T

THE WAY WE LIVE

Gahasa

"Gahasa" ni Joi Barrios

Ihanda ang mga ebidensya

Eksibit blg.1: baril
o kahit na anong sandata
patunay ng pagbabanta

Eksibit blg.2: panti na may mantsa
patunay ng kabirhenan ng dalaga

Eksibit blg.3: sertipikasyon ng doktor
Patunay na--
a: sapilitan
b: lubusan
ang pagpasok ng ari

Eksibit blg.4: sertipikasyon ng pagkatao
patunay ng hindi pagiging puta

Ipasok sa hukuman ang nasasakdal
Iharap sa hukuman ang nagsasakdal
Simulan ang panggagahasa

ambon ulan baha by Frank Rivera

Ambon,Ulan, Baha By: Frank Rivera

AMBON ULAN BAHA” is a two-hour ethno-rock modern zarzuela that showcases twenty original musical scores inspired by kundiman, balitaw, ethnic and modern musical trends with choreography based on ethnic, folk/traditional and creative dances

 

An original production of the celebrated Mindanao State University –Sining Kambayoka ( founded by Theater Artist Frank G. Rivera ) in 1978, “ Ambom…” was remounted by Teatro Metropolitano through NCCA Grant in 1992, also at the helm of Rivera.

This long –time running musical which predicted the Ormoc tragedy in 1991, highlights environmental concerns and focuses on the preservation of Philippine forests. It also deals heavily on Filipino values, the importance of education, religion, family and youth. It also carries relevant commentaries on socio-economic and political issues of the times. It aims to educate its audiences especially the youth about issues of urgent and national importance To – date, ARNAI’s “ Ambon, Ulan, Baha” has been sponsored by several organizations and institutions and has seen more than 500 performances. The zarzuela’s success in depicting the Filipino lives after almost three decades after it was first staged, proved its timelessness and its relevance to the evolutions of Philippine Theater.

Its music, inspired by folk/traditional songs like balitaw and kundiman, formerly considered provincial “ bakya “ , and unsophisticated as compared to “mainstream” of legitimate theater, proved to be good venue for improvisation and fusion, thus exploring and experimenting for new forms.

Its dances: a fusion of folk/traditional, modern and creative movements showcase creative interpretation of the play’s songs and scene.

SSino ang baliw

SINO ANG BALIW

Ang natutuwang baliw yaman ay pinagyabang
Dahil ari niya raw ang araw pati ang buwan
May isang sa yaman ay salapi ang hinihigan
Ngunit ang gintong baul panay kasalanan ang laman

Sinasambit ng baliw awit na walang laman
Ulo mo'y maiiling tatawagin mong hangal
May isang hindi baliw, iba ang awit na alam
Buong araw kung magdasal, sinungaling rin naman

Sinong dakila
Sino ang tunay na baliw
Sinong mapalad
Sinong tumatawag ng habag
Yaon bang sinilang na ang pag-iisip ay kapos

Ang kanyang tanging suot ay sira-sirang damit
Na nakikiramay sa isip niyang punit-punit
May binatang ang gayak panay diyamante at hiyas
Ngunit oras maghubad kulay ahas ang balat

Sinong dakila
Sino ang tunay na baliw
Sinong mapalad
Sinong tumatawag ng habag
Yaon bang sinilang na ang pag-iisip ay kapos

Ooh.....Ahh.......

Sa kanyang kilos at galaw tayo ay naaaliw
Sa ating mga mata isa lamang siyang baliw
Ngunit kung tayo ay hahatulang sabay
Sa mata ng Maykapal, siya'y higit na banal

Sinong dakila
Sino ang tunay na baliw
Sinong mapalad
Sinong tumatawag ng habag
Yaon bang sinilang na ang pag-iisip ay kapos

Kaya't sino, sino, sino nga
Sino nga ba
Sino nga ba
Sino nga ba ang tunay na baliw

http://www.allthelyrics.com/lyrics/kuh_ledesma/sino_ang_baliw-lyrics-1195981.htm

another invitation to people to visit tondo

ANOTHER INVITATION TO THE POPE TO VISIT TONDO

ANOTHER INVITATION TO THE POPE TO VISIT TONDO (EmManuel TorRes)
Next time your Holiness slums through our lives,
we will try to make our poverty exemplary.
The best is a typhoon month. It never fails
To find us, like charity, knocking on
all sides of the rough arrangements we thrive in.
Mud shall be plenty for the feet of the pious.

We will show uoi how we pull things together
from nowhere, life after life,
prosper with children, whom you love. To be sure,
we shall have more for you to love.

We will show you where the sun leaks on
our sleep,
on the dailiness of piece meals and wages
with their habit of slipping away
from fists that have holes for pockets.

We will show you our latest child with a sore
that never sleeps. When he cries,
the dogs of the afternoon bark without stopping,
and evening darkens early on the mats.

Stay for supper of turnips on our table
since 1946 swollen with the same hard tears.
The buntings over our one and only window
shall welcome a short breeze.

And lead prayers for the family that starves
and stays together. If we wear roasries round
our nexks
it is not because they never bruise our fingers,
(Pardon if we doze on a dream of Amen.)

But remember to remember to reward us
with something . . . more lush, greener than all
the lawns of memorial parks singing together.
Our eyes shall belss the liveliness of dollars.

Shed no tears, please, for the brown multitudes
who thicken on chance and feast on leftovers
as the burning garbage smuts the sky of Manila
pile after pile after pile.

Fear not. Now there are only surreal assassins
about who dream of your death in the shape
of a flowering kris.

Maynila 1898

Labanan sa Look ng Maynila (1898)

Ang Labanan sa Look ng Maynila ay pagsiklab ng digmaan sa pagitan ng Estados Unidos at Espanya ay nag-udyok sa Estados Unidos na sakupin ang Pilipinas. Ipinakita ng mga Amerikano ang kapangyarihang militar nito nang lusubin ng kanilang hukbong pandagat ang hukbo ng mga Español sa Look ng Maynila noong Mayo 1, 1898. Walang nagawa ang mga Espanyol kundi isuko ang Pilipinas sa mga Amerikano. Upang hindi malagay sa kahihiyan ang Spain, nakipagkasundo ang Estados Unidos na magkaroon ng kunwa-kunwariang labanan sa Maynila. Isinagawa ito noong Agosto 13, 1898. Inakala ng hukbo ni Aguinaldo na magkakaroon ng tunay na paglusob ang mga Amerikano laban sa mga Español kaya nag-alok siya ng tulong militar ngunit hindi ito tinanggap ng mga Amerikano. Sa pamamagitan ng kunwa-kunwariang labanang ito, ipinakita ng mga Espanyol na lumaban ang mga hukbo nito sa abot ng kanilang makakaya at hanggang sa huling sandali.

Pagkilala

The world is an apple

The world is an apple by A. Florentino

The world is an apple by A. Florentino

The world is an apple

Characters: -Mario
-Gloria
-Pablo

Narrator: Mario enters. sits down and buries his head in his hands. Gloria crosses to him and lay a hand on his shoulder.
Gloria: I know something is wrong. Mario, I can feel it. Tell me what it is
Mario: Gloria, I've lost my job
Gloria: Oh, no! How did you lose it? Mario! Have your sinful fingers brought you trouble again?
Mario: Now, now, Gloria Don't try to accuse me as they did. An apple! Yes, and they kicked me out for it for taking one single apple
Gloria: So that's what you get. . .
Mario: Could I guessed they would do that for one apple? When there were millions of them? We were hauling them to the warehouse. I saw one roll out of a broken crate. It was that big. Suddenly, I found myself putting it in my lunch bag. Do you remember that day I took our little girl out for a walk? On our way home we passed a grocery store that sold "delicious" apples at seventy centavos each. She wanted me to buy one for her but I did not have seventy centavos. She cried. So, when I saw this apple roll out of crate, I thought that Tita would love to have it.
Gloria: We're not rich. We can live without apples.
Mario: Why? Did God create apple trees to bear fruit for the rich alone? Didn't He create the whole world for everyone?
Gloria: So, for a measly apple, you lose a job! Filching an apple that's too small a reason to kick a poor man out a work. You should ask them to give you a second chance, Mario.
Mario: They won't do that. Can't you see they had waiting for me to make a slip like that? They've wanted to throw me out for any reason, so that they may bring their men in.
Gloria: You should complain. . .
If I did, they would dig up my police record. They will do anything to keep me out. But, don't worry, I have found a good job.
Gloria: I know God wouldn't let us down. Mother was wrong. You know, before we get married, she used to tell me "Gloria, you'll commit the greatest mistake of your life if you marry a good - for - nothing loafer!." Oh, you've changed!
Pablo: Hmmmm. How romantic.
Mario: Pablo!
Gloria: What are you doing here? What do you want?
Pablo: Your daughter. . . how is she? Here, I'll loan you a few pesos. It may help your daughter to get well.
Gloria: No. Thank you. Mario has stopped depending on you, since the day I took him away from your clutches! I have no regrets. Mario has none, either.
Pablo: How you can be sure? When he and I were pals we could go to first -class air- conditioned movie houses every other day. I'll bet all the money I have here now that he has not been to one for four years!
Gloria: One cannot expect too much from honest money - we don't
Pablo: What is honest money? Does it buy more? Staying in this dungeon you call a house, is that what you so beautifully call "honesty"?.
Mario: Pablo!
Gloria: I know you have come to lead him back to your dishonest ways, but you can't.
Pablo: You call this living? This Gloria,, is what you call dying - dying slowly minute by minute.
Mario: Pablo, stop it!.
Pablo: Tell her that you no longer believe in the way she wanted you to live.
Gloria: Oh! Mario, . . you promised me you were through with him.
Mario: Gloria. . . you . . . must understand . . . I tried long and hard . . . but could not lift us out of this kind of life. . .
Gloria: You are not going with him, You take good care of yourself and our child.
(Mario walks away with Pablo, Gloria stares dumbly at then.)
Gloria: Mariooooo! ( she cover her face with her dress and cries into it.)

Read more: http://wiki.answers.com/Q/What_is_the_whole_script_of_The_world_is_an_apple_by_Alberto_Florentino#ixzz1D3b6nTal

http://wiki.answers.com/Q/What_is_the_whole_script_of_The_world_is_an_apple_by_Alberto_Florentino

MY SUMMARY ANALOGY DURING THE SPANISH AND AMERICAN COLONIZATION

          When Rizal wrote the last farewell, mi ultimo adios Filipino's awake and become ribellios againts the colonizers. After the death of Rizal, we are now as a free country because He fight for us, although His way is the pen not a sword He continue His legacy to the Filipino's. Andres Bonifacio is the Hero to led the Katipunan had give a big tribute to the Philippine Independence, His way of fighting was the great success to the Filifino's.
During the time of our Hero Andres Bonifacio and Dr. Jose Rizal the Philippines  is not economically sufficient because of the colonizers, some were the victim of force labor, the Philippines Monopolies by the spanish tyrany.
    
     But if I were compare our hero I must say that I want to be a National Hero is Andres Bonifacio His way of fighting is different from Rizal. He is the true Hero Rizal's way of fighting is different to because He hide in other country. As the years go  by many changes in life will follow some of the Filipino become liberated in showing love, but I think as you in love you must fight for it you cannot wait for love.  As long as you are like Bonifacio and Rizal fight for the love of our country. We must appreciate every writing of the author and the Hero.

    Each of us has different personality, New Yorker in Tondo is the example of personality of the people.
We can go on to our life although some struggle in life goes by we can survive by prayer and through our faith in god.  Many Prisoners say's that they do not commit any crime which is true they are the only the victim of some malicious event in their life.  But some of them will suffer that was the life in the writings in isang dipang langit.

   We can get frustrated if something happen to us but as what Ive said that through prayer we can saved.
We can be a Hero in our own life. In riddles we can get some opinion we can use in our daily life. Some Folk songs can relate to our personal life. The myths is the beginning of everything in this world. Angels can make us happy when we are sad and we think the are beside us.  true love can set you free. You can find love anywhere. broken heart is the way to success! you must go on to your life no matter what.

    We can navigate to our own world as the time go by as the world around to its axis dont lost hope go and fight for it!!!!! Through dreaming we can be alive.  Mortal sins when we kill the child in mother's stomach.
because we didn't give a chance to them to live peacefully . The way we live is the way we are now.
When you say Manila we are imagine the beauty, the ligths, the tall buildings. We are  all know that Manila is the capital of the Philippines.  Many struggles find in here but as the true people we can easily manage how the life in Manila was.  We can realized that the life in the city i s not very easy to get as what we are imagining

    Juan de la Cruz is the example of true life in Manila, He is the victim of reality in life, he was also the victim of some malicious mischief, victim of being poor, victim of curiosity.
But Juan de la Cruz didnt stop fighting to his life. He continue but then as what I been saying he is  only a victim.

  I apreciated most the Literature.

    
      

Gabi ng isang Piyon

Gabi ng iSang piYon (Lamberto E. Antonio)

Gabi ng iSang piYon (Lamberto E. Antonio)

 

Paano ka makakatulog?
Iniwan man ng mga palad mo ang pala,
Martilyo, tubo’t kawad at iba pang kasangkapan,
Alas-singko’y hindi naging hudyat upang
Umibis ang graba’t semento sa iyong hininga.
Sa karimlan mo nga lamang maaaring ihabilin
Ang kirot at silakbo ng iyong himaymay:
Mga lintos, galos, hiwa ng daliri braso’t utak
Kapag binabanig na ang kapirasong playwud,
Mga kusot o supot-semento sa ulilang
Sulok ng gusaling nakatirik.
Binabalisa ka ng paggawa —
(Hindi ka maidlip kahit sagad-buto ang pagod mo)
Dugo’t pawis pang lalangkap
Sa buhangin at sementong hinahalo na kalamnang
Itatapal mo sa bakal na mga tadyang:
Kalansay na nabubuong dambuhala mula
Sa pagdurugo mo bawat saglit; kapalit
Ang kitang di-maipantawid-gutom ng pamilya,
Pag-asam sa bagong kontrata at dalanging paos.
Paano ka matutulog kung sa bawat paghiga mo’y
Unti-unting nilalagom ng bubungang sakdal-tayog
Ang mga bituin? Maaari ka nga lamang
Mag-usisa sa dilim kung bakit di umiibis
Ang graba’t ‘semento sa iyong hininga...
Kung nabubuo sa guniguni mo maya’t maya
Na ikaw ay mistulang bahagi ng iskapold
Na kinabukasa’y babaklasin mo rin.

Zita

ZITA

ZITA
by Arturo B. Rotor

TURONG brought him from Pauambang in his small sailboat, for the coastwise steamer did not stop at any little island of broken cliffs and coconut palms. It was almost midday; they had been standing in that white glare where the tiniest pebble and fluted conch had become points of light, piercing-bright--the municipal president, the parish priest, Don Eliodoro who owned almost all the coconuts, the herb doctor, the village character. Their mild surprise over when he spoke in their native dialect, they looked at him more closely and his easy manner did not deceive them. His head was uncovered and he had a way of bringing the back of his hand to his brow or mouth; they read behind that too, it was not a gesture of protection. "An exile has come to Anayat… and he is so young, so young." So young and lonely and sufficient unto himself. There was no mistaking the stamp of a strong decision on that brow, the brow of those who have to be cold and haughty, those shoulders stooped slightly, less from the burden that they bore than from a carefully cultivated air of unconcern; no common school-teacher could dress so carelessly and not appear shoddy.
They had prepared a room for him in Don Eliodoro's house so that he would not have to walk far to school every morning, but he gave nothing more than a glance at the big stone building with its Spanish azotea, its arched doorways, its flagged courtyard. He chose instead Turong's home, a shaky hut near the sea. Was the sea rough and dangerous at times? He did not mind it. Was the place far from the church and the schoolhouse? The walk would do him good. Would he not feel lonely with nobody but an illiterate fisherman for a companion? He was used to living alone. And they let him do as he wanted, for the old men knew that it was not so much the nearness of the sea that he desired as its silence so that he might tell it secrets he could not tell anyone else.
They thought of nobody but him; they talked about him in the barber shop, in the cockpit, in the sari-sari store, the way he walked, the way he looked at you, his unruly hair. They dressed him in purple and linen, in myth and mystery, put him astride a black stallion, at the wheel of a blue automobile. Mr. Reteche? Mr. Reteche! The name suggested the fantasy and the glitter of a place and people they never would see; he was the scion of a powerful family, a poet and artist, a prince.
That night, Don Eliodoro had the story from his daughter of his first day in the classroom; she perched wide-eyed, low-voiced, short of breath on the arm of his chair.
"He strode into the room, very tall and serious and polite, stood in front of us and looked at us all over and yet did not seem to see us.
" 'Good morning, teacher,' we said timidly.
"He bowed as if we were his equals. He asked for the fist of our names and as he read off each one we looked at him long. When he came to my name, Father, the most surprising thing happened. He started pronouncing it and then he stopped as if he had forgotten something and just stared and stared at the paper in his hand. I heard my name repeated three times through his half-closed lips, 'Zita. Zita. Zita.'
" 'Yes sir, I am Zita.'
"He looked at me uncomprehendingly, inarticulate, and it seemed to me, Father, it actually seemed that he was begging me to tell him that that was not my name, that I was deceiving him. He looked so miserable and sick I felt like sinking down or running away.
" 'Zita is not your name; it is just a pet name, no?'
" 'My father has always called me that, sir.'
" 'It can't be; maybe it is Pacita or Luisa or--'
"His voice was scarcely above a whisper, Father, and all the while he looked at me begging, begging. I shook my head determinedly. My answer must have angered him. He must have thought I was very hard-headed, for he said, 'A thousand miles, Mother of Mercy… it is not possible.' He kept on looking at me; he was hurt perhaps that he should have such a stubborn pupil. But I am not really so, Father?"
"Yes, you are, my dear. But you must try to please him, he is a gentleman; he comes from the city. I was thinking… Private lessons, perhaps, if he won't ask too much." Don Eliodoro had his dreams and she was his only daughter.
Turong had his own story to tell in the barber shop that night, a story as vividly etched as the lone coconut palm in front of the shop that shot up straight into the darkness of the night, as vaguely disturbing as the secrets that the sea whispered into the night.
"He did not sleep a wink, I am sure of it. When I came from the market the stars were already out and I saw that he had not touched the food I had prepared. I asked him to eat and he said he was not hungry. He sat by the window that faces the sea and just looked out hour after hour. I woke up three times during the night and saw that he had not so much as changed his position. I thought once that he was asleep and came near, but he motioned me away. When I awoke at dawn to prepare the nets, he was still there."
"Maybe he wants to go home already." They looked up with concern.
"He is sick. You remember Father Fernando? He had a way of looking like that, into space, seeing nobody, just before he died."
Every month there was a letter that came for him, sometimes two or three; large, blue envelopes with a gold design in the upper left hand comer, and addressed in broad, angular, sweeping handwriting. One time Turong brought one of them to him in the classroom. The students were busy writing a composition on a subject that he had given them, "The Things That I Love Most." Carelessly he had opened the letter, carelessly read it, and carelessly tossed it aside. Zita was all aflutter when the students handed in their work for he had promised that he would read aloud the best. He went over the pile two times, and once again, absently, a deep frown on his brow, as if he were displeased with their work. Then he stopped and picked up one. Her heart sank when she saw that it was not hers, she hardly heard him reading:
"I did not know any better. Moths are not supposed to know; they only come to the light. And the light looked so inviting, there was no resisting it. Moths are not supposed to know, one does not even know one is a moth until one's wings are burned."
It was incomprehensible, no beginning, no end. It did not have unity, coherence, emphasis. Why did he choose that one? What did he see in it? And she had worked so hard, she had wanted to please, she had written about the flowers that she loved most. Who could have written what he had read aloud? She did not know that any of her classmates could write so, use such words, sentences, use a blue paper to write her lessons on.
But then there was little in Mr. Reteche that the young people there could understand. Even his words were so difficult, just like those dark and dismaying things that they came across in their readers, which took them hour after hour in the dictionary. She had learned like a good student to pick out the words she did not recognize, writing them down as she heard them, but it was a thankless task. She had a whole notebook filled now, two columns to each page:

esurient          greedy.
Amaranth          a flower that never fades.
peacock           a large bird with lovely gold and 
                  green feathers.
Mirash 

The last word was not in the dictionary.
And what did such things as original sin, selfishness, insatiable, actress of a thousand faces mean, and who were Sirse, Lorelay, other names she could not find anywhere? She meant to ask him someday, someday when his eyes were kinder.
He never went to church, but then, that always went with learning and education, did it not? One night Bue saw him coming out of the dim doorway. He watched again and the following night he saw him again. They would not believe it, they must see it with their own eyes and so they came. He did not go in every night, but he could be seen at the most unusual hours, sometimes at dusk, sometimes at dawn, once when it was storming and the lightning etched ragged paths from heaven to earth. Sometimes he stayed for a few minutes, sometimes he came twice or thrice in one evening. They reported it to Father Cesareo but it seemed that he already knew. "Let a peaceful man alone in his prayers." The answer had surprised them.
The sky hangs over Anayat, in the middle of the Anayat Sea, like an inverted wineglass, a glass whose wine had been spilled, a purple wine of which Anayat was the last precious drop. For that is Anayat in the crepuscule, purple and mellow, sparkling and warm and effulgent when there is a moon, cool and heady and sensuous when there is no moon.
One may drink of it and forget what lies beyond a thousand miles, beyond a thousand years; one may sip it at the top of a jagged cliff, nearer peace, nearer God, where one can see the ocean dashing against the rocks in eternal frustration, more moving, more terrible than man's; or touch it to his lips in the lush shadows of the dama de noche, its blossoms iridescent like a thousand fireflies, its bouquet the fragrance of flowers that know no fading.
Zita sat by her open window, half asleep, half dreaming. Francisco B. Reteche; what a name! What could his nickname be. Paking, Frank, Pa… The night lay silent and expectant, a fairy princess waiting for the whispered words of a lover. She was not a bit sleepy; already she had counted three stars that had fallen to earth, one almost directly into that bush of dama de noche at their garden gate, where it had lighted the lamps of a thousand fireflies. He was not so forbidding now, he spoke less frequently to himself, more frequently to her; his eyes were still unseeing, but now they rested on her. She loved to remember those moments she had caught him looking when he thought she did not know. The knowledge came keenly, bitingly, like the sea breeze at dawn, like the prick of the rose's thorn, or--yes, like the purple liquid that her father gave the visitors duringpintakasi which made them red and noisy. She had stolen a few drops one day, because she wanted to know, to taste, and that little sip had made her head whirl.
Suddenly she stiffened; a shadow had emerged from the shrubs and had been lost in the other shadows. Her pulses raced, she strained forward. Was she dreaming? Who was it? A lost soul, an unvoiced thought, the shadow of a shadow, the prince from his tryst with the fairy princess? What were the words that he whispered to her?
They who have been young once say that only youth can make youth forget itself; that life is a river bed; the water passes over it, sometimes it encounters obstacles and cannot go on, sometimes it flows unencumbered with a song in every bubble and ripple, but always it goes forward. When its way is obstructed it burrows deeply or swerves aside and leaves its impression, and whether the impress will be shallow and transient, or deep and searing, only God determines. The people remembered the day when he went up Don Eliodoro's house, the light of a great decision in his eyes, and finally accepted the father's request that he teach his daughter "to be a lady."
"We are going to the city soon, after the next harvest perhaps; I want her not to feel like a 'provinciana' when we get there."
They remembered the time when his walks by the seashore became less solitary, for now of afternoons, he would draw the whole crowd of village boys from their game of leapfrog or patintero and bring them with him. And they would go home hours after sunset with the wonderful things that Mr. Reteche had told them, why the sea is green, the sky blue, what one who is strong and fearless might find at that exact place where the sky meets the sea. They would be flushed and happy and bright-eyed, for he could stand on his head longer than any of them, catch more crabs, send a pebble skimming over the breast of Anayat Bay farthest.
Turong still remembered those ominous, terrifying nights when he had got up cold and trembling to listen to the aching groan of the bamboo floor, as somebody in the other room restlessly paced to and fro. And his pupils still remember those mornings he received their flowers, the camia which had fainted away at her own fragrance, the kampupot, with the night dew still trembling in its heart; receive them with a smile and forget the lessons of the day and tell them all about those princesses and fairies who dwelt in flowers; why the dama de noche must have the darkness of the night to bring out its fragrance; how the petals of the ylang-ylang, crushed and soaked in some liquid, would one day touch the lips of some wondrous creature in some faraway land whose eyes were blue and hair golden.

Those were days of surprises for Zita. Box after box came in Turong's sailboat and each time they contained things that took the words from her lips. Silk as sheer and perishable as gossamer, or heavy and shiny and tinted like the sunset sky; slippers with bright stones which twinkled with the least movement of her feet; a necklace of green, flat, polished stone, whose feel against her throat sent a curious choking sensation there; perfume that she must touch her lips with. If only there would always be such things in Turong's sailboat, and none of those horrid blue envelopes that he always brought. And yet--the Virgin have pity on her selfish soul--suppose one day Turong brought not only those letters but the writer as well? She shuddered, not because she feared it but because she knew it would be.
"Why are these dresses so tight fitting?" Her father wanted to know.
"In society, women use clothes to reveal, not to hide." Was that a sneer or a smile in his eyes? The gown showed her arms and shoulders and she had never known how round and fair they were, how they could express so many things.
"Why do these dresses have such bright colors?"
"Because the peacock has bright feathers."
"They paint their lips…"
"So that they can smile when they do not want to."
"And their eyelashes are long."
"To hide deception."
He was not pleased like her father; she saw it, he had turned his face toward the window. And as she came nearer, swaying like a lily atop its stalk she heard the harsh, muttered words:
"One would think she'd feel shy or uncomfortable, but no… oh no… not a bit… all alike… comes naturally."
There were books to read; pictures, names to learn; lessons in everything; how to polish the nails, how to use a fan, even how to walk. How did these days come, how did they go? What does one do when one is so happy, so breathless? Sometimes they were a memory, sometimes a dream.
"Look, Zita, a society girl does not smile so openly; her eyes don't seek one's so--that reveals your true feelings."
"But if I am glad and happy and I want to show it?"
"Don't. If you must show it by smiling, let your eyes be mocking; if you would invite with your eyes, repulse with your lips."
That was a memory.
She was in a great drawing room whose floor was so polished it reflected the myriad red and green and blue fights above, the arches of flowers and ribbons and streamers. All the great names of the capital were there, stately ladies in wonderful gowns who walked so, waved their fans so, who said one thing with their eyes and another with their lips. And she was among them and every young and good-looking man wanted to dance with her. They were all so clever and charming but she answered: "Please, I am tired." For beyond them she had seen him alone, he whose eyes were dark and brooding and disapproving and she was waiting for him to take her.
That was a dream. Sometimes though, she could not tell so easily which was the dream and which the memory.
If only those letters would not bother him now, he might be happy and at peace. True he never answered them, but every time Turong brought him one, he would still become thoughtful and distracted. Like that time he was teaching her a dance, a Spanish dance, he said, and had told her to dress accordingly. Her heavy hair hung in a big, carelessly tied knot that always threatened to come loose but never did; its dark, deep shadows showing off in startling vividness how red a rose can be, how like velvet its petals. Her earrings--two circlets of precious stones, red like the pigeon's blood--almost touched her shoulders. The heavy Spanish shawl gave her the most trouble--she had nothing to help her but some pictures and magazines--she could not put it on just as she wanted. Like this, it revealed her shoulder too much; that way, it hampered the free movement of the legs. But she had done her best; for hours she had stood before her mirror and for hours it had told her that she was beautiful, that red lips and tragic eyes were becoming to her.
She'd never forget that look on his face when she came out. It was not surprise, joy, admiration. It was as if he saw somebody there whom he was expecting, for whom he had waited, prayed.
"Zita!" It was a cry of recognition.
She blushed even under her rouge when he took her in his arms and taught her to step this way, glide so, turn about; she looked half questioningly at her father for disapproval, but she saw that there was nothing there but admiration too. Mr. Reteche seemed so serious and so intent that she should learn quickly; but he did not deceive her, for once she happened to lean close and she felt how wildly his heart was beating. It frightened her and she drew away, but when she saw how unconcerned he seemed, as if he did not even know that she was in his arms, she smiled knowingly and drew close again. Dreamily she closed her eyes and dimly wondered if his were shut too, whether he was thinking the same thoughts, breathing the same prayer.
Turong came up and after his respectful "Good evening" he handed an envelope to the school teacher. It was large and blue and had a gold design in one comer; the handwriting was broad, angular, sweeping.
"Thank you, Turong." His voice was drawling, heavy, the voice of one who has just awakened. With one movement he tore the unopened envelope slowly, unconsciously, it seemed to her, to pieces.
"I thought I had forgotten," he murmured dully.
That changed the whole evening. His eyes lost their sparkle, his gaze wandered from time to time. Something powerful and dark had come between them, something which shut out the light, brought in a chill. The tears came to her eyes for she felt utterly powerless. When her sight cleared she saw that he was sitting down and trying to piece the letter together.
"Why do you tear up a letter if you must put it together again?" rebelliously.
He looked at her kindly. "Someday, Zita, you will do it too, and then you will understand."
One day Turong came from Pauambang and this time he brought a stranger. They knew at once that he came from where the teacher came--his clothes, his features, his politeness--and that he had come for the teacher. This one did not speak their dialect, and as he was led through the dusty, crooked streets, he kept forever wiping his face, gazing at the wobbly, thatched huts and muttering short, vehement phrases to himself. Zita heard his knock before Mr. Reteche did and she knew what he had come for. She must have been as pale as her teacher, as shaken, as rebellious. And yet the stranger was so cordial; there was nothing but gladness in his greeting, gladness at meeting an old friend. How strong he was; even at that moment he did not forget himself, but turned to his class and dismissed them for the day.
The door was thick and she did not dare lean against the jamb too much, so sometimes their voices floated away before they reached her.
"…like children… making yourselves… so unhappy."
"…happiness? Her idea of happiness…"
Mr. Reteche's voice was more low-pitched, hoarse, so that it didn't carry at all. She shuddered as he laughed, it was that way when he first came.
"She's been… did not mean… understand."
"…learning to forget…"
There were periods when they both became excited and talked fast and hard; she heard somebody's restless pacing, somebody sitting down heavily.
"I never realized what she meant to me until I began trying to seek from others what she would not give me."
She knew what was coming now, knew it before the stranger asked the question:
"Tomorrow?"
She fled; she could not wait for the answer.
He did not sleep that night, she knew he did not, she told herself fiercely. And it was not only his preparations that kept him awake, she knew it, she knew it. With the first flicker of light she ran to her mirror. She must not show her feeling, it was not in good form, she must manage somehow. If her lips quivered, her eyes must smile, if in her eyes there were tears… She heard her father go out, but she did not go; although she knew his purpose, she had more important things to do. Little boys came up to the house and she wiped away their tears and told them that he was coming back, coming back, soon, soon.
The minutes flew, she was almost done now; her lips were red and her eyebrows penciled; the crimson shawl thrown over her shoulders just right. Everything must be like that day he had first seen her in a Spanish dress. Still he did not come, he must be bidding farewell now to Father Cesareo; now he was in Doña Ramona's house; now he was shaking the barber's hand. He would soon be through and come to her house. She glanced at the mirror and decided that her lips were not red enough; she put on more color. The rose in her hair had too long a stem; she tried to trim it with her fingers and a thorn dug deeply into her flesh.
Who knows? Perhaps they would soon meet again in the city; she wondered if she could not wheedle her father into going earlier. But she must know now what were the words he had wanted to whisper that night under the dama de noche, what he had wanted to say that day he held her in his arms; other things, questions whose answers she knew. She smiled. How well she knew them!
The big house was silent as death; the little village seemed deserted, everybody had gone to the seashore. Again she looked at the mirror. She was too pale, she must put on more rouge. She tried to keep from counting the minutes, the seconds, from getting up and pacing. But she was getting chilly and she must do it to keep warm.
The steps creaked. She bit her lips to stifle a wild cry there. The door opened.
"Turong!"
"Mr. Reteche bade me give you this. He said you would understand."
In one bound she had reached the open window. But dimly, for the sun was too bright, or was her sight failing?--she saw a blur of white moving out to sea, then disappearing behind a point of land so that she could no longer follow it; and then, clearly against a horizon suddenly drawn out of perspective, "Mr. Reteche," tall, lean, brooding, looking at her with eyes that told her somebody had hurt him. It was like that when he first came, and now he was gone. The tears came freely now. What matter, what matter? There was nobody to see and criticize her breeding. They came down unchecked and when she tried to brush them off with her hand, the color came away too from her cheeks, leaving them bloodless, cold. Sometimes they got into her mouth and they tasted bitter.
Her hands worked convulsively; there was a sound of tearing paper, once, twice. She became suddenly aware of what she had done when she looked at the pieces, wet and brightly stained with uneven streaks of red. Slowly, painfully, she tried to put the pieces together and as she did so a sob escaped deep from her breast--a great understanding had come to her.

Ang regla sa buwan ng Hunyo

ang regla sa buwan ng hunyo

RegLa sa BuwaN ng hunYo (R. MabangLo)

Pagbigyan ang pwersang ito:
lakas na umaahon sa sinapupunan,
init na sumusubo, dumadaloy, umiigkas,
kusang lumalaya't lumalayaw
kahit na sinusupil,
dumadanak at bumabakas
hatdan man ng hilahil.

Pagbigyan ang pwersang ito--
ito:
kabuuan ng lahat kong pagkatao,
kabuuan ng kaibhan ko't pagkakatulad
sa lahat ng tao,
kabuuan ng naimpok kong alaala't
ginagastang kasalukuyan
kabuuan ng kinabukasang isinasanla
sa kalendaryo.

Pagbigyan ang pwersang ito--
hayaang magmapa sa talaan
ng utang ko't pautang,
hayaang maglimbag ng sagutin ko't
pananagutan:
sa sarili, sa angkan at sa lipunan:
hayaang magbadya
ng karaingan ko't pangangailangan,
ngayon,
habang nilalason ng maraming kabaro
ang itlog at semilya
at binubulok naman ng iba
sa sansupot na goma
ang bunga ng pag-ibig at pagtatalik.
Ay, anong kilusan, martsa't litanya
upang mapuksa ang sanggol
nang buong laya?
Ilang liblib na klinika, basurahan at
kubeta
ang pag-iimbakan ng kapusuka't sala?
Kahit ang ampunang nagbobodega
ng pananagutang itinatwa
may sumbat ng kalikasang
di matatakasan.

Pagbigyan ang pwersang ito--
ismiran ang humuhugot na kirot,
batahin ang hagupit
habang tinatanggap, tinatanggap
ang katuturang
pumapaso sa pagtigmak.

Ito ang pagtagay sa Hunyo
sa kalis ko--
nobya,
asawa,
kerida,
o kahit ng bayarang tagapagpaligaya:
ito ang testamento, ang kontrata, ang
sumpa:
ito ang saligan,
ang kahulugan at kahungkagan
ng buhay at pag-iral.
Pagbigyan,
ito,
ang agos ng madlang pagsulong--
hininga ng pag-asa
ang namimilapil dito.


http://www.regla-sa-buwan-ng-hunyo-r-mabanglo.html -

The small key

The Happy Hoi PoLLoi By: kerima Polotan Tuvera

The Happy Hoi PoLLoi By: kerima Polotan Tuvera

The Happy Hoi PoLLoi By: kerima Polotan Tuvera
The Happy Hoi Polloi:

“In the Luneta, all colors blend ‚ the brown and the white and yellow of people; the green and blue and red of shrubs. Towards the sea, the great sward stretches, and the globes of light hang like huge pearls, are caught in the waters of the lake. People flow by, stop and eddy, break and whirl again. Across the pond, a band plays; a balloon breaks loose from some child’s grasp and floats towards an early star. Here, the land lies flat and green, broken only by stone; there, it rises in a series of small hills that hide the curving tips of a pagoda. The doves come, cooing and beating their wings around a man, dressed in a tiger’s suit, and giving away candy. The lovers try not to be conspicuous. A family spreads the contents of a bag — kropeck, juice, biscuits. One mother lies on a mat, unashamedly nursing her baby. On other mats, men and their wives, kicking their heels at the sky. The park guards watch when they can but soon grow weary and give up. The sky is like a canvas washed clean, gray along the edges, and you think, looking over the heads around you, how distant the heat of living is — tonight’s dishes, tomorrow’s bundy clock. Joy is a fitful moment, but better that than nothing.”

http://krizzadiwa.blogspot.com/2011/01/happy-hoi-polloi-by-kerima-polotan.html

The Happy Hoi Polloi

The Happy Hoi PoLLoi By: kerima Polotan Tuvera

The Happy Hoi PoLLoi By: kerima Polotan Tuvera

The Happy Hoi PoLLoi By: kerima Polotan Tuvera
The Happy Hoi Polloi:

“In the Luneta, all colors blend ‚ the brown and the white and yellow of people; the green and blue and red of shrubs. Towards the sea, the great sward stretches, and the globes of light hang like huge pearls, are caught in the waters of the lake. People flow by, stop and eddy, break and whirl again. Across the pond, a band plays; a balloon breaks loose from some child’s grasp and floats towards an early star. Here, the land lies flat and green, broken only by stone; there, it rises in a series of small hills that hide the curving tips of a pagoda. The doves come, cooing and beating their wings around a man, dressed in a tiger’s suit, and giving away candy. The lovers try not to be conspicuous. A family spreads the contents of a bag — kropeck, juice, biscuits. One mother lies on a mat, unashamedly nursing her baby. On other mats, men and their wives, kicking their heels at the sky. The park guards watch when they can but soon grow weary and give up. The sky is like a canvas washed clean, gray along the edges, and you think, looking over the heads around you, how distant the heat of living is — tonight’s dishes, tomorrow’s bundy clock. Joy is a fitful moment, but better that than nothing.”

http://krizzadiwa.blogspot.com/2011/01/happy-hoi-polloi-by-kerima-polotan.html

ang kagilagilalas na pakikipagsapalaran ni juan dela cruz

Ang mga Kagilagilalas na Pakikipagsapalaran ni Juan de la Cruz
		Jose F. Lacaba Isang gabing madilim puno ng pangambang sumakay sa bus si Juan de la Cruz pusturang pustura kahit walang laman ang bulsa BAWAL MANIGARILYO BOSS sabi ng konduktora at minura si Juan de la Cruz. Pusturang-pustura kahit walang laman ang bulsa nilakad ni Juan de la Cruz ang buong Avenida BAWAL PUMARADA sabi ng kalsada BAWAL UMIHI DITO sabi ng bakod kaya napagod si Juan de la Cruz. Nang abutan ng gutom si Juan de la Cruz tumapat sa Ma Mon Luk inamoy ang mami siopao lumpia pansit hanggang sa mabusog. Nagdaan sa Sine Dalisay Tinitigan ang retrato ni Chichay PASSES NOT HONORED TODAY tabi ng takilyera tawa nang tawa. Dumalaw sa Konggreso si Juan de la Cruz MAG-INGAT SA ASO sabi ng diputado Nagtuloy sa Malakanyang wala namang dalang kamanyang KEEP OFF THE GRASS sabi ng hardinero sabi ng sundalo kay Juan de la Cruz. Nang dapuan ng libog si Juan de la Cruz namasyal sa Culiculi at nahulog sa pusali parang espadang bali-bali YOUR CREDIT IS GOOD BUT WE NEED CASH sabi ng bugaw sabay higop ng sabaw. Pusturang-pustura kahit walang laman ang bulsa naglibot sa Dewey si Juan de la Cruz PAN-AM BAYSIDE SAVOY THEY SATISFY sabi ng neon. Humikab ang dagat na parang leon masarap sanang tumalon pero BAWAL MAGTAPON NG BASURA sabi ng alon. Nagbalik sa Quiapo si Juan de la Cruz at medyo kinakabahan pumasok sa simbahan IN GOD WE TRUST sabi ng obispo ALL OTHERS PAY CASH. Nang wala nang malunok si Juan de la Cruz dala-dala'y gulok gula-gulanit na ang damit wala pa rin laman ang bulsa umakyat         Sa Arayat                       ang namayat na si Juan de la Cruz WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE sabi ng PC at sinisi ang walanghiyang kabataan kung bakit sinulsulan ang isang tahimik na mamamayan na tulad ni Juan de la Cruz

ako ang daigdig ni alejandro

Ako ang daigdig ni Alejandro G. Abadilla

By ephraimism

I
ako
ang daigdig
ako
ang tula
ako
ang daigdig
ang tula
ako
ang daigdig
ng tula
ang tula
ng daigdig
ako
ang walang maliw na ako
ang walang kamatayang ako
ang tula ng daigdig
II
ako
ang daigdig ng tula
ako
ang tula ng daigdig
ako
ang malayang ako
matapat sa sarili
sa aking daigdig
ng tula
ako
ang tula
sa daigdig
ako
ang daigdig
ng tula
ako
III
ako
ang damdaming
malaya
ako
ang larawang
buhay
ako
ang buhay
na walang hanggan
ako
ang damdamin
ang larawan
ang buhay
damdamin
larawan
buhay
tula
ako
IV
ako
ang daigdig
sa tula
ako
ang daigdig
ng tula
ako
ang daigdig
ako
ang tula
daigdig
tula
ako

This entry was posted on December 8, 2007 at 3:50 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

dead star DEAD STARS by Paz Marquez Benitez Dead Stars Photo courtesy of NASA THROUGH the open window the air-steeped outdoors passed into his room, quietly enveloping him, stealing into his very thought. Esperanza, Julia, the sorry mess he had made of life, the years to come even now beginning to weigh down, to crush--they lost concreteness, diffused into formless melancholy. The tranquil murmur of conversation issued from the brick-tiled azotea where Don Julian and Carmen were busy puttering away among the rose pots. "Papa, and when will the 'long table' be set?" "I don't know yet. Alfredo is not very specific, but I understand Esperanza wants it to be next month." Carmen sighed impatiently. "Why is he not a bit more decided, I wonder. He is over thirty, is he not? And still a bachelor! Esperanza must be tired waiting." "She does not seem to be in much of a hurry either," Don Julian nasally commented, while his rose scissors busily snipped away. "How can a woman be in a hurry when the man does not hurry her?" Carmen returned, pinching off a worm with a careful, somewhat absent air. "Papa, do you remember how much in love he was?" "In love? With whom?" "With Esperanza, of course. He has not had another love affair that I know of," she said with good-natured contempt. "What I mean is that at the beginning he was enthusiastic--flowers, serenades, notes, and things like that--" Alfredo remembered that period with a wonder not unmixed with shame. That was less than four years ago. He could not understand those months of a great hunger that was not of the body nor yet of the mind, a craving that had seized on him one quiet night when the moon was abroad and under the dappled shadow of the trees in the plaza, man wooed maid. Was he being cheated by life? Love--he seemed to have missed it. Or was the love that others told about a mere fabrication of perfervid imagination, an exaggeration of the commonplace, a glorification of insipid monotonies such as made up his love life? Was love a combination of circumstances, or sheer native capacity of soul? In those days love was, for him, still the eternal puzzle; for love, as he knew it, was a stranger to love as he divined it might be. Sitting quietly in his room now, he could almost revive the restlessness of those days, the feeling of tumultuous haste, such as he knew so well in his boyhood when something beautiful was going on somewhere and he was trying to get there in time to see. "Hurry, hurry, or you will miss it," someone had seemed to urge in his ears. So he had avidly seized on the shadow of Love and deluded himself for a long while in the way of humanity from time immemorial. In the meantime, he became very much engaged to Esperanza. Why would men so mismanage their lives? Greed, he thought, was what ruined so many. Greed--the desire to crowd into a moment all the enjoyment it will hold, to squeeze from the hour all the emotion it will yield. Men commit themselves when but half-meaning to do so, sacrificing possible future fullness of ecstasy to the craving for immediate excitement. Greed--mortgaging the future--forcing the hand of Time, or of Fate. "What do you think happened?" asked Carmen, pursuing her thought. "I supposed long-engaged people are like that; warm now, cool tomorrow. I think they are oftener cool than warm. The very fact that an engagement has been allowed to prolong itself argues a certain placidity of temperament--or of affection--on the part of either, or both." Don Julian loved to philosophize. He was talking now with an evident relish in words, his resonant, very nasal voice toned down to monologue pitch. "That phase you were speaking of is natural enough for a beginning. Besides, that, as I see it, was Alfredo's last race with escaping youth--" Carmen laughed aloud at the thought of her brother's perfect physical repose--almost indolence--disturbed in the role suggested by her father's figurative language. "A last spurt of hot blood," finished the old man. Few certainly would credit Alfredo Salazar with hot blood. Even his friends had amusedly diagnosed his blood as cool and thin, citing incontrovertible evidence. Tall and slender, he moved with an indolent ease that verged on grace. Under straight recalcitrant hair, a thin face with a satisfying breadth of forehead, slow, dreamer's eyes, and astonishing freshness of lips--indeed Alfredo Salazar's appearance betokened little of exuberant masculinity; rather a poet with wayward humor, a fastidious artist with keen, clear brain. He rose and quietly went out of the house. He lingered a moment on the stone steps; then went down the path shaded by immature acacias, through the little tarred gate which he left swinging back and forth, now opening, now closing, on the gravel road bordered along the farther side by madre cacao hedge in tardy lavender bloom. The gravel road narrowed as it slanted up to the house on the hill, whose wide, open porches he could glimpse through the heat-shrivelled tamarinds in the Martinez yard. Six weeks ago that house meant nothing to him save that it was the Martinez house, rented and occupied by Judge del Valle and his family. Six weeks ago Julia Salas meant nothing to him; he did not even know her name; but now-- One evening he had gone "neighboring" with Don Julian; a rare enough occurrence, since he made it a point to avoid all appearance of currying favor with the Judge. This particular evening however, he had allowed himself to be persuaded. "A little mental relaxation now and then is beneficial," the old man had said. "Besides, a judge's good will, you know;" the rest of the thought--"is worth a rising young lawyer's trouble"--Don Julian conveyed through a shrug and a smile that derided his own worldly wisdom. A young woman had met them at the door. It was evident from the excitement of the Judge's children that she was a recent and very welcome arrival. In the characteristic Filipino way formal introductions had been omitted--the judge limiting himself to a casual "Ah, ya se conocen?"--with the consequence that Alfredo called her Miss del Valle throughout the evening. He was puzzled that she should smile with evident delight every time he addressed her thus. Later Don Julian informed him that she was not the Judge's sister, as he had supposed, but his sister-in-law, and that her name was Julia Salas. A very dignified rather austere name, he thought. Still, the young lady should have corrected him. As it was, he was greatly embarrassed, and felt that he should explain. To his apology, she replied, "That is nothing, Each time I was about to correct you, but I remembered a similar experience I had once before." "Oh," he drawled out, vastly relieved. "A man named Manalang--I kept calling him Manalo. After the tenth time or so, the young man rose from his seat and said suddenly, 'Pardon me, but my name is Manalang, Manalang.' You know, I never forgave him!" He laughed with her. "The best thing to do under the circumstances, I have found out," she pursued, "is to pretend not to hear, and to let the other person find out his mistake without help." "As you did this time. Still, you looked amused every time I--" "I was thinking of Mr. Manalang." Don Julian and his uncommunicative friend, the Judge, were absorbed in a game of chess. The young man had tired of playing appreciative spectator and desultory conversationalist, so he and Julia Salas had gone off to chat in the vine-covered porch. The lone piano in the neighborhood alternately tinkled and banged away as the player's moods altered. He listened, and wondered irrelevantly if Miss Salas could sing; she had such a charming speaking voice. He was mildly surprised to note from her appearance that she was unmistakably a sister of the Judge's wife, although Doña Adela was of a different type altogether. She was small and plump, with wide brown eyes, clearly defined eyebrows, and delicately modeled hips--a pretty woman with the complexion of a baby and the expression of a likable cow. Julia was taller, not so obviously pretty. She had the same eyebrows and lips, but she was much darker, of a smooth rich brown with underlying tones of crimson which heightened the impression she gave of abounding vitality. On Sunday mornings after mass, father and son would go crunching up the gravel road to the house on the hill. The Judge's wife invariably offered them beer, which Don Julian enjoyed and Alfredo did not. After a half hour or so, the chessboard would be brought out; then Alfredo and Julia Salas would go out to the porch to chat. She sat in the low hammock and he in a rocking chair and the hours--warm, quiet March hours--sped by. He enjoyed talking with her and it was evident that she liked his company; yet what feeling there was between them was so undisturbed that it seemed a matter of course. Only when Esperanza chanced to ask him indirectly about those visits did some uneasiness creep into his thoughts of the girl next door. Esperanza had wanted to know if he went straight home after mass. Alfredo suddenly realized that for several Sundays now he had not waited for Esperanza to come out of the church as he had been wont to do. He had been eager to go "neighboring." He answered that he went home to work. And, because he was not habitually untruthful, added, "Sometimes I go with Papa to Judge del Valle's." She dropped the topic. Esperanza was not prone to indulge in unprovoked jealousies. She was a believer in the regenerative virtue of institutions, in their power to regulate feeling as well as conduct. If a man were married, why, of course, he loved his wife; if he were engaged, he could not possibly love another woman. That half-lie told him what he had not admitted openly to himself, that he was giving Julia Salas something which he was not free to give. He realized that; yet something that would not be denied beckoned imperiously, and he followed on. It was so easy to forget up there, away from the prying eyes of the world, so easy and so poignantly sweet. The beloved woman, he standing close to her, the shadows around, enfolding. "Up here I find--something--" He and Julia Salas stood looking out into the she quiet night. Sensing unwanted intensity, laughed, woman-like, asking, "Amusement?" "No; youth--its spirit--" "Are you so old?" "And heart's desire." Was he becoming a poet, or is there a poet lurking in the heart of every man? "Down there," he had continued, his voice somewhat indistinct, "the road is too broad, too trodden by feet, too barren of mystery." "Down there" beyond the ancient tamarinds lay the road, upturned to the stars. In the darkness the fireflies glimmered, while an errant breeze strayed in from somewhere, bringing elusive, faraway sounds as of voices in a dream. "Mystery--" she answered lightly, "that is so brief--" "Not in some," quickly. "Not in you." "You have known me a few weeks; so the mystery." "I could study you all my life and still not find it." "So long?" "I should like to." Those six weeks were now so swift--seeming in the memory, yet had they been so deep in the living, so charged with compelling power and sweetness. Because neither the past nor the future had relevance or meaning, he lived only the present, day by day, lived it intensely, with such a willful shutting out of fact as astounded him in his calmer moments.

dead star    DEAD STARS     by Paz Marquez Benitez      Dead Stars     Photo courtesy of NASA     THROUGH the open window the air-steeped outdoors passed into his room, quietly enveloping him, stealing into his very thought. Esperanza, Julia, the sorry mess he had made of life, the years to come even now beginning to weigh down, to crush--they lost concreteness, diffused into formless melancholy. The tranquil murmur of conversation issued from the brick-tiled azotea where Don Julian and Carmen were busy puttering away among the rose pots.  "Papa, and when will the 'long table' be set?"  "I don't know yet. Alfredo is not very specific, but I understand Esperanza wants it to be next month."  Carmen sighed impatiently. "Why is he not a bit more decided, I wonder. He is over thirty, is he not? And still a bachelor! Esperanza must be tired waiting."  "She does not seem to be in much of a hurry either," Don Julian nasally commented, while his rose scissors busily snipped away.  "How can a woman be in a hurry when the man does not hurry her?" Carmen returned, pinching off a worm with a careful, somewhat absent air. "Papa, do you remember how much in love he was?"  "In love? With whom?"  "With Esperanza, of course. He has not had another love affair that I know of," she said with good-natured contempt. "What I mean is that at the beginning he was enthusiastic--flowers, serenades, notes, and things like that--"  Alfredo remembered that period with a wonder not unmixed with shame. That was less than four years ago. He could not understand those months of a great hunger that was not of the body nor yet of the mind, a craving that had seized on him one quiet night when the moon was abroad and under the dappled shadow of the trees in the plaza, man wooed maid. Was he being cheated by life? Love--he seemed to have missed it. Or was the love that others told about a mere fabrication of perfervid imagination, an exaggeration of the commonplace, a glorification of insipid monotonies such as made up his love life? Was love a combination of circumstances, or sheer native capacity of soul? In those days love was, for him, still the eternal puzzle; for love, as he knew it, was a stranger to love as he divined it might be.  Sitting quietly in his room now, he could almost revive the restlessness of those days, the feeling of tumultuous haste, such as he knew so well in his boyhood when something beautiful was going on somewhere and he was trying to get there in time to see. "Hurry, hurry, or you will miss it," someone had seemed to urge in his ears. So he had avidly seized on the shadow of Love and deluded himself for a long while in the way of humanity from time immemorial. In the meantime, he became very much engaged to Esperanza.  Why would men so mismanage their lives? Greed, he thought, was what ruined so many. Greed--the desire to crowd into a moment all the enjoyment it will hold, to squeeze from the hour all the emotion it will yield. Men commit themselves when but half-meaning to do so, sacrificing possible future fullness of ecstasy to the craving for immediate excitement. Greed--mortgaging the future--forcing the hand of Time, or of Fate.  "What do you think happened?" asked Carmen, pursuing her thought.  "I supposed long-engaged people are like that; warm now, cool tomorrow. I think they are oftener cool than warm. The very fact that an engagement has been allowed to prolong itself argues a certain placidity of temperament--or of affection--on the part of either, or both." Don Julian loved to philosophize. He was talking now with an evident relish in words, his resonant, very nasal voice toned down to monologue pitch. "That phase you were speaking of is natural enough for a beginning. Besides, that, as I see it, was Alfredo's last race with escaping youth--"  Carmen laughed aloud at the thought of her brother's perfect physical repose--almost indolence--disturbed in the role suggested by her father's figurative language.  "A last spurt of hot blood," finished the old man.  Few certainly would credit Alfredo Salazar with hot blood. Even his friends had amusedly diagnosed his blood as cool and thin, citing incontrovertible evidence. Tall and slender, he moved with an indolent ease that verged on grace. Under straight recalcitrant hair, a thin face with a satisfying breadth of forehead, slow, dreamer's eyes, and astonishing freshness of lips--indeed Alfredo Salazar's appearance betokened little of exuberant masculinity; rather a poet with wayward humor, a fastidious artist with keen, clear brain.  He rose and quietly went out of the house. He lingered a moment on the stone steps; then went down the path shaded by immature acacias, through the little tarred gate which he left swinging back and forth, now opening, now closing, on the gravel road bordered along the farther side by madre cacao hedge in tardy lavender bloom.  The gravel road narrowed as it slanted up to the house on the hill, whose wide, open porches he could glimpse through the heat-shrivelled tamarinds in the Martinez yard.  Six weeks ago that house meant nothing to him save that it was the Martinez house, rented and occupied by Judge del Valle and his family. Six weeks ago Julia Salas meant nothing to him; he did not even know her name; but now--  One evening he had gone "neighboring" with Don Julian; a rare enough occurrence, since he made it a point to avoid all appearance of currying favor with the Judge. This particular evening however, he had allowed himself to be persuaded. "A little mental relaxation now and then is beneficial," the old man had said. "Besides, a judge's good will, you know;" the rest of the thought--"is worth a rising young lawyer's trouble"--Don Julian conveyed through a shrug and a smile that derided his own worldly wisdom.  A young woman had met them at the door. It was evident from the excitement of the Judge's children that she was a recent and very welcome arrival. In the characteristic Filipino way formal introductions had been omitted--the judge limiting himself to a casual "Ah, ya se conocen?"--with the consequence that Alfredo called her Miss del Valle throughout the evening.  He was puzzled that she should smile with evident delight every time he addressed her thus. Later Don Julian informed him that she was not the Judge's sister, as he had supposed, but his sister-in-law, and that her name was Julia Salas. A very dignified rather austere name, he thought. Still, the young lady should have corrected him. As it was, he was greatly embarrassed, and felt that he should explain.  To his apology, she replied, "That is nothing, Each time I was about to correct you, but I remembered a similar experience I had once before."  "Oh," he drawled out, vastly relieved.  "A man named Manalang--I kept calling him Manalo. After the tenth time or so, the young man rose from his seat and said suddenly, 'Pardon me, but my name is Manalang, Manalang.' You know, I never forgave him!"  He laughed with her.  "The best thing to do under the circumstances, I have found out," she pursued, "is to pretend not to hear, and to let the other person find out his mistake without help."  "As you did this time. Still, you looked amused every time I--"  "I was thinking of Mr. Manalang."  Don Julian and his uncommunicative friend, the Judge, were absorbed in a game of chess. The young man had tired of playing appreciative spectator and desultory conversationalist, so he and Julia Salas had gone off to chat in the vine-covered porch. The lone piano in the neighborhood alternately tinkled and banged away as the player's moods altered. He listened, and wondered irrelevantly if Miss Salas could sing; she had such a charming speaking voice.  He was mildly surprised to note from her appearance that she was unmistakably a sister of the Judge's wife, although Doña Adela was of a different type altogether. She was small and plump, with wide brown eyes, clearly defined eyebrows, and delicately modeled hips--a pretty woman with the complexion of a baby and the expression of a likable cow. Julia was taller, not so obviously pretty. She had the same eyebrows and lips, but she was much darker, of a smooth rich brown with underlying tones of crimson which heightened the impression she gave of abounding vitality.  On Sunday mornings after mass, father and son would go crunching up the gravel road to the house on the hill. The Judge's wife invariably offered them beer, which Don Julian enjoyed and Alfredo did not. After a half hour or so, the chessboard would be brought out; then Alfredo and Julia Salas would go out to the porch to chat. She sat in the low hammock and he in a rocking chair and the hours--warm, quiet March hours--sped by. He enjoyed talking with her and it was evident that she liked his company; yet what feeling there was between them was so undisturbed that it seemed a matter of course. Only when Esperanza chanced to ask him indirectly about those visits did some uneasiness creep into his thoughts of the girl next door.  Esperanza had wanted to know if he went straight home after mass. Alfredo suddenly realized that for several Sundays now he had not waited for Esperanza to come out of the church as he had been wont to do. He had been eager to go "neighboring."  He answered that he went home to work. And, because he was not habitually untruthful, added, "Sometimes I go with Papa to Judge del Valle's."  She dropped the topic. Esperanza was not prone to indulge in unprovoked jealousies. She was a believer in the regenerative virtue of institutions, in their power to regulate feeling as well as conduct. If a man were married, why, of course, he loved his wife; if he were engaged, he could not possibly love another woman.  That half-lie told him what he had not admitted openly to himself, that he was giving Julia Salas something which he was not free to give. He realized that; yet something that would not be denied beckoned imperiously, and he followed on.  It was so easy to forget up there, away from the prying eyes of the world, so easy and so poignantly sweet. The beloved woman, he standing close to her, the shadows around, enfolding.  "Up here I find--something--"  He and Julia Salas stood looking out into the she quiet night. Sensing unwanted intensity, laughed, woman-like, asking, "Amusement?"  "No; youth--its spirit--"  "Are you so old?"  "And heart's desire."  Was he becoming a poet, or is there a poet lurking in the heart of every man?  "Down there," he had continued, his voice somewhat indistinct, "the road is too broad, too trodden by feet, too barren of mystery."  "Down there" beyond the ancient tamarinds lay the road, upturned to the stars. In the darkness the fireflies glimmered, while an errant breeze strayed in from somewhere, bringing elusive, faraway sounds as of voices in a dream.  "Mystery--" she answered lightly, "that is so brief--"  "Not in some," quickly. "Not in you."  "You have known me a few weeks; so the mystery."  "I could study you all my life and still not find it."  "So long?"  "I should like to."  Those six weeks were now so swift--seeming in the memory, yet had they been so deep in the living, so charged with compelling power and sweetness. Because neither the past nor the future had relevance or meaning, he lived only the present, day by day, lived it intensely, with such a willful shutting out of fact as astounded him in his calmer moments.

May bagyo ma't may rilim* Nicanor G. Tiongson Marahil ay manhid lamang ang hindi nakadarama ng krisis na bumabatbat sa lipunang Pilipino ngayon. Lumalao'y sumasama, ika nga, wala pa ring katatagan o pagkakaisa ang bansa. Mula noong 1986, nakaapat na administrasyon na ang bansa ngunit patuloy pa ring binabagbag ang gobyerno ng nagtutunggaliang ideolohiya mula kanan hanggang kaliwa. Naghahari pa rin ang mga pulitikong wala nang inisip kundi magpatambok ng bulsa habang isinusulong ang kanilang ambisyong pampulitika. Salamat sa panahon ng Diktadura, naging institusyon na ang lagayan sa mga opisina ng pamahalaan - pambansa man o pambayan. Maraming huwes ang nabibili at maraming opisyales na naatasang maglinis sa gobyerno ang nagbabantay-salakay sa sinesekwester. Dinudukot pa rin at sina-salvage ng ilang militar ang mga taong nagtatanggol sa mga karapatang pantao. Isinisigaw ng mga diyaryo araw-araw ang mga pagkidnap, pag-ambus, asasinasyon at pagbomba. At kung nakapanlulumo ang pulitika ay lalo pa ang ekonomiya. Hangin pa rin sa tiyan ang pinagmamalaking kaunlaran at kabuhayan. Anuman ang sabihin ng diyaryo, di na mapigil ang pagtaas ng gasolina at bilihin, habang bumababa ang halaga ng piso at ang kalidad ng ating binibili. Kahit tapos sa kolehiyo ay nahihirapang humanap ng trabaho, at makahanap man ay wala rin namang napapala sa naturingan-pang suweldo. Nagdadagsaan ang libo-libong Pilipino sa Gitnang Silangan, Europa at Asya para maging "construction worker" at katulong o para maglako ng aliw. Nitong nakaraang digmaan sa Iraq, may mga manggagawang Pilipinong mas gusto pang ipagbakasakali ang kanilang buhay sa gitna ng bombahan kaysa mamatay nang dilat ang mata sa sariling bayan. May ilang yumayaman sa walang-habas na pagputol ng ating mga puno, samantalang ang maraming magsasaka'y nasisiraan ng ani dahil walang tubig para sa irigasyon. May ilang kumakabig ng milyun-milyong piso para sa pag-eeksport ng mga nahuhuli sa ating karagatan, kung kaya't tayo ang nauubusan ng yamang-dagat. Napakadali sa mga iilan ang magpalobo ng tiyan, samantalang ang karamihang kumakapit sa patalim para mabuhay ay humpak pa rin ang pisngi at pag-asa. Naglipana ang pulubi at baliw, at marami ang nakatira sa ilalim ng tulay o sa bundok ng basura. Wala rin namang pinagkaiba ang serbisyong panlipunan. Kailangang mamitig ang binti o makipagbuno ang karaniwang empleyado para makasakay. Maya't maya ay walang ilaw, madalas ay walang tubig. Nakatutulig ang ingay sa lansangan man o subdibisyon, at halos di ka makahinga sa usok ng mga sasakyan at alikabok ng daan. Dumami ang mandurukot at holdaper na nanloloob sa daan, bahay at sasakyan. Marami sa mga kabataan ay nalululong sa droga at pumapatay nang walang awa, ngunit di naman masugpo ang droga dahil protektado ng matataas na militar. Walang pasubali ang paggagad ng mga kabataan sa kulturang dayuhan na napupulot sa mga pelikula at programa sa radyo at telebisyon na angkat mula sa Kanluran. Sa halip na ilapit ang estudyante sa kanyang lipunan, pinalalawak pa ng edukasyong Kanluranin ang guwang sa pagitan ng mag-aaral at ng kababayang dapat niyang unawain at paglingkuran. Maraming intelektuwal na makabayan ang sumusulat at nagsasalita sa wikang Ingles na di masakyan at di ginagamit ng masang Pilipino. Sa kabutihang-palad, marami na ngayong mga mulat at sensitibong mamamayan na nagmamalasakit sa bayan, ngunit kahit ang mga ito'y natitigilan o nahihintakutan sa laki, lawak at lalim ng problema ng bansa. Ano nga naman ang magagawa tungkol sa utang na bilyon-bilyong dolyar, sa korapsiyon sa gobyerno at terorismo, ng isang Grade IV titser sa isang mahirap na eskwelahan sa Ormoc o isang nanay na alipin ng lampin at kaldero, o akawntant kaya na tatlong kahig isang tuka, o isang bagong gradweyt ng KAL sa UP? Tila wala nga kung patuloy nating iisipin na ang mga problemang ito ay suliraning likha lamang ng sistema o gawa ng mga taong traydor sa bayan, mga suliraning hindi naman natin kinasasangkutan at maaaring kasangkutan. Sa ganitong pananaw, talaga ngang walang magagawa ang karaniwang mamamayang walang posisyon o kapangyarihan kundi magsawalang-kibo na lamang, mangibang bayan -- o magpatiwakal. Ngunit tila hindi ganoon ang katotohanan. Aminin man natin o hindi, ang anumang krisis ng bayan ay mauugat sa mga mamamayan. Sapagkat ang pamahalaan at kabuhayan ng isang bansa ay gusaling sintibay o sinrupok lamang ng mga indibidwal na mamamayang siyang tunay na bato, buhangin at bakal ng mga gusaling ito. Kaya naman, hindi sapat na puntiryahin natin si gayo't ganitong opisyal ng gobyerno na korap o inkompetent, at isisi ang taas ng bilihin sa mga mamumuhunang nagsasamantala, pagkat hindi rin naman magkakagayon ang mga taong ito kung ayaw natin. Walang magsasamantala, kung walang magpapasamantala. Malinaw, kung gayon, na ang dapat pagtuunan ng pansin ay ang dimensiyong personal at kultural ng ating mga suliraning panlipunan, sa partikular ang sistema ng paghahalaga o system of values at ang pananaw na laganap sa ating kultura, na sa ganang ami'y siyang pangunahing hadlang sa pagkakaroon ng tunay na pagkakaisa, kaunlaran at kapayapaan. Marami ang dayagnosis na binibigay ang mga sosyologo at sikologo, pero anim na kaisipan ang maituturo bilang pinakanegatibong mentalidad nating mga Pilipino sa kasalukuyan: (1) ang kaisipang "Kami-kami"; (2) ang kaisipang "Tayo-tayo"; (3) ang kaisipang "Kumapit sa Malakas"; (4) ang ang kaisipang "Puwede na 'Yan"; (5) ang kaisipang "Kwela ang Bongga"; at (6) ang kaisipang "Istetsayd Yata Yon." Suriin ang Sarili Ayon sa kaisipang "Kami-kami" ang unang dapat pahalagahan ng isang tao ay ang interes ng kanyang pamilya o kamag-anakan. Maganda kunsabagay ang pagpapahalagang ito, pagkat ang pagtataguyod at katapatan sa ating ina, ama, mga kapatid ay kapuri-puring katangian ng mga Pilipino. Sa karamihan sa atin, pamilya ang ating takbuhan sa anumang krisis sa buhay -- kapag tayo'y nagkakasakit, nagigipit sa pera, o nakikipag-away sa asawa. Pamilya ang ating sandalang mas matibay kaysa anupamang bangko o simbahan. At ito'y di katakataka, pagkat totoong hangal ang umasa sa gobyernong walang malasakit sa taumbayan. Sa kasamaang-palad, madalas na ang interes ng pamilya at sarili na lamang ang nagiging gabay ng ating mga gagawin kung kaya't wala na halos keber ang Pilipino sa kapakanan ng kanyang kapwa. Marami ang nakapupuna na ang Pilipino ay napakalinis sa kanyang pamamahay. Pero oras na siya'y lumabas sa kanyang bakuran ay naroong magkalat siya sa lansangan ng balat ng saging o balot ng kendi o bote ng sopdrink. Maingat siya sa pagtatapon ng layak sa basurahan sa loob ng kanyang bakuran, pero itatambak naman niya nang walang pakundangan ang basurang iyon sa kanal, estero o ilog o sa tabi ng bakod ng kanyang kapitbahay. Ito rin ang mentalidad na nagbubunsod sa ating "isahan" ang di natin kamag-anak -- sa pagdaraya ng timbangan, sa pagsingit sa linya sa sasakyan, klinika o groseri, at sa pag-uunahang makalusot sa mga interseksiyon. Bunga rin ng mentalidad na ito ang isip-alimango na ayaw magpalamang sa "ibang tao". Kilalang-kilala ang maraming Pilipino sa pagiging mainggitin at sinisiraan nila at hinahatak pababa ang sinumang makita nilang umaakyat sa buhay o propesyon. Tsismis at paninirang-puri ang sandata ng ayaw malamangan. At dahil pinakamahalaga ang pamilya, gagawin ng isang ina o ama ang lahat para maibigay sa anak ang inaakala nilang pinakamahusay na damit, edukasyon, gamit. Nariyang "lakarin" ang anak para mapasok sa isang paaralan kahit na malinaw sa entrans eksam na hindi kaya ng bata na mag-aral sa gayong eskwelahan. Nariyang pagtakpan o kunsitihin ang bunsong nambugbog ng isang basta nakursunadahan. Sabihin pa bang salot sa lipunan ang ganitong mentalidad. Ang kawalan ng pakialam sa kapwa ang dahilan kung bakit nakakalbo ang ating mga bundok at tuluyan nang nawawalan ng tubig ang ating mga dam at palayan; kung bakit nagkakabuhol-buhol ang trapik, nagbabara ang mga kanal at namamatay ang mga ilog; kung bakit nagagawa ng mga opisyal ng gobyerno ang pangungurakot sa kaban ng bayan; at kung bakit nagiging opisyal sa gobyerno ang mangungurakot. Ito ang dahilan kung bakit nakapagkamal ng kapangyarihan at kayamanan ang diktador at kauri niya at kanyang mga galamay. Ang kaisipang "Tayo-tayo" ay kamag-anak ng kaisipang "Kami-kami", pero ang binibigyang halaga nito ay ang rehiyonalismo, o ang pagkiling sa mga taong galing sa baryo o bayang ating tinubuan o sa rehiyong ating kinalakhan. Dahil sa kaisipang ito, agad nating pinagkakatiwalaan ang isang tao dahil pareho tayong Ilocano o Cebuano. Hindi masama ang magpahalaga sa kapakanan o kalinangan ng ating bayang tinubuan. Sa katunayan, ang kasaysayan ng bansa ay maraming halimbawa ng kabutihang maaaring ibunga ng ganitong uri ng patriotismo. Kung hindi sa katutubong relihiyon ng Bohol ay hindi sana nahikayat ni Tamblot na mag-alsa noong 1622 ang mga taumbayan laban sa mabigat na buwis na ipinataw ng mga Kastila. Pagmamahal din sa kanyang bayan sa Panay ang naging dahilan ng pag-aaklas ni Tapar noong 1663. Ngunit ang makitid na pagmamahal ding ito sa iba't ibang lugar na ating pinanggalingan ang pinagsamantalahan ng kolonisador. Natuwa ang mga Kastila sa ating walang-katapusang pag-iiringan. Lumakas sila sa ating pagbabangayan. Sa Samar, ang pag-aalsa ni Sumuroy noong 1649 ay pinasugpo sa mga Lutao ng Zamboanga. Sa Bohol, ang rebelyon ni Tamblot ay pinuksa ng mga Pampango at Cebuano. Kaya naman noong 1890, sinabi ni Rizal na isa sa mga pangunahing dahilan kung bakit walang kaunlaran sa Pilipinas ay ang kawalan ng mga katutubo ng kamalayang maaaring magbuklod sa kanila sa iba pang mga katutubong inaapi rin ng Espanya. Mula noong panahon ni Rizal hanggang ngayon ay tila lumala pang lalo ang rehiyonalismo, at umabot ito sa sukdulan sa panahon ng Batas Militar nang gamitin ng diktadura ang Ilocanismo para mapanghawakan nito ang Hukbong Sandatahan ng Pilipinas. Sabihin pa bang sa panahon natin ngayong hinihiklas ng nagtutunggaliang mga interes ang bayan, hindi maisasagawa ang rehabilitasyong pampulitika at pang-ekonomiya kung di magtutulungan ang iba't ibang rehiyon at grupong etnolingguwistiko ng bansa. Sa panahon natin, ang rehiyonalismo ay isa nang anakronismo. Ayon sa kaisipang "Kumapit sa Malakas", ang kailangang hanapin ng tao para mabuhay ay ang taong makakapitan niya sa kanyang mga pangangailangan. Kung tutuusi'y madaling maunawaan kung bakit umusbong ang ganitong kaisipan. Bago pa man dumating ang mga Kastila'y umaasa na tayo sa pinakamalakas na datu sa tribo. Sa panahon ng Kastila, at dahil sa bulok na pamamahala ng mga ito, nakita natin na wala namang mangyayari sa ating mga hinaing kung ang aasahan din lamang ay ang katuwiran o sarili at tapat na pagpupunyagi. Natuto tayong lumapit sa malakas. At kung wala tayong kilalang malakas na tao ay humahanap tayo ng kamag-anak o kakilala ng kamag-anak na maaaring may kilalang kakindatan naman ng taong malakas. At kung may kaaway tayo na malakas, humahanap din tayo ng kasukat na suklob nito para mapangalagaan ang ating interes. Sa gayon, nabuo ang napakasalimuot na sistema ng palakasan sa ating lipunan. Dahil dito, di tayo magkandatuto sa pagkakabit ng kung anu-anong titulo na "panghimas" sa mga taong malakas o may koneksiyon -- si gobernor, konsehal, atorni, o doktor, o si dating gobernor, sekretaryo, etc. Dahil dito, tinanggap na ng lipunan na ang Pilipino ay dapat maging awtoritaryan, at nabuo na rin sa isip ng marami sa ating mga pinuno na tama lamang na gamitin niya ang kanyang posisyon para mapaunlakan ang kahilingan ng mga kumakapit sa kanya, at karapat-dapat lamang na ibigay ng mga ito ang anumang hilingin niya -- gamot man ito o lason para sa bansa. Dahil dito, naghahalal tayo ng mga opisyal sa gobyerno, hindi dahil sa kanilang talino o kabutihang-loob o katapatan sa bayan kundi dahil may maaasahan tayo sa kanya o malalapitan natin siya kung mayroon tayong personal na suliranin. Magugulat pa ba tayo kung umabuso ang ating mga opisyal, samantalang tayo mismo ang kumukunsinti sa kanila at nag-uudyok na maglabis sa tungkulin. Ayon sa kaisipang "Puwede na 'Yan," hindi na kailangang paghirapan pa ng tao ang pagpapabuti sa kaniyang ginagawa o ang pagpapahusay o pagpapakinis sa kanyang trabaho -- maging ito'y sa eskwelahan o opisina, sa gobyerno man o pribadong sektor. "Maski paps" o maski papaano na lang ay pwede na -- tutal hindi naman nagreresitesyon palagi, tutal di naman mapapansin ng amo ko sa opisina, tutal mababa naman ang suweldo ko, tutal maliit naman ang pagbibilhan ko nito. Dahil sa pananaw na ito, pinalulusot na natin ang mga term paper na binubuo ng pinagtagpi-tagping sipi na kinopya nang walang atribusyon mula sa internet at sa iba't ibang libro, o pinapasa na lamang ang disertasyong ang kalidad ay mababa pa sa undergrad. Dahil sa pananaw na ito, naglaho na ang rikit ng mga takang kalabaw at dalaga na pinintahan ng buong tiyaga, ingat at pagmamahal at nawala na ring tuluyan ang mabubusising disenyo at samutsaring kulay ng dyipni at kariton ng sorbetes. Naparam ang pagmamalasakit sa kahusayan at kariktan, at namayani ang tinatawag nating kultura ng karaniwan at kahit-paano-na-lang o ang "culture of mediocrity." Madali kung sa madaling maintindihan kung bakit palasak ang ganitong aktitud sa Pilipino, dahil kalimita'y hindi sapat ang kompensasyong natatanggap niya sa kanyang trabaho. Pero madali rin namang maunawaan kung gaano kapanganib ang ganitong pananaw para sa bayan. Paano kung ito ang maging pananaw ng lahat ng Pilipino mula sa pinakamababa hanggang pinakamataas? Paano kung sabihin ng titser na puwede na kahit padaskul-daskol ang kanyang pagtuturo dahil iyon lang naman ang katumbas ng sahod niya? Paano kung sabihin ng doktor na hindi na lang niya pagbubutihin ang operasyon sa bato dahil taga-charity ward lang naman ang inoopera? Paano kung sabihin ng huwes na hindi na lang niya pag-aaralan ang kaso ng isang masaker dahil wala namang mapapakinabang sa pamilyang magsasaka ng mga namasaker? Alam nating lahat kung gaano kahalaga ang karampatang gantimpala para mabigyan ng tamang inisyatiba ang tao para magtrabaho nang mahusay. Pero kung hihintayin pa nating tumaas ang sahod nating lahat bago natin paghusayin ang ating gawain ay bababa na nang husto ang kalidad ng pag-iisip, pag-uugali, at pangangatawan ng Pilipino, ang batas at kaayusan, ang mga produkto at serbisyo. Babagsak na rin ang ating kabuhayan, pamahalaan at pangkalahatang lipunan. Sa kaisipang "Kwela ang Bongga," ang mahalaga ay ang nakikita ng tao sa labas, ang golpe-de-gulat, ang sosyal. Dahil sa kaisipang ito, pinahahalagahan natin ang mga usong pantalon, baro, sapatos, handbag; ang modang buhok, ang magandang mukha, ang bagong sasakyan. Nagtitilian ang ating mga kabanata sa mga cute na mga teen-age idols sa TV kahit na ang karamihan dito'y dalawa ang kaliwang paa at ang boses ay pambanyo lamang. Ang hinahanap na aliwan ng karamihan ay mga pantasya sa komiks at magasin, ang drama sa radyo at bakbakan sa pelikula. Ang nwes sa TV ay naging entertainment na. Nagkukumahog tayong umuwi sa gabi para malaman kung magkakabati na muli sina Yuri at Kat, kung ano ang gagawin ni Boris matapos sabihin sa kanya ni Morgana na pakakasalan ni Dimitri si Lorea. Nagkakandabaon tayo sa utang at nagsasangla pa ng ari-arian para makapaghanda ng napakaraming ulam at makapag-ayos ng bahay kung pista ng baryo o binyag, debut, bertdey, kasal ng ating mga anak. Naniniwala tayo na mabait ang isang tao dahil marunong magmano o mamupo sa matanda, na makamasa ang isang Presidente dahil may pabahay siya sa "mahihrap," na kaibigan ang Amerikano dahil sila ang nag-"liberate" sa atin, na may kalayaan ang bansa dahil may selebrasyon naman tuwing a dose ng Hunyo. Sabihin pa bang napakabigat ng implikasyon ng ganitong kababawan ng pag-iisip sa ating lipunan. Dahil sa pakitang-tao ay napipilitan tayong magwaldas ng hindi naman natin kaya. Dahil ang pananaw natin ay hanggang damit o balat na lamang, hindi nating masilip ang ginto sa loob ng isang tao at superpisyal ang tingin natin sa mga pangyayari at kaligiran. Naghahalal tayo ng tao sa gobyerno dahil paborito natin siyang artista o simpatiko siya o dahil tila mabait naman siya pagkat "inaabutan" tayo kapag siya'y nangangampanya noon. Nararahuyo tayo noon sa rebeldeng militar dahil maganda siyang lalaki at matsong-matso ang dating. Kahit na napakalaki ng ginawang pinsala sa bansa ng kanyang mga kudeta ay inihalal pa rin natin siya bilang senador. Ayon sa kaisipang "Isteytsayd Yata Yon," ang kanluranin ay superyor sa katutubo, ang maputi ay mas maganda kaysa kayumanggi, ang Amerikano ay mas mahusay sa Pilipino. Ang kaisipang kolonyal ay nag-uugat sa panahon ng Kastila nang tayo'y bininyagang "Indio" at nilibak bilang urong at pangit na lahi, mga isip-bata na kung may buntot lamang ay maaari nang maglambitin sa puno. Lumala pa ang kaisipang ito sa ilalim ng mga Amerikano nang bumaha sa bansa ang kulturang Amerikanisado, na nagsasabing di tayo sibilisado kung hindi tayo marunong mag-Ingles, hindi natin kilala si Shakespeare at T.S. Eliot, hindi tayo marunong mag-Amerikana o bestido, hindi tayo kalahi ng mga Elizabeth Taylor at Gwyneth Paltrow, at wala tayong bunggalow, kotse, radyo, telebisyon at washing machine. Maliwanag na namamayagpag pa rin ang kaisipang kolonyal ngayon. Ang mga artistang Pilipinong kinalolokohan natin ay ang mga tisoy at tisay. Gayon din ang mga itinatanghal nating beauty queen. Ang hinahanap natin ay Levis na galing sa Amerika (kahit hindi ito sukat sa katawan ng Pilipino) at hindi gawa sa Batangas o sa Bangkok lamang. Ang airwaves ay pinaghaharian ng American top hits, samantalang sa telebisyon ay seryeng de-lata ng Kano at Mehikano ang kinahuhumalingan o ginagaya natin. Sa media at edukasyon ay patuloy ang pag-iral ng Ingles, na isa sa pangunahing dahilan kung bakit hindi maabot ng masang Pilipino ang mga artikulong mapanuri at kritikal. Ingles din ang nagpapanatili sa guwang sa pagitan ng naghahari at pinaghaharian. Sa larangan ng pulitika, ang kaisipang kolonyal ang dahilan kung bakit nagpapatumpik-tumpik noon ang marami tungkol sa pagpapaalis ng mga base militar, at kung bakit ang presidente ng Pilipinas ay natataranta sa pagsuporta sa US sa Iraq War. Daan-daang taon na ang kaisipang ito sa ating bayan at ito ang isa sa mga pangunahing balakid sa ating pagiging tunay na bansang malaya. Wumawagayway nga sa mga tagdan ng mga paaralan at opisina ng gobyerno ang ating bandila pero nakatanghod pa rin tayo sa isang higit na malakas na bansa na ang interes na pinaglilingkuran ay hindi naman ang kapakanan ng Sambayanang Pilipino. Ang Sakit ng Kalingkingan Malubha nga kung sa malubha ang kanser ng lipunan ngayon. Ngunit kailangan pa bang masangkot sa mga suliraning ito? Bakit di na lang tayo manahimik? Sa ayaw natin o sa gusto, ang ating kasalukuyan at hinaharap, ang ating mga buhay at hanapbuhay, at pati na ang ating mga pangarap para sa ating sarili, pamilya at angkan--ang lahat ng ito ay apektado ng nangyayari at mangyayari sa ating lipunan. Ang ating kinabukasan ay nakakawing sa kinabukasan ng bansa. Ang sakit ng kalingkingan ay sakit ng buong katawan. Pero ano ang ating magagawa para makatulong sa pagbabanyuhay ng ating lipunan? Una, iwaksi ang kaisipang "Kami-Kami" at isaalang-alang na kapwa rin natin ang hindi natin kamag-anak. Buhayin ang tunay na pakikipagkapwa-tao, isang matandang pagpapahalaga ng mga Pilipino, na nakabatay sa paggalang sa karapatan ng iba. Alisin ang kaisipang "isahan" at puksain ang isip alimango at inggitan sa bahay, eskwelahan o pamahalaan. Mahalin ang mga kapatid, anak, at kamag-anak pero huwag magpadala sa bulag na pagmamahal na kumukunsunti sa masamang gawain. Ituro sa anak ang paggalang sa kapwa-tao, pagkat ang lapastangan ay lalapastanganin rin. Matuwa, huwag mainggit sa tagumpay ng iba, at magpursigi para magtagumpay din sa mabuting gawain. Pangalawa, paunlarin natin ang mga rehiyon ngunit wakasan na ang rehiyonalismo. Kailangang malinang ang likas na yaman at kultura ng ating mga baryo, bayan at lalawigan, pero isanib at ipailalim natin ang mga ito sa kapakanan ng buong sangkapuluan. Naniniwala kami sa desentralisasyon ng pamahalaan, pagkat ito marahil ang makapagrerenda sa mga abuso ng lokal na opisyal. Ito rin ang makapagbibigay ng insentibo sa mga lalawigan para mapabilis ang pagpapaunlad ng kanilang kabuhayang masyadong natali sa gobyerno sentral sa Maynila sa napakatagal nang panahon. Sa larangan ng kultura, pasiglahin natin ang mga sining na rehiyonal sa Cebuano, Iloko, Ilongo, Waray, Bikol at iba pang wika, sa mga grupong minoridad, sapagkat ang mga ito ang magiging buto at laman ng kulturang pambansa. Gayunman, ang paglinang sa yaman ng mga rehiyon ay hindi dapat magdulo sa rehiyonalismo. Kailangang ituon natin ang ating mga pananaw di lamang sa interes ng ating rehiyon kundi sa kapakanan ng buong bansa. Kaugnay nito, dapat igalang natin ang iilang mga simbolo ng ating bansa tulad ng awit na pambansa, at huwag sansalain ang paglaganap at paglakas ng iisang lingua franca na magsisilbing tulay na mag-uugnay sa iba't ibang rehiyon at interes ng sangkapuluan. Pangatlo, buwagin ang sistema ng palakasan. Ito ang isa sa mga masasamang kaugalian nating mga Pilipino. Higit pa rito, huwag nating ihalal ang opisyal na gumagamit ng sistemang ito, at huwag tayong laging umasa na lamang sa taong malalapitan o makakapitan. Sa halip nito, magbuo tayo ng ibang uri ng lakas, iyong lakas na nanggagaling hindi sa itaas o sa sentro, kundi sa ibaba, sa pakikiisa sa kapwa, sa pag-oorganisa, sa paggawa ng hakbang bilang nagkakaisang pangkat na hindi maaaring balewalain ng mga nasa poder. Tandaan natin na kaya naghari ang diktadura noon ay dahil na rin sa ating pagpapabaya at sa ating pagkunsinti sa taong "malakas." Pero tandaan din natin na napabagsak lamang ang diktador nang magkaisa ang taumbayan at nang magsanib ang iba't ibang sektor at uri sa EDSA noong 1986. Huwag umasa kay Malakas, sa sinumang malakas. Bumuo ng sarili nating kapangyarihan ng nagkakaisang mamamayan. Sa gayo'y masasawata natin ang pangungurakot ng nasa poder, ang pananakot ng sandatahan, ang pagyurak sa karapatang pantao. Pang-apat, saan man tayo naroroon, sinupin at pakinisin natin ang ating gawain. Sa bahay ay maging mabuting ina, ama, anak. Sa paaralan ay maging mahusay na guro, estudyante at mananaliksik. Sa pamahalaan ay maging malinis at epektibong senador, konggresista, gobernador, meyor, konsehal, sekretaryo. Sa propesyon ay maging mahusay na arkitekto, doktor, abugado, inhinyero, karpintero, latero, kantero, elektrisyan. Sa larangan ng sining ay maging mahusay na pintor, iskultor, musikero, aktor, direktor, dibuhista, manunulat, TV host, radio commentator. Huwag magpadala sa awa-sa-sarili dahil sa liit ng kikitain. Gawin natin ang ating trabaho hindi ayon sa ating kikitain kundi ayon sa pamantayang itinakda natin para sa ating sarili. Tandaan na ang taong may mataas na pamantayan para sa kanyang gawain ay taong may galang sa sarili, at ang gayong tao ay hindi papayag sa padaskul-daskol na trabaho ng sinuman -- maging siya'y pangulo ng bansa, o meyor ng isang maliit na bayan, sekretaryo ng edukasyon o guro ng isang paaralang elementarya. Ang pagsunod sa mataas na pamantayan ay magdudulo sa propesyunalisasyon, at ang propesyunalisasyon ang isa sa mga batayan ng tunay at epektibong demokrasya. Sa kasalukuyan, ang akademya na lamang marahil, partikular ang UP, ang isa sa natitirang institusyon na naninindigan pa rin para sa mataas na pamantayan ng pagtuturo at ng pananaliksik, para sa excellence o kagalingan. Kung kaya naman napakalaki ng responsibilidad ng ating mga guro at estudyante na, kahit ano pa man ang gawin ng mga hunghang na pulitiko sa ating badyet, ay hindi natin ikokompromiso o ipapariwara ang ating integridad. Singkahulugan ng integridad na iyan ang masusi at matiyagang pananaliksik, ang maayos at matalisik na pagtuturo, ang matiyagang paggabay sa lahat ng antas ng mga mag-aaral, at higit sa lahat, ang walang-puknat at walang-sawang pagsusumikap. Tulad ng laging siansabi ng isa sa ginagalang kong guro sa UP, si Prop. Teodoro Agoncillo, "there is no such thing as genius. Genius is 95 percent perspiration and 5 percent inspiration." Panlima, linangin ang pag-iisip na kritikal. Huwag padala sa sinabi lamang ng awtoridad o matanda. Huwag tayong masilaw sa pakitang-tao o magandang mukha o biste. Huwag basta marahuyo sa mga panga-pangako, lalo na ng mga pulitiko. Ang paglinang sa kaisipang kritikal ay kailangang magsimula sa bahay, sa pagpapalaki ng anak. Nakagawian na ng maraming magulang ang maging mumunting diktador sa kanilang pamamahay. "Ang bata ay di dapat sumagot kundi sumunod lamang." Totoo ito lalo na kung di sapat ang pag-iisip at kaalaman ng bata. Pero kung ang bata ay nagsisimula nang magtanong, sana naman ay hayaan itong gumamit ng sariling katuwiran. Huwag sansalain ang kanyang sinasabi dahil lamang sa siya'y bata, pagkat alam natin na maaaring tama ang sinasabi ng bata. Gayundin, sa mga paarala'y dapat nang iwaksi ang tinatawag na "banking method" -- yaong pagtuturo na dinidikta lamang ng titser ang lahat ng datos na puspusan namang itinatala ng estudyante sa kanyang notbuk, at pagkaraa'y kakabisahin o igagawa ng kodigo at pagkatapos ay ibabalik nang buong-buo at di pinag-isipan sa guro para makakuha ng mataas na grado. Lumaki tayong lahat sa pagiging kabisote pero hindi tao o mamamayan ang ibubunga ng ganitong sistema kundi loro o asong turo. Higit pa kaysa pagbibigay ng datos sa bata, ang matayog at tunay na layunin ng edukasyon ay turuang magsuri at mag-analisa ang bata para malaman niya kung paano haharapin ang lipunang kanyang kinabibilangan. Maaaring hindi niya matandaan sa kanyang pagtatapos kung anu-ano ang mga taon ng paghihimagsik ni Dagohoy o Tamblot, pero kung naiintindihan niya kung bakit nag-alsa ang mga ito laban sa Kastila ay malaki nang tubo sa puhunang pagod ng sinumang guro. Pang-anim, hunusin na ang kaisipang maka-banyaga at itaguyod ang kamalayang Pilipino. Dapat gumawa ng kongkretong hakbang ang ating pamahalaan para ilimita ang pagpasok ng banyagang pelikula, programa sa telebisyon at mga awitin sa radyo, at paramihin ang mga pelikula, palabas sa telebisyon at mga awiting gawa ng Pilipino para maprotektahan ang ating mga artista. Dapat ipagbawal ang mga patalastas na gumagamit ng modelong puti at ipinangangalandakan ang "stateside quality". Sa kabilang banda, dapat na isakatuparan ang Pilipinisasyon ng buong sistema ng edukasyon, dapat ituro sa mga bata ang kasaysayan at kulturang Pilipino sa punto-de-bista ng katutubong Pilipino, dapat gamitin ang Filipino at mga katutubong wika bilang wika ng pagsulat at pakikipagtalastasan. Gayundin, alamin natin ang mga produktong Pilipino na may mataas na uri at ating bilhin ang mga ito para mabuhay at yumabong ang kapital na Pilipino. Higit sa lahat, puksain natin ang ugat ng kaisipang banyaga--ang kaisipang nangmamata sa lahi at kulturang Pinoy. Tulad nina Doña Victorina at Doña Consolacion, ang ating pagsamba sa kulturang Kanluranin ay kaakibat ng ating paghamak sa katutubo nating kalinangan. Ito ang pinanggalingan ng "Pinoy-bashing" na nagsasabing ang Pinoy nga raw ay likas na mababa ang uri at panlasa, korap at walang prinsipyo, makasarili at walang malasakit sa bayan. Dagdag pa nila, "the Filipino is eminently negotiable." Malinaw na rasista ang ganitong mga pang-uuyam at rasista din ang mga Pilipinong naniniwala sa ganitong akusasyon. Pagkat ano nga ba ang kinalaman sa lahi ng mga katangiang ito? Kung may Pilipinong mababaw ang kaligayahan, meron din namang malalim ang pag-iisip at pag-unawa (tulad ng mga nasa harap ko ngayon, sana). Kung may Pilipinong mukhang pera, may Pilipinong walang katapat na presyo. Kung mayroong masyadong makasarili, mayroon din namang handang mamatay dahil sa makabayang prinsipyo. Tulad ng rasismo sa alin pa mang dako ng daigdig, ang anti-Pilipinismo ay konseptong ampaw. Kung wala sa lahi, nasaan nga kaya ang problema? Sa aming palagay, ang suliranin ng marami sa ating Pilipino ay, aminin man natin o hindi, nasa hindi natin pagtanggap sa realidad ng ating pagiging Pilipino. Sa kaibuturan ng ating budhi ay rasista ang marami sa atin at lumalabas ito kapag nagkakaroon tayo ng pagkakataong makaalpas sa ating pagiging Pilipino. Narito ang isang halimbawa. Nang kasalukuyang nagtuturo ako sa UC Berkeley noong taong 2001, nagkahuntahan kami ng isang sophomore na second-generation Filipino-American (pinanganak na siya sa States pero ang magulang niya ay immigrants). Anya, gustong-gusto raw niyang matutuhan ang kulturang Pilipino at lalo na ang wikang Pilipino, pero kinagalitan siya ng kanyang magulang nang malamang nag-enrol siya sa Tagalog. Sabi raw ng ina niya, "You are wasting your time. Why do you want to learn Tagalog? The point is to speak English without an accent." Ang mahalaga, ayon sa ina, ay maging bahagi ng American mainstream ang kanyang anak at mangyayari ito kapag hindi na napupuna, pagkat nabura na, ang pagiging Pilipino niya. Pero ang ironiya ng sitwasyon ay ito: hindi kailanman lubusang matatanggap ng mga puting Amerikano ang ganitong Pilipino (gaano man kahusay ang kanyang Ingles), hindi lamang dahil ang kulay at hitsura niya ay hindi puti kundi lalo't higit, dahil ni hindi niya matanggap ang kanyang sarili bilang Pilipino. At iyan nga marahil ang una nating dapat gawin -- ang tumungo sa harap ng salamin at buong taimtim na kilatisin ang kulay ng ating balat at ang tabas ng ating mga mata, ilong, bibig at tenga, at tuklasin/tiyakin sa ating mga sarili na tayo nga ay lahing Pilipino. Pangalawa, at mas mahalaga, unawain natin na ang ating pagiging Pilipino ay hindi aksidente ng kasaysayan, kundi manapa'y tadhana ng sansinukob. Ito'y tinakda sa atin tulad ng ating magulang at mga kapatid, kamag-anakan at kaibigan, eskwela, kamag-aral at guro, at iginawad sa atin ng kalikasan, tulad ng ating mga talento marami man o kaunti, ng ating normal o may kapansanan na pangangatawan, ng mga kondisyong kinapapalooban natin ngayon sa ibig man natin o hindi. Sa katagang sabi, may dahilan ang ating pagiging Pilipino sa panahon at lunang ito, at bahagi ng ating buhay ay dapat iukol sa pagtuklas ng misyong kaakibat ng pagiging Pilipino natin. Hangga't hindi natin ito hinaharap nang buong kamalayan, hindi tayo mapapakali at mabuway ang ating magiging buhay. Subalit sa sandaling yakapin natin ang ating identidad, lalago at mamumukadkad ang ating lahi at hahalimuyak sa buong sansinukob ang henyo ng ating pagkaPilipino. Totoong malubha ang sakit ng bayan ngayon at mahaba pa ang ating lalakbayin para makarating sa minimithing kaunlaran ng bayan. Pero kung tayo'y patuloy na magpupunyagi at magsisimula ng pagbabago ng ating mga sarili, sa ating pamamahay, opisina, o paaralan, tayo at ang iba pa nating kapanalig ang makalilikha ng isang bagong Pilipinas. Bilang pangwakas, nais kong anyayahan kayong lahat -- mga minamahal kong estudyante, at kasamang mga guro, mga ginagalang na panauhin, at kaibigang ginigiliw, bigkasin po natin nang sabay-sabay, bilang panata sa ating Inang Bayan ang sinaunang tulang nilimbag noong 1605, na nilapatan ko ng bagong pangwakas na taludtod