[warning: Halloween gothgothan entry]

Saturday:
Even as a child, I must admit, I have always had a morbid fascination with death, dying, and all things related to the Dark. Thus, it was with great gusto last Saturday that I went to the Manila Cemeterio del Norte with Monchito for an afternoon of photographing the architectural wonders of, well, mausoleums. Of course, midway through the crowded, tombstone-lined passageways, i couldn't help but crack, "ano ba naman 'tong date natin, sa sementeryo?" But of course, secretly, I've been wanting to see it for the longest time. If only, alas, if only, I had several hours, nay, days, to visit such a historical repository of a bygone past, I would've documented every nook and cranny of a place that almost shows how existence though not entirely terminated at the grave, also manifests in the way one's remains eventually come to be interred as glorified wormfood.

So many breathtaking structures -- angels holding up spires to the heavens, anchors grazing the ground, curlicues, ribbons, statues sprouting graceful wings and "billowing" dresses, all manner of crosses, pebble finishings, marble epitaphs with flowing script engravings -- different styles reflecting what was in vogue during the specific era of the entombment of the deceased. Of course, aside from the Art Deco and Gothic styles, there were those as bizarre as Sphinxes guarding a pyramid (the Tuason-Arroyo plot) and the Clemente clan's plot that had names apparently chiseled off and the graves literally broken off-center, as if the occupants crawled out of them in the witching hour. There were also obvious signs of neglect as some plots had peeling paint, missing brass letters, mossy edges, and worse, were converted to altars of refuse and spots where hawkers sold streetfood, oblivious to the R.I.P.s beneath their feet. I wonder how the national heroes would be literally turning in their graves upon discovering that the condition of their monuments for eternal repose are reflective of how we have become as a nation. In the mausoleum for the war veterans of the '20s, a child scrawls on the marble with crayons while her dad, repaints the plaster with campy shades of the national colors; the ultra-gasgas Gasolina reggaeton song plays in the background.

Of course, there is an observable Gestalt between the opulence of the Manila Who's Who's mausoleum and the plain, white, nitso (plus poorly-cast Sacred Heart and Virgin Mary images attached to the sides) of the common man. Even the gaudily-painted, 3-storey types with modern, made-in-china bannisters, cannot hold a candle to the old glory of the magnificent, aging marble and granite edifices. Even when you're dead, there's still a pervading dichotomy between the Haves and the Have-mores.

See related article, published on page C1 of the October 30, 2006 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer: ‘In the shadow of thy wings we rest’

Domingo:
My father has a new hobby: DIY cremation! Last week, he brought home the bones of our greatgrandfather, lolo Pastor, from the crypt at Immaculate Concepcion Parish (near Mowelfund and the old PETA office). Over dinner, my 2nd sister asked, "uy, anong balak ni Papa diyan sa mga buto ni Lolo?" The 3rd sister replied, "eh di gagawing bulalo!" (eeeeeehhh, blasphemous!) See what happens when you die? No matter how illustrious your reputation was during your lifetime, your grandchildren would just look at your remains as buto. Plain and simple. so, without further ado, my dad just went to the forest behind our house and ignited the bones which he asked the driver to chop so they'd easily turn to ash. Yikes. so, now, we've got our Ilocano ancestor's ashes floating around the subdivision.

We also went to Lucban, Quezon province (not for the Pahiyas festival) to visit my dad's 3rd family: his fruit trees. In such a pastoral setting, a meal of grilled chicken, porkchops and pako (the local fern) seems a feast fit for a king. or someone as fat as a king, like Papa. Before we were able to partake of the meal, we had to walk through several kilometers of foliage, rice paddies, and row upon row upon row of fruit trees.

That visit just affirmed my mother's theory: "ang appeal mo ay kung hindi sa mga DOM, sa mga little boys naman!" The youngest son of our katiwala kept making beautiful eyes and yelling, "dalaga, dalaga! babae!" and when I turn to look at him, he'd cover up his face with his cap. how cute! bata pa, marunong na pumorma. he could've just asked for my name, but then again, I suppose little kids won't really think much of girls 3 feet taller than them. hehe.

Lunes:
If I were to revisit my theory of falling in love with a dead man (hmm, sounds vaguely like Trinity speaking to the dying Neo about the Oracle), that dead man would be, without the slightest trace of hesitation, Emmanuel Lacaba. That man was born too early. Or perhaps, I was born too late. Whatever. Links to two of his poems (please, do yourself a favor and grab a copy of Salvaged Poems/Salvaged Prose) courtesy of "A Critical Survey of Philippine Literature", can be found here.

Happy Halloween, everybody. Argggh, the sun is rising, I'm burning!

*closes coffin*