Nagsusulat lamang...

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Sat, 22 Nov 2008 05:50:00 +0000

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 05:00:00 +0000

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 05:12:00 +0000

It's over. Moving on.

State of selves

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 09:09:00 +0000

Limping to the MRT station this morning you see, again, a dog walking w/ broken leg, staring at you; you begin to believe, yet again, that you're the star of a bad movie. Circumstances at lunch cohere: the kitchen serves shrimp -- you're allergic & left to buying a value meal for over 100 pesos, the drink of w/c you tip over, leaving some of you fries swimming. You still owe for those shrimps.

The director of this movie sends you messages thru puddles & steep steps. Pain is a reminder of something significant. You take a pain killer for a calming kind of forgetfulness. Thoughtlessness is key.

You're beginning to understand a new kind of fear, the type that comes when nothing of yourself seems troubled save for everyone that keeps you calm, who, before your eyes, begin dissolving amid a whirl of expectations & things silly, like responsibility.

A core dependent on the centripetal, you lean harder on only 1 good leg. The aircon doesn't work; your undershirt is thick. The coffee canister's newly filled; you've run out of sugar. You begin to write something; you've lost sight of your own point, & you wonder if it would've mattered at all to begin w/.

For what tomorrow entails you say:

1. Don't give up.

2. Hang in there.

3. This is important/nothing; you will be great.

But for now, you settle w/ banging your head on the proverbial wall, w/ hiding in the cliche cave, w/ running off far & away w/ only the company of a calmer sense of breathing. For just a moment, away w/ perspective, perceptions, or anything akin to thought!

Cuz what is it all really but just constructs of a rattled mind, the realm in w/c silly directors work & play for the title genius.

Salt to wound, you raise a middle finger. Someone understands.

3 nights at work

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 02:01:00 +0000

(1)

I don't know what drives a man close to 30 to loop "Puff the Magic Dragon" on his iTunes for his co-workers to listen to, but I'm dealing w/ it, hearing about frolicking & a land called honah lee for the nth time this evening. Oh, wait -- he's moved on to a rock song about Jesus Christ. Great.

On our 1st day on the job, noticing my limp, he confided in me that he had had surgery too. For brain cancer apparently. I've learned to accept that such life tragedies can lead to listening to songs like "Puff the Magic Dragon."

He assumed his opening up would win him some sort of leverage in terms of friendship. Funny the thoughts that enter people's mind upon just meeting someone.

Oh, he's leaving now. And I'm alone. Good.

(2)

I'm sitting alone in our corner office. It's payday; the others have left early. I have deductions to my pay; under time. I suppose that's why I'm still here. The next couple of days could see me leaving early or arriving late; errands to run in school before exam week. I need the quiet anyways. I'm in 1 of those moods: I need to be alone. Could say why but I'd be speculating, second-guessing myself. Best to just ride the wave. For no one's sake but mine.

Bonfire tonight. Ria texted; looking for a mini-block reunion. Could use their company; could use that of my shadow more. I hope April's hanging in there; rough end to the sem. I remember the feeling; it was only months ago. See, I'm in 1 of those moods again.

Haven't written anything this week; I've written a lot over the past few. I don't mind the sudden dry spell. Best to ride the wave, perhaps dive into some reading, not for inpsiration but just because. Not everything needs a reason; there's calm to be found in the elipses...

Ate Lucy comes rushing in. "Did he come in here?" she asks me in Filipino. "Who?" "The crazy man." "Who?" "A crazy man broke in thru the back entrance!"

I look out to the printing press; people are standing around looking concerned. I go back to my seat & take a sip of water. I notice my mug: remnants of coffee. I look to the clock; I'll be leaving in an hour. I take the cup & decide to wash it. Trouble at the door; it's locked. I open it, allowing Kuya Cece to come in.

The printing press people who couldn't care less about the crazy man commotion eat dinner: McDo this time; suweldo. I wash my mug by the sink; pass by the office to get to the nice CR. Jamie's discussing security w/ a secretary; I take a leak. On my way back to my corner office, I see the buzz of discussion; I hear little. I'm back behind my desk. Kuya Cece's at his desk, w/ earphones on. It's quiet. I'm alone. Cool.

(3)

Things to consider:

- The picture represents a moment.

- Looking at the picture is going back to that moment.

- Time elapsing means change, moving away from that moment.

- The desire to look at the picture means meaning.

* Did you concretely & honestly elaborate on these points in your piece, especially the last?

Here, choice of tone & details to be included are vital for a more subtle & complex exploration as opposed to mere react-&-reflect. Maybe read "Zero Gravity" again for inspiration. Notice choice of detail, how they're described, the subtle acknowledgment of time/change, the TONE...

Push yourself!

Again, it's late & I'm alone. "I Just Called to Say I Love You" playing from Kuya Cece's computer. Just finished making comments on the last of my students' essays. I've read maybe 10 today. Plus 4 poems. English & Filipino. I rush them to school early tomorrow morning. Then back to the office, to the chair I sit on now, in front of a screen that stares back at me at least 40 hours a week.

A new kind of indifferent

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Fri, 26 Sep 2008 06:17:00 +0000

The other week I saw a McDo crew member outside his branch across Edsa Central, w/ family & friends around him, taking pictures of him in his clean uniform on his 1st day of work. Smiles were wide. A woman I figure to be the mother dabbed the corners of her eyes w/ a tissue. I couldn't help but smile at the day's news.

One of my favorite teachers from college required us to write reactions to 2 local columnists every week. Others dreaded the assignment; I found it a chore at times. But I insisted on the value of the exercise.

More than just a practice of writing, it was an exercise in being up to date w/ the goings-on. And coupled w/ my insistence on presenting personal thoughts in valid analytical frameworks, I became my version of a responsible citizen -- upholding my duty to be concerned w/ the issues in an extensive way.

But I now skip the Inquirer as daily reading, & settle w/ The New York Times & The New Republic, mostly for updates on the US presidential elections -- as if those things affected me more than whatever it is that dominates the front pages of the Bulletin these days.

The other day I watched 'the news' & listened to a comparison made between Republican VP candidate Sarah Palin & the proverbial slutty-teacher figure. "She'll win votes from those who want to fantasize fucking her!" said the 'newscaster.' A day later I edited an article where an Aquino is mentioned; I Googled to check if he's the 1 who's a senator.

This morning I arrived at work & went straight online to Inquirer.net: Yup, Pumaren's pissed as I'd thought he'd be. Headline: "2M kilos of Chinese milk sold in RP stores." I closed the window & chat with an officemate whose head rested on his desk. His wife is due in a week; the thought of providing for a kid comes w/ too much worry.

So I'm working now, interacting w/ real working people, w/ real issues, real concerns. I know, on a much deeper level, the word on the street, the sweat of the common man, his odor, his armpits all up on my face as I beg for air riding home on the train. When I ride a cab, my nods to the driver's musings are more pronounced, as if to say I finally truly understand what he means, cuz I too have all these adult obligations.

So months after graduating, I've slowly morphed into what I thought I'd never become -- apathetic, hiding behind excuses: sumusunod naman ako sa batas; may respeto naman ako sa kapwa kong tao.

But the truth is that I've lost touch w/ the issues, the seemingly abstract conundrums that lead to the palpable grief I see firsthand. I've clumped all institutions-related problems together as a generic whole, reducing understanding to generalizations, & most unfortunately, begun to accept things at the top as as is, unworthy of my attention cuz of my smaller, working man concerns.

Sure, I'm more in touch, issues I've mused over now seemingly more tangible. But that has made me, in a way, a new kind of indifferent. And in this light, I finally, truly, get it... this... this mess.

Perfect stranger

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 02:29:00 +0000

greetings.

how is thee?

I had noticed her return to YM recently, & I suppose I needed the reassurance that things aren't so bad for other people.

Hey Marts!

I'm good.

How are you?

I remember those who call me 'Marts' & in no other variation of my name. She's 1 of them. The others are a high school friend who has gone on to star in films w/ Pacquiao, as well as another close high school friend who taught me that it was OK to have a unpopular passion -- for him it was film, before it was cool in a very popular & democratic way; he's now teaching in film school, I hear.

steady.

you working na?

What's steady?

Nope, just part-time.

Break before studying again.

She was always 1 of the smarter 1s, though it's easy for people to underestimate her. I've always said she's the sweetest girl I'll ever meet, heartbreakingly sweet. And not in a weak, pushover way. She can hold her own, but she's not 1 for situations where she has to prove this. She's 1 of the few people I've met who genuinely believes in the best in people.

not so high, not so low.

part-time doing what?

law school after, right?

I see.

Writing.

Yep.

What have you been up to?

She was a blockmate of mine, 1 of the few Theater Arts majors before she shifted out. Our conversations, always pleasant, often skimming the deep end, were always a result of chance encounters -- a bench outside De La Costa before a test, a walk to the footbridge, sharing the front passenger seat of another blockmate's car, the rest of them filling the back.

working. head of writing and concepts for a new design company.

and teaching cw sa 'teneo.

writing, really?

saan lumalabas ang works mo?

Whoa!

You're teaching!

That's great!

SO proud of you!

It's for NGOs, so it's really internal.

I was asked to speak at her debut a few years ago, & I couldn't say much. Didn't know her thru thick & thin. Never really confided in each other our worries outside generalizations of them. At most, at times of worry, she would just be someone who was concerned but reasonable enough not to intrude. So we would chat, completely skirting the issue/s -- & there was sincerity in that.

All I said during her debut was that I wished her the best. It was short. It was honest. The most honest I can ever be.

ah ok cool.

so what's the timeline on law school.

june 09?

More like September, cos I'm not gonna be studying here.

ows?

canada?

I can try for January, but I'd rather settle in Canada first and find work before studying.

Yep.

Her mother's in Canada; wasn't able to attend graduation. I don't remember asking if she was OK w/ it when she mentioned it in passing; she's close to her mother. I was concerned, though -- just didn't say so, cuz we never do.

I do remember this news coming when I was musing something existential -- a means to hide problems more trivial. She listened as usual. But didn't say anything. We parted, wishing each other the best again.

awww...

leaving our shores.

Yeah, it's fine.

I'm beginning to embrace it.

It's not like I'm not going back.

It's nice to try something different di ba? Expand your territory.

But hey, enough about that.

Look at you teaching and all that!

havent seen you in awhile but you still sound like yourself.

Is that good or bad?

that's good.

in a weird way it's reassuring.

i've been thinking a lot lately about the concept of change...

how when sincere, it's simply moving with the currents within...

and with that can come, i suppose, good or bad, a kind of pretentious experimenting.

but persons like you...

self as irrevocable, set, future and change as a reaching out...

and as expansion...

not a turning away

but a moving forward

and a growing

there's 'truth' in that.

in short, ya, good.

i don't know.

I get you. But I would've placed it in simpler terms.

right.

i'm weird like that.

I have a close group of friends w/ whom I would say I have an intense relationship w/. Then there are many friendly acquaintances w/ whom pleasantries & small talk are the extent of it. Then there are the strangers -- those I know due to circumstances w/c have allowed for glimmers of proximity but have also hindered further cultivation.

But it's in these kinds of relationships where cultivation would almost defeat the purpose, for their significance is precisely in those moments of chance, moments of meaningful & short-lived but sincere, symbiotic gratification. It somehow reaffirms things that often those closest to you -- say, your family -- fail to express ... like the desire for your well-being.

That's fine.

That's you.

SO how's teaching?

i generally like it.

it's tough.

but it's good.

there's something about saying something and having people hang on to your words.

kinda scary.

but in a good way. makes me mindful.

That's true.

Wow, you get to inspire and mold minds!

i wouldnt say that.

corrupt them maybe.

shit.

my boss called for a meeting...

gotta go.

just wanted to see how you were doing...

dont be a stranger, ok?

OK.

i won't be if you won't.

We won't speak in months, won't know each other's progress. I won't even think of her. And that's OK. Because there's something to be said about the perfect kind of stranger.

* * *

Ito, ang aking The Chiaroscuro Variations, birthday joke ko kay Pancho (September 17).

Another Heights worskshop

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 03:09:00 +0000

Congrats to the fellows of the 14th Ateneo Heights Workshop (especially April, Sasha, Wy, & Brandz), held this past weekend weekend at Casa Ibiza, Antipolo!

Many thanks to workshop director Petra Magno for inviting me over to panel for 1 nonfiction session, & thanks to the 'real' panelists on Saturday -- Ma'am Beni Santos (now my 'colleague' -- her words ... hehe kilig), Sir Egay Samar, Sir Allan Derain, Joel Toledo, Kael Co, & Waps San Diego -- for allowing me to speak (hehehe).

Sure, my 1 workshop thus far, that 3-week period a co-fellow has attributed a virus to, is a bit of a blur to me now -- 1 I'm akin to wanting to move on from & go back to at the same time (for reasons many & few, depending on how you look at it) -- but I believe in workshops. I believe in the exchange of ideas & sensibilities somewhat filtered thru the formality of the labels panelist & fellow. And I believe in the sharing of passion & wisdom that comes w/ the intimacy of the word workshop.

I enjoy listening to arguments for a 'higher level' & those who quip 'I found it fitting as is.' I enjoy hearing comments on the manipulation of time & references to Ezra Pound as much as I enjoy being resigned to just saying Wasak! & quoting from a Stonefree song.

I love how the workshop leads to somewhere for the fellows involved -- or at least earnestly wants to lead them somewhere. I love how Heights means enough for former members for them to want to come back to panel every year (this year it was Ma'am Beni, Sir Egay, Mookie Katigbak, Kael, & Waps).

And I love how Heights has lived on decades after its maiden issue in 1952, when it was but a reaction to the 'death of campus literature' (as we were reminded of by current Heights editor in chief Fid Tan during her closing remarks).

Congrats again to those involved! Next year ulit! Until then, looking forward to reading you all again!

* * *

Isa pa...

Issue includes my essay "Of Golf, Nature, and the Art of Communion" & my poem "Alone." And check out all those other names involved! Galing! Kitakits sa launch!

Middle finger, po

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 03:04:00 +0000

So my father's going to be out of a job again come October; the chairman of his company was apparently looking for a cheaper guy, & found 1.

My father & I haven't really talked in months, outside of his request to borrow money & the standard stuff: Did you eat yet? ... Hi.

When he told me about his losing his job, I consented w/ more of mere obligatory: Why? And after his explaining I even offered to ask around for openings. And that was that.

The silence officially began 1 night a couple of months ago when I discovered, for certain, that he was a fraud like everyone else. I had a hunch for years, but when you look up to someone, you hold on to the belief that that person is merely complex. Now I know there's nothing complicated about him; like I said, he's like the rest of them.

My father has begun to lash out at people. The other week it was a helpless guard in Makati. A few months ago it was me; I believe the words used were Fuck you! ... ah yes, I believe 5 times, w/ emphasis on the exclamation point, spit catapulting as the shape of his mouth pointed: YOU!

Some call it midlife crisis, & excuse the rage because of difficulties. I can't say I agree; shit happens, deal w/ it -- especially when you spent 50 years positioning yourself as the good, rational, level-headed, & humble 1, a perch from which you've conveniently criticized others for not having similar qualities.

I still believe he has a good heart. He's my father. I'll leave others to see if there's a connection between my last 2 statements. But my cousin Pope put it quite well: He's rootless. And I'd have to agree. What else can you call a man who realigns many of his values to best put himself in a better place given the situation life throws his way?

My father has lived a colorful life, done a lot of things, saved the life of the person writing this. But maybe the problem is that he never really stood for anything for himself, loved anything for himself, found glimmers of transcendence we proclaim to aspire for in settings apt for such proclamations, like Sunday mass .

But whatever -- I've begun to keep my distance, & have begun to learn how this could be best for me right now.

And so when I'm caught in between a spat between my father & a helpless guard merely doing his job, I close my eyes not out of embarrassment but rather in prayer -- asking God to guide me not to be the kind of man the man next to me has become. Or has been all along.

Ey you & other greetings

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 03:34:00 +0000

For Sasha on her birthday, I post the part of her yearbook write-up that made her cry:

"... like the way she cocoons herself to 1 corner when in deep thought, the way she giggles over a good grade or just a funny word, the way she is praised & asks in disbelief, Why?, the way she singles you out in a crowd & offers a hand, making you believe in Why not?"

Ey you. Happy birthday.

* * *

A year ago, when I told Larry what I had been reading, he said I was "such a guy."

Then he became my thesis mentor.

The following exchange between Larry (2nd place for essay, 2008 Philippines Free Press Literary Awards) & I came recently, after I asked him to comment on my latest essay, months after I put my thesis to bed & months after he had read anything serious by me

"So how'd you find my new piece?"

"Bumabading na ang aesthetics mo. Palakpakan."

"Aray."

"You are talking to a gay writer so that could be a compliment you know."

"Right."

Palakpakan. Bow.

Congrats, Larry!

(And thank you?)

Change

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 02:47:00 +0000

I'm interested, you see, in change -- drastic change, change whose causes are likely more fascinating than the often lackluster outcomes. I'm interested in causes, the proverbial something. Some say demon; I say, in the vernacular, kiliti, or perhaps more precisely, kulo.

And when I speak of change & its causes, I speak also of expectations. I'm a child of expectations, you see -- groomed by various persons to be a certain way while life's circumstances have also been like a script I'm proactively privy to forgetting.

I've spoken before of looks & the superficiality of appearances. But let's get a little deeper & speak, for example, of survival -- the grace that people have said I should live out in a state of pure joy. Skeptics have assumed I've chosen to be skeptical, as if guilt from the luck-of-the-draw was something good-natured people volunteered for irrationally as opposed to merely feeling in all honesty. Something changed, you see, & that causes more changes that I admit I do not care for. But I don't despise circumstances enough to rid myself of what I believe I'm bearing -- sincerity.

So when I see a kid, my age, given the world of expectations by those we hold in reverence before hitting 18 because of a supposed gift for poetry, I pull for him. And when I see him now, going off like someone whose completely lost it, but still managing to explain himself in an intellectual manner, I say, It makes sense. Even if I've only heard rumored reasons. Even if I question his verbalized explanations. Whatever the real ones are I'll let him have them. It makes him him. Change is singing to true wounds. We don't owe that to anyone but ourselves.

People like the term rebelling a lot, so much so that there's a culture of reveling in that spirit. But in a definition of the word written by someone I don't recall, I found its true essence: it is not a turning away; it is a searching.

So we go back to the original word: change. It's change that's exciting, not how much for the better or the worse -- cuz judging would be all wrong. The point is that it happened, & for those living their lives true, the true cause is buried somewhere in them, rumbling. And that's what it's all about right there -- figuring it out, moving w/ the shifts it causes, believing confidently that wherever it takes you is where you were meant to be, at least for now.

Here I speak of possibility.

Last week I met a man -- a famous man -- whose reputation is that of neon colors, glitz, glamor, the good life & all its excesses. He speaks to me while pensively seated on a grey couch, his attire -- based on expectations -- a bland combination of plain jacket, jeans, & sneakers. We talk & our eyes never meet, he looking off to where his mind is, where his heart, I believe, thirsts for a place to beat true. We talk about London, Paris, & over a hundred pairs of shoes. I could almost hear him whispering, under his breath, Why?

And in that moment, I decided that I care for him. And I'm looking to see where he goes from here.

* * *

Belated Happy Birthday to Gin (August 25)!

Upon seeing a man at a mall

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 05:11:00 +0000

I'm guessing the world doesn't need this sick strew of synthetic pastels, cotton paper left to dry, as brittle as lips having long lost the moistness from a kiss. I'm guessing the world needs no more twigs crafted as if fallen from true trees, w/ perforations left from where 2 parted, thorns that fingernails will scratch in fear of inflicting more pain. I'm guessing God didn't mean for this that 3rd day, didn't mean for such tacky quasi-perfection, glaring in washed hues not quite from nature's color wheel. I'm guessing God meant more when He ordered dominion, when an apple & a snake gave birth to the need for blooms as they were intended, to symbolize the purest of intents -- like confessions, & a man's apology.

Immersion

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 06:46:00 +0000

It's my 1st mass in months, in the formal dining room of a prominent family whose name's spelling I'm not so certain -- a proactive stance of apathy (-joa-? or -jua-?). They have an altar set up in 1 corner, beside w/c the matriarch sits alone on what I'm calling a throne. The rest of the family, some seemingly sleepily just out of bed at 4PM, sit at the dining table. There are 2 seats off to the side, complete w/ cushioned benches to kneel on during that time of the mass when kneeling is expected. I sit on 1 of those chairs, my boss on the other, like the 2 accused of some sort of sin. After mass the matriarch excuses herself; we all touch noses w/ her in the way of the eskimo for reasons lost on me. It's funny, but I suppose there's a cute endearment in that had I been a part of the clan, had I been taught to do so since childhood. I guess. As the matriarch leaves, the food starts coming out in trays from the kitchen, carried by servants in white uniforms while dogs in diapers run about in the cold of the air-conditioning. Outside a shirtless gardener trims the grass beside the pool & I disturb myself w/ suspicions of Wisteria Lane as the youngest of the family's women sits across from me.

The shallow perks of work allow me overpriced coffee as well as a seat next to a large mestizo of an elderly man w/ a huge gold necklace & slicked-back hair. He doesn't say anything the whole time, though I find myself reading into the nature of his smile -- whether made out of kindness or inspired by Tony Soprano-like intentions. I'm in a meeting & Manchego cheese & Serrano ham are passed around, servants whispering into my ear, asking what drink I'd prefer. Of course I just say water, not wanting to push my luck as I smirk at the sight of a gregarious family enjoying the life -- but still pushing aside prissy sandwiches & veggie canapes & making do w/ the obligatory dab of brie, but preferring instead to mouth down burnt longganisa & handfuls upon handfuls of good old greasy wanton crisps.

The right kind of conceit

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 05:30:00 +0000

I had once warned the personal essayists in my class that if they had been raped, millions of others have too, if they had cancer, millions of others have it too, & if they had parental problems, millions of others are in the same situation.

And as a continuation to the lesson on the proverbial so-what?, I asked Rica Bolipata-Santos when she sat in w/ us how she decides whether an aspect of her life is worth writing about or not.

"Oh, I'm very conceited. I think everything about me is worth writing about." (Another lesson bites the dust.)

My conceit isn't quite at Rica's level yet (though my blogging last week might've proved otherwise) so I'll take this opportunity to veer away from personal hullaballoo to focus on some valuable things Rica said in our class about creative nonfiction.

Now, let's go back to the conceit quote & add another statement: "When I 1st started out I didn't think I'd ever be a published writer. The writing is enough. I don't need to be published."

"Let me see your body," my boss just told my co-worker. "Nice."

Konteksto, kaibigan. Konteksto.

My co-worker is drawing a girl figure for 1 of our clients. My boss wanted her to open the .pdf file of the illustration of the girl character's whole body.

Now, back to Rica & contextualizing her statements, cuz of course she isn't 1 of them mere journal writers who operate solely on cathartics. She wouldn't be the wonderful writer that she is if she was (Google her if you still don't know who I speak of.)

Let's proceed w/ my favorite of all questions, w/c Rica said in class: "Why should I care?" And here is where I'll throw in her take on the proverbial personal-to-universal lesson: When writing, especially a personal essay, 1 is taking something from his private realm & throwing it into the public realm, w/ the intent of having another take what is given to the public to bring it back to his own private realm. It must be relatable, readers insist. I agree, but prefer to think of it as something worth investing in, or worth engaging. (Can't relate to the events of the '60s but I can be informed of it, interested in it, touched by it; can't relate to the anger behind a manifesto but if written well I can be engaged intellectually to disagree w/ it.)

This brings us to what is dubbed the "burden" of nonfiction: insight -- expressed explicitly or implicitly. Nonfiction, said Rica, necessitates a relaying of information ("non") & a recognition of the self ("fiction" -- as in w/ characters if my interpretation is correct; a persona & the readers I count as characters), leading to the end-all of some semblance of enlightenment. Wasak. Good way of breaking it down, I think.

This is where I'll place my favorite quote from that morning: "You should be good at critiquing someone else only because you're good at critiquing yourself." Ang galing.

It becomes clear, at least for me, that 1 can be conceited if the work -- taken as a serious, cathartic craft -- is viewed as enough. This speaks of the kind of sincere respect & love for the craft that's unsurpassed by any other motive.

Thanks, Rica. Was a true pleasure.

(And a brief moment of unapologetic conceit: I'm Ok. We're OK.)

* * *

Birthday ni Japs bukas (August 12). Happy birthday, pards. Miss kita.

What I know

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 10:08:00 +0000

I know I'm not white, I know I'm not black, I know that being brown connotes different things for different people.

I know I'm smart, I know there are others who are smarter, I know talent goes along way, I know friendliness takes you further.

I know the ocean is blue, & so is the sky though not always. I know to call something blue is often not enough, & I know that when I say I'm blue, people will ask why, & I know the reasons why they ask aren't always out of obligation.

I know to be cool is to be cool, & limiting oneself to coolness isn't cool at all. I know love can be beautiful, can be hurtful, can be felt. And I know I will never completely know love; still, I insist I've never been this close to knowing so.

I know words have the depth of meaning, & that silence can be richer. I know not all things need saying, & I know I know the importance of conversation.

I know compromise is a giving up, & I know giving up can be transcendent. I know sacrifice is overrated & underrated at the same time.

I know forever is great, & I know now is all that matters. I know ends are always coming, & I know ends aren't always the end.

But I know I know things can begin, & begin again, & begin again. And I hold on to what I know because what I know is all I got.

And I'll continue to hold on. Again & again & again.

* * *

With Joel's book launch, & Marie's Palanca win, & a brilliant essay I just read written by my student, I know at least the writerly gods are smiling & that just good, sincere work can be enough.

Journal entry: Emo (& sincere)

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 04:26:00 +0000

I've long resigned to thinking I'd never be completely happy -- just not in my nature. That said, & people have noticed, I've never been as happy as I've been over the past 11 months. And I've never admitted to this but here goes: I've been trying to be -- not content w/ self-inflicted states of cynicism & sadness. Isn't it only fitting then for a life led like mine -- a not quite happy life -- to have the happiest time ever stop at 11 months: not quite a year? Cuz you're not supposed to be high for too long, says the author of this life, not even for an increment of 365 days. (No, not me.)

But never mind perspective. Fuck it! Let's leave that for when we're on rocking chairs in a place above w/c I pray exists. No -- no putting things in place, no closure to a chapter. No! This is not the end. I won't let this end just as I have most other things/persons I've loved. This story is still writing itself -- w/ my whole body holding on to the pen of the hack writer Life is. There's still time, more pages to fill. (Join me. Please?)

There's still love -- & here goes: I've begun to believe in the human spirit's ability to channel everything to that end. (Don't leave. I'm begging.)

Conspiring

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 08:32:00 +0000

His leg was caught in between the legs of the woman standing in front of him. I had backed up a few mini-steps -- all I could afford w/out burying my book-filled backpack into the groin of the old man behind me. This paved a good 1.5-foot opening for the man w/ the cap to pass thru. Still, his leg got caught in between a woman who might've been standing a little too defiantly in the 1st place. The man w/ the cap tripped out of the train onto the platform & immediately glared back, catching my eyes in a stare down. The old man behind me nudged me forward to the wide-stanced woman. She pushed me off to the side where my head met the elbow of a woman holding the railing above. The old man & the 2 younger women gave me similar looks of disgust. I addressed each of them w/ a tilt of the head. You gotta be kidding me, my furrowing brows retorted at the unspoken accusations made by disgusted faces. At the next station, I resign to an Excuse me & the silly pleasantries of bowing my head, hands clasped -- Paalam po . Cuz it's always my fault in the end. Always.

Circles

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 05:10:00 +0000

Someone once told me that when someone else had pointed me out as I was sitting in 1 corner of the FA lounge, she thought He doesn't look like a Palanca winner. The story was told to me when that someone & I were much closer, of course, & a lot has happened since. The story stuck w/ me, though, far beyond those involved in the equation, after all these months, years -- its essence a reality so glaring that it saddens me. Angers me.

There was a time when circles were mad at The Man, & this cause continued on in ways sincere or not so, the concept of cool playing a role that shouldn't go unnoticed. So now isn't it only expected that somewhere along the way a man (or men) would be so irked by The Circle after all that he has noticed?

Who's your audience?

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 01:56:00 +0000

Interesting: When asked who he believes his audience is, if he has an ideal audience, & whether or not this plays into the writing of his poetry, Vince Serrano said he looks at it as having 2 groups/levels of audience. The 1st are the individuals/friends that make up his poet-colleagues, so to speak, w/ whom he exchanges ideas/critiques/insights w/ on a fairly regular basis. The 2nd is the larger audience, w/c stretches beyond the confines of Philippine readers & even those who are still living ("conversing w/ history"), & speaks of a lasting quality, perhaps -- a work-speaks-for-itself intention that we should all strive for in our writing.

Thanks again, Vince, for being our 2nd in-class workshop guest panelist this past week.

And congrats on the Europe gig! Quiapo farewell tour na 'to!

This Saturday's in-class workshop features personal essayist extraordinaire & my predecessor in this crazy gig of mine Rica Bolipata-Santos. Sit-in anyone?

(Photo conveniently stolen from BJ Patino's Flickr.)

* * *

Spilled coffee incident update: I now have a perpetual ant problem at my desk. My co-worker told me that before I got to work yesterday, there were even ants coming out of my laptop. Argh.

* * *

Perpetually late greetings:

Happy Birthday, Yaps (July 24)!

Happy Birthday rin sa partner-in-crime Cindy (July 27)!

In cold blood

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 04:44:00 +0000

(Or how you interview a source whose story is a version of your own.)

You let her speak. You let her go on & on about everything, starting from the very beginning. You need the info anyways. Don't write all the facts, just the 1 you know you might forget -- like the spelling of a name, the acronym for some test you never had. You'll remember the other stuff -- like Stage 3 or We feel very blessed now.

Write the 1st 3 words of quotes you'll use. No use for writing the whole thing. If it's good, you'll remember anyways. The quotes will make your outline.

Things fell apart.

Do I end it na?

I don't know.

She has her feet up on the couch. The son beside her is chiming in -- hospital memories (he was 5 years old then). The toddler's running around; everything is OK. Good. Just let her go on. Nod if you must; keep your eyes on her. Keep the face blank. Make her think you might be interested; make her forget she's talking to you. Just let her. You need the info anyway.

But latch on to the details she brushes over. Not that her husband lost his hair. Not that his family was so helpful. Not that she cleaned the hospital room herself before allowing him to enter.

Hold on to the things said under her breath:

Do I end it na?

Kassandra was only 4 months old.

She's nearing the end of the story, the classic pedestal she's almost atop. You might have even been kind of touched. But hold on...

To Do I end it na?

To was only 4 months old.

When she's finished, allow a millisecond's afterglow, then ask, firmly: But don't you feel you shortchanged her? You don't even have to point to that precious girl who has been sitting beside you. Don't even have to say her name.

Her mother will break down in front of you. It means you hit her ... & unmasked her.

Then the real story will come, the story that matters. And it hurts. But you're doing your job, you're doing it well, cuz who knows the depth of what she's feeling than you yourself?

Why being pa-cute & "helping" doesn't help

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 03:42:00 +0000

In an attempt to be playful, a co-worker accidentally spilled her coffee all over my desk (yes, this MacBook included) & my polo shirt. She was holding on to a cup when she attempted to poke me w/ the same hand, not realizing that she hadn't finished her coffee yet. Of course she apologized; of course I withheld obscenities until I was in the bathroom, cleaning myself.

I'm interviewing applicants for internships later; good thing my undershirt today isn't really an undershirt, but a decent plain earth-tone T-shirt, which, luckily, matches my pants.

When I went back to my desk, I pulled out all the stops to remove the stickiness & coffee smell -- water, alcohol, Lysol, tissue, rag, & more tissue. Behind my back, as a means of "helping," a co-worker placed a waste basket by my chair so that I could dispose of the used tissue. Not seeing it, I turned & tripped over the thing, almost falling to the floor.

And that was the beginning of my day. How'd yours go?

State of the reading nation

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 04:39:00 +0000

A client requested at least 15 articles; my talented team & I bust out 19. Today, they reject 3, & give their 2 cents: "Although the articles were exquisitely written, I suggest that the composition of the articles be simpler taking into consideration its target audience. Most of the sentences were too long w/c I think makes people lose interest in reading the whole article as it becomes tiring to read. It could also make the sentence quite confusing."

I showed this to my co-worker who has read many of these sentences that're "too long" & "quite confusing." She said, "Wala yan. Kailangan lang nila mag-comment para lang may ginawa sila kunwari."

Now I shall change semi-colons into periods & capitalize the first letter of each 2nd clause -- likely enough to make them think I agreed w/ their comments.

Sunday slowdown

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 10:53:00 +0000

April chillin'. A couple of hours before French onion soup, Caesar salad, & rib-eye steak. Last night: shabu-shabu for Lolo Vic's 86th birthday. Ya, we eat well over at 2708 Dao St. W/c is probably why we're all fat & owe people a lot of money. Guilty as charged. Argh.

Student welfare from 1 FA P.O.V.

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 08:09:00 +0000

As mentioned before, I accepted an invitation extended by the Dean of the School of Humanities to be the Fine Arts Program’s representative in the Committee on Student Welfare & Development.

During our 1st meeting, amid related recent tragedies in our own home building, we exchanged insights w/ regard to our experiences in encountering students who may be troubled. We, I being by far the youngest & least experienced, were each asked to email some of our program-specific issues to our committee chair.

I’ve reproduced below an edited snippet of my message. Teachers, students, writers, please feel free to comment as this will be of great help for the committee -- especially for me as “the rookie.”

“Through my limited experience as thesis adviser for the Ateneo CW program (under the Fine Arts Program), the most telling sign of psychological and emotional trouble in students can be seen through the works they submit in class, whether in the form of a literal essay about the issues that bother them or through the aggression and ‘darkness’ in which some students address particular subject-matters in their works. As a product of the Program and a practicing writer, I realize that works can be a creation of the imagination, but it isn't hard to tell when the emotions within the works come from a ‘real’ place -- urgency so raw is hard to make up, even if hidden under the mask of metaphor.

“I believe that this kind of encounter experienced by FA teachers, especially those under CW and Theater Arts, leads us to our biggest dilemma. In the crafts we teach, we have to encourage personal reflection and experience, knowing that this can be the source of ‘powerful art.’ But because we are dealing with young minds/hearts, we deal with experiences unprocessed, scars still raw, which becomes difficult because it can ‘hinder’ our role as teachers of craft. This dilemma is depicted in the following example: A student submits an emotional work about her being abused. It's a bad piece -- grammar problems, structurally flawed, too self-serving, ‘emotional diarrhea’ as a mentor of a mentor of mine would say. So as teachers, we criticize everything that's wrong with the essay. But the student, still young, emotionally immature, has a hard time separating the fact that we are criticizing her writing and not her as a person.

“The issues above are, I believe, problems perhaps faced by all departments, but are especially heightened in the FA, where skill and output is so intertwined with the person. Whereas an accounting teacher can just rely on a student detaching himself from the formulas needed for a test, we in the FA are asking our students to be completely aware of themselves in doing their output, which in itself can be difficult. But we are also asking these young individuals to do something even older writers/artists have problems doing, which is to assess oneself from a reasonable distance in order for the resulting work to have excellence in craft.

“In the FA, a group of mentor-artists bringing up student-artists, there's no institutionalized ‘arm’ or ‘code’ that addresses this. Personally, and I think it's a sentiment most of my colleagues in the Program share, I don't think such a ‘code’ or ‘arm’ benefits the kind of teaching we do -- the teaching of art as craft is quite a different animal than teaching basic English composition. That said, I'm sure a lot of us would like some guidance, for I think there is something to be gained in the form of insight if we knew what a ‘typical institutionalized method’ would have us do in such situations. These insights we could incorporate in our own personal handling of the situations we face.”

* * *

This past Saturday (July 14), my students had the pleasure of having award-winning writer, mentor, & friend Dr. Queena Lee-Chua as a guest panelist in our in-class workshop.

She didn't disappoint. It's funny cuz I've always been quick to praise her since I was in her creative nonfiction class as a sophomore, but I sort of forgot how good she really was.

She was on her game on Saturday, as critical as she needed to be but expressing it in her motherly way -- firm but not demoralizing. And I thought I had to play the "bad cop" role. Not so.

Had I said some of the things she said, some of my students would've probably given up. But from what I observed, the students got the wake-up call they needed w/out them wanting to throw in the towel. Ang galing.

Have a lot to learn. Ma'am Queena continues to be a model.

Juggling

martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph (M.V.) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 08:16:00 +0000

My desk at the office is divided into 8 sections. On the top-left corner are 2 books: User-Friendly Marketing Research (from a co-worker) & A Designer’s Research Manual (from my boss). To the left are 2 teaching-related stacks—1 w/ tomorrow’s lesson plan, students’ workshop pieces, & readings waiting to be photocopied, the other w/ notes sent to me about depression & suicide, stuff I’m supposed to familiarize myself w/ as part of a committee for student welfare & development. To the right of these 2 stacks is survival central: hand wash, bottled water, a mug, a pack of instant coffee, & a box of tissue (no beer; I’m not cool). Below this area is where a printout of my latest short story (finished yesterday) awaits revising. Below it is where my elliptical mouse is, along w/ the iPod, cellphone charger, McDo tissue, & old 7-11 plastic bags. To the left is where MacBook sits, to its left my planner (yes, I use a planner now), a pen, a Sharpie, & a my cellphone, all on top of a printout of my freelance assignment from a magazine. Above this section, right below where all the marketing books are (everyone still w/ me), are 2 books about the printing process/business, draft proposals I’ve been working on (to be presented to the DOT some time in August), the resumé of a writer I’m going to hire for a project, & Daniel Keyes’ Flowers for Algernon (w/c I like & plan on finishing tonight). The point is I’m juggling many things but I find myself bored w/ nothing to do right now cuz I’ve done everything that needs to be done for the week—so bored that I’m describing the 8 sections of my desk. (Is it really 8? I lost count.) I must be either good at handling all this or everything I’ve done so far is subpar. Work picks up next week when I start interviewing interns for my project team. As for now, easy muna.