poom taam. Paaa paaa pa pa ra pa pa paaaaa..

Last night somebody died, the horse became a holy person – an intercessor of God, a holy lawyer, a spoke-person of the recent dead, collecting money in bundles from the pockets of believers, the starry eyed redemption of the heavens.

It became a pusher for the chemically loaded, a gun on the temple of the head of the desperate.

Like a horse, our state in transition will assume names, weathers, and phenomenon, we will gallop. The horse is a story of transition, a story in transition, transient stories, the space between here and there, the significant pause before we continue our conversations, it’s the nose-bridge between our eyes. It’s the wrinkle that divides your palm in many chambers

Boom booooom booooom boom bombooom booooom.

travelling has it's own horizon that it keeps wherever it goes.

travelling has it's own horizon that it keeps wherever it goes.

One day the horse disappeared, and we dive into forgetting. What is color? what is distance? what are lies.

We became pure. No more music or the pounding of melodies. We lost everything.

How will i retell our stories?

A couple of months ago, i went on running hoping to catch the past the left me suddenly, i rode my bike and got lost in corners, i went after the breathing that left you. I went after the stories.

A couple of months ago is in-between, a stone i nibbled on my waking.

“The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.” Thomas Paine


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Two of us sending postcards
Writing letters
On my wall

-The Beatles

I never thought that i will be having this sort of vision that i can actually hold mid way to where i am supposed to be today.  One that has real clothes, real scent, and one whose laughter reverberated long after it is gone, one whose sweats can actually crawl out of foreheads and one that you can actually wipe.

Unlike other things that are meticulously planned  way ahead of time – starting with appropriate time, places that leaves a lot of impressions that’s usually cliché, the kind of food to eat, how to position spoons and forks, what comes before and after everything, specific  gestures, and specific disposition. All of these are rehearsed over and over again. However this is predictable and boring. anything planned ahead is boring, to a certain extent.  the aesthetics of being spontaneous presupposes the thinking self according to Descartes, it is not from the modern world but came way ahead before humanity discovered correlation between slow and fast, of departures and arrivals, of risking big and bigger.

It is more natural for me to go without plans and develop directions and consensus along the way. considerations are always welcome, like how weather behaves, i am erratic as always.  I revolved around the belief that characters should not be under duress, it should have time to reveal itself.

I always give myself time to surrender and fall by allowing gravity to overwhelm me. To spare myself from other sickness – I try not to think too much, and be misconstrued along the way, as if there is only one truth for everything out there – regardless where we embarked, regardless of the route we took, we will end up somewhere the living and the dead converge and share spaces.

One of  the many reasons why i kept an umbrella is to project resiliency, to show as if i’m prepared, to perhaps have the last laugh also. there’s some sort of comfort to walk under an umbrella, there’s some sort of music made when rain would start to tick-tack on the cloth on the makeshift roof just an inch from my head. i too love the idea how an umbrella can delay burning too, and that wilting can come later.

Shot like a flower in the dance

-Charles Bukowski


I always love basking under the sun, i want the burning to happen equitably over my skin, i am from the equator, and my words are fiery, everywhere my stares fall, tongues of the motherland will become infectious with fire. However my world is also water, i am fluid, i extinguish fires. like water  i am unpredictable, unstoppable to a certain extent, and continuous, and consistent, and persistent.  Sun may reclaim me, but i will return over and over again and fall as rain.

Like what happened before with my decisions – i do them with certainty.  then settle with uncertainty following  my decisions. these are the necessary contradictions that i need.

That way i am good at being misconstrued, that way everything in me is needed with all it’s darkness and brightness, it’s lightness and heaviness.

Today, i like how the sun presented itself. Today i like the way how you came and stretched your arms. today i like the way how shameless i am. today i like all the smudges, the rice on your hair, and the sweats all over our body. as much as i want to measure everything with  steps and get lost somewhere, the limitation with being random, unless in total surrender, it is caught somewhere with  pre-arrangement.

Randomness is poetry.

Oh well.

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