~
she grabbed her headband
grabbed a piece of her sanity, stole a thick book
she sat near the window and picked
Concepcion
a humble town which smells like eternal waves
from the window.
it has been days, she refused music
it has been days as an arsonist.
so that little boy with curly head,
breastfed by his Karay-a mother
pulled a roll of her dreadlocked hair.
she laughed, she laughed.
the mother cupped her breasts into her bra,
rolled down her blouse and apologized.
the boy with curly hair and long
eyelashes pulled her dreadlocked hair
again. she smiled so wide and gave him
a candy. “diin kaw mapanaw?”
she pouted, folded her arms and announced
“Concepcion”
“kamo nang, diin makadto?”
but she saw suppressed tears instead
of lips cracked with an answer
then she noticed her eyes shook, like
little earthquakes in her heart for
the past nights.
“i am going there, to where i really belong.”
she wanted to ask her how did she find out:
if did she choose sunsets over dusks
or did she take baths from deep wells,
did she pray under a tree or did she believe
in shooting stars.
but the bus stopped and the boy with
curly head who pulled her dreadlocked hair,
waved his tiny hand as the mother tilted her
head and said, they were steps away from
where they really belong.
Up North- Catherine Howe
~
less travelled
.
langging, though i do not know you, salamat sa tanan. and your e-mail last time, moved me. ASS in.
i haven’t read great books, but strangers have been so kind to tell me their stories even if i look mischievous. 
perhaps it’s a gift and i am happy that you have moments of take-my-breath-away when you read me as their instrument 
*
she likes seashore naps and the view of everything from the bus window. she likes tiny moments and the small spaces between faces when people talk.
sometimes, she wakes up to that odd feeling of being a fallen leaf, an old tree, an azotea or a waitress somewhere-- talking to a taxicab driver about that random song on the radio.
*
---
---
and this. a proof that:
how you see LIFE is how
you actually see YOUR self.
*
*
***
maddening spurt:
----------------------
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!”
-Jack Kerouac-
this poem shakes me. how do you write this down? how do strangers find you? the photo and the song are so soulful too. you leave me speechless.
Posted by christy at August 30, 2008, 12:16 pm