May iniisip ka?
Ayaw kong sabihin. Baka magkatotoo.
Dahil makulit ka
Kilala kita. Oo, ikaw 'yun: Nagkasalubong na tayo minsan, sa LRT, sa Gotohan, sa kanto ng Aurora at Katipunan. Nagkatinginan tayo. Hindi mo ako kinausap, pero alam ko, nakilala mo rin ako. Kaya ka narito, di ba? Para sabihing, Oo, oo, ikaw nga 'yun. Naaalala kita.
na, mula noong 24 Enero, 2006, ang nakitambay dito
o, kay tulin ng araw
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Nagyoyosi ako sa tapat ng bahay namin nang may dumaang mama. May karga siyang papag sa likod niya. "Papag! Papag!" 'ka niya. Itinanong ko kung magkano. Seven-fifty daw. Hindi ako tumawad kasi hindi ko naman bibilhin. Walang paglalagyan ang papag sa makipot naming tahanan. Wala na akong pambili ng papag kasi katatapos lang ng pasko. At unang-una, aanhin ko naman ang papag?
Hinahanap ko ngayon ang tula ni Doc Cirilo, 'yung "Third World Geography." Wala akong makitang kopya. Hinahanap ko, partikular, ang linyang nagsasabing: ganito sa bayan namin; lahat nagagawang talinghaga.
Heto ang isang listahan ng mga pangyayari mula sa 2005 na habambuhay kong gugunitain:
Teka, sandali. Sa totoo lang, ililista ko ang mga ito dahil gusto ko silang gunitain balang-araw, at alam kong kung hindi ko sila ililista ay malamang maglaho lang sila; mahirap pagkatiwalaan ang kalawangin kong memorya. Okey.
Muli, ito: mga pangyayari mula sa 2005 na ayaw kong maglaho, kaya ko ililista ngayon, dito:
2.1. Pagpunta sa UP Fair pagkatapos ng gig sa Purple Haze, nang lasing at luhaan. 2.2. Pagbi-videoke sa Baguio kasama ang ilang bayaw. 2.3. Pag-inom ng (at least) dalawang boteng beer sa may seawall ng Dumaguete pagdapo ng takipsilim. 2.4. Masigasig na inuman tuwing Lunes. 2.5. Itong paskong kadaraan lang. 2.6. At marami pang iba.
Ako: O, class, sino sa inyo ang narinig na ang salitang "Hybridity?"
Estudyante 1: Ser, di ba 'yan 'yung parang sa makina ng sasakyan? 'Yung puwedeng de-kuryente at de-gasolina?
Ako: Okey, puwede, puwede. Sa klase natin, ang ibig sabihin ng hybridity ay...
Estudyante 2: Ser! Ako, ako-- di ba 'yung hybrid e 'yung anak ng shitzu at ng bulldog?
Ako: Ano 'yun? Di ba aso pa rin 'yun?
Estudyante 2: Ser, hindi! Bullshit!
May nadaanan akong kanto kung saan nakapila ang maraming dyip. Ang sabi ng barker: "Remedios! Remedios! Aalis na, kaunting usog lang po!"
Sa loob-loob ko: Alam mo ba kung ano ang ibig sabihin ng sinasabi mo? Talaga bang madadala mo ako diyan?
Magkano ang pamasahe?
Third Person Neuter Heather McHugh
Is God mad? Was Christ crazy? Is the truth the legal truth? (Three PhDs who swear
the human being God who believes a human being God is what, in fairness, speaking
clinically, we call a nut.) No jury, given sacred laws
of science and democracy, would now forgive so big a claim as Christ's-- a claim for good. (The wounded get
their settlements in millions, not worlds-without-end.) We think of bliss as ignorance, and heaven as naivete: the doctor's
a philosopher, the priest a practicing apologist. Not one of them will let me see
with my own eyes my friend again. When experts gave him time, it made his luck and language die. What good
was love? It was the ultimate authority to quit. He had no use
for flesh at last and, Christ, I'm made of it.
Gets n'yo? BULLdog, SHITzu. Bullshit.
Ang sabi ng nanay ko, kapag daw nagreregalo ka ng sapatos, tsinelas, doormat, o kahit anong tinatapakan, dapat manghingi ka ng barya sa pinagbibigyan mo. Para raw hindi matatapakan ang pagkatao ng nagbigay.
Sabi ni Adam Zagajewski, sa kanyang memoir na Another Beauty:
Try to imagine a time when the Divine Comedy had not yet become an awe-inspiring monument of world culture but existed only as a work in progress. Dante's busy writing, say, the Fourth Canto and anything could happen; he could catch pneumonia and die before the end of the Inferno. He's already got a vision of the whole in his head, but there's still a long and treacherous road to tread before it's safely down on paper. Bacteria and viruses don't sleep-- to say nothing of political opponents.
I like to think of that moment, and not just for the philological reasons. In some sense the world is always in the position of this unfinished manuscript, even if we don't see any masterpiece in progress at the moment.
At isa pa, galing pa rin kay Zagajewski:
A writer who keeps a personal diary uses it to record what he knows. In his poems or stories he sets down what he doesn't know.
Salamat kay Naya sa pagpapahiram ng aklat.
Muntik ko nang malimot: kung wala kayong gagawin mamaya, may 30-minute set kami sa MagNet Katipunan. Daan kayo. Di ko alam kung sino ang ibang bandang tutugtog, o kung may entrance o wala. Pero dahil kaibigan kita, at dahil huling gig ito ng Los Chupacabras para sa taon, at dahil lunes na naman, pupunta ka. Di ba?
Last, kay Zagajewski pa rin:
Moments of revelation are like boundary stones, separated by several hundred yards of no-man's-land. The poet experiences an epiphany in setting down the key line of his latest poem. But days, weeks, even months of shadow stretch between these moments of majestic clarity. And here the poet plays the historian's role, sharing not just his ecstatic humanity with his readers but his dull, dreary, doubting humanity as well.
Narito yata ako ngayon sa "days, weeks, even months of shadow." Pero ano ngayon? Masarap makisama. Marami akong kaibigan. Tahimik ang Disyembre, maligayang tahimik, tahimik na tahimik. Paminsan-minsan, dumaramay sa walang-hupang bagabag ang mga anino; oo, paminsan-minsan, kahit papaano.
We had wanted so much from this world. We had wanted at least some quiet. Some hardwood wall to protect us fromthe elements, persistent distractions. We had wandered too far. Now this absence. Empty things. None of this foolishness, magic or gimmickery.
Only this space, vacated now, remembering when. I tell you that under the sea, a hermit crab leaves
its borrowed home, ceramic boundaries too small for its loud hunger.
Inside, desire extends its pale fingers, persistent as its sister elements. We are pressed into shells, resound with incantations of need.
But now there is only this empty shell. This emptiness. This wild beginning.
-Mikael de Lara Co,Joel Toledo, Javier Bengzon, Rafael San Diego, Arkaye Kierulf
*** Sige na bai, piktyur piktyur na, minsan lang tayo makarating sa Maynila, 'ba! (Wazzzakan sa Writers Night)
Kasama si Sir Vim Nadera: 'Nakantokwa, Ser, nakikinig ka ba?
At bakit kaya kanina ay nahuli ko ang sarili kong tumitingala, nagtataka kung nariyan ka, kung mayroon ngang ikaw? Bakit ko nahuli ang sarili kong bumubulong: "Kung sa akin lang, wala akong pakialam sa iyo. Pero may mga pagkakataong gusto kong maniwala, kailangan kong umasang tumatawid lang kami, at sa kabila ng kung anumang ilog ng abong ito ay may mapayapang pampang. Hindi para sa akin." Tang-ina. Dapat nariyan ka. Dapat totoo ka.
Oo, sige, ngayon, sa iyo na. Tama. Sige. May bahagi sa aking sumusuko. Hindi para sa akin.
May kaibigan ako. Wala na siya ngayon.
Eyes Fastened With Pins Charles Simic
How much death works, No one knows what a long Day he puts in. The little Wife always alone Ironing death's laundry. The beautiful daughters Setting death's supper table. The neighbors playing Pinochle in the backyard Or just sitting on the steps Drinking beer. Death, Meanwhile, in a strange Part of town looking for Someone with a bad cough, But the address somehow wrong, Even death can't figure it out Among all the locked doors... And the rain beginning to fall. Long windy night ahead. Death with not even a newspaper To cover his head, not even A dime to call the one pining away, Undressing slowly, sleepily, And stretching naked On death's side of the bed.
P're, ingat ka, a. O, puwede rin: sumalangit nawa.
Father Death Blues Allen Ginsberg
Hey Father Death, I'm flying home Hey poor man, you're all alone Hey old daddy, I know where I'm going
Father Death, Don't cry any more Mama's there, underneath the floor Brother Death, please mind the store
Old Aunty Death Don't hide your bones Old Uncle Death I hear your groans O Sister Death how sweet your moans
O Children Deaths go breathe your breaths Sobbing breasts'll ease your Deaths Pain is gone, tears take the rest
Genius Death your art is done Lover Death your body's gone Father Death I'm coming home
Guru Death your words are true Teacher Death I do thank you For inspiring me to sing this Blues
Buddha Death, I wake with you Dharma Death, your mind is new Sangha Death, we'll work it through
Suffering is what was born Ignorance made me forlorn Tearful truths I cannot scorn
Father Breath once more farewell Birth you gave was no thing ill My heart is still, as time will tell.
Kagabi ko lang natsambahan 'to, pero napabilang na siya kaagad sa mga pinaka-- gusto ko sanang sabihing, "pinakawazzzak," pero hindi yata makatarungan 'yun. sapat na yata 'yung salitang "maganda." Ayun. Isa ito sa mga pinakamagandang tulang nabasa ko:
A Letter Charles Simic
Dear philosophers, I get sad when I think. Is it the same with you? Just as I'm about to sink my teeth into the noumenon, Some old girlfriend comes to distract me. "She's not even alive!" I yell to the skies.
The wintry light made me go that way. I saw beds covered with identical gray blankets. I saw grim-looking men holding a naked woman While they hosed her with cold water. Was that to calm her nerves, or was it punishment?
I went to visit my friend Bob, who said to me: "We reach the real by overcoming the seduction of images." I was overjoyed, until I realized Such abstinence will never be possible for me. I caught myself looking out the window.
Bob's father was taking their dog for a walk. He moved with pain; the dog waited for him. There was no one else in the park, Only bare trees with an infinity of tragic shapes To make thinking difficult.
December, herald of destruction, takes you on a long stroll through the black torsos of trees and leaves scorched in autumn’s fire,
as if to say: so much then for your secrets and your treasures, the fervent trill of small birds, the promises of summer months.
Your dreams have been dissected, the blackbird’s song now has a rationale, plants’ corpses clutter the herbarium. Only the laboratory’s hard stone remains.
Don’t listen: they may take everything away, but they can’t have your ignorance, they can’t take your mysteries, strip you of your third homeland.
Don’t listen: the holidays draw near and frozen January, snow’s white paper. What you’ve waited for is being born. The one you’re seeking will begin to sing.
(Alam ba ninyo kung ano 'yung teka-teka? 'Yun ang tawag sa baril na hindi automatic, 'yung dalawang araw para maikasa dahil sasalsalin pa ng tingting ang nguso. 'Yung sinaunang baril. Parang, "Teka-teka, huwag ka munang magpapaputok, nagkakasa pa ako.)
Pero dehins tungkol sa baril ito. Teka, teka, may revised gig sched:
Hindi pala siguradong makakatugtog ang Chupacabras sa Writers Night. Sabi ni Sir Vim basta magdala na lang ng gamit, isisingit na lang daw kami kung sa'n puwede. Ha? Labo, 'no? Pero punta pa rin kayo, masaya naman palagi ang Writers Night, e. Magbaon na lang kayo ng sariling alak.
Pero tuloy sa Sabado, sa Haze. At mayroon pa: sa Maskipaps, ang annual concert ng College of Engineering ng UP. December 13 'yun, Martes.
Ang Gapos naman, naurong sa Enero ang Saguijo gig. Ewan kung bakit, itanong ninyo kay Mic. Pero tuloy din sa Sabado, sa Haze. At mayroon din sa Sabado ulit, December 17, sa Conspiracy, para sa anibersaryo ng Matanglawin. Sana lang hindi pumalya, kasi talagang isinumpa yata ang lugar na 'yun pagdating sa akin.
Okey, linawin natin:
Los Chupacabras: December 7, Miyerkules, UP Writers Night. Faculty Center, UP Diliman. December 10, Sabado, Purple Haze Bar and Cafe. December 13, Martes, Maskipaps. Ang alam ko, palaging sa tapat lang 'to ng Melchor Hall ('yung Eng'g Bldg ng UP Diliman.) Kung wala du'n, hanapin na lang ninyo kung sa'n ang maingay.
Gapos: December 10, Sabado nga, Purple Haze. December 17, Sabado ulit, Conspiracy. Sa Visayas Avenue.
Refugees Adam Zagajewski
Bent under burdens which sometimes can be seen and sometimes can't, they trudge through mud or desert sands, hunched, hungry,
silent men in heavy jackets, dressed for all four seasons, old women with crumpled faces, clutching something a child, the family lamp, the last loaf of bread?
It could be Bosnia today, Poland in September '39, France eight months later, Thuringia in '45, Somalia, Afghanistan, Egypt.
There's always a wagon or at least a wheelbarrow full of treasures (a quilt, a silver cup, the fading scent of home), a car out of gas marooned in a ditch, a horse (soon left behind), snow, a lot of snow, too much snow, too much sun, too much rain,
and always that distinctive hunch as if leaning towards another, better planet, with less ambitious generals, less snow, less wind, fewer cannons, less History (alas, there's no such planet, just that hunch).
Shuffling their feet, they move slowly, very slowly toward the country of nowhere, and the city of no one on the river of never.
Poets & Writers, Inc.: You have written that "Only in the beauty created / by others is there consolation, / in the music of others and in others' poems." What is beauty? What writings and artwork do you turn to for consolation?
Adam Zagajewski: What is beauty? I think you don’t need to define it; the issue is rather what does beauty do to us. I think it catapults us to a higher layer of atmosphere. The other part of your question concerning my personal preferences is impossible to answer; the list is almost endless and changes for me every month or so. Once in a while it vanishes—in the sense that I become deaf to beauty for a week or two or three. This coming and going of the inner life—because this is what it is—is a curse and a blessing. I don’t need to explain why it's a curse. A blessing because it brings about a movement, an energy which, when it peaks, creates a poem. Or a moment of happiness.
I will die in Miami in the sun, On a day when the sun is very bright, A day like the days I remember, a day like other days, A day that nobody knows or remembers yet, And the sun will be bright then on the dark glasses of strangers And in the eyes of a few friends from my childhood And of the surviving cousins by the graveside, While the diggers, standing apart, in the still shade of the palms, Rest on their shovels, and smoke, Speaking in Spanish softly, out of respect.
I think it will be on a Sunday like today, Except that the sun will be out, the rain will have stopped, And the wind that today made all the little shrubs kneel down; And I think it will be a Sunday because today, When I took out this paper and began to write, Never before had anything looked so blank, My life, these words, the paper, the grey Sunday; And my dog, quivering under a table because of the storm, Looked up at me, not understanding, And my son read on without speaking, and my wife slept.
Donald Justice is dead. One Sunday the sun came out, It shone on the bay, it shone on the white buildings, The cars moved down the street slowly as always, so many, Some with their headlights on in spite of the sun, And after a while the diggers with their shovels Walked back to the graveside through the sunlight, And one of them put his blade into the earth To lift a few clods of dirt, the black marl of Miami, And scattered the dirt, and spat, Turning away abruptly, out of respect.
Tutugtog ang Los Chupacabras sa Miyerkules, December 7, sa Writers' Night na gaganapin sa UP, sa Faculty Center (tentative pa yata ito, di ako sigurado.) Sa totoo lang, kahit hindi kayo mahilig sa tugtugan namin, pero nagsusulat kayo, pumunta pa rin kayo. Writers' Night nga, e.
Pero acoustic set lang 'yun, at kaunting kanta lang. Kung gusto ninyo ng full set e pumunta kayo sa Sabado, December 10, sa Purple Haze muli. Du'n magfu-full set ang Los Chupacabras. Inom tayo.
Du'n din sa Purple Haze, sa Sabado rin iyon, tutugtog ang Gapos. (Nga pala, salamat, salamat talaga sa lahat ng pumunta sa Haze nu'ng i-launch ang EP namin. Napuno ang Haze, astig. Kung wala pa kayong kopya nu'ng cd at gusto ninyong bumili-- P50 lang-- mag-iwan na lang kayo ng comment sa ibaba.) Nasaan na 'ko? Ayun-- may set din ang Gapos sa Haze, sa December 10 din.
At mayroon din sa December 23, sa Saguijo naman. Sa totoo lang, hindi pa ako nakakapunta rito. Pero ayun, pumunta kayo, a.
Muli: Los Chupabras sa Writers Night, December 7, at sa Purple Haze, December 10. Gapos sa Haze, kasabay ang Chupacabras sa December 10, at sa Saguijo, December 23. Ayuz.