Abschattung

Hanggang dito na lang

2010-03-13T00:02:00.001+08:00

Hanggang dito na lang
ako, sa harap ng salamin:
dito, kung saan nakatingin
ako sa aking tingin.

Mawawari ang dagundong
ng kabayo sa malayo.
Nagbabadya sa likuran

Big time

2010-03-04T20:17:00.000+08:00

Pwede kong isa-isahin
ang kanyang sarili.
Tila kinakausap niya ito at tinatanong
"Ano ang iyong pangalan?"
PAULIASI TAULAVA.—"The Rock"
mula paa paitaas—
"Yaya, ayos lang ako." Hindi.
Sa ulo, ang hapdi, ang hapdi.
Binabanlawan ang anak.

Ganoon na lamang ang aking pagkagulat
nang makita ko ang lumabas.
Ang dagundong na waring yabag ng diyos
na nagbabalik.

Big time talaga si Asi.

– mga linya mula sa Heights LVII 2. Geneve, Gian, Pepito

Arkero

2010-03-03T00:21:00.002+08:00

Nakapihit ang pisi ng búsog.
Pasan ng palaso ang pag-aabang.

Maláon nang nakabinbin ang amba.

Nakukutuban ang pangamba
sa pagpintig ng pulso.
Napabitiw.
Kagyat ang pagpikit.
Waring may tinamaan.

The Show

2010-01-27T05:36:00.003+08:00

The woman in the mirror finds herself
reflected by a face.

The light from the vanity glows warmly.
She begins to conceal the blemishes,

her hands applying the foundation
of what is to come – a blush

across her cheeks, a red streak
covers her lips. A line

defines the eye,
its shadow, masked by the light

which begins to flicker.
Her hands falter and her heart beats

faster. The show is about to begin.
The lights lose light

and the woman gazes
at the mirror.

“Of the Parrat and other birds that can speake”

2009-12-19T09:24:00.005+08:00

It is for certain knowne that they have died
for very anger and griefe that they could not
learn to pronounce some hard words.

—Pliny the Elder

When you buy the bird for your mother
you hope it will talk to her. But weeks pass
before it does anything except pluck the bars
with its beak. Then one day it says, “infect.”

Your mother tells you this on the phone,
and you drive over, find the frozen meals
you bought for her last week sweating
on the countertop. “In fact,” she says

in answer to your question, “I have been
eating,” and it’s as you point to the empty
trash can, the spotless dishes, that you
realize the bird is only saying, “in fact,”

that this is now the preamble to all
of your mother’s lies. “In fact,” she says,
“I have been paying the bills,” and you
believe her until you find a cache

of unopened envelopes in the freezer.
More things are showing up where
they shouldn’t. Looking out the back
window one evening you see craters

in her yard. While she’s watching TV,
you go out with a trowel and excavate
picture frames, flatware that looks like
the silver bones of some exquisite

animal. You worry when you arrive
one day and see the open, empty cage
that you will find the bird dead, stuffed
in an oven mitt and left in a drawer,

but you find it sitting on her shoulder
in the kitchen. “In fact,” she says,
“he learned to open the cage himself.”
The bird learns new words. You learn

which lies you can ignore. The stroke
that kills her gives no warning, not—
the doctor assures you—that anyone
can predict such things. When you

drive home that night with the cage
belted into the passenger seat, the bird
makes a sound that is not a word
but that you immediately recognize

as the sound of your mother’s phone
ringing, and you know it is the sound
of you calling her again and again,
the sound of her not answering.

– Nick Lantz

Everything and Nothing

2009-12-16T16:51:00.005+08:00

There was no one in him; behind his face (which even through the bad paintings of those times resembles no other) and his words, which were copious, fantastic and stormy, there was only a bit of coldness, a dream dreamt by no one. At first he thought that all people were like him, but the astonishment of a friend to whom he had begun to speak of this emptiness showed him his error and made him feel always that an individual should not differ in outward appearance. Once he thought that in books he would find a cure for his ill and thus he learned the small Latin and less Greek a contemporary would speak of; later he considered that what he sought might well be found in an elemental rite of humanity, and let himself be initiated by Anne Hathaway one long June afternoon. At the age of twenty-odd years he went to London. Instinctively he had already become proficient in the habit of simulating that he was someone, so that others would not discover his condition as no one; in London he found the profession to which he was predestined, that of the actor, who on a stage plays at being another before a gathering of people who play at taking him for that other person. His histrionic tasks brought him a singular satisfaction, perhaps the first he had ever known; but once the last verse had been acclaimed and the last dead man withdrawn from the stage, the hated flavor of unreality returned to him. He ceased to be Ferrex or Tamerlane and became no one again. Thus hounded, he took to imagining other heroes and other tragic fables. And so, while his flesh fulfilled its destiny as flesh in the taverns and brothels of London, the soul that inhabited him was Caesar, who disregards the augur's admonition, and Juliet, who abhors the lark, and Macbeth, who converses on the plain with the witches who are also Fates. No one has ever been so many men as this man, who like the Egyptian Proteus could exhaust all the guises of reality. At times he would leave a confession hidden away in some corner of his work, certain that it would not be deciphered; Richard affirms that in his person he plays the part of many and Iago claims with curious words “I am not what I am.” The fundamental identity of existing, dreaming and acting inspired famous passages of his.

For twenty years he persisted in that controlled hallucination, but one morning he was suddenly gripped by the tedium and the terror of being so many kings who die by the sword and so many suffering lovers who converge, diverge and melodiously expire. That very day he arranged to sell his theater. Within a week he had returned to his native village, where he recovered the trees and rivers of his childhood and did not relate them to the others his muse had celebrated, illustrious with mythological allusions and Latin terms. He had to be someone; he was a retired impresario who had made his fortune and concerned himself with loans, lawsuits and petty usury. It was in this character that he dictated the arid will and testament known to us, from which he deliberately excluded all traces of pathos or literature. His friends from London would visit his retreat and for them he would take up again his role as poet.

History adds that before or after dying he found himself in the presence of God and told Him: “I who have been so many men in vain want to be one and myself.” The voice of the Lord answered from a whirlwind: “Neither am I anyone; I have dreamt the world as you dreamt your work, my Shakespeare, and among the forms in my dream are you, who like myself are many and no one.”

– Jorge Luis Borges

tulang nagtatapos sa simula

2009-12-15T02:50:00.000+08:00

sa wakas maaari nang magsimula
sa wakas maaari
nang magsimula sa wakas
maaari nang magsimula

Old Couple

2009-12-06T22:40:00.003+08:00

She’s seated by the window,
where the clouds cast shadows
from the dusk light. She taps

at her phone’s keypad, probably
to remind her lover lost
amidst heavy traffic, I am still

here. She stands up and leaves
her valuables on her seat.
I look at them from afar.

She returns from the restroom
and it seems that her make-up
has been washed off. She looks at

her phone, then at the sky. The moon
is an ethereal smile, glowing
amidst the creeping dark.

She stands up and leaves
while I open the door for her.

1

2009-11-02T03:59:00.010+08:00

Ilang linggo na rin ang lumipas bago ko muling hinawakan ang aking panulat. Ngunit walang pagbabagong nangyari. O kaya naman, naghintay lang ako. Hindi ako nagpumilit magbago. Ang katotohanan nga ay hindi ko alam kung ano ang babaguhin ko sa sarili ko upang muli kong maharap ang pagsusulat. Hindi ko inakalang hindi ko matitiis ang keyboard matapos ang ilang araw ng pagmumuni-muni. Alam mo iyon, matutulog ka na, ngunit may dadapo sa iyong idea o realisasyon.
Napakadali rin namang linlangin ang sarili na hindi talaga ito pagsusulat, hindi ko naman pinag-iisipan e. Marahil, sapagkat isang outlet para sa akin ang pagususlat. Pagkadating sa mga outlet, hirap ako. Kung kaya naman lahat ng mga pagsusulat ko ay mga panandaliang pagbubuhos ng damdamin at isipan, tulad ng piyesang ito. Parang pagsasalsal lang. Humahantong na minsan sa nibel na magsasalsal na lang para lang makapagsalsal. Magsusulat para lang may maisulat. Magsusulat para lang may makitang mga titik na magkakadikit, kahit walang kahulugan. Madalas ko itong problema sa pagbabasa. Mababasa ko ang bawat salita, pangungusap, talata. Pagkaabot sa dulo, Ano nga ulit iyong nabasa ko?
Kaya heto ang mga titik na nagnanais lamang punuin ang kalawakang bumabalot sa akin. Umaasa pa rin akong pagsisikapan kong harapin ang aking panulat. Lahat nang ito'y panakip-butas lamang, kahit na walang maaaring tumakip sa kalawakan. Pero syempre, napakadaling linlangin ang sarili.

----

I feel the urge to take a picture of the sky.
Do you remember the times when we thought of clouds as rabbits, chariots and fires?
I will take a photograph of the blue, cloudy sky surrounding me, and reproduce it on a huge sheet of paper. It should be panoramic, like how the sky would look like if you unwrap and straighten its reflection on the surface of a sphere.
Do you know how it is like to be inside a sphere?
The photograph will move from east to west, and it will be windy.
Do you remember the time when you pointed at a cloud and said, That's you.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

2009-09-21T22:48:00.005+08:00

            S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
            A persona che mai tornasse al mondo
            Questa fiamma staria sensa piu scosse.
            Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
            Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero
            Sensa tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

      .      .      .      .      .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

      .      .      .      .      .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.’

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
‘That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant at all.’

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

—T.S. Eliot

On Masturbation

2009-09-16T19:44:00.008+08:00

I wake up, and it is morning. I think, It’s always hard to masturbate. I see my penis, erect, covered by layers of cloth. It is morning, and it is cold. Beside me, a space, covered by layers of cloth.

I think, It’s always hard to masturbate, and yet, it’s easy to ejaculate. I remember, every midnight, women of the moon descend and help me ejaculate. Semen would spurt and then flow from the tip of my penis like how the women would flow skyward, unfailing, back to the moon, and then my eyes would droop.

Then I would wake up, and it would be morning. I would think, It’s always hard to masturbate. Beside me would be a space, the bed sheet’s creases like mountain ranges on the surface of the moon.

2009-09-08T00:28:00.004+08:00

Fuck you, excesses of bureaucracy. I don’t mean it in the sense that ‘I hope you score’. In the end the blame's on me because I failed to log every movement that I made. I should have probably logged in that logbook that I am logging something into that logbook. And so on. Then it will be given to Big Brother and he will process it, and he will Prozess me and will be under house arrest of an undisclosed amount of time, and for that undisclosed amount of time details regarding the trial will be undisclosed to me. ‘The Law is attracted by guilt.’ Therefore I am surely at fault, because the Law was attracted to me, because I was guilty. And all this time Big Brother knows everything that I have done because I have faithfully recorded my movements in that logbook, except for the time when I was exasperated and exhausted and didn't even bother to write a thing. Big Brother knows me completely, while I know nothing about him. He would in one swift stroke strike me with his judgment, and because of my guilt I will be executed.

‘Like a dog!’, they’d say with glee.

pearl hunting

2009-09-07T01:50:00.007+08:00

in the distance, I
see the movement of your lips—
sand within a clam.

Let me tell you something.

2009-09-04T01:29:00.000+08:00

The prose poem, as an organism, is Dasein.

Epitaphs

2009-09-03T13:41:00.004+08:00

Fu I
Fu I loved the high cloud and the hill,
Alas, he died of alcohol.

Li Po
And Li Po also died drunk.
He tried to embrace a moon
In the Yellow River.

—Ezra Pound

tuwing brownout (under construction)

2009-08-23T16:40:00.008+08:00

sindi
patay—

sa dilim lamang tayo

nakahihinga—sindi.

matagal-tagal pa ‘to.

2009-08-23T00:13:00.003+08:00

pero sulit naman e.

nang ‘di ka mabura sa alaala

2009-08-11T02:34:00.007+08:00

(nina miles at pepito)

muli kong isinusulat ang pangalan mo
sa kuwaderno ko
matingkad ang marka ng mapurol na lapis
sa papel na pinaluma ng iyong alaala
paulit-ulit ang paghagod ng itim
sa espasyo na pilit kong pinupuno
habang unti-unting sumasayad ang kahoy
sa naglalahong mga linya’t kurbang
nagsasabing

---

Huli na ‘to, pramis

2009-08-10T11:11:00.005+08:00

Huling pagbabago na ‘to ng url ng blog ko. Ngayon ko lang nalaman na maaari pa palang kunin ang Abschattung. Paumanhin.

Nagtataka ka siguro kung bakit may fixation ako sa Abschattung(en). Hango ito sa phenomenology. It is a profile, a perspective, an aspect of the perceived. The perceived gives itself to us through appearances, through a series of profiles (Abschattungen) that do not exhaust the perceived.

Suwak na suwak. Dahil isa lang naman ang kamalayan ko, e ‘di pinagmumulan ako ng Abschattung, ng isa sa Abschattungen.

Sawa ka na siguro sa Abschattungen. Sawa ka na sa ako, sa “I”. Magsawa ka lang. Sawa na rin ako sa ‘yo.

Pero ‘di ibig sabihin na hihinto na ako sa pakikinig sa ‘yo.

Nanaginip ako kagabi.

2009-08-10T10:17:00.004+08:00

Nanaginip ako kagabi. Syempre, nakalimutan ko na naman ang mga pangyayari. Pero nakatatak pa rin sa akin ang nadama ko.

Alam mo ba ‘yung pakiramdam pagkatapos kumain ng garlic rice? Naaalala ko pa ‘yun. Alam kong kumain ako ng garlic rice sa panaginip ko. O baka naman kasi kakakain ko lang ng garlic rice. Naalala ko ‘yung panaginip ko dahil sa garlic rice. Association nga raw, sabi ng psychology.

Naalala ko rin na lumipad ako, ngunit nakisabay ang mundo sa aking paglipad. Mukha tuloy akong tangang nakalutang. Parang treadmill ba. Siguro sinasabi sa akin ng utak ko na mag-exercise ako. Kain kasi ako nang kain ng garlic rice.

Pero masarap naman talaga ang garlic rice. Mahirap itong iwanan. Araw-araw ko itong binibili sa cafeteria, at isasabay ko ito sa tapa at itlog. Tapos lalagyan ko ng suka ang tapa. May sili pa. Hindi ako nagsasawa kahit araw-araw ko itong kinakain. Ewan ko ba.

Araw-araw akong natutulog. Hindi gabi-gabi. Wala akong oras para mag-beauty sleep. At mas lalong wala akong oras para tumakbo sa treadmill. Dahil kahit gumawa pa ako ng oras ko, makikisabay lang din ang mundo.

Wala lang

2009-08-06T22:19:00.006+08:00

writing exercise hango sa beautiful in-law ni adam david. dahil masayang mag-isip ng anagrams haha. more to come kapag walang magawa.

ginto
itong gin ni Toto—
totoong init ng ginoo.

tigang
igiit ang ngiti at tingnan
ang naggigitgitang
tinga-tinga.

sa renggang binubuo ng ating mga dila

2009-07-29T02:31:00.002+08:00

sa renggang binubuo ng ating mga dila,
nagtatalo ang mga linyang nagpapatong-patong;
nagsasalitan ang mga mapapait na halik
na dahan-dahang dumudulas pababa.

ngayong gabi, itinatayo natin ang tulang sisira
sa kuwentong pilit nating isinalaysay.
muli nating aariin ang mga titik na bumabaybay
sa munting himig ng ating nakaraan.

sa patalsik na pagbato ng mga huli nating salita,
hinahagkan ng iyong katawan ang sinag ng araw
habang nakahimlay ako, nag-iisa, nakakulong
sa renggang winasak ng ating mga dila.

sa sawsawan

2009-07-29T02:05:00.002+08:00

itinatakwil ng iyong kaputian
ang putik sa paligid ng iyong haligi,
at itinatago ng kinis ng iyong mukha
ang pagputok ng mantika patungo sa iyong braso
habang ipiniprito mo ang binili kong siomai.
at marahil, sa tamis-anghang ng iyong labi,
hindi ko mapapansin ang lasa ng bawang

sa sawsawan.

Abschattungen

2009-07-27T06:24:00.003+08:00

Abschattungen, sapagkat nakikita lamang natin ang mundo batay sa magkakasunud-sunod na imahen at anino nito, sapagkat hindi natin maaaring alamin ang mundo.

Sapagkat ang paglalarawan lamang nito ang maaari nating gawin. At sa paglalarawan ng mundo, malalaman natin kung ano ang kahulugan at ang kahalagahan nito sa atin.

ang tulang hindi nagsisimula

2009-07-27T05:55:00.005+08:00

dadayain ka ng tulang ito.
dahil naghahanap ka ng simula,

paiikutin ka ng tulang ito.
dahil may kagandahan sa pag-ikot,

hindi nagwawakas ang tulang ito.
dahil hiling mo ang habambuhay,

Paano ba magsulat ng isang kuwento?

2009-07-26T02:08:00.007+08:00

Paano ba magsulat ng isang kuwento? Alam ko namang hindi ako magaling magkuwento. Pero bilang consolation prize, baka naman may pagkakaiba ang pagkukuwento sa pagsusulat ng kuwento. Nang sinabi kong hindi ako magaling magkuwento, ibig kong sabihin na hindi ako magaling sa pagwika ng kuwento. Nabubulol at madalas akong sumasambit ng mga pahabol: kunwari nasa kalagitnaan na ako ng isang eksena, bigla kong sasabihin, Ay, Bago pala iyon mangyari, may ganiyan at ganito muna. Ngunit ganito rin ba kapag nagsusulat ako ng kuwento? Wala pa akong natatapos, ngunit nakapagsimula na ako sa pagsusulat ng isa o dalawang kuwento. Hindi ko matapos-tapos ang mga kuwento sapagkat hindi ko alam kung tungkol saan ang mga ito. Nagsusuka lang ako ng mga salita at ideya; para akong diyos na nagtatapon ng mga tao sa isang mundo na ginawa ko sa loob ng seven minutes.

Marahil hindi nga ako maaaring maging isang kuwentista. Gayumpaman, gusto kong malaman kung may pagkakaiba ang pagsusulat ng kuwento sa pagsasawika ng kuwento, na tatawagin ko na lamang pagkukuwento (sapagkat nagsimula ang pagkukuwento sa salita, sa pagwika nito). Alam kong on the spot ang pagkukuwento, maliban na lang kung nagkukuwento ako nang eksakto mula sa isang teksto. Hindi memoryado ang kuwento, subalit mula ito sa alaala o imahinasyon dahil on the spot nga ito. Masasabi ko ngayong iba ang pagkukuwento sa pagsusulat ng kuwento. Maaari akong magbura ng mga pangungusap. Maaari kong isantabi ang isang tauhan, maaari kong sirain ang tagpuan, maaari kong baguhin ang mga pangyayari. Maaari kong gawin ang lahat ng ito sapagkat hindi pa talaga naikukuwento ang isinusulat kong kuwento. Kung ang pagkukuwento ang paghahabi ng isang kuwento, ang pagsusulat naman ng kuwento ang paglikha at pagwasak ng isang kuwento bago pa man ito ipanganak. Pero bakit? Dahil may kapangyarihan akong magrebisa.

Sa pagrerebisa ko maaaring baguhin ang kuwento ayon sa aking ninanais. Lalong dumali ang pagrerebisa sa panahon ng kompyuter at ng mga word processor, dahil napakadaling magbura ng mga ideya, ng mga pangungusap, ng mga salita. Pipindutin ko lang ang backspace o ang delete at mawawala ang mga titik na bumubuo sa mga salitang bumubuo sa pangungusap. Buti pa ang kompyuter, marunong lumimot, samantalang tayo, nakakalimot lang. Marunong din itong maniwala sa kahit anong sabihin mo rito. Hindi ito aangal kahit sabihin ko na bahagi talaga ng Estados Unidos ang Pilipinas.

Mahiwaga ang kompyuter. Kaya nitong ipagtagpi-tagpi ang mga salita at makagagawa na ito ng kuwento. Hindi mahalaga kung may saysay ang kuwento. Nakasulat pa rin ito ng kuwento. Ngunit pagsusulat ba ng kuwento ang pagsusulat ng mga eksenang walang pinatutunguhan? Kuwento pa ba ang pinagtagpi-tagping mga pangungusap na walang saysay?

Parang buhay ng tao lang iyan. Minsan may lohika ang pagkakasunud-sunod ng mga pangyayari. Minsan wala. Walang pinatutunguhan ang kuwento ng tao. Sabihin mo na ang simula ng kuwento ng isang tao ang pagkapanganak niya at ang pagkamatay niya ang katapusan ng kaniyang kuwento, ngunit lahat ng nangyari sa pagitan, lahat ng kaniyang mga naranasan – nakatuon ba iyon lahat sa kaniyang pagkamatay? Walang pinatutunguhan ang kuwento ng isang tao sapagkat buhay siya; at habang buhay siya, walang nagtatakda sa kaniyang pagkilos. Tao siya sapagkat malaya siya, at siya ang humuhubog sa kaniyang sarili at sa kaniyang kuwentong siya lamang ang puwedeng magsalaysay.

Paano ba magsulat ng isang kuwento? Ewan ko.

sa banyo ko inilalabas

2009-07-26T00:52:00.001+08:00

sa banyo ko inilalabas
ang kinain ko

kung saan tahimik at
mapayapa

kung saan nakabukas ang ilaw
at may nakalaang trono sa akin

sa banyo
inilalabas ko ang katotohanan

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