Versions of violence

Chances.

2012-02-21T03:21:00.002-08:00

Thank you, Spindle.

Signs.

2012-02-15T10:48:00.000-08:00

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of
the next moment.

You Who Never Arrived
Rainer Maria Rilke

How did I spend my Valentine's Day, dear reader? I will tell you. To make sure the poems in the Collegian's mush issue were properly formatted and laid out (for there is no greater ire than from a poet with erroneously cut and indented lines), I stayed the night at the office. I woke up at around 8, and went down to buy something to munch on. I wasn't really hungry since we had food delivered at around 4; I had a bottle of C2 (apple) and Skyflakes. I sat on the stone bench in front of Vinzons for around 30 minutes, just watching the Early Morning People, wondering if I will ever belong to that group again. I went home at around noon and slept until 7 p.m., after which I decided to procrastinate (by watching cheerleading videos on YouTube, playing with Sophia, etc) on my poetics paper.

The above clip had been in loop the entire time, by the way, in solemn appreciation of, and perhaps surrender to, the day, because truth be told, while I still do crave, "I have given up trying / to recognize you in the surging wave of / the next moment."

I feel so terribly alone right now. And the fact that finishing a passable 4,000-word paper (and a column about Adele I almost titled "Mga Tala sa Pagtaba") did not in any way uplift my mood tells me this is probably more than the run-of-the-mill bout of sadness. Who was it who said that there was a way to tell if a man had been alone for a long time; in the way he walks, the way he looks at people. Well, I worry that I am starting to recognize it in my own languid movements, in stirring a cup of coffee, for instance, and clutching the cup's warm cheeks, cheeks that were perhaps "lost / from the start."

Age.

2012-02-10T03:17:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I have the presence of mind to consciously invoke memorializing. To say, Glenn, I want you to remember this. Stick it somewhere. Do not forget. This has happened / I made it happen in the following instances: 1) Eating empanada in Vigan's town plaza while watching skateboarding teenagers, 2) Traipsing along the rice terraces in Banaue half-naked after bathing in a hot spring, 3) Listening to Roger and Philline belt Separate Lives after bathing in a nice, little tub on a verdant mountainside in Bukidnon, 4) Walking around downtown Bacolod during sunset with my companion's arm around my shoulders, and 5) Riding a rickety Olongapo-bound bus from San Narciso in Zambales with a mountain in the horizon on a rainy Sunday.

I have no photos of these moments, but once summoned, I'd like to think I can I remember them.

Many years ago, I had a Valentine's Day date. We went to the UP Fair. We bought food and sat on the ground facing the stage. Bored with the performances, we walked around. He stepped on a barbecue stick. I brought him to the Red Cross tent, where he was given first aid. He gave me a book and told me to read it. I did; on page 100, scribbled in ugly guy penmanship, "To Glenn. A blog today, a novel tomorrow." The following day, I told him it wasn't working. I found out years later that he started working out because he thought I found him too skinny. He would send me pictures of him flexing his newfound biceps and pecs. Needless to say, I felt special.

There are those days. And there's today.

Submit!

2012-01-30T09:22:00.000-08:00

At a time when revolutions are born in cyberspace and global thought is summarized in hashtags, the artist is in limbo: empowered by a supposed democratization of culture but now rendered more placeless (useless?) than ever. And in the advent of a worldwide expression of rage against greed, who else but the artist must sound the alarm?

The Philippine Collegian, the official weekly student publication of UP Diliman, is now accepting submissions for its upcoming literary folio. Short fiction, poems, essays, and graphic fiction in English and Filipino are welcome. We are also accepting photographs and artworks.

Email your submissions as an attachment (.rtf for texts and .png or .jpeg for images, at least 300 dpi) with a short bionote to kulelitfolio@gmail.com or bring them to our office, Room 401 Vinzons Hall, UP Diliman. The deadline for submissions is March 15.

Marjo and I will be editing! With help from Jayson Fajarda and Caloy Piocos. Submit!

Updates.

2012-01-19T07:22:00.000-08:00

Stuff:

Just (b)reached 14,000-word mark on this thing I'm doing. Length-wise, this already satisfies requirement for fiction class, and it's only January (final portfolio due end of March). Bibo, Glenn, bibo. But it's good to know am doing this for personal reasons. That's good, I think. To have a project outside the (v. minimal) things on plate. Of course, will never go around saying, I am working on a novel, because that just reeks of ambition, something can't say I possess. And sounds pompous, too.
Why I Write / What I Write About Essay due next week. Think might be easy, as will involve mostly masturbatory shit (can be stream of consciousness mode and will be valid form). Although somehow dreading it too because do not have childhood epiphanies of the Oh my God, I want to be writer! variety. Do remember typing out journal entries in an old school typewriter all the time. Also, hope that token mention of Country will not be contrived.
Thinking about how stories take shape and direction. Can characters really "run away" and "have minds of their own" in manner of Frankenstein monster? Are they clearly formed already even before they act out the first gesture or utter the first line of dialogue? Or are they, from the beginning, already subsumed under a (subconscious) design in one's head, only taking shape as the story goes along?
Am wary of gutfeel-gutfeel mode in this manner because it is too easy.
Will be editing upcoming Kule literary folio. Watch out for call for submissions and submit! Theme will most probably be Occupy-related, as the defining call for this generation.
First raket of the year coming in way late. I know more are coming because of annual report season. But to be honest, starting to feel guilty about sleeping-in-til-noon-then-coming-down-only-to-eat-lunch itinerary of late. Mother not saying anything about it, but sometimes things unsaid ring louder than, say, "Hoy batugan ka, maghanap ka na ng trabaho!" That said, there will be a job fair at school on February 1st. Will probably check it out. But you know: I most probably will not.
Will turn 26 in less than a month. Not sure how I feel about this.

Hooks.

2012-01-14T05:59:00.000-08:00

On Monday, a deadline I had anticipated and for which I actually prepared will elapse. I am kicking myself for missing it. And saying sorry. Over and over. In earnest. Such had been an ongoing lesson: what to do with things that are abandoned halfway, and how does the self deal. Especially considering that such have, maybe unfortunately, become lampposts / buoys / paperweights in one's currently floating, centerless state. That said, is true what they say about doors closing and windows unbolting ajar, as something scheduled for Monday that can potentially be good. Not a good start for 2012, Glenn. Please temper your optimism, as is usually most ideal.

Journeys.

2012-01-01T12:00:00.000-08:00

I've since realized that the waking up scenes in what I write betray my preoccupation with one Mr. Samsa; the journeys (on the MRT, the bus, the plane, in distant locations), perhaps a natural reflex to feeling boxed. 2011: a year that was, for so many great reasons, blessed:

1. Silliman

The war-era bus. Noisy and reliable, and really, what can compare to seeing it approach the pick-up bay in Robinsons Dumaguete and you thinking, hey there's our ride.

In the city's paved roads, you sometimes long for a little instability, for wayward branches of trees to invade open windows...

... and the familiar laughter and counsel, and poetry in the morning.

In the Dumaguete airport, waiting for the boarding call you wish would never come.

2. MA still on track

A jeep on campus, because it is becoming harder and harder to leave this place.

Because really, how does one leave UP and its pristine mornings?

3. Going back to guest-edit for Kule

Red Horse by the sea in San Narciso, Zambales during Kule's consolidation activity.

Venn diagram-ing "paghihintay" and "pag-asa" during the post-Christmas party nightcap, a.k.a., Overthinking and Why We Are Perpetually Depressed

4. Davao raket

Boxes of pomelo and priceless first-hand information on the state of education in the ARMM from mayors and aid workers themselves, which leads us to -

5. Freelancing

Breakfast by the sea in Pagbilao, during one of the rakets that thankfully made 2011 - the first full year of doing freelance full time - bearable and really not so bad.

Lunch by the Hundred Islands, after futile attempt to scale a muddy mountain wearing skinny jeans and suede shoes

6. CDO and Philline

Rafts atop a jeep in Cagayan de Oro, during the best vacation of the year, aside from the Bacolod-Sipaway-Iloilo trip with Om in February and the nice gastronomic weekend at LB with the golden couple and Christian.

Tuscany. Echos. Bukidnon, thanks to our host Lina Sagaral-Reyes.

Best work station in the world.

7. Bonding with self

Most trips this year were solitary walks, as freelance and single had been key words; being alone is not so bad, really. Coming to terms with things. We usually have fun.

Especially with this big girl (wearing an oversized Che shirt of all things), who accounts for why Jollibee clips are bookmarked on my laptop

And books.

8. Writing

The whole point of not working full time is so could devote more time to writing. Not sure if year's worth of output is enough and justified. Also not sure how to explain the lola-style balabal in this picture.

And because I am too tired to think of a comprehensive wisdom for the year, here's something from David Nicholls' novel One Day.

"Travelling," she sighed. "So predictable."

"What’s wrong with travelling?"

"Avoiding reality more like."

"I think reality is over-rated," he said in the hope that this might come across as dark and charismatic.

She sniffed. "S'alright, I suppose, for those who can afford it. Why not just say 'I'm going on holiday for two years'? It’s the same thing."

"Because travel broadens the mind," he said, rising onto one elbow and kissing her.

"Oh I think you’re probably a bit too broad-minded as it is," she said, turning her face away, for the moment at least.

They settled again on the pillow.

Now to go back to idle on the bed with this wonderful, wonderful read.

Paglalagom.

2011-12-28T19:45:00.000-08:00

Maayos ang 2011 ko. Mahirap para sa akin ang aminin ito; marahil dahil nahirati na rin sa mga hindi magagandang bagay, at parang pagta-traydor sa mga hindi mapapalad na kaibigan at kakilala ang pag-angkin na maganda ang taon mo. Siguro dahil finite nga ang kasiyahan (tulad ng natural resources), at sa pagkuha ng higit sa nararapat ay waring ninanakawan mo ang iba.

Pero maayos nga ang 2011 ko.

Sa susunod na ang mga partikularidad. Sa simpleng paglalagom, maayos ang naging takbo ng taon. Bago magsimula ang 2011, naalala kong na-interview ko para sa isang raket si Joy Lim, ang wagas na supplier ng charms and crystals sa mga artista. Maswerte raw ang mga Tiger sa 2011. Binigyan din nya ko ng bracelet para sa kalusugan (na ibinigay ko sa Lola ko), at pinaalalahanang laging magsuot ng pulang sapatos at magdala ng gunting. Ewan ko lang.

At sa kaayusan ng 2011, dalawang taon nang magkasunod na maayos, dahil OK rin ang 2010 (at kung paniniwalaan ang ilang Chinese horroscope, magiging maayos din ang 2012 dahil magkaibigan ang Tiger at Dragon). Bahagyang hinihipo ako ng sabik tuwing iisipin ang paparating na taon, dahil mukhang sumasaya ang mga bagay matapos ang pangit na 2008 at 2009. Baka nga nagiging positibo na ako sa buhay. Naku.

*May dalawang taong nagreklamong masyado na raw seryoso ang blog na ito. At nakaka-miss ang LJ. Ako rin, namimiss ko ang kahangalan ng LJ ko.

Sakuna.

2011-12-21T17:16:00.000-08:00

Nasa Cagayan de Oro ako noong Oktubre; sa Dumaguete, noong Mayo. Madali akong mahirati sa mga lugar. Ibig sabihin: madaling mapamahal. Marahil, dahil masarap isipin na may mga bersyon ng buhay Pilipino na umiinog sa ibang lokalidad, sa ibang paraan. Bahagyang katulad ng sa 'yo, pero kakaiba pa rin, kung tutuusin (o bahagyang kakaiba, pero katulad pa rin, sa dulo). Hindi ito romantiko at arbitraryong pag-i-invoke ng "bansa" sa panahon ng delubyo; sa halip, patunay ito, para sa akin, na nag-iisa, kahit magkakahiwalay, ang naratibong hinahawan ng bawat Pilipino.

At nakita natin na ito ay naratibo ng pag-igpaw sa mga sakuna, sa mga pesteng umaalipusta sa "normal" na mga tunghuhin, sa mga karahasang isinasalimpad ng kapalaraan sa araw-araw. At sa mga pangyayaring tulad nito, na kumitil sa higit isanlibong katao, dumungis sa mga lungsod na dati'y walang bahid, madaling mahirati sa emosyonal na tawag ng bayanihan, ng pagtutulungan para sa mga nasalantang kababayan.

Ngunit, lagi't lagi, ipinapaalala sa atin na ang bansa bilang bagay na nahahawakan, nakikita, natutulungan, ay hindi lamang umuusbong sa panahong tulad nito. Pinapatingkad marahil ng sakuna ang mga pakiramdam, pero ang pagiging bansa ay higit sa kawang gawa, labas sa usapin ng minanipulang damdamin. Wala mang kagyat na tulong sa mga nasalanta ang pagpapanagot, marahil marapat usisain: bakit nangyari ito, at bakit dapat umabot sa ganito?

Sa mas konkreto, wagas ang galit ko kay Noynoy sa 'di pagsasalita agad hingil sa isyu. Hindi ko alam kung bakit, pero nang papataas ang bilang ng mga biktima, una kong hinanap sa Google News kung may inilabas na bang pahayag ang Palasyo? May sinabi na ba ang pangulo? Nagpunta na ba siya sa hilagang Mindanao? Sa sobrang galit ko sa kanya, ilang Tweet rin ang naipadala ko kay Abi Valte para magtanong. Anong aral ang napulot ng lideratong ito sa nangyari sa Ondoy? Paanong pinagbawalan si Noynoy na lumipad patungong CDO gayong laksa-laksang media at aid workers na ang andoon sa bukang liwayway ng Sabado? Mukha ba kaming tanga?

At nang, sa Martes, ilang hatinggabi matapos ang trahedyang kumitil sa isanlibong "boss" niya, ay nagsalita na si Noynoy, waring naging SONA't pagbubuhat ng bangko ang talumpati. Naglabas ng ganito kalaking pera. Natulungan ang ganito karaming pamilya. May ganitong kapabilidad na ang PAGASA. May isang maliit na pangungusap na sa unang banda'y umaako ng responsibilidad, pero sa huli'y naging "tayo" bigla ang maysala: "Hindi ko po yata matatanggap na nagawa na namin ang lahat; alam kong may kaya pa tayong, at dapat tayong gawin."

Ang inaasahan ko lamang mula, at hinihingi sa, umano'y ama ng bayan, ay ilang pangungusap ng pangungumusta. Hungkag na retorika, marahil, sa isang banda, pero sa panahong walang sagot ang maraming tanong, nais mo lang ng isang siguradong boses. Na magiging maayos ang lahat. Na maiigpawan ito. Na may amang nag-aasikaso sa mga anak na hilong talilong sa mga alalahanin, hindi nakikisaya nang parang walang nangyari. Nang parang walang mga putikang bangkay na isinasalansan sa minadaling mga libingan. Nang parang walang bansang nangungulila na naman.

Inuman.

2011-12-13T03:58:00.000-08:00

Mula rito

Sa Kyusinero

Ni Paul Timothy Escueta*

I can drink a case of you, and still be on my feet.

- Joni Mitchell, A Case of You

Pag-inom ng alak ang paborito nating libangan. Sa Kyusinero sa Matalino St., kabisado na ng mga kuya ang hilatsa ng pagmumukha natin at paboritong pwesto. Kasabay ng pagsayad ng puwit sa upuan kung ilapag nila sa mesa ang bucket ng Pale Pilsen. Tapos ash tray. Tapos tissue. Tapos Pulutan Platter A, na may sari-saring pika-pika, gaya ng French fries, calamares, nachos, chicken lollipop, at pipinong lumalangoy sa suka.

“Kamusta love life?” tanong mo.

“Um, kamusta ka ba?”

“OK naman.”

“Edi OK ang love life ko.”

Pero syempre sa kalagitnaan pa ng inuman uusbong ang ganitong mga usapan. Kailangan munang paspasan ang ilang bagay sa simula: ang pag-aaral, ang Kulê, ang Peyups, ang girlfriend mo.

Ang dami na ring babae sa buhay mo ang mas natagalan ko, banggit mo minsan, habang nakangisi. Wala ka naman talagang ibig sabihin dito; may mga sandali lang talagang dinadapuan ka ng lambing, at ako ang nasa iyong tabi. Punong-puno ka kasi ng pag-ibig; kaya minsan, kahit hindi mo sinasadya, may mga napapadpad sa aking direksyon.

These things that are pleasin’ you can hurt you somehow.

- Eagles, Desperado

Naaalala mo ba noong nasobrahan tayo ng inom minsan – tig-siyam na bote ‘ata – at sa pag-ba-bike mo pauwi ay bigla kang nasuka? Grabe pa rin ang balance mo at tuloy-tuloy ka lang sa pagpepedal, kahit minumura ka na ng mga tambay sa tabi ng daan na natalsikan ng suka mong may pira-pirasong patatas at pipino.

Ako, hindi marunong mag-bike, at sa una’t huling beses na sinubukan mo ‘kong turuan, ang una mong paalala ay, “Kailangan mong mag-let go, Paul.” Literal ang ibig mong sabihin, pero hawak mo kasi ang likod ko at hinihipo ng amihan ang ating mga pisngi, kaya iba ang sumagi sa aking isip. Lalo na nung kinagabihan sa Kyusinero’t sinabi mong, “Siguro, kung babae ka, mag-se-sex tayo mamaya.”

Puta naman. Walang ganyanan. Lasing na lasing ka na nga marahil. Sinabi mo rin kasing maganda ang gupit ko, at bagay sa ‘kin ang maikling buhok. Kulang na lang, sabihin mong ang cute ko, at “Pa-kiss nga.” Sa kasamaang palad, nawalan na ng malisya para sa akin ang mga ganitong tagpo’t palitan. Hindi ba sabay nga nating pinanuod ang video ni Hayden Kho at panay ang batikos mo sa performance niya?

“Guess she gave you things I didn’t give to you.”

- Adele, Someone Like You

Like what? A vagina?

Biro lang. Alam mo namang hindi ako rah-rah sa gay cause, pero noong gabing iyon, naisip ko sa kauna-unahang pagkakataon kung papaanong humahadlang sa mga gusto natin ang ilang bagay na dala lang ng simpleng pagkakataon, gaya ng gender. Sabi nga ni Chokoleit, “Para ‘yun lang?”

Pero sinabi mo dati na naniniwala ka sa reincarnation at past lives, at baka nga mag-syota tayo sa dating buhay natin, o sa susunod. Ewan. Marahil naaalala ko lang ang isang lumang pagnanais na maging higit pa sa kaibigan mo. Pero para saan pa ba ang alak kung hindi sa panandaliang paglimot sa mumunting kirot? Hanggang sa susunod na inuman.

*Walang kwentang pagkubli.

Piolo.

2011-12-07T07:54:00.001-08:00

Closet Quivers*
Glenn L. Diaz

All we need to know in this unfolding narrative are these: there was a crying girl, an ex-boyfriend, an emotional breakup. The girl, they say, is pretty, although a bit mannish, excused by the fact that she is cut from showbiz royalty. The ex-boyfriend is the “ultimate heartthrob,” although whispers had long persisted that it’s not exactly vaginas he has been causing to throb.

Throw in a bespectacled host’s series of “deretsong tanong” on a lazy Sunday afternoon and we had the makings of a veritable Pinoy saga; one for the books, apparently, evidenced by the fact that it was inescapable, rivaling news of a former president who’s on the brink of incarceration and at one point becoming a trending topic on Twitter worldwide.

The implications of this saga are multifaceted, but the trajectory of the jokes that it birthed appears to be one-tracked. There is a reference to another actress, who married an actor who turned out not only gay but, some say, even prettier than her. There is a joking speculation as to the heartthrob’s real motives, and some say he just wanted to get close to his ex-girlfriend’s goodlooking, if not morally ambiguous, father.

But outside good-natured Pinoy humor, the debacle revives age-old questions regarding the real state of the LGBT sector in the country. For while surely, “winning” the heartthrob to the gay cause might prove to be a step forward, the reaction that his potential outing spawned reveals that it isn’t as clear-cut as that.

‘The reign of telling secret’

That the whole saga is unfolding before the public eye at a time when social media had enabled the unbridled sharing of opinion has, in so many ways, blown things out of proportion.

“To the fine antennae of public attention,” writes foremost queer theorist Eve Sedgwick, “the freshness of every drama of (especially involuntary) gay uncovering seems if anything heightened in surprise and delectability, rather than staled, by the increasingly intense atmosphere of public articulations of and about the love that is famous for daring not speak its name.”

And so while there may be undeniable strides in the way homosexuality is displayed and perceived, it doesn’t diminish the seductive nature of people being yanked out of the closet. In the case of our heartthrob, the idea of his outing seems utterly irresistible, at least judging from the rabid, almost vitriolic calls from all sides of cyberspace.

The mob-like desire has ready justifications, too: that, for one, he reduced his ex-girlfriend to tears on national television; and, two, that he is a public figure and therefore fair game for butchery and accusations.

‘On their own’

But we simply don’t have the right to out other people, says J. Neil Garcia, UP professor and renowned expert on queer theory.

“We need more masculine representations of gayness … to balance out the sissy stereotypes that local showbiz is constantly dishing out, but even then, or precisely here, the ethical question regarding outing remains utterly germane.”

“The wish, of course, is for more and more masculine gay men to come out on their own – in mass media, if possible, since its stereotype-countering effect will simply be more potent, by virtue of the nature of mass media themselves. But we simply cannot out these guys. They need to come out on their own.”

Tangentially, the particularity that the case brings to the discourse hinges on his construction as a “bankable actor” and the changes, if any, that his outing will result to. There are speculations, to cite, that while the ex-girlfriend’s tears were true, there was still an attempt at damage control, which explains why the interview was taped to begin with, contrary to how most sensational tell-all’s are conducted.

It is interesting, therefore, to note how mass media, while largely profit-driven and prone to typecasting, can in truth serve as a vital platform in which to break the stereotypes it had contributed to perpetrating to begin with.

Sadly, judging from the jokes in the aftermath of the interview, including all the name-calling and the homophobic slurs, our heartthrob is not breaking any stereotype. The stereotypes are instead being hurled pointblank against him.

‘A defiant move’

Outside the glitz of showbiz, however, what steers the very premise of outing is heterosexism. Outing announces unequal power relations. To weaponize a potentially liberating act is premised on the belief that someone will fear being outed because it is a demotion, a downgrade. To threaten a public figure with being outed is to equalize homosexuality with the risk of utter downfall.

But voluntarily coming out of the closet, instead of being forced out of it, is a defiant move. It demonstrates a steadfast bravery that knowingly exposes one’s self to stigma. After all, outing demands resocialization; a paradigm shift from the “default” heterosexual identity with which everyone is raised. And so implicit in the act of coming out is the rejection of the ideology that posits the primacy of heterosexuality as the only acceptable orientation.

That may be true, and it probably is, but to end there is to ignore the larger issue with which the supposedly private love story is laced.

Because in our heartthrob’s case, coming out of the closet seems to offer very little incentive. Given the slightest chance at hating, there are those who pounce, instantly and with little deliberation. So for as long as people have a good reason for staying in the closet, we understand that our heartthrob will need to maintain his handsome silence.

*Apologies to J. Neil Garcia

Sources:

Hunter, Sky. Coming out and Disclosures, Routledge, 2007.

Sedgwick, Eve. Epistemology of the Closet, University of California Press, 1990.

Novel-writing.

2011-12-05T15:02:00.001-08:00

Let it be said for its absurdity: I am trying to write a novel. A month ago, this would have sounded preposterous, but see what an academic requirement (and therefore an unsaid threat of a middling grade) can do? B had given us an option to do a novel in lieu of the 40-page short story he normally required. It is suddenly doable. For some reason, it suddenly seems something I can actually do before I turn 27 (because Rizal published Noli at 26, and I have serious competitiveness issues).

It was a good thing then that I got to read nice novels in the past month or so, including Egan's A Visit from the Goon Squad, Franzen's The Corrections, and Atwood's Alias Grace (and a fantastic nonfiction book on the Rwandan genocide from L). Fat novels. I am clearly still learning how to do this. The largeness. The worlding. The measured pace. The requisite depth of introspection. The Proustian detailing. The nouns. I just passed the 6,000-word mark, which puts me at 7.5 percent of my set 80,000-word target (it actually sounds something when you put it in percentage).

Since my workshop slot is somewhere in the middle of January, I have around 5 weeks to churn up around 5,000 more. But since I want to take advantage of the rare chance to have B critique a novel manuscript, I obviously want to do more. I have set up a modest 1,000-word-a-day requirement for myself, something that is turning out to be not so modest after all. It is hard. I write quickly when it's for work and critical papers, but when it's this -- and I, like B, am relying for the most part on gutfeel and a hazy plot in my head - I am absolutely slow. And with my obsessive need to reread and rewrite, I am taking ages. These, of course, all considering that I have very little social life and absolutely no professional life, other than guest-editing for the Collegian, to speak of.

Do I harbor delusions that it might be a nice piece of literature? Well, I don't know. But otherwise, what would be the point?

December.

2011-11-30T16:59:00.001-08:00

From here. Made me wish my last name was Abalos so would have been sandwiched between Gemino Abad and Rio Alma, two old geezers who also happen to be very good poets. Supposedly. Yay.

Cubao.

2011-11-28T20:26:00.001-08:00

Wrote this essay for my nonfiction class. Two nights ago, met up with Melane and Victor. After dinner at My Thai, we had DQ blizzards and found ourselves standing-sitting by the rails opposite Shopwise. Cubao. O Cubao.

Cubao

Born and raised in Manila, Iam accustomed to its noise, its quotidian chaos. Once or twice, when itsviolence unnerved me, I found myself wishing I lived in Bacolod or Dumaguete orRoxas instead. Slow cities. And calmer, birds chirping in the morning and crispair that sharply fills the nose. But after a few days there, I would crave for themadness of Manila. The roaring engines. The reek of diesel. The itinerantvendors hawking their wares. In my city, there are busy intersections that,with neither traffic light nor cop, would witness no road accident for years onend. Foreigners call it Third World disorder. I call it skill, a temerity, aspider sense-like keenness that one acquires after living through the mess. Ifmy city were my room, I like its comforting disarray. I know where everythingis.

Buta woman sitting across me on a jeepney one night panicked and writhedhelplessly in her seat, freshly realizing her purse was slit open, her face misshapenunder the red glare of the jeep’s tiny incandescent bulbs. The following day, abomb ripped through a bus along EDSA, killing five and severing several pairsof legs. I was reminded of Pierre Bourdieu, my best friend during mytheory-lathering days with the Philippine Collegian, UP’s student paper. Violenceis harshest when it is most normalized. Violence is most effective when it ismade invisible.

Thisviolence of the everyday, the everywhere is most palpable in a place likeManila. The traffic, the pollution, the off-chance that the bus you’re ridingwill explode into smithereens one innocent Tuesday. That bombing rattled me,its sheer nearness. The bus exploded a few meters away from the Buendia stationof the MRT, just outside the stories-high earthen walls of posh Forbes Park. I takethat route every once in a while, coming from Makati for a writing assignment orfrom Batangas for a quick getaway to the beach. And so I realized it could havebeen me or many of my friends who work in Makati. I remember mouthing a silentprayer, then, and soberly thinking, we are survivors all.

Thesedays, as a graduate student, my normal route is from my house in Manila to UPin Quezon City via the Aurora Blvd and Katipunan route. Every time I make thattrip, I pass by Cubao, the bustling geographical center of the metropolis. Formany wide-eyed adventurers and desperate breadwinners from the province, Cubaois their first real glimpse of the big city, its grimy bus terminals and impureair, its incessant noise and unlawful song. For city dwellers, Cubao is justCubao. It is there, just like the city, not to be scoffed at or rebuked, butmerely to be endured.

I wonderthen if I’ve been made immune – enamored, even – to a violence that is renderedunseen by its ubiquity. There is no question: I love my city. But does it loveme?

InCubao, for instance, there is always a need to shout above the din.

“Youcannot hear yourself think here,” yelled my friend Kris, a college instructorand Cubao resident for all her 22 years. It’s something a foreigner would say,I shouted back, if said foreigner were similarly sitting on this busy Aurorasidewalk in between parked motorcycles and cars, observing. The British editionof men’s magazine Esquire recently came out with a piece on Filipino cuisineand, tangentially, navigating Manila’s streets. It reached a pleasant enoughconclusion, but in prefacing the revelation, the Philippine capital was called,among others, “a fucking armpit,” “a hell-hole,” “a city with a pockmarked faceand a horrible limp.” How unkind, I thought, but in the middle of Cubao,surrounded by grime and seeming lawlessness, I had to admit: it wasn’tcompletely unmerited.

Ina National Geographic documentary, where the host visited the slums built atopgraves in the South Cemetery and the communities inside the Muntinlupa CityJail, Manila as a city was lauded for its – generous euphemisms, aside – “energy.”

Therewas, of course, a ready defense, as any Filipino with a cursory knowledge ofhistory should know. Manila was the Orient’s first true melting pot.Aggressively traded with its Asian neighbors, then colonized by Spain for morethan 300 years. In its 1945 liberation from the Japanese, it was leveled to theground, government buildings and churches and schools, along with the pricelessgems inside that date back to its founding 420 or so years ago. In themonth-long devastation, almost everything was lost, irretrievably, the severeinsult to the injury that was the 100,000 death toll.

What,then, of ugliness? We were victims ofhistory!

Afew meters away from where we sat, a locksmith idly tinkered with some randomlock, his gamut of keys and tools laid out like many little trinkets for sale.The signage advertising his trade is darkened by soot. He’s been there, hesaid, in his little, dark corner of Cubao for more than two decades now. Inthroaty Filipino, he added, “Nothing has changed.”

Whathas not changed is this: there is always a bottleneck in Aurora Blvd approachingEDSA, always a parking lot situation along the underpass, always some obstinatejeep in the middle of the road going to E. Rod. From Araneta Center, there isalways a long line of jeepneys waiting to exit and dissect Aurora, from thatnarrow street between Aurora Tower and Mercury Drug to that even narrower road onthe other side, where dingy gay club Palawan is across the similarly decrepitbeer joint Bang-bang Ali. More cars crawled elsewhere, on the street where the bawdy“European-inspired” inn Eurotel fronts the gold-decked worship building of the UniversalChurch of the Kingdom of God (in the right rooms in Eurotel, you part your curtains,and the first thing you’ll see is one of the several bible verses inscribed onthe Christian building’s walls). All around: piles of trash, bevies of scantilyclad girls in the midst of negotiation, a vagrant or two. Overhead, one of thebusiest train stations in the city looms over the road it tried to decongest, thepall so depressing and permanent, black wires dangling like wayward pasta, themedium-rise structures caked with grime.

Whathas changed is this: a few minutes’ walk away, in glimmering, upscale Gatewaymall, there are places like Cibo, Italianni’s, and Gumbo, which offers “a tasteof New Orleans.” There’s Burgoo, Café Adriatico, Kenny Rogers, Krispy Kreme, LeCoeur de France, and the first and one of only two Taco Bell in the country.Posh hotel chain Mandarin Oriental has even set up an al fresco café and deliright smack in the middle, complete with palm trees and various terra cotta greenerythat cut across all five floors. Gateway is a pocket of First World in ThirdWorld Cubao, while Mandarin is a pocket of nature in the pocket of First World:both are artificial and contrived.

TheAranetas, the clan whose war-era industrialist patriarch Don Jose Amado foundthe original, radio antennae- and grass-strewn 35-hectare plot on the outskirtsof Manila, are trying to catch up with the pace with which the other familieshave galvanized their turfs. Let’s face it. Makati had become Makati andOrtigas had become Ortigas, while Cubao, well, remained to be Cubao. Left out.Lowly. But with the slew of infrastructure projects in the pipeline, JorgeAraneta, Don Jose’s son, is promising a “renaissance.” Manhattan Garden City,its flagship residential project alone, consists of 18 high-rise towers, 3 ofwhich have already opened. Set to be the pièce de résistance, a giantcommunications structure called the Manila Tower is envisioned to rival Paris’Eiffel in height, grandeur, and iconic evocation.

“Sir, if you go to Cubaonowadays, it’s had a major refurbishment from the old and scary, decrepit place.It is nowbeing managed and developed by Megaworld Corporation. The area is flood freeand now very safe.” This is the promise of real estate broker KarenManangquil, who’s affiliated with major property developer Megaworld. She’spart of the squadron of annoying, fake-smiling, flyers-bearing, heavily made-upboys and girls who accost unsuspecting shoppers walking along Gateway’s crowdedaisles. If they hand you a flyer and ask for a minute, it means you: (1) look oldenough to be a home owner, and (2) appear rich enough to afford the price tagthat comes with a unit, the lowest pegged at P2.3 million.

Or,she later stressed, you evoke that inimitably magnetic OFW vibe.

TheAraneta group is injecting a multi-billion peso investment to try andreconfigure Cubao into an urban enclave similar to the flourishing BonifacioGlobal City in Taguig. After all, Araneta Center was a pioneer mixed-usedcomplex not just in the Philippines but in the world. In the 1960s and 70s, AranetaColiseum, Ali Mall, Farmers Market, and Fiesta Carnival were all, to a certainextent, notable: biggest indoor stadium, first enclosed shopping center,biggest wet market, and first entertainment center of its kind.

Butif the Fort is accessible only by private vehicles, cabs, and the occasionalyuppie-filled Fort bus, Cubao is found on the signages of scores of publicutility vehicle, from jeeps plying nearby Quezon City Circle to buses traversingunpaved roads in far-flung Tabaco in Albay. Two elevated train lines runthrough it: one, through the city’s main artery, the other, leading to theUniversity Belt. Jeeps: to Libis, Taft, Cainta, Fairview, Cogeo, Quiapo, Antipolo,Kalayaan, Angono, Divisoria. City buses: to Baclaran, Letre, FTI, Tungko,Sucat, Malanday, Leveriza, Alabang. Provincial buses: to Baguio, Bangued, Tuguegarao,Naga, Laoag, Tabaco, Lingayen, Catarman, Catbalogan, Iba, Aparri.

Cubaois the byword for accessibility. It is democratic. It is egalitarian. My best friendsfrom college, who come from Marikina, Taytay, and Novaliches, and I, fromManila, often compromise and make do with Gateway. We are not alone. Data fromthe Metro Manila Development Authority say daily pedestrian traffic on theEDSA-Aurora Blvd footbridges exceeded 150,000 in 2009, the third busiest in themetro. By Araneta Center’s estimates, close to 1 million of Metro Manila’s 11million people visit its premises every single weekday, even more on weekends.Cubao is no-frills. Cubao is people.

Andin the eye of the enterprising capitalist, people means profit. If consumerismis a cornerstone of capitalism, Cubao is a pioneer, too. It paved the way forthe rabid, large-scale consumption that we know today, with our midnight sales,billboard-laden skies, and the predictably impossible traffic in the vicinityof malls. The now worn-out Rustan’s in Araneta Center used to be Rustan’sSuperstore, the first time a department store and a supermarket were combined.SM in Cubao was the second to open after the original branch in Quiapo. And asthis country’s history of consumerism is almost, I would argue, concurrent withthe history of Henry Sy’s empire, Cubao is, once again, a veritable forerunner.

Itmakes sense, then, that when it started to lose its mall-going public to Makatiand Ortigas, Araneta Center came up with Gateway.

Myfriend Scott, a Denver native who now curiously lives in a street in Cubaocalled Albany, told me over coffee how surprised he was at the centrality ofthe mall in Filipino life. Sipping his half-decaf latte in one of AranetaCenter’s three Starbucks, he said where he came from, “most [malls] are foundon suburban real estate lots. No more than two floors, usually just one. Canyou imagine that?” Gruffly, he added that malls in the US have free parking.

Inoted that the nucleus of communities in the Philippines used to be the plaza,flanked by the church and the town hall. Does this, I wondered out loud,indicate a shift in the prevailing value system of Filipinos, from theocracy toblatant consumerism? Not quite used to polysyllabic words that end in ism, he addedthat e-commerce had not been kind to American malls.

Thegoal, it seems, is to make malls vital, instead of optional. They are placedwhere volumes of people predictably amass, taking into account foot traffic andtransportation routes. Insatiably, they extend endlessly, a monster eatingeverything in its path. SM in North EDSA, the biggest in the country and thirdworld-wide, used to be just SM North EDSA. Today, there is The Block, TheAnnex, North Link, Warehouse, and the Sky Garden. Communities have risen out ofmalls. From them, high-rise condominiums emerge, promising to put all of modernman’s needs under one roof: shelter, dining, leisure. The malls of today offerbeyond the customary trades. One can go to a mall to hear mass, view artexhibits, get a perm, buy a book, get a haircut, attend class, deposit a check,get your laptop repaired, attend a convention, even breast feed your baby orundergo minor surgery like liposuction.

Buteven without Gateway, Araneta Center has embedded itself into the Filipinopsyche with Araneta Coliseum. Two spectacles that perpetually bewitch theFilipino mind – basketball and beauty pageants – have found homes in the BigDome (recently renamed Smart Araneta Coliseum in yet another not-so-subliminalencroachment of big business on cultural iconography). Leagues: the PhilippineBasketball Association, the University Athletics Association of the Philippines,and the National Collegiate Athletic Association. Pageants: the annualBinibining Pilipinas and the one time Miss Universe was held in the country in1994. Those who have graced Araneta Coliseum include Bon Jovi and AndreaBoccelli, Kylie Minogue and Akon, Nat King Cole and Kobe Bryant, Lady Gaga andPope John Paul II. Having come from UP, I’ve been making a trip to Araneta atleast once a year since 2002 for the UAAP Cheerdance Competition. Its 2008edition attracted a record crowd of 23,448 people, unsurpassed by any PBAFinal, Ateneo-La Salle game, or Sarah Geronimo concert.

Cubao,then, is inextricably linked with the Filipino city, the Filipino sense ofentertainment, which is fine, I reasoned, except when such connection is commodifiedand taken advantage of. For instance, desperate for Cheerdance tickets and myCollegian press ID powerless in the eyes of Big Dome management, I succumbed onceor twice to scalpers, who sold general admission tickets at 1,000 percentmark-up, from the original P50 to P500.

Conscience-deficienthuman beings aside, in Cubao’s margins lie places and things that has endearedit to an entirely different market and sensibility. Cubao Ex, the formerMarikina Shoe Expo, is on the fringes of Araneta Center and has attracted anew, almost hip crowd. The close-knit, village-like complex is shaped like ahorse shoe and plays host to specialty restaurants, art galleries, and stores sellingthe strangest, most fascinating things: old chandeliers and telephones, funkyclocks, vintage wrist watches, antique furniture, secondhand books, old comicbooks, wooden sculptures, bargain shoes, and one-of-a-kind graphic tees. Atnight, the unofficial banner spot in Cubao Ex is Mogwai, a restaurant cum drinkingjoint cum events place. There is always something happening in Mogwai: PeterFolk films on the cozy screening room at the second floor; reggae band BrownmanRevival performing upfront; or filmmaker Kidlat Tahimik, a regular, guzzlinghis bottle of Red Horse. With its battered marquee-style signage, mismatchedfurniture, fabric-lined mini-chandeliers, and employees cheekily namedMogwaiters, Mogwai’s vibe is the closest I can find to that of Sarah’s, theiconic drinking place on the outskirts of UP in Krus na Ligas. In Sarah’s, whereon certain nights you’ll find yourself sitting beside a National Artist or afamous band vocalist, the ambiance is bring-your-own-ambiance. In Mogwai, with itsyellow-tinged lights and quiet whirr of conversation, the ambiance is gentleand laidback. This, while a few kilometers away, Cubao raged on until the deadof night.

“Sinong hindi mai-inlove saCubao sa gabi? Malakas ang appeal, mahirap matimpla, maraming lihim. (Who willnot fall in love with Cubao at night? Its appeal is intense, it’s hard tofigure out, it’s got secrets.) ” This is Mixka, a playwright whose StreetlightManifesto was recently staged in Tisch School in New York. During our Collegian days, weheld section meetings in Sarah’s. After graduating, Mogwai is a top choiceduring meet-ups. But already, the more protective of the Cubao Ex regulars feelthat their haunt, after being deigned “cool,” is now being invaded by wannabehipsters who just want to be seen.

Conflict. Cubao is witnessto constant conflict. “Cities,” wrote urban theory scholarJohn Short, “give physical expression to relations of power in society.” InCubao, the air-conditioned LRT coaches run above the din and confusion of Aurora.In Gateway, the most high-end shops are found on the top floors. In AranetaColiseum, the expensive patron seats are closest to the action. In Cubao,things go progressively worse from the center. From traffic to air quality,from roads to dining options, from waste disposal to security. Absent myromanticizing gaze, Cubao is a landscape that typifies the deep-seatedstratification of Filipino society. I am tempted to use “microcosm” here, butsuch will be erroneous: there are no factories in Cubao, no farmers, nofishermen. Even the development theory of dependence (positing center-peripherypower relations) is inadequate, as Cubao is not a site of production, but mereconsumption.

Iam prone to nostalgia, and I can easily invoke childhood memories of going toFiesta Carnival or anticipating the puppets at the COD display duringChristmas. After witnessing my first pickpocketing incident, however, Irealized that nostalgia is useless without engagement. Plunged headlong into alife – student then, now professional – that is cutthroat and obsessed with achievements,the city I move around in is typically bypassed and excused as inherently chaotic.Of course, traffic is horrible. Thisis Manila. Of course, the streets arenot safe. This is Manila. Of course,there will always be poor people. This is the Philippines.

Butthe invisible violence in my city is suspect, possibly defended by institutionsthat are supposed to dismantle it. For instance, the MMDA, faced with thegargantuan task of easing Manila traffic, thought of footbridges (its color – frompink to green – changing alongside dispensations). Once separated, MMDA argued,both vehicular and pedestrian traffic would flow unhindered. Commuters wouldperhaps disagree, burdened as they are with the need to climb an extra flightof stairs or walk an extra 10 meters or so to and from landings. Motorists, on theother hand, are spared from one delaying traffic light. This bias is despite a Metro Manila UrbanIntegration Study revealing that 84 percent of alltrips in Manila are made via commute or walking, with only 16 percent madeusing private vehicles. If 4 out of 5 people then are pedestrians at one pointin their journeys, shouldn’t policy concerning urban space take them intoaccount?

Exclusion.Cubao seems to be the everyman of places. There’s something for everybody. ForKris, there’s the reassuring noise; for the locksmith, there’s the possibilityof business; for Karen, there are condo units to sell; for Scott, there’sgourmet coffee and semblance of First World amenities; for Mixka, there’sallure and mystery. For me, there’s the realization that as with all things deafening,it is better, in the case of Cubao, to examine its silences. The exclusions itmakes. The larger system that permits it.

Duringthe time of the EDSA bombing, I was in the thick of writing a paper on acollection by the poet Mabi David. YouAre Here is an interrogation, at once historical and personal, of theBattle for Manila. It purposely collides the two, and the result is acrystallized understanding of the crucial junction. Its central thesis – whichasks if future generations, safe from the crossfire of battle, can rightlyclaim solidarity with their ancestors based merely on being born on the samecity – has been an ongoing preoccupation for me as an aspiring fictionist andpoet. Some realm of experience, I realize, have more ramifications than others,and I’ve constantly wondered whether those that identify me – my “exotic”Filipino roots, my “alternative” sexuality, even the long history of my people– is ethical material for the written word; whether everything, really, is fairgame.

Inthis manner my city becomes material, inevitably: as in writing as in life.

Andso in negotiating what I feel for my city, I also clarify my stance as awriter. On one hand, I feel its violence; on the other, I recognize the only wayto survive is to embrace it, like the 11 million dwellers who wake up at 6,brave the early morning commute, work for the better part of the day, thenbrave rush hour traffic at night for a little respite, before doing the samething again.

Onthe way to Cubao Ex one typical Saturday night, I noticed that the AranetaCenter Bus Station had been transferred. The area where it used to sit is nowcordoned off, the high fences draped in tarpaulins vowing great things to comefor Cubao. The sound of heavy machinery, near-indistinguishable from the impatienthonking and engines raring to go, forebodes of something that operates likeclockwork . The violence, just like Cubao, never sleeps.

Victory.

2011-11-24T16:49:00.001-08:00

'My child, we have won'

Won: because it is war. It is bloody. There were casualties. There were spoils. And child: because it has gone on for generations. Because it has gone on long enough.

That said, there is little to gain in romanticizing the Supreme Court's decision to distribute the land of Hacienda Luisita to its farmer-beneficiaries. The machinations of the the powerful are complex, and their ways are many. There are accusations that the decision is more vindictive than just; an attempt to spite rather than to end -- and begin -- a too long a saga to give people what is rightly theirs.

We will never know: what it's like to work ten-hour days for P9.50, to have the sun on your back and neck and arms, to have sweat drop from your brow to the arid land, and to bear the unkind knowledge that this life -- of so little joy -- will also be your children's life, and their children's life, and so on. We will never know.

And so we cry. We, well-meaning middle-class city folk who have neither planted nor harvested a sugar cane in our lives. In our comfortable posture chairs, in our carpeted offices, our twin beds, in our shelves with a history book with a cursory chapter on feudalism, and in our classrooms that echo an indignant rejoinder to a classmate who found the cinematography of "Sa Ngalan ng Tubo" too bright.

But once or twice, our journeys may have brought us to places beyond our comfort zones, our perfect worlds. It doesn't take a lot -- in fact, a mere opening of eyes, the upturning of ears -- to see and hear what had been normalized, what some attempt to disguise. In Hacienda Luisita, there are mini-chandeliers in the McDonalds outlet. Kris Aquino, the "queen of all media," had said, with absolutely no remorse, that her jewelry are "katas ng Luisita." The hacienda is two and a half times as big as Makati.

While this victory is not ours, us in our trifling motions in our uninhabitable cities, let us bask in it for the future that it conjures: a society where grueling work is afforded grueling gifts.

Anger.

2011-11-16T01:47:00.001-08:00

So: Student leader disrupts Clinton forum in Manila

The terrain of US-RP relations is a tumultuous one. We need not look too far to realize that Uncle Sam's hand is a long, sticky tentacle; that indeed when the US catches a cold, the Philippines sneezes. And so do not tell me about civility and there being a proper forum for everything. There is no "proper forum" when Guatemalans were intentionally infected with syphilis as part of a medical experiment, no "civility" as generations of Vietnamese suffer through the devastation of Agent Orange, no "decency" with some 80 million unexploded landmines remaining in the Laotian hinterlands, and, most oppressive of all because it is most invisible, no "decorum" involved when it comes to how aid entrenches and perpetuates, rather than alleviate, poverty. Good conduct is foolish in the crossfire. Righteous indignation is rightly indignant and never apologetic.

But lest we be accused of mindless sloganeering, we proceed to a theoretical framework. You see this is well within the same discourse that governs lighting rallies at graduation ceremonies, graffiti, boycotts, and even the Occupy movement. This is about power, and seizing - willfully, by force - power because we have been rendered powerless. In a public forum where such trivial things like the contents of Clinton's purse and her fondness for Pacquiao take centerstage (a relief, we're sure, to this insecure nation), a passing mention of the Mutual Defense Treaty and a pertinent call for its abrogation - shouted angrily, from the sidelines, from a young person's mouth - are welcome, if not necessary, departures. It is a repudation of the apolitical nonchalance that organizers wish to gloss over the event by calling it "Conversation in Manila." Manila: this city with a death toll that reached hundreds of thousands in World War II. This city that saw the consistent, and permitted, intereference of foreign powers. This city that is now, as a result, on its knees: "a fucking armpit," "a hell-hole," "a city with apockmarked face and a horrible limp." Conversation: this supposedly civilized discourse. The burden of civility - all things given - is yours.

And so to condone the many sins of the US, symbolically represented by Hillary Clinton, against the Philippines and the world just because we need an ally in the face of supposed aggression by China (although what other country has historically shown a hunger, a capacity for aggression more than US itself?) is cowardly opportunism at best and dogged subservience at worst. It naively turns a blind eye to the historic struggle of Filipinos to clip the wings of imperialism, be it in Balanggiga, in Olongapo, in Manila Bay, indeed, in the thousands of call center facilities in the country. It is an uneven relationship to begin with: talking will have to wait.

Imagination.

2011-11-09T12:22:00.000-08:00

Stuff:

Met up last night with Kule's (all-girl) kultura section, which I agreed to guest-edit for remainder of term (was in Zambales over the weekend for consolidation activity). Slightly missed this: brainstorming for possible topics and frameworks. Like Occupy Movement and politics of space, Manny Pacquiao and Barthes, and political correctness and the Other.
Tried to insert imagination discourse in Occupy article, mainly based on Zizek assertion expressed in this manner: "Look at the movies that we see all the time. It’s easy to imagine the end of the world. An asteroid destroying all life and so on. But you cannot imagine the end of capitalism." See? Brilliant. What has happened to our collective imagination? What has shaped it to be such? A new writer, pretty and from CBA, noted that with capitalism so entrenched, an alternative doesn't seem to exist. Exactly.
Enroled yesterday. Subjects this sem are poetics workshop (under JNG) and fiction workshop (under BD). In spite of myself, quite excited, especially to have T as classmate in both subjects. Now have guarantee that at least one person will understand projects/intentions so will no longer go crazy over disconnects.
Restless fortnight. Restless only word to describe it, mostly about work and finances. Last stretch of 2011 - just one year, I told myself, to endure without a full-time job - appears to be putting up a belated (but spirited) fight. Suspect now that prolonged talking with friends have taken away novelty of issue and is now nothing but a bore. But restless fortnight: wish to remember you in the future, either as cautionary tale or lesson not learned.
Will also say this here: was rejected for a job I really, really liked. Apparently, willingness to receive minimum wage for an 8 to 5er not enough. But such is only one among trove of recent failures, in this year that is clear to have prematurely, if at all, peaked.
Can't wait for 2011 to be over (without, of course, bypassing Christmas, first time in a while am actually looking forward to December; those who matter know why). Will try to be/do better in 2012, to make 2012 better, although as it is preceded by the year when I got fatter, poorer, and lazier, it is sincerely hard to imagine how it cannot.

Dedication.

2011-11-06T08:29:00.000-08:00

Right now, I am sure of only two words on my future first book (if ever); on a nice, clear page after the title. To Sophia.

Escape.

2011-10-31T14:16:00.000-07:00

I wish I can say I was an overworked city boy who needed the break, but alas - the most valid wear and tear I can protest is a bad back; not, sadly, from grueling manual labor but from a combination of (1) bad posture, (2) aversion to pillows, and (3) the type of baggage one cannot check in. Ha ha. And so when, after five days of gallivanting in Mindanao, a sheep-voice announced via the airport's PA system that my flight back to Manila was canceled because of "issues" (self-esteem? series of bad partners? turning 30?), I felt tired, but not really and, lining up to check in at the hotel the airline assigned us, I gave myself a mental kick in the shins to the tune of "There is nothing/no one waiting for you in Manila," and "This is actually nice."

It was actually nice.

But it is not as if the Five Blissful Days began with bliss: while waiting for my boarding call, my name was ordered to report to the nearest gate. My heart, naturally, pounded and my mind raced with explanations, only to be asked, nicely, if I was willing to move to another seat as weight distribution on the plane was unequal (as if one's 160 lbs - give or take - was enough to tilt aircraft to one side). The next five days went by in a daze, and if one was to assign a focal point to the blink-like pace in which it passed, it would be the divan. Our divan. From where we looked on to the verdant mountain slopes beyond. Where I gave Philline a foot massage after she cooked a veritable fiesta on our last night. Where we read on opposite sides. Where we, I hope, came to the type of conlclusions one arrives at only from a certain vantage point, i.e., distant.

This is distance: wild tango music, wide wooden floor boards that obediently creak, high ceilings, chandeliers, worn-out rugs, a chaise longue or two. This is distance: the smell of durian, a riot of stars (copyright Roger Garcia), a firefly in hand, mayas pecking at leftover rice on the table.

Five days hence, I have three new shirts, four new books, and the priceless memory of traipsing through steep, muddy slopes, after bathing in a tub no bigger than a dining table, where Philline had to tell me to lean my head back while she poured and poured until no suds remained, where she and Roger sang - in total plakado fashion - Separate Lives, and I realized, half-naked and dripping wet, this is not bad.

And here is our nice, little family for five days: "a perfect cast." On the plush chair, Lina Sagaral Reyes, whose poem was an item in the final exam of a Philippine literature course I took last year. On the morning when we left, she told me how that poem came to be, complete with girlish giggles, a gift among a trove that included a signed book, some gossip, and a casual inquiry whether I was willing to return and maybe stay a little longer next time.

Violence.

2011-10-18T12:46:00.000-07:00

How's this for violence: pigsa sa pwet.

Hilarity/oddity of paradigm struck me on Monday while writhing/writing introduction for poem sequence due that day. Because am feeling lazy, will post excerpt instead of explain:

There are two(equally violent) geographies navigated by the persona in Crawlspace. More blatantly vicious, although not less problematic,is the physical city, specifically Manila, beset by manmade and naturalcatastrophes and practically uninhabitable. Intersecting with the terrain ofthe city, its exploding buses, flood-prone streets, and indiscriminate apathytoward the self, is the brutality, potentially and nearly always, of love.

And so thesequence asks: how does one find love in this city, and how does one findsolace in that love? How does one live in this city, and how does one loveagainst this backdrop? There is a deliberate attempt to collide the two, as thedual paradigms typically inform how one lives – and loves – in Manila, this throbbingcity of great energy and contradictions.

What, really, can be more violent than something that makes the mere act of sitting a terrible agony? Any movement an agony. A roadbump while inside a crowded jeep an agony. There was point while writing (v. brief) essay when thought, Fuck it, theory is useless in face of immense pain (hmm, interesting SP Lopez-style thought).

Thinking about it, not sure where pigsa sa pwet fits in whole city-self dichotomy. Surely, since it occurs on the body, it should be part of self, but then, is also result of bacteria-laden surroundings, and therefore, on epidemiological level, can fall on city. Then again, self is product of city, and vice-versa, so whole thing is moot, and this paragraph is useless tautology.

Got to whole groove of thinking of "project" (as in for MA Thesis, and self) on Monday as met up with T and E in school after submission. Poem sequence (about city and self) was last requirement for sem. Other two were about, for fiction, reconfiguration of city and self post-US hegemony and, for nonfiction, violence of Cubao and violence of Coke/colonization. Realized, then, am quite thankful that have got project figured out as early as now. Will perhaps rethink it over next two years, but am sure it will include these, well, concerns. Will most likely include class component. Or maybe gender.

Good news is, pigsa is now all but gone. Whole family was up in arms over it (to protect the kids, etc), but is v. supportive, too (to what lengths is too gross to discuss). At least can now sprightly jump and bump shoes in mid-air on Sunday, when will leave for Cagayan de Oro, knowing that an amazing lady will be waiting for me at the airport.

Recordings.

2011-10-11T22:52:00.000-07:00

Writing non-fiction piece about Coke (and colonization, go figure). When first draft was workshopped, was told, predictably, to hike up you (or I). See, this is exactly what don't like about nonfiction, the exhortation to put you (or I) on page. Like, blatantly. Unlike in fiction when everyone knows it's about you but you can always say sod off, it's not. It's my, brr, imagination.

And so, was thinking of something more substantial to put in paper other than relevance of Coke to weight issues (surely, one's belly has little neo-colonial ramifications) and hanging out with lola in living room, when she started talking about her old store and memories of cases upon cases of Coke being hauled from 10-wheelers to our front yard. Discreetly placed phone near her mouth to record. Voila. Legwork.

Now have absolutely fantastic liberation-era story about Coke.

Was listening to recording early this morning when remembered once ardent desire to do this: record our conversations (for fiction material). About her childhood in Masinloc, Zambales; about her early teaching days in barrios; about the outbreak of war; about 1950s; about Martial Law. Used to have fits of urge to convulsively jot things down, but eventually decided against it. Will have to rely on memory; and if not, then is not worth writing. Perhaps.

She turned 90 last Sunday.

Unfastenings

2011-10-04T06:17:00.000-07:00

Mabi David has been on my mind recently. Something about Ondoy and trying to render the experience poetically. What experience? Exactly. I cannot claim to be a victim of Ondoy. For surely, being a victim constitutes more than being stuck in your house while playing cards in candlelight. The challenge, said my professor, was to find a proper form to dramatize, well, water. Lots of it. And attempt to find/build solidarity with a city changed forever without co-opting and, worse, reducing its experience to poetic fodder.

Blurring the divide in You Are Here

Thisplace after / all has held graver unfastenings.

-You Are Here (She has yet to learn to find her way), Mabi David

Mabi David's project of historical interrogation in You Are Hereoddly involves little recollection of the pertinent events. Instead, what hoversabove the poems is a pervading sense of dislocation, an unmistakable feeling ofdistance and a pain that is so intensely personal. Against this backdrop, thestage -- and the page -- is set, as it were, and so when the historical isunveiled here and there, its junction with the personal is so tightlyinterwoven, so masterfully laced that there is little separation between thesomber narrative of a war that killed hundreds of thousands and a private tragedy that injured only one, but acutely; that each travail benefits from andinforms the other like two sides of a coin.

Thisis no mean feat. The attempt to tackle both all too often endsup sacrificing one for the other, if not crumbling in the face of thegargantuan task. A grave historical import can, for instance, lend a work ofart a naked political project that some deem "unpoetic," while afictive persona that sure-footedly engages history can be accused of tokenismor, worse, shameless co-opting.

Thetrajectory of the poems in You Are Here dodges these bullets by comingclean, by admitting that the personal shrinks powerless in the face ofsomething massive -- "impenetrable" even -- but at the end of the daycan be "describable" although not without uncertainty andsecond-guessing (David, 51).

Thisattempt to collide the personal with the political is evident in the fact that,for instance, the whole collection is couched in the seemingly innocuousholiday itinerary of a woman, perhaps David herself, very much private on onehand because of its preoccupation with solitude in a foreign land, thenalternately problematizing topics of perspective, cosmopolitanism, spatialplace, and The Other. In "Soliliquy (When my friend)," the frameworkis almost romantic:

getting him toget you,

wanderinginto

where words, i.e., to hold

a thing in yourfreezing

hands, is not the currency,

but that someoneholds

you, you are held in place,

the world isunmindful

of you, little, little walkers,

that he holdsyou (25)

Thenarrative, blatant in its attempt to engage with history, is pursed with highlypersonal turns, including episodes involving her father's death. In"Postcards (At the Nature Sanctuary)," what starts out as a forayinto terriotoriality and habitat transitions quite jarringly into one suchrecollection, the two intersecting only in their points of origin. Always,there is an awareness of the persona's position, including her individualhistory. As a result, the flow of the narrative, both in individual poems andin their succession, is always tentative, only gaining a convincing voicewhenever it asserts (and indeed she had called it an "imperative")that "you are here" ("Tourist"):

It insists on the contemporary individual’s implicationin this historical inheritance, fixes him in the here and now if there is to bean active and meaningful engagement of it ... I wanted to explore in the bookhow one might be able to arrive at the condition that transposes thecontemporary self from the mediated past into an immediate, living present andpresence.

Thisengagement she lays out rather thickly in "Itinerary, Day Five(Tribute to the Survivors of the Battle for Manila, Fort Santiago)":

Look at you, listening. Listen to yourself as you listento your

self speaking out of an actor's mouth, feeling morespoken of, also

at, the unique experience that brings you here becomingan alienation.

Being narrated, the narrator is wrenched from his story(13).

"Itinerary"is only the second poem in the collection, plunging us headlong in her universeafter a seemingly (and perhaps purposely) timid piece of situating with"Accommodations." Already, there is an attempt to engage beyond thenormal route, a seeming disclaimer after the whirlwind journey that took place,the seeing, remembering and contemplating in the first four days of theitinerary: from promenading along historic Unter den Linden in Day One andimagining trapped World War II soldiers jumping to their deaths in Day Two, tolistening to the sound of limestone drilling in Simacolong, Siquijor in DayThree and contemplating on the need to forget after a disastrous war in DayFour.

Indescribing the interaction between history and the contemporary individualseeking to look back, she further asserts this persona position, and in theprocess elucidating on its almost circular quality that, to a certain extent,allows union in spite of the distance:

History has a cruel prepositional gaze: it fixes you. Itmounts you

its students come for you, your transparency a visiblething to look at,

over, then through, to not forget what must not to beforgotten, that grief

a tunneling predicate fixing everyone in their place inthat auditorium.

Look at you looking back. Heroic composure. What elegance(13).

Isthe purpose, then, to situate the persona -- and us -- in the narrative ofhistory, to reassert that it is ours, despite being absent in its unfolding? Itcertainly seems that way. After all, she ends that section with, "Eitherway, first person, singular." But then darkness follows, and the brand ofwitnessing that we are allowed to experience is revealed to be problematic inDay Six (Malinta Tunnel Evening Tour):

but the dark -- unintelligible disinterest

-- disables all knowing interrogation that is

our presence, then my unknowing

heartening as a kind of sight, and the body

is a membrane of sightless intelligence (14).

Problematicis perhaps too simplistic, but how can an "unknowing" be "a kindof sight" when dealing with an historical subject?

Doesthis mean that their suffering is ours as well? Comfortably distant and safefrom the crossfire during the Battle of Manila, is it right to claim kinshipwith the tragedy and therefore speak for its real victims based merely on being bornin the same group of islands? John Berger writes, "The past is never therewaiting to be discovered, to be recognized for exactly what it is. Historyalways constitutes the relation betweeen a present and its past ... Culturalmystification of the past entails a double loss. Works of art are madeunnecessarily remote. If we saw the art of the past, we would situate ourselvesin history" (11).

David'sway of bridging the gap is acknowledging it and coming to terms with itsinsurmountability. In "Repository (That it has to depict theexperience)," two "capsules" are presented, both inadequate todelve thoroughly into the past and resonate with vigor to the future (32). Theattempt and eventual inability, the falling short in the gargantuan"expectations," is demonstrated with the poem's long sentences,heavily enjambed but nevertheless conjuring forward movement, such that you feelout of breath after reading. There is a fleeting sense of futility there, butby insisting on parallelisms, history becomes personal and therefore lessremote.

Inthe face of the unknowable, we settle for anything familiar. Lost inthe labyrinth of history, we grapple for signs that we recognize. Dramatized in"You Are Here (She has yet to learn to find her way)," the personarealizes that the place is "reminiscent / of her old one," but thecomfort is short-lived when she finds out that "the names of / of streetshave changed" (26). Some time passes and another figure emerges, one whohas "come a long way / from when it was all foreign to him" (28).Again, there is an attempt to bring up "similarities," this timebetween home and a foreign land. Unsuccessful, there is no shame, for,"This place after / all has held graver unfastenings. We honor these /clefts no less by not naming them" (30).

In"Repository (Lamplight on, cone of curiosity)," the abyss thatseparates the acts of experiencing and speaking is made more pronounced andeven antagonistic, but paradoxically, the connection between the two is nevermore heartfelt:

all that they carry too much for this dark

meager bar;fifty years

laterthere are forms for "breaking

their silence" Were any of your relatives and/orfriends

killed duringthe battle for the liberation?

If so,please

name your victim, your relation to the victim,

the approximatelocation of your victim's death,

yourvictim's manner of death

[please check]: by

crossfire or

shellingor

bayoneting or

burning or

tortureor "others,"

the blanks below accept

every imaginablemanner, meaning

if wefail to mention it, here are your blanks to fill, (37)

"Withyour research," she asks, harshly, later in the poem, "are you finallyin their shoes?"

Thisinterogation dismisses verisimilitude and empathy, virtues that are typicallylauded in fiction, and indeed in all of "humane" literature. They are not only futile, but insensitively assuming as well. Itis a repudiation of any claim at solidarity with victims (and poetic subjects), all too often reducedto faceless names, alongside a catalog of dates and events lumped wholesale ashistory. The tension ensues, then, right in the middle of the collectionbecause we, after accepting our position as sympathetic outsiders to theevents, are now complicit in reducing them to, at best, mere statistical data,and, at worst, material for art.

Theaccusation is perhaps prompted by the formalist overdependence on the powers of"creativity" absent critical engagement of a material. "Butimagination," Edel Garcellano writes, "grounded on materialistground, can not be allowed to transmogrify into pure abstraction" (11).

AsDavid navigates the murky task of merging the political and the personal, sheintentionally blurs the divide even more, a move that results in a kind ofcrystalization. By elucidating on the terrain of experience -- its limitationsas well as opportunities to create new meanings and directions because ofsuch limitations -- we know that we are "here," and we are notcompletely powerless after all.

WORKS CITED

Berger, John. Ways of Seeing. Penguin and the BBC. London. 1972.
David,Mabi. You Are Here. High Chair. Quezon City. 2009.

----"Tourist".High Chair Online. July-December, 2009. Web. 22 March,2011.
<http://www.highchair.com.ph/issue12/12_tourist.html>

Garcellano, Edel. "Extra Memo" in 24/7The 2004-2005 Philippine Collegian Anthology. LJA Printing Press. QuezonCity. 2005.

Choices

2011-09-28T09:21:00.000-07:00

So we have this v. giggly classmate in fiction. Everytime she laughs, it drives us crazy:

Prof: You know I want to create a character based on her.
Bambi: And kill her?

Hahahahaha. Hah. Hahahaha.

Friday last week, two classes wrapped up with food, wine, and chit-chat. That's Sir B (with, apparently, this year's Palanca second prize winner for the essay; I didn't know; I've been sitting beside her all semester) in Via Mare. Sadly, those of us who came from Ma'am J's class were too full to order anything thanks to a variation of any of the following: pizza, donuts, empanada, baked potato, crinkles, sushi, and, of course, wine. Poetry class will wrap up next week and Sir J told us to bring food. So this is what they do in grad school? No wonder F. Sionil... Kidding!

Taking my seat, the first thing Sir B told me was, dapat ikaw ang manlibre, I just signed your check. Haha. A bit more short of money than usual, I wanted to tell him, "Can I cash half na?" Hehe. But seriously, I picked up a book I've abandoned before and found - of all things - a payslip between its pages. Normally, that thing (for me) is laden with deductions (absences, tardiness, etc), but the particular one I found had none, and it reflected, in my mind, a respectable amount. I miss getting paid on a regular basis, such as when you run out, you always know the 15th or 30th is a week or so away (obviously, saving is in a completely different galaxy).

Eva and I, we both thought we could hack it. But walking into Papu's earlier, she told me she might not last long. Me too. I need to either step up my whoring efforts or stop getting picky. These, or I shall say hello again to cold showers, complaining about traffic, and perpetually wishing that the elevator would go a tad bit slower. A desire to take 15 units next sem is yet another complication. Why didn't Jesus give me rich/generous parents?

Capitalism.

2011-09-22T03:09:00.000-07:00

Wonder how people managed before bullets (unless bullets came simultaneously with thought itself; hmm, funky, Wittgenstein-style thought, this one):

Saw Capitalism: A Love Story two nights ago. Bawled through about 80 percent of the movie. Wonder if that's normal. Surely, is predictable to cry at warm Emmy accepting speech, when some fat lady says, "Sometimes, things just take time." But at sight of Wall Street and NYSE being cordoned off with yellow police line and financial giants lobbying tirelessly to get bailout legislation passed?
Asked Alan, is it selfish and arrogant (and foolish) of me to choose not to work for them corporate folks to avoid the commodification of, well, my skills for their benefit? I think he said no, but I sadly forgot his explanation. All I know is, I cringe when I think how big business will make use of whatever I produce and make money off of it. But isn't that what I'm doing now? With PR and research gigs? I suppose, but as I am not tied to anything, I can choose gigs, and choose those that remotely contribute something.
Months ago, was contacted by huge Japanese energy company to "spin" a press release by Ibon International and feed it to media. Told them to send it over, and jaw was on floor at length capitalists are willing to go just to amass wealth, forsaking people's welfare, heritage, and, ultimately, life itself. Told them, in so many words, that there was no way I could, in good conscience do it. Last I heard, Noynoy Aquino was lauding the investment. (Oh fuck, will cry again). Word apparently got around was recently told that contact had been saying that I was getting "picky" with rakets. Will probably not hear from him again. Bye, big bucks!
But isn't this how the world works? You whore yourself for money, then you buy stuff and convince yourself that it was just as well?
At the risk of sounding like a Miss Universe candidate, is money the only currency in the world? This is sounding more and more idiotic and naive as I go on. So will stop now. But to go back to Capitalism: A Love Story (for more organic unity), will always think there is an alternative to this dog-eat-dog desperation, and while it may be inconceivable, to stop imagining so may be the end of me. Or: I am just being a lazy-ass motherfucker. Have long resigned to the fact that will never, not in this lifetime, get rich (barring acts of god, surprise inheritance, finding bag full of money in N. Domingo, etc.). Not a matter of mentality; just choice. Whenever I think of applying for a corporate job and getting a car and a house and a nice bi-annual vacation, I drift off a little, happily, then I think, then what.

Waiting.

2011-09-19T15:04:00.000-07:00

Stuff:

Prof decided to hold a make-up class in her office at the UST Publishing House. First time it happened, it was Quezon City Day and therefore a holiday, so we held class in Manila. Genius.
The UST campus is like an oasis in the middle of Manila. But perhaps as testament to its strong Catholic leaning, there are so many, many, many people inside. So many students in uniforms. So many lithe bodies running around in skimpy shorts. Which brings me to:
"Do you miss youth?" I asked Alan, who didn't miss a beat and quickly said, "All the time." We laughed so hard we nearly tumbled over to the grassy area in front of the huge arch. It was so weird being in UST. For one:
UP Pep won its fourth title in five years. As someone who lived through the fun, fun era of the UP-UST rivalry of the early 2000's, I used to shudder at the thought of stepping in that school. Many years, one Thomasian ex, and a college degree later, I'd like to think I have outgrown silly school stuff.
Wahhh! UP won and UST was out of the top three again. Happy quadricentennial, UST!
For the fifth straight year, I'm doing the cheerdance article for Kule. Three years after I graduated. Yes. Once or twice, I handed in columns or the occasional article for the severely undermanned kultura peeps, but I wonder how long I will want to write about people lifting each other to form scorpions, scales, pyramids, or similar. Which reminds me:
Prof asked, out of nowhere, if I was with the Collegian. "Are you a journalist now?" she said. "No, maam. Just PR and corporate shit." "It's OK. We all have our day jobs."
Chanced upon the Emmy's earlier. One winner was a nice, fat lady from Justified. She could barely negotiate the stairs to the stage and had to be helped by the presenters. With the biggest smile, she gushed, "Sometimes, some things just take time." I bawled over my bowl of goto. Bawled.

Hopes.

2011-09-12T10:41:00.000-07:00

I heard somewhere that where you align yourself in bed says something about you and the way you perceive yourself. If you sleep on either the left or right side of the bed, you are supposedly, on a subconscious level, waiting for an as-yet absent person to come into your life. If you sleep on the center, you're fine with being on your own. (If this is the case, please stop reading at this point because the wanton neediness might offend your incredible sense of self.)

So I looked at my own bed at home, which is a twin, then did a quick mental review of the hotel beds I've slept on during my recent out-of-town gigs. I realize that I always sleep on one side, because, more than anything, I'd be reading or doing something on the laptop, so then I could just toss whatever it is on one side. But rarely, if at all, do I sleep at dead center.

Not to take these things too seriously, but after breaking off my last relationship two years ago, I felt a nagging certainty that I'd be on my own for a very long time. The realization, while sad in hindsight, didn't come with any attendant sadness, or opposition. "It is what it is." It is not resignation per se, but a calm acceptance (except on restless nights when the bed is just too big and the space too tangible, when some radio station suddenly plays "Send in the Clowns" or "A Case of You"). Two and a half years hence, it's still true, and I'm none the, well, sadder.

But I admit: the sighs that now punctuate every remembrance that I'm on my own have grown longer and more pronounced, the air exhaled more forcefully. I don't want to call it urgency, because I'm 25, and I enjoy it, I think, but sometimes I wonder how I'm going to look back at this stage of my life 10, 20 years hence. Or when I'm 60. Will I feel sorry for all the time wasted alone, or will I think, as I do now, that my time will come, and if not, then there is no shame in it. There is no shame.

PS. This is just about as (emotionally) naked as I can get. Let's quickly shrug it off, shall we.
PPS. A quick look-up on more sleep-related psycho stuff reveals that I normally sleep in a "yearner" position, which supposedly means I am "cynical" and "suspicious." O God, could it be true?

Oddities.

2011-09-11T09:36:00.000-07:00

An exchange with The One with the Russian Name*:

Him: I'm gaining weight.

Me: Good.

Him: Not comparable to how you define gaining weight based on your ability to gain waight, pero i am gaining weigh.

Me: Hey no need to be catty. Hehe.

Him: Miss you. Haha.

Me: Hehe. I'm writing a poem sequence about my ex's for a class.

Him: Dissing the ex's. Hmm.

Me: On the contrary; celebrating them.

Him: You knonw every relationship teaches you. at the end you become perfect for the one you were really meant for.

Me: I agree.

*Supposing hell freezes over and I actually muster the nerve to post the poems somewhere, this is him.

Deadlines.

2011-09-05T04:37:00.000-07:00

Last week, was out of town on assignment (love how important/journalistic that sounds). See, there is always that turn from one week where you do absolutely nothing to another so infernally busy (granted, some deadlines had been long-standing, but that is not the bloody point).

Room with a view. Of a power plant.

So on plate are: revision for fiction class (4,000 words); second essay for nonfiction class (5,000 words); last set of poems for poetry class (5 poems); raket outputs (3 articles); and Youngblood article forced into saying yes to for upcoming Collegian reunion (1,000 words?).

Gah, too many words.

Out of town assignment was interesting. Insisted on hiking up a mountain to make story better and ended up being laughing stock of forest rangers, local cooperative members, or similar, when muddy uphill terrain proved too much for suede shoes and skinny jeans. Shoes can be replaced, jeans, washed, but dignity, sadly, can never be regained (but what about Milton's Paradise? Hm?)

Highlight of my career. Haha.

Assignment, with hours-long land trips, also involved a lot of sitting on ass with Rufus Wainwright blaring in ear and staring into space. Years ago, amid academic drudgery and with absolutely no clue how future would unfold, never thought it would be like this: so much writing, so much words, and never thought would find it, oddly, not as fantastic as pictured in delusion-addled head. For instance, got hold of copy of annual with my feature on Chris Tiu, and felt weird sensation in general gut area. Maybe a case of not knowing that you have it good already? Who knows.

PS. Missed Under the Storm launch last Friday. Now am excited to get complimentary copy from Eva and see all of the signatures she so nicely amassed for self.

Revisions

2011-08-30T13:07:00.000-07:00

This is what I feared about grad school: revising something I love, and revising it until I no longer recognized it (which is exactly what is happening to this story). The specifics of this current tussle (empire writes back, defamiliarization, and a point about racisim) are too convoluted, so instead I will tell a story about another story.

Last October, I wrote something about a Spanish cougar who comes to the country. It's a story that I feel very strongly about (the beach, loneliness, old age, and memories of that good-bad Pagudpud summer). It was workshopped in Ateneo and the comments were varied. There was a consensus that it was "new" and "different," but there were also questions central to the very story, as in, "Do we need this story? This character?" The project, which thankfully came across, was post-colonial. Blatantly post-colonial, and some quarters (yes, I'm looking at you, BSS) thought either (1) we don't need foreign characters in post-colonial stories (huh), or (2) why the hell did you take on the voice of an old Spanish lady, you fool?

I revised the story for a few months, and when February came, I submitted it to Likhaan (which, to canon-obsessed me, is, like, Holy Grail). I stuck to first person and did more research, reconfigured the plot, tweaked the structure, and added more ambiguity (I always thought ambiguity is always made of win, a view that is subverted in every single workshop in non-realist fiction class). I don't think I sacrified its post-colonial import in polishing the craft; in fact, the project gained from the revision, as it made things more subtle, less obtrusive, and ultimately more potent (I think).

In Dumaguete, they found another glaring problem, so I was thankful that the story was accepted. Hahaha. Of course, it is not beyond revision, but I am beyond revising it. For now. I've forgotten the point of this story, but I know a thing or two about pandering to tastes. I hated having to revise something that already pleased me, but now, around three-fourths of the way to finishing it, I admit: there is more than one way for a story to be, in my mind, beautiful.

Language.

2011-08-25T16:47:00.000-07:00

Language, learning, identity, privilege

"My classmates and I used to complain about Filipino all the time. Filipino was a chore, like washing the dishes; it was not the language of learning. It was the language we used to speak to the people who washed our dishes."

Nakakaloka.

Pero pinapauna ko na, na wala akong ascendancy para awayin ang kuyang ito, dahil sa Ingles ako nagsusulat (at minsan nag-iisip, nananaginip). At binalak kong isulat ito sa Filipino, pero hindi ko napagtagumpayan (pero sige nga: isalin mo ang "banality of evil" sa Filipino?).

But what I'm actually most bothered with is not the author's views per se but the way in which he expressed and processed them. That is, with so matter-of-fact nonchalance. That is, with hands-behind-the-head acceptance. "English is the language of learning ... Filipino is the language of the streets," this dichotomy so certain in his mind. I am bothered that he, in his perfect world where English is superior, is unbothered. Who was it who said that violence is harshest when it is rendered most invisible because of its ubiquity?

When people take it as "natural" things like these -- English being superior to Filipino because of a global order they are born to (forgetting conveniently that Japan, Korea, and even China choose to be immune to such order) -- they forget that this stature is something that is fiercely maintained and defended, by Hollywood-variety onslaught of cultural impositions on one hand, and the quasi-global policing mandate of the US on the other.

I wonder if it's too much to ask for people to think of language, as a tool for human agency, as necessarily political, and Filipino, as the product of decades-long conflict, as something that comes with a lot of baggage.

"Perhaps this is not so bad in a society of rotten beef and stinking fish. For while Filipino may be the language of identity, it is the language of the streets. It might have the capacity to be the language of learning, but it is not the language of the learned."

I am tempted to invoke a legion of cultural and linguistic theorists here, from Hannah Arendt to Pierre Bourdieu. See: "banality of evil." See: "symbolic violence."

I am tempted to write a very lengthy message to the author that no, this is not a perfect world, and do not accept it to be so. Do not think you are helpless with a schema that is thrust upon you. You can do something. Study Filipino. Read Filipino works. At the end, everything is a choice. Do not claim helplessness. And if you learn that Filipino is beautiful and it is yours, do not perpetrate the same cycle of violence to your kids. Filipino is not the language of the learned? Realize it is wrong, and do something.

But I think the article (and author) is innocent enough. I'm just so sad that someone like him, perhaps educated, perhaps in a good school, thinks the way he thinks.

Tears.

2011-08-21T04:51:00.000-07:00

Love is many and truth is just,
And so we are; Both
What we choose,
And we refuse.

- Afternoon of a Sea Faun, Edith Tiempo (1919 - 2011)

I am never star-struck. Then I met Edith Tiempo.

Maybe met, in hindsight, is inaccurate. Maybe stared in awe in the face of such fragile, fragile sublimity? We went to her house one day last summer. All my lit subjects had a requisite Edith Tiempo poem. Of course, I was excited.

But I am not a formalist, I remember telling myself. Glenn, that you are in Dumaguete, bastion of formalism, is already odd. Stop this foolishness. Then Edith Tiempo walked into the expansive living room. Maybe walked is inaccurate. Maybe landed. It was a moment. Some of my co-fellows blinked back tears.

I didn't cry then. Then during a dinner dedicated to her, she gave a message. Coherent. Eloquent. At 92. Heartfelt. I pulled Philline outside, behind our war-era bus, in the guise of a smoke. We were both crying. We both found direction.

Thank you, Mom Edith. More tears today. But thank you.

Poems.

2011-08-17T19:01:00.000-07:00

Mind-boggling day/s. Finished Goon Squad early Wednesday and was, naturally, exalting virtues of fiction zombie-like then come workshop time was completely turned around when first batch of Bakla and the City poems (v. tentative title/idea) received well in class. (Because of dire need of affirmation of late, will shamelessly try to quote the nice words here; also, for nostalgia.) J. Neil said something like, "One of the best things about being a teacher is discovering new voices." By then, already got tingling sensation in tummy. Then he continues, blah blah first time to have me as student, blah blah flower between the pages of a book blah blah "wonderful" (in that typical gushing way of his).

But needy, self-absorbed moments aside, realized what went well in this workshop and didn't (as well) in fiction workshop: intention. J. Neil completely (as in to the bone) nailed what I wanted to render/achieve, while Jing and (some) classmates were like tilapia hauled to manure-laden soil, flailing and writhing about helplessly, mouthing stuff that bloody missed the point. (Of course, also recalibrating work as some of the disconnect falls on me.)

Shet forgot whole point of this. Will not abandon you, fiction. I think. Just boggles the mind the many ways words can evoke shit, like poetry.

PS. Will review Goon Squad soon.
PPS. Stayed the night at Alaysa's. After class, had dinner at Mashitta with Alan, then walked to Makatarungan. Realized life can be so easy without commuting (but then whole city-city project would've been non-existent as well - Hay ang gulo-gulo!).

Consumptions.

2011-08-14T20:10:00.000-07:00

Barrage of issues going pip pip successfully drowned not by alcohol but by long, sobering talks and foray into bowels of Manila, a journey that included, among others, (1) getting squished in the LRT, (2) seeing Nanette Inventor in Wai Ying, and (3) walking around Carriedo at night and shouting "Quiapo? Quiapo?" to bewildered jeepney drivers who grimaced as their way of saying "Quiapo is two minutes away by foot, you morons," as it indeed was. ANYWAY:

Halfway through A Visit from the Goon Squad (Egan). Why you so good, Jenny? Why? Ha? Why? OK.
Chanced upon The Shape of Things last night. V. creepy twist at the end. Was reduced to drool-faced fool with jaw on floor blabbering "What the fuck? What the fuck?" repeatedly like parrot. Was surprised to find negative reviews online as mind was completely blown to smithereens in the aftermath, mind racing with ideas about nature of art, perception of reality, Paul Rudd, or similar.
Was eating hopia from Salazar's while watching/reading.
Wonder if it's fair to compare workshop classes to Silliman (or even Ateneo). Obviously, one teacher plus other grad students can't compare to several panelists and other fellows. Just expected discussions to be more comprehensive, in-depth, and, well, longer than 30 minutes or so. There were, on that topic, a lot of points I wanted to raise, including a defense of my intention/project, but there is nothing more depressing than a writer trying to defend his piece/convince others it didn't suck as they thought it did. Gosh, will stop now.
I mean seriously, you take it when Ricky de U. says the kind of story you want to tell "needs a more mature hand." He explains it exhaustively, in keen detail, and you take it. When your classmate tells you your story is "trite," you want to ask her, "EXCUSE ME? Can you recall a story that dealt with remotely the same thing? Ha?" Hahaha.
Which is not to say the workshops are horrible and all-out manic and destructive. But I do not need to be told my story is "competitively written." I need comments on what I want to do. On what I can contribute. I am in grad school for workshops. I want to know where I stand in the big Philippine literary jungle. Sigh. Maybe should recalibrate expectations. Durr.

That's the big realization of late: managing expectations. In the rogue days when you fail, there are books and beautiful movies you chance upon.

Words.

2011-08-10T20:40:00.000-07:00

Years ago, when I knew nothing about line cuts and enjambments (which, come to mention it, is not so different from my poetry-befuddlement today), I only knew there are poems that made me feel like screaming inside, poems like this, which my critical theory-trained peers would perhaps chastise as cliche-riddled, statement-heavy, and juvenile:

Reply to Oscar
Donna L. Batongbacal

But you see, there are days, too
when I walk the inner regions of my mind.

And though I am not as well-inclined
to the commodity of tears as most of my kind,
there are times when my heart unfreezes
itself, thaws its stone-coldness
in favor of a few moments of heat,
when my spirit suffuses with
a softness even I cannot bear to ignore.

Despite the many-stringed distances I keep
there is a chance for me to be reached
with the mere simplicity of things-
a smile, some rain, a few errant notes,
a voice, a bit of ice cream, some fragment
of song, a waning slab of sun, or
a glimpse at a burning star.

Though it’s true I have learned
to close off my doors and fortify my walls,
to discern between potential friend or foe,
and though most frequently I choose not to
take risks entirely, there are those whom
I let in through the cracks, a chosen few
I have set my heart upon, whom to trust,
almost blindly.

And although I have been burned
more times than I care to admit,
there are occasions too, when I am tempted
to thrust my hand in the fire, in the hope
of finding at least One who would most
assuredly be there to walk with me in the rain,
perhaps even to soak ourselves in the storm.

And even while I have sworn to suffer
no more of these idiocies and faults,
I still do crave.

Of course it’s been far too long since
we’ve talked, and you and I have
changed since those times when our troubles were
far simpler though with not much less pain.
Yet, I think, above all, knowing me as far back
as you do, you should have known-

I am not, nor have I ever at any time been,
The bulwark you take me to be:

I too, crumble and fall.

But obviously, how can you not love this poem? It's from a volume of Heights, and there have been many others, including some, if I recall correctly, by then Heights person Mookie Katigbak. I have a friend who loved reading poems out loud and these gems would fill our nights and mornings. Looking at them now, there are phrases here that have made their way to stuff I write seven, eight years later, a testament to their influence on me.

I am returning here because the frenzy of the past few months, fetish for publication, awards, workshops and personality-based what-not's, have made me lose sight of what originally brought me to, well, trying to write: stories, and how someone you don't know can tell yours and you, potentially and if you're fortunate, others'.

Speaking of which, added three more to intense pile of unread books, thanks to Nikko, who's among the now droves of people who are leaving this month for graduate school abroad:

V. interested to get started on another Amis, obviously.

Last night's plan to run was rained out, and instead Alan and I walked from Maginhawa to Buddy's in Timog, which, according to his calculations, is equivalent to four Acad Oval rounds. Proceeded to watch Teeth with chips and white wine. Bloody hilarious movie. Will now read.

Beginnings.

2011-08-09T12:26:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure why there's an itch to start over in the form of this blog while I'm quite attached to the mothership (eight years' worth, in that one, and counting) Perhaps, to snatch a semblance of control when things, as they stand now, are direction-less. Also, was happy to find out that the URL is available (given the unremarkability of my name and person). So:

Just submitted the nonfiction piece for workshop on Friday for Butch's class (he talks about our class in his column this week, and there are things he said that I could've used, but alas, they came a little too late). The whole thing, supposedly an essay, became a full-blown Kule article, with Bourdieu and symbolic violence and value system and power relations and all those things long buried in the attic and now gathering cobwebs.
Will workshop three poems as part of sequence later for Neil's class. I have nothing more to say in this regard: all I know is, I don't understand poetry, I don't think in terms of images, and I am sure to receive a beating later.
Because my three workshop subjects conspired against me (this month, in general, hasn't been kind), non-realist fiction piece might be up for workshop this Friday for Jing's class (if we finish quickly on first two, Bambi's and Dino's). My realist self is scared as shit, needless to say. Have absolutely no fantastic, spec fic bone in my body.
First time to be workshoped in classroom format in a v. long time (absent the mini-workshops with the Silliman and Chingbee groups). Come to think of it: had only one workshop class during undergrad, creative nonfic under Chingbee five years ago. Was 20 then, and harbored delusions of grandeur.
Always, idly, finding myself drifting back to the mountains of Valencia, in the thick of things, the familiar smiles and the ready ears, and poetry in the morning.
My sense of zen is currently braving the harshest storm/s in years.
Tomorrow, will meet with Alan after class to run a few rounds in school. Alaysa will join us after some tibak thing, then will troop to Buddy's for pancit and maybe yogurt. There are standing plans to visit Dambana ng Kagalakan in Morong. Last time I went there, was with Piya, and we celebrated surviving an awful September. August seems to be offering the same kind of difficulties, which may or may not have to do with some planets realigning or portals of hell opening.
The last two films I saw (Vim Yapan's Gayuma and the movie adaptation of Murakami's Norwegian Wood) are, loosely, both about love and the things we do for it. As with all great art (in my own narrow view), their imports on life are clear. I know I am not (yet) capable of great love because I am not ready to surrender as much. It's a tragedy. I noticed, too.

I don't know how to differentiate this space from the one I've dearly loved and kept for a long time. But best be typing.