May iniisip ka?
Ayaw kong sabihin. Baka magkatotoo.
Dahil makulit ka
Kilala kita. Oo, ikaw 'yun: Nagkasalubong na tayo minsan, sa LRT, sa Gotohan, sa kanto ng Aurora at Katipunan. Nagkatinginan tayo. Hindi mo ako kinausap, pero alam ko, nakilala mo rin ako. Kaya ka narito, di ba? Para sabihing, Oo, oo, ikaw nga 'yun. Naaalala kita.
na, mula noong 24 Enero, 2006, ang nakitambay dito
the art of eating biscochos, or, sucking adam's cock
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Adam here wrote a very enlightening response to my previous post, and I am now eating biscochos, m&m's, and a good-sized serving of humble pie. Yes, I might have opened my mouth too early and betrayed my own ignorance, and yes, contrary to previous claims, I have not yet learned to shut up about things I don't understand.
I've never held any illusions of being part of some counter-culture movement. And I've also spent maybe enough time in the academe (as a once-teacher and as a once-masteral student) to be considered part of the establishment. But, truth to say, I've also been a bit of a renegade when it came to institutions trying to colonize thought. There's a certain in-betweenness about where I am in this polarity of "academic" and "non-academic," if there is such a polarity, or if I for one moment allow myself to think in terms of binaries. I guess this time I just found myself smack on one side of that binary-- the academic, colonizing, epistemically violent side-- without realizing it, while in fact brandishing myself as a, yes, some sort of renegade. Sorry.
So. Back to biscochos for me? I guess. But it wouldn't be fair if I just said "sorry, o nga 'no, mali ako" without trying to explain a bit about where I came from when I wrote that, or without at least trying to answer-- within my limited capacity-- some of the questions Adam raised.
Or not. The questions Adam raised, he'd already answered. And I do agree with him. You should just read his entry, really. So let me just tell you where I was coming from.
There should be, I think, always, a searching for spaces of resistance. Within any work. It doesn't matter where that space is: from inside the definitions and ideas spoon-fed to us by the academe, from outside of it, in-between, from your toilet seat, we shouldn't care, really. Because without resistance, art-- in any form-- will crystallize and break. It will stagnate. Kapag sinubo lang natin nang sinubo ang sinasabi sa ating tama nang hindi sinasabing, teka, bakit, pinagtitibay natin ang institusyong nagdidikta ng tama-- at kinocolonize lang din natin ang lahat ng boses dun sa malawak na plurality nang kung ano ang "tama." O kung ano ang "tamang paraan ng pagsusulat." O kung ano ang "maganda." Kahit ano-- katarungan, pag-ibig, katahimikan-- kasya diyan. Kapag nagkaroon ng colonization of thought, kapag pinakitid ang plurality, nawawala ang play, ang differance-- na ugat, sa tingin ko, ng pagkaart ng art. (Mukhang hindi magkakasya sa iisang post ang lahat nang gusto kong sabihin.)
And this resistance's twin is uncertainty. Sa questioning nangyayari ang resistance, obviously. There should be uncertainty, always, about our own poetics. There should be an awareness that the way we see and write our works changes, will change, whether we like it or not. Why? Because the only way to pursue affect (more on this, affect, in later posts, and I do promise to post about it)-- no, not the only way, but the way I pursue it-- is through situating your own poetics in the larger narrative of history, your own, and your horizon's. What I mean to say is kaya mo lang magsulat galing sa sarili mong karanasan. What I mean to say is kasali pa rin ang karanasan na yun sa pagbuo mo ng sariling poetika.
And what does all of this have to do with my brain-fart about "speculative" fiction? It just seemed to me that the resistance was (is?) half-baked. That the resistance was not a matter of form or poetics-- and I'm not sure if there was an awareness of resistance at all. Again, I've not read all that's been said by and about the "speculative" fiction proponents-- I just feel the need to respond to Adam now-- but the naming, the so-called movement, seems too rushed, too unaware of the implications of the naming itself.
And, deeper into that unawareness: the fact that there are no Tagalog, Bisaya, or regional writers who are part of this movement, the fact that there are no visible moves to correct this, the idea that maybe just maybe the proponents are unaware of the implications of these in terms of marginalization and the colonization of thought-- parang may mali, e. A so-called movement must situate itself within the context of larger narratives, larger than the institutions it would like to set itself apart from, larger than the book-publishing world; to be unaware of the violence it does to other voices in the plurality, to be unaware of the othering they perform by merely naming themselves, well, I see that as a betrayal of their own purposes. For some reason I am reminded of freedom fighters who burn down farms and villages.
But. Still. Adam's point when he said that:
What’s been happening is that more and more new writers – writers who have been writing scifi and fantasy and crime fiction and erotica, etc etc - are getting published in Story Philippines, in the Free Press, in Philippine Genre Stories, because of the pervasive presence and aggro PR campaign of the term. How can you worry about fiction as a form as a plurality is threatened by “speculative fiction” when “speculative fiction” actually showed a lot of people – a lot of people inside and outside of the usual mode of literary production, ie the Academe – that fiction as a form as a plurality is really broader and thicker than what we are initially shown and taught?
Yeah, tama nga. Regardless of their intentions and their politics and their seeming unawareness of the vast implications of their "movement"-- they are achieving something. That, for one, is a feat. And I am happy for that, and happy that Adam made me aware of this and my own personal biases against certain... entities. I will shut up now and suck Adam's cock.
PS. I do not mean to disparage homosexuals in any manner by using "suck Adam's cock" as a term of endearment and intellectual admiration. If Adam were a girl and we were sufficiently close I would have said "go down on her" or "lick her cunt."
in the middle of speechwriting i write a post about this thing called "speculative fiction"
Monday, September 29, 2008
First of all, I know so little about fiction-writing that I find myself half-ashamed of saying anything about it. I was out with a friend the other day, though-- nagpunta kami sa burol ng erpats ng tropa, at nagpagpag kami nang kaunti sa que rico-- and we ended up talking about, among other things, a recent panel discussion involving "spec-fic" writers. And from what I've gathered-- hmm. Ewan. O sabi nga ng mga kaibigan kong bisaya, ambot.
Sige, kaunting paliwanag at latag ng ilang argumento, at tanong.
Really: I don't understand the term "speculative" fiction. But from what I do understand, I can say this-- and this has been mentioned by others before: All fiction, by definition, is speculative. Even realist fiction-- this sphere that the discourse on "speculative" fiction wishes to set itself apart from-- is speculative. Realist fiction is speculative fiction, because it speculates on what might, or could be, or should be, or actually is (albeit sometimes with the author unconscious of this is-ness) within the bounds of reality. (You see, even that is problematic: what is real, really?)
Now I do know what "speculative" fictionists purport their works to be, or under what genres these fall in. But still. To use the term "speculative fiction" as an umbrella term for genres whose only thread is-- well, what exactly? A willing and presupposed suspension of disbelief? Di ba lahat ng fiction ganu'n din?-- to use it as merely a term, without a clear delineation in form or even intention from the rest of other fictions-- seems, to me, moot.
Moot, because, because, because: nauuwi sa problematic ng publication ang usapan. Just another way to sell books. Which could be problematic, really, since it inserts the market into a discourse of form. When readers look for only those books which fall under "speculative" fiction, when shelves in bookstores are dedicated to this hodgepodge of genres and marketed with posters that say "come, buy me, speculative ako!"-- fiction, as a form, as a plurality, suffers. Because when market forces are put into the equation, and writers begin to fall into the trap of writing just to get published.... You get what I mean.
Thing is, I don't really care if a group of writers who are passionate about their work band together and push for this "movement." Go go go. Gawin ang lahat nang kayang gawin sa pinakamahusay na paraang kayang gawin. This is all well and good.
Except that unintentionally (I guess,) it pigeonholes all the other forms that don't fall inside that umbrella term. The problematic, to me, lies in "speculative" fiction's exclusivity. If a decent argument can be made, though, regarding "speculative" fiction's (exclusive) speculativeness-- or, at least, if it can delineate itself as a form in itself, then, ayun. I will say sorry and go back to eating biscochos.
I've been reflecting on folk stories-- the diwatas and tikbalangs and lamang-lupas of lore-- and how they're set apart from today's "speculative" fiction. I guess now these stories are merely that-- stories-- whereas back then, they were real. Or as real as fear can be. Or dreams.
See, I was looking for a way to insert today's interest in "speculative" fiction into the wider narrative of our nation's history. (Ayun! Nation! Teka baka matisod ako, lumalalim na itong usapin na ito, a, tapos dadagdagan pa ng nation.) Why? Naisip ko lang na kung sa diskurso lang ng pagiging fiction iaaangkla ang usapin ng "speculative" fiction, magiging manipis at mauuwi lang ito sa propagation ng Western thought. Which is what, I think, this fidelity to formalism (or the way it's been [mis?]understood in our country) in poetry (ay potah panibagong diskurso at mga kaaway na naman ito!) has led to. Epistemic violence, all over again. The colonization of thought. Native forms and methes (shit, methes! Ang pretentious! Saan ko ba narinig ito?) set aside, forgotten in favor of foreign constructs. Masakit 'yun, di ba.
'Yun lang naman. Pag-usapan pa natin ito, a? Sabi nga ng isang kaibigan, random brain-fart lang. Ikatutuwa ko kung may makadiskurso pa ukol dito-- pero medyo busy pa, e. Baka mamaya. Sa ngayon, babalik na ako sa pagsusulat ukol sa mga double-insertion sa Senado at sa napipintong pag-uwi ni Joc-joc Bolante.
Teka: Happy Mondays mamaya sa mag:net Katipunan. Nood ka. Tutugtog din kami. Sana kung maligaw kayo at naagapan ng timbreng ito, makasilip ka.
Hindi pa lumalabas ang opisyal na PR pero dahil marami na ang nangungulit, narito na ang listahan ng fellows sa 8th National Writers Workshop. Bilang wokrshop director, masasabi kong opisyal na ito, maliban kung may fellow na magbackout dahil hindi maaari sa Oktubre 19-25, kung kailan gaganapin ang workshop sa loob ng campus ng Ateneo. Iniisa-isa ko nang tawagan ang mga ito (may ilan na hindi ko pa rin makontak sa ibinigay nilang number hanggang sa ngayon):
1. Jan Brandon L. Dollente (Las Piñas; ADMU) 2. Francisco Monteseña (Angono, Rizal; Unibersidad ng Silangan-Caloocan) 3. Randel C. Urbano (Quezon City; UP Diliman)
1. Anna Marie Stephanie S. Cabigao (Quezon City; UP Diliman) 2. Bonifacio Alfonso Javier III (Bacoor, Cavite; UP Diliman) 3. Marinne Mixkaela Z. Villalon (Quezon City; UP Diliman)
1. Genevieve Mae Aquino (Quezon City; UP Diliman) 2. Arlynn Raymundo Despi (San Mateo, Rizal; UP Los Baños) 3. Wyatt Caraway Curie Lim Ong (Malabon; ADMU)
1. John Philip A. Baltazar (Cagayan de Oro; Xavier University) 2. Monique S. Francisco (Pasig City; ADMU) 3. Krisza Joy P. Kintanar (Davao City; UP Mindanao)
Pagbati sa lahat ng fellows na napili mula sa maraming nagpasa! Kitakits sa workshop!
Pagbati nga sa lahat nang nakapasa. At sa mga hindi natanggap, pakatatandaan lang na hindi lang mga ganito ang sukatan ng pagtula. Rakenrol lang palagi.
Letter To a Friend Who Had Just Written a Poem for Me
Monday, September 22, 2008
When will we begin to love? we once wrote in a poem we passed between ourselves, lost now, discarded by some girl we had both privately imagined naked and writhing under the power of-- what is it we call it now? Utterance. Bowstring hairs and hungry black eyes then there is a strand, there is a hand I cannot hold. Let me tell you now: I am sitting in a hallway with a borrowed pen and all I can think of is, Maybe we have loved enough. Maybe too much. Earlier I was out to buy beer and there was this sheet from an old calendar keeping in step with me, persistent, iambic. Karmic, maybe, in the way it crested and led my eyes to half-lit alleys, my hands to my pockets, my heart to-- where? There are words I find difficult to hold now: Heart, love. Pen. Now I desire no more from poetry than true feeling, you used to always quote as we fumed at formulas and the nitpicked organicness of this. Have we grown that old? That true feeling is something contrived, distant, not held? Now I desire no more from poetry than silence. And if not that, then the word heart. If not that then flowers. Listen: One day you will pull a book from a shelf and you will find this, brittle and incomplete like some old flower, and you will consider this poetry. Don't. This is just a heart, its throbbing wild, and tremulous, and stifled. These are just lines. This is just a gift, unwrapped, its silence the only thing of value to anyone.
Let me tell you about longing. Let me presume that I have something new to say about it, that this room, naked, its walls pining for clocks, has something new to say about absence. Somewhere the crunch of an apple, fading sunflowers on a quilt, a window looking out to a landscape with a single tree. And you sitting under it. Let go, said you to me in a dream, but by the time the wind carried your voice to me, I was already walking through the yawning door, towards the small, necessary sadnesses of waking. I wish I could hold you now, but that is a line that has no place in a poem, like the swollen sheen of the moon tonight, or the word absence, or you, or longing. Let me tell you about longing. In a distant country two lovers are on a bench, and pigeons, unafraid, are perching beside them. She places a hand on his knee and says, say to me the truest thing you can. I am closing my eyes now. You are far away.
If this were a song it would have no words. If this were a window. Looking out to Cubao saying, look, an island. Mist then mountains straddling the horizon. If this were about distance I would believe for a moment in the translucency of yearning. Not glass. But curtains. A stray lock of hair draping over your ear. I whisper something and what do you hear? Pain and my voice quivering from rain. (Look, Cubao worships rain.) This is a poem I wrote long before we met. And how will I map the strange geography of your heart? I am looking for a street. (A river, to follow out to sea.) A corner where once I put my hand on your cheek. Tell me its name. Tell me your name. Tell the window, saying look, look, Cubao worships rain.
Sinuyod ko ang (isa sa mga) lumang blog ni Naya dahil, naaalala ko, may sinabi siya du'n tungkol sa Before Sunset, dati, nu'ng kalalabas pa lang, na sobrang suwak ang pagkaka-articulate. Hinahanap ko 'yun-- pilit iginu-google-- ilang linggo na rin ang nakakaraan. Pero di ko nakita. Sadyang mailap ang mga pangalan sa blog na 'yun, e.
Anyway. Kanina ko lang napansin na nakalink pala sa bagong blog niya 'yung mga lumang blog. Ha. Galing mo talaga, Mikael. Apir.
It was a blog of hers from the mid '05 to late '06 era. Dikit kami nu'n, as in solid. Nasa malayo kasi siya ngayon, kaya ym na lang talaga ang contact namin, and only in the wee hours of the morning, providing I'm awake. I'm not awake too often; may pasok, e. Rereading her entries made me... ano ba? Nostalgic ba? Medyo. Pero higit pa du'n, e.
It made me want to not forget, 'yun, to not forget who I was back then. A lot more carefree, a lot less resolved about things. Back then I relished the amorphousness of the future: I was certain then, as I am now, that there is a future, that there will be. But I didn't wonder too much about it. Maybe this is maturity, 'no, where I am right now: this state of focusing and trying to be driven?
Ha. These past several months I had maybe purposely cast aside the old awareness that maybe even vision, or a sense of vision, could be an illusion. 'Yun ang nawala, e, nitong mga huling buwan: 'yung sense of self-awareness na 'yun.
I need to be that, again, once in a while, 'no, who I was back then? I need to be less sure. A bit more immature, maybe. We all need to be that, once in a while.
I'm a bit weirded out, kasi, this hasn't happened before-- this much in such a short span of time. But I am grateful, ha.
These past few weeks were filled with many small happinesses. And sadnesses-- sadnesses that I choose to see as... as what? As stones, may be? Pebbles. Sa sapa. Nandu'n lang, at nakikita mo sa ilalim ng tubig, lumilinaw at lumalabo sabay ng lagaslas. Nandu'n lang.
Last night, as I was walking Sigh to her dorm, Naya called. Kinausap ni Sigh sandali, tapos naglakad na ako pabalik sa mag:net, kausap si Naya all the while. Nasa may gallery ang ilan sa tropa. At ang sabi ko, pagdating na pagdating: "Hulaan ninyo kung sino ang kausap ko."
And they knew, they knew! Si Waps ang naunang nagsabi: Naya! Tapos lahat sila "Yaaahaahhhhaarrrrghh." Marie got to talk to her first (congrats, Marie!) then everyone took turns.
It was nice, that phone call, particularly because recently there've been a lot of inumans when we would all lean back and sigh and say, "Alam mo kung sino ang kulang dito?" And no one would answer, no one would say it out loud. Tatango lang kaming lahat.
Here's a poem lifted from Naya's old blog. It's not hers. And I'm surprised i don't remember reading it before, I'm surprised this didn't strike me then as it did just now:
Drinking Song Silvia Curbelo
In every half-filled glass a river begging to be named, rain on a leaf, a snowdrift. What we long for
precedes us. What we've lost trails behind, casting a long shadow. Tonight
the music's sad, one man's outrageous loneliness detonated into arpeggios of relief. The way
someone once cupped someone's face in their hands, and the world that comes after. Everything
can be pared down to gravity or need. If the soul soars with longing the heart plunges headfirst
into what's left, believing there's a pure want to fall through. What we drink to
in the end is loss, the space around it, the opposite of thirst, its shadow.
About Naya's Before Sunset entry-- I've watched those two films only about 12,344 times, and I went through another sitting a few weeks ago-- 'yun, about that entry, I never did find it.
But it's okay. I remember how I felt when I read what she wrote. At minsan, ganu'n di ba? Na hindi natin maalala ang ilang mga bagay, ang ilang mga pangyayari, pero naaalala natin kung ano ang naramdaman natin nu'ng nangyari 'yun, at sapat na 'yun. Haha. Madalas kong sabihin 'yan ukol sa mga panaginip ko, alam mo?
There. Hindi ko alam kung saan galing ito-- baka sa pagsuyod sa blog ni Naya, sa pagsilip sa mga luma naming sarili?-- pero I feel a certain calmness now, which was largely absent these past few... no, no, I have never been this calm in my life. A sense of... parang, pagkakabanata? Na umusad ako? Baka.
This is good. Pero: I need to read more; at least, kailangan kong balikan 'yung dami at lalim ng binabasa ko before I began working where I work now. I need to learn how to write again, alone. (Salamat sa barkada dahil kung hindi dahil sa Monday night writing sessions, wala na akong masusulat.) I need to focus less, to relax, to let this calmness spill over into the times when I feel most-- ano ba 'yung napipitpit sa Ingles? Ewan. Anxious?
And I need to learn to not be too angry anymore, when I feel the need to feel angry, at the world-- and you know that about me, don't you, that I tend to get more angry than sad, that I would rather fight than mope or cry?-- and to be more aware. To remember things, or at least to try not to forget.
glass half full: isang bukas na liham sa eraserheads
Monday, September 01, 2008
Pinakamainam sigurong magsimula (palagi, at lalung-lalo na sa pagkakataong ito,) sa isang pasasalamat. Hindi ko inasahang masasaksihan ko pa ito sa buong tanang-buhay ko; hindi ko inasahang 'yung mga kantang pinatutugtog ko kapag sadyang malungkot, o masaya, o nasa mood umalala, 'yung mga kantang di maiwasang kalabitin sa gitara kapag napapasarap ang inuman, kapag nadadalas ang pagtingin sa bintana-- hindi ko inasahang maririnig ko ulit 'yun. Hindi galing sa inyo, mismo, sa entablado. Para du'n, Ely, Raimund, Buddy, Marcus, para du'n-- salamat.
Ang pagkukuwento raw, sabi sa akin ng isang magaling na guro at kuwentista, e isang "manipulation of time." Nangyayari ang kuwento sa paglalaro mo sa sequence ng mga pangyayari. May kronolohikal na pangyayari, pero 'yung skill ng pagkukuwento e nangyayari sa kung paano mo napapasirko ang kronolohiya nito gamit ang mga flashback, ang mga flashforward, atbp.
Hindi ako kuwentista. Hindi ako marunong mag-manipulate ng panahon, di kayang mag-sustain ng naratibo, madali akong madistract sa wika, madaling kumuyom ang puso sa mga pangyayari sa loob ng kuwento. Pero susubukin ko rito. Dahil kayo, sinubok ninyo, di ba, para sa amin.
Ang ibig kong sabihin, simulan natin sa dulo:
Noong marinig ko iyan, gusto kong sumalampak na lang sa damuhan, e. Pero wala akong nagawa kundi tumingala sandali, at tumango. Siguro naman maiintindihan ninyo kung sasabihin kong wala akong mahanap na salita para sa halu-halong naramdaman ko noong mga sandaling iyon. Habang naglalakad papalabas sa venue kasama sila:
Habang naglalakad papalabas, pabulong kong kinakanta ang "Minsan," dinarasal na may katabing mauulinigan ako, at makikisabay, at unti-unting magsasabay ang libu-libong taong naroroon para awitin ang paborito kong kanta ninyo. Pero walang sumabay, e. Malamang abala ang bawat tao sa sari-sariling paninikip ng dibdib, sa sari-sariling pagpigil ng luha.
Pero, pero, pero, bakit ba kailangang magbabad sa lungkot? Oo, bitin. Oo, kalahati lang ng inaasahan namin ang nangyari, at hindi nag-crescendo nang tama ang kilabot moments ko. Medyo deflating nga naman habang naglalakad papalabas. Sa kabila noon, binigyan ninyo kami nito:
Kaya bakit nga ba malulungkot? At kung medyo maalog ang kamay ko, muli, patatawarin naman siguro ninyo ako. Hindi ko kinayang maging tahimik at kalmado, e.
Mayroon akong tatlumpung segundong clip nu'ng pagtugtog ninyo ng "Ligaya." Hindi ko na natapos, sadya kong hindi tinapos. Nang mapansin kong nagtatatalon na ang mga tao sa paligid ko, at hindi ko na rin maitutok nang tama ang camera, naisip ko: sandali, sandali, magiging sakim muna ako. Maglulublob muna ako sa pangyayaring ito.
Kaya itinigil ko ang camera, ipinamulsa ito, at nagtatalon at nakihiyaw (...walang humpay na ligaya!) dahil naroon ako nang gabing iyon, naroon, at hinding-hindi ko ipagpapalit 'yun kahit pa ba sa pagkakataong tusukin ng payong sa mata si GMA.
Dahil sa tulong ng isang kaibigan (kasama siya sa kumpanyang nag-organize ng concert,) nakakuha ako nito:
Naipasama ko rin sa listahan 'yung utol ni Kumander. Ang mahirap nga lang, siyempre, wala siyang kasamang tropa. Naawa ako nang onti sa kanya.
Pero alam ninyo, naisip ko, at sabi ko na lang sa sarili ko, paano mo pagkakasyahin ang buong pagkabata mo, ang buong high school, ang buong nakaraan sa iisang gabi? Paano bang makakagawa ng paraan na ang lahat ng nakilala mo, nakasalo ng karanasan dahil sa Eraserheads, e makakasama mo sa concert na ito?
Dahil kasama 'yun, di ba, kasama 'yun: gusto mo kapag tinugtog ang "Poor Man's Grave" e kasama ng buong Left Wing ng Boy's Dorm Annex sa Pisay. Na kapag tinugtog ang "Pare Ko" e kasabay mong aawit lahat nu'ng kaklase mo nu'ng grade school, na kasabay mo silang mapapangiti sa salitang "tangina" at "leche" dahil nu'ng mga panahong 'yun, pag narinig kayo ng nanay o ng titser na magmura, siguradong may maliit na hampas sa bibig kayong mararamdaman. Paano 'yun?
Sabi ko na lang sa utol ni Kumander, hindi naman kailangang may kasama talaga, dahil malamang kapag tugtugan na, sabay-sabay ding mapapapikit ng bahagya ang mga tao at aalalahanin ang sari-sarili nilang nakaraan, papasok sa pinto na, sa totoo lang, sila lang naman talaga ang makakapasok.
At ako, alam ba ninyo kung ano ang nasa likod nu'ng pintong ako lang talaga ang makakapasok, 'yung pinto na, matapos kong akalaing kinakalawang na ang mga bisagra at napakahirap nang pasukin, inabutan ninyo ako ng susi at sinabing "huminga ka nang malalim at tayo'y lalarga na?"
Sa likod ng pintong 'yun nandu'n ang buong I-Garnet, nasa isang sulok ng cafeteria, may iisang gitara at ginagamit ang mesa bilang tambol. Nandoon si Mike Flores na isang linggo akong kinukulit na isauli na ang Ultraelectromagneticpop niya. Nandoon si Jon-jon Bayag, dito sa may auto supply sa harap namin, may hawak na isang dangkal ng songhits, itinuturo sa akin ang "G" at "C," ang "E minor," ang "D." Nandoon ang buong Left Wing ng Pisay Boys Dorm Annex na nagtitipon sa Room 320, kaming inaakyat ng Dorm Manager at dagling nagbubuklat ng Noli Me Tangere, kaming sabay-sabay na inaaral ang bass line ng "Waiting for the Bus." Nandoon ang Heights, ang Matanglawin, ang gusgusin kong Yamaha C60 na dahil sa Eraserheads ay kayang pag-isahin ang buong ispektrum ng mga kasaysayan namin-- mulang Tondo hanggang La Vista hanggang Zamboanga, mulang Pisay hanggang Ateneo High hanggang Mataas na Paaralan ng Mababang Punongkahoy.
Oo nga, siguro nga: lahat kami, may sari-sariling pinto, pero iisa lang din yata ang pinapasok na pook ng mga pintong iyon. Hiwa-hiwalay kaming hahakbang, pero sa lupalop ng alaala rin magkikita ang lahat. At iyon ang naibigay ninyo sa amin: pagsasaluhan. Pagbubuklod. Salamat dito.
Kung hindi pa ninyo alam, heto, sasabihin ko: noong mga panahong hindi ko maisawika ang damdamin ko, nasabi ninyo iyon para sa akin, para sa amin, sa isang buong henerasyon, sa isang buong bayan na naghahanap ng dila, ng lalamunan, ng baga, (ng tinig! ng tinig!) na maghihiyaw ng pinakamasidhing pagkislot ng dibdib namin.
Nasabi ninyo para sa akin (sa amin) na naaalala kita pag umuulan; nasabi ninyong saan ka nagtungo, tumila na ang ambon, gusto kong matutong magdrive, may isang umaga na tayo'y magsasama. Nasabi ninyong, di ba, tangina. Nasabi ninyong minsan ay parang wala nang bukas. Minsan tayo ay naging tunay na magkaibigan.
Nasabi ninyo lahat nang iyon, at marami pang iba, para sa masa.
Kung hindi pa ninyo alam: 'yung libu-libong taong pumunta noong gabing iyon, nagpunta du'n para kilabutan, para umiyak, nagpunta du'n dahil magulo ang buhay pero putangina, putang-ina minsan mayroong tinig sa radyo, sa casette tape, sa CD, minsan may tinig na dinamayan kami, at pinaalam na puwede kang pumikit sandali, at makikanta. At kahit papaano, bagaman hindi mawawala ang gulo ng mundo, gagaan ito, kahit papaano.
Gusto kong malungkot dahil hindi ninyo natapos ang set, gusto kong manghinayang. Pero alam n'yo, mali 'yun, di ba, hindi 'yun makatarungan? Maling mauwi lang sa hinayang ang gabing 'yun. May naibigay kayo, Ely, Raimund, Buddy, Marcus, may naibigay kayo sa amin, at maling mauwi sa hinayang ang gabing iyon. Magandang magtapos nang ganito, na may bahagyang pagkuyom sa dibdib, nakatingin sa malayo, pero nakangiti pa rin. Dahil iyon ang iniwan ninyo sa amin. Ito ang iniwan ninyo sa amin: