http://search.deviantart.com/?q=by:palmatayona1&section=today deviantART RSS for by:palmatayona1 en-us Copyright 2009, deviantART.com Sat, 19 Dec 2009 05:56:05 PST deviantART.com http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss http://s.deviantart.com/minish/widgets/apple-touch-icon-precomposed.png http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/23069735/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/23069735/ Sat, 07 Feb 2009 20:21:55 PST
“Yeah, and you’d always be the one hanging it,” he said dryly with his back still turned to me. “Would you hand me those scissors behind you?” he asked without even turning.

“That’s because you suck at it. You never knew how to stretch it well enough so that it won’t droop over our faces when we sleep,” and I poked his shoulder with the scissors. He took and it and snipped some loose wicker strands sticking out from the bottom of the chair.

“Do you remember that bright red woolen blanket we used to sleep on which had those four naked mermaids designed on it with the huge breasts?” I asked as I saw little Zach coming out of the door wearing a huge smile on his face as he squeaked in his baby voice “’ito ‘an” (Tito Dan). Somehow this child of three still can’t pronounce his D’s and T’s yet to complete my name.

“Uh-huh. You used to rub your feet on that blanket every night in bed and you’d put that big hotdog-shaped pillow between us,” he replied as I took little Zach in my arms and I could smell pee all over him, but baby pee isn’t as bad smelling as adult pee.

“That hotdog-shaped pillow was nice to snuggle with. And besides, it helped to prevent you from putting your foot up my nose when you’re asleep,” I said in my defense while he took a couple of wicker strands to wove into the hole left by the ones he just pulled out. And Zach started to poke into my nose.

“Do you remember being breastfed by Mamu?” I asked him while I had to hold down Zach’s hand before he gets the bright idea of poking my eyes next. He giggled and he wiggled his hands out and started to play with the buttons on my shirt.

“Nope.”

“I do. And somehow, in my memories, I remember the smell of her milk, how it tasted. I also remember the mosquito net when I was still a baby* was also yellow and that red blanket with the mermaids, it was already there when I was a few months old. I remember these things,” I told him as I could hear Zach breathing beside my ear as I held him in my right arm and he kept on playing with the buttons of my shirt.

“Hmm,” my brother remarked as he straightened up, looked at me and said, “You know what?”

“What?”

“You have too much on your mind and too much time in your hands. Grab that other chair and help me fix these things,” he said with a dismissive wave of hand. At that instance, Zach flashed a big smile and grunted. He farted.

“See? Even Zach farted at your thoughts.”

We laughed.

____

* My brother was born four years after me.

]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/22935704/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/22935704/ Sun, 01 Feb 2009 04:53:22 PST
...and I hate it.

So, I just drew it. Here.

____


“ Pare, when you were a kid, didn't your school have a basketball court?” asked Jojo as we were walking towards the fishball vendor's stand.

“Yeah, my school did – two full courts and a couple volleyball courts. Why'd you ask?” I said when some street urchins ran past us chasing a big rat and throwing stones at the poor creature. I fumbled for some coins in the pocket of my shorts to pay for the cold apple-flavored tea I got from the fishball vendor. I also took a mental note that I need to buy a new pair of underwear. The strap has turned into bacon strips from being old and worn it keeps on falling down inside my shorts that I need to adjust it every now and then.

“You play awful. I pass you the ball and you keep on losing it to the other team,” he said, then he took one big gulp of the coke zero he had in his right hand. He lifted his drenched jersey and wiped the sweat from his face and neck with it.

“Hey, I told you I haven’t played it for years. You got to give me some slack there,” I protested.

“ Pare naman, we lost to a bunch of high school kids! What the heck was your sport or P.E. when you were a kid? Chess??” he said as he finished the last drop of his coke.

“Volleyball,” I mumbled as I skewered with a small sharpened bamboo stick a fish ball being deep fried in the stall.

Jojo looked at me and with a slight raise of his eyebrow said, “No wonder.”

I swore I wanted to poke his eye with the stick.

]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/22881271/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/22881271/ Thu, 29 Jan 2009 08:24:54 PST
These “birds” are the transvestite/transgender friends of Mhayet – an ageing gay man with big, sad eyes, a tumor growing out of the left side of his neck and teeth that badly need fixing. He has a deep throaty voice that is a bit difficult to understand when he speaks. I call him the “two-talking Tita (aunt)”. He has to repeat everything he says twice or thrice to be understood. I figure it’s the lump on his neck that makes it difficult for him to enunciate his words. He’s also known as a “charitable foundation” for many of the young teenage boys in the area looking for some extra cash in exchange for a few minutes spent with him at the back office of his parlor.

Mhayet’s beauty parlor is a nest for some of his gay cohorts and their faghags in Leveriza. There’s Shaina – the scaly-skinned, bones-jutting-out-of-his-joints pimp of Nene. He’s also known in the area as “The Treasure Chest” by the local druggies for the crystal meth he pushes.

There’s Sharon, an ageing transsexual who spent years in Japan as a performer. “She” prides herself as being the complete “woman” for having made the leap of chopping of her jewels courtesy of a Japanese boyfriend. She can also be a good case study for plastic surgeons with a face that has been stretched, lifted, botoxed and bleached so many times she actually looks mummified. They say she pops estrogen pills like candy to maintain her curves and her silicon-implanted breasts.

And then there’s Jenny. She’s the youngest of these birds. Of their group she’s the “ professional ”, the only one who works in an office as a call center agent. She once mentioned that she uses the name Joan whenever she takes calls. Were it not for the slight hint of an Adam’s apple, she can be a poster image of the young Career Girl.

“You know Papa, these are new. I spent my whole year-end bonuses on these beauties,” she told me as she proudly cupped her breasts beneath her bra-less, gauzy blouse. “You want to touch them?” she suddenly offered.

“No, it’s okay. They’re, uhm, pretty,” I said with a grin.

“Let me,” Brian offered as he lightly poked his finger on her proud silicone flesh. “It feels real,” he said as he turned to me with a wide grin and a wink.

“Hoy!” came a loud yelp. It was Sharon in a skimpy white night gown followed by Shaina. “You flirty bitch! You just can’t wait to show off your new breasts no??” she said in a shrill voice while shaking a queenly finger at Jenny.

“Hay naku Ateng! You’re just envious. My breasts are perkier than yours and I’m younger,” Jenny told Sharon with defiance. "Besides, these guys said they're pretty."

“Uh-huh”, muttered Brian to himself. I looked at him and gave him a slight nod that we’d better go. I could sense a fag fight looming in the air.

“Isn’t it… Papa?” then Jenny turned to me, to my surprise, as I was about to stand up after I made sure to leave a tip for Robert the busboy. Brian had already made a quick beeline for the doorway.

“Uh yeah. They’re, uhm, nice,” I stumbled in my response. It was only then I realized that I was stuck between the table, the wall, Jenny and Sharon who’s already blocked my only way out of that sticky situation by standing in front of me.

“See, he says it’s nice. What can you say to that?” Jenny followed up my response.

“Is that so huh??” Sharon said, “Well, there’s only one way to prove whose breasts are better.” In a flash, she pulled down her strap and revealed her huge left bumper. As quick as she pulled down her strap to expose her mound, she took my left hand and placed it on her silicone treasure. “There Papa. Feel it. Now tell me if it’s nicer than hers or not,” she exclaimed in triumph as she held my wrist while I cup her breast.

“AY!! No,” screeched Jenny and in a huff she too suddenly pulled down her gauzy blouse to expose her not so big but very perky protuberance. She took my other hand and before I could even give a whimper, I was already cupping her rather fleshy pride. In a defiant tone she said, “Nothing beats youth and freshness.”

Locked in a position where both my hands were cupping “things” I shouldn’t cup (I felt I was nailed to a cross), I could only mutter, “Uhm, they’re both… nice.”

And I could see Br... ]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/22831735/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/22831735/ Mon, 26 Jan 2009 19:26:12 PST ________________


My father has Alzheimer's.

He's 76 turning 77 this November. He grew up an orphan in the household of an older brother under the scheming eyes of a sister-in-law who suspects everyone and looks at every young man as a possible thief. He was in his teenage years when war broke out in Manila.

He never had much in life - worked as a janitor, then as a short order cook in a golf club, and worked his way up until he retired as executive chef.

I remember my father as a very kind man who loves little children and animals. Growing up, we've always had pets. In fact, am not pretty sure if he actually wanted to have just children or, children AND a zoo. It was fun.

Every night, our mother would take us to bed like a drill sergeant at exactly 8 p.m. (you know the drill, early to bed and early to rise makes Jack a bright boy) but my father has different ideas. He'd be coming home at around 9 and he'd wake us up by dangling a pack of hopias in front of our noses. We'd eat it with water or a cup of milk (whichever is available) and then we'd doze off dreaming of hopias with wings and burping fat children. Up to this day, whenever I'd see hopia, I'd think of nights I'd go to sleep with crumbs on my lips.

I was five when I was diagnosed by the doctor that I had rheumatoid arthritis - imagine, a child with the aches of old people! On cold nights, I would cry in pain with my joints creaking and aching with every move. My father would crawl under our mustard yellow mosquito net, kneel beside me and would massage me until I fall asleep. I even remember his warm and deep voice as he'd hum "Edelweiss" from The Sound of Music. Years later when I finally saw the movie, that song was so etched in my head that at the first note of Captain von Trapp, I knew it was my father's song - his song that lulled me to sleep on those cold painful nights.

When I was a teenager, he had to work abroad for a couple of years on a ship. My brother and I would write little postcards we'd ask our mother to send to him so it'd keep him company in his bunker. My father's not much of a writer, nor does he speak much. But he'd call us every time he's docked on land - and that would be once a month. Only our mother was able to talk to him on the phone. We didn't have a phone and she'd have to use my aunt’s upstairs. One time, he sent a card on my birthday. It was a 3D picture of a green parrot. I was so amazed at the picture of a parrot almost popping out of the paper, and I wondered if my father is in a wonderful land where they can make parrots pop out of paper. He wrote how much he missed us and soon he'll be coming home. And he signed it in the name we'd call him then - Papsi.

I was in college when he'd have to go again. This time to Canada. During that time, my life was in turmoil. I was growing up into a young man, so many things were happening and my father was gone again in a far-off land. I was angry. My older brother was never much of a role model for he was always into drugs and the wrong crowd. My younger brother, he was way too involved with bands and singing and girls; and our mother who tried to keep things afloat, was always attending to her small business. I kept to myself, tried to make do with my own life - growing up, dealing with young adulthood, blaming an absentee father.

Years later, he came back. Broken. Failed. Thinking he'd make it big in Canada, he only flew back to Manila with not much than when he flew out, and I blamed him. Years passed, I grew into a man and he became old. I promised myself, I’ll be exactly THE OPPOSITE of what my father is. I will strive to find my own success and I will use his life as an example, a guide rule to the things I will not do. In my eyes, his was a life led that never triumphed, and now I strive NOT to follow in his steps... but I was wrong. A couple of years ago, it dawned on me, that I was so very wrong.

My father started to lose his memory a few years ago after he had his varicose veins removed from his legs. He was lying there in bed, recovering from the minor operation. My mother and I were there watching him as he lay sleeping. He awoke with a start, and started mumbling incomprehensibly. Then like a sudden torrent he yelled. I was scared. That was the first time I ever heard this gentle man yell. He was yelling not in pain or anger... but in frustration. I remember him calling his own mother. His mother who I know he never really knew. We calmed him as he cried like a baby, scared at the thought of being led into a dark tunnel. I sat there dumbfounded while my mother calmed him. I had to walk out of the room for I cannot bear to see a man - my father - falling into desperation, fear and loss. I kept silent and slowly through the years, I witnessed my father slip into the abyss of loss.

Now, the d... ]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/22664660/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/22664660/ Mon, 19 Jan 2009 00:35:06 PST
"Why?" I asked and told him to twist his right arm a little to the left.

"It's because of the street humps. Each time the tricycle passes one, the bottom of the passenger's side car would always be caught on the asphalt because of my weight," he replied while keeping himself frozen in his pose.

"I've always hated riding those tricycles ever since I grew up into adulthood myself. I feel like I'm in a can of sardines when I'm in one," I agreed with him.

"And those jeepneys! My butt occupies a space for two people, and then I'll get these remarks from some wise ass saying that I'm "too big". Like... it's MY fault that I am a big person," he said.

"You're what they call a "bear"," I said.

"You think I am?"

"Mikey. You are. And stop moving. I'm almost done drawing your butt," I said.

__________________

I've finally convinced Mikey - a powerlifter - to pose for me in a series of sketching/drawing sessions. He weighs in at 270 lbs., stands 5'10" and is built like a mountain boulder. I've already made him agree to be the basis for a couple or so paintings I will be working on in the next few weeks.

He's my new Adam.

...and I am still looking for my Eve.

]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/22446354/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/22446354/ Wed, 07 Jan 2009 05:21:35 PST
“You haven’t?” she exclaimed. “But you’ve drawn women in their birthday suits and not once have you touched them?”

“Come on, I DREW them. I don’t touch them. That sounds so… maniacal,” I said in my defense.

“Aw come on Dan. That’s so sad,” Fiona told me in mock pity. “Come here. You can touch mine,” and she drew closer to me with her ample chest. “Mine too. Here,” as Sheila also drew closer.

“Uhm, I think I need to go to the bathroom,” I smiled and stood up to flee from their embarrassingly tight squeeze.

___________

“It’s true. I guess I have been fixed so much lately with drawing and painting breasts that I am starting to think I am regressing into some horny teenager,” I told Alex while gulping from another bottle of ice beer he took from his icebox. “Incidentally, if you know of a young perky woman who has a big round torso, wide hips, big legs… you know plump, without being obese. I would need one,” I told him.

“Why?” he asked as he took a big bite from the barbecued chicken we bought at Mang Boy’s stand near the gate of West Pasay High School. I have to remind myself to get another one before I head home.

“I’m going to do a painting of Adam and Eve soon and I need to find someone to pose for Eve,” I told him.

“Will she be posing naked?” he asked, and I saw a naughty glint in his eyes.

“Of course, I doubt if ever there’s been a clothed Eve,” I told him.

“Hmmm… that’d be a bit hard. I don’t know of a woman as big as the ones you draw,” he thought out loud. “I know. Why not ask Mang Boy to pose nude for you. You just add on the breasts and not paint his penis,” he suggested.

“Uhm, I am painting Eve… not a hairy whale,” I replied as I took a bite at the barbecued chicken breast.

___________

“This is one of the two paintings I’m going to send for that group show in Bacolod. What do you think?” I told Marga while she was taking pictures of the two paintings.

“Cool,” she said. “I love here breasts. What’s it about? Will it be within the theme about love for the Moravia show?” she asked.

“Well it should. It’s about a woman who just can’t keep her “wildness” to herself. She has to take out her sensuality, hence the flower, for every man that passes by,” I told her.

“Ahh, very erotic,” she said.

“Exactly,” I said.

“So, where’s the “love” thing there?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing. She’s just a woman who screws around,” I told her.

“Cool.”

]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/21810876/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/21810876/ Thu, 04 Dec 2008 05:41:13 PST [link]

Every day at two in the morning, like clock work, the section of the street in front of Libertad Market becomes alive with trucks and carts rolling in filled to the brim with the day’s supply of meat. Men would haul the carcasses of pigs and cows on their shoulders with their knives and cleavers dangling from their waists ready to cut the meat into sections once these are dumped on to the stalls. The air is filled with the sweet and dank smell of blood and sweat amidst the cacophony of shouts and yells from the men and women scurrying about preparing for the start of another market day.

It is during one of these early mornings when I found myself buying meat in the market. I buy them from this one particular vendor. I’ve known her only as Aling Emily. She’s hefty, smokes like a chimney and is as foul-mouthed as any of the big rough men who haul the meat from the trucks. I pass by her stall to see her daily supply and get my usual single kilo of pork.

“Uy, suki! Maganda at sariwa karne ko ngayon. Galing ng Batangas. May karneng kabayo ako baka gusto mo? (My meat is good and fresh today. I even have horse meat from Batangas),” she waved her hand at me as I stopped by her stall.

“I’ll just have my usual. One kilo of pork. Liempo,” I said.

“Ang aga mo yata ngayon ah. Ikaw ang buena mano ko. Oh heto, LIMANG KILO ng baboy para sa iyo (You’re early today. You’re my first customer. Five kilos of pork),” she said, and in one deft stroke, she sliced A HUGE SLAB from the mound of pig’s meat in front of her. She weighed it, placed it in a red plastic bag and handed the slab to me.

“That’s too much,” I remarked with surprise etched on my face.

“Hay naku. Libre na yan. Pa-tenk yu ko na yan sa idrinowing mo na project ng anak ko. Perpek iskor daw siya (No, it’s free. It’s my thank you for drawing my daughter’s project. She got a perfect score)”

“Hah? Really?? Thanks. I should’ve ordered more,” I jokingly said.

“Kung gusto mo, meron dito akong karne ng kabayo (If you like, I have here horsemeat),” she said while reaching for a mound of unfamiliar dark meat.

“It’s okay. This is already too much. I appreciate it a lot,” I said and proceeded to go to the other stalls.

“Oh sige, sa susunod na magpapa-drawing anak ko, sabihin mo lang kung anong karne ang gusto mo (Next time my daughter has another drawing assignment, just tell me what choice of meat you like),” she called at me as another customer came to her stall.

I smiled while walking with the meat in hand and wondered when her daughter will have another drawing assignment.

_______


“So, how would you know if you’re buying a *double dead meat?” I asked Vicky one morning while she opened up the clinic downstairs.

“The taste is different. It’s doesn’t taste fresh,” she said with authority.

“But how would you know if the taste is different, especially if you’re buying it from the meat stalls? You’ll poke your finger into the meat and lick it?” I jabbed her with mischievous sarcasm.

Libertad Market has been raided twice this year by the police. Some unscrupulous meat vendors were caught red-handed selling double dead meat. It was the second raid that I got to witness firsthand when a bunch of lawmen came swooping down through the stalls at dawn apprehending the vendors selling these items. They were cuffed and loaded into waiting police vans and the meat were hauled into another truck, declared as unfit for consumption and hopefully destroyed.

“So why all the trouble of selling this kind of meat anyway?” I further asked Vicky.

“Because they’re cheap,” she said.

“So you buy that stuff?” I asked.

“NO WAY! You can die from eating that or get some weird disease,” she said emphatically.

“But you do know how it tastes like, don’t you?” I followed up.

“Of course,” she said.

Hmm, it made me wonder if there’s anything wrong with Vicky.


________

*Double Dead Meat refers to animals that died (usually of disease) hours or even days prior to being slaughtered. These are passed on in the market as freshly slaughtered. Libertad Market has been the scene of several raids. I found out from a policeman friend here in Pasay that the market and the nearby street of Villanueva has been raided more than 3x this year.

Double dead meat is also called "bocha" in street language.

-----------

Note:

I was reading a while ago that in medieval Europe, vertical stripe patterns are only worn by traders in the lower ranks like butchers. It's interesting that I remember Aling Emily the butcher wea... ]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20993514/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20993514/ Tue, 14 Oct 2008 20:56:58 PDT pen and ink on paper
18" x 20"

___________


"Taong Grasa" or literally, Grease People. That's what they are called in the streets. Vagabonds, bums and homeless, they roam the city, endlessly walking along its lengths. Most of them have some sort of mental sickness. Too poor or have no relations who can take care of them and nurse them to mental health, they are left to fend for themselves and become daily fixtures of busy urban landscapes. Libertad is one such landscape for it has its share of taong grasa. Several of them have made the length of its street their home.

There's Basketball Guy who stands tall like a tree and walks on giraffe legs with long strides. His hair is a big mess of a mottled, grimy pile sitting on his unusually large head like a crazy bird's nest. It also smells of kerosene. Every time I pass by the corner of Luna you'd know he's there at his usual corner because of the strong pungent smell of his hair.

There's also Robot Man who is short and shaped like a big pear with almost white hair. I figure this guy is only in his fifties but maybe because of walking the streets for so long, he can already pass for a grandfather way past 65. He constantly mumbles when he walks that stretch where the lamp and furniture stores are. And he's got a peculiar way of walking too, for you see, he's the only person I have known who walks swinging his right arm together with his right leg, and vice versa - like a robot. Every few minutes of his walking, he'd stop and shouts a curse then resume his robotic walk. I'd giggle whenever an unwary passerby would be surprised by his sudden outburst.

There are several others that have come and gone along this street. There was Spit Boy, who if you made the mistake of being within two feet from him, you'll find yourself an unfortunate target of his saliva missiles. There was Naked Nene, who ran in her birthday suit along the whole stretch of Libertad accompanied by the hoots of horny men, and gasps of shocked women.

But one particular taong grasa stood out amongst all of them. And this is how she left an indelible mark in my memory.

I first saw a few days after I moved here. She had a big stomach which makes her look eternally pregnant, and the first time I saw her she wrapped around her waist an old plastic bag over her torn and disheveled "duster" (the loose dress favored by old women). Almost every night, I would find her slumped on the sidewalk near my gate playing with her headless doll - the kind made of cheap plastic sold in the then old market of Libertad. She was a big woman with big feet and eternally covered in soot and grime. Each night too, I'd spy her holding a small plastic bag of food, perhaps leftovers she managed to scrounge from the stalls of the market.

I call her Dog Lady.

Why?

When I went down to take out the garbage one night, I saw her sitting in the same spot beside the electric post a few feet from my gate. She was holding her plastic bag of food in one hand and the doll in the other. She was busy dipping her bare, grimy hand into her bag when an equally dirty and mangy dog came strutting towards her drawn by the smell of the food. When the creature was a couple of feet from her, she lifted her head and stared at the animal. Holding her gaze at the dog, they both remained fixed at each other's spot for a few seconds - woman and animal staring at each other. Then without warning, like a sudden clap, she gave a loud and hoarse bark at the dog making the latter scamper away in surprise leaving her alone with her dinner.

She was a fixture at my side of the street as familiar as the lamp post where she sits every night.
______

I got home late on an extremely humid summer night. It's the kind of night that makes one wish for rain to come to cool everything. Sticky. Sweaty. Sickeningly sweet smell of the oppressive heat, I can't even dare sit on my favorite leather chair and not leave a big puddle of sweat and oil while I remove my shoes. So I took them off and my shirt while I stood there in the middle of my apartment. Standing there half-naked, I could already feel all the sweat of my body forming beads all over my skin. I figured that if I scrape all the sweat, all my skin’s oil will come with it and I can collect all of it and save on my frying needs.

I took off the rest of my clothes, went to the windows to open all the shutters and let in whatever wind there was to cool my apartment. But alas, even with everything open, I fear there's no reprieve from the heat tonight. Only one solution presented itself - a long cold shower.

I took my time and it felt like I could spend the whole night under the shower and leave the heat of the evening behind. After almost an hour in the cold water I walked out to dry myself with a towel and just stood by the sink of my kit... ]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20766696/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20766696/ Tue, 30 Sep 2008 19:42:10 PDT
If you're in Manila, take some time off and view these great works. If not, well, consider this as a peek into them.

The cd of the music of the 7 musicians (which I still am going to design) will be released on November.

ROCK ON!!

Check out [link] or [link]

]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20642266/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20642266/ Tue, 23 Sep 2008 19:39:12 PDT
I am also totally amused with Rodel Obemio's seashells. I spent an entire evening picking them out one-by-one and did A WALLPAPER just to show you a little peek into it. I really think it's cute. (If you like 'em, feel free to copy-paste and splat on your monitor. I did three sizes and you just choose which one fits yours. You can get them here > [link])

Am gonna send the file of the book to the printer today and by November, CANVAS [link] will release another one of our lovely, lovely books.

]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20589093/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20589093/ Sat, 20 Sep 2008 17:21:07 PDT
Silence me and I shall speak.

Strangle me and I shall breathe.

Kill me and I shall live.


----------


BULAGIN MO AKO'T AKO'Y MAKAKAKITA.

BUSALAN MO AKO'T AKO'Y MAKAKAPAGSALITA.

SAKALIN MO AKO'T AKO'Y MAKAKAHINGA.

KILITIN MO ANG AKING BUHAY AT AKO'Y MAGIGING MALAYA.

]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20420192/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20420192/ Wed, 10 Sep 2008 09:33:36 PDT
"Do you love her?"

"Of course"

"How much do you love her?"

"What do you mean? I don't understand."

"I mean, do you love her enough to give up this secret life you have? Your hidden affairs with men?"

Silence…



II. The story of J

"Alam mo dre, it's in my nature eh. I don't admire men. I want to have sex with them. Paminsan-minsan lang naman ito eh, di ba? (It only happens sometimes, right?) Besides, I still go home to my wife and daughter. I keep them well-provided for."



III. The story of A

"It was very painful. In all honesty, I did love her. But the marriage was doomed from the start. I married her family. Her dad made the smallest decisions in the house I built for her. Telling her I'm gay was simply the icing on the cake."

"I have already asked for her forgiveness. I just do hope she'd learn to forgive me someday."

"And your daughter? How about her?"

"I just hope someday, she'll find me. I just pray that someday, I get to meet her."



III. The story of M

"Wow, you're going to give birth soon. I'm pretty sure you're quite excited."

"Yes, I am."

It's that unmistakable glint of expectation in her eyes that betrays her joy. I see that in every soon-to-be mother I get to speak with.

"How's your husband?"

"Oh, he's pretty much excited too. I married the most wonderful guy. He's always there. He's even fussier about my pregnancy than I am. He's with his best friend R, buying clothes for the baby. They're like brothers, always together. Sometimes I think my husband is closer to him than I am."

]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20314575/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20314575/ Wed, 03 Sep 2008 19:34:44 PDT
He told me of his story, of how he has fallen in love with someone much older and much wiser in the ways of the world. He said, "I am from a poor family and I have nothing in this world for this man but my love for him. I love him so much. He means the world to me." I am trying to remember the words he said as much as I could... and I smiled.

I thought, "Ahh, gay-love... nothing more romantic, pristine and ideal as when pronouncements such as these are coming from the mouth of a beautiful youth smitten with affection and emotion for someone he wishes himself to be." But that's the sarcastic side of me speaking. I spoke with him further, thinking that in the end his true purpose will reveal itself.

He talked of other things he was willing to do for that man. He talked of someday working hard to be worthy of the other. He spoke of lofty ideas. My inner voice was telling me that I might even end up losing money buying a ladder high enough to reach what he said he'll build.

I asked him, "Will you follow him wherever he goes?"

"To the ends of the world if I have to", with conviction he muttered.

"What if he doesn't love you?"

"Then I shall forever love no one else", and a tear glinted on his eye.

Foolish as he is for an impossible love, I saw that many a lover like him are fools. His was for someone he can never have and yet he gives it. The cry of the insatiably hopeful (as all lovers are) is to give away much of himself, that even just a mere glance from the one he offers his emotion to is enough to soothe his aching soul. It's the cry of every singer of love songs, it's the wail of every lovesick fool.
"La Historia" is my song for that young man - in love and in pain for someone he wants to give himself to. It's my smile to his tear.

_______

Eventually, nothing came out of that affair. Young and reckless, I hear Chris found himself tiptoeing into somebody else's bed and played around with his youth.

And the older man? Well, he went back home across the seas with his domestic partner of more than a decade.

]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20263243/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20263243/ Mon, 01 Sep 2008 01:10:17 PDT
And here, I chose to tell the story of another woman.
_____________

Our mother was Superwoman. At the drop of a pin, she can change the whole set-up of our house in a day. She'll move closets ten times heavier than her, move around furniture, change the color of the house, replant the whole garden and still have time to cook dinner for her boys.

There were times, my brothers and I would be staring at our house after school and wonder if it is the same house we left from that morning. Many an afternoons, I'd come running into the door and trip over a furniture that wasn't there that morning. It's like every day for my mother is a Let's-Change-The-House Day.

I remember one hot afternoon of my fourteenth year, my mother asked me to climb the tree to cut some overhanging branches. "You'd have to cut it NOW because it gets in the way of the laundry line", she barked. "I'll do it later when I'm done here," I yelled from my room. But I never did budge from my bed until it was time for dinner. I walked out of the room and didn't see any food on the table. My younger brother gave me a hungry, knowing look and said, "She's up in the tree in the yard. Since you won't cut the branch, we won't have dinner." That night, I went home to bed with ant bites on my arms and legs, a few small cuts from a stubborn tree and an aching back, but I did have my dinner and a mother who's still thinking of other ideas to do around the house.

As Superwoman, she also had a super temper. She was strict with us when it comes to finishing our food. "I SAID EAT!" was her famous battle cry at the table, and we'd grudgingly oblige. "Not one morsel should be left of the food I cooked for you. You're lucky you're not like one of those children who don't have food to eat, blah-blah-blah..." Our ears would ring of her litany while in our minds we thought that we're like slaves being forced-fed for fattening and be placed later on in the house of the gingerbread witch. But of course, there never was a witch, only our mother who made sure we finished our food.

She once caught our older brother smoking with some of his friends in the basketball court near our house. She calmly and sweetly asked him to come home as if there's a cake waiting for him. But my brother knew the scent of the angry dragon when he sees it. I was in my room when I heard my mother lock the main door behind them. In an instant all hell broke loose. My mother never spoke a word and I dare not go out of my room. I heard whacks, some thuds, a whipping sound and my brother whimpering and promising never to do it again. A few minutes later, my brother came into the room, shaken and cheeks tear-stained. He went straight into the corner, sat and silently cried. I approached him and asked, "Masakit?" (Does it hurt?)

______


A few days ago, my mother was sitting in her bed watching her favorite soap after one of her usual long and busy days.

"Son, did I raise you well?"

"Aside from the fact that you made me climb trees like a monkey so you can stretch your laundry, hmmm, I'd say overall, it's been okay."

"If we were only a bit more well-off back then, I would like to give you and your brothers something more. I would like to have given you a better chance in life, better food, better toys..."

"Oh shush Mamu. You're our mother, and you and Tatay (Father) gave everything we needed. It's enough for us."

]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20231184/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20231184/ Sat, 30 Aug 2008 07:01:30 PDT 12" x 17", pen and ink on paper

(I am reposting this for my little nephew Zachary)

"Wiggy, Deus you will have a new brother", my brother told his two sons on the arrival of their youngest child.

"Daddy... it's good it's not a girl", chirped Wiggy.

"Why?"

"Well, daddy, if it were a girl, when she'd grow up, she'd take too long dressing up. She'll even take a long time in the bathroom when taking a bath. Auntie Amor takes too long in using the bath in the morning."

(Auntie Amor is their mother's sister)

____________


10:00 p.m., my brother's carrying a little bundle - Zach.

"He wakes up at 9 every night. Then, we'd start talking to each other. I'd carry him. You see him giggle? (I actually see more of the glint in my brother's eyes)"

"His doctor says Zach is growing up very healthy and strong-boned. He's becoming heavier and heavier by the day."

He gave me Zach to carry in my arms. My new nephew.

I said, "Ey, bro. Look at him."

He asks, "What?"

"Remember my baby photos in Mamu's bedroom when I was 5 months old?"

"What about it?", my brother asks as he comes closer.

"Zach here looks EXACTLY like I was when I was his age."

My brother looked at me quizically, then back to his son and said, "Oh no."

]]> ~palmatayona1 http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20209577/ http://palmatayona1.deviantart.com/journal/20209577/ Thu, 28 Aug 2008 20:58:27 PDT Charcoal drawing on kraft paper
11" x 17", 2002

(AN ENTRY IN MY BLOGSPOT - VISUAL VISCERA)
________

Her name is Marta.

As far as I can remember, she'd only come three times a year with a greeting for both my uncle and mother. She'd flash her toothless grin and say "Meri Krismas po Aling Linda", or whatever the holiday may be - the other two being New Year's Eve and Easter. And as has been customarily done by my two elders, they'd each put food on her palms and money in her pocket. "Salamat po Aling Linda. Biyayaan po kayo ng Poon." (Thank you. May the Lord bless you.)

With her bundle clasped tightly to her chest, she'd scuttle out into the streets with her back hunched and accompanied by the taunts of street urchins shouting, "Martang Peklat! Martang Peklat!"(Marta with the Scar)

____________

When my uncle died, Marta sat on the floor at the farthest end of the funeral parlor. She stayed at the back oblivious to the march of our relatives, friends and family. Rocking back and forth, she would utter words comprehensible only to her. I spied her once muttering over and over again, "Salamat po Dok Simporoso." (Thank you Doc Sinforoso)

My uncle was buried a week after. We all mourned his passing and accompanied his hearse to the cemetery. In one jeepney, I saw Marta sitting on the floor of the vehicle and two men were already restraining her. I couldn't tell then why but it seems she was ready to jump and fly on wings from the moving vehicle.

"Dok Simporoso!! Bakit naman iwan mo ako??!!"(Why are you leaving me??!!) Marta wailed so loudly as my uncle was being lowered into the ground. I remember her running away when some of the men were about to restrain her for the second time.

Giving our last respects to my dead uncle, my family prepared to leave the cemetery and head back to the car.

We passed Marta near the cemetery's gate. Sitting by the roadside, she was picking the scabs from a healing wound on her wrist. For the first time, I noticed that she had wounds all over her arms and face. Some healing, some still fresh with blood.

"Marta, umuwi ka na. Sumabay ka na sa dyip pabalik ng Sampaloc" (Marta, go home. Go with them in the jeep back to Sampaloc), my mother gently beckoned her.

She looked at my mother and uttered, "Iniwan na po niya ako." (He already left me.)

That was the last time I saw Marta.

_____________

Marta (her last name I cannot recall) was a former patient at the then National Mental Hospital where my uncle served as an administrator until the day of his retirement. She was raped by a relative at age 16, became pregnant and lost her child to a miscarriage.
She lost her mind.
During her stay in the institution for mental care, she was again raped by her co-patients. It was after this incident that my uncle and his wife personally took care of her, and when she gave birth, she killed the child a few days later while it slept in its crib. She never again regained her full sanity.

]]> ~palmatayona1