Allies.

Aboard a cab on the way to a nice inuman place in Bacolod called Garaje in Art District, C remarked that in this life we naturally gravitate toward allies, and there is relief in the certainty that we would find them, sooner or later. He actually said "friends" but now I think that is simplistic, for we have friends, who laugh and cry with us, and we have allies -- kins -- who understand what we want to do in this world, and often it is more than eating in all the right places and taking photos of our impressive meals.

I was telling him that Ma'am Chari and I were texting the entire day while we were touring Bacolod and some neighboring cities (which she had called "the tour of fake history"). And so I agreed with C, because whenever Ma'am C and I talk -- or "consult" -- for hours, it would always leave me breathless, not only because she is brilliant but because she understood my project so well and shared it, and I only need to show her a story and she knows exactly what I am trying to do (unsuccessfully, most of the time). Often, I am tempted to record our sessions because of all the precious things she says, and I would look at her gray-specked hair and be depressed that I hadn't met her sooner, or that I wasn't born 30 years earlier so we could have been, truly, friends.

Last night, in the middle of waiting out a delayed flight, I got another text from her about her most recent Booksale finds, and would I want them? I have recently stopped telling her my own lucky discoveries because most of the time she would just insult them, call the authors "panderers" or the fiction "that which gets high praises in workshops -- for all the wrong reasons." ("Pandering" had been a germane accusation at the criticism workshop, for which I went to Bacolod, for the gatekeeper-plebeian schema that informs such activity certainly left a lot of room for the massive amount of pandering that took place; we have, in fact, taken to calling one particular fellow "panderer;" another, noise pollution, and I couldn't decide now which is worse.)

A few days back, uninformed of my itinerary, Ma'am C asked me if I wanted to discuss a revision of a story of mine, which I had left, out of habit, in the envelop outside her FC office. She was in Via Mare, she said, reading it. There had been scarcely enough cakes and treats in Bacolod to stop me from taking the next flight out so I could sit across her and alternately smile and cringe at the preposterous things she would say. Things that would be off-putting. Things that, to me, would immediately make sense. Once, complaining about a workshop that had scheduled way too many dinners and out sessions, she said she wanted to ask everyone, "Manunulat tayo, 'di ba? Bakit tayo nag-aaksaya ng panahon?" Indeed.

--

The morning she’d decided to escape 20 years ago, the train that she had taken stopped as it hovered above the Pasig River. The engine died, suddenly, and every passenger had a good view of the water, a fabric of dark silver that gleamed here and there under the 10 o’clock sun. On the horizon was Escolta Street, once the most fashionable in the country and home to its first movie house. On the foreground was the Manila Central Post Office, the most imposing in the string of neoclassical structures that dot this part of the city, one of the lucky few that survived the rain of World War II bombs.

From outside the train, she and the other passengers looked like assorted mannequins trapped in a display window. This one, lean and statuesque. That one, frail and stooping, a little plump. A middle-aged man wearing a denim jacket scratched his thick sideburns, the left one, from which a tiny bead of sweat glided. This rustling of pubic-like hair, back and forth, was followed by a far-flung sneeze. A teenage girl grumbled about the delay, panning slightly toward her direction in search of acquiescence. A man in a suit loudly unfurled a day-old newspaper. A huge woman wearing powder blue scrubs let out a hyena laugh at what her companion, a tiny man in a nursing uniform, said.

She decided, right there and then, that she was tired of this place; tired of these people she didn’t even know, but whose trifling lives she was forced, in the meanwhile and maybe ever, to intimately overhear.

When soon the lights came back on and the air-conditioning resumed its thin whizzing, she and her fellow passengers breathed a sigh of relief. But when the doors, dangerously, slid open, to remove what separated them from the wide bright panorama of river and skyline, a silent panic crawled inside the still-motionless train. Everyone looked for something to hold. It was unclear which they feared more: a sudden hand pushing them to the murk of Pasig or a vigorous urge, from no one but themselves, to jump.

It took a few moments for anyone—student and janitor, construction worker and executive, market-bound housewife and lost tourist—to notice the strange rain that was falling, ever so slowly, solidly, from above. In seconds, the sun was all but blocked out. Inexplicably, dusk had arrived eight hours ahead of schedule, just when that day – a Saturday – was settling into its familiar groove.

In her coach, the last one, it was her flat, tiny nose that twitched first, visited by a flicker of rogue ash, part of the near-invisible legions that 55 miles away, in the vicinity of Pinatubo, were murderously pressing unto tin roofs and thatched huts, uprooting trees and power lines, suffocating babies and cattle. Here, in the city, the ash that arrived swirled almost tenderly, laying atop heads and treetops, car hoods and pavement, evoking nonexistent memories of snow in a populace that watched too many Hollywood movies, that sang along with too many American Christmas songs.

Later that day, a woman would jump in front of the trains, an act silently attributed by many to the harbinger of doomsday that some had mistaken the ash fall for.

--

Sex.

If you were, for one reason or another, driving along the national road in Isabela two nights ago, and you chanced upon a tiny motorcycle carrying three guys, trust that they got safely to their destination, which was a garage room in a drive-by motel, and that they had fun, and even made plans, when the Manileño - by far the biggest among the three - offered to host the other two in the event that they find themselves, for work or leisure both, in Manila in the future.

--

Forgiveness.

All things given, and factoring in self-awareness and remorse, how much forgiveness are we allowed to exercise on ourselves? This morning: an idleness that is not connected to New Year's Day and its parade of self-same illusions. Have stumbled upon old email of 17-, 18-, and 19-year-old self and came upon pages upon pages of sobering correspondes, both personal and professional; sobering because have never realized until today full extent of one's (1) neediness, (2) dismissiveness, (3) pretentiousness, (4) sense of entitlement, (5) penchant for inappropriate smileys, and (6) horribly florid prose (some things never change).

I am a horrible person. I'm now inclined to think that all of the disappointments in my life - rejections, failures, the occasionally impossible luck - had been just and fair - deserved - not so much as punishment but as a pull on the reins to a different (not necessarily better) direction. Would wish to forgive younger self. Badly. Really badly. Would like to offer excuses: youth, a desire to fit in, a creeping suspicion that one was not special. But things had been said. Already. Apologies could console no one but oneself, and that, have long figured out, is meaningless comfort.

Break.

Talks of progress hereabouts, as usual. Attempts at assessment, evaluation. It is the year's most precious, pristine break, and so there is something to be said about days spent and not lost to sleep; which is to say, spent. Today finished reading a fat novel (while taking copious notes for a paper), which of late I had alternated with adding to currently woeful word count. Yes: progress, although routine had more or less wrecked body clock, although it made me realize I now write at a pace that approximates the melting of polar ice caps, although it is something that I had come to treasure deeply. In a beloved series I have recently revisited, the slogan of a candidate for councilman is this: Change only brings problems. Character is surely a douche (Tope: and so not Japanese), but really am hard-pressed to say that pronouncement is completely devoid of wisdom. There had been, do I dare say, a beautiful kind of peace that accompanies my days. I now guard it fiercely, with the same vigor and attentiveness that I should've before I misplaced it and some other delightful thing took over. Here I am tempted to say that peace is the assertion of the self, the assertion that it is complete. Will think more about this. Now in this succinct demonstration, a clip from the aforementioned series, Celia (the blonde) is me and Nancy (the brunette) is peace. I'm kidding. Obviously.

 

--

There it is: my death on print, immortalized. The arrangement of the letters is so familiar that I recognize it instantly, even if I had been surveying the various robberies and homicides with a cursory glance and the typeface couldn't have been more than a quarter inch. Nevertheless, I see it, all nine letters, and I swallow a nameless dread alongside half-chewed pan de sal. I fold the broadsheet in half and flatten it on the table, so I can read the rightmost column on Page 6.

Police are blaming the dense fog on the intersection of Ayala and Senator Gil Puyat Avenues early Sunday morning for the death of a 29-year-old bank teller who was hit by a bus as he was crossing the street.

Philip Lee, a resident of #7 Albany Street, Cubao, Quezon City, sustained head injuries and was rushed to nearby Ospital ng Makati where he was declared dead on arrival.

According to witness accounts, Lee was last seen walking from the post office to the direction of EDSA before bystanders heard a loud screech from a Newman Goldliner bus (TXJ-710) bound for Leveriza.

Sure, accidents happen, but a namesake’s death sticks in your throat on a chilly Monday morning, with its bag of hot pan de sal and illusion of newness. When I was 12, I opened the phonebook to "L" and there were, I found, 17 Philip Lee’s in Metro Manila alone. Even then, on an intuitive level, I knew that I shared something with these people, something more than writing the same letters on documents and answering to the same name. Some form of solidarity. An affinity. Thinking about this gives me a nice feeling, and God knows I need all the happy thoughts in the world.

--

Muscle Memory

All wounds begin with coldness, moments before lacerated skin simmers—affinity with pavement,

rock and mud, soil littered with discarded cutlery, unused electronics, all manner of foreign sharpness. When the chill disappears, the mind considers pain

finally. Instructions for the body part to feel—intense heat, some prickling, a childhood in a silent playground. Chains. You pushed until my feet framed

a sluggish cloud’s tail-end. A dusty kick. Flight was a moment. In the fridge, a pair of wedding souvenirs lay entombed beside a jar of tomato jam, a can of beer.

The days return quickly, as soon as you say

The roast beef is rich and creamy, or The bride’s dress resembles a lavender seashell. Inside the boxes, bright-colored candies—peach, yellow, a strange shade

of blue. When the chill disappears, the feet remember: right food forward, then left. Neither is left behind. Endless walking. Naked footsteps. In a walled city

I trace an ancient lover’s frantic escape. She walked here, too,

barefoot. She may have thought of the same things—a childhood, a nuptial, her days returning vigorously. Muscle memory: the body knowing

ahead and more. Desiring to tire. When habits replace thankless consciousness. When what we know surrenders to any frail thing, even wounds

that begin with coldness. Closer to earth, the heat here assembles.

Dreams.

Last night I dreamt that a doctor spoke of worms somehow finding their way into your brain, and you were not yourself anymore, and as you lay on the hospital bed, you asked for me. I heard it: you said my name.

--

Mga Huling Araw sa Nagsarang Koreo*

May kakaibang himbing ang papel at bato

sa papasarang koreo. Sa mga huling araw

papanipis nang papanipis ang mga liham

na dapat timbangin, sipatin sa ilaw,

isalansan. Kumikintab ang malamig na sahig

at pabagal nang pabagal ang mga yabag.

Dapithapon nang may matandang babae

na naghulog ng sulat, isa sa mga pinakahuli.

Puti ang sobreng pahaba, walang bahid

ng lukot, tila dumaan sa papalamig na plantsa.

(Ang mga selyo’y dibuho ng makukulay na isda.)

Ibinulong sa kanya, Paalala, mananatiling bukas

ang mailbox sa labas. Maaari pa ring maghulog

ng anumang kakasya sa maliit na siwang—

mga liham na bitbit ang mga mumunting pakay,

nakabinbin hanggang sa dumating, marahang pilasin,

basahin. Tanging tingin ang tugon ng babae,

papasibol ang ngiti habang binabawi ang liham.

Naglakad ito palabas at dinig sa loob ng tanggapan

ang marahang pagbukas sa bibig ng mailbox, simula

ng napipintong wakas. Malamlam ang dapithapon

sa paglayo ng babae, papahaba ang mga anino.

Ang mga selyo’y dibuho ng makukulay na isda,

mahimbing ngunit dilat sa dekahong dagat.

*Batid na ang postal system ang pakahulugan ng 'koreo' at hindi ang mismong edipisyo o tanggapan ('ipadala ang lahok sa pamamagitan ng koreo'). Payo ni C, i-invoke ang poetic license at metonomiya.

--

Bumalik sa batis kamakailan, kung saan nawala isang gabi at kinailangang hanapin at sunduin ng unipormadong Los Banos police bitbit ang kanilang naglalakihang flash light. Madaling baybayin ang lumipas na panahon sa pamamagitan ng mga balikong linya, putol-putol, minsa'y makapal at minsa'y 'di halos makita, mga sala-salabit na kasaysayang pilit na itinatali hanggang kaya. Maraming nagbago. Maraming nasira. Sa pagmamasid ngayon sa rumaragasang tubig, napansing may mga bahagi ang batis na payapa. Mahirap isipin: na pahihintulutan ng bara-barang pagkakaayos ng mga malalaking bato ang ganitong espasyo, na ligtas, na sagrado, habang sa paligid ay puno ng galit, nagmamadali, ang tubig. Maraming katahimikan sa muling pagbisita, mga siwang na pinupuno ng mga 'di na dapat sabihin, at malaon nang naipaliwanag, naisaisip. Kahapon, waring isang linggo ang lumipas sa loob ng walong oras. Marahas-masaya ang mga pangyayari, mga bagong karanasan, mga bagong pinagsaluhan, at sa gitna: isang oasis, isang dakong luntian at buhay sa ilang. Sa tapat ng ospital, may nasumpungang tahimik na kapihan. Uminom ng gatas. Nanahimik. Walang maliw na kapayapaan.

--

Phone call

Above the static, you were telling me

you found a book on a roadside stand.

Will I read it? I nod, forgetting

you can’t see my head, ascending

and descending in promise.

‘Least that’s what I heard; there is rumble

from a truck or else the miles asserting

the distance of places.

On my end, it is quiet.

The air is a whirl

of freshly brewed coffee. Soft jazz music

wafts from piped in speakers. I was saying

something unimportant

interrupted by interference,

some thunder, and Billy Holiday’s voice

purring a lyric about a hopeless

assignment, tenderly about you,

how you crossed latitudes, your shadow

lengthening over

rainforests and skyscrapers, and all

I have to do is look outside

for your pending darkness.

Pagsakay sa bus.

May dumapong bigat kanina sa akin habang nakasakay sa isang bus na puno at siksikan. Nakadungaw ako sa bintana, habang nakadantay sa braso ang kamay ng katabing babae. Mayroon siyang ikinu-kwento sa kasamang lalaki, na bigla na lamang inilingkis ang kamay sa balikat ng babae sa kalagitnaan ng byahe. Malamig ang kamay ng lalaki. Sa pagbaba, pinili kong maglakad pansamantala sa halip na sumakay sa jeep. May nadaanan akong isang lalaking lasing sa ilalim ng tulay; nakahiga sa semento at waring ninanakawan ng dalawa pang lalaki. Walang nagawa ang paglingon ng mga dumaraan. May kantang nagpabuka sa aking bibig. Mabilis ang byahe kung tutuusin.

--

Everything, a metaphor

you don’t believe. When I tell you the days

are sun-baked hills until you came along, you refuse

to drop again, precipitation-wise. When I say

I am a desolate gasoline station in the middle

of nowhere, you inquire about the true-to-life possibility

of cab drivers sipping coffee in a roadside eatery,

downing bowls of hot arroz caldo, comparing stories

about the time when rain didn’t stop for weeks

and floodwater was a putrid blanket

that covered the cold city from head to leanest side street.

It is raining now.

We are in an abandoned gas station.

Do you feel the tug between symbols and the vanishing

pavement? The fence swathed in vine and the surrender. This body

      and the endless shivering.