Saturday, April 12, 2008

“A Peacock or Trojan Horse?”: A Recollection

I am still in the midst of preparing these defining articles that would dictate if I will be able to make it to the writers’ community (not exactly, but that’s how I would like to term it) but I cannot help but put down into words this heavy feeling that have come upon me, a swish of a distant past that allows itself to be remembered on the date it was created.
To check again the dates again would be quite a waste of time, I have checked them more than a dozen time or so days before. The day marks when a plan was conceived and later on triumphantly manifested which brought about so much bliss in me, and even in these vague recalls, I could still feel the tinge of the experience.
It was the same sultry atmosphere, a silent air that offers no comfort at all. It is still the same, just as then, when I woke up early (although I cannot attest if I had the same cramps upon waking up, no thanks to my undersized makeshift bed) and proceeded with the plan. And the hair brushed onto my face, only this time it is my own hair that brushed onto mine. The only difference perhaps is the presence of the book, which replaced the celebrity on this trip to the hero’s home.
Maybe the book and the upcoming work days for me temporarily hindered me from getting a hold of all the facts pertaining to the plan. I would not go into the elaborate details of the interviews I had today mainly because it all come to pass without me really noticing them. But after about two hours of training-related tasks, I was suddenly gripped again by the same old sultry atmosphere. The element of drama, so to speak, was even heightened when I came upon a trio of young people laughing, one of who resembles the celebrity in certain angles. I might have bitten my lip to prevent myself from blurting out a curse because of the events that come upon me but I cannot really recall. But I could say that the afternoon was tearing me down, just as was the careless scrapping of these darn shoes of mine was being tore down by the gravel-strewn road side (there was no side walk on these borders of the university). All things were soon set aside because of my sleepiness until now…
The small picture is still enclosed in that small brown container, a memento that accompanied me across seas and bays and along long roads and streets. It has never left its place since it was placed there, close to my well of emotions (not an emo!) for two reasons I think: 1) I never allowed it to be displaced nor to be lost, it’s as precious as the prototype itself and 2) the object chose not to leave (an exaggeration of course).Nonetheless it was also the commencement of the sacredness of the rest house by the bay. I have never ever tried to make a breach into that globe of such fragility and perhaps would not even try to for the next ten decades or so.
And the sundae into which I hold particular interest and subsequent addiction. It hold me into my sanity and plays the role of a drug the lulls me into sleep in my most delirium-plagued nights. (A picnic of French fries over a conversation on science and Singapore. Recall.)
And so things culminate in the description of this tree, whose form was the subject of debate of that lovely afternoon, whether it was a peacock or a Trojan horse in disguised. Whatever it was, it made its mark and now suddenly caught each conversation. If only the carbon dioxide it inhaled could sing again the pressures on the air that contain the voices, I’d gladly look around for an old recorder and put them permanently into those magnetic tapes, wound around a case which holds those temporary affections that seem so fleeting now.
No things have changed now, except the closure of the meeting place where the violet bag was given and a fruit juice was sipped into those smiling lips. And me of course, the horrible character of this tale I tailored to my satisfaction and to your consternation.
Photo Credits:
(c) 2008 Francis Emralino

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