When words decide to take charge, once you feel them forming and rolling out fast from your lips, write it. What's spilled the first time never comes back.
Doha
12:25 AM
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Something I often, always, fail to to do
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Celestial spectacle
So, that's what it was. A magical interplay of heavenly bodies- Venus and Jupiter, two sparkling gems that seemed to fall like teardrops above the Moon's crescent. The view from the car's window appeared dreamy, and crisp to my sleepy eyes. I wondered why the spectacle never revealed itself to me in the Philippines. I did not bother, I was tired and wanted to rest. I looked away; thought it's a phenomenon common in the Middle East, that I'd take a picture of it some other night, for show-and-tell with friends back home. I wish I had known- that it only comes once in a lifetime, if ever at all.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
A spot in the sea of white
First evening of Eid Holidays, a post-Ramadan Islamic celebration that can be likened to Christmas. Bored was I, made an excuse to my mom and out I went. After buying cookies, my alibi, I decided to check the festivity at Souq Wagef- a traditional Qatari market place. I surmise it's the only location fully alive this time of the year where locals gather with family and friends as most shops and entertainment centers are closed. Bright lights and live arabic music made the ancient market all the more charming at night.
In my search of a spot where I could sit, read a current book selection- Lord of the Flies- and try to form part of the whole merry-making, I found myself pressed in the crowd, swimming my way among tall Qatari men in their elegant thobes- long and flowing, immaculately white that glimmered under the halogen lamps it almost hurt my eyes- in such a close proximity that the sharpness of their rich perfume overwhelmed me. I suddenly felt underdressed in my grey cargo pants and bright red checkered polo that would fit well during summer in an exotic island. I envied the dignified elegance, the extended sleeves that hung distinguishedly from their shoulders, the well-polished silver buttons that rightfully fasten them.
So I was stuck, momentarily bemused amidst the whiteness of their clothing, under the spell of the ethereal arabic melody, then it hit me: "I am in the Middle East!" The land of sheesha and Ali Baba! It's one defining moment which reminded me that I am in fact in the Middle East, as if I had forgotten where I was.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Bad jealousy
Related entry:
Talk to me
I had this horrible dream last night.
Inside a moving bus I was, seated in the front seat. Heading home from school. Next thing I knew I was walking along a neighbourhood street. I had no idea how I got there but I kept trudging to a direction. I saw commotion, people shouting and running here and there as if there was an accident. My God! Had I been in that accident? Had the bus collided into something? Was it the reason I couldn't remember anything? Did I suffer amnesia? Trauma?
Then Tristan was suddenly with me, in the middle of the street. I thought he might know what had just happened. I sensed that he meant to say something urgent, but his mouth only remained open, speechless. A man stepped in and faced Tristan, his back against the open gate of his house. He's old and bearded but dignified and graceful in his speaking. He spoke to Tristan, addressed an invitation for him to come inside. I distinctly heard him say "for a special guest" and he smiled.
I began to panic. "Who is this guy?", I demanded. My tone furious. I was jealous to my bones. Tristan trembled. "No one," he said. I didn't believe him. I shook him, banged his chest. "Who is this guy?", my voice grew louder. He couldn't bring himself to speak. Outraged, I put him inside a large sack and sealed it. TELL ME THE TRUTH! I'M NOT STUPID! WHO IS THIS GUY TO YOU? Tears burst. I was red in madness. Uncontrollable. I poked him inside. I heard no response. No movement. I hurriedly tore the sack open, and fished out the body.
I was holding the body of a dead chicken. Naked. Hardened, but still slightly soft. "Tristan! Tristan!" It did not move an inch. My God, I killed him! I screamed and screamed and screamed. Nothing but my own desperate scream. It was so horrific I knew it was a dream. It should be.
And that's the time I woke up, panting.
Much later as I wrote this, I sent Tristan a text message telling that I love him.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Masterplan
My ambition is simple, and I have a plan.
I surrender. I'm going to submit myself into the daily labor grind, work my ass off, but with one condition I'm going to stick up for no matter what: Before I reach thirty, I should have earned just enough to buy a small land in the suburb and build a house which I'm going to share with Tristan. Then I'll bid employment farewell forever.
The ceiling of the house will be very high, high enough for a loft where I'll put up a queen-size bed with six fluffy pillows. Down below there's the kitchen and the living room. Carpeted from corner to corner. I want everything to be soft and warm to the feet. There'll be a mini-bar where close friends and acquaintances could drink and smoke together, with a wall television to boot so that we can watch taped basketball and volleyball games. Of course a wide-screen LCD will still be a necessity for movie time. All films are personally hand-picked, both classic black-and-white celluloids from gone-by eras and colored contemporary films, including bad ones from the eighties I proudly enjoy.
But the main attraction of all, the centerpiece, is the tapestry of books suspended from end to end of the wall. It will be grand and magical. As opposed to careful alphabetical arrangement, either by author or title or by genre, I want them all jumbled up and spontaneous. Books should always surprise you, like Christmas or a curiosity shop. Every piece will have my sticker label onto its fly page, plus a special stamp that shows when and where I acquired the book. All titles will be recorded in a database as I have to keep track of borrowers.
An elegant sofa set will be laid out for comfortable reading. But I'll probably be found sprawled on the floor most of the time.
An audio system will be installed, hidden. The type that makes you wonder where the sound is coming from. Off the ground, or off the wall? Ravel, Respighi, Shostakovich, Debussy, Schoenberg. Only the best selections, nothing less. Music both Tristan and I share and enjoy. But I'm adventurous, so I can't help straying when I'm in the mood for the likes of Depeche Mode (Tristan can't stand it), New Order, Style Council and some old and obscure Brazilian music. Also, if Tristan wishes, a generous corner will be alloted for a grand piano.
And I'll have my own vast smooth narra desk with a tall beautiful lamp on the side. This is my writing space that I'll wake up to every morning. An old desktop computer (Linux-powered, of course), a rotary telephone, and piles of pictures and magazines will inhabit the surface. And I will only make use of glass ash tray that will be cleaned and replenished with fresh water every twelve hours. Papers are everywhere, I wouldn't take risk. At the back are steel cabinets filled with newspaper clippings I've collected since I was a kid. Unlike the books, these are properly labeled and arranged in folders according to topic of interest.
Outside will be an ample area for gardening, the source of our food- and inspiration. I won't wait till I'm old to put up my own garden. I'll grow my favorite vegetables (tomatoes and bitter gourds) while I'm young and able. I might also pitch in potatoes for protein, herbs for medicine, and fruit trees for a shaded hammock and afternoon snacks.
I might still need to work, for daily expenditures and emergencies, and for planned out-of-town vacations. But this time I'll get to choose what I really like. I've always wanted to be a mailman, delivering parcels and letters. I love the smell and touch of fat envelopes. And I like slipping one into a mailbox, or through the doorsill. I used to send and receive a lot of mails from around the world back in my puberty years. I miss it. I could be a bagger in a nearby supermarket as well. A gasoline man or a doorman. Such charming occupations. For the lover and spectator of life, they give the best view and position.
Two months from now I'm turning twenty-five. I have five years left. It's time to start.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
UAAP Cheerdance jitters
Related entries:
SALINGGAWI NATION
NCAA vs UAAP cheering squads
Oh, boy... It's getting more tensed by the day. It's even worse than a sweaty palm during a dramatic final-two Miss Universe moment. For many different reasons, the week before the "judgement day" is the longest for the avid followers of the annual UAAP Cheerdance competition.
It's the time of the year when online forums shoot up red as fans and supporters (especially that of UST Salinggawi and UP Pep) pick up where they left off the previous year. The scene is nasty, and sometimes profoundly personal. Not for the faint-hearted.
And it's also the week of sleepness nights, either of deep prayers and frantic anticipation; or of worry because you still don't have a ticket that gets more and more elusive than ever.
You forced to wake yourself early Monday morning to beat the early-bird queue at the coliseum, only to find out many others got wiser than you from last season as you saw the long line when you arrived. You managed to get a general admission pass, but you want an upper a or at least upper b. The unfriendly lady in the counter said everything's sold out. "Liar!" you silently murmured. You keep what you have nevertheless, for back-up. You still plan to queue up early on Sunday for a better ticket. You also consider being a vulture to other schools where hopes for their squads are low and tickets are abundant and given free. But you realize others might have already taken advantage, and that you have a tight schedule this week. Not possible. You tried calling friends, but it seems all your friends suddenly have better friends whom they've already reserved their extra tickets for. You hate them. Now, you don't know what to do. You keep thinking at night.
The big day has finally arrived. Thankfully you got a better ticket from someone you've just met in the venue who's friend or brother or cousin cancelled at the last minute. Because you're so grateful, or fearful that he might change his mind, you didn't bother getting back your change and just gave a cheerful smile.
The whole frenzied event runs two hours, but the order of performances felt so quick it's now time for the announcement of winners. Winners, yeah, but to you there's only one winner: the first placer, no other acceptable finish. The host has just announced the second runner-up. Your team survived it and is still running for the top spot, along with the close and bitter rival. One camp will celebrate for a year, and the other will have to deal with shame. Then, there's the long silence, even more ear-peircing than all the previous cheers put together. You know what it means, this is it. Everybody's praying, including yourself. You know for a fact that the decision has been made, all scores tabulated and final. It's either your team or theirs, nothing more you or anyone can do for that matter. But for some strong personal reason and self-imposed obligation you still say a prayer that sounds more like a plea. The wait is too excruciating, so you close your eyes and turn to the person next to you, your arms on top of the other, your hands cold, your face sunk on the other's shoulder. Are you ready? The host begins, "and on second place..." A collective, and trembling "eeeeeeeeeeeh" of people rises. Here we go...
Photos from www.jamd.com/image/g/71507666 and http://flickr.com/photos/28584230@N04/
Thursday, August 21, 2008
SALINGGAWI NATION
Watch the routine of SPC Makati cheering squad below from end to end.
Fans and avid followers of Salinggawi can easily recognize UST in it: the costume, the routine, the balloons and the cheers. It's just one of many that you'll find in YouTube.
And you realize how big an influence Salinggawi Dance Troupe is along with Yellow Jackets when it comes to cheerdance- a term which has almost become synonymous to UST Salinggawi. The tandem of SDT and YJ which helped reshape the traditional way of cheering in the Philippines (being an exclusive all-boys affair before) has become "iconic" that it's a household name now; and it's heartwarming to see that young kids look up to them as they follow their footsteps.
More than the winning tradition, win or lose, their legacy makes them a champion for always. CAMPIONE FOREVER!
GO USTe!
Special thanks to stjude06 for the video upload.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Photo log no. 4: Doha at night
O night,
what mystery you hide
in dark corners you make,
what beauty you keep
in shadows you reveal.
August 6, 2008/ 3:40am
Old Al Ghanim, Doha
Compelled in the small hours of the morning by the results of the photos I took last night in the corniche area, I wrote the above verse to complement my fascination for night photography.
I'm very much drawn to night photography because things have a different charm to them when it's dark. Your surroundings transform as though they take on a different life in the evening. They speak a secret language reserved only for moonlight, and if you're lucky, you'll catch them.
I must say this set is a bit special because it highlights a vision of mine people seldom see, or know I have. I was in my element. The Depeche-Mode-Strange-Love-Never-Let-Me-Down-Again part of me that probably only Tristan and Lucille can recognize. I'm hoping that when they see it, they'd say, “Oh, Joey, I get it!”
Here's the rest of the photos. As customary, click on the images to enlarge. Enjoy. :)
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
My book chest
I brought all the books I could carry in the plane- it meant even literally holding on to a large bookbound I wouldn't want to leave behind in the long nine-hour flight. Earlier, I had had my mom carry six kilos of books to go first.
I keep them all now in my makeshift mini-library: a spacious four-wheel grey luggage, all intact and protected from the relentless Middle Eastern dust. It's delightful that the luggage opens in a manner like a gold chest, and that as soon as I lift the lid I'm greeted by the undeniably sweet smell of books.
“Joey, just how many books do you read in a week?” a friend, who was present the time I was packing my things, asked. “Sometimes none at all,” I said, “I have a fluctuating, or rather, erratic rate.” I seldom finish a book in a week's time. I'm a slow reader. Not that I read like a gradeschooler but I have a gradual and revered way of digesting thoughts, ideas and scenes. (Sometimes, I even have a word or a phrase roll over my tongue several times before I would proceed to the other.) And not later than he could begin inquiring “why so many books, then?” I said “it's my comfort zone.” And it left a content smile as I extended my arms wide over the books.
July 30, 2008/ 9:12pm
Internet Cafe
Near Ramada signal, Doha
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Photo log no. 3: Marlon Adolfo of FEU Tamaraws/ Nike Summer League 2008
My Statcounter account reports that strings of search engine users who use keywords such as “Marlon Adolfo photos” and “Marlon Adolfo FEU pictures” (probably ardent admirers of the Tamaraw Adolfo) are being directed to my blog and my Opera photo albums.
I have so little photos of Adolfo and I feel obliged to produce more since many are being referred to my site. And I don't want to disappoint. Hence, this photo log entry.
I'd like to apologize though for the poor quality of the images. Reason would be that I used a point-and-shoot digicam. It was actually my first attempt to use a digital device to capture sports actions. I used the best settings (fast shutter speed and biggest exposure) for fast motion scenes but disappointing results are just inevitable. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy Marlon in these images taken in the previous Nike Summer League at Philsports Arena. Also included are photos of other players.
Click on the images below to enlarge.
Marlon Adolfo of FEU Tamaraws
Marnel "Mac" Baracael of FEU Tamaraws
Marcy Arellano of UE Red Warriors
Elmer Espiritu of UE Red Warriors
Raba Al Hussaini of Ateneo Blue Eagles
Related entry
Photo log 1: Most searched photos in my UAAP albums
Clock Roundabout
Early morning, after breakfast and prayers, whilst the sun still gentle and reluctant, in the road island near Clock Roundabout in Old Al Ghanim, bearded men in overworn khameez trickle in like ants, one by one, by twos or by threes. They seize a loose brick from the pile and position themselves under the Sidra tree. They are called chopras, I was told, or labourers in english. They seat all day and wait for a car to halt. When one does, they quickly swarm around the vehicle and negotiate for some short-time menial job. Many an instance I see them retreat from the car window, disappointed. They go back to their places and go on with their conversations. They have a lot of them, conversations. That I notice. They seem not to run out of stories to share despite that they see one another everyday. It could be same old stories over and over, but it brings out smiles on their leathery faces, and laughter once in a while; or the exchanges may as well be of longing and sadness.
I don't see them go anywhere during noontime. I can't tell if lunch is in their regular routine, except that occasionally they receive doles from locals passing by. What they never miss is the afternoon call for prayer, the namaz. They come rushing to the nearby mosque, remove their sandals and enter the house of worship. After which they acquire their usual communal positions. Side by side, face to face, or in circles they talk. Whilst the remaining hours of the day tick past their postures reduce to more relax idleness. They would sometimes lie on the neat grass, stare at the cloudless sky above, and wait. Wait they do until sleep catches on them; until the optimism and energy they once had in the morning slowly leaves them like the fading of daylight.
At night they stray away and disappear into the dark. Some stay for some more stories, and company, I presume. I don't know where they go after, where they sleep and suchas. They just come predictably at sunrise the next day.
Early morning, after breakfast and prayers, whilst the sun still gentle and reluctant, in the road island near Clock Roundabout in Old Al Ghanim, bearded men in overworn khameez trickle in like ants, one by one, by twos or by threes. They seize a loose brick from the pile and position themselves under the Sidra tree.
Old Al Ghanim Road
July 24, 2008
6:32pm (Doha Time)
Monday, July 21, 2008
Home
It could be that I was homesick. I was teary-eyed halfway through the YouTube video of Matt Harding with a title “Where The Hell Is Matt?”, a collation of video snippets of Matt's dancing in far corners of the world. Namibia, Jordan, Philippines, Rwanda, Italy, Palau, United States, Cayman Islands, Japan, Cambodia, Yemen, Antarctica and a lot others you wouldn't suspect. In the background you can see deserts, mountains, forest, glaciers, theme parks, marine life, city life; creatures like jelly fish, sea lions, elephants and crabs; and people and children of various colors and ages, dancing silly in a shared level of carefree joy you cannot tell the old from the young.
If I were to be born again in a very distant future, when men would leave in space rockets and start a new life in some other world, I wish to carry the images that Matt captured in his time- a rare triumphant interplay of humanity and nature. “Hello universe, this is Earth!”
Here's the video
Old Al Ghanim Road
Doha, Qatar
July 20, 2008
2:00pm (Doha Time)
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Ambient Scenes 1: Rain, Wall Fan
A long-persisting idea insisted itself to me while I was stuck in a rain. As with “Childhood Memories”, “Photo Log” and “I Recommend”, I am starting a new blog section I call “Ambient Scenes”. Ambient scenes are basically video snippets of daily life taken from a certain perspective, one that is aloof and indirect, so as to make the observer remain a passive observer, detached as when one peers into a snowglobe. And as with poetry, there's this aching beauty in what you cannot completely see.
This is a new blogging concept as far as I know. I've never seen anything like it on the Net, or at least none that I know of.
For a starter, I'm posting some clips from my stock since I've begun collecting. I hope that you may find pleasure in them. If you have clips of your own, please do share them, too. Show a slice of your corner in that side of the world. :)
Tag: Rain 1
Corner: By a sari-sari store
Location: Guadalupe, Makati, Philippines
Time: 2:30 pm
Date: June 2008
Tag: Rain 2
Corner: By a sari-sari store
Location: Guadalupe, Makati, Philippines
Time: 2:30 pm
Date: June 2008
Tag: Wall Fan
Corner: Eatery, FX Terminal
Location: Quiapo, Manila, Philippines
Date: June 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Photo log 2: Sorsogon adventure, Part 1
Click on the photos to enlarge.
For more Sorsogon pictures, please visit the album at http://my.opera.com/gbrew/albums/show.dml?id=550590
It was night time when we reached the city of Sorsogon. The bus travelled empty except for the driver and a fellow, a lady, Tristan and me. Most of the the passengers alighted in Naga and Legazpi, leaving the back corners of the bus frighteningly dark and quiet. Since it was evening, we cannot make out any of the surroundings aside from the shades of trees. The bus finally parked at its final station which looked more like a mini-gasoline station than a bus terminal. There tricycles flocked for passengers where we hired one to Fernando's Hotel, the nearest lodging in the city, just half a minute away from the town capitol.
Day 1
Much of our decisions as to what to do and where to go (like our hotel for example) largely relied on a website printout which was hurriedly printed several hours before we boarded the bus to Sorsogon. With the help of the warmest and most helpful townfolks we've ever met, it served as our compass. In three days, we managed to hop on to about 75 percent of the sites listed; and for each location, as our custom, we lit and consummed a stick of cigarette, as if to mark our coming and going.
Bulusan Mountain Lake, Irosin Hill-Top Church
We took a jeepney from the city to the town of Gubat, and then another jeepney ride to Bulusan. The joy to public transportation is that you can see more the life of town people, upclose. The way they talk in their own tongue, the way they look to their watches, the things they carry, what snacks they eat and what they smell like. Their facial expressions and priorities. Little things that make the experience wholer.
Inside the jeepney at Gubat
It wasn't hard to ask directions from the people of this province. It's funny how it seemed to have become a main concern of everyone inside the jeepney, our rather thoughtless no-due-notice visit to the volcano. The lady in eyeglasses across us clutching an empty “bayong” said there's no way we can tour around the volcano in a day. “One day is not enough, you have to stay in for the night. There are several lodgings around the area,” she said with full concern. She added that the last trip back to Sorsogon is 2:30pm, a strange schedule that caught us by surprise. It was almost two in the afternoon. “But we'd only like to reach the town and see the lake, it shouldn't take that long”, I shared. She then turned to the lady beside her and murmured some words in their dialect. “Internet” was injected somewhere. I was almost crestfallen when an old man shed some optimism. “It's still possible, just hire a tricycle to take you up to the lake. Then go straight down to Irosin for your way back to Sorsogon. Jeepneys don't have last-trips there.”
We decided to follow the old man's suggestion. A loud speaker boomed across the small town of Bulusan when we reached it. It seemed to have come from the town hall where mothers were given a talk on housekeeping or suchlike. Other than that, and despite the looming volcano, Bulusan is a quiet and serene community. The last jeepney to Irosin for the day parked at one side of the rode, waiting to be filled with commuters. We idled a while since we still had time, lit a cigarrete, and I started snooping and taking photos. On several occasions, some of the passengers we rode with willfully and cheerfully reminded us of the route we should take. They had been really nice to us. A lady even approached us and kept us company for a while. Had she had time she'd go with us she said. “Para ko na ring kayong mga anak, you're almost like my children.” It then occurred to Tristan and me that it's not difficult for Sorsogonons to be warm and friendly like it's their nature to be such.
The small town of Bulusan
Probably it even wasn't a luck that we came across a tricycle driver who were more than willing to take us to the lake. It seems that people here are just genuinely happy to accommodate tourists like us. He agreed to bring us to Dancalan Beach Resort, to Bulusan Lake, then to Irosin. We inquired how much it'd take us. He just asked us to foot the fuel and the extra is up to us. It wasn't a bad deal at all.
On our way to Dancalan Beach Resort
Our driver, Alan, who doubled as our tourguide as well, was patient to my whimsical brief dip at the Dancalan Beach. He voluntarily held the shells and corals I collected and even put them inside a plastic bag for my convenience. There's nothing strikingly special about the beach, except for the mundane laughters of families and friends, their worries and excitement. People having their late lunch at cottages or under coconut trees. A grandma seated on a monoblock along the shore where the water was just below her knees caught my attention. Family members surrounded her, one holding up a beach umbrella nearby, while she held on tight to the arms of the chair. She looked frightened by the gentle waves as if even the slightest touch of the water can cause her danger. Or probably it's the heat of the sun, it wasn't so hot though to cause such grimace on her face. I surmised it could be the old lady's long-ago wish to be brought near the ocean, or maybe she was just treated by her children out as they thought it's best, for she could get fresh air as she couldn't when she's inside her dark room. It's but natural for me to speculate.
A tree at Dancalan Beach
I'd like to put it in record that I drew a big heart on the pinkish sand with my feet. It was easily erased by a wave as soon as I finished scribing a “5” inside it. Alan caught it and gave a disappointed sigh. He probably knew by then.
A view from top
It was so generous of Alan to stop and let us enjoy a view on our way up to the mountain. Like a roadside waterfall, or a panoramic view of the town below. The road became narrower as we climbed up. The air felt cooler as tall trees shaded the path from both sides. It was surreal on some parts how the reflection of the sunrays appeared silvery on the leaves.
Bulusan Mountain Lake
I've never seen a lake as green as the Bulusan Mountain Lake. It was marvelous. We came just at the right hour. It was the best time to visit the site because tourist usually come in the morning till afternoon. We had the lake all to ourselves. We rounded the rim of the lake through eroded narrow paths. Usually, visitors don't go as far (they only want to take photos then leave) but we did. It was tiresome but wonderful. I slipped down to my butt once and bore an ugly wound on my elbow. The blood was so red and fresh which can normally make me sick but I just wagged it off. The experience was too nice for me to mind a shallow scratch. We saw wild flowers and caves. At times we'd need to stoop low under tree trunks and branches. We occasionaly stop for a rest and share a smoke with Alan while he told some stories. He shared that there used to be a couple of floating restaurants in the middle of the lake. But they're gone now. They sank under.
Boys running beside the lake
A banca in Bulusan Lake
Tapping my feet onto the raft, I only wanted to inspect it when Allan surprised me at my back and offered to row for me. This guy can do anything, I thought. Tristan wanted to rest and begged off to join us. So it was only Alan and I. As we drifted away to the bossom of the lake, I learned more about Alan. That he didn't finish college. That before settling with a lowly tricycle, he had had driven once a six-wheeler delivery truck. That he also worked as a haircutter at a salon. That in fact I'm a few months older than he is though he appeared older, his palms and fingers calloused, his expressions weary of hardwork. And that, openly, he envied the luxury of a vacation Tristan and I had. “At least you live here, in a beautiful quiet place, without pollution,” I said in an effort to soothe his tired disposition. I lay on my back and tipped my face to the side as the silky water sifted through the spaces between the bamboo raft, touching my skin. Near beside me, I saw the sky, the summit of the volcano and the lush forest around. I'd never felt as intimate to nature as in that moment. It was a wonderful feeling. The water appeared so green, but you'd see it's clear when you cup it. Alan said it's just all the trees' doing. “When the sky's not cloudy the lake appears bluish. It depends,” Alan explained.
Raft or balsa
Had we had more time and hadn't the volcano been active, we'd have wished to visit the crater as well. It was time to go. We stopped by a short bridge on our way down the mountain. Instead of fresh water flowing beneath it, there were white sandy rocks. “A deposit from the volcano's recent eruption,” Alan said, his face contorted by disgust. We later discovered that Mt. Bulusan is one of most active volcanoes in the country.
The sky's fast-darkening and the clouds were orangey when we reached Irosin. We gave our warmest thank-yous to Alan and hoped he's happy with the pay we gave him. We handed him 900 Php. I worried if it even met his “boundary” (production quota) for the day. He was very appreciative, nevertheless. Before we parted, he repeatedly cautioned us to be watchful and alert of the area. “There are a lot of ill-motive individuals in this place, be very careful” are his last words to us.
We visited the nearby old hill-top church of Irosin. We heard the faint murmurs of an evening mass in the air as we flighted the steps up the hill. The mass was too solemn for us to enter the antique portals of the church. We just stood there and sucked up the sweetness of an untainted rural mass ceremony. Overlooking the hill was the volcano's lonely peak. My camera's battery ran out of power, so I gave up taking photos after some persistent tries.
The town of Irosin at dusk
We lingered along the old houses beside the plaza. Many of these two-storey spanish-era buildings were converted into market stalls. Convenient stores, hardwares, bakeries. We're about to finish our cigarettes when the street lamps went off, and on, and off again as chorus of shrieks simultaneuosly rose. Total blackout. The cries easily subsided, and life in town went on in a hush, stars sprinkled over the dark evening sky.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
On writing
It's odd that just when I'm at the brink of falling into the realm of dreams, that's when I'm most alert to great inspiration and ideas fluttering inside my head, like millions of fireflies. It's when writing becomes as pleasurable as reading a voluptuous novel.
At one instance, for example, a solid theme and ending to a prose I'm currently working on formed and locked all in an instant that, as if an already accomplished story, reduced me to tears.
The danger to this, you see, is that it comes when I'm most sleepy or tired and just about to retire to bed. And when I wake up, they're gone.
o0o
I'll post soon my accounts on our recent Sorsogon adventure. Though there was one little disappointment, it was nevertheless filled with awe and surprises, road actions and new experiences.
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