Year 2004-2005

Barrio Tale: Colors
They come to me in hours before sleep. My spirit summons the people I grew up with, now dying one by one. I'd like to sleep thinking about them while my memory is still intact, before I get depressed and take Zoloft or Prozac; or worse, before I submit my brain to dementia. In that case, just throw away the memory of my barrio because nobody will talk about it anymore, and we'd all be buried in the annals of oblivion.

Tonight, I want to fall asleep thinking about my barrio folk especially when I'd never see them again. I paint them in my imagination, in charcoal sketches at times, I, feeling like Kurosawa. But most of the time, I paint them in watercolors like the paintings of whatever his name is...the French guy who went to Tahiti and painted the natives, yeah, that one. See, my memory is faltering more and more each day, that's why I write these barrio tales. Sooner or later I'd be merely suggesting my stories, in fact, I may eventually fictionalize my stories, and I might even assume you know half of what I am about to tell. Ain't that the worst story teller? The one who says, "I am telling you the story of Pedro Penduko, the one who...you know his story don't you? The one who...what did he do again?"

Color, that is what I like about my tropical barrio. God blessed us with abundant sun so it's full of green leaves and colorful flowers and fruits. In my barrio, the people gave importance to colors so they competed fiercely in exhibiting them, the louder and more neon they were, the better. My mother was a tough competitior in this arena. At the time we still possessed large backyard and lawn, my mother made sure that whatever plants and flowers and vegetables the neighbors had, she had them too. Our house was virtually a museum of colors: multi-colored leaves of san francisco surrounded by red, yellow and white flowers of bougenvillas. Leading to the door were pink and red gumamelas. In corners of the yards were violet duhat berries. Lining the fences were nine coconut trees, two acacia trees, two narras. Then in her balcony were assorted roses and sampaguitas and gardenias and damas de noche. Then there were the creepers, the lilies that climbed the walls, a virtual feast for snakes and other creepers.

And when the day pours the light of the sun, my mother would open the windows and doors to let the fragrances of sampaguitas, gadenias and ylang-ylang enter the house.

And she'd make sure her curtains were made of colorful batik.

To the chagrin of my minimalist father.

Whatever color my mother liked, my father hated. Whatever color my father liked, my mother hated.

Like everything else in their lives.

Guess what, they fought everyday.

So when they'd start screaming at one another, I'd go to the bathroom, which was nothing but a separate little house in the middle of the river, it had a small hole, and through that hole, everything was expelled to the river.

The river was so full of nutrients that when the rain stopped and the water became stagnant, waterlilies would spring overnight, and these waterlilies had the most beautiful flowers that were light to dark lavender in color.

And these flowering lilies competed against kangkong(another lily) for space. And kangkong was one I cut to feed to the pigs.

We had the most healthy pigs in this side of Philippines. Thanks to kangkong.

This I'd think while I expelled another load of my shit.