kalantiaw, after the rain, #2

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kalantiaw, after the rain, #2
Originally uploaded by Jun Cruz Na Ligas.

was in katipunan ave during last night's heavy heavy heavy downpour, waded through knee-deep water in these three-year-old ukay-ukay adidas, yet again seeng me through a crazy night of wind and rain. it rained so hard that i was actually squinting as i walked thorugh the rain. the water was so high that they actually blocked the avenue from that DAVID PLACE condo up to AURORA (that's KATIPUNAN to LIBIS, from UP. they even opened the ateneo gates just to accomodate the traffic. the whole katipunan community was pitching in to ease the sufferring, topless men soaked by the rain pushing and pulling cement blockades out of the way, so traffic could slip by the U-curves into the other lane. i was socks-less and wet wet wet (mas naligo pa'ko nu'n sa ulan kesa nung umaga sa banyo) and sore and my jaws were tired from all the shivering and chattering it was doing, on account of the cold cold rain. it was like in one of those end-of-the-world movies. i kept expecting to see a holographic mothership along the horizon, or maybe tea leoni's corpse washing up beside me as i strode away to aurora.

two hours later, i was home and was then given the news that our TV was busted yet again. the flood came into the house, six inches deep (or shallow? when the flood comes into your home, it's never "shallow"), prompting my mom and my aunt to panically hoist everything up from the floor (carpets, couches, pillows, electric guitar, books, magazines, extension cords, etc). the worst had passed when i arrived, but still, we went into the night scrubbing at the floors and the walls. the sockets in my corner of the living room were all busted, so i slept with no proper ventilation.

i checked my stuff, the ones i brought with me in the bag, the now soaking bag, and shit, the new eggers book was a bit wet along the bottom margin, but the 253, shit the 253 novel was soaked as cornsyrupy shit. and, hehe, my old notebook, three years worth of writing, all the entries that i wrote in signpen, well, shit, they faded from the pages, like amnesia.

i woke up, seven in the morning, went straight to the bathroom as i promised everyone i'd be cleaning that place up, as the flood came in to the bathroom through the drains (the bathtub, the sink), and it was such a fucking mess, i tell you. no rest for the weary.

so, where were you last night, when it was raining like mad?

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Best described as a Murakami detox support group, we're all fans of the quirkily brilliant Japanese author, Haruki Murakami, and writing about such things as films we've seen recently and books we're reading (not to mention meandering musings on the man's work, of course) helps us to pass time while waiting for the next book from Haruki-baby.

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