while peter sips slowly from plastic cup after plastic cup of whiskey, edmund paces the length of th plane, 'stretching his legs', thinking about death and the dearth of time, missing his sisters. how long are they going to spend hiding in the philippines? he's split us up again, he thinks, but doesn't say it aloud, because what would that achieve anyway.
+
it takes 45 minutes for their bags to appear on the carousel and edmund spends the intervening time watching large boxes and colorful bags roll by from boston, san antonio, philadelphia to places like ilo-ilo, zamboanga, cagayan del oro.
"fucking finally," peter mutters. "i need a drink."
"no," says edmund firmly, throwing peter his duffel with a little more force than necessary, "you don't."
in the arrival hall, there is a grim-faced man in polished shoes and a short-sleeved button-down shirt holding a sign for PEVENSY. he tells them his name is miguel, and that mister lune is sorry he can't be here to greet them personally.
+
people have this image of new york as this wild jungle of debauchery and excess, muggers and drug-dealers around every corner, rich bitches and energetic suits: no one ever sleeps. but new york is a neat and orderly spreadsheet: it is a grid; the streets run from east to west, the avenues north to south, the traffic lights are trustworthy and public transport is efficient and ubiquitous.
for all one's talk of urban claustrophia, the roads are very wide.
crossing amsterdam at 118th, edmund had looked both ways and saw so far, the parallel lines of the street reaching for an elusive vanishing point. harlem stretched out below him like a mosaic or an italian hillside in the late afternoon.
you want to talk about claustrophobia, you want to talk about the cruelty of the city, about its excesses (of depravity, of deprivation), then you want to talk about manila. manila will provide you with examples aplenty, garishly colored and wild-eyed. manila, with her penchant for making promises and her love-hate relationship with her past, drifting by outside the window as miguel drives them to wherever.
"don't," edmund says quietly when peter begins to open a window to give some change to a blind man and the woman who shepherds him around.
"don't be so heartless, ed."
"he's obviously faking it."
peter just gives his brother a look and drops the coins into the man's hands, rolls the window back up. a few seconds later, an urchin in a tattered power rangers shirt taps on the window, cupping her hands around her eyes to look through the benz's tinted glass. peter reaches into his pockets again, but before he can open the window, the light turns green. the car pulls away from the intersection.
borne of a culture that coddles its sense of boundaries, manila is strangely lacking in them. shanties flourish next to the private schools, behind government buildings, down the street from the shopping malls where expats and private-sector scions shop at guess and jean-paul gauthier. there is no poor part of manila, no rich part of manila, not in any true sense. it all bleeds together, overlapping.
and everywhere, everywhen, always: the heat, fierce and proud. it is like a mother's last embrace, desperate and clinging and leaving you with an odd sense of hollowness, ephemerality.
(CONTINUED IN ANOTHER COMMENT BECAUSE LJ SAYS I EXCEEDED MAXIMUM CHARACTER LENGTH :-O)
no subject
+
it takes 45 minutes for their bags to appear on the carousel and edmund spends the intervening time watching large boxes and colorful bags roll by from boston, san antonio, philadelphia to places like ilo-ilo, zamboanga, cagayan del oro.
"fucking finally," peter mutters. "i need a drink."
"no," says edmund firmly, throwing peter his duffel with a little more force than necessary, "you don't."
in the arrival hall, there is a grim-faced man in polished shoes and a short-sleeved button-down shirt holding a sign for PEVENSY. he tells them his name is miguel, and that mister lune is sorry he can't be here to greet them personally.
+
people have this image of new york as this wild jungle of debauchery and excess, muggers and drug-dealers around every corner, rich bitches and energetic suits: no one ever sleeps. but new york is a neat and orderly spreadsheet: it is a grid; the streets run from east to west, the avenues north to south, the traffic lights are trustworthy and public transport is efficient and ubiquitous.
for all one's talk of urban claustrophia, the roads are very wide.
crossing amsterdam at 118th, edmund had looked both ways and saw so far, the parallel lines of the street reaching for an elusive vanishing point. harlem stretched out below him like a mosaic or an italian hillside in the late afternoon.
you want to talk about claustrophobia, you want to talk about the cruelty of the city, about its excesses (of depravity, of deprivation), then you want to talk about manila. manila will provide you with examples aplenty, garishly colored and wild-eyed. manila, with her penchant for making promises and her love-hate relationship with her past, drifting by outside the window as miguel drives them to wherever.
"don't," edmund says quietly when peter begins to open a window to give some change to a blind man and the woman who shepherds him around.
"don't be so heartless, ed."
"he's obviously faking it."
peter just gives his brother a look and drops the coins into the man's hands, rolls the window back up. a few seconds later, an urchin in a tattered power rangers shirt taps on the window, cupping her hands around her eyes to look through the benz's tinted glass. peter reaches into his pockets again, but before he can open the window, the light turns green. the car pulls away from the intersection.
borne of a culture that coddles its sense of boundaries, manila is strangely lacking in them. shanties flourish next to the private schools, behind government buildings, down the street from the shopping malls where expats and private-sector scions shop at guess and jean-paul gauthier. there is no poor part of manila, no rich part of manila, not in any true sense. it all bleeds together, overlapping.
and everywhere, everywhen, always: the heat, fierce and proud. it is like a mother's last embrace, desperate and clinging and leaving you with an odd sense of hollowness, ephemerality.
(CONTINUED IN ANOTHER COMMENT BECAUSE LJ SAYS I EXCEEDED MAXIMUM CHARACTER LENGTH :-O)