I’ve moved into a new apartment—it overlooks Katipunan, I can see Marikina River and beyond; on clear, crisp afternoons, I can see all the way to Manila Bay and Laguna de Bay. I have been living, as that wretched song goes, so high above the ground.
The flat, since I snuggled into it last July, has struggled with four large trash bags that stand like bulwarks against one white wall. Possessions I’d then thought I’d have time to pack away, make sense of. But things happened. Complicated things we’re trying to uncomplicate—because things were said, ultimatums set, grand gestures made-rejected-forsaken. Such is fucking life.
But I must unpack—let breathe The Fortress of Solitude [on even more glib days, my Little Shoebox]. I’ll share what I’ll unearth, uncover—because, I think, I need reminding of certain truths. And because, well, with the drought of my inner life, I have to scramble to find things to share, intimate.
ABOVE: My grandmother Lily, so very beautiful, sitting on a rock [?], smiling-nibbling on some barbecue. Behind her, my grandfather’s aunt Harriet. And that’s my grandfather Robin in the foreground, in the polo shirt that matches his denim bellbottoms; that shaggy hair; and, oh, what could only be a bottle of San Mig Pale in his hand.