Kathatonia

I saw an old man on the train today.

He had a sign hung around his neck. Scrawled across the flimsy cardboard were the words “Please help, money for medicine. 3x heart attack survivor.” There were medical documents plastered below these words. He was holding a cloth with a wooden handle that served as his receptacle.

He was in the middle part of the coach when I got on at Ayala Station. I watched him inch his way towards the end of the coach to where I was standing. The train jerked as it sped up and I held on to the pole for balance. Some of the people he passed gave him coins. I only have about a minute before the train reaches the next station. I quickly took out a P20 bill from my wallet, change from the lunch I just had with my officemates. I put the money in his bag after a lady in white put some coins in. The old man murmured his thanks. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you to everyone who are helping me,” I heard him say as I was about to step out of the coach and onto the platform.

I saw an old man on the train today. He had sadness in his tired eyes. But there was something else there, too. I could see it and hear it in his voice.

He had hope.

And if a three-time heart attack survivor can hold his head up and has hope burning inside his chest, then I must keep my own hopes ablaze, with the flames reaching higher and the heat searing every part of my life.

Wild hope.

I will hold on to it, not just for today.

(Source: kathatonia)

It was a Friday night, the first Friday of the New Year, and I was about to head home feeling half-relieved and half defeated over not having anything planned for the night. It was a rollercoaster ride, the year that just finished, and I told myself to slow down for awhile to reassess my life before I dive into that pool again.

As I was nearing the terminal, I felt a sudden surge of spontaneity get hold of my feet, pulling at them to the direction of the nearest Starbucks. I just bought a copy of Reader’s Digest Commemorative issue and the thought of spending an hour or two reading was irresistible. While this little voice was talking I was fully aware that I was making a small circle as I spun in place, indecisive for a few seconds, as people who just crossed the street avoided a collision with a girl in mid-calf boots. 

I gave in and sauntered towards where this shared sanctuary was, smiling to myself because I listened to my own impulses. I need this quiet time alone. I miss reading. And if I want to write more, I need to read more, I thought. The things I discover when reading has always fascinated me and writing came naturally after that.

I walked in and was glad to see my favorite spot, a corner high table that’s partially hidden, unoccupied. The barista was all smiles as I told him to give me the short White Chocolate Mocha with a ham and cheese croissant. He thought I was a call center agent getting my caffeine fix for the night. I politely said no and smiled back.

I plunked down my hollow block of a bag and sat on the wooden high chair, already looking forward to reading. As my order was set on the table (aah, the things you enjoy using your womanly charm), I eagerly opened the magazine and tried to pick what story to read first.

I let myself go for the next one and a half hours, giving all my attention to the printed words in front of my eyes. I had nothing else to think or worry about. I felt the little knots in my head untangle themselves as I read about the Titanic, George Haley and a boy who got “a kind of magic” in the form of carbon paper as a Christmas gift. They were stories from another century which offered imagination and nostalgia, an uncomplicated time when I believe people were more in the moment.

It was pure solitude. My mind was cleared of the clutter that the work days tended to make, my senses suddenly more keen to the soft yellow lights, the smell of coffee, the jazz music in the background. The chatter around me sounded more like a hum, blending into the music and the whir of the blender. I settled back in my seat and people-watched while draining the last dregs of my coffee.

Feeling inspired and in a haze, I finally got out of there by 8:30PM. The night was still young. I inhaled deeply and let it fill my lungs while walking, the air still with a hint of the holidays. On the way home, Ryan Tedder’s voice filled my ears with Mercy as I looked out through the window and watched white stripes dart in and out of sight; the trees, concrete and lights, celestial and incandescent, blurring into one enormous symphony. 

It was a Friday night well spent.

Since I had a day off from work today, I went out to pamper myself a bit. After getting my nails done, I decided to stay a while in Starbucks and spend some quiet time. I was looking for something to read while sipping my white chocolate mocha and I saw this copy of Travelife magazine lying on the chair behind me. I picked it up and started browsing and came across this article entitled “Into the Heart of a City”, with a picture of people waiting to get into an MRT coach. As I was reading the first few paragraphs, it reminded me of myself late last year when I came back from the province after staying there for a few months.

Here’s an excerpt from the article by Gabby Malvar:

“Manila is not easy to like. Even those who swear by it cannot claim love at first sight. It doesn’t put its best foot forward, doing itself no favors. It tends to disappoint from the first handshake, and impressions - formed as early as when visitors step into an inferior airport or see shanties lining the streets to their accommodations - are difficult to overcome. The odds are stacked against it, and there’s little chance of courting affection. 

Observers point out the lack of landmarks - a Forbidden City, a Tower of London or a Merlion, if you will - that encapsulate what it is. But Manila is not typified by monuments. More than just an anthology of sights, it begs to be experienced. To understand its complexities, one must get around, not stay confined in one sector like Intramuros. Its story lies throughout the breadth of the capital, across different municipalities and districts. The city reveals itself only to those who put in time and effort. And those who have are pleasantly surprised.

Beyond the coarse exterior, it’s genuinely warm and engaging.

And when the city loses itself in its throbbing pulse, it begins to dance. It is complex, a bedlam of pirouettes, dips and struts - pedestrians waltz across the streets with total disregard for safety and consideration, self-obsessed models swagger the entire extent of ramps, cars and motorbikes fly at intersections long after the traffic light’s red eye has stared down vehicles to a halt, an aspiring cager glides to the basket’s rim in a makeshift backstreet court. Manila is both dancer and percussionist.

Chaos is this city’s signature. Contrived and boring? Definitely not. The pulsating din is the sound of the city accommodating its diversity. Always threatening to but never bursting at the seams, it contends with 11 million aspirations trying to establish individual marks. It can never be anything else. To comprehend it is to embrace its uniqueness, not compartmentalize it in comprehensible concepts and headings. Only then will Manila make sense. The worst disservice is to view it with cookie-cutter eyes and expect a Singapore, a Kyoto or a Kuala Lumpur.

This is how you get to know a city: to drown in the abundance of idiosyncrasies, to embrace the bad along with the good. It is not enough to admire her best features. One must take everything else: skinny legs, warts and all. Then maybe you begin to love it.” 

WOW. This is just amazing. There are no words. I am hunting for more written works of Gabby Malvar. He is now one of my heroes. <3