She lives and works from her laptop on a little paradise island in the Philippines. She's a writer, graphic artist, and mountaineer. During rainy days she loves to sleep and oversleep and dream and daydream and then write. More »
+ Anaïs Walsdorf
+ Andy Macalino
+ Carlos Quijon
+ Chingbee Cruz
+ Christine Lao
+ Clara Buenconsejo
+ Dana Delgado
+ Eva Gubat
+ Glenn Diaz
+ Jeffrey Javier
+ Joel Toledo
+ Jordan Carnice
+ Kristine Reynaldo
+ Lyza Taguilaso
+ Oscar Sequina
+ Peachy Paderna
+ Pia Benosa
+ Raffy Recalde
+ Vlad Gonzales
It's queer when you're trying to sleep with a googolplex of thoughts sprouting in your head thinking what a brilliant megarectal idea-machine your brain is but when you finally sit down in front of a blinking cursor your mind becomes a grand canyon of nothingness, profoundly stupefyingly hollow and empty. In this panoramic grand canyon inside my cranium, the sky is strikingly vibrant blue, and a popcorn cloud the shape of a hopping rabbit frozen in inert motion casts above the yawning gulf of stratified layers of rocks so deep the rabbit cloud's shadow wouldn't even reach the ground. (Clouds' shadow dunt reach the ground, silly.XD But oh, it does! Does it?o_0 Prolly depends on the depth of the canyon and angle of the cloud from the vertex of the sun.:p)
As the tale about the void in my head goes: a little boy the age of eight whistles Ludwig van Beethoven toward the gulf, his soiled hands in his pocket, his shirt unbuttoned, his hair brown and sticky, and his face roasted ruddy from too much sunshine. His eyes are fixed at the rabbit cloud lazily wafting above the void. And when everything else is brightly glaring and scorching, and the steam beneath the earth seeping through the cracks and crevices of the ground, there's this aberrant phantom of darkness creeping at the bottom of this cavernous pit.
The boy walks towards the ravine, his footsteps breaking the silence in an echoing friction of worn sneakers against the arid brown earth. In a moment he is at the edge of the canyon, speculating the relationship among the sun and the cloud and the shadow, and their shapes, distances, and angles from each other. And at bottom of the canyon on the surface of eroded rocks and boulders lies a pool of black ink, the shadow of the rabbit cloud. He muses about the two-dimensionality of the shadow and how without height or volume it adapts to the surface of objects. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps there's nothing more amorphous and two-dimensional on this planet other than a shadow. He fills his lungs with air, unzips his pants, and takes a piss at the canyon in a cathartic trajectory that almost feels like nirvana.