Revelation

I've just begun reading The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, one of my favourite authors, and I had this eureka moment as I read it. You might think it unnecessary, but I believe that one should find a literary character to relate to in the span of one's life. You see, by relating to that character and by listening to the character's "voice", you gain a new perspective on life. There results a reaffirmation of your identity as a person, which enables you to envisage your future self after being influenced by the character. Of course, you must expect changes, because you should never be static as a person. Your choices will invariably differ as another part of your life gives up the ghost.

For years I devoured books, smelled their pages new and musty, heard the crack of the spines, fingered peeling bindings, and hunted them all over the stores---yet this quest to find a kindred spirit in the world of books failed me. My early heroes were not like me. Anne Shirley, Jo March, Miss Havisham, Edmond Dantes, Jean Valjean-- these were characters whom I appreciated and admired, but I did not relate to them completely. There was, in our correlation as character and reader, a gap that was far too large for mending. We would perhaps be friends, but we would always be incongruous together; I never thought I would find that elusive personage. However, upon reading The Poisonwood Bible I finally found her. Adah, the twin who thought much but rarely spoke; the one who saw through her sisters and parents, who never fit in anywhere, who had a damaged brain but still functioned, who made palindromes her mantras, who rebelled against blind obedience to her father and the God who she felt had abandoned her. She is very much like me, although we are not exactly the same. She is equally the person I am, the person I want to become, and the person I want to leave behind. Never have I been so engrossed in a character. She compels me. We are shattered shards of the same mirror, and I feel that with little effort I can make her real. Because of her, I am pressed more than ever to know how the story ends; when that time comes I hope that I, too, will know how to deal with myself, how to conquer the demons, how to drag my right foot behind my left, how to shout without saying a word. After discovering her, the unbidden surprise in a book, I believe more than ever in the magic of books; and my faith in them is affirmed as it has been time and again.

Back from wall-clinging

I've just gotten back from wall-climbing with the FPF class, and I'm glad that my arms are loosening up. The whole thing was fun, though tiring, and there were mishaps--people dangling from ropes like rag dolls, my failed attempts, that sort of thing. Thankfully, we all got through in fairly good shape. The fake rocks reminded me of Salvador Dali. All the while I was wall-climbing I felt my incapacity very acutely, I felt my mortality. My feet were shaking so badly. I was so nervous I thought I'd fall there and then. They never tell you that your forearms will be the first to tire. Mine got so stiff they felt like a cadaver's. But I had a go again and I succeeded in reaching the top. I'm wary of the hype but even though you already know the way it works you still buy into it. At least I did. As soon as I was halfway down I was elated and telling anyone who would tolerate me that I had climbed up to the top. I felt positively euphoric. I guess some things are beyond reckoning. But it taught me a lot of things, and I would recommend it to people who want to feel a little more invincible than they do in everyday life.

Helluo librorum

I've just finished rearranging my books for the umpteenth time, and decided to count them. I found out that I had more than a hundred books. I really do the rearranging because my frequent reading invariably mixes up the books, and also because I am striving for some semblance of order in my life. (Naks naman!) Hmm. To tell you honestly though, I rarely spend more than half of my monthly allowance on books, because of Booksale. But I really am a sort of escapist when it comes to books. I actually have gone so far to make a hypothesis that I would have credited were I someone who believed in reincarnation: I may have been African in a past life. Why is this, you ask? Well, I enjoy reading the works of African-American or African authors, such as Chinua Achebe, Alice Walker, Gwendolyn Brooks, Lewis de Soto, Laurens van der Post, Wole Soyinka, etc. I only realized that now, and it's quite weird. I can't help it though, they are so much fun to read, so earthy, so realistic, so deep. But if I really want to wipe my head-slate clean I read something else. Hemingway's short stories are good. I used to borrow The First Forty-nine Stories all the time when I was in high school, and my favorite Hemingway novel among those I've read so far is The Sun Also Rises. I don't know what there is about reading Papa Ernest(Yes, I call him that in my head, because he was so handsome. Ay, nababading na ako!) that has a soothing effect on me. Hindi ba dapat nakakabangag siyang basahin dahil ang daming misterio sa mga kaugnayan sa kwento niya? But he tells stories simply, so you don't have to over-analyze. Pero pagdating sa nobela niya ibang kwento na yan. But for all his faults, magaling siya. Pero hindi siya ang paborito kong manunulat. Wala pa akong nahahanap na paborito. Pero siguro hindi na rin dapat maghanap ng paboritong manunulat, kung hindi magbasa na lamang at timbangin ang kanilang sinasabi sa timbangan ng puso at utak. Humahanga ako sa mga manunulat na hindi kumita ng maraming pera ngunit hindi tumigil sa paglikha ng kanilang sining. Sila ang mga tunay na dakila, na hindi nasilaw ng pilak at hindi natakot sa anumang sasabihin o gagawin laban sa kanila. Sila ang nagsikap na manatiling buhay ang ating kasaysayan at katauhan bilang mga Pilipino. Sana'y sila rin ay mabuhay sa ating mga isipan, sa ating pagbasa sa kanilang mga akda, at sa ating pagsulat ng ating mga karanasan.

Vignettes

Yesterday I was with my friends at the Rob, killing time before the Nat Sci exam. We were on our way back to U.P. and decided to take the lift to save time. When the lift went down to the second floor, a group of floozies came in. Mga tuta at yung amo nilang banyaga. The lift suddenly began to beep in overload agony. The foreign man refused to budge, even though he was obviously obese and the lift was obviously straining under the combined weight of their party. The fat man began to ask the fag among the floozies ( Sorry, couldn't resist. Nothing personal.) questions in a language I could not understand. It may have been French, it may have been Russian. Who knows. He obviously did not want to get separated from the floozies, although they seemed quite willing to leave him. The stupid man stood there like a goose until finally one of the floozies got off and told the others to do the same. When the lift closed, the lady standing beside me said, "Ano ba naman yun, ang laki-laki na nga eh ayaw pang umalis. Mamaya sasampalin yun ng kasama niya." I said in reply," Oo nga po eh, tumutunog na nga yung elevator ayaw pang bumaba. " When we got off, my friends and I could not help laughing, although N--- told me there was a floozy still left on the elevator. Oh well, that floozy can tattle all she wants, we'll probably never meet again, as C--- said.
*****
I enjoyed reading To Kill a Mockingbird, and I got curious about Mr. Blackstone, the geezer who wrote Commentaries. However, I was disillusioned as to this man's judiciousness when I saw one of his quotes on ThinkExist : "The husband and wife are one, and that one is the husband." The quote had a rating of three stars(!) which means that there are many masochists in this world still. It reminds me of the injustice of Flagrante Delicto, of the rule of thumb, of the many crimes committed against womanhood. It is even more unfortunate that even though we have been enlightened, we still stoop under the yoke of "tradition". If that is so I spit upon tradition, on the bondage it has imposed on everyone, its delusions, its fallacies. The mind must not be a sponge; it must be a sieve, to sift out what is irrelevant and to keep what is important. We Filipinas have experienced enough suffering through our docility, our compliance. It is time we defy this constriction imposed by dead nameless misogynists; we need to rise from our long sleep. We must rebel against submission merely because the one in authority has his superiority declared not in deeds, but in the mere fact of his being a man. There is really nothing new in this. In the same way that apartheid and segregation emphasized the schism of races within a race, so is discrimination against women. Women are part of the human race; without them it would have perished long ago. We are not inferiors but equals. Until prisons are demolished, until bridges are built to effect reparation, there will be no real hope for the race of men; for as long as these obstacles continue to exist in our minds, we will remain as we have always been-- always doubtful, always suspicious, always severed even though we should be one.

Olympics and ordure

I've been watching the Olympics recently( who hasn't?), and though I missed the opening ceremonies for the most part, I know for a fact that the Chinese delivered (they always do, because of the issue of "losing face"). And I am proud of their accomplishments as a nation, for all the upward mobility, the evolution of their state into a capitalist economy, the way they have pulled everything off so well. And of course there is the China-Tibet controversy. While I admit that there is a whole bloody lot of discrepancies to be sorted out, especially those regarding China's human-rights violations (which, by the way, have existed as part of their civilization throughout the millenia), I also think that other countries (the powers that be, or so they think) have been full of duplicity in their dealings, as well. We, the innocent masses, have no real, absolute idea of their under-handed negotiations, and the United States is a fine example of the oppressed becoming oppressors, and of absolute power corrupting absolutely. But I have digressed, I have rambled. So do let me start over again.

Well, as I've said, I've been watching the Olympics and the athletes are really hungry for success. Some have been playing dirty, such as Angola and Germany, and others have played fairly, such as the female weightlifters (no steroids). However, all this grand display of wits, brawn, strength, camaraderie, calumny, and drama come from one enterprising Baron (or Count, I forget which title he claimed), whose name I have forgotten. If you subscribe to Reader's Digest, try to look into the issue with the article about the myths of the Olympics. Anyway, I agree with the ideology of the Olympics and disagree with its reality. It is really nothing more than a chance to show off, to be famous, to earn recognition so you can turn heads and make commercials. Every time there is an Olympic celebration, boodles of moolah are spent to beautify the damn city where it's to be held. So THE WORLD has seen your capital in all its synthetic glory. What then is to be done to ameliorate the present conditions? How can you find more moolah to replace what you've just spent in a vain effort to cater to the needs of foreigners who don't give a damn for the country anyway? Does the spirit of being "One world, One dream" present itself as reality? Or is it a dream deferred?

For instance, there was great rejoicing during the Berlin Olympics during the Nazi occupation. ("Heil, Hitler!") The whole who's who of Europe came to see the event. However, athletes who were of Negro or Native American ancestry were ignored by the Aryan-loving Fuhrer, who was himself an AUSTRIAN JEW. It may then be concluded that the heroism (?) of athletes, the sacrifices made by the welcoming committee, the untold hours spent by laborers in building edifices, belie the inherent hypocrisy and selfish nature of the Olympics. It is quite humorous that the human race is too cowardly to openly acknowledge that everything is a stunt, and that it needs a sporting event every four years to generate income, to unite people under the delusion of unity. We keep this farce up until the last of the banners has been taken down. We remember for a while, then we forget. We are the people, the mob, the crowd, the mass. We are the Iks, who defecate on others' doorsteps. Let us accept this fact. Only then can we say that we are one world working toward one dream.

Acrostics!

Since no one ever reads this blog, I'm sure no one will mind my saying that I used to hate acrostics: sappy, campy, cheap, what have you-- I didn't want anything to do with them. Perhaps this was due to the use of acrostics by former teachers to create things truly horrendous and grade school. I can't remember any of them now, but the trauma remains. However, after scanning a book in the library about poetry, I realized they are quite fun after all, when written in a whimsical, satirical, or creative fashion. For instance, the author/compiler of the book, a Mr. Ron Padget, used the letters of his name to create a poem with humor like that of Caroll's "Jabberwocky". I can't remember the poem exactly, but it spoke of a "delicious God" and provisions for the termites. I thought that it was just so much fun, too good to pass up. If you're ever bored with nothing to do think of any word or phrase, like "Tantalus", or "Xanthosis", or let's say "Fourth Avenue Cafe". Make that into an acrostic poem and you'll have something to laugh at. I found that it's better to finish an acrostic poem in less than 3 minutes, because the spontaneity with which you wrote it makes it ring truer. Of course it depends on how long the acrostic is. Earlier, while waiting, I found time to write a few acrostic poems. I'll show you some.(Then again, there's no one to show this to. Oh, well. Let me be. >=)) )

Kalashnikov*

Kites
Alight on branches,
Laughingly
Alert,
Scanning the
Horizon
Nearby
In
Kite hopes
Of
Victuals

(*A kalashnikov was a kind of gun used by the Russians.)

In Honor of Ron Padget

Ripopee* of
Obnoxious
Naughty
Perverse
Animalistic
Delightful
Gorgeous
Endearing
Tots

(*Ripopee is a Cajun word for a "gang of obnoxious children", according to Rebecca Wells in The Divine Secrets of the Ya-ya Sisterhood. See? You get to use words you normally wouldn't use in normal life! What a mind-opener acrostics can be!)

On Bella Akhmadulina

Your
Eve
Vacated that
Garden of
Eden,
Now
Your desolate
Your silent
Emporium of
Vast wonders
Teasingly
Ubiquitous
Sinfully
Hellish--
Eden
Now looks like
Kiev
On death row.

(This poem is referring to Yevgeny Yevtushenko, one of my favorite poets, and the poetess Bella Akhmadulina, his first wife. Thank providence I was able to think of Kiev, or I would have been stuck. As it is, it fits in very nicely.)

Hey, Daddy...

I've often noticed this schism in society, that just because you're a girl, there are immediate assumptions about you. There is always an underlying pretension that you have to put up with in public, even though you condemn it in private. Below is Sylvia Plath's poem "Daddy", one of my favorite poems because it is personal while being a poem that celebrates the freedom of women from patriachal bonds. It is an odd mix of droll melancholy and wild vengeance which culminates in the last line, a succinct utterance of separation: "Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I'm through."

Daddy
by: Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that,no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.