This is around the time I. is practicing Czerny, Bach and Bartok for his recital. He plays Married Life, the theme from Up, and every time, our home is carried to Adventure Land by innumerable helium balloons. V. is practicing Somewhere Over the Rainbow for her voice lessons. The clouds are far behind us.
We've all loved music, and here it is, finding its way to love us back.
To A.,
I'm going to take advantage of the fact that the author of a book I read is on my messenger list. The entire book was highlight-worthy. An unembarrassed "catalog of endurances" embellished with well-earned gems and gold. With fond remembrance of P. (The Universal's full-orchestra opening still ringing in my head) and with gratefulness for being around and having read this book.
I enjoyed so immensely that I couldn't put it down and practically just inhaled it.
There are friendships we nurture, friendships we envy, and some we hope to rekindle further. I couldn't tell him how he's gone a long way from the Bolitas Boys, the byline they used in the school paper we wrote for, cautious that he wouldn't find humor in that anymore. It was that short, aphoristic style. So jeprox, our teacher/adviser criticized. (I don't know why I have such a penchant for remembering.)
We must all miss singing, I miss the comfort of being sad.
Writing breaks the silence of your heart. If you keep it inside, you keep digging that hole deeper. It comes out with brazen honesty. What I want to say is when the time comes, I want to go on my own, and make a brave and logical choice. Some of us find the serenity that things will no longer happen in this lifetime, or no longer want to expend any more energy to pursue such greater heights. It's not that we've given up, it's just that they've had enough. Enough joys, included. Some of us might use this as a way to escape. It shouldn't go that way. You can only go when you are fully decided to go, and for the right reasons. When those who you will leave behind also has a sense of readiness. When they're no longer be surprised by your decision.
We don't want to grow too old.
It is small change compared to a real concert, but it’s more personal and intimate. Besides, my heart is always so easily content. Stripped down, we see the skills, and not just the fireworks. Even without the communal experience or that mass concert hysteria, watching a Tiny Desk concert on your desk brings you to a captivating front-row view of the stage.
My Top 6:
Anderson Paak and The Free Nationals Yall niggaz got me hot. You drink all my liquor, come on, what am I supposed to do now?
Jorja Smith Agreed with "the drummer kills it." Her voice is still on my mind years later.
Monsieur Periné Oh, they're not French? They got horns. They do that dip during the doo doop doo doop. Bueno bueno bueno bueno bueno bueno bueno. Damas y caballeros... spectacular... banda... de Colombia.. Monsieur Perine!
The Roots feat. Bilal The tuba player, yo.
BTS Add Dynamite to a running playlist and your pace will almost certainly explode.
Six The Musical With beats so sick they'll give you gout.
The air was crisp at at 5:45am. Around this time, it's still refreshing. It's Sunday and the streets are empty, having and giving us rest. I'm minding the road but I've zoned out the rest of the world. It's quiet, save for the faint hum of 25c wheels rolling on the asphalt, the snap of shifters, chains rotating through the 8-speed sprocket. The wind's on my face, my heart's pacing to a faster beat. The city is sleepy. There's a dew of sweat on my forearms. I rode a short loop with small climbs around Rockwell Bridge and Ayala Triangle, dropping by D.'s house in Mandaluyong, with a short coffee break for a flat white at the cafe near Legaspi Park.
I'm back home early enough for pan de sal and Sunday morning with my family.
In the evening, the beer is naturally cloudy with notes of coriander and orange peel. 500ml with a few pages of non-fiction.
It's a very short ride, relatively a smaller quantity of alcohol and an even shorter time to read, but my heart is full and content.
If the streets could express themselves, they would would have spoke of their anxiety. In terrible traffic, every inch of space is fought for. The noise of engines are incessant. The cars are getting bigger, motorcycles are whizzing in between, and lines of even bigger trucks are still catching-up on their backlogs (due to a global supply chain crisis) on the way to and from the pier. The good old jeeps still stop in the middle of the street, at their own whim, and unloading anytime, anywhere along our potholed pavements, around smelly sewers and we can't walk on pedestrian lanes because the vendors are there.
If the streets could speak they would spoke of their nostalgia for days when our society shut itself out, when everybody was holed up at their homes. The streets were quiet, the air (in the meantime) was more breathable, and the streets were not stinking of sewage, a cocktail of human sweat and colognes, gas burning from combustion engines, all of which you can smell through face masks. The streets were not spilled with everyone's anxiety, marching on to their daily hustle.
The streets must be sick of all of us.
