uh-oh

an excuse

The biggest stirring irony in our lives, no matter how we deny it, is that we are very sure of how unsure we are. We wake up in the morning and think, “What are we supposed to do?” Instead of brushing our teeth and taking our breakfast, we automatically visit the king’s throne and pee. Yes, automatic, like our refrigerator’s defrosting system. Yes, yes, it is caused by the bladder and some other organs but do we really want to see that bowl first thing in the morning? Why don’t we notice first the scent of a new day, the soft light leaking through our windows, or the early morning chirps of our feathered friends outside? I don’t know. I really, really don’t know the answers. Even the sole reason behind this write up is purely enigmatic. Maybe, I was thinking of other things, my fingers moving by their own will, and went on typing all these. Or maybe this is another unconscious attempt to create an excuse of these three realities (or doubts) dawning upon me: 1) Do I have to mention here that the possibility of not meeting some “missed” people for a long, long time is to be expected? 2) Or that the frequent text messaging is becoming less and less frequent? 3) Or that the time logged in cyberspace to poke, update and blog will forever be a college student’s luxury? There are more and more things orbiting in my head actually. I want to get rid of them but they’re there, spinning around, droning, whirring half-truths and half-lies into my ears. Oh well, I should stop being whiny and grow up.

Bye bye.

bye better summer

Summer, for me, officially kicked off on the 24th of March. Just fresh from an overly-jubilant commencement exercise, we thought of plans on what to do before we plunge into the banal world of work even if we didn’t plan that often. As I relive those times, I just wish that my next sets of summer would be as bold as the major undertakings I had in the past few weeks. Here's what I want to do more next time.

Going to Casaroro Falls, Valencia two days after the commencement day.

Enjoying the company of your beloved silly Weekly Sillimanian staff.

Dipping your toes in Lake Balinsasayao, Sibulan, the lake where you almost got drowned last summer.

Celebrating your summer birthday with the closest “acquaintances,” for the very first time, in Dumaguete City.

Hitting white sand beaches of Panglao Island with your family.

Wallowing in the slow turn of the afternoon in your province’s rich heritage, Café Lawis at Dauis.

Meeting some people you rarely see.

Taking the task that's suggested by Ian Casocot to serve as yaya of the Dumaguete workshop writing fellows.

Having lunch at Bethel's Cafe Filomena with people you only read in books before; Cesar Ruiz "Sawi" Aquino and Gemino "Jimmy" Abad.

Capturing in photos what’s left of nature at Lake Balanan, Siaton.

Basking under the stars and moonlight at Rizal Boulevard.

Having dinner at home—your home in the city of gentle people. Or killing your wallet at different spots such as…

Mamia’s Restaurant…

Or its younger sibling, Café Mamias…

Qyosko…

Chowking when Qyosko becomes a habit…

Gabby’s Bistro…

Sans Rival Cakes and Pastries…

Dunkin Donuts for the late night brewed coffee fix…

Sta. Theresa…

Chicos with their fine wine and cheese…

Lé Chalét (with their Sunday eat-all-you can breakfast buffet)…

Enting’s…

Royal Suites Inn and their unknown treasure, Sizzling Bulalo…

Drinking until everything spins with your literary demigods, Sarge Lacuesta and Mookie Katigbak, at Blue Monkey.

Cooling with much effort at Café Antonio even though it seems futile.

Extending the night until morning time at Hayahay.

Conversing until the wee hours of the morning at Steds Silliman.

Getting the right high on top of a speeding jeepney at Siquijor as you rush to the pier…

Taking a photo of yourselves before jumping off a cliff at Salagdoong Beach, Siquijor.

Or wandering in its mystical grounds when the boat left you.

Or simply settling down in the resort and seeing the Siquijor sunset at dusk.

Meeting Mom Edith Tiempo again and handing a literary folio that’s dedicated to her.

Beating the summer heat at Lalimar Resort, La Libertad…

And if the pool is not enough, you frolic in the seas of La Libertad.

Playing tambays in one of the most enigmatic structures of Dumaguete, the Silliman footbridge.

Riding on the infamous war bus of Silliman University.

Reading bits of poetry at Mariyah Art Gallery.

Receiving the highest honor of the Dumaguete workshop, the Yaya of the Year award, at Labas Restaurant.

Drinking more at Coco Amigos with every fellow intact—complete.

Feeling like a graduate all over again.

Camwhoring in the shores of Zamboanguita because the waters have almost taken your breath away—literally.

Jogging in the late afternoon at the oval, as the sun bids goodbye and goes behind Mount Talinis.

Playing senti as you visit one last time the Rainbow Hub a.k.a. The Weekly Sillimanian Office (though it does not show in this silly picture).

Watching a horror flick at three in the morning at someone’s pad.

o o o

And right now I am wondering when all these will happen again. Nothing’s sure though—all I have to do is look for something fresh in every coming May. And I guess that’s what a new day of summer is for: It breaks you out of the routine and makes you appreciate that there’s something more than the usual stroll in the park—as long as you know where to go and who to be with. Looking forward to a greater summer next year! I hope.

a writer has passed

The Hall of Justice was a cold place, its air steeped in severity. But when I entered his office and met him, the atmosphere shifted. Atty. Ernesto Superal Yee, born on 29 October 1953 in Tanjay, Negros Oriental, was not only gentle but quietly guiding. I still remember the first words he said to me: “Are you happy?” Like anyone meeting an important person they had long known of but never met, I shrugged and replied, “I think so.” 

He could be sharp with his words, though always restrained. As a lawyer who served as Clerk of Court V at the Regional Trial Court, Branch 32 of Dumaguete City, such firmness must have been necessary at times. I witnessed this side of him during the National Writers Workshops. Ernie, as many fellows and colleagues called him, was among those who questioned the point of my poem “The Other Ending,” written for a campus competition the year before. He was also one of those who questioned changes in the workshop itself, such as the two-week schedule instead of the usual three. During my time as a fiction fellow, he lambasted my work and magnified its weaknesses. Yet on the night that followed (culmination night!) he was also the one who offered a flat of Tanduay to every fellow seated along the long table at Hayahay Resto. Ernie was cool. That air of superiority must be his veiled way of reminding us to set our egos aside. 

A few weeks ago, during a short break in a session of the 48th workshop batch, I gave him a copy of Dark Blue Southern Seas, the literary folio of The Weekly Sillimanian, where two of his works were published. I wrote in the dedication, “Thanks for swimming with us in this sea.” He replied, “I hope we could do this literally—but I am old!” He laughed like a child. His infectious mirth dispelled the seriousness lingering in the antiquated room of Katipunan Hall after the previous discussion. His dear “sister,” Susan Lara, and I laughed along. Returning to my seat, I thought how glad I was to have worked with him. 

The good moments kept coming. Ned Parfan, a former writing fellow, later told me that on our way to Montemar to visit Mom Edith Tiempo and attend her lecture, Ernie shared that his new poetry collection was already with publishers and might come out that year. It was exciting news. Though arthritic fingers had stopped him from making music on the piano, he continued to write prose and poetry. There are sentences and verses more melodious than any sound drawn from strings, because they come straight from the mind and heart.

Then, as time so often proves unpredictable, a distinct note faded. On the afternoon of May 23, I received news that Ernie had died of a heart attack that morning, in his bed. I was in shock, suspended in something almost surreal. Just hours earlier, I had been reciting his poem aloud to people who cared deeply for musicality in words for a public reading. This was not new for his work. His poem “A Prayer for Yuan” remains a favorite of mine, one that resonates deeply with my own heartbeat. I share here its final stanza:

Lord bless this one with a heart

Burning with compassion and sympathy,

Accepting as to why some trees, like his uncle,

Choose to bear flowers instead of fruits.

Sir Ernie Yee, the flowers you bore on this land went beyond any superlative of beauty. A poet’s spark may have gone suddenly, but in its living brilliance, it allowed others to light their own candles. Thank you for all the help.

because adam lambert should

Dustin Celestino, fellow for fiction in last year’s Dumaguete workshop, wrote why Adam Lambert should win in this latest season of American Idol:

‘Adam Lambert was the Elvis daemon of ecstatic agony when he performed “Tracks of my tears” and “If I can’t have you.” In “Mad World,” he was the tormented soul whose glorious wails of pure alienated despair seem to have echoed from the phantoms and spectres of suicidal lovers from the pits of the second level of Dante’s Inferno. He was the fiendish incubus of raw longing and restless turbulence in “Satisfaction” and “Born to Be Wild.” He was the jaded, egoistic, self-absorbed, lecherous second coming of Faust – the hedonistic demon of indulgence and abandon – in “I’m Feeling Good” and “Ring of Fire.”

Yes, Adam Lambert sold his soul to the devil to be able to emulate the devil’s defiant wail as the Morning Star was cast down from heaven unto the depths of hell, forever illuminating oblivion with the crimson glow emanating from the heart of the first sinner.

Adam Lambert’s songs are metaphorical representations of the ancient battle between good and evil – at once echoing the repentant sorrow of fallen angels and speaking in the holy tongues of
envious, sex-deprived seraphims.

Adam Lambert is what entertainment for an ironic generation is about – imbued with a sharp meta-camp sensibility, edgy in his defiance of suffocating social structures, and fearless in advocating a liberal perspective.

Kris Allen is a solo version of “Boyce Avenue” – check out their acoustic renditions of “Apologize,” “Disturbia,” “Bleeding Love” in YouTube. “Boyce Avenue” was what Kara and Randy had in mind when they picked “Apologize” for Kris to sing - http://www.titikpilipino.com/news/index.php?aid=1228§ion=International.

But what most people don’t know is that these contestants hold deep, dark secrets, that when revealed might influence the outcome of the contest. You saw it here first, the deepest, darkest secrets of the American idol finale contestants.

Adam Lambert is actually the product of a United States government experiment that combined the DNA of Freddie Mercury, Michael Jackson, Mick Jagger, Meatloaf, and Madonna to create the ultimate disco demi-god.

Kris Allen is actually the fourth member of “Boyce Avenue.”

Yes, I’m biased. Obviously, I think the better artist should win.

My vote (if only I could): Adam Lambert - the turbulent titan of transgression; the
Eros-demented demi-god of disco; the self-aware, meta-artist of commercialized
camp (which makes it more campy).’

on being a yaya

(For all of you)

At first, it was not exactly what I pictured myself doing in the city of gentle people. Especially in May. With the dusty roads surrounding Silliman University flipped upside down, parading a bunch of tourists is not a good idea. But it turned out to be fine; perhaps, even more than fine. The experience was fulfilling.

The oldest creative writing workshop in Asia, now on its 48th year, has just baptized another batch of capable writers: Bea Nakpil, Mo Francisco, Keith Cortez, Philip Kimpo, Jr., Ynna Abuan, Marck Rimorin, Jonathan Gonzales, Niño Manaog (Lolo!), Stan Geronimo, Petra Magno, Arkaye Kierulf, Maoui Stuart del Rosario, Aleck Maramag, Gabriel Millado and Joy Rodriguez. Though I haven’t attended that much bashing of workshop batches, I’d proudly say this group was good (sans the dirt that was messily cleaned).

But aside from the daily workshop sessions, of course, there’s the much needed breather during the breaks and the weekends. Last year, our batch had the veritable Moses Atega (or Kuya Mo) who, I guess, toured many of the previous fellows in and out of the city. For this year, the guy’s island-hopping! And like the force of a fate’s pummeling gavel, a strange thought struck me hard: ako nalang kaha? That I did.

There was no planned itinerary on each day, actually. I don’t usually plan. Spontaneity has been my buddy these days. What they want, I’d show or provide it to them—but except for Ynna’s pleadings that I’d be her Dumaguete love catch. Pointing out historical tidbits of this monument or that structure, remembering the nearest beer stations, outmaneuvering thick crowds to lead the group to the nearest shirt sellers and, most of all, enlightening them to the real wonder of the city, which is, to quote former fellow Marguerite de Leon, the abundance of “disturbingly cheap” food, the job of being a guide was like second nature to me especially that I lived in the city for four slow years. And because of all the pointing, I hastily brushed up my mental compass. The sharp turns in the campus, check. The familiar labyrinth that is the university town, check. The numinous island of Siquijor, check. Check. Check. Check.

Of course, I just can’t lose the fellows or else Myrna Peña-Reyes, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, Gemino Abad, Sarge Lacuesta, J. Neil Garcia, Juaniyo Arcellana, Ernesto Superal Yee, Rosario Cruz Lucero or Susan Lara will remain petrified on the semi-cold chairs in Katipunan Hall 1, scratching his/her head in utter confusion for such mass disappearance. But Dumaguete is a small town and it is everyone’s advantage—not only mine. What happened next, after nights and days of pedicab-traversing and sidewalk-strolling, was something that led me to receive a special prize on the culmination night last May 15.

“Yaya of the Year Award.”

I am not used to flattery of such kind but these guys, or otherwise collectively known as the 1st Siquijor Personality Workshop Fellows, floored me with sweet embarrassment. Well, who wouldn’t be if you are donned with a shiny floral apron that disturbingly matched your crisp floral long sleeves? Seriously, the humorous honor made my visit to Dumaguete more memorable than my countless futile trips to the registrar office in order to procure my transcript of records. Believe me, it is. Though I didn’t actually yaya-ized every single fellow, I know I’ve exerted enough effort I don’t usually share to people I got acquainted with in approximately fifteen days.

The morning after their rite of passage into the world of serious writing, a variety of things were shared: contact numbers, email addresses, photos, cigarette smoke and more cigarettes smoke. Much later I escorted some of the fellows to the airport and heard the whistling of this huge metallic bird that would soon head towards the north. One last wave and I went back to my humble spot.

I stayed and pondered on things left only in the amusement of my imagination. As the days continue to shed its youth and I consistently turn the pages of the calendar, I know the month of May would show up again. But I wouldn’t be waxing sadness here for it would be the particular month that I’d remember giving the fellows a ride in the 7-seater Dumaguete tricycle to anywhere they please, perspiring from the summer heat, but with a smile forming on my face.

real men

To those who are completely confused, here’s a blog that might help clear things up. And if it doesn’t work, I don’t what will.

call for submissions: philippine speculative fiction v

Editors Nikki Alfar and Vin Simbulan are now accepting submissions of short fiction pieces for consideration for the anthology Philippine Speculative Fiction V.

Speculative fiction is the literature of wonder that spans the genres of fantasy, science fiction, horror and magic realism or falls into the cracks in-between.

1. Only works of speculative fiction will be considered for publication. As works of the imagination, the theme is open and free.

2. Stories must cater to an adult sensibility. However, if you have a Young Adult story that is particularly well-written, send it in.

3. Stories must be written in English.

4. Stories must be authored by Filipinos or those of Philippine ancestry.

5. Preference will be given to original unpublished stories, but previously published stories will also be considered. In the case of previously published material, kindly include the title of the publishing entity and the publication date. Kindly state also in your cover letter that you have the permission, if necessary, from the original publishing entity to republish your work.

6. First time authors are welcome to submit. In the first four volumes, we had a good mix of established and new authors. Good stories trump literary credentials anytime.

7. No multiple submissions. Each author may submit only one story for consideration.

8. Each story’s word count must be no fewer than 1,500 words and no more than 7,500 words.

9. All submissions must be in Rich Text Format (.rtf – save the document as .rft on your word processor) and attached to an email to this address: nikkialfar@gmail.com. Submissions received in any other format will be deleted, unread.

10. The subject of your email must read: PSF5 Submission: (title) (word count); where (title) is replaced by the title of your short story, without the parentheses, and (word count) is the word count of your story, without the parentheses. For example – PSF5 Submission: Meeting Makiling 4500.

11. All submissions must be accompanied by a cover letter that includes your name, brief bio, contact information, previous publications (if any). Introduce yourself.

12. Deadline for submissions is October 15, 2009. After that date, final choices will be made and letters of acceptance or regret sent out via email. Target publishing date is February 2010.

13. Compensation for selected stories will be 2 contributor’s copies of the published anthology as well as a share in aggregrate royalties.

Spread the news!

inquired

One of my writings has finally seen print on a national paper. It’s something for me so I am putting the link here for everyone to see.

temporarily offline

I am off to Dumaguete in a few hours to indulge myself in literary bouts between the greats and the mavericks. Tomorrow is the inauguration of the 48th Silliman National Writers Workshop, the oldest creative writing workshop in Asia, and I agreed to yaya this year’s fellows—just like what I did last year when the annual yaya, Ian Casocot, suddenly went out of the radar. I hope we’ll get along, especially that the presence of Niño Manaog (fellow for poetry in this new batch) will surely be felt on and off the sessions. He is just as chatty and whiny as a little child. Peace Lolo!