Books of Lumad, Chapter II

Below is the second chapter of the sequel to my 1997 fantasy novelette, Pedro and the Lifeforce. I'm working day and night on this thing lately (while playing Civ IV on the side) for the NaNoWriMo project. Funny thing is, I don't even know how to submit to it. Ahehe.

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Chapter II
SANTA INES

The trip took roughly seven hours, not counting the time Mr. Juliano had spent doubling back when he had followed the wrong exit at the superhighway. Or Raffy’s frequent craving for snacks and his mom’s persistence on finding the most potent mosquito repellent. Mr. Juliano seemed pleased when he found a copy of the most recent edition of The Philippine Provincial Traveler.

It had been a long and tiring journey, and Raffy was feeling really sick, having had nothing else to do but endure his parents’ unending ranting and complaining.

"What's with ethnic bands today, anyway?” huffed Mr. Juliano. “They rely too much on electronic instruments. Honey, don’t you just miss the days when ‘ethnic’ meant ‘natural-sounding’?" The radio was tuned in to a local ethnic music station. As if on cue, Mr. Juliano ceremoniously turned the volume way down.

“But Dad, maybe some people just don't like bamboo flutes as much as you do,” Raffy offered. He actually meant the statement for himself, as he was particularly fond of the native flute. His Lola Adiang had sent him a hupip a few years back. It was a small wooden flute adorned with intricate feather carvings on the sides. He had immediately liked the instrument and had learned to play it by himself, much to his surprise.

And he just loved the melody that came out of it. He knew no other instrument that he could play so well as the hupip. Whenever he put it in his mouth, the rising, lilting music seemed to just come out beautifully. Even his teachers in school would smile and nod their heads whenever he played.

The ride became rough and bumpy as they drew nearer to Santa Ines. The main provincial highway had given way to an uneven stretch of loose gravel and dirt roads. Despite Mr. Juliano's careful (and, for Raffy, achingly slow) driving, the car lurched regularly along the rutted path, spewing dust and pebbles as it went.

The shadows were already lengthening as they entered the barrio. A fantastically gnarled acacia tree welcomed the Juliano family as the car nudged itself into the barrio. Raffy noticed a fading stone marker beside the dusty road, almost overrun by wild cogon grass. Santa Ines, it read.

An assortment of trees hugged the roadside, all brimming with fruits. Ripened and rotting ones likewise littered the ground. If Raffy found this strange, Mr. Juliano didn’t seem to notice. He just swerved the car left and right, trying in vain to avoid the fallen fruits. He began rattling off the trees’ names as they passed them, pointing with a free hand: mangga, santol, bayabas, langka, macopa.

“Never you mind those rotting fruits,” Mr. Juliano said, making a wet, smacking sound with his lips. “You’ll get to eat plenty of them during the summer. Sonia, remind me to ask Inay to get us a basketful.”

“What for?” his wife said. “You plan on taking jackfruits to Australia?”

“Bah! Never mind, never mind...” Mr. Juliano replied. “Hey, we’re almost there, Raffy.”

The road narrowed further into a dirt path wide enough for only a single vehicle to pass. They had to slide to the embankment as a carabao cart passed, moving the other way. Raffy could have sworn the carabao had winked at him.
Raffy could now see a line of thatched-roofed houses, all standing next to small vegetable patches. Like the fruit-bearing trees, the patches were riddled with vegetables.

Mr. Juliano squinted at one of the houses. He stopped the car abruptly and rolled down his window. “Hoy, Mang Juling!” he hollered to an old man sitting lazily by the doorstep, busy stroking a rooster.

The chicken cackled, gave a sidelong glance at Raffy, and said: Am farm animal! Not good at sabong!

Raffy jumped in his seat, his head hitting the roof with a thud.

“Mom, mom! The rooster’s...” he started, but his mother hushed him, her eyes on the approaching old man.

Mr. Juliano poked his head out the window. “Magandang hapon po, Mang Juling. How've you been? It’s been a long time. How's the game at the cockpit?”

The man paused thoughtfully and scratched his balding head. He hesitated before pointing to a nearby acacia tree: “I think the house of the kapitana is just over there, beyond that strange tree. Yes, she's there, I know it. Which reminds me: I have to see her! I need to borrow something.”

There was a glazed look in the old man's eyes. He was puffing generously on his glowing pipe. His gaze wandered off to the side of his house. Quite a few deep yellow and bulging pumpkins were sitting on his vegetable patch.

"Well, yes. Those would make for quite a pinakbet, Mang Juling," Mrs. Juliano said. The old man paid no mind and proceeded to ruffle his rooster's feathers. Then he turned away, the rooster locked in his arms still cackling. Am farm animal! Am farm animal!

"That's funny,” Mr. Juliano said, “Mang Juling didn't recognize me at all. How can that be? He used to take me to cockfights when I was growing up here!”

“Well, his eyes must be getting poorer," offered Mrs. Juliano.

They rode around the large acacia and came to a large two-storey house surrounded by a yard full of vegetable patches. It was already the tallest structure in the area, and certainly looked like it was one of the oldest. The walls of the first floor were made of concrete, and painted clumsily in green, contrasting with the wooden second floor. Raffy thought the house looked like an upside down tree.

They parked the car beside the fence of clustered santan plants.

“Now dear, no need to feel nervous,” said Mr. Juliano as he turned off the engine. “The past is the past. Just smile and try to be courteous.”

“Don’t mind me, Ramon,” Mrs. Juliano said, stepping out of the car. Raffy followed. They began walking toward the house, following a dirt path in the front yard.

“Ramon! Let’s go!” hissed Mrs. Juliano.

“Uh, okay dear, coming.” said Mr. Juliano, though his hands were still glued on the steering wheel.

A woman’s head appeared from one of the open Capiz-shell windows on the second floor. “Oh! There you are!” she shouted.

The next moment, the woman was rushing along the path to meet them, her hands lifting the hem of her long batik skirt like one would the reins of a horse. A trail of dust followed her. She seemed very athletic; the next moment she was there, hugging Raffy and peppering his chubby face with a series of wet kisses. She then began pinching and pinching the boy’s cheeks, all the while sporting a broad grin on her face. Raffy hugged back, knowing at once that this was Lola Adiang.

Finally, just when Raffy thought his cheeks would explode, his lola let go. She held Raffy’s shoulders with both hands and examined his face, all the while chuckling. She looked spiffy for her age. The only things that betrayed her age were the pair of lightweight glasses she was wearing and the trace of crow’s feet extending to her temples as she smiled. “How are you, my dear Rafael! How you’ve grown!”

“It’s Raffy, Lola,” he started.

“Bah! Rafael sounds more manly!” his grandmother replied with a chuckle. “Hey, did you get the hupip I sent you? You know, I had to walk to the highway and stop the bus just so I can send that to you! Well, the driver was not so agreeable at first, but...”

“I have it with me, Lola,” Raffy beamed, pulling out the hupip from one pocket.

“And he can really play, Inay,” added Mrs. Juliano.

Aling Adiang seemed to just notice Mrs. Juliano was there. She laughed aloud, hugging her daughter-in-law. “Sonia, it’s so good to see you.”

“It’s nice to see you too, mother. Where’s Itay?”

The bangles on Aling Adiang’s wrist clinked as she brought an unlit cigar to her mouth. “He’s inside. That old man’s not feeling so well these days. Will tell you all about it later. Now, where’s my darn son?”

Mr. Juliano had just stepped out of the car and was now tentatively inching his way down the path.

“Ramon!” hollered Lola Adiang. “Come here, you little rascal! What, afraid I might hit you?”

She smiled anew, crow’s feet showing as she hugged her son. Mr. Juliano was on the verge of tears. He held the back of his mother’s hand presently, bringing it to his forehead. He then poked Raffy’s shoulders and nudged him to do the same. "Er, mano po, Lola."

“Well. It’s hardly time for all this,” said Aling Adiang, wiping her face. “The sun’s almost gone and I’m sure you are all starving.”

Raffy nodded vigorously in spite of himself.

“Very good, Rafael. Come on, let's go inside. Your Lolo Enteng’s waiting. I've got something prepared for you after you've freshened up.”

“Is Itay still angry at me? Is that why he didn’t come down to meet us?” asked Mr. Juliano weakly.

“Your father’s not himself these days, Ramon.” replied Aling Adiang, her voice betraying a genuine concern.

“He’s not sick, mind you,” when she noticed Mr. Juliano’s look of worry. “Just getting forgetful. I’m sure he’d be happy to see you. Like I often say, the past is the past.”

When they entered the house, the stink of animal dung assaulted Raffy’s senses. He almost gagged. The first floor served as a bodega, filled with stacks of hay and piled sacks of fertilizer and boxes. In the middle were a few old wooden chairs and a table. Raffy surmised this was where his kapitana lola held her meetings. Through the open door at the back, Raffy coud see a large enclosed area for animals in the backyard.

“Pay no mind to the smell,” offered Aling Adiang, running across the floor to close the back door. “In any case, the goats have disappeared to God knows where. One moment they were there, the next they’ve all gone!”

Her voiced trailed into gibberish. She sighed presently. “Well. Let’s all head on upstairs,” she said leading them to a worn-out staircase behind one of huge pile of boxes.

The food on the table was good enough for a small feast. Lola Adiang had prepared a variety of delicacies: sinigang, menudo, adobo, and some other viands Raffy didn’t know.

"No fish, of course,” said Aling Adiang. “The darn river’s polluted now. There should be kalderetang kambing, but, like I’ve said, our goats have disappeared. It’s been two weeks now. Even the neighbors' goats are missing, too. When I get my hands on those animal rustlers..."

“No need to worry, Inay,” said Mrs. Juliano. "This food’s too much,” said Mrs. Juliano.

“Nonsense! My kaldereta’s the finest, most sumptuous in Santa Ines!” said Aling Adiang.

"I'm sure we can take home the leftovers,” offered Mr. Juliano with a sheepish grin. “And Raffy, I’m sure your vacation wouldn’t be complete until you’ve tasted Inay’s famous kaldereta, but she’s not the best cook in the province for nothing! Let’s all eat!"

Mr. Juliano was right. The meal his lola had prepared was the best meal he had had in a long time. He thought if there was anything to keep him really happy throughout this vacation, it was the thought of his lola's cooking.

A wheezing sound came from one end of the table. "What's wrong, Itay?" asked Mr. Juliano. He was instantly on his feet, proceeding to rub his father’s back. Mang Enteng was coughing, bits of food sticking around his mouth.

Mrs. Juliano handed a glass of water to Lolo Enteng who pushed it away. "Itay, drink some water. You might choke."

"Whaaat? Who are you?" said the old man.

"Itay, It’s Sonia, remember? I'm your daughter-in-law. I already told you earlier," Mrs. Juliano replied, sounding hurt.

Lolo Enteng only gave her a bewildered look and wiped his mouth carelessly. Nobody spoke afterwards. When Mang Enteng finished his meal, he left the table without a word. Raffy wondered what had happened. His lolo had not recognized any of them, including his father.

Lola Adiang called the family aside after dinner. "Please understand that he’s not angry at any of you. He just doesn’t recognize anybody; even me, in fact. Well, maybe his cockpit friends...”

“He’s been like this for quite some time now. He's having trouble remembering things. I've had the doctor from the distant town examine him, but he had found nothing wrong with him. The doctor says he's quite healthy for a sixty year-old."

"But it's too early for Itay to be ulyanin," said a worried Mr. Juliano.

The family had retired to the available rooms. There was no electricity in Sta. Ines, and this bothered Raffy a lot. Already, he had already missed an episode of his favorite cartoon series. He would have to think up of other things to do, especially at night.

Right now, Raffy was getting really bored. He opened his window to let the air in. With a sigh, he unpacked his hupip and started playing a tune. Playing the flute helped him relax.

Raffy looked out into the moonlit yard, toward the silhouettes of the huge acacia tree outside. The notes from his hupip rose up sharp and clear in the surrounding silence. Quite suddenly, he saw a pair of piercing light sparkling from the thick branches.

He stared intently, puzzled, until his eyes got accustomed to the darkness. From the pale moonlight, he could swear that the light came from the eyes of a large black hawk with a stray tuft of white feather on its head. Its penetrating eyes were on him, unblinking. The hawk tilted its head presently and opened its beak.

So here you are, finally--little man!

Then next instant, Raffy thought he heard the sound of mild laughter and wild whistling of wings. Then the bird had gone.

Raffy hurriedly closed the window and hid his face under the sheets. For a long time he lay in bed shaking and frightened, wondering what the bird meant. He lay there for a long time before drifting into a troubled sleep.

* * *

Raffy woke to the harsh sound of metal on wood. He slid his window open to see a frail-looking boy chopping wood with a huge, rusty axe. Raffy thought the axe should be too heavy to wield, but the boy didn’t seem to mind. While the boy didn’t look like he’s enjoying the work, he didn’t seem to look tired.

At last, someone to play with, Raffy thought. He hastily fixed the bed and was about to go downstairs to take a closer look when he heard his lola hollering for breakfast.

"Good morning, Raffy. You’ve overslept a little, huh? Come, come--we have salted eggs, fried rice, fresh fruits, and suman. There's also some carabao milk from Mang Pulding.” Lola Adiang was turning over the plates and pouring milk in the glasses. "It's going to be a busy day today. There will be a town meeting here at ten-thirty."

Raffy sat down and rubbed his eyes. He looked out the window and noticed that their car was gone. “What time did mom and dad leave, Lola?”

“Very early, dear—around four o'clock. They didn't wake you up anymore because they thought you were exhausted from the journey and needed rest,” Lola Adiang said, fanning some flies away from the food.

"They should've let me say goodbye,” Raffy said, frowning.

"They seemed to be in a big hurry, especially your dad," his lola offered. Raffy sat down to eat, saying nothing.

Just then the boy Raffy had seen outside came in and sat on the chair beside him. He looked more fragile and sickly up close and was quite small compared to Raffy’s heft. His skin was almost as pale as carabao’s milk. He smiled weakly at Raffy before reaching for a suman.

The boy unwrapped and dipped the roll of sticky rice in a bowl of sugar with thin, pale hands. Raffy wondered if the boy could eat as much as he does.

"He's your cousin Agoy," Lola Adiang said before Raffy could ask. “As you might
have noticed, he's rather shy, but really does much of the chores around the house.”

“Hi, Agoy. What a weird name,” Raffy said, extending his hand. He casually withdrew it when Agoy didn't seem to know what to do with it.

"Like I’ve said, he's the shy type," whispered Lola Adiang. "But I think you two will get along fine.”

Soon after they finished their breakfast, a handful of people began coming in. Lola Adiang waited for a few more minutes for the others to arrive, but very few showed up. She looked at the few people who were attending the town meeting before stomping her feet in disgust.

"Where is Juling and the rest? They know quite well how important these meetings are! A kapitana can only do so much for the affairs of Santa Ines. I need all the help I can get!”

Nobody seemed to have anything to say. Lola Adiang scanned the blank faces of the people and swore beneath her teeth. She sighed and looked at her notes. “Well, never mind, never mind. To start things off, let’s talk about the lost goats..."

Those who came to the meeting seemed more lost than Raffy initially imagined. Whenever Lola Adiang would ask them for their opinions, they would just shrug and say something incoherent. It was as if their minds had wandered off someplace else. Lola Adiang was turning red with anger when a few suddenly spoke up.

"Kapitana, Can you lend me a few cavans of rice? I can see you've had a good harvest this season," said one woman.

"Can I have a sack of potatoes, please?" said another.

"Please loan me a basket of mangoes please," said another man.

"I've lost my carabao, kapitana!" cried Mang Pulding.

"What the--what are you all talking about?” Lola Adiang managed to spit out her tobacco in disbelief. “Have you really lost your minds? Check your crops! The trees are teeming with fruits and your vegetables rotting in your yards! What's wrong all of you?"

“Kapitana, please help us,” cried everybody in unison, as if they did not hear what Lola Adiang was saying. The kapitana eventually lost her temper, spewing forth curses.

She threw them out her house.

“What happened to them, Lola? They were acting really strange,” Raffy offered, as her lola bolted the door shut.

“I don’t know Raffy. It seems like they’ve really lost their minds. I have to find out the meaning of all this. Something’s very wrong here.” From the upstairs window, they watched the people walk out of the yard, wandering aimlessly in all sorts of directions, like they’ve forgotten even where they live.

“They are acting like zombies, lola,” Raffy said.

“Hmmm...They are acting like your lolo,” said Lola Adiang, scratching her chin. “I tell you, dear, something’s gotten into them. The whole townsfolk seem to have lost their common senses. Well, at least, they’re not causing any trouble. But I’ll find out what’s causing this soon enough.”

“Now,” Lola Adiang said, her face finally breaking into a smile, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “How about I prepare merienda for you and Agoy”

* * *

For the next few days of his stay in Sta. Ines, Raffy didn't venture outside much, but with Agoy patiently instructing him, he discovered fun outdoor activities like catching spiders and frogs and scooping fireflies at dusk.

Agoy was hesitant at first to talk and play with Raffy, but Lola Adiang had insisted that he watch over Raffy at all times. Raffy found this funny, since he felt he was the one taking care of his meek cousin most of the time. But for all his shyness, Agoy seemed to know his way around the barrio very well, never complaining aloud and always willing to wander into the farms.

By the end of the week, they seemed to have become the best of friends. They would go climbing trees and raiding the neighborhood vegetable farms. At first Raffy did not like the idea of stealing, but when they managed to snatch the biggest cabbage right under Mang Ruben’s nose, they slowly made a habit of bringing all sorts of
crops in the house. They were able to convince their lola, who would stay up late scanning her notes, that they were presents from the townsfolk. In any case, Lola Adiang seemed to be very busy taking care of Lolo Enteng and visiting the neighbors to care.

Agoy generously gave in to Raffy’s every whim, so there wasn’t much to complain about. While Raffy just didn't like his cousin's perennial silence much, he perceived this to be typical dullness on the provincial boy's part. After all, he told himself, I’m the one who grew up in the city.

When the day of the next town meeting arrived, it was very much like the previous meeting, only with even less people. Again, the townsfolk had nothing much to say except that they needed something from Lola Adiang, who was by then chain-smoking her tobacco, all red in the face.

"You know what I think, dear?” she said during lunchtime, after not-so-politely shooing away the visitors, “I’m thinking it’s that blasted smog building up just beyond the river. Have you seen it? Look there.”

Raffy watched the looming dark cloud hovering in the horizon, past the thick line of trees that their lola forbade him to venture into. It looked like rain clouds, but it did not appear to moving at all. Beside him, Agoy cringed and looked away.

“It’s contaminating the soil and polluting the water. It’s most likely the reason why fruits and vegetables are all growing at an unnatural rate!” declared Lola Adiang, as if she had already found this to be true.

To add to Lola Adiang's endless worries, Lolo Enteng woke up one morning crying like a baby, complaining about a terrible aching in his joints. Lolo Adiang tried applying root herbs and coconut oil, but Lolo Enteng just howled in pain and shoved her away. Even with Raffy and Agoy helping, their lolo would just kick and flail his arms.

They managed to apply the oil when Lolo Enteng finally fell asleep, but only to be rudely awakened in the middle of night with the same howling and crying.

"Now, that’s a really bad case of rheumatism,” Lola Adiang said grumpily early the next day, wearing her boots and readying a pack of tobaccos. “What your lolo needs is a drink of the boiled juice of the pansit-pansitan plant. Sure way to cure this. But it only grows near the banks of the river. And I’ve to go get it. I’ll be back before nightfall.”

"Can we go with you, Lola?" asked Raffy.

"No, you boys just stay here and look after your lolo. Besides, like I’ve said, the forest between the river and Santa Ines is a dangerous place. I know the way, but I don’t want to be taking care of two people on my way there. The sooner I get the plant, the better."

"But Lola..."

"No buts, Rafael. Just stay put and look after your lolo."

* * *

It turned out to be a really long day. By lunchtime, the two boys found out that their lolo was missing. They scoured the entire barrio but couldn’t find him. They were about to give up when they heard raucous sound of laughter coming from Mang Juling’s house. They were only too surprised to find his lolo and several townsfolk having a small sabong in Mang Juling’s sala.

“Lolo! Aren’t you sick? Lola had to find pansit-pansitan for your rheumatism. She won’t like it when she finds you here,” Raffy said.

“Whaaat? Who’s sick? Who are you?” Lolo Enteng replied, genuinely surprised at Raffy and Agoy’s presence.

“It’s Raffy and Agoy, lolo, remember?” Raffy said, not at all surprised.

“Er, are you sure you’re my grandson? Who are you?”

“Uh, who are you?” echoed one of the men in the room, not looking at anyone in particular. Then someone else repeated the question, until all the men in the room were chanting the same lines, pointing their fingers on everybody else, all in all making a mild commotion. One was pointing at himself as he asked; Mang Juling was addressing the question to his rooster.

The rooster now stared sideways at Raffy with what he could swear was one reprimanding eye.

Who are you? Who are you? Am farm animal!

Raffy jumped in fright and pushed Agoy forward. To his surprise, Agoy seemed to have momentarily lost his shyness. He stepped up boldly and composed himself.

“Lolo Enteng!” Agoy shouted, his keening voice rising above the din of chants.

Everybody suddenly fell silent. “Lolo,” Agoy continued, his voice coming back to its usual soft tone. “Let’s go home or Lola Adiang will surely get mad at you.”

When Lolo Enteng heard his wife’s name, a glint of recognition seemed to pass over him. His face winced and he began crying. Everybody else in the room seemed to have either recognized their kapitana’s name or just taken the cue from Lolo Enteng. Soon everyone was sobbing wildly.

The boys had to half-drag, half-carry their lolo back to the house. But while Lolo Enteng bawled like a baby, he did not resist. When they finally got him to bed, Lolo Enteng quickly fell asleep, a trace of a smile on his face. Raffy and Agoy stayed with him, both of them exhausted and full of questions.

Afternoon moved into early evening, but Lola Adiang didn't come back. The boys nervously watched the silhouette of the distant forest disappear into blackness, but their lola still didn’t return. They ate dinner silently and fed their lolo, who seemed to be in a peculiarly jovial mood. They stayed up late into the night, their heads poking out the window, looking for any sign that their lola had arrived.

“I’m scared, Raffy,” said Agoy.

“Don’t worry. Lola will be back soon. Maybe she just had a hard time looking for the plant. I’m sure she’s on her way back. She knows the woods; she won’t get lost.” Raffy wasn’t convinced by his own words.

“But what if—“

“I said she’ll be back!” Raffy said harshly. And nothing more was said.

Raffy was determined to keep awake until his lola arrived but his eyes began to feel droopy and he eventually fell into a fitful sleep beside the window.

* * *

He was rudely awakened by Agoy; his ears were at once assaulted by the wailing noise of Lolo Enteng, who was once again complaining about his bones. “Raffy, wake up. Lola still hasn’t returned.”

“What?” Raffy said, jumping from his bed. “She said she’ll be back by nightfall. Something must really have gone wrong.”

“What do we do now?” said Agoy.

“We need to look for her,” replied Raffy.

“Let’s ask the neighbors for help,” offered Agoy.

“Are you kidding? They don’t even know who they are! We have to do this on our own.”

“But who’ll take care of lolo? Lola said we shouldn’t leave him. And he seems to be in great pain,” said Agoy.

“I have an idea which just might work,” said Raffy. “Go get dressed.”

The boys hurriedly brought their lolo to Mang Juling’s house. When they got there, they found most of the men again attempting to play sabong. And, as Raffy had expected, Lolo Enteng’s rheumatism seemed to have vanished the moment he got inside the house.

The sight of the men laughing, clapping their hands, and prodding their roosters to fight each other looked really strange to Raffy, especially because the animals didn’t seem to be interested at all in fighting. The men all squatted in the small sala and watched the chickens scratching the floor and flapping their wings.

“They should keep lolo preoccupied for a while,” Raffy whispered as he stepped
outside, dragging Agoy with him. He didn’t want to stay too long with the animals; he felt they would start talking to him again the next moment.

“Where do we start?” Agoy asked presently.

“Where else?” Raffy retorted. “We have to follow the path to the forest.”

Civilization IV

I can't believe it; it's time to rule the world all over again. I'm reviewing this for Gamesmaster, together with Age of Empires III. So if you'll excuse me...it's time to frakkin' play!

Showoff Pallbearer Carries Casket By Himself

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