Skip to main content

Only in pain

THE doctors gave up on him. Terminal cancer. He’s left with precious bunch of days to endure the pain that wracks his insides before breathing his last.

Most times, he is under heavy sedation. Pain-killers. Probably morphine or any of its derivatives flooding his bloodstream. In opiate stupor, his awareness is tossed between drowsiness and dreamy wakefulness. The pain dulled, he drifts in waves of passing comfort. It would be futile to kindle small talk, just to hear his voice no longer raised in argument or greeting.

As the waves of pain surge through him, the numbness fades. He’d wince in recognition of familiar faces and voices, mostly of friends he hasn’t seen in weeks, maybe months.

In opiate comfort he would be beyond us.

Only in pain would he be with us now.

Nabanggit ko na minsan sa kanya na mas masahol pa sa pokpok ang hanapbuhay ng manunulat. Sa ngayon. Panahon pa ni Carlos Bulosan sa kaigtingan ng tinatawag na The Great Depression noong mga taon ng 1930 nang naging patakaran ng The New Yorker na bayaran agad ang sinulat na artikulo o anuman. Baka ganoon pa rin ang patakarang umiiral sa naturang peryodiko.

Santaon yata siyang hindi nababayaran sa kanyang mga tudling. Iba kasi ang nasusunod na patakaran sa ngayon.

Bago magpakaplog, ipatuklap ang hiwaga sa kanyang hiwa o kahit magtanggal ng mga takip sa kanyang inilakong laman, tiyak na hihirit ang pokpok.
Pay down, panty down. Open your wallet wide, open my legs wide. Show me the color of your cash, show you the color of my crotch.

Hindi nagkakalayo ang presyo ng samputukan sa presyo ng isang artikulo—naglalaro mula P300 hanggang P500. Kapag magaling trumabaho, todo-bigay pa ang serbisyo para ganahan ang nagbayad sa pagbayo’t pagkabayo.

There’s something gravely obscene and indecent about writing. A piece of ass for sale gets paid pronto. A piece of a writer’s mind won’t nudge folks into a state of arousal or tumescence. A good fuck can spell relief for gonads in knots. A good read is not as good as that.

True, a piece of good writing can leave some ripples in the head, usually a pair of nipples over the heart, and a wee bit squirming and some dampness in the groin area. That ought to feel great. But we just can’t put a finger to whatever worth a piece of writing fetches in the market, why, we can always plug a finger into that nether crevice, can’t we?

He was a writer whom we knew and admired and raised toasts with, got drunk with.

Now, he’s about to go.

Change of address. The inevitable. As certain as taxes. Father Time. Grim Repair, uh-oh, we mean Ripper, he’s coming and we haven’t done ample foreplay or out-and-out screwing on him yet.

We hardly know even our so-called friends in times of numbing comfort when we drift between dreamy wakefulness and dark slumber. In pain, maybe in hunger and in crisis we shall see starkly our friends.

There must be some brutal irony there. Some painful metaphor we’d like to put a finger to but we’d rather jab ‘em fingers into the damp Grafenberg spot down below.

--habalakibur@hotmail.com

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

ALAMAT NG TAHONG

SAKBIBI ng agam-agam sa kalagayan ng butihing kabiyak-- at kabiyakan, opo-- na nakaratay sa karamdaman, ang pumalaot na mangingisda ay napagawi sa paanan ng dambuhalang Waczim-- isang bathala na nagkakaloob sa sinuman anumang ibulwak ng bibig mula sa bukal ng dibdib. Pangangailangan sa salapi na pambili ng gamot ng kapilas-pusong maysakit ang nakasaklot sa puso ng matandang mangingisda. 'Di kaginsa-ginsa'y bumundol ang kanyang bangka sa paanan ng Waczim. Kagy at umigkas ang katagang kimkim noon sa kanyang dibdib: "Salapi!" Bumuhos ng salapi-- mga butil at gilit ng ginto-- mula papawirin. At halos umapaw sa ginto ang bangka ng nagulantang na mangingisda, walang pagsidlan ang galak, at walang humpay ang pasasalamat sa mga bathala. Nanumbalik ang kalusugan ng kabiyak ng mangingisda. At lumago ang kabuhayan, naging mariwasa ang magkapilas-puso na dating maralita. Nilasing ng kanyang mga dating kalapit-bahay ang mangingisda-- na hindi ikina...

Cal y canto con camote

FENG shui (literally, wind water flow) lore has it root crops embody a hidden store of treasures. Say, a local food conglomerate needs yearly 35,000 metric tons of cassava for livestock feed-- the available local supply falls short of 13,000 tons. Cassava granules sell for around P9 a kilo. Demand for the same root crop to be used in liquor manufacturing is hitting above the roof. Why, raising cassava is a no-brainer task— this is one tough crop that can grow in the most hostile patches of earth, providing sustenance for ages to dwellers in sub-Saharan parts of Africa. While the hardy cassava is nearly pure starch, the lowly sweet potato or kamote is considered by nutritionists as a super food, the most nutritious of all vegetables— kamote levels of Vitamin A are “off the charts, rich in antioxidants and anti-inflammatory properties.” A fist-sized kamote can supply a day’s dose of glucose to fuel the brain, muscles, and organs, so they claim. Count the country lucky...

Wealth garden

‘TWAS CRUEL as smashing a budding green thumb: some years back, an abuela warned me about letting any clump of katigbi (Job’s tears or Coix lachrymal jobi for you botanists) from growing in our homeyard. That grass with rapier-like leaves that smelled of freshly pounded pinipig supposedly invited bad luck and sorrows—why, that biblical character Job wailed and howled a lot, didn’t he? (But was later rewarded with oodles of goodies, wasn’t he?) Then, I came across some arcane text that practically goaded folks to grow katigbi in their gardens—why, there’s a starchy kernel wrapped shut in the seed’s shiny coat. A handful or more of kernels could be cooked as porridge. Too, one could whisper a wish upon seven seed pods, throw ‘em pods in running water—a river or stream—and the wish would be granted! I was warned, too, about planting kapok or talisay trees right in the homeyard—these trees form a cross-like branching pattern. Pasang-krus daw ang bahay na kalapit sa puno ng kapok, tal...