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Sunday, May 28, 2006

SUMMER: OF PROSPECTS AND RETROSPECTS

I walked past and underneath this giant canopy until I was standing by this charming little bridge, looking over this creek and wondering how fast the current was going. "We're doing two knots, cap'n!", I imagined myself 30 years younger, giving my maritime baloney to the chief pirate raised and bred this side of Sawyer's Mississippi. But the flow of the current snapped me back to the exigencies of my present. Current. Present.

I was actually scouting for a film location that has these in proximity: old growth trees lined up on both sides of the street with heavy foliage and a quaint bridge over a narrow river, (or creek or canal) with a steady stream. I took my phone and started looking for my friend's number - this same friend who graduated from film school and was now ambitiously aiming to do a short for an entry to "Telluride or something". Suddenly I felt for the place and became undeniably selfish, for once, for that reason. The scene in this neighborhood seemed so serene and secretive; I was not going to corrupt it for the sake of artistic hodgepodge. Telluride or something, my ass.

And this was yesterday, Memorial Day, the unofficial start of summer which technically will not begin until 22 days from today. For my friend I was not in the beach for a cold beer or a hot chick, but if he called I'll tell him, sorry man, I was at the beach, having a cold beer, being had by a hot chick.

As I prepared to leave my own charming secret, Eddie Vedder continued to softly play for my ear, Off He Goes, and nowhere did his voice resemble Springsteen more closely than in this song, almost mumbling like a ventriloquist.

Sing to my ear and transport me to this place everytime, boy.

Ahhh, summer.

(to be continued)

Thursday, May 25, 2006

A CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH ENCOUNTER

I have a great affection for European poetry - Fernando Pessoa's, George Seferis', WB Yeats' and more - but Czeslaw Milosz' poems stand out because they are, to me, most accessible. Pessoa's are sometimes much too cynical, Seferis', mythological, and Yeat's, historical - for my understanding, but Milosz's poetry makes it a point to gently take my hand and lead my way through the first few lines even if it leaves me afterwards at a certain point of reference.

Which makes Milosz's poems, like Pablo Neruda's before him, interestingly interactive. They usually tell me, at a certain point of reference, Reader, from hereon, you're on your own.

In the great valley of poetry, being alone to distinguish the mountain from the hill, the grass from the weeds, while doing the trail within is an incredible experience. And if a poem draws the reader up front and right unto it's title, then like Milosz's Encounter it becomes harder still not to stand out and be remembered.

So, here's that poem -

Encounter*

We were riding through frozen hills in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rust of pebble -
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.

-----

I divide this poem into two parts. Life and death; space and time. The first part, life and space, are found in the first four lines - with each line possessing a very strong sense of motion, from here to there, bespeaking the essence of living: riding; rising; running; pointing. A reading of these first four lines is like watching a reel of a vintage film, one that jumps from one action to the other to signify a very simple whole. In very simple words, the first four lines tell a complete story that is very demonstrative and explicit.

The second part, or the last five lines, starkly changes the poem's appearance because it speaks of the other end and essense of being: death, in time. The narrator reveals the story of the first four lines in some distant past (a product of memory, a representation of time) in such a melancholic and dark tone that sounds more like a confession, not of misery but mystery, because he appears to be in a place with no restrictions of space and time. The narrator, therefore - at least, to me - was the one who pointed to the hare, and while reflecting on the wonders of the past impresses the greater wonders of his non-present.

In all its symbolism, the narrator contemplates on the past, like Proust, with things remembered clearly. But unlike Proust, there were no hints of pain. He was in awe.

And so was I, while not of this state, but at least of this poem.
---------
*trans. by Milosz and Lillian Vallee
from "The Collected Poems 1931-1987"

Sunday, May 21, 2006

HAUNTING WORLD, TAUNTING WORLD

In the great essay Street Haunting Virginia Woolf gives a fresh outlook and meaning to slice of life within the limits of London one winter day after she decided to get out of the house to buy - of all things - a lead pencil. The experience, originally appearing in Yale Review in 1927, remains as one of the most beautiful treatises ever written about human expedition; it is not only a journey within her city, it is also journey within her soul.

If only I lived in London, if only this was winter, and if only I had the need for a lead pencil. But whatever. Yesterday morning was a most beautiful Saturday morning (as all Saturday mornings seem charming to me, compared to the gloom of a Sunday afternoon which - I had this eerie feeling as a child - is the day and time the world will come to an end) and I decided to leave the unit on foot in search of that street that could haunt me the same way London haunted Woolf. I may have found it and will now only wish I have a teeny fraction of Woolf's mastery in writing. But since that is not possible (and I did not want this impossibility becoming even more obvious), I will do this piece, onward, mostly in my native Tagalog.

Kaya nga inuna ko muna sa Inggles dahil ano ba sa Tagalog ang taunting? Tonting?

Hindi, kutya. Kaya ang "a taunt" ay "isang kutya". As what my mom told me one fiesta eve, Isang kutya mo na yang karne iho at baka tulad mo e mabugok.

E di labas nga ako ng condo upang hanap-hanapin ang bersyon ng Street Haunting dito sa syudad ng mga kakwate. Medyo jogging eklot para kunyari athletic ako kahit pa gaya ni Gary Lising the only thing athletic in me is my athlete's foot. Naka cd walk-man ako para hindi ko naririnig ang ugong ng mundo. Sana sa gabi na rin ako nag-jogging para hindi gaanong maalikabok.

Nakasalang sa walk-man yung cd ng mga tulang nakapaloob dun sa librong regalo sa akin ni Heather nung birthday ko (sa mga nakalimot bumati, matatae rin kayoh!); Voices & Poetry of Ireland (Sourcebooks, 2003) ang ngalan ng libro at habang pinakikinggan ko ang kalmadong boses ni Niall Toibin habang binibigyang buhay ang napakagandang tulang Everything Is Going To Be All Right ni Derek Mahon ukol sa masalimuot na mundo ng Ireland, iniisip ko, gusto ko rin yatang maging kaboses si Toibin -

How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying?

There will be dying eklavu, pero sa huling linya, sabi ng tula, Everything is going to be all right.

Habang ninununinuni ko ang paraang pagbigkas ni Niall Toibin sa boses na nahahawig sa narrator ng Lord of the Rings, o kaya dun sa boses ng mama sa mga lumang commercial ng PNB na may temang Pilipino habits tulad ng amor proprio (tanda mo pa ba yun, ha, Tanda?) tuloy-tuloy ang paglakad-takbo ko hanggang sa makarating ako sa oval na napaliligiran ng man-made lake sa harap ng isang state of the art na ospital. Ang ganda ng ospital, parang 5-star hotel. Kung di mo nga alam na ospital yun at sakaling masaksak ka at isugod dun for emergency ng isang babae at isang lalaking medics, malamang sumigaw ka sa kabila ng iyong duguang estado, Taenanyo, mamamatay na ako magche-check in pa rin kayoh!

Kung si Niall Toibin yung medic, baka sabihin sa yo

You will be dying, you will be dying
Everything will be alright!

Kung di ako nagkakamali (na bihirang mangyari), dalawa at 3/4 ikot sa oval ay isang milya, na parang standard na distansya between 2 exits sa interstate highway. Takbo na ako sa paligid ng lake, takbo, takbo, habang pinanonood ko ang mga tao, ang mga puno, ang mga ibon, ang lawa, at patuloy ang pakikinig sa mga tulang walang humpay na humahamon sa kaisipan ng sanlibutan.

Sa pagliko ko sa unang bend, natanaw ko sa malayo ang grupo ng kababaihan sa kaliwa at nakahilera sa kanan ang mga baby strollers. Bale dumadaan sa pagitan nila ang mga naglalakad/tumatakbo sa oval na aspaltado, at habang papalapit ako, napansin kong iisa ang hugis ng mga kababaihan: puro sila Size A, as in Aparador, kaya tantya ko e mga nanay sila, mga bagong panganak, at mga bagong silang na anak nila ang nasa strollers at nag e-exercise sila para malusaw ang lahat-lahat pwera lang ang gatas sa dede nila. Pagdaan ko sa unang nanay, lumanghap ako ng malakas na langhap para malaan kung makaamoy ako ng sariwang alkohol. Pagtingin ko sa kanan, ang cu-cute ng mga baby, kaway ako sa kanila para kunyari ako yung village idiot. Goo-goo-goo, kunyari daw o.

Tas dinaanan ko naman sa susunod na bend yung mga nagpapatakbo ng remote controlled toy sailboats. Mga lolo, kasama ng mga apo. Lintek ang mga sailboats nila, tipong pinag-aksayahan ng panahon.

Tas nung malapit na ako dun sa pinag-umpisahan ko, bigla ba naman akong hinabol ng isang malaking pato. Anak ng pato! Namukhaan ata ako dahil minsan pinakain ko sila ng mga lumang tinapay sa bahay, nasira siguro ang tiyan. Tas yung isang mama na may kasamang mga bata, tawanan sila, akala siguro sadya akong nagpapahabol. Ginaya ako nung mama at tinangkang magpahabol din, ginawang parang aso ang pato. But the effing duck only has an eye for me. Sana naman babae yung pato.

Nung bata pa ako, mga 12 yrs old siguro, inutusan ako ni Inang sa tindahan. Syempre asiwa ako dahil nautusan, kaya takbo ako papunta sa tindahan nina Lonlon. May humabol sa aking kambing na lagalag. E di tigil ako. Tapos nun, sinusuwag-suwag nya ako kaya di ko malaman ang gagawin habang yung mga tambay kina Lonlon nagkakagulo sa katatawa. Ako naman mangiyak-ngiyak dahil wala naman akong ginagawang masama e bat ako ginaganun ng kambing. Umakyat ako sa bakod tas yung kambing inaantay ako, kaya binato sya nung mga tambay na naawa sa akin at nahiwagaan din kung bat ganun ang ikinilos ng kambing. E di lumayas din yung kambing, kaya ako naman, sabi ko na lang sa sarili ko, taena nyong mga kambing kayo, paglaki ko, lalafangin ko kayoh. Kaya ayun, paglaki ko, I did not meet a kalderetang kambing I did not like.

Pawisan, takbo na uli ako pauwi. Daan muna ako sa bookstore para makabili ng librong maaaring magpatino sa akin. Christopher Unborn. Carlos Fuentes. Wagi. Unang chapter pa lang, laglag na ang panty't bra ng babaeng character na parang dancer sa Alibangbang. Meron kasing pakontes sa Mexico na ang sinumang isilang na sanggol na lalaking ngalan ay Christopher at precisely the stroke of midnight on October 12, in the year of tralala, ay ipoproklamang prodigal son of the nation, at tatanggaping nya ang "keys to the republic". Kaya ayun, ang ubod ng istorya, banggit nung tatay ng semilyang si Christopher, ay makikipag-usap ang sanggol sa sinapupunan...

sa mambabasa. "The reader, just the reader."

Ayus. Bale yung tamuj na my kakabit na egglog ang narrator ng kwentot ni Mang Carling.

Pagdating sa bahay, hapo ang inabot ko. Bandang hapon, dumating si bunso at naghamon ng tennis. E di palo kami, palo, palo. Huling puntos ng laro, pinilit kong abutin yung bola with a double handed backhand. Idiocy. Hagis ako na parang trumpo. Pagtayo ko ansakit ng kamay ko. Laro pa ulit kami, serve pa rin ako. Pagdating ng gabi, Inday, maga ang kaliwang kamay ko tsaka nanlalamig ako. Bihis ako, suot ng medyas gamit ang isang kamay. Yung sapatos, di ko maitali ng isang kamay lang kaya di ko na itinali. Sugod ako sa ospital, emergency room.

Pinay yung nurse sa ER. Alas 10:00 ng gabi na nun. Sabi nya, anong oras nangyari yan?, sabi ko, alas 4:30. Bat ngayon ka lang? Di ko kasi akalain na mamamaga e. Tas tanong nya, nanalo ka naman? sabi ko, hinde, talo. Ay!, sabi nya, na para bang me pusta sa laro namin.

Linggo ng hapon ngayon. At kahit pa may matigas na balot ang kaliwang kamay ko, hindi sapat ito para magunaw ang mundo.

E ano ngayon kung walang taunting?

Sunday, May 14, 2006

PINKY

Today the world was awash in pink; men in baby pink, babies in old pink, everyone was pinked up for the occasion and I wasn't even looking at all these glimmer through rose colored glasses, aha. Of course I, too, was part of the hype. I had a pink tie with my suit, and a pink Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation pin on my lapel, and people in Church - a few of them at least - thought I was cute. I blushed and further added up my representations.

There was no need for memo on this, let me say for the record. Mother's Day, somehow, had come to find it's capitalist bearing in this color which, in all irony now that I remember, my college classmate told me is the traditional color of communism. Pink.

But historically, pink is feminine, too, although I must say all references of feminine are not just of, and for, the female kind. To tell a man of integral manly disposition to find his inner female is to emphasize his masculinity, and in this respect pink has become - especially on this day - a unifying color.

This mother, that breast cancer. How else can we better celebrate this day today by realigning with pink in our effort to show how we have better understood the struggles of women in their inherent responsibility of bringing life? Wearing pink is the least of what we can do, but almost always, that littlest step is the initial move towards the longest leap.

And so at this juncture, as I commend on my mother and all the mothers I know and do not, let me share another pink in the form of a poem by a woman whose poetry about women is worth the value all womanhood may have contributed to the language. This poem may shock you, or amaze you, or even encourage you into doing something you have never done before (like writing poetry), but the real deal is that its poet, University of Virginia professor and former US Laureate Rita Dove, had shown me in all her African-American nobility that in this world, in this age, whatever color covers our skin, whatever race claims our ethnicity, whatever canon occupies our politics, and whatever sex regulates our identity, in the eyes of the one beholder, we are nothing but equals.

To you, Ms. Rita Dove, a very Happy Mothers Day.

And to you, my reading friends, here is that poem...


After Reading Mickey In The Night Kitchen For The Third Time Before Bed
I'm in the milk and the milk's in me!... I'm Mickey!

by: Rita Dove

My daughter spreads her legs
to find her vagina:
hairless, this mistaken
bit of nomenclature
is what a stranger cannot touch
without her yelling. She demands
to see mine and momentarily
we're a lopsided star
among the spilled toys,
my prodigious scallops
exposed to her neat cameo.
And yet the same glazed
tunnel, layered sequences.
She is three; that makes this
innocent. We're pink!
she shrieks, and bounds off.

Every month she wants
to know where it hurts
and what the wrinkled string means
between my legs. This is good blood
I say, but that's wrong, too.
How to tell her that it's what makes us --
black mother, cream child.
That we're in the pink
and the pink's in us.