After the successful inauguration of the Albert Faurot Lecture Series on Culture and the Arts yesterday with Prof. Danton Remoto’s talk on Ladlad and Queer Literature in the Philippines, I’m already looking forward to more of this engaging gathering to stimulate my mind—especially the orthodox sensibilities of the Silliman community.
Being in part of the working committee, under Litcritters Dumaguete, does not only grant us instant book signings but also allow us, sometimes, to get up close and personal with the speaker (thanks to Sir Ian Casocot). Like last night, I together with Marianne, and Pong, had a great dinner with Prof. Remoto, Sir Casocot (with his brother), and the city-omniscient Kuya Mo at Italia’s, one of the new restaurants in Dumaguete. And Prof. Danton invited me to submit an essay for his on-the-works fourth Ladlad book. Woo!
And a day before that, we also got to meet Cong. Gilbert Remulla, Atty. Adel Tamano, Cong. Erin Tañada and (still with) Prof. Danton Remoto. With the help of Prof. Leonor Briones, these guys were here to present Atbp: Politics and What’s Bugging the Youth. Hopping from one university to another, it is really fortunate that we had these symposia in campus to have an intense discussion concerning economic-policies, politics, religion, and even gender issues.
In their website, the Young Turks’ next stop is at the University of the Philippines National College of Public Administration and Governance.
More pictures here. ___________________________________________________________________
Since time immemorial, I know you as someone who have always braved the dark corners of a room and stood straight even in the shadows of the gruesome. I once sniffed the whiff of light powder-scent from you but I didn’t mind. We always didn’t mind. But, suddenly, like a pen that is plunged in a paper, answers and surprises filled this obscure blankness in me.
I realized why you braved these dark corners and shadows because for some reason, I knew, you love these places. There was no need to be brave. You enjoyed them. Well, if the fragrance of naphthalene balls and old night gowns is your thing, I can’t blame you. Just live the life you ought to have and I am sure you’ll enjoy it even more.
Alright, this isn’t the right time to deconstruct the closet. Have a great day!
Like mosquito bites, high school reunions give you an itch that only lasts for awhile. This post is long overdue but, like anybody else who sees something's inserted in an old book and is thrown into the distant pasts, I suddenly remember just right now the day when we grabbed those beach essentials and headed straight to Dumaluan.
I can’t blame nostalgia to have such an impact to me. Most of my buddies are my childhood comrades. From those days when we ran towards the monkey bar every recess time, the almost-everyday knee scratches we got from playing dakpanay and bihagay, the consistent warnings we received for not listening to the discussion, the never-ending role as a contender to every poster-making competition in town, the sudden shift to a military setting when high school came, the monthly spelunking and mountain trekking, to the night when we were all plunged to a game of hide-and-seek at dawn against our high-ranking officials. Indeed, these events that we’ve endured or experienced remain our footnotes that we constantly refer to every now and then on our very own book of history.
And last June 14, there was no stopping us looking back to our juvenile adventures. As if we were transported back to 1995, we played games like sprightly little children, unmindful of the stares from other people, as we were shrouded in a familiar atmosphere where the impending sense of maturity was of the least concern. On that day, the contact of sand beneath my soles and the spray of salt water on my face were never the same again. _________________________________________________________________
E.M. Forster is right. His one line introduction of some sort is an unbelievably shocking model to what social-networking sites and even both substantial and shallow relationships are right now. Before the story in his novel Howards End begins, he wrote: “Only connect…”
Surely, everything does connect. There’s no escaping the probability that that stranger you’re seeing right now could be the key solution to your problem. Looking back to what have happened, the web of connection is really astonishing—if not dreadful. The growing and expanding links from this to that are defintely unstoppable.
Let's take this as an example: Person A is very close to Person B, B also becomes close with Person C, A and C relates to each other well too, then Person D enters the scene and introduces Person E to A, subsequently Persons A, D, and E form a tight group. Person A knows something and is in chaos, add the coming of Person F who is in shock to find out A is closer to B and D and the trouble deepens. F is in distraught it claims solace to the unexpected company of C. Suddenly, this Person G presents this revelation of all revelations. F is enlightened along with other letters familiar to A. There’s Person H who is a long-time acquaintance of A and a close buddy of C. Person G gets lost, tries to clear things up and confronts all letters that are somewhat related to A and C. To test the waters, some far-fletched characters suddenly appear such as Z. Person Z is so much disconnected that it slithers its way into the circle by bringing in Person I into the picture. I is a waste so A threw it in the trash bin long before it rots. Since I is enjoying the attention, it attempts to linger with C, G, and Z. Then A is in a state of shock. Disorder takes place. Fast-forward to the 21st century, the results of the Armageddon is still arresting. The good thing is, all letters fall into their proper places and are fine.
Amazing, isn’t it? Well, we’ve always known there’s no Friendster that could bring so much complexity to one’s life such as this. Reality bites and hurts but you'll get used to it. Trust me.
Sometimes it feels just like I'm falling in the ocean
Let the waves up take me down
Let the hurricane set in motion... yeah
Let the rain of what I feel right now... come down
Let the rain come down
Where is the coastguard
I keep looking each direction
For a spotlight, give me something
I need something for protection
Maybe flotsam junk will do just fine
the jetsam sunk, I'm left behind
I'm treading for my life believe me
(How can I keep up this breathing)
Not knowing how to think
I scream aloud, begin to sink
My legs and arms are broken down
With envy for the solid ground
I'm reaching for the life within me
How can one man stop his ending
I thought of just your face
Relaxed and floated into space
(repeat chorus)
Now waking to the sun
I calculate what I had done
Like jumping from the bow (yeah)
Just to prove I knew how (yeah)
It's midnight's late reminder of
The loss of her, the one I love
My will to quickly end it all
Set front row in my need to fall
Into the ocean, end it all [4x]
Into the ocean (goodbye) end it all (goodbye) [3x]
(repeat chorus)
Into the ocean (goodbye) end it all (goodbye)
(Into space)Into the ocean (goodbye) end it all (goodbye) [5x]
I thought of just your face
* * *
When it comes to leisure for my auditory sense, I always go for beats defying usual tunes that easily fall under two common visual images: butterflies in the fields and rain in the afternoon. These two mental pictures are, oftentimes, imagined when one listens to songs that are totally rehash of previous popular songs. Though originality is just so hard to determine in song writing and music composition, there are some singles that I can consider a cut from the rest. And one of my favorites is Into the Ocean by Blue October.
A rock band that originated at Houston in 1995, Blue October is led by Justin Furstenfeld and is accompanied by his brother Jeremy Furstenfeld (percussion) along with Ryan Delahoussaye (violin, mandolin, piano, vocals), C.B. Hudson (guitar) and Matt Noveskey (bass guitar). Truth be told, this is their only single that I love because it stands out from the rest of their collection. Their songs are mostly rock and it’s just refreshing to hear something from them that’s relaxing but not at the point to make one sleep—indeed, a real good use of Justin’s vocals. The song’s bending and somewhat electronically-synthesized vocalizations remind me of Jim Sturgess’s version of the famous Beatle song Across the Universe, and Chatter’s Tale of the local band Orange and Lemons. Even its dark humor is reminiscent of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. MamuVies, a Youtube user, said the song is “hypnotic” and I agree.
As for the music video it shows a show; presenting a theater-like production of their song reflecting the cheerful and buoyant calmness of the melody. Some scenes are funny, such as the band riding a ship in the sea, but these only add to the unique charm of the overall video—quirky but beautiful. Aside from the band’s gothic get-up, I love their hair!
The lyrics, too, don’t fall flat with Justin’s singing prowess; it’s as if every line embody his very being. In entirety, the lyrics is not ambitious. The words are neither florid nor impressionistic; they are simple but skillfully weaved to form a complex narrative. What is this narrative, if there’s any? From what I’ve apparently learned after the nth play, it’s a twisted telling of desperation—a weakness so hard to ignore that when one falls under such circumstance, he has to accept the fact and let the rain come down//. He has to face these trials. Whereas Princess102100, another Youtube user, have commented under the video that “…the guy is like drowning and thinking about the girl as he tries to get strength to survive and swim away,” I say that the guy is much more concerned about his becoming strong and fulfilling it with his own efforts rather than merely chasing this lady he loves. The lines I'm cold as cold as cold can be// and I scream aloud, begin to sink// also stress the idea of an Achilles' heel; meaning the hero of this song has a flaw and it could be his feeling of inadequateness because he is just a normal boy.//
The song's lyrics can also be dissected for gender studies as well. One particular thing to note about is the second line of the second stanza which says I wish I was more masculine//. Though I really have nothing serious against the band, this line provokes some biases toward gender roles and sexuality. If the persona “wishes” to be more masculine in order to get away from life’s harsh realities, then this is an insult to all females of the world—and even homosexuals. Can't the non- or lesser-masculine beings of the world incapable of handling difficulties? I may have studied a different context here but this I cannot ignore; the line just jars from the rest of the striking lines. To some extent, pathetic.
Nevertheless, the overall composition is definitely noteworthy. Of course, I shouldn’t have chosen this song if it isn’t. What more can I say? Well, this is one work that testifies poetry is still alive in the 21st century. But not a perfect poem, though.
Just as the iron gate is willing to open, rust have tortured the hinges; dry blood makes opening and closing so hard to do. Its dark color is not appealing to the eyes unlike the fruit Eve had plucked from the branch of the tree of good and evil. I know she was just tempted, yet, she took it. Also, even its scent is rancid as if all the beautiful whiff of flowers and morning dews are taken away from the air.
Poor gate, I should have approached you days ago to witness your decaying state, should have touched you to feel the wounds that leave you nothing more but scars and dust. But right now, all I have done is speak of these thousand words only the deaf can hear.
They say you are fine, just all right, because the motes surrounding you have never left. This makes me happy—as happy as the days when I usually came in and out of you, swung your stiff being into this kind of openness only you and me can embrace. Motes, these little motes, are fortunate for in your idleness they have stayed and lingered. I just wish I am one of them, those tiny motes floating around you, illuminated by the sun in the morning and the moon in night time, so that I will live with you dancing in the air, singing an unheard song in everlasting happiness.
College is a time to meet friends, lovers, acquaintances, future mates, and…of course, enemies. Yes, your favorite game of flames personified and dehumanized. With the 6000 plus population of our university, you’re sure to bump into people who will cause your blood pressure to rise. To equip you with the proper defense and tactics during the ill-fated time that they will cross your path, here is a prophecy of your college fate.
Enemy #1: The Perky Freshman
Be it your achingly innocent smallie bombarding you with questions from “Te/Kuya, where’s TBA?” to “Do you still have your Math 11 workbook, ‘kanang naay answers ha’?”; or your kabsi with his wide-eye amazement about how big the campus is and whining that pedicabs be allowed inside; or your overly-eager seatmate in Filipino 11 hysterically waving his right hand at every question the teacher throws in class—you just cringe in annoyance at their fatalist take on optimism and that’s that. And don’t even be intimated by the seemingly flawless coño speak, that’s just their way into the kingdom of social butterflies.
So to our dear Upperclass men and women, just play a deaf ear and press the mute button when the situation calls for it. Better be the dependable Te or Kuys and don’t whine too much or you could be Enemy #2.
Enemy #2: The Messy-Whiny Roommate
This icon is the easiest to spot in college. Unlike the rest of the enemies listed here, this is the only person whose problem radiates in outlook and lifestyle. This Messy-Whiny Roommate is downright dirty and lazy—with the sole contribution of grunts and complaints for the rest of the Enemies. Though only found within the four walls of your room (unless you live alone, of course), this Messy-Whiny Roommate easily strikes a peculiarity in collegedom for its effortless act of making a disaster: from the unmade bed to the shaky closet that would fall on you anytime if not for your efforts of cleaning up. If undies have their way of accepting defeat like what human beings do, they would surely pull themselves up and head towards the nearest sink to wash their soiled and mildewed beings. Basically, this person’s treasure is someone else’s trash while the ability to trash talk appears to be their forte.
And most definitely, if this unique character is skilled in creating mayhem in the room, it would be very possible that this roommate would naturally bring out chaos in the classroom that no Pseudo Teacher could straighten out.
Enemy #3: The Pseudo Teacher
Nothing beats the human sanity more than a teacher who ought to settle in the fields and plant kamote rather than stand in front of a class and bore students to an untimely death. If feisty innocent-looking freshies or sock-smelling roommates tend to heat up even your coldest nerves, brace yourself for a more mind-numbing foe you’ll meet in this university. This is the Pseudo Teacher. This fabled character gives out the most number of reading requirements than any other teacher you’ll meet combined. To add more insult to injury, you poor little wounded soldier of promising education, this Pseudo Teacher emanates an air-head superiority that creates an atmosphere easy enough to suffocate you in minutes.
Serious Tip: Be a Know-it-All and you’ll easily pass the subject. As far as your intelligence as a knowledge-hungry student is concerned, this Pseudo Teacher usually gets impressed when you breathe out flame while explaining why Lapu-Lapu didn’t become our national hero.
Enemy #4: The Ghost Groupmate
You’ll meet this infuriating specimen of a classmate in one of your subjects under Pseudo Teacher. With the mountain of requirements, groups will be arranged and unfortunately for you, Ghost Groupmate or GG is one of its members. GG will seldom attend meetings, or during the rare and miraculous event that he does show up, he will surely be gone in a blink. You’ll use up your entire cellphone load trying to contact him just to attend a single meeting. Be it your BC 25 paper, Speech 11 choir, or PE 12 dance presentation, GG will definitely be absent, uncooperative, and unmindful of the hard work that you’ve put into your little project.
And you know what’s worst? GG will probably pass the subject or even ace it on your account. What’s the thing to do? There is nothing you can do honey, GG will certainly ride on your coat tails until the end of the semester unless you kick him out of the group (which is not an easy thing to do).
Enemy #5: The Know-It-All
Not so many thanks to Mr. Darwin, the Know-It-All still exist and they could be your groupmate, Mr. and Ms. GG notwithstanding. He could be the debater who seemed to have swallowed the entire set of Encyclopedia Britannica and have memorized the Webster’s Dictionary from A-Z, yes, a 160 GB iPod Classic worth of too-much information imposing the Know-It-All throne of being group leader, commanding you to do this and that and ignoring your moans and groans of protest without further ado.
There’s nowhere to go when dealing with this exasperated-sigh-worthy kind of species. Just ignore and endure the awestruck glare when you can’t spell mnemonics and can’t explain why Burma changed its name to Myanmar. Be fortunate you have a life, after all, most of them don’t.
What is said has been said. Words have unexpectedly exploded in the air like premature fireworks bringing momentary light and fancy. Their ashes have fallen upon us and it is either our decision to brush them off our shoulders or let them stay as little tokens of unwanted accomplishment. You’ve already decided, a long time ago, to sweep them away and be back as clean and clear as possible. But I hold on to these ashes. I’ve even clasped them so hard in my palms that they’ve only brought me so much sore only the crushed ones have felt. The kind of sore I am trying to avoid.
Due to the perplexing nature of the mind, a pebble has been thrown into the water and we’ve both witnessed the ripples it makes on the mirror-like beauty, breaking the smooth reflection of the serene sky above us. We’ve both inflicted pain no lethal whips could ever create, shed crystal clear blood no sharp knives could ever produce. We’ve planted something in the air that it stirred Amihan, deity of the universe, and gave us storms and absence.
This is a revelation, a defeated but accepted testimony that no grudges and hatred should go beyond the twelfth number of the clock, the brimming knowledge of the old wise man, or the final phase of the moon. The ropes have been stretched to the limit of breaking and there’s no certainty when this tug or pull would stop. But maybe it’s already broken, cut in half, since this gridlock of emotions has come to this point.
What is this point? I don’t know. Maybe the claim of living the lifestyle of gloom and obscurity is right; I have been heavily shrouded with thoughts of revenge and contempt only the silence of my hollowed being can console. Silence is treacherous—she either comforts the wary or wakes the dark duwende of the recluse. Unfortunately, the wheel of time has made her to wreak havoc on me.
I try to make use of this advantage, or perhaps disadvantage, and scramble for some mending tool in the darkness of silence. But there’s nothing to retrieve in silence; only the constant drone of the myths, assumptions, and even lies. It is just hard because the reptilian monster of cowardice in the dim corner always makes the knight shiver in fright. That is why chaos is inevitable, or is regretfully achieved, because silence is the only sound one can hear in solitude. The only sound I have heard. So, pardon me.
I've read Butch Dalisay's article in the Philippine Daily Inquirer about the 47th Dumaguete Writers Workshop fellows a couple of weeks ago. That's why it comes as a shock when I have gotten a tip from Tokwa that we're featured again (it's late June!). This time it's written by third-week panelist Susan Lara. Found in the Art & Culture section of The Philippine Star, the article speaks so much truth that nostalgia find its way again to my head. Memories! Aside from this fact, I'm super happy the book cover I've made for our Sea[sic] anthology is also featured!
If the papers are gone, I can always read the online version here.
Curiosity: Have Ma'am Sue read this blog? Where else could she get my direct quotation which is only found here? I didn't remember her interviewing me. Yay!
Especially for a song that has spawned numerous versions in different generation, You’re the Voice is one veritable piece. Written by Andy Qunta, Mitchel Reid, Maggie Ryder and Chris Thompson80’s, this single is a hit in some countries such as Australia and even European nations, but not forceful enough that it gains the attention of the Americans. Such accountability of this can be recalled in one episode of American Idol on Fox. “I didn’t know the song but I like it,” said Randy Jackson, one of the three-panel judges of the show. But what is more appalling in the talent show, of which the song is performed by David Archuleta, is Simon Cowell’s comment: “[This is] reminiscent of a theme park performance… The song is not for you.” Though it is believable enough to say that Archuleta was not able to pull it off and he ended up looking so artificial on that glossy concert stage, Cowell’s remark is not right. It is downright nasty. Everyone is entitled to sing a song the same as everyone has the right to eat ice cream.
Nothing beats the original but other versions of You’re the Voice can stand on their own. David Archuleta’s is one passable edition, in our opinion. With the Heart band, the spunk and energy of John Farnham is still present, except that it was presented by a woman. Shown in the video, though, differs because it focuses on poverty and war issues, unlike Farnham’s which presented dysfunctional parents ranting off right in front of their child.
With the Heart’s rendition, the song shows how versatile it is as being androgynous. This flexibility also proves that the song is not only limited to the masculine mindset because another singer, RebeccaSt. James, rendered it with her very own semi-rock style of singing. Though she’s not much of an original, with her antics closely resembling Fiona Apple’s subtlety and Avril Lavigne’s angst, her other songs are nevertheless good.
The song is a classic—especially the one by John Farnham. As a literary piece, You’re the Voice is very mundanely austere but realistic. It is encouraging its audience (or listeners) to make the world a better place. It may fall as a cliché but its message is encompassing and full of truth that being trite is not an issue. It doesn’t make use of any complex words yet it effectively delivers the message across with such unexplainable uniqueness. If this were to be a poem, the persona is just expressing the urgency to fight against what’s wrong in society.
The song can fit in any generation. It has been proven by the many versions of the song by various artists in different periods in time. There aren’t just four versions of the song, but among the four, the music video by Heart was the loudest. It showed the suffering of people due to war and poverty. It evokes pity from its viewers.We appreciate the song because, aside from its catchy tune, its message is simple and clear. It is universal. It has the voice of everyone.
Weird may be the proper term. What else would you describe the feeling of wanting when the feeling of hurting meddles my intention of reconciling even though hating may possibly interfere my main objective of connecting? I know “hating” is such a strong word but I can’t think of any alternative yet. That’s why it is just so weird. Living in this world of silence, contemplating on decisions which often contradict the next, is so exasperating that one has to resolve on burning bridges for the sole reason of getting away from the core problem. Or so I thought.
Those who are affected with the intentional (or maybe unconsciously/unintentionally?) burning execution are now in distraught or, perhaps, trapped in an unexpected downer-paranoia. I cannot blame them to feel that way—because they do not know, they do not understand. Then consequently, though they’re not really the main concern of setting the records straight, they would be deeply hurt because they often feel betrayed and backstabbed.
Spoken statements and accomplished actions, no matter how discreetly and stealthily they’re performed, still reach the knowledge of the object of discussion. This is true; no one can get away from that matter. The plan of explaining becomes harder, too, because it goes back to that weird enigmatic feeling of being incomprehensible. Almost everyone says that there’s a concrete explanation to all things but they do not know that this concrete explanation is just as hard to get as to learning how to tie shoelaces when one has amnesia.
Again, it is just weird. I guess I have already fully internalized my dreams of becoming a poet. As what Kahlil Gibran said, “…poets are unhappy people, for, no matter how high their spirits reach, they will still be enclosed in an envelope of tears.” Sigh, I must have fallen once again into one of the trenches explored by many but unfathomable by the inexperienced. I'm sorry.
The distance you've covered With your skillful period of parading Is beauty stomped by your wet feet on the asphalt ground. Wet as the pools forming in your eyes, Your parade brings downpour: Downfall, Longitudinal, Of impersonal assaults From this shower of beads Hitting the bed you are comfortably sleeping tonight.
The sight of bathing birds With their chirps silenced by the hum of the wind Reminds you of rain puddles forming in your yard. Clear as the midnight rivulets from the skies, Your memory brings delight: Delivery, Compulsory, Of personal dreams In which nothing is so much relieving than the night When the rain kissed every part of your body, Showed the truest form of your bosoms, As you march to the tune of its song.
(for June who stays and has loved to walk in the rain)
Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice The Weekly Sillimanian June 25, 2008
Last May, as if the Fates had been playing with my literary ambition of getting out of my post- emotional impasse, I became a fellow in the 47th Dumaguete Writers’ Workshop and 15th Iligan National Writing Workshop, for fiction and poetry respectively. Admissions to these gatherings, consisting of 15 carefully chosen aspirants from across the nation, are not determining indicators that one is excellent at the craft. I have always believed that everyone is a practicing writer, therefore, when it comes to workshops for budding writers, pride and ego are the least needed things.
Writing is just too guarded. In a publication, there are editors. In classrooms, there are professors. And supposedly, in the home, there are parents. A comma has to appear at the right place and a period has to feel like something has come to an end. Writing seems to be so sacred that with the influx of internet, when online writing or blogs started booming, every aspiring writer applauded. In this now-favored outlet, no one directs, no one hinders. For in cyberspace, there are no editors, no professors, and no parents. As blogs (which are usually known for narcissistic writings) prevail and become more popular, a lot of the discreetly self-proclaimed thinkers rise up and contradict their content due to its popularity.
There is no need to further elaborate what narcissistic writing is. Writing, in itself, is downright masturbatory, a lonely line of work wherein one has to enjoy it firsthand before everyone starts to love and appreciate the results. It’s kind of stupid to separate “self” from “writing.” Everything starts from the self. Blogs are diary or journal alternatives.
There’s too much pa-concern kuno in this time and age which makes for the pa-scholars to project television-quality concerns on high-brow issues of the world. Due to the dreariness of political, spiritual, and even metaphysical brouhaha, some (such as me) succumb to express write-ups in depressing tones, or perhaps an emotional pitch (which is then condensed into “emo,” as classified by the hypocrites). At least there are people who really feel, unlike those who have an emotional capacity of a paper clip. Thus the discussion about the smallest of things, may it be the dirt on a sleeve or a new music video, may provide the essential buffer to make life bearable.
Those who try to create a glossy impression still fail, even though they sugar-coat their statements with supposedly academic and mind-stimulating thoughts, because they’re just the ones who are trying to be someone else. This bunch of societal A-list wannabees is just overly-decorated with jaded eyeglasses, armed with a battery-powered mouth, clouded in an air of cerebral superiority that they’d just rant off direct quotations from the book of Immanuel Kant or Karl Marx for loss of things to discuss about someone’s personal opinion concerning Boy Abunda’s latest get-up.
If these people define what’s being sensible by conversing about the mysterious smile of McDonalds, the evolution of criticism, or the economic instability of our nation, well they’re better off at FortSantiago’s dungeons with Beethoven’s deathly sonatas playing endlessly in the cold air. On the other hand, though their sixth degree synonym of an adjective—transforming “particular” to “circumstantial”—really impresses me for knowledge that exceeds a chimpanzee’s, I retain my composure and don’t mind. Clutter in cyberspace, eh? Besides, I think what’s only important in blogs is Google AdSense anyway.
If these writings are truly revolting and pathetic, how much more is that egotistical response of describing such kind of personal writing in the first place? Don’t people have the right to talk about a drinking session like an ode, or play with words about the afternoon rain like a poem, or transform the idea of hatred into a compact vignette? Well, those who do, go on! I have been doing this in my very own public blog and if someone comments that I’m like a high school drop-out who reads nothing that goes beyond the thickness of an Archie Double Digest, I’d slap in their faces the tome of The Great Critics or Science Explained. The alleged ludicrous writing, I hypothesize, grants online balance: light and heavy, funny and serious, important and the not-so-important-but-relatively-worth-knowing.
We have our own words to say. On the web, there’s no intellectual copyright but only intellectual arrogance. Since my intellectual faculties have already been mashed into pulp by the likes of Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, Butch Dalisay, Leoncio Deriada, etcetera (know your literature kid), attacks toward my being too self-centered especially in blog writing are somewhat ineffective by now. As what I have said earlier, pride and ego are the least things needed.
The intense high temperatures must have affected some people’s mind. Dumaguete is like one roasted city with its asphalt roads and little business establishments ablaze which is why I fully understand my first statement. Brains get fried up, too (it’s just weird though that we’ve experienced a heavy downpour last week).
And to testify that these cerebral organs also have their chances of being cooked, I have been leisurely lazing around the office this morning when messages from an individual appear in my phone. The publication warmth gives me a sauna bath I do not ask for which, consequently, makes me more irritated to read those messages. Since I usually reject these notices only filled with pure pretense, I pity the poor fellow.
Bullfrogs! That particular moment just makes me wonder why people (such as that message sender) comment on some things in a guiltless way when in fact their main concern is the exact opposite of what they’ve done in the first place. Isn’t this inconsistency in the highest prickly order? Oh well, just correct me if I am wrong. ____________________________________________________________
It is official. On the 21st night of June in the year 2008, at Royal Suites Inn, the birth of something so glorifying in the time of distances and nostalgia has finally arrived. The Biggest Circle of Friends (BCF) is now existent. It is, ironies aside, the biggest of them all. A group composed only of Donna Bernardo, Marianne Tapales, and yours truly, this is formed to bring up what The Wednesday Club has wastefully disregarded of its opportunities and to continue what splendid legacy The Union has left to us (or to basically, somehow, get away from this disease of boredom that could drive us into instant insanity).
On this special occasion over delicious food and hearty laughter, we invited Decerey Jumalon as our distinguished guest of honor. Here she witnessed the lasting relationship of three silly people waiting for anything to happen for them to at least have something to look up to while discussing the latest gossip in town. Well, it has been a tradition that certain cliques form annually. Even though the number of affiliates drops and the group name changes every year, the objective of living the sane life in the midst of monotonous cardboard-cutout characters is still present. If asked why it is considered the biggest? Let’s just say that, so far, this has been the largest number of people that shows genuine character to each other (or our appetite for Sizzling Bulalo, Choco Domes and Oreo Cheesecakes is bigger than the rest of mankind).
Since Baby Bullfrog (argh! Elena, this is all your fault!) has been tagged and has a few minutes to go online while enduring Cyberlib’s nasty air-conditioning system, he is going to fall for this game.
1. This game starts with 6 weird things about you. 2. People who got tagged need to write a blog entry of their own 6 weird things. 3. They should state this rule clearly as well. 4. At the end of the list, tag 6 people. 5. Don't forget to inform each newly-tagged person by posting a comment on his own blog.
Okay, here are some of the many silly things that makes up the Bullfrog
1. He loves eating champorado even at lunchtime
2. No matter how late he will be going to sleep at night (or dawn), he would still wake up at 8o’clock in the morning (or 8:30am at the most). Must be his high school military training.
3. He is a cynic or, to add a bit of twist, an idealist pessimist. He has the skill to pull off comments even on the smallest of things.
4. He is cursed with all things digital—in my hands they never seem to last for a year. Just recently, his Motorazr V3x has finally bid farewell. No amount of love and cash could resuscitate this little thing. And as of the moment, his camera is showing signs of surrender. Damn!
5. He draws, sketches, paints, but is colorblind. He’s surely going to have a hard time determining which is which between blue and violet; green, red and brown; and sometimes orange and yellow. It all depends on the shade. This must explain why he colored his apple brown back in kindergarten.
6. He hasn’t memorize the Multiplication Table completely. Well, that’s why he’s majoring in creative writing right now! Who made numbers anyway?
Okay, I am tagging Sam, Eva, Carmela, Marianne, and Mugen. Hah! It's your turn! ___________________________________________________________________
After hours and hours of contemplating what to do next, as if calendars and time tables have no other use than to completely confuse my sensibilities, I have finally laid out my class schedule: pop culture and gender studies on Monday-Wednesday-Friday mornings, playwriting at two every Monday afternoon, three hours of studying children’s fiction next, almost four hours of poetry every Thursday morning, followed by three hours of critical writing in the afternoon, and lots and lots of free time. Free Time. Actually, this so-called “free time” is just a decoy. I awfully need every second of the clock to work on my various writings under the subjects which are mentioned beforehand, considering that I have to juggle my duties with the university paper and my regional org while wait for the impending weekly meetings with another writing group as I sip some Frappuccino with a close buddy. Heavy? I am not really sure. Just want to say good luck to my hands and to my almost-drying brain.
"I’ve always been lonely. I’ve even chosen a lonely path; writing. That’s why you can call me a loner for writing is masturbatory just for the reason that I write. That’s why most writers are lean. No, not because they’re frequently masturbating. They’re just lonely. Lonely for they eat alone, alone which make them eat less for they have no one to talk to while biting, munching, and digesting. But I eat a lot yet I am lean. Maybe I am only lonely. Not even a writer. No one should proclaim one’s self as a writer."
Nothing is scarier than having decided to remove something you once held so dearly; not even the thought that today’s Friday the 13th. This has been said to me again and again: To solve a problem, pull the problem out of the system. And that’s what I have just done. From contact numbers, Friendster, Multiply, Facebook accounts, to blogs, I’ve finally deleted them for the sole reason that it might help me get out of the mind-numbing sensation of floating in midair. Reason—this is the only thing that I find sensible right now. If not, then what else? What else could I do? I don’t know. I guess I only have to wait for the waters to settle and see what will happen next.
Almost all reviews I’ve read refer this as a Twitter clone. The only problem: I don’t even know what a Twitter is (but I’ve heard of it). Alright, call me a dweeb this instant but I must have some good points for finally paying attention to this new cyber-social media service. Like many other gimmicks emerging in the net these days this Plurk, almost-ridiculous but catchy, got my attention in a blogpost I’ve read. Since it looked cute upon my very first sight of it, I signed up. The term microblogging also made me curios and headed on to make an account. What is it? I guess it’s better if you’d check it out for yourself here.
Goodness gracious. No matter how hard I cover up my unhappy state with molar-to-molar smiles and gaily attitude, these articles of unwanted tension stemming from something that was ought to be forgotten just naturally exuded from my being. Last Saturday—when I, Marianne, and Donna left the sweet confines of Sans Rival—I heard that statement above being called out from afar. I thought the call was for someone else but upon knowing from whom the message was my happy mask simply got off my face like a limp banana-peel. He was a teacher; someone who I thought only had the command of reading great literature but also of reading depressed auras. (Nah, the latter part is just a joke.) As for the query, I didn’t know what to answer so I just flashed my metal-wrought pearly whites for added arrogance and disbelief. I was not sure if it worked, though. Anyways, I realized I'm bad at pretending nowadays.
Summer, I thought, have just kicked in. But upon looking at the heap of clothes, books, gadgets, and other necessities on my bed, I have realized it’s the time again that I have to face another tasking school year. Yes, hopefully, this would be my last year as a student. Though the premise of opening the door to finally get out of college is not that promising, I guess four years in the university are enough to buildup what is needed to be built up. My things are packed up and a few hours from now I will be riding on a fastcraft, ferrying towards this island that, as what I’ve said in an old post, have “stoked up the coals of my imagination and extinguished the flames of my heart.” This is the best and worst thing that I could define what Dumaguete is to me. Well, right now, I think I am all ready to face this city again. Crossing my fingers, I wish the last part of my given definition would change in time passing. Because my things are all packed up; complete.
When cutting a line to form a verse thinking the mundane is subjugated in poetry, when falling for the temptations of serpentine sentences thinking it’s alright in fiction, or when believing the facts can be twisted to add eccentricity thinking it’s forgivable in nonfiction, it's time for one to change his/her mindset as early as possible. Seriously.
I have just been in exile. In literary exile, to be exact, for I and my literary pieces have been subject to analysis, highlighting flaws and stupid mixed metaphors devilishly playing within my woven words. Wait, not in exile in the sense that I am banished from this field but in exile for I have been detached from my ideals that I have considered right and sufficient.
Just months ago when personal-internal crisis jarred my entirety in chaos, creating lines of poetry and paragraphs of fiction out of the ethereal gloominess that shrouded me, I shifted my focus with much effort to the only friend I had at home: the PC. The two of us had been nice to each other; he provided me stuff that loaded my attention bag to its fullest while I bear his glaring monitor. It was through his constant cyber-charity that I found doorways out of the prolonged remorse. These were the writing workshops’ call for submission of entries.
Page upon page in the internet, I immediately chose three prospects: The IYAS in Bacolod, and the national workshops in Dumaguete and Iligan. Since I had been writing “something” during my state of melancholia, I’d better fry my works in the pan of the authorities. The unlucky thing was that Bacolod had already closed its doors so I was left with two options. Without any hesitation, I applied both. I even said to myself, “What if I got into both workshops? My, heavy decision! I’ve got to choose which one I should participate. Feelerette!”
And then the messages came. I received the Dumaguete message first, informing me that I passed. What was more ironic was that I was at Dumsville when I got the tip (happy). Then the day finally arrived that I had to leave the province (happier—at that moment). Back in my hometown, my mother said someone called from Iligan (happiest). I instantly became a writing fellow in the 47th Dumaguete and the 15th Iligan National Writers Workshops, for fiction and poetry respectively. The rest was history.
If statements such as “What use is this piece to me?” and “I need to be rewarded and I don’t get anything from this!” make you fidgety, then these workshops are not your avenue yet. I readied myself for hard-hitting comments since most of my pieces were written for therapeutic purposes, not mainly literary. As much as the nearly-autobiographical concepts sliced through me in the process of writing my fiction and poems with such self-inflicted pain, the realization of mistakes and required developments proposed by the workshop panelists were definitely sharp and piercing.
Now after a month of bashing works into pulp they could make use as jam for morning sandwiches, I basically have to thank the aches of my inner being that I have been able to explore the outer landscapes of existence. This whole thing screams emo but this is the tad fact: those two writing workshops have been the much-needed catharsis to both my sensitivity on certain matters and, of course, my unfurnished love for the letters. To Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas, Myrna Peña-Reyes, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, Butch Macansantos, Dave Genotiva, Butch Dalisay, Danny Reyes, Susan Lara, Ernesto Superal Yee, Lito Zulueta, Leoncio Deriada, Christine Godinez-Ortega, Rosario Cruz Lucero, Antonio Enriquez, Victor Sugbo, German Gervacio, Steven Fernandez, and Ralph Semino Galan, thank you very much for the insights.
And to my fellow fellows, both from the Katsubong Troupe of Dumaguete and the Hipon Gang of Iligan, your raucous but pleasurable company never fail to spark up even the most dormant energy and brain cells in me. With you, I’ve learned a lot of things other than those which reverberated in the workshop sessions. I love you, bullfrogish feelerettes!
Grammar check, language competence, poetic deficiency, and many more, these various features for criticism just never fail to pull us down from what literary pedestal we are standing on. Feelerette! In the 15th Iligan National Writers Workshop that ended last May 31, we were mere fellows and the likes of Leoncio Deriada, Rosario Cruz Lucero, Christine Godinez-Ortega, Tony Enriquez, Man Gervacio, Victor Sugbo and Ralph Galan were the masters.
Well, they did send us monsters. The almost-daily mentioning of “this is an attempt…”, “the problem of this piece…”, and “this will work if…” still ring in my mind. Obviously that’s the purpose of a writing workshop; to be assailed with comments and lessons that stem from one’s very own glory piece.
In my case, who finally got into a serious workshop to have my English poems critiqued by established Filipino poets, I considered myself lucky (except for the colds and cough that I got for being enclosed inside the Elena Towers Hotel with artic air-conditioners). The remarks I received were Level 7.5 Bad (in a range from 1 to 10) and this rating proved that what I thought was enough was never adequate. Remain humble and continue writing. We, fellows, all learned this: Pride in the field of writing never works so what better way of receiving hurting analysis and study is to become a hipon. Forgive the Kafkaesque inside joke here but this was the most effective technique to execute when one had to agree with the Panelists’ observations other than nodding while smiling at the same time with tears welling up in our eyes (this is an exaggeration).
The origin of this “becoming a hipon” still stemmed from one of my many adventures in the Dumaguete Workshop so explaining the whys and the hows here is tasking. Let’s just state that a hipon is basically a shrimp and that a shrimp has scales, scales which strengthened our outer look that subsequently gave us an almost emotionless and expressionless face when we, fellows, decided of metaphorically transforming into one during the sessions. Now, I’m back in Tagbilaran and still coughing.
(Top row L-R: Erick Dasig Aguilar, Xer Jason D. Ocampo, Ma. Elena L. Paulma, Marion B. Guerrero, Efmer E. Agustin, Krisza Joy P. Kintanar, John Lorenz S. Poquiz, Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice. Bottom Row L-R: Sarah Jane D. Sebastian, Leonilo D. Lopido, Samantha G. Echavez, John Philip A. Baltazar, Marius Angelo G. Monsanto, Luciano L. Abia IV, Niño Manaog, Evangeline B. Gubat)
I think all of us writing fellows in the Dumaguete workshop have reached the inevitable of our literary undertakings—whether we like it or not. All of us are going to our separate ways. Mushy? Yes. Even with our three-week stay in the province just to embrace the critiques of esteemed writers from across the nation, I am glad no one has reached the physical level of a breakdown. Well, there’s one but the subtle emotional rage is not brought about by the flawed technicalities of the fellow’s work but, rather, on the reality of the story in itself.
Tonight, at Labas (just along Hayahay), we would celebrate this glorious gathering of shaping and reshaping literary practices before the inescapable breaking that will happen the following day. Also, we would be unveiling something tonight that would create an interesting dot in the history-line of this workshop. This is our anthology entitled Sea[sic]: Prose and Poetry by the Fellows of the 47th Dumaguete National Writers Workshop. Painstakingly made in one week, which was spearheaded by Dustin Celestino and Margie de Leon, the output is something we could not believe would come in actuality. We are all proud of our baby. What’s this for? Let’s just say that this project is our little token to all panelists who have endured our ignorance, our clean-slatedness as youngsters in the world of literature.
Sigh. To my fellow feelerettes who discovered the ethereal beauty of katusbong, who pranced Hibbard Avenue at 3 o’clock in the morning to the music of Total Eclipse of the Heart, who thought that the night-time security officers were Yellow Cab Pizza deliverers, and who realized that the humid charm of Dumaguete was just too hard to ignore, thanks and see you all soon. I just sincerely hope that our love for the letters will bring us back together again.
For some of us who have realized (or stumbled upon?) the path of writing is something to be of great significance, there will come a time that this simple want or need to prove it has to be skinned down to its bare muscles, then to its bare bones, to see if it is all worth it.
That day was May 5.
After the skinning comes the roasting. The coals have been prepared and stoked. Now, we have one more week, and our muses will never be the same again. Good or bad, the various critiques would not only shape our future words but also guide our pens that we hold on to continue writing if that writerly itch persists. Or even if that itch begins to fade.
(Top L-R) Liza Baccay, Lambert Varias Jr., Elena Paulma, Lawrence Bernabe, Noelle Leslie Dela Cruz (Middle L-R) Bron Teves, Arlene Yandug, Rodrigo Dela Peña, Marguerite Alcazaren De Leon, Fred Jordan Mikhail Carnice (Bottom L-R) Celeste Fusilero, Joshua Lim So, Dustin Celestino, Carmela Tolentino)
Sudden plans just sprout out in our minds (or maybe from our ears) like bulbous mushrooms poisonous enough to kill a wary vegetarian, such as this one thing that would, probably, be the first to happen in the history of the Dumaguete workshop. Though, we can probably blame this to the fickle weather that constantly racks up our sensibilities which subsequently makes us ponder on certain agendas, the idea is undeniably great. It would be a feat if the process goes well. I can’t spill anything yet at the moment but Dustin Celestino, the culprit behind all of the tension that's cowering us all this week, is definitely persistent in this undertaking which would be revealed maybe in a little while.
Okay, got to do some writing now. Deadline: tomorrow at eight o’clock.
Week one is finally over. From various hypotheses of silly judgments on speculating this and that to lunch-time propers in order to eradicate the silence that was shrouding almost everyone, all of us fellows in the Dumaguete workshop eventually understood each other’s special eccentricities—like all the dregs of a tea drink had finally settled. Listening to literary icons such as Edith Lopez Tiempo, Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas, Myrna Peña-Reyes, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, and Butch Macansantos for full five straight days was a bit strenuous so off we hit the road towards Lake Balinsasayao (sans Lambert, Dustin, and Neslie) to, in some ways, reflect on our literary boogers. I wonder what will happen tomorrow. Till here, bye!
The days of unlimited internet connection in a humble corner of my house may finally be over (goodbye daily blog updates!). In just a few hours, I will be going back to a place that both stoked up the coals of my imagination and extinguished the flames of my heart. Oh, before we go into any soggy sentiments, let’s just end this by saying that I’ll be busy in the next couple of days. Busy but moving on.
The results are in. I guess I have to immediately jump off to Iligan after the Dumaguete Workshop. Two word tortures in one month? Well, here’s to the watering of my ambitious take on the field of literary arts.
The National Commission for Culture and Arts (NCCA), the Mindanao Creative Writers Group, Inc. in cooperation with the MSU-Iligan Institute of Technology’s Office of the Vice Chancellor for Research and Extension (MSU-IIT-OVCRE) announce the 15 writing fellows to the 15th Iligan National Writers Workshop on May 26-31, 2008 in Iligan City.
LUZON
Samantha G. Echavez, UP Diliman (Fiction in English) Sarah Jane D. Sebastian, UP Diliman (Fiction in Filipino) Erick Dasig Aguilar, UP Diliman (Poetry in Filipino) Evangeline B. Gubat, Ateneo de Manila University (Poetry in English) John Lorenz S. Poquiz, University of Santo Tomas (Poetry in English)
VISAYAS
Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice, Silliman University (Poetry in English) Nino Manaog, Ateneo de Naga University (Poetry in English) Leonilo D. Lopido, Leyte Institute of Technology (Poetry in Waray) Luciano L. Abia IV, UP College Tacloban (Poetry in Waray) Efmer E. Agustin, UP Visayas/Abuyog (Fiction in Cebuano)
MINDANAO
Krisza Joy P. Kintanar, UP Mindanao (Fiction in English) Marius Angelo G. Monsanto, UP Mindanao (Fiction in English) Ma. Elena L. Paulma, UP Diliman, (Poetry in English) John Philip A. Baltazar, Xavier University (Poetry in English) Xer Jason D. Ocampo, UP Mindanao (Poetry in English)
Panelists this year are Ma. Rosario Cruz Lucero, Leoncio P. Deriada, German V. Gervacio, Victor N. Sugbo, Merlie M. Alunan, Jaime An Lim, Steven Patrick C. Fernandez, keynote speaker, Antonio Reyes Enriquez and Christine Godinez-Ortega, the 15th INWW Director.
Highlights of this year’s workshop include the launching of the 14th INWW Proceedings titled, Fire and Faith in Writing edited by Godinez-Ortega and published by the MSU-IIT OVCRE; a lecture by INWW alumnus, Ralph Semino Galan; the Jimmy Y. Balacuit Literary Awards; and, the launching of the Manuel Buenafe Writing Fellowship and the Ricardo Jorge S. Caluen Writing Bursary.
Unexpected inclusions in our day-to-day familiarity of living have only two things to offer: things worthy and things worthless. But when I arrived home minutes ago, I received some news that definitely fit under the first suggestion; I got a letter of confirmation to become one of the fifteen fellows in the 15th Iligan National Writers Workshop (INWW). I became super-happy because in one summer break there’s a possibility that I’ll be joining in two workshops; the Dumaguete (of which I’m already officially involved as a fiction fellow) and the Iligan (as a poetry fellow, of which most of my works are misery-induced). Suddenly, something came in: I’ve got to be in Tibanga, Iligan City by May 25 but the other workshop would probably end on that exact date, too. My goodness! Oh my, what should I do? But there’s a glimmer of hope though; Kuya Bron, who’s a fellow for poetry in the Dumaguete workshop, told me that the SU English Department planned of closing the event by May 22. Whooo! After all of these coming into my life I say that things, along the run of the slow ache-obliterating time, are getting better indeed. It’s ironic that my being emo just got me into two national writing workshops. Hail to side-swept hair? Never. I had enough.
One month down and I have just recently enjoyed the whole purpose of a summer break. Thanks to some old acquaintances who suddenly appeared in my midst, repetitiveness has finally flown away from me. Hopping from one house to another is one enjoyable time-killer, knowing that the city is in fiesta mode until the end of the month. Lyde, Galee, Tonet—till next time! Yes, Lyde is in Bohol right now.
