Gaps, patches and in-betweens

Millions of tiny, damp footsteps on a stampede coming towards me,  slipping through holes in the tin roof.  The w aterfall is in my room. I watch the uneven shower gather into a puddle and decide to creep toward my mattress, bed sheet, and blanket. I listen as my body lies on sponge. It is louder at night, like full-on stereo surround sound. But that's only because the world at night is dark, where everything seems more...intense and in slow motion. My tiny room seems caught in a photograph, frozen l ike a suspended moment in the movies, like receiving bad news. Only time moves and the damp spot of water soaking the mattress some more. The downpour is constant, hypnotic. When it changes tempo, it is only changing its direction.  I remain in my sponge. The sky and sea can only gather so much water. The winds howl around in confusion. The footsteps are no longer tiny but of giants slipping on the roof. The sky is angrier with pent-up heat, stoked b...

I find myself standing in the middle of the road, facing a barrier of mahogany trees. To my left is a welcoming blanket of small yellow leaves on the ground, waiting for the others to fall from the tree.  To my right, I see two paths: one covered in green wild grass taller than I am, and the other, a dead end.  Above are thin brushstrokes against a canvas so blue that, for a moment, I think I hear waves. The colors of reality scream at me as if I've lived in black and white, muted dreams all along—until t he scent stings my nostrils, like everything we put on our bodies to mask our humanity, expelled all at once by a blob that was holding it all in for forty-two  years. The smell of leaves, freshly cut grass and sunlight on hair and skin burns.  I see red: bright, enveloping, causing me to palpitate in fear of the living. "I am an X in an indeterminate equation. And that X is the rock upon which I stand." - Mario Puzo

Containers occupy the spaces I call my life. From the coffee mug that kicks me awake in the mornings To the fat beer bottle that knocks me off reminding me that I am only human and I need to call it a night. Or a day. I open shampoo and soap bottles to wash off the smell of cigarettes also kept in a tin box to hide the hideous habit from the morals of the world, juxtaposing my stand because I smoke in public anyway. The deodorant to the lotion I apply on my skin the first to keep it dry and the second to save it from dryness and shrivel, And humiliation from people I do not even know, much less care about. The clothes I put on that cover my body also conform To the weather, to where I am going. I travel to the office in an enclosed vehicle full of strangers Or if I have the money with just the taxi driver and myself So I can go to another container where I can earn back what I paid the taxi. My office room contains my body 8-5. My thoughts and ...

I sit through spaces with energies going around when I squat with my thoughts among mahogany leaves falling as I ward off a work feeling and embrace the thoughts of my daughters. I breathe through spaces where I huff and puff from the cigarette smoke or the debilitating smell of ale or caffeine and the falling leaves hit the ground scaring me of reptiles unseen and unknown in the dark like the consequences of typed-up reports or proposals or an answer to an email questioning decisions that were mine to make and only theirs to witness. I live through spaces without which I cannot move or think or feel and what is left is an immobile feeling of wanting to move again and not wanting to go anywhere unfamiliar. To just stay where I can see darkness through the pathway and hope that I can give light with the cell phone backlight and the orange tip of my cigarette. Will that be enough? Of course not. My need is more than my means whether w...

The first time I saw him, we were hanging out at their place in PMA, checking out Kigao's commissioned work - 1996 or 1995, if Alzheimer's has not gotten the better of me. He was calling someone. It was then that we discovered Kigao's real name. :D The second time I saw Dad was the first time I actually met him (the first time didn't count as I still don't think he saw us). The house in PMA was always open - literally. I was already lost inside, halfway through the living room. The sight of him stopped me in my tracks. His low voice saying "Yes, my child? Who are you looking for?" was like a gun cocking towards an intruder (me!), even if he had infused a friendly tone in his voice. After mumbling something about coming to visit his eldest son who was sick at that time, he looked at me from head to toe and back. Then he "smirked". I, in my short dress, then 27 years old, struggled not to faint. Later I realized that he really looks at people t...

We find ourselves still in our humility, small in our presumed greatness. Outside the walls of responsibility, we binge drink silly, not wanting to look at the beautiful outdoors or feel the sun on our faces, the wind on our skin. We'd rather work up an emotional fit, daring the pain to make us create. No, we do not want to escape from it anymore because it follows us anyway, to the depths of the lake's bottom, or to the heights of witnessed eclipses. We have lost the joy of walking, of sight-seeing, of wondering because there is nothing to wonder about anymore. It is futile to try. Blood will ooze when one is cut, and death is imminent - whether it is something or someone, or somewhat somewhere. Then why do we even try to fight it? Isn't it nobler to let it consume you? But then again, if the goal is nobility, which is another term for vanity because it is still self-image and how others perceive that self, it is also vanity, and nothing is noble in that which screams ...

It was getting late – way past her bedtime. She was tired, I was ready to wind down. But my 10-year old  still had the book report tying her to the still awake world. She at first tried to do the assignment herself. When she realized that the whole process of thinking and typing would cost her hours of sleep, she called for help. After checking where the bottleneck was in the book report writing, and with my daughter-praised speed for typing, I was recruited as typist. She brainstormed with herself as I did not see the half-movie. Yes, the movie file only being half was again another challenge. My fingers rattled the keyboard, trying to capture her thinking aloud after processing what she said, while facilitating her monologue to keep her focused. In the middle of all my multi-tasking, she kept stopping me and her brainstorming, actually choosing the words that I would type up. At least she was doing the thinking. It was taking longer than we both expect...