FINDING THE EXIT FROM A SHIP
I am on a ship. A SuperFerry, I think. I am trying to find my way out, trying to escape it. As I traverse the lower levels (generators, engines), I see to my surprise that the lowest passenger levels are vertical instead olf horizontal (people are strapped to their bunks like rocketship astronauts about to launch).. and it is difficult trying to find the EXIT. Much less walking galleys that are the wrong side up. I even clamber down into a private den (which smells like a carpeted room in Baguio, alternatingly stuffy and cold) where sleepy people are saying, "Sorry, this is the lowest rom in the ship, but the EXIT is not here." I apologize and leave, and hear them say, everyone passes thru here, looking for the EXIT. But no one ever finds it.

March 22, Monday 1999
10:00 am

THE ATTIC OF THE MAESTRO
I am in a loft, an attic. Night-time. It's a wooden house, much like the cottages they have on Baguio slopes. Lotsa people--most getting ready to sleep, slumber-party style, in sleeping mats. Some of them are choirmates from Bukas Palad, the rest are from my college organization, the Ateneo College Ministry Group (ACMG).
___ There is loud music playing. Classical…. It’s from the sound system of a half-deaf composer of the Oscar Yatco/Lucio San Pedro type… (although I never get to see his face). He’s playing a record of his composition in an adjacent rooom and we are listening before getting ready to sleep
___ I go to the composer to ask about his music and his old wife is there to answer my journalistic queries. They soon head off to their real bedroom to sleep leaving our big group in the spacious attic….

THE GARDEN, BEFORE JOGGING
The next morning. We are in a garden. There are folding beds and cots lying all about, and people getting up, getting ready to go… I am putting on my shoes—which are mere P200 sneakers, and not running shoes… and George Hamilton is there, convincing me and my dad to take it easy as we go on our jogging route. Papa is convinced that we should head towards the direction of the night clubs that his friend owns ( we are situated somewhere in a hybrid Cogeo/C-5 wilderness area…. And heading toward the hinterlands of Antipolo, it looks like. I am raring to go, the morning is beautiful. And the leaves underneath my feet remind me of… the cemetery? Or Ateneo at dawn? Or life…. The leaves underfoot are green… so is the grass. I am alive. And that is a beautiful feeling….

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