I have a friend who we will call by the name Dondi. He has just been in some really bad situation at home. His wife left, leaving in her wake a tasteful bucket of lies, a young girl and a lonely husband. Dondi is the type of quite dude, but when you get to know him, he is passionate about a lot of things. He can compose songs impromptu. I just met him recently but I feel like I’ve known him for the longest time. We’ve already bonded over tagay sessions with friends. We’ve also shared some very serious conversations about our, let’s say, almost parallel love lives.
So it was a Sunday and Flenn, my bestfriend and Dondi texted me a very hurried message to go guitar hunting at Lapu-Lapu. My thought when I read the message: what’s up with this guy this time? Sure, I agreed without hesitation and they fetched me at about noon.
Our destination was Alegre. But Dondi is not familiar with the place. So aided by a Google map, we finally found the guitar street along the stretch of Pajac-Maribago Rd., after some wrong turns and occasional bothering of some locals for directions.
Dondi does not know how to play guitar. But that’s just him – picking up new things that strikes his fancy. I remember the other day he wanted to start a T-shirt business. And then a tattoo parlor. After that, he started fixing an extra room in his house to turn it into something ‘more native.’ He always had plans.
I can’t help but feel a second-hand kind of sadness. Maybe in some way, he mirrors the kind of escapism I am wallowing in. Maybe the melodies will help drown out the fatality of the murder. The strings would make the fingers busy, the mind alert, the brain temporarily occupied. But what of the heart?