Lumpiang Hangin

Sa pagkabagot noong isang alas-dos nang hapon

Humiling ang isip ko ng kaunting atensyon

Kaya’t suot and kupas na damit at tsinelas

Kahit hindi ko alam kung saan, naisip kong maglakad.

Minsan hindi sa pagpaplano makahahanap ng solusyon

Hayaan na lang natin ang paa’y mahapo

O makakuha ng ideya sa pagsosolo

Makahanap ng lugar ang modernong bandido

Nakailang kanto pa lamang

Mga mata ko’y naumay agad

Sa halos dalawang dekadang paghakbang

Iisang tanawin pa rin ang madaratnan—

Ang tindahan ni Lola Baneng sa labas ng eskinita;

Sa aming lugar siya ang Panginoong May Lupa

Kahit sa katandaan naaninag pa rin ang ganda

Ngunit sabi ng ilan ay tumanda nang dalaga.

Ang kapilya kung saan ako lumaki

Makita ko agad sa aking pagtawid

Kilala ako nang lahat ng pumupunta dito

Mula bata, hatak-hatak ni nanang tuwing Linggo.

Kumaliwa sa katabing kabahayan

Naglakad kahit pudpod na ang swelas

Dito raw matatagpuan ang tindahan

Nahahanap ang masasarap na lumpia.

Sa pakiramdam ko’y hindi naman ako pagod

Ngunit tila ang dila’y nais na ring magtrabaho

“sige na nga”, utal sa sarili

Hinatak ako ng aking paa sa isang lamesang may tabing

“oh, ikaw na ba yung anak ni Ralf?”

Dalaga ka na ah! Bulalas ng isa.

Anong gusto mong bilhin? Nagugutom ka ba?

Isa pong samalamig, at isang lumpia.

Ilang taon ka na iha? Anong year mo na?

Hindi sila magkamayaw sa kanilang bisita.

Kamukha ko daw si papa, sabi nang lahat.

Lalo na’ng dalawang tindera sa aki’y tuwang-tuwa.

Masarap ang samalamig;

Matamis, maraming sago

Malamig, maraming yelo

Sa ginaw ay parang lumuluha ang lalagyang supot

Pagkagat ko sa lumpia

Ako ba’y iiling o tatawa?

Sabay sa pag nguya ibinaling ang tingin

Ang hindi ko nabasa sa karatula’y “Lumpiang Hangin”.

Para saan pa ang suka kung wala namang toge?

Bakit hindi ko nasulit ang tangan kong bente?

Naisip ko tuloy na lugi ako sa dose

Balat lamang ang aking nabili

Hindi na ako nakinig sa kanilang bali-balita

Sa likot ng isip tinitigan ko ang Lumpia

Bakit nga ba binibenta ang Lumpiang Hangin?

Nakabubusog ba ang balat kong nakain?

Kung nagsasalita lamang ang Lumpiang Hangin

Kakausapin nya ako’t manghihingi

Ngunit wala ako ng kanyang hanap na toge

Na pupunan sa kanyang pagkakakilanlang pagkain

Kung makikipag-usap ito, siya’y tatanungin ko rin:

Anong pakiramdam nang wala kang silbi?

Patuloy kang ibebenta sa ilan

Ngunit alam ng lumpia na sila’y nadadaya

Sa malutong na balat at walang lasang harina

Sa taglay na lutong may mga nabubulag

Pagkatapos ng magandang usapan

Hindi ko nasabing ako’y nadismaya

Salamat na rin sa lumpiang walang laman

Naisip kong ako’y katulad rin pala nya.

Lumakad muli at nagmasid

Bukas ang isip ngunit mga bibig ay pinid

Hindi ko nasabing wala akong napala

Sinalubong ako sa kalsada ng libu-libong ideya.

Pagdating sa bahay naupo sa isang lamesa

Kumuha ng papel, inihayag ang karanasan

Masaya, dahil muli napagbigyan ko

Natalo ang pagkabagot noong isang alas-dos nang hapon.

The Blurred Vision Disorder

        Ushering him outside the museum, she could almost feel his irritation. His anxiety like his emotions are now her clattered bones, as they both strut against the pale ample marbles beneath the soles of his shoes, her heels. Their footsteps jive with the hushes of people, whispering here and there, over the artworks, arguing and praising over sculptures and paintings, with a  companion or a mere stranger. The couple has always been this silent; and whenever they are not, they’ve been arguing.

            With sweaty palms and cold hands, she attempted to reach for his shoulder, like a child keeping up with her mommy, trying to apologize, while he hastened his steps against the col pavement. Yet, with the repulsiveness of both of their behavior, an amusing smile dashes across her perfect lips; because then, with the last remarks she heard, feigning anger is much harder to restrain.

            Amused and entertained, she tried to keep the private joke to herself—because at least, she knew a secret that finally, cannot fathom his sharp senses.

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            The sizzle from the ignited match always revived the same memory.

            James, 36, has been living with stiff ethical values. Before he lived with his family, with a wife and two kids, he lived in a voiceless, sanitized apartment with his solitude, commandeering his television set and cold furnitures. No pet greets him. He had no friend across the neighbor. No exchange of pleasantries. Always busy with his thoughts, he walks like a zombie, with glazed eyes and a mumbling mouth. James dashes himself into the corporate society every day, as his tie dangles around his neck like a noose, strangling him into an exhausting day, making himself a guinea pig in a tiresome treadmill. A taxi has always been waiting at the footsteps of the building, catering him and the rest of the high-salaried slaves of the city.

            He is always aware of his own legacy, his own name. He claims, that the confined spaces of his own workplace is the only thing worthy of his aesthetic, imaginative viewpoints.

            On a tiring Monday of December 2002, while the wind pass upon their puffy cheeks, as he lit a matchstick to puff an air to his cigarette, his wife finally pose a concern she’s itching to ask for months.

“Museum?”

“Yes, museum.”

“BAH! Why do I need to?”

“Nothing. Just trying to make you flesh and blood.”

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          He forgot his eyeglasses.

            Stomping around the halls, James entertained no colors and figures around the museum gallery. With a grumpy face, he stalls, stares and walks away with the slightest mumble of discontent. I shouldn’t be here, he thought, while he keeps track of tomorrow’s list of mundane paperworks.

            He regrets forgetting his eyeglasses. He continues to cry the imperfections of the place, condemning and criticizing each artwork, not even dared to glance at the constellation of architectures at the ceiling; thinking, at his discretion, that the whole museum was an apparent misuse of money, space, vacant lots and Boysen inks.

            Finally, with an air of superiority against the hues around him, he stopped at a frame then finally complained to his wife, “Look at this painting! The work doesn’t clearly resemble any imaginative talents! The subject is boring, and meaningless! The focus of the painter is at the wrong spatial perspective, and his subject is wrinkly, boned to death, and had a poor stance!”

           

            An amusing smile dashes across his woman’s perfect lips. Amused and entertained, she tried to keep the private joke to himself. If only he knew, that the last thing he tried to demean, and that he loathe most, considering as the worst work of art, was a huge mirror showing his own reflection.

The Parable of Deaf Parents

Let’s say, you have deaf parents.

For 20 years or so, you are raised that nobody is calling you out when you slam the door hard, sing so loud the neighbors are complaining, turned up the music in the highest volume, or even make sex sounds (haha). All of which sprouts from the fact that you have deaf parents.

Then, in college, you traveled far and got a roommate in your apartment. With the same habits that you have grown accustomed to, you STILL slam the door hard, be loudmouth, and turned up your music extremely loud. Your roommate got angry with it, you don’t understand why! You believed that you are not doing anything wrong! Again, all of which sprouts from the fact that you have deaf parents.

It works the same way with negative, toxic, demeaning, criticizing, cruelly teasing people. I have heard stories of dysfunctional families who discredits a family member’s opinions, lash out harsh criticisms, or simply be apathetic to one person. Turns out, when they acculturate to a bigger tribe—hence, the workplace or school—they are the selfish, greedy, overbearing person who disrespects people’s emotional boundaries. Where did that come from? From their environment.

Somebody has hardwired their behavior, one way or another, to be insensitive of the common etiquette that isn’t really common to deaf—or should I say, unresponsive—parents and guardians.

People imitate from what they see, hear, or experienced. The grace, etiquette, and polite vocabularies are insufficient because in the first place, the upbringing they have has a total LACK of it. How can you exude something you haven’t seen yet?

What I’ve realized is that, nobody has ever shown them politeness, social decorum, diplomacy and grace. Their social influence thinks that it’s “normal” to have fun at the expense of talking loud publicly.

CRUELTY SHOULDN’T BE ANYONE’S STANDARDS FOR NORMALCY.

Why do I believe that? I know there is a better support system out there. Rather than succumbing myself into useless lies and exaggerations of other people and swallow it as my truth, I would get direct experiences and try my best to draw a conclusion out of it. I never incline to unreliable resources. I don’t defend what I don’t know or haven’t heard yet. I take my time to solve a problem, even a year. I never believe in gossips until I experience it myself. I may get hurt, that is already taken into account, but at least I know where I get my source: the world.

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