this way to disaster

By F. Jordan Carnice

The Weekly Sillimanian

November 17, 2010

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

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

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

We make it look like hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

when celebs sacrifice art for trash

It turns out my little flash commentary on a TV show is happy to be in the pages of Philippine Daily Inquirer last Saturday (November 20, 2010).

alyza, read this

“Writing is a genuinely laborious and abstract process. When it is fun, the pleasure is wholly different from the pleasure of drawing. With drawing, I am acutely aware of creating something on a sheet of paper. It is a sensual act, which you cannot say about the act of writing. In fact, I often turn to drawing to recover from the writing.”

- Gunter Grass, 1991

first meeting

The first time the two boys have met.

(David Heyman, 2000)

just curious

What happened to him? And what's his name again?

paper monster press: isang timbulang maasahan para masagip ang nalulunod na sining ng pagtula?

It is a small step but nonetheless gratifying. My poem “To End a Wall” (written a long time ago) is published in the first issue of Paper Monster Press, entitled Pyrotechnic Poetry, which is edited by De La Salle instructor Ainne Frances de la Cruz.

I need this little push to continue writing verses. I’ve been too caught up with my fiction writing these days I rarely produce a sensible piece of heightened language, thus breaking my “one short story and one poem” per month promise. There’s no use lamenting on this, after all, I should have learned by now that promises are meant to be broken.

Anyway, here’s a review of the said publication. Listed below are my fellow contributors:

“Paper Cup” by Ryan Gabby Taborada
“For the storyteller” by Lawrence Bañas
“Frankjo” by Pache Paredes
“To End a Wall” by F. Jordan Carnice
“Lotus Eaters” by Noah Sonnenchein
“A Minute After Six” by J. Luna
“Cleaning Up” by Xenia Chloe-Villanueva
“Transit” by Karlo Jose R. Pineda
“Pre-Wendy” by Raydon L. Reyes
“at Tryst” by Eduardo Uy Jr.
“Gulugod” by Mykel Andrada
“Ang Lalaking Ipinaglihi sa Titi ng Kapwa niya Lalaki” by Noel de Leon
“Paghanap sa Bulag na Alitaptap” by Raul Funilas
“Sahid” by Louise Vincent B. Amante
“Paggalang sa Banal” by Dr. Jondy M. Arpilleda
“PNR” by James Tana
“Pito-pito” by Gigi Constantino
“Harlot [Ang Haliparot]” by Michael C. Alegre
“Sa Damuhan” by Mark Erron San Mateo

generic

There are plenty of things to compare in this world: this bag looks like that bag, her dress is a twin of your dress, or this notebook is a twin of a thousand notebooks.

But being a spitting image of another person? I am not sure if that’s a comforting thought.

I’ve received the comments “May kamukha ka!” and “Someone in here looks like you!” for the nth time (probably, 1,234,567,900th) as if this is a tag permanently clipped on my back. It is not entirely grating, like Justin Beiber’s voice, but I just hope people will keep the thought to themselves because I have my very own mental picture of what I look like, and if the so-called similarity they are talking about defies the illustration in my head, maybe the apocalypse is not that far from happening.

But if the resemblance is strikingly true, well then, I might settle in the shelves of a drugstore soon. It seems that I look exceptionally generic.

12th ateneo video open

Sillimanians should participate in this.

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The Ateneo Video Open, now on its twelfth year, is an annual nationwide film competition open to collegiate-level filmmakers. It is organized by the Loyola Film Circle, the Ateneo de Manila University’s premiere film organization.

If you are a filmmaker and are interested, please visit this site for more information.

The Categories are:

a. Experimental

No more than 15 min in length

b. Music Video

For any original song by a local artist/band (with proper permission) of no more than 7 minutes

c. Documentary

Of any subject, no more than 25 min. in length

d. Short Narrative

Of any subject or theme (adaptations with proper permission is also accepted), no more than 25 min. in length.

we'll meet soon

The New York Times has revealed that “One Hundred Years of Solitude” and “Love in the Time of Cholera” writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez is currently finishing his new novel entitled “We’ll Meet in August.” I am feverish about this since his last work “Memories of My Melancholy Whores” in 2004 (his autobiography not included) is less astounding than I have expected. It was a lightweight compared to the grand heavyweight champs he previously produced. Even his short stories were better than that! Still, it was a Marquez, and its engaging and gorgeous lyricism made me forget a lot of the story’s fringes or lack of it. So, to Marquez who is already 83 years old, he better be releasing a tour de force that would lift us off the ground like Remedios the beauty (minus the bed sheets, of course).

unsafe

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

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

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

*

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

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

observations

Two weeks ago, with the television turned on the usual primetime news channel circling on the latest crime reports and casualties of typhoon Juan (International Name: Megi), my seven-year-old nephew sat on the couch, eyes looking straight at the screen, and suddenly asked in a loud voice: “Why is there plenty of bad news on the news?” It sounded funny but the question’s thought caught me unprepared for an answer.

*

I went to Subic last weekend, the detoxification deemed extremely necessary. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived in this house to hear a lot of squawking noise in the backyard. I checked it, and to my surprise, there was a flock of green-yellow parrots crowding the branches of a duhat tree (Java Plum). I, of course, couldn’t believe it, but I knew what I saw. They were the same birds that I had once owned, just one though, teaching it how to whistle and say hello. I approached the tree, but with the littlest breaking sound of a twig under my heels, the birds flew, and I wished they stayed to greet my presence a sweet hello. Well, I thought, they are better out there in the sky than in a cage.


*

I was back in the office after a long weekend (but it was not long enough). I could not wait for lunch break so I went out earlier than the rest. I entered the lift with our purchasing department’s supplier at the same time, and noticing me, he cleared his throat and said, “Has someone already mistaken you as Arnel Pineda?” I responded, “You’re the first one!” I was not sure if that was a compliment but I still gave him a smile. It must be the hair. Finally, after countless occasions of being called “ma’am” in malls and restaurants and other public places, I can at least reassure my physiology as being the lead singer of Journey.

talk

History thrives in communication. After all, if not for oral tradition—passing words of information from one generation to the next, finding its way to the pages of leather-bound books until finally settling in the monitors of the digital age—we would not have the littlest bit of knowledge of the past today. Since we adequately have all the means to communicate by now, what matters most is how to improve it, adapt to the dynamics. When everything is as defined as cut crystal, the next obvious step is to communicate. Write, speak. History will move on its own course.

stubbles and all

They have grown. Sniff. I remember smelling the pages of the first book in the series back in elementary, grade four to be exact, proud to get hold of it after seeing its cover in the pages of a newspaper and telling my sister to purchase one for me as a birthday present. Though people always say (including me) the interpretation in our heads is way better than any director’s vision, the Harry Potter movies are always a marvel to look at (especially Alfonso Cuaron’s ingenious take). And now that the movie franchise is going to end soon, we can only sigh and wait for anticipation since no efforts of dividing the final book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, in two-part movies could deny the fact that the characters have grown up and so as the readers. It is time to move on.

shameless plug: the ball's inflated

People encouraged keeping the ball rolling. But someone interjected I have to make sure the ball is inflated first so rolling it won’t be a problem. I took it as a friendly reminder. Thankfully, I did.

“Loneness,” my latest short fiction—which was sadly refused by the editors of an upcoming anthology because, well, the project did not push through—has found its way to the pages instead of Philippines Graphic this week.

Looking back, I have now published two short stories in this reputable magazine in two consecutive months, and further back, another short story and a poem in Philippines Free Press. Indeed, the pains of writing are the least of your concerns when you see your works in print. For now, nothing could be more escalating than this thought.

Though sometimes I cannot deny the sad and grim postulations popping inside my head (like “Did they run out of contributors?”), I just take the initiative of creating better works if those aren’t good enough to counter my doubts. What matters is that I’m in it, and though little triumphs such as this makes my heart swell with pride, I will remain humble and thankful for the great cosmos’s shower of blessings.

And of course, I have to remember to keep the ball inflated.

nuts until 60

When it comes to comic strips, nothing translates melancholic human nuances into child humor like “Peanuts” by Charles Schulz. Now that the cartoon is in its 60th anniversary, I will purchase all those lovely coffee table books commemorating its staying power if my wallet permits me to. That’s how I love the gang of Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Lucy, Linus, Schroeder, Pig-Pen, etc. Good grief!

Way before I poured most of my time in literature, I drew and sketched regularly in the hopes of becoming a Schulz someday. Peanuts and the world-famous beagle were my objects of fascination then, the comic strip’s wit my holy grail of all speech and thought balloons (until I discovered Marvel). I may not be as passionate to paneled storytelling as before but my adoration for it, especially Schulz’s masterpiece, remains until now.

Sample comic strip taken from this link.

descent into obscurity

“I think you don’t see yourself the way others see you.”

Those are the words of Edith Bouvier Beale or “Big Edie” to her daughter, “Little Edie.” The line, though speaks against truisms of self-assurance, actually works the opposite for the two characters. In fact, both live for themselves for the most part of their existence.

Such is their blindness by other people’s thoughts after a series of misfortunes—left by a lover, a husband, numerous bills, luxury lost—that the former socialites have ignored their mansion, Grey Gardens, decomposing with numerous cats and raccoons around them, only breathing with their dreams that someday the slippery nature of opulence will soon transpire in their lives again.

Michael Sucsy’s “Grey Gardens”, a movie I have just seen last night on television starring Drew Barrymore as Little Edie and Jessica Lange as Big Edie, is a kind of mosaic, a firsthand retelling of the Beales’s lives though the lens of two documentary filmmakers, Albert and David Maysles. (It’s like an hours-long “the making” of the 1975 documentary).

In a nutshell, it tells Little Edie wanting to be a stage performer, just as better as her mother, but Big Eddie and her husband keeps that away from her, suggesting that finding the right husband (which means “rich husband” in the time of Depression) is more important. This husband also has another family, and when he could no longer handle Big Eddie’s excessive lifestyle, throwing in one party after another, he left both mother and child. From here on, the once glamorous Beales’s descent into obscurity begins.

Aside from the admirable performances of the two key actors, “Grey Gardens” works for its point: love and passion can sometimes eat you up inside, leaving you hollow, that even in the midst of decay, the fantasy of the past is far more real and believable if you still believe in it, comfortable with it. The idea is poignant, if not distressing. This premise may be a bit too much but this could very well be the only means of enduring life’s oddities: to prevent assaults of whatever form, one must hold on to one’s self. And in here, the Beales hold on dearly.

The two characters may not be the perfect people to embody victims, what with the extravagant lives they once have, but it is this very absence of concrete conflict that makes the Beales story endearing. They have brought themselves down, care for no one but themselves, so in a way, it is fitting they find redemption in each other.

Yes, their quirks and eccentricities have gotten people’s attention, especially after the release of the Maysles documentary years later, but it is these very things that make them authentically human, affecting.

of glee, charice, and third world spite

It may be a little bit late writing now about the very first appearance of Charice in the second season premiere of the pop-culture hogging television series, Glee? But what’s not to write? The show about high school oddballs resuscitating a glee club that is led by a Spanish teacher simply attracts anyone’s attention—it begs for one.

If that isn’t compelling enough, a storyline that may not be as seamless as we want it to be but remains truthful to the human psyche, there are the outrageous and amusing musical numbers. In these dreary times, this is the breather we need.

And for Filipino viewers, the inclusion of the little girl with a big voice, Charice, makes the show even more watchable. Why? The 18-year-old Filipina, who goes by the name of “Sunshine Corazon” in the series, embodies one the most enduring life stories in history: the rags-to-riches tale.

For someone who is shunned by her own homeland—losing in what is ironically a talent show to a lesser skilled fellow with smooth moves and good looks, only receiving a collective sigh and modest cheers in numerable performances—her bagging this upward shot to fame in another country is well-deserved. (Of course, you know the story, so there’s no need diving into details).

It is a shame, really, that it is only now that most people come to acknowledge her, even praise her for what she has achieved, but do these same people even regarded that she would get this kind of success before? No, I don’t think so. (People’s eyes are glued on Pacquiao).

If yes, she should have won that talent competition by a wide margin, she should have signed an album deal the minute she was done with the said competition, she should have sung in line with the supposedly talented cookie-cutter performers in variety shows and not behind them, and lastly, if not for third world spite and excessive superficiality, she should have disregarded the thought of going under the needle to “soften her jaw-line.”

It seems to me that it is the majority of my fellow countrymen’s fault that Charice has made it big in the international scene. We disregarded and pushed her that she fell on her knees on American soil, until the universe conspired and made television icon Ellen Degeneres and then entertainment magnate Oprah Winfrey get her up on her feet.

Hah, the wheel has indeed turned!

Anyway, this is just something I have to share. Though many still think of the contrary, I believe this is not going to be another 15-minutes-kind-of-fame. With her undeniable talent, she will be staying. Even ahead of the rest who have once deemed her irrelevant.

a new umbrella, among other things

The Weekly SillimanianFounders Issue
August 26, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thankfully, I was right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

10th ateneo national writers workshop fellows

Alyza “Medical Poetry Specialist” Taguilaso and Noel “Tiger Woods” Fortun, you both really live up to how fabulous we are. Yes, I say “we” because your accomplishment is our accomplishment, right? In simpler words, before you guys leave for Naga, pa-burger naman! Anyway, I am just glad for this news:

*

The 10th Ateneo National Writers Workshop, organized by the Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and Practices (AILAP) with the support of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA) and the Office of the President, Ateneo de Naga University (AdNU) will be held on October 24-28, 2010 at the AdNU Campus, Naga City.

Twelve fellows have been awarded fellowships. Six slots were exclusively given to writers from the Bicol Region and writing in the Bikol languages. Covered by the fellowship are the fellows’ board and lodging, a modest stipend, and the opportunity to learn from an esteemed panel of Atenean writers and critics. The fellows for this year’s workshop are:

For poetry in English: Alyza May Timbol Taguilaso (Quezon City); For poetry in Filipino: Noel T. Fortun (Las Piñas City), Maureen Gaddi dela Cruz (San Pedro, Laguna); For fiction in English: Glenn Diaz (Manila City), Michelle Abigail Tiu Tan (Quezon City); For fiction in Filipino: Arnold Matencio Valledor (Panganiban, Catanduanes); For poetry in Bikol: Gerry Rubio (Virac, Catanduanes), Adrian Remodo (Naga City, Camarines Sur), Eduardo Uy (Gubat, Sorsogon), Richard Madrilejos (Tabaco, Albay), Rodel Añosa (Ticao, Masbate); For fiction in Bikol: Jimple Borlagdan (Tabaco, Albay).

Panelists for this year's writers workshop would include prize-winning writers like Benilda S. Santos, Alvin B. Yapan, Marco AV. Lopez, Michael M. Coroza, Frank Peñones and Carlo Arejola to name a few. This year’s workshop is co-directed by Kristian Cordero and Yolando Jamendang, Jr.

mario turns 25!

From a one-sided monochromatic cluster of pixels to a gravity-defying 3D plumber, Mario has indeed come a long, long way. Now 25 years old, the first true face of casual computer gaming shows no signs of slowing down.

Though I’ve never had the chance to play the recent Super Mario Galaxy 2 or Super Smash Bros. Brawl game in the Nintendo Wii (yeah, loser mii), I will still proclaim myself as a true Mario fan. Clearly, I can recall the first time I have laid my hands on the first Game Boy machine with a Super Mario Land cartridge years back, immediately immersed in a plethora of levels and power-ups, to save a princess from a toad. And Shigeru Miyamoto’s iconic theme music for the game still rings in my ears!

Even if I have encountered other interesting characters like Sonic the Hedgehog (SEGA), Crash Bandicoot (Playstation), Kirby and Wario (both from Nintendo), nothing beats the cheerful Italian plumber. The call “It’s a-me, Mario!” never fails to bring me back to that day in school wherein at the back of the classroom, far from the prying eyes of the teacher, I have to defeat Bowser with furrowed brows. (Children, I know, this is not a good example).

There’s more to come with the vast possibilities the Wii console has to offer for this undying franchise, but before we come jumping into the next pipe or onto the next planet, here’s one interesting link that traces the history of Mario. Yes, I love this plumber.

dreaded dengue

I just recently knew that a niece of mine in my home province had dengue fever. Thankfully, she is all well right now. Though the ordeal has passed, I cannot ignore that this illness has reached its high point.

In my little research to learn more about the disease, I find in an article in The Philippine Star (5 September 2010) that “From January 1 to Aug. 21, the DOH recorded 62,503 cases, 88.8 percent higher than the 33,102 cases recorded in the same period last year. Death toll has reached 465 this year and 350 last year.”

That’s one alarming increase. Aedes aegypti, the kind of mosquito that carries the virus and transmits it to humans, is now widespread that all we can do right now is to prevent ourselves from any harm. The news report is enough precaution.

I don’t know when and where my niece gets the bite (mosquitoes breeding in flowers vases? rubber tires in the playground? roof gutters?) but I am certain that it is from a mosquito that has taken a bite from an ill person, someone who has dengue fever. It is an endless cycle.

For a little girl who has yet to see a lot of things, the experience is definitely not memorable. In fact, it is especially not for an acquaintance close to me: three members of her family are now admitted because of Dengue, in a row! That is why for everyone’s sake, here is a link on basic dengue information and ways to prevent it from propagating.

another shameless plug

My fiction debut in the Philippines Free Press last month was something to be very jubilant about. After all, it is my first—at my age (just look at the list of this year’s Palanca winners and you will know)!

To see in print a work that you have toiled on for months is enough gratification, now let’s move on to other things, end of bliss. But one afternoon, I receive a text message from Jess. The short exchange of communication goes like this:

“Hi Jordan. Saw your story in Graphic.”
“Really?! What story?”
“Can’t remember the title… Dry Cleaning ba yon?”
“Anuvah! Cleanwipe Washing Services! Yey!”

And there it is. Two weeks later, after “Poetry in the Time of Influenza,” my other workshop piece has found its way to the pages of Philippines Graphic, one of the weekly magazines that still hold true to the publication of Filipino literature. I am happy! Here's a link of the online version of the magazine.

This cemented in my oftentimes low-spirited being, in slow and little ways, the idea that I can. There’s too much drama detailing how a teacher once asserted on my terrible future in front of the class or how someone I so respected in the familial circle of this discipline (unconsciously?) tried to put me down in public space, so I will simply applaud the art illustration of the fallen man in the story.

Because after countless times of dealing with people of different degrees of schizophrenia, I learn that there is no use brooding in anger and resentment, that the effortless (and best) form of retribution is a wink and a smile. Go sa kebs!

Now, all I have to do is to keep the ball rolling. Or bouncing. Or whatever.

60th carlos palanca memorial awards

Now, the winners of the 60th Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature (Palanca Awards) are out in the open. There are a lot of new names in the list [info taken from The Phillipine Star] and as a matter of fact, as stated in the same source, “more than half (54 percent) or 27 are former winners who have already won a Palanca before, while 46 percent or 23 are new winners. This year’s youngest winner was aged 12 while the oldest was 66.”

This is something to celebrate. New leaves are beginning to sprout, like Elena (who won 1st place no less!) and Jesus, people I have luckily imparted and shared knowledge with in workshops. I am proud of you, guys! Inuman na!

Here is the complete list of winners.

Dulang Pampelikula
1st – Kristoffer G. Brugada (Patikul)
2nd – Jerry B. Gracio (Magdamag)
3rd – No Winner

Dulang Ganap ang Haba
1st – No Winner
2nd – Liza C. Magtoto (Rated PG)
3rd – Christian R. Vallez (Kapeng Barako Club: Samahan ng mga Bitter)

Dulang May Isang Yugto
1st – Nicolas B. Pichay (Isang Araw sa Karnabal)
2nd – Floy C. Quintos (Suor Clara)
3rd – Allan B. Lopez (Higit Pa Dito)

Kabataan Sanaysay
1st – Christopher S. Rosales (Gulayan Klasrum)
2nd – Marianito L. Dio Jr. (Ang Aking Pangalan, Ang Aking Kababata at ang Mithing Tilamsik
para kay Third)
3rd – No Winner

Tula
1st – Carlos M. Piocos III (Guerra Cantos)
2nd -- Romulo P. Baquiran Jr. (Parokya)
3rd – Mark Anthony S. Angeles (Engkantado)

Tulang Pambata
1st – No Winner
2nd – No Winner
3rd – Will P. Ortiz (May Puso Ang Saging)

Maikling Kwento
1st – No Winner
2nd – Rommel B. Rodriguez (Toxic)
3rd – Thomas David F. Chavez (Sa Kabilang Lupalop ng Mahiwagang Kaharian)

Maikling Kwentong Pambata
1st – Christopher S. Rosales (Si Berting, ang Batang Uling)
2nd – Renerio R. Concepcion (Ang Kagilagilalas na Paglalakbay nina Mumo at Am-I)
3rd – Bernadette V. Neri (Parada ng mga Alingawngaw)

Sanaysay
1st – Maria Clarissa N. Estuar (Ang Reyna ng mga Tumbong)
2nd – Ferdinand P. Jarin (D’Pol Pisigan Band)
3rd – Mark Gil M. Caparros (Sina Bunso at ang mga Batang Preso)

Full-length Play
1st – Jay Crisostomo IV (God of the Machine)
2nd – Jorshinelle Taleon-Sonza (The Encounter)
3rd – Lito Casaje (Shooting the Boys)

One-act Play
1st – No Winner
2nd – No Winner
3rd – Peter Solis Nery (The Wide Ionian Sea)

Short Story
1st – Ma. Elena L. Paulma (Three Kisses)
2nd – Ma. Rachelle Tesoro (Waiting for Rain)
3rd – Catherine Rose Galang Torres (Café Masala)

Short Story for Children
1st – Irene Carolina A. Sarmiento (Tabon Girl)
2nd – Hiyasmin Ledi C. Mattison (Little Bear Goes Home: A Love Story)
3rd – Grace D. Chong (I am an Apple)

Poetry
1st – Merlie M. Alunan (Tales of the Spiderwoman)
2nd -- Rafael Antonio C. San Diego (My Name in Reverse)
3rd – Joel H. Vega (Latitudes and Other Poems)

Poetry for Children
1st – Duffie Alejandrino H. Osental (After the Storm and Other Poems)
2nd – Patricia Marie Grace S. Gomez (Poems from the Pantry and Prehistoric Times)
3rd – Ma. Celine Anastasia P. Socrates (Playgrounds)

Essay
1st – Miro Frances D. Capili (Vinyl)
2nd – Florianne Marie L. Jimenez (Postcards from Somewhere)
3rd – Corinna Esperanza A. Nuqui (Library)

Kabataan Essay
1st – Miro Frances D. Capili (The Nature of Nurture)
2nd -- Anton Raphael S. Cabalza (A Shot at Perfection)
3rd – Catherine D. Tan (Green at Heart)

Short Story – Cebuano
1st – Richel G. Dorotan (Si Tarzan)
2nd -- Jonecito R. Saguban (Tinuboang Sapatos)
3rd – Noel P. Tuazon (Patas)

Short Story – Iluko
1st – Sherma E. Benosa (Dagiti Pasugnod ni Angelo)
2nd – Ariel S. Tabag (Voice Tape)
3rd – Joel B. Manuel (Apo Bannual! Apo Bannual!)

Short Story – Hiligaynon
1st – Andy P. Perez (Bayuso)
2nd – Ferdinand L. Balino (Dumdumon Ko Ang Imo Guya)
3rd – Jesus C. Insilada, Ed. D. (Walingwaling)
________________________________________________________

founders found

Founders Found: We Need To Cheer Up (day 1)

Someone: “I think you have to stay here in the office
for a while, Jordan.”
Jordan: “Bahala ka diyan! I’m going home!”

Yes, I had to. When the plane landed on the Dumaguete airport, I went straight to the Weekly Sillimanian office and met one of the few staffers I recognized (most of them are barely in their teens; I don’t know them!), Budjai, whose sole responsibility for the next five days was to adopt me in their humble abode.

What followed? For someone with a sweet tooth, of course, it was Sans Rival Cakes and Pastries with my batch mates (yeah, small group). And because I didn’t want to waste time, I took the rest of the hours roaming around the campus, the Hibalag booth area, before cheering up at Macias for the annual Silliman University Cheering Competition. Ah, that was some starter.

[ August 25, 2010 ]

Founders Found: Not Your Big Spender (day 2)

I have already anticipated that I won’t be spending as much as five grand in this “six-days, five-nights” sojourn in Dumaguete but this is just staggering: on the second day of my stay, I have only spent P72.00, save for the occasional P7.50 tricycle ride to arrive at different key spots of activities in the city. Unbelievable. That amount could only bring me half of my destination when trying to reach Makati from where I live!

This is one of the many things I love about the city: the wise one could live for a day with a hundred pesos in his hands. It is true.

[ August 26, 2010 ]

Founders Found: All Ye Silly Men Reunite! (day 3)

This is the day when most of the familiar faces have arrived in the city, trying the catch up with what’s left of Silliman’s Founders Week celebration. Though I have expected other faces to show up, the number of people that comes in Qyosko (a restaurant and café with the best arroz balao, crispy adobo servings, coffee concoctions and cakes in the city!) for a quick lunch just shows how many of us are desperate to reconnect, talk and scream at each other at the top of our lungs.

That’s no joke. If by any chance you’d see us group together, better prepare with thick mufflers on the ears. I assume this is always the case: The longer we haven’t seen each other, the stronger the decibels of our voices.

[ August 27, 2010 ]

Founders Found: My Parada Sillimaniana (day 3)

Yes, I know, we are like a balding spot on the head with the number of our contingent in this annual parade of student organizations of Silliman University. The pictures speak for themselves. But who cares! I think this is the way the Weekly Sillimanian will forever follow. I have seen the same thing before, what with the last three years of my college life working as a writer-to-editor of this 107-year old weekly student publication.

But it is not in the numbers actually, it is in the fervor of getting into the crowd of colors of the parade, of reliving what it is like the first time I have leisurely walked around the campus by the sea, of enjoying the countless smiles, cheers and, of course, instances of having myself taken by eager shooting cameras, DSLR or not, with fellow photo-whores. And with the latter, the blaring afternoon sunlight is my one and only friend.

Remember, in photography, natural light is best? Good.

[ August 27, 2010 ]

Founders Found: This Time, The Bistro Is Ours (day 3)

Like what I have said in the previous album, in a nutshell, it is the end of silence once we are grouped together. Light may travel faster than sound but the sounds of our chatter during dinner at Gabby’s Bistro, one the most charming restaurants down Rovira Road in Bantayan, is one damn speeding mercurial bullet. It is that fast. Sabi nga ni Sara Geronimo sa isang TV commercial, “Ang bilis!”

(Maybe we just have to regain our energies back after the long Parada Sillimaniana walk.)

With our loud and cheerful presence, it’s like the place is our home. Well, who wouldn’t feel at home when you are in the lively communion of a long-awaited gathering? To simply put it, this is what I have been looking for a long time, and I am so happy I’ve found it on this day.

[ August 27, 2010 ]

Founders Found: Free Wi-Fi Karma At Escanyo (day 3)

“Be careful with what you throw up above,
it might fall back on your head.”

As is the case of many people in the remaining hours of the day (or night… or dawn of the following day…), it truly happens. Karma has a strange way of putting things in order, and for me, there’s no escaping the fact. But actually, it is something for the good: to maintain balance, one must succumb to a little bit of: a) sudden realization and reasoning, b) momentary aching, and lastly, c) overhyped closure.

In the end, we just have to raise our glasses of beer and salute to the cold sea breeze of Escanyo while bottles of Red Horse Grande continue to crowd the table. It may not be the most picturesque of scenes for some tying of loose ends but it is decent than not happening at all. What has happened has happened; let the dust be carried away into the far distance.

[ August 27, 2010 ]

Founders Found: Apo Island and the Underwater Dora (day 4)

“Uy, daghan kaayong Dora diri dapit o!”
“Unsay Dora?! Dory siguro!”

Unfortunately, some people fail to remember the right names of certain characters, icons or even celebrities. Take for example, Mr. Dither “Diet” Ocampo. You know Dither? Yes, the older brother of Wither and Thither. That’s the one.

Anyway, the expedition to Apo is one memorable sea escapade, a literal washer after our 9PM to 5AM binging at Escanyo. (We had to leave the city at 5:30AM of which no one actually accomplished). The journey is all worth it, from Dumaguete to Malatapay to the island, what with the wealth of otherworldly corals and sea life we have seen.

If just one of us had an underwater camera, the whole trip would be tremendously memorable. Who knows, I might be wrong, the bilingual Dora must really be swimming among us.

[ August 28, 2010 ]

Founders Found: If The Night Is Dark, What Are We? (day 4)

There comes a point when even the highest point of eagerness is trumped by exhaustion. The body just can’t handle. This is how some have felt after our day tour in Apo Island, especially that we didn’t treat sleep much as a friend in the previous days.

And speaking of Apo, I got my long-awaited color. I looked so pale (in my personal context) I had to embrace the sun and sand. But a few thought it was an ungracious gift. Showing up in one of the final nights of our vacation almost as dark as, well, the night, we fixed our minds on the bright side and thought of our mates’ faces at work when they see our golden burn.

[ August 28, 2010 ]

Founders Found: One Plate Isn’t Enough (day 5)

Extra rice is never unfashionable when one is in Dumaguete. It is understandable; you just have to. Almost anything that is edible in the city, whatever suits your taste, is pure heaven. What more, it doesn’t hurt the wallet! It seems to me that food, aside from the vibrant arts and culture that are well-appreciated by the community, is the common denominator that links the Negros islands.

Due to time constraints, or maybe our unconscious incursions to feast in very accessible spots, we missed out on a lot of things: the cheese bread at the college cafeteria, the sizzling bulalo of Royale Suites Inn, the apple shake of Chantily, and everything in the Sunday breakfast buffet of Le Chalet! There are a lot of new places too!

Oh well, this only gives us the reasonable excuse to come back next time… Now I am really craving for Neva’s Pork Parmigiana and Qyosko’s Cashew Caramel Crunch!

[ August 29, 2010 ]

Founders Found: We Are Normal, Never Fear (day 5)

Sometimes, there’s plenty of time in our hands, especially in Dumaguete when one can juggle three tasks in a minute. While people are just stirring and moving slowly in response to the nearing end of the Founders week celebration, some are clustering in the office of a student publication, in communion with anyone’s suggestions of posing this way, projecting that way.

Yes, this is normal. Do not be afraid. I guess this is simply how we define and emulate “natural” in times of yearning each other’s presence after a long while, especially that we are in familiar territory. Though the pictures do not look like it, we don’t bite. Promise.

[ August 29, 2010 ]

Founders Found: The Last Night Among Other Things (day 5)

It was hard to embrace the thought, but then again, it was harder to grapple it, wrestling the fact that on the following day, we would all go back to the seemingly endless cycle of “working for a living.” Even a few rounds in Minimik, karaoke songs in Country Gents, and a few more rounds at Escanyo (our usual crime scenes) couldn’t dilute the gloom of cloud over our heads.

The last night in Dumaguete only bears witness that no matter how far one has reached to, whatever places they might be, one has to return and reconnect to a place that is forever stranded within our hearts.

[ August 30, 2010 ]

Founders Found: Founders Lost (day 6)

Even good times have to end. We know this is coming. Six days and five nights of merrymaking have to lie low for the meantime because we have to return to several weeks of hunching in our seats for nine hours in a day.

But as what I have said, these separations are necessary. One must detach from the city in order to relive what makes the place so fascinating, so recognizable yet fresh in every boulevard sunrise. When the time to return comes, one will learn that every second of waiting is worth it. Dumaguete goes nowhere. All we have to do is come back at the right moment and say the words again: “We deserve this.”

Until the next trip! See you soon.

[ August 30, 2010 ]

shameless plug

He believes in its power. As a marketing tool, nothing is more readily available than that kind of plugging.

Anyway, just like what I had requested three months ago, I will tell you right now to grab this week’s Philippines Free Press issue, August 21. My short fiction, “Poetry in the Time of Influenza” is published in it alongside the gorgeous verses of Ned Parfan and Ino Habana.

The illustration of my story is perfect; it frames the image of my ill condition when I am writing it last year. This is my first published fiction so please pardon the overblown enthusiasm in this post. The critiques and suggestions of my fabulous co-fellows and panelists of the 10th IYAS Creative Writing Workshop are definitely helpful. And to you, Celeste June Rivera, thanks. You are my VIR—my Very Important Reader. You know that.

one year

Today’s just the second day after my first year of being at work. I have never anticipated that one corporate year feels that long. Seriously, it is very long, like some Inception-esque dream within a dream time stretch.

The job, for the most part of it, requires me to sit on a chair for nine hours straight in a day, staring at a computer monitor, being advised to water down what I have written for the benefit of people with lesser comprehension. These do not sound easy.

I graduated with an underappreciated degree, though flanked with favorable decorations, but to keep the mill running when there’s only a cheap and rotten carrot in front of me is not inspiring.

Suggestion: just stop. Well, there are other concerns.

For one year, I have been thinking a lot: the morning traffic, the evening traffic, the unpredictable weather (good thing I still hold on to each day my already-battered umbrella), the next pay, the balance dues, and the receding and thinning hair. And I sleep, then wake up, only to find myself bombarded with the same thoughts. And yes, the hair!

Whereas in the past all I have been thinking are my purportedly-scheming professors, my grades, my next-day’s dress shirt, and my allowance for my all-day starving Ben, I am now a full-fledged inhabitant of the country who needs to see where his tax money goes.

Yes, I have mentioned before that I complain a lot. But this time, I think my complaints are better, with much purpose.

Today’s just the second day after my first year of being at work. And I hope I can clear up my mind. I need a new umbrella.

the rain last night

Grasses flattened on their roots, great lengths of streets flooded, varying articles of clothing spread everywhere, concrete road signs toppled, walls crumbled, trunks and branches of once sturdy trees fell on the ground.

Apocalyptic, it was a scene of total disarray, the moment I went out of the house early to avoid the morning rush to work. And all of that in a place I thought was secure. Well, nothing was secure in the wake of Basyang (international name: Conson). Yes, it’s signal number two in Metro Manila.

In my bed last night, turning over and over again sleepless, I thought, if I could hear the troubling clanging of my neighbors’ roofs right now, what about the shanties and those homeless people? It made me more restless. The howling of the wind and lashing of the rain on my windows were not helping either.

Now here I am in the office, trying to recollect the whirlwind of postulations that gave me three hours of rest last night, trying to rub off the temptation of sleep in my eyes. It’s back to reality, they say.

poets

They are seldom racing cyclists
and are largely innocent

of the working of the petrol engine.
They are, however, comfortable in taxis.

They are abroad in the small hours
and will seek out the caustic blue liqueur

that you purchased in Majorca
for comedy reasons, and will rise late.

There are whole streets
where their work is not known.

Spectacles,
a father in the army

and the distance to the next farm
made them solitary.

Their pets
were given elaborate funerals.

No one understands them.
They are inordinately proud of this

for they have shunned
the brotherhood

of the post room
and the hair salon.

They write a word
and then another word.

It is usually wrong.
Their crossings out are legion.

They sit in trains
and pass through cotton towns at nightfall,

conscious of the shape of cranes
on the violet sky

and how the poured creamer
pleats and billows in their coffee,

and how both of these things
whisper, softly, ‘Death.’

- Mark Haddon

there's not much to hate

Except for those who have witnessed the incident one early afternoon, I have never shared this to anyone:

I remember being told by a teacher, no less than inside the classroom, in front of my classmates, that I would not succeed in anything I would do. It’s too early to tell but what I can clearly share is that this teacher now is a drifting unemployed mote.

Yes, I have my own share on the plate of the bitter pie but, as far as I can remember, not in such scale. I cannot stoop that low when it comes to broadcasting a person’s fate, a dark fate that is—just for the heck of it.

Especially that the statement came from a teacher made it all the more striking. My own mother is a teacher and I couldn’t picture her saying that to a student, especially someone who’s a few years away from plucking a course in mind for college.

This account was posted in Facebook and what a number of responses I got. It turned out I was not the only one assaulted with scholarly omens.

I’ve had a similar experience... with my high school principal, no less.

I’ve had teachers (mostly in high school) who would belittle me.

Di naman ako inapi like you, but I do remember when my other classmates were ‘upgraded’ to “one potato, two potatoes” and I was stuck in “bird’s fly bears don’t” workbook dahil di ako magaling magbasa or something.

Alarming, really, to learn that in different regions of this country, in places where knowledge, self-assurance and competence are fortified, some working men labeled as teachers ironically pull these very things away from a student.

In my case specifically, this teacher of mine would always find the littlest mistake in all the things that I do, in a not-so-constructive way. “Why did you draw this with a black ballpen?” he asked with a frown. In my mind, I could’ve illustrated it with watercolor, you know.

He could point that out, especially that most of us in class passed the assignment in pencil, but I could also point out that there were no provided specifications or rules. The instruction simply said copy this instrument. Good thing I didn’t have a camera right then and there to take a picture of it.

No matter what explanation I had in my defense, it was my fault, assuming he hated the fibers of my existence. Fine, my mistake, let’s move on.

The succeeding encounters did puncture my buoyant floaters. Luckily, I was able to forget the dramatic saga altogether and graduated. I followed, though not that easily, the path I wanted to trek on, and found my steps towards a few triumphs. As for those who responded in the Facebook post, I pondered on their names and, wow, there are far from quacking ducks. In fact, they’re the few people I highly regard.

That’s why I’ve always loved this statement from my college teacher/mentor: “You gotta love haters. Because they push you to do even better than you thought you could.”

This time, I don’t think my high school would like to talk more about success already.

worries

We are lighter than we think until we learn how to pick up some stones and pocket them.

more powerful than ever

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

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

the design

Before the drinking began, he took a loaf of unleavened bread and broke it into pieces. “Take this as a sign of my body,” he said, wrenching in pain. He had given up so much but the supper had just commenced. Enduring the fresh deep cuts that came with every piece he was giving to his followers, his humanness was eating him. But he knew the almighty would bless him, what with the sacrifice he had in mind. “This is for you,” he added, fervor glinting in his eyes.

left

He knew it was the right time. He had planned this for a hundred sunsets. “Take this cup as a sign of my blood,” he said, handing to each of his men a few ounces of holy water that streams in his veins. “Do this in memory of me,” he pleads. And they drank from the cup. On the floor they dropped and in a blink they woke up to find themselves crucified on sycamore wood. They called out the name of their creator but heard no answer.

faith

The storm frightens the fishermen, the spray of sea salt desperate to reunite with the tears brimming in their eyes. "Be calm," a man says now awake, raising a hand. He steps out of the rocking boat and walks on water, just serene under the balls of his heels. He waves from a distance and allows himself to be swallowed by a giant fish. He leaves the people wailing, knowing that a sail without the fortitude of their despair has a boat that goes nowhere. A smile cracks on his face.

insolence

In olden times, devout men worship their idols from morning until midnight, singing, reaching for their silken hems to feel how salvation runs smoothly in their fingers. And then at their faces they spit, cold and biting, searing the skin of the believers. This must be the reason why some are black, drifting into many shores like vessels of the night. They are burned at the stakes.

how old are you?

An article by Sam Tanenhaus of The New York Times asks the question, “how old can a ‘young writer’ be?” The premise is interesting enough to set aside my morning tasks.

Going straight to the point of the article, the author implies, if not argues, that many writers produce and achieve great successes in their writing, which usually stays longer than any other works, when they are young (in the scope of fiction writing). That is why labeling them as “budding” or “promising” is not right; in fact they are at their peak.

Let’s take a trip back to history (taken in its entirety from the article) and see what this is all about:

‘Flaubert was 29 when he began writing “Madame Bovary” (and was 34 when it was completed).Thomas Mann was 24 when he completed his first masterpiece, “Buddenbrooks.” Tolstoy, after a period of dissolution followed by military service, began writing “War and Peace” at age 34. Joyce, who wrote “Ulysses” in his 30s, already had two major works behind him. The late-blooming Proust, his youth idled in Paris salons, was only 37 when he began writing “Remembrance of Things Past.” Even Kafka, the 20th century’s most haunting exemplar of anguished paralysis, was 29 when he wrote “The Metamorphosis” and 31 when he began “The Trial.”

Unsurprisingly, in youth-obsessed America, writers have often done their best work early. Melville was 32 when “Moby-Dick” was published (after the successes of “Typee” and “Omoo”). The writers of the lost generation found their voices when they were very young: Fitz gerald (28, “The Great Gatsby”), Hemingway (27, “The Sun Also Rises”). Faulkner lagged slightly behind. He had just turned 32 when “The Sound and the Fury” was published. Then again, it was his fourth novel.’

The celebrated post-World War II generation was just as precocious. Norman Mailer was only 25 when “The Naked and the Dead,” his classic, and enormous, war novel came out. And James Jones’s even longer work, “From Here to Eternity,” was published when he was 29. The indefatigable warhorses who grew up in the 1950s were also good very young: Joyce Carol Oates (31, “Them,” her fifth novel); Philip Roth (26, “Goodbye Columbus”); John Updike (28, “Rabbit, Run”); Thomas Pynchon (26, “V.”).’

A novel at the age of twenty-four (of which the writing starts at 22!)? Hands down. Even the writers of our own blood achieved overwhelming praises in their early 30s, worthy of argument or not, here and abroad. There’s Miguel Syjuco with his debut novel “Ilustrado,” grand winner of the Man Asian Literary Prize 2008. There’s Ian Rosales Casocot, a huge heap of literary merits under his belt. And many more.

The article just got me introspecting: What am I doing now? Sad to say, I am in a rut. I already have something grand in mind, yes, for fiction (none so far for my first love, poetry) but the disease of inevitably thinking of it is a long shot keeps me derailing from the “action,” forever stuck in the “plan.”

“Move on!” Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas told me once in one of my many meta-musings. She is right. While the thoughts are still fresh in the head, young and malleable, move on and write on. This is the simplest route.

Then let’s discuss about our ages next.

unfinished ode to a cat

The cat
is no ball
of cotton,
it is a blithe
object of stealth,
a bullet
that hits
nine lives.

silliman university activities of s.y. 2010-2011

For Silliman alumni out there planning for their latest trips back to the city of gentle people, Dumaguete, here is the 2010-2011 calendar of activities of Silliman University to guide and strategically mark the calendars with pins and x’s of getaways. Breathe in, breathe out, I wish I could do the same.

the fall

He ambled alone in a trail and found his men asleep under the almond trees. “Wake up! Why can’t you even spend an hour with me?” the man asked, his robes as pale as his face. But before he received the words he wanted to hear, he felt the burden of his disciples’ own pronouncements and let them be. His feet brought him to a hilltop where he wept and confessed to his Father. He was struck by lightning.

how sleep can be defined

I
Sleep? What is sleep but a still moment of escape,
a practice suspended in litmus clouds, or clouds
that could be cumulonimbus, or stratus in layers
levitating like sheets of linen above closed eyes,
where light could sift through their folds and head
to corners and creases and places night holds.

II
Sleep! The epilogue that the waking eye holds!
Defined by circles they create, those that escape
conventions of space, all forms of sleep head
to where they are contentedly in a blur: clouds.
This has a reason: dust, street and spires tire the eyes,
Glass buildings split and slice the body in thin layers.

III
Does one really need mirrors to face layers
upon layers of one’s self, wherein one hand holds
the multiplicity of sameness, gripping the eyes
with images so grand no marvel could escape
before sleep arrives? No, what are needed are clouds:
Real but invisible to touch, like thoughts in the head.

IV
Some say sleep does not appoint dream as the head,
the principal in every meditation, since it layers
itself with plausible elucidations on living, it clouds
logic, lifebuoy of occasional foolishness. Yes, it holds
some truth: dreams give the wrong reason to escape,
they trick people not to look with their own eyes.

V
Query: Why trouble on things not seen with the eyes?
Response: Answers are buried beneath the head.
Query: But why trouble on intricate plans of escape
to dreamscapes when in fact truth lies in layers
of falsehood, in patterns? Response: the sleeper holds
too much weight he wishes to rest on the ninth set of clouds.

VI
Sleep comes not only at night; it heralds the clouds
as day visits, like one morning a man sees them, eyes
them skimming the sun over skylines, in bed that holds
him, cradles him in the next hours ,where his head
rests on layers of blanket, of blankets in layers.
He closes his eyes, defines sleep, there is no escape.

VII
Nothing holds certainty as beautifully as sleep, to escape
With eyes closed in peace, not just to see between the layers
Of random thoughts where clouds set sail and head.

dignify

Names are not found

Names are not found
underneath the stones
but within them,
trapped in cages
used to their ignorance.
If my hands hold the skill,
I will dip my fingers
through the surface
of the stone and pluck
the name carefully
from its core, pocket it
and throw the stone
to a nearby river,
see it skip three times
away from my name.

punctuate

There is nothing left to think about

since everything has been printed
broadcasted forwarded relayed
heard side by side chats gossips
phone messages conversations
over bottles of beer cups of coffee
in uptight steel and wooden cafés
there is nothing left to think about
since there is no time to pause and
think since the right time doesn’t exist
no wonder no one knows the news