PLURAL Issue 04 - February 2016

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E D I T O R I A L l

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T E A M

Carlo Flordeliza

carlo.flordeliza@pluralprosejournal.com

Erika Carreon

erika.carreon@pluralprosejournal.com

Neobie Gonzalez

neobie.gonzalez@pluralprosejournal.com

Lystra Aranal lystra.aranal@pluralprosejournal.com

Wina Puangco

wina.puangco@pluralprosejournal.com

Erich Velasco

erich.velasco@pluralprosejournal.com

July Amarillo

july.amarillo@pluralprosejournal.com

PLURAL is an online journal that caters to fiction, essay, and criticism geared towards prose.

w w w. p l u r a l p r o s e j o u r n a l . c o m

CO N T E N TS ISSUE

4

FEB

2016

08

14

18

Introduction

Pussy tastes like Sun-Dried Tomatoes

Amygdala

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32

40

Episodes

Kung Saan Nagsimulang Pinakaibigin Kita

Pity Party

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58

62

Gravity’s Love (Helga Remix)

Bailiwick

Here

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72

78

Ilang Tula

Motif

The Varying State of Travelling Songs

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92

98

Monster

As A

Cutter

112 LIGHT: Notes toward a criticism

FEATURED ARTIST

ARABELLA PANER

Arabella is a poet/photographer perpetually seen in Manila. Currently cuts and pastes. She crafts that which pleads to be memorialized. She is currently looking for the light.

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I N T ROD U C T I O N

What is a story beyond just a collective memory, a nuance, a series of actions weaved into a timeline, a single thought, a moment, a placement of words one after another—a construct. That is something one naturally considers when curating a series of disjointed pieces, of placing value on one story over the other, a decision rooted in bias, taste, and history—though could also be known as adhering to a vision of what a story could be.

h In an essay that explores the concept of memory, distance, and the re-telling of stories—all framed against how his mother dealt with his father’s Alzheimer’s disease—Jonathan Franzen writes, “If your short memory is shot, you don’t remember, when you stoop to smell a rose, that you’ve been stooping to smell the same rose all morning.”

Ask yourself: How would you approach this story?

Would you approach it from the point of view of repetition—of reacting to that moment of catching yourself in the loop of flower-smelling; or would you approach it from the point of bending over, stooped over the same rose that would always look like something new; or would you approach it upright, perhaps even mid-stride, spotting the rose and thinking: I could smell that.

h It is in the repetition that we see what works and what doesn’t.

In a memory, we re-work details—editing, re-writing, erasing, replacing… perhaps somewhat similar to the work one does to prose, each letter a decision that leads to the movement or the editing of instance/s, always a forward motion that propels the characters, plot, and scene into a concocted ending.

Sometimes best disassociated from the story itself, preferably described as language constantly reworked.

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h We all have stories. That should never be discounted. It is in our individual stories that frame how we react to the world, coloring our language, perception, and shaping the very notion of why we exist. After all, we all live in stories. Of getting up, walking to the kitchen for a glass of water, perhaps a pee—in that moment a narrative is in play.

But one question always worthy of asking: from where you are, would others see the point?

h

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In these pieces, we found the following: • Inseparable friends and knives • Jars and blackbirds and ruminations on habits • A joke • Untitled conversations left unmarked • Semen injectors and red lips • Sun-dried tomatoes • And the line: “…before he decided to stab an elderly woman forty four times while humming the tune of the Hokey Pokey.”

h But what is behind a story? Is it just about the telling, or the creation of a character, of something that happens/happened/could happen---or could it be beyond just that.

Could it be a re-imagination of an experience told uniquely through the play of words, a careful weaving of sorts that surpasses the need to breakdown the prose into pieces, pulling it away from the notion of plot, character, scene, and theme. To look at prose and think that it could go beyond just the

traditional notion of what we write and why it has been written. To view the words as an inconsistent pulse, creating dents of possibilities—stretching what could have been the point.

Like taffy looped through needles—see how needles could have been easily mistyped as noodles.

h People think: I write to re-live. I write to create. I write to give others a voice.

I. Me. Look at me.

There are three things that happen in an experience that could be written (whether lived or imagined): 1. Memory creation through sensory rendering 2. An overwriting of emotions 3. The passing of time So when you experience something and write about it, decide on the position of things. Place yourself in a space where experience is less about what went on and how you felt; and more about the lingering aftermath that persists beyond yourself.

h Talking about the point of things, consider the following: it is in the how.

Lystra Aranal Editor

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PLURAL

14

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

Pussy tastes like Sun-Dried Tomatoes

fiction by

Andrea Colleen V. Tubig ONE

My best friend Ced fucked our spiritual advisor Sara.

He was 19, she was 45. He was out of school, she was married. To a pastor. She had daughters, he had condoms. They did it after the prayer meeting. On Ced’s dad’s billiard table. It would have been so much better if they did it on a church pew. Or the altar for God’s sake. Show some respect you dumb skanks. He says it was the best day of his life. But the best part, he says, is how her pussy tastes like sun-dried tomatoes.

Can you believe it? And now he’s telling everyone that pussy tastes like sundried tomatoes. Hell, no. Pussy tastes like cotton candy. Or peanut butter. Or chicken barbecue. Or a mix of all three. Mama says there’s a firm correlation between a woman’s personality and the taste of her pussy. She says mine would probably taste like really minty toothpaste. Plus two shots of espresso. And a dash of cinnamon. I say hers would taste like soap mixed with cookie dough.

And Sara’s would taste like wasabi paste that’s been stuck in the fridge for a year. Nasty and cold and sad. Like her face. And her soul. Now Ced’s been telling me how much he loves her. He says he doesn’t have a reason. Doesn’t

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need one. He just does. In Jesus’ name. I hope he doesn’t choke on the Siberian sheep shit that’s coming out of his mouth. Ced says he felt glorious as he rammed her cunt. He says it felt like first communion. Now that’s one of our best memories together. Mama bought me a white dress. But I couldn’t care less. I was excited to taste Jesus. I ended up weeping when the Body of Christ turned out to be cheap white wafer. Ced cried too but only because he loved Jesus so much he didn’t mind how he tasted. But afterwards, he held my hand. Promised to find a better God that would feed me blueberry cheesecake, French fries, and chicken nuggets. And that’s when Sara entered our lives. Saying Jesus would not want us thinking that. In fact He’s cooking a holy feast for us when we get to heaven. Seven year old me said Jesus shouldn’t waste food on people who’re never gonna get to heaven. He better be giving it to the poor instead. Ced pinched my arm. And was rewarded with a kiss from Sarah. Plus extra servings on Jesus’ holy feast. Mama said not to put up with dipshit like Sara. But Ced doesn’t have a mama who tells him how to act like a person.

A B O UT T H E AUT H OR

Andy is a Creative Writing junior at the Ateneo de Manila University. She likes poetry, Gloc 9 and Laura Prepon. She does not like sun-dried tomatoes at all.

PLURAL

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

AMYGDALA 18

fiction by

Ima Ocon TWO

1. The spare key lies inside the cupboard. On top of it, a jar of brown sugar that you haven’t had much use for recently.

2. The faded expiration date at the bottom of the jar, too close to your birthday six years ago.

3. Your neighbor knocking on the door to advertise her daughter’s business, which was cupcakes. “I love cupcakes,” you said. She thrust a cheery blue-and-pink box into your hands. You invited her in for coffee and chitchat.

4. If you go up by five floors--you were tired of jogging so you attempted to run up and down the stairs, bad idea--there is a garden in the middle where roses bloomed for one season. Then they were replaced with gumamelas and bougainvillea, odd to see amidst a backdrop of skyscrapers and city smog.

5. The plain golden band out of your collection of rings--diamonds, rubies, emeralds. You never considered chucking it out, even when it was practically valueless compared to all of the other shiny jewelry that surrounded it.

6. A dog-eared book of Bach’s Sonatas, complete with annotations and swearwords.

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7. A cheap ukulele stashed away underneath your bed, and the violin propped up against the wall. When children drop by, they marvel at how decrepit the ukulele looks, how gleaming the wood of the violin still is. It silences them when you pick up the bow.

8. The callouses on your hand. His hand had fit clumsily against yours at first. But it had been natural for you to lay your head on his shoulder, so that you could hear his pulse and count your measures that way.

9. Your hair pulled into a disheveled bun, long and unruly. Then your hair cut short, to convey elegance. Everyone had complimented your high cheekbones.

10. The word for the scent of rain: petrichor. You walk out with your umbrella and think, every time, that the dictionary must have allotted space for this. If our memory could keep the scent of someone’s skin, or the scent of autumn, and even the strange rhythm of the drops hitting concrete, then this should deserve a name. You let go of the umbrella. The rain pierces through your clothes.

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11. Stepping onto a puddle. High-pitched laughter. No classes because a typhoon was ravaging the land. You have nothing better to do but play jackstones and disobey your parents.

12. Your mother could make men’s heads turn. The black-and-white photograph still somehow looks better than all of your colored versions.

13. Applause like thunder, breaking the tension that swept your body up. Only notes echoed in your mind and never thoughts. You’d made a mistake--wrong intonation, half a note away.

They didn’t seem to mind.

14. You curled up against him, fancying yourself a comma.

15. There was a rainbow yesterday. The doctor gave you another prescription, a slip of paper that you still squint at.

16. The brand of your violin: Petzold.

17. “Take this three times a day, okay? No skipping.” A worried look. “Maybe you should ask somebody else.”

18. You were born on May 18. Today is May 18, and it is your birthday. You are scratching your head at the flowers that came in.

19. He was breathing hard. You were staring fixedly at his knuckles. Every year, he promised.

Don’t they just do that in the movies. But he winked: I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. The world tilts and spins. You let go of a smile that only he can coax out of you, and wait for the stillness.

20. Practice ought to be for eight hours. Nobody else had ever seen you disciplined before.

There wasn’t anything else that made you special. Strangely enough, it stopped being about the attention, the fancy conservatory. It was your voice being drawn out of the strings. The song at the marrow of your bones making it out into this cramped room where you will stay until you get Paganini correct.

21. His hands danced on the keys, and his eyes were half-closed. Rows and rows away, you froze.

22. Your hands against your toes, and your legs straight. When it didn’t take so much effort to wrest yourself free from the sheets.

23. The woman staring back at you is your reflection. No matter how long a look you take at her, she will continue to be beyond your recognition.

24. You have had nine students. Three of them are now extremely successful--one even got to Juilliard. The rest either moved on to other hobbies or ditched it completely. The letter in almost undecipherable handwriting means to thank you. The words hardly matter. From the handcrafted stationery and the lack of self-consciousness in the handwriting, perhaps you understood.

25. You have free passes to movies, and the guards politely open the door for you.

26. The restroom is at the end of the hallway. You are wary and suspicious of the strange woman who helps you sit down, but you have your manners. She has been here since a few months ago. You see her through the lens of your first impression.

27. The definition of an arpeggio.

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28. How you wanted to be an artist, and a brilliant chess player, and a doctor, but you chose to be a musician. It has been happy. And yet the unbidden question: what if.

29. The faces of some of your friends, those whom you were never too intimate with in the first place.

30. How intricate it is to pick up a fork and a spoon. The goal is to eat a piece of fruit without spilling anything. A slice of apple lands on your lap, only to slip out of your mind after a few seconds.

31. The flowers on the vase are the most beautiful thing in the room, especially when the window is open and the lace curtains are billowing.

32. Their booming announcement of your name right after a long list of accomplishments.

Anticipation as you walk up the stage, radiant in an evening gown.

33. You wear a shirt on the torso, not on the legs.

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34. The man in the white coat holding your hand is a doctor. In another time, another world, you would have read his expression perfectly. He is worried. Not much left. But you are oblivious. Whether this is happier or sadder, he does not know. He is only weary at the long line of patients before and after you.

35. If he were there, he would never have left your side.

36. And before the flash of lucidity--seven minutes, every moment slipping past so you are reborn with clear eyes--you croak for it. They give it to you, straight from your house. Your hand finds its resting place easily. A perfectly played Minuet. The nurses and the doctor are as stunned as children. And you think you see him standing at the back, laughing his head off. Really, is that all you can do? You escalate to Dvorak, and then a transcription of Liszt.

37. When everything has been taken away from you, you are music. Have only ever been music. Your wrist falls. Lungs collapse to the sound of applause.

A B O U T T H E AUT H OR

Ima Ocon is currently double-majoring in AB Philosophy and BS Computer Science at the Ateneo de Manila University. Her interests include web development, writing (which she has always had a semi-frustrating love affair with), Zen Buddhism, and playing the violin.

PLURAL

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

EPISODES 24

fiction by

John Levi Masuli three

Cast: A couple, C1 and C2, unknown gender and relationship type. C2 serves as the narrator of the show and s/he can speak in monologue.

Setting: Unknown

Episode 1 C1: I’m not really sure with what I’m saying but it seems to me that we need innovations C2: What innovations C1: I mean we need to reconfigure our propagandistic strategies so that we can accommodate the multitudes of changes our digital generation is experiencing, the internet and all that C2: We download our own distractions C1: Shot mo na C2: I drank up and thought about why truck drivers prefer to piss on their wheels than on the grass I got up to take a piss and asked him why do truck drivers prefer to piss on their wheels than on the grass He was doing something with his laptop C1: What C2: I said why do truck drivers prefer to piss on their wheels than on the grass or side walk whatever C1: Maybe they are just too lazy to stray away from their cars or maybe they do not want to leave their cars you know carnapping or something C1: I flushed and the water gurgled with my words Or maybe its some private property shit I mean what if they just prefer to piss on things they own rather than public things C2: But truck drivers don’t own their trucks, don’t they C1: Ye ye I mean

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Episode 2 C2: Sometimes when you force people to think too much and tell them to be critical about something they don’t want to be critical about you are just forcing them to make connections which doesn’t have any connection to real life. Instead of finding the real problems, you are forcing them to make bite-sized answers which doesn’t have a lot of sense in them.

C1: So what’s your point

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Episode 3 C2: Staring at my laptop I asked him What do you think about the line “Who walked from home to work work to home watchdog their own thoughts to see if they are becoming insane or hopefuelly not yet” C1: Is that yours C2: What that C1: That line C2: Yes C1: Are you trying to sound like Kerouac or Ginsberg coz that’s what it sounds like C2: No I don’t want to sound like Kerouac and Kerouac doesn’t use the word hopefuelly C1: Are you serious about using that C2: What that C1: That word hopefuelly or is it hopefew elly C2: Does it sound weird C1: Yeah it does and I bet it looks weird too, like a typo or something C2: How about the bit watchdog their own thoughts to see if they are becoming insane C1: Can you repeat it C2: Watchdog their own thoughts to see if they are becoming insane C1: What does watchdog their own thoughts to see if they are becoming insane mean C2: Don’t you watchdog your own thoughts to see if you are becoming insane C1: No I don’t C2: Well, I do C1: Well then you’re crazy C2: Well maybe I am that’s actually the point C1: Of what C2: The point of that line the persona is not sure whether he or she is still sane but nonetheless he tries to stay sane C1: That’s romantic C2: Is that a compliment C1: Yes it’s not everyday that you see people writing about being insane in a world where being sane is insanity itself C2: You’re the one being romantic C1: Aren’t we all are C2: Fuck you C1: “hopefuelly” hehehehehehehehe

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Episode 4

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C2: What are you doing?

C1: Eating sweets.

C2: Why? It’s 2 in the morning.

C1: No, like, during the week.

C2: What?

C1: Never mind.

C2: Anyway, eating eats at this hour’s bad for you.

C1: Hahahaha C2: Do you think he likes me a lot?

C1: Who are you talking about?

C2: I think you shouldn’t stop thinking about her.

C1: This is becoming weird.

C2: What is weird?

C1: This.

C2: What?

C1: You are talking about me and I hate when people talk about me okay.

C2: What’s the matter?

C1: Matter: that which has mass and occupies space. Substance. ‘an atom is the smallest indivisible unit of matter’.

C2: Did you google that?

C1: Oh Pete, I am pretty sure. Yes C2: What did you google that for? What’s the matter with you?

C1: I like you.

C2: Yeah, just sleep already.

C1: That sounds good - I am tired.

C2: Can you turn off the lights?

C1: No. C2: Why not?

C1: You’ll forget whatever it is we’re talking about, honestly.

C2: Just turn off the lights please.

C1: Do you have tourette’s?

C2: Tourette’s?

C1: Tourette syndrome. Typically characterized by vocal tics.

C2: Is that an insult? Hey, wait, can we just stop, and get some sleep?

C1: You don’t know anything about my life.

C2: Shit. Can we please not do this again?

C1: Ok. What do you want to talk about?

C2: I don’t want to talk. Let’s just sleep, shall we?

C1: But we are having such a lovely conversation C2: Good night, sleep tight.

(LATER THAT NIGHT) C2: I want to write about TV’s fascination with mongrels C1: A mongrel is a type of dog right C2: Yes but no I wanted to talk about why we are fascinated with half-bloods C1: You’re always talking about we as if your opinion is the opinion of other people too

Episode 5 C1: Are you sleep C2: Yes I do C1: Can we talk C2: Yes why no C1: Are you bored now C2: What C1: Are you bored with me C2: No I am not bored with you C1: Why do you act as if you are bored C2: I do not act as if I am bored C1: No you do C2: No I don’t C1: Can you feel it when people get bored with you?

C2: When I’m talking to them C1: Yeah when they talk to you you can feel that they’re not interested in that particular conversation C2: Yeah sometimes when they’re making it obvious C1: Yeah of course but when sometimes it’s not obvious you can really feel it C2: Yeah, I guess so C1: Don’t you feel it C2: Sometimes, I guess C1: What do you do with that C2: What C1: When you can feel that they’re becoming bored with you C2: I don’t know, I guess ignore it C1: Of course you can ignore the gesture but not the way it makes you feel C2: I guess I just move on you know C1: Don’t you get hurt C2: Of course I get hurt C1: But you can’t ignore it

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C2: Yes C1: I can feel you’re becoming bored with me C2: What C1: Yeah I mean seriously C2: How so C1: I can feel it You don’t have to deny it it’s okay C2: But I’m not ignoring you C1: Bah C2: I’m talking to you right now how’s that ignoring C1: I’m getting tired talking straight Let’s buy some bottles of pauses at the store.

C2: Ok -end-

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A B O U T T H E AUT H OR

John Levi Masuli is a writer and musician currently living in Baguio City.

PLURAL

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

KUNG SAAN NAGSIMULANG PINAKAIBIGIN KITA

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fiction by

Christian Jil Benitez four

Hindi nagsimulang pinakaibigin kita sa pagkatok sa pinto.

Hindi sa makailang ulit na pagtama ng kuyom na kamay sa

kahoy. Hindi nagsimula sa pagbukas ng pintuan at pagbungad ng isang katawan. Hindi sa pagtingin sa dumudungaw na mukha ng katawan. Hindi sa paglibot ng tingin sa kalawakan ng bumungad na katawan. Hindi sa pag-uwi ng pagtingin sa pulang tuwalyang nakatapis sa katawan.

Hindi rin nagsimula sa pag-iisip na iisang tela lang ang humahadlang sa mga mata mula sa pagsaling nito sa katawan. Hindi sa pag-iisip sa kapulahan nitong tela, kung ang kapulahan bang ito ang talinghaga sa pagnanasa. Hindi sa pag-iisip kung gaano kakapal ang telang pumapagitna sa titig at sa balat, kung magagawa bang sipsipin ang bawat butil ng tubig sa kakapalan nito matapos ang pagligo at pagbanlaw. Hindi sa pag-iisip kung ano ang natatago sa ilalim ng kakapalan ng tela, o kung ano ang hubog na natatago, o kung ano ang mga sulok nitong pinakatatago.

Hindi nagsimula sa pagpapatul贸y.

Hindi kung gayon noong binuksan ang pintuan at pinapasok sa loob. Hindi sa pagbati at pagngiti, at nang malumanay na sinabing tumuloy sa silid. Hindi noong pinatuloy sa silid at sinabing ituring ito na para na rin iyong sariling silid. Hindi noong tumuloy na nga sa silid at kusang ibinaba ang gamit sa isang tabi na parang sarili nga ang silid.

Hindi ito nagsimula noong nagtungo na ang katawang bumungad sa palikuran. Hindi noong iniwang nakaawang ang pinto upang makita kung papaano inalis ang pulang tapis.

Hindi noong nakita ang hubog ng katawang nakatalikod. Hindi noong nakita ang hubog na ito sa ilalim ng liwanag ng puting ilaw. Hindi sa pagkakapako sa kinatatayuan sapagkat sa pagkakapatda, hanggang sa hinawi ang kurtina at tuluyang nagkubli muli ang katawan sa likod nito. Hindi sa sumunod na tunog ng mga unang patak ng tubig sa sahig, o sa tunog ng paghaplos ng palad sa katawan. Hindi sa alingawngaw maya-maya ng tinig na tumawag upang saluhan sa pagligo.

Hindi sa aking kahubdan.

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Hindi sa sabay na paghaplos sa sari-sariling katawan. Hindi sa pagdaan ng palad sa tubig, dulas, at bula sa balat. Hindi sa pag-iikot-ikot sa katawan, sa paglilibot sa mga singit at sulok na pinakatatago ng saplot. Hindi sa pagbabanlaw. Hindi sa pag-anggulo ng mukha at pagtango sa dutsa. Hindi sa pagpikit ng mga mata habang dumadaloy ang tubig, dulas, at bula mula sa mukha. Hindi sa pagbaybay ng mga ito mula mukha pababa sa katawan. Hindi sa pagbaba ng mga ito mula sa katawan, hanggang sa paghantong at pagkawala sa huli sa butas sa sahig.

Hindi rin nagsimula sa pagpupunas sa mga sari-sariling katawan. Hindi sa paggamit sa iisang tuwalyang dumidilim ang pagkapula dahil sa unti-unting pagkabasa. Hindi sa pag-abot nito sa akin matapos tuyuin ang katawan. Hindi sa pagtanggap din nito. Hindi sa pagpupunas habang iniisip ang pagdikit sa sariling balat ng parehong tuwalyang humaplos at tumuyo sa balat ng katawang kanina pa pinagmamasdan, pinagnanasaan.

Hindi sa paglabas ng palikuran. Hindi sa pagdatnan sa katawang hubad ngayon sa higaan.

Hindi sa kung papaanong nakataas ang mga kamay nitong nagsisilbing unan para sa ulo. Hindi sa nakapirming mga binti nito sa paghihintay. Hindi sa nakapikit nitong mga mata habang nakangiti, malay na pinagmamasdan ng aking titig. Hindi sa pagtawag nito na lapitan at tabihan. Hindi rin sa paglapit upang tabihan.

Hindi sa noong nakita ang sarili sa salamin ng bintanang tanaw ang siyudad.

Hindi nagsimulang pinakaibigin kita sa malamlam na liwanag ng dapithapon mula sa bintanang nakabukas. Hindi sa lagimlim mula sa kataasan ng palapag kung saan saglit na namasdan ang siyudad sa nagtatalong dilim at liwanag. Hindi sa mga pulang ilaw ng mga sasakyang pila-pila sa abenida. Hindi sa bigat ng daloy ng mga sasakyang tila nakapirmi na sa pagkakahinto. Hindi sa pagtingin sa tila pagtigil ng siyudad na kinatatayuan, ang pananatili sa iisang lugar, ang kapirmihan.

Hindi sa dahil sa kapirmihan, ang pag-alala sa ibang malayong siyudad.

Hindi nagsimula noong lumapit at tinabihan ang katawan sa higaan matapos tawaging muli. Hindi sa malumanay na pagtawag ng tapik sa kutson ng kamay. Hindi sa marahang paghiga. Hindi sa marahang pagtihaya. Hindi sa parehong pagtitig ng mga katawan sa kisameng tumitingin din pabalik. Hindi sa katahimikang nagsisilbing puwang.

Hindi sa mga sumunod na sandali.

Hindi sa mga birong sinubukang ibato pantawid sa espasyong namamagitan sa higaan.

Hindi sa pagtanong sa katabing katawan kung marunong ba itong kumanta dahil sa kalamigan ng boses nito. Hindi sa maliliit na pagtawa sa tanong na ito. Hindi sa pagsagot ng katawan na pag-arte lang sa entablo ang nalalaman nito. Hindi sa muling pagtawa mula sa pabalik nitong birong entablado, tulad ng kinahihigaan ngayon.

Hindi ito nagsimula sa kalinawan buhat ng pagkatantong tauhan nga lang sa isang dula ang mga katawang nahihimlay ngayon. Hindi sa katotohanang kunwa-kunwarian lang ang lahat ng magaganap dito.

Hindi sa sumunod na buntonghininga. Hindi sa biglaang pagbagal at paglalim ng paghinga. Hindi sa pagdagundong ng dibdib sa katahimikan ng silid.

Hindi sa pag-iisip ko sa iyo.

Hindi sa pagsubok na labanan sa pag-iisip ko sa iyo at pagpiling maging katawan bilang pawang katawan lang doon sa kinahihigaan ngayon. Hindi sa marahang pagdikit ng mga balat sa pag-abot ng kamay ng katawan sa aking kamay. Hindi sa walang-salitang pagtawag sa akin upang simulang gabayan ang aking kamay sa paggalugad sa kasukalan ng katawan.

Hindi sa sumunod na salimuot ng kuwentong-laro nitong katawan at ako.

Hindi nagsimulang pinakaibigin kita sa dahan-dahang pagkilos ng mga katawan.

Hindi sa karahanan at katimpiang dahan-dahang bumigay sa ragasa. Hindi sa biglaang pagsuong sa laman ng isa’t isa, sa kung papaanong biglaang umimbabaw ang isa sa isa, sa biglaang pangungusap ng mga labi, kamay, at binti sa isa’t isa. Hindi sa biglaang paglaho ng mga puwang sa pagitan ng mga balat, sa paglalapat nang balat sa balat. Hindi sa paulit-ulit na pagdikit at sa paglusong at pag-ahon ng katawan sa katawan, sa indayog sa ritmong dinikta ng pintig ng dugo at laman. Hindi sa bawat paghawak, at paghigpit at pagbitaw nito. Hindi sa sabay na paubayang halinghing. Hindi sa mga matang taimtim sa pagpikit.

Hindi sa bawat halik na ipinunla sa kalawakan ng katawan, maliban sa kanyang labi.

Hindi unang natagpuan ang lahat sa pagtama ng namamatay nang liwanag sa labas sa katawang nasa ilalim. Hindi sa pagtingin dito at pagkaalala ko sa ibang malayong siyudad, na agad iniwaksi sa aking isip. Hindi sa pagbaling ng tingin sa katawan sa higaan at tingnan ito bilang pawang katawan lang.

Hindi kung gayon sa pagbigay sa pagkalam ng laman mula sa gutom para sa pagsaling, ang pagkiskis bilang pagpilit sa pagkakabit-kabit, ang pagpilit bilang paghahanap ng pakiramdam muli, ang pakiramdam bilang isang sandali, ang sandali isang ilahas na walang itatanggi para sa sarili.

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36

Hindi rin ito nagsimula sa pagtatapos, kung saan bumangon ang katawan upang haplusin at hilutin ang mga pagal kong binti. Hindi kung saan tumayo ang katawan upang muling banlawan ang sarili. Hindi sa pagtatapos, kung saan sumunod akong muli upang banlawan din ang aking sarili. Hindi sa pagmamadali sa pagbabanlaw. Hindi sa pagtatapos, kung saan isinuot muli ang mga saplot at dinampot ang mga gamit, kung saan higaan na lang muli ang higaan at maaari nang buksan ang ilaw.

Hindi sa pagtatapos ng pagtatanghal, at sa paglabas nang walang paalam mula sa silid ng katawan.

Hindi nagsimulang pinakaibigin kita sa aking pag-uwi. Hindi ito nagsimula sa aking paglalakad sa siyudad. Hindi sa pananatili ng amoy ng sabon ng ibang katawan sa aking mga palad, sa pagitan man ng amoy ng usok at mga katawang bakal ng mga sasakyan. Hindi noong napalibutan sa aking paglalakad ng mga pulang ilaw ng pagkahinto. Hindi ang pag-andap-andap ng mga ito.

Hindi noong naisip na hindi ako makahihinto. Hindi sa paglalakad nang paglalakad.

Hindi sa pagsakay at paglipat-lipat sa mga tren at sasakyan, hanggang makarating na sa wakas sa ibang malayong siyudad, hanggang sa makarating sa siyudad na dapat uwian.

Hindi nagsimulang pinakaibigin kita pagdating sa harap muli ng isang pinto.

Hindi sa pagharap dito sa isang pamilyar na pinto. Hindi sa muling pagkuyom ng kamay, sa muling pagkatok sa kahoy nitong kilalang-kilala na ng kuyom na kamay. Hindi sa pagbukas ng pamilyar na pintong ito at pagbungad sa akin sa wakas ng isang mukha, ng hindi sa akin naiibang mukha. Hindi sa kabatirang hindi ito ang mukha ng katawan ng iba, kundi ang iyong mukha.

Hindi sa pagngiti mo at pagpapatuloy sa akin na parang walang naganap. Hindi sapagkat wala ka ngang kabatiran sa kung anong naganap sa akin kasama ang ibang katawan sa ibang silid sa ibang malayong siyudad. Hindi sa pagpapatuloy sa pagkilos lang natin tulad sa nakagawiang araw-araw: hindi sa pagpapatuloy sa silid, paglalapag ng mga gamit, pagpapalit ng mga damit. Hindi sa hanggang sa tuluyang pagdating ng gabi at paghimlay natin sa higaan nang magkatabi.

Hindi sa hindi pagkatulog sa pagdating ng gabi.

Hindi sa pagtitig sa kisame habang katabi kita. Hindi sa tahimik na pagwawala sa loob ng aking katawan. Hindi sa pagsubok malulon ang kasalanan. Hindi sa pagnanais umamin ngunit nangangailangang manatili sa katahimikan. Hindi sa pagbibitbit ng isang lihim. Hindi sa pagbibitbit nito na hindi naman kayang dalhin. Hindi sa bigat nitong lihim, nitong unang pagkakataon ng kahinaan sa ibang malayong siyudad, sa loob ng ibang silid.

Hindi sa mga sumunod na araw ng pagkilos na para bang walang nangyari, bagaman nagnanais sumabog. Hindi sa mga sumunod na araw na pagtatalo ng aking loob. Hindi sa mga sumunod araw na paninimbang sa pagitan ng kumpisal at pagtatago.

Hindi ito nagsimula noong isang gabi, sa wakas, sumuko na rin ako sa pagsuko.

Hindi ito nagsimula noong bumaling at humarap sa iyo upang magsimulang humikbi.

Hindi sa aking pag-amin. Hindi sa aking naging karupukan. Hindi sa aking pag-amin sa aking naging karupukan, o sa pag-amin sa kabigatan nitong karupukan. Hindi sa pag-amin sa kabigatan nitong pagkapanandalian ng aking karupukan.

Hindi sa pag-amin sa sariling lalambong sa atin itong naging kasalanan hanggang kailanman. Hindi sa pag-amin sa katotohanang ito sa iyo, sa sarili ko. Hindi sa kumpisal sa naging pagkukulang ko. Hindi sa pagtingin sa iyong mukha sa pagitan ng lahat nitong mga pag-amin ko.

Hindi nagsimulang pinakaibigin kita sa katahimikang sumalubong sa aking pagsuko.

Hindi sa paghihintay sa sidhi ng iyong bulyaw ng galit, sa ragasa ng iyong hapis. Hindi sa paghihintay sa magiging kabayaran nitong aking panandaliang pagkawala ng sarili. Hindi sa paghihintay sa isang katapusan sa gitna ng gabi bilang kabayaran ng kahinaan ng laman.

Hindi sa paghihintay sa pinagmakaawang pagbali sa katahimikan upang ipataw na ang parusang hinihintay. Hindi sa paghihintay sa iyong higanti. Hindi sa pag-aasam sa iyong higanti upang mabigyang-kapatawaran nawa sa pamamagitan ng kalbaryong iyong iaatang sa akin.

Hindi sa iyong pagtangging sumuko sa lahat ng aking pagsusumamo para parusahan mo. Hindi sa kawalan mo ng imik sa gitna ng ganap na pagsuko at paghihintay ko.

Hindi nagsimulang pinakaibigin kita noong sa halip na pagdating ng laksa-laksang salitang patalim, marahan mong inilapat ang iyong palad sa aking dibdib.

Hindi sa pagkabog sa aking dibdib.

Hindi sa pagkunot ng iyong noo, ang pagtatalo sa loob ng iyong dibdib na mababakas sa iyong mukha. Hindi sa patuloy na pagtapik ng palad mo sa aking dibdib para sa hindi mabibilang na pagsubok ng pagpapatahan hanggang sa wakas, ang aking pagtahan.

Hindi sa pananatiling ganito ng ating mga katawan hanggang sa iyong alisin ang iyong palad sa akin, saka tumihaya at tumingin sa kisameng inaaagiw. Hindi sa aking pagsunod sa iyong pagtihaya at pagtingin din sa kisameng tumitingin din pabalik sa atin. Hindi sa iisang direksiyon ng ating pagtitig.

Hindi sa katahimikan.

Hindi nagsimulang pinakaibigin kita sa pagbali mo, sa wakas, ng katahimikan. Hindi

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sa aking pagkabigla na sa halip na gaspang ng mga salitang inaasahan, narinig lang ang kalumanayan. Hindi sa hindi pagiging matimpi, kundi pawang tapat, pawang dalisay.

Hindi nagsimulang pinakaibigin kita sa pagsabi mong tao ang mangailangan at mapatid. Hindi sa pagsabi mong naiintindihan ang karupukan. Hindi sa pagsabi mong kapatawaran sa kasalanan. Hindi sa pagsabi mong muli at muling mananahan.

Hindi mabigkas-bigkas ang lawak ng lahat ng ito, nagsimulang pinakaibigin kita sa hindi pagkaunawa.

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A B O UT T H E AUT H OR

Kasalukuyang nasa huli na ng pag-aaral sa antas di-gradwado si Christian Jil Benitez sa Pamantasang Ateneo de Manila, sa ilalim ng kursong Panitikang Filipino. Nagsisilbi siya ngayon bilang patnugot sa Heights, ang opisyal na lathalaing pansining ng pamantasan, at transit: an online journal. Naging fellow sa iba’t ibang palihan, nagkamit na ng parangal mula sa Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature at Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards ang kanyang mga tula, at nailathala na ang ilan sa mga ito sa High Chair, Cha, at iba pa. Naninirahan siya sa Rizal.

PLURAL

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

PITY PARTY 40

fiction by

Amiel D. dela Rosa FIVE

i dated a woman whom i first saw on a shampoo bottle. p “I bet she has never been wrong with her decisions.” q “Yes, I assume the same thing. Dammit this water burns!” p “Oh, careful there. Get all the tissues you can. You’re in for a fight.” r “She was like, trapped in a box, no, it wasn’t a box anymore. Well at least that’s, erm, how I see it. Someone needs to like add that to the doctrine.”

41 q “If I were you--shut the fuck--no, I’d revise the box thing and say she’s floating. For a couple of seconds, I might add.” p “If we keep overhearing what you’re rehearsing you need to board on a new apartment, and I’ll do the luggage since you’re the current heir to the doctrine.” r “get some of this, kid.” and her hair grayed, laid onto the concrete for everyone to use, finally, i might add. bones stretching into lampposts and markings. bleeding yellow, her name among the forgotten myths and proxies for those who mounted them up where they would be most visible.

p “Hey what the fuck is that?” r “like...waldkjshlklgkajrbl” q “On my cheeks or the paper?

Do I need the shampoo lady?” p “Ugh.” q “What is ‘Ugh’?”

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r “It’s Pac-Man drinking Vitaminwater.” q “That fake shit last night?” p “She isn’t even swee--The Vitaminwa--I mean the drink’s not sweet. And fuck Vitwater.” q “Clear up you idiot!” p “No you clear up! You want a Bugs Bunny switch?” r “You obviously need some more.”

q “How come you don’t join us?” r “’Cause you’re blind enough to see I’m busy.” bogged down, we need to eat. then we see this curved billboard slowly covering much of the sky: a scallop turning out to be the sunsetter on a cloudy day. it’s the woman, i guess. Her skull suggesting she shoot herself. that wig is ugly as fuck. then a huge boombox spills about a group commanding an internet set of arms, slapping a captured man somewhere hostile and is now reaching for the rifle. her face becomes blank when she buries herself in blood. i guess not everyone appreciates this. maybe the pool leads to firewalls and airconditioning, strobelights and dubstep, where everyone doesn’t tire, influence melding with everyone’s soul, an algorithm against tiredness now possible, sleep making love with death,* condoms unnecessary--we need more fiends! r “You lost. Puff that shit.” in dreams you might even have four hearts. the more you have, the more you think the heart shape should be changed by law. the ten of hearts would be a world wonder. you might even drink oil habitually because you believed an ad on tv said so.

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then you would need pacemakers and make money off of churning cacophony out of your heart’s gradually irregular beating. then you would need reading glasses to fill those chambers with whatever abstract concept you have for a person. this isn’t an islamic pun.

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*Jones, Nasir. “N.Y. State of Mind.” Illmatic. Columbia Records. 1994.

A B O U T T H E AUT H OR

Amiel D. dela Rosa is currently in research and development.

He also is an alumnus of Samahang LAYB, a poetry workshop organization in UP Los Ba単os.

PLURAL

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

GRAVITY’S LOVE (Helga Remix)

46

fiction by

Emil B. Anonas Jr. SIX

“Tiko, tiko, can you hear me? Tik—” “Oh hi, sir. I thought you’d be calling tomorrow.”

“I tried to call you yesterday but all I got was static. But hey, how’s my kiddo?”

“Warped in scientific work, sir.”

“It’s about time you grow a halo. Unless you’ve got plans of going back to selling cigarettes in the streets.”

“And choke in fumes all day? So unglamorous.”

“So what’s in the soil, kid?”

“Well, there’s some volcanic glass deep under the surface, sir.”

“Typical.”

“Some protein here and there...some rotting humans.”

“Rotting hum—how’d they end up there?”

“It’s where they rot after they conk out, sir.”

“Oh. So what else besides volcanic glass?”

“Some layers of clay. And they sprout from the soil too.”

“What—the clay?”

“The humans, sir. Wanna hear how they pull off the stunt?”

“Maybe later. Let’s talk about rock permeability.”

“Okay. First, the protein in the soil—” “We’re done with the soil, kid. Give me igneous rock permeability under gram-constant conditions.”

“I-I have to give you a b-background on my findings, sir.”

“What’s that?”

“I-I guess I have to walk you through, step b-by step.”

“What for?”

“Rocks and soil and humans are all connected, that’s all.”

“You sure?”

“Y-yes sir.”

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48

“All right, you got twenty seconds, kiddo.”

“Y-yes, sir. Like I was saying, the protein in the soil gets absorbed by the plants, then the plants, sir, they get eaten by animals.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Then the animals get eaten by humans.”

“Those animals don’t bite back when humans bite them?”

“Humans conk out the animals before eating them, sir. Humans eat the dead to not be dead.”

“Heard that rumor.”

“True story, sir. But before humans eat corpses, they swap djingga for them.”

“They have djingga?”

“They play-act for it, sir. They stick to a script.”

“A what?”

“A script. Like weeks ago, I watched this human—let’s call him human A—human A’s house got smashed by a storm. Then he orders human B all day long, saying, ‘Do this, do that!’ ” “Do what?”

“Patch up the roof, fix the windows, bolt some screws. All day long, sir, all day long.”

“I’ve seen fungi do that sort of thing when I was a young scout. Planet Zohk, I think it was.

Wasn’t fat back then, handsome squid I was.”

“This one’s odd, sir—human A handed over some djingga to human B, because human B did what he’s told to.”

“Got a wicked afro too, back in the day.”

“Then human B, sir, he runs over to human C who has plenty of dead animals, some of them stuffed in cans, if you can believe it.”

“I’ve seen those in porn movies.”

“Then, then human B, sir, he hands the djingga to human C, who hands over some dead animals in return.”

“End of story?”

“Almost there, sir. These humans, they fuck while the moon floats above their city.”

“That’s not a nice word to say, kid, that ‘f ’ word. Back in my day, we use the word ‘koink.’ ” “I’ve heard some Lords use the word ‘koink’, sir, chatting about their glory days and all. Sounds oldie to me, that word.” ‘’You’d get old too, kid, and when you’re old and can’t koink anymore, some teenage squid would say, ‘The word fuck sounds too geriatric to me. Smells like ointments and liniments.’”

“Sir?” “‘Yeah?”

“I’ve discovered something under the rocks that might get us both promoted.”

“Yeah? A promotion?”

“Yeah, a promotion.”

“Well, go for it. I think a little promotion will do you good now, give your career a muchneeded lift.”

“And I’ll hitch you along, sir.”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

“C’mon, sir, your last promotion was, like, what—seven galactic alignments ago?”

“Six. I was dating Helga back then. We were having dinner when my phone rang.”

“Helga!? Lord Helga, the six-degree council lord!? You dated her!?”

“It was a long time ago, kid. Let’s not talk about it.”

“Why haven’t you told me this!? You gotta fill me in when I get back. Drinks on me. I mean, she’s still hot, isn’t she? You know, sir, when those Lords were taunting me about firing me for good, I was all fake tears and shit, but I kept glancing at Lord Helga’s tentacles.”

“Let’s not forget about the rocks, kid.”

“But first, my discovery under the rocks. Ready to get promoted, sir?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t sound so excited.”

“My heart’s pounding. You got ten seconds.”

“Okay, so there’s this magnetic pulse down here, sir, that drives humans, germs, and animals to multiply and swarm the planet.”

“Six seconds.”

“It’s gravity, sir, I’ve discovered gravity. He hides under these mountains of rocks deep underground.”

“You expect humans to koink in outer space? Of course, there’s gravity. Four seconds, kid.”

“I mean this one’s totally obese, sir. He’s freak-heavy.”

“I’m fat and I’m your boss, so speak nice words, okay?”

“Sorry, sir. This gravity, he owns the planet’s atoms, he whips the winds, he runs the whole show.”

“You think quitting booze did me any good? I mean, why am I still fat?”

“You did? You gave up drinking?”

“I’ve been clean since this morning. You got three seconds left.”

“I knew it, sir. You sound weak.”

“Two seconds.”

“This gravity, he drives all humans to eat animal corpses, and to koink around, sir. He drives them crazy with his law of multiplication—‘Go and multiply!’”

“One.”

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50

“And they koink—like I was telling you, sir—they koink while the moon’s floating above their city.”

“They get turned on by that goofball?”

“It’s the only time left for them to koink, after the corpse-eating is over. Wanna hear how it plays out?”

“The koink stuff ? Well—” “I spied on an ugly female just the other day, sir. She’s so ugly, she slaps on three inches of make-up on her face.”

“Make-up?”

“It’s a human invention abused by ugly females to dupe semen-injectors, sir.”

“Swindlers.”

“Then she slips on high-heeled shoes.”

“High-heeled shoes?”

“To make her ass stick out, sir. Make it look juicy. Hypnotizes semen-injectors everywhere.”

“Groovy.”

“Then she paints her lips red.”

“Red?” “A hint to all males that she’s hot for koink.”

“Oh.” “Then she prances out in the streets, hoping to bump into a semen-injector.”

“Bumps into one?”

“Bumps into one, yes.”

“Gets injec—” “Gets injected, yes.”

“Right where she bumped into him?”

“No, they do it inside a house, sir, on a multiplication table which they call bed.”

“Bed?” “A table topped with a mattress.”

“Right.”

“Then the female will soak up the male’s squirt, sir, then she’ll concoct a new human inside her, then she’ll spew it out of her womb.”

“You like the crowd down there?”

“Not those make-up abusing swindlers.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Nope. I stalked a real beauty yesterday, sir, and she’s got this ass that sticks out freaking sexy, you could hide under it when it rains.”

“Thanks to high—” “She hasn’t even got high-heels on.”

“Goodness gracious.”

“I’d say she’s got around ten males trotting behind her.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You having an erection, sir?”

“No. But thank you for asking.”

“I’d be lounging here on my next vacation leave and date females.”

“You think you got the face for that?”

“Lots of human males down here are shockingly ugly, sir. They think they’re handsome just ‘coz some females want their squirt.”

“Well, if females want their squirt, then they must be handsome, right?”

“Sir, those who want their squirt are ugly females who—” “Abuse make-up?”

“Yeah, but many males see the truth under three inches of make-up. And, and even horridlooking males push away horrid-looking females, sir, because those males think they deserve pretty females.”

“Aren’t those males—” “Puffing up their self-importance?” “‘Uh-huh?”

“Here’s what happens, sir. Those ugly males, they wanna koink so they smile at the pretty females.”

“Smile?”

“The pretty females smile back to show how sharp their teeth are. But those ugly males, sir, they get the wrong idea, they think the pretty ones want their squirt.”

“Smile?”

“A smile, sir, is when a human bares its teeth to look friendly. Almost all koink starts with a smile, by the way.”

“No teeth, no koink, is that right?”

“But sometimes, a human smiles at another human to sort of say, ‘I’d tear you to pieces like a corpse if you force your ugly face on me, or if you mess with my djingga!’”

“What do they look like, those pretty ones?”

“Not as luscious as Lord Helga, that babe. And they don’t have tentacles.”

“No tentacles?”

“Only smooth hairless legs sir.”

“Uh-huh.”

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“You masturbating, sir?”

“No.” “Your voice is shaking.”

“Withdrawal symptoms. Told you I quit the booze.”

“You sound like a newly-spewed-out human, sir.”

“Or not. Those newbies shriek.”

“Yeah, but they shriek in a kind of shaky way. How’d you know they shriek anyway?”

“I got assigned to that planet years ago, kid.”

“You did? You did? For how long?”

“One day.”

“Just one day!?”

“The council called me back because they caught me...”

“They caught you what, sir? They caught you koinking?”

“They caught me drinking on the job.”

“Geez. And the only thing you heard was the shrieks of a newbie human?”

“Can’t remember how I got into that operating room, kid. Last thing I recall I stole a bottle of brandy from this convenience store beside the hospital, then those shrieks...”

“They shriek ‘coz of gravity’s welcoming love-pull, sir.”

“Frankly, I’d shriek too if I were a newbie. Imagine the thousands of corpses I’d have to eat.

And I’m born djingga-less.”

“Gravity’s love makes newbie bones grow tough. That, and calcium too.”

“Can we start talking about the rocks?”

“I computed gravity’s love, sir, using the Von Shubnikov Constant, then I cross-checked it with Vector-derivative Scansion Tangent.”

“Oh come on, you can’t even read.”

“My equations wiggled down to twelve kleyopaks, sir.”

“Twelve?”

“Twelve kleyopaks per squish squared.”

“I’m impressed.”

“And get this sir—when they’re standing, they always shift their body weight from one leg to the other to ease gravity’s love.”

“Because they’re fat like me?”

“And, and when they’re sitting, they shift their weight from one ass cheek to the other.”

“Hey, I do that sometimes. You know when somebody’s taking a picture of the Lords and I’m sitting on the far left side of them, I shift my weight on my right ass cheek to get myself in the frame.”

“I wish I had a picture of me with the Lords.”

“You do. I snapped a picture of you while you were crying in front of them.”

“You did not. Send it to me.”

“Lord Helga has it. She asked me for it.”

“You may be fat, sir, but you’re not funny.”

“And you were absent during the Von Shubnikov seminar.”

“I was sitting at the back, sir. You can ask Mr. Fong.”

“Mr. Fong got fired two weeks before that seminar. Absenteeism.”

“Really? Well then, I can set you up on a date with a human female if you like, sir.”

“Can I check my calendar first?”

“You can get lucky despite that waistline, sir. Lots of females don’t go for looks. They’re way smarter than males, you see.”

“Lucky?”

“Lucky, sir, is when gravity blows a wind to bring a corpse or a pretty mate to an unexpecting human.”

“Calling all winds! Bring me thousands of pretty females!”

“You’d have to sing in church for that kind of luck, sir.”

“Sing where?”

“Church—it’s where humans murmur nice words to gravity, sing to him, suck up to him, sort of ask him for luck.”

“And he blows them with luck?”

“No.” “But you just said—” “Gravity doesn’t feel up to it most days of the week, sir. Some females piss him off right inside the church anyway.”

“They sing off-key?”

“They wear the wrong clothes, sir, they ignore the law of multiplication. They don’t wear highheels, they don’t wear short skirts, no make-up, no lipstick.”

“Smug bitches.”

“Not all of them, sir. Many females do dress skimpy and proper for church. Hey, you wanna know what gravity did to males who went to church wearing long robes?”

“He threw them into a cave full of horrible females?”

“Nope.”

“He put high-heels on them?”

“Nope.”

“Knocked off all their teeth?”

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“No. Gravity zapped them into stone, sir. Right in the middle of a song.” “‘Into stone!”

“He zapped those long-robed, bearded males into stone, yes, and displayed them in the church’s outer walls, made an example out of them.”

“You’re making this all up, aren’t you?”

“Some of them he even displayed inside the church, sir. Church-goers touch them and murmur comforting words to them.”

“You saw it all happen?”

“Yes—no. I mean, what else could’ve happened?”

“You did pass the latest psychological test, didn’t you?”

“Near-perfect score, sir. Did some digressions and shit on the essay part, just for kicks. Wanna know what I wrote about?”

“No, thanks.”

“I wrote about a planet infested with triangular creatures called ‘Trianghouls’ and—’ “I don’t want to hear about it.”

“—and how those ‘ghouls sculpted a large triangular figure out of wood—” “I got my ears plugged now.”

“—and how they sang praises to its three angles and its three sides.”

“Are you done?”

“—and how my then-thin boss started drinking after he got home from that planet ‘coz the ‘ghouls reminded him of his ex-girlfriend Gina who was fanatic about her arts and crafts and DIY stuff.”

“Thanks for the sympathy, kid. The Lords have already talked to me about your essay.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to fill me in, sir, on what those oldies told you?”

“They told me my career is an anvil and you are quicksand.”

“Cheer up! I’ll find you the best brandy on this planet, aged deliciously like Helga.”

“Forget it. Told you I quit.”

“Cigarettes, sir?”

“And cut my lifespan by four galactic alignments? No cigs for me, kid.”

“You know, sir, a wise squid once said that a life doesn’t have to be long to be happy.”

“Well I’m happy now minus the booze, and I want my happy to last long.”

“Case in point, sir—these humans, they koink and chew up corpse, all in a few trips ‘round their star—but they’re happy. And, and they sharpen their teeth with a brush, and they’re happy.”

“And the toothless ones?”

“Toothless ones can’t chew up corpse anymore, can’t koink anymore, so gravity grooms them for recycling, sir—he stoops their backs, crumples up their skin, you know, gets them soilready.”

“I must be fresh. My skin’s stretched-out smooth.” “ ‘Coz you’re fat. And you look like the letter ‘O’, sir, with spaghetti tentacles.”

“I’m flattered. And my brainwaves have flatlined waiting for your report—” “Oh which reminds me! I rode a human’s thought just this morning, sir, while he’s sitting.”

“Yeah? How’d you get past the hair?” “‘This human was balding, sir, but that’s not the point. And in case you didn’t know, a human’s thought is just an electrical spark bouncing ‘round in the brain. Like a pinball.”

“How’d you get past the scalp?”

“And this pinball, it hits neurons while the human’s thinking. Forget the scalp, sir. Here’s how I got into his skull—I aimed the Matter Converter 2.1 at myself and—” “No way.”

“—and I zapped myself into a tiny wisp of oxygen gas and I—” “That MattCon 2.1 was bought with taxpayer’s djingga.”

“It was fully loaded anyway, so I thought there’d be enough left for the rocks.”

“That’s pretty smart of you.”

“So I drifted into this human’s nose, sir, then up his sinuses, and into his brain.”

“It’s about time the government should post pictures of human sinuses captioned with ‘This is where your taxes go.’”

“And right away, sir, I spotted this tiny electrical spark perched on this little neuron, and, and this spark was glowing brighter and bigger, sir—probably a thought forming—so I hooked onto it.”

“You’re an action star.”

“Then the spark whooshed off like a rocket, sir, me with it, and we slammed against neurons, then whizzed down the spinal cord and down his intestines and anus and—” “Anus?”

“I got ejected as a fart, sir.”

“That’s enough—” “The bastard still had his right ass cheek raised a bit—you know they do that, sir, when they’re sitting, so the fart can breeze out—” “Tiko—” “—so I drifted back into his nose—” “Tiko—”

55

“—crept up into the brain—” “Tiko, the Lords have been listening in to our conversation.”

“Haah!?” “‘They’re tuned in to our frequency.”

“V-very funny. You mean, Lord Helga...”

“She’s listening, it was her idea. She said you were staring at her tentacles while you were being talked to by her fellow Lords.”

“Tiko?”

56 “Tiko?”

“Tiko, you still there?”

A B O U T T H E AUT H OR

Emil B. Anonas, Jr. is an alumnus of the Rizal Technological University, with a degree in Education.

PLURAL

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

BAILIWICK 58

fiction by

Lorienold Guyagon SEVEN

Mrs. Dubson was a chameleon. I met her when I was three; she was my first teacher. Since then, I dreamed of becoming like her.

Perhaps tomorrow, I’ll be. I wonder if the color of my skin would change the way hers did. I wonder if chromatophores have really anything to do with being like her, or of her being, or of my being tomorrow. It’ll probably hurt at first. I guess I wouldn’t mind. After all, I have suppressed my curiosity of turtles and their shells so that I could have those cells.

Scales are more acceptable than shells. Yes, we still have norms. It stayed with us like the seven deadly sins. After the perfection of body alterations, men have grown wings, and fish tails, become half of something they’re not. With these sciences, men have learned new ways to kill.

There is a group of human octopuses sabotaging human cat boat rides, three dead so far. Or six? Should the cat part be counted?

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60

I wonder if someday, there’d be a species that’ll revolt against us. They’ll skin us alive for the sake of their science. Or maybe they’ll just need our tongues, or intestines, or vaginas, they’ll get them from us without anaesthesia, we’ll scream ourselves to death, and then the remaining parts of us will be thrown away, exactly like how the human snake surgeon threw the horse after taking two of its legs. Well, that doesn’t make sense. We’ve sacrificed some human lives too. We owe the science we have today to those human guinea pigs/religious people. Around a million and a half of them. Of course, counting only the legal. It’s a shame I almost forgot they existed.

Now, in front of me are three panther chameleons. They’re supposed to look like breathing abstract paintings, but for a week now they’re protesting by being black. They’re not innocent, they know they’re going to die very soon. I’m hating them for being pitiable. I want to grab them out of their cage and thump and stab them to death. But I still need them alive. They’d make me god tomorrow.

A B O U T T H E AUT H OR

Lorienold Guyagon studies BA Communication Arts at the University of the Philippines Los Baùos. She is a member of the UPLB Communicators’ Association. Her thoughts are line with anarchism, individualism and skepticism. She loves teddy bears.

PLURAL

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

HERE 62

fiction by

Patricia Li EIGHT

Mike and Jess, Cole and me – we were inseparable, a couple of couples. In college, we did everything together. Mike, the brainiac, would always help us with our assignments. He’d even prioritize ours over his, despite his obsession over grades. He was a great teacher, but we always told him he should never be one.

He shouted at us constantly. It was so annoying. But he explained things so simply to us, and Jess loved him all the more for it. I didn’t get it at first. Jess was the type who only cared about parties and flunked almost every exam she took, and Mike was the epitome of a gloomy introvert. But they seemed to be so happy, they never made each other cry, not even once. And Jess cried over lost food, so that was saying something.

Cole and I, we were the exact opposite. We were so alike in so many ways, but we fought so much, we threatened to break up with each other at least once a month. We were so in love with the drama that we took it out on each other. We had fun though, so it was alright.

We were always happier when we made up.

At some point, I don’t even actually remember when, Jess kissed my Cole, and I kissed her Mike. Then we all became each others’. It seemed inevitable. We were a couple of couples.

We got married too – only by two’s, sadly. Because our love was taboo. We met up every weekend and exchanged couples. One of those nights when I was with Jess, we were interrupted by a call. It was Mike. Cole suddenly left after seeing a text message. We were all worried. Why would he go any place away from us? Our hearts got noisier.

So we called him that night – all night. We were so paranoid. We thought up these crazy theories of what could have happened. Were people after him because of a large debt?

That was impossible. We didn’t keep secrets. Then was he dead? We cried for hours on that theory. But we calmed down, because it was impossible for us not to feel it if he was. We were connected.

63

64

Here we were, three days after – unbathed, unslept.

We found Cole after tracking our credit cards down. We always watched detective shows, so we wonder why Mike never thought to throw away the cards. We wonder if he really didn’t want to be found. But we did anyway, because we were bound to. We saw him in a motel, cradling a sickly girl. Our poor romantic was victimized by this cunning brunette. We recognized her, she was the sister of our neighbor. She visited sometimes. We welcomed her, a bit too much apparently.

Cole was shocked. He kept apologizing. We were angry – but not with him, only at the devilish seductress who kept him away for a while. But vacation was over, and we had to go back.

We broke her right leg. Then we wrapped our hands around her neck. But we had an idea, so we asked Cole, “Do you want her?” He frowned. He didn’t seem to understand.

“We could take her with us. If she’s yours, then she’s ours too.” Cole wasn’t happy. We didn’t understand. Truth be told, the proposition was only until he grew tired of her. But he seemed outraged. We didn’t know why. He started screaming. It hurt our ears, especially since we always only listened to each other. He said something about us being unnatural. That hurt a lot. So we choked the girl again, and this time she didn’t breathe anymore.

He cried. So we cried too. Then we embraced him. He kicked us. He punched us. It hurt again. But it was okay. We knew what he wanted. We always know what we want. We touched him in all the places he liked before, but this time he didn’t stop kicking. It was getting harder to enter him, so we choked him a little bit too – just enough to get him to stop. That was when we started to be happy again. We had fun taking turns. Cole was telling us to stop, but we knew he didn’t mean it, just like all those other times.

When we were done, and laughing, and finally happy again, we told Cole the stories of how we found him. It was such an adventure, really. We showed him the knife we used to threaten the manager with for the key, the same one we stabbed her with. We laughed. It was such an adventure.

He asked to see it closer. We handed it to him. Then before any of us could stop him, we cut our throat. We screamed. But we couldn’t hear each other. We screamed. We were suffering. We were suffocating. Then he stopped. Then we stopped.

But why?

We were so happy. We don’t understand. Why? We got the knife. Did it feel good? We tasted our blood. Was Cole happy? We rested it against our throats. Will we be happier?

Of course. We’re always happier together.

A B O U T T H E AUT H OR

Patricia Li is currently studying in the University of the Philippines Diliman. On her second year, upon taking a creative writing class for beginners, she decided to shift to the College of Arts and Letters under the degree program BA Creative Writing.

She enjoys all the things a typical millennial enjoys – young adult books, kpop, tv series, social media, and other music genres. She is particularly interested in both popularized Western and East Asian culture. She aims to use these interests to better understand the world in this age of globalization.

PLURAL

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

ILANG TULA 66

fiction by

Ronald Ramos Jr. NINE

Biro

Sa loob: Dito nagsimula ang lahat. Sa biro ng isang kakilalang palaging bigong makakuha ng tawa. Sa kaibigang ilang ulit nang nabigo subalit hindi nabibigong tanggapin ang bawat biro ng pagkakataon. Kahit sa maraming pagkakataon lamang ang biro kaysa katotohanan Ang totoo, para sa kanila ang lahat ay totoo. Ang isa pang katotohanan, hindi nila ito alam.

Sa Sulok: Iisa lang ang naisip ko noon ng gabing iyon, ang malapitan ka, ang makilala ka. Kilala lang kita sa mukha1 at kilala ko rin ang iyong kaibigan. Biro niya noong nahuli niya akong tulala at tila tinutulay ang bawat linya ng iyong mukha, “Baka mahipan ka ng hangin.� Nang makaalis siya, saka ako natawa at tila kinilig kahit mainit sa lugar, kahit pinagpapawisan sa di maubos ubos na isang bote ng beer na kanina pang namamawis sa aking mga kamay. Sa gitna ng mga kaway ng mga magkakaibigan, ng mga magkakakilala at mga nagkitakita noong gabing iyon, nais ko ring makikaway sakaling mapansin mo ako, nais ko ring hipan ang iyong paningin kung saan ako naroroon.

67

Sa gitna

Sa huling paglingon, di ko na siya nakita.

Lumabas ako.

Nakita ka niya. Sinundan ka niya. Papalakad ka papalayo, inihahatid ka niya ng tingin mula sa malayo.

68

Nais kong bumalik kahit wala akong naiwan o nakalimutan, subalit tila nahipan ng hangin ang aking mga paa.

Nais niyang habulin ka subalit mas mabilis gumapang ang pangamba kaysa sa kanyang mga paa.

Sa labas2: Kumawala ang isang impit na tawa na parang para sana sa biro ng isang kakilala.

69

Naroon siya sa puntong hindi niya alam kung bakit siya laging pumupunta at bumabalik sa lugar na iyon? Bali-baliktadin man niya ang katotohanan, balikan man niya ang ilang karanasan, hindi siya umiinom o uminom o iinom. Uminom siya ng tubig upang itago ang sulyap na kanina pang umaapaw at nais niyang pakawalan. Pawisan ang kanyang buong katawan, pero di tulad ng malamig na baso ng tubig na kanina pang namamawis sa kanyang palad, nasamid siya sa panlalamig, di siya pinalad na mahawakan ang kanyang paningin o tunawin sa lamig ng kanyang titig. Sunod-sunurin man niya ang mga sulyap, bigo siyang sunduin ng kahit kaunting tingin.

Tiningnan niya angkanyang relo na parang nag-aabang, nag-aalala. Naalala niyang matagaltagal na na rin niyang kilala siya sa pangalan pati ang kanyang kabigan. Ibig niyang lapitan siya at makipagkilala subalit naunahan siya ng biro ng isang kakilala na kaibigan ng kaibigan ng nasa kaliwa, “Baka malunod na yan.� Nais niyang sagipin ang sarili, nais niyang linawin ang biro subalit bilanggo siya sa pagkalango sa hiya, nahiya na manganak ng isa pang biro ang biro at masapul ng biro ang itinatago. Bago siya makasagot ng tawa, sinundo ang kausap ng malakas na tawanan at hiyawan ng mga malalapit na kaibigan, ng mga nagkita-kita.

1

2

Sa loob-loob: Mahirap biruin ang damdamin.

Ilang I. Tinipon mo ang iyong lakas tulad nang pangangahoy para sa gagawing apoy.

Pinaghahandaan mo ang dilim ng gabi.

70

II. Isa lang ito sa maraming bersyon ng iyong mga gabi subalit hindi nagbabago ang ilang mga detalye: Ilang beses ka na bang nakipagpalagayan ng loob sa mga gabi sa mga lugar na una mong nakilala? Ilang beses ka na bang naghintay sa bisitang hindi naman dumadating? Ilang beses ka na bang nanahan sa ilang para lang imaging malaya.

III. Kahit anong pikit mo, hindi dumidilim ang katotohanang may naiwan ang lumisan. At kahit saan ka man manahan, paulit-ulit kang sinusundan. Sakaling sindihan mo kaya ang apoy at makita niya ang liwanag, lalapit kaya siyang muli tulad ng mga kulisap. Pag naamoy kaya niya ang usok, maaalala kaya niyang hindi pa tuluyang nasusunog ang pag-asa ng pag-iisa?

Ngayong gabi, hindi sapat na panggatong ang mga alaala.

A B O U T T H E AUT H OR

Si Ronald Ramos Jr. ay nagtapos sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas, Diliman sa kursong BA English Studies, Cum Laude. Siya ay naging taga-pangulo ng UP Ugnayan ng Manunulat (UP Ugat) at kasapi ng UP Writers Club. Naging fellow para sa tula sa unang Palihang Rogelio Sicat noong 2008. Mahilig siyang matulala at maglakad sa parke. Hindi siya mabubuhay ng walang kape.

PLURAL

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

MOTIF 72

fiction by

DC Mostrales ten

I. Beyond the fog-draped mountains, there lived a rich man who owned a large plantation of sugar cane bordered by a lake of the clearest water. He was proud of his possessions, but so too did the other villagers envy him. One morning, he awoke to find his canes cut, and the lake water turbid. Outraged, he approached the council of elders and demanded that an inquiry be made as to who violated his property. The elders agreed to his request but their investigation could not produce a suspect. None would have dared transgress land oaths.

The rich man decided to make his own investigation and spent the night out in the fields under the cover of leaves and dry grass. Unfortunately, he fell asleep just as the moon perched on the tallest coconut tree. He woke up the next morning to see his field in an even more severe condition. He did the same thing the following night, making a promise that he should not fall asleep again the second time. He waited and waited under cover, the moon traversing across the sky, until he heard the sound of giggling and splashing water. To his astonishment, he saw beautiful, naked maidens frolicking, bathing in the lake, and tearing canes from the earth for games he could not comprehend.

He leapt out of cover to seize the maidens, who scrambled to don their white robes of starlight and ascend to the heavens. All the maidens were able to escape, except for one who was caught in the rich man’s clutches. The man hid the maiden’s white robe so she would be indefinitely bound to the mortal realm. We are told that this is love, for the man soon married the woman and through her sired three daughters. We are told that his shock and heartbreak were genuine upon waking up one morning to a cold hearth, having just realized that his wife had not slept since her capture and for years had been tirelessly weaving white robes, threaded from songs and wishes known only to mothers and daughters.

We are told that if we gaze into the clear night sky, we would see the three stars in one straight line, and the brightest star in the heavenly expanse not too far off.

73

II. My grandma used to tell me a story that in the grim aftermath of the Second World War her best friend’s neighbor swore she found a man tangled among swamp cabbage vines. Naturally, she took care of him until he was able to speak. At first, they thought he was a waylaid member of the Hukbalahap, but that was impossible because they distinctly remembered the kagawad announcing that the war had ended a few months ago. (They lived in a far-flung rural town in Bukidnon where the war was barely felt.) Moreover, the man couldn’t have been a Communist farmer as he had the refined accent of the landed class.

It turned out that the man once owned a sprawling sugar cane plantation that he was trying to bring around since the devastation of the war. He had a handful of servants who helped with the task and the land grew prosperous. The people of the surrounding barrios heard of his success that some took to stealing his crops. He understood that it was a difficult time, but he thought it no excuse to break the law. So at night, he gathered his servants and patrolled his perimeter for offenders.

74

Once during their rounds, he chanced upon a woman who trespassed into his property. His men took her under their custody as they suspected her of being a thief. The field hands interrogated her but she would not dignify them with a response. In the meantime, the man saw that she was beautiful, and on a whim offered to forgive her offense if she married him.

To the surprise of the company, the woman spoke for the first time. She agreed, but with the strange condition that on the day of their wedding all the light bulbs in the venue be covered in white cloth.

The wedding was held in the family mansion adjacent to the sugar cane fields. Light bulbs as the house servants spotted them were covered in white cloth as per the bride’s instructions.

But upon reading the vows that would have concluded the ceremony, a strong gust of wind took the woman away. The laundry woman said one last light bulb in the attic had not been covered because it had already burnt out, but the strange woman never said that the bulbs needed to be working for them to be covered.

The next morning, the man and his retinue awoke in an open and uncleared bushland. It was as if his possessions had dissolved like a dream overnight. The once-rich-now-poor man had been wandering ever since.

My grandmother insists that the story was true for she would never doubt the word of her best friend. It was during one of many retellings of this story that grandmother decided to promise me her prized black pearl ring when I was grown enough to wear it. Well-rewarded are those who make time to listen to stories, she used to say.

III. We are told that the same stories happen over and over again. So we are expected to know how this will end. But we have reason to believe this time should be different.

For one, Monica tells herself that she wanted this. No one forced her to marry Rob. Sure, her mother and aunts were delighted to hear of his patient courting - because who even courts nowadays. Rob became even more admirable in her mother’s eyes when you consider that his siblings disapproved of someone as unremarkable and unlanded as her. She didn’t come from a too-humble background of tillers-of-earth and toilers-under-sun. (Her mother was an accountant; her father, a high school teacher.) But Rob’s clan was the kind that every humble simpleton knows, the face of their patriarch plastered on tarpaulins, trash cans, and highway signs. He desired her at his expense. He didn’t seem to mind. She was free to resist his advances. But did she imply consent with her lack of resistance? Is it freedom when the alternative is unthinkable?

Rob takes them to church every Sunday. Rob drives little Dinah to piano lessons. Rob makes love to her regularly, predictably every Monday and Friday on the dot. Rob earns enough so she could stay at home. She learns how to cook from the other church women. Monica learns to embroider the words of the Gospels into cloth. “Praise be to the Lord, who this day has not left you without a guardian-redeemer.”

She should be happy. She should be grateful. She is married to a great man with a smile as brilliant as sunshine. Sometimes, Monica would catch his façade slip, an expression where his eyes would set on the farthest vanishing point, like he could see through walls and trees just to see the horizon. When his reverie broke, he would apologize for it as if he had just done something indecent. Monica wonders if her husband spent time in the bathroom just to frown, expending all his sadness so he could afford to come out smiling again. She has never seen him cry.

75

One night, she wakes in the dark and is surprised to find that her husband had not slept at all.

He stares at her. He stares through her. Her eyes adjust to starlight. He is not smiling.

Darling, are you alright?

What color are your eyes again? Rob says in a voice that sounds larger in the cold, quiet air.

Brown. They’ve always been brown.

Is it? We can change that. Rob smiles. His face appears split in half under dark lights and long shadows. The creature that is Monica’s husband goes back to sleep.

Monica stays up all night to write in her journal. There is solace in knowing that we are not alone in the stories we tell ourselves. The same stories happen over and over again because stories have to be the same. She wants to play the role well when the time comes for her inevitable ending. Monica thumbs the black pearl set on her wedding ring. She hopes.

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A B O U T T H E AUT H OR

DC Mostrales is a licensed chemist who likes to write fiction.

Born and raised in Iligan City, Lanao del Norte, he currently lives in Quezon City trying to finish his Master’s degree. Heights Ateneo has previously published his children’s story The Boy Who Wouldn’t Stop Growing (2013) through the Kuwentong Pambata Book Grant and his fiction has also appeared in Nomad’s Quarterly. He was a fellow in the 18th Iligan National Writer’s Workshop and in the 15th IYAS National Writer’s Workshop. He is @kittychocklit on Twitter and can also be contacted through email, deocim@gmail.com. He is still grappling with the idea that good myths are discovered, not made.

PLURAL

78

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

THE VARYING STATES OF TRAVELLING SONGS

fiction by

Arby Medina eleven

for Kayla On the fourth day of the fourth month from the four hundred mouths of the four hundred men came the songs of the Forgotten.

“Wait. Who are the Forgotten?”

The Forgotten are those who dwell in the realm of the Comeand-Go. They slip in and out of consciousness hoping to one day creep back into remembrance. The Forgotten are you.

The Forgotten are I. Soon you and I will become We. Since then, the men of Kanta have been singing in their sleep.

“Where can Kanta be found?”

Kanta is a part of a large chain of islands called the Kalimot archipelago. Kanta is where all lost voices go. Unlike the other islands, Kanta is located above Kalimot. You see, sound travels upwards, rising with the wind. There is also an island for lost dreams called Panaginip. It is located beneath the waters, for when dreams are lost, they tend to sink.

“Have you been to Panaginip?”

When I was a child my father dropped me into a river. Like lost dreams children also have a tendency to sink. The current carried me out into the ocean and from there I sank deeper until I landed in Panaginip. I spent fourteen years there. All that I know, I have learned from dreams.

“How did you get back to the surface?”

I became a song.

The people of Kanta assigned Kun to watch over the men, to listen to the songs while the others slept.

“Why does Kun have to stay up and listen to the songs?”

Because when someone sings, it would be rude not to listen. My father once shot a man for sleeping through his soulful performance of Frank Sinatra’s My Way. Songs desire to be heard.

“What happens if they are left unheard?”

They will travel to ears that are willing to listen.

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80

Kun eventually grew tired and started to sleep during her watch. Four days later, the Kooks arrived.

“Who are the Kooks?”

The Kooks have been flying around Panaginip for four years looking for Kanta. They have been hired to collect songs from the island.

“What have they brought?”

Meat and candy.

“What do they get in return?”

Fire.

The Kooks collect vinyl records that wash up on shore.

“Where are the Kooks from?”

The Kooks reside on a gigantic pile of earth that they claimed as their own, whose name cannot be said, only sung in the tongue that only they can sing.

“And the vinyl?”

The vinyl came from the Wurlitzer. The Wurlitzer was dragged out of the diner. The Wurlitzer that was dragged out of the diner is then shoved into the backseat of a truck.

Like the other diners, this diner was finally going digital. The PodPlayers were coming in this week, filled with four thousand four hundred forty four songs. Hundreds of cookie-cutter pop stars all packed into one tiny handheld device, all of them with their insides hollowed out to make room for more glitter—more glam. They bring the Wurlitzer to the nearest pier, empty it of its coins and then chuck it into the sea. The Wurlitzer sinks at crashes into the seabed, carried by the currents the vinyl spill out and float to where all lost voices go.

The Kooks melt the records down in an open fire pit that they set up at the center of the island.

From the pit comes black smog, from the smog comes rhythmic coughing. The Kooks extract the black muck from the burning pit and load it into their planes. They leave their payment of meat and candy before they head home.

The planes bring the black muck to the Kooks’ factories. One of the factories refines the muck and morphs it into tents. These muck-made tents are then packed into willow wood boxes.

One of the tents packed into one of the boxes is sold to the Swinks.

“Who are the Swinks?”

The Swink family own The Swink’s Travelling Circus, headed by Ma Swink and Pa

Swink. The Swinks toured across the country with their band of not-so-merry-men bringing fun and wonder to all who watched their troupe perform.

“Why do they need a new tent?”

Candied bacon. The sickly sweet scent rose and dissipated across the town, from the Sunny Oats Kindergarten which was located near the town square to the Holmon Correctional Facility at the edge of town which housed Amarathi Finch a migrant who used to work at the local All-Mart before he decided to stab an elderly woman forty four times while humming the tune of the Hokey Pokey because she had asked him to double bag her groceries. He breathed in the fumes from his cell, a mixture of caramelizing cotton candy and burning flesh.

Now, The Swinks check on each of their acts, as they do before each show. Second on the list is Bombo, Bear-kin juggler, rider of The One Wheel. She is wearing her training collar, affixed with a hook that will hold her big red bow tie during the show.

“Isn’t Bombo a boy’s name?”

Bombo is the name given by the Swinks to all of their unicycled juggling bears. This current Bombo has only been Bombo for four months. The Swinks lost their last Bombo to a gangrenous wound inflicted by means of their previous method of conditioning. They have since switched to the more efficient Shock-o-Matic 4000, a collar for animal persuasion.

The bear teeters on the edge of the stage. The Swinks then check on their acrobats, flipping and twisting in the air. With no safety nets below, there is no room for mistakes.

“No nets?”

Ma Swink wanted one of those new PodPlayers. This Swinks examined their budget and saw that the nets were only necessary if anyone actually fell. “It’s their job not to fall,” thought Ma Swink.

The Swinks then turn to the empty stage. The hippos descend from the heavens. They bow as they land and on cue they perform their drug-induced rendition of the Hokey Pokey.

“The Hokey Pokey?”

Putting out just so they can go back in their tanks. In the end, that’s what it’s all about.

“How will it end for the hippos?”

The hippos will be boiled in their tanks.

The Swinks smile. They are ready for the first stop of their tour.

81

It was a day that would not be forgotten. Fourth of April, summer of ninety-four, the circus was in town. Despite his mother’s disapproval, the Boy, age ten, son of the butcher, would be going to the circus today, his day. The Mother argued with the butcher the night before, the topic: The Dangers of Bringing Our Nine-Year-Old Son to the Circus. The mother opens with “I heard there would be fire breathers, those animals are filthy, we don’t know where those clowns have been, and that tent does not look safe.” The father rebuts with “loosen up, it’ll be great, he’ll be with me, and I already bought tickets.” The mother concedes. She fell asleep on the couch that night, the blare of the sirens not enough to wake her.

82

I can’t remember if I cried When I read about his widowed bride But something touched me deep inside The day the music died.

So bye-bye, Miss American Pie Drove my chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry And them good old boys were drinkin’ whisky in Rye The town sang for days.

Singing, “This’ll be the day that I die, this’ll be the day that I die.”

A B O U T T H E AUT H OR

Arby Medina writes stories and is trying to piece together a children’s book about a girl with the sky instead of a face. He is a member of De La Salle University’s arts and literary publication Malate Literary Folio and won 2nd Place in the short story category for DLSU’s 30th Annual Literary Awards.

PLURAL

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

MONSTER 86

essay by

Angela Lee one

Masaya maging ako.

Apat na taong gulang na bata. Lalaking pamangkin.

Buong buhay niya, ang pagkaalam pala ay lalaki ako.

Nagsuot lang ako ng hikaw. Humirit si tabatsuy. Why u wearing earring tita, u not a girl! Kindergarten. Arts & Crafts Time. Storytellling time. Buti nalang karamihan ang tawag sa’kin ay ate. Ngunit may mga nalilito. Nakatitig. Pinagmamasdan ang aking kilos. Sinusuri ang mababa kong boses. May isang sigurado.

Kuya.

Class dismissed. Mga bata, magpapaalam na si ate! Kumunot ang noo. Tumitig.

Maraming salamat ate! Ayaw maalis ang kanyang pagkalito.

Maraming salamat din, mga bata.

Nakaaaliw. Madalas kasing malito ang mga tao kung tatawagin ba nila akong “ma’am” o “sir.” Madalas na sir. Marahil na ganun, sabi nga raw pogi ako manamit. Pero marami ang hindi nakatitiyak. Kinakabahan sila kapag babatiin na nila ko. Ligtas ang security guard. Dadaan lang naman ako sa pinto. Inspeksiyon lang. Ligtas na sila. Ang waiter kakabahan. Ang kahera sa tabi, pipigil ng tawa. Ang mall clerk, matalino. Hanggang po nalang. Walangkasarian nalang daw ako para madali. Ang takilyera, matindi ang titig. Astig ang barista. Pagbayad ko sa counter, ma’am daw. Pagkuha ng kape, bigla akong bininyagang sir.

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Pasok akong boutique. Bumili ng damit. Welcome po sir! That will be X Pesos.

I repeat, pogi clothes. Okay. May SM Advantage Card ma’am? Wala. I received Y Pesos! Sure. Repeat ko lang po sir, walang advantage card noh? Yeah.

Thank you for shopping ma’am, please come again! Why not.

Paborito ko yung may arteng stutter. “Thank you for coming si-ir! Ay! ma’a...s-sir, ma’am.....sir! ...Ma’amsir!” Grabe. Monster??

Nakatutuwa. Pasok naman akong Ladies’ CR. Tuwing bubukas ang pinto, marahil na higit sa kalahati ay mapapalingon at tititigan muna ako. Hoy! Tama ba yung pinasukan mo? Higit na nakaaaliw kapag lalabas naman ako ng CR. Ang mga nakakasalubong kong papasok ay lilingon muna sa karatula at tutukuyin kung Ladies CR nga ba ang pinapasukan nila.

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Kapanapanabik. Madalas rin akong mag-party. Dala ang dalawang set ng damit. Checklist. Set 1: Polo, Pantalon, at Sapatos. Sapatos na may konting takong. Check. Set 2: Short-shorts, crop top, at pumps. Diba? Ultimate package. Don’t forget the extra cash. Pang-taxi nang 2AM. Ang hassle naman kapag parents ang nanundo diba. Pero kaya naman. Daig ko pa ang Victoria’s Secret Models na mag-dress change. Kaso lagot, baka may makasalubong. I’m not that kind of model. But this is my Secret.

Kaya second home ko na yung Fire Exit namin sa condo. Doon kasi ako nagbibihis pag-uwi.

Nanlalandi. Magaling daw ako manlandi. Bakit daw ang galing kong magpakilig ng babae. Spontaneous kung magbigay ng hirit. How do you pick girls up? (My two cents?) You don’t pick girls up. Second, I’ve got the best of both worlds. Swerte rin daw ako kasi maraming mahilig sa chinit(o). Maraming nagtanong kung may Great Wall ako. Wala. Greater Wall lang. How do you swing? Kung minsan, tinatanong ako kung balang araw may balak akong magpalit. I’m proud of my genitals, thank you.

Nakakabuwisit. Mahirap bumili ng damit. Masyadong malalaki ang mga sukat. Sa Men’s Wear. Duster ang button-downs. Bakit daw ang hilig ko sa big plain shirts. They go both ways. Pamatay ang sapatos. Ano pong size? Ano ang pinakamaliit ninyo? Palaging ganun. Ang pinakamaliit. Sabi kasi nila, ‘yun lang ang kasya. Di bali, pull-off ko naman.

Sabi ng nanay ko, mas maganda raw ako sa ate ko. Basta magbihis daw ako nang matino.

Nakapagtataka. Bakit hindi pa napapansin ni Mother ang kakaiba kong kilos kapag kasama ang mga babae kong kaibigan. Contrast. Kung tutuusin, madali pa ngang pag-akalang kami ng mga kaibigan ko. She’s in denial. Napakatindi naman ng denial niya kung gayon. Malabo ang mata. Talo pa ni barista. Baka nga monster ako. Kaya tinataguan. Sabi nga ng isa, I’m a walking penis with a vagina.

Nakakapagod. What do you do to get close to a girl? What’s your strategy?

Ano raw? Close? Ang alam ko lang na close ay close –ted. Oo, sa lagay pa na ‘to. Bawat lagas ng buhok. Bantay. Mahilig ako mag-kneeshorts. Kailangang tupiin. Fire Exit, we meet again. I-tuck-in ang t-shirt para hindi mukhang tatay. Bantay. Isiksik ang bangs sa likod ng tenga. Hello hikaw. Dagdag bracelet. Perfume pa para bulletproof. Para matabunan na rin ang amoy ng alak. At yosi.

Voila.

Nagpapasalamat. Hindi nagpa-debut si mommy. Walang kaibigan ang maniniwala. Na ang kaharap nila ay babae. Kaya inuman nalang. Chillnuman.

Siyempre hindi alam ng parents. Ni Mother. Palaging wala naman si Father.

Si Ate, may sarili nang pamilya. Ayokong pag-abalahin pa.

Nakakapagkulo. Ng dugo? Hindi naman. Ng tubig. Para sa hot chocolate.

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Birthday ko nga diba? Naramdaman ko. Ang sigla. Ang pagkabata. Ang pagmamahal. Wala bang kakanta? Biniro ko si mommy. Tumawa siya. Taos-puso.

Eighteen ka na. Sana, magbago ka na.

Happy Birthday to me.

Sa MOA kami nag-New Year’s noon. Sabay kaming napalingon ni nanay. May dumaang babaeng kung ‘di ako nagkakamaling mas bata pa sa akin. Maganda manamit. Ngunit dahil sa pantaas niya napaisip ako kung ako ba’y nilalagnat sa lamig nung gabing ‘yun. Maiksi rin ang palda. Humirit si mader. Sana hindi ka nahihiyang manamit nang ganyan.

Muntik kong itanong kung bakit naman mahihiya ang isang tao sa ganyang pananamit. Pero alam ko naman ang ipinararating niya.

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Kaya walang-hiya rin akong humirit. Ipagpalagay natin. “So ano, mas gusto mong ganyan nalang ako manamit, kaysa, halimbawa, na pumasa akong Ateneo?”

“Oo.” Ang matamis na oo. Walang pigil whatsoever. Tumingin siya sa akin.

Pinagmasdan ang aking reaksyon.

Sana ‘wag niyang bawiin. Sana ‘wag niyang bawiin.

Nakalulungkot. Ganyan naman eh. At kahit ganyan, masaya pa rin.

Masaya pa rin.

A B O U T T H E AUT H OR

Angela Lee is still in college. She is currently finishing a Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree in Creative Writing from the Ateneo de Manila University; and tracking in nonfiction. A free spirit, she enjoys talking to the ghosts in her apartment and the occasional beer.

PLURAL

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

AS A 92

essay by

la verne two

The Essay as a Cobbling of Shards I have a friend who is crazy for jars. She seeks them out as coleopterists hunt beetles; as art lovers, paintings; as rodents, socks. If it’s a jar, she has to have it. Clay jar, glass jar, porcelain jar, tin jar -- it doesn’t matter.

(Once she had in her possession a brick jar with T’boli gold inlay). What matters is it’s who le and shapes liquid to its form. For what use is a vessel that can’t hold water? But my friend is more interested in what else can be done with one. After she finds a piece, she locks herself in her workshop for days. Only once will you hear sound: that of a jar shattering.

This is followed by days of silence. Finding her door unlocked, I satisfy my curiosity. Inside, there is the air of heavy pondering. There is the friend cobbling shards. There is a jar taking shape. And on the floor, on top of tables and chairs, inside a closet, are dozens of new configurations. A square jar. A jar in the shape of a stone, a headless grotto, a lipedoptera in flight. A jar in the shape of an exploding star. A jar that holds water and grottos and stones.

A jar that doesn’t hold anything but explodes like a star.

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The Essay as Jazz When B. Bolden makes music, he thinks of his mother’s cooking: no recipe books, just feeling. Who puts stone in a stew? Who makes ketchup out of potatoes? Let’s throw gospel music into the piece, he tells his band. But it hasn’t been done before, protests the bass player. B. Bolden simply shrugs, then picks up his trumpet. And the bass player, taking cue, plucks the strings. And the trombone provides a counterpoint. And the audience, having never heard this kind of music before, stays on their chairs confused. But then they start to feel it, the feeling. It pulls them to the floor. It charges their feet with a force so electrifying the only choice is to break into wild dancing. The feeling so powerful even the nurse sitting outside B. Bolden’s cell in the Louisiana State Insane Asylum is seen tapping her feet.

The Essay as Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird 94

1. “What does it mean?” I say.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” you say back.

2. A blackbird is black, but not all black birds are blackbirds. A crow, for instance, is dusk-feathered from head to tail, but a crow is not a blackbird. A blackbird is, and is.

3. I’ve seen a crow perched on a pine in Sagada. Scary and mysterious-looking as I imagined a black bird would be. I drew my phone out to take a picture, but it flew before I could hit the click button.

4. It saddened me to learn that I might never see a blackbird in person. The blackbird prefers the landscapes of Europe and North America. But, oh, to see the bird that inspired a song, a poem, a nursery rhyme!

5. Blackbird singing in the dead of night, you intone, strumming your guitar. If I hear a blackbird singing in the dead of night, I might panic.

6. Once, I sat on the roof of our house in Norala. I saw a red sparrow alight on a telephone wire across the street. Then another, then another. It was nearly dusk. From a distance, they looked like black birds.

7. Once, I read a poem about 13 different ways of looking at a blackbird and got overwhelmed by the poem’s sonority. I do not think I understood what the poem really meant, but there it was, infixed in my mind, an image: the poet looking at the blackbird and the blackbird looking back.

8. In the South Pacific, a person kidnapped to work as a plantation laborer is a blackbird. To kidnap someone (that is, a Pacific Islander) and force them to work as a farm slave is to blackbird. Use blackbird in a sentence: A former blackbird himself, W. Stevens seeks to end blackbirding in the South Pacific.

9. Out of habit (the result of having spent four years in a Creative Writing program) I just had to decipher the unsaid -- the unseen-but-heard, the unheard-but-felt. So when you asked me back (I don’t remember if this was on the day you left town or after), I thought, “It’s about a person who’s been hurt real bad for a long time but is now getting back on their feet.” I did not tell you this.

10. So there we met, Paul M. and I, in my perceived meaning of the song, but since I could not resist, I Googled. Says Paul M.: It’s about the “black people’s struggle” in the US. Says Paul: “It’s not really about blackbirds.” Of course, of course.

11. Oh, to move the world with a song like Paul M.! And he, too, was moved by another -- a German musician named JS Bach, who lived some three hundred years ago. A dance piece, a lute piece. It was called Bourree in E Minor. But then Paul M. turned it into something else that sounded nothing like it’s made for dancing yet still lively. Lovely. I played it over and over -- the Bourree, my sweet, not Blackbird -- one afternoon when I was stoned out of my mind and missing you. What I really want to say though is this: Blackbird is a case of a man breaking a jar and reshaping it.

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12. Oh, how terrible to be a crow! Oh, to be the selfish, stupid, gossipy one! To be a point for a moral lesson, while the blackbird gets the high art treatment.

13. The crow in the Bible, where did it go?

The Essay as an Isagada Dance The night was cold, the coldest of the year. “Hello, my dear,” he said, “I missed you quite.” “Hello, my love,” she said, “you don’t look quite dead.” And she saw that her great-great-grandfather, dead some 30 years ago, came for the party, too. And her sister-in-law, grumpy as ever. She took his hand, which was neither warm nor cold, and she felt his shirt, which was neither solid nor airy, but were as hand or shirt should be. And she lifted her arms into the air and hop-stepped with glee, moving her hips this way and that. And the lover followed, as nimbly as a spirit should be. And around town, the merriment was heard, and this way how a dance became both a seeing and unseeing.

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The Essay as No Apologies “Oops, I dropped the jar.”

A B O U T T H E AUT H OR

la verne loves exploring the possibilities of the essay form. Her works have appeared in various magazines and anthologies, including The Philippine Free Press and the Philippine Graphics.

She currently resides in Hermitage Country.

PLURAL

ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

CUTTER 98

essay by

Paolo Tiausas three

PINAKAHASA ang mga blade ng cutter kapag hindi pa naikakasa. Isa sa mga alaalang hindi ko matanto kung bakit tila may boses na nagsasalaysay sa aking isip, o bakit may ganitong pagiging malay sa sarili at sa pangyayari, bagaman bata pa. Nailabas ko sa lalagyan ang mga blade ng cutter. May talim pa kahit ang ningning nito. Hinahati ng ilang mga diagonal na linya ang haba, dito maaaring kalasin ang napudpod nang dulo kung sakali. Pira-pirasong pagbabawas, muling pagpapatalas, subalit hindi eksaktong ganoon.

Sapagkat hindi naman talaga tumatalas muli, binabawasan lamang at naghahanap ng kapalit. Nailabas ko ang mga blade, dahil marami-rami sa isang pakete, hindi lang iisa. Nahuli ako ng kasambay namin noon na hindi ko na maalala ang pangalan ngayon. Ate Cherry o Ate Melanie? Ate She? Hindi pala posibleng si Ate She, dahil may edad na siya noong kasama namin siya sa bahay, at wala sa alaala ko ang isang matanda. May pagkabata rin, sigurado ako, dahil tandang-tanda ko pa na hindi kami nagkaintindihan. Isang bata at isang mas bata na hindi maintindihan ang sinasabi ng bawat isa. Nailabas ko ang mga blade. Nahuli niya akong ginagawa ito. May kung anong poot at matinding pagkatakot na biglang namuo sa dibdib ko, matimpi sa simula, subalit dahan-dahang bumibigat, nagiging bato.

Nangyari ang eksenang iyon sa tinatawag kong sala ng aming bahay.

Kahit wala naman talagang mga silid sa bahay namin sapagkat walang mga pader na nagtatakda aling silid ang alin. Isang buong espasyo. Hindi naman sa maluwag ang loob ng bahay. Lagi na lang may sari-saring mga kahon, laruan, aparador, naluluma’t napapalitang sofa, ilan pang mga aparador, at mga mesang nakasabit sa dingding na nakausli sa kung saan-saang anggulo.

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Kaya parang may ruta-ruta din ang paglalakad sa loob nito. Kahit ang hagdang metal na butas-butas, inilagay sa bandang gitna kaya may mga bahagi pang kailangan yumuko para lang hindi maumpog. Ang pader, laging patse-patse ang pagkakapinta. Ganoon rin ang hagdang nakapuwesto sa sentro ng bahay. Itim subalit may sumisilip pa ring bahaging pula. Sa kisameng ginamitan ng kulay puting mga kahoy na waring canvass ng pintor (subalit hindi pa rin napinturahan), hanggang ngayon ay makikita pa rin ang hilera ng mga ulo ng mga pakong pumapaligid sa mga sulok nito, ang mga sukat na isinulat gamit ang lapis noong ikakabit pa lamang. Burador na pinili nang iwan. Kahit ang mga light bulb at lalagyan ng light bulb, para lang mga halamang gumapang palabas sa mga madidilim na butas sa kisame.

Maliwanag na maliwanag noong umagang iyon, kaya sigurado akong wala sa kisame ang mga detalyeng magtutulak sa kuwento. Subalit nariyan ang mga pader na walang pintura, o kung pininturahan ma’y hindi nasakop ang lahat. Eksena ng mga hindi matapos-tapos. Nahuli akong nailabas ang mga blade. Hindi ko alam kung gusto ko ba maglaro, o may paggagamitan ako kaya ko iyon ginawa. Hindi ko na matandaan kung alam ko nga bang mga blade ng cutter ang inilalabas ko. Hindi ko rin alam kung alam nasaan ang ibang mga tao sa bahay noon, kung bakit kaming dalawa lang ang naiwan sa eksena. Hindi ko siguro alam ang ginagawa ko, o plano kong gawin. Subalit nagsisigaw ang kasambahay naming hindi ko matandaan ang pangalan.

Ate Che? Ate Melanie? Basta nagsisigaw siya, o kung mas malinaw, kung pipilitin ko buuin ang kuwento, sinigawan niya ako. Sigaw na hindi naman talaga umusbong mula galit, kundi marahil nag-ugat sa pagkagulat at pagkabalisa. May hawak na blade ang bata. Narinig kaya ang mga sigaw kahit sa labas ng bahay? Tumalbog-talbog ba ang sigaw sa napakaraming ukauka at usli-usli ng bahay, lumusot ba ito sa mga butas sa kisame na kalahating nahaharangan ng light bulb, at pumili kaya ito ng mga pader na may pintura kaysa pader na wala? Sumisigaw siya. Na para bang may mali sa paglalabas ko ng isang bagay mula sa isang lalagyan.

Sa bahay namin uso lamang ang sigaw kapag tinatawag ang isa’t isa. Ganito na kaya noong lumipat ang nanay ko, ang tatay ko, at ang aking kuya, sa bahay na ito isang taon bago ako ipinanganak? Siguro hindi, dahil tatlo pa lamang sila. At hindi pa ipinapagawa noon ang ikalawang palapag. Ngayon, sapagkat mayroon na, at laging nagkukulong ang ikatlo sa aming apat na magkakapatid sa kanyang silid (siya lang ang may sariling silid ngayon), naging karaniwan na ang sigaw bilang paraan ng pakikipag-usap. Oy, kumain ka na! Bumaba ka nga dito!

Patty, nasaan yung earphones! Paabot naman ng tuwalya naiwan ko! Ayoko ang tamad mo!

Tigas ng ulo sabing kakain na! Kakain na nga talaga! May uwing Jollibee ngayon! Naririnig kaya kami ng kapitbahay? Dahil naririnig namin sila kapag sila ang nagsisigawan. Lalapit lang

kami sa bintana at dinig na dinig ko ang malulutong na murahan mula sa umuupa sa kuwarto sa kabilang bahay. Hindi ko lang alam paano naglalakbay ang tunog sa ere. Kung paano nito iniiwasan ang mga pasikut-sikot na mga sulok ng bahay, kung ano ang nangyayari pagdating sa tenga ng nakaririnig.

Basta iyan lang ang pakinggan mo kasi English! Ganyan sumigaw nang hindi sumisigaw ang nanay ko. Nahilig ako makinig ng musika sa lumang radyo na uwi pa nila galing sa Santolan kung saan galing ang nanay o sa Malate kung saan galing ang tatay. Nasanay na rin kasing walang paliwanag sa bahay namin. Hindi naman kailangan linawin saan nanggaling ang radyo, o ang cabinet, o ang telepono. Sasagot naman siguro sila kung magtatanong ako, subalit hindi na rin ako nasanay magtanong. Napatango na lang ako, at siguro kahit sa isang sulok ng isip ay naisip na English naman talaga ang gusto ko pakinggan. Pinihit ko ang radyo mula sa 97.1 papuntang 107.5, at pabalik sa kabilang dulo na 88.3. Parang nakasanayang siklo.

Naisaulo na ng aking mga daliri kung ilang pihit ba ang namamagitan sa mga estasyon na ito, at naisaulo na rin ng aking tenga ang mga komersyal ng bawat istasyon. Natatali ang aking isip sa tunog. Aabutin ako ng siyam-siyam kakapakinig sa radyo, kilala kahit ang mga DJ sa night shift na nagsisimula ng hatinggabi at magtatapos bandang alas-kwatro. Tumitigil lang ako tuwing dinadapuan na ng matinding antok, na minsan lang naman mangyari, o tuwing naririnig ko na may kumikilos sa ibang bahagi ng bahay. Madalas susundan ito ng paalala ng aking nanay na matulog na, laging mahina ang boses sa ganitong oras, subalit may puwersa.

Kahit kaila’y hindi ko siya narinig na sumigaw tuwing ganitong madaling-araw, at hindi ko man nakukutuban na gising pala siya. Na para bang nilihim ng buong bahay na may iba pa palang tao. Tahimik ang gabi.

Pagkagising, madalas radyo agad ang inaatupag ko. Subalit mga 12 o 13 o 14 taong gulang na ako noon. May posibilidad na mahigit-kumulang 10 taon na mula noong nailabas ko ang mga di-gamit na blade ng cutter. Makabubuo na ng sariling kasaysayan ang mga sigaw na narinig ko mula noon. Marahil nagtago na sa mga lungga ng bahay at bumuo ng mga pamilya. Pamilya ng mga sigaw. Sapat na siguro ang dekada. Sapagkat hindi ko rin naman makita sa mga palad ko na may bakas ng matitinding mga sugat, magpapatuloy lang ang siklo ng araw-araw. Na parang walang nangyari. Isang kuwento, na maaari kong ikuwento, ay naglabas ako ng mga blade ng cutter noong bata ako subalit hindi na iyon naaalala ng mga palad ko.

Walang nangyari.

Parang noong sumabit ang paa ng kuya ko sa mga yerong nakahanay sa labas ng bahay dahil madilim. Siguro, maaari na ring sabihin na hindi rin iyon nangyari. Wala nang

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ebidensiya sa katawan. Baka kahit kuya ko hindi na naaalala iyon. Nilalagyan ng katakottakot na dami ng betadine ng nanay ko ang sugat na bumubukal ng dugo sa kaniyang paa, at tila naghahanda na ang isip ko para sa mga nakagigimbal na tunog ng sakit at pagaray. Subalit walang dumating. Gusto kong sumigaw noon para sa kuya kong hindi man umiimik kahit pinapahiran na ng kulay-lupang bulak ang kaniyang sugat. Naramdaman kong kulang ang eksena. Sigurado ako na kung ako iyon ay nagsisigaw na, bagaman hindi pa yata ako marunong magmura noon. Sigaw lang siguro na walang salita. O sigaw na pinapatid bago maging sigaw. O kahit ano. Basta hindi katahimikan na tulad nang sa kuya ko.

Kaya noong kuyom-kuyom ko ang mga blade, kakatwa ngayon na wala ni isang salita na malapit sa salitang ‘sakit’ ang aking nagugunita.Kung tutuusin,maaari ko pa ngang malimot na cutter ng mga blade ang hawak ko. Kung wala lang akong ebidensiya, hindi ko man maaalala na blade ang pangunahing detalye sa kuwento. Bakit hindi gunting? O kaya kutsilyo? Sa totoo lang ay kalimot-limot na detalye ang mga blade ng cutter na nailabas ko sa isang lalagyan. Na maaaring nangyari rin noong mismong eksenang iyon. Nailabas ko na. Nahuli ako. Sinigawan ako. At nalimot ko na mga matatalim na blade ng cutter ang hawak ko.

Tuwing binabalikan ko ang mga eksenang alam kong naranasan ko, nabubutas sa kung saan-saang bahagi ang ganap. Parang mga video na nilagyan ng itim na kahon ang mata ng mga tao. Subalit hindi sa pagtata-

go, kundi dahil sa di-katiyakan. Ganito rin paminsan-minsan ang kumpas ng pagsensura. Imbis na magpakita ng di-katotohanan sapagkat hindi nga sigurado, ay mainam na lang hindi magpakita ng kahit ano. Para kahit walang naipakita ay wala namang pinakitang kasinungalingan. Naiiwan lamang ang mga buto. Ilang pirasong laman. Walang sugat.

Hubad na katotohanan. s

Sa harap ng tarangkahan ng garahe namin na dalawang kotseng magkatabi ang kasya ay ang malawak na parisukat na parking space. Matatantsang maliit na quadrangle ang sukat ng sementadong lugar na ito. Magkakasya ang flag ceremony ng isang maliit na paaralan. Subalit sa dami ng mga kotseng dumadagdag at nakikiparada ay nagiging ruta-ruta na rin kahit ang pag-ikot sa dapat maluwag na lote. Isang beses, nakisabay ako sa tatay ko sa umaga papuntang trabaho. Hindi makalabas nang maayos ang kotse mula sa garahe namin dahil nagkumpol-kumpol ang mga kotse sa parking. Hinanap ng tatay ko sa mga kapitbahay kung sino ang may-ari ng kotseng pinakabalahura sa kanilang lahat.

Pagkatapos maresolba ang problemang iyon, habang ilang beses niyang inuulit sabihin sa akin sa biyahe na kung takot ka magasgasan ‘e bumili ka ng bahay na may sariling garahe, na hindi ko alam kung suwerte ba o malas na kaya niyang sabihin at kaya kong paniwalaan, ay nasabi niya na Kaya ayaw na ng nanay mo tumira diyan ‘e. Walang nagbago sa tono niya.

Parehong tono lang sa tuwing magpapaabot siya ng ulam mula sa kabilang dulo ng mesa tuwing naghahapunan ang pamilya. Parehong tono lang kapag sinasabi niyang tawagin ko na si Patty na nagkukulong na naman sa kuwarto sa itaas. Ni isang beses hindi dumapo sa isip ko na may kahit isa na ayaw na doon sa amin. Ang nanay ko pa na laging may pinapagawa at pinakakarpintero sa bahay: bagong tarangkahan, bagong palapag, bagong divider, bagong bubong.

Dahil palagi na lang may nadadagdag, kahit madalas ay hindi naman talaga akma ang mga bagong pag-aarkitektura na naidadagdag, kakaibang atensyon tuloy ang napupukaw ng bahay namin kaiba sa lahat ng iba pang bahay sa Katamisan. Mahirap ipaliwanag sa mga bibisita ang hitsura ng bahay. May kung anu-anong mga salamin sa harap, maaaring tawaging mala-glasshouse kahit halata namang hindi nagagamit (katanggal-tanggal ang -house na bahagi), at may tarangkahan na may hindi karaniwang kulay – beige na may halong orange pero malapit pa rin sa krayola na flesh. Sira pa ang doorbell at may layo rin ang mismong bahay mula sa tarangkahan ng garahe. Tuwing umuuwi tuloy galing paaralan o trabaho ang isa sa aming magkakapatid, maliban sa pinakabata na nag-aaral pa sa hayskul at hinahatid pa ng service na may gumaganang busina, laging katakot-takot na pagkatok sa tarangkahan ang kailangan para lamang marinig ng mga tao sa loob at mapagbuksan. Iniisip kaya ng mga kapitbahay kung bakit wala kaming doorbell samantalang may bahagi ng bahay

namin na gawa naman sa salaming may tinta?

Iniisip kaya nila kung bakit pa doorbell ang pinagtipiran ng mag-anak na ito? Iniisip kaya nila bakit napakaingay ng mga nakatira dito?

Hindi ko maitatanong ang mga iyon kahit kanino. Huli akong nagkaroon ng kaibigan mula sa mga kapitbahay, umiinom pa ako ng gatas mula sa boteng may tsupon.

Jayjay ang pangalan ng kapitbahay, anak ni Aling Minyang at Pangan. Naaalala ko ito dahil bukambibig ito ng kasambahay namin noon na si Nana. Tuwing ayaw ko raw uminom ng gatas, idinadahilan ko na bote iyon ni Jayjay. Kaya may basag. Kaya may mga tape na nakabalot. Sumpong lang iyon malamang ng isang bata. Sigurado ako sa detalyeng ito dahil hindi ko naman naaalalang magsinungaling si Nana. Isang beses lang siguro. Naikuwento ko sa kaniya na masarap ang binebenta na barbecue sa paaralan namin, P10 bawat piraso, at napakatingkad ng lasa dahil maraming sarsa.

Nag-alok akong bilhan siya at nagdala ako ng maliliit na plastik noong araw na iyon. Bumili ako ng dalawang pirasong barbecue gamit ang buong P20 na baon ko, at inilagay sila sa plastik. Paglalagay ng bagay sa isang lalagyan.

Subalit hindi ko alam bakit sa mura kong isip ay pinroblema ko na maaaring pumutok ang plastik sa baunan ko at magmantsa ang sarsa.

Kaya sinipsip ko ang sarsa bago ibuhol ang dulo ng plastic. Hanggang sa puntong walang matatapon kahit pumutok ang plastik sa loob ng baunan. Inalok ko pagkauwi ang barbecue kay Nana. Masarap, sabi niya.

Matagal ding nakitira si Nana sa ba-

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hay namin. Subalit hindi na niya naabutan ang karamihan ng pagbabago. Isang Pasko ay umuwi siya sa Bicol at hindi na nagbalik. Hindi na malinaw sa akin ang mukha niya, at tuluyan ko nang nalimot ang boses niya. Mga taon ang daraan at makikilala ko rin ang pagdaan nina Ate Che, Ate Melanie, Ate She. Lahat sila, nakikilala ko pa ang mukha subalit may kahirapan na sa pag-alala ng mga boses. Ang boses ba ang pinakamahirap maalala tungkol sa mga taong hindi matagal nakasama? Ang tunog ba ang unang namamatay? Subalit malinaw pa sa akin ang tunog ng paghampas ng patpat na kahoy na pangamot sa likod (tinatawag namin ng kuya ko na “kamay-kamayan� sapagkat may kamay na nakaukit) sa aming balat tuwing ginagalit namin si Nana. Nasusukat sa lakas ng tunog ang antas ng sakit kaysa sa bakas na maiiwan sa balat. Takot kami sa kamay-kamayan ni Nana sa parehong paraan na takot kami sa sinturon ng tatay. Tunog pa lang ay mahapdi na.

Hindi na makadadama ng ganitong espisipikong takot ang mga mas bata kong kapatid sapagkat hindi na ginawang pamparusa ng tatay ko ang sinturon. Umalis na rin si Nana.

Kakatwa nga ay halos hindi na nagpaparusa ang tatay at napasa na ang responsibilidad sa nanay. Subalit sa halip na gumamit ang nanay ng alinmang instrumento ay boses lamang ang ginagamit niya. Magsisimula lang siya, huwag kang magdadabog-dabog sa pamamahay na ‘to, kundi makakatikim ka na talaga. Habang hindi tinitingnan sa mata ang may-kasalanan.

Habang may ibang ginagawa. Sumisimangot saka natatakot na agad ang mga kapatid ko. Na para bang nakaririnding tunog ang boses na nagpapaalala na magkaroon ng utang na loob.

Habang ako naman ang nanonood. Naririnig kaya kami ng kapitbahay, naiisip ko. Mistulang gusto ilagay sa mute ang palabas. Hindi dahil wala akong pakialam kundi dahil may kung ano sa loob ko na nagiging kasimbigat ng sako ng mga bato.

Pagkatapos ng ganoong klaseng alitan ay magpapatuloy ang lahat na parang walang nangyari. Walang ebidensiya. Maya-maya’y matutulog ang nanay ko sa sala, subalit bago siya matulog, si tatay naman ang naroon at nanonood ng mga pelikula sa telebisyon. Pinapanood kahit ilang beses na umulit ang mga palabas. Nakakabisado na ang mga linya sa Men in

Black at The Matrix. Nakakailang nga lang minsan tuwing masyadong malakas ang volume ng kanyang pinapanood. Kahit nasa banyo ako na lagpas pa ng hagdan at ilang metro ang layo sa sala ay naririnig ko pa rin ang mga pagsabog at pagbabarilan. Dahilan kung bakit minsan ay galit-galit na rin ang pagkatok sa tarangkahan ng sinumang kauuwi lang. Wala kasing makarinig. Mauuwi pa minsan sa pagtawag sa cellphone ng sinumang nasa bahay para maipagbukas at makapasok.

Isang beses, galing sa mahaba-habang commute pauwi dahil maraming hukay na ginagawa sa Imelda Avenue, mainit ang ulo ko habang kumakatok sa tarangkahan. Walang nakakarinig. Tinawagan ko si Patty, sumagot siya, at sinabi kong ipagbukas naman ako ng gate. Ngumawa siya, sabay sabi sa akin, may mga tao naman daw sa baba. Inis na inis ang tono.

Hindi naman ako tatawag kung naririnig ako ng mga tao sa baba. Hindi naman ako hihingi ng pabor kung kaya ko namang solusyonan nang walang tulong ng iba. Subalit wala akong pinaliwanag sa kaniya. Minura ko lang siya. Hindi kami nag-usap ng halos isang linggo, at sinadya kong hindi kami magsabay ng pagcommute kahit pareho lang kami ng pinupuntahan.

Minsan, umaalis ako labinlimang minuto lamang bago o pagkatapos siya umalis. Para lang hindi kami magkita at magkausap. Malamang sa malamang, ako pa ang pinagalitan ng nanay ko. Sumagot lang ako, wala akong pakialam, maghanap siya ng kasabay niyang magcommute.

Ayaw na ayaw kong nagsasayang ng oras sa tao.

Ganyan na ganyan din ang paratang ng tatay ko sa mga kapitbahay na ayaw tumulong sa paglalagay ng sistema sa parking sa Katamisan. Isang meeting lang naman daw ay kaya nang ayusin lahat iyan. Wala naman daw mapapala sa pagmamatigas. Wala akong masabi kundi Oo nga ‘e. Hindi na kasi ako sanay makipag-usap sa kanya. Suwerte na ang pag-uusap na tumatagal lagpas ng tatlong pagpapalitan ng tanong at sagot. Bilang na bilang ko pa ang mahahaba naming usapan sa nakaraang mga taon. Siguro, isa o dalawang mahabang usapan bawat taon. Lahat tuwing sumasabay ako sa kaniya sa kotse sa umaga o sa biyahe pauwi. Minsang kinumusta niya ang laro ng paborito kong kupunan sa basketball dahil iyon din daw ang bukambibig ng mga

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kaopisina niyang mas bata sa kanya. Minsang nagpaliwanag siya tungkol sa pag-iingat sa pagmamaneho dahil nabangga na naman ng kuya ko ang kotse sa pang-ilang pagkakataon.

Minsang ipinaliwanag niya ang uri ng mga taong nakakausap niya sa trabaho, minsang ibinahagi niya ang mga kuwento ng dayuhang galing India na bumibisita sa opisina nila dahil ipinadala ng sister company. Siya kasi ang natokang ihatid pauwi araw-araw ang bisita sa hotel na tinutuluyan dahil madadaanan naman niya iyon sa ruta papuntang bahay namin. Nasabi ko pang minsan subalit iyan na yata ang lahat ng pinag-usapan namin sa nakaraang limang taon.

Lahat ng balita ko tungkol sa tatay, naririnig ko sa mga pakikipag-usap niya kay nanay tuwing almusal sa umaga.

Habang pinag-uusapan nila ang mga bagong ipapagawa sa bahay. O kaya sa pangungulit niya sa mga kapatid kong babae pag-uwi. Sa kaunting mga pagkakataon na nakararating siya sa bahay bago mag-alas-otso, nasasabayan niya pa kasi ang mga ito sa hapunan.

Samantalang ako, nagkukunwaring may ibang ginagawa, at hindi man tumitingin sa eksena.

Kunwari’y nanonood ng palabas sa telebisyon.

Kapag nararamdaman ko nang patapos na siya kumain, pasimple ko nang inililipat ang channel mula sa basketball na pinapanood ko patungo sa channel na puro mga pelikula.

Pasimpleng mag-uunat, pasimpleng hihikab.

Pagtatanghal. Inaantok na ako, akyat na ako.

Maaga ako bukas, pagising na lang ng mga 5.

Ilang beses na akong nagkakabangu-

ngot ng magkahalong aksyon at drama. Sa gitna ng mga katha-kathang alitan sa mga tao sa panaginip, bigla na lang may magbabarilan.

Hindi ko maalala kung may mga namamatay.

Saka biglang may sasabog. Hindi mahalaga ang ibang mga detalye. s

Ginawang main road ng mga sasakyan ang “village” namin, kahit hindi naman talaga dapat ganito. Dalawang lane lang kasi ang mayroon at puro traysikel pa ang dumadaan.

Tuwing rush hour, ginagawa kaming shortcut ng mga sasakyang ayaw umikot hanggang Antipolo Junction o Sta. Lucia (kahabaan ng Imelda Avenue) papuntang Ligaya o Rosario (kahabaan ng E. Amang Rodriguez Avenue).

Sa amin madalas dumaan kung mula sa Ortigas ay gustong pumunta ng Marcos Highway o kabaligtaran dahil naiiwasan ang napakabagal na usad ng mga kotse sa bandang Junction at sa may Rosario. Kumbaga, dadaan na lamang sa pasikot-sikot na ruta’t sulok ng Karangalan Village imbis na tiisin ang ayaw tiisin. May parikala doon na hindi ko matumbok.

Tuwing rush hour, aabutin ng higit na apatnapung minuto ang pagbiyahe pa lang palabas ng village kung kotse ang gagamitin.

Dalawampung minuto naman kung traysikel.

Mas mabilis ito nang kaunti dahil eksperto na ang mga traysikel sa amin pagdating sa sining ng counterflow. Kung kailan haharurot sa kabilang lane at kung kailan lulusot sa pagitan ng dalawang kotseng nag-iwan ng puwang.

Nakakaasiwa lamang ito dahil napakahirap na rin makahanap ng traysikel na walang laman sa ganitong oras. Nakakaasiwa sapagkat kung lalakarin, kung tutuusin, ay kaunting dagdag lang sa sampung minuto ang buong biyahe. Nakakaasiwa, higit sa lahat, dahil nakakaengganyo naman talagang maglakad na lamang. Subalit walang malalakaran. Hindi kasi natapos ang pagsemento at pag-ayos ng mga bangketa. Kung maglalakad sa kalye kung saan paparating ang mga kotse (upang makita man lamang kung may paparating) ay hindi rin ligtas dahil sa mga traysikel na may sariling mga batas pagdating sa counterflow.

Idagdag pa sa dami ng mga sasakyang nakikiraan ay ang dala nilang mga ulap ng usok at walang-patumanggang pagbubusina.

Kung kailangan maglakad ay kakayahin naman, subalit mainam na lang ding iwasan.

Tuwing ginagabi naman ako nang husto sa pag-uwi, ilang patak na lang at hatinggabi na, ay hindi aabot ng limang minuto sa de-padyak na pedicab ang biyahe mula kahit aling dulo ng village naming main road papunta sa bahay. Sa totoo lang, ang mahahaba kong biyahe ay palaging dahil sa trapik at hindi naman talaga sa distansiya. Ano kaya ang pakiramdam ng malayo ang inuuwian?

Marahil nakakabagot. Nauubos siguro ang lahat ng puwedeng isipin. Halimbawa, ano kaya ang mga iniisip ni Nana noong huling beses siyang umuwi patungong Bicol? Ilang oras kaya siya nasa biyahe? Ilang bus kaya ang sinakyan niya? Hindi ko masasagot dahil hindi ko alam kung saang banda siya nakatira

sa Bicol. Hindi ko siya matatanong. Hindi ko rin alam ang tunay niyang pangalan. Hindi ako mahusay pagdating sa mga detalye. Bagay na hindi ko matanggap, dahil gusto kong maalala ang lahat. Dahil ang mga naaalala ko, mga eksenang pakiramdam ko hindi naman mahalaga.

Isang beses may nabasag na pinggan, gabi na, natutulog na ang lahat, may kasambahay yata kami noong panahong iyon na nakasabay sa pamamasukan si Nana nang ilang buwan. Walang ibang detalye sa kuwento kundi ang pagtatanong ng nanay ko sa Ate, o pagpupuna ba, hindi ko maalala, na O nagpaparamdam yata si Nana. Wala na si Nana noon, hindi na bumalik. Hindi ko rin lubos na maintindihan, siguro dahil bata pa lang ako noon. Bakit naman hindi na siya babalik? Nag-aaway kami bilang alaga at tagaalaga, subalit wala naman yatang nangyari na hidwaan na maaaring maging dahilan ng hindi niya pagbalik. Sabi lang nila sa akin ay naligo sa ilog, nagkasakit, tapos namatay.

Paano naman namatay dahil sa pagligo sa ilog? Sino nang magbibigay sa akin ng regalo sa Pasko maliban sa nanay at tatay? Paanong hindi na babalik? Anong ibig sabihin nu’n?

Hindi ko na siya mareregaluhan sa birthday niya? Wala na kaming pagtataguan ng kuya tuwing nilalabas ang kamay-kamayan? Wala na akong ninang? Paanong hindi na babalik?

Mas matanda sa akin ang bahay namin, kaya mas may kakayahan siguro itong sumagot. Kung marunong lang din itong makinig, marahil mas marami pa itong alam

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sa mga tumira dito kaysa sa akin. Kung saang eksaktong puwesto kami huling nag-usap ni Nana, iyon na ba ang eksaktong puwesto kung saan ako umuupo tuwing nanonood sa sala?

Kung saang sulok kami pinahaharap sa pader at inihahanda ang sarili para sa sinturon, iyon na ba ang eksaktong puwesto kung saan kami naghuhugas ng pinggan ngayon? Ilang beses na naghunos at naglantad ang materyal ng bahay na ito. Ano kaya ang maibubulong ng mga bato? Kung tutuusin, ang tanging lamang ko ay nakakaalis ako at nakakabalik. Hindi lang ang partikular na loteng kinatatayuan nito sa Katamisan ang alam ko. Hindi lang ang main road naming Karangalan Village. Hindi lang ang maraming posibleng ruta mula Ortigas patungong Marcos Highway. Marami akong alam.

Hindi lang ang alaala ng madaldal pang tatay. Hindi lang ang alaala ng mga aparador na natuklasang inaanay kaya kinailangang baklasin at itapon. Hindi lang ang pagsalakay ng kampon ng mga ipis mula sa naiwang butas ng kanal noong nilipat sa bagong puwesto ang lababo. Hindi lang ang buwan. Hindi lang ang una naming sasakyan, puting Wrangler na Jeep na may gulong na kasinglaki ng sa maliit na trak, na ibinenta kina Pangan at Aling Minyang. Hindi lang ang mga isda sa aquarium na namatay dahil nalason ng buhangin mula sa konstraksyon at pagkakarpintero. Hindi lang ang pagpangalan ko ng “Oda� sa instrumental na kantang naisulat isang Pasko habang naaalala si Nana kahit hindi naman talaga mahusay maggitara. Hindi lang ang mahigit sampung taon na ang almusal ay champorado na may kahalong Ovaltine na tinatawag pa rin namin ni kuya na Milo. Hindi lang ang araw-araw na pagkahuli sa morning assembly sa paaralan noong sinusubok pa akong ihatid araw-araw noong elementarya. Hindi lang ang pagtawag sa akin ng nanay ko bilang makasarili sa isang liham sa aming retreat noong 4th year high school, dahil hindi raw ako katulad ng mga contestant sa mga noontime show na umiiyak habang idinedeklara sa telebisyon na ginagawa nila ang anumang ginagawa nila dahil mahal nila ang magulang nila.

Sa isip ko may biyahe. Kasing-bilis lamang ng biyahe pauwi kapag walang ibang kotse sa daan at walang pagkakataong madisgrasya. Mabilis pa sa pagkakataong sumasakay ako ng taxi pauwi alas-tres na ng umaga kung kailan nararamdaman ng nagmamaneho ng taxi na kailangan niyang masulit ang kalayaan sa bilis ng pagpapatakbo. Na para bang hinahabol ng sarili niyang anino. Kung hindi ngayon magpapatakbo ng sandaang kilometro bawat oras, kailan? Kung kailan hindi na puwede? Subalit sa isip ko, ang biyahe walang patutunguhan.

Ilang bilang lamang. Mula sa isang di-matukoy na pinanggalingan patungo sa isang di-matukoy na paroroonan. Basta makagalaw, basta kailangan makita ng iba na may gumagalaw. Basta umabot sa kanila kahit ang isang pangitain, isang imahe. Mabilis lang. Pabilis nang pabilis ang takbo. At saktong hihinto sa sandali bago magsimulang kumapos ang hininga.

Sa tunay na biyahe, lagi na akong nakakapit sa makakapitan. Minsan napapadpad ako

pauwi mula sa bahagi ng Marikina na malapit sa Nangka. Ang pagsakay ng mga jeep dito na Montalban-Cubao ang ruta, talagang nakalalagot ng hininga. Habang binabaybay ang Concepcion, sa bilis ng pagpapatakbo ay mas karaniwang isipin Bakit wala pang namamatay dito. O kaya Bakit wala pang nababalitang aksidente dito. Dahil talagang nagkakarera ang mga jeep, nag-uunahan, nagpapatugtog ng musikang metal, at nagiging hari ng daan. May dalawang lane lamang. Napapahigpit ang hawak ko. Gusto ko na kapag tumilapon ang jeep ay handa ako. Pagbaba ko sa bandang Sta. Lucia, tahimik na ang 5-minutong jeep at 5-minutong pedicab na de-padyak pauwi. Nagpapahinga ang kapit kahit papaano. Napabibitaw.

Isang beses galing inuman, alas-kuwatro na ng umaga, hindi ko maalala ang eksaktong ginawa ko para makauwi. Hindi ko maalala kung nagtaxi ako, kung nag-jeep ako, kung hinatid ako, o kung nagbayad man ako kung sakaling nag-commute nga. Kumatok ako sa tarangkahan.

Hindi ko maalala anong araw – basta hindi puwedeng Biyernes o Sabado. Katok ako nang katok. Pinagbuksan ako ng nanay ko. Hindi ako makatingin sa kaniya nang diretso dahil matindi pa ang pagkalango at ayaw kong maamoy niya ang alak mula sa hininga. Para namang hindi niya maaamoy. Anak ka ng tatay mo! Nakita mo nang may pasok na ‘yung mga kapatid mo tapos gigising na ko maya-maya pinupuyat-puyat mo ko! E ikaw kaya maghanda ng almusal at lahat! Pagkatapos ng lahat iyon ay sinampal niya ako. At napabulong lang ako nang Sorry, Sorry, Sorry. Dumiretso ako paakyat. Inilatag ang sofa bed na hinihigaan. Pagkalagay ng kobre-kama, lumupasay. Kinuha ko ang cellphone, at sinimulang i-text ang mga ka-inuman ko. Oy, nakauwi na ako sana kayo rin. Napaisip saglit. Sinampal pala ako ng nanay ko. Natawa ako. Literal na natawa. Natawa nang natawa habang sumusuko na ang katawan sa pagod at alak. Kuyom-kuyom nang mahigpit ang cellphone. Nasampal pala ako, ha-ha-ha. Hindi ko na napindot ang send.

Bihasa na ako sa matinding pagkapit. Halimbawa, kapag may bitbit akong payong habang nakasabit sa jeep. Bawal mahulog ang payong dahil marami na akong nawalang payong at bawal din naman mahulog mula sa jeep. Kapag hawak ang walis at may papataying ipis. Sa bahay, ako ang laging inaasahan sa ganitong tungkulin. O kaya, noong hawak naming maigi ng kuya ang malaking kahoy habang nilalagari ito ng tatay gamit ang electric jigsaw.

Nangarap kami noong bumuo ng homemade na telescope dahil masyado raw mahal bumili ng gawa na. Nagpa-ship pa ang tatay mula sa ibang bansa ng telescope lens na mas malaki sa kahit anong plato. Subalit maraming paglalagari ang kailangan, at magmamanhid ang mga kamay namin noon ng kuya pagkatapos siguraduhing hindi gagalaw ang kahoy. Upang diretso ang paglalagari. Hindi naman masakit dahil wala namang nararamdaman. Na wala naman talagang kaso sa amin dahil nakita namin sa telescope ang pisngi ng buwan na kasing-laki ng platito, tadtad ng mga butas. May nangyari naman noon, at may napala naman kami.

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May nangyari na kahit papaano’y katulad noong pahigpit nang pahigpit ang pagkuyom ko sa mga cutter ng blade noong sinisigawan ako. Blangko. Naririnig ko naman kasi siya. Oo, naririnig ko talaga siya, hindi niya na kailangan sumigaw. Hindi pa ganoon kalaki ang bahay noon. Pareho naman kaming nasa sala. Hindi lalagpas sa dalawang metro ang layo namin.

Maaabot niya ako kung hahakbang lamang siya ng dalawang beses. Malinaw na malinaw sa alaala ko na naririnig ko siya. Noong binitawan ko na ang mga blade, at mistulang himala na hindi ko napansin, naliligo na ang mga palad ko sa dugo. Napakaraming dugo. Hindi ko yata nakilala ang sariling mga kamay. Kaya napaiyak ako lalo. Matindi-tinding iyak. Siguro, upang marinig. At natatakot sigurong isipin ng kahit sino na hindi ako nakikinig.

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A B O U T T H E AUT H OR

Nagtapos si Paolo Tiausas ng BFA Creative Writing sa Pamantasang Ateneo de Manila noong 2013. Naging fellow siya sa tula ng 14th IYAS National Writers Workshop, sa 11th Ateneo National Writers Workshop, at sa 16th Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop. Nailathala na ang kanyang mga akda sa Kritika Kultura, Softblow, transit, at Heights. Maliban sa pag-aaral ng MA sa Art Studies sa University of the Philippines Diliman, kasalukuyan siyang nagtuturo sa Fine Arts Program ng ADMU.

PLURAL

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ISSUE 4

FEB 2016

LIGHT: notes towards a criticism

essay by

Dennis Andrew S. Aguinaldo four

D— It is disingenuous to weigh in on a wordless comic with words.

A— It is uncharitable for any book to resist a verbal review.

Rob Cham’s Light takes its reader along on a quest using a playful design and vivid graphic sequence. Beautiful, but that’s beside the point. Maybe Manix Abrera has already implied whatever was necessary about the book: that it is to be dreamt, that it might as well be a dream one could dream to the end. I hesitate to shelve it among works that aren’t meant to mean a meaning. Still: how it aspires to such liberties, to security against being asked questions. s So what For whom How else s My wife, pregnant with our third, sat on the floor of the bookstore after being allowed to list children’s books along the given categories in her notebook: biography, fantasy, historical fiction, novelette, play, poetry, wordless, etc.

How easily she got that permission. Could be her charm at work, or because she was pregnant.

Maybe the request wasn’t as strange as I thought it was. Or this was a place where the keepers were kind or simply tired.

About decade and a half before this, I went to the grocery to copy the prices of baby milk formula according to brand. I was doing this for my thesis, but a security guard came and told me to stop. Later, I would find that the same milk company would have two different lines of formula products running parallel along the same age groups. One line is about twice the cost of the other, its ads primarily in English, broadcasting the figure and feats of “the gifted child”.

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As for the company’s cheaper line, you get significantly less nutrients for the brain while its ad would have you following a boy running outdoors with mock war paint on his face. White and blue, “batang may laban”. s Dep Ed’s K to 12 program insists on two terms for the same thing: “track” and “strand”. s My wife sat on the strip of tiles between the shelves as I dictated the details of Light. Quezon City. Anino, imprint of Adarna. One hundred sixteen pages.

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It has no words, but there are a couple of balloons with punctuation marks. It’s mainly black (“here, look!”), and a white child-like figure goes on an adventure in this pitch-black world armed with a knapsack, a sword, a torch, and a plan. The objective is to collect gems: each gem comes in a different shape and color, illuminating its own corner of the world while being guarded by various threats.

This italicized paragraph contains spoilers: The kid chances upon a partner, wordless too but darkskinned. In this quest, they goad, evade, or slay monsters. One had its eyes pierced by the sword.

Sometimes, they make new friends over a barbecued monster. One enemy overpowers them, inspects their plans, and decides to help. Something of a mentor, but maybe it’s only because of the seeming age difference. Anyway, the mentor eventually diminishes in value, gets excluded in the last movement as the kids climb to the surface with the pearl—the white and magical combination of the gems. It causes an explosion of light that spreads across the world finally imbues the remaining pages with color. s Light costs 250 pesos. Adarna costs... Hello cashiers, promo girls, waiters, children roaming the parking lot outside! Hi, happy shoppers! Who remembers the cost of Adarna?

Raise your hand. s

D— She could have asked if it was poetry or prose.

A— It’s prose.

D— Was it any good?

A— I’m not sure. s Management? Authors? Anybody?

Clue: Septembers. s Then maybe it’s a good book, like the other times when I didn’t bother to be sure. Rob Cham wrote on his blog that the “idea [he] had for it was that this would be the cover for [his] videogame idea: You’ve landed in the middle of a dark forest void of light with only your torch and a sword to make your way through it. It’s set in complete darkness so you only ever see what your torch shines upon. The forest has this crazy weird biology that makes everything just reflect and change color constantly in this beautiful psychedelic way.

You encounter these animals that sort of blend into the dark as your enemies. You make your way through the dark forest looking for items that could help you find your way out.

This recalls a couplet in Jose Garcia Villa’s most memorable sonnet:

[italics mine] s Track or strand I: Let’s not call it eye-candy naman, not yet, anyway. Let’s have it out over coffee muna and yeah, quite the arresting little bitch. Almost anti-intellectual kaya! But, bro, the way it’s laid out. Kapal ni Imee no? It’s better at that place, accommodating si barista.

Sweet ‘yung name ko pag sa lips niya. It’s a great idea for a gift, black of November then colors

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of December: so very Christmas. But this is like two coffees. Though fierce si manong guard ha. Fine, concede na ‘ko, babe. Pero nakaka-demean talaga kung “eye-candy.”

Track or strand II: A dirty little fist knocks lightly on the glass wall of the favorite place, which is also what makes it a favorite place. It’s only half as dreamy as the other places. s I’m not sure if this uncertainty means that it’s better than those other times with those other books. Or if it’s worse than those moments when I understood the value of what I held.

My wife could have raised a question while sitting on that floor, after my quick annotation of Light, resting between the demands of her catalogue and the kicks of our child. “Were you sure about me the moment you saw me?”

It would’ve been awkward to answer the way I usually answered which was yes, I was sure, in particular the lust part of it. That was instantaneous.

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She did not ask though, it was perhaps the last thing on her mind at the moment, and that’s okay because I had nothing other than what had been—up until that point—my best and most honest answer. Something that had always been good for a giggle. s D— While uncharitable, it is a service to resist the verbal.

A— Blankness becomes “absence of print” after you dismiss the feel of the eye straining.

The protagonist of Light approaches the full-colored world one color at a time, from obscurity to illumination, with a little help from his friends. This process involved vision, certainty, and—for all its endearing qualities—was not bloodless. For his essay “Lewis Carroll,” Louis Zukofsky began with this report: “When asked whether ‘The Hunting of the Snark’ was a political satire, Carroll had but one answer, ‘I don’t know.’”

__________________________ References: Cham, Rob. “Light.” Rob Cham! Web. Accessed 11 Oct. 2015. <http://robcham.me/post/31920810824/light-this-is-my-piece-for-bloom-arts-festival>.

Villa, Jose. “The Emperor’s New Sonnet.” Doveglion: Collected Poems. New York: Penguin, 2008. 182. Print.

Zukofsky, Louis. “Lewis Carroll.” Prepositions: The Collected Critical Essays of Louis Zukofsky. Expanded ed. Berkeley: U of California, 1981. 65. Print.

A B O UT T H E AUT H OR

Dennis Andrew S. Aguinaldo works at the Department of Humanities of the University of the Philippines Los BaĂąos. He received creative writing fellowships from the University of the Philippines, University of Santo Tomas, De La Salle-IYAS, and Ateneo. The first parts of his nobâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;dis series was carried by The Cabinet. Other poems have been carried by hal., Transit, and the Sunday Times Magazine. His prose appears in High Chair, Kritika Kultura, and in a previous issue of Plural.

EDITORIAL TEAM

CARLO FLORDELIZA Jose Carlo C. Flordeliza received his Bachelor of Arts in Literature and Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing degrees from De La Salle University-Manila.

He was a fellow of the Iyas Creative Writing Workshop in 2008 and the Silliman University National Writer’s Workshop in 2010. His works have appeared in the Malate Literary Folio, Ideya: Journal of Humanities, the Philippine Free Press, and the Philippines Graphic. He has also been anthologized in A Treat of Short Shorts and the Iyas Anthology. He is currently completing his first collection of short stories while revising his first novel.

ERIKA CARREON Erika M. Carreon is currently working on her thesis as a Creative Writing masters student at De La Salle University-Manila, where she also graduated with a bachelor’s degree in Literature. Her poetry was featured in Philippines Free Press and High Chair Issue 15, and her short story “Two” was published in Kritika Kultura’s 23rd issue.

NEOBIE GONZALEZ Neobie Gonzalez is a student at De La Salle University–Manila, taking up her Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing. Her works have appeared in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Broke Journal, Used Gravitrons, and New Slang. Her essay Voices from the Village (2013) won a Carlos Palanca Memorial Award for Literature. She is currently crafting her own collection of fiction, perhaps a few memoirs, and an igloo to stay in.

LYSTRA ARANAL Lystra Aranal is an MFA Creative Writing student at De La Salle University-Manila and is the 2012-2013 Fiction Fellow for the DLSU CLA-RAS and BNSCWC Mini-Grant Recipient for Creative Writing. Her fiction, essay, and poetry have been published in the Philippines Free Press, TAYO Literary Magazine, Esquire Philippines, and other contemporary Philippine anthologies. Her short stories Bright Lights (2012), Rén (2013), and her one-act play Debrief (2013) won her three Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.

She is in the process of completing a collection of short stories.

WINA PUANGCO Wina Puangco is a young, relatively unknown fictionist and zine maker. She was Prose Editor for Malate Literary Folio in 2010 and won a De LaSalle University Literary Award (Short Story) in 2012. She has been previously published in Stache Magazine, Driftwood Press, and Plural Online Prose Journal.

Her series of short stories, “Science Lessons” is going to appear in TAYO Literary Magazine‘s 5th Anniversary Issue this coming April. She also manages MoarBooks, a tiny independent press.

ERICH VELASCO Erich Velasco is a writer and graphic artist currently pursuing his Masteral Degree for Creative Writing at De La Salle University-Manila. Some of his works have been published in Malate Literary Folio. He is currently in the process of writing.

JULY AMARILLO July Amarillo is an essay collection away from completing her MFA degree in Creative Writing at De La Salle University-Manila. She’s also a layout designer whose most recent works include zines, online journals, and poetry books.

PLURAL is looking for new writing, particularly fiction, nonfiction, and literary criticism. We welcome original and previously unpublished manuscripts ranging from short stories to novel excerpts.

Visit our website to learn more about our submission guidelines.

Our second issue is also available for download from there in .pdf, .mobi, and .epub formats.

To know more about what kind of work PLURAL is interested in, check out our blog for book reviews and blog posts by PLURAL editors.

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