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BY FEDERICO LICSI ESPINO JR.

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strain:

It is a kinship transmuted into art, Moving as the music moves, glowing As the tapers glow to cast a spell Upon the male so vital to a woman’s Vertical and horizontal rituals Where she is always dancer and desired.

ONSTAGE, she was always dancer and desired, and the candle glow within the plural transparence poised precari- ously on her hands and head made her look even more desirable.

Now as she danced with Anselmo, her fellow teacher and fiancé, in the lilt of light and limb called

Pandango sa Ilaw, she became

luminous, numinous with this knowledge. Her form flickered with the music, transcending gravity as she balanced the tumblers of candles, and cast a spell on her partner whose percussive palms kept time with the music. She was dancing thus when she became aware of somebody’s intense, roentgen gaze. Slowly, imperceptibly, she scanned the audience. The gaze belonged to Sotero, her sagging suitor. He sat in the left fringe of a crowd mesmerized by the folk choreography onstage—his eyes glowing like an owl’s. Because he seemed too much like the bird of prey, she felt like a sparrow, her heart fluttering in its rib-cage. But she did not let this ruin her sense of rhythm—she continued swaying to the music, still the poised, graceful dancer. She moved with what her late father, an impoverished mestizo who was a dropout from the State Conservatory, would have called “grace y sal”—she had those qualities so essential to the dance: the fluent form, the waspish waist, the liquid limbs, all of which transfigured her onstage. But there was Sotero—his eyes burning like an owl’s. She tried to avoid the talons of his gaze. The Dance of Light continued; the dancers moved with poise and equi- poise. But she, Marina, was the most graceful of them all. Occasionally, she cast a glance at the left fringe of the crowd; Sotero was still there. But when the dance moved on to its finale, he was gone, his seat was taken by a fat woman. As Marina and the other dancers made their exit, she felt relieved and sighed.

Offstage, Rene, their effeminate dance master, congratulated her, his brummagem pendant glittering beneath the Mao collar. “You were simply marvelous, Marina. Simply marvelous.” He clasped her in an androgynous embrace. “And how about us?” asked the other dancers. “You were splendid,” Rene said with gay flourishes of his Chopinesque hands. “Simply splendid.” “And how about us?” asked the boys surrounding the smiling sward. Rene feigned dissatisfaction. “You were awkward. All of you. Awkward.” The whole dance troupe laughed. When the scherzo of laughter had died down, Anselmo approached Marina. “I’ll take you home. I have Father’s jeep . . . he let me borrow it for tonight.” “You shouldn’t have,” she said, tilting her face.

Rene saw them, talking thus and swiveling his perverse pelvis, drew near.

or Gloria Garchitorena- Gloria

Her lunar face reflects the plural From pistils of tallow in calyces of A crystal weight she balances on her And hands, weight becoming weight-

In ease of equilibrium . . . Transcending gravity, she traces

kinship To women of the shore who balances basketfuls

Of thrashing fins or jars for thirst On crests of their pacific hair, No tension in their equipoise, no

May 2, 2010

magazine

The Sunday Times

PANDANGO SA ILAW

»

“Aha, the two lovebirds. Aren’t you getting impatient? And growing old? When will you rigodon to the altar? When will you marzurka to the bedroom?”

The girls within earshot giggled. Marina blushed. She had always wondered how it would be—that interplay of movement, which was the most intimate dance of all, a counterpoint of concupiscence, a fugue of flesh on flesh. Would shyness make her lose her dancer’s grace in the dance that mattered most? Would he be gentle in that supreme assertion of his manhood? “Why don’t you answer?” Rene said.

“Have you become deaf-mutes, you lovebirds?” His left eyebrow arched over the feminine cast of his features. “Not really,” Anselmo said, squirming. “Well, let me tell you this,” Rene

went on. “Life is a dance and without that bedroom mazurka, the dance is not complete. Look at me. I am still incomplete.” Here his androgynous face assumed a feigned angst and he pretended to cry.

Marina could not help but laugh. It was all so tragic-comic. But suddenly, he realized it was more tragic than comic and the thought stifled her laughter even while the other girls continued rippling. Here was a feminine soul scanted in a man’s body, half a man whose other half whispered dark imperatives. And yet this man incapable of the most intimate dance was the one who had taught them the Dance of Light. And she pictured Rene assuming the female role in that dance as part of the dance lessons. His form was lithe and long, his waist slender. But where he was most graceful, he was most awkward. As he balanced the glasses bereft of candle-glow on the back of his hands, what he was doing seemed to be a travesty of the dance. Then, Anselmo put the third glass on Rene’s head and started clapping to

the literary life

her preferring Sotero for Anselmo. Her brows knit. Was it because Anselmo was just a teacher and Sotero the scion of an affluent family? “You are silent tonight. Tell me

why,” Anselmo’s droning bass im- pinged on her reverie. “I was thinking of Mother.” “Yes, how is she?” “Just like before. She recognizes only

me. When I bring her food she starts crying. Sometimes I think she wants to speak to me. But only gibberish comes out. Poor Mother! The dance of life has stopped for her.” “Yes, the dance of life,” Anselmo said, relishing the phrase. “It has to stop at one time or another.” The jeep wheeled into a deep rut and the shock absorbers failed to soften the jarring sensation. Clouds of dust swirled in the air. It has not rained during the day and that part of the road was one long ribbon of dust, a lonely stretch of road cutting across hectares of stubble waiting for the drenching monsoon of the tropics. As the jeep trailed clouds of dust, the mating sound of the male cricket filled the evening. “When are we getting married? I’d like to rigodon to the altar soon,” Anselmo said. “So would I. But could you tolerate a wife whose attention would be divided between her husband and her mother?” “You know I can. I’ve told you that a lot of times. Besides, we’re growing old. And you need a man in the house. Two women living in a lonely house—it’s not good, it’s not safe. You need someone to protect you. And your mother.” Marina fell silent. Anselmo was

right. Someone had to fill in the void left by her dead father. And as she sat there, thinking of what Anselmo had just said, the whirring of the cricket’s wings seemed to have become shriller, more intense.

The jeep was nearing the intersection, a meeting of two desolate roads both knifing through stretches of stubble. Suddenly, a car nosed forward, blocking the intersection. Marina’s heart fluttered sparrow-like in its rib- cage. It was Sotero’s car. Immediately she knew what

the rhythm of the folk song being played on an old Weinstein by a Grade Six girl in pigtails. For a while she was irrationally jealous of Rene who was in turn balancing the third glass on his head, moving to the folk rhythm accentuated by Anselmo’s clapping. But the jealousy disappeared as Rene and Anselmo continued danc- ing. Anselmo, male as the gender of a tower looming over a supine landscape. Rene, effeminate as the blossom of a pistillate flower in a Freudian dream. And thus, they danced, male and half-male moving in the Dance of Light, but there was no light. Only empty tumblers. In the dressing-room, Marina joined the other girls. They were teasing Cora, a Grade 3 teacher whose frail form was belied by her effervescent moods because the school janitor was courting her. “What’s wrong with a janitor, Cora?” said one of them. “Don’t you believe in the dignity of labor?” “After all, he’s short, dark and handsome,” said another, the levity of her voice splintering into bits, fits of laughter. “I want someone like Anselmo,” Cora said, turning to Marina.

Marina smiled good-naturedly, vestal in her reserve. She had shed off her costume, the slopes of her dancer’s body molded in white, silken underwear. Cora was saying she was a deaf-mute but she ignored the gentle ribbing. Clad only in her underwear before the mirror she was thinking of that secret dance which led to a woman’s fulfillment. How would he go about peeling off the fabric of her shyness? Would he be rough or gentle? Stripped of feminine restraint, could she soothe his aching manhood also stripped before her eyes? She blushed and brushed away the thought. Slowly she put on an olive-dark skirt, then a pale green blouse, and with the

gentle motions of a old, blue comb she had fished out from her black handbag, fixed her hair. Most of the girls were still costumed and laughing but she was ready to go. “Well, I have to leave you,” she said, announcing her exit. “Yes, Anselmo’s waiting,” Cora ribbed

her.

Again, she smiled but said nothing. The other girls giggled.

Anselmo was waiting outside in the company of two other male members of the dance troupe. One was Tony, a happy-go-whacky lad who was courting one of the girls. The other was Tony’s friend, Eddie with the pale, famished look, who was there for the same purpose. “Well, Tony, Eddie, we have to leave

you,” Anselmo said in his droning bass. “Be good. There’s just the two of you in that jeep,” Tony’s voice dogged them. Anselmo helped her climb into the front seat. When their hands touched, Marina felt a sour secretion forming in her mouth. Again she was thinking of that intimate dance—she, who like the effeminate Rene, looked on the dance as a metaphor for the rhythms of existence, considered life a long, symphonic dance with varying move- ments. For without being philosophical in a formal, academic manner, she too considered life as emanating from the dance of selves. Childhood was an episode in that dance, a pizzicato phase performed giocoso like some of the violin pieces her late father used to play for her. But one grew up and the rhythms became more varied in a larger mature sense. But there were also false notes, dissonances, sounds of a dark, motto ostinato bass which affected the listening self even while one danced on and on. As though in suspended animation the dance had virtually stopped for her mother for she was a paralytic, had been so for almost a year. As she thought of her, Marina recalled her gentle ways. She had no grievances against her except perhaps

Pursuing a degree in writing

T’S the first week of May already, which means all the April graduation ceremo- nies have passed. It’s just funny because I only realized last week that I was sup- posed to march in my own graduation rites at the UP College of Arts and Letters, but I never did. See, I technically graduated from my MA English Studies (major in creative writing) course in May 2009, and graduates of that time are scheduled to march in the following year’s rites, meaning April 2010. But like my under- graduate times, I skipped the march and just proceeded with jumping into the “real world” or in my case, “continuing on” with being in the real world, so to speak. Personally, I don’t really feel the need to march in such ceremonies because graduating from the course is already good

I

THE SCRIBE VIBE

enough for me. Though perhaps when I do get to finish my Ph.D. course, I’ll march for the benefit of my parents who probably want to see me on stage and hear my name called again like when I was younger. Another reason why I didn’t feel like marching is the fact that it took me about a decade to finish my MA degree course.

Working fulltime while being in school is a tough balancing act to do, and there were times when I had to drop school for a promising career opportunity. But that’s OK. I wasn’t in any rush to finish anyway, because I was also learning a lot outside of school at that time. It’s exciting to realize that I get educated everywhere I go, whether inside our outside the walls of the academe.

This gets me thinking about those who continuously ask me if it’s practical, sensible or wise to enroll in a writing course, even getting a degree in writing, even if they’re already doing some kind of writing professionally. My answer is always the same—why not? There’s a certain satisfaction you get when you’re in a classroom set-up with future peers

for classmates, and the classroom workshop feedback is a very important thing if you really want your writing to improve. It’s also helpful if you take professors who are luminaries in the field you want to study (literature, journalism or scriptwriting) who are actually capable of teaching their craft. Oh yeah, it doesn’t automatically mean that an award-winning writer could be an effective teacher. Believe me, this is a rare combination, and I’ve been lucky enough to have enrolled in classes where the professor is a creative writing genius and a very effective teacher. It helps if you ask around the college for tips from fellow students.

There are those who opt to enroll in short-term courses instead of formally

enrolling in a degree course, and that’s also fine. It actually boils down to one’s availability, or how much time one could actually sacrifice from their “real world lives” in order to take up classes. It’s already summer and I see a lot of creative writing workshops being offered everywhere in Metro Manila, and even outside Manila. For those who want to enroll in school, better prepare your appli- cations this early and check the application deadlines of the institu- tion you are targeting. Good luck and happy learning. To my fellow 2010 graduates, cheers to us.

Comments? Suggestions? E-mail

libay.scribevibe@gmail.com. She is also at libaycantor.multiply.com.

Sotero’s intentions were. He was that kind of a man whose pride, strong, hard, and antlered like a stag, could not bear a rebuff. She had spurned her offer of ring and ritual but he was hell-bent on having her. It was true she yearned for the ritual of love but she wanted her partner to be Anselmo, not Sotero. And her fear, as when she caught sight of Sotero burning in the crowd that came to watch her and the others dance the Pandango sa Ilaw, became a percussive panic within her breast. The whirring of the cricket’s wings died in a pianis- simo. All she could hear now was her own heart, the darkness of Sotero’s motives playing on the drumhead of her fears.

The events moved at a feverish pace; Sotero moving forward with a gun; Anselmo rushing to meet him, flicking a gleam of steel; the gun spurting fire, then the whine of the bullet muffled by a silencer; Anselmo’s form collapsing on the edge of the stubble field. She shrieked. She shrieked although no one could hear her in that God- forsaken intersection where vehi- cles rarely passed. Then the rhythm of the violence slackened for a while. Slowly Sotero moved toward her. She was out of the jeep and wanted to run away but her dancer’s body froze in fear. “Don’t be afraid, Marina. I won’t harm you.” Her feet seemed to have grown roots as in a dream; she could not move. “You are a dancer. We shall dance in the dark. You’ll find me a good dancing partner,” his sensual mouth slowly shaped the dark metaphors. “No,: she said, still rooted to the

ground. “You have danced too long in the

light. Now we’ll dance in the dark.” The darkness was stifling. She crumpled in the talons of his lust, her dancer’s body protesting his frenzied rhythms.

From Sinaglahi, ed. by Maro Santaromana, Writers Union of the Philippines, 1975

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