Shades of Gray

(1)
Eyes
bask on the interplay of light and dark
lines—
a painting
mounted on the wall. Eyes
look closely, inspecting every stroke
of pencil and coal that trace
this imitation of reality.
The tree—
with leaves of varied shades
of gray—
stands alone in the valley
casting shadow
towards the river that flows
from the colorless mountains.

Still life
Captured in two-dimensional
monochrome.

(2)
Plugged.
Power surges through electrical wires
in a fourteen-inch red box-the successor of the radio.
It gives off light.
Two young persons come to life:
lovers walking hand-in-hand
on a bridge.
It’s a full moon’s night
and the stars are bright.
The lovers stopped as the world
and the stars stood still. (Their viewers
gasp, wondering when they will close
the gap opened by the weavers of their make-shift
fate and destiny.)
They stared into each other’s eyes. He stroke
the tangles of her hair and brushed his hand
to her cheeks,
oblivious
of everything that pulls them apart
and of the hundreds of the viewers of this red box.


They kiss
For their bliss (and their viewers’ delight).
But this whole love affair is in black
and white and this box
has no choice but to respond
to colorless electrical impulses.

Nonetheless, it captures
real life
moving in two-dimensional
monochrome.


(3)
The canvas lies ready and the artist agonizes
over the colors he’ll use
to capture her
face
(on a mirror of beauty).

She left him in a hurry
on a cold Saturday morning
when the mist hadn’t lifted and
he lingered with his art;
his thoughts were on the canvas, his eyes
perpetually stared at the gloom, discovering
traces of beauty and truth. But she
got tired of his silence and closed her eyes.

She is gone,
He admitted. But she could be back
at the narra table in his studio, sipping coffee
watching him work and melt
the colors from her
gaze and let them flow
unfazed
in his hand-held brush
caressing the canvas.

Iris.
That was her name,
she was the source of his color: not any
more. The artist stares
at his canvas. Blank. He drops
the paintbrush as he close his brown eyes
and picture Iris in his mind:
Her eyes
Her gaze
Her lips (which lent him warmth
on cold days)

Her shoulder-breadth hair as black
as the coffee that makes him awake
now. The aroma of this black
liquid can never compete with her
fragrance that filled
his lungs with air
his hand with art
his being with purpose…

His mind’s gaze locked up on her, he picks up
a pencil of charcoal to uncover
the canvas:

Iris sipping coffee
carved on a two-dimensional
monochrome.


(4)
Five o’clock in the afternoon. The bay
Is unperturbed, quietly reflecting
The orange sun dying in the west
While from the east the shadow creeps
To engulf the world in its eerie glow.

Right before the night descends and
All becomes shrouded in mystery
The sun decides to stand its last ground
As darkness strives for mastery
The colors hide, not wanting to be found.

In that period of indecision
When light mingles with the shadow
Darkness gets diluted by the glow
Of the sun. The colors fall down
They ebb into a monochromatic flow.


(5)
Click.
The call ended. I’ve given
the caller the location of the bank
he’s looking for.

(yawn)

I need coffee—blacker than this
computer—to keep my mind
going, to keep my tongue foreign-
sounding (those callers will never know
that I am a Filipino
trained to answer idiotic calls
though I have a master’s degree
in Education) so I could keep my wallet
bloated.

I stood up and went to the pantry. Simply stirring
my coffee brings back a little life
to me.

These callers ask
for directions. I don’t even know
where to go after my grave-
yard shift at two a.m. Maybe I’ll go
to a bar somewhere in Makati and drown
my insomnia in a bottle
of beer or two. Or I may just settle
with Iced tea and a hamburger then go
home with a bottomless thirst.
Life is a game
of darts but I’ve been hitting
a board with no lines, no colors,
no numbers, no bull’s eye. Always
my score is zero.

Back at my station, I can’t sit. I stood
Still. Sipping coffee from my spill-
proof mug—I seek
warmth. I embrace
myself and look at the wide expanse of black
computers and headsets. An unbearable ring
echo in my ears while an endless chatter
between callers and receivers break through
the quiet ceiling.

I drained my mug and returned
to my seat, hoping that the blackness
of the coffee I sipped would be enough
to upset the blackness before me—
the black computer, the black headset,
the black phone and the black night outside. Black
may well be my companion
till I fulfill the contract I signed
and I am set free.

(6)
The sun shines today.
This is the first time it showed
its face after a full week of raining.
The monsoon had its way and whipped
everything to submission.
Shoots, trunks, leaves and fruits—
All sorts of organic limbs couldn’t hold
Their ground. Even people’s houses—
Roofs and bamboo walls—collapsed!
The furious rain overshadowed the sun.

Until today.

Moving to Our Tenth House in Twenty Years

Heavy boxes slide on the floor—
essential things accumulated over
the years. Empty now
are the shelves, lockers and cabinets.
Two years—
of filling this space—of people living
in this seeming fortress near the church
with broken bell tower.

The weeds are tall around
the house—taller than the weeds
that litter the yard of the church
with the broken bell tower.
The plants sit quiet in front of the parsonage—
patiently,
they endured the sun, they reveled
when drenched
by the waters
from the sky, enjoyed the kisses
of the dew. Now
they shall be moved:
Moved
to a place they never knew.
The colors leave
this house today.

Rooted,
how can the trees be moved? They refuse
to leave though they want to. They cannot
unless they are cut
down to the roots.

Cabinets and chairs, the washing machine and the fridge,
the tables and racks, dividers—all
lined up on the lawn, waiting
impatiently for yet another moving—
and this is not the final one—
just a part of a tired routine,
endless moving, never setting
down on a single place for a long time.
It goes on, we move,
we arrive, only to move
again and again to another place. Today we shall arrive
to another house—
beside a church—
never our own.

biyahe

kanina pa akong alas nuebe y kinse nandito sa Kamias terminal ng Victory, isang oras bago ang aking biyahe. Bumaba ako sa taxi pagkatapos akong iabot sa tsuper ang isandaang piso. Ang mahal na talaga ng pamasahe ngayon. Isinabit ko ang backpack ko sa aking mga balikat, binitbit ang isa pang bag at nagtungo sa hintayan kung saan may TV at may mga upuan.
Andaming tao! Sabagay, malapit nang matapos ang bakasyon at marami na ring nag-uuwian. May mga mangilan-ngilan ding tila first time pa lang magpunta sa Cagayan Valley. Pagkatapos ng ilang buwan, makakauwi na rin ako sa wakas. Lalayo muna sa kaiingles sa call center at muli ay makikipag-usap sa mga kakilala, kaibigan at kamag-anak sa aking katutubong wika: Ilocano. Nakatutuwang isipin na minsan, marami nang mga salitang Ilocano na 'di ko maintindihan. Ewan ko nga ba... siguro dahil na rin sa pagtira ko sa Manila ng mahigit apat na taon simula nung pumasok ako sa kolehiyo. Kahit na, gusto ko pa ring isang manunulat na Ilocano. Marami nga lang akong dapat saliksiking mga salita.
Pang-ilang biyahe ko na ba to?
Ewan... di ko na mabilang. Pati nga ang pagtaas ng pamasahe, di ko na rin kayang bilangin. Ngayon P521.00 na ang pamasahe pauwi sa bayan namin. samantalang nung first year ako sa UP, P290 lang. Ambilis talaga ng panahon.
Ang buhay isa rin daw biyahe, yun nga lang, di mo na kelangang bumili ng ticket para makasakay. At ang biyahe ng buhay walang karatula na magsasabi kung saan ito patungo: walang naiilawang sign board na ang nakalagay ay "Tuguegarao" o kaya ay "Roxas." Buti kapag pauwi ka lang sa probinsiya, alam mo ang daan, o at least, tiwala ka sa driver na dadalhin ka sa probinsiya mo: kagaya nito, sa Isabela ang uwi ko. Bukas ng umaga, mga alas otso, alam kong darating ako sa aming bahay. O kaya kung patungo ka naman sa Maynila mula sa probinsiya, alam mo na bababa ka sa Cubao o kaya sa Quezon Avenue at magtataxi nalang patungo sa mismong pintuan ng apartment o boarding house mo. Alam mo pa mga kantong dadaanan mo. Eh sa buhay, andaming kalye, andaming daan, walang iisang highway--napakarami. At kung saan ka tutungo, bahala ka! Bawat pagpapasya sa bawat araw ay isang pag-usad sa inaasam na patutunguhan. Yun nga lamang, kung nais mong manatili na rin sa kung nasaan ka na, nasasayo pa rin ang pagpapasya. Kung may signboard lang sana ang buhay, o kaya may drayber na mapagkakatiwalaan.
Ako ang drayber... ngunit saan ako patungo?

Ewan, basta ngayong gabi, nasa bus ako ng Victory at paggising ko bukas ng umaga, alam kong nandoon na ako sa aming probinsiya.