clash of the bull and the frog

e.

2012-02-17T10:09:00.002+08:00

You confessed
You were excited
To what I can become.
Courtesy, of course,
Or something kinder,
Told me, I do too,
For you. For us,
This was just
Another shot in space,
As minute as electron
Emitted from solids,
Metals, like this bus
That I would not want
To go anywhere but here,
Staying put in the now.
Outside, the trees
Whiz by, resisting
Horizon’s gravity.
It is true then; not everything
Could hold on to anything.
You had the words
Of an old wise man.
You had the look of one.
But only more refined,
Only more unintentionally
Energetic, youngish.
I listened closely,
Closer, to every tremble
In your voice, the pauses
Made from every bump on the road
A clever skip in a grand concerto.
I expected more brilliance
As cosmic as the depths
Of dark matter from you,
Expanding alien knowledge.
But what I got was a flutter
Of wings, of likely possession,
Nonetheless expanding,
Like an age-old warmth
That sprang
From the brush
Of your knee
To mine.
And mine
To yours,
Again.

how to reason there is no reason not to love despite of

2012-02-14T11:03:00.003+08:00

The intrusive nature of words,
How they could force us to heed them.

The vernacular we seldom speak,
The click of letters now foreign in our mouths.

The clink of coins in the pockets of tailored suits,
How the cries of currency do not differ in tin cans.

The silence we cover next to our excuses
Like a patch of paisley on white-silver silk.

The lies that stand as truths for our convenience,
Their heft more than what we could ask to bear.

The pyrotechnics we could hear but never see,
That we are either too far or too close we shield our eyes.

The messages withheld but are composed in our heads,
Our only ploy is that we are ahead of our time.

The calls of siloys on crosshatching limbs of the talisay,
Whether these are songs of love or the absence of it.

The instances when everything is our love song,
From the blare of horns to the crush of paper crumpled.

The questions, “How are you?”, “What is wrong?”,
“When would that be?”, “Who are we to refuse?” and “Why?”

The asphalt vapor that rises from the streets at midday,
Smelling like dogs and petrol between our distances.

The perfume that blankets a department store,
One of the few places where bliss are sold in martian bottles.

The whiff of pandan that drifts out of the widow’s house;
Her plate of rice paler and softer than her fingers.

The widower and the musk of freshly tilled soil,
That nothing could be more earth-bound than this.

The orphan in search for a trace of lavender in his pillow,
In search for the meaning of belongingness.

The winds that sculpt a once shapeless cloud,
That it could be an omen, telling and to be feared.

The stains we leave on the wooden table with our drinks,
Their sweat an imprint of neglect.

The cats that stare straight at our eyes at night,
Their calm resolve we constantly envy.

The affliction of recalling faces but not the names,
Our only hope introductions will be forever and requisite.

The possibilities of not knowing where the train goes,
Whether this south is our south or theirs and vice versa.

The means we warrant the joys of a storm that has passed,
Divining the skies for the first, minute hint of sunlight.

The elaborate anatomy that defines our features,
Slipping away after seeing too many cycles of the moon.

The stillness that throbs and dawns in most afternoons,
The shadows around us longer, wider, deeper.

The red bicycle with the flat front tire in the garage,
Rust claiming its territory on the chain and brakes.

The simple instructions we always fail to read,
As if there is not enough room for our inadequacies.

The time when our lips once meet as we lay on the grass;
A discovery of how brief an abundance of green tastes like.

The tang of history on our tongues,
One that nothing could ever wash away.

The spices nothing could seemingly wash away,
That our tongues deserve the torture of never forgetting.

The secret, bitter prayers we know too well,
Our guilt becoming mantras, as human as skin.

The scheming, sweet consolations we know too well,
Our mantras becoming human, as guilty as skin.

The insouciance we have for kamingaw,
That there are other maladies to attend to.

The way water seems to resist our touch,
As if there is no other way to forgive than to keep trying.

The little souvenirs we have bought for our beloved,
Those that would rest at the end of a drawer someday.

The things we shelf at the back of our heads,
Only to tip over with the slightest trigger of remembrances.

The edges of torn paper and blades of grass,
That they are among the few honest faces of mistake.

The few honest faces of mistake,
How they appear right and true in the beginning.

The prophetic wisdom of a mango to a virgin,
That not everything that smells sweet is ripe and true.

The dust between floorboards and other disregarded spaces,
Remainders of our former selves, quiet and growing.

The disparate objects we claim to have meanings,
As if this coffee is brewing a conspiracy of sadness.

The days when we comb our fingers through our hair
And wonder, why now? When will this ever end?

Yes, there are things that resist to be understood.
Such as love and other excesses, such as hate,

Such as shapes that resemble nothing we have seen before:
Straight, curving on one side, bulging, and at times completely

Crooked. There may not be enough kindness in this world
To keep our faith rooted in the crevices of our palms,

But by all means let them be, perplexing
And impenetrable. For it goes without saying

We do not reason when we love.
There is no reason not to love.

in the foothills of talinis

2012-02-08T07:16:00.008+08:00

Just before the overture, a group of people occupied the stage, bearing nature instruments like the budyong (conch shell) and bamboo, and then playing them in rhythm to a video montage in the background.

This was one of the opening presentations of Handulantaw, Silliman University’s preview of the 50th Cultural Season that would start on June 2012 until May 2013, at the Claire Isabel McGill Luce Auditorium last January 27. And this particular number was a melding of melodies and verses with my poem “In the Foothills of Talinis.”

Handulantaw, in the words of the show’s director Dessa Quesada-Palm, “constitutes a collective act of remembering. It has fragments of the past fifty years and more, a cultural mosaic of the locale that continues to shape, instruct and inspire this generation of artists and cultural workers in its own being and becoming. It is a necessary conversation that invites retrospection and looking forward. Hence the deliberate connection of handum/handumanan (‘reminisce/keepsake’) and lantaw (‘looking forward’). And that is the grace of a rich history, that in putting together and making sense of its parts, what may seem so disparate, belonging to distant contexts of time and space, are brought together in a narrative that becomes accessible, real and meaningful to the present.”

The presentation of my poem was followed by a string of brilliant performances: Kwerdas, Silliman University Gratitude Goodwill Ambassadors Women’s Ensemble (Valencia folk song “’Day Baling Mingawa”), College of Performing and Visual Art’s Rondalla (folk song “Pobreng Alindahaw”), the cast of Godspell (“Light of the World,” excerpt from the play), Silliman University Jazz Ensemble (“[I’ve Got You] Under My Skin”), Silliman Kahayag Dance Troupe (dance based on the poem “Bonsai” by National Artist for Literature Edith Lopez Tiempo), Jem Robert Talaroc (“Black Bird”), and much more.

All of these were witnessed by media representatives from across the country such as ABS-CBN, Philippine Daily Inquirer, Philippine Star, Manila Bulletin, Cebu Pacific’s Smile Magazine, Philippine Airlines’ Mabuhay Magazine, Esquire Magazine Philippines, Philippines Graphic Magazine, Business Mirror, Good Housekeeping, Zee Lifestyle Magazine, Visayan Daily Star, MetroPost, Bohol Chronicle, Negros Chronicle along with the city’s university papers like The Weekly Sillimanian, Foundation Times, The NORSUNIAN, and The Monthly Paulinian.

More stories about the evening are found here, here, here and here. And there are more to come.

Truly, it was a night of talents, of what was to come soon in the Dumaguete, a place where culture and the arts were ingrained not only in the city but also in those who peopled it. And I am glad, even for such a short period of time, that I was a part of it.

Special thanks to Sonia SyGaco and the members of the Silliman University’s Cultural Affairs Committee for giving me this opportunity.

*

In the Foothills of Talinis

We have come so far
from the shore,
away from the city,
becoming gods
of our distances.

Now here we are
more alien than snails,
our lungs baptized
with what is once known
and new: this air of Valencia.

Deep beyond the tangle
of copses a yap of a dog,
a clump of muted fireflies,
a groan of a waterfall,
a cologne from wild flowers.

Or this: a sun that hunkers
between hills like the crest
of a deified rooster.
Hear it crow majestic,
gold sweeping green.

Now look for a fern,
a quiet promontory,
or just a forest floor.
We have come so far,
rest would be at hand.

insert ignorance here

2012-02-03T16:03:00.012+08:00

There are times when I am mightily offended by my own unawareness of things, the abrupt revelations only underscoring my ignorance. Take for example the news of Wisława Szymborska’s death (1932 - 2012) last February 1, a Polish Nobel laureate for literature whose name I could not even pronounce well (until New York Times reveals to me it is ‘vees-WAH-vah shim-BOR-ska’).

I never knew her until that date. And what a shame I have come to know her just recently, a woman with works that I have found to be potent and affecting in spite of their seeming ease and fragility. I am both moved by embarrassment and awe. While reading one by one the articles about her all over the internet, I came upon this poem that I thought had aptly ushered my entrance to her oeuvre. The last two stanzas speak of her quiet brilliance.

A Tale Begun
Wisława Szymborska

The world is never ready
for the birth of a child.

Our ships are not yet back from Vinland.
We still have to get over the St. Gotthard pass.
We’ve got to outwit the watchmen on the desert of Thor,
fight our way through the sewers to Warsaw’s center,
gain access to King Harold the Butterpat
and wait until the downfall of Minister Fouché.
Only in Acapulco
can we begin anew.

We’ve run out of bandages,
matches, hydraulic presses, arguments, and water.
We haven’t got the trucks, we haven’t got the Mings’ support.
This skinny horse won’t be enough to bribe the sheriff.
No news so far about the Tartars’ captives.
We’ll need a warmer cave for winter
and someone who can speak Harari.

We don’t know who to trust in Nineveh,
what conditions the prince cardinal will decree,
which names Beria’s still got inside his files.
They say Charles the Hammer strikes tomorrow at dawn.
In this situation let’s appease Cheops,
report ourselves of our own free will,
change faiths,
pretend to be friends with the Doge
and that we’ve got nothing to do with the Kwabe tribe.

Time to light the fires.
Let’s send a cable to grandma in Zabierzow.
Let’s untie the knots in the yurt's leather straps.

May delivery be easy,
may our child grow and be well.
Let him be happy from time to time
and leap over abysses.
Let his heart have strength to endure
and his mind be awake and reach far.

But not so far
that it sees into the future.
Spare him
that one gift,
O heavenly powers.

*

In a few days’ time, there will be an occasion that would, if the gracious heavens are on my side, allow me a chance to show what I could present, expound what needs to be clarified. If the proceeding goes the other way around, then it would be one for the books of ignorance. I could only hope for the former, of course, with a dash of poker-facing and loads of self-assurance. Let’s just say I’d be facing a crowd, probably a very inquisitive one, and I always have an issue with that. Period.

I have been keeping this to myself since August last year, to minimize the mental drumbeating of its coming. But I guess today’s the right time. I better start looking for my full-body armor for this one.

19th iligan national writers workshop call for submission of applications

2012-02-02T13:32:00.002+08:00

The Mindanao Creative Writers Group, Inc., and the Mindanao State University-Iligan Institute of Technology’s Office of the Vice Chancellor for Research and Extension (OVCRE) are accepting applications from writers to the 19th Iligan National Writers Workshop (INWW) to be held on May 14-18, 2012 in Iligan City.

Panelists this year are Erlinda Kintanar Alburo, Leoncio P. Deriada, Merlie M. Alunan, German V. Gervacio, Steven Patrick C. Fernandez, Ralph Semino Galan, J. Neil Garcia, John Iremil Teodoro and Christine Godinez-Ortega and this year’s keynote speaker, Victor N. Sugbo.

Fifteen (15) slots, five each from Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao and one (1) slot each for the Manuel T. Buenafe Writing Fellowship (MTBWF) and the Ricardo Jorge S. Caluen Bursary for Creative Writing or a total of 17 slots are available for writing fellowships to the 19th INWW.

Applicants are required to submit five poems, or, one short story, excerpt of a novel, or, a one-act play in Filipino, English or in Sebuano, Hiligaynon, Kinaray-a, Waray, Chabacano (with English or Filipino translations) along with the applicant’s biodata, two 2X2 photos and a certification that his/her work is original. Please submit a hard copy and a CD with the manuscripts encoded in MS Word. Those submitting excerpts of novels or works-in-progress—please provide a one-page summary of the novel. Unpublished works are preferred and applicants who have attended regional workshops are given priority.

Writing fellows will be given free board and lodging and a travel allowance. Applications must be postmarked on or before March 30, 2012. No applications or manuscripts will be accepted if sent by fax or e-mail. Applicants are also advised to keep copies of their manuscripts since these will not be returned. Announcements of this year’s writing fellows are released during the third week of April 2012.

Applicants to this year’s workshop may download application and other forms here.

Send all applications to the 19th INWW Director c/o OVCRE, MSU-IIT, Iligan City. For more information call Pat Cruz, Leda Gonzales or Ofelia Taneo at telefax (063) 2232343; or e-mail: inww_ovcremsuiit@yahoo.com

*

This year’s the nineteenth edition already? That was fast. I can still picture Elena Tower in my mind, the lonely couch outside the conference hall, the rooms, the shrimps, the falls, the long ride to reach the falls, and a whole lot more…

the month of what?

2012-02-01T07:48:00.004+08:00

I have been pretty absent here lately. Demands of the daily toil just keep on breeding like a nasty viral disease. Aside from this routine, there are these self-imposed deadlines that need to be confronted. A close acquaintance of mine said, “If that makes you happy.” Well, of course, woman. This makes me happy.

And didn’t I mention earlier today’s the beginning of February? No? Really? Anyway, to kick off (why not literally, eh?) this month of excessive capitalism on flowers, chocolates and motels, here is a lovely poem (lifted from Sam) by the American poet and novelist Kim Addonizio.

*

Ex-boyfriends

Kim Addonizio

They hang around, hitting on your friends
or else you never hear from them again.
They call when they’re drunk, or finally get sober,

they’re passing through town and want dinner,
they take your hand across the table, kiss you
when you come back from the bathroom.

They were your loves, your victims,
your good dogs or bad boys, and they’re over
you now. One writes a book in which a woman

who sounds suspiciously like you
is the first to be sadistically dismembered
by a serial killer. They’re getting married

and want you to be the first to know,
or they’ve been fired and need a loan,
their new girlfriend hates you,

they say they don’t miss you but show up
in your dreams, calling to you from the shoeboxes
where they’re buried in rows in your basement.

Some nights you find one floating into bed with you,
propped on an elbow, giving you a look
of fascination, a look that says I can’t believe

I’ve found you. It’s the same way
your current boyfriend gazed at you last night,
before he pulled the plug on the tiny white lights

above the bed, and moved against you in the dark
broken occasionally by the faint restless arcs
of headlights from the freeway’s passing trucks,

the big rigs that travel and travel,
hauling their loads between cities, warehouses,
following the familiar routes of their loneliness.

the lost verve in reading

2012-01-19T10:11:00.015+08:00

It is gone, I think. That fiery wanting to finish whatever you’ve got to do just to pull that one book from the shelf, a box, the bed, inside a drawer, and crack it open to get immersed in its milieu, its characters’ psyches, or simply its wondrous wrought imagination. In my elementary days, there is the Harry Potter series by Jo Rowling. In high school, there are Jonathan Stroud’s The Bartimaeus Trilogy and Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. In college, there are Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s The Shadow of the Wind, and Yann Martel’s The Life of Pi.

Typically an enumeration of commercial literature in their respective times, but this is indeed the handful of books that have caught me in a hook like pleasurable traps of the mind. After the education years, I find myself speculating are the books available today repellent to my taste? Or has my taste gotten so much low and ancient it repels the books available today? Or have I just lost the interest in reading? I fear for all three, of course. Partiality, at times, must be feared.

Yes, there are the short story collections Feast and Famine by Rosario Cruz Lucero and Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri. There is Emma Donoghue’s Room. Maybe even Miguel Syjuco’s Ilustrado, for its ambitious take on steering as far away as possible from the tropes of what represents a work of Philippine literature. The premise of each calls for vigilant curiosity, and I have gladly taken the demands of the text. There are hits and misses but nevertheless they are all interesting.

But none of these has offered me that pull, that incessant voice in the head, that gravity synonymous of what a crazed lover possesses for his object of affection. I have tackled them on and off, stretch each for days on end, unlike those that I have read in my school years where the pages fly by.

Recently, I have expected to reawaken this sensation with the massively publicized doorstopper that is Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84. His short stories are fascinating, and many I know religiously adore his previous novels. But like many expectations, it is but a spark from a little matchstick. The interest comes and then in it goes, instantly. The tome now sits next to a pile of other scorned books.

Aside from the three speculations that are mentioned earlier, I come up with other factors, or should I say, excuses: Is it time? Anxiety? Diminishing attention span? Distraction? Exhaustion? With television, cinema, internet, smartphone, and a slew of other technological advancements, have I been culturally desensitized, becoming callous, mechanical?

The hypothesis is a bitter pill: It could be everything.

I guess I simply miss the symbiotic devotion that comes with the activity: I have to read, the book has to be read. All is well. With no clear answers to the questions that have bombarded me as early as six this morning, I might as well pick up another book and see where it takes me.

And I hope it would be a joyful ride.

familiar things

2012-01-17T07:46:00.003+08:00

Reading The Dumaguete We Know (edited by Merlie Alunan) is a practice on skillfully harnessing the reins on nostalgia. Those who have lived in this capital city of Negros Oriental (I had for four years), or those who are held captive by its secret magnetism upon first glance, would find a lot of truths interspersed in every page. Things familiar are magnified and things that are not strangely become identifiable. It is like stumbling upon your journal of some distant year in the attic. In short, recollections here—whether encapsulated through essay, heightened through poetry or dramatized through fiction—are as piercing as paper cut. Small, maybe even microscopic, but you’d know it left a mark. And it could either be blissful or tragic.

Note: It has taken me weeks, literally, to get hold of this. And then I realize, sometimes, it is worth asking the customer service of a bookstore. This anthology is apparently concealed among the large coffeetable glossies in the Travel section, not in the Philippine Literature shelves.

how to put everything at stake

2012-01-12T15:19:00.001+08:00

I used to think our names were our anthem,
the way you called me like most evenings
and silenced the chorus of cicadas.
Yours was just as beautiful as bird song.
But this time that is not the case, our calls
barely audible over the whistling kettle.
When I turn on the water tap, I could only wish
the gush is your murmur of mint behind my ear.

Today, what I promise about hanging
the pictures and cleaning up the rooms,
one for us and two for the pledge of our bond,
I could not carry on, my shoulders heavy.
The walls are making themselves known,
the floors suddenly copious and too open.
I would explain when you arrive home,
but then I recall the lines on your forehead.

Sometimes, I remember shuffling the deck
and dealing each night, the cards grazing
against the grain of our wooden table.
I remember you shaking your head,
a heart in your hand instead of diamonds,
as I say, “Believe me, I got no tricks in my sleeve.”
But like a roof bleached by too much sun,
your face shows something is not right.

I remember pushing my chair back,
leaving you with your cup of coffee.
I know you smoke a stick or two later,
just outside the room next to ours, empty.
Maybe we are just as good as our deck of cards,
its static kings, queens, and jacks fading,
our many dry fingers desperate to yank
whatever they keep in their tight, medieval lips.

philippine speculative fiction 7 lineup

2012-01-09T08:56:00.002+08:00

There’s an incentive to stubbornness after all. The number that is attached next to the anthology’s title is a clue to the number of attempts trying to get into it. All right, enough of background checking.

Here’s the table of contents of the seventh edition of Philippine Speculative Fiction, to be launched soon:

All That We May See by Kenneth Yu
All the Best of Dark and Bright by Isabel Yap
Bastard Sword by Nikki Alfar
Chasers by Chris Mariano
East of the Sun by Dean Francis Alfar
Faith in Fiction by James Constantino Bautista
Mother of Monsters by Philip Corpuz
Never Land by Mo Francisco
Oblation by Paolo Chikiamco
Pet by Kristine Ong Muslim
Sarsarita Time by Melissa Sipin
The Call of the Chained God by Dariel Quiogue
The Changes by Benito Vergara
The Commute to Paradiso by Charles Tan
The Day Nostalgia Swept Over a Town by F. Jordan Carnice
The Dragon's Orb by Vincent Michael Simbulan
The Likeness of God by Crystal Koo
The Little Things the Datu Did by Andrew Drilon
The Love Spell by Julian dela Cerna
The Nature of Apocalypse by Joseph Anthony Montecillo
The Scrap Collectors by Arlynn Despi
username: tanglaw by Eliza Victoria
What the Body Remembers by Tin Lao
What You See by Ian Rosales Casocot

[ click here for more interesting info ]

perhaps a little happier than 2011

2012-01-04T08:06:00.008+08:00

How I’d like to sum up the previous year in one picture.

My recollection of things is much clearer in the head, flamboyant and stirring, but when expounded in words the memory sometimes suddenly loses its charm. Perhaps eloquence is not my forte. And yet the recent past that is 2011 demands articulation. That year is beautiful for me, the months wildly prancing that one could easily wonder where they have gone.

So I will try my best.

Yes, 2011 has left us reeling with uncertainty. With the variety of disorder that have swept our landscape—ecological, political, emotional—is there a reason to cheer? Is there really something to look forward to? Immediate response would dictate us to do otherwise, but there are always other things. One of them could be hope.

I, on the other hand, have resorted to distraction. Not that I have ran out of my daily dose of optimism. It is just that distraction proves to work better for me, nudging an idle mind to do something.

And some things I did manage. Especially on my attempt to improve as a practicing writer. Whereas two years ago fiction has entirely invaded my attention, this time poetry seems to be on the ruling side. There are one or two short stories coming out in this and that publication, but it is the allure of verses that keeps spinning my gears in the past twelve months. And I am not complaining.

The other year has brought me to a lot of places, too, new ones and revisited. It starts with the hiking and camping trip at Nagsasa Cove, Zambales in March, followed by head-turning tours at Bacolod, Ilo-ilo, and Guimaras in April. There are the much-needed escapes to Bohol in August and October (and, of course, December). There is the getaway to Boracay and the nearby island of Tiguatian in November. I also remain true to my word of visiting my second home that is Dumaguete, Negros Oriental, twice, in May and in August. Each month bears a certain weight of contrasting emotions.

The first one commemorates the 50th anniversary of the longest-running writers workshop in Asia, the Silliman University National Writers Workshop. It is a gathering of a tightly-knit family with like minds. I have met a couple of brilliant people, and I hope they would remain as close as I have previously mingled with them this 2012. It is just as remarkable as the grand event that one of the two founders of the workshop, National Artist for Literature Edith L. Tiempo, is still present to witness the reunion. As always, she shares a gem of a wisdom on the last night. She never fails to impress.

That is why by August 2011, the news of her having passed away has suddenly pulled a plug in many of us. Something has just dropped. Whether it is some strange work of fate, I have come to attend the state funeral of Mom Edith—as what many in the workshop call her—at the Silliman Church, with my original intention to only visit Dumaguete for the university’s week-long founders celebration. Yes, it is strange to revel and to respect the departed at the same time.

And things will come to pass. In my head, what will matter most is that we will not forget. So we move on. I write more. And I am glad I did. Distraction.

Up to this point, the actuality of seeing my name in a book (and yes, in magazines and newspapers, too) always leaves me euphoric. It is a year of firsts for me. I have a poem anthologized in a landmark book consisting of writers I have only read and studied, more so deified in my biased preferences. And before the year ends, I finally have a short story included in an anthology that I have, for years, been cracking at to get in since its inception.

Blessings keep on rolling. Until that storm arrive. I have known some people who are affected by the devastations of typhoon Sendong and the others before that. As I board onto the plane last month to return to Bohol, my home province that is luckily out of danger, there is this black hole that is relentless. What if it happened to us? What if another one comes? What if?

The indecisiveness of feelings is at it again, and this could be the worst state of being during Christmastime. That is why it is a good thing you have those people you could latch on. There is your family and there is your circle of closest buddies. These are those who know what ticks you off and what makes you smile. What more could I ask for?

Well, of course, there are a lot to ask for. Like many gatherings, it is almost usually incomplete, and I wish for the opposite. At home for noche buena and media noche, we are missing three siblings, who are currently all outside the country. For someone who is used to big family revelries, the absence is pretty obvious.

On the other side of the family spectrum, a couple of my high school classmates are suddenly getting this yuletide strain. I, myself, am not spared by the bug. One by one, day by day, he and she are getting sick that plans for huge outings and the usual excursions are either delayed, minimized, or squished to a little party of four or five. This is not what I have expected for a holiday break.

And yet, me looking back now, the sullen parts of this reality are really just that: challenging but compliant, abrupt but brief, harsh but adaptable. One just has to face the facts. For the new year, this is an effective exercise on happiness and contentment.

With that, we will have no problems recollecting memories of a future present. No matter how heartbreaking, no matter how mesmerizing. To each and everyone, have a bountiful and beautiful year ahead. Let us make 2012 work.

call for submission of manuscripts to the 51st silliman university national writers workshop

2012-01-03T13:59:00.003+08:00

The Silliman University National Writers Workshop is now accepting applications for the 51st National Writers Workshop to be held April 30 to May 18, 2012 in the Silliman University Rose Lamb Sobrepeña Writers Village.

This Writers Workshop is offering fifteen fellowships to promising writers who want to have a chance to hone their craft and refine their style. Fellows will be provided housing, a modest stipend, and a subsidy to partially defray costs of their transportation.

To be considered, applicants should submit manuscripts in English on or before 10 February 2012. All manuscripts should comply with the instructions stated below. (Failure to do so will automatically eliminate their entries):

• Manuscripts should be submitted in hard copy on short-size bond paper, using Times New Roman or Calibri in 12 pt. font type.

• Applicants for Fiction and Creative Non-Fiction fellowships should submit three to five entries. Applicants for Poetry fellowships should submit seven to ten poems.

• Applicants for Drama fellowship should submit at least a One-Act Play. For plays beyond the one-act length, a scene accompanied by a synopsis of the entire work should be included.

• Each fiction, non-fiction, or drama manuscript should not be more than 50 pages, double spaced. We encourage you to stay well below the 50 pages, since a submission half that length is more than sufficient as a critical gauge.

• Manuscripts should be accompanied by at least one letter of recommendation from a literature professor or an established writer.

Along with the manuscripts and the recommendation letter, the following requirements should also be included: resume, a notarized certification that the works are original, and two 2X2 ID pictures.

Send all applications or requests for information to Department of English and Literature, attention Dr. Evelyn F. Mascuñana, Chair, Silliman University, 6200 Dumaguete City. For inquiries, email us at nwworkshop_su@yahoo.com or call us at 035-422-6002 loc. 350.

[ lifted from Ian ]

dark blue southern seas call for submissions

2011-12-15T13:51:00.007+08:00

For Silliman campus writers! Dark Blue Southern Seas, the official literary folio of The Weekly Sillimanian, is now open for submissions of previously unpublished literary works from students and alumni of Silliman University. The folio, to be edited by Mariella Sagarbarria Bustamante with Ian Rosales Casocot as moderator, is accepting short fiction, poetry, creative non-fiction, and graphic fiction in English, Filipino, and Cebuano. Photographs, drawings, and paintings are also welcome. Deadline of submission is 27 January 2012. (Update: just send your work).

Email your work as attached .doc file (or in .png format for graphic works, photographs, and drawings) to darkbluesouthernseas@yahoo.com. Send your submission together with a short bionote, in 3-4 sentences, that includes your name, course, year level, and anything else that may you want to say about yourself. For queries, please contact Ella at +63917-314-1161.

*

Dark Blue Southern Seas is something very close to my heart, so I am hollering this ad here. If you’re a Sillimanian, or even if you’re not, please feel free to repost.

here and queer

2011-12-12T13:24:00.005+08:00

My poem “Cushions” is in the Queer Punk Issue of Paper Monster Press (and Eva Gubat’s work, too!). Was glad this managed to worm its way into this humble publication, because what better way to tackle a stupendous lie than to turn it over. And send it to the market.

Got no hard copy yet, since I was not able to attend the launching during the Writers Night last December 9 at the Toyota Foundation Bldg., Asian Center, UP-Diliman. Will now have to think of ways to get hold of one.

Aside from things literary, this venture also includes a couple of visual arts and a companion CD for the music selections. Here is the complete lineup:

LITERARY
Ayn Frances dela Cruz (Red Balloon)
Chinedu Jonathan (Cedars of Lebanon)
Christa De La Cruz (Rent)
David Neves (Final Thought 2)
Elan Sastine (Artemis and Callisto)
Eva Gubat (Parallels)
F. Jordan Carnice (Cushions)
Lolito Go (Suicide Note)
Paolo Domingo Macariola (Framing Seconds)
Ria Bautista (XVII)
Tofi Alonte (Shadowtale)
Zeraph Dylan Moore (Pre-Op Beauty)
Jeanilyn Kwan (Identity Crisis)
Daniw Santiago (Bagyo)
Elaine Lazaro (Ilang tala sa isang araw na pamumuhay kuno)
Emmanuel Halabasco (Kung bakit magaspang ang mukha ng buwan)
Jim Pascual Agustin (Lakad-lasing)

VISUAL ART
Aofie Odwyer
Lorna Zaragosa
Chris Bird
Redslim
Jorge aka Munds
Archo “capitalist” bastard
Ivan Diolola
Paige de Guzman Maquiling

MUSIC
Mitten (All That I’ve Got)
The Heart Foundation (Stereo Lab)
The Bernadettes (Oh! Oh! Oh!)
Scantron (Sweet Song!)
The Serial Heartbreaker (Frida Boy)
Skies of Ember (I’ll Be Your Mirror)
Monochrome (Between Tranquility and Impending Death)
Elemento (Makina)
Pogs Fortes (Toke a Little)
Goodleaf (Dub Pilipinas)
The Presidents (Long, Long Time)
Lions and Acrobats (Hanging On A Cliff Named IV Drip)
Read Our Lines (The Natural)
Fherrond (The Analyst)
Method (A Bitter Farewell)

how to make an accident

2011-12-08T09:43:00.002+08:00

There is no end to the vacancy
of what has once been surrounding us:
womb, embrace, room, coffin, body, sky.

Maybe we are born to keep our hands
wringing in the air, in obvious gaps,
searching for things to hold on to.

So it seems appearing to be wise helps,
that we know countless shades of red
and suggest books we have never read.

We always try to fill the empty glass.
Yet it also seems we are not old enough
to think we deserve the perils we create.

Imagine the glass, brimming and untouched.
Imagine the stain on the mahogany.
Imagine the thirst others would have.

Someday, with the back of our hands,
we will tip this glass off the table
to see it splinter into little jigsaw pieces.

We will then note the liquid map surfacing
on the marble, a new topography within reach.
There are desperate measures we resort to.

And this would be one of them:
to stare at space, water in the eyes,
like that pool on the floor, filling some void.

fortunate with this book

2011-12-06T17:23:00.000+08:00

Consider myself lucky, having plucked off the shelves Wildwood, a thick book authored by Colin Meloy with illustrations by Carson Ellis. (A husband-and-wife creative tandem really, of which the former is the front man of my favorite band, The Decemberists).

Yes, it is a children’s book—though a strange one especially knowing that the author writes songs about murder and vast catastrophes—but the impulsive purchase is not for me but for my nephew. A little token for the yuletide season.

As for the lucky part mentioned earlier? Well, after flipping through the pages of the book, I realized it had the kind of atmosphere that I had been trying to meld with my hands, trying to emulate in a new project.

The urge to create something, with the aid of this book, is strangely in my system lately, electric and pulsing, so it seems logical to hop into this budding genesis. This feeling comes rarely. And I believe one brilliant announcement that has popped in my email’s inbox last Monday has something to do with this. I couldn’t share it right now.

What this all means is that my nephew has to wait a little bit longer for his Christmas gift.

boracay and beyond : ordinary night

2011-12-05T09:03:00.018+08:00

Day 3
November 27

Tobey, who I met in a workshop last May, had been working in the island for months, something that dealt with a lot of “researching and copy-pasting” (her words), so it was apt to held her hostage and become our guide in Tiguatian Island, or now commercially known as Crystal Cove. Never heard until I read her entry about it weeks ago.

Woke up at six (that meant I approximately had four hours of sleep), taken breakfast, prepared our thingamajigs, bribed a tricycle for P20/head to bring us to a shore closest to the island which rested between Boracay and Caticlan, and braved the banka ride on rough waters. We arrived a bit out of breath and paid P200 each for the entrance fee.

The tiny island, something Davey Jones would gladly settle in, was not for the extreme city-dwellers or for those jaded by too much house music. (But I guess they really need it). A two-hectare mass of sharp stones and corals, the island had no running fresh water, and everything sold in it was pricey. But we were prepared and we lived to tell the tale. Thanks to Cheetos and measly liters of water.

Though not thoroughly developed, with some structures said to be built little by little through the years, what made up for what it did not have was the overall stunning ambience. It was a gorgeous piece of land, the caves with the crystals (finally found them, after minutes of scouring the island) an experience with those little pockets of water pool and sand. Sadly, since the seas that day were high and rough we were not able to dip and frolic in one of the two.

Then we were back in the Island of the United Colors of Benetton. Had lunch at Sababi Exotic Foods and Vegetarian somewhere in the heart of D*Talipapa. Bought our choice of food in the nearby wet market and made the restaurant cook them for us. Liempo, shrimps, scallops. That meal was divine. We also bought the mandatory pasalubongs around the premises.

After a quick dip in the pool back in the hotel, off we went to Puka Beach via tricycle for P25/head. The things I heard were right: it had one of the most beautiful sunsets in the country, perhaps even better than White Beach. We spent the entire afternoon taking pictures and embracing (or crashing into) the large surging waves. That explained my comrades’ body aches the following day.

On our way back to the resort, we managed to tick a few places off our list: Jona’s Milkshakes and The Real Coffee and Tea Café. The former’s Banana Chocolate Peanut Shake (P180) and the latter’s Ultimate Cupcake (P65 each)—which had a wicked combination of pineapple, walnut, raisin, banana, carrot, whatever—were both delightfully a surprise. For my mates who ordered the café’s famous Calamansi Muffins, they were not as enamored, though I honestly thought they were as yummy as the Ultimates. In fact, I believed one would be best served with a cup of dark coffee or hot chocolate.

And then they were worn-out. Four of the eight decided to rest on the remaining hours, knowing we had to leave the hotel at six the next morning. Good thing I managed to pull the other two out of their beds. A quick dinner was followed by one final walk to the White Beach. I texted Tobey to come with us, but she responded she had work to do. (Apparently, I forgot we also had work to do in a day’s time). It was an ordinary night, the occasional stares/looks from fellow tourists (or maybe locals) flashing at us maybe because of some strange familiarity or simply checking us out. I’d like to think of the latter.

Yes, ordinary, this night. Until we had our last drink at Epic in Station 2 around two in the morning. We were calmly lounging on rattan sofas outside the establishment when one man excused himself and asked permission if he could join us in the table. All three of us, of course, were surprised, but as if we had telekinetically imagined this was how the dynamics worked in a crowded-island-vacation, we agreed.

His name was Matt, he was from Oregon, and he had worked in the navy as a technical fixer (forgot the official term) in ships and other fighting machines for a possible war. For a couple of years. Now, he just had to identify where to expend his rewards, his moolah. Alone. He was fresh off Palawan and planned to stay for a week or two in Boracay. Next destination would be Cebu, and I, of course, suggested Negros Oriental and Bohol. And perhaps now desperate to have someone to talk to, he luckily found us along the shores looking like people also desperate to have someone to talk to. And boy he did talk. I could not spare enough space here to encapsulate his curriculum vitae just that between his stints as a high school wrestling coach and playing offbeat characters in a theater, he sure had one contentedly busy life. And at 26, that is one fortunate busy life.

By four in the morning, we three realized we were out of harm’s way, that this man was not one we initially thought he would be: lunatic (though the picture suggests otherwise), pretentious, implausible. Or maybe we were just dreadfully beat we did not notice any of them. Anyway. He planned to visit Manila and thought it would be nice to catch up with us three soon. Fine.

We returned to the hotel a few minutes later, fully aware we only had an hour before the rest of the group wakes up, ready to leap to the pier in Caticlan, returning to reality. It was an ordinary night, yes, but it only started that way.

[ 3rd of 3 parts ]

boracay and beyond : challenge unacceptable

2011-12-02T09:03:00.021+08:00

Day 2
November 26

Had to fit a gargantuan things-to-do this day, especially that three of the group of eight were freshies in the island. Tried parasailing in the morning, of which the little voice in my head could still not justify the 15 minutes of one’s life dangling in the sky would cost P1,300. Some comrades, dizzy from being human kites, had not been strong-willed as I was, so we lounged on a vacated spot on the beach and desperately suntanned ourselves with the grey cloud-cloaked sun. Yes, it threatened to rain that day.

Lunch was at Smoke, one of the two little restos in a hidden corner at D*Mall and D*Palengke, a suggestion made by Tobey (a person that would be humanized a little more later). The place felt like Hayahay or the old Memento in Dumaguete City. I loved it. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong food. The Beef and Mushroom was not entirely tender. Bulalo soup, fish steak, and apparently most on the menu aside from my order were good. At least my mango shake was refreshing.

Planned to try out the ATVs (All-Terrain Vehicle) and vroom our adrenalin-hungered selves onto this and that course, but the astronomical price made me back out, which, in classic toppling domino fashion, made the rest of the pack followed suit. (I don’t know how to drive, yet I still have to pay P400 for sitting next to the driver! Unless the driver is of royal descent, I’d give in). So, we went back to the beach and got ourselves a paraw, a boat powered only by wind. That was another grand off the budget.

After half-an-hour of cruising, occasionally bathed by swelling waters (we did not heed the warnings that that day’s sea was a little bit rough), we treated ourselves with a humongous bowl (The Couples Size) of halo-halo at Halowich. There was a humongous-er bowl (The Barkada Size) that made me wonder, how big are the couples supposed to be here in Boracay? Left the question unanswered and, after a quick wash-up back in the hotel, had buffet dinner at Alf’s (reasonably prized for their tasty food at P380) and introduced Tobey to the group.

Mates urged (or commanded) I try Cocomangas’ “Still Standing After 15” challenge, a life-changing if not deadly test of endurance of having 15 mixed liquor shots, to solidify my status as the varsity player in the group. If successful one would get a choice of jersey or a tee and have his/her name engraved on a little golden plate to be plastered on a wall. Unfortunately, my aching wallet was not as enduring as my spirit (win or lose, those shots cost P1,300+), so we settled with the Illusion Drink, the joint’s famous drink. It was safe. I was neither seeing nor hearing anything after seven shots.

Then skipped to Guilly’s Island for a bottle of beer then to Club Paraw for another one, before getting a night-cap at Pat’s Creek, one my favorite places along the shore. The next itinerary at the first hint of sunlight would be a departure of the island’s lavish, cosmopolitan offerings. I was looking forward to this.

[ 2nd of 3 parts ]

boracay and beyond : not a good start

2011-12-01T17:38:00.012+08:00

The last time is December 2008. From where I stand today, that is a long stretch of time. In an entire vacationer’s summary, Boracay sure has its highs and lows. And yet the island, mildly peopled in the low season and increasingly urbanized all year round, never fails to surprise upon visiting it again.

Day 1
November 25

Filed for a half-day vacation leave last Friday (since that’s what VL’s are for; it’s strange though having to fill-in that “Reason” blank in the application). Left the office at 12:30PM to catch the 3:35PM flight to Caticlan. What made it all wrong was that there was no flight to Caticlan. Due to “sunset limitation.” Brilliant. Co-traveler revealed it was the same excuse she received in her trip to Caticlan before. So airline carrier, why promote a flight scheduled on a time when sunlight is always, erm, limited? And haven’t you heard of light bulbs? Halogen lamps? Or bonfire? This is the second time I have experienced pesky troubles with this airline. In two month’s time. Read previous gripe here.

Anyway. Flight was moved to 7PM at Kalibo instead. That airport was an hour and a half away from the pier in Caticlan, or an hour and 45 minutes away from island of Boracay itself. So we missed the sunset. So sunset watching would have to wait. (We only had three nights and two days to spare). Arrived at Kalibo International Airport around 8PM, which luckily made us hitch the last boat to the island of white sand/tourists just in time.

Dropped luggage in Boracay Holday Resort and immediately went out for dinner. For this, had to shell out a couple of hundreds to indulge in seafood. Then decided to walk through White Beach from Stations 2 to 1 and venture the latter’s talked-about nightlife. But, alas, the waters had risen to the point of reaching the establishments’ beach-front entrances that the sofas, bean bags, mini tables by the shore were removed, thus, the chaos was concentrated inside the clubs’ already-chaotic order. We all went back to our hotel and ordered a couple of beers. Yeah, we were losers, but not tomorrow.

[ 1st of 3 parts ]

not on paper but online

2011-11-29T09:32:00.002+08:00

“How to Follow Not So Simple Instructions,” one of the (currently) few works of a series of poems I am toiling on, is in this week’s Philippines Free Press. Since the publishers could neither release nor circulate hard copies of their magazine as of the moment, let us all settle on the online version instead. Read it here.

it started this way

2011-11-24T13:21:00.006+08:00

Here’s a bit of truth: my headband-wearing ‘guise’ originated in November 19, 2008. That is exactly three years and five days ago. It is one unforgettable date in college. Unforgettable because the headband-wearing is carried on to this year and maybe until the next few years.

It all started with the Opposite Day. I think it is what one would call a harmless dare (if not an embarrassing one). I and a fellow co-staffer of the university paper, The Weekly Sillimanian, thought we needed a little bit of crazy (as if we had not enough), so we rounded up the rest of the staff and suggested to fulfill this objective for an entire day: be in a getup that is as farfetched as a cat in checked purple-and-orange jumpsuit.

In simple words: don’t be you, aesthetically.

So I ditched my khakis, button-down shirt, leather slippers, messenger bag and opted for something quite more pedestrian: old PE shorts, an aircon shirt (tee with tiny strategically-placed holes), a pair of rubber slippers that was one size bigger, and a drawstring bag of some company’s seminar giveaway for all of my things. I topped it all off with a cheap, white plastic headband.

I got in my World Literature class that morning and the professor’s eyes, surprisingly, widened. (Surprisingly, because I thought he had no emotions in him). “Is there some kind of conspiracy going on around here today? I had a pirate in my previous class!”

Oh, yes, there was a pirate. There was an extreme gothic chic, too. There was a labandera (basin-sarong-bandana and all). There was the lesbian basketball buff. There was America Ferrera’s Betty. There was Wendy in night pajamas. And there are other more persona who I couldn’t really describe for the sheer madness of it all.

And for some strange burst of insanity (or reason), one thing stayed after that day: the headband. It just stuck especially when I had decided to grow my hair out of the blue (then shaved off into a Mohawk upon graduation day).

Of course, the headband only appears in appropriate places, or in whatever places people think are appropriate. I couldn’t care any less, actually. I’d wear it anywhere if I can. In fact, last May, someone who I was not fully acquainted with at that time remarked I was the only one she had ever seen who looked good with a ponytail and a headband on. Insert mandatory blush here. (Thank you, dear, I admire your taste).

I don’t want to repost the photos in this entry, but I could offer this shot, which is printed and kept in an album in the university paper office for future generations of staff to see. Anyway, I just miss some of the people involved (pictured above) because they’re crazy. And they’re great. And they’re lovely. And they’re brilliant. And they’re bright. And they’re scattered all over the country, all over the planet.

Sigh.

how to not write another story

2011-11-18T10:58:00.001+08:00

People never really know
half of nothing. It’s neither
half-empty nor half-full.

It’s just what it is. So they
make up. Now let’s forget
the urgency of sunlight.

Besides, not all shapes show
their genuine forms: the bosom
beneath the clothing could hold

not a heart but a frenzied beast.
Scathing, mad, injurious.
Just like primetime news.

They’re everywhere, reports
of shame, pride and blood
in deadpan delivery.

That’s how we forget soul.
Is that the essence of man? No.
It’s the thick bottom of a heel.

We can all laugh now.
Embarrassment seems to be
everyone’s choice of comedy.

And there’s no one to blame,
this frontier of subtleties
that’s bound to fade.

We’ve learned very well:
we do’nt have to put everything
in the right place.

the october project (otherwise known as 'why being out of the radar is particularly needed')

2011-11-11T08:39:00.005+08:00

I am overwhelmed by its power of persuasion. One must login, one must update, one must share. Regularly. If not, you are of least significance to the (net/cit)izen. Of course, that is, or more appropriately, could be the whole point. Facebook, the social networking site with a number of users close to a billion, is a tool for communication, and a tool only works when there’s a hand that controls it. In retrospect, I willingly dipped my hands back in 2007 and I was amazed, maybe even inspired, to its apparent seamlessness and the brilliance one often sees in something novel like any technological breakthroughs.

Until last month.

The site is a victim of a constant facelift, changing with the times, encouraging more people to try it, but the entire experience I have first felt almost four years ago has lost its novelty. Rather, it is now (exhaust/annoy)ing. It is a chore visiting the welcome page alone. The tool is working me, maybe even working us without our knowledge.

And this is not without a couple of reasons.

It takes a huge chunk of our time, we only realizing it when we witness our live newsfeeds and walls being rarely updated no matter how many times we hit the refresh button. And that Ticker Box is out of the question. One might say, like many other sites, it is not a matter of “must” but of “can,” yet I stand on the idea that we are actually all bound to the former instead of the volitional and decisive “can” since even the suggestion that we could self-regulate is an excuse brought about by the desires of “must.”

In our attempts to slake this desire, we have become too willing, too agreeable. Because of this we are (allowed/faced) with a bombardment of personal trivialities. Then strangely enough we become more skeptical of the people we are trying to connect to: Is he for real? Does she really have to say that? Why do people like that post? Why do people not like my post?

We have delved far into the virtual (bio/togo)graphy of relationships it makes it hard to scale back to the very core of what this apparatus (is/should be) all about: the human connection. Real, honest, flawed. In social networking sites, everyone (tries to be/is) perfect. Thus, the distances and alienation are much more felt despite of how frequent we interact with each other—whether through messages, chats, status updates, photo comments, likes—because our very own errors, defects, and blemishes (are/could be) magnified, subsequently stoking our inner shame, spreading like wildfire.

Once again, this sheds light on the fact that everything is not what it seems to be. Nothing is quite sensible, nothing is quite true.

And in this site’s hodgepodge of opinion and information circulating from point A to point B to points CDEFG, everything is instant, expected to be instant. That is why even when a message is delayed, deferred, or not sent at all, one easily wonders: Why is he missing in action? Is there something I do not know? Have I done something wrong?

It is easy to say we have unconsciously bred a culture of impatience, planted a seed of anxiety on the very wrong soil. As a tool for communication, a social networking site works effectively. But as tool for understanding the human condition, it falls smack on the ground limp.

And this is not what I need. I think I already have enough messages sent, received, and unre(ciproca/qui)ted. To put it more bluntly, missing some things and most specially someone is a one-way effort. It drains you.

That is why I am on a hiatus. My goal, I insist to believe, is to discipline my primate wanting for connection, information, and even attention. I have deactivated my Facebook account since October 6. I am on indefinite leave on Twitter since October 9. To further underscore this attempt, I actually cutoff my regular text-messaging of rough verses or lines of pseudo-poetry to all contacts in my cellphone way before the aforementioned sites. I stop sending last October 3.

More than a month has passed.

Unsurprisingly, the concerns, the wonderings, and the speculations of the absence mostly settle on one matter: Why are you not on Facebook?! How come you’re silent in Twitter?! Where are you in these sites?! Yes, the interrobangs in there are throbbing. As for the text-messages, the worry is close to none. What surprises me is that this little percentage comes from the unlikeliest of people.

Not that I am expecting a landslide of interest to the latter. After all, Literature versus The Websites is an altogether different story. It deserves another discussion.

Amidst these overblown ruminations, I have come to one conclusion that lately I am easily overwhelmed not only of the nuances of Facebook or Twitter but of things as small and delicate as silence, among many others, could easily break (anyone/us/me) apart.

how to hate the apostrophes

2011-11-09T10:29:00.001+08:00

We begin by stripping
the animosity to its core:
this pursuit of belongingness.

Since nothing has staked claim
on something, on someone
the way apostrophes could.

Human effort pales in comparison
to their minute stabs of ownership.
These marks ace at mockery.

A man once promised to a girl
the heavens would be hers,
but when she saw the skies naked

except for one tailless kite
and the occasional pigeon,
she shoved off the thought.

Even the winged struggle
at these acres of space,
encyclopedic and colossal.

The philosophy of the apostrophes
speaks of one basic certainty:
some wants are better off ignored.

And this is where they beat us.
They could posses more than a ghost
could haunt man in a lifetime.

In their wake is a cold draft,
and we are contentedly warm
for all the wrong reasons.

the old man and the seat

2011-11-08T12:50:00.003+08:00

Lunch break turns out to be amusing if not a wee bit insulting today. In one of a mall’s many fast food restaurants, a mother with her two-or-three-year-old daughter approach a waitress just across my table, asking her for one of those child-safe high plastic chairs. The woman then takes the special seat and sets it to my table, right next to me. I stare at her, a spoonful of rice midway to my open mouth. The mother corrects the waitress that she sits farther in the corner, so she immediately moves the chair to the directed spot. The aforementioned mother appears to be in her late thirties.

Such incident begs the questions: Do I really look that old? Is there hope to be a family man? Does this finally break the curse of being mistaken as a woman? Or is the waitress just pulling my leg? Whatever the answers are, that is just indisputably crazy. At least it is a funny way to start my week.

all these are necessary

2011-11-04T15:19:00.013+08:00

When things get a little too hard to handle, a getaway is in order. The past few months have been grueling, both in mind and body (mostly the former), so I thank the heavens a trip has been made to my hometown prior to all the paranoia.

*

Sugar Rush
October 29

Bought two boxes of Cinnabon for my family, as if no sugar was enough to sate their sets of sweet tooth. Ironically, upon arrival, I went straight to my dentist to have my braces adjusted (because at this age I think anything ortho is a shame). It was also the birthday of our eldest brother, so there came the mandatory tub of ice cream on our dinner table that night. Another sugar. Later, I met two of my collegemates at Bo’s Coffee Shop (more sugar), pacifying our doubts of this and that talks, this and that gossips. Seeing our photos right now, I realized we three were presidents of one same organization during our respective sophomore-junior years. Just sharing. We made that group work. Take that!

The Ones That Passed
October 30

Went to church in the morning and then had lunch with my mother, sister, and nephew somewhere, my treat. In the afternoon, went to the cemeteries at Maribojoc and Loon. These were where my parents’ grand- and great-grandparents laid in quiet provincial soil. These visits made me realize we ought to have a comprehensive family tree. I knew so little of our bloodline. Just imagine the bounty I could unearth from the seemingly bottomless source of stories. As the afternoon progressed, I met four of my schoolmates to discuss and prepare for next day’s itinerary.

Halloween Beach Outing
October 31

Rounded up my high school classmates because I wanted to. The last time I saw them was in December last year, goofing around Balicasag and Virgin Islands. Brought with me two masks that survived countless occasions (from Valentines to Christmas), utterly enduring through the years it became standard to bring them along to further silly-fy an already silly gathering. As usual, the masks were prominent in many pictures of my camera than the exquisite sand and waters of Panglao. Blame it on the alcohol.

No Plane, No Gain

November 1

Ah, no wonder why those Occupy Rallies all over the world lasted than expected. Was supposed to fly back to Manila in the afternoon, to embrace work in all its glory the following day, but was then informed that Particular Airline had to cancel its trip. PA reasoned it was all due to a looming bad weather and that the city airstrip had no room for another aircraft. Oh, should I laugh at this? The Other Airline just left, seconds ago, so technically there was room for another aircraft. Yet PA insisted on cancelling its flight. As expected, blood pressures went high, especially tanned corporate men and women raising hell at the little booth of PA. Of course, who wouldn’t? A day’s worth of one’s job is still a day’s worth. Just one legal note for Particular Airline: please hold responsibility to your customers and don’t give us advices to ferry to Cebu to catch its “many” Manila flights when you’ve earlier stated bad weather is coming. Also, blood pressures went sky-high when it was overheard the Another Airline handed a stipend of P400 to its passengers when it also canceled its flight for technical reasons. Sigh, PA, why can’t you do the same? You’re a big guy now. A little gift won’t dent the wallet. If you just can’t, please stop offering us those promo fares and start eating your words.

Back at Home

November 2

Stayed at home most of the day, enjoying Pawn Stars on History Channel and Wipeout on AXN. Then decided to watch Puss in Boots (I love cats!) with problematic someone late in the afternoon and had dinner at Heritage Crab House next in Mansasa. It was both our first time in that new restaurant, and we found the place handsome and rustic, the live band really good, the food servings generous, and the taste palatable but not entirely novel. After lengthy conversations over his compulsory two-stick smoke and my glass of pineapple juice, we went home.

Back to Reality

November 3

A two-day off from work, especially an unplanned one, was surprisingly cathartic. Prior to my return flight since the last one that failed, everything looked vivid, well-lighted, and serene even above the racket the carpenters were making, replacing our living room door with a dark, heavy one. Until I finally hopped onboard the airplane, lifting me higher off the ground and transplanting me back to a Manila that had skies threatening to rain. What a welcoming sight.

how to identify a crisis without really trying

2011-10-24T11:12:00.002+08:00

First, we draw a period
no bigger than pollen
on a sheet of paper,
one that could impede
tongues and birthing
for our knowledge
of tragedy to cease
and delimit itself, to stop
like rundown seawalls do
to afternoon strolls.

For how much longer
this would stretch to,
it is best to say we are
in the wake of our ellipses.
Waiting requires tenacity
instead of patience,
and it is in the waiting
that all things grow.
Or wither. We must breathe
in each interval.

Second, we tell the gales
not to give in. We will be sorry
for the spiders though
since no gem that clings
on what remains of their homes
will prove its worth.
No matter how pure,
no matter how clear.
We must remain strong
and humble as silk.

With the fate of the spiders
we will either adore
or condemn that even
the lightest of things—
drizzle, a crisp brown leaf,
a found earring,
the sole pillow on bed,
the strand of silver hair—
are among the many
disguises of grief.

Third, we say nothing
to queries that start with why.
Or at times even with how
and the rest of its kin.
This way we will learn
to forgive truth for its merits
and cherish quietness instead.
Then our nights will reclaim
their usual quiver,
our days soft and lambent.

Now, let us say,
if we could just have one hand each,
us by the bench, on the grass,
or somewhere steep,
listening to electric calls
of dragonfly wings,
we could probably say
there is no letting go.
We will make
the constellations proud.

there are chickens here

2011-10-17T16:48:00.005+08:00

Had to attend two events last Saturday, October 15. Not true-to-the-word ‘had’ like a coercion, but something more like you’ve got to because, deep inside, you really want to. Anyway, forget it, I’m not making sense.

The first one is a book launching of Gerry Alanguilan’s second edition of Elmer, the prize-winning graphic novel about intellectual chickens and how they deal with human society. It is held at the same place where the latest Trese book, Last Seen After Midnight, is launched.

I’ve heard and read Alanguilan back in college with his trangressive work Wasted. It is a complete hairpin-turn of a reading experience for me, especially when my knowledge about the once-maligned works of comics is limited to prints by Marvel, DC, and the usual Snoopy fix in Sunday papers.

That particular work has ushered me into more novel and braver Filipino graphic works, such as the aforementioned Trese series by Budjette Tan and KaJo Baldisimo, Carlo Vergara’s Ang Kagila-gilalas na Pakikipagsapalaran ni Zsa Zsa Zaturnnah, Manix Abrera’s Kikomachine Comix compilations, and Siglo: Freedom and Siglo: Passion edited by Dean Alfar among many others that are mostly found in the internet.

That is why the opportunity to see the man behind Wasted and Elmer is not to be missed. What I sorely miss though during the book launching is signing up my name in the registration booth, thus failing to win any of the raffle prizes, of which it is also the same for dear Tin. (See photo above: I only get to flaunt a copy of the book whereas Peachy and company have their blown-up panels).

The second event is Netty’s post-birthday celebration at Central Pioneer (which was surprisingly better than the branches in Makati). Who would skip a night of free drinks? Okay, sometimes I do, but not this time.

This is like an extension of this, and for a day that starts out fine, I might as well end it with a little buzz. And for a couple of reasons that make me virtually disconnected to them for some time (e.g. hiatus on Facebook, Twitter, etc.), chickening out at things that are probably just existential, I think meeting them is a good idea.

how to follow not so simple instructions

2011-10-13T08:11:00.000+08:00

Keep the pages of that manual flap
like bird wings, broad and far-reaching.
Let the mechanics dip and dive,
procedures spiral as sparrows do
over trees, between cable wires,
and from time to time beyond grasps
of our calculations. This is how
measurements impress our intelligence.
Keep it open with something heavy,
but never touch the paperweight.
Leave that pebble from Pulang Bato,
admire its estrangement from the falls.
Leave that crystal ashtray as a memento
of all we know that have passed.
Leave that mug of coffee or down it
while it is hot before we could recall
our pains are our heart’s caffeine;
they are much bitter when cold.
Use that reliable head instead.
At close range, the images on a page
would start to blur, but remember,
almost all that is dear to us is:
muse, marginalia, misunderstanding.
Even that pinprick of light could be
a torch to our heavy-lidded eyes.
Fear not the trappings of error.
When we are little, we gravitate
to the ground and walk on all fours
to walk on twos. See the foolishness
in that equation of making things easy.
What matters are the differences now
because we could never rely on sameness,
because the similes could turn against us.
There is nothing to like if all is the same.

last seen somewhere

2011-10-10T13:54:00.007+08:00

October 8. Saturday was not as promising as I had expected. It rained, so I holed up at home doing things that needed to be done: cleaned the house, did the laundry even on a rainy day, ironed the clothes, read a couple of books, continued working on a couple of drafts. When the whole routine shifted to the dreary, an interesting thought came into mind: the book launching of Last Seen After Midnight, the fourth Trese book by Budjette Tan and KaJo Baldisimo at Bestsellers, Robinson’s Galleria.

(I actually haven’t read the series yet, the first being Trese: Murder on Balete Drive [followed by Unreported Murders, Mass Murders, and then Last Seen After Midnight], but people I know who are into graphic novels keep egging me to, so that afternoon I deduce the launching of the latest book would be a perfect start to get into the world of Alexandra Trese).

I did the usual practice of attending such event: I bought all four books (it would be a shame for a freshman to buy the fourth one without the first three, right?), attended the interview portion of the artist (KaJo) and the author (Budj), listened to the question-and-answer portion, lined up to have my books signed (of which, I unexpectedly met Peachy Paderna, lining up as well with his “boy”). And I find the men behind the comics humble, just saying.

Back home, I read the first two sets, and now here is a little hail of first impressions:

KaJo Baldisimo’s artwork is really good, polished to say the least. It has been a long time that I have seen black and white rendered so gorgeously and original. Though I notice a slight change of look or feel or whatever that is between the first case (the stories are told in episodic/procedural cases) of Murder on Balete Drive to the last case of Unreported Murders, the drawings portray Manila as a character that is both familiar and strange, and that alone merits a two-thumbs-up. Monochrome, this time, is sexy (though I’ve seen in Rogue magazine last year an excerpt of a Trese story in full color, and it is just as striking).

Budjette Tan’s periodic stories often leave me wanting for more, as if this and that should be stretched and be mined for more, say, thrills and twists. But I guess this is the maximalist in me talking. This kind of telling has its plus-side though: you can read the tales in no particular order.

As a practicing fiction writer, I read as much varied materials as I can to widen my scope, and I find Tan’s mythic, folkloric creatures crossing the modern world nothing new. But ‘nothing new’ does not necessarily mean it is bad. Also, this is not to say Tan’s concept is unoriginal. Nothing new could be saved by the rendition of small but refreshing takes of the proverbial (who would’ve thought of St. Elmo’s Fire coming out of a cellular phone as weapon/ally?), and Tan succeeded in giving that in his Trese books. And comparing short fiction to graphic fiction seems unfair, so I’m ending this discussion right now.

The Kambals, the mandatory sidekicks, are funny, which I think serve as a perfect contrast to the protagonist’s grim disposition. And during the book launch, I’ve overheard from my seatmates that they have an interesting turn in the third installment, so I am excited to flip open Mass Murders soon.

I know it is too early to demand this, after reading only two books, but I wish the underlying narrative of Trese (I know there is! It always has! It should!) would dive deeper into the Philippine mythology. After all, there is more to our horror stories than aswangs, tiyanaks and manananggals. And I hope Baldisimo’s and Tan’s publishers would grant them more lifeblood (e.g. budget) to continue Trese since there are legends that could be a wealthy source of stories, too.

In three words: I enjoyed Trese.

and he left

2011-10-06T08:13:00.004+08:00

Steve Jobs
(24 February 1955 - 5 October 2011)

relativities

2011-10-04T15:16:00.002+08:00

Light is always convinced
on the eternal, its hand
running over all things.

It plies on every curve
and edge, turns them precious
with delicate clarity:

dew on germilina leaf,
steam off boiling pot,
the midmorning laundry.

On the first hour of day
even streets surrender
to its touch, calcified,

becoming changeless,
devoted to stay true
to where they lead us.

But as new findings tell
something flits faster
than the speed of light,

is there a need for worry?
What could be quicker
than what we deem as right?

It seems this is the time
to consider learning now
where our prayers hurtle to.

And though a few things
have to be lost in order
to be found, it is safe to say

they have reached the light,
seen it head-on, neither dazed
nor blinded, just fulfilled.

about the heart

2011-09-30T10:52:00.005+08:00

Last Sunday, September 25, was World Heart Day. It was celebrated worldwide. I knew it from a news report on television, snatching my attention like a flimsy feather to a gust of wind since I visited doctors to—you’re right—have my dear heart (among other organs) checked just a few months ago. And to make the long story short, nothing really serious.

But that pattern of visiting the doctor (doctors, in the plural, to be specific), recalling the pains, doing some tests, waiting for results, and visiting the doctor again scared the bejeezus out of me. It knocked a few thoughts in my head and resulted into this:

My poem “Response to a Doctor’s Findings” is in this week’s Philippines Graphic (3 October 2011). Shot of the magazine’s cover you see right up there. I just find it a little bit funny, this piece coming out the morning after World Heart Day (I got my copies last Monday). It looks like a wily stab at humor. Maybe the publishers know. Maybe it is pure coincidence.

But what I am really sure of is that this seems to be a lovely year for me. I won’t stop the stars from aligning, suggesting beautiful things. This is good for me, good for my heart.

defeated yesterday

2011-09-28T08:46:00.004+08:00

The umbrellas were. And everything that was on me, actually.

Early in the morning last September 27, Pedring proved to be a typhoon for any rational man in Metro Manila to be wary of. But since no message of work being canceled came to me, I set off with the faintest idea at the back of my head that I deserve an Employee of the Year Award. Not even the sixteenth typhoon that visited our country could stop me.

Outside, the winds so strong, I felt like in any minute I would ascend to the heavens like Remedios the Beauty. And what downpour that day poured. I pitied my swaying umbrella, but I still honestly thought of myself lucky compared to those who were drenched in their corporate uniforms and trendy BPO getups. Whereas my umbrella swayed, enduring the elements, theirs had seen better days. At least that made me smile.

I arrived in the office just to receive news that we would have a half-day work in the interest of all employees’ safety. I was not sure if I would meet this piece of info with enthusiasm or disappointment. The howling winds in the elevator vents and shaking glass walls of our floor were not helping me clear my mind either. I busied myself with work, work, work until 12:30pm.

When I left the office, the weather did not change. It got worse. Insert heavy sigh here. So I stowed my weary umbrella in my bag, zipped up my jacket, and braved the storm while singing Rufus Wainwright’s “Hallelujah” on the way home. I arrived home safe and sound.

her royal birthday

2011-09-26T08:41:00.010+08:00

It was no surprise, the other tables emptying as the night progressed, which could probably be provoked by the ruckus we all made. We celebrated Mo’s (insert preferred number here) post-birthday (September 22 was her birthday), and I sometimes believe birthdays are supposed to be like that. Wild, large, and tight. And yes, I’m still talking about birthdays.

The notorious Jologs of the Dumas-Goethe workshop—an expanding circle of indefinable fellows other than, well, notorious—converged at the Elbow Room last Saturday, all giddy since the last time we met was in May. Giddy may seem to be too shy a word; the following photos speak for how it all turns out.

Ynna Serena, The Bullfrog, Yumburger Miro, Real Lady Netty, Child Star Phillip, Single No More Keith, and Her Highness, Mo.

With Bea, lady in yellow, who we rarely see. And that woman with the lovely smile, that’s Peachy.

We are puggeh.

That’s Mo’s pseudo-G.I. Greg, who posited we were in Pampanga.

The circle. Next stop, Netty’s birthday.

And speaking of birthdays, let’s segue to familial matters here. Today is my sister’s birthday. And also the day Ondoy wrecked havoc on us last year. Let us just pray the storms will keep us strong.

how to break the ice after a fight

2011-09-15T14:28:00.001+08:00

Since we have enough silence to build
a museum or a public library, can I speak
of our close(d)ness now? What about
the static of midnight television,
the closing of doors, that wordless
goodnight, that (eve/mor)ning snore?

Yes, we are allowed so much hurt
but I can only permit this much.
What we always know of lea(r)ning
(on/from) each other we discover
by not doing so. Our wind chimes
tell us this: there is weariness in inertia.

So this time I try to speak your idioms.
So this time I try to follow your nods.
And this perfume (f)licking the air
between us? Just rub it generously
on your pulse. I can tell if it is worthy of days
when only my skin’s musk invades me.

We know it is too (early/late) to tell
if the (ab/pre)sences we fill those days with
benefit our better judgments. There will
always be afternoons that never stop waiting,
always ahead of us. Like habits of desire,
vivid and steel-sharp.

But this is what I am grateful for:
at least we never get to the point
of breaking the (d/w)ishes,
the precious porcelain (c/v)ows
we have received on our wedding last June.
So tonight, in bed sweating, we both (g)listen.

published and not complaining

2011-09-13T12:53:00.006+08:00

My poem “The Lost Monkeys of Tamugan,” a melding of the myth and the personal tale, is published in the September 10 issue of the Philippines Free Press, along with fellow katsubong Bron Teves’ “The Queen’s Gambit.” Read them here.

*

Lately, I’ve been churning out poems, setting aside drafts upon drafts of long narrative fiction, and though it is no easy feat, I am not complaining. I think it is a blessing. My only “issue” (I don’t know how to describe it) here is the constant urge to rework a piece the genre usually hints at or even demands. See, the aforementioned poem that is sent a month ago to the publisher now looks different today, at least in my growing list of drafts. Ah, the (un)petty concerns of life.

Anyway, as what I’ve said, I am not complaining. I shouldn’t be.

founders friend

2011-09-08T10:33:00.010+08:00

Touchdown and Take Off

August 24, 2011

Yes, I decided to visit two cities in one day. Original plan was to stay in Dumaguete upon arriving (until the 29th of August), but due to circumstance I decided to pay my dear hometown a visit on the very same day. Land on Dumaguete in the morning, cruise to Tagbilaran in the afternoon.

Fast forward, or six days later, it was not surprising knowing the expenses I made. I checked my little book of transactions and discovered my spending doubled compared to last year’s August break. Yet there was no pang of guilt here. I think it’s all worth it.

One Day in Bohol
August 25, 2011

Brought my parents to the grocers, went with them to purchase things needed for remodeling the house, and met a handful of my high school classmates on the eve of my leaving for Dumaguete. The latter and I returned to our recently-favored pastime: singing/reading lyrics. Yes, apparently, all I can manage is read lyrics on the videoke screen like poetry.

At least it’s poetry.

The Epic Journey Back
August 26, 2011

To encapsulate le grande expedition to the city of gentle people: I arrived at Tagbilaran port at 6:45AM, and then knew Dumaguete fastcraft trip at 8AM was cancelled due to rough seas. When hesitation to leave started to sink in, I met someone who also planned on hopping onto the same boat. Karamays are always helpful. We both decided to brave the longer route—take the earliest trip to Cebu (7AM); take a taxi cab to South Bus Terminal (9AM); take a bus to Santander Pier (9:20AM), of which the whole trip took three hours; take a ferry boat to Sibulan, Negros Oriental (3:30PM); and finally, take a tricycle ride to reach Piapi, Dumaguete (4PM).

I was supposed to reach Dumaguete City as early as 9AM. Nevertheless, this time I can truly say, better late than never (my mantra since Elementary was ‘better absent than late’). So next time someone says there’s no other way, I’d slap the idiot hard on the face.

After this Tolkienesque journey all-for-the-sake-of-lakwatsa, things started to get better: SU Cheering Competition, Zombadings 1: Patayin sa Shokot Si Remington Special Screening, dinner at Sunburst, drinks at Sundown, and a day-breaker meal at Qyosko. Smiles were drawn on our faces.

The Sand Bar Vanishes

This time, there was ‘Walang tulugan!’ indeed. After our 4AM meal in Qyosko, off we went back to our respective homes and packed our things that would shame The Flash. We converged at Portal West Building by 5AM. A couple of expected people didn’t show up. (To the pits with them!) Anyway, there were nine of us, and it was relatively a healthy number for such trip.

I couldn’t really remember what time we left the city since I was drifting in Pillowland the minute the van went zooming to Bais City. We arrived at our destination point at a time and weather that were good for seeing the dolphins but bad at frolicking at the famous Sand Bar. Why? The seas were high, the Sand Bar was gone.

Gladly enough, a big crowd of marine mammals graced our presence. I believed my sonic message of “You better show up or else… or else…” was effectively relayed to the depths of the ocean with my planking atop the banca’s outriggers.

Walk-Outs
August 27, 2011

And this, people, is the story behind “Founders Friend” or “FF” (statements are altered for privacy/due to unreliable recollection, many thanks to our favorite horse):

“She’s happy with her job. She travels a lot. She’s even happy with that hectic job. Why can’t we have that life? And she has a boyfriend! Someone who likes to see her all the time!”

“Oo nga. Lahat nalang ng mga lumalapit sa’kin may masasamang balak! May dalang ice-pick pa!”

“At least may lumalapit sa’yo.”

“But this year’s founders feel a little bit lighter noh?”

“Actually. Drama is sooo 2010. Forget closure. It’s time to move forward.”

“That’s why we need someone just for this week.”

“A special friend for a week.”

“Yes, someone who’s like a what-happens-during-founders-stays-only-in-founders kind of person.”

“Like a Founders Friend!”

“Yeah! An FF! ‘Hey, can you be my FF tonight?’”

“I like that!”

A few hours later, before the sun peeked out from the Escanyo horizon, the characters in the story disappeared one by one.

In Search of That Elusive Person
August 28,2011

It’s hard to say no to a one-way ticket to Drinks-All-You-Can ticket for the price of a bucket up here in the north. This sounds like a joke but two Sundays prove otherwise. And that day is officially the last day of finding for that elusive Founders Friend.

With the Hibalag booth area at the university spitting fireworks to close the week-long event, El Camino and its fund-raising (with the said ticket), luring lawyers, future lawyers, and the usual visitors, were touted to be an interesting checkpoint. And whether the search was successful or not, depending on how one saw the outcome, the day ended strangely well, maybe because of the reason for coming up with this excuse: find the post-founders friend.

National Artist for Literature Edith L. Tiempo’s State Funeral
August 29, 2011

I attended a vigil of Mom Edith’s wake last August 27, Friday. Familiar faces were there, and I guess they were present for the same reason why I needed to pay respect to someone who graciously poured wisdom to people who shared the same thirst of her passion.

The State Funeral took place two days later. I had a 3PM flight to catch, and though I knew I won’t be able to follow the final walk to the burial grounds because of this, I woke up early to see her one last time. It was the right thing to do.

Reunions and Anniversaries

Still not reeling away from this little bundle of grief I carried during my days and nights of merriment (yes, I hide feelings very well) because of Mom Edith’s departure, I rounded up the culprits for one last August lunch in Dumaguete at Gabby’s Bistro. In simple words, I needed company. Again, a few went poof at the last minute for reasons both trivial and logical, but it was fine. It is always lovely to cap things on a pleasant note—all smiles and lively chatter. The gathering went well. The leaving did not.

Well, a lot knows it’s like that when it comes to Dumaguete. Always.

books launched and received

2011-09-06T11:08:00.008+08:00

Last Friday, September 2, the book “Under The Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry” was launched at the Ayala Museum.

A part of the 4th .MOV International Film, Music, and Literature Festival, the anthology which is edited by Khavn De La Cruz and Joel Toldeo, is a “compilation of 150 Filipino poets: from the renowned and the known to the upcoming and the knowable. It explores the topography of the phenomenal, social, and lingual developments of contemporary Philippine poetry.”

My poem “Stones” is in it, along with works from contributors like Gemino Abad, Jose Marte Abueg, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, Jose Wendell Capili, Mikael de Lara Co, Jose Dalisay, Lourd Ernest De Veyra, Lav Diaz, Simeon Dumdum Jr., Marjorie Evasco, Marc Gaba, Eric Gamalinda, J. Neil Garcia, Marne Kilates, Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta, Marra PL. Lanot, Bienvenido Lumbera, Eliza Victoria, Alfred Yuson, and many more.

The table of content is definitely enough to whirl me to fantasyland. Tin Lao would agree with me.

The event was a strange gathering: mainstream and indie personalities, entertainment bigwigs, and foreign ambassadors and bands took the stage and gave readings of select poems from the book. Though the museum was crowded, I managed to see familiar faces (Alyza Taguilaso, Anne Abad, Jimmy Abad, Arbeen Acuña, Keith Cortez, Noelle Leslie dela Cruz, Eva Gubat, Gian Lao, Ned Parfan, John Iremil Teodoro, Krip Yuson) and say hello to new ones (Erica Gonzales, Jose Jason Chancoco, Lope Cui, Jr., Dakila Cutab, Christa De La Cruz, Jacob Walse-Dominguez, Bebang Siy, Denver Torres, Ronald Verzo).

Also on the same night, I received a copy of the Dream-Pop Issue of Paper Monster Press. My apologies though; I forgot who to thank to here for handing me the little chapbook. My poem “Ghost,” as mentioned before, is in this interesting outing.

So, that was it. In other words, it was a long night.

how sleep can be defined in sestina

2011-09-05T14:27:00.005+08:00

I
Sleep? What is sleep but a still moment of escape,
a practice better suspended in litmus clouds,
or cumulus, or cumulonimbus, or stratus in layers
levitating like sheets of linen above closed eyes,
where light could sift through their folds and head
to corners and creases and places night holds.

II
Sleep! The epilogue that the waking eye holds!
Defined by flows and circles, shapes that escape
conventions of space, all forms of sleep head
to where they are contentedly in a blur: clouds.
This has a reason: spires and streets tire the eyes,
And glass buildings split-slice bodies in thin layers.

III
Question: Does one need two mirrors to face layers
upon layers of the self, wherein a hand holds
the multiplicity of sameness, gripping the eyes
with images so grand no marvel could escape
the practical lips? No, what are needed are clouds,
real but invisible to touch. Like thoughts in the head.

IV
Some say sleep does not appoint dream as the head,
the principal in every meditation, since it layers
itself with elucidations on living. They say it clouds
logic, lifebuoy of occasional foolishness. Yes, it holds
some truth: Dreams give the wrong reason to escape.
They trick people not to look with their own eyes.

V
Question: So why trouble on things not seen with the eyes?
Response: Answers are buried beneath the head.
Question: But why trouble on intricate plans of escape
to dreamscapes when most truth lies in layers
of falsehood, in patterns? Response: the sleeper holds
too much weight he wishes to rest on the ninth set of clouds.

VI
Sleep comes not only at night; it heralds the clouds
as day approaches, like one morning a man sees them, eyes
them skimming the sun over the skyline, in bed that holds
him, cradles him in the next hours ,where his head
rests on layers of blanket, of blankets in layers.
He closes his eyes, defines sleep: There will be no escape.

VII
But nothing holds certainty as beautifully as sleep, to escape
with eyes briefly in peace, to see between the layers
of random thoughts where clouds could set sail in the head.

[ a revision of an attempt last year ]

winners of the 61st carlos palanca memorial awards for literature

2011-09-02T12:43:00.001+08:00

It’s that season again. A couple of favorites and buddies turn up in this year’s list of winners, and here’s one great holler to fellow katsubong Joshua Lim So for winning first prize in full-length play and third prize in dulang ganap ang haba. Congratulations to everyone. There’s still next year, so better write those works now.

another one

2011-09-01T10:17:00.003+08:00

My poem “Ghost” is in the Dream-Pop Issue of Paper Monster Press (along with my dear fellow hipon, Eva Gubat). Lifted from their Facebook page, here is the list of contributors. The launching took place last August 27 at Espasyo Siningdikato, Dasmariñas Cavite.

LITERARY
Jim Pascual Agustin (Tubig-alat sa Ating mga Mata)
Jack Alvarez (Chemistry)
Joyce Marisse Amon (Sending Out)
F. Jordan Carnice (Ghost)
Marella Jem Castro (“I Suppose You Are Real,” said The Velveteen Rabbit)
Jose Jason Chancoco (Astral Travel)
Gigi Constantino (Light Captured)
Christa De La Cruz (Reprieve)
Danilo dela Cruz, Jr. (Ang Araw na Para sa Kanya)
Lolito Go (Sa Pagkalalake)
Eva Gubat (How Somebody Mimicking Joy Williams Would Talk One Morning)
Sinta Isaac (Espongha)
Mark Alvin Jabrica (Listen To Your Mother)
Melay Guanzon Lapeña (Continuity Study)
Veronica Laurel (Waking)
Jenni de Leon-Slater (Colin)
A.B. Mendoza (Dry As Leaves)
Patrick Quintos (1:00 a.m.)
Thirteen Salonga (Encounter #1)
Dott Seki (One Man Universe)

MUSIC
The Dunes (Going Under)
Eggboy (No Way Jose-Alternate Version)
Gentlemen Marry Brunettes (Postlude to Fervor)
Identikit (Tiny Fractures)
The Informations (The Wind and The Stone)
J-Solo (Riding Waves, Passing Time)
KR-O.K (Run To Me-Beegees Cover)
Lipstick Tears (Will You Please)
Minimal Pop (Le Rêve)
Monochrome (Grey Sky Manila)
Neuter Lover (Find)
Phantom Sizemore (How To Kill a Giant Robot)
Pogs (Sticky Dreams)
The Standards (Espinosa)

VISUAL ART
Jesus Tejada
Bunny Rose
Tilde Acuña
Chris Bird

seashells

2011-08-23T15:47:00.002+08:00

A feat, this heart’s control
Moment to moment
To scale all love down
To a cupped hand’s size
—from “Bonsai,” Edith L. Tiempo

All this time
Here is a pulse,
As faint as a pin,
Beating, and then gone.
Now this is what I fear;
I have no new words for love.

But I have other things to say,
Ocean wide, mineral bright,
And I need an anchor
To keep them where
They ought to be:
A chair, a small corner,
A dog-ear of a journal,
A house on a hill, or you.

If this is not enough,
I will comb a shore
For a conch, the poet
Of seashells, and keep it,
Listen to its ageless whisper.

Seldom do we get
A promise of a rosy future
From such smooth lips,
Something out of a treasure
We could cradle
In the arms like a child.

there are no goodbyes

2011-08-22T10:24:00.008+08:00

I didn’t expect yesterday would end up as grey as the aternoon skies. At around 5:30pm, August 21, National Artist for Literature Edith Lopez Tiempo passed away. I could not define the sadness that drenched over me all of a sudden, the wall that blankly stared back after receiving the news.

The literary community calls her “Mom,” and at this very moment her children are in sorrow.

She left a void as immense as her passion, and now it is up to her children to keep her words alive. Hope is all we could have—hope for relief, hope for posterity, hope for lasting remembrances.

There is not enough “thank you” to contain my gratitude for the teachings I receive from her, the fleetest moments I am with her, the gentle smile the first time I met her. She may be an old woman but the wisdom in her eyes is young, always ripe, sometimes with a glint of the jokester. “How proud I am to have a writer who is Biblically approved,” she wrote on my Sands and Coral journal I had her autographed back in 2008. In my mind, well, how proud I am to have you as a second mom in my second home.

In the Director’s Dinner last May 17 where Mom graciously attended for the 50th anniversary of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop she co-founded with her husband, Edilberto Tiempo, she said, “I am happy, happy to be with you as I have always been happy all these 50 years with writers, and I hope that each one of you will be happy to say that, ‘Oh, I was last night with a 92-year-old woman who claims she is a writer.’”

And in my simple words, I am happy, Mom. I am.

[ photo by Urich Calumpang ]

mirrors

2011-08-17T09:02:00.003+08:00

Nothing could be as sad
as two mirrors falling in love.
It seems they can never settle
on what they want to see
in each other’s faces.

Mirrors only find infinite depth
in sex. Doubling of repetitions
in their sweet nothings. When one
reaches for a kiss, ennui is served
on endless plates of silver.

Humility could not save them,
not even their penchant to tell
the truth. Though gifted with
keenest memories, mirrors
fall victim to painful nostalgia.

Perhaps two mirrors
are too beautiful for each other.
Perhaps both should look
the other way. To be broken,
to remain complete.

Just doing something playful this time. The four stanzas in this poem could be read in different order (1-2-3-4 or 4-2-3-1 or 3-1-4-2 and so on). I am not sure if there’s a name for this writing, but I’d love to continue making more of this—reflecting the content of the poem to the physical form, structure, or in any means other than just the persona talking. It is fun.

brilliance in music

2011-08-05T08:53:00.010+08:00

The Camerawalls, which is led by Clementine “Clem” Castro, a member of the now-defunct band Orange and Lemons, has the freshest sound I’ve heard lately in the local music industry.

Lord Of The Flies - The Camerawalls by Lilystars Records

I remember seeing their albums Pocket Guide to the Otherworld and Bread and Circuses in Powerbooks Megamall, but when I went back the other month they were all gone. This broke my heart. Thankfully, samples of their discography are available in their website. Just listen to the song embedded above (my personal favorite, next to “Birthday Wishes”), or those in the site, and you’ll get this grand, sweeping sense of bliss, it’s as if you could touch and taste the beauty of colors.

And wait. Did I hear that right, strings from a rondalla instrument? Beautiful, indeed, just beautiful. Music like this should come out more often in the Philippines.

[ image lifted from this site ]

the storms around us

2011-08-03T10:17:00.007+08:00

Can there be more damaging
than the whip of wind
on our roofs and walls?

What rests between sky and dirt
is not depth but our breathing, heavy,
and the regular whisk of debris:

Fur from stray dogs, plywood, broken
tree limbs, galvanized sheets of iron,
tin cans, newspaper front page, etc.

We cannot cry over tempests,
imminent like a plague of locusts
thick for days and nights.

So let us confess with the last
dreg of faith we hold on to, spill
not only the sins we have committed

but also those we have not: the eye
of the storm sees what hides behind
the calm we build around our houses.

We know our own transgressions.
Though secrets wade swiftly
against the current of our litanies

combined, I am a firm believer of rain.
Its urge to fall quiets the noise,
quiets the maddening soul.

[ image lifted from this site ]

mine included

2011-07-28T07:53:00.008+08:00

Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry
Edited by Kvan Dela Cruz & Joel Toledo

Translations by

Piya Constantino, Eduardo Dayao, Mikael de Lara Co, Paula Maria Diaz, U Z. Eliserio, Ryan Fuentes, Luisa A. Igloria, Cecilia B. Imperial, Marne L. Kilates, John B. Labella, Aila Lenard, Paolo Manalo, Mark Pangilinan, Chuckberry Pascual, Sue Prado, Nonilon V. Queano , D.M. Reyes, Sandra Nicole Roldan, Amoz Ezra Salazar, Ronald V. Verzo II, and Xenia-Chloe Villanueva

For the complete list of works and contributors, click here.

Book launching on
2 September 2011 (Friday)
Ayala Museum, Makati City
6 o’clock in the evening

words

2011-07-26T11:09:00.007+08:00

There is no stopping
the current of words washing up
on the shores of our tongues.
They roll ceaselessly, abundant
in waves of syllables
only divided, separated
by the many hands
of our crooked coastlines: langgam
crawls on Manilan walls when
it flies over the waters of Panglao,
zips across Agusan skies.
This could not only be
a matter of geography, syntax,
or the origins of story and art
at the ends of history and heart.

Like all legends,
the firstborn tale burrows deep
in the folds of the past,
inconspicuous, the same way how
we can never tell
what differentiates blue and blew
unless one is gestured at:
“Look at the sky!”
“Feel the wind!”

Sometimes words belie
their true intentions:
stay often leads to move,
calm equates to danger,
and threat stands
as a proxy for reveal, just as eyes
could conceal itself as blind.

Until we find our panabot,
our many renditions of katwiran
for each case of wonderment,
even if our mouths continue
to spring the strangest breed
of vowels and consonants,
we must learn the basics: love
never means love
at all times.

tears dry on their own

2011-07-25T07:43:00.005+08:00

1983 - 2011

If not for this talented young girl, the likes of Duffy, Estelle, Paloma Faith, Lily Allen, and even the soulful but shy Adele would practically be heard little in the airwaves. Her songs make up the soundtrack of my melodrama a couple of years ago, and it is sad knowing that I won’t be hearing more from her in the coming days.

[ image lifted from this site ]

doorknobs

2011-07-22T09:07:00.004+08:00

A lot has been said about distance,
But what about closedness? Rarely
Does its weight and breadth beg one
For scrutiny. Let’s turn it over now,
See its gears, knots, screws and spindles,
See what we can make of its anatomy.
Study a doorknob for reference, shun
The memory of departure in a corner.
Leave room for these common complaints:

This should turn the other way.
This locks itself twice already.
The key gets stuck.

As infants, we know how close-
Open works, our small palms blooming
And unblooming to the chants of tireless
Mothers, yet now we wait for doorknobs
To turn, the hinges of doors to swing wide
With accurate angles. On the other side,
The dusts on the mats remain unmoving,
Like something fragile is left for granted.
Somehow, we ignore our own deductions:

There was not much space here.
The air was dense around us.
This was too tight.

But whatever mechanism
These knobs hold within,
How their turns mimic the calls
Of seconds that have passed,
Take a couple of steps back.
We can never be too sure
Of the promise of a doorknob’s
Clicking. Stay away from it,
And lean next to the windows.

it all ends

2011-07-20T08:55:00.010+08:00

That’s basically what it is all about. The Harry Potter books were one of my early affairs with literature, which were all preceded by Bible stories, a small stack of Hardy Boys, a humongous pile of Goosebumps, and that thick tome of fairy tales from around the world. My attachment grew as the years go by, from grade four in the late 90s to second year college.

Fast-forward to another decade and I still cannot help but find a hint of familiarity in the boy wizard’s life—a story richly told by Jo Rowling whose rags-to-riches story is a triumph equaling Harry Potter’s fate. The series then cemented my first impression that reading would not be some simple phase like toys, afternoon cartoon shows, and pimples.

This first impression, surprisingly, and much to my relief, lasted.

I was glad there were movies to fill the void when the seventh book finally rested on my shelf. But just last week, the concluding film of the series rolled its credits to the score of John William’s nostalgic “Hedwig’s Theme.” Time does go by so swiftly it is heartbreaking.

Directed by David Yates, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 was not perfect. (I still insist the third film by Alfonso Cuarón, and even among the books, Prisoner of Azakaban is the best). They could have done better with Snape’s boathouse scene. The swirling smokes in the pensieve, the trails of apparating Death Eaters, and some spells look all the same. Some ripe stories are altered or forgotten.

There are more nitpickings inside my head but all these are trumped by the gist of it all: the freshness of the familiar, the defeat of all things evil, the inventiveness of a world where memory and magic serve something more than to inspire awe but also friendship and love.

This is what I see of the end, and it is like going back to the very beginning, going back to what captured my childhood imagination. Everything comes full circle, and it is bittersweet. Maybe soon, the pains of my nostalgia would all be gone, but the scar would still linger like Harry’s, perhaps a reminder of how great everything has changed. I believe all will be well.

P.S. The 3D is good except for one catch: the glasses get foggy and wet. You will see.

response to a doctor's findings

2011-07-18T17:40:00.009+08:00

The doctor pulls bones,
muscles, tissues, all white
in that ghost of a film
from the brown enve-
lope. I hear it shuffle
with the rest of the do-
cuments inside, as if breath-
ing huskily, owning up the pain.

Some sounds are not meant
to be heard yet I close in.
A series of fluctuating graphs
is studied next to a list
of linked letters and numb-
ers that make no sense.
I consider having my eyes
checked the following week.

A joke, how this one diagram
curves into a smile and mocks
at my failure to figure
the codes siphoned
from my own body.
Incomplete right bundle branch.
Emphysema. Acid reflux.
The charts are laughing.

But there is none of these.
Only a nod and a smile,
real, finally, from the doctor
who hands a prescription.
Before leaving, we
exchange possibili-
ties, assurances and re-
assurances.

“Your heart is strong,”
the doctor says.
In my head,
No, doc, it’s not.
I just think
there are mis-
takes that will al-

ways be right.

2011 philippines free press literary awards winners

2011-07-13T10:04:00.003+08:00

Team Jologs strikes again! Here are the winners of this year’s Philippines Free Press Literary Awards that capped last night at Club Café, Makati Sports Club. Netty, you make us proud. And for those who didn’t land in any of the three spots of the two genres, being a finalist I think is enough commendable honor. Congratulations to all!

FICTION

1st - Caroline Hau, “Recuerdos de Patay”
2nd - Jenette Vizcocho, “When You See A Dog”
3rd - Michelangelo Samson, “Erscheinung”

POETRY

1st - Luisa A. Igloria, “Zeno’s Paradox”
2nd - Timi Siytangco, “How to Kill a Whale Shark”
3rd - Andrea Teran, “Weight Without Gravity”

first time feels great [update]

2011-07-11T12:55:00.014+08:00

In this case, yes, it does. Last month, I’ve received news that I made it in the first cut of contributors for Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry. It’s great because it would be my first time to be anthologized. I thought it would be no big deal, until I saw the final list just right now.

The anthology, which (previously) aims “to present 113 poems from 113 poets, in commemoration of our 113 years of Independence—of being Filipinos, of being Filipino writers,” is now changed to present 150 contributors due to the overwhelming number of entries received. And here they are, finally, whose one poem has already been selected by the editors, Khavn de la Cruz and Joel M. Toledo. This list is epic.

December, 18, 2008 Anne Carly Abad

The Unfaithful Men Diego Jose Abad

That Space of Writing Gemino Abad

In Place of Emotion Anina Abola

I, Pontius Jose Marte Abueg

Ika-anim na Sundang: Gabud / Sixth Knife: Whetstone Ericson Acosta

eraserase002 Arbeen Acuña

Sea Fireflies of Mindoro Jim Pascual Agustin

Fruit of Knowledge Arnold O. Aldaba

Wala Na Sa Quiapo Ang Nazareno /
The Nazarene Is Not In Quiapo Kislap Alitaptap

Seaman Rio Alma

Train Dodge Jovsky Almero

Shoes Tofi Alonte

Apat Na Larawan Mula Sa Tagaytay Ridge / A Short Quartet

From Tagaytay Ridge Donato Mejia Alvarez

Pointing According To Heraldina Panch Alvarez

Bir-it, Jan-ny! Angelo B. Ancheta

F/light Mark Angeles

Anumang Leksiyon / Whatever Abides Rebecca Añonuevo

Dalawampung Minuto / Twenty Minutes Roberto Añonuevo

Sa Dulo ng Malay / At the Edge of Waking Teo Antonio

Hands Down Lystra Aranal

Eros Mesandel Virtusio Arguelles

Three Variations Cesar Ruiz Aquino

The Lion A.M. Azada

Entropy & The Shrike Amado Bajarias

manoy Desiree L. Balota

Laberinto / Labyrinth Romulo P. Baquiran, Jr.

Mga Tala Sa Isang Pagpatay / Notes On A Political Execution Joi Barrios

Futura Melissa Villa-Real Basmayor

Eksena Sa Susunod Na Siglo /
Scenario For The Next Century Ariel Dim. Borlongan

Because Pandesal is never the same in another country Dave Buenviaje

Touch Me Not Regine Cabato

Carnivalesque Jose Wendell P. Capili

Pagdidilig Ronan B. Capinding

Ha-ha-ha Ronaldo Carcamo

Stones F. Jordan Carnice

Tsunami Blues Lito Casaje

The Smallness of the Everyday Ian Rosales Casocot

Hinatak Sa Kahulugan / A Catch of the Infinite Pull Marella Castro

Barber Shop Brainstorming Jose Jason L. Chancoco

Learning Curve Ayrie Ching

The Yoyo Routine Frank Cimatu

Kundiman Mikael de Lara Co

Stabat Mater Kristian Sendon Cordero

Magnanakaw / Thief Michael M. Coroza

The Current Keith Cortez

P'wera Contra Dakila Cutab

Multiple Choice Lope Cui, Jr.

Bound For Saudi Jose Y. Dalisay, Jr.

Brutalism Carlomar Daoana

On the Feminine Ramon Damasing

Ang Katiwala Mes De Guzman

Speed Ainne Frances dela Cruz

After Impeng Negro Christa I. De La Cruz

ang dalawang puso / the twin hearts Khavn De La Cruz

Absence Muse Noelle Leslie dela Cruz

aporia Nikki De Los Santos

Preparations for History Karl R. De Mesa

Paramdam Iñigo de Paula

The Ambivalence of Staying A Tree Ricardo De Ungria

Supremacy of the Text Lourd Ernest H. De Veyra

Rebolusyon / Revolution Noel del Prado

Social Blowtorching Transcends Scab Worship A Despi

Definition of Respite Glenn Diaz

In Memoriam Lav Diaz

Tinkling Alain Russ Dimzon

The What Jan Brandon Dollente

folding boxes Jacob Walse-Dominguez

The Last Rain of Summer Simeon Dumdum, Jr.

In Baclayon, Reading Levertov's For those whom
the Gods love less Marjorie Evasco

Siberia Israfel Fagela

english lyrics to a japanese seduction Bendix M. Fernandez

Erotica Boni Fojas-Almirante

Smooch King Luis H. Francia

Blinds Marc Escalona Gaba

Hydrazine Eric Gamalinda

Coda J. Neil Garcia

Procorpio's Night German Gervacio

What Else Lolito Go

Blind Date Eva B. Gubat

bullet.X.press Ramil Digal Gulle

Death Poem Exercise 64 Asterio Enrico Gutierrez

What I Don't Tell My Children About My Hometown Luisa A. Igloria

Tandang Sora Neal Imperial

Morion Marne Kilates

How The Americans Liberated Northern Luzon, 1945 Philip Y. Kimpo, Jr.

The Revolution Will Be Printed, Not Televised Jeanilyn Kwan

Tampuhan Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta

Tagubilin At Habilin / Will And Testament Jose F. Lacaba

Ina / Mother Marra PL. Lanot

What Ol' Injun told the carnies Christine V. Lao

Here, at your grave Gian Lao

O Elaine Lazaro

NPA Mula sa Tatlong Daang Salita at Dalawang Pulgatang Pagitan /
From Three Hundred Words and Two Inches
in Between John Francis C. Losaria

Kartolinang Ibon / Craft-Paper Bird Bienvenido Lumbera

Ganoon dumating ang balita / How the news broke Soleil Erika Manzano

A Better Good Morning Carlo Angelo V. Marcelo

The Life and Times of a Seditious Poet Edgar B. Maranan

Estranged Luchie Maranan

Saleslady Pia Montalban

Balimbing V.E. Carmelo D. Nadera Jr.

On the Way to the Market Joanna Nicolas-Na

Dark Birds In Winged Chapel Homer B. Novicio

hyperlink Emil Os

Mag-aabroad inin akon mga buhok /
My hairs will travel abroad Voltaire Q. Oyzon

Philippine Eagle Doms Pagliawan

Alibangbang Sa Ulan Agustin Pagusara

Ars Poetica, As Actually Practiced R. Torres Pandan

Disturbances Ned Parfan

The Soul of the Town Allan Justo Pastrana

Prehistoria Carlos Piocos III

Nang Salakayin Mo Ang Aking Pananahimik / The Night

You Assaulted My Deep Silence Axel Pinpin

Vers. Zosimo Quibilan, Jr.

Bunso / Lastborn Jun Cruz Reyes

Sa Ganang Akin Po Naman Ay Ito Lamang Ang Ipinamamanhik /
Thus Do I Humbly Express Myself Fidel Rillo

Eternal Juju Recurrence Virgilio A. Rivas

Euston Road on an Autumn Afternoon Deedle Rodriguez-Tomlinson

Despedida Ardiente Patrick Rosal

Today After Time Immemorial Darylle Rubino

Carabaohood Roger B. Rueda

SpaMusic Jose Leonardo A. Sabilano

Correspondent Joseph de Luna Saguid

Meandering Joel Pablo Salud

Vocabulario Edgar Calabia Samar

Poem About Nothing Rafael Antonio San Diego

Pugot / Beheaded Benilda Santos

Massacre Oscar Tantoco Serquina, Jr.

Balikbayan Box Tanya Sevilla-Simon

Yang Pagtagad Kang Alyana /

Waiting For Alyana Danny Castillones Sillada

Ang Bisita / The Visitor Beverly W. Siy

I Love Poetry Bert Sulat, Jr.

How To Enjoy A Concert : Mula sa concert notes
ng Francisco Santiago Hall ng PCI Bank / From the concert notes
of Francisco Santiago Hall of PCI Bank (now defunct) Ramon C. Sunico

Blueprint Christian Tablazon

Leviathan Alyza Taguilaso

Banal Na Buntis John Iremil E. Teodoro

Weight Without Gravity Andrea B. Teran

Para Sa Fountain Sa Harap Ng Post-Office Building / For The Fountain

In Front Of The Post-Office Enrico C. Torralba

An Appointment, And Variation On
Federico Alcuaz (or Monolgue as Portraiture) Ricky Torre

where my Barbie was safe, lest, if it came out
in the open Denver Ejem Torres

Sa Panahon / On Seasons Charles Bonoan Tuvilla

Ang Tiwalag / The Defected Roberto Ofanda Umil

The Blues R.M. Urquico

Every dawn you dig your own grave Czeriza Shennille Valencia

Independence Day In Hong Lim Park Eric Tinsay Valles

Nimbus Joel Vega

Crime Scenes Eliza Victoria

Rekindled Santiago Villafania

Vestibular Michael Carlo C. Villas

I think therefore I ant Arlene J. Yandug

The Ten Most Memorable Moments with D. Thus Far, & Why
I Can't Let Her Go Alfred A. Yuson

This is grand. Many of these are people I look up to, while some are old and new acquaintances. The launching of this anthology during the 4th .MOV International Film, Music, & Literature Festival on September 2, 2011 would be interesting. Thanks for the tip, Arbeen, Tin and Eva!

cushions

2011-07-07T14:48:00.008+08:00

I would like to think
it never ends that way,
what falls down must break.

I condemn this pronouncement.
Just see the motes gliding back
on my bed this morning, golden

and sincere. Say, if I will fold
this blanket into a diamond tonight,
would I be spared from such claim?

Geometries are the only means
to make shape out of all this.
Consider the cushion and its stuffing.

All I want is something true.
No breaking. Yet this is what you said:
“I don’t sway that way.”

You went beyond the three quiet words
I longed for. Even the gesture of a smile.
Restraint does slip from your hands.

Or this time, from your lips. Have
faith, something hair strands hold,
clinging on damp pillowcases.

I know I have rested fairly
to last me days when the sun
seems shrouded with too much clouds;

even a stab at my wakefulness
would bear no sting more severe
than the bite of an ant.

But I guess I recalled too much forgetting,
walked on the same street again,
and slept a little too much.

And this is why I feel anger
for all the beds we have lounged upon.
There is not enough burden

that could leave a dent on them
for us to understand how heavy
the aches we both carry.

something beautiful

2011-07-05T10:00:00.006+08:00

Former students are still students. That is why last Friday (July 1), I left early from work and went to Toyota Foundation Bldg., Asian Center, University of the Philippines-Diliman, for its printing press’s midyear launching of nine new books, which included Beautiful Accidents, a collection of short stories by my former “teacher” in Silliman University, Ian Rosales Casocot (in quotations because technically I was never enrolled in his classes).

This book contains the award-winning stories “Old Movies,” “The Hero of the Snore Tango,” and “Things You Don’t Know.” In it is also the brilliant “Group Study,” which first appeared in Dark Blue Southern Seas 2008. I won’t share why that particular one is brilliant because it just is—with a wink at the sides.

Schoolmates attended the launching, specifically from the college paper, The Weekly Sillimanian, which surprised me a lot. I have never seen them in a long time. There were professors and fellows I met in different workshop batches. There was Prof. Leonor Magtolis Briones, former treasurer of the Philippines, who was our graduation commencement speaker and who also asked for my works when she knew I dabble in writing and left me very flattered.

And last but definitely not the least, there was the (formal, finally) introduction to those who composed the LitCritters of Manila: Dean Francis Alfar, Nikki Alfar, Vincent Simbulan, Alex Osias, Kate Aton-Osias, Andrew Drilon (who left earlier and absent in the picture above) and Charles Tan. Ian was our moderator back in college for the Dumaguete chapter of this reading-writing group, so, to put two and two together, it became SOP that night that the two groups ought to have one magisterial photo.

It was a beautiful gathering. And I think it was no accident.

the places we have visited

2011-07-02T12:01:00.007+08:00

I had this project in mind for a long time, and it only came into fruition early last year. Its entirety is not done yet, the process is slow, but I am working on it hard. Very hard. It’s just about rendering the places I have visited into verses. These places are in the Philippines, yes, since I guess I have to “celebrate” them as a way of giving back after providing me the means to “produce” something. The Great Wall of China, Niagara Falls, Eiffel Tower, or the Grand Canyon would have to wait.

I know all this is particularly not a novel idea, even old, but it is worthy of my attention, keeping the practice alive. Thus, I am glad to see this practice find its purpose in the pages of Philippines Graphic. My poems “The Trail to Nagsasa Cove, Zambales” and “The Church Floor in Siquijor” are published in this magazine’s July 4 issue. (And there was “Stones” in the June 13 issue with its origin going back to the cities of La Libertad and Tagbilaran).

Though I’ve sent them to the magazine a month ago, of which by this moment they look and feel a little bit different now because of revision (and more revision), happiness washes over me, like I have written them for the very first time.

2011 philippines free press literary awards finalists

2011-06-30T07:24:00.014+08:00

Philippines Free Press literary editor Joel Toledo has released this year’s finalists of the magazine’s annual literary awards. It’s no surprise, the people comprising this list. They’re good. To Margie, Nette, Eliza, and my dear teacher, Ma’am Myrna, here's a shower of confetti for you. What an interesting way to commemorate this blog’s 500th post.

FICTION

Erscheinung, Michelangelo Samson
After The Body Displaces Water, Daryll Jane Delgado
When You See A Dog, Jenette Vizcocho
Numb, Jenette Vizcocho
Recuerdos de Patay, Caroline Hau
Sweet, Marguerite de Leon
Spawn, Popi Laudico
Desert Winds, Jean Gerald Anuddin
A Study of Insects, Irene Carolina Sarmiento
Works Cited, U. Eliserio
Fade to Red, Twink Macaraig

POETRY

Variations on the Expulsion from Eden, Eliza Victoria
The Painted Prince, Frank Penones Jr.
Duwende, Myrna Peña-Reyes
Love is How We Come Undone, Amado Bajarias
How to Kill a Whale Shark, Timi Siytangco
Warrior’s Wife (After Li Po), Ino Habana
Weight Without Gravity, Andrea Teran
The Widow, Upon Learning That Her Old Lover Had
Returned to the Island of San Antonio, Merlie Alunan
Zeno’s Paradox, Luisa A. Igloria
Weight of the World, Michellan Sarile-Alagao

Notes from the editor:

The 2011 Philippines Free Press Literary Awards covers Fiction and Poetry that have appeared in the pages of the magazine from January to December 2010.

The Awards Night will be on July 12, 2011 (Tuesday), 6-10 p.m, at Club Cafe, Makati Sports Club. Formal invitations and detailed poster to follow soon.

Finalists are advised to notify me if there are any mistakes in the typing of your names, especially in regard to the possible prize money if you do win and the respective bank account conflict. Anyone who has contacts with some of the finalists that are not on the Facebook can email me via ramblingsoul@yahoo.com so I can notify them as well.

Finalists are advised to visit the magazine’s website and read the guidelines, policies, and notes for the annual Literary Awards posted in there carefully.

Congratulations to all the finalists and winners who will only be notified that they’ve won and be informed of their respective six judges (three per category) during the Awards Night.

Winners must be physically present during the awards night (all the finalists will be formally invited) to claim their prize money and their respective trophies, lest the monetary prize be forfeited (winners can claim the trophy anytime they want to at the Philippines Free Press office). This is as per the magazine’s policy.

return to the city of gentle people

2011-06-29T09:08:00.005+08:00

To those who would be going back to Dumaguete, like me who would be flying to that city in time for Silliman University’s 110th Founders Week festivities, you might need this calendar and this schedule. See you all soon.

terrains

2011-06-28T15:39:00.002+08:00

We know too well the lines on our palms
Fork into branches and crawl to the back
Of our hands
Our elbows
Our chests
Our necks.
And I wonder,
How long would a wrinkle take
To reach the soft crack on that lips?
In one nod?
In one word?
In one gesture of the hands
Pulling my arm, gravity
Losing purpose
Other than that face
Drawing close to mine?

Hear me—there is no expanse
That want would not cross,
Not even the verdict
Of cartography and the study
Of weather and heavenly bodies.

Ancient men lived by chartering
The phases of things:
The moon
The sun
The seas
The winds.
Yet I still wonder,
How long would it take
For that face to turn to mine?
In one rotation?
In one revolution?
In one undulating wave
Of glances, awkward
In their quiet relay
Of messages better tucked
In the pocket to be read at home?

Hear me—these men have survived
Even the most solid fists
Of their smiting gods,
Of their own two hands.
Let us mine the gold in our earths.

returns

2011-06-22T13:59:00.008+08:00

The longest lunar eclipse
since the last decade proves
we have not seen all things yet,
more so with our patient satellite
now waxing and dressing
the shade of too much
ripeness.

It prompts a flood of prophecies next,
and I fear not the stories
of vampiric newborn creatures
nor the peeling of skin in some hut,
but for that boy on a hill
towered by men, elbowing, eager
to witness the event before dawn.

There is so much around us
yet we could only grasp so little,
and I hear the child cry.
I guess this is the most basic sound
of misery, one that could find its way
to all ears. Except for this moment:
This moon is in pain. This is pain.

The crowd returns to their routines;
perhaps a hundred minute is enough
to bear such lurid beauty.
When the weeping closes to a hush,
I search for the boy
only to find a membrane of light
staining the field of bermuda.

[image lifted from this site]

stronger

2011-06-17T14:38:00.002+08:00

A few weeks ago, I visited my doctor. I handed her the results of my tests, and she studied them very closely. A few nods later, she finally said, “Your heart is strong.” In my head, “No, doc, it’s not.”

Chos.

altered for good

2011-06-13T13:22:00.007+08:00

[Update] Yes, look up, I’ve changed the header. Petty things are petty things but something has to be done about it. Now it looks good with the rest of the layout. And don’t argue with that, mirror!

After five years and six months, I changed the template of this blog. And this would be my 491th post, by the way. Amazing. It took that long for me to notice how an eyesore this site had become. There could be other reasons too. It must be due to Muse screaming in my playlist, or the rain that has been pouring since yesterday, or the change of dashboard look Tumblr has undergone, or the simple desire to see something new, even in the minutest things. The header remained though, perhaps serving as a retrospect of how this logorrhea began. [06/09/11]

stoner

2011-06-10T12:50:00.003+08:00

My poem, “Stones,” the lengthiest one I have written in that genre (for now), is in the 21st anniversary issue of Philippines Graphic (June 13 issue, vol. 22). The cover story’s on divorce law, by the way. Maybe that would be enough reason for you to pick up the magazine since its official site hasn’t been updated yet. Enjoy.

variations of a smile

2011-06-09T13:00:00.011+08:00

May 20 – Last Day, Gala Night

Friday, six in the morning. I woke up way before a single soul stirred in the apartment. Thursday night was something not to be missed, so a few of the golden ones stayed in the city. When all had their drinks until the early hours of dawn, I ushered all of the “overnighters” to my humble abode. It was SOP. They were momentarily my orphans.

That morning, I led them to Bethel Guest House to hitch on the war bus and get back to Valencia for the last workshop session, along with the students from the University of Iowa. I met Robin Hemley, the lead coordinator of the delegates, and he said the bus won’t be leaving until nine. Bullfrogs. The fellows had to return before the said hour. Since I could not think of any other way of hauling eight lethargic people to the mountains, I straightened myself up, approached Mr. Hemley, and asked if we could go ahead to the village, that the bus would be returning for them by nine-fifteen. He obliged with a smile.

Yes, being a feelerette has its plus points. If not for that, future workshops would probably bar me for imparting delinquency to the fellows.

*

Just when I was slowly sinking deep into my nap, the alarm rang. It was fifteen minutes before four o’clock. After a late lunch at KRI with Kirpal Singh, Alfred Yuson, Gemino Abad, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, and Ceres Abanil (of which, we were later joined in by Peachy Paderna and Misael Ondong), I thought of taking a short rest. It was short indeed.

I turned off the alarm, dressed up, and set off straight to Claire Isabel McGil Luce Auditorium for Gaudeamus, the workshop’s closing Gala Night. There was a whirlwind of distractions happening in the previous days that I was caught off-guard by the actuality of tonight’s gathering. This is the closing event. I didn’t exactly know what to feel. When I entered the auditorium, wherein almost everyone’s in there, I knew what I was feeling. I went hurriedly to my seat, greeting people I know along the way with a smile that seemed heavy than the usual.

*

Suddenly, the golden ones were gone. There were no long hugs, teary eyes, and sloppy farewell pronouncements. Something was keeping my attention that time after the dinner in the lobby when I noticed the fellows were all on the bus, ready to return to the village. I stopped and waved my arms from the distance hoping this conveyed everything I wanted to say. Stay, I thought, but then again, I supposed they should go. As how many wordsmiths wrought it, distance would keep our ties stronger. I waved once more, hollered my parting words, and capped it with a smile. That I guess was enough.

*

Blue Monkey Grill was perhaps the vacuum of all things good that night. We were drawn to the place like moths to a flame. (But there was no burning, thankfully). The Iowans were there, most of the panelists were there (yes, including Sawi), and the alumni were there—even those who didn’t turn up in the previous jamborees: Anthony Tan, Ed Cabagnot, Israfel Fagela, Francesca Kwe, Kris Lacaba, Nicolo Vitug, Aaron Jalalon, Carlo Flordeliza, Ida del Mundo, and many more.

It was fun to be in the company of both like and unlike minds, minds that at least had one thing in common, which was the desire to read and write. Except for the inevitable setbacks, we wondered when would be the next gathering of this scale, of this shared unpretentious connection, of this same familial atmosphere, and we continued wondering. All of a sudden, Peachy Paderna broke out crying because, even after a couple of years, it still pained her to witness the parting all over again. Of course, like any consoling brothers and sisters of the family, we gave her a hug. We will meet soon. There will always be next time. And then she smiled

from different ages and places

2011-06-06T15:24:00.014+08:00

May 19 – Finally, Converged

The previous day didn’t entirely end in a bad note, what with the catalog of lost things that continued growing almost every other day. As mentioned before, there was good news. Before I and the rest of the alumni hopped on the war bus to visit the Silliman Rose Lamb-Sobrepeña Writers Village in Valencia, to barge in the fellows’ second from the last workshop session, I purchased the May 21 issue of the Philippines Free Press and confirmed what had been previously relayed to me. My poem, “How to Write Another Story” was published in an issue that had literary works (by Alfred A. Yuson, Jose Wendell Capili, DM Reyes, Ricardo De Ungria, Nerisa del Carmen Guevara, and Christine Godinez-Ortega) dedicated to the celebration of the workshop’s anniversary.

It was a big deal, of course. It has been born especially for this event, and to actually see it during the homecoming activities is beyond words. I just blushed. To all alumni and the current fellows of the 50th Silliman University National Writers Workshop, this one’s for you.

*

How to Write Another Story

Remain calm,
the (word/world) ends only when
the (word/world) stops spinning.

Consider the whiteness as some sort
of cleansing: do not let the blank page
(t/d)aunt you.

Remember, in space, there is no void,
only a chance to burst in multiple
limitless directions.

There are other stories to tell.
Never depend on the full moon
—it could be the devil’s halo.

Just squint a little harder.
Look instead for things golden(ed),
like the dictionary in the attic.

Yes, a lot has been too easy these days:
the smiling, the laughing, the l(o/i)ving,
the homemade remedy for bee stings.

But easy is not always right.
Not even enough. To ignore complexity
is to question the generosity of the sky.

Take (ad)vantage of this (short)coming:
what we own is a glorified reflection
of what we do not have.

Case in point: apple on the table.
This fruit could be re(a)d
for another (r/s)eason.

*

Poetry hums in the very core of Dumaguete. It pulsates in all sights and structures, fragrant in the air as if uncapped bottles of perfume were wedged in every street corner of the city. Nighttime came and people congregated at Rizal Boulevard for dinner, conversations, and most certainly, poetry—care of this year’s workshop fellows.

What made the evening special aside from the presentations, Banda Manga, and Sharon Dadang-Rafols’s singing and chanting was the presence of the students from the University of Iowa. They went here for cultural immersion, visiting the country’s tourist spots, just in time to take part of the celebration.

Age, race, language—barriers of all kind collapsed. We probably made Blue Monkey Grill happier that night because once again we were there, now with the Iowans who mingled from one table of alumni to another until the early hours of next morning. The clinking of beer bottles was the night’s popular music. A couple of the writing fellows were present too, perhaps delighting in the remaining hours of the city’s charm. In just a day or two, they would be going back to their respective routines.

The moon in the sky was still nearing its full form, but the writing family in this small spot of the city was in some ways complete already, just continually growing, branching from different parts of the world. The lively chatter faded as the hours inched forward, but everyone knew this was something that would linger in the head for a while (and it wouldn’t be a hangover).

(seventh of eight parts)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 |

to the old kvetch

2011-06-02T15:41:00.006+08:00

Maybe the earth is too round for your liking, the raindrops too many to count with your fingers, the fruit trees too tall for your reach, but dear, listen to what I have to say: I could not disagree with your disbelief on why some things do not align with the planets of the cosmos that is your mind. Instead, I praise you for this incredulity, as to how rainwater slides from our bodies, feeling great about it, the only departure we could love. You see, ‘wondering too much’ is an awful marriage of words; there is no gauge, no measure for an article of wonder. You ought to know that curiosity did not kill the cat, rather, it brought itself a mouse for dinner. You might receive your mouse too but not now because Father (can I call you this?) we too are as bland as the earth have expected (…till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Remember?), too reliant with what we have, too short the heavens, had to promise the trees would drop their fruits if it’s time. Let things be just for this moment, let the great old world spin quietly. Quietly.

three lost things and counting

2011-06-01T14:39:00.016+08:00

May 18 – And Suddenly, They’re Gone

I mentioned in the very first part of this series that five things were lost during my summer break in Dumaguete, and for five parts already, I had only mentioned one. Well, on this day, the vanishing tripled. As how many variety shows put it: one time, big time.

On our way to Antulang Beach Resort in Siaton, the final workshop week’s escapade, I put on my other sunglasses that I thought would best suit the day, especially when yachting in Tambobo Bay. After all, it is one of the few places in the Negros provinces that are gifted with both sunrise and sunset. A few hours later, I was looking for the glasses’ slip case and found none. And that was lost item number two. Just like any other small things, this couldn’t upset me. Along with a fellow who was itching to get into the infinity pool, I jumped into the waters under the midday sun and allowed myself to be unbothered by anything.

Strange, one co-fellow didn’t bring any swimwear with him in an outing that involved a lot of water. It was supposed to be a vacation for everyone, so I lent him a pair of shorts—which was recently bought and worn only once—of which he handed it to another person for safekeeping. All was set. But even with the shorts in hand, I eventually knew he didn’t dip a single toe in the pool or the sea. And due to the hurricane of swimming here and snapping photos there, talking here and diving there, I forgot all about what I had just lent.

At the end of the day, when we separated ways—the fellows going back to the mountains of Valencia and us alumni going back to Dumaguete City—I realized the pair of shorts was not with me. No problem. Will get it in my next visit. But the next visit was futile. It was gone, absent in anyone’s backpacks. I shrugged. There was nothing I could do. My plans of jogging around the rubberized oval in the city sports arena were immediately scraped off the list. Lost item number three: check.

*

It seemed that my personal properties had formed a pact and rebelled against me for possessing them. So, I decided to drown myself with my favorite music on the bus routed for the city. Nothing could lift this misery out of the system better than Janelle Monáe and Gnarls Barkley. I pulled out the iPod from the bag, and it was just the iPod. I searched for its earphones in my bag, in my seat, on the floor, and couldn’t get a sight of a single white noodle around. Lost item number four: check.

That was it. The battle between me and my belongings was growing fiercer by the hour. I turned to my seatmate and future Ms. Universe Liza Baccay, who was my co-fellow in the 2008 workshop, and sighed. She could only share to me what I had recently shared to her back at the resort: Ayaw pag-strong kay mag-struggle ang face.

*

It was Wednesday, and that meant one thing: almost like a tradition, workshop fellows would flock at Hayahay for Reggae Night and meet Miguel “Mickey” Ybañez, another workshop alumnus. After the mandatory dinner at Neva’s with Mo Francisco, Keith Cortez, Phillip Kimpo, Ynna Abuan, Ceres Abanil and Peachy Paderna (Ms. Universe, Elena Paulma and Noelle Leslie dela Cruz, my co-katsubongs, were suddenly a no-show), off we went to the seaside resto. Joel Toledo and Douglas Candano, as expected, we’re already in the company of Mickey.

Alumni kept on trickling that night. Like how the 47th met the 48th met the 49th. Missing in the link, surprisingly of all the batches, was the 50th. And then I knew they hadn’t attended one Reggae Night in their three-week stay in Negros Oriental. Back flip here. Of course, it was not as crucial as, let’s say, reading the next day’s short stories and poems, but on this particular night they missed Ricci Guevara’s dancing to the rhythmic percussions of a band. Just saying.

The sense of reunion was finally settling in the city. Some things were lost and some people were introduced. And I received some good news. The day was not entirely awful.

(sixth of eight parts)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |

people know themselves better

2011-05-30T15:37:00.013+08:00

May 17 – Dinner with the Great Doyenne of Literature

Wi-Fi was suddenly alive in the mountains. What to do, what to do? I wondered. To make good use of it, I began updating my Twitter with accounts and teasers on what had been going on in the workshop’s discussion between fellows and panelists. Ian Rosales Casocot, who officially managed the SU NWW account, read one of my updates and sent me a message: “Can you live-tweet the workshop session?” I agreed. I received the account’s user name and password, and I was, instantly and (un)officially, part of this year’s workshop working committee. Yes, people, apparently a part of the world knew a thing or two about the anatomy of that male appendage a few days later.

*

The golden anniversary never ran out of dinners. This particular Tuesday, there was the Director’s Dinner. We got off the white war bus, the frequent transport of many workshop fellows now, and entered Silliman Hall, a slim figure of architecture that was constantly courted by the boulevard sea breeze.

New alumni arrived like Ed Cagagnot and DM Reyes among others, and right below the raised platform was one of the workshop founders herself, Mom Edith Lopez Tiempo, who sat on a chair that was said to be as historic as the event we were all celebrating.

After the presentations and by-the-year batch photo sessions, which was led by photographers Gregg Morales and Urich Calumpang, the highlight of the night followed with Mom’s words.

Transcribed into text by Alfred “Krip” Yuson based from a video recording by Nerisa del Carmen Guevarra, here’s an excerpt of her speech on the anniversary of the workshop:

“What else do you want me to tell you? You can ask of any writer and they will try to come up with the goods. Would I dare to say that writers indicate to everyone what it is to be openly human, would I dare to say that? Yes I do, yes I do.

Tell me of any other entity of society outside, of course, of the cultural centers… tell me who can say as much? Ask the writer any question you want answered. The writer is not all-wise, but he welcomes being asked something he cannot answer. He will like that because he tends to even more extend himself beyond the group of writers like himself.

What else can I say to you except that I am happy, happy to be with you as I have always been happy all these 50 years with writers, and I hope that each one of you will be happy to say that, ‘Oh, I was last night with a 92-year-old woman who claims she is a writer.’”

For fellows, and us alumni, who were there to witness such graciousness, it was not that difficult for gratitude towards Mom to surface as tears welling up in the eyes.

*

There was another line from Mom’s speech that struck me hard that night, if I heard it correctly: “People know themselves better because there are writers.” Though I still cannot completely substantiate myself as being one, Mom Edith was right. I felt indebted to the writers that I looked up to, then and now. In some ways, their words both cleared and sometimes muddled up my thinking. And that’s fine with me. At least I am thinking.

(fifth of eight parts)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

golden for days on end

2011-05-30T07:59:00.016+08:00

The fiftieth edition of the Silliman National Writers workshop may have ended two weeks ago but the barrage of photos in many people’s social-networking sites, sprouting numerous threads of banter and nostalgia, proves that it doesn’t close that easily. Memory lingers.

And adding to the spring-like recollections of the mother of all Philippine creative writing workshops’ anniversary, here are articles in today’s national broadsheets putting into ink once again how beautiful this writing family is.

Gaudeamus: Golden Writers
Alfred A. Yuson
The Philippines Star, 30 May 2011

A Golden Age of Writing
Ian Rosales Casocot
Philippine Daily Inquirer, 20 May 2011

last week for the fellows

2011-05-27T14:49:00.011+08:00

May 16 – Third Set of Sessions Begins

Alfred “Krip” Yuson and Gemino “Jimmy” Abad joined Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas and Cesar Ruiz “Sawi” Aquino in the third and final week of the workshop. Uneasiness was conspicuous in the air, not entirely due to the presence of the panelists with such pedigree, but also perhaps to the fact that it was Monday, just a few more bouts of literary criticism before the Gala Night.

*

The Alumni Homecoming for the fiftieth anniversary of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop officially started. I even felt in the way the acacia waved their branches. In the evening, there was this fellowship dinner in the CBA Gardens of the university to welcome the workshop alumni, and I finally got to put faces on the words I had read in books, in magazines, in newspapers, and even seen only on television. There was Joel Toledo, Douglas Candano, Peachy Paderna (whose real name I dare anyone to find out), Ceres Abanil, Gilbert Tan, and my batch mate Noelle Leslie dela Cruz, among others. Singaporean writer Kirpal Singh also arrived that night; he would be joining the week’s workshop panelists.

Being the second to “reappear” among the alumni for this gathering (poet Nerisa del Carmen Guevara arrived in Dumaguete a week or so earlier), I had expected a bigger number of returnees. But then again, this was only the first night of this week. I was sure the rest would come in droves in the next few days. After the mandatory group shots, I switched on my Groupee Mode, pulled the books I religiously toted around in my bag, and approached one author after the other for their signatures. Yes, this was one aspect of me being devoted to the craft.

*

And then it was twelve o’clock. It was Marius Monsanto’s birthday, a fellow of this year’s batch. He is a co-fellow of mine in another workshop, and though the numbers of his age have changed, the crazy fire is still in him, present and burning like the hot mess of his hair. He is crazy that way.

We specially waited for the moment to arrive right after the dinner in the city. And when it struck, there was no ringing of a bell from a distant tower, no long sirens, and no howling dogs, but there was a splash of cold water on his temples. We sang the birthday song. This was his baptism of fire, but since literal flames and the night’s round of alcohol seemed to be a bad idea, the resident jester Jepoy Javier doused him with a bottle of water instead. I thought it was an appropriate surprise gift. The mother of all Philippine writing workshops was born right beside the sea after all.

(fourth of eight parts)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |

but there's no cat in the village

2011-05-26T07:29:00.015+08:00

May 15 - Dogge and the Golden(ed) Workshop

I woke up earlier than the usual, and it felt odd. Odder still was that the last vivid memory I could muster of the previous night’s revelry was of someone running around in the open space, hands extended to her sides, carefree of anything that might pluck her into the corners of the dark. I smiled at the thought.

The sunlight that spilled in the village seemed golden at this moment. A reflection of the workshop’s gilded age? A dreg of last night’s last drink doing tricks to my eyes? A dream within a dream? I closed my eyes, opened them, and knew Sundays in some secret spots of some southern provinces still hold paradise. I became too accustomed to the beige and mirrors of the corporate world I almost forgot the color of grass, and the way its blades brush the heels of my feet. I ran to my room, took my camera, and photographed the quietness that surrounded me.

*

An event could differ from several perspectives. Some demand fireworks to capture and reflect the grandness of the celebration. Some pine for excessive indulgence. But on this Sunday, despite the sumptuous pasta dishes and salad prepared (and promised) by Tobey, Andy, and Tin, the family that gathered in one cottage for lunch served as one unforgettable occasion that needed no blaring trumpets.

*

Rarely have I been so affectionate to dogs. I loved a few in my younger days but not as much as how I preferred cats. Their high-minded demeanor and graceful sways draw me to them. After all, winning their trust makes the relationship of man and animal all the more precious. “This cat loves me!” is one kind of accomplishment so hard to expound, one that only a fellow feline-lover would understand. But the village was teeming with dogs, and I couldn’t just disregard how they ran and barked and bounced all over the place.

One in particular was this canine the fellows called Dogge. (Yes, what a creative way to name a dog, especially for writers who pronounce it "doog-geh"). The origin of his name was particularly dim in my memory, but what was clear was that, hands down, Dogge was the kindest dog I met. Those eyes justify what people always say about puppy eyes. Like someone who momentarily lost his sense of sanity, I spoke to myself while massaging his back, “He’s like a cat!”

Whether the young dog was insulted by my remark or not, Dogge stood still for a couple of minutes, and then laid his head on my knees. I was surprised by this almost non-animal act. I reached for him again and rubbed the brows of his eyes. He accepted it nicely. I guess I found a cat in a dog’s body.

(third of eight parts)

Part 1 | Part 2 |

writers, red stones, and the thirst

2011-05-25T12:50:00.025+08:00

May 14 - A Trip to Pulang Bato Falls and Other Trips

The second week passed yet the golden ones had only reached as far as Siquijor in their leg tour. Thus, the trip to the twin lakes in the town of Sibulan was planned the night before (among many other plans proposed by Ian Casocot). The lakes, especially Balinsasayao, were as memorable as the new sights of flora and fauna every time I visited them. But due to time constraints, Moses Atega, Negros Oriental’s Kuya and unprecedented accomplice, suggested Pulang Bato Falls in Valencia. In my four years of living in the Negros before, I loved the idea. I have never been to that place, like the rest of the writing fellows, and someone in the name of Taka, a Japanese who studied English in Silliman.

Without second thoughts, after an almost hour-long of packing our lunch in Kabayoan, we found ourselves uphill, momentarily engulfed in wispy white smoke that seeped out of a mountain wall’s crevices. “Sulfur,” Mo said, and then we covered our noses. As the easy-ride trudged forth on the bumpy road, Pulang Bato revealed itself, all true to its very name, down to the last pebble. The riverbed was red. A massacre happened here, I thought and came up with a sapling-of-a-line for a possible poem. Such sight and moment deserved to be immortalized. We immediately plunged into waters, perhaps to wash away the dread of what was to come in the next few days.

For a small city like Dumaguete, visitors from different provinces or countries would be surprised to discover it as a bustling focal point of activities every Saturday night. But the fellows had to read their last week’s manuscripts, so they opted to go up the mountains. I let them be, chaperoning some of them with their errands in the city before nightfall, until Tobey lured me to go up too with the promise of her own pasta dish for the following day’s dinner. I agreed and packed up my things. Yes, sometimes, I am too easy to get.

By the time we arrived in the Writers Village, I became one of the Champaca Boys for the night (and some future nights), with Lean, Miggy, and Glenn sinisterly dropping hints of a coming interrogation that would involve flashlights hovering above my head. Their idea of theatrics was cute.

*Just as I had expected, prejudice aside, the delegates from Mindanao (and interestingly two ladies from Luzon) would spearhead the workshop’s “Feed the World Program.” This is a series of rounds approaching one fellow after the other, asking for generous means to purchase rum, beer, and vodka in the nearest convenience store, with their bottles gleaming like eager orphans waiting to be nursed in the hands of the eager.

Since I was a guest in the village that was soon filled with the symphony of cicadas and other slow evening routines, I chipped in a couple of pesos. I had to do my part. By nine o’clock, both men and mammals circled in the open field, concoctions were made (there was one that particularly gave me a 24-hour long palpitation the next day), glasses were passed, chips flew in the air, laughter bounced on the invisible walls of the night, a bond was formed. We were thirsty no more.

(second of eight parts)

Part 1 |

five lost things in dumaguete (or the thousand-fold of things found)

2011-05-24T14:25:00.020+08:00

May 13 - Time and Time Again

Time was strangely moving fast. In the tricycle since I left the airport, I checked my Sandoz watch every two minutes or so, its crystal jeweled face somewhat mocking to my inability to pin down the speeding seconds. Philip Van Peel’s van had been waiting at Katipunan Hall together with the workshop’s second week panelists—Rowena Torrevillas, Myrna Peña-Reyes, Ricardo de Ungria—ready to start the critiquing session at the Writers Village in Valencia with this year’s writing fellows. I told Van Peel that maybe I could just hop in a public transportation, habal-habal or something, but he eventually obliged to my request of waiting for another extra five minutes.

Finally, I arrived at the gates of Silliman University along Hibbard Avenue, Van Peel waving at me from outside his van. I paid the tricycle driver a hundred and twenty pesos and checked the time on my watch. But the watch was gone. I left my luggage in the English Department office, and time slowed down as we went our way to the foothills of Mount Talinis. Later, I shared to my sister the unexpected loss of something I had inherited from my father, and all she got to say was that a pawnshop could give ten thousand bucks or more for that watch. I never expected that the first morning of my week-long Dumaguete break would be devastating.

*

We arrived at the Silliman Rose Lamb-Sobrepeña Writers Village an hour late. Part of me was to be blamed so I apologized when Ma’am Rowena introduced me to the fellows before the session started. I thought I heard Evangeline “Eva” Gubat, Marius Monsanto, Alyza Taguilaso, and Charmaine “Shane” Carreon laughed in the small crowd. These were people I met before. In the afternoon, I recognized all of them—Allen Samsuya, Elaine “Tobey” Tobias, Jeffrey “Jepoy” Javier, Rogelio “Roger” Garcia, Jr., Philline Donggay, Christine “Tine” Lao, Andrea “Andy” Macalino, Maria “Miel” Villaruel, Miguel “Miggy” Sulangi, Glenn Diaz, and Emmanual “Lean” Lava.

*

It was Friday and I thought the night in the city was a perfect sanctuary to heal scars brought from the numerous spur of critiques bombarded earlier. I invited the writing fellows to come down from the mountain but only a few managed. Only Allen, Tobey, Marius, Jepoy, Roger, Eva, and Shane braved the habal-habal ride down to the city. We had tempura at the boulevard, drinks at Blue Monkey, more drinks at Hayahay, closing drinks at Chiccos, and then the mandatory visit to Qyosko after the drinking sprees.

It was the first time I met some of these people yet I invited some fellows home, to rest overnight in the city, as if I have already met them in a classroom back in elementary, exchanging playing cards, drawing caricatures of our teachers, trying to spell eloquence correctly. Indeed, time is always tricky.

(first of eight parts)

excuses for the workshop

2011-05-11T10:44:00.010+08:00

This month, the Silliman University National Writers Workshop reaches its golden chapter. The oldest creative writing workshop in Asia, it has a colorful oft-told history it now closely resembles myth. But, indeed, it has built many gilded pillars that now support the pantheon of Philippine literature.

In its fiftieth year, the birthing process of these pillars continues. Fifteen writing fellows are presently housed in the Silliman Rose Lamb-Sobrepeña Writers Village in Valencia until May 20, to test the waters and see if their words—wrought in fiction, poetry, and nonfiction—either float or sink. But they are in good hands, with Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas, daughter of workshop founders Dr. Edilberto K. Tiempo and Dr. Edith L. Tiempo, as director-in-residence.

The setup is beautiful irony: writers come up near Mount Talinis, close to the skies and mystic fog, elated with the spirit of nature, to remain grounded with their respective techniques.

By the third week of May, the unavoidable arrives. The last critique would be shared. Whether insight is gained or not, it would be up to the individuals to either pursue literature, or venture on to other kinds of distractions. Like the fellows before them, they would be their own puppeteers of their destinies from then on.

For those who fall into the former pursuit, the discipline does not stop with a work finished, anthologized, or awarded. The rationale, at least for now, is divided in two.

First, the Writers Village may be closed in the following months after the workshop’s close, and then starts clocking in for the next summertime to welcome new and indifferent (in the beginning, at least) fellows who would soon become drinking buddies—but as fictionist Susan Lara says in her essay Dwelling in Possibilities, “the workshop never ends.”

Of course, the seed has just been sown in tilled earth. It still has to grow, mature, branch wide, and bear fruits. Writing is called a discipline after all, and an arduous one at that.

For someone who already willed to keep it a habit of leisurely exercise the moment Mom Edith autographed a book with the dedication: “How proud I am to have a writer who is Biblically approved,” it is all but necessary.

Writing is a perpetual act of practice.

It seems this is the reason why writing does not require a licensure exam, unlike accountancy or engineering or dentistry. Nothing is definite for what the craft demands. It is a constant struggle with letters, a coming of terms with one’s duende, a Möbius strip of starting in the beginning and ending at the beginning all over again.

Second, it is more than semantics, syntax, and sensibility. Like all art forms, it holds a greater scale of concern. When, thousands of years ago, cave paintings recorded significant accomplishments, wood carvings retained forgotten stories, and songs healed wounds and broken spirits, today’s literature also provides the same archival, informative, and curative purposes that every man needs. One just has to look for it in the right places.

To realize this, to make literary writing more visible and accessible, it is without question that the workshop is one of the many solutions to this aspiration. As a communal form of art, with more writers honed year after year, literature’s function becomes more potent. Practice, yes, but it does not have to be a lonely commitment. This particular field can have its interesting moments while working on it.

In no particular order, here are some proofs: the acceptance letter after having received none whatsoever in the previous year’s application, the breakdown upon the dissection of an autobiographical piece, the mandatory but genuine intent of a pat on the back, the exchanges of encouragement and disapproval on sundry things with Myrna Peña-Reyes and Lito Zulueta, the unforgettable remarks of Bobby Flores Villasis and the late Ernesto Superal Yee upon holding a literary folio dedicated to Mom Edith, the spontaneous delivery of direct quotations from classic poems care of César Ruìz Aquino and Miguel Ybañez, the drinking revelry with Angelo “Sarge” Lacuesta and Alfred “Krip” Yuson…

The encyclopedic pronouncements of DM Reyes and J. Neil Garcia, the recollection of Jose “Butch” Dalisay’s past workshop sessions and Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta’s own experience, the morning when Rosario Cruz Lucero innocently read three stories from three different authors as one epic narrative and critiqued it as organic and accomplished, the afternoon when Gémino Abad hugged an acacia tree near Katipunan Hall and shared that it relieved you of bad energy, the evening of enjoying a bottle of red wine in the perplexing footbridge along Hibbard Avenue, the other long night of videoke at the once-feared Country Gents…

The last minute rescue from near-drowning due to the attempt of swimming across Lake Balinsasayao, the indecisive jump off a cliff into the waters of Siquijor, the white war-bus, the top-load ride on a speeding jeepney, the midnight trips to Steds Silliman, the seemingly haunted Davao Cottage, the bestowment of the “Yaya of the Year” award/apron for a month-long stint of steering the writing fellows from one food hub to another, the first light of dawn that blossomed on the horizon at Escaño after culmination night, the farewell walk in Rizal Boulevard…

See, these are just fragments of the bigger picture, composed of anecdotes both trivial and edifying. In and out of the workshop, there’s this kind of bond you cannot ignore.

And this is what the workshop reminds those who continue to seek the pulse in the written language. That is why this author is coming back to the City of Gentle People this summer. He feels the need to be reacquainted with those dear to him, to talk about things other than urgent deliverables and the daily rush hour, and to wonder again on what the pen is capable of.

To put it more bluntly, he is glad the Workshop still exists for these excuses.

(lifted from MetroPost, 2011 May 8)

revised alumni homecoming schedule of the silliman university national writers workshop 50th anniversary

2011-05-09T11:06:00.004+08:00

MAY 16 (MONDAY)

Registration/Kapihan
SU Hall
8:00AM - 5:00PM

Campus and City Tour
Assembly place: Silliman Hall, Departure time: 2:30 p.m.
3:00PM - 5:00PM

Alumni Fellowship Dinner
CBA Gardens
7:00PM

MAY 17 (TUESDAY)

Alumni Meeting
Multi-Purpose Hall
9:00AM - 11:00AM

Director’s Dinner with Dr. Edith L. Tiempo
Silliman Hall
7:00PM

MAY 18 (WEDNESDAY)

Antulang Beach and Tambobo Bay Tour
Assembly place: CBA Building Lobby
Departure time: 8:30AM
8:30AM - 4:00PM

Technical Rehearsal for Participants of the Gala Night
Claire Isabel McGill Luce Auditorium
4:00PM

MAY 19 (THURSDAY)

Unveiling of Brass Plaque for the Silliman University Rose Lamb Sobrepeña Writers Village
Valencia, Negros Oriental
3:00PM
Assembly place: CBA Building Lobby
Departure time: 2:00PM

Starry, Starry Night Fellowship (Dinner/Sugbahay)
Rizal Boulevard (fronting Honeycomb)
7:00PM

MAY 20 (FRIDAY)

Gala Night/Closing Ceremonies
Claire Isabel McGill Luce Auditorium
4:00PM
(formal or semi-formal attire)

Farewell Dinner
Claire Isabel McGill Luce Lobby
7:00 p.m.

All alumni of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop are encouraged to register with the Workshop Secretariat for logistics reasons. The registration details are as follows: Registration fee per person is P1,700 if you pre-register, or P2,200 if you register upon arrival. (If you are arriving after May 16, please email the Secretariat to arrange for a readjustment of fees.) You can pre-register and deposit the amount to Silliman University at BPI Account 9215-803-225. Please fax bank receipt with heading: “Attention English Department” to (035) 225-4764. Deadline for pre-registration is on 10 May 2011. Registration is inclusive of a Homecoming Kit (with the ID, alumni schedule, and souvenir items); official dinners; Antulang Resort and Tambobo Bay trip; and transportation to official alumni activity venues. This, however, is exclusive of lodging. Registration is fixed and non-refundable. To notify the organizers that you are attending, or for comments and queries, please email us at nwworkshop_su@yahoo.com.

(lifted from Silliman University National Writers Workshop site)