Notes From Where I Sit

by Renee Cuisia

They put up a streetlight just a few feet away from our house. At night, an orange, almost-crimson, light leaks through our dusty windows. At the terrace where I sit, overlooking our village, the soft glow is just right. Cool breezes come and go and the sky shines dully but still amazingly, dotted with blinking stars that look like you could grab them. The moon looks just as divine and reachable.

There are boys, always boys, doing their rounds and making noise in the street. It’s around 8:30 in the evening and around this time there are always loose gangs in loose jerseys, swaggering aimlessly, owning the whole place.

Mr. Tolentino from the house across sits with his grandson and dogs. He is smoking his evening cigarettes, and sometimes he’ll swivel his head to my direction — I immediately look away so that I’ll never know if he actually looks at me or not (I couldn’t stand the eye contact, an acknowledgement of my activity, a crumbling of purpose).

Inches away from my head is the thick strain of an electric line. One time sitting on the exact same spot, my father told me about a dream my grandmother, his mother, had. It was of me. From exactly where I am, I moved a little too close to the line and it shocked and killed me. I still sit here though, regularly too.

I wonder if people can see me from down below. And if they do what must they think? A girl dangerously on the edge of a two-storey house, typing furtively away (little do they know — about them).

I’m a few hours away from my deadline. I have to submit a short story and I’ve chosen to write about the people of my village here from where I sit.

I take odd pleasure in the fact that the people in my village have become characters, characters I watch from my safe distance, characters I play with when I’m bored. Characters with backstories and true stories I constantly fact-check and invent.

There’s usually a bustle of people to watch out here, but tonight they’re all gone, replaced perhaps by the overwhelming number of stars above.

The last time I was here I was with my father. We watched the street below together. “During these ideal idle times, you tend to have ideas and reflect a lot on them,” he said. (I may or may have not reworked his original statement. I’m pretty sure he could not have used “ideal” and “idle” in one sentence and consecutively at that.)

But indeed at that time, I made a list of the people we saw and often go back to it in attempting to create characters for stories. In my list and in my memory there are two kids, a boy and a girl, walking to us, basketball dribbling. Three elderly men in smart plaid polos and ironed black slacks proceeding three similarly clad elderly women. One of them swinging an umbrella, the other clasping what looks like a Bible.

“Where did they come from?” I asked my dad. “Church, maybe,” he replied. “Or maybe they’re from a cult,” I offered. A few beats later a man, his skin a deep, shiny brown with hair as long as mine, walked towards our direction. I sneezed, and in mockery he did as well. Surprised, I looked at him and he looked back up at me, snugly and familiarly. I turned to dad in search for some explanation but he just nodded sagely, as if everything is happening as he planned.

My dad and I don’t speak anymore; we’ve encountered a sort-of falling out, which seems like an inevitable step towards adulthood. I don’t think much about it but when I’m here I can’t help but do.

Still right at this spot (always at this spot) was where I first thought and attempted to run away. I’d just gotten off a fight with my parents, and angst-ridden and in tears, I ran to the terrace to be alone and promised to get out of here. But I’d only go so far as pack my bags. I didn’t know where to go beyond our gate. As I watched the rush of cars below, I wondered about the next step, feared the jeep or the bus or whatever it was that could take me away. My ignorance annoyed me even then.

Now though, I know how. I never thought I would but now I do know the exact ways in which I can escape this place — it’s fairly easy. And I can pull it off, go through with it. I’d know what to ride, and where to go; I’d even have a place to stay. This is a possibility, now that I’m older.

Now that I’m older I know a lot of answers to my questions then. Though I never really run out of questions. They’re either just changing or adding up so that while I’m gaining some in this run, the road’s simultaneously, neverendingly, expanding.

So that I never really go anywhere, but the background’s shifting and moving while I stay in place, unmoved. Questions and answers diminished and replenished constantly. It’s a terrific, terrifying cycle.

I realize I’ve gone through about four hours worth of memories without still establishing anything concrete for my short story requirement. Mr. Tolentino is done with his musings and is now entering his house, and the dogs have stopped barking as well. As for the tough boys who make their rounds, they’re most likely resting at the covered court beside the church, where it’s dark and quiet and they can do whatever it is that they please without being suspected of doing anything nor by anyone, except maybe by the silent god watching over them (or beside them, or below).

It’s okay though, I think I’ve found what I’m looking for. I have complex stories hidden within, those will be enough for now.

This above is the last line from the list I mentioned earlier, the one I made the morning I watched the village from where I sit with my dad. So idyllic. But the illusion was quickly shattered when I went down and returned to the dark, cramped quarters that is my room.