higad

04/8/11

*

  

 

this is for a boy who asks a lot about innovation, house curtains and birds.

for the boy who draw snow balls and tiny human eyes on torn notebooks- associate them with seasons and races

and geography of dreamers and realists clashing, tangling, untangling, whirling, unraveling a child’s piece of hope…

that kind of world that is here- if it’s made of soil, students and sandstorms or a cliff with a wooden platform on its edge.

this is for a boy who does not fancy new things.

he collects old oil funnels, he reads old notes of 5-year old penmanship.

to a boy who cries over his wilting plants, who pinpoints phone-shaped clouds and who asks a lot about bath tubs.

this is for the boy who owns an old stove at the backyard- where he fries eggs with two of his kiddie assistants.

 

this is for that same boy who has watched the sky while it stood still 

while the birds frolic , fly into Us and Vs and crypt-

this is for him who reminds me of a boy 

who loved his old oversized slippers,

the shape of stored fat 

intricacies of life

and

someone

who

spends

aimless

moments

touching 

his

e

y

e

l

a

s

h

e

s

 

because 

they felt like

 

feathers.

 

.

lugar

03/31/11

*

it is not down in any map; true places never are.

 

 

yes. it’s the very spot when we sat watching, watching the tide unveil the stars on the sand-

and the stars above. it’s the same place when i held such hand, swayed it as if it’s not leaving soon

-the fireflies were out and they were telling me about this old beautiful story of a girl catching one under a clear glass,

crying the next day when the last flciker is nowhere to be seen. it’s not in the map where i touched you- trembling, excited, hot,

gentle, excited, shy…  i cannot see how many rivers surrounded us,but there, i saw you through the dark, felt you

on my fingertips like Braille. 

 

 it is never on a map– that very place where you sit for a moment and breathe in the anxiety,

breathe out the desire to live the moment—

and both their lungs grew bigger and smaller alternately and there are no dissecting tables

just your skin, your spine, your earlobes and your toetips.

 

it’s that very road that dwindled from your eyes and from your memory and the search for home has ended

for a while.

 

it’s never on the map. the place where you freed your sins and sincerity like dusts from your hair

as the wind blew, as the wind told you to rub those soles on the soul of a path both vaguely familiar

and familiarly unknown to you.

 

it’s nowhere in the map where morning vendors bring colors to markets - of greens from the vagina of the earth.

 where old couples sit face to face - wrinkled and laughing, naked and bathing… prunes in mid-air.

 

a true place like sitting at the bosom of an audience where my brother of 6 said something about his dream

to be a fireman on a stage of little children in lab gowns and fake guns. 

 

 
 

 

 

*

 

haluga

03/14/11

*

 

 

photo credit: Steven Solis

 

 

“so what do you miss most?, he asked, reaching for P14 to the woman in green while talking to her. “lihog gani bayad nang, salamat.”

 

“very interesting bus seatmates. like this guy who’s a party clown. he’s fit, good-looking and he wore this toothpaste commercial smile. at first, i did not believe him. but he opened a suitcase full of costume and props.”

 

it was one of those regular evenings. when she’d have to catch a bus before 7pm. she’d sit near the window and watch the stars or just watch the architecture from the side of the road: half-finished houses, villages, people with blurry faces. then he popped out, brown and handsome. he sat beside her- opened a pack of cheesy chips and offered some to her. she refused. he told her that he’s a party clown, that he sends his brothers to school and that he thinks his life is sad but he is still not that convinced. 

 

“he even asked me to join him eat dinner. and if he turns out to be a sleazy guy, i could just tell the waiter or grab a bottle of sinamakan and smash it on his clown face”, she grabbed her hair and turned it  into a messy pun. it was a windy summer night.

 

“did you learn anything from that encounter?”, he moved closer to her, rubbed his palms against each other and moved his hoodies from his nape, above his head, hid his face - because he is fascinated with the idea of being this sneaky keen observer. mysterious. “as for me, i have no luck in random good talks. once, i saw this interesting-looking woman in a coffee house near Jaro Plaza. i approached her and asked if she likes being alone too and she gave me this wtf glare. i gave up. maybe i gave up that easy.” he was about to laugh but he glanced on her face and saw something –so, he went quiet. 

 

“that everyone has his/her own struggle so try to be kinder every time. that most of us always try to be better - in a certain something or for a certain someone.”, she bit her lip a bit and wiped a tiny wetness from his cheek. a rain-spray. 

 

“thanks.”, he gave her a gentle poke on the shoulder. “can you imagine your self being a clown? it takes a special skill. but i am thinking that what he’s doing is way more exciting than what i do. damn, my life is routinary. i read geopolitics, keep up with my study load, sleep with books, wake up with books. fantasize about something or someone and wake up alone. to be a clown means you cheer kids up, you have a sense of humor, funky hair and big shoes.”

 

“i don’t know. when i was teaching for two years, there were a lot of days when i wished that i was doing something else. like be a writer. then, i became one and then after a year, i wished i was teaching again. i decided to do both and felt exhausted— wished that i were somewhere else,doing a kind of job that allows me to travel and interact-help-teach the marginalized. there are even days when i just wanna be this cool waitress in an artsy nook with a Charlie Chaplin tattoo on my back.” she folded her arms, smiled at him and wrinkled her nose, “you know, maybe it is just a matter of trial and error.

 

“tell you what, i had this classmate once. you remember those days in Elementary when teachers would ask what you want to be and you explain your darnest best? so one time, we had that. and the teacher was surprised to know that he wanted to be a Fisherman. everyone wanted to be a doctor or a nurse or a teacher or a lawyer. i wanted to be a soldier that time. so everyone laughed at him and the teacher told him - ‘why can’t you have a higher ambition?’. he said he wanted to be nothing else but fisherman. years ago, he became a seaman.” he moved a bit far from her and rest his leg on the jeepney chair because most people have already got down from the vehicle. “sometimes, when i think of him, i feel guilty of not being able to keep the child in me. to be a childlike adult.”

 

“not the easiest task in this world, right?”, she moved her index finger, touched her right cheekbone. “but being childlike means appreciating little things, finding joys from the simple. being an adult may mean making sound decisions no matter how complex a situation can be. sometimes, there’s a blur ‘tween ‘em. sometimes, it’s not even just a question of that. it can be a matter of living a life of velocity or intesity or harmony or all of the above.” she sighed moved a bit near him, “where are we going by the way?”

 

“high ceiling. with a  garden and wooden floor.” he knows some of her fascinations. “maybe, we just need to stop analyzing life, right? and just live, love and always try to be loving and compassionate. sounds cheesy now.” he reached for his pockets and looked like he was trying to find something but he suddenly stopped looking for it. “know what i miss? the adrenaline, my kind of drug. those moments when i would gasp for breath and felt like i just had surpass a near death experience.”

 

“well, i always miss delving into the unfamiliar or the exciting. on the other hand, my heart beats a special kind of fast when i find an old familiar something or someone after a long time, again. i am in-love with the comfort of my oldest bed sheets or that same old hug froma long-time friend.” her eyes sparked, she stomped her feet. “before we go to the cafe, can we drop by our favorite place before?”

 

“sa lugar lang, manong.”

 

they were pushing a cart slowly along groceries section paths. there, they would talk about possibilities and not guarantees. the calories in labels. the tsunami alerts days ago. climbing mountains and catching tropical rains. they would talk aout the massage centers in the city and why some do not serve herbal tea after a session. they would ask each other about bad things. 

 

“i missed you. most people think that you like wandering so friends would usually ask me where you are this day or the other.”

 

“missed ya too. and i’m happy that you know, i love staying…more.”

 

 

the smell of chamomile. the aroma of espresso. the rain outside. imagine the tin roofs. they once met in a campus Election. she was presiding. he was being silly. that was 7 years ago.

 

.

utod

03/11/11

*

 

 

 

 

With two of my dearest sisters. And a haiku I cannot write. 

 

 

*

taghul

02/28/11

*

 

(one of those few songs closest to my soul)

 

*

 

There can be a lot of

 complaints she wants to hear from him

 like the chaos and death in Libya, the second-hand pain that every person

 gets because life, can be sad like that – it can be more unhealthy for the

 heart like second-hand smoke for the lungs.

 She can swear about the opposing principles she shares with her mother:

salary versus honorarium

 stability versus passion

 rich husband versus same wavelength

 everyone is practical, be one versus build your own life, who cares

 

 but he reminds her of so many good honest things

 that her right breast is bigger than the left –

 when touched gently and touched

 in the dark. That his legs are like reminders of trembling trees:

 

they are like people, it’s just that they have a different way of departing.

 

 

The dogs were barking, everyone’s asleep

 there’s a pubescent looking at media-warped meaning of beautiful and

 of hot and of making love,

 

there’s a lonely sea out there, somewhere, sweeping the stars,

 there’s an old man writing a new song about

 his younger days, during summers, during his circumcision

 in a far-flung barrio which made him felt like home, like no other.

 there is a 7-year old boy who dreams of Japanese eyes, who loves

 multiple choice types of quizzes only.

 

 

The dogs are barking.

 

She has raging hormones.

He has longing.

She has wits.

 He has sunsets.

 

 

 

 

*