Tilting at Windmills

Nonfiction by | July 20, 2008

“’But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked.
‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat. ‘We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.’
‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice.
‘You must be,” said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t have come here.’”

— Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

My earliest recollection of being near a madwoman was when I was nine. Her skirt was black with large, white flower prints cascading down its length to her toes. Her blouse was white and faded you could see her tits cleaving to it. If I was afraid of her, it was because she was an Other, as God was an Other. After all, a small town could grow legends, tall tales— she was in one of those, and I believed it. If anyone would have asked me then how she got into the farthest end of the house without waking the dogs, I would have answered she had a power over animals.

That day, Mom was repotting lirios in her garden when the lunatic grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. Mom turned around and simply said, “Why! You’re here again.” Continue reading Tilting at Windmills

Ang Ulan ug ang imong Pagbiya

Poetry by | July 20, 2008

Nakahinumdum ka ba sa panganod?
Itom ug nagataliabot,
Halagpad nga gawara-wara sa nasukong langit;
Murag imong pagbiya nga managsugod,
Dili matugkad sa akong pagsabot,
Dili mahangyo sa pulong ug sa hagit.
 
Nakahinumdum ka ba sa kilat?
Hugpong ang iyang mga kamot
Sa pag-igo sa kakahuyan ug kayutaan,
Halangdon sa iyang pagbusikad ug pagpakurat
Murag imong mga kalagot ug kasukong hurot
Sa usa ka kalit ug dili gitaganang katapusan.
 
Continue reading Ang Ulan ug ang imong Pagbiya

Dagmay Legends: Origins of the Dagmay Cloth

Fiction by , , , | July 13, 2008

The Origin of the Dagmay Cloth, The Mariano-Muya clan version as retold by Amelia Muya Anong.

A long time ago, there was a community that was located far away from civilization. The people used the barks or leaves of trees for clothes. They lived in caves or built their houses in the trunks of trees. Their sources of living were hunting and fishing.

One day the Biya (Maiden) was taught by her friend Diwata how to weave bugti, a cloth with no color or design. She used it as her clothes. Then Biya taught other women to weave it for their clothes too. And so they did not use the barks or leaves of plants as their clothes anymore.

One day Tamisa , the brother of Biya, went hunting. While hunting, he found a beautiful piece of Cloth which was being dried under the sun. He stole it and ran home as fast as he could. Thunder, lightning and storm followed him until he reached home, half-dying.

Before he died, he gave the Cloth to his sister, Biya. Through the help of her friend Diwata, the storm, thunder, and lightning calmed down. Diwata told her that the owner of the Cloth was “Mapandig Tagamaling Magsainag ng Kilat” and the name of the beautiful cloth was DAGMAY. Biya wanted to return the Dagmay cloth but the spirit owner refused it because it was already paid for with the life of Tamisa and that it had already been touched by human hands. Thus, Biya got the Dagmay, and when she returned home, she copied the designs through the help of her friend Diwata.

Continue reading Dagmay Legends: Origins of the Dagmay Cloth

My Idiotic Brush with Death

Nonfiction by | July 6, 2008

No matter how brilliant I consider myself to be, I find my usually-intelligent existence punctuated by spots of utter idiocy.

I went to my aunt’s family’s restaurant in Great Neck, NY to bake my idiot-proof peaches and cream cake. It didn’t turn out so idiot proof because as any scientist would know, you need the same elements in an experiment to produce the same result, and Shoreline, Seattle (where I got this recipe) is not Great Neck, and a large restaurant kitchen scaled for mass production does not necessarily have everything a small home kitchen does.

So, anyway, the cake was baked. We left it to cool in the large walk-in refrigerator and I went back to reading my Terry Pratchett book till it was time to bring Joyce to her piano lesson.

It’s almost 3. Time to go, but where could Uncle Jobie be?

He’s not in the dining section… not in the kitchen… not in the loading area… could he be stuck in the walk-in fridge?

Continue reading My Idiotic Brush with Death

Palaw

Poetry by | July 6, 2008

7:00 o’clock
Ligo…
    Ilis…
       Dagan…
Para!
Nccc Uyanguren ROXAS
BAYAD MUNA BAGO BABA
     Liko sa tuo…
          Liko sa wala…
Lugar lang!
Bayad oh? Estudyante!
     Naog…
          natingala…
No ID No Entry
No Class Today!!!

Reality

Poetry by | July 6, 2008

Here is the truth of all truths;
love is a stone on the road
where vultures circle
with a lone cactus on the side.

Yes…

Love is boring.

Kisses become dull
caresses become tiresome
whispers simply become rasping breaths
and shoulders become solid rock.

Love is boring;

Continue reading Reality

The Accused

Fiction by | June 29, 2008

The heat was punishing. It was one of those days when the sun seemed especially merciless – the heat seeming to sear one’s skin to the bone and the humid air driving the strongest of men to weariness. In the cramped, cheerless room, the heat was even more intolerable. The sole fan attached to the ceiling provided no relief from the cruel heat; if possible, it seemed only to trap the dense air in the windowless box that served as the factory office.

Across the room, the woman sat stiffly on a padded bench. Her head was slightly bowed, her gaze fixed on an indistinct spot on the gray linoleum floor. The heat was almost suffocating, but she felt cold on the inside, her clammy hands gripping her knees tightly in an effort to steady her rioting nerves. Cold, sticky sweat was trickling down her spine in tiny rivulets and dark crescent stains had begun to form below her armpits. Beads of moisture, too, started to line her brows, and she had to swipe them off with her sleeve every so often to keep them from falling to her eyes.

Continue reading The Accused