august sunday night

me, jordan, marianne: again, at the table
staring at neon lights, at the translucent glow of the bottle
when echoes are company and friends long gone.

me: writing, jordan: drinking, marianne: texting
of thinking the deepest thoughts when thoughts are nothing
of remembering what was once treasured, we toast our beer to that.

we three: sit, stare, elbows on the table, chins cupped in our hands
like the day mankind was made and thought all could stand
now, only our wishful thinking is kept and our own selves left.

- this is a renga we wrote during one of those drunken nights of Silliman's Founders Celebration. Since we were the only ones at that time who understood that there was something beyond the momentary bliss that was found in a glass, we succumbed to each other's words of misery.

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the vanishing pen

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice

The Weekly Sillimanian

August 28, 2008

Any form of crisis forces people to panic. Panic, in return, causes foundations to crumble. People, with the aid of whatever available noodle is in their heads, go forward in eradicating chaos and defeat, chiefly because of the dangers they carry along. Unfortunately, this assurance of assistance rarely happens in the circle of literary writing. Especially for a city where acacias sprout the juvenile words of poetry, where the boulevard sunrise pushes fictitious tales to materialize on paper, and the inevitable wave of midday heat commemorates the birth of a timeless memoir; it’s saddening to know that Dumaguete’s artistry has become limited instead of being boundless.

There has always been a magic in this city that, unlike any other place, makes inanimate objects specially coexists with humans—a relationship that has caused a thousand thoughts to spring up into text. That is why the place is beautiful. In Dumaguete, the pen seems to enthusiastically scrawl virgin letters on the blank pages of the notebook though at some point in time, it halts its progression for a while maybe because of the needed rest or the required period of persistent rethinking. Literature succeeds in time; but what importance and use is this resilience against the natural capacity of change if man halts the process of creation? Most definitely, there is none. If the pen is gone, creation also stops. And currently, the pen in the city does not only have its ink drying up but is slowly vanishing.

I know the current ripples in the literary world that involved Sillimanians this year—our very own Ian Rosales Casocot won 1st prize in the English short story category of the Palancas and even got himself in the longlist of Man Asia Literary Prize 2008, along with Sillimanian Lakambini Sitoy, for an unpublished novel. Even Butch Macansantos, a Silliman literary artist, has triumphed as a 1st placer for poetry in English in the Palancas too. And this month, we shall witness Marjorie Evasco receive her Outstanding Sillimanian Award for Creative Writing. It is indeed warming to acknowledge all these but there’s no denying they are among the few bearers of the pen. Or maybe, they are the only bearers of the pen who strive hard to retain the city’s title as the Creative Writing capital of the Philippines. Well, such effort is still of little value if the people behind them, who could follow them, or should look up to them, wallow in apathy the size of their bloated egos.

And then the questions: What about the young sector that comprises the majority of universities? Have they bound themselves to the clutches of hypocrisy to the extent that they believe carrying T-squares, PH bags, and heavily decorated multi-colored classroom illustrations guarantees them the brightest future of awe-inspiring income? Have they just lost it that they’d disregard the fact that art is also a significant fraction of a community’s rich cultural heritage and growth? Or maybe both?

These questions may not have mushroomed if the root of the problem had been removed from the soil, way before it grew up. The practice is almost gone if not for the efforts of some university publications that encourage students to write. Because Sands & Corals, the university’s official literary folio that was born in 1948, has been nowhere in sight for two years, the Weekly Sillimanian created Dark Blue Southern Seas (DBSS) last 2007. There has been a wide circulation of its call for submission of entries, inside and outside the campus, but to no avail. The number of works that we’ve received was disappointing. Yet, we pushed through because we should. Because, to quote a line in the foreword I’ve written for DBSS 2008, “persistence in plans is still better than stagnation in actions.”

It’s really unfortunate to be facing this seeming lack of interest where only a few are really concerned, particularly in this institution that holds the oldest Creative Writing workshop in Asia. That’s why anyone can say that the life of the letters in Dumaguete is in a state close to extinction. The young ones have lost the touch of the pen, have lost the idea that people write for the affirmation of existence, write for the biggest enlightenment extracted from the smallest of things. But even though I am here in the city as the sole Creative Writing major of Silliman, along with a handful of non-CW major who are bitten by the writing bug, I am buoyant of a sudden mentality shift, remain positive that in the “nearest someday” people will develop an appreciation for writing—especially the students.

Dumaguete does well up with the divine, the dwende, or the muse that causes creation of stories, so let’s put them to good use. For even in the midst of crisis, the pen must move on.

worst bits of both

Those words come from a conservative guy talking to a transvestite who somehow feels comfortable with his presence. Unfortunately for this guy who has a problem with a shoe factory he newly-manned when his father unexpectedly died, he isn’t comfortable looking at a man wearing a dress. “You look like the worst bits of both,” he has said.

This is one particular scene in the movie Kinky Boots, directed by Geoff Dane and written by Julian Jarrold, where it steered me the most. Though the guy named Charlie Price can be considered an enlightened man in the land of Northampton, he still falls under the prejudices of other people’s scrutiny and idealisms when he and Lola the drag queen are together in the restaurant. Issues on sexuality often heats up even the most apathetic citizen that it is the whole debate becomes senseless and even discriminatory.

As for the aspects of pop culture found in this movie, the one that surfaced perceptibly is the fashion aspect since the whole film involves shoes, good looks, and runways. The film effectively covers this matter which almost everyone in the world has been involved with. From the proper shoe size to the debatable concern of who must wear this and that, Kinky Boots somehow breaks the mold of gender inequity in a less declarative and demanding way. Like Lola, or otherwise known as Simon, this cross-dresser who designed the “transvestite boots” for a factory that manufactures the common products such as the Oxfords and the school shoes is like a movement for a possible change, a sure way of ensuring equilibrium that homosexuals have their own share of the pie present in the market.

On the other hand, this act can be held accountable as a disadvantage since the majority is alien with this idea. Who would’ve thought that this particular place makes boots for gays? Therefore this is one thing that’s obviously unpopular either in this generation or on the next few years to come. Let’s face it, though more and more people have fought for the reshaping of the biased mentality, we cannot still get away from labels, taunts, and misconceptions that defeats the protests of those “radical” thinkers. Boots are good for females, better for female dancers, but awfully bad for drag queens—this is the code one may get in this film. For me, fashion adapts to different views and concepts so basically it shouldn’t follow a direct rule.

The movie has the makings of a classic, though. Even if it deals with issues about gender, fashion dichotomization, and societal biases, this movie can stand the tests of time for its focus on being uncategorized and fearless. These themes are universal and the insights never change even after countless of viewings. Just like Steven Spielberg’s Extraterrestrial, it still remains watchable until now for its charming nature, its youthful burst of energy found in the child protagonist, and the theme of reception and release. Aside from being a favorite, this sci-fi movie makes anyone relate to the child because personal experience usually makes movies click. In the film Kinky Boots, no one can really get away from it without having a connection to one of the wide variety of characters. Popular culture is unquestionably transitory, it lives on the various changes of things, but through this series of modification it eliminates the borderlines, the limiting characteristic of time. And since this movie, Kinky Boots, offers illumination of knowledge that transcends any period, it is a classic no egotistic scholar of the highest order could ever disagree.

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missing beijing

The Olympics is back—and it’s in Beijing!

Unfortunately, due to unavailability of resources in the slipshod sensibilities of my Dumaguete abode, I'm not updated with the hundred of sports happening in the The Nest, in the Water Cube, and in the many places that I do not know. I don’t have television. Though I have read the results of competitions in the dailies, I still want to see the actual sports games. But thanks to Youtube and its staple “uploaders,” I get to witness the opening ceremony of this event. It was jaw-dropping; definitely a showcase of how Chinese creativity and discipline work well together. Cool.

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revise! revise!

After two months of shaping my itsy-bitsy skill in poetry under the exceptional tutelage of Filipino poet Myrna Peña-Reyes, I am now squirming in embarrassment thinking of all those poetry that I’ve made before I enrolled in this one-student class (or more like a tutorial program knowing that I’m the only creative writing senior at school). And some of those poems were even critiqued in a national workshop! Shame.

The benefits of having Ma’am Myrna as my teacher are all worth it. Visual and audio aesthetics aside, my so-called poetry has been transformed from mere abstractions to a graspable chunk of material thought. “I think you have a lyrical mind too. You have a good ear for sounds,” she once said. Well, here’s the first version of the poem entitled To End a Wall that, somehow, got out of my head when I was wallowing in the days of seemingly endless despondency:


To End a Wall

Either one of us
will divide, break, or tear
this wall apart; and yes not push
because pushing things aside does not do
any good—they just fall. (You enforced
not to wait for someday and I said eradicating
that someday, hopefully, must be easy.)
If this wall remains standing,
stoic and solid, let it remain standing like
a sentinel that would remind us what we have done,
or consider it an idol, a wide white barren article
of the past wherein we hold our hands
inside one of its tiniest cracks, crooked serpents
crossing the coarseness of its concrete face,
and see if greatness in mistakes crumbles
by the littlest plastering of confessions.

And this is the last revision, so far, that I think looks and feels good. In poetry, nothing ends—revision is crucial to the development of a particular piece, both in form and substance. What makes me happier is that my teacher agreed. Here it is:

To End a Wall

Someday
one of us
will divide, break or tear
this wall apart
and yes, not push
because pushing things aside
does no good—they just fall.
(You said this someday would come,
and I hoped it would be easy.)
If it remains standing,
stoic and solid, let it remain standing
like a sentinel that would remind us
what lies we have said;
or consider it an object of worship,
a wide barren structure of the past
wherein we held hands
inside one of its cracks,
our fingers like crooked snakes crossing
the coarseness of its concrete face.

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eight days a week

I’ve been working, writing, and rewriting a lot of times this season that, almost out of desperation to escape this constant repetitiveness or maybe for some other unknown reasons, I fall once again into an urge of listening The Beatles music. Call me old fashioned but this is my way of having an instant ticket to perpetual composure and sanity. In pursuit for more music, I’ve stumbled into their works that I haven’t heard ever such as Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite and I am the Walrus. Also I’ve just discovered there are already four versions of Across the Universe, from different artists, in my music folder. Too much? I think not, even in the season of having a hard day’s night every other day.

The poster above? That’s only the nineteenth century piece that Lennon got inspiration from when he wrote the Mr. Kite song. And also, there’s this information that might explain why I have this unexplainable feeling that makes me hum its tune more often than the usual: the sounds effects were recorded on the same date when I was born. Blam! The power of rationalizing and analyzing things are quite pathetic but the coincidence made me wonder, really.

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where's mama?

PAPA DON'T PREACH

Madonna

Papa I know you're going to be upset

'Cause I was always your little girl

But you should know by now

I'm not a baby

You always taught me

right from wrong

I need your help

daddy please be strong

I may be young at heart

But I know what I'm saying

The one you

warned me all about

The one you said

I could do without

We're in an awful mess

And I don't mean maybe.. please

chorus

Papa don't preach..

I'm in trouble deep

Papa don't preach..

I've been losing sleep

But I made up my mind..

I'm keeping my baby

I'm gonna keep my baby mmm

He says that he's going to marry me

We can raise a little family

Maybe we'll be all right

It's a sacrifice

But my friends keep telling me

to give it up

Saying I'm too young

I ought to live it up

What I need right now is

some good advice.. please

repeat chorus

Daddy daddy if you could only see

Just how good he's been treating me

You'd give us your blessing right now

'Cause we are in love

We are in love.. so please

repeat chorus

Papa don't preach..

I'm in trouble deep

Papa don't preach..

I've been losing sleep

Papa don't preach..

I'm in trouble deep

Papa don't preach..

I've been losing sleep

I'm gonna keep my baby

Ooh don't you stop loving me daddy

I know I'm keeping my baby

* * *

The dance step is enough for one to shiver. No, maybe puke. Knowing that most of our generation (the youth sector, to be exact) is conditioned with ecstatic musicians that vary from the dark goths to the cheap butterflies, it is hard to pull out something appreciative that goes far beyond our aptitude of recollection—unless it is an unforgettable classic. Madonna’s Papa Don’t Preach unfortunately falls under this category of being incognito in my mental archives.

The video, with Madonna’s unnatural portrayal of a demented daughter alongside the rest of the people present in it (extra or not), is a bit tacky. Sans the negativity, somehow, the music video has able to project its message towards its viewers. And this is about a woman’s confusing life in a dysfunctional family setting. And no one can even call it a “complete” family setting since Mother is nowhere in sight. If feminism is applied here, then we can conclude once again that in the process of making the song or the video, patriarchy is still present.

Considering that the video is like a documentary of a girl’s life to womanhood in a drama series-esque way, not dipping its toes into any form of “indie spirit” or surrealism that has sickened most recent music videos today, it is easy to get the main gist. It is understandable—and this is a plus point.

A line in the lyrics can be considered ambiguous but smart such as this: But I made up my mind/ I’m keeping my baby/. Who is this baby the song refers to; the lady’s actual biological child currently inside her womb or the kind of baby that suggests a “boyfriend-girlfriend” relationship? This is a question of which each circumstances works well. Even though the video shows this double meaning technique that effectively keeps any viewer to think, the latter possibility mentioned is more likely to happen. The teenage preganancy issue may be more pressing but, in my opinion, it is not well-sustained in the presentation that it might fall as something unbelievable. This hint of indistinctness may seem indirectly unsure for some audience such as this comment by SamArmstrong1977 at YouTube, “During this period she was known for being shocking, much more than nowadays. Parents didn’t like their kids to her, mine didn’t anyway. The pregnancy message here was considered outrageous…” With this message alone, it shows that some doesn’t agree. Anyway, the song works in many ways.

Though the situation in this music video is quite complex, one thing is really sure: it may be complex in its time but in the 21st century, it is not that complex.

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we weekly people

It felt weird that in the middle of a light and merry gathering almost everyone’s eyes stung with tears as salty as the breeze summoned by the waves of the nearby beaches. It was on the 2nd of August that most of us staffers of the Weekly Sillimanian gathered, wandered, and bothered the quiet night of Bacong. Everything was perfect—and “fine” is an understatement.

There was no other word which could best describe that event but this: Indispensable. Thoughts were shared, objections were heard, and apologies were accepted. For all the three years that I have been working for this university publication (first as a writer in 2006 then as a Features editor in 2007 and 2008), that night packed the most meaningful and most important lesson that I learned. What was it? Leave it just to me.

Who would have thought that among the senior members of the organization composed of a sophisticated brat, a quirky overgrown toddler, a multitasking distressed woman, a striving pseudo-poet, a news anchor archetype, a choleric cheer dancer, a would-be kickass lawyer, and a dogmatic female geek went so sound and pleasant with the freshies whose nature ranged from the nerdy, the stone-silent, the lesbo-labelled, to the radical? None. We were an excellent group, a faultless combination like every ingredient for a delectable chopsuey dish were prepared by a skilled chef’s hands. Budjai, Carlos, Florence, Gus, Mars, Leon, Lou, Paul, and Phillippe—their special peculiarities never fail to complete the whole picture of what cheerfulness should look like. (And by the way, Prof. Philip van Peel was the best). Though there were few stilted expositions that night, every single one was alright after wiping his and her eyes. As what the saying goes, “All’s well that ends well.”

In my humblest judgment, I think this is the best batch in the paper I’ve been so far. We are just working on our eighth issue for this school year and, obviously, we have a long way to go pa. But like anything enjoyable and adored, times runs on the double. It is depressing.

And to add some bitter facts I am currently in my fourth year of college, handling a position for the second time around, and in a few months the possibility of leaving these newfound colleagues will take place. The thought alone makes my hair stand on its end, like yesteryear’s ghost passes by my side. But right now, I am trying really hard thinking of happy thoughts, appreciating cheerful morning greetings and conversations that never seem to tire down because sooner or later, like a grandmother pondering on yellowing pictures in a Sunday afternoon, I’ll have a lot of time thinking of the saddest things.

little thing

There’s no use keeping this shroud of mystery on me by now. I have my left ear pierced just last Monday. Though only a few have noticed it yet (of course, considering that I didn’t wear training studs the size of hubcaps), of which I and Marianne have made a pact that anyone who comments first about our piercing is someone special, I’m just a little glad that this particular person has observed something’s new in my ears. “Yey, welcome to the club. You’re now a probee!” If you know this character, just shut it. Alright? Hehe…

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bulleted

Today, if I’d pursue what is running in my mind, I will do something that is entirely out of my character (or maybe not). I don’t really know. But chances are I’d most probably have it because in the sub-sub-persona in me clearly screams that I wanted it all along. And the weight of opposing the thought is not that heavy anymore even if I know this will bring a little ripple in the waters. Well, let’s just see what happens next after I am done wandering into cyberspace. It is just a little thing, really. Like a bite from a tiny red ant.

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the sixth installment

And I thought the rumor was true. It’s not. After all, it's just a rumor. A lot in the web is circulating that the young Dumbledore in the movie version of Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince would be played by Sir Ian McKellen; the famous Gandalf in the Lord of the Rings movie trilogy. Eventually, I have known that everything’s fake. This 68 year old actor clears it all a long time ago in an interview: “…‘Don’t you wish you’d played Dumbledore?’ I say no! I played Gandalf! The original. There was a question as to whether I might take over from Richard Harris but seeing as one of the last things he did publicly was say what a dreadful actor he thought I was, it would not have been appropriate for me to take over his part. It would have been unfair.” Okay, that seems fair enough.

Well, I still love Michael Gambon as the quirky and sometimes serious Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore in the last three Potter films no matter what people say. Anyway, the latest trailer of the movie has finally been released (uhmm, days ago?). And I love it. Yeah, yeah… I know the issues of movie adaptations but, honestly, the sixth installment looks promising. The cave scene is really cool.

gender studies

Right now, I’ve already made up my mind. Days ago, I was having a little problem with my Literature 35 class—I just can’t decide what topic I’d report on this coming Friday (yes, Friday na!). My first choice was Sandra Harding, which may cover her criticism on Women, Science, and Society. The title of her study alone thrilled me. But upon researching for more background information, I found this online: On the Cutting Edge: Cosmetic surgery and the technological production of the gendered body by Anne Balsamo. In the simplest form of explanation it’s about the question of where is gender located in one’s technologically changed identity. Whoa! Her words got me into thinking. The following day I approached my professor and told her I am doing Anne Balsamo. So Balsamo it is!

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imaging

Danikook, an online buddy in my Multiply account who's also one of the great photographers I know, made this amazing picture and sent it to me. I didn’t really know why but upon looking at this link (from him, of course) which was entitled "United Colors of Multiply" in my inbox, I found out I was not the only one who got his or her profile picture digitally tweaked. I loved it! Also, I wondered why he chose that shattered glass look.... Does "brokenness" strongly emanated from my picture? Yay!

Anyway, just take a look here for the rest of the photos; maybe you’ll find yours in it too.
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silly men

This is us. Well, just some of us. We are the staffers of the Weekly Sillimanian for this school year. We work till dawn, publish articles, get criticized, and face abomination in countless form. Pardon our shining faces and shabby get-up in this photo; we just had a major purging movement that night. Yes, you heard it right—night, the first time to happen in the publication’s history. From books of unknown ownership to old dusty trophies, we didn’t miss the chance of throwing things into this large carton box we get from our photographer. It really feels good for a hoarder like me to remove, without hesitation, all unnecessary things in a breeze. Phew!

makulay ang buhay

Razcel Salvarita, an artist friend of mine, sent me this. And looking "cool" (I mean that as an understatement) as always with the rest of his works, he will be printing this on shirts to fully realize that unimaginable marketing dream he has. And he’s going to have an exhibit of some sorts at the Luce Auditorium Lobby, Silliman University, this December! Oh, how I wish I could mount a solo exhibit of my works, too, before I graduate.

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deconstruction of the closet

Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice

The Weekly Sillimanian

July 23, 2008

It is a kind of furniture present in almost all homes. Usually, its purpose is as dignified and protective as your grandmother’s jewelry box filled with different precious trinkets through the years. This keeps everything of value, keeps things hidden unbeknownst by many. Yes, this household object holds secrets both important and rubbish, both clean and dirty. This is called the closet.

With all its unabashed innocence as a common domestic piece of carpentry regardless of its size, the closet somehow parallels the characteristic of people whose number has grown in rapid succession. These people are living in the fine line between the dictations of what must be done and the personal conviction of what is wanted. They are in the middle of secrecy and openness. Thus, they are called “closet people” or “closeted.” The history of the metaphor is not mainly intended for a person’s sexuality in its first conception. It was already used to mean something unsuspected or covert as early as the 1600s.

In the middle of the 20th century, the jargon became a general reference to disclosed behavior, preference, or orientation which, of course, has homosexuality and bisexuality as the most common examples. I always assume that following (or most likely realizing) this path is never a choice—the epiphany of what one is most likely occurs and appears naturally. What is not natural, and therefore a choice, is the act of hiding.

This act of “hiding away from” is usually set towards the family and other areas of corporate life. Seldom can you find them concealing the truth from their friends because they are, more often than not, the only people they are comfortable with. But if the level of concealment is taken a notch higher, then it’s a different story. In this case, the dilemma is tougher than usual. Because staying in the closest already has its liabilities since once is departed from the familial bond where sincerity is nurtured, what more will separation from their dear beloved buddies be?

If the situation is allowed to continue this way, then these closet people must be cautious. In a time when questions are easily answered by persistent analysis aided by mere coincidences, these closets would crumble and fall in an instant. Just because behind those closed lids are all things private, the curiosity of some are aroused. And by this reason alone, unwanted things may happen: the closet may be ransacked and searched through. For all the closeted to know, there’s this breed who enjoys stripping off the intricate décor, the elaborate and skilled craftsmanship of a closet until all humanity can witness a whole new character completely detached from what is familiar. The revelation might be delectably jarring for the suspect and spiteful for the victim but this is the usual case—the hunter pursues the prey and the prey kills the hunter which remains a cycle that forever spins in our sociological setting.

In the process of deconstruction, in which the unattained truth is deemed vague making all discourses gratifyingly suspicious for the nosy, meaning is brought about in the light of complicating assumptions and emphasizing fallacies. This has only resulted more in negating than in accommodating which consequently makes more and more people to hide in the unreal comfort of their closets.

This is merely an expression of concern, not an objection of lifestyle. But no matter how people’s mentality progresses for the better, we cannot get away from how the majority constructs the idyllic setting, the supreme trait of “goodness” which, unfortunately, falls to be dubiously orthodox. Since time immemorial, our community has been built with principles that has conditioned almost everyone to stick like a magnet to a set norms, thus, it’s unavoidable for those who grew up to the opposite force to be considered deviant and their standard of living taboo.

The age of eradicating the stigma is happening and it is good. As for the case of the closeted, it could be the chance for them to come out of the musty scent of oldness, the whiff of naphthalene balls, and the dark confines of the tight antiquated aparador.

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that hair color-changing guy

Though the Dark Knight hasn’t swept off my feet yet, considering that the movie’s premiere here in Dumaguete seems ages to happen, I get the impression that I would forever love this film after reading countless positive reviews. And one more thing to watch for: I love the Joker—he’s my favorite villain of all time next to X-men’s Apocalypse.

But let’s face it; we just have too many Western comic characters popping in our movie screens. There is Hulk, Iron Man, and then Batman. It’s as if they’re readying to dominate humanity! But after a few website hopping an hour ago, an image has caught my attention that immediately brings back that memory. It is the memory of having played outside every Sunday when the sun sets that I have to get back into our house and watch my weekly dose of animé. It is one of those Japanese cartoon sagas that, save for the pop culture mania that I have gotten into, completes my day in its earlier viewing back then in RPN channel 9.

Does that photo look familiar? Yes, it is Dragonball Z. And it is coming to the theaters soon.

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bleeding love

It is true. Not until I’ve met this girl yesterday that I am now healed. The pain has brought me so many nuisances that I have to face her. And thankfully, I did the right thing. Her touch has been a miracle; all those days of torment immediately vanish in minutes.

She has explained to me that soft deposits have formed on the surface of my teeth. Because of my braces that usually obstructs my “toothbrushing” sessions for proper cleaning, these deposits harden, become a calculus (not those found in your Mathematics textbook), and stick firmly in my teeth. Thanks to Dr. Myrine Lerio-Garupa, I’ve finally realized that I am experiencing mild gingivitis—which explains the eternal bleeding of my beloved gums. “It’s just normal for people who have braces,” she said with a smile.

Therefore, with that statement alone, I’m proud to say that this has happened to me not because I am unconcerned of my pearly whites but, rather, because of some awful relationship forming between my braces and calculus. To hell with calculus! That’s why I hate Math.

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go to school and die

By Fred Jordan Mikhail T. Carnice

The Weekly Sillimanian

July 16, 2008

Files upon files of papers were written about the glories and fortifying testaments of being a student and how to live the way of life but haven’t you heard of the other side of these sweet, almost-unblemished articles of exaltation? But little do most geeks and nerds know there are more important notes in life than burning the midnight oil. Well, here are some things which can make you think that being a student really sucks.

Reason #10

You just don’t need all those classes. You won’t be working all the jobs there is in the world anyway. You greatly admire the wonders of music yet you have to study a terrifying class of other countries’ literature, you aspire to be the next great anthropologist studying different cultures to be cultured but you end up finding inspiration in your chemistry class. If being holistic is the main concern, you’d better expect something insightful in all those classes to become the quintessential jack-of-all-trade.

Reason #9

You’ve been partying all night and you need to go to school the next day. Every teenager deserves sleep—what were they thinking making you take all those classes? It’s injustice in the most unadulterated form. Also, this only means that this class schedule is getting in the way with social schedule. As what the experts have said, practicing social skills is part and parcel of everyone’s positive growth.

Reason #8

You’d be in big trouble if you miss class but teachers seem to easily get away with it. Try hollering about their inefficiencies and you’ll end up in the dungeons or in the fires of hell. Just choose your desired fate.

Reason #7

You have to pick your outfit everyday and make sure you weren’t wearing the same one for a minimum of one week. Classes alone make your head throb with pain, what more if you’re deciding your gab for the day? Nothing is more demanding in your life than having to demand something from yourself that you cannot pull off on that day. Confusing, eh?

Reason #6

Teachers throw tons of assignments, research papers, and essays for you to do like as if you have time to do it all and as if it’s the most fun thing in the world. And they offer this to you with so much enthusiasm that equals a toddler’s first day at the carnival. This just shows how sweet they really are.

Reason #5

As a student, you pay the school. If you’re working, some people get to pay you. Do I need to spell it out?

Reason #4

You try joining into various out of the ordinary organizations, groups, and even school politics thinking, at the least, of refreshing yourself from all those classroom brainwashing sessions. You are oh-so perky and excited but, suddenly, next thing you know words after harsh words strike from behind you. Just brace yourself for constant backstabbing and fake smiles because these abound in your chosen path. Surely, a human’s means of surviving a competition is absolutely remarkable.

Reason #3

All your life, you are a student. Do you remember a part in your life where you weren’t in school? If you die tomorrow, could you say you’ve done everything you wanted to do and tried everything you wanted to try just by being in that chalk or marker scented classroom? Of course, not.

Reason #2

A boring day in school with your monotonous teachers or an incredible, fun day with your friends—take your pick. The bad thing is “None of the above” doesn’t work here since you’ll have lesser choices as your non-professional profession as a student progresses in campus. You don’t have a choice in a lot of things, actually.

Reason #1

Remember those times when people tell you that the learning is not confined within the four walls of the classroom? That the best way to learn is through your mistakes and rising each time you fall? Then, what are you waiting for, baby? Get away from the classrooms. Start a “real life” for this does not only cover your scribbles on that tattered notebook or daily reports on manila paper but also the times when you cartwheel the long distance of boulevard at dawn or scream random names at various different houses you don’t even know who resided in them. Commit the biggest mistake of your life and learn your biggest lesson. This is irony in its truest form.

8th ateneo national writers workshop

Ateneo writers’ workshop now offers fellowships.

The Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and Practices (AILAP) is accepting applications for the 8th Ateneo National Writers Workshop (ANWW) to be held on 20-25 Oct. 2008.

Each applicant should submit a portfolio in triplicate of any of the following works: five poems, three short stories, written in Filipino or English, with a title page bearing the author’s pseudonym and a table of contents. The 8th ANWW will not be accepting portfolios for one-act plays as a separate workshop will be conducted for this. Details will be announced later this year.

The portfolio must also be accompanied by a diskette containing a file of the documents saved in Rich Text Format.

All submissions must include a sealed envelope containing the author’s name, address, contact numbers, e-mail address, and a one-page resume including a literary curriculum vitae with a 1x1 ID picture.

Twelve fellows will be chosen from all over the country. Food and accomodations will be provided.

Please address entries to: Alvin B. Yapan, acting director, AILAP c/o Department of Filipino, 3F Horacio de la Costa Hall, Ateneo de Manila University, Loyola Heights, Quezon City.

Deadline of submissions is on 8 September 2008. For inquiries, please call 426-6001 local 5320-21 or e-mail ayapan@ateneo.edu.

(Thanks for the info, Margie!)

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