2 May 2016
Hopped on a plane again, and now I am here in Cebu. It’s a one-and-a-half-hour flight from Manila, and another place which has charmed me ever since I visited it for the first time last year. K. and M. live here, too. We all went to the same university together.
The first thing I did after checking in at the hotel was to get a cab that would take me to HoliCOW. A portmanteau for Holistic Coalition of the Willing, it is a group of furniture designers concerned with sustainability and innovation. Their art gallery/pop-up furniture store is one of my favourite spaces to date. K., my darling friend, is one of the founders. I was so excited to see new art; I just felt so warm inside. It’s about discovery, yes, but also that lovely feeling you have when you see creativity at work. There’s so much talent here in Cebu, and I guess you won’t be surprised when I tell you that I have thought about moving here, too. I wanted to be surrounded by this kind of energy; it makes your blood sing.
I told them all about my trip to Hanoi, but we haven’t even begun to scratch the surface. Then there’s the weaving of our stories and ideas, which somehow always end up about poetry and life and furniture design and art and the universe—you know how it is. K. is a poet, too, and M. is a graphic designer/illustrator. We were part of the same literary organisation back in college, that’s how we came to know one another. How fantastic that I am able to hold on to this friendship, after nearly destroying and/or abandoning everything else? I feel extremely lucky.
I brought a few books with me on this trip. It’s alright, I’m laughing along with you—fat chance of me being able to read them all, right? But it’s what we do! Ha.
One of them I’m rereading, which is Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s North to the Orient. (I think I’m on a travel-book-kind of bent for the next few months.) She talks about the act of writing about our lives, and it resonates so much with me at the moment:
There is, of course, always the personal satisfaction of writing down one’s own experiences so they may be saved, caught and pinned under glass, hoarded against the winter of forgetfulness. Time has been cheated a little, at least in one’s own life, and a personal, trivial immortality of an old self assured. And there is another personal satisfaction: that of the people who like to recount their adventures, the diary-keepers, the story-tellers, the letter-writers, a strange race of people who feel half cheated of an experience unless it is retold. It does not really exist until it is put into words. As though a little doubting or dull, they could not see it until it is repeated. For, paradoxically enough, the more unreal an experience becomes—translated from real action into unreal words, dead symbols for life itself—the more vivid it grows. Not only does it seem more vivid, but its essential core becomes clearer. One says excitedly to an audience, “Do you see—I can’t tell you how strange it was—we all of us felt…” although actually, at the time of the incident, one was not conscious of such feeling, and only become so in the retelling. It is an inexplicable as looking all afternoon at a gray stone on a beach, and not realizing, until one tries to put it on canvas, that is in reality bright blue.
And perhaps that is how it is with me—with us, and why we do this. I myself had been thinking these past two weeks: I feel split somehow. Not splintered, but more like I have strayed away from the center one too many times, in separate directions. Just thinking and feeling. Moving to keep things whole, says Mark Strand. But also writing to piece it all back together.