There's something about trains:
The Build Up
Kings of Convenience
The build up lasted for days
lasted for weeks, lasted too long
our hero withdrew, when there was two
he could not choose one, so there was none
worn into the vaguely announced
the spinning top made a sound like a train across the valley
fading, oh so quiet but constant 'til it passed
over the ridge into the distances
written on your ticket to remind you where to stop
and when to get off
*****
And because I've been repeating my stories lately, here's a new re-hash.
Love Poem
Where the word complete is a couple
fingers hooked on each other;
where science can be manipulated
not to contradict romance: Love
is exclusive territory. Where
magnets and opposite poles
and iron filings like a mob ready to
separate from sand and sway
in the right direction, to prove
a magnetic field of two halves.
Today at the train station, two
lovers said goodbye over their cell
phones across the rails. He was going south,
she north. And even for that moment when the train
ripped the air between them,
a connection as good as technology can provide
was had. The rest of us stepped aboard
where we stood, watching the windows
unmoved by the pull of
lights racing the other direction.
*****
There's something about a steam engine, too. Bow.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Friday, November 09, 2007
Angela who?
Sometime back, I asked L. for the name of his laundry service, since I heard they were cheaper by-the-kilo, and more than that, they pick up and deliver. I've been using their service for a couple of months now, and I have no complaints whatsoever.
What I do have is an alter-ego.
I came home from work one day to find a big black bag of fresh clothes outside my doorstep. Nothing unusual there, I had asked them to deliver it earlier in the day. The bag had a wide strip of masking tape attached to it, with the name Angela P. written in script with a green marker. I checked the bag: yes, it was mine. I checked the clothes inside: all of it was mine. Then, when I was sorting through the tops and the pants and the jackets, a slip of paper fell out. It was my receipt, and it went like this:
Name: Angela Peram
Address: Unit x0x, Sunset Slope 3+1, Yoyola Valley, QC
Service: Wash, dry, fold
Charge: P28 x 15kilos = P420.00
Laundry list...
etc, etc, etc.
Angela?! Do I look like a fucking Angela to you? I told my youngest sister, and she rolled all over the floor laughing.
Honestly, I don't mind the "Peram". Sounds like my surname, especially over the phone, I suppose. Also, also, it sounds too much like an Indian surname, which, forever to my dismay, is what people will first (mis)take me for. And (I think) I've resigned myself to that. But, Angela? I mean, seriously? It's too-fucking-much.
A couple of days ago, I had my laundry picked up again. It was my sister who was at home, and she took care of it. The conversation went like this:
Knock, knock.
Sister: Who's there?
Laundry: M. Laundry Service.
S: Yes? (Opens door.)
L: Hello. I've come to pick up...
S: Ah, yes. You're picking up Angela's laundry, right? (Snicker, snicker.)
L: Yes. Also, here's the dress she had dry-cleaned. (Hands my sister a small transparent bag with guess what written on a strip of masking tape in green marker.)
S: (Looks at the dress, and the name.) Yes, yes. This is Angela's. Will give it to her. (Snicker, snicker.) Thanks. (Snicker, snicker.)
L: (Gives my sister a worried look.) Um. Okay. Thanks.
Door closes. Loud laughter is heard off-screen.
See what I have to put up with?
*****
Anyway. Now, a poem-not-mine. Because, sometimes, the living need resurrecting more than the dead.
Havana Birth
Susan Mitchell
Off Havana, the ocean is green this morning
of my birth. The conchers clean their knives on leather
straps and watch the sky while three couples
who have been dancing on the deck of a ship
in the harbor, the old harbor of the fifties, kiss
each other's cheeks and call it a night.
On a green sofa five dresses wait
to be fitted. The seamstress kneeling at Mother's feet
has no idea I am about to be born. Mother
pats her stomach which is flat
as the lace mats on the dressmaker's table. She thinks
I'm playing in my room. But as usual, she's wrong
I'm about to be born in a park in Havana. Oh,
this is important, everything in the dressmaker's house
is furred like a cat. And Havana leans right up
against the windows. In the park, the air
is chocolate, the sweet breath of a man
smoking an expensive cigar. The grass
is drinkable, dazzling, white. In a moment
I'll get up from a bench, lured
by a flock of pigeons, lazily sipping
the same syrupy music through a straw.
Mother is so ignorant, she thinks
I'm rolled like a ball of yarn under the bed. What
does she know of how I got trapped in my life?
She thinks it's all behind her, the bloody
sheets, the mirror in the ceiling
where I opened such a sudden furious blue, her eyes
bruised shut like mine. The pigeon's eyes
are orange, unblinking, a doll's. Mother always said
I wanted to touch everything because
I was a child. But I was younger than that.
I was so young I thought whatever I
wanted, the world wanted too. Workers
in the fields wanted the glint of sun on their machetes.
Sugarcane came naturally sweet, you
had only to lick the earth where it grew.
The music I heard each night outside
my window lived in the mouth of a bird. I was so young
I thought it was easy as walking
into the ocean which always had room
for my body. So when I held out my hands
I expected the pigeon to float between them
like a blossom, dusting my fingers with the manna
of its wings. But the world is wily, and doesn't want
to be held for long, which is why
as my hands reached out, workers lay down
their machetes and left the fields, which is why
a prostitute in a little calle of Havana dreamed
the world was a peach and flicked
open a knife. And Mother, startled, shook
out a dress with big peonies splashed like dirt
across the front, as if she had fallen
chasing after me in the rain. But what could I do?
I was about to be born, I was about to have
my hair combed into the new music
everyone was singing. The dressmaker sang it, her mouth
filled with pins. The butcher sang it and wiped
blood on his apron. Mother sang it and thought her body
was leaving her body. And when I tried
I was so young the music beat right
through me, which is how the pigeon got away.
The song the world sings day after day
isn't made of feathers, and the song a bird pours
itself into is tough as a branch
growing with the singer and the singer's delight.
What I do have is an alter-ego.
I came home from work one day to find a big black bag of fresh clothes outside my doorstep. Nothing unusual there, I had asked them to deliver it earlier in the day. The bag had a wide strip of masking tape attached to it, with the name Angela P. written in script with a green marker. I checked the bag: yes, it was mine. I checked the clothes inside: all of it was mine. Then, when I was sorting through the tops and the pants and the jackets, a slip of paper fell out. It was my receipt, and it went like this:
Name: Angela Peram
Address: Unit x0x, Sunset Slope 3+1, Yoyola Valley, QC
Service: Wash, dry, fold
Charge: P28 x 15kilos = P420.00
Laundry list...
etc, etc, etc.
Angela?! Do I look like a fucking Angela to you? I told my youngest sister, and she rolled all over the floor laughing.
Honestly, I don't mind the "Peram". Sounds like my surname, especially over the phone, I suppose. Also, also, it sounds too much like an Indian surname, which, forever to my dismay, is what people will first (mis)take me for. And (I think) I've resigned myself to that. But, Angela? I mean, seriously? It's too-fucking-much.
A couple of days ago, I had my laundry picked up again. It was my sister who was at home, and she took care of it. The conversation went like this:
Knock, knock.
Sister: Who's there?
Laundry: M. Laundry Service.
S: Yes? (Opens door.)
L: Hello. I've come to pick up...
S: Ah, yes. You're picking up Angela's laundry, right? (Snicker, snicker.)
L: Yes. Also, here's the dress she had dry-cleaned. (Hands my sister a small transparent bag with guess what written on a strip of masking tape in green marker.)
S: (Looks at the dress, and the name.) Yes, yes. This is Angela's. Will give it to her. (Snicker, snicker.) Thanks. (Snicker, snicker.)
L: (Gives my sister a worried look.) Um. Okay. Thanks.
Door closes. Loud laughter is heard off-screen.
See what I have to put up with?
*****
Anyway. Now, a poem-not-mine. Because, sometimes, the living need resurrecting more than the dead.
Havana Birth
Susan Mitchell
Off Havana, the ocean is green this morning
of my birth. The conchers clean their knives on leather
straps and watch the sky while three couples
who have been dancing on the deck of a ship
in the harbor, the old harbor of the fifties, kiss
each other's cheeks and call it a night.
On a green sofa five dresses wait
to be fitted. The seamstress kneeling at Mother's feet
has no idea I am about to be born. Mother
pats her stomach which is flat
as the lace mats on the dressmaker's table. She thinks
I'm playing in my room. But as usual, she's wrong
I'm about to be born in a park in Havana. Oh,
this is important, everything in the dressmaker's house
is furred like a cat. And Havana leans right up
against the windows. In the park, the air
is chocolate, the sweet breath of a man
smoking an expensive cigar. The grass
is drinkable, dazzling, white. In a moment
I'll get up from a bench, lured
by a flock of pigeons, lazily sipping
the same syrupy music through a straw.
Mother is so ignorant, she thinks
I'm rolled like a ball of yarn under the bed. What
does she know of how I got trapped in my life?
She thinks it's all behind her, the bloody
sheets, the mirror in the ceiling
where I opened such a sudden furious blue, her eyes
bruised shut like mine. The pigeon's eyes
are orange, unblinking, a doll's. Mother always said
I wanted to touch everything because
I was a child. But I was younger than that.
I was so young I thought whatever I
wanted, the world wanted too. Workers
in the fields wanted the glint of sun on their machetes.
Sugarcane came naturally sweet, you
had only to lick the earth where it grew.
The music I heard each night outside
my window lived in the mouth of a bird. I was so young
I thought it was easy as walking
into the ocean which always had room
for my body. So when I held out my hands
I expected the pigeon to float between them
like a blossom, dusting my fingers with the manna
of its wings. But the world is wily, and doesn't want
to be held for long, which is why
as my hands reached out, workers lay down
their machetes and left the fields, which is why
a prostitute in a little calle of Havana dreamed
the world was a peach and flicked
open a knife. And Mother, startled, shook
out a dress with big peonies splashed like dirt
across the front, as if she had fallen
chasing after me in the rain. But what could I do?
I was about to be born, I was about to have
my hair combed into the new music
everyone was singing. The dressmaker sang it, her mouth
filled with pins. The butcher sang it and wiped
blood on his apron. Mother sang it and thought her body
was leaving her body. And when I tried
I was so young the music beat right
through me, which is how the pigeon got away.
The song the world sings day after day
isn't made of feathers, and the song a bird pours
itself into is tough as a branch
growing with the singer and the singer's delight.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Autobiography: Studies in Stimulus-Response
1. Birth
Twelve signs of the zodiac. Seven animal symbols, four human; I had to be born under the one sign that had no life. Inanimate, dead.
2. Balancing Act
Libra is represented by the scales which figure balance. Or, equilibrium, to use a scientific term. Yes, what better way to pretend at life than by looking at it scientifically? As if everything were still, constant. Controlled.
3. Scientific Method
In science, a universe can be simplified into a system and its surroundings. In an experiment, a system can be studied by keeping certain variables constant or changing.
A simplification: Picture a woman, and let her be the system. Put something she desires in her immediate surroundings: food, books, a vacation. She will reach out to take it. Change the surroundings, and instead put in something she fears. She will cringe, her hand will recoil.
4. Theory
If something a woman desires is within her reach, she will hold out her hand to take it. If it is something she fears, she will recoil.
Is this true?
5. Null Hypothesis
If there is nothing in the woman's surroundings, she will look for two things: that which she desires, and that which she fears. She will pursue the first and avoid the second.
6. Experiment
aaa6.1 If she finds only that which she desires, will she be content? Or will she be forever looking over her shoulder?
aaa6.2 If she finds only that which she fears, she will run, yes. But toward which direction?
aaa6.3 What if something the woman equally desires and fears is put in front of her? How will she react? How am I to react?
7. Results
aaa7.1 The Zeroth Law of Thermodynamics
A simplification: A is in contact with B, and B is with C; but A is not in contact with C. If A is of a higher temperature than C, and B can conduct heat, then heat will travel from A to C through B, until all three are of the same temperature. Then the system (A, B, and C) is in thermal equilibrium.
aaa7.2 Rev 3:15-16
aaa7.3 I don't know. I am lost. There's a poem in here, somewhere.
(Figure copied from http://hyperphysics.phy-astr.gsu.edu/hbase/thermo/thereq.html)
Twelve signs of the zodiac. Seven animal symbols, four human; I had to be born under the one sign that had no life. Inanimate, dead.
2. Balancing Act
Libra is represented by the scales which figure balance. Or, equilibrium, to use a scientific term. Yes, what better way to pretend at life than by looking at it scientifically? As if everything were still, constant. Controlled.
3. Scientific Method
In science, a universe can be simplified into a system and its surroundings. In an experiment, a system can be studied by keeping certain variables constant or changing.
A simplification: Picture a woman, and let her be the system. Put something she desires in her immediate surroundings: food, books, a vacation. She will reach out to take it. Change the surroundings, and instead put in something she fears. She will cringe, her hand will recoil.
4. Theory
If something a woman desires is within her reach, she will hold out her hand to take it. If it is something she fears, she will recoil.
Is this true?
5. Null Hypothesis
If there is nothing in the woman's surroundings, she will look for two things: that which she desires, and that which she fears. She will pursue the first and avoid the second.
6. Experiment
aaa6.1 If she finds only that which she desires, will she be content? Or will she be forever looking over her shoulder?
aaa6.2 If she finds only that which she fears, she will run, yes. But toward which direction?
aaa6.3 What if something the woman equally desires and fears is put in front of her? How will she react? How am I to react?
7. Results
aaa7.1 The Zeroth Law of Thermodynamics
A simplification: A is in contact with B, and B is with C; but A is not in contact with C. If A is of a higher temperature than C, and B can conduct heat, then heat will travel from A to C through B, until all three are of the same temperature. Then the system (A, B, and C) is in thermal equilibrium.
aaa7.2 Rev 3:15-16
"I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot. So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth."
aaa7.3 I don't know. I am lost. There's a poem in here, somewhere.
(Figure copied from http://hyperphysics.phy-astr.gsu.edu/hbase/thermo/thereq.html)
Friday, October 26, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
A-Z: or, The Complete Guide
Right. As if.
Yay! Survey!
A - Available
Uhm... Yes? Yes! (Wink, wink.)
B - Best Friend
Alej. And we've sworn to become lesbians (and marry each other) if we aren't married by 40. So by 39 and 3/4, I think she plans to become one of those mail-order brides, while I'll probably jump off that 7th floor balcony of my old building.
C - Crush
Nonoy Baclao. Oh yeah.
D - Dad's Name
Antonio. Or Tony. Or "Sir"--Hehe, my dad's a teacher, so.
E - Easiest Person To Talk To
Strangers? because I'm really skilled at small talk even though I hate it.
F - Favorite Band
Now: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.
G - Gummy Bears Or Worms
Bears. Gummy or otherwise.
H - Hometown
Ilo-ilo. Where people say everything twice, to emphasize.
I - Instrument
An iPod? I actually have a harmonica which I don't know how to play. See Q.
J - Job
Extortion. Yes, I get paid to ask money from people.
K - Kids
None. No thanks. Not now. Not yet. (Sorry, Mom and Dad.)
L - Longest Car Ride
From Iloilo City to Boracay. 6 ass-numbing hours.
M - Milk Flavor
Full Cream. Fuck the fat content. Or strawberry milk-shake!
N - Number Of Siblings
2. Used to be 3.
O - One Wish
Two conditions?
P - Phobia
Arachno-. I swear, give me a snake over a spider any day.
Q - Favorite Quote
"You know how to whistle, don't you Steve?"
R - Reason To Smile
When someone's taking your pcture?
S - Song You Last Heard
Summer wind--Sinatra. Wow both start with S too.
T - Time You Woke Up
From 6:30 to 7:30 AM today, my alarm clock was on snooze. Got up (finally!) at 7:45.
U - Unknown Fact About Me
You tell me.
V - Vegetable
Brocolli.
W - Worst Habits
Smoking. Drinking. Procrastination. Pick one.
X - X-Rays You've Had
Chest and teeth. I've never broken a bone in my body. Knock-on-wood.
Y - Your Favorite Food
Spanish--I've been craving callos lately.
Z - Zodiac Sign
Libra. It's all about balance, dude.
Yay! Survey!
A - Available
Uhm... Yes? Yes! (Wink, wink.)
B - Best Friend
Alej. And we've sworn to become lesbians (and marry each other) if we aren't married by 40. So by 39 and 3/4, I think she plans to become one of those mail-order brides, while I'll probably jump off that 7th floor balcony of my old building.
C - Crush
Nonoy Baclao. Oh yeah.
D - Dad's Name
Antonio. Or Tony. Or "Sir"--Hehe, my dad's a teacher, so.
E - Easiest Person To Talk To
Strangers? because I'm really skilled at small talk even though I hate it.
F - Favorite Band
Now: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.
G - Gummy Bears Or Worms
Bears. Gummy or otherwise.
H - Hometown
Ilo-ilo. Where people say everything twice, to emphasize.
I - Instrument
An iPod? I actually have a harmonica which I don't know how to play. See Q.
J - Job
Extortion. Yes, I get paid to ask money from people.
K - Kids
None. No thanks. Not now. Not yet. (Sorry, Mom and Dad.)
L - Longest Car Ride
From Iloilo City to Boracay. 6 ass-numbing hours.
M - Milk Flavor
Full Cream. Fuck the fat content. Or strawberry milk-shake!
N - Number Of Siblings
2. Used to be 3.
O - One Wish
Two conditions?
P - Phobia
Arachno-. I swear, give me a snake over a spider any day.
Q - Favorite Quote
"You know how to whistle, don't you Steve?"
R - Reason To Smile
When someone's taking your pcture?
S - Song You Last Heard
Summer wind--Sinatra. Wow both start with S too.
T - Time You Woke Up
From 6:30 to 7:30 AM today, my alarm clock was on snooze. Got up (finally!) at 7:45.
U - Unknown Fact About Me
You tell me.
V - Vegetable
Brocolli.
W - Worst Habits
Smoking. Drinking. Procrastination. Pick one.
X - X-Rays You've Had
Chest and teeth. I've never broken a bone in my body. Knock-on-wood.
Y - Your Favorite Food
Spanish--I've been craving callos lately.
Z - Zodiac Sign
Libra. It's all about balance, dude.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Addressed to herself, sort of.
First. A new poem.
To A., when she turns 27
aaa1
You should not have lied.
The fact is you worshiped your father
and when he told you the space
between moon and earth was so vast
you understood infinity
was a symbol for what you could not hold
a loop that had you going in circles.
Content with the earth and its physics.
aaa2
You forgot
you thought the moon
followed you everywhere. Yes
the shortest distance between any two
points is a straight line—
But by then you understood how diameter
kept two points on a circle separate
how it kept that distance
constant. The moon moves
around the earth, yes.
The distance between them 384,403 kilometers.
aaa3
At times I watch the moon on the water
rippling an invitation.
It is always the same wish
that I had insisted it followed
stamped my foot and yelled it
followed a followed a would always follow.
But is that enough?
The echoed voice, this borrowed—
Daylight, and it is forgotten.
Or else it fades.
*****
Second. May kwento ako. Pero teka, parang di ko yata kaya.
Ahem, tilawan ta estilo ni M. bi:
Sang-una sa Iloilo may drama sa radyo nga ang titulo, "Sin-o ang may sala?" Pamatyag ko, daw pwede ni tani ang akon nga istorya sa programa nga to. Pamati-i bala.
May chismis nga naglapta mga anom ka bulan na ang naglipas. May isa ni kuno ka laki nga naluyag sa isa ka babayi. Kung pahambalon mo mga abyan ni babayi (nga mga nakakilala man kay lalaki; si bayi kag si laki mismo indi amigo-hay), bagay guid kuno sila nga duha, buto guid ang ila nga mga abyan sa ila duha, etc, etc. Indi man guid kilal-anay si bayi kag si laki: asta lang bala sa hi-hello, asta lang sa "diutay nga hambalanay," kung sa ingles pa, kada sila magkit-anay. Pero, kung sundun ta guid ya ang dalagan sang mga nagkalatabo, wala guid sang may makahambal nga gusto ni laki si bayi. Mahuluya-on abi si laki, amo na nga daw wala guid sinyas nga tuod ang ini nga sugid-sugid. Si bayi man ya, matinalak-on, kag daw waay guid man labot.
Ugaling, pagkalipas sang pila pa ka bulan, galapit nga lapit (indi si bayi) ang kaadlawan ni bayi. Ahay, ti ano abi kay daw sa pamatyagan ni bayi naga-tigulang na siya, kag daw kadugay na guid nga wala siya nobyo. Gani man, sang guin pilit si bayi sang iya mga amiga nga siya na lang ang mag-hagad kay laki mag-gwa (dumdumon ta, mahuluya-on si laki), wala man guid siya angal.
Ti natabo nga mga duha ka adlaw pagkatapos sang pagpilit kay bayi nga hagaron si laki, may tukar ang paborito nga banda ni bayi, ang grupo nga "Likod-labaha" (labahita?). Guin panumdum ni bayi nga i-text kag hagaron si laki sa tukar nga to. Amo ni ang dalagan sang huna-huna ni bayi ay:
Bayi sa lawas niya: Ti, hambal nila gusto niya man bala ako.
Bayi sa lawas niya gihapon: Galing, basi indi bala mag-sabat haw. Kahuluya.
Siya/Sila man gihapon: Ah, bay-i da ah. Kung upod, ti upod eh. Kung indi, ti wala.
Pagkatapos sadto nga kalip-ot nga bina-isay, nagtext guid man si bayi kay laki. Guin hagad niya sa tukar sang banda, nagdugang pa nga kung indi lang masako si laki, eh. Sabat ni laki, "Ay nami tani mag-tanaw galing may kadto-an man ko. Kinahanglan nga ara ko sa "Sidlangan-kahoy" (kuha niyo?) subong nga gab-i."
Ahay, kalu-oy man kay babayi. Nagpadala abi sa istorya sang iban nga tawo. Ti ano natabo dayon?
Sang mga tini-on nga gina text ni bayi si laki, ara siya sa isa ka ilimnan nga lapit lang sa balay niya, ang "Batobalani." (Enkaso nga indi magsabat/mag-upod si laki, wala sang may makasiling nga nagmuk-mok si bayi sa balay, hulat sang sabat ni laki, indi bala?) Pagkabaton niya sang text, nagdesidir si bayi nga mapa-uli na lang siya. Mintras nagalakat siya, nagtupa ang puwerte katudo nga ulan. (Daw drama sa radyo, no?) Kay indi niya gusto mabasa, nagpasilong si bayi higad-dalan. Tuyo niya nga hulaton maghulaw ang ulan kag magpadayon lakat pauli. Nati-onan galing nga may taxi nga nagdulog sa atubangan guid sang higad-dalan nga ginatindugan niya. Guin pinsar ni bayi nga isa ini ka sinyales. Guin palapitan niya ang nagahulat nga salakyan.
Bayi: Manong, sa "SaHulag*" tani lihog. Katul-tol ka magkadto sa kalye "Hulag" sa "Makatol"?
Tsuper: Tul-tulon eh. Wala na ya problema ah. Sakay lang.
Bayi: Ayus!
Ti amo na ang istorya kung paano nakalab-ot si bayi sa "SaHulag" nga siya lang isa. Ang lain pa, puno ang lugar, kag tanan nga tawo didto may upod. Si bayi ya, ato, nag-isa-isa. Pinakamala-in sa tanan, bisan paborito ni bayi ang banda nga nagatukar, wala guid siya nawili. Ano abi kay sa pila na katuig nga lantaw sang banda nga to, halos amo man gihapon. Waay may nagbag-o. (Ukon basi tuod guid man nga nagatigulang na si bayi.)
Man gani, mga ija kag ijo, indi guid mag pati sa chismis. Wala pulos ang mamati sa kutso-kutso sang iban. Si bayi o, tan-awa, napagasto sang wala sa oras, wala man guid nalingaw.
Ti, sin-o ang may sala? Si bayi bala? Si laki bala? Basi ang tsuper sang taxi? Ang banda? Ano guid bala haw? Basi ang ulan.
Amo lang na ang aton tiempo subong diri sa aton nga programa, "Sin-o ang may sala?"
-----------
Hahahaha. Ay, karadlawan lang. Di End. Ukon, kung ang amay ko pa pahambalon, "Solb!"
*****
Third. "The Partial Explanation."
Kahilidlaw gali mag Hiligaynon. Utoy-utoy ko kadlaw sa tinaga nga "kutso-kutso." Daw gina itik ako. Hehehehehehe.
Ahem. Translation: I miss talking in Hiligaynon, or even just listening to it. I am tickled by the word "kutso-kutso" which means rumor, or even opinion, but I think is Hiligaynon-onomatopoeia for whispering sounds made (by girls, esp.) during gossip sessions. Sure, I talk to my sisters everyday, but always in a mixture of Ilonggo and English and Tagalog. I miss the radio programs, and I miss having to ask my parents what certain words mean.
Case in point: My dad used to get mad (naga-ugtas) at me and my siblings when we ask what something means using, "Ano na-min sini?" How was I supposed to know that "na-min" is bastardized Hiligaynon for "gina-" (a present-tense prefix, not unlike -ing) and "mean" (mispronounced with the short i sound). Literally that question becomes "What is this mean-ing?" when the proper way to ask is "Ano ambot silingon sini?" Which sounds weird/perfect in English--"What does this want to say?"--as if the words actually want to tell you, out loud, their meanings/translation, except that, well, they can't.
Like this: "What does this word, 'panganud' want to say?" "It wants to say 'cloud'."
Anyway.
*****
Last. Post script kuno.
*Kung indi niyo pa gets kung diin nga lugar na tabo ang tukar-tukar, panumduma niyo lang ang isa pa ka tinaga para sa "hulag." Amo na siya ang ngalan sang kalye, kag kung angutan mo sang "Sa-" sa umpisa, mahimo nga ngalan sang lugar-ilimnan.
Amo lang na. Sige, magpakabuot ha!
To A., when she turns 27
aaa1
You should not have lied.
The fact is you worshiped your father
and when he told you the space
between moon and earth was so vast
you understood infinity
was a symbol for what you could not hold
a loop that had you going in circles.
Content with the earth and its physics.
aaa2
You forgot
you thought the moon
followed you everywhere. Yes
the shortest distance between any two
points is a straight line—
But by then you understood how diameter
kept two points on a circle separate
how it kept that distance
constant. The moon moves
around the earth, yes.
The distance between them 384,403 kilometers.
aaa3
At times I watch the moon on the water
rippling an invitation.
It is always the same wish
that I had insisted it followed
stamped my foot and yelled it
followed a followed a would always follow.
But is that enough?
The echoed voice, this borrowed—
Daylight, and it is forgotten.
Or else it fades.
*****
Second. May kwento ako. Pero teka, parang di ko yata kaya.
Ahem, tilawan ta estilo ni M. bi:
Sang-una sa Iloilo may drama sa radyo nga ang titulo, "Sin-o ang may sala?" Pamatyag ko, daw pwede ni tani ang akon nga istorya sa programa nga to. Pamati-i bala.
May chismis nga naglapta mga anom ka bulan na ang naglipas. May isa ni kuno ka laki nga naluyag sa isa ka babayi. Kung pahambalon mo mga abyan ni babayi (nga mga nakakilala man kay lalaki; si bayi kag si laki mismo indi amigo-hay), bagay guid kuno sila nga duha, buto guid ang ila nga mga abyan sa ila duha, etc, etc. Indi man guid kilal-anay si bayi kag si laki: asta lang bala sa hi-hello, asta lang sa "diutay nga hambalanay," kung sa ingles pa, kada sila magkit-anay. Pero, kung sundun ta guid ya ang dalagan sang mga nagkalatabo, wala guid sang may makahambal nga gusto ni laki si bayi. Mahuluya-on abi si laki, amo na nga daw wala guid sinyas nga tuod ang ini nga sugid-sugid. Si bayi man ya, matinalak-on, kag daw waay guid man labot.
Ugaling, pagkalipas sang pila pa ka bulan, galapit nga lapit (indi si bayi) ang kaadlawan ni bayi. Ahay, ti ano abi kay daw sa pamatyagan ni bayi naga-tigulang na siya, kag daw kadugay na guid nga wala siya nobyo. Gani man, sang guin pilit si bayi sang iya mga amiga nga siya na lang ang mag-hagad kay laki mag-gwa (dumdumon ta, mahuluya-on si laki), wala man guid siya angal.
Ti natabo nga mga duha ka adlaw pagkatapos sang pagpilit kay bayi nga hagaron si laki, may tukar ang paborito nga banda ni bayi, ang grupo nga "Likod-labaha" (labahita?). Guin panumdum ni bayi nga i-text kag hagaron si laki sa tukar nga to. Amo ni ang dalagan sang huna-huna ni bayi ay:
Bayi sa lawas niya: Ti, hambal nila gusto niya man bala ako.
Bayi sa lawas niya gihapon: Galing, basi indi bala mag-sabat haw. Kahuluya.
Siya/Sila man gihapon: Ah, bay-i da ah. Kung upod, ti upod eh. Kung indi, ti wala.
Pagkatapos sadto nga kalip-ot nga bina-isay, nagtext guid man si bayi kay laki. Guin hagad niya sa tukar sang banda, nagdugang pa nga kung indi lang masako si laki, eh. Sabat ni laki, "Ay nami tani mag-tanaw galing may kadto-an man ko. Kinahanglan nga ara ko sa "Sidlangan-kahoy" (kuha niyo?) subong nga gab-i."
Ahay, kalu-oy man kay babayi. Nagpadala abi sa istorya sang iban nga tawo. Ti ano natabo dayon?
Sang mga tini-on nga gina text ni bayi si laki, ara siya sa isa ka ilimnan nga lapit lang sa balay niya, ang "Batobalani." (Enkaso nga indi magsabat/mag-upod si laki, wala sang may makasiling nga nagmuk-mok si bayi sa balay, hulat sang sabat ni laki, indi bala?) Pagkabaton niya sang text, nagdesidir si bayi nga mapa-uli na lang siya. Mintras nagalakat siya, nagtupa ang puwerte katudo nga ulan. (Daw drama sa radyo, no?) Kay indi niya gusto mabasa, nagpasilong si bayi higad-dalan. Tuyo niya nga hulaton maghulaw ang ulan kag magpadayon lakat pauli. Nati-onan galing nga may taxi nga nagdulog sa atubangan guid sang higad-dalan nga ginatindugan niya. Guin pinsar ni bayi nga isa ini ka sinyales. Guin palapitan niya ang nagahulat nga salakyan.
Bayi: Manong, sa "SaHulag*" tani lihog. Katul-tol ka magkadto sa kalye "Hulag" sa "Makatol"?
Tsuper: Tul-tulon eh. Wala na ya problema ah. Sakay lang.
Bayi: Ayus!
Ti amo na ang istorya kung paano nakalab-ot si bayi sa "SaHulag" nga siya lang isa. Ang lain pa, puno ang lugar, kag tanan nga tawo didto may upod. Si bayi ya, ato, nag-isa-isa. Pinakamala-in sa tanan, bisan paborito ni bayi ang banda nga nagatukar, wala guid siya nawili. Ano abi kay sa pila na katuig nga lantaw sang banda nga to, halos amo man gihapon. Waay may nagbag-o. (Ukon basi tuod guid man nga nagatigulang na si bayi.)
Man gani, mga ija kag ijo, indi guid mag pati sa chismis. Wala pulos ang mamati sa kutso-kutso sang iban. Si bayi o, tan-awa, napagasto sang wala sa oras, wala man guid nalingaw.
Ti, sin-o ang may sala? Si bayi bala? Si laki bala? Basi ang tsuper sang taxi? Ang banda? Ano guid bala haw? Basi ang ulan.
Amo lang na ang aton tiempo subong diri sa aton nga programa, "Sin-o ang may sala?"
-----------
Hahahaha. Ay, karadlawan lang. Di End. Ukon, kung ang amay ko pa pahambalon, "Solb!"
*****
Third. "The Partial Explanation."
Kahilidlaw gali mag Hiligaynon. Utoy-utoy ko kadlaw sa tinaga nga "kutso-kutso." Daw gina itik ako. Hehehehehehe.
Ahem. Translation: I miss talking in Hiligaynon, or even just listening to it. I am tickled by the word "kutso-kutso" which means rumor, or even opinion, but I think is Hiligaynon-onomatopoeia for whispering sounds made (by girls, esp.) during gossip sessions. Sure, I talk to my sisters everyday, but always in a mixture of Ilonggo and English and Tagalog. I miss the radio programs, and I miss having to ask my parents what certain words mean.
Case in point: My dad used to get mad (naga-ugtas) at me and my siblings when we ask what something means using, "Ano na-min sini?" How was I supposed to know that "na-min" is bastardized Hiligaynon for "gina-" (a present-tense prefix, not unlike -ing) and "mean" (mispronounced with the short i sound). Literally that question becomes "What is this mean-ing?" when the proper way to ask is "Ano ambot silingon sini?" Which sounds weird/perfect in English--"What does this want to say?"--as if the words actually want to tell you, out loud, their meanings/translation, except that, well, they can't.
Like this: "What does this word, 'panganud' want to say?" "It wants to say 'cloud'."
Anyway.
*****
Last. Post script kuno.
*Kung indi niyo pa gets kung diin nga lugar na tabo ang tukar-tukar, panumduma niyo lang ang isa pa ka tinaga para sa "hulag." Amo na siya ang ngalan sang kalye, kag kung angutan mo sang "Sa-" sa umpisa, mahimo nga ngalan sang lugar-ilimnan.
Amo lang na. Sige, magpakabuot ha!
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Bring on the waterworks.
First.
I've been trying to post in this blog more often than once-a-month, but that didn't happen in September. My biggest excuse is that it was college basketball season, and I didn't want to post any basketball stuff--it gets me into trouble. A smaller excuse is that I have nothing to tell; there are no new stories, there are no new poems.
Which make it sound as if September has been another boring month. Not at all. Between lining up for tickets to games; looking for scalpers for tickets and looking like scalpers to get rid of tickets; cheering my throat sore and screaming at referees; and sneaking out of work to watch the games, well, it's been National Basketball Month. And that's never boring (for me, at least). But, I could be getting sick of it. Note, could be. Check back November. N. B. A. Okay, enough.
Second.
I think the older a woman gets, the less prone she is to tears. That's a new theory of mine. Wait, maybe I should qualify: The older I get, the less prone I am to tears. It kinda makes sense, since you start to realize they accomplish nothing, and worse, you look like shit afterwards. (No offense to the woman who knows how to use tears to get the advantage. Different strokes for different folks and all that. And let me just add, You go girl!)
A couple of weeks ago, I met up with some friends at D.'s house. I had just come from a basketball game then, I think, and people were asking me if I'd watched it. Of course, I say. We won, right? L. asked. Uh huh. Did you cry, too? Because M. cried, he reported. Why would I cry? I said, There's one more game to go. So, if we win the next game, would you? he persisted. I wouldn't cry if we lost, why would I cry because we won? I was perplexed. L. just nodded his head, considering-like.
But it got me thinking. What would bring me to tears nowadays. Well, there are the movies and the books, but the kinds are getting farther and farther apart.
(Aside.
I remember once in college I watched Saving Private Ryan and I was crying at almost every frame. And it pissed me off because I could imagine Spielberg directing it just so: "Ooooh, let's shoot this scene from behind. Once they hand her the letter, she reaches for it, hands trembling. She reads it then falls to her knees. No need for dialogue. I can almost see it people! Bring on the waterworks!" Boy, that really pissed me off, I stopped watching movies for a couple of years after that. If it weren't for his brilliant Catch Me If You Can, I'd never watch him again.)
Anyway, it made think. What makes me cry nowadays? I thought about it, and I thought about it and I thought, What a fucking waste of time. So I grabbed the book I was reading then, Dava Sobel's Longitude: The True Story of the Lone Genius who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time, and went back to it.
Nothing to make you cry in that title, right? Wrong. Oh boy. Here's the formula: Take one history of science book, where the protagonist is an ex-carpenter who is self-educated, and pit him against the whole Royal Astronomy Society (or whatever) of the whole of Britain. Mention that the search for the answer to this "Greatest Scientific Problem" led to the discovery of other things--the refinement of the gravitational relationship between planet and satellite, the discovery of the moons of Jupiter and the rings of Saturn, the calculation of the speed of light, and peripherally, how sauerkraut defeated scurvy--to taste. Add a loyal son who fought for his father's invention, and a rival/evil-astronomer named Nevil. Plus millions and millions in prize money. Et Voila! I've got tears running down my cheeks.
Not just that: Ask me to tell you about it, then watch my eyes. I swear they'd be bright, like a grandmother's recalling her youth. Oh boy.
It isn't even brilliant writing (Sorry, Ms. Sobel). I mean it's not lyric, it's not poignant. (It put me off too, that Diane Ackerman had good things to say about it, and to see later on that she's Ms. Sobel's "good friend". Ugh.) It's matter of fact and basic, just like a science text should read. But we're talking about the invention of the chronometer here. (Chronometer. Isn't the name enough to give you goosebumps?) And I like how she starts it, her own curiosity over those "invisible lines", and how she ends it, at the prime meridian, seeing another fascinated girl, at literal zero hour. It's beautiful.
Ask me, I'll lend it to you.
Third.
My new favorite poem.
Addressed to Himself
Cirilo F. Bautista
How hard I have made life for you, Cirilo
Who wrestle with words to free my mind;
Your various battles, you do not know,
Pose at me the same buckle, the same wind
That eagle in anger hotly ride on.
Yet like buckles you never break, though blind
At times you pine and pine for beauty gone--
Ah, never take the same courage, mon ami,
Wisdom and the past are never one.
But learn to distrust language that we
In constant dreams deem the only fact
Kill it in seduction or heraldry
So eagle-like you may invent your act;
Then think you walk in a world of thrall
Where Beauty walks too but does not look back,
Crossing the foggy fjords of the skull.
Fourth.
A poem to make me cry? Nope. They make me envious and they make me swear. They make me want to write, or want to stop writing. But they don't make me cry. It's science more than anything, that wrenches the tearducts open. Conduct an experiment if you want proof.
Fifth.
That's it. Just wanted a nice finished number to end this with. Bow.
I've been trying to post in this blog more often than once-a-month, but that didn't happen in September. My biggest excuse is that it was college basketball season, and I didn't want to post any basketball stuff--it gets me into trouble. A smaller excuse is that I have nothing to tell; there are no new stories, there are no new poems.
Which make it sound as if September has been another boring month. Not at all. Between lining up for tickets to games; looking for scalpers for tickets and looking like scalpers to get rid of tickets; cheering my throat sore and screaming at referees; and sneaking out of work to watch the games, well, it's been National Basketball Month. And that's never boring (for me, at least). But, I could be getting sick of it. Note, could be. Check back November. N. B. A. Okay, enough.
Second.
I think the older a woman gets, the less prone she is to tears. That's a new theory of mine. Wait, maybe I should qualify: The older I get, the less prone I am to tears. It kinda makes sense, since you start to realize they accomplish nothing, and worse, you look like shit afterwards. (No offense to the woman who knows how to use tears to get the advantage. Different strokes for different folks and all that. And let me just add, You go girl!)
A couple of weeks ago, I met up with some friends at D.'s house. I had just come from a basketball game then, I think, and people were asking me if I'd watched it. Of course, I say. We won, right? L. asked. Uh huh. Did you cry, too? Because M. cried, he reported. Why would I cry? I said, There's one more game to go. So, if we win the next game, would you? he persisted. I wouldn't cry if we lost, why would I cry because we won? I was perplexed. L. just nodded his head, considering-like.
But it got me thinking. What would bring me to tears nowadays. Well, there are the movies and the books, but the kinds are getting farther and farther apart.
(Aside.
I remember once in college I watched Saving Private Ryan and I was crying at almost every frame. And it pissed me off because I could imagine Spielberg directing it just so: "Ooooh, let's shoot this scene from behind. Once they hand her the letter, she reaches for it, hands trembling. She reads it then falls to her knees. No need for dialogue. I can almost see it people! Bring on the waterworks!" Boy, that really pissed me off, I stopped watching movies for a couple of years after that. If it weren't for his brilliant Catch Me If You Can, I'd never watch him again.)
Anyway, it made think. What makes me cry nowadays? I thought about it, and I thought about it and I thought, What a fucking waste of time. So I grabbed the book I was reading then, Dava Sobel's Longitude: The True Story of the Lone Genius who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time, and went back to it.
Nothing to make you cry in that title, right? Wrong. Oh boy. Here's the formula: Take one history of science book, where the protagonist is an ex-carpenter who is self-educated, and pit him against the whole Royal Astronomy Society (or whatever) of the whole of Britain. Mention that the search for the answer to this "Greatest Scientific Problem" led to the discovery of other things--the refinement of the gravitational relationship between planet and satellite, the discovery of the moons of Jupiter and the rings of Saturn, the calculation of the speed of light, and peripherally, how sauerkraut defeated scurvy--to taste. Add a loyal son who fought for his father's invention, and a rival/evil-astronomer named Nevil. Plus millions and millions in prize money. Et Voila! I've got tears running down my cheeks.
Not just that: Ask me to tell you about it, then watch my eyes. I swear they'd be bright, like a grandmother's recalling her youth. Oh boy.
It isn't even brilliant writing (Sorry, Ms. Sobel). I mean it's not lyric, it's not poignant. (It put me off too, that Diane Ackerman had good things to say about it, and to see later on that she's Ms. Sobel's "good friend". Ugh.) It's matter of fact and basic, just like a science text should read. But we're talking about the invention of the chronometer here. (Chronometer. Isn't the name enough to give you goosebumps?) And I like how she starts it, her own curiosity over those "invisible lines", and how she ends it, at the prime meridian, seeing another fascinated girl, at literal zero hour. It's beautiful.
Ask me, I'll lend it to you.
Third.
My new favorite poem.
Addressed to Himself
Cirilo F. Bautista
How hard I have made life for you, Cirilo
Who wrestle with words to free my mind;
Your various battles, you do not know,
Pose at me the same buckle, the same wind
That eagle in anger hotly ride on.
Yet like buckles you never break, though blind
At times you pine and pine for beauty gone--
Ah, never take the same courage, mon ami,
Wisdom and the past are never one.
But learn to distrust language that we
In constant dreams deem the only fact
Kill it in seduction or heraldry
So eagle-like you may invent your act;
Then think you walk in a world of thrall
Where Beauty walks too but does not look back,
Crossing the foggy fjords of the skull.
Fourth.
A poem to make me cry? Nope. They make me envious and they make me swear. They make me want to write, or want to stop writing. But they don't make me cry. It's science more than anything, that wrenches the tearducts open. Conduct an experiment if you want proof.
Fifth.
That's it. Just wanted a nice finished number to end this with. Bow.
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