Forgiveness.

All things given, and factoring in self-awareness and remorse, how much forgiveness are we allowed to exercise on ourselves? This morning: an idleness that is not connected to New Year's Day and its parade of self-same illusions. Have stumbled upon old email of 17-, 18-, and 19-year-old self and came upon pages upon pages of sobering correspondes, both personal and professional; sobering because have never realized until today full extent of one's (1) neediness, (2) dismissiveness, (3) pretentiousness, (4) sense of entitlement, (5) penchant for inappropriate smileys, and (6) horribly florid prose (some things never change).

I am a horrible person. I'm now inclined to think that all of the disappointments in my life - rejections, failures, the occasionally impossible luck - had been just and fair - deserved - not so much as punishment but as a pull on the reins to a different (not necessarily better) direction. Would wish to forgive younger self. Badly. Really badly. Would like to offer excuses: youth, a desire to fit in, a creeping suspicion that one was not special. But things had been said. Already. Apologies could console no one but oneself, and that, have long figured out, is meaningless comfort.

Break.

Talks of progress hereabouts, as usual. Attempts at assessment, evaluation. It is the year's most precious, pristine break, and so there is something to be said about days spent and not lost to sleep; which is to say, spent. Today finished reading a fat novel (while taking copious notes for a paper), which of late I had alternated with adding to currently woeful word count. Yes: progress, although routine had more or less wrecked body clock, although it made me realize I now write at a pace that approximates the melting of polar ice caps, although it is something that I had come to treasure deeply. In a beloved series I have recently revisited, the slogan of a candidate for councilman is this: Change only brings problems. Character is surely a douche (Tope: and so not Japanese), but really am hard-pressed to say that pronouncement is completely devoid of wisdom. There had been, do I dare say, a beautiful kind of peace that accompanies my days. I now guard it fiercely, with the same vigor and attentiveness that I should've before I misplaced it and some other delightful thing took over. Here I am tempted to say that peace is the assertion of the self, the assertion that it is complete. Will think more about this. Now in this succinct demonstration, a clip from the aforementioned series, Celia (the blonde) is me and Nancy (the brunette) is peace. I'm kidding. Obviously.

 

--

There it is: my death on print, immortalized. The arrangement of the letters is so familiar that I recognize it instantly, even if I had been surveying the various robberies and homicides with a cursory glance and the typeface couldn't have been more than a quarter inch. Nevertheless, I see it, all nine letters, and I swallow a nameless dread alongside half-chewed pan de sal. I fold the broadsheet in half and flatten it on the table, so I can read the rightmost column on Page 6.

Police are blaming the dense fog on the intersection of Ayala and Senator Gil Puyat Avenues early Sunday morning for the death of a 29-year-old bank teller who was hit by a bus as he was crossing the street.

Philip Lee, a resident of #7 Albany Street, Cubao, Quezon City, sustained head injuries and was rushed to nearby Ospital ng Makati where he was declared dead on arrival.

According to witness accounts, Lee was last seen walking from the post office to the direction of EDSA before bystanders heard a loud screech from a Newman Goldliner bus (TXJ-710) bound for Leveriza.

Sure, accidents happen, but a namesake’s death sticks in your throat on a chilly Monday morning, with its bag of hot pan de sal and illusion of newness. When I was 12, I opened the phonebook to "L" and there were, I found, 17 Philip Lee’s in Metro Manila alone. Even then, on an intuitive level, I knew that I shared something with these people, something more than writing the same letters on documents and answering to the same name. Some form of solidarity. An affinity. Thinking about this gives me a nice feeling, and God knows I need all the happy thoughts in the world.

--

Muscle Memory

All wounds begin with coldness, moments before lacerated skin simmers—affinity with pavement,

rock and mud, soil littered with discarded cutlery, unused electronics, all manner of foreign sharpness. When the chill disappears, the mind considers pain

finally. Instructions for the body part to feel—intense heat, some prickling, a childhood in a silent playground. Chains. You pushed until my feet framed

a sluggish cloud’s tail-end. A dusty kick. Flight was a moment. In the fridge, a pair of wedding souvenirs lay entombed beside a jar of tomato jam, a can of beer.

The days return quickly, as soon as you say

The roast beef is rich and creamy, or The bride’s dress resembles a lavender seashell. Inside the boxes, bright-colored candies—peach, yellow, a strange shade

of blue. When the chill disappears, the feet remember: right food forward, then left. Neither is left behind. Endless walking. Naked footsteps. In a walled city

I trace an ancient lover’s frantic escape. She walked here, too,

barefoot. She may have thought of the same things—a childhood, a nuptial, her days returning vigorously. Muscle memory: the body knowing

ahead and more. Desiring to tire. When habits replace thankless consciousness. When what we know surrenders to any frail thing, even wounds

that begin with coldness. Closer to earth, the heat here assembles.

Dreams.

Last night I dreamt that a doctor spoke of worms somehow finding their way into your brain, and you were not yourself anymore, and as you lay on the hospital bed, you asked for me. I heard it: you said my name.

First.

To an eternal ally, my deep admiration.

Offering the reader an experience both numinous and unsettling, fled, their faces turned subtitles fragments edited from miscellaneous family photos (mostly taken in the 80s and 90s) with lines violently extricated from their context to create a glossary of dissonant if not poignant gestures and spaces that explore what is left and what is left out, the fleeting and the in-between, the nameless and the invisible, always caught in the very act of meaning and becoming, of being named and being known, never fully arriving, and teetering at the brink of insight and form.

"Ang mga puwang sa isipan ang pinupukaw ng unang aklat ni Christian Tablazon. Hinahayaan niya tayong manahan, nang hindi napapalagay, lagi sa pagi-pagitan: pagitan ng imahen at wika, pagitan ng mga basag na pahayag, pagitan ng mga salita, pagitan ng paghinto at pag-usad, pagitan ng pagkakabuo at pagkabasag, pagitan ng mga kategorya. Sa ganitong paraan at pagpaparaan, napaparanas niya ang pagiging nasa bingit ng hindi ganap na maalala ngunit tila pamilyar, laging nasa bingit ng pag-unawa. Mabisa niyang kinakasangkapan ang katahimikan at patlang para maipahiwatig ang kakanyahan at kabuuan ng bawat tipak, may sapat na pwersa ang bawat isa na nagtutulak pasulong upang makahulagpos sa pigil ng pagsasaaklat." —Allan Popa

Christian Tablazon was born in Manila and raised in Tarlac. He is an instructor at the Department of Humanities of the University of the Philippines Los Banos and a graduate student at the UP Film Institute.

--

Mga Huling Araw sa Nagsarang Koreo*

May kakaibang himbing ang papel at bato

sa papasarang koreo. Sa mga huling araw

papanipis nang papanipis ang mga liham

na dapat timbangin, sipatin sa ilaw,

isalansan. Kumikintab ang malamig na sahig

at pabagal nang pabagal ang mga yabag.

Dapithapon nang may matandang babae

na naghulog ng sulat, isa sa mga pinakahuli.

Puti ang sobreng pahaba, walang bahid

ng lukot, tila dumaan sa papalamig na plantsa.

(Ang mga selyo’y dibuho ng makukulay na isda.)

Ibinulong sa kanya, Paalala, mananatiling bukas

ang mailbox sa labas. Maaari pa ring maghulog

ng anumang kakasya sa maliit na siwang—

mga liham na bitbit ang mga mumunting pakay,

nakabinbin hanggang sa dumating, marahang pilasin,

basahin. Tanging tingin ang tugon ng babae,

papasibol ang ngiti habang binabawi ang liham.

Naglakad ito palabas at dinig sa loob ng tanggapan

ang marahang pagbukas sa bibig ng mailbox, simula

ng napipintong wakas. Malamlam ang dapithapon

sa paglayo ng babae, papahaba ang mga anino.

Ang mga selyo’y dibuho ng makukulay na isda,

mahimbing ngunit dilat sa dekahong dagat.

*Batid na ang postal system ang pakahulugan ng 'koreo' at hindi ang mismong edipisyo o tanggapan ('ipadala ang lahok sa pamamagitan ng koreo'). Payo ni C, i-invoke ang poetic license at metonomiya.

India.

I am going to India next year. Melane, who took this photo as we were traipsing along the walls of Intramuros recently, noted how high-pitched her voice had become after hearing the news, and would like to know why my face is still in its typical, pinched scowl. I have to admit. Typing it here - I am going to India - made it sink in a bit more, although I would be hardpressed to say that it has me tearing up my hair and beating my chest a la Trojan women, except in joy.

Which is to say I ought to be more excited. I am going in November, so the year-long wait may have something to do with the lack of figurative (and maybe literal) confetti (far from the agonizing way one couldn't sleep the night before a school field trip to Nayong Pilipino). Mostly, I look forward to the distance. Melane, who herself went on an Eat-Pray-Love tour of Indonesia, said she loved most the newness of things. At about the same time, I was in Sagada, and we both readily took back what we said about ourselves and our inability to escape them. Maybe you can't, but perspectives change, and that's almost the same thing.

When I read some accounts of past residents, I couldn't help but think of Silliman and the other workshops I have gone to: how it gave me a glimpse of the life I want to live, a world without, essentially, the need to think about sustenance, which is to say, money. Yes, I will invoke my distaste for capitalism here to rationalize my laziness (the refusal, for one, to take on a full time job for almost two years now). I know that I may very well be just postponing my entry to the "real world." I'll be 27 in a few months, and 28 when this residency ends, so I can say, at the least, that I gave it a good fight.

PS. Now re-reading Midnight's Children for a paper. I tell myself I am hitting two birds with one stone. Learning about India and trying to take that INC off my records. Sure.

--

Bumalik sa batis kamakailan, kung saan nawala isang gabi at kinailangang hanapin at sunduin ng unipormadong Los Banos police bitbit ang kanilang naglalakihang flash light. Madaling baybayin ang lumipas na panahon sa pamamagitan ng mga balikong linya, putol-putol, minsa'y makapal at minsa'y 'di halos makita, mga sala-salabit na kasaysayang pilit na itinatali hanggang kaya. Maraming nagbago. Maraming nasira. Sa pagmamasid ngayon sa rumaragasang tubig, napansing may mga bahagi ang batis na payapa. Mahirap isipin: na pahihintulutan ng bara-barang pagkakaayos ng mga malalaking bato ang ganitong espasyo, na ligtas, na sagrado, habang sa paligid ay puno ng galit, nagmamadali, ang tubig. Maraming katahimikan sa muling pagbisita, mga siwang na pinupuno ng mga 'di na dapat sabihin, at malaon nang naipaliwanag, naisaisip. Kahapon, waring isang linggo ang lumipas sa loob ng walong oras. Marahas-masaya ang mga pangyayari, mga bagong karanasan, mga bagong pinagsaluhan, at sa gitna: isang oasis, isang dakong luntian at buhay sa ilang. Sa tapat ng ospital, may nasumpungang tahimik na kapihan. Uminom ng gatas. Nanahimik. Walang maliw na kapayapaan.

--

Phone call

Above the static, you were telling me

you found a book on a roadside stand.

Will I read it? I nod, forgetting

you can’t see my head, ascending

and descending in promise.

‘Least that’s what I heard; there is rumble

from a truck or else the miles asserting

the distance of places.

On my end, it is quiet.

The air is a whirl

of freshly brewed coffee. Soft jazz music

wafts from piped in speakers. I was saying

something unimportant

interrupted by interference,

some thunder, and Billy Holiday’s voice

purring a lyric about a hopeless

assignment, tenderly about you,

how you crossed latitudes, your shadow

lengthening over

rainforests and skyscrapers, and all

I have to do is look outside

for your pending darkness.

Pagsakay sa bus.

May dumapong bigat kanina sa akin habang nakasakay sa isang bus na puno at siksikan. Nakadungaw ako sa bintana, habang nakadantay sa braso ang kamay ng katabing babae. Mayroon siyang ikinu-kwento sa kasamang lalaki, na bigla na lamang inilingkis ang kamay sa balikat ng babae sa kalagitnaan ng byahe. Malamig ang kamay ng lalaki. Sa pagbaba, pinili kong maglakad pansamantala sa halip na sumakay sa jeep. May nadaanan akong isang lalaking lasing sa ilalim ng tulay; nakahiga sa semento at waring ninanakawan ng dalawa pang lalaki. Walang nagawa ang paglingon ng mga dumaraan. May kantang nagpabuka sa aking bibig. Mabilis ang byahe kung tutuusin.

--

Everything, a metaphor

you don’t believe. When I tell you the days

are sun-baked hills until you came along, you refuse

to drop again, precipitation-wise. When I say

I am a desolate gasoline station in the middle

of nowhere, you inquire about the true-to-life possibility

of cab drivers sipping coffee in a roadside eatery,

downing bowls of hot arroz caldo, comparing stories

about the time when rain didn’t stop for weeks

and floodwater was a putrid blanket

that covered the cold city from head to leanest side street.

It is raining now.

We are in an abandoned gas station.

Do you feel the tug between symbols and the vanishing

pavement? The fence swathed in vine and the surrender. This body

      and the endless shivering.

Tonight.

Today, an unexpected wonder. From a hotel in Malate, a scenic route to Quiapo Church. Old buildings, marketplaces, the sea. Melane was there to get a camera for a three-week sojourn to Indonesia. I asked her not to inconvenience any monks along the way. I am going somewhere not as far, to endlessly walk, look at eroding terraces, and sweat. Philline says she will be waiting at the bus station.  What are we doing? Mel and I asked each other. Andy quoted from Gina Apostol's Gun Dealer's Daughter: "Is forgetting all you need if rest is all you want?" This is Mel: "Pwede lamang tayo paguhuin ng mga bagay na sila ring nagtayo sa atin, tinuntungan natin. Hala." Last time was in Quiapo Church, was with Alaysa, from China Town, and we crossed the overpass of the dildo sellers. I have forgotten this.

Flight.

Leaving for Cagayan de Oro in a few hours. Have long detested stress of early morning flights, but disaster of missing a late night one months ago (due to, among others, grave naivete re: military time) had rendered whole thing utterly scary: unpredictable traffic, scary-antiseptic airport environs, thought of documents jumping off bag to stay in bed, etc. So will be in CDO for a grand total of 22 hours, owing to (most likely) sadistic assistant who made travel arrangements and deemed it too much for lowly writer (moi) to have at least a few hours to, I don't know, sleep at the hotel? Funny when you recall that also flew to Cagayan in October last year, a lovely sojourn that included, among others, staying in Philline's durian-smelling solar-powered house and driving to Bukidnon to live with Lina Sagaral-Reyes for a few days. Think there shall be no solar energy or poetry in this trip; only cooperatives and credit bureaus (don't ask). Now, germane (and criminally emo) conversation with Andy, spread over a few days since we're so subhumanly busy:

A (Mon AM): Let's leave, G. I want to live somewhere else. I want a new life.
G (Mon PM): Hi, A. I want to disappear. Now.
A (Wed AM): Why the choice of the word 'disappear'? Why not 'go away'? Or is that my mind on overdrive.
G (Wed PM): Because I've been feeling that I'm ready to implode at any moment. Location can't change that. Hence, disappear.
A (Wed PM): Yes, because we bring ourselves wherever we go.

I think, I think, you never know when it's that bad until, well, it's that bad. What I'm doing now (in school, and career, and relationship, and life) is essentially trying to avoid all manner of regret once things are over, prevent any Revolutionary Road- or Incendies-type breakdowns later when one realizes things are lost and irreparable and like a 6 AM flight to the south: stressful, seemingly important but really just something that deprived you of sleep.

October.

I welcome October with arms aching because they're so outstretched. With the yearning of an upside down umbrella. The smile of an open manhole. The one-two punch of August and September now hopefully over, and so today: errands (drop off letter at Chancellor's office, look for lost library book), acads (start with Gemino paper, revise Charlson story, think of topic for Tope paper), love life (re-watch/blog about Hable Con Ella, download prescribed films, think about him), work (say yes to a raket in Cagayan de Oro next week, transcribe two interviews, write one press release), writing (send Charlson story, plus one more, to bunch of magazines), and self (think about point of everything, text random people about how writing and literature no longer, at this point, bring happiness).

Lately have questioned soundness of long-running thesis re: Awful Months (arbitrary, illogical, convenient), but how do you knock it when the first day of October brought such astounding bounty, in producitivity and prospects alike. (Of course, can be self-fulfilling prophecy, and Mobius strip-type tautology is useless argument). That said, kind of relish the celebratory mood October brings, if only to pick self up from proverbial rubble in the aftermath of August and September. Someday might find real reason for the invisible weight, i.e, other than retrogrades and ghost months. And if it really is bogus, what of it? We all tell ourselves such lies to survive. In this light, have obviously lost ability to be straightforward. Yey.