WRITERS FROM THE PHILIPPINES
PRESENTED BY JASON CHANCOCO
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JENNIFER FEDERIZO
Jennifer Federizo is a freelance writer in the Philippines who has had some works published. She is into poetry, fiction, and film scriptwriting. She is also a bit of a visual artist and loves the performing arts.
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REBORN
Darkness has bitten.
And it is thus that I rejoice
the coming of the Dead of Night,
unabashedly waiting, pausing
with quiet but eager anticipation.
Ah! I wield the sword with one hand
as I sense the mingled shadows
lurking around me, whispering,
creeping nearer, closer, slowly taking form.
One by one by one, they come in revelation.
I pause, and I breathe the air in;
I strike, and I joyfully shiver.
A calming warmth envelops me,
coursing through me and claiming me.
I smile in response, savoring
my surrender, striking with my kindred sword.
Darkness has bitten, and I am now reborn, again.
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SANG-FROID
Still as water, the heart learns
the art of false serenity.
Each stone casts ripples upon ripples
upon placid emotions.
Each stone with its jagged edges
each, cutting, sinking.
Density has no meaning.
Depth is not a question.
Only calm indifference.
Yet...
As the water turns murky,
as the water overflows,
as the water runs dry...
Perhaps, it will cast its own ripples.
For the moment, there is only agitation
in tranquility.
Sang-froid, indeed.
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E. SAN JUAN
E. SAN JUAN, Jr. is director of the Philippines Cultural Studies Center. He was recently a fellow of the Center for the Humanities, Wesleyan University, and chair of the Department of Comparative American Cultures, Washington State University; and professor of Ethnic Studies, Bowling Green State University, Ohio. He was previously visiting professor of English and Comparative Literature at the University of Trento, Italy, and at the Graduate School of Tamkang University, Taiwan. He was the 2003 Fulbright professor of American Studies in Belgium (Leuven & Antwerp).
San Juan received his graduate degrees in English & Comparative Literature from Harvard University. He taught at the University of the Philippines, University of Connecticut, Brooklyn College of the City University of New York, and the University of California. He has received awards from the Rockefeller Foundation, Institute for Society and Culture (Ohio), MELUS (Multi-Ethnic Literature of the United States), Gustav Myers Human Rights Center, and the Association for Asian American Studies. He received a Centennial Award for Literature from the Cultural Center of the Philippines.
San Juan's most recent works are Hegemony and Strategies of Transgression (SUNY Press), Beyond Postcolonial Theory (Palgrave), From Exile to Diaspora (Westview Press), After Postcolonialism (Rowman and Littlefield), and Racism and Cultural Studies (Duke University Press). His groundbreaking book, Racial Formations/Critical Transformations (Humanities Press), will soon be reissued with a new preface. His collection of recent essays entitled Working Through the Contradictions: From Cultural Theory to Critical Practice will be released this winter 2004 by Bucknell University Press.
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SIYAM NA AWIT NG PAG-IBIG
AT ISANG INTERBENSIYONG DALIT NG PANIBUGHO
1.
Kabaliwang sugal ng istambay basagulerong lasing lito alangan
Bulakbol na kontra-bidang napasubo sa ilalim ng balag ng alanganin
Anumang tangka sa paghabi ng tula ay pakikipagsapalaran
Ipukol ang dais walang katiyakan magkrus sa tumilampong bola
Walang makahuhula kung saan ka maitutulak o maihuhulog nitong sayaw
Kapag nabighani sa paralumang hindi ubas kundi tinik ang hain
Walang gantimpala o ginhawang mapapala sa panganib ng paglikha
Di sinasadyang daplis ng dila todas ka di na mababawi ang nabitiwang salita
Sa pagbabakasakaling masilo maikintal sa titik ang mailap na dalumat
Sa talisman ng iyong pilik-mata nanduduro ang maharot na paghimok
Bawat kilos ng bibig ay masidhing udyok bilanggong nagpupumiglas
Nasupalpal bawat pakana patibong atras-sulong ng diwang malibog
Pusta mo'y waldas abuloy na lang sa Abu Sayyaf Suriin bago tumaya
Subalit ang pagsunod sa nasa'y di naghahangad ng tuwa o sarap
Lubog sa luha't pawis ng guni-guning naduhagi sa gayuma ng wika
2.
Oo Mahal ang problema'y nasaan ang nasang mapusok mapangamkam
Pumili sa pagsamba sa mutya o komitment sa panata ng pulang mandirigma
Sino ang masusunod aling adhika ang makatutugon sa pithaya ng dibdib
Walang susog o gabay mula kina Rosa Luxemburg at Alexandra Kollontai
Kahit sikolohiyang Pilipino ay dahop sa kalinangan ng libog at ligaw
Nangangapa pa sa gabi ng pag-aalinlangan kung anong pakay ng budhi
Anong layuning sumasakay sa katawan ng hayup na marunong mangarap
Hayup na lutang sa panaginip ng paraisong sagana sa pagkain at halakhak
Hampas-lupang nilalang ng May-kapal upang subukin at parusahan
Hindi ka ba naman hihiyaw ng Hindi Huwag Hindi Ayokong magtiis
Gusto mo man o hindi dapat magpasiya kundi walang katuturan ang panitik
Nais mo bang malambing ang indayog ng taludtod nakakakiliti sa ari
Bakit dapat ipaghiwalay ang dalawang lunggating sadyang magkaugnay
Tulad ng magkabiyak na karanasan ng pagtatalik at paglagot ng hininga
Magunaw na ang mundo napukaw sa pantasiya ng pag-iisa ng dalawa
3.
Iisa lamang ang tunguhan taluntunin ang daang baku-bako zigzag
Baybayin ang pariralang baluktot burarang saknong at taludtod
Binigkas na pangako'y tutuparin bagamat naligaw sa gubat ng kaakuhan
Kung saan nag-aabang ang malupit na kaulayaw O mutya ng kabalintunaan
Wala sa pagbubulay-bulay masisinop ang taktika't istratehiya ng rebolusyon
Wala sa paghimay-himay ng tayutay ang susi sa suliranin ng praktika
Ipukol muli ang dais baka paratangan mo akong mambobola lamang
Bantaan na huwag isuko ang pagnanasang maabot ang kalis ng tagumpay
Huwag lumuhod sa kuhilang asal lango't babad sa imperyalistang putahan
Huwag tumiwalag sa pagsisikap matamo ang himala ng iyong pag-aalay
Nais mo mang tumahimik at magpasasa sa luho ng petiburgesyang buhay
Di ka pahihintulutan ng kalaguyong nagtatanggol lumalaban
Mariing sampal ang babati sakaling tumalikod sa hamong sunggaban
Ang pagkakataong mahuli't makulong sa bisig ang pinakaasam-asam
Sakim sa halik ganid gahamang Eros mapag-imbot sa sigasig ng paglipad
4.
Bakit sa muling pagkikita natin Mahal umiilag ka Kurot mo'y mailap
Hayun lumuluksong bagwis sa himapapawid naglundagang palikpik sa agos
Namamaalam na ang pilantik ng mata wala pa rin akong kaalam-alam
Kulang sa pagmaniobra ng diyalektika sanay sa pagbibilang ng bituin
Nahan ka Huseng Batute Babala sa makata ng pinipintuhong lakambini
Saklolohan ninyo ang napariwara sa sugal ng pagbabagu-bago ng titik-tugma
Sa panahon ng krisis kung saan manhid ang konsiyensiya di tinatablan
Anumang sandata ng kritika'y balewala walang nais kumawala sa piitan
Nasanay sa pagkaalipin urong ang bayag hubad-dangal Sinong sisisihin
Paano imumulat ang tao sa kabuktutan kung binusabos ang sariling bait
Parang natural na ang paglapastangan kung sangkot ka sa sistemang kriminal
Anong bisa ng talinghagang matamis kung walang paggalang sa sarili
Hindi sapat ang sining kung ang biktima'y malubha't naghihingalo
Sa lambong ng propaganda tinitiis ang pagdurusa at ginahasang karangalan
Kailangan ang pulbura't baril habang umaawit ng kundiman sa dilim
5.
Pagtawid sa Plaza Miranda nakatagpo muli kita Suwerteng awa o patawad
Tingin mo'y pagbati sa banyaga ngiti mo'y hasik na hamog sa disyerto
Saplot ng pag-aagam-agam binulabog mo ang hinala't hinanakit
Anghel sa dilim ang bintang sa iyo ngunit sugo ng kaligtasan sa akin
Sa titig mo'y sumusupling ang biyaya ng maluwalhating kinabukasan
Nabuksan ang lihim ng pangakong bininyagan mo ng katuparan
Di mapapatawad ang sakripisyong isinugal ang puri at dangal ng bayan
Napansin kong nangilabot ka sa panganib ng darating na sagupaan
Sa haplos at hikayat pumayag kang makilahok Saliksikin Siyasatin
Batid ko sa kabila ng pahintulot nagkubli ang hinagpis siphayo kutob
Isang hipo ng iyong daliri sumiklab muli ang titis ng pagnanais
Umigkas ang damdaming nasagkaan nakiramay kapit-bisig
Paalis ka na sinulyapan kita damdam ko'y nagbubulag-bulagan
Batid kong may hilig ka rin nag-uusig umiiwas sa gumigiring hayop
Walang imik kapag nasukol sisiklab ang panibughong anong bagsik
6.
Ang saklap na matuklasang umalis ka na walang iniwang direksiyon
Habang ang nanliligaw ay naghahanap pa ng salita uutal-utal
Di inakalang iwanan mo ang iyong historyador O mandarayang Sinta
Sumbat mo'y sinungaling ako mambobolang pinatulan ng Ars Poetika
Hangal ang makatang nanunungkit ng bituin bumubulong sa hangin
Nagumon sa estetikang binayaran ng burgesyang hibang sa ari-arian
Oo Mahal marami ngang naglulubid ng buhangin sa krisis ng bayang sawi
Hindi ako luluhod sa dambana ng musa ng luho't mapagsamantalang uri
Kahit man wala kang tiwala sa aking pangakong maglingkod sa iyo
Gagaod sa patnubay ng seksing birheng nagkasala laos na Bomba Queen
Dinggin mo ang prinsipyo ng linyang pangmasa kadluan ng katarungan
Kailangan upang magpakatao at makapagtatag ng egalitaryang lipunan
Kung saan walang alipin at walang magpapaalipin Hoy inaantok ka na ba?
Bintang mong doble-kara ako hindi tapat sa pagsinta tusong sugarol
Pilit kong hahagkan ang katawang nakahulagpos sa matimtimang manalangin
7.
Sabi nila'y dyezebel kang haliparot mapanlinlang salamangkera ng puso
Kung totoo ipagdiwang natin habang nag-tatagisan sa barikada
Ganda'y sumungaw sa balintataw nang bumaklas ang pintakasi
Ikaw ang tagapagsalaysay ng mababangong bangungo't tunggalian ng uri
Natarok mo ang pananagutan sa masalimuot na laberinto ng paghihiganti
Nagsalin nagsangla't nagpatubo sa kahulugan ng sagisag himatong haraya
Nilambungan ng tukso't aliw-iw ng walang-hiyang alok ng mga kapitalista
Hindi dyugdyugan blues ito o tulo-laway rap ng malanding utak
Pumipintig ang pangambang nasulsulan ka ng kakutsabang bulagsak
Umiigting ang angil ng pagsubok salat sa malambing na diga
Handa akong maglamay pasan ang pagsusumamong bumalik ka sa piling ko
Kahangalan ang mangarap habang nadudurog ang tahanan mo
Sa lagim at ligalig lumantad ka Mahal Harapin ang sakdal ng tadhana
Anong katuturan ng sining kung walang diwang malayang magpapahalaga
Anong silbi ng tula sa mundong bartolina ng mga magulang at kapatid
8.
Paghiwalay mula sa siping ng ina't paglalaro sa suso Ipukol ang bola
Ito raw ang pinagmulan ng lahat sakunang di mabubura o malilimutan
Nawalang kalinga'y laging hinahanap sa bawat tangis hibik hagulgol
Multong dumadalaw sa agwat ng ating kamalayang magkahidwa
Ngunit ang batas ng kasarinlan ay hawak ng pangatlong tauhan
Na pumapagitan sa ina't sanggol naghahati bumabalangkas ng landas
Tila guwang sa dibdib na hindi mapupunan ang di-makitang bagay
Higit pa sa uhaw o gutom na walang makapapatid sukdulang pananabik
Ilanlibong OFW ang naglakbay sa Tokyo London Roma nakatanikala
Hinahanap pa rin ang nawala wari'y malikmata kilalang ayaw kilalanin
Nagipit sa dahas ng Patriyarkong humalili kina Legaspi't MacArthur
Inangking ginto't pilak ay di makabubuntis sa baog na sinapupunan
Pagliripin na buhat sa di maiiwasang pangyayaring isa ay naging dalawa
Ipagdasal mo man di na maisasauli ang luwalhati sa kandong ng nag-aruga
Batas ng pagbabawal ang yumari ng tulay para sa nagtipang kaluluwa
9.
Sa wakas tanggap na ako ikaw ay likhang-isip lamang mga konstruksiyon
Nakasalalay sa kabilang mukha ng buwan kung saan inalis tinanggal
Lumihis sa tuwid na daan kumalag sa lilong kapangyarihan ng Kapital
Iwaksi ang pag-aalinlangan tumalikod sa masamyong yakap ng sirena
Itakwil ang pagpapanggap takasan ang pagkukunwari pagbabalatkayo
Sa salamin ng takipsilim ilantad ang noo bunganga pisnging sinampal
Kumalas sa bilibid ng lumang paniniwala tumakas lumayo
Baybayin ang kinathang pagkakaiba't pagkakawangki ng babae sa lalaki
Sa bawat tugma mapaparam ang karnabal ng libog at itinakdang kasarian
Makulit ka mataray ok lang sa manliligaw dalubhasa sa biro at tudyo
Isaloob ang paghahati ng magkabiyak Balatong saklolo ng laro Siya nawa
Iuugnay nito ang buto't lamang pinagwatak-watak ng diwatang kay bagsik.
Sandaling makaalpas sa pagkakulong sa piitan ng salapi't pag-aari
Itanan ang taliwas at salungat bigay-kabig ng walang awang kontradiksiyon
Oo tumakas paalam pumailanlang ang putang di na mabibili ninuman
ISANG INTERBENSIYONG DALIT NG PANIBUGHO
Anong saklap galit poot pagngingitngit Ay inay ko katarantadahun
Nagpapahiwatig na walang natutuhan sa mga pagkakamali
Himutok ng lalaking pinutulan ng tarugo Itigil na ang laro Itigil
Tumututol sa itinalaga ng karanasang pag-awat sa yapos ng ina
Nagtatangkang makasiping pa muli Teka 'pare ko dapat ka pa bang ipatuli
Walang babaeng makatutugon sa isinumpang pagkasabik sa guniguni
Ipinaglihi itong sugarol sa tusong anito bundat sa kasuwapangan
Baliw sa pag-aakalang masusupil ang mapagpalayang simbuyo
Ulol sa pag-asang may makabubusog o kaipala'y makasasapat
Walang babaylan na makalulunas sa sugat mortal ng unang sakuna
Asawang magdudulot ng pulot-gatang makapupuno sa kawalan
Sa krisis ng bayang naghihimagsik isang sakit ang pansariling katiwasayan
Pagliripin ito paslangin man ang kabiyak walang galak o kasiyahan
Halik ng ahas ni Medusa ang pabuya sa alipores nina Villa at Abadilla
Hinagpis at lungkot pagkatapos ng seks Ay naku May bagong balita ba
Dagok ng pagtuklas na ang tutubos sa ating dalawang walang pag-aari
Ang nakapagitang masang bukal ng talinghaga at pagbubunyag
Samakatuwid sukat nang pandayin muli balik-suriin patingkarin
Ang sining ng pag-ibig sa purong apoy ng armadong pakikibaka
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KATRINA RAMOS ATIENZA
I've been writing fiction since college, and my short story "Tuklaw" was published in the November 4, 2002 issue of the Philippines Free Press under my maiden name Katrina Bianca Ramos.
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EAVESDROPPING
Perched in a sunken red tricycle seat, her shoulders hunched and her head awkwardly bent (those damned hooks kept scraping her scalp), an early-morning Lisa vacantly stared at the front of the tricycle she rode on. The vacant stare came courtesy of a crunching hangover and a ten-minute dash out the door. Lisa had woken up so late she only had time to mulch gel into her hair and splash a handful of water on her face. The heady smell of gel mingled with the stench of last night's cigarettes and beer, and even as she splashed herself with baby cologne the cloying bouquet still made her heave. Her mind, still caffeine-free, could only concentrate on the cryptic messages festooned on the tricycle's altar to the god that lived inside tinny, disembodied car radio. A neon green crocheted (curtain? mantle?) thingie blaring GOD BLESS YOU in blood red yard hypnotized her when its varicolored yarn pompoms, like pompous Jewish phylacteries, swung in time with the radio's beat. The Sex Bomb Girls hiccupped and swooned to a tarted-up version of "Mama Cita, Donde Esta Santa Claus?"
On top of the radio, a pert, glow in the dark Sto. Niño cheerfully made peace signs at her. Below it, an El Shaddai handkerchief hung limply. She noticed a pink-and-green sticker: GOD KNOWS HUDAS NOT PAY. Underneath that, more stickers crowded, this time not of clever puns on the Almighty's omnipotence, but of impossibly-shaped women exhorting Lisa not to open her legs to avoid getting into an accident, or that drivers were sweet lovers, or that drivers with mustaches were hits with the "tsiks". She stared at that last sticker: a dark, mustachioed Lothario atop a chugging Honda gave her the thumb's up sign while a writhing brunette decorated his shoulders.
This made her shudder and look at her driver. From her point of view she could make out his pockmarked cheeks; their lumpy chocolate-chipness suddenly interrupted by a tide of short, bristly hairs; the hairs gradually converging into an inky denseness under his nose and chin. From below the profusion of hair a thick and earthworm-like upper lip protruded. She looked at the sticker again and quelled her nausea.
When the tricycle stopped she hurriedly got off, neglecting to press a thick coin onto the driver's outstretched palms. She could not get the picture of that sticker brunette meeting her driver's earthworm lips in a terrific SWAK! out of her head. She hurried to that rank corner where jeepneys stopped to illegally pick up passengers and where drunken bums laid out cartons to sleep; her brain, brined in alcohol, could not comprehend the driver's bellows: "Miss, miss, my five bucks!"
The madness of the streets overwhelmed her senses. To her right, the market spilled out onto the road with an onslaught of woven baskets of silver-colored fish and wilted vegetables. Brown-armed Amazons squatted and bartered with morning housewives, their hair in curlers and their bodies swathed in miserable housedresses. Half naked children merrily played tag with the traffic, some of them skipping over overflowing canal water in the process of dodging trucks and cars. To her left, taxi drivers lolled about their shiny cars, oblivious to the towering billboard behind them: Aga Muhlach, his tapered hands grasping a chicken thigh in a grotesquely phallic gesture, unleashing his dimples on the mortals below. The haphazard whispers and hoots and yells and bartering voices rose in a column of noise, straight to the heavens, challenging the peaceful blue of the sky above.
A dull throb developed in the base of Lisa's neck.
The sun shone too brightly on Lisa. The glare made her bump into children and baskets of kangkong. Beyond the slits of her squinted eyes, she made out a parked jeepney, basking in a multicolored orgy of decorations. She elbowed a swarm of office girls to enter its damp, red leather core.
The vernal darkness of the jeepney welcomed her like a padded womb. She settled into a dark corner and clutched her head. 7am and already her headache was in full swing. Silently, she cursed herself for not having the sense to gulp a couple of Alaxans that morning. 15 minutes late wasn't the end of the world, no matter what her boss said. The jeepney lurched awake; Lisa squeezed between a tangle of elbows and counterweight legs. The driver gunned the engine to life, its exhaust pipe farting out thick black clouds, and deftly blocked a turning car before moving forward.
"I don't know what the problem is," said the man beside Lisa, a denim-coated, Carlo J. Caparas type.
"But pare, she has a point. That was too much," said the man beside the Carlo J. look-alike. He was thin and balding, with a hairy mole erupting on his left cheek. His neatly buttoned polo and considerately folded arms, taking special care not to accidentally break someone's nose off with his jutting elbow, contrasted with his friend, who, oblivious to the jeepney's seating arrangement, spread his legs wider than a girl on Hustler could manage. Lisa wanted to stab Carlo J.'s foot with her stiletto. His thighs pushed her farther from her already tiny space. If there was anything she hated, it was inconsiderate men who sat like bullfrogs in crowded jeepneys. Didn't they even sense they were squeezing people out of their seats, making them perch like half-hearted lovebirds with nerve disorders? Or did they do it on purpose?
"Pare, she told me, 'O, this is what sells.' Go to this place, someone got killed, take a few pictures. I asked her, 'is this okay?' and she said yes. And then, afterwards, she backs out on me!" said Carlo J.
"Nobody guessed that the pictures would look so…so…disturbing," the mole guy humbly mumbled. Lisa sensed this was as far as he could go in terms of disagreement.
"Of course they're disturbing, they're pictures of dead men!" boomed Carlo J. The rest of the jeepney's passengers pretended to be deaf. Lisa tried to burrow into her seat, or at least squirm enough so that Mr. Dead Pictures would move his legs a bit. The mole guy simply exhaled.
"Look at Quito. He took those pictures of that rape in Caloocan. She ran them - without pixels!" continued Carlo J., his legs still spread wide.
"But those pictures were a little tamer, I guess. And a naked girl, it's always nicer to look at," answered the mole guy.
"Yeah, a dead raped naked girl is always better to look at. Seriously, Mon, sometimes you say the weirdest things. Jing and I were talking and she said sometimes, she thinks you're sort of perverted."
Lisa looked at the mole guy (she couldn't think of him as Mon) in the most casual way she could manage - pretending to look out the window for her stop - and shuddered when she saw that he looked kind of guilty. She craned her neck out the window again, her eyes slightly passing over his face, and decided he seemed to be the type who could rape people once he got a little drunk. She had lingered on him a little too long - he met her eyes in a dead on stare. Quickly, Lisa focused her attention forward, to a slightly pretty girl with rust-colored hair.
"Besides," said the mole guy, "That raped girl pic had no blood. If there was it was negligible. I think Jing decided not to run your pictures not because of a sense of decency -"
"-That bitch? Decency, yeah, alright, she runs a tabloid, Sus me!--"
"-but because of technical concerns."
"Technical concerns?" asked Carlo J., sounding unsure for the first time in the conversation.
"Well, I heard Jing planned to run them anyway but when Lito took the proofs the red threw the whole color scale. There was too much blood in the pictures. If Lito went with the color sep all you'd have after was a great blob of red with a couple of black squiggles here and there. In other words, the pictures wouldn't make sense. People wouldn't figure out that it was a picture of a guy who'd gotten mauled by dogs."
"Oh," answered Carlo J. slowly. "Why didn't she tell me?"
"Because, if she did, you'd bug her to buy one of those fancy computer programs to handle the color sep and she didn't want the hassle."
Both men fell silent, as did the jeepney's passengers. Lisa's head hummed along to the same rhythm of the jeepney's asthmatic engine. The pretty girl with rust colored hair rapped her knuckles on the jeepney's roof and got off near a hardware store. The mole guy's eyes followed her as she walked out of the vehicle, no doubt titillated by her melon-sized buttocks. The jeepney lurched to life again, only to stop a few meters later to pick up a pack of school children. The kids, so chipper and alert so early in the morning, happily pooled their coins together and handed them over to Lisa, who added her share (here she discovers extra five pesos, rightfully the tricycle driver's, but she dismisses the guilt with a shrug) and spilled the clinking mass onto the jeepney drivers palm, so expertly cupped that not a dime spilled. The kids chattered again, but in time they too fell silent when the jeepney hit a patch of smooth, open highway.
Carlo J. cleared his throat, squawked, and spat out the window. The glob of phlegm narrowly missed an old woman three people away. It landed squarely on the hood of a maroon Honda, were it glistened in the sun.
The mole guy cleared his throat too, but mercifully did not spit.
"Pare?" the mole guy asked tremulously. "Didn't your stomach turn when you took those pictures?"
"What? Of the dead guy?" answered Carlo J.
"Yeah, the one who got attacked by dogs."
"A little," he answered, shrugging. "You know what was really sick?"
"What?"
"It wasn't an accident."
"No kidding," said the mole guy. He let out a low whistle, the kind people make when they hear about an indecent sum of money. It was grotesquely apt for the conversation.
"Turns out the guy worked as a security guard in a rope factory. The Dobermans - you know, the ones that mauled him - were never too friendly with the guy, so he always carried a long, narrow pipe with him. Apparently, whenever the dogs would come at him, he would thump them on the head - WHUMP! - with the pipe. And the dogs wouldn't go near him. Of course they'd forget once in a while, and they'd try to attack him, but he always had that pipe, you know?"
"Yeah."
"So anyway, one night, he and his wife get into a fight. The guy was jiggering her sister, if you know what I'm saying. She caught them in bed or something," said Carlo J.
The mole guy let out that low whistle again. "Oh, that's something."
"The sister was the wife of a butcher in the market, some exotic butcher who specialized in snake, carabao, deer, endangered stuff. They were negotiating to buy meat for the fiesta. You know, one thing led to another, and before you know it, the negotiations got out of hand," he winked.
"You know how it is," said the mole guy, trying his best to sound knowledgeable. "I suppose they were real stupid and did it in the wife's house, no?" he added.
"No, no. The wife suspected that her husband was more cheerful than usual, so she followed them around. She catches them at it in her sister's place and she does the whole Sisa act. You know these women when they get crazy: 'Oh you have no shame you hungry good for nothing son of a whore, how could you do this to me' and all that. She even got them in the Baranggay Hall because of all the noise she was making. So the baranggay captain makes them apologize to each other, they calm down, and then they go home."
"Oh."
"But, you see, the wife had something else planned. She let a couple of months pass, you know, making the poor guy feel everything was okay between them, but you never know…"
"Yep, you never know with these women…"
"Exactly."
The mole guy looked dazed, staring straight outside the window. He knitted his brows and frowned. Carlo J. had him stumped.
"So what happened?" he asked, finally.
"Oh, God, you won't believe this," laughed Carlo J.
"Well? What? Come on, tell me already!"
"Okay, okay. First, it was fiesta season, right?"
"Yeah, you said so already."
"Okay. So the wife makes him go to the market to pick up the meat,"
"To the sister's stall?"
"To the sister's stall. Can you beat that? She makes her sister a few thousand pesos richer, because her husband bought a load of meat and blood. Dog meat and blood. For azucena. That was her specialty."
"Uh-huh."
"Anyway, turns out the guy's boss found out about him thumping those Dobermans on the head all the time. I think one of them got a seizure -"
"-Canine epilepsy-"
"-Whatever. So he goes to his house to talk to him about it, but he isn't there…"
"Because he's buying dog meat from the sister!" said the mole guy in a eureka-worthy moment.
"Uh, yeah," answered Carlo J., annoyed. "So the boss goes to the house of the guy and talks to the wife, if she knew about her husband's dog fiascoes. She admits to the boss that the guy was almost attacked once so he took to taking a pipe with him to work, because he didn't want to end up as Purina. Naturally the boss loses it: 'Blah blah blah, those dogs cost more than your husband's life, blah blah blah,' foaming at the mouth, stamping; I mean, he was really ready to beat the poor girl up. So the woman calms him down and promises it wouldn't happen again, she'll tell her husband to resign, and then she gives the boss the pipe so that her husband won't use it on the dogs anymore."
"Oh, now I think I get it," said the mole guy.
"No, no, that's not the end of it," he countered, smug as a congressman. "He doesn't report for work for the duration of the fiesta, okay. He has no idea he's about to get fired, the wife doesn't tell him the boss came to see her. So he's having a great time in the province, enjoying the fiesta, gorging on azucena. The wife makes a fresh batch everyday, I'm telling you, she'd even catch dogs at night just to serve azucena the next day. And the husband's eating this stuff everyday, sometimes five times a day. He can't refuse his wife's cooking even though he's sick of it."
"Guilt, probably."
"Well, wouldn't you eat the filthiest stuff your wife prepared for you after you jigger her sister?"
"I suppose so," the mole guy answered slowly.
"So the week of the fiesta ends. They go home that morning - but not before having azucena for breakfast! - and that night, the husband dresses up to report for work. He looks and looks all around the house for his pipe. He asks his wife about it but of course, she doesn't know where it is."
"And out of shame he still goes to work, thinking he'll get fired if he gets late. He doesn't know he's fired anyhow. Susmaryosep!"
"Obviously," answered Carlo J. "So he goes to work. Late at night. Without his stick. Now remember, the dogs hate him already because he thumps them on the head all the time. And now he arrives reeking of azucena. The stench of dog meat is strong - it's on his clothes, his breath, pare, when he farts azucena comes out. He's been eating the stuff for a whole week straight. He's got dead dog written all over him. The Dobermans sense this. You know dogs have a strong sense of smell, right? He's about ten meters away from the gate when they start barking. The dogs get so crazy they wake up the neighborhood - even though the warehouse is half a mile from the nearest residential area. I mean, I got to talking to some people when I took the pictures and they said the barking was just out of this world. They sounded like wolves, pare. They just went wild with this guy. Can you guess what happened next?"
"They attack," the mole guy grimly announced.
Carlo J. shrugs and adjusts his hat. "One of the sickest things I ever saw in my life. He didn't even have a face when we got there. And his stomach, pare! I didn't know our intestines were that long. Yuck."
The mole guy opened his mouth to add something but decided not to.
Lisa wiped the cold sweat from her nape.
Carlo J. clucks his tongue. "I'm telling you, pare, it's a sick world out there. But it's my job to take pictures of these things. It's what I have to do for a living. So it doesn't bother me too much. After a while, blood is blood. It doesn't freak you out anymore. It's even funny sometimes, how people die. You sometimes think, 'wow, that's a terrible way to go', and you find yourself thinking of the weirdest ways to die."
"That's morbid."
"Can't help it. Goes with the job."
The jeepney rumbled on in a dead stupor, the passengers discreetly turning away from the pair. Lisa's head rumbled along, made worse by eavesdropping on that awful conversation. They passed another marketplace, and the din of humanity greeted the silent jeep. The vehicle maneuvered to pass the traffic vortex threatening to suck it in. Lisa counted the stops before she could get off. Her office was about seven blocks from the market. Oddly, she welcomed the thought of spending her day in a cocoon of air conditioned fluorescence, surrounded by mind-numbing tasks. Maybe she'd even see Cora from the floor below hers, or trade a few snatches of gossip, perhaps.
An electronic beep sliced above the din. The mole guy whipped out his cell phone.
"It's from Jing. They found a dead woman fished from the Pasig River. They want you."
"Shit," muttered Carlo J. "That's the opposite direction from here!" Quickly he rapped the jeepney's roof and scurried out.
The mole guy studied his phone, his face seemingly picturing the drowned, naked woman. His expression bordered on fantasy.
Lisa's stomach heaved again. Quickly she squeaked "Para!" and the jeep screeched to a halt in front of a tiny, garbage-choked eskinita. Lisa ran off the jeepney and vomited into the pile of junk. A couple of street kids deftly jumped away from the torrent of beer spewing from her mouth. They laughed and skittered away.
When the heaves subsided she wiped her face with a blue handkerchief and tossed it into the fetid rot. As she straightened up she noticed a dim bakery hiding behind the gray, graffiti-festooned wall she'd just graced with her vomit.
"Sprite, 8 ounce," she said, going up the bakery's steps.
The girl behind the glass counter nodded and produced a plastic bag of soda. The tingly, cold liquid calmed her rasped throat and acidic stomach. She squatted on a ledge in front of the bakery and watched the buses pass by. What a day, what a way to start your morning, she thought.
From the corner of her eye she saw a colorful lump hover beside her. Instinctively she stood up and clutched her handbag.
The colorful lump turned out to be a pedicab, decorated with garish streamers and pompoms. The driver was an old, clean-shaven man, wearing a hat with the words "Ilocos City" woven in the front. He nodded at Lisa and requested a bag of pandesal from the girl behind the counter.
As he was waiting for his bread started to the pedicab shake and tremble. Out of curiosity, Lisa craned her neck to peer inside.
A clear vinyl window introduced her to the pedicab's passenger: a black Doberman, perched nervously on the red leatherette seat. The dog gingerly shook its head, unsure whether it should jump off the seat or stay put.
"Francis!" the old man barked. The dog hunkered down on the seat, still as a statue.
Lisa watched the Doberman with a mounting sense of dread building in her guts before realizing that there was a neon green (curtain? mantle?) thingie festooned on the cab's clear, vinyl window, the message blaring at her in blood red yarn:
"GOD KNOWS HUDAS NOT PAY".
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ROWAN C. VELONTA
Rowan C. Velonta, 25, is currently working as Human Resources Officer in a hotel. He finished Business Administration and was the editor of the college organ.
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AT NGAYONG GABI KO BUBUNUTIN ANG MGA TINIK
Hinintay ko ang gabing ito
higit sa ibang mga gabing nagdaan.
Ngayon ko bubunutin ang mga tinik
na kinipkip ng may pagtitiis.
Mamaya matapos nating pagsaluhan ang
labindalawang-buwang galit-bati,
maingat kong lilisanin ang higaan,
iiwasan ang anomang paglangitngit
baka ikaw'y maalimpungatan.
At kapag dahan-dahang humuhulagpos
ang iyong kamay sa pagkapit sa aking bisig
at ang mahigpit na pagyakap ay unti-unting
kumakalas sa aking dibdib,
pati ang pagdantay ng iyong manipis na binti
sa aking binting sakang ay nangawit,
maayos kong ilalagay ang kumot
sa iyong katawang pinagnanasaan ng lamok.
Kapag wala ka ng malay
at tumimbre na ang hilik
ipauubaya na muna kitang aliwin ng panaginip.
At lalabas ako.
Dahil ngayong gabi ko bubunutin ang mga tinik
habang hindi mo namamalayan.
Ayokong makita ang reaksyong
maaaring idikta ng iyong mukha
habang lumuluha akong tinatangal ito nang mag-isa
sa aking pagkatao;
ayokong panoorin mo ako
habang tinutuyo ang mga dugo
sa mga nakangangang sugat na tumagos na pala sa kalooban.
Tama na na ang dilim
ang manitiling saksi sa lahat -
siya na hindi ko pinaglihiman kahit minsan
siya na nagkubli ng lahat kong pasan
siya na umunuwa sa ilang ulit kong pagkadapa.
Ngunit, papaano nga pala kung sa pagbabalik ko sa higaan
at pagsiping muli sa iyo sa iisang kumot
ay makanti mo ang mga sariwang sugat
sa bigla mong pag-unat at di ko mapigilang umaray?
Paano ko sasagutin ang iyong pagtataka sa inindang sakit?
Madadaan ko kaya sa masiil na halik
ang sunud-sunod mong mga tanong?
At kung mautal naman kaya ako sa pagsagot,
paniniwalaan mo pa ba ang mga dahilang ibubuka ng labi
o dapat kong asahan ang pait ng iyong titig
na panibagong tinik na babaon sa aking dibdib?
rendezvous
no stars congregate
in the sky
as we trip the night.
the wind chills me out
as i cuddle the clock;
then i hear you whisper:
you are mine tonight.
you rape
the passing hours
with your killing lullabies
as i lay myself
on the pavement
helpless...
moaning against
your love
greedy are your
hands
moving like a stealthy
thief
grasping away my sanity
with every luscious
contact
your breath
a silken sheet
venturing every sensation
caressing me
like an infant
with each touch
of raw gentleness
and i shiver
in your stinking
sweat
that bathe
my innocence,
camouflage my whole
i resist
every inch of
thorn
thrusting me within;
but your eyes
blind to empathize
my weeping blood
and you fill me
like a rich elixir
soothing away
my melancholy
relieving me
of the longings
though i cannot
tolerate anymore
i whimper in the ecstasy,
of the passion
that
are
your
eyes...