Wednesday, November 7, 2007

The Island Boy is Back... Well, Almost

The Island Boy is almost home. I'm in Kalibo now to meet suppliers for the event I'm directing in January.

At the airport, my Technical Supervisor and I stopped by a small restaurant for refreshments while I called the hotels in the area. When we finished our drinks, I asked for an official receipt and asked that they put the name, STICKDREAMS, on it.

This is what I got.

It reads, STICKCRIBS. Hehe. You think we can use this, Piper?

Postscript 1: Billeted at Beachcomber Inn. Wifi enabled. Yipee!
Postscript 2: Got to scan between 150 to 200 pictures. Will start posting soon.
Postscript 3: One more post due, my horrid experience at the DFA!
Postscript 4: Was chatting online with Brownbuds member, Morris, when he said a strong earthquake just hit Bohol. Called Phoebe to ask about them and she said it shook for about 5 seconds, but they were all okay. I hope all our other friends there are okay, too.

Okay, back to work!


  1. hahaha. katawa naman yun. teka teka...bakit ang mahal ng kinain mo? 75 pesos. eh ang budget mo per day singkwenta lang ah! wahahahahahahah.

    have a grand time in bora, direk!

  2. as a postscript, yung mga sumunod na receipts, daryle and i made sure to write stickdreams on a piece of paper na so they would know exactly what to put. hehe.


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The Chronicler's Creed

Where there's water and sun, where there are friends to see or new people to meet, where there's something new to learn, experience, or do, where there's life, there I will be.


Y fue a esa edad... Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde
salió, de invierno o río.
No sé cómo ni cuándo,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche,
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
allí estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.

And it was at that age... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I do not know, I do not know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I do not know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

- An excerpt from LA POESÍA (Poetry) by Pablo Neruda