Skip to main content

Summer in December

a


The cold was getting uncomfortable. It had been a welcome surprise to get some cool weather and clear skies during the day. Because it suddenly felt like Christmas, I wore a bright red shirt. I had seen busy people already leaving their cares behind, trooping to some important party that cannot be missed, gifts hastily wrapped in tow, the afternoon sun smiling upon them. But I had work to do. I checked papers in the afternoon, something I need not do till next year. I stifled a yawn every now and then, unable to understand why coffee could not keep me awake. I also could not understand what I was doing, or why I was doing what I was doing. What was I doing in school hours before I would give an exam? Am I happy? The bell rang for the last time, much to the relief of those who were still having classes, ordering littered rooms, and waiting for the end of their weariness. Students walked hurriedly and excitedly to their cars while chatting about some exam they had or where they were to go for a rather late dinner. I slowly approached my car, savoring the chill I was not quite familiar with in a place that could be as hot as hell the rest of the year. I was checking my phone--Perhaps a friend might invite me for a drink or two? It was already too late to go to my favorite bar; they would be cleaning up by the time I get there and I didn't want to be a bother. They too had places to go. No messages. Warily, but still expecting, I drove home with open windows until I got to near our place where there had already accumulated a thick sheet of smog and pollution. It was already getting late yet there were still a lot of vehicles on the road. Everybody was going somewhere and I was going home to a comfortable but empty leather sofa. And I again knew what it was to be alone. I had a few drinks and then fell asleep before open windows dreaming of what may come.



30

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Fields of Amorsolo

The first National Artist in Philippine history, referred to warmly as the “Grand Old Man of Philippine Art,” Fernando Amorsolo (1892–1972) still stands today as a looming figure in Philippine art responsible for being one of the artists who helped define what we up to now visually imagine as essentially Filipino. The images of rural life, of golden fields below clear blue, blue skies; the smiles of farmers which diminish their weariness as they plant, harvest, and winnow rice;most especially the iconic figure of the Filipina maiden working in the fields—the beloved dalagang bukid--; these, I believe, even after generations of Filipino painters since Amorsolo, have remained in our hearts and memory. Amorsolo did what great masters do for their country: bestow upon it its own icons, represent its native beauty, that is, to give its people and lands an identity and a face. There are, however, as many intentions for art as there are works of art. And these intentions will always remain in…

[Payapang Daigdig]

Written by Pat Nogoy, S.J.

Payapang Daigdig Felipe de Leon, Sr. 
Ang gabi'y payapa Lahat ay tahimik  Pati mga tala      Sa bughaw na langit 

Kay hinhin ng hangin Waring umiibig          Sa kapayapaan          Ng buong daigdig     
Payapang panahon    Ay diwa ng buhay Biyaya ng Diyos       Sa sangkatauhan
Ang gabi'y payapa Lahat ay tahimik Pati mga tala Sa bughaw na langit  
Pati mga tala           Sa bughaw na langit


The gift delivers Being/being Jean Luc Marion

There is something about the night.
The blanket of darkness hovering the other half of the day sparks ambivalence. Everything is the same in darkness—fear, joy, pain, triumph, doubt, glory, sorrow. Identities recede unto the vast anonymity. There is a pervading anxiety where existence slips into nothingness. One is never certain what to make out of darkness; maybe that is why the night shakes us because we never know. One cannot avoid imagining a something that is greater, higher, mightier, (even sinister) that lurks (hence the power of ghos…

Without Why (The Rose) II

Lifetime is a child at play; moving pieces in a game.
Kingship belongs to the child.

Heraclitus, Fragment 52


The child at play never asks itself why it plays. The child just plays; and if it could, it will play as long as possible, it will play throughout its life. See its delight and witness its smile.

If it would never go hungry or if the sun would never set it too will never leave its playmates and playthings. Time flies at play because it stops or suspends time. Time -- as we grownups only know too well -- is the culprit for order, schedules and priorities; yet for the child, there is no time, there is only bottomless play. It is we who impose that this or that should be done at this or that time. We stop the absurd and supposedly endless play ("He does nothing but play") because we insist that discipline, order and priorities be instilled in the child at an early age ("He needs to learn other things beside playing"). So that the child will become like us one da…