At The Bus(y) Terminal

by joanabagano

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Waiting is writing is waiting. The lines are blurred.

While looking at a vast swarm of sweaty and tired-eyed people sitting on/beside/in front/behind their luggage, I tried to sketch the word ‘waiting’ and I came up with this. Depends on how you read it, but I read it both ways.

Brother

Bothered brother.

When we arrived, we received stubs stamped 3635 and 3636 while those with stubs 2000 were being called. It was 8AM. We got on board at 7PM.

AgfaPhoto

Witch.

This is a miserable attempt at a self-portrait. Whenever I try to illustrate myself, I always mix my features with those of the people I see around me/imagine/remember.

Manong


The idiot box helps pass time.

This mid-40s man was so engrossed in a film being shown on a TV that hung above the ticket booth. There were times that he looked at me though, probably because I was staring at him. The staring was done not because I wanted to get his features right (I could memorize his face in a few seconds) but because his shirt said a lot. It said “No. 1 in Youth Rugby. Makati Mavericks Club.” The print was a simple green and the font style looked 90s. I figured maybe it was  his shirt when he was still playing as a teenager or something.

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Maybe, it’s baby’s first bus ride.

One of the most striking episodes in the crowd was of a frail, old woman carrying a healthy-looking baby. The baby’s complexion was paper-white while the old woman had dark brown skin. Some of the old woman’s relatives were sitting next to her and all of them looked naturally dark. I heard the woman speaking to someone on the phone, probably the baby’s mother, and the conversation went on as if they hadn’t spoken in years. I kept wondering. I had a theory.

 

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