Get Compensated:Join My Next Book Project

Hi guys,

Just a couple of days ago, I saw the WEbook.com ad. I decided to check it out. I like the objective, so I signed up.

Right after I checked out several of the book projects that were posted, I decided to post one of my book projects, PRAISING ALL SEASONS LONG: Haiku Verses. As the title implies, contents are haiku verses about praising God in winter, spring, summer, and fall. There are 106 verses: 22 Haiku reflecting the nature and events in each season, and 9 haiku each for the introduction and conclusion. I wrote the verses when I was completely down from a terrible experience with the publisher of my first book, KOILAWAN: Letters and Poems of a Jungle Dad-Mom.

KOILAWAN was in the TOP 100 Bestsellers in Inspirational Books for a month on Amazon.com, TOP 100 Bestsellers in Religion/Spirituality/Mission for a month-and a-half on Borders. com, and TOP 100 Most Requested English Books for a month on Amazon.de (Germany), and to receive a very discouraging word from the publisher hit me real hard. It affected my desire to write. I temporarily have an ADD(attention deficit disorder). My patience and concentration became too short. My trust with fellow Christians was tested. (Yes, the publisher advertises itself as the best Christian POD publisher.) Haiku, the 3-line, 17-syllable verse, was the only one manageable to write. It was an avenue for my bruised spirit to be reminded that God was and still will be in control. In short, PRAISING ALL...LONG, was written in affirmation of God's goodness and faithfulness, despite the odds.

Well, enough of the sour gripe. I am a-okay now.

WEbook.com has a program to publish and sell some of the book projects posted in its site. Ones book project can be entered for rating, comments, and selection (to publish) through members' vote. PRAISING ALL SEASONS LONG, though it already had received a 5-star rating from one member few hours after I posted it, is late to be included for the vote. However, I am definitely turning it in for the fall selection.

Should PRAISING ALL SEASONS LONG be chosen for publication by WEbook, or other publisher, I would like to see it publish like a Haiku picture book: one or two verses illustrated with a picture. That is the reason why I am inviting you, my friends, and those who still are not but are interested, to join in my project.

Those photography enthusiasts, amateurs or professionals, could check out my Haiku Verses' project under EdMeligIndustan on WEbook.com. After you read the verses, you could start checking out your picture files. If you have pictures that you feel suitable for a particular verse, you could send them either to my email, edindustan@yahoo.com or edMindustan@gmail.com, or to the comment box under the Haiku Verse project on WEbook. Please include a description and location of the picture. I would love to get pictures from my friends all over the world. If your picture would be included in the publication, you would be compensated. And yes, you will be acknowledged. Last, but not the least, please send a photo or photos that you personally took.

Hope you'll join me (or help me) in this endeavor, my friends. Thank you all. God bless.

NOTE: 1) KOILAWAN is still available in 21 countries.

2) Sample of haiku verses in PRAISING ALL SEASONS LONG:

A. Praising God, Divine...
Maker of all things and mind
Wondrous and sublime

B. Life is a flower
It comes! It blooms! Then, it fades!
Praise God for the seeds.

C. Praise God in winter
For the coldness of the night
Time ot bundle up.

D. Life's so colorful
Autumn leaves so delightful
Soon, we'd see them fall.

E. Stinging burning skins...
Peeling! Maps on bodies seen!
Balm in Gilead reigns.

F. Praise God for the life
Smoke and flowers! Th'immortal life...
Perfect afterlife.

Online Friends: Friendship or Friendly Relations?

I have been enjoying making hundreds of friends from all over the world in one social network since January. Initially, my purpose was to promote my first book, KOILAWAN: Letters and Poems of a Jungle Dad-Mom, and my other book projects. However, I was so intrigued with the messages like, "I m very sure I have met u n Manila?","I n-vite u 2 a party!"(...as if US and Europe are just an hour drive away.),"U r my best friend.", that I lost focus. Tending my garden of friends and learning how they live (culture) and how they communicate have now become my interest. As I continue to exchange messages and postings on funwalls,(making sure that I could send "smiley", "Starbuck's coffee" or "growing plants" every weekend),I began to wonder what really is my relationship with many of them. Are we friends or just acquaintances with friendly relations?

Developing an interpersonal relationship with strangers (particularly on the web)is not easy if one is really serious in making friends. Mere messages and application "gifts" are easy to misinterpret. The term 'acquaintance' is seemingly not a website lingo.

According to S. Kurth's Social Relationship (1970), there are two types of relationships: friendly relations and friendship. Friendly relations (acquaintances) involve a present orientation that focuses on the encounter that is taking place. Friendship focuses on the interaction regarding the past and future, as well as the present. Following Kurth's idea, I could easily categorized those who just keep on sending an overused "how r u" messages, without progression to issues that touch ones past,future or more intellectually engaging topics, are just mere acquaintances, not my friends yet. However, if I would consider the language barrier (many only speaks either Spanish or Indo-European language) I really could not just simply put them in that box, despite the mere "how r u" drop line I received twice a week. We seem to reinforce our language limitation to heartwarming application gifts...gifts that imply real friendship between us. I blabber English sentences at them, hoping that they understand, considering that English is spoken worldwide. I ignore the thought that even English speakers can experience communication miscues, such as "rubber" is an eraser to the British, while a condom to the American-English speakers. Worst, it could be either a tree or a pair of running shoes to ESL (English-as-a-second-language) speakers.

So, for now I have to assume that my interpersonal relations with many of my online friends have been progressing. I have a friend relation with you when I received a requests to become your friend and a message of confirmation is received. I have a friendship relationship with you when you start sending me "how r u" messages and posts, meaningful or ridiculous. It progresses when more posts are received, even just once a week. Friendship ends when the short messages and posts, or acknowledgement of posts, do not come anymore for several weeks. When that happens, I put our relationship back to friend relations. Believe me, I really am hoping that all my online friends are not just my acquaintances.

Drop me a line how you would consider yours.

Civet-Excreted Coffee: The Priciest, but are we Sure?

There's a seven-feet coffee plant with limbs laden with black, deep crimson, red, orange, and yellow green berries that's growing in front of our house here in California. While looking at it yesterday afternoon, I cannot help but to think of two things: the most expensive coffee in the world and my childhood coffee experience in Mindanao, the second biggest, of the 7,100, islands of the Philippines, and just few hundred miles north of some Indonesian islands.

Yes, the Indonesian Kopi Luwak has been considered as the world's priciest coffee. Due to it's exotic extra flavor and the high demand from Japanese, British and American coffee drinkers to its low supply, the market dictates a whooping $500 for a pound or $50 for a cup,once brewed.

Kopi Luwak, as we probably all know by now, are collected on the ground from the excreta of the wild palm civet cat. Its passing through the animal's digestive system is believed to give its extra flavor. However, like the US-based food and drink critic, Chris Rubin, I question this marketing blitz. Is it the very unique process of depoding or the perfect ripeness of the berries, that only the palm civet cats know, gives that added musty flavor?

With more than thirty coffee plants robustly standing tall in our backyard, while growing up in southern Philippines, my friends and I usually were having fun racing to trees with lots of deep crimson berries. Why? I tell you why. Deep crimson berries means that they are fully ripe; hence, their pulps are very sweet and easy and soft to depod. But not only that! They also signify that there are lots of coffee beans on the ground that bats, rats, and (who knows) four-legged or two-legged (?) civet cats excreted or dropped on the ground for our picking.

We usually picked those fallen beans first before climbing up those 50-foot, more or less, coffee trees. Most of our coffee plants were Coffea arabica, and very few Coffea robusta (the shorter plant with smaller berries). We preferred to take the risk of (or enjoy)climbing those tall trees, because the pulp of arabica is sweeter, the marble-sized berries are enjoyable to pop into our mouths, the Chinese coffee buyer in town buy it few centavos more, and most of our parents preferred the flavor of brewed arabica more than that of the "commercial", shorter and smaller robusta.

Oh, yes, these five- to ten-year old two-legged "civet cats" climbed up those trees with tin cans strapped around their waist first thing in the summer morning, happily perched on those berry-laden sturdy branches, often times moving from one limb to another, while depoding those deep crimson berries with their mouths. They often tell jokes and horsing around by shaking the limbs hoping that their friends will move away. Holding ones dear life and laughing with five to ten berries in ones mouth were not a good combination, because many times, these two-legged "civet cats" ended up swallowing the slimy coffee beans. (Oh, yes, they have constipation the next day... and some would either pushed hard to poop while up the coffee tree or come-down and dig a shallow hole underneath those trees.)

If we just have known before that these coffee beans that pass through someones digestive system have very high market value around the world, we could have not strapped those cumbersome tin cans around our waist anymore. We could have just swallowed both the sweet nectar of those deep crimson berries and all the coffee beans for our picking the next day. Oh, well, the information is out since December of last year. Some two-legged "civet cats" are surely going to be young secret "millionaires". Secret or secrete "millionaries"? Just an insinuation! Don't puke!

Seriously, those who know (and are very sure) that the priciest coffee beans are from a four-legged wild palm civet cat excreta, please stand up!


Note: The short story, "The Coffee and the Two-Legged "Civet Cats", is included in my book project, Bedtime-Pastime: Collections of Short Stories and Bukidnon Folktales.

Jokes: Why They don't Click Cross-culturally?

As a Filipino, who resides in Los Angeles County, I regularly watch Channel 18's Kababayan LA, the only locally produced Filipino TV program in the USofA. While watching it on Thursday, July 17, I was intrigued with the response of Allan K, the well-known Filipino comedian and a mainstay of the #1 Philippine noontime TV showEat Bulaga, when he was asked on the difference of the Filipino from the American jokes. Allan K shied away from the question by saying that Filipino audience are very sensitive that comedian should be tactful when cracking jokes with them.

Trained to systematically observe social interaction among members of society, I never considered Filipino sensitivity, per se, as a difference between American and Filipino jokes. Every member of society has his or her sensitivity. Why? I tell you why. When a message is sent, the receiver has to sift it through his/her culture (i.e. language, morals, values, educ., arts, etc.)and his/her psychological self. The person's culture and psychological make-up make the difference in understanding and responding to a message. Whether you are a Filipino, British, or American, the process of communication is still the same.

A joke is a humorous message. The audience needs to understand the joke to respond appropriately. Culturally, we, Filipinos, usually crack jokes with antic. We also tend to repeat or explain the punchline. The antic and the premature unveiling of the punchline make Filipinos laughing, and allow me to exaggerate, even before the joke is said and done. Americans don't (although I have been seeing changes nowadays, when I watch the TV program, The Last Comic Standing); they say the punchline once, at the very end of the joke. Then, the comedian stops. Those whose mother tongue is English and those completely assimilated to the American society, could laugh right away in response to the joke because they imediatley get the message; for those whose mother tongue isn't, they tend to smirk. They consider it unamusing. Why? Because the culture (i.e. the language,morals, etc.) and the intellect (i.e. the grasping of the meaning) take awhile to process the joke.

Ability to understand the language used in the joke is highly important with how people respond to it. Sensitivity (maybe the best term is cultural norm) is just part of it. I bet you, many American English speaker would find this British joke unamusing: "I used to dress off the peg, but now my neighbours take in their washing at night." Those who don't know that peg to British is a clothespin would respond to this joke differently.

A Folktale Blog

I would like to thank all those who sent me messages through email and facebook in response to my short story blog. A couple mistook it as an awful folktale, probably because of its title; probably because I mentioned that it was a juvenile. Others commented against too much non-English words and phrases that made it cumbersome to read through. One from Finland politely said that because he's feeling down, he didn't finish reading it. (Bless your heart, my dear friend. LOL) Others considered it as a good or 'very cool' short story, which could still be improved. One thing I appreciated most was the suggestion on how to improve it. The text that I posted was an early draft to encourage my friends and the readers to send in their comments. And promise, the final manuscript have minimal 'vernaculars' (most would still be printed as endnotes), and the story is more cohesive and evocative.

Since some mistook "The Magical Mat" as a folktale, I am posting one of the folktales in my book project, "Bedtime-Pastime: Collections of Short Stories and Bukidnon Folktales. Again, your comments are appreciated. So, please send them in.

Thanks guys.

THE MAIDEN AND THE SKY

Edmund Melig Industan

(A very common cosmological folktale narrated through the eyes of an observer.)


“Imagine a Laga (maiden). She has a nigu (winnower). She balances it on her head. She is flirting with the wind as she pertly swings her hip left and right, walking briskly toward the wooden mortar,” my mother, who was a grade school teacher, introduced differently the most common cosmological story of our tribe.

The children, who were sitting on the mat, which my mom spread out on the floor in front of her, laughed. They squeezed tightly like a canned sardine, but immediately quieted down, to let my mother go on with the story.

“It was very late in the day. The world would soon to be pitch black. Her family, who went to the river to fish, would soon be coming home. She needed to cook the rice; the soonest, the better,” my mom paused, calmly sat on a chair, glanced outside before she looked at the children.

“See, Laga was not a typical Bukidnon maiden. She was pretty than anybody else and her body was curved as a bottle of coke. She also was the fairest. Even the frogs would crook if they would see her walking. How could she not have a fair skin when she just wanted to stay inside their bark-walled hut, stringing hundreds of colorful beads on a thin silvery twined manila hemp, while her friends and family were out either in the field, in the river, or in the forest to gather food? She also was the tallest that, if she would jump an arm-length off the ground, she could already hit the sky. Why? Because during her time, the sky was still real low, very close to the ground. Another thing with Laga was that…she always wore her ruggedly etched crescent bamboo comb and her heavy colorful necklace made from hundreds of neatly strung beads,” my mother said as she showed a bamboo comb and a bead necklace.

The kids were all ears. A pin would probably be heard by everybody if someone drops it on the school’s cement floor.

“Upon reaching the wooden mortar, she tilted the winnower to pour the dried golden unshelled rice three-quarter of the mortar’s hole. Then, she put the oblong winnower on the ground and picked up the wooden pestle, which was a little bit shorter than her height. But Laga was afraid to break her newly finished necklace from constant body quivers while pounding the rice! So…she took it off. She also took the comb off,” my mother said with hands in animation. “But she also was afraid that the chicken and the pig that always lurk around indiscriminately would pick and snort the comb and the necklace! So…she placed them at the other end of the pestle, hoisted the pestle, and glued the comb and the necklace, one at a time, onto the sky.”

“Hala ka! (Oh, goodness!),” many of the girls exclaimed as they slightly flinched their shoulders and covered their mouths with their hands. The boys laughed at their reaction to the story.

“S-h-h-h-h-h!” my mother pressed her right index finger onto her lips as she looked at all of them. “Listen to this,” she whispered, her hand glided on to her right cheek. Then, when she already has all the children’s attention back, she resumed onto her normal tone. “Laga started pounding the rice: thump……thump……thump… thump……thump……Thump…thump….thump…Thump! The maiden gently pounded the rice to avoid spilling. Then, Thump…thump…THUMP! Thump….thump….THUMP! Thump….thump….THUMP! Laga maintained that regular pestle sound for several minutes, intermittently interrupted by “TOK!” as she tapped the side of the wooden mortar to level off the rice. As more grains were unshelled and not so jumpy anymore, Laga got excited and gradually pounded the rice harder. Thump…Thump…THUMP! Thump…Thump….THUMP! Faster and harder: Thump! Thump! THUMP! TOK! Thump! Thump! THUMP! TOK!” My mother paused for a couple of seconds and she hushed, “The maiden forgot her comb and her necklace. She forgot how low the sky was. Mesmerized with the sing-song of the mortar and the pestle; harder the pestle went. BUT to do that, she had to lift the pestle higher. AND THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! TOK! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Finally, she stopped; wiped her forehead with her knuckles, winced, put her hands on her hip, stretched, and flexed backward. ‘Whoa!’ she exclaimed, eyes wide opened. She saw the sky so high already. She tried to reach for her comb and necklace, with the use of the wooden pestle, but the pestle was not long enough. She jumped high and swung the pestle hard. She hit the comb and the necklace, but…she hit them so hard that the necklace snapped scattering the beads all over the sky.”

“And that’s the reason…” my mom looked at all the children smiling as she prolonged the last sound of the last syllable.

“…why the sky has the moon and the stars at night!” the girls completed my mom’s sentence in chorus.

The boys stood up together and in unison said, "THE END!”

My mom smiled. All the children got up. They were laughing and clapping as they went back to their desks. Two of the girls stayed behind to roll the two mats; each looked like 3-arm length suman (SEW-man), a rolled rice cake wrapped with a strip of banana leaf.

“Now, the two of you must have to show me how Laga tried to reach for her bamboo comb and bead necklace,” my mom told the two girls in order to wrap up the story time.

The girls smiled, held the two rolled mat on one end, and started jumping as high as they can to tap the ceiling all the way to the back corner of their classroom, as the others clapped their hands.

The Magical Mat: A Short Story Blog

Hi guys,

One of my teacher-friend requested me sometime if I could post one of the short stories that's included in my book project, Bedtime-Pastime: Collection of Short Stories and Bukidnon Folktales. He would like to share it with his children and his English class. Hence, here is The Magical Mat. Sorry guys, it's juvenile. Reason is, I don't know the age-level of his kids. Anyways, if I could get some comments from you, I would post another one. Probably the short story, Dangerous Proposal, a proposal that could have killed a selfless school teacher should the forces of nature have not interfered.

Please note that all the stories in the book, including those of my co-author, Dr. Genoveva Melendez-Ablanque of Bukidnon State University, have ethnic themes. There are some Bukidnon words and phrases that I included to add realism to the story. I included the closest layman's phonetic equivalence to read them; an English free translation to understand them. Let me know if the inclusion is cumbersome. If possible throw in some suggestions either on how to go about it or to improve the entire story.
Thanks guys.

THE MAGICAL MAT
Edmund Melig Industan
(Exhausted from a long day hike, a teenage boy dreamed and unraveled fiendish Sudsuda (SUED-SUED-DAH), a malevolent spirit making havoc in the once peaceful village.)


“We is very sorry, we only has stewed chicken, rice, and stir-fried bok choy. No one has gone to town to get some canned sardines,” our hostess apologetically said as she put the delicious-smelling, steaming enameled bowls of food right in front of us. Then, she tenderly tapped my head and said, “Don’t worry, your apu (grandmother or an endearment for an old man/woman) is gonna tell you a nanangenen (folktale) right after we cleaned up.”

It was dusk and the deliciously prepared stewed organic chicken was a welcome sight. The simple cooking preparation: a whole knotted stalk of crushed lemon grass, fresh and newly grounded black pepper, salt, garlic, lots of newly picked green onions, tomatoes, and a little squeezed of turmeric juice, just made the chicken meat so gastronomical. The smoke of the firewood also added to its flavor. The village visits allowed me to get away, for a little while, from commercially and chemically raised poultry and canned sardines. Canned sardine was a typical substitute for chicken to many townsfolk. It is available everywhere, even in small grocery stores. The difficulty to raise chicken in a densely populated town and less time to fix a meal from scratch made it more practical to just buy a commercially packed food; hence, rural folks always thought that it was the Bukidnon urbanites’ food preference. Further, the opportunity to listen to folktales from people older than my parents has been an added motivation. That were the reasons; I always look forward going with my dad when he was invited to visit a remote village for an evangelistic meeting. I did not mind walking six hours trekking the mountain and crisscrossing river. The foot blisters and muscle pain seemed nothing when we get there. The folk’s warm and reverent hospitality, the food, and the opportunity to listen to folktales told by old women just relieved me from them all.

However, the long walk today was too much for me, a 12 year-old chap whom father wanted to follow in his footstep as an evangelist. It was only a four-hour walk after we got off from a crowded rickety public transportation jeepney, but the seemingly unending climb of that last dry, grassy mountain under a scorching tropical sun squeezed my heart so tight and took all the juice off me. It was like an eternity walking the rough narrow trail that, when we made our second stop to rest, I still did not see the crest. My father warned me before we left home about this long and arduous 6,000 ft. climb; however, he did not discourage me to come, because he wanted me to learn the rope and know the joy and pain of being an evangelist. He constantly motivated me to keep on moving by telling stories and promising me half of the chicken breast at dinner time if I made the crest in another hour. He further told me that I would have the opportunity to listen to the best story teller in the world, since the mother of our host has been known throughout the Bukidnon province plateau as the best ever.

As promised, dad gave me three portions of stewed chicken, which if glued together would be equal to half of the breast. After a short prayer, he told me to start dipping my spoon onto my bowl of rice drowned with the light yellow soup, embellished with the green bok choy and onions, and thin, red skin of ripe tomatoes. The soup was so delicious that I already was sweating when I finished off my dinner, doing what the host did- yank the bowl onto my mouth and gulp the leftover soup.

I could hardly get up from sitting in a lotus position. Since we arrived, three hours past noon time, I spent most of my time sitting on the bamboo floor beside my dad in the living room as he and other elders of the church talked about anything: the village, the problem of the church, the logging incursion, and the threatened livelihood. Nevertheless, I have to get up anyhow so that somebody can mop the bamboo floor with wet rug to spread the two-arm-length and an arm-and-a-half length ikam (EE-COME), (mat), my dad and I will have to sleep on later. My dad and our host moved to the small verandah to talk some more about some other problems of the church and the community, while I immediately sat back on the mat that was now rolled out. Some village children came and sat on the mat, but a little bit away from me. The soft and cool texture of the mat and the bloated stomach made me sleepy. There was only a scant of red-dyed reeds, which were mixed with its natural color, hence, the dyed spots looked like a pair of eyes and zigzagging mouth to me. It was weaved so tight that I was intrigued to slip my fingernails in between those flattened reeds and tried to loosen them. Sometimes, I flapped my right hand to enjoy its texture; sometimes I strummed the joints of the reeds. I began to yawn and decided to lie on my side. “Na` Ino`! /NA` ee-NO`/ (Come on, Mother!) The boy is tired and sleepy.” I heard our host requesting his 65-year old mother to begin the story.

“Es, dian (dee-yan) ka man ki Utu (uh-TU`), tagnguhugon (TAG-ngu-hoe-GOON) pa piru (PEE-ROE) mapangal (ma-PANG-al) bumulig (boom-UH-league) hu amey (ah-MOI) din.” (Oww, there is this young chap, he still has runny nose, but he is a good helper to his father,” the mother started the story with a typical Bukidnon opener. The other children, who came to listen to the story, and I laughed. She went on with the folktale about Utu`(uh-TU`) and the Kalibarut (KAH-lee-bah-ROOT). I listened, but I also continued to entertain myself strumming the mat. She really was a very good animated story teller. She paused calmly to end a section of the story. She also prolonged the pause for a few more seconds when she started the section with an alliterative “Na….” which always made us to hold our breath and, to some, biting their nails as they waited for her to continue. However, my tired body gave way that I was in and out of the story.

I felt everybody left for church. It was quieter and cooler in the house. The mat was all for me. It seemed that I was dreaming when I heard the first song at the church. I heard clapping of hands and stumping of feet. I heard the song “Hi-ay, hi-ay, katungkay ag’kalipay. Hi-ay, hi-ay pinalangga a kandin. Pinalas din sa sala ku. Makadiya a ta langit. Padayen ag’kalilipay. Hi-ay, hi-ay, hi-ay.” (Oh! Oh! I am very happy. Oh! Oh! He loves me. He washed away my sins. I (now) can go to heaven. Onward on I am happy. Oh! Oh! Oh!)

Few minutes after the singing, I heard sobbing and crying. It was an evangelistic meeting, a time for some villagers to renew their relationship with God and with fellow villagers. It also was the time to exorcise, albeit there were rare cases of this. The sobbing was common, especially when my dad talked about feuds, selfishness, jealousy, and adultery as some of the sins that destroy a village and send some people out of sync with God. However, the early sobbing was so uncommon. I presumed that the villagers, who were mostly members of the church, were experiencing some pressing problems.

Surprisingly, I also heard crying coming from far away. I heard wading in the marsh. I heard the straining and snapping sounds of the sudsud (SUED-SUED), reeds, when pulled off, the ‘gluck-gluck’ of boiling water in a 20-gallon can where the reeds were dyed, the thwacking of the dried reeds when flattened, and the screeching of the reeds when individually flattened by the weavers. Moments later, I heard a shrieking fiendish laugh along a threatening voice, “Hehehehehe…laliman (lah-LEE-man) aldaw (AL-THOU) na-an (nah-AN) do` agbungkagen (AG-boong-KA- gun) kud (code) sa-ini (sah-EE-knee) baryu (BAR-YOU) dan. Hehehehe. ” (Hehehehe… five days more (and) I am going to destroy this village. Hehehehe…) I looked around. Nobody was with me in the house. I looked around again. I still did not see anybody. I tried to go back to sleep by feeling the softness of the mat again…AND…in a little while I felt a prick in my finger. I immediately got up. I checked if it was bleeding, but did not see any. Then, I heard the shrieking laugh again, “Hehehehe….” It was coming from the mat. I looked down. Lo and behold! I saw a red reed wriggling and squealing its way out of that mat. Then, it stood in front of me, a lanky 6-footer, slightly levitating in the air, a little below its top end; its color was profusely dripping like blood. “Your father is busy trying to keep the church and the village together. He is pathetic. The culprit is not in church. He is right here! Sudsuda` (SUED-sued-DAH)! Hehehehe…. Laliman (lah-LEE-man) aldaw (Al-THOU)! Hehehehe… Laliman aldaw (five days)! Hehehehe….,”and he flew away like a slow-moving streaking arrow, out of the house, still laughing, slowly disappearing and fading, heeding towards the swamp. A reddish glow brightened the places that it passed by.

I was known to be a cry baby, while growing up; however, I learned to grow up fast when my mom died 5 years ago. Instead of screaming, I felt standing up, with fisted knuckles and angry voice, I said, “Nobody abuses my dad. GOD, HELP ME!” Immediately, I felt the entire mat, which I was standing on, jerked and glided. I felt a force held my shoulder and slightly pushed me down to sit. Off the ikam (EE-COME) went; off I was out of the house, hovering the village, following the lone lanky fiendish reed.

As I was riding the ikam, the zigzagging red reed, which was left in the mat told me to watch down-under, especially when we get to the marsh. I knew that we were already closed, because the red, lanky sudsuda, swooped down like lightning, turning the area reddish bright. The mat also told me that, besides gathering wild lanut (LAH-NOOT), Manila hemp, mat weaving was the other village commercial product. We finally got to the place. We hovered around like a big kite flying smoothly with the wind. Then, I saw Sudsuda` getting into the mouth of a quiet and aloof woman, who, I saw, talking to herself while plucking the fresh reeds. Suddenly, her face turned red. Her eyes stared like a knife ready for a kill. Then she took her bolo from its sheath, and attacked the other women, who were, at that moment, boisterous and loud. As they saw the quiet woman running amok, they ran away fast, leaving their harvested reeds. A booming fiendish voice chased them, “Sugud (SUE-GOOD) iman (ee-MAN), hari (ha-REE) kew (cow) en on makapanginsudsud (ma-ka-PANG-gain-SUED-SUED)! Mga (mang-AH) ki-at! (kee-AT) (From now on, you cannot gather reeds anymore! Women with no finesse!)

Streak of light still illumined the village when the mat began to take me back. I saw the people in commotion. Women complained about not able to keep up with the town’s mat orders. Every time they tried to go out towards the marsh, the quiet woman would go berserk and wild. She would chase them with anything sharp. I saw that, one time, the men tied her, while sleeping, with a rope on a house post, so that the women could go to the marsh. Nevertheless, when she woke up and found that even her mother was not home, her eyes turned red. She got mad. Her jugular muscle and jawbone tightened, and at one strain, she freed herself. She followed the women and chased them all away from the swamp. Since then, the village life was in chaos. I even saw her going to the school, shooing the school children and the teachers away. She was given malarial medicine by the village chief thinking that she was bitten by an anopheles mosquito when she was in the swamp, but it did not help at all. Many families were frustrated and scared that they have decided to leave the village. That was the main reason why the village chief and the elders of the church decided to request my dad to hold an evangelistic meeting.

I woke up sweating to the hilt. I sat down, looked at the mat, and strummed my index finger through the reeds. I checked the dyed part of the mat. I tried to loosen every reed. It was as tight as before; hence, I learned that it was just a dream. Few moments later, I heard the church singing a postlude, but the whole village left the church with their gas lamps on, so quiet and somber. When our host and my dad arrived, I told them of my dream and the name, Sudsuda. My dad squeezed my head and said, “God has given us the name. Now, we can prepare the hearts of the entire village for the casting out of the evil spirit, before my son and I will leave in five days.”

I looked at the mat again, smiled, and said, “Thank you, God, for this magical mat.”

(copyright applied)

U.S. Presidential Candidate: Walk the Talk

November 4 will be the U.S. Presidential Election day. More people are becoming skeptics on the economic plan of Republican candidate John McCain, particularly on his plan to continue on Pres. Bush's Tax Cut Program; more are beginning to question the feasibility of Democratic candidate Barack Obama's spending plan.

Following the sociocultural innovation approaches, McCain's plan is leaning towards discovering new information and altering what is present (which may only have some changes in semantics); Obama's plan, though trying to discover, is more leaning towards inventing a plan seen by many as out of reach that even Isabel Sawhill, an official of former Democratic President Bill Clinton's Office of Management and Budget said,"...the plan does not add up."

I understand where Sen. Obama is coming from. As an innovator, he likes to portray a radical plan. Nevertheless, in the political arena, an innovator should also learn how to listen and how to see reality, especially if it involves expenditure. Sen. Obama has to remember that an innovation, whether by invention, discovery, diffusion, or alteration must be based on the environmental and internal factors.

The U.S. economy is ailing today. It is in recession. It can't afford ostentatious spending. As a presidential candidate, one has to promote austerity. One must help save money by deciding to give an acceptance speech at a 21,000-seat Pepsi Center, where the 4-day convention is to be held. Spending more money for a 76,000-seat football stadium just to give an acceptance speech is enough to question if the candidate will really walk the talk.

Let us hope and pray that the elected president come November will really walk the talk.

Here are two clerihew verses for all of us.

Democratic Candidate Barack Obama

Yahoo, Sen. Barack Obama
Enough of these convoluted blah-blah!
"Spending plan doesn't add-up," said Sawhill.
Be realistic if you don't want to go downhill.


Republican Candidate John McCain

Hey, it is Sen. John McCain
Short of money for his campaign
Yet onward he goes, an old army, persevering
That’s the president we need when economy is ailing.

(c) edmund melig industan

A Post-Fourth of July Blog

Californians did not go gaga in buying those fireworks to celebrate the Fourth of July. They heeded the government's call for a safe and sane celebration. Hence, they did not only contribute to a lesser noise & air pollution; they also have freed emergency rooms from firework-related accidents.

Even though there only were few pyromaniacs in the streets and yards, Fourth of July did not lost its candor. People's attention were brought back to the olden days when parade and music were at the fore, and competitions were wholesome (not determined as to who could launch the loudest and prettiest fireworks in the neighborhood). People's anticipation of the fireworks display by professional pyrotechnicians were at its highest. It was the night when I immensely enjoyed the real beauty of the fireworks on the Fourth of July. With thanksgiving and inspiration, this poem transpired last night.

A JOYOUS FOURTH OF JULY

Dehiscence appeared so high in the sky.
Kettles of popcorn, they're crackling so loud.
Palm trees shaping and glittering like gold;
Colors from nowhere then coated the world.

Appear, Oh Pele, the goddess of fire.
And bless those pyros! Amuse those who've life.
Enjoy the sight! Men with mouth opened-wide
'Oh's' and 'ahs' exclaimed, as they watch the flames.

Flares fell so slow like trinkets of gold
They die and melt as some rustled and swooshed
Evolved to excite those wide-opened eyes
Then, dropping again... what beautiful sight!

Fourth of July is now past and gone
Now, Pele can rest and think for the next.
An awesome revue of flares zooming high
'New Year is next!' And Pele said, 'Aye!'

by: edmund melig industan (July 4, 2008)

IN OBSERVANCE OF THE FOURTH OF JULY

When it comes to fireworks display and consumption, the Fourth of July in the USofA is the New Year's celebration in other countries such as the Philippines. Most people love to buy and mess with them even if there are risks involve. Hence, fireworks stands are all over the place and, on July 4th, smoke and noise pollution are suffocating and dumbing.

Yes, Fourth of July is the celebration of the American independence. In the early days, the most important parts of the fanfare were the reading of the Declaration of Independence and the music in the bandstand. Nowadays, it is the firework display.

In observance of the Fourth of July, I am posting this blank verse, an unrhymed iambic pentameter poetry form, with the hope that everyone will have a "safe and sane" celebration, because life is too short and fragile to risk.

DANGEROUS! BEAUTIFUL!

...And look! They whistled! They zoomed up sooo high,
Like rockets shooting to the distant sky.
They spew those embers of gold as they fly
Exploding to a colorful splendor.

Oh! What a wonder! A transformation!
Dangerous cyclindrical invention!
They add colors to a celebration,
Either New Year's or the Fourth of July.

How awesome, beautiful they really are;
Those embers bursting like mushrooms...
bright jelly fish with falling tentacles.
They mesmerize, excite everyone's eyes.

Mix all: sulfur, saltpeter and charcoal...
So risky! Messing with it, not for all.
Pyrotechnicians, they know every rule.
Leave to them this dangerously beautiful.

Our life may be dangerous, some may say,
Risky business to traverse and parlay.
But they who create know what is the best.
Leave work to them, just enjoy everything.

(c) 2007 edmund melig industan

HAVE A "SAFE AND SANE" FOURTH OF JULY CELEBRATION EVERYONE!