Achieving Happiness

1. Buy new bedsheets and pillowcases

2. Clean out the refrigerator

3. Organize closet

4. Shine and polish black shoes, launder sneakers

5. Give Poofy and Funny a bath

6.Get a haircut (or the beautiful gay person at the beauty parlor says — get a hairstyle)

7. Read more Albert Camus; borrow DVD of My Sassy Girl

8. Clean out the turtle tank

9. Organize the CDS, DVDs and tapes

10. Clear the roof of dead leaves and fallen twigs.

Often I make lists like this one to remind me that I still have a life that can be called normal despite how abnormal world outside is. The perpetual departure of life and light at the hands of senseless death and darkness. Nothing has ever been ‘normal’ for me since I became an activist. (Hindi tutoo ang mga Benetton ads. Ang mga nagpa-party 24-7 ay hindi laging masaya. Hindi lahat ng nakapag-aral ay matalino o alam ang talagang nangyayari sa mundo.Iba ang relihiyon sa pananampalataya, paniniwala, at paglilingkod sa diyos. )The picture of normality my parents tried to paint for me when I was child has long faded, and I can only remember it during moments of genuine quiet and peaceful solitude.

There is nothing normal in walking down a street with a box of doughnuts in your hand while there, slumped on the pavement, back against the grimy wall of the building is a starving family of three — stick-thin father, a mother with sunken cheeks, a wailing baby with a bloated stomach (worms?), all wearing many-times washed, threadbare clothes.

There is nothing normal in being able to go watch movies and eating BBQ popcorn and drinking soda from a can while outside the theater there are children dodging cars and trucks, offering to wash windshields or begging for a coin or two, or selling sampaguita garlands.

Or maybe I mistake ‘normal’ for ‘ordinary’ and ‘right.’

So many things around me — demolition of the houses of the urban poor, inadequate, expensive health care, excessive taxes — are not right. How can this be normal? Am I suppose to accept the small and massive injustices the government commits daily against the Filipino people as normal? How can this be right?

I’m leaving for Santiago City in Isabela tonight, to visit my father’s grave (as well as my grandfather’s). I wish I could talk to my father one more time so I’ll be able to thank him (and my mom) for trying so hard to raise me ‘right’ and ‘normal.’  The best things I credit my parents for are two things (1) they raised me and my sister with open, demonstrative affection; and (2) they taught us not to turn away from the things that upset us or the things that make us doubt our belief in what is right. (The weaknesses I possess now are strictly my fault. I absolve my parents of all blame.)

I’m also grateful to my father for teaching me to be proud of a clean, shiny floor as much as of a good term paper.

Some of the things that most people would probably find banal, boring or annoying I find interesting. Because it’s a deviation from my usual activities (dealing with darkness, death and despair is what I call it). Like cleaning up,for instance. Now that I have my own house, I have to fight my sloth and pick up and clean and dust and sweep and mop. The house has the smell of soggy, stinky dog, but little by little I’m getting rid of it (baking soda, charcoal and Lysol).

The other day I cleaned out the bathroom. The drain was clogged with hair and muck, and I poured muriatic acid into the drain and on the tiles and choked back my panic when smoke started rising. One shouldn’t breathe acid fumes, so  I had a handkerchief covering my nose and the entire lower half of my face. I looked a bandit holding a toilet brush. It was nothing short of amazing to me when the tiles turned white and the drain burbled free.

What I really want to do is to tear down  the wall dividing the living room from the one of the bedrooms, and paint everything with a new coat of white with green trim. Or maybe pumpkin and brown. Or something. I’d also get a dozen mousetraps, tracking powder and bait and ONCE AND FOR ALL KILL ALL THE FREAKING RODENTS THAT RUN AROUND WHEN I TURN THE LIGHTS OUT AT NIGHT!!!

(I hate rats. My love for animals ends when it comes to rats. They. Are. Nasty. Things.)

House chores distract me for hours on end — getting groceries (milk, tuna tins, soap, garbage bags, fruit), taking the dirty clothes to the laundry, wiping down the kitchen, waxing the floor. I like being distracted, and for a while I forget what’s going on outside. Housework is the best kind of escape - better than reading or writing even.

If I could learn a new skill, it would be most definitely carpentry. I want to build bookshelves and cupboards and bar stools. Next to the pen (or the computer keyboard), my favorite implements are the hammer and the saw. I also frequent hardware stores and look longingly at the high-power drills and rotary blades and sanders and factory-standard glue-guns (This is how my mother and I bond — we go to True Value or Handyman and check out the inventory. She’s addicted to hardware stores, but she can’t even use a screwdriver. She’s good at applying solignum to wood to keep the termites out).

In the meantime, while I’m still not a carpenter, I will continue to wield my pen, tap away at my keyboard. When I’m not cleaning the house or going after the mice and cockroaches, I’m part of the Movement trying to go after bigger pests, bloodsucking monsters worse than rabid rats.

Tinatanong nila lagi — "Ano ba talaga ang gusto ng mga nagra-rali na yan?! Nanggugulo lang sila? Wala ba silang mga pamilya? Umuwi na lang sila sa mga bahay nila at mag-alaga ng anak!"

What does this particular rallyist want? Simple.

I want a society where every family can sit together Saturday mornings and plan what they’re going to buy at the mall or the supermarket; make lists of supplies they’ll need for the coming week; or lists of the chores they have to do.

I want a society where all families have their own houses (not hovels, not boxes, not karitons) and all the kids have their own comfortable rooms each (and  there’s a community playground with see-saws, swings and jungle bars).

I want a society where  pictures of families sitting down to Sunday dinner or Saturday brunch are not just in the magazine ads but in the photo albums of every family - the dinners and lunches a regular event (umuusok ang malaking mangkok ng nilagang baka o sinigang na baboy. isang bandehadong puno ng chop suey. maputi at mabango ang bagong sinaing. may malaking pitsel ng dalandan juice. mga hiwa ng pakwan, melon o mangga bilang panghimagas. ).

I want a society where all Filipino households have a videoke machine or Magic Sing microphone each.

There’s nothing normal in how Philippine society currently works, in the way it’s laid out, in the  statistics that come out in the papers (even in the reports manipulated by the government). It’s simply not right that the huge majority have so little, and a small minority have most of everything.

1. Get a new mop

2. Get a new broom

3.Buy a pack of napthalene balls

4.Save up for a handheld vacuum cleaner

5. Donate old books and magazines

6.Learn to cook omellette

7.Buy a new pitcher (bigger than the last one Funny broke)

8. Get a new ice tray (with fun shapes like stars and hearts instead of plain cubes)

9.Put pictures in frames or photo albums

10. Throw out wilted watercress.#

Right before I went to to the Bukluran para sa Katotohanan-sponsored mass this afternoon in Brgy. San Miguel within the garrisson that is the Malacanang grounds, I first visited Mr. and Mrs. F. Sionil Jose in their bookstore Solidaridad in Padre Faura.

I practically grew up in that store, and Mr. and Mrs. Jose are like family. My parents met in Solidaridad 35 years ago, and nine months after that they got married. As children, my sister Majalla and I knew every nook and cranny of that store — we knew what titles the store carried, how the books were classified, and we loved the dry and light smell of the place, the feeling of always being on the verge of discovering new worlds between the pages of the hundreds of books that lined the shelves.My very first awareness of the power of literature and art came to me in that store, as I sat in a corner leafing through coffee table books on Georgia O’ Keefe’s works, or whispering lines from Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero’s plays.

Every year since I was nine years old, I could count on a beautiful journal from the Joses. I was instructed to fill every page, and to come back when I’d done that and again get a new notebook. As a child, I was also taken to PEN conferences at the Philippine International Convention Center (PICC) and listened to the likes of Isagani Cruz, Alejandro Roces, Nick Joaquin, Andres Cristobal Cruz, Cirillo Bautista discuss literary theory (or whatever. Remember, I was a child. For the most part,  just sat there and doodled.)

I also grew up reading Mr. Jose’s books. The first certified short story I read and was affected by was his Waywaya (which means freedom in Ilocano.); the first Filipino books I read were the Rosales novels — Poon; Mass; My Brother, My Executioner. Mr. Jose always had time for me whenever I visited the store with my parents, and more often than not before we left, I’d have a new book or two with me in my backpack.

Like I said, I practically grew up in that store.

And I grew up being aware of Mr. Jose and his beliefs about this country, it’s history, where it’s  going, and what the heck is wrong with Filipinos.

When I was in college but already an activist — a member of the League of Filipino Students (LFS) and a writer for the Philippine Collegian, I would just sit and listen to Mr. Jose while he vented his anger and frustration.I didn’t want to get into a debate with him (was too polite, was too young, was still learning about the movement and Philippine society), and for the most part I just took his comments quietly. They made me sad –his views. They were often angry and despairing, as if he couldn’t find any hope for the country and he wanted so much to give up on everything if only giving up didn’t mean accepting things as they are, period.

Now that I’m officially an adult (whatever the heck that means), I have taken to talking to Mr. Jose as if we were, well, equals. Now I’m prepared, even eager to defend my views; say what I think, and explain the truth as I know it.

Actually, Mr. Jose’s views about politics are not so different from mine — only his are less…diplomatic. My opinions and views are in fact quite tame compared to his. That’s why its really weirds me out that there have been articles or talk about him being "anti-Filipino" and an agent of the CIA (One time I even heard some of my teachers say so. I bet they  never once talked to Mr. Jose and really heard his views. I’ve asked Mr.Jose about the CIA thing."I’m a CIA agent as much as you are one, sweetheart").

Anyways.

Mr. Jose has a list of people he thinks the New People Army  (NPA) should kill.

"Sweetheart– these big businessmen should die.They’re exploiters, they’re the ones bleeding this country dry. They exploit the workers, suck up the profits and then hie off to Europe whenever there’s a new economic, political or natural disaster. Line them up and shoot them one by one."

"You and your movement! All this talk about the work of dead intellectuals like Marx and Mao! Your people are dying at the hands of the businessmen and landowners, monsters like the Cojuangcos, Henry Sy, Lucio Tan, the Zobel-Ayalas, and  issuing an angry press release is the best you can do? And don’t you start talking to me about protracted people’s war — haven’t Filipinos suffered long enough? Isn’t it time you brought the war to where the real enemies are?"

"It’s a class war, hija. Never forget that. They’re killing off the masa one by one, or the masa are being massacred like what happened at the Hacienda Luisita or Lupao or Escalante. How can you bear to talk to the likes of them? I see Satur or your boss shaking hands with a Marcos or an Aquino!"

He looked tired, Mr. Jose. Tired and sad. On his desk were piles of newspapers — the Philippine Daily Inquirer, the Manila Times, Businessworld, Malaya, the Philippine Star; various Philippine magazines like Free Press and Graphic. We were in his study, its walls lined with books — hardbound volumes on Descartes, Proust, Soviet literature; translations of Pramoedya Ananta Toer, Albert Camus, Jose Rizal. Books and books and other reading materials, music CDs and documentary DVDs on art, literature and politics.

So much information, yet there he was, sitting there, frustrated and sad and looking for answers.

I answered.

There is hope for this country, Mr. Jose. Whatever biases you have formed all these years against the revolutionary movement, against its leaders and against the means we are using to rip out the cancer from the heart of this nation, you should know that there is still hope. And this hope still lies with the revolutionary movement. It’s the only movement one with a clear-cut program on how to confront and end the ills of Philippine society: we’re the ones who are very familiar with these ills because the people we represent and serve  - the workers, the peasants - are the main victims .There will be no compromising when it comes to their interest and welfare. The economy and political system will be rebuilt according to what the poor and working people need -  independent, self-reliant industries; genuine agrarian reform; nationalist, scientific, mass-oriented culture and education; a sovereign foreign policy. As for the class enemies, they will be dealt with, and the punishment will fit the crime.

From January to October 26, 2005, the human rights group KARAPATAN documented  the cold-blooded murder of 50 activists and 70 other civilians. The perpetrators are from the Armed Forces of the Philippines (AFP), and their death squads and paramilitary groups.

120 lives, brutally taken.

120 deaths that will one day be avenged.

In a way it was funny. There I was, a full-time activist, no money in my pocket (well, I still have P200 til next allowance day), and 50 or so years younger than the Ramon Magsaysay awardee seated in front of me, yet it was to me that he was asking for explanations.

I wanted to tell him about the struggle for reforms, the peace talks, the alliances being forged between political organizations, human rights groups and progressive or at least enlightened members of the ruling elite and the ranks of the intelligentsia. I wanted to tell him about the books, the music, the plays and other forms of art the movement is producing. I wanted to tell him about how the movement is also working to convince even members of the AFP and the PNP to capitulate and side with the revolution.

About how the genuine government of the Filipino people, the true government of the poor and exploited continues to grow and strengthen in the regions.

But I didn’t. Instead I just told him: "We’re trying, Mr. Jose. Believe me, we are. There are hundreds and thousands of young Filipinos like me who have learned from the mistakes and errors, the failures and weaknesses of our elders and we will make sure the same errors will be committed again. Our mistakes will be many, but they will be minor; and there is no way we will not let the Filipino people down again."

It was surreal. Such a serious conversation. Neither of us smiled the entire time. The room was quiet except for the hum of the airconditioner, and the creak of our chairs whenever we moved: me to fidget, Mr.Jose to throw his hands in the air in a gesture of despair. I sat there across him, told him my experiences at work, the rallies, the developments in Congress, my views on the burgeoning dictatorship. And when I told him about the Movement, it  was like I was making some sort of vow.

I suppose I was.

It was raining when I left the bookstore. I took a jeep to Quiapo and got off to where the jeepneys heading for Brgy. San Miguel were lined up. All the while I was thinking of my conversation with Mr. Jose.

Revolution is simple, hija. You kill all the people’s exploiters, the killers of the sons and daughters of the soil, the murderers of activists like you.

Would it be that it was simple as that, Mr. Jose. If it were, I’d get a gun right now and head off to Makati or Ortigas.#

Si Ka Ric

Amoy bakal at apoy ang dugong natutuyo. Parang pinturang malagkit at hindi na kayang palabnawin ng thinner o tubig. Parang malungkot na panaginip na sumabog at kumalat, at hindi na maaring buuin pang muli.

Sumama ako kanina sa fact-finding mission sa Barangay Mapalaksiaw, Tarlac upang alamin ang mga detalye ng malupit na pagpaslang kay Ka Ricardo ‘Ric’ Ramos, kapitang baranggay ng Mapalaksiaw, enhinyero, at tagapangulo ng Central Azucarera de Tarlac Labor Union (CATLU) sa Hacienda Luisita ng mga Cojuangco.

Pinatay kagabi si Ka Ric bandang alas-9 ng gabi habang sya’y nakikipagkwentuhan sa kanyang mga kasamang baranggay tanod at kamanggagawa sa isang kubo malapit sa kanyang bahay. Dalawang bala ng M14 ang kumitil sa kanyang buhay: inasinta sya at tinamaan sa mukha at sa ulo: sumabog ang tuktok ng bao ng kanyang ulo, napingas ang kanyang kaliwang tenga at sumambulat ang kanyang dugo at piraso ng kanyang utak sa bubong, papag at pinto ng maliit na kubong naging saksi sa kanyang mga huling ngiti at halakhak.

Mahusay ang bumaril. Sa gitna ng kalat na dilim, nagawa nyang sipatin si Ka Ric at tiyaking sya ang tatamaan. Singbilis at singlinis ng kidlat na sumuot sa siwang ng kawayan at pawid na bakuran at gilid ng kubo ang mga bala, at inutas ang buhay ni Ka Ric. Humandusay ang kanyang patay na katawan sa alikabok at lupa, habang tumulo naman ang dugong tumagas mula sa kanyang ulong nabutas ng punglo.

Sino pa ba ang maaring gumawa ng gayung ka-eksperto at kalinis na pagpatay kundi ang militar? At sino ba ang may pinakamalaking pakinabang sa pagkawala ni Ka Ric kundi ang management ng Hacienda Luisita — ang mga sakim at ganid na Cojuangco?

May 300 metro ang layo mula sa pinangyarihan ng krimen, naroon ang detachment ng Philippine Army at ng CAFGU. Ayaw nilang magsalita, silang mga mukhang banggag at lasing na mga lalaking inabutan namin sa kampo. Bagamat mga naka-tsinelas at nakapambahay, bitbit nila ang mga mahahabang armas na M16 at M14. Nakapulupot na parang mga maamong sawa sa kanilang mga braso ang bandolier na puno ng mga bala.

Asan sila kagabi nang umalingawngaw ang mga putok?
Wala daw silang narinig. Nanood kasi sila ng tv.

Wala ba silang alam tungkol sa kaguluhan kagabi?
Wala. Maari bang magtanong na lang sa kanilang superyor, at sana wag nang magsama ng camera crew?

Bakit sila naglalagi sa gitna ng isang komunidad ng mga sibilyan?

Hindi nila alam. Dineploy lang daw sila dun. Nasisilaw daw sila sa ilaw ng kamera.  Wala silang alam. Hindi nila alam kung anong gulo ang nangyari. Wala silang alam.

Isang araw bago pinatay si Ka Ric at nabutas ang kanyang ulo at tumalsik ang kanyang dugo at utak sa kisame, dingding, pinto at papag ng kubo na naging saksi sa kanyang mga huling ngiti at halakhak, may dalawang miyembro ng Philippine Army na pumunta sa kanyang bahay.

May listahan silang gustong ikunsulta kay Ka Ric.

Listahan ng mga pinaghihinalaang mga miyembro ng New People’s Army (NPA).

Wala noon sa bahay si Ka Ric. Nasa piketlayn. Mga kasama nya sa bahay (asawa? kapatid? pamangkin?) ang tumanggap sa iniwang listahan. Nang dumating si Ka Ric, lubos ang kanyang galit.

"Hindi ninyo dapat tinanggap yan! Pinagbibintangan ang mga welgista at simpatisador sa welga bilang NPA! Hindi ako papayag na kasangkapanin ako sa pagpapahamak sa aking mga kasama at kapitabahay!"

Hindi nakuha si Ka Ric sa pananakot at panunuhol. Hindi sya natinag sa pamumuno laban ng mga manggagawa ng Hacienda. Hindi nya ipinagkanulo sa mga Cojuangco ang kanyang mga opisyales at miyembro, ang kanyang mga kapitbahay at kamanggagawa.

Hindi sya nagawang takutin o bilhin, kaya’t siya’y pinatay na lang. Kung di madala sa pakiusap, patahimikin ang kausap.

Si Ka Fedie

Hindi pa kami tapos sa pagsisiyasat nang pumasok ang isa pang text. Pinatay nung 5:30 ng hapon si Ka Fedie de Leon, tagapangulo ng Anakpawis-Bulacan, at tagapangulo din ng PISTON sa naturang probinsya. Binaril din sya, at patay na bago pa man sya bumagsak sa lupa.

Personal kong nakilala ko si Ka Fedie. Isang maliit, payat at masayahing Kasama. Siguro may 50 na taong gulang na sya, pero mahirap malaman ang edad nya sa tingin lang dahil makulit sya at magiliw. Palabiro, mahilig magpatawa.

Naging estudyante ko sya sa isang speakers/propaganda-media training nung ako’y nasa KMU pa. Sya ang naging pinakapaborito kong estudyante dahil mahusay syang magpahayag : pagkaliit-liit na mama, ang tapang at talim magsalita! May ngiti palagi ang kanyang mga pilyong mata. Para syang dwende na naging taga-lupa, at pag nasa entablado na sya tuwing transport strike o noise barrage ang PISTON, ayun si Ka Fedie - nagpupuyos ang damdamin sa gobyernong walang kwenta!

Tuwing nakikita ko si Ka Fedie, lagi nya akong binibiro at tinatawag na "ma’am."

Wala na akong maisulat. Tumutulo na ang sipon ko at luha. Parang pinipisil ang puso ko at gusto kong sumuka sa lungkot at galit. Mula kagabi hanggang kaninang alas-6, TATLONG aktibista at dalawang alyadong masa  ang pinatay ng berdugong gobyerno, ng berdugong militar. Walang halaga, walang kwenta ang buhay para sa gobyernong ito. Gloria, Impyerno ang ngalan mo. Kahit isang salita nang kondemnasyon sa pamamaslang sa mga sibilyan, wala kang binitiwan. Kung may kagyat na silbi at epekto ang mga panalangin, nananalangin kaming lamunin ka na ng kadilimang hatid at sumpa mo sa buhay ng mamamayang Pilipino. Magdusa ka nawa nang matindi — lampas sa isang libong beses ang hapdi ng mga sugat ng masang hinahagupit ng mga patakaran mo at polisiya. Santa patrona ka ng mga demonyo. Hipokritang sumasamba sa itim na altar, diyosa ng kaswapangan sa kapangyarihan.Ibabalik ka din sa impyernong iyong pinagmulan.#

(A Book and Film review of Peter Carey’s ‘Oscar and Lucinda’)

It would be foolish to expect that the medium of film can completely capture the range of sentience and profundity good literature possesses. Nevermind the space-age, technological developments in film-making — not even George Lucas’ Industrial Light and Magic can reflect on screen the harsh tenderness of Heathcliff’s character in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights;’ or the sad discourse into people’s tragic flaws and weaknesses in Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles. It’s always a hit and miss thing when the written word is translated on celluloid. Sometimes it works, and wonderfully; and sometimes it fails miserably, and makes one want to tear the red, fake-leather movie theater seat covers to shreds.

The first is the case with the 1997 Fox Searchlight interpretation of Peter Carey’s Oscar and Lucinda. Oscar and Lucinda the book is a novel of expansive proportions, covering issues of colonial history and morality, commerce and religion while telling a romance between two most original characters. Taking place in 19th century New South Wales or Australia, the story revolves around Oscar Hopkins, a nervous, child-like Anglican minister and a compulsive gambler; and Lucinda Leplastrier, a strong-willed heiress, also obsessed with gambling. They meet under the most original of circumstances, and together commiserate to bring a pre-manufactured glass chapel to the backwoods of then still-untamed Australia.

Sensitive prose

The book was awarded the British Booker Prize in 1988, and deserves many more such awards because Carey’s prose is insightful , intellectual, and sensitive. The characters of Oscar and Lucinda are described so that one forms a Kodak-ektacolor picture of them walking, talking, living. Carey has succeed in creating two characters that are so fleshed out, that one might think that they were actual people Carey had once before met. By no means is Carey’s language sentimental: his diction is erudite yet at the same time popular, and reaches both into the reader’s intellect and emotions. His is the ability to describe commonplace glass and turn it, with words and imagination, into crystal.

The book is filled with detailed descriptions of turn- of- the century England and Australia. It is a veritable tableau of glassblowers, Methodists, cauliflower-transporting seafarers, and office clerks. Carey is not one to use words sparingly when he delineates the color of the sky, or the texture of newly-wet grass; and neither did he economize in describing the turbulence within and between the two youths as they set out to overcome such challenges posed by a society they did not exactly fit in. After the last paragraph rounds off, the reader, as the blurb says, realizes that ‘the world is never going to look the same way again.’

Each chapter of O&L is titled sparingly, and non-dramatically — The Church, Stethoscope, Raisins, The Vicarage Kitchen, Happiness — but these one, two-word titles already they serve as introductions to each development in the lives of the main characters. In the chapter Apostasy, for instance, the young Oscar makes his first gamble when he seeks questions on the righteousness his father’s Methodist fate by randomly throwing a chipped rock on a surface he scratched with symbols . He assigns a particular meaning to each of the five, six symbols, and as he throws the specially chosen rock over his shoulder, standing with his back to front, he whispers his query – believing that the where the rock lands is God’s answer. Ever after, Oscar considers gambling as a way of consulting Divine wisdom.

Unique characters

As a study in human character, Oscar and Lucinda reveal two characters whose uniqueness lie in the circumstances both have to contend with; and in their specific response to these same circumstances. Oscar loves his strict, orthodox father; but being convinced that his father is ‘in error,’ leaves the house at 14 and moves in with ‘the damned,’ an Anglican minister and his wife.

Oscar is described as stick thin, pale and fragile-looking. His face is ‘sweet’ and ‘heart-shaped,’ and his hands ‘cold and clumsy-like.’ Underneath the frail physical frame, however, is a spirit strong enough to defy the rigors of weeks-long journey through oceans and rough terrain; a man whose faith in what he knows to be right burns like fiercely.

Lucinda, meanwhile, is not quite the stereotype heroine. Oh she has the princess look – porcelain skin, straight teeth, dainty feet; but her dark hair often resembles a well-used mop, and she insists on wearing bloomers at a time when the precursor of women’s jeans was considered a disgrace. Almost androgynous and most singular in her way of thought, Lucinda would rather play Dutch Hazards in train cars filled with racing types than sip tea in parlors. She was raised by pioneer parents, independent thinkers who saw nothing wrong in letting their daughter romp in the fields and nevermind lessons in coquetry.

On her 10th birthday, her parents gift Lucinda with a Prince Rupert drop, a teardrop-shaped piece of glass virtually indestructible, seemingly permanent in its beauty. Neither a hatchet blow or a the crushing weight of an anvil can damage it; yet it shatters when its tail is clipped with a basic pair of pliers. Lucinda bursts into tears when this happens. Years later, when presented with another Prince Rupert, she hastens to rescue it from being clipped.

Seemingly separate and detached from each other, the chapters build resolutely towards a climax that is both expected yet still sharply surprising. Carey puts one over the reader; first lulling the reader into complacency that the novel will end happily, and the characters will enjoy the rest of their lives in bliss. This does not happen, and though one ends up wanting to strangle Carey for such an ending, it is impossible not to respect him for thinking of it. Film and Fiction One can go on and on describing the universe Carey was able to create within the book - the slightest nuance of thought and feeling experienced by his characters make one think and feel, too; and to view the world and people differently, with more discernment, with less cynicism. And the film, faithful to its source, succeeds in doing the same.

First, the production design. The book includes in its strong literary points the artistry of the delineated physical context and images. In the movie, the production design does not cease to amaze. The race tracks, the churches, the ocean that refuses to swallow the clothes Oscar’s grief-stricken father throws against its froth, and finally, the delicate ‘kennel of angels’ Oscar and Lucinda created and attempted to transport as a silent but unmistakable proof of their mutual affection: all were transposed onto screen, words given flesh and visual form.

Australia’s clean heat and perpetual autumn colors formed the backdrop of the movie’s second half; well-balanced with the first half’s watery blues, greens, and the earth tones of the country houses. Laura Jones’ screenplay resonates with a beauty all its own. She was able to compress — with skillful transitions — the most essential events in the book without removing any of their significance and impact.

The screenplay was so written that it makes one positively long to read the original material. Conclusively, the cast and crew of O&L should very well commend themselves for producing such a movie. The film revealed on screen the Oscar and Lucinda Carey had so effectively and convincingly brought to life, straining through and against the paper and printer’s ink. Ralph Fiennes and Cate Blanchett played the title roles, and it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to state that had the studio chosen other people, the movie wouldn’t have turned out so sparklingly, and may well have fallen flat.

The supporting roles, played by Australians and British actors Ciaran Hinds, Tom Wilkinson, Richard Roxburgh and Billie Brown were also studied carefully .The result is a film so well-performed it might as well have been real life nakedly filmed.

Fiennes was reported to have starved himself and lost some 20 pounds just so he could look and feel the part of the ascetic, angel-souled Oscar. His gifts as a thespian alone would’ve carried him well through his role; but Fiennes’ sacrifice is very much appreciated because to any reader of the original book who also saw the movie, the emaciated Fiennes was Oscar physicalized — gangly arms; pale, sunken cheeks; fragile wrists and expressive eyes. Fiennes was able to enter his role so completely, and so effortlessly that one wonders if Carey had Fiennes in mind when he wrote the book.

In the scene where Oscar tentatively reaches out to hold Lucinda, he is shy and lost and vulnerable: a perfect foil against Lucinda’s strength. Blanchett, meanwhile, plays the female lead like she was born into the role. Her walk, her mien, her indifference to losing five guineas on a game of fan tan was Lucinda’s. Blanchett exposes Lucinda’s secret insecurities (her being an orphan gave her a loneliness touching to behold) through the way she twists her handkerchief, lowers her head with painful grace, whenever faced with a situation she is loath to confront. One aches to see her and Fiennes together as O&L, and one ends up holding one’s breath as they brave their respective weaknesses, and cautiously, gently venture into a friendship defiant of social criticism, and anchored on deep and unabiding trust .

Finally, Oscar and Lucinda, the book and the movie, is highly cerebral, pointedly visceral. It carries both pathos and a sense of unstinting, cruel inevitability . In the book, the movement of the story at the beginning appears directionless, soon reveals itself determinedly unstoppable, especially in the final 10, 15 short chapters. The shift in phasing becomes a cause for worry; not because the writing falters into awkwardness, but because one senses ill tiding for the two lead characters. The film is the same, with the scenes merging swiftly into the next, stripping away through scene by relentless scene any guesses or hopes the audience has on how the story will end.

The plot and plot development strain at the leash of critical analysis, yet at the same time nudges one towards plain acceptance of the higher powers (the author’s will, the inevitable outcome of such a plot) that asserted themselves over the reader’s own wishes for the characters. At the end of the book, one feels spent emotionally and mentally.

At the end of the movie, one wishes to clap but is too exhausted to do so. Seldom does one find a movie that can stir both the mental and emotional senses the way its original source — a good novel, a stirring play — can. Columbian fishermen, according to writer Eduardo Galeano, call it sentipensante, the harmony of the spirit , the heart, and the mind. Oscar and Lucinda gracefully crosses the difficult boundaries between the medium of the written word and film, and between thought and feeling. #

(For Raymund and Pom,who read my blog.Douglas Coupland sez that to create art with the audience in mind is corrupt.I agree (not that am saying my ramblings constitute art, but you get the point.The act of creating,baga.Now that it’s been confirmed that people other than my husband read this blog,it’s become,well,kinda weird to write.Nova’s the one who sez other people read this,and it worried me a little bit.Not that others kayo ni Pom.I still don’t understand the principles of blogging.Am new at this. It’s like, well, being in a reality tv show (but not Pinoy Big Brother. Maybe Survivor in Payatas.)To readers of this blog, thank you for reading.Thank you for making me corrupt (hahaha. kidding).Anyways, I’ll forget about you now and move on to what’s bothering me.)

What is intellectual literature?

What makes a literary work ‘intellectual’ and what are the cases wherein intellectual work doesn’t necessarily mean ‘meaningful’ or ‘profound’ work?

I found myself in a bit of a debate with Miguel Paolo from Bayan Muna, and it surprised me to hear him make these distinctions.

For instance, we had differing views regarding the ‘intellectual’ nature of Milan Kundera’s works (such as The Unbearable Lightness of Being, The Joke, Immortality,etc), A.S. Byatt’s Possession and Luigi Pirandello’s 7 Characters (or is it six?) in Search of an Author.

Paolo described these works as ‘intellectual’ (perhaps interchangable with terms "cerebral’ or ’seminal?’), but he more or less dismissed them. "Too textured, clouded with images, the plots do not amount to much").

Now I was never one to defend Milan Kundera (who’s anti-socialist, anti-communist) and the politics of his work; but there is no denying his lyricism. He waxes philosophical on the little foibles of humanity, the nature of uniqueness, and the inherent quality of perpetual newness of usual gestures made by different people,and this is reason for me to enjoy reading him.

It’s as if he holds a magnifying glass and he trains it on the small things that lie between people — the expressions and gestures,the shared memory, the common percieved objects understood differently.

AS Byatt, in the meantime,does write with ‘texture’ as Paolo puts it. Usually naman kasi good prose is textured. Meanings layered gracefully on simple descriptions utilizing everyday words. But he didn’t like the texture. Am curious about this.

The plot of Pirandello’s play,however, I found interesting (well,in high school I did). The title itself yanks your interest,doesn’t? The existentialist search for self definition employing the voice of a different, seperate other. How our own lives are seen through the eyes of others.How our own words would sound and what they would mean if and when spoken by another.The uniqueness lies with the individual making the gesture; the meaning and weight of life determined by the one living it, and those who see this life being lived and how.

I suppose Paolo’s in a mostly tibak frame of mind when he reads. (Nevermind that he sez that the emotional is also often intellectual. I think he still chooses to separate one from the other when analyzing or deconstructing. But then again, magkaiba talaga ang paraan ng pag-analyze at pagdeconstruct ng creative writing pipol sa mga English or Comparative Lit majors. Ever witnessed or heard a debate between a creat lit and a comp lit major? On the difference between natural and real literature? Nakakahilo,pero exhilirating.)

In any case, how Paolo reads would be interesting to know.

(Hmm. Parang slumbook question: If you were a book, which book would you be and why. Utang na loob, nobody answer that you’d be the Bible) (But then again, the Bible is a good read. I was once scolded by my religion teacher in elementary school for reading the Old Testament as a novel. As in fiction. Revelations is scary.)

Ako kasi I’ve found it a little burdensome (as a reader,not as a writer) to carry my… activism with me when I read. It’s like an albatross around my neck. I would wind up being tired,exasperated and infuriated by every eight out of 10 books I read. The synthezing process, however,is different. This is when I’d gauage a book AFTER reading it on its actual merits and what I believe is its message is to the world (if any.Halimbawa, John Irving’s A Prayer For Owen Meany carries strong anti-Vietnam war sentiments; and his Cider House Rules,kahit i-deny nya,speaks of women’s rights to their own bodies.Stephen King - popcorn writer that he is - has written an eloquent discourse on the Machiavellian principle ‘the ends justify the means’ in The Dead Zone.These are books that will never win Pulitzers or Nobels, but in my estimation,the fact that they really made me stop and consider my own views on issues such as abortion, the US’ interventionist foreign policy, and my moral stand on political assasination, they’re books worth reading and discussing. ) 

I guess what it all boils down to is this: what literature means and what it implies often relies on the subjectivity of the reader; his/her biases, and her/his purpose for reading. Outside of the debate on the quality of language, the weaknesses or strengths of characterization, plot and logic of conflict and resolution, the coffee grounds are this: the reader decides,lays down the verdict based on his/her personal experience, learning, values and maybe politics (kung conscious yung reader.)

I’ve read books that would qualify as dumb (a few of those so-called chick lit books, Bridget Jones wanna-bes),but I’ve gained a few bits of insight from them about relationships and my own neuroses (I will not go into them here. Maybe if I were drunk.)

I also read science fiction (Stanislaw Lem, Isaac Asimov, Alan Dean Foster and those Star Trek books), but apart from the fact that there are science factoids there, and they employ scientific concepts, I would not immediately label all the works as intellectual. (But Lem and Asimov are freaking genuises. Arthur C. Clarke din and Phillip K. Dicke.) My husband who’s a physics nut, however, glazes over the scientific principles and goes do the the essense of the stories. Take away the technology, he sez, and what remains is still humanity — flawed and doomed to commit the same errors so long as people don’t evolve in terms of psychology and ideology. This, he sez,is what makes certain sci-fi intellectual –when they comment and philosophize consciously on the human condition.

I’ve always wanted to write a review of Ruth Firmeza’s Gera; but just thinking about it just about destroys me. The content (stories within individual but interlocking life stories, the larger socio-political context which created the plot which has, essentially no real beginning and no discernable end) is too close to where the essential me  resides. It weakens me to read Gera. But it’s only the content per se - but what stories and emotions the  story awakens in me, everything connected to my own life in the movement.

I wonder how other activists read and appreciate Gera? It must be a similar yet different experience. The conversation with Paolo has made me eager to discuss this. Gera or any other body of work in the Kilusan. The stories in Muog,for instance. Or kahit anong libro. How are we affected and influenced by literature? We are what we read, and what we read influences us to some degree or another or strengthen some aspect or another of our characters and personalities (I went through a Holden Caulfield phase once when I was 11. I had a friend in college who wanted to marry Neil Gaiman’s Dream. She really was a dark sort of person.)

In the first few scenes of the movie Before Sunset, Jesse played by Ethan Hawke is in the midst of a book launch - his own.The ending of his novel,it appears, is open-ended. The reporters ask him– ‘how did you story end?" He more or less answers that to reveal what he thinks is the story’s real conclusion "would take the piss out of the real thing."

He, however, turns the table on his interlocutors and asks them how they think the novel ended. If one is a romantic or optimistic type, one would hope for and believe in a happy ending and hope fulfilled. If one were mostly of a cynical bent, one would insist that the story ended in tears. If one were,well, unsure and uncertain of how he/she views life, he or she would continue being uncertain and unsure of how the novel ended.

I always wish for happy endings in other people’s stories; but in my own work, well, the endings are often sad. I am always hopeful that I will learn something for my own personal use and benefit from the books I read. Kahit trash.

The reader that I am is different from my self who writes. #

The only drawback there is to this life and this lifestyle is that I cannot buy the books I want when I want them.

Am so eager for Christmas to come because I’m looking forward to hoard I’m expecting. Mostly I get journals and fountain pens and writing paper and books for Christmas, and that’s just about perfect for me. But to make sure that the books I get are the books I want, well, I’m not above hinting.

BROAD hinting.

Because there’s nothing worse than getting a new copy of a book you already have. A book the gifter brought for P700 when the giftee already has a copy she brought at Booksale for P60.

In any case, I don’t have any of the two books written by this whiz kid Jonathan Safran Foer. I’ve read so many reviews, and I’ve read at least a chapter of both of his books (picture me looking forlorn and bereft at Fully Booked, wishing I had the money to fork out. But then again, even if I had the money, I wouldn’t use it to buy the books. Too expensive.) Hint hint hint.

——–

Two of my favorite authors Douglas Coupland and Alain de Botton write about life as they view it from their respective positions in the world: upper middle class, educated, artistic and far removed from the realities confronted by most people. They write, they analyze how people cope with emotion — the impact of external factors on the internal life processes. But the factors are hardly ever political or economic. Mostly they skim over the surface of socio-economic considerations, the actual physical, concrete contexts of their imagined, constructed mileau.

It’s endlessly amazing to me how so many worlds can exist in literature, and the way one views is the world is often reflected in the kind of books one likes reading.

What does this say about the reader?

Speaking (or rather, writing) for myself, I am a reader who seeks not really to learn about the world, but to help me understand myself and how I deal with the world. And with people I have to deal with on a more or less personal basis. It’s a very self-aware kind of process with me, picking the books I read;the way I ruminate and reflect on their contents and messages;  and the way I react to them.

I even have this habit (often unforgivable. I hate this about myself, but I can’t seem to help it) of figuring out people from the books they read. Of course this doesn’t apply to say, the farmers, workers and urban/rural poor people I meet and work with/for. This applies to, well, people with whom I more or less share the same economic and social background.

Some people have tendencies of gauging others by looking at the shoes or clothes they wear, or the music they listen to.(Ok, so maybe I also try to figure out people by the music they like. But that’s a different blog altogether, and it’s a trickier classifier.)

I tend to weigh people by the books they read. It’s not like I’m judging their values or anything — it’s, well, it’s my way of finding out whether or not I can be friends with them and be comfortable enough with them.

I often guess at what’s normal. It takes so much effort for me to make friends and to keep them. Hay. This is why I like books — it’s like having friends I don’t have to see or talk to, but I care deeply about the characters and what happens to them.

Sheesh. How’s that for being a loser? When I first read Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones’s Diary I got a little upset reading the part where Bridget flinches at Mark Darcy’s conversation opener: "Read any good books lately?"

That’s a perfectly good starter to a conversation, I thought. Sheesh.

(At this point I would like to defend Helen Fielding and say that her first book Cause Celeb is infinitely a worthier book than the last three she’s written. Cause Celeb didn’t make much money, I guess, so that’s why Ms.Fielding wrote more popular books such. Cause Celeb is well-written and its narrator is an intelligent version of the quintessential Singleton Bridget. It’s about a British relief worker in Africa. It’s funny and enagaging, and it’s also, well, somewhat political. At least it makes very pointed (although not preachy) observations about how life is for the rich and famous, and how demented their priorities are when seen in the context of how so many things are wrong in the world like the existence of widespread hunger, disease and governments imposing vurulently anti-people policies that push people to launch civil war.)

—-

I am so looking forward to seeing and maybe talking to Arundhati Roy in December!!!

——–

These days I’m coming to terms with the truth that I really am not a people- person. It’s sad; but what can I do? I do not have very good social skills. I never did. I sometimes wish I were less…awkward around people. I can chatter like a magpie on certain things, but for the most part I’m like Susan the Silent in  Finian’s Rainbow (or one of those characters in Finnegan’s Wake ni James Joyce. Unreadable.)

I can be gregarious and communicative on paper, though. (although to the few friends I have, I suppose I’m not exactly a dry stick or a lump of clay. I’ve had a two- hour conversation with Walkie about Harry Potter as if Harry were a real person. I’m not, however, a regular ray of sunshine and  there will never be anyone who will say that their first impression of me is that I’m friendly.)

———-

Crap,this blog is already starting to read like my journal. But then again, nobody reads this so who cares?

Fornit Some Fornus.

This was published in 2003 in the Philippine Daily inquirer two months after my father passed away.

——-

Before September 7

MY dad, Florentino Silos Silverio, died last September 7 of an aneurysm. He was 55. He would have been 56 last October 16. Days before that day, instead of panicking over what book, CD, shirt or shoes we would get him, my mother and elder sister Majalla gathered fragile, yellow flowers to put on his grave in Santiago City, Isabela. Yellow was my father’s favorite color.

He gave me my name. I was six when he first told me what my mouthful of a name meant: "Ina" means "Little Girl"(I forget in which language. When he gave my kitten Mariah her name, he said it meant "wind." ); "Alleco" is the combination of the first name and surname of a dear friend, political officer Alexander Cristoforo who was killed during martial law; and "Allende" is obviously lifted from the name of Chile’s President Salvador Gossens Allende who was assassinated by orders of the United States government.

He took charge of my religious upbringing. He taught me the tenets of Buddhism, Islam, Confucianism and Judaism when I was growing up. He didn’t allow me to be baptized in the Catholic Church right away, making my mom afraid her youngest daughter would go straight to hell. Papa always said children should be allowed to choose their religious beliefs, if they wanted to have any. He said children should be taught the differences between ideology, faith and religion first-these and the differences between religions right down to the historic and political contexts that formed them.

For a time I wanted to practice the Jewish faith. I had read "The Diary of Anne Frank" and liked the idea of Hannukah, with the dreidels, potato latkes and shining brass menorahs. But then Dad told me all about Gaza, the anti-Zionist movement, the Palestinian struggle and how young children fought alongside their parents with bows and arrows, rocks and slingshots to defend their side of the border.

Then I wanted to be a Buddhist, and got interested in the idea of reincarnation. I was ready to shave my head and walk around with a begging bowl. But Dad said I was too picky with food, and much too headstrong and proud to rely on the kindness of strangers. He also said that there was such a thing as class exploitation, and if reincarnation were true, most of the cockroaches and other pests must be big businessmen and landlords in their original lives feed off the sweat of others.

What clinched the argument for me, though, was his warning that if I were ever to reincarnate, given all the headaches I had caused my yayas, I’d be reborn as a tick or a termite. I never seriously considered turning Muslim because, though I admired Mohammed from the stories Papa told me, I thought wearing a jellaba in 35 degree weather would suffocate me. Also, Papa said that studying Islam required intelligence and patience, and I was nowhere near having either of them. Mostly though, he said that I would most likely sneak out to eat bacon.

Thus, my mom won and I became Catholic when I was 11.

A former seminarian, Papa told me stories of St. Francis de Assisi, St.John the Beloved, and his personal favorite saint, St. Therese, The Little Flower. And as if to put the fear of God in me, at night he narrated all the ghost and monster stories he’d ever heard growing up in the province: about the mambabarang, the kapre, the tikbalang and the mandurugo who butchered children caught playing outside the house between 1 and 2 p.m. and mixed their coagulated blood to strengthen the cement used on the foundations of bridges.

I saw my father doing and being many things when I was growing up. He was a political analyst and researcher/writer for the Department of National Defense (it’s a long story how he got there from being a member of Kabataang Makabayan and a seminarian), a teacher of sociology and world history, a cat and dog lover, a guitar player, a farmer, a speed reader, and an ambidextrous writer. He cooked the best chicken sopas, ginisang munggo and instant pancit canton. He was a fiercely competitive chess and scrabble player, never conceding a single point to his exasperated daughters. He sang to the ’60s, danced to the ’80s, read Neruda, Sartre, Gandhi and Kafka, and ably explained the intricate plots of early afternoon Mexican telenovelas. He also used to do impressions of politicians and Sammy Davis Jr.

When, after college, I made my decision not to pursue a career for the income I would earn but instead joined the movement of the oppressed and exploited, Papa did not stop me. He had always been a romantic, a dreamer-someone who spent his youth with farmers in Isabela and squatters in various communities in Manila. He raised us to be independent, to decide for ourselves, and to not be attached to material things. He looked at me, asked me if I was sure, told me to be careful and never do anything that would cause my mother pain or anguish.

But of all the things I learned from Papa, the most important thing was love. Even when he was rubbing alcohol and mercurochrome on the wounds I got because of clumsiness in the playground, he was firm but gentle, and I never cried. I grew up without being squeamish about saying "love you" to my parents. He taught us that by example. There were times when my sister and I would pretend to retch whenever he expressed sweetness to Mama. He used to bring her flowers-stolen from our neighbors’ hedges and vines. He called mom "Sweetheart" ; and me & "Palakol," or "Pating" on account of my tendency when I was still a child to bite people whenever I got upset. As for Ate Majalla, he called her simply that: Majal, or Love. Their relationship was much sombre than ours was. Ate Majalla’s a geek.

It happened on a Sunday morning. I was at the office, working overtime to finish Bayan Muna Representative Crispin Beltran’s privileged speech on the people’s position regarding the World Trade Organization meeting in Cancun, Mexico.

I was thinking how great it was that Papa taught me how to form idea outlines in my head, and how to organize sentences fast when I had a deadline to beat. The aircon was humming quietly, and the mug of tea I was drinking was still sending up fragrant fumes.

I felt alive, productive, my father’s daughter.

Then the phone rang and I heard my sister’s voice breaking on the other line.

He was the strongest influence in my life, and I loved him very, very much.

The heart stops briefly when someone it loves dies,

a quick pain as you hear the news, and someone passes from your outside life to inside.

Slowly the heart adjusts to its new weight,

and slowly everything continues, sanely.#

"Bawiin, bawiin, bawiin ang Mendiola!"

This is now the official battlecry of all progressive and militant people’s organizations, specifically those led by the Bagong Alyansang Makabayan (BAYAN) and the Gloria Step Down Movement.

For many activists, Mendiola is a political Narnia  — the ultimate gathering place for those who demand justice from the government. All major political demonstrations are held there: the best and most fiery speeches delivered and heard by thousands of Filipinos angered and outraged by governments who, one after the other, have not only failed their mandate but launched vicious campaigns of repression and undermined the economic welfare of the poor and working people.

Mendiola. The very word evokes so many images sharp and unforgettable, etched in th collective memory of this nation, written in blood in the people’s history of struggle for genuine freedom and democracy.

Since the illegitimate Macapagal-Arroyo administration launched its calibrated preemptive response policy, Mendiola and the areas immediately surrounding Malacanang have been turned into a garrison. Razor wire, platoons of police roaming 24-7. The smallest pickets and rallies have been met with violence from police and various goons under their jurisdiction, including retired police and army men. They’ve used shield and truncheons against demonstrators, and even brass knuckles. Only last week, a prayer rally was  hosed down by fierce blasts from a water cannon. Scores of demonstrators have been hurt in the dispersals — bloody heads, bruised arms and legs, blackened eyes. 

The authorities of the local government of Manila stipulated that the no-permit, no rally policy is being strictly enforced; but even this, their  rule they chose to break because they never once recognized the legality or legitimacy of the permits shown them when demonstrators succeeded in getting said permits. So who’s kidding whom here?

The stench of fear undulates in waves and waves, a heavy black cloud hovering above Malacanang Palace. More than just barricading Mendiola, Malacanang is resorting to othe means of shrinking the democratic space.

The last few weeks has seen Malacanang desperately hell-bent on imposing of administrative and  legislative measures giving the police and other armed state forces the sort of arbitrary power normally associated with fascist regimes or military juntas.In the hands of the PNP and AFP — uniformed killers masquerading as protectors of civilians — these authoritarian measures  are being abused to  the severe detriment of civil and human rights.

Through the anti-terrorism bill, Executive Order  464 and the CPR, the illegitimate and corrupt administration is darkly seeking the power to detain and question people without charge or trial. The police and military  can raid anyone’s home or  office, at any hour of the day or night, and forcibly take them away, interrogate and strip-search them and hold them incommunicado, effectively  indefinitely.

These measures, especially the anti-terrorism bill, represent a fundamental assault on essential civil liberties. They give the security and intelligence agencies unfettered arbitrary and repressive power, marking a dramatic step toward the implementation of authoritarian rule. Those detained have no right to know why they are being hauled off for interrogation. If they resist, violent force, including lethal force, can be used against them. If they refuse to answer any question or hand over  any material that PNP or AFP  or any armed authorities  of  the government alleges they possess, they face imprisonment.

There is the serious danger that entirely innocent, ordinary people, who have committed no crime, will be subjected to intense political repression. They do not have to be suspected of committing any offence. The PNP or AFP, using  the anti-terrorism bill, need  only assert that they may have some information  relating to “terrorism”, regardless of whether any terrorist act has actually occurred or is even suspected of being planned.

Given all this, the potential for political harassment and victimization is vast.  for instance, the definition of terrorism in  the anti-terrorism bill is so broad that anyone who knows about a protest or demonstration planned for a “political,ideological or religious cause” could be rounded up for interrogation.Given the bill’s sweeping  provisions, and given the rising paranoia of  the administration - a school or university teacher could be detained simply because they have a student in their class who has written an essay on terrorism. An investigative journalist or researcher could be interrogated and forced to hand over documents or notes relating to terrorism. Neighbours, workmates, acquaintances or relatives of suspects could be detained for questioning, possibly on flimsy, false accusations made by anonymous sources. Political or social activists could be taken into custody on allegations of knowing about terrorist plans.

Even right now as I type this, under the ATB, I could be arrested for being ‘terrorist’  and writing subversive blogs.

What Filipinos should be alarmed about is this: democratic rights forged in the last century of struggle are being abolished one by one, and  in the most  insidious ways. Unlike other criminal legislation, under the anti-Terrorism Act people can be imprisoned or punished for ideas, or knowledge, rather than acts. People can be detained on mere suspicion, without a specific charge. How different is this from the Nazi regime? Anyone can be rounded up for interrogation and detention under a law that is so vague that no one can tell whether they have infringed it or not. The Act’s language is deliberately ill defined, highly subjective and political, making it easy to manipulate

What all this reveals about the incumbent administration is that it’s afraid.

Afraid for itself, afraid of the voices that demand the resignation of its illegitimate president, and afraid of the truth that justice will prevail against it -eventually and inevitably.The Terrorism Act, the CPR and EO  464 are very significant departures from established law. The government is rushing forward with  the  intent of protecting  itself from the legitimate protests and calls for Macapagal-Arroyo’s resignation and removal from  office.

———

Pero ang lahat ng ito ay hindi nangangahulugan na pulos galit at hinagpis lang ang mga damdaming naghahari sa mga rali at demonstrasyon.

Ngayon ang ika-5 at huling araw ng Lakbayan ng mga magsasaka at mamamayan. Farmers and members of various allied peoples organizations from all over Central Luzon, Southern Tagalog and Northern Luzon journeyed from their respective provinces with the intent of registering their dissent against the Macapagal-Arroyo government and to expose that genuine agrarian reform is still being denied the country’s tillers. Farmers comprise the biggest percentage of the Filipino population, but they are also the most neglected by the incumbent administration and its predecessors.

Militante, mataas at buhay na buhay ang diwa ng mga magsasaka at mga aktibista. Sa init ng katanghaliang araw, at sa harap ng gutom at uhaw, nagpatuloy sila sa pagmartsa hanggang umabot sa Kamaynilaan. Hindi nila inalintana ang mga katarantaduhan ng mga pulis at militar na nagpadala ng mga bobong impiltrador at nagtayo ng mga checkpoint at harang sa mga major roads patungong Maynila.

They were laughing and smiling and yes, rejoicing over their triumph against the government who tried its best to sabotage the Lakbayan but miserably failed.

This afternoon’s program at the corner of Recto and Morayta was one of the best political programs I’ve ever seen and heard. The speakers — Bayan chair Dr. Carol Araullo, League of Filipino Students (LFS) chair Vencer Crisostomo, Bayan Muna solons Satur Ocampo and Teddy Casino; Anakpawis Rep. and Kilusang Magbubukid ng Pilipinas (KMP) chair Rafael Mariano, Gabriela Rep. Liza Maza and KMP Sec. Gen. Danilo ‘Ka Daning’ Ramos were all in top form.

Their voices rang clear and strong, speaking as they did for the very  people Macapagal-Arroyo has chosen to pit her will against: the farmers, the peasants, the urban and rural poor.

The cultural numbers were also brilliant. Highly creative. New songs and arrangements. The crowd and audience sang along , clapped and responded appreciatively.

I bet even the police were listening. Them and the marines and army men deployed behind the phalanx of police with their M-16s, tear gas canisters and stun-guns.

Ang hindi madalas binabanggit sa mga ulat kaugnay sa mga pulitikal na pagkilos ay ang katotohanan na ang gayong mga pagtitipon ay mga okasyon din ng pagbubunyi at selebrasyon.

Sa mga gayong pagkakataon naipapakita na nagkakaisa ang mga uring mapagpasya, at kaisa nila ang mga progresibong sektor ng lipunan. Sa gayong mga pagtitipon, nararehistro ang matibay at dakilang mensahe na isang araw, dadating ang katarungan sa lipunang Pilipino, at tangan ito ng mga mamamayang di natakot lumaban at makibaka.

Kung nakayang biguin ang batas militar ni Marcos, kayang biguin ang namumuong diktadurya ni Gloria. Walang batas na mas mataas sa kagustuhan ng nagkakaisang mamamayan. Walang pag-iisip ang mananaig kundi ang dakilang pananaw ng proletaryado at organisadong masang anakpawis.

Magdiwang tayo dahil ang bawat isang araw ay isang araw papalapit sa kamatayan ng naghaharing sistema, sa pagbagsak ng bulok, mandaraya, magnanakaw, sinungaling at berdugong presidenteng si Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo.

Mendiola will be reclaimed. The red banners of the Filipino people will soon be waving freely across that small but historic space. Babawiin at palalayain ng mamamayan ang Mendiola,  kasama ng ibang mga larangan sa kanayunan at sa kalunsuran.#

Bwahahahahahar! This is a short story I wrote a looooong time ago for a creative writing class. A series of writing exercises that turned into a short story of sorts (Guy de Maupassant would kill me for mangling the form, but heck - it squeaked me through). This, along with another story (which was political, the exact opposite of what this one is in language, tone and imagery. maybe next time I’ll post it here) got me into the 1996 Silliman National Writers Workshop in Dumaguete. Maniwala sa hindi, I was already in KMU then, and my co-Fellows , after the workshop discussion, couldn’t believe I wrote this.

Forgive the pedantry, forgive the cloying corniness (i was young!), but really, truth is stranger than fiction.

This is for Novaleeh, and for friendships that flourish through time and under any weather **********************************************************************

                                                         Through a Cliche and Back

Cynthia so far

It had become a habit with her — asking questions.

As soon as she opened her eyes in the morning, she would ask herself, “Why do I have to get up?”

On her back, fixedly staring at the watermarked ceiling above, she would determine her reasons as to why she should leave the comfort of inanimation. Three reasons, at the least. She needed to come up with three reasons; anything less she considered invalid. And they had to be important, too; “of bearing and meaningful purpose.” Otherwise she would discard them; and then she would remain prostrate on her bed: the over-stuffed, ashen gray pillows barricading her in, and her thoughts swiftly forming around all she knew of Sylvia Plath.

What did she consider important? Vague yet concrete things. Abstractions manifested in psuedo-solidity — a plasma formula — as soon as they were expressed in the spoken word and in the gestures of the few individuals she toook pains not to be indifferent to.

Mostly, however, she found the importance she continually sought in the silent wakefulness of her immediate world, inhabited by singular, simple truths and subjects. She was a detail person, and firmly believed that the fine-print of things will reveal whether or not anything or anyone should be considered worthy. It was in the fine-print - the essence of what makes one be; the essence of what one truly is.

She had already finalized her definitions of genuine meaning and worthiness, words to her synonymous with importance, and purpose. She had even constructed a mental syllabus of definitions : importance was beauty and awareness; purpose was alternatives and action.Importance was a fragile-stemmed flower growing out of a crack in the sidewalk. Purpose was the yearing to transfer that flower to a patch of warm, living earth; a longing coupled with an intention and a plan.

To her, an individual became important the moment he or she noticed what was usually ignored and considered inconsequential. To her, an individual gains ascendancy of spirit when he or she seeks to rediscover what has been forgotten; or redeem what has been ridiculed. Thus the neglect of the slighted, apathy towards the ignored and the taken-for-granted, were the sins she considered most abominable.

As for herself, she called herself simply “human.” She found conviction and strength in the word; yet at the same time she acknowledged its conceit and weakness.

Wasn’t it true that to be human was to be powerful and foolish at the same time? An arrogant atom in the infinite universe -by itself both nothing and everything because all the universe was composed of other atoms; and so no single atom was ever extraordinary. Yet the atoms of different elements were of varying compositions of neurons and electrons: each atom having its own unknown potential, and when split and shattered…

That morning, as soon as consciousness returned after a night of temporary death, she asked herself, “Why do I have to get up today?” She expected a tumult of answers to surface from her inner being and propel her into movement. The intangible string of connected ideas and proposed actions, set goals and sought-for ideals — stretched taut and twined around the all-too ethereal pillar labelled “life” — were what she used to guide her through the currents of reality. Guided thus, she could move. She expected answers.

To her amazement, she found none. There was only silence from her thoughts. Not a single word, not even a hollow or paltry response. Instead what came to her were feelings. Feelings of the drowning: despair and inevitability. Certainty of a tragic conclusion. Defeat and exhaustion. “What is wrong with the world today, I wonder?” she asked herself. “I couldn’t possibly be feeling this way because of my own doing.”

2

Today I have just woken up and I feel dead. It is funny, considering that last night I felt so alive. Or at least I knew I was alive and was glad for it. Now, well, I think I’m alive, but I’m not quite so sure.I don’t know. There is a difference between thinking you know something, and knowing that you do know something. Am I alive still? If I am, then why do I feel dead? That is, I feel nothing. Dead people feel nothing,and that is how I feel. Hmm, that is most interesting. “Nothing” is actually “something.” Feeling nothing is feeling something. I feel something. Does that mean I’m alive? Enough!

I get up, and head for the bathroom. The mirror reflects a smiling, pink face; and it is face I do not recognize. Whose is it? Is it mine? Pink is a happy color, and a smiling face is normally associated with happiness. Am I happy? If I am , then why is there a jagged hole somewhere in the center of me? Where I usually keep my supply of pure, unadulturated happiness. And now my supply is being depleted in trickles. But if I’m happy, that means I don’t have to worry about the pain. Isn’t happiness, more than anything else, just the absence of pain? Jesse Templeman in “Postcards from the Edge” said that. Blue shirt, faded jeans, a dead pair of sneakers — Christ, they smell. I believeI’ll worry about the pain later, when I’m unhappy.

I brush my hair : 40 strokes for a healthy scalp. Pain and happiness just don’t mix - and feeling these two things at the same time is really schizophrenic.Where’s a rubber band when you need one? I smile, and a single, blue tear runs down my cheek. Nothing can ever compensate for the lost of a happy fact.

3

Outside in the supposedly real world

“You’re late!”

“I know.” Pause. “I’m sorry.” Pause. Pausepausepausepause. The sun shines a brilliant warmth and two girls begin walking across the university’s famed and infamous sunken garden.(Actually, it was merely a square, man-made land depression with each side spanning a hundred feet, and overrun by grass and weeds kept clipped short by occasional mowing.)

Both have just turned twenty, but neither like to be referred to as a “woman,” saying the word is “so loaded with meaning, “ and is actually “a title of sorts, entailing heavy, important responsibility.” In any case, both have decided to remain girls until they reach thirty - or at least until such time when they feel worthy enough to be called women.

The first girl was Cynthia, dying shoes and all. The other was her friend Helene. Helene was petite, and her brownish-black hair that stopped short of reaching her small ears did nothing but further accentuate her petiteness. And where everyone else had eyes, Helene had two windows of deep brown, where if you dared peer into, you can see a landscape of kindness and freedom.

A performance artist in the theatre of life, Helene performed always as herself, sincere and original. Her originality even made them walk across the garden that was not a garden, indifferent to the heat beating down on their heads, with a slowness that showed not laziness but contemplation. It was as they were figuring out the answers to some of the world’s most crucial questions.

Cynthia turned to Helene. “Don’t you think it’s interesting how some people never think of anything else but themselves?” Her tone silently vicious, ironic.

“ I mean, are they really interesting people? Are they really interesting? Are they real? Are they people? Who cares? The topic is not interesting.”

Helene took the hint and didn’t ask her friend what the matter was. “I’m dead,” Cynthia said.

“Oh,” Helene dead-panned.

“When did you die?”

“Yesterday. Last night. Or maybe it was early this morning. I died in my sleep. When I got up this morning I found out that my soul had left my body.”

Helene grinned. “I thought you didn’t believe in the soul. Now I know that you do.” She stopped in mid step and knelt to dislodge a pebble that had managed to get stuck in her sandal soles. Her sandals were plain, tan, boring, and expensive. She looked up at Cynthia who stood before her, trying to stare at the midafternoon sun, “Have you done an autopsy yet?”

Cynthia, still trying to stare at the sun but failing, glanced down at her friend with streaming eyes,

“No.”

They resumed walking in silence. Then with her eyes on the dried-up grass before her boring shoes, Helene said “ I suppose the cause of death is a triviality - the kind that insists on being important.”

Cynthia nodded, and after a moment’s thought, added “Actually, it’s a cliche.I experienced one of the oldest cliches in the history of the English speaking world. “

“So how are you dealing with the experience?” Helene asked.. “I am reacting in a way typical of those who have suffered the same cliche — which is to say I am not fine.”

They had reached the rim of the-garden-that-was-not-but-was-really-just-a-land- depression-overrun-by -grass -and- weeds.

Cynthia began to climb, grabbing at the nearby scraggly growth, and Helene followed . Barely had they gotten out when Cynthia, in a voice seemingly lost, said “Dialectical materialism states that matter exists before consciousness. I think that’s pretty smart.”

She pointed to a nearby tree. “ Imagine thinking a tree pink some time before you see one, and when you do see the tree and it’s green — you’d still insist that it’s pink because trees , as you’ve thought up in your head, are supposed to be pink. That would be dumb.”

Helene did not turn to her friend. She knew better than to do so. She knew that when Cynthia was in that particular mood colored blue, it was best to let the blue clear and pale first before asking anything.

Without warning, Cynthia grabbed Helene by the shoulders. “I need a drink!”

“What - beer, gin, or tequila?”, Helene asked. “”Actually, water. My throat feels so dry — freaking sun.”

Outside, in the supposedly real world, two girls searched for a bottle of mineral water priced under P10.

4

Sobriety and Drunken Thoughts

“Isn’t it particularly depressing how everything has already been done; how everything has been said; how everything has been felt and experienced, by everyone else?”, Helene asked. She shook the beer bottle and peered into its dark sepia depths.

“All we can hope for now is to do, say, feel and experience those same things in a different way. We can only hope to duplicate in a creative way.” Helene took a gulp and grimaced. “I hate this stuff.”

“Why drink it then?” Cynthia asked. “Because, like what those mountaineers said about climbing Mt. Everest, it’s there.” Helene smiled.

“Nothing. I’ve been acting like a character from a Milan Kundera novel. Walking around with a flower held in front of my face, happy about how beautiful, how real the flower is.”

Cynthia looked at her friend and pulled a face. “Then the flower wilts and dies."

“Helene, I feel sad.” Helene didn’t speak. For once, a plain statement! , she thought.

“Let me guess - it’s a cliche?”

“It plain worries me, the way I am affected by all this.”

5

Bits and Pieces of Brain Splattered Across the Pages of a Journal

Have I lost the ability to think? I think I have. My fault, my fault, my fault. Shades of Kurt Cobain who committed suicide at 27. But it is true - I guess everything is my fault.Never should’ve let things go out of hand. But then, hey - wasn’t everything under control before? I’m 20. Seven years to go. He asked me if he was wasting my time. I said no. How could he possibly waste my time when I did not give it him — to waste or whatever — in the first place? My time is my time, and I do what I wish with it. And if I wished to waste it with him, I would. And then, since that time, which was owned by myself, was wasted with him, it will turn out to be not wasted after-all.I don’t have all that much time, I realize that. So I don’t waste time with people whom I think wasting time with is really a waste of time. Gad I feel wasted all of a sudden. Funny how serious I consider life is. I mean, in a world where death is taken lightly, is life something of consequence? There must be something wrong with me. Sincerity in every endeavor. Even in killing, be sincere. The world has too many phonies and fakes. He once told me, or rather accused me of rationalizing everything to fit my purpose. I suppose that’s a rational thing to do, don’t you think? Some days I just want to lie down and just…lie there. Waiting for whatever to happen whenever and react only then. When the people closest to you lie, life becomes unbearable. I felt so depressed today. I sat in the sunken garden, enjoying the sight of small school children playing tag across the shorn grass, and began to think how beautiful it is to be a child, running across shorn grass, laughing and laughing and laughing. My life right now is a floating, relative concept –I don’t where it’s at, and whether it is a good or wretched life will depend on who’s making judgments. How I wish I could just get up and leave. If only I wasn’t so tethered, connected, anchored and attached to so many things, to so many people. If only I didn’t know how to feel. Problems start from feelings, I think. Thinking is so much better a life process than feeling. But I could be wrong in that thought. There are still hitches in thinking - -especially if you’re not a particularly good thinker. At this very moment I want to find a tree and lie under it. A nice, sturdy tree with spreading branches, casting a shadow as big as a happy feeling. Every waking moment after an exhausting sleep is a return to my suicidal beginnings, which , being of a suicidal nature, never were beginnings but endings from the start. I’ve accepted that I was born to die, and given the short walk between life an death, I’ve figured I better make the most of the trip. Last night he told me about Lorena, and it was the first time I had heard of her. It’s been three months since we first became friends. Why only now? Why now when I’ve just included him in my list of important things? He could have told me He should have told me. Why didn’t he tell me? My journey into a cliche and back. A literary and literal victim like everyone else.

6

Cynthia So Far

Life, death; the processes of living and dying, and coping with both. Major cliches these concepts are, but they are the main topic of general outlines of each existence. And what’s an interesting subtopic?

The telephone was never much of an interesting device to Cynthia. A useful tool, that was what she thought it was, and there were all these ads from AT&T and PLDT to attest this truth — kudos to Alex Graham Bell for inventing such a useful instrument! During emergencies and crucial moments when the quick exchange and dissemination was needed, there was the good old telephone. Regimes founded, blocs dissolved, ties broken and newly established in the worlds of politics, economics, science, and war. What a wonderful, useful invention!

But what role did the telephone play in Cynthia’s life? What a silly question, and notice how it pretends to be profound!

Cynthia began her journey into a cliche because of the telephone. Or to be more precise, because of a telephone call. Rrrrrrrrrrrring! the telephone went; and Cynthia thought she had no other option but to lift the reciever off its cradle if only to silence the annoying rrrrrrringing and to hell with what the voice on the other end had to say. Cynthia was in a not-so-communicative mood.

“Hello?”

“Uh, good evening (for it was evening - nearing morning, if the truth were known. Twelve AM was then not so far away). Uh, may I speak to Cynthia Alcantara please?” Strange voice. Whose was it?

Not Eric’s. Not Mike’s. Not Elias’ — all friends and brothers of Cynthia.

“This is Cynthia Alcantara; who’s this?” Not that I care who you are, she wanted to add, but out of politeness and conventionality’s sake I asked… “I’m Jeffrey Ruiz. We went to the same campus journalism seminar sponsored by .. I handed you a Coke… We talked about Isaac Asimov? And dialectical materialism? And the possible connection between skateboarding and national democracy?…. I remembered you said you lived in Pasay, and I looked in the phonebook…”

And thus started the cliche. Through the telephone. Nothing extraordinary, nothing stupendous. Juvenile and strictly high-school. She found him funny, interesting, smart. General descriptions. Nevermind the wealth of feeling and thought she found in him. Nevermind the long walks they took and long talks they shared. Nevermind the sincerity of the situations she found herself in with him. Cynthia always got suspicious whenever she felt happy. So nevermind. Cliche.#

I don’t know when this…Tim Burton phase will end. This state of noli me tangere and get-out-of-my-face-please-thank-you.

Or maybe this will be a more or less permanent thing. Only I will always be polite.

(At first I thought I’d get t-shirts printed with things like "Please get out of my way, thanks" or "Ask me if I care" or "Think before you say one word to me" on them. But then I thought people would most likely think I’m joking and ask me where I got the shirt and for how much.)

Actually, I find that I communicate better when people just write to me. Email me or text. Am not so trucculent or snipish then. I don’t have to look at people and…smile. I’m exhausted. My happy thoughts are still with me, but they express themselves through a frown. Well maybe not really a frown, but it’s not Smiley’s World with me these days.  I wish I knew sign language. I’d talk to people in it. Volumes of words unspoken but their shapes cut and molded in the air one after the other in swift succession and the space between myself and others would be filled with invisible words, words unheard but seen and expressive of how freaking ANGRY and sad I am these days.

(I am remindedJD Salinger who’s still holed up in New Hampshire or Boston or someplace, never going out into society, ignoring his legions of fans. He and his family just send out for groceries or something. Am nowhere near being as good as Salinger and am so much younger but tragically, how most unfortunate  it is I already understand why he wants to stay out of the world. )

(Or better — why Arthur "Boo" Radley keeps himself locked in. Even a little girl like Scout got it. The world is a scary place and people can be such…meanies. Jeez. First time I read to Kill a Mockingbird I thought, holy gee, it IS possible to stay away from people even if you live in their midst. Only I’d have to stick a pair of scissors into my dad’s leg to justify it. Harhar. I was a morbid child myself.)

But something great happened to me today! I heard that I could actually email Arundhati Roy and she WRITES BACK.

How do I begin to express how…happy that made me feel?

When  I was younger and there was still no internet, I always wished I could write my favorite authors and poets. I even wrote a few letters (sheesh. fan mail to the likes of e.e. cummings and Edgar Allan Poe who was so sad!). It was very much like Holden Caulfield wanting to call up Eustacia Vye. Or Isak Dinesen.

I wanted to call up JD Salinger.  Graciano Lopez-Jaena. Jose Rizal.

In my room I had a picture of John Irving and Isak Dinesen when she was younger. Kasi when she got old she looked like, well, a live skeleton: sunken cheeks and everything. I used to make up conversations in my head — putting together questions I wanted to ask. What a dink I was, wanting to ask Harper Lee about Scout and Jem (I was around their age when I first read To Kill a Mockingbird, and I guess i still didn’t know there writers didn’t really KNOW their characters so much as they, the writers, imagined them.)

But I digress.

Arundhati Roy!

Someone asked me this afternoon if I’ve read The God of Small Things.
I almost choked.

It was like asking me if I breathe.

I’ve read the book over 50 times if I’ve read it once.

****

So how’s the Philippines today?

Getting worser and worser.

The Supreme Court has laid down the decision lifting the TRO on the implementation of the EVAT. Yet another political activist was killed in cold blood (that’s almost every other day now). The anti-terrorism bill is still poised to be approved by the Senate. Miriam Defensor-Santiago is off ranting again and justifying the violent dispersal of protests by the police and slagging off the priests and church people who denounce the attack. Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo is still president.

I’m still trying to figure out what the heck is making me feel like a snail retreating into its shell. These political developments are driving me crazy. The phrase I’m thinking of right now to describe what I’m going through is "world -weary." And not in the sense that I’ve seen the world and gone tired of it; it’s just, well, I’ve seen so little, but so much of it is so downright painful.

(Maybe when I’m more cheerful I’ll write about, say, the train trip I once took from Belgium to the Netherlands and we passed through fields and fields of tulips. It was like being transported inside a painting. The sun was barely out, being hidden behind thick clouds, but the colors red green yellow were so alive and for a few moments the world was filled with flowers and the promise of unending, limitless happiness they seemed to convey to their beholder and whatever light there was golden butter).

I’ve been rereading The Chronicles of Narnia, and I feel  such…longing to escape my daily reality, this current context.

No one has to explain to me that there are barely disguised religious undertones in the Chronicles. I’ve known that all along: that Aslan is Jesus, and Narnia is paradise and to have faith in Aslan’s goodness and love, to find comfort in his very name is something not so different from being, well, converted.

In whatever case, the book comforts me. The way Michael Ende’s The Neverending Story comforted me. People like me who are ill-equipped to deal with real people always seem to turn to literature and poetry for solace. They’re my medicine. I daydream I want to escape into peace and beauty. There is so much defeaning noise, and in the chaos the small, fragile things are crushed; the things that purify and elevate humanity neglected and destroyed. It really hurts that so many people will never know how it is to be never hungry, and how to feel security in a house of their own; or to read books like Narnia or taste sugar filligree or loose themselves in Beethoven.

Please don’t call the men with the straightjackets yet. This is just a phase.

At least I hope it is.