Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

Sigmund Freud
    --Attributed to Freud

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I never knew that zombies from the past, long dead and decaying in their rotten graveyards, could still wake up from their deep sleep to haunt me, to terrorize me. Zombies that long time ago I fought against with and triumphed over, zombies that long time ago I exorcised and annihilated would still be present to haunt me and scare the sh*t out of me.

 

Like a zombie torn from the pages of horror novels, she came unexpectedly, out of nowhere, into my life again. I thought that I forgot her completely; I thought that I will never see her again, even her shadow. I thought that when she said goodbye to me four years ago that would be the last time I’ll hear voice. I thought that she will be gone forever, erased from my memory, erased from my system. But her memory has the persistence of time. It always keeps coming back. And for four years, I battled alone the onslaught of your memory. I battled you alone, helpless against your holding and staying power. And when finally I triumphed over your memory, I rejoiced because at last you are finally out of my life. Out of my friggin’ life!!!

 

But such victory was doomed, destined to be short-lived. You came unexpectedly back into my life, crying and weeping on my shoulders. I knew the reason: HIM. I knew it before you told me, before you cried on my shoulders. I know that it would be him. You told me how he cheated you. In spite of everything, he cheated on you. Not once, not twice, but many times. In spite of everything, you even gave your body and soul to him, he treated you like a pig or worse than that, she treated you like a whore. I remembered every word you said to me that night, even your panting and rapid breathing. I remembered it all.

 

I asked you what can I do. You replied that there is nothing I can do but listen and listen carefully. I insisted that I must do something or her dignity would never be avenged.

 

You replied to me, "You are such a nice person and I don't what you to be hurt. I don't want because I love you so much. More than you'll ever know. More than you'll realize."

 

"There is nothing you can do because I am married to him. There is nothing you can do to me or to my situation."

 

My whole world came crashing down. It was the end of the world all over again. "Married to him?" I asked him. "Did I hear you right?"

 

"Yes, I am married."

 

"Then why me? Why come back into my life again?"

 

"Because it's only you who can understand me. Because you know how to listen to me, because I know you are the only one who cares for me."

 

I did listen to her that night when the night was made for the both of us while my heart was crumbling into pieces.

 

*note: one of my few bestfriend stories.....

The dream is the small hidden door in the deepest and most intimate sanctum of the soul, which opens into that primeval cosmic night that was soul long before there was a conscious ego and will be soul far beyond what a conscious ego could ever reach.

Carl Gustave Jung
--The Meaning of Psychology for Modern Man

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Gusto ko sana magalit ngayon kaso di ko alam kung paano... hanggang sa naupos na ang nagliliyab na pighati.

Ok na ako....... walang tinatanim na galit, walang tinatanim na sama ng loob. Ok na ako.... nag-walk-out lang ako to inhibit myself from saying unnecessary words, baka magsisi pa ako sa huli sa mga bibitawan ko sanang salita (medyo nakainom na ako, pero buti na lang umiral ang aking pagka-cool ng ulo ko, hindi ako naging padalos dalos..

Para sa inyo, dont worry, di ako galit. Huwag kayong mabahala...Umiwas na lang ako, para sa ikabubuti ng lahat.  Umiwas ako para magcool down. Pinili ko na lang umiwas dahil ............... mahal ko kayong lahat.. (ang drama!!)

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Di ba kayo nagtataka kung bakit walang okra sa "Bahay Kubo"?

Tangan ng bawat signos ang ihip ng pagbabago. Rumaragasa, sumasalanta, hinahamak ang lahat upang baguhin ang lipunan sa isang iglap, sa isang pag-usad, sa isang rebolusyon.

Saksi ang kasaysayan sa opresyon ng mga kolonista, ng mga kapitalista, ng mga imperyalista sa mga kaawa-awa at walang kalaban-laban na mga pesante, mga magsasaka, at mga manggagawa. Habang sila’y nagpapakabusog sa kanilang mga ninakaw na yaman, ang mga pesante naman, na walang humpay na nagsasaka ng lupang hindi kanya, ay nahihilo kung saan kukuha ng pera para pakainin ang kanyang pamilyang nagugutom dahil kulang ang kinikita niya sa pagsasaka ng lupa ng mga ganid na may-ari ng lupa.

Gutom, pagod at naghihingalo, ang mga pesanteng ito ay nagbuklod-buklod, nagsama-sama upang labanan ang di makatarungang opresyon at pagsasamantala sa kanila. Dito nabuo ang unang rebolusyon laban sa panginoong may-lupa, sa ganitong paraan nagsimula ang paunti-unting pagtibag sa kolonyalismo, pyudalismo at imperyalismo. At sa pagdaan ng panahon, nag-iba-iba ang mukha ng kalaban, nag-iba-iba ang mga mananakop – Espanyol, Amerikano, Hapon. Ngunit sa pagiiba ng anyo ng kalaban, nagkaroon din ng pagbabago sa mga grupong tumutuligsa sa bawat haplit na sumasalanta: Katipunan laban sa mga Espanyol, Hukbalahap laban sa mga Hapon, at CPP-NPA-NDF laban sa imperyalismo ng Estados Unidos. At sa pagdaloy at pagdanak ng dugo, patuloy pa rin ang sigaw at pag-alsa ng mga magsasaka, ng mga neo-rebolusyonaryo, ng mga rebelde, patuloy pa rin ang paggiging militante at magpapatuloy ito hanggang hindi nakakamit ang tunay na mga reporma sa lupa, hanggang ang mga walang lupa ay hindi binibiyayaan ng mga titulo at lupa, hanggang hindi natitibag ang strakturang pyudalismo sa bansa.

Kung mapapansin natin, lahat ng rebolusyon ay bunga ng pagkakalam ng tiyan ng libu-libong Pilipino, lahat ng pag-aalsa ay dahil sa lupa. Dahil ang mga magsasaka ay alipin sa lupang kani-kanilang sinasaka, alipin din ang mga magsasaka sa panginoong may-lupa, sa mga kapitalistang haciendero. Dahil dito nagkakaroon ng malawakang opresyon, gatungan pa ng mga mananakop na ganid sa pera na nagpapataw ng di makataong buwis, dagdagan pa ng pang-aapi ng mga malulupit na mga kolonyalista: napipilitan si Juan dela Cruz na umangal at magreklamo. Walang magawa ang mga magsasaka kundi mag-alsa hindi dahil hindi na nila kaya ang pagbabayad ng buwis o kulang ang kita nila kundi dahil ang kalupitan ng mga panginoong maylupa at mga kolonyalista ay pagyurak at pagtapak sa kanilang pagkatao. Hindi na makatarungan ang opresyon. Kaya hindi maiiwasan na magkakaroon ng rebolusyon upang ipagtanggol ang mga pangunahing karapatan ng mga mamamayan: kalayaan sa opresyon, kalayaan sa pagka-alipin sa lupa, kalayaan sa kahirapan, kalayaan na kumita ng sapat para mabuhay ang kanya-kanyang pamilya, kalayaan na bumuo ng isang lipunan na malaya sa opresyon, imperyalismo, kolonyalismo at pyudalismo.

Makalipas ang mahigit isang daaang taon, tayo pa rin ay minumulto ng mga problema ng kahapon. Laganap pa rin ang kahirapan, karamihan pa rin ng ating mga kababayan ay di makakain ng tatlong beses sa isang araw; laganap pa rin ang opresyon sa Pilipinas; wala pa ring reporma sa lupa – ang mga magsasaka ay nagsasaka ng lupang hindi kanya. Walang pinagkaiba ang problema noon sa ngayon, ang pinagkaibahan nga lang ay malaya na tayo sa mga Espanyol, nakamit na natin ang ating kalayaan, may sinusunod na tayong saligang batas. Ngunit tayo pa rin ay sunud-sunuran sa Estados Unidos. Kung ang utos ng mga Kano ay “tuwad,” tumutuwad tayo ng walang pag-aalinlangan; “tahol,” tumatahol tayo ng walang humpay.

Kaya hanggang ngayon patuloy pa rin ang rebolusyon sa kanayunan, pinapatuloy pa rin ng CPP-NPA ang diwa ng rebolusyon, pinapatuloy ang laban na nasimulan isang siglo na ang nakakaraan. Dahil hanggang walang ganap na pagbabago sa lipunan, hangga’t alipin pa rin ang mga magsasaka sa lupang kanilang sinasaka, hangga’t patuloy pa rin ang hagupit ng opresyon, hindi mahihinto ang rebulusyon dahil nakatali sa reporma sa lupa ang rebulusyon, dahil nakakadena ang pagbabago sa rebulusyon.

We make our own history. We record it so we can remember it all, from first sight to first kiss, from first date to first romance. 

#########

History, in its broadest sense, is the totality of all past events. To be politically correct, the totality of known past would be the more appropriate definition. And history is written by those who know how to look back, by those who have deeper understanding of the past, by those who have deeper appreciation of the past. And history is made by those who are in power, by those who can chart their own future, by those who can take their fate by the neck and steer it to wherever they roam.

You made history everyday and I diligently wrote it, recording it with sweat and blood. You made our lovestory a history of some sort, and you made me our history's historian. In your eyes, I am only a scribe recording the ways of a goddess and her slave. I admit, I am nothing to your powers, because I am beholden to your beauty and to your "goddessliness". As I see you defile me, mock me, love me, hate me, love me everyday, I am but reduced to a living specter, a mute spectator of our own journey, of our own quest called love.

I love you, I love our history, I love the story that we made, I love the story that I wrote. But what is the use of those thick annals, those numerous volumes gathering dust when the love is gone? When the one who is making history is no longer in the limelight? When the one writing the history is disillusioned and blinded and biased?

Now, I am alone with the history we created, because you left me in the middle of nowhere. Alone with the memories of our past.

Yes, I could rewrite history and tell our story in a different light with a different twist. I could reduce you, just as you reduced me before, into a cockroach loving a proud lion. I could even mock your name, taint your legacy, I could do those and much more. Because I know the history of our love like I know the back of my hand. Because I can still remember and feel the sting of your every word, hurting me even if you are gone, even if you are miles away from me. Because you never bothered to stop and read the history that we both created.

But I can not do that simply because I respect our history; the past is only good for remembering, nothing more. It is not a dwelling place where we live for the rest of our lives neither it is a terminal where we can go back when we feel we want to. No, our history is just a picture of our past, a snapshot caught in film, framed and hanged in a place where everyone can see. Easy to remember, easier to forget.

I could not make myself defile your memory because somewhere within my decrepit heart, because in some place within my beating heart you exist. To deny your existence would be an insult and a mockery to our past. I can not deny that you were once the center of my universe. I love you, God knows how much I love you even if you are gone forever. I love you, but all I can remember now was the feeling and the journey we took. I can't remember your countenance anymore. Your face is now blurred by the words I diligently wrote for the past few years, your body erased hastily by my eraser as I try to catch every word you speak, every action you make.  To me, you are now words that fills my memories, printed on papers, bounded and stored in some unknown library gathering dust. Now, you are the history that I chose to forget, because forgetting is easier than remembering.

While listening to Tracy Chapman's songs, I could not help but remember you.

#########

Syet, nagsesenti na naman ako. Syet, napapasenti ako ng hindi oras, ng wala sa lugar. Kasalanan kasi ni Tracy Chapman ito eh, eto ang epekto ng mga kanta niya sa akin - napipilitan akong alalahanin ang mga bagay-bagay na nagpapaalala sa iyo. Magkasunod ba naman ang "Baby Can I Hold You Tonight" at "Fast Car." Sinong mokong ang di mapapasenti niyan? Kasunod pa ang "Waiting in Vain" ni Annie Lennox. Syet, total tearjerker ang aking playlist, pang heartbroken, pang loser talaga. Sa ganyang klaseng playlist siguro bato lang ang hindi masesenti. O baka manhid, o baka kagaya niya na di marunong makiramdam, di marunong magmahal. 

Teka, bawal ang senti, bawal ang senti sa panahon ng finals, bawal magsenti sa hell week. Nawawala kasi ang aking concentration, nahihinto ang aking momentum. Mahirap na, baka mapaiyak ako ng tuluyan dahil babagsak ako sa aking mga exams dahil di ako nag-aaral, dahil ang inaatupag ko lang ay ang pag-iisip ng mga "what-if's" at "what-could-have-been-if-I-said-this-or-that." 

Kaya ngayong linggo, pipilitin kong kalimutan ka muna ng panandalian, kahit ilang araw lang. Alam kong mahirap dahil ikaw lang naman ang laman ng aking isipan eh. Pero kakayanin ko na lang ito lalo na kung ang katapat nito ay ang magalit si mama sa akin at tuluyan na akong ipa-ampon sa bombay na mahilig sa five-six. Kakayanin ko kahit mahirap siyang gawin, kahit dumanak ang dugo kakayanin ko, kahit pa tumulo ang mga luha at laway at luga at nana at kung anu-ano pa. Don't worry di mo na makakagat ang iyong dila ngayong linggo, di mo na magiging problema yan. 

Di ako si Superman pero kakayanin kong kalimutan ka ngayong linggo para naman matahimik ang naiipit na puso. At para naman pumasa ako sa exams. Parang awa mo na, please?

##########

Kung nagtataka kayo kung ano ang aking playlist ngayon, heto:

1.  Tracy Chapman - Baby Can I Hold You Tonight
2.  Tracy Chapman - Fast Car
3.  Annie Lennox - Waiting in Vain
4.  Billie Myers(?) - Kiss the Rain
5.  CandleBox - Far Behind
6.  Hootie and the Blowfish - Let Her Cry
7.  Tattoed on my Mind
8.  Mandy Moore - Cry
9.  Cake - Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps
10. Paula Cole - I Don't Wanna Wait
11. Counting Crows - Mr. Jones

Beware when the great God lets loose a thinker on this planet. Then all things are at risk. 
                                                                                      -- Ralph Waldo Emerson--

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ang ganda niya no?

Di mo na ako kinikibo. Di mo na ako pinapansin. Parang iniiwasan mo ako na parang may leprosy ako o may SARS. Di mo na ako binabati kapag nagkikita tayo sa tambayan, di tulad ng dati. Di mo na rin ako linalapitan at kinakausap.

At kapag nag-attempt naman akong kausapin ka, ika'y lumalayo, dumidistansya. O kung mag-usap man tayo dahil napilitan ka lang, palaging mabilis lang at lagi mong tinatapos agad. Isang tanong, isang sagot. Yun lagi ang ating drama sa tambayan. Buti na lang at di nila nahahalata.

Bakit humantong sa ganito ang lahat? Di na tayo tulad ng dati, di na tayo nag-uusap, nagkukulitan, naglalaro ng baraha, nagtatawanan, nag-eexchange ng mga sekreto, nagchichismisan, at higit sa lahat nagpapansinan. Bakit? Ano ang nangyari? Kasalanan ko ba? O ikaw itong lumalayo at umiiwas.

Syempre di ako si Madam Auring na manghuhula sa iyong drama ngayon. Kasi di ako marunong manghula kung ano ang iyong nararamdaman ngayon. Kasi di ko alam kung bakit ganyan ang kinikilos mo ngayon. Kung bakit you are giving me a cold treatment. Ano ba ito, isang cold war? Walang pansinan. Walang imikan, as in wala lahat.

Lagi kong iniisip kung ano na naman ang aking pagkakamali. Akala ko okey na tayo, akala ko kinalimutan na natin ang lahat, binaon na natin sa limot ang nakaraan. Sabi nga nila, maraming namamatay sa maling akala. Sige na, nagkamali ako ng akala. Di mo pa rin pala nakalimutan ang lahat. At dahil doon namatay ako, gumuho ang aking mundo dahil sa aking mga maling akala.

Hanggang kelan kaya itong charade natin? Kelan kaya ang season ender ng palabas natin? Hanggang kelan kaya itong cold war natin? Patigasan ba ito, patagalan, hinihintay kung sino ang unang bibigay? Hihintayin na lang ba natin ang panahon na matutunan na nating mabuhay na wala ang isa sa ating sistema? Alam ko na kaya mong mabuhay na kahit wala kang kasama kasi noon mo pang tanggap na ganyan ka, na bato ka, na manhid ka. Personally, di ko kaya. Pero kakayanin ko na lang kasi malamang kelangan ko na rin mag-move on, kailangan ko na rin maghanap ng iba, kailangan ko na rin matuto na mabuhay na wala ka sa aking tabi.

Sana noon pa, natuto na akong di umasa sa iyo. Sana, di ako umasa sa iyo ng todo. Pero salamat sa iyo, (at dahil sa aking sobrang pagiging dependent) devastated ako ngayon, sa kangkungan pinupulot.

Kanina, di mo pa rin ako kinibo. Hudyat na ba ito na tapos na ang ating pagiging magkaibigan? Na patuloy pa rin ang ating cold war? Sana kaya ko ito. Sana kaya ko na mabuhay na wala ka na sa aking tabi. Sana.

*note: pinublish ko na ito dati dito, re-issue lang siya.. kung gusto niyo, magbasa basa pa ng ibang kasentihan.. hanapin niyo na lang.. hehehe

While scouring for cheap books in Recto, I found Jessica Hagedorn’s Dogeaters at the bottom of a heap of coverless books, torn magazines and mutilated comics. I hurriedly took it and paid 30 pesos because I thought I found a gem among a pile of trash. After reading the reviews found at the back cover, I knew I made a great bargain. I considered myself so lucky that day because I am about to read a book adored by American critics for just thirty pesos. But I was wrong, so dead wrong; I found a trash among a pile of wastes.

The book, set in the chaotic period of the Marcos era, portrays a society where American pop culture and local Filipino tradition mix shamelessly, gaudily and “transcends social strata, gender, culture, and politics.” A beauty pageant, a film festival and an assassination are the highlights of the novel where a crazily unrelated group of characters are entangled in one shoddy portrait of the Philippine society.

Dogeaters was hailed by the American critics as “the best novel available about the vibrant, bewildering Philippines.” The New York Times Book Review said in its review that the book is “a fast, frequently hair-raising first novel, full of images and fantasies reflecting the author’s Philippine background that maps the ruin at the heart of Philippine society in the last four decades.” The book also got favorable reviews from Entertainment Weekly, Kirkus Review and others. Not bad for a debut novel; getting those approving appraisals sure cemented her reputation as a Fil-Am writer writing about her beloved Philippines.

But after reading a chapter or two, I noticed that there is something terribly wrong. I began to question whether am I reading a book about the Philippines or what because I began to notice that the book is devoid of soul, a Filipino soul. It seems soul-less, walang kabuhay-buhay, walang kalatuy-latoy. I could not connect with the characters; I could not even empathize with them because they are not Filipino enough to me. Her novel is filled with characters who have no Filipino character traits (aside from eating dilis, hearing intently any radio dramas in the night and being passionate and very subscribing to beauty pageants); filled with characters who are sex-craved, sex-deprived maniacs, who seem to curse every second of their life; filled with flat characters who seem so out of place, out of tune, and simply outrageous. They seem distant, misplaced and lost in the setting. It even gave me an impression that though her characters wear ternos and barang tagalogs yet they have a heart, body, soul and mind of an American. Even the voice and tone of the novel is characteristically American and certainly not Filipino. It dawned upon me that the novel is very un-Filipino; a product of a writer who is detached from her roots, a contemptible product of American pop culture. A novel trying too hard to pass as a unique Filipino gem; as if written by someone who has never been to the Philippines or someone who relies only on tales, outdated books, chismis, travelogues, magazines, kwentong barbero, and even hearsays about the Philippines.

I do not know whether the aim of the book is to package the Philippines as an exotic, former US colony wanting for attention, as a country were perversity and conservatism mix like bananas and pineapples, as a place where pop culture thrives and flourishes, as a country where east meet west, to introduce the Philippines to the rest of the world - famous for those senseless EDSA revolutions, those kidnappings, famous for adobo, dilis, dogeating, NPA and Jollibee. Or it is intended to critique the Filipino society for its constant and continuing degradation, the ruin of the Filipino conscience, the breakdown of morality, the triumph of profanity. If the book was intended to prostitute the Philippines to the world then she made a good attempt of it. But if it was intended to critique the psychosis and neurosis of the Filipino society then she fell short miserably.

Her futile attempt failed on two counts. First and foremost, Dogeaters is not a social critique; it did not do justice to the things happening during the Marcos era. It provided minimal accounts of the horror and terror during those wretched years. Her depiction of the ills of the Philippine society was certainly done in bad taste and certainly not humorous. She gave no insights to the abomination that was occurring that time; she made me wonder what in the world was she thinking when she wrote the book. Even her point of view is skewed, twisted, inappropriate and detached from reality. Rather, the novel is a product of commercialization with capitalistic overtones; it was just written to make money. No, it is not a social critique, it is just a story peddled to make money. It is just one of those countless novels where the writer, charged up with greed and thirsty for recognition, writes to make a killing out of it at the expense of her countrymen. This is betrayal and treachery in the highest degree.

Secondly, the book has fake nostalgia written all over it. Generally, Fil-Am writers have this [fake] nostalgia about their [lost] Filipino heritage [sic]. They write shamelessly about their homeland, their cherished memories when they were still kids playing patintero in the streets, their titas and titos who used to give them aguinaldos every Christmas, their longing to come back home but could not because they are better off working in America than trying to survive here in the Philippines, about this and that and everything in between. They reminisce this, reminisce that and reminisce everything about the Philippines; they even confess that they are getting homesick by the second. Arrghh, don’t you just love their hypocrisy? Their Janus complex? I admit though that they are good writers (especially Hagedorn who writes with sound “narrative drive and lyrical sensibility”): they have their own unique style, they have the right techniques. But it’s their fake nostalgia that irritates me. These Fil-Am writers are trying too hard to be Filipinos in their works but fail miserably. They audaciously claim to be experts of the Philippines in the USA. In their quest to create a niche for themselves in the literary scene, they created none. Probably, they are just lost in the translation.

But the novel has its own merits too that should never be denied. The mere fact that it was lauded by such respectable reviewers is a feat itself. Only a few Filipino writers get their nods and very flattering remarks. The book’s only saving grace is that it was able to penetrate the deeply-saturated American market. If only Jessica Hagedorn could write sensibly, could be true to her Filipino roots, could provide fresh insights and write with a better perspective and point-of-view, then maybe she would earn her rightful place in Philippine literary scene. But until that time come, I will reserve my meager allowance for F. Sionil Jose’s books.

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first published in peyups.com
Wednesday, March 03, 2004 @ 02:29:28 AM