There is probably no better time to be in a place, any place, than to drop by when there's a tragedy. I'm in the banaue hotel now, and half of the staff is watching the tv. To watch the 6 o clock news (that's no longer at exactly 6) report on the disappearance, appearance, life, death, body (living), body (dead) of Julia Campbell. To watch themselves, really. Because for once, and rarely, are the rice-fields (terraces pala), they call home, they see outside their windows, finally finally seen on tv too. It's funny how we pretend we're interested in the world, when we're really just interested in ourselves. (Or a sensitivity to what and who are NOT us which is really just masking (to no one's fault I believe)of a sensitivity to ourselves).
to Ms. Airam:
sick sick sick sick sick. And my grades aren't done yet. And in between papers, I get small asthma attacks. Or is that panic setting in. Basta, gi-sapot ko. And even if I did get to go to the souther part of cebu for bisita iglesia, i have not officially gone into summer vacation mode. And I just want to rant. Amen.
That's it. I've finally come to realize that I've always been at the wrong party. Always. I stumble into the wrong door, and I'm the uninvited guest, the ex everyone's talking about, the illegal alien whose papers are lost, or confiscated, or are questionable to begin with. I share the table wtih people who I think are friends, but they turn out to be strangers. One wrong move, one wrong name, and I'm embarrassed. I've made a mistake bringing my wife with me in a ball gown to a beach party. And it's all my fault for forgetting to check the invitation. What am I to do? The sand is getting into her shoes. The sun shines brightest on a spot on my arm. I find my place at the edge of the city, at the door of happiness, where I can see, where I can see the rest of the world congealing into a shape I have no name for. I wish you well. I find myself wanting to hold your hand.