hoppy yuletide season

There’s nothing else to say especially in these times but a truly believable “happy” Christmas to all. Being happy is relative and if this is not enough, it is already up to him or her to at least appreciate the momentary break. Once again, happy Christmas to all of you bullfrogs!

And by the way, today is my mother’s birthday.

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i am talking to you

After all, it has been a while. There’s no need stretching the introductory lines here but, being the loquacious bullfrog that I am, I will offer to you my apologies right now for not directly saying what I wanted to spill out of my mouth. I have this question and it’s as if the interrogative is stuck on the tip of my tongue.

Rest assured this is not something that would annoy you, like some television prank show finale. Do not worry.

Even if you’ve reached this point, probably considering that this is a waste of time, I hope you’d hold on to this a little longer. Besides, what matters in almost all events is the moment the two persons share together—and reading a post by someone else is a communal act.

You are in the right place.

Of the several ways that I could manipulate in here, the least I could do is to keep you away. The link between us may not be visually concrete, only subjective to the haste exchange of replies in minute boxes.

Upping the ante of luring you into this part by nailing you with sentimentality is not what I have in mind. In fact, these words just flow from the tips of my fingers like nature’s spigot.

From here on, fine, I will now tip you the purpose of me talking to you. There’s something I want to know but the answer I could get can basically be encapsulated in words like “yes” and “no,” that is why I am rooting for something more than the generic responses.

I appreciate that you’re listening to my written words.

Now, here is what you should do and please bear with the simple instruction that follows: gather the first letters of each paragraph and read them.

Erm, the sudden silence is just jarring. I need to post this.

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shoot

For the time being. I just need something that's solely my own. Those big chunky ones, obviously much better (and more expensive), will follow soon. Click here for the specs of this camera.

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a history of neglect

In all the gloss and sheen this third world country is furnishing—by means of trumpeting boxing world champions, broadcasting children singing at the top of their lungs in foreign talk shows, or riding on the laurels of a conferred selfless hero in a cable network—people in some parts of the Philippines have yet to free themselves from savagery.

The massacre in Maguindanao last November 23 left a gaping hole of shame not only on the reputation of the country but also the reputation of its people. As of today, the number of dead bodies has risen from 46 (Tuesday) to 57, of which 20 of those are journalists.

The rivalry between political clans of Ampatuan and Mangudadatu has escalated to this incident, a clear account of lawless violence. It is said that several armed men closely connected to Andal Ampatuan, the massive political authority in the area, seized and attacked the supporters of the usual opponent. On their way to file the candidacy of Buluan Vice Mayor Esmael Mangudadatu, people who were all unarmed men and women, some lawyers and journalists, were slain.

Inhuman, that’s the bottom line.

This information is not only appalling due to its brutal nature but it is shocking in the most concentrated sense of the word, especially in the history of Philippine journalism. Aside from the constant drone of corruption and greed shown in all forms of media, nothing in recent years has tainted the image of Filipinos more than this.

It would certainly be of no surprise that the New York-based monitor Committee to Protect Journalists would soon move the position of our country from fourth place to the top—on the list of deadliest countries for journalists, with Somalia, Iraq and Pakistan trailing behind.

There may be countless reports by now trying to define the horror that happened, but considering our administration’s deaf ears on the calls of stabilization on crime and its other siblings of delinquency, putting in another write-up even in a blog post just to get anyone’s attention on this matter is apt. In fact, it must be raised a notch higher with the means of circulating news we’ve got in this time and age.

But in the end, with the regulations set by our purported “democratic” system, it is still in the hands of our administration to push the necessary procedure of protecting its people. Have we ever witnessed or felt such undertaking? I am not sure. Come to think of it, President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo declaring a state of emergency to that kind of crisis? It’s like giving the arsonist a gallon of gasoline and a box of matchsticks.

Her decisions are ill, if not plain inane.

It’s as if the scale of this is incident is not enough to give her the knock on the head that firearms must be confiscated, especially those that are in the hands of undisciplined men. Sending army troops and police reinforcement is basically trouble masquerading as assistance. In the first place, before the mayhem, one man of Mangudadatu asked Chief Supt. Paisal Umpa, Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (ARMM) police regional director, to provide an escort in the travel, but he was turned down. This man then sought the assistance of an Army commander in the province to do the same, but his was a futile effort. He was rebuffed.

Overall, everyone is only left to ask: Are the people we deem to be trusted the best people to reinforce order, fix the order? Strange but what happened to the Kuratong Baleleng Case? To Bubby Dacer’s murder in 2000? And what about the Department of Justice’s approval of transferring Francisco Juan “Paco” Larrañaga to a penal facility in Spain to serve the remainder of his life sentence for the rape and murder of the Chiong sisters in Cebu in 1997? There are more cases in line, gathering dust in corners only God knows where.

I think I was wrong with inhuman being the bottom line of all these. It is not only that. Playing dumb can be considered but, on second thought, it’s another thing. There's this word that does not only embody the brazenness of the executioners but also captures the administration's attitude towards such incidents. This is called neglect.
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the man with the metal studs

It is no one’s sunshine when it hits the day’s toll. From delayed papers to anxiety in irksome human forms, the causes are as varied as the spectrum from a color prism.

Stress is, unlike your neighbor’s noisy dog, is a self-induced routine. If the stressors are external, you could yield to them anytime. Kebs. It’s a routine because it grows once it is not dealt with at the soonest time possible, thus, almost becoming like a habit. You know there’s undeniably wrong or stilted in the way how things work yet the atmosphere around is as normal as any other day, so you hop on to another task or assignment that neither helps solve your previous problem nor improves what you will be doing next. It is also a routine because, based on medical research, it happens episodically in everyone’s lifetime, therefore, no one could escape its head-crunching grip. Especially in the corporate setting of any company, this is to be expected.

That’s why stress must be included in the esteemed list of deadly sins. You create or surrender to it, you suffer.

And that’s one curious thing, the fourth word in that sentence before this. Surrender. Ah, you can just feel how the word makes acrobatics with your lips. To avoid suffering, you steer away from that option. I steer away from that option. Well, obviously, it has never been anyone’s favored option.

But due to the limitations of the corporate setup, one ends up with stress, in agony. Maybe that’s a strong word but it is more or less like that, probably in the 4th degree of criticality in a one-to-ten scale.

Concentration gone, aspirations collapsed, the gears not oiled. The cause of both psychological and physiological rumpus? Believe it or not but these simply concern a pair of metal ear studs worn by a man. In short, men shouldn't put any adornment on their ears, or on any other part of the head.

It strikes me to know such kind of prohibition. To encapsulate the drama that escalated because of this, which spanned for two weeks, here are three specific reasons that are so tasty I would like to share them in their concentrated context.

Specific Reason #1

You are under a department that foster resourcefulness through cohesive policies in education, training, health and employment in all levels, and at the same time reflect and require workplace diversity that echoes the company’s customer base. As a result, you follow rules and regulations created by your department, for other departments and for the other people in your department.

Specific Reason #2

You are stereotyped as a creative person, thus, you can get away with whatever looks you want to project, but since you are in a corporate place you have to tone down.

Specific Reason #3

You are only wearing an accessory, something that’s removable. Piercings are not part of the body (on the argument on why a lot of men around are permitted to have shoulder-length hair).

Specific Reason #4

You are under the gods with a conservative viewpoint.

There, they are all laid out. Specific Reason #1 is a given, but here’s the loophole: Restriction on men having ear piercings is not even mentioned in the code of conduct. Besides, what may not be good-looking on someone looks magnificamente perfetto to another. Corporate attire works on a lot of different levels.

As if we had enough typecasts in the world through telenovelas and C-movies, here comes Specific Reason #2. It may be rude to come up with projection as a defense mechanism but look around; aside from the Creative section of the Marketing department, some IT personnel wear them and a whole lot more from obscure units I am not familiar with. Yes, one can easily tone down anything but not individuality. And if long hair is acceptable, since it is part of the body and is not an accessory, cornrows and Mohawks would be a good idea, especially in this field crowded with boring slacks, polos and pencil skirts.

Arguing to Specific Reason #3 equates to having a conversation with a rabid dog, so let us progress to #4. This reason is the most challenging part of all, wherein one has to tackle a fixed religious mindset and moral upbringing.
The word “conservative” basically covers the familial creed, the forbiddance of the color black, and the restriction of putting an umbrella under the table. Get the picture? In this case, imposing the practices of the gods on “different” people, disregarding how efficient they move the system, through usage of authoritarian power, defeats the foundation the department in Specific Reason #1 is trying to build—that is, workplace diversity. It is ironic, if not comically tongue-in-cheek.

And the gods say the acceptance of change must be gradual, and the normalcy of men having piercings is one fine example. Of course, it must be gradual, everyone must have known that after age 12, but the question is: Were the gods being ‘gradual’ in the first place?

If the gods are being gradual, they should stop whispering unpredictably to the so-called deviants in cold office corners to remove any form of accessory, and set the rules in a formal and written-on-stone finality, not through the distinctly Filipino “pagsita.” We are not elementary kids any longer.

If the gods are being gradual, efficient and constructive as what they are trying to show in their glossy demeanor, they should have cracked the hard nut of the applicant, slap on the face the documents of “you should” and “you should not” during the interview processes—not three or four months later, just like what they did to me, because that would truly be a showcase of clumsiness and ineptitude.

But no, the gods are not being gradual. They are noticeably stuck in the age of the dinosaurs, or in limbo, misplaced at the center of modernity zooming in hyperdrive, like denying the existence of Windows 97 all along.

I say this because the real meaning of gradual can be realized only if it takes the next step of moving forward. When that’s done, one can clearly see how satisfying the result of the gradual movement for change is. But there’s no movement, none at all. How stressful.

Pardon for this length but I think I have to write for my long absence in here. It is just sad that this comeback shows up in the form of a highfalutin rant. With all honesty, this is not about the hot air in my head, not one of those Millennium Development Goals promoting gender equality, and especially not just the metal studs in my ears the size of your morning stars. It is to discern that there’s something more than first impressions, to see the sunshine before anything else hits the day’s toll.

I guess I am running in circles now. Goodness, it’s strange. This must be the reason why I feel my days are complete whenever they break at six. I better put on my headband.

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hefty bunch

Though some things are better left unnoticed, there are those that you cannot disregard no matter how you shut all your senses down. For example, how would you ever resurrect the death of Friendster to all your elitist comrades? Seriously, here are the mind-fillers that I am talking about. A word of caution though, this does not involve pointers on the coming elections and global economic issues.

1. Itch
I’ve already mentioned this itch a couple of times ago through status updates (as if the frequency helps get rid of it), and it is still there, lingering in my throat. I have even mentioned of getting a cat to have its padded paws rub my neck, but then I realize it only works for removing the pain caused by little bones stuck somewhere in the throat—which is, of course, based on silly old wives’ tales. I get myself a can of soda, a bar of chocolate and two cupcakes. Now I wonder where I keep on having this annoying sore throat. Hey, where’s the vanilla almond ice cream?

2. Weekend
What can be more befuddling than spending a long weekend doing nothing at all? Well, another weekend doing nothing at all. I know this would happen today, that’s why last Friday I visited the dibidihan and bought seasons one and two of Big Love, a series about polygamy, and then discovered I made the wrong decision after watching the first three episodes. It’s not that it is awful, the series, but I need something light and funny, not something stressful with bickering in-laws and scheming religious sect. Alright, I will just listen to Mika then.

3. Stagnant
My promise is broken. I tell myself to come up with a short fiction or a piece of verse, at least in their roughest draft you could imagine, every month but that October is a total dud. This is troubling. I don’t want the well to go dry, especially in these times that I’ve chosen a career path that veers me away from inspiration, keeps me rehashing all the good sentiments I could remember from Hallmark cards. That’s why I want to do the bullet that follows this; wishing it might help me get back, head on to those unfinished drafts.

4. Reads
I want to read. There’s a big pile by my bedside, novels upon anthologies upon magazines upon collections. And most of them, I haven’t read. Technically, I have read all of them, the first five to ten pages. Because of my sudden inability to finish anything that’s bound, in gloss or matte finish, I have given myself a rule to finish at least one material before buying another one at the bookstore. But then, the minute I arrive home after work, all my energy are gone I can’t even pick a flimsy Time. Now, I feel myself shiver, probably a withdrawal symptom, the minute I see an interesting cover by the store windows.

5. Camera
My work will soon require frequent documentation just for the heck of it, and so far, I am not happy with what the upper echelons have been providing me. So, I think of getting one, the sort that captures the image of lions devouring a gazelle from meters and meters away if there’s a safari around here. On my long trek to get to the jeepney terminal before going home, I cannot help but salivate whenever I pass by the gadget stores in one mall. If I could just get into those shops after midnight…

6. Gifts
And just look at that, October slips by like tumbleweed. A few more weeks and it will be December, the month of giving and more giving, or if you’d prefer the term, sharing. My concern here is the equation listed below:

Legend:
a – Me
b – Income
c – Family members

Problem:
a(1) + b is not equal to c(7)

Get the picture? Never mind.


7. Material
In case you haven’t noticed, I will tell you now that the last three things mentioned are, like what I have just said, Things. Isn’t that disturbing, wallowing in all earthly delights? Envying filthy goods? Falling to the consumerist pit where the devil might be lurking, patiently waiting to join him in the underworld? I don’t know. What I am sure is I want to live a pleasant life even if I can’t bring a netbook after I am cremated or buried six feet under.

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answering the question

At long last, I’ve met some people who I have not seen since two months of May ago. And why not? We deserve this. After all, we have just celebrated in advance Dustin’s 26th birthday (?), a fellow Katsubong.

Since most members of the 47th batch have gathered, the prerequisite allegorical question of keeping each and every one updated is brought up: “Kamusta ang love life?” Here are some bits of information for those out there who are not able to attend with us.

Currently, Margie is crossing her fingers for a possible publication of her first short story collection. She works as a corporate communications just like me. She left Black Ink to get a new apartment.

Dustin, the birthday boy, is one of Christina Pantoja Hidalgo’s favorite students. As if that’s not enough elevation, he is the highest rated teacher in a university where he keeps on playing violence-filled videos to his students.

Carmela, who’s not letting Margie take the entire spotlight, is revving up for her “I Love You, Bakla” enterprise. After several short-lived undertakings in the corporate world, she thinks her current job would at least last for a year.

Tokwa is still the same; singkit but with a shorter hair. He would soon become the epitome of what is called genre-bending after the release of his Filipino-version of George Orwell’s 1984. It is a play with Marianne Rivera on it—an insert inspired from the movie Booba, the first Filipino post-modern film.

Lawrence, whether he likes it or not, has been immortalized in the form of a little figurine in the apartment of Dustin and Marge. Well, here’s some hint: If Oedipus is for blindness and Beethoven is for deafness, well there’s Lawrence for… you know what it is. He takes over the position of Marge in Black Ink.

Leslie did not seem to appear in the gathering. Instead, it is her alter-ego that came up, talking about dogs, crying over Quickmelt that magically transforms into blue cheese, and gulping down to the last drop of what’s left with our wine. Seriously, you’ll be fine, Les.

And finally, there’s Elena who, as what Dustin have shared to us, gives the class of Hidalgo a little surprise with her creative nonfiction work. Because of that, we push her to start with her own collection too. Oh, she’s happy being a student.

So, that’s it. With a lot of cheese, wine, and bread on the table, it’s inevitable that we stayed in until six in the morning of the following day. Okay, that may be wrong but let us be. This only happens once in a while. Until next meeting!

Liza, Lambert, Igor, Arlene, and Bron, are you listening? And oh yeah, the updates of those people's lives obviously didn't answer the metaphorical question, “Kamusta ang love life?”

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the rant as a generic political campaign against discomfort

Ideas, as many a mind produces, are worthless if stale. They rot, ill with boredom, and remain uninspired that only divine intervention could take them out of mental limbo. And here I am, neither stuck in the open spaces of ingenuity nor in the confines of incapacity. Just there in the middle, flotsam-like, moving along the grains with no effort.

It doesn’t feel good.

To complain would be the worst thing to do, especially that in order to sustain the earthly things materializing in front of me twice a month, I just have to sit all day long until spiders visit me and build houses inside my head. To request, on the other hand, seems to be too coercing and besides, I once requested a minor change in the system and it took weeks to see the currents moving. Wait! It should be take weeks, present tense, because until now the waiting continues.

So what’s left right now, if ever I do have possible choices, is to yield. To Yield. Just do what’s supposed to be done and the waters will carry on, ebbing smoothly into the vast unknowns. Belch! Sorry, this food has bad aftertaste.*

See, there’s the fight against putting taxes on Coca Cola drinks in the US, the father beheaded by his own mentally-deranged son in Capiz, the tandem of Manny Villar and Willie Revillame for president and vice-president respectively in the coming elections, the skyrocketing sales of Dan Brown’s latest recycled popcorn, the upcoming December issue cover of Oprah Winfrey’s O magazine with Ellen Degeneres on it, the personal mission of finding the perfectly-structured white button-down shirt, and most of all, the movie of Vilma Santos with John Lloyd Cruz and Luiz Manzano as a gay couple, but why am I here? Why am I thinking like television reruns, like used underpants, like soap suds on the bathroom floor? Stone me to death but I repeat, why am I here?

Batuhin mo man ako ng bato o tinapay,

tatanggapin ko, wag lang crac…

I am not compelled to keep this abstract burden rested on my shoulders but let’s just see what happens next. Three more months or, if I can still hold on to my patience and sanity, intact and functioning, nine more and then off I will fly away to rainbow’s end. As of now, I am as stale as yesterday’s breakfast rice.

*clears throat at the side

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see it for yourself

“Then you might see it,
but you won’t believe it…”
- Stranger to the Eyes of a Child-Man, The Republic Tigers


1. Bash
Last Thursday night, the traffic seems to be the least concern for most people going to NBC Tent. You know, for a small event that’s called the Cosmopolitan Bachelor Bash 2009, I guess it is not hard to set this problem aside. Samantha Echavez, who works for the Cosmo magazine, has invited me to this annual event ever since we’ve met in Iligan City. I turned her down before. But this time the bash can’t be missed. After all, I live minutes away from the spot and get to veer away from the humdrum of my daily office routine. The sights are strange but pleasant, and I guess I need them.

2. Spectacles
If you think this post has got nothing more to say, well, stop reading. This one goes for the pedestrian: I am wearing glasses now (cue: release the confetti). Yes, I am wearing one as of the moment, many thanks to the computer monitor that I make love with nine hours a day. But it has no grades. I visited the ophthalmologist two weeks ago to check what was wrong with my eyes; they’re aching, gritty, and always dry (sometimes, before I go to sleep at night, tears would crawl from my cheeks even though I am not feeling melodramatic). After taking a few tests with the doctor, I was given this radiation filter specs. He said I am just experiencing eye-strains so he recommended me to wear something for protection, not for treatment. With my retainers and braces, now someone’s looking like a real nerd.

3. Splash
The “Ber” months have just arrived without prior notice, starting with the appearance of wet September. Like an episode taken out from the pages of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel, the surroundings are all grey, muddy, damp and cold—the exact opposite of a sunny but dusty, dry and humid day. But honestly, I prefer the latter. I am not living in Tagbilaran or Dumaguete any more, where every distance of one place to another can easily be covered with a few tsinelas steps. Yes, this is futile because I am complaining against nature, but this is basically what the rage in my head is all about: I miss you, guys!
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patambling muna ha?

"Sorry ha, pero mukha kang
fashion designer kaysa writer."

OK, I will still take that as a compliment.
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2009 philippines free press literary awards

And here it is again, the list. Familiar names are in it and it is not surprising. Up to now I still have no guts to submit anything for the magazine, maybe out of cowardice or lack of anything sensible to show off. Well, I’d just like to congratulate Sasha, Arkaye, Marie, Dean, Mia and Jean Claire for their respective achievements (the last four people have humbly shared their works for publication in Dark Blue Southern Seas 2009, an anthology I have edited for Silliman University’s literary folio).

Fiction
1st Place: Epic Life by Rhea Politado
2nd Place: Marita Pangan by Mechu Aquino Sarmiento,
3rd Place: Catherine Theory by Sasha Martinez & Bad Heart by John Bengan (tie)

Poetry
1st Place: Textbook Statistics by Arkaye Kierulf
2nd Place: Poet Looks at Satellite Picture of Home by Sid Gomez Hildawa
3rd Place: Mebuyen by Mikael Co

Finalists (Short Story) Sunboy by Dean Francis Alfar, Bad Heart by John Bengan, Outlaws, by Mary Jessel B. Duque, Big Yellow by Jean Claire Dy, The Death of Roy by Sharmaine Galve, Photo Sessions by Joy Anne Icayan, Catherine Theory by Sasha Martinez, Epic Life by Rhea Politado, Marita Pangan by Mechu Aquino Sarmiento, Wishes Do Come True by Mia Tijam, An Abduction by Mermaids by Eliza Victoria

Finalists (Poetry) Infinite Mondays by Mads Bajarias, Mebuyen by Mikael de Lara Co, Textbook Statistics by Arkaye Kierulf, Slowness by Marie La Vina, Instructions by Marie La Vina, Meals Without You by Arvin Mangohig, It Is 1980 by Natasha Gamalinda, Poet Looks at Satellite Picture of Home by Sid Gomez Hildawa, Poet Talks to an Old Movie by Sid Gomez Hildawa, The Little Things by Rafael Antonio C. San Diego

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envy and boredom is a bad mix

We grapple with the littlest problems we think of in each day, whether we like it or not. It could be the overly-sweetened morning coffee, the tangled shoelaces, or the neon checkered pants your neighbor wears. In my case, there’s the wishful thinking of jumping onto a plane and flying straight to Dumaguete City. Yup, that’s a problem.

It may not be known to the whole world but Dumaguete holds one my beloved places: Silliman University. Today, the institution is celebrating its Founders Day. And like everybody else who’s provinces away, I miss that rustic place oh-so badly. And yes, “missing” is another problem.

You see, there’s work. I cannot leave my daily duties just to spend my day going to beach, or basking in a café for an afternoon latté, or lazing around the booth area in the evening, or drinking the night away until dawn breaks at the boulevard. Or can I? I don’t know. What I really know is that I have said this line to my immediate superiors a lot of times, on how I am doing with my work: “I’m still coping.”

Their default answer of surprise: “Ang tagal naman ng coping na yan!”

Well, if these people have just lived in a place like Dumaguete for four years or longer, I think they will take a closer look and study what a post post-graduation syndrome is. With my little problem of flying to Dumaguete remains to be "little" because there's no other choice, I try cheering myself up. August will end soon and the only bright side I can think of is that my boredom, as of now, is paid with a check.

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tell me what real means

It impresses me that some people make their words sound so genuine, believable in their piercing notes. The tune they carry is melodiously careful, if not sweet, like the slow creaking of a door when a mother checks on her sleeping child. Measured, labored with so much concern.

I know this admiration is nothing compared to what these people utter. If one hears them speak of their sentiments, one will hear the song that moves the curtain in the afternoon, the cries that commence the clouds to cover the sun.

Who could have known these exaggerations? Or how did I know these hyperboles exist? Well, who else will be familiar of these things other than me, who was once saturated in those concentrated words of affirmation and of love that lasts?

But after some time, I know everything is just not what it seems to be. A word is a word unless felt, not only heard.

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to the exit door

If my silence overpowers me, if my heart does not beat fast whenever I sit on the same chair for a couple of hours, if some habits are not going to change, if the flow stops and creates a clog, if it is all vague and the answer is there but remains unnoticed, if the big head grows bigger and the sense of logic diminishes, if his fellow fellows share more than what they can keep, if ghostly stories shrouding that humble image continues for another sunset, well, all systems go to the exit door then.

All these could mean something is not right. Nothing is right but, at least, having a thought of something reasonably right is adequate. I guess this is not my luck.

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small on your palms

My sister showed me something that made my heart skip a beat. In her hands was an envelope the size of my thumb and a pop-up letter with the date October 1997 written in tiny letters. It was weird seeing those made-up things in this day, not because of some rubbish I saw but wistfulness.

I made them 12 years ago.

When I was a child I constantly wrote letters longhand to my sister who lived here in Manila. Even if the revolutionary Macintosh was already out in the market, we did not have a computer. Starting at the young age of six onwards, I sent to her what I like as a birthday present, drawings, stories from my neighbor and even juvenile poems in jumbled English. If a plain sheet of paper was not enough, I constructed small paper planes, boats and, like what I recently saw, pop-up cards. I placed them in self-made envelopes and I didn’t even know yet how they reached to my sister. As long as gave one of them to my mother, I felt relieved.

And as man looking back as a child, it amazed me that the most blissful experience I can remember was the day I received a letter from my sister with a little package I wished for her to give. It was a set of glow-in-the-dark stars.

Indeed, love is more significant if you see it closely, feel it like petal on your fingers, or a glow-in-the-dark star. As what Mom reminds us with her poem Bonsai, “…life and love are real/ Things you can run and/ Breathless hand over/ To the merest child.”

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freedom as respect and humanness

[Statement on the National Artist Awards]

The head of a country or state who is truly enlightened provides the populace with the exercise of freedom not just for the government’s considerations but, most important, freedom as every individual’s right and privilege. To be aware of freedom as the individual’s possession requires the respect for his personality, for his considered actions, for his beliefs and decisions. A favorite American saying goes this way: “Your freedom ends where my nose begins;” this saying stresses how personal this requirement for freedom goes, with the specific anatomy as the limit that one’s freedom can go.

What is meant by a country’s head being enlightened? By this enlightenment is meant the awareness that at the very primary root of freedom is the human presence, humanity that demands respect – because without this respect one might as well be dealing with the most fearful and undomesticated of animals.

A well-run government’s decisions are based of course on respect for rules and regulations,and the respect always is rooted in the awareness of the acknowledged group’s right and well-considered performance of its duty.

Dr. Edith L. Tiempo

National Artist for Literature

August 6, 2009

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an attempt to avoid dormancy

Just look at that. Since when have I posted a decent post here? I can’t even remember. It would even be more confusing if I define what “decent” is in the context of the blogosphere. Due to the reality that I am finally one of the million of employees working like machines, it is hard to find some time to write. I can ever consider myself lucky right now I am able to come up this. Here are some posts for lost writing time of events.

Anniversary. My mother and father have just celebrated their 40th Wedding Anniversary last August 1, Saturday in the afternoon, at Villa Alzhun, Dauis, Bohol (even if the actual anniversary date is on the third). This Ruby anniversary is just one of the seldom seen testaments that there are things lovely and touching—and hopefully, things that would last. To the Higher Being, bless this family.

Work. As what I have said earlier, I am a working citizen now, paying taxes that even the genius Albert Einstein could not comprehend in his lifetime. The first week of the job is pretty unhurried, nicely slow an understatement, but I know my bosses’ smiles and words of encouragement would not last. I know that being absent on the first day of the job is not a plus factor to my records. I know that someday I will pull every strand of my hair and shout, “Heck! I can juggle but I am no magician!”

Absurdity. I still have a bit of time to write something else so I have included here mundane undertakings a fool would puke if he would know. Because I work in a company that’s slightly above call-center and advertising corporate-look standards, I cut my hair. But because I know I will not be comfortable with how everything looks the same (and smiles the same) with each other, I add another ear piercing. Maybe next time I will wear my faux diamonds. Oh, by the way, my upper set of teeth is in retainers already. Absurd, enough? Tell me.

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yellow

It does not blind. It enlightens.

(for Corazon Aquino 1933 - 2009 )

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biscuits

Someone's going to have this view, skyline and all, this coming August.

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out or the mind in his mind

The note or blog feature of the account is stagnant. It has not changed. In his mind, you tell the screen, do not follow the light. You are controlled, in his mind, like a marionette. You are in his mind that is why you tell the screen not to follow the light instead of him. You are confused just like the day the kindergarten teacher questioned you, “Why is this apple purple?” But you are always confused; it has always been like this ever since you try rebutting that kindergarten teacher. Before you continue regressing, walking down memory lane, he tells you to do something with his account.

What should I do, you ask in your mind. Or on second thought, you ask in your mind which is dictated by another mind which is his. The way you think is orchestrated by him; you have neither skill nor talent to whip up a single note because you have no control whatsoever. Then I question the puppeteer how he, the mind in your mind, creates anything if you have absolute power over him? Now I am involved in the struggle of the mind and the mind in the mind. I wish I am the kindergarten teacher right now, left in the recesses of the memories of the mind in his mind.

Right now, he argues I am defending the mind in his mind—you. Yes, he thinks you and I are scheming against his plans to prolong the stagnation of his account. He calls you Puppet. He baptizes you that silly name. He leaves the room, away from the two of us, but of course, that cannot be possible because you are in him. I take the cutter, in the drawer of the bed’s corner table and slash his back, the shoulders. He stops and this gives me the chance to strike again, this time from his bare nape down to his butt crack, tearing his loose cotton shirt now smeared with blood. I hear you scream and it sounds weird, like you are in pain too. You become silent all of a sudden. I do not mind as long as you come out of his stupid existence.

After I cut him into pieces, peeled his skin from scalp to soles, with a cleaver I got from the store room, I sit by the doorway of the room, waiting for you to come out. But you are nowhere in sight. I am expecting that you would crawl out from his glutinous stomach lying on the carpeted floor, or from his cranium broken in crooked half after I banged it on the sharp edge of the computer table, but not a single patch of your being is to be found. I call you several times, shouting at a shredded corpse, with the name Puppet because it is the only name I know of you. It is useless. I cry, not out of shame but of pity because I have just killed my favorite kindergarten student twenty-one years ago. I put the cleaver away from me and run out of the house.

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yes, children

In my current days living with my sister’s children 24/7, it is not hard for some bits of their discussions to drift into my ears. But their talks are no mere silly talk, they’re something else. If every little child in the world is like the following kid, I am better off in another planet.

Mother: Why are you crying?
Son: My spider died. Josh’s spider killed my spider in the battle.
Mother: It’s like that. We have to accept that some things are better than yours.
Son: No, I don’t like to play anymore.
Mother: Let’s just find a better spider.
Son: No. I don’t like spider battle anymore. And Josh is bullying me.
Mother: That’s not right… But it’s alright to lose. We do not win at all times.
Son: If I will play spider battle, let’s buy a tarantula mum so that all Josh’s spider will lose.
(whoa, now the problem’s settled!)


o o o


Father: Someday we will be rich.
Son: If we will be very rich dad let’s give money to the poor.
Father: That’s a good idea!
Son: But I don’t like to be very rich dad because it makes people’s heads very big.
Father: Yes, you’re right. Very good!
Son: Let’s just be in the middle of rich… and very rich, dad.
(the kid’s got the right economics in his head)

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transformers sequel directed by bb. joyce bernal or lyde gerard villanueva is megan fox

Of course, there’s no truth in that statement. We all know Michael Bay directed this cartoons-turned-toy-turned-movie franchise. He’s just the man behind the commercial dud The Island and that little movie series Bad Boys. But hey, don’t deny it, the name Bb. Joyce Bernal sounds superior with Transformers, right? Close your eyes, imagine the end credits rolling, and hear a thunderous voice saying: “Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen… directed by Binibining Joyce Bernal!” Cool, isn’t it?

Okay, I’ll stop kidding around but Bernal is someone reputable. Besides, Bernal has something in common with Bay. Aside from the fact that their surnames starts with “B,” the woman’s directorial efforts have actually spawned blockbuster hits, well, maybe just in the Philippines but a hit is a hit. And Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is not an alien in the “hit” category. The Autobots and the Decepticons make it big the second time around.

As of the moment, I’ve heard in the news that the film is catching up with the grosses of last year’s massive The Dark Knight. But that’s a different matter. I love the two battling races of alien way before they are adapted for the silver screen. I’ve seen the choppy seminal cartoon series, the CGI-versions, and I even have quite a number of toys that’s shared with my older brother (or is it the other way around?). Therefore, with all these stated, I’ve imposed to myself a mandatory review of the Transformers sequel.

Fallen has all the works of a superb underdog action flick. It has a lanky protagonist, a sexy cohort, a dedicated sidekick and uncontrollable parents for added humor. To complete the setup throw in an object of desire (from the All Spark relics to the, erm, Matrix of Leadership) and two groups that would try to win it over while the aforementioned characters run amok in the center. It’s as simple as that but the problem is the concept has already deserved its place in a silent corner of the house—and that is in the trash bin. If I am just a toddler with an attention span of a thumbtack, I wouldn’t have regretted watching the movie last night. After all, I’ve grown up with the technicolored robots! As stubborn as I am, and since I am trying to disagree to the critics’ spite, I watch.

Sadly, Fallen succeeds only in the last word of its title. It has fallen.

To encapsulate how it has affected me as a viewer, it feels like a “Hey, let’s make a movie that has explosions here and more explosions there while far, far away another set of blasts will follow! And it will be totally cool if we put in a hot chick in all these chaos and record her in all exploitative angles! Huh? Story? What story? People, more explosives and noise please!” kind of movie. I have nothing against movies with big bangs—I love Alfonso Cuaron’s Children of Men and the final episode of Star Wars.

I dare anyone out there to ask any simpleton who has seen the movie what it’s like and I bet you’ll get an Awesome Answer: “Whoa man! It’s awesome. Did you just see that awesome stuff that just went into the air, like, it’s the awesome-est thing in the world? Gad, it’s super awesome!” Then, if you ask what the story is all about and you’ll hear the chirping of birds. One or two lines of explanation will be a feat. Alright, hold your horses fans, Fallen has something anyone would call a plot—and it is as thin as a millimeter stretched to almost two-hours of wasted film. Honestly, I have had my occasional “Ooohs” and “Aaaahs” but they are only up to that, or maybe out of sympathy.

Fallen is like a cold kernel heated to produce the fanciest popcorn in the history of cinema. Yes, it has raked in cash unlike any other movies this year and yes, YES, it is what a movie should be all about—Entertainment with a capital “E”—but I just can’t figure out its monstrosity of inconsistencies. Fine, ‘nuff said and let’s get this straight. Listed here are some few bulleted points of the many problems that plague Fallen. I tell you, these will even make a first grader scratch his head in question until it bleeds. Watch out, spoilers spew after this period.

1. The Guns
This runs in my head from the very start: “What were they thinking?” The US Military Armies have already encountered alien invasion, superior non-human intelligence, yet they have not realized their tiny measly guns and rifles have no match for the adversaries’ thick metal hides. These people continue shooting like mad! Wow, talk about dedication. But for goodness’ sake, didn’t they even see that Jazz’s or Optimus Prime’s canons gave nothing to the Decepticons but mere scratch? As if everything starts to become futile, finally, Pentagon catches up on their noodles and releases their tanks and fighter jet planes with missiles that are as good as your bottomless iced tea.

2. The Scenes
Hello, this is already a sequel. I know these robots are made up of the most durable metal in the world or the universe whatever so there’s no need of pushing that fact into my face. The extreme camera close-ups on the transformations are pretty neat at first but they tend to be wearisome, perhaps boring in the next few shots. They are absolutely unnecessary. I can pass Yoda with his pointy ears and telekinesis or Harry Potter with his magic spells because their theatrics are not the main star of the film. Some fight scenes are prolonged too, don’t build up to the progression of the plot, they should be discarded completely. The incessant and blatant apocalyptic destruction is a Michael Bay signature but, in here, he has gone overboard (again) with the pyrotechnics he should work at Disneyland.

3. The Emotions
I know they are aliens that resemble stylized versions of numerous Voltes V thingamajigs but, at least, just the slightest bit, put in some emotion. It seems to me that the only trait highly prioritized in the movie is lust (sans Fox, imagine humping dogs and a robot. A robot?!), anarchy (goodbye Shanghai), and machismo (too much of it that a High Endurance Old Spice scent emanates from the screen). Heck, Wall-E has made millions cry with mere bleeps and buzzes! After trying to recall something humane in the entirety of the film when I’ve just been rendered deaf, viola, I discover there’s something noteworthy after all. It is in the forest scene where Optimus Prime battled two or three Decepticons while saying to Sam “Hide. Sam.,” and then, after a few metal-bashing moments, saying “Run. Sam.” Wow. That’s the most heartwarming episode I can remember.

4. The Dream Sequence
To redeem the worth of my hundred and fifty bucks, I’d like to call one scene as The Dream Sequence, for formality’s sake, rather than relate to it as The Heaven of the Robots. I’ve seen enough imaginary works than have ensued in the silver screen but I just couldn’t hold on any longer to my overly-extended suspension of disbelief in one “crucial” scene near the end. Sam sort of died but woke up after a moment of hearing inspirational Wachowski-an speeches from dead robots. Yes, you read that right, dead robots in a misty and narcotics-induced setting. Let’s make this clear: I watch to be entertained, not stumped from some cheap deus ex machina tactics.

5. The Pants
And just look at that, Megan Fox has a pair of white pants that eternally stays virgin white until the last five minutes of the film. After all that running, jumping, and more running in the midst of a total jumble of dust and debris, not a spot of dirt is to be found on her skinny jeans. Galing ng labandera mo, Ate! Oh wait, Shia LaBeouf is already bleeding to death but Fox remains pristine and immaculate—not a single scar on her oh-so seductively tanned face. Yeah, she is Megan Fox, adored by a hoard of perverts and worshipped by every gentleman’s magazine published in all points of the compass but, come on producers, no special treatments to your actors! If not for Lyde Gerard Villanueva, someone who has a name that would hit the A-list of Hollywood stars soon, I forgive this movie. As what he has said before we entered the theater, “Kung ikaw si Megatron, ako si Mega… Megan Fox!” I can’t debate to that any further.

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long day for dad

Today is the country’s summer solstice! If in any case you do not know what I am talking about, I will tell you. It is the time of the year that the tilt of the Earth’s axis is most inclined toward or away from the Sun, causing its position in the sky to reach its northernmost or southernmost extremities. In the Philippines, obviously, we are all tilted towards the great star. Sounds like a know-it-all, eh? Thanks to Uncle Wiki. Anyway, I know a thing or two about that astronomical event after having read Nick Joaquin’s short story, but I have a question: Why oh why does it land on Father’s day? I think I have an explanation; a most practical one at that.

It gives chance for every mother to use up what father has on this day, money and all. Hoppy Father’s Day to all—straight or not.

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literature in silliman unsustainable

It has just been three young years that Dark Blue Southern Seas (DBSS) is now an appreciative student effort more likely to thrive longer than it is first planned. A project of the Weekly Silliman that’s considered slightly impossible to pursue, it is at present a literary folio that holds esteemed Philippine writers such as Gémino Abad, César Ruíz Aquino, Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo, Susan Lara, Francis Macansantos, Timothy Montes, Christine Godinez-Ortega, Danton Remoto, Myrna Peña-Reyes, the late Ernesto Superal Yee, and many more, in its three editions.

Such is its favorable feedback in the writer’s world that in Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas’s words, it is “…a brave reincarnation of that literary journal, also launched and sustained as an idealistic venture at Silliman half a century ago, Sands & Corals.” It doesn’t take too long that the aforementioned journal is said to be replaced by DBSS; especially that the famous anthology in the 70s to the 90s stopped existing in 2005.

But yesterday, silent news spread that certain university heads have to decrease the publication fee of the students. In order to fully realize this plan, DBSS is under negotiations (I don’t know with whom) that it is to be scrapped off from the Weekly Sillimanian’s yearly budget. These heads have a “brilliant” idea though: create an online folio! Yes, it’s that brilliant. But I like to stress a point. I am aware of the advantages of having an online version of DBSS but this, like anything else out there, should only be an add-on, an option, not a resolute and complete replacement of the book form. Why, do tell, is having the online version flawlessly accessible compared to a digest anyone could leaf from time to time, hand from one person to another, or read under the shade of a mango tree in the comforts of one’s province? No, unless, of course, Barrio Talinis, Purok Seven will go Wi-Fi!

To add more insult, a question has been pointed out by, nonetheless, a high-ranking faculty: “Significant pa kaha ng mga iyana?” (“Are those things still significant?”). There you go. This query is one notable account of how the interest for the art of letters in the university has gone downhill.

The issue of Silliman University’s literary culture does not only touch this little literary journal (I’ve just flared up a bit, considering that I am once an editor of DBSS). For instance, there is the abrupt change of the Dumaguete National Writers Workshop’s three-week sessions into two, making the panelists condense their critiques and the fellows receive lessons perhaps, maybe, sparsely. The excuse is that the organizing committee lacks funds but better instincts, aside from reliable sources, tell me it is the lack of enthusiasm to extend the job. That’s pretty ironic for an annual undertaking that’s nearly inching its way to its Golden anniversary (50 years) and is founded by two English professors of the university. Well, they’re just National Artist for Literature Edith L. Tiempo and her husband Edilberto K. Tiempo lang diba?

It seems to me that this particular person, who has questioned the relevance of DBSS, thinks of the age-old partnership between “literature” and “Silliman” an oxymoron. If ever I’d get the chance (may the Highest Beings forbid) to possess the mind of this amoeba who’d better cut cogon grass or plant kangkong in their watery backyard, I am certain literature in Silliman University, as well as the entirety of Dumaguete City, is undeniably insignificant.

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uh-oh

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an excuse

The biggest stirring irony in our lives, no matter how we deny it, is that we are very sure of how unsure we are. We wake up in the morning and think, “What are we supposed to do?” Instead of brushing our teeth and taking our breakfast, we automatically visit the king’s throne and pee. Yes, automatic, like our refrigerator’s defrosting system. Yes, yes, it is caused by the bladder and some other organs but do we really want to see that bowl first thing in the morning? Why don’t we notice first the scent of a new day, the soft light leaking through our windows, or the early morning chirps of our feathered friends outside? I don’t know. I really, really don’t know the answers. Even the sole reason behind this write up is purely enigmatic. Maybe, I was thinking of other things, my fingers moving by their own will, and went on typing all these. Or maybe this is another unconscious attempt to create an excuse of these three realities (or doubts) dawning upon me: 1) Do I have to mention here that the possibility of not meeting some “missed” people for a long, long time is to be expected? 2) Or that the frequent text messaging is becoming less and less frequent? 3) Or that the time logged in cyberspace to poke, update and blog will forever be a college student’s luxury? There are more and more things orbiting in my head actually. I want to get rid of them but they’re there, spinning around, droning, whirring half-truths and half-lies into my ears. Oh well, I should stop being whiny and grow up.

Bye bye.

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bye better summer

Summer, for me, officially kicked off on the 24th of March. Just fresh from an overly-jubilant commencement exercise, we thought of plans on what to do before we plunge into the banal world of work even if we didn’t plan that often. As I relive those times, I just wish that my next sets of summer would be as bold as the major undertakings I had in the past few weeks. Here's what I want to do more next time.

Going to Casaroro Falls, Valencia two days after the commencement day.

Enjoying the company of your beloved silly Weekly Sillimanian staff.

Dipping your toes in Lake Balinsasayao, Sibulan, the lake where you almost got drowned last summer.

Celebrating your summer birthday with the closest “acquaintances,” for the very first time, in Dumaguete City.

Hitting white sand beaches of Panglao Island with your family.

Wallowing in the slow turn of the afternoon in your province’s rich heritage, Café Lawis at Dauis.

Meeting some people you rarely see.

Taking the task that's suggested by Ian Casocot to serve as yaya of the Dumaguete workshop writing fellows.

Having lunch at Bethel's Cafe Filomena with people you only read in books before; Cesar Ruiz "Sawi" Aquino and Gemino "Jimmy" Abad.

Capturing in photos what’s left of nature at Lake Balanan, Siaton.

Basking under the stars and moonlight at Rizal Boulevard.

Having dinner at home—your home in the city of gentle people. Or killing your wallet at different spots such as…

Mamia’s Restaurant…

Or its younger sibling, Café Mamias…

Qyosko…

Chowking when Qyosko becomes a habit…

Gabby’s Bistro…

Sans Rival Cakes and Pastries…

Dunkin Donuts for the late night brewed coffee fix…

Sta. Theresa…

Chicos with their fine wine and cheese…

Lé Chalét (with their Sunday eat-all-you can breakfast buffet)…

Enting’s…

Royal Suites Inn and their unknown treasure, Sizzling Bulalo…

Drinking until everything spins with your literary demigods, Sarge Lacuesta and Mookie Katigbak, at Blue Monkey.

Cooling with much effort at Café Antonio even though it seems futile.

Extending the night until morning time at Hayahay.

Conversing until the wee hours of the morning at Steds Silliman.

Getting the right high on top of a speeding jeepney at Siquijor as you rush to the pier…

Taking a photo of yourselves before jumping off a cliff at Salagdoong Beach, Siquijor.

Or wandering in its mystical grounds when the boat left you.

Or simply settling down in the resort and seeing the Siquijor sunset at dusk.

Meeting Mom Edith Tiempo again and handing a literary folio that’s dedicated to her.

Beating the summer heat at Lalimar Resort, La Libertad…

And if the pool is not enough, you frolic in the seas of La Libertad.

Playing tambays in one of the most enigmatic structures of Dumaguete, the Silliman footbridge.

Riding on the infamous war bus of Silliman University.

Reading bits of poetry at Mariyah Art Gallery.

Receiving the highest honor of the Dumaguete workshop, the Yaya of the Year award, at Labas Restaurant.

Drinking more at Coco Amigos with every fellow intact—complete.

Feeling like a graduate all over again.

Camwhoring in the shores of Zamboanguita because the waters have almost taken your breath away—literally.

Jogging in the late afternoon at the oval, as the sun bids goodbye and goes behind Mount Talinis.

Playing senti as you visit one last time the Rainbow Hub a.k.a. The Weekly Sillimanian Office (though it does not show in this silly picture).

Watching a horror flick at three in the morning at someone’s pad.

o o o

And right now I am wondering when all these will happen again. Nothing’s sure though—all I have to do is look for something fresh in every coming May. And I guess that’s what a new day of summer is for: It breaks you out of the routine and makes you appreciate that there’s something more than the usual stroll in the park—as long as you know where to go and who to be with. Looking forward to a greater summer next year! I hope.

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a writer has passed

The Hall of Justice was a cold place where everything seemed to reek off absolute severity. But when I entered his office and met him, the atmosphere changed. Atty. Ernesto Superal Yee, born on 29 October 1953 in Tanjay, Negros Oriental, is not only a gentle person but a guiding one. I can clearly remember his first words being said to me: “Are you happy?” And like anyone who knew important people but never got to meet them personally before, I shrugged and said, “I think so.”

He can be very sharp with his words, too, though restrained. And as a lawyer, who worked as the Clerk of Court V at the Regional Trial Court, Branch 32 of Dumaguete City, I guess he needed to practice such stern approach once in a while. Besides, I just witnessed this state of being during the National Writers Workshops. Ernie, as what many writing fellows would like to call him, was one of the few who questioned the point of “The Other Ending” poem that I’ve written for a campus competition a year ago. He was one of the many who questioned the unreasonable changes in things such as the two-week stretch of this year’s workshop instead of the usual three. He was the one who lambasted my fiction and magnified its weaknesses during my stay in the city as a fiction fellow in the same workshop. But on the night that followed, on the culmination night specifically, he was also the one who offered Tanduay flat to each and every fellow on the long table at Hayahay Resto. Ernie is cool. All those air of superiority is just his way of reminding that we should set our ego aside.

A few weeks ago, during a short break from a session of the 48th workshop batch, I gave him a copy of Dark Blue Southern Seas, the literary folio of the Weekly Sillimanian, of which two of his works were published in it. I wrote as a dedication, “Thanks for swimming with us in this sea” and he responded, “I hope we could do this literally—but I am old!” He laughed like a child. His infectious mirth removed the serious mood around the antiquated room of Katipunan Hall brought about by the previous workshop discussion that his dear “sister” Susan Lara and I laughed along. I went back to my seat and in my mind I thought I’m glad I’ve worked with him.

The good times just kept on coming. Ned Parfan, also a writing fellow in the past, shared to me that on our way to Montemar to visit Mom Edith Tiempo and listen to her lecture Ernie told him that his new poetry collection is now in the hands of publishers and hopefully will be due out this year. It was such exciting news. Even though his arthritic fingers caused him to stop creating music through the piano, a veritable treat to the ears, he was able to write prose and poetry. You know those little things in sentences or verses that are more melodious than those produced from strings because they are drawn straight from the mind and heart?

But as unpredictable as the passing of time, a distinct note in the air faded. I received news in the afternoon of May 23 that Ernie died of a heart attack in the morning, in his bed. I was really in shock—probably even surrealistic especially when you didn’t really know what to feel. Because a few hours earlier on the same day, I was reciting his poem out loud to a few people who have a heart for musicality in words. And for Ernie’s works, this is certainly something not new. His poem, “A Prayer for Yuan,” is a favorite poem of mine that truly resounds the beating of my heart’s tune. Here is the last stanza that I’d like to share to everyone:

Lord bless this one with a heart
Burning with compassion and sympathy,
Accepting as to why some trees, like his uncle,
Choose to bear flowers instead of fruits.

Sir Ernie Yee, the flowers you bore in this land were beyond the superlatives of beauty. A poet's spark may have died all of a sudden but during its living brilliance it gave way for others to light their own candles. Thanks for all the help.

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because adam lambert should

Dustin Celestino, fellow for fiction in last year’s Dumaguete workshop, wrote why Adam Lambert should win in this latest season of American Idol:

‘Adam Lambert was the Elvis daemon of ecstatic agony when he performed “Tracks of my tears” and “If I can’t have you.” In “Mad World,” he was the tormented soul whose glorious wails of pure alienated despair seem to have echoed from the phantoms and spectres of suicidal lovers from the pits of the second level of Dante’s Inferno. He was the fiendish incubus of raw longing and restless turbulence in “Satisfaction” and “Born to Be Wild.” He was the jaded, egoistic, self-absorbed, lecherous second coming of Faust – the hedonistic demon of indulgence and abandon – in “I’m Feeling Good” and “Ring of Fire.”

Yes, Adam Lambert sold his soul to the devil to be able to emulate the devil’s defiant wail as the Morning Star was cast down from heaven unto the depths of hell, forever illuminating oblivion with the crimson glow emanating from the heart of the first sinner.

Adam Lambert’s songs are metaphorical representations of the ancient battle between good and evil – at once echoing the repentant sorrow of fallen angels and speaking in the holy tongues of
envious, sex-deprived seraphims.

Adam Lambert is what entertainment for an ironic generation is about – imbued with a sharp meta-camp sensibility, edgy in his defiance of suffocating social structures, and fearless in advocating a liberal perspective.

Kris Allen is a solo version of “Boyce Avenue” – check out their acoustic renditions of “Apologize,” “Disturbia,” “Bleeding Love” in YouTube. “Boyce Avenue” was what Kara and Randy had in mind when they picked “Apologize” for Kris to sing - http://www.titikpilipino.com/news/index.php?aid=1228§ion=International.

But what most people don’t know is that these contestants hold deep, dark secrets, that when revealed might influence the outcome of the contest. You saw it here first, the deepest, darkest secrets of the American idol finale contestants.

Adam Lambert is actually the product of a United States government experiment that combined the DNA of Freddie Mercury, Michael Jackson, Mick Jagger, Meatloaf, and Madonna to create the ultimate disco demi-god.

Kris Allen is actually the fourth member of “Boyce Avenue.”

Yes, I’m biased. Obviously, I think the better artist should win.

My vote (if only I could): Adam Lambert - the turbulent titan of transgression; the
Eros-demented demi-god of disco; the self-aware, meta-artist of commercialized
camp (which makes it more campy).’

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on being a yaya

(For all of you)

At first, it was not exactly what I pictured myself doing in the city of gentle people. Especially in May. With the dusty roads surrounding Silliman University flipped upside down, parading a bunch of tourists is not a good idea. But it turned out to be fine; perhaps, even more than fine. The experience was fulfilling.

The oldest creative writing workshop in Asia, now on its 48th year, has just baptized another batch of capable writers: Bea Nakpil, Mo Francisco, Keith Cortez, Philip Kimpo, Jr., Ynna Abuan, Marck Rimorin, Jonathan Gonzales, Niño Manaog (Lolo!), Stan Geronimo, Petra Magno, Arkaye Kierulf, Maoui Stuart del Rosario, Aleck Maramag, Gabriel Millado and Joy Rodriguez. Though I haven’t attended that much bashing of workshop batches, I’d proudly say this group was good (sans the dirt that was messily cleaned).

But aside from the daily workshop sessions, of course, there’s the much needed breather during the breaks and the weekends. Last year, our batch had the veritable Moses Atega (or Kuya Mo) who, I guess, toured many of the previous fellows in and out of the city. For this year, the guy’s island-hopping! And like the force of a fate’s pummeling gavel, a strange thought struck me hard: ako nalang kaha? That I did.

There was no planned itinerary on each day, actually. I don’t usually plan. Spontaneity has been my buddy these days. What they want, I’d show or provide it to them—but except for Ynna’s pleadings that I’d be her Dumaguete love catch. Pointing out historical tidbits of this monument or that structure, remembering the nearest beer stations, outmaneuvering thick crowds to lead the group to the nearest shirt sellers and, most of all, enlightening them to the real wonder of the city, which is, to quote former fellow Marguerite de Leon, the abundance of “disturbingly cheap” food, the job of being a guide was like second nature to me especially that I lived in the city for four slow years. And because of all the pointing, I hastily brushed up my mental compass. The sharp turns in the campus, check. The familiar labyrinth that is the university town, check. The numinous island of Siquijor, check. Check. Check. Check.

Of course, I just can’t lose the fellows or else Myrna Peña-Reyes, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, Gemino Abad, Sarge Lacuesta, J. Neil Garcia, Juaniyo Arcellana, Ernesto Superal Yee, Rosario Cruz Lucero or Susan Lara will remain petrified on the semi-cold chairs in Katipunan Hall 1, scratching his/her head in utter confusion for such mass disappearance. But Dumaguete is a small town and it is everyone’s advantage—not only mine. What happened next, after nights and days of pedicab-traversing and sidewalk-strolling, was something that led me to receive a special prize on the culmination night last May 15.

“Yaya of the Year Award.”

I am not used to flattery of such kind but these guys, or otherwise collectively known as the 1st Siquijor Personality Workshop Fellows, floored me with sweet embarrassment. Well, who wouldn’t be if you are donned with a shiny floral apron that disturbingly matched your crisp floral long sleeves? Seriously, the humorous honor made my visit to Dumaguete more memorable than my countless futile trips to the registrar office in order to procure my transcript of records. Believe me, it is. Though I didn’t actually yaya-ized every single fellow, I know I’ve exerted enough effort I don’t usually share to people I got acquainted with in approximately fifteen days.

The morning after their rite of passage into the world of serious writing, a variety of things were shared: contact numbers, email addresses, photos, cigarette smoke and more cigarettes smoke. Much later I escorted some of the fellows to the airport and heard the whistling of this huge metallic bird that would soon head towards the north. One last wave and I went back to my humble spot.

I stayed and pondered on things left only in the amusement of my imagination. As the days continue to shed its youth and I consistently turn the pages of the calendar, I know the month of May would show up again. But I wouldn’t be waxing sadness here for it would be the particular month that I’d remember giving the fellows a ride in the 7-seater Dumaguete tricycle to anywhere they please, perspiring from the summer heat, but with a smile forming on my face.

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