Si Salome, kasintahan ni Elias, ay nawala sa “Noli Me Tangere” nang kaltasin ni Rizal ang kabanatang saan siya binigyang buhay. Mababasa ang detalya tungkol sa nawawalang kabanata at ang kabanatang “Elias at Salome” mismo sahttp://tl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elias_at_Salome#Tingnan_din
Una kong nabasa itong obra ni Ms Joi Barrios tungkol kay Salome nu'ng 1991, at hanggang ngayon ay matindi pa ang hatak nito sa akin. Lumukso ang aking puso nang bigyan ako ng permiso ni Ms. Barrios na ilagay ang tula niya dito sa aking blog. Na-contact ko siya sahttp://joibarrios.blogspot.com/
Kay Salome, ang tauhang hindi napabilang
sa “Noli Me Tangere” Ni Joi Barrios
Lagi na’y nakaabang ka sa iyong durungawan
tuwing sumasapit ang dapithapon, Salome.
Waring ritwal ang laging pag-antabay
sa pagdating ng kaibigang tulisan.
Bago lumubog ang araw,
nakaupo ka na sa may pasimano,
inaabala ang kamay sa kung anong gawain,
habang ang mga mata ay nasa lawa,
tuwing makalawang sandali.
Ay, Salome.
Bawal sa mga babae ng iyong panahon
ang pamimintana.
Ito’y pahayag ng pag-anyaya,
parang kamison
na sumisilip sa balikat,
o sakong na dumudungaw
sa laylayan ng saya.
Ang pagtanaw sa lansangan
ay paghangad ng mga bagay
sa labas ng tahanan,
sa panahong and daigdig na babae
ay sala, silid, kusina
at ang tanging pangarap
na pinahihintulutan
ay maging asawa at ina.
Ang batas na ito ay eskapularyong
laging nakalapat sa dibdib
sa paggising at pagtulog
at pamaypay na lagi nang nagkukubli
sa iba pang lihim na hangarin
na maaaring mamutawi sa labi.
Ngunit lagi na’y nakaabang ka
sa iyong durungawan
tuwing sumasapit and dapithapon, Salome.
Kasinghaba ng buhok mong nakalugay
ang paghihintay.
Nakikipagkaibigan ka sa pagkainip
sa bawat hiblang sinusuklay.
Habang inaalo,
ang pusong nagpasyang magmahal
sa isang lalaking walang maipapangakong
singsing, tahanan o mga supling.
Kasingtalim ng munting karayom
na gamit sa pagsusulsi
ang takot na kumukurot sa puso
tuwing kumakagat ang dilim
at wala pang bangkang tumatawid sa lawa.
Nakikipagtalo ka sa pangamba
pagkat ang isipan
ay patuloy sa paghabi
ng kung anong masamang pangyayaring
maaaring maganap sa kaibigan.
Habang inaalo,
muli at muling inaalo,
ang pusong nagpasyang magmahal
sa isang tulisang laging hinihiram
sa kanyang digmaang ipinapaglaban.
Ay, Salome.
Kinakailangan mong mamuhay at magmahal
nang higit sa iyong panahon.
Kaya’t binuksan mo ang durungawang
ipinipinid ng iba.
Sinukat mo ang pag-ibig
hindi sa pamamagitan ng kasal
na may basbas ng langit
kundi ng pag-iisang dibdib
na binibigyang katuparan
ng pagniniig ng puso at diwa
at dugo at laman dito sa lupa.
Nangahas kang bigyan ng kahulugan
ang mga salitang
pag-ibig, tahanan, pagkababae.
Kaya’t wala ka man sa mga pahina
ng nobelang dinakila,
hindi man ikaw
ang tinanghal na halimbawa
sa mga dalaga ng iyong lahi,
lalagi ka sa aming alaala.
naghihiwalay sa atin
ang iisang pangarap:
ang makamit ang kalayaang magtakda
ng sariling buhay
sa anumang panahon.
The 1960s did not have the fast-paced technology we have; but they had resources for fun that we don't have now. This video shows an era gone but ever relevant.
What do we have that the '60s did not? More worries.
Don't Worry, Baby Well it's been building up inside of me For oh I don't know how long. I don't know why But I keep thinking Something's bound to go wrong.
But she looks in my eyes And makes me realize And she says, Don't worry baby Don't worry, baby, Don't worry, baby, Everything will turn out alright.
I guess I should've kept my mouth shut When I started to brag about my car. But I can't back down now because I pushed the other guys too far.
She makes me come alive And makes me wanna drive When she says, Don't worry, baby Don't worry, baby, Don't worry, baby, Everything will turn out alright.
She told me, Baby, when you race today Just take along my love with you. And if you knew how much I loved you Baby, nothing could go wrong with you.
Oh, what she does to me When she makes love to me And she says, Don't worry baby Don't worry, baby, Don't worry, baby, Everything will turn out alright.
In the last two weeks I've been fascinated by a channel in cable TV showing some Chinese telenovelas, of which some use the dialect of Fookien -- now Fujian or Fukien -- the province of my forebears. Then I received an email concerning the extinction of some indigenous dialects in Taiwan, claiming that the result may enervate its people and culture. People can sometimes push specialization to absurd proportions.
The main language in Taiwan, a politically detached province of China, is Mandarin, the most widely written and spoken language in the world, through sheer weight of population, not choice. Anyway, why lament over the loss of little known dialects in Taiwan or elsewhere? I don't see the impact on us of the loss of Incan language or Mayan dialects, of sanskrit, or even the dying gasps of Latin. Our ignorance of Itawis or Ibanag here does not faze us.
I am pure Chinese by birth, Filipino by naturalization and inclination. My elementary and high school education consisted of English from 7 a.m. to noon and Chinese from 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. Filipino teachers taught us in the morning, Chinese old maids, mostly, grumbled and yakked at us all afternoon. I still remember the admonition of one Chinese teacher in Math class: "A language which cannot express itself completely in Math, Science, Arts or Medicine is not fit for survival in the international community."
Obviously he was referring to Tagalog or, in a wider aspect, what we call Filipino. It was a dialect promoted to language status because a nation must have one. Spanish-speaking oldsters were dying then, and the postwar generation was rebelling against the other colonial tongue, English.
Will Tagalog or Filipino fill the requisites? Let us see. Tatsulok, in love affairs or in Trigonometry, is acceptable, but what about the triangle's component sides -- opposite, adjacent, hypotenuse? Baligtad (alternate spelling: baliktad), katabi (kasiping? for adulterers), dayagonal (the UP method of dealing with words not found in vernacular dictionaries)?
Radyo and robot are easily absorbed now; we can only joke about such words in the '70s. We came up with bahag-ari = briefs, salungguhit = panties, so on. I will rush by the words aneurysm, thrombosis, spleen and other medical terms. Filipino, with a mixture of Taglish and Englog, is a language, so far as international opinion is concerned; however, I don't foresee foreigners learning Tagalog like we take the initiative to speak and write Nippongo, Arabic, Chinese, or even Korean -- mainly for the sake of earning yens, dinars, yuan and won.
Latin died after the Roman Empire declined and eventually shrunk to boot-shaped Italy; the ancient language is being resuscitated a la Lazarus by tiny Vatican within its boundary. Latin nowadays is considered a mark of esoteric learning. Nevertheless, Rome and its residents are still convivial companies.
The language of Greece remains Greek to me -- a pun -- and in modern times its financial troubles are as vast as their erstwhile culture. The British lost control where their sun should set and rise after World War II, but English thrives -- because the Americans replaced them. American English, which I use, reigns over English English. Through these upheavals, dialects among conquered and liberated territories were bred, mixed, and died.
Take capampangan, which I use with cabalens. A Pampango from urban Angeles may find the intonation of a provincemate from, say, Macabebe or Sexmoan (love that name!) a bit harsh to the ear. Residents in some parts of Pampanga aspirate their "h" while some of us are teased for losing the letter when we talk -- the 'Enry 'Iggins syndrome, I call it. However, I cannot shake off the belief that capampangan is not a dialect that flows mellifluously: The Pampango poetry I read so far grates on the ears and senses. Maybe it's the writers, not the dialect; for I believe that every means of communication have the innate potential for verbal artistry.
The Fookien dialect of the Chinese in Manila is a cultivated singsong compared to the heavy accents of those living in distant provinces -- here and in China. Characters on the TV shows I mentioned also stress their words differently; their sppeches sound harsh to me. Chinese in different parts of the world adopt the characteristics convivial to the culture where they are immersed. This applies to all nationalities, languages, dialects, slangs, idioms, even pictographs and spelling. I need not go further than the difference in the English spelling of, say, "theater" in England and "theater" in the United States; in the usage of "elevator" and "trunk" in the US vis-a-vis "lift" and "boot" in UK.
Languages have subspecies, variants and mutations too, words within words. I admire the Tagalog usage of those who reside in Batangas, Bulacan, Quezon ang Lucena provinces for enriching our vocabulary, though I cannot swallow the shallow ideas behind the work of Balagtas. Only teachers can appreciate him. We do not lose anything if we don't read his Florante at Laura or Jose dela Cruz's Ibong Adarna. I think I learned more and had fun with Pugad Baboy and Kiko Machine.
Thousands and thousands of dialects are born to die, like millions of animal, horticultural, ornithological, ichthyological and other sort of species exist and die, most unknown, unseen, and unlamented. Language is a living and constantly evolving organism, and, as with the creations of this world, there is a time to live and a time to die. In the long run, I will not lose sleep over dialects.
If I have any beliefs about immortality, it is that certain dogs I have known will go to heaven, and very, very few persons. --James Thurber
Yeah, right. So you bastards hunt down the stray dogs off the streets and, since no one cares enough to succor them, you gas them to death. Perhaps you even feel proud that you did not think of eating some of them, that you are decent dogkillers, not dogeaters. Might as well gather the vagabonds of the city and solve the population problem.
People capable of snuffing out the potential affection that is integral to the life of every dog surely lead dismal lives; they must feel unloved and unwanted like the dogs they kill.
Dogs, and cats and most creatures that are not human, can fully appreciate and reciprocate the kindness and care they receive. Once they have learned to love you, they will never ever turn against you, even when in some moments you thrash them out of anger or irritability caused by the burden of life as a human.
Rex, a Chowchow who has grown old with us, used to rotate head-chase-tail, a big, furry dreidel, when Leena and I come home from the office. That was when he was younger and had more energy. Now he just barks a short welcome, sometimes followed by a sniff exploring for possible treats. The greeting may have grown sedate with age, but the bond of affection remains strong as ever. Should any dogkiller even try to harm any pet of ours, I will take a gun and, without a pang, shoot so much lead into him that the undertaker will need a forklift to remove the damned carcass.
Many vagabonds and beggars in Manila, like street dogs, are unwanted and useless strays. At noon, after a meal or none, some sleep on the narrow sidewalks behind the Central Post Office. The jeepneys and cars whizz by, but they are used to the fumes and curious glances of passengers. Sometimes the musty odor of rotting lilies floating along the Pasig River, just across the street, creeps into their dreams.
Early every morning, about 6 or 7 a.m., the shrill sound of whistles of the guards rouse the vagrants from their sleep at the park in front of the Post Office. From the grass they rise, they emerge from the bushes and climb out of dried-out fountains, where tattered laundries were hung to dry overnight. Some snatches a few more minutes under the benches while the police poke those snoring outside the precinct. The police, who deal with the rough edges of life day in and day out, tolerate a situation which is beyond their authority and inclination to mend.
At the edges of Intramuros, just outside the walls, a family stays on tattered blankets and sacks which serve as warm protection against the dew of the grass and the roughness of bare patches on the ground. A pot of rice, perched on a triangle of stones, simmers over the fire of the improvised stove. A bare path, worn smooth by early joggers and bikers, divides the family plot from the sidewalks, where commuters wait for transportation to work. The noise of streetchildren extracting alms from motorists in the middle of the road mixes with the cries of migrant vendors in the roar of traffic.
These scenes I witnessed as a newsman at the beginning of the new millennium. I don't think changes in administration, including the present one, have contributed significant amelioration to their lot. The only new trend I noticed in the Social Welfare department is that the dinky lady who heads it now has changed the highlights in her hair to a single dung-colored band, much simpler than the rainbow-colored highlights she sported when she was serving the Arroyo administration.
The more I see of people, especially those in government, the deeper grows my respect and affection for dogs. Why should Homo sapiens be the dominant species? If bestial cruelty is the determinant, why not take some crooked officials and dogkillers to the ruthless jungles to even up the score?
Klaatu may be right after all -- the earth must be saved, from the destructive humans.
Ninoy Aquino's favorite song, they say, is "Impossible Dream." This certainly pertains to his efforts to attain the presidency, which whimsical fate eventually denied him. It would have been a common story about fate playing with people's lives, sometimes hurling the mighty to perdition and sometimes lifting vagabonds to wealth and power, had the tale not been broadened by bewildering events that would span decades.
The First Day Cover above, postmarked August 21, 1986, commemorates the third death anniversary of Sen. Benigno Simeon "Ninoy" Aquino Jr., who was assassinated in 1983 upon arrival at the Manila International Airport. His brutal murder led to outrage and revolt.
Even if in his solitary confinement at Fort Bonifacio, where he was imprisoned shortly after Martial Law in the early 1970s, Ninoy suffered surrealistic Kafka-Dali dreams, I think it never occurred to him that his wife, who visited him and brought him food, would eventually assume the seat he had intensely aspired and worked for. Surely not in his wildest dream did it occur that his death would propel his wife to the presidency. Only Ninoy can tell if he was teased or bludgeoned by fate.
First Day Covers postmarked Feb. 22-25, 1986, Camp Crame, celebrating the People Power Revolution that validated Cory Aquino's right to the presidency, which she ostensibly won against Marcos on February 7, 1986. Marcos and Cory both declared victory, but Marcos was declared winner by the Comelec. However, three weeks later, he and his family would flee to Hawaii when the EDSA revolt broke out.
Cory turned over her seat to Fidel Ramos in 1992. Ramos was replaced in 1998 by Joseph Estrada, who was ousted two years later by another People Power. Vice President Gloria Arroyo served out Estrada's remaining term. Later, Erap would serve a term in prison for plunder. Arroyo was accused of cheating her way to another six-year term through the 2004 election; she is also suspected of outstripping both Marcos and Estrada in the art of plunder.
Anyway, in Aug. 1, 2009, Cory Aquino passed away, setting off a chain of events that will pressure his son, Benigno Simeon "Noynoy" Aquino III to run for the presidency. Surely Ninoy could not have foreseen his son will be the second President Aquino.
FDC above shows Cory Aquino's funeral on August 5, 2009.
Postmark is Sept. 6, 2009, Feast of Mary.
Noynoy buried his rivals with a huge electoral landslide in May 2010. In June 30 he took his oath-of-office and became President Aquino II.
The Philippine Postal Corporation issued this FDC to mark Noynoy Aquino's assumption to the highest seat of this benighted land. Cory, in the stamp, seems to be waving happily to his son here. To those who are symbolically inclined, Cory in the other stamp is looking outward, towards a future lighted by the sun behind Noynoy's picture.
July 26, 2010, is the postmark on this FDC, now affixed with a set of Noynoy's own stamps. It was on this day the new president delivered his first State of the Nation Address.
What fate decrees next, I dare not speculate on. Imelda Marcos and her two children, one bearing her late husband's name, are back in power; four Arroyos have been elected by masochistic constituents to decent positions; Binay has become our first black VP, his son replacing him as Makati mayor, and a daughter serves in the House. The family that preys together stays in power forever. I have seen so many strange and cruel events to pretend to have the taste for more.
This is for friends who think that life is just a burden to be endured, that all problems must vanish, that to rest is bliss.
I offer the alternative:
Grave thoughts
Here in my loneliness
I am idle, finally at rest.
I don't fret, no one bothers me,
No problems to solve-- for eternity. -- Willian the Henry
NOTE:
A townmate to Mark Twain, who was on a sentimental journey to Hannibal: "Mr. Clemens, I was born close to your birthplace in Florida, and have been in the house where you were born, often."
Twain: "I was not born often --only once, but I'm glad to see you, all the same."
At last! Lumabas na ang unang sipi ng Kikay Magazine. P500 lang dahil collector's item karaniwan lagi ang Vol. 1 No. 1 ng kahit anong publications ngayon. Kung hindi namin bebenta ito, magiging garbage collector's item pa rin.
Bakit Kikay?Kasi cute yang si Kikay nu'ng puppy pa lang (di ba?). Maliban pa sa mga kontrobersyal na tsismis tungkol kina Ellen at Marlin, na pinilit kong lumabas sa cover. (Sabi ko sa kanila: "Pano'ng bebenta ang magasin kung aso lang ang nasa takip? Pumayag din after binigyan ko ng load ang mga bruha.)
Isinama ko na rin sa Page 2 yung mga Hainaku ko kay Marlin. Alam n'yo yung Japanese 17-syllable poems? Well, iba sa haiku itong mga kalikot-diwang sumusuksok sa utak ko tuwing may insomnia ako. Hainaku ang bansag dahil pag di ka makatulog, mapapabuntung-hininga ka.
Por eksampol:
Hay naku! Wasak na naman ang tulog ko,
Parang lagi akong nilalaro.
Madilim ka lagi, aking umaga;
Katipan kita, mahal kong Insomnia.
At eto naman ang mga Text Poems ko kay Marlin tungkol sa kanya. Ipinadadala ko sa kanya bawat isa tuwing madaling-araw noon:
1.
Gabi na naman,
Bilog na ang buwan,
Lilipad na ako uli,
Hati ang katawan.
2.
Umaga na naman,
Wala na ang buwan.
“Marlin, sa’n mo dinala?”
“Aba, Kuya! di ko kinuha.”
3.
Si Marlin nangungulangot,
Ay naku, nakakakilabot,
Kung anu-ano ang nasusungkit,
May bilog, may itim,
Cute pa raw yung maliliit.
4.
Ang kilikili ni Marlin,
Gustong paputiin;
Ibinabad sa suka,
Gumamit ng papaya,
Ayun, nag-amoy atsara.
Para sa mga pumatol sa magasin na ito, puwede rin kayong magpadala ng kulo ng inyong utak para (1) masaya, (2) magkaroon ng Vol. 2. Yun namang walang kakayahang sumulat, magpadala na lang ng P500 para tumanggap ng bago, malaki, matingkad, marubdob at brand new na "Thank you!"
In my recent deal with a stamp dealer, I saw in his stock this old picture showing the scene of Rizal's execution. It's not the original picture, I know, but it was obviously developed from the original film. It now hangs above my bed to remind me how alone we really are -- at birth and in death.
This stamp was based on the photo above
Very few people in this world, mostly martyrs and criminals in Death Row, know the exact date when they will die. In a recent survey, people were asked whether they'd rather know or not. Only 5% answered yes.
Last Farewell
A long, long time ago, long before men searching for gold desecrated FortSantiago, a condemned man stirred in his cell inside the fort.
That morning, a Monday, he was told the verdict of the court – he would be executed at 7 next morning, 30 December 1896. The trial had ended just a few days ago, and the sentencing was immediate. He would not even see the new year unfold.
In the afternoon he was visited by members of his family, a newspaperman, his defense counsel, and some priests. Soon after, the sun went down, allowing the darkness of his last night to enter his cell.
It would not have mattered, because a light had been kept burning in his cell. The light was not allowed to go dark as there was a standing order to keep the prisoner in sight all the time.
Guards were posted outside his window, not only to keep watch but also to keep him from committing suicide, should the thought enter his mind. But the prisoner just spent the night in front of his table, bare except for an alcohol burner, inscribing his last thoughts. He kept on writing as the shadow of a guard looking in fell on him from time to time.
What he wrote would survive and become part of his country’s recorded history. It was a magnificent verse expressing the man’s love and aspiration for his country, of his dreams when he was young, of his prayers for widows and orphans of war, for mothers who weep in sorrow, and for those submitted to torture.
He also wrote of places “where there are no slaves, no hangmen, no oppressors; where faith does not kill, where he who reigns is God.”
At 6 o’clock in the morning, he wrote his final letters to his father and mother. Then the guards came and bound his hand behind his back.
Outside, the sky was bright and blue in the best season of the year. The prisoner felt the slight chill in the air. Streets and buildings outside the fort were hung with flags. Even before first light a dense crowd had already gathered. People lined both sides of the route leading to the grassy expanse of the Luneta de Bagumbayan, the grass still damp with the dew of tropical night.
Local people, dressed in their best, had come to join the Spaniards in uttering patriotic cheers. Despite the tension in the city and the extra security measures taken, there was an exhilarated atmosphere of fiesta. As the minutes drew near 7 a.m. the noise of the crowd were hushed. The beat of an approaching drum announced the arrival of the condemned man.
First came the drummer. After him, flanked by tall Spanish Jesuits in black soutanes and shovel-hats, came the smaller figure of the prisoner, followed by his lawyer, Taviel de Andrade, and a military escort.
Aged 35, shorter than the average Filipino, and pale after two months in prison, Rizal was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and tie, and a black derby. His expression was serene as he scanned the faces in the crowd; his eyes, compelling and intelligent, locked with those who looked at him. As he passed, silence reigned as people stared with the uneasy sense of being controlled by something only a man about to die would understand.
The crowd was so dense and there was so much jockeying for position that the escort had to force a way through to the place of execution, which was some distance from the wall of Intramuros, nearly in the center of Luneta.
An open square has been formed, where on three sides soldiers held back the crowd. The fourth side, facing the blue of ManilaBay, was empty. It was the direction in which the shots would be fired. It was where Rizal would stand.
To kill a Filipino, a firing squad composed of Filipino soldiers was formed. But behind them stood a row of Spanish soldiers, prepared to take over and shoot the squad itself should anything go wrong.
Rizal stood facing them. The Spanish captain in charge approached and directed him to face the sea. Rizal said he wished to die facing the firing squad. He should not be shot in the back; he was not a traitor. The captain expressed his regret: he had his orders and must obey them.
Rizal asked to be shot in the small of his back, not in the head. The captain agreed. Did the prisoner wish to kneel? No, he will die on his feet. He also declined to be blindfolded.
It was now 7 o’clock. The sun was up, a bright and silent witness to his execution. With the trees and ornate lamp posts of Luneta casting long shadows across the grass, Rizal stood facing the sea.
A preparatory word of command was barked; Rizal braced for the impact. Another word of command; in the next second would come the shot.
In the last moment of his life, Rizal, in a clear, steady voice, with his last breathe, uttered his last words, the cry of Christ on the cross: “Consumatum est!” Then the volley of shots followed; Rizal tried to turn around as he fell.
Since the execution was on a December day, there was no rain to wash away the stain of dried human blood from the grass of Luneta. Time would eventually erase the stigma of the execution, but Time could not secure the Filipinos' fervor for freedom.
Speaking through his character in El Filibusterismo, Fr. Florentino, Rizal observed: “…We must secure [our liberty] by making ourselves worthy of it. And when a people reaches that height, God will provide a weapon, the idols will be shattered, tyranny will crumble like a house of cards and liberty will shine out like the first dawn.”
Are we to be enslaved by ignorance and corruption throughout our short life? Rizal died, but he was free.
The romanticized narrative of Rizal's execution above -- edited from an article in The Angeles Sun, April 1989 issue -- was heavily derived from books by Austin Coates, Austin Craig, etc., and from newspaper and magazine articles. Imagination, plus a sense of deep indignation from reading Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo, provided the impetus to post this blog, with a spark of hope that Filipinos will realize that they still are not worthy of freedom that only people who love their country deserve.
You know you are reading a masterpiece when the very first sentence grabs you by the collar, and hurls you into thoughts of your own, then impels you to write them down. You wish you can narrate, by even a smidgen, as well as the author, at the same instant knowing the impossibility of the task, which requires a gift seldom bestowed upon mere mortals.
The windy rhetoric flings me back to Earth, my ears ringing -- Hello, Willy, well, hello, Willy, it's so nice to have you back where you belong. I ignore the dust on my face and pride, thinking more of the disapproving glare of Mencken, a fearsome mentor and idol from way back when. He taught me that poetry and reality can never mix. T.S. Eliot may be resurrected by Andrew Lloyd Webber in "Cats" -- where his verses form the backbone of "Memories" -- but his efforts at prose have faded into the wasteland of literature. Louis Armstrong's and Webber's compositions live on -- the dust that covers me will nevermore touch the works brought to life by those who are given the key to immortality.
The light of the torch borne by Mencken, laid low by stroke, was rekindled in their own way by sardonic columnist Mike Royko; Raymond Chandler, who created suave and patient private-eye Philip Marlowe; and Mickey Spillane, whose tales of savage Mike Hammer (who I think was the forerunner of today's Dark Knight) are hardcore literature, like Chandler's, like Ian Fleming's James Bond novels and vignettes. The blessed can really live twice: once when they are born, and once when they are resurrected by their own creations -- all connected to each other, in a circle in a hoop that never ends. They can paint with the color of the wind.
Running through all the masters' work is their mordant disdain of the safe and mediocre life, an existence shielded from the coarse, visceral, cruel, indifferent but colorful way of the world. Clerks, accountants, greengrocers, salesmen and other like-minded members of the herd are but glorified servants; their petty dreams, their dismal endeavors and lives of drudgery, in the long run, don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.
Rick Blaine is more alive than billions today who sacrifice their youth, their ambitions, their lives to mundane pursuits; no lofty thoughts stirred their minds, unperturbed to the end that there is an alternative to mediocrity, that there is delight in life, pride in achievement, poetry in motion and music for chameleons. But to surmount their fate, the fire in their minds and souls must be ignited; they must have at least a portion of the gift the gods heap upon the artists of the realm. But they do not listen, they're not listening still -- perhaps they never will. It is the timeless dust of those lost souls that covers me.
When a cat curls up and sleeps for a long time, it is contented with life. I’m not. Not sleeping long hours; not contented.
I wake up in the small hours of the morning and I think of tasks left undone in the measly 24 hours allotted per day. Can’t the Earth slow down, lax as a cat, and make its orbit 48 hours to make our day twice as long?
Sometimes I lie awake in the dark, constructing stories in my mind, everything flowing into place. I finish, only to see my work melt in the morning sun.
So I compose silly ditties, hoping the mind game will summon the Sandman. No such luck, and the Gudam poems are born. They are short and easily retained in memory, so they exist.
I email them to friends. I explain:
Gudam is short txt for gud a.m.—good morning: very early morning, when sleep wouldn’t come and the darkness of the night mingles with the false light of dawn. It isn’t as noiseless as we think; and the images are so different in perspective they tend to morph when the sunlight pours in and dispels the somber thoughts molded in the throes of the birth of a new day.
I hope you understand that, because I’m still figuring out what that exactly means.
Anyway, here’s a sample of what is bred when moonlight through the window churns my mind:
The moon is lunatic,
Sending beams to break my sleep.
Ay, buwan, tinimbang ka ngunit kulang,
Di mo ba alam, insomniac ako, hunghang!
There are times I drift back to sleep, but it’s still early when I reopen my eyes. Then I realize what wakes me up.
The sun is shining,
The bird is chirping,
Soon it will be crispy.
My breakfast will be ready
When it is crunchy.
I think cats have it easy because they don’t need much to make them happy.
Cats are happy, people are crazy. When we don’t have money, we set our goal to gather wealth. Billions of our species use their lives to accumulate money, stressing out their lives to old age so they can give their hard-earned money to doctors, who treat them for arteriosclerosis, stroke, or psychosis.
But there are a few cat people who take everything in stride; they accumulate and use money to enjoy life. Money is the tool to a good life, they know, and life is the precious spark that should not be spent for money’s sake. But the majority in this planet knows otherwise. No wonder this planet is a mess.
Una kong nabasa itong obra ni Ms Joi Barrios tungkol kay Salome nu'ng 1991,
