Author! Author!

Literary Authorship through the Ages 

The concept of the author, the so-called originator of a literary work—has undergone mutation in varying degrees and periods in history.

In the Middle Ages, the concept was attached to the auctores, those authors of certain books trivium and quadrivium, which were vital texts for young men of learning. Trivium refers to the three subjects that were taught first in medieval universities, namely: grammar, logic and rhetoric; while quadrivium comprised the four subjects, or arts, taught in the Renaissance Period, namely: arithmetic, geometry, music and astronomy.

Like Aristotle, Ptolemy and the writers of the Bible, auctores were in the truest sense of the word—referred to those writers “whose words commanded respect and belief.” They stemmed from some sort of supremacy, enacting and making possible Divine Revelation to those who read them. As such, auctores established the ruling order, and sanctioned moral and political authority of the medieval culture. In the feudal age, authority was limited to the people in hierarchy, and thus truth and order and meaning.

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Further on, the Exploration Age gave way to the existence of people who would later render meaning to Author As Discoverer, as a progenitor that explored the New World, and “brought home a quite different sensibility.”

Quite detached from the ruling order, making his own world overseas, and discovering different worlds away from the constrainingauctores-dictated culture, the explorer became an originator in his own right, adding to his vocabulary some new words discovered in his explorations.

They became so-called new agents within a culture, as they were able to describe things in the New World, much as they were bound to declare their right to be represented “on their own terms,” rather than in the world of the ancient books, which had so defined their society in general. Such set of connections afforded the rising middle class the opportunity to try to redefine ways of seeing in social contexts.

Civil wars were good examples of the educated, fortified class who were as very well convinced by their new ideas as they were torn by the oppressive monarchical rules and similar cultures. They would become the modern auctores, much as they were revered in more ways than one—since they presented a “cooler” alternative to a rather monotonous, perhaps stifling world view that bordered on tedium or commonplace-ness.

After the establishment of a new alternative order, the author later came to represent the emancipation from the political life—this was one whose works belonged neither to economic nor political realms—it rather explored a cultural realm, with the author heading the so-called Republic of Letters.

Later on, the Romantic Period and the expressive strains of creators of literature made possible the emergence of the Genius. Here the author’s function shifted. In the past, it helped usher in a political alternative, now it produced a cultural alternative to the world of politics. Then, we have to insist they were now the modern auctores because they were now the new order, with works being “elevated into exemplars and sources of value for the entire culture.”

To English critic Matthew Arnold, for instance, literature became what is best thought and known in the world. The primacy of great men with great minds had to be insisted as the thing to reckon with, if society were to survive. In the face of massive social transformation and industrialization, the author necessarily transformed into one whose works became rather self-conscious or extremely esoteric.

Before the twentieth century, however, literary critics became the new interpreters of the concept of authorship, because the discussion departed from the author to the text.  The trend would go as far as to become a rather convenient escape from the real circumstances of daily life to oblivion. The emergence of the critic at a time when the author is said to be separated from his work ushered in views so as to render the author new meaning, or no meaning at all. In effect, the author became the effect of critic’s interpretation; and most important, the author became “not the cause of the work.”

For the New Critics in the first half of the 20th century, the author was not the object of criticism. The so-called autotelic text (meaning:  “having a purpose in and not apart from itself”) is superior in itself—full of meanings or endless possibilities—because it is a self-contained universe.

Then, toward the 1970s, taking off from whatever was left of the author by the New Critics, French Roland Barthes, proclaimed that the Author Is Dead: there is no author—that means not the literal death of the author but that the author is not the writer; and therefore it is a matter between function or activity.

For Barthes, author is to function as writer is to activity—the former concerned with and identifies with the language; the latter on its means. Literature then became a discursive game always arriving at the limits of its own rule, without any author other than the reader who, as Scriptor, is an effect of the writing game he activates.

Sarong Bánggi

Kan sarong bánggi, pinunasan akó

ni Tátay tapos sinabihan, dai daa

‘ko magparabatad o mágparakáwat

maski sain.Piglabaran niya man

si Dódoy; tapos pinainóm kami

kan gina’ga niyang lákad-búlan.

Itong sunod na bánggi, 

matanga na nag-abot si Nánay.

Nagimata kami kan nagriribok; 

nag-iiriwal sinda ni Tátay.

Dai kaya dáa pigmamarángno 

an mgá áki nindá. Kayá dáa 

kamí kinákaralintúra na saná.

Baad mayong gibohon si Nanay 

para kami marahay. Sa aga, 

baad matanga na naman siya 

mag-uli hali sa madyongan. 

Baad apudon na naman ako 

ni Tatay sa papag, tapos kuguson, 

tapos hadukan, tapos babawan. 

Kun maghibi ako, baad kásturan 

naman ako ni Tátay. Baad sa aga, 

garó na naman ako may hílang.

Pakikiúlay

Iyó gayód ‘ni an kahulugán kan búhay. Kadaklán na béses, kitá nagtatarám o nakikipag-úlay: trangkílo tang kinakaúlay an sadíri ta; kun sa ibáng táwo man, nadadangóg kan ibá.  Kun kitá man minaísip, iniistoryá ta an sadíri ta saná, alágad bakô na ‘ni an kíha kun igwá kitáng ginigiromdóm o nagahímo nin áwit o komposisyón. Háros tanán na impluwénsya ta sa ibá ukón an gahúm náton na mapahúlag silá kawásâ sa áton nga pag-inistoryá. Sunód sa pagbása, mas dakúl kitáng naaaráman kun kitá nakikipag-úlay, bágay na mas kabaló kunó an mga báyi. Sa matúod lang, kaipúhan ta nga makipag-úlay. Makatakóton an búhay kun máyong istoryahánay. Atíd-atídon ta na saná an istórya kan bartolína, o an daíng pagtirînúhan sa saróng iribáhan, o bisán an daíng tararáman sa laóg kan presohán. An tawo nakikiibá ta ngáning may maistoryá. Kun kís-a, daw matak-án kitá sa mga inistórya, tibáad kayâ bastós an nagtatarám, waáy-pulós an ginahambál, máyong kamanungdánan an yinayamútam. Sa húsay na istoryahánay, an kalág ta nagkakamálay, an ísip ta naliliwanagáy, kitá nalilípay, nagsusûpáy.

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon

iníistoryá, kinakaúlay

nagahímo, naggigíbo

tanán, gabós

ukón, o

gahúm, kapangyaríhan

náton, niyáto, ta

mapahúlag, mapahirô

silá, sindá

áton, satúya

Nga, na

Pag-inistoryá, pagtarám, pakikiúlay

kabaló, áram

kunó, daá

báyi, babáye

matúod, totoó

istoryahánay, urúlay

bisán, dáwa, maskí

maistoryá, makaúlay

kís-a, kadaklán na béses

daw, garó

matak-án, nasusúyâ, nababangít

inistórya, uruláy-úlay

waáy-pulós, máyong sáysay

ginahambál, tinátaram

húsay, marháy

nalilípay, naoogmá

Susog sa “Talk” na yaon sa Worldly Virtues: A Catalogue of Reflections ni Johannes Gaertner. New York: Viking Press, 1990, 56.

Yaman

Mánggad

An mánggad o kwarta bakong grasya, bako man disgrasya. Ini segun sa kun pa’no nákua sagkod kun pa’no ginagamit. Pwede nganing sabihon na mas hapós an magin matinao, kag pirming naghihirás kaini kaysa mayo kaini. An kinaiba sana kan igwang kwarta sa mayo, iyo an gahum, o kapangyarihan. Kaya gayod an mayaman labi na sana man an pagkahambog sagkod paabaw-abaw. Alagad ngonyan, uminabót na an tiempong an kayamanan saro nang kaulangan. Ngonyan, kaipuhan kan mga mayaman bakong magasto, bakong gayong magarbo. Mas marhay saindang dai nabibisto; mas marhay ngani na dai sinda bisto. Gabos nauuri sainda. Hinaharanap sinda kan mga taga-luwas. Dinudurukot sinda kan mga bandido; tinitirira sinda kan mga terorista. Mas mayád man giraray an palakaw kan mga matuod na manggaranon kaysa sa gobiernong puwedeng imukna kan sarong ambisyosong pigado. Pag-abot kan tiempong yaon na siya sa poder, siya maha’bon kan yaman kan banwaan, malangkaba kan kapangyarihan, dangan papatioson itong mga nagpasakit saiya.

Susog sa “Wealth” hale sa Worldly Virtues: A Catalogue of Reflections ni Johannes A. Gaertner, Viking Press, 1990.

Pag-antos

Napoon ini sa baskog na pagtubod na an kada kadipisilan igwang kalutasan; oras sagkod kapas sana an kaipuhan mo ta ngani na mapangyari ini. Naaagód kan ibang tawo ano man na kagabatan, an kada kadipisilan, mantang an iba nariribongan dangan naluluki-luki kan mga bagay na nungka ninda mina’wot o inasahan na mangyari. 

Ta ngani kang maka-antos, dai kaipuhan na matali ka, basta igwa kang sentido kumon sana—asin kusog na makagurapay sa mga pangyayari o bagay-bagay na saimo minaparatay. Ta ngani kang makaantos, kaipuhan maisog ka, magian an disposisyon, manginisi, nahihiling an gayon asin oportunidad sa gabos na bagay, pirming igwang diskarteng magpangyari an mga bagay na kaipuhan gibohon. Ta ngani kang makaantos, urog na kaipuhan na maisog ka. Idtong mga tawong nagtutubód na katabang ninda an Diyos o naggigiya sainda [an ano man na dyinodiyos ninda]  mas orog na makakaantos kaysa mga tawong an pagmate ninda garo mayo nang pag-asa o naghuhuna na pinabayaan na sinda. Likayan mo an mga tawong matalaw, o matapo’ sa kasakitan—apwera na sana kun ika doktor, padi o social worker. 

Dai nanggad paglingawi—an pagturog, an pagdiskanso, an pagkamoot sa ibang tawo, an interes na mabuhay sa kalibutan sagkod an pangamuyo amo an saimong pansagang, iyo an mapahapos sa tiempo nin kadipisilan, sa panahon nin kasakitan.

Susog sa “Coping” na yaon sa Worldly Virtues: A Catalogue of Reflections ni Johannes Gaertner [1912-1996], Viking Press, 1990.

Life with America

The music of Dewey Bunnell, Gerry Beckley of the folk group America has affected my sensibility all these years. Playing my copy of their greatest hits has not failed to amaze me and for life, I think, it won’t.

Inspector Mills

The unnamed cricket in this song has been my and Nene’s friend ever since. In the ‘80s, I and Nene had great time listening to such sound when Manoy Awel played the song to lull us to sleep because Mama would arrive later in the night because she still worked in her father’s house that hosted Cursillo classes, a three-day Christian renewal made famous to most Catholics through her father’s and his family’s efforts. What else was there to say? We couldn’t ask for more. It was just fine even if Mother was not there when we slept. We were lulled to sleep in my dear brother’s bed. Though I never saw the cricket in my dreams, I had something else that made me just sleep on it. The cruel nights without Mother were with one tender brother, Manoy Awel.

Special Girl

One particular Jenny would come to mind whenever I played this ballad during my board work as disc jockey in FBN’s DWEB-FM back in 1996. Once I knew one special girl. And I must have played this song many times for her—without her knowing it— without her knowing anything at all. What did I do? As if I could ever tell her anything when we worked together for the English department’s pathetic newsletter. Or that something mattered more than the verses which I’d hand to her after Rudy Alano’s class. In fact, nothing special happened in that lazy afternoon while Enya’s Shepherd Moons played in the DevCom laboratory. How could she ever know?

I Need You

I never liked this song. I never wanted to listen to it; I always skipped this cut. The funeral tempo makes me paler. It embarrasses me to no end. “Like the flower needs the rain... you know I need you.” As the song goes on though, in times when I could not help but not skip a shuffle setup, things start to make sense. The second voice sounds clearer and it’s the one I’d hear. The voice spells my detached involvement in the dismal situation presented by the singer. And the litany of “I” needing “you” simply fades senselessly. After engaging me to listen to one heart’s song, it drops me nowhere. This song is the ugliest in the album.

Sand Man

Since the day my college buddy Arnold Pie sang its lyrics—“Ain’t it foggy outside…” then the mention of the “beer” in the song—which must have reminded him of something in his young drinking life, I became curious about the song. But the slow introduction hasn’t appealed to me much; my illogical prejudice against anything unfamiliar because it’s something Western did not at all help me appreciate the song. One day after we found out ourselves that we’re working again in the same corporate complex in Pasig, I realized we have yet to have these unconsummated “bottley” and bubbly sessions—for some issues in the past that were never addressed, the time when we badly needed each other’s company but never did because we could not. Either we had no time or did have much of it.

You Can Do Magic

When cousins Shiela and Achie mastered the steps and strutted and danced with verve and grace in one of our reunions to the tune of this song, I was amazed by such a spectacle. They even knew the lyrics. Do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, and “when the rain is beating upon the window pane and when the night [it] gets so cold and when I can’t sleep, again you come to me, I hold you tight [and] the rain disappears; who would believe it? With a word, you dry my tear… You can do magic… You can have anything that you desire…” The show of my cousins just went on, and it’s still going. Now, the London-based Achie, an overseas nurse, just cannot help but do magic with her work; all her toil and diligence are simply paying off. Her generous earnings now can indeed help her have anything that she and her folks desire—new car, new house in the city, and hundreds of euro-pean possibilities for her siblings.

Right Before Your Eyes

My cousin Jokoy—who has adored anything Western from Vanilla Ice to HBO to Michael J. Fox to Sean Connery—knows the lyrics by heart, or at least the “revolving doors” part. We used to listen to it in Bong’s room in Naga, which he then acquired when his Ania Bong went to Manila. Of course, the Life pictures of Rudolph Valentino flashed in my mind, and Greta Garbo stared at me like there’s no tomorrow—a haunting photograph of one celebrity whom I hardly met. I scowl at the thought that I could hardly relate to them. I have yet to live a diamond life like them to simply live. Though no other memory follows, “do- do-do-do-do makes much sense. And emotion? Er.

A Horse With No Name

Effortlessly, I imagine the Assembly Hall of my Ateneo High School, where I picture the city, the sea, and the horse finding itself after being freed by the person who rode him. The original radio version—and not the live version—renders more sensibility. I also sing along this one of the longest codas to date—la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la” “After nine days, I let the horse run free ‘cause the desert has turned to sea.” There were plants and birds and rocks and things…” and many other things. I have yet to see these hundreds of things which I have long thought as an overachiever in high school. I have yet to free my own horse, though my deserts have long become oceans of uncertainties.

Never Be Lonely

This is my recent favorite—my pirated anthology is a rare find because it has this cut. When I was younger, this was hardly played over the local FM radio stations. My cousins who had the LP because their father was an avid fan would know better. “Got you by my side, I’d never be lonely; got you by my side, I’d never be afraid.” Never be lonely tells me that I am. I even once sang along accidentally, “Got you by my side, I’d rather be afraid.” This after realizing many times how relationship with someone makes you feel more alone than being literally alone. The song is a futile attempt to avoid being sucked into an emotional vacuum.

Tin Man

The impressive introduction plus the cool mumbling of brilliant lyrics prods this genius composition. Of course, I hardly knew the lyrics especially—tropic of Sir Galahad, soap sud green light bubbles, oh, oh… Oz never did nothing to the tin man”—“ but the tempo, the music is enough for me to like it. And adore anything that went with it, including all subconscious memory it reminds me. The bubbly keyboards at the last part— plus the na na na na na simply define how life is beautiful. Yes. It’s amazing how ignorance [of the lyrics, of artist’s realities] makes you know too much [of your own, which are more essential things].

Sometimes Lovers

“Sometimes there are teardrops across your face; sometimes there are rainbows in the same place… I don’t which way to turn.” “Lovers hiding in the covers of innocence and pain. No love, no pity in this town.” Of course, Jokoy always festered me with this relationship with Anna, one that mattered to him more because he did not like her for me. Or he preferred other girls for me. This sad song is sadder because I just cannot seem to relate to it because a certain Maria cannot just be it. After hurling the worst and best curses and cusswords in the world which tore both our hearts because they were swords that lashed out at our souls, nothing just seemed to matter more but ourselves apart, not ourselves together. The bridge—hold on tight… oh, oh, oh—makes everything more intense—“I will lay beside you till the night is gone…” when? When? When? Sometimes, indeed the song makes you think of many other things, such as not being able to forgive yourself for anything you’ve done. And you just stop loving. You stop caring for anything. Something just dies. Something just happens abruptly as the final beat of the drum.

Daisy Jane

The plane is leaving. My Dulce Maria knows the setting so well. The lyrics she even braved to articulate to me and relished with me because she liked the song so well. And I think they were accurate, every time she’d leave me in this sordid city for her cozy Iloilo home. “Does she really love me I think she does. Like the stars above me, I know because...” There’s not much to say on these, because she’d left me many times in the airport. “But the clouds are clear and I think we’re over the storm…” And I just gave in many times that I have gotten used to I see her off every time she did. One time I did not. I did not choose to. I had reasons and I did something else after that. “Daisy I think I’m sane. And I guess you’re ready to play.” I did something that indeed made her leave. Since then, she has always left me every time.

Don’t Cross The River

Yes, I can hear the river; it’s burbling; and I can’t help but row on it. “There’s a little girl out lying on her own, she’s got a broken heart.” “She knows and plays it smart.” The drums and the guitars are the water streaming down the gorge so fast—in cadence with my heart—racing past something like a void, racing past a cracked rock serving no definite purpose comes any tide— high or low. I have always raced with something— perhaps a memory all the time. But never the present reality. The past always has a way to catch up with me. And I am always sinking, but I keep on singing, “don’t cross the river if you cant swim the tide…”

Ventura Highway

The road that one man traveled was paved and the day before him was too long—the sun stood long hours. The freeway was a winding road, a blind curve. Later that day he was killed around the bend. It was a wrong turn. He never came back. Where did he have to go? After all the numerous places I traveled and chose to travel, I have yet to see this one highway. After all those persons I have been given chances to meet, I have yet to find someone important who will have to make me see. Whatever happened to the father whom I never had, the one who would have rather told me that I can “change my name,” or the one with whom I can share some “alligator lizards in the air”? I have yet to meet him. One fine, long day.

Lonely People

The guitar introduction thrills me to no end. The low vocals—“this is for all the lonely people, thinking that life has passed them by”—never allowed me to know why I was literally lonely in those days after my mother died. I desperately listened to it in the afternoons when I was jobless and desperately seeking any work that would pay—after my scholarship’s graduation stipend were depleted, spent for mailing my essays and poems to Manila-based magazines, that never even saw much publication. Writing never did pay, and that time I hardly knew that it didn’t or that it could. “This is for all the single people, thinking that love has left them dry.” Yeah. What could be more heart-wrenching than being ignored by one Anna who could hardly care about how I chaliced her. Nothing follows. The guitars, keyboard, and the dismal vocals just had to fade. Please.

Muskrat Love, etc.

Unimaginable characters which could have just existed in my mind—never a reality—thus the vague memory. Does the character look like Stuart Little? Ben? Why is Sam skinny? Is Susie fat? Does it matter if she is? For one, I can’t care much. I can hardly relate. My other favorites “Stereo,” and “The Border” are not in my disc while “Jody” “Only In Your Heart,” “Sister Golden Hair,” “Woman Tonight,” and “You, Girl” have yet to present my own realities to me, if any.

An Mga Taga Bagacay Kun Semana Santa

Sa mga huring aldaw kan Marso, maimbong na an paros hali sa bukid kan Buyo—minahugpa ‘ni sa mahiwason na natad kan eskuwelahan abot sa may parada, asta magsabat ini kan maaringasang duros hali sa baybayon kan San Miguel Bay sa may parte nang kamposanto.

Sa panahon na ini, duros an makapagsasabi kun ano an mga disposisyon kan mga tawo sa Bagacay—kadaklan sainda mahayahay, an nagkapira trangkilo sagkod maboboot, pero an iba man maiinit an pamayo ta kulang—o minsan sobra—sa karigos.

Kun ika tubong Bagacay, pirming malinaw saimo an mga pangyayari sa palibot kan sadit na barangay na ini—an kasiribotan, an kariribukan, o maski ano pa man—aram-aram mo na an mga likaw kan bituka kan mga ordinaryong ka-barangay.

Mabibisto mo an kakaibang parong kan duros, mamamati mo an aringasa sa tinampo ta bantaak an saldang. Mabibisto mo man an korte kan niisay man maski na ngani nagdadangadang pa sana siya sa tinampo. An amyo kan tunay na buhay mahihiling sagkod maiintidihan mo sa lambang istoryang ini.

An aking daraga sa kataid na harong na nagpasuweldo sa Manila maduang taon na man bago nakauli giraray—mapution na an kublit pag-abot ta an tubig sa Nawasa halangkaw an chlorine content—nom! Dai na lugod nabisto kan kaklaseng nagdalaw sa harong ninda. Sa Martes ang balik ko sa Kuba-o. Mabait naman ang mga amo ko—pinapasine nga ako pag Sabado, kasama ko ang kanilang matuang babae. Sa Let the Love Begin nakita ko si Richard Gutierrez saka baga si Angel Locsin, pangit man pala siya sa personal. Nom! Nagtatagalog na! Pag sinisuwerte [o minamalas] ka man nanggad talaga!

An mag-inang parasimba nakaatindir pa kan pagbasbas kan mga palmas. An mag-irinang hali pa sa Cut 12 [basa: kat dose] mapasiring sa kapilya sa boundary pa kan Iraya para duman mapo’nan an entirong pagpangadie sa mga santo. Linakad kan mag-irina an mainiton na tinampo hali sa harong ninda antos duman sa malipot na baybay harani sa kapilya. Nag-uurunganga pa si mga ibang aking kairiba ta pigguguruyod man na yan kan relihiyosang ina. Bara’go pa man an mga bado ta iyo man an ginaramit kan mga eskwela durante kan closing sa eskwelahan—alagad muru’singon na an mga aki

An mga aki kan mga mayaman na pamilya sa may pantalan nag-uruli man. Tulong awto an dara pero dai pa nanggad kumpleto ta si tugang na abroader dai nakahabol sa biahe haling airport. An dakulang pagtiripon kan pamilya madadagos ta madadagos nanggad maski na ngani hururi an ibang miembros kan pamilya. Hain na daw si mga makuapo na nag-ayon sa mga ralaban sa UNC; o si sarong pinsan niya man nanggana sa arog kaining contest sa Colegio. Haraen yan! Padirigdiha lamang daw ta mag-iristorya kan saindang mga maoogmang nagkagirinibo. Ay, iyo, hay, magayonon an trophy sa UNC. May kwarta man ni, ano? Hahahahaha! Iyo man po. Thanks very much and I love you all and gabos ini po saindo, Lola!

Igwang bayaw na nag-uli hali sa siyudad—an agom na iyo an tugang kan pinsan may darang ba’gong omboy na primerong pakadalaw sa mga apuon. Napoon pa sana man an duwa sa pagpapamilya kaya padalaw dalaw pa sa mga magurang kan esposa. Cute-on baga si baby, hay? Sain mo ni Manay pinangidam? Cute-on. Bebe, bebe… O Rosalyn, nuarin na an bunyag ki Nonoy? Imbitari man daw nindo kami, puwede man pating magtubong si Dorcas! Saen na ngani si apartment nindo, Glen? Sa Calauag baga, bakong iyo? Itukdo mo ki Lino tanganing aram niya pagduman. Iyo po, Ma.

Igwang mag-ilusyon na dai makatios na dai magkahirilingan ta si urulayan sa Katangyanan dai nagkadaragos ta pinugulan si daraga kan inang may hilang.

Maski an sarong tiyo-on na igwa pang kulog boot sa mga sadiri niyang tawo ta dai sinda dai nagkairintidihan sa kontratang pinag-urulayan, magkakaigwa pa siya nin panahon para tapuson an ika 14ng altar na portrait kan Mesias—na nagpapahiling kan pagdara kan bangkay ni Mesias sa lubungan ni Joseph kan Arimatea. An mga materyales na ginamit para sa abaanang magagayon niyang obra maestra dinonaran pa man hali sa simbahan kun sain siya lektor. An taon-taon niyang panata napapadagos nin huli sa huyo kan saiyang boot, sa pagpangadie niyang daing ontok, nagngangayong dai man lugod pabayaan nin Kagurangnan an saiyang pamilya na ngonyan nagdadakula na ta an saindang maboot na manugang-agom kan mahigos niyang matua—maaki na kan saindang panduwa. Siisay pa man daw an mas masuwerte sa mga tawong ini?

Nagsisiribot an sarong pamilya sa Banat ta iyo an toka ninda sa prusisyon sa Via Crucis, maharanda ta mapa-basa—mapatarakod nin kuryente sa mga harong na igwang mga linya nin Casureco, para dayuhon an pabas[og]. Aaaaaaa, si Eba natentaran kan demonyong halas kaya kinakan niya si prutas kan poon na ipinagbawal ni Bathala. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, kaya an gabos na tawo nagkasa-la-la-la. Daraha na daw digdi mga salabat sa nagbabarasa-kansubago pa iyan! Aaaaaaa….

Sarong gurangan na kantorang taga Iraya, na agom kan sarong mahigos na Cursillista—sinubol si mga aki niyang daraga para magkanta sa Via Crucis magpoon sa kapilya antos sa Calle Maribok dangan pabuwelta—alagad atakado an pamayo ta dai magkakurua kun haraen na an mga daraga. Haraen na sa Imelda? Si Belinda? Pasugui na daw ta si mga aki duman, iwaralat mu’na digdi. Ta diputang agom yan ni Belinda! Nagpaparainum na naman sa may ka–Tampawak? Ta kun ako pa an mapauli diyan sa bayaw mo, titibtiban ko talaga man nanggad yan! Mayo na sana man maginibo pakakatong-its, mainom! Susmaryosep! Noy, paulia na ngani si Manoy mo!

Sarong parasira pagkatapos niyang magpangke—mala ta nakadakul sinda kan bayaw niya kansubanggi—sa may tanga’ sagkod sa rarom sa may parteng Caaluan sagkod Tinambac—nagdesider na mag-pasan kan krus sa Via Crucis. An solterong ini haloy na man nagsisigay-sigay sa aki ni Balisu’su’. Pero korontra baga an sadiri niyang tawo ta diyata gusto man nindang makahanap nin trabaho ini sa Cavite. Dai man ngani nag-anom na bulan baga—nagbuwelta ngani ta garo nagkairiyo na man sagkod an maputi-putting aking daraga ni Balisu’su’. Ano man baya an nahiling mo diyan Polin sa aki ni Tsang Sining? Bados na gayod si Joralyn?

Ciudad Iloilo

Abril 2009