--

--

Prayer.

To you,

After typing then revising then backspacing through entire sentences and paragraphs -- needless curlicues, you'd chastise -- I will go straight to the point: it pains me so much that I cannot share in this anxiety, that it is not a load we can divide, that it is at once a fear and anger that I can only understand through you. I hope you know that in this tiny way I share it, if only in the ardent desire to partake in it, to rid your life of anything that can power those restless feet toward a direction I would rather not imagine. For sure this is impossible, but even as I picture you, walking, alone, to a distance beyond what I can see, there is nothing more I would like to do than take those quivering fingers, give them a little squeeze, then lace them with mine, like a homecoming.

Love,
B.

Infirmity.

I have a feeling I still lack platelets. The heaviness that had long accompanied my movements is nothing new, but dengue, which made me lose some weight, feels like it instead inserted a seven-pound bowling ball into my core. It is something that is hard to explain except in literal terms, mainly because the appetite has been back and, save for a new fear of drizzles and mosquitoes, I would like to think I am (relatively) healthy again. Belatedly, I am just happy to not be connected to an IV bag and feeling like a pin cushion every morning because of all the blood tests. Hospitals are grim places when you're alone, which you have to be at some point, in order to appreciate the gravity of, well, life, and teetering solitarily on its edge. I have no groundbreaking epiphanies about being sick except the usual variety that being bedridden (with a lovely, lovely view of the hospital parking lot) brings. That is, I am actually afraid to die, art is unable to console, and really, I need to get fucking health insurance soon.

--

Pamimintana.

Balay Champaca, Lazi Convent (Siquijor), Dumaguete-bound Fastcraft

 Grand Regal Hotel (Davao), Philline's (Cagayan de Oro),La Gracia (Bukidnon)

 Kule office, Ormoc-bound bus, Dumaguete-bound bus

 Los Baños, Manila-bound Super Ferry, Hotel Henrico (Baguio)

Sison.

The parking lot is now paved, I told him. It was raining in Sison. We were in Baguio over the weekend, and the Pangasinan town was the first stop on the trip back to Manila. He nodded. The last time we were there, the summer of 2009, we were on our way to Pagudpud. There are things that have obviously changed over the years.

Sison will always be special to me. You see a story of mine has a scene set in that exact roadside restaurant. Romantic exaggerations aside, I had long imagined returning to the place to find Carolina and Reynaldo still there, sipping instant noodles and getting to know each other. I have reread and revised that story a thousand times. To me, it is reality.

There is something happy-sad about rest stops. In another recent trip, after the bus had slowed down in a small roadside lot in Gumaca, Quezon, I joked to the same person, wouldn't it be nice to do your thesis in a place like Gumaca? There had been three more stops in that trip, but 30 hours on a bus is not good for the brain; my mind, after the first 12 hours, had shut off protectively, and I no longer remember the rest.

I have been on the road (or water or air) for around three-quarters of May. In a restaurant near Burnham Park, a lady took our orders then asked the counter, "Naa pang bibingka?" Uttered in Ilocano country, the shouted Visayan sentence absolutely dazzled me. And so apart from a realization about the deplorable state of transportation infrastructure in the country, I also learned, maybe even embraced, for possible dalliance in the future, a thing or two about beautiful transience.

Places.

     In Iligan, an empty bus terminal at 9 in the evening. There is rain, but indecisive. It is pitch dark. I consider knocking on random doors nearby, to mutter a half-hearted Visayan phrase asking for directions to MSU (or maybe a spare room for the night). I consider sighing and walking in the rain. I consider sitting on the wet pavement and waiting (this fortnight's grandest lesson). My bags are heavy with clothes and books, all useless to ward off the croaking of frogs, or to rally the night, its sluggish completeness.

     In Allen, a playlist featuring songs from The Carpenters commences in the bus. Top of the World. We've Only Just Begun. A Song For You. Rainy Days and Mondays. The view, lit amber by 8 o'clock sun, alternates between mountains and the sea. The road sometimes zigzags. The trip nearing the one-day mark, some body parts are grumbling for respite; my stomach, my butt, my back. Uprooted from Luzon, I sit back and take a lungful of air. I had needed this distance. Wide awake, I think of opening a book to read.

     In Ormoc, we think of these plains being covered in water and mud once. We joke about the word "landslide" being taboo here. We sit by the seawall, buy too many packets of peanuts from kids idling away the last rays of sunlight. In the distance, possibly Cebu, possibly some uninhabited island. The port is gray under the clouds. From the plaza, from speakers as big as a credenza, a tune from a life that now seems so distant. "I heard / that you're settled down, and you've / found a man and you're married now --"

     In Bacolod, I sit on the foot of the bed and watch him sleep. I consider planting a kiss on his right cheek as my way of saying good morning and welcome to this day, to this beginning. Welcome, and I hope you will enjoy your stay. In Silay, we walk the empty streets an hour after finding out we had missed our flight. He calms me down, and we sip coffee and watch the late night news. Protests against an upcoming concert, an oil price rollback, a truckload of bananas abandoned on the side of a road.

     Somewhere in the Sibuyan Sea, he jokes about this trajectory - of so many joys, so many little joys - having rom-com potential. At the end of the ship's duty, when Manila's leaden panorama - derricks, clouds - slowly sweeps into view, we hold hands and watch the scenery unfold from one of the ship's rectangular windows. Under our feet, the floor continues to grumble, almost imperceptibly. There is talk of books to read, movies to see, places to go, eventually; can I wish instead for a moment's infinity?

     In Dumaguete, "We asked so little of the world. We understood / the offense of advice, of holding forth. We checked ourselves: / we were correct, we were silent. / But we could not cure ourselves of desire, not completely. / Our hands, folded, reeked of it." (Louise Glück, Arboretum)

--

Delays.

The all-encompassing lesson in this trip so far has been delayed gratification. Not completely inadvertent, I suppose, because Om, who did the itinerary, agreed that it had been a rollercoaster ride between harshness and comfort (an ongoing harsh!-bet!-harsh!-bet! cycle). Why else would we endure grueling transportation options then search out the town's most luxurious accommodation? Arriving in Ormoc, for instance, after a religion-testing 30-hour bus ride through several provinces and a thankfully peaceful strait, we checked in at the Hotel Don Felipe, a seven-story anomaly in the modest city, whose Spanish-style facade juts out of the tin roofs of the marketplace. And two days ago, after another half a day in transit - this time, six hours in a ferry from Ormoc to Cebu, then three hours in a bus from Cebu City to Toledo, then another two hours in a ferry from Toledo to San Carlos - we chose the town's most expensive restaurant which, incidentally, has six or seven double rooms for rent. During our first lunch, we ate until our bellies (mine without contest prouder) swelled from under the table (although, really, this sort of unbelievable gluttony, of ordering a feast for a small community when there's just two of you eating, is just as normal in Manila; I'm looking at you, Alan). Alas, the Days of Uncomfortable Travel ends this afternoon. Three to four hours in a bus to Dumaguete now seems like heaven-sent commute. In Dumaguete, will spend another two nights (originally booked for five; have completely forgotten about Iligan!) before taking another ferry to Cagayan de Oro en route to MSU. After the workshop, will take a ferry either back to Dumaguete or straight to Bacolod, for flight back to Manila on Monday. Who was it who said that suffering purifies? Not sure about the doctrinal accuracy of the pronouncement, but between that and the bliss of watching Poetry on Om's laptop while munching on chocolate-covered polvoron, I will be hard-pressed to choose the former.

News.

Om and I had been eating home-made chorizo for breakfast in a Bacolod pension house last year when Angelo Reyes shot himself in front of his mother's grave one sunny Wednesday. As pathetic Manileños are wont to do, we learned of the news because we next brought our laptops to the dining area so we could go online and check things. We were probably on the 20th to the 25th hour of the bus ride to Ormoc yesterday when, in his window seat and verdant mountainside alternating with wide blue seas in the background, he started giggling. "What does 'offloaded' mean?" he asked, and I told him, "Ha?" after which he giggled some more. Funny that there was giggling at all in the trip, when half the time, I was imagining the hotel bedsheets and longing to sleep, for a change, in a horizontal position. Thirty hours, count 'em, and, of course we questioned the soundness of the plan. When I woke up somewhere in Catbalogan, he said I just missed the San Juanico Bridge. "Tulog ka kasi ng tulog e." I looked at him long enough and fervently enough, then I grabbed his phone and saw the tiny blinking dot on the map that was still a centimeter or two away from the country's longest bridge. Longest, which is to say this route. We half-joked about the silly ways we could turn this into a story. The Longest Route to Ormoc, I said, and I imagined the scenes inside the ferry, with all the (assertive) commerce, including but not limited to the many magtatahos and manicurists onboard. The characters presented themselves in the motley crew of our fellow passengers, such as Ate Assertive, Ate Assertive 2, Ate Mag-Isa, Bibong Konduktor, and La Familia, who, the bus hardly gaining speed in SLEX, took out a bucket of fried chicken and started eating, turning the bus air greasy and our erstwhile suspicions of this being a long trip from literal to also quite figurative. What was the real news in the trip so far? That I can withstand grueling 30-hour bus rides with fewer complaints than my tummy. That Filipinos are a beautiful people. These, and that Om can always have the window seat.

Safe-keeping.

Apologize for whirlwind of late. Things had, I think, calmed down after the initial crescendo. Maybe plateaued? Stabilized? Definitions of an evening out. Hope not entirely accurate. Stuff:

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

Iligan.

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

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

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

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

The writing fellows are:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ang Ibig Sabihin ng Lungkot

Tanda ko ang mabilis-mabagal na pag-ulan ng bulak sa Abril 

kasabay ng iyong tagubilin: “Ang susi ay nasa ilalim lamang 

ng marungis na paso sa ikatlong baitang.” Sa nais tuntunin 

ng mga ligaw na bulak sa hangin, animo’y walang bigat 

ang katawan, walang grabidad ang nahamugang lupain. 

Ano ang kakatwang kahulugan ng paglipad ng bulak 

kung hindi ang kawalan nito ng pakpak? Kung hindi 

ang sandaling kalayaan mula sa napipintong paglapag. 

Sa ngayon, kung kailan nakapinid ang mga daan 

at paraan tungo sa iyo, ang mga pasilyo’t siwang 

na dati’y daluyan ng mga hiwatig na ngayo'y iwinaglit 

sa hangin, tulad mo, tulad natin, mahal, saan ang daan 

tungo sa nakaraan? Ano ang silbi ng malalamyang kumpas

ng bulak sa malaon nang ikinandadong pintuan?