Classical Theory and Criticism

C

lassical theory and criticism starts off with Plato and Aristotle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Credits
Wikipedia.org

Naingas Si Kulas

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

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

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


Ki Tomo, Pangkoy, Ronaldo, Zaldo, Paulo.

Epikong Ibalong

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From www.albaytourism.gov.ph

Encanto

 

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

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

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

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

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

    

Enchanted in Iligan

I do not really like nature trips very much.

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

Then, I saw Tinago falls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Iloilo City, June 2008

Home

For Nene, now in U.P. Campus

 

I see no signs of you

Here and now.

The mornings are silent again.

Dr. Hook doesn’t sing

His sweetest-of-all lyrics anymore.

The evenings are scentless again.

Though the bed sheet smells new

The red blankets never share your warmth.

The days are terribly calm again.

Your brown shoes beneath the green box

Are now dusted, unpolished, ignored.

 

I won’t want to retrieve them now

Or have them fixed downtown.

I know it will soon leave my mind, easily.

 

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

 

 

February 1998

At the Barrio Cemetery

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

The men are digging up my father’s grave.

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

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

All the gravediggers find are scattered bones,

a clump of hair and tattered pieces of cloth.

The men sighed relief, perhaps from exhaustion,

except me, now wondering how poor

Father and Mother really were

at the sight of such nothing-ness.




























*To Manuel Cepe Manaog [1943-1978]

Leaving Normal

Just before you bring the last box

of your things to the taxi waiting

outside, make sure the glass-table

they lent you is wiped clean, spotless

like your head free of yesterday’s

they-ask-you-answer dialogue

with the committee. No words will be

said, not a word will have to seek

their approval. Dust off the last shelf

and don’t you go and forget the books,

scissors and things you lent them.

Empty your basket, too, of all trash

so the other bins filled to the brim

next to your table utter nothing,

with their unfeeling mouths,

as you now head toward the door.

The driver’s sounding his horn by the gate

so just run past the guard you warmly

greeted, coming in this morning; well,

refuse his hand to carry your stuff

but remember friendship for good.

Seated in the car now, take comfort

in the cushioned couch, wiping off 

the dust gathered on your palms.

Encanto*

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

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

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

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

Ki Manoy Awel, sa ika-40ng taon nya

Kan ako sadit pa, pitong taon o labi pa

Natood nang magtukad sa bukid sa pamitisan kan Isarog

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

Kaibahan si Manoy na an sundang nasasarong,

Minsan poon alas dos hasta maghapon

Sa bukid nungka magugutom dawa mahapunan

Huli ta an kakanon makukua saen man:

Mga bayawas na hinog, an iba inuulod,

Kurumbot na hubal, minsan daeng laog,

Santol na Bangkok, sinasakat sa may ba’bul

Manggang maalsom, dae maabot dawa tinutukdol.

Ogma kan panahon, sa itaas kan bulod madoroson.

Hiling an banwa, dagat na mahiwason.

Dakul akong naoosipon pag-uli sa harong,

Lalo na ki Neneng maogmahon

Kaibahan ko paglabar pag-abot kan sinarom.

Malipoton an tubig sa bobon na hararom

Naghahale nin hibo kan amorseko saka gogon.

Kun maghaloy magbuntog, an tubig malibog;

Parehong mahahadit ta baad mahagupit

Kaskas na madalagan sa likod kan kusina

Para madulagan an gihoy ni Mama.

Pero kun an gubing ba'gong bolos na

Ta kinua hale sa mga ba'gong laba

Si Mama mayo' nang masabi pa—puwera

Apodon an gabos para mag-orasyon

Sa altar kan Sagrado Corazon na minsan milagrohon.

Dangan ka'yan garo ko nakarigosan

Dawa baga naglabar lang; kaogmahan namamatean

Kaiba an mga tugang, an inang magurang.

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

 

Sa Mga Huring Aldaw kan Marso

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

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

Kun ika tubong Bagacay, pamilyar na saimo an mga pangyayari sa palibot kan sadit na banwaan na ini—an kasiribotan, an kariribukan, o maski ano pa man—aram aram mo na an mga likaw kan bituka kan mga tipikal na ka-barangay. Mabibisto mo an kakaibang parong kan duros, mamamati mo an aringasa sa tinampo ta bantaak an saldang. Mabibisto mo man an korte kan niisay man maski na ngani nagdadangadang pa sana siya sa tinampo, ta an amyo kan tunay na buhay mahihiling sagkod maiintidihan mo sa lambang istoryang ini.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarong gurangan na kantorang taga Iraya, na agom kan sarong mahigos na Cursillista—sinubol si mga aki niyang daraga para magkanta sa Via Crucis magpoon sa kapilya antos sa Calle Maribok dangan pabuwelta—alagad atakado an pamayo ta dai magkakurua kun haraen na an mga daraga. Haraen na sa Imelda? Si Belinda? Pasugoi na daw ta si mga aki duman, iwaralat mu’na digdi. Ta diputang agom yan ni Belinda! Nagpaparainum na naman sa may ka–Tampawak? Ta kun ako pa an mapauli diyan sa bayaw mo, titibtiban ko talaga man nanggad yan! Mayo na sana man maginibo pakakatong-its, mainom! Susmaryosep! Noy, paulia na ngani si Manoy mo! Sarong parasira pagkatapos niyang magpangke—mala ta nakadakul sinda kan bayaw niya kansubanggi—sa may tanga’ sagkod sa rarom sa may parteng Caaluan sagkod Tinambac—nagdesider na mag-pasan kan krus sa Via Crucis. An solterong ini haloy na man nagsisigay-sigay sa aki ni Balisu’su’. Pero korontra baga an sadiri niyang tawo ta diyata gusto man nindang makahanap nin trabaho ini sa Cavite. Dai man ngani nag-anom na bulan baga—nagbuwelta ngani ta garo nagkairiyo na man sagkod an maputi-putting aking daraga ni Balisu’su’. Ano man baya an nahiling mo diyan Polin sa aki ni Tsang Sining? Bados na gayod si Joralyn?

Ciudad Iloilo, Abril 2009

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.

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 Palawan counted me in as her dictionary. Fair and kind, she must have been flattered when I told her in front of her classmates that she has been very disciplined in my English class.

 

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 Sagay City. When we didn’t hear Mark’s name announced in the regional contest for editorial writing, I realized then that the boy is fit for some other, loftier things. He must have taken the editorial writing skill to heart, that in no time he rewrote his contest piece on Consumer’s Rights Act for the schoolpaper issue. He surely deserves an award for such an effort.

 

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 Sofia in learning that her front-page article was “murdered” in the press—there is perhaps no one to equal Sofia’s enthusiasm to finish the work she is assigned to do, given the time constraints and a whole lot of other workload.

 

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.

 

How Public Like a Blog

I love blogging. It is my new found way of communicating especially now that I am away from my family and my familiar friends.

Even now with my new found friends in Iloilo, I make blogging count as an indispensable means of connecting with people, and staying connected with them in the truest sense of the word.

I maintain accounts in multiply, friendster, flickr and flixter. There I post pictures of the past—family photos, workplace, graduation, wedding, etc.

Now with my newly acquired, hard-earned digital camera, I post photos more often than I did in the past. Aside from having them published in the local dailies, I post online film and theater reviews, solicited and unsolicited commentaries on pressing issues, or just about any article I wrote.

Blogging has been a way of life for me since 2005, ever since I came to know friendster and began to love its wonders of communicating fast. It is soothing to know every single day—whenever I get to check my account, my contacts, or just about anyone online, have read my posts. What more can I ask for than reading the replies of my cousins, my high school students and even long lost friends, who found me on the net. They would reply about an old photo which I scanned and made available online, or an article which I have revised.

It is more wonderful to know that at least one person gets to visit my multiply site. I make it a point to attach photos with the text so that any reader would have one more reason to look it up. I also post pictures with social relevance. I take pictures of poverty in the marketplace, old age, and stuff like them. “Stark Realities” I call them. But these photojournalistic projects hardly elicit Internet surfers' attention—perhaps because they appeal to their conscience. These pictures incite pity in them or make them uncomfortable. Maybe, images of the poor and the underprivileged make them do something about which they cannot do anything significant.

Among the things I post online every now and then, the most number of visits would be in the family photos. For a set of photos in multiply.com, which I titled, “Portraits” or “Reunions” or “Bonds” or “Nonoy Mi” (Bikol phrase meaning Our Dear Son, Brother, Cousin), I have gotten almost 40 replies from my siblings, cousins and anyone else who viewed it.

As human nature would allow it, my friends online—brothers, sisters, cousins, etc.—usually reply to the posts about them—certainly not about my own privations and personal writeups.

Once I wrote an epic-length poem about my own hometown barangay Bagacay—one of my cousins was so moved that he wanted me to post more articles of that kind. My cousin Glen knew very well the Bagacay I was talking about--the sights and the sounds my words created evoked in him his own Bagacay experience.

Also, on my grandfather Clemente’s death anniversary, I wrote something about him—though I hardly knew much about him, except for the stories in the family which I recollected. My sister, brother, and cousins were so touched that they gave rave reviews and comments below it to the extent that they would want to read more about my other lolo—my maternal grandfather Emiliano “Meling” Saavedra.

I am amazed at the thought that—in the past, we would play taraguan [hide and seek] in Lolo Meling’s backyard from afternoon till dusk—never aware that one day we would really "find" each other somewhere else. Despite the fact that we “have gone everywhere” or “chose to hide” from each other, Internet and blogging--like the one I’m doing now--has been the best way for me to find my cousins and stay close to them.

Internet for me has been a way to preserve whatever family values I have retained—the phrase “family solidarity” for which my mother Emma is known to all of us, her children. As my sister Nene has cited in one of her online replies, she is so grateful to the Internet for keeping us together despite the distance between us. Especially she finds it so useful now that she has chosen to settle down and has started her own family now based in Bagumbong, a sleepy district bordering Caloocan City.

I cannot help but cry at every moving reply posted by my siblings or cousins online—about how they remember events in the past or how memories swell into them at the sight of the particular pictures I post. For every posting that my friends read and replied to, I feel a strong sense of fulfillment. I believe I get my good message across.

Homecoming, things in the past, and the like are my favorite subject. I write about and take pictures of the past. Not just because it is how I as a family member could recollect for myself the innocence I must have lost through the years—but also because through it, I and my siblings and cousins come together. Online like this, we share something which is hard to forget—in so doing we come to share ourselves. I am happy that when we do, that is simply unforgettable, especially now that we have gone everywhere.

If in the past, clan reunions would only happen during December or when mother’s youngest brother Uncle Tony arrives from Saudi Arabia, Oman, etc., now, a familiar company is very accessible in one click of the mouse.

Companionship is never a luxury anymore—I can easily reach family at my fingertips. With Internet—I, Nene, my brothers and my cousins—can be together, especially now that I am very far away from them. With blogging—with Internet and with all the wonders of digital technology, I connect with my family and friends in no time.

Online they get to know how I am faring. How I am doing. Online they get to know that most of the time I am not doing well. Online they get to know that, just like the Internet signal, most of the time, I flicker.

       

Outstanding Performance

Very Well Done, Scholars!

 

 

Cynthia Grace dela Cruz,
Runner-up, Feature Writing, English

Edgardo Severino, Jr.,
Runner-up, Sports Writing, English

Geb Roj Baroro,
Runner-up, Editorial Cartooning, English

 

Department of Education (DepEd)
Regional Schools Press Conference (RSPC) 2007
Punta Villa Resort, Arevalo, Iloilo City
December 10 -11, 2007

Ngonyan na banggi

N

gonyan na banggi, masiramon gayod makanamit giraray nin tiniktik na ginisa sa kamatis, dangan sinabawan nin dikit lang, tapos binerdurahan nin ogbos kamote.—Nonoy! Nonoy!, Iloilo, September 2, 2007, 5:45 p.m.

 

Ay talagang nang siram na…—Bembem, Dayangdang, 6:05 p.m.

 

Iyo talaga. Mami-miss mo an kakanon na iyan digdi satuya sa Bicol.—Amy Bañes, Banat, 6:07 p.m.

 

Ano kun kusidong balanak na piglako ni Unding na may ayon kalunggay na pighagad ki Tiyang Gunday?—Uncle Awel, Davao City, 6:13 p.m.

 

Masiram talaga, arog kaiyan panira mi last night. Puwerte garo man lang luto ni Lola. Pula na an sabaw dahil sa berdura.—Tomo, Bagacay, 6:37 p.m.

 

Kun gusto mo magpuli ka na muna digdi where you find green pastures and find yourself beside still waters!—Uncle Jun, Bagacay, 6:30 p.m.

 

Hehehe puli ka ngani digdi bakal kitang punaw, tiniktik. Ingat pirmi Noy! God bless you always. We miss u Uncle Nonoy!—Manoy, Manay and kids, Sto. Domingo, Camaligan, 6:04 p.m.

 

 

The Bourne Ultimatum

Rating:	★★★
Category:	Movies
Genre:	Action & Adventure

As last installment in the Bourne trilogy—The Bourne Ultimatum—makes clear that going back to the past that went wrong and retrieving it properly will certainly make things right for anyone. Any past that had been wrong all along is where anyone should start in order to go some place definite and clear. This is after all the case of Jason Bourne, whose identity is either identified and/or altered by the CIA who has in fact given birth to him.

According to the film, the search for the self is still the most difficult to undertake. When Jason Bourne is faced with the dilemma to know his real name, his identity, the movie reminds us of Logan’s return to his creator who made a wolf out of him in X-Men. After suffering the death of his girlfriend in India, he feels there is no way he could hide from his pursuers. He has to go back to who he is so he could proceed further.

As regards acting, there is something in Matt Damon that makes us say he must have taken this role seriously. While he made it clear in one published interview that he had to study the role seriously because it demands him so, he displays it just thus in the manner that he is the character, and no one else. In fact, the composed yet human Bourne temperament has stood all through the film—he just convinces the audience enough.

Forgive nothing. After he has pinpointed the identities who made miserable out of his life and sensibility, Jason Bourne just has to show us that they can never deter him from prevailing in the end. After all, he has been left with no choice but to “hunt down his past in order to find a future.”

While Pamela Landy’s (Joan Allen) character figures as the mother figure for the child in Jason who is simply bullied by his elder brothers, David Straithairn’s grim aura that stalks on the hero spells evil the most articulately.

Meanwhile, the CIA operations set to eliminate Bourne may be hackneyed on varied grounds. But the Blackbriar thingy makes clear that the corrupt human nature cannot just cease to exist, which is why Ludlum must have written the trilogy.

Sadly though, the film has greatly departed from the Ludlum masterpiece—splicing critical plot lines into oblivion. Yet, with Damon’s significant delivery of character and the dizzying action sequences reminiscent of and even surpassing the previous two projects (“Bourne Identity” in 2002 by Doug Liman and “Bourne Supremacy” in 2004 by Paul Greengrass), this powerhouse project comes out hardly unscathed.

David Fincher's 'Zodiac'

Rating:	★★★★
Category:	Movies
Genre:	Horror

David Fincher’s “Zodiac” opens in a grim sequence, one that makes a book-turned-into-film venture worthy of a second look.

In a night of revelry, two unsuspecting youngsters who are making out on a holiday or simply relishing the Independence Day Celebration in California drop dead and injured in their car after an unidentified man shoots them point-blank.

The opening murder scene highlighted by the swelling of Donovan's "Hurdy Gurdy Man" makes the film unforgettable. A grim reality depicted in the senseless murder slides along with this 60s rock anthem which makes you cringe a bit. And a bit more.

The killing of Darlene Ferrin and her companion in 1969 virtually starts the ball rolling—the killer goes on his butchery until the time comes when the lives of a number of San Francisco journalists and cops get entangled with the search for his identity. Through his ciphers and letters, the serial killer terrifies the San Francisco Bay Area and taunts the police. As investigators in four jurisdictions begin to search for him, the case becomes an obsession for four men—as their lives and careers are built and destroyed by the endless trail of clues.

While San Francisco Chronicle may be entitled to berate the film for whatever reason it has, aside from being the site of struggle of the story’s characters, saying it “falls flat. and giving it a C rating, what makes Fincher’s adaptation sensible is its treatment of a crime thriller woven in the threadbare characters—Paul Avery (Robert Downey, Jr.), the San Francisco Chronicle lead reporter whose life gets preoccupied and later emaciated by the Zodiac lure; Inspector Dave Toschi (Mark Ruffalo), the cop who pursues and later becomes the pursued, and Robert Graysmith (Jake Gyllenhaal), the San Francisco Chronicle cartoonist who eventually cracks it further for good. Graysmith’s nonfiction work is itself the source material for the film.

After years of search and investigations, however, the Bay Area police could not properly identify the Zodiac murderer who had senselessly killed a number of promising persons in the state. They could not prove him guilty on the bases of handwriting and fingerprints, two indicators that could pin down criminals for their dastardly acts some three decades ago.

While it is not so difficult to pinpoint the criminal—what with the DNA tests and similar other forms of crime identification and detection—these days, what strikes us hard in the film is its depiction of how a potential criminal who had been at large for years and should have been imprisoned for his heinous acts can simply go on at large just because police technology was simply quite old-school or backward, as compared today.

Nevertheless, the experience presented in the film spells the realities we witness in our own country nowadays. Here and now, politicians and criminals alike loom at large, living with the rest of the saner civilization which they prey on, or on which they feed.

“Zodiac” in this sense becomes a predictable masterpiece as we easily see what it speaks to us of the stark realities that make our lives difficult. Some people are born to make us live in fear. Some are just born to make things difficult for us unless we try to do something about it.

John Caroll Lynch’s Arthur Leigh Allen, who comes hardly unscathed during the film’s timeline—he is identified by the 1969 killing witness Mike Mageau only in 1991 or towards the end of the film—visibly mirrors the criminals in our country who are still at large because we lack measures to properly track them down. This is simply engrossing as it is gross.

Screened locally some four months later than its original release worldwide, Fincher’s adaptation of Robert Graysmith’s whodunit throws open the puzzle that is not solved because in reality it was not solved for a long time.

Others say it is a kind of “procedural thriller for the information age,” trying to mirror the stark realities of the 1970s.