The First Place

"Call me Dennis."

How does that sound? Let's say I got my November 2001 back and I could begin my journal in some other way. Would I be well-advised to start with a pretentious take at Melville's immortal opening line? I think not. Let Moby-Dick wreak havoc where he may and Ishmael drift to his elsewheres in his life-saving coffin; I have other fish to fry.

If I had an inkling of the trouble I'd get myself into, I may have just simply commenced with "Let's get ready to rumble!" Or the more forthright "Let's get it on!" However, the charging bull opening brings no rush of blood to my veins. It just alerts me to watch out for the point when the whole thing loses steam. I'd rather go straight to grabbing the wild thing by horns or balls, depending on which end of the beast I must wrestle. I'll go ahead and gut it and cook its parts. Then I'll begin with a little feast!

In the absence of some sacrificial bovine, I could begin with one of my all-time favorite ending lines, "Omnia mutantur, nihil interit". Everything changes but nothing is truly lost. That's a nice way to begin. It reminds me of the grecian postulate that we never really cross the same river twice. It also intimates some form of immortality beyond all the projected posterity of man. It is a subtle expression of faith. It is human hope in the face of all the thermodynamic evidence of entropy.

I cross November again, my fateful river. The current is a bit more swift, and the water, more fleeting. I bring a different leg into this river. I bring a different man. I have more scars now, all the more reason for washing. It also means I have gone through more healing than in any previous point of my life.

Call me Dennis.

I can never more begin except in the way that I did. That holds true for all sorts of beginnings, I guess. From where I stand, chest-deep in a watery contemplation, I look up to possibilities diverging in thought like the branches of the trees on the bank. In the world of deeds, despite the richer world of speculation, there is only one end as there is one beginning. There is an advantage to a singular beginning. I can come back to one home and easily remember what I set out for in the first place.

In the first place, I struck out to serve some dishes. I'm in this river for a reason and so I must quit my idle, aquatic ruminations. I came here for fish.

Remembering

I've been reading Kantogirl's e-mail, one of those life-questionnaires where Jol and Jess always have the best answers for the silliest questions. I don't recall ever filling up one of those but I always have a great time reading them. Well, while reading this particular one, I was reminded that I've been blogging for a full year now. So I checked out one year ago.

I am currently (and maybe arrogantly) under the belief that things are better now than they were a year ago. It could also be that nothing has really changed, and I just haven't gotten rid of the autosuggestive mantra I've drilled into my head during my self-helped youth: "Every day, in every way, it's getting better and better." Well, then, I'm ruined for life; I am self-cursed into believing every year was better than the last. So I will live until I run out of those things that make me stronger and finally comes tete-a-tete with the Nietzschean prophecy of that which will kill me. Maybe, despite everything, all subsequent years are inferior to those unrecollectable days of childhood amnesia?

Anyway, I have lots of people to thank for the fact that I'm still here, recollecting online. One year huh? Well, all you guys are accomplices. Right now, I'm getting less mileage here compared to the blackboard, the notebooks, and the offline-good-ol-fashioned-pen-on-paper journals. Maybe that's a good thing.

Or maybe I'm a full year older than my first entry and I'm not one drop of arrogant less.

Table-Turning

Wait

These are
the good
old days.

Just wait
and see.

Steve Turner

I hope the guys remember this one. Our freshman block was given this poem by Prof. Nudas, SJ around six years ago. It served as the bottle broken on our collective hull to kick us off into our maiden voyage on the waters of tertiary level writing. The old guy didn't serve as any sort of inspiration to most of us. However, none of us will deny that we learned most of our basics from him. He was also definitely entertaining. I think we all have a special place for him as the priest who gaily violated our freshman virginities.

I'm sitting on the other end of his table, reading this poem from his selection. I'm smiling now, trying to fathom the extent of the dear professor's humor.

My Other Side

All Soul's Day has never been a day to contemplate mortality or any such dreary occupation. The day has no stillness in it, no calm available for any reflection. It does not have that hushing sorrow (and of course none of the wailing kind) although it remembers that, etched in memory as letters on an antiquated gravestone.

Why, in all my November firsts, I don't remember it even as a day of reverence! Yes, we have the roving priest who says mass in the cemetery at the break of day, the fact that kids couldn't play atop graves, and the need for everyone has to respect errant spirits when walking on unbeaten paths and peeing in some hidden grove. But mostly, I've felt it as a celebration, a family reunion involving, well, all souls.

Indeed, my precious culture never really enabled me to fret about not going anywhere after death. I am socially understood to die someday, receive some customary expressions of grief at the outset, but otherwise graduate to the rank of celebrant emeritus, invisible but felt at least once every year. Not a really bad end, come to think of it. I am even allowed (somewhat feared but expected) to snatch a disrespectful kid stepping on the punso or peeing on some hallowed trunk, and transform him into a bogey, a legend to deter all those who might follow his smelly tracks.

Maybe that odious job isn't even mine but for some attendant spirits, some territorial keepers. Every establishment needs some sort of guarded outpost eh? And besides the security, it's a mighty fine place to get buried too, you know.

I will die someday, leave my cataracts, my convoluted lungs, and my rheumatic frame to worms I would contract for such a purpose. Maybe they'll make better use of it than I did all my life. Quite positively, they'll derive more relish from the whole package than I ever did!

Oh okay, maybe I'll rage some just for dramatic effect, a parting shot at the world that's done me wrong or not enough good. Or whatever, yadayadayada. I don't imagine myself having been any such asset to it either so I won't be one to keep the good night waiting.

Having uncoiled myself from my then hideous mortality, I would take a walk or a glide or whatever form of mobility available to me by then to a nice, broad rooftop. Our panchong is carved on the side of a hill. Up my rear, the groves attend to me with its charms and insects, the former being now more potent for me than the latter.

But I would sit back and just stare out front for a while. Down the stone graves and the labyrinthine paths, I see the main street. Further, the farmland. Or actually, I would love them to remain farmlands until I die. You see, my beloved bay yawns a bit further. No one wants his view of the night sea distracted by subdivisions. Hell, if they insist, I'll sit atop some posh rooftop. Let's see if some guard dog or homeowners' association can exorcise me from my unfortunate perch.

I'll haunt the night's shore for a while. I took my seat there, in my youth, to attend to countless sunrises and sunsets. I've been there even when the sun is highest. Once, I even went there to view a storm. But I could only come with the sun. I recede from the shore as it does. You see, we fear the night shore as it is the nest of clandestine gangs with their addiction to infamous substances. I haven't had a taste of that so I've no ticket to submit. No safe access to the infestation for me. Fear and principles keep me from the night shore. Let's see if such trifles would contain my immortal soul. Hell, just for kicks, I may join those addicts and grace their hallucinations for a while. Let's see who would monopolize the shore on that great starry night!

Maybe I'll quit this forever after a month. Or some forty days. Maybe I'd come searching for the grandfathers I barely knew, the heroic guerilla and the silent farmer. I would ply the hillside for the gossip and stories of my grandmothers. Oh I sorely missed those! I'll come asking, maybe an old soul or attendant spirit there would give me some clues. Or maybe I just need to follow some scent.

Some trailing echo of those stories.

Or maybe I already know, somehow, like some directly downloaded briefing from some central brain. I'd hurry there, to wherever-there-is. I'll just come back here later when the living kin comes a-calling, lighting my way with their candles, chatting endlessly with each other and intermittently keeping the tykes from collecting too much wax for their sculptures. Don't worry if they blow off my candles, I'd whisper to the back of your heads. I'll just follow the scent of your candles. Or the echoes of your gossip. I'm on my way. I'm never late for celebrations.

Especially for this one, when I am free from any meditation whatsoever and my inmost ears exist only for your reports of own joys and the tragedies of absentee others. Excuse me though if I steal out at times and I'd rather spook the braver of these kids, indirect fruit of my now completely rotten seeds.

I'd plant in him something else now, please don't mind. It's one of the more tasteful curses. He'll grow to love the sea. He'll grow to follow the scent of stories.

But hey, he's not allowed to pee there.

Tanghalian
O "Al Ajillo ba ang Apelyido mo Manong?"

Dati, paborito ko nang tanghalian kapag nagpapadeliver ang mga kaopisina ko ng manok ng K-, spag ng J-, at salad ng W-. Minsan lang ito kaya mas madalas kaming pumili sa dalawang karinderya. Siguro nga, mas maiibigan ko pa ang mga yun kung hindi lamang sa taas ng araw sa tanghalian. Dahil sa salik na ito, mas karaniwan kami sa karinderyang mas malapit sa opisina, mas tutok ang bentilador, at mas malayo sa interseksyon ng usok at ingay ng mga traysikel.

Nuong isang linggo, nabalitaan namin ang masarap na pagkain sa isang karinderyang medyo mas malayu-layong lakad pero sa mas liblib na lugar. Nagpadala kami sa sabi-sabi at inakay pa namin ang aming bisita. Hindi kami napahiya.

Simple lang ang set-up ni Manong. Ikinumpara ko sa dating madalas naming kainan. Mas maliit ang espasyo, tila nga kumakain kami sa pinagtagno-tagning porch ng maliit na bahay. Iisa lang malaking mesang bilog sa loob pero maaring dagdagan ng isang set ng monoblock sa labas. Isang katlo lang ito ng maiuupo sa kabila. Walang telebisyon sa pader. May bentilador, kaya lang nakadisplay lamang dahil sira.

Apat lamang ang pagpipilian na putahe habang umaabot sa anim sa kabila. Pero lilimampisuhin ang takal ng kanin na katumbas ng isa't kalahating siyam na piso sa kabila. Heto ang pamatay. Yaong dalawang karinderya, naghahain ng libreng tasa ng sabaw bukod sa order na ulam. Depedepende lang, karaniwan sabaw ng sinigang o nilaga pero minsan tinola o papaitan.

Dito kina Manong, isa lang ang bonus na sabaw, Lunes hanggang Sabado. Hindi ko makuhang magsawa sa sabaw na ito, kahit nanlalagkit na sa pawis at inaabot na ng init ng lamanloob ang init ng yero, nagpangalawa pa talaga! Yaong isang kalapit-opisina namin, humirit pa nga:

"Manong, butas yata itong mangkok nyo e!"

Garlic soup ang masalamangkang hain ni manong. Nuong unang higop ko pa lamang, napaisip na ako kung ano ang pangunahing trabaho ni Manong. Alam naming saydlayn lang ito. Bakit 'ka nyo? Gawa nang higit na malinamnam ang sopas al ajillo na ito kumpara sa natikman ko sa mamahaling kainang D- at M-! Saan kaya siya nagtatrabaho? Head chef kaya sa hotel, club, o resto si Manong?

Inubos ko ang pangatlong hirit ko sa sopas para hagurin ang lalamunang nakipagbuno sa sarap-tapang na anghang ng kanyang laing. Kinabukasan, tigkalahati ng dalawang putahe ang inorder ko para makarami ng sampol sa aking magiliw na pagsisiyasat. Ako lang at ang paborito kong nars ang kakain. Malayang makapag-uusisa sapagkat walang kalapit-opisina o bisitang pagtuunan ng pansin.

Apritadang Manok at Buttered Vegetables ang mga kaso. Sige't tama lang ang lapot ng sabaw ng apritada. Hindi pinagkagastusan ng sobrang tomato sauce pero hindi naman malabnaw. Baka nga tomato paste ang ginamit rito (mas praktikal ito lalo't pangmaramihan). Pero malasa ha! Matipid pero "masining" pa rin. Sa halip na sikilin ng sarsa, napalitaw ang lasa ang manok.

O sige, gulay naman. Aba, pino! Parang mamahaling mantikilya ang ginamit rito a! Ansarap! Napasama ang tingin ko sa kasama kong nars kasi dalawang pugo ang nasa platito nya, sa akin iisa. Dapat sana, pagkakain na ako makikipaghuntahan. Pero inihain ang sopas al ajillo at isang higop ko lang sa sabaw, hindi ko na napigilan ang sarili ko:

"Manong, ano nga ba yung nabanggit nyong Chinese herb na nilagay rito?"

Pinilit ko pang ikubli ang pagsusumamo sa aking boses. Kunwari, swabe at kaswal pero baka igapos ko sya sa kanyang bentilador kapag di niya ako pinansin. Sa kabutihang-palad, tumugon siya:

"Sibut! Sibut, yan. Natutunan ko sa H-. Sa Marikina ko pa kinukuha yan, 150 kilo. Galing yan sa kahoy. Isasama sa soup stock, yung pinagkuluan ng baboy at manok. Hindi pwedeng isama ang baka."

Ayun! "Para ho walang sebo?" Kunwari pang nagtatanong hetong inyong nagmamarunong na kostumer. Sumang-ayon si Manong kaya tumuloy-tuloy na ako sa aking panayam, pagkahigop ng ikalawang sabaw:

"Duon po kayo sa H- nagtatrabaho?"

Hindi raw. Ayon kay Manong, kasama ang pagsuhay ng kanyang ina na naglabas ng mga sopdrink at nag-aayos ng mga plato, may catering sila. Inimbitahan pa kaming magpa-cater sakaling magsipagkasal na. Sa puntong ito, nakahabol na sa amin ang isa pang nars, nakadestino na sya sa Canada at ikakasal sa Disyembre: "Opo! Tamang-tama, sabaw lang ang plano naming handa!"

Heto ang mga napag-alaman namin. Ilokano si Manong, tubong norte. Ibig sabihin, talagang mapait ang kanyang papaitan. Iba ang pakbet nya pero sa kwento pa lang ng mga sahog, naglalaway na kami. Kahit patapos nang magtanghalian. Ayon sa kanya, matakaw sina Bishop Bacani at Villegas. Si Cardinal Sin naman, isda at gulay lang ang kinakain, mahilig sa fish fillet. Nagkakarne lang kung roast beef. Bakit nya alam ito habang karamihan, hindi alam ang diet ng mga pari sa labas ng ostya at mompo? Dahil siya ang caterer ni Cardinal Sin at nakakadalo tuwing may bagong paring pasisinayaan.

Malabong maging suki muli ako sa kabila. Hinihintay ko kasi, baka sakaling mataon akong makasalo sa garlic chicken nya. Malamang na hindi mabawasan ang sarap ng mga hain ni Manong kahit pa maungkat ko ang bawat sikreto ng kanyang tostadong bawang, kintsay, soup stock, at sibut! Kaya't duon nyo ako matatagpuan sa ilalim ng kanyang yero, katapat ng tahimik na bentilador, tumatagaktak ang pawis, at nagpapainit ng tiyan!

Almusal At Iba Pa

Ansarap naman nito! Galing sa Bacolod si Ma, nagseminar sila ng mga kasamahan niyang maestra. Heto, andaming pasalubong, me piaya, barquillos, sarisaring kendi at minatamis! Sarap ng almusal ko! Nagtsamporado siya. Masarap magtsamporado si Ma, katamtaman lang ang tamis at tamang buhos lang ng cocoa. Pinatuluan ko ng malinamnam na evap. At anong kasama? Aber, hindi tuyo, daing, o piniritong galunggong! Danggit! Yeba!

Kaya yung mga taga-Bacolod dyan, dapat alam na ang ipapasalubong ha? Wehehe! Nag-uwi rin sya ng mga walang kamatayang keychain at beads. Kulit nung isang keychain na shell, ang nakaukit 'Cebu'. Ewan ko ba! Pero ayos naman ang pagkakagawa, palagay ko acid treatment ang ginawa run. Tsaka hindi naman akin yun e. Atensyon, mamanugangin, sa iyo raw yun.

Sa Sabado na ang huling araw ko sa klase. Magdiriwang nga ako e, magbababad sa mga isaw. Pero marami pang aasikasuhing papel, take-home exams, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Kaya sa bente-tres pa huling araw ko, kung tutuusin. Oks lang, marami namang kape at piaya rito e! Yeba!

Mission-Vision

I wouldn't touch you with a long metal pole. No way! You can try and have me cloned and cage the produce of my genetic loins but even those captives would instinctively abhor you. You can wait for my rebirth in some far future, but even there I won't go near you. Not even if you were the only woman left, hot-blooded and all.

And I'm the only mosquito left, in futile search of an alternative sanguine source. No, I'll keep my proboscis to myself, thank you. I'd rather shrivel up and die or succumb to some other predator.

Not even if you wore the most comely visage. Or came to me in dream as if you were my beloved. I would smell you in any realm. Even in the very pits of hell. They lied to you when they said that no infernal fury existed that could match a woman scorned. I have given you my scorn. Come take the wrath that will surpass you.

And if you still come anywhere near me or my circle, do not fear brutish reprisal or some of those crowd-favored, loud, cinematic retributions. Spite takes a plethora of forms and I am not crude. It would not hurt you now to take notes.

Here, I'll tell you. Do you know your scripture, how eye matches eye and tooth crosses tooth? Dearie, I am forever loath to even chance upon your dull-colored, vacuous orbs. And I would never kiss you as you purport, I would rather you gnash your teeth by yourself.

So what is the poor man left to do? He'll have your teeth thrust into your very eyes.