The world and its woundedness

"The morning air is all awash with angels."
~ Richard Purdy Wilbur

While my doctor brother Dennis was dressing my knee wound this morning, I had a brief time to ponder on the world's woundedness wrought by Covid19.

(BTW, my stitches have dried and no longer require waterproof bandaging. Dennis sprayed a medical disinfectant, applied some ointment and instructed me to tape Band-aids on the top and bottom parts of the vertical line of stitches. I'm a cooperative patient and after doing as told, I walked within the house a bit, trying on my newly liberated knee. It felt grand!)

I also thought of the opening lines from W.H. Auden's "Musee des Beaux Arts": "About suffering they were never wrong, / The Old Masters: How well they understood / Its human position: how it takes place / While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along..."

We spent hours pouring over and discussing that ekphrastic poem in the comparative literature class of Dr. Gemino H Abad in the mid-'70s at UP Diliman. I remember thinking then how a Master like Auden could pull off a stunt like that--open a poem with a prosaic, almost forgettable observation. It led me to think that one doesn't have to always have a lyrical first line.

When super-typhoon Yolanda walloped Southern Philippines, particularly Leyte, in November 2013, poets were also called upon to do their own brand of "relief work" with the composition and immediate publication (uploading online) of poetry that soothed or raised a protest against what was perceived as a slow response from the powers that be.

That calamity enabled me to concentrate on renewed versifying, something the Bard of Pasig Pablo Tariman is doing in the time of today's plague. I wrote "Plane Manifest," partly inspired by Auden and taking off from a photo of a surviving father rescued and evacuated from Tacloban. His farmer's demeanor belied the dark color of years spent under the sun, his eyes a-brim with tears as they grieved for loved ones who didn't make it. The estimate then was 10,000 people dead.

I posted my relief response in FB and when the call for an instant visual and literary anthology called "Surges" was made by Rossana Golez and Joel Garduce, I was prepared with my submissions. Here is that poem in its entirety.

Plane Manifest

in the quieter network
where i get my news feed
for the day
where members
aren't so overwrought
and telling others
what to do
what to think
in a calamitous country

this image
and description
of a man
spoke for all
who had lost
someone
(never mind the some things
that are always replaceable
in some ways)

but to lose someone?
or maybe three four
six seven eight?
and see them
on some broken pavement
laid out straight?

the horror the horror

the awareness
that here he was
left with this one life
and some clothes on his back

haunted perhaps
by the thought
that he would've
given it all up
for a wife
a child not yet fully weaned
a mother who raised him up
to be as hardworking as she

he trembles
while seated
in this freight plane
of human cargo
flying him where?
to what sort of new life
in some strange place
will he rebuild
without those he knew
and touched as

love
made
manifest?

Truly, we are called whether it's in a time of crisis or a time of increasingly elusive peace and wellness in the world. To paraphrase the filmmaker Stanley Kubrick, the darkness is vast so we are all called upon to supply our own unique light.

All the things I miss during this state of siege

How wonderful to get back to old-fashioned correspondence using pen, carefully selected sheets of paper and stamps! But times dictate against the sanitary aspect of this practice--the handling and delivery of postal mail.

So I will just journal religiously and hope that in this meditative practice, I expunge the anger I feel for the state of siege we find ourselves in. Anger also focused at an inept Leader who's hellbent on locking us down. Are we handing over our basic human rights to movement and peaceful assembly, even to observe one's faith, just like that? I can't even take a leisurely walk in the neighborhood with my walker or cane to flex and un-flex my new knee and breathe fresh air without fear of being accosted for aimless loitering.

Over breakfast, my siblings spoke how we're experiencing World War III but with an invisible enemy. Our grandchildren's formal education has been disrupted. Thank heavens for small graces like Robert Alejandro's almost daily online drawing and crafts sessions. We just pray that each time he goes online, the wifi signal is strong. I tried something different while drawing a unicorn yesterday--I turned the volume of his talking down, then played my YouTube mix featuring pianist Dame Mitsuko Uchida playing a series of Mozart concertos. Pablo Tariman, in an earlier incarnation, has interviewed this exceptional artist, one of the world's best interpreters of Mozart.

Last night, while tossing and turning, I scrolled down my FB feed and found recent videos of tenor Mher U. Nival and pianist Ma Elnora Halili uploaded--in fine performance states, singing and playing their blues away. Mher was scheduled for a song recital near the end of this month at Manila Pianos Makati in Magallanes, but that has been cancelled along with other events there. Elnora, if I'm correct (do correct me), played movie themes, including "Windmills of Your Mind" from The Thomas Crown Affair. For some reason, I can't share the videos of Mher on my wall, but Elnora's is there for your delectation.

I miss the simple act of pushing a grocery cart in the once near-empty aisles of Unimart Estancia. Usually, I just put in a container of Pastelleria de Mallorca's argellanas and barquillos, packets of dried green mangoes or Cebu's rosquillo biscuits. I don't know if these simple pleasures of the tongue are still available. Last time we were at that mall was March 8 when I hosted a gratitude lunch for my siblings who took turns visiting or acting as watchers during my five-day stay at the hospital. We even brought our pug Bruno for the occasion, and he sat in his stroller quietly observing us chewing and talking at the same time.

In a few weeks, my Baguio-based grandchild Kai Mykonos is turning nine, and I won't be by her side as she celebrates, in quiet family fashion, that milestone. Baguio, which was brought nearer by Scitex and Tplex in recent years, has become nearly unreachable with bus lines stopping their North-bound services temporarily during what I call this state of siege.

Unlike Pablo, who has turned to the poetic muse the past weeks, I cannot find it in me to discover morsels of lyricism in the unusual silence we face these days, mine broken by Mitsuko Uchida or Martha Argerich to keep me sane. I keep running my hands through my hair, not touching my face, and wondering if there's still reason to return to article, or what we call livelihood, writing. Like many freelancers, I belong to the "isang kahig, isang tuka" group--no output, no pay. As Pablo said, we don't earn from poetry, and we just must keep moving on no matter the oppressive circumstances.

I brought down from Baguio books to read and review, now piled up beside my bed. Today, I must pull up my large panties, be brave, soldier on and wrestle down the muse of writing. Good luck to us all!

A girl and her dog

This morning Satchi, our golden retriever, came bounding up the stairs. I called out her name, and she entered our bedroom instead of heading for the balcony which is where she stays most of the day after her walks.

She slobbered all over my husband Rolly's face as he was snoozing. She refused the treat that my daughter Kimi was trying to entice her with.

This seven-month old golden is, most of all, Kai's best pal. Apart from walks, they chase one another or Kai talks to her in a commanding voice to make the dog obey. The latter doesn't seem to work yet because it provokes Satchi to get more excited and jump all over my apo. They're a happy sight to behold.

Last Saturday, as Kai and her father took Satchi for her morning walk, she loosened herself from her lease and ran all over the village park, the little girl giving chase and breaking into tears, thinking the dog might get lost.

Satchi found her way home alone and waited for the gate to open. Kai cried more tears of relief.

All in a day. With Satchi, our lives are complete.

Photo by KIMI FERNANDEZ

Sunday feels

As soon as I saw the Facebook announcement that Robert Alejandro was going to conduct an online drawing class, I prepared my Mercury Drugstore journal and Pilot Hi-tecpoint V10Grip for the purpose of being a student before the master again.

Our teacher's pacing was just right so this always newbie-at-things was able to catch up. I didn't feel conscious, unlike in Fine Arts school when we would do live drawing in class and I felt the most inferior to classmates who had been doodling since they were in diapers.

Here are the results of my first drawing class with Master Robert. Photos were taken by my sister Ellen Suzy Lolarga, my companion every time I'd go to the Medical City for physical therapy and rehab of my new knee.

Interesting thing about the just concluded class: I didn't notice the pain of my stitches because I was fully concentrated on letting the lines flow.

Thank you, Robert, for sharing your enormous gifts. God continue to bless you more! And yes, anyone can draw.

Meanwhile, tada!!!

Tuldok the dinosaur

Patty the Pangolin. I failed to add the baby pangolin on its back because I had to go to the toilet mid-lesson.

Pablo Tariman, Joseph Uy, here we are all dressed for the audience-less opera veerus.

Here's looking at you, Bogart

He would've turned 14 years old in human years on June 16 this year. But when his mistresses Gigi Lolarga, my youngest sibling, and Ruth Taleon Terania, returned from their US trip in December last year, he was in the grip of a cancer in his mouth area.

He put up a good fight. When the family debated if we would have him put down as a kinder way of dealing with the ailment instead of letting him bear the pain, Gigi and Ruth decided to continue a holistic approach to his treatment and they changed his diet upon the vet's advice.They went to the extent of integrating turmeric paste to his soft diet. They had to stop the lugaw or rice porridge because the cancer cells would only feed on the rice. Commercial dog food was stopped.

Bogart put up an uncomplaining fight. It meant more medical expenses underwritten by my sisters.

He was our fierce guard dog whose favorite spot outside the house was the gate where he'd bark at the postal worker, the food and water delivery persons and anyone who came close to his territory. He bit the manicurist who did home service on her shin. He never recognized the scent of the cleaning woman who dropped by the house weekly. He barked and barked until he was shushed.

Unlike the other dog in our family, Bruno, Bogart wasn't the least bit gentle. He didn't sidle up for caresses on his body. But in the last few weeks of his life, he'd rub his frail, small body on my leg. I'd pet him and talk to him aloud. He seemed to understand that it was just a matter of time before the pain would finally go away.

Gigi was the most affected, almost questioning the Universe for the burden of care-giving during the holiday season (our mother was also ill during the Christmas period of 2015). Gigi took leaves from work to keep the stoic Bogart company. When she couldn't be with him all day, our physician brother Dennis Lolarga took over some of the watching hours.

In mid-January, he wrote in our family group chat this announcement that had me in tears: "Our beloved guard dog Bogart, the mini-doberman pinscher, succumbed from his terminal illness at approximately 11 a.m. today, and is now with Shintaro the Japanese spitz, Queenie, Omar Sharif the cat, Billy the kid goat, Sequester, Balky, Pipoy, Mimay, Pipay, Bambam in a heavenly place." All of those are the names of the pets who had been with us in different times in our lives.

Nerisa Del Carmen Guevara and Grace Banez, who have also lost beloved pets, speak of a rainbow bridge which these pets cross when they leave us. I am imagining Bogart prancing on that bridge and adding his barks to the heavenly choir.

Dog day afternoon

The humans of our home in Pasig took a back seat as Bruno Lancelot Lolarga, our pet pug, celebrated his 12th year with a party yesterday. This was the second of its kind (he also marked his 7th year in similar fashion), and it came on the heels of the death of Bogart, our mini pinscher of 13 years, from cancer. Rather than mourn the departed, my sister Gigi Lolarga and Ruth Taleon Terania planned something special for our surviving and furry family member. Just the same we remember Bogart with deep fondness, and we miss him.

There were party hats, a streamer declaring "Happy birthday" and dogs from far and near. Bruno had his own cake shared with Oreo the golden retriever of the family of Pinky Lolarga Susi who drove from Antipolo, and Chase, the shih tzu poodle of Jannica Jorge-Susi's son Jared who came from Las Pinas.

Our dogs are not just pets. They are so integrated in family milestones that Bruno was named one of the godfathers when Pinky's first grandchild was born. When my granddaughter Kai came into this world and was baptized, Bogart was listed as one of her ninongs.

We won't have it any other way. Once again, happy 12, Bruno!

In dog years, he's a senior citizen already. But to our minds, he's our baby.

Spot how many dogs and hoomans!

The quieter she becomes

Photo of Gilda Cordero Fernando courtesy of Tonnette Jacinto

In the recent months whenever I visit Gilda Cordero Fernando, I am reminded of that Zen proverb: "The quieter you become, the more you can hear."

Unlike, say, five or more years ago when we could converse and she would astonish me with her memory for the slightest detail, these days all we do is exchange high five's or knock our fists together or clasp hands. If I can get a sentence out of her, I am transported to the heights of happiness.

During the last convening of the GCF Fans Club at her abode last month, she was again colorfully garbed with deliberately mismatched earrings from Japan. Her caregiver rolled her to the sala on her wheelchair that used to have jeepney signs (Cubao-Quiapo) appended to it. Only Gilda can think of that as decor for such a practical equipment like a wheelchair.

She has let her hair go white after years of coloring it. It's a fine match to her mien that is only beginning to betray the eighth going on ninth decade she is situated in. When she marks her 90th year in June, she is going to be the youthful-looking nonagenarian in my list.

I don't know why I am moved to write this, knowing she is not in Facebook or any form of social media. I learned from her help that even her email account is already inactive. I continue to send her postal mail which the help acknowledges but which Gilda doesn't recall.

Maybe because it's almost Valentine already, and I just need to tell you, Gilda of my heart, how much you are admired and loved. And I am keeping my promise of a few years ago that no matter what state of mind you are in, even as you retreat into silence, I will continue to visit...and in fact, accompany fans who never tire of basking in your presence.

Tres Marias, tres Paulinas

Lulu Camello Pasamba, Marissa Ileto and I have known one another since we were in kindergarten--that's 58 years of involvement in things of childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, midlife and now, the autumn of our lives. But throughout our individual and distinctive journeys, we never lost our girlish giggles honed from years of shared fun at the campus of St. Paul College of Quezon City (now a university).

Since 2017, we've had yearly get-togethers to catch up on one another's life and doings, to air our hopes and frustrations in between nibbles of the best of the Christmas season from jamon serrano to slivers of Marca Piña cheese downed with coffee or something stiffer.

On Dec. 26, we decided on a leftover party. I brought the leftover Ponkan oranges from home, plus bars of Amparo's Apothecary soap for each of them. Speaking for myself, I think that warm baths with handmade soap are the ultimate luxury that is simple to achieve. So I've been handing out soap bars this season, to my blood sisters and to my chosen sisters like Marissa and Lulu.

From Marissa, I learned a new way to serve fried Spam. Just marinate in sugar before cooking, then the sugar provides a honeyed glaze. You can dip the meat in vinegar the way you would with tocino. For her fluffy omelette, she broke six eggs and threw in cheese, tomatoes and onions.

Lulu practically brought the contents of her fridge: potato soup, raisin bread, chicken inasal, banana loaf.

As the yearly hostess Marissa brought out the Lanelle Abueva Fernando bowls and plates and her best silverware, I realized that this was an exercise in graceful abundant living. Marissa gave each of us a lip balm. Lulu, a family medicine practitioner, brought out her acupuncture kit and offered half an hour's relaxation as she inserted needles in my knees and in Marissa's upper leg and ankle.

Before we parted, Lawin Ileto, Marissa's eldest child, took our pictures sober and drunken with merriment and the pleasure of each other's company in the house that is a chock-full of arts and crafts.

In Marissa Ileto's art-filled home, three Paulinians return. The hostess is the lady seated in the middle.

The lighter side of three professionals on the threshold of retirement