Sensual Dissonance aka Withdrawal

“As the expressive and sentient landscape slowly faded behind my more exclusively human concerns, threatening to become littler more than an illusion or fantasy, I began to feel –particularly in my chest and abdomen –as though I were being cut off from vital sources of nourishment. I was indeed re-acclimating to my own culture, becoming more attuned to its styles of discourse and interaction, yet my bodily senses seemed to be losing their acuteness, becoming less awake to subtle changes and patterns….

There [Nepal] the air was a thick and richly textured presence, filled with invisible, but nonetheless tactile, olfactory, and audible influences. In the United States, however, the air seemed thin and void of substance or influence…Hence, in America I found myself lingering near wood fires and even garbage dumps –much to the dismay of my friends –for only such an intensity of smells served to remind my body of its immersion in an enveloping medium, and with this experience of being immersed in a world of influences came a host of body memories from my year among the shamans and village people of rural Asia.” –Abram, The Spell of the Sensuous

~

There’s a painting of a beautiful sunset where a person sits on the boat by the shadows of the trees at my friend’s new apartment. The colors are familiar –orange, gold, purple, blue, and pink. I stare at it, letting every part of me travel to those moments where I was the one sitting in that boat, watching the sun, surrounded by warmth, water, and spirits. I breathe in deeply and catch a whiff of the thick island air, half praying that the spirits I encountered will manifest themselves so that I can just remember.

Just let me remember.

A siren squeals loudly outside and a cold gush of air sweeps over me through the window I’m sitting next to and I’m back in New York.

~

Every part of my body wants to remember the Philippines. Every minute back here in the States, I’m afraid I’ll forget it all. I’m afraid that the old images of things that I love will overcrowd the things that I love from my most recent home. I’ve kept myself inside for the past 3 days, subconsciously afraid that overexposure will make me leave it all behind completely. My heart warms at the sight of the New York skyline, but I foolishly fight the warmth I feel, thinking it will make me forget the bundok, the bukid, the dagat, the ilog…lahat –everything.

Like Abram, my nose itches to smell the scents of diesel mixed with heat, dust, and burning garbage of the city or the warm, gentle air of the waters or the clean, crisp air of the mountains. Walking down 139^th, I catch a quick scent of something burning. The familiarity excites me for a brief moment until the cold hits my nostrils with a shock.

My skin roars at the cold –cracked and itchy, screaming for moisture and the natural oil produced by the heat of the islands that kept my sin safe and protected. Granted, I’m not dusty like I was in the PI, but that’s what tabos are for. My hands reach for warm waters to dip into while my toes wiggle in winter boots, desirous of the freedom of tsinellas.

My ears strain for the sounds of birds, crickets, frogs thrumming in the day and the night and the constant chatter of Tagalog. I liked listening to people talk, trying to figure out what they’re saying and being happy when I could get the gist of it. I liked hearing the women gossip and the men guffaw. It always made me smile. Instead, I hear sirens, trucks, and loud voices bantering in English. I guess that’s all right too.

Meanwhile, my tongue trips over both English and Tagalog. I find myself eagerly chatting with my parents about what I experienced in the Philippines and what needs to be done at the house, but shying away from too much unnecessary chatter with other folks, afraid that falling back into my old gregariousness will signal a clutter in the mental space that I had just spent four months clearing. The space for Tagalog is even more limited now that I’m back home. I want to drop Tagalog into my sentences with friends, the Starbucks girl, the waiter at Queen Sheeba, but I can’t. I mean, I could, but you know…it wouldn’t make sense.

My eyes get tired from the screen -staring at photos from my journey over and over again. They long for the bright, burning sun and the green of plants and trees that I would wake up to. I look for Filipino faces all around me, but there are few. Instead, I’m met with the sight of snow, bare trees, and gray pavement. The connection to earth blocked by the concrete weights. Driving into Harlem, I’m shocked to process the sight of other brown people, not just Filipinos –Dominican flags, Black faces, Central Americans. "Oh my GOD!! A Black person!!" I scream at Leigh while she shakes her head at my weirdness. (I probably saw like 8 while I was in the PI. And yes, I was counting.) When’s the last time I saw a Latino…not on Facebook?

~

I look back at the painting longing to let myself be transported again. But it takes so much energy and I’m here now. I can’t always wish for there when I’m meant to be here, now can I?

Anyway, it’s all stored in my cellular memory. Any day now, it will all come back to me.