MANICHAEAN
11-04-2010, 04:33 AM
He was an established writer and could not sleep.So he sat in that luxury cavern which comprised the Peninsular Hotel's reception lounge and God's dawn was somewhere out there moving imperceptibly towards him over the South China Sea. He had been unable to sleep since he first awoke at two a.m, his thoughts too active with the story that was evolving in his head.
Outside the two main glass entrance doors were the windblown security guards & their dogs. Within, there was the crisp orderliness of the long marbled reception counter, & elsewhere scattered like acolytes attending a religious ceremony, the fomally attired, ever attendent auxiliaries of the hotel staff. Over to the right, trying to appear unassuming, the internal security watched. Sharp suits and size twelve black shoes belying the physical attributes which were their reserves in trade.
The writer ordered an American coffee at one of the tables and opened his laptop. He felt that at this hour the atmosphere was ordered and quiet and conducive to getting down the first words of that which was still inside him.
"Strange" he thought, "How one sometimes had to be in Asia to convey a scene based in Europe". He felt this one was a good story. The improvised scribblings and jottings for journalism he could knock out anywhere, anytime under whatever circumstances he found himself in.
The coffee arrived and over by the entrance, a succession of expensive limousines had started to arrive. Comprised he guessed of old guard politicians, they were ushered to a working breakfast section of the foyer at this strange clandestine hour.
"Presumably, while lesser mortals slept, they would decide who got what position in the impending "free and fair" general election. Wealthy and materialistic and shabby little individuals assuming as if their right, the respect extended by the hotel staff and management to their assumed national status".
But he refused to be diverted as now the story was running under its own steam and his typing struggled to keep pace with it. He looked up and saw at the opposite side to the politicians, an extremely pretty young Filipina sitting at a table by herself, the skin still rain splashed and fresh from outside. She was sad and reserved and faced towards the elevators waiting for someone. He was disturbed by her.
And yet he thought, "I possess you at this moment. It is my profession to be a watcher. In fact I own the skyscrapers of Makarti outside, I own this hotel at early morning, but only the laptop and the story owns me".
He got in deeper to the tale, whilst his coffee half drunk lay beside him. Now he was the one that had the reins of the story.He was in control and with measured application and focus he brought it to a conclusion.
He looked up and the girl had gone. He hoped she had met a man who was gentle and genuine and who could take away that sadness.He was sad himself and empty and felt betrayed.
It was always like this after a story was complete, rather like after having made love.
Leaning back he ordered another coffee, the waitress giving him a pleasant smile. He wondered if he did have an ability to write seriously. Not just the stuff that sold well.He was aware of the mantra requirements of; imagination, experience and wordcraft. But he was unsure if he was just percieving, in an arid journey, an outward facade in what he wrote. He had earlier passed by too glibly the crowded baringays on the way from the airport. The tin-roofed community shacks right up against the railway line verges & up to the very sides of the polluted rivers that traversed this capital city, their make shift toilets cantilevered out over the water and their waste dropped directly into the waters below.
Tomorrow he would fly up to the provinces away from all this. It would be green and Fatima would devote herself to him and the kids and grandkids would flock to "Lolo" in anticipation of a handout of money and some surprise gifts. He remembered then, the last visit when he had sat on his porch chair reading. Fatima had suddenly started to softly chant and had laid out sticky rice and cigerattes at the adjoining domestic shrine containing a crucifix and the figure of an unknown saint. It had been, he was informed, All Souls Day and the ancestors were being called and worshipped and offerings made. An overlay of more ancient and perhaps more superior rites, before Christianity had been introduced by those Spanish friars so long ago.
He was happy now. The reconnaissance troops of dawn were approaching, the hotel was changing shifts and he was going back up to his king-sized bed, this time to sleep with the very angels at the gates of Heaven. The words "I Bring You Peace, My Peace I Give You" came into his head.
Outside the two main glass entrance doors were the windblown security guards & their dogs. Within, there was the crisp orderliness of the long marbled reception counter, & elsewhere scattered like acolytes attending a religious ceremony, the fomally attired, ever attendent auxiliaries of the hotel staff. Over to the right, trying to appear unassuming, the internal security watched. Sharp suits and size twelve black shoes belying the physical attributes which were their reserves in trade.
The writer ordered an American coffee at one of the tables and opened his laptop. He felt that at this hour the atmosphere was ordered and quiet and conducive to getting down the first words of that which was still inside him.
"Strange" he thought, "How one sometimes had to be in Asia to convey a scene based in Europe". He felt this one was a good story. The improvised scribblings and jottings for journalism he could knock out anywhere, anytime under whatever circumstances he found himself in.
The coffee arrived and over by the entrance, a succession of expensive limousines had started to arrive. Comprised he guessed of old guard politicians, they were ushered to a working breakfast section of the foyer at this strange clandestine hour.
"Presumably, while lesser mortals slept, they would decide who got what position in the impending "free and fair" general election. Wealthy and materialistic and shabby little individuals assuming as if their right, the respect extended by the hotel staff and management to their assumed national status".
But he refused to be diverted as now the story was running under its own steam and his typing struggled to keep pace with it. He looked up and saw at the opposite side to the politicians, an extremely pretty young Filipina sitting at a table by herself, the skin still rain splashed and fresh from outside. She was sad and reserved and faced towards the elevators waiting for someone. He was disturbed by her.
And yet he thought, "I possess you at this moment. It is my profession to be a watcher. In fact I own the skyscrapers of Makarti outside, I own this hotel at early morning, but only the laptop and the story owns me".
He got in deeper to the tale, whilst his coffee half drunk lay beside him. Now he was the one that had the reins of the story.He was in control and with measured application and focus he brought it to a conclusion.
He looked up and the girl had gone. He hoped she had met a man who was gentle and genuine and who could take away that sadness.He was sad himself and empty and felt betrayed.
It was always like this after a story was complete, rather like after having made love.
Leaning back he ordered another coffee, the waitress giving him a pleasant smile. He wondered if he did have an ability to write seriously. Not just the stuff that sold well.He was aware of the mantra requirements of; imagination, experience and wordcraft. But he was unsure if he was just percieving, in an arid journey, an outward facade in what he wrote. He had earlier passed by too glibly the crowded baringays on the way from the airport. The tin-roofed community shacks right up against the railway line verges & up to the very sides of the polluted rivers that traversed this capital city, their make shift toilets cantilevered out over the water and their waste dropped directly into the waters below.
Tomorrow he would fly up to the provinces away from all this. It would be green and Fatima would devote herself to him and the kids and grandkids would flock to "Lolo" in anticipation of a handout of money and some surprise gifts. He remembered then, the last visit when he had sat on his porch chair reading. Fatima had suddenly started to softly chant and had laid out sticky rice and cigerattes at the adjoining domestic shrine containing a crucifix and the figure of an unknown saint. It had been, he was informed, All Souls Day and the ancestors were being called and worshipped and offerings made. An overlay of more ancient and perhaps more superior rites, before Christianity had been introduced by those Spanish friars so long ago.
He was happy now. The reconnaissance troops of dawn were approaching, the hotel was changing shifts and he was going back up to his king-sized bed, this time to sleep with the very angels at the gates of Heaven. The words "I Bring You Peace, My Peace I Give You" came into his head.