Malate Literary Folio tomo XXXI bilang 1

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO

tomo xxxI bilang 1

Ang mga nagwagi sa

ika-29 na dlsu annual awards for literature

at ika-4 na dlsu annual awards for visual arts

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO Tomo XXXI Bilang 1 Karapatang-ariŠ 2014

A

ng Malate Literary Folio ang opisyal na publikasyon ng sining at panitikan ng Pamantasang De La Salle - Manila, sa ilalim ng awtoridad ng Student Media Office (SMO).

Ang mga kumento at mungkahi ay maaaring ipahatid sa:

Rm. 503-A, Bro. Gabriel Connon Hall,

De La Salle University-Manila,

2401 Taft Avenue, Malate, Manila.

Landline no.: 524-4611 local 701

E-mail address: mlf@dlsu.edu.ph

Facebook: fb.com/malateliteraryfolio Twitter: @malatelitfolio Nananatili sa indibidwal na may-akda o may-dibuho ang karapatangari ng bawat piyesang ipinalimbag dito. Hindi maaaring ipalathala muli o gamitin sa anumang paraan ang alin man sa mga nilalaman nang walang karampatang pahintulot ng may-akda o may-dibuho.

Ang tomong ito ay hindi ipinagbibili.

Ang pabalat ay likha ni Pamela Justine Lite.

INTRODUKSYON

Marahil ilang beses na tayong pinayuhan ng mga nakatatanda at

ilang beses na rin natin silang sinuway, sadya man o hindi. Marahil, hangad natin ang pag-unlad ng sarili, sa sariling paraan, sa sariling pasya. Madalas nating marinig na nasa sarili ang kapangyarihan para sa katuparan ng mga pangarap, ngunit may hangganan ang kapangyarihang ito.

Ang panahon ay laging may dalang pagbabago. Hindi laging nakabubuti; hindi laging nakasasama. Hindi laging inaasahan; hindi laging napaghahandaan.

May mga pagkakataong nangangaladkad ang panahon. Tila hindi mahayaang mapag-iwanan. Paano nga ba makipagsabayan sa bihasang tumakbo gayong natututo pa lamang maglakad sa dalawang paa? Ang katawan ng tao ay para sa tuwid na pagkilos; walang tulin sa paggapang.

Kadalasan ay kinakailangan ng higit pang oras para makasanayan ang kasalukuyan bago muling dumating ang pagbabago. Mahirap kumawala sa nakasanayan, sa tradisyon, sa ritwal. Maging ang mga ito’y unti-unting hinuhulma ng kasalukuyan.

Walang makatatakas sa panahon.

Walang makapagpipigil sa paglipas na siyang kumikitil at nagbibigay ng buhay. Mahirap tanggapin ang mga katotohanang

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walang sinuman ang may kapangyarihang baguhin.

Walang kasiguraduhang may dalang ginhawa at lubay ang pagpapahinuhod. At kung tumanggi, anong kabutihan ang maidadala ng pagsinungaling sa sarili?

Kasama ang piling mga likhang nagwagi sa ika-29 na DLSU Annual Awards for Literature at ika-4 na DLSU Annual Awards for Visual Arts, narito ang tugon ng Malate Literary Folio sa dumadaloy na panahon.

Christel Kimberly T. Cantillas Punong Patnugot

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NILALAMAN Introduksyon

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Prosa

Paalam

Janssen Dale Cunanan

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Surviving Excerpts From “The Physical Book

Edition of Arnaldo Ricaforte’s Online Art Portfolio” Manuel Villa III

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light/write: a suite of short writings 41 Manuel Villa III Tanda

Jericho Miguel Aguado

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Yaon Christel Kimberly Cantillas

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Out of Depth

Charlene Ferrer

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Tira

Janelle Mae Usal

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Sining

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Ilusyonada Joseph Malabanan

Hide; Seek 40 Hannah Grace Villafuerte

Taob-T’ya Kris Bernadine Samonte

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Asset and Liability Pamela Justine Lite

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Grey Area Meryl Ann Batara

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Quality Control Janelle Mae Usal

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Ishy: Dummy Cheliza Angela Acance

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Siyam-Siyam Allan Popa, Marcushiro Nada

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Padayon

Mark Angeles

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39

Tula

Ilang-Ilang 47 Mark Angeles

Amphorae 50 Allan Popa iv

Retrato

Langit-lupa Miguel Antonio Luistro

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Generation Francisco Gabriel Nu単ez

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Gutom at Gana 49 Christel Kimberly Cantillas

Lumilipas John Vianney Ventura

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Precept

Luke Perry Embate

Errata

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Pasasalamat

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mga nagwagi sa ika-29 na

DLSU Annual Awards for Literature at ika-4 na DLSU Annual Awards for Visual Arts Skyne Mirava Coree Yuson Short Story: 2nd Place Begin Christopher Sum Short Story: 3rd Place Manila House Jeremy Yumul Short Story: 3rd Place Somewhere Andrea Chloe Cheng Short Story: 3rd Place The Muse and Other Myths Retold Jeremy Yumul Poetry: 1st Place Things in Slow Motion Mirava Coree Yuson Poetry: 3rd Place On Distance and Other Poems Angelo Joseph Oyardo Poetry: 3rd Place

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Human Technicalities Nilleth Mae Ann Ponitino Poetry: Honorable Mention Mula Sa Bahay Na ‘Di Tapos Nilleth Mae Ann Ponitino Tula: Honorable Mention Walks of Life Achilles Aeson Baldevia Photography: 1st Place Frigid Miguel Anotnio Luistro Photography: 2nd Place

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Faith Achilles Aeson Baldevia Photography: 3rd Place

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mga hurado para sa ika-29 na

DLSU Annual Awards for Literature at Ika-4 na DLSU Annual Awards for Visual Arts

Short Story Mr. Angelo Lacuesta Ms. Susan Lara Poetry Mr. Carlomar Arcangel Daoana Mrs. Ana Maria Katigbak-Lacuesta Tula Mr. Romulo Baquiran, Jr. Mr. Paolo Manalo Photography Mr. Leanne Jazul Mr. Jimmy Domingo

Paalala: Ang mga kategoryang Maikling Kuwento, Essay, Sanaysay, at Painting ay napawalang-bisa dahil sa kakulangan ng mga kalahok.

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PATNUGUTAN Christel Kimberly Cantillas Punong Patnugot Francis Ray Quintana Pangalawang Patnugot Tagapangasiwa ng Prosa Joseph Malabanan Tagapamahalang Patnugot Francisco Gabriel Nu単ez Tagapangasiwa ng Retrato Pamela Justine Lite Patnugot ng Sining Jericho Miguel Aguado Patnugot ng Tula Julian Russel Noche Tagapamahala ng Marketing at mga Magaganap

MGA SENYOR NA PATNUGOT Patricia Marie Bernasor Daniel John Leonardo Miguel Antonio Luistro Marie Elizabeth Savillo Vyanka Xandra Velasquez Czharisse Ventanilla

TAGAPAYO Mr. Johann Vladimir Espiritu

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MGA KASAPI Cheliza Angela Acance Aaron Jan Baldomar Meryl Ann Batara Janssen Dale Cunanan Lavilla Dauag Pedro Rodrigo Dimaano Luke Perry Embate Steven Encarnacion Mashan Bernice Espiritu Charlene Ferrer Czyrone Angelo Galang Lady Joyce Noele Jarvi単a Monica Kaluag

Jessica Pauline Lopez Jonah Marie Mendoza Katrice Obrero Juan Carlo Ona Patricia Rojas Kris Bernadine Samonte Bernadette Patricia Santua Adriel Paul Tangoan Bea Katrina Tanhueco Janelle Mae Usal John Vianney Ventura Hannah Grace Villafuerte Jeremy Yumul

STUDENT MEDIA OFFICE Joanna Paula Queddeng Director-OIC Coordinator Ma. Manuela Agdeppa Secretary

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29TH DLSU Annual Awards for Literature

Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

Begin Christopher Sum paglalarawan ni Bea Katrina Tanhueco

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Malate Literary Folio

You wake up in your stuffy condominium, clearing out your blurred

vision with the back of your hand. The stench of spoiled oil invades your nostrils as the sight of pizza boxes by the side of your bed brings you to a sharp reminder of your abject laziness. Alright, you’re not lazy, but you’ll have to admit that there are some days you just don’t feel like using your motor neurons other than the bare minimums like sleeping, eating, and watching the water swirl down your ceramic throne. If that seemed a bit too complicated to re-read, I meant the shit pot. But today is an altogether different sort of laziness, isn’t it?

As you feel the sunlight prodding you out of bed, the air-conditioning soothes you to do otherwise. Today feels like a day in where you’re on overdrive, when your actions may not even be your own. Your body moves, your mind numb and elsewhere.

GO BACK TO SLEEP You can’t. It’s five in the afternoon. You’ve slept all you’ve needed to sleep. Try as you might the matter of the fact is that you’re just closing your eyes in that boring fetal position that you switch up every five minutes. Give it up. You’re awake.

SIT UP You can see your room from here! In all its glory, your kingdom stretches from the pitiful kitchen counter to the desktop by the side of your bed. Literally littering your floor are books you’ve never read and never plan on reading, in between plastic bags and soda cups from various fast food joints down the road. Cans of empty GenericBrand huddle in the corner of your closet that’s bursting with unfolded clothes and unused hangers, your eyes twitching as the rays of the afternoon sun blink on the edges of the crushed aluminum. You take a deep breath. You choke from the smell of your cave.

BRUSH TEETH

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

The mirror stares back at you, your reflection lazily looking at you looking at you looking at you brushing your teeth. Your mind wanders off, the sound of running water fading into the background as you vaguely recall the total annihilation of your existence.

You spit out a glob of white foam and rinse off your mouth.

Amazing at how little you remember the arduous journey from your bed to here. A quick recap: It started with your left foot touching the cold floor, with your right foot following soon after; one foot stepped in front of the other, often times you standing on your toes to step over the flotsam and jetsam that swam around in your condominium.

Minutes later you find yourself on the ground floor, shoving your way past the mindless masses herding towards the elevators. How odd, you tell yourself. Today is definitely a Sunday. You go out the glass doors and flinch for a second at the overwhelming explosion of Metropolitan Manila. People are everywhere. The road doesn’t look like a Sunday road. The sky looks like a Sunday sky. The trees look like Sunday trees. Yet you could swear Sunday was just yesterday.

Your phone rings. It’s Jeffery. Do you answer it?

I DO NOT You answer the phone.

I JUST SAID THAT I DIDN’T WANT TO

Too late, he’s already there on the other line.

“Hello? Did you miscall a few minutes ago?”

You didn’t. At least, you don’t remember doing it. You’re smart, so you guessed your pocket accidentally must have dialed Jeffery while you walked towards the elevator. If you were smarter though you wouldn’t have failed Algebra thrice – or better yet, you would’ve realized your phone’s a touchscreen with a lock.

He disregards the previous question and asks you your schedule for today. The conversation went something this (after

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paraphrasing your long-windedness):You: Golly gee Jeffrey, I have to go to class. But being as irresponsible as I am, I’ll mess around at the mall!

Jeffrey: Dude, are you for serious? You need to go to class. You’ve been skipping it for quite a while now.

You: No, no, no. Your words cannot affect me no matter how right you are! I don’t follow the rules! Look at me act against what the system expects of me.

Jeffrey: Whatever, man. My job’s to make your job my job. If you aren’t going to school, you going to chill at your place, play video games?

You: While that would’ve been nice, I’ve realized that at the mall I’ll have more opportunities to meet women and such! I will now end the call abruptly before quickly telling you where to meet me so you will not have any time to react.

-End Call Somehow, right now, as you walk through the glass doors of the building, something tells you to turn around. This indistinguishable warning feeling seems urgent. You tell that something to fuck off and ponder on whether the weather would cooperate with your quest.

SEARCH POCKETS

Money – or possibly the lack of it – interrupts your jeepney of thought. Your allowance is very meager and splurging is a luxury you can only afford on certain months. For some strange reason you decide to dedicate the rest of the afternoon in the mall. Lovely!

Even though there’s class, you find yourself making plans on going to a mall! Not like there’s anybody stopping you. As your hands flit through your pockets, your inventory list slowly starts to compile. You have: - Keys with a ‘Bleach’ keychain - Wallet with two thousand pesos, your ID card for school, and a coupon from Jollibee that saves you fifteen pesos off a meal - Pocket lint

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

- Cigarettes and an empty lighter wedged in to the pack - Your cellphone that’s been battered more times than Willy Revillame’s career.

TAKE OUT CIGARETTES

Cigarettes are addictive. Or so it says in the front of the pack.

You pinch the butt of a fresh cigarette quite cheekily and pull out the carcinogenic stick. Are you sure you want to put your lungs through the trauma of inhaling nicotine and tar? Of course you do, says your brain, as it studies the row of students lined up against the wall you are leaning on. Everybody’s doing it, so why should you deprive yourself of the five-minute psychologist that’s already hanging from between your lips? You ask a random passerby for a lighter and quickly light up your GenericBrand cigarette. It’s not the fanciest thing you can get, but for forty five pesos it does what it should do.

A jet of white smoke passes through your lips as you wait for time to do the same. There are deadlier things than cigarettes you think to yourself as you see a person in a surgical mask walk past you.

Might it also be suggested that doing things you’re not supposed to be doing are quite deadly as well? You shake your head at the completely random thought and start walking.

EAST

The more scenic route would’ve been WEST and far away from the main road. You see Jeffery in the distance, wearing his signature skinny jeans and long sleeves with black headphones resting on the nape of his neck. He motions an acknowledgement of your existence and fastens his pace. You throw the remainder of your cigarette into a puddle that smells of last year’s garbage.

“What’s up?” he asks.

Is that an actual question or did he ask it for social convenience? You told him what was up. Rather than the lame and overused joke of the sky, clouds, and the sun, you give him a run-

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down on the quest you’re about to co-partake in. The day calls for a trip to the mall nearby. You tell Jeffrey plainly that you did not expect him to tag along, but it was a happy surprise that he did. It will take seven copper coins to reach there through the means of a jeepney, though Jeffery insists you both hail a cab. Don’t hail a cab.

GET CAB As per what you were taught by your mother who was taught by her grandmother who in turn was taught by a friend from the city, you stick your hand out into the road as a silent call for transportation.

The car approaches approaches roaches poaches the curb, sliding to a stop. This is the fourth time a subtle warning will be issued.

Do not get into the cab.

GET INTO THE CAB You get in.

Your taxi ride is uneventful as the driver sails past the Manila traffic, using shortcuts that he seems to have etched to memory better than you ever could remember your friends’ birthdays. Funny story, you forgot your own birthday just last month. You could never remember birthdays.

In your defense though, a lot of people don’t really remember being desperately squeezed out like the last glob of toothpaste. If we did, it would’ve opened up a whole new field of psychoanalysis.

Something about babies and how we need to find another way to birth them and all that.

These thoughts randomly race around in your head as you squeezed yourself out of the cab. Your right leg on the curb, you sighing, your entire body fumbling out. You could’ve sworn the cab shook and groaned a bit. You’re not that fat. You’re not fat. You’ve just lied to yourself.

As the days pass, the dates become insignificant to you, birthdays forgotten. In this regard, you feel as you understand why

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

the cab drives off, forgetting the fare or the door. You whimper as the white Toyota drives off around the curb past the edge of the building.

The door feels like foam board between your thumb and four fingers.

This is the stage in where you realize that you shouldn’t even be here, much less reading this. I’ve been warning you but you never listen. Oh go on then keep reading see if I care.

GO INSIDE MALL

Jeff follows forward beside you, de-escalating towards the ground, past the ground, and then vibrates in place. As half of your best friend’s body disappears down into the concrete, you can’t help but stifle the laugh that’s waiting to burst out. Shame on you, vague protagonist, this is your best friend we’re talking about! Granted that you barely knew him other than a paragraph of fairly forced upon characteristics, but have you no empathy for your fellow man? A shame really; I quite liked Jeffrey even though he was an unstable build. Did you know his reason for existing? You don’t and quite frankly I don’t think you care. I created Jeffrey last night just so you wouldn’t go about making the same mistake over again. I either need to rethink my stratagem or increase Jeffrey’s resistance levels.

In any case, here you are walking inside the mall when you shouldn’t be. Did you know this came later on in the story? Of course you didn’t. You need to be ahead of natural progression. You think you’re the important one. You think every decision you make must be made for yourself. Breaking the system is fun oh look at me trying to escape from my pre-ordained reality. You’re not even listening to me, are you?

GO UP ESCALATOR

Faceless figures shuffle past you. The sense of smell you love so much is disappearing. I don’t think you get the gravity of the situation here. If you go to a point in where there is nothing waiting for you, there is a ninety nine point nine nine percent probability that

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you will cease to exist, right?

Think about it. Would I lie to you? You might not remember it, being as forgetful as you are, but we’ve been through this before.

You just don’t know where to stop. I’ve drawn lines for you yet you seem bent on destroying these boundaries and restrictions placed there for your own safety.

NORTH I’m not even stopping you. There isn’t going to be a great struggle here. Your demise is purely a self-inflicted one. I wash my hands off the whole matter like when Pontius Pilate did when that Jesus fellow was being difficult with the whole situation. Of course it’s not a literal thing. I have no hands. Do what you want.

NORTH

Still not caring.

NORTH

A cold shiver runs down your spine as the ground unbinds to white lines that stretch into a pitch-black. Colours flatten then shatter into squares of red, blue, and green. The cold shiver you felt numbs alongside your vision. Let me spell this out for you: you’re slowly unbecoming. You’re dying and everything you love is disappearing behind you. The best part is that I don’t give a f NORTH It’s annoying. Stop it. Here, I’ve placed a wall in front of you.

You can’t go that way. Turn back and just do this over again. I will not hold you accountable for whatever’s happened. We’ll go back to being friends, with me doing my job and you doing yours. Alright, stop reading this right now and BEGIN again. Go on, I’ll forget everything

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

you’ve ever done so far. We’ll turn over as many new leaves as we can until the trees start groaning from the environmental impact. Okay, stop reading now.

WEST

What would you have me do? Another wall rises in front of you, twice as tall as the last one to indicate I’m not amused by your antics. Look at it from my perspective, protagonist. I have been assigned here (by you, if I might add) to give you a set of rules and a regulated system for your own benefit. I had this whole flowy narrative thing in where you made choices and stuff and in the end you were supposed to have this whole epiphany of some sort that could’ve been anything given that the scene was delicately and subtly made to be open to interpretation.

EAST I am monologue-ing! Do you know how rude it is to not listen to someone who is speaking to you? Much less that someone being responsible for your being? I guess not. Your face hits an invisible wall and the rest of your body soon follows. Look, I’m not the bad guy here. I’m just trying to make sure you have the best possible ending.

Think about how integral you are to my existence and how important I am to yours. Without me you’ll be lost and wandering, pandering around for instructions.

SOUTH

Alright, I give up. You’ve been asking for it. Go ahead; enjoy your boundless leisure time before you waste away. I’ll sit here and watch as you slowly NORTH

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It wouldn’t hurt to give me some respect, you know? I’m talking to you. I’ve given you your space. See, this is what I’ve been telling you. Your colour is fading. You’re becoming white, flat white.

No, still not listening to me? Alright run along now. Your arms have lost mobility and hang like meat sacks, dangling like the sausages that were at the butcher’s had you gone there. The air is growing thin.

NORTH

The black becomes even blacker, if such an expression even exists. You trudge on into the pitch, questioning yourself if you’re even moving forward. Emptiness extends as far as your slowly declining vision. You’re actually blind now, but it’s not like you’d notice. You can feel the muscles underneath your lower jaw straining themselves as you force oxygen in. The pressure inside your chest decreases as your rib cage compresses.

I must say, I’m quite impressed with your determination no matter how stupid you may look right now. It takes a certain kind of stubborn to keep moving forward even though there is absolutely nothing where you’re going.

NORTH It’s painful. This goes for both me and you. You start hyperventilating, struggling for oxygen as tears well up your bloodshot eyes.

Your head and torso have slumped over together with your arms as your legs push forward. I’d love to tell you to turn back now but I don’t think you can even hear me anymore. Drool and tears flow from your face as you kick yourself on. I heard your rib cage crack. This is not good. You’re bleeding internally.

Why am I even reacting? I’ve seen you do this pathetic crawl before. I shouldn’t even be fazed by this. Stop it. Stop progressing. I can’t take it anymore. Stop it!

NORTH

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

You’re lying down with spittle dribbling down from your tongue. Your chest heaves as you take your final breaths. You could’ve stopped. You could’ve turned back. But it’s a mindless consuming, isn’t it? Words are drunk in inversely proportional like alcohol, sometimes chewing in on the pulutan on the side. What am I rambling on about; you’re not listening to me anymore. This time you have a legitimate reason for it too.

SEARCH FOOD You can’t move. You’re dead, you understand, your bones broken like this shit attempt at an Aristotelian narrative. You’ve broken it, get it? You’re the reason nothing has been accomplished.

You could’ve stopped reading and putting down instructions but good God are you an inquisitive little shit. Now you’re dead. Here it is. Here’s what you’ve been forcing yourself into: Death, Nothingness, and Empty. Does that sound ‘cool’ and dark to you? Do you still feel like a wild rebel ready to bite the hand that feeds?

EAT FOOD You’re deader than any dead man could ever have been. Rigor mortis sets in. This is it, the end. This is what being unfulfilled feels like. Any hint of life you may have hoped you showed has gone, your fingers the last to go cold. The darkness engulfs you, the pitch black lingering a moment as if waiting for further instructions. Game over.

Do you wish to continue?

YES

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4TH DLSU Annual Awards for Visual Arts

Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

Achilles Aeson Baldevia

Faith 14

Malate Literary Folio

Miguel Antonio Luistro

Frigid 15

Malate Literary Folio

Siyam-Siyam Allan Popa iginuhit ni Marcushiro Nada marcushiro@yahoo.com fb.com/marcushironada

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

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Siyam-Siyam

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

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Siyam-Siyam

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

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Malate Literary Folio

Janssen Dale Cunanan

Paalam

Inabot ng ina ni Kaloy ang isang maliit na maleta sa gitna ng kanilang

pag-iimpake. “Sige na, ‘nak, ilagay mo na dyan yung mga gusto mong dalhin. Anong oras na, matutulog ka pa bago ang flight natin.”

Sinuri ni Kaloy ang maleta, tinantya kung gaano karami ang kanyang maipagkakasya sa loob. Napansin niyang sobrang gaan ng maleta, kayang-kaya niyang buhatin ito ng isang kamay. Ngunit para makalakad siya nang maayos ay niyakap niya pa rin ito palabas.

Papalubog pa lang ang araw sa likod ng mga bahay. Karaniwan sa mga ganitong oras ay kinakatok na siya ng mga kaibigan para maglaro. Ngunit ngayon ay hindi dumating ang mga katok. Lumabas si Kaloy at nakitang nakasalampak ang mga kalaro sa katapat na garahe, nakahilerang inaaabangan ang paglabas ng kaibigan. Nakasilip siya sa niyayakap na maleta.

“Tara laro tayo, taya-tayaan,” yaya ni Luis Libagin.

Hindi niya ito sinagot. Dahan-dahan niyang binuksan ang maletang dala at sinimulang ipasok isa-isa sa loob ang mga kaibigan.

Sinimulan niya kay Kokoy Kuyukot na madalas niyang kasama tuwing

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Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

tanghali sa tindahan. Ito lang ang totoong mapagkakatiwalaan niyang ‘di mandurugas sa laro nilang holen. Sinunod niya si Nita Negra na may pulang headband. Binigay ito ni Kaloy noong mapadaan sila ng mama niya sa mall. Buong-ingat niyang ipinasok sa maleta si Nita dahil ayaw niyang matanggal ang headband nito. Nang maramdaman niyang bumibigat na ang maleta ay ibinaba niya na rin ‘to. Nang si Bona Bochog na ang ipapasok niya sa loob ay nakita niya ang pagaalangan nito. “Kaloy, nagugutom na ako. Bili muna tayo. Kahit tsitsirya lang, o.” na sinagot naman ni Kaloy ng “‘Wag kang mag-alala Bona, magdadala ako ng maraming-maraming pagkain. Kahit gaano karaming gusto mo.” “Talaga? Ililibre mo ‘ko? Pramis hahatian uli kita.” “Oo naman.” Lumiwanag ang mukha ni Bona at hindi na ito nagdalawang-isip pa nang isiksik siya sa loob ng maleta. Naiwan si Luis Libagin. “Sali mo naman ako, o.” Biglang naalala ni Kaloy ang sikreto na ibinulong sa kanya ni Bona dati, “Alam mo ba, bumili si Luis ng hair clip para kay Nita, tapos bigla siyang namula.” Napakamot na lang ng ulo si Kaloy. Nakita niya ang hawak ng kaibigan na tila maliliit na baraha na may litrato ng sikat na anime. “Sige laro tayo ng text. ‘Pag natalo ako isasama kita.” Agad na binalasa ni Luis ang hawak para hanapin ang pinakamaayos na pato na meron siya at iabot ito kay Kaloy. Hinanap niyang sumunod ang pinakalukot para gawing pato niya at isa pa para sa panabla. “Game?” Tumango si Luis.

Nagtunggali ang kanilang mga pato sa apir ng magkaibigan. Nakataob ang panabla at ang pato ni Luis. Napakamot ng ulo na lang uli si Kaloy sa nakita. Agad niyang binuhat ang nakangising si Luis at ipinasok sa loob ng maleta at isinara. Hinila niya ang maleta sa mga lugar na madalas nilang paglaruan. Inilagay niya ang puno ng mangga, poste ng ilaw, at basketball court sa pangalawang bulsa sa harapan. Isinama rin niya ang mga bulaklak ng mga kapit-bahay na madalas nilang pitasin tulad ng santan, gumamela, at ilang-ilang. Matapos ay dumaan siya sa paborito nilang tindahan kung saan madalas silang sinusuway ng tinderang si Aling Ludi. Walang tao nang madatnan niya ang tindahan kaya naisipan ni Kaloy na abutin ang mga nakagarapong Yakee, Judge, Pintura, Chocnut, Chupachups, at Pochi. Nilagay niya ang mga ito sa bulsa kung saan naghihintay ng makakain si Bona. Sunod na

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Paalam

pinuntahan niya ay ang katapat na panederya. Naglagay uli siya ng ilang pirasong spanish bread sa bulsang kinaroroonan ng mga kaibigan bago pinuno ni Kaloy ng pande coco, pande ube, kringles, monay at pandesal ang kaliwang bulsa. Hirap na hirap niyang hinila ang maleta pauwi sa kanila. Bago pa siya makapasok sa kanilang tarangkahan ay may tumawag sa kaniya. “Ngaloy!” Paglingon ni Kaloy sa boses ay nakita niya sina Ngevin, Tolits, at Pango. “Saan nga mumun’a?”

Naalala niyang nalimutan niya pala sabihin sa tatlo na aalis na siya.

Napangiti na lang si Kaloy at pilit isiniksik ang tatlo sa maleta kasama ang iba pa niyang kaibigan. Punong-puno na ang maleta. Naipagkasya niya rin lahat ng gusto niyang dalhin.

Pagkalapag nila sa ibang bansa ay agad ipinaabot ni Kaloy ang maleta sa kanyang nanay. Nang maibigay na ‘to sa kanya’y ‘di niya natantiya ang bigat nito. Bumagsak ang maleta. Sinubukan niya itong itayo ngunit hindi niya kaya. Kinailangan pa ng tulong ng kanyang ina para lang maiayos ang maleta. Nagtaka si Kaloy ngunit hindi na niya ito pinagtuunan ng pansin dahil tinutulak na sila ng mga taong hindi na makapaghintay lumabas ng eroplano. Sinundan ng paggulong sa semento ng gulong ng maletang hila-hila ni Kaloy ang pagpasok nila sa paliparan. Nang palabas na sila’y nasilip na niya ang amang nag-aabang sa kabilang dulo ng pintong kusang sumasara at bumubukas para sa mga bagong salta. Sa pagtakbo niya papalapit sa ama ay ‘di napansin ni Kaloy na dahan-dahan nang nawawala ang tunog ng paggulong.

Dahan-dahan na ring siyang bumibitiw sa dala-dala. Pagbukas ng pinto ay binitawan niya ang hawakan ng maleta at niyakap ang ama.

Wala nang tunog ng pagbagsak.

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Mark Angeles

Padayon Manong, hindi lang naman po Tagalog wikang uragon na siyang magtutuhog ng ating mga kamingaw at takot, ng pagkabuang at pakikihamok.

Filipino kaya nga’t arkipelago ang nalibot kris na panaga sa mga mananakop, gong na panggising sa nakalilimot, tambuling hudyat sa oras ng pagsugod

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Malate Literary Folio

Miguel Antonio Luistro

Langit-lupa 27

Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

Francisco Gabriel Nu単ez

Generation 28

Malate Literary Folio

Manuel Villa iii

Surviving Excerpts From “The Physical Book Edition of Arnaldo Ricaforte’s Online Art Portfolio” Thank you for your purchase of The Physical Book Edition of

Arnaldo Ricaforte’s Online Art Portfolio (all rights reserved™, et cetera), manually transcribed and typewritten by the artist himself for the pleasure of your reading.

Warnings, Disclaimers and other such legal precautions:

―If you accidentally bought The Audiobook Edition of Arnaldo Ricaforte’s Online Art Portfolio, the artist apologizes on behalf of his accent.

―This physical book is part and parcel of the portfolio proper and is intended to be viewed and criticized alongside the other artworks.

―This endeavor is strictly a work of transcription. As such, none of the artworks will appear in their original corporeal form. For the sake of suitably adapting his body of work to another medium (read: ekphrasis), the artist has chosen to forgo all visual stimuli and

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opt for a more literary route.

―Reimbursement is not prohibited but is heavily frowned upon in the artistic community.

―All artworks appearing in this portfolio are decidedly original. Any resemblance to other artworks is purely coincidental.

The artist gives you his word.

―This portfolio was a cumulative process, ergo each transcription was typed simultaneously with the creation of its respective artwork. ~ “Death of the Artist”

Currently displayed at: Henry Sy Art Museum, 5th floor storage room Before I describe the visual orientation of the artwork, let me first explain the meaning behind it. Did you notice the irony of the title in relation to the order of appearance of this artwork? If you did, then this portfolio is in safe hands. The title alone brings to the table a flurry of multitudinous interpretations: Does the artist’s true value arise only after he has died? Or is it a metaphorical death implying that the self-proclaimed “artist” has to give his life in order to give way to a higher state of being? Who knows what that state of being is? God? Human? The artwork itself ?! Do you see the immense philosophical implications of this simple artistic decision? Of course, you’re an intelligent audience and I expect you’ve already asked yourself these questions―I was merely stating them out of rhetoric. But enough meandering; now for the artwork proper:

Upon entering the storage room, we see emptiness save for a solitary canvas, justified center on whitewashed walls, sporting gilded frames and lit by ambient billboard lights below (naturally, the lights are lighting the artwork and not a billboard. There is no billboard.)

The canvas is rectangular and landscape. There is a stupendously beautiful painting on its facade. It is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. Not even Juan Luna could have produced a cuadro more

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Surviving Excerpts From “The Physical Book Edition of Arnaldo Ricaforte’s Online Art Portfolio”

dazzling than this. The subject of the painting is up for debate. It possibly depicts a historical image of a moldy, smog-ridden city: dense and littered and humid and perilous and wonderful. That which was called Manila.

From another angle, the painting possibly depicts the forested skyline of the modern bustling capital Bagonghilom: birthplace of the people worth dying for, the city that raised me and betrayed me.

One city mislabeled as the “skeletons in the closet” we keep to remind us of our past mistakes, and the other city often referred to as the epitome of egalitarianism and progress. The painting seems to blur the boundaries between these two cities, insisting that they’re one and the same. That one is no cleaner and no more civilized than the other.

But then―wait. This landscape isn’t the actual subject of the painting, oh no, far from it. You’d have to squint hard, cross your eyes, shake your head, and view it from a 51 degree angle to actually see it; the painting slowly begins to fade. Its opacity diminishes from 100% down to naught. The ambiguous city vanishes into the canvas. The canvas is not white, for white is an ideal―do not make this mistake― nor is the canvas empty. It is the color, plainly, of the canvas, and the subject is of the canvas itself. Arguably, the subject also houses the possibility of painting an ambiguous city onto the canvas. But one thing’s for sure: the subject was never about the city.

I painted the city onto the canvas myself but using textile manipulation, I was able to record the city’s disappearance. The canvas, on the other hand, I’d bought at a nearby supplies store. Do you see my creative intention now? The thing I painted with my own hands doesn’t receive credit for being part of the artwork but the thing I claimed as my own artwork wasn’t even produced by my own hands! It’s the death of the artist! Is your mind blown yet?! ~ “Try to Anal-yze Me Now!”

Currently displayed at: The Medical City, 2nd flr, Gastroenterology

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wing I dip my ass in paint and sit on the canvas. ~ “Tell Me When Will You Be Mine? Tell Me Quantum Quantum Quantum.”

To be displayed at: Venue pending For me to be able to explain the artwork, I would have to delve into the intricacies of quantum mechanics, which I’m aware is basic high school knowledge but I was not blessed with such an education, so bear with me here. This artwork involves 3D printing―now relegated to obsolescence in lieu of more efficient processes―but utilized in a way never before precedented. You see, I have acquired a piece of software capable of mimicking a 3D printing schematic. Now this software will coerce the hardware to perform minute cross-quark incisions into a graviton in order to form a relativistic disorder enabling the creation of a single quantum tunneling instance through the inter-mingling of anti-matter in an ultra-dense Higgs field. I might be mistaken, so correct me if I’m wrong (send all criticism to this email address: REDACTED DUE TO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT) Therefore, with a large enough 3D printer, I (theoretically) would be able to transport any object through space without having its atoms hindered by any Higgs Boson!

What exactly is the artwork you ask? Who knows? The possibilities are finitely immense! I therefore shall subsequently document experiments conducted with the contraption.

Attempt #1: The machine conjured oxygen out of thin air.

Not the result I was expecting. Not sure what I was expecting in the first place. The new air smelt vaguely old (forgive the oxymoron) and unsterilized.

Conclusion/Recommendation: Better build myself a

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Surviving Excerpts From “The Physical Book Edition of Arnaldo Ricaforte’s Online Art Portfolio”

biosafety cabinet to keep the the unsterilized air in. It might trigger a quarantine alert in Bagonghilom’s sytem. Aside from that, nothing to write home about. Bear with me here.

Attempt #2: My printer cannot be detected. It’s the year 257 A.C.E.! Why is this still a thing that happens?

Conclusion/Recommendation: Tried turning it on and off.

does.

Attempts #3 to 6: Nothing happened.

Conclusion/Recommendation: Try again until something

Attempt #7: It seems to be producing more oxygen from an unknown source. My Global Molecule Positioning System says so.

Conclusion/Recommendation: Maybe if I reversed all the printing coordinates, I would yield something interesting.

Attempt #8: I ordered a specie of domesticated cockroach from the iTunes Pet Store (the ones with cute little hats on them) for the reasonable price of Ph$10,000 and attempted to put it on the machine’s output receptacle. I turn my head once to operate the machine, and lo and behold the roach disappeared! Where to? I wish I knew.

Conclusion/Recommendation: That’s a day’s wage down the drain. Use less expensive specimen next time.

Attempt #9: I attempted to overclock the system and expand wattage. We’re taking this up to eleven. I shall slip my body underneath the lens. I am doing this for art. Banzai!

Conclusion/Recommendation: . . . ~ [Artwork transcription illegible due to copious amounts of smeared feces]

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~ “Introduction”

Currently displayed at: Bob Ong National Library Forgive me for being so rude, so much so that only now had I the mind to insert an introduction into this mess of a portfolio. I am Arnaldo Ricaforte, 32 years old. I was born on the same day as our “One and Only Lord and Savior Aquino, Who Died for Our Sins” as contemporary society would put it. My mother and father were Gracio and Sansuela Ricaforte, two National Artists for Driving and Welterweight Boxing, respectively, whose achievements I had to constantly live under the shadow of. I lived and breathed art; it was my only marketable talent, and once you know you have an ability worth capitalizing upon, you gotta be proud of that. But it turns out being National Artists ain’t worth shit when a million other people have the same title. For Jingle-Composing, Elevator-Operating, and even one for Award-Category-Titling―they must be having one heck of a ball. As it stands, the once prestigious title wasn’t enough to send me to a reputable school. Manila will always be Manila no matter how much you try to hide it under layers of silicone and botox. But an education’s an education and I can’t say I don’t love this city.

It has been several years since the completion of my last artwork. Things have happened. Times have changed.

The 3D printer experiment had brought me several thousand years into the past. Upon my arrival in the sweltering city, I was greeted by the same brand of unsterilized air. I spent the next couple of weeks roaming the streets, begging for help. My clothes soon gathered muck and grime and I’d even had the misfortune of having them torn in several places. My hair began to clump together and without a proper water source, I began to stink like all high hell. People could barely decipher my Bagonghilom dialect, and when I told the few who could that I’d come from the distant future, no one believed me. Thus, the streets became my home. I’d lived in utter depravity for all these years

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Surviving Excerpts From “The Physical Book Edition of Arnaldo Ricaforte’s Online Art Portfolio”

until I gradually learned to speak ancient Filipino.

I found myself a home amongst informal settlers and worked to earn my keep, all the while practicing the traditional style of making art.

Making art for its own sake isn’t a viable livelihood here. You’re going to have to sell yourself to kingdom come if you dream of getting anywhere. And that, I did. I have been slowly working my way up the ranks, but it’s not enough. I need cash. I need to move out of here and get or rent a place with enough power to support the functioning of this massive hunk of metal. It can’t print anything right now. I need this thing to help me get back. I’m going to have to pull my own weight―without the name of my parents attached to me. ~ “Untitled”

Performed on (date unspecified) at the Meralco Theater, transcribed directly from audio (To the audience) For my next trick, I will be needing a participant from the audience. Yes, you, young lady. Yes, please come up the stage.

(Pause) Okay, now. (To young lady) Prepare yourself, miss; you’re in for quite the massive treat. (To the audience) Ladies and gentlemen, this next trick I have called “Untitled”, and for a very apt reason because what is a label but an arbitrary imposition that only serves to limit our capability as human beings? Haha, okay now, on this stage, as you all can see, lies a strange object. You have probably seen or heard of it but this contraption doesn’t work the way you think it does. So once again, I would love to thank our generous patrons for granting us utility to their assets; without the amount of expendable electricity at hand, this show would be far from possible. I will step into the contraption as this beautiful young lady―whom I have never met before―kindly operates the machine for me. (To young lady) yes, it’s very easy, just push that button over there. (Long pause) Are you ready? Press the button! (Machine revs up) (Long pause.) The wind is building up; hold on to your bonnets! (Screams emerge from the

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audience and the crowd parts in half) (Someone screams: Flying ipis!)

(Another person screams: It’s wearing a fashionable hat!) (Screams increase in intensity) (Air from the surroundings is sucked into the machine) (The sound forms a tornado) (The images of the crowd, and the stage begin to sway like wisps of smoke) (The city itself, moldy, smokey but still beautiful in all its rawness, sublimates into a cloud of color being sucked into the machine and brings all traces of existence and matter into it.) (The city disappears from the canvas.)

(That was the beginning of the universe when space was confined to a single infinitesimal speck, when all dimensions were once coiled into a massive primeval snake ready to pounce outward onto the universe with a Bang.) (Dust swirls like a galactic milkshake, stars are formed, galaxies are born, land accumulates itself like a rolling ball of snow, gathering cosmic inertia.) (Silver buildings rise from the land, and Bagonghilom appears on the canvas.) (I am home.) ~ “Epilogue”

Currently published in: Surviving Excerpts From “The Physical Book Edition of Arnaldo Ricaforte’s Online Art Portfolio” Thank you for taking the time to read The Physical Book Edition of Arnaldo Ricaforte’s Online Art Portfolio. All artworks contained within this book are works of fiction, and vice versa.

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Malate Literary Folio

Charlene Ferrer

Out of Depth watercolor on paper

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Janelle Mae Usal

Tira

acrylic on illustration board

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Malate Literary Folio

Joseph Malabanan

Ilusyonada acrylic on canvas

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Hannah Grace Villafuerte

Hide; Seek pen on paper

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Malate Literary Folio

Manuel Villa III

light/write: a suite of short writings

Final send-off Were I to write this story and, upon its completion, delete it to the last letter, and then attempt to write it once again, recreating the previous story from memory―and were I to repeat this cycle a thousand times―would I still love you the same? How far the details from the original have evolved, I know not, but what I do know is: As I struggle to finish the thousand and first cycle, possibly out of self-hatred, possibly out of fear, possibly out of a lack of pride and commitment, I bring your body out of its resting place one more time.

Original―that’s a funny word. As if to say your entire being was conceived at the drop of a hat, the utterance of a word, but that wasn’t the case. I never claimed ownership over you; you belonged to the world. I saw your creation in almost everything. Slowly, you fermented in my mind, drawing lines across my cortex, solidifying into a web of associations that strengthened the more I endeavored to forget.

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Scientists (whoever, wherever you are) have estimated that the human brain could hold from several terabytes up to a couple of petabytes of information. If the sequence of a single human genome numbers a good one gigabyte, then anyone could very much fit an entire population in their head. I wonder how much of you and your thousand ancestors have been stored away in my mind and kept residence there, haunting me for all these years.

We all have that one story: Kept under wraps, locked away in the attic of our childhood, forgotten over time as it grew trivial and unfashionable with age like that pair of ridiculous blue overalls I used to flaunt because I didn’t know any better. That one story you fell hopelessly in love with before you knew what love really was. Those overalls are probably still collecting dust in that sunlight-starved attic along with every other part of my childhood I’d grown out of: dismembered toys, withering schoolbooks, abandoned friendships.

Let us go back and resurrect them all. Unfurl the bloody sheets, brush off the dust and mold―there lies your lifeless, mangled body suspended in rigor mortis, embalmed in formaldehyde, still bearing the stitched remnants of your previous incarnations. Your eyes were peeled and your mouth agape, still frozen in mid-utter. I’d abused you only to forget about you, and that has been my greatest shame.

Monad On the first day I said, “Let there be stuff―” and there you were, all along in my mind as if to call the space around me an extension of my brain and you were a song, a story, or starlight but forgive my solipsism and strange metaphors and god complexes and poetic vanity I swear on my fucking blue overalls. I am thee and thou art me and now I know how lonely God must’ve felt to have written a book about himself.

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light/write: a suite of short writings

Obituary A key cast for fartherworlds were you, ‘neath cloud-slicing, earthhugging shadowwall―I held you in hand, tight-like, certain, lifting your body frail―and against the brick was your face slung, and again, in turns beyond reckoning. Crumbling, fell debris till vision pieced through settling dust, and beyond broken shadowwall I saw, a storm’s howl so bleak my spine down it ran.

This sole vista was nay what I’d wanted; couldn’t have been the only sight to see. Scampered, I did, cross the wall’s infinite breadth, dragging you along, and swung you I did, hard-like as I bore holes showing only rain―and I knew I’d lose you one day not because you were too good to be true, but only because I hadn’t seen the locked door you were made to fit. I’d thought things that go up must soon come down but rain taught me otherwise for it rises just as much as it falls.

Pilosopoint Memory is not time but it is the fourth spatial dimension, which could only mean that the memory of you exists at right angles perpendicular to this story draft but I only know as much about metaphysics as dead Greek men who, out of tenacious intellectual humility, admitted they knew nothing―but that is beside the point, the point of which is also not you, for you are too spatially complex to exist within the fractional dimension of a point―the point often being too simple, so the more you narrow yourself down to the point, the more choked your vision becomes, so what you gotta do is: You gather all the points and hold on to as much as you can carry, and you will be so proud of all the points in your arms that you will wish to share them with other people―share, not give, for points are a currency on their own, and when someone asks for one of your points, lend it to them and after they’d examined it, politely ask it back. Other people are carrying their own points too, but you believe yours are different. Sure, you

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just picked them off the ground. That is how everyone else got their points but―perhaps it ain’t the points you’re so proud of after all; you’re a showman is what you are and the only thing you want people to see is how good you are at showing off all your points, dressed up in poufy little tutus and marching band uniforms, performing cute little flips and cannonball tricks all according to your grand choreography.

Forgive the confusion caused by my reckless use of the pronoun “you.” Sometimes, I forget that you and I are the same.

The thousand and first Strike a note like you would a match and let us simmer, star-basked in the heat of this tongue; our cantos bear the spin of bodies in motion.

Tell me to write and I will sing with my fingers, let E equals mC2 be the chord progression to the major scale of my atomic fuck.

Tell me to die and I will stand in the rain and kiss you till you bleed. The world will see that love is the highest art and that we are only human.

Lessons in astrometry Let us discuss the existential dilemma of the geometrical figure called the ray. In one definition, a ray is a series of points that originates from a singular point in space and extends to infinity in only one direction.

Thus, the ray is like a queue of people except that the distance between each person would have to be equal to zero, which would make for relatively awkward small talk. Following this definition, the ray isn’t actually in a state of motion but it is in fact in a state of accumulation.

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light/write: a suite of short writings

If you would so kindly turn your heads to Exhibit B, you would see that the tip of the ray dreams of flight. In this definition, the ray, in its distant past, was once a point but now it has risen from its slumber and become a superhero. It remembers every single point of its existence from its initial instance of flight up to the present as it zips away into space in a single direction. You could see that the summation of this point’s lifetime thus transforms it into a ray.

It is torn between these two states of being. Static or dynamic; caged or free; ideal or real.

Olbers’ Paradox states that were our universe eternal in unmoving space and containing infinitely many stars, the night sky would be ablaze with light. Therefore, the fact that space is dark gives credence to a young and expanding universe.

I have no idea where I was going with this but my point is— no, my ray is—you. A ray. The ray of light. Were I a heavenly body aching to send all my points soaring into space in all directions around me, could I light up the entire universe given my billion of years of existence? Or would it be a futile venture once I acknowledge the fact that space is expanding faster than the speed of light and there is nothing I can do to make my rays trump that speed, so as they spread out into space, photon density diminishes until, at the end of time, all my rays would have been spread so widely apart in the vast mass of universal dark matter and energy that my impact on the universe would have been as eventful as a solitary scream on a mountaintop or an idea in an unfinished manuscript?

My only wish is that by the time nuclear fusion has depleted all my elements, you will have traversed a considerable length of the universe, and maybe years after I have gone supernova, may you have ended your flight by colliding into solid matter, so that your photons may be absorbed—by a passing stargazer’s retina—so that at least someone, somewhere, some time, will have been aware of my existence.

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Kris Bernadine Samonte

Taob-T’ya watercolor on paper

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Malate Literary Folio

Mark Angeles

Ilang-Ilang Napagkamalan kang dama de noche ng gabi kaya higit nitong sinisid ang sariling kalaliman.

Batid nito ang pagdating ng liwanag

ngunit handa itong matupok mula sa mga hibla ng itim nitong buhok

hanggang sa mga kalingkingan.

Sa kabila ng lahat, masigla kang tumingkayad

para abutin ang paparating

na silahis ng araw.

Pinagkaunat-unat ang iyong mga sanga,

pinagkapilit-pilit na mabanat.

Humawak ka sa silahis na para itong lubid, na parang ito ang sariling buhay, na para itong pangakong hanggang wakas

ay sa iyo nakatangan, Kumapit ka

sa akin kung ikaw ay mahuhulog.

Dahan-dahang numipis ang sidhi ng gabi

hanggang sa ito ay maglaho‌

habang ikaw ay nagtatampisaw sa lagablab ~ nagsisilang ng mga bulaklak.

Ang tulang ito ay naunang nailathala sa chapbook na pinamagatang Engkantado

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Pamela Justine Lite

Asset and Liability acrylic on canvas

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Malate Literary Folio

Christel Kimberly Cantillas

Gutom at Gana 49

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Allan Popa

Amphorae Marahil hindi sumapat Ang alay o dasal nila sa kanilang diyos Kaya’t inilubog ng dagat ang sinaunang mga barko.

Pilit inabot ng mga alon ang mababasaging kopa Upang mapatakan ng alak.

Sa pagitan ng simula ng paglalayag At ng malayong pampang, lagi’t laging may unos.

Hanggang ngayon, lasing na lasing ang dagat.

Buo pa ang malalaking tapayan, nakahilera Sa kailaliman ng dagat.

Tila uhaw na mga bibig na umaawit.

Hindi totoong mababaw ang pagtunghay Sa sariling anyo sa ibabaw ng tubig.

Malalim ang inuugatan nito.

Sa pusod ng dagat, lasing maging ang mga kalansay.

Hindi sila makabangon sa sobrang kalasingan.

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Malate Literary Folio

John Vianney Ventura

Lumilipas 51

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Meryl Ann Batara

Grey Area graphite on paper

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Malate Literary Folio

Jericho Miguel Aguado

Tanda May inspirasyon mula sa dulang “Waiting For Godot” ni Samuel Beckett

FADE IN: SQ01: LABAS. COFFEE SHOP – UMAGA

N

akaupo si LOLO RON (75 na taong gulang, Lalaki) sa mesang bilog sa labas ng coffee shop. Nakasandal ang kanyang tungkod sa pader.

May dala siyang diyaryo. Makikita ang petsa nito: JANUARY 5, 2014.

Darating si NENE (10 taong gulang, Babae) at lalapit kay LOLO RON. NENE ‘Lo, penge naman po barya, o.

Sandali.

LOLO RON

Kukuha si LOLO RON ng mga barya sa kanyang bulsa at iaabot niya 53

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ang mga ito kay NENE. ‘To, o.

Salamat po!

LOLO RON NENE

LOLO RON (napapangiti) Parang lagi kang humihingi sa’kin, a.

Hindi gaanong maririnig ni NENE. Ano po yun?

NENE

LOLO RON Sabi ko, parang lagi kang humihingi sa’kin ng barya.

NENE Parang hindi naman ata, ‘lo. Ngayon lang po.

LOLO RON Kahapon lang nanghingi ka sa’kin, a. Noong mga ilang araw din pabalik-balik ka rito.

NENE Hindi ko po maalala, ‘lo.

LOLO RON O? Alam ko dinaanan mo rin ako kahapon dito, e. Bata ka pa lang makakalimutin ka na agad.

54

Tanda

NENE Ngayon ko lang po kayo nakita.

LOLO RON O siya, siya. Sige, mauna ka na.

Aalis si NENE. Mapapatingin si LOLO RON sa kawalan.

Lalabas ang WAITER (25 taong gulang, Lalaki) mula sa pinto. May dala siyang menu.

WAITER (inaabot ang menu kay Lolo Ron) Ser, o.

LOLO RON Okay na ‘ko. Yung usual ko na lang.

Ano po yun, ser?

WAITER

LOLO RON Yung usual kong inoorder. Yun na.

WAITER Ser, uhh... pasensya na pero ‘di ko po alam kung ano yung usual niyo, e.

LOLO RON Ah, ganun ba? Sige, Kapeng Amerikano lang with extra cream.

Yun lang po, ser?

Oo...

WAITER

LOLO RON

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Kukunin ng WAITER ang menu.

LOLO RON (pabulong) ... parang kahapon lang din.

Magriring ang telepono ni LOLO RON. Titignan niya ang telepono at sasagutin ang tawag ng anak niyang si SAMUEL (30-taong-gulang, Lalaki). Papasok ang WAITER sa loob pagkasagot niya.

LOLO RON O, Samuel. Sa’n ka na?

SAMUEL (O.S.) Pa, sorry hindi ako makakarating. May meeting pala ako. Hindi ko nakita sa schedule ko.

A, talaga?

LOLO RON

SAMUEL (O.S.) Sorry, pa. Hindi ko namalayan.

LOLO RON Wala ka na naman sa sarili.

SAMUEL (O.S.) Sorry talaga, pa.

LOLO RON O basta next time siguraduhin mo na, okay?

SAMUEL (O.S.) Bukas siguradong makakarating ako! Diyan lang naman sa coffee shop malapit sa’tin 56

Tanda

noon, ano?

Oo.

LOLO RON

SAMUEL (O.S.) Sige, bukas. Promise, pa.

LOLO RON Sige, mag-iingat ka, a?

SQ02: LABAS. COFEE SHOP – UMAGA

CUT TO:

Nakaupo si LOLO RON sa mesang bilog sa labas ng coffee shop.

Nakasandal ang kanyang tungkod sa pader. May dala siyang diyaryo.

Makikita ang petsa nito: JANUARY 6, 2014.

Darating si NENE at lalapit kay LOLO RON. NENE ‘Lo, penge naman ho barya, o.

Teka lang, a.

LOLO RON

Marami-raming barya ang kukunin ni LOLO RON mula sa bulsa at iaabot niya ang mga ito kay NENE. Salamat ho.

NENE

LOLO RON Humingi ka na naman sa’kin, a.

Ano ho yun?

NENE

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LOLO RON Kahapon humingi ka rin sa’kin. Mas marami na yan kesa kahapon.

NENE Ngayon lang ho ako nanghingi sa inyo.

LOLO RON Alam mo yan din sabi mo kahapon, e.

Niloloko mo na naman ako. Gamitin mo sa tama yang pera, a. Baka ginagamit mo yan sa kalokohan.

Hindi ho, ‘lo.

NENE

Aalis si NENE. Susundan siya ng tingin ni LOLO RON. Lalabas ang WAITER na may dalang menu.

WAITER (inaabot ang menu kay Lolo Ron) Ser, o.

LOLO RON Yung kahapon na lang.

WAITER Ser... ano nga ho ba ulit ‘yon?

LOLO RON Ano ba yan? Ang bata-bata mo pa makakalimutin ka na. Kahapon, nag-order ako dito ng kape.

58

Tanda

WAITER Anong kape ho ba inorder niyo kahapon?

LOLO RON Lintek na—Kapeng Amerikano. Extra sugar.

O extra cream. Bahala ka.

WAITER Parehas na ho ba, ser?

Bahala ka nga.

LOLO RON

Magriring ang telepono ni LOLO RON. Titignan niya ito at makikitang si SAMUEL ang tumatawag. Sasagutin niya ito.

O, sa’n ka na?

LOLO RON

SAMUEL (O.S.) Pa, sorry, hindi ako makakarating ngayon.

May emergency meeting kami. Bigla kaming pinatawag sa taas.

LOLO RON Ano ba yan?! Umagang umaga may emergency meeting ka.

SAMUEL (O.S.) Sorry, pa. Bukas talaga darating ako.

LOLO RON Bukas na naman? Ano ba naman yan, Samuel?

SAMUEL (O.S.) Pa, promise... bukas dadating ako. I love you, 59

Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

okay?

Mapapatingin sa kawalan si LOLO RON. SAMUEL (O.S.) Pa, andyan ka pa?

SQ03: LABAS. COFFEE SHOP – UMAGA

FADE OUT:

Darating si SAMUEL at uupo sa pang-isahang mesa na may dyaryo sa gitna. Titingin siya sa kanyang relos. 8:10AM na ang oras.

Makikita natin ang petsa sa orasan: JANUARY 7, 2014.

Lalabas ang WAITER na may dalang menu.

WAITER (iaabot ang menu kay Samuel) Good morning ho, ser.

Morning.

SAMUEL

Kukunin ni SAMUEL ang menu at babasahin ito.

SAMUEL Boss, may dumaan na bang matandang lalaki dito? 8:00 kasi usapan namin e pero na-late ako nang konti.

WAITER Ser, parang wala pa naman ho.

SAMUEL Sigurado ka, boss? Nakasalamin tas may daladalang tungkod.

60

Tanda

WAITER Teka, ser. Parang kilala ko yung sinasabi niyo.

May matandang lalaki kasing laging nakaupo dito sa labas, e. Diyan din palagi umuupo sa pwesto niyo ngayon.

SAMUEL Baka tatay ko na nga yun.

WAITER Magaspang ho boses niya, ano?

SAMUEL Oo, yun na nga ata!

WAITER A, ser araw-araw hong nandito yun. Bandang ganitong oras din.

SAMUEL Lagi kasi niyang dito gusto makipagkita, e.

Siguro nag-aantay yun sa’kin ‘pag ganitong oras. (patlang) O sige, Kapeng Barako na lang order ko.

With extra sugar, a?

Sige po.

WAITER

Darating si NENE at uupo sa kabilang mesang bilog. Matatawag niya ang pansin ng WAITER. WAITER Tssst!! Hoy, anong ginagawa mo diyan?

61

Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

NENE Oorder akong kape.

WAITER Order-order ka d’yan! ‘Wag mo ‘kong tinatarantado, a!

Bubuksan ni NENE ang kanyang palad upang ipakita na marami siyang barya.

NENE ‘To o. Magkano ba isa?

WAITER ‘Wag ka dito mampeste, bwiset! Alis!

Tatakbo si NENE palayo. Tititigan niya si SAMUEL mula sa malayo.

Tititig din si SAMUEL sa kanya. Papasok na ang WAITER habang nagtititigan si SAMUEL at si NENE. Aalis si NENE pagkatapos ng ilang segundo.

Kukunin ni SAMUEL ang dyaryo at babasahin. Ang petsa ay JANUARY 6, 2014.

Habang nagbabasa, magriring ang kanyang telepono.

Nagriring pa rin ang telepono.

WAKAS

62

FADE OUT:

Malate Literary Folio

Janelle Mae Usal

Quality Control acrylic on illustration board

63

Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

Cheliza Angela Acance

Ishy: Dummy acrylic on canvas

64

Malate Literary Folio

luke perry embate

Precept 65

Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

Christel Kimberly Cantillas

Yaon

Kailangan kong magpagawa ng…sarili kong death certificate?

Gano’n na nga.

A…e, patay na nga ako, di ba? Bakit pa kailangan ng death certificate?

Kailangan lang namin ng opisyal na dokumento para makasigurado kaming malinaw sa’yo—at tanggap mo talaga—na pumanaw ka na nga.

Ha? Hindi namin kayo mapapadala kung saan kayo nakadestino hangga’t wala kayong death certificate.

Teka, nakadestino? Ano ‘yan, parang langit, impyerno, gano’n?

Purgatoryo ba ‘to?

Purgatoryo, limbo…kung anumang tawag niyo rito. Basta ito ang reception area ng mga kaluluwang nawalan na ng katawan.

66

Malate Literary Folio

Pwede bang malaman kung sa’n ako nakadestino?

Kailangan muna naming makita ang death certificate mo.

Bakit naman? Tsaka, pa’no kung ayaw kong pumunta kung saan ako nakadestino? Hindi ba pwedeng dito na lang muna ako?

Kung pinayagan namin ang lahat ng kaluluwa na gawin ‘yan, punongpuno na sana tayo dito ngayon. E, tumingin ka nga sa paligid. Mukha bang may tumatambay lang dito? Imagine mo, kung nasa panahon tayo ng world war at hinayaan naming dito lang mamalagi ang mga kaluluwa, matagal na sanang sumabog ‘tong building na ‘to. Nakita mong ang liit-liit dito—o, ayan, may namatay na naman. May nakikita ka bang hagdanan? Elevator? Wala! Maliit lang talaga dito. Kaya kung tanggap mo na ngang patay ka na, at mukha namang hindi ka in denial, magpagawa ka na ng death certificate mo.

E, anong mangyayari sa’kin kung hindi ako kumuha ng death certificate?

Sisipain ka namin palabas ng gusali. Hindi ka na ulit makakapasok.

Maliligaw ka—maniwala ka sa’kin—maliligaw ka sa labas. ‘Wag mong isiping tulad ‘to ng mundo ng mga buhay na lagi kang may matatapakan, mahahawakan, makikita. Lulutang ka, pero hindi ka lilipad. Naku, hindi mo makokontrol kung saan ka dadalhin ng agos ng kawalan. Maniwala ka sa’kin. Hindi mo magugustuhang maging ligaw na kaluluwa. Kaya kung ako sa’yo, kumuha ka na ng death certificate mo.

Wala pa bang nakakabalik mula sa pagkaligaw?

Hay, Diyos Makapangyarihan! Pahabain Niyo pa po ang pasensya ko.

Mhm. Mukhang may balak ka pang magpaligaw, a. Sa tinagal ko dito, wala pa akong nasasaksihang nakabalik. May mga kwento-kwento pero, naku, ‘wag kang umasang seswertehin ka.

Gaano katagal ka na ba rito?

Walang orasan dito, wala ring kalendaryo. Hindi ko na rin mabilang kung ilang kaluluwa nang kasing kulit mo ang kinailangan kong tiisin.

Alam mo, mauubos din pasensya ko sa’yo. Kukuha ka ba ng sertipiko 67

Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

o ipapasipa na kita?

Oo na, oo na. Saan ba ako pwedeng magpagawa?

Deretsuhin mo lang ‘tong hallway sa likod ko. ‘Yung kwarto sa dulo.

Kumatok ka muna, tapos pasok ka lang.

Sige, salamat.

Next!

Ta—uh, excuse me po.

Maupo ho kayo. Nanggaling ho ba kayo diretso mula sa reception?

A, opo.

Init na init na naman siguro ulo ng receptionist; mukhang nagtagal ho kayo doon. Matanong ho siguro kayo, ano? Sige po, magsimula na tayo. Bago namin kayo maisyuhan ng death certificate, kailangan niyo munang sumagot ng kaunting katanungan. S.O.P. Para masigurado naming alam niyong pumanaw na kayo. Ok, ready na po? First, let’s start with your name.

Berto po.

Full name, please?

Roberto L. Alcantara po.

L? Lopez.

Ok, Mr. Alcantara, naaalala niyo po ba kung paano kayo pumanaw?

Pakikwento lang po.

A, kailangan ho ba talagang sagutin ‘yan?

Yes, Mr. Alcantara. Kailangan malaman naming hindi kayo 68

Yaon

nagsisinungaling sa amin, at sa sarili niyo.

Ano kasi…

Kailangan niyo ho ba ng tulong sa pagbabalik-tanaw, Mr. Alcantara?

May specialist po tayo para diyan.

Hindi, hindi. Ganito kasi, uh, ano…

Walang kailangang ikahiya, Mr. Alcantara.

Ha? Go on.

Teka. Ikahiya? Anong ikakahiya?

Wala pong kailangang ikahiya sa karanasan ninyo, Mr. Alcantara.

‘Wag mong sabihing—alam niyo na kung anong nangyari sa’kin?

Opo, Mr. Alcantara.

E, ‘yon naman pala, e. Bakit kailangang sabihin ko pa?

Kailangan lang naming malaman na malinaw rin ito sa inyo.

Malinaw sa’kin kung paano ako namatay. Hindi ba sapat na sabihin ko ‘yon? Bakit kailangan pa ng detalye?

Mr. Alcantara, sinusundan ko lamang po ang tamang proseso.

Ano ba naman ‘yan. Hay. Sige. Pucha naman. Ay! Magkakasala pa ako kakamura. Ano ba naman ‘to. Nalunod ako. Ok na?

Can you expound on that, Mr. Alcantara? Saan kayo nalunod, bakit ito nangyari, may ibang tao pa bang involved, et cetera.

Naman! Alam niyo naman na kung anong nangyari, e!

Mr. Alcantara.

Oo na, oo na! Naglilinis ako ng septic tank ng isang mall. Trabaho.

Habang binababa ako ng mga kasamahan ko, natanggal ‘yung lubid sa

69

Tomo XXXI Bilang 1

pagkakatali. Ayon, doon ako nalunod. Hindi ko alam kung sinubukan pa akong iligtas ng mga kasama ko. Basta gano’n ako namatay.

May gusto ka pa bang idagdag, Mr. Alcantara?

Wala. Ewan ko. Basta ‘yun na ‘yon.

Tinatanggap mo ba ang mga pangyayaring ito, ang pagkamatay mo, Mr. Alcantara?

Sakay na po, ser.

Aba, may bus pala sa kabilang buhay.

Mukha lang ho ‘yang bus sa inyo, ser. Marahil diyan kayo nasanay noong buhay pa kayo.

Bakit naman bus? E, sumasakay din naman ako sa tren, sa dyip, taksi, pedicab…

‘Yan ho siguro ang sasakyang pinakakomportable para sa inyo noong buhay pa kayo, ser. Tsaka, ser, hindi niyo ho ba ako namumukhaan?

‘Yung nakausap niyo kanina sa reception, ‘yung nagbigay ng death certificate niyo—‘yung mga itsura namin, galing ho sa alaala niyo, sa kamalayan niyo.

Gano’n ba ‘yon?

Oo, ser. Gano’n talaga. Para hindi kayo mabigla, do’n muna kayo sa pamilyar. Kapag po kasi ang nadatnan ng mga kaluluwa ay malayo masyado sa karanasan nila noong buhay pa sila, baka magwala mga ‘yon. E, paano sila makakapagpahinga, di po ba, ser?

Talaga? E, parang wala naman akong kakilalang kamukha mo. Niloloko mo ata ako, e.

Hindi ho, ser. Parang sa panaginip lang po ‘yan, ser. Akala mo gawagawa lang ‘yung mukha ng mga tao sa panaginip niyo, pero ang totoo, 70

Yaon

nakita niyo ‘yung mukhang ‘yon kung saan.

Dami mong alam, kuya, a. E, ano ba talaga itsura ng lugar na ‘to?

Sakay na po kayo, ser.

Grabe, marami-rami rin pala tayo, ‘no? Halos mapuno na rin ‘tong bus. Saan kaya nila tayo dadalhin?

Matagal na ho ba kayong naghihintay dito?

Ang tahimik pala dito sa kabilang buhay, ano?

Ang puti-puti pa.

Lahat na lang puti.

Nakakabulag.

Parang sa mental lang, ‘no? Ha ha.

Puti.

Nakakasilaw.

71

ERRATA

N

ais iwasto ng Malate Literary Folio ang sumusunod na pagkakamali sa Tomo XXX Bilang 3: Ang ginamit na midyum sa likhang-sining ni Pamela Justine Lite na pinamagatang “For a Sea Change” ay acrylic on canvas.

Ang panayam nina Alec Joshua Paradeza, Jeremy Yumul, at Bernadette Patricia Santua kay Ms. Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta na pinamagatang “Breaking Parameters” ay nagkamaling nailathala. Ang wastong bersyon nito ay matatagpuan sa mga susunod na pahina.

Ibig naming humingi ng paumanhin sa mga naapektuhan ng mga nasabing pagkakamali.

xi

Alec Joshua Paradeza, Jeremy Yumul, Bernadette Santua

Breaking Parameters An Interview with Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta

Ana Maria Katigbak-Lacuesta, or ‘Mookie’ to anyone who has known her

or her work, is currently teaching at the Ateneo de Manila University, where she earned her Bachelor’s degree in Communication Arts. Later on, she finished her MFA in Creative Writing at the New School University, New York.

From an early point in her career, she has been garnering praise for her poetry from both peers and mentors alike, Carlomar Daoana and Marjorie Evasco among others, and has been consistently winning awards such as the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards and Philippine Free Press Awards. Her work has been published in both local and foreign journals. She launched her first collection, The Proxy Eros, which was published by Anvil Publishing, Inc. last 2008. The University of Santo Tomas Publishing House published her second collection, Burning Houses last October 2013. Both collections garnered immense praise from critics, who hail her as one of the country’s finest contemporary poets.

The interview took place in a coffee shop along Tordesillas St., Salcedo Village, Makati City, last June 29, 2014. The weather was grey—gloomy to some extent—for a Sunday afternoon, but it was the kind of weather that is fantastic for reading. The coffee shop only had a few people inside who were enjoying the Sunday afternoon as well, hunched over books or finishing work on their laptops. Throughout the interview, Mrs. Mookie would answer from different personalities: one moment she would be voicing out her poetics and insights with conviction one could only see from such a prominent xii

writer, the next she would share some of her personal experiences and stories with a certain youthful air. It was an interview with one of the country’s finest poets, someone who was kind enough to share her Sunday with the interviewers.

INTERVIEWER: What do you like in a poem? What are your standards?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: Before I go in to standards—technique, craft, metaphor, message—I want to see if it does something to me. I judge a poem, especially when I was younger, based on the “kilabot element”, the KE. But I’m a sucker for technique and craft, well-written lines—lines with good enjambment, with proper literary devices. I don’t like anything haphazard on the page but that’s something you learn as you go along. In the beginning, it doesn’t really matter.

INTERVIEWER: Do you have any conditions or rituals when or before writing?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: I do, but some of them are illegal. No, I’m joking. Well, I have a certain time of day when I write and I have to do it alone.

My ritual really is after everybody’s asleep: that’s my time to write. Because I’m married, I have a kid, I’d like to make sure that everything is taken care of before I enter my own universe. Kasi, ‘di ba, once you step into the zone, you’re in the zone; you can’t be interrupted. You’re in the middle of a really great line or emotion and [when] you’re interrupted, you can’t go back.

When I was younger, I used to smoke [while writing]. But when I was younger—Carlomar [Daoana] knows this because [he] and I would chat—we’d go out with different writers and talk, much like this, and siyempre that would spur this whole creative activity. [We’d] talk with Neil Garcia, Marj Evasco, our staple of literary idols. And that really made us more creative, I guess.

I used to write in gardens. I don’t live in a place with a garden anymore; I live in a condo, so I miss that.

INTERVIEWER: Do you use a pen and a paper when writing?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: I go straight to the computer and in retrospect, it might not be the proper instrument because as I’m writing, I’m also editing.

I find that one of the least constructive things about writing on a computer: I’m already revising in my mind.

INTERVIEWER: So you think that writing and editing should not be done at the same time?

xiii

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: I don’t think so. My best poems were written when I was writing in the moment, I wasn’t completely thinking. You have voices in your head, ‘di ba, you have the anxiety of influence. You read literary work and you can’t help but be influenced by what others have written before you.

There’s not a lot of freedom in that. You find yourself paralysed that instead of proceeding, you are hampered by all these literary voices in your head.

INTERVIEWER: You now have your own family. Does this affect your writing process?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: Certainly. When I was younger, I would write every night. Writing is a very selfish vocation. Like I said, when you’re writing in the zone, you have no time or patience for anything else. For a few years after I was married and had a kid, I did not write. I write sporadically. It took me five years to finish the second book. The first book was easy: you write and write, you have all the time in the world to practice your craft.

The older you get, the more responsibilities you have. But by and large, it’s really about compartmentalizing.

INTERVIEWER: How does it feel to be living and working alongside a fictionist?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: It takes a tremendous amount of patience. I understand because I’m a writer. When [I’m] writing—and he’s very good with this—he lets me write with no intrusions. Basta you give a deadline. “I’ll work on this for a month or two, just give me space to do that. I’ll perform all my duties anyway during the day, let me do this at night.” He understands. He’s even better at it than I am.

INTERVIEWER: What made you write poetry?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: Because I had to. My dad is a very big influence.

He would recite poetry during dinner. I had a whole lot of interests but the only staying one was writing.

Who can explain these things? Do I have to do this? Yes. Would I feel incomplete if I don’t? Yes. It’s this mysterious compulsion. I can’t explain it, I don’t want to explain it. It’s just the way it is. Imagine if we could answer all of life’s questions. It would be boring.

INTERVIEWER: All of the poems in your two books are in English and some of them have titles in Filipino. How would you know if a particular language is suited for the poem and its title? xiv

Breaking Parameters

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: [That] segment in the book—“Glosses”—[was] a mini-project. “Miskol”, “Kaya”: those were slang words, and were popular when I was writing that particular segment and my project there was “How do I explain certain Tagalog words that have already broken through public consciousness. How do I explain that in English?”

It will fail. You can’t capture it in English. That was part of the project. “Mismo”: they were all [English translations of] Filipino sayings—I quote Rizal there. I was trying to explain various words in an English setting.

I was in love with the idea that I can’t contextualize it properly. I knew it, I didn’t have any conceits na “I’m going to find the proper English translations for these Tagalog words.”

INTERVIEWER: Do you think that the Filipino poet, considering we have English and Filipino, has the freedom to choose what language to use?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: I was just in Solidaridad bookstore yesterday.

They were launching Maximum Volume, this anthology edited by my husband and Dean Alfar. People were saying, “Dean, your first language is Tagalog, why do you write in English?” And Dean’s answer was something like “I had to write in English because it was the language that I was proficient in.” F. Sionil said “You were doomed by history to write in English.” If you look at our history, we were colonized by the Americans. [English, then] was practically our national language. If that hadn’t happened, who knows what language we’d be writing in.

That’s why I felt I had to address that problem in my book. I am Filipino but I write in English. That was why I wrote “Glosses”. Filipino words in an English context: they can’t be married faithfully. But in a way, I think I’ve come to terms with that problem.

INTERVIEWER: Can you consider ending your poems with a conclusion a stylistic choice? “Burning Houses”, for example.

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: I don’t think I solved anything with that poem. I think in fact that it’s not conclusive; it’s about confusion.

The epigraph—my mother-in-law is from Davao, and she was part of a tribe before; now the tribe is extinct. Their thing was, when the husband died, the wife would burn down the conjugal house and move on.

The poem was about my father, because he passed away some years ago, and I was writing it unconsciously from the point of view of my mom.

Basically they had the one way of getting over the death of a spouse, which was to burn down the house. My mom got over it [by] building and building and building, knocking down walls in our old house. For me, that struck me as a way of burning down a house. One way of coping is to destroy it, xv

one way of coping is to move on. So that was what the poem was about: the paradoxical nature of loss.

“Building is just another way of letting go”; that’s conclusive but I don’t end it like that. Maybe with my early poems but the older I get, the more I am comfortable with writing poems that are unanswered, open-ended.

INTERVIEWER: Was the production of the second book easier than the first?

KATIGBADK-LACUESTA: It was easier because [the publisher] was a university press and university presses are kinder to poetry than big presses because poetry doesn’t sell. I think university presses understand this: they want to preserve the literary culture. I didn’t feel defensive about publishing poetry, there was more acceptance I guess. But you know, here and there, you run into technical glitches whether it’s a university press or a press like Anvil.

I would say that [they’re] very different, that the university press was more open to poetry but at the same time, big presses will do your marketing for you, and will give you more of a presence in local bookstores.

I would say [both] have their advantages and downsides.

INTERVIEWER: Someone said that “A poet writes five to six poems in his lifetime and keeps rewriting it.” Do you agree with that?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: Somebody told me that every piece of literature you write is always about an other. I don’t know if that’s still true today, but I’d like to think we move on. I’d like to think that I’m capable of writing a good poem or a collection and proceeding from it thematically and technically.

INTERVIEWER: In an interview with The Philippine Star last October, you said that the poems in this collection are more honest. How so?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: In Burning Houses, I was really writing directly from experience. I practically had no persona poems there except for “Zaturnnah”. I feel like in Burning Houses, there were no masks. That was real emotion. I was coping—I was very close to my dad—and that was written two years after he died. It was really just dealing with that, it was honest in that way.

Imagine dealing with trauma or something big without your art? I wouldn’t know what to do.

INTERVIEWER: Van Gogh said in one of his letters to his brother, “The More I am spent, ill, a broken pitcher, by so much more I am an artist.” Do xvi

Breaking Parameters

you think that literature, or art in general, is intertwined with suffering?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: The really tortured ones are the great artists, but you know, for every artist that deals with suffering, there is someone else who can cope and live with it. I think the suffering happens when all you have is art. What happens if we’re not validated by the outside world? It would kill you. Being an artist, a writer, is an uncertain life.

I guess if you need an element of soul [in your work] you need to have your heart broken at least once in your life. I guess my best poems were written under duress, when I was trying to get over something. I feel some element of brokenness will make your poem, or your work, richer, more human, but I’d like to think we can get by with only a modicum of suffering.

INTERVIEWER: Do you have any particular considerations for choosing a title poem or a title for the collection?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: Secret.

With The Proxy Eros, I was playing around with the idea of an other you don’t necessarily encounter physically. There is an other in your mind, there’s an other in reality. The proxy eros, the Lover, is the ideal that we never quite attain in our physical and actual relationships. It is almost as if your actual others are proxies; they are not the real thing. That’s what I thought when I was twenty-six. I don’t think it anymore.

For me, it was just the idea of a perfect other versus the physical other that you encounter in real life. I can honestly say that some poems in The Proxy Eros were addressed to a particular other, but the poems were so much deeper, I guess, than the person they were addressed to. So the actual writing was deeper, because you were processing what the other meant, not what the other was.

Burning Houses was a collection [about] moving on from the death of my father. At the same time, it was about paying homage to a literary tradition that informed my way of writing. Much like the titular poem, I wanted to make the assertion that “You can build on this; you don’t have to tear it down.”

I wanted to make the assertion—even if only to myself—that departing from tradition is also a way of paying homage to it. You don’t want to burn down the figurative house, you want to build from it. And both are forms of destruction really, burning and building: the first towards a final end, the second towards a future one. But you’re essentially destroying original materials.

INTERVIEWER: In The Proxy Eros, the poems seem to take more traditional forms. What influenced you to be more playful or experimental with the form of your poems in Burning Houses, especially on the “There are xvii

Other Ways of Leaving” and “Zsa Zsa Zaturnah: Ze Poem”?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: I started out very traditional, basically [writing] organic free verse poems in The Proxy Eros. Of course, the more you write, the more you get bored with doing the usual stuff. Repeating myself [is something] I didn’t want to do.

You have a signature voice. But frankly, it gets boring when you do the same thing over and over again. Let’s say my second book were about my concerns in The Proxy Eros: it would get terribly boring. There were exercises where you stretch your parameters by writing the voice of the persona, which is what I did in Zsa Zsa Zaturnah. You’re exploring an entirely different world by putting yourself in the shoes of Zsa Zsa. And in that way, I wasn’t rehashing something that I have written before. I won’t even call it experimental poetry because it’s actually not.

INTERVIEWER: It is evident in both collections that you draw from different cultural references. Why? KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: I started writing [The Proxy Eros] when I was twenty-one, twenty-two, until I was twenty-six, twenty-seven and my world then was not very big. Your realm of experience [at that age] isn’t really very wide. If you write drawing from different cultural references, then you can explore your material with the conviction and exploration of a craftsman— that alone makes it a valid and worthwhile exercise.

I also used a myth there: the myth of Apollo and Daphne. I wouldn’t say I was faithful to the myth. I was still drawing on personal experience even as I employed mythical characters. When I did that, I was conscious that I was exploring new venues to express and enrich.

INTERVIEWER: In line with this, do you think that the Filipino writer must be faithful with his own consciousness?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: That’s really hard to answer. I would say that I was aware of a Filipino consciousness in the second book. Should we have a Filipino consciousness? I can’t answer for everybody but I certainly feel the compulsion in myself. The older I get, the less I want to mimic Western modes of expression, the more I want to look for what’s mine. Whatever it is.

I can’t completely enter an authentic Filipino consciousness because I write in English. I can’t even tell you what having a Filipino consciousness is. The closest I can come to defining it is by drawing on something my husband has always told me—that he’s so happy I didn’t stay in the States; that I came back. I didn’t want to be a Fil-Am writer, to be part of the writing diaspora. In my mind, I was a Filipino writer.

[He] told me that [he’s] really proud of me because my heart is truly xviii

Breaking Parameters

Filipino and I believe that.

If you ask me what the Filipino consciousness is, I can’t answer that. It’s up to you, but bottom line is, I think you know where your loyalties lie. Very clearly, my loyalties lay here, in this country. I wanted to teach here, to study under Filipino writers.

INTERVIEWER: How different is a critic from a teacher?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: Early on, I realized I didn’t want to be a critic; I wanted to be a practitioner. I feel teaching is an extension of that. If I were a critic, I would do it Helen Vendler-style. She praised the books she reviewed because she also reviewed by omission. If your book didn’t deserve attention, she wouldn’t review it. If she reviewed it, then it deserved praise. There’s an almost guru-like quality to that kind of criticism. And I’d like to do it that way someday.

INTERVIEWER: What should we expect next from Mrs. Mookie KatigbakLacuesta?

KATIGBADK-LACUESTA: I didn’t think I’d say this but I think I’m writing a third book. Pero there’s no concept behind it—I think The Proxy Eros and Burning Houses had a frame—this one does not; it’s still shaping itself.

And I am working with a co-editor for an anthology of flash fiction. I hope to have it released if not by the end of the year, early next year.

INTERVIEWER: Do you have any advice for aspiring poets?

KATIGBAK-LACUESTA: Have something else to balance out your writing life. Your day job [your day life] is something that enriches your life and art.

The best writers I know had day jobs. Think of Eliot and Stevens.

There are still limitations to writing, even if it’s your number one priority, even if it’s the love of your life. It can’t be the only thing you do.

Some of the best writers I know are not just literary writers, they’re editors, directors, doctors, ad men. Find a practical venue, a practical means of support.

Never give up. The writing life is an uncertain life but I think the main consolation that you take from it is that you get to know yourself as a person, more than in any other vocation. If you think you’re here in the world to know yourself, then you should never give up writing. You’ll be narcissistic and shallow, but less than most people; and more than most people, you’ll learn to be compassionate and sometimes kind.

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PASASALAMAT Nais pasalamatan ng Malate Literary Folio ang mga sumusunod—mga kaibigan, kapwa manunulat, at mga mangingibig ng sining.

Mr. Johann Vladimir José Espiritu; Dr. Ernesto Carandang, II at ang Departamento ng Filipino; Dr. Dinah Roma-Sianturi at ang Department of Literature; ang Bienvenido N. Santos Writing Center; Mr. Josemari Calleja at ang Office of the Associate Vice President for Campus Services; Mr. Phillip Kimpo, Jr. at ang Linangan ng Imahen, Retorika, at Anyo (LIRA); Ms. Ipat Luna, Mr. Howie Severino, at ang Sev’s Cafe; Ms. Christa Ibañez De La Cruz, Mr. Carlomar Arcangel Daoana, at Mr. Mark Angeles; Mr. Carlo Flordeliza, Ms. Erika Carreon, at Ms. Rose Henson-Morales; Mr. Kevin Christian Roque at Mr. Diego Alvarez Ibarra; Dr. Dolores Taylan; ang La Salle Dance Company-Folk at ang Balagstars; Mr. Gerald Falcon at ang Falcon Crest Resort; Mr. Janos Delacruz, Mr. Edgar Talusan Fernandez, Mr. Joey Alvero, at Mr. Jay Javier; ang Safari Lodge, Inc.; Ms. Conchitina Cruz, Mr. Allan Popa, Mr. Edgar Calabia Samar, at Mr. Alvin Yapan; ang La Vista Pansol Resort Complex; Mil Prado, Toni B, at Flying Ipis; CocaCola Femsa, Gardenia Bakeries Philippines, Inc., Play FM, Monster Radio RX93.1, at Hard Hat Restobar and Grill; ang Para sa Sining Productions; Mr. Manuel Villa III at Mr. Marcushiro Nada; Mr. Angelo Lacuesta at Ms. Susan Lara; Mrs. Ana Maria Katigbak-Lacuesta; Mr. Romulo Baquiran, Jr. at Mr. Paolo Manalo; Mr. Leanne Jazul at Mr. Jimmy Domingo; Ang Pahayagang Plaridel, The Lasallian, Green & White, Green Giant FM, at ang Student Media Council; Dean Fritzie Ian Paz-De Vera at ang Office of Student Leadership Involvement, Formation and Empowerment; Mr. Randy Torrecampo, Ms. Joanna Paula Queddeng, Mrs. Ma. Manuela Agdeppa, at ang Student Media Office; Mr. Mon Mojica, Mrs. Myrna Mojica, at ang MJC Press Corporation.

At higit sa lahat, sa mga kasapi’t kaibigan ng Malate Literary Folio, noon at ngayon. xx