Here the river has the right of way. The jeep crosses the water and glides into noon. Somnolent, we see shadows of coco trees But forget where they are. Then a jolt, as the jeep, its engine purring, stops to let two startled pigeons flush across and miss the fender, as does a goat that claims, Surprisingly, The right of rivers.
Ex-stasis: where one does not belong to any place, where anything can lead to something, where something can lead to nothing, where the self is not located nearby, where the self is left somewhere else. Notes on Baguio Houses constructed on mountains’ shoulders looked like painted boxes arranged drastically like they are about to stumble, somersault, and then fall, pulp into pieces on the mountain’s foot. They are like moments frozen, stilled in photographs. It reminds me of Kiran Desai’s Darjeeling’s houses: “the weight of more concrete pressing downward had spurred the town’s lopsided descent and caused more landslides than […]