dahu

09/26/11

*

 

 

I MET A GENIUS (Charles Bukowski)

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it’s not pretty.

it was the first time I’d
realized
that.

 

 

Discreetly, I wanted to take a photo of his colorful wristbands. He looked at my camera and shyly smiled. Snap. The teacher handed me his paper. He penned his poem even before the 30-minute time limit buzz. When DEpEd invited me to judge for the 5th Congressional Speechfest (On-the-spot: Essay writing, poem writing, storytelling and impersonation), I never thought of my work schedule. As long as it’s about words and CHILDREN, ohyes. so i sat there and read, had goosebumps and melted inside.

i sure did expressively told the organizers how amazed i was. there was this boy. he was thin and brown and he looked like any other boy who grew up in a small town- who has played with carabaos, chased dragonflies and celebrated every rubber band won in taklap-taklap. he wrote about footsteps as if he has spent 20 years observing the f/plight of the human soles/soul. he opened his poem with a description of how it felt to be born - cold feet. somewhere in his verse, he wrote about people grow older, own stronger footsteps but scared hearts. i paused for a while when he used the word “rusts” - i heard something crumble and fall down slowly. i sure bit my lip and leaned my back on the green chair.

lifting my ankles from the tiring high heeled shoes, i read down to his last line. at one point he got confused between writing down living or leaving. it was a beautiful erasure. there were 10 marvelous poems, 11 touching essays about the values their parents taught them. i was a grateful reader. i’ve never felt such love for reading into things—  in a short span of time for a long while. the internet does not give me that  by and by. a part of me was sad. i know life will not be that TOO dreamy for them maybe years after. maybe some of them will give up on words because the body has to struggle. BUT those moments i have gazed at: the way their necks silently move, the way their ink wove twirls and lines, the way the quietness of the room could be seen from the spaces of the jalousies framed their beautiful faces— i saw hope. maybe i was romanticizing. but oh well. 

 

It was a reunion with my mentor, Mr. Cadena - who was with me way back when I had to compete for Campus Journalism here and there. It reminded me of those afternoons when we would sit beside each other silently– read newspapers and talk about the next destination or a random philosophical churvaloo. I realized that he was like my travel buddy for years when i was all skin and bone and ideals. There, I met an inspiring teacher from a Maritime school. She talked about her students’ parents, domestic helpers, photography class and the rat race. I recommended Like Stars On Earth to her. And, I shared a candy and a piece of my perceptions. 

There was another girl  whose paper I read three times. 

 

“that when i look back i could see them.

and i step my foot

as i stand beside the sea.”

 

 

 out of nowhere i felt sea-spray and a hymn that only a shell and some seagulls can hum.

 

 

.

balighut

09/22/11

*

 

Jay spends his 2 am watching the ceiling leaks. he has been doing some meditation and yoga. he goes to San Juan on Sundays to sit and to try contemplating under a santol tree. He reads PDFs and marks words like “breathing in” and “mindfulness” just because he needs them and he spends too much time in front of his work desktop on weekdays. Brunch for him is ube hopia and an apple. It has been like this because instant noodles remind him of  “haste” and he does not like it. He likes taking things slow - so he misses his bus intentionally, sometimes.

 He works as an I.T. specialist, thinks and argues that stars are sort-of-planets and not heavenly bodies that people should wish upon.  Sometimes, he fixes laptops and asks random customers “Has life been treating you well lately?”. He does not fix things down the ground and tells the client, “oh maybe you overcharged the batteries” or “maybe you did not tell me what the exact problem was”, the time they come back to complain a little. 

 Jay does not have a favorite day nor a favorite color.

He does not dwell on an art that has touched his heart last year.

Never ask him about first loves because you’ll just get a blank face or a cold — “none.”

He only carries the want to see, to eat, to drink, to rest and to sometimes rub his skin on someone else’s — this is because life is a matter of hormones and synapses and mere instinctual necessities.

 

Leila spends her 2 am imagining ways and possibilities on how to make him smile, because he’d be beautiful.

 

——————–

  J: Have you felt real love?

T: Yes. Once. Twice. I am not sure now.

J: I am 25 but still, I have not. Ever.

T: Believe that , you,  will.

 

He sang to her. The stars blinked. She sang to him. A firefly came out of a coconut leaf only to fade slowly. There were banig marks on their skin when they got up and ran to the sea like children. And out of nowhere, there were around 8 people dipping their feet, dancing with hundreds of glowing plankton. He told her, “I wish my parents could see this now. Like Avatar!”. She was quiet, had goosebumps and nearly wept, blessed and humble.

 

.

huwad

09/11/11

*

That Eddie Vedder song, that pursuit of freedom. I could still feel how sensuous Into The Wild was- for an hour and some minutes, a trip to that soul-searching/i-wanna-be-a-backpacker phase in a life. Two lines had lingered… one is— “happiness is most real when shared.”

 

 What a delight it is to share live music. To feel a friend when she closes her eyes and sings Marley, Up Dharma, Alanis, Adele, Sitti, etc. One time, we sat next to each other in the bus. i gave her Bob Dylan Chronicles because Bob started as a delivery boy. Because he describes a city as if he is describing a mother’s body.  Ah…watching her closed her eyes and movd her fingers gently while singing her soul out made me warm inside. the first time I saw her that beautiful was when she was at her most vulnerable. she was 12 and she had curly eyelashes. The lights of the city glowed from the river. Everyone sang with the jammers. him, whose voice was just beyond glorious strummed the strings, Collective Soul.

-

My student Kyoungeun and me collaborated - piano and lyrics. it’s a song about the value of small things. We helped each other on her final presentation that featured the workers (kitchen staff, housekeepers, laundry washers) in the Language institute i am working for, part-time. We finished the song at the cafeteria- where we would both position our feet on the chair. she would finger the ebonies and ivories, i’d play with some rhymes and made some erasures.we would share silence while the sink echoed the dripping water from the faucet.

-

 

 

Couchsurfing has been a colorful addition in my constant craving for new stories. Through it, i have met many different people made of various charming details. Some came and went by,some are still amazingly with me. it is a reminder of both transience and keeping. mental holes have been punched because CSers whose path crossed mine, shared a piece of their heart, hands and head. This night was one of those breezy rooftop gathering with the moon and fun-loving people. We danced with French roots music, nibbled and grilled and shared beso-besos after the air went quiet and the charcoal flames were extinguished.

my student-friend, H.  we both are fueled by working with the grassroots and kids, taking long walks to see-touch-smell-feel, munching camote chips ,taking time to say whatabeautifulskythereis!  we sat beside each other while i got my head touched by warm hands, he was giggling over some foot massage because it was his first time. i was enjoying how comforting it feels— the human touch, the relief. the thought that i am sharing such moment with a new-found soul friend. “tin, these people make us relieved but they must be tired at the end of the day.”

 

 

 i know Joan who cooks so well and whose heart is one of the most delicious. Jin who does not want her photo taken. Snap who takes a lot of photos. Jaeseok who likes trying new ways of immersing with a new culture. Seokju who kisses the forehead like no other. Dayoung whose heart blooms flowers whenever she sits and gazes from the window of the moving vehicle. Some weekends are with them. Some breakfasts we share while the waves remind us that somewhere beyond the sea, one day, they will walk on autumn leaves while we sit somewhere correcting Grammar or doing the heart sign to mean saranghe.

 

-

Karen, my sister, is my special travel bud. every bus ride we share is just irreplaceable. we would do insane things together in another city and spot a random beach to experience. and in some special days, she would let me listen to all the music in her player, while she takes a nap and still, look — beautiful, asleep. in a running bus, and the sugarcane fields wave us a song.

shared dreams for our younger siblings, dream of going to India, dream of beautiful strangers we have not met yet.

 

.

anud

08/18/11

*

 

 

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.

 

*

 

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.

 

 

 

*

 

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

 

*

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.

 

 *

 

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

 

 

 

*

 

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.

 

 

.

 

damil

08/5/11

  

Are you a smoker?

No.

You look like one.

You’re judgmental and stereotypical.

 

 

We would goof about accents. We would laugh to such extent that the other cubicle would slam the door. Vocabulary has never been this hilarious. “You are too funny!” would simply be a surface expression of “Damn, will I ever meet someone who can make me laugh like the way you do now?” One time, we sat on the banig, listened to Inky and Kimay. Sat surrounded by potted plants and a tarragon. The construction workers were in their yellow helmets. They were looking at us from the balkon. We agreed that more than anything, this world is a global village, this culture is raw and beautiful, this toilet bowl is difficult for you. It was breezy that afternoon when you told me about your mother’s voice on the phone. You blushed a bit when I said, “more than anything else, you have an imagination of a little boy.”

 

 

 

 

Do you know that old woman? Why are you smiling at her?

Because she smiled at me first.

Oh, cool.

She really is cool.

She looks funky in those florals and accessories. So glam.

 

We sipped. Paused and talked. We talked about our childhood: cooking while standing on a chair, balay-balay using leaves as money, jetmatic pump baths. We talked about our parents and how they exchanged love letters for 7 years. We talked about how comfortable it is to just sit there and listen to roots music, feel like you are in Latin America and it’s summer and you can just throw your top on the sand because it begins to rain. We could almost sit there and sleep and live on the couch. Years ago, we had tinned tuna overload. We would cry on bed wishing life was better. We cried on each other’s tee.

 

I just can’t bear the thought of a skillful person wasted on a misfit.

I don’t want to. Not for me. I suck at sitting and memorizing.

My wrinkles get deeper. Maybe, I am not happy. But I can’t give up just yet.

Do you want to talk about all these? No?

 

 

We slept. I did. I was not sure if the person next to me did right away. Maybe the next person to me has no gender. Maybe the person right next to me worries about random things: breastfeeding in public, marriages, ancestral houses, puddles that produce sound when you jump into them, too much homemade peanut butter, aching back, the price of clumsiness, the uncertainty of everything about to be chosen , the smell of old local markets and the morning sound of bakeries near the dormitory. Sometimes, it is just good to hear the thunder outside, the soft breath of a person whose dreams and failures have been familiar, the smell of unwashed curtains and that soft innocent feel of another skin on your ankle.

.