I HAVEN'T written anything new so I rely on my thoughts and how I organize them. Somewhere out there, someone is laughing at my feeble attempt to be productive. In case you didn't know, there are special cases. I do believe in those things, and I'd want to experience more of a huge blunder or an immense insight that would carry me through the next few days. Without which I am nothing but flesh and untattooed blood. Men can think, and they should, but they can't or they don't.
As I said, exemptions.
At night, in the darkness, I can feel premonitions around me. They don't dictate my next steps, but I sense them in the suggestive stirring of the grass I wisely sidestep. (Pardon me, I'll write freely. A tribute to Pampanga has been semi-accomplished. I simply live.) The nature around me. I know that I am not alone because a woman comes careening towards me from the black walls to my right and she says in the vernacular if we are yet still far off. To Friendship Highway we go.
It was just another nighttime adventure for me. I often look at the sky during any available occasion. I detect the hues; wonder how they'd look like painted. I admire it significantly when it turns into a shade of mahogany. You can feel the blood of the precedent day wrung out and restive. It gives a calmness that other seasons don't offer. That moment of being moved by the landscape, it fills me with a sense of grandeur and smallness simultaneously. The dogs in the backyard are often quite mum, and who would disturb the sunset.
I start panicking thinking she will rob me. I bring half my possessions with me when I leave the house and she is standing too close and then too far. It is as though she is aware, she of the mud-colored shirt, that people might suspect the same line of thinking I do. I hope nothing happens. I come to the lighted corners at the bottom of the San Miguel billboard and her distance from me increases. Now, the only concern would be to be mugged with witnesses. I realize that doesn't bother me as much.
Well, in comparison.
Another late night and I am with a green-haired bulky young affiliate and on the same road. It is late but nothing else happens other than the procession of night to dawn. I leave him, friend or not, to pander the inimitable snakelike pathways. It is no labyrinth, but as we intersect in the future, he seemed little. I push the memory of that particular transfiguration in my mind. I get the idea that the province, despite accolades, is unloved. There's much to be proud of.
I get frustrated with writing. I know of many other musicians who might feel the same way. They probably wouldn't state it point-blank, but the simmering recognition is there. They say we don't need art. The art I dabble in, words, impresses me because it can be done. I have ample time and I should really get going.
People stop too late. When they reach that level, they realize they'd done one too many from the first piece. Flow with it. You write early in life?; don't be discouraged. Conformity says: continue until you do. When this is finalized, you look back and then think of love and hate. The movement of our lives begins with stillness. It's all downhill from the top. Then, where are you?