boracay and beyond : ordinary night

Day 3
November 27

Tobey, who I met in a workshop last May, had been working in the island for months, something that dealt with a lot of “researching and copy-pasting” (her words), so it was apt to held her hostage and become our guide in Tiguatian Island, or now commercially known as Crystal Cove. Never heard until I read her entry about it weeks ago.

Woke up at six (that meant I approximately had four hours of sleep), taken breakfast, prepared our thingamajigs, bribed a tricycle for P20/head to bring us to a shore closest to the island which rested between Boracay and Caticlan, and braved the banka ride on rough waters. We arrived a bit out of breath and paid P200 each for the entrance fee.


The tiny island, something Davey Jones would gladly settle in, was not for the extreme city-dwellers or for those jaded by too much house music. (But I guess they really need it). A two-hectare mass of sharp stones and corals, the island had no running fresh water, and everything sold in it was pricey. But we were prepared and we lived to tell the tale. Thanks to Cheetos and measly liters of water.


Though not thoroughly developed, with some structures said to be built little by little through the years, what made up for what it did not have was the overall stunning ambience. It was a gorgeous piece of land, the caves with the crystals (finally found them, after minutes of scouring the island) an experience with those little pockets of water pool and sand. Sadly, since the seas that day were high and rough we were not able to dip and frolic in one of the two.



Then we were back in the Island of the United Colors of Benetton. Had lunch at Sababi Exotic Foods and Vegetarian somewhere in the heart of D*Talipapa. Bought our choice of food in the nearby wet market and made the restaurant cook them for us. Liempo, shrimps, scallops. That meal was divine. We also bought the mandatory pasalubongs around the premises.


After a quick dip in the pool back in the hotel, off we went to Puka Beach via tricycle for P25/head. The things I heard were right: it had one of the most beautiful sunsets in the country, perhaps even better than White Beach. We spent the entire afternoon taking pictures and embracing (or crashing into) the large surging waves. That explained my comrades’ body aches the following day.


On our way back to the resort, we managed to tick a few places off our list: Jona’s Milkshakes and The Real Coffee and Tea Café. The former’s Banana Chocolate Peanut Shake (P180) and the latter’s Ultimate Cupcake (P65 each)—which had a wicked combination of pineapple, walnut, raisin, banana, carrot, whatever—were both delightfully a surprise. For my mates who ordered the café’s famous Calamansi Muffins, they were not as enamored, though I honestly thought they were as yummy as the Ultimates. In fact, I believed one would be best served with a cup of dark coffee or hot chocolate.

And then they were worn-out. Four of the eight decided to rest on the remaining hours, knowing we had to leave the hotel at six the next morning. Good thing I managed to pull the other two out of their beds. A quick dinner was followed by one final walk to the White Beach. I texted Tobey to come with us, but she responded she had work to do. (Apparently, I forgot we also had work to do in a day’s time). It was an ordinary night, the occasional stares/looks from fellow tourists (or maybe locals) flashing at us maybe because of some strange familiarity or simply checking us out. I’d like to think of the latter.

Yes, ordinary, this night. Until we had our last drink at Epic in Station 2 around two in the morning. We were calmly lounging on rattan sofas outside the establishment when one man excused himself and asked permission if he could join us in the table. All three of us, of course, were surprised, but as if we had telekinetically imagined this was how the dynamics worked in a crowded-island-vacation, we agreed.

His name was Matt, he was from Oregon, and he had worked in the navy as a technical fixer (forgot the official term) in ships and other fighting machines for a possible war. For a couple of years. Now, he just had to identify where to expend his rewards, his moolah. Alone. He was fresh off Palawan and planned to stay for a week or two in Boracay. Next destination would be Cebu, and I, of course, suggested Negros Oriental and Bohol. And perhaps now desperate to have someone to talk to, he luckily found us along the shores looking like people also desperate to have someone to talk to. And boy he did talk. I could not spare enough space here to encapsulate his curriculum vitae just that between his stints as a high school wrestling coach and playing offbeat characters in a theater, he sure had one contentedly busy life. And at 26, that is one fortunate busy life.


By four in the morning, we three realized we were out of harm’s way, that this man was not one we initially thought he would be: lunatic (though the picture suggests otherwise), pretentious, implausible. Or maybe we were just dreadfully beat we did not notice any of them. Anyway. He planned to visit Manila and thought it would be nice to catch up with us three soon. Fine.

We returned to the hotel a few minutes later, fully aware we only had an hour before the rest of the group wakes up, ready to leap to the pier in Caticlan, returning to reality. It was an ordinary night, yes, but it only started that way.

[ 3rd of 3 parts ]

boracay and beyond : challenge unacceptable

Day 2
November 26

Had to fit a gargantuan things-to-do this day, especially that three of the group of eight were freshies in the island. Tried parasailing in the morning, of which the little voice in my head could still not justify the 15 minutes of one’s life dangling in the sky would cost P1,300. Some comrades, dizzy from being human kites, had not been strong-willed as I was, so we lounged on a vacated spot on the beach and desperately suntanned ourselves with the grey cloud-cloaked sun. Yes, it threatened to rain that day.

Lunch was at Smoke, one of the two little restos in a hidden corner at D*Mall and D*Palengke, a suggestion made by Tobey (a person that would be humanized a little more later). The place felt like Hayahay or the old Memento in Dumaguete City. I loved it. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong food. The Beef and Mushroom was not entirely tender. Bulalo soup, fish steak, and apparently most on the menu aside from my order were good. At least my mango shake was refreshing.




Planned to try out the ATVs (All-Terrain Vehicle) and vroom our adrenalin-hungered selves onto this and that course, but the astronomical price made me back out, which, in classic toppling domino fashion, made the rest of the pack followed suit. (I don’t know how to drive, yet I still have to pay P400 for sitting next to the driver! Unless the driver is of royal descent, I’d give in). So, we went back to the beach and got ourselves a paraw, a boat powered only by wind. That was another grand off the budget.

After half-an-hour of cruising, occasionally bathed by swelling waters (we did not heed the warnings that that day’s sea was a little bit rough), we treated ourselves with a humongous bowl (The Couples Size) of halo-halo at Halowich. There was a humongous-er bowl (The Barkada Size) that made me wonder, how big are the couples supposed to be here in Boracay? Left the question unanswered and, after a quick wash-up back in the hotel, had buffet dinner at Alf’s (reasonably prized for their tasty food at P380) and introduced Tobey to the group.


Mates urged (or commanded) I try Cocomangas’ “Still Standing After 15” challenge, a life-changing if not deadly test of endurance of having 15 mixed liquor shots, to solidify my status as the varsity player in the group. If successful one would get a choice of jersey or a tee and have his/her name engraved on a little golden plate to be plastered on a wall. Unfortunately, my aching wallet was not as enduring as my spirit (win or lose, those shots cost P1,300+), so we settled with the Illusion Drink, the joint’s famous drink. It was safe. I was neither seeing nor hearing anything after seven shots.


Then skipped to Guilly’s Island for a bottle of beer then to Club Paraw for another one, before getting a night-cap at Pat’s Creek, one my favorite places along the shore. The next itinerary at the first hint of sunlight would be a departure of the island’s lavish, cosmopolitan offerings. I was looking forward to this.

[ 2nd of 3 parts ]

boracay and beyond : not a good start

The last time is December 2008. From where I stand today, that is a long stretch of time. In an entire vacationer’s summary, Boracay sure has its highs and lows. And yet the island, mildly peopled in the low season and increasingly urbanized all year round, never fails to surprise upon visiting it again.

Day 1
November 25

Filed for a half-day vacation leave last Friday (since that’s what VL’s are for; it’s strange though having to fill-in that “Reason” blank in the application). Left the office at 12:30PM to catch the 3:35PM flight to Caticlan. What made it all wrong was that there was no flight to Caticlan. Due to “sunset limitation.” Brilliant. Co-traveler revealed it was the same excuse she received in her trip to Caticlan before. So airline carrier, why promote a flight scheduled on a time when sunlight is always, erm, limited? And haven’t you heard of light bulbs? Halogen lamps? Or bonfire? This is the second time I have experienced pesky troubles with this airline. In two month’s time. Read previous gripe here.

Anyway. Flight was moved to 7PM at Kalibo instead. That airport was an hour and a half away from the pier in Caticlan, or an hour and 45 minutes away from island of Boracay itself. So we missed the sunset. So sunset watching would have to wait. (We only had three nights and two days to spare). Arrived at Kalibo International Airport around 8PM, which luckily made us hitch the last boat to the island of white sand/tourists just in time.

Dropped luggage in Boracay Holday Resort and immediately went out for dinner. For this, had to shell out a couple of hundreds to indulge in seafood. Then decided to walk through White Beach from Stations 2 to 1 and venture the latter’s talked-about nightlife. But, alas, the waters had risen to the point of reaching the establishments’ beach-front entrances that the sofas, bean bags, mini tables by the shore were removed, thus, the chaos was concentrated inside the clubs’ already-chaotic order. We all went back to our hotel and ordered a couple of beers. Yeah, we were losers, but not tomorrow.

[ 1st of 3 parts ]

not on paper but online

“How to Follow Not So Simple Instructions,” one of the (currently) few works of a series of poems I am toiling on, is in this week’s Philippines Free Press. Since the publishers could neither release nor circulate hard copies of their magazine as of the moment, let us all settle on the online version instead. Read it here.

it started this way

Here’s a bit of truth: my headband-wearing ‘guise’ originated in November 19, 2008. That is exactly three years and five days ago. It is one unforgettable date in college. Unforgettable because the headband-wearing is carried on to this year and maybe until the next few years.
It all started with the Opposite Day. I think it is what one would call a harmless dare (if not an embarrassing one). I and a fellow co-staffer of the university paper, The Weekly Sillimanian, thought we needed a little bit of crazy (as if we had not enough), so we rounded up the rest of the staff and suggested to fulfill this objective for an entire day: be in a getup that is as farfetched as a cat in checked purple-and-orange jumpsuit.
In simple words: don’t be you, aesthetically.
So I ditched my khakis, button-down shirt, leather slippers, messenger bag and opted for something quite more pedestrian: old PE shorts, an aircon shirt (tee with tiny strategically-placed holes), a pair of rubber slippers that was one size bigger, and a drawstring bag of some company’s seminar giveaway for all of my things. I topped it all off with a cheap, white plastic headband.
I got in my World Literature class that morning and the professor’s eyes, surprisingly, widened. (Surprisingly, because I thought he had no emotions in him). “Is there some kind of conspiracy going on around here today? I had a pirate in my previous class!”
Oh, yes, there was a pirate. There was an extreme gothic chic, too. There was a labandera (basin-sarong-bandana and all). There was the lesbian basketball buff. There was America Ferrera’s Betty. There was Wendy in night pajamas. And there are other more persona who I couldn’t really describe for the sheer madness of it all.
And for some strange burst of insanity (or reason), one thing stayed after that day: the headband. It just stuck especially when I had decided to grow my hair out of the blue (then shaved off into a Mohawk upon graduation day).
Of course, the headband only appears in appropriate places, or in whatever places people think are appropriate. I couldn’t care any less, actually. I’d wear it anywhere if I can. In fact, last May, someone who I was not fully acquainted with at that time remarked I was the only one she had ever seen who looked good with a ponytail and a headband on. Insert mandatory blush here. (Thank you, dear, I admire your taste).
I don’t want to repost the photos in this entry, but I could offer this shot, which is printed and kept in an album in the university paper office for future generations of staff to see. Anyway, I just miss some of the people involved (pictured above) because they’re crazy. And they’re great. And they’re lovely. And they’re brilliant. And they’re bright. And they’re scattered all over the country, all over the planet.

Sigh.

how to not write another story

People never really know
half of nothing. It’s neither
half-empty nor half-full.

It’s just what it is. So they
make up. Now let’s forget
the urgency of sunlight.

Besides, not all shapes show
their genuine forms: the bosom
beneath the clothing could hold

not a heart but a frenzied beast.
Scathing, mad, injurious.
Just like primetime news.

They’re everywhere, reports
of shame, pride and blood
in deadpan delivery.

That’s how we forget soul.
Is that the essence of man? No.
It’s the thick bottom of a heel.

We can all laugh now.
Embarrassment seems to be
everyone’s choice of comedy.

And there’s no one to blame,
this frontier of subtleties
that’s bound to fade.

We’ve learned very well:
we do’nt have to put everything
in the right place.

the october project (otherwise known as 'why being out of the radar is particularly needed')

I am overwhelmed by its power of persuasion. One must login, one must update, one must share. Regularly. If not, you are of least significance to the (net/cit)izen. Of course, that is, or more appropriately, could be the whole point. Facebook, the social networking site with a number of users close to a billion, is a tool for communication, and a tool only works when there’s a hand that controls it. In retrospect, I willingly dipped my hands back in 2007 and I was amazed, maybe even inspired, to its apparent seamlessness and the brilliance one often sees in something novel like any technological breakthroughs.

Until last month.

The site is a victim of a constant facelift, changing with the times, encouraging more people to try it, but the entire experience I have first felt almost four years ago has lost its novelty. Rather, it is now (exhaust/annoy)ing. It is a chore visiting the welcome page alone. The tool is working me, maybe even working us without our knowledge.

And this is not without a couple of reasons.

It takes a huge chunk of our time, we only realizing it when we witness our live newsfeeds and walls being rarely updated no matter how many times we hit the refresh button. And that Ticker Box is out of the question. One might say, like many other sites, it is not a matter of “must” but of “can,” yet I stand on the idea that we are actually all bound to the former instead of the volitional and decisive “can” since even the suggestion that we could self-regulate is an excuse brought about by the desires of “must.”

In our attempts to slake this desire, we have become too willing, too agreeable. Because of this we are (allowed/faced) with a bombardment of personal trivialities. Then strangely enough we become more skeptical of the people we are trying to connect to: Is he for real? Does she really have to say that? Why do people like that post? Why do people not like my post?

We have delved far into the virtual (bio/togo)graphy of relationships it makes it hard to scale back to the very core of what this apparatus (is/should be) all about: the human connection. Real, honest, flawed. In social networking sites, everyone (tries to be/is) perfect. Thus, the distances and alienation are much more felt despite of how frequent we interact with each other—whether through messages, chats, status updates, photo comments, likes—because our very own errors, defects, and blemishes (are/could be) magnified, subsequently stoking our inner shame, spreading like wildfire.

Once again, this sheds light on the fact that everything is not what it seems to be. Nothing is quite sensible, nothing is quite true.

And in this site’s hodgepodge of opinion and information circulating from point A to point B to points CDEFG, everything is instant, expected to be instant. That is why even when a message is delayed, deferred, or not sent at all, one easily wonders: Why is he missing in action? Is there something I do not know? Have I done something wrong?

It is easy to say we have unconsciously bred a culture of impatience, planted a seed of anxiety on the very wrong soil. As a tool for communication, a social networking site works effectively. But as tool for understanding the human condition, it falls smack on the ground limp.

And this is not what I need. I think I already have enough messages sent, received, and unre(ciproca/qui)ted. To put it more bluntly, missing some things and most specially someone is a one-way effort. It drains you.

That is why I am on a hiatus. My goal, I insist to believe, is to discipline my primate wanting for connection, information, and even attention. I have deactivated my Facebook account since October 6. I am on indefinite leave on Twitter since October 9. To further underscore this attempt, I actually cutoff my regular text-messaging of rough verses or lines of pseudo-poetry to all contacts in my cellphone way before the aforementioned sites. I stop sending last October 3.

More than a month has passed.

Unsurprisingly, the concerns, the wonderings, and the speculations of the absence mostly settle on one matter: Why are you not on Facebook?! How come you’re silent in Twitter?! Where are you in these sites?! Yes, the interrobangs in there are throbbing. As for the text-messages, the worry is close to none. What surprises me is that this little percentage comes from the unlikeliest of people.

Not that I am expecting a landslide of interest to the latter. After all, Literature versus The Websites is an altogether different story. It deserves another discussion.

Amidst these overblown ruminations, I have come to one conclusion that lately I am easily overwhelmed not only of the nuances of Facebook or Twitter but of things as small and delicate as silence, among many others, could easily break (anyone/us/me) apart.

how to hate the apostrophes

We begin by stripping
the animosity to its core:
this pursuit of belongingness.

Since nothing has staked claim
on something, on someone
the way apostrophes could.

Human effort pales in comparison
to their minute stabs of ownership.
These marks ace at mockery.

A man once promised to a girl
the heavens would be hers,
but when she saw the skies naked

except for one tailless kite
and the occasional pigeon,
she shoved off the thought.

Even the winged struggle
at these acres of space,
encyclopedic and colossal.

The philosophy of the apostrophes
speaks of one basic certainty:
some wants are better off ignored.

And this is where they beat us.
They could posses more than a ghost
could haunt man in a lifetime.

In their wake is a cold draft,
and we are contentedly warm
for all the wrong reasons.

the old man and the seat

Lunch break turns out to be amusing if not a wee bit insulting today. In one of a mall’s many fast food restaurants, a mother with her two-or-three-year-old daughter approach a waitress just across my table, asking her for one of those child-safe high plastic chairs. The woman then takes the special seat and sets it to my table, right next to me. I stare at her, a spoonful of rice midway to my open mouth. The mother corrects the waitress that she sits farther in the corner, so she immediately moves the chair to the directed spot. The aforementioned mother appears to be in her late thirties.

Such incident begs the questions: Do I really look that old? Is there hope to be a family man? Does this finally break the curse of being mistaken as a woman? Or is the waitress just pulling my leg? Whatever the answers are, that is just indisputably crazy. At least it is a funny way to start my week.

all these are necessary

When things get a little too hard to handle, a getaway is in order. The past few months have been grueling, both in mind and body (mostly the former), so I thank the heavens a trip has been made to my hometown prior to all the paranoia.

*

Sugar Rush
October 29

Bought two boxes of Cinnabon for my family, as if no sugar was enough to sate their sets of sweet tooth. Ironically, upon arrival, I went straight to my dentist to have my braces adjusted (because at this age I think anything ortho is a shame). It was also the birthday of our eldest brother, so there came the mandatory tub of ice cream on our dinner table that night. Another sugar. Later, I met two of my collegemates at Bo’s Coffee Shop (more sugar), pacifying our doubts of this and that talks, this and that gossips. Seeing our photos right now, I realized we three were presidents of one same organization during our respective sophomore-junior years. Just sharing. We made that group work. Take that!

The Ones That Passed
October 30

Went to church in the morning and then had lunch with my mother, sister, and nephew somewhere, my treat. In the afternoon, went to the cemeteries at Maribojoc and Loon. These were where my parents’ grand- and great-grandparents laid in quiet provincial soil. These visits made me realize we ought to have a comprehensive family tree. I knew so little of our bloodline. Just imagine the bounty I could unearth from the seemingly bottomless source of stories. As the afternoon progressed, I met four of my schoolmates to discuss and prepare for next day’s itinerary.

Halloween Beach Outing
October 31

Rounded up my high school classmates because I wanted to. The last time I saw them was in December last year, goofing around Balicasag and Virgin Islands. Brought with me two masks that survived countless occasions (from Valentines to Christmas), utterly enduring through the years it became standard to bring them along to further silly-fy an already silly gathering. As usual, the masks were prominent in many pictures of my camera than the exquisite sand and waters of Panglao. Blame it on the alcohol.

No Plane, No Gain

November 1

Ah, no wonder why those Occupy Rallies all over the world lasted than expected. Was supposed to fly back to Manila in the afternoon, to embrace work in all its glory the following day, but was then informed that Particular Airline had to cancel its trip. PA reasoned it was all due to a looming bad weather and that the city airstrip had no room for another aircraft. Oh, should I laugh at this? The Other Airline just left, seconds ago, so technically there was room for another aircraft. Yet PA insisted on cancelling its flight. As expected, blood pressures went high, especially tanned corporate men and women raising hell at the little booth of PA. Of course, who wouldn’t? A day’s worth of one’s job is still a day’s worth. Just one legal note for Particular Airline: please hold responsibility to your customers and don’t give us advices to ferry to Cebu to catch its “many” Manila flights when you’ve earlier stated bad weather is coming. Also, blood pressures went sky-high when it was overheard the Another Airline handed a stipend of P400 to its passengers when it also canceled its flight for technical reasons. Sigh, PA, why can’t you do the same? You’re a big guy now. A little gift won’t dent the wallet. If you just can’t, please stop offering us those promo fares and start eating your words.

Back at Home

November 2

Stayed at home most of the day, enjoying Pawn Stars on History Channel and Wipeout on AXN. Then decided to watch Puss in Boots (I love cats!) with problematic someone late in the afternoon and had dinner at Heritage Crab House next in Mansasa. It was both our first time in that new restaurant, and we found the place handsome and rustic, the live band really good, the food servings generous, and the taste palatable but not entirely novel. After lengthy conversations over his compulsory two-stick smoke and my glass of pineapple juice, we went home.

Back to Reality

November 3

A two-day off from work, especially an unplanned one, was surprisingly cathartic. Prior to my return flight since the last one that failed, everything looked vivid, well-lighted, and serene even above the racket the carpenters were making, replacing our living room door with a dark, heavy one. Until I finally hopped onboard the airplane, lifting me higher off the ground and transplanting me back to a Manila that had skies threatening to rain. What a welcoming sight.

how to identify a crisis without really trying

First, we draw a period
no bigger than pollen
on a sheet of paper,
one that could impede
tongues and birthing
for our knowledge
of tragedy to cease
and delimit itself, to stop
like rundown seawalls do
to afternoon strolls.

For how much longer
this would stretch to,
it is best to say we are
in the wake of our ellipses.
Waiting requires tenacity
instead of patience,
and it is in the waiting
that all things grow.
Or wither. We must breathe
in each interval.

Second, we tell the gales
not to give in. We will be sorry
for the spiders though
since no gem that clings
on what remains of their homes
will prove its worth.
No matter how pure,
no matter how clear.
We must remain strong
and humble as silk.

With the fate of the spiders
we will either adore
or condemn that even
the lightest of things—
drizzle, a crisp brown leaf,
a found earring,
the sole pillow on bed,
the strand of silver hair—
are among the many
disguises of grief.

Third, we say nothing
to queries that start with why.
Or at times even with how
and the rest of its kin.
This way we will learn
to forgive truth for its merits
and cherish quietness instead.
Then our nights will reclaim
their usual quiver,
our days soft and lambent.

Now, let us say,
if we could just have one hand each,
us by the bench, on the grass,
or somewhere steep,
listening to electric calls
of dragonfly wings,
we could probably say
there is no letting go.
We will make
the constellations proud.

there are chickens here

Had to attend two events last Saturday, October 15. Not true-to-the-word ‘had’ like a coercion, but something more like you’ve got to because, deep inside, you really want to. Anyway, forget it, I’m not making sense.

The first one is a book launching of Gerry Alanguilan’s second edition of Elmer, the prize-winning graphic novel about intellectual chickens and how they deal with human society. It is held at the same place where the latest Trese book, Last Seen After Midnight, is launched.

I’ve heard and read Alanguilan back in college with his trangressive work Wasted. It is a complete hairpin-turn of a reading experience for me, especially when my knowledge about the once-maligned works of comics is limited to prints by Marvel, DC, and the usual Snoopy fix in Sunday papers.


That particular work has ushered me into more novel and braver Filipino graphic works, such as the aforementioned Trese series by Budjette Tan and KaJo Baldisimo, Carlo Vergara’s Ang Kagila-gilalas na Pakikipagsapalaran ni Zsa Zsa Zaturnnah, Manix Abrera’s Kikomachine Comix compilations, and Siglo: Freedom and Siglo: Passion edited by Dean Alfar among many others that are mostly found in the internet.


That is why the opportunity to see the man behind Wasted and Elmer is not to be missed. What I sorely miss though during the book launching is signing up my name in the registration booth, thus failing to win any of the raffle prizes, of which it is also the same for dear Tin. (See photo above: I only get to flaunt a copy of the book whereas Peachy and company have their blown-up panels).


The second event is Netty’s post-birthday celebration at Central Pioneer (which was surprisingly better than the branches in Makati). Who would skip a night of free drinks? Okay, sometimes I do, but not this time.

This is like an extension of this, and for a day that starts out fine, I might as well end it with a little buzz. And for a couple of reasons that make me virtually disconnected to them for some time (e.g. hiatus on Facebook, Twitter, etc.), chickening out at things that are probably just existential, I think meeting them is a good idea.

how to follow not so simple instructions

Keep the pages of that manual flap
like bird wings, broad and far-reaching.
Let the mechanics dip and dive,
procedures spiral as sparrows do
over trees, between cable wires,
and from time to time beyond grasps
of our calculations. This is how
measurements impress our intelligence.
Keep it open with something heavy,
but never touch the paperweight.
Leave that pebble from Pulang Bato,
admire its estrangement from the falls.
Leave that crystal ashtray as a memento
of all we know that have passed.
Leave that mug of coffee or down it
while it is hot before we could recall
our pains are our heart’s caffeine;
they are much bitter when cold.
Use that reliable head instead.
At close range, the images on a page
would start to blur, but remember,
almost all that is dear to us is:
muse, marginalia, misunderstanding.
Even that pinprick of light could be
a torch to our heavy-lidded eyes.
Fear not the trappings of error.
When we are little, we gravitate
to the ground and walk on all fours
to walk on twos. See the foolishness
in that equation of making things easy.
What matters are the differences now
because we could never rely on sameness,
because the similes could turn against us.
There is nothing to like if all is the same.

last seen somewhere

October 8. Saturday was not as promising as I had expected. It rained, so I holed up at home doing things that needed to be done: cleaned the house, did the laundry even on a rainy day, ironed the clothes, read a couple of books, continued working on a couple of drafts. When the whole routine shifted to the dreary, an interesting thought came into mind: the book launching of Last Seen After Midnight, the fourth Trese book by Budjette Tan and KaJo Baldisimo at Bestsellers, Robinson’s Galleria.

(I actually haven’t read the series yet, the first being Trese: Murder on Balete Drive [followed by Unreported Murders, Mass Murders, and then Last Seen After Midnight], but people I know who are into graphic novels keep egging me to, so that afternoon I deduce the launching of the latest book would be a perfect start to get into the world of Alexandra Trese).


I did the usual practice of attending such event: I bought all four books (it would be a shame for a freshman to buy the fourth one without the first three, right?), attended the interview portion of the artist (KaJo) and the author (Budj), listened to the question-and-answer portion, lined up to have my books signed (of which, I unexpectedly met Peachy Paderna, lining up as well with his “boy”). And I find the men behind the comics humble, just saying.


Back home, I read the first two sets, and now here is a little hail of first impressions:

• KaJo Baldisimo’s artwork is really good, polished to say the least. It has been a long time that I have seen black and white rendered so gorgeously and original. Though I notice a slight change of look or feel or whatever that is between the first case (the stories are told in episodic/procedural cases) of Murder on Balete Drive to the last case of Unreported Murders, the drawings portray Manila as a character that is both familiar and strange, and that alone merits a two-thumbs-up. Monochrome, this time, is sexy (though I’ve seen in Rogue magazine last year an excerpt of a Trese story in full color, and it is just as striking).

• Budjette Tan’s periodic stories often leave me wanting for more, as if this and that should be stretched and be mined for more, say, thrills and twists. But I guess this is the maximalist in me talking. This kind of telling has its plus-side though: you can read the tales in no particular order.

• As a practicing fiction writer, I read as much varied materials as I can to widen my scope, and I find Tan’s mythic, folkloric creatures crossing the modern world nothing new. But ‘nothing new’ does not necessarily mean it is bad. Also, this is not to say Tan’s concept is unoriginal. Nothing new could be saved by the rendition of small but refreshing takes of the proverbial (who would’ve thought of St. Elmo’s Fire coming out of a cellular phone as weapon/ally?), and Tan succeeded in giving that in his Trese books. And comparing short fiction to graphic fiction seems unfair, so I’m ending this discussion right now.

• The Kambals, the mandatory sidekicks, are funny, which I think serve as a perfect contrast to the protagonist’s grim disposition. And during the book launch, I’ve overheard from my seatmates that they have an interesting turn in the third installment, so I am excited to flip open Mass Murders soon.

• I know it is too early to demand this, after reading only two books, but I wish the underlying narrative of Trese (I know there is! It always has! It should!) would dive deeper into the Philippine mythology. After all, there is more to our horror stories than aswangs, tiyanaks and manananggals. And I hope Baldisimo’s and Tan’s publishers would grant them more lifeblood (e.g. budget) to continue Trese since there are legends that could be a wealthy source of stories, too.

• In three words: I enjoyed Trese.

and he left

Steve Jobs
(24 February 1955 - 5 October 2011)

relativities

A team of European scientists has reportedly clocked a flock of subatomic particles called neutrinos moving at just a shade over the speed of light. According to Albert Einstein’s special theory of relativity, that can’t be, since light, which cruises along at about 186,000 miles per second (299,000 km/sec.), is the only thing that can go that fast.
—Was Einstein Wrong? A Faster-Than-Light-Neutrino could Be Saying Yes, TIME (23 September 2011)

Light is always convinced
on the eternal, its hand
running over all things.

It plies on every curve
and edge, turns them precious
with delicate clarity:

dew on germilina leaf,
steam off boiling pot,
the midmorning laundry.

On the first hour of day
even streets surrender
to its touch, calcified,

becoming changeless,
devoted to stay true
to where they lead us.

But as new findings tell
something flits faster
than the speed of light,

is there a need for worry?
What could be quicker
than what we deem as right?

It seems this is the time
to consider learning now
where our prayers hurtle to.

And though a few things
have to be lost in order
to be found, it is safe to say

they have reached the light,
seen it head-on, neither dazed
nor blinded, just fulfilled.

about the heart

Last Sunday, September 25, was World Heart Day. It was celebrated worldwide. I knew it from a news report on television, snatching my attention like a flimsy feather to a gust of wind since I visited doctors to—you’re right—have my dear heart (among other organs) checked just a few months ago. And to make the long story short, nothing really serious.

But that pattern of visiting the doctor (doctors, in the plural, to be specific), recalling the pains, doing some tests, waiting for results, and visiting the doctor again scared the bejeezus out of me. It knocked a few thoughts in my head and resulted into this:

My poem “Response to a Doctor’s Findings” is in this week’s Philippines Graphic (3 October 2011). Shot of the magazine’s cover you see right up there. I just find it a little bit funny, this piece coming out the morning after World Heart Day (I got my copies last Monday). It looks like a wily stab at humor. Maybe the publishers know. Maybe it is pure coincidence.

But what I am really sure of is that this seems to be a lovely year for me. I won’t stop the stars from aligning, suggesting beautiful things. This is good for me, good for my heart.

defeated yesterday

The umbrellas were. And everything that was on me, actually.

Early in the morning last September 27, Pedring proved to be a typhoon for any rational man in Metro Manila to be wary of. But since no message of work being canceled came to me, I set off with the faintest idea at the back of my head that I deserve an Employee of the Year Award. Not even the sixteenth typhoon that visited our country could stop me.

Outside, the winds so strong, I felt like in any minute I would ascend to the heavens like Remedios the Beauty. And what downpour that day poured. I pitied my swaying umbrella, but I still honestly thought of myself lucky compared to those who were drenched in their corporate uniforms and trendy BPO getups. Whereas my umbrella swayed, enduring the elements, theirs had seen better days. At least that made me smile.

I arrived in the office just to receive news that we would have a half-day work in the interest of all employees’ safety. I was not sure if I would meet this piece of info with enthusiasm or disappointment. The howling winds in the elevator vents and shaking glass walls of our floor were not helping me clear my mind either. I busied myself with work, work, work until 12:30pm.

When I left the office, the weather did not change. It got worse. Insert heavy sigh here. So I stowed my weary umbrella in my bag, zipped up my jacket, and braved the storm while singing Rufus Wainwright’s “Hallelujah” on the way home. I arrived home safe and sound.

her royal birthday

It was no surprise, the other tables emptying as the night progressed, which could probably be provoked by the ruckus we all made. We celebrated Mo’s (insert preferred number here) post-birthday (September 22 was her birthday), and I sometimes believe birthdays are supposed to be like that. Wild, large, and tight. And yes, I’m still talking about birthdays.

The notorious Jologs of the Dumas-Goethe workshop—an expanding circle of indefinable fellows other than, well, notorious—converged at the Elbow Room last Saturday, all giddy since the last time we met was in May. Giddy may seem to be too shy a word; the following photos speak for how it all turns out.

Ynna Serena, The Bullfrog, Yumburger Miro, Real Lady Netty, Child Star Phillip, Single No More Keith, and Her Highness, Mo.

With Bea, lady in yellow, who we rarely see. And that woman with the lovely smile, that’s Peachy.

We are puggeh.

That’s Mo’s pseudo-G.I. Greg, who posited we were in Pampanga.

The circle. Next stop, Netty’s birthday.

*

And speaking of birthdays, let’s segue to familial matters here. Today is my sister’s birthday. And also the day Ondoy wrecked havoc on us last year. Let us just pray the storms will keep us strong.

how to break the ice after a fight

Since we have enough silence to build
a museum or a public library, can I speak
of our close(d)ness now? What about
the static of midnight television,
the closing of doors, that wordless
goodnight, that (eve/mor)ning snore?

Yes, we are allowed so much hurt
but I can only permit this much.
What we always know of lea(r)ning
(on/from) each other we discover
by not doing so. Our wind chimes
tell us this: there is weariness in inertia.

So this time I try to speak your idioms.
So this time I try to follow your nods.
And this perfume (f)licking the air
between us? Just rub it generously
on your pulse. I can tell if it is worthy of days
when only my skin’s musk invades me.

We know it is too (early/late) to tell
if the (ab/pre)sences we fill those days with
benefit our better judgments. There will
always be afternoons that never stop waiting,
always ahead of us. Like habits of desire,
vivid and steel-sharp.

But this is what I am grateful for:
at least we never get to the point
of breaking the (d/w)ishes,
the precious porcelain (c/v)ows
we have received on our wedding last June.
So tonight, in bed sweating, we both (g)listen.

published and not complaining

My poem “The Lost Monkeys of Tamugan,” a melding of the myth and the personal tale, is published in the September 10 issue of the Philippines Free Press, along with fellow katsubong Bron Teves’ “The Queen’s Gambit.” Read them here.

*

Lately, I’ve been churning out poems, setting aside drafts upon drafts of long narrative fiction, and though it is no easy feat, I am not complaining. I think it is a blessing. My only “issue” (I don’t know how to describe it) here is the constant urge to rework a piece the genre usually hints at or even demands. See, the aforementioned poem that is sent a month ago to the publisher now looks different today, at least in my growing list of drafts. Ah, the (un)petty concerns of life.

Anyway, as what I’ve said, I am not complaining. I shouldn’t be.

founders friend

Touchdown and Take Off

August 24, 2011

Yes, I decided to visit two cities in one day. Original plan was to stay in Dumaguete upon arriving (until the 29th of August), but due to circumstance I decided to pay my dear hometown a visit on the very same day. Land on Dumaguete in the morning, cruise to Tagbilaran in the afternoon.

Fast forward, or six days later, it was not surprising knowing the expenses I made. I checked my little book of transactions and discovered my spending doubled compared to last year’s August break. Yet there was no pang of guilt here. I think it’s all worth it.


One Day in Bohol
August 25, 2011

Brought my parents to the grocers, went with them to purchase things needed for remodeling the house, and met a handful of my high school classmates on the eve of my leaving for Dumaguete. The latter and I returned to our recently-favored pastime: singing/reading lyrics. Yes, apparently, all I can manage is read lyrics on the videoke screen like poetry.

At least it’s poetry.


The Epic Journey Back
August 26, 2011

To encapsulate le grande expedition to the city of gentle people: I arrived at Tagbilaran port at 6:45AM, and then knew Dumaguete fastcraft trip at 8AM was cancelled due to rough seas. When hesitation to leave started to sink in, I met someone who also planned on hopping onto the same boat. Karamays are always helpful. We both decided to brave the longer route—take the earliest trip to Cebu (7AM); take a taxi cab to South Bus Terminal (9AM); take a bus to Santander Pier (9:20AM), of which the whole trip took three hours; take a ferry boat to Sibulan, Negros Oriental (3:30PM); and finally, take a tricycle ride to reach Piapi, Dumaguete (4PM).



I was supposed to reach Dumaguete City as early as 9AM. Nevertheless, this time I can truly say, better late than never (my mantra since Elementary was ‘better absent than late’). So next time someone says there’s no other way, I’d slap the idiot hard on the face.

After this Tolkienesque journey all-for-the-sake-of-lakwatsa, things started to get better: SU Cheering Competition, Zombadings 1: Patayin sa Shokot Si Remington Special Screening, dinner at Sunburst, drinks at Sundown, and a day-breaker meal at Qyosko. Smiles were drawn on our faces.


The Sand Bar Vanishes

This time, there was ‘Walang tulugan!’ indeed. After our 4AM meal in Qyosko, off we went back to our respective homes and packed our things that would shame The Flash. We converged at Portal West Building by 5AM. A couple of expected people didn’t show up. (To the pits with them!) Anyway, there were nine of us, and it was relatively a healthy number for such trip.



I couldn’t really remember what time we left the city since I was drifting in Pillowland the minute the van went zooming to Bais City. We arrived at our destination point at a time and weather that were good for seeing the dolphins but bad at frolicking at the famous Sand Bar. Why? The seas were high, the Sand Bar was gone.

Gladly enough, a big crowd of marine mammals graced our presence. I believed my sonic message of “You better show up or else… or else…” was effectively relayed to the depths of the ocean with my planking atop the banca’s outriggers.

Walk-Outs
August 27, 2011

And this, people, is the story behind “Founders Friend” or “FF” (statements are altered for privacy/due to unreliable recollection, many thanks to our favorite horse):

“She’s happy with her job. She travels a lot. She’s even happy with that hectic job. Why can’t we have that life? And she has a boyfriend! Someone who likes to see her all the time!”

“Oo nga. Lahat nalang ng mga lumalapit sa’kin may masasamang balak! May dalang ice-pick pa!”

“At least may lumalapit sa’yo.”

“But this year’s founders feel a little bit lighter noh?”

“Actually. Drama is sooo 2010. Forget closure. It’s time to move forward.”

“That’s why we need someone just for this week.”

“A special friend for a week.”

“Yes, someone who’s like a what-happens-during-founders-stays-only-in-founders kind of person.”

“Like a Founders Friend!”

“Yeah! An FF! ‘Hey, can you be my FF tonight?’”

“I like that!”

A few hours later, before the sun peeked out from the Escanyo horizon, the characters in the story disappeared one by one.

In Search of That Elusive Person
August 28,2011

It’s hard to say no to a one-way ticket to Drinks-All-You-Can ticket for the price of a bucket up here in the north. This sounds like a joke but two Sundays prove otherwise. And that day is officially the last day of finding for that elusive Founders Friend.

With the Hibalag booth area at the university spitting fireworks to close the week-long event, El Camino and its fund-raising (with the said ticket), luring lawyers, future lawyers, and the usual visitors, were touted to be an interesting checkpoint. And whether the search was successful or not, depending on how one saw the outcome, the day ended strangely well, maybe because of the reason for coming up with this excuse: find the post-founders friend.

National Artist for Literature Edith L. Tiempo’s State Funeral
August 29, 2011

I attended a vigil of Mom Edith’s wake last August 27, Friday. Familiar faces were there, and I guess they were present for the same reason why I needed to pay respect to someone who graciously poured wisdom to people who shared the same thirst of her passion.

The State Funeral took place two days later. I had a 3PM flight to catch, and though I knew I won’t be able to follow the final walk to the burial grounds because of this, I woke up early to see her one last time. It was the right thing to do.

Reunions and Anniversaries

Still not reeling away from this little bundle of grief I carried during my days and nights of merriment (yes, I hide feelings very well) because of Mom Edith’s departure, I rounded up the culprits for one last August lunch in Dumaguete at Gabby’s Bistro. In simple words, I needed company. Again, a few went poof at the last minute for reasons both trivial and logical, but it was fine. It is always lovely to cap things on a pleasant note—all smiles and lively chatter. The gathering went well. The leaving did not.

Well, a lot knows it’s like that when it comes to Dumaguete. Always.

books launched and received

Last Friday, September 2, the book “Under The Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry” was launched at the Ayala Museum.

A part of the 4th .MOV International Film, Music, and Literature Festival, the anthology which is edited by Khavn De La Cruz and Joel Toldeo, is a “compilation of 150 Filipino poets: from the renowned and the known to the upcoming and the knowable. It explores the topography of the phenomenal, social, and lingual developments of contemporary Philippine poetry.”

My poem “Stones” is in it, along with works from contributors like Gemino Abad, Jose Marte Abueg, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, Jose Wendell Capili, Mikael de Lara Co, Jose Dalisay, Lourd Ernest De Veyra, Lav Diaz, Simeon Dumdum Jr., Marjorie Evasco, Marc Gaba, Eric Gamalinda, J. Neil Garcia, Marne Kilates, Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta, Marra PL. Lanot, Bienvenido Lumbera, Eliza Victoria, Alfred Yuson, and many more.

The table of content is definitely enough to whirl me to fantasyland. Tin Lao would agree with me.


The event was a strange gathering: mainstream and indie personalities, entertainment bigwigs, and foreign ambassadors and bands took the stage and gave readings of select poems from the book. Though the museum was crowded, I managed to see familiar faces (Alyza Taguilaso, Anne Abad, Jimmy Abad, Arbeen Acuña, Keith Cortez, Noelle Leslie dela Cruz, Eva Gubat, Gian Lao, Ned Parfan, John Iremil Teodoro, Krip Yuson) and say hello to new ones (Erica Gonzales, Jose Jason Chancoco, Lope Cui, Jr., Dakila Cutab, Christa De La Cruz, Jacob Walse-Dominguez, Bebang Siy, Denver Torres, Ronald Verzo).

Also on the same night, I received a copy of the Dream-Pop Issue of Paper Monster Press. My apologies though; I forgot who to thank to here for handing me the little chapbook. My poem “Ghost,” as mentioned before, is in this interesting outing.

So, that was it. In other words, it was a long night.

how sleep can be defined in sestina

I
Sleep? What is sleep but a still moment of escape,
a practice better suspended in litmus clouds,
or cumulus, or 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 flows and circles, shapes that escape
conventions of space, all forms of sleep head
to where they are contentedly in a blur: clouds.
This has a reason: spires and streets tire the eyes,
And glass buildings split-slice bodies in thin layers.

III
Question: Does one need two mirrors to face layers
upon layers of the self, wherein a hand holds
the multiplicity of sameness, gripping the eyes
with images so grand no marvel could escape
the practical lips? 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 elucidations on living. They say 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
Question: So why trouble on things not seen with the eyes?
Response: Answers are buried beneath the head.
Question: But why trouble on intricate plans of escape
to dreamscapes when most 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 approaches, like one morning a man sees them, eyes
them skimming the sun over the skyline, 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 will be no escape.

VII
But nothing holds certainty as beautifully as sleep, to escape
with eyes briefly in peace, to see between the layers
of random thoughts where clouds could set sail in the head.

[ a revision of an attempt last year ]

winners of the 61st carlos palanca memorial awards for literature

It’s that season again. A couple of favorites and buddies turn up in this year’s list of winners, and here’s one great holler to fellow katsubong Joshua Lim So for winning first prize in full-length play and third prize in dulang ganap ang haba. Congratulations to everyone. There’s still next year, so better write those works now.

another one

My poem “Ghost” is in the Dream-Pop Issue of Paper Monster Press (along with my dear fellow hipon, Eva Gubat). Lifted from their Facebook page, here is the list of contributors. The launching took place last August 27 at Espasyo Siningdikato, Dasmariñas Cavite.

LITERARY Jim Pascual Agustin (Tubig-alat sa Ating mga Mata)
Jack Alvarez (Chemistry)
Joyce Marisse Amon (Sending Out)
F. Jordan Carnice (Ghost)
Marella Jem Castro (“I Suppose You Are Real,” said The Velveteen Rabbit)
Jose Jason Chancoco (Astral Travel)
Gigi Constantino (Light Captured)
Christa De La Cruz (Reprieve)
Danilo dela Cruz, Jr. (Ang Araw na Para sa Kanya)
Lolito Go (Sa Pagkalalake)
Eva Gubat (How Somebody Mimicking Joy Williams Would Talk One Morning)
Sinta Isaac (Espongha)
Mark Alvin Jabrica (Listen To Your Mother)
Melay Guanzon Lapeña (Continuity Study)
Veronica Laurel (Waking)
Jenni de Leon-Slater (Colin)
A.B. Mendoza (Dry As Leaves)
Patrick Quintos (1:00 a.m.)
Thirteen Salonga (Encounter #1)
Dott Seki (One Man Universe)

MUSIC The Dunes (Going Under)
Eggboy (No Way Jose-Alternate Version)
Gentlemen Marry Brunettes (Postlude to Fervor)
Identikit (Tiny Fractures)
The Informations (The Wind and The Stone)
J-Solo (Riding Waves, Passing Time)
KR-O.K (Run To Me-Beegees Cover)
Lipstick Tears (Will You Please)
Minimal Pop (Le Rêve)
Monochrome (Grey Sky Manila)
Neuter Lover (Find)
Phantom Sizemore (How To Kill a Giant Robot)
Pogs (Sticky Dreams)
The Standards (Espinosa)

VISUAL ART
Jesus Tejada
Bunny Rose
Tilde Acuña
Chris Bird