QUESTION NO. 15
Who encouraged you to start blogging?
Apr 26, 2003
Apr 7, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 2
Little by little, piece by piece, like teardrops forming a downpour. Father Narvaez, with his right leg still buried on the ground, laid back on the soil and fervently tried to put things in perspective. It was not because he felt weak, neither does the weight of the world seem to hang on him. What grew heavy in his heart was the fact that it seemed that all things are either blown by the wind, or that life is like a leaf - slowly descending from a great big tree - from its birth then falling to the ground. Soon it would be forgotten, and all markings that would be left is a single twig, where once it tried to feed the caterpillars, and gave shade to numerous little insects. It was a full moon that night. The mango tree seemed to be silent, as if paying reverence to Luna, unnerved by an intruder beneath its branches. Scanning the fruits that would soon be ready by May, Father Narvaez grew accustomed to the grasshoppers singing their serenade, and to the chirping of the kulisap, which seemed to last from dusk ‘til dawn. But tonight was different. A strange kind of silence emanated all around him, like the sound he heard during a solitary meditation in Rome. It was not an eerie sound – unsetlling maybe, but never fearful - a silence encased in a strange melancholy. A silence that was so loud he could practically hear it screaming on his head.
He then chanced upon a spider, slowly weaving upon its web. Nestled high, secured from the torrents of the rain, the spider was unmindful of the curious eye staring at it as if it was a novelty, something to help the priest contemplate on his musings. He noticed that the moon was slowly moving, right above the web, just like it does on a total lunar eclipse. He noticed too, the changing of the color of the moon. From a bright whitish yellow, from the illusion produced by the movement of the earth, and from the spider’s web clinging on a branch, the moon seemed to be turning into a red round plump tomato, almost ripe, yet not in its fullness. “The moon is a big red tomato,” he grinned.
Staring at the moon right above the spider’s web, Father Narvaez had let his mind be drowned by the flashbacks of his life slowly turning into crystals. “Maybe Death is grinning upon me,” he thought. Right there and then, he embarked on a journey that was his past. He should have taken it as a sign, a premonition of some sort, the conversation he had with Father Damaso, and the latter’s complaint of the barbaric ways of the indio, or his distrust upon a Filipino priest like him. Indeed, the execution of Father Mariano Gomez, Father Jose Burgos and Father Jacinto Zamora at the province of Cavite made evident the deep animosity between colonialists and natives, even among the servants of God. The fat Spanish priest who served San Diego for twenty years did not bother to say it on his back, instead, like a whiplash he declared, “I bet that you - Father Salvador Narvaez , that you would not last for five years without being corrupted by the indios - and all the things the Holy Church has taught you, would be burned down into ashes. Everything is bound to happen. Lintek! Mother Spain’s effort to civilize you and your people is just a waste of time.” Those words left a vile taste in his mouth.
Now that he was beginning to think about it, he also remembered how Mang Turino, Father Salvi’s gardener, warned him that the latter was not in a good mood when he stopped by San Diego’s church. The slightly thin priest with a crooked nose was to assign him to a parish that needed his assistance.
“Good morning,” he said in tagalog, alighting a coach, looking at the gardener trimming a sampaguita bush on the garden at the back of the church.
“Good morning po,” Mang Turino bowed his head.
“Is Father Salvi in?” he inquired.
“Yes he is Father,” the gardener replied while staring at his slightly brown skin. “But I wouldn’t go in there if I were you just yet.”
Father Narvaez was curious.
“Well, humbly speaking Father, I know things. Maybe it would be better if you go back at noon, right after Father Salvi has taken his siesta.”
“Why is that?”
“This morning, as soon as the morning prayers were said, and the church bells were tolled, Father Salvi shouted angrily at the sakristan mayor and asked for tsokolate-a.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked.
“Tsokolate-e would mean a light cocoa drink. Tsokolate-a would mean a strong, thick cocoa drink. And that makes the difference.”
Father Narvaez gave a soft laugh and dismissed the gardener. He continued to walk towards Father Salvi’s parochial residence.
That was a turning point in his life, that by some sort of scheme, he was thrown to a farming village called Malamig, where he now lay - taking a journey that started at the outskirts of Barcelona - while looking at the sky beneath the spider’s web, and the moon was red, looking like a plump round tomato.
Entry No. 2
Little by little, piece by piece, like teardrops forming a downpour. Father Narvaez, with his right leg still buried on the ground, laid back on the soil and fervently tried to put things in perspective. It was not because he felt weak, neither does the weight of the world seem to hang on him. What grew heavy in his heart was the fact that it seemed that all things are either blown by the wind, or that life is like a leaf - slowly descending from a great big tree - from its birth then falling to the ground. Soon it would be forgotten, and all markings that would be left is a single twig, where once it tried to feed the caterpillars, and gave shade to numerous little insects. It was a full moon that night. The mango tree seemed to be silent, as if paying reverence to Luna, unnerved by an intruder beneath its branches. Scanning the fruits that would soon be ready by May, Father Narvaez grew accustomed to the grasshoppers singing their serenade, and to the chirping of the kulisap, which seemed to last from dusk ‘til dawn. But tonight was different. A strange kind of silence emanated all around him, like the sound he heard during a solitary meditation in Rome. It was not an eerie sound – unsetlling maybe, but never fearful - a silence encased in a strange melancholy. A silence that was so loud he could practically hear it screaming on his head.
He then chanced upon a spider, slowly weaving upon its web. Nestled high, secured from the torrents of the rain, the spider was unmindful of the curious eye staring at it as if it was a novelty, something to help the priest contemplate on his musings. He noticed that the moon was slowly moving, right above the web, just like it does on a total lunar eclipse. He noticed too, the changing of the color of the moon. From a bright whitish yellow, from the illusion produced by the movement of the earth, and from the spider’s web clinging on a branch, the moon seemed to be turning into a red round plump tomato, almost ripe, yet not in its fullness. “The moon is a big red tomato,” he grinned.
Staring at the moon right above the spider’s web, Father Narvaez had let his mind be drowned by the flashbacks of his life slowly turning into crystals. “Maybe Death is grinning upon me,” he thought. Right there and then, he embarked on a journey that was his past. He should have taken it as a sign, a premonition of some sort, the conversation he had with Father Damaso, and the latter’s complaint of the barbaric ways of the indio, or his distrust upon a Filipino priest like him. Indeed, the execution of Father Mariano Gomez, Father Jose Burgos and Father Jacinto Zamora at the province of Cavite made evident the deep animosity between colonialists and natives, even among the servants of God. The fat Spanish priest who served San Diego for twenty years did not bother to say it on his back, instead, like a whiplash he declared, “I bet that you - Father Salvador Narvaez , that you would not last for five years without being corrupted by the indios - and all the things the Holy Church has taught you, would be burned down into ashes. Everything is bound to happen. Lintek! Mother Spain’s effort to civilize you and your people is just a waste of time.” Those words left a vile taste in his mouth.
Now that he was beginning to think about it, he also remembered how Mang Turino, Father Salvi’s gardener, warned him that the latter was not in a good mood when he stopped by San Diego’s church. The slightly thin priest with a crooked nose was to assign him to a parish that needed his assistance.
“Good morning,” he said in tagalog, alighting a coach, looking at the gardener trimming a sampaguita bush on the garden at the back of the church.
“Good morning po,” Mang Turino bowed his head.
“Is Father Salvi in?” he inquired.
“Yes he is Father,” the gardener replied while staring at his slightly brown skin. “But I wouldn’t go in there if I were you just yet.”
Father Narvaez was curious.
“Well, humbly speaking Father, I know things. Maybe it would be better if you go back at noon, right after Father Salvi has taken his siesta.”
“Why is that?”
“This morning, as soon as the morning prayers were said, and the church bells were tolled, Father Salvi shouted angrily at the sakristan mayor and asked for tsokolate-a.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked.
“Tsokolate-e would mean a light cocoa drink. Tsokolate-a would mean a strong, thick cocoa drink. And that makes the difference.”
Father Narvaez gave a soft laugh and dismissed the gardener. He continued to walk towards Father Salvi’s parochial residence.
That was a turning point in his life, that by some sort of scheme, he was thrown to a farming village called Malamig, where he now lay - taking a journey that started at the outskirts of Barcelona - while looking at the sky beneath the spider’s web, and the moon was red, looking like a plump round tomato.
Apr 4, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 1
When Father Narvaez accepted his fate at the hands of the gentlest people he knew, he reasoned that time, faith and destiny are crossbreeds - locked up in an eternal entanglement to say which conquers which, and to whom man must pay tribute. He would remember clearly how his father, Don Juan Narvaez, told him years ago, while the former was lying on his deathbed, that there are very few instances when one could see clearly, like crystals shining from a distance, the flashback of ones life. You see it on the face of your newborn child, a memory that one would forever keep. And on moments when Death pays you a visit, with a serene solemnity that touches your bone with a coldness freezing than a damp December morning, and still has the courtesy to smile at you and say that you have been given the privilege to wait for the final blow of his reaper. And on instances like this, as Father Narvaez murmured though no one could hear him, when hope was all that he could ever hope for, and that solitude was no more than a discipline he was beginning to get acquainted with.
He closed his eyes for a while, trying to remember what it felt like to run against the wind. He knew he might never do that again. With his right leg, the stronger leg he has, buried from below the knee to the ground, he felt pain reserved only for the dead. He recalled the English poet Shakespeare, and how he said on Sonnet 71 how vile this world was, with vilest worms do dwell. He sensed strange sensations, like tiny needles pricking on his flesh. He could not move. Immobile from the punishment he volunteered for, the only freedom he had was to think and to let his mind wander. But even that could be exhausting, more tiring than a hard day’s of work tending vegetables and fruit trees. During his days at the seminary, he figured that the best way not to sleep, is to try with all your might to sleep instantly. On nights like this described herein, when the world does not rest because of the anguish of those who can’t sleep, Father Narvaez have had recited all the prayers he could think of, memorized by his heart, seeking redemption on every discontent the mind could offer. But the mind has strange ways of bringing up memories, memories of the things we seek to bury on the fragments of our imaginations.
He had been provided shade under a large mango tree - it was to be his shelter for the remaining two weeks - a privilege not given to other offenders. But his was a special case. The town of Malamig and its inhabitants were torn on the issue of punishing Father Narvaez. Some were begging for mercy while others were strict on their resolve. The elders were adamant on the belief that they hold, the same faith they see as their aegis against any harm brought from the outside. In the end, Ka Bianong, the eldest and the wisest in Malamig, the same person Father Narvaez spent countless moments talking with, drinking strong coffee with, and helped the former take care of his beloved cabbage patches, said in audible whispers so that the rest could hear: “Let the priest decide his fate. He could leave Malamig in peace, or he could suffer two months fused on the grounds we dwell.”
He was taken to the nipa hut the villagers renovated for him when they were convinced that he had no plans of leaving their town. They explained the details of his options. For him, it was a long and arduous journey. Two years to be exact, only to fall back to scratches, only to try to rebuilt the trust he had earned at the hands of the hard-working people he grew fond of, and only to see for himself that faith could never be thrust on the throats of those whose religion is tied up to their own survival. He could have packed his things and rode a horse towards Lilio, Laguna, or Majayjay, or Magdalena. Instead, he sorted the things he would need. His mind was made-up. He would try to do what Christ did to the people of Israel. By the time the sun was perching itself on a clear sky that was that morning, Father Narvaez had already dug two feet on the secluded grounds where the largest squash could be seen, the reddest tomato could be admired, and every imaginable vegetable that the ground would permit to grow could be looked upon in all its glory. With his right leg buried to the ground, secured and not able to move the slightest bit, that was to be the partial tombstone that Father Narvaez had chosen to commit.
Entry No. 1
When Father Narvaez accepted his fate at the hands of the gentlest people he knew, he reasoned that time, faith and destiny are crossbreeds - locked up in an eternal entanglement to say which conquers which, and to whom man must pay tribute. He would remember clearly how his father, Don Juan Narvaez, told him years ago, while the former was lying on his deathbed, that there are very few instances when one could see clearly, like crystals shining from a distance, the flashback of ones life. You see it on the face of your newborn child, a memory that one would forever keep. And on moments when Death pays you a visit, with a serene solemnity that touches your bone with a coldness freezing than a damp December morning, and still has the courtesy to smile at you and say that you have been given the privilege to wait for the final blow of his reaper. And on instances like this, as Father Narvaez murmured though no one could hear him, when hope was all that he could ever hope for, and that solitude was no more than a discipline he was beginning to get acquainted with.
He closed his eyes for a while, trying to remember what it felt like to run against the wind. He knew he might never do that again. With his right leg, the stronger leg he has, buried from below the knee to the ground, he felt pain reserved only for the dead. He recalled the English poet Shakespeare, and how he said on Sonnet 71 how vile this world was, with vilest worms do dwell. He sensed strange sensations, like tiny needles pricking on his flesh. He could not move. Immobile from the punishment he volunteered for, the only freedom he had was to think and to let his mind wander. But even that could be exhausting, more tiring than a hard day’s of work tending vegetables and fruit trees. During his days at the seminary, he figured that the best way not to sleep, is to try with all your might to sleep instantly. On nights like this described herein, when the world does not rest because of the anguish of those who can’t sleep, Father Narvaez have had recited all the prayers he could think of, memorized by his heart, seeking redemption on every discontent the mind could offer. But the mind has strange ways of bringing up memories, memories of the things we seek to bury on the fragments of our imaginations.
He had been provided shade under a large mango tree - it was to be his shelter for the remaining two weeks - a privilege not given to other offenders. But his was a special case. The town of Malamig and its inhabitants were torn on the issue of punishing Father Narvaez. Some were begging for mercy while others were strict on their resolve. The elders were adamant on the belief that they hold, the same faith they see as their aegis against any harm brought from the outside. In the end, Ka Bianong, the eldest and the wisest in Malamig, the same person Father Narvaez spent countless moments talking with, drinking strong coffee with, and helped the former take care of his beloved cabbage patches, said in audible whispers so that the rest could hear: “Let the priest decide his fate. He could leave Malamig in peace, or he could suffer two months fused on the grounds we dwell.”
He was taken to the nipa hut the villagers renovated for him when they were convinced that he had no plans of leaving their town. They explained the details of his options. For him, it was a long and arduous journey. Two years to be exact, only to fall back to scratches, only to try to rebuilt the trust he had earned at the hands of the hard-working people he grew fond of, and only to see for himself that faith could never be thrust on the throats of those whose religion is tied up to their own survival. He could have packed his things and rode a horse towards Lilio, Laguna, or Majayjay, or Magdalena. Instead, he sorted the things he would need. His mind was made-up. He would try to do what Christ did to the people of Israel. By the time the sun was perching itself on a clear sky that was that morning, Father Narvaez had already dug two feet on the secluded grounds where the largest squash could be seen, the reddest tomato could be admired, and every imaginable vegetable that the ground would permit to grow could be looked upon in all its glory. With his right leg buried to the ground, secured and not able to move the slightest bit, that was to be the partial tombstone that Father Narvaez had chosen to commit.
Mar 29, 2003
Mar 21, 2003
Mar 19, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Last Entry
XII
I got inside our house using the window of my room. Pretending that nothing happened, I stayed in bed waiting for the morning. I went down when breakfast was being served. I saw my mom and my sister sitting at the breakfast table. My mother looked at me both happy and angry. She did not say a word though. My sister welcomed me with her smile.
I heard my father complaining about something while preparing for work. He got out of their room and saw me. He just nodded, signifying he’ll talk to me later. Just as he was about to sit down, I don’t know who started it but my parents started to argue about something.
Instinctively, I got my diary from my lap and set it on the table for them to see. My sister did the same. We were both looking at them. I could see tears lining up on my sister’s face. I tried not to cry and gave my parents an intent look.
My dad got silent. My mom looked at us and nodded that they understood.
They both stood up. They went to the veranda. There, they talked. Pretending to eat, I saw both of them explain things to one another. My mother cried. It was when I saw my father held her hand that I stood up and went to my room.
XIII
On my bed, I got a ballpen and opened my diary. I just have to talk with someone. I thought about the days that transpired. I saw the faces of my sister, my mom, and my dad flash before my eyes. I knew that everything’s gonna be fine. Hell, maybe this is part of being a family.
Among the thoughts that were my flashbacks on that instant, it was the fresh memory of Mina and how we met that was so clear. No song could be heard on a radio that’s turned off but I felt songs singing inside of me. Like a love song that you sincerely hear but has no tune, it swayed me to music I never knew existed. It was the simple details on how we became friends, and on how she touched my life in a way I may never forget.
I wrote a single word on my diary that day – Mina. Never mind that she was twenty-three and I was barely thirteen years old. That word contained the truth of my coming to adolescence. It welcomed me to a world where some things could be a lie, yet everything could have a purpose. If what I felt wasn’t love, then I don’t know what I’d call it. You just never forget your first
Last Entry
XII
I got inside our house using the window of my room. Pretending that nothing happened, I stayed in bed waiting for the morning. I went down when breakfast was being served. I saw my mom and my sister sitting at the breakfast table. My mother looked at me both happy and angry. She did not say a word though. My sister welcomed me with her smile.
I heard my father complaining about something while preparing for work. He got out of their room and saw me. He just nodded, signifying he’ll talk to me later. Just as he was about to sit down, I don’t know who started it but my parents started to argue about something.
Instinctively, I got my diary from my lap and set it on the table for them to see. My sister did the same. We were both looking at them. I could see tears lining up on my sister’s face. I tried not to cry and gave my parents an intent look.
My dad got silent. My mom looked at us and nodded that they understood.
They both stood up. They went to the veranda. There, they talked. Pretending to eat, I saw both of them explain things to one another. My mother cried. It was when I saw my father held her hand that I stood up and went to my room.
XIII
On my bed, I got a ballpen and opened my diary. I just have to talk with someone. I thought about the days that transpired. I saw the faces of my sister, my mom, and my dad flash before my eyes. I knew that everything’s gonna be fine. Hell, maybe this is part of being a family.
Among the thoughts that were my flashbacks on that instant, it was the fresh memory of Mina and how we met that was so clear. No song could be heard on a radio that’s turned off but I felt songs singing inside of me. Like a love song that you sincerely hear but has no tune, it swayed me to music I never knew existed. It was the simple details on how we became friends, and on how she touched my life in a way I may never forget.
I wrote a single word on my diary that day – Mina. Never mind that she was twenty-three and I was barely thirteen years old. That word contained the truth of my coming to adolescence. It welcomed me to a world where some things could be a lie, yet everything could have a purpose. If what I felt wasn’t love, then I don’t know what I’d call it. You just never forget your first
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