01.14.10 kulturnatib

Winston

Winston is not a usual name for a mother. But then, a mother is not what Winston would usually think of himself either, though, he would surely laugh at this, in the boisterous way he has been known for and with it a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

But, yes, he is a mother especially with the important virtue of being nurturing. This is, of course, a throwback to the strict unapologetic sexist days of the sharp divide between father and motherhood. Even the stereotype now accepts that fathers can be just as nurturing.

Still, recognizing this, Winston would appreciate the tongue-in-cheek nature of this declaration. So he – and I, for myself -- wouldn't mind being grouped with the mothers.

Also, there is a bit of irony in this. Winston, who turned half a century old very recently, could or, more likely, would not even be a father, so far as I know. He remained a staunch bachelor in the strict legal sense of the word.

Yet, there are more than a handful of people who could attest to Winston's generous nurturing.

Foremost would be the artists and musicians. Winston was one himself. Not one for hogging the limelight, he honed his art of drumming and percussion playing to virtuosity in the kind of obscurity that back-bench or back-up musicians are familiar with.

Still, drums and percussion are not exactly quiet instruments. And early on in his musical career he earned the notoriety for being a power drummer of a kind that had a few broken drums to his name and, at one point, membership in a blacklist of one from one of the more popular live music joints in the city in the early 80s.

When I caught up with him, his musical career was in full bloom and he had learned that power drumming had little to do with sheer decibel count. In fact, in one particular instance at that time when we bumped into each other, he was shadow-drumming with a walkman, playing to one of the greatest exponents of the judicious use of silence in music: Miles Davis.

Of the musicians that he subsequently influenced the most notable would be Budoy Marabiles and Jr Kilat. In an example of the expansive and inclusiveness of music, Winston and Budoy are connected, though generations apart, by their common search for a relevant musical vernacular.

More directly, Jr Kilat came about as a band name only because Leon Kilat was already taken. Budoy realized this and realized further that the music that he was creating was not just new but also old, rooted in the revolutionary spirit of Leon Kilat the now mostly forgotten hero and Leon Kilat the early 80s band that Winston was among the founding members of.

Then, in the last two years there were the musicians who Winston brought with him on a journey across what locally is still uncharted territory; the bridge between the musico-aural, visual and performative arts.

Here we found ourselves collaborating directly. The resulting performance works surprised us both. Even with minimal prior discussion we both developed our individual contributions or elements to a single work that was much more layered with multiple platforms for the elaboration of meaning or relevance. We were establishing the co-primacy of music or sound in the overall performative work.

Most recently, Winston was involved in nurturing the reestablishment of old ties from the time when we can be said to be most conscious of our developing individual and social selves – and from this, the selectivity of memory; our elementary school days.

This group, some physically and many, like myself, in cyberspace, kept track as Winston fell sick. As he was admitted into the hospital. As he recovered and returned home. Then, as he fell once more. This time, fatally.

But, fatal is not final. Winston continues as we do. If we do.

01.07.10 kulturnatib

IYBB

This year has been declared by the United Nations to be the International Year of Biodiversity or IYB.

Even before this declaration or before I learned about it, I had already made my own somewhat related declaration or resolution that at that time didn't have any special designation to it.

Now, taking the cue from the UN, my resolution is called IYB with an added B; IYBB for International Year of the Backyard Bird.

While I have had my share of more than just passing interest in birds – among others, when I was producing a magazine-format TV program I made it a point to include an episode on the birds in the Tabunan Forest, the last remaining patch of forest in Cebu and another one on the Olanggo Bird Sanctuary – it was two recent bird incidents that led to this resolution.

The first, though chronologically this came later, is not an actual bird incident. It is a virtual one, though not of the cyber kind.

At the entrance of the main branch of the Ottawa Public Library is a much smaller library I try to avoid, like a recovering alcoholic avoiding a bar. The books here are for sale for usually cheaper than your usual bottle, pint, glass or shot in a bar.

Here I found, “Songbird Journeys : Four Seasons in the Lives of Migratory Birds.” As my usual practice is with books whose covers I find arresting – this one is with a strong Audobonesque flavor – I started flipping the pages randomly to see if the content is as captivating.

I flipped to page 28: “They streamed just feet away but made no attempts to approach or land . . . I could have caught dozens, perhaps, hundreds with a butterfly net . . . the effect was exactly like standing on a rock in the middle of a swiftly flowing river . . . the river of birds continued to flow hour after hour . . . .”

This was a description of birder John Arvin on an off-shore oil drilling platform off the Louisiana coast. He was part of the project to monitor bird migration across the Gulf of Mexico where he was lucky enough to witness a rare ornithological spectacle and to be among the few eye witnesses of the magnitude of this migration that had been previously contested but then undeniably confirmed with the use of radar.

From this book I've learned many things. Among them, that Henry David Thoreau wasn't just an iconoclastic radical but was also a passionate birder and that Walden Pond wasn't just an experiment with economic and political self-sufficiency but an ornithological observatory as well.

More importantly, it confirmed – which ties in to the other and earlier bird incident – that birds migrate at night.

Walking home one early evening, sometime in mid-November, I heard the familiar squaking of geese. I looked up. But, with the sun just a thin orange line over the horizon, I could't see anything. Still the squaking continued and becoming louder.

Then, there they were. A graciously undulating and flapping ribbon. Just a tiny strand of that carpet of the great winter bird migration. I watched until they were swallowed by the cooling, soon to be icy sky.

Still there are the resident birds. The backyard birds. They will test my resolve; To watch, appreciate, learn.