Shed of the Muses: A Painting by the Moon and the Clouds

I discovered this hut at the end of long, uphill climb on my mountain bike. 

More of a shed really, rather than a hut.  A roof of sulirap - coconut leaves handwoven in a criss-cross pattern atop four wooden stakes lashed with six pieces of bamboo that serve as handy sitters or makeshift bed for an after-lunch siesta. A farmer's hut, I assume though I never had the pleasure of meeting its owner. 

In the summer, it refreshed me with unending treats of fresh, cooling breezes on the bluffs above the valley. When the rains came, it gave a refuge in the middle of nowhere from the drenching torrents. It offered me not only a welcoming seat but a setting perfect for endless meditations on nothing and everything. A secret window, perhaps. 

Where there are no walls, we have endless windows and unlimited doors.

I became so attached to this delightful, spiritually uplifting cranny that I would often walk a little further away from the makeshift hut to appreciate its beauty from a distance, drinking all the details in. A few paces would bring me to an opening in the foliage that offered a view of the lush valleys below. To the north, a bird's eye view of the Boac poblacion with its fortress church lording over it atop a low hill. I grew up in this town and have come to love it through all these years.

Then one night, I suddenly felt a cautioning whisper that told me, reminded me that this place, this hut – like me, will not be here forever. Changes are bound to happen and they will.

The worry turned into restlessness, silly me. Yet the more I thought about forgetting the impatience that was gripping me, the idea reinforced itself further. And I began to have what I call my “patented gooseflesh” crawling on my arms. It was my inner self prodding me to act on this “stupid” notion with unspoken, right brain hemisphere phrases akin to “go ahead,” “give it a try,” “something good might come out of this, you fool.”  

When an idea possesses me, I am simply helpless. It's like a futile upstream swim; at best you remain stationary not gaining any distance but the moment you stop, the current simply carries you downstream. It was the kind of restlessness that will not accept status quo.

So I grabbed a jacket, shoved the camera into my riding knapsack, strapped my biking helmet, and got on my mountain bike. It was 10 pm yet I knew that if I choose not to go, I would have a restless night anyway, bothered and transfixed by the idea of capturing the image of a hut in the night time. With the full moon (no wonder, lunacy has taken over reason) and a pen size Maglite strapped to my biking helmet, I somehow manage to reach the hut.

Propped the bike upright with a couple of well placed branches (it has no regular bike stand to save on extra weight), rolled and secured my jacket on its seat, and mounted the camera with a cord atop the jacket. It would have to serve as my camera tripod (or rather a “bike pad”). Made at least a dozen exposures on full manual mode (long exposure time, full aperture opening, highest ISO) varying the settings minutely each time. I’ll worry about the reciprocity failure and other exposure brouhahas later. My concern at the moment was to get a respectable image whatever that means, without using the onboard flash. At this distance, it would be useless anyway. The full moon will have to be my light source. “Oh please, you helped me and my camera a couple of times before, help me now,” I whispered softly, pleadingly.

And the moon did, aided by scattered, wispy, moving clouds that dodged in its silvery blue flood light. I sat on the hut for a while to allow the adrenaline settle back a bit before pumping it back with the long downhill coast (“crawl” on two wheels is more appropriate) with no letup on the brakes levers. And I bid the hut a heartfelt goodnight, comforted by the thought that if no decent photos came out of the camera, at least I have encapsulated its fascinating images, bathe in the moonlight, in my mind’s eye.

When I finally uploaded my shots, I knew right away that it would take a lot of patience (and studies) to get an image going. I had to clean the unavoidable grains to come when the camera demands more light and the photographer don’t have it and the JPEG noise residues, of course. 

I can only pray I did justice to that cozy nook and its quaint kubo. Here’s how my feeble attempt turned out.

Admittedly, I also took some daytime shots but not one of them can beat the subtle low contrast shadows, the blue gray duotone overlay of the moonlight, and the tranquil mood the image imparts in me. The moonlight’s reflection on clouds peeking behind the leaves just above the roof makes for an interesting counterpoint to the dominant cerulean hue.

Now the hut is no longer there. At times, I still miss it.

And I know that looking at its image will never replace the quietness that cocooned me sitting alone in its shed.

Then again, I am glad I took that break, grab that window for a night time photo (I just clicked the shutter button, the moon and the clouds painted the image). Had I waited till later, the hut might have been gone before I had the chance to shoot it.

The hut called for me that night, I’m thankful I was crazy enough to have come.

(Transience: A Haiku)

Ripples on a stream
Wispy clouds on my coffee
Here earlier, Gone.

Postscript: My daughter Marinette, knowing how my mood, at times, swings from normalcy towards the crazy side told me this, “Pa, when you’re crazy and you know it, that’s ok. When you’re crazy enough yet you’re not aware of it, that alarming!

 

Author's Thoughts: On Creating A Book

...from second thoughts to a first-rate dream...

"Writing a book is a leap of faith; you never know where you’ll land" that's how Hillary Clinton, who herself wrote a book, sums it up. It is a risk that all authors must take, not knowing whether the book will be appreciated  by its potential readers or abhorred and thrown into a gulch so deep and far-flung to be out of reach of humanity. The attention it gets will always extend to the author: burn the book advertently and you turn its author into ashes, alter egos to each other.

Yet failure never seemed to have stopped humanity’s love of printed pages bundled between covers to immortalize man’s thoughts, to focus attention to a subject that possessed the author. Libraries continually archived tons of volumes, online blogs and web pages increase geometrically by the hour; proofs incontrovertible indeed.. Every creator, every artist takes that leap of faith, each one of us endures the uncertainty… still we plunge on. Whoever said that all the darkness in this world would never be enough to obliterate the light coming from a single lighted candle was damn right!

When the coffee table book Marinduque – The Heart of the Philippines was on its conceptual stage, my vision of it was hazy. It was like looking at a rekindled campfire through the glutinous, pre-dawn fog at the upper slopes of Mt. Malindig.   Oh sure, you can see the yellow glow of the flames outlined blurrily by the inky black of night, even feel its reassuring warmth -  you're pretty sure know it’s there but it wouldn’t show itself clearly through the syrupy mist from as near as two meters.

Vague, hazy, muddled. When objects (or visions) looked this way, it makes us wary, even scared. Yes, I could go closer for a better view but the flames will hurt me. So for a while, I just sat there on the grass wet with a night’s dose of dew, absorbing everything with my senses, finding temporary contentment with a cigarette, for the meanwhile.

The chilly night air turned into a light but bitter icy breeze disrupting the peaceful status quo. Either I crawl back inside the tent, zipped up its flap doors against the icy wind, and abandon the rest of this blessed dawn snuggled in the warm comfort of my favorite wool blanket...

Or...grab a hot sartin of coffee (it would make the nippy air a bit more endurable).

My thoughts turned to the lowlands where I live, enduring the height of dreadfully muggy summer at that time of year, an overdose of which perhaps drove us to ascend the highest peak on the island and get a brief reprieve.

And I chose coffee; at best, not an easy option at the 3000 foot level of Mt. Malindig at 3:30 in the morning. You're on a potholed, tilted slope covered with waist high thicket of highland grass covered with a night's load of heavy dew, while envelope in blinding darkness wrapped in copious, murky clouds.  It rendered my reliable Maglite torch virtually useless.   

What if Starbucks, Seattle’s Best, or Figaro had an outlet near the summit of Malindig?

To give you a fresh cup of brew, they would have to hunt for damp deadwood on a ground covered with a 3 foot growth of wild grass in the dark.  After some time [seemed like eternity], they'll have a respectble cooking fire ready [patience is really a virtue here] comes enduring its heat to set up a pot of water and its barako grinds atop a wobbly woodman's stove, rinse a sartin from the now acrid smell of Tanduay T5 it contained from the endless tagays of last night’s story swaps by the campfire. When the billy (as friends from Down Under calls a pot) begins to boil, you give it another minute or two allowing  the water to extract the coffee flavor from the barako grind. (Coffee connoisseurs advice, however, that we should never use boiling water for our coffee, brewed or instant. Use water several degrees lower than the boiling point – about 95 degrees C (boiling water extracts the unwanted acids and oils from the coffee grinds, ruining its taste.)

So much trouble for a mug of coffee.
[It never entered my mind at that time that writing (and creating) a book would be a thousand times more].

Yet I swear that those initial couple of sips of its robust aroma and brawny taste gave me a caffeine hit seldom experience on the lowlands, if at all.

Perhaps because there were no distractions (no put-putting from the endless tricyles plying the streets, no ringing phones) so all my senses were focused on that exalted brew and its welcome warmth. I was in tune with the universe! Elated and contended. And it dawned on me [no pun intended]  this was the kind of  peace that Mount Malindig bestows for those who seek refuge in her slopes. The hot brew (and an extra layer of wool sweater) made the biting dawn breeze near the summit more acceptable.

It allowed me to enjoy the rest of this glorious dawn literally on top of Marinduque, the sweet anticipation of light changing from dark to dawn amidst a rising cacophony of cheery tweeting and unbridled hooting of wildlife (May God and man protect you from extinction) in full surround sound, far more superior to Dolby or THX 3D audio systems.

Dawned finally broke the vague darkness; I began to see my perspective in a different light.

It was then that I promised myself that someday, I will do something to immortalize this blissful island, one way or another,  I will pay her back for all the wonderful stuff she have given us through all these years.

When the opportune window showed itself, I reminded myself of that promise on the hallowed slopes of Mt. Malindig:  Time to turn my fumblin' second thoughts to a first-rate dream.

That dream is now a book...

Because “Marinduque deserves a niche in the altar of the stars.” (Quotation from “Marinduque – The Heart of the Philippines” Coffee Table Book; Author – Dindo Asuncion)

Malindig's Western Slopes

(Photo by Author, commissioned by
www.chiptalk.com.ph, used with permission)