#draft log

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Chapter 1: Her in the Daster

Chapter 1: Her in the Daster

You were never meant to be here.

You are not late, but you register the sensation of lateness—how it tightens the chest anyway, even when the hour is right.

The syllabus said this was a key informant interview. Barangay cosmologies. You weren’t late by the clock—you checked three times.

And yet, you feel... wrong. Not off-schedule, just off. Delayed.

You’re not late by your watch (synchronized to Philippine Standard Time), but you feel... displaced. Culturally, Filipinos tend to operate on a flexible perception of time—Filipino Time, as some professors call it. But this doesn’t feel like that. It feels like you’ve arrived after something important already happened.

They told you this woman—Magda—could help with your thesis. You were researching religious syncretism. Barangay cosmologies. Precolonial ritual persistence. Your outline had citations from Demetrio and Salazar. You’d practiced what to say.

That’s all this is supposed to be.

The bus dropped you off two barangays too early. The driver glanced at you with what felt like pakikiramdam—half knowing, half apologetic. Said, “Ah. Ikaw pala,”  with the kind of tone that made your skin feel pre-interpreted. And drove off without another word.

No explanation.

You wonder if the drop off was an accident, or if the driver just wanted you gone. 

If it was on purpose.

You walked the rest of the way. Passed through talahiban and acacia trees that felt too sentient for flora. 

Through fields that buzzed too loudly with cicadas, under trees that leaned in as if eavesdropping. The kuliglig screamed at the frequency that triggers your auditory processing sensitivity. 

You catalogued the air as: “amihan, but possibly anomalous—most likely culprit for the noise pollution: mating season.”

By the time you reach her house, it’s already sundown.

No soft lavender skies, not gentle like golden hour. The weighty dusk—ginhawa-before-a-storm kind. It does not settle on your skin, on your tongue, or on your thoughts, but you sense its pressure. The humidity is getting to you.

Pawis? This must be sweat.

 Your shirt clings when it shouldn't.

The sensation is discomfort, even though you’ve always thought yourself quite hardy.

The heat isn't just heat. Anak-araw. It clings—not to skin, but to the idea of it. 

It knows you.

The house waits at the end of a narrow path that even tricycles refuse to touch. It doesn’t match the rest of Brgy. Pag-asa. No iron gate, no plastic orchids hanging from rusted hooks, no concrete fence with “BAWAL UMUWI DITO ANG EX KO” in faded paint. Just a squat wooden bungalow with shell windows, the kind you half-remember from summers spent with titas who prayed the rosary every hour and swore by gugo shampoo.

The door is thick and old, painted the color of dried duhat. You categorize it as brown. Or within its affiliated color spectrum.

You prepare to knock, one-two-three (consistent input)—

“Pasok ka na, iho,” a voice calls. You associate it with the the cadence of molasses, or perhaps, coconut jam—firm but warm, the way elders speak when you forget your slippers. A little viscous. Sticky.

 —but before your knuckles land, the door swings unlocks with a soft exhale.

. “Don’t stand there like a lost soul. Mainit,” she adds. That part is observationally accurate.

It’s not loud. Doesn’t need to be.

Inside, the air is cool—not like aircon, but like the inside of a baul that hasn’t been opened since your grandmother’s time - if you had one. You catalogue it as: 70% camphor, 20% damp wood, 10% unknown.

Specific variant? The scent smells faintly of kamangyan and rain. The floorboards don’t creak, but they hum. The ceiling is low and sloped in a way that forces you to bow slightly. You wonder if it’s deliberate.

The house forces you to stoop. Since you’re respectful (yes, even to inanimate objects), you comply.

"Tabi-tabi po.”

The phrase has no syntactic function, but it satisfies something in the room. 

“You say it as apolite greeting when entering a dwelling for passing through. Etiquette and good habits are important. Especially for a refined gentleman such as you. Like locking your doors before sleeping. Or apologizing for existing.

You step inside, and the baul air wraps around you like a welcome, but the shadows on the walls are strangely still. It’s not the kind of silence that comforts; it’s the kind that presses in.

The air shifts around you, and you recognize it. Hindi mo sure kung insenso, o galing lang sa patay na pangarap.

The shadows on the walls are still—but not static.A bit spooky, a bit kitsch, definitely Filipiniana chic.

This is not silence. This is waiting.

“You keep your shoes on as you wait. Just in case. To be ready as if your host sends you back.

“Over here. Dito, hijo.”

She’s in the kitchen. 

Stirring something thick and dark in a clay pot. You recognize the vessel from your notes on Neolithic Philippine cookware.

The walls are dense with classification: jars of dried flora, books of uncertain publication, and folders marked in a script that defies classification.Your mind ruffles through your linguistics lectures, but nothing. No match.

Not baybayin. But also—not not baybayin. This is new to you.  You experience data overload.

She does not turn to look at you.

Maybe she’s still deciding whether you’re a guest or a mistake.

“Tagatala,” she says. It translates to “the one who records,” a function rather than a label. You feel conflicted. Your name is not that. But you also like being useful.

Not a question. A statement. Definitely mildly offensive. Your role?

Your throat tries to muster up a dry response. You’ve never heard it before, but it doesn’t feel new.

Like a well-worn pair of shoes you thought went missing, found under the bed.

It fits.

Unmistakably yours.

You stand in the door way.

“O-oh, do you mean me? Ako po ba?” You ask, partly to clarify, partly because people often don’t. But mostly because communication is important.

“Who else? she replies, gesturing with her spoon like a judge’s gavel. She doesn’t care what your legal name is. Which is fair—you barely remember it yourself these days. Neither do your classmates and professors.

It’s like you’re invisible to them. To everybody.

“Sino pa ba kausap ko? Ikaw lang naman nandito.”

She’s assigning you a role, like a title in a precolonial datu’s court.

Manang’s a bit rude, isn’t she? Siyempre ako kausap. I was just being polite.

You feel as though she’s implying there could be other beings besides you two.

Well, she is an albularyo. Wouldn’t be surprised if mayroon nga talagang multo. Maybe she’s the ghost?

“Bat ka tulala?” she says incredulously. 

“Like you’ve seen a ghost? Mumu? Bingi? May problema tayo diyan.”

The accusation is playful, but your system hesitates—evaluating for literal threat.

Maybe you misunderstood the tone. You always misread tone. Figures.

“Ah but my name is -” 

“I don’t care what it is. That’s your name now.”

You feel uncomfortable, but this isn’t the hill to die on. Not when your supervisors told you to finish your research. Now those guys, will actually kill you if you don’t complete this. Focus.

“Yes,” you say. Not agreement. More like because that’s the correct script. Compliance keeps interactions smooth.

You don’t understand why she calls you a Recorder instead of your actual name. 

But your framework does not reject it.

Perhaps it is a nickname.

Or an echo. The professor probably just does things like this.

You were warned she was eccentric. Postgrad burnout. A dead spouse. Two unfinished manuscripts.

A habit of collecting students like strays. Or like loose ends.

“Ay ang batang eto. How overly serious. Can’t even take a joke.” She starts cackling like a bruja. 

O siya, bat ka nadalaw? I’m not exactly a celebrity.” 

She leans in and whispers, “Although you’d be excused for thinking I am. Twins kaya kami ni Ate Vi. You seen her movies?” She cackles again.

How can anyone say this woman looks like Vilma Santos?

Your brain stutters at the dissonance, eyes trying to align the deep crow’s feet and faint tobacco stains with a glamorous film icon. She’s not even the same height.

“I was told you’re… Magda? Professor Magda? You do thesis consulting?”

She doesn’t answer. Just glances at the window. The kuliglig start shrilling louder.

“You came late,” she murmurs.

“I—what?”

“Not by the clock. By the river.”

You freeze. A river? There’s no river in Pag-asa. Or is there?

Hindi mo lang siguro napansin. You weren’t really paying attention. You were too focused on getting here. You assume it’s just another mistake. Who would notice a river anyway?

“Pagod ka ba sa biyahe, hijo?”

She turns then. Her face is calm, sunworn. Wrinkled, like newly tanned leather. Her eyes don’t quite reflect the kitchen light. They take it in and give nothing back.

“You’ve always been curious,” she says, as if amused. “Or so I’ve heard.”

You’re not sure what she means. You’re not sure why her voice makes your mouth dry and your palms cold.

She points to the chair across from her. You sit before you’ve made the decision.

“You’re here because you think you’re writing a paper,” she says, back to stirring.

You nod. Because it is. Isn’t it?

The scent fills the air. You smell guava leaves. Ash. Milk. 

Of molave, and strangely, cacao. Possibly symbolic. Possibly just the guava again. Definitely artistic.

Like riverwater. Like decay. Like rotten mangoes left too long out in the sun.

 “But that’s not what’s happening.”

“I—what else would I be here for?”

“A correction.”

You wait. For the punchline. For context. For her to say more.

She doesn’t.

She turns off the stove.

“I asked my supervisor for someone who could help with syncretism—precolonial rites and how they blend into modern rituals. Hybrid belief systems. Barangay cosmologies.”

"Did they now." She chuckles. "”Well, it was my expertise back then - pero ewan ko why a lot of my old colleagues have been sending kids like you to check up on me. You’re the third, you know.”

You don’t know who the first two are. You don’t ask. That would be nakakahiya. Instead, you offer condolences for her hospitality. “I’m not troubling you, am I, Tita?”

“Tita, huh?” she says, smirking. “How polite. You’re not from around here.” Not a question. Another diagnosis.

You try to smile. It comes out stiff. Authentic smiles go up to your eyes, you’ve been told. 

 You resist the urge to fidget. Or to apologize. You haven’t done anything impolite so far according to norms that would warrant it.

“I was raised to be courteous,” you offer.

She snorts. “Ah. So you’re the type who thinks manners will protect you.”

She isn’t wrong. You just don’t like being told.

Sure enough, a shake of her head and a sigh follows. “Not at all. I’m flattered they need my expertise this much.”

The edges of her mouth curled upward, the way banana peels do in cartoonish representations of danger.

“Yes,” she adds, not unkindly, “That’s what you told yourself this time.” You experience cognitive dissonance. 

This time? You check for signs of metaphor.

Maybe she got me confused with the other two.

The spoon clinks against the pot, once. Sharply. Like a bell being rung by someone who doesn’t believe in prayer, but still wants to hear the sound.

"Everyone comes with their research when something’s—what’s the word—loose."

No, that doesn’t sound right.

“Frayed?” you offer.

“Mm,” she agrees. “That’s one word for it.” 

You log it in your mental glossary.

A beetle clicks against the screen window once. Twice. Then silence.

You flinch. Not out of fear—just startle reflex. She doesn’t react. You interpret that as experience.

What does “frayed” even mean in this context? But the words feel like they’d cost something. She might not end up refusing to help with your study.

She leans closer. Her scent is ancient. Not perfume. Not sweat. Something like molave wood and prayer.

“Drink,” she says. You didn’t see her pour anything, yet the cup materialized in front of you.

It’s a strange color. Earth-dark. Smells like burnt ginger, molasses, and something medicinal. 

Food, offering, or local hospitality custom?

“You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

She asks this while tapping the rim of the cup.

The implication is clear: Even if you are, you’re drinking it.

You hesitate. You don’t like drinking unfamiliar liquids, but you don’t want to be rude. That would break pakikisama.

“Will it help with my thesis?” you ask. That’s what you came for. A consultant. A mentor. Someone to tell you if your operational definitions make sense.

Magda’s expression softens— she finally looks at you. Not kindly, but with something like pity.

Then, in a tone more grandmother than guru, she says: “It’s tea. Acacia bark, malunggay, luya. From my garden, and the water’s from somewhere else. Helps the digestion. And with dreams, sometimes.”

You note the health benefits. You also note she didn’t really answer your question.

Still, as a polite guest, you humor her. “Dreams?”

She doesn’t answer. Just nods at the cup.

Outside, a dog howls. Then stops.

Inside, the shadows lean in.

“The dreams have started, haven’t they?”

Your breath catches.

You didn’t tell her that.

Not in your emails. Not in your consent forms. Not even in your private journal, the one you locked behind three different folders labeled ‘budget,’ ‘taxes,’ and ‘definitely not dreams.’

She smiles, slow and toothless.

“They always start before the threshold. But people ignore them. Call them stress, or bad food. You, though… you listened just enough to find your way back.”

You hate how she’s saying it. Back. As if you’ve been here before.

“This is just culture,” you insist, your voice shaking with effort. “It’s fascinating, yes. But that’s all. I’m just here to document the ritual calendar, the oral traditions, the cosmologies—”

“And what is culture,” she says, cutting clean through, “if not the residue of memory? What else do you think rituals are for?”

You go quiet.

Because the answer is too obvious. And too uncomfortable.

“To remember what the body forgot.”

Then she leans in and whispers—light, almost teasing:

“Oh, dear.”

You spill some. She notices. You apologize instinctively. Mess equals failure.

You glance down.

A dark splotch blooms on your coat - though it’d luckily dry quickly. You don’t remember your hand shaking, but you must have been more tired than you thought. 

Getting here is inconvenient, after all. This rural village isn’t really what most people would put on a map.

“Sorry po, Tita—nagulat ako.”

“No no,” she waves you off, rising. Playful, even. “I’ll clean. Ako na bahala. You have a room down the hall. Left side. The one with the mirror covered.”

“Mirror—?”

“You’re here because of a misalignment,” she murmurs, as if to herself.

“The kind that makes clocks break and names stop fitting.”

“You keep saying that. That I’m not here for research. Then why am I here?” I just want to understand the old belief systems. To—”

“Understanding is a luxury,” she interrupts. “You’re here to remember.”

You mean it to sound curious, maybe skeptical. But you hear the tremor in your voice.

She looks at you then. Really looks. Like she’s peeling something back.

“You’ve forgotten something. Something that remembers you.”

You don’t like how that sentence feels.

You glance at your notes, desperate for structure. Footnotes. Citations. Ethnographic distance. But the margins feel too thin.

You seem like you want to ask her something, but its late. You’re tired. Your host probably is, too. There's always tomorrow to ask her, anyhow.

“Go. Magpahinga ka na, hijo. Rest ka na. Research is hungry work.”

The tone suggests it’s non-negotiable. You accept, because hospitality here is sacred. Refusing would be a micro-aggression.

You rise, bag clutched neatly in both hands, as instructed.

“Thank you po, Tita.” The title escapes your mouth. You didn’t mean to use it. But it fits. You take your things. Orderly. Polite.

“You’re welcome, anak.”

She says it like she means it. Like she remembers.

You walk down the hall, past walls that seem to breathe in the cool barrio breeze. Yet, the mirror behind the curtain makes no sound.

You hear nothing but the sound of the dog, the kuliglig, and the floorboards creaking under your feet.

And just before the door closes—

She says  to herself—soft, affectionate, amused:

“Still curious,”softly, lowly, half-laughing. “Even now.”

You pretend not to hear.

You lie on the floor.

The bed is unused. You said it was too soft. Said the floor was cooler. Truer. Said you got used to it. From fieldwork. Long stints. Immersions. Hut floors. Temple flagstones. Sand. Clay. Tile. You said it like it was a preference. Maybe it is.

The floor is flat. It doesn’t shift. It doesn’t sigh when you shift. That helps.

Hardwood. Warm. Familiar. Not familiar. The boards creak under your weight, then hold. You said the bed was too soft. Said the floor was better for your back. Cooler. Closer to the ground. Closer to the earth. You said you got used to it in the field. Said it with authority. With practiced casualness. As if anyone had asked. No one had.

The socket is by your head. That’s convenient. You don’t mention that part/

Outside, the kuliglig start up again.

Louder now. Or closer.

You try not to interpret it. You fail.

Patterned. But broken. Not random. But wrong.

Like a machine you can’t take apart.

You catalog their rhythm. Five bursts. Pause. Then three. Then one. Then silence. Then again.

Almost like language. Not human.

You map their patterns. Three tones. Pause. Two. Pause. Three again.

Then one, stretched out like a groan.

It feels familiar.

A pattern you already knew. You don’t know how.

You pretend it’s a dialect. You imagine interviewing them. Fieldnotes in your head. "Speculated to be a form of It’s a pattern. A call. You’re sure of it. You've heard it before.

Not in this house. Not in any house. Just… before.

The ceiling beams above you are dark. Heavy. You do not look directly at them.

There is a hum under the kuligligs.

Soft. Constant.

Not the fridge. Not the light fixtures. Not the charger, you checked.

You unplugged the charger, in fact. Still hums.

You lie still.

The floor is warm in spots. Cooler in others. You index it absently.

The hum’s in your back. Or beneath it. Or through it.

Low. Smooth. It matches your breath after a while. Or you match it. You’re not sure. Hard to tell who started it.

You breathe in — hum rises.

Breathe out — hum stays.

It’s in the floor. Or behind your spine. Or in your skull. You can’t localize it. That bothers you more than it should.

Déjà vu. Not a memory. A sensation. A map you’ve walked before. A sound you’ve catalogued without consent. You remember lying like this. Same position. Same noise. Same insect cadence. But different wood. Different walls.

You don’t know how you know that.

You close your eyes.

The kuligligs falter, mid-song. As if startled. As if listening back.

The hum rises slightly. You do not react.

It’s not fear. Just... data. Observations. Like always.

You wonder what made them pause.

Your body feels heavy. But not tired. Just... weighted. Held down by gravity and obligation and possibly calibration.

You don’t know if that’s sleepiness. Or just fatigue.

Either way, you close your eyes.