Scrivimi Una Canzone (Write Me A Song)

(Per la partenza di Koen del Belgio)

Scrivimi una canzone
parlando delle parole nascoste
dentro dell´abbraccio del tempo.

Suonami un po´ di musica
usando la chitarra
dell´amicizia.

Cantami la linea
che ci collega
con lo spazio.

Ed io ascoltero
con i miei occhi
fissati alle stelle.

Scrivimi una canzone
parlando delle parole
che dara il nostro futuro
un nome.

Suonami un po´ di musica
usando le batterie
delle memorie.

Creami dei suoni
che portera la falena
alla fiamma.

Ed io suonero
con te mentre
il mio cuore batte
e la mia anima
canticchia.

James Morrison

Thanks James. Your songs came in handy today.

Grazie James. Le tue canzoni sono state utili oggi.

You give me something

That makes me scared alright

-You Give Me Something

Tu mi dai qualcosa

Che mi fa paura veramente

-Tu Mi Dai Qualcosa

Whatever I do I'm under the influence of you

Whatever I do I'm under the influence of you

-Under the Influence

Qualunque cosa che faccio sono sotto l'influenza di te

Qualunque cosa che faccio sono sotto l'influenza di te

-Sotto l'influenza

And I know that it's a wonderful world

But I can't feel it right now

-Wonderful World

E so che è un mondo meraviglioso

Ma non posso sentirlo proprio ora

-Il Mondo Meraviglioso

It's time to surrender

It's been too long pretending

There's no use in trying

When the pieces don't fit anymore

-The Pieces Don't Fit Anymore

È ora di arrendere

è stato troppo lungo fingere

è inutile tentare

Quando i pezzi non vanno bene più

-I Pezzi Non Vanno Bene Più

I'm not lost; not lost, just undiscovered

And when we're alone we are all the same as each other

- Undiscovered

Non sono perso; non sono perso, solo non scoperto

E quando siamo soli siamo non di meno come l'un l'altro

- Non Scoperto

And all I see is a less-good version

Of a man I don't want to be

- Call The Police

E tutto che vedo è una versione meno buono

Di un uomo che non voglio essere

- Chiama La Polizia

But if the rain must fall

If I lose it all

It won't matter much to me

If I had you

-If the Rain Must Fall

Ma se la pioggia deve cadere

Se perdo tutto

Non importerà molto a me

Se l'ho avuta

-Se la Pioggia Deve Cadere

I've gotta turn and walk away

I don't have anything left to say

I haven't already said before

I've grown tired of being used

And I'm sick and tired of being accused

Now I'm walking away from you

And I'm not coming back

-The Last Goodbye

Devo girare e camminar via

Non ho niente di piu da dire

Che io non ho detto già prima

Sono reso stancato di esser usato

E sono malato e stanco di esser accusato

Adesso sto camminando via da te

E non ritorno

-L'Ultimo Arrivederci

Nostalgia

Do You Remember When?


whenever I shape the first word of my poem

I see you opening a memory

which means a body of water opens

and we both drink from it

the way knowing hunger seeks itself in the dark

-fragment of a poem unwritten by Carlomar Arcangel Daoana

Nostalgia, oh such longing for the past romanticized, contained by the senses like a fragile flame, a kind of burning visceral, almost like a disease enough to discharge and send home a soldier in the 17th century. Drive any Juan mad. Or render a post-millennium writer wanting of opinion, lost in a maze of memoirs inside a newly-opened museum on a Wednesday evening.

The latter happens to be my case. Yes, it was in the middle of last week when the Dizon-Ramos Museum unlocked its doors along one of Bacolod’s busiest streets, Burgos. And while passersby might have dismissed the ceremony as one of those lavish dinners held in the city’s balay dakus where they were not invited, I found myself in another country, in another time, listening to a vinyl of “Do You Remember When?” by a certain Mcguire Sisters playing 33-and-a-third rounds per minute.

And I made my own rounds of the ancestral home “built in 1950 and (that) reflects the architecture of post-war Bacolod.” While the second floor displays how Raymundo L. Dizon and Hermelinda V. Ramos and their family “actually lived,” the ground floor tries to capture Bacolod’s history as told through reproductions of the Dizon-Ramos family’s photos, from 1937 when “Munding and Ermy” were wed up to the present. The collection gives the viewer like me a sneak peek “into the noble past of a City and a family.”

Among the many rooms, including one that showcases the family’s set of crystals -- luminous reminders of their travels—what stood out like a sore thumb was the servant’s quarter, complete with the uniforms. How the Dizons and the Ramoses contributed to “tearing down the walls of social injustice and division, and building a city and a Nation truly united, free, just, harmonious, and prosperous” is a subject I dare not touch, but what I would love to sink my teeth into is the story of the occupant of that corner by the kitchen.

What are her thoughts on the new lifestyle museum? I also would have wanted to ask her: “Why open a museum in this time of laptops becoming the new cellular phones? Why not build a new I.T. hub? Why walk down memory lane by looking at pictures when you can surf the net and zoom yourself right into yesterday’s future simply called Now?”

These are the very same questions I could have asked the curator, the foundation chairman, another museum owner, a historian, a museum director, the usher, but I really wanted to share a tasa of native coffee with that lady who wore those uniforms. I could start the conversation by asking, “Do you remember when?”

Memory is such a very potent element, and perhaps one could say that almost every museum banks on reminiscence, even if experienced vicariously, as its biggest come-on, the promise of transporting you into another place and time, in this case, the 1950s. Being in the museum that Wednesday, nostalgia did kiss a scar open anew, and memories came bleeding crimson and thick, and per un momento, I stood before the ruins of ancient Rome again. I can still remember how I marveled upon Botticelli’s Birth of Venus in a museum in Florence, or got lost in the streets of Venice and ended up in an open square of pigeons. The mere thought of eating gelato on a Tuscan summer one more time is enough to melt you down, weaken your knees.

It is such a pity that some Italians take these grand manifestations of beauty so casually. Exactly the same sentiment I have for some who would not even bother to ask what this house at #42 Burgos St. is for. The Museums Association says: “Museums enable people to explore collections for inspiration, learning and enjoyment.”

If the Dizon-Ramos Museum gives you that is something you have to experience yourself. Should you stumble upon that lady, please do inform me. Not only would I give you your P30 back, I’d also pay for the coffee. Don’t come on a Monday though.

La Revelazione Agrodolce

Mi sveglio e rendo conto
che mentre il sole
carezza le finestre qui
con un tipo di calore
che mi fa ricordare
delle passeggiate, le vigne li
le righe delle olive, le erbe
sono avvolte, fredde ancora
dal abbracio dell’alba.

Se chiudo i miei occhi, sento
la nebbia striscia al buio, coprendo
le ore preste della giornata
con bianchezza eterna, pero
il mio naso non imbrogliera
mai la mia consapevolezza
dal odore dell’estate finita.
E triste che comincio
a dimenticare come sente
la mattina li, ma gli echi
delle nostre risate
stanno nell’anima, filtrando
i muri di nostalgia, scuotendo
le foglie delle memorie
per terra - un posto neutrale -
e degli angoli dormienti
dei sensi in uno stile
di revelazione agrodolce.

Good Intentions

Its hard to rely on my good intentions
When my head's full of things that I can't mention
Seems I usually get things right
But I can't understand what I did last night

-Toad the Wet Sprocket

E duro per fidarsi delle mie intenzioni buone
Quando la mia testa e piena di cose che non posso menzionare
Sembra di solito faccio delle cose giustamente
Ma che ho fatto ieri sera non posso capire

A Baritone, a Soprano, a Pianist and a Departed Tenor

Luciano Pavarotti, one of the world’s greatest singers, died last Thursday. It was not my fault. Pancreatic cancer was the culprit. The only thing I’m guilty of is ignoring his music since that crucial day back in high school when I realized together with a friend that we didn’t have to listen to pop and at that specific period, hip-hop, to be cool.

Since then, my aural taste has been retrospective, getting kicks out of the fun and funky 80’s new wave and digging deeper and deeper each time into the archives of rhythm and melodies until I ran into Frank Sinatra’s sleek and suave vocal performance, and of course, the immortal classical music.

So while my classmates were wearing shirts bigger than their juvenile imaginings, and putting on their pants way, way below their NSAT scores, I always have had the irrepressible urge to tuck in my shirt, wear well-ironed slacks, slip on shiny formal shoes, and swing away into college.

All this time, Pavarotti had been dishing out his type of music closer and closer to the general public, and was quite successful at such endeavor. We could have had met somewhere in between my Beatles and Mozart phase. But I never really got into liking the opera, until I started listening to Josh Groban and upgrading to Andrea Bocelli maybe just because I was in Italy for a year and was able to understand a word or two of the lyrics to his songs.

A year or so, and perhaps, I could have reached a point in my musical odyssey where Pavarotti already inaugurates my Sunday mornings. But then again the man has left the stage. Wait, his music remains, therefore, there is hope.

The elements of the universe must have conspired pretty well because a day after Pavarotti’s death, during which I was in serious assessment of my audio inclinations, I got two tickets to a concert featuring opera, Broadway and Kundiman music.

The performance, in fact, started with an “Our Father” tribute to Pavarotti by baritone Noel Azcona. While Mr. Azcona holds a very compact resume – which includes being a member of the UST Singers and accustomed to critical acclaims and standing ovations – he admitted he was not in top form that night due to a recent cold that explains the sporadic cough intervals.

Nenen Espina, a NAMCYA-winning soprano, shared the stage with him in a string of duets and belted out arguably the concert’s unforgettable solos, a validation of the rave reviews she had received for her portrayals of operatic roles, among them, as Suzuki in Puccini’s “Madame Butterfly” side by side with world-renowned soprano Yoko Watanabe.

The programme -- which saw fresh interpretations of Handel’s Ombra Mai Fu (from Xerxes) to Loewe’s I Could Have Danced All Night (from My Fair Lady) and Umali’s Ang Pag-ibig Mo – was accompanied by pianist Mary Anne Espina. Ms. Espina has been collaborating with various artists including team-ups with renowned Filipino pianist Nena del Rosario-Villanueva, French violinist Frederic Pellasy and many others. Her most recent collaboration was with Filipino cellist Victor Michael Coo.

The concert was part of Music, News & Features’ 2007 Great Performance Series, and was organized for the benefit of the Negros Cultural Foundation, Inc.

It was a night of fine, elegant music made reachable and relevant to an eclectic audience of patrons, sponsors, young people like me, and yes, even seminarians. Brief yet solid, which might not be sufficient to describe Pavarotti’s life and achievements, but the performances of the young artists were so.

A baritone, a soprano and a pianist may not be enough to fill the whole Ballroom of the L’Fisher Hotel, no equal to the likes of Italian Premier Romano Prodi, U2 lead singer Bono, movie director Franco Zeffirelli and former U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan occupying the pews of Modena, Italy’s 12th-century Romanesque cathedral to give Pavarotti his final standing ovation.

But I clapped happy and refreshed, and a departed tenor would have had at least smiled.