abo sa dila

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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.
O, ha, Plurk, o, ha!
Radyo? Radyo?
Libreng humirit

Mag-exercise tayo tuwing umaga
Tambay ka muna
Lokal Kolor
Ano'ng hanap mo?
Basa lang nang basa
Tropa ko

    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.
posted by mdlc @ 10:14 PM   5 comments
Poem Written After the Long Ride from the Airport
Monday, February 19, 2007
1.

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.
posted by mdlc @ 9:57 PM   7 comments
dalawang salin
Pieta
Eric Gamalinda

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.

salin ni Mikael de Lara Co

Matatagpuan ang mga tula ni Gamalinda dito.
posted by mdlc @ 2:17 AM   0 comments
two poems
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Lotus Petal

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.
posted by mdlc @ 4:02 AM   0 comments
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