Description

A bird with a cry like a cell phone says something
to a bird that sounds like a manual typewriter.

 Out of sight in the woods, the creek trickles
 its ongoing sentence; from treble to baritone,

 from dependent clause to interrogative.

The trees rustle over the house: they are excited
to be entering the poem

in the late afternoon, when the clouds are creamy and massive
as if to illustrate contentment.

And maybe a wind will pluck pff the last dead leaves;
and a cold rain will splash

dainty white petals from the crab apple tree
down to the ground,

the pink and the ground mingled there,
like two different messages scribbled over each other.

In all of this place must be
reserved for human suffering:

the sick and unloved, the chemically confused
the ones who believed desperately in insight;
the ones addicted to change.

How our thoughts clawed and pummeled the walls.
How we tried but could not find our way out.

In the wake of our effort, how we rested.
How description was the sign of our acceptance.


 -- Tony Hoagland

When the Clock Struck 9,

How do I describe a floating when it has gone before I saw it from within. What is left is
a feeling of having had. Did you inhabit a spacious room filled with despair? We breathe
then move to the next obliging bird that has not slept for a century. What has it seen? It must be ashamed of mankind, but I doubt such creature was not envious of our sins. Birds may fly, but they will never be luminously delirious and alone like me. I give words to my isolation. I refuse
to speak when I desire. Inevitably, I breathe, yet I choose my death. On most nights when I suffer from an excess of self, my inner shadow complains and makes an attempt to murder my outer self. I fail to make her understand that we were never apart. The fastest way to kill one another is to kill yourself. There is no other way. You always write it yourself.

You Occupy a Vast Room in My Mind

"Do you think happiness lasts?"

You asked this during our very first conversation. I was with K at mag:net waiting for someone else when we randomly hung out. You sounded as if your life depended on it. 

Eight years later, I still remember what I said: It's a feeling. It's not meant to last. My younger self tried to reason that happiness cannot be trusted. Then you asked if it was worth pursuing, knowing that it would fade out. 

But before I could say anything, my friend arrived and I left you without much of a goodbye. Unceremonious, I know. That's how many of my conversations were marked back then. For that, I'm truly sorry.

Still, how I wish I told you: Yes, your happiness is worth pursuing. Only, I wasn't sure of this then. I could have been more encouraging, but you didn't hear the answers you needed from me. Besides, I wasn't bold enough to chase my dreams. I had no clue what would make me happy. 

You wanted to live intensely. I wasn't sure if I still wanted to live. 

Today, I think you understand this matter better than I ever will. I don't even have to say it now because that's exactly what you're doing. Through it all, I hope you know I'll just be here for you.

Maybe in a day or so I'll remind you we had this conversation, though I'm quite sure you will not remember. (You're too shy to admit you were lost back then. Also, your memory has become ten times more selective than mine.) 

For what's it's worth, I want you to know that conversation helped me somehow. Since then, I made it a point not to take happier times for granted. More importantly, just like you, I didn't want to be afraid of life and the future anymore.

So, thank you. 

I don't know why I wanted to write about this. Perhaps I should have more faith in random things. 

Parable

First divesting ourselves of worldly goods, as St. Francis teaches,
in order that our souls not be distracted
by gain and loss, and in order also
that our bodies be free to move
easily at the mountain passes, we had then to discuss
whither or where we might travel, with the second question being
should we have a purpose, against which
many of us argued fiercely that such purpose
corresponded to worldly goods, meaning a limitation or constriction,
whereas others said it was by this word we were consecrated
pilgrims rather than wanderers: in our minds, the word translated as
a dream, a something-sought, so that by concentrating we might see it
glimmering among the stones, and not
pass blindly by; each
further issue we debated equally fully, the arguments going back and forth,
so that we grew, some said, less flexible and more resigned,
like soldiers in a useless war. And snow fell upon us, and wind blew,
which in time abated — where the snow had been, many flowers appeared,
and where the stars had shone, the sun rose over the tree line
so that we had shadows again; many times this happened.
Also rain, also flooding sometimes, also avalanches, in which
some of us were lost, and periodically we would seem
to have achieved an agreement; our canteens
hoisted upon our shoulders, but always that moment passed, so
(after many years) we were still at that first stage, still
preparing to begin a journey, but we were changed nevertheless;
we could see this in one another; we had changed although
we never moved, and one said, ah, behold how we have aged, traveling
from day to night only, neither forward nor sideward, and this seemed
in a strange way miraculous. And those who believed we should have a purpose
believed this was the purpose, and those who felt we must remain free
in order to encounter truth, felt it had been revealed.


 -- Louise Glück

Historical Fiction in Letters

August is the month of the Filipino language (Buwan ng Wika) and I stumbled upon this beautiful letter written in Tagalog. I haven't read anything this poignant in Tagalog in a long while, much less write anything truly substantial. But I do hope to read more beautiful works of literature in my local tongue.

Knowing it's fictional doesn't diminish the message's power. I believe it has shed light into so many possibilities when we think of our national heroes' personal lives. So please, read it for yourself.

---

1897 Mayo 1

Mahal kong Oryang,

Mali ka. Hindi kita nakasalubong upang sa dulo ng kalsada, ako ay liliko sa kanan at ikaw sa kaliwa. Sapagkat saan man tayo dalhin ng ating pakikibaka, ikaw lang ang aking itatangi at makailang ulit na ihaharap sa pulang bandila. Hindi tayo nagpalitan ng mga kwento upang sa pinakahuling tuldok ng pangungusap, ang karugtong ay alingawngaw ng katahimikan. Walang pagod kitang aawitan ng imnong pambayan, Oryang.

Hindi kailanman ako mauubusan ng salita upang maialay sa iyo bilang mga tula. Maging ang bulong at buntung-hininga’y magpapahayag ng pagsinta sa tulad mong umiibig din sa bansa. Hindi tayo sabay na tumawa, nagkatinginan, at tumawa pa nang mas malakas, upang sa paghupa ng halakhak ay may butil ng luha na mamimintana sa ating mga mata. Loobin man ng Maykapal na pansamantala tayong magkawalay, tandaan mong ang halakhak at sigaw ng ating mga kasamahan ay sa akin rin. Hindi ka dapat masabik sa akin sapagkat ako’y mananatili sa iyong piling. Hindi kita niyakap nang ilang ulit upang sa pagkalas ng mga braso ko sayo ay maramdaman mong iniiwan kita.

Habambuhay akong magiging tapat sa ating panata, Oryang. Kapara ng binitawan kong sumpa sa ngalan ng bayan, tayo’y mananatiling katipun, kawal, at bayani ng ating pagmamahalan. Hindi tayo bumuo ng mga alaala sa umaga, tanghali, at gabi upang sa muli mong paggising ay maisip mong hindi tayo nagkasama sa pakikidigma. Hindi ko man hawak ang bukas, nais kong tanganan mo ang aking pangako na ilang ulit kong pipiliing mabuhay at pumanaw upang patunayan sa iyong mali ka. At kung magkataong ako’y paharapin sa ating anak na si Andres, buo ang loob kong haharap sa kanya at sasabihin ko sa kanyang mali ka. Hindi ako bumati sa simula upang sa huli ay magpaalam.

Ikaw ang aking bayan,

Andres



Ibinigay ni Julio Nakpil ang liham na ito kay Oryang ilang gabi makalipas ang pagpaslang kay Andres sa Maragondon.

---

Isang kathang pangkasaysayan ni G. Eljay Castro Deldoc mula sa "MAGHIMAGSIK: Mga Tula, Sulatin at Larawan ng Pakikibaka ni Andres Bonifacio at ng Kabataang Makabayan" isang aklat pampanitikan ng CEGP at Anakbayan para sa ika-150 kaarawan ni Gat Andres Bonifacio



*This post was taken from League of Filipino Students - UP Diliman Facebook page.

Lately

                                                                 "Homesickness"
                                                             René Magritte, 1940


1) I constantly had to remind myself that this is not my life. My eight hour job cannot define me. My brain dead mornings should not keep me from watching the sunrise. The three hours I spend working overtime cannot eat what is left of my existence. This is not my real life.


2) Four days ago, I wanted to disappear forever. Yesterday I no longer felt like leaving. I wonder if it's because I am content or simply too tired to go anywhere.


3) I believe in equilibrium, in the notion of stability, and it's illusions. It is a comforting kind of lie.


4) Truth scolds the ignorant. Some of us have never recovered.


5) I honestly just live to read. Perhaps even sometimes write.


6) What do you want out of life?


7) Save room for people, places, and events. Trust me. You'll never want to run out of things to look forward to.


8) I miss sleeping at night.


9) I don' know which is worse: The failure to forget a painful moment, or the failure to recall what it was that made you feel alive.


10) Now and then, I have to remind myself I am afraid to die.


11) This life is excruciatingly long and short at the same time.


13) Tell me why you're tired.


14) There is no way we're born to wait for weekends, buy shit to pretend it makes us happy, pay bills, and die.


15) And the city insists on defining me.


16) "Cruel is the gospel that sets us all free and takes you away from me." - Prefab Sprout


17) I stopped watching or reading the news.


18) Does your happiness outweigh your misery? Out of five instances, how often?


19) I will never get tired of finding beauty where it shouldn't be.


20) Don't go out too long without music.


21) What are you waiting for?

Notes on Indifference

I recently had the pleasure of reading Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell last weekend. Published in 1933, the book chronicles the author’s unfortunate descent into the throes of poverty in the early 1900s. After reading it, I could actually understand where Orwell got his inspiration for writing Animal Farm.

Orwell had no choice but to become a plongeur (dishwasher/janitor) in seedy Paris brasseries after months of not finding work. “It’s modern day slavery,” he would say. As if his troubles were not enough, he found himself homeless and once again unemployed when he came to London. For a month he lived the life of a “tramp,” the equivalent of a “taong grasa” or beggar in our society, existing on meal tickets and mercy from government houses or “London spikes.”

Reading about European poverty and famine is strange to me. Perhaps it’s because I never really thought Western civilizations could be that “poor” (I believe you have to see poverty from my side of the planet for you to understand what I mean).  Nevertheless, I still thought their system of dealing with homeless vagrants has become the world’s model for treating people who have fallen into the poverty line.

The idea that you become less than human once you cannot afford basic necessities disturbs me. You become a pest; people ignore you or see you as a burden in society. Foul and unproductive creatures like you are segregated from the public. No one can be bothered to care. You can no longer socialize and it’s terrifying to lose all self-respect. People blame you for being poor.  

(Condescending attitudes towards the poor are all too familiar. Why is this still happening?  Do people even bother to understand? I detest how our individual worth is constantly being measured by our purchasing power. Sure, you have to work hard. Orwell had a streak of bad luck, yet he got out of his rut. But what about the uneducated? Those who lost the birth lottery? Is it really their fault if they are born poor, if they cannot change their status? These are just some of the many things I had to ponder on while going through every chapter. The idea that it’s a person’s fault if he is poor is in itself a ploy to keep one from being simple.)

Plongeur's Life

A homeless man asleep on newspapers in Paris (circa 1935)

Upon reading Down and Out, I began to have profound respect for people who live a hand-to-mouth existence. At the same time, I appreciate knowing that kind people can still exist among the poor, and that there are those, though few, who are able to cultivate intellectual and moral lives despite their harsh dispositions.

The book also reminded me of my graduate school sociology class. My professor began that semester with the history of capitalism and the end of slavery. She then moved on to issues concerning minimum wage work, sweatshops and domestic employment, undocumented immigrants, and unsustainable business models. Our class problematized how civilizations were built on the sweat of billions of minimum wage workers.

Because everything affects everything else, we have to start seeing life on this planet in its entirety. That means making life better from the very bottom up, not just up. A change must occur to address the very root of the problem. And unless people in influential positions actually care about the common man, progress is only for the middle-class and the privileged.

On a more personal note, I realized how important it is to keep our inner lives alive. This goes for all of us, not just for people struggling with poverty. It’s so easy to lose ourselves in need and greed when all we ever think about is our place in society. We have to realize we are more than our desires, needs, and what others see.

--

There is a lot to learn from the past. I find the following chapter very relevant when it comes to 1) workers rights, 2) how we utilize our skills, and 3) how society’s elite fails to sympathize with the working class and the poor. I would have quoted lines, but the entire essay just has to be read in its full form.

Chapter XXII

Down and Out in Paris and London, 1933

By George Orwell

     For what they are worth I want to give my opinions about the life of a Paris PLONGEUR. When one comes to think of it, it is strange that thousands of people in a great modem city should spend their waking hours swabbing dishes in hot dens underground. The question I am raising is why this life goes on—what purpose it serves, and who wants it to continue, and why I am not taking the merely rebellious, FAINEANT attitude. I am trying to consider the social significance of a PLONGEUR’S life.

     I think one should start by saying that a PLONGEUR is one of the slaves of the modem world. Not that there is any need to whine over him, for he is better off than many manual workers, but still, he is no freer than if he were bought and sold. His work is servile and without art; he is paid just enough to keep him alive; his only holiday is the sack. He is cut off from marriage, or, if he marries, his wife must work too. Except by a lucky chance, he has no escape from this life, save into prison. At this moment there are men with university degrees scrubbing dishes in Paris for ten or fifteen hours a day. One cannot say that it is mere idleness on their part, for an idle man cannot be a PLONGEUR; they have simply been trapped by a routine which makes thought impossible. If PLONGEURS thought at all, they would long ago have formed a union and gone on strike for better treatment. But they do not think, because they have no leisure for it; their life has made slaves of them.

     The question is, why does this slavery continue? People have a way of taking it for granted that all work is done for a sound purpose. They see somebody else doing a disagreeable job, and think that they have solved things by saying that the job is necessary. Coal-mining, for example, is hard work, but it is necessary—we must have coal. Working in the sewers is unpleasant, but somebody must work in the sewers. And similarly with a PLONGEUR’S work. Some people must feed in restaurants, and so other people must swab dishes for eighty hours a week. It is the work of civilization, therefore unquestionable. This point is worth considering.

     Is a PLONGEUR’S work really necessary to civilization? We have a feeling that it must be ‘honest’ work, because it is hard and disagreeable, and we have made a sort of fetish of manual work. We see a man cutting down a tree, and we make sure that he is filling a social need, just because he uses his muscles; it does not occur to us that he may only be cutting down a beautiful tree to make room for a hideous statue. I believe it is the same with a PLONGEUR. He earns his bread in the sweat of his brow, but it does not follow that he is doing anything useful; he may be only supplying a luxury which, very often, is not a luxury.

     As an example of what I mean by luxuries which are not luxuries, take an extreme case, such as one hardly sees in Europe. Take an Indian rickshaw puller, or a gharry pony. In any Far Eastern town there are rickshaw pullers by the hundred, black wretches weighing eight stone, clad in loin-cloths. Some of them are diseased; some of them are fifty years old. For miles on end they trot in the sun or rain, head down, dragging at the shafts, with the sweat dripping from their grey moustaches. When they go too slowly the passenger calls them BAHINCHUT. They earn thirty or forty rupees a month, and cough their lungs out after a few years. The gharry ponies are gaunt, vicious things that have been sold cheap as having a few years’ work left in them. Their master looks on the whip as a substitute for food. Their work expresses itself in a sort of equation—whip plus food equals energy; generally it is about sixty per cent whip and forty per cent food. Sometimes their necks are encircled by one vast sore, so that they drag all day on raw flesh. It is still possible to make them work, however; it is just a question of thrashing them so hard that the pain behind outweighs the pain in front. After a few years even the whip loses its virtue, and the pony goes to the knacker. These are instances of unnecessary work, for there is no real need for gharries and rickshaws; they only exist because Orientals consider it vulgar to walk. They are luxuries, and, as anyone who has ridden in them knows, very poor luxuries. They afford a small amount of convenience, which cannot possibly balance the suffering of the men and animals.

     Similarly with the PLONGEUR. He is a king compared with a rickshaw puller or a gharry pony, but his case is analogous. He is the slave of a hotel or a restaurant, and his slavery is more or less useless. For, after all, where is the REAL need of big hotels and smart restaurants? They are supposed to provide luxury, but in reality they provide only a cheap, shoddy imitation of it. Nearly everyone hates hotels. Some restaurants are better than others, but it is impossible to get as good a meal in a restaurant as one can get, for the same expense, in a private house. No doubt hotels and restaurants must exist, but there is no need that they should enslave hundreds of people. What makes the work in them is not the essentials; it is the shams that are supposed to represent luxury. Smartness, as it is called, means, in effect, merely that the staff work more and the customers pay more; no one benefits except the proprietor, who will presently buy himself a striped villa at Deauville. Essentially, a ‘smart’ hotel is a place where a hundred people toil like devils in order that two hundred may pay through the nose for things they do not really want. If the nonsense were cut out of hotels and restaurants, and the work done with simple efficiency, PLONGEURS might work six or eight hours a day instead often or fifteen.

     Suppose it is granted that a PLONGEUR’S work is more or less useless. Then the question follows, Why does anyone want him to go on working? I am trying to go beyond the immediate economic cause, and to consider what pleasure it can give anyone to think of men swabbing dishes for life. For there is no doubt that people—comfortably situated people—do find a pleasure in such thoughts. A slave, Marcus Gato said, should be working when he is not sleeping. It does not matter whether his work is needed or not, he must work, because work in itself is good—for slaves, at least. This sentiment still survives, and it has piled up mountains of useless drudgery.

     I believe that this instinct to perpetuate useless work is, at bottom, simply fear of the mob. The mob (the thought runs) are such low animals that they would be dangerous if they had leisure; it is safer to keep them too busy to think. A rich man who happens to be intellectually honest, if he is questioned about the improvement of working conditions, usually says something like this:

     ‘We know that poverty is unpleasant; in fact, since it is so remote, we rather enjoy harrowing ourselves with the thought of its unpleasantness. But don’t expect us to do anything about it. We are sorry for you lower classes, just as we are sorry for a, cat with the mange, but we will fight like devils against any improvement of your condition. We feel that you are much safer as you are. The present state of affairs suits us, and we are not going to take the risk of setting you free, even by an extra hour a day. So, dear brothers, since evidently you must sweat to pay for our trips to Italy, sweat and be damned to you.’

     This is particularly the attitude of intelligent, cultivated people; one can read the substance of it in a hundred essays. Very few cultivated people have less than (say) four hundred pounds a year, and naturally they side with the rich, because they imagine that any liberty conceded to the poor is a threat to their own liberty. Foreseeing some dismal Marxian Utopia as the alternative, the educated man prefers to keep things as they are. Possibly he does not like his fellow-rich very much, but he supposes that even the vulgarest of them are less inimical to his pleasures, more his kind of people, than the poor, and that he had better stand by them. It is this fear of a supposedly dangerous mob that makes nearly all intelligent people conservative in their opinions.

     Fear of the mob is a superstitious fear. It is based on the idea that there is some mysterious, fundamental difference between rich and poor, as though they were two different races, like Negroes and white men. But in reality there is no such difference. The mass of the rich and the poor are differentiated by their incomes and nothing else, and the. average millionaire is only the average dishwasher dressed in a new suit. Change places, and handy dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Everyone who has mixed on equal terms with the poor knows this quite well. But the trouble is that intelligent, cultivated people, the very people who might be expected to have liberal opinions, never do mix with the poor. For what do the majority of educated people know about poverty? In my copy of Villon’s poems the editor has actually thought it necessary to explain the line ‘NE PAIN NE VOYENT QU’AUX FENESTRES’ by a footnote; so remote is even hunger from the educated man’s experience.

     From this ignorance a superstitious fear of the mob results quite naturally. The educated man pictures a horde of submen, wanting only a day’s liberty to loot his house, burn his books, and set him to work minding a machine or sweeping out a lavatory. ‘Anything,’ he thinks, ‘any injustice, sooner than let that mob loose.’ He does not see that since there is no difference between the mass of rich and poor, there is no question of setting the mob loose. The mob is in fact loose now, and—in the shape of rich men—is its power to set up enormous treadmills of boredom, such as ‘smart’ hotels.

     To sum up. A PLONGEUR is a slave, and a wasted slave, doing stupid and largely unnecessary work. He is kept at work, ultimately, because of a vague feeling that he would be dangerous if he had leisure. And educated people, who should be on his side, acquiesce in the process, because they know nothing about him and consequently are afraid of him. I say this of the PLONGEUR because it is his case I have been considering; it would apply equally to numberless other types of worker. These are only my own ideas about the basic facts of a PLONGEUR’S life, made without reference to immediate economic questions, and no doubt largely platitudes. I present them as a sample of the thoughts that are put into one’s head by working in an hotel.