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Published: September 28th 2008
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Out in the boondocks of Bukas Grande, in an old cabin, we sat by a makeshift dining table facing the lake, watching the day gradually slip away in the twilight. There was a slight shift in the breeze and the undercurrent of the deep inland water surrounding us flowed smoothly outward through a small gap between the green hillocks, which led to the ocean, and there the distant sound of the open sea coolly oozed right in. Otherwise, the silence deep within the cluster of isles where our cabin was would have been deafening.The sounds from the forest died down as nighttime started to set in and across the sky rare birds were flitting with the sunset.
Row started to play the ukulele and the nocturnal divers, who sat on their heels on a wooden bench at the far corner of the station, hummed with him. We were all laid back just sitting there and time, being very kind and friendly, was very slow. I leaned back on my chair and felt the scalding of my sun burnt skin rubbing against my faded Quicksilver shirt. I leaned one side against the table and started to waggle my right foot along
with the humming and a growing singsong. I sighed facing the departing sun, now fizzing partly in the ocean, and felt for the first time, after a long time, to just let life be. Then, I felt a big weight drop from my shoulders and my mind became very calm that it was as though it really ought to have been that way, but wasn’t so for some reason. I felt the tire of it and this new permeating relief taking over. I took it easy...Very little breeze crossed the barriers of the headland and the trees and the leaves were very still; the saltwater lake was as tranquil as it could be. Everything collaborated so beautifully you just had to loosen up your grip and let go of the trouble of always worrying about things. People have this tendency to always want to be in control. But all you saw here flowed so naturally it assured you, hey, everything will be O.K. Just sit back, believe it, believe good things can happen and let go. I reached a zenith of peace and held on to it. When night came I could see as clearly as day.
My wife
lit a candle set on a blue coral, about the size of a man’s fist, and placed it on the table where we were gathered and barely saw our faces in the scant lighting against the pitch-black darkness of the wilderness. The nocturnal divers sang louder now, slurring just a little bit on the lyrics and forcing it back out again when they found the right words, all ‘cause they knew we could no longer see their faces in the dark that had to be contorted with the pitch of the singing. My friend Row played the ukulele and I held the shot-glass of that ersatz tequila I had bought back in the city before we left, tapping it rhythmically on the table to add more beat. We had a round for Siargao, the beaches of Dinagat and that quaint town of Socorro. We shot to Cebu where our friendship had gone a long, long way to make it a dependable one.
Past midnight and the spear divers had gone their way. The mirth had dissipated and the air was completely lull. I walked up the outer deck of the station and the floor creaked sharply against the weight of my footsteps. I could smell the sea, the rubber of our gears, and the smell of the firewood stacked close to the post. I tried to look deep into the water directly below but there was nothing there. My wife went down the ladder that led to the prow of the boat, now at bay, where she lay on her back facing the heavens. But I couldn’t really see her clear enough from where I was. Then I looked at the whole of the lake and saw the stars sprinkled from the sky; star lights floating everywhere on the surface of the dark brackish water. I checked it further and saw the Big Dipper floating, too, very close to a knoll. I looked up to the sky and back down the body of water, and there was almost no difference at all. It made my heart slump. I had been working on this place for years and felt sorry for having to leave. So this is it, I thought. But that’s all part of the project and out there is another spot I need to work on. It was just a question of time and money, and sometimes I find myself ending up very poor, but was glad about it. It teaches me to dream again. We talked about the tempting colors of Asia and moving in a town in Canada and that place where Rudyard Kipling used to write, O! Where was it…? But this right here and right now was a really good place for a dreamer like me. I’d want to write about these places ‘till I know it quite like my own backyard. I mean really drilling it hardcore, if you catch my drift, so you wouldn’t feel like reading some paper your English professor had written.
They were all fast asleep and being alone got me pondering- of where I was and where I plan to go, but it only reminded me of all the time I’ve wasted in the past. That’s another story, though, what I’ve been through. But I used to travel as much as I could in search of myself and all those things lonely people look for, until I finally found myself in her. I honestly thought I had lost it. That didn’t make my life easier, though, but it gave me meaning, which is about all a thinker needs to get through life peacefully. She’s my proof that dreams still happen for people like me. And as I watched over my wife sleeping on her cot I wanted to wake her up in the middle of her sleep just to thank her and tell her I love her. O! But she would have thought I was being loony again. Besides, I didn’t want to go cheesy or anything like that; I mean it’s just not me, you know, this is just about as soft as I can be. So I simply whispered those words inside my head. She had to be exhausted from the long trail we tread uphill before swimming close to those rocky islets to track down the spot the sting-less jellyfish had moved to mate in for the span of the summer. Her skin grew pale and impeccably smooth under that strange illumination of pre-dawn. She slept beautifully without any way of knowing I was watching over her. I took my time quietly standing there.
I’ve been wanting to write about her, and yes I can write about one or two, but never of all things, which she is to me now. Perhaps this inability is a symptom for my incompetence as a writer, or, fear of failure that rests deep in the subconscious. Fear of not being able to write comprehensively enough. Fear of inefficiency with words. I promised to come up with something. But certainly, without her I’m like a solitary tree on top of a hill during fall with withered leaves falling, falling, littered on the ground.
The quarter moon was just over the jagged edge of the silhouetted hill a little on my left. It was like sliced melon posted in the night sky.
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