Tales from Far Far Away..

There is a place where walls of stone, lime, and ash were left behind by time, many paths are still green, and many olden oaks yawn sleepily under the shifting light, there was a Bunny who came from a far, far land. She was there because a bird came to her one day and spoke of the place and took her away before she could nod her head.



Whatever she did, however she asked, she would not be sent back until many days had set. To bide her time, she fills her head with words from dead men, for she thought them very wise, that had not reached her ears before.

She walked around town on her own often. First, she came across the old and huge church. The pride of the town.

She was amazed by its grandeur and magnificence that she felt she is being in a grand palace of someone who is as great as this church.

She looked about in a meticulous manner and saw things of equal majesty as that facade. Among them was a Tree of Life. Yet this tree had no leaves, but many branches in the shapes of ancestor after ancestor, until it reached the capital, where sits the fruit of this tree, One who is prayed to in such places.

A grand organ that was incomparable to all of the organs they had in her land.

The gilded throne worthy of the loftiest being, resting on such slender creatures but with the surest shoulders, who never quivered in this canopy of opulence.

The Master of the cathedral's structure sits behind the doorway's arch, listening and looking at the passers by under weary lids of marble. For it was noontide, the Bunny saw him asleep in the shelter of the shadows, away from the scourging sun outside. She slipped away before he could reprimand her for disturbing his nap.

The Bunny went out of the church and walked around the town, looking at the strangers and the houses as old as the looming church.

From the heart of the town, she decided to have a tour at the outskirts, away from these looming, silent stones, where the landscape gradually turns to greens and golds.

She walked in a narrow path lined with trees in their smattering of moss and shy buds, and proud, proud daffodils. The flowers smiled at the Bunny as she stopped by to take a look at them.


When Spring enters this place, the Daffodil is one of the flowers who greets her and sings aloud of her beauty.

Among the myriad of trees, she saw a hill with a chapel on top of it(You can see it through the trees).

“What a lovely scene it is!” said the Bunny.

And when she went there, she met at the doorway the statues awaiting in boredom.

She looked at them closely, the dogs looked at her back with inquisitive eyes.

"What are you waiting for here?" the Bunny asked.

"Nothing, just waiting for nothing." said the dogs. "And you? What are you doing here? Are you a visitor?"

"Oh, yes. I came from far, far beyond two oceans to the East."

"Really? I went there before." said the beasts, quite smugly.

"How come? Haven't you been stuck there for a very long time?"

"And so? Does that mean I can't go anywhere?"

"That's enough! Don't trust them, young lady. They just trying to fool you." said the lady atop the doorway. The bunny looked up to her, and saw the lady was looking down on her as well. The beasts snickered from her side, but continued to peer at her.

"Oh! There you are, ma'am." the bunny said when she looked at her.

"We are very glad that you came here to our door," the lady said with a smile.

"Well, I am also happy to pass by your place." the bunny said.

"Young lady, we are very happy because our place quickly growing forgotten," the lady nudged at the folds of her skirts, flecked with pigment. "This place is becoming abandoned. Long time ago, when this place is still new, people flocked together to see our beauty and magic. But as the time pass by, the people gradually lessened. Until no one came here for some time until you did. Still, they will forget us anyway..."

"Such a sad story for a very beautiful place, " the bunny said.

"I hope you speak of us to other people and to your homeland."

"I will. and I promise that I will return with my Cat. I'm sure he will love this place." And so, the Bunny left the chapel and continued her walk. By mid-afternoon she became tired so she searched a place to refresh herself.

Some distance from the chapel's lair, a small fountain with a head of a man poured water from his mouth. The Bunny approached him and have a drink. But as she came closer, she heard the fountain crying while pouring water from his mouth. She didn't hesitate to ask.

“Are you crying, sir?”

The weeping man said, “I was a tippler before. When my family left me, I went here to cry and cry, but I can’t! So I just pour my tears from my mouth. See how long I have cried! That I have turned into stone!”

“Pity for you, sir.” said the Bunny.

"Will you share my tears?" he sobbed.

The Bunny took a handful of them and drank. It felt cold and sank to a place within the dark of her chest. It tasted of stone and regret.

And she realized that in this town, not all is happy. And she missed her far, far land, and her Cat waiting there.

She bade her farewell to the man and walked some more, then saw a sad serpent with a plant blooming from its mouth.

And heads stuck in the walls, looking at the passersby, waiting to be recognized by someone. But somehow, the people who walked beneath them had lost their names. The years had washed them away. They were simply heads. The bunny spied them sighing to each other. No one other than her seemed to look up to them. A thought crossed her. If any longer, these graven heads would become gargoyles who spitefully spit at the people in the rain.

"Here is Isabella, and her spouse Ferdinand. And here is Cardinal Alfonso, and there is Old Triton." The Bunny rattled off abruptly, to their surprise.


"And me?" said the woman at the rightmost post.

She paused, and then remembered. "Melusina, perhaps?" The bunny smiled at them, but they could only sigh more.

With that, she lifted her lips in a weary effort of a smile. "Why is it that a stranger knows but none from here?" The other heads nodded.

Melusina then asked: "Are you lost?"

"No... and yes..." She trailed off and looked to the sky. By now the sun was trudging to the horizon, so she said, "I best better be going..."

"Do not forget us!" They implored as she took her farewells.

It is almost evening, and the sun was setting in the west. The bunny came back to her room, where from her window she can see the small monastery and the whole town of Santiago from the distance. She stored her memories and stories in a book and fell asleep...

There, in her dreams, she gave the book to her Cat, who is in the other side of the world. When the Cat woke up, he was inspired to the stories that he wrote it on this blog and tell the stories for those who pass by here.

***

And there you go, the last of the four-part series of the Bunny's tales from the far far land. Or should I continue this until her final day at the far far land. Any suggestions? And sadly, I couldn't post any of my latest illustrations today since I still have not scanned them yet. :(

I hope you liked this little tale of sorts, though! This shall do for the meantime.

Churches and a Monastery

Recently, Mama and my sister did a Visita Iglesia, an annual tradition during the Holy Week when people visit seven churches, one after another (though I’m not sure if there will be seven wishes since there is also a tradition of someone went to a particular church for the first time, they could pray for something to be granted unto them). It is somehow connected to the Catholic prayer "The Way of the Cross," in which the devotees reflect and chant a litany that follows the last days of Jesus, also known as The Passion. It's not really for the simply curious, at it IS a pretty long prayer (or, to be correct, set of prayers), involves a lot of kneeling and standing and kneeling. But it's supposed to get you into the Lenten spirit of penance, which, surprisingly, the elderly have the knack in doing. Although you can imagine the pain in the knees afterward. Visita Iglesia is doing pretty much the Way of the Cross, but in seven churches. It's for the faithful alright. In the past centuries, this might have been a whole day affair, that involves walking across seven towns to get this done, and then back home again. Despite not having churches at every town anymore, this tradition had been cut to a half day affair since there is, of course, the comforts of modern traveling in between. (The bunny says, in Compostela, aside from going to the big cathedral, this would have been fairly easy since you'd come across a church within 10 minutes of walking inside the Old Town, which she hunts down for their grotesques and Spanish altars, the retablos. I wonder if she'll record her church hunting soon.)

As you know, I like old churches. And I sometimes imagine myself waking up in the morning with the ringing of old bells in the distance from an old church in a hill, surrounded by trees and green fields. Anyway, back to the church visits, the ones my mother and sister visited, most of them are quite old (and somehow it is quite unfortunate that I didn’t come with them).

This is a picture of one of the church façade doorways, with a curious masonry emblem as the keystone. Probably it is that of one of the donors to this church, or that of the order who oversaw the church. Mama told me that this edifice has very thick stone walls that, according to her, was once a bastion of some sort.

They also encountered some ruins that is long abandoned but almost attached to the main church. Ruins are interesting site that sometimes it fills my mind with such stories behind the ruins. Did they abandon the site? Was it destroyed by fire or earthquake, or bombed in a battle or a great war? Most probably it was not an earlier version of the church, if it was ruined some time ago. If that was the case, the architect would rebuild it directly over the original foundations. It might have been the convent connected to the church. Traditionally, the residence of the priest and his staff is housed beside it, for convenience's sake, clearly.

Along their way, they also passed by at an old cemetery of priests and some rich people near the place. Each church they visited has its own story, though most of them now forgotten among the ruins or in the dark halls of the large stoned place of worship.

***

And speaking of dark halls and thick walls, I would also like to show you another pictures from the bunny in Spain. This is part of her series in Spain. You might wondering why I am the one who is blogging her stories there. That is because the Bunny is one of the most infrequent bloggers. And, believe me, every work she does, whether pencil drawings or paintings or stories--even our art projects (which she nearly had reductions in everything due to late submission)--she takes long, long hours, days, months, or years to complete. But despite that, these works are worth waiting for. :)

In her very long stay in Santiago, from her room's window, she could see a small former Romanesque hermitage, and later monastery, called Pazo de San Lorenzo. It is once belonged to the line of the Counts of Altamira, who delegated a Franciscan order to run it, she is not sure what it was before since it is always closed. She watches over it during night time, when the night lights would open. And during 12 to 6 am, hourly, it would ring. Like I told you about the bells in the morning, she experienced it there, listening to the small bell ringing from the isolated tower there. Perhaps the present owner still wants to continue the medieval tradition of bell ringing during morning. And it is now open for wedding events, but she conjectures it might be for the elite only, since she never sees their gates open, not even for the church. But she swears it is active. That Easter, it rang from early morning until a few hours later non-stop.

Such monastery stories are also not new to me. I studied in a Catholic school during my high school years and there is also monastery there. If you could walk there the small quarters, it is seemingly unoccupied. And interestingly, you can see from the distance the old city of Santiago, with the beautiful church looming through its towering structure.

***

Recently I finished a new painting. I will show to you probably on my next post since I had it scanned in one of my sister's house, and she is still busy with other things(I do not have a camera this time, which would explain my delay in uploading my artworks).

Chocolates and Recipes

Part of the Bunny’s series of pictures from Spain, she sent me this delicious, mouth-watering, tummy-rumbling picture of a black pasta dish with a sauce that is not so familiar for me. And I recently knew that it is part of her experiment in perfecting pasta sauces and recipes, a process that has been very interesting for me since for the past two years. In most cases, I have been her guinea pig. Often, she prepares for me breakfast or brunch which she prods me into eating before we went to our morning classes together. Noticeable among these are the toast with a taste of a cinnamon-sugar syrup coating; rice with soy sauce, vinegar, and other spices like chinese parsley for a food called Adobo (normally a viand); or Java rice with lemon grass and turmeric; eggplant and sushi rice rolls; and sandwiches with, of course, unexpected but wonderful ingredients that truly I can’t say no to them. But sometimes she'd discreetly slip ginger into some of the food, that spice being, well, not quite to my taste, but she tries to introduce to me for the sake of my health. Once in a while, a smiling boiled egg would greet me with black pepper eyes, which she adds for artistry and in the effort to make pretty these boxed lunches.

I remember when we had our lunch during one hot summer noon under a tree facing a football field that is seldom used. There we ate our meal together before we took a short walk in the lagoon for the afternoon.

The wind was blowing at that time, and the sun was in the middle of the sky. I took this opportunity to take a picture as a part of the memories I had and now keep.

But truly, she is a great cook. Her sister sometimes strongly suggests to her that one day they should have a family owned restaurant. But of course, a good business has also a price: wake up very early to prepare a ton of food for the hungry customers who come could come in any minute. I guess the only one who is so, so very dedicated can stand that kind of business; which is the bunny couldn't really afford to do, since she gets tired very easily.

Anyway, back to black pasta, she made-up the sauce, and she called it Cuttlefish Spaghetti with Mushroom Cream Sauce and Pan-Seared Scallops. Sounds delicious, isn't it? Especially for those who are seafood lovers like me since she says the black pasta has a strong, salty taste of squid. The sauce complements it by being earthy and sweet. I look forward to having a plate of this!

Another picture is a chocolate in a tin with an Art Nouveau design cover based on an Alphonse Mucha piece. And she wanted to to bring the case when she returns home, though she couldn’t promise to bring it back with the chocolate still inside. :)

Strange Tales and Pictures from Spain

Since I collect some stories around me for my ideas in my stories, let me tell you some of them. I'd like to tell you these three strange tales, two from my folks, and one came from a tour last semester. These stories, along with others, are kept in my notebooks, written doodle-like or jotting-down-notes way. These notes include the weirdest dreams, newspaper and magazine articles, and other people’s experiences or things that just sprung up in my mind .

The first tale came from a funny and friendly classmate named Iris. She told me that her clan is influential in their town, and they are considered to be the “kings” of their place. And most of her kinfolks are, well not surprisingly, fat police officers, and, surprisingly, even shadow rebels in our country, hiding in the mountains but then exert a strange influence in the country side by virtue of fear. But that’s not my tale. The story goes back long ago, about one of her ancestors. The woman was being chased by a number of tribesmen called the "Headhunters". When they got nearer, a member of the tribe threw an axe towards her, and her head was severed. But the body still kept on running after the head fell to the ground, until the body bumped on a tree and fell.

The second tale came from my father. The story was about my uncle named C--*. C-- was considered the black sheep of the family, and he seldom spends his time with his family. One day, he and his friends decided to cheat in examination. When they knew that their teacher had discovered what they have done, the culprits burnt the room where the exam papers were kept. Days later, the police chased after them. All were caught except C--, who fled into the mountains and hid for some time. C-- came back to his home after his case was forgotten. Unsurprisingly, my grandpa greeted him with lashes.

The third tale came from an educational tour last semester in my Art Studies class. We went to a huge ancestral house in Quezon called Casa Tribunal (click here for more detail of the house) It was an 1831 house built by Don Diego Enriquez, the Gobernadorcillo of the place at that time. The house had curious tunnels that can fit a carriage, leading to a huge town church nearby and the priests’ graveyard. The tale is about the old pictures in the house. The pictures mostly depict festivals and parades in the town. But each picture this “black woman” appeared over and over again, and the pictures are taken between 1890’s and 1960’s.

Recently I also encountered this interesting work of Edward Gorey entitled "The Gashlycrumb Tinies". My Creative Writing professor told us to read this as an assignment. It was a rhyming abecedarium about, in the very gory Gorey manner, children depicting dying in different ways. Delightfully, Gorey is very consistent with this style in all of his books, that inked Edwardian Gothic filled with stifled furniture and stifled lives inside stifling houses, where the entertainment is often delivered by Misfortune, but instead of horrifying, you are led to feel more of melancholy for them. Everyone seems terribly resigned to their cases, and to long faces. Death or the undead are the only things that seem to enliven them. I heard this alphabet before, but it is quite good to remember this kind of, supposedly, nursery rhyme. I just wonder if we, adults or ones a bit older than children, just underestimate children’s imagination, that we usually limit their stories to happy ones, populated with only cheerful characters, contrary to what Gorey, and even what the Brothers Grimm did for me, who came up with this eccentric, or rather morbid, branch of children’s literature that captivated my imagination with welcome monsters longer than those kitschy, pastel-hued stories did.

Last week I also received through mail these beautiful pictures from the Bunny in Spain. She took it while staying in Santiago de Compostela for her scholarship. They are all beautiful pictures! The amber colors of the sun and the old bricks and the trees that resembles of Arthur Rackham’s. The picture of a rustic squirrel perched on the scrolls of a park bench in amber light is my favorite.

* I just don’t like to mention my Uncle’s name.