ika3 yugto ng NYSOM

Nahilo ako di dahil sa vodka kundi dahil sa baho. Tawid mula sa THE, naroon ang isa pang the, The Park, Central Park. Dun kasi sa gilid nya from 5th Av (bale East side) nakahilera ang mga puting karuwaheng hila ng magigiting na kabayong amoy-tae. For a handsome fee, handa ka nilang ipasyal into time and space di lang sa sa kalawakan ng park kundi na rin sa imahinsayong Lancaster, Pensylvannia, na madali ring makapagpapaliyad sa sensitibo mong ilong. Pero masaya yung carriage ride, huh, katumbas ata sya ng gondola ride sa Venice sa ka-romantikuhan.

Dun sa grandeng fountain at sa may ampitheater sa gintna ng park, madidistinguish mo siguro ang taga NY sa mga nambibisita lang. Yung mga nagro-roller blades na sampu ang kulay ng buhok, mga nagsisirku-sirkong 200 pounder na babaeng naka-leotards, mga nag-uumarteng exhibisionists na halos pabango lang ang suot at astang nagma-mime, mga bading na naglalaplapan sa mismong stage ng ampitheater - palagay ko mga NYorker ang mga kumag. Parang halata sa attitude (na medyo hindi sa aptitude). Yung mga nandudumilat ang mata sa mangha, mga sayad ang panga sa lupa, mga namamalikmatang konserbatibong handang magpaka-liberal matanggap lamang ng lipunan na pawang nanonood sa kanila - aba e kami yun, mga bwisita o 1st day tenants na pilit hinihila at pabilisin ang araw either: para mapabilang na sila sa New York society asap, o dahil di na nila makayanan ang makasalanang pagsaksi at handa ng lumayas and get the fuck out of there.

Dun tayo sa Strawberry Fields, yaya ni bunso. Punta naman kami. Simple lang sya. Tahimik ang mga taong nagmumuni-muni sa isang bilugang mosaic na nakasulat: Imagine. Memorial kay Sir John Lennon. Sa mosaic, maraming bulaklak na naka-alay, sunflowers, carnations, daisies - kung available nga lang sana, lalagyan ko ng sampaguita tsaka ilang-ilang, para sabihin ng mga kapwa Pinoy na mapapadaan, Aba gid, may pinoy ditong nakiki-give peace a chance ga!

O, mga bata, larga na tayo, order ni Ate. We have a very tight schedule kuno. Hoy C, sabi pa nya sakin, Tigilan mo na yang kakakanta mo ng In My Life jan at di ka madidiskubre ni Yoko Na Ono. Sunod ako syempre. Alam ko na kasi panakot nya e, ibababa raw ako sa Harlem pag nagtutumigas ang ulo ko.

Sasakay daw kami ng Subway, yeeey, papuntang Battery Park, yeeey, sana di kami ma- battered. Aba dito pala sa subway stations nanggagaling yung steam na nakikita kong lumalabas sa mga kalye? Akala ko nung una me nagluluto lang ng siopao sa ilalim ng lupa. Antay kami ng aming train, antay-antay. Maya-maya, may tumugtog. Live. Isang itim na naka-braid ang buhok na nag-sax. Porgy and Bess. Shit. Paiwan na lang kaya ako dito. Kaso dumating na yung train namin, kainis. Naghulog muna ako ng $1 dun sa lalagyan nung street artist kasi ramdam ko, hino-hone nya yung artistry nya kaya responsibilidad ko sya. Yung mga pulubing nanghihingi, ngiti lang ang binibigay ko sa kanila kasi alam ko responsibilidad sila ng gobyerno.

Upo na kami sa train, la-la-la. Andaming tao, wow, people watching. Maglaro kaya ako, hmmm, no, hindi ko lalaruin ang sarili ko, bastos. I-categorize ko lang yung mga nakasakay. Baduy ba sila o di baduy? (Sa ngayon, deck or fin na ang categories nila.) Me isang mama, nakaexpose ang dibdib para ipakita ang pagkabalbon ng bastos na dibdib at makapal na gold chain at medallion. Para syang me sakit sa atay. DECK. Yung isang ale, antaba pero fit na fit ang pantalon, gustong ipakita ang hubog ng malabalyenang-hita. DECK. Isang middle aged woman, hmmm, Ann Taylor na baby pink cheesecloth shirt at light brown canvass pants at me canvass bag din na may logo ng Sierra Club. Me maliit na butterfly necklace, tapos naka-beret. Hmmm. VERY FIN. Me isang bagets na tsinito na katabi ni Bunso, tipong FIN, naka cap na U2 Zoo Tour, tapos shirt na NYU, tapos tattered jeans at blue Nike. Kaya lang, hmmm, panay tingin ni kumag sakin, hmmm, sapakin ko kaya at paliitin lalo ang mga mata, lunurin ko kaya sa mami o supalpalin ng sangkatutak na kua pao. Maya-maya bumaba si Jet Li. Tawa ng tawa si bunso, har-har, Kuya C, ang galing ng pagka-drawing sayo.

Pagkalampas namin ng University Station, me booming voice na nang-agaw ng atensyon naming mga pasahero. Isang rapper naman, Yo, my name's Jimmy James/I'm not Ving Rhames/I see pretty dames/don't play no games/I want some moolah/To support some hoopla/...bla/bla/bla (di ko na tanda yung ibang lyrics). Tapos nun, umikot sya at sa muka ng bawat pasahero halos isaksak nya yung nakabukas na back-pack. Kelangan daw i-support namin ang hoopla, aba gid, ano yun, knee deep in the hoopla? Pagdating sa mukha ko nag-isip ako. Sukahan ko kaya yung backpack? (Sori muhn, this train stinks, muhn). Naisip ko sayang naman yung rap nya, mas okay na tong ginagawa nya kesa magpakahaba ng rap sheet nya sa presinto, bumunot ako ng coins sa bulsa at inilaglag ko sa backpack. Ka-ting! Katiting lang ang sounds kasi di tataas sa three pennies yung binigay ko sa kanya.

Andali palang magkapera dito, sabi ko sa sarili ko. Tumayo kaya ako at sabay kanta ng, Ako'y pobreng alindahaw, sabay saliw ng kamay pakaliwa't-pakanan. Malamang bugbog ang inabot ko.

Battery Park Station, sabi sa loudspeaker.

Baba, baba, sabi ni Ate. Any time now, harap-harapan na kami ni Idol. Yung babaeng me korona at me hawak na apoy, nakatingi sa malayo.

My NY S.O.M. (ikalawang yugto, parang 'Ang Panday')

Hindi ako mahilig sa pizza o kahit anong me keso dahil di ako mahilig sa keso. (Syempre me exception: gusto ko ang keso de kambing - kesilyo/feta cheese - dahil siguro ako ay mukang kambing, meeeeee.) Pero kaiba daw talaga ang NY pizza, isang kaibahang di naman nila maipaliwanag sa akin. Ano ngayon kung brick-oven cooked? Ano ngayon kung slow heat? Ano ngayon kung thin crust? Pizza is pizza, garbage in, garbage out. Pero sige, tipong pizza de intriga na talaga ako kaya sabi ko ke boss-ate, Te-ats, saka na muna yang Met-Met na yan, NY pizza muna tayo.

Ilang sandali pa, nakikigulo na kami sa Sbarro. (Bago pa lang siguro sya nun kasi wala pa akong ibang nakitaang syudad na me Sbarro.) Lintek, kung on diet ka, dun mo makikita ng personal ang demonyo. Lahat ng klaseng pasta, lahat ng klaseng pizza, andun.

Spinach pizza ang banat ko, parang si Popeye sa Italy, tamang-tama kasi kasama namin ang pamangkin kong si OliveOyl na ang hinahanap ba naman e kanin at toyo. Malaki ang sira ng batang to (dalaga na si OO ngayon, pinalaki ng kanin at toyo); nung hinarapan ko ng nangungusap na ravioli, nang-irap lang. Puh-leez, Unkah C, sabi ni Toyang.

Napuno ng grasa ang muka ko pero di ko alam kung ano ang pizzazz ng NY pizza. Nabusog ako, oo, pero ang kinain ko, puro form, walang substance. Parang ako. Parang ang panulat ko. Puro porma, walang sustansya. Kelan kaya ako magiging kasing-galing ni Dennis Aguinaldo, o ni U. Elisorio (langya, pinarehas mo naman ako ke Vim, kay Victor Emmanuel Carmelo D. Nadera, amputah! mas pogi naman ako dun! Biro lang. Kiskis lang ako dun.) o yung isa pang teacher yata na si Chuckster na mahilig kay Bjork na kamuka ni Chuckie? (Me talk show, tinanong ang isang record critic kung sino ang sexiest singer sa kanya. Si Bjork, sabi nya, kasi daw ang dating ni Bjork, habang nilalaplap mo sya ay sinasaksak ka nya.)

Next stop: Midtown 5th uli para matunghayan ang Rockefeller Center. Huwaw, (parang si Angela Solis, anak ko yan). Bronze statue ni Prometheus na isa sa NY icons ang bumungad sa amin, tapos me marker at may quote mula sa Prometheus Bound ni Aeschyllus, Hala sige basahin nyo, sabi ni Ate ko, Ho-hum, hikab ko, angkati ng pwet ko, Anukamo? basahin ko, O ayan binasa ko na, you happy now?

Tapos lakad ulit, pa Uptown. Huwaw, Niketown, Huwaw, Cartier, Huwaw, Saks (teka, dyan ba nang-ano si Wynona?). Naiihi ako. Ah, dun tayo sa Trump Tower, pwede kang umihi dun, sabi ni Ate na obvious e alam ang lahat ng ihian sa Manhattan. Tamang-tama, matagal ko nang gustong ihian si Bos Donald. Josme, andun na kami sa loob ng Trump Tower, OMD Orchestral Manouvres in the Dark!, anong lugar ito? red marbles ang walls na highlited pa ng red lights ata, huwaw, ganto siguro sa Impyerno, sabi ko ke bunsoy, Ewan ko, sabi nya, di pa ko nakakarating sa inyo.

Ilang saglit pa, nasa loob naman kami ng FSO Schwarz. Me laruang Mercedes benz, $20,000, pwedeng sakyan ng batang 3-4 yrs old, tatakbo si kotse, 20K, amputah e dapat lang na tumakbo sya. Anong kahunghangan ng konsumerismo ang magpapaliwanag sa kahunghangang ito, boss ate, magpaliwanag kaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!????!!!!

Tawid kami, The Plaza Hotel, parang isang palasyo, THE hotel na lang daw pwede ng itawag sa kanya, aba e di sagarin na ang pagka-THE nya at tawagin na lang natin syang THE, period. Pasok kami sa loob, Huway, manlilibre si Ate ng meryenda, merong kaya silang pansit malabon?
Tuloy-tuloy kami sa laoob na parang dun kami naka-billet. (Teka, ilan ba kami, bilang-bilang...5, lima kami.) Imbes na sa restawran, tuloy kami sa gift shop. Bili si Ate sa storekeeper. 5 of those, please, various, please. Kendi, chocolate kendi. $4.00 each, sinlaki nung football/itlog na chocolate kendi sa pinas, mga .025 sentimo. Huwat? $4.00??? Oo, say ni Ate, meron kasi syang vodka.

Hindi ako makahinga. Miss, paki-cpr nga ako, please...

SA MAALINSANGANG PAGSILANG NITONG NEW YORK STATE OF MIND

Laglag ang panga ko sa unang sulyap sa 5th Avenue. Mga dalawang pulgada siguro ang iniangat ko sa lupain ni David Blaine habang namamalikmata sa ka-gothican ng St. Patrick's Cathedral. Napuna siguro ako ni Ate, Hoy, gunggong, wag kang pahalatang galing kang Pampangasinan, pulutin mo muna yung panga mo at mag-asta kang Nuyorker bago kita palakarin sa kahabaan nitong avenida.

Sinabi mo, giliw, kung pwede lang talagang ulit-uliting maranasan ang unang pagkakataong basahin ang Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man ni Joyce at Invisible Man ni Ellison, o panoorin ang City Lights ni Chaplin at Bicycle Thief ni De Sica, ganun din ang hinaing na sana ay magawang maibalik ang panahong unang masilayan nitong mga mapupungay kong mata ang Manhattang nililiyag.

Eswes, e di balikan. Time travel tayo...

Laglag ang panga ko sa unang sulyap sa 5th Avenue...Hoy gunggong...mag-asta kang Nuyorker bago kita palakarin sa kahabaan nitong avenida.

E di mag-asta. Teka, ano ba ang astang Nuyorker? Hmmm, kunyari di ako interesado sa kapaligiran, tapos nakakunot ang noo, tapos ambilis ng lakad, tapos pagdating dun sa
gusali ng investment firm na may real-time trading status ng NASDAQ na nakapost sa isang malaking monitor na gumagalaw-galaw, kunyari e titigil sa paglakad at mapapanalyze this at pinipitik pitik ng hintuturo ko yung aking ilong at napapasaad na, Hmmm, tipong agresibo ang galaw ng stocks (kahit sa totoo lang e di ko alam nun pano mag-invest sa isang baso ng patis).

Lakad, lakad, isnab, isnab, kunot, kunot. May bumangga sa balikat ko. Hey fuck, watch your...o ha! naguumpisa na ang NY state of mind ko. Lakad, lakad, isnab, isnab...

Itinerary ni Ate ang unahin ang Museum of Modern Art, o MoMA (siguro dahil muka kaming MoMO) bago ang lahat, kasi ba naman e tipong nag C-CMLI feeling pa yata ang kumag
(Children's Museum and Library, Inc, yun, mga kabataang kumag!) kaya hala, gutom na ang tyan ko sa NY pizza, pero museum daw, e di sige, go.

Si VanGok!, sabi ko. Ano kamo, Bangkok?, sabi nung isang utol kong ugok. VanGok, tange, sya yung painter na kung bigkasin mo e VanGow, paliwanag ko ke ugok. Halata naman kasi sa brushstrokes nya, ni Van Gogh, na sya yun nagpaint nun kaya nagyumabang na ako. Nagalit tuloy si Ate, Hoy c, di lang pala panga mo ang laglag, pati art i.q. mo southbound din, si Matisse yan. A ganumba, padyahi tuloy ako.

Tapos maya-maya, sumabog ang utak ko. Oh men! kilala ko sya di ako magkakamali ngayon, painting ni Picasso, L' Damoisseles du Avignon (di ko nga lang sigurado ang spelling) na nasa cover nung libreta de utang ko dun sa Pilipinas. Luluhod sana ako, genuflect baga, sabay krus sa dibdib, dahil talaga namang sacred ang pagkakafeel ko sa una naming pagbabangga ni Picachu, lintek ang ilong nung kababaihan sa Avignon e nasa tenga, sintutulis ng siko ang suso nila, cubist ba naman ang plataporma e di matulis nga. Merong isang insane na nasa gitna ng lobby na kunyari e me hawak na largabista at nilalargabista ang L' Damoiselles. Hmmm, artistic vanity ba yan, pre, o nilalargabista mo lang yung suso nila? sumagot kah! Amerkano si moks kaya di sya sumagot, I presume, medyo nagpapa NY state of mind lang sya gaya ko.

Tapos umikot kami sa mga exhibits na nagpawindang ng artistic savvy-ness ko, aba si Pollock, inispat-isplat lang ang canvass e painting na raw, matanong nga ke Ms. Gwen Bautista kung anong style yung inisplat-islplat ang canvass at painting na raw; tapos Impressionists, huwaw, first impression, lasting fucking impression, This is Monet, yes, pronounced as Moh-nei emphasize ni Ate, (naghahanap nga ako nun ng donut tapos bibigyan ko sya, O ate, kumain ka ng doh-nai) and that is Rembran, silent dt, emphasize nya ulit.

Rembran sya o Rembrandt, ate, kain muna tayo...

magbabalik ako sa nystateofmind.com, kung ok lang sa inyo.

THE POETRY OF ROCK
(to Master Jobert Jungian, poet, rockstar)

Come in
Come in from the cold
Please come in
Come in from the cold

Poetry rocks. But if a poem is also a rock song, then poetry rocks even more.

Here's the Taupin/John poetic formula: Bernie writes a poem, Elton fills in the score. It is the reverse method of composition but acknowledges, for once, the supreme importance of text.
Look at pop. Listen to the garbage of mush. As long it contains the fififi of love and the fufufu of longing, mainstream will listen and drool through the nose. Count me out.

Rock's music is in your face, but hey, rocks lyrics are in your soul. Carl J is wont to say, find your animal, and we go listen to a rock song because it takes the wildness and animalness in us to a higher humane level. The solid clapping of drums and screaming crescendo of lead becomes a complete lullaby just as soon as we find the melody of song in the solemn crossroads of words, of poetry...

A house on fire
A wall of stone
A door that once was open
An empty face and empty bones
Who ate your heart?
You're cold inside
You're not the one I hoped for
I'll see you on the other side
I'll see you on the other side
(- Untitled 1, Keane)

The virtue of rock is no different to the challenge of Arnold Adolf to Black America: Use the words to raise the children singing with their power, no silent death, strong for the people. And why not? The lyrics of rock songs are in themselves solid and fluid, full but permeable. They sting while they reach, embrace and crush, so be careful of that song, be aware of what you wish for...

Where the road is dark,
and the seed is sowed
Where the gun is cocked,
and the bullet's cold
Where the miles are marked
in blood and gold
I'll meet you further
on up the road.
(Further On, Bruce Springsteen)

Poetry is truth, reality is cliche'. Do I sound subversively empty, subverting space with my emptiness? Blame the poetry of Paul McCartney, where nothingness fills the void...

He's a real Nowhere Man
Sitting in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans
for nobody

Aha!, that is poetry of the highest order, properly trained in philosophical ambiguity. Here's my take: that nowhere man has achieved his own, exclusive individuality. It is a lovely song of poignancy, where being nothing is poignant, but that Nowhere Man, that man, to me is fully imagined, with a full image. Nowhere Man is Me. Whoever asked, Who is there?, and whoever responded, Nobody, I am - are Nowhere Men, too. And they are you. Didn't I say, poetry is truth?

Poetry is an enigma and in the most enigmatic of rock songs, nothing possibly compares to the sacred poetry of Adam F. Duritz of Counting Crows - in the very haunting Round Here (please, recite this loud enough for your soul to hear) ...

Step out of the front door like a ghost
into the fog where no one notices
the contrast of white on white

And in between the moon and you
the angels get a better view
of the crumbling difference between wrong and right

I walk in between the rain
through myself and back again
Where? I don't know

Maria says she's dying.
Through the door I hear her crying
Why? I don't know

Pessoa the poet is right. Poetry is astonishment, as of a being falling from the skies taking full consciousness of his fall. But Joni Mitchell, the poet rocker, is even righter and her poetry is a real astonishment. Coming of age (where adulthood is a good time to grow-up, har-har) is Coming From the Cold, said she:

I am not some stone commission
Like a statue in a park
I am flesh and blood and vision
I am howling in the dark
Long blue shadows of the jackals
Are falling on a payphone
Oh all we ever wanted
Was just to come in from the cold

Is this just vulgar electricity
Is this the edifying fire
Does your smile's covert complicity
Debase as it admires
Are you just checking out your mojo
Or am I just fighting off growing old
All I ever wanted
Was just to come in from the cold

When I thought life had some meaning
Then I thought I had some choice
And I made some value judgments
In a self important voice
But then absurdity came over me
And I longed to lose control
Oh all I ever wanted
Was just to come in from the cold

Poetry Is Alive. Rock On.

ATHENA'S OUT TO LUNCH: A Philosophical Pretext on Attaining Truth Through Error

1.) Dr. Big Bird, testing his PhD knack in Comparative Idiocy, brought forth the issue: Are you willing to relive an experience on the condition that it will be altogether erased from memory right afterwards? It sounded very Eternal Sunshine but I said, Sure, why not? In analysis, Dr. Bird saw me as anti-sentiment and non-romantic for driveling on instant gratification and choosing the here and now over the future. How could you, he said, when memory is a Romantic's handy and convenient all-tool. Besides, he continued, reminiscing is always ten times better than the experience itself and that I could have relived the good experience as many times as I wanted. Evidently the doctor was thinking the other way, from the other end. I told him the experience I wanted to relive was horrible and that I was willing to suffer the horror one more time if only to get rid altogether the memory of that pain;

2.) Lydia was my schoolmate in college. She was cute and bubbly and possessed a megawatt smile. I had a crush on her and dreamt of bringing her home as my young wife. She knew I had an eye for her; I didn't know if she had thoughts of me. Psycho time. Hey, dear Liddy, if I were to put you inside a room where everything is white, the ceiling being white, the walls are white, the floor is white, and there is not a single opening, no windows, no doors, you were just like inside a white box, who would you want to be with at that very moment? My heart beat fast as I rooted for me as the reply. Mang Ramon, came the disappointment. No shit, who was Mang Ramon, a pervert of a neighbor? He was our neighbor alright, she confirmed, and the one I needed if I were to get out of that box. Mang Ramon, you see, is a carpenter, she quipped while flashing her megawatt smile.


3.) In a gang of four, my closest buddy was actually the one we're having, Miguel, the saint, the beer. But I admired Manny. Witty, very witty. A widely acknowledged mathematician, Manny could invent a new set of positive or negative integers at a moment's notice. One time, over Miguel, we spoke of the universe. Finite or infinite? Finite, I said. I mean, my professor in Metaphysics said. I echoed the prof: the universe is composed of bodies and all bodies are finite. The sum of the parts simply attained the characteristic of the parts. Manny did not argue but had his own query. If the universe is finite, it must have boundaries. If I went out of its bounds, where would I be?

Is Athena back yet?

ONE STEP CLOSER TO KNOWING

That is all it takes - one step - to cross the line separating truth from mystery. Bono may have expounded on it differently, through song with lyrics that speak volumes, but I will take it with no hint of arrogance his one step shares the same footing as mine. Follow the lead.

Find the exit point in your workplace and stand by the door that opens up to the outside world. Focus, stop brooding over sentiments. Is there a glimmering sign hanging by the egress that says, ah, Life Starts Here?

All it takes is one fruitful step.

You stand with your honey bunny by the edge of the hotel bed, hands in sacred clasp while breathing the same air. There is more to sweet nothings in this ritual of lovers, a vow, a pact, a testament in the wind; the innocence of relationship now comes to this. In complete darkness will be the fulfillment of a final step towards knowledge, carnal knowledge, the awareness of the other's fullness of being, fluid to fluid, soul to soul, and you need to find the best route for the journey towards yourself, if it is through your lover's, in darkness, in bed.

All it takes is one fruitful step.

You feel weak and you faint, the kitchen floor improvising itself as your napping floor in the regretful state of your health. You keep your banged head up and you see the upturned trashcan (which you dragged as you were falling down), and you ask yourself, How long had I been in such unconsciousness down there, in the sweet company of trash? You call your doctor for an appointment and some tests, at the same time remembering the story of the newscaster who went to the doctor for chestpains and fainting spells and was, surprise!, told of the malignant tumor in his brain.

That phonecall is one fruitful step.

You cry a torrent of tears for your beloved pilot-husband whose flight whereabouts remain unknown. You scamper for news, for broadcasts, for satellite feeds, hoping that the jungle search undergoes with positive progress; you pray for help, they scream for rewards. In this country, you remind yourself, a man will sell his brother for a few bucks. Will you go or will you not? The forest is an infinite expanse and the enemies there are not just of the human kind. You will go and will take the bold step.

That could be a fruitful, fruitless, or even a fatal step.

Knowledge is power. All information gathered, all things learned, make you bigger in size – and it lives in this caveat, The more you gain in size, the more you grow in strength. But how far are you willing to know, and how big is that step you are willing to take? In courage, you are in full armor against what Willa Cather describes as disconcerting beginnings of a future yet unforeseen, and so in my solemn undertaking, all I can say is in life as in death, in sorrows and eros, all it takes is knowing, so good luck and Godbless.