abo sa dila

medyo babay na yata 'to

2010-10-11T20:54:00.004+08:00

Okey kids. Mahigit anim na taon din pala 'no? Puwede, puwede.

Orca

2010-08-26T14:06:00.000+08:00

We got to the shore before dawn.
From the water's surface
some hidden thing risked our sight,
fascinated, enormous. Few noticed.
I sat by the slope of a dune,
its cheek firm, cold with weather.
The creature sunk and faded, anointed
by the gray water. Perhaps it saw me.
There are sometimes these moments.
Sight, then silence. The coarseness
of sand on my palm, the glint
of a body, wet and half-lit.
The steady throb of two hearts,
one heavier than the other.
I am not alone, only human.

a few new poems

2010-06-15T14:45:00.001+08:00

1.

Juan dela Cruz Confesses to His Neighbor, the Dog Owner

This is how it happened:
It was a quarter past six
and your dog was sleeping.
I killed it. Let's not make
a story out of this.
Now that I'm a murderer, let me
unburden myself of the baggage
of symbolism: this frayed hat,
this crooked cane.
I am Juan dela Cruz,
killer of dogs. Years from now
only you will remember, and even then
you will remember only your grief.
Maybe even just part of it.
Perhaps it was dusk,
you might say, or was it dawn?
You will remember the heavy light
graying the blood on the pavement.
You will remember how
you asked me, Why? I tell you,
the world is a violent,
violent place. Death happens
and it happened. I am as human
as any murderer can be,
and I pray that you will find some comfort
in the fact that I would have sobbed
as you did, were it you who killed my dog,
if I had one. Why?
I am a man and I killed your dog.
There is no story behind this.
There is only the animal urge,
the primal moment, and this
confession, which saves no one.
Not me, not your dog,
not you or those like you
who hunger for answers, but are met
only with that howl, that gurgle,
that cruel crescendo, that silence.

2.

I Suppose

There are those who find comfort
in repetition. And then there are those
like me, who find no comfort in it
but go on anyway, trial and error
and error and error over and over
until my fingers turn to slivers
of meat and bone. Somewhere a slingshot
held taut but targetless, a stone
resigned to aimlessness, homing in
on something not quite nameable.
Perhaps this is what labor means,
the common, endless turning,
the emulation of seasons, a tree
bearing fruit and a fruit falling to earth
and rotting, then becoming a tree again.
The world does not get tired
even when it should,
and there is little comfort in knowing
that this is the way it's always been,
this is the way it's supposed to be,
this is the way it's supposed to be.

3.

Basorexia

Why are you so far away,
said she, said the song,
said St. Christina the Astonishing
as God blew ashes across her face,
or was it the wind dragging the smell
of burnt meat through her medieval town
the way the smell of burnt meat
drags through a medieval town.
Like a Pentium-age barbecue wafting
through a Pentium-age town,
only this time there's no beef,
no kid bursting bubble-wrap beneath the stairs,
no anorexic coed flashing her tits
as she would on Mardi gras, another day
for some porn to be made. But this
isn't a barbecue. This isn't suburban.
There isn't your hazel-eyed junkie
snorting coke by the shed. This
is the Third World with its midgets
crooning While My Guitar
Gently Weeps, this is your tattooed
bagman stepping on dog crap
and walking on, this is knife-against-your-rib
close quarter combat, compadre.
No creme brulee for you, only overripe avocados
swimming in cheap, expired condensada.
This is the latent energy of four
centuries worth of warlocks flailing
inside your insanely beating heart.
Hear them chanting. Hear their shrill
kundimans expiring, their small bodies shivering
by the cheek of a mountain. Kundiman
is the word for the opposite of if ever,
the if still dangling like some persistent
tropical fruit. If never. Qualtagh
is the word for the first person you meet
when you step out your brownstone apartment
in some other part of the world,
only here it sounds like something
someone would kill for, like a few wet bills
crouched inside a faux leather wallet,
like a rusty coin, like where
the fuck are you on my tongue,
why are you so far away wherever,
what the fuck does it matter, it doesn't.
In a church in Ankara the bells toll
for a bearded God glaring down
a six-year old in short pants.
I'm not there. I'm here while ding-dong
and the pastor clears his throat.
Ding-dong and could I wipe
the static from your lips. Ding-dong
and Antiscians is the word for people
on opposite sides of the equator,
their shadows leaning north, leaning south,
their fingertips bright, burning, basorexic.

4.

Breakage

June is water, the ruthlessness
of monsoons, wild, wild winds.
On and on the roads roll on,
dust giving way to an imaginary chrome.
I walk knowing the few things that last
outlast even me. Sometimes I spot
the carcass of a bird heavy with rain,
a cat licking away grime from feather,
feeding. Sometimes a fruit
decayed from summer peeking
from beneath a soft wound
of leaves. Solemnly the world
turns on its axis, the clouds yield
and return, and over and over again
the seasons give way
to an almost sudden rust.
The weather waits for no one.
There must be a reason for this
that we must live our lives
looking up, thirsting,
straining to find out.

Not Prayer

2010-03-19T23:15:00.001+08:00

There is a body
and a crow waiting on a body.
The body is full of suffering.

Meaning, the body has life.
For the time being.

Define being. Life.
Define life for the time being.

The body filled
to the point of breaking.
The body with eyes
wide in prayer.

Define prayer. That
which only God is able to hear.

There is an ear
detached from a body.

Meaning, torn away.
Out of place.

An ear unable to hear
that which is taking place.

There is a crow.
There is the sound of a crow
nibbling on a leaf.
For the time being.

Define being.
There is a body
and here is a hand.

See how it moves
to cover this mouth.
Define that

which only God is able to hear.
Define this.
Not prayer.

What is Asked

2010-03-09T03:20:00.000+08:00

To pry lead
from every wound.

To gather every severed limb.
To not flinch.

Or to flinch yet look back.
To look forward
to each flinching.

To hold a throat firm
against the sound it refuses to make.

To meet the gaze
even of the dead.

This is what poetry asks of us.
To name each body
and carry it to its grave.

To bear. To dig.
One word at a time.

The Doomed

2010-02-16T02:25:00.000+08:00

Poetry with lilies can’t stop tanks.
Neither can poetry with tanks.
This much is true.
Here is more or less how it happens.
You sit at your desk
to write a poem about lilies and a clip of 9mm’s
is emptied into the chest of a mother
in Zamboanga. Her name was Hamira.
I sit at my desk to write a poem about tanks
and a backhoe in Ampatuan crushes the spines of 57
-- I am trying to find another word for bodies.
The task of poetry
is to never run out of words.
This is more or less how it happens:
I find another word for bodies
and Hamira remains dead.
Her son was with her when she was shot.
I didn’t catch his name.
I don’t know if he died. Perhaps
he placed lilies on his mother’s grave.
Perhaps he was buried beside her.
One word for lily is enough.
There is enough beauty in flowers.
I want to find beauty in sufffering.
I want to fail.

Colony

2010-02-14T03:42:00.001+08:00

We believed stories never died.
Our songs were our dreams retold.
Sometimes we woke up screaming.
Our hearts would spill from our throats
like jagged-edged pebbles.
We thought silence was a virtue.
When our children cried
we fed them from our hands.
Home was that place
no one else claimed as their own.
We chanted at our bamboo walls.
We spilt the blood of goats
and prayed only for rain.
We hungered only when we slept.
When we thirsted we knelt by the river.
The water slipped through our fingers
like a story, never ending.
We believed something came
after dying. We died.
We fought back.

Choir

2010-02-10T12:54:00.001+08:00

This is a church
and the faithful are singing.
Across the aisles their voices
leave a trail visible
only to those who see
without straining. What music is
is rising, a yielding to some gravity
greater than that which grounds us.
The stones know this.
If only they had ears they would long
as I do. If only they had fists
they would know how a hand
is defined by its unclenching.
By opening. Some day listening
will save the world.
What music is is five fingers
pointed outward. A palm
facing skyward. Asking
for nothing. Receiving.

chico dam all over again?

2009-09-24T16:32:00.005+08:00

Nakuha ang mensaheng ito sa Facebook, galing sa isang kaibigan:

...May grupo dito ng mga dati kong kababayan sa isang town ng Camarines Sur, na nagpapaabot ng hinaing dahil may dumating na notice sa kanila na madidisplace sila dahil sa dam project ni Dato Arroyo/GMA.

I have learned that the project has no ECC or EIA. And many of the processes were not disclosed to the public all throughout.

This is a 1.9B Dam project na maglulubog sa maraming barangay, kasama ang kabayanan ng dati kong hometown. I'm Naga-based now, so hindi ako updated ng mga nangyayari diyan.

Sige muna, tol, salamat.

A quick google-search yielded the following article-- which, noticeably, e wala ni isang quote galing sa madidisplace na residente:

300 Bicol families to be relocated

NAGA City – A ranking official of the Bicol River Basin and Watershed Management Project has confirmed that the local governments of five towns in Camarines Sur and the major implementing government agencies have approved the relocation of some 300 families to be displaced by the P1.9-billion Malaguico Dam project in Sipocot which is expected to be completed next year.

BRBWMP project director and Bicol Presidential Assistant Tomasito Monzon said the 300 families are residents from barangays Malaguico and Manangle along the Sipocot River banks and Lupi Nuevo, Lupi Viejo, San Pedro, San Isidro and Barera in Lupi town.

Their relocation has been approved by the municipalities of Lupi, Sipocot, Libmanan and Cabusao towns in Camarines Sur and the National Irrigation Administration, the Departments of Public Works and Highways and Environment and Natural Resources.

Monzon said the relocation site is expected to be completed in less than two years to be funded by the Office of the President and the National Housing Authority.

A.M. Oreta Construction is undertaking the construction of Malaguico Dam which is expected to benefit some 3,000 farmers.

Now I thought, hmm, Dato, Dato-- saan ko ba huling nabasa 'yun? Ah. Dito:

NAGA CITY – The bill that creates a new district in Camarines Sur, increasing to five the existing four districts in the province, has been approved by the Senate and the House, a lawmaker here has said.

Representative Luis R. Villafuerte, Camarines Sur second district representative, said the bill that creates an additional district, which would be carved out from the 10-town first district here, had been passed in the House without opposition.

Villafuerte said the Senate version had been met with opposition but when it was submitted for voting, 15 senators voted in its favor.

“That’s more than the majority of the senators,” he added...

...Formerly the political turf of former congressman and now Budget Secretary Rolando Andaya Jr., whose hometown is the neighboring Ragay, the first district of Camarines Sur has been handed to Arroyo after Andaya was appointed by President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo to head the Department of Budget and Management (DBM) four years ago.

But critics here see political accommodation for Andaya after his term as budget secretary ends when Ms Arroyo bows out of office in 2010.

With his political turf already occupied by Dato Arroyo, the additional district would secure him a seat in the House next year.

You do the math, mga bok.

Marami akong kaibigang taga-Naga. Matagal na akong niyaya ng ilang manunulat na bumisita doon. Hindi pa ako nakakatapak sa lupain ng Bikol, pero hindi ibig sabihin noon na tutunganga lang ako-- na tutunganga lang tayo-- habang nangyayari itong putanginang shit na ito.

Pakikalat, kung may pakialam ka.

Two Poems by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

2009-09-24T00:57:00.004+08:00

1.

A Prison Evening

Each star a rung,
night comes down the spiral
staircase of the evening.
The breeze passes by so very close
as if someone just happened to speak of love.
In the courtyard,
the trees are absorbed refugees
embroidering maps of return on the sky.
On the roof,
the moon - lovingly, generously -
is turning the stars
into a dust of sheen.
From every corner, dark-green shadows,
in ripples, come towards me.
At any moment they may break over me,
like the waves of pain each time I remember
this separation from my lover.

This thought keeps consoling me:
though tyrants may command that lamps be smashed
in rooms where lovers are destined to meet,
they cannot snuff out the moon, so today,
nor tomorrow, no tyranny will succeed,
no poison of torture make me bitter,
if just one evening in prison
can be so strangely sweet,
if just one moment anywhere on this earth.

English Translation By Agha Shahid Ali

2.

When Autumn Came

This is the way that autumn came to the trees:
it stripped them down to the skin,
left their ebony bodies naked.
It shook out their hearts, the yellow leaves,
scattered them over the ground.
Anyone could trample them out of shape
undisturbed by a single moan of protest.

The birds that herald dreams
were exiled from their song,
each voice torn out of its throat.
They dropped into the dust
even before the hunter strung his bow.

Oh, God of May have mercy.
Bless these withered bodies
with the passion of your resurrection;
make their dead veins flow with blood again.

Give some tree the gift of green again.
Let one bird sing.

Four Poems by Jack Gilbert

2009-09-22T16:27:00.007+08:00

1.

Tear It Down

We find out the heart only by dismantling what
the heart knows. By redefining the morning,
we find a morning that comes just after darkness.
We can break through marriage into marriage.
By insisting on love we spoil it, get beyond
affection and wade mouth-deep into love.
We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars.
But going back toward childhood will not help.
The village is not better than Pittsburgh.
Only Pittsburgh is more than Pittsburgh.
Rome is better than Rome in the same way the sound
of raccoon tongues licking the inside walls
of the garbage tub is more than the stir
of them in the muck of the garbage. Love is not
enough. We die and are put into the earth forever.
We should insist while there is still time. We must
eat through the wildness of her sweet body already
in our bed to reach the body within that body.

2.

Rain

Suddenly this defeat.
This rain.
The blues gone gray
And the browns gone gray
And yellow
A terrible amber.
In the cold streets
Your warm body.
In whatever room
Your warm body.
Among all the people
Your absence
The people who are always
Not you.

3.

Failing and Flying

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It’s the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph

4.

The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not laguage but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.

5.

And an excerpt from an interview:

"...Much of postmodern poetry has no significance at all. Unless you like puzzles. Unless you can figure out what the thing is about. The point is not to mystify the reader but to trick the reader into feeling something, knowing something. And this whole absurdity about doubting the "I" in poetry I don't understand at all. The "I" is the source of communication of things that matter. At least, that's what I feel. I want to trust the speaker of the poem. It's like biting into gold, to see if it's true metal. Poets work by insight, not by cleverness. If not through inspiration, then through intuition. Not by mechanics or examining the nature of the way someone seeing something encounters something. In much postmodern poetry the eyeball follows a certain little trail and then translates what it sees back into something else, proclaiming then, "Yes that is a dog." What the hell good is that? If you're scientifically inclined, it's wonderful. It's an extraordinary science of cognition, but it's nothing that has anything to do with my life emotionally, and if it's not emotional what does it offer? It can offer beauty, perhaps, if you're interested in that. It's nice, but it's not going to change your life. Telling a story is very nice, but unless the thing, the novel, the short story does something to you as a person, then it's just another artifact....

"I believe we are made by art, art that matters. Not what's ingenious, clever, or hard to read. Not a mystery puzzle. I think if a poem doesn't put emotional pressure on me, I don't feel uncomfortable in the sense of feeling more than I can feel, understanding more than I can understand, loving more than I am able to be in love. Real poetry enables me for that."

on failure, and sacrifice, and the sad task of a speechwriter

2009-09-02T04:21:00.004+08:00

I am Mar Roxas' speechwriter, and let me be the first to say that I failed my country.

I failed my country by not working hard enough; by not being a better speechwriter; by failing to show the people how good a person my boss was. Is.

My friends laughed at me for being too much of a believer. And I failed my country by believing that it would believe along with me.

I am Mar Roxas' speechwriter. All throughout my year and half in the organization, I denied that title; I played it down. Not really wrote the speeches, not per se, I said. I wrote down what I was told to write down, I said. Others thought of it, and all I had to do was type it down. I drafted the speeches, but never really wrote them. I shied away from that name: Speechwriter. In the same manner that I shy away from being called a poet.

The least I could do now is to show the same courage that my boss did. I am Mar Roxas' speechwriter. I am a poet. As speechwriter, one of my tasks is tell you how good a person my boss is. As poet, my only task is to say to you the truest thing I can.

My boss is one of the smartest people I have ever known. My boss has one of the purest hearts I have ever been in touch with. All my boss ever wanted was to serve the people in the best way he can. I failed my country by not saying these things well enough.

Yesterday evening my boss declared his support for the candidacy of Senator Noynoy Aquino for President in 2010. He said: It is within my power to preside over a potentially divisive process or to make the party a bridge for the forces of change. He said: I choose to lead unity, not division. He said: Country above self. And I typed it down.

This country I failed is the same country that my boss puts above himself. My country was smart enough to see what was wrong with the campaign. But it was also too cynical to not see through it. The same people who dismissed the ads as mere gimmicks were the same people who lauded how brilliant this opponent's ad campaign was, or how good a rhetorician this other opponent was. I used to ask, if you're so smart as to see through everything as posturing, as political play, then doesn't the question boil down to who you think can best move this country forward?

I failed my country by not asking that well enough, or often enough.

When I was nine years old, my parents voted for Jovito Salonga. He became known as the best president my country never had. When I was fifteen, they voted, along with my siblings, for Raul Roco. When I was twenty-one, they voted again for Roco, and I voted with them. Roco, too, became known as the best president my country never had. Now I am twenty-six, and I tell you now, in the truest way I can: Mar Roxas is the best president this country never had.

I have failed my country, and all I hope for now is that the people realize what it has lost, and what it has gained. The country asked for sacrifice, and he gave them sacrifice. The country asked for unity. He has given them the door to unity; all that is left is for them to step through.

The country asked for someone to believe in; in Noynoy they have found someone to believe in. And Mar has offered himself as someone to believe with.

In tears, I ask this country that I have failed: Is there anything more you would like to ask of my boss?

He has given everything, and he will continue to give. And I will type everything down for him. Because I am Mar Roxas' speechwriter. And he is my boss. He is my president. The best president this country never had.

Lucky

2009-09-01T02:00:00.000+08:00

Tony Hoagland

If you are lucky in this life,

you will get to help your enemy

the way I got to help my mother

when she was weakened past the point of saying no.

Into the big enamel tub

half-filled with water

which I had made just right,

I lowered the childish skeleton

she had become.

Her eyelids fluttered as I soaped and rinsed

her belly and her chest,

the sorry ruin of her flanks

and the frayed gray cloud

between her legs.

Some nights, sitting by her bed

book open in my lap

while I listened to the air

move thickly in and out of her dark lungs,

my mind filled up with praise

as lush as music,

amazed at the symmetry and luck

that would offer me the chance to pay

my heavy debt of punishment and love

with love and punishment.

And once I held her dripping wet

in the uncomfortable air

between the wheelchair and the tub,

until she begged me like a child

to stop,

an act of cruelty which we both understood

was the ancient irresistible rejoicing

of power over weakness.

If you are lucky in this life,

you will get to raise the spoon

of pristine, frosty ice cream

to the trusting creature mouth

of your old enemy

because the tastebuds at least are not broken

because there is a bond between you

and sweet is sweet in any language.

Eros and the Everyday

2009-07-22T13:07:00.003+08:00

John Koethe

as when emotion too far exceeds its cause

Elizabeth Bishop

A field of unreflecting things

Time is passing by: inert,

Anonymous beyond recall, the deflected

Objects of a self-regarding gaze

Untouched by the anxieties of proximity or love.

I tried to find those passions in the sky,

In moments when the heart surveys itself

As if from above, and wonders at the

Sight of something so particular and small.

A day brings language and a hint of what it means,

Of some presence waiting in the wings

Beyond the stage, beyond the words that

Gathered in the night and stayed

And through whose grace I find, if not quite

What I wanted, then everything else:

The contentment of each morning's

Exercise in freedom, freedom like a wall

Enclosing my heart; the disjunctive thoughts

Gesturing at some half-imagined whole;

A continuity that on the surface feels like love.

What is this thing that feels at once so nebulous

And so complete, living from day to day

Unmindful of itself, oblivious of the future

And the past, hovering like a judgment

Above the future, the present, and the past,

Floating in the distance like the eyes of love?

Call it "experience"-- that term of art

For time in an inhuman world

Indifferent to desire, the history

Of one who one day wandered off from home

Along a road that led from here to here:

These sidewalks and these houses, city streets

Through fields and quiet streams, uncharted

Trails descending to a farmhouse in a glen and

Nothing in my heart or in the sky above my heart.

And then from somewhere in that wilderness inside

I hear the murmur of a low, transforming tone

That fills the field of sight with feeling,

And that makes of blind experience a kind of love.

Let me stay there for a while, while evening

Gathers in the sky and daylight lingers on the hills.

There's something in the air, something I can't quite see,

Hiding behind this stock of images, this language

Culled from all the poems I've ever loved.

I don't believe a word they say, a word I say,

But it isn't really a matter of belief:

As ordinary things make up the world,

So life is purchased with the common coin of feeling,

Feelings deferred, that flower for a day

And then retreat into the language. And later,

When the hours they'd filled are summoned by name,

It's as if they'd never been, as if that tangible

Release could never come to me again.

I came here for the view, and what is there to see?

The place is still a place in progress

And the days have the feeling of friction, of pages

Blank with anticipation, biding their time,

And ever approaching the chapter in the story

Where it ends, and my heart is waiting.

Born by the River

2009-07-07T10:06:00.003+08:00

Or was it a Lake

I was born by the river,

sang Sam, and so was I.

Or was it a lake in summer

as it moved towards dryness,

crabs and catfish snuggling

up the banks? I know how it is

to fear the monsoon months,

to hum to the rain's sad refrain.

Ask me how it is to be a man

and I will say, Unyielding,

like a lake. Ask the water

about the many names for yielding

and it will answer in the voice of a fist,

unclenching. Or was it an eye,

leaning towards rain, filling

like a puddle on those monsoon months,

mud blurring the edges, a ripple

throbbing, then stilling itself?

I was born by a lake,

and I know how it is

to carry water with me.

Even now I can hear its song.

Let go, be still, let go.

I'm Talking to Myself

2009-06-20T16:02:00.001+08:00

and here's what I say:

God's not into sadness. He says it's a waste of time.

So, the grief I feel almost every day,

what Buddha says we've got coming to us,

should not be all that drives these--

what shall I call them?-- earned poems.

I don't know if this proves it but I just came off the beach

with my dog, Walt. The whole way out and back

in a cool rain he ran from scent to luxurious scent,

poking his nose into washed-up seaweed,

rolling in what was left of a dead seagull, rotten fish,

pissing on those things worthy of it

and almost everything was.

I'm trying to learn from my little dog

that there is nothing that is not God, is not here

for our happiness. Me, all the time I'm sunk down

in my wet jacket, unforgiving of a botched love

while he pesters me with a soggy stick, tells me

to throw it, please throw it.

- Tom Crawford, from "Wu Wei: Poems"

this is fucking insane.

2009-06-02T22:49:00.005+08:00

And so it goes.

The House of Representatives voted to approve the Con-Ass resolution tonight. Basically, it's a big "Fuck off" to the Senate regarding the Cha-cha issue. It's a big "Fuck off" to every decent, thinking Filipino, which I think is the other 90+ million who hate Gloria's guts.

Basically it's a big "Fuck off" to anyone who thinks that they can stop Gloria from holding on to power. It's a big "Fuck off" to me, and to you.

Well, we're not just about ready to fuck off.

Butch G., a friend from the UP Workshop, says, "Grabe... Hindi ako tibak. Pero naniniwala akong may mga isyung hindi pwedeng palagpasin. Isa ito sa mga hindi pwedeng ikebs. Grrrr. what do we do?"

To start with? Everything we can.

You remember that thing, that one thing you can do well, and believe that it's worth doing, and hold on to it for goddamn life, and do it, do it the best way you can. You do it while thinking how fucking angry you are at this mess your congressmen got you in, and you let your rage drive you forward. You write about it if you're a writer. You sing about it if you're a singer.You make it known that you will not stand idly by, that you will not keep watching those goddamn sex videos and reading those goddamn tarpaulins that say "Ramdam na ang Kaunlaran," when all the while those fucking assholes in congress are scheming to keep the hungry hungry, the poor poor, the rich so fucking fat and insulated from what you see everyday on your way to your thankless job. You do everything you can.

And you don't, you never, fuck off. You strap those boots on and go to the streets and scream at the top of your lungs. You tell those assholes, "No, YOU fuck off. This is my country."

There's going to be a rally tomorrow. Assembly is at St. Peter's along Commonwealth Av., 2 p.m. Wear black.

May basketbol player ba na magaling magsulat?

2009-05-27T17:01:00.004+08:00

Meron.

The second flight was worse. There was a guy sitting next to you that smelled like he'd slept in a giant gym sock. And it wasn't a violent smell, like a fart. A fart you could understand. It comes on strong, punches you in the face and then it fades into the crowd. Not this -- this was an underhanded, passive-aggressive smell. This smell was like a girlfriend moping around the house with a sad look on her face, looking absolutely heart-broken, moaning, groaning and begging for attention. You ask her "What's wrong?" She sighs, looks away and says: "Nothing." Forcing you to keep at it, attending to her until she's ready to stop acting. Never-ending. Annoying.

- Coleman Collins

Check out the whole post. That last paragraph? Tangina ang galing.

In other news: Looks like there's an upset in the making in the Eastern Conference Finals. Everyone's been gearing for LeBron vs. Kobe in the Finals, but lookee here-- Orlando's up 3-1. Been rooting for them, actually, since the T-Mac/ Grant Hill days. And now with Dwight and those 3-point bombers there, I'm sure that their 4-out, 1-in offense will give L.A. problems; the Lakers are good interior defenders, they can body up in the post and clog the passing lanes, but I'm not sure if they have the legs to keep up with Orlando's side-to-side ball swings. We'll see.

And would you believe that I haven't seen a single quarter of these playoffs? Moved to QC, been here for a month now. Don't yet have TV. DSL's all set to be installed this week though. Funny text there, from the ISP: "Ser 3-5 days po ikakabit na internet ninyo naka-dispots na."

Dispots? Yol and I spent more than a few moments trying to make sense of it, until, "Aaaaah."

Dispatch.

Speaking of Dispatch:

Oh, and it's 90's night this Saturday, Mag:Net Katipunan. Los Chupacabras will be playing a few songs. I'm trying to sneak in a Counting Crows song, but I'm not very hopeful. Do drop by.

Much Ado About Hayden Kho: The Opposite of Every Truth is a Sex Video

2009-05-20T20:26:00.004+08:00

Earlier today, habang nagsasalita sa Liga ng Barangay ang marami sa mga presidentiable, nagkakagulo naman ang Senado sa pagdating ni Katrina Halili. Habang humihirit sina Allan Peter Cayetano tungkol sa mga sex scandal, wala ni isa sa hanay nila ang nakahirit ng, "Ngyek. Digs ko na may halaga ito, pero nasaan ang ingay nu'ng kasagsagan ng Dumaguete at La Salle sex scandal? Di ba may mga mas mahalagang dapat pag-usapan dito ngayon?" Ayos.

Tsamba? Puwede. But you can't help but think that there could be some unseen hand pulling the strings here. And you can't help but admire how skillful that hand is.

Just last week, Villar's buddies walked out of a Senate hearing where evidence was presented against the good Senator, concerning the C-5 mess. Allegations left and right here: ini-realign daw ang C-5 para dumaan sa lupa niya, para tumaas ang value ng lupa na bibilhin ng gobyerno. Sa madaling sabi, minaniobra ang sistema. Suwak.

At the same time, Villar called a press-con asserting his innocence, going over the heads of his colleagues and straight to the TV-viewing masses. Pulitika lang raw ang lahat-- what with his strongest opponents for the Presidency in 2010 being his fellow Senators. Nevermind that he could've answered the allegations point-for-point in the Senate hall. Oh well.

Yesterday, Sen. Bong Revilla (hmm, who could he be in bed with?) delivered a privilege speech on this Hayden Kho thing. I remember watching the news and thinking, what the fuck. Sa Senado? Ito?

Today, Katrina Halili, tears streaming down her face, vowed to fight until the people who leaked the video were brought to justice. Oh, she was at the Senate too.

Tomorrow, the Senators get to vote on whether the evidence presented against Villar is enough to warrant an investigation.

Ang galing lang ng nangyaring pagtabon ng issue kay Villar. Isang tapik (p're, nayayari na ako, gawa ka nga ng ingay diyan,) at tapos na ang lahat. Wala nang nakakaalala sa issue. Na-minimize ang damage kay Villar.

All this while Sen. Francis Pangilinan is busy severing his ties with the Liberal Party-- whose standard bearer Sen. Mar Roxas (yeah, yeah, my boss, but that's beside the point here,) is seen as one of Villar's strongest opponents in 2010.

There he was, saying that he had "differences" with the LP leadership. There he was, on-cam with Akbayan Rep. Risa Hontiveros, Ed Panlilio, and Grace Padaca (an LP member too,) "Rocking the vote." Conspicuously absent was a direct statement from any of these people saying whether or not they were siding with Pangilinan, or that they were just there to, well, rock the vote.

Oh, and Pangilinan and Villar have close ties too: both are members of the Senate's Wednesday group.

Ang galing nu'ng pagpaplano nito, 'no, and everything in short notice. Invisible hands at work (okay, maybe,) the power of the camera going full-force, and Villar, assuming there is indeed some sort of conspiracy here, resting easy on the knowledge that in this cynical, weatherbeaten archipelago of ours, the question isn't really what happened?-- the question is which of the things that happened is more interesting?

Wasn't it EJ Galang who wrote, in an old college poem, "The opposite of every truth is another truth."

Well. What more can I say.

eksperimento

2009-05-05T17:04:00.001+08:00

Misericordia

This is a street and there is a child.

She threads a needle through the hearts

Of many flowers, barters it

For a mouthful of rice.

Ipagbakasakali nating naaawa ka.

Nababagabag, maaari, o naaalisuag.

Kumukuyom ang lalamunan.

Napakaraming salin ng malasakit,

Misericordia in the tongue

Of those who have suffered, or whose

Suffering is remembered. A tremor,

A vine taking root in the heart,

At ilan nga ba ang pinapalad

Makaunawa? Tinititigan ka niya.

Marahil masasabi ring

Tinititigan ninyo ang isa’t isa—

Two faces mirroring nothing

But a secret suffering

Of words. Meaning, if only there were

Some other way to say this:

Sa atin lamang ito. Lihim

Nating hinagpis. Ibinubulong mo ito

Sa wika ng iyong panaginip. Pagtuklap

ng langib mula sa mga pantig ng

Misericordia. If only this were merely

A street. Some child holding up

A string of flowers. Paano

Nga bang uunawain ang salitang unawa?

ang blog ng tunay na lalake

2009-04-22T12:14:00.001+08:00

Ito

ang blog ng tunay na lalake.

finally.

2009-04-20T12:43:00.004+08:00

Was reading the papers earlier; inilabas na ang list of fellows for the Dumaguete Workshop. At sa lahat ng mga pangalan ng kakilala/ kaibigan na nandu'n, one stood out.

I've always been a big fan of his. Sa henerasyon natin-- and maybe, kasama pa ang mga matatanda-- naniniwala akong siya ang pinakatalentadong Pilipinong makata ngayon. Sa wakas, bumubukas na ang pinto. Pasok si Arkaye Kierulf sa Dumaguete National Writers Workshop 2009.

Enjoy ka, bok. (Congrats din kina Keith, Mo, Petra, at Phillip.)

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

For Poetry

• Mariane Amor Romina T. Abuan (University of Santo Tomas)
• Jonathan S. Gonzales (Ateneo de Manila University)
• Arkaye V. Keirulf (Ateneo de Manila University)
• Patricia Angela F. Magno (Ateneo de Manila University)
• Niño S. Manaog (Ateneo de Manila University)

For Fiction

• Keith Bryan T. Cortez (University of Santo Tomas)
• Ana Margarita Stuart del Rosario (De La Salle University)
• Monique S. Francisco (University of the Philippines - Diliman)
• Russell Stanley Geronimo (De La Salale University)
• Aleck E. Maramag (De La Salle University)
• Gabriel Millado (University of the Philippines – Mindanao)
• Gabrielle L. Nakpil (Ateneo de Manila University)
• Joy C. Rodriguez (University of the Philippines – Mindanao)

For Creative Non-Fiction

• Philip Y. Kimpo Jr. (University of the Philippines - Diliman)
• Marck Ronald Rimorin (University of the Philippines - Baguio)

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

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

Live Blogging: Workshop: Carljoe Javier

2009-04-18T11:04:00.019+08:00

11:02: Workshop starts. Jing Hidalgo moderating. Carl's folio, part of his forthcoming "And the Geeks shall Inherit the Earth" (Milflores), to be discussed after his poetics earlier, titled "Things I Worry About: The Poetics of Insecurity." (Na hindi ko nalive-blog dahil hung over pa ako.)

11:03: Dean and Iwa agree: No need to be insecure. But I think 'yun mismo 'yung ugat ng humor, di ba-- 'yung sinasabi ni Carl na incongruence na ugat ng inability niya to navigate social situations.

11:06: Everyone agrees that humor is there. Craft-wise, Ma'am Jing thinks that there needs to be a bit more bang in the closures. Carlomar Daoana: Element of surprise important; good handling of introductions.

11:08: Butch Dalisay: Dramatization is important-- "most successful" piece comes closest to what we expect from story. Big, dramatic moments need to be, well, kailangang babaran.

Interesting workshop legend about "dessicated prunes." Inside shit na lang namin 'yun.

11:14: Sorry medyo choppy nga ang connection. Pero anyway, craftwork pa rin ang usapan. Vlad Gonzales talking about greater rendering/ detail to add to depth of persona.

11:15: Stories abound. Funny shit about dessicated prunes earlier, and now former students shit. Sin is excitement, says Ma'am Jing: "You always expect some kind of perversion... but if the persona is a nice guy, does he pretend? This is a problem that fictionists that do not face."

11:17: Carljoe's persona in his work described as a "man-boy." Jing Panganiban-Mendoza comments-- "E parang ganu'n naman talaga ang geek, di ba?" Butch Dalisay: "He can pull out all the stops here (re: perversion) without being nasty, because you're setting yourself up for the fall." This of course is the root of Carl's poetics.

11:21: Tinanong ko si Carl how he sequenced the work in his forthcoming book. Generally daw longer pieces were interspersed w/ shorter ones; geeky stuff interspersed with family or macho stuff. Basically variety ang guiding logic, para nga naman hindi nakakaumay.

11:23: Carl talks about other pieces in the book-- one, he feels, "sticks out like a sore thumb," where he has to explain to his sister "kung bakit (sila) hindi mayaman."

11:25: This is the third time Ichi Batacan was asked to speak a little louder. Funny thing is, may microphone naman na umiikot. Sabi ko sa inyo, para kang sinusubuan ng lugaw kapag nagsalita, mehn.

11:26: Talking about viscerality (-ness?) vs. cognitive leap in physical vs. verbal comedy.

11:30: Jumping into stuff about non-fiction na, hindi na lang sa akda ni Carljoe. And literature and institutions in general.

11:32: Talk about Palancas: Jing P-M: "Kapag sumali ka, huwag mong gawing gauge kung maganda 'yung akda mo o hindi."

11:35: Ayer Arguelles: "Gaano ka kalaya bilang non-fiction writer sa pagpapahayag ng mga karanasan mo? Magsi-stick ka lang ba sa mga karanasan na dinanas mo, o puwede bang mag-imbento?" Ma'am Jing H. and I were talking about this earlier, how the biggest difference bet. fiction and non-fiction is the contract of the writer with the reader: "Nangyari ito, paniwalaan mo." Nag-iiba ang dating sa mambabasa if he/she takes the work as truth.

11:36: Carljoe: "Lahat nang ito talagang nangyari..." I think ang point niya, hindi niya concern ang invention, kasi at this point in his life ang daming nangyayaring weird sa kanya. Rich ang material ng buhay niya.

11:39: Question about self-indulgence in nonfic vs. relatibility: "How do you make your own personal experience relatable?"

11:40: Good point by Neil Garcia: Putting information in tones down self-indulgence. "Tha panty piece can be an occassion to put in material on panties. Why not do research on panties?" Oo nga naman, Carljoe, 'no. Why not? Hehehehe.

11:44: Jing H: Challenge is in blending of information and narrative; minsan, ang peligro, kapag naoverload ng information nawawalan ng interes ang mambabasa. Butch D: Skill is in how you insert the factoids without making them stick out like a footnote in the middle of the thing? Says Vanity Fair and old Playboy mags the best in doing this. Adds, may kinalaman sa word-count na target mo.

11:47: Good suggestion by Sir Butch: Before writing, give yourself a word-count. Masarap paglaruan; you practice economy and vision.

11: 53: Jimmy Abad: "One way of deciding whether factual information is necessary would be for the author to ask himself or herself what particular effect he or she wants for the whole piece... There seems to be too much anxiety about making the piece relateable or universal. The essays, comic as they are, are already relatable... One need not ask 'what's the point,' because you're asking for insight." I think what he means is that you're asking for the insight to be expositionally rendered. Pero in Carl's stuff, nasa narrative 'yung insight, e.

11:54: Rio Alma talks about variety in length of each piece, in book form. Naghahanap ng angkla ang reader sa isang libro.

11:55: Carljoe talks about joining a reality show once, re: research in his work. The essay turned in for it reached more than 20 pages. Back to balancing information with narrative. Neil Garcia: "And, of course, research is in keeping with the geek persona." Funny moment about Carljoe identifying with Boy George when he was younger.

11:57: Vlad Gonzales: Baka 'yung pagka-Pilipino nandu'n sa essay na 'yung kapatid mo kinakausap mo. Kasi di ba hindi ka naman mayaman enough para maging geek, e. I think, oo nga, nandu'n ang tension dapat nu'ng libro.

12:02: Butch Dalisay on geek culture and where it's going: "In geekdom, you don't just think of the guy with all the toys... that's too easy; any guy can do that. This is the way the little guy gets back at the guy with everything, using just his wits and skills. It goes back to the underdog figure, except na dito, technology ang ginagamit mo." Galing, di ba; resistance pa rin. The geek as subversive.

12:06: Neil Garcia: "You're aware that your life is interesting. You're self-aware." And that's what makes this interesting material. Differences between geek and nerd. Do geeks have some sort of secret handshake, parang mga Mason?

12:09: Question by Gelo Suarez: "How do you negotiate between this 'connector' who enjoys length, teka, ang pangit pakinggan, extremeties, teka, I mean, extrems, with the earnest storyteller in you who wants to achieve balance." Laughter there. Sobrang repressed yata ng mga tao dito. "Our long extremeties?" Ichi mutters.

12:12: Carljoe: Sees himself as a spokesperson of the geek. Sir Butch: Iniintindi pa rin ang audience.

12:13: Question posed to Vlad: What accounts for your book's success? Do you have an idea?

12:14: Vlad: Awareness ng bagahe, pero hindi pagpapadrag-down dito. Honesty. Inalis ko 'yung mga bagahe ng duda... regardless kung anuman ang nangyari, may sense ng sigurado ako dito... Or baka lang po 'yung physical beauty ko ang trip nila.

12:16: Jing H: I posed the question kasi, you as writers, if you want to be read, necessarily have to think about that.

12:19: Jing H: "So in being true to themselves they're actually being true to their generation." I forget kung ano ang ugat ng quote na 'yan, pero it sounds cool, 'no? Sige, sige, lunch.

Live Blogging: Workshop: Jing Panganiban-Mendoza

2009-04-17T13:18:00.028+08:00

1:19: Will be liveblogging Jing Panganiban's workshop of her work-in-progress. Starts at 1:30. Need to plug this in, medyo paubos na ang baterya. Ang problema parang walang outlet. Hmm.

1:20: Jing's essay "Literary Social Butterfly" up for workshop, moderated by Vim Nadera. Post kayo ng questions sa comments box kung trip ninyo.

1:32: Starting. Vim Nadera begins by harking back to Jing's poetics of "Akology." Cites rootedness in tradition of Abadilla-- siyempre ang daling maalala nu'ng "Ako ang Daigdig," di ba.

1:34: "Lalung-lalo na ng talaba..." sounds so funny coming from Vim Nadera.

1:38: Vim: Akology not really akology but "nanayology," "tatayology," etc-- cites "paglabas sa sarili," bilang "sign of maturity." Medyo inulit 'yung quote ni Rica Bolipata-Santos from last year's workshop: "I believe that the search for truth is dignified." All writing-- even seemingly "akological" ones-- is a search for answers, for truth.

1:42: The challenge is to achieve irony of an impersonal personal essay.

1:44: Medyo controversial ang essay ni Jing, e. Vim doing a nice job of trying to bring up matters outside of the essay's subject matter. For now.

1:46: Isa sa mga tanong na dapat sagutin, I think-- personally malabo sa akin, e-- bakit mo gugustuhing magsulat tungkol sa manunulat at sa mga ginagalawan nilang circles? "Hindi ito gossip column... at hindi ko intensyong manira ng sinumang tao," she says in her poetics paper. Kung ano talaga ang proyekto, hindi ko yata makita du'n sa paper. Mukhang kailangang dito i-flesh-out sa workshop 'yun.

1:50: Jun Cruz Reyes says structure is "postmodern." I disagree, and I think so would some of the people here.

1:52: Iwa: "Nabibitin ako na hindi siya nagpapangalan. Di ko ma-gets kung bakit 'yung iba pinapangalanan mo, 'yung iba, hindi."

1:54: Neil Garcia is extremely pleased. "Necessary labor at this time in our literary history... The underlying message seems to be this (literary) world seems pathetic... and yet she persists in this world." The question, to him, then, (or the missing part,) is why she persists.

1:59: Suggestion of "stating the thesis" somewhere, and answer the question of why she would want to stay in this world.

2:05: Comparisons with Kitty Go, although explicitly stated sa poetics paper ni Jing na hindi na proyekto na maging ganu'n. Question persists: so ano ang proyekto?

2:06: Quote from Gluck (sorry di ko makita ang umlaut): Art begins with the real, but in ends in illumination or truth. Or something like that.

2:09: Heto na. Jing Hidalgo: Fairness: When people who are not alluded to feel alluded to, because they are not named, they cannot defend themselves. But, Neil: But how else could it have been done? Ma'am Jing: Maybe Investigative Journalism.

2:14: Mainit na. Nagsalita ako, sabi ko, parang madaling isipan na malisyoso dahil hindi malinaw ang proyekto. At self-indulgent. Hinihintay natin ang tugon ng mga tao.

2:16: Vlad Gonzales: Hindi na yata dapat iproblematize kung bakit walang tiyak na pangalan ang mga persons alluded-to. Isa pa: Kailangan bang i-articulate ito? Oo, kasi experience natin ito, e. "From time to time, para umusad 'yung institution, irereasses mo 'yung merits niya." On masa: Part naman tayo ng masa, e. Siguro nasa ideya rin ng target audience.

2:18: Carl Javier: What do we consider fair? Where do we draw the lines of fairness and how rigid must the non-fiction writer be in terms of abiding by these lines?

2:21: Jun Cruz Reyes: How could you question the author, e construct niya nga 'yan, appraisal niya nga 'yan-- not yours? Ang tanong ng manunulat dito, "Is my truth fiction then?"

2:23: Kailangang linawin ang internal framework mo para malinaw kung saan ka nanggagaling. You're telling me something, ang tanong ko, why are you telling it to me?

2:25: JCR: Hindi ako interested sa who's who. Interested ako sa why.

2:27: Ichi Batacan: Bilang reader, may sari-sarili tayong bagahe. Pero 'yung desisyon palagi nang kung ano ang sasabihin, nasa manunulat. Gusto lang na linawin kung paano nakararating sa mga desisyon na 'yun.

2:29: Jimmy Abad talks about satire; "Any generalization, even if well-thought, may hold water, but not the ocean."

2:31: Back to issue of responsibility. Jing Hidalgo: There is a tremendous amount of responsibility in creative non-fiction that goes beyond talking about your personal life.

2:35: Jing Hidalgo: Western non-fictionists problematizing responsibility. The point is you can't wash your hands when you're actually talking about real people and presenting it in the non-fiction form.

2:37: Jing Panganiban, final word: Sa lahat ng nasulat ko, ito lang ang nasulat ko na alam ko kung sino ang magbabasa, at kayo (writers) iyon. Ang proyekto: "Ang papel ng pakikitalamitam." Ano ang role ng socialization? Gusto ring talakayin din: May vicious cycle, at gusto kong tingnan itong vicious cycle na ito. Hindi ko layunin na manuligsa; kung ilalagay ko 'yung mga pangalan, e di du'n na lang napunta ang core ng sanaysay, who's who na lang. Isa pang gustong gawin: matutunan kung paanong magbalanse. Kung pangalanan sila, makabubuti ba sa sanaysay? Sa ngayon, sa akin, ito ang pagtataya. Ang ayaw kong mangyari, 'yung paingayin ko ang akda sa paggamit ng pangalan. 'Yun ang malisyoso...

Certain ambivalence here: "Things I hate are the things I love." Addresses self-mockery: kita ninyo, ako 'yung Literary Social Butterfly.

up national writers workshop 2009 online

2009-04-17T13:17:00.000+08:00

Oo nga pala.

Live Blogging: Poetics: Norman Wilwayco

2009-04-17T10:58:00.031+08:00

10:59: Norman "Iwa" Wilwayco poetics presentation to start in a few minutes. Moderated by Amang Jun Cruz Reyes. Mukhang interesante ang trip nila-- imbis na power point, mukhang dialogue/interview ang gagawin nila.

11:02: Amang Jun: "Iwa = I: Intelligent; W: Writer; A: Altered Consciousness." I'd say W = Wasaaaaaaak.

11:04: Gelo nudges me, says, "He put the 'iwa' in 'diwa'"

11:05: Amang Jun: First question posed, quite vague: "Ano ang poetics ayon sa isang rockstar?"

11:06: Iwa: "Bakit ko nasulat ang mga sinusulat ko? Kailangan ko siyang purgahin para hindi ko na iniisip palagi."

11:08: On (upcoming novel) Pinoy Bastos: "'Yung mga uso ngayon, mga FHM, panay pictures. Gusto ko 'yung may kuwento, 'yung madadala sa banyo. Gusto kong ilabas lahat ng kabastusan ko, lahat ng namimiss ko sa mga magasin dati."

11:10: Iwa: "Di ko kayang i-break-it-down intellectually. Di ko alam kung bakit ang galing kong magsulat, ganu'n lang." Tangina wasak ang tawanan dito.

11:11: "Grabe na-starstruck ako sa inyong lahat. Jing is the man, pare... Ay si Ichi pala, Ichi is the man." Vim Nadera asks: "Si Cris, paano?" Iwa: "Sino si Cris?" Hahahahahaaha.

11:12: I think that's about it. Mukhang magbubukas na sa tanong. May tanong kayo para kay Iwa? Iwan sa comments box, plis.

11:15: I ask, gaano ka kasipag? Gaano ka kadisiplinado? Iwa answers: "Habang dinaranas ko ang isang bagay, iniisip ko na, 'Kung ikukuwento ko ito, paano?"

11:17: Butch Dalisay asks about the erotica that he reads. Iwa answers: "Wala na ako sa age na nagbabasa ako ng erotika, e. Ba't ka pa magbabasa, puwede ka namang mag-experimento na aktuwal, di ba?"

11:20: Vim Nadera: "1. Hanggang kailan mo gagawin ito? 2. 'Yun bang mga karkter, hinango sa totoong tao? 2. Isyu ng publikasyon."

11:21: On character: "Dito sa Pinoy Bastos, kalakhang bahagi ng mga karakter, inimagine ko lang." On publication: "Nagtataka 'ko kasi ni isang publisher walang kumontak sa amin. Kaya kami na lang ang naglalabas."

11:23: Amang Jun: "Mayroon ka bang mga inspirasyon sa text?" Iwa: "Idol ko siyempre talaga si George Estregan, walang duda... Idol ko rin ang sarili ko siyempre."

11:25: Ichi Batacan talks about her own experience, about trying to publish "brave work." Hindi nakikita iyon sa karamihan ng mga lumalabas ngayon.

11:27: Sex/ violence in the work is only the packaging. "It's an extreme reaction to the death we see all around us," says Ichi. I guess in-articulate na niya 'yung transgressive poetics ni Iwa.

11:28: Iwa: "Alam mo pare, in the end, sex ang magse-save sa lahat ng peeps."

11:30: Iwa now talking about transgressive fiction. Check out wikipedia. "Parang ayaw ko ring sabihin transgressive, kasi marketing shit lang 'yun, e."

11:31: Iwa: "Masyadong maingat ang lipunan."

11:32: Dean: "In the case of your treatment of sex, if you have a line you want to cross-- hanggang saan ka tatakbo doon sa kabila?" In other words, I think, gaano kalayo ang transgression. Dean: "How do you balance the sense of the erotic and outright hardcore porn? Or is that even a concern?"

11:36: Iwa: "Pare nasa atay 'yan... kani-kaniyang diskarte. Hanggang saan ko ginagawa? Hanggang puwede. Pero in this case (Pinoy Bastos,) mahirap ding sabihin, e."

11:40: Jing Hidalgo: "Do you also do erotica that is not comic?" Iwa: "Actually, seryoso ako dito. Hindi ko intensyon na patawanin kayo. Pero yes, Ma'am, nagsusulat in ako ng ibang klase."

11:42: Butch Dalisay says, "Pinoy homeboy. Bayaw." Hindi ko mapigilang bumingisngis sa term.

11:46: A few minutes on the use of flashback and motivation. Minsan sinisisi ang nanay kapag sira ang ulo ng karakter.

11:50: Gelo brings up crafting, asks: "Deliberate ba ang inconsistencies, sa grammar, kunwari. Bahagi ba ito ng function ng akda bilang transgression?"

11:51: Iwa: "Pare ang point ng communication is understanding. Kung nagets mo, ba't natin pag-uusapan 'yung grammar. Cool na 'yun."

11:54: Hehe, medyo nagbukas ng usapan ang hirit ni Iwa tungkol sa grammar.

11:57: Surreal kapag humihirit si Iwa ng "Digs mo?" kay Ma'am Jing Hidalgo.

11:59: Iwa: "Ngayon lang may magsasalita na National Artist tungkol sa gawa ko. Rio Alma in the house!"

12:03: Rio Alma: "Nakakasawa minsan (kung panay transgression.)" Cites Laro sa Baga ni Edgardo M. Reyes-- "pinakaseksi na nobela na walang bulgar na lengguwahe."

12:09: Iwa: "Dude, salamat sa lahat ng shit. Mag-eenjoy kayo dito talaga (kapag natapos.) Di ba ngayon pa lang enjoy na kayo sa sex scene?" Lunch.

Workshop: Dean Alfar's Work-in-progress

2009-04-15T12:58:00.021+08:00

1:02: Done with lunch, back from a short walk to buy cigs. Hinihingal ako. Alfar's work-in-progress workshop starts at 1:30 pm, but I'm not sure if it'd be appropriate to liveblog about it, since you guys haven't yet read the text. I'll maybe keep this sparse, just keep an eye (ear) out for interesting soundbites. Rakenrol. (Oh, and naligo na ako.)

1:29: All set. Sir Butch Dalisay moderating.

1:34: New lesson learned: May convention pala sa fantasy, a sort of map for the narrative, which goes, Separation, Initiation, Return. Cool, when taken in relation to the structure of pre-colonial epics, 'no? Anyway, Alfar says he'll diverge from it. I'm really apprehensive about giving out spoilers here, so bear with me, bok. At least may sense of suspense kayo sa paglabas ng nobelang ito, a.

1:42: A few statements about novelistic space, and its expansiveness. Sense of excitement for the novelist-- ang sarap laruin, ang lawak.

1:47: Discussion re: naming of characters. Echoes of discussion yesterday re: Ichi Batacan's characters. Sir Butch mentioned something about our apparent attachment to Spanish names. As for Dean, hindi pa fixed ang names; he just "needs to put as much as he can down, before he polishes." Part of polishing is revising some names.

1:50: Sir Butch's practice: go out of his way to find as nondescript a name as possible. Para 'yung character maaalala lang because of, well, the way he was characterized. This in context of realist fiction: symbolic, charged names are "unearned mileage."

1:59: Dean draws map of narrative structure. Interesting device for fictionists, novelists, to allow for a better anchorhold on the use of time, as it moves forward in the story.

2:03: Problematic of having young protagonists coming across as, well, automatically Young Adult ang genre. In this case, though, may mga details na inappropriate for such a genre. The general sense I get is that it, of course, is a publishing concern.

2:04: Ichi Batacan: Question re: strikingness of details/images. Mentions me-- because this is a question she'd like to ask me later, pag ako na ang nakasalang sa workshop: Where do these come from? Sir Rio nudges me and say, "Speculative ka rin pala, e," then laughs. In a more serious tone, he adds, "It just comes."

2:12: Alfar still "coming to terms with (his) identity as a novelist." Perhaps because of the expansiveness of the form.

2:13: Also, like Ichi Batacan, mentions uneasiness about his earlier novel, which in some parts makes him cringe. "Looking back, I could've written it a lot better."

2:15: Vim Yapan comments about uneasiness with specfic: Parang lahat device lang na kailangang nasa loob nu'ng mundo nu'ng novel. Tanong: Gaano mo kalayang inaappropriate yung culture mo sa loob ng specfic na piyesa? Interesting point re: the absence of parallel universes dito sa Pilipinas. Wala tayong Hogwarts. Ang patay nakalibing lang sa tabi ng bahay, kasi pinapaniwalaan na nandiyan lang siya sa paligid.

2:17: Alfar: Cultural exploitation akin to pillaging, but also appropriation. "Specfic has every right to invent." Ang pagkakagets ko, parang lunsaran lang ang kultura for the imagining.

2:19: Sir Ricky: "If you give specfic that much space, then what are the constraints?"

2:20: "The things I do for the story need to be useful to the story. Whatever liberties I take must be of service to the story." Hindi siya arbitrary; back to yesterday's discussion on his poetics: Story takes primacy.

2:22: Talking about design. A bit of uneasiness dahil may kaunting reference sa workshop process.

2:25: Sir Butch: "Everything is a negotiable here, pero bahala kayo kung gusto ninyong tanggapin o balewalain 'yung sinasabi. There is nothing prescriptive here."

2:26: Talk about fiction as "diskarte ng writer 'yan." All writing is diskarte, bok, di ba?

2:29: About to close na. Back to specfic writing. Carljoe Javier: "Hindi naman porke't wala tayong space program, hindi na tayo puwedeng magkuwento tungkol sa space." Story is king pa rin daw.

Live Blogging: Poetics: Angelo Suarez

2009-04-15T09:01:00.010+08:00

9:02: Will be liveblogging Gelo Suarez' poetics presentation, which starts at 9:30. Ligo muna ako. Ayos ang breakfast, mehn-- itlog na pula't kamatis, espadang daing, garlic tapa, sinangag. Balik ako, mehn, bubuhay lang ng dugo. Ligo. 'Sak.

9:25: Sitting in between Rio Alma and Chingbee Cruz. Everyone gearing for Gelo's presentation, which reads in the manuscript (in full) as:

Some Things I've Sworn Not to Do in Poetry, for the Next Few Years or So, in Alphabetical Order

Aim for emotive resonance.

End the poem w/ lyrical flourish

Express myself.

Find my voice.

Make up a believable, cohesive persona.

Provide an insight into the Human Condition.

9:31: Chingbee Cruz introducing Suarez now. Says pertinent questions include "What kind of poetry is this a response to, and why this response."

9:42: Shit ang dami nang nangyari. Gelo now talking about genesis of this view of his-- Gertrude Stein's "Five words" poem. Also said, earlier, "At the heart of what I do is defamiliarization." Now showing various slides and video clips showing works that show how message loops into form. And also, "form as medium."

9:44: Suarez: A page poet is one that makes maximum use of the page as form.

UPDATE: Gelo's poetics presentation done. Ngayon lang ako nakaconnect sa internet ulit, fuck. Anyway: Some interesting points by Gelo:

"What I'm trying to do, some call "conceptual art."

It's also art that talks about what art is, na nakapaloob ang message du'n sa form.

Nagsimula [itong gawin ng mga pioneers nito] as response to the commodification of art; as resistance to the market.

Forces of production are also put into the fore.

One of the main concerns: laruin ang tension between the concrete and abstract.

"It's about substance. It's about form."

Internet still choppy. Ricardo de Ungria moderating Suarez workshop discussion now.

10:44: de Ungria calls this kind of art as "literalism," concerned with the very materiality of art. Cites Dadaists and Surrealists as progenitors. Asks Suarez, "Bakit hindi mo sila binanggit?"

10:46: Suarez answers, "Marami pa akong gusto sanang banggitin." Cites facebook comment: "Don't commit suicide by saying that what you're doing is new." Cites particular Dadaist influences. Hindi ko ma-spell, e, tanungin na lang n'yo siya. Cites Situationists din.

10:48: Vlad Gonzales comment/ question: "Kitang-kita ko na matalas ang pulitika dito sa pinoproyekto mo. Medyo nagtataka ako na at some points, may nararamdaman akong denial sa pulitika. Parang tinatago. Tanong, to rephraase: Anong klaseng pulitika ba 'yung hinaharap mo dito?" Also cites presence of Filipino tradition re: this form.

10:51: "Gusto kong isipin na kahit hindi ko i-call attention, napapansin. Mas gustong i-imply na lang. Wala akong illusion na magpatigil ng tangke gamit 'yung akda. Kung gusto kong mag-organize ng movement, mag-oorganize ako ng movement, hindi ako tutula." Malumanay ang pagkakasabi niya, ha, walang away. Cites George Oppen. "Puwede kang maglabas ng sentimiento sa tula, pero wala du'n ang laban." Cites micro-politics, "Sa araw-araw na pamumuhay, may ganyang nagaganap na struggle with power structures... Siguro puwedeng sabihin na 'yung mismong form ang pinopoliticize."

10:58: Suarez asked about his performances in English. "Meron, sa Dissonant Umbrellas," Rio Alma butts in. Gelo cites hybridity and bilinguality: "Nasa iisang spektrum lang ang English at Filipino." Binanggit pa ako, re: 'yung hirit ko kahapon na non-issue na sa akin 'yun.

11:03: Batacan states feeling of discomfort re: conceptual art, plays in form as resistance to intellectual lethargy. But, she asks, "Don't audiences already know that?" States, "To me it comes across as a kind of false humility... Isn't it actually operating from a position of let me jar/jog/ shock you into thinking?" Cites tyranny of giving everything, re: tyranny of giving nothing..." Medyo malabo hehehe. But Gelo gets it. Ichi is easily the most soft-spoken person in this workshop, whatever she says, parang pinapakain ka niya ng lugaw at inaalagaan habang sinasabi 'yun.

11:07: Suarez says, "Sa akin, sa akin mas kupal 'yung pupunta ka sa isang lugar na may assumption na alam mo kung ano ang maiintindihan o hindi ng audience..." Putcha masyadong mabilis ang pangyayari, ang daming ideas na lumilipad dito. Medyo nahihirapan akong sundan. I guess he's saying na hindi niya concern 'yung tyrannies na 'yun; articulation siya, and that's it.

11:10: Gonzales cites tension between the implied and explicit politics. And also states that, yes, sometimes there is a need to tell people that a performance is a performance. "Ang nagagawa ng teksto na aware sa merits at flaws nu'ng form, hinahayaan niya 'yung nagpepresent at ang audience na mag-respond informed ng kung-anong background ang meron siya." Cites street art groups from UP. Paghaya, kung baga, sa kung paanong magrerespond ang audience mo. At marami pang iba.

11:20: Suarez cites elders as rebels in their own time-- particularly Rio Alma and Ricky de Ungria. Growth is in evolution of work. Light moment, hirit kami ng "kissss" dahil katabi si Sir Ricky.

11:23 Interesting point: de Ungria: Maraming na-etsa-puwera na aesthetics dati, sa generation nila. Stiff, rigid ang nangibabaw na aesthetics. Natutuwa siya na may lumilitaw ngayon na handang mag-ingay. Asks Gelo: "Bakit mo sinasabing kailangan ito ng panahon?"

11:25: Suarez: "Parang ang kapal ng mukha nu'ng sinabi kong kailangan ito ng panahon." Rio Alma rebutts: "Kailangang maniwala ka du'n." Gelo's point: Lyric ang dominant mode. Kailangan kong lumugar against it kung gusto kong panindigan ang poetics ko. Cites protest poetry as example: 'Yung gustong sabihin protest, pero 'yung form, nasa dominant mode pa rin. Gusto kong lumagpas sa ganu'n.

11:32 Suarez cites discomfort and ambivalence re: nomination of Dissonant Umbrellas for National Book Award for design. On one hand, astig, napansin ang materiality nung libro. On the other, tangina, design lang 'yun? Parang bad trip na tiningnan siya bilang poetry book lang, tapos 'yung visual aspect, nakita ng iba bilang palamuti lang. Cites idea of intermedia as another driving force behind his work.

11:40 Discussion on visuality and minimalism re: Gelo's work-in-progress. Interesting suggestion by Roland Tolentino: baka may paraan para gawing performance din 'yung pag-approach ng reader du'n sa form niya as book.

11:47: Discussion on "Criticism is Hard Work" performance sa CCP dati. Hardcore 'yun. Importance of deliberateness in moving towards margins. "I still believe in systems." Cites aporia and inner conflict of artists. Aporia, now google that, hehehe.

11:52: Chingbee Cruz lauds inextricability of form and content in Suarez' work. "Maganda 'yung idea na kunwari, even boredom can be a site for statement." Poses question: "Is it really possible to put these kinds of poems in a book?" in relation to static-ness of page. "The very physical page may not necessarily be the venue for this work."

11:55: Suarez: "Hindi ko sigurado kung dapat ko siyang hayaan bilang ephemeral na text (performance,) kasi gusto ko rin 'yung tension na mismong 'yung pag-transcribe, may micro-politics din siya."

11:57 Suarez re: his poetics paper: "Gusto ko 'yung irony na, talaga bang nagagawa ko ito?" Funny moment: says, "I've always been a fan of overreading."

11:59: Rio Alma: "May espasyo ka ba para sa failure? Kunwari sa performance, at walang reaksyon, nakakaramdam ka bang, sablay?"

12:00 Suarez: "'Yun din ang nagtutulang sa akin na gumawa ng iba, 'yung ideya na pumalpak ako."

12:00 Rio Alma: "Ibig sabihin may framework for analysis ka."

12:01 Suarez: "Natatakot ako na baka pag nahanap ko 'yun, iwan ko na itong proyektong ito."

12:02: Putangina tama na ang haba na nakakahilo na. Lunch, mehn.

perf de castro pays tribute to the man from manila

2009-04-11T00:46:00.001+08:00

taking a break from ermitanyo mode to clear something up

2009-04-09T18:35:00.003+08:00

Basketball buddy and good friend James had something to say about Mar Roxas' TV spot, the one with the pedicabs, and I'd have to admit that I've been hearing much the same thing from friends. So I'm taking a short break from my poetry-obsessed-ermitanyo mode to repost my reply to James' entry-- because I'm thinking that a lot of you might share his sentiments, and that you'd appreciate it if you heard something from me (or Kapi or anyone else from our camp) about this matter.

James had this to say about it:

"So it is with a tinge of disappointment that I now have to bear with his TV ad, Padyakeros. Firstly, because it is way too early for political ads. Secondly, because it is almost a blatant pandering to the poor. There are dignified ways to make a statement, and this is not one of them. It almost insults the intelligence. I say almost only because I want to believe this is a temporary setback."

And here's my comment to his post:

"hey james. i work for mar too-- and yeah we've been getting some flak because of the ad. we could get a beer or something so we (kapi and myself and the rest of the beer-loving cluster of our team) could explain things to you more clearly, but really, man, kami na nga ang nahuli na magkaroon ng ganitong media push. so it's not too early, actually-- some would say that it's a bit late.

"and about the blatant pandering to the poor, well, i'd have to say it's only pandering if the guy didn't really feel that way, if he didn't realy sympathize with them. and who's to say what pandering is, anyway? the ad was really just a more affective way of saying that all the issues and programs that mar has fought for-- cheaper medicines, educational reform, tax relief, transparency and accountability in government-- all of these mean one thing: mar wants to fix the system so that the poor have an equal chance at upward mobility as the rest of us have. i.e., it means that mar cares for the poor. it's not an insult to anyone's intelligence, not if we come to terms with the idea that there is no such thing as "a more intelligent way of looking at things." some people-- the more educated (i.e., those who can afford an education, i.e., the not-so-poor, i.e., us) -- would want bullet points of laws passed, programs of government, etc, while others subscribe to a more affective mode of rationality. meaning-- and i'd have to say this even at the risk of being accused of pandering and insulting the intelligence of the poor-- they really do look at things differently, and in terms of communications, they really do search for different things from candidates-- character and heart more than platforms and level of intellect, actually.

my point is that "may puso" counts as much-- more, actually, in terms of the sheer number of voters who look for it-- as "competent" and "not corrupt." mar has proven his competence. he's just about the straightest arrow in the business. having an ad that shows he has heart wouldn't take anything away from those qualities of his. so maybe it's about time that that "may puso" aspect is played up.

still, beer. nasa cubao lang kami. mogwai sometime?

I've been revising some old poems of mine, and I like how this one turned out:

Cure

“…They throw them on their backs, stick a gag in their months to keep it open, then proceed to fill them with water till they cannot hold more. Then they get on them, and a sudden pressure on the stomach and chest forces the water out again. I guess it must cause excruciating agony.”

- from a statement of an American officer
published in the Springfield Republican, 25 April 1900

In search of secrets, you imagine them
tearing his chest open and finding
only water. On the page his eyes
are a century apart from yours.

You imagine his lungs swollen, pale as if bleached.
They poured and poured until the native
--until when? Until he was cured of his secrets?
They heard nothing but some animal, howling.

Sinunog nila ang parang. Ginapas nila nang tila
--stalks. They cut his brothers down like stalks.
There is so much time to search for words.
So much water in your country.

Dalawang gabi akong hindi nakatulog
nang una akong nakapatay ng kaaway.
Marahil dahil sa tuwa. This is the truth.
His body lying on the page like a puddle

of secrets, the names of his spies
pouring unto the soil, the strength
of his numbers dissolving into his blood.
You imagine yourself cleansed,

as if betrayed by thirst, or maybe
the weightlessness of drowning.
There is nothing more to say.
You are only some animal, howling.

Rushing some deadlines before Sunday-- off to Baguio for the workshop. It promises to be a very interesting week, I can tell you that. Back to ermitanyo mode muna.

The Fountain

2009-04-06T14:11:00.004+08:00

Denise Levertov

Don't say, don't say there is no water

to solace the dryness at our hearts.

I have seen

the fountain springing out of the rock wall

and you drinking there. And I too

before your eyes

found footholds and climbed

to drink the cool water.

The woman of that place, shading her eyes,

frowned as she watched-- but not because

she grudged the water,

only because she was waiting

to see we drank our fill and were

refreshed.

Don't say, don't say there is no water.

That fountain is there among its scalloped

green and gray stones,

it is still there and always there

with its quiet song and strange power

to spring in us,

up and out through the rock.

(from The Jacob's Ladder. A New Directions Paperbook, 1958.)

p.s.

2009-04-03T18:22:00.001+08:00

Read this. I won't take no for an answer. Berdei gift n'yo na lang sa akin.

Renga Que Rico, 2 April 2009

2009-04-03T18:07:00.003+08:00

Suppose we were never children

and there are no carousels, no santa clauses,

house lizards-- not dragons, nothing hidden

fireflies merely fireflies in the night. Then

all we could return to was confusion. Imagining

in stead of money and non-magical skies.

There is that pause.

This is that-- pause--

before we want

that thought of clouds

forming fists,

we wanted first rain,

and puddles to splash in,

and maybe a cup of cocoa to keep away the fever-

dreams. But sunlight touches you

now and your fingers search for

the sweet treasures of a flower.

It is night. Sunlight

happened earlier. This is only

me, imagining. As I did

when I was a child.

-- Sasha, Joel, Pancho V., Waps, Mia, Glenn, Pancho A., Javier, Den, Mikael

Two Poems: Eavan Boland

2009-03-25T12:30:00.003+08:00

11. A Habitable Grief

Long ago

I was a child in a strange country:

I was Irish in England.

I learned

a second language there

which has stood me in good stead--

the lingua franca of a lost land.

A dialect in which

what had never been could still be found.

The infinite horizon. Always far

and impossible. That contrary passion

to be whole.

This is what language is:

a habitable grief. A turn of speech

for the everyday and ordinary abrasion

of losses such as this

which hurts

just enough to be a scar.

And heals just enough to be a nation.

A Woman Painted on a Leaf

I found it among curios and silver,

in the pureness of wintry light.

A woman painted on a leaf.

Fine lines drawn on a veined surface

in a hand-made frame.

This is not my face. Neither did I draw it.

A leaf falls on a garden.

The moon cools in its aftermath of sap.

The pitch of summer dries out in starlight.

A woman is inscribed there.

This is not death. It is the terrible

suspension of life.

I want a poem

I can grow old in. I want a poem I can die in.

I want to take

this dried-out face,

as you take a starling from behind iron,

and return it to its element of air, of ending--

so that autumn

which was once

the hard look of stars,

the frown on a gardener's face,

a gradual bronzing of the distance,

will be,

from now on,

a crisp tinder underfoot. Cheekbones. Eyes. Will be

a mouth crying out. Let me.

Let me die.

(from New Collected Poems. W. W. Norton and Company, 1st American ed. 2008)

Beyond

2009-03-24T17:12:00.004+08:00

"Why do people stop breathing?"

- Pancho Alvarez

Do they? And if they do, perhaps

it's simply because they can't

anymore, the way the horizon draws

a sentence from a pair of lungs, beyond

or some other last word. The answer

lies in color, blue and the vast

resignation of a sky aware of how small

everything else is, how fleeting. Or gray,

ash and the natural spiral of dust

stalling on its journey to ground. What

I mean to say is, half of your heart

is already pulsing with the wild

rhythm of knowing. The other half

is the largest window you've ever seen.

What you mean to say is, Why do people

die? Imagine that window, now,

the stone-constant horizon, the beyond

where fragments of breath, colorless,

turn into ice then water

then back again to breath. People

don't stop breathing.

We do.

Welcoming a Child in the Limantour Dunes

2009-03-22T16:03:00.003+08:00

Robert Bly

for Micah

Thinking of a child soon to be born, I hunch down among friendly sand grains.... The sand grains love a worried man-- they love whatever lives without force, a young girl who looks out over her life, alone, with no map, no horse, a white dress on. The sand grains love whatever is not rushing blindly forward, the mole blinking at the door of his crumbly mole Vatican, and the salmon far out at sea that senses in its gills the Oregon waters crashing down. Something loves even this planet, abandoned here at the edge of the galaxy, and loves the child who floats inside the Pacific of the womb, near the walls, feeling the breakers roaring.

(from What have I ever lost by dying?: Collected prose poems. Harper Collins Publishers, 1992.)

The Late Hour

2009-03-20T09:45:00.000+08:00

Tom Crawford

It's a pleasure sometimes

to notice my aging hands

holding each other,

so familiar,

the fingers interlocked.

Evenings I allow myself

two really good poems

to read over and over,

my warm milk and crackers

I suppose.

Over my shoulder

the radio turned low

brings in the same old song

every night: love me

somebody, please!

My own loneliness

when it's good

I can tell you is so vast

nothing will satisfy it

but the late hour

and a sky full of stars.

(from Wu Wei: Poems. Milkweed Editions, 2006.)

The Maningning Miclat Awards 2009

2009-03-19T16:58:00.002+08:00

The Maningning Miclat Art Foundation is calling on young poets aged 28 and below to submit entries to the 2009 Maningning Miclat Trilingual Poetry Competition in three divisions: Filipino, English and Chinese.

An entry must have at least eight but not more than 15 poems. Authors may join all the divisions but can submit only one entry in each division. All entries should be original in any of the three languages and not a translation of another entry.

Four copies should be submitted, with the poems printed double-spaced on regular bond paper with one-inch margins on all sides, using Arial or Times New Roman size-12 font. Only a pen name must be printed on an entry, with the real name and pen name submitted in a separate sealed envelope together with the entrant’s biodata, birth certificate copy, and a notarized declaration of originality and authenticity of authorship.

Entries must be addressed to the Maningning Miclat Art Foundation, Inc. (MMAFI), 2nd Floor, Mile Long Building, Amorsolo St., Legaspi Village, Makati City (Tel No. 816-7490 to 91) not later than 5:00 p.m. of April 15, 2009. Entries sent by mail should be postmarked/invoiced not later than April 1, 2009.

The Maningning Award, handed out yearly since 2003, honors China-born Maningning Miclat, a poet in three languages, a published essayist, and a prizewinning visual artist who was also a teacher, translator and interpreter. Her collection Voice from the Underworld (Anvil Publishing, Inc., 2000) is the first book of poetry in the world in Filipino, English and Chinese written solely by one author. Some of her poems were included in a book of top international women poets in Chinese published in China. She passed away in September 2000.

The Maningning Miclat Art Foundation was formed in 2001 to carry on the artist/poet’s legacy, encourage creativity, and support outstanding young poets and artists. The trilingual poetry competition is held during odd-numbered years, while the painting competition is held during even-numbered years.

Grand winners in the divisions of the Poetry Competition will each receive P28,000 together with a Julie Lluch trophy and the special collector’s edition of the books Voice from the Underworld, Beauty for Ashes: Remembering Maningning and Beyond the Great Wall: A Family Journal, which won a 2006 National Book Award for biography.

Past winners of the Maningning Poetry Awards are Naya Valdellon and Joselito delos Reyes in 2003; Allan Pastrana, Joseph Saguid and Ye Cai-sheng in 2005; and Raymond John de Borja, Erica Clariz delos Reyes and Chen Si-yuan in 2007.

For more information on the 2009 Maningning Miclat Art Competition, e-mail maningningfoundation@gmail.com or amiclat2008@yahoo.com. You may also log in to www.maningning.com.

The History of Forgetting

2009-03-18T13:25:00.000+08:00

Lawrence Raab

When Adam and Eve lived in the garden

they hadn't yet learned how to forget.

For them every day was the same day.

Flowers opened, then closed.

They went where the light told them to go.

They slept when it left, and did not dream.

What could they have remembered,

who had never been children? Sometimes

Adam felt a soreness in his side,

but if this was pain it didn't appear

to require a name, or suggest the idea

that anything else might be taken away.

The bright flowers unfolded,

swayed in the breeze.

It was the snake, of course, who knew

about the past—that such a place could exist.

He understood how people would yearn

for whatever they'd lost, and so to survive

they'd need to forget. Soon

the garden will be gone, the snake

thought, and in time God himself.

These were the last days—Adam and Eve

tending the luxurious plants, the snake

watching from above. He knew

what had to happen next, how persuasive

was the taste of that apple. And then

the history of forgetting would begin—

not at the moment of their leaving,

but the first time they looked back.

From the Mar Roxas Archives: Doha, Quatar, 2001

2009-03-16T13:11:00.001+08:00

(Was forwarded this by someone from the office who found it while rummaging through some old files. Interesting read-- written way back when by a guy who, if Facebook is to be believed, is now in Switzerland. Isang malaking "Apir!" kay Mr. Johannes Bernabe, who wrote this piece. Please, everyone. Spread the word.)

I'm surprised how MAR's brilliantly played out role as the Philippines' chief negotiator held last November 2001 in Doha, Quatar did not get the attention and praise it justly deserves. Anecdotes and situations where MAR's keen judgment, composure and leadership qualities were very much evident spring to mind quite easily.

There was for instance the confrontation with EC Commissioner Pascal Lamy regarding our refusal to agree to the EC's grant of preferential treatment in favour of ACP (African Caribbean Pacific) countries unless the resulting adverse trade effects suffered by the Philippines were adequately safeguarded. Unknown to many, the successful conclusion of the Ministerial Conference hinged on whether this issue would be resolved.

On the last day of negotiations, Lamy finally decided to engage MAR in a face-off, walked imperiously with his army of lawyers and advisers into the meeting room where the Philippine delegation had been consulting-- and receiving intense pressure-- from various delegations, and condescendingly issued an ultimatum: either the Philippines (and Thailand) accept the EC's last offer or accept responsibility for a failed Ministerial. Lamy then berated the Philippines for "holding the entire negotiations hostage" on account of a single issue (which obviously was untrue, since it was the EC which was forcing acceptance of the ACP preferential treatment upon us, since they needed the support of the ACP countries for the agenda the EC was pushing in Doha). Cutting him off, MAR stared down Lamy, saying, "I resent that. The Philippines is not holding anyone hostage here. If anyone is doing it, it is in fact the EC which is holding us hostage by insisting on our agreement to a deal which was never part of the Doha agenda in the first place!" Trying to rectify his faux pas, Lamy stammered that he "really didn't intend to mean that we were holding anything hostage," and that he "meant something different." At which point MAR said sharply, "C'mon, Pascal, you're far more sophisticated than that. We both know that you knew what you meant." Still trying to regain his balance, Lamy said that "English was not his mother tongue and that..." MAR pounced on him again before he could finish, retorting "Well, Pascal, English is not my mother tongue, too, but if you want, we can negotiate in Filipino instead!"

Minutes later, Lamy huffed out of the room, standing an inch or so shorter than when he came in. The EC had taken its best shot, going with its top honcho against MAR, and ended up contributing to MAR's growing stature in Doha instead.

Of course, the best part of it was in the end the Philippines got a better deal than even what the EC was prepared to give-- a mechanism for addressing our concerns that went beyond what the WTO rules obligated the EC to do at that point. Plus, by getting our deal and removing this final obstacle to the adoption of the Doha Declaration, MAR had essentially saved Doha. Otherwise, coming on the heels of a failed Ministerial Conference in Seattle, the WTO itself would now be teetering on the brink of irrelevance.

I wonder how many people realize that.

‘Yun na ‘yun, Bok: Isang nabigong tangkang pagkasyahin ang aking poetika sa halos dadalawang pahina

2009-03-14T11:17:00.004+08:00

(Dahil baka iniisip mong naglaho na ako, dahil nga ang tagal ko nang hindi ina-update ito. Ito 'yung minadali kong brief ng poetics na ipinasa bilang requirement sa isang workshop. Para lang ibulong sa iyong, huy, rakenrol. Nandito pa ako.)

BUTI NA LANG WALA AKONG kotse, kasi ang totoo, sa tren lang talaga ako nakakapag-isip tungkol sa ganitong mga bagay. At sa dinami-dami ng biyahe ng tren mulang Recto papuntang Cubao, siguro makabubuo na ako ng tesis para sagutin ang mga tanong na dapat yatang nasasagot ng bawat manunulat: 1) Why do I write; 2) Why do I write the way I write; at 3) Whom do I write for.

Problema nga lang, sakit ko rin ‘yung sakit ng bawat manunulat: Ang daling mag-isip, pero ang hirap isulat ang lahat nang naiisip. Kapag ino-organize na, kapag ilalapat sa papel, parang naglalahong lahat. Parang ang daling makipag-inuman at ideklara sa mga kaibigan, sa tapat ng beer, ang mga paniniwala ko ukol sa pagsusulat. Kapag may nagtatanong, parang ang daling sagutin. Kapag sa akin mismo nakasalalay kung paanong sisimulan at padadaluyin ang usapan, ang hirap, hirap, hirap yata.

Meron na akong mahabang listahan ng mga pamagat, sa totoo lang, ng isusulat kong papel/tesis/encyclopedia/library ukol sa poetika ko: “Against Universality,” para medyo kontrobersyal; “Affect and the Pursuit of the Ineffable,” para medyo misteryoso; “Secret-sharing and Engagement in The Lyric Mode,” para medyo pa-intelektuwal. Pero sabi ko nga, doon na lang din ako naipit, sa mga malalaking ideya na sa totoo lang e kailangan ng mahaba-habang panahon at marami-raming bote ng beer para talagang mai-flesh-out sa papel. Hindi yata sapat ang bumiyahe lang sa tren.

Kaya heto, kahit medyo minadali at sobrang late na, pipilitin kong pagkasyahin sa iilang pahina ‘yung papel/tesis/encyclopedia/library ng poetika ko.

Siguro, para simulan, pinakamagandang itanong sa sarili kung “Ano ba ang mahalaga?” Ibig sabihin, sa mga binabasa at sinusulat kong akda, ano ‘yung hindi puwedeng mawala? Ano ‘yung kailangang nandu’n para ituring ko ‘yung akda na—hindi lang “panitikan,” kasi mas mahaba-habang usapan ‘yun, at siguro mas okey kung sa ibang kuwentuhan na lang natin diinan ang topic na ‘yun—hindi lang panitikan, pero ‘yung maganda, ‘yung astig?

Kaya ayun: ang sagot ko sa kung ano ba ang mahalaga: ‘Yung may Dating. Simula pa lang ng buhay-panulat ko, iniisip ko na ang maganda para sa akin e ‘yung malakas ang Dating, ‘yung kaya bang ikuyom ang puso ko o patinginin ako sa bintana. At napatibay lang ang paniniwala ko rito sa isang klase sa M.A. (na hindi ko naman din naituloy,) kung saan nabasa ko ‘yung papel ni Manong Bien Lumbera tungkol sa Dating bilang panimulang estetika ng panitikang Pilipino.

Lalong lumalim ang pananalig ko sa Dating sa isang seminar class sa Philosophy na kinuha ko bilang elective—‘yung “Contemporary Crises in Reason.” Kapag ang pambungad ng lecture e ‘yung sinabi ni Pascal na “The heart has reasons that reason cannot comprehend,” at dumiretso na upang pag-usapan si Levinas (“In the face of the other the finite becomes transcendent,”) hanggang umabot kay Scheller at sa mga teorya niya tungkol sa affect, siguro nga sapat na ‘yun para mapagtibay ang mga paniniwala ko.

At ano nga ba ang paniniwalang ito tungkol sa dating, sa affect? Ganito, in a nutshell: Oo, siyempre, logical system ang wika. Pero ‘yung sining, ang nagpapasining sa kanya, ‘yung katangian niyang i-extend ‘yung boundaries ng logical system na iyon—o, siguro, more accurately, ‘yung kapangyarihan niyang ipa-intuit sa atin kung ano ang nasa kabila ng boundaries na iyon. Art transcends (or at least attempts to transcend) mere logic to remind us of that human part of us, the part that thrives in the humility of saying that no, not everything can be explained. That thrives in faith, actually: Faith that there is a langue upon which each of our paroles are anchored upon—that there are things that cannot be encased in our feeble attempts at understanding. Kutob ko, nandu’n ang affect, e. The heart has reasons that reason cannot comprehend.

Kung hindi pa obvious, dito ko na rin babanggitin na hindi yata maipapaliwanag ang affect, anumang pilit natin. (Kaya nga marapat na sabihin na mas mapag-uusapan ang affect hindi gamit ang pormalistikong pananaw, kundi ang reader response.) Beyond language nga, di ba. Kaya mula sa puntong ito mukhang mahihirapan na akong ituloy ang papel na ito.

Siguro ang susunod na hakbang e ang itanong kung ano ‘yung mga katangian ng affective na akda. Una siguro sa listahan e ‘yung nakasanayan ko nang tawaging earnestness. Ibig sabihin: Clarity, and intensity, of emotion. Kapag nararamdaman mo ‘yung linaw at igting ng damdamin ng nagwiwika sa isang akda, nga naman, di ba, mas madaling tamaan dito?

Naaabot iyon, sa paniniwala ko, sa maingat na paggamit ng mga silences sa isang akda. Sa madaling sabi, pacing, at momentum. Kailan gagamit ng period, o ng coma, o ng double-dash? Kailan puputol ng linya? At bakit mahalaga ito?

Heto ‘yung isa sa mga pinakamahalaga kong natutunan ukol sa pagsusulat: Mahalaga ang handling ng silences kasi kinokontrol nito ang hininga. Hininga ang nagdidikta kung gaanong katagal magbababad ang mambabasa sa isang linya o kataga o imahen, o kung gaano kabilis niyang padadaanin sa haraya niya ito. Hininga ang nag-aapproximate ng emotion. Hininga ang nagbibigay sa atin ng signos kung gaano katotoo ang damdamin.

Sa kabila ng kahalagahan ng clarity and intensity of emotion, ng earnestness, nakababatang kapatid lang ito ng isang mas mahalagang elemento ng poetika ko. Para ipaliwanag iyon, mahalaga ang back story.

Noong nag-aaral pa ako ng M.A. ko, postkolonyalismo ang teoryang pinakakinahumalingan ko. At sa pag-aaral ng teoryang iyon, may ilang ideya na hindi ko mabitaw-bitawan, hanggang sa mapagtanto ko na ngang doon pala nakaangkla ang buong poetika ko.

Una e ‘yung konsepto ng third space ni Homi Bhabha. Kung sa kondisyong postkolonyal e madaling maipit sa colonizer-colony dialectic, mahalagang alalahanin na kayang bumuo ng postcolonial individual ng third space kung saan lalabas siya sa nakasanayang systems of signification (and thought).

Ibig palang sabihin, itong third space na ito pala ang espasyo kung saan maeexplore ang lahat ng proyekto ng postkolonyalismo: resistance, ambivalence, re-membering, (ang kontrobersyal na) reconstitution, at (ang lalong mas kontrobersyal na) retribution.

At ito na ‘yun, ang pinakakinaaangklahan ng poetika ko: Itong third space na ito ang espasyo kung saan nagaganap ang phainomenon ng secrecy. (Galing kay Vince Rafael ang konsepto, sa sanaysay na “Freedom=Death: Oaths, Conjurings, and the Power of Secrecy.) May kapangyarihan ang lihim, ang wika, na magbigkis ng mga postkolonyal na indibiduwal, dahil labas ito sa system of signification ng colonizer. Secrecy creates an ineffable bond between the secret-sharers, a bond which invites people of the same condition into its space.

At itong ineffable bond na ito ang siya ring nagbibigkis sa pagitan ng nagwiwika at winiwikaan, sa pagitan ng makata at mambabasa. Kung imomodify nang kaunti, hindi naman talaga secrecy ang nagbibigkis, kundi ang phainomenon ng secret-sharing.

Dahil nga dito naliwanagan ako, bilang manunulat, sa kapangyarihan ng tulang magbigkis ng mga indibiduwal—lalo na ang mga postkolonyal na indibiduwal. Ang postmoderno at postkolonyal na indibiduwal—dahil sa panahon ngayon kung saan SSS at credit card number na lang ang tao, kung saan kabi-kabila ang tangkang i-dehumanize tayo, kung saan patuloy pa rin ang paniniil sa mga dating kolonya na ngayo’y bahagi ng third world, kung saan naghahari ang sistemang nagsasabi sa ating “mahalaga ka lang dahil nakakabili ka ng magarang celphone/kotse/damit,” ang sistemang sakim at papasok sa sarili, na nagkukulong sa atin sa kapital, sa numero, sa lohika—ang isa sa pinakamahalagang tungkulin ng sining e ang sabihin sa indibiduwal na may puso ka pa rin, kaya mo pang maramdaman ang lahat nang ito, ito (pagkuyom ng puso, pagtingin sa bintana). Kung baga: The heart has reasons that reason cannot comprehend, and you have a heart.

At ‘yun siguro ang punto: Resistance. Resist everything that denies us our humanity. Kaya nga siguro ang liriko ang naisip kong pag-ubusan ng panahon sa panulat ko. For the postmodern, postcolonial individual, the lyric mode is one of the most potent forms as it offers us a site of resistance, a well-bounded space that allows us to engage in secret-sharing. Hindi nga sigurong maling sabihin that the lyric space is the third space: Binibigyan niya tayo ng espasyo kung saan mapapaalalahanan tayong tao tayo.

Naaalala ko, minsan, ininterview ako para sa isang feature ukol sa mga batang manunulat. Ang tanong, bakit? Bakit pa? Ang sagot ko: To stay human. Of all my incoherent attempts at articulating why I still do this, of all the talk about my bilinguality (which I think is secondary to the idea that, heck, poetics transcends the geographies of language,) about my poems’ hyperactivity, its alleged disregard for the idea of “economy” in poetic language (which I think reflects my condition as a postcolonial and postmodern individual,) of everything I’ve said about poetry so far, ‘yun ang mahalaga, e, ‘yun na ‘yun, bok: It reminds us to stay human. It reminds us that we have a heart, and through art, in our most secret (lyric!) moments, that heart beats in its glorious, jagged, flawed, human rhythm.

TABOAN: Philippine International Writers Festival 2009

2009-01-29T23:24:00.001+08:00

(Bok, magpapanel ako sa isang discussion sa Biyernes, at magmomoderate sa isa pa, at masayang tugtugan inuman ito pagdating ng gabi nu'n, kaya sana magawan mo ng oras. 'Yung mga discussion ng Feb 11 at 12 sa Ateneo at UP, sobrang interesante rin. Tara.)

11 to 13 FEBRUARY 2009

University of the Philippines Diliman (Feb 11)

Ateneo de Manila University (Feb 12)

Cubao Expo (Feb 13)

DAY 1, FEBRUARY 11, WEDNESDAY

University of the Philippines

Diliman, Quezon City

9:00AM | OPENING PROGRAM

Venue: Pulungang Claro M. Recto, Bulwagang Rizal

Welcome Remarks

• UP Diliman Chancellor Sergio S. Cao

• NCCA Chair Vilma L. Labrador

• Festival Director Ricardo M. de Ungria

• Festival Coordinator Jose Y. Dalisay, Jr.

PHILIPPINE LITERATURE TODAY. The keynote address, a synoptic overview of where we’ve been and where we are, taking into account our literature in Filipino, English, and the regional languages; Philippine literature in the 21st century; and Philippine literature in the Asian and global context. To be delivered by National Artist Francisco Sionil Jose.

Venue: Pulungang Claro M. Recto, Bulwagang Rizal, UPD

9:45AM | A TRIBUTE TO EDITH TIEMPO. The tribute to National Artist Edith L. Tiempo is a short poetry reading by Merlie Alunan, Dinah Roma, and Ronald Baytan, who all attended the Dumaguete National Workshop and have been influenced by Tiempo’s poetics. To date, Edith Tiempo is the sole woman National Artist for Literature.

Moderator: Marjorie Evasco

Venue: Pulungang Claro M. Recto, Bulwagang Rizal, UPD

10:30AM | GANITO KAMI NOON: WRITING THROUGH THE DECADES. A plenary panel discussion to set the tone for all other panel discussions. A representative each from the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s can talk about the conditions for writing and publishing in their eras and how things have changed, or maybe not. And where do we go from here?

Panelists: Elmer Ordonez (1950s), National Artist Virgilio S. Almario (1960s), José Pete Lacaba (1970s), Marjorie Evasco (1980s), Angelo Lacuesta (1990s)

Moderator: José Y. Dalisay, Jr.

Pulungang Claro M. Recto, Bulwagang Rizal, UPD

1:30PM | ICONS OF THE NEW CENTURY: WRITERS WHOM WRITERS READ. Who are you reading and why? Who's your literary daddy (or mommy)? A discussion of literary influences and how they are shaping contemporary Philippine literature.

Panelists: Rebecca Añonuevo, Franklin Cimatu, Carlos Cortes, Francis Macansantos, Katrina Tuvera

Moderator: Gémino H. Abad

Venue: CAL New Building (CNB), Room 508

WRITING FOR A LIVING. What's writing like as a profession in the Philippines? What writing jobs pay, and how can writers get them? How should writers deal with writing commissions? What about copyrights and contracts? How do we break into the global market and find and deal with agents?

Panelists: Vietnamese writer Nguyen Bao Chan, Tony Enriquez, Kragi Garcia, Luis Katigbak, Charlson Ong, Alfred Yuson

Moderator: José Y. Dalisay, Jr.

Venue: CAL-AVR, 2/F Bulwagang Rizal, UPD

THE CREATIVE WRITING CLASSROOM. The teaching of creative writing, for the teachers among us: challenges, strategies, approaches, tips and tricks in the creative writing classroom.

Penelists: Merlie Alunan, Conchitina Cruz, Jun Cruz Reyes, Macario Tiu, Ricardo de Ungria

Moderator: Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo

Venue: CNB Inquirer Room 201

WORKSHOPPING THE WORKSHOP, ORGANIZING WRITERS. A review of the Dumaguete, Baguio, and Iligan workshops, plus maybe the biggest school-based ones, and how they grew. A sharing of best practices, as well as a discussion of common problems and situations. This panel can also deal with writers’ organizations, centers, institutes, and programs.

Panelists: Vicente Groyon III, Christine Godinez-Ortega, V.E. Carmelo D. Nadera Jr., Benilda Santos, Anthony Tan

Moderator: Lito Zulueta

Venue: CNB Rm 309

3:30 PM | WRITING OFF-CENTER: THE REGIONAL EXPERIENCE. How goes creative writing and literary publishing outside of Metro Manila? Have new centers of literary activity emerged, and what are the keys to their success? What does it take to promote writing from the regions to broader audiences?

Panelists: John Bengan, Jose Jason Chancoco, Rey Duque, David Genotiva, Alice Tan-Gonzales

Moderator: Ricardo de Ungria

Venue: CNB Inquirer Room 201

ATBP: WRITING OFF THE MAINSTREAM. Gay/lesbian literature, chick lit, "spec fic", Chinoy lit , and all that jazz. What alternatives exist to straight, realist, mainstream lit? Is this kind of "pigeonholing" good or bad—or, when is it good, and when is it bad?

Panelists: Dean Francis Alfar, Jhoanna Cruz, J. Neil C. Garcia, Jaime An Lim, Tara FT. Sering

Moderator: Danton Remoto

Venue: CNB Room 309

FILIPINO-NESS IN THE GLOBAL AGE. A perennial hot topic in the blogosphere. How can "Filipino-ness" be defined? Is it an absolute necessity in this age of globalization? Is "nation" even a relevant concept? How can this be manifested in a literary work? Why don’t we seem to see enough of such central elements of Filipino life as crime, sex, and humor in our literature, or is that only in English?

Panelists: Efren Abueg, Leoncio Deriada, Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo, Resil Mojares, Timothy Montes

Moderator: Isagani R. Cruz

Venue: CAL-AVR

DAY 2, FEBRUARY 12, THURSDAY

Ateneo de Manila University

Katipunan Avenue, Loyola Heights, Quezon City

9:00AM | PLENARY

Venue: Leong Hall Auditorium

Program

• Opening Remarks, Prof. Ricardo de Ungria, Commissioner for the Arts, NCCA

• Welcome Address, Dr. Ma. Luz Vilches, Dean of the School of Humanities

• Message, Dr. Antonette Palma-Angeles, Academic Vice-President, AdMU

• A Concise History of 150 Years of Ateneo Writing

• Open Forum

• Tribute Proper

• Screen Presentation on Emmanuel S. Torres and Reading of Citation

• Screen Presentation on Gregorio C. Brillantes and Reading of Citation

• Response of the Honorees

• Closing Remarks, Dr. Ma. Luisa Torres Reyes, Chair, Dept. of English

1:00PM | ATENEO GALLERY AND LIBRARY TOUR

2:00PM | PARALLEL SESSIONS

THE POET-CRITIC. The issue of how art and criticism interface has been a central topic even in the creative writing curricula of top universities worldwide. Whether our writers have found the interface uneasy or comfortable, consciously or unconsciously, it has shaped the craft and aesthetics of generations of authors in the Philippines.

Panelists: Gemino H. Abad, Exie Abola, J. Neil Garcia, Allan Popa, Jun Cruz Reyes, and Thai fictionist/screenwriter Prabda Yoon

Moderator: D(anilo) Francisco (M) Reyes

Venue: Social Science Conference Rooms 1 & 2

TEXT AND CONTEXT. The encounter between art and politics, writing and ideology, or aesthetics and social engagement, has been a significant consideration in countries like the Philippines as it has been said to make for bad writing and good politics/bad politics and good writing. Thus, these binary categories have been considered mutually exclusive practices by some writers, but deemed mutually constitutive commitments by writers.

Panelists: Isagani R. Cruz, National Artist Bienvenido Lumbera, Danton Remoto, Roland Tolentino

Moderator: Oscar Campomanes

Venue: Social Science Conference Rooms 3 & 4

PUBLISHING FOR THE FUTURE. No literature can prosper without publishing, but publishing itself is taking on new forms and challenges in this new century, such as online publishing and print on demand. What directions will Philippine literary publishing and Philippine literature itself take in the foreseeable future? What can the Philippine academic and commercial publishers do to promote literature here and abroad? Are there alternatives to mainstream publishing that can be explored, and can they be commercially viable?

Panelists: Karina Bolasco, Adam David, Antonio Hidalgo, Esther Pacheco

Moderator: Maricor Baytion

Venue: NGF Conference Rm, G/F De La Costa Hall

4:00PM | PARALLEL SESSIONS

FEMINISM IN OUR MIDST. The question of how women writers write under conditions quite distinct from men writers has been a source of dynamism and controversy in both their works and the criticism on their work. This has been a point of contention in recent literary history as some women writers organize themselves as women writers, weaving literature and sharing life.

Panelists: Rica Bolipata-Santos, Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo, Priscilla Macansantos, Aida F. Santos, Dinah Roma-Sianturi, Hope Yu

Moderator: Benilda Santos

Venue: Social Science Conference Rooms 1 & 2

LITERATURE IN ACTION. Non-canonical texts abound in contexts like the Philippines in which literature’s energies come from places quite apart from "Literature." Foremost among this type of literary production is the whole range of performative practices which create cultural "events" as opposed to literary "art." Most prominent examples of this range from avant-garde forms to so-called "agit-prop" art in which visual and/or performance artists and educational and community theater groups like PETA have been making a splash in the international art and academic scene since the 80s and 90s.

Panelists: Michael Coroza, Steven Patrick Fernandez, Servando Halili, Bonifacio Ilagan, Glenn Mas

Moderator: Gary Devilles

Venue: Social Science Conference Rooms 3 & 4

CHILDREN’S LITERATURE. In the Philippines, it has been said that the reading fare of Filipino children continues to be dominated by children’s literature from the West, as evidenced by the children's books usually on display in major book shops. Nevertheless, it can be argued that for decades now, significant headway has been made in providing alternative reading materials for Filipino children by publishing houses like Aklat Adarna and noted Filipino authors and published locally in English, Filipino and other Philippine languages. What genres have been developed in children’s literature by Filipinos? Are these genres a mere imitation of the western models? Has the production been enough to begin to draw up a canon of children’s literature in the Philippines? What has been the impact of children's literature on the readers? What role must children's literature play in the Philippines?

Panelists: Cyan Abad-Jugo, Christine Bellen, Jean Lee Patindol, Ramon V. Sunico

Moderator: Jerry Respeto

Venue: NGF Conference Room, G/F De La Costa Hall

5:00PM | DINNER

Venue: Leong Hall Roof Deck

• Closing Remarks, Dr. Assunta Cuyegkeng, Vice President, Ateneo de Manila Univeristy-Loyola Schools

DAY 3, FEBRUARY 13, FRIDAY

Cubao X, Araneta Center, Cubao, Quezon City

9:30AM | PLENARY

Venue: Cubao X

Hosts: Angelo R. Lacuesta, Festival Coordinator; Joel Toledo, Festival Assistant Coordinator

10:00PM | PARALLEL SESSIONS

HOME, ROAM, AND AWAY. Publishing locally versus publishing abroad. How does place of publication—or place of writing—affect or define your audience, or your career or your work? This should also function as a guide for those who seek international publication: what are the challenges and what are the chances?

Panelists: Vicente G. Groyon III, Mookie Katigbak

Moderator: Lourd Ernest De Veyra

Venue: Mogwai 2

THE END OF PRINT. Web-based publishing, traditional print publishing, and print-on-demand: the meaning of publication has multiplied so much these days. Has the meaning of quality, or rigor, or intent changed as well? How has this affected today’s writer? Has he (or must he) achieve convergence, or should there be dividing lines?

Panelists: Roberto Añonuevo, Adam David, Jean Claire Dy, Luis Katigbak, Edgar Samar

Moderator: Dean Francis Alfar

Venue: Pablo

WRITE TO LIFE. Writing to live, or living to write? Many literary writers have commercial writing careers—but what about other lines of work? And what of the lines that divide work and writing? This discussion covers all sorts of jobs writers must take—and the amount of confrontation and compromise writers must endure. It will also cover tips and tricks to avoid burnout and “multitasking hell.”

Panelists: Josua Cabrera, Dominique Cimafranca, Mikael de Lara Co, Ramil Gulle, Victor Dennis T. Nierva

Moderator: Frank Cimatu

Venue: Kolektib 1

LINGO NG WIKA. Language and authenticity in Philippine literary practice—it’s an old argument. So should we be done with it, then? Or shouldn’t we? (This conversation covers all Filipino languages.)

Panelists: Genevieve Asenjo, John Barrios, Jaime Jesus Borlagdan, Jose Jason Changcoco, Jason Laxamana, Glen Mas, Voltaire Oyzon, John Iremil Teodoro

Moderator: Rica Bolipata-Santos

Venue: Kolektib 2

GLOBAL WARMING. A plenary discussion over lunch featuring Asian and Filipino writers who have gone “global.” Our international panelists will discuss the challenges and rewards of writing in their local language and still achieving international recognition and popularity. The panel will also discuss practical tips on international grants, fellowships and exchange programs.

Panelists: Nguyan Bao Chan, Conchitina Cruz, Dinah Roma-Sianturi, Prabda Yoon

Moderator: Angelo R. Lacuesta

2:00PM | PARALLEL SESSIONS

PURO FORMA. The formal versus the experimental in poetry—is there a conflict? Young poets discuss the issues (and, inevitably, the non-issues) that abound.

Panelists: Michael Coroza, Conchitina Cruz, J. Neil C. Garcia, Mookie Katigbak, Angelo Suarez

Moderator: Allan Popa

Venue: Mogwai 2

MOVING UP IN THE WORD. Building the literary career—does it still have the same requirements as ten years ago, or are there new ways to get that break? Is the PalancaTM Award still the quickest path to writerhood? Or is that old-school thinking? What’s a literary career anyway?

Panelists: Efmer Agustin, Janice Bagawi, Arifah Jamil, Junley Lazaga, Leonila Lopido, Monica Macansantos, Harold Mercurio

Moderator: Mikael Co

Venue: Pablo

FICTIONAL SHOWDOWN. This is a friendly showdown between the realms speculative fiction and “non-speculative” fiction—its advocates, practitioners and its subject matter. Also up for discussion: attempted definitions, blurred boundaries and common goals.

Panelists: Dean Francis Alfar, Adam David, Jonathan J. Siason, Alvin B. Yapan, Prabda Yoon

Moderator: Ian Casocot

Venue: Kolektib 1

4:00PM | PARALLEL SESSIONS

ALL ABOUT MY OTHER. The I versus “otherness” in poetry: how do they figure in your work? Insights, questions, problems and answers on this mind-boggling topic.

Panelists: Ronald Baytan, Kristian S. Cordero, Conchitina Cruz, Larry Ypil

Moderators: Carlomar Daoana, Dinah Roma-Sianturi

Venue: Mogwai 2

UNSCRIPTED. Playwrights, screenwriters and writers in general discuss the difficulties of writing for the stage and screen—from the issue (or non-issue) of language and the challenges of the craft, to the long road to production and the burden of having to win the audience.

Panelists: Jhoanna Cruz, Glen Mas, John Iremil Teodoro

Moderator: Jun Lana

Venue: Pablo

THE YOUNG AND THE LITLESS. Is the Filipino youth worth writing for? In the age of the Internet and digital home entertainment, Filipino children and young adults have so much to see, hear and read—without having to open a book. How does this affect the youngest generation of the Filipino literary audience? How does this affect the Filipino writer?

Panelists: Christine Bellen, Jean Lee Patindol

Moderator: Tara FT Sering

Venue: Kolektib 1

THE STORY OF OUR LIVES. Short story writers and novelists discuss the concerns of today’s fictionist—from language and style to themes and subject matter. Also to be discussed: getting published internationally, and the problem and the burden of writing long-form work.

Panelists: Vincente Groyon III, Arifah Jamil, Luis Katigbak, Januar Yap, Alvin B. Yapan

Moderators: Genevieve Asenjo, John Bengan

Venue: Kolektib 2

6:30PM | PLENARY: DEAR NCCA. What can the NCCA do for the younger or emerging writer? This discussion hopes to come up with a wishlist for the NCCA, covering specific measures of support for the Filipino writer.

Moderators: Angelo R. Lacuesta, Joel Toledo

Venue: Mogwai

8:00PM | CLOSING CEREMONIES

• Address, National Artist Virgilio S. Almario

• NCCA Resolutions

• Response and Closing Address, Ricardo de Ungria

iyas national writers workshop

2009-01-19T12:18:00.002+08:00

mga paparating na nobela

2009-01-13T22:29:00.006+08:00

Noong isang taon, nanalo ng NCCA Writers Prize si Jun Sungkit. Mukhang heto ang ibinunga ng kanyang tagumpay:

Ilang linggo na lang mababasa na ang nobelang Batbat hi Udan!

Mga Bagay na Maaring Unang Nagawa ng nobelang Batbat hi Udan

1. Kauna-unahang nobelang sinulat ng isang purong Higaonon. ANg tribung Higaonon ay nakakalat sa mga lalawigan ng Bukidnon, Agusan at Lanao.

2. Kauna-unahang nobelang nakasentro sa Bukidnon. Umiinog ang kuwento ng nobela sa mga lugar na namamaybay sa laylayan ng kabundukan ng Kitanglad.

3. Filipino ang pangunahing wikang ginamit sa nobela subalit marami ring Binukid ang ginamit rito. Binukid ang wika ng mga Higaonon. Malamang ang Batbat Hi Udan ang kauna-unahang nobelang gumamit ng wikang Binukid.

Malamang marami pa kayong matutulaklasan sa nobelang ito. Sa mga interesadong magkaroon ng kopya, mag-iwan lamang ng komento sa wordpress ni Jun. Maganda ring subaybayan ang blog niya para sa mga detalye.

Mas napipinto naman ang paglulunsad ng libro ni Egay Samar:

Kita-kita tayo sa Martes, ika-27 ng Enero, 4:30-6:30pm, sa SocSci Conference Rooms 1 and 2 ng Ateneo. Matagal-tagal din nating inabangan ito. Tara.

(Egay, sorry, ayaw mag-upload nu'ng malaking litrato nu'ng palakip ng aklat mo.)

Wala lang. Sa ibang balita, mukhang nagiging regular ang mga update ng Mondays are for Abandon, kaya kung may panahon ka, huwag mahiyang dumalaw.

mondays are for abandon, v.2

2009-01-08T10:06:00.006+08:00

we're trying to revive the old mondays are for abandon blog. waps moved the old posts to another address. the old gimmicks there-- trying to come up with a poetics, having pseudonyms, etc.-- just complicated things. we've grown a little older, and consequently, a little less certain about a lot of the things we thought we knew a few years back. now all we want is to write, as earnestly as we can.

if you were part of the old blog, waps needs your blogger username so he can invite you. and you can go ask him about the url of our archives. if you think you should be part of it, then you should get in touch with waps too.

we'll be writing about... well, i dunno what we'll be writing about, in this resurrection of the blog. i'm thinking of hosting some writing exercises/small-time contests, interviewing some people, reviewing some books or albums or films, whatever, posting work from ourselves or from whoever else, reposting calls for submissions and contest deadlines. but i dunno, really.

it'll be fun. do drop by.

UPDATE: i've received some texts/emails/yms re: being part of the blog. for now we're limiting the contributors to people who we've shared a lot of mondays with, until we can work out a system and a solid community. but please feel free to post your comments, or to email your thoughts and writings to us. we'd be happy to post them for you.

Resolution

2009-01-01T00:39:00.002+08:00

Dear 2009, hello. It’s 11:50 p.m., December 31^st, and in ten minutes I will go out of this room and walk on the gunpowder-laden streets of Manila and think of something to say to you. Shall I begin by telling you that tonight it rained? Tonight fireworks tore water from the sky and as the rain fell along with it spiralled a feather. Feathers, many feathers. Or stray scraps of unburnt firework-wrapper, but no matter, 2009, tonight it rained and the many wounds my streets hold so dear healed with the colors blossoming in the night-sky. Still there are more ghosts to drive out, and still the devils with their small voices whisper from their corners, but no matter; I live in a country that never runs out of fireworks, of wakefulness, never empties its pockets of promises: I will wear my old clothes more often, 2009, and I will climb every staircase I see and I will offer a poem to every child who asks me for coins. I will press my cheek against more mountains, and I will whisper a secret to every tree, and I will sift through the rain for the spaces that cradle silences. It is raining, 2009, and already the first street-sweepers are casting their shadows on your first lampost-lit morning, whispering their first prayers, their first downcast promises. I am sharing this with them, 2009, with every lifting of smoke, with every distant echo, the last breaths of a year weighed down by its own luminosity: Tonight it rained, and as I lean into you, into every flicker of light, into this particular birthing of time, let me mold a basin out of my mud-laden heart, and use it to catch the sound of a lone feather touching ground.

Beginning

2008-12-31T21:39:00.002+08:00

James Wright

The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.

The dark wheat listens.

Be still.

Now.

There they are, the moon's young, trying

Their wings.

Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow

Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone

Wholly, into the air.

I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe

Or move.

I listen.

The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,

And I lean toward mine.

Blog Renga

2008-12-02T10:40:00.005+08:00

(Sandali. Bago mo ituloy ang pagbabasa, kailangan mong pumunta dito-- sa simula.)

Pakiramdam ko nagsisimula nang lumiwanag sa iyo ang lahat. Malamang nabasa mo na ang sinabi ni Vince Rafael sa "Freedom = Death: Conjurings, Oaths, and the Power of Secrecy":

"From the perspective of state authorities, the mere fact of secrecy constituted a crime. Members were thought to evade recognition from above rather than seek to solicit it. Out of reach, they were able to tap into other circuits of communication beyond the hierarchy of languages."

Halimbawa:

1. May nagbabasa nito na hindi marunong magtagalog.

2. Nakita ko rin ang buwan kagabi.

3. Noong isang araw nanaginip akong naghuhugas ako ng kamay, kamay na nakatutok sa gripo na nakatutok sa banyerang sumasalo ng lahat ng kasalanan ko. Nalingat lang ako nang tinawag mo ang pangalan ko. Pagtingin ko sa banyera, may apat na uwak nang umiinom mula rito.

(3.1.) Kung naiintindihan mo ito (Kung naiintindihan mo ito) "Kung naiintindihan mo ito."

4. Sa isang lupalop ng mundo may wikang winiwika at hindi mo ito naiintindihan.

5. Heto ang litrato ng isang kutsilyo:

"... [A]s with every communicative media, the source of its power, that which endows it with the capacity to makes possible such articulations, remains unseen. It is a power that persists and insists in the world, but as a secret, withdrawing at the very moment when its agents are seen and its effects are felt. As secret, it is a power that always remains to be seen even as it makes possible the arrival of what is given to be seen."

- Vicente Rafael

Halimbawa: May gusto akong sabihin sa iyo. Magpapatuloy pa tayo. Hayun. Hayun.

reading the papers

2008-11-06T15:45:00.000+08:00

From Manolo's commentary piece in the Inquirer:

"...There is great trepidation in the Philippine BPO industry. But if a spokesperson from the Democratic Party is to be believed, Obama's vow to bring jobs back to America refers more to blue-collar manufacturing jobs than the essentially white-collar BPO jobs increasingly crucial to our economy."

okay, so obama won

2008-11-05T14:47:00.002+08:00

If I were American I guess I'd be happy. I mean, happy without qualification.

But I'm not, e. At bilang Pilipino, natatakot ako. Sa mga pangako ni Obama na: 1. Tax credit for companies that hire new employees in the U.S. ; at 2. Elimination ng tax breaks for companies who shift jobs off-shore.

Naiintindihan ko ang mga posisyon niya, at nakikita ko kung kung gaano ka-sound ito. Bilang desisyon ng Pangulo ng bansa niya. Kung gaano katama. Keep the jobs in America. Lalo na sa panahon ng krisis.

Pero. Bilang Pilipino. Natatakot ako sa mangyayari sa BPO Industry natin. Natatakot ako para sa di-mabilang na mga kaibigan ko, mga kaibigan na nasa call center, mga web-content writer, mga programmer at accountant at kung anu-ano sa mga offshore na firm. Nangangamba ako para sa mga pamilya nila na siguradong pilay kapag nakaltasan ng extra 15-25k, o higit pa, sa isang buwan. Para na rin sa ibang mga bagong graduate na mawawalan ng pagkakataong kumita nang maayos, kaagad, para makatulong sa mga pamilya nila. O para makaipon, para balang araw magawa nila ang totoo nilang gustong gawin sa buhay nila. Mahirap maghanap ng trabaho ngayon, alam mo naman, lalo na 'yung kayang magpasuweldo nang matino.

Alam mo 'yun, 'yung conflictedness na ganu'n? Na alam mong may tamang nangyari nang iboto ng Amerika si Obama. Pero. Ambot, 'ika nga nila. Kasi, di ba. Bilang Pilipino.

Oh well. Siguro nga kailangan na ring tumindig ng ekonomiya natin sa sarili nitong mga binti, 'no? Hmm.

this is why i've sworn on my granny's grave never to pick lamar odom in a fantasy league draft

2008-10-30T10:53:00.001+08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I interrupt our regular programming to present to you: A video of Lakers forward Lamar Odom walking the ball inbounds.

That made my day. E miski sa pick-up games hindi namin ginagawa 'yun, e.

Renga Que Rico 10/27

2008-10-29T17:07:00.000+08:00

There are times when I need

to be reminded that I am home.

Cobwebs and the sad texture

of bricks. Wobbly dinner tables. Large,

haunted windows, where the daze

of the afternoon passes through

the grooves of a small child’s

fingerprints. Where will these lines

lead? What fate do they shape

with their whorls?

And you say they hold no truth.

What will the elders say? The shamans,

nobody will listen…

Only the child convinces. The small fingers

write with colored paint, what old mouths

deign not say

through cracked lips and raisin-leather hands

with glistening eyes of wisdom, lined with crow’s feet

of laughter and pain, pain and laughter—

the same words again, throbbing,

and again from different people:

Home and my little knuckles,

Turning white from the knowledge of shamans:

That the magic goes away.

Joel Toledo, Marne Kilates, Pancho Villanueva, Sasha Martinez, Karl de Mesa, Mikael de Lara Co, Mo Francisco, Marie La Vina, Glenn Atanacio

As Courage, to Camus

2008-10-09T16:03:00.001+08:00

Because I cannot be held, let me

tell you that I am a rock, mythical

and heavy and unyielding to wind

and time and all things that speak

of erosion. I am the midsummer heat

saying, Look, Albert, that bird has faded

into song, the song has faded into memory,

memory has faded into you and you

have faded into memory, mine.

And we will fade as the bird has.

What need for me, then, a word

hollow as the warm barrel of a gun?

My brothers call to me from their graves,

saying mean, because there is no other way

to live. What does it matter?

Look, Albert, that star has died

lifetimes ago and yet it burns still.

Look, Albert, another bird

is streaking across the sky, another sky

unmindful of the many words for sky

that have died. Look. Let me stay

here some more, dear stranger

that I am, under this vast gray waiting.

Let me keep my eyes open.

I mean, let me mean

myself for a while.

On Speculation and the Patronizing Nature of Writers Who Think They Know You

2008-10-02T12:28:00.004+08:00

“Mikael Co, for example, has made his mark on the Philippine poetic landscape because he writes excellent nationalistic poetry in both English and Filipino (he's a back to back Palanca 1st prize winner in Poetry in both languages)- why can't there be poetry for pinoy scifi or fantasy?”

- Dean Alfar

Because poetry does not concern itself
with genres. Because today the first man
died of hunger and that is not at all
speculation, that is a lie. Because the nation
is also a lie and the truest thing I can say
does not concern it: it concerns me
and the mud-caked hemline of a flower
-vendor’s skirt, rain, sunlight browning
the blood on a corpse’s hands still clenched
around a gun. Oh dear granddaddy
of contemporary Filipino fantasy, dear
Jedi-master, I’m no Padawan of yours,
so thank you for mentioning the Palancas!
Now people will start calling me, asking
to give me handjobs and blowjobs
and writing jobs so I can pay the phone bills
I’ve racked up from calling my sister abroad.
She’s wiping the pus off this language’s bed-sores.
She liked Jude Devereaux and Nora Roberts
back when she still had time to read.
Now she’d rather dream of coconuts. Dear
English I’m getting tired of the way
I have to use commas all the time so let me
just tell you that people who haven’t even read
my poems shouldn’t call them nationalistic
because they aren’t. You see, once I wrote
about Mebuyen and her thousand tits
and Bulan with her one silver eye
and now everyone thinks I jog everyday
with the Philippine flag draped over my shoulders
singing Di na, di na, ‘nde, ‘nde, di mababasa
ng ulan, but really I don’t have stories
to tell about them. Only lies. Mebuyen’s
boobies have been sucked dry. Bulan’s eye
is infested with flies. See how I rhyme?
Dear Salamancero whom I’ve never seen
with his shirt untucked, dear
Corporate Communications Executive,
thank you for mentioning my name,
now I’m getting so many blog hits I can run
for President of D’Jalangawngaw, Eighteenth
Republic of Kuriyapong, tenth planet from
a sun borne of the collective swelling
of our lungs. Dear Mr. Speculative Fiction,
is this scifi enough for you? Fantastic enough?
Here I am, come, draw your light-saber.
Your photon thingawhatever.
Cast your black fucking lotus.
I can hear the moon howling
an oyayi now, singing hush hush hush
which means Huwag kang maingay
may naglalaba, which of course is also
a lie. This is a lie. This is a poem.
Watooom! Watoom! Watoom.
That is the sound of a heart.

the art of eating biscochos, or, sucking adam's cock

2008-09-30T14:52:00.005+08:00

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"

2008-09-29T17:51:00.002+08:00

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.

Rakenrol, bok.

Teka: Happy Mondays mamaya sa mag:net Katipunan. Nood ka. Tutugtog din kami. Sana kung maligaw kayo at naagapan ng timbreng ito, makasilip ka.

8th Ateneo National Writers Workshop Fellows

2008-09-26T12:07:00.003+08:00

Sinilip ko ang blog ni Egay at nakita ko ito:

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):

Tula

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)

Maikling Kuwento

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)

Poetry

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)

Short Story

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

2008-09-22T00:36:00.003+08:00

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.

for Joel

On the Necessity of Sadness

2008-09-16T02:53:00.003+08:00

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.

[revised 7:06 pm, 16 September]

On the Translucency of Yearning

2008-09-11T15:51:00.001+08:00

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.

chaptering

2008-09-03T00:35:00.000+08:00

1.

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.

2.

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.

3.

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.

4.

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.

5.

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.

6.

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?

7.

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.

'Yun na 'yun, bok.

glass half full: isang bukas na liham sa eraserheads

2008-09-01T10:34:00.008+08:00

1.

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.

2.

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:

3.

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.

4.

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.

5.

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.

6.

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.

7.

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.

8.

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.

9.

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:

The Best Days

2008-08-26T04:27:00.000+08:00

Lawrence Raab

It's hard to be happy, harder still
to talk about it. Walking together
through these intimate woods, the coins
of light scattered all around us,
it's enough to praise the weather. No need
to disentangle what we feel
from what we think. Or even
to acknowledge the world, not far away,
assembling its important troubles.
The best days, like this one, float
at the borders of our lives, as unremarkable
as light, or the fluttering of leaves.
We know we can't live here.
Perhaps the hermit, having turned his back
on us all, thinks he lives here.
Or the saint, forever trusting
in another life. But we don't envy them.
At evening they must sit down alone
to bless their hunger,
which, perhaps, also makes them happy,
then uneasy, as if they had betrayed
some hard allegiance
to feel this way, the way we feel.

On the Meaning of the Word Evanescent

2008-08-21T08:58:00.002+08:00

A child sits by the stairs
unsure about the meaning of the word
sadness. (Or stares out
the window, plunges a knife
into his own igneous heart.) What
does it matter, where he sits,
what he stares at? Or if he
is a child? Look, a cross
sits lonely atop a cathedral’s spire,
a sparrow chirps its laments
perched on rain-laced electric wires.
The city burns with the static fever
of what was the word again? (And later,
stars. Looking down at a vastness
littler than themselves.)
Everything expires.
This means, (he is a child,)
this is a knife. This is a litany
of knives. This is a staircase.
There are steps to be taken.

let the damn hippo drown

2008-08-20T05:15:00.000+08:00

Journalist: "It might be inconvenient to interrupt our profound discussion and change the subject slightly, but I would like to know whether extraneous, abstract thoughts ever enter your head while playing a game?"

Tal: "Yes. For example, I will never forget my game with GM Vasiukov on a USSR Championship. We reached a very complicated position where I was intending to sacrifice a knight. The sacrifice was not obvious; there was a large number of possible variations; but when I began to study hard and work through them, I found to my horror that nothing would come of it. Ideas piled up one after another. I would transport a subtle reply by my opponent, which worked in one case, to another situation where it would naturally prove to be quite useless. As a result my head became filled with a completely chaotic pile of all sorts of moves, and the infamous "tree of variations", from which the chess trainers recommend that you cut off the small branches, in this case spread with unbelievable rapidity. And then suddenly, for some reason, I remembered the classic couplet by Korney Ivanovic Chukovsky: "Oh, what a difficult job it was. To drag out of the marsh the hippopotamus". I do not know from what associations the hippopotamus got into the chess board, but although the spectators were convinced that I was continuing to study the position, I, despite my humanitarian education, was trying at this time to work out: just how WOULD you drag a hippopotamus out of the marsh ? I remember how jacks figured in my thoughts, as well as levers, helicopters, and even a rope ladder. After a lengthy consideration I admitted defeat as an engineer, and thought spitefully to myself: "Well, just let it drown!" And suddenly the hippopotamus disappeared. Went right off the chessboard just as he had come on ... of his own accord! And straightaway the position did not appear to be so complicated. Now I somehow realized that it was not possible to calculate all the variations, and that the knight sacrifice was, by its very nature, purely intuitive. And since it promised an interesting game, I could not refrain from making it."

Journalist: "And the following day, it was with pleasure that I read in the paper how Mikhail Tal, after carefully thinking over the position for 40 minutes, made an accurately-calculated piece sacrifice".

– Mikhail Tal, The Life and Games of Mikhail Tal

June

2008-08-14T19:51:00.002+08:00

Alam mo may mahabang entry na nabubuo sa isip ko kanina, e. Pero medyo ngarag ako, kaya naisip ko, sa isip ko na lang muna siya.

Kaya kita binubulabog ngayon-- as usual-- e dahil sa tula. Nalaman ko ito dahil sa isang entry ni Annette.

Basically, may isang tula, at ipinalilibot 'yung tulang 'yun sa buong mundo, isinasalin. Tungkol ito sa pagbilanggo sa mga political dissidents ng China. At oo, may kinalaman ito sa Olympics-- dapat ibabato ang mga translation kay Hu Jintao in time for the opening. Sayang nahuli ako sa balita. Tapos na tuloy.

Teka, alam mo, talagang mas maiintindihan mo kung babasahin mo ito. Maigsi lang 'yan, kahit i-scan mo lang.

Anyway, ito 'yung tulang astig:

June
Shi Tao

My whole life

Will never get past "June"
June, when my heart died
When my poetry died
When my lover
Died in romance’s pool of blood

June, the scorching sun burns open my skin
Revealing the true nature of my wound
June, the fish swims out of the blood-red sea
Toward another place to hibernate
June, the earth shifts, the rivers fall silent
Piled up letters unable to be delivered to the dead

Translated to English from Chinese by Chip Rolley.

At heto 'yung translation ko:

Hunyo
Shi Tao

Ang buong buhay ko

Ay di lalagpas ng "Hunyo"
Hunyo, nang yumao ang aking puso
Nang yumao ang aking mga tula
Nang ang aking irog
ay yumao sa isang sapa ng dugo ng pag-ibig

Hunyo, binibiyak ng nagliliyab na araw ang balat ko
Binubuklat ang katotohanan ng sugat na ito
Hunyo, lumalangoy ang mga isda tungo sa dagat na singpula ng dugo
Tungo sa ibang lupalop upang humimbing
Hunyo, kumikislot ang lupa, nananahimik ang mga ilog
Natatambak ang mga liham na di maihatid sa mga yumao

Translated to Filipino from English by Mikael de Lara Co

Tara lahat tayo tara. Gawa tayong translation.

UPDATE: Nandito pala 'yung ibang mga Filipino translation.

tara na't mag-rally

2008-08-08T08:34:00.000+08:00

Ayan. Habang maganda-ganda pa ang traffic dahil maraming bumabati, magpa-plug ako:

Sign-up kayo dito. Rally 'yan, virtual rally. Sign-up ka, pili kang avatar, tapos isigaw mo na "Tanggalin ang VAT sa produktong petrolyo!" Magagamit natin itong internet sa mga ganyan. Di mo pa kailangang magmartsa sa ilalim ng init ng araw.

At dahil narito ka na lang din, ipa-plug ko na rin ito. Nagko-contribute din ako diyan, at iba pang mga astig na tao. Basahin ninyo, masaya naman 'yan.

minsan, kapag sinabi kong "tangina mo world," ang ibig ko talagang sabihin, "teyngs"

2008-08-07T18:58:00.003+08:00

Nakikita mo 'yun bok? Hindi 'yung sumbrerong pinagsisdlan ko ng barya dahil laging kinukupitan ng mga pamangkin ko 'yung alkansya ko, a. Hindi 'yung bill ng tubig du'n sa may dulo. Hindi 'yung maraming hanger, hindi 'yung maraming libro. 'Yun. 'Yung brown na kahon na kahoy. 'Yung may nakausli na parang blue na kung-ano. Teka, ibaba natin para maaninag mo nang mabuti.

'Yan. Matagal ko nang hindi binubuksan 'yan. Halos isang taon na rin siguro. Kita mo may ali-alikabok pa. Alam mo'ng laman niyan, bok? Hindi ko naikuwento sa iyo 'yan, hindi deretsahan. Hindi rito. Pero kung nakainuman na kita, malamang alam mo. Malamang napasama ka sa malaking inuman nu'ng isang taon. Naaalala mo, bok? Tara buksan natin.

Kung mapapansin mo, napalitan ng Generoso 'yung bote ng rubbing alcohol na nasa likod kanina. Ayaw ko naman kasing isipin mo na purong isopropyl ang tinitira ko kaya ako astig at matapang at nakaka-imagine ng mga uwak na lumilipad papalayo sa ulo ko sa tuwing umaga. Wala lang.

Pero seryoso, mehn. Di ako mapagmalaking tao-- maangas, oo, pero madalas pabiro, para maiba ang usapan. Sa mga bagay na sigurado ako, siguro, sa mga paninindigan, du'n, maangas ako. Pero kung kilala mo ako, alam mong hindi ko alam kung paanong aasta pag may nagbibigay ng compliment. At di ko talaga trip na magtutok ng spotlight sa sarili ko, pagdating sa mga ganitong bagay.

Pero bok, putangina, poooooo-tangina. 'Yang nasa kahon na 'yan? Pagdating ng Setyembre a-uno, magkakaroon ng kapatid 'yan bok. Kailangan ko lang talagang sabihin sa iyo. Tingnan mo:

Pasensiya ka na. Di ko lang talaga mapigil ngayon. Patatawarin mo naman ako, di ba, kung matuwa ako? Sa atin kasi ito, e. Sa atin ito.

Sa ating mga naniniwala na puwede kang tumula habang nakikipag-inuman, na hindi laging kailangang mag-isa kang nagmumuni sa ilalim ng puno para makasulat. Sa ating mga naniniwalang 'yung hawak mo ng wika, pangalawa lang sa kung paano mo tingnan ang-- at kung paano kang kumilos sa-- mundong kinapapalooban mo. Sa ating sumisigaw minsan ng "tangina mo world," dahil natutuwa tayo, dahil ang ibig talaga nating sabihin e "tangina mo, world, astig ka, pakurot nga ng utong."

Tangina bok. Hindi ko maipapangakong maililibre kita ng beer (baka nga maubusan na ako ng load at hindi ka na rin maiteks,) o na kakasya tayong lahat sa lugar kung sa idaraos ang inuman, pero mehn, putangina. Putangina lang. Timbre-timber lang tayo pag naligaw ka sa may amin. Iinom tayo, p're. Iinom tayo.

UPDATE: Salamat pala kay Iza para dito.

Song

2008-07-29T11:29:00.000+08:00

Old red of blood, shirt stain,
color. Old red of color. New red
of bird-flight, bruise almost breaking,
eye from a twilight of vast
buoyant grief. Old blood
of grief. New blood of birthing,
of knife-wound, of poem.
Papercut and puncture and
the old man said, speak to me
of battle, your wild unraveling flame.
Speak to me of pain. Old pain
of rhythm, of blister, of rain.
Speak to me of grass-blade
and tree and the things we see.
At the foot of a mountain
crickets tell stories and songs
are all we hear. This is not
about music, new ache of music,
of silence. Then strings.
Taut like sound between eardrum
and tongue. Drum beating
like a clenched, bloodlusting
fist. Like heart. Old
beat of heart. Of prison and salt
sounding like some new poem
becoming. Some new dying.
New dying of dawn, lamplight,
firefly. Flicker of mortal flame.
Old, mortal flame, old
immortal flame, old, immortal
poem. Old red beating.
No dying nor birthing.
Only song.

First line (or, first two sentences,) from Joel Toledo. Had two exercises last night, good for two drafts. Will maybe post the other one, some other time.

Meanwhile: Waps left this with me. When Drey and I arrived, he was well into his fourth bottle of Red Horse-- alone-- and he had borrowed the waitress' pen and notepad and was scribbling something on recycled, calling-card-sized scraps of paper. Which ended up with me. Here:

For the Drunkards
Rafael San Diego

I am a dangerous man
because I know how to use my heart.
And I live recklessly through
the ambivalance of the radio
to my pain. As if it does not
care that it plays too sweet music
and I sing along happily
clutching my chest because
I am alone. My blood
is a brambling vine that twists
its way to my face with a pulse
until I grow weary and fraught
with the truth everyone must
face. That this is a bastard
chance, this human life,
and my growth into adulthood
is the weed that rises from
nothing. And if I were a child
I'd drink to goodbyes.
I'd drink to surrender
I'd drink to remember
that this pain in my heel
is my foot stomping at the
world, which says nothing
but come here
and fight me.

Oh, and I also have a video of a drunken Waps standing on two chairs, reading what everyone thought was the poem of the night. Maybe some other time. Kapag nakapost na rin sa kanya 'yung text nu'ng tula. Sige. Wasak.

paminsan-minsan, gigising ka sa maliwanag, sa maliwanag na maliwanag na mundo

2008-07-24T04:42:00.000+08:00

Kagabi, sa unang pagkakataon sa loob ng ilang araw din, nakatulog ako nang matiwasay: 'Yung tipo bang walang kung-anong dambuhalang uwak nagpupumilit kumahig ng daan papalabas sa ulo ko, 'yung walang nakadagang bundok sa mga balikat ko. 'Yung tipo bang payapang nanatili sa mga pasemano ang marami sa mga gamu-gamong umaaligid sa mga ilaw-poste ng sentido ko. Para mahimbing din siguro. Para pumayapa. Nagising ako nang di pa marahas ang titig ng araw sa maliwanag, sa maliwanag na maliwanag na mundo.

Ang layo nito sa simula ng araw ko kahapon. Galing akong trangkaso, pero may miting nang alas-nuwebe, at dahil ayaw ko nang maulit ang maaanghang na tingin ng mga boss ko nu'ng huling na-late ako sa miting (dahil umulan at bumaha sa paligid ng bahay namin,) naisip ko: babangon ako, kahit walang tulog halos. Darating ako sa tamang oras. Kahit pa ba dumating ako nang lubog ang mga mata at namumutla at kinukutuban ng nagbabadyang pagkabinat, darating ako nang tama.

Sa Recto, sa LRT-2, sinalubong ako ng isang matinding "Sir, wala pong tren, a," ng guwardiya, habang tinitingnan niya kung may karga akong kung-anong bomba. Di ko maiwasang mapahiyaw ng isang matinding "Bakiiiiit?!"

Medyo naawa ako sa guwardiya nang sagutin niya ako ng, "Sir, huwag po ninyo akong sisihin, hindi ko rin po alam kung bakit, iniutos lang din po sa aming sabihin 'yun sa mga pasahero." Sadya lang sigurong nakadidismaya ang nasaksihan niyang pagtiklop ng mukha ko, ang pagkalanta ng buong pagkatao ko.

At nandu'n nga ako sa may istasyon ng LRT-2 sa Recto, medyo pawis at basa pa ang buhok, lubog ang mga mata at namumutla at kinukutuban ng nagbabadyang pagkabinat, nandu'n ako sa may hagdan nang wala na akong nagawa kundi dahan-dahang sumalampak at magsindi ng sigarilyo, at bumulong sa sariling, "ito 'yung mga simpleng putanginang araw lang talaga."

Mayroon akong muntik nang makalimutang mga prinsipyo sa buhay nitong mga nakaraang linggo, at dahil sa pagkalimot ko, pakiramdam ko nagtampo 'yung mga prinsipyong 'yun sa anyo ng insomnia at trangkaso. "Kung ganu'n, e di ganu'n. Deal with it."

Katambal nito: "Huwag na huwag mong kakalimutang hindi sa iyo umiikot ang mundo."

Nanaginip ako. At sa unang pagkakataon, sa buong buhay ko, ayaw ko itong ikuwento, kahit kanino. Hindi dahil masama ang laman ng panaginip na ito, hindi dahil nahihiya ako. Kundi dahil gusto kong makalimot. Akin na lamang itong panaginip na ito, itong napakagandang panaginip na ito, dahil gusto kong makalimot.

Nabasa ko minsang sinabi ng isang kaibigan: Sadyang ganito siguro ang mga manunulat; mas gugustuhing hayaan kang manghula kaysa sabihin sa iyo nang diretso; nasa mga maliliit na silensyo ang mga simpleng kaligayahan, nasa pagtingin mo sa baso kung nag-iisa, sa pag-iisip na, sandali, maaga pa, kaya pa sigurong umisang sigarilyo. May inuukit na munting kapayapaan ang bawat ganu'ng katahimikan. Sadyang ganu'n talaga, siguro.

Heto, bubulungan kita, dahil gusto kong ito lang ang maalala ko, dahil gusto kong maalala mo rin ito: Sa panaginip na iyon, naglapat ako ng mga daliri sa ulo ko, at dahan-dahang binuksan ang hawla ng aking sentido. May dambuhalang uwak na humulagpos papalayo. Marahan siyang dumapo sa sanga ng nag-iisang puno. Sabi niya, "Ano pa ang silbi ng paghihimagsik laban sa paglimot?" Sabi niya... hindi, hindi, sa akin na lang iyon. Sa akin na lamang ang mga mumunti kong tampo sa tadhana.

Lumipad papalayo, tungo sa abuhing abot-tanaw, ang pantas kong uwak. At saka ko sinabi sa sarili ko, Kailangan kong pumayapa. Umaga na, dilat na. Umaga na.

8th Ateneo National Writers Workshop

2008-07-15T21:14:00.002+08:00

Pakipasa na lang po sa mga taong interesado. Salamat.

The Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and Practices (AILAP) is accepting applications for the 8th Ateneo National Writers Workshop (ANWW) to be held on 20-25 Oct. 2008.

Each applicant should submit a portfolio in triplicate of any of the following works: five poems, three short stories, written in Filipino or English, with a title page bearing the author's pseudonym and a table of contents. The 8th ANWW will not be accepting portfolios for one-act plays as a separate workshop will be conducted for this. Details will be announced later this year.

The portfolio must also be accompanied by a diskette containing a file of the documents saved in Rich Text Format.

All submissions must include a sealed envelope containing the author's name, address, contact numbers, e-mail address, and a one-page resume including a literary curriculum vitae with a 1x1 ID picture.

Twelve fellows will be chosen from all over the country. Food and accommodations will be provided.

Please address entries to: Alvin B. Yapan, acting director, AILAP c/o Department of Filipino, 3F Horacio de la Costa Hall, Ateneo de Manila University, Loyola Heights, Quezon City.

Deadline of submissions is on 8 September 2008. For inquiries, please call 426-6001local 5320-21 or e-mail ayapan@ateneo.edu.

hep

2008-07-13T23:29:00.002+08:00

Ayun. May multiply na pala ako. Pero di ako lilipat, a. Gagawin ko lang tambakan ng kung-anu-ano 'yun. Mas komportable pa rin ako dito, e.

Rakenrol.

suspend vat on oil, bok

2008-07-10T17:37:00.002+08:00

Mga bok, di sobrang linaw ng audio nito, pero kung may extrang siyam na minuto ka, at naku-curious ka sa isyu ng panawagang tangganglin ang VAT sa langis, magandang mapanood mo na si Boss mismo ang nagsasalita tungkol dito:

O, e di malinaw, di ba. Rakenrol. Ibaba ang presyo ng langis, mehn.

Dark Backward

2008-07-06T03:24:00.003+08:00

Eay Fagela

Locked inside my room
I am just a ghost of myself
There's so much to do
Somewhere else

Yellow suburban house
In this warm Manila town
I’d like to see it all
Tumble down

I don't want to go out
I don't want to go dark backward
I don't want to go out
I don't want to go,
I don't want to go out

Take me somewhere else
Take me to a war-torn hell
Nothing, like something,
Happens everywhere

I don't want to go out
I don't want to go dark backward
I don't want to go out
I don't want to go,
I don't want to go out

Don't matter where we are we're never there
Let's close our eyes and watch the world die
Tinfoil animals, hanging over us,
Thrown matches burning up like shooting stars

Like shooting stars
Like shooting stars
Like shooting stars

*

Live performance of the video here.

sa'n ka pa: diablo 3

2008-07-02T12:43:00.004+08:00

Hindi ko na tatabunan ng salita ito. Para sa lahat ng fans ng Diablo, heto'ng sa inyo. Sa'n ka pa.

mondays are for abandon

2008-06-24T03:38:00.006+08:00

Was out with the Monday Club. Drinking, of course, and writing. The barkada's been experiencing a revival of sorts-- away from the admittedly self-conscious affectations of Happy Monday Poetry Readings at Mag:Net Katipunan, and back to the dingy, cheap-beer comfort that had us all looking forward to Mondays in the first place. The past few Mondays have brought back the poetry, the gumption, the intimacy of the original Monday Club from '04. Astig. Buti na lang tinamaan ng nostalgia si Pancho. Siya ang may pakana ng renaissance na ito.

Iba pa rin 'yung pumupunta talaga du'n 'yung mga tao para sa tula, 'yung tropa mo 'yung kasama mo at sigurado kang interesado sila sa isinulat mo, dahil may pakialam sila sa tula at sa iyo, dahil nandu'n kayo talaga para pakinggan ang isa't isa, 'yun, iba 'yun, e. 'Yung respeto na ibinibigay ng mga umiinom sa isa't isa kapag tapos na ang exercise, the hush kapag babasahin na namin sa isa't isa ang mga gawa namin, iba talaga 'yun. Nakakagana lalong magsulat.

Arkaye was there. Missed the guy-- last time I saw him, he was challenging everyone (well, Waps and I) to a bout of arm-wrestling. I think he's the best poet-- bar none-- in the country today. After a couple of rengas (which, if I might say, weren't so bad at all,) we got down to the night's exercise: a variation of the pass-a-line-to-the-left exercise we did at Waps's duende-charged house a week or so ago. It was raffle-a-line tonight, and Pancho the Younger, Heights' Art Editor, picked mine: "To travel that far they had to walk on water." He was a bit reluctant to try his hand at poetry, so he used it as jump-off point for a pen-on-legal-pad artwork instead. Galing din. I hope he does it on a more, uhm, apt medium and he gets to publish/show it somewhere.

I picked Arkaye's line. Medyo matindi-tinding pahirap ang ginawa nu'ng linya sa akin; di ko alam kung seryoso siya o gusto lang pagtripan kung sino man ang makapili nu'ng linya niya, haha. I'd smoked two cigs and was halfway through a bottle of beer when I decided, "Tangina, to hell with it. Sasakyan ko na lang ito. Bahala na kung saan ako dalhin ng ritmo nu'ng mga linya."

So sinakyan ko na nga lang. Di ko naman matapik ang sarili kong likod para sa nasulat ko-- hindi ako sobrang saya dito, e. But it was a fun exercise. I hope everyone posts theirs, especially Joel and Sasha-- kinilabutan ako sa mga gawa nila. Next week ako ang maghohost ng Happy Mondays Poetry Reading sa Mag:Net; daan kayo. Details to be posted in Joel's blog later this week.

*

Kairos

I am a virgin.
I am the solemnity of chapels,
the echoing birdcall at morning,
the bruised sky at twilight,
a bat in solitary flight.
I am a shriek bouncing off stalactites, a song
calling from a shadow-ridden door,
a voice from an attic,
the circular dance of memory
and flame. I am forgetfulness, a wick
flickering and failing like a hundred sorrows.
I am a word, and spoken
I am the bleeding that blossoms
from a lie. I am a petal,
I am the wind stroking a petal,
the sparrow borne of wind.
I am the seed the sparrow feeds on,
the earth calling home the sparrow
after a day of piercing hale.
I am a wound on a palm pressed to earth,
I am the earth's many fingers
carressing its orbit, I am the silence
of flaring suns. I am light
entering a room uninvited.
I am a window. I am you
looking out at me, the kosmos
offering itself, this moment yielding
like a virgin's swollen heart,
my rhythm yours for the taking.

panawagan para sa kuwentong-buhay (ipasa sa lahat)

2008-06-20T17:01:00.004+08:00

Inemail ng isang kaibigan:

Magandang Araw! Ako po si Vlad Gonzales, guro sa UP Departamento ng Filipino at Panitikan ng Pilipinas, at estudyante ng MA Filipino: Malikhaing Pagsulat. Nasa proseso na po ako ng pagsusulat ng aking thesis, at isang bahagi nito ay ang pangongolekta ng mga maliliit na kuwentong-buhay (totoo man o imbento) mula sa iba't ibang tao. Ang mga kuwentong-buhay na ito ay pagsasama-samahin at ilalapat sa anyong digital. Ifi-feature ang mga maipapasang kuwento (ang mga piyesang orihinal at hindi pa ginagalaw ng inyong lingkod) sa isang seksyon ng thesis, samantalang ang iba'y magiging inspirasyon sa iba pang bahagi ng thesis, partikular sa mga isusulat na fan fiction at mga interactive na kuwento.

Ang ideya po kasi nito'y lahat tayo ay may kuwento. At sa panahong namamayani ang teknolohiya ng computers at Internet, kailangang muli at paulit-ulit na idiin na ang bawat kuwento natin ay mahalaga at may espasyo sa panahong mismong ang ating mga pagkatao ay nilulusaw na o/at binubura.

Hinihiling ko po ang inyong tulong na makapagsulat o/at maibahagi ang panawagang ito sa inyong mga kaibigan, manunulat man o hindi. Kailangan lamang pong sumagot sa tatlong tanong. Ang mga sagot ay inaasahang magiging maiksi at malikhain, hindi lalampas ng 100-300 salita kada tugon. Hindi po kinakailangang sagutan ang lahat ng tanong, pero mas maganda kung lahat ay masasagutan. At dahil po hindi mahalaga kung totoo o imbento ang kuwento ay maaaring sagutin nang ilang ulit ang mga tanong na ito. Kahit anong wika ay pwede (mas oks siyempre kung may salin sa Filipino. Balak kong ipasalin din ang panawagang ito sa iba pang mga wika. Sana ay may mag-volunteer).

Narito ang tatlong tanong:

1. Sino ka (o, ilarawan ang iyong sarili sa loob ng 100-300 salita)?
2. Saan o kanino ka nakaugnay o nakikiugnay (o, pagkukuwento ng mga relasyong napasukan sa loob ng 100-300 salita)?
3. Sa anong mundo ka umiiral (o, paglalarawan ng mga kinalakha at ginagalawang lugar/kaligiran sa loob ng 100-300 salita)?

Bagaman wala naman akong itinakdang deadline (dahil balak naman itong gawing tuloy-tuloy na proyekto), sana'y makatugon kayo sa lalong madaling panahon.

Maaaring ipadala ang mga kuwentong-buhay ninyo sa vlad.gonzales@gmail.com . Dito rin ninyo ipadala ang mga tanong o paglilinaw. Maaari rin akong makausap sa 9244899 (UP DFPP).

Maraming salamat!

Halimbawa ng ilang tugon:

1. Sino ka (o, ilarawan ang iyong sarili sa loob ng 50-100 salita)?

Bading na middle-class. I have the accoutrements—cellphone, i-pod,laptop, cds, books, pa-Ingles-Ingles nang kaunti. Pero wala naman talaga akong pera. Ganito: nagkasakit ang tatay ko kailan lang, halos maloka ako sa paghahanap ng pambayad. Isip ko, hindi naman dapat nangyari yon. Pero nangyari. So, wala. May katangahang consumer lang siguro. Bili nang bili, hindi iniisip ang sarili.

Ang pakiramdam ko minsan parang contestant sa Deal or No Deal. Gusto kong mag-succeed, magbigay ng malaking halaga sa charity PERO tumulong sa pamilya, first and foremost. Pero madalas, gusto ko lang magbasa. Saka doing anything na may kinalaman sa Madonna worship.

2. Saan o kanino ka nakaugnay o nakikiugnay (o, pagkukuwento ng mgarelasyong napasukan sa loob ng 50-100 salita)?

Sa mga kapwa middle-class. Pero dahil minsan feeling ko, ako ay enlightened, minsan sa "masa." Nakakarelate ako at gusto kong magsulat para sa socially and economically deprived and marginalized. Gusto kong maging baklang tagapagmana ng Agos writers. Pero minsan ang feeling ko ang faker ko.

Isang anekdota: si Friend, na-meet niya sina Rafa at Amina Alunan(taga-High Society daw). Sabi niya, ang aarte namin, squatter lang kami kung tutuusin. Sila Rafa lang ang may K. So, kung paniniwalaan ko si Friend at ang general feeling tuwing nanonood ng TV at nakakakitang supposedly beautiful people, yeah, squatter ako of sorts.

3. Sa anong mundo ka umiiral (o, paglalarawan ng mga kinalakha atginagalawang lugar/kaligiran sa loob ng 50-100 salita)?

Feeling ko ang mundo ay show business. At sa industriyang ito, ang pinakataluktok na ng aking mararating ay maging isang character actress na hindi sobrang kagandahan, pero may acting cred at constantly employed naman. So, pag nakikipag-deal ako sa mga tao, nasa framework sila ng showbiz: producers, co-actors, directors, moviereporters, reality show stars, etc.

*
1. Sino ka (o, ilarawan ang iyong sarili sa loob ng 50-100 salita)?

Ako'y isang taong may pagtatangi sa ibat ibang kulturang pilipino; mahilig akong magbasa ng magbasa, bumili ng mga libro, magsulat ng tula at sanaysay kapag nasa ''mood'', mahilig din akong mag-internet, malaman ang mga bagay-bagay sa mundo. May pagkamahiyain ako lalo na sa pakikipagugnayan sa mga malalaking tao-taong nasa korporasyon, institusyon. Ang pagkamahiyain ko ay dala siguro ng tinatawag na inferiority complex sa sarili. Ngunit may pagkakataon ding nawawala ang pagkamahiyain ko sa panahon ng kailangan gong matuto at mabuhay. Dagdag pa dito, may pagpapahalaga ako sa kalikasan; may pagtatatangi ako sa hustisya, pagkakapantay-pantay. Nais ko at pangarap kong mag-aral ng creative writing at abugasya.. Mahirap kilalanin ang sarili pero sa pagtatapos, sa wikang ingles, ako ay enthusiastic, idealistic, hardworking at may sense of humor.

2. Saan o kanino ka nakaugnay o nakikiugnay (o, pagkukuwento ng mgarelasyong napasukan sa loob ng 50-100 salita)?

Nakaugnay ako sa mundo ng pananaliksik, bilang aking trabaho sa private market research at survey company. Nangangalap ako ng impormasyong makakatulong sa pag-unlad ng isang kumpanya o ng lipunan;nakikipagsapalaran din ako sa mas malaki at makapangyarihang korporasyon; nakikipag ugnayan din ako sa mga grupo ng manunulat at nagsisimulang bumuo ng pangalan sa panitikan, (bagaman hindi ko tinapos ang sesyon ng workshop na sinalihan ko dahil mas kailangan ko ang trabaho); nakikiugnay din ako sa mga kaibigan, dating guro na nagpapahalaga sa batas at hustisya, sa lipunang marahas, sa komersyalisado at mabilis na syudad at nakikipag-ugnayan ako sa pamilyang simple ngunit marangal.3.)umiiral ako sa mundo na kung saan sari saring ugali, oryentasyon, pinanggalingan ang aking nakikita, nasasalubong,

3. Sa anong mundo ka umiiral (o, paglalarawan ng mga kinalakha atginagalawang lugar/kaligiran sa loob ng 50-100 salita)?

umiiiral ako sa balintunang buhay(tama ba irony sa ingles)-mayamang syudad, sentro ng komersyo ngunit sangkatutak ang iskwater. Maraming pang-uri para ilarawan ang mundong aking ginagalawan, tulad ng mabilis ang buhay, hindi natutulog. Umiiral ako sa mundong may dahas ngunit may mga taong kimakalaban dito, nakapaligid sa akin ang mga mababait, masasamang tao, at umiiral ako sa mundo ng pakikipagsapalaran- minsan may ligalig, minsan may pag-asa at pananalig. umiiral ako sa mundong nasa pagitan ng iskwater at subdibisyon sa syudad ng makati, saaking pakikipagsapalan sa buhay, ngunit babalik pa rin sa lupang pinanggalingan.

*

1. Sino ka (o, ilarawan ang iyong sarili sa loob ng 50-100 salita)?

Hmm, mahirap na tanong 'yan, kasi ako 'yung tipo ng taong hindi naniniwalang may "ako,"-- o, more accurately, 'yung konsepto ng ako e mahalaga lang naman talaga sa mga taong hindi ako. Gets? Generally, middle-class, may pinag-aralan, may matinong trabaho, sapat ang kinikita, maraming kakilala, nakikisalamuha sa mga tao from all walks of life. Sa ibang tropa, ako 'yung astig na maangas na willing makipagsuntukan. Sa iba, 'yung "matalino," sa iba 'yung relatively mahina ang ulo. Sa iba 'yung responsable, 'yung maaasahan mo. Sa iba 'yung tamad. Sa iba may kiling sa sosyopolitikal na mga bagay; sa iba, apathetic. Ako 'yung kulturado, mahilig sa libro at pelikula at tugtugang kakaiba-- sa iba. Sa iba ako'yung kampeon ng pop culture. Ang totoo, pakiramdam ko ako lahat 'yun at marami pang iba. Sa totoo lang, ang nasisiguro ko lang, sa akin hindi naman mahalaga ang lahat nang ito.

2. Saan o kanino ka nakaugnay o nakikiugnay (o, pagkukuwento ng mgarelasyong napasukan sa loob ng 50-100 salita)?

'Yung pinakamalalapit kong kaibigan, galing sa dalawang grupo: una, tropa ko nu'ng high school, na dahil lingguhan pa rin kami nagbabasketbol e ka-close ko pa rin. Mga scientist at engineer ang mga ito; may ibang nasa sales, may mga nagtuturo. Generally matatalinong tao, analytic. Di naman siguro overkill kung sabihin kong hindi lahat sa kanila 'yung may pagpapahalagang panlipunan, o kaya may masidhing interes sa sining o kultura. (O baka hindi lang halata.) 'Yung isang grupo, mga manunulat. Generally manunulat, pero may mga pintor at filmmaker at musikero rin. So sa arts sila talaga nakatuon. Bale kung may isang tao from either group na makakasali sa inuman ng kabila, sa tingin ko after two minutes tatapikin ako nu'n at bubulungan, "pare, nosebleed na ako dito."

'Yun ang tropa. Ang trabaho ko, sa gobyerno-- well, sa staff ng isang oppositionist na senador. Okey din ang mga tao du'n. Ang common lang sa aming lahat (I think,) naniniwala kami dito sa taong pinagtatrabahuhan namin, na competent siya at may integrity. So may pakikisalamuha din ako sa gobyerno/pulitikal na mga tao, pero bilang communications staffer lang.

Minsan pala lumalabas-labas pa ako dito sa amin, pero di na kasing-dalas nu'ng bata ako. Medyo badlands itong lugar namin, e. Sila yata 'yung "masa" kung tawagin sa TV. So masasabi ring nakikiugnay ako sa kanila.

3. Sa anong mundo ka umiiral (o, paglalarawan ng mga kinalakha atginagalawang lugar/kaligiran sa loob ng 50-100 salita)?

Mundo? Ewan, mehn. Mundo ng plurality, ng maraming-maraming mga mundong nagsasali-salikop para bumuo ng-- ng-- ewan. Nakikita mo naman siguro 'yung conflict sa akin nu'ng pinaliwanag ko kung kanino ako nakikisalamuha. I don't feel compelled na maging hunyango, o sumunod sa expectations ng mga tao-- pero minsan, 'yung definition na inilalapat sa akin ng mga tao, talagang 'yun naman ako, sa kontekstong 'yun. Pag kasama ko 'yung tropa kong nu'ng high school, ako si "artist," na totoo, sa konteksto ng barkada namin. Sa mga writers naman, ako 'yung science major nu'ng college. Sa trabaho ako 'yung medyo slacker; sa bahay, ako 'yung may sense ng responsibility (kahit papaano). Sa lugar na kinalkhan ko, ako 'yung nakapag-aral sa exclusive school. Sa exclusive school na 'yun, ako 'yung jologs na laking Tondo. I guess, going back to question #1, 'yun ako, e, 'no? 'Yung batang maraming mundo, haha.

ragin' rondo

2008-06-18T14:16:00.003+08:00

From TrueHoop:

"Before the game, I was going through a lot, especially not playing well on the road. I talked to Ray [Allen] about 20 minutes before the game. "Just let the frustration go." He told me I could still be a threat."

That was Rajon Rondo, who's been an unsung hero throught this season for the Celtics. I've always thought that a star-laden team wouldn't succeed without an enforcer in the paint and a capable point guard. Today, Rondo was more than capable: 21 points, eight assists, seven rebounds, six steals, and just one turnover.

I know that I predicted the Lakers to take the title in seven, but what can I say. I'm glad I was wrong. Sabi ko nga-- nasa Celtics ang puso ko dito. Medyo nahihiya nga ako that I didn't believe enough.

Isa pa, this is the last straw para sa akin. Naaasar na ako kay Gasol. I've always liked him for his soft touch and his passing skills. Pero hindi ko na talaga masikmurang maging fan ng isang big man na walang puso at walang bayag. Tangina. Hindi lang pala shooting touch ang soft sa kanya.

So there. What I know I've seen from clips and stories on the internet. Can't wait to watch the replay tonight.

*

In other news-- di ko namalayan, napirmahan na pala kahapon 'yung Law Exempting Minimum Wage Earners from income tax. Galing sa kolum ni bosing na lalabas sa Abante bukas:

"Sa kongkretong pagkukunwenta, madaragdagan ng P750 kada buwan ang kita ng ating mga minimum wage earners. May dagdag na P34 kada araw ang isang manggagawa sa Metro Manila na kumikita ng P7,900 kada buwan. Maaari na niya itong gamitin para sa pangangailangan ng kanyang pamilya: pambili ng isang kilo ng baboy kada linggo, gamot, lapis, notebook, libro ng kanyang mga anak, at iba pang pangangailangan.

"Dagdag pa rito, hindi na rin kakaltasan ng buwis ang lahat ng holiday, night differential, hazard at overtime pay. Tinaasan din ng bagong batas ang personal exemptions ng ating mga suwelduhang mga manggagawa. Ang isang empleyado na kumikita ng P455 kada araw o P10,010 kada buwa’y magkakaaroon ng dagdag na take-home pay na P472.59 kada buwan kung wala pa siyang asawa, Umaabot ito ng dagdag na P5,671.01 kada taon.

"Kapag head of the family naman siya, aabot sa P678.50 kada buwan, o P8,142.04 kada taon ang dagdag niyang maiuuwi. At kung may-asawa at may apat na anak naman siya, papatak ng P580.92 kada buwan, o P6,871.02 kada taon ang dagdag niyang sasahurin.

"Ang isang empleyado namang kumikita ng P683 kada araw o P15,026 kada buwa’y magkakaroon din ng dagdag na take-home pay. Kung unmarried siya, ang dagdag ay P545.26 kada buwan, o P6,543.10 kada taon. Kung head of the family, ang dagdag ay P1,307.18 kada buwan, o P15,686.20 kada taon. At kung siya nama’y may-asawa at apat na anak, ang dagdag ay P1,190.52 kada buwan, o P14,286.20 bawat taon."

So astig din 'yan. Sponsor si Sen. Escudero, na head ng Committee on Ways and Means sa senado at principal author naman si Mar Roxas ng batas na ito. Maganda ang omento nitong nakaraang mga buwan-- naipasa ang Affordable Meds, at ngayon, 'etong Minimum Wage Tax Exemption. Sana lang magtuloy-tuloy ito para maipasa na rin ang Suspension of the VAT on Oil bill. At sana, sa pagdating ng panahon, pati ang Educational Reform Agenda. Kaya 'yan. Unti-unti lang, mga bok. Unti-unti.

poetrip

2008-06-12T03:22:00.005+08:00

Here's something from our most recent poetry exercise where someone gets a first line he'd rather use for himself, and passes it to the guy to his left. Joel reading his latest poem, first line c/o me.

Texture
Joel M. Toledo

A voice emerges from a well
Teeming with swords: this is a riddle,
The same way moss is a riddle,
Coating the walls as if visits are often,
As if overnight the blackness moves
Into morning green. So that I hear
Someone speaking of water, describing it
Like it is colorless and too far away.
Passing by, the blind man, wincing,
Tells me pointedly how thirsty he is.
I lead his hands to feel the moss.
He runs his fingers through it
And trains his eyes on me, saying,
Focusedly, I have grown tired
Of green. So I did what I had to –
I gave him water. He went his way.
And I grabbed the rope and pulled
And pulled until the heavy, brilliant thing
Came into view. I do not remember
What it was: stone, shard, some sharp
Something. And someone is speaking,
Round-mouthedly, as an echo,
Home, home, home.

*

More poems at Waps' and Joel's blogs.

on political advertising (sorry kung medyo huli)

2008-06-11T13:09:00.002+08:00

Nitong mga nakaraang linggo, naging mainit ang balita sa political ads, lalo na 'yung mga lumalabas sa TV. Tinamaan ang mga pulitikong kilalang may plano sa 2010-- kesyo raw pangangampanya ito, kesyo di man labag sa batas legal, labag naman sa batas moral ito. 'Yan ang hirit nina de Quiros at Pat Evangelista sa Inquirer. Kay John Nery naman, isa raw itong "necessary evil"-- para masustain ang awareness ng taumbayan sa darating na 2010, at masiguro (at least indirectly) na bababa nga si GMA para bigyang-daan ang mga bagong kandidato. Sa madaling sabi-- may mali raw sa political ads na ito.

Ang sa akin: walang mali dito.

Natural na proseso ito sa isang market system. E ano kung politiko sila na may hangarin sa 2010? Hindi sila nangampanya; nagsabi sila ng opinyon ukol sa isang produkto, o nagtulak ng isang adbokasya. Malaki raw ang maitutulong ng mga naturang ad sa kanilang kampanya, sa "awareness" ng tao sa mukha at tinig nila. Ano ang mali doon? Ano ang ikinaiba nila sa lahat ng ibang celebrity na nagtutulak ng produkto-- na, sa totoo lang, e makakatulong din sa awareness ng publiko sa mga artistang ito, sa "kampanya" para tangkilikin ng tao ang susunod nilang pelikula? O kunwari may isang artista ngayon na maraming ads sa TV-- si Piolo, kunwari. Paano kung bigla niyang maisipang tumakbo sa 2010? Unfair advantage din 'yun, di ba? Iba na ba ang standards na gagamitin natin para sa mga pulitikong lumalabas sa ads, mga pulitikong nababalitang kakandidato sa 2010, balitang media lang din naman ang nagpapakalat? Nasaan ang mali du'n?

Hindi pera ng taumbayan ang ginamit para sa mga ad na ito. (O, sana nga hindi. Pero 'yung ibang ad nakakapanghinala rin.) Katunayan, 'yung perang dapat kikitain ng mga pulitiko, (sa pagkakaalam ko) dumiretso sa donasyon sa mga adbokasya nila. Alam kong 'yung dito sa boss namin sa opis, dinala sa pagpapatayo ng isang pre-school building sa isang depressed area sa Baseco, Tondo. Hindi kinarga ng mga pahayagan 'yun, pero 'yun ang totoo.

Ang kaba ni Pat sa column niya, baka nga naman sakaling mapunta sa poder ang mga pulitikong ito, kailangan nilang "magbayad" sa mga kumpanyang tumulong sa kanila. Baka paglingkuran nila ang interes ng mga kumpanyang ito sa ibabaw ng interes ng mamamayan. Di ba slippery slope ang argumentong 'yun? Kung may integridad ang mga pulitikong ito, hindi sila gagawa ng kagaguhan pag nasa poder sila. At 'yung integridad na 'yun, hindi mahuhusgahan sa pamamagitan ng pagpayag nilang gumawa ng ad o hindi. Hiwalay na usapan 'yun. Nasa mga ginagawa nila 'yun sa Senado o sa iba pang opisina ng gobyerno. Nasa pagtupad nila ng tungkulin nila, ngayon.

Hindi ko talaga makita kung ano ang mali sa ads na ito. Kung awareness ang usapan, di ba nagkaka-awareness din ang tao tuwing lumalabas ang mga pulitiko sa balita? "E at least du'n issues ang usapan, at hindi produkto." Ows? E 'yung kasal lang ng anak ni Bong Revilla, lumabas naman sa balita, a. Isa pa, I know for a fact na may mga magagandang ginagawa dito sa opis na hindi naman nakocover ng media. So ano ang magiging avenue nila sa para sa adbokasya? Baka may mali sa market system-- mas mahabang usapan 'yun-- pero sa loob ng lohika ng sistemang 'yun, wala akong mas nakikitang mali sa mga ads na ito. Ginagamit nila ang "kapital" nila-- tiwala ng tao (earned o hindi)-- para makakuha ng bagay na ninananais nila: awareness ng tao. Na hindi naman pangangampanya, pero makakatulong pagsisiwalat ng adbokasya. Na kasali naman talaga sa trabaho nila, di ba? Di ba?

finals na naman

2008-06-01T15:35:00.005+08:00

Pop quiz: who said this?--

"Is his attitude going to allow him to take a back seat and let Lamar Odom shine and let Caron Butler have his nights and bring those big guys along with him?"

and this?--

"He's going to be very selfish... And he feels like he needs to show this league and the people in this country that he is better without Shaq. He can win championships without Shaq. So offensively, he's going to jump out and say, 'I can average 30 points. I can still carry the load on this team.'

Obviously, it was a dig at Kobe Bryant. What everyone keeps on forgetting, though, is that it was then-Seattle Supersonic Ray Allen who said it. That, I think, is going to be one of the more interesting subplots of the NBA Finals.

It's been a long-running feud between these two. Hasn't really had a chance to boil over, though-- Ray Allen's a bit too low-key for these kinds of intrigues, plus he'd had to spend the better part of his career playing for non-contenders. No real spice in individual rivalries kung hindi naman nag-aabot sa playoffs 'yung mga protagonist. At siyempre, we've seen how Kobe's elevated his game since those comments by Allen. Baka naman bati na sila.

Ayun. I'm a bit torn here, sa totoo lang-- I'm a big Pau Gasol fan, but I'm also a big Paul Pierce fan. I don't like to Kobe, though-- masyadong contrived ang kanyang quest for greatness. But I also don't like how Garnett shrinks from the big moments. Sa bench, I've been rooting for Rondo ever since the season started, and I've always liked Luke Walton's basketball smarts. Sa Boston: James Posey is one of the best perimeter players in the league. Sa L.A.: I've always thought that Lamar Odom is one of the most complete players in the game. If only he had heart.

If someone put a gun to my head though, I'd put my money on the Lakers, in seven. Kung pera ang usapan, a. Sabi nga ni Bill Simmons, "Nobody is beating the Lakers this season. Not Boston, not Detroit, not anybody. They have the best team, the best player and a Hall of Fame coach. It's really that simple."

Pero kung tamang puso lang, sa Celtics ako. Another subplot: Paul Pierce, the consummate professional, sticking it out with the Celtics, quietly doing his best to keep the time afloat during the pre-Allen, pre-Garnett era. Kaya talagang gusto kong manalo ang celtics, para ma-vindicate si Pierce.

Anyway. 'Yun muna. Will post more after Game 1 on Wednesday.

As Adam

2008-05-26T23:03:00.004+08:00

This much I remember: we were
happy, yes? Under the many bright trees
whose names we found tucked under our tongues
like stones or incandescent secrets floundering
as the air trembled. Sound, we called it,
even for that we had a name, but how could we
not have noticed that none called back? Sparrow,
we said, and it stared at us, unknowing with its black eyes.
Cricket we said but they did not cease their laments,
under the grass, their voices unwavering, their wings
violent, hidden. Desire I said, but I am not
as sure now, did I name it then or only afterwards,
beyond Havilah when as the fields grayed the grain
began their descent into bitterness? We were
too oblivious, too obedient to notice the absence
we granted things as we named them. Was it
this knowledge, or was it the naming itself
that undid us? Our tongues not content
inside our bodies, we longed to possess
even the other, possess them so long
as their suffering was not ours, and when they began
to shed their names by themselves, we invented
new ones, when they began to hurt us we broke them
down into more names, the part of the rose-bush
that wounds us is the thorn; that of the tree, the promise;
that of the serpent, the truth. Or we simply looked
away, the way you looked away when we were driven
from the Garden, the part of my body that hurt you,
the heart. I was sitting by the river then, and this much
I remember: the fruit lingering in my mouth,
the names it burned on my tongue
as I scampered away from the Voice. Until now
there is no word for this, and this is the myth
I make of it, the loss, everything:
I will be grateful to you forever, for the fall.

after Marie La Viña

ang imagined reader sa tulang liriko + imbitasyon

2008-05-25T20:09:00.006+08:00

Instructions to Be Left Behind
Marvin Bell

I've included this letter in the group
to be put into the cigar box-— the one
with the rubber band around it you will find
sometime later. I thought you might
like to have an example of the way in which
some writing works. I may not say anything
very important or phrase things just-so,
but I think you will pay attention anyway
because it matters to you—- I'm sure it does,
no one was ever more loved than I was.

What I'm saying is, your deep attention
made things matter-— made art,
made science and business
raised to the power of goodness, and sport
likewise raised a level beyond.
I am not attaching to this a photograph
though no doubt you have in your mind's eye
a clear image of me in several expressions
and at several ages all at once—- which is
the great work of imagery beyond the merely
illustrative. Should I stop here for a moment?

These markings, transliterations though they are
from prints of fingers, and they from heart
and throat and corridors the mind guards,
are making up again in you the one me
that otherwise would not survive that manyness
daisies proclaim and the rain sings much of.
Because I love you, I can almost imagine
the eye for detail with which you remember
my face in places indoors and out and far-flung,
and you have only to look upward to see
in the plainest cloud the clearest lines
and in the flattest field your green instructions.

Shall I rest a moment in green instructions?
Writing is all and everything, when you care.
The kind of writing that grabs your lapels
and shakes you-— that's for when you don't care
or even pay attention. This isn't that kind.
While you are paying your close kind of attention,
I might be writing the sort of thing you think
will last-— as it is happening, now, for you.
While I was here to want this, I wanted it,
and now that I am your wanting me to be myself
again, I think myself right up into being
all that you (and I too) wanted to be: You.

*

Ang kuwento, kapag daw magsusulat ka ng thesis mo para sa creative writing, 'yung intro ba nu'ng mga tula, du'n sa mahabang essay bago 'yung creative works mo mismo, may tatlong tanong kang dapat sagutin. Why do I write? Why do I write the way I write? Whom do I write for?

Sa tatlong 'yan-- na napag-ubusan na siguro ng di-mabilang ng bote ng beer ng sangkatauhan-- 'yung ikatlo ang pinakapeligrosong sagutin. Madaling sabihin na "nagsusulat ako para sa kapwa ko" o, mas malawak (at mas safe,) "sa mambabasa." Pero sino nga ba ang mambabasa? Di mo naman siya kilala e. Kilala mo man, sino sa kanila? Best friend mo? 'Yung nagwawalis sa kanto ng Tayuman at Oroquieta? Si GMA?

O lahat ba sila? Di ba problematiko 'yun, kasi kung multiplicity ang imagined reader mo, e di may ibang walang paki sa isinusulat mo, may ibang di matitripan, may ibang di makakaintindi. Kapag, kunwari, isa lang sa kanila, e di may peligrong ma-alienate mo lahat ng iba. Kapag naman sabihin mong isa lang nga tapos wala kang paki kung ma-alienate lahat ng iba, e di nahulog ka naman sa patibong ng confessional. (Na, teka, masama nga ba? Kailangang iexplore 'yun, a.) At kung isa nga lang, paano ka nakasigurong magiging epektibo 'yung tula mo para sa nag-iisang intended/imagined reader? Kilala mo ba talaga siya? Sino ka para mag-assume na kilala mo siya? Malay mo feeling close ka lang.

Ang naisip ko, kapag nagsusulat tayo, unang iniisip natin 'yung "ideal" na reader, bago natin siya ini-imagine. At sino itong ideal reader ko? Ang naisip ko, ako rin 'yun, e. Lumalabas ako sa sarili ko para i-objectify 'yung reader-na-ako. Isa siguro sa pinakamahirap na gawain (tungkulin?) ng makata 'yun: 'yung necessary shattering ng subjectivity mo, 'yung pag-come to terms mo sa multiplicity of selves na nagtatago sa loob mo. Pakiramdam ko, tatlo nga ang lumilitaw na persona ng sarili sa tula, e: 'yung Ako na nagsasalita/nagsusulat, 'yung Ako na imagined/ideal reader, at 'yung Ako na makakapulot lang ng tula sa isang abandonadong upuan at baka ganahang basahin ito, 'yung makakakita lang nito sa internet o sa isang magasin o anthology, 'yung makakahanap ng journal ko kapag patay na ako-- 'yung Ako na unaccounted for sa secret-sharing namin nu'ng mambabasang-ako at nu'ng makata-na-ako. 'Yung Ako na gusto nating imbitahing makisalo sa engagement. (Sa tingin ko 'yun ang pinakamahalagang I, pero kailangan pa ring iexplore 'yun.)

So sa ganu'ng logic, nabibigyan ng mas taimtim na kahulugan 'yung sinasabi ng matatandang "pribado" ang metodo, palagi, ng pagtula. Kailangan siguro ng mas mahaba-habang entry (o thesis, na hindi ko na naman isusulat,) ukol sa kung paanong tumatawid sa ikatlong I ang mga tula natin, pero pakiramdam ko, papasok ang mga hirit ni Scheller tungkol sa affect dito. 'Yun, at 'yung ideya ng engagement mo ng other-- tao-sa-tao, hindi makata-sa-mambabasa. Sa madaling sabi, lumalagpas na sa realm ng literature lang ang tula. Tumatagos 'yung pagkatao ng makata, at hindi na lang usapin ng writing skills, ng craftwork, ng intellect ang tula niya.

Parang, ang totoong quest natin bilang mga makata e 'yung pagpapakatao. Paanong mabuhay sa mundo, ganu'n. Paanong maging mabuting tao siguro. Mas makatao ka, mas buhay ka, mas kilala mo ang mundo na ginagalawan mo-- mas makaka-engage ka sa pamamagitan ng mga tula mo.

At kung nalilito ka sa mga sinabi ko rito, huwag kang mag-alala. Ako rin. Kailangan pa nating pag-usapan ito. Punta ka sa Green Papaya (Sa U.P. Village (o Teacher's Village ba?), malapit sa Bayantel-- alam na ng mga trike driver sa Philcoa ang Bayantel) sa Miyerkules, ika-28 ng Mayo. Iinterbyuhin ko si Joel Toledo, at magbabasa siya ng tula, bilang featured poet para sa buwanang poetry reading du'n. Alas-otso, larga na ang programa. Masaya 'yun, makakapag-usap tayo tungkol sa ganitong mga bagay. Mag-comment ka dito o mag-email sa akin kung may gusto kang ipatanong kay Joel. O kaya pumunta ka na lang tapos ikaw mismo ang magtanong. Mas astig kung ganu'n.

Punta ka, ha. Malay mo ilibre kita ng beer.

Song

2008-05-14T01:11:00.002+08:00

Because of the gunmetal mid-May skies. Because I feel like a lone leaf spiralling to the ground, or was it a bird, suddenly flightless after a minute of rain? Because smoke rises from wet asphalt, because the ache is fuller when I hear sadness sung in Esperanto, because vowels are sometimes violent let me repeat myself: I once was an ant and I still am now but once on a dry moonless night a sweetness came and it was too much to bear even for an ant. This is a song I say. This is a secret, and once I told you about it and the walls grew ears and mouths, a hundred gray faces looking at me saying rain, rain, rain. You will leave, and before you step out of this song you will say there is no sense trying to say something when all you want to do is mean. But where does meaning go when I speak, isn’t all thought ephemeral, isn’t the truth just another vanishing billow of smoke? A pillow is on fire, I say, but maybe I mean something else. I am by the window and I am staring out into the city and it speaks. Remember when you told me a secret it says. It’s not true I say. Oh it says. Remember when you sung to me it says and I say this is a song. This is a leaf. I am a leaf and I would like to fall now, turn into ground. Is it me by the window, and if it is how come I am seeing myself from far away?

sa wakas

2008-04-30T14:23:00.005+08:00

Kahapon, habang naghahanda sa opis ng mga tula (siyempre dinidiskartehan ko 'yun nang walang nakakapansin), biglang nag-ingay ang mga tao. Semi-palakpakan, 'yung parang palakpakan na walang palakpak pero alam mong kung hindi masyadong mukhang cheesy e papalakpak nga ang mga tao. (Labo nu'n, a).

Lagi kasing may bukas na TV sa opis, at nakatutok 'yun sa closed-circuit TV ng Senado kapag mayroong hearing sa 2nd floor. Nagkaroon ng kaunting ingay kasi pagkatapos magsalita ni Bossing, pagkatapos siya i-interpellate ng iba pang Senador, na-ratify na sa wakas 'yung Quality Affordable Meds bill. Siya na ngayon ang Universally Accessible, Cheaper and Quality Medicines Act of 2008. Putcha ang haba nu'n a, naubusan ako ng hininga.

E di ayun, parang may isang malaking buntong-hininga, may collective kilabot na bumalot sa opis. 'Yun bang pakiramdam na "puta, tumulong ako diyan, a." Sunud-sunod kaming humirit: "Tang'na sa wakas," "Ayun," "Puta finally," "Rakenrol. Bote tayo mamaya." Ang sabi sa akin ng ibang katropa dito nagtatalon daw si Boss sa tuwa, pero knowing him, duda ako. Di ko ma-imagine na tumatalon siya, e.

Anyway. Lalong na-hyper ang mga tao nu'ng narinig namin sa radyo na ini-ratify na rin 'yung counterpart bill sa Kongreso. So pirmahan na lang (at siyempre, implementation,) okey na 'to.

Kararating ko lang sa opis nitong Enero, pero alam kong matagal ding tinrabaho ng lahat ng tao 'to. Masarap din pala 'yung pakiramdam na (halos) direktang nakakalunas sa problema ng tao 'yung mga ginagawa mo, o 'yung mga bagay na tumutulong ka para magawa.

Ano 'yung sabi ni Ka Jess Santiago? Parang, "Kung ang tula ay isa lamang pumpon ng salita...?" Sa akin, kung ang tula ay isa lamang pumpon ng salita, tutula pa rin ako. Bagaman hindi tula ang trabaho ko dito-- speeches-- naramdaman ko ngayon na puta kailanman, hindi lang pumpon ng salita ang anumang pumpon ng salita.

At kahit nalabuan ka sa sinabi kong 'yun, okey lang. Basta. Tangina bote.

P.S. Dahil astig ka, ishe-share ko sa 'yo 'to. Salamat kina Waps, Arkaye, at Margie sa pagsamang magsulat noong isang gabi. Kay Waps especially, dahil galing sa kanya 'yung unang linya ng tula.

Mebuyen

I live in a country without vineyards.
We nail crosses to the trunks of coconut trees
as we wait for the sap to ferment. At night
the bats swoop down from their canopies
as the many words for fear rest heavy
on our tongues. Mangoes dangle from trees
like tusks and one summer
out of every century a vast predatory cloak
of locusts covers the rice fields. Understand:
we are easily scared in my country,
and when strangers arrive, our villages
echo with the sound of a thousand slippers
slapping on dirt-roads. I live in a country
where a prayer hides beneath every curse,
and when one cannot find a word
for what one feels, one sighs
and lets the wind ache instead.
Sometimes we are reminded
of our embittered gods, but only
as history, more memory than faith,
and when they rap at our windows
or peer from inside their bamboo thickets,
we see only shadows and think of ghosts.
I live in a country without angels
or snow, without a word for guilt,
and we are happy inside our churches
until the rains come and the rivers swell
and again we are reminded that, once,
a goddess watered our country
with milk from her breasts and the lands
filled with trees like so many green,
upturned hands.

yosi break: magdedeadline na!

2008-04-28T16:10:00.002+08:00

Ano ba 'yan, mag-a-atrenta na ulit. Good luck sa lahat ng mga malalalim ang eyebags at isang linggo nang walang tulog at pinatatakbo ng yosi at kape sa mga panahon na 'to. Basta pag-abot ng a-trenta, puwede na 'yan potah. Ipasa n'yo na. (Inom tayo sa deadline, a. Dala kayong extrang kopya tapos basahan/basagan tayo pagkapasa.)

Paalala lang-- sa tingin ko magandang magpanotaryo ka na bago pa pumunta du'n sa pasahan. Lumipat na sila ng opisina; hindi tayo sigurado kung mayroon pa ring magnonotaryo du'n kung dumating ka ng alas dose.

Anyway. Gudlak ulit. Kung hindi mo alam ang pinag-uusapan dito, hehe, sige lang balik ka na sa tahimik at masaya mong buhay kahit papatapos na ang Abril.

P.S. Nga pala, tungkol sa Meds Bill na pinag-usapan noong isang entry: punta ka rito, pirma ka. Dahil astig ka at gusto mo ng murang gamot para sa mamamayang Pilipino. (At dahil, malay mo, ma-good karma ka pagdating ng Setyembre. Hehe.)

Tama na muna ang tula: Kung ano talaga ang meron dito sa medicines bill na 'to

2008-04-26T13:06:00.004+08:00

1.

E di murang gamot.

Paano mas mumura? Ganito: sa ngayon, kapag may local patent ang mga gamot, bawal mag-import ng ganu'ng klaseng gamot din-- kahit pa ba mas mura (nang di hamak!) 'yun sa ibang bansa. Halimbawa: 'yung Daonil (para sa diabetes,) ibinebenta sa katumbas ng 80 centavos sa India. Dito, P9.86. 'Yung Plendil, para sa hypertension? P21.82 dito. Sa India: P2.69. Hangga't walang Quality Affordable Meds Bill, 'yung mga multinationals na may hawak ng patent dito, puwede nilang hayaang mataas ang presyo ng gamot dito, at walang magagawa ang kahit sino.

Kapag naipasa ang Quality Affordable Medicines Bill, puwede nang mag-parallel importation ang mga tagarito (pangunahin, ang gobyerno). Pag nakuha nila nang mas mura ang gamot, maibebenta nang mas mura dito. Simple lang, di ba? At astig.

2.

E kung ganu'n, ba't di pa maipasa-pasa?

Actually, malapit na talagang maipasa. 'Yung tungkol diyan sa parallel importation thing na 'yan, solb na. Naipasa na sa House, pati sa Senate; pinagrereconcile na 'yung dalawang versions ng bill. Ang gusot, nasa pagkakaiba tungkol sa price regulation.

Ganito: 'yung House version, trip nila, sakaling di gawin ng market ang trabaho niya at kailanganin ng price regulation, sa isang Price Regulatory Board babagsak ang trabaho ng pagsasabi ng price ceilings. Sa Senate, sa Presidente malalagay ang price regulatory powers na 'yun, upon recommendation ng Secretary of Health.

Ganito: ang isang Board, appointees ang laman. Hindi mo alam kung sino 'yan, kung paanong napunta sa board, etc. Sa madaling sabi, prone to corruption ang isang board. (Kayo na ang bahalang mag-isip kung bakit ito ang itinutulak ng mga butihin nating congressman.) Ang presidente, puwede naman din siyang mag-convene ng board, manghingi ng recommendation kahit kanino. Ang presidente ibinoboto natin. Ang punto: Sa huli, dapat may taong magsasabi na, "Narinig ko na lahat nang dapat kong marinig tungkol dito. Ito ang desisyon ko." Para alam natin kung sino ang pagtutuonan ng pansin, kung sino ang sasagot ng tanong, kung sino ang sisisihin kapag may nangyaring kagaguhan. At nasa presidente dapat ang responsobilidad na 'yun.

Ang punto: accountability. Transparency. Kung wala niyan, talo tayong lahat.

At 'yan, 'yan ang pinagtatalunan sa bicam ngayon, kaya hindi maipasa itong bill na 'to.

3.

Pasensiya na kung medyo off-topic, a. Naaasar lang ako. Iniisip ko kung ilang tao 'yung walang P9.86 pero may 80 centavos, kung ilan sa kanila 'yung may diabetes, kung ilan sa kanila 'yung kailangang masaktan o mamatay, kung ilang araw o linggo o buwan pang may kailangang masaktan o mamatay, dahil sa pagtatalo ng mga lider natin.

4.

Para sa mga nakainuman ko na, alam ninyo kung bakit medyo maalam ako tungkol dito. Kung hindi, inuman tayo.

5.

Galing sa editorial ng Manila Times ngayong araw:

"...(B)icameral conferees Iloilo Representatives Ferjenel Biron and Janette Garin’s complaints about the bill’s alleged imperfections should be dismissed as sourgraping. The two lawmakers said that the final omnibus version is a watered-down bill. They expressed doubts about its efficacy to bring down the price of medicines. The price regulatory board the two are pushing is exactly what the pharmaceutical companies are looking for—- a mechanism for negotiations on profits and prices cloaked in anonymity and bereft of accountability."

6.

Pagkatapos kong maasar, naisip ko, kailangan nating palawigin ang kaalaman ng taumbayan tungkol dito. Kamalayan, bok, kamalayan. Tangina pare buhay ng tao 'yan, e, buhay ng tao ang usapan, e.

'Yun lang. Sabi ko nga, di ba: Gawin ang lahat nang kayang gawin sa pinakamahusay na paraan na kaya nating gawin. 'Yun lang. Kaya ko naisip magpost tungkol dito.

Kung gusto ninyo ng FAQ tungkol sa Quality Affordable Medicines Bill, email n'yo lang ako.

Bulan

2008-04-14T15:52:00.001+08:00

Silence like a starless
morning, which is not silence at all
but a form of longing, the moon like
an afterthought in the shape
of a sigh solid on your throat, a stone
turning to water in an instant.
A starless morning like that blue
horizon a ship sees when wanting
to dock finally and the wanting becomes real
like suddenly a vast fogless bay, real like
its cargo of spice and crosses and music,
weightless things so heavy on the shoulders
of the small brown-skinned people
in their loin-cloths on the shores.
In their loincloths with spears impaled
on the sand, speaking in consonants
lost on the slumbering eardrums of the old
world. But this is my country. This
is my country, old as water. This is my country
of pumice and songs only in minor-chords
only my ancestors don't know it,
don't know what to call it, this sadness
in six strings only. Count the sadnesses
and I will sing to you of my
blue starless mornings, my blue
starless horizons choked
with the suffering of my country,
suffering I only now remember because
of more suffering. I forget now the water
in my ancestors’ eyes when they spoke of
the moon, Bulan with her one silver
eye, their lips forming the shape
of bubbles or rain or was it a comb
hung like a soundless chime in the heavens.
Bulan I call her now because it sounds
so brown. I forget now her hair black
as the flowing rivers of my broken archipelago,
her ankles brown as harvest soil
which everyone forgets because of
the luminous grains soon to be in their bellies.
Bulan I forget now even the shadows
that each name held. Bulan to ask you to hold me
sounds so much like an infidelity, like someone
dying but when she cries for mercy
her murderers do not understand.
Or maybe they hear some other thing, More
or Please I like it or Someday no one
will remember this so just go on
killing me. It's okay. Bulan I forget
your name sometimes but it's okay
the moon shines everywhere
and I can call you by whatever name I want.
I can even keep silent if I want to.
Even if I bleed.

Cure

2008-04-05T03:36:00.010+08:00

When you imagined them
tearing his chest open and finding
only water, you found the truth
behind history: Words betray.
Only the secrets matter.

But perhaps that is only
your own truth. What you see
when you tear your own chest open.
They poured and poured until the native
--what? Until he was cured
of his secrets? On the page his eyes
are a century apart from yours.
You imagine his lungs
swollen, pale as if bleached.

You imagine yourself, there. Him. On the page
speaking in tongues, the soldiers calling
for a translator. Even then failing to understand.
I was eleven when they burnt
the rice fields. Twelve when they cut down
my brothers. There on the page,
your body a church of secrets. I heard
my mother scream. Or maybe it was myself.
It was not so long ago. I’m surprised
I can’t remember. They pause
to call for more water.
There is so much water in your country.
When I killed the first of my enemies,
I felt my throat fill with fire.
Perhaps it was happiness.

There is nothing truer than what you have said.
What secrets can they take from you now?
The names of your spies
pour unto the soil. The strength
of your numbers dissolve into your blood.
You imagine yourself cleansed as you are left
with your guts knotted and torn inside of you.
Knotted and torn like so many roads

leading to the nowhere one finds at the end
of history. Or at its beginning.
Where there is neither thirst
nor the weightlessness of drowning.
Where all that matters
need not be spoken.

diyahe, hindi biyahe

2008-03-24T02:18:00.002+08:00

1.

Hello, world. I need a roadtrip.

2.

Obvious bang hindi ako makasulat? Haha. Ha.

3.

Dapat bibiyahe ako ngayong Holy Week, e. Tungo saan, ewan. Mag-isa lang. Kaya lang nagkasakit ako. Gastritis, mehn. Diyahe. Aba okey 'yun, a-- diyahe, hindi biyahe.

4.

Okey ba 'yun? Walang biyahe, at dahil nga sira ang tiyan, walang alak, walang maaanghang na pagkain, walang tsokolate, walang sopdrinks, walang juice, walang kahit na anong inuming may lasa nitong nakaraang linggo. Wala ngang gatas, e. Hindi naman sa mahilig ako sa gatas, pero ang punto... ewan. Ang punto walang gatas.

5.

Ang punto sa totoo lang marami naman akong kuwento pero hindi ko alam kung paanong ikuwento 'yung mga kuwentong 'yun. Siguro unang hakbang ito-- sabihin ko sa iyong may kuwento pero di ko na alam kung paanong ikuwento, kung paanong magkuwento dito. Tapos baka maawa ka sa akin tapos ibili mo ako ng ice cream. Baka pag may ice cream ako maalala ko na kung paanong magkuwento.

6.

Ayun, panahon na para mag-- ano'ng tawag du'n? Mag-recharge. Road trip nga siguro. Mag-eermitanyo muna ulit ako (as if naman hindi ako naglaho at nag-ermitanyo mode sa blog na ito, di ba.) Pagbalik ko, sana, mas masigla na ako.

At panahon na para sa bagong blog skin. Patulong naman, bok, o.

7.

Ayun. Dumaan lang naman ako dito para testingin kung naaalala ko pa 'yung password ng blog ko, na pareho lang naman pala ng password ng gmail, na nagpapatunay lang na kita ninyo nakalimutan ko na nga, ehehehe, anlabo pards. At hindi ako lasing, a, di nga makainom dahil sira ang tiyan di ba.

At ayun, gusto ko lang ding sumigaw ng isang matinding "Tangina mo, world!" at sabihin sa iyong okey lang na sumigaw ka rin niyan paminsan-minsan, kahit papaano.

Rakenrol, bok. Dahil mahal kita, iiwan ko sa iyo ang litrato ng isang dambuhalang donat:

panahon na naman

2008-01-17T17:29:00.000+08:00

Simulan nang maghanda, mga repapips.

2008 DFPP Creative Writing Workshop

The University of the Philippines' Department of Filipino and Philippine Literature (DFPP) will hold its DFPP Creative Writing Workshop on March 31-April 4, 2008 at the Soka Gakkai Center, Tagaytay City.

The workshop is open to beginning authors writing in Filipino, preferably college students. Literary forms included in the workshop are poetry, short story, children's literature, play, and creative non-fiction (short essay).

Applicants must submit five (5) copies of the hard copy 12 points, double-spaced manuscript, including its digital file. Authors may submit at least five poems, two stories (10 pages), two children's stories (5-7 pages), one one-act play, and one short essay (10 pages).

Applications forms are available at the UP Department of Filipino, College of Arts and Letters, University of the Philipines, Diliman, Quezon City. Deadline of submission is on February 15, 2008. For details, call Mr. Vlad Gonzales at 9244899 or email at dirtypopmachine@yahoo.com.

IYAS Writing Worshop

Applicants should submit original work: either 6 poems, 2 short stories, or 2 one- act plays using pseudonym, in five (5) computer-encoded hard copies of entries, font size 12, bound or fastened, in separated folders with a diskette (MSWord).

These are to be accompanied by a sealed size 10 business envelope with the author’s real name and pseudonym, a 2x2 ID photo, and a short resume, which must be mailed on or before March 14, 2008.

Entries in Cebuano, Hiligaynon, Tagalog or Filipino may be submitted. Fellowships are awarded by genre and by language.

Grant will cover board and lodging and a partial transportation subsidy.

PANELISTS

Dr. Carlo Bautista
Ms. Genevieve Asenjo
Dr. Marjorie Evasco
Prof. Danny Reyes
Dr. Elsie Coscolluela
Dr. Antonio Tan

Workshop is on April 20-26, 2008 at the Balay Kalinungan Complex, University of St. La Salle, Bacolod City.

Sponsored by: University of St. La Salle, NCCA, Benvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center, De La Salle University, and Negrence Studies Development Center

SUBMIT YOUR APPLICATION TO:

Dr. Gloria Fuentes
Asst. Vice President for Academic Affairs Office
University of St. La Salle
La Salle Avenue, Bacolod City

For inquiries, email:
glofuentes2003@usls.edu
glofuentes2003@yahoo.com

pba on truehoop

2007-12-14T19:30:00.000+08:00

Just posting to say that the PBA made it to TrueHoop.

Actually, the article's about former Alaska import Rosell Ellis. And while I do agree with the PBA's over-the-top commercialism, di ko naman trip 'yung pagkakadepict ni Rafe Bartholomew sa liga ng bayan-- he made it look as if guys in the PBA don't play hard, or don't have the skills to get payed to play ball.

And about Ellis, read this excerpt from Bartholomew's article:

On defense, Ellis grew tired of watching Talk 'N Text guard Mac-Mac Cardona blow past Alaska's flat-footed defenders, so Ellis waved off his teammates and manned up on Cardona himself, forcing the speedy guard to heave an impossible turnaround from 19 feet. But when the miss caromed off the rim, Ellis' teammates let an opposing forward grab the offensive rebound and score on a put-back.

Sa article, parang kinukupal ni Ellis 'yung teammates niya. In this particular play, however, he proved why he never made it to the NBA: you can't blame your teammates for not grabbing the defensive board kung gago kang binantayan mo 'yung hindi mo dapat bantayan, hinabol mo sa perimeter, kaya nagkulang ng rerebound sa ilalim. Kasalanan niya 'yun.

Anyway, nakakatuwa lang talaga na umabot ang PBA sa TrueHoop. Sa'n ka pa, di ba?

sarap bumasket

2007-12-08T16:39:00.000+08:00

I know I promised never to write about basketball here again, but last night, after the regular Friday night basketball game-- well, actually, after the 8 bottles of beer that came after the game-- someone muttered "Gagu, ang sarap bumasket," and everyone let out a sigh.

It isn't really difficult to appreciate the sentimentality, though, once you realize that this is our last pick-up game for the year. (For some reason, the barangay hall ran out of receipts. They won't let anyone play without a reservation, and they're not letting anyone reserve the court without an official receipt.) And we've been playing for-- I don't know, seven, eight years? Since counter strike was the official "laro ng college student na pumapatay ng oras." Eight years, man, and still after every Friday midnight you'd find us stroking jumpshots to an imaginary hoop while walking away from the court.

Lately we've added another interesting ritual to our Friday night pick-up games; after taking off our shoes and changing into clean shirts, we head off to the stretch of carinderias under the overpass, just across Ateneo's gate 3, and settle in for a bottle or two, or three, or as last night went, eight. Eight for me and seven for everyone else. There we'd talk about our girlfriends, jobs, fuck-ups funny or otherwise, and of course, basketball. We'd talk about the ABL team, our NBA fantasy leagues, and little nuances that we need to do, or stop doing, in order to improve our game.

Last night we-- Allan and I, mostly-- had a debate on whether you should pass to the person or to a space. You see, I love getting the ball at midpost, stepping out a little and facing up to find cutters or shooters sliding to the opposite corner. I just love passing from the elbow. Once in a while I find a great finisher swooping baseline. Or I see a defender sagging a little too much (everyone plays zone in pick-up games,) and spot a good shooter cross-court. Sometimes, though, there's an especially alert defender who steps in front for a steal. Or I get a little too daring and pass to crowded spot. Or a teammate isn't looking and the ball just bounces lazily out of bounds. And so a turnover.

Allan says that I should pass to the person who's set to receive the ball. The receiver, he says, should get it as effortlessly as he possibly can. Of course when swinging the ball, when everyone's static, you pass to the person. But when it comes to cutters, I say you spot a space and let your teammate get the ball while in stride.

He's the point guard, though, so he definitely knows what he's talking about. But I got my passing philophy from Javie, who happens to be a coach with Ateneo's high school basketball program. He says, "Hayaan mong habulin ng kakampi mo 'yung bola." And my passing's not so bad, if I may say so. So Allan can pass to people all he wants, but me, I'm going to spot angles and spaces.

From this little debate we got to talking about how the wingmen and guards in the team need to move without the ball. Too often I have to shout "Cutter! Cutter!" after getting the ball on the elbow. After the entry pass, everyone phases out, presumably to give me more room to operate in the post. But I'm not really a great offensive option in that sense-- I'm not so quick and I don't jump so high, and I'm a bit short for my position (I play center-forward). When I do score it's by barrelling through my opponent, or backing him down till I get close enough to the hoop. Sometimes the defender is a bit too eager and I catch him with a pump-fake, or he gives me too much space and I just shoot the jumper. I'm not trying to be modest here; I know I can score, at least from time to time-- if I catch the defense sleeping, or if we're playing against people like us: fan boys, guys who have come to terms with the fact that the furthest we can come in terms of our basketball dreams is the neighborhood liga or the university's alumni basketball league. It's just that I don't enjoy putting the ball in the hoop it as much as I enjoy having someone put it there for me. Like, I enjoy opening a bottle of beer, but of course I like it better when someone does it for me.

Or maybe that was a bad analogy. Thing is, I like seeing easy lay-ups better than I like seeing fancy, acrobatic shots, or awkward power moves. I like the feel of the ball as it leaves my hands, not as I stroke a 16-footer, but as I look away for a bullet pass. I like pointing towards a teammate, and him pointing back at me, after a made basket; I like the sudden yells of "nice pass!" or "nice cut!" by the barangay tanods in Park 9, their arms draped over the metallic fence as they watch a motley crew of law students, engineers, call center agents and a freelance writer sweating it out on a Friday night, when less basketball-crazed twenty-somethings would be out drinking.

Passing aside, Ken says I need to get the zone to respect me to open up our shooters. I need to be more aggressive going to the basket. And he's right. Look to pass first, but when the pass isn't there, go for the kill. I'll keep that in mind once the ABL season starts.

Ken, by the way, was in the running for MVP last season. Had we won the Finals, he would've gotten another sweet trophy to top the championship off. When our jumpshots aren't falling, and we're all out of sync, Ken puts his head down and just goes to the basket-- aggressively, as per his advice-- and gets to the free throw line. But he needs to get some pump-fakes in his game, Allan says, and I agree. Getting to the stripe is fine, but getting an easy lay-up after a sweet move is even better.

So earlier we talked about a lot of these things. And now I thought of putting up a stupid blog post about it. And I don't know why. And now I've run out of things to say, or maybe I've lost steam, and this has become a crappy stupid blog post. Fuck it. Wala lang. Basta, sarap bumasket.

Stephen Dunn

2007-12-03T23:45:00.000+08:00

Suicides

It's usually a flirtation with Plath or Sexton or Berryman, but of my many students who've written about suicide, two have actually done it. After the second, years ago, I decided never to try to improve such a poem. We discuss it privately. I say, Don't do it. I say, Make an appointment with a counselor. Meanwhile, for myself, I've thought: how sensible. When my body becomes someone else's chore, when the mind fogs and the days lengthen and I'm unable to transform suffering into one of the higher pleasures, I hope to have the courage. Isn't there a curious elegance in how one moment passes into another? And won't it be easy to assume I'm dead already? But say a wise nurse, sensing my mood, shows me the tattoo on her breast. And a wise friend reminds me that the right solution is rarely the only one. I can imagine the lovely tactics of those who care. Rehearsals, postponements.

*

Funerals

No right way to feel. Pure grief perhaps if the death was sudden and your child's. But if a parent is lying there and you're no longer a child, likely that sadness is mixing with relief. Perhaps there's even a small corner of freedom, in which you find yourself making plans. When my brother wept at grandmother's funeral, I drifted back to when Anthony Salvo hit him with a rock. "I'll get you dickface, I'll get you dickface," he kept repeating through his tears. Once I caught myself thinking about baseball. Another time, as the coffin was lowered, I recalled that a group of larks is called an exaltation. And who hasn't imagined his own dark day, even his own eulogy, and what friend might deliver it, and the exact quavering of his voice.

balita + tula + salin

2007-11-28T01:23:00.000+08:00

1.

Galing ako sa isang miting kanina sa Makati, para sa isang raket. Gutom na gutom ako-- muntik na kasi akong ma-late sa miting dahil tinanghali ako ng gising, kaya hindi na ako kumain ng lunch. At inabot ako ng rush hour at ulan pauwi, pero may mga linyang tumatakbo sa dila at ulo ko noong nasa bus ako, at pagdating sa bahay ang tanging tumakbo sa isip ko e "Putangina kailangan kong isulat ito, dahil pag nakalimutan ko 'to mababaliw ako."

Galing 'yung linya sa isang ka-raket na nagsabing "E hindi naman kasi puwedeng gawing maganda ang salitang sewage pipe, e." Oo nga naman may punto siya (dahil copy nga naman para sa isang brochure ng bagong subdivision ang ipinapagawa sa akin,) pero sa biyahe pauwi nagsimula ang tulang ito, at natapos ang unang draft kaninang bago ako bumiyahe uling pa-Katipunan para bumasketbol (mukhang magta-twice a week na ang basketbol para magpakundisyon sa darating na ABL season,) at natapos ang ikalawang draft ngayon lang, matapos akong tulungan ni Margie (through ym) na mag-isip ng pamagat, at ni Waps (ym din) na mag-revise-revise nang onti. Malamang magagalaw pa ito ng maraming beses. Pero siguro nadadala lang ako ng galak sa momentum ko sa pagtatrabaho nitong huling ilang araw.

Oyayi
Mikael de Lara Co

There was a hole in the ground.
There was a sewage pipe
and all around it flowers bloomed
like little girls peering out the window
of a plywood shack, little girls with diamonds
for eyes and nectar in their fragile bodies,
little girls with rice on their chins
peering into the dawn, straining to hear
the distant hum of motorcycles. It was
lovely. Lovely like a pre-Hispanic statue,
like the wavy script carved on the belly
of a many-titted brown goddess. Lovelier
had the rains come, had washed away
the carcasses of rats and the bitten-on butts
of cigarettes and plastic bottles torn apart
by hungry cats. What music they made,
the flies with their buzzing wings, the dogs
growling at the site of a half-eaten piece
of wood, a gnawed-on cardboard box. What music
the creaking of rusty hinges. Like old accordions,
only older. Like clamshell wind chimes only
not wind chimes. O lizards with playful,
immortal tails, o sparrows perched atop
electric posts, atop telephone lines, o city
with your streets afire with the ghosts
of trees, lovely city of grime, o lovely city
I dream to see flowers leap out from where
the first drops of milk from the breasts
of a fat goddess fell on. O angry fat goddess
with bleeding nipples, I pine for your wailing
lullabyes, I dream of petals and rain, of wet
asphalt swelling with the light of many moons.
O lovely, lovely city I dream only
that the lights go out and Mebuyan drag
her limp milkless body from her cave
and gaze at you. Gaze at you
as a mother would. Not with loathing,
but with compassion. With awe.

2.

Sira pala ang celphone ko. Ipapaayos ko bukas. Kung itineks mo ako kanina at hindi kita nasagot, pasensiya na. Teks ka na lang uli bukas.

3.

Noong isang gabi, nagpasalin si Vlad ng ilan niyang akda. Well, hindi ilan-- marami, sa totoo lang. Pero binanatan ko agad ang dalawa (putsa grabe ang bilis ng pagkabanat nito, napatingin nga ako sa kamay ko pagkatapos, mga 30 minutes 'yung dalawa na!,) at ipapaskil ko ang isa dito ngayon, kasama ang orihinal. Hindi ako nagpaalam kay Vlad dahil wala nga akong celphone, pero sigurado naman akong hindi siya mababadtrip.

Isang Araw ng Pamamalikmata
Vladimeir B. Gonzales

Isang karaniwang araw sa isang karaniwang unibersidad, sa isang pangkaraniwang klase, sa isang pangkaraniwang silid-aralan, bumisita ang isang Salamangkero. Salamangkero, iyon ang pagpapakilala niya sa sarili niya, pero walang sinuman sa loob ng pangkaraniwang silid-aralan ang naniwala sa kanyang pagpapakilala. Sa totoo lang, wala siyang espesyal na pisikalidad na magpapatotoong siya'y may kung anong mahika. At sa totoo lang, wala naman talagang pumapansin sa kanya, walang gustong makinig. Ang mahika'y isang malayong konsepto na para sa mga taong nasa silid, bukod pa sa nakalipas na ang maraming oras ng paglalabas-pasok sa napakaraming mga klase't pagod na ang lahat para makinig o manood sa mga bagay na wala silang interes. Kung di pa naawa/ naintriga ang guro'y hindi na pinapasok ang bisita.

"Kumbinsihin mo kami." Masungit ang tono ng isang estudyante. Tumango-tango ang guro't mga kamag-aral.

Pinapikit ng salamangkero ang kanyang mga tagapanood. Pinapikit, ipinataboy ang liwanag sa mga mapanuring mata. Lumipas ang ilang segundo.

"Ngayon, kayo'y dumilat." Malakas ang tinig-panggulat ng salamangkero. Dumilat ang lahat.

"Masdan ninyo, naglaho na mula sa mundo natin ang mga kaeskuwela ninyo."

Tumingin-tingin sa paligid ang mga tagapanood. Pilit na tinandaan kung sino ang kanilang nasa kanan, kaliwa, harap, likod. Binalasa ng guro ang kanyang index cards, siniyasat ang listahan ng mga pangalan. Tila parang walang nawawala, parang wala namang pagbabago. Nagsisimula pa lang pumasok ang Hulyo, hindi pa kabisado ng bawat isa ang hubog ng mukha, amoy, pananalita't porma ng kani-kanilang mga kasama. Pero nakasisiguro sila, walang sinumang kaibigan o kakilala ang nawala, walang anumang maliit na bakas ng pagbabago. Magkakasama pa rin sila't isang malaking istorbo, isang malaking panloloko ang pag-aabang na makumbinsi ng bisitang Salamangkero.

"Nasasayang lang ang aming araw," ang sabi ng isa.

"Walang pinag-iba sa napakaraming mga manloloko," dagdag pa ng isa.

"Kung nagpatuloy na lang tayo sa ating leksyon, sana'y may natutunan pa tayo."

Nauubos na ang pasensya ng mga tagapanood. Sumesenyas na sa kanyang relo ang guro. Muli, nakiusap ang salamangkero, isang sandaling pagpikit, at maipapakita niya, maipapamalas ng kanyang mahika ang totoo.

"Narito," ang sigaw ng salamangkero pagkatapos ipabukas ang mga mata ng kanyang mga tagapanood, "narito ang inyong ama, ina, nobyo, nobya, asawa, kaibigan, kapatid, anak, narito ang lahat ng taong pinakaiingatan ninyo sa inyong mga kaloob-looban!"

Tatlong inuuod na katawan ang gumulat sa guro't mga estudyante. Tatlong katawang batbat ng pagkaagnas. Tatlong piraso ng lamang sa pagkabulok ay wala nang pagkakakilanlan. Ang kataka-taka, walang anumang bakas ng nakasusukang alingasaw, walang tanda ng anumang baho ang mga nakatayong bangkay. Ang pagkagulat ay napalitan ng pagkainis, ng pag-uusisa.

"Aba, sino naman ang mga ito? Wala sa wangis nila ang kahit na sinong kakilala ko!"

"Walang amoy, wala na ring mata, ilong, wala nang hubog ang katawan! Baka halimaw o demonyo!"

"Oo, demonyo! Isang ilusyon! Isang panloloko!"

Biglang naglaho ang Salamangkero, kasama ng tatlong katawang inuuod. Kasabay ng kanilang pagkawala ang paglalaho ng kanilang alaala mula sa isip ng guro't mga mag-aaral. Nagpatuloy ang klase sa kanilang leksyon, nagpatuloy sa pag-usad sa kanilang araw. Isang pangkaraniwang araw, isang mahaba, nakababagot, isang paulit-ulit na karaniwang araw. Samantala, sa isang tagong lugar sa unibersidad, nabuwal ang isang matandang puno. Walang sinumang nakarinig sa pagbagsak, walang sinumang nakakita ng pagkakalaglag.

*

A Day of Imagining
Vladimeir B. Gonzales

Once, on a usual day in a usual university, inside a usual classroom, a Sorcerer paid a visit. Sorcerer—that was what he called himself, but none inside the usual classroom believed him. In all truth, looking at him, none would think that he was indeed a sorcerer. In all truth, no one paid him any attention, no one wanted to listen. Magic was so foreign a concept for those inside the classroom, and they had all had a long day, had all spent many hours going in and out of classrooms to listen to things that did not interest them in the slightest. If the professor had not felt pity, or had not been intrigued, he would not have let the sorcerer in.

“Convince us,” said a student, snobbishly. The professor and the rest of his students nodded in agreement.

The sorcerer asked his audience to close their eyes, to chase away the light from their critical eyes. A few seconds passed.

“Now open your eyes.” The sorcerer spoke in a loud, startling voice. Everyone opened their eyes.

“Look, your classmates have vanished from this world.”

His audience, each of them, looked around. They tried to remember who had been to their right, their left, who had been in front of them or behind them. The professor shuffled his class cards, pored over the list bearing the students’ names. It seemed as if no one had gone, that nothing had changed. It was the beginning of July and the semester had just started, they had yet to memorize each other’s faces, smells, the way each other spoke or dressed. But they were all sure that no friend or classmate had vanished, and there was not the slightest hint of change in the classroom. They were all still together, and to wait for this visiting Sorcerer to convince them was a great waste of time, a great farce.

“You just wasted our time,” said a student.

“You’re just like every other con-man we’ve ever met,” said another.

“If we had just went on with the lecture, we could have learned something useful.”

The audience lost their patience. The professor began to tap on his wristwatch. Again, the Sorcerer pleaded for another chance, another momentary closing of eyes, and he would be able to show them, his magic would be able to open their eyes to the truth.

“Here,” the sorcerer shouted after asking his audience to open their eyes, “here are your fathers, mothers, lovers, spouses, friends, siblings, here is everyone that you have ever held dear!”

The professor and his students were startled by the three rotting bodies standing in front of them. Three bodies crawling with worms. Three bodies that have so decomposed that one would not know what to make of them, who they are. What confused them more was that no stench pervaded the classroom, not even a whiff of decay came from the upright carcasses. Their surprise gave way to frustration, before they took a closer look.

“But who are these people? They don’t look like anyone I know!”

“No stench, no eyes, noses, no form to the way they stand! Monsters, maybe, or demons!”

“Yes, demons! An illusion! A sham!”

The Sorcerer suddenly vanished with the three rotting bodies. He took with him all memory of his visit from the minds of the professor and his students. The students went on with their lessons as the day trudged along. Meanwhile, in some hidden part of the university, an old tree was tumbling down. No one heard a sound. No one saw it fall.

trans. Mikael de Lara Co

4.

Hindi na ako marunong mag-blog.

kapag wala ka nang maipost...

2007-11-27T05:07:00.000+08:00

Mag-post ka ng tula ng iba.

Mula sa isang lumang isyu ng Shampoo Poetry online:

Saginaw Song
Tom Laverty

So it seems that my premonition has come to an end. All that I remember of my father has
gone away with my memory of the rains of childhood. All of his whiskey and sad country
songs have their place in my past. But even for this, I’m not a changed man. The smell of his
breath and fingers, old spice with a cigarette and whiskey, have been replaced with the curry
and incense of this motel room. Perhaps I never knew him. Perhaps he never knew me.
Maybe we never knew ourselves and the days we shared were myths.

With schoolmates, I caught ditch-frogs under the Michigan willows. And these, my
childhood friends, have all died, and their ghosts linger like pale shadows in the thicket
surrounding the gates of my village. When we were seven a flood filled the cornfield behind
my mother’s house. We made boats from the dead trees and sailed from one end of the field
to the other. With the dying cornstalks and cotton sheets we made banners and sails. The
wind told us where to go, but we always landed on the shore, again. Again, and again we
landed on the shore. And the sun went down, and we would walk home.

In the morning the sun would rise through the trees and the scatter-bugs would make
little constellations in the purple sky. It was something we looked forward to without
knowing. The quiet humming of these bugs in the morning, the afternoon ditch-frogs, the
smell of pork sandwiches in the evening. Nothing could stop the summer from coming, or
the five of us from living amongst the gentle humidity of it. The summer lasted forever
when our hands were small. We did not know that the days ahead brought black skies, that
the constellations of flies would die in heaps, that the people we loved would die because
their hearts would stop beating.

From this motel room I will walk to the nearest bar where I will tell the nearest man that I
am in love with his girlfriend. And by his reaction I will live the rest of my life; with or
without my father or the setting of my childhood suns. I still remember the plum sun, the
Michigan willows, the hands of my mother beating tortillas flat against the kitchen table. I
remember them as if they are still happening, as if they never happened.

painom ka naman, pahipon ka naman, pakanton ka naman

2007-11-21T11:58:00.000+08:00

Kumusta? Painom ka naman.

Kaya lang naman talaga ako nag-post dahil gusto kong basahin ninyo ito. 'Yan ang blogger, potah. 'Yan ang blogger. 'Yun lang.

Rakenrol.

P.S. Nangunguna ako sa isa sa mga NBA Fantasy Leagues ko ngayon, pero medyo mababa ang FT% ko, kaya kung ka-liga kita at binabasa mo ito, willing akong bitawan si Marcus Camby at si LeBron James para sa dalawang Siberian Husky at isang pirasong tinapay.

P.P.S. Basahin pa ninyo 'yung ibang entry nu'ng nasa link, sobrang galing. At nakuha ko pala ang link na 'yan sa TrueHoop.

Many Feathers

2007-11-13T07:08:00.000+08:00

Many feathers. In the silence of many feathers.
- Robert Bly

Today my window spoke to me
in the language of leaves,
told me of gravity and the tired
hands of twilight day after day
pulling at the trees’ thousand fingers,
the trees with their lifetime of cycles,
the wind, its invisible wings.

I have seen things only words
will outlive, it said. But even words
kneel before the silence of feathers.
Once a poet peered inside the hollow
of a tree and discovered words,
and now I steal from him, repeat
his curved consonants, the illusion
of presence. In the secret,
dim light I run my hands over
the carcass of some dead creature
he might have seen
still heaving its last sighs.

A window knows nothing
of the sorrows of speech,
the weight of things breaking
as wind carries them away
from tongue. Darkness
moves against darkness,
night dresses its sleepy body
in shadows, whispers its stories,
and my window speaks
what it sees. While I see
only what is spoken:

A poet peers inside a tree and sees
carvings across the corridors of a temple.
I walk down a temple’s corridors
and see the silhouette of a crow,
many feathers, a door
swinging idly in its jamb. I see
wide windows and leaves fluttering
in their furtive language. Leave
me be, then, so that I may speak,
and you may see. The curtains are drawn,
and so let the sounds call forth things,
and let them break, let their shards
wound our ears.
Let all things broken
heal as they please.

nga pala

2007-10-10T17:48:00.000+08:00

Nga pala, nagko-contribute akong madalas sa isang libreng magasin/broadsheet. Baka narinig na ninyo ang Transit. Makikita siya sa mga kapihan-- Figaro yata, madalas, sa mga 7-Eleven, sa mga Fitness First. Kuha lang kayo ng kopya kasi nga libre.

Ayun. Ngayong Miyerkules (kanina) lumabas ang feature ko sa Up Dharma Down. Kung hahalughugin ang archives ng site, makikita rin ang mga isinulat ko tungkol kina Toti Dalmacion at Auraeus Solito.

Rakenrol. Basa lang nang basa.

pagbati

2007-09-28T01:11:00.001+08:00

Isang taimtim na pagbati kina Twinkle at Emong sa pagkakapanalo nila sa Maningning! Ano, mga bok, ihahanda na ba namin ang mga atay namin?

At, nga pala, kung gusto ninyong malaman kung paanong hindi dapat umasta ang talunan, silipin ninyo ito. (Pakiusap lang.) May comment ako diyan, na maganda ring mabasa ninyo. 'Yung hirit tungkol sa pormalistang nakababad sa pormalin, nanggaling sa isa sa mga hirit nu'ng may-ari ng blog.

Ayan. Muli, congrats kina Twinkle de los Reyes at Emong de Borja. Rakenrol.