Wind

“Absence is to love what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small, but enkindles the great.” – Roger de Rabutin

TO BEGIN WITH

Now attempting to continue to write my fourth novel titled “Wind.” I remember starting this in 2008, and managed to go through only five chapters in five years.

I still don’t know how I can finish this one but I hope I do.

Sharing to you the first chapter of the book. Kindly tell me what you think about it.

WIND – CHAPTER ONE (RETREAT)

Friday, 7:00 am.

The rain had eased a little when we got here. The old stilted house looked incongruous with its newly pale blue-painted veranda. I can see from where we walked that it was spacious, decorated with a rattan sofa, a square table and several sea-battered monobloc chairs, same as the three other structures filed in a neat row. It was the smallest and farthest out to the ocean, situated on a white sandbar several kilometers off the mainland. The houses seemed to float above the water in the middle of this desolate sea.

"There it is, ma'am," one of my guides pointed, "your cottage."

Thanks to the fortuitous low tide, my guides had to drag the bangka more than 150 meters from the sandbar's edge to get to where we're going. But my eyes were fixed, my heart firm. I've already decided that this is what I have to do.

Reaching our destination, the other guide - the senior one - deftly tied the small boat to one of the stilt columns as I slowly went up the wooden porch. There was a gloomy feeling looking around, black and white photos of the place in the old days hung on the cottage walls, their details more or less indistinguishable in the bright morning light. Without thinking I called out, "Anyone here?" Of course, there was no one.

I found the front door open and walked inside. There was one large room - the main one should be the living area - and two smaller ones, a bedroom and lavatory, on the far corners. Following a quick inspection inside a decaying cupboard, I found two packs of instant ramen noodles and three one-liter bottles of drinking water then dismally went down to the bangka again and began unpacking my things for this three-day retreat. I checked my phone and there was no signal. It's going to be a long and rough stay, I said to myself.

Rain began to pour once more as both of my guides lifted up the stairs one by one five five-gallon containers of fresh water for my bathing and toilet needs. Placing them side by side near the window, the younger one manufactured a paper funnel made from an office folder. I noticed it was intentionally aimed at one of the containers so that rain can be converted into usable water. This should be more than enough, I thought, admiring their ingenuity.

"Everything fine, ma'am?" the elder one asked. I nodded. "We return on Monday at 9:00 am." With these parting words, they left me alone, in a self-imposed isolation inside this seemingly fragile but adequate abode.

I glanced at my supplies for this trip, all hastily grabbed from a local roadside market without much deliberation: two kilos of rice, four pieces of corn, some green vegetables, bananas, and a 1.5-liter bottle of soda. Just then, I realized I forgot to buy any protein for the carnivore in me, and, more importantly, drinking water. Despite my earlier disappointment, I suddenly felt relieved there were three bottles in the cupboard. Maybe I can boil some from the containers, I whispered under my breath.

Before unpacking the rest of my things, I checked my phone again and saw the battery indicator reading 70 percent. Perhaps the two power banks I brought for this trip would be enough to last till Monday.

After everything was in place - linen and pillows crisply made on a mattress over the floor in the bedroom, teapots, and stove prepared in a makeshift kitchen near the window - I sat on the railings outside on the porch and scanned the horizon. The only thing I kept in my backpack was his poetry book. My legs dangled over the light emerald sea. Water, water everywhere, I remembered this one Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which we had read together.

The ocean's beauty was not enough to get him off my mind. The grey sky seemed to reflect his image on the surface of the blue sea.

If only I could tear out my heart and throw it into the deep, then my pain would be over. Rain suddenly fell hard, and the wind began chilling tears on my cheeks. I was soaked instantly. It was then when tears became rain and rain became tears. I felt like heaven itself shared with my grief.

I wish the wind would blow all of my tears away so I may never remember this day when once more I cried because of him. I wish the wind would blow all of my tears away so I could forget the beaches we've shared, our walks together, and the words he spoke. I wish I hadn't read his poems again, and just went on with my life.

I was captivated by the first verse, and I realized I've never forgotten the feeling I had when I read them for the first time. Even now, thinking about it, all wet and cold, I get the same warm feeling I had. How could something so simple touch my heart and mind, and express things I wanted to but could only dream of saying? It makes no sense, and there is no use finding answers.

I remember that night, a night when a simple "yes" or "no" could change lives. He told me, "I am so glad to know you still love me, but I am breaking with the thought that all we can ever have with each other is a dead end." His eyes gave away everything. As always, they laid bare his heart before me.

It was hard to believe it was only last week when I had found my love once more, and now I lost him all over again. Shattered. I am shattered. Empty, without a soul. The hardest part of love is forgetting.

I told him that night, right before we went on our separate ways, "Make each moment worthwhile, for time is fleeting... like the wind. Our grasp is never too tight to hold onto the innocence of our youth, or the carefree moments we share in laughter and in love. Live each day knowing that we have lived it to the fullest of our capabilities, with no regrets, only wonderful memories and lasting impressions." I looked into his eyes and kissed him for the last time before walking away.

Indeed, when I read his poems again for the first time, Paulo seemed like an old fisherman to me. He managed to hook me that night; he reeled me in, all smooth and quiet. I must admit though, I was an easy catch.

- from “Wind”, a novel by Raymund Tamayo

Raymund's Random Thoughts

If you keep the heart alive a little longer, love will come.

Love is patient. It can relax in the present. It doesn’t always grumble about the current state of affairs. It’s willing to wait slow change and it’s willing to try again.

I am not sure what waits beyond the tree at the corner; but I’ll gladly walk down the street to see you if need be.

Poem of the Week

WE’RE PASSING THROUGH

by Emon

We’re passing the signs

the seasons

and the signposts

at such speed

that pausing to reflect

on where and which

direction to go

and what does it mean

grows harder and harder

year by year.

But what I do know

is that your God and mine

daily watches over

expecting us to listen

and to care about each other.

Across the fields and mountains

beyond the highways and byways,

as Jose Mari Chan sings it,

and to each sea and ocean,

I also sing to you,

reach out to you,

hoping that each new day

in the year just starting

and all those days

in the years ahead

will be full of love and reason,

like the years before.

We’re passing through this

fleeting street called Life and

no matter how bumpy

each road gets,

I want no one else to walk

it through than

with you.

(December 2008)

AND FINALLY

Watching the film Before Midnight with Denielle. Our favorite line in the movie is from the character Natalia: “Like sunlight, sunset, we appear, we disappear. We are so important to some, but we are just passing through.”

I remembered my poem above written in 2008. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

Thanks for stopping by - see you next week.