The Story of Our Lives

During the long weekend I’ve seen Whitney, my local Caucasian fellow, doing the fire dance over the Living Asia Channel in a feature documentary on Dumaguete. And though it’s been weeks—months since Dumaguete—each day I’m still given to pinching myself, half-hoping to wake up in the all-too-familiar dorm room in Silliman Alumni Hall, to a glorious sea day, to a sinfully languorous lifestyle. Coming back to Manila meant facing my demons again, and I quote a friend: “When you’ve been to heaven, why would you even want to return to hell?” Ayos sa hirit diba?

Sus, talagang dinaig ko pa ang drama ng 18 Days Without You ni Anne Sexton dahil ako higit na sa isang buwan. Mukhang dapat ko atang samantalahin para makagawa rin ng lyric sequence. Ang tanong: where and how to start. The muse is elusive once again, and invocation futile.

***

The Story of Our Lives
Mark Strand


We are reading the story of our lives
which takes place in a room.
The room looks out on a street.
There is no one there,
no sound of anything.
The tress are heavy with leaves,
the parked cars never move.
We keep turning the pages, hoping for
something,
something like mercy or change,
a black line that would bind us
or keep us apart.
The way it is, it would seem
the book of our lives is empty.
The furniture in the room is never shifted,
and the rugs become darker each time
our shadows pass over them.
It is almost as if the room were the world.
We sit beside each other on the couch,
reading about the couch.
We say it is ideal.
It is ideal.


2
We are reading the story of our lives,
as though we were in it,
as though we had written it.
This comes up again and again.
In one of the chapters
I lean back and push the book aside
because the book says
it is what I am doing.
I lean back and begin to write about the book.
I write that I wish to move beyond the book.
Beyond my life into another life.
I put the pen down.
The book says: "He put the pen down
and turned and watched her reading
the part about herself falling in love."
The book is more accurate than we can
imagine.
I lean back and watch you read
about the man across the street.
They built a house there,
and one day a man walked out of it.
You fell in love with him
because you knew that he would never visit you,
would never know you were waiting.
Night after night you would say
that he was like me.
I lean back and watch you grow older without
me.
Sunlight falls on your silver hair.
The rugs, the furniture,
seem almost imaginary now.
"She continued to read.
She seemed to consider his absence
of no special importance,
as someone on a perfect day will consider
the weather a failure
because it did not change his mind.
"You narrow your eyes.
You have the impulse to close the book
which describes my resistance:
how when I lean back I imagine
my life without you, imagine moving
into another life, another book.
It describes your dependence on desire,
how the momentary disclosures
of purpose make you afraid.
The book describes much more than it should.
It wants to divide us.


3
This morning I woke and believed
there was no more to to our lives
than the story of our lives.
When you disagreed, I pointed
to the place in the book where you disagreed.
You fell back to sleep and I began to read
those mysterious parts you used to guess at
while they were being written
and lose interest in after they became
part of the story.
In one of them cold dresses of moonlight
are draped over the chairs in a man's room.
He dreams of a woman whose dresses are lost,
who sits in a garden and waits.
She believes that love is a sacrifice.
The part describes her death
and she is never named,
which is one of the things
you could not stand about her.
A little later we learn
that the dreaming man lives
in the new house across the street.
This morning after you fell back to sleep
I began to turn the pages early in the book:
it was like dreaming of childhood,
so much seemed to vanish,
so much seemed to come to life again.
I did not know what to do.
The book said: "In those moments it was his book.
A bleak crown rested uneasily on his head.
He was the brief ruler of inner and outer
discord,
anxious in his own kingdom."


4
Before you woke
I read another part that described your absence
and told how you sleep to reverse
the progress of your life.
I was touched by my own loneliness as I read,
knowing that what I feel is often the crude
and unsuccessful form of a story
that may never be told.
"He wanted to see her naked and vulnerable,
to see her in the refuse, the discarded
plots of old dreams, the costumes and masks
of unattainable states.
It was as if he were drawn
irresistably to failure."
It was hard to keep reading.
I was tired and wanted to give up.
The book seemed aware of this.
It hinted at changing the subject.
I waited for you to wake not knowing
how long I waited,
and it seemed that I was no longer reading.
I heard the wind passing
like a stream of sighs
and I heard the shiver of leaves
in the trees outside the window.
It would be in the book.
Everything would be there.
I looked at your face
and I read the eyes, the nose, the mouth . . .


5
If only there were a perfect moment in the book;
if only we could live in that moment,
we could being the book again
as if we had not written it,
as if we were not in it.
But the dark approaches
to any page are too numerous
and the escapes are too narrow.
We read through the day.
Each page turning is like a candle
moving through the mind.
Each moment is like a hopeless cause.
If only we could stop reading.
"He never wanted to read another book
and she kept staring into the street.
The cars were still there,
the deep shade of trees covered them.
The shades were drawn in the new house.
Maybe the man who lived there,
the man she loved, was reading
the story of another life.
She imagine a bare parlor,
a cold fireplace, a man sitting
writing a letter to a woman
who has sacrificed her life for love. "
If there were a perfect moment in the book,
it would be the last.
The book never discusses the causes of love.
It claims confusion is a necessary good.
It never explains. It only reveals.


6
The day goes on.
We study what we remember.
We look into the mirror across the room.
We cannot bear to be alone.
The book goes on.
"They became silent and did not know how to
begin
the dialogue which was necessary.
It was words that created divisions in the first
place,
that created loneliness.
They waited
they would turn the pages, hoping
something would happen.
They would patch up their lives in secret:
each defeat forgiven because it could not be
tested,
each pain rewarded because it was unreal.
They did nothing."


7
The book will not survive.
We are the living proof of that.
It is dark outside, in the room it is darker.
I hear your breathing.
You are asking me if I am tired,
if I want to keep reading.
Yes, I am tired.
Yes, I want to keep reading.
I say yes to everything.
You cannot hear me.
"They sat beside each other on the couch.
They were the copies, the tired phantoms
of something they had been before.
The attitudes they took were jaded.
They stared into the book
and were horrified by their innocence,
their reluctance to give up.
They sat beside each other on the couch.
They were determined to accept the truth.
Whatever it was they would accept it.
The book would have to be written
and would have to be read.
They are the book and they are
nothing else.

Taning

Dahil wala lang--

Saan mapupulot ang pag-asa
May katuwiran ba ang sana
Bitbit ko ang iyong dala
Langit ko ang iyong kanlungan

Permiso sa isang araw na makasama ka
Abiso ng pusong bulag na umaasa

Tama bang aminin na nating may taning
'tong pag-ibig natin
Dakila man walang kasaysayang kakapit
sa bulag na pag-ibig

Saan hihingin ang patawad
Kung walang dalang dahilan
Tangis ko ang 'yong luha
Nais ko ang 'yong kalayaan

(imago)

Wait

i've come across this poem way back in college and has it practically memorized and sent to most friends over the years. no waiting now--enjoy!=)


***

Wait
Galway Kinnell

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven't they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don't go too early.
You're tired. But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

Watching Early Morning Surreal TV

A bloodied body strewn across a smashed vehicle's front seat was found early this morning and not far from the scene was the driver--just as bloodied--staring fixedly at the wreck as if on a trance. He disjointedly mumbled that the other was a mere passenger, and has no idea who he was. Later investigators would find out, as Mister Passenger alighted zombie-like from the AUV, that the two were actually brothers. Both admit to have been drinking prior to the accident. Go figure.

***

One of the world's greatest inventions: chocolate-flavored toothpaste. Choco Loco, yum! Definitely one of my day's pick-me-uppers!:-)

Taking Socrates' Advice?

Taking Socrates' advice to fortify knowledge of thy self? Maybe. But more like trying to keep sane throughout tedious translation and synopsis-writing of Tagalog telenovelas and other shows.


1. "Which Famous Modern American Poet Are You?" - Results:

You are John Ashbery. People love your work but have no idea why, really. You are respected by all kinds of scholars and poets. Even artists like you.

2. 7 Types of Intelligence- Which is yours?

3. What type of killer are you?

You are a Samurai.

You are full of honour and value respect. You are not really the stereotypical hero, but you do fight for good. Just in your own way. For you, it is most certainly okay to kill an evil person, if it is for justice and peace. You also don't believe in mourning all the time and think that once you've hit a bad stage in life you just have to get up again. It's pointless to concentrate on emotional pain and better to just get on with everything. You also are a down to earth type of person and think before you act. Impulsive people may annoy you somewhat.

Main weapon: Sword

Quote: "Always do the right thing. This will gratify some people and astonish the rest" -Mark Twain

Facial expression: Small smile

4. Which Dysfunctional Care Bear Are You?

5. What dark word represents you?

Your word is: Brooding. You are a true thinker and often try to figure out the meaning of life, why we are all here etc. You may not be so social, and often think twice before acting but those thoughts you have in your mind never stop flowing in. Sometimes you can be so concentrated you forget about other things that you have to do. Don't change, this world needs deep people.

***

It's kinda weird how the others turned out, especially the fourth one. Beats me--must have been when I answered Tool for my taste in music, and Nietzsche as the last author I've read that did it.

***

Still, I'd recommend taking a quiz just for the sheer heck of it! Visit www.quizilla.com. Go!

So Happy Together

Though four were conspicuous in their absence, the get-together at Chili’s in Morato last Friday with my college journ barkada has got to be one of the best nights I’ve ever had in a long, long time.

No denying that a year can change a lot, and it was apparent when stories were swapped over dinner. Some have already been predicted years earlier, and some came as a welcome surprise. Lia marveled at her exhilarating participation in the moments of Philippine history, while Gracee recounted weird instances while hobnobbing with the society’s elite. There’s Rhas and her work in public relations, and Nek just a week away from glorious freedom and her quest in finding The Writing Job. But while change seemed a constant that hovered over our conversations, little pockets of old times lingered at our table. Lia still refuses to use fork alone on principle and so demanded the waitress for a spoon, and the rest of us still drank iced tea in enormous proportions. And always, there’s the almost absurd, inane happiness of togetherness.

Through the (scarce) hours Nek and I would blurt in a chorus: some things will never change. And with each outburst I knew—I was absolutely certain—that we delighted in saying so.

***

Some of my favorite (but still unpolished) excerpts from the first draft of the short story I (technically) last wrote. I just remembered because the muse behind it (whom I've just realized while watching wansapanataym at work, does bear an uncanny resemblance to Paolo Paraiso) just called to tell me that he misses me. And despite everything I have to admit that I miss him too. Hahaha.

She didn’t exactly remember. Maybe it was when she saw how, with positive glee, he stepped on that big weight contraption at that local drugstore that she’s had the epiphany. Or when the machine started talking, asking him to hold on to the metal handles jutted out to measure his body fat or something. How his eyes lighted when from the machine a white paper started to roll out, signaling the end of the entire process, reminding her of those cashier registers at the groceries more than anything. The automated voice of a woman told him to “pick his belongings” while she collected her thoughts, deciding on what best possible plot to put him in, or how to best portray him: Ronin-like as he has always claimed to have looked like, or that certain soccer player who became more popular when he married a Spice Girl. (from i.)


How beautifully he played The Beatles’ Blackbird, ever graceful hands that seem to have a secret bond with the guitar itself, the notes effortless in their lilt. Or maybe what captivated her more were the stars in his eyes, glinting of pure happiness just like a child’s as he strummed and plucked away, conveying what he felt about the song more than all languages, whether known or secret, could ever say. (from volume ii.)

(Dream sequence)

He would grow seraphim’s wings; small bumps forming at each side of the first column of his spine, where the sudden burst of light will be later traced. The light would soon morph into feathers of startling white, growing in length as seconds ticked past, until they became the perfect accessory to fly. And she knew he had to, but as the realization sunk in she felt a void eating at her slowly, painfully, so painful it deprived her of words or tears. (from volume v)

And of course, the ending! (spoiler, hee!)

She wasn’t sure if she liked the how the story ended, for she knew he would have wanted a happy ending. But there are stories meant to be ended sadly, and she has come to accept that with resolute finality. Some things come into life, things you should be grateful for (and you are), but will pass just as quickly as they had come. They’re just there, waiting for the right moment to happen, and then waiting for the right moment to disappear. But while they’re still there you just have to capture them the best way you know how, as in a picture, a song, a movie or a story.

That’s why you see, that one day, I just knew I was going to write you a story.



***

I need a new muse.

***

Finally, I’ve got glad news. A very good friend I’ve made during the Dumaguete workshop is going to start working in ABS-CBN! It would certainly make this “air-conditioned sweatshop” more tolerable, and even make me reconsider staying. Hmm, seems like the Dumaguete Mafia is going to join forces again soon (albeit one is uh, too busy), with Chitchat here and Anina texting almost regularly. I do hope we meet up soon—and with Nikko Vitug still in Manila, I’m sure it will be bliss! I’m so excited!=)

Dahil Ayaw Akong Tantanan ng mga Alaala

mag-iisang buwan na pala. at dahil mukhang inanod na ng ulan ang mga alaala:


Have You Seen Me Lately
Counting Crows

Get away from me
This isn't gonna be easy
But I don't need you
Believe me
You got a piece of me
But it's just a little piece of me
And I don't need anyone
And these days I feel like I'm fading away
Like sometimes when I hear myself on the radio
Have you seen me lately?
Have you seen me lately?
I was out on the radio starting to change
Somewhere out in America, it's starting to rain
Could you tell me the things you remember about me
And have you seen me lately?
I remember me
And all the little things that make up a memory
Like she said she loved to watch me sleep
Like she said: "It's the breathing, it's the breathing in and out and in and..."
Have you seen me lately?
I was out on the radio starting to change
Somewhere out in America it's starting to rain
Could you tell me the things you remember about me
And have you seen me lately?
I guess I thought that someone would notice
I guess I thought somebody would say something
If I was missing
Can't you see me?
Come on color me in
Come on color me in
Give me your blue rain
Give me your black sky
Give me your green eyes
Come on give me your white skin
Come on give me your white skin
Come on give me your white skin
I was out on the radio starting to change
Somewhere out in America, it's starting to rain
Could you tell me the things you remember about me
And have you seen me lately?
Have you seen me lately?

We all need to remember

Friends of the yore seem to be appearing everywhere, and have a common denominator whenever I ask what their future plans are: to migrate in some other country.

Just this morning I saw my good friend Pia who is on her final year in college taking up Nursing. I told her about my previous conversations with our other friends, and she said that she’s planning on the same thing. The exodus of these talented—not to mention kind, kind, people—just saddens me beyond belief.

I’ll be seeing my college barkada tonight. At the rate our yahoo groups exchange has been going lately, this reunion of sorts might run a marathon of days. A year after college seemed to have changed a lot—some reaching a distance I never knew possible after just one fucking year. Maybe we all just need to be together. I think we all need to remember.


***

My sister celebrated her birthday last night and during our family dinner at Alabang something funny happened that got me and my sisters into an endless fit of laughter. In the middle of relaxed conversation something just went braaaat--and we would later realize it was just my mom burping. It happened again a few minutes later after we caught our breaths steady, thus starting another round of mirth. And I realized then that it was the first time I ever heard my mom burp, which was queer considering we're constantly together. Always, always a first time for everything I guess.

Naglahong Pangalan at si Neil Gaiman

“The names are the first things to go, after the breath has gone, and the beating of the heart. We keep our memories longer than our names.”- Neil Gaiman’s Coraline


Madalas ikagulat, at noong lumaon ay unti-unting nakasanayan, ng aking mga kaibigan ang mga hirit kong: “naalala mo nung…?” Mukhang nakahiligan ko na talaga ang mang-ungkat ng mga (karamiha’y masasayang) alaala—kahit yung mga tipong isinantabi na sa pinakailalim ng baul na isinilid pa sa isang nakakandadong bodega. At madalas rin sasalubungin ang tanong ko ng isang blankong mukhang nakatingin sa kawalan, ligaw sa paghagilap ng nakaraan, tapos ay namamanghang sasabihin sakin: “Grabe, Des, naalala mo pa yun?”

Nung bata ako, dahil na rin sa madali nga akong makaalala, naging papel ko na ang maging taga-hanap ng mga nawawalang gamit sa bahay. Pero hinala ko medyo selective memory e--minsan kasi pumapalya rin naman ako, na ika nga ng kabiruan kong kaibigan sa opisina e epekto ng aming lumalala, at mas lumalala pang “memory gap.” (Mas matindi nga lang siya, kasi ultimo short term memory niya e defective na, hehe:>) Nitong huli ko lang nabigyan ng mas maliwanag na pinaggagalingan itong “penomenang” ito (hindi yung memory gap a): dyslexic raw kasi ako, at karamihan ng mga dyslexic ay may matinding memorya.

(Oo, dyslexic ako, dahilan rin kung bakit ako bad typist at maraming typo ang mga manuscript ko. Huling patunay e sa trabaho: pabaligtad kong tinype ang isang sentence, na napansin ko lang nang muli kong balikan yung translation ko. Ilang linggo rin bago humupa yung issue na yun hehe:>)

Marami nang nagsabi sakin na swerte ako dahil biyaya ang matalas na memorya at sang-ayon naman ako, lalo na nung nag-aaral pa ako o kaya e kapag nangangailangan ng blackmail material. Biro lang yung huli. Pero minsan nagulantang ako ng isang kabatiran: hindi kaya masama rin ang sobrang pagbabalik-tanaw? Hindi kaya nabubuhay na lang ako sa nakaraan? Napag-iiwanan na ba ako ng kasalukuyan?

Bigla ko yang naisip dahil hanggang ngayon hirap pa rin akong lumimot. Lalo na ng mga sandaling alam kong ‘di na pwedeng balikan. Parang lahat e umusad na’t marami na rin atang nakalimot nang tuluyan. Ikaw kaya, naiisip mo pa ba ako minsan? Nakalimutan mo na rin kaya ang aking pangalan?

***

Waiting is indeed a monumental decision. Kit gave this to me as an option twice, the first instance I’d rather not talk about, the second one I wish to share—the real reason I brought this up in the first place.


“Are you going to wait it out?” seemed to be the question I’ve heard some million times at the Neil Gaiman book signing at Fully Booked in Greenhills last Sunday. When we came around past eleven, hoping more than actually believing that we were still early, a foreboding sight of about a thousand people welcomed us. No kidding. There were two queues, one with those lucky bastards with guaranteed stubs, and the other one which I called the “risk line.” Risk is the perfect word; because later we were informed that Mister Gaiman was completely exhausted from the previous night’s event that he can only accommodate those fortunate souls with sure stubs and cannot—will not—accommodate people after 7:30 p.m. Nearing six thirty a beefy bouncer strides over to where we staunchly held our place, then said with a face asking for punching: “So, ano? Manunuod na lang talaga kayo dyan? Tapos na talaga ‘to e, no.” So what comes after 7:30 p.m.? Disillusionment? Shattered, broken, destroyed dreams? A murder record? After six hours of waiting one is really capable of doing anyone bodily harm no matter how gargantuan the adversary is. Still, there was a glimmer of hope. Not yet seven-thirty, everyone reassures one another, plus some kindly faces of the organizers and the owner Jaime Daez while assessing the situation. Then there’s Mister Gaiman himself, who smiled when we cheered him on every time the glass door expelled happy people from inside the store.

It was almost seven when Mister Daez reaffirmed my faith in God, and my belief that man is innately good (except maybe for that bouncer): lucky, lucky fifty people will be given the chance to have two books signed, with specific instructions though: no asking Mister Gaiman to pose for a picture, open the book to the page you want signed etc. Kit and I lucked out (with enormous help from friends hahaha)—we held the fourth and fifth places. And then THE moment:

Neil: So, your name is Des?
Me: That’s right.

(The Fully Booked people taking pictures asked me if I wanted mine taken, and as I nodded my assent Neil Gaiman looked up and asked me if I wanted him to pose for it. I must have kept nodding because he suddenly looked at the camera and smiled. I’ll post the pictures soon as I receive it on my email so that you’ll see how stupid my reaction was.)

Me: Sir, I just have to say thank you for your gift of word.

I honestly don’t know why I said that. But I think my lack of saying anything wittier paid off because after he drew and signed on my books he looked up to me and said:

Neil: For that, do you want a hug?
Me: (Shocked silence, from which I recovered after a few seconds) Yes, please!

The feeling after is indescribable. The only thing I could say is this: it was well worth all the wait.

alingawngaw sa madaling araw at ang pagdating ni neil gaiman

sa 13th floor ng elj building sa abs-cbn ang kinalalagyan ng opisina ko. maraming nagtatanong kung 'di ba raw kami natatakot dahil ang nakasanayan na e walang 13th floor ang mga building. sabi ko ako hindi--masaya nga kasi madalas may mga artista rito dahil nasa 13th floor rin ang mga conference rooms, at kami na ang pinakamatarik na opisina matapos ang presidente't mga bise presidente ng kompanya sa 14th at 15th floors, kaya medyo mahaba ang panahong inaakyat ng elevator mula sa basement o ground floor papunta sa amin. mahilig kasi akong kumanta 'pag mag-isa sa elevator--yun nga lang minsan malas, nagkakataong hindi ko napapansing bubukas ang pinto along the way, at mahuhuli akong kumakanta ng walang inhibitions. matitigilan ako, at kulang na lang e sumipol to get a nonchalant effect. pero ang tunay kong nararamdaman? natatawa ako sa sarili ko at sobrang nahihiya sa kasama ko, at alam kong nahihiya rin siya sakin kasi alam niyang nahuli niya ako sa aktong hindi niya dapat nakita. naalala ko lang bigla kasi nangyari na naman sa akin yun kanina habang binabaybay ng elevator na kinasasakyan ko ang 6th floor, nung muli kong sinubok basagin ng tagong alingangaw ang madaling araw.

***
birthday nga pala ng daddy ko ngayon--pauwi na ako mula sa office, diretso sa kung saan man ang aming "luncheon celebration." good luck sa akin, sana hindi ako makatulog habang kumakain hehe=)

***
nandito na nga pala sa pilipinas si neil gaiman, at 'di ko masukat ang kasiyahan ko. ilang buwan rin akong naghintay nung malamang darating siya, dahil simula nang mabasa ko siya dati pa e talagang na-addict ako sa kanya. pero mamabutihin namin nina kit at nek na bukas na lang dumalo ng book signing niya kesa sa ngayon--alam kasi naming napakaraming taong magkakagulo sa kanya. hindi namin pipiliting makisiksik sa ga-libong katao, makapaghihintay naman kasi kami--lalo pa't alam naming worth it yung hinihintay namin. may mga ganung bagay kasi, mga bagay na hindi dapat minamadali, lalo na kung alam mong sa huli e hindi mo makukuha ang full satisfaction. teka, double meaning na ata ito. ang aga-aga para maging mapaghanap ng away, kaya pasintabi na lang kung may tatamaan. ang talagang nais ko lang naman sabihin e mahal ko si neil gaiman. amen.

aklas laban sa memorya at ang ganid na motibo nilang manggagantso

oo, sinabi kong huling paghihinagpis ko na ang entry kong geography, theater of the absurd, soundtrack at ang tula. at oo, maaaring isipin niyong binabali ko ang aking salita. ang akin lang, tapos na ang paghihinagpis dahil pinalitan na ito ng paggunita. may mga alaalang hindi kaaya-aya pero ganun talaga e--maaari naman palang balikan ang nakaraan nang kahit papaano'y pinahupa muna ang pagngingitngit.

teka, ano nga ba talaga ang alam ko sa sinasabi ko? maaari rin namang sa kasuluk-sulukan ng utak ko ito ang "mumunti kong pag-aaklas laban sa memorya." ewan ko. ang importante lang ngayon e masabi ko kung ano ang nais kong sabihin kaya tama na ang pasintabi.

mahigit isang buwan nang nakalilipas mula nang umuwi ako mula sa dumaguete pero hindi ko mapigilan ang sariling gunitain ang mga alaala nito kahit isang beses lang sa isang araw. pwedeng sabihing matinding hangover, pero palagay ko mananatili ang tamang ito hanggang malagutan na ako ng hininga. seryoso, walang stir--ngayon ko lang naintindihan bakit inaalayan ito ng tula ng mga makata, istorya ng mga kwentista at ng kung anu-ano pa. kung ano ang naging bunga ng pagpunta ko doon, masasabi kong higit pa sa isang tula (oo, tula at hindi poem). ilang taon, halos isang dekada, mula nang sineryoso ko ang sumulat ng tula. at alam kong kalakhan ng dahilan e ang pagbabago sa workshop program ng national writers workshop.

ngayong taon may mga kasama kaming amerikano mula sa creative non-fiction writing program ng university of iowa. natural, kinailangang magsalita kami ng wikang Ingles sa lahat ng oras na kasama namin sila. bigla ko tuloy napagtanto na napakaganda pala talaga ang ating wika. alam ko na yun dati pero nung tuluyan kaming napilitan na hiramin ang lenggwahe nila noon lang, noon ko lang talagang nasabi sa sarili ko na mahal na mahal ko ang wikang Filipino. maraming hindi nakakaalam na sumusulat naman talaga ako sa Filipino, puro kasi wikang Ingles ang nababasa nila sa akin. sarili ko ngang fellow at mabuting kaibigan e nagulat nang mabasa niya ang tula ko dito sa blog na 'to. isa pang dahilan upang ipagpasalamat ang blog--kahit papaano'y may medium na ako upang maglathala sa sariling wika.

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tumatawa ako kasi ang pulitika dito sa pilipinas e talagang nakakarimarim. tumatawa ako kasi ang mga pulitiko dito sa pilipinas e talagang mga baboy (o karamihan sa kanila). tumatawa ako kasi sa nationwide tv e makikita't mababasa mo sa kanila ang ganid nilang mga motibo, na pilit nilang itatago sa ilalim ng kontekstong "para sa ikabubuti ng buong sambayanang pilipino." tumatawa ako dahil alam kong hindi nila ako maloloko. pero walang bahid ng tuwa sa pagtawa ko. mapanuya? maaari. sino ba naman ang matutuwa sa mga manggagantsong ito?

hindi ko pinangarap kahit kailan ang tumira sa ibang bansa. bumisita, magbakasyon, mag-aral oo--pero tumira? sabi ko hindi ko kaya, ni hindi ko iniiisip kahit noong kinukuha na kami ng mga tita't lola ko sa amerika. ngunit ngayong nakatutok kami sa balita at nakikitang nagkakagulo na ang kawawang pilipinas? bigla akong napaisip. dumagdag sa listahan ang pagtatrabaho doon. ayokong mawalan ng pag-asa kaya layon ko, kung saka-sakali man, e magtrabaho doon ng ilang taon upang mag-ipon at bumalik dito, nananaginip na sana pagdating ng pagbabalik ko sa pilipinas e nakaahon na ang kahabag-habag kong bansa. kahit kaunti, kahit papaano--ang importante ay may direksiyon at pagbabago.

"Nothing Forgetfulness Does Not Fade, Memory Alter"

again, i've fallen victim to merciless grapevine for the nth time. and the thing about it is that it's true--or at least the one and only detail i've heard. my friend refuses to budge until i'm "ready to tell my story". but how can you tell a story altered by present migivings? nothing else seemed more real than while it was happening, but now another's forgetfulness fades the memory.

Zen Masters Age 0-3 and the Deluge of Childhood Nostalgia

Everyone owns a favorite childhood memory held of him by his family. The kind that has become an epic--told by parents to amuse bored visiting relatives and friends, or even plain strangers they’d meet in church or some other place, as long as the situation allows them enough time for conversation. The kind told so many times the story seemed to assume a life of its own—opening as precise as each crease in thumb mark, punch lines delivered exact as clockwork. Way back when Glorietta was just a patch of ground made green by impeccably kept grass (I even have the picture to prove it) and there was only SM Makati to stand proud as mall landmark of the city, the memory I claim my own took its permanent place in my family’s minds.

It’s sacred tradition for my family to go out on weekends, and most of these days were spent in the mall to eat out, do groceries, and indulge in bonding activities friendly to four small girls. We’d usually have lunch in Makati Supermart (I swear they had the best spaghetti with meatballs then), and it was during this one particular time my grandmother came with us that I made my monumental (re)mark. My parents were kidding us children that we have to pay for our own food—kkb, as they termed it—and while my sisters kept their panic to themselves I, in my wise two or three years, just shrugged calmly and gave my order: “toasted bread and water.” Hahaha.


What brought the sudden onslaught of childhood nostalgia? My niece Hanna and nephew Gabriel (whom I originally nicknamed Gael for Gael Garcia Bernal but was outvoted by my sisters who wanted Gabby—I wouldn’t know from whom they fancied the moniker though, and I’m afraid to even ask.) came home this weekend. And it’s funny how everyone’s moods immediately shift from surly to deliriously happy. I even race home from work now, just to catch them before their bedtimes. It’s as if being with them allows me to become a child again, and I frolic in the blissful and simple world of their innocence. Watching them affirms some lost faith and wisdom, teaching me that things are not always as complex as I’ve been made to believe. They come to the core of things without conditions or biases—Zen philosophy as I understand it. As Chinese sage Zhuang Zi describes (not defines) Zen: “When hungry, eat. When sleepy, go to sleep.” Guess we’ll be doing ourselves a huge, huge favor if we just indulge our inner child some time, don’t you think?