Sketches (from earlier posts, various)
by indi

MRT
using the small, shiny silver surface on the hand straps that hung from rails, she stared at reflections of strangers while standing on the MRT. position the metallic part of the strap in a certain way, you'd see this Ortigas-suit on your left side yakking on his Nokia. Tilt it a bit down and you'd see the beehive hair of that insistent matrona who parked her ass on the seat you were eyeing. With another angle you could steal a glance at the sad-eyed boy who let her have the seat.

funny how the other party could also catch your reflection staring at them if they looked at the same mirror. even funnier was the sight of him doing the same thing after he caught that tiny patch of sunlight that bounced playfully across his face. now she could see him and he could see her, both of them smiling at each others reflections wondering what the other person thought of them.

what would a stranger be thinking? how weird these two people are, smiling to themselves while staring at the handrail straps.

 

BECAUSE OF THAT WAR
...during trips to the mall, the grannies expressed their disapproval of salad bars and supersub sandwiches with everything in it.

"too much is too much... during hard times, a single rice cake was all we had for a meal" one of them would say.

they also still tend to frown at all things japanese: that's why ma wouldn't buy my own grandma a kimono-type robe after our trip to japan. thankfully none of them suffered directly as comfort women (like segunda?) during the occupation, although my grandfather survived the death march.

it's not easy to change their attitude. (even if i did convince one of them to sit through a screening of barefoot gen. i remember "the skinner"and the madness of war from wind-up bird. it stilll makes me wince, as would any vicarious experience of war.

what more the real thing?

CATHOLIQUE
ash wednesday this year fell on the day before valentine's day. haha, i thought, fasting and abstinence before chocolate-covered sex and roses. i celebrated neither but the populace seemed determined to rub it in. (traffic jams and anxious lovers with bunches of blooms) as hordes of people on my way to nihongo class had these huge black crosses on their foreheads. the crosses looked like the katakana character for 'na.' nah nah nah nah nah nah nah. happy valentine's and lenten season? nah nah nah nah nah nah

i suddenly remember ash wednesday as a kid in st. scho. we'd line up in the chapel and the sisters would cross out our foreheads with refrigerator-cold, ash, made from last year's burnt palm-Sunday fronds. we'd walk around trying to ignore those black crosses. it was a weird feeling, being marked. being reminded that "to dust ye shall return".

PERRY, BORACAY
i met the pied piper of malay when he wasn't into woodwinds anymore. i visited him on his island where i also met his wife, his kids, and millie, the faithful dalmatian who never left his side. the piper was into bonggos now and i know he made the drums himself: oiled bayawak hide stretched across a weathered hollow trunk, stitched tight with rattan, and trimmed with macrame, faded beads, and beach glass, dreamcatcher-style. naturally, everyone was taken by his music: divers from europe; sarong party girls; korean matrons swimming real early in their long-sleeved shirts, afraid of the sun.

yup, they all swayed as his palms beat the skins. yup, they all smiled and had a good time.

afterwards, when we drank some beers by the beach, i noticed he looked a bit more gaunt and there was a sad, faraway look in his eyes.

there, under the stars he told me another version of the story i know. of how he saved the children from the selfish cynics and brought them here. (before electricity came to the island.)

yes, he saved the children, he uttered, only to lose them soon.

the first bunch he lost when some sick white men found the island and put up their sex tours (he was still able to flush them out like the rats) . the second bunch left him for the young israeli adventurers who were taking a break from military service. the third bunch went off to see the world with european backpackers. a fourth bunch had stayed on but sold their white beachfronts to global coffee franchisers.

silently, i sat on the powdery sand. scratchingmillie's ears, watching the sliver of moon fade into the liquid void.

nobody from the city is here when the typhoons come, he said. that is the best time for me. the best time to be here.

do come back when you can. he said. and i promised him i would.