in the news

So here’s a pre-holiday surprise gift from The Weekly Sillimanian. I honestly thought the article would come out next year.

Those are big words in that headline. But all I want (for Christmas) is to carry everything I’ve learned as a practicing writer and as a volunteer for Bohol Climate Walkers, Plastic Free Bohol, Kaliwat ni Karyapa, Bohol Arts and Cultural Heritage Council, and Center for Culture and Arts Development - Bohol into my work as a museum researcher in Dumaguete City. That includes, especially, the hope of cultivating more writing in Binisaya from my two hometowns. Considering that the paper’s writers interviewed me on two separate occasions for almost four hours, it’s understandable that some things may have been lost in translation, or that not everything could fit into a single news article.

Still, I am deeply grateful. As I shared with them, everything I do is ultimately for the public. Projects should never be born out of a personality, but out of the needs of a particular community. Happy holidays, friends and family!

[ full article can be read here ]

conversations

So the former interviewer got interviewed. Yesterday and today, writers from The Weekly Sillimanian and The Silliman Magazine visited the National Museum of the Philippines to speak with me for a feature they’re preparing. Two long sessions. Party because we covered a lot, partly because I definitely went off-tangent more than once. 

We talked about personal projects, literary work in my home province of Bohol, nuances across Binisaya languages. We even tried to define what “literary culture and heritage” means in Negros Island and how institutions like the museum can help sustain it. Plus many small, unexpected detours in between.

It was fun. I remembered being in their place, writing features for The Weekly Sillimanian in 2006-2007, and then serving as features editor in my last two years of college.

When asked what my recognitions mean—whether the Poet of the Year titles from the Nick Joaquin Literary Awards or the recent Pres. Carlos P. Garcia Award—I said they feel like bonuses. They push me to keep writing, yes, but they were never the point. I’ve been writing since I was five or six, stumbling and growing through the work, and these milestones arrived without my chasing them.

Maybe that’s why they’re gratifying. They all came as surprises. I’m already happy sending drafts of poems through text messages to friends and loved ones, the way I’ve done since 2006. I still believe this: when you love the things that work for you, and when you work for the things you love, everything else falls into place.

We then talked about Dumaguete’s UNESCO Creative City of Literature designation. In my heart and mind, Dumaguete has always been a City of Literature. Long before the title, the art thrived through brave, thoughtful souls who kept the words alive. My hope now is that this recognition widens the circle—welcoming more voices, making literature accessible, and helping people see how prose and poetry matter in everyday life, from the tiangge to government offices, from the streets to the academe. 

Thank you, Danielle Mari Bonior, Zarelle Villanzana, Carla Adeline Via. I hope I got the message across.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣

[ more photos here ]

the biggest circle of friends, a history

In the early days of college, somewhere in the middle of 2006’s second quarter, we seemed to gravitate to people who were a year ahead of us (some way older). It could be the humor beyond our age that they had, the no-nonsense quality they possessed, the campus tricks-of-the-trade they knew as if these were the back of their hands. So when time came they had to go, finally graduating (some after five, six or so years), we felt a massive chunk of our social lives chipping off. Even those in the university paper (where we spent/wasted a couple of our hours) who we thought would linger longer, if not forever, had packed up. Cue Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.”

And there we were, left to each other. Still in the university paper, juniors this time in 2008, it was our turn to let in new applicants for the recently vacated staff slots. We met odd, giddy, idealistic, gullible, and especially younger girls and boys. It seemed the world they lived in was leagues away from ours. They were fine, but something felt stilted. Out of gratuitous infantilism, the three of us then decided there were no better companions than ourselves.

There may only be three of us but our tandem was larger than life, indestructible, powerful. We stuck together like evil stepsisters. We were the Biggest Circle of Friends. BCF. (Yes, we were naive and self-absorbed that way. Bwa-ha-ha).

But in irony’s twisted hands, we co-wrote this feature article for the first issue of the paper that made us think back to our former selves. Odd, giddy, idealistic, gullible, and most especially younger. “The Five Enemies You Meet in College.” It was a guide of college archetypes for freshies to be wary of. Then it dawned on us we three could be Enemy #5. We were turning into people who we would loathe when we were wide-eyed, free birds a few years back. We simply laughed it off, all for satirical ha-ha, but we knew it struck a chord. Cue Beethoven’s “Allegro Con Brio.”

So we changed, in the purest deus ex machina kind of way. Everything was fine. We realized the newbies we met, especially those in the publication staff, night after postmortem night (the evening meeting we call for reviewing the just-released paper) were as neurotic as us. And in today’s parlance, it deserved a  “Like.”

The three of us kept the circle.  We were still the Biggest Circle of Friends, and today’s our fourth year anniversary. Why? Well, it was just the day we wrote the aforementioned article, with “Biggest Circle of Friends” turning up as the feature’s byline in hundreds of papers circulated all over the university (and perhaps all over Negros Oriental) four days later. We just deemed it was worth remembering.

These days, we don’t get to see each other as much as before, but to hell with drama. There’s Facebook and there’s Twitter. One’s now reviewing for her bar examination, one’s a manager of an events agency, and me, well, oh look, a kitten! Grab that cute, little kitten!

dark blue southern seas call for submissions

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.

it started this way

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.

this way to disaster

By F. Jordan Carnice

The Weekly Sillimanian

November 17, 2010

(In light of a university’s approval of allowing a particular college to remove literature classes from its curriculum this semester).

Let’s get this straight and allow me to ask this question: where does literature stand today? That’s easy. It is on the library shelves, on the teacher’s desk, in the bottom of a stack of textbooks, at the end of our priorities. Literature, or the arts in general, has always been shrugged off by Filipinos it is expected that no matter how hard it makes its presence felt the more it becomes obscure. There is a wealth of material but sadly this is countered with a dearth of interest.

Someone I know says that literature loses its magic when it is imposed. True, force feeding is even bad for cows, but pushing it at the sides as if the littlest bit of relevance is stripped off it is another story. I guess this is the very reason why literature is always deemed elitist, alien, a mad professor’s tool for torturing students.

We make it look like hell.

I respect the fact that everyone knows what suits for him or her, freedom of choice for the goodness of mankind, like not eating too much candy to prevent our teeth from having cavities. But literature is not candy. It is food (as history is to pochero and physical education is to sinigang). And we just cannot turn our backs and deny food. Why? Because of a lot of things, and in my humble ways of advocating its significance for days on end, I could sum them up in four reasons:

1) Knowledge. This does not only cover the kind of knowledge gained from surprise quizzes and field trips but also that distinct awakening or realization that transcends the borders of the academe when reading a novel or a poem. It is called insight. Through this we pick up life lessons that could be far more important than what we have learned in a classroom. We know it too well, knowledge is power, but what use is power if we don’t know what to do with it. Literature sheds light on “how”.

2) Communication. Whether it is in writing or in speech, literature grants anyone of any race of any age to communicate efficiently. That is why it is obvious to say that, aside from being a universal recorder, literature brings eloquence, and eloquence brings permanence. To stress its necessity in this age of tweeting and defriending, it is curious only a handful knows what eloquence is. For a third world country whose people behave like Uncle Sam’s spoiled nephews and nieces, that is one awful portrait.

3) Imagination. There is nothing more interesting, more powerful, richer, and even sexier than a fertile mind. With the right materials, literature makes for well-rounded individuals. Literature may not get us the perfect boyfriend or the biggest paycheck, but an uninspired ice-breaker or boring project proposal won’t do either. Confidence is not enough. Imagination is a precursor to creation and possibilities, and without it life would be as dull as a blank sheet of paper.

4) Lastly, there’s Balance. That is what literature and the rest of the humanities are for. The very essence of literature does not only lie on the archiving of humanity’s development (or all of the above) but also in the making of its needed equilibrium to attain life that is both reasonable and bearable.

Try getting into the mind of a potter. He has the tools, knows the kind of clay, the exact amount of water, and just the right heat of his oven, but there’s one important thing he must never forget: his guts or feeling in order to craft the perfect shape of a jar. That feeling is literature, springs from literature.

We need concrete judgment and liquid insight to internalize what is holistic. If one is removed from this mutual relationship, a day will signal the coming of disaster. Harmony would all be gone.

We are not feeling the coming of disaster yet, not even a tremble in the air, but if nothing virtuous is done about this, it won’t be surprising that we find ourselves in the pages of history soon.

Unless, of course, a book is still existent at that time.

a new umbrella, among other things

The Weekly SillimanianFounders Issue
August 26, 2010

The rain clouds swelled that afternoon. My umbrella had just been turned inside-out, thanks to a strong gust of wind on my way to lunch yesterday. What a drag. For the remaining working hours on the thirty-eighth floor, I studied and verified details of a company’s major event until a realization came up: I never knew one corporate year felt that long.

The epiphany struck a chord. It could only mean that for most of the past 365 days, I had sulked in a cubicle that begged me to sit in a chair for protracted periods of time—or maybe because I had not been able to be in Dumaguete, and of course, Silliman University.

One year may not be a big deal for some, but it is for me. After graduation, I had committed to visit the city at least once a year for both reasonable and unreasonable excuses: catch up with dear acquaintances, tie loose ends (or feign good manners to people once or forever scorned), walk in the safe familiarity of the streets, cleanse the lungs off concrete dust, immerse in vibrant arts and culture like returning to the university’s national writers workshop among many other things.

This time, none of those happened. Yes, opportunities to momentarily get away from work did sprout but they were mere dots in the bigger picture of sanity and practicality. In the end, I had to be back in the office at 8:00 a.m., Mondays to Fridays. “NO ID, NO ENTRANCE” is now the least of my concerns when I have to face the reality of “NO ATTENDANCE, NO PAY.”

Was not visiting Dumaguete something I had to helplessly resign myself to? When each day dragged like a heavy foot, I found my graduation vow broken due to the demands of pedestrian living: the morning traffic, the evening traffic, the unpredictable weather, the next sweldo, the balance dues, the thinning hair.

Whereas in the past all I had been thinking of were my professors, my grades, my extracurricular activities’ extracurricular activities, my confidante’s idle talks, my allowance for my perennially starving Ben. I was now channeling the mind of a browbeaten man who needed to see where his tax money went.

But just as it seemed that the dregs of my ideals had been terribly stirred, I discovered them slowly descending into the bottom, finding peace. There must be more to this life than complaints.

Thankfully, I was right.

If not for the twelve full moons that had drifted along with me whenever I trudged back home from work, I wouldn’t be longing for the city of gentle people that badly and I wouldn’t be thinking of going back. Even though the stronghold of memories would always arrest me in many unexpected times, it allowed me to complete a mosaic of laughter and sorrow that provided a sharp contrast of color to our office building’s solid grey.

The separation is necessary. One must detach from the city in order to relive what makes the place so fascinating, so recognizable yet fresh in every boulevard sunrise. Through this sacrifice, love and longing continue for the city. And when the time to return comes, one will learn that every second of waiting was worth it.

For if there is one thing I will hate for Dumaguete to appear in my eyes, it is jaded familiarity.

Now, it is August. I will soon walk the hallways, the stretch of grass of my college, and see students fresh from the school year’s first midterm exams all giddy for the Founders celebration, unmindful of some teachers still deciphering the relevance of a rock concert and beauty pageant completing the week-long event’s lineup of activities. That’s a fact.

Yes, I can say it will be a homecoming of some sorts for me especially that I know a lot of people who have also weighed and decided the gravity of a much needed break. I am not sure if they have filed for a vacation leave or went AWOL, as I can recall someone doing the latter before, unstoppable despite the most urgent delivery date or deadline, but I guess it was simply the right moment. Trivial as this may read to workaholics or family men and women, but this is among the principles that make up the Silliman Spirit. (I hope the alumni can remember that aside from it being a white and red hibiscus flower). All’s for a good cause.

The rain clouds would swell one afternoon this month. I know they would. I have seen it happen for four years almost becoming a habit. And by the thought of it alone, now that I will be back after a year of absence, I will need a new umbrella.

more powerful than ever

This comes a little late in the punctuality department but here it is anyway: yesterday was the second anniversary of BCF—born in Dumaguete City, now wreaking havoc across the nation. I will not give any further details behind the acronym, knowing the silly repercussions that may break the still waters of sanity by doing so, that is why I will end this note here with this overly misunderstood maxim: “Evil has a beautiful face.”

Sorry guys, it has been a long time since I go cryptic. Pardon the post.

the rainbow has no color

Just when I thought nothing could have been more primitive than the mindless Ampatuan murder in Maguindanao, I’ve read an article in The New York Times last Sunday on the proposal of the Anti-Homosexuality Bill of 2009 in Uganda.

In a country where it is considered that “the gay movement is an evil institution,” fully backed up by police officers, politicians and even teachers, it is appalling to know such collective understanding that is not only discriminating but atrocious.

Atrocious is a strong word but there’s nothing more apt than this if the proposed bill imposes death sentence on everyone who exhibits homosexual behavior.

This would obviously lead to homosexual Ugandans to go back to their agonizing closets but that is another story. What would be my concern here is the fact on how little the majority of Ugandans see now of human life.The United States government sets forth human rights, hoping to stir up some minds of the principles’ presence but, as mocking as the title that is linked to its name, minister of ethics and integrity James Nsaba Buturo have simply said in conviction: “Homosexuals can forget about human rights.”

Well, there goes reasoning.

The statement is starkly cruel, and this must explain the hate stoked in many families of Uganda, which subsequently leads to many beatings, blackmails, death threats and all forms of discrimination to Ugandan gays and lesbians. And purporting that the only goal of homosexuals is “to defeat the marriage-based society and replace it with a culture of sexual promiscuity” is not helpful.

This hatred has even lead to horrendous incidents. In the same article mentioned earlier, one gay rights activist said that “she was pinned down in a guava orchard and raped by a farmhand who wanted to cure her of her attraction to girls.” With this so-called correctional rape, she was only impregnated and infected with H.I.V. She approached her grandmother, perhaps for consolation, but she got this answer: “You are too stubborn.”

Injustice is not only the Ugandans’ concern. It is also in our country. Late last year, Commission on Elections (Comelec) has once again refused to register the party-list accreditation of Ang Ladlad—an organization of gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgenders led by college professor and writer Danton Remoto—for the coming elections. No issue could’ve ensued if the basis for rebuffing is deficiency of requirements or the likes, but the ruling is based on the list as follows:

“The ‘ANG LADLAD’ apparently
advocates sexual immorality as indicated in the Petition’s par. 6F: ‘Consensual
partnerships or relationships by gays and

“(2) serve no other purpose but to
satisfy the market for violence, lust or pornography; (3) offend any race or
religion; (4) tend to abet traffic in and use of prohibited drugs; and (5) are
contrary to law, public order, morals and good customs, established policies,
lawful orders, decrees and edicts;

“(3) Those who shall sell, give
away or exhibit films, prints, engravings, sculpture or literature which are
offensive to morals. (As amended by PD Nos. 960 and 969).”

It is not hard to imagine that the Comelec deems no importance to human rights too. Article 7 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) points that, “All are equal before the law and are entitled without any discrimination to equal protection of the law. All are entitled to equal protection against any discrimination in violation of this Declaration and against any incitement to such discrimination.”

Because of this, I can only gather that the Comelec shares the same brain cells with the seething Ugandans.

The news on Uganda and the Comelec has struck a wrong chord in me. After all the merrymaking during the yuletide season, I have only fathomed the fact that our lives in this very sad world is like a stubborn lint—you keep on pushing it off your sleeve but it is still there.

One day, I sent a message regarding the situation in Uganda to people I know would have a take on this. There’s one who responded in an instant, saying “These things are happening to keep the fight going.” I commend her for a half-full glass perception.

The trajectory of enlightenment is already at its peak, yes, but I have forgotten that like many trajectories it goes down, plummeting into the depths. Is this the happening we are facing right now? I could only hope it is not, thinking this could just be an airplane’s flight encountering an air pocket.

For now, I can only sense that nothing is certain. But in all likelihood, the rainbow would surely lose it colors soon if this blindness pervades.

a history of neglect

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

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

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

Inhuman, that’s the bottom line.

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

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

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

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

Her decisions are ill, if not plain inane.

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

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

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

bye better summer

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

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

Enjoying the company of your beloved silly Weekly Sillimanian staff.

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

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

Hitting white sand beaches of Panglao Island with your family.

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

Meeting some people you rarely see.

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

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

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

Basking under the stars and moonlight at Rizal Boulevard.

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

Mamia’s Restaurant…

Or its younger sibling, Café Mamias…

Qyosko…

Chowking when Qyosko becomes a habit…

Gabby’s Bistro…

Sans Rival Cakes and Pastries…

Dunkin Donuts for the late night brewed coffee fix…

Sta. Theresa…

Chicos with their fine wine and cheese…

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

Enting’s…

Royal Suites Inn and their unknown treasure, Sizzling Bulalo…

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

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

Extending the night until morning time at Hayahay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beating the summer heat at Lalimar Resort, La Libertad…

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

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

Riding on the infamous war bus of Silliman University.

Reading bits of poetry at Mariyah Art Gallery.

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

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

Feeling like a graduate all over again.

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

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

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

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

o o o

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