By Rex Catubig

 

Note: Please allow me to indulge in some rumination to start my birthday month and await my upcoming birthday week. I am inspired by the AI photos created by my friends, Adams Ryan and Archimedes Fronda. Struck by the blurry image of hanging laundry in the background of one of the photos, I thought it is symbolic of my life—in all its prisms and forms—as it hangs on the tightrope of being.

The laundry line of our life is long and, by God’s grace may be longer–from the barrio boy Dong, Cardo or Catdong, to the senior urban Rex; from baby “lamping” or cotton diapers to my old age Pampers– who knows?

But in between are the colorful clothes that we have hung on the clothesline and worn over the years.

Playing sampirwan, amotan and erelan on dusty, sometimes muddy dirt ground, and later driving on the asphalt jungle, it was inevitable we got splattered with dirt and breathed in pollution.

But all these we washed away from our stained clothes. And hung the rinsed clothes to dry on the strung wire propped by a bamboo pole in the center; and over time, more conveniently, spun in the dryer.

In retrospect, so many changes have swayed and shaken life’s tightrope: the clothesline had been windblown, had snapped and dangled,  some clothes wrung by wayward wind, ripped off from the clothespins by surging storms, others scorched and faded by the sun, or drenched dastardly by ruthless rain.

Even the washing machine and dryer had, at times, broken down. And the oven-hot dryer had time and again shrunk some of the clothes that couldn’t stand the heat.

Yet beyond and beneath all that, the heart remains unchanged, untamed and unafraid: daring to take on the complicated rhythm of unnameable love and desire despite the hurt and pain, pumping precariously and beating dangerously in sync with the banging of faraway drums, catching the melancholy strain of weeping violins, and humming softly songs of hope and longing.

Unrestrained, our life roosts as if on the music staff like sharps, flats, and all kinds of notes struggling to keep the melodic flow as they are played.

We’ve come a long way, Dong. Our life’s been a full measure—of colors, music, and dreams—a sonata of survival in the key of love. A long clothesline of twists and turns.

It’s probably time to gather the hung clothes that are now dry, iron the wrinkles and fold them neatly.

But wait, Dong, we are not done yet. Let’s not think the chore is done. While taking it easy, we must remain enraptured, keeping pace with the passing time, mindful of the hours and minutes, as we listen to the music of the heart, and pausing sometimes, let us gaze  at the sunset yonder, wink at the night, and watch avidly for the breaking of a new dawn.

 Nessun Dorma! “Nobody shall sleep”.
“Dilegua, o notte!
Tramontate, stelle!
Tramontate, stelle!
All’alba vincerò!
vincerò, vincerò!”

“Vanish, o night!
Set, stars! Set, stars!
At dawn, I will win! I will win! I will win!”

But wait, harken the resonant call of our forebears, summoning us, as iridescent twilight hovers and casts its spell:

“Gala, gala, Catdong, agka natitilak,

Sempet ka lad abong”.

Look, our colorful clothes are waving and dancing on the clothesline!

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