i
i
Heights vol. 60 no. i Copyright 2012 Copyright reverts to the respective 足authors and 足artists whose works appear in this issue. No part of this book may be r足 eprinted or reproduced in any means whatsoever 足without the written permission of the copyright holder. This publication is not for sale. Correspondence may be addressed to: Heights, Publications Room, mvp 202 Ateneo de Manila University, p.o. Box 154, Manila Tel. no. 426-6001 local 5088 heights-ateneo.org Heights is the official literary and artistic publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila University. Cover Illustration by Ali Timonera Layout by Sara Erasmo and Meagan Ong Divider Illustrations by Nikki Vocalan Creative Direction by Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan Typeset in mvb Verdigris
Contents Eugene Soyosa 3 Pabitin Nicko Reginio Caluya 4 Manman 19 Babala 20 Dayuhan 53 Being Erasure Guelan Varela – Luarca 5 Mga Kuneho Allan Popa 21 Pinakainibig Kita Sa Iyong Pagtalikod Hannah Perdigon 22 Spring Cleaning Gian Dapul 23 [The clock overhead was inaccurate...] Kazuki Yamada 24 Sakura AJ Elicaño 29 End User License Agreement Elijah Pascual 33 Now is Not the Right Time Paolo Tiausas 34 Siesta
Rie Takumi 35 Fujiyama Mama Carissa Pobre 42 What Passes Upon Your Face Ima Ocon 43 asymptote Regina Bengzon 49 Bookends 51 White Noise Cedric Tan 54 The Woodsman
Art Paola Lizares 68 The Watchman Juan Viktor Calanoc 69 A Study of Prominence Jan Eli Padilla 70 Nasundo Adrian Begonia 71 Absolution Pamela Celeridad 72 Pseudo 73 Love
Monica Esquivel 74 Red 76 Drown Fleurbelline Vocalan 75 Blown Away Nicole Castañeda 77 Prisoner 42 Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan 78 Seated Figure Manuel Angulo 79 7:56 AM
Editorial Simula 1952, nakatuon ang heights sa paglilimbag ng mga folio. Kumakatawan ito sa umuunlad na interes ng komunidad sa panitikan at sining sa pagdaan ng panahon. Hanggang ngayon, inaabangan pa ring muling mapuno ang mga istante ng koleksyon ng mga mahuhusay na akda at likhang – sining para sa semestre. Sa bawat inililimbag na isyu, isinasaalang-alang ang laya kaalinsabay ng limitasyon ng papel bilang lunsaran ng mga ideya at diskurso. Para makalampas sa limitasyong ito, isa sa malalaking proyekto ng mga nagdaan at kasalukuyang patnugutan ang paglalagay ng mga isyu online, at ang pagbabalik – tanaw sa lahat ng mga folio sa patuloy na paggawa ng PDF upang mabasa sa Internet. Ang pagbubukas ng ika – 60 taon ng pagkakatatag ng heights ang pagbubukas din ng maraming paraan ng pamamahagi ng panitikan sa higit na maraming makapagpapahalaga nito. Anumang banggiting paraan, patuloy na sumasabay sa bilis ng panahon ang bawat isyu. Iniaangkop nito ang sarili hindi lamang ayon sa nais nitong ideya, kundi pati na rin sa mga materyal at instrumentong kinakailangan para maihatid ang mensahe sa komunidad. Sinisikap ng teknolohiyang gawing simbilis ng paglalakbay ng liwanag ang pagkalap at paglaganap ng impormasyon tungkol sa publikasyon. Sa kabila nito, nakaamba pa rin ang mga pangamba ng ganitong uri ng pagbabago. Laging kasabay ng paglalakbay at bilis ang posibilidad ng paglaho at paglimot. Sa panahong kinakailangang madaliin kahit ang karanasan ng pagbabasa at pagmumuni-muni, napapalitan ng pagkasawi ang pananabik na mabasa at mapahalagahan. Dahil na rin sa limitasyon ng oras upang makapagsulat, hindi na rin nabibigyan ng daan ang mahalagang proseso ng rebisyon at higit na paglilinaw ng mga ideya. Sa ganito katinding suliranin, ninanais na lamang nating manatili ang mga bagay sa takot na hindi na ito makita o maranasang muli. vii
Gaya ng paghuli ng mga alitaptap at iba pang mga nilalang na may taglay na liwanag, iniipon natin ito sa mga garapon upang makabuo ng koleksyon. Hindi ito dapat tinitingnan bilang makasariling pakay na ikulong ang anumang buhay na may laya, kundi oportunidad upang mamangha sa kagandahang taglay ng mga nilalang na ito bago pa sila makaalis o mamatay. Sa ganitong analohiya rin gumagana ang paghahanap ng heights ng mga akda para sa mga isyu. May nakaambang panganib na sa bilis ng pagdating at pag-alis ng mga likhang – sining, mawalan ng bisa at silbi ang pagbubuklod ng mga ito upang maging isyu. Nabubuo ang heights sapagkat maraming nagiging bahagi at nakikibahagi rito, at may taglay na liwanag ang bawat likhang bahagi rin ng kanilang mga karanasan. Sa pagbubukas ng higit na mabilis na pamamaraan ng pagpapahayag, lalong napapalapit ang publikasyon sa mga tumatangkilik nito. Noong 2007, nagsimulang tumanggap ang patnugutan ng mga kontribusyon sa pamamagitan ng e – mail. Kasabay nito, napauunlad na rin ng teknolohiya ang proseso ng deliberasyon, mula sa paghahanda at pagkuha ng mga materyal na tatalakayin hanggang sa mga pagwawasto bago ipalimbag. Sapagkat naglipana rin ang napakaraming paraan ng pagpapahayag, laging may pagkakataong maging malikhain at orihinal. Nakatatanggap ang publikasyon ng mga akdang may pagtatangkang lampasan ang mga inaasahang kombensyon, at ginagamit ang mahuhusay na ideya upang makalikha ng sariling akda. Dahil na rin sa kakayahang magbahagi ng higit sa isang kontribusyon, lumilitaw rin ang mga magkakahiwalay na akda bagaman may ugnayan sa isa’t isa. Bukod sa pag-unlad ng kalidad ng mga proseso ng kontribusyon at deliberasyon, malaking tulong din ang Internet sa pagbabahagi ng buhay ng heights sa loob ng taon. Naghahanda ang publikasyon ng mga panayam, palihan, patimpalak, at paglulunsad upang maengganyo ang komunidad na tipunin ang pagkamalikhain ng mga Atenista. Naibabahagi sa Facebook at sa website ang anumang panawagan upang kumalap ng kontribusyon para sa mga isyu, at mga patalastas ng mga pangyayaring inihanda ng viii
mga bagwisan. Nagagamit na rin ang Twitter upang madaling maibalita ang kasalukuyang nagaganap sa publikasyon, pati ang mga sipi ng mga iniimbitahang personalidad mula sa mga malikhaing panayam at sa ika – 18 Ateneo Heights Writers’ Workshop sa pamamagitan ng live tweeting. Sa wakas, ikinagagalak naming ibahagi sa inyo ang unang koleksiyon para sa ika – 60 taon ng pag-iral ng publikasyon. Binubuo ito ng mga piyesang nilikha dala ng liwanag ng inspirasyon at pagkamalikhain, sa pag-asang mapahalagahan ang panitikan at sining sa Ateneo, na patuloy at nananatiling buháy. Nicko Reginio Caluya Agosto 2012
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eugene soyosa
Pabitin sa lilim nitong balag na paulit -ulit itinataas – baba ang mga bata nagkukumahog at hinihingal sa bawat hablot ng hininga sa numinipis na hangin malagkit na dikit ng balikat sa pawisang likod habang ang palad na sa hangin nakalahad ikinukuyom laman ang mangilan-ngilang kendi at pabilis nang pabilis ang pihit ng mga paa sa lupa at paikli nang paikli ang agwat ng bawat talon sa lilim nitong balag na paulit-ulit itinataas – baba ang mga bata nagkukumahog at hinihingal
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nicko reginio caluya
Manman Nakaharap sa abenida ang lahat ng bintanang bukas o gawa sa salamin, ng mga gusaling pilit iniisahan ang iba: ang aabutin ng kanilang tayog at lawak upang maangkin ang bawat nagmamasid, ang itatagal nila bago tuluyang bumagsak sa kalsada ang kanilang tingin kasama ng kanilang katawan. Kailangang maranasan ang pagkilala sa pansin: walang panganib hangga’t walang matiyagang magmamanman. Walang may kasalanan sa banggaan ng mga sasakyan, ng iba’t ibang titig hangga’t walang saksi sa atin. Maraming nililimot na aksidente dahil sa pagpikit — iniinda ang sakit na mula sa matinding awa o galit. Magdamag tayong inaabangan sa bawat sandali ng lungsod, sa lagi’t laging pagnanais na sa bawat paglingon at pagtingala, pagyuko at pagkurap, may masasawi at masasawi pa rin.
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guelan varela – luarca
Mga Kuneho* Katarantaduhang may isang yugto (isang sipi) mga tauhan a, Lalaki, mga 25 taong gulang; may – baril; tanga b, Lalaki, mga 20 taong gulang; masunurin; tanga c, Lalaki, mga 21 taong gulang; laging natataranta; tanga d, Lalaki, 18 taong gulang; adik; tanga e, Lalaki, 45 taong gulang; nasa loob ng body bag; malamang tanga rin Ang bawat tauhan ay nakasuot ng itim mula ulo hanggang paa, nakamaskara, at pawang mga tanga. tagpo Ang tagpo ng mga pangyayari ay sa isang hungkag at silid na bakal; may dalawang pinto, na natatarangka mula sa labas. May bahagyang paglipas ng oras mula sa katapusan ng Unang Bahagi at ng Ikalawa. Kung gaano katagal ay di-gaanong mahalaga. n.b. May ilang bahagi sa dula na, sa unang sulyap, ay maaaring maging mahirap isalin sa entablado. Sa takot na baka mahamak ang mambabasang nagtatangkang magtanghal sa naturang dulang puno ng katarantaduhan, mangangahas pa ring maglatag ng mga mungkahi ang may – akda, una’y upang matulungan ang mambabasang maharaya ang iskrip sa entablado ng kanyang isip (bagaman aminado ang may – akdang sanlibong mas maiinam na paraan pa ang maaaring maisip ng sinuman), at ikalawa, upang igiit (nang may bahagyang pagmamakaawa at pakikiusap) na tunay ngang
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angkop sa entablado ang mga kaganapan ng katarantaduhang ito. Isang halimbawa nito ay ang pagtalbug-talbog ng bala, na sa wakas ay tatagos sa bangkay sa loob ng body bag. Maaari itong diskartehan nang pagputok ng mga kuwitis na kumikislap sa ilang parte ng dingding ng set upang magwari’y tatalbog doon ang tingga, at ang huling puputok na kuwitis ay nakakabit sa may body bag (muli, sanlibong mas matalinong solusyon ang maaaring maisip ninuman). Sa wakas, ipinapalagay ng may – akda (at kampante siya sa palagay na ito) na mahahanapan nga ng paraan upang maganap nang buhay ang dula sa buhay (o live) na pagtatanghal pang – entablado. Dalangin lang niyang ‘wag sukuan ang iskrip na ito ng sinumang magtatangkay itanghal, at pagsayangan ng pagod at panahon, ang mga kuneho. unang bahagi [Kadiliman.
Bubukas ang pinto sa gawing kanan ng mga manonood. Lalabas ang apat na kalalakihan, nakaitim mula ulo hanggang paa, nakamaskara, may dalang isang body bag. Sila sina A, B, C, at D. Sa pagbukas ng pinto ay sasabog ang liwanag mula sa pinanggalingan nilang silid patungo sa sahig ng silid na tagpuan natin. May magsi-switch ng ilaw sa isa sa kanila, hindi mahalaga kung sino. May isa namang magsasara ng kabubukas na pinto. Katahimikan, at halos tableau — buhat ng apat ang body bag.]
a
Tara...dalhin na natin ‘to sa kabila.
[Patuloy ang kanilang paglakad patungo sa kabilang pinto. Ngunit, sa gitna nito’y parang matatapilok si C, at mabibitawan niya ang body bag. Dahil dito’y sunud-sunod na nilang mabibitawan ito — sasalagpak ang body bag sa sahig. Sa gitna ng pag-ungol nina A, B, C, at D na nagkabanggaan at nagkatapilukan, maririnig ang mahinang pag-ungol din mula sa body bag. Magugulilat ang lahat. Nakaiilang na katahimikan.]
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d
[paanas sa kanyang sarili] ...putang inang ‘yan...
c
[pabulong kay D] Ba’t, ano’ng meron?
d
Di mo ba narinig — ang bwakaw ng inang ‘yan...?
c
Ha — ?
b
Umungol, o.
c
What?
d
Peksman, umungol ang putang inang ‘yan —
c
[kay A] P’re, narinig mo?
a
Ang alin?
b
[kay A] Umungol yung bangkay...
[Katahimikan. Nakaiilang.]
a
La, a —
c
Promise.
[Katahimikan. Bigla — maghuhugot ng baril si A mula sa kanyang puwetan, magkakasa, at itututok ito kay C. Magtataasan ng kamay ang lahat pagkakita sa baril ni A.]
a
[kay C; nakagugulat na sisigaw] Tayo! I-an-zip mo yung bady
b
May baril siya —
bag — dali!
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a
Tahimik! [Balik kay C.] Tangina mo ka — tayo! Buksan mo sabi yung bady bag — !
[Dali-daling maghuhubad ng maskara si C, nanginginig at takot na takot, halos naiiyak, at nakahihiyang masdan. Maputi at makinis ang kanyang mukha, singkit ang mga mata, maayos ang buhok.]
c
Pards — ! Ayoko, pards!
a
Dali, sabi!
c
Putang ina — ! Pards, please, pards, ayoko na...ayoko nang masangkot, please pare — pare, please —
[Akmang dadaluhungin ni A si C, ngunit papagitna sa kanila si B — ]
b
Ako na lang. Ako na.
[Nakaiilang na katahimikan, na babasagin ng iyak nang iyak at inuuhog nang si C.]
c
[Wala na halos sa tamang isip sa sobrang pagkataranta] Putang ina,
d
[Tatadyakan si C] Tumahimik ka na!
c
[pabulong; parang bata; hinihimas ang tagilirang uminda sa tadyak ni D] E kasi...putang inang ‘yan, the fucking body bag moved,
pare, the agreement was bawal magdala ng kahit ano! Wala naman sa agreement na puwede magdala ng baril, a — !
amputa...!
a
[nakatutok na kay B] Bilisan mo.
[Dahan-dahang lalapit si B sa body bag. Dahan-dahan siyang luluhod. Dahandahan niyang hahatakin ang zipper, palingus-lingos sa baril ni A. Hahagipin niya hanggang paanan ang zipper, saka dahan-dahang tatayo. Sesenyasan siya ni A na humilig sa pader. Susunod si B.
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Lalapit si A sa “bangkay”. Nang walang kaabug-abog – titindig ang nasa loob ng body bag (na nakaitim din mula ulo hanggang paa, at nakamaskara), maglalabas ng baril, itututok ito kay A, saka pipindot ng gatilyo. Aalingawngaw sa bakal na silid ang ingay ng tira; nakabibingi. Mapapahandusay ang bangkay ni A, kakalat sa bakal na sahig ang utak niya at dugo; nakaduduwal. Ang baril na hawak niya’y biglang titilapon malapit sa kinasasadlakan ng gulat na gulat na si C. Sina B at D, sa sobrang pagkagulat, ay magtatanggalan din ng mga maskara. Si B ay kayumanggi, bakas ang sipag at pagod sa mukha, ngunit ang mata, kadalasa’y tuliro, di malaman kung dahil puno ng laman ang utak, o kaya’y walang-wala. Si D naman ay maputla, payat na payat, malalaki ang ngipin, maitim ang labi at gilagid, palangiti ang mukha, hindi dahil matuwain kundi, dahil laging may malisyosong binabalak. Tulalang-tulala sila. Nakaiilang na katahimikan. Pagkuwan, mula sa katahimikan ay biglang may maririnig na pagtugtog ng isang selepono – polytone na “Together Forever” ni Rick Astley. Nanggagaling ang ingay mula sa katawan ni A.]
d
Puke ng amang ringtone ‘yan...’Kakainis...
[Kukunin nung lalaking galing sa body bag ang selepono, saka pupurbahin. Patuloy lang ang ringtone, na umaalingawngaw sa buong bakal na silid. Sasagutin ito ng lalaki. Nakaiilang na katahimikan. Pagkatapos ng napakatagal na panahon, ibabagsak ng lalaki ang selepono, at marahas niyang tatapaktapakan. Pagkuwan, tututukan niya si B.]
ang lalaking galing sa body bag [e] [kay B] Pulutin mo ang katawan, saka ipasok mo sa body bag. [Puwang.] Bilis. [Susunod si B.]
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d
Nakakagago ‘to... [kay E] Bos, ayaw kong manggulo a, pero pagkalabas ng body bag na ‘to, tapos na tayo, ‘di ba? Matatanggap na namin yung bayad? [Tititigan lamang siya ni E.] ‘Di ba gano’n...? [Gayon pa rin.] ...okey...
[Matatapos ni B ang inutos sa kanya.]
b
Ayos na.
e
Sige, buhatin na natin.
[Ibubulsa ni E ang kanyang baril upang simulan ang pagbuhat sa bangkay. Lalapit ang lahat tungo sa bangkay sa body bag, liban kay C. Habang abala ang iba sa pag-angat sa bangkay, dahan-dahan niyang daramputin ang baril ni A na napadpad malapit sa kanya. Iiipit niya ito sa puwetan ng kanyang pantalon.]
c
No...Aa — a — ayoko...
[Titingnin ang lahat kay C.]
Ayoko nang masangkot dito. I’m leaving!
[Akmang lalabas si C, ngunit huhugutin muli ni E ang kanyang baril. Tatahimik si C pagkakita rito. Biglang itututok ni E ang kanyang baril kay B.]
e
[kay B] Sampalin mo nga ‘yan.
b
Ano?
e
Narinig mo ‘ko — sampalin mo s’ya.
[Mabagal at nag-aalangang susundan ni B si E. Unti-unti siyang lalapit kay C. Ngunit, bago siya umabot sa layong sapat upang masampal si C sa mukha,
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ay biglang huhugutin ni C ang tinatago niyang baril — akmang papuputukan si B, ngunit babarilin bigla ni E si C sa braso. Nakabibinging ingay ng pagputok, sabay sigawan nina B at D na nagulat, at ni C na gulat din, at nasasaktan.]
c
Aaaaaa! Putang ina! Ang hapdi — ang hapdeeee! Ang ineet! Halu-halong pakiramdam — aaaa! [Mapapahandusay sa isang tabi si C, kalong ang nagdurugo niyang braso.]
[Nagkataong napadpad naman ang baril ni C patungo kay D, na nasa likuran ni E. Dali-dali niyang pupulutin ang baril, saka itututok kay E.]
d
Putang ina n’yong lahaaat!
[Ngunit pipitik lamang ang gatilyo — wala nang bala ang baril. Babaling sa kanya si E. Paulit-ulit na susubukin ni D na paputukin ang baril, ngunit walangwala na talaga itong bala. Bibitawan niya ang baril, at maninikluhod.] [Parang nauulol.] Bos, sori, bos — wala — wala — hindi na
mauulit bos — tara, magtulungan na lang tayo —ano ba’ng kelangang gawin — bos — parang awa mo na — ayoko mamatay — ang putang inang ‘yan kasi — nabigla lang ako bos —wala —wala naman talaga ‘kong balak pumatay — [untiunti na ring naiiyak] kinelangan ko lang ng datong, bos — pramis — parang awa mo na...
[Katahimikan, liban sa paghibik ni D.]
b
Ang lakas na ng pagdurugo nito [tukoy si C]. Ano’ng gagawin natin?
e
Makinig kayo sa ‘kin! Kelangan lang nating ilipat ‘tong katawan sa susunod na kuwarto. Pagka nagawa natin ‘yon, tapos na’ng problema natin, babayaran na tayo, uuwi na tayo. Kakalimutan na natin ‘to, malinaw?
d
Opo, opo.
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e
Kaya, putang ina n’yong lahat, ‘wag na kayong gagawa ng katarantaduhan, nang mapabilis ‘tong trabaho natin. Ngayon, ang usapan, bawal tayong mag-usap. E ‘di na natapos ang pagpuputok ng butse n’yo, kaya alam n’yo na naman ang kapalit. Nasa kasunduan n’yo ‘to, malamang? Kaltas singkuwenta porsyento’ng halagang napagkasunduan, ‘di ba?
d
Opo, opo.
e
O ngayon, gusto ko nang umuwi. Malamang kayo rin. Kaya buhatin na natin ‘tong bady bag, at dalhin na natin sa susunod na kuwarto — malinaw ba?
[Susunod sina B at D. Nasa isang sulok lamang si C, nanghihina na at nagluluha sa sobrang pananakit.]
[Kay C.] Pakita nga ng sugat [pupurbahan ang sugat]. Daplis lang.
c
Ang lakas pa rin ng dugo, o!
e
Siyempre galamay ‘yan, malakas lang magdugo ang galamay —
c
Anong ‘galamay’ — ?!
e
Basta! Mamaya titigil din ‘yan! Malayo sa bituka! Pagkalabas natin, hanapan ka natin ng duktor — [paanas] tanga-tanga kase...
[Aakayin ni E si C na tumayo. Handa na ang lahat magtungo sa kabilang silid. Mangunguna si E, na hawak si C sa maayos niyang braso. Pagkarating nila sa pinto sa kaliwa ng mga manonood, iikutin na ni E ang hawakan ng pinto — ngunit nakatarangka ito. Gulilat si E. Padabog niyang bibitawan si C, na mapapahiga sa sahig malapit sa pinto. Tatadyakan ni E ang pinto — walang mangyayari. Pagkuwan, tutungo siya sa kabilang pinto (yaong kaninang pinanggalingan nilang lahat), at bubuksan ito — nakatarangka rin. Tatadyakan niya, at ‘di rin mabubuksan.
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Bigla, mula sa siwang sa ilalim ng kaliwang pinto, ay may maliit na pirasong papel na masisiksik papasok.]
e
Hoy, ikaw [tukoy si B], ibaba mo muna ‘yan, tulungan mo ‘kong sirain ‘tong pinto.
b
Bakit ‘yan, e papasok ‘yan? Ba’t hindi ito ang sirain natin, yung palabas?
e
Sa labas, me tatlong kuwarto bago sa kuwartong ‘to, ‘di ba? Naaalala mo ba nung pumasok ka kanina?
b
Apat...Apat na pinto...
e
Basta — kung nakatarangka ‘yan, e ‘di malamang nakatarangka lahat ng tatlong pintong ‘yon palabas, samantalang ‘pag mabuksan natin ‘to, sa kuwarto sa loob me malaking bintana, naaalala mo?
b
Dalawa...may dalawang bintana...
e
Basta...tara, tulungan mo ‘kong sirain ‘tong pinto.
b
Tinarangka ba nila tayo rito sa loob?
[Katahimikan, natabla ang lahat sa sobrang katunggukan ng tanong ni B. Habang nagsasalitaan sila kanina’y pupulutin ni C ang pirasong papel na isiningit kanina sa siwang ng pinto, babasahin ito, saka ibubulsa. Kita ni D ang ginawa ni C sa pirasong papel.]
d c
[pabulong kay C habang abala sina E at B gibain ang pinto sa kabila]
Psst...ano’ng sabi? [pabulong din; nagmamaang-maangan] Ano?
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d
Ano’ng sabi d’yan sa papel?
c
Ha?
d
Tangina ka...nakita kong me pinulot ka mula ro’n sa pinto... ano’ng sabi?
c
Wala, a...wala —
d
Makinig ka sa ‘kin, ser: Gusto mo bang makaalis dito?
[Tatango si C. Babaling-baling si E sa kanila, nagsususpetsa.]
Pareho nating gustong makaalis dito. Para mangyari ‘yon, kelangan nating magtulungan — tayong dalawa.
c
E sila?
d
Gago ka ba —
e
[habang sinusubok sirain ang pinto] Tangina n’yong dalawa
d
[pabulong kay C] Amin na...!
d’yan — malaman ko lang na me binabalak kayo, patatagusin ko’ng tingga sa ulo n’yo!
[Katahimikan, liban sa pag-ungol nina E at B sa pagsubok na sirain ang pinto. Pagkuwan, nag-aalangang iaabot ni C kay D ang piraso ng papel. Babasahin ito ni D, bakas sa kanyang mukha ang pagkagulilat. Agad-agad niyang bubulsahin ang papel — at biglang dadaluhungin si E: sasampa siya sa likod nito at sasakalin ang kanyang leeg.]
d
[kay C] Kunin mo’ng baril! Kunin mo’ng baril!
[Alangang susungkitin ni C sa puwetan ni E ang baril, kung saan ito nakasukbit. Ngunit tatadyakan siya ni E sa sikmura — masasaktan si C at mabibitawan ang baril, na titilapon sa paanan ni B. Pupulutin ito ni B nang walang ibang nakakikita.]
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Tangina — tulungan mo ‘ko!
[Babangon si C mula sa pagkakasikmura, at pagtatadyakan si E — na tuluyan nang mapapahandusay sa sahig habang pinagtutulungan nina C at D. Parang mga bakulaw na napakawalan mula sa hawla ang dalawa. Pagkuwan, magpapaputok si B, at ang bala’y tatalbog-talbog sa silid hanggang tumama sa bangkay ni A. Nakaiilang na katahimikan.]
Ba’t mo binaril yung bangkay!? Ba’t hindi ‘tong pukeng ‘to ang binaril mo!?
b
Hindi ko naman alam kung saan tatama yung bala.
c
Bakal kasi ‘tong kuwarto, okey!? Bakal! Ibig sabihin, tatalbog yung bala — e kung kami’ng natamaan mo — fucking idiot —
b
Tahimik!
[Uungol si E.]
Tahimik, sabi!
[Katahimikan. Tututukan ni B sina C at D.]
Sumampa kayo sa pader, dali. [Susunod ang dalawa. Tututukan naman ni B si E, na nasa sahig, naglulupasay.] Ikaw — !...ba’t ka nila binugbog?!
[Gitlang tititig ang duguang si E kay B.]
e
E putang ina — malay ko! Ba’t di sila’ng tanungin mo, gago!
[Tututukan ni B si D.]
b
Ikaw — ba’t mo ginulpi ‘to. 15
[Di tutugon si D.]
c
May tinatago s’ya sa bulsa.
[Mula rito’y tututukan na ni B ang sinumang nagsasalita.]
b
[kay D] May tinatago ka raw sa bulsa — ano ‘yon?
d
Pare — makinig ka sa ‘kin. Lahat tayo, gusto lang nating makalabas mula rito, di ba? Di ba?
b
O, ano ngayon?
d
Nasa’kin yata ang paraan para makalabas tayo rito —
c
Just tell him — sabihin mo na kung ano’ng nakasulat sa papel.
e
Anong papel?
c
May note na dinaan sa gap nung pinto –
e
Ano’ng sabi sa papel?
c
Sabihin mo na — !
e
Tangina! Ano’ng sabi sa papel!?
b
[biglang sisigaw] Teka lang!
[Tatahimik lahat.]
Ikaw [tututok kay D] ilabas mo ang papel, at basahin mo sa ‘min kung ano’ng nakasulat do’n...Dali.
[Unti-unting huhugutin ni D ang papel mula sa kanyang bulsa, bubuklatin ito, saka akmang babasahin.]
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d
Isang bagay muna, pare. Ibaba mo ang baril bago ko basahin ‘to.
[Katahimikan — lahat nakatingin kay B.]
c
Agree ako. Ibaba mo muna ang baril, saka n’ya babasahin ang papel —
b
Ayoko.
d
Puwes di ko ‘to babasahin —
b
Babarilin kita kung di mo basahin ‘yan —
d
E putang ina mo!
c
[sisigaw] Teka!
[Tatahimik ang lahat.]
Ilan ang bala sa loob ng baril na ‘yan?
[Katahimikan. Tatanggalin ni B ang kaha sa loob ng baril, at bibilangin ang lamang bala.]
b
Dalawa.
c
Iabot mo’ng isang bala sa ‘kin, iabot mo naman ang isang bala sa kanya [si D ang tinutukoy]. So that assured na wala sa ‘ting makakakuha ng baril. The gun’s still with you.
[Mag-iisip si B, saka tuluyang susunod. Iiitsa niya ang mga bala kay C at D. Ibubulsa nila ang nasalong bala. Isusukbit naman ni B ang baril sa puwetan ng kanyang pantalon.]
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[Kay D.] Ayan, p’wede mo nang basahin, p’re.
b
Basahin mo na!
d
[magbabasa mula sa papel na hawak niya] “Mali ang pinatay. Walang lalabas hanggang tama ang patayin.”
[Gulat. Katahimikan.]
*
Dulang tampok sa Virgin Labfest 8 na ginanap noong ika – 27 ng Hunyo 27 hanggang ika – 18 ng Hulyo, 2012 sa CCP Tanghalang Huseng Batute.
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nicko reginio caluya
Babala Binabasa niya ang kanilang mga mata kung may alinlangan at kawalang pag-asa. At sa tuwing may nababalisa, binubulag ang sarili sa harap ng bolang kristal. Ibinabalita ang nakatadhanang pabubulaanan sa pagbaybay ng mga nakalahad na palad na mag-aabot ng bayad. Sabay sa pagtikom ng bibig ang mabagal na pagbaba, pagbabalik, pagbabaliktad, muling pagbabalasa ng mga baraha.
19
nicko reginio caluya
Dayuhan Sa lumiliit na larangan pinalalakad ang mga tauhang hindi na muling mabibilang ang lahat ng hakbang. Oras na naman upang ikulong silang lahat patungo sa tagpuang patuloy na nasasaksihan ng tagapagsalaysay na nagdidikta ng bawat kilos. Hindi dapat pumihit sa pahinga: sa mga pagtikom, pagpikit. Naglalaho ang mga umuulit na alaala sa bawat sandaling inaakalang pagtakas. Ibabahagi muli pagdating ng bukas na kakalasan ng kuwentong walang wakas.
20
allan popa
Pinakainibig Kita sa Iyong Pagtalikod Dahil ninais mo lamang madanas muli kung paano umahon mula sa lalim ng yungib nang hindi umaabot sa kaibuturan lumusong tayo hanggang kapwa lukubin ng sapat na dilim Nauna kang pumihit pabalik at nang sundan kita paanong hindi mapapatda sa pagkamangha sa hubog ng iyong aninong napatda sa pagkamangha sa bungad ng liwanag
21
hannah perdigon
Spring Cleaning Today I promised I would finally clean the house. The stamps for the postcards I never sent to you are still sitting on the shelf, next to a seashell and some rolls of film, undeveloped. Taking out the trash is simple, but your words are the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. I can’t reach across the sea any more than I can scrub the floors clean of the mud you tracked in. The mess on my desk, cigarette butts in ashtrays with tubes of lipstick, paperweights for notes hastily scribbled long ago: phone’s out of battery, meet me for lunch? Months later the dust is an inch thick on our coffee mugs scattered around the house. The plants are dying for a breath of air and some attention. But then again, I think of how your scent still clings to the pillows of my unmade bed and I decide it can wait one more day.
22
gian dapul
The clock overhead was inaccurate. Sometimes the train would come early, sometimes it would come late, sometimes never at all. Three minutes, then two; it was funny to think that the red digital display was as futile in its countdown as I. But I had home to look forward to, while the Metro clock would continue to tick. The last commuter waits The only other man, three feet to my left, what was he looking forward to? He seemed to be eager to depart, as he hung dangerously over the edge of the platform with his tie loose around his neck. He’d not even talk to me, only peer down at the rails of the train that would bring him to wherever he needed to be. as the train arrives; Two minutes, then one. I shared in his anticipation of the end of the day. The departed steps forward.
23
kazuki yamada
Sakura Once again, I am grasping the rusty metal of a chin – up bar. I try not to mind the light jabs of the sand in my shoes as I grit my teeth and pull myself up: I know, of course, that I slip and fall. There it is again — the mellifluous laughter of a young girl. Now, laughter directed at me is something that I can’t quite appreciate, but her laughter was different. Is different. Like the rustling of the sakura petals as a light breeze whistles through, her easy giggling has a certain playful quality that speaks to me through the indifferent waves of time. As I sit on the ground of the park, too spent to stand back up, the girl leaps towards the highest bar with a skip in her step. Her hands catch the metal with the practiced ease of a professional, and her legs swing up, throwing her into a haphazard swing that brings her all the way around the bar in a graceful circle. She lands easily, and she looks towards me with what I know was a challenging smile. I should be filled with irritation, but I relax my shoulders and ruffle my hair with a fond sigh instead. With tight ribbons in her hair, she represents everything I have left behind — perhaps that is why she has no face. Such is the danger of the world of reminiscence: even your most precious past is not immune to the erosions of time. Omniscience, not omnipotence — you can only watch, and never affect. Despite that, her name still remains with me: Arai Misato. Misato was her first name. The class called her araiguma, or raccoon, which literally means ‘a bear that washes’: an endearing name for a girl so strong. She is hardly the stereotypical household girl in my memories — baton pass relays, soccer, basketball; she dominated any and every sport. What was a girl like her doing as my most cherished friend in my memories of Japan? I, who was hopeless at every physical activity imaginable, could hardly be expected to be in her presence. The park was our sanctuary. Even in the Japanese cities of concentrated urbanity, little patches of struggling nature still broke 24
the monotony of metal and cement, and it was in a patch similar to that where my childhood blossomed. Much longer than it was wide, Shinjo Park was surrounded on all sides by the rickety brick – and – mortar stores that characterized the Japanese suburbanity. Through a border of seemingly dead trees, ancient pharmacies and the dreary façade of the town’s clinic seemed to watch over Misato and me as she attempted to ‘train’ my awkward muscles to perform the physical tasks which were required to pass our school’s fitness exam. Pull ups on the chin – up bar, dashes on the long stretch of soil, jumps into the sandbox — we spent our time trying to get me to become the boy I should have been, as if her physical prowess would somehow flow into me, skill by skill, with every grain of sand I flung into the air. I should have despised those sessions, but the promise of attaining the coveted masculine physicality was too great — and I could never despise the way Misato’s ribbons traced an arc in the air, never once faltering. We only stopped when a familiar jingle broke our concentration: a little chime played a tune that floated into the park, announcing the arrival of the moving crepe stall, reminding us that we were children and that children needed food. When the France – on – wheels stopped on the road next to the park, Misato and I would be waiting, covered with dirt, holding a couple of coins — enough to buy us both a strawberry crepe. The flaps enclosing the strawberries and syrup accented here and there with whipped cream were a bit like me — plain and without flavor. It was only my friendship with Misato that brought me significance and attention. As we sat on a wooden bench, syrup and cream painting a childish picture on our faces, the sunset colored the town in a fiery orange and the barren, angled trees cast a crooked shadow over us, signaling the end of another day. Strawberries are still my favorite fruit. Not every day was spent trying to man me up. Misato was not only athletically gifted: socially, she was in the upper strata as well. While my family lived in a decidedly ordinary, rented apartment unit on top of a newspaper printer, Misato’s lived in a high end condominium on the other side of town. There was no question about where I 25
preferred to be. So whenever we decided to leave the park to some other children for their own childhood — I think that Misato knew deep down I was physically hopeless, and these days were the days where she was too frustrated to help me — we would play in her home. Misato, despite possessing the physical prowess stereotypically attributed to the masculine, was surprisingly feminine in her house. She enjoyed helping her mother with housework, she played with animal dolls, and her room was a soft pink — all these things suggested to me her girlhood despite the ferocity with which she kicked the soccer ball at my face during gym class (I was always the goalkeeper, for they moved around the least and I could rely on my more proficient classmates to stop the ball before it got to me). She seemed to have everything I did not have: a home delivered school curriculum enrichment program, a closet full of toys, and ice pops. Those ice pops, somehow, were the most compelling reason for me to be in Misato’s house. The purples and the blues, the reds and the oranges, the pinks and the yellows: Although the choice was meaningless and I got the same old frozen sugar water whatever I did, I found joy in the choosing. After finishing the ice pops — I would choose a different color each time, while Misato always took a pink one — we would invariably end up playing with her animal dolls. They were called the Sylvanian Family dolls, and they were anthropomorphized animal families living in dollhouses of intricate detail: the fireplace would light up and flicker, the sinks created an illusion of flowing water when the handle was turned, and the sweet shop contained little cakes and pastries in tiny boxes. Their realism fascinated me, and through the dolls we became adults. Misato was always the mother of the household, and I, the father, and the very first time we played with those dolls, I thought that she would rule over the family as aggressively as she played sports. Instead, she displayed a gentle caring for the children that existed only in our imagination. I hardly ever did anything but sit around reading newspapers and giving money to the children, and so I was amazed by the maternal empathy she had for the children that were not even real. If we imagined that one of our daughters tripped on a stone and bruised her knee, Misato would make me fetch the bandages while 26
she soothed the daughter. Actions like those were incongruent to the Misato I was used to seeing — where did the tackling and shoving sporty girl go? Who was this motherly girl? Once the time to head home came, I always ended up wondering which Misato was the real one; I never understood then that it could have been both. Still, she always chose pink. My stay in Japan, and thus, my time with Misato did not last forever. Springtime came and my mother decided that I needed to come with her to the Philippines to learn the English language. I resented this — it seemed like all the decisions were being made for me. The same day, in an attempt to generate some sympathy, I vented all my frustrations on Misato: Why did I have to go to some random island country just to learn English? Why couldn’t I just learn it here? Why couldn’t my parents ever take into account my own opinion? All Misato had to say as a response was: “it’s too bad you’re leaving.” I snapped. Of course she wouldn’t understand what having no freedom meant, she was filled to the neck with it, and she wouldn’t ever understand my situation anyway, she had no notion of the outside world beyond our little Japanese suburb, and on and on and on. My words streamed out with the intention of harming, and I flung them at her like rocks. Furious, I stormed out of the park and walked straight back home. My running shoes were as white as snow that day. I didn’t see her again until I left. Wanting to get one last look at the places I loved so much, I went to the park for the final time. The trees were exploding with color — these trees only seemed hard, foreboding, and dead during the summer, fall, and winter, but when the warmth of spring came, the pale petals of the sakura blossoms showered the park with a gentle pink. A fitting send off, I thought, and I was about to leave for the last time when I heard a young girl’s voice calling me. It was Misato. “I heard that you’re leaving today,” she said. Yes, I answered. “Here,” she said flatly as she held out a little booklet bound with pink yarn. I took it and flipped through it, and discovered that each page 27
had a handwritten message from one of my classmates, wishing me well as I left for the Philippines. “Don’t forget us,” one said, “Misato’ll miss you,” stated another. At the very back, a picture of the entire class when we went on a camping trip was clumsily pasted on. What’s this, I asked. “It’s for you, so you can remember us,” Misato quietly said. She laughed lightly, and with a little slap on the shoulder, told me, “Take care, alright?” With that, she walked back home. I couldn’t do anything but stand there, watching her back move further and further away as the sakura petals fell. Somehow, that slap on the shoulder hurt more than any soccer ball she kicked into my face, and what was to be the last laugh I heard from her echoed dully in my ears. In retrospect, she was a lot like the sakura trees of Shinjo Park: rough and uninviting at times, she still had the capacity to bloom with a subtle beauty like the pale pink of the cherry blossoms. I admired, and still admire, that casualness with which she broke the boundaries of the masculine and feminine; her freedom. This is, I realize, why Misato does not need a face in my memories. I could dig up that little book held together with fragile pink yarn, flip to the back, and recall once again, but her actions and everything they represented are enough for me. Her laughter, floating like a petal in the breeze, is enough for me.
28
aj elicaño
End User License Agreement important: read carefully — These Roman Catholic Church (“Church” or “The Church”) belief system components, including any “Sunday schooling” or supplementary indoctrination (“Teachings”) are subject to the terms and conditions of the agreement under which you have received the applicable Church belief system product (“Doctrine”) described below (each a “solemn agreement between unfathomable God and unworthy man” or “Covenant”) and the terms and conditions of this Supplemental Covenant. by imbibing, proclaiming or otherwise using the teachings, you agree to be bound by the terms and conditions of the applicable doctrine covenant and this supplemental covenant. if you do not agree to these terms and conditions, do not imbibe, proclaim or use the teachings. note: if you do not have a valid covenant for any “doctrine” (latin church, and/or any church under the antiochian, armenian, alexandrian, chaldean, or byzantine traditions), you are not authorized to imbibe, proclaim or otherwise use the teachings and you have no rights under this supplemental covenant. Capitalized terms used in this Supplemental Covenant and not otherwise defined herein shall have the meanings assigned to them in the applicable Doctrine Covenant. General. The Teachings are provided to you by The Church to update, supplement, or replace existing functionality of the applicable Doctrine. The Church grants you a license to use the Teachings under the terms and conditions of the Doctrine Covenant for the applicable
29
Doctrine (which are hereby incorporated by reference) and the terms and conditions set forth in this Supplemental Covenant, provided that you comply with all such terms and conditions. To the extent that any terms in this Supplemental Covenant conflict with terms in the applicable Doctrine Covenant, the terms of this Supplemental Covenant control solely with respect to the Teachings. Additional Rights and Limitations. *If you have multiple validly indoctrinated versions of the applicable Doctrine(s), you may proclaim, imbibe and use one version of the Teachings as part of such applicable Doctrine(s) in each aspect of your life to which the validly indoctrinated versions of the Doctrine(s) pertain, provided that you use such additional versions of the Teachings in accordance with the terms and conditions above and that your belief system supports the necessary compartmentalization protocols to operate multiple unique versions of the Teachings simultaneously. *You may conduct temptation testing of the Faith Framework component of the Teachings (“Faith Component”). You must disclose the results of any temptation test of the Faith Component to any Church minister, complying with the following terms: (1) you must disclose all the information necessary for replication of the tests, including complete and accurate details of your temptation methodology, the incidents/cases of temptation, rationalization parameters applied, physical and mental faculties tested, the name and appearance of any third party godless vice used to conduct the temptation, and complete explanations for the temptation suite/ harness that is developed by or for you and used to test the Faith Component; (2) you must disclose the date(s) that you conducted the temptation tests, along with specific version information for all Church belief products invoked and/or forgotten, including the Faith Component; (3) your temptation testing was performed with all self – righteousness tuning and best practice rationalization set forth in the doctrine and/or in The Church’s list of approved scriptures, and uses the latest addenda, clarifications and statements available for
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the Faith Component and the relevant The Church belief system; (4) it shall be sufficient if you make the disclosures provided for above in your local confessional booth, so long as every subsequent disclosure of the results of your temptation test expressly identifies the source of your own sin containing all required disclosures; and (5) nothing in this provision shall be deemed to waive any other right that you may have to conduct temptation testing. *The Church retains all right, title and interest in and to the Teachings. All rights not expressly granted are reserved by The Church. if the applicable doctrine was licensed to you by the church or any of its particular churches, the infallibility (if any) included in the applicable Doctrine Covenant applies to the Teachings provided the Teachings have been received by you within the term of the infallibility in the applicable Doctrine Covenant. However, this Supplemental Covenant does not extend the time period for which the infallibility is provided. if the applicable doctrine was licensed to you by an entity other than the church or any of its particular churches, The Church disclaims all infallibilities with respect to the teachings as follows: disclaimer of infallibilities. To the maximum extent permitted by applicable law, The Church and its ministers provide to you the teachings, and any (if any) spiritual guidance related to the teachings (“spiritual guidance�) as is and with no faults; and The Church and its ministers hereby disclaim with respect to the teachings and spiritual guidance all infallibilities and conditions, whether express, implied or statutory, including, but not limited to, any (if any) infallibilities or conditions of or related to: wording, comprehensibility, fitness for daily life, effects, lack of negligence or lack of workmanlike effort, quiet enjoyment, quiet possession, and correspondence to description. The entire risk arising out of use or performance of the teachings and any spiritual guidance remains with you.
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exclusion of incidental, consequential and certain other damages. In no event shall The Church or its ministers be liable for any special, incidental, indirect, or consequential damages whatsoever (including, but not limited to, damages for: loss/crisis of faith, loss of public trust or other forms of respect, nihilistic and/or suicidal tendencies, personal injury/self – injury, self – hatred, failure to meet any duty (including of good intentions or of invincible ignorance), negligence, and any other pecuniary or other loss whatsoever) arising out of or in any way related to the use of or inability to use the Teachings or the spiritual guidance, or the provision of or failure to provide spiritual guidance, or otherwise under or in connection with any provision of this Supplemental Covenant, even if The Church or any minister has been advised of the possibility of such damages. limitation of liability and remedies. Notwithstanding any damages that you might incur for any reason whatsoever (including, without limitation, all damages referenced above and all direct or general damages), the entire liability of The Church and any of its ministers under any provision of this Supplemental Covenant and your exclusive remedy for all of the foregoing shall be limited to the greater of the belief actually invested by you in the Teachings or the sum total of your faith in the goodness of life. The foregoing limitations, exclusions and disclaimers shall apply to the maximum extent permitted by applicable law, even if any remedy fails its essential purpose.
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elijah pascual
Now is Not the Right Time And neither is it the right place to think of such things, like the lofty promises of forever, set so high it would burn the eyes of the reckless onlooker or suffocate the ambitious climber. Case in point, I see you in the dawn when it shyly rustles its way out from the blanket of nights I spent dreaming of you, and I see you in the mountains when my feet bleed and my bones creak. I can’t reach for the summit, let alone the horizon. But if by some twist of fate and physics time and space conspire to close in their walls and push us through the empty space of longing, demolish the boundaries of forking paths so it is made clear we occupy the same hearth of loneliness, so that each day is an inch closer and each night is the growing shadow of two cooperating cosmic forces, I hope I meet you in the overlapping dusk of the right here and the right now. I hope to meet you in the small clamp, the pursed and furtive lips of a moment that may never come again, where the space is so little, we are too far to be crushed and too close to be unloved. 33
paolo tiausas
Siesta* The afternoon city threatens. One might say, a bomb threat or any apparent death, might not suffice: there are complications, for example, this car not being this car at all. Rather their names the same is an incontestable difference. Whoever’s trunk and engine. Or, the passersby who can’t even look. They probably know the victims. Look at precisely how, with riots on their peripheries, they precisely focus on the sidewalk before them. A common mistake common as miseries in the holy rosary, the probably homeless lady, prays. At least until the next customer of cheap candy and cigarettes. One can’t ever stay so still. Every bead of sweat, heavy as a prayer and everyone’s eyes inherit incandescence. To tame the impatience, a mono cd player blasting out three different songs. The music terribly nice. One shouldn’t stay so still. Wouldn’t it be terribly nice to believe this is a city of passion? Gloriously burning, though there are complications, for example.
*
Previously published in The Philippines Free Press website, March 2012.
34
rie takumi
Fujiyama Mama “I’ve been to Nagasaki, Hiroshima too, the same I did to them baby I can do to you…” Mom’s voice carries through the nearly – empty house. You’re stupefied. How she manages to sing this song until now you’ll never know. A part of you thinks that you’re stupid for not closing your door that one time you decided to indulge your curiosity and search for the songs on the old set list your mother pinned up on the fridge door. It was practically an invitation to insanity — and you unwittingly led this lunacy in on a red carpet. “And when I start erupting ain’t nobody gonna make me stop...” Your hands idle over your sketchpad, where a woman was holding half an umbrella and neon signs above her lacked the effect of bursting light. Today is Friday, which usually meant that Dad went home earlier than usual, but he called in earlier, saying he’s got a meeting he can’t escape. You don’t believe him, of course. Bastard’s been meeting with the hot chick you dated three weeks ago. It probably added to your mom’s decision to show – off her iron lungs: your dad usually took her out this time of the week to meet her old workmates. “Well you can say I’m crazy stone deaf and dumb, but I can cause destruction just like the atom bomb, ‘cause I’m a Fujiyama mam — AAAAAAHHHH!” The scream tears through the thoughts forming in your mind, and you nearly throw yourself outside your door. You jump the last few steps of the staircase, hitting the opposing wall and bouncing; you recover in time to use the recoil to run your way to the kitchen. “Shit,” you mutter. Your mom probably left the gas on and lit up the air — it was something you did when you tried to cook, and since you came out of her, she probably did the same thing. You’re 35
worried. The last meal you had was dinner last night, and your body is remembering that cramming has prevented it from attending to — excepting one — your natural needs. “Ma, anyar — ” You stop in front of the doorway to the kitchen, mouth open in a shout, when a broom surges through the air and hits you in the face. “AY! Anong ginagawa mo diyan?! Pumasok ka nga dito at patayin mo yung ipis, bilis!” The wooden handle of the broomstick was somewhat slick with your saliva as you use it to swat a cockroach flying above an open casserole. Your mother shouts obscenities (to whom, you’re not sure), and while it’s good that she’s finally stopped singing, you’re not sure if her swearing on the Virgin Mary’s lady bits was any better. The cockroach finally takes pity on you and it flies out of the kitchen through an open window; strangely enough, your pride feels bruised. Mom starts fidgeting over the stove again, and you throw the broom you’re holding aside to sit on a counter to check your injuries. In addition to the cut on your head, your mouth was still watering from where the broom hit your face. Your mother takes a glance at you and shouts again. During dinner, your mouth is nearly covered with ice packs, held together by Scotch tape and an old washcloth. You can barely eat the food in your plate, and you despair at the thought. There were things that needed doing, and the lack of food in your stomach would mean midnight snacking, which would mess your diet up. You lift a hand to remove the packs, but then your mom jabs a greasy fork at your fist. “’Wag mong tanggalin ‘yan. Baka magka-bukol ka, sige ka.” Your mind races with retorts. They all ran within the span of “my mouth isn’t wide enough” and “yes, I know that’s what he said”, but the curry you’re having tasted too good at the moment to be ruined by another sermon. Your mother starts telling you stories of when she was around your age anyway, and you filter out her voice. Her accounts of fame intersperse with Jack Kennedy’s wild years, sushi and Flashdance clashed with O’Hara and Ginsberg, Wanda Jackson, old, wrinkled, sung about Edgar J. Hoover being a Fujiyama mama… 36
“Ipakilala kaya kita kay Mama – san? Type niya yung mga — ” You never knew how painful a toothpick jabbed in your nose could be until your mother used one to pry the food that refused to come out of your nose after you started coughing your dinner out. Mom’s friends aren't demonic, but they reminded you that once, your mother was young and hot, and this was the reason why you were born. This isn't to say that your mother deserves a place in Catholic hell for liking to remember her glory days, but your father did mention to you sometimes that he thought of driving off a bridge just to get out of meeting former Miss Go – To – Japan’s. Sometimes, you wish he’d drive himself off a bridge, just cause. After dinner, you clear up the dishes. While you piled them up on the strainer, you hear the familiar noise of your mother bringing her old tapes out. You tense up. Coldness crept up your fingers and toes. The sound foretells long, exhausting, emotional confrontations, and you don't have the capacity to deal with those at the moment. Maybe you’re just imagining the whole ‘long, exhausting, emotional confrontations chill’ deal. Maybe it's even psychosomatic. The hollow pangs in your stomach seem reactionary enough. You strain your ears as you slowly walk to the fridge, waiting for a sound. A few moments pass. The sound of an obscure anime song rings from your pocket. You pull your phone out, check the SMS sent, and swear. The text came from an emotional washout (your best friend) and as much as you’d love to abandon her, your future godchild(still unknown to her parents)’s life was on the line. She was stupid, you were not – so. You owed her boyfriend to keep a lock on something anyway. The sound of you rummaging through the chiller made you deaf to the blare of low – fi – on – hi – fi coming from the living room. You know that sound. In fact, you know it so well you reckon you know it more than your father, though you don't want to bank on that fact. This song was how you were made after all, and this is something you don't want to ponder on either. Carefully, you walk up the stairs, leaving your slippers at the bottom to soundlessly paddle your way to your room. A crashing sound comes from the living room, followed by swearing and the 37
sound of breaking glass. In the hallway before you turn to the stairs, the maids huddle together, with varying degrees of worry and amusement on their faces. You ignore them. If mom wants to break all the furniture with dancing, it’s her call. The most important thing right now is to do that duty that mades sure you don't need to do other, more distressing duties. Like the sketch you abandoned to save your mother from a patronizing cockroach, which needed to be passed five hours ago. Or like the ‘pregnant best friend’ thing, and the fact that, if you don’t help her, certain pictures taken during a very secret night would flood your Facebook wall. There, in the middle of all these emotions you thought being a man saved you from ever feeling them ever, sprouted the idea that would be your friend’s saving throw. “We can tell your parish priest first, let him tell your parents,” you type, damning the part of your mind that says it’s the worst thing anyone can ever advise another person. The door to your room is closed, muffling any sounds coming outside. The AC hums quietly, and it accompanies the clacking of your keyboard. There are no other sounds present in the room — at least, no sound present physically. In your head, the culturally insensitive lyrics about a woman – fied atom bomb loops. ‘Fu — jiyama — yama, Fu — jiyama mama...’ “I don’t really know what you should do, but I do know that your baby’s probably not your boyfriend’s,” you say out loud, because you can’t exactly type this, not without it getting copy – pasted and liked. You continue typing anything that comes into mind, even though you’re sure that you’ll abandon it in favor of sketching, and you’ll regret everything in the morning. Beside your keyboard, your phone rings to life. The man – whore of Satan sent a message, probably reminding you that your mother needs to drink her pills and you need to go to sleep. You’re tempted to tell him to do all those things himself; that is, tell his wife to drink her medicine and sleep with her. You’ll even graciously wear your earplugs, if it means getting dearest papa – san home right now.
38
“And when I start erupting ain’t nobody gonna make me stop…” you hum quietly under your breath. There’s a split – second moment of complete revulsion, but you drop it as quickly as it came. There isn’t any use denying the fact that you have that song stuck in your head now. It's a damn good song anyway. The time, according to your desktop’s watch, is nearly midnight, approximately three hours since you’ve closed the door. Since then, you’ve chatted with your best friend more than you have in a month, and you’ve given nothing but empty, comforting advice. You’re one “It’s going to be alright” from throwing your monitor outside your window, and he was still online, looking over your conversation with her. The nagging taps against your head, reminding you that you had more important things to do, remains unbidden. By now, the only sounds you can hear are the clacking of your fingers and the hum of the AC unit. The maids and the dog are asleep, and you presume your mother has too even if she’s forgotten to turn the Betamax off (and you’re proud of yourself for getting the old thing to work again, despite the bane it turned out to be). The picture of a pregnant woman in the middle of a red – light district you’ve been working on is still unfinished. It’s nearly three in the morning and your joints are creaking from the silent bouncing you’ve been doing. The bouncing tells you that you could go through the whole night without sleeping, even without the aid of blackmailing closet cases, dopey fifteen year – olds, and espresso. You decide to get a cup because you know that, out of the three, it’s the only thing that won’t leave a bad taste in your mouth. The living room is adjacent to the kitchen anyway; you could check up on mother after getting coffee. The coffee maker was in the pantry when you entered the kitchen. You briefly consider waking the maids up about this. You ready your mug beside the kettle, with milk and sugar dregs inside. The coffee isn't going to be ready anytime soon, so you decide to look at your mother and make sure she didn’t take sleeping pills. Today’s Outstanding Fatherly Moment ranked too low for those.
39
She is lying on the ottoman, with her head pillowed awkwardly on an armchair beside it. Her legs are sprawled, but her pants made sure this sight isn’t that traumatic for you. There are bottles of Grand Kirin spilling all over the white shag carpet, and you hopefully won’t be there when your mother realizes what she has done. One time, back in high school, you woke up, went downstairs, and saw your mother sprawled across the lawn, naked except for her mothballs – smelling feather boas. At least she was still awake now, fully – clothed and sated enough to be pursued to head upstairs. You pick up the bottles of imported beer, carefully place a full one inside a vase (for later tasting), and put the rest beside the kitchen sink. The mop can’t really do much to take the stain off the carpet. You reckon you need to call the cleaning service again and wonder how they’ll react when you tell them it’s not sake this time. You clean up after your mother as best as you could. Several of her prized statues and flower vases are now in the waste bin in pieces. The TV was thankfully safe, but your glass coffee table needed to be replaced. Some magazines were torn up, but they aren't yours, so you don't care. There was nothing more that you could do without turning on the lights and risk startling the witch (i.e. your mother, though the alcohol might’ve dulled her into not caring). Leaving your mom there is pathetic though, and your father might start World War ad infinitum if he finds her ragged on a piece of furniture that isn’t in their room. You nudge her carefully with your foot. There's something blocking your throat, preventing you from saying anything longer than “Hey” without your voice breaking like you’ve entered puberty again. “I really was a Fujiyama mama once,” your mother says to no one in particular, her left hand raised up like it was trying to snatch the glamour of her younger self from her memories. “Pinipilahan ako dati nun. I was the top girl. Drinks came to my table, tapos ang daming gustong magpakasal sa akin. But I chose your father. He was rich.” You feel tiny pinpricks of something you refuse to identify stem from the corner of your eyes. You pat your mother’s knee in place of an “Okay”, and she replies with, “I’ll blow your head off, baby, with nitroglycerine.” 40
There's nothing that you could say. The betamax had stuck, leaving a still shot of a woman, raised on the shoulders of young, handsome, and drunk salarymen, laughing and holding a mic in her hands. You shuffle over to the TV, stumbling on an unseen crack in the floor, and turn everything off. Your mother mumbles a soft protest. You stay still, listening for tell – tale signs of her dozing off to sleep, before making your next move. You take one last survey of the room before you leave: the end tables and consoles are bereft of their usual decorations, there is no coffee table between the TV and the sofa, and your mom was in your arms. You carry her drunk, passed – out body up the stairs. It's a weird Friday night, and you have a dilemma waiting to be solved upstairs. The coffee maker beeps as you amble your way upstairs, careful not to bump your mother’s head on the railings. The coffee maker is self – sufficient. It can wait.
41
carissa pobre
What Passes Upon Your Face Age comes by you in many lines, almost the hiding is impossible, jaw divulging an hour of Massenet because you keep it relearning how to fiddle, even if it’s not that connaisseur, if only could you place your hands in the tone of remembering, once they could listen to beautiful music around here. Enough with the untrained broken cafÊ chords while your eyes ascertain two systems without yet a mistake, and you wonder how it is your father to play by ear: At this point he could be deaf, and years would go by you keep studying the Chopin, but he will ask, he will ask, there is no better way to see that age defeats him, the rims of the ear revealing vessels to so much. There is a line that travels across behind the lashes, and says it passes, like loud music, or the arrival of the proper intonation then quickly departs. It is not uncommon to make of the walls here a prayer, that because father cast up paintings replacing every mirror, you were othered by the house, the loss of your passing figure, maybe elsewhere but you don’t notice how you grow old. Even music used to be wildness here, a heavy menagerie of sounds, and sometimes you tell yourself this is for beauty but it is mostly difficult to hide.
42
ima ocon
asymptote 1. I barge in nineteen minutes late with my hand damp from spilled coffee and my breath heavy from dashing through the corridor. The only acknowledgment I receive from the professor is a slight wavering in her gaze, although a handful of people look up and Eula is shaking her head and Lorence mouths me the smallest hi from his place in the front row. When I finally get myself settled down (which took longer than expected because the first pen I grabbed spewed ink all over my palm), I’d missed a half – page of notes. Instead of Gandhi looking down at us like a benevolent god, the projector now flashes a map of the world. I am taken back to long – ago Sibika and Kultura classes when we would crack open our atlases and marvel at the glossy pages, the funny – looking splotches of green that fragmented the blueness, the neatly printed names of countries and their capitals that we thought summarized the world. The boy beside me is scribbling furiously, and I ask him: “Are we going to have a quiz today?” He shakes his head. “We’re going to watch a documentary later, so there’s no time. Perhaps next week, though,” he says, then turns back to ink and paper, his eyes vacant and unreadable in that small moment that I stared straight into them. 2. Ever since I aced that fifty – point matching exam back in fourth grade by connecting Warsaw to Poland and doing the same for forty – nine other pairs, I made it a point to never forget. Close – up diagrams of the eye, electromagnetic equations with their squiggly integrals, the repetitive lyrics to songs that pop up in jeepneys and taxi cabs and 43
malls and somebody’s loudspeaker: they all came and left, but ask me when I’m hobbling along on a cane, senile and confined to diapers, what the city at the heart of Somalia is. I’ll say Mogadishu, without missing a beat. It seemed so effortless, so easy — the stretching of memory, nothing but an hour of tasting the names on my throat until I was sure I could make them flow like magic from my pencil. But what I didn’t anticipate — perhaps what no child can ever hope to learn because it demands time and the slow erosion of innocence — is that geography is also the study of distance. Mathematics tells us that the distance from one point to another can be calculated by linear coordinates, and if you draw a straight line passing through both points and let a ruler follow the line’s shape you’ll get a number, a certainty against which to gauge nearness or farness. But how do you measure the gulf between your parents when you’re leaning hard against the door of your room and trying to shut out the discordance of their screaming? What variables between the past and future can you extract when you look at a photograph of yourself five years ago and see a stranger? And this is why I’m daydreaming instead of taking notes: the concept of space — with its infinite varieties, its equal potential to wound and to preserve — can never be distilled into a single lecture. It must be lived, breathed in. Felt. 3. “You have lovely hands,” the fortune – teller had said in the crowded plaza square as the sun at its height shone bright in our faces, and I wasn’t sure whether she was hoping for something more than the crumpled twenty – peso bill I laid down on her table or whether she really did mean it. In any case I didn’t give her extra money — oh come on, I had no “troubled, dark woman” haunting me and I definitely wasn’t “in love” with anyone (nodding my head at the right intervals must have bolstered her confidence, though). The bones beneath my fingers are protruding: is that beautiful? My fingers are for the most part straight, with the nails cut cleanly to match the oval shape of my fingertips, and when I touch the skin, 44
it’s smooth, unwrinkled. Deep folds run across my palm. Overall my hands are quite pleasant to the eyes, but then — isn’t it like that for almost everyone my age? Held stationary like these, as if caught in a camera pose, they’re just body parts, a common architecture of bone and skin and veins. I prefer them when caught in the momentum of motion, when I’m counting an inaudible meter under my breath and Bach and Beethoven and Liszt fill my ears and my fingers are dancing over keys in black – and – white. The piano leaves no room for anything else: I sit on the stool, start, lose myself somewhere in resurrecting music that resonated in kingly courts now long crumbled to dust. Once upon a time I detested piano lessons. I hated it when the teacher would force me to count four for whole notes because they seemed impossibly slow and lingering and I wanted fast and upbeat. But love can be invented, or at the very least, it can grow — which is what happened whenever insults were hurled through the air in voices that made my blood chill. You selfish bastard one would say and the other would retort with living with you is like hell and stop oh God stop please — They never did. I played Largo over and over again to drown out their increasing decibels. I reveled in each note (so refined, so quiet), the slowness no longer an irritation, and I imagined that it wasn’t the piano that was singing so solemnly — it was my own sadness, pouring out of me with an elegance that tears could never have. 4. I believe in love that flashes like a magnificent aurora and dies afterward, love as a mirage of vanished distance. I believe in the honesty of an I love you proclaimed by the heart, but more often than not our hearts forget that we’re all too human, that we bow down to time and time interferes with our plans and turns our dreams into playthings. With all its passions and yearnings, the human heart should just have been found inside the chest of a god.
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5. They continued to share the same bed, their lungs filtered the same air, they tried to save up what small amount of affection they had for me, but they might as well have been speaking different languages. Mom didn’t get Dad’s fervent passion for jazz and he couldn’t comprehend her desire to redecorate our house every month. They argued over small bills and philosophical views, and the silence — when they finally achieved it — was strained with the weight of unsaid complaints. Every night they went to sleep with their elbows touching. They were close enough to count each other’s eyelashes. To exhale when the other inhales. To keep on being reminded that they had stared at each other’s naked bodies with the lamp opened, and touched. And yet in the wee hours of Aug. 4, 2005 my mom tiptoed inside my room. She kissed me on the cheek as I pretended to sleep, then left the house for good. 6. Her hair was dripping water down her bare shoulders. I stuck out my tongue, and she followed suit; I ran my fingers down the contours of my cheeks, down my half – parted lips, down my chin — she mimicked my actions perfectly, without a delay. Her face was a perfect canvas of longing as I reached out my hand to touch her — my fingertips straining, straining, only to meet the eternal barrier of cold, polished glass. 7. The view from the balcony of our apartment is spectacular. Step over the clothes scattered through the floor, slide open the glass door, and let the evening air rush through your system. Lean over the railing — you’re not going to get a sense of vertigo from looking down, don’t worry. The city down below is ablaze with golden light strung through windows, lampposts, cars moving past at varying speeds. People walking down sidewalks are reduced to indiscernible 46
pinpricks. Inky blackness spreads out above, studded with the glow of stars sent centuries and centuries ago, and shadow and light fight out their battle everywhere. Close your eyes — hear the low birdsong floating over the roaring of earthbound engines, feel the tension between earth and sky that’s holding you still. Calming, isn’t it? Especially when you have a steaming cup of green tea in your hands and everybody else inside is snoring, lost in their own dreamy oblivion. I miss the fireflies, though, and the smell of fresh grass, and the blurred sound of someone next door strumming a guitar, singing in a dialect that marked him from birth. Home sneaks up on me from sixty kilometers away. The funny thing is that I can never predict the things that the past whispers back at me. Mornings that still ring faintly empty when there’s no rooster crowing. The small square of space reserved for me when I used to have an entire house. A telephone call or a trek to nearby carinderias, no more steaming cups of rice or eggs cooked exactly the way I liked it. And all the rest, gone: the stately piano in the living room, the picture frames of relatives frozen in various ages displayed on table – tops, my father reading yesterday’s newspaper and me stealing away the page with the crossword, the first stairs that I ever climbed, the posters taped on the walls of my room, the freedom of playing rock music as loud as I can because nobody will mind, the cereal boxes arranged neatly, my yellow furball of a cat rubbing its head against my leg, mountains looming in the horizon when I stick my head out the window, fish and tomatoes for breakfast and lunch and dinner, the floor that my bare feet kissed relentlessly, the four walls I grew up in, the four walls where the child in me is still laughing and pitter – pattering around without a care in the world. 8. The omnipotent have the capacity to see an infinite number of hypothetical cities hanging in the air, borne aloft by daydreams and spun out of wistful should – have – beens. They have no choice but to 47
watch as collisions are missed, as glorious tragedies of neverness arise by the millions; their eyes witness distance with the clearest perception, and so they weep for the living, who go on in blissful ignorance. 9. The bell rings. He stands up too fast, his folder dangling over the edge of his chair and the papers inside in danger of fluttering to the floor. One drops near my feet, right – side up, and the coincidence startles me. Sheet music. “Do you play the piano?” I ask as I hand it to him. He nods, says the customary thank you with a restrained half – smile. The questions I’m aching to ask him trail one after the other in my head, although my tongue’s frozen and soon I’m watching him squeeze his way through a row of seats as he treks his way through the door. His name: I could at least have asked for it, embarrassment be damned. Once I’d caught him reading Nietzsche in the library, his pose languid and his expression contented, and the other time he had a Rilke collection tucked under his arm. In another life where the barrier of silence doesn’t exist between us, I would have outlined my theory of distance for him With his characteristic pensive gaze and quiet attentiveness, he would have understood. Perhaps we could even have been friends, and I’d get to coax him into a thousand different backdrops — smiling (the kind that cut the face, the raw, exploding one), saying hi in the midst of a crowded corridor, tentatively opening for me the pages of that curious notebook he’s always writing on, laughing at my antics. I would have liked him, I think.
48
nica bengzon
Bookends Sometimes I think it isn’t the words we fight against, but their impossibility, that which clatters down through our fingers into gaps in the floor. I’m told silence is the world’s gift to girls with tight lips and austere eyes — the truth is, too many words going unsaid is nothing to smile about. You and I tire of ink – constellations, blossoming dark on the sides of our hands. Tell me about yourself. Write me a letter, if we can’t find it in ourselves to write poems. You push a piece of paper across the table: Here are the things I have no names for. My brother’s eyes. The cracks in my roof, the rain that there collects, how I shut my ears against drowning in the sound. My mother’s hair, touched by a sun I’ve never seen. I answer: A warmth, morning coffee and fresh bread. What it means to listen to the sea roar from inside a shell.
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The angels we wrestle with, and the heavens they leave us for. When I try to write a poem my fingers wonder — How heavy are words, that we place them with such care in these lines in these pages in each other’s hands? If you read them you may hear my name, how the sounds link arms, an imagined voice in your real ear. Perhaps then we’ll find that we’d become real without knowing it — to one another if not in the pages of books.
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nica bengzon
White Noise It starts with you asking Please be quiet. This is the only conversation we ever have. In turn I ask What for and No and Listen and This is always what happens to the words I try to give you dropping alive breathing from my mouth only to drown in the trenches of your silence, washing up, pale and bloated on the shores of the breakfast table. Listen. Everything is softer in the morning. Please be quiet. Do this for me. No. Listen. If you love quiet so much what business do you have living by the sea? You never could reckon with sting of salt and spray of water as it blows itself apart, with black rock worn to mirrors by centuries of the same tide. I remember you never did like storms. I remember your curtains, yellow and lavender in every season, drawn shut against the world’s wind. I remember the walls of our house. You say I’ll open the door when the sun comes out to touch the dark sands to gold. Perfect for postcards and long walks. Please be quiet. We’ll talk in the morning, love. And I say no doors closing can effect a change in the weather, and every day is overcast 51
where we are. I am here now and you will hear me. I too can be like the sea that roars from behind the flowers on your curtains. If nothing else my voice will stay here to disturb you throwing itself against the door shattering into the cracks in the concrete in the shape of a body you recognize. Here in the words you refuse are the contours of my hands upon your heart: I demand that you beat. That noise is alive.
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nicko reginio caluya
Being Erasure* I’m getting there, faster than any transit before me, and to think I have stopped just to write it down just delays the potential of arriving earlier. Where I belong must have been waiting for me for ages, or for the span of my lifetime continuing to expand. There, there, like a consolation from an unknown parent, or where the smog keeps covering the vanishing point. Or was it really vanishing? I never had the chance to ask people who were with me, going in different destinations, there. At terminals, where I could have pushed the turnstile and carried on, I carried away the possibility of travelling away from here. I hear it very clearly, hear it as if everyone were being words, talking, engaging, pulling like inertia, convincing me to stay. And there, however close there may be, I might just collapse and disintegrate into the dying self, the decay, and the quickness of my pulse, the rhythm of my footprints, the invisible music orchestrated by gestured hands. When I begin to feel cadence in what I’m about to say, I will know I am almost —
*
Previously published in The Philippines Free Press website, May 2012.
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cedric tan
The Woodsman Bram squinted, and not just because of the sunlight — beads of sweat were also running down from his forehead, into his eyes, threatening to obscure his vision. After a whole day of trekking through the woods, he had finally emerged from the dark canopies, only to find himself in the frigid embrace of open mountain air. The cold made every breath feel like swallowing broken glass. Bram took a moment to readjust the position of the young woman’s body he carried at his back, then grit his teeth and soldiered on. He was the village’s resident giant, shoulders like an ox’s, and legs built just as steadily from years of woodcutting. Where he had size, however, he lacked nimbleness. A few steps up, as he tried to find a solid foothold in the steep incline, the earth crumbled under his oversized boot and he slipped, falling flat on his face and tasting dirt. The girl he was carrying on his back fell awkwardly, clumsily, beside him, limp as a doll. Fool. The voices stirred in his head, mocking. Fool, fool, fool. Shakily, Bram pushed himself off the ground, ignoring the dirt now clinging to his sweaty face. He looked over at Marike — even with her dress caked with mud, and her long hair tumbling out of its braids, she was still so pretty. Bram picked her up in his arms and continued walking. The sun was at its highest in the sky when the house came into view. There it was — a simple cottage, lonely atop the mountain, built of wood and mortar and roofed with dry thatch. It was to this house that the least traversed mountain paths led. They said that the witch looked different to every villager who dared to lay their eyes upon her. Old Man Wob claimed that she looked just like his long – dead wife; the idiotic stable boy Harrow swore that she had the scales of a snake covering half of her face. Other people said other things, and Bram wasn’t certain which form would present itself to him as he stumbled toward the cottage and 54
banged his fist upon the door. He had only knocked twice before it swung ominously open. “Come in,” a voice sung from inside, smooth as Bram’s favorite nectar. Holding Marike’s body close to him, Bram stepped into the blackness within, ducking his head under the door frame. The moment he was inside, a gust blew from behind him, slamming the door shut. Fool, the voices taunted again, but he dared not turn back, dared not to let the whimper of fear escape his lips. Bram waited breathlessly as his eyes slowly, slowly, adjusted to the dim interior of the house. His eyes were aided by a fire that suddenly burst into life in a hearth at the far corner. She stood before him, not three steps away, and Bram thought that she might be the loveliest woman he’d ever seen, with flawless skin, eyes like glinting steel and crow – black hair. He dwarfed her in size, yet he felt utterly afraid, unnerved by her beauty. “What can I do for you, giant?” the witch asked, her honeyed voice tugging at Bram’s heart in a way no melody could. Tell her. “I, umm, I need your help.” His voice, though a deep rumble, came out in the usual stammer. “Of course.” “This girl.” Bram held up the limp body of Marike. Firelight and shadows alike pranced about her still face. “A dead girl,” the witch said, sparing Marike just a glance. “Yes, she’s, umm, dead. But can you make her a — alive, again, p – please?” The witch’s cold eyes twinkled. “Do you love this corpse?” “Umm. Can you do it?” “Perhaps. Perhaps, I can.” The witch grinned, and at the sight of that knowing smile Bram felt one stab of regret at having brought Marike to this woman. But he pushed it away. She can’t hurt her if she’s already dead. She can’t, she can’t. “Dear giant, what are you willing to do for this girl?” “A — anything.” 55
The witch’s grin widened, and there were the voices again, louder than the blood pounding in his ears, telling him, fool, fool, fool! Bram already looked a full man grown when he was merely eight years old, if men full grown had mismatched eyes and mouths dumbly hung open half the time. By the time he was thirteen, all the men in the village — butchers, farmers, everyone — had to look up at him. His parents loved him well enough, but not even they could help him learn to read or write. Stefan and the other children said it was because his body was so big, that’s why there was nothing left for his head. They called him Bram the Big Fool. Sometimes just Bram the Fool, and when they were feeling particularly lazy about it, they just called him Dunghead. Finding a living for Bram was a collective effort on the part of the villagers. Working in the stables was out of the question, and the smith never let him near his workshop either. Finally, the elders put him to work cutting trees in the woods — handling the axe and collecting lumber was the only thing he could put his sizable self to. No other job suited him half as well. So thought Bram as he swung the witch’s axe and the pine fell with a noisy crash. A flock of birds in the nearby tree fluttered away, twittering in irritation. The witch’s instructions were simple enough: “Collect some wood,” she told him. “Take this axe of mine, and cut some wood.” “Umm, how much wood?” he asked. “When it is enough, I will say.” And so he swung. There seemed to be something wrong with the axe the witch had lent him: though with an elegantly carved handle and a lustrous steel blade, it was extraordinarily heavier than it looked. He struggled handling it, even with his muscular, well – practiced arms. It slowed down his progress, turned every other chop into a tedious affair. It didn’t help that he hadn’t yet eaten, either. But, he told himself, he wasn’t going to eat until the witch fixed Marike up, fixed her good.
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One day, Bram was walking through the village by a path fringing the woods, carrying a heavy load of timber on his shoulders for the elders’ hearths. Stefan suddenly appeared before him, dirty and sweaty as usual, but wearing an innocent smile. He had his hands behind his back. “Hello Bram!” “He…umm…hello, Stefan,” he had replied, stopping in his tracks. “Do you like eggs, Bram?” Stefan asked. He did. “Y, yes. My mama, she makes them for, umm, for breakfast. I like eggs.” Stefan was pleased with the answer. “Good! Here you go!” And he tossed the egg he had been holding behind his back at Bram’s face. Before he knew it, ten other boys, all friends of Stefan’s, had jumped out from their hiding places and begun hurling eggs at Bram, never missing with a target so large and unmoving. The yolk and eggshells alike splattered across his face, his chest, made his clothes sticky. Bram’s senses abandoned him, and he cried aloud, dropping the load of wood he’d been carrying. One of the logs landed on his foot, instantly crushing his toe. He howled in agony, clutching at his right foot and hopping around on his left, much to the amusement of the other boys. Bram finally fell to his side just as Stefan threw one last egg at Bram, breaking sticky white right between the giant’s unfocused eyes. “Bram,” one of the boys gasped with false concern, “did you just drop all these eggs? They’re all broken! Stupid fool!” And of course, the whole group began to cackle the usual song. “Fool! Fool! Fool!” they all cried, rushing away. It was many minutes before a young girl came across Bram and cautiously approached him. He looked up at her approach, and flinched when she came within two steps of him. But the girl looked at him a little differently, like she would a bear caught in a hunter’s trap. “I’m sorry,” she said, sadly. “I’m so, so sorry, Bram.” Another tree, one that might’ve been standing for the last thousand years, fell under the witch’s axe and Bram’s mighty swing. With that, Bram strode up to the trunk and began hacking away at it. She has to fix Marike, fix her good. 57
His bones were aching with effort by the time he returned to the witch’s house. There she stood, out in the open, with Marike’s body at her feet. In front of them, Bram dumped enough logs for a small cookfire, then gave the witch a hopeful look. “Not enough,” she said, shaking her head at the pile. “A little more wood, giant. A little more wood, if you were to see her alive again.” “He’s talking to his potatoes!” Stefan howled with laughter and his ragtag group of friends followed suit. In reality, Bram had only been counting his potatoes out loud, poking at them with his fork. He did like potatoes as much as eggs, but he certainly hoped they wouldn’t be pelting him with potatoes anytime soon. Potatoes were a little harder than eggs, and would probably hurt more. Stefan started singing, and as expected, ten more grating voices joined him in chorus. “And Bram was a fool, and he liked to drool, oh, Bram the Fool, fool, foo — ” Then the voice of the girl again, angry: “That’s quite enough! No good, sack of sheep guts.” Marike walked over to where Bram was seated and sat herself down beside him, matching his confused, cross – eyed gaze with her own — kindly, sparkling blue. Stefan and the other boys found themselves silenced for the first time. “Would you like an apple?” she asked him, offering the one on her own plate. “Umm…” Bram looked away. “Here you go.” And she put the apple on his plate. She spent the rest of their supper talking to him, at least until Stefan and his loud friends went away. She cast some of them cautious glances, but mostly conversed with Bram about the merits of gardening. A few weeks later, Marike had asked to accompany Bram into the forest, as he made his rounds collecting wood for the village. She didn’t bother him at work, staying clear of his way as he hacked trees down and cut them into manageable logs. Marike had a small leather bag slung about her shoulder, with which she collected berries and nuts as they trekked through the woods. When they stepped out into 58
a glade and saw evening starting to fall, they sat together on a mossy rock and Marike shared the blackberries she’d gathered. “Are they still making fun of you?” she asked. “Umm, n, no…” Bram stuttered. “You, umm, you scared them off good last time.” “Good. That Stefan is a real pig.” They were quiet for a time, and then Marike turned her head up toward the mountain. “You know about the witch they say lives up there?” “W…wi…no.” “They said she can do things, amazing things, you know? I wanted to meet her, but mama said she’s dangerous. She said she’s the reason Old Man Wob went all crazy.” After popping the last blackberry into her mouth, Marike looked up at Bram and grinned, the berry’s juice dribbling down her chin. “Can the witch, umm,” Bram suddenly asked, screwing up his face in concentration to get the question out right, “Can she, umm, m… maybe she can fix my head?” The smile dropped from Marike’s face. “What do you mean?” “It’s ‘cause I, I, I’m a fool, they…umm, they said I was.” “I think your head is fine, Bram. You’ve got a big heart, that’s what counts.” She leapt down happily from their resting place. But what Marike failed to see was the coiled – up serpent bathing in a patch of sun, right at the base of the rock. She stepped on its tail, and in the only way it could have reacted, the snake sprung violently and sunk its teeth into her ankle. When Bram walked across the village later that afternoon, most people took turns pointing at him and whispering, speaking of how it was all his fault that Marike died. Simple truth was, she had tried to be his friend and she paid for it, they said. Bram was dangerous and stupid, she should never have tried speaking to him, a girl as young as she, they said. Bram was quiet all through the dusk. That night, when all was dark and all were sleeping, Bram walked to Marike’s household, where he had been pelted with the worst of the 59
screaming and accusations. They were going to have the ceremonies and the burial the next day, but that was something they could only do if they were actually in possession of the body. Surreptitiously for a man his size, Bram stole the corpse away, taking Marike in his arms and striding for the mountain path. Bram had never felt such a level of fatigue — the mountain air was suffocating him, the sunlight beat down on his back, and the witch’s axe must’ve been under a spell, because it just kept getting heavier and heavier and heavier. The strain and sweat running down Bram’s arms alone were nothing like he was used to. Finally, the witch nodded her approval at the small pile of wood he’d gathered. “Very well, giant,” she told him. There was slight amusement on her face, there in the turn of her lips and spark of the eye. “C…can you make her alive now?” Bram finally asked with a ragged breath. She has to. She has to make Marike alive, it’s only fair. “No one escapes death,” the witch answered. “But there are ways to trick it, for a short while. Watch… closely.” Then she began to move, taking the pieces of wood Bram had gathered and rearranging them into a very familiar shape on the ground. It was the shape of a person, and similar in size as well. A big chunk of wood lay in the middle, while a smaller block lay right beside it – a crude torso, and an even cruder head. Several long pieces of lumber formed the arms and legs, the gnarled ends of the wood taking the place of hands and feet. She put them together in a position similar to Marike’s limp body. Bram watched, sweaty palms gripping the edge of his breeches. The witch then knelt by the corpse and touched her lips to Marike’s. Bram felt flustered by the sight of the kiss, but he was even more distracted when he saw the witch’s gray eyes turn pale and white. The witch then moved to her arrangement on the ground, took the wooden head in her hands, and kissed it as well. The color in her eyes suddenly returned, as quickly as it had dissipated, and with that, the witch’s odd ritual was over.
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The wood began to move. At first Bram thought it might’ve been the wind causing the wooden arms to twitch and shake. But then the arms dragged itself across the soil, and the knees folded up — the wooden person sat up, of its own accord, slow and shaky as an elderly woman might wake in the morning. Bram watched in fascination as the living tree – person stood up off the ground, knees and shoulders creaking frighteningly with every slight movement. The block of wood that was the head swung about and turned to face Bram — there were no eyes there to see, but a line of creased, cherry bark on the surface made a very convincing set of lips. “Here is your girl,” the witch said, wearing a satisfied smile as she surveyed her work. “Leave the old body behind. This is her body now.” Bram took a tentative step toward the tree – person. The tree – person took an unsteady step toward him as well and reached out a branch – arm, still crawling with termites, toward Bram. “M… Marike, is that, umm, is that you?” The wooden head swung shakily up and down — a nod. The tree – person was nodding at him. Marike was nodding at him. Bram held Marike’s grainy, birch hand as they descended the mountain through the same treacherous path Bram had taken heading up. Their progress was excruciatingly slow, considering that Bram was exhausted, and Marike not quite used to her new body. She was taller than before, almost as tall as Bram now, but she had also become clumsy as he was, her sense of balance tossed away with the witch’s transfiguration. It was all so odd — Marike had neither eyes nor ears, but somehow could react when Bram spoke to her, or motioned to her. And she certainly could feel, though it was rough bark that had taken the place of her skin. “You’ll be, umm, okay,” Bram told her, in between his gasps for air. She had held his hand before, leading him away from the village boys when they started making cruel jests toward him again, but now it was he who led her. It was queer. “Are you, umm, are you hungry?” Bram turned to his friend, who 61
gave him the equivalent of a blank stare. The gnarled branch of her left arm pointed vaguely toward the direction of the village. “Umm, if you want to head back to the v…the vil…okay, let’s go back.” He wasn’t sure how he was going to feed her, anyhow. For all his size and strength, Bram wasn’t even capable of feeding himself. As they made their slow descent down the mountain for home, Bram felt his stomach protest in hunger. It almost distracted him from the utter aching of his muscles. “You know,” he gasped, “Th…they said you were dead, but they’ll… umm, this will be a good surprise. Right?” But even by then Bram was unsure how well the others might take this transformation, and he couldn’t even fathom what he should answer when they began questioning him. Instead of wondering, then, he just kept walking, pushing through the wild greenery of the forest, leading Marike along the way. Hours passed by. He wondered if Marike felt the same weariness in the legs. Did trees ever become tired? What was more prone to breaking — flesh and bone, or wood? “You were, umm, good to me,” Bram said, unsure of what else to say. He had been doing all the talking, as the witch had left Marike with no tongue of her own. “Thank you.” Stumbling right after him, Marike’s head swung up and down – another nod of acknowledgement. Like an old wooden marionette, hanging by invisible strings from above, every movement was limp, and the creaking in every joint made it seem she could fall apart at any time. Yet moving on, Bram’s strength finally began to fail him. More than a day now without proper rest or food, his head was throbbing, aching. He was no good at hunting or foraging, either. When the sky had turned black and stars glimmered through the forest’s canopy, Bram tripped on a root, stumbled, and crashed into the earth. The collapse of his massive body sounded like yet another fallen tree. This time, he did not stand. The cold air seeped around Bram, and like a heavy blanket weighing down on him, the chill prevented him from getting up. He put a hand to his head and registered the burning of a fever. 62
Marike crouched beside him and cocked her head to the size. There might’ve been worry in her eyes, if the witch had deigned to provide her with a pair. “S, sorry, M, Marike…” Bram murmured. The stars above him were spinning around and around and around some more. “Can I, umm…can I rest here?” But even as Marike lay a hand on his shaking shoulder, Bram knew that this wasn’t the kind of sickness that was going to leave with the dawn of the next day. To get well, to fight the sickness, he needed help. Medicine, maybe, and at least some food in the belly and a fire to keep him warm. As the moon peeked from behind a wispy robe of dark clouds, Marike went off a small distance and managed to gather a few nuts for Bram, and she lay them in a pitiful bunch by his curled up body. The meagre offering did little to appease the feeling of his blood freezing up in his very veins, however. Marike was a tree now, and it seemed she had become impervious to the cold, but Bram felt the chill to the bone. He finally figured out who between them was the more breakable one. “I’m s…s…sorry, M...I…” His words were broken, less now by his usual stammer and more by the chattering of his teeth. The howl of wolves in the distance suggested there were other dangers to worry about as well, but all Bram could do was huddle and suffer and gasp, and all Marike could do was quietly watch. If I die, maybe the witch can also make me a tree – man. Maybe Marike will take me up and cut trees for me. And I can still be with her. But even as Bram faded in and out of sleep, the kind of sleep that had no waking, Marike began to rub her hands together. Slowly at first, such that Bram couldn’t understand what she was doing, but then harder, faster, more vigorously. Her forearms, she rubbed against each other too, scraping wood on wood. It was difficult with the night’s breeze, but with a little more gashing of the bark and the tender layers beneath, some friction and plenty of persistence, Marike was finally rewarded with a little smoke.
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Even someone not right in the head like Bram knew fire when he smelled it, saw it. The dry needles and bits of fungus on Marike’s arms were tinder enough, and the forest air breathed life into the spark. Bram tried to sit up, to stop her, but he was too weak to even try, and soon her arms were aflame. The fire might’ve been the brightest thing Bram had ever seen, and for many moments, he wasn’t sure how real it was – the warmth, the relief on the frosty night, the realization of the wrongness, and the panicked thoughts, no, no, no… Bram sobbed something incoherently, his voice coming out small, helpless.. Sick and curled up on the forest floor, he reached out an arm for Marike as the fire spread to her torso, to her legs. Soon her entire body, from the twigs on her head down to her splintered feet, was garbed in bright yellow and orange. She showed no sign of pain. All she did then was lie down beside Bram, just near enough for him to feel the warmth, maybe even to roast the nuts she’d gathered. “Marike,” he finally choked out, desperately. “M, Marike…” For Bram, it was like the sun had just stepped onto the earth in all her blazing glory. Yes, Marike was the sun. Marike was warmth and light and love. But it would only be for one night, because as she lay there, glorious and beautiful, the wood already began to blacken. Already, her fingertips were curling up, fuel for the hungry flame. The next morning, when dawn was heralded by jays across the forest, a group of villagers found themselves halfway up the mountain, yelling and calling out Bram’s name. When they heard the sobs, they followed it to a clear, well – lit glade in the woods. The villagers stopped short of the peculiar sight. What they were looking at was this: a giant man, crying fitfully like a babe, laying down right next to a smoldering pile of charcoal and ashes.
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Art Editorial At first glance, visual art might seem dependent on you, the viewer, to warrant itself. Like a parasite, it feeds on your opinions, feelings, influences, and the fact that you are being in its presence. The hapless host that you are gives in and colors the piece with whatever understanding you have of it. Lost in the visual journey, you easily forget the humanity behind it. Visual art is more than just what you see — it is a mutual exchange with the artist’s own way of seeing and experience. This folio’s collection of artwork encapsulates Atenean artists’ various perspectives and experimentation. Calanoc’s A Study of Prominence explores nature’s couture with depth and stark contrast, while Angulo’s 7:56 AM gives an organic portrayal of the early morning rush. Marasigan’s Seated Figure geometrically distorts what is already present. Vocalan’s Blown Away depicts a whimsical play of the wind’s movement, while Lizares’ The Watchman captures the sense of grandeur only found through careful observation. Begonia’s Absolution subtlety portrays rebirth and cleansing. Esquivel’s Drown shows what goes on in the mind of a child with overbearing parents, while Castañeda’s Prisoner 42 on the mind of the entrapped, a quiet rage. Celeridad’s Love uses the arachnid images and warm colors to concretize the concepts of anguish and fear. The passage of time is given a narrative in Padilla’s Nasundo. As the viewer, you will in turn take (or have taken) the artist. It seems both have become parasites, for you have given each other existence. Therese Nicole Reyes August 2012
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Paola Lizares. The Watchman. Digital Photography.
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Juan Viktor Calanoc. A Study of Prominence. Paper, 253 sheets of 3 x 5 index card. (5 x 2 x 3 in).
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Jan Eli Padilla. Nasundo. Digital Photography.
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Adrian Begonia. Absolution. Digital Photography
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Pam Celeridad. Pseudo. Acrylic on canvas (19.75 x 19.75 in).
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Love. Acrylic on canvas (19.75 x 19.75 in).
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Monica Esquivel. Red. Ink.
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Fleurbelline Vocalan. Blown Away. Watercolor.
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Monica Esquivel. Drown. Digital.
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Nicole Casta単eda. Prisoner 42. Digital.
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Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan. Seated Figure. Oil on paper (23.4 x 16.5 in).
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Manuel Angulo. 7:56 AM. Ink and watercolor on canvas (18 x 22 in.)
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Manuel Angulo (1 AB Communications) “Star so light and star so bright, first star I see tonight” – Kimbra, Settle Down When you rush out to the bus stop, hoping to get there before 7:56 am like every other weekday, you take the morning in, all in one brief instance before stepping onto bus 8. And if you can list everything that was different that morning from the hundreds of other mornings rushing through the same route, same trees, same people mowing their lawns, that’s when you know you’re at home. Adrian Begonia (3 BS Chemistry with Materials Science Engineering) Begy, begy youuu *kakanta* theothersideoftown.tumblr.com, let’s follow each other :> for Micah Regina Bengzon (4 AB Literature, Minor in Creative Writing) “How do I know,” she said at last, “that you are what you seem to be?” “You don’t,” said he. “I don’t know what I seem, to you.” Ursula K. le Guin, The Tombs of Atuan — I’ve always thought that naming things was like taking a light into a dark place.
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Juan Viktor Calanoc (4 BS Management) Every sheet, and the spaces between them, matter. for Deirdre, Carissa, and Audrey. Nicko Reginio Caluya (4 BS Computer Science) “There is a there there.” – dedikasyon ni Vincenz Serrano sa kopya ko ng “The Collapse of What Separates Us” Nais magpasalamat ni Nicko kina Nanay Nhor, Tatay Nick, Danica, at John, na kahit bigla na lang akong nakakatulog sa bahay (o sa simbahan), walang sawa pa rin ninyo akong ginigising; sa kanyang mga tagapagpala sa Ateneo Alumni Scholars Association para sa biyaya ng edukasyon; sa Patnugutan at lahat ng mga miyembro ngayong ika – 60 anibersaryo ng heights; at sa Ateneo Laboratory for Learning Sciences para sa pagpapahiram ng laptop [thesis mostly]. Kasalukuyan niyang tinatapos ang kanyang thesis tungkol sa larong pinagagana ng pagtitig, gaya ng parati niyang ginagawa kapag nakaharap sa Marikina. At matapos ang isang buong taon, ikaw pa rin ang nananatiling dahilan. Nicole Castañeda (2 BFA Information Design) To the Atenean nerdfighters. DFTBA! Pamela Celeridad (4 BFA Information Design) Roses are red, violets are blue. お前はもう死んでいる。 [Omae wa mou shindeiru.]
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Gian Dapul (4 BS – MS Chemistry) I will always be fascinated with words, and I regret that my desire to write has been muted by stress and circumstances. Nevertheless, I treat it as the first love I will always return to fondly. For now, I dedicate my happiness to the love I have now, and hope to have forever. I love you, J. Thank you for being you. I’m here po, and I hope I’ve made you proud. AJ Elicaño (4 BFA Creative Writing, AB IS ’14) AJ is double – majoring in rhyme and reason. In his spare time, he pulls strings, pushes his luck, and tries way too hard. He’s not crazy — just a little unwell. He would like to thank Block E, IgnITE, Bryan, WriterSkill, Nick, Other Nick, Sanggu, the CW underclassmen, and everyone else who reminds him that there are still things worth believing. Follow his erratic musings at www.dorkinprogress.tumblr.com. Monica Esquivel (4 BFA Information Design) German sailor suits are fun to draw. Paola Lizares (4 BS Management) “He had come to the end of the world. Every spot on earth is either the beginning or the end, according to the heart of man.” – G.K. Chesterton, Homesick at Home This time last year, Paola was an exchange student in France. She spent her afternoons wandering around the streets of the City of Light and some of her weekends exploring the different cities in the continent. It is one of her goals to do the same thing in her own city and in her own country before she graduates this March.
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Guelan Varela – Luarca (4 AB Literature – English) For your consideration. Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan (4 BFA Information Design) “[Art is] what it takes to come alive.” – Rihanna in We Found Love (2012), or what she might as well have said I offer my art to the Creator, my supportive parents, beloved Heights friends (especially the EB), some ID pals, and Wolfie (*squeak*). Everything is for my relentless pursuit of excellence. #anti – mediocrity #hashtagnanghashtag #walanamangtwitter #ingay Follow me at artistbynecessity.tumblr.com for more art. Ima Ocon (1 BS Chemistry with Materials Science Engineering) “My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.” – Pablo Neruda Jan Eli Padilla (5 BS Electronics and Communication Engineering) “...Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” – Stephen King
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Elijah Pascual (2 BFA Creative Writing) Jam sports a grotesquely bloated ego and is therefore often fearful of criticism. He was also hesitant to submit to Heights until a former English editor told him to grow a pair. Jam would like to thank his family for being open to his course of choice instead of being stuck – up, militant, there’s – no – money – in – the – humanities pricks. He would also like to thank his girlfriend Jessie, who has inspired many other feels – y poems. Hannah Perdigon (4 AB Literature – English) Madalang lang magsulat si Hannah, kaya malaki ang utang na loob niya sa pamilyang nahanap niya sa Heights, sa English staff at sa Bagwisan (lalo na kay Deirdre, Pao, at Alfred), kay Joe at Sky, sa block B 2013, kay Ma’am Mayel, sa mga Kythers sa loob at labas ng Ateneo, at sa kanyang magulang. Taos – puso siyang nagpapasalamat sa iyong sinabihan siyang magtiwala at tumaya (sa suwerteng magkaternong relo) — och för dig, min älskling. Carissa Pobre (3 AB European Studies, Minor in Creative Writing) After the few years since Carissa decided to take writing poetry seriously, she has always been in the company of good readers and fellow writers. Much of her gratitude is for them, particularly the graduating seniors of Heights, and more so to Paolo Tiausas, Deirdre Camba, and Nicko Reginio Caluya. She is still working on a collection of poems on sound and music.
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Allan Popa (Kagawaran ng Filipino) Si Allan Popa ay autor ng walong aklat ng mga tula kabilang na ang Basta (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2009), Libot ng Durungawan (High Chair, 2009) at Maaari: Mga Bago at Piling Tula (UP Press, 2004). Nagwagi na siya ng Philippines Fress Literary Award at Manila Critics Circle National Book Award for Poetry. Nagtapos siya ng MFA in Writing sa Washington University in Saint Louis. Nagtuturo siya sa Kagawaran ng Filipino ng Ateneo de Manila University. Eugene Soyosa (AB Economics 2009) You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. – Mary Oliver Cedric Tan (4 BS Management, Minor in Literature – English) Cedric enjoys drinking coffee, and cracking the surface of a well – made crème brulee. He’d like to thank Deirdre, Deo, Gian, and Hannah for getting on this train with him and seeing the ride to its end. We’re almost there. Rie Takumi (4 BFA Creative Writing) Fun fact: Freshman year saw me nearly getting published. Nearly, because I didn’t know back then that a revise meant that it had a chance to appear on the folio. I suppose it’s only fair that it didn’t make it — after all, it was just a re – written piece of fanfiction.
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Paolo Tiausas (4 BFA Creative Writing) Kasalukuyang nasa ikaapat na taon na pag-aaral ng Malikhaing Pagsulat si Paolo Tiausas sa unibersidad. Nais niyang pasalamatan ang kaniyang mga karamay sa drama ng buhay (aka AHWW): Carissa, Kriselle, Audrey, Sara, Cara, Alfred, Nicko, Deirdre, Cedric, Sam. Kayo ang "city of passion" eklat na ito — galingan. Fleurbelline Vocalan (1 AB Psychology) Fresh into college and there are still many things Nikki Vocalan keeps with her from childhood. A rusty set of game cartridges, and a number of books nearing decomposition fill her shelf. It's a scary breaching point of hoarding but a way to keep the fantasy within the rotting covers going. Fighting the dust and grime are nothing but little obstacles to maintain the endlessness of stories and dreams. Kazuki Yamada (2 BS Life Sciences) “Home is neither here nor there, but a jar of sunlight seems to stave off the cold well enough.”
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Pasasalamat Fr. Jose Ramon T. Villarin, SJ at ang Office of the President Dr. John Paul C. Vergara at ang Office of the Vice-President for the Loyola Schools G. Rene S. San Andres at ang Office of the Associate Dean for Student Affairs G. Eduardo Jose E. Calasanz at ang Office of the Associate Dean of Academic Affairs Dr. Ma. Luz C. Vilches at ang Office of the Dean, School of Humanities Dr. Marianne Rachel G. Perfecto at ang English Department Dr. Jerry C. Respeto at ang Fine Arts Program Dr. Alvin B. Yapan at ang Kagawaran ng Filipino Dr. Edgar C. Samar at ang Ateneo Institute of the Literary Arts and Practices (AILAP) G. Christopher F. Castillo at ang Office of Student Activities Bb. Marie Joy R. Salita at ang Office of Administrative Service Bb. Leonora P. Wijangco at ang Central Accounting Office Bb. Christina R. Barzabal at ang Purchasing Office Bb. Lourdes T. David at ang Rizal Library Bb. Carina C. Samaniego at ang University Archives Bb. Yael A. Buencamino at ang Ateneo Art Gallery Ang MVP Maintenance and Security Personnel Ang University Physical Plant Office Kay Karlo Amparo, Mark Cinco at sa Computer Society of the Ateneo (CompSAt) Kay G. Ronnie Ong at sa Athena's Fine Furniture and Sashworks G. Luther Aquino at ang Guidon G. Alfie Pena at ang Matanglawin Sa Sanggunian ng Mag-aaral ng Ateneo De Manila at sa Council of Organizations of the Ateneo Sa Haranya ng UA&P, Thomasian Writers Guild ng UST, Malate Literary Folio ng DLSU, UP UGAT, UP Writers Club at UP Quill Sa mga kasapi ng Buwan ng Wika organizing committee ng Kagawarang Filipino Sa mga kasapi ng 18th Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop committee At sa lahat ng tumatangkilik sa mga gawain ng Heights, sa patuloy na nagpapasa ng kanilang likha at nakikiisa sa paghubog sa ating panitikan at sining!
Editorial Board Editor-in-Chief Nicko Reginio Caluya [bs cs 2013] Editor-at-Large Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan [bfa id 2013] Associate Editor Paolo Tiausas [bfa cw 2013] Managing Editor for Communications Deirdre Camba [ab lit (eng) 2013] Managing Editor for Finance Carmela Bautista [bfa id 2013] Art Editor Therese Nicole Reyes [bs psy 2013] Associate Art Editor Nicole Maguyon [ab hum 2013] Design Editor Sara Erasmo [bfa id 2013] Associate Design Editor Meagan Ong [bfa id 2014] English Editor Cedric Tan [bs mgt 2013] Associate English Editor Isabela Cuerva [bfa cw 2014] Filipino Editor Jeroshelle Santos [bs ch-mse 2014] Associate Filipino Editor Ariane Lim [bfa cw 2015] Production Manager Audrey Ferriol [ab eu 2014] Associate Production Manager Patricia Santos [bfa id 2013]
Head Moderator and Moderator for Filipino Allan Alberto N. Derain Moderator for Art Yael A. Buencamino Moderator for English Martin Villanueva Moderator for Design Pepito Go-oco Moderator for Production Enrique Jaime S. Soriano
Staffers Art
Dyanne Abobo, Manuel Angulo, Micah Barker, Adrian Begonia, JV Calanoc, Nicole Castañeda, Pamela Celeridad, Francis Doloroso, Angela Escudero, Monica Esquivel, Momo Fernandez, Yanna Justiniani, Matt Lee, Kriselle de Leon, Kimberly Lucerna, Gracie Mendoza, Maan Mendoza, Julianna Montinola, Moli Muñoz, Justyn Ng, Sara Nothdurft, Veronica Oliva, Jan Eli Padilla, Shane Ramirez, Nicole Soriano, Ali Timonera, Jenelyn Venancio, Aaron Villaflores, Fleurbelline Vocalan
Design
Anissa Aguila, Bianca Carandang,Timothy Chuang, Kenzie Du, Bianca Espinosa, Karen Fuentes, Bea Ignacio, Andi Lanuza, Jenny Lapus, Dale Liwanag, Katrina Lontoc, Tanya Mallillin, Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan, Sara Nothdurft, Bea Policarpio, Nicole Soriano, Gino Tuazon
English
Paco Adajar, A. A. Aris Amor, Billy Atienza, Tasha Basul, Christabel Bucao, Deirdre Camba Regine Cabato, Gian Dapul, Cathy Dario, Jio Deslate, Adam Eleccion, Javison Guzman, Jenina Ibanez, Leona Lao, Joseph Ledesma, Samuel Liquete, DC Mostrales, Lara Pangilinan, Elijah Pascual, Hannah Perdigon, Carissa Pobre, Andie Reyes, Bianca Sarte, Stephanie Shi, Micheas Elijah Taguibulos, Rie Takumi, Pam Villar, Kazuki Yamada, Paolo Zaldarriaga, Noelle Zarza
Filipino
Selina Ablaza, Chise Alcantara, Ace Ancheta, Japhet Calupitan, Nicko Reginio Caluya, Patricia Cendaña, Luigi Cortez, Dustin Cruz, Geoffrey Cruz, Abner Dormiendo, Reia Dangeros, Geneve Guyano, Kara de Guzman, Jerome Ignacio, Roselyn Ko, Kimberly Lucerna, Mo Maguyon, Aidan Manglinong, Lj Miranda, Hannah Perdigon, Lorenz Revillas, Paolo Tiausas, Roanne Yap
Production
Kim Ang, Gwen Bañaria, JV Calanoc, Punky Canlas, Momo Fernandez, Jonnel Inojosa, Kriselle de Leon, Ysa Ocliasa, Harvey Parafina, Carissa Pobre, Renzo Santos, Melissa Yu, Cressa Zamora
18th ateneo heights writers workshop
19-21 August 2012 Femar Garden Resort and Convention Center, Antipolo City Panelists Ms. Mabi David Mr. Allan Alberto N. Derain Ms. Mookie Katigbak – Lacuesta Mr. Allan Popa Mr. Danilo Francisco M. Reyes Dr. Edgar Calabia Samar Dr. Benilda Santos Dr. Vincenz Serrano Mr. Martin Villanueva Fellows Angelli Camille P. Ancheta (Kuwento) Regina Angelica A. Bengzon (Poetry) Abner E. Dormiendo (Kuwento) Jenina Ibañez (Tula) Marc Christian M. Lopez (Tula) Aidan Manglinong (Tula) Matthew Olivares (Fiction) Elijah Maria V. Pascual (Poetry) Stephanie Shi (Essay) Rie Takumi (Fiction) Workshop Director Paolo Tiausas
Workshop Deliberation Committee English Ms. Tina Del Rosario Mr. Jose Fernando Go-oco Mr. Gian Lao Filipino G. Emmanuel John Bagacina G. Christoffer Mitch Cerda Bb. Rachel Valencerina Marra Workshop Committee Assistant Director: Carissa Pobre Logistics and Promotion: Kriselle de Leon Finance: Audrey Mae Ferriol Design Team Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan Sara Erasmo Logistics Team Cara Bautista Nicko Caluya Deirdre Camba Samuel Liquete Cedric Tan Heights Moderators G. Allan Alberto N. Derain Mr. Martin Villanueva
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