anud

08/18/11

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D

 

it’s strange like that. you cry not because it’s too painful, you cry because you do it even for the people who had to leave before him. your face is on his left sleeve. you were holding his nape. you could smell his perfume but it is the least important detail. you cry because you know that one day, maybe, you will forget about him. he will forget about you too. when that moment happens, your mother is in your eatery- watching the hungry mouths and some Adam’s apples. the spoons are glowing. his mother is waiting for his Father’s call. his father is dreaming of his lot full of ginseng. at that very moment, some of your friends are discussing about freedom of expression, morality, assholes in the Senate, assholes in the media. some of your friends are plotting the next visit to a community where they’d share love and swim  in a river. at that exact split of a minute, the first person he made love with remembers him, remembers some of his freckles scattered under the eyes. and how they grow pink when he cries.

 

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H

 

where do you want to go back to?

 

Pedals. Biking. The Sea Beside The Winding Road.

 

To see the World and To see the Sea. To see the ME.

 

 

 

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and so there is something about following-one’s-heart. when nostalgia visits, reason is nowhere. but how someone/something made you feel resurfaces. suddenly, you are back there- wrapped by the arms you’ve never felt for years. in that old house where you grew up and you ran to the sala smelling like the sun and the hay. in front of the boy who was curious about your belly button and mouth. running on the sand, undressing, thirsting for the sea and all the unseen creatures that glow at night, mimicking the moon. how you made someone feel also resurfaces but it comes in a vague language, something you can’t understand and would never want to. 

 it’s bizzare. though days pass, some moments are like parachutes which only appear from the air unexpectedly and you can’t help but taste it. and be there in a particular fiber of the past that has made or bent you. there, where you are ageless and brave

 

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Joan, Joan Gayle, Kyoungeun, Dayoung, Jin

 

 

Back in Agho Island, Nay Merlyn sang a lullaby. She was putting her grandaughter to sleep. The goats were gazing. The dogs slept on the white sand. The big pan was black and hot. Tay Clarin walked near the boat, smelled the salty breeze. Walked backwards a bit, watched his wife and picked a shell.

 

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Empathy. a student reminded me of this today. The laundry woman did too.

 

 

 

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My Sister took a picture of the barrio where we grew up.  The greens swayed. I remember when Tatay would tiptoe in front of the casette recorder and would secretly record Kastilyong Buhangin for Nanay. Lolo and Lola were sleeping in different beds in the next hut. Our house was tiny. My sister was tinier.  Kites were everywhere in summer. In the barrio, the skin of people were golden. Baylehans were full of solteros in white shirt tucked into their jeans. Some girls would refuse to dance with the drunken. The mud made our school shoes dirty. But there were a lot of trees on our way  to the town. And there were a lot of birds above us that unconsciously taught us this: things above and things below are somewhat similar. Just take for example dragonflies and airplanes. Star and starfish. Clouds and toothpaste bubble -in your mouth, tongue, lips.

 

 

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