Posted by: nastypen | April 27, 2007

Caught in the Rain, Thinking in the Second Person

A hundred steps and you would be home. You think you saw these dark clouds hanging in the thick summer morning air. You thought nothing of it. You got out, went out to do some errands. On the way, you could feel your skin being burnt by the sun. “Grey clouds,” you smirked, “what a joke.”

A hundred steps and you would be home. But there you are, seeking refuge from the cloudburst underneath an old corrugated iron sheet, a cantilever on this wall awashed in election posters. You look around and you see the posters soak up the rain. You hear an aspirant to the political machinery’s caravan down the street blaring a childish song intertwined with promises. You see a couple of girls wanting to cross the street but a small river of muck made them squeal in horror. Both of them teether on the edge of the sidewalk in their flipflops. One shrieked as she dove into the current. The other whined and held on to her towel on the head as if it will make her fly. You see a pink pencil being swept down, bobbing up and down but eventually will end up in the great stink of the Pasig River. You think why you didn’t have a pink pencil growing up.

A hundred steps and you would be home. You think of the text message you received from your partner several thousands of islands away. He said he was caught in the rain. He is drenched and he is laughing. And there you are, your green polo shirt splattered by acidic rain, your pants looking like a giant wet discarded paper bag. You, too, smile. You know you are not wet under the same rain, the same clouds. But the thought of your perpendicular lives drenched at the same summer afternoon amuses you.

A hundred steps and you would be home. You could see from a distance naked children frolicking in the black pools by the street as their elders smoke and toss their cigarette butts into the puddles. You see this little boy. He has down syndrome and he splashes around in the blackness. You think of movies, narratives of misery and you caught yourself looking at plain poverty and yet you want to exotify this for effect. How exploitative. You shake your head. Yet, you smile because these thoughts make you forget to kick yourself for deciding not to bring the big brown Winnie the Pooh umbrella when you went out.

Now, you start your one hundred steps home.



  1. Very novel-type writing… love it!

    I feel it… I can imagine it… as if I’m watching a movie in my mind…


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