a writer has passed

The Hall of Justice was a cold place, its air steeped in severity. But when I entered his office and met him, the atmosphere shifted. Atty. Ernesto Superal Yee, born on 29 October 1953 in Tanjay, Negros Oriental, was not only gentle but quietly guiding. I still remember the first words he said to me: “Are you happy?” Like anyone meeting an important person they had long known of but never met, I shrugged and replied, “I think so.” 

He could be sharp with his words, though always restrained. As a lawyer who served as Clerk of Court V at the Regional Trial Court, Branch 32 of Dumaguete City, such firmness must have been necessary at times. I witnessed this side of him during the National Writers Workshops. Ernie, as many fellows and colleagues called him, was among those who questioned the point of my poem “The Other Ending,” written for a campus competition the year before. He was also one of those who questioned changes in the workshop itself, such as the two-week schedule instead of the usual three. During my time as a fiction fellow, he lambasted my work and magnified its weaknesses. Yet on the night that followed (culmination night!) he was also the one who offered a flat of Tanduay to every fellow seated along the long table at Hayahay Resto. Ernie was cool. That air of superiority must be his veiled way of reminding us to set our egos aside. 

A few weeks ago, during a short break in a session of the 48th workshop batch, I gave him a copy of Dark Blue Southern Seas, the literary folio of The Weekly Sillimanian, where two of his works were published. I wrote in the dedication, “Thanks for swimming with us in this sea.” He replied, “I hope we could do this literally—but I am old!” He laughed like a child. His infectious mirth dispelled the seriousness lingering in the antiquated room of Katipunan Hall after the previous discussion. His dear “sister,” Susan Lara, and I laughed along. Returning to my seat, I thought how glad I was to have worked with him. 

The good moments kept coming. Ned Parfan, a former writing fellow, later told me that on our way to Montemar to visit Mom Edith Tiempo and attend her lecture, Ernie shared that his new poetry collection was already with publishers and might come out that year. It was exciting news. Though arthritic fingers had stopped him from making music on the piano, he continued to write prose and poetry. There are sentences and verses more melodious than any sound drawn from strings, because they come straight from the mind and heart.

Then, as time so often proves unpredictable, a distinct note faded. On the afternoon of May 23, I received news that Ernie had died of a heart attack that morning, in his bed. I was in shock, suspended in something almost surreal. Just hours earlier, I had been reciting his poem aloud to people who cared deeply for musicality in words for a public reading. This was not new for his work. His poem “A Prayer for Yuan” remains a favorite of mine, one that resonates deeply with my own heartbeat. I share here its final stanza:

Lord bless this one with a heart

Burning with compassion and sympathy,

Accepting as to why some trees, like his uncle,

Choose to bear flowers instead of fruits.

Sir Ernie Yee, the flowers you bore on this land went beyond any superlative of beauty. A poet’s spark may have gone suddenly, but in its living brilliance, it allowed others to light their own candles. Thank you for all the help.

because adam lambert should

Dustin Celestino, fellow for fiction in last year’s Dumaguete workshop, wrote why Adam Lambert should win in this latest season of American Idol:

‘Adam Lambert was the Elvis daemon of ecstatic agony when he performed “Tracks of my tears” and “If I can’t have you.” In “Mad World,” he was the tormented soul whose glorious wails of pure alienated despair seem to have echoed from the phantoms and spectres of suicidal lovers from the pits of the second level of Dante’s Inferno. He was the fiendish incubus of raw longing and restless turbulence in “Satisfaction” and “Born to Be Wild.” He was the jaded, egoistic, self-absorbed, lecherous second coming of Faust – the hedonistic demon of indulgence and abandon – in “I’m Feeling Good” and “Ring of Fire.”

Yes, Adam Lambert sold his soul to the devil to be able to emulate the devil’s defiant wail as the Morning Star was cast down from heaven unto the depths of hell, forever illuminating oblivion with the crimson glow emanating from the heart of the first sinner.

Adam Lambert’s songs are metaphorical representations of the ancient battle between good and evil – at once echoing the repentant sorrow of fallen angels and speaking in the holy tongues of
envious, sex-deprived seraphims.

Adam Lambert is what entertainment for an ironic generation is about – imbued with a sharp meta-camp sensibility, edgy in his defiance of suffocating social structures, and fearless in advocating a liberal perspective.

Kris Allen is a solo version of “Boyce Avenue” – check out their acoustic renditions of “Apologize,” “Disturbia,” “Bleeding Love” in YouTube. “Boyce Avenue” was what Kara and Randy had in mind when they picked “Apologize” for Kris to sing - http://www.titikpilipino.com/news/index.php?aid=1228§ion=International.

But what most people don’t know is that these contestants hold deep, dark secrets, that when revealed might influence the outcome of the contest. You saw it here first, the deepest, darkest secrets of the American idol finale contestants.

Adam Lambert is actually the product of a United States government experiment that combined the DNA of Freddie Mercury, Michael Jackson, Mick Jagger, Meatloaf, and Madonna to create the ultimate disco demi-god.

Kris Allen is actually the fourth member of “Boyce Avenue.”

Yes, I’m biased. Obviously, I think the better artist should win.

My vote (if only I could): Adam Lambert - the turbulent titan of transgression; the
Eros-demented demi-god of disco; the self-aware, meta-artist of commercialized
camp (which makes it more campy).’

on being a yaya

(For all of you)

At first, it was not exactly what I pictured myself doing in the city of gentle people. Especially in May. With the dusty roads surrounding Silliman University flipped upside down, parading a bunch of tourists is not a good idea. But it turned out to be fine; perhaps, even more than fine. The experience was fulfilling.

The oldest creative writing workshop in Asia, now on its 48th year, has just baptized another batch of capable writers: Bea Nakpil, Mo Francisco, Keith Cortez, Philip Kimpo, Jr., Ynna Abuan, Marck Rimorin, Jonathan Gonzales, Niño Manaog (Lolo!), Stan Geronimo, Petra Magno, Arkaye Kierulf, Maoui Stuart del Rosario, Aleck Maramag, Gabriel Millado and Joy Rodriguez. Though I haven’t attended that much bashing of workshop batches, I’d proudly say this group was good (sans the dirt that was messily cleaned).

But aside from the daily workshop sessions, of course, there’s the much needed breather during the breaks and the weekends. Last year, our batch had the veritable Moses Atega (or Kuya Mo) who, I guess, toured many of the previous fellows in and out of the city. For this year, the guy’s island-hopping! And like the force of a fate’s pummeling gavel, a strange thought struck me hard: ako nalang kaha? That I did.

There was no planned itinerary on each day, actually. I don’t usually plan. Spontaneity has been my buddy these days. What they want, I’d show or provide it to them—but except for Ynna’s pleadings that I’d be her Dumaguete love catch. Pointing out historical tidbits of this monument or that structure, remembering the nearest beer stations, outmaneuvering thick crowds to lead the group to the nearest shirt sellers and, most of all, enlightening them to the real wonder of the city, which is, to quote former fellow Marguerite de Leon, the abundance of “disturbingly cheap” food, the job of being a guide was like second nature to me especially that I lived in the city for four slow years. And because of all the pointing, I hastily brushed up my mental compass. The sharp turns in the campus, check. The familiar labyrinth that is the university town, check. The numinous island of Siquijor, check. Check. Check. Check.

Of course, I just can’t lose the fellows or else Myrna Peña-Reyes, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, Gemino Abad, Sarge Lacuesta, J. Neil Garcia, Juaniyo Arcellana, Ernesto Superal Yee, Rosario Cruz Lucero or Susan Lara will remain petrified on the semi-cold chairs in Katipunan Hall 1, scratching his/her head in utter confusion for such mass disappearance. But Dumaguete is a small town and it is everyone’s advantage—not only mine. What happened next, after nights and days of pedicab-traversing and sidewalk-strolling, was something that led me to receive a special prize on the culmination night last May 15.

“Yaya of the Year Award.”

I am not used to flattery of such kind but these guys, or otherwise collectively known as the 1st Siquijor Personality Workshop Fellows, floored me with sweet embarrassment. Well, who wouldn’t be if you are donned with a shiny floral apron that disturbingly matched your crisp floral long sleeves? Seriously, the humorous honor made my visit to Dumaguete more memorable than my countless futile trips to the registrar office in order to procure my transcript of records. Believe me, it is. Though I didn’t actually yaya-ized every single fellow, I know I’ve exerted enough effort I don’t usually share to people I got acquainted with in approximately fifteen days.

The morning after their rite of passage into the world of serious writing, a variety of things were shared: contact numbers, email addresses, photos, cigarette smoke and more cigarettes smoke. Much later I escorted some of the fellows to the airport and heard the whistling of this huge metallic bird that would soon head towards the north. One last wave and I went back to my humble spot.

I stayed and pondered on things left only in the amusement of my imagination. As the days continue to shed its youth and I consistently turn the pages of the calendar, I know the month of May would show up again. But I wouldn’t be waxing sadness here for it would be the particular month that I’d remember giving the fellows a ride in the 7-seater Dumaguete tricycle to anywhere they please, perspiring from the summer heat, but with a smile forming on my face.

real men

To those who are completely confused, here’s a blog that might help clear things up. And if it doesn’t work, I don’t what will.

call for submissions: philippine speculative fiction v

Editors Nikki Alfar and Vin Simbulan are now accepting submissions of short fiction pieces for consideration for the anthology Philippine Speculative Fiction V.

Speculative fiction is the literature of wonder that spans the genres of fantasy, science fiction, horror and magic realism or falls into the cracks in-between.

1. Only works of speculative fiction will be considered for publication. As works of the imagination, the theme is open and free.

2. Stories must cater to an adult sensibility. However, if you have a Young Adult story that is particularly well-written, send it in.

3. Stories must be written in English.

4. Stories must be authored by Filipinos or those of Philippine ancestry.

5. Preference will be given to original unpublished stories, but previously published stories will also be considered. In the case of previously published material, kindly include the title of the publishing entity and the publication date. Kindly state also in your cover letter that you have the permission, if necessary, from the original publishing entity to republish your work.

6. First time authors are welcome to submit. In the first four volumes, we had a good mix of established and new authors. Good stories trump literary credentials anytime.

7. No multiple submissions. Each author may submit only one story for consideration.

8. Each story’s word count must be no fewer than 1,500 words and no more than 7,500 words.

9. All submissions must be in Rich Text Format (.rtf – save the document as .rft on your word processor) and attached to an email to this address: nikkialfar@gmail.com. Submissions received in any other format will be deleted, unread.

10. The subject of your email must read: PSF5 Submission: (title) (word count); where (title) is replaced by the title of your short story, without the parentheses, and (word count) is the word count of your story, without the parentheses. For example – PSF5 Submission: Meeting Makiling 4500.

11. All submissions must be accompanied by a cover letter that includes your name, brief bio, contact information, previous publications (if any). Introduce yourself.

12. Deadline for submissions is October 15, 2009. After that date, final choices will be made and letters of acceptance or regret sent out via email. Target publishing date is February 2010.

13. Compensation for selected stories will be 2 contributor’s copies of the published anthology as well as a share in aggregrate royalties.

Spread the news!

inquired

One of my writings has finally seen print on a national paper. It’s something for me so I am putting the link here for everyone to see.

temporarily offline

I am off to Dumaguete in a few hours to indulge myself in literary bouts between the greats and the mavericks. Tomorrow is the inauguration of the 48th Silliman National Writers Workshop, the oldest creative writing workshop in Asia, and I agreed to yaya this year’s fellows—just like what I did last year when the annual yaya, Ian Casocot, suddenly went out of the radar. I hope we’ll get along, especially that the presence of Niño Manaog (fellow for poetry in this new batch) will surely be felt on and off the sessions. He is just as chatty and whiny as a little child. Peace Lolo!

pre-fiesta

In the midst of all the humdrum that seems to last forever, I woke up with a start this morning and automatically warmed up my jaws. It’s pre-fiesta tonight. Never mind the burgeoning waistline; I live to gorge as of the moment. And maybe, if I am lucky enough, also in the days that follow. I will eat!

end of jordan

I don’t think so. No one will ever conquer Michael “Air” Jordan. But our household boxer takes the spotlight again. Manny Pacquaio is already in the thick of consumerism—from laughable water to medicine ads—that Nike tailored another set of apparel especially for him. What’s next? Pacquaio’s Pacman toothpaste, for that winning champion smile? I don’t even want to imagine it.

still lives

Something got me into my toes. I never thought I will be busy, considering my absolute resolution of being a Handay-Handay Man this summer. My parents’ Ruby anniversary is inching its way to The Day. My task? Scour a mountain of photos. Instead of focusing my eyes on what were needed for the “surprise” project, I found these:

My baby picture. I think that's my brother’s toy.

The kindergarten class. I am easy to find here.

My love for cats will last until forever—even if I am diagnosed as asthmatic two months ago.

Mother’s graduation picture.

Father with the brusque James Dean machismo

and mother with the classic beauty of the early days.

The wedding day.

It is sad that quite a number of photos surrendered; some have molted, some have entirely lost what they’re trying to picture out. A pile, unfortunately, has to be thrown before it affects others that are way older than anyone’s prized hand-me-downs. Sayang, the memories.

reverberating

“Two weeks before graduation, after taking all your final exams, you walk around the campus prematurely saying goodbye to the ghosts you will leave behind. That’s how sentimental you are….

So you walk around waiting for graduation, feeling empty while contemplating the bare crowns of the acacias. After four years in school, you ask yourself, what have you learned? Nothing, comes the humble reply….

The memories threaten to overwhelm you as you say goodbye to the old school, your mind melodramatically rushing up to meet another leaf-falling season. You have to have a sad tale to tell to go with the dreary music in your head even as the leaves come falling down on your head. Adagio, the heart says, but the mind vehemently denies: no, no, you were not—never—lonely here. And still the leaves rain down on you like music fit to commit suicide in.”

-excerpt from Timonthy Montes’ essay,
“Silliman in the Eighties: Of That Time, Second Person”

9th iyas creative writing workshop fellows

Congratulations, Pong! I know your words will dissect many in the workshop proper. Keep it cool, Mr. Bastareche! Without further ado, the IYAS Creative Writing Workshop proudly announces its roster of Fellows for 2009.

Fellows for Fiction
Jesus Miguel Agreda (Hiligaynon)
Russel Stanley Geronimo (English)
Irish Angelica Ibon (Filipino)
Errol Merquita (Cebuano)
Gil Montinola (Hiligaynon)
Ramon Antonio Pandan (English)

Fellows for Poetry
Vanessa Mae Almeria (English)
Vijae Alquisola (Filipino)
Jan Paulo Bastareche (English)
Neil Genica (Cebuano)
Philip Kimpo (Filipino)
Patricia Magno (English),
Deborah Rosalind Nieto (English)
Joselito Delos Reyes (Filipino)
Cindy Velasquez (Cebuano)

The panelists for this year are Dr. Marjorie Evasco, Dr. Elsie Coscolluela, Dr. Genevieve Asenjo, Dr. Leoncio Deriada, Dr. Anthony Tan and Prof. John Iremil Teodoro.

The IYAS Creative Writing Workshop is sponsored by the University of St. La Salle and the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center of De La Salle University and the National Commission for Culture and the Arts. The workshop begins on April 27 and ends on May 2, 2009.

your highness, happy birthday

Though anything I say hardly reaches to your hilltop home at Montemar in the meantime, and makes my heart ache for not being with you on your 90^th birthday, I will still greet you with fervent admiration and love: Merry birthday, Mom Edith Tiempo!

I first saw her in the opening of the Silliman Writers Workshop, in the midmorning of May 5 last year. I remember even envying my co-fellow when her poem was being read by the literary great, no less. Obviously, I had no chance of having my poems read at that time since I was a fiction fellow. But by the 17^th of May, every bits of thought on intimidation and aristocracy proved me wrong. As I approached her to have one of her works signed, she welcomed me with tenderness and care anyone who has recognized love would be familiar of. She even asked if I write poems. “I do,” answered and added, “but I am a fiction writer in this workshop.” She smiled and wrote something above her poem Sapiens Evolving. I was already content of seeing and talking with her that day but what made it entirely special was her message.

"For Jordan, How proud I am to have a writer who is Biblically approved."

She definitely still has that sense of humor. In behalf of the 47th writers workshop batch, we love you Mom!

of children and magic words

The little beasts are running wildly in the room. My sisters are watching their respective children as usual. It’s summer so everyone has gathered in our so-called ancestral house. All in all, there are ten nephews and nieces playing inside that room; it has instantly transformed into a day care center. Suddenly, one of the children approached one of my sisters:

Child: I am very thirsty. I want water. I want you to get water in my kitchen.

Sister: And what’s the magic word?

Child: Mickey Mouse!

Children do say the darndest things.

48th dumaguete national writers workshop fellows

The 15th Iligan National Writers Workshop's one and only official "Lolo" of the batch has made it in this year's Silliman Workshop! Whoa, with your age Lolo Niño Saavedra Manaog, you got in! I am so happy for you. Seriously, the results make me smile; at least there's someone I know in this year's list of fellows and gives more weight in my decision to visit Dumaguete again. And I just realized I am officialy an alumnus now of this workshop. A year has passed and our batch is one year "wiser" and older. Oh well, here's the list of the lucky ones:

National Artist for Literature and National Writers Workshop Director Emeritus Edith Lopez Tiempo, the National Commission for Culture and the Arts, and Silliman University are pleased to announce that the following young writers have been accepted as fellows for the 48th National Writers Workshop scheduled on 4-15 May 2009:

For Poetry

Mariane Amor Romina T. Abuan (University of Santo Tomas)

Jonathan S. Gonzales (Ateneo de Manila University)

Arkaye V. Keirulf (Ateneo de Manila University)

Patricia Angela F. Magno (Ateneo de Manila University)

Niño S. Manaog (Ateneo de Manila University)

For Fiction

Keith Bryan T. Cortez (University of Santo Tomas)

Ana Margarita Stuart del Rosario (De La Salle University)

Monique S. Francisco (University of the Philippines - Diliman)

Russell Stanley Geronimo (De La Salale University)

Aleck E. Maramag (De La Salle University)

Gabriel Millado (University of the Philippines – Mindanao)

Gabrielle L. Nakpil (Ateneo de Manila University)

Joy c. Rodriguez (University of the Philippines – Mindanao)

For Creative Nonfiction

Philip Y. Kimpo, Jr. (University of the Philippines - Diliman)

Marck Ronald Rimorin (University of the Philippines - Baguio)

This year’s panel of critics is composed of Dumaguete-based writers Ernesto Superal Yee, Myrna Peña Reyes, and Cesar Ruiz Aquino, as well as guest panelists Gemino Abad, Juaniyo Arcellana, J. Neil Garcia, Susan Lara, Rosario Lucero, DM Reyes, and Alfred Yuson.

The workshop, which is the longest running Writers Workshop in Asia, is coordinated by the Silliman University Department of English and Literature.

sudden changes

It is not that abrupt. As a matter of fact, it almost took us a month to finish the facelift of the Weekly Sillimanian office. Wait, there’s something wrong in this statement. Let’s change it into this: As a matter of fact, it almost took us a month to decide what to do with our office and another month to actually start “facelifting” it when we finally decided of discontinuing our efforts as frustrated Michelangelos or Da Vincis and started giving the job to the real painters.

And this is the result. Can you spot the difference between the two? Of course, you can.

before

after

From a monochromatic, low-spirited, cobweb-infested office to a colorful, candy-coated, pseudo-daycare center, the Weekly Sillimanian office has evolved—I guess, for the better. I, Camille and the rest of the editorial board have planned of this a long, long time ago pa (I remember, ‘twas on the first month of the second semester), to do something with the office's tables, chairs and shelves. It is only at the end of the school year that actions take place. Because of some enigmatic reasons, working progress suddenly stopped. And since it is April already, the obvious has surfaced: no one will ever finish the job. So, a credit to our editor-in-chief’s brilliant but often misinterpreted as lousy ideas, painters were hired.

In honor of the past dreary look of the office, I have made an album (entitled “For Old Time’s Sake” in my Facebook and Multiply) consisting of various shots of numerous corners. This may not be a gratifying avowal for our parents to know—who pay the bills of our apartments, boarding houses and dormitories—but in college the office is our home. Yes, we sometimes hated it but it will be forever loved.

P.S. I will now personally call this office The Rainbow Hub.

black and white

These are the events that happened yesterday. Try as I might to whip up as many as I can, I only managed to bring out five things here. Maybe they have more bearing than the motorcycle my brother has lost. But why black and white? It’s self-explanatory—go figure.

1. I enjoyed reading Ricky Lee’s latest work, Para Kay B. The novel’s prose is funny, dialogues are contemporarily street-smart. If it is considered popcorn—meaning it’s enjoyable but keeps you asking for more airy tummy-filler—it is one bucket of popcorn glazed with the best caramel in town. This is only me speaking who has a hard time reading Tagalog literature. You read and decide. (White)

2. Thanks to my Father, my two sisters have new phones. Yes, he is generous but he is the perpetrator of what happened in the bullet that follows this. (White)

3. Two of my beloved companions left me (or more appropriately, forced to leave me). One I grew up with since my elementary days and the other I usually called Tsukoy and would approach me with a healthy meow always at the ready to comfort me. Goodbye to my mimings who, I believe, have witnessed more happenings of the Carnice family than anyone else in the world. (Black)

4. The departure of these two mammals stirred a bad combination of feelings in me, thus, the birth of a five-lined stanza. I am not posting it here yet; it is barely even a poem, and I can never show any works of mine that is young and easy to stumble. I guess I have clearly understood my poetics by now. (Black and White)

5. I am back to my original love: Nokia. After three years of courting Motorola, it finally put everything into an end and proves to me we are never compatible. Well, good luck to this American. I love mine Finish. (White)

16th iligan national writers workshop fellows

We are getting older, indeed. Now, there’s the sixteenth batch…

The National Commission for Culture and Arts (NCCA) in cooperation with the MSU-Iligan Institute of Technology (MSU-IIT)-Office of the Vice Chancellor for Research & Extension’s Multimedia Information & Dissemination Unit and the Mindanao Creative Writers Group, Inc., announce the 16 writing fellows to the 16th Iligan National Writers Workshop (INWW) to be held on May 25-29, 2009 in Iligan City. The writing fellows are:

LUZON
FICTION (English): Timothy James M. Dimacali, UP Diliman/Pasay City; (Filipino): Ma. Fe de Guia, UP Los Banos/Caloocan City; POETRY (Filipino): Jason G. Tabinas, Ateneo de Manila University/ Pasig City; Arvin T. Ello, De la Salle University/ Paranaque City; PLAY(Filipino): Marianne Mixhaela Z. Villalon, UP Diliman/Quezon City.

VISAYAS
POETRY (Waray): Phil Harold Mercurio, UP Tacloban/Calbayog City; Jhonil C. Bajado, UP Tacloban/Maydolong, Eastern Samar; (Cebuano): Russ Raniel A. Ligtas, UP Cebu/Cebu City; Cindy A. Velasquez, University of San Carlos/Cebu City; and (Hiligaynon): Sam S. Prudente, UP Diliman/Iloilo City.

MINDANAO
FICTION (English): Gabriel P. Millado, UP Mindanao/Davao City; Justine May R. Torregosa, Ateneo de Zamboanga University (ADZU)/Zamboanga City; Paul Alfonse J. Marquez, ADZU/Zamboanga City; POETRY (English): Anderson V. Villa, Ateneo de Davao University/Davao City; (Chabacano): Edgar Darren G. Bendanillo, Zamboanga State College of Marine Science & Technology, Zamboanga City; and, the Manuel E. Buenafe Writing Fellow (poetry-English): Everlyn T. Jaji, ADZU/Zamboanga City.

Panelists this year are: Ma. Rosario Cruz Lucero, Jaime An Lim, Merlie M. Alunan, Victor N. Sugbo, Antonio Enriquez, Leoncio P. Deriada, German V. Gervacio, Steven Patrick C. Fernandez, Macario Tiu, this year’s keynote speaker, Ralph Semino Galan and the INWW Director Christine Godinez-Ortega.

Evaluators of INWW manuscripts this year: Bro. Karl Gaspar, CSsR; C. Godinez-Ortega, Arlene Yandug, Ed P. Ortega, German Gervacio, Steve Fernandez and Zola Gonzalez Macarambon.

Highlights this year include the launching of the 15th INWW Proceedings, ‘About Us’ edited by Godinez-Ortega and the Special Issue of the Mindanao Forum containing 15 INWW Keynote Lectures [from Lumbera to Enriquez] also edited by Godinez-Ortega. Both are published by the MSU-IIT OVCRE.

All writing fellows are asked to confirm their attendance to the INWW with the INWW secretariat (call Alice) on or before April 24, telefax: (063) 3516131; email: aliciabartolome@yahoo.com & patpcruz@yahoo.com.

growth of an amphibian

I was checking my wallet for some 2x2 pictures and look what I found; a comprehensive documentation of the Bullfrog’s growth since I-do-not-know-when. You might not believe this but this is authentic. You can laugh, it’s alright.

Honestly, I do remember trying to put on the internet the first three photos but three is not enough. I forget about doing it, thinking why should I post a face that’s burned (grayscaling needs to be done) and almost terrifyingly skeletal? But then, until today, I think it is fun to post the pictures now that I have more than three. And, my oh my, the sudden exposure to my very own evolution is entertaining, if not revolting.

familiar corners

The air smelled of old paint. That is the last memory I can think of. Or perhaps, the memory I am compelling to think of as the last. Fine, it is not the last but among the countless indelible remembrances shelved in my head.

Working at the Weekly Sillimanian (tWS) for three straight years is no laughing matter (as if there’s something funny to laugh about it, eh?). One of the oldest university publications in the country, tWS still has its quirks and dents that one will either be amazed at its printed blatant mistakes or be reasonable for the multitasking and heavy-lidded students that steered the paper. I am a witness to both sides. Three years may sound so short a time but they approximately reach a thousand days of legwork, edit, banter and study. Here is a chronological tale that, I guess, is worth etching on the deceiving private pad that is the cyberspace.

2006 – 2007

Wandering the campus that is lined with gnarled trees or reading old news articles at the library’s third floor every break is a routine. I am contented and that’s what matters most. But one day, I have finally put an end to my naivety. I have decided to put into use my skill in writing, or the slightest adeptness of it, to the university’s student publication. Why, in my mind, I was a cartoonist in our high school paper, therefore, I could probably work as fine as a writer! I am also in my second year in college who majors in creative writing but drills most of his head into tomes of physics, biology and psychology text books so I take up the call for new staff members. With Moses Atega’s (or more popularly known as Kuya Moe) thumbs up to the newly appointed editor-in-chief and a satisfactory grade in the entrance examination, I am in. Wow, I’ve received my very first assignment as feature writer which is to make a profile of the Filipino band, Kamikazee.

The day comes and I am set to conquer my fear of interviewing or even facing people. But fear has proven itself to become more potent when mixed with too much confidence—I inform my editor and ask for help. And out of nowhere Marianne Tapales and Rodrigo Bolivar II appear by my side at the entrance of Coco Grande Hotel where my very first interviewees are accommodated. Talk, talk and talk and everything is done. Actually, most of the talking is done by my companions who are obviously much more excited to do the write-up than me. I finish my very first feature article in my lifetime in one night. The following day, I beam with statutory pride on my way to the office, a hardcopy of my article in hand.

“What is this,” Michelle Eve de Guzman says, the editor-in-chief.
“Ha?”
“What is this? Mura man nig high school!” She says as she continues talking loudly at the torture chamber about how juvenile my work is. I have even expected a much dramatic paper-tearing scene but got nothing of the sort.

Great. I am standing flabbergasted in the torture chamber, the infamous area of the publication office wherein all hardcore layouting and editing are done, and listening to a woman I barely know demean my skill, or the slightest adeptness of it. I should have stuck on making caricatures, I mumble to myself outside the office. And what is a creative writing major doing in the field of journalism? Pestot.

Well, it will always be like that at the very start. A few months later, I am the very first to write a column as a reward to a staff member who, in a metaphorical explanation, goes from ugly duckling to a beautiful swan, of course, in terms of writing. I can remember it very clearly; the column is about administrations that are thickly selfish and senseless in their overly-crisp coats, likened to the characteristics of the greedy amphibian, Rana catesbeiana. I have entitled it “Bullfrogish Unions.”

Everything goes well then. I meet up a lot of people, know a lot of things aside from the literary demands of my course and discover the limits of my capabilities. That is why when the school year is inching its way to the end, I think I am more capable than purely writing.

2007 – 2008

My being ambitious has led me to become the school year’s features editor. It is surprising, really. But the biggest turnaround yet is that the previous year’s features editor is now, merely, my writer. He is Micah Dagaerag. Thinking about it is humorous at first, like a party joke, but upon receiving his first completed assignment has made me doubtful. This feeling is much more intensified when my other features writer, who is definitely much older and more experienced than I, start to do some things that is not ought to be done.

It is not easy. I receive countless comments that have defeated even the acidity of Michelle’s comments. What more, the remarks do not only come from the outside but also from the people inside the office. Anthony Odtohan, the latest editor-in-chief, asks in our first editorial board meeting: “What is wrong?” I respond, “I don’t really know, Odie.” As if all sensibility in the world is crushed by my unguarded manifestation of stiltedness, our news editor John Boaz Lee suddenly retorts, “Maybe he is just very new to this, Od. Let’s just see what happens next.”

Yes, let us see what happens next. Events take place one after the other, more distressing than the last. I know I looked cool to many at that time but like the glassy surface of the lake, the smooth face is but a façade that housed countless creatures. This particular school year is the determining point in whether I will pursue anything that I have thought is right for me. It is a good thing that I still have my words with me; they guide and comfort me as I venture into the night of solitude, help me create lines after lines that seemingly console the line etched upon my frail condition. The demands of Ian Cascot, through LitCritters Dumaguete, help a lot too. And if not for June, solitude would have been more throbbing, more in tuned to the struggle of the Duende deep inside me.

2008-2009

All of sudden, faces I am always accustomed of seeing everyday are gone. What more, the editorial board is one quirky group. To add more difficulty with us having to accommodate new writers the “bylaws” of the publication, no one from the ed team has no mass communication representative. Two nursing majors, one psychology major, one business administration student and a creative writing major. How’s that for a student journalism publication that now runs for 105 years?

But we persevere. We defy what others thought wrongly of us. We laugh at our mistakes and, of course, worry about them too. All of us get along together in an instant that screaming at someone’s face is nothing (as long as it is deemed necessary). In some way, there must be this common thread woven into each of us that makes us connect, blend with our own eccentricities and almost freakishly, think alike. I feel comfort and relief that I have never thought existed. It feels weird at first but, on the long run, the company becomes a routine. The early morning comments about the messy floor, the midafternoon snacks, the midnight chikicha games, the unplanned overnight respite at the office, the Ravenhearst challenges, the self-coercion of facing final requirements, the almost-everyday gossip sessions, life is going for the better. I thought, thank goodness I have met these caricatures.

Then the month of March comes. The routine must be broken. Well, it has to be. Like any novel I have read, it has to end, to reach the blank leaf page that stares right back at me. But this is no end of total resolution, an absolute finality, because even though the sun sets each day, it will rise again, from a distant but promising horizon, and illuminate to us anything that is needed for the day.

I know you people have stumbled upon these words already but I will reiterate them again: Junie, never stop dancing in the rain. Mars, enlighten everyone. Pilipeh, never stop drawing the line—it must flow endlessly. Gus, walls can be the support that holds your roof. Budjai, be as soft as a petal, rocks are not everything. Marianne, some things need not be labeled as secrets to fulfill their purpose. Paul, share your love with your widest embrace. Camille, what is inside matters the most—if you know what I mean. And to everyone else, just keep on hopping.