Reasons.

To you,

I know that you think I write for ego's sake. I don't. But even if I do, I will say that it is as valid a reason to write as anything. Like you, I used to take it against people for writing selfishly, i.e., not for the country. However, I learned that if it makes him a better person, the writing would have done its part, and more, and would not have been in vain. The written word, after all, is a mere tool, and if someone is utterly convinced that his reason is nobler / "better" than others, it says more about him than those whom he judges.

You also know, that if there's something in this world that I constantly aspire for, it is to occupy as small a space as I could, to inconvenience as few lives as possible, and to matter as little as I could. However, in spite of myself, the writing inflates my ego unnecessarily, and I sometimes forget that it is not for the self that I write. And so if I quit writing in the future, this will be the only reason: that I no longer like what it is doing to me, and my perception of myself in relation to the world, and so I must stop.

Contradictions.

The Image of the Filipino in Miguel Syjuco's Ilustrado

The stance of the anarchist is much luminous, yet for one trapped in the belly of the beast, that heretical strain will do.

- Edel Garcellano

There is sustained and intentional anarchy in Miguel Syjuco's much-celebrated debut effort Ilustrado. The form he used to weave the already convoluted narrative -- metafictional hybridity, aggressive fragmentation, and a relentless pastiche of excerpts, blog entries, emails, interviews, and multi-persona storytelling -- is, in so many ways, apt, considering its representative project. Just like its great-grandmother, Jessica Hagedorn's Dogeaters, the disjointed nature of Ilustrado reflects the age-old identity crisis of Filipinos, perhaps inadvertently adhering to the formalist hermeneutics of what you say is how you say it.

But outside Syjuco's labirynthine prose, the attempt to encapsulate the Filipino identity is clear, even as his alter-ego Crispin Salvador had, supposedly, "unceasingly tried to shudder off the yoke of representation" (Syjuco, 6). For one, the novel's rigorous undertaking of the country's history, complete with at times caricaturish characters verging on archetypal tokenisms and all-too-convenient cataloging of representative news bites, prompts the accusation. But the final nail in the coffin is the last sentence in Salvador's (and Syjuco's) long and obviously true-to-life commentary on Philippine writing: "Don't make things new, make them whole" (209).

Whether or not the novel succeeds in making things "whole," the observations it makes about the Filipino identity all show constant preoccupation with one thing: class. "The term class," writes Garcellano, "is still the bogeyman in literary and media discourses -- almost as though Manila is in a time warp" (15). Indeed, as Ilustrado navigates through one period, place or millieu to another, everything seems to revolve around class, to reinforce it, to subvert it, or to merely articulate its whims. And why not? The level of inequality in Philippine society is one of the highest in the world, its stubborn roots surviving occupations and revolutions.

Its title alone, a reference to the upper-class intelligentsia during the Spanish period, is an exhortation to see Salvador/Syjuco in that light: educated, reform-minded, but most importantly, upper-class. And so when the novel traverses more than a century of history -- from the turbulent countryside during the 1896 Philippine Revolution to the coke-smelling bathroom of fictional Club Coup d'Etat today -- class and its many faces hover above the proceedings, the tense political ferment perpetually brewing in the background (everyone in this novel, from the druggies to the unnamed couple in some random elevator, talks about current events).

Right off the bat, we realize that we are dealing with a very class-concious narrator/persona with the "protagonist" Miguel Syjuco (a rendering, of course, that will be completely subverted by the novel's explosive ending). In detailing the supposedly dehumanizing conditions of riding coach, Syjuco, the scion of a political and landed clan, notes that "anyone who is still a Marxist has never had an economy-class middle seat on a packed long-haul flight like this one" (22).

During the same flight back to Manila, he encounters what would be the first of this novel's many archetypal characters. His seatmate, after using and keeping Syjuco's bottle of hand sanitizer, strikes up a conversation with him, complete with visual aid, a thick wad of dollar bills that he fishes from his belt bag. In broken English, the returning OFW tells his story, which, of course, mirrors a million others:

My neighbor finally asks me, in English, "You visiting?" I nod. "Me," he says, smiling, "I come home. For good ... In past times, I work very hard. I remit money for a long time. I will now change everything." I nod. The money in the middle slips out of the stack and bills shower into our laps ... The bills smell like sweaty hands and baking bread. "I work so far away. Now, for the future of my children, I come home" (41).

Some 9 million Filipinos, or roughly 1 in every 10, work abroad -- from the deserts of Algeria to the seas off the coast of Zaire -- their remittances fueling the economy to the detriment of relationships. The social cost of the OFW phenomenon is largely unstudied, but to be sure, growing up without one or both parents is less than ideal. This dependence on foreign capital, mainly due to the absence of national industries, is tangentially responsible for the lack of employment opportunities in our own shores.

This preoccupation with class is at times evident, such as the aforementioned connection. At other times, it needs to be fleshed out. For instace, the novel has explicitly championed education as an enabler (Ilustrado literally means "the enlightened one"). But the Ateneo- and Columbia-educated Syjuco finds himself reprimanded by his rich, influential grandfather for "wasting [his] life" in a magazine, working as an editorial assistant when he is supposed to be editor-in-chief (38). "I sent you to an Ivy League school," he insists, even taunting him later, "Are you the janitor?"

Another thematic mine for Ilustrado, the Filipino family is shown in the novel as extremely didactic to a point of suffocation. Both Salvador and Syjuco tried to escape their prescribed paths. Salvador published a memoir that supposedly shamed the family and attacked the Catholic church, while Syjuco refused to enter politics and write about "nice things." The resulting estrangement practically banished them from Manila, to live exilic lives of solitude and alienation.

Both functioning as instruments to maintain their economic class, such value on family exacts Filipinos to, in turn, put a high premium on formal education. The common Filipino home is adorned with framed diplomas, giant graduation pictures, and medals dating back to kindergarten. This hunger for intellectual capital is largely class-driven: poor families break their backs to send that one intelligent child to college, middle-class families move heaven and earth to pay for tuition, and rich families give their kids the best education that money can buy.

This fetish for schools and degrees is revisited when Syjuco dines with Sadie's upper middle-class family, the Gonzalez's. Her father, upon finding out that Syjuco went to an Ivy League school, shares, "I went to Harvard for my master's, then to Princeton for my PhD" (193). The two even get into a mild tussle regarding the the composition of the Founding Four, after the elder Gonzalez calls Columbia a Little Ivy.

Marxist theory posits the primacy of commodity in the market economy, a coopting that affects all facets of life, including education. This commodification gives things value that is not inherent in them. To illustrate in this case, the value of an Ivy League education is perceived to be commensurate to how much it costs in the market and the consequent entitlements it brings, be it prestige or a high-paying job.

Even the novel's running joke about the Atenean, Lasallian, and the AMA student is rooted on class. When they see a "particularly skanky girl" wearing high-heeled shoes "popular with dancers of the exotic discipline," the three's reactions venture beyond the realm of harmless school jokes:

The Atenista says: "My God! A veritable whore of Babylon!"

The Lasallista says: "Nyeh! What a puta!"

Erning Isip ... exclaims: "Uy! My classmate from Intro to HTML!" (50).

The humor of the remarks relies heavily on the fact that they are class articulations, loaded with meanings that shed light on things beyond themselves. This is akin to the acrimonious but all-too-normal taunting of the "Tuition ninyo, allowance lang namin" variety.

Ilustrado doesn't pull punches with its jokes, the distinct Pinoy brand of humor palpable in something as silly as odd names (Boy, Baby, Keana Reeves) and long-winded acronyms (the DCSMNLLR Prize) or as grand as the protracted saga of Wigberto Lakandula, something that verges on magic realism. Vowing revenge on a couple who killed his girlfriend, the goodlooking Lakandula decapitates the family's Chihuahua's then takes them hostage. A testament to the quirky Pinoy variants of "celebrity," a crowd, led by the shrill screams of collegialas, gathers outside the house to sho support. The couple, coincidentally but not really, belong to the Changco clan, the archetype for corrupt big business and entrenched oligarchy.

Reminiscent of formulaic Pinoy teleserye, the episode brings to fore the issue of class. But while teleseryes portray class as malleable and prone to divine whimsy instead of structural and fiercely defended, the Lakandula story depicts class antagonisms playing out on a very public venue. This fascination, some would argue, is rooted on a collective imagining of class distinctions being eradicated altogether, although material conditions preclude that possibility as of yet.

However, as the novel on one hand illustrates class antagonisms and therefore the possibility of subverting the hierarchy, it offers a stern warning to those who will actually do it:

Pity not the elite, but do not condemn them all ... Vilification, by its definition, creates an antagonistic struggle, an us-versus-them mentality, that throws us all into a senseless battle-royale. The slaves of today will become the tyrants of tomorrow -- the proletariat overthrows the hegemon to become the hegemon itself (70).

Couched in an essay by Salvador called Socrates Dissatisfied, this pronouncement is unfortunately silent on alternative modes of engagement (a tell-all book is a hardly realistic solution in the face of a non-reading public). It speaks of what we shouldn't do without mentioning what we should. Inadvertently, Salvador, a mouthpiece through which the novel speaks, reveals the preoccupation of the entrenched elite, true in Ilustrado and true in society: the preservation of the status quo. What, then, of armed struggle? How does the novel portray the communist insurgency in the country, the longest-running in the world?

After finishing school in Europe, Salvador went on to become an award-winning journalist in the Philippines. He was soon conscienticized and, prompted by the gruesome murder of a woman he admired, he decided to take up arms in the late 1960s. In the hinterlands of Mt. Banahaw, he learned the following: firing a Kalashnikov, spotting edible plants, navigating by the stars, and puncturing an enemy's lung with a knife.

Trained in guerilla warfare but suspiciously with nary a lesson on the theoretical framework of Maoist-Leninist armed struggle, he described his experience as the "schooling in the best and the worst of humanity" (261). His portrayal -- and the novel's -- of the communist movement is temporal, a phase that a people will outgrow. "Call communism my youthful reaction to the garish conservatism of an entrenched elite" (127). Needless to say, Marxist critics bristled at the clear repudiation. He explains further:

I felt at the time that communism was the way because it was the only viable means to real progres in my country. I no longer believe it can work. We're simply not that noble. I still believe revolutionary change is the only remedy, but it will be through something far more primitive (127).

Syjuco even situates this point of view in the context of the world at large, a cosmopolitan treatment with which the novel positions Filipino identity. In between plans to build houses for Habitat for Humanity and volunteer for the Peace Corps in Swaziland, Syjuco and his old girlfriend Madison decide to boycot China in light of the accusations of human rights violation in the conduct of the 2008 Beijing Games. Tangentially, they note how American broadcast giant CNN stopped calling it Communist China, except during negative news stories (84).

The cosmopolitan strain goes beyond the conduit of education- and family-led diaspora. From the ski slopes of Matterhorn to the Ajaccio countryside, Salvador jetsets around Europe with indefatigable haste and ease, something that a vast majority of Filipinos cannot imagine, much less do themselves. Ironically, he seems the least home in Manila, the proverbial cutting off of the umbilical cord that he justifies as necessary in creating genuine art.

What's in Manila anyway? A hodgepodge of influences has made Manila inherently schizophrenic, in fact "most impermeable" of cities, says Salvador. "If one writes about its tropical logic, its bitter aftertaste of Spanish colonialism, readers wonder: Is this a Magical Realist? So one writes of the gilded oligarchs and the reporters with open hands and the underpaid officers in military fatigues, the authority of money and press badges and rifles distinguishing them as neither good nor bad, only satiated and dangerous. And readers wonder: Is this Africa" (60)?

The magic realist bent complements the novel's willful and successful blurring of the fiction-nonfiction divide. Manila, after all, is no stranger to strangeness. To cite, the bus that was bombed in EDSA killing four people was driven by a guy named Maximo Peligro. Recently, the disgraced former armed forces chief of staff committed suicide by shooting himself in the heart in front of his mother's grave.

And so, in Ilustrado, when a disgruntled lover held his girlfriend's killer hostage, the strangeness escaped the general population. Instead, they trooped to the house, held placards declaring their support, and sent a text message to everyone in their phonebook to "take to the streets for Lakandula" (268).

However, the oddity of the Filipino psyche is loudest with the novel's political import. With representative characters like President Fernando V. Estregan, Senator Nuredin Bansamoro and Reverend Martin, the events in the novel, though different in particulars, mimic real-life events. The circus-like turn of events, complete with sex video scandals, allegations of bribery and massive levels of corruption, is all too familiar for the jaded Filipinos. This perhaps explains the nonchalant stride in which most took the daily barrage of negative news.

But unlike in real life, the events in Ilustrado somehow culminate in a slightly reconfigured EDSA 5 (the protests took place in Manila, in the vicinity of Malacanang Palace). On one hand, this hopeful fictionalizing counters a general feeling of fatigue among Filipinos. However, the fruits of the revolution are purposely made unclear, with differing accounts on who was arrested and who was vindicated.

The final version of events -- "a blank page [rising] up to receive black letters, fingers pushing and resting in the warm curls of the keys of an old Underwood" -- is touted to supposedly "make most sense" (296). This message, no matter how sentimental and potentially hollow, nevertheless leaves room for interpretation. As Filipinos negotiate the murky terrain of their quotidian histories, the future remains to be told.

But can the future really be shaped by art in general and literature in particular? The journalistic project of the novel is lucidly undertaken, but on the question of engagement, Ilustrado seems painfully undecided. On one hand, its stand is clearly a call to action:

And yet, "No lyric has ever stopped a tank," so said seamus Heaney. Auden said that "poetry makes nothing happen." Bullshit! I reject all that wholeheartedly! What do they know about the mechanics of tanks? How can anyone estimate the ballistic qualities of words? Invisible things happen inside in intangible moments. What should keep us writing is precisely that possibility of explosions. If not, what then? (205).

But the call is a hollow cry. Pandering on the populist "The pen is mightier than the sword," the solution it offers is naively simplistic, ignoring the systemic roots of corruption that it is, in fact, on the verge of discovering. Its extensive commentary on the many contradictions that Filipino writers have to negotiate may seem like a reprimand, but who is to say that it is not guilty of the same things? So while Ilustrado can be lauded for the mostly faithful portrayal of the Filipino in its celebrated pages, it will be hardpressed to claim that it does more.

Butch

I think, I think I just got a glimpse of how my life would be 20, 30 years hence (which is timely, as had been barraged lately with déjà vus, which, despite smart-sounding scientific explanations, I choose to believe are indication that I am on the "right path," whatever this tricky judgment means). Earlier, my fiction class met at Sir B's house in Area 2 for a sem-ender semi-party. Mood was relaxed, food was plenty, and classmates were nice/r in the way people get nice at the prospect of not seeing each other again. Ever.

Sir B's advice to our class about writing and Writing (that is, writing for others and writing for yourself) is not new to me. But to hear it from someone like him, with all the issues and baggage that a long and pretty much notable career put on the counsel, gave me the kind of perspective that I need at the stage where I am right now. This is by no means an attempt to find an affinity with Sir B (although there had been comparisons... Chos!) but a statement of fact: that the kind of professional writing that he does now is the kind of projects that my writing rakets want to be when they grow up. And in some ways (that I will never admit in the light of day), the kind of fiction he does is the type of fiction that my fiction wants to be after years of practice. Which is to say, excellent in craft, excellent in spirit.

In Dumaguete, some panelist or other said the years and decades turn writers either jaded or mellow. I have absolutely no doubt in the world that I will follow the latter path. In my 50s (supposing I reach that age), I will be a glassy-eyed man impoverished by credit card debt and taking too many cabs. I know it will be a life full of pain, feeling it and thinking it. As early as now, I notice that trying to write seriously had made me more sensitive. I am very thankful for it. There is no doubt. But there are times like today when I worry for 40-, 50-year-old me. When he browses Facebook and sees my smirking 26-year-old face, what will he say? What hurtful accusations will he hurl against me? What, other than laying off Coke and porkchop, will he tell me in hindsight?

Sex.

Scott’s apartment is just as I remember it, perhaps a little tidier. The books on the white wooden shelf are more neatly arranged. There is no longer a carpet of paper on the patch of floor near his bed. The smell of dirty socks is gone, replaced by a dingy, unclear scent. The apartment is still chair-less, but there is a big blue-green bean bag in front of the TV, a concession. His laptop, which sits on his desk right by the window, blinks, this room’s nerve center.

I can tell he is watching my face in search for a flicker of recognition, perhaps even nostalgia. I try to hide it, but my lips twitch involuntarily at the sight, at once so familiar and distressing, the site of many happy nights but also a lot which we would rather forget.

From the door, I go to the bean bag, on the left side, while he walks straight to the bed, on the right.

“Come here,” he murmurs, like in that coffee shop where we met after chatting online for a month. I had recognized him; he was the only Caucasian in there, but did not move until he spotted me two tables away – 20-years old, brown, and cowering under an oversized plaid polo – and sweetly ordered, “Alvin? Come here.”

Tonight, I shake my head. “You come here.” 

The bean bag recedes under his flimsy weight, the sand-like pellets quickly rearranging, remolding into a new shape. His skin is warm. Closer, I notice that his face is red-tinged and tired, the face of an old man. He smiles, and I fumble for irrelevant things to say. We’ve had too many beers, too much of things. “Are you OK?” he asks. I nod, and recline to a more comfortable position.

Chances.

Thank you, Spindle.

Signs.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.