When I was a kid we used to hang out in the open attic of my friend’s house in Baguio. It was called the pugad — bird’s nest — because it was a warm safe haven, yet we could see all the way down through pine trees and street lights, and all the way up–branches and falling stars. In Tuding, we counted 637 falling stars in one night.
I met C in Palawan because he owned the dive shop we were diving with. And I guess it was an artificial love affair — how could you think with a straight head when you’re diving off limestone cliffs and drinking beer under a full moon, kissing sweetly in a pink purple blue sunset haze?
The secret of a good gig is that you never remember it, because you’re having such a good time playing the music that it all just whizzes past you. So yeah, I remember that when we played at the Roxy for my birthday Barb dyed my hair purple, glued fake glitter eyelashes on and adjusted my knee high boots. And I signed CDs and drank rum diet cokes. But the “is this thing on?” buzz from the amplifier, the guitar sustain, the driving beat, the 10 foot stage, my booming voice–it seemed like it just lasted for a second. A good second. No, a great second.
I’ve gone bungy-jumping in Bali, parasailing in Chamonix, SCUBA diving in Malaysia, spelunking in Sagada. But when I think of great, heart-gripping moments, nothing gets my adrenaline going faster than an airport. A tarmac, a moving walkway, conveyor belts, the snap of your suitcase handle, the roar of rushing engines. The idea that you’re going somewhere–anywhere else. Or the idea that you’re coming home.
My Boni apartment was red, black and white. It was like a Japanese Zen poster. We had parties in it and once I saw alligators drawn on the walls. I liked listening to my French Berlitz CDs in my room when the weekends rolled around. I liked turning the airconditioner on and I liked dreaming of my future. Then I started living my future and realized I liked dreaming about it better.
Flash Fiction Rejects from 2004