Alone, in a Cafe

It was a breezy afternoon in Makati. The breeze was peculiarly comforting. Most afternoons here are now usually hot, seldom attended by the breeze. Maybe I didn't believe there was really such a nice draft or, if there was, that it would last. So I opted for the more reliable air-conditioning of the mall.

I got myself a few CDs as a reward for finishing my first semester of both studying and teaching. Later, I would not look at it as any sort of gratification. It was just something I did to make myself believe that I achieved something in a span of five months. I didn't. All I really accomplished was getting myself some CDs.

I stopped by the cafe to get some hot chocolate and buy some time to pace myself, plan my next moves, and read up on Dutch poetry. So i went in, placed my order and waited until I heard the barista call out my name with her classy accent. I didn't really know why this place seemed like a good place to do the stuff I wanted to do. Why be surrounded by people that aren't kin to me, in fact, non-kin in many ways? Later, I would doubt whatever sense I used to expose myself to other people. Other people have a way of stirring something already shaken.


1 White mocha

I opened the anthology before the planner. I began with Jan Elburg's no place like home:

This must be me
I feel this more than I
feel others smarting at my notions.
this must be me
where I look in and out of.

There was a pregnant woman alone on my left, alone with her white mocha. She was in a dark corporate attire and wore highlights in her hair. She's texting somebody while her cheek rests uneasily on her left fist. She's not that big, maybe just a little over four months. She slouched on her seat. Later, with her right thumb still on the keypad, her left fist would become a palm beneath her belly.

2 Frappucinos, etc.

To my right, a bunch of students worked with textbooks, notes, expensive pens, and scientific calculators. Some of their classmates studied in front of me with their heads to the glass wall.

In between these batches and forward diagonally to my left, a fat, hairy, white man showed some harbor plans with plates of colored sketches to a brown man.

If the white man was selling, the brown man didn't look like he's buying. He didn't look like he could afford it. Maybe someone was conning someone. If so, I had no idea who's conning who. Or maybe they're both out to con somebody else.

3 Macchiato

There was a girl on her cellphone four or so meters to my rear. She had a white blouse on with the 3/4 sleeves ending in ruffles. She had her law books and black purse in front of her. She has largely ignored them along with her styrofoam cups of water and macchiato. Her head was thrown back, she was slouching, possessing the entire couch.

She chatted away very happily, so happily that her mouth suspended in open-mouthed smiles whenever she paused to listen. Her smile was a gaping promise, the red edges moving in ripples when she talked.

Her eyes flitted absent-mindedly to every corner of the room, looking everywhere and nowhere at once. She was not in the room, I guess. She was on the other end of the phone.

4 More white mocha

The pregnant woman was arguing with the guy who joined her. She brought in confident, incorrect English with her crossed corporate-sleeved arms.

She was negotiating, asking for 1/3 or at least 1/4 of something. Her tongue was hard. It was neither lashing nor hysterical, just hard. They were somehow involved.

The guy remained silent. He was married. He was also white, the pinkish, foreigner kind. And also very hairy.

I hated the taste of losing myself to peeping tomfoolery and eavesdropping. I fetched myself some water though I was not finished with my chocolate. I read on:

it can't be otherwise: these, my hands
rendering me more services
than all the hard and soft ones outside;
these, more joy at my body's raging
than pity on what I bring about.

5 More frappucinos, etc.

A youngish teacher came in and was noisily greeted by the students. The fuss died down and a girl approached the teacher from across the room and said hi sir with a flirtatious tone. The male students were all smiles and said they will consult him. Probably about their assignments. They were finishing up.

I myself had no plans or "pacing" done. Outside the glass walls, the leaves of the cement-boxed trees were rustling. The sky was falling to darkness, hue by hue, shade by shade. A young man opened a van parked by the sidewalk. A lady followed with a baby in a stroller. After loading the stroller, they entered the van, the child in the lady's arms. Inside, the couple collapsed into a relaxed conversation. After a couple of minutes, they drove off.

The lights were turned on and I decided to go home for dinner. I had no place at the cafe. I was done with my cups.

I think I'll stay here, after all,
with my very own agonies:
between my teeth is where I feel at home.

A Post-Baguio Note

I just came down from Baguio. The bus was scheduled to roll at 1 am and, despite some troublesome passengers who used up 20 minutes of our time, I was home in 5 hours.

Baguio is not that cold this time of the year. I only had a shirt and denim pants on most of the time. I only used my ukay-ukay Manic Street Preachers jacket on the bus when the hours of airconditioning soaked me to the bone. Too bad I didn't have the sense to check out a thermometer and record the exact centigrade reading. Then again, that would be boring. I'd rather say that I also wore shorts and sandals during my weekend in Baguio and that in a group of six people, only two would have a jacket or sweater with them. And of the two, only one would be wearing it.

I had to visit UP Baguio for my own intents and purposes. It was the last UP in Luzon that I haven't visited. There, I just had to mark this too. So this is exhibit B and still I have too few words to show for it. I must work on my student's grades and the rest of my requirements for postgrad class. So after I e-mail an Excel attachment, I'm off to the office. I'll deal with the faculty tomorrow.

I'm not okay. I hope everybody else is doing much better.

A Post-Romblon Note

Our mission to Sibuyan Island in Romblon was very enlightening. One of the best five days of my life, the ship travel included. There was no substantial rest nor recreation, it was almost pure work. However, I decline to share details. I'm not in the mood. Maybe, if I join the post-operation follow-up on April 5, I'd afterwards be more disposed to playing storyteller. Or maybe not.

I just put that fact here so I can mark it with a date. Right now, I'm not looking forward to spending much time with monitor and keyboard. Actually, I'm not minding pen and paper either. I'm not itching for keypad and LCD.

So why post? I just can't help but wonder how everyone else was doing.

The Fall at Bataan

Back then, I wanted to tell you what the sea of Bataan was to me. I wanted to tell you how it felt much like a mere rest stop on a round trip to Pateros. Yes, I'd explain the ill-planned trip that had me commit more time in the bus - feeling beneath my solo seat the laboriousness of its progress - than in the destinations.

I'd tell you about the trip up the mountain, how the bus climbed it like some hesitant, leaden beast. We stopped because a tire was giving way but we just put in some air and trusted the thickness of its rubber hide to haul our heavy asses up that angle. When we finally arrived, I mused a bit and checked out the cannons and old howitzer predecessors. I'd tell you how I wasted a good hanky just wiping off all the grease I got when I couldn't keep my hands to myself.

Higher up was the white monument. It was decent and tall and it had carvings adorning its sides, representing the divisions of the army we had then. There was an inscription which I don't remember reading. So I would just give you something else in its stead:

No monument as this would rise without fallen heroes.

After parting with this worthless proxy piece, I'd proceed. We went on to travel another hour and a half just to see water. I sat out front, behind the driver's seat. I found it barely comfortable even if I had the two-seater all to myself. Hecklers out back would not care for the B movie fed them. They're restive and, hearing no more jokes to throw tomatoes at, they figured that the whole trip was a big joke and the driver as some silent, failed mime. So they trained their verbal barbs at him. I'd note for you that no amount of whipping would make the beast go any faster. I tell you, if this were my class, I'd tell them to shut up, not so much because their tirade violated some innate sense of value and respect. Probably just because, up to a certain point, the futility of their witty exercise ceased to amuse me.

The people there were few and far in between, negligible to our traveling senses. I'd tell you what these wiseasses said, "seems people are not in fashion here." Imagine that, people as clothes or accessories of a locale. If so, the lands were naked. And with the fever of male metaphor-making, I'd say we here were an intrusion.

Maybe I won't phrase it that way for you. I'd just say we were intruders without adding the length of the bus or how, at several points of uncertainty, we went back and forth.

We finally unburdened our beast a few moments after we spotted sparkling water. Of course I'd add that at the mere sight of it, the boys grew wild and loud, throats grew coarse shouting "water!" - the reverse case of mariners greeting sight of land. A handful of them rushed at it throwing clothes on the way and disturbed its peace with splashing limbs. Later, chest-deep in water, a couple of them raised their underwear like banners - or maybe I'd say pennants - of a conquering host. They waved them too, with the same triumphal air as I imagine field marshalls of old would have.

I'd go on and tell you how I greeted the sea in my own fashion, filling my eyes with its blue and white sparkle, my ears with its rhythm, and my hair, face, and body with the warm breeze that attends it. My feet worked upon its shoreline. I allowed the water to go as high up as half my calves, trying to measure the gentle undulation of its waves with my legs. The sand mingled freely with my toes and leg hairs, were washed off with every wave, and replaced with every step.

I'd go on! I would! I'd tell you that there, far out there into the blue I forgot wars and theories, I forgot needs and inventions, I forgot duties and routines, marches and deaths! I felt so light, stripped of causes and definitions. Poised armies and lost loves all meant nothing at the time. I felt colorless, reflecting everything, being nothing. All I had were limbs for the water, skin for salt and waves, and eyes for the corals and the schools of flashing, flying fish. I had ears only for the song of the sea.

I cannot come back like this, so stripped. You wouldn't recognize me. So I shared the girls' meals and the boys' liquor. I took to the showers to replace the salt and sand with the tap water and soap that I'm more accustomed to wear. I dressed in my old clothes. I boarded the bus.

I tell you, I did not look back. I feared I might become some saline pillar that could never look forward again.

I could have told you this and more. But back then, I felt I didn't have to. Back then, all that mattered was that I wanted to. And that, I thought, was enough.

Do not ars-longa-vita-brevis me! What will I have if I have you encased in the canvas of my words? What wages will I owe the eternal lines if I engrave your unending beauty in them? No, not today. There must be a limit to what the verb can move. May I live forever inferior as artist but never held back as man. Between ars and vita, let me always recall the nobler cause. Let me always distinguish the means from the ends.

I thank you for your final lesson dear strangers. My weakness prevails such that I can only know them now as mere lessons. I will keep what I have from you in the hope that someday I may gather from it the truly profound. Something worthy of you, though never to be worth anything to you. What would be the value of a shadow?

I still reel from our brief touching. Exactly the why or the how I cannot understand. Allow me please to keep the what that happened. For now, I succumb to words because I fail before them. Was it because of the first failure? Yes, maybe. We failed to save you! No long-winding art can ever cover that!

In pace recquiescat, dear young ones.

Sounding the Horn

In Northern Somalia, a Filipina is carving her meaningful niche. Ibalik's roving eye never ceases to amaze me! Now, dekarabaw's unga is definitely richer with Yvette's voice. Here, consider:

The voices of the orphans, children victims of war, were enough to make everyone listen intently. I was seated beside a Somali woman from Berbera who was nice enough to translate the songs. The children sang about inter-clan fighting, war and how it affected the young, how they were thrown in the streets, how they were orphaned because their parents were killed or were missing. The children reminded the old that amidst the hostilities it is the young that get most affected.

I hope you get to visit her, send her my regards, and tell me what you think.

Lungsod, Mula sa Tuktok, Isang Gabi

Nuong unang linggo ng Disyembre, napadpad ako sa tuktok ng Antipolo. Mula ruon, matatanaw ang mga ilaw ng Maynila sa pagkagat ang dilim. Kita ruon ang Cainta, Cubao, Libis, EDSA, Skyway, at mga karatig-lugar. Iba't iba ang kulay ng ilaw. Namamayani ang mga dilaw at kahel ng mga kalye pero naruon rin ang ilang puti at syempre pula sa tuktok ng mga gusali. Para sa mga eroplano, sakaling mapababa ang lipad. Kapara ng aking titig nuong gabi, pababa, dumadapo.

Sa kabuuan, interesanteng tingnan ang bista. Pakiwari ko rito'y isang nahulog na sanga ng isang mekanikal, maliwanag, at selestyal na Christmas Tree. Nasa pagitan ng aking tuktok at ng mga lungsod ang mga puno ng Rizal. Nasa kaliwa naman, tila nakasawsaw ang isang dulo ng syudad sa Laguna de Bay.

Kung saan-saan ako dinala ng aking pagmumuni nuong mga gabing iyon. Kahit babad sa tsaa at kape ang utak nuong umaga at serbesa nuong gabi, walang humpay ang pakikipagbuno ko sa bista.

Diyan ako iniluwal sa baba. Diyan sa nagpapakalangit na lupa kung saan nakapirmi sa mga poste't gusali ang ilaw ng mga bituin. Diyan sa lungsod na pinagkakaisa ng aspalto at semento ng sari-saring kalsada. Mula ruon sa aking kinatayuan, mga kubling lubid ang mga kalsada, makikilala lamang dahil sa gulugod ng mga ilaw at hilera ng mga gusali. Lahat, gapos ang mga ugat. Wala akong nakikitang tao mula sa ganuong layo. Pero alam kong naruon sila, kung hindi nakasilid sa bahay, nasa labas at nakahapit sa kurba ng mga kalsada, sa sulok ng mga kabit na pader, sa bingit ng mga pinto. Naruon sila, sa kanilang mga nakakahong buhay. Diyan ako iniluwal.

Napakatipikal naman para sa akin nuon. Porke't napalayo lamang nang konti, akala mo kung sino nang nasa itaas. Aba, dala-dala ko ang lahat ng mga estruktura ng lungsod na iyan! Mismong mga mata ko, nakapadron sa hubog ng mga bintana at salamin ng syudad, hindi ba? Ang ilaw na tinatanggap ng mga ito, panay artipisyal. Kung may araw man o buwan, may mantsa at marka na ng usok ng lungsod bago ko makilala ang liwanag ng mga ito. Nakadamit pa rin ako sa imahe ng lungsod. Nakahawi ang aking buhok, nagpapaka-intelektwal ang pungay ng mga mata, nakatikom ang bibig, nakasakop ang dila.

Itinuturing ko pa rin ang sarili ko na sibilisado. Ibig sabihin, pagmamay-ari ng lungsod. Bawat tibok at muwestra ng aking pagkatao, mula at akma sa lungsod at orden ng mga tao. Sibilisado. Ibig sabihin, pakatandaan ang etimolohiya, nakapader. Kaya ano't inatake ng burgis na pagkahambog?

Dito, manipis ang ulap. Parang nasa ibabaw na rin ako niyang maitim na alapaap na bumabalot sa syudad, iwinawaksi ang ilaw ng langit. Halata ang kapal nito, kahit sa karimlan ng gabi. Dito, sa tuktok, masarap ang simoy, nakakabuhay ng loob kahit ang lamig, at higit sa lahat, tahimik ang paligid.

Ngunit wala ako sa ibabaw ng anuman, anuman ang aking palagay. Hindi gaanong malayo ang itim na ulap kahit saan man ako tumayo. Nasa loob na iyan, tumiim nang husto sa kaila-ilaliman ng aking utak at baga.

Dala ko ang tulin ng mga pedikab, dyip, bus, at tsedeng sa aking pulso. Dala ko ang abo ng langit sa aking pawis. Nasa aking mga galamay, kalamnan, dibdib, at mismong labi ang peligro ng syudad. At sa aking isip, umakyat man ako sa itaas o sumisid sa kung anong ilalim, may bagay na kailanman hindi ko maaring itatwa.

Saan pa ako dumayo o mapadpad, hindi ko mapipinid ang panloob na tenga ng aking utak. Saan man ako naruruon, dala ko sa ulo ang ingay ng lungsod.