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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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Friday, October 08, 2010

entry arrow1:01 PM | There is No Memory

There was this one night in my immediate past which I struggle to place in the mist of encroaching forgetfulness. I played that game of “last look” with the man I loved. He had lain there before me like a beautiful marble statue, unmoving, reclining quietly in the darkness that surrounded us. The ritual of remembering him I stole from the numerous Hollywood romances I’ve seen—there was the pained and overwhelming silence, the soft kisses, the touch of one’s lips, like a benediction, on choice spots on the lover’s face: both eyes, the tip of the nose, the bridge between the forehead and the nose, the soft intersection between the jaw and the neck, and finally—with the lightness of air—on the fullness of his lips. I am told this is how we make a cartography of people we love, lest we forget. But maps get lost, or become outdated. Mnemonics have no power over how the vagaries of life eventually govern us all.

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