TONIGHT at Green Papaya FEB25

CONNECTING URBAN SPACES / WEDNESDAYS OPEN PLATFORM

ARTS NETWORK ASIA (ANA) INTERPHASE

MEDIA ARTS MANILA (MAM) FIELD TRIP

FEBRUARY 25, BAR OPENS 7PM, ANA RECEPTION AT 8PM, MAM FIELD TRIP AT 9PM

Surely it has been said many times over that nothing lasts forever. No matter how strongly we delay such encounter, it is also at the same time inevitable. But endings are nothing but mere temporal constraints, fluid at the same time malleable. The means to transgress the boundaries will persist but not to be approached without caution. Mark Salvatus caps off his two month W.O.P residency, delivering a state-of-the-metro sorts for his last presentation. And because we like things to be auspiciously arranged according to the arbitrary arrangement of planetary constellation, be prepared for a hearty evening of talks, presentations, food, booze and sound as Arts Network Asia (ANA) throws a little reception for the evening. Lastly, Media Arts Manila (MAM) pays us a little visit with an excursion of field recordings and soundscapes of corporeal and imagined environments. So do pay us a visit, there is much in store for everyone in the family.

FIELD TRIP

field recordings and soundscapes of corporeal and imagined environments

February 25 (Wed) 9PM

FREE ADMISSION

The M.A.M. tour bus stops over at the Green Papaya Art Projects and ushers us through an acoustic safari of feral atmospheric fauna.

Featured artists present their original phonographs, creating immersive environments through the manipulation and playback of captured ambient sounds.

autoceremony, Blend:er, Grnd Ctrl, Mark Laccay, Mannet Villariba serves us their own brand of improvised acoustic ecology.

Improvised video by Edsel Abesames and Tad Ermitaño.

Presented by Media Arts Manila (http://mediaartsmanila.blogspot.com/) in cooperation with Green Papaya Art Projects, supported by Globe.

Green Papaya Art Projects

41B T. Gener St. (corner Kamuning Road), Quezon City

Phone 0926 6635606 0918 9457387

Because it is finished.

Letter to a Mother

Let me tell you
I had dreamt of it too
Once my belly rounding with child
The O of surprise, pleasure
I had imagined too
That clutch of protest
Pain, the beginning
The tearing the leaving the gone

I have lost them
The right to the words
You have your father’s eyes
You take after me
And I shall no longer speak for you
You will say these things
I love you to the last
Because

Yours will be the voice
They hear before
And after all else
Your lips to move
The song the story
The kiss to silence.

So give me leave
To tell the first story
Because this is how it has always begun

Once there was a child.

A dog's life.

My dad, having a penchant for ugly, literal names, called him Pudyot. Which in Hiligaynon, means to pick up, or sometimes, too, a small quantity. Somewhat like how pinch is in English. We've had a dog named Gansal, for example, for being too noisy; and a Gringo--that one, I remember, had an unusual reddish coat, and was with us right after the real Gringo was in hiding after the '89 coup.

We--my siblings and I--would bemoan these names. They were uncool, uncouth; never mind that these dogs were askals one and all. If we were lucky enough to get first dibs to name a new dog, we would christen them with English names, a little revenge against our father. We had Happy for a long time, due to a silly smile we thought we saw on her face the moment we held her, and a Sabrina, a beautiful dog with a shiny black coat. These names were all failures, by the way: Happy was one mean bitch, literally; and Sabrina--named after the teenage witch--didn't have any magic powers, and was the sweetest of dogs, not the hag Happy was.

But Pudyot was different. Someone had thrown a litter of puppies on an empty lot near our house, and just left them to die. All the neighbors took one puppy and brought it home. It was my mom--the same woman who hated pets, or at least keeping and feeding animals who won't feed you in turn--who surprised us all by telling my dad to get us one of the pups (provided it was male) as well. It was like the whole neighborhood, shocked by such cruelty, decided to band together and pick up these dogs. But after a few days, all but our Pudyot had died.

Pudyot was one weird dog. The first few days we had him, he was so starved he would eat banana peels, and garbage. The only time we ever let him out, he came back reeking to the high heavens of decaying matter. My mom blew her top, and everyone waited with bated breath what she would do. We watched her and waited with the puppy in the front yard for her verdict. We were ready to throw ourselves in front of the dog (our noses covered, of course), and save him a second time as she marched out the front door, muttering about filthy animals. She stomped past where we were huddled, and locked the gate: Pudyot was not to be allowed out of the house where he could go through the dump again. We were so grateful, we volunteered to give him a bath ourselves.

Pudyot grew up to be a small ugly dog, with no talent whatsoever. He looked like a Corgi with a short coat, and his ears grew outward instead of up, like Yoda's. Whenever we'd come home, he'd run to the gate quivering like a horse before a race, and wait for our cautioned "No!" before he'd jump all over us. He couldn't distinguish dogs from goats--he fought with the first and humped the second. We could never teach him to play fetch: whatever you threw at him he would chase, and bring back, but he would clamp it in his mouth and make snarling noises if you attempted to get it back for another round.

But we loved him anyway. He saved my mom's chickens from snakes and rats. He offered himself as a footstool whenever we'd be sitting outside, or he'd put his paws on the seat next to you, and just lay his head on your lap. He offered us tiny gifts of fallen leaves in his mouth whenever we'd come home. But just like the game of fetch, he won't actually give it. It was as if he loved picking up things, but couldn't let go. For the first time, we all felt our dad had hit pay dirt. Pudjie, as my sisters and I call him, our little puppy boy, lived his name.

Today, around 8:00 PM, Pudyot got out through the gate while we were taking out the garbage. He crossed the highway near our house and got hit by a car. He would've been five years old in April. My dad picked him up, and brought him home, for the last time.

The finish

is good. Like tired at the end of the day, and not at the start of it. I have been both, tired and finished, but it is the day's turn now. Now, I am ready to let it sleep, and willing that it wait and let me, tomorrow.

To man belong the plans of the heart, but from the Lord comes the reply of the tongue. (Proverbs 16:1)

Isn't it lovely?

Coup de grace.

I might have lost my mind, but let me try, okay? Here goes:

The problem with language is its communal logic. Language abides by rules that are first, and last, universal. I mean unbreakable. Shared, strong as links on a chain. First of course are the rules of spelling then grammar, and meaning--these are the initial links. Spelling must be agreed upon, vocabulary shared, then sentence structures. These are the first agreements to be formed for any communication to come through.

If it happens that these rules are broken, they are broken for a purpose, say, heightened, tightened meaning, flair. And thus the figures of speech. And it happens too that the breaking of the rules leads to a shared meaning, like an agreement or a contract. Then comes the idiom, the cliche. Like mending chain links, fences, sewing a tear on the net, embroidery. But whatever happens, in language, one must agree to agree. This is the fast rule.

You see, I was thinking earlier about sculpture. Or how I imagine sculpting to be. So I take this invisible clay in my hands and I think, I want it to say, "Bear". And the success of my sculpture lies in the agreement of what a bear looks like, which should pass the judgment of those who have seen an actual bear. Or if I had made something that that looked like a weight, then perhaps the viewer will go, "Ah, bear as in verb." But if I had made something that did not in any way resemble both bears, then I imagine my viewers will reject my "Bear".

But see, this is why I am not a sculptor. (For all I know, sculpting is not how I imagine it to be.) My clay is not clay, it is words. And unfortunately for me, language has a communal logic.

Do you understand what I'm trying to say?

Incoherent in Manila

I've just been to Cebu for a writers workshop, two days of non-stop words--spoken and written--, and in two languages (three, no, four! if you count me speaking in Tagalog and Hiligaynon with a Bisaya accent).

I left in the middle of a busy week at work--wala ko labot! But now I might be paying for it. Now, all my words condensed into powerpoint presentation syntax, mere hints really of full paragraphs of cause-and-effects, whys, and consequences.

Not that there is any regret. L. will attest to the single sentence that made it all worth it. Ask him to testify. Ask me to ask him to testify.

Do you understand? It doesn't matter. Love na ito.

Un/fortunate that I love both writing and my work and there is only time for one at a time. Haay.