- I very nearly finished reading (and summarzing, for our graphic artists) all twenty-one stories featured in an upcoming anthology. We hope to publish it this later this year (hopefully by June or earlier) and I am spearheading the project.
- This is where I stop talking about work before I name-drop on a very public platform.
- I've been trying to find the correct medium to talk about Buscalan and, armed with the knowledge that Kat is gunning for an extended travel essay, I thought I'd attempt another personal one.
- Everytime I shiver, the tattoo aches as my skin contracts.
- I will not deny that the past week had been spent trying to recover from a few days of travel. I was displaced so completely I don't think I've rebuilt myself properly. I may have left something vital in the Cordillera.
- Whenever I felt homesick (and yes despite having spent only a few nights away from home, I slept with my feet firmly planted south, the direction that meant home, the way I must travel to return) I looked at my tattoo and felt, if only briefly, the comfort brought on by the assurance of having a home to pine for.
- Disoriented, I rearrange myself on my bed, tossing and turning once every few minutes to shake off my only bedmate, the suffocating summer heat.
- This is the place to which I want to return, now. As much as I want to remember everything, my imagination can only contain two things: the sunlight and the air.
- Every night, still, I twist and turn to find the direction to which I need to return.
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| "aboard the jeepney from the village" |
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| "you can't imagine the proximity of the mountain range" |
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