Walking, graduate studies and other occupations

WHILE I consider walking a romantic activity mainly because ever since I could remember I have always walked to wherever I choose to go or to be, or simply because I must have read Henry David Thoreau’s essay on it from Walden and later romanticized the whole idea by treating it as the best daily exercise, I also realize that doing so in the city does not make sense at all.

Funny how I realize that walking from Katipunan Avenue going to the Loyola campus cannot always be a leisurely activity, especially if I have to do it towards noontime. Sun’s heat just becomes unbearable and then it is up for me to be pissed off by the stress it causes me, that later determines my tasks and activities inside the university library where I have to read for my graduate studies.

This morning I realized that taking a tricycle can make a big difference. I chose to ride a tricycle and not walk and that saved my time, effort and energy so that, minutes ago, I already started pounding these keys to write this lament, thus, [this] discourse.

I just realize I am a subject of the urban culture that rather compels people to buy cars so transportation and mobility are a bit easier for them.

Now I also realize I cannot just cater to the demands of such culture. Not right now, at least. I understand I cannot do much to change such culture as I know I am even the object of generosity of the ruling class [my scholarship tells me I am a recipient of their being able to provide for others].

I ride along. There is nothing for me to do. According to literary theorists preoccupied by their presuppositions on the experiencing self, or the subject, I am only a subject.

In fact, I have many subjectivities. I am also a graduate student at the Ateneo de Manila University, an academic institution run by Jesuits that, in more ways than one, have always allowed all kinds of human beings to thrive and live, the dominant ruling class whose names are carved in its buildings, the struggling middle-class who compose the Ph.D. faculty members, and the white-collar workers belonging to either the canteen cooperatives, the maintenance personnel employed by their respective agencies, or the job-hire construction workers hammering at the scaffolds being built for the new social science hall named after a Chinese benefactor. Such culture where I am right now just allows people to live. Yes, live.

That is the essence of life. To live. The purpose of me [read: I] as another subject.

Every single day I get opportunities to study and learn new concepts from reading at the library, attending campus lectures, or sitting in my teachers’ classes. And here I am learning and getting to read many things about my presently being a subject of different social structures, from the traffic rules in Katipunan Avenue to the undergraduate class schedules to the terms of use of computers in the Rizal Library.

My graduate studies are not in vain. While a graduate degree will help me land a university slot in teaching or related work, there is much to savor as I finish it. One of the payoffs is being able to realize and understand some terms in my studies that parallel or reflect the things in my present circumstances.

For instance, there is class mobility, a phrase I caught from sitting in my professor’s undergraduate class, figures in the Marxist reading of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. The Marxist train of thought reads that Jane Eyre’s marriage to a wealthy man rather helps her attain class mobility.

The then orphan girl who struggled her way through the social ranks to become a governess and worked her way up the social ladder is sadly just appropriated by her marriage to the dominant ruling class. Class mobility, vulgarly translated or appropriated, refers to people’s ability to further on with how to go about their lives in a society that is ruled by the dominant class.

There is much truth when I realize that literary theorists--classic or modern, recognized or unacknowledged, mainstream or recalcitrant--have really something to say whenever they claim that to study literature as it relates to social structures is to help define life itself.

I feel relieved at the end of this lament because bit by bit, my ideas are being put into paper. Thoughts become my words, and they become truths, at least my truths. I feel justified and lucky because I am learning beyond what books say or what I understand in books--or maybe I am just learning what the books, indeed, say--I am living a life that goes beyond what can be taught, beyond what can be thought.

Classical Theory and Criticism

C

lassical theory and criticism starts off with Plato and Aristotle.

        While both Greek philosophers were preoccupied with the concept of poetry as imitation, or representation of nature, it is interesting to note how their ideas collided, which started the ball rolling for the classic/al clash between poetry and philosophy, or rather which allowed for more beneficial concepts in the study of literature.

In his dialogues Republic, Ion and Phaedrus, Plato banishes poets from his ideal state, based on several grounds. First, according to Plato, the poet’s works are an imitation, twice removed from the Ideal World of forms. Second, poets are said to compose under inspiration, or even divine madness, and without using reason, which is instrumental in finding Truth. Next, poetry is considered to be ignorant of what it teaches and therefore teaches the wrong things. And last, poetry is dangerous to the soul, producing the wrong emotions in the audience, and interfering with the striving towards pure reason which is the proper conduct of the good soul. Plato did not see the importance of poets in the Republic because they are said to just evoke such pleasures and emotions in the audience and not at all benefit the state as a whole.

From these attacks on poetry— two challenges arise. First, Plato raises the question why representations of people [who are] suffering is a pleasurable experience. Second, because he considered the poetic pursuit as irrational, Plato has issued a challenge to those who would argue for a rightful place for poetry in his philosophical utopian state.

Now, taking off from what his teacher laid out, Aristotle comes to the defense in his Poetics. Like Plato, Aristotle believed that imitation is the basis of pleasure derived from all forms of art. But unlike Plato, Aristotle says poetry is more than a simulated representation of reality.

First, Aristotle considers poetry as a skill, with rational rules (like shipbuilding), and not really a process of inspiration.

In Poetics, Aristotle attempts to explain 'poetry' through 'first principles' and by discerning its different genres and component elements, with an analysis of tragedy constituting the core of his discussion. Such principles of poetic composition demonstrate that poetry is not simply inspired. It is rather a skill which can be learned, and has rules that are comprehensible by reason.

      Second, for Aristotle, poetry represents reality in a useful way from which we can learn. While Plato says poetry does not teach practical wisdom, and—since the poet does not understand horse bits and reins—he is two removes from the truth, Aristotle counters that the poet is [even] the one who approaches the truth more directly because he focuses on what is universal—rather than incidental or particular—about human experience. While history represents particulars, poetry represents universals.

Then, while it is true that poetry evokes pity and fear in the audience—more important, it also arouses these emotions in such a way as to increase our ability to control them. Aristotle’s concept of catharsis—either purgation cleansing, or even now, intellectual clarification, rather validates why poetry is a more interesting pursuit because of its ability for moral instruction.

What follows is a graphical representation of their arguments and/or counterarguments.

PLATO vs. ARISTOTLE
·        Poet’s works are an imitation, twice removed from the World of forms.	·        Poetry is a skill, with rational rules (like shipbuilding), and not really a process of inspiration. The principles of poetic composition demonstrate that poetry is rather a skill which can be learned, and has rules comprehensible by reason.
·        Poets compose under inspiration, without using reason.
·        Poetry is ignorant of what it teaches—it teaches the wrong things.	·        Poetry represents reality in a useful way from which we can learn—the poet is the one who approaches the truth more directly because he focuses on what is universal.
·        Poetry elicits in the audience emotions that are not in accord with reason.	·        Poetry arouses emotions in such a way as to increase our ability to control them.

With these two giant figures of the period, classical theory and criticism has mapped out two directions for consideration in the literary study—it emphasized, if not deliberately campaigned on understanding literature as a mode of representation; and it also highlighted didacticism, the property of literary works that seek to teach important tenets of life, hinged on its ability to render moral instruction to the audience.

Photo Credits
Wikipedia.org

Naingas Si Kulas

Nauranan siya maghapon.
Pigparahapag niya an damulag na sa uma
tuminandayag. Papuli na sa dalan, inawitan
niya an mga manok na naghaharapon;
uni na an sinárom.

Naum-om siya kan diklom.
Udo kan damulag na natu’makan niya
sa dalan mayong parong. Daing salugsog
an hibo kan gugon; an tunok kan turog-
turog bakong hararom.

Naumangan siya kan bituon.
Dawa sain maduman siya karon; ilusyon
sa Ilawod papasyaron; baylihan sa Katangyanan
dadayuhon; sa diklom kan dalan, paduman
sa Kasiraman, mapahalon.


Ki Tomo, Pangkoy, Ronaldo, Zaldo, Paulo.

Epikong Ibalong

A long, long time ago, there was a rich land called Ibalong. The hero Baltog, who came from Botavora of the brave clan of Lipod, came to this land when many monsters were still roaming in its very dark forests. He decideed to stay and was the first to cultivate its field and to plant them with gabi.

Then one night, a monstrous, wild boar known as Tandayag saw these field and destroyed the crops. Upon knowing this, Baltog decided to look for this boar with all his courage and patience. At last, as soon as he saw it, he fearlessly wrestled with it, with all his might. Baltog was unafraied. He was strong and brave. Though the Tandayag had very long fangs, he was able to pin down the monstrous, wild boar and break apart its very big jawbones. With this, Tandayag fell and died.

After this fight, Baltog went to his house in Tondol, carrying the Tandayag’s broken jawbones. Then, he hung it on a talisay tree in front of his house. Upon learning of the victory of their Chief Baltog, the people prepared a feast and celebrated. The very big jawbones of the dead boar became an attraction for everyone. Thus, came the tribes of Panikwason and Asog to marvel at it.

The second hero who came to the land of Ibalong was Handyong. Together with his men, he had to fight thousands of battles, and face many dangers to defeat the monsters. As warriors, they first fought the one-eyed monster with three necks in the land of Ponong. For ten months, they fought without rest. And they never stopped fighting until all these monsters were killed.

Handyong and his men made their next attack against the giant flying sharks called Triburon which had hardy flesh and sawlike teeth that could crush rocks. They continued fighting until the defeat of the last Triburon.

They tamed the wild carabaos. They even drove away the giant and very fierce Sarimao which had very sharp fingernails. And using their spears and arrows, they killed all the crocodiles which were as big as boats. With all these killings, the rivers and swamps of Ibalong turned red with blood. It was at this time that the savage monkeys became frightened and hid themselves.

Among the enemies of Handyong and his men, the serpent Oryol was the hardest to kill. Having a beautiful voice, Oryol could change its image to deceive its enemies. To capture it, Handyong tried different ways. But Oryol escaped every one of it and disappeared.

So, alone and unafraid, Handyong decided to look for Oryol in the heart of the forest. He followed the beautiful voice and was almost enchanted by it in his pursiut. Days and nights passed until Oryol came to admire Handyong’s bravery and gallantry. Then, the serpent helped the hero to conquer the monsters, thus restoring peace to the entire Ibalong.

In one of the areas of Ibalong called Ligmanan, Handyong built a town. Under his leadership and his laws, slaves and masters were treated equally. The people planted rice and because of their high regard of him, they named this rice after him. He built the first boat to ride the waves of Ibalong’s seas. Through his good example, his people became inspired and came up with their own inventions. There was Kimantong who made the plow, harrow, and other farming tools; Hablom who invented the first loom for weaving abaca clothes; Dinahong, an Agta, who created the stove, cooking pot, earthen jar, and other kitchen utensils; and Sural who brilliantly thought of the syllabary and started to write on a marble rock. This was a golden period in Ibalong.

Then suddenly, there came a big flood caused by Unos, with terrifying earthquakes. The volcanoes of Hantik, Kulasi and Isarog erupted. Rivers changed their direction and the sea waves rolled high. Destruction was everywhere. Soon, the earth parted, mountains sank, a lake was formed, and many towns in Ibalong were ruined.

Then, appeared the giant Rabot, half-man and half-beast, with awesome and terrifying powers.

People were asking who will fight against Rabot. So, Bantong, the third hero was called. He was a good friend of Handyong. He was ordered to kill the new monster in Ibalong. To do this, he took with him a thousand warriors to attack Rabot’s den. But using his wisdom against Rabot, he did not attack the giant right away. He first observed Rabot’s ways. Looking around the giant’s den, he discovered that there were many rocks surrounding it, and these were the people who were turned into rocks by Rabot.

Bantong also learned that Rabot loved to sleep during the day and stayed awake at night. So, he waited. When Rabot was already sleeping very soundly, Bantong came hear him. He cut the giant into two with his very sharp bolo and without any struggle, Rabot died, So, Ibalong was at peace once more.

From www.albaytourism.gov.ph

Encanto

 

An pagkaaki sarong lumang agihan pakadto sa may dating molinohan kun sain ka nagtago para dai mahiling ni Ruping, si kakawat mo kaidto. Dai ka niya nakua pagka-kamang mo sa may baliti kun sain, sabi ni Lolo Kanor mo, nag-iistar an engkantong si Primitibo.

 Dai ka na nagtunga kaya huminabo na sana  an kakawat mo. Pag-sinarom, nakua ka ni Manoy mo harani sa kamalig. Pagal-pagal ka, haros dai naghahangos, mu’singon. Dai ka naggigirong,  bara’ba an kalson.

 Mayo nin naghapot kun nagparasain ka. Mayo nin naghapot kun napa’no ka. Pagkabanggi, hinanap mo sainda si Lolo mo—pag-abot niya, mga sanggatos na beses kang huminadok saiya. Sabi kan kabuhan mo, na-ingkanto ka daa.

 Tapos na an taraguan nindo, pero poon kadto bisan sain ka magduman, gusto mo na lang magparatago, garong pirming takot kang may makahiling o makakua saimo—sa libod kansa may baylihan; eskwelahan pag-urulian;

 Sa laog kan mapa’raton na sinehan sa siyudad; minsan nahiling nagrarabay-rabay sa Naga—hali sa Calle Ojeda asta sa Abella. Sabi ninda, hinahanap mo daa si Primitibo,    an tawong lipod na nagkaraw saimo.

    

Enchanted in Iligan

I do not really like nature trips very much.

I always feel that elementals roam the hills and mountains and going there in droves—like we Iligan fellows did on our last day of workshop—always surprises them. And If I am exhausted in a trip going to a destination, it is enough reason for me not to rave about it.

Then, I saw Tinago falls.

I did not express much enjoyment upon seeing the white waters falling off a very high cliff. I respected the sight more than I was awed by it. So I uttered “Tabi, Apo” a number of times as if to seek permission for us to pass through from the unnamed encanto and elementals dwelling there.

Later, I could not get enough of the view of the falls, so I swam.

But I swam alone, using a lifesaving jacket. I wanted to breathe away from the company of the fellows. I sought the part where the water did not overwhelm much. In the side of the major falls, I enjoyed the water falling down on me inasmuch as I enjoyed myself frolicking for a while with some of the local children.

I swam and explored the water myself. I wanted to unwind and relax after days of overloaded critiques and evaluations of our talent or the lack of it, as in the words of panelist German Gervacio, our own senses of angas and duda.

In the water, I seemed to have forgotten the fact that I swam. I nearly dozed off floating. And when I sort of woke up, I just realized it was time to go.

ON OUR WAY to Mimbalot Falls, the next stop for us, two local boys saw our car and ran after us. The boys did not stop until they caught with the car and perched themselves at the back of it. Upon seeing them, some fellows said, “Uy, Brokeback!”perhaps thinking they were Ennis del Mar and Jack Twist in Ang Lee's gay epic, Brokeback Mountain. I thought writers really have a peculiar way of making up and recreating realities for or about themselves.

But I also began to be curious of the children—they just looked too sad to be going there with us for a swimming, I thought. No one talked with the boys. They were just quietly perched in the rear of the car until we reached the falls.

I did not swim with the group. I was exhausted rising from the deep elevations of Tinago.

They now frolicked more openly in the shallow, more accessible falls. Instead I took their pictures. I hardly took pictures of the trees or woods without any human subject. I took pictures of people who posed before the falls, rocks and bridges. I just did not want to discomfort other beings in the place.

I felt too empty being in such a solitary place. I saw that there were very few people there. The place looked more sacred than entertaining—quaint rather than relaxing. I could hardly hear the frolicking swimmers as they did in Tinago; here, their voices were muffled by the falling waters, and even insulated by the rocks that covered them.

So I went back to the car. Hearing the duliduli from a distance, I hardly had the words to say. It was like my turn to listen to Nature and not to disturb it even with my presence. So I slowed down.

Then I saw the two boys again. They sat on the rocks near the area where washing clothes was permitted. They were munching pieces of fruit or something which they must have found in the woods near the river. They looked hungry.

I approached them and started to talk to them. I spoke to them in Filipino, hoping they would understand me. They did. I came to know that they were brothers. One was a year older than the other, but both of them are in grade one, they told me. They just looked too old to be in grade one. Their eyes were lonely, but when I talked with them, it is as if there is not too much energy in them. They really looked hungry.

We were already leaving when the two boys perched up again at the back of our car. In the car, the snacks were shared among the fellows. After every fellow was given their share, some of us shared the carrot with the two boys. Instantly, they took the bread, while balancing themselves at the tail of the car. Both of them smiled, now prancing like two little happy things at the back of our car.

Approaching the city, I seemed to have lost my interest to relax and unwind. I felt utterly empty. And lonely. And I sensed things were just beginning to happen to me as soon as we left Mimbalut. In the car, the carrot cake looked very much like a Goldilocks bread to me; but it didn't taste very good at all.

Iloilo City, June 2008

Home

For Nene, now in U.P. Campus

 

I see no signs of you

Here and now.

The mornings are silent again.

Dr. Hook doesn’t sing

His sweetest-of-all lyrics anymore.

The evenings are scentless again.

Though the bed sheet smells new

The red blankets never share your warmth.

The days are terribly calm again.

Your brown shoes beneath the green box

Are now dusted, unpolished, ignored.

 

I won’t want to retrieve them now

Or have them fixed downtown.

I know it will soon leave my mind, easily.

 

You forgot one thing when you left--the door, ajar.

 

 

February 1998

At the Barrio Cemetery

Official Selection, Poetry in English, 15th Iligan National Writers Workshop sponsored by the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA) and the Mindanao State University-Iligan Institute of Technology (MSU-IIT), May 26-30, 2008.

The men are digging up my father’s grave.

My folks decided to join Father’s and Mother’s remains

in one resting place. It’d be best for all of us, they said.

All the gravediggers find are scattered bones,

a clump of hair and tattered pieces of cloth.

The men sighed relief, perhaps from exhaustion,

except me, now wondering how poor

Father and Mother really were

at the sight of such nothing-ness.




























*To Manuel Cepe Manaog [1943-1978]

Leaving Normal

Just before you bring the last box

of your things to the taxi waiting

outside, make sure the glass-table

they lent you is wiped clean, spotless

like your head free of yesterday’s

they-ask-you-answer dialogue

with the committee. No words will be

said, not a word will have to seek

their approval. Dust off the last shelf

and don’t you go and forget the books,

scissors and things you lent them.

Empty your basket, too, of all trash

so the other bins filled to the brim

next to your table utter nothing,

with their unfeeling mouths,

as you now head toward the door.

The driver’s sounding his horn by the gate

so just run past the guard you warmly

greeted, coming in this morning; well,

refuse his hand to carry your stuff

but remember friendship for good.

Seated in the car now, take comfort

in the cushioned couch, wiping off 

the dust gathered on your palms.

Encanto*

Childhood is an abandoned pathway
leading to the old molino,
where you hid from Nora and Tonio,
your neighbor’s children who never found you
after you crawled into the kawayan
where Primitivo, the encanto, lived.

Your playmates lost you, sorely,
and never knew where you went
until dusk when your brother found you
in filthy clothes, your face spent as ash,
hardly breathing near the kamalig.

No one cared, then, if you still knew
night from day. You were possessed
by the primitive spirit, your folks said.
Hardly sober, you looked for
your Lolo Kanor the whole evening,
and then kissed his hand a hundred times.

Everywhere you went after that taraguan,
you’ve always sought to hide, maybe scared
of being seen or found—out in the recesses
of the subdivision; in the college parking lot;
inside a dilapidated movie house; all over
the city streets of ill-repute. You were
looking for Primitivo, the savage
spirit that enchanted you, they said.

Ki Manoy Awel, sa ika-40ng taon nya

Kan ako sadit pa, pitong taon o labi pa

Natood nang magtukad sa bukid sa pamitisan kan Isarog

Para magkua nin omlong, pala’pa’, mga sungong panggatong

Kaibahan si Manoy na an sundang nasasarong,

Minsan poon alas dos hasta maghapon

Sa bukid nungka magugutom dawa mahapunan

Huli ta an kakanon makukua saen man:

Mga bayawas na hinog, an iba inuulod,

Kurumbot na hubal, minsan daeng laog,

Santol na Bangkok, sinasakat sa may ba’bul

Manggang maalsom, dae maabot dawa tinutukdol.

Ogma kan panahon, sa itaas kan bulod madoroson.

Hiling an banwa, dagat na mahiwason.

Dakul akong naoosipon pag-uli sa harong,

Lalo na ki Neneng maogmahon

Kaibahan ko paglabar pag-abot kan sinarom.

Malipoton an tubig sa bobon na hararom

Naghahale nin hibo kan amorseko saka gogon.

Kun maghaloy magbuntog, an tubig malibog;

Parehong mahahadit ta baad mahagupit

Kaskas na madalagan sa likod kan kusina

Para madulagan an gihoy ni Mama.

Pero kun an gubing ba'gong bolos na

Ta kinua hale sa mga ba'gong laba

Si Mama mayo' nang masabi pa—puwera

Apodon an gabos para mag-orasyon

Sa altar kan Sagrado Corazon na minsan milagrohon.

Dangan ka'yan garo ko nakarigosan

Dawa baga naglabar lang; kaogmahan namamatean

Kaiba an mga tugang, an inang magurang.