Please Read This

Don't worry, these are not my words, so you can relax and trust them. This is an excerpt from Anne Michaels' astonishing--astonishing--book (I don't want to call it a novel), "Fugitive Pieces."*

     A parable: A respected rabbi is asked to speak to the congregation of a neighbouring village. The rabbi, rather famous for his practical wisdom, is approached for advice wherever he goes. Wishing to have a few hours to himself on the train, he disguises himself in shabby clothes and, with his withered posture, passes for a peasant. The disguise is so effective that he evokes disapproving stares and whispered insults from the well-to-do passengers around him. When the rabbi arrives at this destination, he's met by the dignitaries of the community who greet him with warmth and respect, tactfully ignoring his appearance. Those who had ridiculed him on the train realize his prominence and their error and immediately beg his forgiveness. The old man is silent. For months after, these Jews--who, after all, consider themselves good and pious men--implore the rabbi to absolve them. The rabbi remains silent. Finally, when almost an entire year has passed, they come to the old man on the Day of Awe when, it is written, each man must forgive his fellow. But the rabbi still refuses to speak. Exasperated, they finally raise their voices: How can a holy man commit such a sin--to withhold forgiveness on this day of days? The rabbi smiles seriously. "All this time you have been asking the wrong man. You must ask the man on the train to forgive you."
     Of course it's every peasant whose forgiveness must be sought. But the rabbi's point is even more tyrannical: nothing erases the immoral act. Not forgiveness. Not confession.
     And even if an act could be forgiven, no one could bear the responsibility of forgiveness on behalf of the dead. No act of violence is ever resolved. When the one who can forgive can no longer speak, there is only silence.
     History is the poisoned well, seeping into the ground-water. It's not the unknown past we're doomed to repeat, but the past we know. Every recorded event is a brick of potential, of precedent, thrown into the future. Eventually the idea will hit someone in the back of the head. This is the duplicity of history: an idea recorded will become an idea resurrected. Out of fertile ground, the compost of history.
     Destruction doesn't create a vacuum, it simply transforms presence into absence. The splitting atom creates absence, palpable "missing" energy. In the rabbi's universe, in Einstein's universe, the man will remain forever on the train, familiar with humiliation but not humiliated, because, after all, it's a case of mistaken identity. His heart rises, he's not really the subject of this persecution; his heart falls, how can he prove, why should he prove, he's not what they think he is.
     He'll sit there forever; just as the painted clock in Treblinka station will always read three o'clock. Just as on the platform the ghostly advice still floats: "To the right, go to the right" in the eerie breeze. The bond of memory and history when they share space and time. Every moment is two moments. Einstein: "...all our judgements in which time plays a part are always judgements of simultaneous events. If, for instance, I say the train arrived here at seven o'clock, I mean: the small hand of my watch pointing to seven and the arrival of the tain are simultaneous events...the time of the event has no operational meaning...." The event is meaningful only if the coordination of time and place is witnessed.

* Michaels, Anne. Fugitive Pieces (New York: Knopf, 1997), pp160-162.

The fact of my days

O noon that's vaulted wide,
but for one hour infuse my eyes
with that good light which was before eyes were—
melt down the lie of colors...

—Gottfried Benn*

The truth I care about passes my tongue and reaches fullness! before it ends again.

When I look back from the farthest future, this will be the most vivid filmstrip that'll present itself, my lunch hours: how I outlast people in the dining room and then have a wonderful 30-minute walk to the office.

I, too believe you can never perfectly duplicate anything, let alone an experience, an astonishing experience. And so as much as possible—it is always possible—I try different places and different food in different noons.

*I received 2 remarkable messages today, one from Althea (Kanina pa ako natatawa mag-isa! Dahil naaalala ko long poem ko!') and the other one was this short verse by GB, texted to me by JO.

A Day's Discovery

1.)

Be careful how you live. You may be the only BIBLE some people read.

--sign below the dashboard of the Sucat-Ayala shuttle service I was riding.

2.)

My brother and I caught the Klazz Brothers and Cuba Percussion's concert at Arirang last night. They played music from their album, "Mozart Meets Cuba." If you like Mozart, if you like jazz, if you're a fan of creativity, get this! (But if you're not fan of those things, yet you like me, then get me this!)

!

The Sound Breaking

Got seriously sick in six months. I woke up, the right side of my head felt like breaking. I thought it would just go away if I fight it, just like what I did to my other headaches. And so I got dressed, went out. I rode a bus from Buendia to Ayala, and as the bus passed by the LRT station, I felt like vomiting. I got off. Vomited.

I vomited the ache away. I could already walk and think straight, but I opted not to go to work. Six months ago, given the same situation, I would've gone to work with no question, but now, no.

Figuring my way back home, I still considered going to the office. It was so near. I felt bad for the sum of money I'd lose and the impending blemish on my attendance report. Funny, I never wanted to live for money and records, but if not for these short-term objects, what for?

I kept remembering my friend who'd not attend to work, because he had to write a poem. (Bakit kaya ang sarap-sarap ng tula? I completely admire those who trust, ang tula, hindi para sa may ibig sabihin.)

I hailed a cab, skyway. Passing by the narrow path, I saw another highway being constructed. There I began to doubt the poet's awareness of his job. Never mind nobility and uselessness. The reality is this: we are less forgiving of the mailman, pilot, carpenter, engineer, doctor, surgeon; their mistake could cost us our lives and loves. A poet is no different. Imagine how they'd havoc an eager mind with a carelessly composed verse, loosely linked words, an imprudent punctuation.

What keeps some of us

Poetry
Don Paterson

In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps
one spark of the planet's early fires
trapped forever in its net of ice,
it's not love's later heat that poetry holds,
but the atom of the love that drew it forth
from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love
begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice
suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer's--boastful
with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins;
but if it yields a steadier light, he knows
the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound
like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene.

Beneath the blue oblivious sky, the water
sings of nothing, not your name, not mine.

The greatest gratitude for poetry.

We'll Correct Our Errors Later

From the 15-year-old Lee Hyeon Ju:

Teacher razle and susan are you Okay?
Yesterday I was reading a newspaper and saw it.
The philippines has a state of national emergency.
so I was very worried.
In my country the president is not good at government.
So a nation is complain about a president.
I think your president is not good when I saw newspaper.
Did you same thinking of me?
Anyway I hope that the philippines will Okay.
Teacher susan and razle take care.
(Please a reply to me all right?)
Bye Bye ^-^

I do same thinking of you, dearest Hyeon Ju.

State Of Vacuity

We learn from history and repeat it cheerfully. History does not caution, it sanctions.--Don Paterson

Am ending my February. It's too much.

See you March.

Old Lover

Starbucks's Maple Oat Scone is back.

I was already having my chicken empanada heated when I saw at the bottom shelf a familiar figure in an unfamiliar, but expected price (guess what, from Php40 to Php65.)

My candid self almost asked the barista, "Did you bring it back, because I kept asking for it?")

What stopped me from asking was, I didn't need an answer. But more practically, I did not want to embarrass the barista--and my self.

But I always need that. That feeling, I mean, that every event in the now, I have a hand on. Because it's as if all has been a machination of chance. And while most of the time I believe in what they say about you engineering your chances, the universe has a way of making you see your self so little. So little you squint your eyes trying to find your self, trying to find your self, the universe disappears.


¤


UPDATE (5 Feb, 2343): I finally asked the barista last night (at the Starbucks, Taft branch--I always feel at home there.) She said it's a promotional thing. Just like their Christmas lattes. Well, if absence makes the heart, tongue and stomach grow fonder, then whatever will be, will be.

And Then Etc.

There are three absentees in our little office today. Here are their reasons listed in order:

Absentee A:

Nadulas ako sa banyo kaninang umaga.

Absentee B:

Umuwi akong Bulacan kagabi. Napagod lang siguro talaga ako. Magkakalagnat pa yata ako.

Absentee C:

Ikakasal ako sa Sabado, kailangang maghanda ngayon.

Guess what the order is.

Holding onto its injuries year after year

Chemin De Fer
Elizabeth Bishop

Alone on the railroad track
I walked with pounding heart.
The ties were too close together
or maybe too far apart.

The scenery was impoverished:
scrub-pine and oak; beyond
its mingled gray-green foliage
I saw the little pond

where the dirty old hermit lives,
lie like an old tear
holding onto its injuries
lucidly year after year.

The hermit shot off his shot-gun
and the tree by his cabin shook.
Over the pond went a ripple
The pet hen went chook-chook.

"Love should be put into action!"
screamed the old hermit.
Across the pond an echo
tried and tried to confirm it.

Labor N' Love

Katext ko kanina si Allan at napag-usapan namin sandali--ano ba naman ang mapag-uusapan nang matagal sa SMS?--yung tungkol sa crush ko na nakilala niya bago pa kami nagkakilala.

Di ko na siyempre ikukuwento ang buong detalye dahil di naman importante. Pero dahil sa simula pa lang, napakita ko na ang pagkabahala ko sa pagkakaroon ng someone to watch over me, sabi niya,

Antayin mo lang kasi. Wag na mag-anticipate ng kahit ano para masorpresa pa rin.

My gosh, Allan, I thought you were a poet! I thought you knew a thing or two about language!

Pinag-aantay mo 'ko, tapos sasabihin mo, 'wag mag-anticipate? Duh, "antay" and "anticipate" are synonymous kaya?! Although I kinda get the point naman. Parang waiting without expectation ('Pag binabasa ko ulit, parang ang labo pa rin.) Ay, mas better: 'wag magmadali/mainip, 'wag mag-expect.

Although alam ko na naman talaga ang lahat. Klarong-klaro sa 'kin ang lahat--ang problema, sanhi at solusyon--ganito lang talaga tayong mga tao, kailangan ng kausap.

Nakita ko kasi kanina yung crush ko sa Alabang Town Center. At ang sabi ni Allan, it's a sign. Sagot ko naman, hindi sign 'yon. Maliit lang talaga ang ATC, kako.

Which brings me to my favorite conclusion, na trinatrabaho talaga ang pagmamahal. That it's not just a gift that falls from the sky whenever you have an open mind, heart, hands and shirt; or grows from underground without tending. I can't think any other way, dahil kahit sa pamilya at kaibigan, ganoon din naman, kailangan ng effort. Pag-aalala't pag-aalaga. Careful dapat. That's my--what's the expression, "two cents worth"? May halaga pa rin pala, kahit papaano, ang opinyon ngayon. Di ko na nga lang natext 'yan kay Allan, kasi naubos na ang load ko. Nagnanakaw kasi ang SMART. Oh well.

Iridescence

Ang favorite color ko yung nag-iiba-iba ng kulay.--An audience at the World Pyro Olympics

That we appreciate each other despite moods, theirs and ours.

Forgive and accept with reason, but reason withheld.

Laugh, jest.

Discriminate, create.

Continue desiring iridescence, despite safeties.


* Photo from the World Pyro Olympics website.

Travel advisory

1.
Horoscope for week of December 29, 2005 from Rob Brezsny:

In his book The Disappearance of the Universe, Gary Renard quotes the counsel of his teacher: "A jet airliner is always going off course, but through constant correction it arrives at its destination. So will you arrive at yours." Remember that advice throughout 2006... My analysis of the astrological omens suggests that you will be frequently straying from the path of your highest destiny, and yet that's exactly what needs to happen in order for you to reach your highest destiny. Forced to keep making regular adjustments, you will tone and strengthen your willpower, which is essential to you achieving the goals that really matter.

But how to distinguish the highest destiny and therefore notice if one has strayed?

2.

Travel
Edna St Vincent Millay

The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn't a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn't a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with friends I make,
And better friends I'll not be knowing;
Yet there isn't a train I'd rather take,
No matter where it's going.

Oh the friends I make and the better friends I'll not be knowing!

And them who will never know me.

3.
From the introduction of my current reading, The Twenty-One Balloons by William Pène du Bois:

There are two kinds of travel. The usual way is to take the fastest imaginable conveyance along the shortest road. The other way is not to care particularly where you are going or how long it will take you, or whether you will get there or not. These two methods of travel are perhaps easiest to be seen by watching hunting hounds. One hound will follow his nose directly to his prey. Another will follow his nose in a roundabout way to molehills, empty rabbit holes, garbage cans, and trees; and perhaps not pay any attention to his prey even when he happens upon it. This second way of getting around has always been pointed out as the nicest for, as you can see in the case of the slower hunting hound, you are able to see more of what is going on in the world and also how nature is getting along.

4.
'I shot an error into the air,' said Irene Warsaw.

Dressed in light

I just received my 13th month pay yesterday. I love money, because it is so concrete, so useful and manageable. I know exactly what to do with it.

I bought the gifts for people whom I feel like giving something to. (I like the bows, nightglitters and untying. I like opening, ripping, finding. And despite dedication and signature, a trace of anonymity. That piece of self ungiven—because unresolved—in the present, beyond touch and thought.)

Since late October, when I come home from work, I pass by the line of trees dressed in light along Ayala Avenue. And every time, I keep hearing Yourcenar's words about stars whose brilliance dazzle but keep you cold. Like knowledge, like gold.

And so my wish for everyone is the same wish I've constantly been wishing for people I care about. That we may be blessed with light that both clarifies and warms.

Time Is Always For The Wishing

We'd been planning to go to U.P. since we learned how make gimik together, but only consummated the desire yesterday.

It took Louie and Althea's birthday and sheer spontaneity (or as Althea mentioned, not planning) for it to happen.

We also celebrated Cherie's return from her Harry Potter gig from the U.S. We missed her for three weeks and thank god, Cherie came home safely, prettier and pinker than ever.

I felt so spent yesterday. Spent much money, time, energy, laughter, words and silence in exchange for genuine enjoyment.

By the way, the picture on the left was birthday girl, Althea's, idea. She wanted a Beatles on Abbey Road pose. Only we're walking towards the other direction and it was nighttime (so the sun won't come till about 8 hours later) and we're not on Abbey Road and we're definitely not the Beatles. It's my favorite picture, though, so far. I always thought that Beauty is a math movement.

Another Anne, another Canadian, not just any other poet

Phantom Limbs
Anne Michaels

'The face of the city changes more quickly, alas! than the mortal heart.'
—Charles Baudelaire
So much of the city
is our bodies. Places in us
old light still slants through to.
Places that no longer exist but are full of feeling,
like phantom limbs.
Even the city carries ruins in its heart.
Longs to be touched in places
only it remembers.

Through the yellow hooves
of the ginkgo, parchment light;
in that apartment where I first
touched your shoulders under your sweater,
that October afternoon you left keys
in the fridge, milk on the table.
The yard--our moonlight motel--
where we slept summer's hottest nights,
on grass so cold it felt wet.
Behind us, freight trains crossed the city,
a steel banner, a noisy wall.
Now the hollow diad!
floats behind glass
in office towers also haunted
by our voices.

Few buildings, few lives
are built so well
even their ruins are beautiful.
But we loved the abandoned distillery:
stone floors cracking under empty vats,
wooden floors half rotted into dirt;
stairs leading nowhere; high rooms
run through with swords of dusty light.
A place the rain still loved, its silver paint
on rusted things that had stopped moving it seemed, for us.
Closed rooms open only to weather,
pungent with soot and molasses,
scent-stung. A place
where everything too big to take apart
had been left behind.

I've been quoting Anne Michaels for how many times already (as in here and here), yet I haven't posted a complete poem of hers. This is her due space.

A Certain Strength, Some Certainty

PISCES: "Belief is the end of intelligence," says philosopher Robert Anton Wilson. The moment you become attached to an opinion or theory, no matter how good or true or beautiful it might seem, you're no longer fully open to the mysteries that life brings you. Your perceptiveness wanes and your understanding shrinks. This is always important to keep in mind, of course, but especially so this week. A wave of raw truth is headed your way, and yet you will miss it completely unless you take a vacation from your beliefs about the way the world works.--Rob Brezsny

They say as you grow older, your stands become firmer. I am afraid of that time.

Some say we always change our minds, but not the fact that we are right.

If there is something I'd like to be proven wrong about, that is the death of the ideal. While I see, and by stream of logic figure, that something is incessantly building then gets destroyed, I wait still for that one wholeness that sustains and not merely survives.

If I fantasize, it is both because I understand something's distance from reality and I am creating a blueprint of something that is palpable in time.

A Report On Today's Weather

1. How do you tell someone you want to eat alone, be alone sometimes, if not most of the time?
2. That question, that anyaya, is really a courtesy invitation anyway.
3. What if they really like your company? It's not that you don't enjoy or appreciate theirs, you simply prefer being solitary.

4. September may well be my month. I may well be like a pomegranate blistering at its core. Hahaha.

5. You're pulled in so many ways, truly. Or that different parts of your body go toward their own desired directions.
6. How you never wanted to be common. Never the okay.
7. But all along fitting your self into those easy identifications--graduated from this university, works here, goes home to this city, does not smoke, drinks sometimes--to be easily identified, of course.

8. Suddenly all food at Mini Stop taste great.

Ghost Hunter, Human Fighter

This Dance of Distance

Looking for the ghost in your closet makes it go away.

Although it's more on facing your fear, it's not that simple right now--these fears and phantoms.

That lesson on why we should remain distant from each other: when too close, we break each other's myths of each other.

¤

A Lead Role In A Cage

WISH YOU WERE HERE
Pink Floyd

So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

And did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found? The same old fears,
Wish you were here.

That lesson in categorization: "we stereotype people so as to make them manageable to us." And that is not entirely bad, for it is not necessary for us to delve into each other. It is a means of knowing how to treat someone for the immediate now.

There is this person, in the file cabinet of his mind, he seems to place every thing in "unfiled."

Oh how we manage

This day marks the second anniversary of this little online journal.

What I've figured? That despite my efforts in going against it, this—just like any other blog—is no more than a mere chronicling of angsts and quirks.