Philippines, Proposed Addendum to Definition of
noun
: a stream that cuts through districts or fields of grass
: an enclosure of water (see Badjao or Aquarian)
: a subterranean wanting
: a recollection of faces
: a great and significant number, just below innumerable but above sufficient
: parable, the motif in every story that is allegorical, forced or otherwise
: a compendium of myths: such as
a: the myths about gods both imagined and reimagined,
legendary heroes and travelers with proud postures
but without the consequence of different tongues
b: themes or symbols; patterns of beliefs, dances, and distances
: a space one occupies and deserves
: a state of plenty (like promises in a dream)
: a flickering on the horizon in multitudes of color
verb
: to occupy a space such as cradle, job, clearing, rented room on 37th floor, casket, firmament
: to recall every detail of a face even at an old age
: to glimmer like no one is watching
Outline: Roots
1. Like all great narratives, a proper introduction to the world is key:
“Call me Ishmael,” “The king is dead. Long live the Queen,” “Hi.”
2. Like all lesser narratives, what we cannot derive from memory we make up with courteous randomness, even aggression: “Road under construction. Sorry for the inconvenience;” “God knows when we shall meet again,” “Fuck off!”
3. A good cup of brewed coffee comes from the right roast of beans, grind size, temperature of water. The ratios and measures that demand observation. Worth noting: All things are never innocent. Brown hands that have tilled the land are today’s red.
4. The mambabatok, revered tattooist from Kalinga, sits centerstage in a showroom like an exhibition piece, awash in neon lights. Buried skin-deep, histories remain dark as ink.
5. Our skin always a little burnt, unalabasterine, and then shamed. Perhaps ours mirror the ground truer than everyone else’s. Perhaps earth’s secret inclination, this birthright.
6. Xenocentrism comes from the affixes xeno- and –centric, meaning “having to do with foreigners” and “focus on or belief in the superiority of the other,” respectively.
Why do we think there is always something better?
7. A man kept from embarrassments is a first draft spared of erasures. Or colonizer’s ship lost in the sea of ambitions. Or map that has redrawn itself to become nothing more than a blank paper. Now, beware of that man.
8. How do I trace these roots that go deeper than this tree, than remembrances? Am I sick enough to be in need of remedy when I do not know which part doesn’t feel right?
9. Doctors say some diseases could come from the inside, festering until it is too late. Like forgetfulness, like staring at open spaces. But what if they are just finding a way out, waiting to be discovered as underground bones do, because all pain must be seen?
10. Here is a book of page ones. We start at the beginning right after the previous beginning, so we may never forget how it all started, how seed breaks soil.
How to Begin the Day After Leaving an Eight-to-Five Job
Mornings begin at two in the afternoon, you say,
or just at the snap of a second when everyone else
has yawned in their cubicles, descending back to cycles.
Weariness is never complicated, you say, not like ecru
for bathroom tiles, emerald for a square of curtain
for your room’s tiny window. Each waking is different,
you say, no matter how many times we insist on alibi
with sympathy. No matter how many times we will
see the sun set and dream of perfect circles. I cannot
oppose to this, to what makes things swell, swish,
leap, and be meaningful. There is convenience
in knowing by increments, the way a leitmotiv
plays to its proud, final sparkle. It will take time.
We will not get everything we want, but at this hour
the sky is bluer outside your window, and I say,
this is a gift. The world has so much room for solitude,
so nudge a little and let the light in. Let the clocks tick on.
A moment’s meaning will come soon, and it will see no end.
A Final Shape
“I refrain from defining the lifespan of anything with time.”
— Guo Pei
The seasons are beyond anyone’s concern—
Today dressmakers could summon summer
and winter with gold and silver threads.
Even courtyard flowers germinate from
thimbled fingers. Embroideries that open
into efflorescence, like water that slakes an earth
desperate for the slightest moisture. From one
generation to another, the same spool unwinds.
Thousands of hours in loop to needle dips and dives
for demanding blossoms, whorls, the most dazzling
of dragons. Hundreds more for a bowl of fruits.
Stitch after stitch precise as a prayer, each hem-fold
a backdoor to one’s inner creative child. Soon enough
a final shape gathers and all the adornments simply
become the last murmur of myths, as if a silken mystic
bird is ready to perch on lucky, privileged shoulders.
