marking World Food Day, I recall a season of hunger
Gone on a ‘kayos’ hunt
Sumilao, Bukidnon – “ Is it late now?” asked Belinda Anlicao as she shielded her eyes from the searing sun with both hands.
I glanced at my watch and answered, “High noon.”
“I thought it was way past noon,” she said.
I wanted to ask why she felt so but I was afraid she would talk not only of the heat but also of the soft growl of hunger in our stomachs. She told me earlier she had had rice porridge.
"Are we far yet?” It was my turn to ask.
We were walking on a shadeless trail in the middle of a caked field with nothing but a lonely plow in its midst and a much lonelier and leaner cow on the wayside. We were on our way to look for kayos, a wild yam.
“See those trees? We are going that way. See that marang, the bamboo and those santol trees. There’s a trail there down to a gully and a stream.
“The stream is dry now but the water could be deep there once it rains. Among bamboo clumps down there, the yams,” she said, pointing to a belt of green at the end of the dry and empty brown land.
The green trees looked so far to me, especially with a mirage of water on the brown field playing tricks on my eyes.
She walked faster, dust flying in the wake of her thin rubber slippers. I, shoe-shod and aerobics trained, could hardly catch up with her. But she was right: it was not that far really. In about 15 minutes we reached the green belt..It was about a 30-minute walk from the roadside settlement where she and her family lived.
“Nanay! Nanay! (Mother ! Mother!)” We heard a chorus of children’s shrieks from the trees. There were about a dozen kids, their legs festooned from the two santol trees.
“So you are here. That’s why the house was quiet, “she shouted back at her grinning children sitting on the tree branches.
“Four of them are my kids,” she said, turning to me. ‘I hope they are only harvesting the ripe fruits, or they will complain later of upset stomachs. I could not feed them anything for lunch. Good they found something to eat here.”
“Come,” she said as she led me farther into a trail. The green belt by the edge of the field hid a 30-foot ravine. Down below grew the wild yam. We went down an inclining trail of about 45 – 60 degrees to reach the bottom.
Kayos, the wild yam, had captured the attention of the country. As starvation swept the El Nino-devastated countrysides, about 30 persons, mostly children in tribal communities, had died because they have eaten the kayos.
As soon as it is gathered, it would take at least a week to process the yam so its poisonous substances could be neutralized or removed, explained Anlicao.
She said she learned how to process the yams from her grandparent who survived the war years and many other droughts in the fishing island of Camiguin. That was a long time ago, long before she got married to a Higaonon farmer and settled in this landlocked mountain village about 1,000 feet above sea-level.
Anlicao looked up the trees and shrubs as we reached the gully. “I saw some here the other day,” she said. “I got mine much farther yesterday. But they also thrive here but with much smaller roots.”
You look for the vines among the trees. They grow close to bamboo groves where water and moisture is stored and the protecting shade, she instructed, her voice now whispery. After a minute or two, she announced, “Here!” She touched a thick and green vine wounding around a breadfruit sapling’s trunk.
“Watch out, its thorns are sharp,” she admonished as I tried to touch the vine. She then traced the origins of the long vine which was five feet away, on a 45-degree incline.
The vine was as thick as an adult’s thumb and as thorny and green as a rose’s stem. Its leaves were heart-shaped like that of its commoner cousin, the ube. The roots are dug and its network of rhizomes traced. A plant yielded about five fist-size tubers. The tubers looked and felt like hairy and brown river rocks. They ranged in size from that of a child’s to an adult’s fist.
But hunting and gathering the wild tubers are the easiest part. It is the processing that is most challenging. It would take seven days and the patience of angels.
But the farmers persevere. They have nothing to eat. Having no lands to till, they have been used to paid farmwork in the neighborhood but the farms would not stand the long severe drought. Without work, they don’t have money and without money, they have no food.
And three hours after this hunt, I will have faced Bukidnon Governor and longtime rancher Carlitos Fortich in his elegant high-tech office facing the green hills of Malaybalay. He would tell on-camera, without batting an eyelash: “There is no food crisis in my province. In fact, we still export vegetables. We still harvest and plant rice in the eastern part of the province. Those who are hunger are those who did not anticipate the length of this drought.” He will have called the Sumilao Farmers which include Belinda’s family as “pseudo-farmers and professional squatters.”
“They could not wait,” Anlicao averred. “Perhaps those who got poisoned cut the processing short or did it the wrong way, that’s why thehy got poisoned,” she said.
For processing the tubers is a ritual that has no known shortcuts yet.
Those who tried to do it the wrong way had to pay with their lives or their children’s.
“One of us get to be the food taster. We wait for 15 minutes. If the first one who eats does not feel groggy or get stomach cramps, then we allow the kids to eat,” Anlicao said. “ But the kids, they complain about the bland taste. Some of mine would rather get hungry than eat the kayos.
“We eat it with salt.”
“Perhaps, you should try flavoring it with sugar.”
“But sugar is expensive.”
In the village convenience store, a small packet of about two spoonfuls costs fifty centavos (US $ .04). Salt is P5 per kilo but sugar comes at P35.
“Salt is cheaper or we use salted fish sauce. But the kids are not used to the taste. They crave for instant noodles.”
This hunt yields about ten pieces of tubers. Enough to last for three days of one-day meals, just one day if the family eats three regular meals.
“The starch somehow fill the stomach well. You don’t feel so filled nor will you fell hungry. The feeling of fullness stays for a day.”
Seven days and the patience of angels:
How to prepare the kayos without poisoning yourselves
According to Gilda San-ahan and Belinda Anlicao
Day One:
Seek the kayos among the wild bamboo and bushes by the empty fields. Watch out for scorpions and snakes. Bring a sharp bolo with a blunt point for digging. Bring the youth and the kids with you so they too will learn how to find them when they grown old.
If possible, peel the tubers right where you dug them. These wild plants thrive easily, new plants will grow right from the peelings. When the next drought and hunger stalks again, the new plant will be there waiting to be harvested. Wash your hands right away and watch out what they touch. Make sure you don’t touch your eyes or any food which you would place inside your mouth. Also, wash your clothes, the bolo/knife in peeling the tubers.
Day Two – Four:
Slice the peeled tubers in uniform thin pieces. To ensure uniformity, improvise a slicer by placing the knife or bolo in between planks of wood. Let the sliced pieces dry in the sun for the next three days. The tubers when newly-sliced are the color of dark rheumy yellow, and would turn slate white and hard as clay tiles after they are sun-dried. Store well at night in a basket away from the cockroaches and mice. Let it stand for one whole night before you proceed to soaking it the next day. If it is soaked right away in water before it cools for a night, it pulverizes.
Day Five-Six:
Soak the hardened slices in water under the sun again for half a day and set aside for another night.
Day Seven:
The slices are now ready to be further processed into flour by pounding it with wooden mortar and pestle. Sieve the flour mix. You can make kayos suman or cake from the mixture. Or simply boil it like rice. Or you can cook the slices right away Рsaut̩ or steam with young coconut or unripe langka, but make sure you shall have soaked it again for at least six hours.
When you eat kayos, do so in prayerful silence. Pray for good health and sound mind. Thank the gods for granting you the blessing of the kayos and the patience of the angels. Pray too for rain and land of your own to till.
Symptoms of poisoning include: stomach cramps, vomiting, a feeling that your eyes or eyebrows are falling off. Seek medical help right away.
First-aid includes eating sugar, mature coconut meat and coconut milk
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Monday, October 10, 2005
BALITA
Parang nakikikinig lang ako ng radyo sa isang tropikong umaga dyan sa Camaman-an, Cagayan de Oro bago ang hedlayns ni Mang Joe Taruc sa DZRH at kape sa ala-singko, kahit mag-aala-una na ngayon nang bukangliwayway dito malapit sa disyierto, sa West Bank, Palestina, (habang) pinapakinggan ko ang manunulat at peryodistang si Benjamin Pimentel sa San Francisco, California na nag-iinterbyu kay apl.de.ap alias Allan Pineda ng grupong hip-hop sa L.A. na pinagngalanang Black-Eyed Peas.
Anong pinakamahirap sa yo paglipat dito sa Amerika? Gaano ka ba kadalas umuuwi sa atin ngayon? Do you think of going back there, you know, to live? What are the things that surprise you? When you go home to Sapang Bato sa Pampanga, first, where do you go? It sounds like you miss a lot, eating with your fingers, eating balut, what you do in the provinces, is that accurate that you miss a lot of those?
Simpleng mga tanong at simpleng mga sagot.
Nagtelebabad. Nagtatawanan. Laughter.
They spoke of
home, family, nanay,
country,
death, living, creating,
Song.
Pare! Chicken adobo, palengke, sinigang, hipon, balut, beer.
Kayud, kamay, kapatid, kanto, kultura. Matters.
What matters. Most.
I-try nga ninyong pakinggan. Bagong pakulo ito sa internet na ang tawag ay podcast. Ito'y naka-blog sa website ng peryodikong San Francisco Chronicle,
"radio-to-go," 'ika nga ng BBC, ala McDo, kung ang kwento't balita'y fried chicken o burger... mabibitbit mo, ida-download mo kung kailan mo gusto, pakikinggan mo kahit saan ka man.
Ang linya nila'y : "Listen to your newspaper." Ang mga kwento sa likod ng mga kwento. Ang blog ay – paano ba ito i-explain sa inyo d'yan, Manong Peter sa Sumilao, Bukidnon?
--- Parang baon na nakabalot sa dahon ng saging na pwedeng mong pakpakin kung saan ka man datnan ng gutom.
Yon nga lang, hindi ito tungkol sa gutom, at walang dahon ng saging. Basta. Ito'y tungkol sa ibang dimension ng gutom, sa ibang uri ng pagkain.
Parang radyo na naka-record, at pagkatapos yung record ang naka-bodega sa isang lugar na kahit saan mo mabubuksan; ganun na nga, kung alam mo paano mabubuksan. (Naku, mag-explain na naman kaya ako dito tungkol sa digital divide? Mamaya, na.)
Lahat ng Pilipino may palayaw.... Ako, aaminin ko sa yo ang palayaw ko sa amin sa Cubao, ay Boying. Ikaw? Ang palayaw ko sa Sapang Bato ay, tadaaan...ay....
Para silang magkakapatid, parehas na nanggaling sa hiwa-hiwalay na mga isla sa arkipelago ng mga kwento't kwentista.
Itong si Boying, a.k.a. Benjamin Pimentel, may kasaysayan ng pagka- Hudeyo (o, mas tumpak, na ayon sa kwentong nakagisnan niya ang kanyang Lelong sa tuhod na Intsik na galing Shanghai, Tsina ay sa kabutihang palad ay nakasabay sa paglalakbay nitong isang paring Kastila na migranteng taga-Nazareth o Nablus kaya parehas na silang ka-apelyedo pagdating sa Bicol…gawagawa ko lang ito, pinapalamuti-an, tsismis baga, di-balita – pero maniwala ka – may sariling coat-of-arms pa sila doon sa Museum of the Diaspora sa Tel Aviv, mazeltov!)
At tubong-Cubao, Quezon City -- sa kanyang mga reportage, may kakaibang kakayahan na gawing payak at madaling maintindihan ang mga bagay-bagay kahit na ito'y tungkol sa mga kumplikadong kababalaghan ng siyensya at teknolohiya.
Tungkol sa magiging anyo ng mundong ito sa hinaharap na kinabukasan.
Tungkol sa mga imbensyon, mga makinang kumukuha ng lakas galing sa liwanag,
ang mga bagong henerasyon ng mga napaka-concise na mga relos sa Olympics na akala mo gawang-langit,
a contraption that heals the broken knees of marathon runners and athletic horses,
ang x-ray na nag-explore sa kaloob-looban ng mummy na nakabalot sa pitong-libong patong
ng kababalaghan, galing pa sa Ehipto, 'dun sa museum sa Unibersidad ng Stanford sa syudad ng Mountain View.
O kaya'y mga pangyayari ukol sa kababalaghan na palayaw ng tuwa sa pagiging tao man lamang.
Tungkol sa mamang mang-aawit, who found a final epiphany in watering poinsettias on Crookedest Road.
Ang tungkol sa sariling epiphany ni Boying bilang bagong Ama, habang maingat niyang iniuwi ang kanyang asawa't ang kanilang bagong-silang na first-born pagkagaling pa lang sa ospital sa Amerika.
Gaano ka kadalas umuuwi sa atin ngayon? Do you think of going home, you know, to live there? Ano ang pinakamahirap sa yo paglipat dito?
Tama kaya ang kutob ko na ito rin ang mga tanong na gusto ni Boying na itatanong sa kanya?
O kaya'y mga tanong sa kanyang sarili na lagi't-lagi naman niyang sinisikap na sinasagot sa tuwing dumarating ang mga bihirang pagkakataong uma-ambon ng lungkot?
O kaya'y kung ang pagnanasa na tuluyang makauwing-bayan ay dumadaloy tulad ng tren sa BART, dumadaloy at mananahanang-pansandali sa mga matatag na riles ng kanyang mga tagumpay doon sa San Francisco, California?
At, pakiwari ko – ano kaya kung ako ang peryodistang magtatanong at magbabalita sa inyo?
Anong payak na mga sagot sa payak na mga tanong ang maaaring mapapakinggan ninyo na parang balitang pang-umaga kahit kailan ma-i-da-download sa MP3, kahit saan mang sulok ng ating patuloy na lumalawak na daigdig ng mga kwento't balita,
Mga kwento't balita na tulad ng tinapay, chapati man o pandesal, na maaring isa-sawsaw natin sa kape ng pag-alala?
"Hoy, hoy, wassalam wallaikum! wallaikum wassalam!
Hoy, hoy, taga-Cubao na ngayon ay taga-San Francisco na rin,
Anong kapiraso ba talaga ng kaluluwa mo ang naiwanan sa bansang iniwan?
At bakit mo pa ba ito kailangang balik-balikan? Alam mo ba?
Alam mo kaya? Alam mo?"
Parang nakikikinig lang ako ng radyo sa isang tropikong umaga dyan sa Camaman-an, Cagayan de Oro bago ang hedlayns ni Mang Joe Taruc sa DZRH at kape sa ala-singko, kahit mag-aala-una na ngayon nang bukangliwayway dito malapit sa disyierto, sa West Bank, Palestina, (habang) pinapakinggan ko ang manunulat at peryodistang si Benjamin Pimentel sa San Francisco, California na nag-iinterbyu kay apl.de.ap alias Allan Pineda ng grupong hip-hop sa L.A. na pinagngalanang Black-Eyed Peas.
Anong pinakamahirap sa yo paglipat dito sa Amerika? Gaano ka ba kadalas umuuwi sa atin ngayon? Do you think of going back there, you know, to live? What are the things that surprise you? When you go home to Sapang Bato sa Pampanga, first, where do you go? It sounds like you miss a lot, eating with your fingers, eating balut, what you do in the provinces, is that accurate that you miss a lot of those?
Simpleng mga tanong at simpleng mga sagot.
Nagtelebabad. Nagtatawanan. Laughter.
They spoke of
home, family, nanay,
country,
death, living, creating,
Song.
Pare! Chicken adobo, palengke, sinigang, hipon, balut, beer.
Kayud, kamay, kapatid, kanto, kultura. Matters.
What matters. Most.
I-try nga ninyong pakinggan. Bagong pakulo ito sa internet na ang tawag ay podcast. Ito'y naka-blog sa website ng peryodikong San Francisco Chronicle,
"radio-to-go," 'ika nga ng BBC, ala McDo, kung ang kwento't balita'y fried chicken o burger... mabibitbit mo, ida-download mo kung kailan mo gusto, pakikinggan mo kahit saan ka man.
Ang linya nila'y : "Listen to your newspaper." Ang mga kwento sa likod ng mga kwento. Ang blog ay – paano ba ito i-explain sa inyo d'yan, Manong Peter sa Sumilao, Bukidnon?
--- Parang baon na nakabalot sa dahon ng saging na pwedeng mong pakpakin kung saan ka man datnan ng gutom.
Yon nga lang, hindi ito tungkol sa gutom, at walang dahon ng saging. Basta. Ito'y tungkol sa ibang dimension ng gutom, sa ibang uri ng pagkain.
Parang radyo na naka-record, at pagkatapos yung record ang naka-bodega sa isang lugar na kahit saan mo mabubuksan; ganun na nga, kung alam mo paano mabubuksan. (Naku, mag-explain na naman kaya ako dito tungkol sa digital divide? Mamaya, na.)
Lahat ng Pilipino may palayaw.... Ako, aaminin ko sa yo ang palayaw ko sa amin sa Cubao, ay Boying. Ikaw? Ang palayaw ko sa Sapang Bato ay, tadaaan...ay....
Para silang magkakapatid, parehas na nanggaling sa hiwa-hiwalay na mga isla sa arkipelago ng mga kwento't kwentista.
Itong si Boying, a.k.a. Benjamin Pimentel, may kasaysayan ng pagka- Hudeyo (o, mas tumpak, na ayon sa kwentong nakagisnan niya ang kanyang Lelong sa tuhod na Intsik na galing Shanghai, Tsina ay sa kabutihang palad ay nakasabay sa paglalakbay nitong isang paring Kastila na migranteng taga-Nazareth o Nablus kaya parehas na silang ka-apelyedo pagdating sa Bicol…gawagawa ko lang ito, pinapalamuti-an, tsismis baga, di-balita – pero maniwala ka – may sariling coat-of-arms pa sila doon sa Museum of the Diaspora sa Tel Aviv, mazeltov!)
At tubong-Cubao, Quezon City -- sa kanyang mga reportage, may kakaibang kakayahan na gawing payak at madaling maintindihan ang mga bagay-bagay kahit na ito'y tungkol sa mga kumplikadong kababalaghan ng siyensya at teknolohiya.
Tungkol sa magiging anyo ng mundong ito sa hinaharap na kinabukasan.
Tungkol sa mga imbensyon, mga makinang kumukuha ng lakas galing sa liwanag,
ang mga bagong henerasyon ng mga napaka-concise na mga relos sa Olympics na akala mo gawang-langit,
a contraption that heals the broken knees of marathon runners and athletic horses,
ang x-ray na nag-explore sa kaloob-looban ng mummy na nakabalot sa pitong-libong patong
ng kababalaghan, galing pa sa Ehipto, 'dun sa museum sa Unibersidad ng Stanford sa syudad ng Mountain View.
O kaya'y mga pangyayari ukol sa kababalaghan na palayaw ng tuwa sa pagiging tao man lamang.
Tungkol sa mamang mang-aawit, who found a final epiphany in watering poinsettias on Crookedest Road.
Ang tungkol sa sariling epiphany ni Boying bilang bagong Ama, habang maingat niyang iniuwi ang kanyang asawa't ang kanilang bagong-silang na first-born pagkagaling pa lang sa ospital sa Amerika.
Gaano ka kadalas umuuwi sa atin ngayon? Do you think of going home, you know, to live there? Ano ang pinakamahirap sa yo paglipat dito?
Tama kaya ang kutob ko na ito rin ang mga tanong na gusto ni Boying na itatanong sa kanya?
O kaya'y mga tanong sa kanyang sarili na lagi't-lagi naman niyang sinisikap na sinasagot sa tuwing dumarating ang mga bihirang pagkakataong uma-ambon ng lungkot?
O kaya'y kung ang pagnanasa na tuluyang makauwing-bayan ay dumadaloy tulad ng tren sa BART, dumadaloy at mananahanang-pansandali sa mga matatag na riles ng kanyang mga tagumpay doon sa San Francisco, California?
At, pakiwari ko – ano kaya kung ako ang peryodistang magtatanong at magbabalita sa inyo?
Anong payak na mga sagot sa payak na mga tanong ang maaaring mapapakinggan ninyo na parang balitang pang-umaga kahit kailan ma-i-da-download sa MP3, kahit saan mang sulok ng ating patuloy na lumalawak na daigdig ng mga kwento't balita,
Mga kwento't balita na tulad ng tinapay, chapati man o pandesal, na maaring isa-sawsaw natin sa kape ng pag-alala?
"Hoy, hoy, wassalam wallaikum! wallaikum wassalam!
Hoy, hoy, taga-Cubao na ngayon ay taga-San Francisco na rin,
Anong kapiraso ba talaga ng kaluluwa mo ang naiwanan sa bansang iniwan?
At bakit mo pa ba ito kailangang balik-balikan? Alam mo ba?
Alam mo kaya? Alam mo?"
Thursday, October 06, 2005
‘Psychogeography, that lumpen word…’
an archipelago… the title of the essay going the rounds in my head. Drafted and re-written in the mind a hundred times even before the words are written down.
That piece is supposed to be the clasp, the opening or ending essay, or both, to hold together a sheaf of stories... Stories once told as journalism, as poetry, as photography…About things small and brief as snapshots, events and subjects small and brief as the opening and closing of my own two hands, simple as the reportage that I have been crafting for a living since the early 1990s. …
The book remains lost and adrift in my head, still seeking ground, a nomad never finding home.
I lost most of the texts when my PC crashed in November 2002. I have found some old manuscripts, clippings and drafts; and friends and editors gave me some more, and I have began encoding them again.
This blog will serve as the document(ary) of (reaching) the shoregrounds.
Towards that small book-to-be, the book-in-progress, which like the nature of my life will surely be haphazard, slow and tentative.
…scars they are real, isles on flesh. In fact, on my own skin, all over my body. The skin marking itself. Mostly the color of dark chocolate on light cocoa. Writing is supposed to understand these and how these are related to stories, to storytelling, how the scars are my stories, how stories are my scars.
After strange lesions, islands of scars.
Lesions because of, from --- well, the doctors cannot agree on what caused them – bacteria, fungi, fleas, minute arachnids. Scabies, allergy, auto-immunity. Even DOP, delusions of parasitosis …they are in/on my mind… recalling/recurring ….the body remembering….uwat(the word for ‘scar’, in Boholano) but could also mean in another sense, “untrue/unreal/illusions/hoax)” as in “uwata ko tits, butete ka!”– perhaps I dreamed and imagined them into (my) flesh....ulat (the word for ‘scar’ in Cebuano), also meaning declaration, report in Tagalog…
Also: small islands of sound(s) and words afloat/amid the wide and deep/blue/ocean of mutism/aphasia/silences
So, what are these? I found ‘something’, almost like what I mean but which I didn’t say first and not necessarily exactly what these are, but almost, ‘sort of ‘; an Appropriation, Approximations:
About her new book, “Findings”, the poet Kathleen Jamie was quoted by Kirsty Scott in an interview to have said: "...Please tell me what this is? It's not nature writing, but it is; it's not autobiography, but it is; it's not travel writing, but it is. I think some Americans call this creative non- fiction, which is not very adequate either. There's a long lumpen word ... what is it?"
"Psychogeography"? She pulls a face. "That's the one. But I think we can avoid that." She dislikes words that don't sit right on the tongue."
But really, flavor is a matter of acquired taste. Some food for thought.
Earthed: as homage to Maximo Adorable, ‘d Maxie Baby’ of Villalimpia’s lore, the village bard, composer/singer of novelty songs who had died before I had written the homage to him and must therefore be alive in his songs. One of his songs explores “Kalibutan”, “Kalibutanon,” “Walay Kalibutan” – of this earth, material, corporeal, the instinctually unwise and ignorant as having lost the earth and all its heritage; into uncertain weathers...
Humus: of the soil, loam, the farm, the dirt, the swamps, the land, the shores, the reefs; also human, (in)human(e), humor, humility, laughter, the small door into the Church of Nativity in Bethlehem, alhamdulilah
Common: the masa, the ordinary people I write about, the ordinary person that I am
Ground: still about being of this world, evokes phrases like ‘feet on the ground’, words like ‘grounded,’ ‘aground’, burial grounds, excavations, earth worms, nature, environment, context, seeds, plants, trees
Also “common ground”: something we share as experience; something to share with you
Extra: more than what is due, usual or necessary; outside; an additional edition to a newspaper; for these are things you can do without, things I can do without, too. But I have chosen to keep them and then let go
Ordinary: homespun, home-cooked, housedress, home, house
Also “extra ordinary”. Note: not as one word, but two words together.
Not “exceptional" nor “one of a kind”
The Guardian recently used the two words together as the title of an article on Diane Arbus and her photographs.
‘Extra ordinary’. I recycle the two words together here. An ukay-ukay.
See, you think, it fits me well.
I think so, too.
That piece is supposed to be the clasp, the opening or ending essay, or both, to hold together a sheaf of stories... Stories once told as journalism, as poetry, as photography…About things small and brief as snapshots, events and subjects small and brief as the opening and closing of my own two hands, simple as the reportage that I have been crafting for a living since the early 1990s. …
The book remains lost and adrift in my head, still seeking ground, a nomad never finding home.
I lost most of the texts when my PC crashed in November 2002. I have found some old manuscripts, clippings and drafts; and friends and editors gave me some more, and I have began encoding them again.
This blog will serve as the document(ary) of (reaching) the shoregrounds.
Towards that small book-to-be, the book-in-progress, which like the nature of my life will surely be haphazard, slow and tentative.
…scars they are real, isles on flesh. In fact, on my own skin, all over my body. The skin marking itself. Mostly the color of dark chocolate on light cocoa. Writing is supposed to understand these and how these are related to stories, to storytelling, how the scars are my stories, how stories are my scars.
After strange lesions, islands of scars.
Lesions because of, from --- well, the doctors cannot agree on what caused them – bacteria, fungi, fleas, minute arachnids. Scabies, allergy, auto-immunity. Even DOP, delusions of parasitosis …they are in/on my mind… recalling/recurring ….the body remembering….uwat(the word for ‘scar’, in Boholano) but could also mean in another sense, “untrue/unreal/illusions/hoax)” as in “uwata ko tits, butete ka!”– perhaps I dreamed and imagined them into (my) flesh....ulat (the word for ‘scar’ in Cebuano), also meaning declaration, report in Tagalog…
Also: small islands of sound(s) and words afloat/amid the wide and deep/blue/ocean of mutism/aphasia/silences
So, what are these? I found ‘something’, almost like what I mean but which I didn’t say first and not necessarily exactly what these are, but almost, ‘sort of ‘; an Appropriation, Approximations:
About her new book, “Findings”, the poet Kathleen Jamie was quoted by Kirsty Scott in an interview to have said: "...Please tell me what this is? It's not nature writing, but it is; it's not autobiography, but it is; it's not travel writing, but it is. I think some Americans call this creative non- fiction, which is not very adequate either. There's a long lumpen word ... what is it?"
"Psychogeography"? She pulls a face. "That's the one. But I think we can avoid that." She dislikes words that don't sit right on the tongue."
But really, flavor is a matter of acquired taste. Some food for thought.
Earthed: as homage to Maximo Adorable, ‘d Maxie Baby’ of Villalimpia’s lore, the village bard, composer/singer of novelty songs who had died before I had written the homage to him and must therefore be alive in his songs. One of his songs explores “Kalibutan”, “Kalibutanon,” “Walay Kalibutan” – of this earth, material, corporeal, the instinctually unwise and ignorant as having lost the earth and all its heritage; into uncertain weathers...
Humus: of the soil, loam, the farm, the dirt, the swamps, the land, the shores, the reefs; also human, (in)human(e), humor, humility, laughter, the small door into the Church of Nativity in Bethlehem, alhamdulilah
Common: the masa, the ordinary people I write about, the ordinary person that I am
Ground: still about being of this world, evokes phrases like ‘feet on the ground’, words like ‘grounded,’ ‘aground’, burial grounds, excavations, earth worms, nature, environment, context, seeds, plants, trees
Also “common ground”: something we share as experience; something to share with you
Extra: more than what is due, usual or necessary; outside; an additional edition to a newspaper; for these are things you can do without, things I can do without, too. But I have chosen to keep them and then let go
Ordinary: homespun, home-cooked, housedress, home, house
Also “extra ordinary”. Note: not as one word, but two words together.
Not “exceptional" nor “one of a kind”
The Guardian recently used the two words together as the title of an article on Diane Arbus and her photographs.
‘Extra ordinary’. I recycle the two words together here. An ukay-ukay.
See, you think, it fits me well.
I think so, too.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
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