Vera

The path is wild, riddled with moss and marsh and seemingly dry, thin pine trees, their leaves only on the top parts, closer to the light. The sun’s minimal here, clearly. But the moss and grass and ferns are a universe of their own. Like walking on satin. The higher we climbed, the more the moss gave way to blueberries. We were walking on blueberries. We snacked on them, marveled at them, laughingly thought we’re fruit pickers now, and oh, how many euros we would have earned per hour. Blueberries upon blueberries upon blueberries.

We shed the hastiness of booking hotels and going on road trips at every instance of a long weekend. I embraced the satisfaction to be found from staying put. There is nothing we are missing. It's here, right in our kitchen and living room and loft living room and bedrooms and dining room and billiards room and pantry and balcony and our wide, wide, wide garden, our space breathing and moving with us—a perpetual push and pull of mess and structure. I just need to settle into the nothingness of a weekend, and it can stretch itself into what feels like an entire week of pure family. Home in July, 2026

Mountain lake Djupvatnet (Deep Water), 1,016 meters above sea level, on an August day. The wind was blowing strong and cold from the nearby Blåfjell glacier. I’ve seen this place in all seasons, and it has seen our family grow from two to three, and then to four. When we have family visiting from the Philippines, we take them here—a snapshot of my new home, Norway. Travelers mostly pass by here en route to Mount Dalsnibba to view the village of Geiranger and the Geiranger Fjord. This year, we stopped at this particular spot  to eat an early dinner of sandwiches. My sister has been to Norway three times now, but this is her first time seeing Geiranger.  

 Because I do not have my own room, I find myself in too many different places in one night. And now I've grown tired of these places. People come in and out, carrying their bottles of beer or cups of coffee like trophies of independence and freedom to paint the night beautifully, unplanned. And then there are the smiles. Always those nods and smiles that make everyone feel they are not actually hanging from threads and threads of sadness, and - no matter how many stories and silent sympathies are shared - anonymity. photo by Russ, 'turtled' in drinks

My eight-hour, five-day office schedule is highlighted by Dave Matthews Band singing to wake me up and help me avoid hitting my drooping head on the computer screen. For the nth time, my headphones got busted. The left (or right) earpiece always manages to 'malfunction' itself, and I'm left with my lonely right (or left) ear blasted with songs it can never share with my left (or right) ear. I told my boss I will quit by May. And "Yes, I am decided already," and "No, there's no possibility of extending my stay. I've given this much thought already." "I admit I will be taking a risk, but better to do that than to forever wonder what I could have done more outside these office walls." "No, I can't see myself being Ms. Corporate-Communication-head in the future." "Yes, I feel more fulfilled outside." There's a song replaying a thousand times in my head, "I'm a lonely little petunia in an onion patc...

asked the woman who cut my hair. No. Of course not. Try to shut up, please, and comb my hair softly. I know it's thick, black — and you wonder why, and you ask me, like the others before, "Did you have your hair dyed?" And I say no again for the thousandth time — probably stubborn, and difficult to deal with. But I'm trying to be happy while getting lost inside SM on this extremely lonely Sunday. So please, be patient with my hair. Smile, too. Make me believe I am worth your time.

But gloomy skies have something to give in this part of the city, too. Like, for example, a reason to walk with head lowered, a pedestrian careful not to walk on deep puddles. Or, a reason to sleep early. Or, a reason to wear brown. And black. Better yet, a reason to hug oneself in layers and layers of clothing, a walking body heavy with the weight of damp, long-sleeved tops. It's my month of 2006's leftovers. People came and went. Mostly went. Men who need some time off to climb the mountains and spend time in seclusion before coming back down stripped of whatever baggage they were carrying. Sisters who will never give you their trust because "you will never grow up, can't even fix your closet and can't even arrange your books and papers." Fathers who will always have to leave, that seeing-off at the airport that perpetually signals the end of the holidays. I'd like to think that this isn't sadness. It's only that dimly lit Christmas tree, blinkin...

Graduation was when? May? April? Suddenly hurled to this they call the corporate world where I sit and escape to mp3s of poetry and Nouvelle singing about how she dances in Tokyo and London, would have invited the world to dance with her, 'there's nothing to lose, and there's nothing to prove, so I'm dancing with myself,' oh so beautiful words, and I try to look for my own reflection in the mirror, mirroring her, imagining perhaps a new pair of dancing shoes, a pair that I can use while running away from here, from this perks-laden office, away from the air conditioning and out in the sun, out in the pedestrian lane where drivers care not to stop even if I cross hastily in my black top. Is this my one year ticket? May? April? I have to wait a year, little plans for me, little plans because I have to be this or that, and what else? Oh, I have to fix myself up in every corner because that's what I'm supposed to do, comb my hair, even wear my Sunday's bes...

 The death card in a pre-Halloween party, was it called that way, did long-haired Dulce, who read my cards (my cards? something new now for wasted me with nothing I can call my own), the death card that came fourth among three other rectangles with drawings in them I can't recognize, that card which reminded me of Nanay and her skin and bones, lying there somewhere in a house I once called my house, my home. Nanay there in her sickness that ate away at her body, but not her eyes that scanned the house, or did she try to look inside of me; was she afraid, too?

Yen said, "I want to own a bed. At the top of my own roof. Under my own sky. Would your own Christ be generous enough to provide?" ...as for me, if I can't have my own room and my own bed, then I'll have them. If he'll say I'm beautiful that night, then I would be that and more... that's how much I believe in them... And if we were 17 again and were placed on separate continents, I believe we'd still meet.  

  ...are all in black. dull black on a rug left hanging, home, 2001  Last night, I went out of the house and slept inside the van for at least two hours. Ate Ivy was very much upset and angry with me (because of very much valid reasons, yes...). I felt like the house suddenly shrank like that little globe of a "lemonsito;" and, mind you, it didn't feel good inside, my senses confused whether I was the seed or the juice evaporating towards nowhere in particular. With the middle seat conveniently slapped down halfway its length, I rested my body. "I want to suffocate and die," was that cliché chant inside my head, and then out of my mouth; like those children's games with songs in them, the ones that you keep repeating, in a monotonous kind of way, the ones you absentmindedly sing in front of your breakfast plate. The fluorescent lamp of the parking area, with hazy light patterns through the tinted glass, caught my attention, and I turned to chanting, "An...

Christmas vacation has started, and I find myself restless. Last night, I had difficulty sleeping, watching shadows play on the unfinished wall in Tita Maricar's room, shifting from side to side and stubbornly refusing a blanket. Blankets at night are rare for me. Slowly breaking through the daylight -- Coldplay is literally blasting in my ears, a little piece of Jay without his selfishness in my ears, and Russ's company while he's not here, laughing and thinking with me. Songs and artists pass through me like light, something you take in without minding the science behind it. That's me. Not your typical music lover. The names and titles do not stay, just their rhythms and their stories. Yesterday, I read a book with the headphones on, an alternation of a woman's voice saying, "I will not let them ruin me," and an instrumental that sounds straight from the big screen, the soundtrack of an epic film. Lines from songs, lines from the book - they all come was...