Life in Autumn

Pakiramdam ko palagi na lang akong bumabyahe. Mula bata pa talagang makati na ang mga paa ko. Ilang oras din sa bus ang tinitiis ko kasama ang usok, pawis, init, libag, lagkit, pagod at gutom para lang makarating sa patutunguhan, kung saan man yun.

Kahapon, bumiyahe na naman kami ni Ederic. Tila sinuyod naming dalawa ang buong Luzon sa tagal ng byahe. Mula Norte tumungo kami sa Taal, Batangas. Pakiramdam ko tuloy tinubuan na ako ng kulani sa puwet sa tagal ng pagkakaupo sa bus.

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Slug: Isang araw sa buhay newsrum

Kalaboso ang isang reporter na tawagin na lang nating si J (di niya tunay na pangalan) sa krimeng hindi pagbabasa ng assignment sheet. Depensa ni J, hindi raw niya alam na mayroon nito. Dahil dito, naalarma na ngayon ang mother superior dahil sa dumaraming insidente ng mga walang pakialam sa kanilang istorya. Dulot nito ay nagpalabas ng order ang pinuno ng grupong Bella Flores na hindi na tatawagan ang sinumang reporter para alamin kung batid na nila ang istoryang bubuuin nila. Kaakibat nito ay hahayaan na rin daw ang mga reporter na mag-isip ng istorya nila. Tutal naman daw, ‘the fame is theirs’.
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This poem by Sylvia Plath is for all women who have journeyed beyond the realm of the woman as a wife, mother and bearer of life. Mga neng, mabuhay kayo!

Barren Woman
by Sylvia Plath

Empty, I echo to the least footfall,
Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas.
In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,
Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies
Exhale their pallor like scent.

I imagine myself with a great public,
Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.
Insread, the dead injure me attentions, and nothing can happen.
Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.

What the world does not understand is that there are a lot of MEs.

I, the evermore bigoted, neurotic, stringy yet utterly perceptive worker who goes to the office earlier than the usual nine to fivers. While everyone is still busy snoring their way to dreamland, I go to work, with a heavy heart and butt to boot. Clock goes cuckoo and I jerk awake, take a bath, brush my teeth, pick what bag goes to these shoes, hail a jeep, swipe my card, eat breakfast and say hi to everyone with a huge smile on my face. Everyday, I grumble and whine about this stupid reporter, this arrogant sonofabitch cameraman, the haughty, self-important superiors. Everyday I pass by a family living on the streets and I interrupt myself from feeling crappy about my own life. Everyday, the cycle continues and I wonder how much I aged since I started this job.
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I wrote this poem sometime in 2002 in our apartment in Pagasa. Originally published for the Philippine Graphic, during Nick Joaquin’s tenure in the Literary section. My friend Remir Macatangay translated it to Filipino, which to my regard, is a lot more credible than the original. I am reposting it here, a preface to my writing.

Writing moments

I feel the need to write
with my head
I feel the need to catch
the words that come flying
across the wind
before they leave me
for another drifter
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