Brian Dys

Category: The Ride

Sit back, put your feet up and enjoy the ride.

  • Life In Mist

    Life in Mist
    A side-view picture of a woman.

    She dresses for the weather. The canopy of clouds only depicts immaturity. But she is sure.. it is a lonely painting if she were to frame the world outside. As she opens the door from the darkness of her room, the mood is finalized.. She remembers her mother pinning clothes fresh from cleaning.

    A curve slowly forms on her lips, she smiles.. answering mother’s idyllic glance. The breeze is the dampness of cloth and the breath of soil is another story.

    She hears their pet cat purr. Grandfather is watering plants while she watches by the window. Butterflies flutter as it showers, birds sing early in the morning. Mother calls her.. mentions her name like it is a sweet and funny song. One last take, she relishes the tinge of water and earth.

    She is a girl who likes to run whenever someone calls her. She never runs away. Before she even gets close to where the voice comes from, their pet dog fawns at her.

    “What’s your name?” A girl with a red umbrella asks as she pats a neighborhood dog on stroll. At a distant, she does not move for the moment.. and for moments that pass by.

    It begins to drizzle. She sees herself dressed for the weather and moves on.

    A different version

    She dresses for the weather.

    The canopy of clouds only depicts immaturity. She is sure – it is a lonely picture if she were to frame the world outside.

    As she opens the door from the darkness of her room, the mood settles. She remembers her mother pinning clothes fresh from washing.

    A curve slowly forms on her lips. She smiles, answering mother’s idyllic glance.

    The breeze is the dampness of cloth.

    She hears their pet cat purr; grandfather waters the plants as she watches by the window; butterflies flutter as it showers; birds chirp early in the morning.

    Mother calls her, mentions her name like a sweet and funny song.

    She is a girl who likes to run whenever someone calls. She never runs away.

    Before she even gets close to where the voice comes from, their pet dog fawns.

    “What’s your name?” A girl with a red umbrella asks and pats the neighborhood dog on stroll.

    . . .

    In the distance, she does not move for moments.

    It begins to drizzle.

    She sees herself dressed for the weather.

    Originally published in happyobituary.blogspot.com on 10 February 2005 3:56 pm.

  • Orchestral Adornment

    So here, under the shower of plumerias and against the gush of the wind, I have been wandering off my mind. This morning birth was surreal.. as if the whole street was not just swept off particles but off people, too.

    Just for a second, I thought I saw a little girl riding her red bicycle but as I smiled, only the ash grey asphalt had the coldest dead stare. Damp from the early six o’ clock dew.. it reminded me of tears.

    I caught a falling flower and tuck it between the pages of a book. A useless bookmark.. one which will only stationarily reside in those significant part.

    The part where I bought a bouquet of flowers and invited everyone to my funeral.

    —

    Originally published in happyobituary.blogspot.com on 9 February 2005 2:35 pm.

  • Run

    I took off to this beach in Mindanao because I was too tired of working and being some old bummer (or loser, if you want to suggest) at the same time.

    Medium palm trees were the linings instead of house walls. The breeze was like those old afternoon movies that made you feel so low. But this time, it made me relax for the first time.. in a different way, though.

    I planned to live here in this beach house for the rest of my life. I can see myself turning reddish, and my hair in grey tone.. holding some surfboard in my right hand.

    And a golden retriever named Ulan greeted me everyday.. every sunny and rainy day.

    (After reading ‘The Catcher In The Rye’)

  • Frolic of a Day

    It begins to rain. A gentle pour of heaven’s tears. Of joy.. with its smile, the rainbow in the horizon seems an arm’s reach.

    She waits in the overpass.

    He emerges from the last step of that drenched pebble stairs. The first sight she has is from the faint puddle. That bright yellow daisy, that kindred smile.. lively in the pot, beaming at her.

    Both hearts with solid foundation melt. A facet of the love story amidst the rush of everything. And if someone speaks of time unstoppable,

    —

    Originally published in happyobituary.blogspot.com.

  • Yesterday’s Silence

    I was locked to read your eyes like old Latin prayer book. Only the punctuations I have understood, and the blessing of your apparition. Only this pillow set us apart like mountain that bid only signals to commune. But I was able to caress your hand.

    How time crawled as it backwardly learned unlike a baby. The day brightened, it shed. We were still.. unmoving position of mind game dancing. You were the only one playing.

    The creases your head and hair made were still on my pillow. The fresh fossils that they were, I straightened with my indifferent hands. Your tear-stain scent exhibited garland disremembered. Have you been weeping during your sleep or mine?

    —

    Originally published in happyobituary.blogspot.com.

  • The Trick To Fighting White Ladies And Other Scarecrows

    I came to this century-old house to stay for a month. So far away from home; twenty helpless miles in Siquijor. Where can you find a work stationed in the land of transparent people?

    Five corners and thirty blocks of native houses, this decent middle class shelter sprouted from view. “Room for rent” sign hanging by the gate. A kind smile by an old woman greeted me on the other side.

    Cheap room for only one thousand five hundred pesos a month. Only fifteen blocks from work. I walked for so long only to find this hidden treasure. Retro-finished tiles, cracked ceilings, dirty mirrors, rusty fans, and even the caretaker seemed like she just got out of her casket. I was pretty much instilled with liking for old things.

    Cutting the crap.. night came and peace enveloped the vicinity. Crickets and dogs were the only ones orchestrating. I fell asleep instantly and I woke up as quickly. There was a lucid woman floating at the foot of my bed. I hollered at her till my throat turned inside-out and my tonsils gone like punching bag.

    I actually enjoyed that moment when I was letting myself experience the wholeness of fear. Let fear consume even the dirt stuck in your toenails and it will eventually turn into yummy stupor.

    I only stayed in that place for two days, though.

    —

    Originally published in happyobituary.blogspot.com.

  • Defying The Convention Of Numbers

    Have a quadruplet and all of them is just one person. Somewhat like there is one main control room but authentically there is none. The single mind is just conscious of four separate beings that is normally human in nature.

    Think of a fish whose eyes are on the sides..

    —

    Originally published in happyobituary.blogspot.com.

  • Afternoon Rest

    The day was rather lazy. This afternoon – sleepy. The breezy silence made one narcoleptic.. even the insomniac.

    She hummed a somber tune as we rested by the shade of a Talisay. Birds were chirping in accompaniment. Everything in nature conspired to lull me. I was floating in mild disorientation.

    The wind that softly blew on her face revealed her kind features. Her eyes which I failed to break down into fathomable revelations.. her nose with dew drops like that of a cat.. and then her lips. Rose petal-smooth, they coyly pushed her cheeks. Now, even her eyes were smiling.

    One look.. not even a glance has she given me. Her vision seemed to be in the farthest distance of the horizon. Mine was even farther.

    —

    Originally published in happyobituary.blogspot.com.

  • Happy Obituary: Introduction

    Life is a very long and serious story.. at the end there is a big nonsense where just a bubble pops.. end of story.. no questions should be asked.

    That is the bubble of idea which literally pops out of your head.. then another unrelated story begins. This time, you just watch.. like god.

    —

    Originally published in happyobituary.blogspot.com in 2004.

  • My Last Malate Photo Gallery

    This was the last time I joined the Malate photo gallery though I don’t remember if these were displayed at a fair or published in a folio. Photos by my colleagues in Malate Photo Section: AA dela Cruz, Cheq Ma. Guerrero, Franz Santos, Joan Ong, Rose Ferrer.

    Love Is Dead by Brian Dys
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