# data[].attributes.body
Oct. 24, 8:51 AM

I took this photo during one of my market runs in my hometown. Walking was one of the ways one gets from point A to point B during the lockdown. As for me, it was an opportunity to get to know my city again, by walking, and similarly by taking stops when I have a lot to carry, after each market run. It was surprisingly refreshing to walk, and enjoy each stop.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct. 24, 2:40 AM

a thought:

Basically humans need each other, even though human has capacity to live alone. When all space is restricted, only big-hearted can go through it calmly. Support each other can make the limited space feel very wide. Happiness and sadness we feel together.

That's what I feel during this pandemic.

# data[].attributes.headline
From Orange 1111 to MarilynCrimson, DeviDiva, and 152-0011

# data[].attributes.subject
From Orange 1111 to MarilynCrimson, DeviDiva, and 152-0011

# data[].attributes.body
Oct. 24, 8:23 AM

Motorbike photo: I remember the smoke that one encounters while riding a motorbike- also the quick pace and the need to protect one's face

Photos of cropped faces: Instill a memory, of more prominent or allowed facial features to suit in a frame

Black and white polaroid: Something to remember, in an instant. Not sure how long one lasts

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 23, 10:57 PM

"The world seen through glasses"

I was along the river in the evening

People who ride bicycles, people who ride cars, people who ride trains, people who walk, and I all wear masks.
Wearing glasses My world is cloudy
What happened to our lives?
Where are we going?
But i believe
Connected in this project
You who are far away
You who are nearby
Don't sing a sad song as sad
I want to see the future

When will I get to dine with you
It's like a cloudless sky

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 23, 10:04 PM

It’s amazing how a photograph is able to instantly transport you back to the moment of its capture. All the emotions and feelings surge through your mind, changing your demeanor right there and then. Similarly, we see how situations can instantaneously change life. This pandemic has shown me how I truly have no control over what is happening around me. But that’s okay, for I am glad to know that Someone is. My life may change in an instant but I will continue to enjoy the instants I am currently experiencing by His grace.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 23, 2020, 7:50 PM

My response to the 5th and final prompt is a very short essay, I apologise I haven't had the time to write anything lengthier.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct. 21, 8:40 AM

¿Está mal sentirse feliz porque la gente con dinero y blanca nunca se sintió vulnerable o en peligro y ahora lo sienten por este virus? ¿Es esta una pregunta malparida? ¿O nada más muy larga?

Now white people understand how vulnerable and scared brown people feel around the world. This fear of getting killed by the virus is what every brown person has experienced in their lives. Being scared of get killed by white people.

La pandemia nos ha unido un poco ¿No?

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 23, 2:40 AM
"ArteFaces"

# data[].attributes.headline
From orange 1111 to 2600 and MarilynCrimson

# data[].attributes.subject
From orange 1111 to 2600 and MarilynCrimson

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 22, 8:20 AM

Stawberries are fruits that I long to eat, since they're not always easily found in where I live. They're juicy and the joy when my teeth sinks in to the fruit whenever a bite is mustered is something I'll take note of, if not remembered. The burst of strawberry and flavors always bring happiness and enjoyment to my mouth.However, I was told once by a good friend that strawberries, having to grow in uneasy circumstances may have to be brought forth by fertilizers. I was then taken aback. But the wild ones, such as in this image, reminds that strawberries may also grow on their own. This, I will have to take with me.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 22, 8:11 AM

Grasses need trimming but they need to grow as they do in a different venue. Bugs and different life forms may live in it. As ine walks through it however, legs and feet may get wounded, and may not realize the danger it faces amongst these grass.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 22, 8:05 AM

Over:
Either the person is looking at the film closely or using it to protect himself from what is beyond it.

Soft:
An ad, a print of a packaging

Together:
Sweet print for the young

Personal Growth:
To achieve personal growth, sleep and rest are essential.

# data[].attributes.headline
From Orange 1111 to T. Warlock, DeviDiva, and 9000

# data[].attributes.subject
From Orange 1111 to T. Warlock, DeviDiva, and 9000

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 22, 7:56 AM

Market runs were a chore during the lockdown.

It was also a time of rediscovering resources

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 22, 7:54 AM

[prompt 3] The images of fire, water and food translate to me as those that nourish the body, and are needed for its survival.

Fire reminds me of bbqs and marshmallows. And specifically for this image, fire reminds me of the hands that are cold, and those that prepare the meals that go through fire, and/or the heat of the hand, which is like fire to those who are left cold, or those that need nourishment.

The image of the person and water resonates of the fact that the body is made up of 60-90% water. Water flows within each of our bodies.

The image of the shadow of the person with images of food seems like an image of a person looking for food at night, in the kitchen, at a time when no one else is there- its either the person hasn't eaten during dinner time, when everyone else was there, for some reason, and has decided to get food on his own, when no one else can distract oneself from it. The shadow also seemingly lurks, for food, and whatever it may bring.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 21, 11:39 PM

[prompt 3] Food (both the strawberry and pancake with sausages photos), both provide nourishment and pleasure to those who ingest them. One one hand, food may also bear emotions and anxieties or illnesses that it may not know of.

Who discerns for itself?

# data[].attributes.headline
From Orange 1111 to 13220's 'Small Fire'

# data[].attributes.subject
From Orange 1111 to 13220's 'Small Fire'

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 21, 11:38 PM

Small fire lit by this little match reminds me of candles brought to light during prayers, and visits to the cemetery. It is also a reminder of its battle with wind, on how fire can sustain light.

# data[].attributes.headline
From Orange 1111 to 57662, 9000, and DeviDiva

# data[].attributes.subject
From Orange 1111 to 57662, 9000, and DeviDiva

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 21, 11:25 PM

Paper transforms anything permeable to something impermeable - such as what water could be- and so are its boundaries.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 21, 11:20 PM

Paper cups fulfil its purpose for the time being, and bestow the user, or the owner, the privilege of its use, as its material degenerates X use / time.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 21, 11:13 PM

[prompt 2] A sea of sounds that immerses those who can hear to a variety of worlds within it. I listen, and I am transported.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 21, 11:06 PM

[prompt 1] The water is both an ammunition and a defense to and from boundaries, both geographically, and which that applies to our innermost desires.

There is reward to those who can travail these territories, and those that which can protect what's within and without these waters. It may be an illusion to some, and an end to what lies ahead- and hope to those who can look ahead and beyond what the horizon has defined.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 21, 10:45 PM

[prompt 1] The heart is a vessel to be filled, and which that fills back other hearts.

I would like to believe it also holds a scale that weighs what we hold in it.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 21, 6:03 AM

[ prompt 1 ]  Photographs not only allow us to go back in time, but also swim in memories of those we want and those that we do not want. It allows us to look back even if we want to forget

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 21, 6:01 AM

[ prompt 1 ]  This just makes me feel that work drowns us, or there's something about work that makes us drown, either to the work itself, or the elements that surround it

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 21, 5:50 AM

[ prompt 1 ] It took some time for me to respond, but here it is.

In Science, we are taught that sunlight is made up of light of varying wavelengths, and of which emits different colors.

The sea, being unnecessarily white may still be the same, since I mostly think it responds to the sky, and the molecules of the sunlight.

Bleaching, on one hand, may bring forth thinning of surfaces, and eventually may facilitate how sands are brought forth to its inevitable whiteness

# data[].attributes.body
October 21, 2020, 9:26 AM

# data[].attributes.body
Sep. 30, 2020, 2:50 PM

# data[].attributes.headline
From MarilynCrimson to 1105 and Miss Lucy

# data[].attributes.subject
From MarilynCrimson to 1105 and Miss Lucy

# data[].attributes.body
October 20, 2020, 6:10 PM

During the quarantine I didn't [feel] like anything really changed. Everything was already upside down in my personal life. So, I just sat and saw how the entire world went nuts with the same problems I was dealing for almost a year. It was refreshing to see that I was not overreacting, but it was so sad to see people going insane and feeling bad and sad because of the pandemic.

# data[].attributes.body
October 20, 2020, 1:31 PM

# data[].attributes.body
October 20, 1:31 PM

[The] likening of your own heart to a bruised strawberry reminds me of so many things of my childhood. The city I was born and raised in is known to tourists for growing strawberries.

Every New Year's day, my breakfasts would be graced with a bowl of locally grown strawberries, sometimes paired with a fancy soft cheese gifted by an aunt. Looking back on those days now, filled with greenhouse-grown strawberries, trappings of privilege and snobbery, I think "How soft and stupid we were. How soft and stupid we are."

Now I recall the less-celebrated, wild "strawberry" of the mountains, that I used to forage as a child. It is called pinet. It grows in the pine forests, a tall shrub of thorns that snags on the clothes and skin of the unwary. The fruit is slightly sour-sweet, of the same profile of its famous cousin, but much milder. The average size of a berry is little more than that of my largest fingernail. Inside, it is hollow, more akin to a raspberry, but lacking the same juice. Indeed they can be quite dry by other berries' standards, and the inside often houses a fluffy yellow pith that is bitter. One has to wonder whether braving the thorns for such a trade is worth it.

Being older, being in this pandemic, I think perhaps that if my heart might have once been a bruised strawberry like yours, it must by now have become a pinet.

# data[].attributes.body
October 19, 2020, 5:49 PM

The 5th and last prompt is an invitation for everyone to throw in anything they have in mind deduced from their recent pandemic experiences, thoughts, and feelings.

# data[].attributes.body
October 19, 2020, 7:12 PM

During these difficult times, I became more aware of the things that kept me down throughout my life. It is like I took for granted a small weed in my backyard. When I didn't remove it at an earlier time, it spread wider, killing other plants. Staying at home and being alone with my thoughts gave me time to reflect. If we don't have the courage to face our challenges, it will only grow and drag us down.

# data[].attributes.body
October 19, 2020, 10:10 AM

# data[].attributes.body
October 19, 2020, 10:10 AM

Growth is an elusive, almost invisible thing, isn't it? You can never truly witness it as it happens in real-time. When I do notice it, it tends to catch me off guard. It happens in its own quiet time.

During the first few months since the pandemic erupted, I honestly felt like I wouldn't be able to do anything. Everything I had lined up was either canceled or rescheduled. This led me to reassess the ways in which I operate, how the scene itself operates, the pressures of production, and relevance. It was as if the artist persona and ego were being broken down, the self that I boxed myself into, in order to make room for other possibilities. Growth doesn't necessarily have to follow a vertical direction. It can be horizontal, more of branching out than climbing, say a career ladder.

I was propelled into a different trajectory. First, I found myself pulled and encouraged me to get into writing, something I only did and kept for myself. I lacked the hubris of a professional writer. And with all the books I had time to read, and plenty more waiting for me, I decided to put up an e-library free for everyone to access. I found so much solace in literary escapism, I figured everyone else is in need of that too. Then I found myself entertaining the idea of curating. I had an idea for a project I've wanted to do since last year, but had to reconfigure it to adapt to the pandemic. We'll be releasing our first exhibit this week.

I didn't expect that I'd end up on this path, but I'm glad that I just let these things happen organically. We often force ourselves to strictly follow our life or career plans, and we end up boxing ourselves in. But when you break down that ego and just be, the universe will surprise you.

# data[].attributes.body
October 18, 2020, 8:39 PM

PERSONAL GROWTH
Who am I? The question I hope to never fully answer. I never want to be a finished work while I'm still alive.

Have your social media feeds been flooded with "self-help" tips and the like? It can get tiring to read/hear these things, even though I might need them at times. I am uncomfortable with how the phrase "doing the work" has become some kind of catchy buzzword that influencers use. They do have a point. But I wonder if personal growth ever gets excessive.

I like that the pandemic has validated some regions of my existence that before were a struggle to live through. The therapy, the medication, the constant stream of "Should this thought be eliminated? What about this feeling? Do I have to quarantine it from the rest of my day? Can I trace where this anger started?"

# data[].attributes.body
October 18, 2020, 8:39 PM
Together

Everything will be better if we are together and help each other in facing challenges.

# data[].attributes.body
October 17, 2020, 10:51 PM

# data[].attributes.body
October 17, 2020, 4:21 PM
The prefix “over-” can dramatically change the meaning of things and typically, it’s in a negative sense. But perhaps, it’s in what’s “over” that we discover and realize the most interesting of things.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 16, 2020, 3:16 AM

Still here but late as usual with my responses. Time hasn’t slowed down but the world has become insane. On the first few months of the world lockdown I documented my once weekly market runs and saved this IG story. The streets were quiet but the noises are in our heads.

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 14, 2020, 10:01 AM

# data[].attributes.body
Oct. 15, 2020, 12:15 PM

Credits: photo taken by Marites Sadino and mask made by Ming Moya

# data[].attributes.body
Oct. 15, 2020, 12:15 PM

# data[].attributes.body
October 12, 2020, 8:54 AM

"Overgrown" 3 of 3

# data[].attributes.body
October 12, 2020, 8:54 AM

"Overgrown" 2 of 3

# data[].attributes.body
October 12, 2020, 8:54 AM

"Overgrown" 1 of 3

# data[].attributes.body
October 12, 2020, 3:21 PM

Am I what I eat?

Our family has so many traditions involving food. One could almost say we're obsessed. Several cookbooks have been written, edited, and published as a result of our fascination with food. This year with our enforced separation, meals have been strange to say the least. The dishes seem to matter less when one considers that they are no longer an affair of sharing and congregation as they used to be. And yet they matter more when I consider the greater web that food ties me into. Where did these tomatoes come from? Who toiled in the field of this rice? Who slaughtered this cow? Were they paid fairly? Are their relatives sick? Healthy? How are their children being educated? Does their family have as much food as mine does?

I wonder if my sister, mother, stepfather, aunt, located 6 hours away, I wonder if the pork they're eating might have shared a sty with the one cut up into pieces and swimming in a sour soup in my bowl. I wonder if my friends who I haven't seen in months are eating vegetables that grew on neighboring mountains from the ones being stir fried in my kitchen.
Attachments area

# data[].attributes.body
October 11, 2020, 4:08 PM

# data[].attributes.body
October 11, 2020, 4:15 PM

I feel like I'm suffocating.

My mother always tells me, 'Why don't you sleep early?' and I realize, how can I just sleep, when I've been trying the whole day to feel better?

# data[].attributes.body
Small Fire
October 10, 2020, 1:03 PM

This small fire reminds me of family intimacy that starts with my mother's cooking. Even though we are not together at the moment, the spirit of this small fire is maintained by sharing intimacy with new family and close friends.

# data[].attributes.body
October 9, 2020, 7:54 PM
My morning routine is to make coffee and drink it. This calms my mind since the lockdown began.

Standing in the kitchen every morning and making coffee have been seemingly a ritual to start my day.

I made a cup to remember this feeling. This is a coffee cup made from paper mache, which is also a model of the coffee cup I use every morning.

# data[].attributes.body
October 7, 2020, 8:31 PM

"Something New"

I stumbled upon an experimental technique recently that really inspired me. Italian photographer, Mario Cipriano’s project “Light Sounds Light” has helped rekindle my love for my chosen medium. He attached a digital sound recorder to his film camera and records the sounds of his environment before and after the shot is taken. It was such a great experience for me that I reached out to the artist and paid my respects and asked if I could borrow his technique and try it for myself. This is where I find myself now, trying to cook up something new.

# data[].attributes.body
October 5, 2020, 11:34 PM

# data[].attributes.body
October 5, 2020, 11:34 PM

# data[].attributes.body
October 5, 2020, 11:34 PM

I highly suspect that my heart is shaped like a strawberry, and tastes like it too. But a bruised one at that. Nonetheless sticky sweet and tart, finger staining, white cloth ruining.

# data[].attributes.body
October 5, 2020, 9:54 PM

“I think anxiety is dressed differently in the kitchen. It has been a personal yet subliminal space. It’s indicative of an extension of the self from its being shared, a communal space with members of a household. Gastronomical pursuits have been coping mechanisms for people experiencing anxiety, perhaps an instant relief provider, a pleasurably illuminating experience. I reflect on all processes and elements related to this—cooking, the kitchen itself, practices, and processes involved from procurement to consumption—which propels a certain kind of self-reflectivity and awareness. The space has become subliminal, for me, a space for comfort, making do, and most of all, a dwelling or a laboratory for one’s resourcefulness in these trying times. The ephemerality of food and experiences in the kitchen as a dynamic space adds up to what makes it immensely satisfying. The kitchen has served as a safe space, regardless of what dish is being prepared, smelled, heard, seen, or tasted. I would rely on it as a space for necessity, to cook something so my family wouldn’t get hungry, a laboratory filled with hope, with the intention to survive. Food and cooking, on the other hand, aside from being a necessity, posits as if it’s a coping mechanism, a tool for a reflection on what has been happening within and outside one’s kitchen. I’ve found anxiety dressed differently in the kitchen, so different it has become something I don’t mind seeing over and over again. After all, we always turn to things that would make us feel a little better, right?”

# data[].attributes.headline
From DeviDiva (2 of 2) to the 2nd prompt, 13320's "A Shout from the Earth", and 2600's "Relearning-unlearning"

# data[].attributes.subject
From DeviDiva (2 of 2) to the 2nd prompt, 13320's "A Shout from the Earth", and 2600's "Relearning-unlearning"

# data[].attributes.body
Oct. 4, 2020, 8:29 PM

# data[].attributes.headline
From DeviDiva (1 of 2) to the 2nd prompt, 13320's "A Shout from the Earth", and 2600's "Relearning-unlearning"

# data[].attributes.subject
From DeviDiva (1 of 2) to the 2nd prompt, 13320's "A Shout from the Earth", and 2600's "Relearning-unlearning"

# data[].attributes.body
Oct. 4, 2020, 8:29 PM

# data[].attributes.headline
From 9000 in response to the first prompt 3/3

# data[].attributes.subject
From 9000 in response to the first prompt 3/3

# data[].attributes.body
Oct. 5, 2020, 6:55 AM

# data[].attributes.headline
From 9000 in response to the first prompt 2/3

# data[].attributes.subject
From 9000 in response to the first prompt 2/3

# data[].attributes.body
Oct. 5, 2020, 6:55 AM

# data[].attributes.headline
From 9000 in response to the first prompt 1/3

# data[].attributes.subject
From 9000 in response to the first prompt 1/3

# data[].attributes.body
Oct. 5, 2020, 6:55 AM

"Sorry I’ve been away. Super busy last week. I have new work I want to share (pahabol!) that could go with your theme of Ocean. Sea. Marine. and the geographical and socio-political dynamics of movement of people and viruses during pandemic times. This is a Mindanao map and the focus is on one city particularly. "

# data[].attributes.headline
From 57662 in response to 1105's "What happens to the sky if the seas turn white?"

# data[].attributes.subject
From 57662 in response to 1105's "What happens to the sky if the seas turn white?"

# data[].attributes.body
Oct. 4, 2020, 8:18 PM

Dear 1105,

A white sea calls for a lifeless sky,

like a marrow without its red.

So l will refuse to reach the horizon,

and we will not be able to enjoy the setting and rising sun.

Not even a fraction of the refracted surfaces and beautiful tones,

only memories of what once was:

what remains that make up a new sky,

if the seas turn white by then,

is only what we'll believe blue to be.

---

The sea turns the once amorous sky white,

whose absence await for the glorious sun,

will be a battle between all tints and shades above--

The sky waging war on itself, in an attempt to overthrow its once crowning glory.

To be known to all man, the throne in the sky

after the death of Ocean's blue.

It will be a destructed earth, and we will no longer seek and find solace above,

the darkness will be our reminder, with the sea our made disaster—

'tis a reminder of our failure, humanity being too late to save what created it,

not even to find light in the sky or the moon.

With the winds getting harsher, the water growing higher,

with tides bleached with laundry, waste,

chemical, dye, and pools of domesticated blood,

the hurricanes will be made of poison.

What will happen to us?

We will hide to shield us from the Earth's purge.

We'll create burrows underground,

like the mollusks that lost their homes,

for we, the Earth can no longer shelter.

In the Earth we stripped of color,

we will not be able to see what's above,

for there will be no sea to call water.

Only waves forced to stillness

death of color is a perpetual winter,

a time without seasons but one,

and man is only to blame.

Color of blue will be fragments--

how we'll remember blue to be.

Without the blueness of the sea,

there will be no water to drink.

Without the blueness of the sea,

we will cease to be.

---

P.S. Wrote all this down as I thought about your work and writing. These words came in the flow and somehow relieved me of my anxiety but also renewed it and took on a new form. Thankfully, what I made while thinking about your question is a not so dark resolution. I love your work. I hope this reaches you.

--

"Bone sky and a sea of fragmented blue"

Mixed media collage on sketchbook spread in portrait orientation

2020

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 2, 2020, 9:49 PM
I wake up twice each morning. Once to let the dogs out and turn off the lights in the garden; everything is muted, except the early birds and late crickets. The second and final time I wake up is when the construction workers come in. Drilling, hammering, cement pouring, yelling, everything reaches peak volume by 8 am. I hate it.

Earlier in lockdown, everything was quiet. I never realized that the rumble of traffic was a constant until its sudden absence. As the world got quieter, so did I. My language branched out and narrowed into tight corridors leading to very specific uses. Written language-- for chatting, for writing Instagram captions. Body language-- for the horse, for the roommate, for the dogs. And speaking?

Speaking in this country was always difficult for me. My tongue wears the colonizer's glove too easily, has to adjust itself to speak Tagalog. And while Tagalog coming from my mouth is merely passable, I learn at the checkpoints between barangays that it doesn't let me pass. It's just another colonizing language here, and I lose count of how many times people ask me "Did you really grow up here when you can't speak Ilocano?"

So lockdown wears on and I feel my senses grow acute and rusty simultaneously. My nearsightedness becomes worse, the world blurs and I fear that one day even the lines on my palm will disappear when held two inches away from my face. But all the lines that divide us only become clearer and clearer. The noise that was absent for a few months comes back with a vengeance, deafening my mornings and numbing the ears. Yet I can hear clearly the envy, the pain, the struggle, the need for catharsis, hidden under catcalls as I ride through the roads of the city.

A few days ago someone threw a gin bottle into our property. It smashed close to the house into uncountable pieces. The memory of the sound of it hitting asphalt, the sight of all the glittering shards, makes me want to hide from the world.

I think I have to relearn how people speak to each other. I know I have to unlearn prejudice. It's so much easier with animals.

---
"Relearning-unlearning"

# data[].attributes.body
Oct 2, 7:43 PM
I’m probably the loudest person in my new neighborhood right now but regardless of the situation, pandemic or no pandemic, a beautiful sunrise is always enough to shut me up. What used to be called normal may have changed significantly but I don’t think we should forget these other things that haven’t. The beauty of light that we are treated with every morning was here since it was created and is still here for us to enjoy.

# data[].attributes.body
A Shout From The Earth
Oct 2, 7:37 PM

Changes from our daily experiences have an impact on changing the earth to become healthier and fresher. The change also brings new experiences for us about better awareness of the environment and health.

This pandemic is like a shout from the earth to its inhabitants to stop habits that are harmful to the earth. So that residents can experience new experiences that are healthier and fresher even though they are still in the same place.

# data[].attributes.body
Thurs, Oct 1, 9:09 PM
What does this sound like? How does it sound?

The sound of rain, the sound of deep-fried food and the sound of the wind

Pleasant sound, unpleasant sound

I searched for sound in a quieter city than before
I don't know if it's an old sound or a recent sound

But it certainly exists in the city where I live now

Memories, smells and feels are attached to the sound

It's like a friend or lover you used to get along with

When you resume with this sound somewhere in the future

Recall that we were groping and trying to feel something

# data[].attributes.body
Sat, Sep 26, 11:35 PM

Prior to the pandemic, these streets were filled with nothing but the sounds of the bustling vicinity, street vendors and their marketing spiels, the engines and horns of public transportations, queuing people for the train, distant and nearby voices, among many others.

These sounds form part of the in situ, the vicinity and the mundane. Perhaps these can be viewed as narratives shared, constructed, and deconstructed by diverse people.
Delving in intimacies of space and familiarity of one’s locale and its people vis-à-vis narratives through auditory cues, how has the pandemic changed the sounds (and noises, including the absence of it), perhaps narratives that shape a place? How has the pandemic changed each locality? Were there voices and sounds that were silenced? Were there ones which have become more audible given current conditions? Do these voices or sounds, in any way, alter the long-ago concept of the locale’s mundane?

In reflection, these sounds and voices form part of our being and our belongingness in our own locality. Such familiarity on these triggers memories interconnected with our experiences in a locale. Do we still feel such belongingness in the neighborhood? Has the experience changed? When you hear familiar sounds—the bustling vicinity, street vendors and their marketing spiels, the engines and horns of public transportations, queuing people for the train, distant and nearby voices—can you say it’s still the same? Or better yet—can you say you are still in the same locality?

# data[].attributes.body
Wed, Sep 30, 2:50 PM
I don't so much miss the noise of the city. I've come to embrace silence, and learned to converse with the moon, bathe in its light. Sometimes I sit under our mango tree and listen to the leaves rustle. My dad always warns me that a mango might drop on my head one of these days.

But I do miss people and the palpable intimacies of social interactions. From what little I have seen of my neighborhood, it's not the same anymore. Everything seems fraught with caution, or other people's lack of caution instills you with so much anxiety.

I've been finding myself thinking of a scene I would watch from the balcony of my favourite coffee spot: Every now and then, a basket would descend from the 3rd floor balcony of the building across the street, down to the lady vendor selling cigarettes and instant coffee. I wish I could send you a photo of that scene, but I've never been able to capture it. I always found myself caught in the act of watching it happen, and the thought of taking out my camera only comes to me afterwards.

So instead, I'm sending you a couple of photos of my silent moments with the moon. I like to think that though we're all apart, there's still something to be shared in looking at the same moon.

# data[].attributes.body
Wed, Sep 30, 2:08 PM
In the fallible sea of memory, eventually old and lost loves merge with the wished-for and almost loves. In the end, you might not be able to distinguish one from the other. The only constant being the passage of time and the slipping of lovers through our fingers.

_______

Photo: "Coming or going"

# data[].attributes.body
Sep 30, 2020 at 3:46 PM
Hello!
This is a response to the art that responded to the prompt.
Was especially moved by 13220, 2600, 1105.
This piece is a verse written by hand on paper stuffed into a found object at home - a touristy decorative sea shell.
We are the ocean, at least as salty, especially when our tears sting in regret because of unfulfilled yearnings.
Being on the computer for long periods of time since we are quite isolated due to quarantine measures and the overwhelming subscription to the virtuality, I wanted to recuperate the intimacy of my own hand
holding a pen writing on actual paper. The restriction is making me long for the sand and sea as a place of rejuvenation and kitschy tourism. Since we can't go there, writing about it for my own and your enjoyment may have to do for now.

# data[].attributes.body
Wed, Sep 30, 1:51 PM
Dear 13220,

I appreciate the image of the Heart as the Ocean - slash- the Ocean as the Heart. It's interesting that the heart has a life of its own; we can be brain dead but still have a pumping, living heart. I remember asking a cardiologist about this, and he said, yes, the heart has a "brain" of its own.

Water is an entity of its own, on its own, it does not even need anything to hold it. Yes we can put water in some vessel but water is meant to flow, not remain stagnant. Is the Ocean held by land, or is the land kept alive by the Ocean?

# data[].attributes.body
Mon, Sep 28, 5:29 PM
We often treat memories as snippets of the past, when in truth it is as murky as the sea. Memories are the mind's (re)interpretation of events that we long to hold onto. Subject to waves of transformation over time, depending where we bring them— into the deep or back to the shallows. In the shallows, we've no desire of letting sail away into our consciousness. Inaccuracy is reduced to what an event was at plain sight. We let it remain by the bay and let them come to us as empty as the seashells half-buried in the sand.

Some memories are locked up inside bottles. We drink to those memories and when we've drained the final drop of liquor from the glass, we let the echoes— our recollection— seethe and appear before us, drunk as we are of our colored views of them. We release them to the sea, and perhaps one day, someone might find the bottle in their own shore.

In the deep— and Oh, the deep— there we lay them to rest for we are only afraid of the monsters they might become.

# data[].attributes.body
Mon, Sep 28, 11:50 AM
Our hearts

widen as the ocean,

when we surrender to holy play

We cannot drown In floods

Treading just above water

This time we are

Prepared
An arc of rainbows always

come with rain

And those who

Survived,

Rebuild

Remembering

the promise they made.

# data[].attributes.body
Mon, Sep 28, 5:35 AM

What will happen to us? I think of the ocean at night and the answers I get at the shoreline, starring into the waves of darkness or into what Hawaiians call Pō.

Moana Nui and the ocean’s  vastness connects Hawaii to the Philippines. So many of our people are scattered across the Pacific waters. We are the pearly shells on the shorelines, sometimes treasured by the transPacific neoliberal economic order, sometimes discarded with plastic bits and the PPE after one time use.

Sometimes, we pause, we slow our breath, we regain our value outside of transactional exchange, and we use this time to find our way into our sacred waters.

It is this connection where I place my despair, my hope and, my longing for shared  beauty during quarantine and the intense reckoning of these times.  Making art gives me solace.  It helps be navigate the churning waves and the turning tides.

# data[].attributes.body
Sun, Sep 27, 10:39 PM
what happens to the sky if the seas turn white?

i think of lost reveries.

# data[].attributes.body
"Sea of Memories"
Sep 25, 8:31 PM

# data[].attributes.body
Sep 25, 5:33 PM
A heart as wide as ocean means having a broad heart. Accept and face any difficult situation. With a broad heart, we can think clearly and find solutions to the difficulties we face.

_____________________
"Wide as Ocean"

# data[].attributes.body
Sep 25, 5:29 PM
It's impossible to think of the sea without thinking of water. We are made of water. We came from water, millions of years ago. And what is water to us now? It is our most ordinary substance. It keeps us alive and it is perhaps one of our most basic rights. But human rights in this country are contested. So are our maritime territories. Water is difficult to think about once it goes beyond acknowledging the need to drink, or bathe. Does water connect us or divide us? In an archipelago, the sea is a conundrum, both a boundary and a highway. I used to believe that studying the sea, allowing myself to love this vast alien world (I grew up in the mountains, and the boundless blue of the waves makes me uncomfortable) would give me insight, and power. Insight to what, I don't know. Power? Well... All I know is that these days, everything is liquid, and nothing is certain. Dissent is dammed, stirred, quenched. Our shores are covered in sands that don't belong, like blindfolds. I think of the sea, I think of civilizations that have risen and fallen like tides, and I think that I will never understand the currents that move us. I'm confused. I'm terrified. I've never felt so much like an island in the midst of all this connection.

# data[].attributes.body
{ prompt 1 }

# data[].attributes.body
Sep 25, 2020, 2:02 PM
What happens to the sky if the seas turn white?
Unnaturally and unnecessarily white.

I think of lost reveries if it so happens that blue skies will cease to exist. And if some other color will remain, it will be the violent red and orange of a setting sun. There will be no purple or mauve to mediate the reds or pinks and the blues. The gloaming will no longer be; blue will cease to bewitch us at the liminal hours of dawn and twilight. Day itself will be blank/blanc.

Bachelard wrote, "these hours of pure vision in front of the tender and delicate blue of a sky from which all objects have been banished, we will be able to understand that the aerial kind of imagination offers a do-main in which the values of the dream and of the representation are interchangeable on the most basic level. Other matters harden objects. Also, in the realm of blue air more than elsewhere, we feel that the world may be permeated by the most indeterminate reverie. This is when reverie really has depth. The blue sky opens up in depth beneath the dream... The world is then truly on the other side of the unsilvered mirror. There is an im-aginary beyond, a pure beyond, one without a within. First there is nothing, then there is a deep nothing, then there is a blue depth."

Blue is elusive. It's existence in nature is a magical phenomenon. It exists at the in-between, an optical illusion when bird feathers and butterfly wings register blue in our eyes. Zoom in and you'll see, it is all a matter of refraction. That seemingly pure and absolute blue is made up of ultraviolet, indigo, and peacock green. In flora, blues inch towards a lavender color, think of periwinkles and hydrangeas.

So what will happen if the ocean is no longer blue?

The question crept into my mind as I saw the so called "sand" dissolve and ebb into the Manila Bay waters, the fish lethargic, almost aimlessly swimming, swimming yet going nowhere. We're all like those fish these days, unsure how to navigate the tainted waters of our time. All the forward strides humanity has taken in trying to better itself, what has become of those? It seems that we've regressed instead.

And I think of the corals, they're hunkering down, preparing for a mass extinction event. I think of the ghosts of the overmined giant clams and the detritus of lost sovereignty lying at the bottom of the West Philippine Sea.

I guess what I'm really wondering most of all is:

What will happen to us?

________________________________

"What happens to the sky if the seas turn white?"
Edited image of a bleached shell
2020