The Silence and Phlegm of Suburbua

I’m not used to this silence.

I’m writing from Fremont, California, in a quiet subdivision of a quiet town. And the silence is definitely killing me.

Having gotten used to the rowdy neighbors in my apartment complex in Makati, plus the noise of all the vehicles coming in and out of said complex, this quiet is literally deafening. Nothing beside this house but other empty houses. Residents all gone to work. No crying babies, no women on cellphones talking about showbiz tsismis, no noisy car mufflers.


To top it all off, the weather– which I am not used to– has given me a case of really solid phlegm. It’s coated my vocal cords and reduced my speaking voice to a froggy croak. I try spitting it out, but it rebuilds itself. Last night, for the first time in decades, I took some cough syrup to ease the phlegm out. And, boy, did the bitter Robitussin syrup ever bring back memories of childhood’s scraped knees and the Bee Gees!

There isn’t much to do here in Fremont. But the weather is relatively nice and there’s a used CD Warehouse down near the commercial area. And if my phlegm ever lets up, I’ll sing you “Home on the Range.”


Image credits: Suburbia. Painting by L.Koscianski.


Speak, thy writer is listening.

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