When procrastination becomes a habit, it is high time to put an end to it. My writing assignments, imposed and academic, are piling up. I could not bring myself to put thoughts into words. This online abode, which I usually update once or twice a week, had a silent August. And, yes, I have not traveled for three months. Perhaps that is the reason. Why do I travel? I travel to write. Traveling becomes an essential writing process. Although it is always a constant struggle with words, traveling makes the struggle tolerable, less imposing. Writing is a solitary act. And […]
Writing about one’s hometown starts with lovely ruralish images—bordering between innocent homesickness and cheap tourism—and ends with a tormenting confession. I used to have motion sickness. Raised in farmlands and having mountains for playgrounds, the city was like the American Dream to the young me. I didn’t even know the existence of America then. Let memory bring the Tuburan that I knew, and let the present disrupt this memory. This will be a series of thoughts, recollections, confessions that may reveal the regrets and longings of my childhood home: Tuburan.
I wonder sometimes about the merit of that miraculous tenacity, that adherence to a lost landscape and a senescent language. A case could be made that they would have been better off melting into the landscape as no doubt many now forgotten did, adopting native tongues, stories, places to love, ceasing to be exiles by ceasing to remember the [place] they were exiled from so that they could wholly embrace the [place] they were in. Only by losing that past would they lose the condition of exile for the place they were exiled from no longer existed, and they were […]