WITH the unmistakable Wonder Girls’ notes in the saline-tinged air of Alona beach, Cel—the newlywed—with her two bridesmaids entered the area dancing to the tune of the Korean’s pop song Nobody. The bride wiggled her hips and pointed at her Hungarian groom every time the song hit the ‘you’ part.
On Memories, Drawing, Truth, and David Foster Wallace “What is drawing?” my high school TLE teacher once asked us. “It is the combination of colors,” a classmate answered for the sake of class participation. “It has shadows.” “It depicts nature and life.” “It shows emotions.” He nodded to some by-the-book tries, which sounded novel—not attempts on novelty—to the high-school Jona. I did not know the word “novelty” th.en “But, basically,” he momentarily stopped to build suspense perhaps, “drawing is a combination of lines,” he continued. We wore the look of stupidity.
“If you can’t swim, find a trail,” advised Myand, who is aware of my river obsession. Perhaps he could see the lustful look on my face while looking at the rather strong rapids of Kanlaob. And perhaps he could also see the will to test its stubbornness with my very own body, with my very own stubbornness. With the torrents in front of us, my rather rusty frog stroke had no use. Kanlaob is no swimming pool.
“Nganong naabot man ka diri, Nong?” (What brought you here, Nong?) “Unsaon ta man, day, diri man nako nakit-an ang akong pikas sa kinabuhi (It can’t be helped, day, I found my other half here),” answered Nong Tony who has lived in Britania for 15 years. The tone he used for unsaon ta man appealed to me as a resignation: a resignation that life needs the other half to continue living, a resignation that a person must leave a place to find another for a sole reason: love.