Room Of Three Mats, Part II

Interior Spaces

Everything you can imagine is real. - Pablo Picasso

At exactly 8 pm, the radio is turned on. In curious expectation, we crane our neck, some of us embracing a pillow to our knees. A voice comes like a serrated edge in the silence of the room. DZBB Super Radyo presents...

We wait for the ominous fanfare. The announcer lets out the breath he has been holding, then continues dramatically - The stories of Lola Basyang!

A wind has come up. No one is talking.

Noong.Unang.Panahon. Lola Basyang starts to speak through clenched teeth, coming to a full stop after each word. Once.Upon.A.Time. Her garrulous voice complements the scraping of the alagao branches against the house. 

Tonight, the story is that of a half-man, half-horse. A tikbalang monster! we say, mesmerized. The air is brittle with silence as we cower in fear, dry-mouthed. 

Lips curled in a sneer, it comes galloping with pounding hoofbeats in search of human prey. In his basket, frail women, already captured, peek furtively. Others, still on the ground, are running, but it is like being in a wet bog, their every step an effort. They're calling for help with fluttering voices, Saklolo! 

What's going to happen? we ask breathlessly, swallowing hard. We try to catch our breath and slow our hearts thundering in panic. 

Lola Basyang weaves the story on and on until the moon falls between the rooftops. On nights like this, it is said that the gods are asleep. We keep hoping they've changed their schedule this year and are awake, worrying about the children.

Then comes out the winged goddess. Serena! we say with a relieved grin. She battles the tikbalang. The warfare lights up the skies. The dreaded enemy is defeated, and the prisoners set free. We draw a deep breath and slowly exhale simultaneously.

Tune in tomorrow for another adventure in...

The stories of Lola Basyang!

The last notes of the program's musical theme hang in the air, as if God were saying an Amen.

Tulog na, Mum's voice drifts, enjoining us to sleep, as the radio dial is clicked off. We sound out a peal of disappointed groans as the fluorescent light is dimmed. We reluctantly pull down the side flaps of the mosquito nets and lie down. But in the half-light, we chatter determinedly on.

On the First Mat, Third Brother and I continue to talk in hushed tones. He pulls out a matchbox filled with 'piglet' bugs. No, let's not play with those, I protest, fearing they may crawl out. Basa na lang tayo. Let's just read, I suggest in a conspiratorial whisper.  I pull a Pilipino komiks from behind my shorts pocket and start reading to him, squinting, our heads side by side.

On the Second Mat, we can hear raucous movements. Eldest Brother is tickling Second Brother. The latter protests, emitting a sharp, strained laugh, Stop it! I afterward hear them comparing shooter marbles from the small drawstring bag that they each carry around like a prized possession.

On the Third Mat, Fourth Brother wails for Mummie to lie down with him. I have to stay with Fifth Baby Brother, she answers from across the only bed in the adjacent room. Shh... Dadee shushes him, neatly tucking net flaps underneath. I'm right here with you, he says in a voice that sounds sleepy.

The secret whispers, private laughter, the babbling continue for a while, then fade away. Only a tranquil half-moon lights the dark sky. We're snuggled on the mats and sheltered under mosquito nets, surrounded by the prayers of the saints, safe from monsters hovering in the night.

Room Of Three Mats, Part I

Interior Spaces

This series recreates the sleeping areas in the house I grew up in on Fountain Street. The house still stands, remodeled, and has become Fourth Brother's residence in his adult years. In this entry, I'm ten years old, eldest of six siblings at the time. Last Brother, the final one in the brood, will be born two years after. 

The living room is small and sparse. 

Narra hardwood chairs with cane-covered seats and a glass-topped table are on its central space. On a floating shelf on the right wall is a Philcoa radio. On the adjacent wall are a small bookcase and a glass estante for showcasing a plate service inherited from Lola Maria. The latter's lower pane is cracked and badly mended with tape. The top-half of the opposite wall consists of a partition with shelves on which climbing philodendron in water-filled glass bottles thrive indoors year-round without complaint. 

Dadee has just gulped a cup of his after-dinner tsaa with an embarrassing slurp. Six children have been fed, a few curses said, hurts nurtured, dishes put away, and personal libations completed. 

Thereafter, the transformation begins. The living room becomes the 'Room Of Three Mats.' 

After shoving table and chairs aside, Dadee orders jovially, Get the mats, will you? Eldest Brother dutifully assents with a prim nod over his shoulder. He retrieves the rolled woven banig standing like sentinels from the corner of the room. With appropriate flourish, Second Brother and he spread them out - one, two, three! - on the wood floor, each arrowing toward the radio.

Mum offers lumpy pillows like a prize. Please put this blanket by Fourth Brother, she says softly to me. It smells like him.

Mosquito nets, looking like rectangular parachutes, are held up on each of their four corners. With pointy lips toward a nail on the wall, Eldest Brother tells Third Brother, articulating with precision, Hang this over there.

The netted sides are afterward temporarily rolled up, forming canopies. Underneath, in small groups on the mat, we sit like spectators in a theatre box or figures around a campfire about to reenact some ancient, complex ritual.

Is it time yet? we ask all at once, exchanging small anxious glances. Soon, Dadee says, with an airy wave of the hand. I fold my arms, leaning against him.

Then, we wait for the magic to begin. 

(To be continued)

Water Puppets

It's Show Time!

I'm viewing the stage expectantly.

Slits of illumination flicker out, casting odd beams through cracks between the boards of the simple structure of wood, bamboo and cloth standing in the midst of what looks like a rice paddy submerged with water. Beyond the pale circles of dim lighting, the room remains dark and obscure. 

Presently, colored floodlights focus center stage. They bathe the surface of the liquid foreground making it shine like a newly-varnished painting. Vocal pyrotechnics and a cacophony of drums, gongs, cymbals and bells from musicians seated on either side of the pool fill the air. 

The show has begun at the Thanglong Water Puppet Theatre in Ha Noi.

In a flush of anticipation, I crane my neck to look at the dazzling scenery that unfolds. The water begins to tremble with jerky movements from disparate wooden characters awash in vivid magenta, pink, purple, and gold.

It's all color and shape, seemingly caught in a pool of glass. In this 800-year-old form of folk entertainment, puppets are controlled using long bamboo rods and string mechanisms hidden beneath the water's surface. The apparatus extends behind the stage curtain to the unseen puppeteers who stand in waist-deep water.  

I exhale a long, slow breath as my eyes bug out at the strange sight. Radiance looking like twinkling diamonds shines upon the hand-carved puppets. The women, in bright head scarves, are working on the farm. The hay stacked beyond is an eerie hump in the darkness. In the distance, a soft-eyed water buffalo pulls a plow. 

Dozens of sampan boats, small and large and painted in a variety of bright hues, shortly bob in unison like a chorus line on the water. My eyes narrowing, I look up at the illumination emanating from the intricately-sculpted wooden house in the background, creating an eerie glow against the soft current.

An ensuing scenery unfolds a mythical earthly paradise populated with gods and demigods and other outlandish creatures. Vietnam's so-called 'descendants of the dragon fairy' fight with tigers, dance with umbrellas, and court with pan-pipes even as they trample huge waves of the Eastern Sea underfoot.

I puff out my lips, continuing to watch with my head tilted at an angle. My eyes are taking in so much that is not even there.

Like so many water bugs, various other character puppets ranging in height from 12 to 40 inches and weighing up to 30 pounds each, are either coming or going. A vendor touts his wares. A bean-curd maker pushes a wooden cart. My gaze sharpens as I watch the life-sized marionettes bouncing gently in the water, as if touched by soft, invisible breaths - rising and falling. Spotlights shine on them, lighting them up like at Christmastime.

The performance is dreamlike, but delightful in its detail. From a distance, it looks like the gleam of a string of watercolors dancing in a foggy mist.

The water sloshes as the puppeteers come out in the end to take a dripping bow. I wait a beat, arch my eyebrow, then continue in almost a squeal.  

Người đi ám sát. Bravo!

In Summer!

It's Show Time!

Sometimes I like to close my eyes and imagine 

What it’ll be like when summer does come. 

Bees’ll buzz, kids’ll blow dandelion fuzz. - Song lyrics, In Summer!

It's Olaf the Snowman's fantasy song from Disney's 2013 animated feature film Frozen.

Yes, I've watched the movie and find it delightful. Totally. The lyrics are nimble and the simple premise stays fresh. It's like getting a warm hug from your favorite snowman.

Thinking of Olaf, the friendliest snowman in Arendelle, I can envision him. Drink in hand, he's relaxing in the lovely sun, its long yellow rays lying like honey on the sand. He's getting gorgeously tanned. The wind from the sea has stayed away, and the air that usually feels like nothing wraps itself around him, thick and warm.

Just imagine how much cooler I’ll be. In summer! he croons. 

For sure, there is something darkly comical and sad about Olaf's naivete. As Kristoff, the Sami iceman tells him, I’m guessing you don’t have much experience with heat. 

But youthful optimism makes Olaf’s weather delusion sound and look deliciously delirious. I can hear him murmuring back, a smile of wonder breaking over his face.

Winter’s a good time to stay in and cuddle, 

but put me in summer and I’ll be a happy snowman! 

He continues to grunt a laugh, as he sings:

Da da… Da doo! A bah bah ba baba boo! In summer!

Kristoff thinks of letting Olaf know that every single thing that he dreams of doing will only make him melt faster, but Anna stops him, Don’t you dare!

I agree with Anna. Let Olaf sing of summer's joy. I'm unperturbed, for I have a sneaking suspicion that despite the expected demise, he's not ending up a goner. I can imagine him giving me a conspiratorial wink, as we wait and see...

... In winter!

To that I say, Máistte! Cheers!

Hot Diggity Dog!

It's Show Time!

This Father's Day, I fondly remember one of Dadee's creative ventures.

It is twilight, my favorite time of day. I call it the magic hour. Barefoot, hair still damp from our baths, we run to the living room sala for one last moment of play.

Tonight, Dadee has a surprise for us. 

Seated on the rattan sofa, we're stretching our neck to have a good view of his latest innovative project. I recognize the box - it's Uncle Greg's empty Elpo shoebox. Inside is a four-inch wide strip of white bond paper that is rolled around a longer, thin wood spindle. The outer edges of the 'film holder' protrude through a hole on the side of the box so they can be cranked. On the exposed face of the paper, I can see several images drawn in pairs that only minimally differ from each other. 

With a grin spreading across his features, Dadee begins to move the reel in rapid succession, mimicking the illusion of motion and change. It is a pre-cinema animation of sorts using a hand-crafted movie 'projection' system.

Let me see, First Brother squeaks. But it's my turn, I counter, peeking from behind Second Brother who's sitted on my lap. 

We're jockeying for the most strategic position in front of the miniscule carton viewer. Then, our eyes widen. Mickey Mouse! 

We laugh, our brows arched in delight. We know him by sight because of his red shorts with the two big buttons on the front, large yellow shoes, and white gloves that contrast with his black hands and body. He's at the helm, rhythmically changing the angle of the rudder to change the direction of the ship.

Besides being the projectionist, Dadee also voices Mickey. Hot diggity dog! he says in emulation of the latter's famous little falsetto and high-pitched voice. First Brother giggles. The excitement and enjoyment are contagious. 

Dadee gives us a small appreciative nod. Then, he continues with Mickey off-handedly saying, Oh, boy! We all bark a laugh. Make him say that again, Second Brother squeals. He gets off on the floor and tries to look for the cartoon character behind the table. We all chuckle.

I'm seated closer now, elbows on the table, chin resting in my upturned palms, and staring at the show unfolding. This is what Dadee does best. He makes even the smallest moments feel larger than life.

I follow Mickey's repeated antics with my eyes. He seems to have come alive, romping around within the narrow confines of a shoebox.

I don't believe we have ever smiled so much in our life. We applaud the show.

Sige pa! Encore! 

Tango

It's Show Time!

The afternoon is clear and bright with thin, wispy clouds high in the sky in San Telmo, one of the oldest public areas in Buenos Aires.

Cutting across wide boulevards and cobblestone alleys, we walk into the center of town toward Plaza Dorrego for the milonga, an event where tango is danced.

The street is pulsing with life, upbeat, curiously light. We find ourselves transported along the walkway, hemmed in on all sides by a chattering crowd. People are swarming, running in and out and making so much noise. Children are peering out the windows, craning their necks from rooftops and balconies. Old folks are hovering around the local pigeon community, while bejeweled ladies stroll by sidewalk cafes. The carnival atmosphere is amplified by an inflating air of expectation.

We cross the avenida briskly and at a diagonal to avoid a group of Porteños arguing outside a panaderia bakery. Presently, we join the throng milling around and manage a good spot for watching the famous social dance.

As an enterprising couple take their position on the hardwood floor that has been set on the road, a murmur of excitement shoots through. There is a hush, a kind of dense silence that can only come from an audience that is watching intently, as the orquesta tipica guitar ensemble begins a few exploratory notes.

I take a deep breath, enjoying the wonder of it all.

They start the caminar, walking around the perimeter of the small square area, moving appropriately to the emotion and speed of the rhythmic, hypnotic sound of the all-engulfing music. It is something akin to a slow promenade. They are holding each other tightly and are effortlessly turning in cadence, and stepping and gliding as if they were one.

I stare open-mouthed, watching and grinning oddly.

They are so beautiful, this couple. Their movement is strangely intimate. It is soft, curvaceous, feminine. They keep their feet close to the floor, ankles and knees brushing as one leg passes the other. As they strut, their shadows join along the cobbled street.

Then the air begins to awaken with an extravagance of energy as the tempo begins to vibrate with sharpness.  I see the dancers now promptly entwined in a close embrace, chest-to-chest. Their connection is almost eerie, a bond that is so strong that it feels like a tidal pull. They look like they're enjoying a whispered conversation within the intimate space between them, as if the whole world had been shut off. Afterward, the male leads his partner through a perfectly executed spin, followed almost immediately by a second.

I stand in fascination, my eyes shining with pleasure as they dip and twirl.

The applause rises up like clouds of dust. The air itself seems enchanted. Miniscule particles drift on unseen currents, glittering in the late afternoon sun that's streaming through the thoroughfare. I can swoop my hand through the breeze, and they will frolic in response - fairy dust, gold motes, swirling snippets of stars.

I step forward and wait for them to part for me, opening a path onto the arrogant beauty and bustle and bravado of the city that cavorts proudly in the streets.

¡Olé!

Shanghai Acrobats

It's Show Time!

A rousing cheer fills the room as the stunning acrobatic extravaganza unfolds in the Shanghai Center Theatre in China.

For starters, a stylish female juggler holds in each hand five rods with twirling plates on top. Presently, she is joined by another so they are perched head on head. No one in the audience is moving. The upturned lady does a mirror-image of the twirling plates. They're not going to crash the plates. I bite my lip and shift on my feet, trying to sound lighthearted. We all let out a long breath when the segment ends without a hitch.

Next, a man in pink silk pajamas adroitly sets an upturned chair on his head, on top of which is placed a larger upended table. On each of the table's two side legs are positioned another couple of tables. The outermost legs of the now-topmost tables remain hanging in the air. 

I anxiously gaze up at the lithe young girl who then proceeds to do a hand stand on the two inner edges of the table. Someone in the audience is hissing. The rest watch in silence, as if awaiting a miracle or permission to exhale again. 

The next act called 'Pyramid of Chairs' is an amazing display of control and precision by which at least ten wooden chairs are set, one on top of another, each interspersed by an equal number of tumbling artists holding on to the back railing and the chair overhead, respectively. I'm feeling oddly nervous. There must be a fascination for seats in the culture, I tell myself, even as my heart thuds. 

The acts are sometimes so scary and seem dangerous that no one in the audience is moving.   

We gasp in the splendor of 'Autumn Day' and swallow, then let it out on a shuddering gulp with 'Rosy Clouds.' We burst in grateful applause at the agility of the 'Juggler In The Bar.' At times, it feels almost uncomfortable to watch as the performers bend their backs in abnormal directions. My arms folded and my jaw set, I'm squirming in my seat, but cannot take my eyes off of the fascinating performance. 

Just when we think the repertoire of exciting acts has been depleted, the climactic elaborate production of the 'Ball of Death' ensues with the sound of motorcycle engines revving behind the curtain. When at least fifteen cyclists come on stage, I know. I have seen this act on TV and in movies, but I've never witnessed it in real life.

As they enter the cage of death and whiz around, up and down at lightning fast speeds, something has risen in my chest, a shudder escaping me. A horrible unfamiliar choking sensation briefly fills me with panic. My heart is trembling like a leaf in the wind. I watch and wait, holding my own hands wound together in a knot as the riders crisscross back and forth in defiance of gravity. 

Only when they come out of their enclosure and take a final ride around the stage do I ease off from the sensory overload. As the vibrantly costumed dancers take off to glory, I'm thinking how this has been the strangest and most magical night of my life - a gift of dizzy exhilaration with a balanced blend of artistry, elegance, power, and muscular strength.

I try to calm my mind and wait until I'm sure that I can breathe normally.

布拉沃
Bù lā wò. Bravo!