Arctic Beetle

The forests, somber and dull, stood motionless and silent on each side of the broad stream.** Seeping through the thick foliage are the effulgent arms of the moon which caused the branches and the leaves of the lofty trees hurl silhouettes a little distance from right below them. The air is practically placid—even so, dim crackling sounds from the leaves that were beginning to dry up and molder back to the ground where they descended from can be heard. Unlike its usual vigor and strength, the stream’s influx seems to be quite held back by an invisible hand that has set obstructions along the length it prances on. It was as if the same hand hit a pause button for everything.

** line by Joseph Conrad from The Lagoon

—

Resin Duct

Mopping up my leaked grey matter, I recovered these:

A life-size pen whose cap cannot be beheaded
Tangled strings and matrices of verses
A paint brush seeking for its bristles
Jars of mixture of honey and muggy paint
Debris of fantasy bordering reality
A music box unperturbed in its five-note frenzy
Tomes frail from being shelved since time immemorial
Dismantled fascicles and heaps of neurons
A grandfather clock with 25-hour divisions
Lilliputian men pirouetting

Didn’t know my cranium is a pocket of peculiar things.

Everything in the lagoon seems to have shed off the summer skin it had for the longest time. The smell of being recently graced with a drizzle or morning dew is prominent. Each ray of light that illuminates the place is carefully screened by the layers of tree limbs piled up high.

No sound could made out except for the shrill voices echoed by a talking tableau from a distance and the feeble rustle of the leaves as a meek swift of wind moved past them. An incessant and pesky monologue by a classmate in the background could also be heard. To tell you the truth (for truth’s sake), my eardrums prefer that choir’s piece delivered with poor diction than my classmate’s occasional absence of tactfulness. In fact, they don’t even deserve comparison, but that’s beside the point.

As far as my observations are concerned, the lagoon is probably named such because of the water that used to stream beneath the quasi-bridge along the walkway. Now, it looks like a mere canal meant to be a sewer’s component. The lagoon, minus the periodic fumes from the vehicles in the parking lot beside it, would have been the most solacing place in UP if it really lived up to its name or the water part of it, at least.

As I sat on a rock overgrown with moss underneath of what appeared like a tree that was there for quite some time in-situ, at least fifteen leaves have descended in a manner you could attribute to a pinwheel that has been stirred not by a mortal-induced breeze. The fallen ones had the finesse and delicacy of Maria Clara as they made their way through the grass and the cemented walkways, stumbling and faltering as though being in water for the first time. What a both unbefitting and befitting place this is for Maria Clara –- tranquil but rumored to be an affiliate or God knows, maybe a branch of Sogo Hotel.

The wind leads everthing it can sway to the direction of what I consider to be the center of the lagoon on account of the round cement tables and chairs it boasts. This centerpiece specializes in being the freedom wall of the place’s seemingly frequent and angsty visitors. For one, they all prove to be a very good source of autograph book-worthy mottos written in pentel pen like “Patayin ang karibal para walang sagabal.” or “Pinanganak akong walang kakambal kaya wala dapat akong karibal.” I was also very fortunate to have come across a letter within the five-meter radius of the table basically stating that “Tita, pasensya na po kung malandi ako.” Engravings such as “Angelica love John” on the stump of a nearby tree shouldn’t also be missed. I guess this is what they call the Filipino teenage crisis.

Because I am not aspiring to get an uno in Biology 11 nor to be a taxonomist (the thought never crossed my mind until this moment), the most distinction I can give between the trees found past the striking stage not far from the tables is their appearance. The only one I can identify is the coconut tree with its desiccated yields. The rest are just tree with a lot of branches, tree with a large trunk or simply a tall tree to my eyes. In the thick of these along with the bushes, a woman in her thirties is idly waiting for something – or someone, as it later turned out. Uncanny, they could have just met in the waiting shed of Palma Hall or a more salient landmark.

Now I kind of comprehend why this place is the usual target of lovers eager for some sexual impropriety. The lagoon sure invokes that feeling of secrecy, despite it being a known hallmark for random peep shows. I would have enjoyed my one-hour visit more if I was able to catch one and thus, had something more exciting to write about, but I am also grateful that I wasn’t because curiosity can definitely kill the cat.

PS: Creative writing class stuff. This merits a grade lower than 1.75.