<p>I wrote this for no good reason but tell me how you like it…please? ^_^</p>
<p>Note: I wrote these mini-vignettes as a reflection of my last trip to the Philippines, my native land. I have been there three times before when I was one, three, and five years old, but this was the first trip that I was actually aware of the people, culture, and environment making it more significant and memorable for me.</p>
<p>The Terminal </p>
<pre><code>The terminal
the mere mention of it is enough to remind any traveler of its busy nature. It holds a vivacious energy that permeates the air with urgency and sweeps all souls into its wild currents of time and progress. There is no shelter or refuge from this coming and going, because this constant movement, driving the cogs and wheels of this great processing machine, is life. Even during its lulls, its characteristic vigor lives. Although it can be discreet and is always elusive, the creature is always up with some mischief and makes it conspicuous, too. Nicks and minute cracks in the granite and marble floors from haphazard travelers high heels or travel-beaten bags; television monitors with ever changing flight reports; the constant whirring of escalators, trams, and subways: all of them, the creatures calling cards.
As frightening and manipulating it seems to be, is it really so bad? Control. The control of time, surroundings, situation, and self. The abundance or lack of it is the main question. The airport terminal is probably one of the most, if not the most, animated social institutions to exist. It demands total sovereignty over its people. You cannot enter the domain without surrendering part of yourself to it. Call it a mandatory sacrifice of self in order to find self. The system of coming and going seems mundane and automated; after all, you dont do anything important. But that is precisely it! You dont do anything! It is the interim, the stage between phases, the period between arrival and departure, the hazy existence between death and rebirth. The terminal, as a monster or a relentless machine that churns people in and out, is a cruel processor indifferent to your feelings. However, as an entracte or a gateway between there and here or the past and present, it is a benign soul, a transformer. Either way: so ends the me that was there, so begins the me that is here.
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<p>Impromptu</p>
<pre><code>The night clung to the weighty humid air as if rebelling against the impending dawn. Only societys murmur colored the canvas of silence. The cool black-blue of night was a comfort to the tired traveler. The gentle suggestion of sleep and rest was tempting and well welcomed. However, the sterile white light that surrounded the outdoor waiting area as well as the rigid, extremely uncomfortable plastic chairs broke the sweet spell of night and cursed the poor child with an exhausted consciousness. Probably, it was better this way. At least she would take in minute details not often noticed. Everything seemed so insignificant, though. After a 16-hour long flight, who would want to be awake? Never mind that she was finally in the country of her fathers and mothers. Never mind that she had returned to the origin of her roots. She was awake the whole 16 hours and wanted to sleep. It was only imperative that she meet all of her family here before returning to her normal but foreign life. But why wouldnt her body let her sleep? Why? Was it by divine intervention that her body was compelled to keep her awake? Was it because of sensory confusion? Who knows? The girls narrow mind only pondered these things oblivious to the smells of food carts during their graveyard shift runs; the rounder, narrower beams of light illuminating roads and highways; the foreign but familiar language being spoken everywhere; and the feeling of familiarity despite unfamiliarity. Maybe she took it for granted; maybe she didnt care; or maybe she was too tired to notice.
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<p>Origins</p>
<pre><code>There is a tree that Filipinos call niyog. In English, its your plain coconut tree. For us, we call it the tree of life. They grow everywhere: the mountains, beaches, grasslands, the jungles, and cities. It is easy to maintain, provides many natural materials, and the roots go deep. A favorite game that my cousins and I had were to throw very old coconuts into the sea and watch them float away. We knew that they were really coconut seeds. Every time we played this game, we always imagined that our coconuts would float away to new lands and grow. Oh, the stories we used to tell! Kuya Ryans coconut would go on its way to Australia but get eaten by the sharks in the Great Barrier Reef. Ate Lyn-Lyns coconut would land in Zamboanga where Lola (Grandma) Mohen lived and grow big coconuts for her. Mine, however, would always land in the US so that I could climb up the tree and eat coconuts as many times as I wanted. My coconut never really landed here, but then again maybe it did. Perhaps my coconut never needed to land here.
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<p>It has been over thirteen years since that day at the beach, but the memory is as vivid as if it had only been yesterday. Indeed, that coconut was a seed. It was the coconut of memory: my memory.</p>