Eddie Klint + Transit

Transit

It was after supper
when our family rode the tram
back to the city—to the streets
and the lights and to sleep.
I was at the window seat
pressing my head against the glass
as I usually did to look outside.





I saw you leaning against your window
your seat facing us
on your side of the tram.
You were gazing outside
the lights zooming past your eyes
stilled as if by the speed of the wind
and the blankness of uninterrupted light.
Then you looked at me
like a gaping hole





as if you understood
that after supper
walking out of the tavern
with music trailing our stride
under lamplights
I felt as empty as the streets.







And I wondered how much of it you saw
but you turned back to your window
and stared through the darkness.



The streetlamps stood still.



************

I wrote "Transit" years back. The gaze of Eddie Klint reminds me of that encounter, the way his eyes look at you, but look through and past you.

Intense but at the same time aloof, masculine yet boyish. I am certain this mystery about him is what drew Miuccia Prada to place him as the face of the label's shows and campaigns in the past seasons.

Images picked up from The Fashion Spot

The day in detail

Some days go slow, some days pass in an unrecognizable and undifferentiated blur. They start in a rush.




Like in George Seferis's poem "Epiphany", many times all we have are the details.

Here is a cross-section of what I wore today:
Tee, Penguin; trousers, Y-3; tasseled moccasins and scarf: both thirsted; PVC bag, 5cm.




The moccasins I thrifted months before. I think they go well worn sockless and with the buttoned hem of the pants.

Here I am standing on the pavement in front of our house. The office day just ended.




Even when we are already sleeping, nothing stops. The history of the day moves right beneath our eyelids. We are still traveling, archiving, our memory picking out the details. Tidying the shelves as we tidy our cabinets so we can decide what to wear the next day.

"Clothes" by Wisława Szymborska

You take off, we take off, they take off
coats, jackets, blouses, double-breasted suits,
made of wool, cotton, cotton-polyester,
skirts, shirts, underwear, slacks, slips, socks,
putting, hanging, tossing them across
the backs of chairs, the wings of metal screens;
for now, the doctor says, it's not too bad,
you may get dressed, get rested up, get out of town,
take one in case, at bedtime, after lunch,
show up in a couple of months, next spring, next year;
you see, and you thought, and we were afraid that,
and he imagined, and you all believed;
it's time to tie, to fasten with shaking hands
shoelaces, buckles, velcro, zippers, snaps,
belts, buttons, cuff links, collars, neckties, clasps
and to pull out of handbags, pockets, sleeves
a crumpled, dotted, flowered, checkered scarf
whose usefulness has suddenly been prolonged.

Mula sa Rupero/From the Hamper

By Miguel Paolo Celestial



Madalas sa madalas, tuwing tayo'y nag-uusap,
di ko mawari kung sino ang iyong nakikita
bago mo pa isa-isahin ang plastik na butones,
bago mo tanggalin ang tupi ng aking mga manggas.


More often than not, when I catch ourselves talking,
I have to second-guess who it is you see
even before you remove my buttons one by one,
before you unravel each and every fold of my sleeve.




Dahil kapag niluwagan na ang sinturon at nahulog
ang pantalon, nakakalimutan ang landas ng sapatos,
nawawalan ng kasaysayan ang dumikit na alikabok.
Iisang mata lamang ang malulusutan ng sintas,


Because once belts are unfastened and trousers
surrendered, where my shoes have been doesn’t matter,
there is no history to the dust stuck to my soles.
There is only one eyelet to thread our laces,




ngunit pareho tayong nakapikit, natatakot
hubarin ang pinakahuling pilas ng damit.
Pawisan, balat sa balat, dagli tayong nagbibihis,
sinusuot ang sari-sariling kamiseta ng hininga.


but we go through the motions with eyes closed,
afraid to cast off our last layer of clothes.
With sweat sticking skin to skin, we quickly dress,
pulling our breaths like we pull our shirts.




Dahil bago mo pa ako hinubaran sa tingin,
sinimulan na kitang unti-unting tastasin.


Because even before you undressed me with one look,
I have already begun unthreading you from the hook.


************

Shirt and jacket: both thrifted; braided belt, Brave Beltworks; jeans, Levi's; laceups, Marlboro Classics; bag, 5cm; wristwatch, Tissot; pencil case, from Market Market; 'A Village Life' by Louise Glück, from PowerBooks

For more of my poetry and works by other authors, visit Buraburador

My favorite things, part 1: Espadrilles, books, and leather notebooks

My mom just returned from Davao with the top three espadrille colors I ordered (there are of course more, but they can wait). Got another navy blue pair, plus two basics, since the one I have will be giving way soon. Right now I'm in the process of breaking them in. Strange that for me, things happen in reverse: the espadrilles are initially loose, then my feet get used to filling out the fabric.




I am aware that Tommy Ton's amazing blog, Jak & Jil, does My Favorite Things posts for fashion people. I suppose my version is different, since I think only half of my favorite things can be worn, and not a lot of them can be categorized into "lifestyle" items.

These three leather notebooks have been collected over time (their many predecessors are tucked inside a drawer). The top one in checkered suede was a gift from a friend, the one with leaves and butterflies I bought from an artisan in Beijing, and the large, chocolate brown notebook is the latest acquisition. Inside them are doodles and mostly poems and drafts and snippets of poems, my thoughts, and impressions from different periods in my life.




Literature is my first love, and much of the form and content of this blog, believe it or not, has been influenced by what I have read. Here, the row of books looks just like something from a store shelf. You can only see colors, titles, and names. Nothing is surrendered as instantly as clothes surrender shape and texture to both our eyes and our hands. But inside these pages are stories of generations that span continents and many wars, people stranded in forests of sighs, not to mention Chinese silks, exquisite kimonos, and all the finery of the Colonial era.

The sun shines through words as it pierces gossamer, honey, amber, diamonds, or simply: salt.




So what do espadrilles, notebooks, and books have in common? They have all taken me on journeys, whether points A and B are places, people, stories, or the destinations that only silence can reach.


I have relatives coming to Manila from Davao in August. For those interested to buy espadrilles, kindly drop a word.

'Clothes' by Wisława Szymborska

You take off, we take off, they take off
coats, jackets, blouses, double-breasted suits,
made of wool, cotton, cotton-polyester,
skirts, shirts, underwear, slacks, slips, socks,
putting, hanging, tossing them across
the back of chairs, the wings of metal screens;
for now, the doctor says, it's not too bad,
you may get dressed, get rested up, get out of town,
take one in case, at bedtime, after lunch,
show up in a couple of months, next spring, next year;
you see, and you thought, and we were afraid that,
and he imagined, and you all believed;
it's time to tie, to fasten with shaking hands
shoelaces, buckles, velcro, sippers, snaps,
belts, buttons, cuff links, collars, neckties, clasps
and to pull out of handbags, pockets, sleeves
a crumpled, dotted, flowered, checkered scarf
whose usefulness has suddenly been prolonged.


From 'Poems New and Collected'

'Ode to my socks' by Pablo Neruda

Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder’s hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if they were two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin.
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.
They were so handsome for the first time
my feet seemed to me unacceptable
like two decrepit firemen,
firemen unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.

Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep fireflies,
as learned men collect
sacred texts,
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers in the jungle
who hand over the very rare green deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stretched out my feet and pulled on
the magnificent socks and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.


Translated by Robert Bly

'Open Wardrobe' by Günter Grass

The shoes are at the bottom.
They are afraid of a beetle
on the way out,
of a penny on the way back,
of a beetle and a penny on which they might tread
till it impresses itself.
At the top is the home of the headgear.
Take heed, be wary, not headstrong.
Incredible feathers,
what was the bird called,
where did its eyes roll
when it knew that its wings were too gaudy?
The white balls asleep in the pockets
dream of moths.
Here a button is missing,
in this belt the snake grows weary.
Doleful silk,
asters becoming a dress.
Every Sunday filled with flesh
and the salt of creased linen.
Before the wardrobe falls silent, turns into wood,
a distant relation of pine trees —
who will wear the coat
one day when you're dead?
Who move his arm in the sleeve,
anticipate every movement?
Who will turn up the collar,
stop in front of the pictures
and be alone under the windy cloche?


From 'Selected Poems 1956-1993'
Translated by Michael Hamburger

Dolce & Gabbana's rags and tatters

I went off with my hands in my torn coat pockets; my overcoat too was becoming ideal. I travelled beneath the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal; oh dear me! What marvelous loves I dreamed of!

My only pair of breeches had a big hole in them … I plucked like the strings of a lyre the elastics of my tattered boots, one foot close to my heart!

('Ma Boheme' by Arthur Rimbaud)




Thus I saw more of the the unkempt, bohemian artist in Dolce & Gabbana's Fall 2010 collection, rather than the worker.

Dust on boots, rips on jeans that are believably from use, and grime and coal-looking denim stains.




Ultralight and thin jumpers that crease like a poet's forehead. I also like the shape of these boots, with laces close to the top and the leather bulging out pliantly.




After an old-fashioned duel that ended in the mud. How thin is that belt? Looks like matted felt.




This is essentially a wellington with excess laces. A nice touch, as is the side handle, which now makes this shoe look part-bucket. And yes, this ribbed sweater could have been owned by a poor man, who just added cloth once he grew out of it.




Even the laces do not disappoint. Socks join vests with "weathered" hems. The faded belt is a good touch. Did someone rip out the denim label or did a bullet pass through? Holes since there are no wallets?






A closer view of a "tattered" velvet vest and jacket.




I'm sure the holes were not strategically placed.




Look closely, even the scarf has holes. Are those pants in jersey?




The distressed "bucket" boot in tan. Pants have patches for longer wear. Nevermind jacket collars. All this talk of starving artists of course fails to account for the spotless velvet jackets.

"He Asked about the Quality" by C.P. Cavafy

He left the office where he'd taken up
a trivial, poorly paid job
(eight pounds a month, including bonuses) –
left at the end of the dreary work
that kept him bent all afternoon,
came out at seven and walked off slowly,
idling his way down the street. Good-looking;
and interesting: showing as he did that he'd reach
his full sensual capacity.
He'd turned twenty-nine the month before.

He idled his way down the main street
and the poor side-streets that led to his home.

Passing in front of a small shop
that sold cheap and flimsy things for workers,
he saw a face inside there, saw a figure
that compelled him to go in, and he pretended
he wanted to look at some colored handkerchiefs.

He asked about the quality of the handkerchiefs
and how much they cost, his voice choking,
almost silenced by desire.
And the answers came back the same way,
distracted, the voice hushed,
offering hidden consent.

They kept on talking about the merchandise – but
the only purpose: that their hands might touch
over the handkerchiefs, that their faces, their lips,
might move closer together as though by chance –
a moment's meeting of limb against limb.

Quickly, secretly, so the shopowner at the back
wouldn't realize what was going on.

'Ode to my suit' by Pablo Neruda

Every morning, suit,
you are waiting on a chair
to be filled
by my vanity, my love,
my hope, my body.
Still
only half awake
I leave the shower
to shrug into your sleeves,
my legs seek
the hollow of your legs,
and thus embraced
by your unfailing loyalty
I take my morning walk,
work my way into my poetry;
from my windows I see
the things,
men, women,
events and struggles
constantly shaping me,
constantly confronting me,
setting my hands to the task,
opening my eyes, creasing my lips,
and in the same way,
suit,
I am shaping you,
poking out your elbows,
wearing you threadbare,
and so your life grows
in the image of my own.
In the wind
you flap and hum
as if you were my soul,
in bad moments
you cling
to my bones,
abandoned, at nighttime
darkness and dream
people with their phantoms
your wings and mine.
I wonder
whether some day
an enemy
bullet
will stain you with my blood,
for then
you would die with me,
but perhaps
it will be
less dramatic,
simple,
and you will grow ill,
suit,
with me, with my body,
and together
we will be lowered
into the earth.
That's why
every day
I greet you
with respect and then
you embrace me and I forget you,
because we are one being
and shall be always
in the wind, through the night,
the streets and the struggle,
one body,
maybe, maybe, one day, still.


From 'Selected Odes of Pablo Neruda'
Translated by Margaret Sayers Peden