on beauty

Early morning last Friday, with barely enough sleep, hair tied in a tight bun and put into a place by a head band, and eye bags as heavy as the backpack I carried, I stepped into the elevator followed by a woman probably in her early forties. She looked familiar, so I greeted her a good morning. She smiled at me and started a small talk. I thought this is going to be one of those situations when things go awkward until, before stepping out onto her floor, she cheerfully said to me, “Ang ganda ganda mo!” (You're so beautiful!). I didn't exactly know what she saw, but that was enough caffeine to perk me up. I want to hug her dearly.

something mostly true

Before, the concern of “Don’t be too serious” comes up as often as daylight. In return, the fact that each of us belong to different poles is raised and accepted. Again and again. Well, I thought we did. I embraced the opposite but what I get is a shrug and a casual exodus to whatever that self-interestedly pleases you.

Here is a link that would serve as a reminder, something that I have stumbled upon just this morning. Hope it makes it clearer.

sands & coral 2013: celebration

This book has been in the works for more than a year, and finally, under the helm of Ian Rosales Casocot, it is coming out this month. A special edition of the Sands & Coral that commemorates the 50th anniversary of Silliman University National Writers Workshop—founded by the Philippine literary monoliths Edilberto Tiempo and Edith Tiempo—it gathers works from select fellows of the said workshop’s half a century run of guiding the young writer’s pen. Thus, it is fittingly called Celebration.

As a writing fellow in the year 2008, I have been invited to share a couple of poems and have also been commissioned to do the illustrations for the anthology. All of this is a first for me. And whether my works would see print in its pages (table of contents not yet revealed), I am still glad to get the opportunity to be involved in this historic project. You see, Sands & Coral, which remains to be one of the Philippines’ oldest academic literary folios, had a hiatus, its last issue seen in the early 2000’s. But now, having this teaser of a book cover circulating the internet, there’s really something to look forward to.

the sty who shagged me

“Is someone with you? Are you alone?”

Alone. The doctor said it with much emphasis and in a tone that seemed higher than the rest of her words. She smiled the smile of a cashier: tired and required. Whether it was an accusation of my solitude, a mockery to my singledom, or just plain honest question, it did not matter because I entered the clinic with a dread reserved for the victims of Jigsaw finding themselves in his puzzle-torture chambers.

It is not everyday you need to have someone flip your right eyelid up and slice it open.

All this was caused by a sty, kuliti or budyinggit. I could not remember any itch before this, as believed by many. It just started with a feeling of discomfort in the eye and a pain like that of a grandmother’s pinch the next day.

I had no problem with it, carried on, especially insistent on the recommendation of someone from the medical field that I leave it alone and let it pass even if my office colleagues suggested I pay a visit to the ophthalmologist soon. It didn’t pass. On the third day since it started acting up, the eye presented to the whole world a sty. And it lingered.

Time constraints got me visiting the doctor only on the fifth day. She immediately gave me two options: take Fucithalmic eye drops and some Augmentin antibiotics for a week or undergo minor surgery. Of course, I took the conservative approach.

Fast forward to yesterday and none of them work. I had no choice. The sty was as stubborn as the frizz on my hair. After the operation, I got a patch over my eye. Achievement unlocked: the closest I could get to being Jack Sparrow. 

Before I left the clinic, the secretary asked if someone would take me home. I gave her the cashier’s smile because, suddenly, it hit me: Never in my whole life had such small thing reminded me of my solitude in this universe. Indeed, the smallest things matter.

“Nobody,” I said.

bad luck

2013, I think, would go down in history as my worst, bar none. The first half of it has been awfully terrible: the inevitable departure of the geographical kind, the second severe ankle sprain in less than four months, the persistent thievery at my home province’s house, the news of mild scoliosis, the same old issues that run in the blood.

The second half opened to something much worse: the constant unreciprocated feelings, the lost iPhone 5 that was only five months old, the car accident that left my father with a map of bruises on his body and a fractured rib, the sty that didn’t go away and would now require an eye operation soon, the doubts that proved to be true in the end, and finally, another departure, but only this time, it was of the emotional kind.

I greeted July not with shining optimism but with a dread that would shame even the most ominous of feelings. Up to this very day, I’ve been wondering, why? Why now? Why me? Could it be a conspiracy of everyone I’ve made ill in the past? Could it be the number 13 that, like a clingy girlfriend, latches on the 20 to make the ultimate year of bad lucks? Could it simply be not my year?

More questions, less answers. One may never even know why, and that’s what hurts the most. The obscurity of reason or the absence of it is just as intense and piercing as the bliss of discovery. All this is fairly personal. Some brought by acts of the divine and brought by my own doing, therefore the art of blaming this on that can easily be regarded as null and void. No one’s to blame but me. The stubborn, illogical, “emo” me.

There was, of course, the tailspin of emotions. It happened, and the descent was rapid and violent and even close to hitting rock bottom if not for the distraction of my family and friends’ familiar noise, the insight of newfound acquaintances, the numbing drudgery of the everyday, and even alcohol. Red Horse, Tanduay Rhum, and Emperador Light were my closest of friends. I remain thankful to them for pulling me out of that dark, dark place instead of plunging further down.

And now it is the first day of August, the second month of the second half of the year. It could have also been the anniversary of a word that had brought so much joy, so much promise when it was flung at me out of the blue before:

hey

Who would’ve known such simple utterance would create a ripple in my life. Like a pebble dropped on still pond, something was stirred, something was changed. I believed it was the start of something handsome and lasting, but now, in retrospect, I think it could have also been a disturbance, just a blip in my fight for sanity.

Many have said do not dwell on the past. But it is hard not to. At the moment, the past is just too close to the present. Bad luck’s still throbbing in the air. But there’s a silver lining: the stone may have been dropped, disturbing the calm, the ripple extending and reaching far, but I know the water will soon become still, the undulations edging away. Things will be at peace again.

I wait for the ripples to go.

what national artist?

Four National Artist awardees of 2009 being invalidated broke news just recently. The order issued to the four by then President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo was nullified because it “disregarded the rules of the National Commission on Culture and the Arts (NCCA) and Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP) in giving ‘preferential treatment’ to the four in the selection of awardees.” (The Philippine Star). 

The one who spearheaded this case was Commissioner of NCCA, National Artist for Literature Virgilio Almario. In a capsule, it stated that all was made without proper procedure. And being the most vocal and more visible in the media among the four, Carlo J. Caparas retaliated on national television.

“Kilala ako sa buong bansa. Itong mga tula ni Almario, walang bumabasa,” Caparas said (I’m recognized all over the country. These poems by Almario, they’re not read).

As a practicing writer, his words struck a nerve. Being mostly unread by the mass is always a given to those who toil for literature. It is a lonely craft, so they say. Though this is more of a personal claim, I believe writers do not aim to please, as compared to Caparas and his body of works. His profession doesn’t make him less accomplished on what he must be oh-so trying to do for many years.

Cartoonists or comic book artists can be as revered as ballerinas, architects, or even poets. But here’s the catch: He’s not the artist of Panday or Bakekang. Never has been. He’s only the brain behind it. Thus, the title of National Artist for Visual Arts bestowed upon Caparas is beyond comprehension. That fact alone makes the conferment null, void, and overtly embarrassing.

Besides, the National Artist award requires a certain gravitas, a respect mined not by measures of fame but of influence. A National Artist brings ripples to society with his or her introspection of the human condition, may it be through dance, lyric or sculpture. A National Artist never brings attention to himself (hopefully).

But he is right on one point. Almost everyone knows him in the country. And I guess here rests the problem of his logic: Popularity entitles quality.

It is sad Caparas keeps this myth close to his heart. All hopes for progress would certainly go down the drain if anyone’s thinking goes in line with this. With his statement, it seems we have to agree that what brings more applause, what is trending on Twitter, what is consistently shoved on our faces is the one that truly matters, the one thing that we must not ignore. For heaven’s sake. These so-called Minions are famous, but that doesn’t make them food for the soul, right? Junk food is famous among children but that doesn’t make it healthy, right? Right.

I will not argue any further.

The point is, if Carlo J. Caparas insults another National Artist who does deserve the title, demeans the rest of the pantheon of Philippine letters, then to the Gates of Hell with him. Because on the bright side, that would be a fantastic comic book story for many writers.

seen in the cinemas no. 1

I have noticed that I have only produced one post per month this year (except for the month of March which has three posts). A very dismal number that could easily make anyone stumbling into this site uninspired. So to save this blog from its slow descent to obscurity and irrelevance (as if the internet can’t get enough of it), I have decided to offer my two cents’ worth on movies that I have seen in the cinemas the past few months. Here they are.

Iron Man 3

The third installment in a franchise, more often than not, rarely takes off and matches the brilliance of the first two. See the Spider-Man movies by Sam Raimi, the Chronicles of Narnia, the Pirates of the Caribbean. On the other side of the spectrum there are those that managed to amp it up as their stories progress: Lord of the Rings trilogy, Harry Potter series, The Dark Knight trilogy. In the case of Shane Black’s Iron Man 3, it falls between the two. It’s not bad but it’s not memorable. Robert Downey Jr. as Tony Stark/Iron Man remains reliable in giving a hilarious quip, but in this iteration his act is all but an act. The fresh wit was thin, if not gone. Even the editing was not as slick as the superb first and second films. Save for Ben Kingsley’s surprising character, Gwyneth Paltrow’s turn as a pseudo-feminist savior, and references to the presence of The Avengers, the rest of the film felt tired and burdensome to get through. Its attempt to make it a little bit grim—perhaps as a response to the popularity of Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy’s gritty realism—also makes it jarring as a continuation of sorts to Jon Favreau’s  Iron Man 1 and 2. If not for the second movie’s dismal existence, I would have regretted seeing this third installment. And to keep a superhero away from humiliation, I think his or her third movie should end on the third crusade. Warning sign: the Richard Donner Superman films.

It Takes a Man and a Woman 

Now here’s a fine example of a film that milks on the tried-and-tested success of its predecessors. Directed once again by Cathy Garcia-Molina, this movie follows the love story of Laida (Sarah Geronimo) and Miggy (John Lloyd Cruz) that began with A Very Special Love and then with You Changed My Life. All are huge profit-gainers for the producers, luring in hundreds of people to the cinemas, even though the titles alone could instantly give anyone the summary on how the tale starts and ends. In short, predictable. All’s well that ends well. Here’s a thought: Major studios in the Philippines these days are usually recycling the formula again and again, even adapting (or copying?) our neighboring countries’ blockbuster hits, instead of being dependable on releasing entertaining yet original, thought-provoking stories that could easily stand head-to-head or even best other foreign works. It is heartbreaking, like Laida and Miggy’s obstacle in the second act of the movie. We have good actors, we have good writers, and as proven by many independent filmmakers, we can make do with the smallest of budget. What we usually do not have are stories that can be remembered for being compelling and not for Sara Geronimo’s over-the-top performance.

The Great Gatsby

Weeks before the release of the film, I hastily read the revered American classic by F. Scott Fitzgerald and boy was I drunk with its prose. Rich and velvety, one could almost taste the novel’s words. And this is how I feel for Baz Luhrmann’s adaptation. It even goes beyond the sensation of taste. His film is a delight to the senses. The backlash is expected to arrive after its premier, what with the relentless buzz surrounding the film from its production to the release of the book tie-in, but I say that Luhrmann lives for the flashy, the elaborate and the spectacular. It is his edge over other artists (see Romeo + Juliet and Moulin Rouge!) or maybe his Achilles’ Heel (see Australia). We can never complain that Wes Anderson is too neat, that Steven Soderbergh uses too much filters, that Quentin Tarantino spills to much blood on screen. Luhrmann, whose artistry roots in theater, has daring, is daring. And Fitzgerald’s very malleable story is the perfect canvas to paint with his creativity. In Luhrmann’s hands, Tobey Maguire brings more attitude to Nick Carraway, Leonardo DiCaprio projects more passion and familiar mystery to Jay Gatsby, Carey Mulligan makes Daisy Buchanan more relatable but sketchy at the same time, Joel Edgerton adds more grit and conceit to Tom Buchanan, and lastly, the Australian Hollywood newbie Elizabeth Debicki puts an impressive stamp on screen as Jordan Baker compared to the otherwise forgettable character in the book. As for the anachronistic soundtrack that is executive produced by Jay-Z, bringing modern hip-hop to the 1920’s, thus, bringing much heated debate, I love it. It feels dangerous but beguiling, feels that we are treading on foreign territory, just like how it must have felt like when you open your eyes one day to the so-called jazz age. Despite its excesses, it all fits well.

Man of Steel 

With the previous effort by Bryan Singer failing to launch a lucrative franchise in the mid-2000’s, the latest reincarnation by Zack Snyder of 300 and Watchmen fame has a lot of weight on its shoulders. He’s dealing with the granddaddy of superheroes after all. It is anticipated with expectations as immeasurable as the title character’s strength. To a fanboy’s eyes, these are met. To a critic’s though, it is an entirely different story: almost absent chemistry between Henry Cavil (Kal-El/Clark Kent) and Amy Adams (Lois Lane), overlong fight scenes, complete disregard for collateral damage, and the once bright and optimistic last son of Krypton is now a brooding, husky man who seems to miss his igloo or one who has read too much philosophy textbooks. Add to that a supporting cast like Kevin Costner (Papa Kent), Diane Lane (Mama Kent) and Russel Crowe (Jor-El) that put extra gravitas in every frame of the film. Luckily though, I watched it with the eyes of a freshie. The origin story is grounded on the basic questions of how would an alien feel in a world that is peopled with no one like him, how would he grow up and embrace the discovery of his powers, and how can he be trusted? Snyder, who I still believe is a capable director but easily falls into the allure of blockbuster bombast, deftly moves his way around these questions, inching towards the battle with the excellent Michael Shannon as Zod and closing admirably for a possible sequel. And by the way, I have no problem with this Superman’s chest and facial hair.

Four Sisters and a Wedding

Another directorial effort by Cathy Garcia-Molina, this romantic-comedy revolves around four sisters—Teddie (Toni Gonzaga), Bobbie (Bea Alonzo), Alex (Angel Locsin) and Gabbie (Shaina Magdayao)—who reunite when their only brother Reb-Reb (Enchong Dee) announces he would marry his girlfriend Precious (Angeline Quinto) of just three months. Add into the mix the girlfriend’s meddling, snooty parents (Boboy Garovillo and Carmi Martin) and mayhem ensues. The premise is fairly new in the Philippine context, but unfortunately the treatment blasted anything that is good far, far away from its comedic promise. The movie may not fall into mediocrity but it is on the brink of it. Martin and Gonzaga’s comedic chops are admirable but theirs belong to another movie. That is why Connie Reyes, as the mother of the siblings, stands out because her cool demeanor speaks volumes. There’s no need for excessive hand-wringing, there’s no need for screaming. But then again, she cried buckets in the near end, a Filipino staple. Those blatant product placements too leave no room for the imagination. If this movie’s in 3D, I suspect those manufactured goods would reach us, wrench our mouths open, and feed us with delectable consumerism. The film aces on the idealization of togetherness and forgiveness in a family, but with its constant traipsing on the preachy side, what has been gagged on our throats will be hard to forgive.

what we do not have

We do not have symmetry,
We do not have grace
As sleek as baby’s lips.
What we have are shards
Of glass, their teeth bright
And prescient: “We will hurt
You.” Can you still remember
How my voice played inside
Your head? Can you still remember
How cats always had their way
Of sleeping, standing—a position
That makes us more human,
A stance that makes us more
Inadequate? But consider these
Forgotten, thrown at the sky’s
Questioning face. Like crusts
Of dry paint, we will press on
That what we may have will be
An assemblage of mess and glory,
An impression that likely lasts.

original apology

It will take the weight
of ashes falling,
because it is soft,
taking its time
to hit you on the spot
without force.
If time ever expands,
I would like you to notice
its pull, its whisper:
"Hey, we've got a minute
to spare. See this graceful
surrender. Let us talk."
We could always hope
ours is a heart
that does not beat
only for ourselves,
but as how the bravest
of proverbs go,
what cuts is neither word
nor blade
but the silent truth.

why worry?

A week or so ago, there was the inevitable coming of that moment of evaluation. It was the day when you shifted from an untroubled, spendthrift adolescent to a man questioning “Where now and what’s next and how but why?” Others call it the early pangs of perpetual quarter-life crisis. I call it a slap on the face.

Actually, I don’t want to call it anything yet. It is too early to tell. What I know is that it is something that gives the chills like a raincloud hovering on the skyline with me having no umbrella. I’d be drenched, I’d be cold. Whether I like it or not.

One might say it’s too much of a forward thinking, to plot the days ahead at such a certain “young” age, when my generation says I should work hard and party harder, when people sing hosannas that the sky is always the limit. But what if that sky is the same, murky sky mentioned earlier, sinister over the horizon? So much for optimism, eh?

And this is the part that is worrisome, the part where the vicious combo of uncertainty, cynicism, and missed opportunities becomes the benchmark of possible success. I should have done this, I shouldn’t have done that. It is not much on what you can do but on why you do what you have been doing.

The intensity of ambition and passion may still be there—in the form of writing, nursing, engineering, teaching, scrapbooking, or bungee jumping—but what prompts the hesitancy is the thought of setting the limit and the questioning of one’s purpose.

Because in the first place, should there be a limit? Does one need a purpose? What for?

I think for people my age the mid-30’s is the window where one sees nothing is really enough. Pessimism gnaws from the inside and out comes doubt, fear, regret, or other kinds of destabilizing emotion. Or maybe a new breed of malaise. Or maybe just plain, old exhaustion.

As experienced by those ahead of me, it is the period of weighing the priorities. In my case, with the flux of circumstances coming each day—i.e., fluctuating relationships, sprain in both of my ankles in less than four months, unbending intolerance from family members, increasing fear for my depleting savings account, and many more—this task becomes all the more insufferable, all the more urgent. Like classic movie villains, there are those that derail you from your goal.

Hence, my reason to be restless, irate, worried. It’s as if in every corner there’s a thief that would rob you of the greatness that may happen to your life soon.

But if Job triumphed over the multitude of sickness thrown at him by his savior, if Frodo managed to let go of the ring at the mouth of Mount Doom, and if Tony Soprano survived the cycle of patterns that he faced each day, then I guess I could endure the living nightmare that is my worries. The great icons are enough reminders.

You see, it’s everyone’s right to be anxious, and nobody must judge the degree of severity of one’s apprehensions, because if you think about it, comparing your worries to someone else’s is like two boys comparing how far each other’s piss could go. It is pointless.

So let me worry right now. I will be open to consolations and words of encouragement, of course, but these are by no means instant answers to the riddles in my head. I will solve them, maybe not now, not tomorrow, but I am certain that day will come.

It’s all part of being 25.

original ache

During monsoons in my province,
Fortitude wears thin,
Faces grow long, and ants file
To cracks on the wall
Next to the bottles of spices.
I know it would come again,
The gunfire of ache in my pulses
Following the thrum of rain on the roof.
A philosopher might say
The mind suggests what the mind
Only knows, so I forgive myself
For knowing one thing:
We have variations of longingness,
Those we could soon mark
On our necks and chests,
The rest of the landscapes
We have yet to conquer,
As if to say, this is how we begin.
Now all I want is to be blind
On how these could possibly end, to keep
The monsoons of the heart unfading
Like the birth of a new storm.

52nd silliman university national writers workshop fellows

This year’s announcement requires more than the usual celebration at the nearest drinking pub. Here’s why. Just two months ago, a friend asked me to read his collection (written with much discipline over many years) before submitting it a day before the call’s deadline, and right then and there, I knew he would make it. And he did. Congratulations, Lyde. Our rare lucid moments have finally paid off.

*

The 52nd edition of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop is slated to start on 6 May 2013 at the Rose Lamb Sobrepeña Writers Village in Camp Look-out, Valencia, Negros Oriental.

Here are the thirteen writers from all over the Philippines who are accepted as workshop fellows:

For Poetry
Corina Marie B. Arenas
Nolin Adrian de Pedro
Patricia Mariya Shishikura
Brylle Bautista Tabora
Lyde Gerard Villanueva

For Fiction
Tracey dela Cruz
Sophia Marie Lee
Rhea Politado
Patricia Verzo

For Creative Nonfiction
Jennifer dela Rosa Balboa
Ana Felisa Lorenzo
Arnie Q. Mejia

For Drama
Mario Mendez

They will be joined by special Singaporean fellows Christine Leow and Nurul Asyikin from Singapore Management University.

The panel of writers/critics for this year includes Director-in-Residence Susan S. Lara; Dumaguete-based writers Bobby Flores Villasis and César Ruìz Aquino; and guest panelists Dean Francis Alfar, DM Reyes, John Jack Wigley, Jose Y. Dalisay Jr., Ricardo de Ungria, Marjorie Evasco, Alfred Yuson, Gémino H. Abad, and Grace Monte de Ramos. They will be joined by two foreign panelists whose names will be announced later.

The workshop, which traditionally lasts for three weeks, is the oldest creative writing workshop of its kind in Asia. It was founded in 1962 by S.E.A. Write Awardee Ediberto K. Tiempo and National Artist Edith L. Tiempo, and was recently given the Tanging Parangal in the Gawad CCP Para sa Sining by the Cultural Center of the Philippines.

This year, the workshop is co-sponsored by the National Commission for Culture and the Arts, the Embassy of the United States of America in Manila, and the United Board for Christian Higher Education in Asia.

For more information about forthcoming events during the workshop, please email Workshop Coordinator Ian Rosales Casocot at silliman.cwc@gmail.com or call the Department of English and Literature at (035) 422-6002 loc. 520.

v for vulgarity

Here’s something true: I cringe and feel sick when a curse word comes cruising into my ears.

There is a multitude of them, originating from different languages, each possibly more hilarious or vulgar than the last one you’ve heard. Like drugs they vary in degrees of potency. You’d probably get one on your way to work. Hence, there’s no need mentioning any mammalian excrement here, the F word here or someone’s mother and what she does here.

I have my fair share of them thrown at me and I can say that I am no saint in this department, as if suggesting I haven’t flung an expletive at somebody or the neighbor’s noisy dog in this lifetime. Of course, I do. I, too, fall into the ease of this play.

But not as frequently.

As frequently compared to whom? Now let’s keep that blank to avoid a strain on relationships familial, intimate and platonic.

This is my sense of self, the familiarity of my reservations. And just when I thought I was alone, an unlikely friend of mine last Saturday shared the same displeasure to cussing or cursing.

Also, the same aftereffects upon receiving or hearing one, especially when it is uncalled for: aggravation, a numbing pain in the head, and then suddenly, a strange sense of disappointment and hopelessness. Almost like a hangover.

Profanities, it seems to the two of us, are major downers.

This is not to spring myself up on the goodness scale. No one’s holy. Sometimes, dropping the bombs in cases of extreme anger are justifiable (or debatable, it depends), but during everyday conversation for the sake of being funny? For driving the point home? For enraging someone? Here are my thoughts on them.

For humor? Casual crudity could be amusing but an excess of it leaves a bad taste in the mouth. For emphasis? Curses only highlight a starving imagination or the absence of it. For retaliation? Courage comes in many forms, but firing away obscenities is not one of them, since cursing simply stresses the incapacity to talk back with sense.

In the end, what you think is funny, cool, or brave is actually the other way around: rude, cheap, and coward.

There are more horrifying things the world could open up to us, so there is no use contributing to the garbage we already have in our hands. The idea is this: the less said the better.

But that’s just me. If all forms of reasoning fail (such as this article), then I would have to keep to myself or run away from the hailstorm of vulgarity. Jumping into the bandwagon is not an option as of the moment.

So now, you can start putting in your two cents worth here. In other words, your piece of shit.
 

original judgment

I’ll write you a poem
that praises you so well
it’ll glow in the dark.
—from “Cliff Top, East Coast,” Norman MacCaig


You and I are made
To judge each other:
Your lips are unbeautiful,
Away from mine.
And you would say,
Your face is no light
Without my sun of a heart,
One that will make you
Glow, burn restless
Like ember. I will hate you
For this, hate you
Like arrows, points sleek
Dug deep in targets
Crimson red and round.
I could say that everything
Of you is a wilted petal,
A disappointment
To the promise of blossoms.
You could hate me next,
Bring fire and brimstone
To the filth of my words.
But I could not muster
The strength of stones
To break us apart.
Because, still, you and I
Are made to judge each other:
You do not deserve this.
You deserve neither praise
Nor poem but a truth like love
That cries and glimmers for you.

could be a year of contradictions. or not.

I’ve said this just before the turn of the New Year: 2012 was not just something. It was more than anything that I have expected.

Just like the previous years, it wasn’t an entirely smooth ride. But it was nonetheless remarkable, beautiful, and grotesque like some sort of creature you’d both fear and cuddle. Contradiction, it is in every life’s DNA. 

When I look for sunlight, it pours. When I decide to stay, someone leaves. When I yearn for that, I get this instead. I am not complaining though I think I’ve come far too short to how I wanted things to work out. I’ve come far too short to make some semblance of major accomplishment. I’ve come far too short to many, many others. 

But due to the very same contradictions that go speeding into my direction, there are other routes of realization that open along the way. 

It is a complicated matter, this sudden awareness, this understanding that there is more to what we know and have faith in. And it is through this that you could get through all hurdles because you know yourself much better than anybody else. 

Just like any beautiful irony, this could be brought about from a lot of things: trips to foreign places, situations we find ourselves in, people who come into our lives. 

The latter, usually, makes the most impact. At least for me. It is because it is the people that precedes and propels us to which place we could go or what situation we could be in. The human mobilizes the happenings. 

That is why 2012, really, is not just about contradictions. Through the people we meet and through the lives they live, we learn that our failures are not entirely a collapse of ideals but a chance to assess what could be done next time. For the good. 

It could be about seizing that success story which you’ve been dreaming for yourself and your loved ones. It could be about painting one day on a canvas which you haven’t done in years. It could be about browsing old pictures without that ache in the heart. It could be about acknowledging the truth to your family. It could be about finishing that draft of a story in your archives. It could be about doing sacrifices for someone else. It could be about a whole lot of things. 

Because in the end, as how someone dear to me pointed out, what is important is the attitude of gratitude. Let us simply be thankful. Someone else could have it worse. 

Being grateful allows the rekindling of hope which strengthens all that we need, especially love. 

Yes, tomorrow may be uncertain but it is our decision now that shapes it. I decide right now to be better. Not only for myself but also for my beloved. It will be a work in progress, of course. And it would be hard, for what we see and hear often tells a different story, but we will manage. 

This 2013, you and I, we can work it out.

original sadness

There is no difficult way to sadness.
This has always been our open secret
Despite our efforts to cruise and get lost
In this sea of distractions, in someone’s arms,
Or in someone else’s. One day, we would find
Ourselves rooted again on where we had just
Left off. I understand poetry both knows
And doesn’t know why. We, it remains,
Are the only ones who absolutely do.
We believe we do. But when all else fails,
We would search for it, search for words
That would reveal glimpses of paradise,
And we would think of all the comely things
We can say with and without seeing them.
Maybe I simply understood the honey in pain,
Its heirloom tang indelible like promises.

poem in slate 2013

I almost forgot about this until someone gave me the heads up. My poem “Poetry as a Lesson in History” is one of the literary works published in the Slate 2013 Planner.

As stated in their official website, “the Slate Planner exhibits more stunning visual creations by local and international artists, both well-known and yet to be discovered. Be inspired by the works Kitkat Pecson, The Creative Dork, Vincent Raphael Aseo, JR Bumanglag, and Singaporean artist, Eeshaun. Aside from visual pieces, 2013 also features stirring literary works from local talents.”

Wow. Stirring. That’s a catchy adjective. So visit your nearest bookstore and grab a copy now. (Um, actually, you don’t grab. You ought to buy one).

introvert, extrovert

Call it serendipitous, but the enumeration of differences (or the demands of each) between the two coming into the picture today is very timely. Bottom line: opposites. Pointing out the specifics of both is fun and perplexing (and maybe even draining). 

And it seems it is much more fun and more perplexing (and maybe even more draining) when you work out a thread to connect the two. I guess that is the purpose of the ritual of living: to work things out, no matter the opposites, no matter the differences. If one really wants it to.

[ visit source of images here ]

almost in there: likhaan 6

Apparently, the news came to me a little bit late. I didn’t make it in the final contents of University of the Philippines Institute of Creative Writing’s Likhaan Journal 6, but a poem from the collection I submitted for possible inclusion got a little bit of mentioning in its preface or introduction written by Gemino H. Abad, the literary journal’s editor:

‘”There are quite a number of remarkable poems that I personally would not hesitate to include in an update of A Habit of Shores should I venture again into those woods “lovely, dark and deep”; for instances, each one for wholeness perfectly chiseled—Jov Almero’s “palindrome”; Miro Capili’s “Monet’s Last Yellow”; F. Jordan Carnice’s “Relativities”; Albert B. Casuga’s “Graffiti: Five Lenten Poems”; Nolin Adrian de Pedro’s “caxton”; Vincent Dioquino’s “candescence”; Jan Brandon Dollente’s “When I say the sky opens its mouth”; Eva Gubat’s “A Telling of Loss”; Pauline Lacanilao’s “A Crowded Bus Stops Abruptly”; Christine V. Lao’s “Swatches”; R Torres Pandan’s “Remembering Our Future”; Trish Shishikura’s “The Manner of Living”; Jaime Oscar M. Salazar’s “Clinch”; Arlene Yandug’s “Aporia.”’ 

Familiar (and respected) names are all over the place. If one of the master poets mentions my work in a note such as this, then I think it is worth saying the simple citation is rewarding. Thank you.


[ click here to view the journal in PDF ]

original atonement

The sincerest of apologies
takes the form of genius.
Or distance void of caustic
depths. This has been the doctrine
I have committed to: Every strike
of error is certain, spot on,
and denies excuses one must fear
becoming the child who grew up deaf
because no one listened to him,
listened to the truth he believes.
Yet man is forever in service
to inconsistencies. For each day
there is so much to relearn,
to untangle what is once wrought
with conviction. The colorblind,
for one, can tell that this orange
has never been that orange until later.
Always, there will be that something
or someone that brings grief in poetry.
But let the dark define the splendor
of things. Everyone must be hard
to love. Otherwise, an orange
from the market is all we need.