Whatever gets you through the day

OURS is now a world of things. Everything around us now is commodified, meaning—produced or made, sold, bought, and consumed. Every single day, we consume—we eat [food], we use things, we burn up [the life of just about] anything, everything. In fact, we consume too much—for there is no satisfying our desire to acquire, to fill ourselves with everything until we tell ourselves we want more.

In particular, the mall culture rules us these days.

Who can resist the itch of malling and shopping when midnight sales and bargains come almost every week? Backed up by television and newspaper, these business strategies do not only deplete our ATM funds; they all the more intensify our desire to constantly acquire. Consumerism—our chronic tendency to have and have more—will be Shelf Life’s concern. Shelf life, per se, is any commodity’s life in a shelf, or how long it lasts—its potency or durability as a product. Compared to a person’s life, one product’s shelf life is an individual life span, or lifetime. Or life’s purpose, if we may.

In every shelf is a life—from a life, about a life, for a life. From every shelf—say, a CD rack in AstroWorld, a bookshelf inside a mall’s bookstore, or a ledge of Taiwan-pirated stuff exposed in J. M. Basa Street, we will take something and talk about it because it primarily concerns us. We [need to] talk about them because we know it is our life. It says much about who we are, what we want, how we want them, why we want such things, and perhaps what we live for. True.

Nowadays, what we live for may, in fact, depend on what we have. And, therefore, what we also don’t. To the extent of spreading ourselves thin, we have required so much of ourselves that our gauges for success or worse, happiness and contentment are mountains of things which we have to acquire and possess and burn up and use up, until it is time for us to have another one and another one and another one and more and more and more and more.

It’s ridiculous that even one newspaper ad reads—“It’s your watch that tells most about who you are.” Taking it quite literally, though, this is not true—you are not your watch. It’s a pity that you depend on a mere wristwatch to say much of yourself. It’s a pity that it is a thing that might just sum you up. Truth is—you use the watch for a purpose, not to tell you essentially who you are. Even then, you are worth more than your watch. Among other things, you’re a human person with a soul; your watch is not.

It’s hilarious how consumerist propaganda can persuade us to think this way about our lives; funny how this sensible persuasion has so pervaded our modern life. We now perceive that everything that is of value is on the shelf and so we should buy them; otherwise, we cease to live—as if not being able to buy them lessens our value.

“Shelf Life” takes on the task of making us think otherwise. We will go out there in the mall, in the flea markets, every stall we can find. We will look for the things we usually look for. To satisfy ourselves. We will browse and read books. We will read ads. We will fit clothes. We will also watch movies and read product labels. We might study just about anything we find on the shelf. And those are what we will read and choose to consider.

In any merchandise we will take out from all types of shelves—books, CDs, DVDs, shoes, store products, anything, or everything—we will benefit from them much more than by just consuming or using them. For one, we might see these things are simply our means to get to where we want to go, or we ought to be. We [just have to] use things, so we as human beings survive, and prosper, and as one friend puts it, “elevate.”

“Shelf Life” will make us see we can use things beyond their normal end. It will make us see we can desire to acquire other things, those things beyond the usual purpose of the tangible things we normally acquire.

The Fashion of Christ

Just when most sources of biblical inspiration seem to dissipate your exhausted soul—with audio-visual materials repeating themselves on television or the papers, one entry from the Encyclopedia Britannica can shed much light, or brand new outlook on your Christian life, as perhaps when you first read Og Mandino’s "The Christ Commission."

Published in the Britannica’s 7th edition under “Jesus” in the years between 1830 and 1842, and penned by Rev. David Welsh, professor of ecclesiastical history at the University of Edinburgh, the attribute to the Savior is a simply fitting description for the doubtful or [even] the individual who has yet to discern his faith.

Reading this on with an open mind can render the much-needed source for introspection and insight.

“The character of Christ, as exhibited in the Gospels, presents to us the only example, anywhere to be found, of the perfection of humanity; and the contemplation of it has ever been considered by his followers as one of the most edifying and delightful exercises of piety.”

What is Christ’s way? What is Christ’s way? To be a Christian demands greatly and much from anyone. It asks him to scrape off his very self—usually brimming with ill wills and selfish motivations. To be Christ-like is to deny the self which, usually, hardly sees the issues and needs of others. To follow Christ and his example is to encounter much difficulty because the situation is uncalled for by the self which usually abhors suffering and pain.

But a Christian life is the most enlightening because only after going through all these pains that one realizes—yes, always, later—that one glorious, redeeming moment is worth all the hurts it entails.

“A constant regard to the will of God, and a delight in doing it, form the distinguishing features of his character.”
In the ways that people live, Jesus Christ and all his lofty examples clearly stand in their way. Ironically, the One who gave life to mankind seems to be the antagonist in any man’s life who has considered himself the protagonist, the very essence of his existence.

But the ways of Jesus Christ make us revert to God’s entire purpose for all our lives. If we have been running away for so long finding our life purpose, Jesus presents to us the “alternative”—which was, in fact, human life’s original purpose. It is just so tragic that regarding God’s will in our lives entails much sacrifices and tradeoffs. God’s ways indeed are certainly not our ways.

“With this was connected the absence of all sordid, or selfish, or ambitious aims, and an enlarged and enlightened philanthropy.”

Denying oneself and seeking to first understand, rather than seeking to be understood. Simple as that. Or is it?

“There is perhaps nothing more remarkable in the life of Jesus than the apparently inconsistent qualities which are blended together in one harmonious whole.”

To imitate Christ is an intimidating task. It is to make ends meet. It is to be certain in the field of uncertainties. It asks one to make a choice in the midst of too much uncertainties and anxieties. It is to crack one’s brain because it is disoriented by the world which only teaches him to consider himself. To be a good Christian is to be virtuous when everyone is corrupt.

We see in him the most unbending constancy united with the great tenderness of feeling—hatred of sin, and compassion for the offender—a heart superior to all the allurements of pleasure, with a condescending indulgence for the innocent relaxations of life—a mind of universal philanthropy, alive to all the domestic charities—views that extended to the whole human race, and a generous compliance with national and individual peculiarities.”

With all these qualities, what more can a schizophrenic ask for? But we may ask how Jesus did it. What was the style of Christ? Jesus lived a life of struggles and strife. Let us consider that he realized he needed God to make his way through.

In the passages, Christ was always said to be offering all his pains to the Father. In fact, hours before he was arrested, he was in great pain, trying to at least bargain with the Father, to let the chalice, the Cross, pass. But all he needed was the trust in God, that the Father’s will, not his be done. The style of Christ was not entirely his—then. his was with the Father.

“It is difficult to conceive that the portraiture presented to us in the sacred history can be contemplated without benefit; but the chief benefit will be lost if it is forgotten that he whose life was the model of every virtue laid down that life for the sins of the world.”

While we have time—either in our youth or whenever this time finds us—to be able to ponder some truths about our existence and essence makes much for what we ought to be. The fashion of Christ goes beyond his passions, or even his Passion—which was only the culmination, the highlight of a well-worn life well lived.

Finding Hero

Brats and Other Failures, Scholars and Success Stories

We cannot remain silent anymore. We do not wish to contain this discontent to any further extent. It would be sheer hypocrisy and outright uselessness on our part, or on the sensibility of those teachers and other constituents in this community who commit their time and effort to help produce a genuine scholar, one student whom we do not consider ideal—but rather one real, attainable person.

There is a pervasive culture of spoiled brats in our school today. Everyday we see scholars—students of the Philippine Science High School Diliman Campus—going in and out of our high school, baring their persons in disgraceful degrees of being unruly, undisciplined, gang-like, virtually becoming a bunch of hooligans. These people have to be told something, at least something.

The solid waste management campaign we recently initiated during the Do Day has the most visible proof of apathy and lack of concern—erosion if not a disgusting absence of values—among our students. The students’ recommendation that there be one janitor in charge for every floor to clean their classrooms only presents a depressing scenario for us, teachers—does it now mean that students cannot deliver the simple task of segregating or at least throwing their trash sensibly to where they belong? What a scholar-ly modest proposal!

In the boys’ main dormitory, most if not all students are hardly disciplined—they read Sunday papers and leave all pages scattered and crumpled. Maybe they expect their maids to put their litter properly. Unfortunately they have to be told they are not in their homes—they have to be reminded they are dormers. Or maybe they have to be told about an axiom that says live and let live.

Oftentimes dormers bang the office telephone and the phone in the booths. They dribble basketball even during nighttime inside their rooms, in the corridors, and the lobby. Most of the time they watch television in an unreasonably loud volume. They leave electric fans switched on after they used them. They slam the doors of their rooms every time—every time, any time.

They are hardly grateful for any help offered them on their fast food orders or laundries by a teacher or staff desk volunteer. After eating their stuffs, they scatter styros everywhere—ground floor benches, water dispensers, stairs, everywhere.

Some of them scamper around the halls minutes before midnight—even when some of their roommates are already asleep. They make noise and all noise in the dead of night. They scatter their trash and leftover food like there is no tomorrow. The janitors—who have come and gone one after the other—constantly lamented the waste perennially scattered everywhere in the comfort rooms and the halls.

Many times in the cafeteria we encounter students interrupting the queue to get their orders ahead of those who are persistently falling in line. In this instance, a cafeteria staff would be kind enough to accommodate these singits while the rightful people are kept waiting. This is chiefly unforgivable. The basic rule of falling in line and waiting for one’s turn is as elementary as a kindergarten policy. Students who hardly see others in front of their noses just need to be told to go back to kindergarten. We pity these students if ever they do this inconsiderate act with a queue of cafeteria-goers who compose Bin Laden’s lot or Bush’s army. We do not know where they might find themselves once they get to face their fellow brats.

In classrooms, students are said to haggle everything with the teacher—from lessons to grades. They always negotiate to do other stuffs aside from the ones the teacher has designed or agreed with them to do. Even though it is too unreasonable, they would insist on doing what they want. What? It seems that they want to believe they know better than the teacher because the teacher always ought to “take off from where students are coming from.” We do not think the teacher is just there to be among their clique—intelligent or otherwise. In other words, a little bit of respect for the teacher—at least the fact that the teacher is older than them—should send them to think they need to first listen to a teacher before they negotiate anything, regardless of their predicament. If they need no instruction or directions, then, they must be told they must have come to the wrong place.

In spite of their brilliant ideas, which we recognize, acknowledge and applaud—they have no right to be arrogant about their knowledge. Such attitude only validates the fact that they do not really know enough. Failure then looms for these persons who see their teachers as inferior to them because in their own senses, they know they are better. This is too sad.

In this teacher writer’s three classes, many students failed in the first quarter. These failing students hardly complied with most class requirements necessary to pull up their grades. In language arts and journalism classes, we cannot help but wonder why most students would not turn in critical papers for evaluation—classic reviews, poems, homework, group or quad output. Despite countless extensions of deadline, some students would not turn in anything. They could not simply seem to care. Maybe we have extended the deadline more than enough that they lost interest in the subject matter—because they were stolen the thrill or pressure with which they can finish an impressive work. But we cannot just accept such excuse. A sensible student can always do better than staying mediocre the rest of his student life.

We recognize that all these apparent attitudes—the students’ value system—have to be redirected and led into something which everyone can admire or at least hope for. We cannot be so sadder than now, given such attitudes affecting our sensibility. Something has to be done—something has to be done. And we will, we will.

If we do not, we would simply spoil students and make them all brats, who will later mutate into successful monsters in any civilization where they can choose to thrive. Suffice it so say, anywhere they go, brats will never succeed—unless we accept that ours is a world ruled by brats. Yes, indeed Bush and other brats are ruling the world now. But we believe further that the world will not end in him or Bin Laden or Saddam or other brats who made news and money out of some childish folly or some foolish childhood.

As far as our brats are concerned, their gross lack of any values—technically, virtues—poses a challenge to all of us around here who still believe that basic and traditional values can prove true all through.

Our students—scholars, as we aptly call them—need to be told to grow up. They cannot remain pampered in all wrongly defines senses of the word “nurture.” We cannot just give them the fattest fish all the time. We will be forever condemned if we realize one day we would have not taught them how to fish by which they can survive all their way through. We would have been useless. This would be utter futility.

On the contrary, we see traces of an admirable scholar in some students. In their presence we see a glint of hope that all our efforts here—present, past, future—appreciated, underrated, or uncompensated—will never go to waste.


There is an apparent culture of admirable scholars pervading the school today. Everyday we see scholars—students of the Philippine Science High School Diliman Campus—going in and out of our high school, baring their persons in commendable degrees—a well-mannered, dutiful, cultured lot, whose real persons and stories need to be emulated. Or to the very least, appreciated. At least appreciated.

An inspiration we can obtain from the presence of students who are otherwise courteous, basically tactful, reasonably straightforward, and not necessarily quiet or submissive. In this environment inhabited by hooligans and grade hagglers, we can find a dormer who still secures gate pass duly from the dorm manager when he goes to the church on weekends or worship days. We also have a devoted student who keeps his word about submitting his late paper on Friday. Or what a delight it would be to meet a young junior who greets you one unholy afternoon with a forthright smile and a warm “Hi, Sir!” By these students we cannot just help but be dumbfounded. And inspired.

We see streaks of hope in a student who gives way to a teacher when he passes by their clique. We most admire one who asks to be given a task not only because he knows he will be graded for it but because he or she is convinced that there is something to learn from it. How about a student who offers a teacher to carry their notebooks to and from their classrooms? Or an anonymous someone—barely a class officer—who willingly borrows the eraser from the teacher and cleans the writing on the board?

We salute these scholars.

These basic, admirable values are redundantly the essentials. Sadly, however, some of our students referred in the first part of this lamentation are not through getting to know any elemental thing about these or any aspect of genuine learning, which can prepare them for life.

All the same we remain optimistic that we have hope in some others who do otherwise; who are otherwise. So we move on to looking beyond what is obvious here and now.

Frankly we believe it is not so hard to find a hero, an odd man out. Daily we launch a search for a martyr who does not conform with a culture that is tolerant of the vices of a child, the whims of Peter Pan or the caprices of a Dennis the Menace.

He or she is one growing person who is willing to live and live well in good manner. One who will succeed and whose name will be worth every frame in a world’s nameless, priceless, unadvertised, and insignificant hall of fame—because he or she will be one etched in a teacher’s heart—one who will inspire the teacher enough until his or her retirement. It will not be so difficult to stumble on admirable persons who can make sense of what we have been doing the most of our lives. The search for these persons has always been on going.

If the failures referred here cannot be molded anymore, there will be some out there whose young lives can shed light to others—some who can be the genuine scholars.

For sure, there will be some.

Contemplating Cruz Contemporary

In the heyday of Philippine Panorama’s fiction prize some ten years ago, Isidoro Cruz’s “Chalk Dust” won first prize for 1996.

A short story originally submitted to the Iligan National Writers Workshop the year prior to its win, “Chalk Dust” must have won the coveted national literary prize for its sensitivity to the individual plight of the overseas Filipino worker who, in recent years, has been considered our contemporary national hero, because of the dollars they scrape and scrimp for one of the lamest economies around the world.

Cruz’s “Chalk Dust” weaves a piece in the life of Clarissa, a former teacher back in the Philippines who went to work as a domestic helper in Singapore. After her contract failed because her original employers backed out, Clarissa eventually worked for the Tangs, a couple with two boys—and with whom the story virtually takes an unforgettable turn.

The situation of the protagonist comes in handy—one morning Clarissa is leaving the Tangs. Apart from a cheap card that she gives to Clarissa, Mrs. Nancy Tang has only few words to say to her as she starts for the airport.

The rest of the story unfolds quite symbolically through flashback, a narrative device that best renders a regretful tone—the one portrayed by the protagonist herself. Right away, we get to ask why Clarissa is leaving the Tangs. What must be the reason why she stops employment?

We answer this question by taking the trip with Clarissa as she journeys home. As memories flash back and forth—we are bit by bit drawn into her sad story. We learn that Clarissa was a former teacher back in her country. We also learn that her father is totally outrageously against her working abroad as a domestic helper, lamenting that they had labored much to help her through college, but not just to end up “scrubbing somebody else’s bathroom.”

We then know that Clarissa left teaching because she did not like it, and it didn’t really pay. We also learn that Clarissa could not really stomach her students’ behavior. That is why she must have left the country to seek the virtual “greener pastures,” whatever that means to her. Because the previous employers whom she applied for backed out, we get to know that Clarissa had to make do with what is in front of her nose—she had to work for a couple with two kids.

Through her sensitivity, we also learn that her employers’ residence is a stifling enclosure, squeezed in a rising metropolis, a busy city where probably progress dissipates the very energies of people, and where the only thing you are given to eat is noodles.

In the midst of this cloistered, monotonous life [which she finds too irksome even exasperating], Clarissa does not at all realize that at any rate she lives in a home that instead rises from the stifling smog and pollution which can kill her.

Eventually, Clarissa realizes her work is not much different from her classroom work. Yes, she may have fewer kids to attend to—just the two sons of her employers, but she is rather convinced they are not much different from her students whom she despised back home.

In the airport, Clarissa meets Trining, a fellow domestic helper. Unlike Clarissa, Trining is a “full-fledged” maid, who must have worked for a number of employers already—so much so that she has been going abroad back and forth, seeking to earn a living for relatives back home who rather only tell her what to bring home next time, and perhaps shying away from the neighbor’s prying eyes or gossip about her work abroad.

And unlike Trining, Clarissa cannot talk as much because hers is a different story—she is not happy from where she came. She’s not excited about going home to family with bags full of pasalubong.

Along the way, after all that was said and done, Clarissa vacillates between what has beens and what ifs. Inasmuch as she does not want to return home, she is doing so right now. She is even catching her trip on time.

What has she gone wrong? When asked about her whereabouts, she also wonders why is she going back to the place where she once despised because she did not like it—everything, what she was doing, what she was, what she was not doing, etc.—there. Was it something she did?

“I’ll tell her! I’ll tell her.!”—Clarissa cannot forget the boy’s face. When the mischievous elder son Jimmy saw Clarissa eating her favorite noodle soup, he started teasing her, soliciting the attention of his younger brother Sam, and told him they’d be playing cooking. Jimmy took condiments from the countertop and sprinkled sorts of other condiments on to Clarissa’s soup.

Even when Clarissa tried to stop Jimmy, the boy did not listen to her until he completely spilled what Clarissa was eating. When Clarissa flared up and then physically reprimanded the boy, the situation only got complicated—the boy spat at her, and on impulse, she slapped him until he cried and kicked her away. When the boy cried and threatened to tell his mother, Clarissa equally threatened that she’d burn the whole place should he squeal.

Interestingly, we do not learn whether the boy ever did tell his parents about it. The slightest hint we learn is that Clarissa must have grown tired of her wards’ misdemeanor which, to some, might have been unobjectionable—if one is well oriented enough to work there for the sake of money to send home, or if one is totally disposed to earn money in a foreign country.

In all, she must have only relived the days when she was a teacher, perennially irritated by the slight, mischievous ways by her students, and taking all these things personally. After all, how else can she take all of these, without her being a person?

At least, her employers are quite civil enough to just let her go—no questions asked. Whether the boy squealed to his parents, she can only assume. She cannot demand as to ask them how come she has to go. On the ways with which they rear their children, her gracious employers must have learned a number of lessons in the past—so maids like Clarissa cannot do as much.

The story’s title “Chalk Dust” forges the clearest image for the whole story, as it spells the dichotomy between the good and bad elements of the protagonist’s experience.

She is going home now because the Tangs simply fired her for her misbehavior. Funny that it was her who most probably misbehaved. Once she must have thought she cannot be a teacher. But now she thought she cannot also be a helper—inasmuch as she must have hated the chalk dust, it is also easy for her dust off any irritating situation she finds herself in. Shouldn’t she realize that a teacher is also a helper? Or has she ever realized that?

Of course, the story ends as the journey ends. She has arrived home, but what still pesters her is how that boy made fun of her picture, and made her see it when he put it on her pillow.

Clarissa’s plane landed already, but her disgust about the whole thing has not yet subsided—truly, she must have been home now, but is she at all unscathed?

In the bigger picture, “Chalk Dust” was hewn just as when the country would witness the tragic fate of Flor Contemplacion, a domestic helper charged of murder of the child of her employers. For months, Flor Contemplacion dominated the country’s headlines, as it was not just the case of one Filipina maid working in a foreign country.

It was rather the Filipinos’ global repute—the sheer dignity that people have come to associate with the “dignity of a Filipino” which reads much like our national pride.

Despite the intervention pursued by the Ramos government who was rather concerned with globalization [read: the fast-rising export of domestic helpers,] Contemplacion still was hanged in the Changgi prison. The most that we succeeded in doing was to immortalize her story via Nora Aunor, whose performance raked more profits for film and media moguls.

Facebook Poetry

May 6 Friend Requests ka pero saro sana
man an bisto mo sainda: si Noel Blancaflor.
Saiirisay man 'ni? May Sally Diaz, may Stanley Po.
Saiirisay man 'ni? Add mo daa as Friend?
Mayo ning Add as Non-Friend? As Acquaintance?
Dai man daw na an ngaran mo kapangaran mo?

Nag sign-up ka kaidto ta sabi kan amiga mo
ma-Reply siya saimo. Pero perang bulan ka nang
member since April 2009 pa, mayo man siya baga.

Naka-Thumbnail an mga Friends mo Recently Added
pero dai man nagi-reply sa comment mo. Dai mo aram
kong nababasa an pira nang pangungumusta mo. Inutil!

You like this. You sagkod si Polana sagkod si Polano like this.
Ano ta "Comment. Like. Delete." sana? Mayo nin Dislike?

Ay, uni ho, mga quiz-quiz na maski ano na sana.
Anong kanta ka ni Britney Spears? Who cares?
What time will you die? Paligsok man ni ýo.
Igwang Which Sexual Position Are You? Buray ni Ina niya!
Kulang na lang Anong Gamit ni Barack Obama
sa White House an Garo Ika? Stapler.

Kadakul-dakul Causes an inaagdang ayunan mo--
ta'no mayo kang mauyunan? May Plant A Tree,
Donate a Book, Adopt a Child. Ta'no mayo nin
Sire a book, plant a child, write a tree?
Hadaw mayo nin Sue a Government Official
o baad mas magayon: Meet God in Person?

Pirming Mafia Wars an pinsan mong si Ardo--
si Saddam Hussein an nahihiling mo sa logo.
Haros gabos sa Friends List mo nagkakawat
nin harong-harong, kagrugaring nin mga baka,
manok, tuka-rig, gadya, kurasmag na marayo man.
Farmville na pahingurag na lintian.

Ugayong ni Uryol

Pirang taon ta kang pinaistar sa harong ko.
Tinata’wan pa nin balon kun natitikapo.

Kun kamong magturugang mayong kinakarakan
Dinuhulan kamong sud-an hali sa sakong karihan.

Kulang na lang nganing hurungitan ko kamo.
Sako baga an dalagan mo pag mayo an ina nindo.

Ano man an pinakakan saimo kan ilusyon mo?
Lingaw ka nang ika an matuang aki kan tugang ko?

Saimo sinda maasa, Noy, gabos sa pamilya nindo.
Dai man daw linumay ka kan babaying ito?

Dai na pati kamo nasupog sa itsura nindo.
Nakaabra-siete daa, parasad-pasad sa kanto.

Dai ka pa baga tapos, Noy, dai mo girumdon?
Tapos ngonyan, daog mo pa an may agom.

Ako baga an nagparatustos sa pagpaadal saimo.
Tapos naaraman ko nang nagsasaro na kamo?

Lintian! Badong, dai mo ko pagprobaran,
‘Baad an kasaruan mo sakong makasturan.

An utang na boot, Noy, dai puwedeng bayadan.
Pero kun kamo kan babaying ito an magkadagusan

Sisingilon ta ka nanggad kan saimong mga utang.
Maglikay ka, Noy, ‘baad an ina mo an mautsan.

QatarSis

Nagbuwelta na si Manay hali sa Doha.
Dai daa klaro kun ano an trabaho niya.
An nakaagi, garong pirang bulan pa sana
Pero nagbareta siya samo; mapuli na siya.

Kadtong huring apod, yaon siya sa pabrika.
Gibuhan daa nin tela; harani sa may siyudad.
Sarong hapon, basang na lang nag-apod siya.
Nagpaparahibi; ta’ samuya pu’ngaw na daa.

Pigparaanggotan siya ni Papa pag-abot;
Inutangan pa kaya an kwartang napugrot.
Paghatod mi sa Manila iyo an pinanggastos;
Tapos ngonyan, mayo lamang daang pulos.

Dai pa ngani tulos siya kadto nakalarga;
Sinangra mi muna an sarong ektaryang oma.
Sambulan siyang naghalat sa pinsan mi sa Naga.
Astang napagaran an placement sa ahensya.

Kaya binabasol siya ni Mama ara-aldaw
Sinesermonan siya antes magpamahaw.
Kaya daa siya nagpuli ta pirming hinihidaw
An ilusyon niyang pulis na taga-Pasacao.

Sahot ni Manay, masakiton duman an trabaho.
Pirmi sindang tinatabuga kan saindang amo.
Minsan ngani daa dai makakakan sa tiempo.
Digdi na lang daa maski hababa an suweldo.

Pero sarong aga, kinaulay siya ni Papa
Garong ki Manay napu’ngaw na man siya.
Maray daa nganing yaon digdi an matua
Para may mag-ataman sa saindang duwa.

Pero dawa nagpupungot, nagsugo si Mama;
Mag-obra daa tulos siya para makaagwanta.
Maray pa daang magbalik siya sa Naga;
Ta kaipuhan nin kahera sa tindahan ni Nora.

Hinghing sako ni Manay, pabor siyang sun’don
Sugo ni Mamang sa Naga na mamuhon.
Puwedeng maghilingan sinda kan saiyang ilusyon
Basta dai ko daa siya ki Nanay isusumbong.

Sabi pa ni Manay, ako an puwede sa abroad
Ta an trabaho, maski ano, kaya kong maagod.
An kontrata daa dire-diretso, kun ako mahigos.
Kun pamilya matitios, igwa nanggad panustos.

Pag sa Qatar daa, madali lang magkuang visa.
Pero dapat andam ako kun ako na an malarga.
Dapat basog ako nin memorya kan pamilya;
Sa hadok kan ilusyon dapat ‘gurong mapurga.

May Sarong Harong

na dai nahaman yaon naitugdok
sa gilid kan tinampo. Hali sa kinatu-
tukawan mo, tiso an pagkatugdok
kan mga harigi. Mahibog sagkod
purusog an lanob. Mga bintana
najalousiehan na. Kun hilingon
mo sa luwas pwerte an tamanyo.
Tapos an atop pininturahan pula.
Pero hali sa kinatutukawan mo,
garo kabrot an sagurong sa wala.
An lanob sa kusina dai napalitada.
An kinatutugdukan dinuduruot na.
Mahibugon an mga ba’gangan
sa prantera. Gugon sagkod balagon
nagkaranap na. An puon kan kawayan
sa may gilid kan harong nakapukan.
yaon ka sa balyong kan salming
na bintana kan Philtrancong nakaparada,
ara-atyan, an awto malarga na.

Indulgencia

Ne, sabihan daw sako
kun gurano kamuraway
An makidurog sa lalaking
garo daing pinagkakautangan;
Bakong an kaglalang kundi
an sadiri niya an nahihiling
sa altar, dangan ika minaluhod
sa saiyang garo nangangadie.
Ano man daw an nginangayo-
ngayo mo saiya? Sa ritwal
na imbuwelto kamong duwa,
ano an saindong indulgencia?

Ukay Ukay

Pirang aldaw matapos mag-agi an bagyong Frank sa Iloilo, igwang nabareta na sa kasagsagan kan bagyo, manlaen-laen daang ataman na hayop an nakaburutas; tapos an iba nagkagaradan. Sa Janiuay, may mga orig na nagkaralamos ta nagkaruluom sinda sa mga tangkal; sa Maasin, igwang mga baka saka damulag na dai nakaralangoy pag-rarom kan baha kaya nagkaralamos man. Igwa man daang nagkaburuhay—sa Guimbal, may mga ayam na nagralangoy-langoy; sa ibang banwa, may mga kanding na nagkaaratong man lang. Pero sa may parte kan Jaro, igwa daang ibang mga hayop na bisan yaon lang sa tugsaran kan saindang kagsadiri, nakaburutas pa man giraray sa saindang gakod, tapos sagkod ngonyan, nawawara pa.


Magagayon pang maray an mga badong ini.
Mas bara’go pa an mga pantalon na ‘ni kaysa sa
mga nagkatarawad ko kadto sa ukay-ukay sa Leganes.

‘Puon nang magrasyon an mga ka-barangay ko sa Jaro.
Kaya sabi sako ni Father, mawalat na lang muna ‘ko
digdi sa parokya. Ilain ko na daa an mga donasyon
na ipapanagtag mi sa mga taga-Janiuay sa aga.

Kun relief an sasabihon, nangangaipo man kaming maray.
Maaati na mga bado mi; kaipuhan mi man nin masusulot.
Haros marugba ngani an harong mi pag-agi kan baha.

Irigo gayod ‘ning mga T-shirt saka short ki Christian.
Pwerte ‘ning blusang blue. Puwede ‘ni ki Shiela Mae.
haloy na si tinuga’ ko sainda; pero dai ‘ko nakakabakal.

Maray-rahay, ultimong an mga kurtina, magagayon pa.
Kadakul-dakul man pati si ibinabang donasyon hali
sa sarong Starex ‘subago. Garo duwang karton pati ‘ni
kaya pilian ko lang an saro; kaipuhan ko man ‘ni sa harong.

An Tawong Naanayo

Pagkagios kan lalaking naanáyo,
susukulon niya an lanob gamit an sarong samod;
dangan maparakanta siya sa Sagrado Corazon.

Malakaw siya pa-baybayon pag-abot
kan sinarom. Pag-agi sa may kamposanto,
masasabat niya sarong kabaong; pinuprusisyon.

Malaog siya sa simbahan, pauli pa sana
an mga gurang; sa luludhan na garaba’ saiya
may masunson, “Nag-abot ngonyan si Mamo’.

Dapat nagpabendisyon ka saiya.” Hihiribunan
siya kan mga kanturang tapos nang mag-nobena.
Hihirilingon siya; sasabihan, “Dai ka pa baga

Noy, omay. Haen na man si Lucio?” Ipapalamag
ninda an pinsan niyang sa tangá pa naglahod. Maiba
sana siya pag ‘gakod na sa hikot an kamot niya.

Sa harong, dai siya mapamanggi kan sira.
Papainumon siya ninda nin dahon na gina’ga’,
sinalakan nin suka, haloy na tinalbong sa daga.

Pero dawa ipasantigwar siya ki Nana Guling
o ipahilot pa pirang beses ki Tiyang Onding,
an lalaking naanáyo dai na mabubulong.

Pag banggi, dai tulos siya makakaturog.
Atyan na matanga’ sa bintana siya masaprang
Ara-atyan pa, an bulan aawitan niya na.

Makaturog man, pero uum-omon siya;
Mangingiturog siya ki Mamo, kaiba an mga kantura
sindang gabos naghuhuruba sa may kapilya.