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
balita + tula + salin
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
1.
Galing ako sa isang miting kanina sa Makati, para sa isang raket. Gutom na gutom ako-- muntik na kasi akong ma-late sa miting dahil tinanghali ako ng gising, kaya hindi na ako kumain ng lunch. At inabot ako ng rush hour at ulan pauwi, pero may mga linyang tumatakbo sa dila at ulo ko noong nasa bus ako, at pagdating sa bahay ang tanging tumakbo sa isip ko e "Putangina kailangan kong isulat ito, dahil pag nakalimutan ko 'to mababaliw ako."
Galing 'yung linya sa isang ka-raket na nagsabing "E hindi naman kasi puwedeng gawing maganda ang salitang sewage pipe, e." Oo nga naman may punto siya (dahil copy nga naman para sa isang brochure ng bagong subdivision ang ipinapagawa sa akin,) pero sa biyahe pauwi nagsimula ang tulang ito, at natapos ang unang draft kaninang bago ako bumiyahe uling pa-Katipunan para bumasketbol (mukhang magta-twice a week na ang basketbol para magpakundisyon sa darating na ABL season,) at natapos ang ikalawang draft ngayon lang, matapos akong tulungan ni Margie (through ym) na mag-isip ng pamagat, at ni Waps (ym din) na mag-revise-revise nang onti. Malamang magagalaw pa ito ng maraming beses. Pero siguro nadadala lang ako ng galak sa momentum ko sa pagtatrabaho nitong huling ilang araw.
Oyayi Mikael de Lara Co
There was a hole in the ground. There was a sewage pipe and all around it flowers bloomed like little girls peering out the window of a plywood shack, little girls with diamonds for eyes and nectar in their fragile bodies, little girls with rice on their chins peering into the dawn, straining to hear the distant hum of motorcycles. It was lovely. Lovely like a pre-Hispanic statue, like the wavy script carved on the belly of a many-titted brown goddess. Lovelier had the rains come, had washed away the carcasses of rats and the bitten-on butts of cigarettes and plastic bottles torn apart by hungry cats. What music they made, the flies with their buzzing wings, the dogs growling at the site of a half-eaten piece of wood, a gnawed-on cardboard box. What music the creaking of rusty hinges. Like old accordions, only older. Like clamshell wind chimes only not wind chimes. O lizards with playful, immortal tails, o sparrows perched atop electric posts, atop telephone lines, o city with your streets afire with the ghosts of trees, lovely city of grime, o lovely city I dream to see flowers leap out from where the first drops of milk from the breasts of a fat goddess fell on. O angry fat goddess with bleeding nipples, I pine for your wailing lullabyes, I dream of petals and rain, of wet asphalt swelling with the light of many moons. O lovely, lovely city I dream only that the lights go out and Mebuyan drag her limp milkless body from her cave and gaze at you. Gaze at you as a mother would. Not with loathing, but with compassion. With awe.
2.
Sira pala ang celphone ko. Ipapaayos ko bukas. Kung itineks mo ako kanina at hindi kita nasagot, pasensiya na. Teks ka na lang uli bukas.
3.
Noong isang gabi, nagpasalin si Vlad ng ilan niyang akda. Well, hindi ilan-- marami, sa totoo lang. Pero binanatan ko agad ang dalawa (putsa grabe ang bilis ng pagkabanat nito, napatingin nga ako sa kamay ko pagkatapos, mga 30 minutes 'yung dalawa na!,) at ipapaskil ko ang isa dito ngayon, kasama ang orihinal. Hindi ako nagpaalam kay Vlad dahil wala nga akong celphone, pero sigurado naman akong hindi siya mababadtrip.
Isang Araw ng Pamamalikmata Vladimeir B. Gonzales
Isang karaniwang araw sa isang karaniwang unibersidad, sa isang pangkaraniwang klase, sa isang pangkaraniwang silid-aralan, bumisita ang isang Salamangkero. Salamangkero, iyon ang pagpapakilala niya sa sarili niya, pero walang sinuman sa loob ng pangkaraniwang silid-aralan ang naniwala sa kanyang pagpapakilala. Sa totoo lang, wala siyang espesyal na pisikalidad na magpapatotoong siya'y may kung anong mahika. At sa totoo lang, wala naman talagang pumapansin sa kanya, walang gustong makinig. Ang mahika'y isang malayong konsepto na para sa mga taong nasa silid, bukod pa sa nakalipas na ang maraming oras ng paglalabas-pasok sa napakaraming mga klase't pagod na ang lahat para makinig o manood sa mga bagay na wala silang interes. Kung di pa naawa/ naintriga ang guro'y hindi na pinapasok ang bisita.
"Kumbinsihin mo kami." Masungit ang tono ng isang estudyante. Tumango-tango ang guro't mga kamag-aral.
Pinapikit ng salamangkero ang kanyang mga tagapanood. Pinapikit, ipinataboy ang liwanag sa mga mapanuring mata. Lumipas ang ilang segundo.
"Ngayon, kayo'y dumilat." Malakas ang tinig-panggulat ng salamangkero. Dumilat ang lahat.
"Masdan ninyo, naglaho na mula sa mundo natin ang mga kaeskuwela ninyo."
Tumingin-tingin sa paligid ang mga tagapanood. Pilit na tinandaan kung sino ang kanilang nasa kanan, kaliwa, harap, likod. Binalasa ng guro ang kanyang index cards, siniyasat ang listahan ng mga pangalan. Tila parang walang nawawala, parang wala namang pagbabago. Nagsisimula pa lang pumasok ang Hulyo, hindi pa kabisado ng bawat isa ang hubog ng mukha, amoy, pananalita't porma ng kani-kanilang mga kasama. Pero nakasisiguro sila, walang sinumang kaibigan o kakilala ang nawala, walang anumang maliit na bakas ng pagbabago. Magkakasama pa rin sila't isang malaking istorbo, isang malaking panloloko ang pag-aabang na makumbinsi ng bisitang Salamangkero.
"Nasasayang lang ang aming araw," ang sabi ng isa.
"Walang pinag-iba sa napakaraming mga manloloko," dagdag pa ng isa.
"Kung nagpatuloy na lang tayo sa ating leksyon, sana'y may natutunan pa tayo."
Nauubos na ang pasensya ng mga tagapanood. Sumesenyas na sa kanyang relo ang guro. Muli, nakiusap ang salamangkero, isang sandaling pagpikit, at maipapakita niya, maipapamalas ng kanyang mahika ang totoo.
"Narito," ang sigaw ng salamangkero pagkatapos ipabukas ang mga mata ng kanyang mga tagapanood, "narito ang inyong ama, ina, nobyo, nobya, asawa, kaibigan, kapatid, anak, narito ang lahat ng taong pinakaiingatan ninyo sa inyong mga kaloob-looban!"
Tatlong inuuod na katawan ang gumulat sa guro't mga estudyante. Tatlong katawang batbat ng pagkaagnas. Tatlong piraso ng lamang sa pagkabulok ay wala nang pagkakakilanlan. Ang kataka-taka, walang anumang bakas ng nakasusukang alingasaw, walang tanda ng anumang baho ang mga nakatayong bangkay. Ang pagkagulat ay napalitan ng pagkainis, ng pag-uusisa.
"Aba, sino naman ang mga ito? Wala sa wangis nila ang kahit na sinong kakilala ko!"
"Walang amoy, wala na ring mata, ilong, wala nang hubog ang katawan! Baka halimaw o demonyo!"
"Oo, demonyo! Isang ilusyon! Isang panloloko!"
Biglang naglaho ang Salamangkero, kasama ng tatlong katawang inuuod. Kasabay ng kanilang pagkawala ang paglalaho ng kanilang alaala mula sa isip ng guro't mga mag-aaral. Nagpatuloy ang klase sa kanilang leksyon, nagpatuloy sa pag-usad sa kanilang araw. Isang pangkaraniwang araw, isang mahaba, nakababagot, isang paulit-ulit na karaniwang araw. Samantala, sa isang tagong lugar sa unibersidad, nabuwal ang isang matandang puno. Walang sinumang nakarinig sa pagbagsak, walang sinumang nakakita ng pagkakalaglag.
*
A Day of Imagining Vladimeir B. Gonzales
Once, on a usual day in a usual university, inside a usual classroom, a Sorcerer paid a visit. Sorcerer—that was what he called himself, but none inside the usual classroom believed him. In all truth, looking at him, none would think that he was indeed a sorcerer. In all truth, no one paid him any attention, no one wanted to listen. Magic was so foreign a concept for those inside the classroom, and they had all had a long day, had all spent many hours going in and out of classrooms to listen to things that did not interest them in the slightest. If the professor had not felt pity, or had not been intrigued, he would not have let the sorcerer in.
“Convince us,” said a student, snobbishly. The professor and the rest of his students nodded in agreement.
The sorcerer asked his audience to close their eyes, to chase away the light from their critical eyes. A few seconds passed.
“Now open your eyes.” The sorcerer spoke in a loud, startling voice. Everyone opened their eyes.
“Look, your classmates have vanished from this world.”
His audience, each of them, looked around. They tried to remember who had been to their right, their left, who had been in front of them or behind them. The professor shuffled his class cards, pored over the list bearing the students’ names. It seemed as if no one had gone, that nothing had changed. It was the beginning of July and the semester had just started, they had yet to memorize each other’s faces, smells, the way each other spoke or dressed. But they were all sure that no friend or classmate had vanished, and there was not the slightest hint of change in the classroom. They were all still together, and to wait for this visiting Sorcerer to convince them was a great waste of time, a great farce.
“You just wasted our time,” said a student.
“You’re just like every other con-man we’ve ever met,” said another.
“If we had just went on with the lecture, we could have learned something useful.”
The audience lost their patience. The professor began to tap on his wristwatch. Again, the Sorcerer pleaded for another chance, another momentary closing of eyes, and he would be able to show them, his magic would be able to open their eyes to the truth.
“Here,” the sorcerer shouted after asking his audience to open their eyes, “here are your fathers, mothers, lovers, spouses, friends, siblings, here is everyone that you have ever held dear!”
The professor and his students were startled by the three rotting bodies standing in front of them. Three bodies crawling with worms. Three bodies that have so decomposed that one would not know what to make of them, who they are. What confused them more was that no stench pervaded the classroom, not even a whiff of decay came from the upright carcasses. Their surprise gave way to frustration, before they took a closer look.
“But who are these people? They don’t look like anyone I know!”
“No stench, no eyes, noses, no form to the way they stand! Monsters, maybe, or demons!”
“Yes, demons! An illusion! A sham!”
The Sorcerer suddenly vanished with the three rotting bodies. He took with him all memory of his visit from the minds of the professor and his students. The students went on with their lessons as the day trudged along. Meanwhile, in some hidden part of the university, an old tree was tumbling down. No one heard a sound. No one saw it fall.
So it seems that my premonition has come to an end. All that I remember of my father has gone away with my memory of the rains of childhood. All of his whiskey and sad country songs have their place in my past. But even for this, I’m not a changed man. The smell of his breath and fingers, old spice with a cigarette and whiskey, have been replaced with the curry and incense of this motel room. Perhaps I never knew him. Perhaps he never knew me. Maybe we never knew ourselves and the days we shared were myths.
With schoolmates, I caught ditch-frogs under the Michigan willows. And these, my childhood friends, have all died, and their ghosts linger like pale shadows in the thicket surrounding the gates of my village. When we were seven a flood filled the cornfield behind my mother’s house. We made boats from the dead trees and sailed from one end of the field to the other. With the dying cornstalks and cotton sheets we made banners and sails. The wind told us where to go, but we always landed on the shore, again. Again, and again we landed on the shore. And the sun went down, and we would walk home.
In the morning the sun would rise through the trees and the scatter-bugs would make little constellations in the purple sky. It was something we looked forward to without knowing. The quiet humming of these bugs in the morning, the afternoon ditch-frogs, the smell of pork sandwiches in the evening. Nothing could stop the summer from coming, or the five of us from living amongst the gentle humidity of it. The summer lasted forever when our hands were small. We did not know that the days ahead brought black skies, that the constellations of flies would die in heaps, that the people we loved would die because their hearts would stop beating.
From this motel room I will walk to the nearest bar where I will tell the nearest man that I am in love with his girlfriend. And by his reaction I will live the rest of my life; with or without my father or the setting of my childhood suns. I still remember the plum sun, the Michigan willows, the hands of my mother beating tortillas flat against the kitchen table. I remember them as if they are still happening, as if they never happened.
painom ka naman, pahipon ka naman, pakanton ka naman
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Kumusta? Painom ka naman.
Kaya lang naman talaga ako nag-post dahil gusto kong basahin ninyo ito. 'Yan ang blogger, potah. 'Yan ang blogger. 'Yun lang.
Rakenrol.
P.S. Nangunguna ako sa isa sa mga NBA Fantasy Leagues ko ngayon, pero medyo mababa ang FT% ko, kaya kung ka-liga kita at binabasa mo ito, willing akong bitawan si Marcus Camby at si LeBron James para sa dalawang Siberian Husky at isang pirasong tinapay.
P.P.S. Basahin pa ninyo 'yung ibang entry nu'ng nasa link, sobrang galing. At nakuha ko pala ang link na 'yan sa TrueHoop.
Many feathers. In the silence of many feathers. - Robert Bly
Today my window spoke to me in the language of leaves, told me of gravity and the tired hands of twilight day after day pulling at the trees’ thousand fingers, the trees with their lifetime of cycles, the wind, its invisible wings.
I have seen things only words will outlive, it said. But even words kneel before the silence of feathers. Once a poet peered inside the hollow of a tree and discovered words, and now I steal from him, repeat his curved consonants, the illusion of presence. In the secret, dim light I run my hands over the carcass of some dead creature he might have seen still heaving its last sighs.
A window knows nothing of the sorrows of speech, the weight of things breaking as wind carries them away from tongue. Darkness moves against darkness, night dresses its sleepy body in shadows, whispers its stories, and my window speaks what it sees. While I see only what is spoken:
A poet peers inside a tree and sees carvings across the corridors of a temple. I walk down a temple’s corridors and see the silhouette of a crow, many feathers, a door swinging idly in its jamb. I see wide windows and leaves fluttering in their furtive language. Leave me be, then, so that I may speak, and you may see. The curtains are drawn, and so let the sounds call forth things, and let them break, let their shards wound our ears. Let all things broken heal as they please.
