May iniisip ka?
Oo.
Ano?
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
what it takes
Sunday, February 25, 2007
1.
Kagabi, nagkukuwentuhan kami ni Kumander tungkol Aerosmith. Astig sila, sa tingin ko; nasira lang sa paningin ng karamihan dahil du'n sa kantang nasa soundtrack ng Armageddon, 'yung "Don't Want to Close My Eyes." O siguro hindi dahil sa mismong kantang 'yun, pero dahil ni-remake ni Regine Velasquez 'yung kanta. Basta.
So ayun nga-- kuwentuhan tungkol sa Crying, Crazy, Amazing. Tapos nabanggit ko 'yung Angel at Blind Man at siyempre 'yung Janie's Got a Gun. Pero sabi ko, paborito ko pa rin 'yung "What it Takes."
E hindi alam ni Kumander, kaya ipinakanta niya sa akin. Nakakagulat/nakakatuwa na kabisado ko pa rin ang lyrics ng kantang 'yun.
Ngayon lang, bago ko ito isulat, naisip kong matagal-tagal ko na ring hindi naririnig ang "What it Takes." Inilagay ko sa "All Audio" 'yung Winamp, na nakarandom-play mode. Maraming kanta sa hard drive ko, mga 22-gigabytes worth. Sa halip na kung alinman sa mga limang libong kanta sa loob ng computer ang tumugtog, pag-double-click ko, "What it Takes" ang tumugtog. Tangina ang weirdo, mehn. Kakaiba. Baka may super powers ako. Baka puwede akong mag-audition sa Heroes Season 2.
Ay, artista nga lang pala 'yung mga 'yun.
2.
Natapos nang (medyo) maaga 'yung klase namin sa Panunuring Pampanitikan ng Pilipinas para sa semester na 'to. Nakakapagod 'yung klase, pero nakakatuwa rin; ang dami kong natutunan.
Pangunahin sa mga natutunan ko: hindi talaga akmang magpumilit tayong maglapat ng Western frameworks sa pagsusuri ng mga akdang Pilipino. Sabi ko nga, para kang sumusukat ng tubig gamit ang medida. At huwag na tayong mag-ilusyong may "universal" na paraan ng panunuri. Sabi pa ni Isagani Cruz sa The Other Other: Towards a Post-Colonial Poetics, "Through Western hegemony, eurocentricity perpetuates itself by insuring that non-Western theorists, by thinking like Western theorists, are alienated from their own indigenous critical traditions."
Huling sanaysay na tinalakay namin 'yung kay Lumbera, tungkol sa ideya ng "Dating." Nakalimutan ko na 'yung mismong pamagat nu'ng sanaysay, e. 'Yung tunay na framework na aangkop sa Panitikang Pinoy, sabi niya, may kinalaman sa Dating; sa kung paanong tinatamaan ng akda 'yung mambabasa sa nababasa niya, sa kung paanong tumatawid galing sa may-akda tungo sa mambabasa hindi lang ang dalumat, pero pati rin ang damdamin. Affective. Hindi lang formalist, kasi hindi total adherence to the text. May pagsasaalang-alang sa mambabasa. Malakas ang historical roots, dahil nga sa kasaysayan natin ng oral literature-- parang hinahanap natin ang immediate impact ng isang akda.
Nakakatuwa kasi magmula nang magsimula akong magturo, tuon ko na 'yun. Miski ba bago pa nu'n, nu'ng magsimula akong magsulat. Hinahanap ko na 'yung dating ng tula. Ang galing na nasabi na pala ni Lumbera 'yun, dati pa. Siguro nga Pinoy na Pinoy ang framework na 'yan.
Susubukin kong gamitin 'yang usapin ng Dating (kasama 'yung ideya ng Secrecy ni Vince Rafael) para isulat ang final paper ko dito sa Panunuring Pampanitikan. Hopefully magawa ko siyang malaking bahagi ng magiging thesis ko.
Siyet, ang geeky ko. Nakalimutan ko na hypermasculine nga pala dapat ako, at hindi dapat nagpapakita ng excitement sa mga bagay tulad ng Panitikan.
Tara, wrestling na lang tayo.
3.
What It Takes Aerosmith
There goes my old girlfriend And there's another diamond ring And of all those late night promises I guess they don't mean a thing So baby, what's the story? Did you find another man? Is it easy to sleep in the bed that we made? When you don't look back I guess the feelings start to fade away
I used to feel your fire But now it's cold inside And you're back on the street like you didn't miss a beat, yeah
Tell me what it takes to let you go Tell me how the pain's supposed to go Tell me how it is that you can sleep in the night Without thinking you lost everything that was good in your life to the toss of the dice Tell me what it takes to let you go.
Girl, before I met you I was F-I-N-E Fine But your love made me a prisoner And my heart's been doing time You spent me up like money, Then you hung me out to dry It was easy to keep All your lies in disguise 'Cause you had me in deep with the devil in your eyes
Tell me that you're happy that you're on your own Yeah, yeah, yeah Tell me that it's better when you're all alone Tell me that your body doesn't miss my touch Tell me that my lovin' didn't mean that much Tell me you ain't dyin' when you're cryin' for me
(Chorus)
Tell me what it takes to let you go Tell me how the pain's supposed to go Tell me how it is that you can sleep in the night Without thinking you lost everything that was good In your life to the toss of the dice? Tell me who's to blame for thinkin' twice No no no no 'cause I don't wanna burn in paradise Ooo Let go, let go, let go, let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go I don't wanna burn, I don't wanna burn
4.
Naengage sa isa't isa ang dalawa sa pinakamatalik kong kaibigan. Pitong taon na silang magkarelasyon. Ang ganda nu'ng singsing.
Nakakatuwa. Pag nakakaharap ko 'yung ganitong mga pangyayari, 'yung ganu'ng kalawak na pag-ibig, o pag-asa, o anumang di-mapangalanang phainomenon, parang biglang gusto kong maniwala na may mas malaking rockstar na nagpapatakbo sa kosmos, at hindi lang random ang lahat. O, sabi nga ni Levinas, "In the face of the Infinite, the finite becomes transcendent." Parang biglang nabibigyang paliwanag 'yung mga bagay na di maipaliwanag, dahil sa simpleng dahilan ng pagkuyom ng dibdib mo, dahil alam mong totoo, totoo 'yung nararamdaman mong tuwa. O pag-ibig, o pag-asa. Pero ano ba ang alam ko sa mga ganyan? (Hypermasculine ako, di ba?)
Ewan. Marami talagang dapat pagtakahan sa buhay. Pero may mga bagay na wala na akong ibang masabi kundi, "Tangina, basta." Tangina, basta, natutuwa ako, at congratulations sa kanila.
5.
Marami akong inaasikaso. Basta, pagkatapos ng lahat nang 'to, inom tayo, a? At wrestling na rin, dahil hypermasculine ako, e.
Hello said the girl at departures. Hello said the guy at the baggage counter. Goodbye said the tarmac to a hundred waving hands. Goodbye said the girl to the flood-battered shack by the railroad tracks, said she to the weather-torn archipelago, said you to me while the stars dreamed dreams of soil and salt, shifting shorelines, land bridges before the last ice age. Goodbye said you and in maybe two, three years you’d be back with a guitar and maybe we could sing. In a book by me you’d have another name. In a song by me I’d call you Lala and in the chorus I’d sing your name over and over again and everyone else would sing along but no one would know that it was your name they were humming like small birds to. A small bird that loves nectar. That hovers over flowers. Goodbye said the petal, but I know you’ll be back by midnight, when I’ll be cold, asleep, silver like moonlight.
2.
The waiting is long and you need to pee but all the stories about stolen luggage make you want to pee into a styrofoam cup instead. Remember when Dad drove the pickup into a tree? Remember your first mug of coffee? In that song by me Dad would be there too but he wouldn’t drive the pickup into a coconut tree. He’d ram it into the gates of hell and they won’t let him in, the devils, the muffled voices saying something about stealing Satan’s throne. But you loved Dad, him and his card tricks and days when we couldn’t watch cartoons. Him with a beer watching a boxing match while we were locked upstairs, our ears against the termite-ridden plywood walls, listening to the neighbor’s radio, to a rapper telling us to look not for beauty. But for what? Here I am saying you loved him as if he were dead. Or as if you don’t anymore. But of course you do, the way you said goodbye to him too, a cigarette in hand, airplanes howling overhead. Quarters, you said, not benchingko, goodbye you said while your words drifted like a tattered rubber slipper floating on floodwater. Then rain like rust. Pocketfuls of mud.
3.
I see you in the webcam of my mind and you’re feeding ninety-year-olds osterized papayas. Play-dough. Mashed brains of homeless Vietnam vets. I see you and they’re begging you to put salt on their pancakes. Fucking retirement homes, even pancakes taste like soil. And what does soil taste like? Like a two-second delay over the whine of static, like hello on my tongue as I pull the phone closer to my mouth. No, Daddy never drove the pickup into a tree. No, we never owned a pickup. We owned old newspapers and a pair of slippers each. We owned marbles and kites and toy trucks with plastic wheels that wobbled over gravel. If I were a tire I’d be full of mud and I’d hate the tropics. If you were a tire you’d go round and round. If you were a ferris wheel. Goodbye said you on the cold ascent. Goodbye and please pass the salt. Goodbye like a coin down a payphone, down a vending machine, hello said the coke and it’s so goddamn cold.
4.
Goodbye said the poem though not everything had been said. Goodbye said the poem as the crystal tongue of my heart dissolved into mist, became stone, broke into song, mud caking on soles, gray post-rain skies, your name over and over again, my darkness weaving into voice. Though I wish it were yours. You saying hello as you took off your shoes, hello have you eaten, hello crouched in the creaky ferris wheel of our childhood, shadows and yoyos saying down I go and wait for me, pull me up, I’ll be back soon like the night, like a two-letter refrain, like rain leaving yesterday and today’s another day. Goodbye said everyone as time zones flew past windows. Goodbye said the stars as they burned their way to you. Goodbye said I as I waited for them again and again, hello I said again and again and again.
Ang hangin, parang gusgusing kaluluwa, ay tinutugis ang sarili sa piling ng nabubulok na mga dahon. Di ako maaninag sa ganitong panahon. Bumubuklat ang mundo nang ayon sa kagustuhan niya. Kailangan kong mag-ingat na di magising ang mga puno. Di makayang punitin ang sarili mula sa lamad ng panahon, lumalantad sa akin ang Diyos sa katahimikan. Sawa na akong magnasa sa di dumarating. Sa isang panaginip ng yelo, hari ako ng mga multo, isang kinang sa liwanag na walang-hanggan, at di-mabasag-basag. Di ko hinihiling na bumalik sa katawang ito. Nais ko ng uuwian, ang isuko ang tulang ito at ang anghel na nagmamay-ari ng bigat na bitbit ko. Di ko na maaangkin ang lungsod na ito. Nais kong ang aking paglalaho ay maging kaylalim na kawalan na miski ang sansinukob ay papanaw nang kasama ko. Sa kawalang-pakialam nila, maigting na magliliyab ang mga tala.
salin ni Mikael de Lara Co . . . Vallejo sa Paris Eric Gamalinda
May mga taong sa pait nila ay bumibigat ang kaluluwa, isang sementeryo ng sarili nilang mga labì. Ngunit iniibig siyang taong may katawan na di makahanap ng angkla sa mundong ito. Ang taong walang pangginaw. Na nabubuhay nang takot sa gutom o lamig. Iniibig siyang natutulog sa kalsada, sa luwasan, sa isang bangkò, sa piitan. Marahil kulang pa ang pagdurusa, bagaman ang walang-hanggang nilalang ay nababasag nang paulit-ulit. Iniibig siyang may hawak na sagisag at inilalahad ang kanyang kahirapan nang may dignidad, nang di nahihiya. At siyang nakaupo sa hapag ng amo nang di naaakit sa kasakiman. Iniibig siyang taong nakikipag-usap sa tubig, siyang nagliligtas sa anak mula sa pagkalunod habang nahihimbing. Iniibig siyang banal sa piling ng mga buwang. Iniibig silang mga di pumapanaw sa digmaan. Silang tumatanggi sa paniniil ng kulay, kasaysayan, paniniwala. At silang nananalig sa wala ngunit nasasagot ang mga panalangin. Iniibig siyang namamatay nang mag-isa, malayo sa mga mata ng awa, malayo sa mga lungsod, mag-isang kasama ang mga tala, malayong-malayo. Iniibig ang Peru, iniibig kung saan ang kagandahan ay karaniwan. Iniibig siyang sa isang panaginip ay nag-aklas laban sa panahon, at di na matiis ang mga oras. Iniibig siyang mas mahaba ang buhay kaysa kalungkutan. Iniibig silang nag-aabang sa mga estasyon at tinutunghayan ang mga lumilisan nilang buhay, iniibig siyang lumilisan at hindi na bumabalik.
There, the old man says. A stone. And because he looks as if his hands know the difference between war and a comb, I nod and let the stone speak for me. Or a leaf. This leaf. I was blinded by mountaintops and rice fields and cannabis. I knew a wallet when empty is still a wallet, only it’s defined by space, or the folds in space. I was a boy in need of particulars. I have seen the earth heave many times, the old man says. I say I have seen stones float on water. Skip on water. The difference fits in my pocket like a switchblade and its selfish edge saying one two three and then you sink, saying you have got to be a stone to truly know water. This stone with its infinity of pockmarks, this stone shaped like a headless gull, that stone under the tree, this under my tongue. Under a mound in Palawan archeologists found jewels in tombs. Shards of celadon. Many-titted statues. I think in the end the old man pointed to the horizon and said here we go although he might have said indigo or some other color the wind splashed twilight with. Sometimes the wind likes to play and a leaf in Sagada lands on a sap-drenched twig and is frozen in amber. And the archeologist with asthma and on her left ankle a tattoo which might mean lotus petal or window with young girl peering at pre-dawn fog or the distance between Rorshach and calligraphy, she’s leaning over her apartment sink in Shanghai, washing her hands, washing a single blue-white shard, thinking airports and museums, thinking careful, saved, mine.
.
.
.
Phainomenon
There are bodies: arms flailing and forgetting shoulders, backs collapsing from the weight of hidden shadows, hearts clenching, filling with water. Eyes on the moon pulling on the sea, the affection of tides propelling the wind towards the end of sight. Carcass of a whale. Coins and crushed coral. Wet maps: I am lost, you are lost. Everything, sometime or another, is lost. But the bodies, disfigured like slabs of candlewax in a dark, barren night, are restless. They find their ways through mazes of fog and trees standing wild like shadows at dawn. Or twilight. The difference is in movement. Or stasis, the way an eye clings to space. Rosaries hanging from the necks of statues, rings belonging to a fist. The fist does not see. The eye does not see. The body speaks to your eye and your eye weaves the moon, the tides, the body into a blanket luminous as a coin from a stranger’s hand. Look, by the door, a figure is standing still, holding out its hand, mouthing words. Pursing its lips, moving. Gaps between curtains. Gaps between fingers. A match is struck in dead air. Something perches on your ear.
