when an anti-establishment hippie is established...

And he looks up at me, sleepy still

Eyes still/ Dancing still to a fast-disappearing dream.

As I stand there, naked still

Conjuring up memories of stuff that happened

between us and the sheets

and sweet-smelling liquor, the chronic juice

of things that happen,

that really happened.

(Things that really happen but may not be real;

maybe his dreams are realer, really).

And we look at each of each one’s eye,

Sleepy still

Naked still

Trying to remember,

Which of what (what was it really?)

was real and what

of the dreams and the memories and the

nightlong entanglement

wasn’t

and could still be.

Posted by: Hoon at 17:14 | link | comments (3)

The season has begun.

This morning I awoke shivering to a heavy gray stratosphere, the clouds thick and swollen, hovering some 36 inches above the heads of people scrambling to the nearest roof.

In three seconds and a crack and boom of phenomenal proportions it poured—wet, portly rain.

 

Top 3 best things and feelings to wake up to:

1.     the smell of salt and the sound of glorious waves crashing

2.     realizing it was just a dream and nobody’s dead and you didn’t show up at work wearing just a bandanna after all

3.     cold, gray mornings and the radio announcement of suspended classes

 

I could’ve lain in bed for three centuries more, except there wasn’t any announcement. I called the school and the woman who picked it up seemed sort of confused I was asking. “Regular classes today.” She said quite snootily.

So I had to shoot my arms and legs through my schoolmarm outfit (really just pants and a blouse I’d never wear on a normal day) and pack my umbrella. I exhibited some rare foresight and packed a pair of rubber slippers. No way was I going to plod along the rain in my schoolmarm shoes (really just shoes I would normally never have).

The sky seemed clearer when I stepped out the house. And I began to think perhaps it wasn’t raining near our school at all. So, with tremendous confidence I purchased metro train tickets and plugged in my radio earphones.

Thirty minutes later I knew I was in for it. I should have ignored the little egghead on the phone and swan dived (swan dove?) back under the covers. The people inside the train had begun zipping up their rain jackets nervously. And outside, outside where in just a few seconds I would teeter off into, outside the sky was bucketing cats, dogs, emus and gigantic gray elephants.

I could have turned right around and sped back home, but my troublesome little gut began thumping at the prospect of adventure, a.k.a exciting activity.

The exciting activity involved rolling my schoolmarm pants up Huckleberry Finn style, clutching onto my umbrella for dear life, and flying off into the air Mary Poppins style.  

Ha. Of course I couldn’t. I had to wade through the calf-high rainwater and avoid whooping pedicab drivers at the same time. (Based on this empirical data, it seems rain can turn pedicab drivers into howling, hooting madmen whose sudden main purpose in life is to pedal straight at soaking wet pedestrians).

Level two utilized the addition of equally maddened vehicles on a two-way street. By this time, I had switched into auto-pilot mode. A smart move, as it entailed a deadening of all senses, including giddy guts.

I arrived leaking at our school steps and was met with a Nelson-like “Ha-ha!” from Mr. Isidro, who was running down the stairs and trying to wear a jacket at the same time. I suspect he was fleeing while he still could.

They had cancelled classes 30 minutes after I called.

 

*                  *                  *                  *                  *                  *       

         

It’s now Monday night. I’d written this above thing last Wednesday. It’s now been 5 days since I last saw a classroom. Egay the storm had salsa-ed off to Taiwan a couple of days back, but today is our revolution hero, Ninoy Aquino’s day of assassination, a declared holiday. I might have paid a more proper homage to this great man, except I’ve been nursing a cold since Saturday.

If it helps, I did a quaint little video on centipedes—Banzai claims they’re millipedes, but neither of us really have the desire to count — and put it up on my multiply. I’m not yelling from the top hilltops or anything because of it, but it was a pretty neat way to re-affirm self-productivity.

 (My multiply, in case you just might be interested: nidja.multiply.com)

 

 

 

 

Posted by: Hoon at 16:44 | link | comments

SUNDAY

 

A man is hawking something I could not recognize, crying out irresponsibly and inaudibly. Might I see it I would know—nothing stranger than a caravan of baskets assumes entry in this tiny street—but I hear only a nasal bleeping; like the hawker choked on his product and blocked all vital passages.

 

I used to hate Sundays: the sticky feeling of dread followed wherever I went, oozing out of blankets and corners like some subtle stink.

It poured in most painfully at five o clock, when the basketball shoes began squeaking on Channel Four, and each awful squeak was a second closer to Monday. Then Karen and I would be packed off to our house, the real, weekday one, and we would have wee hours left of our Sunday, and images of school would come gnashing down our bellies, twisting our tiny intestines into knots. (The Weekend House did not exclusively cause the pouring and leaking— the Feeling of Dread happened wherever we were, whenever it was Sunday, and anywhere we could hear the squeaking of shoes).  I remember the fishpond in the Weekend House: a three-layer masterwork with the lilies and red and black fish and a naked stone child that spouted water at the very top. I used to gather the tiniest fish, the newborn ones, with my tabo and into my hands, my tiny insufficient hands with the cracks in the middle, cracks I sometimes made bigger to let the water through faster when I was impatient.  I liked the wriggling and gasping that would tickle my cupped palms, the sticking and struggling into cracks that were suddenly no longer there. And when all was still, I would fling the cold bodies to the ground. (Later I would squat and watch the dead fish intently, as the troops of ants covered and gobbled them up).

 I remember hanging out at the maid’s quarters, where the radio was always on and I could stand on top of tables and cabinets amidst the crepe paper flowers and pieces of cloth. Where I could bury myself in sheets that smelled of lotions and cream, and on sweaty, sticky nights when the radio was turned off I could watch Takeshi’s castle on the tiny, black and white TV, on top of the green, scratchy fabric that covered the sewing machine.  I remember the cabinet filled with TinTin comic books, where I snuck off to whenever I can, the make-believe games under the kitchen table, the sword and laser fights, and the night we made airplanes out of Bazooka gum wrappers and pretended there was a golliwog on the roof.

I remember the White Club—on that day everyone should have a piece of the club color on them somewhere— and we used aliases borrowed from the cast of Garfield’s friends. (Joey was Orson, Karen was Sheldon, I was Lanolin. I forget who Mariel was). One of our favorite activities was concocting the GIZMO!—a bottle of scientificstuff which relieves all itches.  On other days we marched around the house, built forts, named puppies and every so often proclaimed a new King of Ping (selected over sets of wobbly table tennis and the squabbles that ensued after each).

I remember the dogs—there were as many as eight of them at one time, the slide and the swings, the long gray driveway we pedaled up and down on on our training bikes. I remember Archie comics and Looney Tunes and Follow that Bird! and Bravestar and Silly Symphonies. I remember the rigorous rounds of late night family computer duels: Contra and B-Wings and Excite Bike and Super Mario Brothers and that one with the flying ninjas.

I remember Patrick Lewis Can’t Lose and Doogie Howser, M.D. and Mr. Magoo and Gem and the Holograms.

I remember the wheezing, choking fits of laughter, the smell of clay, the crying, the shouting and fighting, the running, the pillow fights, the dancing, the pools of vomit, the action figures, the books, the mess, the singing, the colors, the songs, the orange couch, my pink yarn blanket and my little yellow room.

But I don’t remember growing up.

We haven’t gone back to the Weekend House in 13 years.

 

I still feel the Feeling of Dread sometimes, when the lazy afternoon light hits 5 o’clock and sounds are dulled and things are dusty and fuzzier around the edges. And then it sneaks in, leaking around the edges, oozing most painfully out of the TV screen, where just above the referee’s whistle I hear the squeaking.

Posted by: Hoon at 13:28 | link | comments

An extracted piece from the sea

Camiguin, Babuyan Islands April 2007

It was undoubtedly the most breathtaking---and certainly the largest--- vision I’d ever seen at sea.

Two seconds into our little crew’s discussion on where to dock for lunch it happened: this massive black shape heaving itself out of the water and landing with a splash so humongous it seemed and sounded like a communal bellyflop. I knew I was supposed to be in the office that day, but there I was instead, under the scorching midday sun, perched on a tiny banca whilst inviting the flying fish to flap straight into my gaping mouth. A humpback whale had just breached in front of us.

Not a lot---not even native Filipinos---know that every year, pods and pods of humpbacks make the tedious journey from their icy feeding grounds to these northern Philippine islands, where the warm waters are more conducive to mating, breeding, and evidently, breaching---among other equally astounding behavior.

Since discovering their presence, Dr. Jo Marie Acebes, veterinarian and Ateneo-UP- Oxford hybrid, has spent seven summers of her life now gazing at the Babuyan Island horizon for blows (spouts of air and water released when the whales breathe on the surface)  and chasing after disappearing flukes (cetacean tail). WWF used to organize yearly expeditions, but since not enough funding had come through this year, Jom had appealed and received a small grant from Hawaii’s Whale Trust to continue the research.

Corners amounting to number of volunteers, length of stay, and boat space were radically cut, which meant a typical day saw us scrambling for ample rear end room and developing extra pairs of hands. On not-so-typical days we were tossed around by the churning sea, monsoons and new moon weather dictating our course.

But always, always we saw them---the spurt of vapor against the blue yonder, a bellow of prehistoric proportions if near, a teeny dorsal fin breaking the surface, followed by a stretch of smooth and arching black, and then the mighty tail--- perfect, glistening, and slowly disappearing--- the very stuff of legends. 

And like the maddened Captain Ahab we would gun after these sightings---except instead of harpoons we wielded cameras, sheets of paper and a GPS, and instead of tasting blood we were buoyed by life. Some 300 meters away from the spot we’d slow down and wait, silent and watching, for a chance to snap a picture of the fluke. The only way to identify a whale is through the distinct patterns on its tail--- the ventral side (underside) of it specifically, which of course accounted for merry chases that went on for ages.   

It was the calves, the babies who were most curious. They swam with their mothers, then raised their heads and peeked at us, many times jumping out of the water in half and full breaches. Not a few of them lay sideways or on their backs, ventral surfaces up, slapping the water with their huge pectoral fins again and again, once in a while spyhopping (raising their bulky heads upward then slowly sinking back down), as if wanting to see how people looked, too. 

And then there were songs. Up till recently it was believed that only males sang, and that they sang to woo. The latest reports have shown that mothers also sing, and reasons other than to communicate remain vague.

When I heard my first humpback song--- forlorn wailing that carried up from beneath us, on that day the sea was so flat I could have walked it---I was lost. Without words nor instrument, the unabashed singing stuns the inadequate human. You could hear it, this (Sad? Happy? Heartbroken?) humpback (Male? Female? Alone? In a group?) chanting and shrieking so beautifully it rendered the entire world except itself and its song to stillness. Our job, other than to sit listening like dazed groupies, was to bring down the hydrophone and record it. Already experts have found patterns---refrains that were repeated, segments that have turned up in other places---that imply an evolution in the the songs. Chances are, a completed lament would never be heard again.  

On our last day at sea, Alden raised the binoculars to his eyes and shouted, “Blow! 9 o clock! One kilometer away!” Our motor roared to life as we sped to hollered direction. Nearing the coordinates, we noticed not just one fin, not just two flippers, but a whole glimmering sea-full.

 Melon-headed whales (dolphins, really) and Frasers were frolicking by the hundreds, breaking out of the water and bow riding in rows and rows of countless groups. And before we could even stop yelping, there they were: majestic humpbacks bigger than our banca lashing and falling, rising and bellowing beside us, a thousand dolphins spinning, skipping and whirling around them. We were right smack in the middle of mating whales--- five enormous bodies heaving, crying, and crashing so near our boat and bones were within smashing perimeters.

Faced by the weeping, sweeping beauty of it all, I honestly wouldn’t have cared.

 

 

Posted by: Hoon at 13:25 | link | comments (1)

Thursday, 09 August 2007

Is this the death of my blog?

Over the past months I’ve been treating my net persona as I’ve been treating all that I’ve decided was wearisome in my life: appointments with people wearing white and clutching apparatuses that suggest medical intent, pension plans, financial plans, life plans and anything to do with government and taxes.

I ignore them, and in the converse spirit that buoyed childhood conviction in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, I felt if I conveyed nonchalance long enough they would cease to be. Which, in the case of third person characters like doctors and taxes, is easy. But slightly trickier for matters you willfully started on your own. And lovingly assessed every day. And deemed a component of your ego. And spent many, many paid office hours on.

So here it lurks, unwavering, confident in the pixels and network wizardry that hold its specks together, my blog.

My last entry dates back to a century ago---a fresh resignee with remnants of a year’s salary in her pocket, acquired through glowing reports on real estate, never mind the acres of forest bulldozed for another golf course only .0002% of the country will actually use.

At the end, I cryptically mentioned roosting, in the hopes that after pecking out its period I would shuffle along corporate-free, attain nirvana, and return trumpeting the good news.

I shuffled to Indonesia, did not attain nirvana, but returned with packets of pecel, ayam soto and super bubur. And two root crops I stashed in my bag under layers of newspaper to plant back at home.

I shuffled to Babuyan Islands, attained nirvana, but lost it when I got off the boat.

And so my final words in my final blog entry—wrought and cast in iron as the beginning of my beginning—had to wait until I could summon up the response the person I was when I wrote it wanted.

That was in March. It’s August and I can no longer lump this blog with the dentists and physicians and financial charts, nirvana-propelled thoughts or no. I’m writing, if only to look straight into the eye of my Final Entry again. (It’s been squinting at me through accusing slits every time I peeked at this page, just to see if it was still alive, if my weeks of ignoring it had worked.)

So 5 months of my life tangoed by unrecorded, but I did keep notebooks filled with haphazard accounts of my humpback whale and Indonesian expeditions, which if one day I find myself with extra amounts of willpower I will transport here. It’s not as if I’m strapped for time: I’ve actually spent the last two days hanging around the house like a deadbeat, greasy and showerless, thanks to two rainstorms that’s finally sashayed into our island and bumped out that mean high-pressure area character.

I’m teaching again. Six classes of sophomore speech and a senior elective in media, so when classes are cancelled due to rain, I’m pumping my fists and whooping like the rest of them—except for this week, when I really need to see the little munchkins and hand out important circulars.

Other than that, nothing’s changed much, really. I’m not pasted before the computer screen 9 hours a day anymore, which explains in part the reduced interest in fluffing up my multiply and friendster accounts. I’ve got hours and hours of extra daylight—I’m only in school when I have class, about 14 of them a week. I’m considerably poorer, too, but that’s a given.

(The rain has stopped. I had to turn on the electric fan, and I can feel Mr. High Pressure Man harassing his way into our stratosphere again).

I also turned 26 three days ago, so there may actually be some measure of wizened wisdom underneath these all.

Posted by: Hoon at 17:01 | link | comments