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.

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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?

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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;

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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.

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Lessons from Chess

Nonfiction by | June 29, 2008

As we watch my father’s wake, I play chess with my older sister. It’s only in times like these that I get to play the game. My classmates back in high school never wanted to play with me because I used to be a very lousy player. Last night, as I played against my sister, I only won twice in about ten games. However, I have learned things I never would have learned if I didn’t play the game.

Here are some of my insights:

Life is what you make it. This existentialist belief is very evident in the game. Your victory lies on how well you play the game. Each move you make requires decision making and your choices create an impact on your future.

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Scaffolding

Poetry by | June 29, 2008

Though you are a mature cane,
You are still grass.

How did they mount your
Pliant body

With no ropes to knot you
If sand dunes rather strengthen

Your base node
Loosely you will fall

How long can
Your suntanned body endure

The light weight
Of a ceaseless work.

By now, rootless-

Leafless,

As you are;
No more sap

And soundless breath
To fend

This Artificial
Growth.