Memento Mori

I approached the shack after a timid approval from the hesitant Ate Selma. Ate Selma, the owner of the wooden house, stood stiff inside the almost-empty shanty carrying her youngest child in her brittle arms. She had a certain smile on her face. Shy and retiring; and to a bold invading visitor like me, forgiving. I initially stood 2-inches away from the house, looking up to her forged height brought about by the elevated built of the shelter. Now I understand why the houses in the dumpsite were built that way. Beyond the weather-stricken earth, it’s pride. It’s respect that the stature demanded. I quickly gave in. She reluctantly danced in little steps, perhaps trying to put the child to sleep. I was trying to stay alive in the crowd of hungry-for-playmate kids who were elated by the presence of a friendly group with potential something to fill their growling tummies. The spot on the doorstep offered me a glimpse of two framed worlds in the dumpsite – young and old. The former, ...

Her room, about 30 steps less heaven high, stood as a petite citadel to her. Mostly pink, vertical lines 360 degrees paint, butterfly-embellished. Closest to the door is a vanity mirror whose origin is not obvious. Now it’s made up of accessories; bottles, glass and synthetic; images of people most dear to her, randomly posted. Thus, wood or metal, the furniture appears gentle. She keeps her clothes in a multiple-square-door cabinet that touches the floor more than anything else. On top are various faces of her world -- old and new, all present in her time. Underneath are two flat baskets – one where she buries her collection of white caps, away from frequent bro borrowers; another where she keeps her laundry, which I doubt the folds to ever reach the brim in a week. Her ceiling is not too high for it rests under the attic roof. She whines about the rain water that passes through it on wet season. It left water marks like roots of a dead tree imprinted aimlessly on the dirty-white coat...

How many times can a heart be broken? crinkled eyes and fainted vision dreams of imperfect perfection now shattered in wee bits of permanent disarray bogus smile and tacit poetry veil a summoned bereavement run… ran…. It’s darker now. August 7th, 2006

Yesterday, I dreamt of a really nice pair of shoes. It was the one I’ve been eyeing to buy some weeks back. To my surprise, it’s there resting underneath my bed. It’s positioned exactly the way it was displayed on the rack at the shoe store – enticing and costly. My mother walked into the room as I pick it up holding it in a way that the pair doesn’t get separated. It was a pair of black suede shoes whose front part, which resembles a ribbon, covers the middle part of one’s set of toes, leaving the nails exposed. Inside, where the rear part of one’s foot rests, is a print that carries the expensive name of its brand. It’s got this flat hard rubber sole that’s pale gold in color. Truly it wasn’t like Cinderella’s glass shoes but damn, it looked perfect. Not long after that the pair escaped my grip and excited as I was, I tried it on. My feet made their way to a gentle entrance - almost trembling. The footwear fit my petite feet perfectly well. It felt very smooth against my skin. It fla...

Paano tumakas mula sa penitensiya ng latigong pumupunit sa litid ng mapulang pahaging ang pagpitik? Paano lumabas sa nilukubang kuweba ng konsensiyang basag ang pananaw? Paano sumuko sa rebeldeng taliwas ang pangako sa niyakap na prinsipyo? Paano bumalikwas sa pag-ibig na kulob sa pagmamalaki at hilaw sa karanasan? Pag minamalas ka nga naman.