tree

Matatag means solid, firm, and steady. And ever since in my mind, when I’ve heard this word back in high school, stepping into our campus fresh from a sated vacation and just to be surprised by the administration’s newly established military system, the picture that immediately was a tree. I was not precisely sure but the tree, for me, gave me the perception of stability and composure. That was why the attack of the inevitable boredom of the day, which left me clambering in front of the computer in defeat, made my waning artistic abilities spark up in rage: I created this:

I know it’s not much to be placed side-by-side with prominent emblems of other organizations but, nevertheless, I am proud for creating such work, because finally, our Facebook, Friendster, and other social networking site accounts will now have a semi-formal feel to the once-deprived outlets for relaying messages, posting announcements, and whatnot. Looks so infantile? That’s just a draft. I can always create a new one—and maybe not a tree, anymore.

By the way, “Matatag” was our high school batch’s designation for the whole brigade; there were Makisig, Magiting, and many more Filipino adjectives that start with the letter “M.” Masarap? Malandi? Well, I am not hoping for those designations to come in reality but, without doubt, it would be fun calling the seniors those tags.

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an orange a day

Just minutes ago, I have witnessed this local version of the gameshow 1 vs 100. Hosted by the domineering Edu Manzano, tonight’s episode exemplified the nation’s elementary education condition: Alarming.

I said elementary because in this episode, both celebrity and noted young students represented the “Mob” of the show (nah, the specifics are too tedious to discuss). What was really disturbing, in the utmost concern for the Philippine education system, was that these little kids must have either went out of the classroom to harvest guavas at the school grounds or the current teachers’ capability to edify young minds have already faltered. These two reasons should explain why those kids were not able to answer this simple and basic question:

1. A/An _______ a day keeps the doctor away.
a.) apple
b.) orange
c.) grapes

Fact: A lot of the children answered orange.

Bullfrogs! There were more questions that could easily shake you out of your seats about this uneventful truth witnessed by millions of viewers, too, worldwide. What Christmas character is always described as the snowman (answer: Frosty), What is the sound that’s usually portrayed by Santa Claus (answer: Ho ho ho!), and many more. Sigh!

So much for "pag-asa ng bayan", eh?
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we won

Those two little words may seem so flamboyant for its size but those two words meant so much for us. The Weekly Sillimanian’s literary supplement (after numerous years of stagnation), Dark Blue Southern Seas (DBSS), won 1st runner up in the recently concluded 1st LUBAS Awards held at Candahug Palo, Leyte last October 24, 2007, as part of this year’s College Editors Guild of the Philippines - 4th Visayas Formation.

Take note: No other student publication won in the Literary Folio Category—no champion, no 2nd runner up. Though we landed on the second place, the fact remained that DBSS was the only work that passed the judges’ standards.

As part of the editorial staff for this magazine who tediously made it to the point of near-surrender, alongside unpleasant comments from various sectors of the university when the final output was circulated to all, the unexpected accomplishment was enough to give those blabbermouths the slap-on-the-face execution.

Maybe the hyped-up Kaffeklastch, the demure Mabalahibong Huwebes (ehem), or the factual Mapping the Literary Culture of Silliman hit this year’s theme “Arming campus journalists with competence to advocate social awareness and press freedom.”

Competence, eh? This is all for you dimwits: Blag! Hurrah for our first try!

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how to cheat the best way

Stealthily looking a seatmate’s exam paper, relaying sophisticated hand signals, tucking tiny papers in every available space of a folded handkerchief, or simply exchanging answer sheets when the teacher’s eyes wander a moment or two—these are some of the many modi operandi that we call cheating. It is prevalent in all campuses around the world—including Silliman University. It is alarming to know, cheating is now claimed as part of a student’s life. For a Christian institution, is this really the way to find the truth, and live life? Think again.

Cheating, as defined in the Webster’s New Encyclopedic Dictionary, is “to get something from another by deception or dishonesty, which suggests using trickery that escapes observation.” And yes, it is indeed. But for college students a detailed and systematic definition of the word is not important; for as long as they have practiced and finally mastered the craft, the act of cheating is as easy as tying one’s shoelace. “Forget values, forget ethics, and pass this damn exam” might be a professional cheater’s code of conduct.

So to survive the pressure that goes along College life, amid disconcerting Professors who seem to enjoy giving mind-numbing exams (or psychological games), cheating slowly has been transformed (from a mere unintelligent way to battle “unprepared-ness”) into an all-around survival kit that could render obsolete the now-waning art called “study.” For in this generation, study has become undesirable.

A majority of the student populace would not consider cheating taboo these days. “It is normal,” one proudly says, or, as another friend relates, “Cheating really looks bad considering that it is like stealing, but if you’re in a tight situation, the act will be done without any hesitations. [sic]”

We can say that cheating is a quest for perfection; a quest to accomplish the formidable task, to achieve the prized goal. But it is not easy. After all, dilemmas go with everything that is thought to be trouble-free. Since a lot of us already know what cheating is and why it is done, therefore it’s uncommon to ask: “How could we cheat—the best way?” Through a number of question and answer sessions with familiar campus figures (ranging from the freshmen up to graduate students), here are the top three unique and bizarre ways of cheating that were explicitly shared. But in order to comprehend the nature of these techniques, it’s rational that we ought to learn what is actually needed—the devices for the “perfect” crime.

Since names of techniques differ from one person to another, we have laid out the materials first (as headers) which may also serve the method’s codename. Let us begin the lesson.

1.) Materials Needed: Pencil and Eraser
- College students these days seldom use basic elementary writing tools such as the pencil. But in this technique, with an ultra-sharp pencil alongside a good-sized rubber eraser (approximately 2” x 1” x 0.5” in dimensions), you, as the conspirator, could fly to greater heights and catch those elusive 4.0s [four-point-zeroes]. The process is simple: First, with your super sharp pencil, write in fine, minute letters your question on the rubber eraser and pass it on to your accomplice beside you, or much better, to a person who is brilliant and “good” enough sharing his or her golden answers. Second, just wait for his or her answer to be written on the same eraser before retrieving it back. It’s that easy!

Question: Wouldn’t the teacher ever notice that you keep on passing along that tiny piece of rubber?

2) Materials Needed: Paper and Garter String
- This method could be best used for people who usually wear skirts (short skirts are preferable). Definitely, this is for women. The procedure should start right at home; write all answers that you need for enlightenment in a small sheet of paper and tie it with a short stretchable string (or garter), then insert it under the skirt. One foreign friend (nationality hidden) shared this as effective. She said that this is popular in their hometown’s high schools. Since they are required to wear near-skimpy skirts as part and parcel of their uniforms, why not use this uncomfortable sight as something useful?

Question: Wouldn’t it look promiscuous that a lady frequently pulls out something from under her skirt?

3) Materials Needed: The Answer Sheets
- If the situation gets tough and executing the first two methods is too lame, why not act with the nastiest wits present in mind? This last method is the funniest but, nevertheless, most effective. The method: Plan it out with your all-time partner-in-crime and make sure you sit beside each other in the room. When you’re in the middle of the exam and you can no longer extract any sensible guesses from your mind, snap those fingers (or give out any sign that can easily be identified, like clucking the tongue), and in a skilled synchronized performance, drop your answer sheets and pick up your partner’s paper instead of yours.

Question: Wouldn’t your situation even worsen once you pick up your accomplice’s paper and discover to your horror that he or she has more unanswered questions than you have?

Even those who consider themselves puritans of goodness must accept the argument that cheating is human nature. For cheating starts early this will, without doubt, grow and strengthen as it is constantly practiced. I, myself, have plunged into the hidden and dark world of cheating, and, honestly speaking, have found that it is upsetting—like there are thousands of needles piercing every innards in me. Actually, cheating could even worsen one’s already-dire circumstances. For Sillimanians in the 21st century, it is obvious the majority are still blinded by cheating’s false glorious promises.

As mentioned in an article in the Weekly Sillimanian (issue 79, volume 7) dated last August 2, 2006, “cheating has become more acceptable to students” and, as it develops into a more common trend in every passing hour, “the important thing is to get the job done.”

Certainly, cheating would still exist in the next years to come; still holding its bogus guarantee of perfection and exactness. But sad to say, it is never the best way out.

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the litcritter challenge

Odie a dark, horrifying story without God or matters of faith
Jordan a minimalist story that is short, in the vein of Socorro Villanueva
Justine a male-chauvinist story that convinces in its anti-feminism
Lyde a testosterone-filled story that convinces in its utter masculinity
Marianne a sweet story without any dark elements
Michelle a story with the dialogue as the primary narrative style
RJ a domestic realist story, without any hints of intellectualism, with a housewife as a main character, and not having salt as the main source of tension
Dirgy a gay love story that will make all of us swoon
Pong a sincere story about the need for God and saints in our lives

All new stories to be submitted on or before October 25. My, oh my! And all I have managed to write so far is a meager one-and-a-half page-length paper. By the way, welcome to Litcritters Pong! Mesmerize us with your writings. [wink!]

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red monday

If you are given three hours, what would you do?

It’s easy, you may say. The list to be written is endless: Stagnate yourself in an internet session and browse hundreds of Facebook accounts, reread your old favorite novel that has already accumulated enough dust to acquire colds and cough, paint if the Dali or Malang in you needs some visual art calisthenics, and many more!

But this day, I had just spent my three-hour time on something I was least fond of: Impacted Third Molar Extraction. It was not easy, I had my braces adjusted too!

Yes, sounds familiar. I had this same operation last May, but that tooth was from the right side (and the whole process took three hours, too). This time, I had the one from the left side removed. It had to be, it was for the common good, I tell you.

It was not a moment to enjoy, really, but surely it was memorable. Well, who would not forget opening one’s mouth for three long hours, with some person crossing the threshold within by means of some cold, shiny blades and other contraptions, stressfully pulling that damn big tooth over and over again, while a sucking tube inserted under the tongue created buzzing sounds in the head? And from a session which started at exactly 10:00 AM and ended at 1:00 PM? Anyone who would say these would never leave even a tiny mark inside the head needs a visit to the nearest dental clinic.

My decision of wearing a red shirt, too, was not bad. Actually, it was a choice of epics proportions! When I opened my eyes (honestly, I shut my eyes on the whole process when my dentist gave me the first anesthesia shot), my two bare arms where spotted red, big and samll. Not because I had attained some unspeakable disease, but it was due to the blood spurting out from my mouth powered by another sterile and gleaming device that powerfully spray water. I looked at my arms with amazement and felt like I survived a twisted game of Jigsaw—of Saw fame.

I just hope these Mefenamic acid, Amoxicillin, and Tranexamic acid would lessen the pain and hasten the wound’s healing. CEGP-Visayas Campus Journalism Convention at Leyte and enrollment begin next week!

And let me add this special menu I “enjoyed” this day:

Breakfast: champorado with milk and longganiza
Lunch: 1 cup of plain Oat Drink and 1 cup human blood
Snack: clotted blood
Dinner: porridge of unflavored oatmeal with drops of blood

Anyways, on the good side, when there’s something to smile in the next years to come, this set of teeth would look fabulously proper.

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miss my hair

(before)

(after)

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clean and grim

Chronicle no. 1: Clean
September 15, 2007
_______________________________

I am pretty sure you were the guy who woke up at five in the morning, when the light of the sun was barely seeping out of the thick grey clouds, but then slumbered back in bed only to be awoken the following hour by a thought that you must be present at the bus terminal by six-thirty sharp. Yes, you were the one.

I remember it was Saturday that you made haste and clambered out of bed and mechanically executed your daily routine:

1) Grabbed the big brown towel hanging from the wall and some necessary toiletries located under the wardrobe.
2) Ran down a few steps, followed some bending paths, and ultimately reached the bathroom.
3) Endured an ice-cold bath, dried, and went back to the room with a gazelle’s swiftness.
4) Sported a plain dark brown polo short, khaki pants, and then snatched the idle light brown bag from the cluttered table.
5) Waited for the earliest tricycle.

You looked so clean, so earthy, with all the nature-colored apparel you donned. It was as if the very essence of nature emanated from you. If you just had enough time to climb up an acacia tree, I might have mistaken you for one of its branches. All of these thoughts swam absently in your mind until a tricycle noticed you idle by the side of the road. You were lucky enough to catch an early ride that shakily went to the terminal. And all of a sudden, you thought of riding a bicycle, rather than a tricycle, since that would be the day you were to support and spread the word about SolarGeneration—Pilipinas at Bayawan. For in your mind, you shouldn’t be promoting vehicles emitting carbon and all that smoke. Go green!

Huh, bike all the way to Bayawan? That must be a joke, so you rejected the idea instantly. But what is SolarGeneration—Pilipinas or SolarGen? I’ve recently learned that this is the youth arm of a much bigger organization, Greenpeace. SolarGen aims to inoculate everyone with the importance of our natural resources and how we can properly use these. And as a first project, SolarGen promoted the “Simple Lang: Save the Climate” movement to various universities in Dumaguete and Bayawan Cities. The movement challenges everybody to be energy-conscious by integrating climate-friendly habits into the our lifestyle without compromising practicality and convenience.

Switch off the lights… Unplug all appliances… As simple as that! Everyone will be pleased, living in an eco-healthy world.

You were excited because, on that weekend, you were not tripping for pure entertainment but for an advocacy. You had a mission. In all honesty, your sole purpose why you tagged along with Razceljan Salvarita, Fiona Jade Lim, and Lyde Villuaneva was that you had nothing to do on that specific weekend, seeing as all of your usual partners-in-crime had gone out of town too: Boracay, Apo Island, and Bohol!

What had made you more interested in the occasion was the group had also planned on conducting a workshop on public mural art for budding high school artists. And you yourself were a self-proclaimed Mauro Malang! You instantly elated into a core group member of SolarGen.

And then everything proceeded in a blur: Upon arrival, all four of you headed off to City Hall, were welcomed by few local officials, and led to a hall filled with young people eagerly ready to learn the art of wall painting (not the carpenter’s job, though). After the workshop, you were introduced to the city mayor, German P. Saranya, and you were amazed by his plans of producing Jatropha Oil, to be extracted from a plant locally called “tuba tuba,” as a safe and effective alternative for any vehicles’ fuel. You had learned that the city wholeheartedly supported eco-friendly lifestyle that they launched a project on cultivating the Jatropha plant on their hectares of fertile lands.

Just when you thought you had had your day, sluggishly dragging your feet back to City Hall after you had a mandatory “photo shoot” for documentation purposes, you were surprised to learn that there would be a coastal clean-up activity the following day at the Bayawan Boulevard.

Yes! Yipee…
You were happy. By 8 o’clock in the evening, all four of you went to Toto Benjamin’s house and spent the night close to nature where crickets’ sounds and the rustle of leaves serenaded you. You felt so clean.

.
Chronicle no. 2: Grim
September 16, 2007
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I am extremely sure you were the guy who didn’t sleep well that night. You were accommodated at Toto Benjamin’s, a family friend of the mayor. There was nothing wrong with the quarters provided, it was just that you were restless. You didn’t doze back, but stayed awake, until it was time for you to be present at the Boulevard at six-thirty sharp. Yes, you were the one.

I remember it was Sunday that you made haste and got up from bed and automatically mulled over your routine:

1) You must go get the big brown towel hanging from the wall and some necessary toiletries located under the wardrobe.
2) You would run down a few steps, followed some bending paths, and ultimately reach the bathroom.
3) You would endure an ice-cold bath, dry yourself, and run back to the room with a gazelle’s swiftness.
4) You would dress yourself up with the attire appropriate for the day.
5) You would wait for the earliest tricycle by the side of the road, outside the boarding house.

Boarding house? What boarding house? You totally forgot you were a hundred kilometers away from Dumaguete City! Out of the abrupt realization, you grabbed your bag from the floor, fumbled for objects that you direly need, and to your amazement, discovered nothing much helpful (behold, a discovery… a toothbrush!). The necessity of bringing extra clothes and toiletries had been entirely disregarded the other day, for you were so filled up by your enthusiasm. Fiona and Lyde noticed your long face so they lent you soap, shampoo, towel, and toothpaste.

Quickly shampooed your hair… Brushed your teeth… Splashed on some cologne… As simple as that! And you were a bit pleased, your spirits high.

Your excitement sparked up again because you were going to clean an area of the boulevard where young mangroves grew. Ironically, you had cleaned up yourself to clean up the Boulevard. That was not an everyday opportunity considering that in the first place, you attained adequate amusement yesterday just by ranting word upon word about poster-making practice and art aesthetics. But when you entered the room, you witnessed Lyde, Fiona, and Razcel in different get-ups while you were dressed in the same shirt and pants; the exact articles you had worn a few hours ago.

You tried ignoring them and focussed on the idea that the high school students you had deliberated with the other day would be present. You knew some of them, while others remained as familiar faces only. However, you thought, their company would always be fun and great so you settled on the comfort of this thought.

And then everything happened in a blur: Upon arrival, all four of you headed to the site at the Boulevard. The sun was covered by thick grey clouds. Before you started picking up trash, you attended a short fellowship. After glorifying the one above us all, you had an exercise session. Suddenly, it rained very hard; a downpour heavy enough to soak a body in a minute. How tragic, you were wet and you had no extra clothing! All of you went back to Kuya Toto’s residence and procrastinated there until it was time to leave the City of Bayawan. The clean-up drive was cancelled.

Just when you thought you had had enough being the green-eyed grim monster of the group, you were stunned to discover that there was spring nearby Toto’s house in which you could go for a dip.

No! Argh…

You were sad. By 11 o’clock in the morning, all four of you travelled back to Dumaguete City by a V-hire, spent the day in the ride wherein you can only hear the constant hum of the decrepit aircon until you arrived at the city. You felt so grim.

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here we go again

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

talk is cheap

Please Read!
If You Are a Non-staffer
Please Step Outside this Room.
You Have No Businees Here!
- tWS Office Manager (2006-2007)

PLEASE KEEP YOUR VOICES DOWN!
The Staffers
Are Trying to Work!
- tWS Office Manager (2007-2008)

A major part of my student life is devoted to the Weekly Sillimanian (tWS). I stepped into the office two years ago, wide-eyed and slightly ignorant, filled with raw ideas for a good article. But now, instead of writing in white heat, I give the deadlines. My name is on the masthead of a 104 year-old student publication with the title “Features Editor.”

Because I am in control of the feature writers this year, power is in my hands. But just when I think everything is under control—with the click-click-click of the keyboards, the swish-swish-swish of newspapers, and the constant talk-talk-talk between a writer and an editor the only sounds filling every corner of the office—I find out I am dreadfully wrong. Debaters have infiltrated our territory. These are the kind of people who either enjoy daily bouts on Plato’s or Aristotle’s philosophy or the silly smile of Ronald McDonald. At this point, I have doubts concerning my so-called power.

Actually, it is no secret that our editor-in-chief, the circulation manager, one senior writer, one feature writer, and two news writers are debaters. And they are enough.

Though I don’t debate through the Oxford format and the likes—I must admit I blow up and argue whenever lost projects and viruses keep sprouting in our computers due to the absence of an anti-virus program. The description that would best describe my idealism is that I consider plain talk as the simplest solution to a problem. No need for theories, no need for Marxist conceptualizations. No matter how I inoculate myself with such thoughts of disregard, the debaters just keep breaking in.

Yes, I believe that we human beings are considered the most intelligent species present on Earth due to our capability of thinking, feeling, and communicating. We take pride in the gift of speech, for this sets us apart from other creatures. But going beyond the basic chit-chat is just too much—especially if the “talk” disrupts the serenity of tWS office where we use most of our spare time to do what we are supposed to do (I am stressing “we” here because I am not the only one who is irritated). Total observance of silence in our work area is the least we could ask for.

Obviously, incessant highly-intellectual far-out discussions make my meter of impatience reach to the extremes. The line, “I have opinions, too, that are worth some listening, but can you please go somewhere else?” will escape from my mouth someday. The problem is, will they ever consider my kind of talk reputable and fulfilling? It’s as if they’ve fully exclude themselves from showbiz, problems on zits, and dormitory curfew—topics that may enlighten the most uneducated layman. That is why it is unquestionable that, aside from blabbermouths and disruptors, these debaters are often called geeks.

It is peculiar that whenever these debaters come, there’s this atmosphere of uneasiness. We, the staffers, know we have the authority but then their presence makes us uncomfortable in our own office. One concrete example was the day a person paid us a visit who wore a black shirt with these white words printed on the front:

Talk is Cheap

And on his back is the single word:

Debate.

Insulting? Yes. And at that point, we all fell silent as more of his comrades entered our domain and did their thing.

On the first place, why do these debaters suddenly come into our territory? No one really knows the truth. Up to now, it remains to be a mystery how most of their kind is drawn into our dusty and musky office, shouting philosophies and ideals. But here are some hypotheses formulated by our group, who sometimes, in one way or another, oppose to their company:

1) These people are drawn by a debater-magnet about the size of our famous Portals, buried under the office years ago by a maniac who was a die-hard fan of Nietzsche.
2) These people continually search for The Book that could answer all their questions and finally put to an end their disputes. They must find it before it falls into the wrong hands. They received a tip that it was hidden by tWS Editor-in-Chief of school year 1990-1991.
3) These people just love to strut their stuff.
4) These people are proud of their fluent English and will never miss a chance to power-up their vocal volumes for the news and feature writers’ “benefit.”
5) These people’s peers are part this school year’s staff.

And the list of guesses continues. I can’t put them all here. I am not stating that our office is unsuitable for discussions (for that’s the purpose of an office, a place for discussions!) but what I just want to point out is there are matters worth discussing in a more conducive place. Well, those two office managers who posted notices to hush up cannot be blamed—because it was not only the writers that were seriously affected with boisterous ‘symposiums.’ As student writers, of which clarity, brevity, and factuality must be second nature to us, we need a time of silence. Even despite the fact that the Weekly Sillimanian has glorious historical evolvement through the years, it is embarrassing that its weekly outputs are tarnished by some hangers-on’s superfluous disturbance. One might easily say the publication’s foundation is getting weak.

For we have this one main goal as of now: we hope the weekly publication would never circulate a lampoon-like issue to all students and faculty who love to critique, or worse, criticize.

And remembering the guy who wore that silly black t-shirt and broke the serenity of the office, what I can think of is just to oppose the “talk is cheap” assumption. I know a debater would defend his/her point in this matter but I remain on my stand—I do not believe it. Planning with friends on what should be done on a weekend, chatting about the latest flick, or conversing with family members on a lazy Sunday afternoon—these are the most beautiful yet simple talks that will surely complete a person’s day. And that kind of talk is never cheap. It is priceless.

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days of no rain

Western wind when will thou blow
the small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
and I in my bed again!

— Oh Western Wind, a ballad (author unknown)


It had been a founder’s tradition but it never rained hard that week. Actually, for some unknown reason, rain didn’t come. Almost everything was so parched, well, except for one night when three rock bands from the Tagalog north seemed to have brought, along with them, a drizzle that finally quenched the thirst of the drying grounds. But a drizzle doesn’t count as rain for me.

I finally made up my mind that August 27, Monday, was a wet day—though it was only slightly wet. The state of major dryness was an exact metaphor to my condition. During the 8-day Hibalag celebration I moped to my only sanctuary, the P11,000 booth. Though I had honestly dreamed of other structures that went well beyond the common style and, also, went beyond our own budget, I eventually settled that what I had managed to come up with for the fest was enough.

And before I went to sleep, past a hard day of entrusting tasks to each and every faithful member, I dutifully sent “meaningful” text messages to those kabsis listed in my phonebook who I thought were important:

August 22, Wednesday
Salamat Lord sa tabang!

August 23, Thursday
It was painful hearing your words
when you are silent.

August 24, Friday
The moon you served
on a silver plate dazzled my liking.

August 25, Saturday
Ang kapit-os sa hubog, sa gakatawa, ug sa gila-inan.

August 26, Sunday
Vines may have been planted above our heads
but something more dangerous grew within

August 27, Monday
A revelation must accompany three things:
trust, understanding, and a cut tongue.

August 28, Tuesday
It was fun seeing your face
touch the cold bamboo stilts. It was.

August 29, Wednesday
The harvest of the moon’s last phase
will be much rejoiced if there were more
bleeding sowers than stoic reapers.


Probably, it was a matter of affection that I sent messages so vague that even I, myself—reading the text days later in my phone’s Sent Folder—could not exactly comprehend them.

For all eight nights (or should I say, dawns) before I closed my eyes, I thought of rain. Way before the preparations for the event, I already assumed that rain was an all-time cohort of Hibalag. This assumption was backed up by experiences ever since I stood in awestruck wonder at Silliman’s founder’s week celebration back in 2005: It rained when I was a freshman, which made me hide under one of the many cottages of the booth area with a terrible headache. And when I was a sophomore, our organization’s booth was flooded because of the heavy downpour, day and night. But this year, I only witnessed a drizzle, light rain, spit! There was no rain that could soak one’s shirt, shoes, and pants like before. “Peculiar,” I said to myself one night and then continually yearned for the angels to cry.

I didn’t know if anyone had noticed but most of my messages had a spirit of something calm, green, or an earthly force dedicated to nature. Why dedicate? Well, I thought that the simple gesture of mentioning nature’s beauty through text messaging might bring about a pour of rain from the heavens. Think of me as someone who had just cracked a pot, but that was indeed my intention: for rain to come down. I missed the rain.

A person close to me commented that it did rain one day—a day about which he was not really specific. I then responded that I didn’t feel it. I must admit that I drowsily sensed rain pitter-pattering on the tin roof but I wanted something more intimate: rain that would touch my skin.

The longing was almost identical to obsession; I just kept thinking about rain. There were projects, assignments, and exams, too, that didn’t help my misery. And there I was, almost every hour of the day, partly-seeing a picture of the surroundings from where I stood: the student nurses bleached in all-white ensembles, the Hibalag main stage that looked like it would collapse any minute, the many vacant booths that seemed to cry for attention. Other than such sight-seeing, I enjoyed the leisure of being unproductive.

Rain, rain, rain.

As I constantly sulked in the bamboo hut until the final night of the Hibalag celebration, I sensed that the atmosphere shifted a bit more different from the past nights. Suddenly, a stirring sensation inside revived me. Was it because of the burger I ate from KT’s? The Café Antonio coffee drink that I took a sip from my friend? Or the numerous attempts of beating my kabsis in a game of ungoy-ungoy, only to lose? Ah, maybe the rain was finally coming! For the first time in eight days and nights, I smiled. I was like growing back from a semi-dead situation—it was an awakening! Rooted on my spot at the second floor of our booth, finally, the announcement of the Hibalag booth awards winners were one-by-one revealed by an emcee I knew so well.

“Best Gimmick under the Academic Organizations category…”
“Best Booth Design under the Frat/Sor Category…”
“Sigh. Nothing’s new. What can we expect?” I told the person beside me.
“Now, let’s proceed to Regional Organizations category!”

No rain. Null. I must be waiting for something good to satisfy my self-inflicted depressing state. I stood up when my ears caught words that immediately loosened the strings that had snared my heart for the past few days:

“Silliman University Kadugong Bol-anon won both awards for Best Regional Booth and Best Regional Booth Exhibit! Congratulations! Let’s call the president…”

Wow. I was overwhelmed; thrilled by the thought that I stood planted firmly on the floor, unmoving. The thought then became reality when people patted my back, pushed me forward to the main stage to get the awards. Back to my proper senses, I ran and suddenly, I felt something wet that softly touched my right arms… Rain! No. it was not rain. It must be the sweat that trickled down from my forehead, sweat that constituted all the work that I had done, and exactly the same sweat that might have waited to get noticed unlike the rain that only promised nothing.

I went back to my boarding house with two plaques. These two objects of honor became testimonies to the fact that, after all, I did the right thing, planned the right plan, and flowed with the cycle of our lives’ cycle without presumptions and expectations. Everything was laid out. I gained the blessing from God that no tiny rivulets of water falling from the skies can reward. I looked up above the dark blanket that loomed over us all with only a few stars that flickered, yet I became happy. I forgot about rain.

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momentarily leaving

Consider that the things you love most are beside you, and now, feel the wrath present above your temples and beneath your toes.

-Sept 8 / 07 (10:21am)

You were made to answer the calling from within but what you sought were the distant echoes that filled your hallowed aches.

-Sept 8 / 07 (12:45am)

The old man longs for sea-scented air and salt-encrusted rocks but the child continues to run, run till the old man's breathing only reminds him of the wooden boat's coming.

-Sept 7 / 07 (1:53pm)

Inside the basket are your three lavish pickings: greed, pride, and disregard.

-Sept 7 / 07 (9:21am)

With your sallow hands you threw his solace in the depths of your secret pain. And you swayed and smiled, unmindful, as he swam in eternal sorrow.

-Sept 7 / 07 (12:13am)

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hits on hibalag 2007

Hit 1: Woke up at exactly 11:30 in the morning. It has been a long time...

Hit 2: Finally, someone realized I needed the “presence.” Unfortunately, the presence was felt but the angst was still there.

Hit 3: Open house at New Men's Dormitory later this afternoon, but I think Carson Hall's open house event yesterday was enough.

Hit 4: Submitted to Sir Ian my article on Outstanding Sillimanian Awardee for Business, Mr. Winglip Kwan Chang.

Hit 5: Sir Ian sent me a text message minutes later: “Ikaw ang first nakaemail, hehehe. Kaya man lagi.” Whoa!

Hit 6: Disappointment dawned upon me when the results of Miss Silliman 2007 Pageant Night came swimming into my mind.

Hit 7: Still thinking if our Peanut Macaroons, which are for sale in our booth, will actually bring the buyer instant experience of Bohol's subtle beauty and wonder — as what Galee San Pedro claimed last night.

Hit 8: Kadugong Bol-anon's Booth needed some more oomph, more style. Help!

Hit 9: Oh! Exams on Literary Criticism, under Cezar Ruiz Aquino, later this 3 o'clock!

Hit 10: Wait, no rain on this year's Hibalag? Peculiar, peculiar, peculiar...

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redefining

Would the College of Arts and Sciences, now lead by only one contender unlike the usual two, gain back its sheen?

Would the College of Mass Communication finally break away from their Tradition of Almost Being There?

Would the College of Computer Sciences bag the crown?

Would the College of Engineering and Design hits all odds?

Would the College of Business Administration continue to reign the coveted title?

With this year's theme “Redefining Beauty and Strength” for Miss Silliman 2007, the real question will be: Is there really a need to redefine beauty and strength of a woman? Tonight, at the Claire McGill Luce Auditorium by 8 o'clock in the evening, will be the much-awaited Pre-pageant Night which showcases the beautiful candidates' talents. See you!

Yumi Ogumi (College of Arts and Sciences)

Graziella Corollo (College of Mass Communication)

Maria Bryne Catherine Marchan (College of Computer Sciences)


Sarah Jane Martin (College of Business Administration)



Jennifer Villanueva (College of Engineering and Design)

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grateful

Due to on-the-rush schedule for the Hibalag celebration and near-financial constraints, I and my fellow Litcritters managed to give this, as a gift, to birthday celebrant Ian Rosales Casocot.

Truth be told, I forgot what age “Sir Ian” celebrated yesterday at The Spanish Heritage by 6:30 in the evening. And sir’s mum, too, shares the same birth date! Well, at the least, the date August 17 managed to seep into my beleaguered mind for some future night of feasting (Libre! Libre!).

Someone told me last night that each picture in the gift represents a genre of fiction. Unfortunately, since I didn’t head the making of this glorious token (thanks to Mich and company! Hehe), I was not able to choose my preferred photo.

Now, guess who leads the fantastic field of horror. Hmm…?

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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).

when nature comes too close

Dewy leaves, soft sunlight, fresh air, and beautiful scenery always hypnotize us. Due to that kind of feeling, we tend to set aside matters that nag our day-to-day sensibilities. When we are close to nature we relax, focus, and meditate.

Relax. Focus. Meditate.
Relax— Focus— Meditate—

1. Relax

May 23, 2007 at exactly 1:30 in the morning, I was watching a late TV show in the living room when boredom finally took over. Reading a book or a magazine to defeat the persisting mild insomnia was the best I could think of. Since everything was so quiet, even the dogs and the cats outside seemed to have taken a sleeping pill, I pulled a newly-bought Reader’s Digest from the shelf and sat cross-legged on my bed. With a big pillow propped behind my back and another on my lap, I started to read.

Just as I was engrossed on an article entitled 10 Questions that Could Save Your Life, an unanticipated visitor came into my midst by 2o’clcok. He was small. There was no denying his smallness since I bowed down a bit to inspect him up close. Well, I also assume he must be a “he”—he looked so much a he to me. As a matter of fact, all frogs look like hes to me. And though the visitor had soft and shiny skin that we regard as a quality of the perfect woman, the rest of the features were definitely masculine: broad shoulders, square jaws, and webbed feet. Webbed Feet? Yes.

Why did he come up to me at this time of night?
What was he doing in my bedroom?

2. Focus

He stood on the checkered blanket that wrapped my feet. On all fours, he crawled towards me in a sneaky way. I tried shooing him away by pulling on the blanket, yet he remained determined. I put the magazine aside and gave him a look: serious, merciless and intimidating. But he stared back at me coldly. Wait. No, not coldly—I believe that beneath those shiny black eyes was a soul full of remorse and wonder.

I gave him another look, but a look of pity. He slowly inched towards me. Without realizing I was already reaching the edge of my bed. I was not aware of myself whether I was scared or timid by his presence but at that moment, he was the center of my attention. He made me question myself whether he was welcome in my bed or not. It was like he was asking for my permission.

I readied myself to jump and upon looking at him, he also had this stance of preparedness like mine. He probably had read my mind! When I jumped off by the side of my bed, he also leaped forward. Finally, he ruled my comfort zone (which was my one and only bed), looking triumphant on top of one of the two pillows. And then he croaked like a dignified being. He croaked? Yes.

How did he get into my room?
Why this perception that he was miserable?

3. Meditate

After three or four shots of him with my handy cell phone, I took a last glance at him and went straight to my mother’s room where I could lie down on the extra bed.

“What are you doing here?” my mother asked me when she noticed me entering the room.
“Hehehe—there’s a frog on my bed,” I replied.

I snugly covered myself up with the warm blanket and thought of him; a creature so bouncy and small. Was he lost and desperately made his way from the unknown regions of this planet to my bedroom?

No. I did not consider him as a lost stranger. For some reason, I believed he meandered into my private adobe for me to realize that something wrong was going on outside our house. Why did he intrude in the first place when he had this expansive swamp in our backyard, tall trees that sprawled around our house, and the rest of his kind chorusing at night-time? Why, with nature’s abundance, had he come confidently onto my cluttered bed?

These questions kept revolving around my head. I shut my eyes and wished I could finally sleep. And in a flash, a realization hit me: Indeed, I rather had a different kind of “closeness” to nature. Tourists and other environment enthusiasts tend to forego modern day pleasures to embrace the greatness of lush forests, and adore the underwater haven or generally kiss nature’s innocent beauty. But in my case, I did not trek crumbly terrains, climb mountains, or swim the depths of the ocean. Nature, instead, came to me. It came at exactly 2 o’clock at dawn. It came to me in an unexpected way, in a very unique form.

Reflecting that night’s very intimate encounter, I just smiled. These days when most people have to appreciate the splendour of natural things through strenuous and costly efforts like hitting high-class resorts and live at villas, I was glad I got the sense of appreciation and love of nature in the form of a frog. He may be an amphibian but the insight I got was very humane.

I will remember this forever.

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hits and ran

Hit 1: Woke up on another morning and went straight off to school without any breakfast filling my starving stomach.

Hit 2: Went to the SU Main Library and settled an exhibit, to be displayed in the Luce Auditorium, for Ramon del Prado's coming here in Dumaguete City. I think he arrived here this afternoon.

Hit 3: On the rush. Made an essay for our Informal Essay class that revolved around the topic, “what ticks you off?” I dealt my writing on an even inside an office.

Hit 4: Ran ran ran. Read read read. Harry Potter? Hu hu hu...

Hit 5: Sat in a class with only four students present.

Hit 6: Went to someone's house and discussed ballads and poetries by Frederico Garcia Lorca and someone who's cleverly called as “anonymous.” Hmm... The literary piece "The Winning of Mariang Ganda" was very beautiful; I forgot who the author was.

Hit 7: Received two text messages that shook my very essence a bit.

Hit 8: Read a lot of blog posts filled with the nastiest Harry Potter spoiler present on the world wide web. And to think of it, I know the authors of those blogs!

Hit 9: I found out that the Weekly Sillimanian office is oh-so-quite! And then I found out that the SU Debate Society is on a trip to Cebu.

Hit 10: Ran.

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last book

Good:

The final book of the Harry Potter series is finally coming out tomorrow morning! And I have reserved a copy at National Bookstore.

Bad:

I reserved the book, done with the necessary requirements (e.g. downpayment), at National Bookstore - Tagbilaran branch. What's more, people of Dumaguete City will be ahead of me tomorrow reading the freshest magical dillemas of this scarred hero.

Phew. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, see you soon. Hu hu hu!

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notes from the past's reign

Words spoken will be etched in our minds for a few days but words written will last forever if the papers are not burned.

And before anyone would do such an attempt, huh, too late: I am posting it here—and it will stay.

The art of writing has transcended its purpose, from anything literary and informative down to being mundane and even lucrative. And just yesterday, fresh from the grapevine, I myself witness a glossy hardbound logbook filled of yesterday's deep, dark, but funny secrets.

First, let's kick off with this little bad note.

And here are the notes that made me smile. I suggest you click on the photo for a clearer and larger picture so that you'll be able to read these astounding revelations.

Editorial Board of the Weekly Sillimanian, school year 2006 - 2007, watch out!

hits 2.0

Hit 1: Woke up at 4:30 in the morning for this year's Nutri-Fit Walk event. Got drizzled with a little bit of rainwater but it instantly washed away my last sweat of patience.

Hit 2: Walked for a couple of hours and reached the Freedom Park of Dumaguete City, Oriental Negros by 8:30. The grounds were ultra-muddy. Good thing I was wearing my white sneakers, but unfortunately my feet were slimy.

Hit 3: Went confidently at McDonalds to have a quick breakfast (which turned out it was not) with some cheerful companions and a soaked pants.

Hit 4: Went to Silliman University Church – UCCP by 10am. The Weekly Sillimanian (tWS) staff were supposed to act as ushers for the day's morning service. Upon arrival, the first words I heard were: “Nasuko si Ma'am Pal. Wala ta ni-attend sa orientation gahapon. Dili na ta mag-usher.” Perfect.

Hit 5: Nevertheless, I and some tWS staff attended the morning service 'til the end. Afterwards, we went to an instant photo shoot outside the church for I brought someone's camera. Narcissism moves in mysterious and divine ways, I tell you.

Hit 6: Had lunch by 12 o'clock. Odie, John Boaz, Claudine, Micah, Dirgy, Nikko and I were very hungry.

Hit 7: Arrived at my boarding house and slumped on my bed by 1:30 in the afternoon.

Hit 8: Woke up by 5:30 in that Sunday afternoon heat! Such a feat.

Hit 9: Went to the Weekly Sillimanian office and found Odie lying on a bench, sound asleep. The poor 'lil editor, so stressed up. Fronting one of the archaic PCs available in the office, I started making myinformal essay for Dale Law.

Hit 10: Ate at Kamalig for dinner and went straight to Wi-Max after I had realized my stomach was properly filled and then I made this post. Bye.

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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.

litcritter original sent

For the past two weeks we were tasked to write another piece of fiction, the kind of the story that is leaning towards the horror genre. And as what Ian Rosales Casocot told us last Saturday, at Silliman University’s President’s House, “writing horror is not easy.”

And believe me it is not, unless you are Stephen King or a reincarnation of Lovecraft or Blackwood.

Though my academics and some extra duties consume most of my time, thankfully I managed to write down a tale I think deliberately steered away from what we were supposed to be writing. Sorry, it’s just hard even if you are simply told ‘all of you have to do is create the mood’ statements every time you ask someone how to write an effective horror story. The bottom line is that I gave it a shot.

Truth be told, this LitCritter assignment is for Dean Alfar’s call of entries on his Philippine Speculative Fiction volume 3; an anthology of anything wondrous or as what the editor himself said in a lot of interviews, “the literature of the imagination.”

Bullfrogs.

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