nothing's elusive to the desperate man

It seems to me that whenever the lethal mix of stress, boredom and routine strikes, there’s the need to completely vanish from the picture, go out of the radar.

Yes, it has been a while that I have not mingled with my usual partners-in-crime, to pursue the usual rounds in a drinking hole, chat the usual fantasies, and walk back to the usual dwelling only to wake up the following day to a dreary Sunday, or worse, a usual Monday.

My mind is completely cluttered lately that I can’t even determine what the fun in watching a movie is.

It is a momentary choice I’ve made, this detachment. I have been missing a lot of things since the start of the year, and the opportunity to get out of the metro—the city tangled in many electrical wires, drowning in dusty PUV’s—is like the most beautifully-cut diamond in all the trash I have been seeing.

After living in a concrete jungle for almost eight months, I’ve thought that the waves, the sand, the cheap sumptuous food, the sunrise, and all about calmness, will be an elusive dream of an intoxicated employee. I’ve made that notion wrong.

One day, with everything all set to go, I venture onto a six-hour travel to find peace, along with three of my Hipon fellows Sara Sebastian, Sam Echavez, and Yas Ocampo. Slap me in the face, but what a peace we found! The escape is worth it.

The stunning details are too vast to word in a paragraph that is why I will just post some shots here, and insert some bits of our conversation that will never be heard in our offices:

I need a break.
[at hindi pumasok ang tao on a workday]

‘Prolific’ is the word of the day.
[feelerette pa rin]

Nauubos na yung Ding Dong. Talaga namang nothing is forever.
[lasing ka na yata]

You are my trophy and trophies don’t talk.
[about handsome no-brain boyfriends]

At the end of the rainbow, there is a pot of bro’s.
[the beach is a sight to behold nga!]

Avant-garde pose tayo!
[at kailangan magmukhang matamlay na talangka tayo?]

Ayoko ng ma-repeat yung ‘Don’t say that’ line ko.
[winking at Mars, Pilipeh and Budjkins]

Risks are needed to complete the adventure.
[muntik ka ng malunod, leche!]

mandatory may nakatulog sa biyahe shot.


mandatory pre-Friendster heads up shot.

mandatory dalampasigan jump shot.

mandatory emo shot.

mandatory sunrise shot.

mandatory nakahiga circle of 'friends' shot.

mandatory nakatayo sa mga matutulis na bato shot.

help this year's edition of the iligan national writers workshop

For the first time after 14 years, the NCCA will not support the Iligan National Writers Workshop because of a technicality: the proponents failed to meet the August 31 deadline. Perhaps an oversight on the organizers’ part, but, the failure to meet the deadline was anchored on the presumption that the Iligan workshop, already institutionalized by the NCCA together with the U.P. and Silliman workshops, did not have to go through the process of an Open Grants competition.

The situation frustrated the organizers and panellists and was a letdown for the many aspiring writers who expected the workshop to be an opportunity to hone their craft.

After unsuccessfully appealing the NCCA decision, I tried to convince my peers during a meeting of the NCCA Committee on Literary Arts that the mandate to develop writing in this country was not ours but government’s through the NCCA. If the NCCA did not wish to support our advocacies, why stress ourselves in forcing the issue? After all, scratching off the program will be the country’s loss, not ours. I tried to convince my peers to consider Commissioner Ricky de Ungria’s suggestion to postpone the workshop to next year but meet the deadline for proposals.

But the tenacity and relentlessness of a Christine Godinez-Ortega and her company refused postponement and moved the proverbial heaven-and-earth to realize this year’s workshop.

Writers and friends have come to the rescue willing to spend personal funds for transport, board and accommodations. Personal funds have been pledged to support the fellows and the workshop’s operations. There may not be enough resources from our donors for support, but one thing is certain: the workshop will push through on May 24-28.

I have joined her advocacy and appeal, and will donate my services gratis and perhaps, if personal resources allow, sponsor a fellow or two.

Attached here is her letter of appeal for support. This advocacy is contagious. I hope it infects your spirit too. Please help writing and our writers.


STEVEN P.C. FERNANDEZ, DFA
Member, NCCA Committee on Literary Arts


*

Please email Christine Godinez-Ortega at cgodinezortega@gmail.com if you can help. Any help, any amount is welcome in order for the INWW to be realized once more this year. The following have pledged their support to fund the travel, board and lodging of a writing fellow from their respective schools, regions and organizations for the duration of the INWW: Phil Harold L. Mercurio and Voltaire Oyzon, Hope Sabanpan Yu,Elsa Victoria Martinez Coscolluela, Leoncio P. Deriada, Carlo Arejola, Ricardo Jorge S. Caluen, Maria C. Buenafe, Chari Cruz Lucero, Servando Halili, Rebecca Anonuevo, Glenn Sevilla Mas, and John Iremil Teodoro.

The INWW will likewise ask for representatives and funding support from the following institutions: Ateneo de Manila University c/o Christine S. Bellen, Ateneo de Davao University c/o Macario Tiu, Ateneo de Cagayan-Xavier University c/o Hobart P. Savior, University of Santo Tomas c/o Lito Zulueta, and Capitol University c/o Atty. Jun Juarez.

The panelists and keynote speaker have likewise pledged to spend their own transportation, board and lodging, and, they are, like the staff, giving their services for free: Chari Cruz Lucero, Macario Tiu, Merlie M. Alunan, Leoncio P. Deriada, Karl Gaspar, Victor N. Sugbo, Lawrence Ypil, Carlo Arejola, and Steven Fernandez.

[post originally taken from Ian Rosales Casocot]

mandatory post-valentine blog entry

This is not supposed to be an obligatory post, especially about that date when bouquets of flowers are much more expensive than my workday lunch, but seeing that I haven’t written anything in here for a long time I might as well get into the fair.

If there’s anything significant on the 14th of February, it is simply the fact that it follows my father’s birthday. He’s turned 56 today. And on the fourteenth itself, it is also the birthday of someone I know who I’ve tagged along with to participate in a college Valentine songwriting competition three years ago only to fail right at the very start of the screening period. Aside from these, there’s nothing else I could think of.

I am neither dense nor jaded not to notice its sugary presence with Hallmark messages crisscrossing the country (or all over the world), or tearjerker primetime telenovelas raking up ratings from the masa with their supposed universal theme, or endless songs of lost and newfound love serenading many jeepneys. Heck, it is even linked to “Up to 70% Off” mall sales and discount packages in hotels (and motels).

My nonchalance to the whole festivity is a—hold your breath for the coming word—choice.

Yes, it is my choice not to entertain sudden appearances of “attic acquaintances” (people casually linked to your social web for a while then left in a corner for good out of ennui) in my inbox, unanswered calls and messages in my phone, or even seedlings of short talks in some gatherings. Someone might call me lackluster, or even conceited, but I guess I am through with those things. For me, they are like rain in a sunny morning; they are arresting at first and instantly draining next.

As the last ray of light from the sun took its last wave yesterday in the horizon, I left the open window and went downstairs to watch Simpsons. It was just another day, only a little bit different because many people were just too caught up with Cupid’s consumerism. As to how an acquaintance puts it, the 14th of February might as well be Singlehood Awareness Day.

I know what I’ve said may paint a bad picture of me but, I like to share, I still keep them coming: the appearances, the messages, the calls, the short talks.

No harm’s done anyway.

call for entries to the 10th iyas creative writing workshop

Be One of the 15 Fellows of the 10th IYAS Creative Writing Workshop. This will be held on April 25-May 01, 2010 at the University of St. La Salle, Bacolod City.

• Applicants should submit original work: either 6 poems, 2 short stories, or 2 one-act play using a pseudonym, in five (5) computer-encoded copies of entries; font size 12, bound or fastened, in separate folders, and soft copies in a CD (MSWord).

• These are to be accompanied by a sealed size 10 business envelope with the author's real name and pseudonym, a 2x2 ID photo, and short resume, which must be mailed on or before March 12, 2010.

• Entries in Cebuano, Hiligaynon, Kinaray-a, Tagalog, or Filipino may be submitted. Fellowships are awarded by genre and by language.

• The grant covers board and lodging and a partial transportation subsidy.

PANELISTS
Prof. John Iremil Teodoro Dr. Genevieve L. Asenjo
Dr. Elsa Coscolluela Dr. Dinah Roma-Sianturi
Dr. D.M.Reyes Dr. Anthony Tan

Submit your Application to:
glofuentes2003@yahoo.com Dr. Gloria Fuentes
Assistant Vice Chancellor for Academics Affair
University of St. La Salle, La Salle Avenue, Bacolod City

call for submission of manuscripts to the 49th silliman university national writers workshop

The Silliman University National Writers Workshop is now accepting applications for the 49th National Writers Workshop to be held 3-21 May 2010 in Dumaguete City.

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

To be considered, applicants should submit manuscripts in English on or before 19 March 2010 (seven to ten poems; or three to five short stories; or three to five creative non-fiction essays). Manuscripts should be submitted in hard copy and on CD, preferably in MS Word, together with a resume, a recommendation letter from a literature professor or a writer of national standing, a notarized certification that the works are original, and two 2X2 ID pictures.

Send all applications or requests for information to Department of English and Literature, attention Dr. Evelyn F. Mascuñana, Chair, Silliman University, 6200 Dumaguete City.

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.

some sense

I’ve gathered from a news report that incidents of victims who are shot from the poetic-sounding but nonetheless dangerous ligaw na bala have risen, from 17 cases across the country (2008-2009) to 26 (2009-2010).

The missing number between the two data is still big.

There must be logic behind these happenings. My guess is simple. Various organizations have strengthened their campaigns against setting off firecrackers when anticipating the coming new year, or at least burn money with the lesser evil like a fountain, so people opt to go for the most sensible form of celebration: drinking. Yes, the activity that involves lots and lots of alcohol that ranges from 6.5 to 7.2 per bottle, or depending on what kind.

After this semi-mandatory family-slash-friends affair, the pivotal reason to the rising number of deaths and wounded from the lost bullet (because it’s called ligaw na bala, diba?) comes next. People, in the end, get drunk. Obviously, those with guns, licensed or not, especially those who go beyond their sanity’s control, reach for their guns and pull the trigger. Bang!

In simpler words: No putok. Gets drink. Gets drunk. Big putok.

I say the precautionary measures must be lifted a notch higher.

dog-ears of the decade

The running line of the 00’s (these are the years 2000 to 2009) is nearing its end. And pushing back the years a little further, I find it fascinating to know the changes and progression of the generic “everything.”

One time, during this Christmas break that I am basking on to the last minute, I suddenly thought of an old picture with my brother and three cousins in it. Luckily, I was with these people in a gathering so I rounded them up, positioned ourselves like the grainy image, had somebody take a shot, and waited for the results.

Other than the juvenile demeanor (as shown by our lanky frames and wide doe eyes) and the ages that I can’t really remember (including mine), I can tell the changes have gone beyond “everything.”

Noting what they are is no longer needed because what must be acknowledged here is how these changes have defined us, along with the community that grows and disperses. Between these two pictures are the dog-ears in a novel’s pages—they are there but no one’s sure how they come up to be.

I believe it has always been like that.

I do know the importance of answering the how’s or the why’s but as we grow older, plucking wisdom from our experiences, we learn the importance of selfless acceptance, whether such so-called change is good or sad (I choose sad since bad is such a strong word).

Whether we like it or not, alterations in many facets of our lives will happen. Or, before we even know it, have happened. Though the folds are inevitable, let us not forget to be aware.

Just recently, maybe through the alignment of the heavenly bodies or the sheer ingenuity of Facebook, I and the rest of my siblings finally connected to a relative we barely knew. This is something good because, as what I’ve said earlier, this shows the kind of change that defines a growing community. Before Christmas Day, many of us personally meet this first degree cousin for the very first time.

But as one bud appears in a bush, a leaf wilts and soon drops on the ground. On the same day of the meeting, our cousin joined us in seeing our grandfather going six feet under. Arcadio Mejorada Carnice, or known as Tatay to many, died on December 21 and was buried in his hometown on the 24th.

Time, indeed, runs fast and we have miscalculated the years. What we have anticipated to slow down reared up, started its engine, and went full blast, hurtling into the distance before anyone of us could catch up. Well, nobody could catch up when it comes to the looming fate of one’s life.

The random bombardment of all things mundane has numbed us and it didn’t help. Crime news or the politico television spot ads, take your pick. Heck, if we have disregarded our very own state of mind and physiological condition because of such, how much more on someone else’s? And please do tell; when was the last time you paused and eyed a wind courting a leaf? When was the last time you picked up a candy wrapper and placed it in a waste basket? When was the last time you said “I love you” with the starkest sincerity and not out of necessity or practice?

In a much grander scale, I am sure the same bombardment has consequently led us to forgo the very basic reason to most critical issues, from global warming to greedy presidents: Nothing could have happened if we didn’t let them be.

This may already be a huge leap from my musings about an old photograph, a new cousin, or a loved one leaving for a better place (I cannot deny this ailment of mine regarding organic unity) but this whole thing just reflects the defragmented era, so as our kaleidoscopic view of the world as everyone’s stage.

The crumbling of the World Trade Center in 2001 is just the beginning. When Apple’s iPhone hit the shelves and garners raves from tech critics and users, we are left in shock by the impact of the economic recession. When we celebrated the inauguration of Barrack Obama as the first African-American US President, we encounter next the feud between rival Sarah Palin and a teenager, with the latter almost going full-monty on a Playgril cover. When Manny Pacquaio wins his seventh world boxing champion title, we learn about his purported affair with a local starlet. When most of us have just stood up after Ondoy and Pepeng, we are stunned by the rising death toll in Maguindanao. There’s a lot more, both good and sad.

It is not surprising that Time magazine labeled the 00’s The Decade from Hell. In a New York Times interview, Yale historian Paul Kennedy said that “The urge to name moments and eras is an affliction common to historians, but one that is best attempted with a certain sobriety.”

Well, with the things happening around us, good luck with that sobriety.

Again and again, we are always told that the consequences lie on our hands too. If we are one of those who celebrated on whatever it is to be celebrated, then it must be logical that we are also one of those who must grieve—a result from being too unmindful of the burgeoning folds or dog-ears in our book of lives.

But our half-thought decision and actions are just part and parcel of the grand design: we commit a mistake and we learn. I’d like to point, as clichéd as it always sounds, that the past may have its flaws but it is in the present that really matters. As what we should have drilled into our heads a long long time ago, the now has great bearing as to how the tomorrow meets us. That way we could definitely define what a happy, pleasant life is.

Despite the differences obvious in both pictures, past and present, one must see the common denominator of the two. This is the smile present in our eyes, like the promising light of the month’s second full moon we could see tonight.

To everyone, I wish you will have a great year ahead, full of the most better-made decisions.

adjusted

Go to your trusted dentist now and avail the Year-ender Braces Adjustment before the clock strikes twelve midnight on December 31. The first 12 patients will get a 40% discount, plus unique Mickey Mouse brackets and glow-in-the-dark elastics. This service is offered by all dentists across the country.

With your Year-ender Braces Adjustment, you wouldn’t only get that perfect smile in the next three to five years but you would also receive the Stupid Mistake Certificate. This special token is a testament to your unthinkable decision for having those pearly whites cringe in this season of feasts and merrymaking. Lechon, chicharon or fried dumpling? Nah.

So what are you waiting for? Be tortured in every bite.

hoppy yuletide season

There’s nothing else to say especially in these times but a truly believable “happy” Christmas to all. Being happy is relative and if this is not enough, it is already up to him or her to at least appreciate the momentary break. Once again, happy Christmas to all of you bullfrogs!

And by the way, today is my mother’s birthday.

i am talking to you

After all, it has been a while. There’s no need stretching the introductory lines here but, being the loquacious bullfrog that I am, I will offer to you my apologies right now for not directly saying what I wanted to spill out of my mouth. I have this question and it’s as if the interrogative is stuck on the tip of my tongue.

Rest assured this is not something that would annoy you, like some television prank show finale. Do not worry.

Even if you’ve reached this point, probably considering that this is a waste of time, I hope you’d hold on to this a little longer. Besides, what matters in almost all events is the moment the two persons share together—and reading a post by someone else is a communal act.

You are in the right place.

Of the several ways that I could manipulate in here, the least I could do is to keep you away. The link between us may not be visually concrete, only subjective to the haste exchange of replies in minute boxes.

Upping the ante of luring you into this part by nailing you with sentimentality is not what I have in mind. In fact, these words just flow from the tips of my fingers like nature’s spigot.

From here on, fine, I will now tip you the purpose of me talking to you. There’s something I want to know but the answer I could get can basically be encapsulated in words like “yes” and “no,” that is why I am rooting for something more than the generic responses.

I appreciate that you’re listening to my written words.

Now, here is what you should do and please bear with the simple instruction that follows: gather the first letters of each paragraph and read them.

Erm, the sudden silence is just jarring. I need to post this.

shoot

For the time being. I just need something that's solely my own. Those big chunky ones, obviously much better (and more expensive), will follow soon. Click here for the specs of this camera.

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.

the man with the metal studs

It is no one’s sunshine when it hits the day’s toll. From delayed papers to anxiety in irksome human forms, the causes are as varied as the spectrum from a color prism.

Stress is, unlike your neighbor’s noisy dog, is a self-induced routine. If the stressors are external, you could yield to them anytime. Kebs. It’s a routine because it grows once it is not dealt with at the soonest time possible, thus, almost becoming like a habit. You know there’s undeniably wrong or stilted in the way how things work yet the atmosphere around is as normal as any other day, so you hop on to another task or assignment that neither helps solve your previous problem nor improves what you will be doing next. It is also a routine because, based on medical research, it happens episodically in everyone’s lifetime, therefore, no one could escape its head-crunching grip. Especially in the corporate setting of any company, this is to be expected.

That’s why stress must be included in the esteemed list of deadly sins. You create or surrender to it, you suffer.

And that’s one curious thing, the fourth word in that sentence before this. Surrender. Ah, you can just feel how the word makes acrobatics with your lips. To avoid suffering, you steer away from that option. I steer away from that option. Well, obviously, it has never been anyone’s favored option.

But due to the limitations of the corporate setup, one ends up with stress, in agony. Maybe that’s a strong word but it is more or less like that, probably in the 4th degree of criticality in a one-to-ten scale.

Concentration gone, aspirations collapsed, the gears not oiled. The cause of both psychological and physiological rumpus? Believe it or not but these simply concern a pair of metal ear studs worn by a man. In short, men shouldn't put any adornment on their ears, or on any other part of the head.

It strikes me to know such kind of prohibition. To encapsulate the drama that escalated because of this, which spanned for two weeks, here are three specific reasons that are so tasty I would like to share them in their concentrated context.

Specific Reason #1

You are under a department that foster resourcefulness through cohesive policies in education, training, health and employment in all levels, and at the same time reflect and require workplace diversity that echoes the company’s customer base. As a result, you follow rules and regulations created by your department, for other departments and for the other people in your department.

Specific Reason #2

You are stereotyped as a creative person, thus, you can get away with whatever looks you want to project, but since you are in a corporate place you have to tone down.

Specific Reason #3

You are only wearing an accessory, something that’s removable. Piercings are not part of the body (on the argument on why a lot of men around are permitted to have shoulder-length hair).

Specific Reason #4

You are under the gods with a conservative viewpoint.

There, they are all laid out. Specific Reason #1 is a given, but here’s the loophole: Restriction on men having ear piercings is not even mentioned in the code of conduct. Besides, what may not be good-looking on someone looks magnificamente perfetto to another. Corporate attire works on a lot of different levels.

As if we had enough typecasts in the world through telenovelas and C-movies, here comes Specific Reason #2. It may be rude to come up with projection as a defense mechanism but look around; aside from the Creative section of the Marketing department, some IT personnel wear them and a whole lot more from obscure units I am not familiar with. Yes, one can easily tone down anything but not individuality. And if long hair is acceptable, since it is part of the body and is not an accessory, cornrows and Mohawks would be a good idea, especially in this field crowded with boring slacks, polos and pencil skirts.

Arguing to Specific Reason #3 equates to having a conversation with a rabid dog, so let us progress to #4. This reason is the most challenging part of all, wherein one has to tackle a fixed religious mindset and moral upbringing.
The word “conservative” basically covers the familial creed, the forbiddance of the color black, and the restriction of putting an umbrella under the table. Get the picture? In this case, imposing the practices of the gods on “different” people, disregarding how efficient they move the system, through usage of authoritarian power, defeats the foundation the department in Specific Reason #1 is trying to build—that is, workplace diversity. It is ironic, if not comically tongue-in-cheek.

And the gods say the acceptance of change must be gradual, and the normalcy of men having piercings is one fine example. Of course, it must be gradual, everyone must have known that after age 12, but the question is: Were the gods being ‘gradual’ in the first place?

If the gods are being gradual, they should stop whispering unpredictably to the so-called deviants in cold office corners to remove any form of accessory, and set the rules in a formal and written-on-stone finality, not through the distinctly Filipino “pagsita.” We are not elementary kids any longer.

If the gods are being gradual, efficient and constructive as what they are trying to show in their glossy demeanor, they should have cracked the hard nut of the applicant, slap on the face the documents of “you should” and “you should not” during the interview processes—not three or four months later, just like what they did to me, because that would truly be a showcase of clumsiness and ineptitude.

But no, the gods are not being gradual. They are noticeably stuck in the age of the dinosaurs, or in limbo, misplaced at the center of modernity zooming in hyperdrive, like denying the existence of Windows 97 all along.

I say this because the real meaning of gradual can be realized only if it takes the next step of moving forward. When that’s done, one can clearly see how satisfying the result of the gradual movement for change is. But there’s no movement, none at all. How stressful.

Pardon for this length but I think I have to write for my long absence in here. It is just sad that this comeback shows up in the form of a highfalutin rant. With all honesty, this is not about the hot air in my head, not one of those Millennium Development Goals promoting gender equality, and especially not just the metal studs in my ears the size of your morning stars. It is to discern that there’s something more than first impressions, to see the sunshine before anything else hits the day’s toll.

I guess I am running in circles now. Goodness, it’s strange. This must be the reason why I feel my days are complete whenever they break at six. I better put on my headband.

hefty bunch

Though some things are better left unnoticed, there are those that you cannot disregard no matter how you shut all your senses down. For example, how would you ever resurrect the death of Friendster to all your elitist comrades? Seriously, here are the mind-fillers that I am talking about. A word of caution though, this does not involve pointers on the coming elections and global economic issues.

1. Itch
I’ve already mentioned this itch a couple of times ago through status updates (as if the frequency helps get rid of it), and it is still there, lingering in my throat. I have even mentioned of getting a cat to have its padded paws rub my neck, but then I realize it only works for removing the pain caused by little bones stuck somewhere in the throat—which is, of course, based on silly old wives’ tales. I get myself a can of soda, a bar of chocolate and two cupcakes. Now I wonder where I keep on having this annoying sore throat. Hey, where’s the vanilla almond ice cream?

2. Weekend
What can be more befuddling than spending a long weekend doing nothing at all? Well, another weekend doing nothing at all. I know this would happen today, that’s why last Friday I visited the dibidihan and bought seasons one and two of Big Love, a series about polygamy, and then discovered I made the wrong decision after watching the first three episodes. It’s not that it is awful, the series, but I need something light and funny, not something stressful with bickering in-laws and scheming religious sect. Alright, I will just listen to Mika then.

3. Stagnant
My promise is broken. I tell myself to come up with a short fiction or a piece of verse, at least in their roughest draft you could imagine, every month but that October is a total dud. This is troubling. I don’t want the well to go dry, especially in these times that I’ve chosen a career path that veers me away from inspiration, keeps me rehashing all the good sentiments I could remember from Hallmark cards. That’s why I want to do the bullet that follows this; wishing it might help me get back, head on to those unfinished drafts.

4. Reads
I want to read. There’s a big pile by my bedside, novels upon anthologies upon magazines upon collections. And most of them, I haven’t read. Technically, I have read all of them, the first five to ten pages. Because of my sudden inability to finish anything that’s bound, in gloss or matte finish, I have given myself a rule to finish at least one material before buying another one at the bookstore. But then, the minute I arrive home after work, all my energy are gone I can’t even pick a flimsy Time. Now, I feel myself shiver, probably a withdrawal symptom, the minute I see an interesting cover by the store windows.

5. Camera
My work will soon require frequent documentation just for the heck of it, and so far, I am not happy with what the upper echelons have been providing me. So, I think of getting one, the sort that captures the image of lions devouring a gazelle from meters and meters away if there’s a safari around here. On my long trek to get to the jeepney terminal before going home, I cannot help but salivate whenever I pass by the gadget stores in one mall. If I could just get into those shops after midnight…

6. Gifts
And just look at that, October slips by like tumbleweed. A few more weeks and it will be December, the month of giving and more giving, or if you’d prefer the term, sharing. My concern here is the equation listed below:

Legend:
a – Me
b – Income
c – Family members

Problem:
a(1) + b is not equal to c(7)

Get the picture? Never mind.


7. Material
In case you haven’t noticed, I will tell you now that the last three things mentioned are, like what I have just said, Things. Isn’t that disturbing, wallowing in all earthly delights? Envying filthy goods? Falling to the consumerist pit where the devil might be lurking, patiently waiting to join him in the underworld? I don’t know. What I am sure is I want to live a pleasant life even if I can’t bring a netbook after I am cremated or buried six feet under.

answering the question

At long last, I’ve met some people who I have not seen since two months of May ago. And why not? We deserve this. After all, we have just celebrated in advance Dustin’s 26th birthday (?), a fellow Katsubong.

Since most members of the 47th batch have gathered, the prerequisite allegorical question of keeping each and every one updated is brought up: “Kamusta ang love life?” Here are some bits of information for those out there who are not able to attend with us.

Currently, Margie is crossing her fingers for a possible publication of her first short story collection. She works as a corporate communications just like me. She left Black Ink to get a new apartment.

Dustin, the birthday boy, is one of Christina Pantoja Hidalgo’s favorite students. As if that’s not enough elevation, he is the highest rated teacher in a university where he keeps on playing violence-filled videos to his students.

Carmela, who’s not letting Margie take the entire spotlight, is revving up for her “I Love You, Bakla” enterprise. After several short-lived undertakings in the corporate world, she thinks her current job would at least last for a year.

Tokwa is still the same; singkit but with a shorter hair. He would soon become the epitome of what is called genre-bending after the release of his Filipino-version of George Orwell’s 1984. It is a play with Marianne Rivera on it—an insert inspired from the movie Booba, the first Filipino post-modern film.

Lawrence, whether he likes it or not, has been immortalized in the form of a little figurine in the apartment of Dustin and Marge. Well, here’s some hint: If Oedipus is for blindness and Beethoven is for deafness, well there’s Lawrence for… you know what it is. He takes over the position of Marge in Black Ink.

Leslie did not seem to appear in the gathering. Instead, it is her alter-ego that came up, talking about dogs, crying over Quickmelt that magically transforms into blue cheese, and gulping down to the last drop of what’s left with our wine. Seriously, you’ll be fine, Les.

And finally, there’s Elena who, as what Dustin have shared to us, gives the class of Hidalgo a little surprise with her creative nonfiction work. Because of that, we push her to start with her own collection too. Oh, she’s happy being a student.

So, that’s it. With a lot of cheese, wine, and bread on the table, it’s inevitable that we stayed in until six in the morning of the following day. Okay, that may be wrong but let us be. This only happens once in a while. Until next meeting!

Liza, Lambert, Igor, Arlene, and Bron, are you listening? And oh yeah, the updates of those people's lives obviously didn't answer the metaphorical question, “Kamusta ang love life?”

the rant as a generic political campaign against discomfort

Ideas, as many a mind produces, are worthless if stale. They rot, ill with boredom, and remain uninspired that only divine intervention could take them out of mental limbo. And here I am, neither stuck in the open spaces of ingenuity nor in the confines of incapacity. Just there in the middle, flotsam-like, moving along the grains with no effort.

It doesn’t feel good.

To complain would be the worst thing to do, especially that in order to sustain the earthly things materializing in front of me twice a month, I just have to sit all day long until spiders visit me and build houses inside my head. To request, on the other hand, seems to be too coercing and besides, I once requested a minor change in the system and it took weeks to see the currents moving. Wait! It should be take weeks, present tense, because until now the waiting continues.

So what’s left right now, if ever I do have possible choices, is to yield. To Yield. Just do what’s supposed to be done and the waters will carry on, ebbing smoothly into the vast unknowns. Belch! Sorry, this food has bad aftertaste.*

See, there’s the fight against putting taxes on Coca Cola drinks in the US, the father beheaded by his own mentally-deranged son in Capiz, the tandem of Manny Villar and Willie Revillame for president and vice-president respectively in the coming elections, the skyrocketing sales of Dan Brown’s latest recycled popcorn, the upcoming December issue cover of Oprah Winfrey’s O magazine with Ellen Degeneres on it, the personal mission of finding the perfectly-structured white button-down shirt, and most of all, the movie of Vilma Santos with John Lloyd Cruz and Luiz Manzano as a gay couple, but why am I here? Why am I thinking like television reruns, like used underpants, like soap suds on the bathroom floor? Stone me to death but I repeat, why am I here?

Batuhin mo man ako ng bato o tinapay,

tatanggapin ko, wag lang crac…

I am not compelled to keep this abstract burden rested on my shoulders but let’s just see what happens next. Three more months or, if I can still hold on to my patience and sanity, intact and functioning, nine more and then off I will fly away to rainbow’s end. As of now, I am as stale as yesterday’s breakfast rice.

*clears throat at the side

see it for yourself

“Then you might see it,
but you won’t believe it…”
- Stranger to the Eyes of a Child-Man, The Republic Tigers


1. Bash
Last Thursday night, the traffic seems to be the least concern for most people going to NBC Tent. You know, for a small event that’s called the Cosmopolitan Bachelor Bash 2009, I guess it is not hard to set this problem aside. Samantha Echavez, who works for the Cosmo magazine, has invited me to this annual event ever since we’ve met in Iligan City. I turned her down before. But this time the bash can’t be missed. After all, I live minutes away from the spot and get to veer away from the humdrum of my daily office routine. The sights are strange but pleasant, and I guess I need them.

2. Spectacles
If you think this post has got nothing more to say, well, stop reading. This one goes for the pedestrian: I am wearing glasses now (cue: release the confetti). Yes, I am wearing one as of the moment, many thanks to the computer monitor that I make love with nine hours a day. But it has no grades. I visited the ophthalmologist two weeks ago to check what was wrong with my eyes; they’re aching, gritty, and always dry (sometimes, before I go to sleep at night, tears would crawl from my cheeks even though I am not feeling melodramatic). After taking a few tests with the doctor, I was given this radiation filter specs. He said I am just experiencing eye-strains so he recommended me to wear something for protection, not for treatment. With my retainers and braces, now someone’s looking like a real nerd.

3. Splash
The “Ber” months have just arrived without prior notice, starting with the appearance of wet September. Like an episode taken out from the pages of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel, the surroundings are all grey, muddy, damp and cold—the exact opposite of a sunny but dusty, dry and humid day. But honestly, I prefer the latter. I am not living in Tagbilaran or Dumaguete any more, where every distance of one place to another can easily be covered with a few tsinelas steps. Yes, this is futile because I am complaining against nature, but this is basically what the rage in my head is all about: I miss you, guys!

patambling muna ha?

"Sorry ha, pero mukha kang
fashion designer kaysa writer."

OK, I will still take that as a compliment.

2009 philippines free press literary awards

And here it is again, the list. Familiar names are in it and it is not surprising. Up to now I still have no guts to submit anything for the magazine, maybe out of cowardice or lack of anything sensible to show off. Well, I’d just like to congratulate Sasha, Arkaye, Marie, Dean, Mia and Jean Claire for their respective achievements (the last four people have humbly shared their works for publication in Dark Blue Southern Seas 2009, an anthology I have edited for Silliman University’s literary folio).

Fiction
1st Place: Epic Life by Rhea Politado
2nd Place: Marita Pangan by Mechu Aquino Sarmiento,
3rd Place: Catherine Theory by Sasha Martinez & Bad Heart by John Bengan (tie)

Poetry
1st Place: Textbook Statistics by Arkaye Kierulf
2nd Place: Poet Looks at Satellite Picture of Home by Sid Gomez Hildawa
3rd Place: Mebuyen by Mikael Co

Finalists (Short Story) Sunboy by Dean Francis Alfar, Bad Heart by John Bengan, Outlaws, by Mary Jessel B. Duque, Big Yellow by Jean Claire Dy, The Death of Roy by Sharmaine Galve, Photo Sessions by Joy Anne Icayan, Catherine Theory by Sasha Martinez, Epic Life by Rhea Politado, Marita Pangan by Mechu Aquino Sarmiento, Wishes Do Come True by Mia Tijam, An Abduction by Mermaids by Eliza Victoria

Finalists (Poetry) Infinite Mondays by Mads Bajarias, Mebuyen by Mikael de Lara Co, Textbook Statistics by Arkaye Kierulf, Slowness by Marie La Vina, Instructions by Marie La Vina, Meals Without You by Arvin Mangohig, It Is 1980 by Natasha Gamalinda, Poet Looks at Satellite Picture of Home by Sid Gomez Hildawa, Poet Talks to an Old Movie by Sid Gomez Hildawa, The Little Things by Rafael Antonio C. San Diego

envy and boredom is a bad mix

We grapple with the littlest problems we think of in each day, whether we like it or not. It could be the overly-sweetened morning coffee, the tangled shoelaces, or the neon checkered pants your neighbor wears. In my case, there’s the wishful thinking of jumping onto a plane and flying straight to Dumaguete City. Yup, that’s a problem.

It may not be known to the whole world but Dumaguete holds one my beloved places: Silliman University. Today, the institution is celebrating its Founders Day. And like everybody else who’s provinces away, I miss that rustic place oh-so badly. And yes, “missing” is another problem.

You see, there’s work. I cannot leave my daily duties just to spend my day going to beach, or basking in a café for an afternoon latté, or lazing around the booth area in the evening, or drinking the night away until dawn breaks at the boulevard. Or can I? I don’t know. What I really know is that I have said this line to my immediate superiors a lot of times, on how I am doing with my work: “I’m still coping.”

Their default answer of surprise: “Ang tagal naman ng coping na yan!”

Well, if these people have just lived in a place like Dumaguete for four years or longer, I think they will take a closer look and study what a post post-graduation syndrome is. With my little problem of flying to Dumaguete remains to be "little" because there's no other choice, I try cheering myself up. August will end soon and the only bright side I can think of is that my boredom, as of now, is paid with a check.

tell me what real means

It impresses me that some people make their words sound so genuine, believable in their piercing notes. The tune they carry is melodiously careful, if not sweet, like the slow creaking of a door when a mother checks on her sleeping child. Measured, labored with so much concern.

I know this admiration is nothing compared to what these people utter. If one hears them speak of their sentiments, one will hear the song that moves the curtain in the afternoon, the cries that commence the clouds to cover the sun.

Who could have known these exaggerations? Or how did I know these hyperboles exist? Well, who else will be familiar of these things other than me, who was once saturated in those concentrated words of affirmation and of love that lasts?

But after some time, I know everything is just not what it seems to be. A word is a word unless felt, not only heard.

to the exit door

If my silence overpowers me, if my heart does not beat fast whenever I sit on the same chair for a couple of hours, if some habits are not going to change, if the flow stops and creates a clog, if it is all vague and the answer is there but remains unnoticed, if the big head grows bigger and the sense of logic diminishes, if his fellow fellows share more than what they can keep, if ghostly stories shrouding that humble image continues for another sunset, well, all systems go to the exit door then.

All these could mean something is not right. Nothing is right but, at least, having a thought of something reasonably right is adequate. I guess this is not my luck.

small on your palms

My sister showed me something that made my heart skip a beat. In her hands was an envelope the size of my thumb and a pop-up letter with the date October 1997 written in tiny letters. It was weird seeing those made-up things in this day, not because of some rubbish I saw but wistfulness.

I made them 12 years ago.

When I was a child I constantly wrote letters longhand to my sister who lived here in Manila. Even if the revolutionary Macintosh was already out in the market, we did not have a computer. Starting at the young age of six onwards, I sent to her what I like as a birthday present, drawings, stories from my neighbor and even juvenile poems in jumbled English. If a plain sheet of paper was not enough, I constructed small paper planes, boats and, like what I recently saw, pop-up cards. I placed them in self-made envelopes and I didn’t even know yet how they reached to my sister. As long as gave one of them to my mother, I felt relieved.

And as man looking back as a child, it amazed me that the most blissful experience I can remember was the day I received a letter from my sister with a little package I wished for her to give. It was a set of glow-in-the-dark stars.

Indeed, love is more significant if you see it closely, feel it like petal on your fingers, or a glow-in-the-dark star. As what Mom Edith Tiempo reminds us with her poem Bonsai, “…life and love are real/ Things you can run and/ Breathless hand over/ To the merest child.”

freedom as respect and humanness

[Statement on the National Artist Awards]

The head of a country or state who is truly enlightened provides the populace with the exercise of freedom not just for the government’s considerations but, most important, freedom as every individual’s right and privilege. To be aware of freedom as the individual’s possession requires the respect for his personality, for his considered actions, for his beliefs and decisions. A favorite American saying goes this way: “Your freedom ends where my nose begins;” this saying stresses how personal this requirement for freedom goes, with the specific anatomy as the limit that one’s freedom can go.

What is meant by a country’s head being enlightened? By this enlightenment is meant the awareness that at the very primary root of freedom is the human presence, humanity that demands respect – because without this respect one might as well be dealing with the most fearful and undomesticated of animals.

A well-run government’s decisions are based of course on respect for rules and regulations,and the respect always is rooted in the awareness of the acknowledged group’s right and well-considered performance of its duty.

Dr. Edith L. Tiempo

National Artist for Literature

August 6, 2009

an attempt to avoid dormancy

Just look at that. Since when have I posted a decent post here? I can’t even remember. It would even be more confusing if I define what “decent” is in the context of the blogosphere. Due to the reality that I am finally one of the million of employees working like machines, it is hard to find some time to write. I can ever consider myself lucky right now I am able to come up this. Here are some posts for lost writing time of events.

Anniversary. My mother and father have just celebrated their 40th Wedding Anniversary last August 1, Saturday in the afternoon, at Villa Alzhun, Dauis, Bohol (even if the actual anniversary date is on the third). This Ruby anniversary is just one of the seldom seen testaments that there are things lovely and touching—and hopefully, things that would last. To the Higher Being, bless this family.

Work. As what I have said earlier, I am a working citizen now, paying taxes that even the genius Albert Einstein could not comprehend in his lifetime. The first week of the job is pretty unhurried, nicely slow an understatement, but I know my bosses’ smiles and words of encouragement would not last. I know that being absent on the first day of the job is not a plus factor to my records. I know that someday I will pull every strand of my hair and shout, “Heck! I can juggle but I am no magician!”

Absurdity. I still have a bit of time to write something else so I have included here mundane undertakings a fool would puke if he would know. Because I work in a company that’s slightly above call-center and advertising corporate-look standards, I cut my hair. But because I know I will not be comfortable with how everything looks the same (and smiles the same) with each other, I add another ear piercing. Maybe next time I will wear my faux diamonds. Oh, by the way, my upper set of teeth is in retainers already. Absurd, enough? Tell me.

yellow

It does not blind. It enlightens.

(for Corazon Aquino 1933 - 2009 )

biscuits

Someone's going to have this view, skyline and all, this coming August.

out or the mind in his mind

The note or blog feature of the account is stagnant. It has not changed. In his mind, you tell the screen, do not follow the light. You are controlled, in his mind, like a marionette. You are in his mind that is why you tell the screen not to follow the light instead of him. You are confused just like the day the kindergarten teacher questioned you, “Why is this apple purple?” But you are always confused; it has always been like this ever since you try rebutting that kindergarten teacher. Before you continue regressing, walking down memory lane, he tells you to do something with his account.

What should I do, you ask in your mind. Or on second thought, you ask in your mind which is dictated by another mind which is his. The way you think is orchestrated by him; you have neither skill nor talent to whip up a single note because you have no control whatsoever. Then I question the puppeteer how he, the mind in your mind, creates anything if you have absolute power over him? Now I am involved in the struggle of the mind and the mind in the mind. I wish I am the kindergarten teacher right now, left in the recesses of the memories of the mind in his mind.

Right now, he argues I am defending the mind in his mind—you. Yes, he thinks you and I are scheming against his plans to prolong the stagnation of his account. He calls you Puppet. He baptizes you that silly name. He leaves the room, away from the two of us, but of course, that cannot be possible because you are in him. I take the cutter, in the drawer of the bed’s corner table and slash his back, the shoulders. He stops and this gives me the chance to strike again, this time from his bare nape down to his butt crack, tearing his loose cotton shirt now smeared with blood. I hear you scream and it sounds weird, like you are in pain too. You become silent all of a sudden. I do not mind as long as you come out of his stupid existence.

After I cut him into pieces, peeled his skin from scalp to soles, with a cleaver I got from the store room, I sit by the doorway of the room, waiting for you to come out. But you are nowhere in sight. I am expecting that you would crawl out from his glutinous stomach lying on the carpeted floor, or from his cranium broken in crooked half after I banged it on the sharp edge of the computer table, but not a single patch of your being is to be found. I call you several times, shouting at a shredded corpse, with the name Puppet because it is the only name I know of you. It is useless. I cry, not out of shame but of pity because I have just killed my favorite kindergarten student twenty-one years ago. I put the cleaver away from me and run out of the house.

yes, children

In my current days living with my sister’s children 24/7, it is not hard for some bits of their discussions to drift into my ears. But their talks are no mere silly talk, they’re something else. If every little child in the world is like the following kid, I am better off in another planet.

Mother: Why are you crying?
Son: My spider died. Josh’s spider killed my spider in the battle.
Mother: It’s like that. We have to accept that some things are better than yours.
Son: No, I don’t like to play anymore.
Mother: Let’s just find a better spider.
Son: No. I don’t like spider battle anymore. And Josh is bullying me.
Mother: That’s not right… But it’s alright to lose. We do not win at all times.
Son: If I will play spider battle, let’s buy a tarantula mum so that all Josh’s spider will lose.
(whoa, now the problem’s settled!)


o o o


Father: Someday we will be rich.
Son: If we will be very rich dad let’s give money to the poor.
Father: That’s a good idea!
Son: But I don’t like to be very rich dad because it makes people’s heads very big.
Father: Yes, you’re right. Very good!
Son: Let’s just be in the middle of rich… and very rich, dad.
(the kid’s got the right economics in his head)

transformers sequel directed by bb. joyce bernal or lyde gerard villanueva is megan fox

Of course, there’s no truth in that statement. We all know Michael Bay directed this cartoons-turned-toy-turned-movie franchise. He’s just the man behind the commercial dud The Island and that little movie series Bad Boys. But hey, don’t deny it, the name Bb. Joyce Bernal sounds superior with Transformers, right? Close your eyes, imagine the end credits rolling, and hear a thunderous voice saying: “Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen… directed by Binibining Joyce Bernal!” Cool, isn’t it?

Okay, I’ll stop kidding around but Bernal is someone reputable. Besides, Bernal has something in common with Bay. Aside from the fact that their surnames starts with “B,” the woman’s directorial efforts have actually spawned blockbuster hits, well, maybe just in the Philippines but a hit is a hit. And Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is not an alien in the “hit” category. The Autobots and the Decepticons make it big the second time around.

As of the moment, I’ve heard in the news that the film is catching up with the grosses of last year’s massive The Dark Knight. But that’s a different matter. I love the two battling races of alien way before they are adapted for the silver screen. I’ve seen the choppy seminal cartoon series, the CGI-versions, and I even have quite a number of toys that’s shared with my older brother (or is it the other way around?). Therefore, with all these stated, I’ve imposed to myself a mandatory review of the Transformers sequel.

Fallen has all the works of a superb underdog action flick. It has a lanky protagonist, a sexy cohort, a dedicated sidekick and uncontrollable parents for added humor. To complete the setup throw in an object of desire (from the All Spark relics to the, erm, Matrix of Leadership) and two groups that would try to win it over while the aforementioned characters run amok in the center. It’s as simple as that but the problem is the concept has already deserved its place in a silent corner of the house—and that is in the trash bin. If I am just a toddler with an attention span of a thumbtack, I wouldn’t have regretted watching the movie last night. After all, I’ve grown up with the technicolored robots! As stubborn as I am, and since I am trying to disagree to the critics’ spite, I watch.

Sadly, Fallen succeeds only in the last word of its title. It has fallen.

To encapsulate how it has affected me as a viewer, it feels like a “Hey, let’s make a movie that has explosions here and more explosions there while far, far away another set of blasts will follow! And it will be totally cool if we put in a hot chick in all these chaos and record her in all exploitative angles! Huh? Story? What story? People, more explosives and noise please!” kind of movie. I have nothing against movies with big bangs—I love Alfonso Cuaron’s Children of Men and the final episode of Star Wars.

I dare anyone out there to ask any simpleton who has seen the movie what it’s like and I bet you’ll get an Awesome Answer: “Whoa man! It’s awesome. Did you just see that awesome stuff that just went into the air, like, it’s the awesome-est thing in the world? Gad, it’s super awesome!” Then, if you ask what the story is all about and you’ll hear the chirping of birds. One or two lines of explanation will be a feat. Alright, hold your horses fans, Fallen has something anyone would call a plot—and it is as thin as a millimeter stretched to almost two-hours of wasted film. Honestly, I have had my occasional “Ooohs” and “Aaaahs” but they are only up to that, or maybe out of sympathy.

Fallen is like a cold kernel heated to produce the fanciest popcorn in the history of cinema. Yes, it has raked in cash unlike any other movies this year and yes, YES, it is what a movie should be all about—Entertainment with a capital “E”—but I just can’t figure out its monstrosity of inconsistencies. Fine, ‘nuff said and let’s get this straight. Listed here are some few bulleted points of the many problems that plague Fallen. I tell you, these will even make a first grader scratch his head in question until it bleeds. Watch out, spoilers spew after this period.

1. The Guns
This runs in my head from the very start: “What were they thinking?” The US Military Armies have already encountered alien invasion, superior non-human intelligence, yet they have not realized their tiny measly guns and rifles have no match for the adversaries’ thick metal hides. These people continue shooting like mad! Wow, talk about dedication. But for goodness’ sake, didn’t they even see that Jazz’s or Optimus Prime’s canons gave nothing to the Decepticons but mere scratch? As if everything starts to become futile, finally, Pentagon catches up on their noodles and releases their tanks and fighter jet planes with missiles that are as good as your bottomless iced tea.

2. The Scenes
Hello, this is already a sequel. I know these robots are made up of the most durable metal in the world or the universe whatever so there’s no need of pushing that fact into my face. The extreme camera close-ups on the transformations are pretty neat at first but they tend to be wearisome, perhaps boring in the next few shots. They are absolutely unnecessary. I can pass Yoda with his pointy ears and telekinesis or Harry Potter with his magic spells because their theatrics are not the main star of the film. Some fight scenes are prolonged too, don’t build up to the progression of the plot, they should be discarded completely. The incessant and blatant apocalyptic destruction is a Michael Bay signature but, in here, he has gone overboard (again) with the pyrotechnics he should work at Disneyland.

3. The Emotions
I know they are aliens that resemble stylized versions of numerous Voltes V thingamajigs but, at least, just the slightest bit, put in some emotion. It seems to me that the only trait highly prioritized in the movie is lust (sans Fox, imagine humping dogs and a robot. A robot?!), anarchy (goodbye Shanghai), and machismo (too much of it that a High Endurance Old Spice scent emanates from the screen). Heck, Wall-E has made millions cry with mere bleeps and buzzes! After trying to recall something humane in the entirety of the film when I’ve just been rendered deaf, viola, I discover there’s something noteworthy after all. It is in the forest scene where Optimus Prime battled two or three Decepticons while saying to Sam “Hide. Sam.,” and then, after a few metal-bashing moments, saying “Run. Sam.” Wow. That’s the most heartwarming episode I can remember.

4. The Dream Sequence
To redeem the worth of my hundred and fifty bucks, I’d like to call one scene as The Dream Sequence, for formality’s sake, rather than relate to it as The Heaven of the Robots. I’ve seen enough imaginary works than have ensued in the silver screen but I just couldn’t hold on any longer to my overly-extended suspension of disbelief in one “crucial” scene near the end. Sam sort of died but woke up after a moment of hearing inspirational Wachowski-an speeches from dead robots. Yes, you read that right, dead robots in a misty and narcotics-induced setting. Let’s make this clear: I watch to be entertained, not stumped from some cheap deus ex machina tactics.

5. The Pants
And just look at that, Megan Fox has a pair of white pants that eternally stays virgin white until the last five minutes of the film. After all that running, jumping, and more running in the midst of a total jumble of dust and debris, not a spot of dirt is to be found on her skinny jeans. Galing ng labandera mo, Ate! Oh wait, Shia LaBeouf is already bleeding to death but Fox remains pristine and immaculate—not a single scar on her oh-so seductively tanned face. Yeah, she is Megan Fox, adored by a hoard of perverts and worshipped by every gentleman’s magazine published in all points of the compass but, come on producers, no special treatments to your actors! If not for Lyde Gerard Villanueva, someone who has a name that would hit the A-list of Hollywood stars soon, I forgive this movie. As what he has said before we entered the theater, “Kung ikaw si Megatron, ako si Mega… Megan Fox!” I can’t debate to that any further.