A Chicken For President
Last night I have another weird dream. In the dream a woman in read shirt and blue jeans, a black backpack behind her, handed me a flyer which listed information on the qualifications and achievements of a presidential candidate. In waking like the woman is a friend. In the dream, it looked like we were strangers.
“Who’s the candidate?” I asked.
She answered, “Overleaf.”
The back page was blank. The woman continued walking while handling a flyer to everyone she passed by. I tailed her. The people to whom she handed out flyers looked like they had just attended a Sunday mass. I didn’t see a church in the dream though. All the women wore veil. The men whose hairs were carefully groomed with, I guess, pomade wore either camisa de chino or white, short-sleeved, starched polo shirts. She bypassed street people who didn’t seem like they had just emerged from the church. These were the people who dressed casually.
When the woman noticed I was following her, she crossed the traffic-less asphalt road in haste. Traffic-less, I should say, means no traffic – not any form of land transportation populated the road. As soon as she made it to the other side, she disappeared in the crowd, more or less a hundred, who seemed to have been waiting for a public transport.
In the dream I actually asked myself, “Why did the chicken cross the street?” Then I noticed a huge billboard suspended above the crowd which swallowed the woman who, a while ago, was handling flyers. The billboard was a campaign ad. On it was a picture pre-EDSA Ferdinand Marcos! On his left side were words which read: “My father’s name” for President. Sorry, I can’t write my father’s name here. I searched for the name of the candidate being endorsed in the flyer but couldn't find one. The backpage of the flyer was blank still.
I tore the flyer and pocketed the torn pieces. "Why did the chicken cross the street?” I repeated, my eyes still glued on the billboard. In shock? No. A Cheshire cat grin actually registered on my face. “Why did the chicken cross the street?” I whispered, for the third time. These were my final words before I woke up - only to sleep again after a short while.
{April 18, 2009}
“Who’s the candidate?” I asked.
She answered, “Overleaf.”
The back page was blank. The woman continued walking while handling a flyer to everyone she passed by. I tailed her. The people to whom she handed out flyers looked like they had just attended a Sunday mass. I didn’t see a church in the dream though. All the women wore veil. The men whose hairs were carefully groomed with, I guess, pomade wore either camisa de chino or white, short-sleeved, starched polo shirts. She bypassed street people who didn’t seem like they had just emerged from the church. These were the people who dressed casually.
When the woman noticed I was following her, she crossed the traffic-less asphalt road in haste. Traffic-less, I should say, means no traffic – not any form of land transportation populated the road. As soon as she made it to the other side, she disappeared in the crowd, more or less a hundred, who seemed to have been waiting for a public transport.
In the dream I actually asked myself, “Why did the chicken cross the street?” Then I noticed a huge billboard suspended above the crowd which swallowed the woman who, a while ago, was handling flyers. The billboard was a campaign ad. On it was a picture pre-EDSA Ferdinand Marcos! On his left side were words which read: “My father’s name” for President. Sorry, I can’t write my father’s name here. I searched for the name of the candidate being endorsed in the flyer but couldn't find one. The backpage of the flyer was blank still.
I tore the flyer and pocketed the torn pieces. "Why did the chicken cross the street?” I repeated, my eyes still glued on the billboard. In shock? No. A Cheshire cat grin actually registered on my face. “Why did the chicken cross the street?” I whispered, for the third time. These were my final words before I woke up - only to sleep again after a short while.
{April 18, 2009}
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