A Star Named Joe

[If Paul Simonon would have been my lover, then Joe Strummer will always be a star in my musical firmament.]

JOHN GRAHAM MELLOR

aka JOE STRUMMER

21 August 1952 - 22 December 2002

Rest in peace, my dear star. Your music lives on. [Played on video: Coma Girl]

Second Death Anniversary

Je A. Bautista (Jan 1, 1966 - April 4, 2009)

Tu me manque. Take care forever.

Nearly four years ago, I was doing my training in Hong Kong. Je came over for a 4-day stay with me. My senior was all too glad to give me the time to be with him. You see, I noticed that the Chinese, and the Asians in general, value family and relationships so much. Knowing that Je was very important to me, my gracious senior allowed me enough free time. Not wanting to take advantage of his kindness, I worked double time so that I can have enough time with Je without sacrificing the quality of my work.

Je was meaning to stay for just 3 days, but he extended. The 4 days of his visit were probably some of the best days of my life.

I documented his visit in a photoblog of sorts. At first, Je was hesitant to have his photos put up for the cyber-universe to see, but he eventually obliged. Please visit the site. I simply want to share what happiness meant to me in the not-so-distant yet very distant past.

http://vgsamson.multiply.com/photos/album/24/The_Tourist_As_An_Accidental_OFW_or_the_other_way_around

and

http://vgsamson.multiply.com/photos/album/25/The_Tourist_As_An_Accidental_OFW_Part_2

It has always been said that we have to live in the here and now. True...but it is the past that make us into what we are, now. The past that has made us the better persons that we are now, is the past worth remembering.

Can you blame me when I say that somehow, I live in the past? It is so, because I want to live for the present, and the future.

Today, I remember...to go on. Here and now and forever.

Happy Birthday, Je

Je Bautista: Jan 1, 1966-April 4, 2009

You would have been 45.

Someone saw you in his dreams recently. It was a very vivid dream, he said.

That particular friend and I were talking to a priest, asking how you are. you were said to have spoken directly to him, my friend. Something to this effect.

Don't worry about me. I am happy where I am now.

Then a vision of Heaven.

When I heard this story, I was filled with every emotion imaginable: longing, sorrow, elation ... joy.

But it is ok. I do not mind my human sorrow, for it hardly compares to the gift of eternal joy.

Happy Birthday, Je.

Do not worry much about me. I can take care of myself in this world.

L'amour est L'eternel. Take care forever.

Brave New World, The Book (and How It Made Me Shake With Delight); Also, Palm Sunday

It is somewhat surreal, the feeling I had when I saw him somewhere in the 2nd Floor of a corner shop at the UP Shopping Center, my favorite haunt for the past 15 years or so of my life. (Aaaaaaagh! I nearly revealed my age!)

He was just self-absorbed, trying to be discreet, in a dimly-lit area of an otherwise bright room. But I was too sharp for him. Maybe because, ever since I have seen him once many years before in my youth, I never got to see him again ... until that very moment.

I am just too glad that he was not too jumpy, even as I was nearly shivering with excitement.

We meet again, ALDOUS HUXLEY. It is time to re-read BRAVE NEW WORLD.

More insights about the book later. Meanwhile...

*****

Yesterday's Linggo ng Palaspas (Palm Sunday) ushered in the start of the Holy Week in the Christian World. This makes today a "Holy Monday". I had a bit of fun taking photos of the salubong in a parish church nearby. You can read about it HERE.

Holy Week happens to be one of my favorite times of the year. It allows for a period of reflection (seriously though, one can choose to reflect any time of the year), the city suddenly becomes decongested, and that it takes place during summertime.

This year's Holy Week is particularly special for me. Je's 1st Death Anniversary takes place on an Easter Sunday...

...and for me, no commemoration can be more beautiful than this uncanny instance of serendipity, a juxtaposition of death and eternal life. Je must be really happy out there....

Special, very special, indeed. :) I am happy, and no amount of words can express this. Truly happy.

Remembering Joe Strummer On His 7th Death Anniversary

Seven years have passed and I personally still have not gotten over the fact that Joe Strummer, the highly politically-charged frontman of The Clash and later on of The Mescaleros, is no longer of this world.

And why is that? Roughly three decades down the line and Strummer continues to inspire and touch generations of musicians, as well as artists and thinkers. I was introduced to The Clash through the local radio show Capital Radio (which is, incidentally, a song by The Clash) aired over at the now-defunct XB 102. The legendary Jingle Chordbook magazine likewise exposed me to The Clash alongside the rudimentaries of punk both locally and internationally.

Joe Strummer died last December 22, 2002 secondary to a congenital heart condition, yet another issue that is close to my, well, heart. It is very unusual for me to be affected by the death of someone whom I have never been with nor met physically, but Strummer did have that effect on me. I grew up listening to his music and realizing how he broke barriers of musical definition, which for me is the best thing about him.

Paul Simonon may be the most goodlooking Clash for me, but it is Strummer whom I love more. Love indeed, that I even have to write about him here when I have already written another post at Trash Radio Manila.

Yes, the Trash Radio Manila playlist is also here. The tracklist is as follows:

1. Armagideon Time (The Clash)
2. Joe Strummer on the political nature of The Clash as lifted from Rockers Galore album
3. London's Burning (The Clash)
4. Safe European Home (The Clash)
5. Police On My Back (The Clash)
6. Capitol Radio Two (The Clash)
7. Bhindi Bhagee (Joe Strummer and The Mescaleros)
8. Joe Strummer ("Without people, we're nothing), lifted from The Future Is Unwritten
9. The Sound Of The Sinners (The Clash)
10. Train In Vain (The Clash)
11. The Road To Rock 'n' Roll (Joe Strummer and The Mescaleros)
12. Redemption Song (Joe Strummer and The Mescaleros)

That is it, my little post on the "other" man that I profoundly love. Merry Christmas to one and all. Be safe and happy.

[A related post also appears at Trash Radio Manila.]

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.

Ma

Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night.

(Rabindranath Tagore, "Peace My Heart")

Corazon Gacita Samson
31 January 1945 - 02 July 2005)

(It's been four years....)

No photos. My mom is camera-shy.