No More Blue Skies


The cockroaches in Ermita are in a sexual frenzy. Walking down the streets of Orosa street, I see more than a dozen roaches immersed in insectoid humping. A bright eyed street kid in dust stained "Vote Atienza!" shirt is gleefully squishing these six legged street copulators. "Two cockroaches with one stomp," not a bad way to spend the night I guess. Off the corner of U.N. avenue a couple of sleazy teenagers were wearing their best "charm smile" to get the attention of a pretty girl passing by. That girl, Diane, works in a nearby Japanese Karaoke which caters to males only 45 years old and above. I work next door in a building made in the 60's. Across the street is fairly huge balete tree, uprooted by the latest signal number 4 typhoon. If spirits do inhabit that tree, as our spaced-out receptionist said, I'm sure they're out doing what spirits do in an evacuation camp somewhere. The stars are nowhere to be seen as usual, they usually hang out in Malate but never a sighting of even one in Ermita since World War 2. A dogs scavenging brings about the fresh scent of wet garbage. The night has barely begun. The cockroaches, I noticed, are now doing a rain dance with the boy who was slaughtering them earlier. Just a normal night, nothing ever changes here.