Simplicity:::When Julian Barnes Wears Old Age

"Life is like invading Russia. A blitz start, massed shakos, plumes dancing like a flustered henhouse; a period of svelte progress recorded in ebullient dispatches as the enemy falls back."

—Young Barnes, Talking It Over

"The Christian religion has lasted because it is a beautiful lie . . . . a tragedy with a happy ending"

"A man can fear his own death but what is he anyway? Simply a mass of neurons. The brain is a lump of meat and the soul is merely 'a story the brain tells itself.' Individuality is an illusion. Scientists find no physical evidence of 'self' — it is something we’ve talked ourselves into. We do not produce thoughts, thoughts produce us. 'The I of which we are so fond properly exists only in grammar.' Stripped of the Christian narrative, we gaze out on a landscape that, while fascinating, offers nothing that one could call Hope."

—Agnostic and old Barnes

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I, the grammar, had read his Talking It Over, and though I had not had a full grip with his intentions (having characters directly spewing words to the readers), I had considerable guffaws with his choices of words, his masochists' characters, and the hypocrisy evolving in the world of Gillian, Stuart, and Oliver (Have no copy of the sequel, Love, etc. yet.) And his definition of love, which my friends would vehemently argued—love is someone for you to call darling after sex (or close to that).

And the quoted material from the young Barnes, I had lifted it from my fiction class notebook (fun of doodling the lines from recently read books), professored by no other than, my admired putot teacher, for his choices of words, too, Januar Yap.

Bagutbot::::Alang sa mga Balang Ningputol sa Imong Ginhawa

Sa wap-a sila ningsutoy sa imong kalawasan
Wa ba sila ka panimaho sa imong mga idealismo
O ang imong idealismo ba kaha ang napakadani
Nila nga itugyan ang ilang kaugalingon
Sa imong kaunoran?

Wa pa sila nagduhaduha,
Ay o no, di sila kahibaw mo-break
Way pilion, di sila kahibaw motan-aw
kon kinsa ang kontra.

Kapila ba teka nakita?
Pangadni nga moapil
og wara-wara sa kalsada.
Og giunsa teka pagpalibad
Nga wakoy salig sa mga in-ana
Gihimo ra mong paon sa mga pating

Way mabili, bay, bitin ang tanan
Ang kalibutan mismo buang, bitin
Kitang tanan buang. Iyahay tukob,
Pero lahi lang ang atong paagi
sa pagkabuang.


Wa koy tulog, panuwaya ka
sa sigeg televise sa akong utok
kon giunsa paglubong sa mga bala
sa imong lawas, kon unsang kataposang
pulong nga imong gilitok, kon unsa
ang kataposan nimong gihuna-huna.
Niya dayon, ningreplay ang atong panag-istorya
Sa Suga office, sa mga butbot sa kalibotan,
sa bulok nga sistema, ug uban pang butbot

Atay! Kon ang imo palang gihimong rifle
Mao ang mga pulong, daghan na uta kag
gipatay, sila unta ang gisugba sa imong mga pulong.

Poetry:::July 12

by Jona Branzuela Bering

The books, read and unread, are occupying their space
in a box, either saying hello to each other or snubbing,
—Postmodernism is arrogant, said romanticism.
Or they will be arguing who is the best poet, fictionist
of all times, or arguing if —ism is necessary in pursuing art.
|And some will concede since they will not be conceived if not
Or some will argue since they should not have been labeled
As feminism, imagism, or magic realism.
And it will not be long, they will occupy
the same bookshelf, yet they will not be having
The same neighbors. Before, a James Joyce is flirting
With Marilyn Robinson, now she is befriending
Margaret Atwood, who, in the other hand, criticizes
Her second-characterized women. And the bookshelf
will be the witness of this changes and just silent
while listening to the awkward transient silence of the books.
And the books will realize, it is not the same room,
not the same smell, not the same paint, not the same perspective.
And outside, it is not the same address.
And they, the books and the bookshelf, will smile with her decision.


This is still a draft, which badly needs refinement.

Quoting:::Haruki Mura

Balak:::Ang Panagway aning Taknaa

ni Jona Branzuela Bering















Pangutana:

Nakaanhi na bay day ka aning taknaa

Sa dihang ang imong buhok nagkurtina

sa pikas nimong mata samtang nagbasa

Kag collected poems ni Emily Dickinson;

Sa dihang imong gihawi ang imomg buho;

Ug ninglabay ang nagtuwad nga bangaw

Sa imong ngabil ug dayong litok:

You cannot fold a flood

And put it in a drawer.

Tubag:

O nakaanhi nako aning taknaa,

pero lahi ang iyang panagway—

Ang mga pulong ni Emily nagsayaw-sayaw

sa tuno aning taknaa, ug nakigsayaw ko

ug wa ko kapugong, ningpahiyom

dayong litok:

You cannot fold a flood

And put it in a drawer.

Mao nay dagway aning taknaa

Og nanghinaot ko nga mahulagwayan

Nimo kini kay di magdugay ihimugso

Ang akong balak ug ikaw

Ang makadungog sa unang uha niini.