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La luna palida como hostia mistica


TO the swoon of winds tugging at my chest lifted of the day’s cares, head rendered giddy with drink… a song rock-hard thaws, rills out of my tummy and spills its notes calm like a shy scatter of stars... old as memory.

To sing in dead earnest is to pray twice… kaya marahil walang matimtimang birhen sa matiyagang manalangin… sinasamba, idinadambana saka dinadamba na.

Sa haraya ng harana iduduyan ang mga apo, kahit malayo ang mga damuho… makakagawian nila ang haplos ng lamyos mula mga labi ng Diablolo…

Iidlip na sana si Direk Dindo Angeles nang marinig na umuungol-alulong na naman ako—aba’y baka ‘kikipagbuno sa bangungot—napilitang bumaba’t ungkatin kung ano na ang kalagayan namin ni Dennis Fetalino… kaming dalawa lagi ang aabutin ng madaling-araw, ‘kikipagtipan sa tuba’t tungga sa ilang araw na pamamalagi sa pulo ng Ilin, sa kanlurang bahagi ng San Jose, Mindoro Occidental.

At sa huling yugto ng tunggaan, may udyok o tudyo ang pag-awit kasaliw ang koro ng mga kuliglig sa paligid… mutya—malaking perlas ang isa pa nitong kahulugan—ang pusyaw na mukha ng buwan sa langit,
“la luna palida como hostia mistica… llueve su calida luz eucaristica.” Sapat na ang ambon ng maputlang liwanag upang umalulong mula alumpihit na sikmura. The moon stays in its heavenly course; the moon stays its curse in the lycanthrope— so bay or bray at the orb like a donkey haughty.

Say, can I carry a tune? I’d rather the tune carry me… that’s the twist of a premise in Thomas Disch’s sci-fi fable, “On Wings of Song.” Uh-oh, extant celebrity rocker rendered jobless by trenchant religious persecution turns to odds-and-ends work to subsist and pay for the upkeep of life support systems of his missus in a coma… why, mullahs plied a fatwa on singing that allowed a singer to soar to the heavens, yeah, on wings of song.

Underground dead-end: rocker is shot down in a concert finale.

“Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light… Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home…”

Tatlong buwan sa sinapupunan ang isang anak nang yakagin sa isang pagtitipon ang kabiyak… konsiyerto ng mga awiting Pilipino… nakadantay sa kanyang puson ang kamay ko’t nararamdaman ang pagkislot ng damuhong musmos sa saliw ng musika… nakagiliwan yata ang mga titik ni Mang Levi Celerio, “Sa Ugoy ng Duyan.”

So old an ember memory, stoked time and again like a shy scatter of stars in spill of lullaby… Sana’y ‘di nagmaliw ang dati kong araw nang munti pang bata sa piling ni nanay… Ibig kong maulit ang awit ni inang mahal… awit ng pag-ibig noong ako’y nasa duyan.

Thus the cradle rocks to rule and reign, even over fatwa against songs that lift hearts to the skies.

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