Nagsusulat lamang...

2008-11-22T13:50:00.000+08:00

2008-10-30T13:00:00.000+08:00

2008-10-23T13:12:00.000+08:00

It's over. Moving on.

State of selves

2008-10-09T17:09:00.002+08:00

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

2008-10-03T10:01:00.003+08:00

(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

2008-09-26T14:17:00.004+08:00

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

2008-09-19T10:29:00.004+08:00

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

2008-09-15T11:09:00.008+08:00

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

2008-09-08T11:04:00.003+08:00

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

2008-09-02T11:34:00.006+08:00

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

2008-08-28T10:47:00.005+08:00

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

2008-08-22T13:11:00.002+08:00

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

2008-08-15T14:46:00.001+08:00

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

2008-08-11T13:30:00.004+08:00

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

2008-08-08T18:08:00.003+08:00

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)

2008-08-06T12:26:00.004+08:00

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

2008-08-05T16:32:00.001+08:00

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

2008-08-01T13:10:00.001+08:00

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?

2008-07-31T09:56:00.008+08:00

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

2008-07-30T12:44:00.006+08:00

(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

2008-07-29T11:42:00.006+08:00

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

2008-07-28T12:39:00.004+08:00

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

2008-07-27T18:53:00.001+08:00

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.

2008-07-14T16:09:00.001+08:00

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

2008-07-11T16:16:00.003+08:00

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.

Live pilot feed from work

2008-07-03T15:51:00.004+08:00

I like to tell people that I think I'm averse to anything cool. April said of my new shoes, "I want to burn them," & of the polo shirts my tita bought me, "You have no sense of style." Point proven.

But this is being written live from the offices of an upstart creative think tank, buried in the far corner of a warehouse along Edsa where tens of sweaty workers run the machinery of a printing press shirtless.

Yes, this is the proverbial 1st-blog-entry-at-new-workplace. I'm writing it on the new MacBook my boss gave me; I am the only writer of the bunch, the only 1 who supposedly has to have his computer w/ him as I go about interviewing clients & conduct field research.

This is the coolest I'll ever be. (But my students think I'm charming; at least I got that going for me.)

Around me, 4 artists play w/ their new widescreen Mac joints, throwing ideas around for rendering our maiden design project. I'm sitting here just waiting for my boss to drop by, to have him approve a story list I came up w/ for the project aforementioned.

After work I meet a student in Cubao for a consultation about 1 of her essays. Tomorrow morning I pick up my free copy of the magazine that interviewed me, & hopefully the checks for articles I wrote for them. Then my boss & I drive up to somewhere -- both w/ our laptops, only he wearing shades cuz I don't want to be cool -- to hopefully close another deal w/ another prospective client.

Somewhere in between those things, a short story of mine needs revising. And maybe dinner & some sleep.

This has been MV, live from work, signing out.

She's getting good...

2008-06-26T21:23:00.005+08:00

... I mean really good that it's scary

A couple of hours later, after reading 2 of her newest pieces w/c she sent me to comment on, I'm overcome w/ a type of fear I've never known, couldn't have ever preempted.

Maybe after a few minutes, a few hours, days, weeks, lifetimes, I'll send her a message w/ something constructive/critical to say.

As for now, I'm still feeling a bit of the afterglow—while wondering if I should even bother to continue w/ my own stuff.

I won't mention the name. Everyone will know soon enough.

She'll be 1 of the best we'll ever know.

Two emails

2008-06-23T11:11:00.006+08:00

(1)

Good news from a former professor of mine, rockstar historian Ambeth Ocampo:

"On June 26 I will be conferred the rank of 'Officier' in the Order of Arts and Letters by the Republic of France. Unfortunately, I will not be flown to Paris for this; and the medal will be pinned on me by the Ambassador of France to the Philippines.

"The Ordre des Arts et des Lettres (Order of Arts and Literature) is one of the four ministerial orders of the Republic of France. Since 1957 it remains one of the principal honorific distinctions awarded by the French Minister of Culture and Communication on persons who have distinguished themselves in the arts and literature or the propagation of these fields in France and worldwide.

"Given out twice a year, the Order has three grades: the first rank, Chevalier, up to 200 recipients a year, the second rank Officier, up to 60 recipients a year worldwide and the highest Commandeur up to 20 recipients a year worldwide.

"The official letter from H.E. Christine Albanel, Minister of Culture and Communication, was transmitted last April through H.E. Gerard Chesnel, Ambassador of France to the Philippines. The award is given as recognition of my work as: Writer, Academic, Cultural Administrator, and for my support for cultural exchanges between France and the Philippines.

"Other Filipinos previously honored with the Order of Arts and Letters include: Jaime Zobel de Ayala, Rosalinda Orosa, Corazon S. Alvina and National Artists Lucrecia Kasilag, Napoleon Abueva and Arturo R. Luz.

"On June 26 when the medal of gilt-green enamel suspended on a green ribbon with four white stripes is pinned on my barong I join a group of fellow 'knights' worldwide that include: Ella Fitzgerald, Uma Thurman, Leonardo di Caprio, Clint Eastwood, Rudolf Nureyev, T.S. Eliot, Sting, Gong Li, Bob Dylan, Diana Ross, Robert Redford, Kylie Minogue, and Carla Bruni."

Congrats, sir!

(2)

I've said it many times before & I'll said it again: the real rockstar of my Creative Writing batch is Jerome Chua, the fictionist & playwright behind more than a few thought-provoking, disturbing if not flat-out cryptic stories, w/c have seen print space in The Philippines Free Press as well as a couple of anthologies including the latest flash fiction collection edited by Vincent Groyon.

His works have also earned him a Loyola Schools Award for the Arts in Creative Writing as well as a fellowship in Australia at an international workshop for playwrights, a gig that allowed for his first staged play, also in Australia, w/c received some attention by the Australian dailies.

I don't like connecting the merit of works w/ the personality behind them but Jerome is quite a character to get to know, as we in his CW block have discovered in the 4 years we've worked/studied alongside him. His emails in our block egroup have become much-talked-about reading w/in our circles, the style of w/c more people got to realize during our individual thesis defense where he, quite frankly, stole the show in his eccentric manner w/c leaves people in the right kind of mix of being amused/creeped-out/fascinated/vulnerable.

Here, I share a less-disturbing note of his, emailed to me recently after I had told him about some of my job options. It is less cryptic than usual, but as witty & poignant as ever:

"No, I have been as if dead. No writing, no reading, no doing anything productive, just living with my parents and mooching up resources. On the other hand, I now have a level 14 Accordion Thief character in Kingdom of Loathing.

"Your job opportunities are bizarre. It's as if the universe has forced you into an archetypal decision between a dry, technical, steady job where you pore through profession-specific jargon and have no relevance outside of your narrow field; or jumping in on the ground floor with a loose coalition of artists who have no real idea what they're doing and hope to somehow make a living at it. If life were an author, it'd be a really ham-handed one with no eye for subtlety.

"My unsolicited advice: take the medical job, go through the daily slog for months on end until you gradually lose faith in your creative abilities and the value of your art, and you begin to feel like just another ultra-specialized drone in the colony who will live and die performing repetitions of this single, empty task. Then, when you're at your most angsty, start neglecting your job and spending all your free time to write the next great Filipino novel. Write on the futility and monotony of life, and pepper the text liberally with medical jargon on all the myriad diseases just waiting to befall the human body, statistical causes of death, detailed descriptions on how every organ in the human body experiences critical failure, etc etc etc; and tie it in metaphorically with the mediocrity of a dead-end job that offers no opportunities for self-actualization and just takes up your time until you die. Then profit!

"I, um, may have missed a step or two somewhere in there. Oh well.

"What's Ateneo like from the other side? My parents were suggesting (among many other things) that I become a teacher. Apparently it is what otherwise unemployed BFA Creative Writing graduates do with their time?

"Congrats on all the career choices and such. I suppose I'll get them eventually. Then again, that was what I was supposing in college."

Wasak! Some dude better give this motherfucker a job (or a book deal) soon!

Good hearing from you, Jerome.

Collared shirt

2008-06-19T21:28:00.002+08:00

I was working out of the Fine Arts office the other day, on the computer usually left for faculty members, the Mac to the right of our secretary, Xander. Had asked my 9 Creative Writing seniors to email me 10-pages-worth of their stuff, a sort of diagnosis for me to get a feel for how they all write. In walks Verne, the class beadle; had requested him to drop by, to hand him extra copies of Saturday’s readings. Xander chuckled; I was playing the teacher card to a tee.

On my 1^st day in class, I wore a collared shirt to appear somewhat different than my students (something discussed w/ Xander)—my Tribu sandals, my only mini-defiance. When I walked into the classroom, almost all my students were already waiting & I couldn’t help but giggle at the scene. Save for 1 girl, all were either former classmates or former co-members of mine at some student org.

No 1 was openly questioning but I insisted on explaining how I got the gig w/ them. I speak almost embarrassingly about it w/ mentors who are now, apparently, my colleagues.

The other week, I ran into former mentor Ma’am Beni & she asked, “What are you doing here?” I almost answered, “I don’t know.”

When I texted former thesis mentor Larry about getting the job, he replied w/ an evil laugh. When I emailed former teacher Vince to invite him to be a guest panelist in 1 of our in-class workshops, he told me to drop the “Sir” label already now that we were co-workers in a sense.

The Dean for the School of Humanities invited me to be a part of some new 7-man committee addressing “student welfare & development.” The memo had my name alongside a former Philosophy professor of mine, a department chair who had mentored virtually my entire block, & a couple of doctorate degree holders. I was by far the odd 1 out, w/ the 1 teacher closest to me in age having taught many of my friends in my batch. “They’re going to eat you alive,” said Xander.

I went to the university library the other week to have readings photocopied. Still w/ no ID, I was questioned by the guard. “Bagong faculty po ako,” I said, suppressing laughter. Every succeeding trip back sees me bowing my head as I pass by the same guard at the entrance.

I went to the Personnel Office the other day, a place I didn’t know existed. Was there to apply for my faculty ID. There was something so right about the administrators not having my name on their official roster yet.

In most ways I’m still uncomfortable w/ the being-a-teacher thing. Working out of the FA office was my way of feeling unlike an unemployed fresh grad just lying around at home. And so I was reading the works of my students, most of them former classmates. Some of the works I had commented on in my usual unforgiving way in past class workshops in my former life—as their classmate.

But I found myself not wanting to be so dismissive this time, not wanting to be so frank in the notes I wrote on my yellow pad. I found myself jotting down authors each student should look into based on what his/her style was, what she should consider adjusting & revising in their own pieces.

I found myself not reading behind the lens of my own self-centered criteria but w/ the individual in mind, knowing how he/she is like, what moves them, & not taking that away from them in assessing their works. I was praising or gutting the execution of their pieces but I wasn’t questioning the person behind them, ripping them to shreds for choosing the topics that they did.

As a student I would just say my peace & that would be that. Now I actually find myself wanting these individuals to all do well.

Damn, I thought. In that moment, if only in those couple of hours at the FA office just this past Tuesday, in front of the computer reserved only for faculty, I went from the back of the classroom to the front.

* * *

And speaking of teachers, a belated Happy Birthday to Glenn (June 18)!

"That's why a writer writes his memoir...

2008-06-12T20:22:00.004+08:00

...to tell a lie and create an ideal self. Everything I’ve ever written is memoir, you know, is an inflated vision of the ideal Platonic self.”

A quote from the late Norman Mailer, taken from this Vanity Fair piece on the controversial James Frey.

Independence

2008-06-08T11:23:00.003+08:00

They had left only minutes before, Mom & a couple of my titas—I no longer remember w/c 1s. I had insisted on staying w/ Dad; he had promised himself the afternoon for work.

In a hotel across the street from a Bali beach, Dad started taking out files from his gray leather briefcase. I was pretending to play on the floor, in between the twin beds. I kept looking at Dad, by the desk, engrossed in all the papers, a small desk lamp shining brightly. I rolled my toy truck along the plain of 1 of the mattresses, my mind fixated on what I thought Mom might be doing right now.

Dad checked how I was; I asked if I could play by the hallway. The next thing I remember he took me out the door. I placed my truck on the ledge overlooking the beach across the street, a pool area nearby, just as blue as the ocean. Dad went back inside our room, leaving the door slightly open just in case I needed anything.

For a few minutes I rolled my truck on the rough surface of the ledge, hoping Dad could hear the scraping sound. I then tiptoed to the stairs, & made my way down to the lobby.

I don’t recall how the ground floor looked anymore; I just remember all the tall people. I exited thru the front entrance, & walked toward the street that separated the hotel building & the pool area. One of the tall men walked over. He was wearing a burgundy suit, a tall hat, & a gold whistle around his neck. I remember he smiled as he asked me where I was going, the sun glaring from behind his brown face. I told him the beach. He took my hand, blew his whistle to stop traffic, & guided me to the other side. From there, I found my way to the pool, & saw Mom & my titas lying on lounging chairs.

Mom was surprised to see me, though I don’t remember her appearing all that alarmed. She smiled & had me come sit w/ my titas. She asked me if I had come over all by myself. I told her I did; I could see the man in the burgundy suit from across the street. Mom went to a nearby phone, & I heard her speaking to Dad: “Yeah, he’s here. Yeah, he walked over all by himself.”

By the ledge overlooking the beach, just outside a room in a Bali hotel, a toy truck parked, its owner having left it there. The owner was 4.

* * *

Before there was this & this other thing, you & you, her & her, this person & that, there was...

Happy Birthday, Liana Lim (June 6)!

Clearing the air

2008-06-03T23:30:00.005+08:00

Text message: "Youre awake? And on facebook? What's become of the world?" - Marie

Facebook message (according to April): "Putek. First I checked your blogspot to see if you wrote about how some shmuck created a facebook account using your name, but failed to see said entry. So I found myself adding this "Martin Villanueva" to see if it was really you. Hahaha" - Japs

It's a little absurd but I'm sort of touched by the "concern" expressed by these 2 individuals. At the very least, they serve as proof of the theory that you're closest friends are the 1s who know you best.

To clear the air: Yes, I have a Facebook account now. This doesn't really mean I went against what I said I wouldn't ever do. April created the account behind my back, & up until a few minutes ago, had withheld the password from me.

I won't be deleting the account now that it's made, though it might go unnoticed for weeks at a time. But I guess I'm egotistical enough to find comfort in the fact that my indifferent presence is still being felt in menial ways in venues beyond me.

So add me up. (Is that how you say it?)

* * *

Message left on Multiply: "martin, you dirty bastard. how come you never told me you were going to be the thesis coordinator? i had to find out from rica santos of all people! in the god damn grocery! you owe me a drink." - Cindy

For the record, this all went down just this past Tuesday. One minute I was half-jokingly throwing my name into the mix, the next I was emailing the Fine Arts Program officer-in-charge DM Reyes, & a few seconds later the job was mine.

So yes, I'll be handling half the Creative Writing seniors while they do their thesis/creative projects. Exie Abola is handling the other half. We've already met to discuss syllabus. Yes, I was intimidated & I was quieter & less-arrogant than usual.

Looking forward to the gig. Thanks to Sir DM for the opportunity.

No, this is not full-time. Still looking for another job other than the thesis class, as well as more freelance writing gigs other than the couple that have been thrown my way thus far.

* * *

Overheard somewhere in New Manila: "Hahahahahahahahaha!" - some tricycle driver

Yeah, that was me who bashed his head against the roof of a tricycle somewhere in New Manila last Saturday. Yeah, that was me screaming obscenities. Yeah, that was my trike driver who stopped in the middle of the road to check if I was bleeding. Yeah, the same trike driver who gave me a discount to make up for his not seeing the speed bump on the road.

Do I now have a lump on my head? Yes. Do I still feel pain? Not anymore, though I occasionally have spells of dizziness. No worries. I'll live.

* * *

Everything clear? Record straight? Good.

Viva la truth! (And go Celtics!)

(Un)Fairness

2008-05-25T22:47:00.008+08:00

1

This past week in China, a man was dug out of the rubble over 170 hours after the deadly earthquake. Another woman was found hours later. She had been trapped side-by-side w/ her husband. No word if he made it. For 3 minutes the country—one-fifth of the world’s population—paused to mourn for the many who didn't make it for sure.

2

In Myanmar, foreign aid arrived only after the country's military officials were bribed. ASEAN leaders finally held emergency meetings to discuss post-cyclone relief plans. In a simple joint behind Katipunan in QC called Chicken Boy last Monday, 2 Jesuits from Myanmar drowned themselves in Red Horse.

3

Last night, at a dinner hosted by Fidelis, newly-appointed editor-in-chief of Heights, Elie, an Economics major & visual artist who I jokingly refer to as my apo, was asking the fresh graduates among us for pointers in choosing the right professors for the upcoming semester. "Oo nga pala," I said to close friend & newly hired Louis Vuitton sales representative Joey, "4th year na si Elie." "Awww," Joey said to everyone, "Lolo's apo will be graduating." "Meaning there's a possibility of her getting a job before me," I said to break the sentimentality.

4

My CW degree has prompted JobStreet to send me nothing but positions involving teaching basic English to Koreans. Four years ago, I was basically a signature away from enrolling in culinary school instead of the Ateneo. Last Sunday's Bulletin had something like 7 openings for chefs.

5

I asked my mother after dinner what would happen if I were to sweep the floor of my room tonight. She said many believed I'd be sweeping away the good luck. I searched for the broom & dustpan. What good luck?

* * *

Would like to thank the Board of Judges of the 9th Raul Locsin Awards for Student Journalism. Would also like to thank my good friend Cindy who shared the award in the Features category w/ me for our piece, "Of Pinaglabanan: The Muse of Sacrifice." The picture above was taken during the awarding. That's Cindy & I on the far right, standing among fellow winners & VIPs. More pictures here.

Happy Birthday to all my blockmates who celebrated this past week: Ria & Rocky (May 21), & Drew (May 25). The picture above taken during Paula's debut a couple of years back. Ria, the prettiest & sweetest of the lot (agree, blockmates?), is the 2nd girl from the left, seated. Rocky is the gentleman standing w/ arm outstretched on the right. Next to him are dignified Drew & the kanto boy responsible for this greeting.

Sagada

2008-05-10T01:51:00.005+08:00

5:00PM, Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Sitting alone in our private 3^rd floor living room. Two-hundred/night gives April & I this whole level in Yellow House. I’m surrounded by wood, wide panels of it making up the floor, walls, & ceiling. I can hear locals chatting Sagada’s afternoon chill away from outside the open window in front of me. April is still sleeping in the bedroom. I just woke up.

The Victory Liner trip from Pasay to Baguio was bearable, even pleasant at times w/ 2 well-timed stopovers in my bladder’s point of view. I fell in love w/ Baguio all over again, seeing her as a ghost town at a nippy 3AM, 5 years after last visiting. It was somewhat of a throwback to the Pine City of old pictures when she was left in her rather dark lonesome, free of the rush of pedestrians & jeepneys. Two hours later, just before Baguio ’08 sprung into a raped, SM-crowd-drawing version of herself, April & I left on a Lizardo bus.

Arrived here in Sagada around 11:30AM after 6 hours of hell on the bus. Sure, the view was great (rice terraces, rivers thru valleys, etc.), but a kid threw up 4 times, w/c speaks volumes about the terrain. Junk food threatened to come flowing up from out of my stomach more than a few times.

Upon arriving, we bought a P25 map at the Ganduyan gift shop, looked it over while having lunch (tuna sandwich for me; chicken for April, & banana yoghurt—superb!) at the highly-recommended quaint café called Yoghurt House. We settled for the accommodations across the street from where we ate. Drew had been in Sagada the week before, had a lot of good things to say about what Yellow House had to offer (decent bedrooms, living area, bath w/ hot water, kitchen). Perry, the owner, very accommodating, sealed the deal for us.

Labor Day – 2:06PM, Thursday, May 1, 2008

My hands are encrusted w/ dry mud. My right calf is throbbing. My right quad shakes w/ every attempt to stand. April & I just got back from caving. We shared a P400 guide named James w/ a mother-son tandem from General Santos. I didn’t go all the way w/ them to the bottom of the cave, 1 good leg simply not cutting it. I was left somewhere in the middle, alone in the dark, a rechargeable flashlight & a miniscule opening from atop serving as reprieve from pitch black. Alone in the dark I contemplate myths & deaths, my hands occasionally rubbing against what locals call the pregnant woman, the smooth rock wall protruding to make the 2 breasts & the baby bump. Hail Marys did little to relieve the anxiety, neither did the mind-engrossing exercise of recalling the cave anecdote from Father Javellana’s Aesthetics class (was it Plato, Socrates, or Aristotle?).

This morning, after an instant noodle breakfast & a cup of Arengga coffee at Bana’s Café, April & I had tried exploring on our own, going to the Church of St. Virgin Mary & beyond, looking for hanging coffins & what our map called Echo Valley, only to find dead ends & an imposing family of resting cows. This led us back to the municipal tourist counter, who hooked us up w/ James.

April & I had taken a quick walk around last night after a post-travel afternoon of sleep. Sagada’s a ghost town at night. We had a quick dinner at Masferre’s, beer-coddling foreigners all around, before turning it in early.

7:45AM, Friday, May 2, 2008

My right thigh’s frozen stiff. Effort to bend the knee to usual range of motion is met w/ resistance, pain. April’s still asleep, probably feels some aches as well. We trekked to Echo Valley yesterday after a post-caving lunch of chips. My knee was wobbling. My entire right side, w/c compensates heavily for the left, was too spent to care about balance. I found myself often needing April’s hand for support. She allows me to do that—to appear weak. She makes vulnerability safe. I felt embarrassed still, & I apologized. “I want to drag you around w/ me,” she said.

Afterward, we tried to follow our map to the small waterfalls, only to prove that the map was dodgy at best. Ended up walking for over an hour w/out really getting anywhere. We gave up as we started to lose light. Yoghurt House again before going home. Roasted eggplant sandwich for me, strawberry yoghurt for her. We ached our way to empty plates.

The crowds increased yesterday, Labor Day. Despite this, the nights are still a drag. We went to the structure next door last night, owned by Perry, w/c promised a pool table. We wanted to attempt billiards to kill time, but the balls were nowhere to be seen & Perry’s mother looked too pleasantly tired for me to want to intrude. Thus, early night yet again.

We were supposed to make 1 final trek to another cave this morning. Don’t think that’ll happen now. Last bus to Baguio leaves at noon.

8:10AM, Monday, May 5, 2008

We left Sagada this past Friday around 12:30. The trip back to Baguio was much better for me; Bonamin deserves credit. Not much of a view, fog all around. But the road ahead & vehicles going the opposite direction could be seen—good enough for safety’s sake.

Arrived in Baguio before 7PM. Friday night crowd. The city was dark but alive. We couldn’t find a cab; took a jeepney instead to the Victory Liner station. The security guard said that a bus leaves for Manila every 20 minutes. We took our time; go for a bottle & sisig at nearby Kalapaw restaurant.

Neither of us was in the mood to walk around w/ our big bags; went back to the station after the meal. The station’s relatively new, clean, & organized. A wall of old pictures from an older station w/ older buses in an older, different Baguio was a nice touch. There were also a couple of stores selling locally-made products. Good Shepherd available; prices were baffling. I buy anyway—pasalubong for the family.

Our bus left 10:30; arrived in Pasay 4AM.

Saturday & Sunday were both rest days. My right quad’s still tight, as if at constant flex, receiving a steady dose of muscle relaxant.

I’m recovering but vacation’s over; the resumés go out today. My grades are good, my teachers like me, & 1 summer, I went caving w/ only 1 good leg & survived the succeeding days of pain w/out crying. Hire me.

(Some photos from the Sagada trip can be seen here.)

* * *

Happy Birthday, Lee-Anne (May 9)!

Here's an old pic of us from Paula's birthday.

Wayward

2008-04-26T20:43:00.004+08:00

Quiapo Church. The man next to me has a purple shirt barely covering his entire gut; my standard white is drenched over my slimmer frame. Beads of sweat drop like tears from above my eyes. From the side entrances, the sun dares me to come back out; I resist, my calves burning enough as it is.

I take out my rosary, the 1 I always keep in my right pocket. I had heard someone I admired did so too; my religious affiliation gives the practice some sort of legitimacy.

I’m on my 14^th or so Hail Mary; am interrupted by the opening proceedings of the noontime mass. Everyone stands, save for a few elderly folks scattered here & there. I remain seated; try to finish the rosary before the start of the would-be distracting homily.

I had been walking around all morning. From the LRT station, I footed the many blocks leading to Divisoria, stutter-stepping at each intersection where vehicles show little care for a limping kid. On some blocks, I duck & contort my body; construction materials were being unloaded from trucks.

168 was a bit too overwhelming. Too many shops; didn’t know where to begin. I’m not a good shopper, save for when I absolutely know what I’m going to buy & from where; I’m a guy. Fifteen minutes & I was out of there; I had cooled off enough in the AC.

Reverted back to the original plan: Quiapo. Why? Clearing of the mind. I’ve done this a few times over the past couple of years. The area’s dissonance helps drown out the internal howling.

Refusing to retrace my steps to Recto, I got lost. Was in Chinatown, but I didn’t know where to proceed. I circled around the same block twice unintentionally. Familiar signs called for my approaching, only for me to find out that all the signs in the area are alike—red & yellow—w/ many shops having similar names.

I thought I was close to the place Vince took us for a beer & stuffed squid a couple of months ago. I remembered it was near a bridge over an estero. I walked over. Wrong bridge. Different estero. I took another turn.

I finally saw the LRT line & the mess of jeepneys, tindahans, & crowds underneath it. It looked familiar. Carriedo. A sign by the stairs to the station confirmed this. I knew where I was going, my mind free of grids, parallels, & the retracing of wrong steps.

I started walking to get lost on many levels. For an hour & 45 minutes, I was. But when I found my way again, I returned to a familiar place—where stalls led to the proper buildings, signs read the right names, & the mind was free from the confusion of physical direction, but now vulnerable to the kind of internal waywardness I was trying to escape.

The thoughts aren’t really profound, rather petty irritants. Worry blurs into paranoia: J-O-B (Will I find 1? Will the pay be enough? What’s enough?), a pending notarization (Will the attorney be around tomorrow?), cedula renewal (Where’s the barangay office anyway?), Sagada escape plans (Will we make it? Is she happy? How can I make her so?).

By the time anyone reads this, it would’ve been a few days after Quiapo, a day after my father’s 54^th birthday, w/c means I would’ve already gotten drunk, & would’ve either avoided confrontation or would’ve gone after him again.

Evenings w/ Dad have gotten a lot less eventful, w/c is a good thing. We had already reached screaming obscenities at each other, debating silly political issues, & even worse, what we believed, w/c is often too disparate for Dad’s comfort.

The other night, we talked about things still silly, but things that wouldn’t raise arguments. (Yes, Music and Lyrics is a terrible movie. Yes, Will Smith was good in The Pursuit of Happyness. No, I haven’t seen Mr. Trinidad’s car in a long time either; yes, he probably sold it.)

No talk of being jobless; he gets that I want a break. He occasionally prods about where I’m at mentally. He doesn’t do that much, but he knows he has to occasionally, to sound interested. We’ve cried over this before.

Sometimes I lie awake, moisture building up in my eyes. (This is when I hold her the tightest.) Then sometime later in the day, in some common area of the house, I’d see Dad, my tears now dry. I acknowledge his presence, but I don’t say a thing. It’s easier this way—his way & mine no longer crossing.

Snow

2008-04-20T11:01:00.006+08:00

The fuckin' heat has got me thinking about snow.

Photo albums tell me that I’ve seen snow quite a number of times before I became a teenager. I haven’t seen snow since.

Truthfully, only 2 instances remain in my graying accounts. In 1 of those business trips my mom used to take in her prior corporate life, I remember tagging along, but I don’t recall to where. I was probably 6 or so. We stopped over in Japan, & I’m assuming that this entailed a transfer from 1 airport terminal in Tokyo to another cuz we actually had to step outside.

And there it was: snow.

I don’t remember anything about textures, flakes floating from light blue expanses onto icy surfaces. I remember the color, though: unmistakably white, screaming white; I shielded my eyes from the glare.

“Take a deep breath,” my mom told me, & I did—white vapor emanating from my nose & mouth w/ each exhale. And this is where the memory ends.

The only other snow sighting I still remember takes place on the way to desert land. I think I was 11, it was a couple of days after Christmas, & my family & I were driving from LA to Vegas. Along the way, around the city of Barstow, specks of white peppered the brown, rocky terrain on either side of the road. As is the case in relative-hosted vacations, schedules were nonnegotiable; we did not stop to throw snow balls at each other.

In Vegas, in the back gardens of our hotel, a snowman stood out in the cold, complete w/ top hat & cane. My cousin & I rushed to its snowy side, threatening to start a war. As we bent down to make our little bombs, I broke down in laughter to hide my disappointment.

We were digging our cold fingers into moist speckles of Styrofoam

Playing games

2008-04-13T12:20:00.004+08:00

Imagine: GMA announcing that she will not attend the Olympic Games opening in Beijing (w/c is what some other democratic leaders have at least been requested to do)—her protest against the situation in

Tibet

. (Olympic organizer: “Did we even invite her?”)

It won’t cause even the slightest ripple in the world stage, but imagine it nevertheless—the kind of irony/hypocrisy such a move would represent: an elections cheater w/ an administration tied to extrajudicial killings condemning a government’s violent violation of human rights.

Imagine: GMA pulling out our athletes from the Games altogether (a thought that has crossed the minds of even some Americans of their own athletes), as if real medal contenders from other nations would care (remember our dismal showing in the last SEA Games): Asia’s “most corrupt” making a supposed stance in favor of morality.

Why imagine? Cuz it’s funny to think about. Cuz GMA has shown this thick-skinned capacity before—from illicit phone calls to made up laws to apologies for things she still insists she didn’t do; a few months ago, GMA received a human rights citation in Spain.

The Olympic torch barely made it out of Europe, caused a stir in San Francisco. The Dalai Lama is “demonized” by Chinese authorities; still, he supports the Games. He is now in Seattle, the torch in Argentina.

The price of rice increases; “No rice shortage,” the cabinet insists. Price of bread rises as well. Congress is a house of administration lap dogs, the Supreme Court the dwelling of loyal whores in gowns. In Malacañang, the squatter of all squatters remains, conjuring up the next save-face attempt to appear like she stands for integrity. The previous paragraphs: a backhanded suggestion/dare.

* * *

Nagbabasa naman ako

Recent reads: Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary (from April), essays by Seneca, Montaigne, Kenko, & Virginia Woolf, Gelo Suarez's Dissonant Umbrellas (from Marie).

I see why so many people love Bovary, but I'll suspend judgment cuz I was reading it while studying for finals; enjoyed Seneca, Kenko, Woolf, but Montaigne can be a pain; Dissonant was trippy & a headache at times, but I'm guessing that's part of the point.

Currently reading: Ian McEwan's Atonement, James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (from April), The Likhaan Book of Poetry & Fiction 2002 (from April)

Atonement I'm enjoying, Joyce not so much; Hitchhiker's is my commuting read cuz it's not so taxing on the head; 8 poems into Likhaan & I'm liking it.

Middle ground

2008-04-06T10:05:00.005+08:00

Here's an excerpt from a draft for an essay I've been working on. Yeah, brain fart. (I've been reading Seneca for crying out loud!) But believe me, it's going somewhere. At least it's supposed to. To the minotaurs: this is part of a reworked workshop piece; guess w/c 1.

"I am told, in this selfish world, that empathy—common understanding—is the cure for conflict. There is, they tell me, a proverbial middle ground where we can all live. Over the course of over-analysis and the institutionalization of living-well formulas, a warp was invented where I living in a gated subdivision while you living on the streets need not be a paradox where one is guilty and the other jealous. In this warp, animosity is not a word. The human spirit can transcend; if only we would reach out to each other, and even before helping, attain full knowledge of the other’s situation.

"There are signs of the human desire to understand the other. Consider when we read stories: everyday readers coast along pages like they do in life, treading along singular moments of aliw, latching on to characters that they can oh so relate to; the discerning readers seek to understand the most complex of characters, even the most scathing of villains. We seek an explanation because our hope lies in the fact that there’s always an explanation for when good was derailed, when the Samaritan’s heart turned into that of a Hannibal.

"Too easy, I think, to describe those like the latter as being sympathetically mature. I’d say conveniently placed in the pecking order, if not deranged altogether. If only we understood, they say, what Islam entailed, we would be fairer in our judgment of them, wouldn’t be so afraid. Furthermore, others will argue if only Muslims could understand where we were coming from as Christians, so they would convert to do things our way, the right way. On the other side, the Muslims are saying the same things about us.

"The middle ground is not a place rather a void, a point where one perspective is blinded from the other and vice-versa. And what we are left with is an illusion of an imagined Utopia, some purgatorial space disguised as Heaven.

"Think about that person down the street, that police officer by the bridge, that man driving your cab. Never mind how he looks, what he tells you. Through conversation and your keen discernment, you will understand him—but only while shackled by what you would like to project him to be. He will never be understood."

* * *

Torch passing

Had the pleasure, over the past few months, because of an invitation extended by the 2007-08 senior editors, to be involved in an advisory position in the selection of the 2008-09 Heights editorial board. I read the applications & was part of the panel of interviewers for all the candidates for the 3 executive positions as well as the candidates for the English & Filipino staff editors.

We (JPaul, Audrey, Kat, Joey, & myself) had a spirited conference (most candidates brought forth strong cases for themselves) about our appointments this past Monday & as made official thru a circulated email from JPaul, our appointments have been finalized:

Fidelis Tan, editor in chief
Petra Magno, associate editor
Panch Alvarez, managing editor

Marie La Viña, English editor
Wy Ong, associate English editor
Brandz Dollente, Filipino editor
Walther Hontiveros, associate Filipino editor
Elie Javier, art editor
Migs Mercado, associate art editor

Stef Macam, design editor
Sel Uy, special projects head
Angelica Candano, special projects head
Jay Alim, secretary general
Julio Julongbayan, secretary general

We are quite happy w/ next year’s team & are confident that they, along w/ a strong cast of returning members, will continue the rich tradition of Heights w/c I am proud to say I was once a part of as member & now as an alum.

Congrats to all!

Homeless pugs!

On the eve of New Year’s Eve, w/c is a whopping 4 months ago now, Sasha & I cut short our silly reminiscing & witnessed the birth of a little pug we for some reason decided to name Dalao. Little Dalao, now renamed Tryrone by Tita Chi Chi, along w/ Tyra, Georgia, & the rest, looks to find a new home w/ new loving humanoids (Sasha umiiyak sabay tapon ng yosi).

Here are the pics. Text me if interested, or email at martin2vill@yahoo.com.ph.

Good Fridays

2008-03-30T14:57:00.006+08:00

On Good Friday, I am told to keep silent; Christ is covered w/ purple cloth in church.

There was 1 summer when my family & I spent the day quietly playing mahjong in our garage. Mom or Tita would occasionally stand to fetch another glass of water to fight off the hunger from fasting. I sat on my Monobloc chair the whole 5 hours we played, my crutches not far away, I too lazy to use them. During the hour when we would normally be preparing for dinner, I hobbled my way up to my room where I caught what was left of the Seventh Heaven marathon on TV.

I don’t remember the Good Fridays of my childhood, at least not the ones spent in Jakarta. I know Holy Weeks were actually spent in school; classes ended in June & Indonesia, a Muslim country, relegated the week to the level of Christmas—all the more insignificant w/out the practice of gift-giving. Wikipedia tells me that Good Friday is a national holiday in Indonesia; I’ll have to take his word for it.

Of course in the Philippines time freezes during Holy Week, or at least news does, papers often deciding not to publish on Good Friday & Black Saturday. I’m speaking from a Manila perspective here, where bored individuals can have the pleasant experience of driving the streets of a ghost town.

Various church communities have their own customs. It’s safe to say that the Stations of the Cross are being recited nationwide, while the pasyon or senakulo is being performed at varying levels of extremism.

In Pamapanga, many volunteer to get flagellated as penance for their sins. In Boracay, many who are simply happy to get off from the torture of school or work get laid.

This year, Good Friday was the day after my father, a supposed apostle (the priest being Jesus), washed my feet in front of other parishioners, symbolic of the Last Supper.

Bored of the house, April enticed me to the park to play basketball. It was my 1^st time in that park in 8 years.

I let her shoot the ball for a while, content w/ simply rebounding & passing the ball back to her. I’d occasionally put the ball back up from a few feet away, but mostly I let her play.

But then I tried a free throw, w/c bounced around on the rim before going thru the net.

And I was back.

Seventy-five percent free throw shooter I was once. And for a while I was back to when that was.

I dribbled between my legs as I limped to another spot on the floor, just outside the key to the left, my favorite spot.

Swish.

A pseudo-side-step to the left. Nothing but net.

And I was back: back to when I would fake off defenders, stepping back for that jumper. I was back to being fed the ball from the paint, banking it off the board.

I was back to that time when I would play sick, would spend halftimes of intramural games not w/ my coach & team but w/ my mom on the sideline, taking asthma & cough medication, burning because of fever but still on my way to my 20 or so points.

I was back to mocking the parents of kids who defended me. I was back to leading the crowd in cheering for my team, especially when I scored.

I was back to that kid that didn’t have to talk because people liked him already—he had game. I was back.

Feeling it, I dribbled to the right from above the free throw line, dribbled behind my back to switch to my left for a step back…then…I landed awkwardly on my left foot, sending a shock to where my left knee used to be.

I grimaced.

I saw April under the basket. I threw the ball up.

Brick.

The Catholic meaning behind Good Friday, the Crucifixion, is 1 of liberating man from sin, while realizing that God, thru his son Jesus Christ, is one w/ us. On the court of my village’s public park on 1 particular Good Friday, I somehow relived joys I had closed doors to—because I was just too good then, in another lifetime.

Over the past 8 years I wouldn’t allow myself to be seen on the court, limping around, trying to be someone many would attest to my once being. But alone w/ April on the court made reliving safe, made dreaming momentarily possible.

Liberation from pride.

We shot the ball some more after that brick, April & I. But then it was time to go home.

When we left the court, there was nothing sad about it. The past is the past. The present is the present—and that’s walking home w/ someone I love more than I ever loved anyone. That’s being w/ someone who makes you feel that you’re worth something, deserving of a few minutes of reliving in a world that teaches you not to regret.

That’s the formula to a future freed from temporal joys from a silly game of putting an orange ball thru a hoop. It’s a future where the presence of a god is left unquestioned, for the 1 who holds your hand as you limp home is reason enough to live.

Photo courtesy of Audrey, taken during the awardees' dinner of the 2008 LS Awards for the Arts.

* * *

This is being posted an hour after I finally woke up, after a night split between Bonifacio High Street, Edsa Shangri-La, some not-to-be-mentioned joint, & the new Mister Kabab along West Ave. It was an evening celebrating/consoling w/ Drew, Cindy, & Kor, a day after we marched & received our diplomas from the Ateneo. The celebration continues tonight at my house, then tomorrow at a place in Ortigas.

People have been asking me how it feels to finally graduate. I really don’t know. Cliché: It hasn’t hit me yet. Celebrations are still to be had, then of course the needed rest from those celebrations. I imagine one day in the coming weeks, I’ll wake up & reality will set in: I have nothing to do, but I’m supposed to be doing something, supposedly to earn that paycheck. Writing about it won’t preempt the feeling so I’ll deal w/ it when it comes. As for now, a few more moments w/ loved ones, especially individuals who have been a part of the past 4 years up on that hill across from a 24-hour McDo.

Here’s to Batch 2008!

Breathe

2008-03-23T20:54:00.005+08:00

Given 15 minutes to talk about leadership, a former congressman taught those in attendance how to properly breathe. And thus a Holy Week reflection from yours truly came to be:

Sometimes it’s the simple stuff that gets lost by the wayside in this world. Maybe it is just a matter of the way we sit, the amount of air we allow to flow thru our bodies, the energy it gives us.

And maybe that’s just it right there—energy. Einstein reduced us to mere embodiments of it, & perhaps there’s a point to that too: we meddle in silly stuff like biology, complicate it w/ psychology & sociology in a world where economics & politics overwhelm us into a sickness we even bother to describe as societal—never mind the strain you give yourself being content w/ shallow breaths, shortening your life as you speak.

But of course science has prolonged life expectancy. Reality has dictated the need for the added years: to see things thru, to make up for things. The immediacy of now cannot achieve its own bliss; we live in a world tainted by management concepts: invest now, reap later. Later often becomes unworthy of the wait.

Under such a way of life, every hour hurts except the last. Still, we live under the notion of prolonging that end, living in such sadness if not like zombies.

Perhaps there’s wisdom in saying it’s all about interaction, & not on the molecular level or ones made in the contexts of boardrooms. I’m talking of a level higher, transcendental, w/c allows the silly things of this world to merely fall into place.

I’m talking about a horizon seemingly comprehensible to only Gods or saints. Paul once claimed in a song a remedy for times of trouble. Churchgoers claimed it was God; others puffed not quite.

I shake my head to both notions—in between moans like whiffs of smoke on my ear as I cradle my love’s head w/ one hand, the other firm around her thigh as my torso seeks reprieve in the warmth of her, a cozy portal to the heavens or what we men would like to believe is God’s dwelling.

But never mind perspective—that’s what we’re trying to rid. Let it be, said Paul, & there’s a simplicity there we should not rape, a silence we should not break w/ deafening impositions of silly things like meaning.

I hear the echo of a poet: read the lines before diving in between them. Never mind if he was coddling his nth bottle in a beerhouse where kids half his age sing along to Top 10 hits off-key. He remained seated upright on a Monobloc chair amid a table of intensity—icy ground about to break because of silly things like what we believed.

The poet remained calm, taking in his lung’s full capacity. If only he then he alone was to keep the moment afloat—it’s in the energy he was open to, the energy he allowed to exude from himself.

There will be plenty of time for squabbles in lifetimes science so sadly prolongs. For now, let it be, let it be, whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

Tornado

2008-03-16T08:58:00.006+08:00

Yesterday: Possible tornado hits Atlanta. (The week before, a close female friend came out to me.) That’s how the caption on CNN said it. Possible—as in probable but uncertain. The evidence led to such a conclusion, yet we hold back, afraid of being wrong, more so for being right. Maybe it was the honorable thing to do: to leave the cause of shattered windows, collapsed buildings, (unrealized love), to merely a hypothesis. The best political team on television relays only arguable opinions anyway; why state fact now? And what does politics have to do w/ weather? Or children hurt? Or the possibility of lives lost?

One injury is life threatening, read another caption. A scale to suffering inferred. One life is threatened; death is (thankfully) uncertain: Konswelo de bobo. Hundreds w/ injuries. Only 1 could die. The odds are good, or so we rationalize in times of distress. Hundreds w/ injuries, grimacing in pain from that piece of glass in a shin, that deep cut behind the neck because of swirling debris. Hospitals working double-time, no life left behind, especially that 1 that could die—he needs all the attention possible. The world plays the game of mathematics: 1 is better than 99; 100 is perfect. One-hundred screaming in pain, houses & workplaces in shambles, but only 1 could’ve died. He’s lying on a hospital bed now, not thinking about anyone but himself, eying the steady drops from dextrose bottles w/ family nearby, holding on to the rail of a hospital bed we might as well use as a metaphor for hope. (“No, I’m not mad. In fact, I’m proud of you.” I said this & I meant it. But…) They’re not thinking of 99 others, 99 families. In the future, they will say that they thought about the others, prayed for them as well. Today, they think of no 1. One injury is life threatening, reads the caption in a private room of an Atlanta hospital. A father whose daughter looks to be discharged the following morning smiles, Who cares?

CNN Center hit. News people become the news in their own network. The core of the network ruffled by swirling winds, but the show must go on, so might as well make the network the show. At least for a little while. Everyone pulls for the victim. Everyone needs to play that card sometimes. Just to make sure people care. Cuz when you’re hit at the center—your core—you begin to question. (Life is a lie.) Funny thing about people caring: you never know if they really do. Why should you believe after discovering things about them so late in the game? But this game is political, isn’t it? (“I’m proud of you. I really am.”) You’re over-questioning, I hear people saying. I hide behind a notion: the center was hit.

* * *

March 14: Happy Birthday to Mom! Happy Birthday to Ma'am Rica's mom (How I know these things is beyond me)! Happy Birthday to Wyatt!

Shocking: While April was being productive working on her Modern Poetry paper, I decided to be productive in my own way by opening my 3rd email account (for professional use that people tell me will come after I get my diploma & find a job) as well as my 1st ever (Finally! others say) Multiply account: mvvillanueva.multiply.com. Not that I'm much for taking photos but I might as well make my presence felt in such venues. Don't worry: I won't go all Facebook on you guys. And apparently I do have a Shelfari account but its emptiness speaks of how much I've bothered to care about the damn thing.

Oscar moment: Would like to thank the committee behind the Loyola Schools Awards for the Arts—Sir DM, Sir Larry, Ma’am Rica, etc. Would like to congratulate my fellow winners for CW—Chua, Robles, Tabinas. Would also like to congratulate friends in the other categories—Liana, Cindy, Marcee, etc. Thanks to April (of course), Marie, Panch, & Aga for showing up at the ceremony. (Pleasantly surprised to see Ma’am Susan Lara as well.) Ba’t di ganito yung Palanca? (Hahaha.)

Stage right (L-R): Marcee Lacap (Music), Aaron Roselo (Graphic Design), Cindy Custodio (Music), Martin Villanueva (Creative Writing), Jason Tabinas (Creative Writing), Andrew Robles (Creative Writing). Photo courtesy of Cindy.

Surpassing proverbials

2008-03-09T19:15:00.008+08:00

It was past 6PM when April & I arrived in Makati. From the MRT station, we passed thru SM & Glorietta before walking out to Makati Ave. Along the side of 6750 & Shangri-La stood armed guards, while on the opposite side, jeepneys w/ banners indicating the particular groups they were carrying parked in a long line, some protestors looking out from on top of the jeepneys to where bright lights beamed, where muffled voices led in the occasional chants.

The pedestrian underpasses were closed off; the crowded roads deterred vehicular traffic from passing thru. It felt like we were the only ones walking toward the Ninoy Aquino monument; I overheard the crowd of people walking the other way, office workers judging by their attire, concerned over whether or not there would be rides to take home.

By the time we reached the monument near the HSBC building, much of the crowd was already beginning to leave. The official Ateneo contingent was heading back to campus. I noticed Harvey Keh leading the group, along w/ Leland De La Cruz, Norman Quimpo, & Dr. Norman Marquez.

I bumped into Aga De La Torre, my former Science & Technology editor, who was surprised to see April & I. We were just there to observe, I insisted; the cause I support in other ways.

Maybe it’s not about the streets of EDSAs anymore.*

Before the last senatorial elections, Keh exemplified a new age of protest, releasing in a widely circulated email 10 scenarios that would make him want to leave the country. In a way, the protest worked; the election results generally serving as proof that such intellectualized rumblings could make some semblance of a difference. In Makati, Keh went old school on us—taking to the literal streets.

April & I stood quite a distance away from the main stage; a big screen to our right served as our only true view of what was going on. Nikay, Trish, & Aila were w/ us, along w/ Matanglawin’s Maki Lim. Opportunistic vendors sold water, fish balls, corn, & candy. To our left, street kids sold homemade GLORIA RESIGN pins—the only sign of their awareness. They entertained themselves by dancing to the music that would boom from various speakers. I swear there was 1 boy who was masturbating—at least pretending to—to the wisecracks of his buddies. Another boy stood up when a foreigner—a blonde in her mid-30s—invited him to dance.

It became clear that dancing was a big part of this whole practice. The songs I could only assume were leftovers from past EDSAs, as evident by the fact that only persons who seemed old enough to be EDSA veterans knew the lyrics. Those who were still reproductive concepts of would-be parents in ’86 just watched, maybe bobbing their heads, maybe moving their feet.

I had been reading Jose Lacaba’s Days of Disquiet, Nights of Rage, had been reading about the student activism of the ‘60s & ‘70s. It was a different time. My ears perked when the current NUSP president was called up to the stage that Friday in Makati. In a way, he inherits Edjop’s role. He pales in comparison.

They say the leaders in government have changed but the rotten system is still the same. Funny how the opposition posed by the youth hasn’t changed either—even using the same songs sung during our fathers’ fight years ago.

Indeed, the ‘60s, ‘70s, & even the ‘80s were a different time. The intelligentsia turned the streets into a refuge as well as a platform to fight, to preach. Alleys led to the same avenues, leading to the same proverbial EDSAs & Mendiolas. And the singular spotlight would always follow.

But now, our metaphorical thoroughfares lead to a multitude of places, EDSAs & Mendiolas dispersed into a million different sites—whether physically on local ground, or in territories of the Diaspora, or in little niches on the Web, lost amid a host of more entertaining distractions. The spotlight is no longer singular, & gathering attention is a feat in itself, & so is keeping focus.

Just as our formidable enemy—conveniently dubbed the system—has never changed, neither has our collective response. Edjop & company helped bring forth an intellectualized discourse to the streets ruled by the youth—that was their battle. Ours is harnessing the dissent dispersed throughout various avenues into 1 common intellectualized voice—loud, heard, irrevocable, & just as much about the long-haul than the immediate.

The lights suddenly brightened at the various press platforms dispersed amongst the crowd. Jun Lozada was on stage; live updates follow his every statement. Like many before him, he has transcended the role of whistle-blower; he has become a symbol, & oddly enough, a constitutional expert in many respectable news shows. People are listening; they believe him; rightfully or wrongfully, he has taken advantage.

This is what the rules of this game entail—taking advantage. But doing so in dated ways is tantamount to doing so the wrong way.

Just make us proud.**

My father was tickled when in a high school economics class I was required to do something that he did—create small business ventures that would profit. But I’m sure he was prouder when I decided to take up something he has no interest in—writing—and I began receiving attention for it. There’s wisdom here w/ regard to our bigger picture as the young Filipino middle-class.

Proverbial fathers are amused when their sons imitate them. They become proud when their sons take their own stake in the world—become men doing things in their own way.

__________
*Former Bukidnon representative Neric Acosta during a lecture at the University
**Fr. Jose Cruz, SJ, Dean of the School of Social Sciences, during a farewell address to graduating students

* * *

Well, it’s official: I passed Philosophy of Religion in Filipino under Dr. Rosario, w/c means I’ll be graduating. Spent the week finishing up my clearance; generally went smoothly.

Got measured for my graduation toga yesterday, w/c set me back a whopping P450! And to think we don’t even get to keep the toga. All we get to take home is the string thing that we will wear around our necks & I think the patch w/ the seal of the University.

Thoroughly enjoyed joining Vince & some of his Modern Poetry students during their Quiapo trip yesterday. As Vince said, few Quiapo tours can beat witnessing a political rally & seeing an international film shoot. Bought a couple of bottles of Tsingtao in Binondo w/c I will be enjoying tonight.

Speaking of Vince, here’s an interesting link he sent me—a rant about writing workshops.

Toying with reality

2008-03-02T19:27:00.006+08:00

Reproduced here is a paper I delivered to a panel compromising of DM Reyes, Rica Bolipata-Santos, Exie Abola, Karla Delgado, Anina Abola, & Elbert Or this past Tuesday as my final requirement for graduating from the Ateneo Creative Writing program. Because of the 10-minute limit, the paper presented was a shortened extraction from my 25-page academic paper submitted the week before.

Creative nonfictionist. I believe to be called one is a rebellious commitment to view lived experience in different lights, and it is a rebellious commitment to find imaginative uses of literary techniques, all in order to best render in words the exposition of facts and the human experience beyond what can be witnessed in a lived dramatic situation.

It’s not as easy as writing a moment from one’s past. At least that’s not how I make this type of writing out to be, why I’ve chosen this path for my training as a writer in the Ateneo.

Perhaps the most common designation of creative nonfiction is a type of writing which employs literary skills in the writing of nonfiction. I think the key word we find here is literary, meaning it should be considered literature, side by side with poetry and fiction. There is an art to creative nonfiction, some would say is an art, demanding from its author expression, creativity, and craftsmanship in conveying and commenting on lived experiences or in exposition of researched facts.

A creative nonfictionist holds a similar responsibility as that of a journalist (or any writer of nonfiction for that matter) in that he cannot invent actual facts or events. His material must have been witnessed or discovered. But his edge over the journalist (some would call it his demise) is that he can “invent”—consciously or subconsciously—the lens through which his readers are to be informed of these facts and realities.

Viewed in this manner, creative nonfiction speaks of an innate propagandist quality, a level of imposition that becomes more and more subtle or pronounced the more adept one is at rendering his intent. It could be a form of protest, rebellion, a middle-finger, if not simply an eye opener.

What I call an arrogant and artistically competent mix of literary technique and disciplined journalistic reporting, Tom Wolfe and his New Journalism movement, introduced to me by my original nonfiction mentor, Dr. Queena Lee-Chua, shattered my dated views of nonfiction and introduced me to a level of experimentation I thought only seen in modern poetry and film.

Wolfe led me to Hunter Thompson. After Thompson came Truman Capote, Norman Mailer, Joan Didion, and a lot more of Wolfe, with his longwinded dialogues, moments of stream-of-consciousness, and even sound effects from engines. And the best thing about all these undulations and warps in language and form—with punctuations manic, freewheeling, jumping off the page with all-caps and italicized sentence fragments, word fragments, sound snippets—was that they were all used to talk about what was real. Things that really happened. Things that mattered. The human experience with social commentary and a whole lot of style.

The attitude seemingly being advocated here is one of a sort of complex and serious sense of play.

While New Journalism made waves in the United States around the 1960s, Nick Joaquin had already been displaying such creativity in reportage here in the Philippines in many of his character profiles, in the articles he wrote for publications like the Philippines Free Press, and in essays like “The House on Zapote Street.”

These examples can be considered landmarks in the writing of nonfiction in that there appeared a conscientiousness to render moments in a manner that delivered the inherent messages of the experiences more creatively—not just in the way that traditional journalism taught. Traditional ways of conveying had inadequacies in capturing totalities. Too literal became too simple.

I was hooked, high, drunk on it all. All this was affecting not only my writing but my views on creative nonfiction and the standards I think it should be judged by.

I think we must begin, when assessing a creative nonfiction piece, with the notion that just because something really happened, it does not mean it is real on paper nor is it worth reading about. It must be rendered believable and significant. The literary technique most often used in creative nonfiction is that of narrative, or conveniently described as having been written like a work of fiction. I think the widespread use of this technique is only natural.

Though I have used the narrative form in my creative nonfiction many times, and I believe in its effectiveness, I have certain qualms about just limiting oneself to this one technique in rendering reality; often it could use the aid of other techniques. An explanatory science essay about cancer, for example, may not have a narrative in it, but is definitely creative nonfiction if, let us say, the author uses war as a metaphor to elucidate how chemotherapy drugs work at the microscopic level.

Again, what we have here is defiance over what’s expected, a rebellion, a middle-finger—if not brash stubbornness. But isn’t stubbornness a sign of commitment?

I won’t begin to deny the cathartic element of writing but in reading a personal essay, there are those who like to credit the element of courage in proclaimed creative nonfictionists which allows them to write private accounts of their lives, making a story narrative out of it for everyone to read. But if creative nonfiction is to be called literature, judging it must go beyond the commending of a writer’s courage to reveal himself.

Being a creative nonfictionist entails you have stories to tell or points you want to make. But it also entails the maturity to know when something is worth sharing or not, the discernment to see if there is something there beyond just sharing, the patience to realize this, and finally, the creativity and facility to choose the right techniques to render these stories and their messages. And it is with regard to the latter point that courage should be celebrated—the courage to exercise one’s creativity and imagination in service of the truth.

An interesting event cannot turn into an interesting story without a competent writer. You may have died and resurrected three days later but without an able chronicler with the right facility to relate the experience in written word, the experience is all for naught.

“He’d Rather Be Relevant,” which received recognition from the Palanca Foundation, is perhaps the most personal piece I have ever written. It is autobiographical through and through, chronicling my personal battle with bone cancer when I was in high school. But it is written in the third person. The character M was talking to an observer, the writer of the piece.

Now I’ve been accused of being weird before but there has never been a point in my life wherein I was talking about myself to myself. It all happened, but never in the way that the dramatic situation literally presented it.

I respond to those who question the ethics behind this by saying that the presentation of the dramatic situation was secondary to the piece’s point, which is still based on objective truth—things that happened to me personally within the context of a greater and dynamic socio-political setting. But I was after the effect of intimacy found in a conversation within an enclosed space like a room. Readers were discovering M together with the narrator as opposed to being imposed upon reflections directly from an I. “He’d Rather Be…” was a feat in craft, at least this is the feat I hold most dear—more than the cathartic element of sharing a personal story or winning an award, though the award was nice.

Creativity can be expressed in so many ways in nonfiction. As already touched on, Tom Wolfe plays with language and form when rendering a scene in service to symbolic meanings he may have discerned in the interactions he witnessed. Wolfe saw or felt something beyond the apparent and literal worth sharing.

I often take snippets from past works I have written, a journal or blog entry, a verse of poetry, a news article, even a list from a yearbook to help add another, perhaps less literal dimension to the transference of facts, ideas, and emotions to my pieces. It is a form I have been playing around with because of my being drawn to the resulting abstractedness in which concrete ideas are organically rendered. Thoughts are not always linear in real life; I think we would be doing the human experience a disservice if we always expressed them linearly in writing. I used this technique for my essay, “Jakarta.”

A complication of truth, some would accuse. I say a greater effort in conveying truth’s complexity.

Joan Didion used similar techniques before in her masterwork, “The White Album,” which is a piece consisting of seemingly unrelated narrative passages, interview transcripts, psychological reports, and even packing lists—perhaps the only way one could summarize the fun and turbulent ‘60s for a writer who lead such a colorful life.

Emmanuel Torres’ “Macho” was an ode to the jeepney and jeepney culture as told through description, narration, dialogue, and even found poetry using the phrases painted or stuck onto the vehicles themselves.

This sort of combining of varying passages was also the technique used by Annie Dillard in “Seeing,” leaving us to wonder what it is all about amid our marveling over the fact that we are convinced that it is about something profound—whether singularly specific or subjectively organic.

Here, a piece some would accuse of even lacking a concise thesis is lifted by creativity and craftsmanship to the level of art—one eliciting emotional investment from the reader and not relying on mere sentimental reflections on personal experiences in doing so.

Here, we lift reality from predictable journal entries about instances in time followed by reflection in logical flow to that of the dynamic interaction of the two with other aspects of the human experience which cannot necessarily be explained literally.

Here, we somewhat step into the realm of poetry, which poet Marc Gaba says holds “the task of meaning.” Often it is said that poetry is the use of one thing to mean something else, and I had always been intrigued about this elicit realm which the poet seemed obsessed to tap into. This transcendental—some would describe as spiritual—element was clearly a part of the human experience yet in literature always left to the hands of the poet.

Poems are visceral, essays are logical, and that’s that. Well, why so?

The meaning Gaba wrote about is one, perhaps, hidden in the tension of contrasting images. Easily, this is a method many nonfictionists, including myself, have appropriated. As mentioned earlier, I have used metaphor. Many have rendered scenes in their essays in a manner of language similar to that of Conchitina Cruz in her prose poetry. And as a form seemingly often presented in literal statements, what could be more trailblazing than for creative nonfiction to borrow from poetry the concept of the meaningful unsaid.

In the end, it really is a sort of complex and serious sense of play that drew me to creative nonfiction, for the discerning reader can differentiate an apt usage of technique from a mere moment of unprocessed sharing. Creative nonfiction takes ownership of one’s material, however much one is affected (or unaffected) by it, and ownership of the decisions behind one’s rendering, whether the truths one discovers move him to a cold starkness or—as often is the case with this brash 22 year old writer in front of you—a liberal sense of experimentation.

Unfortunately, a lot of the bits w/c support my views had to be cut out because I really wanted to say my main points w/in the 10 minutes. And I had to edit some parts to allow for a more "enticingly arrogant" rhetoric so the reading wouldn't be too boring (performance na 'to!). The panelists had supposedly read the academic paper in full anyway so I guess they were able to fully see where I was coming from. And the feedback was relatively good, save for Anina jokingly implying that a lot of the ideas were not mine rather Larry's.

And of that mentor of mine, well, he wasn't around, though the presence of his spirit was duly acknowledged by yours truly before my reading began. I texted Ypil & asked if he was still coming while the other presenters were up at the podium. His reply: "Sorry, I had to buy an electric fan."

* * *

Another speaking engagement & reality check: Yesterday, during the School of Humanities Open House, I (along w/Glenn) was asked by Sir DM to address the incoming freshmen of CW and their parents. As part of my introduction, I remember saying, "My time as a student of the Creative Writing program culminated just this past Tuesday during my thesis defense." It hit me then that this graduation thing is for real.

But we can't breathe easily yet, my friends; keep your fingers crossed. Judgment's still out w/ regard to Philosophy of Religion in Filipino. During my 15-minute oral finals, I spoke for a mere 5 minutes. I rushed thru the whole damn thing to make sure I wouldn't forget any of the points Audrey tutored me on. "Mukhang namamadali mag-bakasyon si G. Villanueva," said Sir Rosario. Patay!

Let the vigil begin.

A people’s betrayal

2008-02-24T00:30:00.013+08:00

(2/22/08) I’m in the frigid Ching Tan Room at the University. A few rows ahead sits one-time senatoriable Sonia Roco; somewhere in the back sits Dr. Fernando Zialcita of the Department of Sociology & Anthropology. My program boasts of a pixelized photograph of the EDSA shrine above the words describing this whole event: An Intellectual Discussion. Former Bukidnon representative Neric Acosta, who is currently a teacher of mine, would later joke that the very concept of an intellectual discussion might’ve scared off a lot of the students from attending. Indeed, as I look around the room, I notice I’m one of the youngest—in fact 1 of only a handful of students.

“Both EDSAs betrayed us,” says Dr. Acosta. He’s 1 of the 4 panelists who are to discuss whether People Power was a success or a failure. He’s the only politician of the lot, but few politicians have the kind of academic understanding that comes w/ a doctorate degree in Political Science. Even while waiting for his turn to speak, Dr. Acosta briskly takes down notes like a student before a presentation or a teacher before a lecture (depending on how you look at it). In front of him next to his leather-bound planner are loose sheets of papers & today’s Inquirer.

He speaks of institutions breaking down, how based on global standards and indexes for good governance the Philippines is a “regressing democracy.” He says, “We failed in memory.” Earlier this year both GMA & Erap said that we should forget about EDSA; w/ this, says Dr. Acosta, the 2 presidents essentially called for the end of the fight for reform & for a government that works. True enough, Martial Law lives on in spirit under the Arroyo administration. And according to the PCIJ, there are only 11 new family names in Congress.

Having been in his class over the past semester, I know Dr. Acosta feels strongly about trust, his current bible being Francis Fukuyama's book about it. Today, he declares that social trust has vanished in our country. Exemplifications aren’t hard to find: NGOs and government act now like rivals instead of working together. The government is messed up, say the NGOs. The NGOs don’t know what they’re talking about, says the government. Civil society then chooses sides, or just ignores everything altogether—nation-building relegated to mere abstraction. Survival of the fittest: the only law held dear.

“There’s something sad & almost surreal about singing Bayan Ko again.” Dr. Acosta is alluding to the mass for Jun Lozada in La Salle Green Hills last Sunday. There’s something to be said here about what he calls “immanent victories”—that we failed in attaining them after ’86. Echoing Rizal, Dr. Acosta warns that if we don’t flush out the residuals of the system we disapprove, all those things about it we despise will come back. There was no complete cleansing after ’86; the ills have returned. (Or did they even leave us?)

Someone taps my back; I turn to see Meynardo Mendoza from the Deparment of History, a former teacher of mine. “Nagsalita na ba si Fr. Intengan?” “Opo.” The Jesuit had spoken earlier, delivering a talk entitled “People Power 1: Great Expectations, Scanty Harvest,” preceding a talk w/ similar views by Dr. Zosimo Lee of UP, who used the criteria of justice in proving EDSA’s failures.

Fr. Luis David, also a Jesuit, took on another perspective & received a lot of attention & quite a few raised eyebrows. Unlike the other panelists, he didn't even bother to ask if he may begin; he jumped straight into reading his paper w/ his accented English & the kind of laid-back disposition that can only come from confidence (because well-written papers need no extemporaneous explanations), quoting the likes of TS Eliot along w/ a myriad of political & philosophical minds. He insisted on how contestations & dissent are integral in a democracy. “I’d much rather have a politicized armed forces than a passive 1 w/c blindly follows authority.” He used Trillianes’ successful senatorial bid as exemplification. Trillianes was not noted for necessarily being a man with much sense; “sometimes it seems like he can’t put 2 thoughts together,” but his victory speaks of a dissent Fr. David considers healthy for a democracy.

Dr. Acosta weighed in using his naturally deep voice, saying the rallying, masses, & noise barrages we see today are “encouraging realities” w/ regard to expressing disapproval. But he had also said earlier that “maybe it’s not about the streets or the streets of EDSAs” anymore. He expresses the importance of the youth & their involvement in new technologies—cyberspace being the new streets thru w/c we rally.

Still, Dr. Acosta asserts a need for a return to concrete benchmarks for success based on clearly defined standards similar to how other democracies are assessed. The question remains for Dr. Acosta: “Where are we now 22 years later?” He calls for a return to paying attention to strengthening our institutions. “It’s not a matter about housekeeping but what kind of house we have.”

It had been an insightful discussion, but, you see, I get a little wary when moderators open floors up to questions from the audience, knowing that more often than not my fellow Blue Eagles make manifest the perception of apathy that clouds over us. After all, we are a student populace who have now elected a student body president who campaigned independently, insisting on more outward social involvement w/out sharing how nor realizing that, w/ regard to national issues, forces centripetal in nature is what will truly enliven this carcass of a student body. Thankfully, this audience in the Ching Tan Room is mainly from the adult intelligentsia, leading to more interesting points.

Fr. Intengan is asked to explain the involvement of the Church in all of this. He says that the Church had failed in using symbolic power in EDSA. He says the Church fumbled the opportunity to contribute to nation-building considering its wide reach. The Church could’ve led in developing a civil code of ethics accepted by all faiths & w/c encouraged unity; it didn’t.

“Many clergy went into miracle mode,” says Fr. Intengan. The intellectual substance of EDSA was lost. EDSA was secular; still, we insist otherwise. “Institutions monopolized the event,” making it Catholic. There was a “poor deployment of symbols,” says the Jesuit. Even today in commemorative celebrations, Fr. Intengan cannot quite understand the persistence of English liturgy & middle-class taste in entertainment. “Many poor people were for Cory.”

On an even more secular note, Fr. Intengan criticizes how politics too quickly became too pragmatic—missing a sense of purpose. A “national ideology” was never developed; the Church failed in aiding with this. “I hope the Church becomes more insightful.”

Another interesting question brought the concept of EDSA into today’s pressing concerns: “Do you think GMA has learned enough from the past to suppress an EDSA uprising against her?"
Dr. Acosta says that such speculation has been confirmed informally. Consider the fact that now you need permits from 3 separate government agencies to rally. Dr. Acosta admits to feeling torn between 2 stands: giving GMA credit but also realizing that she essentially bungled something like the Lozada incident at the airport.

In answering the question as such, I think Dr. Acosta brought forth the kind of stance we should now have amid a nation on shaky ground: we must be wary of & give due consideration to the complexity of our problems, but we must also be vigilant & intelligently aggressive in holding people accountable, seeking justice, wanting change. After all, it is this lack of vigilance that has allowed for intellectual discussions to still be centered on an event 2 decades now into our past. It is this lack of vigilance w/c has allowed for the intellectualized dissection of what should’ve simply been kept a romantic victory; still, we ourselves have allowed it to become a concrete symbol of betrayal.

* * *

Birthdays: Julio Julongbayan celebrated his yesterday w/ Yellow Cab Pizza & sisig. My cousin Kathy is currently celebrating w/ Gin. A very Happy Birthday to both!

Some said they never saw it happening; maybe it's in the clothes. (Photo taken during Heights open mic last week.)

Hearts' Day '08

2008-02-17T18:22:00.003+08:00

A mob in black & white chant outside campus, waving signs & banners for the love of country & a man called Lozada. Honk if you’re for the truth, a sign reads in Filipino as many of the mostly young spill onto the road. The cars do honk, though I can’t help but question if for truth or merely to say Get out of the way!

A smaller group looks on from the footbridge, where they hang similarly messaged banners while young couples walk quietly by behind them, hand-in-hand, between lovers of nation & a small girl in rags, who sits on the cement ground, legs spread to give room for dinner: crumbs of chips spilled from the blue plastic bag beside her right thigh.

Nearby at a coffee shop, I see a friend eating dinner alone. He waves to me while hiding sniffles, perhaps from allergies to roses on neighboring tables where couples dine, or maybe to the familiarity of an empty chair beside him.

A block away, a candidate student leader, running on the platform of love for art (while her name is used on her posters as an acronym involving awareness & social involvement), clumsily stumbles through the exit of a bookstore (& she doesn't seem to hear the chants from across the street).

When we speak of views, my friend at the coffee shop sees hands, flowers, & voids, while couples see projections for the future & yester-Valentines when this day hadn’t been as pleasurable.

The girl having dinner sees only backs when she looks up from her remaining crumbs. The candidate eyes the cracks on the ground her pointed heels must avoid.

The crowd by the road sees TV cameras, the abstractedness of words like justice, & their likeness in future retellings. The group on top see the temporal blacks & whites of unifying T-shirts as well as the blinding light of rush hour traffic.

When we speak of love, it’s to the idea of parallelism to heroes & martyrs past, the thought of feeling never loved, the feeling from the thought of having someone, something, to love.

On levels small & personal, it’s of things cheesy—like chips or the way cardboard hearts are ornamented. On the levels larger & most ignored, it’s of a love so small, if not missing altogether.

Evening of Valentines 2008
Katpinunan Avenue, Loyola Heights

* * *

Stick a fork in me

After a bit of talking/consulting w/ Larry, April, Cindy, Mia, Rica, & a lot of arguing w/ myself, I will be submitting the “nth” & final draft of my thesis academic paper tomorrow.

I thought this & a B in my latest Philo exam—giving me enough cushion for my likely finals failure (Philo in Filipino?!)—would guarantee my graduation.

Last Wednesday I missed toga fitting cuz I stayed home to work on the thesis paper.

Friday, the registrar’s office called, saying I’m way overdue for tuition payment.

Graduating still?

I can’t stand how you deny what you supposedly stand for

Attended the prom-themed Heights open mic on Friday, & I have a lot of shit to say about what ended up being a musikahan organized by the supposed literary org.

Authorities will be hearing from me soon.

(Yes, “signs of the times” could describe literature being nothing but an overlooked sideshow but there’s something to be said about advocacy here.)

(By the way, w/ regard to my Most Eligible Male Heightser Award nomination, did I win?)

How old am I?

Yesterday, after finally getting home at 7AM, & after working all day on little sleep, I attended 80^th birthday party of Tito Bino in Tandang Sora.

Tonight, after working the whole day like a hermit in my room, I will have to actually shower & proceed downstairs where there will be a party celebrating Lola’s 90^th.

Two nights, 2 parties. Eighty & 90.

Party animal ka na, Martin?

Sepia

2008-02-10T17:11:00.001+08:00

Written on an afternoon a few weekends ago in Passi, Iloilo:

I’m sitting alone at a common area on the 2^nd floor of the main house. Most are likely in Bacolod by now, where Tito Totong's cremation will take place. Lola is sleeping in the living room downstairs. Dad is asleep in our room a few paces from where I am. We’re packed; waiting to leave for the airport at 4:30.

Earlier, I saw a picture of a thinner, younger Dad, w/ a woman I would call Mom, from the early ‘80s in 1 of those albums downstairs. Though I can’t picture myself wearing such a tight-fitting dress shirt w/ wide cuffs & an even wider collar, I can’t help but see a lot of me in Dad’s likeness. Something about the smile—barely one at all. Perhaps it’s the hair, the way it seems haphazardly brushed after being blown all over the place. Something similar about our posture: relaxed but exuding confidence in the way we lean to one side, the plane of the left shoulder slightly higher than the right—groovy, they called it in his day; cool would be apt now.

“Villanueva na Villanueva gid.” I’ve heard that said many times over the past 3 days, by longtime friends & neighbors, relatives distant & not so—the lines are blurred in these parts.

After mass this morning, while Tito Totong was being loaded onto the funeral car, Dad's old yaya walked up & gave him a friendly slap on the cheek, followed by a kiss. Dad pointed to me. "Anak ko, yaya." She looked at me, then at Dad. She walked over & gave a similar greeting: a friendly slap on the cheek, followed by a kiss.

To encounter death is often an invitation to look back. Dad would recall the romance behind that old pic had I shown him. And it’s beyond just two people & the love they felt. I speak now of age, youth, vigor minus mid-life’s burdens: wife, son, family—I yet to be trapped & condemned to elusive grounds, like that of an old picture, sandwiched by a piece of cardboard & sticky plastic inside a dusty binder, placed in a corner where few rarely sit.

I imagine Dad looking at that picture now, how we would say that that version of him, like his older brother, has died—but only to himself in melancholic silence. I inherit that frozen moment in sepia now, & I live what is now Dad’s yesterday—my version of it in the moments that make up my next decade or so, my finest hour as I.

Perhaps youth is never lost but merely passed on, to one’s own blood, his own likeness. Perhaps such was the power of family, neighbors, friends, & even old yayas seeing me now in this old town-now-city, in a quaint little patch of an island they call Panay: that moment now in sepia, their young Toto Rene, reborn.

Spoiler

2008-02-04T09:04:00.000+08:00

It's Super Bowl Sunday in the States. It's the Patriots versus the Giants, New England versus New York, or, as many non-football loving persons like to put it, playboy Tom Brady versus boy-next-door Eli Manning.

(For the record: I'm for the Patriots. People always like to pull for the underdog, which in this case is the less-favored Giants. But what's a bigger nemesis than perfection? What odds are greater to overcome than that of history? Go Pats go!)

Every year, Super Bowl weekend takes me back to a particular incident from my thankfully-now-distant past. It was Super Bowl XXX, back when the halftime festivities didn't matter as much, when Playboy bunnies didn't try to take a morsel of the ratings, and when the Super Bowl ads (at a gazillion dollars a minute) were the only sideshow worth talking about. Cowboys versus Steelers, Dallas-Pittsburgh, Aikman/Emmitt/Irvin versus I-don't-even-remember.

We were still living in Jakarta then, meaning football mattered because of all the American classmates I had at the International School. Cable was yet a prominent concept so coverage of the game was only available to the Americans via a military network hooked up to places like the American Embassy or the American Club, where many members of their armed forces worked and lived.

A classmate of mine invited me to his house for what would be my first and last Super Bowl party. I found myself in a living room full of military men and their families crowded around a then large TV. Buffalo wings aplenty. It was the first time I ever tried guacamole.

Coverage of the game was delayed a few hours so my friend and I walked over to the American Club park and tossed the football around. A hyped-up football fan, no more than 13, joined us from inside the club, where they had an advanced hook-up. The game had already ended. He told us who won.

After half an hour of quasi-shotgun plays and last second heaves, we headed back to the house where their hookup was only beginning its coverage. Innocently, I told the crowd who won, only to have grown, muscular white men with buzz cuts "playfully" throwing pillows at me.

My friend and I went up to his room where we hung out for a while. His brother joined us, asked who the spoiler was. I raised my hand. "That was stupid," he said.

In walked my friend's mother and the sermon began: "You know some of those men out there traveled from other cities to watch this game." She looked at me in utter disgust. I don't remember what else she said. I couldn't have been older than seven.

The next thing I remember was being told that my sundo was outside the house. They couldn't have been more thankful. As I stepped out of the bedroom and peeked into the living room, I heard the commentators on TV describing what was going on. The stadium crowd was quite boisterous. The military men and their families, on other hand, munched on chips quietly, not really watching at all.

Weeks later, I remember seeing my American friend and his father at the driving range. I was there with my own father. The only open slot was next to theirs so we took it. My friend gave me a wave; his father saw me but didn't say a thing.

I don't remember who won the game. All I remember was who lost.

Journal tidbits...

2008-01-31T23:46:00.000+08:00

...cuz I want to check in but haven’t had the time of day lately.

Monday.

Back to Manila. Back to the rush of regular life: sitting in Ching Tan room, waiting for a Theo film viewing, classmates giddy & gigglish over God-knows-what. Earlier did my best to zone out Heights underclassmen & their friends to read thru readings for Third World Lit—only to find out that DM wouldn’t be around. Finished Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner on the plane back from Iloilo. Touching. Poignant ending. Brought a tear to my eye. Bought Katrina Tuvera’s Jupiter Effect at National, Katipunan. Still no Free Press. Lacuesta playing a prank?

Tuesday.

George W. Bush makes his final State of the Union Address.

A couple of days back, Suharto died.

Squatters forced out of East Service Road. Rocks were being thrown at military trucks. Dad insists I take a cab. It takes long to get one. Was late for an interview. High schoolers think I’m a worthy thesis topic. Attended a talk by David Guerrero organized by Karla Delgado and AComm. Interesting. But advertising really not for me. I hear Sir Marne’s echo.

Wednesday.

Tried an interesting concept: studied for Theo quiz. Think it paid off: B at least. Heard Sir Sawi's in town; his book launch in UST. Did not go. Jessica Zafra came to campus. She lives off book sales. Lucky.

Ted Kennedy & Caroline Kennedy endorse Barrack Obama.

In Kenya, tribal conflict rampart.

Larry will be butchering the latest draft of my academic essay in preparation for my post-immersion consultation next week. This he told me during Lit Night—after he read; before Vince did his John Ashbery inspired reading of 2 originals. After, April & I watched Ricky Abad’s rendition of The Wayside Café by Tony Perez at the Art Gallery. The Death of Memory & now this: Abad’s in his purgatorial phase.

John Edwards drops out of race.

Rudy Giuliani drops out, endorses John McCain.

Thursday.

Scampering to get submissions for Heights seniors’ folio ready. Headache. Printer wouldn’t work. Weather is crazy hot. Acosta on his game during class. When he’s on, he’s on. Smart dude. Heart’s in the right place—or so it seems. A nation’s hope? Not him alone. But he’s necessary.

Waiting for Luigi to email the latest part of our group paper due tomorrow. I want to sleep. In 4 hours, I leave for immersion. I don’t want to go.

To RPV

2008-01-23T21:28:00.000+08:00

You had once questioned your brother for trusting his spouse over you. You drew upon the chemistry of blood, touched on the inferiority of choice symbolized by rings taken off when washing dishes.

You told me your brother had attended the funeral of mother’s father, that this solitary instance is reborn in memory now that your brother has passed. You’ve mastered the use of clichés: eye for an eye.

Finance prohibited my making the trip. My perceived stubbornness knocked mother off the flight anyway, & now I’m back on. She now pouts while lying in bed.

The decision was yours.

You chose to ignore a faulty argument you made based on hierarchy, as if rank had anything to do w/ remorse or sincerity. You settle for the nephew over the in-law for representation—& that’s what you reduced it to: a political move.

You tell me I should be there, but remind me mom mo sana. I pack claiming principle; I travel, ego bruised.

I inherit all this: the decisions, their consequences, the land, what’s to be reaped, the tension, the voids, the joys, more so pains.

The name I keep, & gender says future unions or births means my passing it on—our very expansion.

Your brother having died because of something I survived: a guilt I inherit as well.

I inherit moments past, prior notions, contentions set forth years back, like how your brother trusted his spouse over you, his blood.

& now as I pack for a slot allotted for euphemisms like your better half, I repeat a notion I inherit as well: she is your wife, I your blood—it is not my choice, but silly science binds me.

& now I’ve inherited failed efforts to lift this whole mess to higher ground, feeling my way through another baptism to this fraternity.

Optimists like to think of death as a moment for change. We've succeeded in cementing what reality has shown us: that death is merely continuation with a cough.

Noise

2008-01-20T13:12:00.000+08:00

I’m baffled by the cacophony that is our everyday. When I wake up in the morning I like to read. The solitude of being the only one up in coherence w/ authors’ desires to transport me to other places, to made up moments. I place the kettle on the stove to warm my bath. Fifteen minutes to boil: enough to experience 1 good poem, or stroll thru 5 pedestrian ones at least. I never make it to minute-7; the dogs all excite, greeting the sun reaching its peak—they recognize time too: the warmth hints breakfast. I pat them to calm them down halfway thru my 2^nd poem. I love the dogs but nothing lyrical to their barking; Dreamweavers rudely upstaged. And just when they quiet, when I think I can commence in silence, the kettle whistles. My day in this world begins, w/ only minutes of escape when focus perseveres, like in the MRT, standing by the entrance, where early conversation is drowned, the hum of air-conditioning is comforting, & where I finish that second poem, probably the last I’ll read in hours, enough to pull me thru, till I’m alone in silence yet again, when all dogs go back to sleep.

* * *

FA Fest opening

I’ll call the opening of Quixote: The 2007 Ateneo Fine Arts Festival last Monday, January 14 a success; a considerable crowd attended the humble ceremony in front of De La Costa Hall—mostly Information Design majors as expected.

I stayed by the refreshments area where 5 bottles of wine stood; this might’ve clouded my judgment of the event.

Acting School of Humanities Dean Benilda Santos, PhD, FA Officer-in-Charge DM Reyes, the FA's Glenn Mas, Ali Figeroa, & Missy Maramara, as well as Marco Lopez of the Filipino Department all graced the event.

beLIEve launch

A lot of what was planned didn’t go well; our e-group is still filled w/ many emails about various concerns from the event, but a lot of people went so I’m calling it a success as well.

The launch of bieLIEve, an anthology of works by Ateneo Creative Writing seniors, was held at the swankier (less writerly) Mag:net Café in Bonifacio High Street, featuring P75 bottles of beer (yikes!).

Once I got over the initial shock, & got my hands on free beer stubs, & got over the fact that all those things in my production sheet were all crumbling down, & got over the fact that no one was going to help me get things back on track, I managed to enjoy a lot of the night.

Was pleased to see many cohorts in attendance: Marie La Vina, Audrey Trinidad (& beau Nikko), Panch Alvarez, & Pancho Villanueva.

Was pleased to see favorite, familiar, & not-so-familiar CW juniors in attendance as well: April Sescon, Sasha Martinez, Verne Ahyong, Trish Elamparo, & Aila Casauay, among others.

Doubly-pleased to see many of our friends from the faculty: Rica Bolipata Santos, Karla Delgado, Marco Lopez, Yol Jamendang, & Migoy Lizada.

Many thanks to those who ordered copies of the book. & to those who stole the sample proofs during the event: pls give them back!

National Artist graces FA Fest

Playwright Glenn Mas likes to jokingly boast of his 9 Palancas (vis-à-vis my 1) in class. Last Friday, during a performance of his Children of the Sea in Gonzaga Hall (directed by Marcee Lacap), Glenn looked as hesitant & humble as ever as National Artist for Literature F. Sionil Jose was in the audience w/ his wife.

Never did Glenn seem more uncomfortable when he had to ask for Jose’s autograph for other audience members.

Glenn had many funny anecdotes from his conversation w/ Jose:

“It was good, but it was only 45 minutes long,” commented the National Artist.

“Ah kasi, po, 1-act play lang siya,” Glenn replied hesitantly.

& as Jose commended him for the use of metaphor and allegory, Glenn supposedly just nodded in agreement & gratitude, unaware of all those things. (Hahaha!)

Congratulations to Glenn, Marcee, JJ Ignacio (actor, production design), & the rest for one hell of a production.

Especially proud of this one cuz of its distinct Antiqueño feel. Antique, for everyone’s information, is a small province in Panay Island where great people (if not overly-confident assholes) like Evelio Javier, Glenn Mas, & Martin Villanueva (wasak!) trace their families’ roots.

On a sadder note

My Tito Totong passed away this past week after a relatively short battle w/ cancer. He had been holding on for quite some time despite being in grave condition. More & more now we believe that he was only waiting for our lola to go home to see him. She eventually did last Monday; he passed away Wednesday.

While having dinner w/ April & Panch along Riverbanks last Friday, I ran into my cousin Cory. She seemed OK. My prayers go out to her and her Ate Nikki.

Dad, Mom, & Pope will be flying to Iloilo Thursday morning. I’ll be following on the first flight on Friday.

Waste land

2008-01-13T10:58:00.000+08:00

It’s the hottest morning of the week, & I have a cold.

Yesterday it rained all day—the only time it rained in what was generally a chilly 7 days.

Some are sick & miss a week of school. Some—like me—get sick & don’t miss a day.

Others have viruses of a nature incomprehensible.

Confirmed rumors speak of a prolonged squabble about I’m-not-so-sure-what between those-who-shall-remain-nameless.

Prognosis: remedy needed quick, but I don’t know what it is.*

Months ago, I placed Marie’s poem under a stack of academic readings. Busy. Her deadline came & went w/out my comments. Negligence. Recently I wanted to ask for her comments on something of mine. Selfish. Life has taught me about nonsense like karma. Guilt.

Apologies, both ways, reinforced this week over at a place others still incessantly call Chicken Boy. Now I’ve ran out of excuses.

My tito is dying in Iloilo. How’s he doing? I ask. I just really want to get away from the city.

Eight-thousand bucks to drain a bloated corpse stubbornly holding on. Anytime now, says the doctor. Anytime w/ a per-night rate of 2,000.

Expectations for the next 2 months: a funeral & a 90^th birthday celebration. I don’t own a barong, but a tita got me a pair of new Chucks, baptized yesterday in the flooded streets.

We had both spoken about entitlement, how we both didn’t want to feel it. Names we hold dear splashed on covers. Father she used to describe the man others hold in such reverence. While she feels she isn’t entitled, others brown-nose their way into her father’s life. Such is my interpretation. I am a skeptic.

I can relate.

More so now; I think I might’ve disappointed a mother of sorts this week.

You feel so distant, says the boy. Their bodies close, lips inches apart. The girl says nothing, hopes the touch of her fingers would suffice for the moment’s brittleness.

We spoke about seatmates, how the ones in high school are somewhat sacred. Before she was the girl on TV, she & I used to talk nonsense like the shape of our shit.

That’s pretty intimate, says Marie.

Years later April & Sasha interview my former seatmate backstage of a musical production, mention my name. She hesitates. It doesn’t ring a bell.

I saw a man walking along Aurora to the LRT station barefoot.

It was the Feast of the Black Nazarene.

Vince gave his class a free cut.**

He had once shown us around Quiapo to elucidate the magnificence of the city's chaos.

Every January 4, he says he reads a TS Eliot poem.

This year it was The Naming of Cats.

He needed a humorous one, he says. The world is depressing enough as it is.

Last January 11, I sat in his class as they took up The Waste Land.

In response to Sibyl’s dilemma, a student says: My lola is sooo old, right? She’s…like…90 or something…

A petty squabble. A dying uncle. A father one can’t talk to. A disappointed mother. A silence between a girl & a boy. Intimate memories forgotten. Hopes & dreams pinned on a statue.

The world is depressing enough as it is.

__________
*Like I said earlier in the week, ma’am, ayaw kong makihalo diyan.
**He would later deny actually going to Quiapo that day.

* * *

Announcements:

Book launch: beLIEve, a compilation of works by Creative Writing seniors of the Ateneo, will be launched this Wednesday, January 16, 8PM at Mag:net Café, Bonifacio High Street.

Two of my essays & my intro included.

Expected live performances by DJ Mike Oreta, Ernville, Hymn of Siren, Melany, Mayonnaise, & Hilera, among others.

Thanks to Panch Alvarez for the cover illustration (above) for the book.

Speaking of Panch, his December 26 exhibit in Bicol went well: 7 paintings sold. He’s feeling ecstatic; a bunch of us had free pizza this week as evidence. Hoping to post some of his works here.

Congrats, mehn!

Lastly, deadline for contributions for the next issue of Heights extended to February 1.

Contribute na, mga 'tenista!

Cause, effect

2008-01-06T15:21:00.000+08:00

When something itches, you scratch it. When you scratch too hard, you get a scab. When you scratch a scab, you bleed. When you bleed while you're walking on the street, still in last night's clothes, bed-head look, oily face, people stare & wonder: What happened to Mrs. Villanueva's son?

When you're own brother's dying, you talk to him while he's lying on his death bed.

When you've been betrayed by your dying brother numerous times before, have refused to talk to him for months, your conversation--possibly the last--is brief & forced.

Blood is thicker than water, they say--a statement not always true.

Flashback (riding the theme of blood): When you have major surgery, you lose a lot of blood. When you lose a lot of blood, you need to replace it. When you're in the Philippines, this can be tricky. The hospital's stock was running low on O-positive; parents start calling friends & relatives; relying on the local Red Cross simply wouldn't do.

When you have a nosebleed, you pinch your nose at the bridge.

Then you lean your head back; blood can't defy gravity.

When you've donated recently, you can't donate again. When you have a tattoo, you can't donate at all. When you haven't seen a close family friend in a long time, you don't beg for their blood. When a family friend sees you desperate, he donates nevertheless.

When you kill a pig in your back yard, you save all the blood.

When you're feeling festive, you serve dinuguan on January 1.

If you belief in prophetic meals, it's going to be a bloody year.

When you have blood to replace all that you've lost, you have a better chance of making it in the end. When you're walking again, you thank those who have helped. When someone gives you their blood, you thank them the most. When you have a little humor, you repay him w/ a bottle of red wine, say it looks like what he gave you, w/c helped save your life.

When you're bored, you watch a pro wrestler's life on TV.

When you're a pro wrestler, you play-wrestle w/ your kids.

When you're 300 pounds, an elbow can make your kid bleed.

When you're a pro wrestler, you tell your bleeding kid to mix saliva w/ the blood: looks cooler that way.

When you haven't changed since last night, you take a shower & finally do so. When the wound from the scab excretes something, you wipe it off, clean it w/ alcohol. When you have a small wound on your face, you don't look all that attractive. When you're a guy like me, you don't really care.

You bled. You're alive.

* * *

When you're a noted poet (like Toledo), you release 2 books in a year.

When a proud ate boasts of her little brother getting into Ateneo, you congratulate her. (Congrats, Zoe!)

When a friend from Dumaguete is in town, you go out of your way to meet him. (Kita-kits this week, Twigs.)

When people you're forced to work w/ piss you off, you use venues like this to say Fuck you!

When a loyal friend puts up w/ you on 1 of those nights you were the self you hate being, you say Thank you.

Nothing personal...

2008-01-03T12:46:00.000+08:00

...but due to professional differences, I've decided to resign from my post as associate editor of KATIPUNAN. Want to make it clear that this was strictly a professional decision on my part based on unfortunate internal developments and disagreements.

I'd like to invite you all to check out the latest issue, my last with the magazine. (Photo endorsements below taken during a recent get-together among friends -- coincidentally many outgoing members of the publication.)

Ms. Martinez, former Art & Lifestyle writer,
showing off my last column for KATIPUNAN,
ironically a manifesto of sorts for the magazine.

Ms. La Vina, former Art & Lifestyle recruit.

Ms. Dulay, former Art & Lifestyle writer.

Mr. Mendoza (with Ms. Dulay and his significant other),
former creative director,
Ms. Sescon, former Art & Lifestyle editor (not pictured),
as well as Ms. Custodio (not pictured), former Travel editor,
have also decided to resign.

Would like to wish the remaining members of the editorial board and the staff, especially Ms. Reyes (News & Current Affairs), Mr. Dela Torre (Science & Technology), and the remaining writers who have worked with/under me during my time with the publication, the best of luck.

New year in 2 days

2007-12-30T11:15:00.000+08:00

(1)

April & I had merienda at a donut joint yesterday in Cubao. She ordered a donut & a torte; I, a tuna turnover.

The torte tasted like the donut with cream on the outside. The donut tasted like the torte with cream on the inside. The turnover: cat food.

(2)

Christmas Eve was a bust—not even the roast prime rib was good. The usual: Dad & I out on the patio, beer our company, cursing to the cacophony of socio-political talk. At bit angsty, I challenged him: You think you know everything, always in control, faultless. Went to bed on that note.

Christmas Day wasn’t much of anything either. Tradition can be cliché. The usual suspects came for dinner. Fresh take was to come w/ Ate Jho & family from the States; they brought little but a cute boy (pamangkin ko) who managed to tickle all for a few minutes at a time. We already have dogs for that.

(3)

I’m drinking a cup of coffee. There are 3 maids in this house: 1 makes it just right—that’s a given; the other makes it either too sweet or too bitter; the last defies logic: makes it too sour, like the cup I’m drinking right now. I love the timpla of the first maid; it’s just right: not too bitter, not too sweet, not too creamy, not sour at all. Balanced. Tamang-tama.

Doesn’t stand for anything, up to anything. The jolt minus the guts.

Soul-less.

(4)

Months ago, it was presumed that Hershey, our shitzu, was pregnant. We imprisoned her in a cage, fearful of miscarriage. Weeks later we discovered it was a false alarm. Disappointed (but not guilty), we now let her run around like she used to. We gave her a haircut; she’s so skinny—so unpregnant.

Gold, our female pug, is pregnant: assumption. She’s due this week: another assumption. We incarcerate her in a huge wooden play pen (fearful of miscarriage): minimum security prison. We let her out to the patio every night to take a shit. A few nights ago, I was sitting alone under the stars with a bottle: cliché. Tita left Gold with me. She staggered about like a pig for a few minutes before pausing to stare at me. I stared back. She lowered her ass to the ground. I worry; I’m not a vet. She staggered away. The baby: a brown log.

(5)

I got a haircut this week.

I can be trusted again.

(6)

From Friday’s New York Times: RANALPINDI, Pakistan – Benazir Bhutto, the Pakistani opposition leader and twice-serving prime minister, was assassinated Thursday evening as she left a political rally here, a scene of fiery carnage that plunged Pakistan deeper into political turmoil and ignited widespread violence by her enraged supporters.

Our neighbors had a videoke party that day; reading became a challenge, though the newly cleaned room would’ve served as the ideal setting.

A between-Christmas-&-New-Year in the past once saw my parents & I spending a good 13 hours in line at the COMELEC offices to register to vote. Two elections this year; didn’t vote in either of them:

epitome of my 2007:

no more hiding behind concern for country. It was a selfish year. Circumstances dictated such. Bhutto died for a concept so distorted that it seems to encourage such self-indulgence: democracy; my 2007 was (dis)honoring her.

TIME’s Person of the Year in '06 was a mirror. I was a year behind.

Too late to the party as usual.

* * *

A few announcements:

Neighbor and "pillar of poetry" Sir Marne finally launched his initial posts for his new pet project. Check it out here.

Heights now accepting contributions for the next folio. Contribute na, mga ‘tenista!

Sarge Lacuesta emailed me a couple of weeks ago. A creative nonfiction piece of mine is being published in the Free Press “this week.” I checked out National yesterday; wala pa yung issue with my piece. Abangan na lang, mga kaibigan.

* * *

Happy New Year to all!

Christmas wishes

2007-12-24T18:06:00.000+08:00

Sel took a photo survey of the Heights edboard and the org's rockstar staffers about what they want for Christmas. Here are the results.

Kat, ang rockstar sa buhay ni Tim, managing editor: “to go snorkeling in Sarangani.”
Martin G., the returning rockstar ng English staff (it’s in the name ata): “a whip!”
Tim, ang rockstar sa buhay ni Kat, English staff: “PS3”
Sel, wasak na taga-survey, special projects staff: “KILIG moment! (with whom?)”
Nikko, honorary member dahil siya ang puwet ng puwetry ni Audrey: “A Job.”
Julio, rockstar ng Filipino staff: “WOMAN (ON TOP), QUEEN SIZE BED, WINE/BOOZE, LOVE & NAUGHTINESS, ROLE PLAYING.”
JPaul, pinaka-wasak na rockstar, editor in chief: “a tablet…”
Panch, artist na may exhibit sa Bicol sa 26, business manager: “An EPIPHANY.”
Wyatt, future rockstar ng English staff: “SHIMMY with TIMMY!”
Mau, art editor: “3K lang po.”
Elie, punching bag ko, associate art editor: “Kill MAU!”
Joey, the puwet in my puwetry, secretary general: “is to EAT EVERYTHING and NOT get FAAAT!!!”
Audrey, dating puwet sa aking puwetry, associate editor: “AN OUT OF TOWN TRIP!”
Ako, rockstar ng English staff: “A MILLISECOND’S CHEER & CONTENTMENT FOR ALL—WHETHER IT TAKES BEER NOT.”

I'll add another...
April, my favorite English staffer (photo from Nikay): "MY Christmas wish? I don't have one."

* * *

A very Merry Christmas to everyone!

Still in last night's clothes

2007-12-23T20:17:00.000+08:00

Spent the entire afternoon in bed; still trying to recover from what was the first three days of Christmas vacation.

My last class was Thursday night, after which I joined Dad for dinner with balikbayan Ate Jho in Makati. Home by midnight.

Woke up early the following day to run a few errands at school. In the afternoon, Drew and I tended to our co-editors role for the senior CW anthology: fighting Quezon City traffic in the glaring heat to canvas possible printing presses. I’d find relaxation that day buying toiletries at SM Makati before happily going home early for a Friday night in (though it would’ve been nice to join Jason, Julio, and the rest of the Heights lasengeros in Katipunan).

Saturday was quite a trip on many levels. Parañaque to Mall of Asia to Parañaque to Alabang. Then three hours to one side of Commonwealth, then to the other side, and finally home when my Tita Chi Chi was just leaving for simbang gabi, circa 4AM. The first part of the day was dedicated to gift-buying, the next for Ate Jho and family (I as alalay). The evening was spent at Zoe’s place for a Christmas dinner cum inuman. Other guests included April, Marie, Sasha, Pancho, Sam Q. and beau, Charz with his new haircut, his new significant other, and twin brother Chad. While the rest took their shots of tequila and gulps of rum coke, giggling along with Charz’s attempts at songs I should know considering my being part of his generation, the architist and I settled for beer and looking grumpy (like driver and houseboy, says April). Truly an enjoyable night.

Flashback. Wednesday: the only other Christmas get-together I attended. An intimate affair at Ma’am Marj’s with Sir Marne, La Verne, and a couple of Ma'am's good friends. Conversing in the small garden over wine and Sir Marne’s music, expressing our solstice reflections about 2007, among other things. A pleasant time was had by all.

Now I sit here hours after waking up, still in the clothes from last night. I smell (not of despair, Sasha). I need a bath. Then what? Maybe TV, maybe a lot of reading. Looks like a good night ahead: a prelude to hopefully another good week.

*Pictures from Zoe's Polaroid camera.

* * *

Currently reading The Armies of the Night by Norman Mailer and Gaudeamus Caracoa 95. Waiting on the shelf: Dapitan Prose (stolen from the Heights room), Dreamweavers (from my favorite panelist), The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini (from my favorite girl), The Kite of Stars (also from my favorite girl), and Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri (which I told Sasha to buy for herself—but thanks anyways. Haha.)

She makes me feel

2007-12-16T22:40:00.000+08:00

Wednesday. She* makes me feel like I’ve lost it all. Ill-phrased inquiry an attack of character. Or so it seems. She walks paces ahead, crossing the street without even a hesitation for a farewell to hold on to.

consider a child / forbidden to speak / to her father, / like in Micronesia / where uncles serve / as intermediaries, / voices in a vacuum / with only echoes / of suppressed cries.

Perhaps I’ve touched deeper (with words) than where I’ve been to (physically) before, a pain with no tradeoff. My fault. Gone too far.

Huwebes. Katahimikan. Wala ang halakhak mula sa kusina sa baba; wala si Nanay. Si Tatay di ko makikita; nasa Batangas para sa trabaho. Transpo strike, ayon sa balita; wala ang boses ng jeepney drayber: ang destinasyon di malinaw.

A few years ago. Statement shirts are out, says GQ via a friend. They fill my closet.

Two sides to every story. I facing down, nose pressed against dirt while a refusal to hit with words acts like a foot trapping my head in place. Can hardly breathe.

Call (voice in tears): Tell her to go home.

consider the friction / of Time and Tradition, /

Text: If you’re a respectable person…

where men search / for greener pastures, / they say, leaving / children with fathers / and what silence / can entail, echoes /

Maraming tao sa food court, nagkukuwentohan.

of whimpers, howling / of hope lost. crickets /

Ngunit parang tahimik pa rin; ang kuskos lamang ng maunting pag-asa na makikita ko siya, na magusap.

outside chirp— /

Sa oras na nakalipas: dalawang teks, isang reply.

Weekend. Three bottles and more. Forgiveness and more.

My favorite is the green one, BURP! splashed in white. There’s another one: 100% doctor recommended, mother-in-law approved. Irony.

the sound of legs / rubbing together / to the rhythm / of the dangling / of a child's feet.

__________

*Kung iniisip mo na siya yun, baka tama ka, baka hindi. Ngunit kung iniisip mo siya naman yun, baka mali ka, o baka tama ka rin. Importante ba? Baka. Baka rin hindi. Totoo ba? Malamang. Ngunit ano ba talaga ang katotohanan? Anong paki mo? Buhay ng persona 'to. Ako ba yun? Baka. Anong paki mo ba? Ngunit kung interesado ka, salamat. Para sa akin. Para sa kanya. Para sa siya. Creative nonfiction lang, dude. Sulat lang nang sulat.

Reading

2007-12-14T07:12:00.001+08:00

Finished Coetzee's Youth in a day; Age of Iron is still better. Something too telling about Youth's prose: declarative in revealing consciousness of character, limited third person POV not at its best. Age... much more depressing, heavier to say the least--first person with all its honest flaws. (The real hurts are there; you have to sing to those wounds.) From the lib I take home Voyeurs & Savages of Sir Krip and an old Caracoa from '95. Third World, others claim; Filipiniana is an often used label. It's called Literature, and that's that.

Trippin' over trip

2007-12-11T23:24:00.000+08:00

The Inquirer editorial titled "Indecent junket" (dated December 11) expresses concern (at the very least) over the European trip of President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo and a reported entourage of 200, including 30 members of Congress. Three congressmen who stayed home have since called for an inquiry on this matter.

The obvious question that rises is whether or not these 30 congressmen actually spent their own money for the trip. Of course the question takes on the tone of a rhetorical one for most skeptics that pose it -- I'll have to adhere to such a tone.

Let's run through some numbers. According to their web site, Philippine Airlines -- the carrier of the contingent -- does not offer direct flights to any of the cities the contingent traveled to. In fact, no European city is listed as a regular point of destination. But for the sake of numbers assessing, consider the following: the price of a direct flight to Los Angeles starts at US$813, which translates to around P33,000. Multiply this by the family members coming along on the trip. Quite a hefty amount for a congressman whose monthly salary is pegged at around P40,000.

But let's assess further. As earlier mentioned, PAL does not offer direct flights to any of the stops the contingent made. Common sense says that each of the 200 had to spend a heftier amount for special arrangements. And it was a chartered plain; chartered flights go for even higher. For the sake of argument, let's peg the initial trip to Europe at P40,000 per individual. Multiply that by 200 and you have P8,000,000. How much of this is public money?

And let's not forget the cost for the flights to the stops after the initial landing in Europe, as well as the cost for accommodations. One can't help but cringe if not get completely drunk over the kind of money being diverted from the national budget for the Christmas vacations of these supposed leaders.

I say vacation because what business do we truly have in the three countries our "representatives" visited? The Inquirer hit the nail on the head when they hinted at the kind of hassle the contingent must have been for their various hosts.

Arroyo's meeting the Queen of England is reminiscent of former President Estrada's essentially forcing a brief meeting with President Clinton years back. At least Estrada got a few military planes out of it, albeit archaic ones. What did Arroyo get out of this other than a personal memory of meeting the Queen at an impoverished peoples' expense? What's in it for us? And did she really need 200 other persons -- 30 congressmen -- there with her? How hard is a vacation?

An Inquirer article a couple of days ago reported Arroyo told OFWs in London before meeting the Queen that she was going to boast of the Filipinos' hard work over there. The Queen already knows that, probably has a few of us on her palace staff. The Queen need not meet the illegitimate leader of her people's nurses.

Half a billion pesos spent last year by the President for travel. That's 20 percent of her entire budget. Her budget that comes from public funds. Thirty congressmen took time (and money?) away from their struggling constituents for a little Christmas trip to where our countrymen are sentenced to go mostly as laborers because of the inadequacies of congressmen, senators, and presidents past and present.

Leadership, we call it.

Truths, Promises

2007-12-10T08:16:00.000+08:00

In the spirit of submitting my second crack at 17 pages of blah--academic paper, we're calling it--I've reproduced below a snippet of what adviser Larry Ypil will be receiving and butchering over the next couple of days.

This is also in the spirit of getting life back on track with things worthy of my attention after my run-in with professional differences (or is it incompetence and irrationality?) last week. Two more days and I'm gone. Bitter? Absolutely.

I digress. I apologize.

Back to the stuff that matters. It's called creative nonfiction, people.

"James Frey’s autobiographical memoir, A Million Little Pieces, was met with rousing approval when it was released a few years ago; an endorsement from popular talk show host and cultural icon Oprah Winfrey only helped catapult Frey and his book. Readers and reviewers raved about Frey’s riveting story, written in the most understated, even wry or deadpan style of prose, which ironically accentuated the gripping horrors of an alcoholic crack addict trying to get his life back in order. It was later revealed that Frey had invented or embellished much of the accounts in the book, and since it was packaged as nonfiction, the literary world, Oprah, and many other readers denounced the work.

"With nonfiction comes the promise of telling the truth. And as evident by the backlash felt by Frey, it is a promise readers are unforgiving about. In fact, it was also revealed that A Million Little Pieces was rejected by publishers in the past when it was being shopped around as fiction; only when it was premised to be nonfiction was it ever accepted. The book did not change, the promises behind it did, and the judgment of publishers and eventually readers clung on to those promises—it playing a large role in their assessing the book’s merits.

"The interesting dilemma is that the promise of truth is not always verifiable. And even if some facts can be proven to be true, one’s rendering of it in words from a particular perspective cannot be controlled or reprimanded, embellishments all but a given in most if not every piece of nonfiction ever written. The attachment to the promise of truth, essentially the readers’ personal attachment to the subject matter, can often exempt the nonfictionist from blandness of his form. There is something problematic here from the writer’s standpoint. Perhaps on the level of craftsmanship, the promise of truth is an unfair element clouding one’s judgment of nonfiction. Feeling violated—or lied to—once admirers of A Million Little Pieces turned their backs on it. Never mind the creative rendering of the story regardless of its factuality. James was a lie, and so were the emotions invested in him for the readers. But it appears the only tension here is based on the simple fact that we do not like to be stooped, for we all emotionally invest in fictional characters as well.

"So is it all a matter of context? In some cases, it may very well be. Unfortunately, the “youngest” form of creative nonfiction just does not get the benefit of the doubt.

"In a bit of irony, the cover of my edition of Frey’s quasi-memoir features a comment from The Boston Globe, calling the book “The most lacerating tale of drug addiction since William S. Burroughs’s Junky.” Junky is considered a work of fiction, though it is widely known that much of its content is autobiographical.

"A well-written story is a well-written story. Or at least such should be the case. It is not. The promise of truth is binding—whatever it is that truth is. There is an interesting tension here. And it is one a good creative nonfictionist would gladly grapple with in his work. This is the kind of courage within creative nonfiction that should be celebrated."

* * *

Rumor has it, thesis class teacher Rica Bolipata-Santos won the Madrigal-Gonzalez Best First Book Award for Love, Desire, Children, Etc.

All together now, seniors: Libre! Libre! Libre!

The Celtics are 10 and 0...

2007-12-08T17:36:00.000+08:00

...at home; my home record will be 8 and 0 by weekend's end. Let's run them down: Glenn's invite to PEN conference today, Glenn's gala night of The Death of Memory,* Sir Vim's invite to Writers' Night, Sir Vim's invite to Conspiracy, Mia's invite to PSFIII** launch, Ian's talk at PEN tomorrow, Ma'am Marj's invite to PEN as well, and parents' invite to mass--Holiday of Obligation, says Mom. That's 8 going down to Home and a date with a whore named Revisions, introduced by Larry*** on a Starbucks thesis consultation earlier this week. Kaya by Monday? he asked. Sure, I said. And that's that. There'll be times I'll be stepping away from Revisions, to mingle with Sulking, another I met this week when Boss left Reason and Trust.**** I saw her with Pride, says Dad as I consulted the whole matter with him. I said I wasn't surprised. Redemption is tempting me still, but a prude I insist on being on this matter. I've suffered some loses recently, but, like the Celtics, my winning record's in tact. No use risking another play; I'll just run down the clock. Four more days to go till the end. Then I can rest, my mind free from things that should've been thrown at the frowning waste bin days ago.
__________
*Tanghalang Ateneo stages Glenn Sevilla Mas' award-winning The Death of Memory
**Launch of Philippine Speculative Fiction III at Fully Booked Bonifacio High Street, December 8
***Palanca Award-winning poet sets time away from sacred post-graduate thesis for arrogant nonfictionist and his undergraduate thesis on lies and creativity.
****My horoscope today (no coincidence): "Just because someone is higher than you in rank doesn't mean they're smarter. If you think your superior is wrong, say something."

Journalism courses in my university...

2007-12-03T10:07:00.000+08:00

...are flawed, or maybe the stuff's just not getting into students' head. Paterno, a sign of hope. He'll boss me around some day. Leadership hindered by competence, or lack there of. Competence hindered by responsibility, or lack there of. Responsibility hindered by common sense, or lack there of. Respect not needed in the face of professionalism. It's hard drawing on the last statement when belief is waning. Paterno, a sign of hope. He'll boss me around some day. Or maybe it will be Ma'am Beni; meeting with her Wednesday. Or Sir Rock; Mag:net might need younger waiters. Or the manager in McDo; they might want to paste articles on Go Big Time cups. Quarter Pounder with Cheese Value Meal now less than P100. The patty goes beyond the edges of the bun. Dry. They sucked out the juice to make the damn thing cheaper. What kind of principles are those? Can't work for a company like that. Paterno. He'll boss me around some day. And I'll boss around some people too. Let's hope they're as loyal as those under me now. I'm meeting some of them later. Cindy wants a beer. I type with my eyes drooping. Twelve hours of sleep last night. Meaning twelve hours of sleep in the last two days. It's 9:43 says the clock on the screen. Time is a lie for too many. 4pm no longer means 4PM, 6PM doesn't mean 6PM, 8PM doesn't mea--you get the point. Days are a lost concept. Wednesday night haggled to Saturday morning. Even then, nothing. Now two pages means five. And majority vote is lost to taste. Cuz I say so. Bosses lose sense of reason, ask for unearned trust. Debt resolved by lesser chance of profit. Sanity all but gone. Edit means rewrite. Independence hinders practicality. Rational thought lost to romance. Cuz I say so. Student paper released last week. A juiceless burger for P99. Paterno, a sign of hope. He'll boss me around some day. Or maybe that Fil-Lit guy who runs the other mag. (Yes, this is/was a rant.)

Relativity

2007-11-25T21:51:00.000+08:00

The number 4 in Chinese connotes death. Ming Tsai refuses to plate his dishes with elements numbering 4 in pieces, save for that one time he made spicy chicken with 4 different spices. Chicken of Death, he named the dish if my memory serves me well. A man may choose to forgive; rarely does he forget—betrayal is a bitter pill to swallow. A man I know has been in conflict with his brother for a number of years now. Things have been said behind backs, accusations thrown about like no-look passes. A plate was almost thrown toward one’s head. If it weren’t for an intrusive yaya, blood would’ve have spilled. And to think one brother is already in his fifties, the other in his sixties. Now the man I know has a brother with cancer. Stage 4, rumors say. Metastasized this means, or spread to other organs or throughout the body. The man’s wife hints of reconciliation, ending a cold war a few months old. The man says he’s been praying for his brother. Physical and emotional healing, he pleads from God on his kuya’s behalf. Hopefully this allows him to reassess his life and what he has become. The man’s son begins, Can I just say something? violently scratching the back of his scalp. I’m not talking to you! his father retorts. Then don’t be an asshole, the son mumbles; he bites his tongue. Folk Catholicism is appropriating misunderstood religious practices to a community’s culture. False Catholicism appropriating faith to one's personal convenience. Theory of Relativity by Albert Einstein. Physicist, they call him, though Psychologist (or Theologian) wouldn’t have been so fallacious in concept. Genius regardless. A man has Stage 4 cancer; tumors are spreading all throughout his system. Some people make a living by putting together six slabs of wood, varnished, sometimes painted, only to be buried. Knock on wood. A man has Stage 4 cancer; his brother, a nemesis, reduces possible death to a possibility of confession. This brother has a son, six years removed from a battle of his own. That son can’t help but wonder what he himself was supposed to realize, what he feels he missed, who he had wronged, what God wanted him to confess, for apparently possible death is but redemption for a nemesis in this Catholicism that prevails. Chicken of Death, I’m guessing, is best served with steamed rice; relative is serving 4 pieces of it—pun or bad luck.

Maling akala

2007-11-22T09:54:00.000+08:00

Something called holistic formation dictates that all of us--regardless of course--take a class on Politics and Governance before graduating. Argh. And to make things worse, my professor's a former congressman. Last I checked, he could be considered as one of those lesser-of-the-evils. But he is a politician, and he speaks like one--says the right things amid a culture of everyone doubting him. So the grudge is noticeable. And I continue to squirm in my corner seat in the classroom, often failing in the goal of just keeping my mouth shut.

Below is a snippet of the draft of the reaction paper I'm supposed to submit to him today. My point: what I hate about Politics and Governance more than the sheenanigans of people in the deceitful field is that they've become the scapegoat for an otherwise stupid people--us.

The state of national affairs in the Philippines can be simplified to a simple loss of manners and a breakdown of what would be widely considered the objectively righteous norms of social decorum between individuals. And it is only when we collectively acknowledge this can anything truly described as change take place.

It is rush hour. The MRT train is crowded—we’ll draw on the sardine can cliché here. A man is standing far from the train’s door. The next stop is where he takes a jeep to go home. Every man for himself: it’s another cliché. He’ll bump and squeeze his way nearer to the door as the train is still moving, hitting women and old men in the process. He calls them nuisances, considers them all insignificant. It’s ironic: all those people he pushed out of his way were all going out at the next stop as well. Yet at the next stop, they are all met by a hoard trying to get into the train. The ones inside barely make it out before the door closes. Every man for himself. I’m the only one that has to get somewhere, the only passenger with things to do.

It is interesting how our idea of politics comes from the Greek concept of a city-state—a polis. I use the term interesting because if my B-average in Philosophy is indicative of comprehension, the polis was run by individuals who people classified as not worthy rather able or gifted—as if blessed by higher powers. It entails a set hierarchy of humanity (women weren’t even considered humans) and also entails a looking down on certain groups of people. And perhaps here we may find a philosophical basis to why government has become everyone’s favorite scapegoat. There’s rarely an emphasis on our responsibilities as citizens of the city-state beyond choosing leaders and making sure they do what they do. Never mind what we do as employees, employers, fathers, sons, neighbors, followers of law, etc. We are lesser beings anyway. Others argue it’s the implementation of laws—or lack there of—that allow such irresponsibility to prevail. But isn’t that adhering to the idea that we are less human than our leaders? Is it so that we do not see the value of order and respect without the threat of legal punishment?

A taxi driver scratches his head; he says where you need to go is not where he is headed. He tries to close a deal where you’ll pay him an additional P50; maghahanap buhay lang siya eh. Apparently his is the only family that needs to be fed, the only kids that need to be sent to school. His head is the only one throbbing. Apparently.

Heights launch!

2007-11-14T21:58:00.000+08:00

HEIGHTS Tomo LV Bilang I

16 Nobyembre, Biyernes

3:00NH Colayco Pavilion

Ateneo de Manila University

Tampok ang mga likha nina:

Anne Carly Abad / Victor Anastacio / Erika Bacani / Justine Cabrera / Anne Calma / Douglas Candano / Mikael Co / Michael Coroza / Allan Derain / Genevieve Go / Elie Javier / Mookie Katigbak / Marie La Vina / Petra Magno / Kristian Mamforte / Kevin Marin / Miguel Mercado / Kimberley Ong / Wyatt Ong / Danton Remoto / Edgar Samar / Ali Sangalang / Carina Santos / Jason Tabinas / Alyza Taguilaso / Audrey Trinidad / Martin Villanueva / Mau Wong

I woke up this morning...

2007-11-11T20:35:00.000+08:00

...to the sound of my mom's clamoring downstairs and the voice of my cousin singing in the bathroom.

I checked my email to find 10 messages from my boss, all forwarded musings about current events. I checked the news to find the Celtics are 5-0 and Norman Mailer -- creative nonfiction luminary -- is dead at 84.

I'm called for lunch only to sleep another extra two hours. I walked down to the kitchen at 2PM to find bangus minus almost all its meat; I ate instant noodles instead with the dog asking for biscuits from underneath the kitchen counter.

I like to end my days feeling tired because of productivity. I'm tired, but today I've done little.

I checked my makeshift calendar; the coming week's going to be one of the more hectic starts to a semester I've ever had. I use this as my excuse for doing nothing today; buwelo is to mean a harnessing of energy in this context.

* * *

Three days ago I registered for what is supposed to be the last time at the undergraduate level; my being forced to take Philosophy of Religion in Filipino threatens this expectation. A good friend volunteered to tutor, guaranteeing her patience and her mocking as well.

My mom took the MRT -- against her will -- for the first time that day. She was supposed to sign for my tuition payment only to find the University does not accept her credit card. My mom took the MRT -- against her will -- for the first time that day for nothing.

* * *

As my teacher for two semesters of freshman English, Vince Serrano wore his locks in a ponytail and had us all watch Mike de Leon's Batch 81 and Bayaning Third World while pushing the music of Sonic Youth.

As my teacher for Poetry Seminar when I was a junior, Vince switched to shorter locks, heavily-gelled, while bringing to class audio recordings of Eric Gould and Ezra Pound if not inviting us to Quiapo for poetic inspiration.

Fast-forward. Senior year. Second sem registration. Choices for my last free elective: (1) Fiction Workshop with Krip Yuson -- full; (2) Third World Literature with DM Reyes -- full; (3) Third World Literature with Danton Remoto -- full as well...

...so Modern Poetry it is -- my fourth semester with Vince who now has what others have described as an 'emo' haircut.

* * *

I've come to the realization that I've stopped praying. My religious beliefs -- more so affiliation -- describe it as that moment in between Signs of the Cross. Beyond rudimentary customs, I feel it's that moment of centeredness and self-communion, opening oneself to what others hope to be a higher power whereas I the possibility of something simpler but perhaps more elusive: peace of mind.

* * *

Out of loyalty to close friends, I went to the grand finals of Nescafe Soundskool yesterday at the Philsports Arena (Ultra) in Pasig. Most of the college bands I didn't fancy, save for a select few including Hymn of Siren (of course).

A band called Lazy Susan won; I don't even remember their performance. But of course I was unattentive; did not even avail of the free cup of coffee that came with the P50 ticket. I'm sure the judges knew what they were talking about (or so one would hope).

The night was also a showcase of a lot of the more popular bands in the local scene today.

Watching Rivermaya with their new vocalist was like blasphemy, my abhoring it the only semblance of justice in the world during their two song set.

Everyone after Urbandub was a bit of a let down for me personally (no Terno bands unfortunately), though the energy of Bamboo and Parokya brought life to the stadium in the end.

Manalac's freakishly hyper, messiah-like performance took choke hold of his disciples while converting the few cynics in attendance; Chito led a stadium-wide sing-along of the comic anthems which have made his band so damn popular for all these years.

As for Hymn of Siren, well, they were one of the best among the college bands, I think, hitting the stage with their mentor band, Imago, for "Walang Misteryo," then doing their original, "Ilusyon."

I still remember Marcee singing Imago hits during breaks on campus and now she's on stage with Aia while Cindy, who once called herself the most dispensible Siren, is now receiving offers to session for Imago during Myrene's absences.

It's been truly a pleasure to witness those two achieving dream after dream. Ang galing!

KATIPUNAN: Expression Expansion

2007-11-06T10:32:00.000+08:00

About the Issue

We believe in expression -- the expression of joy and sadness, of contentment and of anger.

We believe in the expression of faith, and the celebration of God with customs one feels the strongest affinity to, like Christians finding solace in a Buddhist temple.

We believe in the expression of progress, that it leads to ingenious inventions and beneficial innovations, like the solar-powered jeepney.

We believe in the expression of discontent, more so if an alternative is also presented, exemplified by a simple on-campus issue like a proposed dress code.

We believe in the expression of loyalty, and proving that one is worthy, but only if other loyalties are not trampled on, and only if the institutions in question are worthy of one's proving himself, issues brought to our attention by the tragedy of Cris Mendez and the alleged involvement of fraternities in his death.

This October is essentially our art issue, and with it we explore the concept of expression -- its limitations, its strengths, and where it can still be pushed, given sincerity in intent, to achieve a transcendental level of honesty.

And we view art as a language of expression that helps us to not only crystallize realities, but also question them, and maybe even change them for the better.

[Read or Download Issue Here]

Included in the issue...

Zoe Dulay and April Sescon write about the Ateneo Art Awards and how "the most prestigious award for an emerging artist in the Philippines" seeks to advocate modern art, and how art is expanding itself and the language used to express the experience of man.

Martin Villanueva and April Sescon on award-winning writer Alvin Yapan, his venture into filmmaking, and his award-winning short film, Rolyo.

Mina Reyes investigates fraternities, their practices, and their relevance in light of controversies about questionable initiation rites which allegedly led to Cris Mendez' death.

Isel Garcia and Glee de Guzman visit the Leng Sian Kiong Temple and look into Buddhism and why even Christians are burning incense before the altar of Buddha.

Plus...

EIC Aeli Alba asks what now? after the Erap verdict

I (memoir)ize about frats, the nation, and lost ideologies

April (from the Ateneo Fine Arts Program) shares her frustrations about art -- specifically on campus

and Head photog Nikay Paredes focuses on the Burning Man ("When we are strong enough to destroy what we are able to help create, a new kind of beauty emerges.")