Sunday, April 29

Safe-keeping.

Apologize for whirlwind of late. Things had, I think, calmed down after the initial crescendo. Maybe plateaued? Stabilized? Definitions of an evening out. Hope not entirely accurate. Stuff:
  • Was planning to make a trip to nearby Booksale this afternoon and, really, just told self would lie down for calming few minutes when next thing, was being called for dinner. Swear; this heat not doing anything for lethargic spirit/body.
  • But Coincidence is whimsical fellow; while dozing off - mouth open, no doubt, unglamorous - books from Book Depository arrived. In mint, though monstrously late, condition. One book - Lore Segal's Shakespeare's Kitchen - like Jennifer Egan's A Visit from the Goon Squad, a set of nterconnected stories (or 'an exquisite tapestry' if bookfront annotation were to be trusted). V. excited to see bigger, well, tapestry in which The Reverse Bug (in my opinion, one of the most brilliantly conceptualized stories ever) is situated. Hope rest not letdown.
  • Finally finalized (huh?) itinerary of getaway with Om. Will start with Manila to Ormoc - a monstrous 28-hour bus ride (passing lovely San Juanico bridge), then ferry to Cebu City, then bus to Toledo, then ferry to San Carlos, then boat to Sipaway (staying a night or two to say hello again to Om's old yaya), then bus to Bacolod (staying a night or two to, I don't really know; we're sick and tired of Bacolod to be honest), then bus to Dumaguete to see Christian during second weekend of workshop, then ferry to Cagayan de Oro then bus to Iligan, and he, to Dapitan (actually, Om's supposed to head to Davao for Ateneo workshop but that had since been cruelly relocated to far-flung Katipunan Avenue - a trike away from where he lives), then from Iligan, ferry back to Bacolod to meet Christian for flight back to Manila.
  • That was a mouthful. Hope patience - not to mention money - will not run out.
  • Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there?
  • Last few weeks had been spent doing rakets and the occasional jinuman. Slightly sad that summer is about halfway done and have not written a single story in preparation for supposed thesis sem/year.  Have been stuck in this one story, and life, absurdly, actually took self to same point, as if leaving breadcrumbs to follow, but now finding it impossible / unfair to cannibalize material and lay it on paper. Hate sounding like am trying to be writerly or artsy (and also hate quoting Annie Dillard) - but it's true: the surest thing to lose a memory is to write it. For when you do, it is no longer yours, despite your most ardent claims to the contrary. And so will take a deep breath and keep it in, and will look Elsewhere.

Friday, April 27

Iligan.

19 out of 106 applicants qualified in this year's 19th Iligan National Writers Workshop (INWW) to be held on May 14-18, 2012 at the MSU-IIT and at the Elena Tower Inn, Iligan City.

Hosted by the MSU-IIT Office of the Vice Chancellor for Research & Extension,
this workshop is funded by the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA) and the MSU-IIT Office of the Chancellor.

The 15 writing fellows are funded by the NCCA while four of the writing fellows are funded by sponsors: Boy Abunda, and Ricardo Jorge S. Caluen, and Foundations: the Manuel E. Buenafe Writing Fellowship and the Bai Zaima Mamalinding Mother & Child Foundation, Inc..

The Jimmy Y. Balacuit, Sr. Literary Awards are likewise given to the most promising works by the writing fellows at the close of the workshop.

The writing fellows are:

Luzon
Tomas Agulto (Poetry, Filipino)
Marvin Einstein Sarmiento Mejaro (Fiction, Filipino)
Pia Montalvan (Fiction, Filipino)
Glenn L. Diaz (Fiction, English)
Phillip Y. Kimpo, Jr. (Fiction, English)

Visayas
Norman T. Darap (Fiction, Kiniray-a)
Jesus Catigan Insilada (Fiction, Kiniray-a)
Jessrel Escaran Gilbuena (Poetry, Cebuano)
Jenelyn Villegas Garcia (Poetry, Waray)
Francis Senolos (Poetry, Waray)
Aurea Lynne Geronimo (Play, Filipino)

Mindanao
Teomie Langamin Nale, Jr. (Poetry, Cebuano)
Jermafe Kae Angelo Prias (Poetry, English)
Sittie Urdoja G. Madale (Poetry, Maranao)
Anne Solon Senajon (Play, Cebuano)
Karlo Antonio Galay David (Play, Filipino)
Cheryl Love P. Sumagat (Play, Filipino)
Diandra-Ditma Aguam Macarambon (Fiction, English)
Iryne Ole Kaamino (Fiction, Cebuano)

The Evaluators:
Merlie M. Alunan, Nelia G. Balgoa, SPC Fernandez, Roger Garcia, Man Gervacio, Christine Godinez-Ortega, Tonton Daposala, Zola Gonzalez Macarambon, Phil Harold Mercurio, Raul Moldez, Maimona W. Magayoong and John Iremil Teodoro.

Panelists this year:
Merlie M. Alunan, Antonio R. Enriquez, Leoncio P. Deriada, SPC Fernandez, German V. Gervacio, J. Neil C. Garcia, John Iremil Teodoro, Macario D. Tiu, C Godinez-Ortega, and the keynote speaker, Victorio N. Sugbo.

Sunday, April 22

--

Sapagkat magnanakaw ng danas ang mga salita. Sapagkat hindi kailanman sasapat. Hindi maisusulat ang gabing iyon. Upang manatiling akin, at iyo, at atin. Tanging atin.

Sunday, April 15

--

Ang Ibig Sabihin ng Lungkot

Tanda ko ang mabilis-mabagal na pag-ulan ng bulak sa Abril 
kasabay ng iyong tagubilin: “Ang susi ay nasa ilalim lamang 
ng marungis na paso sa ikatlong baitang.” Sa nais tuntunin 
ng mga ligaw na bulak sa hangin, animo’y walang bigat 
ang katawan, walang grabidad ang nahamugang lupain. 
Ano ang kakatwang kahulugan ng paglipad ng bulak 
kung hindi ang kawalan nito ng pakpak? Kung hindi 
ang sandaling kalayaan mula sa napipintong paglapag. 
Sa ngayon, kung kailan nakapinid ang mga daan 
at paraan tungo sa iyo, ang mga pasilyo’t siwang 
na dati’y daluyan ng mga hiwatig na ngayo'y iwinaglit 
sa hangin, tulad mo, tulad natin, mahal, saan ang daan 
tungo sa nakaraan? Ano ang silbi ng malalamyang kumpas
ng bulak sa malaon nang ikinandadong pintuan?

Monday, April 9

Story.

Heard from Charles that this came out in Graphic this week (Jesus on the cover. #afreyd).

Everything is about mothers and chickens
 
I.

When she agreed to a photo shoot, she had wanted to show off her eight-month baby bump, to immortalize her figure in its maternal aplomb. Eternally optimistic, she imagined looking at the picture as a frail 80-year-old beaming at her good fortune in having bore this child, who by then would have been in his 50s and, like her, happy. So when two weeks hence she woke up with the sheets – 300 thread count and silken ivory – beneath her crisscrossed with blood, a startled scream set off a blur of events that culminated in this quiet morning ten short days later. The sheets had since been handwashed and were immaculate again, and in the living room, the package containing the picture sat atop the mahogany center table, still unwrapped, the golden-brown twine still neatly holding the wrapping in place, terminating in a careful ribbon.
Her tummy was flat now, and as they lay in bed, her husband’s hands noticeably avoided grazing it, choosing instead to part the curtain of her hair, to cup the still concave of her chin. I’m going to do a quick run to the grocery, so I can make Hainanese chicken. That’s your favorite, remember? Then he turned to her, to put forth his earnestness. I need you to stay here and wait until I come back, OK?
OK.
She hasn’t been eating right since coming home from the hospital, he noted glumly upon waking up, upon seeing that she, too, was awake, maybe had been awake for hours. For a few minutes, they both noiselessly stared at the ceiling of their bedroom, tinged yellow by the bedside lamp. Her hands sat atop her deflated tummy, a calm outline that under the soft, steady glow registered within him an unrest he couldn’t quite identify. He, too, loved the child, surely, the possibility of it growing up into a boy, then a young man, and so on. But as yet he could not mourn adequately, his mind, in idle moments, still drifting back to that 6 o’clock scream, the blood-stained sheets, his wife’s face ashen with terror. He remembered honking his horn, fruitless against the callous morning traffic that had refused to part.
The car door slammed now and the engine roared to life.
In his mind, his wife was morose, understandably, but not at risk. He had no way of knowing, slowing down now for the final hump before the wooden beam that ascended at his car’s approach, that she rose from the bed and used her feet to look for her fluffy slippers. He honked hello to the saluting security guard just as she walked toward the living room, her fatigued eyes newly lucid, her step now devoid of their erstwhile weight. Daintily, she sat on the couch, reached for the package on the table. She ripped the surprisingly thick brown paper that revealed, in slow but broad strokes, a white box. He had just arrived at the grocery store’s parking lot, was reversing into a freshly-vacated slot, when she saw a small card on the box’s top-right corner. Her fingers gently flicked it open. She smiled at the photographer’s nice little gesture. Congratulations! May it be the first of many! it said, in elegant woman’s calligraphy that may have been his wife’s or eldest daughter’s.
After tossing the zipped bag of chicken thighs and breasts to his basket, he smiled at the nice lady behind the counter. He paid for everything then hauled the two bagfuls to the backseat of his car.
In 15 minutes, he was backing in their driveway, bracing himself. An unduly long stop at an intersection had earlier shoved in his mind dreary scenarios, and he recalled reading about an American woman who, after giving birth to a healthy boy, leaped from her 16th-story apartment in Wisconsin. A quick comparison with his wife’s case made him eagerly bear down on the gas pedal then, and he now rushed to the door, expecting something along the lines of upturned furniture, broken plates, maybe even a body lifelessly hanging from an extension cord, tied to a stolid ceiling fan blade.
When he pushed the door open, the sight that welcomed him was his wife’s pearly whites, arranged in a broad smile that reminded him of his own mom’s inordinately big teeth. You like it, honey? It took a while before he figured out her meaning. In the living room’s most prominent wall, between the two Amorsolo nude’s from his mother-in-law’s collection, hanged his wife’s latest portrait: a black and white photo of her limned profile; her face slightly bowed, her lips on the verge of a smile, her right hand atop the swell in her belly, where much of the sparse light bounced.

II.

She knew, from that hunch she always trusted, that there was something wrong with this man. She could tell something was amiss, despite his ready smile and the more than perfunctory Thank you as she handed him his order. Perhaps it was the sunken shoulders, or the rapid blinking, or the jumpiness so rare on Sunday morning.
But she should stop. This mad fascination to gawk at the lives of other people, to speculate on their happiness, or sadness, is something God did not approve of, she recalled her mother-in-law as saying.
In just over two hours, more than 30 kilos of chicken had passed under her able hands. The pile of drumsticks, always in demand, had to be restacked. She called the attention of the man in charge of that heap, and he nodded. It was 11 in the morning, and the influx of families was calming, as usual.
At 5 p.m., she smiled at the intern who would take her place at the station until the grocery closed at 9. It was an uneventful day: fat, rowdy kids who played with the thongs and old geezers who thought half a kilo of gizzard meant they could order her around. She had long gotten used to it, and she now stretched the rim of her bag for the security guard to check. There’s a piece of chicken neck there somewhere, she joked.
She hailed a jeepney, got on, and sat on the right side, near the driver.
Her 19-year-old daughter was five months pregnant, she was to find out only that night. She had her suspicions (from that hunch she always trusted), but that girl had always slept like a log for days and wore oversized shirts that hid her stomach. When she got home, her shirt smelling of raw meat and animal blood, she found their tiny living room flooded with supplications: daisies, a fruit basket, and – from an oily teenager barely taller than her – a purportedly ardent desire to marry her only daughter. She called her husband, noting that it was just about lunchtime in Muscat. Calmer, she was about to hang up when she realized she was crying and laughing at the same time.
Her mother-in-law had been very generous with her guttural I told you so's and had refused to join them in the living room. In between the niceties and the inquiries as to the whereabouts of this errant boy’s parents, she shot her daughter a look that she hoped communicated her simultaneous rage and despair. The night was too much, just too much.
But she had just stepped out of the gate for some fresh air when she saw a woman walking toward her from across the narrow street. A white towel was draped around her shoulders, advertising a stalled plan to bathe. She knew this woman, and the sheepish glint she got in her eyes at the prospect of titillating gossip. She now nudged her and asked who that boy was; he who came with her daughter that afternoon and unloaded stuff from the tiny sedan now parked by a nearby sari-sari store. She saw how lowly this form of entertainment was, but her husband, after listening to her while he chewed on stale sardines-dipped bread, had told her to call back after a few hours, and she felt she needed an outlet.
And so she told this rabid gossiper the story, linking it with her own tale of having her firstborn at 21. Maybe it ran in the family? There was, from both women, the requisite outburst about this generation’s rashness and lack of faith, and she was just saying good night when her mother-in-law pushed the gate open and joined them. After an hour of stale parenting advice, alongside a quick but thorough enumeration of the loose women in their street, she excused herself. I think I’ll talk to my daughter now. As a parting anecdote, she was told that the young pharmacist who lived three houses down had a strange way of making her six-month old go to sleep. On particularly stressful nights, when she wished to sleep and the boy did not, she would gently pinch a supple thigh – just half an inch of nubile skin – to intentionally make him cry. It worked all the time.
When she got to the living room, the boy was holding the still quivering hands of her daughter, whose figure, now that she had time to scrutinize, was indeed plumper than usual. He rose when she entered, letting go of the hands in an instant. He would go now, he said, and come back next Sunday, with his parents. She nodded, and a flash of terror erupted in her daughter’s eyes. The now empty fists tightly curled.
As they heard the gate creaked close, mother sat beside daughter, their loaded breathing strangely in unison. In this quiet aftermath – the daisies a degree or so closer to the ground, the fruits untouched under the shiny yellow plastic wrap – she asked her, Have you eaten? Her daughter shook her head, and she thought of chicken: its many parts, the many ways to cook it, and how she is tired from being around them all day long.

III.

When she was six, she lived in a remote seaside barrio two hours away from the provincial capital (which itself is seven hours away by land from Manila). The women watched over the kids, and the men fished. That year, a coal power plant was built in the middle of the sea, and she saw, framed by the forest-like legs of the adults, the legions of trucks and boats that hauled steel and cement day in and day out. Once erected, the facility gave a soft whirring sound, endless like the crashing of waves, and a single yellow light, perched atop the smokestack, became a familiar sight in what used to be total darkness. His brother, who was studying then at a state college in the city and came home during the weekends, would often take her by the shore. Together they’d watch this light briefly illuminate the sea or, if it was low tide, the many bent bodies collecting snails and crabs from the waterlogged plain.
Years later, fair-skinned, foreign-looking men in suits knocked on their door and told his father, who was barangay chairman, of their plans to restore the town’s decimated mangrove forest. Could he get some men to help them? And so the boats and nets were briefly abandoned for propagules – mangrove seedlings – that had to be bought all the way from a province five hours away. The task, from acquisition to the actual planting, made his father scarce around the house, but her mother for some reason had never been happier. Fried chicken, once an opulence that only appeared on birthdays and Christmas, was served one Saturday night, and the three of them – she, her mother, and her brother – had just finished eating when a curious craving for ice cream struck her mother. She fished a bill from her pocket and sent her off.
She closed the door gently upon going out.
The town’s only ice cream parlor was near the plaza. It was a 30-minute walk away, and she was already halfway there (having just passed the church with the towering green-ivory spires) when she realized she had forgotten to ask which flavor her mother wanted. Afraid to make a wrong choice, she hesitantly turned around and retraced her steps. A ringing silence welcomed her home, the television and all the lights switched off except in the bedroom where everyone slept. She was already 13 then; she understood things – once, a boy from school touched her there and a split-second jolt ran down her gut – and so she could ascertain what her mother must be feeling. Her mother, whose legs were spread bare and whose lips quivered ajar. It was, she noiselessly assumed, her brother’s doing; why else would his hand be where it was?
This scene flashed in her mind now, three decades later, as she tried to look anywhere but her son’s face, fidgeting as it was under the white light of her office. Are you and Pa free on Sunday? Without thinking, she reached for her phone, clicked on the calendar, and went to Sunday. There’s brunch with a good friend at 10am, but other than that (and the usual plans to catch up on sleep), the day was all clear. And so she nodded.
She may have even smiled, although in truth the grin meant to shrug off a rogue question, namely, What happened, son? this unsaid inquiry that in hindsight may have brought on the impure reminiscence in the first place.
At least this piece of news – and the accompanying memory – offered a fringe benefit: as her son’s footsteps now fade toward the elevator landing, she put her interlaced hands atop the wide table. She thought about progress. How she had forced her legs to sprint from the rustling house that fateful night, how she took her time on her way back, and how her mother and brother complained but still gamely ate the watery chocolate ice cream. She made a silent vow to herself that night before sleeping. After graduating from college, she traveled two hours away to the provincial capital and another seven, in a rickety bus, to Manila. When she applied at the head office of the Japanese firm that owned the power plant, her many precious anecdotes about her childhood barrio charmed the bosses and landed her the job, and over the next 20 years, she negotiated the corporate ladder with a hunger that her city-bred counterparts lacked.
This was progress: the proud ability of respite-taking. She now walked down the carpeted hallway of her department, wordlessly, past her secretary’s table, past the cubicles where heads randomly bobbed, past the reception desk. She pressed Down, to get to the basement parking lot. She was not in the mood for fried chicken.

Thursday, April 5

Plans.

If my computations are correct, in the next eight months prior to thesis sem (pegged at the second of AY 2012-13, fingers crossed), I will need to write approximately 133.33 words a day in order to have a decent draft by the beginning of the sem. Now not to be mayabang, but that is as doable as prostitutes during payday. Used to write (1) eight 300-word articles about Grey's Anatomy and other TV shows everyday, (2) enough content to fill 6 lifestyle pages every week, and (3) 40-page paper for school every end of sem, so, really, ought to be a piece of cake.

Only nigger in the woodpile is (1) not sure if concept/theme will fly; (2) there will surely be days and weeks when will be in no mood to write, such as now, or; (3) days when will not be able to write owing to other required writing, whether professionally or extra-curricularly; and, last but perhaps most important, (4) not sure if want to finish MA at all.

Maybe will explain last item. During last year's (belated) kabibohan spurt, have gotten in touch with some people for help re: grad school applications abroad. Somehow gotten the impression that (1) it is helpful to "shore up" own sense of "intention and voice" first before jumping into the "often narcistically brutal" arena of MFA programs in the US lest you "capitulate to the political pressure and institutional style" of a program, and (2) finishing your MA here might actually jeopardize your chances.

Will admit that the desire to finish MA is, well, largely, to see it finished. Like an item on a tick box or a bucket list (note to self: your reason for submitting to Free Press, etc, and applying to Silliman, etc, used to be similar, but if last few weeks' mad dash for deadlines was any indication, you've clearly gone overboard with this canon-canon aspirations, G. Insatiable comes to mind). Always, always praying for guidance in this regard. That, or sobering morning conversations in the middle of Los BaƱos wilderness.


Good morning, Christian! (Photo by Alaysa E.)

I always need to be reminded why I do this, why it has to be done, and done well. And so, no number of words please; just stories.