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This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.
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Bibliography
The Great Little Hunter
Pinspired Philippines, 2022
The Boy The Girl
The Rat The Rabbit
and the Last Magic Days
Chapbook, 2018
Republic of Carnage:
Three Horror Stories
For the Way We Live Now
Chapbook, 2018
Bamboo Girls:
Stories and Poems
From a Forgotten Life
Ateneo de Naga University Press, 2018
Don't Tell Anyone:
Literary Smut
With Shakira Andrea Sison
Pride Press / Anvil Publishing, 2017
Cupful of Anger,
Bottle Full of Smoke:
The Stories of
Jose V. Montebon Jr.
Silliman Writers Series, 2017
First Sight of Snow
and Other Stories
Encounters Chapbook Series
Et Al Books, 2014
Celebration: An Anthology to Commemorate the 50th Anniversary of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop
Sands and Coral, 2011-2013
Silliman University, 2013
Handulantaw: Celebrating 50 Years of Culture and the Arts in Silliman
Tao Foundation and Silliman University Cultural Affairs Committee, 2013
Inday Goes About Her Day
Locsin Books, 2012
Beautiful Accidents: Stories
University of the Philippines Press, 2011
Heartbreak & Magic: Stories of Fantasy and Horror
Anvil, 2011
Old Movies and Other Stories
National Commission for Culture
and the Arts, 2006
FutureShock Prose: An Anthology of Young Writers and New Literatures
Sands and Coral, 2003
Nominated for Best Anthology
2004 National Book Awards
Follow the Spy
Recent Crumbs
Blogs I Read
© 2002-2021
IAN ROSALES CASOCOT
Friday, May 02, 2008
10:58 PM |
Character Sketches No. 3: The Old White Man on a Bicycle
Nobody—except probably the family he belongs to—knows where he comes from. Is he Australian? Swiss? French? Belgian? German? British? There are so many of them here, expatriates all, most of them of a certain age that marks a settled life away from the cold hemispheres, but now blissfully transplanted in Negros’s sun and eternal surf. Most of them while the days away in their seaside cafes—Happy Fred’s, Why Not, CocoAmigos among them—with their talks of home, their long-haired brown women, their beer and their whisky. This one is certainly not American. He bellows in English, but always in a European accent. He is an old white man. His hair is white. His skin is red from the sun. He wears a pair of shorts and, always, a sleeveless white tee. He looks poor. Or maybe nobody looks after him, which might explain everything. We know him as the Bicycle Man. And he drives all over town—from the airport to the seaside boulevard to the main strip of town. And we know him well because, wherever he goes on his bicycle, he bellows to everybody by the roadside anywhere,
“Hallloooo yooooouuuu!” Hello. You. Hello you. A stretched out greeting that rings out and means so many things. Sometimes we holler back a hello. Sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we glare back at him because he has startled us from our deep concentration while walking down the road. Sometimes we ask: Who is he? Where does he come from? When will he go home? Is he mad? Most times, we just feel sad for this old white man on a bicycle. So far away from home. Perhaps he only feels lonely, and thus endlessly greets everybody a grand hello, hoping, perhaps, that one friendly hello back will bring for him saner days, more beautiful days, where a strange land becomes a little bit more like home.
Labels: dumaguete, life
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