The commute from my university is always often stifling. Crammed bodies leaving little to no space combined with the intense heat, jeepney rides drain most—if not all—of our energies. And the trip home can either be in complete silence surrounding everyone or become overwhelmingly loud with the driver’s blaring music from the jeep’s built-in speakers.
Eventually, you learn to tune out and intentionally drift your attention elsewhere. I put on my earphones, listen to a randomly shuffled playlist, and look out at the areas we pass by. Rundown buildings. Flower shops. Flea markets. Factories. Small churches. Sari-sari stores. I wonder how many times people have come and gone to a certain place. How frequently does a person visit the boulevard overlooking the sea only to see the sun in a tender moment of retreat?
Do you still remember the buildings you stepped foot in as a child? One time I passed by our community church and nostalgia slowly embraced me from the back. I remembered, in haziness, going there with a family member while I sat comfortably in my navy blue baby stroller. We walked in circles inside the vast space of the church. I can’t forget that afternoon when my father sang karaoke and I was overwhelmed by sentimentality rooted in my desire of going to the beach. Or when I first listened to Ichiko Aoba and my body wanted so badly to be consumed by laughter under the rain with my childhood friends just like in the past. Music and sounds in general do that to me often, transporting me to a place I was all too familiar with but gradually losing me like grains of sand cupped by my hands, swiftly blown away by the breeze of time. Like a trampoline that your body bounces off from, and in a split second of hovering in the air, makes you remember the landscapes your senses were once familiar with. All these places and people around you—how many have had their lives touched by each other, even in the briefest of moments?
Ways memories can take hold of me:
Prologue by Ichiko Aoba. The whale singing faintly means something. How do we remember what’s not there?
Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence by Ryuichi Sakamoto. Sentimentality is recurring.
Glider by Japanese Breakfast. The entire soundtrack takes me back to when I first watched a glimpse of Sable—I was covered by my blanket, the room dark and the air conditioner turned up high. How the comfort still speaks to me.
sorry by UMI. Each line brings certain fragments of my life alive.
The sounds from a TV advertisement playing late at night.
Whispered prayers during church.
An old friend’s laughter.
What will you do?
Are you aware of it?
What sounds have put you to a standstill?
Can you repeat numbers eight to ten all over again?
u make me want to write..... oh lawd......