Archaeological Dig Uncovers Ancient Race Of Skeleton People

AL JIZAH, EGYPT—A team of British and Egyptian archaeologists made a stunning discovery Monday, unearthing several intact specimens of "skeleton people"—skinless, organless humans who populated the Nile delta region an estimated 6,000 years ago.

"This is an incredible find," said Dr. Christian Hutchins, Oxford University archaeologist and head of the dig team. "Imagine: At one time, this entire area was filled with spooky, bony, walking skeletons."

"The implications are staggering," Hutchins continued. "We now know that the skeletons we see in horror films and on Halloween are not mere products of the imagination, but actually lived on Earth."

Standing at the excavation site, a 20-by-20-foot square pit along the Nile River, Hutchins noted key elements of the find. "The skeletons lived in this mud-brick structure, which, based on what we know of these people, was probably haunted," he said. "Although we found crude cooking utensils in the area, as well as evidence of crafts like pottery and weaving, we are inclined to believe that the skeletons' chief activity was jumping out at nearby humans and scaring them. And though we know little of their language and means of communication, it is likely that they said 'boogedy-boogedy' a lot."

Approximately 200 yards west of the excavation site, the archaeologists also found evidence of farming.

"What's puzzling about this," Cambridge University archaeologist Sir Ian Edmund-White said, "is that skeletons would not benefit from harvested crops, as any food taken orally would immediately fall through the hole behind the jaw and down through the rib cage, eventually hitting the ground. Our best guess is that they scared away a group of human farmers, then remained behind to haunt the dwelling. Or perhaps they bartered goods in a nearby city to acquire skeleton accessories, such as chains, coffins and tattered, dirty clothing."

Continued Edmund-White: "The hole in that theory, however, is that a 1997 excavation of this area which yielded extensive records of local clans and merchants made no mention of even one animated mass of bones coming to town for the purpose of trade. But we are taking great pains to recover as much of the site as possible, while also being extremely careful not to fall victim to some kind of spooky skeleton curse."

As for what led to the extinction of the skeletons, Edmund-White offered a theory.

"Perhaps an Egyptian priest or king broke the curse of the skeletons, either by defeating the head skeleton in combat or by discovering the magic words needed to send their spirits back to Hell," Edmund-White said. "In any case, there is strong evidence that the Power of Greyskull played a significant role in the defeat of the skeleton people."

According to Hutchins, the skeletons bear numerous similarities to humans, leading him to suspect that there may be an evolutionary link between the two species.

"Like humans, these creatures walked upright on two legs and possessed highly developed opposable thumbs," Edmund-White said. "These and many other similarities lend credence to the theory that hundreds of thousands of years ago, human development passed through a skeletal stage. These skeletons may, in fact, be ancestors of us all."

"Any of us could be part skeleton," he added.

Other experts disagreed.

"The evidence of an evolutionary link between humans and skeletons is sparse at best," said Dr. Terrance Schneider of the University of Chicago. "Furthermore, it is downright unscientific to theorize that skeleton life originated in Egypt merely because mummies, another species of monster, are indigenous to the area. Spooky creatures are found all over the world, from the vampires of Transylvania to the headless horsemen of Sleepy Hollow."

Two Poems

“I stand for a kind of poetry that the everyday person can understand,” he said. “My job as a poet is to make something special of the everyday world.”
-- Ted Kooser

Grasshoppers

This year they are exactly the size
of the pencil stub my grandfather kept
to mark off the days since rain,

and precisely the color of dust, of the roads
leading back across the dying fields
into the '30s. Walking the cracked lane

past the empty barn, the empty silo,
you hear them tinkering with irony,
slapping the grass like drops of rain.

From Delights and Shadows (2005 Pulitzer Prize Winner for Poetry)
------

The Rain Stick

Upend the rain stick and what happens next
Is a music that you never would have known
To listen for. In a cactus stalk

Downpour, sluice-rush, spillage and backwash
Come flowing through. You stand there like a pipe
Being played by water, you shake it again lightly

And diminuendo runs through all its scales
Like a gutter stopping trickling. And now here comes
A sprinkle of drops out of the freshened leaves,

Then subtle little wets off grass and daisies;
Then glitter drizzle, almost-breaths of air.
Upend the stick again. What happens next

Is undiminished for having happened once,
Twice, ten, a thousand times before.
Who cares if all the music that transpires

Is the fall of grit or dry seeds through a cactus?
You are like a rich man entering heaven
Through the ear of a raindrop. Listen now again.

Seamus Heaney
The Spirit Level

Wade A Minute

Wheelchair-Basketball Players Stunned By Thunderous Slam Dunk


Now, this one totally outclasses the NBA Live 06 Highflyers. Shaq-a-What?

Gooood!

New, Delicious Species Discovered

MANAUS, BRAZIL—An international team of scientists conducting research in the Amazon River Basin announced the discovery of a formerly unknown primate species inhabiting a remote jungle area roughly 300 miles from Manaus Monday. According to scientists in Manaus, the new species, Ateles saporis, is "an amazing biological find" and "incredibly delectable."

A member of Ateles saporis, which scientists say tastes excellent broiled (below).

"We couldn't be more thrilled!" German researcher Dr. Jerome Keller told reporters Tuesday. "Very few scientists are lucky enough to discover a new species, let alone a mammal with a palatability on par with a tender, juicy steak."

"This is a seriously tasty creature," Keller added.

Although the creature resembles a large kitten, as a member of the Ateles genus, it is more closely related to wooly and spider monkeys. Ateles saporis, informally known as the delicacy ape, is a tree-dwelling herbivore that can measure up to a meter from head to tail. The adult delicacy ape weighs between 35 and 40 pounds and tastes wonderful with a currant glaze.

Keller said the new species boasts a gular sac, a distinctive trait that separates it from other species in the Ateles genus.

"The gular sac is a throat pouch that can be inflated, allowing the animal to make loud calls that resonate through the treetops," Keller said. "More importantly, the pouch can be stuffed with nuts or dried fruits prior to roasting."

Biologist Jeanette Bransky, who served as the research team's chief archivist, presented a series of slides showing delicacy apes cavorting in trees, caring for their young, and sitting thinly sliced on a platter next to roasted red potatoes.

"After careful study, we have determined that Ateles saporis is a very insulated species," Bransky said. "All of their food needs are met in the treetops. They're docile, affectionate creatures with a non-competitive social structure. They often sit grooming each other for hours on end, which explains why their meat is so marbled and tender."

This marks the first primate species discovered since the nearly inedible Arunachal macaque was found in India last year.

"In our studies of the delicacy ape, we have noted several traits, such as play activities, that are almost human," Bransky said. "However, the similarities do not run much deeper than that. Take the loin, for example. Unlike a human's, it's so savory and delicate that it can be eaten just like sashimi."

"Raw or cooked, this species is one of the greatest discoveries of the 21st century," added Bransky, licking her lips.

The team plans to research the species for another two months and then publish its findings in both the International Journal Of Primatology and Bon Appétit.

"We still need to complete an accurate population-density study," Keller said. "We assume that their habitat is limited to the Amazon and that their total number is very small. We need to gather data quickly, as the species is almost certainly facing extinction. I mean, it's that good."

Keller said the discovery of the delicacy ape underscores the importance of protecting delicate ecosystems from mass deforestation.

"The Amazon River Basin boasts the greatest biodiversity in the world, with countless potentially tasty species waiting to be discovered," Keller said. "As for the delicacy ape, I only hope there's something we can do to preserve it. Maybe we can get them to breed in captivity. Generations to come should have the opportunity to enjoy the taste of this majestic creature."

from TheOnion.com

Funfrock!

Which poem are you? The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot God, you're a BAYAW!. You're not that great, but you don't know if you want to accept that. You appreciate beauty and observe things others may not, but you're also hopelessly impaled on your own foolish romanticism. You like the color reddish-brown and you have a band named Los Chupacabras. Gusto mo DSLiot na connection para mabilis mag-blog.

Click Here to Take This Quiz Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

TO LIVE BY

Work from the original toward
the beautiful,
unless the latter comes first
in which case
reverse your efforts to find
a model worthy of such
inane desire.

Even the mouth's being
divided into two lips is
not enough to make words
equal themselves.

Eavesdroppers fear
the hermit's soliloquy.

Wake up, wound, the knife said.


Bill Knott
The Unsubscriber

Hamblog!

The article below came out in The Philippine Star yesterday. Very strong anti-blogging statements. Fire away.

-----------------------

Blog sHmlog
STILL TALKING By Enrico Miguel T. Subido
The Philippine STAR 10/07/2005

Only people who keep a blog will ever understand why these things exist. Having read a random blog for the first time only a few days ago, the whole concept of keeping one is still a bit hazy. The fact that some of these blogs are maniacally updated makes me wonder if any of the following are common ailments among bloggers: carpal tunnel syndrome, acute back and neck spasms, or "my-starving-ego-needs-to-be-fedinitis."

Without a doubt, blogs are great because they are free; yet another means to stay in touch with friends without incurring a fee. For those who see other possibilities, blogs are the perfect venue for sharing news and information over common interests. Unknown writers can even be recognized for their skills all because of these on-line journals. Therapeutically, people who write a million words a minute are given some kind of outlet with blogs.

Still, the idea of having an on-line journal anyone can look through is out of my grasp. Just talking to someone about what happened during my day appeals to me more. Besides, it’s physically impossible to share a beer with someone over a blog.

I find it odd that people are comfortable reading about what goes on in other people’s lives. I find it even more odd that people are willing to post their day-to-day transactions on the Internet, the widest database in the world, for everyone to read. I get the sense that there is some double overhead reverse freaky-voyeurism somewhere at play here.

Then again, it may just be that I’m a lethargicon. All the work you put into signing up, registering, uploading and constant updating doesn’t appeal to my lethargic nature. Besides, sitting in front of a computer for more than an hour makes my head hurt. My evasion of blogging could also be the result of this paranoia I have for computers and the vastness of the Internet.

There are, however, some really interesting blogs out there. It took me a while to find some, which, because of my impatience with computers, is probably another reason I will never ever blog. I acknowledge that these are very cool and functional blogs. Still, I must ask this of everyone who has a regularly updated blog: Why?

I really don’t understand the blog logic right now, and I don’t think I ever will. But then again, that’s just me. Onto the blogs:

Jim Lee’s Blog is fun and helpful for anyone interested in comic art, drawing tips and critiques. Famous for his work with Marvel Comics’ X-Men and his creation the Wild C.A.T.S., Jim Lee hosts a mean blog that includes all his other work. It’s fairly easy to navigate through and it’s complemented by a lot of impressive visuals so there’s a lot to be distracted by. Jim Lee is a personal favorite whom I thought I would never hear about again. Thank God for his blog, he once again exists. His artistry lives on in this virtual domain, however far a digital leap it has taken. The first blog is located at http://gelatometti.blogspot.com/, but it has recently moved to the aptly named "Sun of Gelatometti" at http://www.gelatometti2.blogspot.com/. The growth and progression of this blog from small beginnings can be observed within these two websites.

After several attempts at finding another functional blog, the perfect site for guitar aficionados was discovered. Typing in "guitar blogs" on the Google searchbar gave the completely functional and aesthetically laid out Guitar Trader blog. It is an effective site for anyone looking to find a guitar on the net. The blog provides high-resolution images, prices, opinions and any other pieces of helpful information on the guitars up for grabs. Located at the easy-to-remember http://guitar-trader.blogspot.com, this blog is appealing in the "Auto Trader" sort of way.

After typing in "guitar blogs" in Google, I took a chance and typed in "bass guitar blogs," with the hopes of finding information on a nice Fender four-string Jazz bass. Both bass and guitar turned up, but not the way I expected it to. The link directed me to this site, http:/ www.bassfishingweekly.com/bassblog/blog/, which is totally dedicated to bigmouth bass fishing. And playing the guitar while on the boat. The blog advises on the best season to fish for bigmouth bass; which baits and lures the bass are attracted to the most, and how relaxing it is to play the guitar out starboard. It wasn’t the bass I was really looking for, but functional respect indeed. Whoever looks after this blog knows his guitar and his bigmouth bass. And probably sings some bluegrass tunes, besides.

These may be the last three blogs I will ever read in my life. The sifting process through all the other "what-I-did-today" blogs led me to these pretty functional blog spots. The same sifting process has also pointed me in the direction of my comfy bed. Too much time has been spent in front of the computer. Every single blog is the same. I’m tired of computers and blogs. Must sleep.

* * *

E-mail me at enricomiguelsubido@yahoo.com.

Additional Books

More titles, mostly consigned.

Pick-up still strictly on Tuesday, October 11, 2pm Dunkin Donuts, Katipunan.

Thanks!

---------------

1. Morning Poems: Robert Bly – P350
2. An ABC of Witchcraft: Doreen Valiente – P500
3. Poetry, An Introduction: John Strachan – P250
4. Dreamcatcher (HB): Stephen King – P350
5. Where Water Comes Together With Other Water (Poems): Raymond Carver – P350
6. Alipato (Tula/HB): Benilda Santos – P200
7. A Makeshift Sun (Prose and Poems): Gemino Abad – P200
8. Ginseng and Other Tales From Manila (Stories): Marianne Villanueva – P150
9. Buenavista Ventures (Prose and Poetry): Alfrredo Navarro Salanga – P250
10. Love is A Dog From Hell (Poems): Charles Bukowski – P600
11. Movies in the Mind (How to Build A Short Story): Colleen Rae – P400
12. Characters and Viewpoint (Elements of Fiction Writing): Orson Scott Card – P400
13. A Normal Life and Other Stories: Reine Arcache Melvin – P150
14. The Walk (Stories): Joy Dayrit – P200
15. On the Road: Jack Kerouac -- P250

Books 26

New titles, mostly consigned. Some of the books from the previous list
still available, listed below the new list.

Unahan na lang sa comments box ha. Don't text me anymore.
Whoever "orders" first via the comment box gets the book(s).

Pick-up is STRICTLY on Tuesday, October 11, 2pm, Dunkin Katipunan

---------------------

1. Tales of the Unexpected (Stories): Roald Dahl - P400
2. Stranger Shores (Literary Essays): J.M. Coetzee - P500
3. Death and Fame: Last Poems 93-97: Allen Ginsberg - P500
4. Desolation Angels: Jack Kerouac -- P400
5. Midnight's Children: Salman Rushdie - P350
6. News of a Kidnapping (HB) -- Gabriel Garcia Marquez: P500
7. The First Man: Albert Camus - P400
8. The Penguin Historical Atlas of Ancient Rome (Full Color)-- P400
9. Hamlet: Poem Unlimited -- Harold Bloom - P350
10. Evenings and Avenues (Poetry) -- Stuart Duschell - P200
11. Battlestar Galactica* (HB 1978/For Collectors) -- Glen Larson - P800
12. Letters to a Young Poet (1963 Edition) -- Rainier Ma Rilke -- P400
13. How to Draw Anything -- Mark Linley -- P350
14. *Counterfeit Realities (HB/Consigned) Philip K. Dick -- P2,500
15. Welcome to the Monkey House (Stories) -- Kurt Vonnegut --P400
16. *Rare: Episodes of the Revolutionary War -- Che Guevara -- P500
17. Werewolves in Their Youth (Stories) -- Michael Chabon -- P300
18. The House on Mango Street -- Sandra Cisneros -- P250
19. Perido Street Station: China Mieville (Pocketbook/Rare) -- P300
20. Where the Sidewalk Ends (HB) -- Shel Silverstein -- P400
21. *Signed! Men and Cartoons (HB/Stories) -- Jonathan Lethem -- P3,000
22. The Uses of Enchantment-- Bruno Bettelheim -- P250
23. The Martian Chronicles (HB) -- Ray Bradbury -- P500
24. A Brief History of Time -- Stephen Hawking -- P250
25. *The Scar (HB/1st Edition) -- China Mieville -- P3,000
26. My Invented Country (HB) -- Isabel Allende -- P400

-------------
Still available, from previous list, some marked down:

1. Bare Bones: Conversations on Terror with Stephen King -- P400.00
2. Supernatural Horror in Literature by H.P. Lovecraft--P350.00
3. A Galaxy Not So Far Away: Writers/Artists on Star Wars' 25 years (including essays by
Jonathan Lethem, Kevin Smith) -- P450.00
4. Sophie's World: Jostein Gaarder -- P250.00
5. Great Apes: Will Self (HB/SIGNED) -- P800.00
6. Kurt Cobain's Journals (Rare/Oversized) -- P350.00
7. Milan Kundera: Immortality -- P350.00
8. Naguib Mahfouz: The Beggar (Nobel Prize Winner)-- P200.00
9. Michael Moorcock: King of the City (HB) -- P200.00
10. Civilization and its Discontents: Sigmund Freud -- P150.00
11. The Tesseract: Alex Garland (HB/Manila/must-read) -- P450.00
12. Best American Poetry 1996 (Edited by Adrienne Rich) -- P250.00

Allan D 'Man (Melts in Your Mouth, Not in Your Hand)

From The Philippine Star Column Kriptokin:

"Ang galing nitong si Allan. As-tig!" --
Krip Yuson




Congratulations, bayaw/hipag Allan Pastrana for bagging the Maningning Miclat Poetry Award in the English Division. Congratulations na rin kay Joseph Saguid (Filipino Division) at kina E.J. Galang, Ayer Arguelles, Cathy Candano, at Sonny Sendon (honorable Mention).

Here's a poem from Allan's award-winning collection, Before Talkies:

Rib

As far as I know,
the legend happened in a split-second.
God wanted to come out clean, fleeing
the marked spot like a curious riddle. So the first man
was put to sleep: the first real get-away, instant
and painless. Whenever we reach that part of the story
where the rib juts out from his side, you wonder
if it is merely bone. But then you start to believe
it is also keepsake, fine heirloom – a loneliness
finally coming out like a splinter.

Do you get the whole picture? No,
this is neither Michelangelo nor the 1500s; none
of that smoothness in stepping out of a body,
that light walled in and stucco-perfect. These
are difficult times and what we imagine
we have created (out of loam, bamboo splitting in two,
the primordial being) is pure coincidence.

We are always caught in the middle of something, various
emergencies. You only have to name things
to be able to claim them. An event of eyes and hands, meeting,
means that the pedestrian crossing the street
is mine. Also this stranger beside me, rapt in a motel room
at three in the morning, the head resting on my arm, more
like an enjambment than a complete and irreversible thought.
Do you know what the Paradise stands for? It is hunger,
hunger and the pit, deep end of something else
that is a spacious cavity – that which keeps track
and, ever after, holds. Someone eventually
has to step into the clearing; the found other still
as a portrait, as if startled by a wild animal.
The rest of us just clamber up our beds because patience
does not wait on anybody. It is simply stubbornness,
slow yet seeks to get even. It so happened:

Beneath that thick hide of the plot, we came across
the last of the fruit-bearing trees. And we stood there
gaping, the way we wanted to take in everything –
whole lives, this bright field, stars. This
is the only kind of pardon we may have deserved,
to keep the indentions of the natural world inside us
without regret: and that one bite, finally,
that offers no explanation but,
this time around, foolish and alone, we’ll fall in love.

Calling All Young Poets of the Philippines Writing in English

This call for manuscripts came from KuwabataKen:

The editors of a forthcoming anthology would like to request your participation. The book will serve as a peek into and a celebration of the future of Philippine Poetry in English. Dr. Cirilo Bautista will be editing the project with the assistance of Ken T. Ishikawa.

If you are 35 years old and below, a Filipino, and a writer of Poetry in English please send five of your best representative work to newphilippinepoetry@gmail.com. Young poets who have not yet published any books are highly encouraged to send their works.

Please send each of your poems in a single file; don't put all five in one. Don't forget to include short biographical information with a scanned 1x1 photo as your profile will appear in the list of contributors. The deadline will be on November 15, 2005.

Honorarium will come in the form of a contributor's copy. Authors of accepted works will be receiving a reply in their mail.

Feel free to send us your comments and suggestions. We are looking forward to your poems.

The Editors

ANG KaBAYAWan: Isang Paglilinaw

Mga prends, bago ang lahat...

News Flash!!! Forces of Evil/Bayaw/Las Chupacabras!

Bumili naman kayo ng Manila Bulletin ngayon (Sabado, October 1). An article by Karl De Mesa about our name-morphing band came out in the I section.

Wasak!

----------------------------------


Speaking of which, I was at the UP Press Mega Launch yesterday and Neil Garcia told me he got a text that posits something to the effect that I've started an exclusive Anti-Gay movement for Filipino male writers called "Bayaw".

Hala. Kala ko nagbibiro lang s'ya pero apparently, may kung sino d'yan na 'di nakakaintindi sa ibig sabihin ng BAYAW. Para magkalinawan at 'di kumalat ang mga maling akala, heto ang mga basic tenets ng pagiging isang bayaw.

1. Unang-una, ang salitang "bayaw" ay nagsimula sa pagpansin ng barkada (minsan, sa isang mahaba-haang inuman sa '70s Bistro, kasama si Easy at Carljoe) sa mga tipikal na lalaking pinoy na laging nakatambay sa kanto at umiinom ng bilog. 'Yun bang mga laging nakasandong puti na na nakalilis para ibandera ang mga bundat at Latigo 50-deprived na tiyan? "Yung mga nakaupo sa tabing kalsada at minsan may tato pa ng agila sa dibdib? May kaha ng sigarilyo sa nakaipit na parang shoulder pad sa loob ng sando? O kaya'y naka pulseras na itim (na kung tawagin sa amin sa probinsiya'y Black Sabbath) ? 'Yung mga nagsesenti sa bidyoke pag tumugtog na ang "My Way" at "Father and Son?"

Sila ang tinutukoy dito. At kadalasan ay MAGBABAYAW sila.

Para kasing hindi bagay na tawagin silang Jologs dahil matatanda na sila at 'di naman sila fashion-challenged. Buong-buo nga loob nila sa kanilang prinsipyo at pananamit.

BAYAW is not a derogatory term. Isang magandang halimbawa ay ang aking Tatay. Noong araw, laging 'yung nakatambay sa tabi ng haywey sa baryo namin sa Silang. Nakalilis ang damit. Barkada ang mga konduktor ng bus. Nagyoyosi ng Hope at Champion.

Nitong nakaraang huwebes lang, bumisita sa akin sa Miriam. May dala-dalang isang kaing na rambutan. 'Nung makita ko, may nakasukbit na shorpet sa baywang, naka Le Tigre na polo shirt, at biglang tropa na sila ng sikyo. Kesyo nakapunta na raw sa aming baryo 'yung sikyo nga at kilala daw si Mang Indeng na taga-bayan.

Pa'no ba nagagawa 'yung ganoong pakikisama? Bigla na lang magkaibigan na sila ni manong guard. At eto na nga ang mas nakakatuwang kahulugan ng katagang Bayaw, na:

2. Literal man, KAPATID NG ASAWA MO ang bayaw mo o asawa ng kapatid mo. Mahalagang ipasok ito sa konsepto ng samahan o pagkakaibigan. Sa mga barkada ngayon, bayaw ang tawagan namin dahil naging simbolo na ito ng malalim na samahan--na para ngang may respeto na higit pa sa simpleng barkadahan, dahil nga "bayaw" mo. Kapag babaeng kaibigan, hipag naman ang tawag. Ganun ang respetuhan.

3. AT dahil nga may nalalabuan, walang anything against homosexuals ang bayaw. Kahit mukhang nakakahon sa pangkalalakihan ang bayaw, hindi ito politikal na salita laban sa ibang gender. SUS, WAG N'YO SERYOSOHIN. 'DI NAKA-DEXTROSE ANG SALITANG BAYAW.

Makitid na pag-iisip 'yan. Marami akong kaibigang bading at alam nilang tongue-in-cheek lang ang kabayawan. Kung baga, kung hipag ang tawag, eh di hipag. Kung bayaw, bayaw. Ang punto eh, paghanga at pagkakaibigan ang pinapahalagahan ng konseptong BAYAW.

4. To sum it up, the term is meant to be IRONIC when it comes to Filipino machismo. It pokes fun at the sensibilities and culture of the stereotyped Filipino male.

Walang panggagaya dito. Pagpansin lang at pagbibigay ng bagong kahulugan sa mga

BAYAW!!!

Save as Draft

Or write as poem. The whole point is often
what we miss out on. To revise is to reconsider
the experience of, say, a leaf -- never mind
that it is not green anymore. Or, pardon the sudden
evening. The transition was nice enough;
the explosive colors of dusk. And, didn’t you feel
so much sadness? I cannot explain it any better
than how I could when the outlines were still there:
trees and some wonderful new shapes.
Since then, things have changed. A pale hand
moves in the darkness. And someone is calling out,
come to bed, come to bed. And it is just you.
The evening insists on evening. It is that simple.
It is late enough as it is.

And D' BAYAW Song Line for the Month of October is...

"That was just my style"

from The Search is Over
by Survivor

No Lame Excuses For This One

Local Building Accessible To Only The Strongest Of The Handicapped

From TheOnion.Com

Wrestling Announcer Can't Believe What He's Seeing!

This is the funniest shit I've come across in a long time.
You guys got the joke?

NEW BOOKS (SEPT 19-23)

Hey bibliophiles:

New titles! All books in VG condition, unless otherwise stated.

Email me back ASAP or text me thru 0927-9952977 re: the ones you like.

Unahan 'to. Pick up on FRIDAY, September 23, 1 pm, Dunkin Donuts, Katipunan.


Joel

-------------------
1. For Writers Only: Essays on Writing by Sophy Burnham (recommended) -- P300.00
2. The Quantity Theory of Insanity (Stories) by Will Self --P450.00
3. Bare Bones: Conversations on Terror with Stephen King -- P500.00
4. Chronicles of Bustos Domecq by Jorge Luis Borges (hard to find) -- P500.00
5. Sometimes the Magic Works by Terry Brooks (HB/On Writing Fantasy) -- P600.00
6. Supernatural Horror in Literature by H.P. Lovecraft--P400.00
7. Scar of Sweet Paradise: The Life and Times of Janis Joplin -- P450.00
8. Supermen: Tales of the Posthuman Future (Hard to Find SF Anthology) -- P500.00
9. Dragonology: The Complete Book of Dragons (HB/Full Color/RARE) by Eric Drake -- P1,000.00
10. A Galaxy Not So Far Away: Writers/Artists on Star Wars' 25 years (including essays by Lethem, Kevin Smith) -- P500.00
11. The Alphabet Vs the Goddess: Conflict Between Word & Image (recommended) -- P500.00
12. Sophie's World: Jostein Gaarder -- P250.00
13. Great Apes: Will Self (HB/SIGNED) -- P1,000.00
14. Kurt Cobain's Journals (Rare/Oversized) -- P400.00
15. Milan Kundera: Immortality -- P400.00
16. Voice From the Underworld: Maningning Miclat (HB) -- P350.00
17. Salvaged Poems: Emmanuel Lacaba -- P300.00
18. Beauty From the Ashes: Remembering Maningning -- P350.00
19. Albert Camus: Lyrical and Critical Essays -- P250.00
20. Haruki Murakami: Dance Dance Dance (Used Copy) -- P300.00
21. The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat: Oliver Sacks -- P350.00
22. The Thurber Album: A Collection of Pieces About People: James Thurber -- P20.00
23. William S. Burroughs: The Cat Inside -- P100.00
24. Truman Capote: In Cold Blood (HB/No Dustjacket)-- P250.00
25. Paul Auster: Oracle Night (HB/Recommended)-- P250.00
26. Naguib Mahfouz: The Beggar (Nobel Prize Winner)-- P200.00
27. Michael Moorcock: King of the City (HB) -- P200.00
28. Civilization and its Discontents: Sigmund Freud -- P200.00
29. The Tesseract: Alex Garland (HB/Manila/must-read) -- P500.00
30. Ted Berrigan: Selected Poems -- P200.00
31. Sapphire: American Dreams (Poems) -- P200.00
32. Isaac Bashevis Singer: Gimpel the Fool -- P200.00
33. Best American Poetry 1996 (Edited by Adrienne Rich) -- P300.00
34. T.S. Eliot: The Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats (Illustrations by Edward Gorey/Hart to Find) -- P300.00
35. T.S. Eliot: Selected POems -- P300.00
36. Sisters of the Earth: Women's Prose and Poetry About Nature (Edited by Lorraine Anderson) -- P350.00
37. Conjunctions 35 Special Issue on Current Trends in American POetry (Highly Recommended) -- P500.00
38. Master of MIddle Earth: Essays on The Fictions of Tolkien -- P300.00
39. Miguel de Cervantes: Don Quixote -- P200.00
40. Jack Kerouac: The Dharma Bums -- P350.00

Smashing!

You are "Stand Inside Your Love" from the
album "Machina--the Machines of God."


What The Heck Does Ahit Pusit Mean?
brought to you by Quizilla

Y Tu Loco Cabron, Chupa Tambien

The Only Thing We Have To Fear Is The Chupacabra



By Vicente Fox
President of Mexico
September 7, 2005

Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to serve as president of the great nation of Mexico. For nearly 200 years, our people have withstood the onslaughts of man and nature. We have withstood attack from without and attack from within. We have withstood the wars of faith, and the creeping despair of faith's absence. We have faced famine, pestilence, and poverty, and time and time again, we have succeeded, for running in our blood is the hearty stock of our Mayan and Aztec ancestors. My fellow Mexicanos, we can stand certain in the belief that we shall prevail over the trials of today. Except insofar as the Chupacabra is concerned.

Forty-seven million of our citizens are poor, with 17 million unable to afford the basic essentials of day-to-day existence. Sadly, these facts are familiar to us not only as statistics, but as real people: our mothers, our fathers, our children, and our cousins. We have climbed far since the peso crashed 10 years ago, but we must unite if we are to climb further. And as we are climbing, we must constantly look over our shoulders for the forked tongue and scaly, spiny hide of the Chupacabra.

People of Mexico, our cities have fallen under siege by thieves and murderers, but we stand together against lawlessness. The criminals and the gangs will not win! The Chupacabra, on the other hand, might. For, although hardened criminals cannot hop over trees to attack their prey, rumor has it the Chupacabra can.

Barricade yourselves in your homes and hope that this abominable creature gorges itself only on our livestock, and does not need to slake its thirst for blood on our children and our elderly. Yes, I'm afraid such a possibility is very real.

We are acting forcefully to break the grip that drug cartels have over this country, finding the supplies at their source and eradicating them. We have dispatched the army to fight the drug gangs that have run rampant in Nuevo Laredo. You can go to sleep secure in the knowledge that Mexico is working harder than ever to stop these gangsters from poisoning our children. Or, you could, were it not for the penetrating, red-eyed gaze of the goat-sucking Chupacabra.

We cannot know for sure whether the Chupacapra is an outer-space alien or some kind of feral dog-lizard hybrid. All we can know is that it should strike terror into the hearts of every man, woman, and child in Mexico. This is the only sensible response.

We have overcome the corruption in our government-housing program, and we have increased the number of homes owned by Mexico's workers, but there is more work to be done. Many of our citizens still live in tin shacks with dirt floors, vermin-infested walls, and no basic plumbing. For those who live in such conditions, I warn you: The Chupacabra will make quick work of such flimsy shelter. Then, he is likely to devour you.

The Chupacabra may be lurking among us this very minute. Even if all of Mexico pulls together and keeps a fearful eye out for this loathsome beast, it is unlikely that we will evade its deadly pounce.

Wait—did you hear something? Perhaps not. But perhaps ... Run! Run now! Run home and cower in your beds, and pray that the Chupacabra will not rip out your throat!

--------------

from TheOnion.com

Zoophilia

kumain tayo ng tae!

After the Sunset

NEVER AGAIN THE SAME

Speaking of sunsets,
last night's was shocking.
I mean, sunsets aren't supposed to frighten you, are they?
Well, this one was terrifying.
Sure, it was beautiful, but far too beautiful.
It wasn't natural.
One climax followed another and then another
until your knees went weak
and you couldn't breathe.
The colors were definitely not of this world,
peaches dripping opium,
pandemonium of tangerines,
inferno of irises,
Plutonian emeralds,
all swirling and churning, swabbing,
like it was playing with us,
like we were nothing,
as if our whole lives were a preparation for this,
this for which nothing could have prepared us
and for which we could not have been less prepared.
The mockery of it all stung us bitterly.
And when it was finally over
we whimpered and cried and howled.
And then the streetlights came on as always
and we looked into one another's eyes--
ancient caves with still pools
and those little transparent fish
who have never seen even one ray of light.
And the calm that returned to us
was not even our own.

--James Tate

*at para kay bayaw Carljoe, isang tula mula sa Pulitzer Prize-winning book for 2005:

A Happy Birthday

This evening, I sat by an open window
and read till the light was gone and the book
was no more than a part of the darkness.
I could easily have switched on a lamp,
but I wanted to ride this day down into night,
to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page
with the pale gray ghost of my hand.

--Ted Kooser
Delights and Shadows

The Zoo

The recurring theme, the implicit message,
is to stay the same. Elsewhere,
the important creatures struggle to let go
of all they have experienced: the tried-on afternoons,
old clothes. They would welcome the strangeness
of, perhaps, a Cassowary: some bird
extinct in their minds for they have not seen it.

A girl stands in front of a rusty cage.
Nothing moves inside. The floor is unclean.
A large python is curled up dead or sleeping
in a corner. A piece of wood is nailed
recklessly above the cage, stating
the scientific name of the animal inside.
But this doesn’t matter: the girl cannot see

past the vertical grids. And she cannot read.
She is four years old and simply confused
by the color of rust and the smell.
Her mother is pointing at the snake. The girl’s
eyes follow her mother’s fingers. She begins sucking
on her thumb. Meanwhile, her father
is making weird noises, flailing his hands.

Her parents lead her to the aviary. The birds
make her happy. She screams with delight.
So many colors, so much grace.
Then they visit the gorillas. The frenzied jumping
and swinging frighten the girl. She throws a fit.
She pulls at her hair and her pink dress. So that
the visit to the zoo has to end early.

They head on home, the cars outside unmoving,
reticulating throughout the city. The girl is sucking
on her thumb. Her parents are making wild noises,
their hands swinging dangerously.
In bed, late that evening, the girl would wake
with a start, with some unbearable pain,
the beginning of a sadness that she’ll keep

all her life. The birds alone will comfort her,
the possibility of flight. Elsewhere,
the recurring theme, the implicit message,
is to stay the same.

Tama na yan, Inuman Na!

Dear benevolent bayaws,

10pm onwards mamya sa Tribu (kung saan dating may nabaril). Nagsara na Xavier Grille dahil naputulan daw ng kuryente. Tsk-tsk.

Birthday celebration din ni Carljoe. Please be there.

Dun sa mga di ko na na-text, pasensiya na, basta sulpot na lang kayo. Naka unlimited text lang ako sa globe. la na talaga ako load.

Kitakits.

Lovingly yours,

ramblingbayaw

Let's Do the Bertdey Blog!

Happy Brithday, Blog! Isang taon ka na! Taba mo na! Teka, may kanin ka sa pisngi! May burnik ka sa ipin! O, pubic hairful ha? Baka muthafucka!

Hehe. Yahhhhhh!!! Isang taon ng kabayawan! Rakenrol!

Stark Trek

NEXT GENERATIONS

1

But, on "Star Trek," we _aren't_ the Borg,

the aggressive conglomerate,

each member part humanoid, part

machine, bent on assimilating

foreign cultures. In fact,

we destroy their ship,

night after night,

in preparation for sleep.


2

We sense something's wrong

when our ideal selves

look like contract players.

The captain plays what's left

of believable authority

as a Shakespearean actor.

The rest are there to show surprise

each time

the invading cube appears —

until any response seems stupid.

But we forgive them.

We've made camp

in the glitch.


Rae Armantrout
Up to Speed
Wesleyan University Press

This Morning

To see things as they are is hard,
But leaving them alone is harder;
Snow in patches in the yard,
The vacuum in the sky, and in the soul
The movements of temptation and refusal.
I felt a day break. Nothing happened.
The windows gave upon a street
Where cars drove by as usual to the faint,
Unearthly measures of a music
Whose evasions struggled to conceal a
Disappointment all the deeper that the
Hope was for a thing I knew to be unreal.
I can't do it yet. Perhaps no one can do it yet.
The unconstructed gaze is still a fiction
Of the heart, a hope that hides
The boring truth of life within the limits
Of the real, a life whose only heaven
Is the surface of a slowly turning globe.
Yet still I want to think I woke one day to —
To what? The crystal trees, an earthly silence
And the white, unbroken snow of a first morning?

John Koethe
The Kenyon Review
New Series, Volume XXVI Number 4
Fall 2004

FOR A SIXTH FORM READER

Don't read odes, my boy, read the timetables:
they are more exact. Unroll the seacharts
before it's too late. Be on your guard, don't sing.
The day will come when they'll hammer lists
on the door again and mark with special signs
all who say no. Learn to go unrecognized,
learn more than I ever did: to change
your domicile, passport, face. Become
adept at petty treacheries and the everyday
dirty get-out. Encyclicals
are good to light the fire with,
manifestos: to wrap the butter in and salt
for those who cannot defend themselves. Rage
and patience are needed
to blow into the lungs of power
the lethal dust
finely ground by those who have learned a lot
and are exact, like you.


Hans Magnus Enzensberger
Translated from the German by David Constantine
Poetry London
Number 47
Spring 2004

The Locust Song

. . . the wise and wry observation which the young William Butler Yeats offered
one evening in The Cheshire Cheese to his fellow young poets in the Rhymers Club:
"None of us can say who will succeed, or even who has or has not talent. The only
thing certain about us is that we are too many.
— Paul Carroll

The tyranny of poets: "Like." O we were like
the infinite regression of roe, in the sex crease
of a sturgeon. We were like — what? like, as numerous
as the stars, the grains of sand, the uses of "like" itself.
Too many of us. Too flakes of snow, too fish
in the deep, too waterbugs of Florida. In the thick air

of the evening Cheese, a muss-haired Willie Yeats stares out
across a bobbing sea of schnockered literary faces
and he sees, as if implied in these, the overmany faces
of the shantytowns, and the Chinese steppes,
and the grim Malthusian banks of the Ganges river
on a holy day . . . too many of us. Those birds

slouched on the wire have served as a bar of music now
in how many poems? as a squadhouse lineup
in how many poems? as heavy portents over
the words in the wire itself, how many times?
Too many many-of-us. That zero now, the "black hole"
of the astronomers . . . by now it's the rose

and the willow and the rainbow and the nightingale
of two generations of us; string theory is easily the sunrise
over the Mediterranean Sea of us. "I think of . . ." then
a historical reference, Mendel, Bruegel, Mata Hari,
how many times? The prize and the prize and the prize.
A swarm of prizes. I think of William Butler Yeats,

a sloshy evening spent in fellowship with his kind. Some
have a scribbled paper with them. Some, a published pamphlet.
All of them have dreams to share. "Inside of every fat man
there's a skinny man waiting to be let out." And inside every
too many of us is a me. Right now, a hundred me
are lifting up their pints and toasting Yeats's observation.

Albert Goldbarth
Poetry
The Humor Issue
Volume CLXXXVI, Number 4
July/August 2005

Cowbell Power!

BOOKS SIXTY

Hey bibliophiles,

New books, some mine, some consigned. Previously-owned titles, all in good, near mint condition, unless othersie stated.

use comment box to reserve or text me thru 0927-9952977. unahan 'to.

Pick up on Wednesday, July 27, 1pm, Dunkin Donuts katipunan.

-------------------
1. Myth of Sisyphus: Albert Camus -- P250
2. Sophie's World: Jostein Gaarder -- P300
3. Great Apes: Will Self (HB/Signed! by the new Kafka! Collector's Copy) -- P1,000
4. Kurt Cobain's Journals (Rare/Oversized) -- P400
5. Critical Essays: Albert Camus -- P300
6. A Pocketful of Python (Edited by Terry Gilliam/Full-color/HB) -- P400
7. The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat: Oliver Sacks -- P350
8. The Cocktail Party: T.S. Eliot -- P250
9. The Thurber Album: A Collection of Pieces About People: James Thurber -- P200
10. William S. Burroughs: The Cat Inside -- P150
11. Truman Capote: In Cold Blood (HB/No Dustjacket) --P250
15. Paul Auster: Oracle Night (HB/No Dustjacket)-- P250
16. Naguib Mahfouz: The Beggar (Nobel Prize Winner) --P200
17. Michael Moorcock: King of the City (HB/No Dustjacket) -- P200
18. Civilization and its Discontents: Sigmund Freud -- P250
19. The Paris Review 50th Anniversary RARE Issue #167 -- P500
20. The Winners: (Julio Cortazar's first novel) -- P300
21. The Moth & The Star: A Biography of Virginia Woolf (1957ed) -- P300
22. Filth: Irvine Welsh (Brand New/from author of Trainspotting) -- P450
23. Life is Elsewhere: Milan Kundera -- P300
24. Ariel: Poems by Sylvia Plath -- P350
25. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory: Roald Dahl (HB) -- P500
26. The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov (664pp) -- P500
27. Porno: Irvine Welsh -- P400
28. The Solitaire Mystery: Jostein Gaarder -- P350
29. Foucault's Pendulum: Umberto Eco -- P450
30. Great Esquire Fiction: Finest Stories from First 50 Years -- P500
31. Ladders to Fire: Anais Nin (Hard to Find) -- P400
32. Letter's on Cezanne: Rainer Maria Rilke -- P350
33. Pulp Fiction: A Quentin Tarantino Screenplay -- P200
34. The World of Pooh: A.A. Milne -- P200
35. The Bad Girl's Guide to Getting What You Want -- P300
36. Far Side: The Prehistory of the Far Side (10th Anniversary/Oversized ) -- P400
37. Beach: Stories by The Sand and Sea (Ballard Camus Chekhov) -- P400
38. Birds of America: Stories: Lorrie Moore (hard-to-find/ must-read) -- P350
39. The House on Mango Street: Sandra Cisneros -- P200
40. Dilbert: Bring Me the Head of Willy the Mailboy -- P300
41. Possession: A.S. Byatt (Movie Cover) -- P300
42. The Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway (The 1st 49 Stories) -- P300
43. The Mists of Avalon: Marion Zimmer Bradley -- P350
44. Here to Eternity: An Anthology of Poetry (HB/Edited by Andrew Motion) -- P400
45. Big Book of Bart Simpson Comics TPB: Matt Groening -- P350
46. Bad Trips: Writing on the Perils of the Road (Bob Geldof in Thailand, Umberto Eco in
southern california, Graham Greene in Mexico, John Updike in Venezuela, etc.) --P400
47. Dead-eye Dick: Kurt Vonnegut -- P350
48. Virginia Woolf: The Voyage Out (1948 ed. Woolf's 1st novel) -- P400
49. The Moon by Whale Light: Diane Ackerman -- P400
50. Hocus Pocus: Kurt Vonnegut (Hardbound)-- P500
51. The Tesseract: Alex Garland (HB/ set in Manila/must-read) -- P500
52. The Beach: Alex Garland (Hardbound 1st Edition/Rare) -- P500
53. Lolita: Vladimir Nabokov -- P400
54. Lullaby by Chuck Palahniuk (HB/2002) -- P400
55. Woody Allen: Without Feathers/Side Effects/Getting Even (3 in 1) -- P500
56. Immortality: Milan Kundera -- P400
57. HP Lovecraft: The Dreams in the Witch House & Other Stories -- P400
58. The Powerbook: Jeanette Winterson -- P350
59. The Ring of Brightest Angels Around Heaven: Rick Moody (HB/ Rare) -- P500
60. Sylvia Plath: Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams -- P400

Bwakinanginang SuperStar

I find nothing more self-indulgent and highblood-inducing than many of these lifestyle columns we find in weekend editions of local, leading newspapers.

Gimme a friggin' break: I don't want to hear how young you were in the '80s and how you hate Corey Hart and Menudo and all that shit. Or how you got to ride a taxi and spent quality time with manong driver who gave you wondrous epiphanies on the vehicularly-challenging life out there. Or to read a list of your new book acquisitions and favorite records. Or just to constantly see your boyprens and gelprens namedropped.

PUTA NAMAN! Hindi Blog ang espasyo n'yo sa dyaryo!!!

Secondly, being a responsible columnist is not even simply a matter of subject matter, but also of tone. If you can't transcend your diary-entry, angst-ridden tones, you've no business writing columns.

I guess my main point here is the growing lack (oxymoron intended) of responsible journalism in these so-called columns. Most of these writers don't really write insightful pieces; they just use the precious space to rant and rave and poke readers with novelty shit, trivia, and nonsense.

Di ganyan ang GONZO!!! Magsulat na lang kayo ng brochure kung trip n'yo mag FYI sa mambabasa n'yo!

Instead of troubling us with lame excuses for and masturbatory exercises on creative non-fiction, these people should keep their crappy ramblings to the confines of their blogs.

Write about what you really know or can fully imagine. mehn.

And don't mess around with ma' '80s music. (Yeah, yeah--I'm having a classic thirtysomething fit. Hehe.)

Erwin Romulo is, I think, the only authentic essayist among these columnists. The guy's works are not necessarily (and I think not intended to be) Gonzo, but balanced, witty, and literary in a lot of instances.

As for the others, just write your angst in your friggin' blogs. If you've nothing really important to say, don't bombard readers with useless trivia they can read or find in a website, anyway. And por pabor, nada of those whacked sentiments as to how the world owes you some shit for being depressed and other emotional shit.

Magbasa na lang kayo ng Ating Alamid!

Malapit na!!!

SOMEBODY ELSE’S IDEA

of salvation is exactly

what I don’t want to hear about

right now. And it’s not

just that I know it’s not

likely to include me. Have you heard,

my friend asks, the story about

the horses at nightfall? Or the one

where we’re lost in the forest?

Of course I realize it’s easier

to get into any heaven you’ve made

up for yourself, that the whole point

of religion is that it isn’t

whatever you happen to need

at the moment. Somebody tells you,

because somebody knows. That’s why

there are rules. Maybe consequences

will occur, my friend suggests,

which we can’t foresee, creating

conditions we may find ourselves

powerless to control. These days

who can tell? So there we are,

out in the weather, out in the cold.

And yes, I’d say it seems to have

some punishment in mind.

-- Lawrence Raab (from Octopus Magazine, Issue # 5)

You are John Ashbery. People love your work but
have no idea why, really. You are respected by
all kinds of scholars and poets. Even artists
like you.

-- haha! angas ng dating. take this quiz, people.


Which Famous Modern American Poet Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Pilit na Sagot sa Mga Tanong ni Kael

1. Nagalap ko, sa aking pagsasaliksik, na dati'y nagsusulat ka ng tula sa Tagalog. Ba't naging exclusive na sa Ingles ka na nagsusulat?

Long story. But principally because I don't think I can express myself as well in Filipino. Then again, maybe that's just a convenient excuse. I think it's an irrepairable consequence of taking Filipino for granted. I wasn't as fascinated with Filipino (I guess given that I grew up in a Tagalog-speaking province {Cavite}) as I was with English. When I went to U.P. for college, I spoke in halting English that made me really insecure. All this business of trying to lose one's thick provincial accent contaminated my speaking and, well, writing.

You might as well ask, "Why write poetry in English?" Of course, I'd be a hypocrite if I say I (didn't then and) don't have a choice now, to go back into writing fiction and writing it in Filipino. But there is no exclusivity clause here; it's more of a preference. I think the act of reading and writing is, as Harold Bloom puts it, "a solitary praxis". It is a selfish business, a sabbatical into a certain Sublime. I am not one to put labels on things and I will not invent an excuse for not writing in Filipino other than to address someone who reads for him/herself. I am paraphrasing Bloom here: The intention and pleasure of writing per se, can be terribly personal.

There is a political canopy above these (all?) things, yes, but I will not name theories than attempt to pigeonhole what's literary and what's not. The authentic writer, I think, is one who writes in a language that he feels most comfortable with--not in one that is dictated by matters, issues, and politics outside of the self. How people react to your work in a personal--or even primal--sense is what's important, I think. The politics of "representation" and "marginalization" come with the processing, the labelling.

2. Kung papipiliin, ano ang gusto mong maging propesyon/pasyon ng anak mong si Moira paglaki niya?

Kung papipiliin. I'd rather that she develops a passion for reading and, hopefully, an interest (at least) in writing. I want her (like all fathers, I guess) to be proud of my being a writer. It won't hurt if she likewise decides to pursue a career in writing. Of course, the more logical part of me would want her to choose a more financially-rewarding career (medicine, law, etc). Anyway, passion is not necessarily attached to a profession. I'd rather she gets to live out both "sions" without compromising the former.

3. Nagising ka ng isang umaga nang nakalimutan ang mukha at pangalan at lahat ng alaala ng kabataan mo (sa Cavite, say, hanggang high school), maliban sa pamilya at 3 pang tao. Sino ang 3 taong 'yun? Nagkikita pa ba kayo? Kailan mo sila huling nakausap.

Siguro si "Ime" (Elmer Javier), si "Jopri Snakeman" (Jeoffrey Matibag), at si "Val" (Valerie Javier). Lahat sila kaklase ko 'nung high school. Si Ime barkada ko na mula pa sa Silang Central School, isang public elementary school sa amin kung saan nagkalat ang masarap na tae at uod sa mga ihian at may malawak at madamong playground sa likuran para sa takbuhan, ninja-han, suntukan, tayaan-tulungan, at beysbol.

Parang magkapatid na kami ni Ime. Tawa lang kami ng tawa 'nun sa mga kaklase. May bansag kami sa lahat. Tulad ni Wilmer na tinawag naming "Baka" dahil may gusto sa kanya si Rebecca na bukod sa tunog-baka ang pangalan, mukhang baka pa. Si Bedo naman, tinagurian naming "Funeraria Bedo" dahil may kahawig na funeraria sa Silang, 'yung Funeraria Vedar. Si Royski Drikulangotski, si Bj Kalesa, si Rory Rokrakes, Si Lu-Jay-ga (si Jay, matabang kalaseng may luga). Lahat may bansag. "Saging" bansag sa kin 'nun. 'Di ko na papaliwanag.

Basta kagaguhan at pagtatawanan, kami ni Ime magkasundo. Pag naman robot, music, at komiks, kami ni Jopri ang bestprends. Unahan kami n'un sa Funny komiks tuwing huwebes. Ingat na ingat kami sa mga kopya. Sayang, ipinamigay ko na. Siguro mahal na 'yun ngayon...
Lahat ng transformers episodes pinapanood namin at pinag-uusapan kinabukasan. may listahan kami ng mga pangalan ng mga robots. may ginawa pa nga kaming alternatibong listahan ng mga bastos na transformers. Sina Percentor-tite, Si Sideswipekpek, atbp.

"Snakeman" bansag n'ya buong hayskul dahil minsan nang-ahas s'ya sa aming Chalk Basketball Association (CBA) at lumipat ng ibang koponan. Galit na galit sa kanya si Pinoy (na anak ng hapon).

Minsan, si Jopri ang takdang magwalis ng yero sa classroom namin. mezzanine s'ya kaya puwede kang lumusot ng bintana at walisin ang mga dahon at ipot sa yero. Kaso, pinagtripan s'ya ni Bj Kalesa. Sinara bigla bintana. Takot na takot si Joprey. Kinalabog ang bintana habang sumisigaw ng, "Buksan n'yo bintana! Hindi ako makahinga!!!" Sus.

Si Val, labs of my high school life. Grade two pa lang ako (pagkatapos mawala crush ko kay Jeng-jeng), si Val na mahal ko. Kaklase ko s'ya hanggang gumradweyt ako, mahal ko s'ya hanggang umalis ako papuntang maynila. Naaalala ko, umiiyak ako sa awiting "Here I Am" ng Air Supply nang malaman kong sinagot na n'ya si Butch, 'yung Adjutant namin sa CAT.

"Just when I thought I was over you
Just when I thought I could stand on my own,
Oh baby, those memories come crashing through..."

Nasan na kaya si Val?

Abangan...

Only Begin

Only begin, and the rest will follow.
--- David Wagoner, “The Source”

I’ve been meaning to tell you, for some time now,
How afraid I am of this age, of its dormant bodies.
Somewhere, an old window is opened and the charged air
Begins its steady reclaiming of spaces,
Whispering its many names to the furniture,
Nudging them into small motions. All around,
The cobwebs are dancing to wind music.
A spider, sensing the sudden change,
Scurries back into the shadows.

Someone has arrived. He takes off his hat,
Looks around, considers the architecture.
He runs his fingers on each object, names them.
He is walking to the window, his footsteps leaving good,
Clear prints on the floor, making good, clear sounds.

You may see this yet. Notice how the hours
Become the only constant, how the birds outside
Make only strange noises. The once familiar
Has given way to the private dark. Get up.
The ordinary days are slipping by.
Step to the window. So that one day

I may wake to the sound of footsteps, like a homecoming.
“Let me in,” I will say. “Let me share your long sorrow.”

Shannon Hoon 1967-1995

No Rain

All I can say is that my life is pretty plain

I like watchin' the puddles gather rain

And all I can do is just pour some tea for two

and speak my point of view

But it's not sane, It's not sane

I just want some oneto say to me

I'll always be there when you wake

You know I'd like to keep my cheeks dry today

So stay with me and I'll have it made

And I don't understand why I sleep all day

And I start to complain that there's no rain

And all I can do is read a book to stay awake

And it rips my life away, but it's a great escape

escape...escape...escape...

Purple Haze Rengga (June 2)

The truth is that everything begins
with sadness. The street lights are lambent,
loose, as if heavy with longing.
It's like holding music, or trying to,
the notes breaking into imagined fragments.
Yet it's there. Sad, shadow-filled.
LIke the spaces between rain,
with which we excuse this inarticulate thirst.
Remember when the sidewalks curled
like tongues, tingling with delusion?
Eyeball to eyeball light leaps like a wet dog
thru whose ears pass the puttering of small feet,
slender as a knife in the lung.
The quiet puncture.
The gentle loss of blood.

--kael, joel, naya, marie, gelo, c.j.

The Night, The Porch

To stare at nothing is to know by heart
What all of us will be swept into, and baring oneself
To the wind is feeling the ungraspable somewhere close by.
Trees can sway or be still. Day or night can be what they wish.
What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfort
Of being strangers, at least to ourselves. This is the crux
Of the matter, which is why even now we seem to be waiting
For something whose appearance would be its vanishing--
The sound, say, of a few leaves falling, or just one leaf,
Or less. There is no end to what we can learn. The book out there
Tells us as much, and was never written with us in mind.

-- Mark Strand

Down With the Sithness

I finally got to see Revenge of the Sith yesterday. It was well worth the wait because i got me the famed lazy and hellishly cozy seat in gateway's platinum cinema. panalo. free popcorn and drinks pa, with refills.

Tama nga sinabi ng mga kaibigang nanood na. daming cheesy lines. at masyadong ipinaliwanag lahat. Pero okay na rin; I'm not really complaining. Now that's done. Star Wars is done.

Now, what? Why, go back,
turn as I please.
My step is to the south.
-- Randall Jarrell

And to think I grew up on Star Wars. I think part of why I didn't want to see Revenge too soon was knowing sadly that it is the last. Naalala ko pa nung nakikipag-unahan ako sa SM City (ikalawa ako nakapasok sa Mall, ikalawa sa pila sa sinehan) para sa Phantom Menace. It was an odd sight: all those people rushing like Zergs, clambering up the stairs, not making any sound. Parang eksena sa Dawn of the Dead. At syempre, sa pila, daang-daang hapong-hapong Darths. It was beautiful.

You were saved because you were the first.
You were saved because you were the last.
-- Wislawa Symborszka

I'm on higher ground now. The view is good from here.

------------------

Lastly, from Ashbery's prose poem, "The System":

I know now that I am no longer waiting, and that the previous
part of my life in which I thought I was waiting and therefore
only half-alive was not waiting, although it was tinged with
expectancy, but living under and into this reply which has
suddenly caused everything in my world to take on a new
meaning. It is as though I had picked up a thread which I had
merely mislaid but which for a long time seemed lost. And all
because I am certain now, albeit for no very good reason, that it
was this one and no other...

jedi badiday

there's nothing remotely interesting about luke skywalker. he's just a wimpy, lame-ass version of his dad. i mean, anakin was d' bayaw!

the way i figure, luke didn't have to endure the kinds of pain and loss anakin endured. in A New Hope, luke returned to find his aunt and uncle killed and didn't seem as affected by it as he should. all he wanted was to leave, fly, je-die! he didn't actually lose anybody else; even obi wan was always around in his casper-like presence. at most, luke had abandonment issues.

but anakin's story is a lot different. you've all seen revenge by now, and it's perfectly understandable why anakin succumbed to the darkside. all these jedi, with their lofty counsel of control and discipline couldn't save anakin. he was tailor-made to follow the path of the dark.

and isn't that what revenge of the sith really wants to tell us? the logic of losing control? to let go of our emotions and feel? We should keep in mind that all this time, star wars is really anakin's story--his rise, fall, and, in the end, redemption.

make no mistake about it. luke was never the one. he was too wimpy for the dark side, too wholesome. nothing remotely poetic about it. pwe!

heck, they should have just given han solo a light sabre. he could've played the part better.

Perfect Blue Buildings -- Counting Crows

Just down the street from your hotel, baby
I stay at home with my disease
And ain't this position familiar, darling
Well, all monkeys do what they see
Help me stay awake, I'm falling

You got an atttitude of everything I ever wanted
I got an attitude of need
Help me stay awake, I'm falling

Asleep in perfect blue buildings,
Beside the green apple sea
Gonna get me a little oblivion
Try to keep myself away from me

It's 4:30 am on a Tuesday
It doesn't get much worse than this
In beds in little rooms in buildings in the middle
Of these lives which are completely meaningless
Help me stay awake, I'm falling

Asleep in perfect blue buildings
Beside the green apple sea
Gonna get me a little oblivion
Try to keep myself away from myself and me

I got bones beneath my skin, mister
There's a skeleton in every man's house
Beneath the dust and love and sweat that hang
on everybody
There's a dead man trying to get out
Help me stay awake, I'm falling

Asleep in perfect blue buildings
Beside the green apple sea
Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby
Try to keep myself away from me

Song of Sand (Suzanne Vega)

If sandwaves were soundwaves,
what song would be in the air now?
What stinging tune
could split this endless noon
and make the sky swell with rain?

If war were a game that a man or a child
could think of winning
What kind of rule
could overthrow a fool
and leave the land with no stain?

Brook

The old dirt road will lead you to it, eventually:
a depression visible through the gaps among the tall grass,
the air terribly lonely where a bridge should have been.

The descent will be difficult. The banks are steep
and riddled with roots and insects and mud.
But the brook will be there--the daily chorus of rocks

gurgling the sweet water, the dragonflies balanced
curiously above the laughter of lilies and fish,
the visiting kingfisher, blue, chest puffed, proud.

Late this afternoon a letter arrived from some country,
some memory, some small movement in the soul.
It had nothing to do with the brook, but still

I walked out of the house to stare at the gathering night
and to weep for the little deaths--the day's demise,
the loss of color, the brook I will not visit in the darkness

nor come back to, ever again. Return is the tragedy of time,
rotting the spoiled places, inconsolable by presence.
We handle grief by moving. Distance makes it intense.

Bayaw Ka Na Ba?

1. Sino ang sumulat ng mga kanta para sa Leon Guerrero, Julio Valiente, at Geronimo?
2. Saang commercial to galing: "I'm gonna knock on your door, ring on your bell, tap on your window, too"?
3. Nasa'n ang mole ng lolo sa Bear Brand commercial?
4. Ano'ng address ng Tape Productions (nung nasa Channel 9 pa ang Eat Bulaga)?
5. Sino yung kasama ni Apeng Daldal sa Cafe Aroma na laging may dalang gitara?
6. Kaninong boses si Dr. Smith sa Voltes V?
7. Anong kulay ng panty ni Annie sa Shaider?
8. Sa'n galing si Smurfette?
9. Ano'ng pangalan ng pusa ni Gargamel?
10. Anong okupasyon ni John Blackstar?
11. Ilang robot talaga ang nasa Getta Robot?
12. Bukas ulit. Trabaho muna...

Y.C.!

Y.C. Bikini Briefs,
Y.C. Bikini Briefs,
Y.C. Bikini Briefs,
For the man who packs a whallop.

Y.C. spells fashion,
Y.C. spells comfort,
Y.C. sets beauty in motion,
Y.C. is for you!

Y.C. Bikini Briefs,
Y.C. Bikini Briefs,
Y.C. Bikini Briefs...

bayaw terms part 2

1. pu-ge -- gwapo
2. ha-wey -- EDSA, mula sa Grenheels
3. tubero -- selp eksplanatori
4. Boy Bastos -- Da King Bayaw.
5. i like your candor -- hirit line ng mga bayaw
6. o, pubic hairful ha -- magpapasalamat pa sasabihan mo 'pag nahirit mo 'to
7. bawal umehi deto -- paboritong isinusulat sa pader ng mga bayaw
8. management -- mga bayaw na mahilig mangikil ng multang P500
9. mehn, cool pal ka talaga -- para sa taong kunwari'y kaibigan mo
10. arimwanan (seryoso 'to) -- convenient
11. Look for Henry Pawhay -- bayaw expression from waaay back
12. Bhoy Sakmal -- walang iba kundi the Dextrose Bayaw himself, si Chet
13. The Forces of Evil -- animal na banda 'to. rakenrol!!!
14. Good Morning Towel -- official towel of the bayaws
15. Froda -- ang nag-ayos ng blog na 'to. Salamat!!!

Four-Lane Poem

Maria/who has never
crossed the street/
now dragging her feet
back turned from/ traffic
/the blur of/sound of engines
a failed marriage of 28 years
/Maria can see sidewalk/
steady blackness of asphalt
the point of lanes
why lin/es are all broken
the road so close and how
cars like people
swe/rve
from such violent tricks/such
betrayal

bayaw terms

isang listahan ng mga salitang kabayawan

1. pabling bling -- hiphop na tsikboy
2. bardaging -- tawag sa sobrang bading na bading
3. badoy -- pag sobrang baduy ka, badoy ka na
4. bayaweh -- maka diyos na bayaw
5. animal (mabilis ang basa dito) -- hayooooop

The Speaking Landscape

------------------
The House On Marshland
Louise Gluck
Ecco Press, 1975
------------------

One bleak and bitter summer in Baguio, made colder by youthful encounters with self-inflicted sorrows (that is another story, of course), I plucked out a book from the shelves of one of our better-known poets, Maria Luisa Igloria. The book was The House on Marshland. The writer, Louise Gluck, is, according to the dedication (it was a gift for her daughter, Jenny), one of her favorite poets.

A couple of poems later, I managed to convince myself that no one would mind if I bring the book home with me (in other words, steal it) to warm Quezon City. But the next day, strangely, it disappeared.

Saved in a bizarre way from imminent theft, I have since made frequent visits to the poetic landscapes of Louise Gluck. But the one I keep coming back to is the one that literally escaped me, A House on Marshland.

While her succeeding volumes of poetry have been mainly more thematic--preoccupied with the defamiliarization and resurrection of myths--the earlier works of Gluck housed a collage of themes. First published in 1975, The House on Marshland is her second book, an important collection that iterated her distinct voice and style, perhaps paving the way for the Pulitzer Prize nearly two decades later and the Poet Laureate conferring last year.

The myriad subjects the poet tackled in this second collection were to become the building blocks of a poetics that championed fracture over wholeness, silence over exhaustive detail, and, in the words of the poet, a reluctance to conclude.

Many of the poets of the last 20 years have followed diverse roads into the lyric form. Jorie Graham, Mary Oliver, and Billy Collins are names poetry connoisseurs would easily associate with the contrasting schools of thought. Graham prefers an organic intertwining of the philosophical, historical, and personal in her subjects. Collins is preoccupied with the god of the small and mundane things. Gluck, for her part, champions the ethics of the short lyric, praising ellipses and dashes, the resonance of utterance, the authority of a pause.

There is a distinct and sonorous New Critical leaning in her concept of form that possible detractors could rarely fault her for.

What she has accomplished is to weave voice and tone with startling imagery, ultimately coming up with poetry that owe their power to utterance and some dark, ominous spirit-- what Lorca calls the duende--hovering above the page.

Gluck has lent her voice to myth, to the unspeaking, the inanimate. Reading her is to read about unearthed things. Her poetry acts as a medium speaking of the grief of plants in Wild Iris (her Pulitzer Prize-winning collection in 1992) or Penelope and Circe in Meadowlands( 1996).

The House on Marshland is read by many as a prequel of sorts to the more popular collections of Louise Gluck, but it has the same vivid imagery, and assertive voice, and well-rendered environs. Stanley Kunitz once said of her poetry: They are rooted in landscape and weather and, increasingly, in the intimacies of the heart. Though not confined by nature images, Gluck is a master at rendering nature-in-twilight imagery to express feeling in this collection. The opening poem, All Hallows, is at once ripe with scenery:

Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence.
And the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as inpayment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.

The same darkened backdrop is kept throughout the collection, staining the greenish white blossoms of the plum tree in Flowering Plum; bravely declaring the poison of the green landscape in The Shad-blow Tree; or allowing the growth of a marsh around the house, with schools of spores/(that) circulate/behind the shades, drift through/
gauze flutterings of vegetation. (For My Mother)

The shades and late afternoon silhouettes both carry and downplay the intensity of the Gluck lyric, often speaking in place of withheld lines that would have made the poems too obvious. Gretel in Darkness, a poem that resurrects the story of the famed storybook siblings, takes flight on a psychological level--questioning happy endings, remaining trapped in the black forest evening. Gretel mutters to herself, alone and longing, driven by blood-stained thoughts, her voice mimicking fire: Nights I turn to you to hold me/but you are not there./Am I alone? Spies/hiss in the stillness, Hansel,/we are there still and it is real, real,/that black forest and the fire in earnest.

In her Proofs and Theories: Essays on Poetry (1994), Gluck describes her writing as reliant on the deflection of emotion, the power of suggestion and deliberate silence, the power of the fractured. To Autumn hints auspiciously at the success of the poet, at the same time reverberating a somewhat misplaced optimism. She writes: …I am no longer young. What/of it? Summer approaches, and the long/decaying days of autumn when I shall begin/the great poems of my middle period.

The House on Marshland is a speaking landscape, the words whispering behind the bushes, fusing with early evening half-light, drifting in the marshes, lurking beneath murky ponds.

Disappearing from shelves, I should add.

And haunting the memory.

Everything is in Place

The dark vein of the pen, petrified hand.

Strand after strand of impeding light.
The paper sitting in its secrecy.
There must be something more

to these objects straining for movement,
solid and heavy, caught in the light.
The night keeps such cruel arrangement.

But how you can easily break

this symmetry. Now you are here,
pursing your lips, blowing strokes of smoke.
The air shimmers in your white noise.

The room is hung with the smell of wine,
tipping the bottles, rearranging the furniture.
I gather the punctuations, the shards

your breathing cuts into every corner.
The labor of speaking, lonely
as stones. I will leave, you will leave,

someone will write a poem.