Works from Trisha Rose Elegino (t.r.e.)

(read at pre-port japan)

The Lost Day

Connection to r e c r e a t i o n

Refreshing l i f e

Releasing d e a t h

R e n e w i n g spirit

Twenty-four hours

Whispered to the w i n d

Without a t r a c e

Replaced

By hourly increments

At nightfall

Polartec vests

College sweatshirts

Wind b r e a k e r s connected

We are the world

On a ship

That doesn’t exist

A mere scene

A signature in my mind

Of hands intertwined

Souls intermeshed

Lives intermingled

A l o s t cycle

Completely g a i n e d

Squeeze.

The seasoned sailor set the beat

To the pulsating heart of a voyage

Seven days g a i n e d

One day l o s t

L o s t to cheers, tears, bursts of laughter

Friendships, enemies, passions

Impatient minutes

excitement awaited

Alas the circle c o m p l e t e

Rejoice at the thought of a l o s s

A l o s s replaced by the demarcation

Of us, of we, of togetherness

Of F a l l 2 0 0 0

A concept foreign until this day

One that never existed

But shall never be erased

From the imprints of our minds

"You go girl!"

At a l o s s for words

Through the d i s c o v e r y of joy

Simple rejoicing

Excuse for silliness

Three syllables shouted

No meaning

Endless implications

Where will I go?

Where will we sojourn?

Where is the one I seek to f i n d

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Amongst the unbroken circle of voyagers

I don’t need to know

Because through our p u l s e,

I f o u n d him

The wind, the cold, the curt air

Could not pierce my soul

As we shared

In our first moment of togetherness

Of union

Internationally l o s t

A voyage f o u n d

A recreation of c o n n e c t i o n

Our l o s t day

The e r a s e d c r e a t i o n

Feel the p u l s e

Relive the v I b R a T i O n

9 / 2 1 / 0 0

She Laughs

Unwanted

Unplanned for

Left at the doorstep of a Chennai orphanage

Mother Orphanage takes her in

Nurtures her

Mothers her

For she has no one

I come to visit

She reaches out to me

Yelling, waiting, excited

Playful girl

She rocks back and forth in my arms

My thoughts that she was just hyper

f a d e

When Mother Orphanage shares

"She is mentally imbalanced"

Out of concern, I ask,

"Does she take any medication?"

"No."

I hug her goodbye

Are they helping her?
Or are they letting her wither away?
Already motherless

Lost in the shuffle

What will become of her?

My playful girl

I pray she will be nurtured

mothered

and above all

that she will find

balance

Cao Dai Temple Walls

Birth

Old

Sick

Death

Swastikas dot pale yellow walls

"No one can escape the inevitable cycle of nature."

Endquote by Destination Asia tour guide Dinh.

Representation of

repression

oppression

injustice

To World War II Jews

Symbol of

aging

deterioration

natural termination

To Vietnamese Cao Daists

Same symbol

Different implications

Common ending

This is Kenya

“CHEE-tah… CHEE-tah… CHEE-tah”. Definitely something my friend Wayne and I would chant if we somehow found our way on a Kenyan safari. But it was actually Tom, my friend from Pittsburgh who reminds me of Wayne because of his complete willingness to act like a fool just as long as I’m acting a fool with him, who chanted it with me. We chanted and chanted and chanted “CHEE-tah… CHEE-tah… CHEE-tah” over forty-seven times on our 3-day safari to Tsavo and Amboseli, which ended up being Taita Hills and Amboseli because “they” (whoever the mysterious “they” people are) made a “mistake” in our itinerary. <o:p></o:p>

Thanks.

So did we actually see a cheetah? With my luck, well let’s just say chanting

“E-LE-phant… E-LE-phant… E-LE-phant” then “Gi-RAFFE! Gi-RAFFE! Gi-RAFFE!” and not to mention “Hi-PPO! Hi-PPO! Hi-PPO!” seemed to work.

Simon, the 5-year-vet of safari drives, was at the wheel of our convertible top Toyota van, Ryan Sacramento in the front passenger seat, Tom Pittsburgh to my left, Alexis Connecticut behind us and Aaron Alaska and Andrea Iowa in the rear seat. Kenya’s landscape is a real time moving slideshow of bright red sand, rope trees, wispy clouds against an electric blue sky and bumpy-tree dotted mountains.

“Hi-PPO! Hi-PPO!” I taunted, showing off my complimentary postcard from Mikato Safari Tour Company, waving it to the beat of my chanting in front of Tom’s face.

“Where’d you get that? I want it.” He fumbles for his plastic package of itinerary and complimentary postcard. “I have a cheetah.”

“I want a cheetah.” I grab the postcard.

“No, it’s mine. Give it back.”

Full regression to childhood complete, thank you.

“Gi-RAFFE!” Tom cries. He points, wide-eyed out towards the right side of the vehicle. “Aaagghhh!” He leans over, camera positioned between his hands. The Coke bottle sitting next to me spills onto the van seat. Commotion. Tom continues to snap pictures of the lone giraffe eight feet away.

“Sorry!” I flash our whining van mate Alex puppy-dog eyes as the coke spills onto her sandals, apologizing on behalf of the picture-taking giraffe lover.

Tom leans back as we drive away from his recent model. “Now I want to see a giraffe closer.”

Typical American attitude: never satisfied. <o:p></o:p>

“Now we have to see a hippo. Make a hippo.”
Cue the hippo. Enter stage right. Cue the sunset over Mount Kilaminjaro. Quell

the instant gratification needs of the demanding American please. Now we want to see a secretary bird on a giraffe’s head chasing a lion that has a hippo sitting on its back. Sorry my never satisfied American friend, the hippo is still in her dressing room with the make-up artist. I’ll alert her of your impatience to get the show started.

A safari makes you a child again. It allows you to enter a different state of consciousness. Despite the impatience and childish remarks, the playfulness that a safari brings out is refreshing and you can let yourself go. Though out of earshot fifteen feet away, I found myself whispering to the animals, willing them to look and more importantly interact, with our eager caravan. The things you end up saying to the animals and the people in your safari vehicle are comparable to muttering sweet nothings into a baby’s ear. Neither you nor the baby has the slightest idea what you are saying, yet it all makes absolute sense. You can throw away all your worldly sophistication, chant “CHEE-tah, CHEE-tah, CHEE-tah,” until your lungs fall out and still feel completely and utterly mature.

Heavenly Temple

Night fell

on the trio

snow white-haired

peppery-bearded men

sun kissed hands

clasped behind backs

shades of black

gliding

hazy gray silhouettes

floating

eyes deceive me

doubting

padded slippers scuffling along

shuffle

salmon pick brick pathways

leading into

lavender

periwinkle

canary

brushed across the canvas sky

fading to white

to gray

to black

a melted rainbow

gushing from the ground

gigantic image

of a miniature toy

A magical castle top in a Disney movie cover case.

Portside

boy haircut woman

bent at 45-degree angle

electric pink ankle pants

chalk white rubber slippers

squish squish

school bus yellow v-necked blouse

stares rudely

at my shiny plastic Chococat notebook

where I try try try

to capture sketch the moment

to freeze the image before me

to fold up in my pocket

and pull out

on rainy days

“That does not exist.”

“Believe it – it’s for real. We are in it.”

Four men playing cards,

white shirt blue stripes sings, “Ninaninaninanina…

liquid high tone

slippery blue patterned cards

from my bedside nightstand

at home.

Song

“He’s feelin’ it. He’s definitely feelin’ it.”

The eight-year old orphan

draws in a breath

to sing

for us

he squints, then closes his eyes,

taps into the depths of his soul

and belts out a tune so strong and serene

that time

even time

stopped to hear it

They will return to their orphanage

with candy bars, brown and orange turkey stuffed animals,

shiny plastic beads and postcards of Minnesota

and I

will return home

with the memory of the young boy

who bared his soul

and sang a song for me

like no one has ever sang for me

before

They board a bus

to visit

Yet they end up touching me

More than I could possibly touch them

You Remember Me

He holds out ten bottles of bindi powder underneath my chin

”100 rupi! 100 rupi!”

Involuntarily, I lock eyes with him for half a second.

“You remember me, you remember me.”

He trails me as I walk down the three staircases to the canoe that will take me down the River Ganga
Attempting to ignore him, I stare straight ahead.

He pulls at my skirt.

“You remember me, you remember me."
I nod my head slightly to dismiss him as I step heavily onto the canoe

The paddler pushes off the bank with his long hollow wooden stick

I turn to gaze at the dark pink ball of flame

Rising in frames

Tugged up with invisible string

Over the silver mirror Indian Ocean

His outline fades into a dot as we head south

Bodies dip in, hands pour

The muddy water of the River Ganga

Cleansing souls, purifying minds.

We near the river bank

His posture straightens, his head cranes up

The canoe thumps to a halt

I step lightly off the vessel

“You remember me, you remember me!”

He holds out ten bottles of bindi powder underneath my chin

”100 rupi! 100 rupi!”

I shake my head

“You tell me you remember me!”

He squints his eyes.

“You say you buy from me. I wait for you.”

Yes, I remember you

But I never said I would buy anything from you

A nod of my head did not obligate me to purchase your wares

Locking eyes did not bind you to wait two hours for my return.

“You’re a good liar”

My ears are shocked by the harsh words he spits out.

Even though I am the source of your livelihood

A reason for you to eat today

A means for you to feed your two year-old daughter

I do not buy from you.

I can hear you chanting monotonously

“You remember me, you remember me.”

I do.

Language is irrelevant

to a Brazilian street merchant

and an American traveler

when all we need is willingness to donate two hours of our time,

three cups of coffee and boundless energy

toward laughter, hand waving and acrobatic faces.

He asked me how old I was on the calculator

The digits on the screen I punched

brought a moment of clarity to his eyes

We smiled together

nodding at the calculator screen.