Bull frogs

Not a lot of people know the sound of bullfrogs. From June to early August their voices rise from the fields. In Bulacan, where my school sits smack in the middle of rice paddies, the sound is a comeback, a hark to the approach of the typhoon season. Their voices are similar to the squawk of seaside birds, only deeper and more hollow, as it comes out of a frog's ever-expanding belly (or throat). For the past three days, en route my bus stop in Olivarez I've seen frogs squashed on the road, rendered flat by passing cars. In the heat of the afternoon, the corpses are dried by the relentless heat of the afternoon, then matted by an intense thirty-minute thunderstorm. The next day the corpses are dried again, this time flatter and more undefinable from concrete: a witness to the tug-of-war between the seasons.

The rain swooped through the city one morning. As my officemate puts it while making herself a cup of coffee, the time has come to stare outside and think, to read books, to drink coffee (or tea, in my case) and wrap oneself with blankets. And yes, I may add: it's the time to stay tuned to the morning news for announcements, for the weather forecast, for the signal numbers assigned by PAGASA to each province; or for the kettle's whistling in the morning. The season brings out different feelings--from the feet up to one's head, from puddles to floods to colder floors to warmer broths. It's probably the best time to sit back and read or write while curled up on one's bed.


"I wanted to drive home real fast and get Rita and bring her back to see everything - the dogs, the brittle light, the fuzzy air - but I figured by the time we got back it'd all be gone."
 - excerpt from Frederick Barthelme's Driver


Adults were pack rats of old, useless emotions.

- from The Selected Works of T. S. Spivet, by Reif Larsen


"I paint by crisis. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. If we know exactly what we are going to do before we do it we are not artists but artisans.” - Pierre Soulanges