Skip to main content

Entry #333


PUNGGOK ang nakatanim na Ficus religiosa sa aming halamanan… lagi’t laging tatabasan, tatalbusan upang manatiling punggok na puno, no this is neither a pygmy tree nor a Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo making up for shortage of integrity by short-changing the populace and telling tall tales.

Bonsai
o binansot na puno lang ‘to.

Beneath the boughs of one such fully grown tree, one Siddharta— Sanskrit for “much, much worldly acquisitions”—fasted, meditated for days and attained Enlightenment, became Gautama Buddha.

Gano’n sa halamanan. Samut-sari ang lulutang na kuwenta’t kuwento sa bawat pananim, every patch of ground is sacred, every greensward a burning bush from whence God speaks.

Kaya nakahiligan ang pagtitipon ng mga binhi at punla ng pananim. Why, I’d reckon each seed or rootstock material to be potential mouthpiece for the divine.

Kaya dumadayo pa sa kung saan-saang lupalop sa bansa, maghahagilap lang ng maipupunla. Nitong nakaraang tag-araw, nakapag-uwi mula Bolinao ng mga binhi ng name at bilog na tugui… at aabatan pa ang pamumunga ng baging ng sabsabidukong para makapagtanim din, malinamnam ang lasa ng bulaklak nito kahit sa dinengdeng.

Nasa’n na ba ‘ko? Name, tugui, sabsabidukong… pulos pangalan ng mga ligaw na halaman.

Bukod pa sa mga pangalan ng halaman, nakapulot din doon ng iba pang nawawaglit na mga pangngalan—karag (toad), petot (frog), luong (tide pool)…

Anthology simply means a gathering of flowers… and if ever I turn up one—my publishers are a patient lot-- there’s likely to be a lot of deliciously different and quaint-sounding blooms, say, sabsabidukong.

Heto nga’t nag-aapuhap rin ng mga binhi ng salita, ng katiting na mga kataga na maipupunla… hindi biro ang pagsisinop ng halamanan… there’s always room for growth.

Lagi mang may puwang sa paglago, kailangan ding magtalbos at magtabas… para kahit may dambuhalang tulad niyong Ficus religiosa, mabigyan ng sariling puwang sa katiting na lawak ng aming bakuran.

Saka kapag marami talagang sinusunggaban, kaunti lang ang magagagap nang mahigpit… eh, hindi naman pala sukatan ng lakas ang higpit o diin ng gagap o yakap, mas masusukat pala ang taglay na lakas sa pagpapalaya ng mga kinamal sa palad.

Oo, makakapagtipon ng mga piling-pili, mainam na binhi at punla… pero mas magtatamasa ng pakinabang sa mga ‘yon kung isasaboy, ihahasik… para umusbong, lumago… mamulaklak, magbunga.

Ika-333 pagsasaboy ko ‘to sa aking web log…na may mangilan-ngilan ding masugid, masusing nakasubaybay… mas marami sa kanila ang nasa labas ng bansa… nahihirapan daw silang arukin ang mga sinusulat ko... nalulunod daw sila sa lalim.

“Sobra, sobra, sobra.” ‘Yan ang katumbas sa French ng tres, tres, tres… aba’y kapag kinalas ko sa mga katagang ‘yan ang bra, I’ll have a field day sucking on so, so, so…

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Every single cell of my body's happy

I got this one from Carmelite Sisters from whose school three of my kids were graduated from. They have this snatch of a song that packs a fusion metal and liebeslaud beat and whose lyrics go like this:

"Every single cell of my body is happy. Every single cell of my body is well. I thank you, Lord. I feel so good. Every single cell of my body is well."

Biology-sharp nerds would readily agree with me in this digression... Over their lifetimes, cells are assaulted by a host of biological insults and injuries. The cells go through such ordeals as infection, trauma, extremes of temperature, exposure to toxins in the environment, and damage from metabolic processes-- this last item is often self-inflicted and includes a merry motley medley of smoking a deck a day of Philip Morris menthols, drinking currant-flavored vodka or suds, overindulgence in red meat or the choicest fat-marbled cuts of poultry and such carcass.

When the damage gets to a certain point, cells self-destruct. T…

KASI NANLABAN

Viagra au naturel

IT LOOKED eerie—a blaze of fireflies pulsing like stars in the nippy air, throbbing with mating passions. That show of lights somehow eased the shadows of a Holy Thursday night on a dry river bed a few kilometers trudge up Mount Makiling.

It’s likely that no river has lain in sleep for months on that moss-grown, boulder-strewn bed—except my 20-year old kid Kukudyu and I. We were out to spend the night, do on-site learning sessions by the next day. Usual father-and-son bonding. As the late Benjamin Franklin once begged: "Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn."

Past noon from the foot of the mountain’s northern section, it took us four hours ploughing non-stop through prickly bushes and forest undergrowth to get to that site. We got there in one bruised piece. By then, dusk was falling; the sylvan air hummed with a trill of crickets, cicadas, critters nameless in choral orison. That incessant “sh-r-r-e-eemmm---“ layered with “k-kr-r-eeengg--” …