By: Iris P. Concepcion

The quote from above could very well use a powerful electricity alternative to touch my real, writing home base.

The other day, while the former U.S. President was in the country for a talk about "embracing common humanity", I was out on the road looking for a coffee stand and some doughnut. I bought the cheapest, instant HOT COFFEE variety, unbranded, and it tasted like a P100 plus equivalent of a named nook.

I was anticipating a repeat performance of Eggers' heartbreaking book where the author carried his brother Toph to the Capitol to catch a glimpse of Bill Clinton's inaugural ceremony---only, I did not carry a trophy child this time and I instead found myself swinging in a ------- swing.

I share this with the better other: we normally could not locate where these finds are, having some little light, but we have a serendipity kind of direction that eventually bodes well for us in the end. We get the power plant and it feels good to share this like mutant ninja turtles. We do not have brands for what we eat often times but they taste like having been concocted from God's kitchen. He had been sharing lovely things of late about living: we both adore unnamed places.

It was raining hard that day in that whole hub stretch and I saw some men jogging under the heavy downpour.

I went to a vacant swing bench that had a conspicuous bag nestled in one of its pews.

It belonged to two fishermen. They bought worms earlier for the fish to catch (priced at 60-70).

The older guy had a blue raincoat on and he did not mind so much the hard drizzles fogging the ocean view. I asked him questions which he answered equally with important points: the bait technique, what kind of fishes get caught on what particular time of the day and what his weird-looking gadgets were for. In this technological-savvy world, his wares were a little offbeat. Pan de Sal named Tiffany's (like the jewels) and some smart travel kits he bound in wires with some styro squares.

He washed his spread out hands from the ground and I saw his ring: his teeth was whiter than white. He seemed to be a very important man. We kept on talking about the nature of the sea---how the river (unsalted) eventually went inside sea water (salted) which made the fishes snob their own swimming habitat.

I asked him what the crawling things re. He replied: Bulati. In that cadence.

I saw some products inserted in plastic bags and his fishing companion told me: "Those are not ours."

This encounter reminds me so much of that A.E. short story about mail parcels, talking envelopes and guys exchanging pleasantries in one hostel like palm readers.

This is the stuff of a dialogue exchanged on higher plane: concise, straightforward, uncluttered.

They examined the waters like some placid people out for the hunt: they bid me goodbye with a fair, firm handshake from the older guy's companion. They told me to take care of myself; that it was good having been met.

I said the same to the two guys.

They walked, like two persons united with a common mission, under their umbrella like my own.

One thing got stuck in my mind as I left the place though: the old man said, no salt could really touch........us.

Perhaps, I had just experienced what Clinton's theme was: humanity is shared even with random strangers.

That day, there were a lot of them in common acknowledgment, prowling the streets, somewhat making sure everything is safe for wanderers like myself.