list of fellows, silliman university national writers workshop (1962-2011)

1962
J. Lorenzo Rivera
Jose Ferraris
Jose Lansang Jr.
Luciano Tenedo
Petronilo Daroy
Socorro Federis-Tate
Vic Samonte
Wilfredo Nolledo

1963
Alberto Florentino
Amalia Perez
Bataan Faigao
Elena Reyes
Emmanuel Osorio
Erwin Castillo
Fernando Afable
Geronimo Sicam
Indalecio de Leon
Ireneo Gancuangco
Jesus Peralta
Ko Won
Leonidas Benesa
Linda Casper
Nicanor Tabligan
Raymond Llorca
Rogelio Sicat
Valdemar Olaguer

1964
Alfredo Cuenca
Alfredo Morales
Erwin Castillo
Jose Carreon
Nelson La Rosa
Ninotchka Rosca
Orlando Hernando
Roberto Pontinela
Rolando Carbonell
Rolando Pena
Wilfredo Sanchez

1965
Alma de Jesus Tayo
Elsie Martinez-Coscolluela
Estelita Juco
Freddie Dimaya
G. Burce Bunao
J Maidan Flores
Jose Montebon
Maximo Tuason
Rita Gaddi
Teresita Dato

1966
Alfredo Pucay
Antonio Samson
Carmelo Chionglo
Cesar Victor Reyes
Federico Licsi Espino
Marra Lanot
Norman Quimpo
Salvador Bernal

1967
Antonio Enriquez
Cesar Ruiz Aquino
Edgar Libre-Griño
Eduardo Yap
Florence Baban
Jesus Chanco
Joy Dayrit
Jun Canizares
Mar Arcega
Migen Osorio
Ricardo Patalinghug
Robert Villasis
Romeo Virtucio
Sr. Ma. Delia Coronel, ICM
Sr. Mary Imelda Domingo
Thelma Enage

1968
Alfred Yuson
Armando Ravanzo
Cesar Mella, Jr.
Dionisio Gabriel
Donel Pacis
Emmanuel Lacaba
Lamberto Ceballos/Caballes
Rene Estella Amper
Rene Bonsubre
Urias Almagro

1969
Alfrredo Navarro Salanga
Artemio Tadena
Dory Robles
Gemma Tadena
Josephine Soto
Lamberto Antonio
Linda Faigao
Melquiades Allego
Rosalinda Roxas
Virgilio Almario
Wigberto Fuentebella

1970
Alberto Casuga
Carlos Aureus
Carlota Abellana
Celedonio Aguilar
Conrado de Quiros
Fr. Miguel Fernandez
Franklin Osorio
Gwendolyn Reyes
Junio Ragragio
Macario Tiu
Ricky Lee
Wilfredo Sanchez

1971
Aida Rivera-Ford
Desmond Montemayor
Dolores Martir
Edgar Griño
Eduardo Lucero
Edward Garrett
Erwin Castillo
Gil Garcia
Leticia Farinas
Loreto Matienzo Jr.
Ma. Zenaida French
Primo Pacis
Rene Martinez
Val Fajardo

1972
Alfredo Macaraeg
Edgar Maranan
Ernesto Lariosa
Francis Macansantos
Freddie Hernandez
Josefina Cabe
Luis Cabalquinto
Pantaleon Auman
Ramon Cortes III
Rene Parohinog
Rogelio Mangahas
Virgilio Vitug

1973
Angelito Santos
Anthony Tan
Antonio Orogo Jr.
Catherine Salazar
Cecilia Nava
Felix Fojas
Jaime An Lim
Jolico Cuadra
Ma. Cristina Ferreros
Mauro Avena
Meng Magno
Oriel Muspratt
Vidal Armamento

1974
Bella Apelo
Cynthia Rodriguez
Elizabeth Orteza
Gaudioso Sustento
Generoso Taduran
Gilbert Centina III
Herminio Beltran
Hortensia Balisalisa
Jose Gilbert Licuanan
Leoncio Deriada
Luis Cabalquinto
Rodulfo Alano

1975
Cristina Velez
Estrella Alfon
George Vail Kabristante
Manuel Concepcion
Oscar Pecson
Romeo Centina
Sammy Sta. Maria

1976
Danilo Estiva
Fornarina Enemicio
Goddy Ricafort Ypon
Inez Cammayo
Jun Cruz Reyes
Kee Thuan Chye
Marie Marjorie Pernia
Mario Eric Gamalinda
Socorro Tate
Teoh Choon Ean
Wong Po Wah

1977
Angelo Bernardo
Connie Imperial
Diana Gamalinda
Domingo de Guzman
Edel Garcellano
Eduardo Orozco
Ernesto Superal Yee
Noralyn Mustapha
Victor Mandala

1978
Aida Manansala
Anthony Serrano
Denise Allas
Grace Monte de Ramos
Jorge Sabino
Juan Arcellana
Melito Baclay
Nadine Rodriguez
Rene Saguin
Simeon Dumdum

1979
Enrico Enerio
Geraldine Maayo
Henry Villalva
Jessie Bandillo
Leslie Lofranco
Letty Salanga
Priscilla Supnet
Susan Lara
Vicente Bandillo

1980
Antonio Hernandez
Aries Baluyos
Augusta de Almedda
Carlos Basa Cortes
Edgar Alosbanos
Edmundo Farolan
Elsa Mampo
Ely Centina
Maria Linda Felipe
Rene Espeleta
Timbasal Tawasil
Wilfredo Alberca

1981
Achilles B. Mina
Emilia Salanga
Jose Y. Dalisay Jr.
Loretta Medina
Manolo Fernando
Mercedita Flores
Tita Taule

1982
Fanny HB. Llego
Merlie Alunan
Patricia Rivera
Rhodora Espinosa
Seth Florentino
Victoria Kapauan

1983
Baboo Mondonedo
Danton Remoto
Emmanuel Espinola Jr.
Isabela Banzon
Louie Stuart
May Datuin
Ricardo de Ungria

1984
Alexander Lee
Clovis Nazareno
Connie Maraan
Ed delos Santos Cabagnot
Fidelito Cortes
Ramon Bautista
R. Torres Pandan
Victor Peñaranda

1985
Ernesto Bitonio Jr.
Gina Apostol
Merlinda Bobis
R. Romea Luminarias
Rodolfo Silvestre
Victorio Sugbu

1986
Agustin Rodriguez
Charlson Ong
Fatima Lim
John Kenneth Go
Meynardo Macaraig
Ruby Tan Enario
Rufino Vigilar

1987
Anthony Buyawe
Nino Soria de Veyra
Cecilia Roxas
Grace Odal
Marne Kilates
Vicente Ignacio de Veyra

1988
Cesar Bacani Jr.
Cyrus Borja
Dinah Roma
Jose Celmar
Mozart Pastrano
Timothy Montes
Victorino Manalo

1989
Christine Godinez-Ortega
Cynthia Lopez Dee
Danilo Francisco Reyes
Felino Garcia Jr.
Gilbert Tan
Jose Wendell Capili
Lakambini Sitoy
Luna Sicat
Maria Jovita Zarate
Miriam Coronel Ferrer
Nenita Lachica
Ramon Boloron
Rex JMA Fernandez
Romeo Baquiran Jr
Timothy Wells
VE Carmelo Nadera Jr

1990
Albert Claude Evangelio
Anne Panning
Arile Valerio
Elmar Ingles
Franklin Cimatu
Generoso Opulencia
Jessie Garcia
J. Neil C. Garcia
Ma. Cristina Martinez
Nerissa Balce
Noel Ramiscal
Philip James Laquindanum
Pio Ricky Torre
Rofel Brion
Violeta Ledesma

1991
Adrian Antique
Ana Carla Villarmente
Ben Javier
Bonnie Jane Flores
Camilo Villanueva Jr.
Cesar Aljama
Clarita Kwan
Ma. Theresa Quintana
Ma. Criselda Bonganciso
Maningning Miclat
Minerva Chanco
Noberto Bana III
Peter Lay
Rhoda Montes
Shalom Galve
Victor John Padilla

1992
Angelo Rodriguez Lacuesta
Allan Bodoy
Antonio Mapa Jr.
Bonnie Jane Flores
Dean Francis Alfar
Homer Novicio
Jess Alfonso Macasaet
Maria Elena Paterno
Nicolas Pichay
Orlynne Genato
Ramil Gulle
Renerio Concepcion
Timothy Montes

1993
Alexander Edmund Capiz
Andre Lagunzad
Lu-Ann Fuentes
Diwata Hope Bose
Gerardo Antoy
Gerardo Torres
Eugene Gloria
Leigh Reyes
Liezl Sitosta
Lilia Maria Sevillano
Ma. Romina Gonzales
Melanie San Juan
Michael Maniquiz
Natasha Vizcarra
Padmapani Perez
Reinerio Alba
Rolito Beratio Mojica
Ruel de Vera
Vicente Groyon III

1994
Alessandra GL Gonzales
Alma Anonas-Carpio
Anthony Kintanar
Aurelio Pena
Calbi Asain
Doreen Jose
Edelisa Cruz
Espereanza Nuqui
Josefina Tejada
Lilibeth Rose Mercado
Ma. Rhodora Ancheta
Melchor Cichon
Michael Obenieta
Nerisa del Carmen Guevara
Rene Ledesma Jr.
Ruben Canlas Jr.
Sylvia de Guzman

1995
Mads Bajarias
Anne-Marie Jennifer Eligio
Beatriz Lorete
Conchitina Cruz
Francis Martinez
Januar Yap
Larissa Saguisag
Lorenzo Paran III
Lourd Ernest De Veyra
Ma. Bigonia David
Carla Pacis
Ma. Leovina Nicolas
Ma. Liza Fetalino
Maria Chona Jomilla
Melecio Turao
Melissa Salva
Michael Anthony Dizon
Ralph Semino Galan
Randolf Bustamante
Robert JA Basilio Jr.
Seann Tan
Ursula Priscilla Calasanz

1996
Abigail Aquino
Andrea Pasion
Caroline Howard
Cesar Naniong
Cherrie Sing
Christina Peralta
David Brooks
Gabriel Baban Keith
Homer Novicio
Ina Alleco Silverio
Jhoanna Lynn Cruz
John Labella
Kris Lanot Lacaba
F.H. Batacan
Mae Emmily Magtalas
Michael de Guzman
Nid Anima
Rosanna Cabusao
Tara FT Sering

1997
Alex Gregorio
Alexander Tan Jr.
Diane Coleen Jorolan
Eduardo Geronia Jr.
Frances Ng
Gad Lim
Israfel Fagela
J. Ana Flores
Jennifer Patricia Cariño
Jeremiah Bondoc
Joel Toledo
Jose Edmundo Reyes
Lor Arejola
Maribel Bagabaldo
Mary Ann Tobias
May Jennifer Amolat
Nicole Roldan
Riza Faith Ybañez
Ronald Baytan
Ronald Villavelez
Sandra Nicole Roldan
Sem Precioso Villareal
Sergio Pontillas

1998
Carlomar Arcangel Daoana
Ceres Abanil
Isagani D’Bayan Jr.
Jojo Alamillo
Jude Espina Ganzon
Lawrence Ypil
Lilledeshan Bose
Miguel Syjuco
Raymund Magno Garlitos
Rebecca April Khan
Rizaldy Dandan
Tanya Sevilla

1999
Allan Popa
Barbara Ricafrente
Bernice Roldan
Christine Flores
Indira Endaya
Jessica del Mundo
John Go
Jose Perez Beduya
Mayo Uno Aurelio Martin
Libay Linsangan Cantor

2000
Alex de los Santos
Elmer Pizo
Gerald Ramos
Isolde Amante
Jean Claire Dy
Noel Villaflor
Roberto Salva
Ted Limpoco
Ulysses Navarro
Vincenz Serrano
Wayne Mark Lopez
Ian Rosales Casocot

2001
Christine Alindada
Anna Bernaldo
Alvin Dacanay
Paul De Guzman
Jeneen Garcia
Barry Gutierrez
BJ Patiño
Janet Villa
Yeyet Villa
Marby Villaceran

2002
Kristine Alave
Daryll Jane Delgado
Ana Maria Katigbak
Peter Mayshle
Maryanne Moll
Michael Morco
Allan Pastrana
Baryon Tensor Posadas
Angelo Suarez
Naya Valdellon

2003
Mark Anthony Cayanan
Vincent Coscolluela
Jonathan Davila
Louella Fortez
Ken Ishikawa
Carljoe Javier
Maria Francezca Theresa Kwe
Nikki Paredes Jasmine
Rolando Salvaña
Anna Felicia Sanchez
Joseph Rosmon Tuazon
Niccolo Vitug

2004
Selina Alano
Ia Aparentado
John Bengan
Mitzie Correa
Hedwig De Leon
Faye Ilogon
Marie La Viña
Gabriela Lee
Glenn Maboloc
Monica Macansantos
Ginny Mata
James Iain Neish
Romel Oribe
Myrza Sison

2005
Anna Cristina Abola
Angela Balcita
Jose Perseus Canivel
Mikael Co
Elizabeth Rae Cowan
Matthew Davis
Jun Dela Rosa
Maria Cynthia Diangson
Bernadette Esposito
Whitney Fleming
Brian Goedde
Jynelle Gracia
Charisse-Fuschia Paderna
Maria Lourdes Parawan
Benedict Parfan
Gerardo Peralta
Bonnie Rough
Rica Santos
Alex Sheshunoff
Virginia Villanueva

2006
Douglas Candano
Dominique Cimafranca
Erica Jean Cabanawan
Darwin Chiong
Patricia Evangelista
Antonio Adrian Habana
Anna Escalante Neri
Noel Pingoy
Michelle Sarile
Larissa Mae Suarez
Andrea Teran

2007
Kristian Abe Dalao
Krisette Sia-Valderia
Jennelyn Tabora
Sharleen Banzon
Cecille La Verne de la Cruz
Pancho Villanueva
Catherine Alpay
Sasha Martinez
Janina Marie Rivera
Michelle Eve de Guzman
Robert Jed Rio Malayang
Mia Tijam
Martin Villanueva
Jan Paulo Bastareche
Primy Joy Cane
Justine Megan Yu

2008
Lawrence Bernabe
Noelle Leslie dela Cruz
Ma. Celeste Fusilero
Rodrigo dela Peña
Arlene Jaguit Yandug
Bron Joseph Teves
Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon
Dustin Edward Celestino
Joshua Lim So
Liza Bacay
Fred Jordan Mikhail Carnice
Ma. Elena Paulma
Anna Carmela Tolentino
Lamberto Varias, Jr.

2009
Mariane Amor Romina Abuan
Jonathan Gonzales
Arkaye Keirulf
Patricia Angela Magno
Niño Manaog
Keith Bryan Cortez
Ana Margarita Stuart del Rosario
Monique Francisco
Russell Stanley Geronimo
Aleck Maramag
Gabriel Millado
Gabrielle Nakpil
Joy Rodriguez
Phillip Kimpo, Jr.
Marck Ronald Rimorin

2010
Gian Paolo Simeon Lao
Dominique Allison Santos
Jacob Dominguez
Oscar Serquina Jr.
Aaron James Jalalon
Jenette Ethel Vizcocho
Gilda Ysobel Galang
Anne Carly Abad
Gino Francis Dizon
Jose Carlo Flordeliza
Ida Anita Del Mundo
Samantha Echavez
Kelly Marie Tulio Conlon
Miro Frances Capili
Christina Mae del Rosario

2011
Charmaine Carreon
Evangeline Gubat
Jeffrey Javier
Allen Samsuya
Alyza Taguilaso
Glenn Diaz
Christine Lao
Emmanuel Lava
Andrea Macalino
Marius Monsanto
Philline Donggay
Rogelio Garcia Jr.
Miguel Sulangi
Elaine Tobias
Maria Villaruel

oh my

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Part 2 official traile from EnternityGR on Vimeo.

Marketing aside, this is truly my generation’s literature, and it is sad finally seeing it end on the silver screen. Oh, thank heavens for books (and especially you, Jo Rowling)! I am going back to them soon. I’ve got nothing more to say. It is hard not to be speechless.

deleted

Just in time for the wipeout of awkward photos and “testimonials” in Friendster, I cleaned up this blog. It was getting crowded with so much nonsense (and I won’t admit that this cyber corner of mine belongs to that league). Aside from that, many of those in my blogrolls have entries as recent as circa 2008.

Clicking them open, one by one, was saddening. (Of course, I have to check each before sentencing it to hell). The once lively community is now a virtual ghost town. I didn’t even know where these people are right now.

Curious, but is this how the present mindset works these days? Are we just too click-happy on all things trending and new, that it is easy to dismiss this and that in a heartbeat? Do we now have the attention span of a paperclip!?

If that is the case, they should at least give the data cloud a favor and delete their sites before jumping onto Tumblr or Twitter. It does not do any good leaving the internet with articles about red nail polish and other related matters.

(And yes, I won’t admit that I have entries falling under related matters).

11th iyas creative writing workshop fellows

This may be too late an announcement, but this is a self-imposed initiative for having been part of the growing family in its 10th edition (yeah, just last year), which I think would be my last following my participation in Dumaguete and Iligan workshops back in 2008. I have learned a lot from this gathering. And I hope for the same thing to the new fellows listed below:

*

IYAS announces its Roster of Fellows for the 11th IYAS Creative Writing Workshop at the Balay Kalinungan, University of St. La Salle in Bacolod City, Philippines on April 25-30.

Fiction Fellows

Michelle Abigail Tan (English)
Karlo Antonio David (Filipino-Playwriting/Drama)
Rom Peña (Filipino-Kuwento)
Norman Darap (Hiligaynon)
Jayson Parba (Cebuano-Sugilanon)
Romeo Bonsocan (Cebuano-Sugilanon)

Poetry Fellows

Ronn Andrew Angeles (English)

Ronaldo Recto (English)
Louise Vincent Amante (Filipino)
Cor Marie Abando (Filipino)
Rogie Bacosa (Hiligaynon)
Chuvic Monserate (Hiligaynon)
Darylle Rubino (Visayan)
Desiree Balota(Cebuano)
Ioannes Arong (Cebuano).

The panelists for this year are: Dr. Marjorie Evasco, Dr. Gerardo Torres, Dr. Genevieve Asenjo, Dr. Christine Ortega, Prof. Danilo M. Reyes and Prof. John Iremil Teodoro.

The IYAS Creative Writing Workshop is sponsored by the University of St. La Salle, the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center of De La Salle University and the National Commission for Culture and the Arts.

call for contributions to the high chair poetry journal, issue 14

We are inviting interested writers to submit poems, essays, and reviews for possible inclusion in the 14th issue of High Chair’s online poetry journal, which will be released in July this year.

We welcome submissions in Filipino and English. Please visit our site to get a more comprehensive idea as regards the work we do and the poetry and essays we publish. We also welcome reviews of published poetry collections, especially of Filipino authors.

The deadline for submission is on June 15. For poetry submissions, please send no more than five (5) pages of verse. There is no page limit for essay contributions.

High Chair is a non-profit independent press based in the Philippines. Its first online issue went live in 2002 and has, over the years, published more than 19 chapbooks and full-length collections in English and Filipino.

Please email your submissions or enquiries to highchair@gmail.com (subject heading: High Chair Issue 14). Feel free to circulate this call for submissions to other interested parties.

(lifted from this site)

on writing, again

Writing is a perpetual act of practice.

It seems this is the reason why writing does not require a licensure exam unlike accountancy or engineering or dentistry. Nothing is definite for what the craft demands. It is a constant struggle of the letters, a coming of terms with one’s duende, a Möbius strip of starting in the beginning and ending at the beginning all over again. The reasons could go on and on.

(fragment from a longer article)

stones

I.

For some reason I asked a pebble this question:
Why your heft on my palm like the tug from a child

In the fair? The first drop of rain on the forehead?
The handwritten note? Your smoothness against the rush

Of sea is something my fingers have longed to touch.
Lately, mornings and evenings have been rough on me.

(Empathy towards a stone is an old ritual;
It takes practice to cipher grains of its surface

Some story that's less sad and jagged than the one
Found at a well's cold bottom. Or in a man’s chest.

I did not wait to hear a word from a pebble.
I stood silent as stone, holding on to what matters.

II.

The outdoor garage was not yet done in the evening of 1993. After dinner, your family laughed that communal laughter. Being the youngest, you felt that they were scheming against you. You always thought things were about you, reason or without reason. Tantrum was your weapon of choice, so you dropped on the floor and flailed your arms, thrashed your legs, then cried louder than the screeches of a rock song playing on the radio.

You got their attention. When breaking things was not enough, you ran outside and stumbled on the rectangular plot of gravel near the garden, sharp edges digging into your palms and knees. Your father and mother pursued you, your brothers and sisters behind them. Your mother tried to talk you out of the unfolding drama, approaching you, when you hurled a piece of rock straight at her face. It was meant to be a warning of some sort but it was too late.

You could neither remember the faces nor the voices of anyone except for the blood. You remained crouching on the unfinished garage while your family ushered your mother back in the house. You were stunned at how small things could break the comfort of the night. Or someone like your mother. This time it was really about you. You cried for a reason. A few years later, you willed to hate the song playing on the radio that night.

III.

Lighter than air, that’s
What we are, until we pick
Stones and pocket them.

IV.

We remember names by what we can recall, often for validity: stone for David, bear for Theodore, flowers for Rose, cats for Josie, guavas for Juan. Curious, but the grand scheme is simple: we name them in such ways because they seem appropriate, impeccably fit, something like You for Me. So apt is this union that I will brand our names on a stone and toss it in a lake, for in days like these one has to feel the depth of all things.

V.

I have a guess and I believe in it
Since guesses are potent when trusted:
To think of strength with a piece of rock is
To blaspheme who is deemed the immutable one:
The Creator. The Grand Architect. The Master Builder.
A chip off a rock used to stone someone to death is ungodly.
Stoning could not bring a human back to dust. It’s not that easy.
In many anthologies, a lottery has recounted enough about it. Here’s
A confession: I could never cry on a rock. I have other things to lean on.

VI.

Summer, 2009. You left the beach and brought the pebble with you, leaving the place of the free, the municipality of La Libertad, Negros Oriental, to return to Dumaguete. But as the bus trudged on a tough dirt road, you saw chickens in a coop. The fowls were not free.

There was an engine problem. All of you had to get off the bus. You checked on a chicken and were surprised that it pecked on a little stone then swallowed it. You stepped back when a man behind you said the chicken had to do it. In your mind, you hated the word had.

“Why?”
“Chickens don’t have teeth.”
“And then?”
“They can’t chew. They even have to swallow more.”
“Really?”
“Yes, the stones go to their gullet and ground the grains for the stomach to digest.”
“Wow.”

You stared in wonder at the feathered creature. Then you surmised the chickens could never be free: they were forever bound to stones to live. The man laughed at you and threw a handful of rice grains into the pen.

VII.

Tonight, under the dormant waters
in the backyard, no stones are turning,
their shadows remain heaped in their

usual spots. The pool is their lullaby,
the rainy month’s full moon their mother.
As a child I would not dare disturb

the stillness to pluck something glowing
in the waters, else the di-unato would pull
me into a world much different than ours.

Years pass but the small lake insists on its presence.
Beneath it the pebbles that we, brave brooding
kids of mornings past, have flung to see how

wonderful certain things move before our eyes,
until we grow up and notice the swaying of hips.
Or the arms one hopes to be embraced with.

Remarkable, how capable they are to resist
the nudge of time. Unlike us: children became
men who loved women who loved men who

loved other men. Even the mango
tree that looms at the far end bears fruits
already. A true sign of a golden age.

But overall this faithfulness and un-
faithfulness to time is a beautiful reminder:
The world spins, a butterfly takes flight.

See, the waters quiver with the stone I drop,
only to return to their oneness in seconds,
a mirror showing what constantly changes us.

panelists for the 50th silliman university national writers workshop

First Week (May 2-6, 2011)

Rowena Torrevillas
Cesar Aquino
Susan Lara
Myrna Peña Reyes
Danny Reyes

Second Week (May 9-13, 2011)

Rowena Torrevillas
Cesar Aquino
Dave Genotiva
Ricky de Ungria
Bobby Villasis

Third Week (May 16-20)

Rowena Torrevillas
Jimmy Abad
Cesar Aquino
Kirpal Singh (Visiting Asian Writer)
Krip Yuson


(lifted from Tapok Silliman page)

50th silliman university national writers workshop fellows

And here they are! The golden girls and boys in this year’s 50th Silliman University National Writers Workshop! This would be an interesting batch. I know four in the list, and each has proven to be a force to be reckoned with. (But they are kind). Hey, see you this summer! You know who you are!

Anyway, here’s the official announcement:

Silliman University National Writers Workshop Director-in-Residence Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas, the National Commission for Culture and the Arts, and Silliman University are pleased to announce that the following young writers have been accepted as fellows for the 50th Silliman University National Writers Workshop scheduled on 2-20 May 2011:

For Poetry

Charmaine Carreon (University of the Philippines-Diliman)

Evangeline Gubat (University of the Philippines-Diliman)

Jeffrey Javier (University of the Philippines-Mindanao)

Allen Samsuya (University of the Philippines-Mindanao)

Alyza Taguilaso (University of the East Ramon Magsaysay Memorial Medical Center, Inc.)

For Fiction

Glenn Diaz (University of the Philippines-Diliman)

Christine Lao (University of the Philippines, College of Law)

Emmanuel Lava (Ateneo de Manila University)

Andrea Macalino (Ateneo de Manila University)

Marius Monsanto (University of the Philippines-Mindanao)

For Creative Non-Fiction

Philline Donggay (De La Salle University)

Rogelio Garcia, Jr. (Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan)

Miguel Sulangi (Ateneo de Manila University)

Elaine Tobias (University of the Philippines-Diliman)

Maria Villaruel (De La Salle University)

This year’s panel of critics is composed of Dumaguete-based writers Myrna Peña Reyes, Bobby Villasis and Cesar Ruiz Aquino, as well as guest panelists Susan Lara, DM Reyes, Dave Genotiva, Ricky de Ungria, Gemino Abad, and Alfred Yuson.

For this summer, internationally-acclaimed Singaporean writer from Singapore Management University, Kirpal Singh, will be sitting in with the panel. The workshop, which is the longest running Writers Workshop in Asia, is coordinated by the Silliman University Department of English and Literature.

___________________________________________________________________

all work and no play

Jumping bullfrogs! “Blue Collar, White Collar, No Collar: Stories of Work” edited by Richard Ford is something that I’ve been looking for a long time! Fiction that revolves around corporate issues or just even slightly touch on a work environment! Coincidentally, I’m working on a personal project that sounds so much like this for a long time too, spinning tales out of the 38th floor, and coming out probably as too self-absorbed that they end up something like this, this, and this among many others. Besides, I have enough love story anthologies in my bookshelf. I think I need to do this, with my reasons going back to this post I made early last year.

Seriously, I’ve got to find this book, as soon as possible. Or a belated birthday gift, anyone?

small notes of a big trip

Traveling can be an excuse to escape the humdrum of anything that you’ve been currently in (unless, of course, you’re lucky and happy on where you’re currently in). But that might be the point of it all. Traveling, local or not, gives us the momentary thrill and newfound sense of familiarity of discovering foreign tastes, places, and people. Or basically the exact opposite of things we relentlessly complain about.

That is why from March 31 to April 3, the usual culprits grab their packed bags and put on their happy-joy-joy smiles, all giddy for the B.I.G. trip (that’s Bacolod-Iloilo-Guimaras for us who love to put a silly spin on our expeditions). But for such a short period of time, especially for three major destinations, we only had little snippets of experiences of the spots visited.

I am not particularly sure with the rest of my peers but the experience altogether is sufficient for the writing project I’ve been brewing on for the last couple of months. Yes, a personal project that involves a lot of traveling and a lot of cashing out, so that makes me half-mature for discipline and half-juvenile for indulgence. And for all the Amazing Race jaunting we had just to cover every inch of every new territory (for some), here is what I have got to say:

Bacolod

It’s still the same, the last time I have visited it eleven months ago, and the first time four years ago. There is a changed degree of busyness in the streets but the blanketing quietude is still there. A companion wondered where all the skyscrapers are. Fact one: despite the absence of tall buildings and towering billboards, Bacolod is one thriving city of cultural and business progression in Negros Occidental. And for me, fact two, the place is all about food. For our budgeted time, we had to settle to Chicken House for their inasal, Café Bob’s for their disturbingly reasonable top-notch coffee drinks, and Calea, of which it never failed in making me a sucker for their cakes and pastries. Hands down it’s one of the best.

After all the food binging, off we went to Talisay City’s The Ruins. Since no amount of sun-dance could bring the fiery sun out of the clouds, we remained thankful that the day did not offer us rain instead. (Fact three: locals shared that we were lucky—days and weeks before we arrived the province was washed in almost-ceaseless downpour, morning until evening). Story of the skeletal grand house replayed in my head but our guide, who was supposed to be enjoying his day-off if not for our timely appearance, is a comedic historian in a positive way. We listened to Roger, who impeccably pronounced his name as ‘Row-Jhur,’ even if I heard it all in the past. Time was running fast, so we purchased our mandatory pasalubong at Bong-Bong’s before rushing on to our next trip.

Guimaras

Though Iloilo supposedly followed in the chronology of our B-I-G Trip, we only got to linger in this city for a couple of minutes, in transit for the moment. But after our stay in Guimaras, we will have Iloilo City all by ourselves for one night and one morning before we all fly back to Manila.

We arrived at Guimaras’s Jordan Wharf in the Municipality of Jordan (it’s not a joke, though they articulate it as ‘hor-dan’) in the early afternoon of April 1. Between our twenty-to-thirty minute ride via multicab to Kenyama Beach Resort, we stopped over at a local dry market to raid boxes upon boxes of the island province’s world-famous mangoes. And here’s one important tip for future visitors: make sure the fruit stall where you’ll be buying your mangoes has a license or permit of something. This way you can assure yourselves of the sweetest carabao mangoes that appeared on the pages of the Guinness Book of World Records in 1995.

Not to dampen anyone’s spirits but one has to be as compliant as ever when it comes to accommodations. Some resorts basically had no 24/7 electricity and running water, so ours can be considered luxury at its best. Though the night was always young in Guimaras, seconds moving in turtle pace, we got some shuteye by twelve midnight to visit the white sand beaches in some nearby coves, caves especially one where you can drink water that drips from its stalactites, and the lonely lighthouse that sits on the edge of a cliff. Before six in the evening, we all returned to Jordan Wharf as the sun set, the pier turning gold like the island’s mangoes.

Iloilo

We were back in Iloilo, and I have never seen a province, or a city at that, packed with so much malls and department stores. Imagine, if I am not mistaken, three SM Malls! What is even more interesting to note is that they do not look cramped and crowded like other [over]developed counterparts.

Whether it is due to the looming flight back to Manila or the settling of exhaustion in our bodies, we find that the place seemed to be in a constant rush, people somewhat dressed for a special occasion, with nightlife throbbing at Smallville, a Western Visayas version of Eastwood City, Libis. But no one was complaining. We got to visit one mall for a pair of slippers and a headband, bought another set of pasalubong at Biscocho House, and dined at Ted’s for their piping hot bowl of special batchoy. After a few rounds of drinks at JAQ’s, coffee and buns at KopiRoti (yes, we specifically had to visit this branch in Iloilo), chatter, and more chatter, the grouped returned to Riverside Inn for a much-needed quick nap.

By 6:45 in the morning of April 3, we found ourselves in a plane cabin, all worn out but with smiles on our faces, that rare kind of smile that could only come across in days spent with the right people at the right time. Today’s Thursday, we are back to our office grind.

birthdays are (not) surprising

Rarely does it matter to me, my birthday. If gifts are present (yes, pun intended), I’d gladly receive them. Gifts or no gifts, life moves on, and I just let the great aging world spin on its tired old orbit.

But yesterday unfolded and fulfilled some of my wishes. Whether it was caused by some cosmic malfunction or that the fates were playing tricks on me, all I can say right now is that it is the greatest malfunction or the most arresting trick I have ever experienced or witnessed. Plus after another plus. And days before the birthday, there are some interesting instances too.

Seriously, it was all unbelievable.

Perhaps this is a long overdue reward, a compensation for whatever good I’ve done? Nah, can’t even recall a single case, so let’s scrap that out. (Or cleaning my bedroom windows last weekend counts?). Anyway, I was thankful, because being thankful is better than questioning a blessing. And three of the most cherished gifts I received yesterday (and the days before that) were:

1) Greetings from people that matter to me and those who try to be. It was a given that my parents’ call and messages were important and the top of them all, but there was one thing that stuck out in a positive way: a handwritten letter sent to me through courier. That was quaint and touching.

2) “Weights,” my first ever poem that is not critiqued by a professor or a patient reader, is published in the Philippines Free Press (March 26 issue).

3) “Morning Prayer,” my short fiction attempt at trying to be sacrilegious, of which I eventually change everything save for the first paragraph, is published in the Philippines Graphic (April 2 issue). It just affirms that I should do without blasphemy.

our names and history must be dear to us

Purchased because, aside from the quaint cover that looks really good with the rest of its kin (there is Woolf’s or Foer’s or Orwell’s to buy next), Jhumpa Lahiri had been racking up my system every time I passed by a bookstore, which was every day. The first part of the two-in-one book is the anthology, “Interpreter of Maladies.” Hands down. Let me just say that this is sitting now next to my favorite short story collections such as Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s “The Namesake” Rosario Cruz Lucero’s “Feast and Famine: Stories of Negros,” and Frederick Barthelme’s “The Law of Averages.” Clearly, the styles differ from each other—OK, maybe except for the first two which are almost alike, for the lack of better word—but it is in their deft handling of vivid descriptions, history, tradition laced with modern snippets of sentiments both happy and not, make their stories (now especially with Lahiri’s) a cut above the usual short fiction fare.

The stories I thoroughly enjoyed were When Mr. Pirzada Came To Dine, A Real Durwan, the book’s title story, and the last, The Third and Final Continent. The former articulates the history of India without burdening it with encyclopedic information, which is something very notable especially when each fact that is presented parallels to the emotions of the characters in the story. Then there’s Interpreter of Maladies, which deserves its right to be on the cover of the book. In such a compact structure, Lahiri manages to bring a story of growth and (should-be-disregarded) obsession that involves a photograph, a scrap of paper, and a whole lot of monkeys. A Real Durwan, on the other hand, is a story about a doorkeeper’s slow descent into madness. Everyone has read a story or two with that plot but it has been a very engaging read even though I find it the most depressing of the lot. That alone is a writer’s accomplishment. It highlights the soft spot in us for people who we always thought are the least of our concerns. The last one, The Third and Final Continent, magnifies how we see age in its supposedly linear movement—are we getting kinder, richer, happier, or is it all the other way around? Other stories are tasty too, but to divulge anything further might lose the potency of the author’s well-layered but accessible insights. It is no wonder the collection has won the Pulitzer Prize in 2000, and Amy Tan writing about Lahiri “as the kind of writer who makes you want to grab the next person you see and say, Read This!’”

Lahiri’s second work in this book is the novel, “The Namesake.” Ah, this is a tricky one. The whole plot involves a decision, an act done by our protagonist here, affecting one thing after the other—toppling dominoes style. Though the domino metaphor could immediately give the sense that it is all for the worst, I must say it is not entirely running headfirst to that. The novel shares some happy moments too: carefully rebooted clichés on being free, loved, and accepted; celebration of life; and the idea that names and words could change and save lives. And the last, I believe, is something worth remembering when closing this book. Now I am determined to read more Jhumpa Lahiri.

call for the applications to the 18th iligan national writers workshop

The Mindanao Creative Writers Group, Inc., and the Mindanao State University-Iligan Institute of Technology’s Office of the Vice Chancellor for Research and Extension (OVCRE) are accepting applications from writers to the 18th Iligan National Writers Workshop (INWW) to be held on May 23-27, 2011 in Iligan City.

Panelists this year are Erlinda Kintanar Alburo, Leoncio P. Deriada, Merlie M. Alunan, German V. Gervacio, Steven Patrick C. Fernandez, Antonio R. Enriquez, Ralph Semino Galan, Christine Godinez-Ortega and this year’s keynote speaker, Pearlsha B. Abubakar, 9th INWW Fellow (2002).

Fifteen (15) slots, five each from Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao and one (1) slot each for the Manuel T. Buenafe Writing Fellowship (MTBWF) and the Ricardo Jorge S. Caluen Bursary for Creative Writing or a total of 17 slots are available for writing fellowships to the 18th INWW.

Applicants are required to submit five poems, or, one short story, excerpt of a novel, or, a one-act play in Filipino, English or in Sebuano, Hiligaynon, Kinaray-a, Waray, Chabacano (with English or Filipino translations) along with the applicant’s biodata, two 2X2 photos and a certification that his/her work is original. For short stories, excerpts of novels or plays, please submit a hard copy and a CD with the manuscripts encoded in MS Word. Those submitting excerpts of novels or works on progress—please provide a one page summary of the novel. Unpublished works are preferred and applicants who have attended regional workshops are given priority.

Writing fellows will be given free board and lodging and a travel allowance. Applications must be postmarked on or before March 25, 2011. No applications or manuscripts will be accepted if sent by fax or e-mail. Applicants are also advised to keep copies of their manuscripts since these will not be returned. Announcements of this year’s writing fellows are released during the third week of April 2011.

Applicants to this year’s workshop may download application and other forms athttp://www.msuiit.edu.ph/ (under MSU-IIT OVCRE MMIDU).

Send all applications to the 18th INWW Director c/o OVCRE, MSU-IIT, Iligan City. For more information call Pat Cruz, Leda Gonzales or Ofelia Taneo at telefax (063) 2232343; or e-mail: inww_ovcremsuiit@yahoo.com

the trail to nagsasa cove

When you hear the name
Nagsasa, virgin trekker,

Take note of the beat:

Boom, bugah!

Boom boom, bugah bugah!

Let this be a promise
Of sand between your toes
Of an anthem for the sun
To light up Balingkilat, one
That will soon flank your tent
Like a mother nursing a child.
Think of this walk a tribute
To what you have missed
In cold cubicles in skyscrapers,
In jeepneys and buses beside
Monuments, and on long asphalt
Streets that bound rotundas.
If our forerunners are indeed
Born from the ground,
Then this path to Nagsasa
Is one of the many histories
Of our bloodline. You march

On the very womb of life.

Boom, bugah!

Boom boom, bugah bugah!

That is the drum of your heart now.
You are almost there.
Never mind the wind
That pulls and pushes you.
Cinco Pincos is no comic;
It calls out from the distance
To tell you your fall is necessary.
Remember, beginners
Walk on all fours. Listen closely,
Just listen to every sound
Your footstep makes,
And your path clears,
Your load eases,
Your climb less steep—

Allow the trail to carry you.

zambales express

From the take off in Caloocan with the infamous Victory Liner to reach Zambales at ten o’clock in the evening, we knew there was no turning back when we reached at the foot of the mountain range by four the following day.

My last climb happened years and years ago, and the thought of it alone was not comforting. Yes, one can say the trail to Nagsasa Cove is for beginners, but still it is a trail that requires climbing, grappling, sometimes hopping, walking long walks, and enduring a variety of changing landscapes—especially one that, with one wrong footing, will give you a one-way ticket to the bottom of Neverland.

There’s Mount Balingkilat, there’s Mount Cinco Pincos, there’s grass, there are herons, there are trees (not found in Ortigas!). Every element is overwhelming.

By the time we arrived in Nagsasa Cove, we immediately set camp on the long stretch of sand, a little far off from the beach. When light’s off came, the wind at night lashed our tents like crazy. But no huff and puff could awaken a man in Decolgen Forte and an adequate dose of liquid life (which, to the veterans, is spelled G-I-N-V-O-D-K…).

The following morning—as if yesterday’s revelry of swimming, playing Frisbee, prancing around the bonfire, singing and cheering (boom boogah!) happened a long long time ago—we woke up refreshed and energized (yes, energized, we Frisbee’d and jogged at seven!).

And just like any fateful gatherings that set off in a good start, there was the not-so-good end encroaching on our backs like goose bumps or hair standing on their ends. It was time to leave. After all had packed up and jumped for the mandatory jump shot(s), we hopped onto our respective boats by eleven and drifted to Pundaquit.

This is where we bid goodbye to Zambales to return to Manila in classic jeepney-bus-taxi routine. I arrived at home by nine in the evening. It was a long ride—and a very interesting one.

in her own words

"Pag nawala na yung pera, wala na yung kabaitan

[When the money’s gone, the kindness is gone].”

I did not know the entirety of the story but that statement from an old lady vendor—who I passed by in the waiting shed on my way to work yesterday—packed a lot of punch.

Whether its impact to me is based on first hand validation or a general understanding of man’s attitude towards money, I just find the declaration saddening.

Coming from a woman who sells cigarettes, candies, and homemade sandwiches early in the morning to bring home the bacon (no mocking pun intended) to her family, the words bear all the weight of a necessary means to accept things as they are. Maybe someone’s just in a tough episode in their lives, maybe I am just conjuring things up in my head.

But if what I thought is right, even if I do not like the sound of fatalism, no one’s to blame people feel that way. Look around, even those in the upper echelons of our country are stirring in a bag of controversy because of money—both in the presence and absence of it. There’s Ombudsman Merceditas Gutierrez, there’s the military send-off pabaons to retiring AFP chiefs, and I am sure there’s even more we do not know.

They say money is the root of all evil, but I think money is only evil in the wrong hands. And if that money is gone in those hands, you can say all hell will break loose. And subsequently, kindness will be hard to find.

Until all of this will come to a positive resolution, we will share the same sentiment with the old lady vendor.

deadline for submission of manuscripts to the 50th silliman national writers workshop extended

The Silliman University National Writers Workshop is now accepting applications for the 50th National Writers Workshop to be held on May 2-20, 2011 in the SU Rose Lamb Sobrepeña Writers Village.

This Writers Workshop is offering fifteen fellowships to promising young writers who would like a chance to hone their craft and refine their style. Fellows will be provided housing, a modest stipend, and a subsidy to partially defray costs of their transportation.

To be considered, applicants should submit manuscripts in English on or before March 5, 2011 (seven to ten poems; or three to five short stories; or three to five creative non-fiction essays). Manuscripts should be submitted in hard copy and as email attachment, preferably in MS Word 2003, to nwworkshop_su@yahoo.com, together with a résumé, a recommendation letter from a literature professor or a writer of national standing, a notarized certification that the works are original, and two 2X2 ID pictures.

Send all applications or requests for information to Department of English and Literature, attention Dr. Evelyn F. Mascuñana, Chair, Silliman University, 6200 Dumaguete City.

play catch up

I promised myself at the start of the year to pay attention to the books piling up in one corner of my room and keep up with my reading. January was good; I managed. But lately, this month of February, I couldn’t get pass through ten pages in one sitting. It is alarming. I wouldn’t blame the material. For all I know, my logo-hunger even covers reading can labels, road signs, and supermarket super sale posters.

It must be the weather. Yes, it must be it. If there’s nothing or no one else to point fingers to, I say it is due to the weather, erratic, always giving me the headache. So before the clouds would strike a bolt of lightning on me, here are the books I hope would be loved the way I have loved the books before them:

Ford County: Stories
John Grisham

Life Mask
Emma Donoghue

Wild Nights! Stories About the Last Days of Poe, Dickinson, Twain, James, and Hemingway
Joyce Carol Oates

The Cabal and Other Stories
Ellen Gilchrist

Midnight’s Children
Salman Rushdie

In my wish list, for now (while grappling with my maturing short-attention span):

The Elegance of the Hedgehog
Muriel Barbery

The Evolution of Bruno Littlemore
Benjamin Hale

Super Sad True Love Story
Gary Shteyngart

Freedom
Jonathan Franzen

battle hymn of the tiger mother by amy chua

Forget the increasing uncertainty of the Westerns’ decline from the top spot relating to all things that need ranking—economy, technology, happiness or whatever—as what many reports buzz in all forms of media right now, following the release of Amy Chua’s memoir “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.” It has sparked a lot of debate but the author is only concerned with one thing: her kids’ future.

I have not read the book yet but the hullabaloo surrounding it is a giveaway of what the Tiger Mom is all about. To mention Chua’s treatment on raising her children with endless piano and violin practices, threat of stuffed toy burning, or zero sleepovers is not enough to raise anyone’s doubtful and appalled eyebrows. It is much more than those actually.

After reading this, this, and this, I know Chua has her reasons of what must be done to what, and we are just here bombarded with our own speculations if we are raised the right way or not. But when does it cross the line? Is there a line between “extreme” and “completely fine” at all? Did you just wish you had a tiger mom?

Child rearing is simply a tricky issue, and the more it becomes complicated the more it is brought up in every household. And Chua is just one of the millions.

room by emma donoghue

I always have little patience for precocious children in literature (which gave my children’s literature professor back in college some serious head-scratching), but Emma Donoghue’s novel “Room” is surprisingly worthy of enduring. It doesn’t feel like you have to endure at all, even if you are reading the words of a five-year-old from the very first page. It is not entirely new, the language and the technique (there is Mark Haddon’s novel “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time”, and there’s Marguerite Alcazaren De Leon’s short story “Yaya”), but what’s notable here is how everything moves logically and breathtakingly from Point A to Point B. To sum it all up, the title’s subject is (could be) much bigger than anything else you have read lately.

cat and bane

It is final. Anne Hathaway and Tom Hardy would put on the leather suits as Catwoman and Bane (yeah, he had pseudo-leather getup in the comic books), respectively, in “The Dark Knight Rises,” Christopher Nolan’s third take of the Batman films. I don’t know with these new recruits but I think Anne is just way too commercial for this upholstered franchise with an art-house feel. What do you think?

weights

I.
Water from the sea
Must be as heavy
As the name
Of the person
You love
Have loved
Or the absence of love
It is both possibility
And impossibility
Like how sea water
That is cupped in the hands
Creates a sea in the hands
Washed of all weight
But still a world of water
In its own right

II.
When Mother had me as a little lump of a girl she said I brought a burden that deserved all the trouble in the world. When I grew up and appeared in her doorstep one day, a duffel bag in one hand and a five-year old in the other, she said she does not deserve this. I do not deserve this. Hands wringing, she recited litanies and that my old room was heavy with cobwebs. What troubled me more was that she whispered something in her just dropped.

III.
What would happen
If Atlas did shrug
And drop to his knees
Will there be more tremors
In the earth
In our bodies
In our lives
Weight of palms
On my face
You shrugged
And left
I guess Atlas
Could only do so much
The shoulders give in
The world is not only his

IV.
I remember being in the backyard and picked two guavas from the ground, stared at them on my six-year old palms. Mother stopped sweeping and explained they fall off their branches when they are overripe. I brushed one on my skirt and took a bite, its sweetness overwhelming. On the brows of the hills, beyond our house, the sun was setting. I believed that every day the sun gets overripe and falls off the sky, its seed growing to full form in the morning. I felt smart.

V.
You offer a bouquet
Of yellow roses
So yellow the air
Around us ripen that
Borders on decay
It is my turn to shrug
A flower should be
Left alone
It has had enough
Heartache
To water a field
To create a sea
For today a dew
Is all it could take
To carry

career changes

I already find it numbing when a person says I look like someone they know or have seen somewhere. But recently, what’s giving me the electric shock deals something more than this exceptionally generic face of mine. It is other people’s assumption of what my profession really is based on this exceptionally generic face of mine. And here’s a bunch of jobs (as far as I can remember) that I have rounded up from the late 2010 to this date.

Writer
I always denied being one. I enjoy the act but I feel queasy toying with that identity. I know my flaws so I keep myself away from that word. But since I am working in a company where, well, I write (or connect words to form) newsletters—and I have a goatee, a mustache, long hair, and a pair of piercings—everyone says I am this, and there goes the logic of the title.

Fashion Designer
When the previous job title of mine (supposedly) has already been embedded in almost every head in the office (yeah, thanks to word of mouth), a woman about my age sits beside me one day and asserts “Mas mukha ka pang fashion designer.” There is no humor in her voice. That’s job number two.

Call Center Agent
All ready for my daily commute to work early in the morning, next-door lady neighbor chances upon me leaving the house and sweetly asks, “Saang agency ka nagtatrabaho?” But of course! Call center agents wear dark blue slacks, black leather shoes, and sky blue kusot mayaman barong in their offices, right? “No. I work in a food company,” I respond and leave her by the gates with a smile.

Musician
Since the neighborhood in the past few days has gotten a little bit chatty, I give in and mingle to one. Predictably, conversation falls into the work category and asks me what I do for a living. I fire out the usual one-two punch of my job description, feeling happy because she is smiling of the things that I do, when she laughs and says: “Akala ko musikero ka!” I stop my monologue. At least there’s talent in being one.

spaces by arkaye velasquez kierulf

1.

In this room I was born. And I knew I was in the wrong place: the world. I knew pain was to come. I knew it by the persistence of the blade that cut me out. I knew it as every baby born to the world knows it: I came here to die.

2.

Somewhere a beautiful woman in a story I do not understand is crying. If I strain hard enough I will hear a song in the background. She is holding a letter. She is in love with Peter. I am in love with her.

3.

Stand on the floor where it’s marked X. I am standing by your side where it’s marked Y. We are a shoulder’s length apart. I’m so close you can almost smell the perfume. If I step ten paces away from you, there could be a garden between us, or a table and some chairs. If I step another 20 paces there could be a house between us. If I continue to walk away from you in this way, tramping through walls and hovering above water, in 80,150,320 steps I will bump into you. I can never get away from you, and will you remember me? Distance brings us closer. There is no distance.

4.

In 1961 I was in Berlin. It was a dusty Sunday in August. In the radio news was out that Ulbricht had convinced Khrushchev to build a wall around West Berlin. I remember it precisely: By midnight East German troops had sealed off the zonal boundary with barbed wire. The streets along which the barrier ran had been torn up. I lived in that street. It was the day after my birthday. I remember the dust covering the sky. I remember being scared. Father had not returned from the other side. The Kampfgruppen der Arbeiterklasse had orders to shoot anyone who would attempt to defect. Father had not returned.

5.

Happiness is simple.

Sadness forks into many roads.

6.

Before the time of Christ, Aristotle believed that the earth was the center of the universe because he needed a stationary reference point against which to measure all other motions: a rock falling, a star reeling through the sky, his heart beating against his chest like a club. He needed to believe in certainty, in absolute space. Without it, the world would not be known absolutely. Without it, the world cannot be known.

Twenty centuries later Hendrik Lorentz needed to believe that every single molecule in the universe must move through a stationary material called the aether, as every human being in his various turnings must move through God. Scientists looked everywhere for proof of this aether. And everywhere they found nothing.

7.

I have sometimes been accused of being a bore. I beg to differ: people laugh at my jokes, and I’m handsome. I would like now to talk more about myself: I don’t like going to airports and hospitals. They make me uneasy. In both cases, somebody is always going to leave. I was born in 1983, and have never been to Berlin. But I have a memory of being in Berlin in 1961. I have a memory of something that never happened.

I would like to elaborate on myself, but you will understand if I talk instead about the sky in Berlin in 1961: it was covered with dust. There were no birds. There was no sky.

8.

Memory is brutal because precise.

9.

She said: give me more space. I said: don’t you love me anymore? She said: give me more space. I said: why? Did I do something wrong? Is there something wrong? Is there someone else? When did you stop loving me? In what precise moment? In what room? What city?

I held her tight as one who’s about to lose his own life holds on. Then she said: give me more space. I said: no.

10.

I have only one purpose: to live intensely.

11.

I wish I never met you

and I wish you never left.
You taste like a river in June.

12.

I’m going to say something important. Look at my face. Ignore my eyes. Just listen to me. But listen only to the timbre of my voice, not to what I am saying. They are different. They are two different rooms. The first is an exhibition of despair, the second only an explanation.

The first is all you have to listen to. So listen carefully because I cannot repeat myself:

“Everything/ one suspects to be true/ is true.”

13.

In 1879 a boy is born in Germany. At age five he’d throw a chair at his violin teacher and chase him out. In time he would develop the capacity to withdraw instantaneously from a crowd into loneliness. At twenty-six he would publish his theory of relativity in Annalen der Physik. He looks crazy, but he is certain: there is no aether, no absolute space.

14.

Sometimes they thought it was the words.

What they wanted to say could not be said.

They fixed the TV, vacuumed the rug,

dusted the furniture, looked out the window.

Sometimes she would purposefully lose hold of

a plate and it would smash to the floor.

Then they would have something to say,

only to begin to say it then stop.

15.

Look at this box. It is empty except for a diary, a book, and this picture in my hand. Now look at this picture. It weighs nothing and occupies almost zero space. I can slip it in anywhere and it will fit: inside the diary, under the box, through a crack on the wall. If I tear it several times, it will occupy a different volume, many and various. It mutates, you see. If I burn it, it will smoke into the air. It will take up a whole expanse.

16.

How many more times

are you going to let the world

hurt you?

17.

My father is an incorrigible storyteller. He would tell the same stories in different ways. I wouldn’t know which ones to believe. So I believed all of them. “There is no story that is not true,” said Uchendu.

Father would point at the TV. He would repeat lines, rehearse the beginnings and ends, explicate with his hands the elaborate twists and turns of every road.

He said: “I am dying.”

I said: “But aren’t all of us dying.”

18.

And I thought the world

was about this leaving,

not about anybody’s leaving

but about this leaving.

The next day it was the same.

19.

A beautiful woman walks into a room. The room is dark. There are no windows. There is one light bulb but any time now it will go off. I pretend not to notice and look away, my heart beating against my chest like a club. If I strain hard enough I will hear a song in the background. What other forms of happiness are there than this?

20.

In 1989 the Berlin wall falls down.

21.

I believe in love only when it rains.

22.

To appreciate the value of land, one need only look into a painting: so much beauty. Buying land means buying the layers of beauty directly above it. It means buying the sky above it. And the birds above it, the clouds, the gods.

In truth you are buying a corner of the universe. You are saying: this is my room. You are saying: I live here. Here I exist.

23.

Your sadness is immaterial. You did

not come into the world to be happy.

~

You came to suffer/survive.

24.

How many words have you spoken in your life?

How many did you mean?

How many did you understand?

25.

Somebody picks up a phone. He dials a number. His voice travels a thousand miles into another country. On the other end somebody picks up and hears the voice. Who is this?– This is me. The phone is hung up. The voice travels back a thousand miles.

Elsewhere somebody picks up a phone and before he could dial forgets the number.

26.

Sometimes wars are waged because there are too many people in too few rooms.

27.

Memory is incomplete–lost.

The world is incomplete–vanishing.

Nothing more happens. You open your eyes and it’s over.

Memory is brutal.

Memory is precise.

28.

In the next room people I do not know are talking with hushed voices. Their secret slips out the window like a cat. It is raining, and I press my ear to the wall. I imagine that one of them is smoking a cigarette. I imagine that one of them is covering his mouth in surprise.

29.

When my aunt died the doctors said the fat clogged her arteries. Every week she visited the hospital, and every week the vein on her wrist had to be ripped out so a catheter could be stuck into her body to suck out her blood. You could see the plasma pass through a filter and then back to the body. If you put your ear to her wrist you would hear her heart.

Before my uncle died the heart attacks were so excruciating he said he’d prefer to just die. They transported him to the hospital, and on the way to the emergency room his heart gave. Mother said my uncle ate too much pork and drank too much beer. She wonders if he’s going to be happy in heaven.

30.
In some house in some province in some country in some novel there is a story of a man a father a child a lover who dies because of too much sadness.

31.

Nobody thought that what was wrong was the love.

32.

She said: give me more space.

*

Arkaye V. Kierulf was a fellow for poetry in the 48th Silliman University National Writers Workshop.

call for submission of manuscripts to the 50th silliman university national writers workshop

The Silliman University National Writers Workshop is now accepting applications for the 50th National Writers Workshop to be held on May 2-20, 2011 in the SU Rose Lamb Sobrepeña Writers Village.

This Writers Workshop is offering fifteen fellowships to promising young writers who would like a chance to hone their craft and refine their style. Fellows will be provided housing, a modest stipend, and a subsidy to partially defray costs of their transportation.

To be considered, applicants should submit manuscripts in English on or before February 25, 2011 (seven to ten poems; or three to five short stories; or three to five creative non-fiction essays). Manuscripts should be submitted in hard copy and as email attachment, preferably in MS Word 2003, to nwworkshop_su@yahoo.com, together with a résumé, a recommendation letter from a literature professor or a writer of national standing, a notarized certification that the works are original, and two 2X2 ID pictures.

Send all applications or requests for information to Department of English and Literature, attention Dr. Evelyn F. Mascuñana, Chair, Silliman University, 6200 Dumaguete City.

longs shots or shooting the moon?

Yes, it is already the second week of the new year but it is never too late to extend my list of resolutions. Though sometimes better read than done, I think I have created to-do’s that I could pull off (hopefully). Besides, I managed to complete one resolution last year (which is the last bullet in this list) until I unknowingly took a cocktail drink with Sprite in the mix in the last few days of December. Forget it. Here’s to defying excuses for 2011!

#1
Completely finish reading a novel or anthology every month. I am a (very) slow reader but I will give this a shot. I’ve gotten numerous books last Christmas, and stacked in a corner of my room they just scream to be read. Not that I’m complaining. This is light-years better than a stack of journals.

#2
Write a new short story or poem or finish writing one in each month. I almost accomplished this last year but due to the irrepressible shifting of the cosmos I failed.

#3
Draft the freshman novel. I have to do this. I am almost in my mid-20’s! (Fitzgerald wrote “The Great Gatsby” at 28, Thomas Mann at 24 for his “The Buddenbrooks,” Kafka at 29 for “The Metamorphosis,” Hemingway at 27 for “The Sun Also Rises,” John Updike at 28 for “Rabbit, Run,” and Pynchon at 26 for “V.”). There’s no harm in being ambitious (I guess).

#4
Return to Tagbilaran this March for some breather and to Dumaguete this May and linger for a week (at the least).

#5
For something that does not deal with words, here’s one: never drink or sip even a drop of carbonated drink or soda (a continuation of last year’s resolution).

that city

Remembering Silliman University and its writers workshop that turns golden this May. (Dumaguete, 2009)

under the light of this year

The 2000’s is quite an interesting decade for me.

Imagine, in a span of ten years, you graduated in high school, felt the diversity of emotional pangs in college, fortunately graduating just in time even with the excess baggage, and plunged into the country’s workforce of which everything you had learned in the previous years were but a small fraction of the demands that was in store for you. Surprise, surprise.

Yes, I had my fair share of disappointments but it was pointless dwelling in them. Because nevertheless, as what a new acquaintance told me a few days ago, it is also a decade of achievements (I can’t enumerate those between 2000 and 2009 so I will settle with those in the latter part).

“Just small achievements,” I corrected her.
“They’re still achievements,” she corrected me back. I blushed.

Looking back, I cannot help but swell with pride even in that oftentimes shaky year that is 2010: there’s the fact that I endured one corporate year that I previously thought was very unlikely; the unforgettable trips to Camarines Sur, Bacolod, Dumaguete, Davao, and even to the undiscovered nooks and crannies of Bohol; the fiction fellowship in the 10th IYAS Creative Writing Workshop; the publication of short stories, poems, and opinion articles in Philippines Free Press, Philippines Graphic, Philippine Daily Inquirer, The Weekly Sillimanian (I just can’t leave this college paper) and Paper Monster Press, all of which I believe was a long shot; and the wish fulfillment of not getting a journal/diary for every Christmas party exchanging gift session I attended.

It was joyful, indeed.

Amidst all these celebrations, I faced the last page of a calendar and felt something drop inside of me: out of the seven siblings, only four including myself will be with my parents during the December gatherings. Christmas Eve (of which the 25th is my mother’s birthday), New Year’s Eve, and many more were almost always celebrated as a whole. But last month, two of my brothers and a sister, because of necessity, were out of the country, absent in countless photographs.

Before I could even focus my eyes on the void, waiting for clouds to grey and release a heavy downpour on me, synching to the tune of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, I thought everything will be just fine. And it did.

Distances test the strength of the ties that bind us.

I guess this is how nature works. No matter how far each other are, persistence and endurance will fill any gap. Like the sea turtles, it is strange but marvelous that when their eggs hatch in some distant shore, the little ones brave the currents and get back to their kin in the depths of the ocean. The sense of home is palpable.

Whether this new decade brings in more achievements or none at all, whether in forthcoming gatherings the family is complete or not, I just have to let the stars align and let them run in their own courses.

Yes, it is still too early to tell that everything will be just fine but whatever each morning brings, I will always try to meet its light and feel warmer, contented than the last.

bye waves

On the second day of the new year, I did the weirdest thing in my entire life. After rounding up my grocery items, I chanced upon a barbershop on my way out of the supermarket, and maybe due to the shaking of the cosmos, decided to get a trim. I was perfectly contented with my shoulder-length wavy locks, except for those stubborn strands that stick out in opposing angles. In fact, I am in the spectrums’ opposite end of the idea of getting or donning something new after 365 days, but I entered the shop anyway. Now sitting on a chair that I hadn’t sat on for a long time, I told the barber flatly: “Ikaw na ang ang bahala” (It’s up to you).

Surprisingly—and luckily—I was happy with the results. I have to use less shampoo this time (And by the way, if you're curious, it all looks like that thumbnail photo to your right, only shorter).