Realism and magic realism

Darren Aronofsky’s Black Swan surely catches our attention because Natalie Portman’s Nina Sayers grows feathers after she kills Mila Kunis’s Lily backstage to perform the Black Swan role in the final act. You cannot just forget the film because of that.

This psychological thriller—featuring Natalie Portman’s Nina Sayers, a ballerina haunted by some schizophrenic ambition—brims with magic realism, an aesthetic style in which “magical elements are blended into a realistic atmosphere in order to access a deeper understanding of reality.” The effects particularly in the final ballet scene where Nina grows more feathers than the previous times it appeared would surely remind us of the film.

Because of the device used, we are made to believe that “magical elements are explained like normal occurrences that are presented in a straightforward manner” allowing the “real” (Nina Sayers dream to be the Swan Queen) and the “fantastic” (she really becomes a Swan) to be accepted in the same stream of thought.

The obsession to become the Swan Queen later brings into the character graphic hallucinations that eventually cost Nina Sayers’ life.

Natalie’s facial features being transformed into a swan—rouged eyes, aquiline nose and elongated neck—all compliment to a dramatic flourish—where at the end of the performance, even we the audience could be convinced that she very well looks as the best Swan Queen for Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.

While Nina Sayers’ obsession for the Swan Queen role is enough persuasion, the horrific undertones notwithstanding, we the audience get the eerie feeling in Aronofsky’s close-up shots of the lead character who dances her way to death as the ambition-obsessed ballerina who lived and was haunted by realities she herself created.

Anyone or anything from Darren Aronofsky’s Black Swan will win an Oscar. Choreography, effects, actress. Let’s see.

Meanwhile.

The first time I watched Christian Bale’s Dicky Eklund in The Fighter, I already rooted for him to win a Best Supporting Actor citation.

A drama about boxer “Irish” Micky Ward’s unlikely road to the world light welterweight title, The Fighter features Ward’s Rocky-like rise as he is shepherded by half-brother Dicky, a boxer-turned-trainer who rebounded in life after nearly being knocked out by drugs and crime.

A far cry from Batman and his previous roles, Christian Bale’s Dicky Eklund exudes with stark realism, a has-been boxer backed up by his mother who hoped for a could have been contender, reminiscent of Marlon Brando’s Terry Malloy in Elia Kazan’s On the Waterfront (1954).

Not another boxing movie at the Oscars you might say. But there is more to this boxing movie which rather “depicts subjects as they appear in everyday life.”

In The Fighter, we see Dicky Eklund’s mere claim to fame is his 1978 boxing match with Sugar Ray Leonard, where Eklund knocked down Leonard, who eventually won the match.

Now a crack addict, Eklund is in front of HBO cameras making a documentary about him. Dicky has also acted as one of the two trainers for half-brother Micky Ward, a decade younger than him, first known as a brawler and used by other boxers as a stepping stone to better boxers.

Both boxers are managed by their overbearing mother Alice Ward (Melissa Leo) who believes it better to keep it all in the family. Now unreliable owing to his crack addiction, Dicky’s move with Alice at one of Micky’s bouts dawns on the latter that his boxing career is being stalled and even undermined by them, who are only looking out for themselves.

The situation allows Bale’s character to deliver an un-contrived performance that highlights a family drama and gives sibling rivalry a kind of high never before seen onscreen before.

Meanwhile, Amy Adams’ Charlene Fleming—Micky’s new girlfriend, a college dropout and now local bartender who inspires him—pulls out the fulcrum to the other side, opposite Micky’s family, when she salvages him from this predicament.

Much to Alice and Dick’s anger, Micky comes to choose between them and Charlene. The story’s rising action renders each character emotionally charged—each one wanting to claim what is good for the fighter, and each one being allowed to shine individually onscreen. Awesome story.

Bale’s character greatly evolved from the Batman lead role and other virile roles to one that exudes with so much life. Like Tom Hanks’ Andrew Beckett in Jonathan Demme’s Philadelphia (1993), Bale must have shed weight to fit the role of a has-been boxer who makes business out of his brother just like his mother.

Earning three Oscar nominations for Bale, Adams and Leo, The Fighter drives some of the best punches among other films I have seen in the past year.

The first time I watched it last year, I immediately thought it was essentially noteworthy of recognition. Christian Bale’s crack[ed] character is so real you will find him in your neighborhood.

With the larger-than-life performance of an underdog who wants to bounce back, Bale’s character transforms the movie about his brother to a movie about himself. If at all, he is the Fighter being referred to in the film.

Let’s see how some real practitioners of the craft consider these performances, which other people might call art.

The Little Prince & We

Every writer has some purpose inherent in his work, a mindset to which his ideas and ideals gravitate. In one good book, this strikes as some insight which enables the readers to see the author as an advocate of some truth.

While such truth is universal, embracing an aspect of human life, it is only when the reader realizes this truth that the author is seen as his interpreter, his means to see himself.

French author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry is no less than this author. His popular novel The Little Prince (1945) is just but one of his greatest revelations of the self, much as he reveals himself.

Considered a fairy story ostensibly written for children, The Little Prince is the type of book immediately dismissed as “charming,” something only delightful and attractive. Others insist that it may not be necessary for one to finish reading the work to interpret what it sends him to know. The book may be simply for children in each of us.

Children are said to face the world by themselves. They always ask questions and they never run out of them. They want to know almost everything, just like the little prince who wants to know everything about the earth.

In The Little Prince, the characters that the prince meets one by one represent the influence on the mind of a child: the snake the fox and so many others shaped his view of the earth in many ways.

Chapter 16 begins: "So then the seventh planet was the Earth". On the Earth, he starts out in the desert and meets a snake that claims to have the power to return him to his home planet (A clever way to say that he can kill people, thus "Sending anyone he wishes back to the land from whence he came.")

The prince’s meeting with the snake delineates the author’s concept of isolation—desert imaging the loneliness or more aptly the dryness of everything. This resonates in the author’s distance from his family and his dangerous position as pilot unsure of his future feats during the war.

When the snake tells the prince, “It is lonely among men,” the author affirms that some men are unhappy even with their peers, as if to say, loneliness knows no favourites. The presence of the snake applies to the author’s judgment of evil—as one who confuses people and creates chaos in human life, but also one who will eventually make him realize his weakness or strength.

As the little prince wanders in the desert, vivid perception about the author and his work are seen. When the prince meets the flows in the same desert, the author elaborates that all things—short joys, isolation, and intense emotions brought about by evil—are so useless if man does not find meanings from them. Man has to transcend all circumstances with them to find meaning for himself.

In their conversation, the little prince comes to know from the rose about the nature of men—or what men really are. The reply of the flower strongly tells of human nature: “But no one never knows where to find them. The wind blows them away. They have no roots and that makes their life more difficult.

The prince meets a desert-flower, who, having seen a caravan pass by, tells him that there are only a handful of men on Earth and that they have no roots, which lets the wind blow them around making life hard on them.

Children, the author suggests, should realize through time that while life is fleeting, men have no constancy in their lives. Their decisions often have no permanence.

As the prince goes further, he now finds himself alone in the desert. When he speaks, an echo answers him: “Be my friends. I am all alone.” “I am all alone— all alone— all alone.” This scene makes for man’s call for companionship, for by his very nature, man is virtually made for companionship. Needless, man is social by nature. He cannot live by himself or alone. He needs the company of other people. He must interact with other people. Though the world does seem unfriendly, he needs to.

The little prince climbs the highest mountain he has ever seen. From the top of the mountain, he hopes he will see the whole planet and find people, but he sees only a desolate, craggy landscape. When the prince calls out, his echo answers him, and he mistakes it for the voices of humans. He thinks Earth is unnecessarily sharp and hard, and he finds it odd that the people of Earth only repeat what he says to them.

Here, it is as if de St. Exupéry says every person must reach out; for he will have no grasp of the wholeness of the world unless he reaches out to others. With others he may be able to find (the) meaning (of things).

After wandering the desert for a while, the little prince sees signs of civilization, and “all roads lead to the abodes of men.” There he meets a flower very much like his flower in his own planet.

Eventually, the prince comes upon a whole row of rosebushes, and is downcast because he thought that his rose was the only one in the whole universe. He begins to feel that he is not a great prince at all, as his planet contains only three tiny volcanoes and a flower he now thinks of as common. He lies down in the grass and weeps.

Of course, he is saddened to know that his flower is only one among many others, and later realized that he need not brag about it. To know and realize one is not entirely different from millions of others saps confidence. One therefore realizes there is nothing here to brag or boast about.

The author places the helpless child—a little prince—such a minute character as his focal point of introspection, his looking glass to articulate that the universe is too vast, if not too profound, for man to simply ponder.

Of The Things Which Are and the Things Which Are Not In Our Own Power

Igwang mga bagay na yaon sa satong gahum o kapangyarihan, sagkod igwang mga butang na waay sa aton nga kapangyarihan.

Yara sa aton nga kapangyarihan an kurukuru, katuyuhan, kama’wotan kag pagkaanggot; asin sa sarong pagtaram, ano man na gibo et aton nga kaugalingon.

Luwas sa aton nga gahum an lawas, pagrugaring, pagkamidbid, opisyo, trabaho; asin sa sarong pagtaram, ano man na bulutangon na bakong maninigong sato.

Subong, an mga bagay na yaon sa satong gahum, naturalmente, libre; mayo ni isay man na nag-uulang; alagad idtong lapaw sa aton nga gahum, limitado, dai masasarigan, maluya, bako man nanggad aton.

Kun siring, saimong panumdumon—nin huli ta sinabi mo na libertad, siring inâ sang mga butang na  minasarig sa sadiri man sana ninda, dangan kun nagkua ka kan pagrugaring kag sinadiri mo, igwang mauláng saimo, mahibi ka, makokonsensya ka, madudulâ an mayád na relasyon mo sa mga Diyos kag mga tawo.

Alagad kun kinua mo an saimo man nanggad sana, dangan hilingon an pagsasadiri kan iba na sainda man, waay mauugtas kanimo, waay nga mag-uulang saimo. Márahay an relasyon mo sa kiisay man. Mayo kang sasahutan, mayo kang gigibohon na kontra sa saimong kama’wotan. Mayo nin makulog saimo, mayo kang makakaiwal dai ka masákit.

—Susog sa Enchiridion ni Epictetus, Griyego, Stoic na pilosopo.

Sinurublian

gahum, Hiligaynon. kapangyarihan

kapangyarihan, Tag. gahum

butang, Hiligaynon. bagay

waay, Hiligaynon. mayo

sa aton, Hiligaynon. satuya

yara, Hiligaynon. yaon

nga, Hiligaynon. na

kurukuru, Tag. opinion

kag, Hiligaynon. sagkod

et, Capiznon. kan

kaugalingon, Hiligaynon. sadiri

luwas, Capiznon. lapaw

bulutangon, Hiligaynon. bagay

subong, Hiligaynon. ngonyan

panumdumon, Hiligaynon. rumdomon

ina, Hiligaynon. iyan

sang, Hiligaynon. kan

madudula, Hiligaynon. mawawara

mayad, Hiligaynon. marahay

mauugtas, Hiligaynon. mababaldi, maaanggot

An Nagdalhog

 Susog sa “The Passenger” ni Bienvenido Santos

Pagkadalhog kan lalaki sa terminal

Hinapot nya an aking may baligyang balot

Sitsaron, kag mani, igwang sukbit

na bote nin sukang agku sili—“Noy

sain digdi an dalan paduman sa baha?

Dai aram kan aki; waay et may aram.

Rinimpos sana ini kan pasahero kag

Saboot niya manunumpungan niya sana.

Huminalat siya, naglalaom na harani na,

Mantang nadadangog niya an daw tubig na

nagdadaguso, garo nagsusu’pay sa daga.

Baligya, Hiligaynon. Tinda, pinapabakal

Agku, Rinconada Bikol. Igwa, may

Waay Hiligaynon. Uda, mayo

Et, Capiznon. Ning, ng

Kag, Hiligaynon. Sagkod, buda, saka, et

Daw, Hiligaynon. Garo, baga na

Versions & Revisions

 July 1994/ December 1998/ February 2011

An Magayon Na Tibaad Mangyari Satong Duwa Susog Sa Librong Binabasa Ko Dies Minutos Bago Ako Magsaka Sa Bus Pauling Naga Tanganing Mahiling Ta Ka Giraray

Susog sa Transparent Self.
Ni Sidney M. Jourard. New York, 1971, 52–53.

Namomotan ta ka. Anong ma’wot silingon sini? Ma’wot kong buhay ka para sakuya sagkod ma’wot kong buhay ka para sa sadiri mo. Ma’wot  kong buhay ka. Ma’wot kong yaon buhay ka susog sa paging ma’wot mo. Ma’wot kong yaon ka na mayong nag-uulang saimo.

Mantang ibinibiklad mo sako an sadiri mo, sa tubang ko, minayaman an buhay ko. Nagiging mas buhay ako. Namamatian ko an sadiri ko na yaon sa mga bulutangon na pinapapangyari mo; nagkakaigwa nin saysay kag kahulugan an buhay ko.

Saro kang palaisipan na ma’wot kong maliwanagan. Alagad dai ta ka mapagibo nin ano pa man. Maaagda ko sana man asin mabibiklad mo sako an palaisipan ini. Ma’wot kong mamidbidan ta ka, namomo’tan ko. Ta nganing mamidbidan ta ka, kaipuhan mong magpahiling. Magpamate. Magparamdam.

Ta nganing mabiklad mo sako an palaisipan na, kaipuhan na magtiwala ka sako na igagalang ko ‘ni, o an mga ini. O maoogma ako sa mga ini. Magin ini amo an pagdata kan hawak mo sa lawas ko, bagay na dai ko pwedeng masabutan kun dae pa nangyayari. Magin ini iyo man an saimong ginapanumdom, iniimahenar, pinagpaplano, o namamati.

Ngaa mapamidbid ka kan sadiri mo sako kun dai ko man muya, okun ma’wot ko sana man gamiton ta ka sa mga obhetong dai ko ginasiling saimo? Mamimidbidan mo ko, an nagahambal na namomoot saimo.

Kun mimidbidon mo ko, kaipuhan kong magpabisto. Kaipuhan ipabisto ko saimo an sadiri ko, an pagkatawo ko, sa pakikipag-ulay, ta nganing magkamidbidan kitang dungan. Mantang pinapabisto mo sako an pagkatawo mo, nagkakaigwa ako nin ideya manongod saimo, na pag-uban-uban maagi sana, huli ta sa amo nga tiempo, daw naga-ilis ka na. Kun makikipag-ulay giraray ako saimo, an nagligad nga ideya ko bako nang matuod, kaya kaipuhan ko na ataduhon giraray idto, dangan pauro-utro.

Kun ika nagatalubo, na mayo nin ano man na kaulangan o nag-uulang saimo, makikibot na sana ako. Paparibongon mo an ulo ko, dangan baad mayad man sako.

Kun namomotan man nanggad ta ka, namomotan ko an mga ginigibo mo, huli ta sinda gikan saimo. Pwede man na tabangan ta ka kun muya mo. O pabayaan ta kang gibuhon mo sana ni nin solo, kun ini makahulugan saimo. Igagalang ko an mga kama’wotan mo sa mga butang na amo ni.

Kun namomo’tan ko an sadiri ko, namomo’tan ko an mga gibo ko, huli ta sinda buhay ko. Kun namomo’tan mo ko, tugot ka sa mga ginaobra ko; tinatabangan mo kong maobra sinda, dawa an boot silingon sini ako sana an magibo. Kun gibohon mo na pugulan mo ko, dai ka namomoot sako. Kun pugulan ta ka, dai ko namomoot saimo. Mayo nin kaipuhan mag-ulang saimo, sagkod tinataw’an ko nin saysay an saimong libertad. Mayo man nin mag-uulang sako, asin tinataw’an ko nin saysay an sadiri kong libertad.

Ako sarong lawas. Ako yaon sa lawas. Siring man ika. Ma’wot kong yaon ako, igwang lawas. Muya ko an lawas mo, an pagigi mong lawas. Kun dai ko muya an atado mo, o pagkaatado mo, hahambalan ta ka. Ta an pagkamoot niyato, katotoohan.

Saro akong sexual na linalang. Siring man ika. Kitang duwa naobra nin sarong bagay na masiram, magayon kag marhay para sa aton nga duwa. Inaagda mo kong mamidbid ta ka sa paagi kan lawas ko; inaagda ta kang mamidbidan mo ko sa paagi kan lawas ko. Sama’ kita sa masisiram kag manana’gum na puwedeng tang ipapangyari, sa kasiraman, sa kana’guman.

Kun muya mo ko tapos dai ta ka gusto, dai ko pwedeng magbalu’bagi. Nagsasabi sana kan totoo an lawas ko. Dai ta ka makukua kun dai mo itatao sako an sadiri mo. Dai man puwedeng maghambog an lawas mo.

Kun mahihiling dangan madadangog ta ka, orog na mamimidbidan ta ka kaysa kun mahihiling ta ka sana. Alagad kun kaputan ta ka, parungon ta ka, namitan ta ka, mas orog ta kang mamimidbid. Alagad dai ka matugot na gibohon yan saimo kun mayo kang tiwala sako, kun habo mong mabisto ta ka man nanggad.

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon

Magsaka, magsakay, magsakat

Silingon, sabihon

Sini, kaini

Kag, sagkod, asin

Amo, iyo

Ginapanumdom, iniisip

Ngaa, ta’no, nata’

Okun, o

Ginasiling, sinasabi

Daw, garo

Naga-ilis, minahira, minasangli

Nagahambal, nagsasabi

Sa amo nga tiempo, sa oras na’yan,

Nagligad, nakaagi

Nga, na

Matuod, tama, sakto

Makikibot, mabibigla

Ulo, payo

Mayad, marhay

Butang, bagay

Hahambalan, sasabihan

Naobra, (mi)nagibo

Aton, satuya

Copyright 1998–2011

Some college poetry

College was always cool. It was when you [got to] experience many highs, even without smoking a joint.

For one, it was when you were made to understand “being” or “existence” without knowing why. After some ten sessions under “Philosophy of Man,” you were drawn towards reading Plato and Gabriel Marcel. You later found yourself speaking highfalutin rhetoric about essence but did not really understand it. You were compelled to speak like the obscure neoclassical thinker you were assigned to read; you may have [wanted to] learn the language but sadly had not been able to converse with it.

So you thought you’d find some rhyme and reason from the lectures of your teacher who now sounded very much like her teacher Roque Ferriols, who she said had been a popular and notorious teacher who made a name at the Loyola Schools because he brought down deep introspection to layman’s terms.

But the sessions you attended under her were now giving you too many what ifs. What if she speaks her own words, what if she uses her own understanding to tell you about being, about the benefits of unhappiness? What if. What if she teaches us what she herself knows, and not what Ferriols had to say to their class? You wondered whether she was just echoing what she had heard from her idol teacher. You wondered what Ferriols basically had to say; you wondered whether all of them really mattered.

You decided to shrug off all discussions on being and essence, and instead turned to the poetry on the page of the paperback you picked up from a shelf at the English majors’ book sale, now staring you in the face: “I’m nobody, who are you?/Are you nobody, too?” Right on the white page, someone is talking to you and rather keeping you somecompany. Wonderful.

In order to avoid [the chaos in] your class, you kept going, poring over Dickinson and a lot more of her terse musings. In the monotony of the lecture on existence, you sought refuge from the tedium of topics to which you never did relate well.

American poets Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, 1950s

You started (a)musing yourself. When you could meet again with your secret Lothario, your classmate in Sociology class who majors in political science? Would he stride along the hallway near the president’s office today? You remembered days ago, you saw him smiling, sharing light moments with his noisy friends perhaps after finishing their Biology experiment at the Science Building. Who else could inspire you enough to endure a rather boring class? But what if he’s a fake? What if he doesn’t have anything to say? Will he even speak with you? For sure, you’d last three classes in the morning straight without having taken anything in your stomach. You wouldn’t even mind your ulcers. But would he mind you?

After consuming the verses of Emily Dickinson, you retrieved a worn out notebook and started to write the same incantations.

By chance, I pass your yard

just to make my journey short.

And you welcome me like a guest.

Not bad, not bad.

And there was nothing so beautiful.

with all the flowers and fruits

and leaves and flies.

Come the birds that chip the sky.

Even the worms come and see.

The beauty of the yard I think could never be.

With my bare hands I pick a fruit.

Ants come trailing

mobbing me with my catch

demanding justice from my cup.

I settle the topic.

I blow the wind that brushes my hair

turn the tree to raining gale

The trees that cling to the branches

Now cover the ground.

And now I’ve seen the best of it.

                       —Angela Rafon, “I have seen the best of it,” c. 1995

Since when have you seen the worthlessness of human beings despite Nature? Since when have you seen the void in human life because of his nature? Since when have you started talking about the boring nature of Nature?

Leaves and insects you now began to notice. Imaginary orchards you started to romanticize. The title of your poem even read outside the convention of caps and lowercase, quite inclined to mimic e.e. cummings’ transgressive tendencies. You now thought you were romantic. You thought you would die in oblivion. Unnoticed.

You wished you were named Emily or Sylvia.

An Magayon Na Tibaad Mangyari Satong Duwa Susog Sa Librong Binabasa Ko Dies Minutos Bago Ako Magsaka Sa Bus Pauling Naga Tanganing Mahiling Ta Ka Giraray

Namomotan ta ka. Anong buot silingon sini? Ma’wot kong buhay ka para sakuya sagkod ma’wot kong buhay ka para sa sadiri mo. Ma’wot  kong buhay ka. Ma’wot kong yaon buhay ka susog sa paging ma’wot mo. Ma’wot kong yaon ka na mayong nag-uulang saimo.

Mantang ibinibiklad mo sako an sadiri mo, sa tubang ko, minayaman an buhay ko. Nagiging mas buhay ako. Namamatian ko an sadiri ko na yaon sa mga bulutangon na pinapapangyari mo; nagkakaigwa nin saysay kag kahulugan an buhay ko.

Saro kang palaisipan na ma’wot kong maliwanagan. Alagad dai ta ka mapagibo nin ano pa man. Maaagda ko sana man asin mabibiklad mo sako an palaisipan ini. Ma’wot kong mamidbidan ta ka, namomo’tan ko. Ta nganing mamidbidan ta ka, kaipuhan mong magpahiling. Magpamate. Magparamdam.

Ta nganing mabiklad mo sako an palaisipan na, kaipuhan na magtiwala ka sako na igagalang ko ‘ni, o an mga ini. O maoogma ako sa mga ini. Magin ini amo an pagdata kan hawak mo sa lawas ko, bagay na dai ko pwedeng masabutan kun dae pa nangyayari. Magin ini iyo man an saimong ginapanumdom, iniimahenar, pinagpaplano, o namamati.

Ngaa mapamidbid ka kan sadiri mo sako kun dai ko man muya, okun ma’wot ko sana man gamiton ta ka sa mga obhetong dai ko ginasiling saimo? Mamimidbidan mo ko, an nagahambal na namomoot saimo.

Kun mimidbidon mo ko, kaipuhan kong magpabisto. Kaipuhan ipabisto ko saimo an sadiri ko, an pagkatawo ko, sa pakikipag-ulay, ta nganing magkamidbidan kitang dungan. Mantang pinapabisto mo sako an pagkatawo mo, nagkakaigwa ako nin ideya manongod saimo, na pag-uban-uban maagi sana, huli ta sa amo nga tiempo, daw naga-ilis ka na. Kun makikipag-ulay giraray ako saimo, an nagligad nga ideya ko bako nang matuod, kaya kaipuhan ko na ataduhon giraray idto, dangan pauro-utro.

Kun ika nagatalubo, na mayo nin ano man na kaulangan o nag-uulang saimo, makikibot na sana ako. Paparibongon mo an ulo ko, dangan baad mayad man sako.

Kun namomotan man nanggad ta ka, namomotan ko an mga ginigibo mo, huli ta sinda gikan saimo. Pwede man na tabangan ta ka kun muya mo. O pabayaan ta kang gibuhon mo sana ni nin solo, kun ini makahulugan saimo. Igagalang ko an mga kama’wotan mo sa mga butang na amo ni.

Kun namomo’tan ko an sadiri ko, namomo’tan ko an mga gibo ko, huli ta sinda buhay ko. Kun namomo’tan mo ko, tugot ka sa mga ginaobra ko; tinatabangan mo kong maobra sinda, dawa an boot silingon sini ako sana an magibo. Kun gibohon mo na pugulan mo ko, dai ka namomoot sako. Kun pugulan ta ka, dai ko namomoot saimo. Mayo nin kaipuhan mag-ulang saimo, sagkod tinataw’an ko nin saysay an saimong libertad. Mayo man nin mag-uulang sako, asin tinataw’an ko nin saysay an sadiri kong libertad.

Ako sarong lawas. Ako yaon sa lawas. Siring man ika. Ma’wot kong yaon ako, igwang lawas. Muya ko an lawas mo, an pagigi mong lawas. Kun dai ko muya an atado mo, o pagkaatado mo, hahambalan ta ka. Ta an pagkamoot niyato, katotoohan.

Saro akong sexual na linalang. Siring man ika. Kitang duwa naobra nin sarong bagay na masiram, magayon kag marhay para sa aton nga duwa. Inaagda mo kong mamidbid ta ka sa paagi kan lawas ko; inaagda ta kang mamidbidan mo ko sa paagi kan lawas ko. Sama’ kita sa masisiram kag manana’gum na puwedeng tang ipapangyari, sa kasiraman, sa kana’guman.

Kun muya mo ko tapos dai ta ka gusto, dai ko pwedeng magbalu’bagi. Nagsasabi sana kan totoo an lawas ko. Dai ta ka makukua kun dai mo itatao sako an sadiri mo. Dai man puwedeng maghambog an lawas mo.

Kun mahihiling dangan madadangog ta ka, orog na mamimidbidan ta ka kaysa kun mahihiling ta ka sana. Alagad kun kaputan ta ka, parungon ta ka, namitan ta ka, mas orog ta kang mamimidbid. Alagad dai ka matugot na gibohon yan saimo kun mayo kang tiwala sako, kun habo mong mabisto ta ka man nanggad.

Susog sa Transparent Self. Ni Sidney M. Jourard. New York, 1971, 52–53.

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon

Silingon, sabihon

Sini, kaini

Kag, sagkod, asin

Amo, iyo

Ginapanumdom, iniisip

Ngaa, ta’no, nata’

Okun, o

Ginasiling, sinasabi

Daw, garo

Naga-ilis, minahira, minasangli

Nagahambal, nagsasabi

Sa amo nga tiempo, sa oras na’yan,

Nagligad, nakaagi

Nga, na

Matuod, tama, sakto

Makikibot, mabibigla

Ulo, payo

Mayad, marhay

Butang, bagay

Hahambalan, sasabihan

Naobra, (mi)nagibo

Aton, satuya

Copyright 1998–2011

The Writer Walks to the Podium, And

Today, the writer will (speak about an) elevate (d piece of) himself.  In various other ways he has long tried to do this—talking to himself, discussing with teachers, conversing with friends, or grandstanding.

In the past, he has written letters to friends, brothers and sisters, teachers, classmates, and those people whom he knows and who knows him.  These people are not more than 20 individuals who are either simply familiar (just because he knows their names and faces) or really familiar (because they know him and he knows them better than other people).

The pieces he has written may have either been poetry, or essays mostly authored in first person. Some of them even have included artworks, sketches, variations of famous lyric poetry, short quotes, and even his own verse (which he would rewrite now and then until he feels they are poetry enough).

Most of the time, he insists to give them to these persons because he feels constantly driven to do so. Through a certain poem, essay or excerpt, he conveys aspects of himself. 

In fact, these people would thank him for the effort. They would thank him for the odd opportunity of being written for unexpectedly, but also for the rare chance of receiving a poem for a gift. That something is written for them by him simply surprises or especially flatters them. Some would utterly thank him for the poetry enclosed. While others would relate to him how an artwork made them ponder for a while.

Through such pieces, he honestly conveys himself to them. Through them, he believes he shares his soul, because in these poems and essays, he discloses his thoughts, he articulates his emotion. In all these, he lays bare his sobriety.

On the part of those who receive his “gifts,” they would feel elated and grateful because somebody thinks of them, or because in a way or a hundred others, somebody, to the very least, regards them. On his part, this entails one true thing for which he ought to be thankful himself—his aching desire to draw an idea or enunciate each emotion, spontaneous or contrived, good or otherwise, in fine and creative written form. All this special time he has come to realize that two things in his poems and works are unmistakably consistent, or persistent: pain and glory, or worded otherwise, agony and ecstasy.

These extremes, expressions in themselves, have always been apparent in his metaphors or insinuated in his narration. Though these pieces which he has enjoyed putting on paper do not necessarily conform to the numerous literary standards or rules on style of his day, they have to make sense for perhaps they have been spontaneously written—but always to manifest an undisguised spirit born to pain and redeemed by ecstasy, speaking truth and nothing less.

His poetry, for instance, contains tension, some conflict fragmented either in details or in mixed metaphors. Though one particular poem written out of angst appears to have a forced ending, the person to whom he has given the work would tell him that someone who writes these lines, or even just comes to think about it is one tormented spirit—“a grim soul,” in fact.


A narration on a harrowing experience, meanwhile, may seem scattered or disorganized, but one thing there is the certain choice of words that depict morbidity and everything else it entails. Both forms, poetic or prosaic, say about only one true thing—pain and all it offers, agony and all it gives.

At times, because he spontaneously writes these poems and essays, he also makes it a point to revise them before he finally gives them to persons whom he knows and who can relate to them. Revising these unsolicited pieces enables him to be more insightful about every thought, emotion or experience therein. Because spontaneity and therefore truths among these pieces may be sacrificed or unfortunately wasted if he revises his works, he is better convinced that the unrevised ones tell the best thing in this conscious endeavor. 

Every unedited or unpolished piece contains the grim provocation, the raw emotion, the stolid person. Yet, along with the ill forms and sad projections is his heart for the good—the highest hope, the unwavering belief in the ultimate goodness in all things, a constant, optimistic disposition that will banish all the afflictions rendered by reality.

The Writer Walks to the Podium, and Then

Today, the writer will (speak about an) elevate (d piece of) himself.  In various other ways he has long tried to do this—talking to himself, discussing with teachers, conversing with friends, or grandstanding.

In the past, he has written letters to friends, brothers and sisters, teachers, classmates, and those people whom he knows and who knows him.  These people are not more than 20 individuals who are either simply familiar (just because he knows their names and faces) or really familiar (because they know him and he knows them better than other people).

The pieces he has written may have either been poetry, or essays mostly authored in first person. Some of them even have included artworks, sketches, variations of famous lyric poetry, short quotes, and even his own verse (which he would rewrite now and then until he feels they are poetry enough).

Most of the time, he insists to give them to these persons because he feels constantly driven to do so. Through a certain poem, essay or excerpt, he conveys aspects of himself.

In fact, these people would thank him for the effort. They would thank him for the odd opportunity of being written for unexpectedly, but also for the rare chance of receiving a poem for a gift.

That something is written for them by him simply surprises or especially flatters them. Some would utterly thank him for the poetry enclosed. While others would relate to him how an artwork made them ponder for a while.

Through such pieces, he honestly conveys himself to them. Through them, he believes he shares his soul, because in these poems and essays, he discloses his thoughts, he articulates his emotion. In all these, he lays bare his sobriety.

On the part of those who receive his “gifts,” they would feel elated and grateful because somebody thinks of them, or because in a way or a hundred others, somebody, to the very least, regards them. On his part, this entails one true thing for which he ought to be thankful himself—his aching desire to draw an idea or enunciate each emotion, spontaneous or contrived, good or otherwise, in fine and creative written form.

All this special time he has come to realize that two things in his poems and works are unmistakably consistent, or persistent: pain and glory, or worded otherwise, agony and ecstasy.

These extremes, expressions in themselves, have always been apparent in his metaphors or insinuated in his narration. Though these pieces which he has enjoyed putting on paper do not necessarily conform to the numerous literary standards or rules on style of his day, they have to make sense for perhaps they have been spontaneously written—but always to manifest an undisguised spirit born to pain and redeemed by ecstasy, speaking truth and nothing less.

His poetry, for instance, contain tension, some conflict fragmented either in details or in mixed metaphors. Though one particular poem written out of angst appears to have a forced ending, the person to whom he has given the work would tell him that someone who writes these lines, or even just comes to think about it is one tormented spirit—“a grim soul,” in fact.

A narration on a harrowing experience, meanwhile, may seem scattered or disorganized, but one thing there is the certain choice of words that depict morbidity and everything else it entails. Both forms, poetic or prosaic, say about only one true thing—pain and all it offers, agony and all it gives.

At times, because he spontaneously writes these poems and essays, he also makes it a point to revise them before he finally gives them to persons whom he knows and who can relate to them.

Revising these unsolicited pieces enables him to be more insightful about every thought, emotion or experience therein.

Because spontaneity and therefore truths among these pieces may be sacrificed or unfortunately wasted if he revises his works, he is better convinced that the unrevised ones tell the best thing in this conscious endeavour.

Every unedited or unpolished piece contains the grim provocation, the raw emotion, the stolid person.

Yet, along with the ill forms and sad projections is his heart for the good—the highest hope, the unwavering belief in the ultimate goodness in all things, a constant, optimistic disposition that will banish all the afflictions rendered by reality.

  

Versions and Revisions. March & May 1999/ January 2000/ February 2011