three lost things and counting

May 18 – And Suddenly, They’re Gone

I mentioned in the very first part of this series that five things were lost during my summer break in Dumaguete, and for five parts already, I had only mentioned one. Well, on this day, the vanishing tripled. As how many variety shows put it: one time, big time.

On our way to Antulang Beach Resort in Siaton, the final workshop week’s escapade, I put on my other sunglasses that I thought would best suit the day, especially when yachting in Tambobo Bay. After all, it is one of the few places in the Negros provinces that are gifted with both sunrise and sunset. A few hours later, I was looking for the glasses’ slip case and found none. And that was lost item number two. Just like any other small things, this couldn’t upset me. Along with a fellow who was itching to get into the infinity pool, I jumped into the waters under the midday sun and allowed myself to be unbothered by anything.

*

Strange, one co-fellow didn’t bring any swimwear with him in an outing that involved a lot of water. It was supposed to be a vacation for everyone, so I lent him a pair of shorts—which was recently bought and worn only once—of which he handed it to another person for safekeeping. All was set. But even with the shorts in hand, I eventually knew he didn’t dip a single toe in the pool or the sea. And due to the hurricane of swimming here and snapping photos there, talking here and diving there, I forgot all about what I had just lent.


At the end of the day, when we separated ways—the fellows going back to the mountains of Valencia and us alumni going back to Dumaguete City—I realized the pair of shorts was not with me. No problem. Will get it in my next visit. But the next visit was futile. It was gone, absent in anyone’s backpacks. I shrugged. There was nothing I could do. My plans of jogging around the rubberized oval in the city sports arena were immediately scraped off the list. Lost item number three: check.

*

It seemed that my personal properties had formed a pact and rebelled against me for possessing them. So, I decided to drown myself with my favorite music on the bus routed for the city. Nothing could lift this misery out of the system better than Janelle Monáe and Gnarls Barkley. I pulled out the iPod from the bag, and it was just the iPod. I searched for its earphones in my bag, in my seat, on the floor, and couldn’t get a sight of a single white noodle around. Lost item number four: check.

That was it. The battle between me and my belongings was growing fiercer by the hour. I turned to my seatmate and future Ms. Universe Liza Baccay, who was my co-fellow in the 2008 workshop, and sighed. She could only share to me what I had recently shared to her back at the resort: Ayaw pag-strong kay mag-struggle ang face.

*

It was Wednesday, and that meant one thing: almost like a tradition, workshop fellows would flock at Hayahay for Reggae Night and meet Miguel “Mickey” Ybañez, another workshop alumnus. After the mandatory dinner at Neva’s with Mo Francisco, Keith Cortez, Phillip Kimpo, Ynna Abuan, Ceres Abanil and Peachy Paderna (Ms. Universe, Elena Paulma and Noelle Leslie dela Cruz, my co-katsubongs, were suddenly a no-show), off we went to the seaside resto. Joel Toledo and Douglas Candano, as expected, we’re already in the company of Mickey.


Alumni kept on trickling that night. Like how the 47th met the 48th met the 49th. Missing in the link, surprisingly of all the batches, was the 50th. And then I knew they hadn’t attended one Reggae Night in their three-week stay in Negros Oriental. Back flip here. Of course, it was not as crucial as, let’s say, reading the next day’s short stories and poems, but on this particular night they missed Ricci Guevara’s dancing to the rhythmic percussions of a band. Just saying.

The sense of reunion was finally settling in the city. Some things were lost and some people were introduced. And I received some good news. The day was not entirely awful.

(sixth of eight parts)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |

people know themselves better

May 17 – Dinner with the Great Doyenne of Literature

Wi-Fi was suddenly alive in the mountains. What to do, what to do? I wondered. To make good use of it, I began updating my Twitter with accounts and teasers on what had been going on in the workshop’s discussion between fellows and panelists. Ian Rosales Casocot, who officially managed the SU NWW account, read one of my updates and sent me a message: “Can you live-tweet the workshop session?” I agreed. I received the account’s user name and password, and I was, instantly and (un)officially, part of this year’s workshop working committee. Yes, people, apparently a part of the world knew a thing or two about the anatomy of that male appendage a few days later.

*

The golden anniversary never ran out of dinners. This particular Tuesday, there was the Director’s Dinner. We got off the white war bus, the frequent transport of many workshop fellows now, and entered Silliman Hall, a slim figure of architecture that was constantly courted by the boulevard sea breeze.

New alumni arrived like Ed Cagagnot and DM Reyes among others, and right below the raised platform was one of the workshop founders herself, Mom Edith Lopez Tiempo, who sat on a chair that was said to be as historic as the event we were all celebrating.

After the presentations and by-the-year batch photo sessions, which was led by photographers Gregg Morales and Urich Calumpang, the highlight of the night followed with Mom’s words.

Transcribed into text by Alfred “Krip” Yuson based from a video recording by Nerisa del Carmen Guevarra, here’s an excerpt of her speech on the anniversary of the workshop:

“What else do you want me to tell you? You can ask of any writer and they will try to come up with the goods. Would I dare to say that writers indicate to everyone what it is to be openly human, would I dare to say that? Yes I do, yes I do.

Tell me of any other entity of society outside, of course, of the cultural centers… tell me who can say as much? Ask the writer any question you want answered. The writer is not all-wise, but he welcomes being asked something he cannot answer. He will like that because he tends to even more extend himself beyond the group of writers like himself.

What else can I say to you except that I am happy, happy to be with you as I have always been happy all these 50 years with writers, and I hope that each one of you will be happy to say that, ‘Oh, I was last night with a 92-year-old woman who claims she is a writer.’”

For fellows, and us alumni, who were there to witness such graciousness, it was not that difficult for gratitude towards Mom to surface as tears welling up in the eyes.

*

There was another line from Mom’s speech that struck me hard that night, if I heard it correctly: “People know themselves better because there are writers.” Though I still cannot completely substantiate myself as being one, Mom Edith was right. I felt indebted to the writers that I looked up to, then and now. In some ways, their words both cleared and sometimes muddled up my thinking. And that’s fine with me. At least I am thinking.

(fifth of eight parts)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

golden for days on end

The fiftieth edition of the Silliman National Writers workshop may have ended two weeks ago but the barrage of photos in many people’s social-networking sites, sprouting numerous threads of banter and nostalgia, proves that it doesn’t close that easily. Memory lingers.

And adding to the spring-like recollections of the mother of all Philippine creative writing workshops’ anniversary, here are articles in today’s national broadsheets putting into ink once again how beautiful this writing family is.

Gaudeamus: Golden Writers
Alfred A. Yuson
The Philippines Star, 30 May 2011

A Golden Age of Writing
Ian Rosales Casocot
Philippine Daily Inquirer, 20 May 2011

last week for the fellows

May 16 – Third Set of Sessions Begins

Alfred “Krip” Yuson and Gemino “Jimmy” Abad joined Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas and Cesar Ruiz “Sawi” Aquino in the third and final week of the workshop. Uneasiness was conspicuous in the air, not entirely due to the presence of the panelists with such pedigree, but also perhaps to the fact that it was Monday, just a few more bouts of literary criticism before the Gala Night.

*

The Alumni Homecoming for the fiftieth anniversary of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop officially started. I even felt in the way the acacia waved their branches. In the evening, there was this fellowship dinner in the CBA Gardens of the university to welcome the workshop alumni, and I finally got to put faces on the words I had read in books, in magazines, in newspapers, and even seen only on television. There was Joel Toledo, Douglas Candano, Peachy Paderna (whose real name I dare anyone to find out), Ceres Abanil, Gilbert Tan, and my batch mate Noelle Leslie dela Cruz, among others. Singaporean writer Kirpal Singh also arrived that night; he would be joining the week’s workshop panelists.

Being the second to “reappear” among the alumni for this gathering (poet Nerisa del Carmen Guevara arrived in Dumaguete a week or so earlier), I had expected a bigger number of returnees. But then again, this was only the first night of this week. I was sure the rest would come in droves in the next few days. After the mandatory group shots, I switched on my Groupee Mode, pulled the books I religiously toted around in my bag, and approached one author after the other for their signatures. Yes, this was one aspect of me being devoted to the craft.

*

And then it was twelve o’clock. It was Marius Monsanto’s birthday, a fellow of this year’s batch. He is a co-fellow of mine in another workshop, and though the numbers of his age have changed, the crazy fire is still in him, present and burning like the hot mess of his hair. He is crazy that way.


We specially waited for the moment to arrive right after the dinner in the city. And when it struck, there was no ringing of a bell from a distant tower, no long sirens, and no howling dogs, but there was a splash of cold water on his temples. We sang the birthday song. This was his baptism of fire, but since literal flames and the night’s round of alcohol seemed to be a bad idea, the resident jester Jepoy Javier doused him with a bottle of water instead. I thought it was an appropriate surprise gift. The mother of all Philippine writing workshops was born right beside the sea after all.

(fourth of eight parts)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |

but there's no cat in the village

May 15 - Dogge and the Golden(ed) Workshop

I woke up earlier than the usual, and it felt odd. Odder still was that the last vivid memory I could muster of the previous night’s revelry was of someone running around in the open space, hands extended to her sides, carefree of anything that might pluck her into the corners of the dark. I smiled at the thought.

The sunlight that spilled in the village seemed golden at this moment. A reflection of the workshop’s gilded age? A dreg of last night’s last drink doing tricks to my eyes? A dream within a dream? I closed my eyes, opened them, and knew Sundays in some secret spots of some southern provinces still hold paradise. I became too accustomed to the beige and mirrors of the corporate world I almost forgot the color of grass, and the way its blades brush the heels of my feet. I ran to my room, took my camera, and photographed the quietness that surrounded me.

*

An event could differ from several perspectives. Some demand fireworks to capture and reflect the grandness of the celebration. Some pine for excessive indulgence. But on this Sunday, despite the sumptuous pasta dishes and salad prepared (and promised) by Tobey, Andy, and Tin, the family that gathered in one cottage for lunch served as one unforgettable occasion that needed no blaring trumpets.

*

Rarely have I been so affectionate to dogs. I loved a few in my younger days but not as much as how I preferred cats. Their high-minded demeanor and graceful sways draw me to them. After all, winning their trust makes the relationship of man and animal all the more precious. “This cat loves me!” is one kind of accomplishment so hard to expound, one that only a fellow feline-lover would understand. But the village was teeming with dogs, and I couldn’t just disregard how they ran and barked and bounced all over the place.


One in particular was this canine the fellows called Dogge. (Yes, what a creative way to name a dog, especially for writers who pronounce it "doog-geh"). The origin of his name was particularly dim in my memory, but what was clear was that, hands down, Dogge was the kindest dog I met. Those eyes justify what people always say about puppy eyes. Like someone who momentarily lost his sense of sanity, I spoke to myself while massaging his back, “He’s like a cat!”

Whether the young dog was insulted by my remark or not, Dogge stood still for a couple of minutes, and then laid his head on my knees. I was surprised by this almost non-animal act. I reached for him again and rubbed the brows of his eyes. He accepted it nicely. I guess I found a cat in a dog’s body.

(third of eight parts)

Part 1 | Part 2 |

writers, red stones, and the thirst

May 14 - A Trip to Pulang Bato Falls and Other Trips

The second week passed yet the golden ones had only reached as far as Siquijor in their leg tour. Thus, the trip to the twin lakes in the town of Sibulan was planned the night before (among many other plans proposed by Ian Casocot). The lakes, especially Balinsasayao, were as memorable as the new sights of flora and fauna every time I visited them. But due to time constraints, Moses Atega, Negros Oriental’s Kuya and unprecedented accomplice, suggested Pulang Bato Falls in Valencia. In my four years of living in the Negros before, I loved the idea. I have never been to that place, like the rest of the writing fellows, and someone in the name of Taka, a Japanese who studied English in Silliman.

Without second thoughts, after an almost hour-long of packing our lunch in Kabayoan, we found ourselves uphill, momentarily engulfed in wispy white smoke that seeped out of a mountain wall’s crevices. “Sulfur,” Mo said, and then we covered our noses. As the easy-ride trudged forth on the bumpy road, Pulang Bato revealed itself, all true to its very name, down to the last pebble. The riverbed was red. A massacre happened here, I thought and came up with a sapling-of-a-line for a possible poem. Such sight and moment deserved to be immortalized. We immediately plunged into waters, perhaps to wash away the dread of what was to come in the next few days.

*

For a small city like Dumaguete, visitors from different provinces or countries would be surprised to discover it as a bustling focal point of activities every Saturday night. But the fellows had to read their last week’s manuscripts, so they opted to go up the mountains. I let them be, chaperoning some of them with their errands in the city before nightfall, until Tobey lured me to go up too with the promise of her own pasta dish for the following day’s dinner. I agreed and packed up my things. Yes, sometimes, I am too easy to get.

By the time we arrived in the Writers Village, I became one of the Champaca Boys for the night (and some future nights), with Lean, Miggy, and Glenn sinisterly dropping hints of a coming interrogation that would involve flashlights hovering above my head. Their idea of theatrics was cute.

*Just as I had expected, prejudice aside, the delegates from Mindanao (and interestingly two ladies from Luzon) would spearhead the workshop’s “Feed the World Program.” This is a series of rounds approaching one fellow after the other, asking for generous means to purchase rum, beer, and vodka in the nearest convenience store, with their bottles gleaming like eager orphans waiting to be nursed in the hands of the eager.

Since I was a guest in the village that was soon filled with the symphony of cicadas and other slow evening routines, I chipped in a couple of pesos. I had to do my part. By nine o’clock, both men and mammals circled in the open field, concoctions were made (there was one that particularly gave me a 24-hour long palpitation the next day), glasses were passed, chips flew in the air, laughter bounced on the invisible walls of the night, a bond was formed. We were thirsty no more.

(second of eight parts)

Part 1 |

five lost things in dumaguete (or the thousand-fold of things found)

May 13 - Time and Time Again

Time was strangely moving fast. In the tricycle since I left the airport, I checked my Sandoz watch every two minutes or so, its crystal jeweled face somewhat mocking to my inability to pin down the speeding seconds. Philip Van Peel’s van had been waiting at Katipunan Hall together with the workshop’s second week panelists—Rowena Torrevillas, Myrna Peña-Reyes, Ricardo de Ungria—ready to start the critiquing session at the Writers Village in Valencia with this year’s writing fellows. I told Van Peel that maybe I could just hop in a public transportation, habal-habal or something, but he eventually obliged to my request of waiting for another extra five minutes.

Finally, I arrived at the gates of Silliman University along Hibbard Avenue, Van Peel waving at me from outside his van. I paid the tricycle driver a hundred and twenty pesos and checked the time on my watch. But the watch was gone. I left my luggage in the English Department office, and time slowed down as we went our way to the foothills of Mount Talinis. Later, I shared to my sister the unexpected loss of something I had inherited from my father, and all she got to say was that a pawnshop could give ten thousand bucks or more for that watch. I never expected that the first morning of my week-long Dumaguete break would be devastating.

*

We arrived at the Silliman Rose Lamb-Sobrepeña Writers Village an hour late. Part of me was to be blamed so I apologized when Ma’am Rowena introduced me to the fellows before the session started. I thought I heard Evangeline “Eva” Gubat, Marius Monsanto, Alyza Taguilaso, and Charmaine “Shane” Carreon laughed in the small crowd. These were people I met before. In the afternoon, I recognized all of them—Allen Samsuya, Elaine “Tobey” Tobias, Jeffrey “Jepoy” Javier, Rogelio “Roger” Garcia, Jr., Philline Donggay, Christine “Tine” Lao, Andrea “Andy” Macalino, Maria “Miel” Villaruel, Miguel “Miggy” Sulangi, Glenn Diaz, and Emmanual “Lean” Lava.

*


It was Friday and I thought the night in the city was a perfect sanctuary to heal scars brought from the numerous spur of critiques bombarded earlier. I invited the writing fellows to come down from the mountain but only a few managed. Only Allen, Tobey, Marius, Jepoy, Roger, Eva, and Shane braved the habal-habal ride down to the city. We had tempura at the boulevard, drinks at Blue Monkey, more drinks at Hayahay, closing drinks at Chiccos, and then the mandatory visit to Qyosko after the drinking sprees.

It was the first time I met some of these people yet I invited some fellows home, to rest overnight in the city, as if I have already met them in a classroom back in elementary, exchanging playing cards, drawing caricatures of our teachers, trying to spell eloquence correctly. Indeed, time is always tricky.

(first of eight parts)

excuses for the workshop

This month, the Silliman University National Writers Workshop reaches its golden chapter. The oldest creative writing workshop in Asia, it has a colorful oft-told history it now closely resembles myth. But, indeed, it has built many gilded pillars that now support the pantheon of Philippine literature.

In its fiftieth year, the birthing process of these pillars continues. Fifteen writing fellows are presently housed in the Silliman Rose Lamb-Sobrepeña Writers Village in Valencia until May 20, to test the waters and see if their words—wrought in fiction, poetry, and nonfiction—either float or sink. But they are in good hands, with Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas, daughter of workshop founders Dr. Edilberto K. Tiempo and Dr. Edith L. Tiempo, as director-in-residence.

The setup is beautiful irony: writers come up near Mount Talinis, close to the skies and mystic fog, elated with the spirit of nature, to remain grounded with their respective techniques.

By the third week of May, the unavoidable arrives. The last critique would be shared. Whether insight is gained or not, it would be up to the individuals to either pursue literature, or venture on to other kinds of distractions. Like the fellows before them, they would be their own puppeteers of their destinies from then on.

For those who fall into the former pursuit, the discipline does not stop with a work finished, anthologized, or awarded. The rationale, at least for now, is divided in two.

First, the Writers Village may be closed in the following months after the workshop’s close, and then starts clocking in for the next summertime to welcome new and indifferent (in the beginning, at least) fellows who would soon become drinking buddies—but as fictionist Susan Lara says in her essay Dwelling in Possibilities, “the workshop never ends.”

Of course, the seed has just been sown in tilled earth. It still has to grow, mature, branch wide, and bear fruits. Writing is called a discipline after all, and an arduous one at that.

For someone who already willed to keep it a habit of leisurely exercise the moment Mom Edith autographed a book with the dedication: “How proud I am to have a writer who is Biblically approved,” it is all but necessary.

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 with 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.

Second, it is more than semantics, syntax, and sensibility. Like all art forms, it holds a greater scale of concern. When, thousands of years ago, cave paintings recorded significant accomplishments, wood carvings retained forgotten stories, and songs healed wounds and broken spirits, today’s literature also provides the same archival, informative, and curative purposes that every man needs. One just has to look for it in the right places.

To realize this, to make literary writing more visible and accessible, it is without question that the workshop is one of the many solutions to this aspiration. As a communal form of art, with more writers honed year after year, literature’s function becomes more potent. Practice, yes, but it does not have to be a lonely commitment. This particular field can have its interesting moments while working on it.

In no particular order, here are some proofs: the acceptance letter after having received none whatsoever in the previous year’s application, the breakdown upon the dissection of an autobiographical piece, the mandatory but genuine intent of a pat on the back, the exchanges of encouragement and disapproval on sundry things with Myrna Peña-Reyes and Lito Zulueta, the unforgettable remarks of Bobby Flores Villasis and the late Ernesto Superal Yee upon holding a literary folio dedicated to Mom Edith, the spontaneous delivery of direct quotations from classic poems care of César Ruìz Aquino and Miguel Ybañez, the drinking revelry with Angelo “Sarge” Lacuesta and Alfred “Krip” Yuson…

The encyclopedic pronouncements of DM Reyes and J. Neil Garcia, the recollection of Jose “Butch” Dalisay’s past workshop sessions and Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta’s own experience, the morning when Rosario Cruz Lucero innocently read three stories from three different authors as one epic narrative and critiqued it as organic and accomplished, the afternoon when Gémino Abad hugged an acacia tree near Katipunan Hall and shared that it relieved you of bad energy, the evening of enjoying a bottle of red wine in the perplexing footbridge along Hibbard Avenue, the other long night of videoke at the once-feared Country Gents…

The last minute rescue from near-drowning due to the attempt of swimming across Lake Balinsasayao, the indecisive jump off a cliff into the waters of Siquijor, the white war-bus, the top-load ride on a speeding jeepney, the midnight trips to Steds Silliman, the seemingly haunted Davao Cottage, the bestowment of the “Yaya of the Year” award/apron for a month-long stint of steering the writing fellows from one food hub to another, the first light of dawn that blossomed on the horizon at Escaño after culmination night, the farewell walk in Rizal Boulevard…

See, these are just fragments of the bigger picture, composed of anecdotes both trivial and edifying. In and out of the workshop, there’s this kind of bond you cannot ignore.

And this is what the workshop reminds those who continue to seek the pulse in the written language. That is why this author is coming back to the City of Gentle People this summer. He feels the need to be reacquainted with those dear to him, to talk about things other than urgent deliverables and the daily rush hour, and to wonder again on what the pen is capable of.

To put it more bluntly, he is glad the Workshop still exists for these excuses.

(lifted from MetroPost, 2011 May 8)

revised alumni homecoming schedule of the silliman university national writers workshop 50th anniversary

MAY 16 (MONDAY)

Registration/Kapihan
SU Hall
8:00AM - 5:00PM

Campus and City Tour
Assembly place: Silliman Hall, Departure time: 2:30 p.m.
3:00PM - 5:00PM

Alumni Fellowship Dinner
CBA Gardens
7:00PM

MAY 17 (TUESDAY)

Alumni Meeting
Multi-Purpose Hall
9:00AM - 11:00AM

Director’s Dinner with Dr. Edith L. Tiempo
Silliman Hall
7:00PM

MAY 18 (WEDNESDAY)

Antulang Beach and Tambobo Bay Tour
Assembly place: CBA Building Lobby
Departure time: 8:30AM
8:30AM - 4:00PM

Technical Rehearsal for Participants of the Gala Night
Claire Isabel McGill Luce Auditorium
4:00PM

MAY 19 (THURSDAY)

Unveiling of Brass Plaque for the Silliman University Rose Lamb Sobrepeña Writers Village
Valencia, Negros Oriental
3:00PM
Assembly place: CBA Building Lobby
Departure time: 2:00PM

Starry, Starry Night Fellowship (Dinner/Sugbahay)
Rizal Boulevard (fronting Honeycomb)
7:00PM

MAY 20 (FRIDAY)

Gala Night/Closing Ceremonies
Claire Isabel McGill Luce Auditorium
4:00PM
(formal or semi-formal attire)

Farewell Dinner
Claire Isabel McGill Luce Lobby
7:00 p.m.


All alumni of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop are encouraged to register with the Workshop Secretariat for logistics reasons. The registration details are as follows: Registration fee per person is P1,700 if you pre-register, or P2,200 if you register upon arrival. (If you are arriving after May 16, please email the Secretariat to arrange for a readjustment of fees.) You can pre-register and deposit the amount to Silliman University at BPI Account 9215-803-225. Please fax bank receipt with heading: “Attention English Department” to (035) 225-4764. Deadline for pre-registration is on 10 May 2011. Registration is inclusive of a Homecoming Kit (with the ID, alumni schedule, and souvenir items); official dinners; Antulang Resort and Tambobo Bay trip; and transportation to official alumni activity venues. This, however, is exclusive of lodging. Registration is fixed and non-refundable. To notify the organizers that you are attending, or for comments and queries, please email us at nwworkshop_su@yahoo.com.

(lifted from Silliman University National Writers Workshop site)

18th iligan national writers workshop fellows

It is the season of writing workshops. Usually, after the ones in Bacolod and Dumaguete, the national workshop in Iligan follows. As a fellow for English Poetry back in 2008, I can attest that the learning I culled from it is relevant until now. After all, one of its panelists is the reason why I decided to take writing seriously when I was in high school.

By the way, congratulations to Anne, Glenn, and Vijae for making it this year.

*

Seventeen writing fellows out of 78 applicants from all over the country are attending the 18th Iligan National Writers Workshop (INWW) on May 23-27, 2011 to be held at the MSU-Iligan Institute of Technology (MSU-IIT). They are…

Luzon
Bonifacio Alfonso M. Javier III (Play, Filipino)
Vijae O. Alquisola (Poetry, Filipino)
Anne Carly S. Abad (Poetry, English)
Jacob Walse Dominguez (Poetry, English)
Michelle Abigail Tiu Tan (Fiction, English)

Visayas
Mary Grace H. Abogado (Boy Abunda Writing Fellow - Poetry, Waray)
Gil Salanio Montinola (Poetry, Hiligaynon),
Glenn T. Munez (Poetry, Cebuano)
Erik E. Tuban (Poetry, Cebuano)
Denver Ejem Torres (Poetry, Cebuano)

Mindanao
Rogelio F. Garcia (Play, Filipino)
Allen Faw B. Samsuya (Poetry, English)
Maimona W. Magayoong (Poetry, English)
Mark Anthony L. Daposala (Manuel E. Buenafe Writing Fellow - Poetry, Cebuano)
Deo Charis I. Mostrales (Fiction, English)
Jonecito R. Saguban (Fiction, Cebuano)
Kei S. Valmoria-Bughaw (Ricardo Jorge S. Caluen Writing Fellow - Fiction, Cebuano)

The Integrated Performing Arts Guild (IPAG) performs during the opening program on May 23 at the MSU-IIT Mini-theatre, while the closing program and launching of the 17th INWW proceedings titled, The Poetry of Place, edited by Christine Godinez-Ortega, will be held on May 27.

Panelists this year are: Leoncio P. Deriada, Merlie M. Alunan, Erlinda Kintanar Alburo, Ralph Semino Galan, Steven Patrick C. Fernandez, German V. Gervacio, Godinez-Ortega and this year’s Keynote Speaker, Pearlsha B. Abubakar (INWW, 2002).

The 18th INWW is hosted by the Mindanao Creative Writers Group (MCWG) and the MSU-IIT Office of the Vice Chancellor for Research & Extension. The workshop is funded by the National Commission for Culture and Arts (NCCA) and the MSU-IIT.

(lifted from the official announcement)

new addiction

It may be too early to tell (and too late to share), having just watched the third season of “The Sopranos,” but it seems this show really does deserve all the hype I’ve heard and read in the late 90’s until the mid 2000’s.

Setting aside the (sometimes) gratuitous scenes, ‘brilliant’ and ‘great’ could not simply contain my thoughts about the television series. It has become my latest crack.

Never had I been into such mobster dramas. Heck, gas up the stakes, I haven’t even seen “Goodfellas” or one film of “The Godfather” trilogy yet. But what plays on the screen just backs up Norman Mailer’s assertion that it is the successor to the “Great American Novel.”

Television as literature. That’s one big, if not questionable, accomplishment.

The show touches parenting, the economy, the dynamics of moral values, the rise and fall of clans, the divide between races, the complexities of the human psyche, the references to literary texts like Marcel Proust’s “Remembrance of Things Past,” the meaning or the absence of dreams, the ducks in the swimming pool. It is a hodgepodge of random things but nothing could be more human or real than an unorganized setup.

In a New York Times interview back in 2004, the show’s creator David Chase said, “I think there should be visuals on a show, some sense of mystery to it, connections that don’t add up. I think there should be dreams and music and dead air, and stuff that goes nowhere. There should be, God forgive me, a little bit of poetry.”

Bless the heavens for people with such proclivities! I didn’t know they still exist, more so in the restrictive medium that is the television. A little bit of poetry. I guess this is the very ingredient that got me engrossed with series like “Carnivalé,” “Six Feet Under,” “Dexter,” and maybe even, on certain points, “True Blood” and “Sex and the City.”

Now don’t get me talking about the absence of Filipino series in that enumeration. That probably deserves another post. Or none at all.

Before I go rant about the black hole in Philippine entertainment, I might as well finish this Sopranos saga and look for the Godfather films next. I think it is high time for guns to be included in my list of favorite things (theoretically).