THE RAMILLAV CHRONICLES

MEMORY OF A TUESDAY

2008-12-06T18:28:00.000-08:00

You were there in front of me,
A shadow sitting on the chair
across the table,
our only barrier in between the intimacy of each.

You hands cupping a mug of cofee,

steam swirling,

disappearing ino your lips.

But now.

But now.

Oh, I forgot!

Your hair---you pulled it back that day.
Yes, yes, I remember.

But now.
But now.

By the way, I like that black blazer you wore,
that day... Was it then,
or was it last Tuesday?
Oh, my memory is foggy.

But.

But really,
I can't recall.
You seem a shadow that day.

THE MOCKINBIRDS: LEON AND MANOLO

2008-06-01T23:08:00.001-07:00

THE MOCKINGBIRDS: LEON AND MANOLO

They were like Mockingbirds, they would tell each other. But Leon and Manolo had only seen the bird in the cover of the novel they both read in college. Now they had returned, after five years--- four years spent in College, and a year making a living in Manila.

Leon is a journalist and he plans to set up a local paper, but for now he works as a proof reader in a medical journal. He fancies ‘words’ and discuss their etymologies at lent. He has his own jargon which was a mixed of literary and medical ones owing to his work and to his interest in literature.

Manolo, on the other hand, was a fine arts graduate. He does his art from time to time, painting the sceneries of the metropolis with the shade of dusky afternoon. That is, between designing another product logo or print ad. Manolo is patient, and patience often comes with sluggishness and cautiousness with your verse. His verse is terse and economical, clear and concise. What Strunk and White said of writing, Manolo applied to his speech. He once sent a note to his classmate and it read, “I love you. Do you love me, too? Sex?.” He got a slap and scratch for that.

Both of them love to read, and both once wore glasses in high school. Manolo had ditched his glass and now wears eye lenses. He says that the glass gets in his way when he’s painting. But he keeps his old glasses in an ancient box that once contained his grandmother’s ashes. Leon finds it weird, but his finding it weird was even weirder, as Manolo remarks.

About a week ago, they met in their hometown’s wet market. Leon was buying fish, and had his hands over his mouth. He hates the smell of fish and his sea fare is limited to crabs, shrimps and bangus. You couldn’t get them anywhere else but in the fish section of the wet market; so, Leon went there and had his nose covered by a hanky all the time he was trying to get the freshest bangus. Manolo knew it was him, the minute he saw Leon from the distance. He was the only one he knew from the Island that hates the smell of fish. Well, aside from Leon’s father. It must be in Leon’s genes.

“Leon!” He shouted, but his voice drowned in the collective holler of the market vendors. He walked faster toward Leon who looked around. He thought he heard someone called his name, but the fish! The smell of it! Leon felt dizzy; he was breathing the rot out of the fish in, and his hanky can’t stop that. “Shit, that smell.” He cussed under his hanky.

“Ale, I’ll take that one. A kilo, ok?”
“Eto, sir?”

The vendor said, holding up the fish and then she weighed it.

A kilo, that’s right. Just about right.
“Magkano?”
“Otsenta po sir.”
“’Sang kilo?” Leon asked. Why, when I was here a year ago, a kilos cost just sixty and now---
“Yes, sir. Sunod-suno po ka----“
“Ah. Eto. Otsenta, noh?” Yes, it was a year ago. Things changed. That was year ago, Leon. He gave the money to the woman, in her thirties perhaps. Old hag, Leon would have written her off, but her eye was kind and younger. He took his change, and went off for the gate in the west side. But he heard a voice, Man, the smell, but just to be sure, he looked back.

“Leon! Leon!”
“Anak ng pu---Manolo!” It was Manolo, one of his old friends from high school. Leon thought Manolo was busy in Manila trying to be Picasso or Monet. The last time he talked to him, it was summer, a year ago when both of them we’re about to graduate from college, then trying to see who could smoke the most cigarettes until their lungs collapsed… but they ran out of cigarettes before anyone’s collapsed.

“Leon, andito ka pala?”
“Ikaw, kumusta baga mo? ‘kala ko patay ka na ah!”
“Kaya pa!” Manolo digs into his pockets and brings out a pack of Malboro and a lighter.
“Aba, you haven’t give up yet?” and Leon takes one, Manolo lits his.

Manolo walked with Leon to the west gate where his motorcycle was parked. They tried catching up with each other’s life. Manolo, ask about Leon’s Great Filipino novel though he knew Manolo dropped out of the race along time ago. Too much frustration. What to write about anyway? Rizal wrote about all shits. Other shits, F. Sionil took up. Leon asked about Manolo’s painting. Have you sold any yet? Manolo haven’t sold any; he’s not selling his paintings but Leon urges him to. They are good enough, Manolo. The rich would love your Monet-like composition. But no Van Gogh attempts, alright? Picasso’s alright, but a Van Gogh----ah you might just cut your ear. Manolo and Leon waited ‘til both their cigarettes burn.

“Pare, I have to run. I’ll go to the beach this afternoon, wanna come?”
“Hindi siguro muna. I have to finish my painting before it rains.”
“Ah, so… panu, how would I contact you?”

Leon and Manolo exchanged their contact numbers. Later, they would agree to meet in the local dinner the weekend after. Leon drove off, his fish dangling in his motorbike’s manibela. Manolo headed back to the market.

To be continued...

Helena and Artemio

2008-05-31T17:42:00.000-07:00

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF HELENA AND ARTEMIO

The late summer daylight…
It knocks on my window,
Urges me to rise and look out…
On the empty road that runs beside our house
There is no chirping of birds, there is no sound.
only poetry in the slow drift of clouds.
Beneath the earth, what dreams could lie
Ah the night, to me, it never bid goodbye…

You could hear his moans from the dark liberated by two full bottle of light beer, bubbling and stirring with ice, as he remembered before he drank it from the glass. His breath reeks of the onion rings he ate to fight back the horrible after-taste, bitter as any beer should be. Bitter is life, is beer. What he dreamt of, the words in between his gasping moans revealed to Helena. And Helena listened to the betraying monologue of her husband, Artemio. Her nose takes the acid scents of his breathe; her ears take her husband’s voice in the dark.

She takes them all, all of Artemio as she presses the towel she lovingly soaked in a mixture of hot water and soap against Artemio body perfumed of dirt and vomit. This was the Artemio who took her as wife, whom she took as husband on their wedding in the parish church. The wedding, it seemed to Helena, happened too long ago, blurred now by time in her memory. But she remembered her vows, and faithfully keeps it. In sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, ‘til death do us part… Only death could free her now, and Artemio---he searches for the freedom and finds it in two full bottle of light beer.

Artemio stirs in the dark, and Helena lets go of his arms, soaks the towel and twist it dry. The mutterings continue and Helena listens patiently, forgivingly.

“Perla, where are you? I long for you. I love you. Ah…” and more moans follow, moans of longing and of withheld passion.

Two beads of tears form in both eyes of Helena but she wipes them, lets out a whimper, but just a whimper. That’s all. She walks quietly outside their room, and closes the door. Helena heads for the kitchen, and the tears flow, and she wipes them frantically with her palms, until her cheeks are pink from too much rubbing and hands moist with her tears. There’s no time for sorrows. Soon the children will wake up, and Helena has to serve breakfast. Who is this Perla? Certainly, it is not Perla that Helena had known from Artemio’s town. Artemio never mentioned her before, not even once. She had no idea about this Perla whom Artemio calls in his sleep, drunk or not. But the Perla from Artemio’s town is beautiful, aged but still beautiful. She kept her distance from them, Helena and Artemio. She spoke to them out of civility than of necessity or want. Ah, this is ridiculous. Artemio is married to Helena. He is hers as Helena is Artemio’s . Nothing could separate them, except death and God if He will. I must not think like this, Helena scolded herself. This is ridiculous. This is ah… But her thoughts trail again toward the possibility. Of what? Surely, Helena knows. But she did dare admit herself. Perhaps the noise of the knife against the chopping board kept her so.

“I must check the children. It is Sunday, and we must go to church early.” Helena told herself, voicing it out to the darkness of the living room. She climbs the steps and walks on her toes from the landing to the children’s room. Helena carefully turns the knob and hears the door squeak as she opens it. Their children, their sons Miguel and Junior sleeps peacefully in the dark, and Helena eyed them both. Nothing could harm them, so it seemed to Helena, at least not under her watch.

She cooks the chicken, sets the table and goes to the cupboard. She returns with a rope in her hand. Outside, the church bells sounds and the sun was beginning to show from behind the trees. Helena hears something break from hers and Artemio’s room. It must be the picture frames at their side table. Broken now, as everything is to Helena. She takes them all but she does not have everything. The dark diffuses and the light enters Helena’s and Artemio’s house through the window. At the table, the chicken tinola simmers, and the boiled rice steams. The children’s alarm goes off, and they rises from their sleep.

“Good morning mo---" Miguel tires for more words but fails. Junior comes to the kitchen and find Miguel open-mouthed and frozen. Artemio wakes to his children’s screams and is free, at last.

The Poet

2008-05-31T01:48:00.000-07:00

This was inspired by Nick Joaquin's May Midnight. It borrows some lines and context from the short story penned by the National Artist for Literature.

THE POET

The poet, ah the poet!

He was drank with his verses and brandy.
He was an old man, standing by the window
In mid-summer night;
One hand clasped over his sobbing mouth.

And the days, the months, all the years that piled up
As another poet writes,
Removed like a swept dust.
And he was young again,
One same mid-summer night
Drunk and tired from dancing

And ah, the love he felt in his chest
But where was it now?
This same mid-summer night,
When an evil moon lurks
Just another name in the stones
Just another stone in the graveyard

Her cruel words silenced by death
Her burning coals of eyes doused cold now
By the gathering May dew in the grass.

Ah, the poet---
His hands trembles as he writes
Out of the shaking from brandy
Out of the horror of remembering.

The People of Thomas Davis (4)

2008-05-26T18:08:00.000-07:00

VICKY, BELLA

Vicky, I think they spell it like that, was her name. She was old, and her age showed on the lines in her face, weathered smooth by the tropic sun. She had an eternal laugh in her eyes. Nobody told me she was mentally impaired but everyone acted around her like she was. Her niece watches porn on the television, thinking she wouldn’t mind. Well, she doesn’t seem to mind the lusty moans or the girly giggles of her nieces.

“He got a huge dick!”

But you get no censoring reaction from Vicky. Vickibella, she had once been beautiful. You could see it in her delicate features, the rounded chin, and the high full cheeks. The only thin that marks the Vicky apart was her muttering of her past life which she fondly does alone and staring in the vast empty space before her.

“Our neighbor, ah, my father used to say---my father, he refuses to get treated in the hospital. I was forced to work by my mother. We pay bills, water bills, electricity, you know. That’s why she told me to work…”

I was told that she once fell in love. It was her one true and great love but her mother wouldn’t let it and cut right in the bud. Her nieces said it was the reason Vickybella got wind in her brain and it drove her crazy.

To be continued...

The People of Thomas Davis (3)

2008-05-26T18:05:00.000-07:00

MATEO, the Wise

Mateo was the wise one. He was always welcome into our house because he was wise. He was wise not in an owlish way. He knew to splice the truth, and adapt the truth for his or a friend’s benefit. He knew how to hide the truth, when to bring it out and how to use it as weapon. When we were in school together no one bullies him because he was wise, but everyone would just threaten with, “I’ll get you someday” and walk away. He knew secrets that everyone fears. “I know the truth”, he says it like wielding a dagger up in air.

The last time Mateo came to our house, we came home together late from school. You see, when you’re young you like to be experimental. You like to pick up new experiences, to prove perhaps. Yeah pal, I’m a man. I can do that. There’s this girl in school Mateo said I had hots on, but I’m not admitting it. Well, that day I waited for her down the street where Mateo observed she walked every afternoon going home. She walked alone, hugging her books against the August wind. We lit our cigarettes and Mateo’s gone silent, smoke and exhaled. “She looks awfully hot, doesn’t she?” And I looked at the girl, and said, “Sure is.”

The next thing I remember was that I was shoving the girl against the wall in some back alley I can’t remember, and I was feeling her with one hand while my other was up on her mouth. No one heard her muffled screams. No one’s coming. I was getting hard and I said, “Pull her skirts down.” Mateo pulled it down and she gave her best to scream but I pressed my hands with more force against it. I unzipped with one hand and pulled my dick out. I felt her and she was wet from my feeling her cunt. “Shut up you bitch!” I yelled at her and entered her…

Mateo helped me clean myself, and took out his camera. He took pictures of the girl with her breast out in the open and her skirt up showing her pinkish, wet labia. She’s gone unconscious but by that time she was slowly getting up. Mateo took her by the face and said, “I got your photographs with your breast and cunt out, you got that?” I think the girl nodded, I didn’t see. I was busy looking out for any passerby. Then I heard Mateo saying, “If you tell anybody about this, this would be out in the open next morning in the porn mag.” We left her there, and I got no jail time for raping her. The last thing I knew about her was her family left for another city up north.

We went home together, smoked a couple of more before we went in and Mateo had dinner with us. The picture of the girl was in his shirt’s pocket. My mom looked Mateo in the eye and asked him, “Mateo don’t cover for Thomas now. Tell me, why were you late today?” Mateo looked straight back at my mom and said, “Well, Mrs. Davis we thought we go down to the bowling club today since it was near school. We had a great time, didn’t we Thomas?” I looked at him, then at Mom and said, “Yeah, mom. I lost to Mateo a couple of games, you know.” My mom believed him, but I think a sweat in my forehead gave me away.

The People of Thomas Davis (2)

2008-05-26T18:02:00.000-07:00

Stephen, My Son

My son, I named him Stephen. After the first saint, and he was my first son. He looked more like her mother but his laugh was mine. I don’t see myself in him but I hear myself in him when he speaks. But he died the year he turned twenty-one. In a brawl with a gang who was trying to hit on his girlfriend. They hit on her anyway, and she screamed and yelled but one of them muffled her screamed with his hand over her mouth while another licked her pussy until she was wet enough to accommodate all their penises, one after another. Stephen lay there soaked in his own blood after one of the gang cut him with his knife when he was almost dead from the beating.

Her name was Maria. She was adorable and I slept with her once, a week after Stephen died. She said she like to hear me moan as she pumped on top of me. Afterwards, she cried on my shoulder and said I moaned like Stephen does when he’s about to come. I felt guilty but she picked up her clothes from the floor, and turned to me, “Don’t be, Mr. Davis. Stephen used to say I should sleep with you, anyway.” She said my son talked about me like I was his ideal, and he wanted Maria to feel me between her thighs just to know and compare. Just to know if Stephen could measure up to his dad.

When Stephen was about two, my wife died. She got shoved by a drunk driver. The ambulance came too late and my wife died in the streets and the people swarmed in to look but not to help. Fuck all those people. Our next date was on the morgue and I kissed her on the lips but her lips were far from the fiery lips I’ve known every night. She was cold as any dead could be.

I grieved for her about a year then I started dating again. I took women home and made love to them if they want to which they always did. Stephen would peeked at the door and watch us do it. When he was eleven, I caught him watching, masturbating. I just laugh about it, now. But his dead now you see. Like his mother.

And, I got other sons to take care of. Several sons, but they’re with their mother or living independent now. Stephen was the only one the court allowed me to have. Fuck the courts. And his girlfriend Maria walked out of the door, my semen between her thighs. I didn’t hear from her until about two years later, when her attorney rung my doorbell and said she committed suicide. Jump into the sea with my son Stephen’s ashes. Her body was never found.

She bore me a son, I was told by her lawyer. And Maria has no relatives left here in this country. They have all migrated to some places I don’t know. I’m in my mid-forties now and got no one to accompany me in my house except the ladies who frequent me every night. So I took the toddler in. His name was Stephen, Jr.

The People of Thomas Davis (1)

2008-05-26T17:51:00.000-07:00

Ambrose, the writer

He wrote an article about the tree in New York, the great tree that everyone comes to see in Spring to pay homage to their presence in New York. His name was Ambrose and I remember him as the kid who lived two blocks from our house and who came to walk by our house every morning and afternoon to and fro school. He has gone to the States now and works for a big newspaper company in New York. Where else? Bet he took a big chunk out of the Big Apple. I saw his article syndicated in the national newspaper, in the lifestyle section. But it seemed out of place amongst write-ups on the latest elite parties or the hottest place to be. The parties. The newest imported tech gadgets, you know what I mean. I read depression between the line, I should know. I’m a psychiatrist. It’s not the Ambrose I know. He has always been a happy kid and when he comes down by our front porch and I’m there he’ll give me a cheery, “Hey, Thomas!” And I’ll yell back, “Hey Ambrose! You’d done great in our English class.”

Ambrose was great in describing things, the happenings at school and he’s on to be the Editor of the school paper if it hadn’t been to the lobbying of Mrs. Esperanza who wanted his son, Angelo to be the Editor. Well, Mrs. Esperanza succeeded in her lobbying with a large donation for a planned school building construction next year. Angelo Esperanza became the Editor, and Ambrose quit the paper.

He wrote an article on the value of parents’ donations to school and he published it independently. I helped him post it in the bulletins around school. The next day Angelo and I were called to the principal’s office. Apparently, the principal didn’t like how Ambrose used ‘principal’ to describe the ‘benefactor’ of the parent’s donation. “What is this Ambrose? An exercise in puns?” She showed us her copy; she had highlighted the words ‘principal’, ‘benefactor’, ‘trade’, ‘exchange’, ‘evil’ etc. Practically, she marked most of Ambrose’s article. “Why was this not subjected to the Editor?” At her remark, Ambrose stood up and walked out of the door.

The year we graduated from high school, nobody was reading the school paper anymore. Everyone reads in the bulletin where Ambrose continued to pose her stinging article. It is sometimes deeply meditated, always rebellious to authority, and subversive to the wants and desires of The Principal (that’s the way Ambrose writes it in his articles). His criticism was crisp and coldly logical. “In this school, we are each a person waiting to be born into the world and the duty of this school is to provide us the means and opportunities by which we can be born. This school must not deny us our rights nor must it neglect its duty in the first place.” His was denied, and somehow he feels like an unborn fetus in a mother’s womb. But he still keep giving me the cheery “Hey!” even when I stopped helping him out posting his paper around the school.

Angelo Esperanza went to The University to study Journalism on scholarship; his Editorship helped him more than he helped the paper. Ambrose went to The University, too but he has to work us a waiter at night to pay for his studies and living expenses. The next year he got a scholarship to study abroad in Stanford University. He never came home; Angelo Esperanza worked as a copy writer in an Advertising company.

The next thing I know was I was reading Ambrose’s article on that Tree. He wrote of his visit last Spring and he eagerly related how many Filipinos were there only that you could easily mistake for them for Chinese or Japanese. They got a shock of yellow-dyed hair with little traces of natural black they got at home, and the fur wrapped on some of them chaps, Filipinos looked odd in warm clothes, he remarked. There’s much of the tropic in their skin and eyes.

PAMILYA TAJARAN (1)

2008-05-26T17:47:00.000-07:00

THE COMING OF REY

He came to our town with mailman’s bag strapped on his shoulder, but he couldn’t be the mailman. He resembled nothing of that sort except his bag was overstuffed like mailman’s with his undelivered letters. On his right, he carried a paper bag and a nervous smile on his longish face with its longish nose and big intelligent eyes which seemed empty and asking to be filled. He had a full head of hair-almost too full- untamed and frizzled by the welcoming summer wind. He walked behind my elder sister, shy of the observant eyes and I saw him try to find a word to say, opened his mouth only to close it again before he said anything. But he wasn’t dumb. I had met him before, and he could talk with ease if he’s comfortable with you. I guess this time he wasn’t really comfortable. Well, you should just understand him; he knows no one here except me and my sister. It was his first time to come to our house, although I had come and visited him before in his boarding house, often with a message from my elder sister.

I thought he had most expressive eyes in the world; it was empty, but it was only empty like a blank canvass waiting for the artist’s brush. His eyes would light up when he finds something funny like a child in his jolly innocence, and his laugh goes on forever. But you wouldn’t know that unless you had come and be his friend. I said to him, “Hi, Kuya…" and he just smiled at me, but that was enough. You couldn’t expect him to act familiarly when I was on my job. He shifted outside the store while my sister was inside asking me for my phone. She said hers was broken. Well, I believe her. There’s no use doubting my sister; she’s so good in selling things even lies to people.

My sister said goodbye to me, and I said goodbye to them both. A customer was calling out to me.

“Miss, isang bombilya nga.”

---

I met him before when I went to Manila to see my daughter. They were wearing crazy festival hats for one of their school activities, and they had it on going out the school, just for fun. My daughter and him was quite a contrast with their opposite body sizes. He was thin, lanky, quite tall and pure bones and angles. My daughter was fat with her bulging belly; her shirt stretch over it in great protest. His polo shirt seemed to float in the wind.

“Ah, so you must be Rey. My daughter had told me a lot about you. How are you?”

He just smiled at me; he was perhaps finding the right words to say. He threw a look to my daughter’s direction and my daughter said,

“Ma, we were looking for you downstairs.”
“I texted you I was here upstairs.”
She checked her phone.
“Ah, I just received you’re message. Buwisit talaga.”

I asked my daughter about the hats they were wearing. She said they have to wear it for a subject as a requirement. I didn’t quite see if that made them any smarter, but I didn’t press the subject. I was here to give my daughter her allowance for the month, and it was almost lunched. We sent Jane, my younger daughter downstairs to get some food. I couldn’t remember what conversation we had that lunch, but I remember his opo, with which he never tire to pepper his dialogue with me. He was polite or at least, he seemed to be so. I wonder what he had in common with my daughter. My daughter could easily be the most irreverent daughter ever to exist, but she’s still my daughter and I had learned to put up with her irreverence. But he was polite, and almost deferring. That couldn’t be it. But surely, there must be something for God’s sake.

I found my daughter and him sitting on our sala, munching on balut and penoy. I smelled the sweet spicy stench of vinegar, and eggs shells littered the floor, but I didn’t mind. Our house wasn’t neat anyway. It do get cleaned once in a blue moon, but I learned how to put up with its chaos, too. I sat down, and helped myself to some of the penoy and urged him to eat as much as he can. “So you’ll get fat soon,” I told him. I have two fat daughters to bank on; I could beefed him up, even by just a bit. I offered him some soda. He didn’t refuse, and drank two glassfuls. He was still thin but I noticed that his arms have gone bigger. He must have started lifting weights, but still he was thin, and I could fatten him up.

“Life here’s really like this. You want to eat? Then eat. You want to sleep? Then sleep. Walang pakialamanan dito.” He just smiled. I guess that’s his normal reaction when he really don’t know how to react. “You’ll get fat soon. Look at Janice---I assumed he met her by now---her mother said it’s just now that she got some fat, yung bangkay na yun…”

“Maaaa...” My daughter protested, but I wouldn’t let an opportunity to jab at Janice go. Janice is my daughter’s girlfriend. Yes, my daughter’s a lesbian, but she’s good daughter, I tell you in spite of her irreverence. My daughter took her home last February; she stayed here, well, let me see. February. March. April. For almost three months. I don’t like that girl. She’s boastful. She was telling me that in their place, in Bulacan, there are Reds and they kill. As if we don’t have them in Laguna. I thought she was threatening me, but me? Really? I can fight tooth and nail. That Janice, she’s mean.

We shifted topic and I told my daughter of what happened last night to her aunt, my sister. She got beaten up, by her own son. Dino, her cousin, punched and wrestled her mother. It was so embarrassing and humiliating. Imagine, beating up your own mother, beating her up. My God, she’s a poor woman and at her age? How old is my sister? Fifty? She had cuts on her neck, and she was bleeding. I told her to go to the hospital, and have her bruises examined and documented. If I were her, I’ll send that son of a bitch to jail, even if for just ten days. Para lang mag-tanda!

“Huh?” My daughter exclaimed in disbelief.
I told her about what I thought of it.
“Kaya ikaw? Don’t you ever hit me or I’ll let the police arrest you.”
“Ako? Me? I never hit you.”
“Hindi pa? You’re already cursing me. “
“Huh? When? What did I say?”
“Putang ina mo, the other time we fought.”
“Huh?”
“You’re cursing me because of that Janice.”
“Let it go, Ma.”

At times like that, my daughter just shut up. She knew I was just picking up an old bone with her. Well, he just sat there eating penoy. I saw him feeding some to Botsky, our house dog. He’s a bit jumpy with Botsky. I think he’s afraid of dogs.

“Don’t mind us. We’re really like this when we talk.” I told him because he looked a bit confused. And then I told him, “Kain pa.”
---

To be continued...

RAMILLAV CHRONICLES (1)

2008-05-26T17:44:00.000-07:00

It was the ‘90s, and my mother had the television turn off. Not until your school work is done. We had nothing to do and it was afternoon. My eyes were droopy but I did not feel like sleeping. Outside, the highway sounded, roared of the turning engines of passing jeeps and trucks. The air smelled of bone-dry dust and the drying palay. It was nearing summer and soon school will be over.

My father will be home from his office at past five and I had to wash for bed before dinner time. I am yet to finish my school work, and I don’t intend to do so, but I am bored. Outside, it is hot and noisy. I sweat easily and that means, staying put in front of the electric fan.

My mother, she never liked the news. But my father does and every dinner in spite of mother’s objection, he would have the television on and with the evening news running. Oftentimes, I was busy dissecting the dinner’s meat for bone; I choked on bones, any kind of it. Thus, I was mostly ignorant of the news. I found it strange that my father watched the news at all. We are fortunately unaffected by the grime and grim happenings reported in the box. You just get spooked by:

“A man was stabbed to death by two robbers in Caloocan. The police are still trying to identify the victim. He is 24 of age...” The anchor man reports with his unblinking eyes looking straight into the camera. I find it even stranger how my mother responds to the news. “Who could do such a thing?” And my father replies with, “The country’s economy is down. Asian Financial Crisis, Mercedes. The peso is getting devalued against the dollar. Well, it’s no wonder crime is up.”

How my father could link the incidence with the Asian Financial Crisis, baffles me. There must be some innate interconnected in these things, but I’m glad it takes an adult then to point it out. I was busy with my dragon slayer stories, and already, I had a lot on my mind, beside I still have school work to do.