A Small Video Footage, For A Change

A friend directed me to a page that contains this very quaint video.

The title: La poésie comme l'amour n'est que foi

La poésie comme l'amour n'est que foi
[Merci beaucoup, mon ami. Très intéressant. ]

Read more here. The person in question is Silence Sonore.

Post-Mortem Lesson 7: Joy and Sorrow

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

- Kahlil Gibran, "The Prophet"

Before I used to ask why something that gives you joy can give you sorrow in one unfortunate instance.

I once even arrived at a rather unjust conclusion that attachment to earthly things has a lot to do with this. That it is all organic, a man's tendency to hold on to his physical possessions and attributes.

I have been wrong, of course....there are things beyond the physical realm that I failed to factor in.

I fully understand now.

The Last Song Syndrome 12: C.R.E.E.P. (The Fall), Clever and Witty, Never Mind That It Is As Old As Mark E. Smith

"He reads books of the list book club,
And after two months, his stance a familiar hunch.
It's that same slouch you had the last time he came around."
- The Fall, "C.R.E.E.P."

When I was still attending the university, "chong" music lorded it over the airwaves, thanks to the likes of XB102, 105.1FM, and later on, NU107. Chong is better known as New Wave, the former being a local variation. While I was wary of this label, I do admit that I like a good deal of chong music and, well, chong artists. I'm pretty sure that did not make me a "chong", in the same manner that listening to punk and hardcore did not make me a punk either.

C.R.E.E.P. is one of those supposedly chong songs that I really like. The Fall is essentially, from its inception in 1977 up to the present, Mark E. Smith, lyricist, frontman, and a known book lover. I have to emphasize the latter; it seems that C.R.E.E.P. is in itself a criticism aimed at so-called book lovers. Of course I did not really care then. The song had been my constant companion: it played while I was dissecting my frogs, cats, and sharks in my Zoology classes, it was blasting off the speakers when I was having a good time with friends, it was consoling me when things went wrong, it was appealing to my failing memory whenever I crammed for my examinations.

Lately I have been organising my messy digital files and I came across this collection of John Peel sessions of The Fall. I know it was Je who got hold of them years ago, himself being a fan of cleverly written songs and edgy artists. The song never fails to delight, even after all these years, but I now understand what Mark E. Smith was saying all along. Great to have C.R.E.E.P. on my player once again: it is one clever and witty song...

...which is exactly what I have always wanted my companion to be.

Public Service: A Typhoon Named Ketsana/Ondoy (and more typhoons to come?!)

Ketsana (PAGASA name: Ondoy) : the proper name for the typhoon that left Metro Manila (National Capital region, Republic of the Philippines) and its surrounding areas practically underwater, creating what is now said to be the worst flood to have hit Manila in 50 years.


The winds started rushing in late in the morning of Saturday, September 26, and soon after the rains were pouring in. Perhaps I underestimated this outburst of Mother Nature, because I was still bent on walking from my house to Powerplant Mall to get some groceries.

Many hours later, I found out that I was one lucky lucky bastard.



Lucky because, I live in a high place and my area was one of the very few parts of the metro which was not hit by floods: all I had to deal with along the way that fateful Saturday was numerous puddles and temporarily lost cable and connection services. SMS were coming in from friends, mainly checking on one another's safety, and then reality gripped me. More than 80% of Metro Manila was flooded, leaving 246 people dead (as of the latest count) and many more homeless, without electricity, food, and water,



This is just an example of how the typhoon has affected the lives of even the people I know. Fortunately for my friend Jan, the floods receded and her family was alright. (You can read about her own account here and see some other photos courtesy of Maren Mae here.) As of this time, there are still people left stranded on the rooftops and in buildings, and as such boats and divers' services were being solicited. Many homeless families in Marikina, one of the places hardest hit by the storm, are cramped in classrooms, babies still covered with mud, and many with wounds. There is no electricity nor water for the most part of the area. It is likely indeed that an epidemic will break soon.

It also does not help to know that another typhoon is about to come in on Thursday, tomorrow .... (yep, Parma is not just another name for ham nor the Italian city anymore :( )

It is disheartening, to say to the least. TIME asks succinctly, why wasn't Manila prepared? Indeed, when disasters like this hit our city, we often find ourselves huddled, fending for ourselves, helping one another, cursing tragedy and thanking the heavens at the same time ... and the government, until 3 to 4 days later, was hardly in sight...and that's another (bad) story.

Eventually it is just about us, and the people who care, the people we care for, and the people who need our care.

There are many ways to help, and a list can be found here. A good friend forwarded me this link which will take you to a spreadsheet containing a good number of places where goods and monetary help can be donated. This is sufficient information for the moment. Do take time in going over the list, that alone can give you many ideas on how to help out. No one should pressure you to give beyond your means, for no effort is too small nor insignificant, as long as it comes from the heart. Another very useful link here on ML Quezon III's blogsite. Check it out.

[I will be going back to my usual self-indulgent posts next time when it is more appropriate. *grins* See you later, friends.]

Human Soul In My Hands

*****[Disclaimer: This story appeared for the first time in Trash Radio Manila. I was creating a mood for a playlist and thought of putting this up. Wrong venue, I figured out later on. *shrugs*
So I thought of reprinting my crude attempt at story-writing here. Je, bless his soul, the very talented writer that he was, had told me that my writing style is too "clinical" (I do not know what he meant, and I think I mentioned this in my past post), but he admitted to having enjoyed reading this story. To my classmates in primary school who may come across this piece, I changed some details just a wee bit, but this actually happened...go do the guessing now.]*****


At six years of age, I, semi-autistic cartoon-preoccupied Catholic school girl in my first year in primary school, had a very little inkling of what a human soul is like. I only knew that a soul is what comes out of the human body at death, yet another concept that was alien to me. And that I could not, pity my feeble brain, theoretically distinguish a soul from a spirit, or a ghost perhaps.

But what did I care then? I was living in comfort world, studying in a school just adjacent to a church, the school canteen annexed strategically to a funeral parlour. At recess time we just had to look at the windows to know if there was an ongoing wake; the reflection of the candles and incandescent bulbs on the window glass said it all. We would get our lunchboxes and eat and gleefully exchange stories, unmindful of what was at the other side of the wall.

Now we had a classmate named Rachel (not her real name) who was new to our school. We found Rachel to be rather unusual. For one, she hardly talked: the infrequent questions that went her way, most probably by accident, were returned with a sly smile and nothing more. She was never seen to use a handkerchief, so oftentimes she went around with snot dried up over her lips, which did not help to flatter her white face. Her school uniform always bore creases in all places, and if one was lucky he may be able to identify a number of areas that required reinforcement with numerous stitches. Her straight brown hair was unkempt at all times and needed de-lousing.

But most of all, we never saw her bring food, or buy snacks at the canteen for that matter. During recess time, Rachel would approach the richer kids, palm up, and hiss, her voice coming off a mouth most likely filled with saliva: Pahingi.

[Pahingi, this wretched Tagalog word which can mean a lot depending on the person saying it or the circumstance during which this is uttered, translates to "Can I have...". In this case, Rachel was always seen to ask for food.]

So it was no surprise that Rachel never joined one group, nor was welcomed by any. She would just mosey along, or stay near the sink for the most part of snack time, fidgeting with the contents of her pockets.

One day, the class was having an art activity. I asked permission to go to the canteen to drink from the tap faucet. My teacher agreed.

I descended onto the few steps of stairs that led to the canteen. The windows of the funeral parlour shone brightly as I walked.

Rachel was standing by the sink when I got there. Her hands were wet, the left holding a few one peso coins. She gave me a crooked smile. I whispered a tentative “hello” then leaned onto the faucet.

Rachel bent towards me and hissed.

“Gusto mo makakita ng kaluluwa? (Would you like to see a soul?)”

I straightened my back and wondered what she meant.

“Ano yun? (What did you say?),” I asked. Maybe I heard her wrong.

Rachel’s almond brown eyes gleamed. “Eto o. Hawak ko ang kaluluwa ng lola ko (Here, I am holding my grandmother’s soul),” and she opened her right hand. I looked at her palm and squinted my eyes.

I saw a few pieces of smooth white wafer-like material, like scraps of cement. Except that Rachel’s had a matte, powdery appearance to it. There were no traces of white residue or soap suds on her palm. Rachel was then grinning, her mouth revealing dirty, uneven set of teeth. The yellow light from the window was shining on her right cheek, rendering a rather grotesque appearance to her face. I got a bit scared, but my sense of curiosity prevailed.

“Nahahawakan mo kaluluwa ng lola mo? Paano? (You are actually able to hold your grandmother’s soul? How is that possible?)’ Then pointing at Rachel’s right palm, I asked. “Paano mo nakuha ito? (How did you get this?)”

Rachel beamed.

“Nang namatay ang lola ko, nilibing siya. Noong hinukay siya, nakita namin ito.” (When my grandmother died, she was buried. When her body was exhumed, we found this.) Rachel then went towards the faucet, and as water dripped from the tap, so did questions flow in my head. I found her tale to be too incredible.

She then continued.

“Tapos kinuha ko to. Binasa ko siya kasama ang mga piso. Naging makikintab sila. Tingnan mo! (Then I got this and washed my peso coins with it. Look how shiny they’ve become!)” Rachel shook the shiny coins on her left hands. “Gusto mo subukan natin sa piso mo? (Would you like to try to do the same thing on your peso coin?)” she excitedly offered.

I touched the glistening coins on her palm, running my fingers on the embossed figures. I frowned.

“Sabon naman yan eh! (That must be soap!)” I snorted, as I thought to myself how stupid I was to even start to think about believing her tall tale.

“Hindi ito sabon! (This is not soap!)” Rachel insisted, drool threatening to escape from the corners of her mouth. “Kaya nga pahiram ng piso mo, ipapakita ko sa iyo na kikintab yun ng walang bula (That is why I’m borrowing your peso coin, I will show you that it is going to be shiny without creating any soapsuds.)” The shadows on her pale face were getting more and more grotesque. I would rather not wrong this girl since she was becoming creepier by the minute.

Hesitantly, I dug into my pocket. Taking out my dainty wallet, I clicked it open and picked out some dirty coins. Rachel, having kept her own set of shiny coins in her pocket, was nearly breathless, posed in her favorite gesture of supplication, as I was giving her my coins.

She tossed the coins and the “soul” and shook them together in her palms cupped upon another. Rachel then brought her hands to her mouth and muttered what seemed to be a spell. She placed her hands directly beneath the faucet, which continued to spew water.

I watched intently as Rachel mumbled more unintelligible words while gently wiping the coins and the “soul” alternately. My coins, and the soul of Rachel’s grandmother, in the hands of one girl so earnest to prove that she was not pulling my leg. The coins started to catch the reflection of candles and light bulbs from the window. No bubbles to diffuse the eerie glint of the coins, no words to break the morbid silence enveloping this irreverent ritual.

Finally, Rachel spoke.

“Ayan, makintab na. (Here, they’re already shiny.)”

She brought the coins up close to my eyes.

“Ang kintab nga! (Shiny indeed!)” I conceded as I started to pick up my coins from her palm, trying to avoid touching the white matter beneath.

Rachel, her face glittering with her little victory, inched nearer. Her white forehead, her glistening nose, the top of her upper lip smeared with sweat and snot, her crooked smile, her dirty, uneven teeth – for the first time, I had seen her countenance in full detail. I felt an unexplainable sense of fear.

“Sige (Go ahead),” she urged, “Hawakan mo ang kaluluwa ng lola ko. (Touch my grandmother’s soul.)”

As if by trance, I lifted my right hand. I shivered as I tried to feel the “soul” that Rachel was alluding to. The white wafer remained matte, not at all slippery. The whole experience was making me sick on the spot.

With the little courage left in me, I spoke.

“Rachel, baka hinihintay na ako ni Miss Aldaba. Baka magalit siya. (Rachel, Miss Aldaba, might be waiting for me. She might get mad at me.)”

Having said this, I quickly left, scurrying past the sink, past the sickening reflection off the window, past the short flight of stairs. I could no longer bear the sight of Rachel, palms up, holding her grandmother’s soul, anymore.

Reaching the classroom, I nodded to my teacher who then gestured me to my desk. I picked up my artwork with trembling hands, my heart throbbing hard and fast, my thoughts running crazily in my mind.

No. I had not seen a human soul before, but I had just touched one.

I shut my eyes tight.* * * * *

Rachel stayed in school for only a few months. We would still see her during snack time, fidgeting by the sink and talking to herself. I never got to talk to her again, nor did I tell my groupmates about my fateful encounter with her.

Sometimes, while I eat lunch with the group, I would catch Rachel looking at me, her little form illuminated by yellow light coming off the window of the funeral parlour….

Then she was gone, and no one has ever gotten to know where she went.

Human Soul In My Hands
16 August 2007

Photo credit: Grad pic courtesy of my good friend AL Bjornstad.

How To Have Mindless Fun On A Very Rainy Wednesday Morning (not that I mind...)

***Sometimes I get questions like, how do you derive fun from being alone? Or, how could you still afford to smile about in spite of?

Other times, questions shift to the opposite side of the spectrum: How could you remain glum when you have many friends to talk to? Why could you not just (and I am really beginning to friggin' hate this thoughtless phrase) move on?

Bottomline is, I suppose I am in a not-so-usual situation and as such I make a pretty good case in progress for life situation studies. [Holmes and Rahe collated 43 life events/stressors and ranked death of a spouse as the top stressor. This list appears in Kaplan and Sadock's Synopsis of Psychiatry. ] Thus I get a good number of questions mainly about how I cope with my loss.

I will not even think about giving any "inspirational" tips - I am far from being inspired anyway - but I do think it is all about will, about wanting to rise above the situation. And even if this is true, I do forget about it at times. These are the times when spontaneity takes over.***


It was a very very rainy Wednesday morning and I was in my clinic, watching the flood rise gradually, approaching the sidewalk that fronts the building. There were very few patients owing to the horrible weather. A nurse turned on the radio, and I went to a small room (where the radio was), which is annexed to the lab. I locked the door and thought about staying there for just a few minutes, alone.

Suddenly, this song played. I remember this tune really really well, for I was a fan of The Boy once in my young and nubile life, and I am not ashamed to admit it.



This video did play in my mind and pretty soon I was having fun dancing a la George O'Dowd, complete with gyrations and footwork. I swear I had fun dancing by myself in that room. By the time I went out, I was grinning, and the nurses were trying to figure out why....

Culture Club, of all things, made my rainy floody Wednesday morning.

Bubble

I once called you a bubble. You still are. I will not write your name, but I pretty much doubt if you go over my profile, or my blog (you only do so to look at the photos) or even if you do, I seriously doubt if you understood what I say. But let me tell you a story I never told you before.

There is a friend of mine, a son of a poetess, who writes stories and songs. One day, he asked for a message from God. The message went:

"God wants you to know that happiness has nothing to do with pleasure."

I learned about this soon enough and asked my friend, my heart brimming with care, and doubt, and joy, and sadness.

"If wanting to share your life with one you really care for is happiness, is it really worth the wait and the tears to share it with someone who is not sure of himself?"

And he said, with the wisdom of a man who spent a lot more years on earth than I did.

"Sometimes it is worth the wait, sometimes it is worth the tears. Although we can never really be sure until the waiting is over and the tears are shed."

Then I walked away with resolve in my being: I will break the bubble of doubt and challenge fate to a duel.

[Yes. A duel. Because whether you take this or not, I believe in my heart that you are worth the fight, waiting and tears and scars healed and unhealed be damned.]

Don't stray too far, Bubble. Don't ever burst on me.

Post-Mortem Lesson 6: Recluse

It is certainly true that we who have lost our loved ones strive to make our lives as near normal (as we knew it) as possible even though we know at the bottom of our hearts that it will never ever be the same again. It is even harder to establish some sense of normalcy in our daily routine when the person who died has lived with us, or spent time with us under a single roof.

I do not mean to underestimate the sense of loss of friends but it cannot be denied that the impact of loss on the person who has lived with the departed, as far as re-establishing the daily routine is concerned (and I am very careful that I make this disclaimer), is more pronounced and more profound.

Various coping mechanisms are adopted by this particular subset of the bereaved. Some resort to shoving bitter memories at the deepest recesses of their brains by drowning themselves in work. Others, like a friend of mine who was coping with the death of his mother, stayed in bed for many days half-hoping they die in their sleep and join their beloved in the other world. A few sell their homes or leave them to either start anew or avoid being reminded by memories of the deceased and hurt themselves in the process.

None of these are options for me, though I do admit to pushing myself to work many times. However, probably the most pronounced change on me of late, aside from rapid weight loss (30lbs in 4 months!) is my preference to stay home.

I was never a homebody. I would rather stay out of the house and roam around the bars or go for an out-of-towner. It is a different story now. Unless it is absolutely necessary for me to go out, I would rather be at home. Lounging around within the corners of my abode. Nestled among my litter comprised of books, records, CDs. Surfing the net or communicating with friends online. Watching travel shows. Attempting to cook....

A friend wondered if I am trying to draw some sense of comfort from my home, which I shared with Je for 6 years. I never really thought of it that way, but since she pointed it out, then maybe I am actually doing so. It is my way of keeping myself safe, perhaps; only I can protect myself from life's further insult, and I could use a lot of help from places where I can have a sense of security and normalcy.

If this makes me a recluse then yes I think I am for now. And the from the looks of it, most of my friends understand, and they let me be, but at the same time, they check on me. (Thank you God for giving me some really understanding, not so insensitive friends....)

Ang Naaalala Ko Tuwing Buwan Ng Wika

Ang buwan ng Agosto ang siyang itinalagang Buwan Ng Wika. Alam nating lahat ito, at malamang ay may kanya-kanya tayong mga alaala kung paano natin ipinagdiriwang ito noong tayo ay pumapasok pa sa elementarya at mataas na paaralan.

Malamang ay minsan na kayong sumayaw ng Itik-Itik (katulad ko, hahaha!), o ng Tinikling, o gumanap bilang isang marangal na binata o mayuming binibini sa isa sa mga dulang Pilipino sa inyong paaralan. Huwag na rin kayong mahiyang aminin na minsan sa buhay niyo ay humarap kayo sa maraming tao upang tumula, katulad ng mga kaklase ko noon na nakasuot ng camisa de chino at baro't saya habang tumutula ng "Ang Gabi Ni Armando Castro". (Tagapangasiwa ako noon kaya ligtas ako sa pagtula).

Subalit hindi ako nakaligtas sa mga kantahan. Taun-taon na lang ay kinakanta ng bawat antas ng aming paaralan ang awit na "Kay Ganda Ng Ating Musika". Minsan, nilalapatan siya ng mga titik na likha ng mga kaklase kong marunong magsulat ng Tagalog, pero pareho pa rin ang himig. At aaminin ko, minsan na rin akong nagsawa.

Pero ngayong nagbabaliktanaw ako, natatawa na lang ako. Kasi naman, tuwang buwan ng Agosto, ang mga sumasagi sa isipan ko ay sina Manuel L. Quezon, Jose P. Rizal, mga manunula katulad ni Huseng Batute, Francisco Balagtas at Manuel Principe Bautista, mga manunulat katulad nina Liwayway Arceo, Rogelio Sikat, at Lope K. Santos...at si HAJJI ALEJANDRO! Para sa di nakakikilala sa kanya, siya ang umawit ng "Kay Ganda Ng Ating Musika".

Sa kasawiang-palad ay wala akong mahanap na kuha ni Hajji Alejandro habang inaawit ang "Kay Ganda Ng Ating Musika" sa Folk Arts Theatre o kung saan pa man. Eto na lamang ang video/minus one. Salamat kay Delfindakila.)



Lulubusin ko na rin ang pagpapakilala sa awit na ito. Ang lumikha ng awit ay si Ryan Cayabyab. Inawit ito ni Hajji sa Metro Manila Popular Music Festival noong 1978 at ang awit na ito, sa aking pagkakatanda, ang nagkamit ng Unang Gantimpala. Hindi ako magugulat kung hanggang ngayon ay inaawit pa rin ito sa mga paaralan.

Kayo? Ano ang naaalala niyo tuwing buwan ng Agosto?

The Last Song Syndrome 11: Next To You (The Police), When Physical Presence Is Near Impossible

"You took me over baby, let me find a way." - The Police, "Next To You"

If only I can stretch myself so thin, I would like to be everywhere, be with all the people I want to be with, be in all places where I want to be, all at the same time. But I can't. This song is perfect, just perfect, for me.