Helplessly hoping her harlequin hovers nearby. Awaiting a word. Gasping at glimpses of gentle true spirit. He runs wishing he could fly only to trip at the sound of good-bye 3 friends could have said to each other: If only we did not go off into the world to conquer it or build a home in the city, sire family, spend the greater part of our lives working city-jobs to send kids through school, we might have become a band of three friends spending our time singing in a BBQ bar in Baluarte, Baclayon, Bohol, singing Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young nostalgia hits.
But then, we might not have had strange children to tell us how they like our music, old fashioned as they might be, because they dig the lyrics.
“They don’t write songs the way they used to”, the girl says.
And then, the old man, her father, might ask, “Oh, so you understand what they’re trying to say?”
“Not entirely.
But then, you do not have to understand the words completely. You can never entirely completely understand the same way the writer understands.
I do not even try to understand it that way. I just listen or read how beautiful the words sound and then wait for thoughts to enter my mind. That’s how you read poetry, Papa. That’s how I read you.”
And of course he is taken aback by this retort. Less by the insight as much as the memory of CSNY’s album “Deja Vu”.
He remembers the album even now. He had the vinyl record once, then the cartridge, then the cassette tape, later on the CD. It seems he never stopped listening to this music. His children probably listened to it all their lives.
And then he hears it sung live by a Baclayon trio, rather well, he might add; the music takes him and his kids back to earlier headier days. He and his children are half-dancing, half listening, and some stranger might have walked in, seen them, and then said: “I’ll have whatever they’re having.”
And after the evening winds down, he thought to himself, yup, this is the place to retire when the time comes.
He appreciates a place where they still sing CSNY and there is actually an audience for it. Some guys his age walk in, order beer grande and prepare to spend the rest of the night drinking and listening. He wonders what and how they are doing here.
But yes, indeed, one could do worse than spend the rest of his years here.
Bohol is not so far from Cebu. There are still properties available just far away enough from the city to be peaceful and quiet.
The standard of living is not so bad. Life is simple and one might even dream of growing one’s own food, set up an artist’s commune that one’s own children might retire to or even work in when they are bigger.
“The times they are changing.” That’s what Bob Dylan said. It is quite possible in the near future to work from your own computer in your own home. Especially, if you want to do art and make music.
And Cebu is just close by, just an hour’s ride away on the fast craft. Do the children like the idea? No problem. Anything’s possible. The adventure of life beckons.
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