original madness

If you are one to fall into madness,
Hold on to the many ways of mending
Fragility, like how one makes sense
With beautiful chaos: impressionism,
Sunflowers at night, the drunkard
And the gurgle in his throat that is his opus.

Maybe, just maybe, the trouble is not
Only the seeing but also the reading:
A ship is a whale ahead of its time,
A glance is always a message to be cracked.
We are our own makers of mischief,
And sooner or later, casualties.

Then the air will throb with meaning.
Though no one will ever be as wise as stars
Or hold love captive that could shy them
Away from us, a little dent in logic
Is the nearest we could get. To be free,
To laugh like fields of anemones.

original pardon

Yet here we are again,
out of the house of our
undoing: tragedies, doubts,

ardent fumes of curses
reeking off our mouths.
Each of us claims a virtue

like no other, like furtive
oysters birthing pearls,
varying in shades and sizes.

Eventually, this has to be
done. It seems there’s no use
jumping to conclusions now

(i.e. believing gold is ripe in
reverence, grey is the hue
of our whispers in bed).

Come to think of it, forgive.
Earth can never be too vast,
alone, and globular for our liking,

zebra’s hide too insipid. Let us
argue no more, the quiet word
remains the wisest sometimes.

Just take for example the mute
unlocking stresses of streets, of
names of all people he knew.

Signs are everywhere if we
allow ourselves to see them:
You might see a clear sky today,

I might see a promise tomorrow.
Days and nights will be cold
only if our hands are held apart.


[ this is for you and you alone ]

could this law bring us back to the dark ages?

Republic Act No. 10175 or the Cybercrime Prevention Act (in short, the Cybercrime Law) has brought ripples into the consciousness of many Filipinos. It is effective today, and it is no laughing matter. It entails some of the highest degrees of iron-fisted ruling which seems shocking and desperate especially in this time and age.

 

Now that nothing is really safe—more than ever—in the realms of the internet, here are some questions that, up to this point, remain drilling a migraine of enigma into my head. There are plenty more from where these came from but these would enough:

 

• Will journalism be a thing of the past because it will be subject to scrutiny (and possible penalty) for covering critical understanding of current affairs?
• Will opinion, freedom of speech or even the right to information be a thing of the past?
• Is Senator Sotto, one of the supporters of the law, even aware that it includes plagiarism as a crime, too?
• Will Senator Sotto be penalized for committing such crime if ever, by a twist of fate, the higher echelons of the government finally realize some of his deeds are “unlawful?”
• Has there been a scintilla of proper thinking put into this law?
• Has there been a scintilla of attempt at making sense in this muddle called the Philippine government?
• How could this law be made into possibility with all its vagueness?
• Is this simply a maneuver to distract us from the real deal which is, among many other things, the RH Bill?
• Could we never, once and for all, point at a criminal when see or know one at the risk being called libelous and thus holding us liable for a crime for telling the truth?
• Could users of social media (e.g. Facebook, Twitter, Blogger) better shut down their accounts right now?
• Could the Cybercrime Law be the glossy, digitized, 21st century version of the Martial Law?
• Could this be the end of this blog after posting these questions?

the phantoms of a saturday

Two Saturdays ago, last September 22, I got to see Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical, “The Phantom of the Opera,” with my mother and sisters at the Main Theatre of the Cultural Center of the Philippines. It was something that I have expected—elaborate production, arresting acts, melodies indelible you would hum them again and again after the show. Even the famous chandelier did not fail to make an impression.

 

In this age of increasingly improving stereoscopy and high definition, the theater remains to be a stubborn art form. Though it maintains a narrative that could be both bizarre and recognizable, its telling resists the comfortable conventions of other fields of entertainment. It aims to amaze us with larger-than-life characters, impress us with excess, sometimes offer us as the audience a winking message (breaking the fourth wall) while at the same time ground us to the basic core of many stories—the human condition. Thus the theater is always unique in every experience.

 

If you seek entertainment at its purest, the theater wouldn’t disappoint. Nothing is more life-like and demanding of its gorgeous rawness than a performance on stage. (Note: the musical is extended until October 14 in the Philippines).

 

 

*

 

“It’s just a number.”

Such was the response I got from a question on how it felt like to be 26, also, two Saturdays ago, just hours before the celebrant’s birthday party. If it weren’t for a philosophy that I had clung on years ago, that numbers do not really matter, I would instantly be perplexed or insulted by this answer.

 

 

But the thing was, at the present moment, the answer stung the way how one is perplexed and insulted. It was refreshing to be dowsed (again) in this wave of optimism. Because, strangely, a year after college, I could always remember my age on application forms, registration cards, raffle tickets, and whatnots compared to years past wherein I had to do some mental backtracking or ask someone when faced with an imposing “AGE: ____.”

 

Now, age is like a phantom hiding in plain sight, always at the ready to sneer and ridicule when reminded of its actuality. Who do you want yourself to be? What have you done? What are you doing? Where are you going? Why just now? How?

 

The questions just keep on rolling. And the article “What Savings Rate You Need When Starting at Age 15, 25, 35 and 50” in TIME magazine last week was more of a downer than a booster. In an attempt to remain composed by the celebrant’s quick answer, I repeated his words. Yes. It’s just a number. As if it’s a mantra that could change lifetimes once uttered.
 

 

*

A few hours after the birthday party’s friendly ruckus and merrymaking, the phantom of ambiguity fled away. Around three in the morning the following day, some things were made clear. And for the following days, the goal is to make them clearer. It is the best way to go.

familiar portrait

“Jo detaches herself. When she’s very stressed, she’ll detach herself and only trust one person, and that’s herself. So everyone gets blocked out and she becomes more and more stressed and less and less able to accept any help.”

- Neil Murray on Joanne Kathleen Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series

[ read more here ]

original desire

It is said that we learn
Not by what we are taught
But by what we have caught.
As if faith, love, and hope
Are pigeons in the air
We could slingshot
From a good distance:
Here’s a bird for you,
Reveal its splendid grace.
Truth be told, I ache
For your guidance:
Take these hands with you,
Take them to wherever
You want, on you, with me,
Where fractures of morning slip
Through canopies of mangoes.
Or green jacquard curtains.
On your birthday, I wish you
Flashes of wisdom, silver
In coming, cyan in vibrance.
I also wish for rain
Of shooting stars, for there
Couldn’t be more grand
Than a spectacle
Born to give birth
To desires. Now feel this, feel
Our longings shake the eaves
Of our sanity. Let us come
And go, let us make this
Happen like sunrise.

a recollection borne out of a weekend at the beach and other instances

September 14, 05:21pm
Grey clouds in the sky seemed to burst anytime soon, traffic on all major roads building up. But there was no stopping this. I finally arrived at point of destination, with a packed bag, with anticipation to see you and all. Messages and calls were unanswered. Anticipation waned with every passing minute that moved like turtle. I waited a little bit more.

September 14, 09:40pm
Our glasses were half-empty, the buckets of ice and beer perspiring as if human, as if tense under the faint yellow lights that illumined our faces. We were both good at hesitation. You had histories better left unheard but you spilled a few anyway, spilled some words. I listened, gathered them, embraced them. Accidents do happen, but they won’t be as frequent as we fear them to be if we know where to go, how all of this will go. And then you sang a Coldplay song.

September 15, 06:30am
The clouds relieved itself all over the metro since yesterday. Despite the rains that flooded once again the streets of Manila, as if this country couldn’t get enough of rain, there was no stopping this. This day was a promise of good things to come. The 22nd birthday of Mars must be held at the beach. Matabungkay, Batangas was our last resort, and I wished it wouldn’t be our last trip together.

September 15, 08:30am
We remember a lot. Old jokes, old stories, old friends with common quirks, common pratfalls of uncommon men. We were in for a long ride, approximately three hours on the road, 120 kilometers or so. We downed two or three bottles of liquor inside the van. Except for the excessive drinks and drugs, we were like characters in a Jack Kerouac novel, like we were having the time of our lives.

September 15, 10:10am
You spilled some words. And I listened, gathered them. But this time I couldn’t embrace them. They felt loaded, and there was an echo in them I was not ready to hear, especially in the company of other people. These words were jagged, hard as nails, potent as poison to the mind of a cynic. And I am one of those raised with the mind of one. I have always been good at jumping to conclusions. For instance: I believe the shell of a turtle is a lonely place.

September 15, 02:50pm
Silence had always been my default weapon of choice. And you mimicked me, and it worked for you so well. My heart did a slow clap not out of admiration but in fear of an encore.

September 15, 07:30pm
It was a day of good things to come, but like practicing poetry, like organizing major events, like copywriting, like gracing the television screen with charm, like being there for each other, blowing things out of proportion must be one of our hidden talents. It shouldn’t have started that way, more so ended that way, but things became uncontrollable. Accidents do happen. Above the din of karaoke music, I continued breaking every pack of ice on the wall as if it was therapy.

September 15, 10:35pm
When push comes to shove, we know the right words to say. It has always been that easy. We could have a whole arsenal of reasons why we do what we do, but that night they were not enough. “[E]asy is not always right./ Not even enough. To ignore complexity/ is to question the generosity of the sky.//”

September 16, 02:40am
The winds and rain were howling with us, crying at the night as long and convoluted as the events taking place: emptying a bottle of whiskey, repeating a Coldplay song, breaking an umbrella, scarring and bruising our skin. A few feet away from this picture, there was a rain-drenched person by the gate, there was a person tear-drenched in bed. And then there was silence.

September 16, 10:15am
An apology was dropped and a grunt was its response. It could have a multitude of meanings, and I prefer the bright, positive ones. Outside, chips were strewn all over the place, bottles crowded on a table, glasses tipped on their sides like fishes out of water, gasping for air. This must be the aftermath of a storm we were not prepared of. And for a rest house close to the beach, we ironically ran out of water.

September 16, 03:40pm
We remember a lot. And like masters of theater breaking the fourth wall, we laughed at the disasters both natural and unnatural. We always tend to believe or show no storm could weather our spirits, but deep inside I think otherwise. This is one of the many errors I’ve grown accustomed to: Don’t believe it, think otherwise. I thought it was the best moment to think otherwise.

September 16, 08:25pm
We finally reached the city. I have always been good at jumping to conclusions: Manila was not spared with a minute of dryness the other day. I was right. Some parts of Makati were waist-deep in flood water, and possibly neck-high in frustration. We changed routes to avoid sinking deeper into unnecessary anxieties.

September 17, 01:30am
“There is no such thing as friends; we’re just together.” You heard this already, I told you a few days ago, but I had the feeling it made you all the more fretful after hearing it yourself from a friend. You just smiled like you always do. It had always been your default weapon of choice. And I mimicked you, but it didn’t work that well. Somewhere in the last remaining spots of green in the city, a turtle slipped back in its shell, the hard rain pounding on its back.

September 17, 08:45pm
We were both good at hesitation. We never really say what we truly want to say. And this is one way of learning poetry: Listen.

September 17, 10:20pm
“You’re lucky to have them,” you said, “as your friends.” I said yes. It’s true. But in my head I thought I am more than that. I am blessed. But I remain unsure if they do, too. We have fears and questions becoming stranger by the minute. This is one of the errors I’ve grown accustomed to.

original doubt

You’re neither the devil I would fear
Nor quite the angel I would praise
With songs cosmic and booming.
But during days when the sun
Prides its teeth too much, I envy
The natural order of chance.
Not like grocery lists, not like
Chips on the finest China.

But something in the league
Of nautilus shells or the promise
Of zygotes. Especially, I envy
The perfect mirage of you
In a picture frame. All smiles,
All in rich disaccord to the times:
In a faraway country, maybe famine.
Maybe the crumbling of a wall.

These couldn’t be chance. So
How come when you say it’s real,
When you say you believe me,
I hear instead the tired music
Of lost harps, feel the spindly legs
Of a kid tremble with its first shot
At judgment? I am a practitioner
Of questions eluded by answers.

True, it remains a wonder to me
How all of this starts with these:
Your message on my phone, your voice
In my ear, the textures and shapes
Of things I come to yearn clasped
In my hands. But you see, doubt
Is delirium undistilled, adoration
At its peak. Hear me until it’s gone.

stranger in the rain

Yesterday evening, on my way home along the lengthy stretch of Frontera Drive in Pasig City, I chanced upon a man in his late 20s. His Gap sweater, cargo shorts, sneakers, everything of him were all drenched under the heavy downpour. He asked for a favor; he found out he had lost his iPhone and wallet upon stepping off a jeepney. He needed money. “My name’s Mark,” he said, stuttering a bit. He repeated his name a second or third time as if I did not hear him. He must be cold. “I’m Jordan,” I said, as I handed to him a twenty peso bill. I was not sure if it was a tear in his eye or rain. He just walked away with shoulders hunched.

62nd carlos palanca memorial awards for literature winners

Here’s that list again. And in it a sprinkling of exceptional people I’m lucky to have met with at Dumaguete, Iligan, and Bacolod: Joshua “Tokwa” Lim So, Erick Aguilar, Charmaine “Shane” Carreon, Ian Rosales Casocot, and Jesus Insilada. Congratulations, bullfrogs.

Following the pleasantries and formalities of the awarding ceremonies at The Rigodon Ballroom of The Peninsula Manila last September 1, Ian and his former students (or rabid supporters) went out to have some drinks at the Buddha Bar and (a little bit more) at Republiq. Because, apparently, someone felt “jaded.”

*

FILIPINO DIVISION

Dulang Pampelikula
1st – Rodolfo Vera (Death March)
2nd – Richard S. Legaspi (Primera Bella)
3rd – Mia A. Buenaventura (Ang Bulag na Musikero)

Dulang Ganap ang Haba
1st – Vincent M. Tañada (Ang Bangkay)
2nd – Luciano Sonny O. Valencia (Ang Penitensiya ni Tiyo Renato)
3rd – Allan B. Lopez (Melodrama Negra)

Tokwa and his Golden Medalyon

Dulang May Isang Yugto
1st – Joshua Lim So (Joe Cool: Aplikante)
2nd – Renerio R. Concepcion (Kumandong Nakaiswat)
3rd – Erick D. Aguilar (Terminal)

Ang Sasambahing Hipon, Erick

Tula
1st – Enrique S. Villasis (Crocopedia)
2nd – Kristian Sendon Cordero (Pagsalat sa Pilat)
3rd – Alvin C. Ursua (Kumpuni)

Tulang Pambata
1st – John Enrico C. Torralba (Gusto Ko Nang Lumaki)
2nd – Peter Solis Nery (Sa Mundo ng mga Kulisap)
3rd – Nely T. Azada (Sampung Tula Para sa mga Bata)

Maikling Kuwento
1st – Mark Benedict F. Lim (Banaag)
2nd – Honorio Bartolome de Dios (Ang Tawo sa Puso ni Teresa)
3rd – Mar Anthony Simon dela Cruz (Darleng)

Maikling Kuwentong Pambata
1st – Will P. Ortiz (Ang Tatlong Bubwit at Bangkang Marikit)
2nd – Bernadette V. Neri (Atang sa Kaluluwa nina Apong Salawal at Apong Saya)
3rd – Luz B. Maranan (Ang Pangat, ang Lupang Ninuno, at ang Ilog)

Sanaysay
1st – Niles Jordan Breis (Go-See, Kraw Gen, Intro: Sa Daigdig ng Promo)
2nd – Elyrah L. Salanga-Torralba (Utang Ina)
3rd – Jing Panganiban Mendoza (Redempsiyon)

Kabataan Sanaysay
1st – Jan Francis B. Asis (Sa Ingit ng Pinto)
2nd – Gerome E. De Villa (Sa Aking Pagbuklat sa mga Makabagong Pahina)
3rd – Jueliand Peter A. Perez (Madyik Bisikleta)

ENGLISH DIVISION

Full-length Play
1st – Robert Arlo B. De Guzman (Practical Aim)
2nd – Jorshinelle Taleon-Sonza (The Passion of Andres)
3rd – Jose Ma. D. Manalo (Manilatown)

One-act Play
1st – No winner
2nd – Joachim Emilio B. Antonio (The Dust in Your Place)
3rd – Patrick John R. Valencia (In Bed with My Mother)

Fellow Bisaya, Shane

Poetry
1st – Carlomar Arcangel Daoana (The Elegant Ghost)
2nd – Charmaine L. Carreon (The Yonic Lover)
3rd – Jason Leo G. Asistores (Waiting and Other Poems)

Poetry for Children
1st – Peter Solis Nery (Punctuation)
2nd – Anca Bautista (Magic Is and Nine Other Magical Poems)
3rd – Raymundo T.Pandan, Jr. (The Ocelot and Other Poems)

With teacher and nth time winner, Ian

Short Story
1st – Rebecca E. Khan (In Transit)
2nd – Ian Rosales Casocot (It Always Breaks My Heart a Little to See You Go)
3rd – Lystra Aranal (Bright Lights)

Short Story for Children
1st – Grace D. Chong (The White Shoes)
2nd – Raymund M. Garlitos (Lauan, The Seed that Wanted to Fly)
3rd – Aleli Dew B. Ayroso (Mister World and His Magical Box)

Essay
1st – Hammed Q. Bolotaolo (Of Legends)
2nd – Martin V. Villanueva (Dao)
3rd – Irwin Allen B. Rivera (Patterns)

Kabataan Essay
1st – Katrina Bonillo (Chapter One: DOWNLOADING)
2nd – Sari Katharyn Molintas (Being Bookish)
3rd – Jhesset Thrina O. Enano (What We Are Losing)

REGIONAL DIVISION

Short Story – Cebuano
1st – Noel P. Tuazon (Duhiraw)
2nd – Richel G. Dorotan (Ang Tulo Ka Mayor sa Hinablayan)
3rd – Rev. Fr. Rey B. Araneta, CM (Abog sa Flyover)

Mr. Two in a Row, Jes

Short Story – Hiligaynon
1st – Alice Tan Gonzales (Lanton)
2nd – Dr. Jesus C. Insilada (Panubok sa Pula Nga Pulos)
3rd – Alain Russ Dimzon (Binukot)

Short Story – Iluko
1st – Danilo B Antalan (Dagiti Sala Ti Panawen)
2nd – Fernando Sanchez (Babato)
3rd – Sherma E. Benosa (Dagiti “No La Koma“ ni Monika)

HALL OF FAME AWARDEE FOR 2012
Peter Solis Nery

First Prize Winning Works
1998 – “Lirio,” Short Story – Hiligaynon
2007 – “Candido,” Short Story – Hiligaynon
2008 – “The Passion of Jovita Fuentes,” Full-length Play
2011 – “Donato Bugtot,” Short Story – Hiligaynon
2012 – “Punctuation,” Poetry for Children

[ list lifted from this site ]

ain't strong enough

At 1:40 this morning, I think I felt some kind of heart attack. I woke up suddenly with my left chest throbbing, the little fist of a muscle within tight as if gripped by a mighty, calloused hand. A slight movement would bring an excruciating wave of pain all over me, so I remained still in bed like a paraplegic. It lasted for a few minutes, three or four or longer, as I breathed in and out deeply. The sharp ache, the pain eventually passed away. Then I wished all pain would pass away that easily, that quickly.

I think it is time to visit the doctor again who, last year, said to me, “Your heart is strong.” I knew I was right. This heart never had been, never was.

original tragedy

Clearly, it is not sin that we inherit
From Adam and Eve but tragedy.
Tragedy of silence, tragedy of a fall
That seems delicate, endless, oceanesque.
One August night, by the table limned
With warm lights piercing through
The amber of beer bottles, I confessed
To some friends I haven’t seen
That old movie they extolled rabidly
Like a little spate of storms.
“Prepare to be in love,” declared one
Who believed that the fate
Of constellations never die
Once tattooed on our skin.
But I have always been in love.
In fact, sometimes I think you are,
And would remain, that old news
I’d want to hear all over again.
I have to be honest. We all should.
And I have to be silent, too. We all have
That singular tragedy we are too willing
To take. So I’ll save the sad lines for later.
For now I just need an affectionate cat,
I just need to set the table tonight.
And finally, this time, not with you.

the inventory of lost possessions

As if the grueling journey to Old Manila was not enough, me and my acquaintance’s beloved were lost last Saturday. Forever. One was Baki and the other one was Monroe. That we had names for them made the loss even more profound.

The former, actually, was a three-year old Canon Powershot SX200IS (but I had to shell out almost ten grand a few months ago to have it repaired) and the latter a six-month old Apple iPhone 4S. All gone. In less than 24 hours. What a way to start the long weekend.

Regardless of their age and monetary worth, it was their intrinsic value and history (short-lived or not) in our lives that we will certainly miss. After all, it is not every day that you get to unwittingly leave a camera in a taxi or have a thief pick through your bag in a rock concert.

I’ve had a fair amount of items lost last year, but try as I might to keep myself from committing the same blunder again, shit happens, and every bite of its actuality is as painful as the last. To spare anyone from bouts of self-loathing, I will deem the detailed background of how these things go poof as irrelevant.

Though ‘materialistic’ would be an easy category for me and my friend to fit in, the absence of these gadgets are honestly heartbreaking. Yes, I have driven this point home early on, but for a man who just has to document wherever and whenever he can and for a woman whose profession and lifestyle require stable connectivity, it really is.

Many would probably say that ours is mostly a generation dependent on technology, infatuated with things new, mechanical, appealing with life-like glow, and that we somehow exist with a symbiotic relationship with them. While that holds a thimble of truth, I and the rest who could attest with me believe that it is not entirely the case.

It is often viewed that technology, especially the ones that attract to the young crowd, perpetuates cultural degradation, narcissism, and a whole class of psycho-sociological studies worthy of a sci-fi or horror flick.

What is rarely considered though, if not dismissed altogether, is that our embrace for these products is a way of showing the progress of days the middle finger, saying, “Hey! I can keep up with you!” or “I am seeing and meeting them no matter what!” or “I know better than you do!”

With something as small as a camera or a phone, we gain this power to frame a moment, share an experience. How amazing is that?

Ironically, it is through this that we are reminded of our being human, that even with the clicks and presses and swipes that seem to dominate our lives, we are, in fact, in control of them. Call it denial—denial to time, denial to societal disconnectedness, denial to mortality—but I would call it living in the now. It could be as simple as that, it could be not.

But for now, allow me this short period of mourning. I will let this loss shroud me for a while and, of course, let it subside. Absence still is absence. Soon, I will bring myself to the nearest gadget store. As you know, I could replace Baki, my acquaintance could replace Monroe, and that’s how the two of us would prove we are still in control. Do not worry, we still are.

the test dream

1.

These days, I’m back again to remembering my dreams. But before anyone could slam this down as a review of ambitions and rousing inventories of B.S., let me be clear that I am referring to that reel playing in your head when you are asleep—snoring optional.

Just today, without disclosing too much, I could recall last night’s story and set of images that includes a full moon, a pig pen, a high-ceilinged bedroom, a mattress, a clump of hair, a pale blue plastic barrel, a sunny morning, and dirty fingernails among many other things.

There is a narrative that strings them all, surprisingly logical, but what I could not work out is how all of these come together. Where did that come from? Why did it turn out that way?

If studies or theories are to be considered, that dreams are manifestations of desires and anxieties, then I suppose I am an alien in this planet. Such want and concern have no place in a world obsessed with expectations, order, and the elusive happy ending.

Strangely enough, dreams in our sleep further make a mockery of our dreams—of which, this time, I mean objectives, aspirations, targets. Put the fluidity and randomness of a dream next to a goal, and the latter would definitely pale in comparison based on truthfulness alone. What you are aiming at would look like a joke.

Why? As much as we want a straight, smooth path, life never has one and never will, its roads and paths and alleyways all crooked, forking, steep or narrow. Just like a dream, it is damn irregular. That is why.

For all our pessimism about how shockingly unrealistic events and people could be, about how we think our problems and privileges are worse and better than anybody else’s, it seems we are all goofing around. Real life is one, long hallucinatory ride, and there is no jumping off this train. Unless.

2.

Speaking of unrealism, I don’t get why someone could complain how unrealistic movies can be. An acquaintance who has seen Tony Gilroy’s The Bourne Legacy shares to the world (she tweeted her thoughts) that she is a bit disappointed because it is “funny” and “unrealistic.”

Funny, yes, it has its comedic moments, especially the punchline-worthy revelation of the Philippines as a crucial destination for our runaway black op member. But unrealistic? It is not a perfect film, but that raised an eyebrow.

We let slip in our collective suspension of disbelief the orcs in The Lord of the Rings trilogy, the spell-casting wands in the Harry Potter flicks or the biceps bursting in The Expendables, therefore we must not question the skill-enhancing drugs, the feverish chase, or the unlimited bullets fired in The Bourne Legacy. And above all, we must not compare the Manila in the film to the Manila we know. Remember, there’s what you call the power of editing. Like some divine gift, everything’s possible: Crash your motorcycle somewhere in Pasay and cruise next on Palawan waters in seconds!

The point is unrealism is vital to a movie. It fascinates, entertains, and brings a jumble of emotions in a viewer—whether good or bad is another story. Unrealism makes us evaluate our own reality, see what works and won’t, while feasting on the improbability-made-possible through filmmaking techniques. In some ways, a movie is an accomplished dream on screen.

So next time, dear moviegoer, never bring up unrealism as a cinematic issue. If the urge is too hard to resist, just settle with the documentaries on History Channel or National Geographic.

3.

When I can faintly recall a dream upon waking, I try to squeeze out every trace of it from my head, summon the cohesiveness that starts to materialize, and write all of it swiftly on paper, in the phone or the iPod. Every passing second is an open window for distraction, so it has to be done fast. This week alone, I manage a record of two accounts. Though they resemble less of a nightmare, I could not say they are the sweetest of dreams either. If this is a motif that would stretch on until the next few days, then allow me to say my apologies now for being as dour as ever.

4.

Contrary to popular belief, almost all of my dreams are vividly colored. Almost, because I remember one from four years ago that is in sepia. Yes, a freaking, Instagramic sepia.

5.

I’ve just suggested to someone to watch The Sopranos because it remains my all-time favorite, because I think it is one of the best products of pop-culture ever made, and because I think people better waste their time on something that does not waste their time at all. (Another example: reading).

One of the episodes of this six-season serial drama that revolves around the life of an Italian-American mobster is entitled “The Test Dream.” David Chase, writer of this particular episode, (and also the series’ creator and executive producer) explains in an interview that the title “refers to the dreams where an individual turns up late for a test in school and is wearing no clothing, meaning that the person is unprepared for a test or another task they have to face.”

It is a fine episode, as usual. And that’s all I’ve got to say. Just watch the show.

6.

If this is not a test dream, am I prepared for this?

j.

I won’t speak of nouns as big as rapture
But I might as well do when I see you again,
See you when you said on the phone, “to your left,”
Or see you when you mouth a name that sounds
Gently warm, agnominal, triumphant, jai ho.

I’m certain no book is ever really lost no matter how often
You insist you’ve never finished one from cover to cover.
But I will not miss the chance to pluck from my shelf
A favorite and hand it before you: Please read this.
Please read between the lines. Please read my lips.

You would remember a lot of things, I am sure,
But I want you to forget all the paintings
You never made or that person who wept
The first time you two had slept together
As you whispered, “It’s okay… It’s okay…”

But you must know everything was all right then,
And that weeping wouldn’t stop so soon,
For when eloquence evades you like a man
Silenced by books or stuck with blank canvases,
There are words you just have to hear

Again and again. Again and again.

creativity here, creativity there

“Ba’t andameng creative sa Visayas at Mindanao?”

Or, “Why are there so many creative individuals in Visayas and Mindanao?” A few days ago, someone I recently talked to put forth that loaded question. He was referring to people in the field of literature, visual art, dance, music, etc. He sounded earnest. I did not exactly know what to say, but the first thought in mind, without linking myself to the individuals he was referring to, was that maybe people in these regions have less distraction to deal with.

It is not that the provinces in the VisMin area are deficient of any standard, time-killing fare (i.e. cinemas, politics, parties, anything Apple); it just feels to me that way, especially for someone whose education from kindergarten to college is rooted in Bohol and Negros Oriental. I have lived and breathed in these islands’ atmosphere firsthand.

But it was an unsatisfactory response to a very objective question. Why, really? And, in the first place, what accounts as “many?” How is that, or could be, measured? By affiliation? By influence? By collective output?

When I was mulling the question over and over like an agitated patient with his stress ball, an assumption (yes, assumption, because I couldn’t prove it) made itself clear in my head: Competition.

Maybe there is this less spoken rivalry palpable in this land (where I currently resided on) but which is less spoken in the other island groups. Maybe the circles here just never intersect, their opposing ideals explicitly brandished or publicized in journals, anthologies, and even in pedestrian conversations over beer, that the possibility of a Venn diagram of shared understanding is unheard of.

Maybe with this competition, all eyes are only set to the champions who wave the flags in each side, or to those newly minted with some sort of bestowment, or to anyone who is raised to higher ground of attention. Thus, maybe, the idea of the creative is limited to those who are frequently exposed, thus the feeling that creativity somewhere else is profuse, thus the left field question of my acquaintance. Maybe the goal is sheer publicity—whether it is in a very, unflattering shade or not—and whoever is on the sidelines better luck next time and try perpetually harder.

But Visayas and Mindanao, of course, are not saints in this department. Each has its own conflicts when it comes to this tangible asset which is creativity. The two have competitions, but as what I have said earlier, maybe in a less spoken degree, downplayed. Maybe, maybe.

Yes, competition encourages discourse, brings more works, making the nation’s archive of visions richer and more original than the previous generation, but I think it is not the end all, be all of a flourishing, borderless, Filipino creativity. There must be another way.

And I, or should I say we, will now have to think what it could possibly be.

filipino readers’ choice awards finalists

Here’s some good news for the day (which is particularly a bit tacky considering the day’s endless rain and the book I am about to mention). Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry (2011, Antithesis Collective), which is edited by Khavn de la Cruz and Joel M. Toledo, is nominated in the 2012 Filipino Readers’ Choice Awards for Best Poetry Anthology.

According to the award-giving body’s website, “finalists will be deliberated upon by select judges for each category composed of Filipino readers. They will read and discuss the books, and decide which is deserving to receive the Readers’ Choice Award in that specific category.”

Just giddy. My slightly revised piece “Stones” is one of the 150 poems featured in this collection, and being in this literary effort is already an achievement, with or without the award.

See the rest of the finalists here.

poem at quarterly literary review singapore

My poem “How to Put Everything at Stake” is up at the Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, along with works by fellow Filipino writers Allen Samsuya and Glenn Diaz. Yes, they’re all online, in this link, so check them out.

poetry as a lesson in geography

Who could’ve known we have walked the same streets,
The same steps with the same pace this morning?
Would there be some spatial truth behind the medians
And distances we always gauge and disengage?
Admit it, we could’ve been more crowded
Without anger. We’ve been molding this landscape
Far longer than the patient breaking of trenches.
We have secret maps moles and hunters would envy,
We have forked wide and far enough to get lost
In the wrinkles of canyons, in the outskirts of lakes.
And aren’t slippages the sole purpose of wanderings?
Our paths could’ve gone worse if not for our faith
In destinations: This is where we go, this is what we do.
Or maybe: This is what you do, this is where I go.
The terrains could be as kind as riverbeds dry
Or wise and decent like weathered stones,
But there will be something in this land we will fail
To tread, and there are plenty more in another country.
We could go on and on, people lauding how far we’ve gone,
But this compass will only be as good as to where we stand.

cover art for paper monster press asuang issue

The cover art for the Asuang Issue of Paper Monster Press is now out, and just look at that. Terrifying, just terrifyingly beautiful. My flash fiction piece “Where The Cats Are Always Sleepy” will be featured in this edition.

Click here for the list of contributors.

For everyone’s sake, Paper Monster Press is “a trans-genre (literature, art, music) indie, no-garage, publishing outfit based in Cavite, Philippines,” and the Asuang Issue refers to the “exploration of that darkest part of our psyche: the monsters of our mind. Asuang is an umbrella term for all the creatures that peopled our imagination, and we explore this narrative in literature, art, and music.”

This will be launched at Flip and Beyond Resto Bar, Dasmariñas, Cavite on August 18, 2012 (Saturday), 6PM.

More information about the projects of Paper Monster Press here.