the art of free running

I passed by one time a vacant lot along Maharlika Highway where culverts, boulder rocks and metal scaffoldings are all piled up and by the look of the place, I inferred it was a tambakan of construction supplies and equipment. In fact there was a rustic bulldozer in one corner that perhaps have been not in use for a couple of years since some parts of the operator’s seat have been invaded by wild vines in the area already. But that was not the catch of the moment in the scenery. I couldn’t take my eyes from a group of boys, six-teeners perhaps, who were jumping off and over the culverts and running all through out the area like unleashed monkeys of some sort. I thought they were just playing a different version of the luksong-baka I used to play with my cousins and my childhood friends in the neighborhood.

I mused myself and decided to linger some more just to spur the moment. Andun na rin lang ako, aba’y makinood na nga. I also used to perform gymnastics in my elementary intramurals complete with the ball and ribbon exhibition on the floor so I thought these young boys were good at jumping over the culvert and off to the scaffoldings for a quick hand swing and then jump to the ground in a calculated footing. I thought these boys were amazing. And I could do that too. Lolz.

My officemate said he has a brother who is also into the same new found sport. For the more courageous type of teenagers, I suppose. He said it is called free running. It has long been practiced in western countries as a past time. Although it is often times confused with Parkour, another discipline of movement from one place to another and follows a more established philosophy and discipline such as reach – meaning to quickly access places or elevation that may seem impossible to achieve and escape – meaning to run away from chasers or attackers, free running however has followed a unique philosophy and purpose of the movement. The goal of free running to keep on moving from one spot to another elevation without going back.

With these basics put in mind, free running can be incorporated with the runners own movement and style thus achieving the aesthetics of the movement, which happens to be the ultimate purpose at the onset.

Free running uses the obstacles in the environs to execute the tricks and stunts and the challenge of execution is another ingredient why this new form of freedom in physical art execution has taken the popular culture by storm. And because this is considered as an art form, its proponents do not yield to the idea of making free running as a competitive sport as it will diminish its aesthetic purpose.

This can practically be used to keep one’s body in the right form and I would like to believe that executing the course of movement does not only entail agility and strength but also some serious brain cells so that movements are executed well and ends in a calculated landing.

Akalain mo ba namang biglang nagkaron ng philosophy and aesthetics ang dating luksong-baka lang.hehe. I think I will try this new passion sometime and see if I can lure my friends to try it too. Watch out Gagambino!

Here is an amateur video of siblings, Yan-yan, Gogo and Momo Noel going loco with free running.

pananglit

I received a SMS this afternoon from an old friend. It surprised me more because i apparently didn't have her number in my phone book anymore. i swear by the name of my loud-mouthed neighbor but i do not recall deleting her entry. of course i had to save face lest i be accused of burning bridges.


I used to be fond of her most among the other members of the youth group in the church. maybe two years of willfully ignoring youth group invites' and practically choosing to drift away from the group slowly ensued such a happy exchange of SMS.

the short conversation through text messaging went like this:


K: hi bert! :)

B: Hi. hu is dis pls?

K: Kim ini. ;)

B: Kim C******? anu ka na? musta k na? hehe.

K: ok la.kaw musta?

B: ok la gyap. anuman ninong na ako? haha.

K: kalurong nim.dire.haha.. ako ninang na?

B: baog ako.hehe.

K: ako liwat. mag-angay daw la kita! hehe.

B: haha. amu ba? anu k na? musta na balit? anu nga hangin nag paabat k man?

K: waray la. na miss ko la ikaw.

B: saba daw ngada! kairinit ka man.


_end_


once upon a time,(hehe) i played sweet music with this girl. it was one platonic boy-girl understanding that led to a more serious exchange of sweet nothingness. sadly, the story did not end up to our good advantage since most of our friends were not in favor of the idea. they thought we were better of as friends. she thought the same and i respected her for that. we remained good friends and we still exchange the same silly conversation when time permits and i still keep the little secrets she confided to me.


for some good reasons, i still wish i did not break the silence about how i felt for her then. i still wish she did not return the same sweet gesture to me then because it did not ensue into something romantic anyway. truly, there are just things better left unsaid and undone. tsk!tsk!

and then it struck me point blank. how would one react to the situation if somebody from his past returns to him down on bended knees and vulnerable saying she is not happy with her present love now, the one she chose over you and caused your life almost during the basted, and that because it dawned on her now that she happier and complete with you instead?


it will be a chaos of emotions, of course.


i wrote this Siday a few months back and i have been really eager posting it despite the not-so-good review of a trusted friend, who has actual learning about the principles of writing and reading the art of Siday.



Pananglitan


Magkita iton aton mga bayhon utro

Magkatapo iton mga siplat

Maghampang iton mga sugbong

Magbag-iray iton mga dughan.

Matood pa ba ako

kun magyakan ka

nga mabalik ka na

ha akon

pagbantay,

pagtimangno,

pagpalangga


Kay dire ka na malipayon ha iya?

An Pagsurat

“Kinahanglan ko magsurat para makayakan.”


Sangtop ako hit kamatuoran nga dire sugad kasimple iton disiplina hiton pagsurat. Waray ako pormal nga pagturun-an hin pagsurat amu dire ako sigurado kun iton akon mga ginsurat, ginhuhuman pagsurat ngan iton akon mga igsusurat buwas magsusubay hiton mga displina ha pagsurat hiton mga kamag-araman.

Madali magsurat kun pagsurat la iton paghihimangrawan pero sayod ako nga an pagsurat hin mga barasahon ngan ideya nga magpapahimulos hin bag-o nga mga iristoryahun ngan mag-aabre hiton himuok nga hunahuna hiton kadam-an ngan magbibilin hin bag-o o kun dire man kakaiba nga panlantaw ha kinabuhi an mas makuri nga dapit han pagsurat.

Signgon pa han usa nga kamag-araman, kun diin nakikipagpuniti pa ako hit kalag hit iya libro agud mahuman ko na pagbasa ha ungara nga ha katapusan nga paypay niya, ugsa ko ipahuram liwat ha iba nga gingigidkan magsurat, iton pinaka makuri nga dapit hiton puniti hiton nagsusurat ngan hiton kagawasan hiton iya igsusurat amu an dapit kun diin nakaatubang ha iya nawong iton blanko nga busag na papel samtang naghuhulat masuratan hin kun anuman.

Ha sungpay pa nga kabahin, kun usa man nga puniti iton pagsurat, an pagdarag-an han nagsusurat dire ginsusukol ha kabug-usan han iya artikulo o siday o short story ngan kun anu ini kahusay ngan anu karasa kaunon iton kada linya hin ideya ini may-ada, lugod para hin sugad ha akon nga dire pa hamtong an kinaadman ngan nag-aambisyon pa la mag-surat, karuyag ko huna-hunaon nga an padarag-an hin usa nga mahusay nga sinurat ngan nagsusurat in ginsusukol tikang han mga kapait ngan katam-is han mga ideya nga sumulod ha iya huna-huna ngan dayon nag-aaragaway ha sulod han iya utok para asihon han nagsusurat agud amu an maging pangulo nga emosyon ha pagtikang han artikulo. Dinhi na nga dapit masulod an ikaduha nga pahutnga-ay hin kusog han nagsusurat ngan iya ginsusurat, amu nga an mga emosyon han kapait, katam-is, kahangit, kakuri, kalipay ngan kagawasan ngan kadaugan o kun an pagdurungan hini nga tanan man amu an tinikangan han pagsukol tubtob ha kun anuman iton masupsop nga ideya hiton magbabasa hini nga sinurat amu an suklanan.

Karuyag kun mag-aro hin pasaylo ha mga kamag-araman nga nagpukaw ha akon tikan ha akon himuok nga katurog ngan padayon nga nagiging surok hit akon ambisyon kun dire ko maakos tagan hin hustisya ini nga akon mga ungara, sugad kan Prof. Merlie Alunan, usa nga bag-o nga crush ko ha UPVTC, kan Voltaire Oyzon nga nagbilin ha akon hin girhang ha bitiis ngan ha bayhon hadto pa tikan han akon mabasahan an iya *siday ha UP Vista ngan kan Makabenta, author hin usa ka diksyunaryo nga Waray, kun diin naghatag ha akon hin ideya nga marisyo, kumplikado ngan makaruruyag igsurusalakot iton diyalekto nga Waraynon.

Dire ako hanas magsurat. Pero karuyag ko magsurat kay karuyag ko magyakan.

cluttered thoughts

INK AND VAIN ASPIRATION

Come forth to my embrace you elusive wisdom

Let the ink of my pen mark another thing

Depart not from my miserable bones and flesh

You fame of the velvet curtain that waits amidst.

My chary hand scribbles the first words

Of an embarking ship to a voyage of no return.

The waves are gold and fine dusts are the bubbles

Of this navigator’s fate to the fervid abyss.

I wander my eyes to these aghast lines

And feel the beating of my blood in horror.

The honest clock must break the monotony

Of this night of my solitude and grief.

Let no one forbid my soaring with the eagles

And allow me to dream before I move on to my grave.

For my soul is beaten finer than dust

Borne to the wind to perish.

My ink has given me extreme thirst to pant like the deer;

To stab the green bushes and stand before the heights.

So let me then recognize my mighty prints into laurels

Or burn, instead, with me my will power to ashes.

I display and pour forth unfathomed speeches

To champion the footprints of my long-forgotten mentors

Who saw the world like a fragile sphere of heavens twisted.

Revising its fictions and authenticating the Apocalypse.

But if you just perceive the chariots and the horsemen

Yet not my arms which bent a bow of bronze.

Let then, instead, this victory be spared to the fools

Than for me to seek vengeance from a shallow heart.

_*_

NAKAW

Buksan mo ang isip kong tulog,

Nakahilata sa kasinungalingan

At hayaang kumawala hanggang

Sa dako pa roon.

Pilitin mong mamulat ako

Sa katotohanang

ang lahat ng ito

ay pawang hiram lamang.

At ang pagniniig nating ito

Sa loob ng magara mong

Revo

Ay karaniwang libog lamang

At talulot lang ng pangungulila

Sa iniirog

At hindi na mauulit pang muli.

_*_

Huling Gabi Ng Pagniniig Sa Lilimampu’t-pitong Araw Na Pag-irog

Buhatin mo ako ng may pagmamahal

At mahigpit an ikanlong

Sa iyong mga bisig.

Bayaan mong damhin ko ang init

Ng iyong balat

At ang mga masilakbo mong titig

Na tumatagos sa aking kaibuturan.

Himayin mo ng iyong masiil na mga halik

Ang bawat hibla ng aking pagkatao.

Magniig tayo

Hanggang maabot natin ang rurok

Sa marahan

At mapangahas na bawat pag-ulos.

Magpaulayaw tayo

Sa piling ng mga hamog

At sa balintataw ng buwang naninilip

At nagkukumubli sa ulap

Na para bagang nahihiya sa kanyang

Nasaksihan.

Hugutin mo ng walang kimi

Ang aking nalalabing limos na dangal

At pikit-mata kong susundan

ang anino ng iyong

pag-alis

patungo sa kanyang piling.

Pilitin mong huwag nang lumingon

Upang hindi mo masaksihan

Ang pagpatak ng mga luhang

Lalamunin lang ng gusot na panyong

Tangi kong alaala sa iyo.

_*_

HAIKU ATTEMPTS

The cold rain kissed the dry earth

Softening its cheeks

Like a homage to its own

_*_

The vain waves touched the sad shore

Painted it bright white

Drifting back to nothingness.

_*_

Treat

Every Saturday afternoon, just about when the sun is caught between mid-afternoon and dusk, I always find time to visit Rizal Park. It’s a family leisure park just across the famous Sto.Nino Church in Tacloban City, a metropolitan city along a fish sanctuary, north western part of the Leyte Gulf. For a yuppy like me who would choose to exhaust myself with work during the long weekdays, a lazy visit to the park is already a treat that could not amount to any. While some will muse themselves over window shopping in the city’s department stores or kill time inside the theater with the latest cinema, a quiet time in the park has become my religion.

I always pick on the wooden benches between the swing area and the huge fountain. I sit there clandestinely as if I wait the floating debris inside me to settle first. Then I let my eyes pass through the images before me: a family in a weekend picnic over pansit bihon, puso and barbeque; a young couple in their blossoming sublunary love; a group of teenagers packed on one corner of the park goofing around while another clique of young blood enjoys the guitar. Some pubescent are biking while still some play badminton. Some children flock the swing and slides and just somewhere under the low hanging Gemelina tress, I thought it was a lovely sight to see a young father guides his infant to start walking on solid ground. The child’s feet were woggly but they were covered with white soft walkers. When the child started to make his first step, his little fingers held his father’s thumb tighter as if seeking affirmation for his father’s love and security. I thought the father felt it because his face showed up a radiant smile. And so the child attempted for the second step and then the next step, and the next step after that. Soon the little unsure tip toes became little paces of determination. In turn, the father was indulging his young son with more little steps as they walked beside each other. When I saw the ecstatic feel on the young father’s face, I thought my heart melted. Something inside tickled my kindred spirit.

For a hopeless romantic such as I am, these are the moments that say I love being human. I love the feel of the grass when I step on it barefoot and how I enjoy the ticklish touch. I love the smell in the air of the newly baked ensaimada of Panaderia San Pablo or the inviting crispy crust of bibingka in Paterno. I love ginat-an and the beauty of the collision of the colors from several root crops bathed in the milky river of coconut cream. I am in love with the countless lazy walk along Magsaysay Boulevard and how the serene acacia trees bring petal showers of pink when the lazy wind whistles to the beat of the howling waves of Kankabato. I am just madly in love with everything in this city that may have been small or less important but speaks enormously how the city started from a quiet community to a bustling metro now.

Today, the city has started implementing the electronic traffic system in the metro and eventually in the city outskirts, as planned. This improvement was born with many other good signs of modernity. Two giant malls are expected to be operational by January 2009. Another international call center outsourcing agency will be in business by October this year. These and many more will determine the new pacing of the city lifestyle. While I’m not against the progress of the city by the bay, I am on the other hand afraid to see that the Taclobanons get lost in the process of the urbanization. I am scared that people will soon forget their identity as a group of people and soon become oblivious with what used to be good: bibingka, ginat-an, Mags, Kankabato and the lazy afternoons in the park.

We need to remember what used to be good for it might hit us in the eyes and fail to recognize it. We need to search our hearts and recall its own beauty after all, what used to be good brought us to how we live now, what we believe in and why we keep the faith even to the littlest of our own causes till now.

Writers' Stigma

Most of those in the know call it writer’s stigma. It is when the writer hibernates on his penchant towards writing. It is the sudden stagnation of a writer about scrutinizing the creative side of every situation and the sloth-like ceasing from collecting concrete ideas from both the simplest of things to the myriad of many other thingamajigs yet unexplained by the naked brain.
I cannot call myself a writer per se so that when I stagnated from scribbling ambitious words in this blog spot since I impulsively created this a year ago, I cannot be accused of a writer’s stigma. Instead, I would prefer to call myself a rebel who chose to shy myself away from the maddened crowd so that I may be able to search my thoughts well and good. But let me just put it on the record that when I hibernated for quite sometime, I was out in the killing field. It was a tumultuous battle fighting my own demons. I fought a good fight.


But what makes a prolific writer and effective writing come into unison? Is it purely about narrating into beautiful words all the fancies of this life, both the good and the ugly? Is it taking into account all the misadventures of man and making the record indelible enough so that all information is understood and learned by the readers? Is it about looming ideas carefully so that it ends up into an intricate piece of cloth of lofty-minded essay? I remember a senior communication arts student from UP Tacloban Campus during the event of their short film festival having been awarded as best director aptly said that once the article, essay, poem or a short film is out in the open ready to be devoured by the public, the author loses control over his piece of art. No matter how wonderful it was written, it is inevitable that it will be perceived differently by the audience. Thus lies the responsibility of understanding the essence of the artwork in the hands of the beholder, or the readers for that matter. In the shortcomings of the audience, any piece of art suffers.

It also speaks the same about this page. While I am caught in the limbo of issues about being guilty of a writer’s dilemma and the indecisiveness whether I keep this page limited to my personal journal of misadventures, demons may care, or must I keep this simply as a photo blog where literary bouts are supported with relevant, if not journalistic photos at that, I remain steadfast with my Zafra-ish obligation of being accountable with my storytelling.



I’m not a prolific writer. Or at least, I cannot qualify to be hailed like one just yet. Neither am I your typical yuppy photo blogger. I am not even close to being an online poet con lensman. But in the trials of times when one must rise up from his sloth and defy the odds against those who have slapped the cheek of the weak or in the event that tact is more powerful than truth but prudence argues with sobriety, then I can let loose of my own leash so that I become, nonetheless, the rebel that I am.

"From The Apple Of Your Eyes"

My family moved from the country to seek better fortune in the city back in 1985. I was 5 years old then. And until now, it is still customary for my family to watch the Pintados Festival Parade during the city fiesta come end of June. Though in my growing up years, I have chosen a rather boisterous and free – spirited company to watch the parade with now that I am old enough to verbalize my choices with friends, issues to argue about and even acting out my very personal endeavors. Just like my fancied adolescent years in the city, the Pintados Festival would always showcase the best that the region could offer championing the historic and colorful culture and its humble beginnings. It keeps getting grandiose and much more festive every year, thus, tourists both foreign and local alike would grace the festival with beautiful words of review to bring home.

Indelible sights and sounds had been documented to my memory as to how the slow but precise paces of development had changed the city by the bay through the years. Tacloban does not tail behind the queue of national candidates for urban progress. And the leaders who sat the local government seats could only profess to have done so much good for the city and for its people caught in the limbo called urban poor.

There used to be a slum community surrounding DYVL radio station called Rimas Colon. I had elementary grade classmates who used to live there. And following the layman’s definition of a slum area as a place of none- permanent settlers with no valid address, let alone a sane system of human waste disposal then at least I will not be vindicated of being unpragmatic about my choices of words. I could very well describe a slum area coz I used to live in one too. And there was also a Muslim mosque amidst the small houses and humbled shanties where our Muslim brothers, who have settled to Tacloban City, worship their own divinity. Perhaps, just like my family, they also sought for a better life in the city.

Exactly two years ago, that area was cleared out to make way for an amusement venue for the local folks. And as far as the comprehensive plans of the city is concerned, a baywalk park will be built along the serene Cancabato bay line in such a way that a walk from Balyuan Tower, now towerless, to the recently opened Tacloban Convention Center will become a leisurely saunter. Only the radio station remained when the families were moved to a resettlement area at the city outskirts.

The erstwhile mayoral administration of Bejo Romualdez was bombarded with repercussions from the local media men and self-confessed political analysts (READ: mga paragsuson) alike before there was a clean and spacious bus terminal along Maharlika Highway and an efficient shuttle service from the terminal to the heart of the city courtesy of these neon green multicabs ; a two- storey public market reviewed as less – unhygienic, at least, compared to the former; a beautified Rizal Park and the proud Tacloban Convention Center, a first of its kind in the city and will soon become a landmark in the region. In its effect, new establishments and commercial buildings started to mushroom. The thrive of the student populace from all over the region to the city colleges and universities became evident. The same administration saw the realization of a privatized solid waste management and the more systematic electric cooperative thus resulted to well- lit streets, highways and main thoroughfares secured from unwanted menace. The community folks also became up and about with the community- based medical, dental and social services in a mobile operation called barangayan and still many other city ordinances that aimed to promote the welfare of the happy Taclobanons.

During this year’s festival parade, floats of private establishments and some government offices also joined the busy streets merrymaking. The FM Romualdez convoy of high-end cars and buses, while the infamous former campaign jingle was playing in the air, were donned in colorful tarpaulins bearing the Congressman’s wide-smiled face greeting “Happy Fiesta Taclobanon… from the apple of your eyes, Cong. FM Romualdez and Family.” The convoy drew more attention as the hired men threw away Fuji apples to the parade spectators. But of course, who would not be delighted to such unique freebies. It was a rather much favored gimmick from the usual flyers and leaflets and or candies thrown away from the float as goodies during the parade. Well, sardines are also a treat in the previous years.

Far from the maddening crowd, I couldn’t help but notice the group of people busily and frantically following the solon’s float for the closer chance of catching the apples it almost resembled that of the zealots during the Feast of the Black Nazarene. Among them was this forty-something man whom I particularly kept my fancy with. His worn-out slippers revealed his cracked and calloused heels that might have told me his meager job requires rigorous walking every single day. He wore a stained white sando and a pair of faded corduroy pants and a knap-sack in his back bulging with apples he had literally won in the catching match over the others. His wrists were adorned with colored rubber bracelets, another fad freebies given during the previous election campaign. Etched in the rubber bracelets were names of now elected senators and a certain partylist. He kept a perfect proximity from the float like a hungry hound, toungue- out panting, waiting for a tender piece of meat.

Such sarcasm. It tore my idealistic heart to see the common tao, whose mandate to elect his leaders to the highest form of government is as sacred as the Constitution, begged for apples like alms and cursed the man atop the float every time an apple failed the grip of his soiled sweaty hands. Such irony knowing the fact that the sanctity of one man’s vote was peddled for 200 Php one fateful night before the election day. Likened to a cautious thief through the night, he waited for midnight to fall and thus received the cold cash discreetly from the disclosed precinct leaders of the Apple Man and other characters of Ninja Turtles and even from members of the uncanny X-men. Rates are varied depending on the source. But I was inclined to believe then that rates were pre-determined to equate the amount of his basic human right. I cried in silence.

I abhorred the idea as to how the men atop the float played sarcastically with the crowds’ taking chances with the imported fruit. Taclobanons do not grow apple trees in their backyards, and the fact that money is hard to come by these days, why would they not just grab their chances right there and then.

To many, it was part of the merrymaking because it was the city fiesta after all. To some idealistic few, it was a mockery full of taunting to the preceding floats of the Department of Tourism promoting the rich and unique culture of the region, including the ways of its diversified people, whether they had apples on their hands or none. To that man of my fancy, whose unwavering gusto was remarkable, his story was one I knew of so well.

Perhaps, he had 12 children and the apples in his swollen bag would not suffice just yet so that he was following the mob faithfully for more. Perhaps, it was his self-proclaimed day-off from his blue collared job and took full advantage of the idea of selling the catch for his family’s meal for the day. Perhaps, it was his own understanding of the Romualdezes gratefulness for having been elected to the office again, because he was one of those who voted for them. Or perhaps, there were unfathomed reasons I for one may never fully understand.

If that picture depicted a thousand of stories, then here is one: that man who sold his vote obliviously is the same man who owned the knapsack full of apples. Such a preposterous fate for a man who had the power to select his leaders he could have hoped for to bring him to a productive society.

If the government would only be truly sincere about eradicating poverty and carrying out instead the people’s best interest, then perhaps no ethnic minorities would settle from city to city to seek for a pasture that rightfully belongs to them. Perhaps no families would leave the countryside to seek opportunities in the densely populated sub-urban. Perhaps no man will swallow his pride and mock his own self with an apple without actually knowing it.

02 july 2007
* This article was written following the Pintados-Kasadyaan Parade of 2007, the first city fiesta after the 2007 National Election.