Not all Saturday mornings are like this, with sunlight streaming through the tattered bedroom blinds, and into my room. I keep my eyes closed, seemingly enveloped in the unusually inviting warmth of light-blue floral bed sheets. Outside, the world seems to have come to a temporary halt. The sound of over-speeding cars, the whirring of truck engines, and the ear-splitting urgency of the daily ambulance siren are absent today.  No distant cries of street children, just silence.

     I could hear myself think for the very first time in long time. As I open my eyes, the same old wall of chaos greets me. The wall doesn’t really make much sense anymore, what with the overlapping handwriting and random emoticons (all of which are written in blue permanent marker ink. I know, I should have used multi-colored hi-liters). However, above that plethora of nonsense is a quote that says: A poet wakes up in lines. I don’t think there are any lines today though, just the sun, silence, and warm-hugging bed sheets. There are no lines, though all these things remind me of him. Yes, Jacob. He loves everything about suns, silences, and warm hugs. Or at least he used to.

      I dismiss that last statement, I do not like thinking about him that way, in the concept of “used to”. With a sigh, I pull the blanket over my head again. Today, there will be no room in my mind for negativity. I reckon that’d be a waste.

                                                  ***
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How many times have we, the Filipino people, braved the storms?

In 2006, our country was rendered helpless by the super typhoon Milenyo, and then next, we suffered from the relentless gales of typhoon Reming. Some years later- the year is 2009-, we find ourselves, face to face yet again with another force of nature – the tropical storm, Ondoy, which was, to our dismay, followed closely by typhoon Pepeng.

Many of our brothers and sisters, both the rich and the poor, found that they could not escape Ondoy’s and Pepeng’s merciless grasp. For days, our streets were flooded with black, murky and muddy water. There were not enough life boats, and the rescue teams lacked valuable man power. Supplies and rations were fast disappearing. The prospect of a better tomorrow seemed bleak to some, pointless to others, and hopeless to the majority. Lives were shattered, and the once seemingly solid futures were questioned.

The Philippines was drowning.

THIS WAS WRITTEN FROM THE STOMACH

            I was born hungry. I was born in a shack, cold and damp. I was born right into the giant grasp of poverty; of hunger. When, like so many of the children who were born at the exact second I was, I cried for milk, my mother, like any mother, took me in her arms, and rocked me, slowly, gently. She held me close, and I could feel her rough hands, that were shaking from labor, run across my face, in an attempt to soothe me. But I was hungry. I was desperately hungry. And so, no matter what comfort my mother offered, I simply cried louder. My lungs were pierced with air that carried the fetid scent of blood, sweat, trash, and rat urine. My stomach, little as it was, shouted, demanded that I be fed; demanded that warm, smooth milk enter my body.

            And then my mother started crying.

The Painter

They have asked me to do that which I consider as impossible; improbable.

Ah! These foolish men! They think that to wield the brush is an exact art, one governed by certain rules of science. No. They are wrong; for to wield a tool as noble as the brush is to master the ability of one’s hands. You must be calm. Shaking hands and trembling fingers will only ruin your masterpiece. You must exude an aura of confidence. You must be able to breathe life into the colors that you have befriended, must let them glide across your canvass freely.

These men, they also think that I know everything in the field of the arts. They are mistaken. For I only know that when you paint, your mind must not be restricted, must not be caged. I only know that if you let Blue streak out smoothly, just as the sky above you does, but do not forget that it must too, be savage, inconsistent, just as the sea before you is, then you will achieve realism. And if you let Red sound his war drums in the morning, then in the evening, lay him to rest; let him speak of love and passion, you will understand the magnitude of his voice. I only know that each color, each hue and shade is different; utterly unique, and that you must handle each one with reverence, and with respect.

But, ah, truly they have asked me to do that which I consider impossible; improbable.