ZEN Bitchin'

Yesterday two significant events happened in my home and adopted countries. In the Philippines our newly elected President Noynoy Aquino III (or P-Noy, as he’d like to be called) delivered his first State of the Nation Address (SONA, in journalistic parlance) at the opening of the 15th Congress. Days before he had promised that his SONA will shock and awe its audience as it will elucidate on the excesses of the previous regime. To this, I just thought: when it came to Mrs Arroyo’s (and her ilk’s) capacity for greed, I am no longer easily shocked and awed. But the anticipation has been intense for days.

Here in Cambodia, people have been waiting longer for this event. Not for days and weeks but years. The UN-backed Khmer Rogue Tribunal handed down its verdict on the first man tried for the excesses of the Khmer Rogue regime of 1975-1979. Comrade Duch (pronounced doik), was the director of the Khmer Rogue’s prison and interrogation center ‘S-21′. Under his stewardship, it is alleged that about 16,000 men, women and children were processed (tortured) in S-21 before being executed. As the regime grew more paranoid, S-21’s prisoners increased. Whole families were interrogated for crimes by a single member. There is even a day in 1977 when Comrade Duch allegedly ordered the execution of 160 children. Towards the end of the regime, the efficient killing machine that was S-21 also saw the processing of Duch’s former cadres–victims of the purges within the Khmer Rogue ranks. S-21 later symbolized the regime’s brutality. In his defense, Duch said he only did what his superiors ordered because he wanted to survive. He also emphasized the fact among the 5 suspects detained by the tribunal, he was the only one who confessed and expressed remorse for the crimes during the regime years.

I didn’t catch the whole speech of P-Noy but its transcript was thankfully readily available so I managed to read it while watching the video of the post-SONA proceedings at the Batasang Pambansa. Was I ’shocked and awed’ as he had promised? Well, I will stand by my previous statement on not being easily shocked. Instead of being shocked, his revelations just validated what most Filipinos have known for years. That she was, is, a worse plunderer than her predecessor Joseph Estrada, who by the way placed second in this election in spite of being a convicted felon. How forgiving (stupid) are these 8million+ Filipinos who voted for Estrada? It made me think of Albert Einstein when he said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome.” But I digress. So what did I like most about P-Noy’s SONA? On the surface level, I like his new hair-cut. I like the fact that he spoke in Filipino. The speech itself sounded equally great in my head and from P-Noy’s mouth. Most probably because unlike his inaugural address, he didn’t promise the moon and the stars to us. Although his responses to each of the irregularities he revealed could have used a bit more of consistency (some measures were too lofty, while some were too micro-management sounding), most of it was grounded on reality.

Duch was given a 35-year sentence, 5 years short of the sentence that the prosecution was going for. Cambodians, who are modest to the core (and consequently careful not to show too much emotion), wept openly when this was read aloud. This was perhaps due to the fact that the tribunal deducted 16 years from the sentence for time served and other factors. This meant that Duch, who is 67 years old, will be a free man if he stays alive until he turns 86. The net was immediately abuzz with reactions from the surviving victims and their families. Many felt that the sentence simply wasn’t commensurate with the grief that Duch had caused upon so many people. Up to this day, the mental state of many Cambodians has been irreparably fractured by what happened in those dark years. The 6-month trial was unprecedented because it was the only time when people openly talked of the atrocities that went on under the Khmer Rogue regime. For most of Cambodia’s youth (which comprise more than half of the population), it was like an instant history lesson because before the tribunal parents were reticent to talk about the past. For the older Cambodians, I imagine that it was either traumatic (for opening up old wounds) or cathartic (for knowing that many others went through the same sufferings).

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My maternal grandmother, Victoria Mendoza Protacio, was born this day in 1925. Had she been alive, today she would have been 85 years old. Unfortunately, less than a month after she turned 80, we lost her to cancer. They always say that grandparents and grandchildren have a special bond, that it almost borders on being a cliche. However, this is a cliche I would gladly embrace. Though technically I am not her eldest grandchild, I enjoy the distinction of being the grandchild that was closest to her. No one among my cousins can claim this. Growing up I was with her at every opportune time, to the behest (perhaps) of my two aunts, who were her youngest children.

She was a public school teacher who was a great cook but never bothered too much with other domestic chores; perhaps due to the fact that she was a career woman with almost a dozen children. My mother, her first daughter, was the whirly-gig who took on managing the home (and the kids) when she was working. But Mommy (as I called her–a term that my younger cousins also took to using when referring to her) was a doting grandmother. She encouraged me to pursue my interests in art and the written word when no one (not even my pragmatic mother) else did. She nurtured my imagination with stories and insights on how we should always dream of better things. She kept clippings of all my published written works.

When I told her I am gay, she knowingly smiled and silently reassured me that nothing would change between us.

She spent about the last 10 years of her life in the States, where 4 of my other cousins enjoyed her company. As I grew older I realized that she was not perfect. But then again, who is? This realization was painless (as opposed to the one I had regarding my parents) made her only more human in my eyes, and therefore more accessible, and lovable. One of her perceived imperfections was her tendency to play favorites among her sizable brood. I like to think that among her grandchildren, I was, still am, her favorite.

Mommy

I lost her like leaves falling
From a tree shaken by a rainstorm:
I looked for her among the clouds
That moved like belligerent children
And thought of seeing her eyes
As lightning flashed across the sky.

She was my source of warmth
When everything else was cold:
Silent as a lake when she listened,
Sibilant like wind as her words
Stilled my frantically beating heart.

I lost her like river-water flowing
Through my useless, grasping fingers:
I looked for her between the days
That flew by like migrating birds
And imagined hearing her laughter
Amidst the many fluttering wings.

She always shone like the moon
When everything else was dark:
Buoyed me up like sea-water,
Planted seeds of dreams in my head
That nourished my imagination.

I lost her like a butterfly faithfully
Leaping to the air from my shoulder:
I looked for her inside the jungle
Of my memories and found her in
Every blade of grass, redolent flower
And in each sheltering tree.

She is free now: released from pain,
Beyond sadness and grief and suffering,
And only my weakness and selfishness
Make me wish that she stays around,
Till I realize that when I lost her,

She went right inside my heart.

Manila, 2005; Phnom Penh, 2007

I write like
Stephen King

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

A fun link I got from Jessica Zafra’s blog. No surprise here. The first grown-up book I read was a Stephen King novel that reinforced my childhood fear of clowns (including mascots) and had me wary of bathroom and sink drains for the rest of the summer before I turned fourteen years old. I think I have read most of Mr. King’s works. Which probably explains his influence and effect on my writing. He has a way of going inside the minds of his characters, be it a woman obsessed with her favorite novelist (Annie Wilkes of Misery), a child who is trying to cope with her ability to set the world on fire (Charlie McGee of Firestarter), even a gentle Saint Bernard driven mad by rabies (the dog Cujo from Cujo).

I should have been satisfied with the result (and relieved the program didn’t say Dan Brown or Stephanie Meyer). Still, I wasn’t able to resist putting my other blog entries into the program for analysis. I did it three more times and I got three different answers: lesbian writer Gertrude Stein, David Foster Wallace-who wrote Infinite Jest and killed himself at age 46, and H.P. Lovecraft, the man Stephen King himself called ‘the 20th century’s greatest practitioner of the classic horror tale’.

When I’m writing technically (meaning, writing for my day-job), I am fairly consistent in terms of tone. However, my (semi) literary excursions are affected by my feelings and mood. That I am not familiar with Ms Stein’s work is probably detrimental to me (but one that can be resolved in the future). I think, when I am at my most relaxed and writing at a reflective but visceral level, my writing doppelganger is Mr. King, no doubt my biggest influence. One might say that he’s not really a literary writer but I (and some people) will disagree. Mr. King’s stories sell like hotcakes in any form/ media but its literary value shouldn’t be overlooked. He writes compelling characters and stories. When I’m feeling blue, mad or introspective, my writing approaches the ironic pinnacle achieved by David Foster Wallace, it seems. At my most melancholic, my writing probably approximates a Lovecraftian bleakness and grimness.

But most often I write conscious of my words and tone. In these cases I try to emulate my literary idol Edmund White (The Beautiful Room is Empty). At his best, Mr. White’s writing tone is deceptively monotonous, whose gravity and melancholy are only revealed by his powerful evocations and language that is at once delicate and sharp.

What else can I say? Me and melancholia, we just go way back.

Joyce, one of my true good friends, is leaving soon for Canada in a few days. I was hoping to catch her in Manila but delays in the completion of my work commitments here in Cambodia has made it impossible for us to see each other before she leaves. I last saw her in 2008, when I had my surgeries in Manila. I shall miss her terribly but I know in my heart that we will see each other again in a few years, give or take. And most probably in Canada, as well.

Joyce and I in Hyderabad, India C2007

If we were at Treehouse now

Maybe tonight when you’re done
Celebrating, after the last of post-prandial
Conversations have been exchanged,
The night will forget decorum
And reveal the profound sadness
I am keeping inside my heart,
Because you’re leaving. It is an arrow
Embedded in the flesh, much like the stories
We have shared through the years–
Tales of joy and grief, the love we gave
But didn’t always get back, as we made
Separate but parallel journeys in life.
But perhaps, more than the stories,
What we really have in common
Is this wanderlust, the need to remain
In constant motion. So this departure,
Being just one of the many,
Shouldn’t cause me trouble, but
It does and what can I do?
The fire that consumes our hearts
Is the same, lighting up the evening sky
In the city I’m also preparing to leave.
The whole world is before us, my friend,
And I miss the times we are together,
Weaving such stories of our lives.
As you make this yet another journey,
Remember to look at the sky,
Know that no matter how far off you go
I will always be within reach.

for Joyce
Phnom Penh, 2010

This is somewhat connected to the previous post (again), where I compared the creative process to child birth. The title is an obvious giveaway, of course. God knows I tried to device other titles for this poem years after its subject left my social circle. But everything else I came up just didn’t seem suitable. There are also inherent differences in the imagery in this poem when compared to what I was trying to say in the previous post. I’m sure you’ll see for yourselves.

There are 3 or 4 other poems (if I remember correctly) that were about this extremely beautiful cartographic sketch artist (whose name escapes me, for some reason) I met through friends way back in 1998. This is my favorite.

Giving Birth

At night’s end, as I think
Of our brief encounter
And what it has given me,
A poem comes rushing out
Of me, swift as an overdue
Infant, equally belligerent,
Wielding its metaphor like
A flaming sword poised over
My little agitated heart.

It is so like the child
I will never conceive, but
Will nurture, feed, and rear
For how long, before leaving
Me old, gray, and hollowed:
A husk of my old self.

Under starlight, as I think
Of children we’ll never beget,
The wife I will never become,
The poems tear themselves
Out of my mind’s womb,
Prescient, crying like mad,
Landing wetly on the blank
Sheets of paper: immortals,
At least, until I say otherwise.

It makes me wonder if all
Our union—imagined or
Otherwise, will ever bear are
Poems, borne out of pleasure,
Or that excruciating desire
Turning me inside, then out.

Manila, 1999; edited Phnom Penh, 2009

I’ve always likened the process of writing a story or a poem as akin to giving birth. Because once you put it out into the world, you have to relinquish all control as to how it is going to be perceived by the world. As its progenitor, you can only hope that you have given it the best form and substance it can possibly have.

I didn’t expect the amount of reaction that my previous post generated, especially in Facebook, where I posted a link to this site. People seemed genuinely moved (some moved to tears, even) by the poem. To be frank, I never intended to release the poem in any way. I used to print my poems and keep them in a folder for my perusal. But after writing and editing this poem in 2001, I decided not to print it. It’s not that I didn’t like it. I just wasn’t really sure about its quality. It would be 3 years before I printed it, just weeks before I came to Cambodia.

Many people seem to like it though and instead of me speculating and trying to find an explanation, I will just thank those who did like it. I am deeply honored by the compliments. One such compliment that this poem received arrived just this afternoon. Fellow blogger Luis, a multi-awarded poet, translated this poem into Hiligaynon. I don’t speak this particular Philippine language, but I like its sound when it is read aloud. This is what I did after seeing his translation. I’m posting his version here, for your reading (or in my case, reciting) pleasure.

Pangkay-o Kudal
Ginlubad sa Hiligyanon ni Luis Batchoy
Gikan sa Mending Fences ni Mike De Guzman

Gintagbas ni tatay ang kahoy
Sa tinakos nga mga pidaso,
Ginlampusan agud mabugsok,
Matabunan ang mga siklat
Ang kudal nahimo
Nga daw ngirit sang mal-am.

Ang lagubo sang pagpulpog
Pagpasalup sa mga lansang
Nagatuslok sa kahibon sang aga,
Tulad sang pagpanimaho sang pintura
Kag thinner nga nagabunang
Sa akon dahi.

Sang matapos na sia
Ginlimpyuhan ang palibot
Sang mga tinagbasan kag higko,
Ginsilhigan nga daw sa
Madamo, nga makasiligni nga mga handurawan
Bag-o maglakat pasulod sa balay.

Sa akun pagpantaw sa palibot
Sining hardin nga kinadak-an ko,
Pila pa ka hinugna
Bag-o ko mamulalungan kung sing-ano
Katahum ining kudal
Nahuman kag nakay-o,

Maluwas, siguro
Sining nabugsok
Sa tunga namon.