I HAD been writing a series entitled The Enfoldment Ensconces
and the main idea was that they came in nifty installments. They were metaphysical pieces and were largely full of imagery. Why write, how difficult it is, and so on. I also realized that I wouldn't let it see the light of day. That was a decision of mine though, and nothing to do with what other people might think. The collection was about me and written just to get it off the chest. They were, after all, increasingly heavy. The burden turned into something presentable. I leave the opinion on whether or not they are a significant contribution to society to anyone who'd happen to chance on any one, but what matters is that The Enfoldment Ensconces
Pampanga is a place that teeters from province to township. It does not know what it is, from Clark Air Base where a profusion of different nationalities mill about, to the manifold colors in trees, lanterns tucked between green leaves, large sculptures and art pieces heralding that this is the food capital of the Philippines. Pampanga's best, ikanga
Pampanga is a town that has everything it needs to prosper. It does, and it sends a grace to whoever acknowledges and pledges to this testimony. We know what we are, Pampanga seems to shrug, but do you? It's always a clever trick to deter conversation from a humble powerhouse towards emotional affection.
You're free to do whatever you want. In Pampanga is a haven for those who love pleasure. This is where those businessmen go when they drag their office chums into an adult men's bar and come home 40 hours later. I pass the red light district and it truly changes how one sees the city. Why would they still be there, when it is so easy to shut the entire trashbin of an enterprise down (who cares) and then answer the protestations of those stupid bald foreigners with "Get out, git." Repeat for maximum effect.
So I chose to take some trips around the place. It's the same as those inspirational trips in other areas. I wonder how my peers write. I wonder how they are. Curiosity gets the better of me and so I speculate with all correction that they can write better than me. That makes a large percentage of you, and oddly enough that comes from the same person who thinks that the Red Light District should be illegal. Anyone feel that prostitutes in the Philippines are ugly? Say "Aye".
The roads are a typically lighter gray than anywhere else. The sun overcasts a taupe yellow which nourishes the strong sturdy trees planted near the roads. They are marked with white X signs, for they are being protected by an environmental group. The province is the haunt of people who think it's some kind of California of the Philippines. The weather is medium warm, the dialect spoken with rounded harsh spits of the mouth, which makes the conversation sound impassioned. There is too much spice in the Capampangan flavor. The people are marked out with all the qualities seen everywhere else. A checklist of these had been delivered at the threshold of the area's distance and they lack in nothing.
What a dreadful thing to be burdened by what you purposively think that the place is about. The pleasure sprawled out. Neon lights and music blasting from all around. Someone who is running away from mediocrity flashbacks into the city that sleeps only after the day unravels. The city of heroism and prosperous capability. A horse bedecked in eye-covers neighs roughly, as though it spoke a smattering of the local gossip. Benevolent benediction abounds, and the congregational fraternities gather to uphold the first and the best as tithe. Take away the glitz and it shines like something new.