goodbye, buster

This morning, I received news from home that Buster passed away. He would have turned six on August 6, 2020.

I was in Bohol over the weekend, and just a few hours before heading to the pier to return to Dumaguete, I noticed him lying in his bed, unwell. He was the shy type, but this time he was just suddenly too quiet, too still. Sat next to him and repeated his name, and he would slowly lift his head, answer me with a soft, feeble sound. Long, slow blinks and all. Offered him water, but he only lowered his head toward the bowl and never drank, as if still trying to be the obedient boy he always was. Then, very slowly, he walked away, turned his back to me, and faced the garden, as though telling me to not see him like that.

Before I left Bohol, I asked my sisters to take him to the vet. Arrived in Dumaguete last Tuesday night uneasy and heavy with worry. Kept asking for updates the following day. His vitals did not improve. Today, February 19, he is gone.

Now, who will I sing my Bebe Buster song to? When will I ever hear my mother say, “Bus-ter-teeeer!” with that unmistakable delight whenever you gently wandered into the room? Who will my sister look for as you playfully hid under the dining table? Where will we see those ice-blue galaxies in your eyes again?

Dear Buster, my last image of you is that afternoon before I left—your back turned, weak and in pain. But today, I choose to remember you differently: resting on a pile of leaves in the garden, your favorite, facing the early morning sun, just as I would always find you whenever I came home, with the light catching your fur, turning it the brightest of whites, glowing, as if our days were blessed by your presence.

Buster, we will miss you so much. 💟

[ more photos here ]

until next time

There are good news and there are bad news.

*

I am fiercely loyal to friends, the very few people I trust.

*

Last Thursday, November 14, while moving photos from my phone to a flash drive, I found a video from July 20, 2013. Edwin and Sancho had just moved to a new apartment, and they were trying to cheer me up with a small wooden artist figure. I remember that day. A Saturday in Manila, when I felt the world tightening around me. The usual culprits from college were silent. Edwin and Sancho, knowing what I was going through, pulled me out of my head and asked me to help them pack. These two, in their own way, saved me.

They were always more level-headed than I was. Always saying things will pass. And life happened, I returned to Bohol. On August 18, 2022, Edwin told me Sancho had passed away. 

Watching that old video again, I thought of messaging him, to catch up. Based on his social media, he’s into badminton, and he’s good at it. Before I could send my message, I rushed out of the house for a conference.

*

On November 16, as I was readying for my return to Dumaguete, a friend messaged: “Not sure if you heard about Edwin...” I immediately knew what it meant. One of my fears had arrived. He passed away the night before. The message I meant to send stayed as a draft, unsent. 

*

On November 19, we should be celebrating Sancho’s 40th birthday. 

*

Two of the few people I trusted most are gone. Two who steadied me whenever I faltered. Edwin pushed me to explore. Sancho, an artist through and through, urged me to write more so we could one day create a book together. For years he sent drawings and ideas, but I kept saying no, afraid to try new things. It took time to unlearn that fear, after numerous times of being rejected, lied to, maybe even gaslighted, by someone who I thought cared. 

*

This morning, November 17, after the flag ceremony, the museum announced my achievement for literary arts. I know, without Edwin and Sancho, none of this would have happened. I would still be that man filled with uncertainty.

There are bad news, always. But there are good news you can hold on to.

Aside from my family, friends, and my partner, I am especially sharing this win with you two. 

Thank you, Sancho.

Thank you, Edwin.

Rest in peace. And I’m sorry. I really am sorry.

birth month

The Two-Headed Calf
Laura Gilpin


Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.


*

I am drawn to this poem by Laura Gilpin again and again in the past few days and I still couldn’t prevent myself from being pierced by what it is trying to convey. This is one of the few poems that has the same effect on me as “Allowables” by Nikki Giovanni and “The Diameter of the Bomb” by Yehuda Amichai did when I first read them. It just leaves me like a massive wreck, my nose stuffy and my eyes puffy.


*

Perhaps the reason why I gravitate to this poem lately is that there is this one revelation last year, in 2018, that keep recurring to me in the present. It is the shock of finding out, as I was cleaning my contact list on Facebook, that a person—a person who is once close to me—now has a profile that is labeled “Legacy Contact.” The term meant a person has passed away.

The information came to me in 2018. The actual person left three years prior. The thought bothered me the past few days because, on the year of the person’s departure, I received a message from this person and I chose to ignore it. It was a one-worded message: “Fred.” It was like a call, it sounded like a concern, or an opening to a confession that needed attention, but I kept silent for reasons that were deemed appropriate during that time.

Today I wonder what would have been our conversations like if I had responded to the message. I will never know.


*

I didn’t give it much thought until recently, when I had been to several birthday gatherings of friends and family in just two weeks, that I realized this month, March, is my birth month. Yes, I am turning a year older in a couple of days. How fleeting time is, right? How short-lived the days could get when you fill them with distractions in an effort to finally say you accomplish something right in your life.

So this begs the question: Is this all there is to it?

Will there be another time in this repetitive existence when we (both) look up into our respective skies and see there are twice as many stars, as usual, and feel everything is all right? Still all right? One could only hope so.

flower vendors

Mauro Malang, born on January 20, 1928, died yesterday, June 10, 2017. It is hard to believe. I remember back in Grade 3 or 4, how I first saw his works in the arts section of a newspaper one evening, how I was floored by them all, like something in me clicked, like something just fell into the right place. There was one artwork that stuck in my head, and today I searched for it online. It is that painting above.

As a child, I enjoyed copying works that simply attracted my short attention span (Hallmark cards, cartoons, encyclopedia illustrations, even drawings by my older siblings), but the moment I saw Malang’s paintings, or at least a photographic rendering of them, I think I said to myself, “This is different.”

There was this cockiness in his lines, this wild assuredness in this brushstrokes, this mixture of humility and simmering strength in the simplicity of his subjects’ faces. From here on, I believe his artistry is what guided my methods in visualizing idea and memory, and are, along the way, further enriched upon encountering the works of Pablo Picasso, Vicente Manansala, Jose Joya, Ang Kiukok, and several other is the abstractionist vein.

Finally, I saw a couple of Malang’s works in person, in the National Museum in Ermita, Manila several years ago, and I remember being massively emotional. Today, writing this, it happened again, but this time for an entirely different reason. .

questions to ask

Last Sunday at church, during the evening worship service, I was a bit disappointed with the pastor’s sermon that I felt my heart drop into the pits of my stomach. The pastor kept referencing to Rodrigo Duterte’s methods, especially his so-called War on Drugs, as a way to achieve peace. There are many brilliant ways and references to discuss peace, and I think he should have thought of a better analogy. As I was listening to him, I wanted to grab him and tell him, “Pastor, that’s why it’s called a war! It has never been peaceful! It always results to unnecessary pain and bloodshed!”

Of course I couldn’t do that. So I remained on my seat and dismissed the thought of not sitting through the entirety of the sermon. But then there was his slight condemnation of celebrity Agot Isidro for her famous remark on the President’s insistence to end foreign aid to the Philippines. Isidro said on her social media account, “Ayaw naming magutom. Mag-isa ka nalang… You are not a bipolar. You are a psychopath.” The pastor went on criticizing her for that because, he said, she doesn’t think carefully about the implications and severity of her words. That Agot Isidro is downright insensitive. Excuse me, pastor, but have you actually heard any of the words that came out of our President’s mouth recently and in the past? Remember that rape remark, pastor? Pu**** i** diba, pastor? Bang diba?

This pastor then added that the Philippines really do not need any help from the U.S. or any foreign nation because we have our own rich resources, and that we should show to the world how we can sustain on our own. That’s another problematic statement for another post. I couldn’t believe I was hearing this inside a church. I wanted to ask him again, “Pastor, have you heard that Duterte is actually rubbing elbows China and Russia, two examples of a foreign nation?”

I thought this was the end of it, but he continued rallying for peace, that it could only be achieved by measures as drastic and sinister as Duterte’s. It was as if he suggested that drugs are indeed the sole root of all evil in this country. But what about mis-education, what about poverty, what about the rising lies, hate, pride, and intolerance advocated by our current president, the very anti-thesis to peace? It all left me thinking: did this pastor just support the idea of extra-judicial killings? Did he just imply that those thousands of deaths are okay and justifiable?

There was a lot of contradiction in his sermon’s message that I was left confused, my head spinning in all directions. It was like witnessing firsthand a brainwashing propaganda. I know each of us in that congregation has a personal political inclination, but I personally believe this pastor should’ve kept this inclination outside the church. Because the church should teach compassion, not confusion. The church should encourage love, not hate. This pastor must have forgotten about the separation between the state and the church.

I shared this sentiment online, and as expected, a Duterte rabid supporter entered the picture to argue with me, and I quote: “Bring out the thought police! Bawal ang personal opinion ng pastors! We should jail this pastor and anyone else for that matter! In fact, I find your speaking out about your intolerance for his intolerance intolerable. You should be jailed. In fact I find my speaking out about my intolerance for your intolerance for his intolerance quite intolerable. I too should be jailed.”

Pretty long, right? I would’ve laughed so hard on this rabid Duterte supporter’s comment if it was funny and witty, but unfortunately, it was not. It was flat and all noise. Just look at those exclamation points. Like many of his kind, this Duterte supporter once again missed the point. So I told him that he missed my point, and that there is no need to bring out the thought police. Why? Because we are already imprisoned by the thought that these rising number of deaths are okay.

This is not the first time I am accused of being intolerable, but for cases and causes such as this, yes, I will gladly remain intolerable. But truly, I am saddened. Because when a religious denomination suddenly sides a political ideal, whether it is Catholic or not, I think that church limits itself to only seeing things in black and white. No grey areas. And when a church somehow implies that killing is necessary to achieve peace, I think this church is not peaceful at its core.

After the service, as I left the church that evening, I felt something heavy inside me that was painful as heartbreak. For the first time in a long while, I felt betrayed by someone, something so important to me.

notes on a cardboard

Each day is a struggle. Which is why it worries me most that some people could say it’s a matter of choice to let things affect you. How selfish, how supremely naïve. We are humans, and we are gifted with empathy and understanding. Not being affected by what is happening to this country is almost like not living at all. This “cardboard justice” spreading like wildfire each day is just the beginning. When an accusation written on cardboards like “Addict at drug pusher ako. Wag tularan” gets stale and runs out of novelty, prepare yourselves for more of its variations… 

“Mayaman ako at magnanakaw. Wag tularan.”
“Babae ako at palaban. Wag tularan.”
“Aktibista ako at maingay. Wag tularan.”
“Bakla ako. Nakakahawa. Wag tularan.”
“Mahirap ako at walang makain. Wag tularan.”

It seems it is so easy to kill and get killed these days. No one is safe now. It is happening. And everyone has allowed this to happen. Blood is on our hands. And only time will tell you and I could be next.

always

What is happening to the world? First, it was David Bowie. And now, Alan. Many people would think it is strange, and perhaps downright silly and melodramatic, to be moved and shattered by someone’s death, by a loss of someone you are not personally acquainted with. Alan Rickman, among the many brilliant and indelible roles he had played on screen and on stage, will always be Professor Snape to me. Rickman’s characterization captured Snape’s soul in the Harry Potter books, it was a soul that reflects many ordinary people’s: pained, complex, human. I may not know this person well, but through him I know myself well. Farewell, Professor. I raise my wand for you.

with the wild things now

The news of the death of children’s writer and illustrator Maurice Sendak rings all over the internet like fire bell last night. And that news still pains me this morning, deeply. The image above has been my computer’s wallpaper for almost two years, a screenshot taken from Spike Jonze’s movie adaptation of Sendak’s children’s book Where the Wild Things Are (the movie, bearing the same title, is the most heart-wrenching film I’ve seen in 2009). It shows Max, the child protagonist, and a Wild Thing, cleverly named as Carol, leisurely walking in a vast desert.

I was never quite sure why I stuck to this picture for a long time until I re-read the book last night. I think I get it. I think it tells me that there’s a lifelong link between us, young ones and old ones, and a Wild Thing, that no matter how far we go, a Wild Thing will be forever with us, in us, bursting with outsized life, animated, daring, maybe even terrifying, and that we need a little bit of nightmares to get through the petty hardships, the requisite trials in life, the vast desert, to “let the wild rumpus start!” when a situation calls for it.

For that thought alone, I feel better. Even if Sendak has gone, his Wild Things are still with me,  along with the rest of the Max’s in the world. And wherever he is going, I am sure that somewhere he will find his supper waiting for him “still warm.” 

insert ignorance here

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.

and he left

Steve Jobs
(24 February 1955 - 5 October 2011)

founders friend

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.

tears dry on their own

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 ]

unsafe

Last month, several members of APO were also tagged in the death of University of Makati student EJ Karl Intia, reportedly a neophyte who succumbed to severe body injuries during the fraternity’s hazing rites in Makati City.

Five APO members were arrested for Intia’s death, but they were later freed after the city prosecutor decided to drop the charges against them.

Interestingly, Makati City police chief Senior Superintendent Froilan Bonifacio is a member of APO. (Philippine Daily Inquirer, October 2010).

*

It is clear what brotherhood means to these people. It is unmistakable, with their hunger for attention and their well-greased machinery to bend and twist the rules that are laid in front of them, they do what they want to do for the sake of a mysterious union that is culled from pain. It is their baptism of fire after all.

After the bar exam explosion and the news above, what’s next?

a writer has passed

The Hall of Justice was a cold place, its air steeped in severity. But when I entered his office and met him, the atmosphere shifted. Atty. Ernesto Superal Yee, born on 29 October 1953 in Tanjay, Negros Oriental, was not only gentle but quietly guiding. I still remember the first words he said to me: “Are you happy?” Like anyone meeting an important person they had long known of but never met, I shrugged and replied, “I think so.” 

He could be sharp with his words, though always restrained. As a lawyer who served as Clerk of Court V at the Regional Trial Court, Branch 32 of Dumaguete City, such firmness must have been necessary at times. I witnessed this side of him during the National Writers Workshops. Ernie, as many fellows and colleagues called him, was among those who questioned the point of my poem “The Other Ending,” written for a campus competition the year before. He was also one of those who questioned changes in the workshop itself, such as the two-week schedule instead of the usual three. During my time as a fiction fellow, he lambasted my work and magnified its weaknesses. Yet on the night that followed (culmination night!) he was also the one who offered a flat of Tanduay to every fellow seated along the long table at Hayahay Resto. Ernie was cool. That air of superiority must be his veiled way of reminding us to set our egos aside. 

A few weeks ago, during a short break in a session of the 48th workshop batch, I gave him a copy of Dark Blue Southern Seas, the literary folio of The Weekly Sillimanian, where two of his works were published. I wrote in the dedication, “Thanks for swimming with us in this sea.” He replied, “I hope we could do this literally—but I am old!” He laughed like a child. His infectious mirth dispelled the seriousness lingering in the antiquated room of Katipunan Hall after the previous discussion. His dear “sister,” Susan Lara, and I laughed along. Returning to my seat, I thought how glad I was to have worked with him. 

The good moments kept coming. Ned Parfan, a former writing fellow, later told me that on our way to Montemar to visit Mom Edith Tiempo and attend her lecture, Ernie shared that his new poetry collection was already with publishers and might come out that year. It was exciting news. Though arthritic fingers had stopped him from making music on the piano, he continued to write prose and poetry. There are sentences and verses more melodious than any sound drawn from strings, because they come straight from the mind and heart.

Then, as time so often proves unpredictable, a distinct note faded. On the afternoon of May 23, I received news that Ernie had died of a heart attack that morning, in his bed. I was in shock, suspended in something almost surreal. Just hours earlier, I had been reciting his poem aloud to people who cared deeply for musicality in words for a public reading. This was not new for his work. His poem “A Prayer for Yuan” remains a favorite of mine, one that resonates deeply with my own heartbeat. I share here its final stanza:

Lord bless this one with a heart

Burning with compassion and sympathy,

Accepting as to why some trees, like his uncle,

Choose to bear flowers instead of fruits.

Sir Ernie Yee, the flowers you bore on this land went beyond any superlative of beauty. A poet’s spark may have gone suddenly, but in its living brilliance, it allowed others to light their own candles. Thank you for all the help.

students going overboard

Yesterday, I wrote a post that was just the tip of the iceberg matter on how students are losing their interest in education. But when I stumbled upon Sir Ian’s blog post entitled Death Threats for Good Grades, I discovered that it was not only the interest that they were losing but their sanity, too.

To mash up Sir Ian’s concern into one short summary, students are now capable of giving death threats to their teachers in order to pass a certain subject. Also, just recently, a friend of mine from UP Diliman even told me that there’s this specific teacher whose office building is terrorized by bomb threats and the like. Gone now are the traditional backstabbing, the usual labeling that the teacher is but a hellish one, the puncturing of the car tires. This time, they can go further by giving teachers a P3,000 prize money on their heads. And what more, the said “pricing” was formulated by the students’ parents so as to end the cycle of getting their children schooled-dropped-schooled. They are using poverty as an excuse to mask incompetence.

The news slapped me so hard in the face. Could students really stoop this low? This shallow that studying is the most tasking thing to do in the world? This desperate that one’s life merely equals a cheap DVD player at the tiangge? If so, then the nation is indeed in a state of turmoil. Imagine, compromise is out of people’s vocabulary and hardwork is considered exaggeratedly true to its word!

As a Sillimanian who is talking about fellow Sillimanians gone overboard, this pains me so much knowing that our institution still has teachers who are excellent in their careers, who still succumb to the demands of having a thankless job. The department Sir Ian mentioned in his post is also my department that’s why this whole no non-sense word spill alarmed me.

As what I have commented in the said post, if these students want to pass college that easy, they should find an institution that equals a day-cay center! And the nerve—these students still have the guts to complain why they are repeatedly getting F’s (Fail) when they, to quote a line from Ian’s post, “submit a paper clearly copy-pasted from the Internet (including hyperlinks printed in blue)….” My jumping bullfrogs!

I know this is not only a case that’s brooding in Dumaguete City but a national one, or maybe, even worldwide. What I am only hoping for is that everyone’s hearing this silent noise, this usually disregarded fact that from desperation springs mentality going out of proportion. Times have changed and all that has been circulating could possibly happen. Something must be done.

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yawa

Everyone has his or her favorite mistake; going back to a particular sin in all its apparent wrongness as if it’s a routine. If one continues to lavish on things that tend to lean on the immoral, then he or she must be a devil, a yawa. For a person who lustfully craves the ungodliness and wickedness of human life is a person of below humane character. No one likes a yawa. Then here comes a question: Why should someone, of no specific attribution to, refers this to another person—especially to a person who he or she thinks has both the advantage and disadvantage of being fragile and weak? There are a lot of remarks to choose from in this multi-lingual, multi-thinking nation: leche, peste, buang, or perhaps a somewhat queer and androgynous tralala may do. But why, of all the alternatives, choose this “Yawa ka” which is so mortifying and atrocious?

Yawa may just be a simple four-letter word but it can effortlessly pierce anyone even the toughest of all calloused. If you’ve got the drift on what yawa is, it’s basically a Visayan terminology for “devil” or “demon,” an entity said to be the tempter of mankind, a character so dark yet mundane it is usually kept off from the minds of the young, the hearts of the old. And this is what makes me totally confused: if this someone is indeed a yawa, then this yawa should fly off from this torturous and hurting field and stop thinking, caring, loving, and understanding anyone at random because these are not the proper congenital practices of a sneering, insensitive yawa.

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death of a beloved

Great is the time of conception of things that would supposedly linger around your presence a little longer, but sad is the time too, in its bleakest point, once the realization of absence came upon you so abruptly you hardly even notice what went wrong.

The trouble with losing things, things that fall apart, and some things that tend to go away is that you are left in a solemn, depressing state of solitude. It is entirely melancholic wherein the previous day you were with him and everything was perfectly well and then on the following day, all energy and vibrancy of him are gone in a minute. Only you can feel this certain seclusion; external undertakings that seem to fill each hour of the day do not affect you the very least no matter how engaging they may be to other people. You may try moving on with the flow of events that may take place but the blot of loss is like an indelible mark that’s tinged upon your whole being eternally. The act of forgetting the whole grim affair is like a thousand miles away from human existence, or most probably, it is cleared off from everyone’s mind.

It was said on that one fateful day of revelation that there was a chance of bringing him alive but, unfortunately, I may not see within him the same way I’ve witnessed from him the very beginning so I dejected the idea and left. What use of having him with me like an automaton?

A renewal may be the perfect description. But I don’t need anything new. What I need are the now-lost memories of both wistful thoughts and calloused happiness. Basically, it is just so sad. That’s all. But I’ve learned it’s not all, really. The continuous swinging of the pendulum may help remedy this acerbic response of demise and hopefully this familiar denial will go away as soon as possible. Well, it is always like this in life—you just have to hope until hope only resembles a cigarette stick.

And yes, it is confirmed. Just last December 16, he was diagnosed as dead. Useless. All files lost. Bullfrog, a 512MB flash drive, was bought last October 2006 and abated, all of a sudden, in an internet café last December 15.
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hallowed

It was in the quiet day of November the 1st when the truth

about my great-great-grands-and-so-on was finally planted in my mind indelibly.
Unlike the previous years when I visited them partially knowing their history
and left the newfound familiarity in the corner of my head after the solemn "dalaw,"
on that morning there were some questions that finally deemed to be forgotten.

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