Guam

He had already written his memoirs entitled La Revolucion Filipina. He had given what he thought his best in the service of his country. As he put it, comparing his life to an old watch he had, the spring of his miserable existence was weakening. He simply felt that he was going back to his native land to die. He could not bear the idea of dying elsewhere.
-Cesar Adib Majul
Mabini and the Revolution

History is inexorably just and its judgment is terrible against those who offend it.
-Apolinario Mabini
La Revolucion Filipina, Vol. II


An ocean nymph who has six webbed toes in each foot and enough fins to last her several crossings of all seven seas learned to rest her head on the lap of a freethinking paralytic. A fierce-thinking man yet gentle in all other respects, the cripple placed his note-board on her head to write. On one side of the page lay a peep of her driftwood-coloured hair, on the other, the sight of her pink lotus lips and sunlit chin. They did this every day, and it was on his lap and under his notebook when she smiled.

She began attending his daily composition by the sun. As if pushed further and further by the surf, she sat nearer with every visit. He smiled every time so that she would not fear him. He continued writing so that while his presence becomes familiar to her, his rhythm would likewise grow predictable, therefore safe. Before long, she sat by his knees. He had to move his makeshift table away to keep the ink from her hair. Yet, she tried to come closer to his pages. In the most gentle jest he could manage, he put the board on her head to show her where her efforts where leading her. He put a page on the board and wrote a score of words without ink. Rather than drive her away from his page, she found her still as if all grasping and swimming has left her. He guessed that she was willing to try a page. And another. Then another. Though he heard little from the grace of her motion and nothing from her mouth, he gauged that the nymph loved how the scribbling progressed in flows and fits from her nose to her forehead.

She knew no language apart from that spoken by his hand. Only dimly did she understand the eyes so clean of salt where she rooted her gaze every time the board was lifted. There never existed any custom below or above water for the nymph except that free-flowing contract between his dead lap and her head. Yet, whenever the board moves, she is certain that the lame man is swimming.

One day, she came to the shore and found the paralytic gone. She did not understand and had no way of understanding. Over the span of their days, he released many sounds into the air and she received all of them fully but without comprehension. They came to her as a different water, a water with undulations charged with intent. At times, an abrupt water with no obedience to any felt wind. She heard entire archipelagos of sighs, for the sounds had horizons in them, had the taste of footfalls.

Yes, recently, the sounds came slowly and there were less of them. Yes, the notebook moved very little, mere ripples compared to wave upon furious wave of their earlier time. Yes, when he stopped and caressed her hair, sometimes, the fingers fell limp there like dolphins ultimately overcome by the water. When he realised this - it sometimes took just one sway of the cocoanut or the whole course of finely shattering cloud faces before he noticed his hand - he used his other hand to fish out the absent one. Oh yes, he was fond of whispering to her ear. She remembered how it tickled her before, those curious winds.

Yes, during those last whispers, what she heard was a voice similar to those locked in marooned seashells.

The ocean nymph stayed until the sun set. She stayed a while longer in the night that drew the sands and waves into a dark mass. Then she quitted that shore with no breath. A sea crossed and she returned, stayed awhile. Seas crossed and she returned, stayed awhile. Still, there was none of the dry rustling. No matter the depth and expanse of the bellowing, beating oceans, they always somewhere contained this frail bloom of sand. She always came back.

Always: but she forgot and forgot more often, often seeing that past hand beneath the bare sun as nothing more than a mirage, but more and more frequently she saw herself as the drifting mirage to some cripple who cannot even smell the sea from where he sat.

Always: until the moment when no memory of the paralytic is left inside her, when only the oceans know if she is alive or not, swimming and swimming as she does from one vast nowhere to another; if she belongs to time or to a time without shores, that greater sea without time; if she is free, beyond all land-held keepers of time, beyond that dreamer who impressed memory and moment upon her shadowed eyes.

Always: until only oceans will have knowledge if there exists or will exist, or if there ever existed in their shifting waters a place where the nymph’s face shall find or should have found that movement it longed for - that abandoned manner of waves.

Open Season

Love interest nearly always weakens a mystery because it introduces a type of suspense that is antagonistic to the detective's struggle to solve a problem

-Raymond Chandler


What if I am not done? What if I am just waiting for the mum word, waiting it to be phrased the wrong way by the wrong person? What if all I am is a waiting for an excuse to remove the pin from the last link of the causal chain that keeps the wheel in. Wheel. That ought to be as good a clue as any.

It comes. Oh brother, it comes. Then I will keep quiet for a year or two but, hey, what can I say? It is still coming.

Come on, redeem yourself please.

Down with the sickness

Spent the week cleaning up old stuff at elbi, in makati,
the older things. My god told me I should have worn a mask.
I clogged my lungs with the ashes of burnt bridges.

Woman 19

Years before me, Robert Bly, astride his horizon, saw a starfish with nineteen feet. I read this piece of his on my second or third time under the sun and by the beach of the nudist camp. I had gone there enough times to wear the I have seen everything scowl as if it were my true face. Alone, I had roamed there enough times to know that a book in a nudist camp is just another cloth, just like white shirts and whiter toilets, like calculators and cigarettes, like average-wage jobs and go-for-broke vacations, exactly like the cities and the sea.

After Bly, I stopped bringing books to the beach. I learned to stop measuring the morning sun by how good it was as reading light.

I walked more, explored further. I jumped from one tree shadow to another rather than wear the practical sandals. Sometimes, I walked long enough to withstand the heat of the sand. Always, when under a chain of shadows, I walked my I have seen everything and I have been everywhere walk. Expertly so too, until that summer afternoon when I walked right into something new.

A young man stood four or so trees away from me. He had my back to me as he stared down a woman lying on the shore. Was the woman dead? Thus went my first thought and, with it, the jagged swallowing of the idea that I might have not seen everything yet. But I thought, Wait. Maybe the man just some greenhorn, standing and staring the way he did? No. Something felt off. He stood too close. Nudist newbies look obliquely and from a distance. Almost all of them wore eyeshades, sitting cocksure, as if they have gone to these places since circumcision or elementary graduation. Whichever came first. Then, he turned his head as if a child caught looking up his mother’s skirt. I was walking toward him when he saw me, then he walked away.

When I came close to the spot where the young man stood, I saw that the woman who lay still on the sand had many, many teats. As my head usually works, I was certain there were nineteen even before I recalled the poem. As my head usually works too, I instantly shrugged the number off pending a proper survey. For in fact, that was a years-ago poem, a bunch of words, but strange flesh lay before me under the same sun, with the same sure waves attending our encounter.

I endowed the manifold breast long seconds of regard. Then a breath before I noticed that I was standing on the same spot where the young man stood and that the position was the nearest possible place to the woman without getting in the way of her sun.

I started counting the teats, by the nipple, to be sure. I counted nineteen! Each a finger or a bulbous fist topped with a hazelnut aureole and slightly stronger-hued nipple. However, there lay no equity of sunlight among them. Only five wholly basked in the sun. Five lords of the chest, pillars of the woman earth! Elect by their size and position, these five threw shadows that prevented the full tanning of their brethren.

I counted, and then I counted again. I felt a curious gladness to keep my shadows off her, to preserve her golden chiaroscuro. Even the shadow of my right pointer made sure not to intrude as the finger took its survey. I counted for the fourth or fifth time, until I felt certain that I did not miss a nipple that could have been tucked between an armpit and another teat or count one extra where there could have been a mere fold of skin or stomach.

Nineteen! Somehow feeling full, I left. Promptly, another took the spot as if relieving me of my post. I knew I was one of many who came, who saw, who counted. Then we, each in our own turn, made our way in the shifts of sand and surf.

Did it occur to the young man before me or the faceless man after me or to any of those who came before or after whomever that, hey, maybe we were the ones counted? Nineteen nipples and five of them, interestingly or interestedly, were erect. I cannot know if the thought occurred to anybody else. After having given up print and both sides of the page, I publish this piece to communicate. Please consider this possibility: we were the ones counted!

While I have no way of knowing how they observed or reflected on what they saw, until any one of them comes forth to contradict me, I remain dead sure of three things. One, we all came back to that stripped stretch of shore hours or years after and did not find her; two, we all took for granted that she was alive; and three, not one of us remembers if the woman was smiling.

Friend you are

Friend you are, keeping your word the way you did. Go read all your feminism books and shove them where the sun does not shine, where nothing shines not even your petty fictions. You have done this many times to me, and I never allowed those iniquities matter. But to him? And to her? I will not rue the day I met you. The day comes - for this is an old plan - when I will cease meeting you. You - you already know it - will rue that day.

You fear your enemy more than you love your friend. I am not one to go where I am not wanted.

On the other hand, you, truer friend. I thought you would fail. I feared it with all my heart. Shame on me for even entertaining the idea. You who the enemy counted on to be the soft spot, what solid matter you are made of! Twice this past month, I yielded to your wisdom. I regret neither of my withdrawals. Now, I rejoice in two facts, that you are a good man, and that I know it. My honor that we swallowed the jagged meat together. Now, let us drink the sweet water. If strife should come between you and me - for the future is the future - I swear that I will wound myself twice before drawing blood from you.

This world will make a ruined man out of me, an humbled man because of loud pronouncements such as this, an absurd man because of my strange and futile craft. You will not be there come my fall, friend. I shall not allow it.

Bad Book

i am not the better book.

The Trial

My parents seem to have found a beautiful apartment for F[elice Bauer] and me; I ran around for nothing one entire beautiful afternoon. I wonder whether they will lay me in my grave too, after a life made happy by their solicitude.

Franz Kafka
Diary Entry
May 6, 1914

Happy day. Or at least a good morning.

I finished two books Emman lent me, Angels and Fugitives an anthology of poems by Emmanuel Torres and The Talking Tree: poems in prose a selection from seven books of Artur Lundkvist. I found the angels refreshing. I read most of them aloud relishing the dutiful music. The tree surprised me at first. The poems offered a surreal density of images, an attack on the rational no less. The rational mode being operative these days, I first resisted the project. Then, I accepted it as a sort of rest. Let the dogs of logic lie.

My mother's birthday is a few days away and the opening of classes a matter of weeks. And then, there's my trial.