dog-ears of the decade

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

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

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

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

I believe it has always been like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

adjusted

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

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

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

hoppy yuletide season

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

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

i am talking to you

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

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

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

You are in the right place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

shoot

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

a history of neglect

In all the gloss and sheen this third world country is furnishing—by means of trumpeting boxing world champions, broadcasting children singing at the top of their lungs in foreign talk shows, or riding on the laurels of a conferred selfless hero in a cable network—people in some parts of the Philippines have yet to free themselves from savagery.

The massacre in Maguindanao last November 23 left a gaping hole of shame not only on the reputation of the country but also the reputation of its people. As of today, the number of dead bodies has risen from 46 (Tuesday) to 57, of which 20 of those are journalists.

The rivalry between political clans of Ampatuan and Mangudadatu has escalated to this incident, a clear account of lawless violence. It is said that several armed men closely connected to Andal Ampatuan, the massive political authority in the area, seized and attacked the supporters of the usual opponent. On their way to file the candidacy of Buluan Vice Mayor Esmael Mangudadatu, people who were all unarmed men and women, some lawyers and journalists, were slain.

Inhuman, that’s the bottom line.

This information is not only appalling due to its brutal nature but it is shocking in the most concentrated sense of the word, especially in the history of Philippine journalism. Aside from the constant drone of corruption and greed shown in all forms of media, nothing in recent years has tainted the image of Filipinos more than this.

It would certainly be of no surprise that the New York-based monitor Committee to Protect Journalists would soon move the position of our country from fourth place to the top—on the list of deadliest countries for journalists, with Somalia, Iraq and Pakistan trailing behind.

There may be countless reports by now trying to define the horror that happened, but considering our administration’s deaf ears on the calls of stabilization on crime and its other siblings of delinquency, putting in another write-up even in a blog post just to get anyone’s attention on this matter is apt. In fact, it must be raised a notch higher with the means of circulating news we’ve got in this time and age.

But in the end, with the regulations set by our purported “democratic” system, it is still in the hands of our administration to push the necessary procedure of protecting its people. Have we ever witnessed or felt such undertaking? I am not sure. Come to think of it, President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo declaring a state of emergency to that kind of crisis? It’s like giving the arsonist a gallon of gasoline and a box of matchsticks.

Her decisions are ill, if not plain inane.

It’s as if the scale of this is incident is not enough to give her the knock on the head that firearms must be confiscated, especially those that are in the hands of undisciplined men. Sending army troops and police reinforcement is basically trouble masquerading as assistance. In the first place, before the mayhem, one man of Mangudadatu asked Chief Supt. Paisal Umpa, Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (ARMM) police regional director, to provide an escort in the travel, but he was turned down. This man then sought the assistance of an Army commander in the province to do the same, but his was a futile effort. He was rebuffed.

Overall, everyone is only left to ask: Are the people we deem to be trusted the best people to reinforce order, fix the order? Strange but what happened to the Kuratong Baleleng Case? To Bubby Dacer’s murder in 2000? And what about the Department of Justice’s approval of transferring Francisco Juan “Paco” Larrañaga to a penal facility in Spain to serve the remainder of his life sentence for the rape and murder of the Chiong sisters in Cebu in 1997? There are more cases in line, gathering dust in corners only God knows where.

I think I was wrong with inhuman being the bottom line of all these. It is not only that. Playing dumb can be considered but, on second thought, it’s another thing. There's this word that does not only embody the brazenness of the executioners but also captures the administration's attitude towards such incidents. This is called neglect.

the man with the metal studs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Specific Reason #1

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

Specific Reason #2

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

Specific Reason #3

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

Specific Reason #4

You are under the gods with a conservative viewpoint.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hefty bunch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get the picture? Never mind.


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

answering the question

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the rant as a generic political campaign against discomfort

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

It doesn’t feel good.

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

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

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

Batuhin mo man ako ng bato o tinapay,

tatanggapin ko, wag lang crac…

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

*clears throat at the side

see it for yourself

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


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

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

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

patambling muna ha?

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

OK, I will still take that as a compliment.

2009 philippines free press literary awards

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

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

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

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

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

envy and boredom is a bad mix

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

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

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

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

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

tell me what real means

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

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

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

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

to the exit door

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

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

small on your palms

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

I made them 12 years ago.

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

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

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

freedom as respect and humanness

[Statement on the National Artist Awards]

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

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

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

Dr. Edith L. Tiempo

National Artist for Literature

August 6, 2009

an attempt to avoid dormancy

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

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

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

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

yellow

It does not blind. It enlightens.

(for Corazon Aquino 1933 - 2009 )