At the Korova

This is me on a tumba-tumba at Balay Negrense, one of the stops at our cultural tour last week. Was tempted to put my feet up on the especially elongated, uh, limb rests, but I feared the wrath of Chaka Doll, who was watching me from its high chair in a room across the hall, saddled with the shi-shi ghosts of the hacienda. (Piping! Ang kape! Ngayon din!)


This is Chaka Doll.

While my mandatory post-workshop blog entry did no justice whatsoever to last week’s lushness (key word: lush), En did a bang-up job recounting the details here. Masipag na bata.

So.

I shall be off to Dumaguete tomorrow. Three whole weeks of I Have No Idea. Then again, my little life thus far has been day after day of I Have No Idea as well, an arbitrariness that, I repeat, has far more concrete backing than one could ever imagine.

On the plane back to Manila, teary-eyed amongst a whole cabin full of post-convention Masons and a really creepy Indian woman, I had the strongest feeling that this was going to be one Limbo of a week. My gut was right. And very much so. 

I feel very, very strange. Strange. The past couple of days seemed like a dream. Eyes closed. Taken back. Shifting in and out of curious, curious Sleep. But it was all real.


I have ended this entry with a photo of people looking off cheesily into some unidentified point (well, except for Jessel, but what can you do). We were probably just looking at Bardem or Kris or something, but let’s pretend that whatever it was was a notch less harrowing, okay?

Okay.