A DROWNING CHRISTMAS IN SATUN, THAILAND
By: Maria Charisma P. Concepcion (Christined by Fr. Tabada, labored by Dr. Magpantay and Perla Apostol, Wombed by Mr. and Mrs. Gauttier and Delia Concepcion. All from the rustic boondocks of a town called Magpet, Cotabato).

I never expected that the spirit of Christmas should be the absence of gifts and frills.

I had nonetheless developed sensory experiences of several flashbacks of memories that had spanned celluloid masteries that had been rightfully earned among the exponential buffets only fit for the brave, the humble, the creative and the unselfish granting of self to the universal world.

That it shall be called superior is the understatement of the century. All works of the highest order must always remain anonymous and they travel through time capsules in graded variations and improvements, unfettered by technology, immune to disasters, numb to taunts, courageous amid any catastrophe.

I was invited for a fellowship gathering by the local church here in Yala, Thailand for a three-day Christmas event of bible talks and meditation.

I was, instead, brought to works of art that are forever evolving. To call it massive is almost a cough to the throat. It is a whole continent of possible dreams and experience.  I told a fellow gatherer:

"Given time, this should become greater than the Great Walls Of China or San Francisco's Golden Gate."  My inputs had been properly recorded, with waterfalls as the finishing touch.

The possibilities are all there: I had experienced the gathering of doing everything in a grandiose but classic manner when I was a child: food, clothing, cutlery, artwork, plants.  The delicate and fine details kept on haunting me lately; ripe at 44 years as a woman of boiling mythical realizations, still undaunting and excessively hopeful. This is a field of dreams becoming weird realities for huge and big visionaries  like myself.

I have seen finer ornamental grass in the past but nothing prepared me for the crawling of ground ferns that had welcomed me.

These are the fine ground grass of my childhood with its giant eggplants, melons, garlic, fish, onions and vegetables.  I never knew the uses of cascading grass until I saw that they were hung beside resort huts like the hanging gardens of Babylon in clay pots and are made ornaments to magnify and illuminate the Universe.  I had made the water sprinkle like an ocean of fountains which had brought smiles to the visitors in wheelchair wearing perfectly crafted shoes and classically sewed socks.

Suntan here are lumped together like bouquets in great burst of orangey red.  The wooden benches are smiling and the uses of wood in their various varnished state appear like hardened and cut fine silk from the ranges of the Orient.  The hall is biblical like Noah's Ark and the sweetest of oranges greet the spiritual revelers at the front desk.  No registration fees are needed. All you need is a pure heart and mind to energize scriptures, improve hymns and bond with decently-minded fellows with noble missions for the World.

It is not Nirvana but a universe built by selfless and pious people.

The gist is this: Technology should mimic the natural course of nature. Roads lined up in pine trees, flourescent road lights made like the leafy ferns and must mirror the swaying ornaments in wattage glare.Alternately, a fern plant enjoys a sparkling support when lit up by lights looking like its twin.

A day before Christmas, I took the heavy current of river rapids on a plastic boat with big paddles.  I drowned and floated like a fish using a paddle.  I discarded my rower for a man who is frail and sick-looking, who was then assisted by a huge man with gigantic protein nutrients inside his body.

In rowing for the heavy torrents of water, I discovered several things: a life vest is a dud, paddles make you silly as they obscure the tree twigs and could make your boat capsize.  All you need is a brave man in front with a superior supporting cast of rowers to win in this kayyaking event.

I could not swim but took on the heavy rapids like a pebble to a stone. A beautiful young lady and his brother were the only people who were crazy enough to laugh at the currents.

Friends, ladies and gentlemen, it was easy: I simply rescued myself. I balanced myself, allowed the water to sink halfway the boat and laughed with strangers who had jumped in to join me.

Oceans never scare me; I had a five minute scare that went comical in terrible fits of heavenly misarrangements of nature and had survived. Credit the above-mentioned people for this fortitude and foresight.

When John Updike had preached in his Nobel Prize style somewhere in his book, Roger's Version, that God is a verb, not a noun, I take the mantra as a tablet of peace for my creative process.

God is indeed a verb, with steadfast apostrophes, perfect commas and eclectic semi-colons. God and his disciples usually converge in stunts that convert rather than insult, spread cheer rather than stagnate in gossip and uneventful talks.  As a scripture in the book of Romans had articulated: if your calling be teaching, teach.

I am my father's daughter and he had imprinted my words in golden covers with sash as bookmarks, with letters and paragraphs immaculately astounding.

Thank you to my family and its extended appendages, my Christmas was an eventual searching of self that had finally come into a ripening with no bacteria rottening my self-actualization.

Thank you. Satun, Thailand; thank you Bara Resort (its wooden structures would shame any upholstery outlet in an upscale hole); thank you wonderful, wonderful, wonderful people for the education on the eve of our Savior's birthday.

Unnamed Novel

By: Iris P. Concepcion

No one did notice the visual calumny except my skulled brain nestled between my two orbs: the elephant is the train.

I am __________, lone voyager to a world never been blitzkrieged by technology.  My best armory is my brain, my best skill my nervy fists, my best sight my pair of ears.

He has massive hearing anatomy: my craggy, wrinkly friend.  With two eyes on both sides of his face, he has seen both left and right vistas to my own straight, linear vision. We have never seen eye to eye as I view his elongated tusk, an arched trombone that could sniff a friend or foe from afar. His language is cavish in tubular enunciation that knows the only vowel, O.  Mine has mixed the west and the east of phonetics with no apparent periods in between.

Lately I have noticed his bony whiskers polished like immaculate porcelain as he mimics the soft, furry tigers of the wilds.  Fleas could not approach him, their diminutiveness splat frozen by his gaze.  He has never been friendly with the rest of the species in the mammalian world, preferring to pull his weight down to the ground as he shakes and arranges the dimensions of the universe.

I could not begin to understand why a man of my stature, barely reaching five feet, with ashen hair and small feet, could afford to be affectionate with a 6,600 pounder animal who remains unruffled; his tail curls but not to whip, his bottom blurs views but not to blind.

I guess our friendship started when I found myself lost in a barren field, with only a railway in sight. I sat on the ground, squatting with sprightly palm oil seedlings covering my hands and he had appeared from nowhere, like a mirage suddenly gaining a bodily weight. He too, had squatted and as I looked at the garish garland stuck in his fat neck, seemingly forlorn and abandoned, I had realized that he too, had been lost.

I had placed my plants on my feet, protecting them from worms, ineffective pesticides and typhoons.  He had discarded, funnily, his obtrusive necklace by wincing his head as it flew away, like a racquetball, to the rail.

My friend, the garland, my palm oil and I, anticipate for the train’s arrival.

                            ****************************

The State Railway of Thailand was designed in 1890s, an era bequeathed with divergent historical milestones ostensibly crossed-out and made  unmentionable in encyclopedias. This is an era when the United States population stood at a repetitive 62,622,250 million, the Mormon Church had outlawed polygamy, the first weekly comic paper, Comic Cuts was published in London and when the steak country Salisbury, Rhodesia is founded.

It is here, at this coach Number 8, where a pork noodle advertisement peeks through one of the boards as it surveys the passengers in hunger connotation where I had met __________________________. He is dark as a nightangle with prowlish eyes. I had noticed his feet, where his dead big, left toe rests, atop  his sunken slip-ons, in defying comatose phase.

I believe his age to be between 60-70 years old. Barely 4 feet in height, my cargo pants and clinging coins in my side pocket developed an urge to discover his world, with all its traces of blackened past down to his anatomical composition.

"What is your name, Sir," I had said haltingly, dipping my right hand on my pocket coins for supernatural protection.

He even barely heard me, gazing through my eye receptacles like a lost child, see-sawing between what is a carnal being who is myself, and the barren fields outside where rice granaries are absent, trees stolen and fishponds sequestered.

He, instead, took the plastic containers of rice and viands tied in rubber bands and opened them unceremoniously. The smell of curry and melancholy seeped through like weeping orchids about to get plucked. He dug his right hand unto them, eyeing me with unformed tears, judging my aberrance, my pleasantness, my cordiality.

I repeated my query, "What is your name, Sir?", aghast that I could not be heard by such a frail being with a dead toe.

He looked back to the barren fields, dewing his greyish lashes as he performed his painful and punishing, eating ritual.

‎He had choked on the viand, plausibly a pause from his chewing, and his eyes had reddened like the striking eyes’  fish in the wet market. His mouth had quivered as I saw a cod strip dangling from the corner of his clumped teeth. His sadness injures as his relentless stare bore through my hidden coins, clinging mysteriously to my right pocket like how his food had clung to his mouth. 

Stifling a cough, a rice grain ostensibly came out of his nose as he had struggled to contain his motioned, eating procedure. He had wiped it, along with a snot from the margins of his garb, still faithfully arguing with the Gods of Feasts as to why he had been singled out from the boisterous merriment of a festive, wedding banquet.

I had persisted like how a man would do when cornered to fly out from an area with wheezing bullets and massive tanks. I need his name to cast a portrait to his stature of curious diminutiveness, unspeakable anger and fulfillment deprivation.

"Sir, what is your name?" using my palms and fingers to signify the arrows between myself and himself that could yield a connotation of  identification by which to address ourselves.

He had opened his mouth then, revealing a mixture of  grinded saliva, rice and viand on a tongue purpled, short and wobbled, as he had raised carefully his trembling hand, waving it for my keep, while his head turned right to left, signifying that he could no longer mutter a letter, a word, a sentence to satisfy my frivolous query.

It was then that he had flushed out his recognizable tears, making his eyes glidier and hazier. He had allowed them to drop to his sunken cheeks, bowing his head while closing his cracked lips, wiping the weepy droplets of anguish to his palm receptacles, preserving his exposed undignity by failing to look at his solitary audience. I, who had been closely watching his ordeal, hastily performed a priestly function for souls to be identified like a chant from the hallowed grounds of secret mountains, in the  Prayers of Mourning.

I had named him Singood.

As things unfold in furling shifts of his laboriousn feeding task, I had formed what could have been his life before this __th day of _____2011, riding in coach number 8, looked over by a pig-flavored advertisement in his derelict version of Divine Chastisement.

                                                                  *************************

Singood at five years old had foreseen himself being banished from his natural habitat and surroundings.  He had gripped a frog by its neck. He was fully aware of the formed judgment of the Tableau of God's Justices that shall certainly befall him for harming an innocent creation.

He had been a pug with a few circle of friends while growing up, preferring to drag himself to the wilds.  Fairly literate that could pass off for intelligence, he had been adrift lately in chasing games with insects, of spiders and cobwebs, of flying mantis and centipedes, of lizards and ants.

He was a kid with a curious penchant to draw moths and fireflies while clipping their wings so that they could not fly.

His parents had been born poor with meager income, earning their keep by selling their backyard produce of cattle and homegrown vegetables.  He went to a public school with an airplane cemented near the gate instead of flag poles.

I am nonetheless drawn to the beauty of surroundings that could provide a mysterious setting to my imaginary story of him, this sullen, forlorn and sad creature with curry food.

Extremely disturbed by his silence, I had shifted my gaze to the open scenery of natural habitat of animals grazing the fields as what the Creator had planted them in the book of The Beginning.  The sagging breasts of cows are ready for milk squeezing, hefty and hale and sitting like ladies in prairies, waiting for their counterpart males to partake the doughs of bread, freshly baked from a bakery adorned with a figurine of a fat man sitting on top of a latrine with his butt exposed.

The ponds, replacing the barren fields earlier,  have flying fish swirling in its centrifugal space, forming circles beside the lush and green rice paddies covered in a backdrop of broccoli-like filled green mountains.  From afar, they appear to have been excised from the Book of Genesis, particularly the chapter where God had alloted seven days to put an architectural design to an infant world.

These mountains, expansive, haunting and ethereally arranged,  bespeak of an unmentionable natural wonder discovered only by the knowing eye festooned in an adventure of the visuals.  Leaves had crawled on the rail track, untouched and beholden to no one. They seemed to be surprised hitting the train wheel, perhps mistaking them for towed tree barks to be pl;aced in wooden trucks after.

Singood had lived here, this land of unending train track with its belt fastened all over Thailand, from the cold mountains of Chang-mai to the bustling city of Bangkok.  Its chugging chimneys stretch from the beautiful island of Champhon down to Khlong Chandi, Cha-am, Pran Buri, Phattalung to the crisply named place of the bread toast: Butterworth.

He had lived in Tanyong Mat, where the train station houses guards in starched, unwrinkled uniform, waving flags like men who are tasked to save historical frontiers of this protected territories to ensure them of their rightful places in atlases.

This place has evolved over the years from a sleepy enclave od small traders who had soon occupied and had given way to night, flea markets with their hand me down clothes, house wares and shoes.  Recently, it had seen incredible changes like the unruffling of leaves to brown the groundsd with chirpy noise once stepped on by rubber-soled boots.

It is autumn in this autumn-less country with men holding babies like statues.  The tots: plump, wide-eyed, anomalously healthy, dressed in kimonos, hooded swetashirts, pants, clothes and shirts, impervious to the polite surroundings of people treating the station as take-off points for airplanes.  They are, perhaps, wondering, if the wood panel by the station shall be replaced by a steel ten years from now, with happy and cartoon puppets peeking out from the rooftops.

HOW FASHION AND MAGAZINE PRINTING HAD SURVIVED IN YALA, THAILAND
By: Iris P. Concepcion

Exactly four days ago from scribbling down this aberrant note with an oblique title, I had craved for Twinkie Pops, the little quartered ice-cream fried in piping oil outside an internet-fax machine shop.  It only costs a surprising 15 baht.  My clinking spare coins can certainly afford this rare tummy indulgence, tipped to me by a woman who had learned not only English but teaching, inclusive economics, traffic management, aerophone and water resource from me.

She had been an engaging learner as I am to her. She had made me accept the importance of immunization vaccinations and health care.  All throughout our interaction, we had used the proper usage of grammar and proper tenses.  We had laughed at the paragraphs, subject of our examination, that needed to be refuted.

As I was gulping down my treat in cold mastery and sweetness then, this little nook gifted me with a cache of reading materials.  I am queer in a manner wgere a beautifully designed show or a masterfully crafted craving could make me intellectually drool.  To a certain extent, this compels me to weave words in auburn rhythm and melodious syntax whether or not I am a friend of Ralph Waldo Emerson or not.  These reading materials are eclectic and are all written in Thai language.

I took the little book of writing nuggets that had been sprawled around the childhood house by my parents: Readers' Digest. A new feature is given a visual soliloquy here: lens-based aesthetics churn out some surprises.  Colorful pictures in different make litter the pages.  I could have sworn I had missed a pulse beat upon discovering the treasures: men kissing cubs, old people striking lions' hinds, women cuddling gigantic elephants. Suddenly, I wanted to be a pet upon stumbling upon this discovery.

I sought permission to bring these pages home. Yeah, (it is a name) the kindly caretaker of the internet shop, relented.  I had promised to return the copies as soon as I am done browsing them.

Human interactions and experiences are finely shrank in these articles.

Even the glossy magazines with fashion spreads have undergone a curious lift.  Backgrounds with uninspiring wood flooring and discarded furniture are relegated to the margins and seams for the real knock-out images to emerge: dresses in wonderful cuts, models snobbing the traditional, usual poses. Their make up is different; their skin almost a tint with hues of pink glow.

These mannequins may have short-lived careers as textile endorsers but the outstanding dress exhibitors are those equipped with brightier and wider smiles.  They exude earthy, animal appeal without being overtly dramatic.  Plopped in abandoned surroundings, their frills and ruffles, in chiffon or satin, wear like acrylic paint.

I certainly know the difference now: these women make their dresses look like Louvre paintings.

Thus, I am back in this nook to reacquiant myself with the world of our design masters and supernatural faith healers, thinking of eating Twinkie Pops again, with its colorful gelatin topping and chocolate sprinkles.

Even the obscure fashion magazines survive here and I already know the reason for it: they are pieced together with only The Wonderful Heaven as their final printing press.

I mean: they are real knock-out spreads.

                                             The Blurry View Of My Notebook From The Philippines

WRITING FROM ANOTHER LAND
By: Iris P. Concepcion

"The forces of globalization have brought rapid social transformations in many parts of the world. Inter-faith dialogues and multiculturalism have become an integral part of promoting harmonious inter-community relations----especially for minority communities. The Thai Muslim community, who are the dominant minority in Thailand, are also facing similar challenges."---from "Peace of Writing, Piecing Worlds Together, A compilation of Student Essays on Thai Muslims and Social Harmony produced by the Office of Policy and Planning, Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Thailand, Sri Ayudhya Road, Bangkok. Designed and Published by Asian Integrated Media Company Limited, Surawongse Road, Bangkok. Given freely among tourist and other visa applicants at the Thai-Consulate General Embassy, Kelantan, Kota Bharu, Malaysia along with other Thai brochures. The compilation includes writing Thais who had studied in different United States universities.

When I renewed my visa requirements at the Thai Consulate General Embassy in Thailand, I had stumbled upon an array of brochures and writings about Thailand:  from the most prestigious public relations firms down to the specials made for international magazines like Time, Inc.

A compilation of essays titled "Peace of Writing, Piecing Worlds Together" stood out from among the shelf: it bears multicultural pictures of young adults in circle and the texture of print and lithograph is comely. I am always mistaken as a teacher hereabouts; it must have come from my manly blazer and slip-on sandals. The bag that I normally lug when I travel here, a Morco variety in canvass with extra large industrial zippers stitched on its sides, must have added to the clue as to my occupation and citizenship.

While I adore freely the pop intrusions of buildings and structures in my forays around this creatively rich country, I am likewise interested to know how its young people think when exposed to the outside world.  I have not met a single artist here who professes to practice his craft in professional "artistry".

I have, nonetheless, met people on the road, train, bus and taxi who had fully enriched  my capacity to think and write. My appreciation of things had looked glimmier. I have seen different colors of people and their various shapes. I could never have dug from my soul the depth of humanity's access to the universe had I been so engrossed with formulating names for boybands over bottles of cheap beer.

An elephant surprised me on a road, good-looking men in immaculate shirts hopped in trains better than Harper's cover designs, a tot in kimono dress with pink sash was carried by a burnt guy, hurrying up to climb on a train coach. These are my kind of artists.

Most importantly, I have spoken, without any language barrier, with people from all walks of life: whites, browns and yellows. I did not form any prejudice for their mahogany-skinned difference.

What specifically strikes me as exceptional in this body of writings is the way these young people had truly studied the history of their country. Some had been sent in United States universities for higher education; their probing on the local culture had definitely shifted to another gear of knowledge: elimination of bigotry for full, intellectual integration.

Instead of closing themselves up to their own group or hobby preference, these young people reached out and immediately spotted the dynamics of  these various cultural differences.

In fact, a sentence, written by Rashee Pandey, a beautiful Thai studying at Ekamai International School, correctly nailed the plight of Thai Muslims as seen from her young eyes.

She wrote: "This was a brilliant move made by the government towards the progression of juvenile Thais. Seeing the current situation, Muslims in the Southern Border Provinces (SBPs) have lower levels of educational attainment compared with their Buddhist neighbors."

She had likewise continued: "Youths in the SBPs are not given a quality education because schools are being burned down by insurgent groups."

If only we can yield the same insight from our young people in the Philippines who are immersed in other countries, they might see our country in a different light. They could attain more focus and vision for the places they had seen instead of being gulped down by the new dimensions of cross-cultural cohabitation where they could lose their sense of  identity and heritage.

Here, I am more inclined to infuse rather than diffuse, mix rather than disintegrate, blend rather than corrode.

I wish for these essays to be replicated in the Philippines, for people who had been given scholarships abroad. Create a competition pool among these young expats and provide an elbow room from where they could transplant their own identity vis-a-vis the foreign ones instead of totally adopting in thinking and creativity the culture of their adopting country.

                                                  Picture Shared In Facebook. Artist Unknown.

ON KELANTAN ORIENTATION
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I am Sirigenan Khunmikal in the Circus of Dreams, lone voyager, keeper of the train wheels.

I finally learned the meaning of nama penuh (full name), a Bahasa Malaysian term for stating your full name. This is my third visit to the southern part of Malaysia via the railway and bus, the cheaper means of reaching this place where city structures are erected to blend with the old ones without the pandemonium of cultural clashes.

I had learned the word from my front desk hotelier, Sitti (stated without a surname), a lodging inn that is only one degree higher in accommodation amenities than the regular backpackers' inn one can find inside Kota Bharu, Kelantan, Malaysia's citified area. I was asked to register with my full name, address and passport number, a requirement for guests. It proved handy when I was browsing a German Shakespeare and a French book on the desk floor: I saw a young girl, mocha-skinned with the most remarkable marble eyes. I used my newly found words to strike a conversation with the young traveller.

She answered with a big smile on her face: "Fayada."

She and her family are occupying a two-bedroom accommodation. She is bringing conveniently-bought food items from the 7-11 store beside the inn.

Kelantan is observing a two-day holiday in commemoration of Guti Sempena Hari Raya Eidel Adka when I arrive and the embassies are closed. Most of the commercial places are likewise not open for business, except for these gustatory enclaves known for its western affiliations: McDonald's, A&W. Pizza Hut, KFC and the mall, Parkson. Muslim men and women and the Chinese had filled these establishments with their bargained food items, reduced for the holidays.

Everything goes for 5.95 ringgit (50.95 baht, P50.95 Philippine peso) at McDonald's during lunchtime with a complete set, inclusive of soda and large french fries. I know that I had been triumphed when I saw the food consumers enjoying their huge hamburgers and splattered catsups in sachets. All the banks are likewise closed. People are waiting outside to encash their riches but as the guy at 7-11 had rightfully predicted:

"That can only open tomorrow," with a cheshire grin on his face as I anxiously ruminate where they can probably stay when all the hotels seem to be fully booked.

My train ride back to this city brings a lot of natural splendor, creatively grown bigger with annotations of their origins. It seems that God had placed them where they could emit melancholy, awe and satisfaction from people on board the train. I have seen the habitat of fat cows, white flying doves and carabaos on vast horizons of green fields looking like Discovery Channel subjects.

My favorite bread corner here is Kedai Kopi's Muhibah Paraiso with its luxurious M insignia, exacting from people opulent slices of cakes in spectacular make. I have never seen pastries and cakes wondrously created as these: they are covered with strawberries, kiwi, peaches and apples in large portions on top and are sprinkled with the curliest white chocolates  resembling teddy bears' fur. They are priced at 58 ringgit; fruit cocktails and strawberries de luxe spread on their icing like they had been picked from the giant branches of the wilds.

Its German forest variety, resembling our Black Forest fare in the Philippines, seems to be forlorn with its solitary cherries but the symmetry of orientation on where we place our craftsmanship has ended on this piece of dessert. These designs befit the beautiful visages of Canterburry's Fairy Tale stories.

I had laughed at one particular concoction. In addition to Disneyland  characters that had crept in the birthday cakes, Duffy Duck, Mickey Mouse and Goofy now have a companion with the new, sensational cartoon character embraced in Thailand like their King's own. From Haad Yai to Butterworth, it has become a significant face of pop importance: Angry Bird. Malaysia is embracing this flying commentator too.

Out of my fascination for these items, I am compelled to quote the French book lying in my inn.

"Mais nous, lecteurs, contrairement a eux, avons le privilege de 'etre dans la confidence de chacun...."

I never understand French but I know the meaning of these evocative words, rendering the lectures conversed and undergone, from the humidity of Mindanao plains to the aborigenic tendencies of Thailand's southern field drawls.

Inside this bustle of people in transit driving and marketing, collecting money from ATMs and other monetary hides, I saw a human aberration:  a child of unproportionate dimensions. His head weighs like a 5-kilo melon sized fruit in concave form. He is placed inside a  "cariton" (rolling, wooden carriage) with a container where people could place money, perhaps, berserked by his unnatural anatomy. In this portion of the  Earth, deformity and abnormality invite piety and donative  power.

I am starting to believe that somewhere else in that remote village overlooking the egg-shaped mall, a baby with a pigtail can realistically exist. This made me recall the Circus Town visiting my old hometown during municipal anniversaries where you are required to pay hard earned coins to watch spectacular freak shows like men with seven feet or Wonder Boys with oversized anatomical parts protruding out from bodies.

I have likewise browsed Malaysian newspapers (Panca Indera, Mingguan Malaysia and Metro Gigs) and try to emulate the diphtongs of the easy phonetics accompanying the words. I have likewise seen John Grisham titles and David  Heddles' "Pour Tout L'or Du Monde" where I extracted the above French excerpt for me to sound cosmopolitan. I do not think the other inn frontliner named Faye, a guy with a hat and fit shirt, had shuffled these titles together in this nook.

All floors at my inn have ironing boards with steamer capabilities. All wrinkles get vanished in just one press.

Only in Kelanta. This is Kelantan.

From my quick lunch grab after all these human purveying, an American (his accent is evident) passes by, carrying  food inside a plastic container. It looks appetizing and I ask him where I could get his tummy loot.

"It is in that corner. Here, you can have it," extending to me what looked originally like a chicken meat but is actually a sweetened banana when I took a bite.

It is called "turon" in the Philippines. Here, it is whitened with a pudding-like taste. He went on surveying the fields of structures and I do wonder what his comments would be on that big-headed boy wrapped in a warm blanket being paraded in public view for compassion.

I have read books by Kelantan sidewalks, with literary poetry for Grades 4 and 5 pupils. Their examination questions are punishing but entertaining. This city's Notary Public (stale)  is called Commissioner Of Oaths (exquisite). Not a bad tag for a man engaged  in authenticating  public documents and is practicing the law profession.

On my second day in this republic of wonders, I tried its Kedai Makan Ummi's restaurant where menus are rendered obsolete by the proximity of the dining tables to the kitchen. One can order almost anything without knowing the dishes' names. I simply placed my orders by pointing at the mouthwatering fares of my seatmates. Woe are the people who might get stuck on diners with poor food choices.

Luckily for me, a roasted Peking Duck with hoisin sauce (I never miss that fare: I could not afford it in the Philippines) is hoisted without any takers. I had to claim it as my order least someone would beat me to the food race. I likewise pointed at the fried rice with green leaves and meat that looked different. I was served first a fried rice with a yellow color; I politely returned it after tasting its rather sad, three granules.

I said "I want that," pointing at another seatmate with the goodlooking fried rice and shrimps in soy sauce. The chefs in the kitchen whom you could talk to in case you need variations, acceded. I waited for my rice in both bewilderment and consternation. There had been mix-ups as shakes, fruits and juices land on other tables and had to be re-arranged to their proper owners. I did not order milk tea but was still served one. I have no other choice but to drink it.

My fried rice arrived with the attendant chilis. I forgot to instruct my chef that I do not like spicy food. Nonetheless, the first spoon of rice captured my mouth like a mini volcano; it did not sting but tasted what could be the flavor of the whole Mediterranean sea. My original chef pass me off to other chefs for my proper taste buds and it is funny as hell as the food rotation seems not to know any order nor symmetry.

Finally, I collect my visa (granted without hysterics) and is glad to meet Filipinos at the Thai Embassy having their passports stamped too. They came from Quezon Province.

A Nigerian, fulfilling his visa requirements, ask me if he could tag along  as I head my way back to the main city. We compare each other's lodging amenities. I brag about my modestly priced room; he has holed up himself inside his hotel  at a steeper price and is, according to him, Facebooking all day due to the holidays. He wants to see my room; I said he could wait at the ground floor or buy drinks from 7-11 as I collect my bag. He has never seen this side of the place. I wonder why he has not gone out to enjoy the city that promises a lot of surprises with its magical spells and dark moors.

I can see from his face that he is quite flabbergasted by the immense designs of the banks (Islamic) and batik houses that easily resemble art museums.

He says this as curtailment to my own tourist advices: "You do like the big city huh?"

I reply: "I like any place where I can set foot without a bother. See that? That egg-shaped building is a mall."

Like Houdini, I show him a book I had obtained freely from the Thai Embassy titled: "Peace Of Writing, Piercing Words Together", a winners' selection of student essays on Thai Muslims and Social Harmony as we are walking. He asks for its price. I reply, one can get it without paying from the Thai embassy.

At this point, he seems to be teary-eyed for no apparent reason and when he asks me where the bus station is, I eagerly show him the way. The area is wide open as it faces the egg-shaped mall. He mutters:


"How much is the taxi fare going to Bangkok?".

I said he can go with me at the border bound for Thailand and from there, take its futuristic bus rides to Bangkok. I further implore that he could ride any  bus and that he could reach any place with its transnational destinations as he wishes.

I ask him if he likes to grab a bite at McDonald's but he begs off from my charitable offer. I advise him the rates of fare going to the Thai border. He walks away from me like he has never known the road where we had previously creased our shoes.

On my train ride back to Yala, fellow passengers include a British guy bound for Champon. It is a small island for water revellers, he says. Another one is disembarking at Chana. A young girl, a British-Malaysian, is with her mother. She has not been to London but has mentioned her place in Malaysia where McDonald's also exists. We know our rapid way back to our original destinations despite the severe and stern warnings in that station of elbows getting cracked and bags flying off from roofs like the Persian carpet  of the old tales, immortalized in advertisement signages.

Sungai Kolok, the first train station at the border,  is fearsome only when you get past by its train advertisements and television shows. On the train itself, a gaggle of boys in sweet but smart street gear hop in looking like The Beatles. Their shirts are fearless (The Who, Life Is Music, Hawaiian polos, Cute Headgears). Even their eye glasses compete with all the eyeglasses combined in these coaches. These rock musicians are polite; they carry the Muslim women's bags and are overtly benign and peaceful.

Yala, at half past four in the afternoon, finally opens its gates spocked with school establishments for me.

I could never get lost here, in this city/municipality of renewed faith and expectation.

 

         From Nick Gonzaga's Facebook Account As Shared, A Townmate. Photographer And Graphic Artist Unknown.

ON THAI WRITING
By: Iris P. Concepcion

"I did not wake up to the cuckoos of chicken/
Nor was rattled by the chirps of birds/
No, I woke up/
With a brush on hand/
Where after taking a cozy dump
From it, the bathroom, speckled."
                                       ---Iris P. Concepcion

(Appendix A: "it" refers to tile brush).

I am compelled to up my ante of vertebrate/invertebrate writing.  I am not aware that I, Lady UnBhagdad, is competing with Pulitzer and Booker prize winners with their characters driven away by brooms; where their butts grow pigtails; where their bed grunts mock the horror; where teardrops are tripled to rival my quadrupled eye droplets. To illustrate: !!! = !!!!

My imagination has clouded these words:

"My protagonists and antagonists, from preface to closing paragraphs, shall be best remembered for their sitting arrangements, in silent torture, eyeing each other with caution, imagining a house without chairs."

Franz Kafkan reference required, particularly Gregor's imminent transformation from a human being to a gnome bug.

I had coined the Word World first.  I was not even remotely aware my two cents of lettered contribution shall spawn a novellete that could shame Jane Austen.

I never understood then why my deceased father was insanely intelligent even when knowingly flawed; shuffling pictures worth the frames; stuffing my vocabulary with words I could not even pronounce.  I did not even know he had drawn Sesame Street cartoons.  I did wonder why his version of Big Bird was the exact replica of the talking, feathered teacher as he had appeared on our Philips television set. I was born out from his cranium and this explains for my artistic, DNA obscurity too.

How was I, a member of kindergarten class, with pony tails and peeking ruffled underpants, sitting on top of my father's personally crafted fairy tale frogs fit for royalty, to know my lineage had originated the characters I have grown to love and adore on screen?

 "Shoo fly, don't bother me (repeat 3x)
For I belong to somebody.


I feel, I feel, I feel
I feel like a morning star
I feel, I feel, I feel
I feel like a morning star."

Another one of his nursery music that is quite a notch higher than the random, A,B,C,D,E,F,G listing. This eventually appeared in a compendium of recorded music titled aptly: "All Around The World."


A visiting writer, pilgrim too untold, was dispatched all around the universe immortalizing his river, had this to speak:

"My father and your father are good  friends. You see, they are both brilliant."

His eyes sparkled, lingering not on me, but to an added visitor of our conversation, proud and humbug (rightfully so) as if to declare that we had been sired  from the seeds of brilliancy.

I believe, sages of the foggy mists and mountains, that dreams are pure inventions of our imagination that could, exasperation withheld, come true.

I think unknown authors and Aesop fables, unmarked paintings, unbranded and raw, travel through time faster. They too, lastingly, endure.

From Katrina Basnett Kerry's Shared Facebook Account. Artist Unknown.

Superheroes

By: Iris P. Concepcion

And through that door

The Justice League

Skipped the gadgets

And relied on supernatural hindsight.

The world tumbled

Spun in oblique catastrophe

Of vultures and birds

Of betrayal and rekindlement

Of fortune reversals

And boomed hypocrisies.

Paramount to this is written:

Salvation and glory.

Whereupon I stand, scribbling

Flabbergasted:

Superman had sat down on the unhero: Lazy Boy.

From Taj Travels Site On Facebook As Shared. The New Noah's Ark.

ON DEATHS AND FOOD
By:  Iris P. Concepcion

I was once fed on fables about flying carpets and chocolate houses. Brothers' Grimm's Fairy Tales stood tall among these books as they are lined up in a mini-bookshelf obscurely adorning a part of the old house of my childhood with its darker stories. Hans Christian's tales are more on the fancy side with superlative gowns and happy endings, of palaces and gorgeous men and women.

Tombs had often placed top on my list of improvised architectures and could always sneak into pictures of fairy tales and sunder yores of the old folktales. Dead people could use elegantly decorated urns and tombs and I had seen one in Luzon, Philippines where the cemetery is filled with house-like amenities (comfort room, kitchen and sala).

I am fashioning out my stories from here onwards as a character within these folklores; of protecting the jilted and the downtrodden, of taking the cudgels for those who take justice onto their own hands. Thus far, the fusion of adventure, comedy, fantasy and magical realism had delved into wondrous lands of expectations. Those who can't afford to keep pace with technology  had been brought under fire in these magical spells and flying beds.

How soon can the neathers of Earth assume their ghostly spirits, even not in Zombie forms? Asian flicks had made a cult out of the horror genre and it has spawned the darker minds of the artistic into newer undergrounds of the occult. Even domestic tussles had undergone more artistic refurbishings via hoodlum tactics and bewitched angles, all for the dissection of the epical world of the dead. If ghosts could talk, how could they eavesdrop on the humdrum exchanges between couples caught in surprised unions? The magical carpet could provide an answer but only for the loomed film of Tim Burton's calibre.

What comprises the dead man's cutlery and cupboards then? Aside from the resurfacing cut underwears filled with blood and gore, we can perhaps itemize the loot as these:

1.) Delivery food done through phone from a cook coming from another town.
2.) Cases of beer, unkept. Grilled food and crackers to match.
3.) Rowdy singing on karaoke with unpalatable messages.
4.) Discarded beer cans and medical pills.
5.) Ransacked toilet covers and crashed mirrors.
6.) Constant yellings of threats.
7.) Muddied tiles and splatted food.
8.) Disjointed hangers.
9.) Lost souls.
10.) Unredeemed dignity.

Thus far, the script for the underworld has yielded churns and churns of wonderful yarns, both educational and transparent. A lot had joined humanity's embraceable new world though: of their chocolates and milk, of their perfect houses and paved ways. That is the foil to a grim world where Leviticus rules. In this story, biblical passages from the Romans chapters are more often quoted and had known skimmed drinks with nutritional value worth the pound of Superman.

To recapitulate, the list now goes:

1.) Homecook meals.
2.) Milk and energy drinks in neatly packed bottles.
3.) Teaching and writing. Educational tours on the forests and the wilds.
4.) Recycled cans and reusable boxes.
5.) Showers and improved toilet bowls.
6.) Debate forms on real, intelligent conversations. Polite exchanges.
7.) Mopped floors.
8.) Sturdier hangers.
9.) Redeemed souls.
10.) Reclaimed dignity, unlawfully tarnished.

Being dead is a journey on the impossible begetting the possible under the knowing hands of the All Powerful Almighty.

           Inside Kelantan, Kota Bharu, Malaysia's Coliseum Market. Photo Taken By A Malaysian Website On Kota Bharu.

ON TRAVELLING
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I had, again, experienced a wonderful train ride two days ago, with youngsters in tudongs and kids of plain but lucid faces sitting in benches.

Kelantan, Khota Bharu, Malaysia has been improved since the last time I had visited it.  The magical lights at night, softly hushed by soft glints, are now peaceful with a sustained air of Providence.  I have seen newer stores that accept vouchers and sale coupons and are selling goods in bulk.

I have scouted and seen the Backpackers' Inns and found them airy and spacious with very agile and young persons off to their errands, marketing Roti burgers.  Milton Hotel had been torn down for a new tenement of other pilgrims on the road. Young people are owned by people below 20 years old, offering plane rides around islands for affordable prices. These are not your average tourist, nomadic youngsters. They are frontliners in hotels, hostels and business establishments with focused eyes on receipts, accomodation facilities and easier access to roads. They go to China or Korea during their off-days, and are eating fruits as dinner meals. I have talked to a young guy from the Philippines who is selling burgers. I had a free taste of his concoction and said, as trade-off, that I could buy him a Big Mac for him to know the definitive meaning of burgers.

You enter the A&W outlet here not for its huge root beer but for its washing area; splendid dwarfian nook on washing your hands, with bursts of  lavender flowers adorning its mirror. Be forewarned of the hotdog and burger patties' pictures  though. They look like monsters in pans but are definitely mouth-watery.

I have scouted a new ice-cream parlor with Belgian cones the width of my arm wrist at 3 ringgit (30 baht) with ultra red cherries on top. The taxi drivers sit by the mall chairs, waiting for people on the road. One has hair all over his face like Hagrid  and admitted to being friends with the chanting voice. Here, young people own the banks, stores, food outlets and are not too keen on hanging out in beaches. They earn bucks on weekdays and hide off to another country (say, Japan) on weekends.

My bus ride had friendlier men and women with strong argumentative skills, offering commentaries on the buildings as we pass by them. One temple of green make has Roman designs of angelic cherubims on the roof hanging like Nabokovian characters. The language is common, the critique on the socially conscious, adept.

This is a knowledge on scouting accomodations for less and I had been blessed to be too frugal that I ended up paying less for the best shower and water bed without grumping on a room without a window.  Another young guy was hospitable enough to give me directions to the best roti dish, sitting in a corner, unlit road. At 2.50 ringgit, the fare is delectable as it is spiritually-fed. This has finally matched my Indian-inspired, Banana Leaf experience back in old Makati City, Philippines. Here, sauce is in clear pink, wrapped in readable newspapers. I just read this from a Malaysian website: this roti variety is called murtabak, a Malaysian version of the French crepes filled with meat or chicken. Manis murtabak is the sweet version. I got mine with veggie eggplants and minced meat.

Ang sarap. This is Filipino for overtly delicious.

I had at least broken the frontiers of the smug and the harried: I kidded them about their Potato Chips that are priced higher than my shower cream and Cadburry chocolates; there is no other way to parry but to accept respect to this travelling visitor who had located for them the places they could get stressed on normal days. Besides, these young 'uns are giving discounts like receding cash registers and are even to be trusted for rebates. I was given back my deposit of 5 ringgit that is exactly my fare in getting back to Sungai Kolok and Yala, Thailand without further mumbling.

I visited the Thai Consular Office but only for a brief, cursory look at the Caucasians sitting outside who looked like Vogue models. One was in a draped towel.  They were animated and were watching television drama soaps for no apparent reason. I promised to return after realizing the soft brooms that had been repeatedly sent their feet; to keep the leaves off their paths.  The immigration officer at the border has a newer tack; I gave him the knowing "what are you talking about" look and had won the laughable exchange via a shortened notice.

In this fresh but brief sojourn, I am elated by one reality: the Muslim community here no longer had to be entering countries in nocturnal forms, under pain of being domiciled with uncertainty. I almost shouted with joy when I saw them with their handsome passports, lining up at the border like  myself and being embraced by the technology of transportation with equal dignity being accorded by the courteous officials reserved for alien visitors. Even their children  in colorful Muslim garbs carry passports. I do not know why it had made me tearfully triumphant. I guess, I just wanted to give these people the respect that had been denied them in slanting prejudices. Yes, they can line up; yes, they can be trusted to travel in peace; yes, they are functioning humans just like us.

In Kota Bharu, Malaysia, they integrate well with the Orientals and Caucasians and I saw a world shrank in harmony.

This is, after all, a borderless universe.

To rewind on my train education:

This an Indian recollection, the railway track, when it was invaded by its British colonizers from where the humanity of Mahatma Gandhi was molded. Salt was then considered a prime commodity in this formerly named Kashmir country. The British controlled this particular trade to control its people.

India's railway system is fabled for its countless stories; of oppressed people reviling the colonizers.  Where the Americans leave their colonized countries with specific agendas on free public schooling, the British leave their invaded lands with chugging trains that had remained old and untouched.

Thailand, a country that has not been conquered by colonizers with communism bent unlike its neighbors, has a railway system that is now caught in unbridled progress.  Certainly, its rail tracks, even from its provincial outskirts, have faster engines than the first class varieties  of its counterparts.  From my experience, these could rival the best roller coaster rides of themed parks even if their coaches need refurbishing.

This recent trip using this transportation means brought me close to a Viper experience.  This is a roller coaster ride in the United States where even the most hardened astronauts in space could experience barfing. This is how mean this machine is.

My foray into this is not exactly a new territory, chartered as I am in the unfamiliar terrains of airplane rides piloted by men who had perhaps survived air strip Khabul.

How does it feel getting caught in this cyclone as wild rivers with greeneries hover outside the train windows?

Exquisite.

I had heard shrieks from actual people in theme parks emitting gasps out of nowhere. I had silently guffawed as a consequence.  It is the passengers' choice to embark or disembark at will, in places of somber settings populated by men with craggy smiles and untold stories of the past.

Sungai-Kolok now has a brochure of the railway with meaningful touches of the folklore. It is very catchy, with a picture of a train that I had seen in my readings of Hans Christian Andersen tales.  Even the underneath lines invite literary allusion: "North British Locomotive Co., Hyde Park, England". Jekyll and Hyde has come to the fore even without googling the references.

The accompanying, drawn pictures are curious-looking. I was tempted to place captions above the sketches (Bangkok-Chang-mai) with passengers hitting bridges as some elbows were stuck out from windows.

Over-all, this is a neatly packaged brochure that is as good as your average cosmetic pamphlet.

I reiterate: getting inside a train is not a ride; it is an experience of transformational nature.

                                       Photo Shared In Facebook Via Earthschool Harmony. Photographer Unknown.

THE VARIOUS FACES OF SPIRITUALITY
By: Iris P. Concepcion

At the corner of Arkonsongkhroh Road in Yala, Thailand where wedding thrift shops and old Binondo-style restaurants are crossed like kidnapped lovers, an eatery is spotted where several faces of spiritual gurus are hanged.

There are pictures of monks and Thai royalty lineage that are draped in different frames.  A contemplative man, sitting, is eyeing a huge cooking, frying pan (wok expanded four times) in an open firewood as if he is facing a gastronomic library.  The various pictures of monks in one frame looked overtly serious; their protruding eyes open to competing gazes with wall pictures of graduation and celebratory, community-based events. Their calendar carries not dates nor years showing pictures of, normally in Manila, a bleeding Jesus with His heart adorned with thorns, but with fruits and vegetables meant to be consumed during these alloted months. This curious calendar is placed above the pictures of monks who, contrary to notions of lanky men walking in orange robes, are actually plump, robust and healthy.

The King's lineage is like a flag in paint, reminiscent of my father's own tableau of the previous Presidents of the Philippines (inclusive of years they had served the Republic). The man with formidable moustache is a member of this Royal Thai ancestry, the one whom I had acquianted in Phang-nga via the golden bus which served as my riding vehicle where I saw the travelling elephants by the road. He appears with the King. The way they are painted would put shame to ordinary still life sketches of stationary fruits and vegetables hung in upscale museums with their spray paints mistaken for Rembrandt; or their miniature clays hailed as the best of abstract painting. I know good facial contours when I see one and these painted faces are represented at their best angles, refined edges and all. These are clean works in oil. Put these in massive, wooden frames and they could cost a million. I dare not steal the thing I am writing after this paragraph.

This:

I am itemizing the loot of visual take here, with its Samsung television set having its share of Sto. Nino worship as it is surrounded with garlands, incense and chanting booklets, precisely to drive home a point of artistic symmetry.

Again, forget the television set; the real deal here are the future price tags of these works.

I long for our own museums back in the Philippines to showcase these kind of artworks. They deserve a space not in obscure restaurants but the Louvre.

I do wonder why in my sojourns, the ones that gave me the highest aesthetic pleasures are often the ones I just accidentally see off street racks. Our own cities in Metro Manila should bear witness to sculptural beauties with historical imprints that could make me weep, laugh and meditate. The lion bust spewing water in Singapore is massive as it is. Had it been colored with gigantic wings with various diorama of Singapore's best places in holograms, perhaps, I would sit down and have my lunch there too. Our own Ninoy Aquino landmark in Makati with two people holding him back could use  a little more spruced imagery of the writing man. Maximo Soliven at Roxas Boulevard had it better, built as he was with his typewriter and newspapers. A weird guy with a berserk imagination had actually improved Ninoy Aquino's Makati sculpture with my own hometown's San Franscisco plants. It looked livelier.

Perhaps, our art patrons can start giving these outsiders a good headstart in embracing the tiled floors of these upscale art places. For fun or livewire theater, whatever the cause is, it could at least alter or improve our views about certain places and people.

             A Baby Picture Shared In Facebook That Has Nothing To Do With This Entry. It Looks Cute And Needs Sharing. Photographer Remains Unknown.

CRITIQUE ON THE PERSONAL VOODOO CONTEXT OF ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE
By Iris P. Concepcion

Gabriel Garcia Marquez' book One Hundred Years Of Solitude had as fictional landscape the early Argentinian political history of authoritarianism and familial dynasty.  It caught my fancy as a reader primarily because of one thing: one of its human characters was born with a pig tail. The authoritarian governance as themed in this work of art has the grip of military fantasies in the psyche of political dominion.  A reviewer had likened the setting of this novel to the central American countries that had been ruled by dictatorships in the past like the Philippines and Chile. With the massive and explorative political ideas spread all over the novel, it was that one feature, the human born with a pig tail, that had stuck lingerly on my mind for its veritical foray into what Garcia Marquez had mastered: magical realism.

This aspect contains voodoism references which may be rife in countries deeply entrenched in political chaos and uncertainty. There is an implication that guarding the most fundamental institutions of the land do not require mere branding of armory and fleets of war chest but dimensions of spirituality to protect itself from intrusions of the most secular and inane gossip of revolutionary threats. Our own President, then Cory Aquino, was often the target of gossip fodder on her fatalistic views as she summons God in the major political decisions of her life. Powerpoint may not have a place in the executive branch with the Creator calling the shots to move the plebeians and mass, the pyramidal and fattest portion of our political heirarchy.

I had often wondered if Presidents may be armed with telepathic powers to ward off irritants to their executive power. If Superman can zap off a villain, surely, the President can introduce some herbal medicine or ointments to heal the needy concerns of societal waywards using the premise that he had used telepathy to silence the noisy stumbling blocks to his platforms to progress.

Recalling my visit to Wat Chang Hai here in Thailand where I found a  goat skull floating in a black pool of water meant to deflect bullets, Garcia Marquez may have had his share of these visits to various New Orleans-like witchcraft in his own Argentinian land. His epiphanies to weave his tale that is replete with skeletons of rulers coming out of the closet by leaps and bounds had therefore rung truer than say, Richard Burton's sideway onscreen-kiss with Elizabeth Taylor.

There was not much elongation on what the pig-tailed human had evolved into. I wonder if she had grown weary of this rather curious appendage and cut it out of spite. It may be turned into a Pampango sisig, if the author were a Filipino.

This brings me to several postulations. Shall I change my views about a particular political belief if I had been thrown the Trump Tower on my head since the President found it unsalacious for well-heeled women to be tweeting about his crumpled polo barong? What if he throws me the hollow blocks as well? Supposing he has acquired a doll with pins to inflict pain on the enemies of the land, shall we eventually see the creations of parks and ranges and wildlife roaming for citizens to get their just social due?

I shall wish these things for President Noynoy Aquino, him who does not know much about information technology but possesses a succinct development platform for his country. He had been hounded for his lovelife concerns  that makes for front page news and could use some telepathy to green the forests, fill the dam with water, create electrical posts, improve land terrains and trees.

If I were possessed with this little craft, I would twist the hair of senseless citizens of the republic who spread out lies like crazy to derail my concept of progress. I shall twist them into pig tails, pull them till Alaska (strings coming from Hanoi)  and see if their scalps fall off as a consequence.

That could hurt but at least I had made my park shiny, speck and clean with children in tied balloons catching the fruits of the forests freely, courtesy of the authoritarian ruler.

On another note, I had stumbled upon wondrous articles on studies from the Stanford University website. The photographs are specially engaging and the words, a visual scouring of the imagination. Here are lines worth quoting:

Stanford Report, October 10, 2011

Dancer arrives at Stanford's Jasper Ridge Biological Preserve

In collaboration with the biological preserve, the choreographer plans a set of historical tableaux for this winter.

"Carlson's definition of dance goes far. She refers to herself as a movement-based artist and maintains that "all conscious movement is dance." In the past, her projects have included performances in unusual locations such as trains and barns, with choreographed encounters between non-dancers – lawyers, security officers, custodial staff – and live animals, including goldfish and fainting goats.

The work has garnered her a collection of high-profile awards, including fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts. Last year, Carlson was named a visiting artist at the Stanford Drama Department, where she continued her site-specific work with the campus-wide "Still Life with Decoy."

                          Photo Shared On Facebook. Photographer/Painter Unknown. Extremely Good Visual Of A Little Einstein

BREAKING STEREOTYPES
By:  Iris P. Concepcion

Staccato is a very disciplined musical form, the arrangement of which not all individuals could master. It is not for your average musician.

A few people may discern its split second beats. Everyone may claim to have  complete mastery of it but only the wisened can incorporate it into real, compelling songs.

I am opening this entry with a musical reference to weave a tale on our perceptions of the past which may no longer hold true as I am inking this pen on my scratch sheet of paper.

A link on Philippine T.V. 5's Interaksyon, a portal for Philippine news, has definitely relaxed the  rules on newspaper writing in my archipelago, the pearl of the Orient, home of both Jose Rizal and adobo. It has welcomed these new forms of information perception.

Akin to the abovementioned musical arrangement, I had read a column by Teodoro Locsin, Jr. today via this news link. Mr. Locsin is an eminent worshipper of the divine dictionary and punnery who had been photographed before to have flashed his middle finger unto the faces of those who had virtually made it a cottage industry to irritate the sanctified institution of the Presidency.  The writer had dropped his rock star reply to hecklers and had linked it with fellow writers. He had likewise lent his columns to the marginalized, voiceless sectors of the writing universe along with Conrad de Quiros. Post-modernism has come out alive, in daring lithographs, debunking myths and yarns long held sacred.

Here is the link: http://interaksyon.com/article/14263/teodoro-l-locsin-jr-thank-you-harry-and-cancel-their-us-visas

By virtue of this insurmountable decree from the Higher Beings, our view of the oppressed and maligned in other countries may just prove to be false. In fact, hypothetically speaking, I may be portrayed as a nomad with drug problems who had been begging bread on the sidewalks. No one was telling the story of how I had made children appreciate the good swing rides at the Children's Playground at the Rizal Park. I wonder what other rumors may be spread to cast aspersion on people who had wanted to taste the rosier and more comfortable side of the world. Those who want you tied up to a water pump for life is not a good voyager.

To cite an example. The best speaking English conversationalist that I had met here is a Muslim woman who is also conversant with modern "tudong" and the like. She is friendly with her white friends.  The most amiable and polite people are the Orientals whom I have met at the Church Assembly Hall. The Caucasians whom I had met on my travels prefer to know Nepalese culture and are quite far from the sex vultures usually portrayed about them in the media. The best American burgers that I had tasted here did not make me thin nor obese. They made my arms plump.

Where are the writers who can thread properly their tales, the food's nutrient forms,  the humanity beneath the face of wars, the triumph of common decency? Nobody is writing about their advocacy. They teach, they spread their word, they make people functional, literate beings.

Far from the sex fiends often peddled for rumor mill excitement that may have been repeated often through walls, no one dares to take the pen and write about their heartfelt purpose to save cultures from bigotry and hatred.  I had often wondered before why I had amassed quite a number of bibliography of English literature and why I had developed quite a deep love for the vocabulary. These people had actually placed them there for me to browse. They are not after my ass.

It is only today that I had learned why Mr. Locsin was a raging bull before, protecting then President Corazon Aquino from sycophants. A lot of people had retreated but not him. My other fathers had disliked laziness and booze while at work and I only understood the essence of this discipline today.

These people always step-up, clean up the mess, bite the bullet, bong the gongs to understand the real cries of the natives from orchestrated threats, prejudice and disorder.

Respect for authority is a code only for the brave men.

Photo Taken By This Writer Going To Phang-nga, Thailand Inside A BusWith Its Cross Culture And Interfaith Beliefs.

WHERE ART THOU MY EYEBROWS OR HOW I REDISCOVERED GOD THROUGH POMELO
By: Iris P. Concepcion

Once upon a time, I had seen pythons and a dead person upclose but it did not jar me to take up knives and become an angry woman. In fact, these sights made me closer to spirituality and my avowal to peace as the better alternative to change things.

I had attended a service here in Yala, Thailand with hopes of dusting the feathers off my winged self. I had always been tolerant of other people's faiths, having with me Baptists as friends when I was young. I would invite them to attend my Misa de Gallo; I am in return invited to join their Daily Bible School camping gatherings. In fact, a Catholic (me) bagged the first prize in a biblical contest and I was not begrudged for my different mode of worship.

Hence, it was a breather that I found my location, off-kiltered as I was in a junction of Sunday gatherers, yesterday morning, while the sun is crisp and shining brightly. I got lost in a temple but was talked to by a kindly, Thai woman where I am heading. I said, I am looking for a place of worship. She replied that she could take me there. I hopped in her motorcycle and was driven to the original destination.

The place is called Yala's Fellowship Assembly Hall. It sounds like a municipal office cum church. Everything here reminds me of my quiant town, down to the people I have flashes of memory from the past. The worship starts at 9:00 a.m. as advised by a cook who was selling siomais, siopaos and teas to his early breakfast eaters adjacent to the church.  I had an egg sandwich beforehand and vowed to buy the Chinese cuisine smorgasbord after the worship which, again, I was advised to wrap up at around 12 high noon.

There was a makeshift table in front of the church where people take their morning meals. I was offered siomais (in a large tin plate) tea and rice by a trio of Vietnamese-looking people. I had declined for I was still full. They kept on giving me tea cups, plates and assorted food as if I were part of the diners. I had thought of them very kindly. I had a memorable conversation with them about food and places. They came from Chang-mai.

The assembly hall was formally opened by a familiar face.

I did not feel left out upon seeing this guy who looks like a corn kid of the Stephen King novel who had opened the gate for my entrance. He talked in proper English, the kind which reminds me of grammar books. He drove a pick-up and asked me if I came from the Philippines. I think I am wearing an invisible map of my country on my forehead since they always predict my correct country of citizenship. The hall is painted in lavender, with sturdy chairs and bulletin boards for church services and donations. It has toys and tables for children. I talked to Ne-pha, the early bird, who drove in his dainty motorcycle. She has a dandy Espana native, embroidered bag and  a cute fish denim cover for her bible. She wore great shoes too. I praised her for all the wonderful things that she owns. She mopped the hall and cleaned the area squeakily.

I offered to help but she told me to sit down. I was told, as a changed schedule, that the service starts at 10:00 a.m. I patiently waited, pulling out my ballpen and sheet of paper to gather my thoughts about Ang Lee and his picturesque films of the Orient in blooming colors.

The church goers looked like Thai/Japanese/Chinese Orientals. I reminded Ne-pha that the people who had arrived slowly (with ready smiles and polite gestures of Sawadeeka) came from these different ancestries. I asked for the pastor's name. She said, everyone can actively participate in the fellowship with no resident evangelist.

Everyone here is a pastor, a priest, a reverend.

The old Chinese presider opened the service with songs I could not understand but could dissect. This is my revelation: I may not know the language but I nonetheless share their means of communication. I understood them like they understood me.

They have bibles and veils (like the Catholics) although they likewise vary. A beautiful woman who sat beside me wore a yentil-like cup coaster, a cap in crochet. She placed it on top of her head. She looked Jewish. The other woman who can quote the bible well, in great modulation, was wearing a black, crocheted hair band reminiscent of Maria from The Sound Of Music. She looked like a Vietnamese. There was a very tall guy on a wheelchair who was shuddering and looked extremely pious. He reminds me so much of lanky trees weeping orchids out from their barks.

This is a Catholic/Baptist/Yentil/Buddhist/Taoist service and I like its democratic engagement of God's words.

People started to trickle in this fellowship of beings. I have met Su-ne, Kiet-Kong, Mon, Pai-linne, Somphul, Kawin and Paih-Buhn. These are the worshippers who had discussed the Roman passages (Romans 13-14 are tablets of good behavior and it is worth the discussion) in debate form.

They are like homilies in capsules, discussing good and evil, of corruption and authority, of doing a neighbor a good deed and to put a cliche to this, of "all things bright and beautiful, all creatures, great and small."

Kiet Kong had a lively parry of words with Kawin. Both quoted God and Confucius. They looked like they had been taken away from their material wealth but are nonetheless inviting those who had made them such in glorified redemption. The play is on moral conscience and they are all articulate and had good points each going for them. Thou shall not steal, thou shall not speak ill against thy neighbor, do a good deed. These people had discussed them like Jesus Christ would.

The flock, similar to Born Again Christian gatherings, mutter the words "Amen, Amen" repeatedly. It sounds "Yeah, man" and "Yemen" at times.

Only people who had truly shared viands together can mount a great debate on this end. They even have different bibles and hymnal pamphlets.

The service truly ended at 12 high noon. I was advised to stay for lunch. We had spicy food. The presider told me that it  is Vietnamese but the beautiful woman told me it is authentic Thai. Curry soup with noodles. They enjoyed the fare with splices of parades and town activity talks. I got myself fruits (their unripe mangoes are the best I have tasted thus far), eggs and a portion of the curry.

I congratulated everyone who had declaimed their great, biblical speeches and those who had interpolated on the actions of men. They had articulated that we must not, at all times, manipulate those who are weaker than us since strength, power and prestige are short-lived.

I had concluded after this service that these men are just like my portly priest back in the Philippines who officiates mass inside the Robinson's mall during Sundays.

Those who had sinned must have cried rivers over this realization as these eloquent speakers had spoken truly and succinctly well.

And yes, while their English is not "strong", as Kiet Kong (he said he could never be forgotten as it has syllables similar to King Kong) had parlayed, we all understood the language of our innate humanity as spoken from God's words.

                  Photo By: Patricia Scarlett Clubbs Shared Via Facebook. I Hope The Artist Would Not Sue Me For Copyright Infringement.

HODGEPODGE JOURNALISM: WELCOME TO THE  REAL POSTMODERNIST TAKE ON LOOKING AT THE WORLD
By:  Iris P. Concepcion

I had been both meddling and middling on affairs transgressing my usual calls of unwritten duties.

First, I need to propagate the plentiful pictures in pixels as my citizen's obligation to patrol the discarded but more newsworthy stories from the underside of this planet.

News reporting has shed off its leopard tights and pumps for men who had been skeletized with awful fashion sense but who can quote both the rhythmically correct Proust and Frost.


Even the once and highly regarded quotation marks and proper indexing that had spawned off books on technical writing are relaxing their winking periods for a view of an elephant tusk spewing off spring water.

I am shuddering but is language being overtly democratic? Casting away the sights of board rooms, these witnesses to world news and stories are bringing home their market bags with prime ribs, jumping off an article about the unjudicious pricing of meat in meat shops.

These tales are reminiscent of Blairwitch Project, tracking down on the rejected, bullied, mocked, pilloried and horrored.  It is alarming to note that this miscast, as the disciplined proponents of journalism had found out, have bigger flowers, tastier food, healthier hair and overtly cheerful disposition pegged below 100 baht.  In effect, they have bigger stories to impart trending along their way of the opulent without the tagged retainer's fee for experts.

They are dump trucks waiting for sand and gravel to rain on them.

This breakthrough, I did not come upon hitting through team-building seminars in a caravan, getaway hive. Alas! I found it on Facebook.

I chatted with a member of a networking site whose members include a diverse and highly populous tribal groups discussing about food, legs and their neighbors' cattle inventory. Interspersed within though are haunting pictures of what is truly happening out THERE. Their quest for taste and smell of an environment that they had once inhabited.

The cache, to the discerning eye, are fit for a Victor Hugo plot. The once haughty controllers of the visual medium are seeing competitions from 11 to 13 year old high school students armed only with digital cameras worth one thousand pesos, on sale. No, they do not "fix" their pictures, except for comedic purposes. They do not even recycle old stories; they weave their own tales, using their own language, in a medium they are familiar with. It had shot up blood, wrung tears, instigated threats of colossal portions. What the participants had failed to recognize is this: this is no longer a setting from the past. This is an entirely new ballgame altogether and the ones with the upperhand do not know croissant even if it hits them hard. These are people who had plowed, towed, had fallen silent when men with twang pass by. I had one of  them ate a pizza slice and was replied: "I ate the square thing."

They do not have names for what we gobble but they have names for their screws and bolts. I have seen some distraught faces expecting an area to be paradise but were alarmed by mirrors of themselves flashed heatingly under the cheeky cheeks of those who had often been pilloried as sick and greedy. Folks, if you haven't been inside Boys' Town, this is its equivalent: a reformist school for those who crave for participation instead of division; of productivity instead of endless whining.

I had been deflected too but only to strengthen my resolve. I had lived for social dichotomy of the aware instead of being bludgeoned by a mob spreading evil and bad tidings. My food is imperially made and I am not going to apologize for it. My benefactors are not even complaining so why must I refuse their huge vegetables, their well-packaged snacks, their nuts that are  huge as my head, their farmyards with really edible fruits and veggies and their ultra sleek kitchen gallery? Let me tell you something: I had been known as a pastry hound but I never thought I'd be making my own in 30 minutes and less via a Sharp oven (18k) that I thought was unsexy back in the Philippines. Their beater sounds like a construction material thereby lending my fantasy realizable as I had always aspired to become a construction worker. Baking is my way of fulfilling one of these aspirations.

They had been discussing all about induction burners then while I was burning the midnight oil parrying some workers who are grumbling about increased wages. I never grasped their passionate sense to give comfort to cooking (why an oven must have both burners at the top and at the bottom; it is for perfect, even cooking). They could never understand the geophysical viability/feasibility of a microwave oven that just turns and turns and turns. They only use it to heat their coffee and nothing else. Invention springs from curiosity and these people are overtly curious. Like mad men.

Now I know the depth of these plans, the prototypes of gadgets, land usage and why all these should be exciting for a human being like myself. Their mission had always baffled me since I had been sitting on a chair with its quite rickety, unfunctioning balls: "Nothing Is Impossible."

They are making sense out of our Earth. And that is an awful lot of hard work. Even their taste for paintings I had severely misjudged. I never knew they could make better statues and buildings. If you had been hit by this realization too,consider yourself lucky. Like winning that lotto.

They do not get written about. They do not have enough money to finance experts on how they should spend their own money. Actually, they are poor.

Hence, they took photography as a hobby and invaded Facebook.


This is the much vouched post modernism theory in real time frame.

Throw away the  marketing surveys pulsing the public to decipher whether or not  your product clicks with the mass or not.  Your respondents can answer beyond the Yes and No boxes and can even provide you pictures as reference. They are that giving. Read their networking sites and determine who had been shallow and who had been true to their hunt for pertinent news coverages. Passing through their administrators is tough though. I would like to believe that they are the "new" information gatekeepers.

I was inspired to mesh my divergent words together when I had read this group who had suddenly found a voice through the Internet. I stringed this as an idea that could provide a peek to future communication.

"Warad ti kapi hai ean waay lubi nagdulot sang tubig for a class amelioration dichotomy."


Loosely translated, it means: "We have no coffee since we could not find a coconut tree to provide us water for a class amelioration dichotomy."

The first words are Manobo, the next one, Hiligaynon, and the last words, a competent English composition.

Writers, this is the future.

Stop fidgeting on syntax and percentages.  Stories are much more dynamic than what you had whittled down in print. If you care enough to know how they weave their clothes and why the electric shaver is more useful as a headboard ornament than the embroidered "Cleanliness Is Next To Godliness" tableau sitting beside it, you might be discovering a sleeping Pulitzer that you might not have noticed before.