Seven coins

Many things in life are beyond our control, but in your palm is drawn the power and the mercy. These were the words written in a contract presented in a dream by the human resources head of another newspaper, a Rorschach. During the holidays the denizens of Christmas past, whole armies of them mostly barefoot and rapping on windshields to barter a song for some loose change, descend on the city, but the better off can only offer token coins, which they may not understand because hardly edible.

But language works on multiple levels, and even the sound of gibberish can have sense.

‘Ophelia’

Now that Hamlet’s sweetheart has passed away

And we are left all the more orphaned

Poets are nameless in search of a word

For the solstice of her days.

The reference is obvious, a short verse to mark the passing of UST’s literary mom last November. At her wake in the now smoke-free campus on España, I made a long overdue discovery: the chapel is not actually the main building, which looks like one. Even with Ma’am Ophie gone her piano playing, or at least the memory of it, remains unmistakable.

‘Hello old friend’

Walking the streets of your childhood

Is not the same as walking the street

Of dreams, in the half light of dusk

And a face so familiar as the sound

Of guitars in the gloaming.

Eric Clapton was a favorite of teenage years, particularly when he was with Derek and the Dominos. A friend in Colorado had sent me a CD of the latest Clapton, and though he was with JJ Cale and other veteran troubadours, he couldn’t help but sound somewhat tired. Wanting to hear the old Slowhand at his prime I hunted for his four-disc “Crossroads” at the Sidcor flea market at the crossroads of Quezon Avenue and Edsa. Hello Old Friend opens the fourth disc, and sounds exactly like that.

‘Papaitan’

The mole near the mouth

Of the papaitan vendor

Keeps growing back each night

After she cuts it off

So she uses it as ingredient

For her tasty soup.

Few things can cure a hangover after a night of carousing better than this bitter soup made out of sweetmeats from the goat or cow, making any soused fellow quickly regain his bearings. There was for a while a papaitan vendor beneath the MRT Boni station, who sold her wares late in the night enticing pedestrians on their way home. Hers was a bit on the spicy side, and I couldn’t but notice the similarity between the mole on her face and the lamang loob floating in the soup.

‘Pictures of Guilin’

Between the stalactites

And the stalagmites in silver cave

In Guangxhi, China

Rests the space of

Our uncoupling.

Guilin in December was one of biting cold it cut nearly to the bone, but also one of bewildering beauty, as in that boat ride on the Lijiang River with varied picturesque rocks and cliffs surfacing on all sides of the journey. At the cave the party went to after the boat ride the guide taught us the difference between the stalactites and the stalagmites, and the tour itself afforded a couple of stunning views: the cave as seen through a reflection in a lake, and the same cave as seen from above, the depths no longer a reflection.

‘Guangzhou after the games’

To travel is blessed

To forgive divine

108 floors above sea level

In the Canton tower

Our thoughts divined

The future cloud hidden.

Guangzhou was still excited about the recently held Asian Games, and everywhere there were images of the five mascots, actually five goats taken from Taoist legend. A walk through flea market street near the Holiday Inn Shifu would remind one of an upscale Carriedo, hawkers with different stuff clapping their hands and declaiming an endless spiel. During a visit to the Canton Tower it was a cloudy day, and if there was an iPod around it might have been playing Alan Watts Blues by Van Morrison, whereabouts unknown.

‘Lotto fever’

Lying in the dark

Numbers keep running out

Like critters or wild things

Seven eleven 17-47

The world a combination of numbers

Six horizontal lines broken

Or unbroken like the I-Ching.

When the Grand Lotto jackpot breached P700 million a lottery fever swept the nation. Sometimes luck or un-luck has to do with the ticket seller, if he or she has empathy, so always choose your seller and your ticket outlet well! Notice too how the cards on which the bettor marks the numbers can in a leap of imagination resemble the lines of the I-Ching, so that the gambler could best be reminded of the disconnect between the desire for material wealth and the Buddhist teaching of non-attachment. Or like the river in Guilin, wind above, water below.

‘Franz’s Phrase’

‘Get real’ yes by all

Means, alas, I am

Such a natural

Getting lost in dream.

This last one by guest coiner and old friend eyeoter Cesar Ruiz, which he texted from Dumaguete, re the advice of his mentor Franz Arcellana. How fitting those words are now as holidaymakers elude the denizens of Christmas past, whole armies of them descending on the city as if lost in dream.