"Cause you're working, building a mystery" Sarah Maclachlan
Mystery. Once the veil of mystery is stripped off, trust me, a relationship is on the doldrums. Next stop, splitsville. That's a friend speaking her mind, not me.
How in God's country can one sustain "mystery" in, say, a 3-year relationship, I silently wonder. Replicating a chameleon isn't exactly an enchanting prospect for me. What in the hell for? It's like being in a relationship with a schizo, no thanks.
Maybe I don't get it. Most of the time, I don't get it anyway. But here's my take: from the get-go, I want no mask. Layers to be peeled off, yes. No holding back, all cards on the table. Warts, zits, and all.
Mystery is so contrived, pa-epek and overrated. What possible mystery can one preserve - that you're an alien from Mars? That one grows fangs every time the moon is in full bloom?
Understanding and acceptance - how can they hold a candle in a relationship cloathed in mystery? I agree with Lucretius. The more knowledge is inherent in a thing, the greater the love. Isn't it the case of celebrities we like, we prepare a dossier of them, in our intent to know them in a deeper sense? Of course, it does not follow that just because you live with a person or spend time with him that you can already read the palm of his hand or that he can no longer spring a surprise. But the second-guessing is not deliberate.
I want boring and predictable, a comfortable knowledge that I can even predict the shirt my partner is going to wear on a particuar ocassion, the part of a film which he finds funny, a quotation that will rock his boat, what he's going to say in a repartee, what he is not saying, finish his sentences.
Even with friends, I would like to think I can order food for them or choose songs at videoke and there's no mystery involved anymore. Precisely you can do this because you somehow know them. Just recently, a dear friend dropped by and played some Dave Matthews in his guitar. I told him that if Baan were around, she would surely request for "Crash". True enough, when Baan got home and caught us jamming, she asked R, "can you play Crash?" R and I looked at each other and shared a secret smile, in unspoken agreement that I somehow know my sister. Maupay it feeling.
Showing posts with label mi familia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mi familia. Show all posts
Monday, August 24, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
sense overload
A room of one's own. The room in my mind. A room I would like to have, given the chance. Small, private, with everything of great value within an arm's reach - CDs, DVDs, books, whew! This is so-called life.
Behind this door is another universe, an encounter with the incalculable, a world where disenchantments are regulated and conditioned.
The present world, the world outside can be shut out. In a contrived environment, the world left behind can be recaptured by imitations and repetitive recollections, not born out of despair but of convenient necessity.
Nothing is worthless. Everything has value, even silence. Specially silence, sublime silence. Words and speech, they take a backseat. They have a different destiny.
And Emily Dickinson's ghost hovers. And it's my mother's birthday today. She would have been 64.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Beat It
Obviously, a CSI fan emailed me this. For all the money media reportage squeezed from the dignity of a dead celebrity, tongues will not cease wagging. Bring CSI to settle the matter and put
all speculations to rest.
As the illustration suggests, MJ's heart could no longer take a beating one day more. When the heart gives up, in real life and in movies, a sense of dread and emptiness and an absence of purpose prevails.
Rest easy, all our dead brothers.
****************************
Another message, this time an SMS from Fordy pricked a funny bone. I wasn't able to save it, so from memory, let me reconstruct it in Waray. The original text was incidentally in Tagalog.
Nanay: Upay-upaya gad it im katre.
Anak: Para ano? Magugubot man la gihap iton. Baga ka la hin nahigugma, tapos, masasakitan la.
Nanay: Char! Nag-emote an hubya.
Allusions. Hints and allegations. The state of our shared bed is a constant issue between my sister and I. My side gives an impression that it could have been slept in by an elephant and a cow and novels are my bedfellows so you can just imagine the chaos.
Lastly, my being "hubya". In my defense, I say that I was just born tired. As if I had a choice in the matter. As I said, I was born tired. So beat it.
all speculations to rest.As the illustration suggests, MJ's heart could no longer take a beating one day more. When the heart gives up, in real life and in movies, a sense of dread and emptiness and an absence of purpose prevails.
Rest easy, all our dead brothers.
****************************
Another message, this time an SMS from Fordy pricked a funny bone. I wasn't able to save it, so from memory, let me reconstruct it in Waray. The original text was incidentally in Tagalog.
Nanay: Upay-upaya gad it im katre.
Anak: Para ano? Magugubot man la gihap iton. Baga ka la hin nahigugma, tapos, masasakitan la.
Nanay: Char! Nag-emote an hubya.
Allusions. Hints and allegations. The state of our shared bed is a constant issue between my sister and I. My side gives an impression that it could have been slept in by an elephant and a cow and novels are my bedfellows so you can just imagine the chaos.
Lastly, my being "hubya". In my defense, I say that I was just born tired. As if I had a choice in the matter. As I said, I was born tired. So beat it.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Lola Dading and Bin Laden
In a twist of genius, Bin Laden released an audio PA addressed to the Arab world on the eve of Pres. Obama’s much-hyped speech in Egypt. He’s basically cautioning his flock, okey, you can have your boy-crush on Obama but let’s not be naïve here, he’s wearing the same suit as his predecessor. The man, he’s pretty old school - an audio message in this day and age? This is one for the books.
In the early 80s, at the peak of the petro-dollar boom, OFWs in the Middleast would send dozens of taped messages to their loved ones back home. That was all the rage.
Fast track to the early 90s - this became a private joke between me and an HS classmate who migrated to Canada. For a while, we exchanged correspondence with intense frequency and one time, he asked if his letters bored me to tears so he would just send cassette tapes of his message instead. “Just imagine I am in Saudi instead of Ontario,” he advised.
Then nasty, we would poke lame fun at Black hip-hop stalwarts with their blinding bling-bling, just copying Pinoy Saudi-fashion. Back then, understatement was a foreign idea. I remember a neighbor who had huge, and I mean huge, gold rings in practically all his fingers, so huge, it could choke you to death. And an attention-grabbing necklace that could whip the life out of the wearer by its sheer weight.
And the raging street humor at that time was “Lupig ka han ak Lolo” where the famous Johnny Pusong and his friends would play an uproarious game of upraise as to whose Lolo was more smartass.
And in a slight variation, I say “lupig ka han ak Lola.” Lola Dading, my paternal grandmother, was a woman who embodied her own sovereignty. She smoked and revved up with the boys. One summer when I was in Grade 2 or 3, she pulled me to her side, “there’s something I want to show you” as if it was King Arthur’s Holy Grail or some mystical power she was about to bequeath.
To her glee and my disappointment, she made me listen to her own recordings of my baby-talk when I was barely 2 years old. She purportedly preserved that for her son, who was away in India to study so he won’t feel so alienated not witnessing some firsts of his first-born. I wonder where those tapes are. Maybe me and Bin Laden could swap.
The latest Bin Laden tape may be a stroke of genius but the man has nothing on my Lola.
In the early 80s, at the peak of the petro-dollar boom, OFWs in the Middleast would send dozens of taped messages to their loved ones back home. That was all the rage.
Fast track to the early 90s - this became a private joke between me and an HS classmate who migrated to Canada. For a while, we exchanged correspondence with intense frequency and one time, he asked if his letters bored me to tears so he would just send cassette tapes of his message instead. “Just imagine I am in Saudi instead of Ontario,” he advised.
Then nasty, we would poke lame fun at Black hip-hop stalwarts with their blinding bling-bling, just copying Pinoy Saudi-fashion. Back then, understatement was a foreign idea. I remember a neighbor who had huge, and I mean huge, gold rings in practically all his fingers, so huge, it could choke you to death. And an attention-grabbing necklace that could whip the life out of the wearer by its sheer weight.
And the raging street humor at that time was “Lupig ka han ak Lolo” where the famous Johnny Pusong and his friends would play an uproarious game of upraise as to whose Lolo was more smartass.
And in a slight variation, I say “lupig ka han ak Lola.” Lola Dading, my paternal grandmother, was a woman who embodied her own sovereignty. She smoked and revved up with the boys. One summer when I was in Grade 2 or 3, she pulled me to her side, “there’s something I want to show you” as if it was King Arthur’s Holy Grail or some mystical power she was about to bequeath.
To her glee and my disappointment, she made me listen to her own recordings of my baby-talk when I was barely 2 years old. She purportedly preserved that for her son, who was away in India to study so he won’t feel so alienated not witnessing some firsts of his first-born. I wonder where those tapes are. Maybe me and Bin Laden could swap.
The latest Bin Laden tape may be a stroke of genius but the man has nothing on my Lola.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Tatay kong di kalbo
Every summer until college, my cousins and I were shipped off to our grandparents in Bohol. There were no telephones at that time but we would receive my mother’s typewritten letters signed “Mama Memie” every 2 weeks or so. Whose mother sends her children typewritten letters anyway?
That summer of 1981, no typewritten letter arrived but a telegram came saying “Papa is critical. Love, Mama.”
I asked an older relative what “critical” meant. She told me she did not even finish highschool, she had no idea. So I asked for a dictionary, there was none in my Lola Dading’s house.
As I waited for explanation, that confusing telegram was being passed from one relative to another, eliciting solemn and sullen expressions. When I pressed for answers, they would rearrange their faces and studiously swerved from my curiosity.
Two lessons learned: (1) Adults could not be trusted (2) “Critical” is a bad word.
Four days later, I saw my father inside a dark brown casket. My grandparents were so devastated while my mother put up a brave front. But not brave enough to deliver the eulogy. So I did, coached by one of my father’s closest friends.
From then on, I would compose eulogies for my father in my mind. Some wrote themselves in my journal.
Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to travel this earth ably accompanied by a father. It’s been 28 years this month since we lost him. I will always carry the weight of nothingness, I guess and as Marius mourned for his comrades in “Les Miserables”: There’s a grief that can’t be spoken and the pain goes on an on. Empty chairs and empty tables…”
Oi, kitchen-sink drama.
The feeling of emptiness does me a lot of good, actually. It forces me to set my sight on what I actually have which isn’t much but I am grateful. Plus, I try to live by Goethe’s code and I think everybody should:
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture everyday of his life in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful implanted in the human soul.”
That summer of 1981, no typewritten letter arrived but a telegram came saying “Papa is critical. Love, Mama.”
I asked an older relative what “critical” meant. She told me she did not even finish highschool, she had no idea. So I asked for a dictionary, there was none in my Lola Dading’s house.
As I waited for explanation, that confusing telegram was being passed from one relative to another, eliciting solemn and sullen expressions. When I pressed for answers, they would rearrange their faces and studiously swerved from my curiosity.
Two lessons learned: (1) Adults could not be trusted (2) “Critical” is a bad word.
Four days later, I saw my father inside a dark brown casket. My grandparents were so devastated while my mother put up a brave front. But not brave enough to deliver the eulogy. So I did, coached by one of my father’s closest friends.
From then on, I would compose eulogies for my father in my mind. Some wrote themselves in my journal.
Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to travel this earth ably accompanied by a father. It’s been 28 years this month since we lost him. I will always carry the weight of nothingness, I guess and as Marius mourned for his comrades in “Les Miserables”: There’s a grief that can’t be spoken and the pain goes on an on. Empty chairs and empty tables…”
Oi, kitchen-sink drama.
The feeling of emptiness does me a lot of good, actually. It forces me to set my sight on what I actually have which isn’t much but I am grateful. Plus, I try to live by Goethe’s code and I think everybody should:
“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture everyday of his life in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful implanted in the human soul.”
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The Talented Mr. Ripley
In his artless, guileless way, Dantoy disarmed me with this question – “Te, unsa man imong talent?”
This question did not come without a segue. Dantoy used to paint and sketch when he was younger. His teacher was Mr. Rivas, a kind man who treated him as if he were the next Van Gogh. I remember our few encounters because I would sometimes fetch Dantoy from his class and Mr. Rivas would sometimes drop by our place to check on my brother’s progress.
Then he just disappeared. I remember his wife being ill, that probably explains his disappearance. In his Maestro’s absence, Dantoy abandoned his watercolor and brushes. No matter how we badgered him to paint, he was deaf to our pleas. (No pun intended. My brother happens to be hearing-impaired)
I was only able to coerce him to paint with a dose of melodrama when I relocated to Manila. I requested him to paint me anything, anything that I could touch and stare at longingly everytime homesickness kicked in hard. A day before departure, he handed me a painting of an unmanned banca adrift at sea, the paddle almost slipping.
That painting isn’t with me. It’s prominently displayed in my former office and in the chaotic circumstance by which I resigned (my cancer recurred, frak!), some of my personal effects were also forsaken.
The casual conversation started with me convincing him to paint again and not to disregard his talent. It cannonballed into something frighteningly “profound” from his question why I was no longer watching “Totoy Bato” lately. He’s a bit miffed with me, I think. My excuse – the current focus is on the love story, something I can do away with. He felt obliged to tell me what I have been missing – Totoy is starting his boxing career. Hence this exchange:
D: Te, talent ba ang boxing? (Is boxing a talent?)
Me: Skill and talent.
D: Hatag sa Ginoo? (Is it God-given?)
Me: Oo. (Yes)
D: Ginoo sad mubawi? (Will God take it away?)
Me: Mahi-ubos Ginoo kung dili nimo gamiton sa maayo pero ambot lang kung bawi-on. Regalo man, dili gad siguro. (God may be displeased if we misuse it but I don’t know if He will take it back since it’s His gift)
D: Unsa man talent Baan? (What’s Baan’s talent?)
Me: Singing. Baking. Cooking.
D: Ikaw, unsa man imong talent? (How about you, what’s your talent?)
Me: Gutom na ka? Naa pay spaghetti sa ref. (Are you starved? There’s still spaghetti in the ref)
End of discussion.
Dodging sticky questions – can it be considered a talent?
This question did not come without a segue. Dantoy used to paint and sketch when he was younger. His teacher was Mr. Rivas, a kind man who treated him as if he were the next Van Gogh. I remember our few encounters because I would sometimes fetch Dantoy from his class and Mr. Rivas would sometimes drop by our place to check on my brother’s progress.
Then he just disappeared. I remember his wife being ill, that probably explains his disappearance. In his Maestro’s absence, Dantoy abandoned his watercolor and brushes. No matter how we badgered him to paint, he was deaf to our pleas. (No pun intended. My brother happens to be hearing-impaired)
I was only able to coerce him to paint with a dose of melodrama when I relocated to Manila. I requested him to paint me anything, anything that I could touch and stare at longingly everytime homesickness kicked in hard. A day before departure, he handed me a painting of an unmanned banca adrift at sea, the paddle almost slipping.
That painting isn’t with me. It’s prominently displayed in my former office and in the chaotic circumstance by which I resigned (my cancer recurred, frak!), some of my personal effects were also forsaken.
The casual conversation started with me convincing him to paint again and not to disregard his talent. It cannonballed into something frighteningly “profound” from his question why I was no longer watching “Totoy Bato” lately. He’s a bit miffed with me, I think. My excuse – the current focus is on the love story, something I can do away with. He felt obliged to tell me what I have been missing – Totoy is starting his boxing career. Hence this exchange:
D: Te, talent ba ang boxing? (Is boxing a talent?)
Me: Skill and talent.
D: Hatag sa Ginoo? (Is it God-given?)
Me: Oo. (Yes)
D: Ginoo sad mubawi? (Will God take it away?)
Me: Mahi-ubos Ginoo kung dili nimo gamiton sa maayo pero ambot lang kung bawi-on. Regalo man, dili gad siguro. (God may be displeased if we misuse it but I don’t know if He will take it back since it’s His gift)
D: Unsa man talent Baan? (What’s Baan’s talent?)
Me: Singing. Baking. Cooking.
D: Ikaw, unsa man imong talent? (How about you, what’s your talent?)
Me: Gutom na ka? Naa pay spaghetti sa ref. (Are you starved? There’s still spaghetti in the ref)
End of discussion.
Dodging sticky questions – can it be considered a talent?
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