Look it up… in the fictionary

Oh God, not another fictionary. But here it is, since two of the four readers of this column requested for another article on those tricky words that mean everything – and, in effect, nothing.

Another reason: I attended the Neil Gaiman writers’ forum at the Music Museum last Monday and was astounded at how the author displayed wit and humility in answering the questions posed by his fans.

When asked about his contribution in making graphic novels more literary, Gaiman answered, “Whether I existed or not, we would be more or less in the same place as we are now.” And to answer a guy who looked like a rat who brilliantly stated something about Gaiman illuminating the importance of myths, the author said, “Myths are more resilient. Myths don’t need me.” Pearls of wisdom from a man who makes a living out of stringing words together.

The author recalled how he was once asked to sum up The Sandman series in 15 words. “The Sandman takes up about 2,000 pages and took me nine years to write,” Gaiman answered. “If I could sum it up in 15 words that would’ve saved me a lot of trouble (laughs).” Or something to that effect (or, to use a cliché, in other words). He added, “(Besides, the Sandman saga) doesn’t have to be about one thing.” Cain would’ve said, “It’s the mystery that endures, not the explanation.”

Ah, words…

Gaiman is a guy, like Czech author Milan Kundera, who knows how tricky and mysterious words are. In talking about Lewis Carroll, the author of Alice in Wonderland, Gaiman spoke about a conversation between a man and a cat. “Cats don’t have names for everything because they know who they are; we have names for everything because we don’t know who we are.”

One of Gaiman’s characters, Delirium, mentioned in Brief Lives about “the definitions of words that don’t exist.” Allow me to define words using logic that doesn’t exist.

Womanhood

I went to a Chinese reflexology center for a foot massage two years ago. The attendant looked like a soldier from the Ming Dynasty. She consulted her chart and then proceeded to work her pincer-like fingers on my feet. She began pressing on a particular vein, which almost made me cry because of the pain. Ouch. It was torture. I began conjuring images of dour men in black robes preceding over a witch trial in Salem… and I’m the guy who was found with a Barbie Doll, a couple of needles and a copy of Black Magic for Dummies. Ouch.

Mystified, I asked the attendant what organ was that particular vein connected to. She answered, “Sa ovaries n’yo po.”

Womanhood II

After class, my high school buddies and I would go to Recto to look for punk, hardcore, or gore metal paraphernalia at those dark stalls in Cartimar. One time, we boarded a jeepney and saw a fully made-up office girl sitting near the driver. The repressed hormones inside us started swirling. The girl was hot. She had a chest that wouldn’t look out of place on the set of Baywatch or the Playboy Mansion. We promptly made pa-cute like members of the Universal Motion Dancers. I adjusted my bangs and wiped the dirt off my tasseled shoes. The woman, basking under all the attention, craned her neck like a swan (after years of being maligned by her duck family). Wrong move. That was when we spotted her Adam’s Apple.

The jeepney driver suddenly hit the brakes hard to avoid a tricycle. The transvestite – Adam in Eve’s clothing – hit his head on a protruding speaker. He cried, “Arraaaaaaaaay…” In a rich baritone, not unlike the voice of a possessed Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

Fashion

My aunt bought a swanky blouse that cost obscene amounts of money. “Made in France ‘to eh,” she gloated, and then proceeded to model that piece of haughty couture before going to church. I swear I heard electronica music as she navigated her imaginary runway.

In church, she saw another person wearing a replica of the blouse – a hunchback. I never saw her wear that top again. I don’t know about Quasimodo, though.

Fine Dining

When I was a student at the University of Santo Tomas, I wrote for the Arts & Letters magazine called The Flame. We were late in closing an issue, so one of the members of the editorial board had to go to the printing press for additional copyediting, proofreading, etc. Photographer Aaron Favila and I accompanied ed-board member Toteng Tanglao to help out. Since we had to stay overnight, the owner of the printing press kindly offered us a room in his house to sleep in.

We got there around 10 or 11 in the evening and hadn’t eaten dinner. I believe the word “famish” doesn’t begin to describe the void swirling inside our bellies. The last thing we ate was a bag of stale chips left and forgotten by one of the magazine staffers inside a drawer. I don’t remember if we did a coin toss or something, but it was decided that Aaron would sneak into the kitchen and get (or steal, to be more exact) food from the ref. He came back with cold T-bone steaks, which we devoured like cannibals who have stumbled upon nude sunbathers.

The three of us were still contentedly gnawing at the bones when we heard someone knocking. Panicking, we threw the bones under the bed to hide the pieces of meaty evidence. Toteng opened the door. It was the owner and his wife, who was carrying a white poodle. The owner asked if we already had dinner. But before we could answer, the poodle became agitated, sniffed the air, and barked excitedly. It escaped from the arms of the owner’s wife and disappeared under the bed.

The poodle emerged several minutes later with a piece of T-bone in her mouth.

Numbers

Physics in high school is such a killer subject. Bodies in motion, bodies at rest, lessons that never got anywhere, the professor’s saliva traveling at the speed of light hitting students at rest. My classmates and I flunked all the tests leading up to the finals, so we had some making up to do.

When the test results came, we gathered like poker buddies. We covered the grades on our test papers and slowly revealed them. Pinintahan namin. I got a “9” and then a “5.” Ninety-five. Whoopee. Another got a “7” and then a “5.” Whew. A third one got an “8” and then a “0.” Ayos. The last guy braced himself for the revelation. He drew a small whoop when he revealed a “9.” The others were ecstatic. The guy smacked his lips and then revealed the rest of the grade: There wasn’t any. He got a “9” in the test.

Scientists

One Monday afternoon, I sat down with 12 scientists who spoke at the same time about their crazy inventions, hogged the recorder microphone, and spewed spittle into my general direction. At that precise moment, I wanted to ask if they had invented a force field against saliva or a reverse-polarity gadget for drool.

It’s a good thing handkerchiefs have already been invented. Umbrellas, also.

What?

Do not judge an album by its album cover.

I was in Bangkok early this year. I went to Siam Center to look for CDs and I found a store called Do-Re-Mi. It was stacked with titles rarely seen in the staid and sterile record stores in the malls. I was dumbfounded. I spotted albums by Nick Drake, the minstrel of melancholia, as well as Charles Mingus, Slayer, The Misfits, Mogwai, Squarepusher, Sun Ra, etc.

I saw a couple of Afro-beat king Fela Kuti CDs, would you believe? There was a copy of “Ikoyi Blindness” “Kalakuta Show,” and the live album featuring Cream drummer Ginger Baker – a mélange of sinister afro-funk, thunderous beats, simmering bass, and the meditations of a tortured soul.

I was looking for “Expensive Shit/He Miss Road,” which was inspired by an event in Kuti’s life. Nigerian authorities placed marijuana in Kuti’s possession. The musician promptly ate the stash, so what the cops did was to wait for him to defecate in order to test the dung for cannabis, thus the title of one of Kuti’s most popular albums.

So, I knocked on the counter and expected some nerdy guy in afro and Tortoise shirt to pop out from the stacks of discs and vinyls. Instead, out came an old Thai woman who must’ve been 70. She looked like my grade school teacher who would whip out her guitar from time to time to accompany us in singing Jesus, You’re The Sweetest Name of All.

In a haughty rock journalist kuno tone, I asked her if she has Kuti’s “Expensive Shit” album. Although I knew at the back of my mind that she was more of a Connie Francis or Cliff Richard follower.

She said, “We don’t have it, but could I interest you in Kuti’s ‘Monkey Banana’, which is more accessible?” The woman added that I might want to check out some old Slayer albums scattered in the store somewhere.

My reaction? A word that would describe it hasn’t been invented yet.