The Diver
Back in College, the one class I utterly fell in love with was Hum I. We studied Literature (oh bliss!) and took our time reading a lot of short stories. It was a time when I felt I was unfurling to the world, and the words I have began to understand came into full blossom under the careful tutelage of my young woman professor. We were exposed to the different genres of literature, and I learned to like most of it. One of the stories though that simply stuck to me was that of Tina Cuyugan's The Diver. It's a story about a girl who took a bath in a creek where a carabao was wading. It was kind of weird, that story. It had this very sensual ring to it, this girl coming into an awareness. I interpreted it as sexual, and it bothered me a bit that there was a carabao in it. Haha... sobrang di ko ma-gets!
Of course, when we discussed it in class, there were some who interpreted the story as a form of implied bestiality. But I knew there must be something else in it. It doesn't strike me as pornographic and I don't think the girl went anywhere near the carabao at all. In an essay, I muddled my way through it, but my prof's comments were lukewarm and I think I didn't exactly get it right. I remember writing that the carabao awakened something in her and unlatched the "floodgates of her sexuality." Erg! I cringe now, and based on the comments of my prof (she wrote "whoopeee!"), I think she tried hard not to back then.
No, I think now. That isn't exactly right.
Yesterday, I saw this guy in a light which reminded me of a carabao. Not that he was ugly or squat fat. It was just the brownness of him, the sturdiness of his built, the solidity of his shoulders. He smelled of crushed grass and churned earth and that male scent you catch a whiff of sometimes. It wasn't unpleasant. It just smelled - - - basic. Simple. But then again, not.
It brought to mind the short story again, and it seems it is an epiphany that came too late for the desired 1.00 grade. However, it could be just the right time now for me to try to understand it again for the purpose of general existence.
What if the carabao was the maleness of things? What if the girl in the creek was experiencing the unfurling of awareness about the sensuality of the earth? Water was slapping on her thighs, her toes curled in the muddy bottom of the creek, slight breeze on her shoulders, sunlight on her face and then there was that carabao sharing the bath with her. She probably did not understand how she fit into things, how she could be one with that familiarly alien feeling of just being too big for her own skin?
"As she stood ankle-deep in the middle of the creek, so sharp was the girl's awareness of her not-belonging, both within and without, that she wanted to weep in a sudden, fierce irritiation. Wordlessly, she wished herself to be reduced to an element, like gold or air, rid of all that was murky and immeasurable in her."
And just as this feeling washed over her, the carabao stands from his muddy repose and looms over her. She sees its immensity, its solidity and roughness. Belonging there in the middle of the landscape, with it's black, pitiless eye staring at her and rendering her transfixed. The warmth of the carabao's body pulling at her lower belly where a thread of her womanity unravels and gravitates towards the animal. She stands with the heat of the afternoon sun on her back and the coolness of the water around her feet.
The image it presented did not differ with what I felt staring at this guy's nape as I was jolted, bruised black and blue, inside a stuffy vehicle struggling to overcome a bumpy country road. Closer. I wanted to be closer.
"She found that she had been absorbed efortlessly into the animal's gaze - how did it happen - and now hung suspended on its glistening surface, slowly revolving. She struggled a little then, like a fingerling on a hook, but remained caught.
She continued spinning, slowly at first, then picking up speed, faster and faster, until the air was sucked out of her, along with all sense of time. What was her name? She no longer knew. There was a series of loud cracks. The girl realized she was fracturing all over, like an egg. As she spun, sections of shell broke off and were scattered, releasing thousands of fine filaments which had lain underneath, and which now streamed into the atmosphere.... her body crackled, bright as molten grass. Her hair streamed in the searing wind. The landscape was alien and yet entirely familiar; the lakewater she knew, was thick and bloodhot and fathomless. Raising her arms, the girl assumed the classic diver's position, and plunged."
Oh, what is the secret of this story and why does it stay with me after all this years? It scares me and yet I remain fascinated by it. It speaks to me but I don't know what it's saying. It's been telling me to do something for years, but the details keep avoiding me. From where should I fall and what into? How do I dive when I know not how to swim? And when I do drown, who will be there to save me?
Of course, when we discussed it in class, there were some who interpreted the story as a form of implied bestiality. But I knew there must be something else in it. It doesn't strike me as pornographic and I don't think the girl went anywhere near the carabao at all. In an essay, I muddled my way through it, but my prof's comments were lukewarm and I think I didn't exactly get it right. I remember writing that the carabao awakened something in her and unlatched the "floodgates of her sexuality." Erg! I cringe now, and based on the comments of my prof (she wrote "whoopeee!"), I think she tried hard not to back then.
No, I think now. That isn't exactly right.
Yesterday, I saw this guy in a light which reminded me of a carabao. Not that he was ugly or squat fat. It was just the brownness of him, the sturdiness of his built, the solidity of his shoulders. He smelled of crushed grass and churned earth and that male scent you catch a whiff of sometimes. It wasn't unpleasant. It just smelled - - - basic. Simple. But then again, not.
It brought to mind the short story again, and it seems it is an epiphany that came too late for the desired 1.00 grade. However, it could be just the right time now for me to try to understand it again for the purpose of general existence.
What if the carabao was the maleness of things? What if the girl in the creek was experiencing the unfurling of awareness about the sensuality of the earth? Water was slapping on her thighs, her toes curled in the muddy bottom of the creek, slight breeze on her shoulders, sunlight on her face and then there was that carabao sharing the bath with her. She probably did not understand how she fit into things, how she could be one with that familiarly alien feeling of just being too big for her own skin?
"As she stood ankle-deep in the middle of the creek, so sharp was the girl's awareness of her not-belonging, both within and without, that she wanted to weep in a sudden, fierce irritiation. Wordlessly, she wished herself to be reduced to an element, like gold or air, rid of all that was murky and immeasurable in her."
And just as this feeling washed over her, the carabao stands from his muddy repose and looms over her. She sees its immensity, its solidity and roughness. Belonging there in the middle of the landscape, with it's black, pitiless eye staring at her and rendering her transfixed. The warmth of the carabao's body pulling at her lower belly where a thread of her womanity unravels and gravitates towards the animal. She stands with the heat of the afternoon sun on her back and the coolness of the water around her feet.
The image it presented did not differ with what I felt staring at this guy's nape as I was jolted, bruised black and blue, inside a stuffy vehicle struggling to overcome a bumpy country road. Closer. I wanted to be closer.
"She found that she had been absorbed efortlessly into the animal's gaze - how did it happen - and now hung suspended on its glistening surface, slowly revolving. She struggled a little then, like a fingerling on a hook, but remained caught.
She continued spinning, slowly at first, then picking up speed, faster and faster, until the air was sucked out of her, along with all sense of time. What was her name? She no longer knew. There was a series of loud cracks. The girl realized she was fracturing all over, like an egg. As she spun, sections of shell broke off and were scattered, releasing thousands of fine filaments which had lain underneath, and which now streamed into the atmosphere.... her body crackled, bright as molten grass. Her hair streamed in the searing wind. The landscape was alien and yet entirely familiar; the lakewater she knew, was thick and bloodhot and fathomless. Raising her arms, the girl assumed the classic diver's position, and plunged."
Oh, what is the secret of this story and why does it stay with me after all this years? It scares me and yet I remain fascinated by it. It speaks to me but I don't know what it's saying. It's been telling me to do something for years, but the details keep avoiding me. From where should I fall and what into? How do I dive when I know not how to swim? And when I do drown, who will be there to save me?
Comments
Post a Comment