e.

You confessed
You were excited
To what I can become.
Courtesy, of course,
Or something kinder,
Told me, I do too,
For you. For us,
This was just
Another shot in space,
As minute as electron
Emitted from solids,
Metals, like this bus
That I would not want
To go anywhere but here,
Staying put in the now.
Outside, the trees
Whizzed by, resisting
Horizon’s gravity.
It is true then; not everything
Could hold on to anything.
You had the words
Of an old wise man.
You had the look of one.
But only more refined,
Only more unintentionally
Energetic, youngish.
I listened closely,
Closer, to every tremble
In your voice, the pauses
Made from every bump on the road
A clever skip in a grand concerto.
I expected more brilliance
As cosmic as the depths
Of dark matter from you,
Expanding alien knowledge.
But what I got was a flutter
Of wings, of likely possession,
Nonetheless expanding,
Like an age-old warmth
That sprang
From the brush
Of your knee
To mine.
And mine
To yours,
Again.

how to reason there is no reason not to love despite of

The intrusive nature of words,
How they could force us to heed them.

The vernacular we seldom speak,
The click of letters now foreign in our mouths.

The clink of coins in the pockets of tailored suits,
How the cries of currency do not differ in tin cans.

The silence we cover next to our excuses
Like a patch of paisley on white-silver silk.

The lies that stand as truths for our convenience,
Their heft more than what we could ask to bear.

The pyrotechnics we could hear but never see,
That we are either too far or too close we shield our eyes.

The messages withheld but are composed in our heads,
Our only ploy is that we are ahead of our time.

The calls of siloys on crosshatching limbs of the talisay,
Whether these are songs of love or the absence of it.

The instances when everything is our love song,
From the blare of horns to the crush of paper crumpled.

The questions, “How are you?”, “What is wrong?”,
“When would that be?”, “Who are we to refuse?” and “Why?”

The asphalt vapor that rises from the streets at midday,
Smelling like dogs and petrol between our distances.

The perfume that blankets a department store,
One of the few places where bliss are sold in martian bottles.

The whiff of pandan that drifts out of the widow’s house;
Her plate of rice paler and softer than her fingers.

The widower and the musk of freshly tilled soil,
That nothing could be more earth-bound than this.

The orphan in search for a trace of lavender in his pillow,
In search for the meaning of belongingness.

The winds that sculpt a once shapeless cloud,
That it could be an omen, telling and to be feared.

The stains we leave on the wooden table with our drinks,
Their sweat an imprint of neglect.

The cats that stare straight at our eyes at night,
Their calm resolve we constantly envy.

The affliction of recalling faces but not the names,
Our only hope introductions will be forever and requisite.

The possibilities of not knowing where the train goes,
Whether this south is our south or theirs and vice versa.

The means we warrant the joys of a storm that has passed,
Divining the skies for the first, minute hint of sunlight.

The elaborate anatomy that defines our features,
Slipping away after seeing too many cycles of the moon.

The stillness that throbs and dawns in most afternoons,
The shadows around us longer, wider, deeper.

The red bicycle with the flat front tire in the garage,
Rust claiming its territory on the chain and brakes.

The simple instructions we always fail to read,
As if there is not enough room for our inadequacies.

The time when our lips once meet as we lay on the grass;
A discovery of how brief an abundance of green tastes like.

The tang of history on our tongues,
One that nothing could ever wash away.

The spices nothing could seemingly wash away,
That our tongues deserve the torture of never forgetting.

The secret, bitter prayers we know too well,
Our guilt becoming mantras, as human as skin.

The scheming, sweet consolations we know too well,
Our mantras becoming human, as guilty as skin.

The insouciance we have for kamingaw,
That there are other maladies to attend to.

The way water seems to resist our touch,
As if there is no other way to forgive than to keep trying.

The little souvenirs we have bought for our beloved,
Those that would rest at the end of a drawer someday.

The things we shelf at the back of our heads,
Only to tip over with the slightest trigger of remembrances.

The edges of torn paper and blades of grass,
That they are among the few honest faces of mistake.

The few honest faces of mistake,
How they appear right and true in the beginning.

The prophetic wisdom of a mango to a virgin,
That not everything that smells sweet is ripe and true.

The dust between floorboards and other disregarded spaces,
Remainders of our former selves, quiet and growing.

The disparate objects we claim to have meanings,
As if this coffee is brewing a conspiracy of sadness.

The days when we comb our fingers through our hair
And wonder, why now? When will this ever end?

Yes, there are things that resist to be understood.
Such as love and other excesses, such as hate,

Such as shapes that resemble nothing we have seen before:
Straight, curving on one side, bulging, and at times completely

Crooked. There may not be enough kindness in this world
To keep our faith rooted in the crevices of our palms,

But by all means let them be, perplexing
And impenetrable. For it goes without saying

We do not reason when we love.
There is no reason not to love.

in the foothills of talinis

Just before the overture, a group of people occupied the stage, bearing nature instruments like the budyong (conch shell) and bamboo, and then playing them in rhythm to a video montage in the background.

This was one of the opening presentations of Handulantaw, Silliman University’s preview of the 50th Cultural Season that would start on June 2012 until May 2013, at the Claire Isabel McGill Luce Auditorium last January 27. And this particular number was a melding of melodies and verses with my poem “In the Foothills of Talinis.”

Handulantaw, in the words of the show’s director Dessa Quesada-Palm, “constitutes a collective act of remembering. It has fragments of the past fifty years and more, a cultural mosaic of the locale that continues to shape, instruct and inspire this generation of artists and cultural workers in its own being and becoming. It is a necessary conversation that invites retrospection and looking forward. Hence the deliberate connection of handum/handumanan (‘reminisce/keepsake’) and lantaw (‘looking forward’). And that is the grace of a rich history, that in putting together and making sense of its parts, what may seem so disparate, belonging to distant contexts of time and space, are brought together in a narrative that becomes accessible, real and meaningful to the present.”

The presentation of my poem was followed by a string of brilliant performances: Kwerdas, Silliman University Gratitude Goodwill Ambassadors Women’s Ensemble (Valencia folk song “’Day Baling Mingawa”), College of Performing and Visual Art’s Rondalla (folk song “Pobreng Alindahaw”), the cast of Godspell (“Light of the World,” excerpt from the play), Silliman University Jazz Ensemble (“[I’ve Got You] Under My Skin”), Silliman Kahayag Dance Troupe (dance based on the poem “Bonsai” by National Artist for Literature Edith Lopez Tiempo), Jem Robert Talaroc (“Black Bird”), and much more.

All of these were witnessed by media representatives from across the country such as ABS-CBN, Philippine Daily Inquirer, Philippine Star, Manila Bulletin, Cebu Pacific’s Smile Magazine, Philippine Airlines’ Mabuhay Magazine, Esquire Magazine Philippines, Philippines Graphic Magazine, Business Mirror, Good Housekeeping, Zee Lifestyle Magazine, Visayan Daily Star, MetroPost, Bohol Chronicle, Negros Chronicle along with the city’s university papers like The Weekly Sillimanian, Foundation Times, The NORSUNIAN, and The Monthly Paulinian.

More stories about the evening are found here, here, here and here. And there are more to come.

Truly, it was a night of talents, of what was to come soon in the Dumaguete, a place where culture and the arts were ingrained not only in the city but also in those who peopled it. And I am glad, even for such a short period of time, that I was a part of it.

Special thanks to Sonia SyGaco and the members of the Silliman University’s Cultural Affairs Committee for giving me this opportunity.

*

In the Foothills of Talinis

We have come so far
from the shore,
away from the city,
becoming gods
of our distances.

Now here we are
more alien than snails,
our lungs baptized
with what is once known
and new: this air of Valencia.

Deep beyond the tangle
of copses a yap of a dog,
a clump of muted fireflies,
a groan of a waterfall,
a cologne from wild flowers.

Or this: a sun that hunkers
between hills like the crest
of a deified rooster.
Hear it crow majestic,
gold sweeping green.

Now look for a fern,
a quiet promontory,
or just a forest floor.
We have come so far,
rest would be at hand.

insert ignorance here

There are times when I am mightily offended by my own unawareness of things, the abrupt revelations only underscoring my ignorance. Take for example the news of Wisława Szymborska’s death (1932 - 2012) last February 1, a Polish Nobel laureate for literature whose name I could not even pronounce well (until New York Times reveals to me it is ‘vees-WAH-vah shim-BOR-ska’).

I never knew her until that date. And what a shame I have come to know her just recently, a woman with works that I have found to be potent and affecting in spite of their seeming ease and fragility. I am both moved by embarrassment and awe. While reading one by one the articles about her all over the internet, I came upon this poem that I thought had aptly ushered my entrance to her oeuvre. The last two stanzas speak of her quiet brilliance.

A Tale Begun
Wisława Szymborska

The world is never ready
for the birth of a child.

Our ships are not yet back from Vinland.
We still have to get over the St. Gotthard pass.
We’ve got to outwit the watchmen on the desert of Thor,
fight our way through the sewers to Warsaw’s center,
gain access to King Harold the Butterpat
and wait until the downfall of Minister Fouché.
Only in Acapulco
can we begin anew.

We’ve run out of bandages,
matches, hydraulic presses, arguments, and water.
We haven’t got the trucks, we haven’t got the Mings’ support.
This skinny horse won’t be enough to bribe the sheriff.
No news so far about the Tartars’ captives.
We’ll need a warmer cave for winter
and someone who can speak Harari.

We don’t know who to trust in Nineveh,
what conditions the prince cardinal will decree,
which names Beria’s still got inside his files.
They say Charles the Hammer strikes tomorrow at dawn.
In this situation let’s appease Cheops,
report ourselves of our own free will,
change faiths,
pretend to be friends with the Doge
and that we’ve got nothing to do with the Kwabe tribe.

Time to light the fires.
Let’s send a cable to grandma in Zabierzow.
Let’s untie the knots in the yurt's leather straps.

May delivery be easy,
may our child grow and be well.
Let him be happy from time to time
and leap over abysses.
Let his heart have strength to endure
and his mind be awake and reach far.

But not so far
that it sees into the future.
Spare him
that one gift,
O heavenly powers.


*

In a few days’ time, there will be an occasion that would, if the gracious heavens are on my side, allow me a chance to show what I could present, expound what needs to be clarified. If the proceeding goes the other way around, then it would be one for the books of ignorance. I could only hope for the former, of course, with a dash of poker-facing and loads of self-assurance. Let’s just say I’d be facing a crowd, probably a very inquisitive one, and I always have an issue with that. Period.

I have been keeping this to myself since August last year, to minimize the mental drumbeating of its coming. But I guess today’s the right time. I better start looking for my full-body armor for this one.

19th iligan national writers workshop call for submission of applications

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 19th Iligan National Writers Workshop (INWW) to be held on May 14-18, 2012 in Iligan City.

Panelists this year are Erlinda Kintanar Alburo, Leoncio P. Deriada, Merlie M. Alunan, German V. Gervacio, Steven Patrick C. Fernandez, Ralph Semino Galan, J. Neil Garcia, John Iremil Teodoro and Christine Godinez-Ortega and this year’s keynote speaker, Victor N. Sugbo.

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 19th 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. Please submit a hard copy and a CD with the manuscripts encoded in MS Word. Those submitting excerpts of novels or works-in-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 30, 2012. 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 2012.

Applicants to this year’s workshop may download application and other forms here.

Send all applications to the 19th 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

*

This year’s the nineteenth edition already? That was fast. I can still picture Elena Tower in my mind, the lonely couch outside the conference hall, the rooms, the shrimps, the falls, the long ride to reach the falls, and a whole lot more…

the month of what?

I have been pretty absent here lately. Demands of the daily toil just keep on breeding like a nasty viral disease. Aside from this routine, there are these self-imposed deadlines that need to be confronted. A close acquaintance of mine said, “If that makes you happy.” Well, of course, woman. This makes me happy.

And didn’t I mention earlier today’s the beginning of February? No? Really? Anyway, to kick off (why not literally, eh?) this month of excessive capitalism on flowers, chocolates and motels, here is a lovely poem (lifted from Sam) by the American poet and novelist Kim Addonizio.

*

Ex-boyfriends

Kim Addonizio

They hang around, hitting on your friends
or else you never hear from them again.
They call when they’re drunk, or finally get sober,

they’re passing through town and want dinner,
they take your hand across the table, kiss you
when you come back from the bathroom.

They were your loves, your victims,
your good dogs or bad boys, and they’re over
you now. One writes a book in which a woman

who sounds suspiciously like you
is the first to be sadistically dismembered
by a serial killer. They’re getting married

and want you to be the first to know,
or they’ve been fired and need a loan,
their new girlfriend hates you,

they say they don’t miss you but show up
in your dreams, calling to you from the shoeboxes
where they’re buried in rows in your basement.

Some nights you find one floating into bed with you,
propped on an elbow, giving you a look
of fascination, a look that says I can’t believe

I’ve found you. It’s the same way
your current boyfriend gazed at you last night,
before he pulled the plug on the tiny white lights

above the bed, and moved against you in the dark
broken occasionally by the faint restless arcs
of headlights from the freeway’s passing trucks,

the big rigs that travel and travel,
hauling their loads between cities, warehouses,
following the familiar routes of their loneliness.

the lost verve in reading

It is gone, I think. That fiery wanting to finish whatever you’ve got to do just to pull that one book from the shelf, a box, the bed, inside a drawer, and crack it open to get immersed in its milieu, its characters’ psyches, or simply its wondrous wrought imagination. In my elementary days, there is the Harry Potter series by Jo Rowling. In high school, there are Jonathan Stroud’s The Bartimaeus Trilogy and Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. In college, there are Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s The Shadow of the Wind, and Yann Martel’s The Life of Pi.

Typically an enumeration of commercial literature in their respective times, but this is indeed the handful of books that have caught me in a hook like pleasurable traps of the mind. After the education years, I find myself speculating are the books available today repellent to my taste? Or has my taste gotten so much low and ancient it repels the books available today? Or have I just lost the interest in reading? I fear for all three, of course. Partiality, at times, must be feared.

Yes, there are the short story collections Feast and Famine by Rosario Cruz Lucero and Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri. There is Emma Donoghue’s Room. Maybe even Miguel Syjuco’s Ilustrado, for its ambitious take on steering as far away as possible from the tropes of what represents a work of Philippine literature. The premise of each calls for vigilant curiosity, and I have gladly taken the demands of the text. There are hits and misses but nevertheless they are all interesting.

But none of these has offered me that pull, that incessant voice in the head, that gravity synonymous of what a crazed lover possesses for his object of affection. I have tackled them on and off, stretch each for days on end, unlike those that I have read in my school years where the pages fly by.

Recently, I have expected to reawaken this sensation with the massively publicized doorstopper that is Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84. His short stories are fascinating, and many I know religiously adore his previous novels. But like many expectations, it is but a spark from a little matchstick. The interest comes and then in it goes, instantly. The tome now sits next to a pile of other scorned books.

Aside from the three speculations that are mentioned earlier, I come up with other factors, or should I say, excuses: Is it time? Anxiety? Diminishing attention span? Distraction? Exhaustion? With television, cinema, internet, smartphone, and a slew of other technological advancements, have I been culturally desensitized, becoming callous, mechanical?

The hypothesis is a bitter pill: It could be everything.

I guess I simply miss the symbiotic devotion that comes with the activity: I have to read, the book has to be read. All is well. With no clear answers to the questions that have bombarded me as early as six this morning, I might as well pick up another book and see where it takes me.

And I hope it would be a joyful ride.

familiar things

Reading The Dumaguete We Know (edited by Merlie Alunan) is a practice on skillfully harnessing the reins on nostalgia. Those who have lived in this capital city of Negros Oriental (I had for four years), or those who are held captive by its secret magnetism upon first glance, would find a lot of truths interspersed in every page. Things familiar are magnified and things that are not strangely become identifiable. It is like stumbling upon your journal of some distant year in the attic. In short, recollections here—whether encapsulated through essay, heightened through poetry or dramatized through fiction—are as piercing as paper cut. Small, maybe even microscopic, but you’d know it left a mark. And it could either be blissful or tragic.

Note: It has taken me weeks, literally, to get hold of this. And then I realize, sometimes, it is worth asking the customer service of a bookstore. This anthology is apparently concealed among the large coffeetable glossies in the Travel section, not in the Philippine Literature shelves.

how to put everything at stake

I used to think our names were our anthem,
the way you called me like most evenings
and silenced the chorus of cicadas.
Yours was just as beautiful as bird song.
But this time that is not the case, our calls
barely audible over the whistling kettle.
When I turn the water tap on, I could only wish
the gush is your murmur of mint behind my ear.

Today, what I promise about hanging
the pictures and cleaning up the rooms,
one for us and two for the pledge of our bond,
I could not carry on, my shoulders heavy.
The walls are making themselves known,
the floors suddenly copious and too open.
I would explain when you arrive home,
after dinner, but then you’d ask, “Play?”

Always, I could remember shuffling the deck
and dealing each night, the cards grazing
against the grain of the wooden table.
I could remember you shaking your head,
a heart in your hand instead of diamonds,
as I say, “Believe me, I got no tricks in my sleeve.”
But like a roof bleached by too much sun,
your face shows something is not right.

I could remember pushing my chair back,
leaving you with your cup of coffee.
I know you smoke a stick or two later,
just outside the room next to ours, empty.
Maybe we are just as good as our deck of cards,
its kings, queens, and jacks static and fading,
our many dry fingers desperate to yank
whatever they keep in their tight, medieval lips.

philippine speculative fiction 7 lineup

There’s an incentive to stubbornness after all. The number that is attached next to the anthology’s title is a clue to the number of attempts trying to get into it. All right, enough of background checking.

Here’s the table of contents of the seventh edition of Philippine Speculative Fiction, to be launched soon:

All That We May See by Kenneth Yu
All the Best of Dark and Bright by Isabel Yap
Bastard Sword by Nikki Alfar
Chasers by Chris Mariano
East of the Sun by Dean Francis Alfar
Faith in Fiction by James Constantino Bautista
Mother of Monsters by Philip Corpuz
Never Land by Mo Francisco
Oblation by Paolo Chikiamco
Pet by Kristine Ong Muslim
Sarsarita Time by Melissa Sipin
The Call of the Chained God by Dariel Quiogue
The Changes by Benito Vergara
The Commute to Paradiso by Charles Tan
The Day Nostalgia Swept Over a Town by F. Jordan Carnice
The Dragon's Orb by Vincent Michael Simbulan
The Likeness of God by Crystal Koo
The Little Things the Datu Did by Andrew Drilon
The Love Spell by Julian dela Cerna
The Nature of Apocalypse by Joseph Anthony Montecillo
The Scrap Collectors by Arlynn Despi
username: tanglaw by Eliza Victoria
What the Body Remembers by Tin Lao
What You See by Ian Rosales Casocot

[ click here for more interesting info ]

perhaps a little happier than 2011

How I’d like to sum up the previous year in one picture.

My recollection of things is much clearer in the head, flamboyant and stirring, but when expounded in words the memory sometimes suddenly loses its charm. Perhaps eloquence is not my forte. And yet the recent past that is 2011 demands articulation. That year is beautiful for me, the months wildly prancing that one could easily wonder where they have gone.

So I will try my best.

Yes, 2011 has left us reeling with uncertainty. With the variety of disorder that have swept our landscape—ecological, political, emotional—is there a reason to cheer? Is there really something to look forward to? Immediate response would dictate us to do otherwise, but there are always other things. One of them could be hope.

I, on the other hand, have resorted to distraction. Not that I have ran out of my daily dose of optimism. It is just that distraction proves to work better for me, nudging an idle mind to do something.

And some things I did manage. Especially on my attempt to improve as a practicing writer. Whereas two years ago fiction has entirely invaded my attention, this time poetry seems to be on the ruling side. There are one or two short stories coming out in this and that publication, but it is the allure of verses that keeps spinning my gears in the past twelve months. And I am not complaining.

The other year has brought me to a lot of places, too, new ones and revisited. It starts with the hiking and camping trip at Nagsasa Cove, Zambales in March, followed by head-turning tours at Bacolod, Ilo-ilo, and Guimaras in April. There are the much-needed escapes to Bohol in August and October (and, of course, December). There is the getaway to Boracay and the nearby island of Tiguatian in November. I also remain true to my word of visiting my second home that is Dumaguete, Negros Oriental, twice, in May and in August. Each month bears a certain weight of contrasting emotions.

The first one commemorates the 50th anniversary of the longest-running writers workshop in Asia, the Silliman University National Writers Workshop. It is a gathering of a tightly-knit family with like minds. I have met a couple of brilliant people, and I hope they would remain as close as I have previously mingled with them this 2012. It is just as remarkable as the grand event that one of the two founders of the workshop, National Artist for Literature Edith L. Tiempo, is still present to witness the reunion. As always, she shares a gem of a wisdom on the last night. She never fails to impress.

That is why by August 2011, the news of her having passed away has suddenly pulled a plug in many of us. Something has just dropped. Whether it is some strange work of fate, I have come to attend the state funeral of Mom Edith—as what many in the workshop call her—at the Silliman Church, with my original intention to only visit Dumaguete for the university’s week-long founders celebration. Yes, it is strange to revel and to respect the departed at the same time.

And things will come to pass. In my head, what will matter most is that we will not forget. So we move on. I write more. And I am glad I did. Distraction.

Up to this point, the actuality of seeing my name in a book (and yes, in magazines and newspapers, too) always leaves me euphoric. It is a year of firsts for me. I have a poem anthologized in a landmark book consisting of writers I have only read and studied, more so deified in my biased preferences. And before the year ends, I finally have a short story included in an anthology that I have, for years, been cracking at to get in since its inception.

Blessings keep on rolling. Until that storm arrive. I have known some people who are affected by the devastations of typhoon Sendong and the others before that. As I board onto the plane last month to return to Bohol, my home province that is luckily out of danger, there is this black hole that is relentless. What if it happened to us? What if another one comes? What if?

The indecisiveness of feelings is at it again, and this could be the worst state of being during Christmastime. That is why it is a good thing you have those people you could latch on. There is your family and there is your circle of closest buddies. These are those who know what ticks you off and what makes you smile. What more could I ask for?

Well, of course, there are a lot to ask for. Like many gatherings, it is almost usually incomplete, and I wish for the opposite. At home for noche buena and media noche, we are missing three siblings, who are currently all outside the country. For someone who is used to big family revelries, the absence is pretty obvious.

On the other side of the family spectrum, a couple of my high school classmates are suddenly getting this yuletide strain. I, myself, am not spared by the bug. One by one, day by day, he and she are getting sick that plans for huge outings and the usual excursions are either delayed, minimized, or squished to a little party of four or five. This is not what I have expected for a holiday break.

And yet, me looking back now, the sullen parts of this reality are really just that: challenging but compliant, abrupt but brief, harsh but adaptable. One just has to face the facts. For the new year, this is an effective exercise on happiness and contentment.

With that, we will have no problems recollecting memories of a future present. No matter how heartbreaking, no matter how mesmerizing. To each and everyone, have a bountiful and beautiful year ahead. Let us make 2012 work.

call for submission of manuscripts to the 51st silliman university national writers workshop

The Silliman University National Writers Workshop is now accepting applications for the 51st National Writers Workshop to be held April 30 to May 18, 2012 in the Silliman University Rose Lamb Sobrepeña Writers Village.

This Writers Workshop is offering fifteen fellowships to promising writers who want to have 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 10 February 2012. All manuscripts should comply with the instructions stated below. (Failure to do so will automatically eliminate their entries):

• Manuscripts should be submitted in hard copy on short-size bond paper, using Times New Roman or Calibri in 12 pt. font type.

• Applicants for Fiction and Creative Non-Fiction fellowships should submit three to five entries. Applicants for Poetry fellowships should submit seven to ten poems.

• Applicants for Drama fellowship should submit at least a One-Act Play. For plays beyond the one-act length, a scene accompanied by a synopsis of the entire work should be included.

• Each fiction, non-fiction, or drama manuscript should not be more than 50 pages, double spaced. We encourage you to stay well below the 50 pages, since a submission half that length is more than sufficient as a critical gauge.

• Manuscripts should be accompanied by at least one letter of recommendation from a literature professor or an established writer.

Along with the manuscripts and the recommendation letter, the following requirements should also be included: resume, 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. For inquiries, email us at nwworkshop_su@yahoo.com or call us at 035-422-6002 loc. 350.

[ lifted from Ian ]

dark blue southern seas call for submissions

For Silliman campus writers! Dark Blue Southern Seas, the official literary folio of The Weekly Sillimanian, is now open for submissions of previously unpublished literary works from students and alumni of Silliman University. The folio, to be edited by Mariella Sagarbarria Bustamante with Ian Rosales Casocot as moderator, is accepting short fiction, poetry, creative non-fiction, and graphic fiction in English, Filipino, and Cebuano. Photographs, drawings, and paintings are also welcome. Deadline of submission is 27 January 2012. (Update: just send your work).

Email your work as attached .doc file (or in .png format for graphic works, photographs, and drawings) to darkbluesouthernseas@yahoo.com. Send your submission together with a short bionote, in 3-4 sentences, that includes your name, course, year level, and anything else that may you want to say about yourself. For queries, please contact Ella at +63917-314-1161.

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Dark Blue Southern Seas is something very close to my heart, so I am hollering this ad here. If you’re a Sillimanian, or even if you’re not, please feel free to repost.

here and queer

My poem “Cushions” is in the Queer Punk Issue of Paper Monster Press (and Eva Gubat’s work, too!). Was glad this managed to worm its way into this humble publication, because what better way to tackle a stupendous lie than to turn it over. And send it to the market.

Got no hard copy yet, since I was not able to attend the launching during the Writers Night last December 9 at the Toyota Foundation Bldg., Asian Center, UP-Diliman. Will now have to think of ways to get hold of one.

Aside from things literary, this venture also includes a couple of visual arts and a companion CD for the music selections. Here is the complete lineup:

LITERARY 

Ayn Frances dela Cruz (Red Balloon)
Chinedu Jonathan (Cedars of Lebanon)
Christa De La Cruz (Rent)
David Neves (Final Thought 2)
Elan Sastine (Artemis and Callisto)
Eva Gubat (Parallels)
F. Jordan Carnice (Cushions)
Lolito Go (Suicide Note)
Paolo Domingo Macariola (Framing Seconds)
Ria Bautista (XVII)
Tofi Alonte (Shadowtale)
Zeraph Dylan Moore (Pre-Op Beauty)
Jeanilyn Kwan (Identity Crisis)
Daniw Santiago (Bagyo)
Elaine Lazaro (Ilang tala sa isang araw na pamumuhay kuno)
Emmanuel Halabasco (Kung bakit magaspang ang mukha ng buwan)
Jim Pascual Agustin (Lakad-lasing)

VISUAL ART 

Aofie Odwyer
Lorna Zaragosa
Chris Bird
Redslim
Jorge aka Munds
Archo “capitalist” bastard
Ivan Diolola
Paige de Guzman Maquiling

MUSIC 

Mitten (All That I’ve Got)
The Heart Foundation (Stereo Lab)
The Bernadettes (Oh! Oh! Oh!)
Scantron (Sweet Song!)
The Serial Heartbreaker (Frida Boy)
Skies of Ember (I’ll Be Your Mirror)
Monochrome (Between Tranquility and Impending Death)
Elemento (Makina)
Pogs Fortes (Toke a Little)
Goodleaf (Dub Pilipinas)
The Presidents (Long, Long Time)
Lions and Acrobats (Hanging On A Cliff Named IV Drip)
Read Our Lines (The Natural)
Fherrond (The Analyst)
Method (A Bitter Farewell)

how to make an accident

There is no end to the vacancy
of what has once been surrounding us:
womb, embrace, room, coffin, body, sky.

Maybe we are born to keep our hands
wringing in the air, in obvious gaps,
searching for things to hold on to.

So it seems appearing to be wise helps,
that we know countless shades of red
and suggest books we have never read.

We always try to fill the empty glass.
Yet it also seems we are not old enough
to think we deserve the perils we create.

Imagine the glass, brimming and untouched.
Imagine the stain on the mahogany.
Imagine the thirst others would have.

Someday, with the back of our hands,
we will tip this glass off the table
to see it splinter into little jigsaw pieces.

We will then note the liquid map surfacing
on the marble, a new topography within reach.
There are desperate measures we resort to.

And this would be one of them:
to stare at space, water in the eyes,
like that pool on the floor, filling some void.

fortunate with this book

Consider myself lucky, having plucked off the shelves Wildwood, a thick book authored by Colin Meloy with illustrations by Carson Ellis. (A husband-and-wife creative tandem really, of which the former is the front man of my favorite band, The Decemberists).

Yes, it is a children’s book—though a strange one especially knowing that the author writes songs about murder and vast catastrophes—but the impulsive purchase is not for me but for my nephew. A little token for the yuletide season.

As for the lucky part mentioned earlier? Well, after flipping through the pages of the book, I realized it had the kind of atmosphere that I had been trying to meld with my hands, trying to emulate in a new project.

The urge to create something, with the aid of this book, is strangely in my system lately, electric and pulsing, so it seems logical to hop into this budding genesis. This feeling comes rarely. And I believe one brilliant announcement that has popped in my email’s inbox last Monday has something to do with this. I couldn’t share it right now.

What this all means is that my nephew has to wait a little bit longer for his Christmas gift.

boracay and beyond : ordinary night

Day 3
November 27

Tobey, who I met in a workshop last May, had been working in the island for months, something that dealt with a lot of “researching and copy-pasting” (her words), so it was apt to held her hostage and become our guide in Tiguatian Island, or now commercially known as Crystal Cove. Never heard until I read her entry about it weeks ago.

Woke up at six (that meant I approximately had four hours of sleep), taken breakfast, prepared our thingamajigs, bribed a tricycle for P20/head to bring us to a shore closest to the island which rested between Boracay and Caticlan, and braved the banka ride on rough waters. We arrived a bit out of breath and paid P200 each for the entrance fee.


The tiny island, something Davey Jones would gladly settle in, was not for the extreme city-dwellers or for those jaded by too much house music. (But I guess they really need it). A two-hectare mass of sharp stones and corals, the island had no running fresh water, and everything sold in it was pricey. But we were prepared and we lived to tell the tale. Thanks to Cheetos and measly liters of water.


Though not thoroughly developed, with some structures said to be built little by little through the years, what made up for what it did not have was the overall stunning ambience. It was a gorgeous piece of land, the caves with the crystals (finally found them, after minutes of scouring the island) an experience with those little pockets of water pool and sand. Sadly, since the seas that day were high and rough we were not able to dip and frolic in one of the two.



Then we were back in the Island of the United Colors of Benetton. Had lunch at Sababi Exotic Foods and Vegetarian somewhere in the heart of D*Talipapa. Bought our choice of food in the nearby wet market and made the restaurant cook them for us. Liempo, shrimps, scallops. That meal was divine. We also bought the mandatory pasalubongs around the premises.


After a quick dip in the pool back in the hotel, off we went to Puka Beach via tricycle for P25/head. The things I heard were right: it had one of the most beautiful sunsets in the country, perhaps even better than White Beach. We spent the entire afternoon taking pictures and embracing (or crashing into) the large surging waves. That explained my comrades’ body aches the following day.


On our way back to the resort, we managed to tick a few places off our list: Jona’s Milkshakes and The Real Coffee and Tea Café. The former’s Banana Chocolate Peanut Shake (P180) and the latter’s Ultimate Cupcake (P65 each)—which had a wicked combination of pineapple, walnut, raisin, banana, carrot, whatever—were both delightfully a surprise. For my mates who ordered the café’s famous Calamansi Muffins, they were not as enamored, though I honestly thought they were as yummy as the Ultimates. In fact, I believed one would be best served with a cup of dark coffee or hot chocolate.

And then they were worn-out. Four of the eight decided to rest on the remaining hours, knowing we had to leave the hotel at six the next morning. Good thing I managed to pull the other two out of their beds. A quick dinner was followed by one final walk to the White Beach. I texted Tobey to come with us, but she responded she had work to do. (Apparently, I forgot we also had work to do in a day’s time). It was an ordinary night, the occasional stares/looks from fellow tourists (or maybe locals) flashing at us maybe because of some strange familiarity or simply checking us out. I’d like to think of the latter.

Yes, ordinary, this night. Until we had our last drink at Epic in Station 2 around two in the morning. We were calmly lounging on rattan sofas outside the establishment when one man excused himself and asked permission if he could join us in the table. All three of us, of course, were surprised, but as if we had telekinetically imagined this was how the dynamics worked in a crowded-island-vacation, we agreed.

His name was Matt, he was from Oregon, and he had worked in the navy as a technical fixer (forgot the official term) in ships and other fighting machines for a possible war. For a couple of years. Now, he just had to identify where to expend his rewards, his moolah. Alone. He was fresh off Palawan and planned to stay for a week or two in Boracay. Next destination would be Cebu, and I, of course, suggested Negros Oriental and Bohol. And perhaps now desperate to have someone to talk to, he luckily found us along the shores looking like people also desperate to have someone to talk to. And boy he did talk. I could not spare enough space here to encapsulate his curriculum vitae just that between his stints as a high school wrestling coach and playing offbeat characters in a theater, he sure had one contentedly busy life. And at 26, that is one fortunate busy life.


By four in the morning, we three realized we were out of harm’s way, that this man was not one we initially thought he would be: lunatic (though the picture suggests otherwise), pretentious, implausible. Or maybe we were just dreadfully beat we did not notice any of them. Anyway. He planned to visit Manila and thought it would be nice to catch up with us three soon. Fine.

We returned to the hotel a few minutes later, fully aware we only had an hour before the rest of the group wakes up, ready to leap to the pier in Caticlan, returning to reality. It was an ordinary night, yes, but it only started that way.

[ 3rd of 3 parts ]

boracay and beyond : challenge unacceptable

Day 2
November 26

Had to fit a gargantuan things-to-do this day, especially that three of the group of eight were freshies in the island. Tried parasailing in the morning, of which the little voice in my head could still not justify the 15 minutes of one’s life dangling in the sky would cost P1,300. Some comrades, dizzy from being human kites, had not been strong-willed as I was, so we lounged on a vacated spot on the beach and desperately suntanned ourselves with the grey cloud-cloaked sun. Yes, it threatened to rain that day.

Lunch was at Smoke, one of the two little restos in a hidden corner at D*Mall and D*Palengke, a suggestion made by Tobey (a person that would be humanized a little more later). The place felt like Hayahay or the old Memento in Dumaguete City. I loved it. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong food. The Beef and Mushroom was not entirely tender. Bulalo soup, fish steak, and apparently most on the menu aside from my order were good. At least my mango shake was refreshing.




Planned to try out the ATVs (All-Terrain Vehicle) and vroom our adrenalin-hungered selves onto this and that course, but the astronomical price made me back out, which, in classic toppling domino fashion, made the rest of the pack followed suit. (I don’t know how to drive, yet I still have to pay P400 for sitting next to the driver! Unless the driver is of royal descent, I’d give in). So, we went back to the beach and got ourselves a paraw, a boat powered only by wind. That was another grand off the budget.

After half-an-hour of cruising, occasionally bathed by swelling waters (we did not heed the warnings that that day’s sea was a little bit rough), we treated ourselves with a humongous bowl (The Couples Size) of halo-halo at Halowich. There was a humongous-er bowl (The Barkada Size) that made me wonder, how big are the couples supposed to be here in Boracay? Left the question unanswered and, after a quick wash-up back in the hotel, had buffet dinner at Alf’s (reasonably prized for their tasty food at P380) and introduced Tobey to the group.


Mates urged (or commanded) I try Cocomangas’ “Still Standing After 15” challenge, a life-changing if not deadly test of endurance of having 15 mixed liquor shots, to solidify my status as the varsity player in the group. If successful one would get a choice of jersey or a tee and have his/her name engraved on a little golden plate to be plastered on a wall. Unfortunately, my aching wallet was not as enduring as my spirit (win or lose, those shots cost P1,300+), so we settled with the Illusion Drink, the joint’s famous drink. It was safe. I was neither seeing nor hearing anything after seven shots.


Then skipped to Guilly’s Island for a bottle of beer then to Club Paraw for another one, before getting a night-cap at Pat’s Creek, one my favorite places along the shore. The next itinerary at the first hint of sunlight would be a departure of the island’s lavish, cosmopolitan offerings. I was looking forward to this.

[ 2nd of 3 parts ]

boracay and beyond : not a good start

The last time is December 2008. From where I stand today, that is a long stretch of time. In an entire vacationer’s summary, Boracay sure has its highs and lows. And yet the island, mildly peopled in the low season and increasingly urbanized all year round, never fails to surprise upon visiting it again.

Day 1
November 25

Filed for a half-day vacation leave last Friday (since that’s what VL’s are for; it’s strange though having to fill-in that “Reason” blank in the application). Left the office at 12:30PM to catch the 3:35PM flight to Caticlan. What made it all wrong was that there was no flight to Caticlan. Due to “sunset limitation.” Brilliant. Co-traveler revealed it was the same excuse she received in her trip to Caticlan before. So airline carrier, why promote a flight scheduled on a time when sunlight is always, erm, limited? And haven’t you heard of light bulbs? Halogen lamps? Or bonfire? This is the second time I have experienced pesky troubles with this airline. In two month’s time. Read previous gripe here.

Anyway. Flight was moved to 7PM at Kalibo instead. That airport was an hour and a half away from the pier in Caticlan, or an hour and 45 minutes away from island of Boracay itself. So we missed the sunset. So sunset watching would have to wait. (We only had three nights and two days to spare). Arrived at Kalibo International Airport around 8PM, which luckily made us hitch the last boat to the island of white sand/tourists just in time.

Dropped luggage in Boracay Holday Resort and immediately went out for dinner. For this, had to shell out a couple of hundreds to indulge in seafood. Then decided to walk through White Beach from Stations 2 to 1 and venture the latter’s talked-about nightlife. But, alas, the waters had risen to the point of reaching the establishments’ beach-front entrances that the sofas, bean bags, mini tables by the shore were removed, thus, the chaos was concentrated inside the clubs’ already-chaotic order. We all went back to our hotel and ordered a couple of beers. Yeah, we were losers, but not tomorrow.

[ 1st of 3 parts ]

not on paper but online

“How to Follow Not So Simple Instructions,” one of the (currently) few works of a series of poems I am toiling on, is in this week’s Philippines Free Press. Since the publishers could neither release nor circulate hard copies of their magazine as of the moment, let us all settle on the online version instead. Read it here.

it started this way

Here’s a bit of truth: my headband-wearing ‘guise’ originated in November 19, 2008. That is exactly three years and five days ago. It is one unforgettable date in college. Unforgettable because the headband-wearing is carried on to this year and maybe until the next few years.
It all started with the Opposite Day. I think it is what one would call a harmless dare (if not an embarrassing one). I and a fellow co-staffer of the university paper, The Weekly Sillimanian, thought we needed a little bit of crazy (as if we had not enough), so we rounded up the rest of the staff and suggested to fulfill this objective for an entire day: be in a getup that is as farfetched as a cat in checked purple-and-orange jumpsuit.
In simple words: don’t be you, aesthetically.
So I ditched my khakis, button-down shirt, leather slippers, messenger bag and opted for something quite more pedestrian: old PE shorts, an aircon shirt (tee with tiny strategically-placed holes), a pair of rubber slippers that was one size bigger, and a drawstring bag of some company’s seminar giveaway for all of my things. I topped it all off with a cheap, white plastic headband.
I got in my World Literature class that morning and the professor’s eyes, surprisingly, widened. (Surprisingly, because I thought he had no emotions in him). “Is there some kind of conspiracy going on around here today? I had a pirate in my previous class!”
Oh, yes, there was a pirate. There was an extreme gothic chic, too. There was a labandera (basin-sarong-bandana and all). There was the lesbian basketball buff. There was America Ferrera’s Betty. There was Wendy in night pajamas. And there are other more persona who I couldn’t really describe for the sheer madness of it all.
And for some strange burst of insanity (or reason), one thing stayed after that day: the headband. It just stuck especially when I had decided to grow my hair out of the blue (then shaved off into a Mohawk upon graduation day).
Of course, the headband only appears in appropriate places, or in whatever places people think are appropriate. I couldn’t care any less, actually. I’d wear it anywhere if I can. In fact, last May, someone who I was not fully acquainted with at that time remarked I was the only one she had ever seen who looked good with a ponytail and a headband on. Insert mandatory blush here. (Thank you, dear, I admire your taste).
I don’t want to repost the photos in this entry, but I could offer this shot, which is printed and kept in an album in the university paper office for future generations of staff to see. Anyway, I just miss some of the people involved (pictured above) because they’re crazy. And they’re great. And they’re lovely. And they’re brilliant. And they’re bright. And they’re scattered all over the country, all over the planet.

Sigh.

how to not write another story

People never really know
half of nothing. It’s neither
half-empty nor half-full.

It’s just what it is. So they
make up. Now let’s forget
the urgency of sunlight.

Besides, not all shapes show
their genuine forms: the bosom
beneath the clothing could hold

not a heart but a frenzied beast.
Scathing, mad, injurious.
Just like primetime news.

They’re everywhere, reports
of shame, pride and blood
in deadpan delivery.

That’s how we forget soul.
Is that the essence of man? No.
It’s the thick bottom of a heel.

We can all laugh now.
Embarrassment seems to be
everyone’s choice of comedy.

And there’s no one to blame,
this frontier of subtleties
that’s bound to fade.

We’ve learned very well:
we do’nt have to put everything
in the right place.

the october project (otherwise known as 'why being out of the radar is particularly needed')

I am overwhelmed by its power of persuasion. One must login, one must update, one must share. Regularly. If not, you are of least significance to the (net/cit)izen. Of course, that is, or more appropriately, could be the whole point. Facebook, the social networking site with a number of users close to a billion, is a tool for communication, and a tool only works when there’s a hand that controls it. In retrospect, I willingly dipped my hands back in 2007 and I was amazed, maybe even inspired, to its apparent seamlessness and the brilliance one often sees in something novel like any technological breakthroughs.

Until last month.

The site is a victim of a constant facelift, changing with the times, encouraging more people to try it, but the entire experience I have first felt almost four years ago has lost its novelty. Rather, it is now (exhaust/annoy)ing. It is a chore visiting the welcome page alone. The tool is working me, maybe even working us without our knowledge.

And this is not without a couple of reasons.

It takes a huge chunk of our time, we only realizing it when we witness our live newsfeeds and walls being rarely updated no matter how many times we hit the refresh button. And that Ticker Box is out of the question. One might say, like many other sites, it is not a matter of “must” but of “can,” yet I stand on the idea that we are actually all bound to the former instead of the volitional and decisive “can” since even the suggestion that we could self-regulate is an excuse brought about by the desires of “must.”

In our attempts to slake this desire, we have become too willing, too agreeable. Because of this we are (allowed/faced) with a bombardment of personal trivialities. Then strangely enough we become more skeptical of the people we are trying to connect to: Is he for real? Does she really have to say that? Why do people like that post? Why do people not like my post?

We have delved far into the virtual (bio/togo)graphy of relationships it makes it hard to scale back to the very core of what this apparatus (is/should be) all about: the human connection. Real, honest, flawed. In social networking sites, everyone (tries to be/is) perfect. Thus, the distances and alienation are much more felt despite of how frequent we interact with each other—whether through messages, chats, status updates, photo comments, likes—because our very own errors, defects, and blemishes (are/could be) magnified, subsequently stoking our inner shame, spreading like wildfire.

Once again, this sheds light on the fact that everything is not what it seems to be. Nothing is quite sensible, nothing is quite true.

And in this site’s hodgepodge of opinion and information circulating from point A to point B to points CDEFG, everything is instant, expected to be instant. That is why even when a message is delayed, deferred, or not sent at all, one easily wonders: Why is he missing in action? Is there something I do not know? Have I done something wrong?

It is easy to say we have unconsciously bred a culture of impatience, planted a seed of anxiety on the very wrong soil. As a tool for communication, a social networking site works effectively. But as tool for understanding the human condition, it falls smack on the ground limp.

And this is not what I need. I think I already have enough messages sent, received, and unre(ciproca/qui)ted. To put it more bluntly, missing some things and most specially someone is a one-way effort. It drains you.

That is why I am on a hiatus. My goal, I insist to believe, is to discipline my primate wanting for connection, information, and even attention. I have deactivated my Facebook account since October 6. I am on indefinite leave on Twitter since October 9. To further underscore this attempt, I actually cutoff my regular text-messaging of rough verses or lines of pseudo-poetry to all contacts in my cellphone way before the aforementioned sites. I stop sending last October 3.

More than a month has passed.

Unsurprisingly, the concerns, the wonderings, and the speculations of the absence mostly settle on one matter: Why are you not on Facebook?! How come you’re silent in Twitter?! Where are you in these sites?! Yes, the interrobangs in there are throbbing. As for the text-messages, the worry is close to none. What surprises me is that this little percentage comes from the unlikeliest of people.

Not that I am expecting a landslide of interest to the latter. After all, Literature versus The Websites is an altogether different story. It deserves another discussion.

Amidst these overblown ruminations, I have come to one conclusion that lately I am easily overwhelmed not only of the nuances of Facebook or Twitter but of things as small and delicate as silence, among many others, could easily break (anyone/us/me) apart.

how to hate the apostrophes

We begin by stripping
the animosity to its core:
this pursuit of belongingness.

Since nothing has staked claim
on something, on someone
the way apostrophes could.

Human effort pales in comparison
to their minute stabs of ownership.
These marks ace at mockery.

A man once promised to a girl
the heavens would be hers,
but when she saw the skies naked

except for one tailless kite
and the occasional pigeon,
she shoved off the thought.

Even the winged struggle
at these acres of space,
encyclopedic and colossal.

The philosophy of the apostrophes
speaks of one basic certainty:
some wants are better off ignored.

And this is where they beat us.
They could posses more than a ghost
could haunt man in a lifetime.

In their wake is a cold draft,
and we are contentedly warm
for all the wrong reasons.

the old man and the seat

Lunch break turns out to be amusing if not a wee bit insulting today. In one of a mall’s many fast food restaurants, a mother with her two-or-three-year-old daughter approach a waitress just across my table, asking her for one of those child-safe high plastic chairs. The woman then takes the special seat and sets it to my table, right next to me. I stare at her, a spoonful of rice midway to my open mouth. The mother corrects the waitress that she sits farther in the corner, so she immediately moves the chair to the directed spot. The aforementioned mother appears to be in her late thirties.

Such incident begs the questions: Do I really look that old? Is there hope to be a family man? Does this finally break the curse of being mistaken as a woman? Or is the waitress just pulling my leg? Whatever the answers are, that is just indisputably crazy. At least it is a funny way to start my week.

all these are necessary

When things get a little too hard to handle, a getaway is in order. The past few months have been grueling, both in mind and body (mostly the former), so I thank the heavens a trip has been made to my hometown prior to all the paranoia.

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Sugar Rush
October 29

Bought two boxes of Cinnabon for my family, as if no sugar was enough to sate their sets of sweet tooth. Ironically, upon arrival, I went straight to my dentist to have my braces adjusted (because at this age I think anything ortho is a shame). It was also the birthday of our eldest brother, so there came the mandatory tub of ice cream on our dinner table that night. Another sugar. Later, I met two of my collegemates at Bo’s Coffee Shop (more sugar), pacifying our doubts of this and that talks, this and that gossips. Seeing our photos right now, I realized we three were presidents of one same organization during our respective sophomore-junior years. Just sharing. We made that group work. Take that!

The Ones That Passed
October 30

Went to church in the morning and then had lunch with my mother, sister, and nephew somewhere, my treat. In the afternoon, went to the cemeteries at Maribojoc and Loon. These were where my parents’ grand- and great-grandparents laid in quiet provincial soil. These visits made me realize we ought to have a comprehensive family tree. I knew so little of our bloodline. Just imagine the bounty I could unearth from the seemingly bottomless source of stories. As the afternoon progressed, I met four of my schoolmates to discuss and prepare for next day’s itinerary.

Halloween Beach Outing
October 31

Rounded up my high school classmates because I wanted to. The last time I saw them was in December last year, goofing around Balicasag and Virgin Islands. Brought with me two masks that survived countless occasions (from Valentines to Christmas), utterly enduring through the years it became standard to bring them along to further silly-fy an already silly gathering. As usual, the masks were prominent in many pictures of my camera than the exquisite sand and waters of Panglao. Blame it on the alcohol.

No Plane, No Gain

November 1

Ah, no wonder why those Occupy Rallies all over the world lasted than expected. Was supposed to fly back to Manila in the afternoon, to embrace work in all its glory the following day, but was then informed that Particular Airline had to cancel its trip. PA reasoned it was all due to a looming bad weather and that the city airstrip had no room for another aircraft. Oh, should I laugh at this? The Other Airline just left, seconds ago, so technically there was room for another aircraft. Yet PA insisted on cancelling its flight. As expected, blood pressures went high, especially tanned corporate men and women raising hell at the little booth of PA. Of course, who wouldn’t? A day’s worth of one’s job is still a day’s worth. Just one legal note for Particular Airline: please hold responsibility to your customers and don’t give us advices to ferry to Cebu to catch its “many” Manila flights when you’ve earlier stated bad weather is coming. Also, blood pressures went sky-high when it was overheard the Another Airline handed a stipend of P400 to its passengers when it also canceled its flight for technical reasons. Sigh, PA, why can’t you do the same? You’re a big guy now. A little gift won’t dent the wallet. If you just can’t, please stop offering us those promo fares and start eating your words.

Back at Home

November 2

Stayed at home most of the day, enjoying Pawn Stars on History Channel and Wipeout on AXN. Then decided to watch Puss in Boots (I love cats!) with problematic someone late in the afternoon and had dinner at Heritage Crab House next in Mansasa. It was both our first time in that new restaurant, and we found the place handsome and rustic, the live band really good, the food servings generous, and the taste palatable but not entirely novel. After lengthy conversations over his compulsory two-stick smoke and my glass of pineapple juice, we went home.

Back to Reality

November 3

A two-day off from work, especially an unplanned one, was surprisingly cathartic. Prior to my return flight since the last one that failed, everything looked vivid, well-lighted, and serene even above the racket the carpenters were making, replacing our living room door with a dark, heavy one. Until I finally hopped onboard the airplane, lifting me higher off the ground and transplanting me back to a Manila that had skies threatening to rain. What a welcoming sight.