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.

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.

not so wise to be wise

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice

The Weekly Sillimanian

December 17, 2008

I remember my mother telling me one night not to turn on the Christmas lights I had put up in our garden. I obeyed. When asked why, she just explained that it keeps the carolers away. “So as not to attract them… we are in crisis,” she added in our bisaya language.

Whether it was a stupid joke or not, her words had a relatively beneficial underlying point. We can actually save up energy by doing so. I am not an environmentalist, really. Though I pick up what’s lying on the floor, I do not go the extra mile of cleaning the university grounds of rubbish whenever I pass by them. It’s not being silly—it’s just the right thing that I can do within my mentality’s thinking range. Ironically, I was attending a skill-share program in Boracay while writing this, trying to increase my knowledge on all things green by listening to Greenpeace advocates and fellow SolarGeneration groups from across the country.

The aforementioned training, aside from its focus on saving the planet, suddenly got me into thinking about my mother’s stipulation. It was dumb but clever. I know that energy efficiency was not her main intention but, theoretically considering other possibilities, it might be. She had just campaigned without even knowing. Campaigning for the environment is for a good cause but the question on how it should work and be applied to the general public is the next concern. As for me following my mother’s request of not turning the lights on is one example that her inner persuading ability is in good shape. Influence is the key.

Chris Rose, a British writer who is effectively campaigning strategies on environmental preservation said that “The simplest thing you can do to help [channel] your message is to be direct and straightforward. Forget being clever.” One good example is the movement towards combating climate change. It’s fast influencing a lot of people and I’m sure a portion of them is not involved in direct actions such as rallying in the streets, putting up banners at building walls, and shouting at public areas. Sometimes, these just bring more confusion or, to the last degree, chaos instead of order. At times, there’s definitely no need to be completely radical. And being subtle and silent doesn’t help either.

For instance, there’s Silliman. This coming Christmas break, the university has made a good decision of shutting down its power but what about the students leaving the halls, going back to their homes? Have they heard about this? I’m pretty sure many have disregarded the news and its tremendous benefit on electric power savings. Without the Green Issue of the Weekly Sillimanian last week, many wouldn’t even know that the administration is initiating this plan. I know Christmas is a time of merrymaking and not a lecture session with sweet-talking speakers but I just do pray that in upcoming undertakings, the “higher beings” would at least give us the hint they’re making a move. There’s no need to be totally intellectual or formal to be understood, and depend every time on people with a nose for publicity. All that’s needed is an operation strongly supported and known by a tiny part of the population. Word of mouth, as always, is a potent means of sustaining and, at the most, achieving a goal.

It’s obvious that campaigning in my mother’s yuletide gospel is way out of context. It just so happened that by doing so she sparked a realization that there is a need to, you know, change. Sounds familiar? Well, it has always been used and its degree of believability these days is doubtful but in my case there are so many happenings around us to believe in it. And that didn’t cost me the time of my life to recognize the call at all. It was that simple.

Fine. Now burn this writer at the stake for his sudden departure of the literary and the issues of homosexuality but it’s never too late to clear up one’s consciousness concerning our dear Earth. Dark and glum future Christmases, I guess, are not part of anyone’s December wish list. I may not be an environmentalist but I am concerned. This way, I could probably light up our Christmas lights earlier than usual next time.

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is adam for eve?

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice

The Weekly Sillimanian

November 26, 2008

Values and ethics are highly esteemed in the Filipino family setting. When a child is born the tradition of goodness and integrity is immediately instilled, nurtured with the ways of what is proper. If the child shows signs of difference, a light spanking on the bottom is enough. But let us get this straight to the point: gays, lesbians, and everyone in between have gotten more than just a spanking for their supposedly “abnormal” nature.

I totally find it dumb that in the eyes of many people nowadays homosexuality is immediately attached to AIDS, a notion that must have taken from European urban legends. Or rather, it’s subjugated to the idea of immorality, related to sin as if all the evils of the world are rolled up into one and resulted either to an Ellen Degeneres or an Arnel Ignacio. Gender roles are now tightly twisted that same sex marriage is seen as a condemnation to mankind. Since it’s copiously deemed as something new to Filipinos, the Bible and one’s conviction are immediately placed at the forefront. “Wala na sa bala-ud” or “Adam is only for Eve and not for Steve!” These are what some of the people with Styrofoam for a brain would say. But wait, aren’t there heavier matters that need more problem solving than cancelling out two people’s plan of marital bond because of their sexual orientation? Well, how about this, aren’t there more straight couples whose lives ended in the drain compared to queer relationships?

The world is going crazy. Even global warming, take note, has already been linked to the roles of women. In Rina Jimenez-David’s column in the Philippine Daily Inquirer written a month ago, it is stated that a forum for climate change mentioned that “the negotiation process tends to be driven by a masculine view of the problem and its solutions. Participation of women in the whole process… is very low…” I am not really sure if this is a good thing, but there are obviously too many demarcations created for a woman to do this and for a man to do that. Specifics are good but when pushed to the limit they can be absurd. It’s just like going to the nearest bookstore and asking a saleslady, “Can I buy a manly magazine here, the glossy one that has large pictures of scantily-clad women, has one free pack of condom usually found at the center page, and costs about a hundred pesos?” Maybe in the coming days, it would no longer be surprising to hear news that reveals being queer will lead to the end of the world. To repeat Jimenez-David’s words, “What does gender have to do with it?”

That’s that. What has homosexuality got to do with the world’s destruction? Is it a deadly disease for the terminally ill? Or is it toxic that a person must be burned at the stakes when they’re found guilty of lack of machismo or daintiness? The church says a lot of contradictory things. If the Bible be followed word for word, doesn’t it say that God loves everyone who accepts his Son? And in Proverbs 8:17, it mentioned “I love those who love me, and those who seek me find me.” So, are gays and lesbians incapable of such emotion and does their belonging to this particular stratum make him or her already a pagan? Heck, no. Pardon the lineup of interrogations but this is only one small step towards a more elaborate debate.

Religion, or one’s faulty grasp of it, has become a tool for sexism, a weapon to arouse phobia. To further underline this word, this is an irrational belief, a disorder that excessively desires to avoid a feared subject. The upshot here is that it’s purely unreasonable. In these dismal circumstances wherein errors have been intentionally blown up for selfish but idiotic reasons, wherein it subsequently brainwashed many people, it’s hard not to keep anyone from closing their eyes, stay blind and deaf from what is true because there’s plenty of badmouthing about the “issue” and only a little is done on clarification. And the media have their fair share of spreading the bad news, too. Most of the time, they sensationalize even the smallest things. Compare two kissing male celebrities for an upcoming art film to the recent natural disaster that has devastated a nearby province and it’s easy to point which has generated the more party poppers and attention.

As the world ages, its inhabitants are ironically getting more stubborn, keeping digression as a replacement for progression like it’s a paradox for sustaining life. I am not saying that by marrying the same sex we effectively catapult our country’s third world standing to the top. Sincerely, it’s just that a lot of people have already been hurt and shunned. And to be listened to and to be understood are the least things we could ask for. To end this, I’d like to add that Adam is not only for Eve. He’s for everyone.

our lampoon issue

The Weekly Sillimanian (tWS), now in its 105th year, is still on the run, still on its toes, and still grilled by both orthodox and heretics. On our last issue for this semester, we just have to give you the hiccups and sorry in advance for the semi-inside jokes. Yes, we’re having our lampoon issue.

Just last month, our news writer caught a regional student organization drinking liquor in their booth. It was during the Hibalag festivities, one of the university’s Founders events. I know it sounds preparatory and all, prohibiting such drinks to collegedom, but it’s a university policy. So, what better way of making a fool out of it is to, you know, play it on us. This time, they caught us.





Cloudy has already left us, lingering in the corporate world that seems so detached from what we could imagine. And who’s the right one to replace such feisty tWS staffer? Well, there’s this dancer who is still recovering from her post-emotional impasse. I guess it helps sharpen her tongue. Letter senders, just be ready.

And there’s more, actually. There’s Gussip Girl, the staple In Vino Veritas, Sports News (almost a grand slam for the Pink Unicorns), and Horrorscope, one book review by famous writer Ian Perming Gamug-ot (hehe...) and others. Just pardon us, we need to loosen up. This is our only time to get, umm, creative.

the vanishing pen

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice

The Weekly Sillimanian

August 28, 2008

Any form of crisis forces people to panic. Panic, in return, causes foundations to crumble. People, with the aid of whatever available noodle is in their heads, go forward in eradicating chaos and defeat, chiefly because of the dangers they carry along. Unfortunately, this assurance of assistance rarely happens in the circle of literary writing. Especially for a city where acacias sprout the juvenile words of poetry, where the boulevard sunrise pushes fictitious tales to materialize on paper, and the inevitable wave of midday heat commemorates the birth of a timeless memoir; it’s saddening to know that Dumaguete’s artistry has become limited instead of being boundless.

There has always been a magic in this city that, unlike any other place, makes inanimate objects specially coexists with humans—a relationship that has caused a thousand thoughts to spring up into text. That is why the place is beautiful. In Dumaguete, the pen seems to enthusiastically scrawl virgin letters on the blank pages of the notebook though at some point in time, it halts its progression for a while maybe because of the needed rest or the required period of persistent rethinking. Literature succeeds in time; but what importance and use is this resilience against the natural capacity of change if man halts the process of creation? Most definitely, there is none. If the pen is gone, creation also stops. And currently, the pen in the city does not only have its ink drying up but is slowly vanishing.

I know the current ripples in the literary world that involved Sillimanians this year—our very own Ian Rosales Casocot won 1st prize in the English short story category of the Palancas and even got himself in the longlist of Man Asia Literary Prize 2008, along with Sillimanian Lakambini Sitoy, for an unpublished novel. Even Butch Macansantos, a Silliman literary artist, has triumphed as a 1st placer for poetry in English in the Palancas too. And this month, we shall witness Marjorie Evasco receive her Outstanding Sillimanian Award for Creative Writing. It is indeed warming to acknowledge all these but there’s no denying they are among the few bearers of the pen. Or maybe, they are the only bearers of the pen who strive hard to retain the city’s title as the Creative Writing capital of the Philippines. Well, such effort is still of little value if the people behind them, who could follow them, or should look up to them, wallow in apathy the size of their bloated egos.

And then the questions: What about the young sector that comprises the majority of universities? Have they bound themselves to the clutches of hypocrisy to the extent that they believe carrying T-squares, PH bags, and heavily decorated multi-colored classroom illustrations guarantees them the brightest future of awe-inspiring income? Have they just lost it that they’d disregard the fact that art is also a significant fraction of a community’s rich cultural heritage and growth? Or maybe both?

These questions may not have mushroomed if the root of the problem had been removed from the soil, way before it grew up. The practice is almost gone if not for the efforts of some university publications that encourage students to write. Because Sands & Corals, the university’s official literary folio that was born in 1948, has been nowhere in sight for two years, the Weekly Sillimanian created Dark Blue Southern Seas (DBSS) last 2007. There has been a wide circulation of its call for submission of entries, inside and outside the campus, but to no avail. The number of works that we’ve received was disappointing. Yet, we pushed through because we should. Because, to quote a line in the foreword I’ve written for DBSS 2008, “persistence in plans is still better than stagnation in actions.”

It’s really unfortunate to be facing this seeming lack of interest where only a few are really concerned, particularly in this institution that holds the oldest Creative Writing workshop in Asia. That’s why anyone can say that the life of the letters in Dumaguete is in a state close to extinction. The young ones have lost the touch of the pen, have lost the idea that people write for the affirmation of existence, write for the biggest enlightenment extracted from the smallest of things. But even though I am here in the city as the sole Creative Writing major of Silliman, along with a handful of non-CW major who are bitten by the writing bug, I am buoyant of a sudden mentality shift, remain positive that in the “nearest someday” people will develop an appreciation for writing—especially the students.

Dumaguete does well up with the divine, the dwende, or the muse that causes creation of stories, so let’s put them to good use. For even in the midst of crisis, the pen must move on.

we weekly people

It felt weird that in the middle of a light and merry gathering almost everyone’s eyes stung with tears as salty as the breeze summoned by the waves of the nearby beaches. It was on the 2nd of August that most of us staffers of the Weekly Sillimanian gathered, wandered, and bothered the quiet night of Bacong. Everything was perfect—and “fine” is an understatement.

There was no other word which could best describe that event but this: Indispensable. Thoughts were shared, objections were heard, and apologies were accepted. For all the three years that I have been working for this university publication (first as a writer in 2006 then as a Features editor in 2007 and 2008), that night packed the most meaningful and most important lesson that I learned. What was it? Leave it just to me.

Who would have thought that among the senior members of the organization composed of a sophisticated brat, a quirky overgrown toddler, a multitasking distressed woman, a striving pseudo-poet, a news anchor archetype, a choleric cheer dancer, a would-be kickass lawyer, and a dogmatic female geek went so sound and pleasant with the freshies whose nature ranged from the nerdy, the stone-silent, the lesbo-labelled, to the radical? None. We were an excellent group, a faultless combination like every ingredient for a delectable chopsuey dish were prepared by a skilled chef’s hands. Budjai, Carlos, Florence, Gus, Mars, Leon, Lou, Paul, and Phillippe—their special peculiarities never fail to complete the whole picture of what cheerfulness should look like. (And by the way, Prof. Philip van Peel was the best). Though there were few stilted expositions that night, every single one was alright after wiping his and her eyes. As what the saying goes, “All’s well that ends well.”

In my humblest judgment, I think this is the best batch in the paper I’ve been so far. We are just working on our eighth issue for this school year and, obviously, we have a long way to go pa. But like anything enjoyable and adored, times runs on the double. It is depressing.

And to add some bitter facts I am currently in my fourth year of college, handling a position for the second time around, and in a few months the possibility of leaving these newfound colleagues will take place. The thought alone makes my hair stand on its end, like yesteryear’s ghost passes by my side. But right now, I am trying really hard thinking of happy thoughts, appreciating cheerful morning greetings and conversations that never seem to tire down because sooner or later, like a grandmother pondering on yellowing pictures in a Sunday afternoon, I’ll have a lot of time thinking of the saddest things.

deconstruction of the closet

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice

The Weekly Sillimanian

July 23, 2008

It is a kind of furniture present in almost all homes. Usually, its purpose is as dignified and protective as your grandmother’s jewelry box filled with different precious trinkets through the years. This keeps everything of value, keeps things hidden unbeknownst by many. Yes, this household object holds secrets both important and rubbish, both clean and dirty. This is called the closet.

With all its unabashed innocence as a common domestic piece of carpentry regardless of its size, the closet somehow parallels the characteristic of people whose number has grown in rapid succession. These people are living in the fine line between the dictations of what must be done and the personal conviction of what is wanted. They are in the middle of secrecy and openness. Thus, they are called “closet people” or “closeted.” The history of the metaphor is not mainly intended for a person’s sexuality in its first conception. It was already used to mean something unsuspected or covert as early as the 1600s.

In the middle of the 20th century, the jargon became a general reference to disclosed behavior, preference, or orientation which, of course, has homosexuality and bisexuality as the most common examples. I always assume that following (or most likely realizing) this path is never a choice—the epiphany of what one is most likely occurs and appears naturally. What is not natural, and therefore a choice, is the act of hiding.

This act of “hiding away from” is usually set towards the family and other areas of corporate life. Seldom can you find them concealing the truth from their friends because they are, more often than not, the only people they are comfortable with. But if the level of concealment is taken a notch higher, then it’s a different story. In this case, the dilemma is tougher than usual. Because staying in the closest already has its liabilities since once is departed from the familial bond where sincerity is nurtured, what more will separation from their dear beloved buddies be?

If the situation is allowed to continue this way, then these closet people must be cautious. In a time when questions are easily answered by persistent analysis aided by mere coincidences, these closets would crumble and fall in an instant. Just because behind those closed lids are all things private, the curiosity of some are aroused. And by this reason alone, unwanted things may happen: the closet may be ransacked and searched through. For all the closeted to know, there’s this breed who enjoys stripping off the intricate décor, the elaborate and skilled craftsmanship of a closet until all humanity can witness a whole new character completely detached from what is familiar. The revelation might be delectably jarring for the suspect and spiteful for the victim but this is the usual case—the hunter pursues the prey and the prey kills the hunter which remains a cycle that forever spins in our sociological setting.

In the process of deconstruction, in which the unattained truth is deemed vague making all discourses gratifyingly suspicious for the nosy, meaning is brought about in the light of complicating assumptions and emphasizing fallacies. This has only resulted more in negating than in accommodating which consequently makes more and more people to hide in the unreal comfort of their closets.

This is merely an expression of concern, not an objection of lifestyle. But no matter how people’s mentality progresses for the better, we cannot get away from how the majority constructs the idyllic setting, the supreme trait of “goodness” which, unfortunately, falls to be dubiously orthodox. Since time immemorial, our community has been built with principles that has conditioned almost everyone to stick like a magnet to a set norms, thus, it’s unavoidable for those who grew up to the opposite force to be considered deviant and their standard of living taboo.

The age of eradicating the stigma is happening and it is good. As for the case of the closeted, it could be the chance for them to come out of the musty scent of oldness, the whiff of naphthalene balls, and the dark confines of the tight antiquated aparador.

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the fascination of self *

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice
The Weekly Sillimanian
June 25, 2008

Last May, as if the Fates had been playing with my literary ambition of getting out of my post- emotional impasse, I became a fellow in the 47th Dumaguete Writers’ Workshop and 15th Iligan National Writing Workshop, for fiction and poetry respectively. Admissions to these gatherings, consisting of 15 carefully chosen aspirants from across the nation, are not determining indicators that one is excellent at the craft. I have always believed that everyone is a practicing writer, therefore, when it comes to workshops for budding writers, pride and ego are the least needed things.

Writing is just too guarded. In a publication, there are editors. In classrooms, there are professors. And supposedly, in the home, there are parents. A comma has to appear at the right place and a period has to feel like something has come to an end. Writing seems to be so sacred that with the influx of internet, when online writing or blogs started booming, every aspiring writer applauded. In this now-favored outlet, no one directs, no one hinders. For in cyberspace, there are no editors, no professors, and no parents. As blogs (which are usually known for narcissistic writings) prevail and become more popular, a lot of the discreetly self-proclaimed thinkers rise up and contradict their content due to its popularity.

There is no need to further elaborate what narcissistic writing is. Writing, in itself, is downright masturbatory, a lonely line of work wherein one has to enjoy it firsthand before everyone starts to love and appreciate the results. It’s kind of stupid to separate “self” from “writing.” Everything starts from the self. Blogs are diary or journal alternatives.

There’s too much pa-concern kuno in this time and age which makes for the pa-scholars to project television-quality concerns on high-brow issues of the world. Due to the dreariness of political, spiritual, and even metaphysical brouhaha, some (such as me) succumb to express write-ups in depressing tones, or perhaps an emotional pitch (which is then condensed into “emo,” as classified by the hypocrites). At least there are people who really feel, unlike those who have an emotional capacity of a paper clip. Thus the discussion about the smallest of things, may it be the dirt on a sleeve or a new music video, may provide the essential buffer to make life bearable.

Those who try to create a glossy impression still fail, even though they sugar-coat their statements with supposedly academic and mind-stimulating thoughts, because they’re just the ones who are trying to be someone else. This bunch of societal A-list wannabees is just overly-decorated with jaded eyeglasses, armed with a battery-powered mouth, clouded in an air of cerebral superiority that they’d just rant off direct quotations from the book of Immanuel Kant or Karl Marx for loss of things to discuss about someone’s personal opinion concerning Boy Abunda’s latest get-up.

If these people define what’s being sensible by conversing about the mysterious smile of McDonalds, the evolution of criticism, or the economic instability of our nation, well they’re better off at Fort Santiago’s dungeons with Beethoven’s deathly sonatas playing endlessly in the cold air. On the other hand, though their sixth degree synonym of an adjective—transforming “particular” to “circumstantial”—really impresses me for knowledge that exceeds a chimpanzee’s, I retain my composure and don’t mind. Clutter in cyberspace, eh? Besides, I think what’s only important in blogs is Google AdSense anyway.

If these writings are truly revolting and pathetic, how much more is that egotistical response of describing such kind of personal writing in the first place? Don’t people have the right to talk about a drinking session like an ode, or play with words about the afternoon rain like a poem, or transform the idea of hatred into a compact vignette? Well, those who do, go on! I have been doing this in my very own public blog and if someone comments that I’m like a high school drop-out who reads nothing that goes beyond the thickness of an Archie Double Digest, I’d slap in their faces the tome of The Great Critics or Science Explained. The alleged ludicrous writing, I hypothesize, grants online balance: light and heavy, funny and serious, important and the not-so-important-but-relatively-worth-knowing.

We have our own words to say. On the web, there’s no intellectual copyright but only intellectual arrogance. Since my intellectual faculties have already been mashed into pulp by the likes of Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, Butch Dalisay, Leoncio Deriada, etcetera (know your literature kid), attacks toward my being too self-centered especially in blog writing are somewhat ineffective by now. As what I have said earlier, pride and ego are the least things needed.

* this is a revision of an old post

sleeping with them

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice
The Weekly Sillimanian
February 28, 2008
We are all living with intricate unsettled questions. These could not necessarily be caused by dementia, of course, but simply these are problems we all bear every day. Ever-present and ever-persistent, they create distortion and deterioration in our intellectual faculties that yield nothing more but ache in our innermost being. As humans, almost perfectly capable of intellectual thinking and speech which make us distinct and ahead of the lesser animals, we cannot depart from these moments of individualistic turmoil.
Blaming this undesired condition on things so obviously nurtured by our very own doings is frankly unconvincing. Whether it is the feeling of being so forlorn because of unrequited love, feeling guilty for situations we didn’t actually create, or simply being unreasonable in all matters of this problematic life, everything boils down to the definiteness of our decisions.

At this point in our lives, when an undesired problem is at its highest corrupting condition, the tendency to create solutions out of thin air is inevitable even in the middle of chaos; whether it is chaos in class requirements, chaos in everyday performances, or chaos in emotional-psychological fixations. And one of the many solutions that result from harried, premature decision making is to bring the whole thing to an abrupt end. In simple terms, to immediately cut off one’s lifeline. Suicide, that is. Often it is successful, sometimes it’s a failure. The number of attempts has undeniably been increasing annually, but fortunately more and more diversions are formulated to alter one’s focus and lead it out of the macabre—let it be the comfort of reading a tome by Haruki Murakami, the obligatory intake of an antidepressant, or the vigorous involvement in any sports. But the most uncomplicated, purest form of diversion is sleep. The closing of the lids, the subtle sensation of having our delicate lashes touch the bases of our eyes, and then the gradual development of evading the harshness of reality; sleep is indeed an act of breaking away.

And one of the unique branches of the science of sleeping is to carry out this practice not only at the right time and at the right place but anytime and anywhere. It is called selective narcolepsy. Characterized by excessive daytime sleepiness, the term is derived from Greek which means to be “seized by somnolence (the state of being drowsy).” Many fear this would affect one’s social and academic performance but the implications of this are often misunderstood by many. Some even identify narcoleptic symptoms as embarrassing since social isolation may result. But even though in the medical field it’s principally a sleeping disorder, to some it is the most exhilarating experience one would attain. It is sleep in the most enigmatic form.

Supposedly, sleep is the body’s respite. It is the normal intermittent suspension of consciousness during which the energy of the body is restored. Triggered by a complex group of hormones that are superiorly active and responding to the body itself and to the environment, 80 percent of sleep is actually dreamless and is known as non-rapid eye movement (NREM) sleep. It is in the other 10 percent that we encounter beings called Them. Through selective narcolepsy, especially in the rapid eye movement, we see Them whenever we want to see Them. Never mind this entire scientific spill; the achievement here is that we get to meet Them.

By undergoing selective narcoleptic, by decisively choosing to sleep when stress or whatnot hit the ceiling, we essentially sleep with Them. We envision Them as the flawless beings of comfort and safety, the surreal yet mimetic companions of security not found in the realms of reality. These dream beings embody the perfect concept of a supporter, an ally, an exceptional someone. They are believable. They are sought-after partners of affection. Therefore, we can sleep when we want to meet Them.

It is also in sleep where we discover a paradise—an unmapped wonder world where everlasting joy and overflowing pleasure are the reward for those who think deserve the spree. While magnifying its transitory beauty, which is caught in the illustriousness of our imagination and having none of any pragmatism of pain, we highly value Them. When we sleep with Them, we only shed light on perfection and we disregard the flaws.
Suddenly, we wake up. The sunlight, eternally present to highlight the truth hiding within the dark recesses of our humanity, will seek out the lies that we lustfully aspire to and illuminate them in order to eliminate them. It is inescapable that we must wake up but then we can always sleep back again. And if the instance of waking comes and I will bear witness to another veracity of disorder and hurting, I would rather go back to sleep once more, suspended in a mutual cycle of false love, imaginary peace, and bogus order in the company of Them. I will bear the cycle of sleeping and waking, lying and accepting. For only with Them I will feel my worth.

Sigh. Sob. Heave. Sleep.

a personal workshop of trimming things

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice
The Weekly Sillimanian
December 5, 2007

Trimming is not an easy act. It leaves no room for unstable personal convictions; it requires unyielding fortitude. But the result of lavish trimming can be wonderfully pleasing, though. Here, with my workshop of which I’ll keep mum on how it really works, are three things I think need some trimming.

1. Food
In the October 2007 issue of Reader’s Digest, there’s a short article which states that whenever a measuring tape loses its length once encircling it around the waist, a person has to be alarmed. And I am. Because the article says it’s a ground for a grand heart disease. According to the America Heart Association, everyone must “aim for a waist circumference less than 40 inches for men and 35 for women.” Choice clothing that has just been bought last summer hardly fit me and some of my pants find themselves objecting to be worn; as if I’m not their master. This is tragic for a student who is a disregarded microcosm of a no uniform institution. Nevertheless, I have to trim down my food intake.

Knowing that gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins, I have more reasons why I should stop excessive eating. Also, breaking the habit allows me not to spend too much. My stomach, curiously named “Ben” since grade school, is undeniably getting bigger.

Downfall: There’s no escaping the looming Christmas feast.

2. Weeds
Our university is unquestionably picturesque. But the sad thing is various weeds have marred its stunning look. And it's unfortunate to know that these living litters are responsible to the gradual deterioration of our campus’ reputation, and yet so little action is taken to extract them from our rich soil.

The weeds’ growth may be sluggish, but their ability to proliferate in record-breaking numbers is tremendously shocking. Though these needless things may look different from each other, all have the same, distinct, unifying feature: Pollen. Not that pollen is the only thing that makes people sneeze, but it is the kind that gives a mind-numbing, downcast feeling to the victim who gets a cloudy waft of it. Unfortunately, students are the most common victims of the weeds’ natural self-defence since they are the ones who usually step on them, devastating them with rubber-soled shoes or killer pointed heels. And in some rare cases, these university weeds spew out those powerful pollen particles randomly at students who they think need a bit of subtle punishment. These weeds are one of a kind. The victim, usually assaulted without prior notice, firsts acquires a slight nausea from the pollen that enters the nose. Actually, the brutal process doesn’t end there: upon treading the olfactory territory, the pollen further goes into the brain and gives the person’s mind a hazy feeling of fury, depression, and anxiety but basically this will eventually concretize into a deep sense of shame.

Quite a number of students have daringly tried pulling them out by the roots but the aftermath was so disconcerting and gross that publishing the event for public enlightenment would be impossible because of its disturbingly graphic nature. And there’s one more extraordinary occurrence: the weeds have discovered their means of cultivation, amazingly, inside a person. They have already infiltrated the heads of some big names in campus that it’s no longer novel seeing people around with a glowing, little ball of pollen sticking out from their heads. By the way, I don’t want these weeds trimmed. I want them wiped out from the face of this planet.

3. Letters
Verbosity is a cursed gift. One needs a firm command to justify a piece of written thought that seems to go on for a mile. For me, verbosity is a projection of beauty that must be admired by its inborn power of luring a reader to keep on going—that there’s a possibility to go further and benefit from the unanticipated reading exercise. To be regulated with alleged imperatives (e.g. limits and qualifications) is like halting the continuous flow of a river, the growth of a wild flower that aims to reach the skies, the soft breeze that keeps all living wonders dancing.

Given that cutting the habit is a requisite for me to successfully pass a bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing, I submit to the whims of the public that I must write with regimented shortness.

For in the misunderstood craft of endlessly stitching different words together to form lengthy and so-called grandiose sentences, where antecedents are tagged ambiguous, where verbs and prepositions appear on the scene in both necessary and unnecessary fashion at every possible group of words—especially if the act of writing gets more self-gratifying up to the point that it paves the road for a newfound addiction—and where adjectives tend to lose their identities as specifying elements but instead turn into loud, decorative, grandiloquent pieces that only the likes of William Faulkner, Nick Joaquin, and Gabriel Garcìa Marquez seem to be proud of, the one and truly amazing reward (no matter how large the number of people who are opposed to the whole construction of verbose sentences, even though the shorter version having the same sense may still give the indistinguishable feeling of contentment upon having reached the final destination) is the sight of an unassuming presence of relief, like a lifeboat launched by a sinking ship, which takes the form of a tiny, innocent period.

here we go again

The lampoon issue of the Weekly Sillimanian will be available in the net soon.

please excuse the clutter

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice

The Weekly Sillimanian

August 15, 2007

I.

A couple of days ago, I attended a leadership training that ought to shape the purported heads, chiefs, or managers of tomorrow but, instead, I went back home with body aches and shirt stains due to all those team-building torture.

IV.

Pondering has become my habit: I think I have delegated my tasks properly and orderly. I think I have listened enough to grievances and made an effort in solving them. I think I have made my point. But I am wrong. I just keep on thinking!

II.

As one of the activities in the programme, we were assigned to present a short skit based on Jack Welch’s words: “Face reality as it is, not as it was or as you wish it to be.” Well, it turned out to be an instant favourite; it was played repetitiously in my mind. Nevertheless, a shocking insight upon contemplating this line of leadership spirit enlightened me: It was the recognition that I am a wandering nomad, lost, trying hard to determine which path to take on and at the same time guilty of not knowing what to do.

VIII.

Though easier said than done, at the least, I am currently steering away from the paranoia. But it is also a slow process, so please excuse my vagueness when I am approached.

III.

There are times when simply reading a fresh graphic fiction anthology, sipping some cold coffee, or conversing about the latest flick brings about a sick sensation that I have committed an offense. As if my heart constricts and make me ask myself, “There are more things to be done! What am I doing?!”

IX.

To end all these brouhaha, I tell you: This is not just about me, but this is about everyone who is nitpicked away from their comfort zones and is plunged into a fiery chasm where trust is elusive and help is just as fictional as the word muggle.

V.

Yes, it really sounds good if one assumes I think too much (he or she can only imagine what great invention or discovery I have in mind) but the underlying disadvantage is that, because I think too much, the act of doing is left to nothing more but just a morsel of thought. And it makes my cluttered brain more devastated as if typhoon Chedeng just paid me a visit.

VII.

As for my case, it is really scary. And for someone who occasionally leans towards the absurdities of human nature, it might be possible. Thankfully I know change is gradual, and I can fully stop this before the transformation completes me into becoming like a zombie. So the next question is: How? Based on “reliable” findings I overheard from incessant beer talks at the nearby videoke house or special meetings that ought to straighten up what is crooked, let’s just say an instant self-check is required to set up a go. Or listen to the people around you and assess your present deeds; it is impossible that they don’t even have the slightest comment! And if that, still, doesn’t work, run and hit yourself on the wall about 50 times and I am pretty sure your state of “lostness” will go away and before you’ll even notice it, you will find yourself—plus violet patches of bruise. I could have decided on the latter one time but I am just too lost to have conjured an idea like that.

VI.

A confession must be told: my supposedly innocent leisure now turns into something sinful. The barriers between what I want, what I need, and what they need are slowly crumbling. I am becoming aware of knowing the fear of unknowing. I would certainly become ambiguity in human form! This is such an embarrassment to any so-called leader!

X.

Well then, this is really not the perfect time to babble and to think before I go—Crash!

Note: The chronology of the paragraphs was muddled stressing the author’s “lostness” when writing this (hint: follow the Romans).

bitter gourd tales

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice

The Weekly Sillimanian

July 4, 2007

Many have an aversion to this vegetable. And no matter how effective media advertising is-vehemently chanting "makulay ang buhay, sa sinabawang gulay"-its reputation might be tarnished by one innocent wrinkled thing: the bitter gourd or ampalaya in our native tongue.

Bitter is one of the four basic sensations in our mouth that is often characterized by an acrid taste. And ampalaya (Momordica charantia) is one juicy vegetable filled with lots of quinine, the natural substance that makes it bitter. With that information, I wonder, "Does quinine run in human veins too?"

If that is the case, wherein this pungent gist could be found in one's body, I must say these Bitter Gourd People are in great numbers walking around the campus today. Ampalaya's striking appearance is what usually teases and detests the eyes. As for the Gourd People, instead of witnessing crumpled looks on the outside, what is really dishevelled are their soul and mind. Though it is hard to explain the truth behind this claim, most of their kind looks exceedingly good; no excess frills! Hiding their true nature while projecting an air of pride is a bitter man's professional lifestyle. The advent of unique personalities of the world had indeed created, if not changed, a new definition for the word "bitter."

I have landed into diverse roles ever since I stepped into Dumaguete City. I've evaluated the people around that were once (and are currently) part of my on-the-rush routine and there's no denying they exist in packs, waiting lasciviously for their next victim. They assess mistakes of other people as a stylized form of mockery, they bloat around by the slightest catch of ignorance, they stare into strangers' faces like they are useless bunch of illiterates.

One may ask: "Why, of all the available pursuit of leisure to get into, be gruesomely bad?" Psychologists may explain accounts of extreme obsessive compulsiveness, slight schizophrenia, and other mental relations of the body's problematic neurons, but actually there's this term even the most futile layman could instantly comprehend: they are just - knowingly or unknowingly - plain jealous.

Green-eyed, covetous, desirous, insecure, all of these names just boil down to a piece of information that these are fuelled by anger. Everyone should take into consideration this quote from Albert Einstein: "Anger dwells only in the bosom of fools."

And what great fools it is to be! To go bursting forth onto your fellowmen, surging loud profanities or simply inflicting insults at someone's back. These acts of the utmost wantonness only show incivility. From anger to bitterness, then bitterness to whatnot-the cycle is endless. Just like the plant, it is heedless of anything that it clings to for the sake of its own selfish objectives, bearing bitter fruits.

No, this is not in lieu of this year's nutrition month, nor a campaign against People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) advocating on vegetarianism. This is an open forum for one's self to weigh up the bitterness inside And if fates do not stop weaving your destiny into letting you bump against these gourds, just treat them as what they truly are: wrinkly, bad-tasting, and rough-in short, ugly. For ugly things are not worth your precious time, the surest solution to such encounters is to yield to it.

Yield then pull out the gourd's roots.

bullfrogish unions

Bullfrogs!

Does that ring a bell? It's called as such because the male's deep resonant croak sounded like a bull's bellow. Bullfrogs are a rare kind of amphibians known for its eating habits in the world of biology. They're predators found mostly in the silent lakes of canada to Mexico feeding on small snakes (yup, small), worms, insects, crustaceans (humm, interesting!), little birds, and most shockingly, their own kind! This trait being its most significant makes it unique and dangerous!

They can only see and eat their prey whan it's moving. If not, bullfrogs wouldmn't give a damn! For as long as it is not moving, it's not part of their menu. Their hunting style is called the "Sit & Wait" technique. They wait patiently until an unfortunate victim passes, meeting its untimely death. with a single gulp, it is gone.

They're so amazingly diligent and trciky. They are on the third level of the food pyramid after all! They have earned an instant reputation distinct from other frog species as being mean and greedy as unmindful of eating their own kind for self-gratification.

These bullfrogs' exceptional trait has actually long been showing up in our nation nowadays. Some promient Homo sapiens who are graduates of reputable universities like Silliman, exhibit such trait, unmindful of thier acts and deliberatley showing up only i times of indulgence, being fraud in front of the unknowing masses. They are corrupt, greedy, and selfish -- bullfrogish, really -- sitting on high positions in the government.

Organizations, unions, party-lists, societies and other related groups is the result to all these -- attention seeking movements yet usually they're unheard.

According to the Philippine Constitution's Bill of Rights, specifically Section 8, people have the freedom to form or to be a member of any group, in which the person unanimously agreed upon its purpose and to successfully achieve it. But is this enough to solve the bullfrogish acts we are seeing and even experiencing?

Yes? But the question is, is this particular right really in our hands?

We talk about democracy in this country but look and see what's happening now: Rallyists are adamantly maltreated, and innocent people are abducted by armed forces. thier so-called rights were completely discarded.

Given the economic strait we are in, the formation of such unions is inevitable, yet they're experiencing difficulties all the same. thier lives are at stake in every move they make. That's why others tend to be with the bullfrogs!

It's funny to realize that a better way of tackling more impending bullfrogs in this country is being one! One has no choice but to take the lead of trekking onto a different path, unless one would prefer to be on the passive side. Unbeknownst to them, they are becoming bullfrogs.

Leftists, activists, or whatever they are tagged; the anger in these people may be considered a waste of energy. but using this energy through anger could lead to a change for improvement, an improvement for everyone's benefit.

Well i think it runs that way. And it's sad to note that through the years -- though little by little, we have felt some improvements in this nation -- the oppressed are getting more demoralized, and the untroubled are still getting more pleasures their wicked relations have to offer.

If you doubt my statements, i suggest you lock yourself inside a closet, and you might discover that there's something croaking ceep inside you. There will be no harm done. just ask yourself: Are you a discreet bullfrog-in-the-making who, with sheer determination, lavishes on the downfall of your fellow beings? Maybe you really are without noticing it!

And if you do... Please, don't swallow me up! Help anybody... bullfrogish symptoms at hand!