I wish my phone-cam could’ve taken…
Photo that was never taken #1
On my way to work, at the corner of our street and EDSA, I stopped and clicked on the right-turn signal-light and slowly tried to merge into that historic avenue.
That’s where I saw him standing against the vast white wall that separated the rails of the MRT from the traffic on EDSA. He was a “taong grasa”; dressed in tattered military green shorts and not much else except his dark, grimy skin that was wrapped taut against his skeletal frame.
He stood on the sidewalk-that-wasn’t-a-sidewalk. Even though I was all across on the other side of the four-lane traffic of EDSA, I could imagine the heels of his feet trying to find footing on that slim side of concrete.
He looked across the street, as if meaning to challenge the 10am traffic of buses, trucks, and cars. The skeletal man seemed to shiver as the steady stream of vehicles caused this great wind to rush southwards.
Seeing his dark figure against that white wall made me think of those stereotypical moments when criminals run down an alley and find out it’s a dead end and they turn around to face the cops and they know escape is hopeless.
The skeletal man’s hands clasped the white wall. Was he trying to grab hold of the wall or was he planning to push himself away from the wall?
He glanced towards the north, towards the oncoming traffic and he closed his eyes as a bus roared down the lane beside him. The side of the bus must’ve been just inches away from his face.
The bus passed and he was still there and was once again looking at the other side of the street.
His sunken eyes looked determined to… what was he determined to do? How’d he get there in the first place?
But I could not wait. I was late. I had already merged with the rest of the people traveling south.
As I drove past the EDSA Shrine and glanced at the statue of the Virgin Mary, I said a prayer for the skeletal man and wished to see him tomorrow. Hopefully, he would already be on the other side of the street.
Photo that was never taken #2
Sunday.
Mass at a church in Makati.
I have, unfortunately, developed the bad habit of falling asleep in church during mass. (I think it started when I was in college-- thanks to Saturday night gimmicks that left one with not much sleep and a mother that insisted we attend the 10am mass.) Which is why I usually
stand in the back of the church. At least, if I’m standing up, I won’t fall asleep. (Although that already happened.)
At the back of this church, I noticed a man sitting at one of the pews. He was tall. (Well, he was taller than me.) He was thin. (He was thinner than me.) He reminded me of those photographs of the Jews in German concentration camps. His pale skin obviously has not seen much sunlight. He wore a simple short-sleeved polo and grey slacks. It seemed like he didn’t bother to comb his thinning wisps of white hair.
I noticed that as the priest gave his sermon, the old man was jotting down notes in this little spiral-bound notebook. It was the size of a tickler (like the ones we were required to have during ROTC training, but we never really used it). He would look up, listen to the priest, and then jot down several lines.
At first, I thought, he was a very devout man.
Soon after the sermon, when the priest asked everyone to stand up, the old man continued to write down in his little notebook. He would look up, stare at the altar, listen intently, then he would jot down some lines.
That made me nervous.
That made me curious.
That made me want to include him in some future story.
He continued to take dictation until the mass ended. He closed his notebook, placed it in his shirt pocket along with his ballpen.
I’ve seen him several times and every Sunday that I do see him, he still has his notebook and pen and is always fervently writing down notes; or maybe they are instructions. Maybe they are prophecies. Or it might have just been his weekend grocery list.
Photo that was never taken #1
On my way to work, at the corner of our street and EDSA, I stopped and clicked on the right-turn signal-light and slowly tried to merge into that historic avenue.
That’s where I saw him standing against the vast white wall that separated the rails of the MRT from the traffic on EDSA. He was a “taong grasa”; dressed in tattered military green shorts and not much else except his dark, grimy skin that was wrapped taut against his skeletal frame.
He stood on the sidewalk-that-wasn’t-a-sidewalk. Even though I was all across on the other side of the four-lane traffic of EDSA, I could imagine the heels of his feet trying to find footing on that slim side of concrete.
He looked across the street, as if meaning to challenge the 10am traffic of buses, trucks, and cars. The skeletal man seemed to shiver as the steady stream of vehicles caused this great wind to rush southwards.
Seeing his dark figure against that white wall made me think of those stereotypical moments when criminals run down an alley and find out it’s a dead end and they turn around to face the cops and they know escape is hopeless.
The skeletal man’s hands clasped the white wall. Was he trying to grab hold of the wall or was he planning to push himself away from the wall?
He glanced towards the north, towards the oncoming traffic and he closed his eyes as a bus roared down the lane beside him. The side of the bus must’ve been just inches away from his face.
The bus passed and he was still there and was once again looking at the other side of the street.
His sunken eyes looked determined to… what was he determined to do? How’d he get there in the first place?
But I could not wait. I was late. I had already merged with the rest of the people traveling south.
As I drove past the EDSA Shrine and glanced at the statue of the Virgin Mary, I said a prayer for the skeletal man and wished to see him tomorrow. Hopefully, he would already be on the other side of the street.
Photo that was never taken #2
Sunday.
Mass at a church in Makati.
I have, unfortunately, developed the bad habit of falling asleep in church during mass. (I think it started when I was in college-- thanks to Saturday night gimmicks that left one with not much sleep and a mother that insisted we attend the 10am mass.) Which is why I usually
stand in the back of the church. At least, if I’m standing up, I won’t fall asleep. (Although that already happened.)
At the back of this church, I noticed a man sitting at one of the pews. He was tall. (Well, he was taller than me.) He was thin. (He was thinner than me.) He reminded me of those photographs of the Jews in German concentration camps. His pale skin obviously has not seen much sunlight. He wore a simple short-sleeved polo and grey slacks. It seemed like he didn’t bother to comb his thinning wisps of white hair.
I noticed that as the priest gave his sermon, the old man was jotting down notes in this little spiral-bound notebook. It was the size of a tickler (like the ones we were required to have during ROTC training, but we never really used it). He would look up, listen to the priest, and then jot down several lines.
At first, I thought, he was a very devout man.
Soon after the sermon, when the priest asked everyone to stand up, the old man continued to write down in his little notebook. He would look up, stare at the altar, listen intently, then he would jot down some lines.
That made me nervous.
That made me curious.
That made me want to include him in some future story.
He continued to take dictation until the mass ended. He closed his notebook, placed it in his shirt pocket along with his ballpen.
I’ve seen him several times and every Sunday that I do see him, he still has his notebook and pen and is always fervently writing down notes; or maybe they are instructions. Maybe they are prophecies. Or it might have just been his weekend grocery list.