return to the city of gentle people

To those who would be going back to Dumaguete, like me who would be flying to that city in time for Silliman University’s 110th Founders Week festivities, you might need this calendar and this schedule. See you all soon.

terrains

We know too well the lines on our palms
Fork into branches and crawl to the back
Of our hands
Our elbows
Our chests
Our necks.
And I wonder,
How long would a wrinkle take
To reach the soft crack on that lips?
In one nod?
In one word?
In one gesture of the hands
Pulling my arm, gravity
Losing purpose
Other than that face
Drawing close to mine?

Hear me—there is no expanse
That want would not cross,
Not even the verdict
Of cartography and the study
Of weather and heavenly bodies.

Ancient men lived by chartering
The phases of things:
The moon
The sun
The seas
The winds.
Yet I still wonder,
How long would it take
For that face to turn to mine?
In one rotation?
In one revolution?
In one undulating wave
Of glances, awkward
In their quiet relay
Of messages better tucked
In the pocket to be read at home?

Hear me—these men have survived
Even the most solid fists
Of their smiting gods,
Of their own two hands.
Let us mine the gold in our earths.

returns

Around 130 people watched at the Sydney Observatory, with one woman dressed as a vampire. “There was (also) a child dressed very elegantly as if she was from another century, and a little boy dressed up as a red superhuman,” Sydney Observatory manager Toner Stevenson told reporters.
—Lunar eclipse turns moon blood red, Philippine Daily Inquirer (16 June 2011)


The longest lunar eclipse
since the last decade proves
we have not seen all things yet,
more so with our patient satellite
now waxing and dressing
the shade of too much
ripeness.

It prompts a flood of prophecies next,
and I fear not the stories
of vampiric newborn creatures
nor the peeling of skin in some hut,
but for that boy on a hill
towered by men, elbowing, eager
to witness the event before dawn.

There is so much around us
yet we could only grasp so little,
and I hear the child cry.
I guess this is the most basic sound
of misery, one that could find its way
to all ears. Except for this moment:
This moon is in pain. This is pain.

The crowd returns to their routines;
perhaps a hundred minute is enough
to bear such lurid beauty.
When the weeping closes to a hush,
I search for the boy
only to find a membrane of light
staining the field of bermuda.

[image lifted from this site]

stronger

A few weeks ago, I visited my doctor. I handed her the results of my tests, and she studied them very closely. A few nods later, she finally said, “Your heart is strong.” In my head, “No, doc, it’s not.”

Chos.

altered for good

[Update] Yes, look up, I’ve changed the header. Petty things are petty things but something has to be done about it. Now it looks good with the rest of the layout. And don’t argue with that, mirror!

*

After five years and six months, I changed the template of this blog. And this would be my 491th post, by the way. Amazing. It took that long for me to notice how an eyesore this site had become. There could be other reasons too. It must be due to Muse screaming in my playlist, or the rain that has been pouring since yesterday, or the change of dashboard look Tumblr has undergone, or the simple desire to see something new, even in the minutest things. The header remained though, perhaps serving as a retrospect of how this logorrhea began. [06/09/11]

stoner

My poem, “Stones,” the lengthiest one I have written in that genre (for now), is in the 21st anniversary issue of Philippines Graphic (June 13 issue, vol. 22). The cover story’s on divorce law, by the way. Maybe that would be enough reason for you to pick up the magazine since its official site hasn’t been updated yet. Enjoy.

variations of a smile

May 20 – Last Day, Gala Night

Friday, six in the morning. I woke up way before a single soul stirred in the apartment. Thursday night was something not to be missed, so a few of the golden ones stayed in the city. When all had their drinks until the early hours of dawn, I ushered all of the “overnighters” to my humble abode. It was SOP. They were momentarily my orphans.

That morning, I led them to Bethel Guest House to hitch on the war bus and get back to Valencia for the last workshop session, along with the students from the University of Iowa. I met Robin Hemley, the lead coordinator of the delegates, and he said the bus won’t be leaving until nine. Bullfrogs. The fellows had to return before the said hour. Since I could not think of any other way of hauling eight lethargic people to the mountains, I straightened myself up, approached Mr. Hemley, and asked if we could go ahead to the village, that the bus would be returning for them by nine-fifteen. He obliged with a smile.

Yes, being a feelerette has its plus points. If not for that, future workshops would probably bar me for imparting delinquency to the fellows.


*

Just when I was slowly sinking deep into my nap, the alarm rang. It was fifteen minutes before four o’clock. After a late lunch at KRI with Kirpal Singh, Alfred Yuson, Gemino Abad, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, and Ceres Abanil (of which, we were later joined in by Peachy Paderna and Misael Ondong), I thought of taking a short rest. It was short indeed.


I turned off the alarm, dressed up, and set off straight to Claire Isabel McGil Luce Auditorium for Gaudeamus, the workshop’s closing Gala Night. There was a whirlwind of distractions happening in the previous days that I was caught off-guard by the actuality of tonight’s gathering. This is the closing event. I didn’t exactly know what to feel. When I entered the auditorium, wherein almost everyone’s in there, I knew what I was feeling. I went hurriedly to my seat, greeting people I know along the way with a smile that seemed heavy than the usual.

*

Suddenly, the golden ones were gone. There were no long hugs, teary eyes, and sloppy farewell pronouncements. Something was keeping my attention that time after the dinner in the lobby when I noticed the fellows were all on the bus, ready to return to the village. I stopped and waved my arms from the distance hoping this conveyed everything I wanted to say. Stay, I thought, but then again, I supposed they should go. As how many wordsmiths wrought it, distance would keep our ties stronger. I waved once more, hollered my parting words, and capped it with a smile. That I guess was enough.

*

Blue Monkey Grill was perhaps the vacuum of all things good that night. We were drawn to the place like moths to a flame. (But there was no burning, thankfully). The Iowans were there, most of the panelists were there (yes, including Sawi), and the alumni were there—even those who didn’t turn up in the previous jamborees: Anthony Tan, Ed Cabagnot, Israfel Fagela, Francesca Kwe, Kris Lacaba, Nicolo Vitug, Aaron Jalalon, Carlo Flordeliza, Ida del Mundo, and many more.


It was fun to be in the company of both like and unlike minds, minds that at least had one thing in common, which was the desire to read and write. Except for the inevitable setbacks, we wondered when would be the next gathering of this scale, of this shared unpretentious connection, of this same familial atmosphere, and we continued wondering. All of a sudden, Peachy Paderna broke out crying because, even after a couple of years, it still pained her to witness the parting all over again. Of course, like any consoling brothers and sisters of the family, we gave her a hug. We will meet soon. There will always be next time. And then she smiled

The next day, I lost my comb.


Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 |

from different ages and places

May 19 – Finally, Converged

The previous day didn’t entirely end in a bad note, what with the catalog of lost things that continued growing almost every other day. As mentioned before, there was good news. Before I and the rest of the alumni hopped on the war bus to visit the Silliman Rose Lamb-Sobrepeña Writers Village in Valencia, to barge in the fellows’ second from the last workshop session, I purchased the May 21 issue of the Philippines Free Press and confirmed what had been previously relayed to me. My poem, “How to Write Another Story” was published in an issue that had literary works (by Alfred A. Yuson, Jose Wendell Capili, DM Reyes, Ricardo De Ungria, Nerisa del Carmen Guevara, and Christine Godinez-Ortega) dedicated to the celebration of the workshop’s anniversary.

It was a big deal, of course. It has been born especially for this event, and to actually see it during the homecoming activities is beyond words. I just blushed. To all alumni and the current fellows of the 50th Silliman University National Writers Workshop, this one’s for you.

*

How to Write Another Story

Remain calm,
the (word/world) ends only when
the (word/world) stops spinning.

Consider the whiteness as some sort
of cleansing: do not let the blank page
(t/d)aunt you.

Remember, in space, there is no void,
only a chance to burst in multiple
limitless directions.

There are other stories to tell.
Never depend on the full moon
—it could be the devil’s halo.

Just squint a little harder.
Look instead for things golden(ed),
like the dictionary in the attic.

Yes, a lot has been too easy these days:
the smiling, the laughing, the l(o/i)ving,
the homemade remedy for bee stings.

But easy is not always right.
Not even enough. To ignore complexity
is to question the generosity of the sky.

Take (ad)vantage of this (short)coming:
what we own is a glorified reflection
of what we do not have.

Case in point: apple on the table.
This fruit could be re(a)d
for another (r/s)eason.

*

Poetry hums in the very core of Dumaguete. It pulsates in all sights and structures, fragrant in the air as if uncapped bottles of perfume were wedged in every street corner of the city. Nighttime came and people congregated at Rizal Boulevard for dinner, conversations, and most certainly, poetry—care of this year’s workshop fellows.

What made the evening special aside from the presentations, Banda Manga, and Sharon Dadang-Rafols’s singing and chanting was the presence of the students from the University of Iowa. They went here for cultural immersion, visiting the country’s tourist spots, just in time to take part of the celebration.


Age, race, language—barriers of all kind collapsed. We probably made Blue Monkey Grill happier that night because once again we were there, now with the Iowans who mingled from one table of alumni to another until the early hours of next morning. The clinking of beer bottles was the night’s popular music. A couple of the writing fellows were present too, perhaps delighting in the remaining hours of the city’s charm. In just a day or two, they would be going back to their respective routines.

The moon in the sky was still nearing its full form, but the writing family in this small spot of the city was in some ways complete already, just continually growing, branching from different parts of the world. The lively chatter faded as the hours inched forward, but everyone knew this was something that would linger in the head for a while (and it wouldn’t be a hangover).

(seventh of eight parts)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 |

to the old kvetch

Maybe the earth is too round for your liking, the raindrops too many to count with your fingers, the fruit trees too tall for your reach, but dear, listen to what I have to say: I could not disagree with your disbelief on why some things do not align with the planets of the cosmos that is your mind. Instead, I praise you for this incredulity, as to how rainwater slides from our bodies, feeling great about it, the only departure we could love. You see, ‘wondering too much’ is an awful marriage of words; there is no gauge, no measure for an article of wonder. You ought to know that curiosity did not kill the cat, rather, it brought itself a mouse for dinner. You might receive your mouse too but not now because Father (can I call you this?) we too are as bland as the earth have expected (…till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Remember?), too reliant with what we have, too short the heavens, had to promise the trees would drop their fruits if it’s time. Let things be just for this moment, let the great old world spin quietly. Quietly.

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 |