alyza, read this

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

- Gunter Grass, 1991

first meeting

The first time the two boys have met.

(David Heyman, 2000)

just curious

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

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

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

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

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

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

generic

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

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

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

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

12th ateneo video open

Sillimanians should participate in this.

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

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

The Categories are:

a. Experimental

No more than 15 min in length

b. Music Video

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

c. Documentary

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

d. Short Narrative

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

we'll meet soon

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

unsafe

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

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

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

*

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

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

observations

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

*

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


*

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

talk

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

stubbles and all

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

shameless plug: the ball's inflated

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

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

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

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

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

nuts until 60

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

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

Sample comic strip taken from this link.

descent into obscurity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

of glee, charice, and third world spite

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hah, the wheel has indeed turned!

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

a new umbrella, among other things

The Weekly SillimanianFounders Issue
August 26, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thankfully, I was right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

10th ateneo national writers workshop fellows

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

*

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

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

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

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

mario turns 25!

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

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

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

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

dreaded dengue

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

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

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

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

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

another shameless plug

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

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

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

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

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

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

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