*
there were some dogs and a topless thin old man. he was cooking something. there were second-hand shoes and garments hanging. i want to describe it to you now, Jaime. the way the sun pierced our skin, the smell of rotten vegetables and stagnant gutters. there was a bakery and some flies. he told me, “watch after your bag and i’ll be right back.” i had some bread and the flies were just there. i had some drink and the flies were still there. he stood with a clear face and a backache. “you know time is so fast… if i can ask God one thing, it would have to be ‘please extend 24 to 36′ really” … Jaime, i know you would agree with what i told him. i looked into his eyes like looking into a deep well. “this is you complaining, this is the slow you, it does not matter how long the day is, as long as perhaps, you try to make someone happy, or you try to make someone think or feel or even wonder. or maybe, hug someone, just hug, you know…”
and then, he asked me if i was hungry and at the fast food resto, we talked about commerce and money. we talked about over-the-counter and that 65-year old guy ( and who still does extreme sports)who married a young lady. i slept in the bus. but before i hit the country road, i saw this young man stood near a corn stall. he was trying to find me from among the windows. i sank on the chair and hid a bit. i liked the idea that he was trying to read faces. he was wiping his sweat on the forehead.
Jaime, today, a random person gave me a photograph. it was me and two other people. it was with her who told me about this dream wedding and her lover who has not called for 7 days. we both agreed that waiting happens to be a hard thing to do. it’s like being at the tip of the earth and you want to say something about gravity or magic or freefall or papercut dolls. it was with him who makes me laugh. who drew an image against the wind– using his hands - a car, the Beach Boys, the sea and e ll i p si s.
How many wild flowers have you picked that day?
I remember the photos of umbrellas you took. One time, it suddenly rained cats and dogs. there was a woman in an office uniform. “nang, come, run… share the space with me…” her shoulder touched mine, our tummies felt each fat. “that’s my jeep.. oh thank you thank you.”
How many wild flowers have you picked that day?
dear Jaime, i want to tell you about some seashells i picked and how they imitate the sea breeze in those days when i needed to stay away from the ocean — it’s as if they burst a gentle colorful light and a long-forgotten jewelry box lalalasound when i open the door and see the sky.
picking those seashells felt like plucking little shy wild flowers in the midst of mist, dew and a shooting star.
.
*
Tumbling down the stairs with her tumblr of hot tea.
A burst of humiliation and laughter.
That commenced it. His warm chest. A wish of good life and a goodbye.
She looks at him for days. Him- his cigarette between his fingers. She could never put into words why there is so much beauty in a man smoking from afar. Quietly, he smokes, quietly he thinks of maybe, Indonesia. Sometimes, he smokes while he checks his phone. He smiles and she melts. Maybe, he reads a message from a woman (who has a vintage bag and has clear pronunciation) he met last night or a photo of balut vendor in a sikad. She looks at him for weeks. Sometimes, he caught him staring and they would look at each other. They would never smile.
One time, she caught him looking at the photos she took. He also strummed a little in her mini-ukulele. He looked into her eyes for a couple of seconds and bowed. A signal of a hi or an im-sorry-i-was-here-when-you-were-not-and-im-embarassed-now.
She looks at him for days. Him- his cigarette between his fingers. She could never put into words why there is so much beauty in a man smoking from afar. Quietly, he smokes.
“So, you will go there… There are beautiful paddies, volcanoes and cheekbones.”
“Yes. For my job. I am excited”
He looks at her for days.
She likes the color of his skin, it reminds her of the farmers in the sitio where she grew up. She likes the scar near his upper lip- she has been thinking of it as something he got from a bike accident or a High School fisticuff or an explosive kiss.
He looks at her for days.
Tumbling down the stairs with her tumblr of hot tea.
A burst of humiliation and laughter.
That commenced it. His warm chest. A wish of good life and a goodbye.
“Elementary style!”, his friend laughed at her.
She got a bruise on her leg. She walked with pretention and embarassment.
“Are you ok?”
“No. your fault. haha.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow…”
“I heard.”
“Are you really ok?”
“Yes. I wish you the fulfillment of your dreams and a safe flight.”
He hugs her. She hugs him. She feels a wailing shyness. But, his arms were strong and he pulled her near him, so close, that their plaid tops looked like chess boards and their collarbones kissed. No one seemed to like the idea of letting go of a hug but one had to. Maybe, it was him who did first. Maybe, it was actually her.
”Are you sad?”
“No.”
But they know, they are. For no profound reason. For no reason as big as love or friendship nor something small like mere attachment.
*
*
what i like about small town life is the irreplaceable chance to be close to nature. just the momentary freedom to sit on a tree, inhale the greens. feel the thickness of the trunk on your back. walk on the weeds and grasses and just be one with the breeze, the birds, the bounty that the Universe selflessly shares.
what i adore about some weekends with my siblings is this magical reminder of the womb. that we came from the same stomach- of a girl who had me at 16. when i look at my younger brothers and sisters from a good distance, i would still feel this rush of curiosity and awe- ‘why do we have the same nose?’ / ‘the same fascination for mountains surrounding the ocean’
what bike rides by the sea bring:
there is no word for this in any language,
but there should be:
the opposite of shipwrecked.
the moment amidst the waves when you know, finally,
that you have lost the shore. that is–
the resolute heart. the weight in your stomach
with the first and last heave of hull against sand
before you’re drifting.
the compulsion to drown all
of your horizons, to lose yourself
somewhere that no one will ever find you.
the giving in. the stark moment of honesty
between you and water and sky and water and sky and
the god, maybe, that you were never sure of before now.
the need that drove you to lose every shoreline.
the second
you know that you’ve succeeded.
and what high school reunions unfold: a new piece of amazing life story, a new dream, a new love.
a new feeling synonymous to a glance at the yearbook
and ohyeah, you’re 16 once more.
how have you been? what little things have been making you smile while you take long aimless walks?
.
*
The value of things is not in how long they last, but in the intensity with which they occur. Thus there are unforgettable moments, inexplicable things and incomparable people.
*
it was 2004 when we first met. it was 3 years after when we parted ways because it all got tiring. at some points, i forgot about you- in some days, deliberately— sometimes, i just forgot about you because life was raging. new people, new interests, lots of music to listen to, lots of moments that did not involve you. there were random days when we would decide to meet. and very rare ones when we would randomly see each other from afar and a) send a message “i saw you but you were too far and was with someone else” or b) we just spontaneously grab some chair and talk until the last bus goes. in those hours that we arranged catch-ups, we would end up talking about two things: nostalgia and non-sense. there were those nights when you would try to call but my phone was somewhere else. if we got lucky, we would talk after midnight about wishes, frustrations and longing. yes, in that particular order.
wishes
frustrations
LONGING
the last time i saw you, you were trying to explain about the bad weather and suppression. your hands still reminded of the trees. i told you.. “oh my, you’re already 25!” and you just looked at the sea and smiled. you told me you missed me. i just smiled and looked at the sea from the other direction.you told me about this funny day when we went swimming and you were in your trunks. i was in my floral stuff and i had a horiible insect bite on my thigh. we laughed. went quiet.
you had to carry my bags. you had to push the gate a bit. i had to tell you i was happy to see you again and it felt good to stand beside you in the same place where we used to spend aimless evenings being younger and clumsier.
today, i celebrate you. your fascination for Iraq. the way you would be a dead star in so many nights. the way you would be the most honest person to tell me that i am exaggerated and high-strung. the way you keep my old letters after 6 long years. the defiance of your friendship.
know that whenever i touch tree skin, i am reminded of you.
.
*
it was an island made of beautiful rocks and a veranda of stars.
Isla Bat-os, Concepcion, Iloilo
—
at this very moment, i am alone in an old house. there is a kitchen window that leads to the heads of trees. some bear fruits, some are just green, some have stories of hands which dug the soil - maybe it was a boy or an old man, or a little girl who wanted to hug trees when she’s 21. there are aparadors who have sheltered clothes of her and him and theirs. mirrors that have gazed at beauty, uncertainty, fragile mornings and steamy nights. a wide window shows you the Iloilo boardwalk where people jog, where lovers hold hands and let go of mutual dreams under the sunset, where laughing high school girls walk and tickle each other, where old men run and feel young again. there’s a wooden stair too old that it leads you to a rooftop where the sky becomes pink in the afternoon and the city lights mimic the night bead. and you just stand there feeling something in your heart. that, or nothing. a kind of nothingness that fills a certain gap. a gap that is unnamed but you know it’s just there. or maybe, it has been there.
being in this old house reminds me of the woman who lives here now. her soul is both young and ageless. she has beautiful teeth. she dances while slicing fruits, her eyes dance and beam while listening to stories. she told me once that not all beautiful things should be easy.
.
*
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-
