A time for coming, you see. I don’t know what kind of convolution occurred at my neighbor’s brain, but they started acting like zombies, started walking like zombies, started talking like zombies.
Yesterday, they picked up the phone in the telephone booth, and started talking about really strange things. Actually, I was not sure if they were really talking about something at all, I was not even sure they were really talking:
“Hoophoop. UUUU SASASASASASA uuuuuuuuu bubububu uuuu shshsh uussh uussh uussh. Gagagagag uuuuu gagagaga sasasasasa.”
That, in nerve-wracking repetition. About six minutes of repetition, six minutes of that strangeness.
And then, as I kept walking, along the dead alleys, the poor straits of Magsaysay, I saw this man with no shirt on, an ukay-bought Lee pants, greasy hands and yellow teeth. He was awkwardly looking at me, I don’t know why. He must have been out of his mind. But I was wrong.
“You look strange Miss.” He said to me, despite two meters of separation and his teeth.
“From what place are you? I haven’t seen someone like you for a while now.”
Dementia or stupidity? Neither. I think he was wondering about my blue hair band, my “Philippines is for Filipinos’ shirt” and my journal notebook.
“What is that notebook for?”
Notebooks, keepers of memories, thoughts, reflections, opinions, grievances.
- I hate Math 1 and refuse to read Wellek and Warren.
- July 19 could be just another flop, you know, one-time big-time, spooky walk-out day. People should walk-out because they believe, not because it sounds cool for a UPian.
- My mom has not answered my calls, I guess it’s the profusion of rain and the betrayal of signals.
- Why an armed revolution?
- It’s a boring 7am class
- Because we can’t go on, we must not go on with impoverished minds, empty pockets, empty stomachs, empty souls. And private things only underscores the economic differences.
- Falcon is not so poetic.
- Lousy beatles, Bieber’s green
Love Oprah and Charlie Sheen
Everything today is america
So, asa Pilipinas ka pa ba?
I remember my classmate during high school. He had nice pens, a nice bag, an expensive highlighter, but no notebook. Even just one notebook. I envy him, US-made pen, US-made highlighter, US-made bag. But his having no notebook, and me, cheating on my teacher’s lame lecture, scribbling about Rizal’s possible homosexuality, Bush’s real terrorism, my mother’s books about Marxism, I feel like I am the more enviable. Notebooks are a space of creations for me, spacing against the currencies, spacing against the voices that are heard.
And my unenviable US-made classmate, he is fond of his little corner in the classroom, that corner nearest to the United Nations chart in the classroom.
“Ahm this notebook? This is for my memories, my thoughts, my reflections, my opinions, my grievances.”
“Oh I see. I don’t need that, I don’t have them, thoughts, reflections, opinions, grievances. I have TV Patrol and Mike Enriquez and Manila Bulletin doing that for me.”
“Ok. I really need to get going now, I need to buy some more notebooks. Nice to hear from you.”
And I gave a frown to the wind, and muttered tempered repulse with it, TV Patrol, Mike Enriquez, Manila Bulletin, I hope time will come when they don’t operate through filters, and they will be more honest. And so I return to my proud walk, brown america’s cold version is still asleep, but zombies are slowly emerging from a red death.