Stercus Accidit


And also some seemingly random words:

  • Reading Skyrim
  • Playing the Hunger Games
  • Washing the plants
  • Watering the dog
  • Bathing the dishes

The Colors of Home

And so I woke up late, with a brown dog as my alarm clock.

This is an account of what I officially consider as my first day of the so-called “summer vacation;” and, Seven Hells, it is really hot.

The sky was clear and blue and bright. I woke up at 11:21am, nearing noon. I woke up to my dachshund wiener hanging and sniffing on the side of my green-and-orange bed, eager to cuddle and drool over my hand. I woke up to several text messages from a close/dear high school friend, Ares. Contrary to his name, Ares was a very kind and thoughtful person. We were friends in third year high—one of my best friends really, along with Den Mark (no, not the country). We three used to have a very tight bond (no, there was no glue): playing cardstong-it at the back of the classroom while the teacher prattled on and on and on about how the Nitrogen Cycle works; loudly singing old/ancient corny songs inside the classroom—Filipino, Pangasinense and English alike—just to irritate our classmates; listening, playing, and singing to the same kind of music (no doubt there; he is a good musician, schooled in his notes and tone); and ogling at girls and doing ninja moves practicing the art of the eagle-eye ninjutsu, just to name a few.


He was asking if I’d still go to their place, the neighbouring town, Binmaley—a 15-minute bus ride from Lingayen. As my usual reply to those who ask, I texted back “Later” and “I’ll see.” It was a lazy and scorching hot day. Twelve hours of sleep and nothing much to do after (well, except for that unsure invitation/visit to Ares’ place). So I got up, had lunch, exchanged some few words with Dad, and did what any sensible human being would do during a scorching hot day like this: sleep. Again (Isn’t that what humans do?). It was like making up for the lost sleep during the last semester. And by the Seven, it was satisfying.

Now, it was just a few-minute nap, and as I woke up again, and there were several messages from Ares. Ghaaad, this guy’s persistent. I thought of ways on how to wriggle my way out of the invitation—I was that lazy. But what brought my gears spinning was his reply that his parents were expecting me, and being an ideal Filipino, I live up to expectations (cough, cough). So I scuttled my way out of bed and heat, and hauled myself to the white and dark brown bathroom. Jaysus, the water was clear and rejuvenating. Unfortunately, my refreshing salvation from the heat was short-lived. Knowing that the guy I’d meet was a musician, I chose to wear my signed black Up Dharma Down shirt, hopeful that Ares would recognize the band and be envious (mehehe). But of course, that’s how we roll after four whole years of not seeing each other. I also thought black was appropriate because the real reason I should have visited them (Ares and his family) was because his younger brother recently died from cancer of the bone (jeez, that’s got to hurt). Unfortunately, the burial was yesterday, and I only got home last night. So to make it up to him, I hurriedly tried to meet him at a small mall in their town.

The sky was light orange. I arrived there at the exact time we talked about, late afternoon. And by late, I also meant that Ares was late. When he arrived, he said that he just came from band practice at church. Wow, good for him, still handling instruments and playing with a band. He was wearing a faded-out brown-striped shirt I vaguely recognized. Then we proceeded to his service vehicle: a dirty-grey tricycle—his family’s tricycle. He drove home and I rode at the back so we could talk some before we touched down at his place. The road to theirs was asphalt, but there were no pavements; there were fishponds and fishponds and houses and fishponds. We reached our destination and disembarked the vessel. We entered a short laet (alley) between two painted houses (I think one was blue and one was pink). We were immediately greeted by people sitting on a bed made of dark-brown-varnished bamboo, gathered around playing scrabble. It was Ares’ family: his lola (Magandang hapon po!), his mom (Magandang hapon po!) and some kids I took for his cousins. Their house was very, very modest: walls of unpainted and minimally concreted hollow blocks, a shiny and untiled concrete floor, a roof of yero (I’ll have to search what yero is in English, sorry). He let me sit on their low bamboo couch (It was relaxing, in a way, for a change), he sat in on the stairs of the elevated floorin front of me and we exchanged a couple of stories. He also brought out his guitar, the same old “fat” light-brown guitar we used to play with, so we could exchange the music we listened to and played nowadays. It was only then that this guy asked me if he could stay at our place for the night! Man, this guy was good—inviting me to his place so his parents would almost certainly allow him to come with me home!I was silently filled with smiles and laughs. It was early evening when his father arrived (Magandang gabi po, tito!). There was a few exchange of words and condolences for the loss of their son. At the end of the conversation, Ares asked the jackpot question, and of course, he was permitted to sleep at our place. Immediately, he packed some of his things and changed clothes. It was only then that he reminded me that the faded-out shirt he was wearing earlier was the same brown-striped shirt I gave him years ago. How nostalgic.

The sky was black. And so by seven in the evening, I said my thanks and farewells to his family, and we walked our way back to the center of town where we can ride a bus or jeep to back Lingayen. Ares brought his “fat” light-brown guitar with him. Insert more stories in between. After disembarking from the jeepney, I suggested we walk the rest of the way home. We took a longer but more scenic route, a route where we strolled down the dirty-red-brickedboulevard (of unbroken dreams). Even though the night was dark (though not full of terrors), the memories were as vivid and warm as the noon sun. This was the same place where all of us would pass by; this was the mango tree that we used to throw shoes at, so some unripe green mangoes would fall off (yes, we threw our shoes at the fruits); this was the place where we used to peel the mangoes with a small knife and eat them with very contorted and sour faces; this was the place where we used to spend our orange after-school hours, just sitting at the bark-brown benches or rolling on the deep-green grass, telling each other  stories and dreams and problems and ambitions; this was the short tree which we would pick its sharp yellow-green leaves and chase each other, stabbing each other’s napes with the point of the leaf, laughing and shouting like the carefree children that we were. Look at how tall the trees have grown. Look at how long the leaves have grown. Look at how the mangoes have gone. Look at how big we have grown. But look at how exact and same the place has been, just like a few years ago, silently waiting for us to always come back and poke each other with leaves or throw things at the mangoes or just roll on the grass in the same dirty-red-bricked boulevard. We reached home. I was home.


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For the record

A lot of things has happened the past week, thus, to account for all of it, this post.

As much as i want to express myself, i will avoid being sentimental because i know there will be more time for sentimentality, but that time isn’t now.

There isn’t much documentation for the past week. The reason, i think, is because i chose to enjoy the moments rather than to take time and capture it. But if there’s someone to thank, it’s someone i consider to be a new found friend.

I think i stop here. More to come. Ciao.

SHOTURDAY 4: Summer and Soul

As much as i want to add something or comment on this or put this on a billboard with a sexy picture of Sitti, nothing beats this guys writing ninjutsu. Thus i won’t be adding or commenting anything (i may put this on a billboard tho). *insert dramatic salute here*


It happened on a Saturday night when there were no stars on the dark sky and the moon was veiled by the clouds. I alighted from a small jeepney to the side of the road facing a familiar wall that was crowned with metal protruded upward. I didn’t see him from the inside of the jeep but he had been…

I woke up.

I woke up at 7:46 am, 16 minutes late for my 7:30 start-of-the-day routine. I woke up feeling weird. I woke up with something in my chest, or better put, something that wasn’t in my chest. I woke up feeling empty. I woke up knowing something was out-of-place. I woke up thinking what was wrong. I woke up looking for the thing that was missing. I woke up without the assistance of my alarm clock! I woke up realizing that I knew this day was going to come, that I knew all along, for months and months, that this day would arrive.

I woke up to the first day of summer vacation.


(Photo taken just after writing this post.)

After having classes seven days a week (isu garud ya) for weeks and weeks and never-ending weeks, it’s really shocking to wake up realizing that you have nothing more to do. I think shocking is the word. A sense of “emptiness” washes over you like the river Lethe, only, the river has been tazered. That the daily routine of trying to organize your daily activities like heating water, taking a bath, thinking about where to eat, managing the time it takes for you to travel, deciding whether to take a jeep or taxi or just walk, reminding yourself you have quizzes and reports and major requirements to do, imagining the people you will be with for the rest of the day, and lots of other random things; that your daily routine of doing things seemingly doesn’t apply this day. Which would be okay. But then you realize that the routine won’t apply anymore for all the days to come. You feel lost. And lost. And lost. Not knowing where to pick things up. Moreover, this is my first ‘first day’ of vacation spent outside the dormitory (we were made very busy during “check-out” days, which I’ll write about some other time). So yeah, this is shocking and new to me.

And in lieu of these, the juices that used to fuel school works must be diverted…

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