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.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Encanto
Saturday, June 14, 2008
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
Friday, May 23, 2008
Home
For Nene, now in U.P. Campus
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.
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.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Ki Manoy Awel, sa ika-40ng taon nya
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Biernes Santo
Natapos na an gabos na pabasa
Sa barangay ngonyan na Huwebes Santo.
Maimbong an huyop kan duros,
Nag-aagda sako para maglamaw sa turogan.
Sa harong na malinig, mahalnas, makintab,
Naeenganyar akong maghurop-horop nanggad
Kan gabos kong nagkagirinibuhan—magpoon
Kan nag-aging Biernes Santo kan sarong taon
Asta ngonyan—penitensya ko an maihatag sa iba
An gabos na maitatao—boot, bu-ot,
Kapakumbabaan, pag-intindi, pasencia,
Kasimplehan, pagtiwala o kumpiyansa
Libertad, leyaltad, kusog, kalag.
Mahigos an isip kong maghurop hurop
Kan sadiring sala. Kaya dawa dai pa ngani
Nakabayad nin income tax—mayong tawong
Mamimirit na singilon ako kan sakong moroso
O ano pa man na kautangan ta an mga ini
Binayadan na—ako binalukat na
Kan sarong tawong nagsakit, pinasakitan
Ginadan—haloy nang panahon
Sa Kalbaryong sakong dinudulag-dulagan.
Bitoon, Jaro, Iloilo
Good Friday 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Sa Mga Huring Aldaw kan Marso
Life With America
The music of Dewey Bunnel, Gerry Beckley of the folk group America has affected my sensibility all these years. Playing my pirated copy of their greatest hits has not failed to amaze me and for life, I think, it won’t.
Inspector Mills
The unnamed cricket in this song has been my and Nene’s friend ever since. In the ‘80s, I and Nene had great time listening to such sound when Manoy Awel played the song to lull us to sleep because Mama would arrive later in the night because she still worked in her father’s house that hosted Cursillo classes, a three-day Christian renewal made famous to most Catholics through her father’s and his family’s efforts. What else was there to say? We couldn’t ask for more. It was just fine even if Mother was not there when we slept. We were lulled to sleep in my dear brother’s bed. Though I never saw the cricket in my dreams, I had something else that made me just sleep on it. The cruel nights without Mother were with one tender brother, Manoy Awel.
Special Girl
One particular Jenny would come to mind whenever I played this ballad during my board work as disc jockey in FBN’s DWEB-FM back in 1996. Once I knew one special girl. And I must have played this song many times for her—without her knowing it— without her knowing anything at all. What did I do? As if I could ever tell her anything when we worked together for the English department’s pathetic newsletter. Or that something mattered more than the verses which I’d hand to her after Rudy Alano’s class. In fact, nothing special happened in that lazy afternoon while Enya’s Shepherd Moons played in the DevCom laboratory. How could she ever know?
I Need You
I never liked this song. I never wanted to listen to it; I always skipped this cut. The funeral tempo makes me paler. It embarrasses me to no end. “Like the flower needs the rain... you know I need you.” As the song goes on though, in times when I could not help but not skip a shuffle setup, things start to make sense. The second voice sounds clearer and it’s the one I’d hear. The voice spells my detached involvement in the dismal situation presented by the singer. And the litany of “I” needing “you” simply fades senselessly. After engaging me to listen to one heart’s song, it drops me nowhere. This song is the ugliest in the album.
Sand Man
Since the day my college buddy Arnold Pie sang its lyrics—“Ain’t it foggy outside…” then the mention of the “beer” in the song—which must have reminded him of something in his young drinking life, I became curious about the song. But the slow introduction hasn’t appealed to me much; my illogical prejudice against anything unfamiliar because it’s something Western did not at all help me appreciate the song. One day after we found out ourselves that we’re working again in the same corporate complex in Pasig, I realized we have yet to have these unconsummated “bottley” and bubbly sessions—for some issues in the past that were never addressed, the time when we badly needed each other’s company but never did because we could not. Either we had no time or did have much of it.
You Can Do Magic
When cousins Shiela and Achie mastered the steps and strutted and danced with verve and grace in one of our reunions to the tune of this song, I was amazed by such a spectacle. They even knew the lyrics. Do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, and “when the rain is beating upon the window pane and when the night [it] gets so cold and when I can’t sleep, again you come to me, I hold you tight [and] the rain disappears; who would believe it? With a word, you dry my tear… You can do magic… You can have anything that you desire…” The show of my cousins just went on, and it’s still going. Now, the London-based Achie, an overseas nurse, just cannot help but do magic with her work; all her toil and diligence are simply paying off. Her generous earnings now can indeed help her have anything that she and her folks desire—new car, new house in the city, and hundreds of euro-pean possibilities for her siblings.
Right Before Your Eyes
My cousin Jokoy—who has adored anything Western from Vanilla Ice to HBO to Michael J. Fox to Sean Connery—knows the lyrics by heart, or at least the “revolving doors” part. We used to listen to it in Bong’s room in Naga, which he then acquired when his Ania Bong went to Manila. Of course, the Life pictures of Rudolph Valentino flashed in my mind, and Greta Garbo stared at me like there’s no tomorrow—a haunting photograph of one celebrity whom I hardly met. I scowl at the thought that I could hardly relate to them. I have yet to live a diamond life like them to simply live. Though no other memory follows, “do- do-do-do-do makes much sense. And emotion? Er.
A Horse With No Name
Effortlessly, I imagine the Assembly Hall of my Ateneo High School, where I picture the city, the sea, and the horse finding itself after being freed by the person who rode him. The original radio version—and not the live version—renders more sensibility. I also sing along this one of the longest codas to date—la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la” “After nine days, I let the horse run free ‘cause the desert has turned to sea.” There were plants and birds and rocks and things…” and many other things. I have yet to see these hundreds of things which I have long thought as an overachiever in high school. I have yet to free my own horse, though my deserts have long become oceans of uncertainties.
Never Be Lonely
This is my recent favorite—my pirated anthology is a rare find because it has this cut. When I was younger, this was hardly played over the local FM radio stations. My cousins who had the LP because their father was an avid fan would know better. “Got you by my side, I’d never be lonely; got you by my side, I’d never be afraid.” Never be lonely tells me that I am. I even once sang along accidentally, “Got you by my side, I’d rather be afraid.” This after realizing many times how relationship with someone makes you feel more alone than being literally alone. The song is a futile attempt to avoid being sucked into an emotional vacuum.
Tin Man
The impressive introduction plus the cool mumbling of brilliant lyrics prods this genius composition. Of course, I hardly knew the lyrics especially—tropic of Sir Galahad, soap sud green light bubbles, oh, oh… Oz never did nothing to the tin man”—“ but the tempo, the music is enough for me to like it. And adore anything that went with it, including all subconscious memory it reminds me. The bubbly keyboards at the last part— plus the na na na na na simply define how life is beautiful. Yes. It’s amazing how ignorance [of the lyrics, of artist’s realities] makes you know too much [of your own, which are more essential things].
Sometimes Lovers
“Sometimes there are teardrops across your face; sometimes there are rainbows in the same place… I don’t which way to turn.” “Lovers hiding in the covers of innocence and pain. No love, no pity in this town.” Of course, Jokoy always festered me with this relationship with Anna, one that mattered to him more because he did not like her for me. Or he preferred other girls for me. This sad song is sadder because I just cannot seem to relate to it because a certain Maria cannot just be it. After hurling the worst and best curses and cusswords in the world which tore both our hearts because they were swords that lashed out at our souls, nothing just seemed to matter more but ourselves apart, not ourselves together. The bridge—hold on tight… oh, oh, oh—makes everything more intense—“I will lay beside you till the night is gone…” when? When? When? Sometimes, indeed the song makes you think of many other things, such as not being able to forgive yourself for anything you’ve done. And you just stop loving. You stop caring for anything. Something just dies. Something just happens abruptly as the final beat of the drum.
Daisy Jane
The plane is leaving. My Dulce Maria knows the setting so well. The lyrics she even braved to articulate to me and relished with me because she liked the song so well. And I think they were accurate, every time she’d leave me in this sordid city for her cozy Iloilo home. “Does she really love me I think she does. Like the stars above me, I know because...” There’s not much to say on these, because she’d left me many times in the airport. “But the clouds are clear and I think we’re over the storm…” And I just gave in many times that I have gotten used to I see her off every time she did. One time I did not. I did not choose to. I had reasons and I did something else after that. “Daisy I think I’m sane. And I guess you’re ready to play.” I did something that indeed made her leave. Since then, she has always left me every time.
Don’t Cross The River
Yes, I can hear the river; it’s burbling; and I can’t help but row on it. “There’s a little girl out lying on her own, she’s got a broken heart.” “She knows and plays it smart.” The drums and the guitars are the water streaming down the gorge so fast—in cadence with my heart—racing past something like a void, racing past a cracked rock serving no definite purpose comes any tide— high or low. I have always raced with something— perhaps a memory all the time. But never the present reality. The past always has a way to catch up with me. And I am always sinking, but I keep on singing, “don’t cross the river if you cant swim the tide…”
Ventura Highway
The road that one man traveled was paved and the day before him was too long—the sun stood long hours. The freeway was a winding road, a blind curve. Later that day he was killed around the bend. It was a wrong turn. He never came back. Where did he have to go? After all the numerous places I traveled and chose to travel, I have yet to see this one highway. After all those persons I have been given chances to meet, I have yet to find someone important who will have to make me see. Whatever happened to the father whom I never had, the one who would have rather told me that I can “change my name,” or the one with whom I can share some “alligator lizards in the air”? I have yet to meet him. One fine, long day.
Lonely People
The guitar introduction thrills me to no end. The low vocals—“this is for all the lonely people, thinking that life has passed them by”—never allowed me to know why I was literally lonely in those days after my mother died. I desperately listened to it in the afternoons when I was jobless and desperately seeking any work that would pay—after my scholarship’s graduation stipend were depleted, spent for mailing my essays and poems to Manila-based magazines, that never even saw much publication. Writing never did pay, and that time I hardly knew that it didn’t or that it could. “This is for all the single people, thinking that love has left them dry.” Yeah. What could be more heart-wrenching than being ignored by one Anna who could hardly care about how I chaliced her. Nothing follows. The guitars, keyboard, and the dismal vocals just had to fade. Please.
Muskrat Love, etc.
Unimaginable characters which could have just existed in my mind—never a reality—thus the vague memory. Does the character look like Stuart Little? Ben? Why is Sam skinny? Is Susie fat? Does it matter if she is? For one, I can’t care much. I can hardly relate. My other favorites “Stereo,” and “The Border” are not in my disc while “Jody” “Only In Your Heart,” “Sister Golden Hair,” “Woman Tonight,” and “You, Girl” have yet to present my own realities to me, if any.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
A Good Year
It has been a good school year.
After some ten months of working and being with my high school students, I cannot help but look back to the good days.
Nothing has been more remarkable than the days lived with eager, wonderful students who made me realize a lot about many things. These are some of the many things I will not leave behind— these and other stories I will not ever trade for any other value in the world.
The Sapphire students whom I “advised” [I was their adviser for some two quarters, substantially] are a good, growing lot. Led by their president Ann Marielle, the class have already been lauded by their subject teachers who just find them easy, light and manageable.
For one, Sheena’s bubbly attitude complements her classmate’s love for humor. If at all, Sheena has enjoyed the mango float given by the class for a job well done during the Do Day—after tirelessly cleaning the classroom for almost a day, she and her classmates Kay and Pearl, to name a few, did not deserve anything less than that sumptuously delicious treat which they themselves prepared. Talk of being and acting out of [a strong sense of] independence—or more aptly, responsibility.
Along with the other boys, Ruzzel, Elton and Albert have all been a good part of the Sapphire team who have exuded the bright aura every Monday morning. This figured well especially in the flag ceremony leadership which was lauded by the school director, Dr. Biyo herself. I know the best is yet to come for them.
I appreciated my junior student Femm when she consulted me through a text message on a particular term in her Research paper. I was enjoying the Dinagyang night when she texted me, asking for the right word to use in her report. I was flattered that this junior student from
Meanwhile, I have always considered Femm's classmate Leonard’s amiable and warm company fairly enough to properly set the mood of the Lithium class. Along with the rest of the boys, his light and smiling face has not failed to set the best mood for the rest of his classmates. Perhaps one of the tallest boys in the batch, his optimistic countenance cannot simply go unnoticed, especially in his senior year.
Ever since I got to work with the scholpaper’s editors, I have always known Mark to have the critical eye. The boy’s meticulousness was confirmed to me by Mr. John Siena, Mark’s previous adviser who now works as superintendent in
I am equally happy for Cynthia and Sofia, Mark’s fellow editors who laboriously took to editing the many articles of the schoolpaper. Though I could just be apologetic to
Their fellow senior Cynthia, meanwhile, is one success story—what with her all-out smile when she was cited for her outstanding performance in feature writing in the Punta Villa regional writing tilt last December. I relish in Cynthia’s newfound skill as she should be lauded for the two substantial feature stories—the school gym article and the coach’s story—that must have made the school aware and feel more privileged for such two blessings.
Also, I will remember the generosity of spirit of one Zeke, a Manila-born freshman who sustained the odds of being in a new environment, eager to learn new things and share life with his new found friends. Zeke’s politeness and composure have always amazed me to say that the boy is very well ahead and well prepared to undertake bigger tasks in the future. I believe he will do well and he can pull through.
Among other things, these are only some of the many stories—call them blessings—which I cannot trade for other values in the world. The days with my junior, senior and freshmen students will not be forgotten. I am sure they are here to stay wherever I go. As long as I live.
After some ten months of working and being with my high school students, I cannot help but look back now in regret. Regret because I do not intend to pass this way again—regret because I am finally calling it “quits”.
After all, it has truly been a good year.
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Reading Two Women Authors from Antique Mid-May 2006, the University of San Agustin ’s Coordinating Centerfor Research and Publicatio...
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Browsing items at a used books store in the Naga City People’s Mall, I found Mrs. Estela Anciano’s yellowed copy of the third book of Diwang...
Songs of Ourselves
If music is wine for the soul, I suppose I have had my satisfying share of this liquor of life, one that has sustained me all these years. A...