O C T O B E R
What a time
to celebrate -
the year's
last
loveliest smile.*
to celebrate -
the year's
last
loveliest smile.*
------------------------------------------------------
* William Cullen-Bryant
Saturday, October 28, 2017
Saturday, October 21, 2017
Dances With Miss Weather
October Party
Shall we dance
They begin with a particularly vivacious polka. At the head of line dancers is Miss Weather, traipsing in hop-step-close-step to the lively bohemian dance. She soars and dips at the same instant, seemingly weightless.
She then begins to combine slow steps and quick steps. Slow, slow, quick, quick to a rather fast but very smooth foxtrot. She is light on her feet, her dress flowing around her ankles. She is spinning through the crowd like a brilliant flame. Others join her, swooping around the dance floor in a quick and graceful two-step: hands joined together, first pointed toward the ceiling, than toward the floor.
As the tempo slows down into a graceful waltz, partners cling to each other in the intimacy of an embrace.
Will you please do me the honor? Quaking Aspen proffers a hand to Crimson Maple. He leads her gently to the dance floor. They glide through as though they exist only in the clinging circle they have made, parting the other dancers like water.
Presently, the music segues into a raucous latin beat. Everyone begins to rhumba happily, laughing and shaking their bodies. Then, in catchy jitterbug steps, the revelers begin swinging and rock and rolling.
The quick and energetic boogie-woogie follows. Party celebrants are shimmying. To the next tune, they emulate the Moon Walk, backward, on tiptoe.
Thereafter, some break into a Bollywood routine and spread up and down the edges of the dance floor, picking from the audience to join them in their gyrations. The music begins to reach its crescendo. People spin around until the floor seems to threaten to come away from their feet.
The sensual and energetic salsa movement becomes a show-stopper next, only to be challenged by singing, guitar-playing, and hand claps that accompany the magical and passionate flamenco.
Then, mambo time. Ooh, let's mambo, Wild Cherry hisses to Golden Pomegranate in a fierce whisper. Excuse us, won't you? The couple astonish fellow dancers with flirtatious, sensual rock and side steps, kicking and flicking their feet, and shaking their hips.
They scurry off, though, as Dogwood gives a warning. Move away, please. He's leading a conga line around the room, twitching like he's got fleas.
Crowded onto the dance floor, everyone gyrates, sways, and frolics with abandon into the wee hours of the October sky. Revelers are whisked on the dance floor to be twirled. And promenaded. And dipped. And spun.
Merrymakers at the party break into spontaneous dance.
Shall we dance
On a bright cloud of music, shall we fly?
They begin with a particularly vivacious polka. At the head of line dancers is Miss Weather, traipsing in hop-step-close-step to the lively bohemian dance. She soars and dips at the same instant, seemingly weightless.
She then begins to combine slow steps and quick steps. Slow, slow, quick, quick to a rather fast but very smooth foxtrot. She is light on her feet, her dress flowing around her ankles. She is spinning through the crowd like a brilliant flame. Others join her, swooping around the dance floor in a quick and graceful two-step: hands joined together, first pointed toward the ceiling, than toward the floor.
As the tempo slows down into a graceful waltz, partners cling to each other in the intimacy of an embrace.
Will you please do me the honor? Quaking Aspen proffers a hand to Crimson Maple. He leads her gently to the dance floor. They glide through as though they exist only in the clinging circle they have made, parting the other dancers like water.
Presently, the music segues into a raucous latin beat. Everyone begins to rhumba happily, laughing and shaking their bodies. Then, in catchy jitterbug steps, the revelers begin swinging and rock and rolling.
The quick and energetic boogie-woogie follows. Party celebrants are shimmying. To the next tune, they emulate the Moon Walk, backward, on tiptoe.
Thereafter, some break into a Bollywood routine and spread up and down the edges of the dance floor, picking from the audience to join them in their gyrations. The music begins to reach its crescendo. People spin around until the floor seems to threaten to come away from their feet.
The sensual and energetic salsa movement becomes a show-stopper next, only to be challenged by singing, guitar-playing, and hand claps that accompany the magical and passionate flamenco.
Then, mambo time. Ooh, let's mambo, Wild Cherry hisses to Golden Pomegranate in a fierce whisper. Excuse us, won't you? The couple astonish fellow dancers with flirtatious, sensual rock and side steps, kicking and flicking their feet, and shaking their hips.
They scurry off, though, as Dogwood gives a warning. Move away, please. He's leading a conga line around the room, twitching like he's got fleas.
Crowded onto the dance floor, everyone gyrates, sways, and frolics with abandon into the wee hours of the October sky. Revelers are whisked on the dance floor to be twirled. And promenaded. And dipped. And spun.
One, two, three, and...
One, two, three, and...
Saturday, October 14, 2017
Professor Wind's Band
October Party
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Maestro taps his baton.
The harmony of sounds commences with the beautiful, quiet, and soul-calming puff of air that mimics the comforting slowdown of the year. It has a kind of looseness in it, nothing to steer or slow it down.
Tropical Easterlies blowing with consistent, steady strength floats in with a slow, lyrical movement. They comb gently through the American beautyberry branches, making a long whispering sound, as though trading secrets with the sweetgum tree.
Gentle Gust drifts in from the northeast. Like a sigh, soft morning Whiff rushes up from the housetops, a calming interlude before the excitement of the outer movements.
The subtle voices of time and the gentle Currents blowing over the clean, tame earth slow down the rhythm to a pastoral. Then follows Breeze, warm and dry. It glides by in the calm, cloudless weather with a melody of wide intervals.
As Mountain Breeze slides its cold air from mountain to the valley, the tempo changes into a forceful, syncopated rhythm.
Then, Periodic Winds swirl around, wailing like a lost child with irregular, abrupt harmonic changes. In counterpoint, Land, Sea, Mountain and Valley Breezes howl in terraced dynamics.
The winds blow in synchronicity. All themes sound up concurrently into a harmonious combination of elements. The party has begun.
A symphony of sounds, beat, and music enjoins all, Shall we dance?
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.
Maestro taps his baton.
The harmony of sounds commences with the beautiful, quiet, and soul-calming puff of air that mimics the comforting slowdown of the year. It has a kind of looseness in it, nothing to steer or slow it down.
Tropical Easterlies blowing with consistent, steady strength floats in with a slow, lyrical movement. They comb gently through the American beautyberry branches, making a long whispering sound, as though trading secrets with the sweetgum tree.
Gentle Gust drifts in from the northeast. Like a sigh, soft morning Whiff rushes up from the housetops, a calming interlude before the excitement of the outer movements.
The subtle voices of time and the gentle Currents blowing over the clean, tame earth slow down the rhythm to a pastoral. Then follows Breeze, warm and dry. It glides by in the calm, cloudless weather with a melody of wide intervals.
As Mountain Breeze slides its cold air from mountain to the valley, the tempo changes into a forceful, syncopated rhythm.
Then, Periodic Winds swirl around, wailing like a lost child with irregular, abrupt harmonic changes. In counterpoint, Land, Sea, Mountain and Valley Breezes howl in terraced dynamics.
The winds blow in synchronicity. All themes sound up concurrently into a harmonious combination of elements. The party has begun.
A symphony of sounds, beat, and music enjoins all, Shall we dance?
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
Leaves By Hundreds
October Party
The guests, painted leaves and brightly-tinted trees of all kinds, have arrived. The air is alive with chatter and laughter.
Birch, golden as sunshine, is an early standout. Royal crimson Maple, gorgeous in shades of red, orange and yellow, follows soon after.
Wild Cherry, in the loveliest shades of dark red and bronze green, saunters through the raucous crowd. Tagging along is Quaking Aspen which dazzles with its golden leaves, shimmering as they flutter in even the slightest breeze.
Not to be outshone, Fragrant Witch Hazel glows with its yellow leaves and mophead-shaped flowers.
All eyes are now on Pomegranate's bright golden leaves, arriving hand in hand with Blueberry's variegated leaves of yellow, orange, and wine red. As well, Red-Twig Dogwood's reddish-purple leaves lend a welcome flash of regal, passionate color, lighting the way for an exciting air of romance and festivity.
The gala parade continues.
Guests have come like moths among the whisperings and the spiked apple cider cocktail, flirting in a sea of fiery red and yellow autumn foliage.
Maestro, music please. Let's kick off the revelry!
The leaves by hundreds came -
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The guests, painted leaves and brightly-tinted trees of all kinds, have arrived. The air is alive with chatter and laughter.
Birch, golden as sunshine, is an early standout. Royal crimson Maple, gorgeous in shades of red, orange and yellow, follows soon after.
Wild Cherry, in the loveliest shades of dark red and bronze green, saunters through the raucous crowd. Tagging along is Quaking Aspen which dazzles with its golden leaves, shimmering as they flutter in even the slightest breeze.
Not to be outshone, Fragrant Witch Hazel glows with its yellow leaves and mophead-shaped flowers.
All eyes are now on Pomegranate's bright golden leaves, arriving hand in hand with Blueberry's variegated leaves of yellow, orange, and wine red. As well, Red-Twig Dogwood's reddish-purple leaves lend a welcome flash of regal, passionate color, lighting the way for an exciting air of romance and festivity.
The gala parade continues.
Guests have come like moths among the whisperings and the spiked apple cider cocktail, flirting in a sea of fiery red and yellow autumn foliage.
Maestro, music please. Let's kick off the revelry!
Friday, September 29, 2017
Carpet Of Sunshine
October Party
This series has been inspired by George Cooper's poem, the full text of which will be quoted in the last entry of the October series. For now, only relevant lines will preface the particular piece.
The invitation is out.
As the days of autumn get cooler,
Preparations are underway. A welcome carpet is being laid.
Ready, Sunshine?
Behind a misty cover, the eastern horizon is blooming into radiant orange promising what can very well look like a sky with three suns. A golden streak starts to break through thick white cloud, flickering through the grey-green leaves of the lavender bush.
Thereafter, a heaven-spanning vault of brilliance infuses everything with an incandescence far too bright to look at for more than an instant.
The doors are now open to welcome guests.
Won't you come?
This series has been inspired by George Cooper's poem, the full text of which will be quoted in the last entry of the October series. For now, only relevant lines will preface the particular piece.
October gave a party.
Sunshine spread a carpet, And everything was grand.
The invitation is out.
As the days of autumn get cooler,
The pleasure of your warm friendship is requested
To a FALL PARTY
Date: The entire month
Place: Wherever October is observed
Preparations are underway. A welcome carpet is being laid.
Ready, Sunshine?
Behind a misty cover, the eastern horizon is blooming into radiant orange promising what can very well look like a sky with three suns. A golden streak starts to break through thick white cloud, flickering through the grey-green leaves of the lavender bush. Thereafter, a heaven-spanning vault of brilliance infuses everything with an incandescence far too bright to look at for more than an instant.
The doors are now open to welcome guests.
Won't you come?
Saturday, September 23, 2017
Tarzan
My Guy
Quoted excerpts are from Edgar Rice Burrough's Tarzan of the Apes.
I smile broadly, relishing the sound of his name. Alexander Skarsgard. It sounds like a sigh. He's My Guy. Move over, Michael Fassbender.
Twice during the 36-hour flight back home from Bhutan, I watched The Legend of Tarzan in which he stars. Since then, I've seen the film on a library DVD many times. I'm obsessed.
From a lofty perch, the Earl of Greystoke views the village of thatched huts across the intervening plantation. His straight and perfect figure, muscled as the best of the ancient Roman gladiators, and yet with the soft and sinuous curves of a Greek god, told at a glance the wondrous combination of enormous strength with suppleness and speed.
In his savage, untutored breast, new emotions are stirring. Slaves have been captured and are being carried by a Belgian military train. He groans inwardly.
It has remained for man alone among all creatures to kill senselessly and wantonly for the mere pleasure of inflicting suffering and death, he says in a casual tone that fools no one.
Moreso, a treacherous envoy for King Leopold is scheming to capture and deliver him to an old enemy in exchange for diamonds. I'm not allowing that, Tarzan sneers in resolve.
He steps out from the shadows of the tribal village into lush, luminescent green mountains that stretch out and up for miles after hazy mile. He looks at the ground, eyes downcast, then scrunches his face in consternation. He emotionally remains remote, uninvolved - his penetrating, lucid, slightly-crossed eyes only modestly registering whatever might be on his thoughts.
Then slowly, he grimaces in disgust. Moving stealthily as a panther, he goes naked into the jungle, swinging on a vine, armed only with a jackknife.
Leering openly now, he bristles after a long pause, I am Tarzan of the Apes! His voice booms with anger. He gives a snort and a very indecorous laugh. Through clenched teeth, he says, My Mangani mother is Kala. Akut is my brother. His voice sounds like a string that's been pulled too tight. I never knew my father, my mother was an ape, he continues crisply.
He next triggers a massive stampede of wildebeest through Boma, destroying the town and distracting the soldiers. As primordial fears bubble and hiss in the depths of his opponents' soul, he bellows in a steady, controlled voice a mating call to summon the crocodiles who are stunned into obedience and devours the enemy.
Tarzan places his foot upon the neck of dead bodies rolling to the ground. He mutters, his mouth settling into a hard line. This is the house of Tarzan, the killer of beasts. Do not harm the things which are Tarzan's. Raising his eyes to the sky, he throws back his fierce young head and voices the wild and terrible cry of his people.
Thus peace reigns once more in this timeless, almost mythical virgin forest. The jungle rolls below - quiet, unmarred, a dense green canopy where Tarzan watches, where only the odd, stray sunbeam penetrates the mulchy forest floor.
No muscle-bound man can take my hand from this guy.
Ooo-wa-ooo-aaooaaooaa-ooo!
Quoted excerpts are from Edgar Rice Burrough's Tarzan of the Apes.
As a matter of opinion I think he's tops,
My opinion is he's the cream of the crop;
No muscle-bound man could take my hand from my guy.
I smile broadly, relishing the sound of his name. Alexander Skarsgard. It sounds like a sigh. He's My Guy. Move over, Michael Fassbender.
Twice during the 36-hour flight back home from Bhutan, I watched The Legend of Tarzan in which he stars. Since then, I've seen the film on a library DVD many times. I'm obsessed.
From a lofty perch, the Earl of Greystoke views the village of thatched huts across the intervening plantation. His straight and perfect figure, muscled as the best of the ancient Roman gladiators, and yet with the soft and sinuous curves of a Greek god, told at a glance the wondrous combination of enormous strength with suppleness and speed.
In his savage, untutored breast, new emotions are stirring. Slaves have been captured and are being carried by a Belgian military train. He groans inwardly.
It has remained for man alone among all creatures to kill senselessly and wantonly for the mere pleasure of inflicting suffering and death, he says in a casual tone that fools no one.
Moreso, a treacherous envoy for King Leopold is scheming to capture and deliver him to an old enemy in exchange for diamonds. I'm not allowing that, Tarzan sneers in resolve.
He steps out from the shadows of the tribal village into lush, luminescent green mountains that stretch out and up for miles after hazy mile. He looks at the ground, eyes downcast, then scrunches his face in consternation. He emotionally remains remote, uninvolved - his penetrating, lucid, slightly-crossed eyes only modestly registering whatever might be on his thoughts.
Then slowly, he grimaces in disgust. Moving stealthily as a panther, he goes naked into the jungle, swinging on a vine, armed only with a jackknife.
Leering openly now, he bristles after a long pause, I am Tarzan of the Apes! His voice booms with anger. He gives a snort and a very indecorous laugh. Through clenched teeth, he says, My Mangani mother is Kala. Akut is my brother. His voice sounds like a string that's been pulled too tight. I never knew my father, my mother was an ape, he continues crisply.
He next triggers a massive stampede of wildebeest through Boma, destroying the town and distracting the soldiers. As primordial fears bubble and hiss in the depths of his opponents' soul, he bellows in a steady, controlled voice a mating call to summon the crocodiles who are stunned into obedience and devours the enemy.
Tarzan places his foot upon the neck of dead bodies rolling to the ground. He mutters, his mouth settling into a hard line. This is the house of Tarzan, the killer of beasts. Do not harm the things which are Tarzan's. Raising his eyes to the sky, he throws back his fierce young head and voices the wild and terrible cry of his people.
Thus peace reigns once more in this timeless, almost mythical virgin forest. The jungle rolls below - quiet, unmarred, a dense green canopy where Tarzan watches, where only the odd, stray sunbeam penetrates the mulchy forest floor.
No muscle-bound man can take my hand from this guy.
Ooo-wa-ooo-aaooaaooaa-ooo!
Saturday, September 16, 2017
Tisoy
My Guy
This piece has been written in a spirit lightly akin to that of John Grogan's Marley and Me.
Tisoy means mestizo. Kangkong, or water spinach, is a leafy vegetable rich in vitamins and minerals that is usually found in Asian cuisine.
He's really goofy when it comes to sounds like those from the thundering Marikina bus that plies Fountain Street. I'm sorry, it's just like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, isn't it? I console him with controlled poise as he races around and jumps.
But loony takes on a heightened depth during a thunderstorm over which he has the deepest neurosis. It's not the end of the world, Tisoy, I tell him in a voice as neutral as I can manage without being critical. He continues to run around in circles indicating that he hasn't understood me. It's a Day of Tribulation! he seems to say, his lips tightened in a hard line. With urgency, he goes on to shred into the tiniest pieces any biteable fragment that stands in the way while he awaits the final judgment of the wicked.
His favorite spot is the narrow canal between the back garden and Aling Cora's house where he goes wild frantically splashing in its murky water. Ay, naku! Look how muddy you are, I exclaim indignantly while washing the caked dirt off his back. He just looks at me with heart-melting eyes that invoke the look of eternal puppyhood.
Tisoy lives to eat. He is the archetype of someone who can push aside the most desolate circumstance by the redeeming smell of food. At mealtime, his face brightens upon seeing his ration of adobo bits mixed with boiled rice and kangkong being doled out.
But maybe feeling that he's not being fed enough, Tisoy snatches every opportunity to snag any edible item dangling from Youngest Brother's hand. He wolfs it down, then pants with a dopey grin, looking dumb as algae. I cross my arms. Maybe, I should have called you Bandido. Bandit! I try to scold him, sounding genuinely horrified. He responds with an anemic nod, then nonchalantly proceeds to lop lustily at the water, sloshing little tidal waves over the side of his sardine bowl, then wipes his mouth on my clothes. I shake my head, Such an unremorseful thief!
After a repast, we pad quietly out of the room, supremely satisfied, and go out into the bright sun. We look at the sky which is like a stage where clouds have formed characters, morphed into different shapes drifting toward each other. I tell him softly, It feels like a faultless day.
As I scratch his tummy in fondness, I see a brainless, happy smile lifting the corners of his mouth as if he had just lain down on a warm beach after a long winter.
You best be believing that I will be faithful to this guy.
Ruff!
This piece has been written in a spirit lightly akin to that of John Grogan's Marley and Me.
Tisoy means mestizo. Kangkong, or water spinach, is a leafy vegetable rich in vitamins and minerals that is usually found in Asian cuisine.
I gave my guy my word of honor to be faithful, and I'm gonna,
You best be believing I won't be deceiving my guy.
You best be believing I won't be deceiving my guy.
I fling a hopeless glance at a pair of blue eyes quizzically peering at me. Are those stilts? I cannot stifle a laugh as I see long, slender paws jutting out of a sausage-shaped body. He looks like a hairless albino. He wiggles and yelps with sunny exuberance as I reach out for him. He seems empty-headed and loopy. You have such sharp teeth for a puppy, I remark, my voice shrill, as he gnaws on my fingers. He carefully inspects my ankles with his nose.
You're going to be My Guy, I tell him quietly with a fluttering motion of my hand. I'll call you Tisoy. I twitch the corners of my mouth as I officially baptize him with a mock sprinkling of holy water. He seems unimpressed. He yawns and crawls back beneath the table.
I clear my throat and sometimes call him Soyti, the syllables of his name backwards. He responds by opening his eyes in delightful recognition, stretching, and rolling on his back, paws in the air. Not a numbskull, after all.
He's really goofy when it comes to sounds like those from the thundering Marikina bus that plies Fountain Street. I'm sorry, it's just like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, isn't it? I console him with controlled poise as he races around and jumps.
But loony takes on a heightened depth during a thunderstorm over which he has the deepest neurosis. It's not the end of the world, Tisoy, I tell him in a voice as neutral as I can manage without being critical. He continues to run around in circles indicating that he hasn't understood me. It's a Day of Tribulation! he seems to say, his lips tightened in a hard line. With urgency, he goes on to shred into the tiniest pieces any biteable fragment that stands in the way while he awaits the final judgment of the wicked.
His favorite spot is the narrow canal between the back garden and Aling Cora's house where he goes wild frantically splashing in its murky water. Ay, naku! Look how muddy you are, I exclaim indignantly while washing the caked dirt off his back. He just looks at me with heart-melting eyes that invoke the look of eternal puppyhood.
Tisoy lives to eat. He is the archetype of someone who can push aside the most desolate circumstance by the redeeming smell of food. At mealtime, his face brightens upon seeing his ration of adobo bits mixed with boiled rice and kangkong being doled out.
But maybe feeling that he's not being fed enough, Tisoy snatches every opportunity to snag any edible item dangling from Youngest Brother's hand. He wolfs it down, then pants with a dopey grin, looking dumb as algae. I cross my arms. Maybe, I should have called you Bandido. Bandit! I try to scold him, sounding genuinely horrified. He responds with an anemic nod, then nonchalantly proceeds to lop lustily at the water, sloshing little tidal waves over the side of his sardine bowl, then wipes his mouth on my clothes. I shake my head, Such an unremorseful thief!
After a repast, we pad quietly out of the room, supremely satisfied, and go out into the bright sun. We look at the sky which is like a stage where clouds have formed characters, morphed into different shapes drifting toward each other. I tell him softly, It feels like a faultless day.
You best be believing that I will be faithful to this guy.
Ruff!
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