Philippine Collegian Literary Anthology (2021) by Philippine Collegian

POINTS OF CONTACT

PHILIPPINE COLLEGIAN LITERARY ANTHOLOGY 2021

The digital copy of this work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International. (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0) The Philippine Collegian holds the rights to this publication. The publication may be copied and distributed in any medium or format in unadapted form and for noncommercial purposes only. This book was published with the generous support of UP Diliman Office for Initiatives in Cultural and the Arts. Issue Editors: Sheila Ann Abarra, Richard Calayeg Cornelio, John Kenneth Zapata Managing Editor: Polynne Dira Cover Design: Kim Yutuc Layout: John Reczon Calay All views expressed in the anthology are of the individual contributors and editors.

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PHILIPPINE COLLEGIAN LITERARY ANTHOLOGY 2021

Contents i

Foreword Defacing Icons, Toppling Pedestals Richard Calayeg Cornelio

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Introduksyon Paglilimi, Pagbabagtas, at Pagdurugtong sa mga Agwat Polynne E. Dira

To Someone Behind Bars

Tira-tirang Tirahan

Fidel V. Agcaoili

Nicolas Antonio

WHAT WE ARE IN THE PAINFUL METERS

THE PROSODY OF PESTILENCE

Odd Years

HOMECOMING

Walking Distance

SA ANYO NG MGA ESPASYO

Talinghaga

Ang Huling Araw ni Selya

Bal-bal

Christian Ryan Ram Malli

Joey V. Ogatis-I

Gretle Mago

Maria Christina Calachan

Lex Banaag

Leo Cosmiano Baltar

Precious M. Paglinawan

Jose Monfred Sy

Levei Len Bigcas & Nikki Teng

Invisible

The Bloom

Och Gonzalez

Mikha Calderon

Losaci Isctanigdi

Hagkan

Unti-Unting Pagkalusaw

Change

THE WORLD FROM MY BEDROOM WINDOW

THE DISTANT SUMMER

Aa. M. Gabao

Marcy Lioanag

Mina Deocareza

Raniella Martinez

Kyle Cajucom-Uy

Ana Algabre Hernandez

My mother said my moles would get me to places, and I did

Bistarai, Bistarai (Slowly, Slowly)

Daan

Sasha Dalabajan

Pat Labitoria

Mirick Paala

Mula Lote Patungong Pintuan

Instagram Stories

Tigil-pasada

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Roi Yves H. Villadiego

Hans Pieter L. Arao

Marvin Joseph E. Ang

Joey and the Bengali Taxi Driver Raymund P. Reyes

A Lament While Holding Your Photo of the Sun in the Horizon Kervin Tabios

Mao Zeong at Iba Pang Dagling Rebyu

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Mga Bagong Kasabihan sa New Normal

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Bakasyon Grande

Tilde Acuña

Geraldine Gentozala-Juachon & Kel Almazan

Ferdinand L. Eusebio

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PHANTOM TRAIN

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Untitled

Raya de Leoz

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Page 2 of 3, Hospital Bill for Room 232

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Crematoria

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Espasyo ng mga Gunita

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WEAR A MASK/ KEEP DISTANCE SIX FEET AWAY

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Yanong Libingan

Daniel Sebastianne Daiz

JT Trinidad

Louise Sejera

Brixter Tino

Elmer Omar Pizo

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ARMAGEDDON AND OTHER TIME LOOPS

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CLOISTERED FITTINGS

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Kiosk

Jose Martin V. Singh

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MIDDLE-CLASS ANGST, MIDDLE-CLASS VALUES

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SA TEMPLO NG APOY AT IBA PANG TULA

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Afterword Ang Antolohiya sa Pinakaubod

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CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

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ABOUT THE EDITORS

Paulo Lorenzo Garcia

Marlon De Vera

Polynne E. Dira

R.B. Abiva

James Atillo

Rommel Chrisden Rollan Samarita

Foreword

Defacing Icons, Toppling Pedestals Richard Calayeg Cornelio

THERE IS NO other way to begin this except with an apology. This anthology carried with it the weight of benchmarking a set of pieces created during a pandemic against arbitrary criteria of what is “literary” and what should be asked of them. It is an exercise in self-aggrandizement and virtue signalling. It is an extension of creators’ hubristic penchant for inflicting our thoughts on most others who are otherwise too busy trying to survive to care. The conversation is saturated as it is. For all our brazen and tone-deaf demands, however, we could not have published this anthology any later. We are sorry. We have underestimated the seriousness of this task. We have overestimated our capacity to pull it off and the pertinence of what we have to say even after over a year of delays and lapses, long enough for episodes of our shared misery to seem both stretched and abbreviated. Here we are still, tasked to repopulate, reclaim, or reconfigure the communal spaces that COVID-19 has hollowed out. This was our same impetus for centering the anthology on how writers and artists make sense of distance. Certain rules of social interaction and calculated navigation now govern public life. We thus sought works that interrogated and examined distance from various vantage points that did not shy away from rhetoric and polemics, the summons of ideology, the defiance of formal structures and poetics. We were on the lookout for pieces that aimed to provoke and unsettle. Literature, we thought, could provide the language for us to look inward and the depth of conversation we had never had to wrestle with the toll of our isolation. It could give shape to our dread and despair, the nerves frayed and the collective bonds strained to their breaking point. We thought literature could do all this and more. We could not have been more wrong, delusional. This is not to disparage the efforts of the anthology’s contributors, who have been more than gracious to engage in this literary project and patiently awaited its publication. But this is not a moment either to extol the Philippine literary scene. Its gatekeepers still hold sway and are as complicit in the maintenance of patronage as the vilest of their lot are in propping up violent powers.

FOREWORD: DEFACING ICONS, TOPPLING PEDESTALS

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For every one folio or zine that tries to hack a path for radical ideas back to the mainstream, there is a hivemind of writers and artists that either lends official diktat intellectual succor or assumes moral ambiguity—in any case, enabling bad actors to lock any dissenting opinion out of politics. Never has this culture been more corrosive than in a crisis. Now, when forces of reaction jostle for legitimacy to launder their reputations, events larger than them could only bode and quicken their obsolescence. * Once a vivid fixture in state-endorsed cultural production, the Palanca Awards have decided to forego their annual credential-giving ritual, for two years in a row now, due to the pandemic. Still, they have lost none of their mesmeric toxicity. Their cancellation has frustrated and demoralized writers who have built their career on validation from a close-knit circle of judges, critics, and stalwarts of such contests that just seem to take turns earning and bestowing cultural capital. This observation is far from an accusation of corruption. It is, however, a denunciation of an institution that has historically favored the kind of literature wrought in the mold of eloquent blandishments, liberal sympathies, and political moderation. Any transgressive or remotely “political” prize winner, beamed in from out of left field to invalidate this criticism, cannot make up for the hundreds of others that have nourished the literary status quo and its decades of elite inertia. Only few dare openly condemn the Palanca Awards for fear of antagonizing past winners. My hypocrisy for decrying them after having won a few does not escape me. I was 17 or 18, and craved validation. Years later, I thought to impress Collegian editors by mentioning in my application form a couple of Palancas I had bagged. They did not care for those wins at all. To this day, though, my resumé still boasts these awards, conscious as I am of the hold they have on the imagination of employers who only vaguely know what they signify: a talent duly anointed, a foot in the door of the establishment. Such is a contradiction that inflates the ego and can so easily lead one to selling out. The problem with the Palanca Awards is not that their winners were dishonorable or that the biases of the judges were suspect—these are sweeping, inaccurate charges. Nor is the problem with them that their prestige is overstated. Any institution that inducts and consecrates, by making claims of excellence and quality, appreciates a cultural artifact for its exchange value rather than its use value. Consumers and other tastemakers tend to buy into it not so much on its merits and its generic or ideological positioning, as on the strength of the ginnedup reputation conferred upon it. The awards, after all, are an investment. Whatever rewards are accrued from this brokerage—the recognition of a work and the debt of gratitude owed—reflect

favorably on the institution that trades in status and reputations. They encourage writers to toe the line, to curry favor, to stay in the good graces of a narrow few who can make or break their careers. The writer gets incentivized to produce more work in the same template as the one that has garnered an award—literature that is pretty but bland, polished but blunt, yet another surplus cultural product that is rank in its redundancy. The problem, then, is how to break this cycle. We build our identities on the properties our culture acquires and develops. Yet it is tough to take ownership of spaces and artifacts offered by institutions beholden to the perks of profit and cultural capital. How can we trust those that have fed us slop to whet or fill our intellectual appetite, to challenge dominant thinking once and for all? The thing is, we can’t. We have gotten more politicized, more anti-capitalist, more feminist, more non-reformist, more non-conforming in keeping with the times—but so, too, have our cultural institutions gotten more conservative, more cliquish, more complacent in their place in society. The Palanca Awards remain too distressingly bound up in the careerist vindication of do-gooding and fence-sitting to indulge in retrospection. To think up any possibilities of reform from within the institution betrays a lack of imagination. If there is anything we have learned during this pandemic, it is that monuments are meant to be toppled, that structures buckle under pressure. We can watch the establishment run itself into the ground, or we can rip its foundation apart, raze it ourselves. * The power brokers and beneficiaries of our literary institutions have decades of harm to reckon with and atone for. There is so much blame to go around, but only too few apologies can ever be had. Gaffes and unvarnished overtures to illiberalism are rarely acknowledged, if at all, and any hint of regret is more presumed than expressed. When, for example, the Philippine Center for International PEN denounced the Duterte government’s cease-and-desist order against ABS-CBN, in May 2020, its statement read nothing short of damage control. It was ho-hum, unoriginal, hopelessly perfunctory. And nowhere in it could you sense the slightest censure against the group’s founder, National Artist F. Sionil José, who had, in an earlier statement, supported the shutdown of ABS-CBN. José’s enduring influence as a public intellectual makes a self-explanatory case for why stars fall and idols have to go. It is too easy to blame his old age for all the crazy he has been spouting lately. But, though senility dulls one’s faculties, it does not calcify vitriol or bigotry. Nor does it turn one into a cheerleader for demagogues whose slow accretion of power threatens democratic backsliding. FOREWORD: DEFACING ICONS, TOPPLING PEDESTALS

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We cannot discount José’s opportunism, his thinly disguised bigotry, his scorn of communists that seethes even in his earlier works. He used to borrow heavily from the language of leftist thinkers and revolutionaries, if only to align himself with a mass movement that was gaining steam, then. He learned to ride the currents of working-class resentment. He is at his most flagrant now because, at last, his debased politics rhymes with the song sung by a similarly self-serving, parasitic regime. José is hardly an original. Nor is he the only artist to have gone out of their way to defend this government, sanitize its image, and profit from its savagery. A subsection of the small literary world in the Philippines has been focusing its energy on feverish bootlicking without sparing a thought for its hand in murders, thievery, deceit, the derision of the poor, the perversion of democracy. Within this tribe, paternalism runs deep. You can locate feudal ties between the bigwigs and bullies among them who, with hawkish instincts, pounce on dissenters that dare to call out one of their own. Here is conceit metastasized into cancer in our community: Many writers and artists, whether out of self-preservation or a misplaced sense of fealty, act like the very powers-that-be they are supposed to be undermining. A belief in the countercultural part of our work is what once lent our pretensions purpose. To write and create was to choose, to reveal, to unnerve, to draw a line in the sand, to deface icons and topple pedestals, to document their destruction, to struggle to build, start anew. Today, our common ground is a shrinking patch of loose earth. Some of us who only muster token objections to the rotten tendencies of those within our ranks can only do so for so long. Legitimate dissent comes from those who have grasped whose interest their creative works must serve. This knowledge of one’s allegiances defined the works of Bienvenido Lumbera, a National Artist like José, but whose dignity he never let any power co-opt. He knew exactly for whom he was writing. He refused to let accolades dictate his politics or dilute his criticisms of tyranny. He insisted on the possibility of change, having lived, as a political prisoner, through one of the darkest chapters of our history. At 89, he breathed radical hope. By the time he made his exit from this realm, on September 28, Lumbera had carved out a career built not just on credentials but also on a lifelong service to national democracy, in which his writings on nationhood continue living on beyond the printed page. His example is not a prescription for writers and artists. There is no one way to create meaningfully, or to live as a writer or an artist, and the path we may set out on stretches even to the frontlines of people’s war. Kerima Tariman’s life stood as a testament. She fought as a revolutionary and was violently dispatched from this life, on August 20, leaving us with poetry drawn faithfully from the

margins and a renewed conviction to carry through her belief in literature’s transgressive potential. Tariman, who had written and edited for the Collegian in the late 1990s, viewed the movement as the only venue to make sense of art in theory and in practice. “When one creates art without being apologetic about its political implications, one is actually being quite ethical,” she told the Collegian in 2012. “Concretely, one is defining her position between reaction and revolution.” Those of us who survive the likes of Tariman and Lumbera can only devote more of the same energy they committed to making a difference in their work and beyond. Now is as good a moment as any to choose our side of history. Much has happened during the pandemic that has thrown our loyalties into stark relief. We cannot emerge from this moment without our peers having held us to account. We can no longer hide behind awards or in the shadow of our literary heroes. We cannot, in the end, have just our stories, poetry, and art to show for our part in this reconciliation and reclamation. There is so much to be done. And no amount of literature or heft of thinking can heal the enraged and hurt Filipinos who, at any rate, could not care less about our internecine feuds. This anthology, born of the same vanity as hundreds of other collections elsewhere, can only promise a raw mess of our neuroses, outrages, hopes, and errors in judgment. It is, at least, vulnerable and honest. It is stocktaking and breath work. It claims no moral high ground. It only tries to name our afflictions and mostly comes up short. It is an attempt at reckoning, for which, however, it can never stand in. All we ask is that, at any point, you set this book aside to do the more urgent work of finding points of contact with communities in whose service, ultimately, we persevere to create. You can learn and live and fight at the forefront of movements for change—and still produce the kind of literature you never have to apologize for. You can construct a more humane world. And then you make it matter.

FOREWORD: DEFACING ICONS, TOPPLING PEDESTALS

Introduksyon

Paglilimi, Pagbabagtas, at Pagdurugtong sa mga Agwat Polynne E. Dira

PAANO BA NATIN sisimulang gagapin ang distansya, at ang kalakip nitong mga tunggalian? Paano ba natin ilalapat sa ating mga buhay itong pinapanukalang social distancing gayong tayo ay bansang sinanay na magsiksikan, pagtiisan ang pagkakapitpit para lang mabuhay. Paano tayo aalpas sa mga kontradiksyon nitong distansya—halimbawa, na itong espasyo sa pagitan ng mga pasahero ay magliligtas sa kanilang buhay ngunit magiging mitsa naman ng tsuper na hirap maka-quota. Ito ang mga tanong na inihapag ng Philippine Collegian mahigit isang taon na ang nakakalipas, nang magpatawag ito ng mga kontribusyon para sa antolohiya nito. Nais nating mabigyang linaw, o kung hindi ma’y kahit papaano makilala, ang ating mga kalituhan habang nagtatransisyon ang mundo patungo sa bagong panahon ng COVID-19. Tampok sa 42 likhang sining sa antolohiyang ito ang pagsubok na mabatid ang konsepto ng distansya; ang pagkakalayo mula sa mahal sa buhay, ang pagkabukod ng sarili sa lipunan at sa mundo, at ang pagpuno sa espasyo sa pagitan. Maaaring sa halip na masagot ang mga tanong ay lalo lang umusbong ang mas marami pang kalituhan, ngunit nawa’y magsilbing gabay ang mga akda at obra sa antolohiyang ito upang mas maayos na matukoy, mahimay, at mas konkretong maihapag ang ating mga pinagdaraanan sa panahong ito. Iba-ibang porma ng distansya at espasyo ang binigyang-anyo ng mga akda’t obra. Sa “To Someone Behind Bars” ni Fidel Agcaoili, yumaong peace consultant ng National Democratic Front of the Philippines, binabagtas ang layo ngunit di nagmamaliw ang pakikiisa ng isang bilanggong pulitikal sa kilusan sa labas ng kanyang preso. Sa kabilang banda, ibinahagi naman ni Lex Banaag ang walang pagal na pagkilos ng mga rebolusyunaryo sa kanayunan, upang mapalapit sa kalayaan ang masang pinaglilingkuran. Gayundin, sa pakikibaka natagpuan ni Sasha Dalabajan ang katuturan ng kanyang buhay matapos ang ilang taong paglalakbay sa iba’t ibang lugar. Bahagi ng daan patungo sa kalayaan ang patuloy na pagmumulat sa ordinaryong mamamayan tungkol sa kaniyang kahirapan, at ito ang ipinapakita INTRODUKSYON: PAGLILIMI, PAGBABAGTAS, AT PAGDURUGTONG SA MGA AGWAT

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ni Marvin Ang sa “Tigil-pasada” at ni Raymund P. Reyes sa “Joey and the Bengali Taxi Driver.” Sa mga ito matutunghayan ang kalagayan ng mga tsuper, sa Pilipinas at sa ibang bansa, sa ilalim ng pandemya, at ang kanilang laban para sa kanilang pangkabuhayan. Mahusay ding isiniwalat ni Ferdinand L. Eusebio, Joey V. Ogatis-I, at Rommel Chrisden Rollan Samarita ang buhay ng milyon-milyong Pilipinong naghihirap dahil sa kawalan ng trabaho ngayong may krisis, at ang kanilang pakikipagsapalaran upang panatilihing buhay ang mga sarili. Ngunit habang naiiwang magkanya-kanya at ubos-lakas na naghahanap ng ikabubuhay ang mamamayan, hindi lamang pandemya, ni kaakibat nitong kahirapan sa ekonomiya, ang hinarap na banta sa buhay ng mga Pilipino. Ang quarantine at iba pang health protocol ay ginamit upang imilitarisa ang bansa, sa gayon ipagpatuloy ang marahas na giyera kontra droga at giyera kontra aktibista’t progresibo. Kita ang karahasan sa ilalim ng pandemya sa dibuho ni Roi Yves H. Villadiego na pinamagatang “Mula Lote Patungong Pintuan,” at maikling komiks nina Levei Len Bigcas at Nikki Teng na may pamagat na “Bal-bal,” gayundin sa “Crematoria” ni Brixter Tino. Halos 40,000 na ang naitalang namatay sa COVID ngayong Setyembre 2021, ngunit kung tutuusin, maaari sanang naiwasan ang dami ng nawala kung maayos na naagapan ng pamahalaan ang pagkalat ng sakit. Sa pagkakataong ito, hindi na lamang maisisisi sa pandemya ang pagkawala ng ating mga mahal sa buhay. Ang kapalpakan ng pamahalaang magbigay ng maayos na tugon sa krisis ang ugat ng pagdadalamhati, at sa gayon, marapat lamang magalit ang mga naulila. Umiikot ang mga akda ni Gretle Mago, Kervin Tabios, Raya de Leoz, R.B. Abiva, at Mina Deocareza sa kawalan at pangungulila; sumusubok ang mga itong iproseso ang pagdadalamhati, at marahil, ang paglaki ng ating kapasidad na unawain ang paglisan ng minamahal. Inilahad din nina Ana Algabre Hernandez, Marcy Lioanag, at Louise Sejera sa kanilang mga obra ang pakiramdam ng pag-iisa, pangungulila, at ang pilit na pagnanakaw ng estado sa atin ng ating panahon. Ang ating pagluluksa ngayon ay hindi lamang nadarama sa pagyao ng malalapit sa atin, bagkus sa pag-alala rin sa mga bagay at panahong ipinagkait at iwinala sa atin ng mga krisis at tiwaling pamumuno. Sa “Ang Huling Araw ni Selya” ni Jose Monfred Sy, “Armaggedon and Other Time Loops” ni Paulo Lorenzo Garcia, at “Mga Bagong Kasabihan sa New Normal” nina Kel Almazan at Geraldine Gentozala-Juachon, gayundin sa dibuhong “The Bloom” ni Mikha Calderon, ipinakita ang tila apokaliptik nating karanasan sa pandemya—paanong ang lahat ng nangyayari sa paligid ay tila mga senyales, hindi lang ng nagbabagong panahon, kundi pagguho nitong mundong dati nating nakasanayan. Inaalala naman sa “Losaci Isctanigdi” ni Aa. M. Gabao, “Tira-tirang Tirahan” ni Nicolas Antonio, mga dibuho nina James Atillo at Raniella Martinez, at mga larawan ni JT Trinidad ang mga bagay na naiwan sa pagkakataong nilisan

ng mga estudyante ang unibersidad. Ito ang panahong ang inaakala nating dalawang linggong suspensyon ng pisikal na klase ay agad na matatapos, at di magtatagal, babalik din tayo upang ipagpatuloy ang saglit na naantalang buhay bago ang pandemya. Ngunit ang dalawang linggo ay humaba sa isang buwan, tatlong buwan, hanggang sa ipinagdiwang nga natin ang Pasko’t Bagong Taon nang hiwa-hiwalay, at ngayon, muli na naman nating sasalubungin ang panibagong taon nang halos hindi nagbabago ang ating kalagayan. Tampok sa “Wear a Mask/Keep Distance Six Feet Away” ni Elmer Omar Pizo, “Middle-Class Angst, Middle-Class Values” ni Marlon De Vera, at “Page 2 of 3, Hospital Bill for Room 232” ni Daniel Sebastianne Daiz ang hitsura ng bagong normal sa panahon ng COVID, kung saan tila kasama sa magiging normal ay ang kasanayan natin sa pag-iisa. Naglilimi naman ang mga akda nina Kyle Cajucom-Uy, Precious Paglinawan, at Jose Martin Singh sa lockdown—ang pagkakakulong sa iisang lugar, pag-iisa, at pagsusumamong mabago ang mga kasalukuyang kondisyon. Ipinakita rin ni Hans Pieter L. Arao sa kanyang maikling kwento, at ni Christian Ryan Ram Malli sa kanyang mga tula, ang epekto ng distansya sa mga sinusubukang buuing relasyon sa pagitan ng mga tao sa panahong lahat ng bagay ay nakukulong na lamang sa birtuwal na mundo. Habang kalakhan sa atin ay unti-unti nang nasasanay, namamanhid, sa bagong mga patakaran—bawal lumabas nang walang face mask, hindi makakapasok sa mga establisimyento nang di suot ang face shield, walang magdidikit ng mas malapit sa isa’t kalahating metro—may kahirapan namang sumabay sa mga ito ang mga may kapansanan. Inilahad ni Och Gonzalez sa kanyang sanaysay na “Invisible” ang kanyang pagbabaybay sa mundong lalong nalimitihan ang kanyang mga abilidad dahil sa mga protocol. Gaano man karami ang ninakaw at nilimitahan sa atin ng pandemya, sinusubukan nating humanap ng mga maliliit na bagay na magpapanatili sa ating huwisyo. Ang ilan sa atin ay nakita ito sa mga alaga, gaya ng makikita sa akdang “Homecoming” ni Maria Christina Calachan. Ang iba nama’y ginuguol ang libreng panahon sa pag-aaral ng musika, sa pag-asang magagamit natin ito upang muling kumonekta sa mga relasyong ipinaglayo ng pandemya, gaya ng ibinahagi ni Pat Labitoria sa kaniyang sanaysay. Para naman sa ating mga nagsusulat, kumakatha’t lumilikha, marahil ay naging espasyo ang panahong ito upang subukang ihatid ang ating mensahe sa bagong anyo, gaya ng eksperimentasyon ni Leo Cosmiano Baltar sa kanyang mga tula. Tampok din sa antolohiyang ito ang piyesa ni Prop. Tilde Acuña na nagpapakita ng mga dagling rebyu sa Shopee at Lazada—ang paglamat sa mga plataporma ng merkado at kapitalismo gamit ang mga pulitikal na komento sa mga produktong binebenta rito. INTRODUKSYON: PAGLILIMI, PAGBABAGTAS, AT PAGDURUGTONG SA MGA AGWAT

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Hindi magiging posible ang pagkakabuo ng antolohiyang ito kung wala ang mga kontributor, na naging pasensyoso rin sa matagal na pagkakalimbag ng libro. Lubos ang pasasalamat ng patnugutan ng antolohiyang ito sa mga nagbahagi ng kani-kanilang mga akda’t obra. Nagpapasalamat din ang punong patnugot ng Philippine Collegian kina Richard Calayeg Cornelio, Sheila Abarra, Kenneth Zapata, at John Reczon Calay, ang mga pangunahing editor para sa antolohiyang ito, sa matiyagang pagsusuri sa mga isinumiteng akda, at pagpapaunlad pa sa mga natanggap na likhang sining. Kinikilala rin ang kontribusyon nina Kim Yutuc, Jiru Rada, Sam Del Castillo, at Marvin Ang upang mabuo at mailimbag ang libro. Hindi rin malilimutan sina Trinidad Gabales, Gina Bakukanag, at Amelyn Daga na naging suporta ng publikasyon sa mga aktibidad nito. Pinasasalamatan rin ng publikasyon ang Office for Initiatives in Culture and the Arts na nag-gawad ng financial grant sa proyekto, at naging maunawain sa naantalang pagtatapos ng libro. Kinikilala rin ng patnugutan ang Office of Student Projects and Activities, at Office of the Vice Chancellor for Student Affairs ng UP Diliman para sa kanilang suporta. Huli, maraming salamat sa aming mga mambabasa na patuloy na tumatangkilik sa matalas na peryodismong inihahatid ng Collegian. Nawa’y matapos ang pagbabasa ng aming mga akda, makasama natin ang isa’t isa sa pakikipaglaban upang lumaya mula sa magulo at mapang-aping lipunang inilarawan sa mga likhang-sining na nakapaloob sa librong ito.

To Someone Behind Bars Fidel V. Agcaoili

Must you sit all day watching the seasons pass and writing paeans to birds in flight? Can’t you hear the forest beckon with the sharp crack of snapping twigs, soft drift of morning dew and cool murmur of cascading streams? Does not your hand feel empty of plow upturning the soil, sickle stashing stalks and rifle venting our people’s wrath? To pierce walls with pen suffices not to vault and wield a fiercer spear in the arena of our people’s epic struggle is the gut logic of prison.

TO SOMEONE BEHIND BARS

POINTS OF CONTACT

Invisible Och Gonzalez

ON THE MINT green curtains in my bedroom, I see a tiny dragonfly clinging. How it has gotten there, I have no idea. How does anything get anywhere? I only know that it’s the perfect accessory, matching my curtains with its iridescent green wings and tail. I peer closely at it, admiring its delicate, intricate, latticed wings. But my husband would have none of it, so he plucks the creature off by its tail, opens the window, and sets it free. I watch my dragonfly—I’ve named it Jade—flutter off, down to where the soldiers are. From my perch on the 29th floor, I watch Jade turn into a shimmering dot, then into nothingness, dissolving seamlessly into the air. So, unlike the men dressed in camouflage on the corner of my street, just as they have been for more than a month now, not blending into anything at all but sticking out like lumps of dull green clay in the middle of my concrete landscape. All over the country, clusters of soldiers stand at barricaded checkpoints, stopping cars on the road and asking for drivers’ quarantine passes. No pass, no entry. Go back to your home. In the distance, I can see them gesturing, pointing to various directions, but their faces are too small, tiny brown blurs. Right beside the soldiers’ white tents, a faded green roof covers a church, and above it, a cross rises on a white dome. On its courtyard, there are two bean-shaped patches of grass starting to turn brown from the heat of the tropical summer. There are no people going in to pray. The church has long been closed, just like all the other churches in the world. Whatever praying we do now, we do it alone.

But none of these matters to me right now. Nothing matters as much as the fact that everyone is wearing masks. As a nearly deaf person who relies on lip-reading to communicate, this is my worst nightmare, even worse than death perhaps. I’ve always dreaded darkness and hospitals and people speaking with their backs turned, any kind of cover, really, that prevents me from seeing people’s lips. What grows in me right now—what has taken root and spawned blooms of despair in my heart—is loneliness. In a country like ours, where there is little to no support for people like me, I am left to struggle on my own. I am left to advocate for myself because no one else will. But at a time like this, there is nothing to do, really—it is a matter of life and death. I want to rip people’s masks off their faces to save myself from the metaphorical dying of my soul, but if I do that, we might all literally die. I’ve lost my business, like hundreds of thousands of other people all over the world, but more than that, I’ve lost connection. I’ve lost the joy of navigating the topography of people’s faces and watching their lips pucker and stretch and release words—soothing words, wondrous words, even angry words. On my truly despondent days, I read poems in front of a mirror and watch my own lips move in rhythm with the poets’. I am now at the mercy of someone else’s mercy. The first time I went out during the lockdown, I took the elevator down my building to the ground floor with my son. We lined up at the lobby to list my name on the barangay’s Persons With Disabilities form. I watched my son talk to the barangay officer, a woman wearing a black cloth mask, sitting behind a white plastic table, both of their masks trapping their words. I stood beside him, waiting for the woman to find a way to address me instead of directing all her questions to him. This visit is about me after all. But I was a ghost, seemingly invisible. In a time like this, people like me, who already live on the margins of oblivion, disappear even more, shrinking into our defeated, faulty bodies. All of a sudden, I feel ashamed again, after decades of overcoming and rejecting the notion of shame in any conversation about disability. For the first time, it occurs to me that this could be the year I lose my mind. A part of me knows I shouldn’t complain. I am not hungry in the way millions of my countrymen are. I am well enough to lose track of the days, sometimes not even knowing if it’s a weekday or a weekend. The truly hungry and the truly sick cannot do this—they count every minute till their next meal, or their next breath. I have nothing to anchor my days with—I am adrift, floating on a boat in an endless sea of time, but still I am on a boat, unlike others who are treading water and drowning. This unmindfulness of the passage of time is a privilege. And yet I feel myself graying, eroding, my blood thinning to dust. I feel myself on the cusp of vanishing, never to be seen again. INVISIBLE

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It scares me that this could be our permanent future. Will we spend the rest of our lifetimes in masks? Am I forever doomed to see only people’s eyes? To imagine their words straining to reach me and dying before they do? To have interactions only through the screen of a phone or a computer, through which sound and movement don’t translate well? At least not well enough for somebody with faulty auditory wiring. I point to my ears now and just shake my head whenever someone speaks to me through a mask. I don’t tell them they can type on their phones or write on a piece of paper to communicate because I want to see how much of an effort they would make on their own. Instead, I wait, and in that white space where I wait is vulnerability. And then the waiting turns into watching the backs of the people who choose to walk away, and I imagine the thump-thump of their footfalls while they do. I am reminded of how far we still have to go, as a country, in terms of disability awareness. I remind myself that it’s not always all unkindness. In a country like ours, much is needed to break down the barriers of discrimination and see disability for what it is—simply people living in bodies that work against them, or minds that are wired differently. Society’s poor understanding of the nature and needs of differently-abled people pushes us to stay in the shadows. But it’s a vicious cycle—the more we stay in these shadows, the less we are understood. And in a dire situation as this pandemic, as ironic as it sounds, we no longer have the luxury of hiding or waiting. In order to be seen, we must be unafraid to be in the light. After Jade flies away, I look up what a dragonfly symbolizes. It’s a symbol of courage, strength, and happiness in Japan, but seen as sinister in European folklore. In the Philippines, we have no such meanings ascribed to this creature. The choice is mine now—I must choose wisely. And while I think about this, while I shuttle between fear and hope and strength and despair, I look down at the bean-shaped grass below and wonder how long it can stay green on its own.

Tira-tirang Tirahan Nicolas Antonio

Pagpatak ng Marso ‘a kinse sumabay ako sa ragasa ng milyung-milyong tao, sa balik-eksodo— milya-milyang baryasyon ng iisang linya sa ere o tubig o lupa Nakipagsapalaran sa daan pauwing tahanang minsan nilisan papunta sa syudad ng pangako’t pag-asa Malayo ang nilakbay palayo kaya malayo rin ang babaybayin pabalik sa pinagmulang minsang pinagkanulo para sa kung anong nosyon ng magandang buhay Dito sa kalsadang binaybay Pauwi, baka-sakali, sa parehong bahay nakita sa bawat kasamang manlalakbay ang katotohanang walang umaalis o bumabalik ng tahana’ng hindi napupuruhan. San Jose, Nueva Ecija, Setyembre 2020. TIRA-TIRANG TAHANAN

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The Bloom

Mikhaela Calderon

THE BLOOM

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WHAT WE ARE IN THE PAINFUL METERS Christian Ryan Ram Malli

Deadly Inaction I still think about her. The girl who meant nothing but became more when she died. Marooned. There is no closeness to speak of, especially now. I sit in a locked room, hear muffled lives and know that before she went, she only discovered incoherence. They didn’t tell me what her self-inflicted, final pain had been. I don’t ask. I let myself imagine she’s sleeping without the legacy of a blade across her. Distance stalls reality, like the arrival of a catastrophe isn’t real until there’s damage. Crooked landscapes open for the sun’s grief. The finality of her death is unpersuasive. I did not attend the funeral. No body to look at and say: so there she is or was. A name only makes sense with light, otherwise it’s just a nature of darkness, which I suppose is what she is now. When a person dies, they become a lot of things they are not, and the maggots make sure of it, nipping at the muscles, the serenity of nerves (are they ever aware they’re eating nothing? no resistance to bite, no recoil.) until the person becomes only an idea, a breath exhaled then scattered and wisps of engine smoke dilute them, and you are reminded of where you are, and where they are not, where they could never be. WHAT WE ARE IN THE PAINFUL METERS

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A friend advised me three months after the quarantine period began that I should create an inner space. A space within the space. And I think this is automatic; the mind’s response to walls. To reach beyond the rigidness and uproot rats from the sewers, take out their hearts and plant them, expect them to grow. Wait. I visit my old loneliness like how people visit the dead, and now I visit her, too. Not because I loved her, but once I answered her patience with a stare, out in the terrace of a hotel in Timog. Our friends were in chambers that bled with technicolor bliss, while we talked in slurs; looking back, we must have been trying to find the rhetoric that could save her.

I Found a Loophole in Hate The ocean’s forgiveness lies in our being alive even after we ran away from it. Our pulse, always a wave, inching towards some fierce event, longing, always longing to crash into something larger than its potential. If a flood were to end us, the kind that is a mouth with many teeth of jagged junk, our blood will meet the waves in silent reunion. But we are forgiven, like how I hold my niece who came from the same water that wants me dead. I hold her, aware she’s everything and nothing like her mother. With a pulse that knows only the crib, she claws at its net with a vigor the size of my sister’s instinct to push my flesh deep deep into a watery quiet. But you should see that baby smile at me. Every practice done to be made larger than hate met with toothless absolution. What we are in the future is washed in salt, dreams bellied by the ocean. Emotions are waves in nature; what is strength in understanding is strength in love and when we return to the water, our communion profound, there will be no need to inflict ourselves to others again. What we are now is defiance caused by solid form. Structures designed for collisions, so when we part, we are the wreckage of a living room, a red island on somebody’s face, the space illuminated only by a pang WHAT WE ARE IN THE PAINFUL METERS

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one can only attribute to loss. Because hatred is staring at my sister with the distance of a lifetime. Someday, we will float along together with the composure of a lake. All hate only a ripple across. For now, I give my niece all the love I can’t give her.

Our Grand Communion The blue air swirls in the morning. Around it goes without a destination, only a purpose to color everything in its breath. Usually, I’m not around before the sun cracks open its yolk all over the dense peace that glooms the cul-de-sac. Today, I wake up at 5, the spill of yellow still inside the cracking star, and the blue air tempering all the other colors with a blow. Every movement is this color. With it comes the accompanying quality: I stumble to reach for the mug and I shower, drowning drowsiness. On the other side of the street, love beckons the beloved to go back to sleep. When she can’t, she’ll see the window revealing a sliver of blue light. And she might cry, because he’s always somewhere else; the man on the bed, merely a shell without an essence so enforcing that the house reeks of him. I hear a belt of pain somewhere. Or perhaps I’m wrong, and it’s only the kettle downstairs, squealing, or maybe it’s the bakery in all of its dependence on metal; or perhaps when you combine the sound of light switches from houses to restaurants to universities, to offices, to public bathrooms, light will actually shriek as its skin stretches. From a distance a child becomes less of a blessing and more of a noise with disastrous mobility and people, both loved and unloved, unravel the streets’ operations in the victorious scene of a city just beginning to be unblue.

WHAT WE ARE IN THE PAINFUL METERS

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Shower I squint my eyes to feel you. the discomfort flourishes; today, through a shower as the soap licks my edges. I remember your hands just as slick and helping, carrying my trembling existence with nothing but a nudge to my thigh, a soft precision of want. I rub until you fly out of my grip, and the shower dissolves the memory. but even the water is a part of you, tap tap tap a barrage of touches, concentrated on one destination: standing in the grocery aisle, and there you are arms spread out, like I make the unfamiliar habitable, tap tap tap jabbing at my arm, my torso, my face, my lips, I feel obligated to regard you with everything I am, to hand you the world, which in that moment is a jar of pickles. now I spread my body at the shower, letting it pelt all the places you once poked with the intention of loving me. I settle in the cold embrace.

On Wednesdays My World is as Real as a Grave The day’s task is to burn gradually, but today I don’t participate in its arson. I lay on a map of my own grime, maybe some dandruff, cum —cities would envy such pollution. A body undead, but its repose reeking of what it could be if only the heart stopped beating. The floor in its silence awaits my weight, and I stare at its ridiculous loyalty. Just swallow me. When a hand blooms, the popular idea is to close it once it has found something to conquer. I once held a man who held another; in that I learned to lose even with clenched fists. My palms are as open as the ocean, its directive to ravage and separate and never to own. Here, on my bed, time is no more than shadows bending languidly over obstacles—an anarchy surpassing the stubbornness of solid things. All melts to ink under the smooth bars of the sun until there’s nothing left but a puddle the size of a room: you don’t need water to drown, you just have to chase the light away. I receive no visitors, nor flowers. all I get is the romantic sound of lives coming from all directions but mine.

WHAT WE ARE IN THE PAINFUL METERS

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Losaci Isctanigdi Aa. M. Gabao

TUMABI AKO SA kanya nung may mga bumaba. Kanina ko pa siya tinitignan. Napansin ko lang siya, tatlong stations pa kanina. Ito yung nakasabay ko dati, matagal na, na nakatinginan ko. Tapos, bago siya bumaba, pumwesto muna siya sa tabi ko na nakatayo, nagkadampian yung braso naming dalawa nang maraming beses dahil sa alog ng tren, habang hindi nagtitinginan. Ngayon ko na lang uli siya nakita. Mabait siya. Nung binati ko siya ng ngiti, binalikan niya rin ako ng ngiti. Nagpakilala ako sa kaniya. “Ngayon ko lang ‘to ginawa,” sabi ko. Sinabi ko sa kaniya kung paano ko siya kilala. Hindi niya maalala. “Try ko alalahanin,” sabi niya, “heh.” Natahimik ako sandali. Pinapanood naming dalawa yung mga gusaling mabilis na dumaan. At saka yung lungsod. Sinubukan ko uli siya tuksuing makipag-usap. Kinwento ko sa kaniya yung napanaginipan ko na nasa ilalim ng mga building sa business capital ng bansa, may underground evacuation center na nakahanda kung sakaling may mangyaring sobrang lalang delubyo o krisis sa pakikipagkapwa. Under construction pa lang yung tunnel. Semento pa lang at saka mga tubo na hindi pa napipinturahan. Pero may mga tao na sa loob. Hindi pa katapusan ng mundo, gusto lang nila ng lugar para mag-tsismisan. May mga nag-uusap na kung anong relihiyon dapat nandito, at saka playlist na papatugtugin sa soundsystem magdamag. Maraming tao sa taas, sa labas ng building sa entrance. Natatawa siya sa‘kin. “Ay, naalala na kita,” sabi niya. Naalala daw niya na nasa sulok ako nakasandal, dugyot tignan kasi ang sikip, umiiwas ng tingin. Naalala niya na malagkit braso ko. “Akala ko nga sasama ka sa’kin. Iuuwi na sana kita. Parang pasalubong. Tapos, e-enjoyin kita magdamag,” sabi niya. Dinetalye niya kung paano niya gagawin yun. Pagkatapos, tumigil siya sa pagsasalita. Nagulat na lang ako sa kaniya. Nung dumating na sa station niya, tinignan niya muna ako nang diring-diri bago bumaba. Pinakyu niya ako sa bintana. Hindi niya man lang binigay pangalan niya para mahanap ko siya online. Nakatingin sa’kin yung mga pasahero. ‘Yun na yung huli naming pagkikita kasi sa sumunod na araw, sinarado na muna nila pansamantala yung mga public transpo. Kinwento ko ‘to sa isa kong kaibigan sa chat. Nasa ospital siya kasi ineexperiment kung paano makukuha sa katawan niya yung vaccine. Nasa lahi kasi niya yung healthy diet at regular exercise. Kasama niya yung tatlo niyang jowa para suportahan siya. Nakilala ko siya dati sa school. Kinaibigan niya ako kasi mabait siya. Mahilig siya sa charity. Nakapag-donate na ang pamilya niya sa mga nangangailangan at ginawa nang temporary medical facility yung isa nilang mansyon. Hindi siya mahilig mag-post ng mga kontribusyon niya sa lipunan. Pino-post niya yung pagsuporta niya sa mga “nagsa-suggest kung paano dapat makatulong sa sambayanan,” sa pagkaka-explain niya. Meron pa siyang mga sinasabi tungkol sa pagiging neutral. Matalino siya. Nag-master’s pa siya. Sa free time niya, nanonood siya ng mga sikat na palabas, o kaya naglalaro ng mga sikat na laro. Kaya sikat din siya sa mga ka-edad namin. Nung kinausap ko siya, sabi LOSACI ISCTANIGDI

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niya, “Hala :( ansama hahaha wag mo na problemahin yan,” tapos nag-suggest siya ng mga kailangan kong panoorin, tapos nag-aya siyang maglaro ng online game kasama yung mga syota niya. Nanalo kami. Ako lang yung naka-tanso na medal sa’min. Pumasok bigla yung kapatid ko sa kwarto tapos sinigawan ko siya para lumabas. “Ang panget mo,” sigaw rin niya pagkasarado ng pinto. Sabi nung kaibigan kong biniyayaan ng langit at lupa, baka daw ilipat na muna siya sa sosyal na hotel na malapit sa ospital pagkatapos ng mga operasyon. Marami na siyang naiambag—maikukumpara na sa isa o dalawang malaking barangay. Mas lalo na ngayon na nasa katawan pala niya yung solusyon. Isosponsor daw ng world government yung pagbabakasyon niya. Kahit saan daw. “Travel goals,” sabi niya. Nagkwento din ako sa isa ko pang kaibigan, sa chat lang din. Pero hindi pa siya nagre-reply. Nagpapalipad siguro siya ng saranggola sa tapat ng bahay nila. Gawa sa plastic bag galing sa supermarket, barbecue sticks, at saka sinulid. Natututo na rin siyang magluto ng mga ulam. Pinapanood ko yung mga sinuggest sa’kin na palabas at umiinom ng cocoa dalgona habang iniintay kung ano masasabi niya.

THE PROSODY OF PESTILENCE Joey V. Ogatis-I

THE PROSODY OF PESTILENCE

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Points of Distance, Points of Poetry Poetry during the pandemic Is a measure of distance: Not the distance Between the start and end of lines, Not the length of words But the distance between lives – The distance between the body And the coffin. Poetry during the pandemic Is a measure of distance Between intention and reception As meaning is mangled By an official who is At a loss for words and leadership. Poetry during the pandemic Is a measure of distance Between news and truth: It is the measure of distance Of logical jumps made by Those who blindly believe A government that pays no heed As the country’s coffers sickly bleed. Poetry during the pandemic Is a measure of distance Between government support And the governed’s stomach. Poetry during the pandemic Is crossing the distance Between patience and protest.

This Dance Distance As COVID-19 grinds against our chests, We can only follow the steps: A meter apart, just enough For us to be out of step with sickness. Where hands used to lead us To let our lives sway into each other, Elbows now become The point of contact For an ordered choreography Of caution and distrust. Everyone is our partner In this fearful foxtrot: The tearful deliveryman Who has to carry the weight Of a fake order; The jeepney driver whose machine Cannot share the stage of transport Of a government that follows The rhythm of ruin; The faithful frontliner whose life Is in a constant pirouette with pestilence; And the free press That will never be a party To trolls who tiptoe around truth. As each day twirls into the next, We can only hope That our dance with the one from Davao Whose life is a frolic of faults Will, by the grace of an angry mass, Not be an endless waltz.

THE PROSODY OF PESTILENCE

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Hagkan

Marcy Lioanag

Odd Years Gretle Mago

I CAN STILL smell the paint fumes. I was seven when Lolo barged into my room holding tin cans of paint and big brushes and rollers. It was too early that day, a quiet—too quiet—Saturday. Maybe that was why his eyes were puffy and red. Marching, he told me to get up because we were going to paint for my mother. I never really understood why, for the last six months, his eyes had always been puffy and red. The only time my eyes were properly swollen and red was when I’d woken up with both of my eyes bitten by a cockroach. Of course, it had only lasted an hour or so before the puffiness started to deflate, and all went back to normal. Of course, I cried. But unlike Lolo, I’d only cry for a few minutes. Lolo had been crying for six days already. The cockroach stung him too hard. “For when she comes home,” he told me. The tin cans were all the same color. I didn’t want to paint the fences. It was hot outside even at the earliest time of the day. I also didn’t want to paint the fences because of the smell. It was too strong. And it lingered. It lingered for so long that I could still smell the paint fumes even at a mile from home. Later, sometime in my 20s, I would decide that the only way to get rid of the smell was to throw out every paint, brush, roller in the house. But that wouldn’t work either. I’d still have the fences, the walls, the ceilings to remind me. Even with the faintest fume, you’d be shocked by its weight around the room. But I was seven and didn’t know that yet. All I knew at the time was it was too early for painting. ODD YEARS

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There was a time where everyone in the house was scared of me. Once, I cried until my face turned a shade of purple, and they thought I was dying. Another time, I slept so deeply they thought I’d actually died. As I grew older, my crying didn’t scare them as much, but the sleeping still did. It wasn’t because I cried less that they weren’t scared anymore, but because there was finally a reason for my crying that they could relate to. They understood why I cried at the sight of an injection needle. They understood why I cried at the joke that Lolo would grow old bald. They understood why I cried when I told them most of my classmates teased me for just having Mama and when I didn’t have Mama anymore. They understood why I cried at the small patch of grass, wearing all white. They understood. Because they did cry, then, too. With the sleeping, I could never understand why Lolo still fell for it, despite the countless pranks I’d pulled on him before. By this time, Lolo should have been fed up with my antics and just dragged me out of the room to paint with him. But he still ran to the bed and shook my shoulders that were failing miserably from trembling while I held the laughter trying to get past my lips. “Apo, still there?” Lolo whispered. There was panic in his voice, which would strangely register in my voice some years later. It was the same kind of panic where he feared I suddenly wouldn’t wake up anymore. An irrational fear is still a fear, I learned. And death is still death that we’ll eventually learn. “Still here!” I cackled as he sat defeated on the edge of the bed releasing a deep breath. Unclutching his nervous hands from the bedsheet, he took a swat at my arm and told me to never do that again. “You don’t know how much you scared me!” I didn’t know that at the time. But I do now. Then both of us went outside wearing shirts we accepted would be tainted forever. It was still a shirt after all. It was normal to get lost in your thoughts while painting fences. As much I would like to talk his ear off, Lolo just wanted silence. There’s always lunchtime where I can tell him all about the grade school gossip, he’d say. Every now and then, without looking up from painting, he asked, “You still there?” “Still here.” I huffed. Together in silence we painted the fences white, for Mama when she came home. For my 14th birthday, Lolo unwrapped the present he and Lola gave me. They were different kinds of paint, all in the color of red. Lola wished for all the walls to be painted red by Christmas. Lola was the one who had convinced me that red was my color. I suspect that she just wanted me to appreciate the tomatoes she grew and the lipstick she wore. Red was really her color. “What with how bright and dark it can be, how the color red can remind me of your face,” she explained. It reminded her of the bright red on my cheeks when Lola praised me in front of her friends. The dark red on my entire face when I sobbed over the faintest memory of my dead mother. Even now, when all becomes

too much for me, because it will always be too much for people like me, I convince myself that red is just red. That color is just a color. That everyone is still here. * That day, Lolo was scrubbing his eyes a little too hard until he teared up. I asked him why and told him to stop, but he couldn’t. There were no insects to sting his eyes. They were bigger insects. They were stings that stayed. “I was up all night waiting for your Lola to sleep,” he said. I knew Lola was tired. I knew he was, too, but he still took care of her early in the morning and late at night. He’d still waken up early that day to wake me up. But by afternoon we still hadn’t finished painting, and admittedly, Lolo’s spirit was wearing off. I let him doze off when we were on our last wall. I wanted to talk his ear off like before, but instead I decided I’d ask questions. We had always dealt with everything in silence. “Lolo, still there?” “Still here.” “Lolo, is Lola still there?” Silence. “Still here.” Christmas eve, our relatives clapped Lolo on his slumped shoulder. He smiled at them while scrubbing his eyes again. It was a pat that meant “You did a great job,” “Be strong,” “We’re here.” It was a pat that I thought was directed at our red walls. It was not until late that night I realized Lola was no longer here. We painted our fences white and it stayed the brightest for seven months. On its eighth month, the paint started chipping off and turned gray. It reminded us of Mama’s lips the night before she’d left. The next day we painted the fences white again. The red walls would always be the brightest at Christmas. That was when we would set up a dozen cable of lights. So many lights were hanging around we were able to fool ourselves into thinking it could match Lola’s lips when she’d laugh. It was not until I turned 21 that I realized there were things we could never cover up with paint: Those who can never return will never return. I cannot cover that up with white or red. I was 21 when I first painted alone. It was when I woke up early and slept too late. I also scrubbed my eyes too hard. I didn’t know how long my eyes stayed red and bleeding of tears, but I was still crying. Even when there were no tears, I wept. I now understood their fear of too much crying and too much sleeping. I cried so much when Mama and Lola died. I wanted to be with them just for the crying to stop. I slept so frequently and deeply, thinking that the day would come when what they feared and what I desired the most would happen. By this time, I should have known better. I should have understood it already. But maybe Lolo was just too tired. Maybe, like when I was seven, it was just an ODD YEARS

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irrational fear. I was 21 when it was I who barged into my Lolo’s room. It was still dark, then. Lately, for the past seven months, it had become my habit to check if Lolo was just sleeping. He knew death was going to happen, eventually, to everyone, and it was going to happen to him soon. It was all too much for me, and it always will be: acceptance. With acceptance you have to understand, to anticipate, to welcome, to consent. But how can I do all this with something I can never accept? I wanted to believe that day was the kind of day he could still talk to me. “Lolo, still know me?” “Hmm. Still you.” “Lolo, still you?” “Still me, apo.” “Lolo, still here?” “Never gone.” But it wasn’t that day. I wanted to believe that the day he died wasn’t the day he should have died. That somehow, someone just cheated. That we never dreaded this. Mama. Lola. Him. I should have just left the tin cans and brushes and held his hands. But I couldn’t stop my hands from trembling. My shoulders were shaking. I wanted to say, “Lolo get up.” “One more, one more to paint. Then you can finally go,” I wanted to plead. I wanted to accept. But all I could do was acquiesce. “Still there?” All I could smell was the paint fumes.

Unti-Unting Pagkalusaw Mina Deocareza

HABANG NAGSASALANSAN NG mga lalagyan ng ice cream sa cabinet, nagulat ako. Nakabuo na pala ako ng isang tore dahil sa dami ng mga nakonsumo namin. Dalawa lang kami ng karelasyon ko sa bahay at wala pang isang taon sa inuupahan. Parang may hindi tama. Napakamot na lang ako sa ulo. Pero kunsabagay, ilang buwan na rin pala kaming nakakulong. Ilang buwan na rin pala itong quarantine. Kung iisipin, hindi lang pala mga lalagyan ng ice cream ang naipon namin. Dumami na rin ang mga microwaveable na lagayan ng pagkain dahil hindi maiwasang mag-order o bumili sa labas, lalo na kung abala sa trabaho o sadyang nagkakatamaran lang. Isa pa, ice cream din pala ang isa sa mga naging takbuhan ko mula nang pagbawalan ng doktor sa pagkakape. Noon, kape ang minamaya’t maya ko. Walang magawa? Kape. Nalulungkot? Kape. Gutom? Kape pa rin. Ngayong bawal muna magkape, heto’t kung anu-anong pumapasok sa isip ko. Ang dami ko biglang cravings! At iyon na nga, isa sa mga napagdiskitahan ang ice cream. *

UNTI-UNTING PAGKALUSAW

POINTS OF CONTACT

Noong bata pa ako, tirador ako ng ice cream sa mga birthday party. Bukod sa Pinoy spaghetti, ice cream ang parati kong hinahanap sa mesa kung saan nakalatag ang mga handa. Kung hindi man ito nakalabas, sinisiguro ko laging magtanong sa pamilyang nagpapa-party. “May ice cream po ba?” Wala akong paki sa cake, lalo kung hindi naman tsokolate. Sa kanila na iyon! Ang mahalaga, may ice cream ako. Nagsimula ang kabaliwan ko sa ice cream dahil kay Nanay, ang lola kong ayaw magpatawag ng “Lola.” Siya ang kumupkop sa akin noong maghiwalay ang mga magulang ko’t magkani-kaniyang buhay. Lagi siyang bumibili ng ice cream tuwing may okasyon. Kaya naman, naiugnay ko na talaga ito sa selebrasyon. Kapag may ice cream, ibig sabihin, espesyal ang araw na iyon. Presto ang paboritong brand ng ice cream noon sa bahay. Madalas, ube ang flavor. Sabi ng mga nakakatanda sa bahay, sakto lang daw ang lasa noon. Hindi gaanong matamis kaya hindi nakakasawa. Hindi ko masyadong maintindihan ang ibig nilang sabihin noon. Basta ang mahalaga sa akin, may ice cream. Anuman ang brand o lasa, sobrang tamis man o sakto lang, ayos lang sa akin. Maramdaman ko lang ang lamig at tamis sa dila ko, makita ang bakas na iniiwan nito sa mga ngipin, masaya na ako. Espesyal din sa amin ang Magnolia. Kapag brand na ito naman ang binibili nila Nanay, madalas mangga ang flavor. At minsan, pinagbibigyan din naman kaming mga bulinggit kaya bumibili sila ng tsokolate, lalo kung isa sa aming magpipinsan ang nagdiriwang ng kaarawan. * Hanggang ngayon, mahilig pa rin sa ice cream ang pamilya ko. Sa tuwing may okasyon sa bahay namin sa Antipolo, mayroon at mayroon pa ring bumibili ng ice cream. Sa tuwing doon ako magse-celebrate ng birthday ko, lagi akong may pa-ice cream. Bukod sa gusto ko iyon, alam ko ring mapapasaya noon ang mga nakababata kong pinsan. At siyempre, pati si Nanay. Tumanda na siya’t lahat, mahilig pa rin siya rito. Marami nang ipinagbabawal sa kaniya, pero tuloy pa rin siya sa pagkain ng ice cream. Noong kaarawan niya nitong Pebrero lang, nagpa-ice cream din ako. Natuwa nga ako nang sobra dahil pagkatapos ng kainan, siya pa ang nanguna sa pagkuha sa ice cream. Pagkakuhang-pagkakuha ng lalagyan nito, inilapag niya ito sa mesa’t binuksan, saka siya nagsimulang kumuha gamit ang kutsara. Halata sa kaniya ang kasabikan habang hinuhukay ang matigas pa ring ice cream. Habang pinagmamasdan ko siya, isa lang ang pumasok sa isip ko: “Aba si Nanay, parang bata!”

* Parang bata. Ganito na madalas ilarawan ng mga tao sa bahay si Nanay. Mas kumukulit na raw siya at kung may gusto’y talagang magpupumilit. Ilang beses mang pagbawalan sa ilang pagkain, mangangatwiran pa rin. Malayo na rin daw ang isip niya sa kung gaano ito katalas noon. Mabilis na siyang makalimot. Madalas na umano niyang malimutan kung saan nailapag ang mga gamit sa bahay. Lagi na rin daw napapagod ang mga tao sa bahay sa kasasagot sa paulit-ulit niyang tanong na, “Kumain ka na?” Kahit pa nga raw katatapos lang niyang abutan ng pagkain, maya-maya’y tatanungin ka ulit, saka aayain. Noong una, hindi pa ako masyadong naniniwala. Sa isip ko, baka naman nantitrip lang. Nanlalambing o sadyang gusto lang mangulit. O baka sadyang gusto lang laging kumakain ang mga tao lalo na’t isa ang pag-aalok ng pagkain sa mga paraan niya ng pagpapakita ng pagmamahal. Hindi nga naman siya expressive na tao. Kahit alam kong paborito niya ako, kahit kailan ay hindi niya pa ako nasasabihan ng, “Mahal kita.” Pero lagi niya akong hinahainan sa hapag at maya-mayang tinatanong ng, “Ano, gusto mo pa ng kanin?” Di ko rin lagi nabibilang kung ilang beses niya ako alukin ng kape sa loob ng isang araw. * “Gusto ko ng ice cream!” bulalas ni Nanay. Bisperas ng bagong taon noon. “Magpabili tayo!” sagot ko naman sa kaniya. Ipinatawag ko ang pinsan kong si Jared na siyang runner ngayon ng pamilya. Nakisuyo kaming magpabili ng gusto niyang ice cream. Habang nag-aantay, tuloy ang kuwentuhan namin. Dahil matagal-tagal akong hindi nakabalik doon sa bahay, marami akong kuwento. Pero hindi rin nagtagal, bumalik na rin ang pinsan ko. Dala niya ang dalawang tig-isang litro ng ice cream. Dali-dali niyang iniabot ang mga ito sa akin. “O, kanino yan?” “Ha?” Ito na lang ang naisagot ng pinsan ko. Ibinigay na lang niya sa akin ang binili niya, saka nagpaalam. Wala, ako na ang bahala. Gusto ko sanang sabihin kay Nanay na sa kaniya iyon, dahil nag-request siya. Pero, naisip ko, huwag na lang. Patay-malisya na lang ako’t nag-imbento ng dahilan kung bakit biglang may ice cream sa bahay. Kesyo bagong taon naman, kaya bakit hindi? Saka, kung di man maubos, baka pwedeng pandagdag na rin sa handa sa kinabukasan. “A, sige!” sagot niya. Wala na sa mata niya ang kasabikan na mayroon siya noong nagsabing gusto niyang kumain nito. Ngayon, parang wala lang talaga sa kaniya. Sa puntong iyon, lalong naging malinaw sa akin. Matanda na nga si Nanay at nagiging makakalimutin na. UNTI-UNTING PAGKALUSAW

POINTS OF CONTACT

* Noong nakaraang Pebrero, nagpa-ice cream ulit ako sa bahay dahil kaarawan ni Nanay. Bago tumuloy sa bahay, dumaan muna ako sa supermarket para bumili ng dalawang galon ng ice cream: isang ube, isang mangga. Sabi ng tiyahin ko, mas mabuti raw na pasalubong na pagkain na lang ang bilhin ko, kaysa abutan ko si Nanay ng pera. Kapag daw kasi nagkakaroon ng grasya, ang una nitong naiisip ay pumunta sa bayan para mamalengke. Ang kaso, noong nakaraan lang daw, bigla na lang siyang naligaw. Napadpad siya kung saan dahil nalito raw sa daan. Buti na lang at nakita siya ng isang tricycle driver na tagaroon sa lugar namin at inihatid siya pauwi. Mahirap tanggapin ang balitang iyon para sa akin, lalo na’t noong bata pa ako’y isa si Nanay sa mga pinakatinitingala kong nakatatanda dahil sa talas ng memorya niya pagdating sa mga daan at ruta. Kahit sa Antipolo na kami nakatira, kabisadongkabisado niya pa rin ang mga pasikut-sikot sa Maynila. Ang matindi pa, hindi siya umaasa sa LRT. Sa halip, sinisuyod niya ang mga lansangang dinaraanan ng mga jeep at bus. Di uso ang shortcut. Hindi siya natatakot. Ni hindi napapapagod. Kung minsan nga, pati ibang lugar sa labas ng Kamaynilaan ay natutunton niya nang mga simpleng panuto lang ang bitbit, gaya noong pumunta kami sa isang kasal sa Calamba. Aliw na aliw ako noon sa haba ng biyahe at sa dami ng lipat ng sasakyan na ginawa namin. Si Nanay, game na game rin na parang walang kapaguran. Ang lakas din talaga ng loob niya. Ni minsan, hindi ko siya nakitang nalito kung saan kami dapat sumakay at bumaba. Noong hapong iyon, napansin kong parang paulit-ulit na ang ibang mga kuwento ni Nanay. Isa sa mga pinakanaaalala ko ay iyong kuwento niya tungkol sa nakita nilang engkanto sa tabing-dagat noong bata pa sila. Kasama niya raw si Lolo Flores, ang kapatid niyang sumunod sa kaniya. Habang naglilinis ng isda sa kalapit na dagat, napansin nilang may imaheng nabuo sa di-kalayuan. Nagkorteng tao raw ito. Agad din naman niyang naisip na hindi ito normal, kaya inakay niya kaagad ang kapatid para sila’y umuwi. Ibinahagi niya rin ang kuwentong iyon noong huling punta ko. Pero siyempre, nanahimik lang ako at nakinig. Kunwari, hindi ko pa alam kung saan iyon patungo. Patuloy ang pagtango ko sa kaniya, maging sa iba pang mga sinabi niyang pawang mga narinig ko na rin. Hindi ko yata siya kayang komprontahin at sabihing narinig ko na ang mga iyon. Dahil maraming pagkain noon, hindi agad nakakain ng panghimagas ang mga tao pagkatapos ng tanghalian. Kaya naman, pagdating ng oras ng meryenda, saka pa lang halos nabawasan ang dala kong ice cream. Si Nanay, nakisabay din sa mga tao. Ako naman, nagkakape noon dahil inaantok ako. Isa pa, natikman ko na iyon pagkatapos ng kainan.

Habang kumakain si Nanay ng ice cream, nagsimula siyang magkuwento. Pero, sa puntong ito, bago ang kuwento niya’t hindi iyong mga naibahagi niya na noon. Sabi niya, nagtrabaho raw siya dati sa factory ng Magnolia. At dahil kilala sa pagiging istrikta, isa raw siya sa mga naaasahan noon sa pagmo-monitor ng kalinisan sa area nila. Nagkuwento rin siya tungkol sa mga libreng produktong nakukuha nila noon gaya ng ice drop. Nagpahapyaw din siya sa mga kalokohan nila ng mga kasamahan niya sa trabaho. Nabanggit niya ring nagbenta siya noon ng ice drop sa Luneta. Hindi niya na naidetalye ang tungkol sa trabaho niyang ito. Gayunman, sa imahinasyon ko, nakabuo na ako ng imahe niya: Bata pa siya noon at maliksi, di nangangayayat at walang kulu-kulubot sa balat. Walang iniindang mga sakit. Malayo ito sa kung ano siya ngayon. Dahil sa kuwento niyang ito, mas naintindihan ko rin kung bakit mahilig siya sa ice cream. Naisip ko, bukod sa gusto niya ang lasa nito, baka naaalala niya rin ang kabataan niya kapag kumakain nito. Baka marami rin siyang magagandang mga alaala na nakakabit dito. Hindi naman iyon nakapagtataka. Ako man, hindi lang din lasa ang habol sa panghimagas na ito. Malapit din ito sa puso ko dahil sa dami ng mga masasayang alaalang nagbabalik sa isip ko sa tuwing kakain ako nito—may okasyon man o wala. O kahit may pandemya pa. * “Kailan ka ulit babalik?” tanong sa akin ni Nanay noong magpaalam akong aalis na. Hindi ko na maalala kung ano ang sagot ko sa kaniya noon. Sa totoo lang kasi, simula nang bumukod ako at nagkaroon ng sariling buhay sa Maynila, masyado na akong naging abala sa dami ng mga kailangang gawin para makaraos sa araw-araw. Iyon nga lang, naisip ko, dapat hindi ko masyadong patagalin pa bago ulit ako bumalik. Matanda na si Nanay. Ang bawat oras na hindi ko siya kasama ay malaking kawalan nang maituturing. Alam ko rin, balang araw, pagsisisihan ko ang lahat ng mga pagkakataon na hindi ko siya binalikan kahit kaya ko naman. Kaya nga lang, biglang lumala ang mga pangyayari dahil sa pandemya. Pagdating ng Marso, nagsimula ang lockdown na iyon pala’y magtatagal nang ilang buwan. Ngayon, wala pa ring kahit anong senyales na makapagsasabi kung ano ang mangyayari sa bayan. Mas inuuna pa ng pamahalaan ang ibang bagay: pagpapasara ng ABS-CBN, panggigipit sa mga kritiko, pagsigurong hindi masasaktan ang damdamin ng mga taga-Tsina. Bukod sa mga restriksyong dala ng quarantine, hindi ko pa rin alam kung kailan ulit ako makabibiyahe pabalik sa Antipolo nang walang inaalalang sakit na puwedeng maipasa ko kay Nanay. Hindi kaya ng loob ko na magbakasakali, lalo na’t UNTI-UNTING PAGKALUSAW

POINTS OF CONTACT

mas delikado ang virus sa mga nasa edad niya. At kung magawan man ng paraan, hindi ko pa rin siya basta malalapitan o mayayakap. * Pagkatapos kong isalansan ang mga lagayan ng ice cream na walang laman, di ko maiwasang matakam na naman sa paborito kong panghimagas—lalo pa nga’t naalala ko si Nanay. Parang sakto ang tamis at lamig nito bilang pangontra sa lungkol at pangungulilang nararamdaman ko, kaya mukhang mapapabili na naman ako ng ice cream sa convenience store sa baba ng tinutuluyan. Mukhang madaragdagan na naman ang aming koleksyon. Pero bago pa man ako tuluyang lamunin ng pantasya ko tungkol sa ice cream at kung paano nito mapapawi ang dinaramdam, lalong tumindi ang nararamdaman kong lungkot. Naalala ko kung gaano kadaling nalimutan ni Nanay ang tungkol sa ice cream na siya mismo ang humiling noong isang hapon na magkakuwentuhan kami. Naalala ko kung paano nawala sa mga mata niya ang pagkasabik sa panghimagas na gustong-gusto niya. Bigla-bigla, natakot ako. Kung ganoon lang kadaling mawaglit sa isip niya ang isang bagay na paborito niya, hindi kaya’t pati mga taong mahahalaga sa kaniya’y malimutan niya rin balang araw? Paano na kung ang mga alaala niya ay parang ice cream na rin palang unti-unting nalulusaw habang lumilipas ang oras? Gusto kong tumakbo’t magmadali para makabyahe agad papuntang Antipolo. Gusto ko siyang puntahan. Gusto ko siyang makausap, gusto ko na ulit siyang makakuwentuhan. Gusto ko siyang yakapin. Baka sa ganoong paraan, tumaas ang posibilidad na hindi niya ako malimutan. Kaya lang, hindi pa pwede. Sana, pagkatapos ng lahat ng ito, hindi pa huli ang lahat.

HOMECOMING Maria Christina Calachan

HOMECOMING

POINTS OF CONTACT

1. Burnt Offerings COMING HOME Today, a hot and muggy Monday morning of June, the Headline News at GMA 7 Network TV—“Forty-four thousand Overseas Filipino Workers Will Soon Be Home. Their jobs lost due to the pandemic.” My heart sinks like a paper boat snared by a swift, strong, and swirling current. How I feel so bad for them. How I feel so bad for myself. In February this year, I too, had to get back to the Philippines. A new work visa had to be reprocessed. It was necessary for my longer term of employment. I teach Grade II in Qatar. It’s a given—nobody can escape that country’s suffocating heat. And, believe me, how bitter is its loneliness. It’s that country on which I pin my hope that, brick after brick, I can lay there the solid foundation for my stable future. COVID-19 intervenes! With a sudden twist of fate, I find myself stuck! No one can get out from the Philippines. Qatar isn’t accepting travelers and workers from foreign countries. What do I see of myself now? A licensed Professional Teacher now without a job? Food Business Collecting all the strength and courage I can pick up from where I got stuck, I decide to invest with the earnings that were left from my former job as a senior secondary school teacher at the Department of Education, Philippines. For a testrun—three cloves of garlic, half-cup brown sugar, a kilogram of parboiled pork belly, a can of pineapple juice, a quarter cup of cane vinegar, a tablespoonful of paprika, a tablespoonful of salt—ingredients necessary to work on and come up with a mouth-watering magic of sliced meat—tocino, a very popular processed food in the Philippines. Taste Test Mother, in her mid-60s, sluggish after a day’s work, always have something to say on just about anything. I must have something decent and yummy to offer her and father for tonight’s dinner. Six hours have gone after the thin slices of pork are added to the marinade. The gas range’s burner is already set on medium high flame. A medium iron frying pan with two cups of water in its deep bottom now sits snugly on top of the burner. One by one, I put the marinated pieces of meat in it, after which I place a see-through cover on the pan to prevent the sizzling, crackling oil from jumping all over the place. Then I proceed to get on with washing the pile of my soiled clothes.

Result Not kind enough or courteous enough to issue any warning at all, multitasking often serves this unpalatable result. Thus, one needs to be extra mindful and vigilant when engaging in it. The lesson is hard. The lesson is learned. What is supposedly a savory dish for dinner has turned into pieces of meat that are charred beyond recognition!

2. Home Alone On the porch’s marble floor, guilt has wrapped its tentacles all over me as I watch your slow-wagging tails, sometimes stiff tails, and your eyes clouded by tears. I almost forgot it’s time to serve your lunch. I apologize. I pull chunk after chunk of flesh from the fin and the belly of this fried galunggong until only its main skeleton remains. It’s supposedly for your breakfast. I tear the chunks of flesh into strips. And with care, I separate those sharp, skinny bones as well. I’m doing this to make it easier for you to swallow and digest your food. And to keep you from harm. For there’s always the possibility of even a tiny bone getting lodged in your throat. Of course, I add in four cups of warm boiled rice and two spoonfuls of tinola soup to bring back whatever is lost of your senses after five long hours of food deprivation. Watching you and your mother devour your food, leaving nothing in your food bowl, brings me this feeling of great relief. I’m now freed from this guilty conscience of not having fed you and your mother at the right time. I, again, apologize. Now that both of you have eaten, I still have to squeeze in this important task— to catch these rushing ideas and type as fast as I can, while they are still here, to turn them into sentences, stanzas or paragraphs. So, while both of you are staring at me with your tails wagging, an unmistakable sign of your deep gratitude, I type the last two stanzas of this poem: For those who dare to get in and trespass in this house at this time of vulnerability, of being home alone, I’m secure. I have my trust in both of you that you’ll never leave me and you’ll protect me from harm or danger, and for whatever bad circumstance may it be. HOMECOMING

POINTS OF CONTACT

3. Of Having Nine Lives I. Sixteen days after my arrival from the Middle East, approximately a month before the full enforcement of the enhanced community quarantine—you and your three siblings, came out of this world. With milky white fur, shut eyes, you were breathing in silence. Grazha, your mother, was mired in her post-partum moodiness. Still without a name after a month of your birth, you, with your fur’s unusual whiteness, inspired Cath, my sister, who arrived from Riyadh two weeks after your coming to this world, with a name taken from the Italian word for milk—Latte. II. Now growing up, you haven’t failed the family with your almost daily dose of wholesome entertainment. The most notable among the recent ones—this was when you wanted so badly to get out of the house. I shut the knee-high porch gate. You barked at me in extreme disappointment. I didn’t have any inkling of what you’re going to do next. I watched you squeeze your slender but muscular body in between two narrowly spaced balusters on the right side of the elevated porch, and jumped onto the concrete pavement to join the two other dogs playing on the street. A creature of comic greediness, you were inseparable from your mother’s breasts, suckling at them at early dawn until the wee hours of the night, only taking a few short breaks inbetween. Because of this, you outgrew all three of your siblings in weight, height and might. By the way, there were moments when I began to build a closer bond with you—an inherent connection between a master and a pet—but it only led to your overindulgence. You pooped and peed anywhere you wished.

Instead of a mild spank on your buttock, you received just the opposite—my tight hugs, warm caresses. Not to mention the limitless flow of my kisses. III. There was this afternoon when we heard your muffled cries. Alarmed, my mother rushed to where you were. I dropped the green papaya I was peeling to follow her. We were so horrified! Your front paws clawing in that thick, sticky mud to get up and out of that dirt-clogged flood drainage. Your white head coated with that stinking slime. It was all over your body too! Mother’s arms and mine outstretched, we grabbed and pulled you out of that knee-deep muck, carried you to the water faucet. With a sponge, bath soap and water we worked until your fur turned into white once again. What I don’t get, after a daily refreshing bath we give you, you go to the concrete pavement and roll over until your whole body is coated again with half-inch dirt and slime. The trauma of what happened to you in the drainage, perhaps, explains this misdemeanor. IV. Remember that evening when you came home with that “discarded sanitary thing” lodged in your mouth? Pweww! That smell! Most likely, you mistook it for some loaves of bread. You go for clean food but love whatever filth you can find in that next door’s open dump site. (It was actually a vacant parcel of land.) You must be under the influence of those other dogs that you play with. They often rummage through those piles of discarded sardine or milk cans, diapers, sanitary napkins, old papers, broken bottles, dried leaves, grass clippings. Everything non-biodegradable discarded by humans who don’t care about the environment. They pile them up there at the mercy of flies, maggots, dogs, cats, rats, and other scavengers. HOMECOMING

POINTS OF CONTACT

V. Halfway through your fourth month, one late afternoon, that piece of trash you’d again taken home from those notorious piles of rubbish made you sick, lose your appetite, throw up at irregular intervals. Those ticks hiding well in your ears, in between your paws, behind your tail are living off of your blood. They, too, were multiplying as fast as mother, father, and I could pick them off of your body. Furiously, you were doing your best to scratch them off from your bleeding flesh. On the third day, when you were still refusing to touch your food, a death-like smell permeated through the porch with every breath you made. VII. Father and I brought you to the vet. Diagnosis wasn’t good. Prognosis was bleak—too much red blood cells lost. Those little bloodsuckers did a real damage on your young body! Your health was compromised. And your life was in grave danger. We brought you back home. An IV was hooked up to you. You were irritated, uncomfortable with it. And that moment I feared came. You bit and chewed on the IV’s tube until it was dislodged from your left foreleg. What choice did I have if not to pull out the needle from your stubby leg. VIII. Forcibly opening your clamped mouth, I administered to you a syringeful of water, sugar, and honey. Oats, liver spread, and your meds were also hand-fed to you for another three more days. Almost a week of sleepless nights we watched you. Slowly you gained your strength. Who would ever forget those nights filled up with cuddling, caressing, ruffling your fur while I was in my worried state? I still had some strength to sing some songs to comfort you. Indeed, our endurance, resilience saved us both from the perils of parting and loss.

IX. You never let it up. You fought hard for your dear life. Nine more lives, Latte. Nine more lives saved for you. God forbids. I shall be with you until we reach and break the yellow tape at the finish line.

HOMECOMING

POINTS OF CONTACT

Change

Raniella Martinez

Walking Distance Lex Banaag

NILALAKAD NAMIN ANG pagpapalipat-lipat ng baryo. Nilalakad din namin ang pagpunta sa kabilang probinsya. Basta’t hindi dagat ang pagitan ng aming panggagalingan at paroroonan, nilalakad namin. Ang mga lakaran ay maaaring kasing-ikli ng tatlumpung minuto o kasinghaba ng sampung oras, hindi kabilang ang mga saglit na pahinga. May mga lakad na mas mabagal—kapag ang daan ay paahon, masukal, maputik, o madulas o di kaya’y gabi ang lakad at hindi pwedeng gumamit ng flashlight o gumawa ng labis na ingay para hindi mapansin lalo na ng kaaway. May mga lakad namang mas mabilis—kung nasa kapatagan o maliwanag ang buwan, halimbawa, o di kaya kapag hinahabol o nanghahabol ng kalaban. Malayo man, malapit din. Amin ang oras dahil matagalan ang digmang bayan. Wika nga ni Steven Wright, “Everywhere is walking distance if you have the time.” Isa pa, wala talaga kaming choice. Kaunti ang nagbago sa kanayunan ng Bikol mula noong una akong tumuntong dito para umanib sa New People’s Army noong 1991. Naglalakad pa rin nang kilo-kilometro ang marami para magkaroon ng akses sa pamilihan, pagamutan o paaralan. May mga lugar pa nga na isang oras na lakad o mas malayo pa ang pagitan ng magkakapitbahay. Ganito ang tinatawag naming mga sona at larangang gerilya—ang mga erya ng operasyon ng pulang hukbo. Dito kami nakikipamuhay at nakikipagtulungan sa masang magsasaka at dito namin isinusulong ang rebolusyonaryong gyera. WALKING DISTANCE

POINTS OF CONTACT

Karamihan ng daan ay hindi pa sementado. May mga baranggay kung saan sementado lang ang kalsada sa tapat ng bahay ng kapitan at mga dating kapitan. Ganito ang nangyayari matapos kumaltas ng kani-kaniyang SOP sina meyor, konggresman, gobernador, senador at ang mga taga-Malacañang—ang natitira na lamang sa badyet na para sa kalsada ay pang-home improvement ni kapitan. “This is where your taxes go,” buong pagmamalaki pa ng billboard ng DPWH sa tabi ng daan. Mas bagay sana kung ginawang Tagalog—“Ito ang sinapit ng mga buwis ninyo”—at sa lapida isinulat, hindi sa billboard. Masesemento din balang araw ang buong haba ng kalsada kapag naging kapitan na ang lahat ng taumbaryo, basta’t nakatira sila sa tabi ng daan. Sa isang maliit na baryong may populasyong isanlibo, di kukulangin sa tatlong libong taon lang naman ang kailangang hintayin para matupad ito. Samantala, hindi muna magaganyak ang mga may sasakyang pampasahero na rumuta sa ganitong mga lugar. Kung ano ang masakripisyong paglalakad na obligadong daanan ng masa sa mga lugar na kinikilusan namin, gayon din ang sakripisyong inaako naming mga gerilya ng CPP-NPA. Lamang lang kami nang kaunti dahil mas karaniwan kaming maglakad sa gabi o kumabilang-probinsya. Kung kaya, mahilig kaming pumwesto sa mga tinatawag na tri-boundary ng mga baryo, mga bayan o mga probinsya para maging relatibong malapit ang mga kailangang abutin sa bawat takdang panahon. Minsan na kaming nakituloy sa isang bahay na nakapwesto sa mismong ibabaw ng muhon ng hangganan ng tatlong lalawigan—kaya nakaranas na akong magkape habang nasa tatlong probinsya. Sa aming paglalakad, madalas ay daig ng ibang alalahanin ang usapin ng layo. Pinakamahalagang konsiderasyon ang seguridad. Maglalakad kami kahit ilang oras para humanap ng pwestong pagpapalipasan ng gabi kung ito ang tawag ng kaligtasan. Kahit ang banta ng malakas na ulan o bagyo ay balewala kapag umiiwas sa peligro. Ang ginagawa na lamang para hindi abutin ng ulan sa daan ay sabayan ang ulan sa daan. Tinitiyak lamang na huwag mabasa ang mga dalang gamit—balot ng plastik ang baril at nakasilid sa supot na plastik ang mga damit at iba pang laman ng backpack. Kinakaya kahit mabigat ang laging dala-dalang backpack na naglalaman ng pinakakumpletong pasilidad—may armory, may botika, may library, may opisina at kung maaari ay may power plant pa. Gaano man kalayo ang lakarin, sinisikap na handa agad sa trabaho pagdating sa pupuntahan. Always hit the ground running, wika nga, kahit parang tumututol pa ang mga tuhod at binti. Ang destino ay maaaring tahanan ng magsasaka o maliit na kampo sa kasukalan. Kung may kalapit-bahay na may kuryente, nakiki-tap kami. Kung wala naman, gumagamit ng generator para sa mga pangangailangang elektrikal kagaya ng pag-charge ng mga cellphone at paggamit ng kompyuter. Suplemento sa paglalakad para magpalawak ng ugnay ang text at tawag at internet. Madaling naibabato at nasasalo

ang impormasyon sa pamamagitan ng text at tawag bagama’t sa maseselang komunikasyon ay mas pinipili pa rin namin ang old school na kuryer—ang tinatawag na pasa-bilis—na di hamak na mas mabagal. Naglalakad kami para tulayan ang maluluwang na patlang sa mga lugar kung saan bihira ang pumapansin sa lagay ng mga tao. Offline social networking sa kalibliban—masyadong nakakatamad para sa mga halal na lingkod-bayan lalo pa’t hindi naman mapagkakakitaan o masyadong maliit ang bilang ng botante. Siya namang pinagsisipagan namin dahil narito ang magsasakang mayorya ng populasyong Pilipino at napakahalagang abutin ang bawat isang indibidwal para makamit ang minimum na bilang at latag ng mga taong mulat, organisado’t mapakikilos para sa panlipunang pagbabalikwas. Nakasalalay sa ‘critical mass’ na ito ang tagumpay dahil ang rebolusyon ay pangmasang pagsisikap at hindi kakayaning ipanalo kahit ng pinakadeterminadong hukbo na walang suportang masa. Sa lahat ng oras, ang sinisikap namin ay buuin ang nagkakaisang pagunawa ng madla sa kalagayan ng lipunan, bigkisin sa layunin ng himagsikan ang taumbayan at palahukin ang lahat sa pakikibaka. Ang naghahabol lang marahil na pantayan ang sipag namin sa lakaran ay ang pwersang militar ng gobyerno. Iyon nga lang, social distancing naman ang sadya nila. Pinalalaki nilang lalo ang mga distansyang kailangan naming tulayan. Wala silang pakialam sa halaga sa gyera ng suporta o kahit simpatya ng masa dahil sa makitid nilang pananaw ay mas makapangyarihang sandata sa labanan ang takot. Binabantaan at aktwal nilang dinadahas ang masa at ang tawag nila dito ay pagpapatuyo sa dagat na nilalanguyan ng NPA. Sinisikap nilang sirain ang tiwala ng mga taumbaryo sa isa’t isa kaya kung minsan, kahit kapitbahay ay kinatatakutan. Balita pa lang ng presensya ng militar, magkukulong na sa bahay ang mga taumbaryo sa pangambang masita at mapag-initan. Matatakot nang sumali sa anumang pagtitipon. Pati na pagpunta sa sakahan ay kinatatakutan. Deka-dekada nang ganito ang lagay ng masa sa kanayunan bago pa lumitaw ang pandemyang likha ng coronavirus at ang kaakibat na mga community quarantine. Lumala lamang ito ngayon. Kapag may operasyon ang militar sa mga baryo, dumarami ang mga locally stranded individual sa kani-kanilang tahanan. Sa ganitong sitwasyon, malaking hamon sa amin ang isustine ang ugnay sa organisadong masa sa baryo, panatilihing matibay ang naabot nang pagkakaisa ng mga tao at remedyuhan ang anumang pinsalang nagagawa ng kaaway. Di kukulangin sa apat na dekada nang naglalakad nang ganito ang mga pinaka-senior sa amin. Ako, magtatatlumpung taon na. Pribilehiyo namin ang makapagpayo at makaalalay sa mga nagsisimula pa lamang maglakad sa masalimuot na landas ng pagrerebolusyon. Sa kabilang banda, tuluy-tuloy kaming natututo at pumupulot ng kapaki-pakinabang na kaalaman mula sa mga mas nakababatang kasama sa byahe na mas masisigla pa at hindi pa kinakalawang ang isip. Nalihis na rin kami ng landas noon, pero matagumpay kaming nakapagtuwid. WALKING DISTANCE

POINTS OF CONTACT

Ang palagian naming kahandaang magwasto ng pagkakamali ang sikreto ng matibay naming resistensya sa lakaran (bukod sa gamot sa arthritis paminsanminsan). Palibhasa wala pang nakararating sa paroroonan—ang ganap na tagumpay—kaya puro pa paabante ang lakad at walang sinumang makapagsasabi ng palasak na “Papunta ka pa lang, pabalik na ako.” Wika nga ng isang kasama, natututo sa isa’t isa ang mga kasamang iniluwal ng kilusang pagwawasto at ang mga kasamang naging dahilan ng kilusang pagwawasto. Habang tuloy pa ang ligaya ng mga bumubulsa sa pondong pampagawa ng mga kalsada, tulay at riles, tuloy din ang pagsisikap naming maging tulay para sa pagbubuo ng rebolusyonaryong pagkakaisa mula sa kanayunan pasalikop sa kalunsuran. Patuloy namin itong lalakarin sa susunod pang mga taon at dekada. Malayo pa, pero walking distance.

THE WORLD FROM MY BEDROOM WINDOW Kyle Cajucom-Uy

THE WORLD FROM MY BEDROOM WINDOW

POINTS OF CONTACT

The garden looks like a rice paddy when flooded. A scarecrow stands, skewered And greets the rain with open arms. Each droplet pricks—a kiss running down her outstretched hands, down her eyelids sown shut, down her torso, down and down, wrapped in a frigid embrace, the bleak carnival of tumult music to her ears as it echoes in an empty shell— a silence eviction There’s a rolling in the hills closer, dissonant trills roaring through the downpour— Break— mouth agape ears dripping shattered glass, and straw frayed at the tips, two bellows emerge craving destruction, release, a new lease, they converge and leave just one Rain’s gone fallen branches bob around canals, bogged down flooded with husks and briny mud scarecrow in the field knees deep, eyes up to the languid sky, she shivers— rain’s gone—so is the mighty sun.

Sometimes, the best window is a canvas. Speak. Hear the thrum from beyond as it beckons, fashions your words into trains— flocks of birds that emerge from the void and desire to fly somewhere—anywhere but here. When speaking’s not enough, sing. And the birds are nightingales riding their harmonies down drafts to the grassland they may never reach for a chance of rain and warmth— for a change. When singing’s not enough, dance. Through the hail, the nightingales fly bobbing and weaving to the beat of lightning cues and war drums of thunder as the cold stiffens their wings— their song has yet to falter. When dancing’s not enough, create. One by one the chorus falls as nightingales drop cold. But the melody survives and combines with the drums, the cold, the cues into the thrum once more— a train as it always had been—and it carries our flock to the grassland, the warmth, the rain. This is why we create.

THE WORLD FROM MY BEDROOM WINDOW

POINTS OF CONTACT

SA ANYO NG MGA ESPASYO Leo Cosmiano Baltar

Continental Drift

Nang

mahati

lang

ng iyong na pinto

daigdig

salas.

tásang

mundo.

ang

Minamasdan

iyong

pinagka

Ngunit pansin

kundi

ang

espa

tulad

pagkawasak magkatapat

hindi

bagay

iyong

walang

imik

nalalaglag

sa pira nang

isang

anyo

nito.

piraso. mahati

ng hindi sa

islang Pinipilas Naroon ang

ang

dáting maging ka daigdig

dumakip

puwang

guwang

iniiwasan. Ano ng ang

Nakaupo ang

mas

maaabot. sahig

biniyak

Ang

isa. layò

ka básag

espasyong

isa’t

ilusyon

Parang

ngayon.

paanyaya

naroon

bahagyang

kapehan. básag

naiiwan

ang

kung

Tulad

lupalop

hindi

siyang

kayong

lapit

maraming

Kapwa

kayong

buntong

hininga.

buo

ang lang sa

nakalimot dati

nang

salas lupalop.

SA ANYO NG MGA ESPASYO

POINTS OF CONTACT

Bakwit Walang araw na hindi niya nilunggati ang araw ng pagbabalik. Walang araw na hindi ninasa ang bukid ang pagbubungkal muling pagtatanim. Walang araw na hindi tumanaw sa malayo sa hangganan na hindi maabot ng abot-tingin. Walang araw na hindi niya pinangarap ang araw ng pag-uwi doon sa yutang kabilin. Araw-araw hapon-hapon humihiling sa Bathalang kaylayo. Balang-araw wala nang ganitong araw na walang kulay ang kanyang panaginip.

Mga Gusali sa Sitio San Roque

ang maralita. na tumingala para patuloy sapat na ang taas para sabihing ang tugatog dapat katayog ngunit gaano ba nang di maaabot hanggang sa tiyak tutubo sampu-samperang mga sementong butil sila’y langit ipagpalagay nating Ganito:

SA ANYO NG MGA ESPASYO

POINTS OF CONTACT

THE DISTANT SUMMER Ana Algabre Hernandez

“It is in my art and through my art that my voice is loudest.”

MY GOLDEN SPRING Oil on canvas 30 cm x 40 cm 2020

Though I’m in my sanctuary, at rest, a bizarrely unseasonal, chilly, and blustery winter shooed away the warm breezy summer. The skies turned from bright to dark shades of brown and there came a sense of loss fear and shatter. The sound of breaking and crashing water ashore drowned my cries. Then, from above came quiet escapes of the sun’s rays that glittered in the dark, deep ocean—I saw light. This artwork talks about how the dead feel of winter howled and snatched my fragrant summer but not, and never, my sweet, green, and golden spring.

THE DISTANT SUMMER

POINTS OF CONTACT

COLD (COVID-19) Oil on canvas 30 cm x 40 cm 2020

Day by day, my morning coffee is turned so rancid by a growing number of deaths that a sad, metallic, bitter aftertaste lingers. Indeed, life has become hard and brittle, like a battlefield where death is neither far nor subtle. This artwork expresses my longing for loved ones in close but distant places with strokes and colors resonating with a world that has turned cold, odd, and blue amid threats of loss and illness.

CANVAS IN MIND

1. CANVAS IN MIND (SERIES)

2. CANVAS IN MIND (SERIES)

3. CANVAS IN MIND (SERIES)

4. CANVAS IN MIND (SERIES)

Oil on canvas 80 cm x 90 cm 2020

Oil on canvas 60 cm x 80 cm 2020

Oil on canvas 70 cm x 80 cm 2020

THE DISTANT SUMMER

POINTS OF CONTACT

5. CANVAS IN MIND (SERIES) Oil on canvas 60 cm x 80 cm 2020

6. CANVAS IN MIND (SERIES) Oil on canvas 70 cm x 80 cm 2020

History has shown that quarantine has been an effective measure to curb the spread of a pandemic. However, there are many studies that show that anxiety, depression, and confusion are among the longterm effects of the quarantine period. This series of artworks, “Canvas in Mind,” sends a message that with our minds, we can soar freely and choose our own peaceful realities. We can use this time to tap into our creativity. With my soul that is light and my spirit that’s alive, I soared and journeyed in azure above… There is just no quarantine for the mind! Gliding amid bright and silver clouds, with soft strokes of blue from dark to light, There, in tranquil water below glittered, My precious joys gathered, I painted reality with the canvas in my mind. Oh, marvel the colors that dazzle, What harmony of red, gold, green, and pastels, It was blue, the glowing hues of blue in the depths of my soul That colored the canvas in my mind.

Talinghaga Precious M. Paglinawan

Hahampas ba ang alon nang may kasiglahan kung ang sasalubungin ay tahimik na kawalan? Nakalatag bang payapa ang buhangin sa dalampasigan o nananabik sa dantay ng mga naghahabulan? Ang pag-ihip ng hangin magbibitbit ba ng himig kung sa lambing na hatid ay walang makikinig? Matayog ba ang ulap sa bughaw na langit o magkukulay-abo, papalahaw anumang saglit? Kung araw ay magkulay-kahel, matapos maging dilaw, sa paglubog kaya nito’y dadaiti ang panglaw? Lilitaw ba ang buwan sa malapilak niyang karangalan o magkukubli na lamang ‘pagkat walang mahandugan? Magningning pa rin kaya sa pagkislap mga bituin kung walang mga matang magpapako ng tingin? Mahihimbing ba ang dagat kung kinumutan ng ng dilim o dahil sa lumbay ay magpapabaling-baling? Babangon bang may ngiti ang araw sa umaga kung ilalantad ng liwanag ang kanyang pag-iisa? Kapag sa tubig na salamin, mga alaala’y bumaha dadalisay ba ang dagat kung padadaluyin kanyang luha? TALINGHAGA

POINTS OF CONTACT

My mother said my moles would get me to places, and I did Sasha Dalabajan

CORA WAS EIGHT when her Nanay said, Your mole on your foot means you will get to many places. She was 12 when she first rode an airplane. She sat on the window seat and watched the world from below—tiny people obscured by the largeness of the world, the vast blue sea, and the pillowy clouds that she imagined herself floating on. She felt big. She stood in the middle of Times Square and felt nothing. No flutter, no glee, no excitement that people talked about when they talked about New York. Everyone was speaking indecipherable languages over one another, condensing into one unbearably loud noise. There was trash everywhere—empty soda cups tourists thrust by the sidewalk, crumpled pamphlets that a proselytizing middle-aged man with hair resembling Jesus was passing around at the foot of the red stairs and large garbage bags by the sidewalk from local business joints. People were in funny costumes, one of them of Donald Trump depicted as a baby in diapers. It was overwhelming and all she could think of was her friends back in California. Perhaps it was wrong for her to look for life and culture in Times Square. She knew that, but she hated it anyway. She found it odd how people could just break into a dance in the middle of a crowd near the Strand’s booth while she was flicking through book titles. Cora grew up with restraint and she was taught to be aware of what people around her would think of what she did.

The day before she left Oakland, she had lied on her back at Jack London Square and listened to the water until it started to rain. She looked at her friend beside her, and it made her feel like she was back in her bedroom in Baguio in the middle of the night and she was warm under her blanket. At City Lights in San Francisco, he bought a book he saw Cora reading. They skipped the city tour and went around the farmer’s market, drinking craft beer while lined up at a food truck for chicken tarkari, momo, and steaming hot rice. They sat beside the garbage bin and watched the birds flocking on the dock. He told her about his dog back home in Thailand, a Pomeranian he animatedly talked about. She told him how she didn’t understand why people liked Radiohead so much. They imitated Zizek. In Manoa where they went to study, they spent late nights in each other’s dorm rooms with cans of cheap beer. Sometimes one of them looked up from their books and thought out loud. Most of the time they just sat in silence while waiting for their laundry. She thought it was what poems and songs and sappy films were written about. Her first morning in Oahu, she looked outside her dorm window overseeing the campus from the 11th floor of Hale Manoa. There was the empty parking lot she would spend some nights watching stray cats wait for food. There was the theatre building across the pond of koi fishes. There was the road heading up north where she would run on Wednesdays when she got her groceries at Safeway; beside it the family-owned Korean restaurant she would treat herself to when she had extra cash. Her favorite thing about it was that none of the food they sold resembled the pre-packaged doshirak available at convenience stores in Seoul, which were practically the only things she could afford then. There was the bus stop where she would board a bus to Waikiki one morning, and when the driver noticed how rattled Cora looked, he said she just got a free ride because it was her first time. And then the lush green mountain ranges looming from the backdrop. How the fuck did I get here, she asked herself in disbelief. Cora was watching the sunset at Han River, eating her microwaved doshirak from CU, when she suddenly felt overwhelmed by the thought of the places she could never see and things she couldn’t ever experience and people she would never meet. There was just too much of the world that she wanted to feel and there didn’t seem to be enough time and money for all of them. The sunset from where she was sitting looked different from her bedroom window in Baguio. Not worse, not better, just different. At 22, she sat in the middle of her favorite apartment, surrounded by empty boxes that were yet to be filled by everything she owned. She still didn’t know what to do with her life, except this time she had a college degree. Should she move back home? Where was home? The house she grew up in stopped feeling like home when all it had become was a time capsule of memories. Maybe home wasn’t just one place. Maybe home was the cold tabletop in front of the munisipyo in Alicia that she used to lay on with her friend Liz at night, watching the stars and imitating MY MOTHER SAID MY MOLES WOULD GET ME TO PLACES, AND I DID

POINTS OF CONTACT

the sounds of tuko that had lived in their foster parents’ home. Maybe home was the sari-sari store in front of their hostel in Kiangan where she spent an afternoon braiding girls’ hair. Maybe home was the university library when it opened in the morning and she could still pick which desk she wanted. Maybe home was the last few minutes before she ended her shift at the local independent bookstore that she worked at in the semester she was writing her thesis. The moment between the time when the crowd cleared out and when she was about to lock the red cash box to the closet. The few seconds when she paused to feel what it was like to be surrounded by shelves and shelves of books. Maybe home are the places she leaves pieces of her heart in. Cora went through her life thinking she knew herself. When she was a senior in high school, she drew a life map on a manila paper. Finish high school. Get a marine biology degree. Work for Oceana. Study in the US. Move back to the Philippines to spearhead the country’s first underwater laboratory. In her first semester in college, she looked up from the microscope wondering if everyone else in class was just pretending that they were seeing what they were supposed to be seeing. Cora didn’t know herself very well, or at least what she thought of herself turned out to be wrong. Sometimes she thought she was better than anyone else, smarter. Not the kind that looked at numbers and immediately knew the answer to eight plus six, because she didn’t. She doubled the six first and then added in the remaining two. She got to 14, but not as quickly as most people did. When someone asked her for directions, she thought of which hand she used to write before she said right or left. She was not that smart, not that kind anyway. Most of the time she wondered if there was something wrong with her. The first time she went home from college, a semestral break sometime around October, she stood in the middle of a newly built Robinson’s mall and felt like this small town was tricking her. Here was a new mall, with new restaurants and fast-food joints and a variety of shopping stores. But to her it felt the same. She felt transformed by college, by the classes she took and the people she met and the world she saw outside her small island. The world was fast and dynamic and everchanging, and when she got back it wasn’t. It was the same people, doing the same routines, thinking the same things. She resented it, being home. But she couldn’t tell if it’s because she felt that people expected her to be the same person that she was six months ago, or because being there reminded her of the person she couldn’t come back to and felt ashamed of. Growing up on the best island in the world was less enthralling than people thought. Cora had less to say to people than what they expected when they asked what it was like. What is everyone’s dream destination is my backyard, she thought. But growing up, it was just that—home. The Palawan she grew up in only had one shopping mall. Her favorite part of it was the third floor where, by the corner near the playground, there was a stack of used books. On Sundays after church, she and

her sisters got P50 each and they would spend what seemed like hours digging through the piles of dusty books, making sure that they could all share in each other’s purchases. They rode a tricycle to visit their cousins in San Manuel where they would spend all day playing at their aunt’s backyard until it was time to go. The city had four malls now. She barely spoke to her cousins anymore. Like her Nanay had predicted, she did get to many places. She wondered if this had to do with the mole on her foot. She had it removed a few years ago because the doctor said it could be malignant. Better to be safe than sorry, he told Cora. No matter, Cora thought. She had seen enough of the world to know that she didn’t want to be anywhere else but here. There were moments when she felt like she understood the world better where she was than when she had tried looking for herself in places foreign to her. Like when she sat inside the van with Nanay Dolores, a community leader from Negros whose son had been dead because they’d mistaken him for a rebel, offering a hug after an interview where she recounted her son’s death—a story Cora had heard countless of times before but did not hurt any less than the first time she did. Or the time when she was walking from Ka Gani’s small patch of land in Batangas and he was telling her about a foreigner who was aggressively claiming their land. Or the time when the lola at the public hot spring in Los Baños showed her a knife in her bag which she had always had ever since a man groped her when she was a teenager. These were encounters that had radicalized her in ways she knew she would not have been had she stayed elsewhere. And then there were moments when she was sure she understood herself more profoundly than she thought she did when she stood before the Lady Liberty, or the rock formations of Yosemite, or the wide expanse of Hanauma Bay. Mundane moments like watching her sister make a sandwich while she sobers up or falling asleep on her friend Eli’s couch while they wait for 5 p.m., when Cadapan’s sari-sari store opened. Or the time Eli said, Hindi ko man lang nasabi sa kanya na naintindihan ko na si Deleuze, when the white cat at Cadapan’s was run over by a car.

MY MOTHER SAID MY MOLES WOULD GET ME TO PLACES, AND I DID

POINTS OF CONTACT

Ang Huling Araw ni Selya Jose Monfred Sy

para kay Malaya Papunta pa lang ang mga nars sa ospital, pabalik na si Selya mula sa panaderya. Saksi ang lahat sa pagsikat ng huling araw niya. Pinitas niya ito, buo’t bilugan, at itinago sa bulsa. Pagkapanhik sa inuupahan sa tuktok ng abang gusali hinati-hati niya ang sariwang araw at binahagi ang isang piraso sa apo, apat na buwan mula no’ng huling pumasok. Nagsalo sila sa mainit na pandesal. “Lola, huwag po muna kayong lumabas at baka mahawaan kayo.” Nilanghap ni Selya ang pait ng kape bago higupin.

“Hindi ko ipagdaramot ang araw na ‘to.” Suot-suot ang paboritong daster, nanaog siya at naglakad-lakad sa kalawakan ng maalinsangang eskinita. Lahat nasa bahay, kung hindi man, sa ospital. Binigyan ni Selya ng piraso ang bantay sa tindahan: “Pagbilhan! Isang Sprite nga.” Binaba niya ang busal na facemask at ininom ang salà “parang tinedyer lang,” biro niya. Sa pamamasyal, nadatnan niya ang dating kapitbahay buhat-buhat ang hitik na bayong rasyon na sana’y sumapat sa buong buwan. Ikinagalak niyang magbigay ng piraso sa munting kumustahan na may dalawang metro ang layo. Naisip ni Selya na mamalengke na rin sabagay, paubos na ang mga piraso ng huling araw niya. Tumungo siya sa mall na kakabukas lamang ulit. “Ma’am, bawal po ang senior dito. Sumunod na lang po tayo.” Balisa, nagpaliwanag si Selya, “Hoy, 59 pa lang ako! Ito naman!” Winisikan siya ng alcohol at nakapuslit sa wakas. Binigay niya ang nalalabing piraso sa bihirang ginhawa ng aircon— kamuntik nang malimot ang ipapamili, mga sahog sa ihahain bukas. Umumit siya ng mga sandali sa mall na isang beses pa lang napasok bago mag-lockdown. Kinapkap ng kaniyang mga paa ang makintab na sahig, hinahanap ang dating tirahan na tinungtungan ng pamilihan. ANG HULING ARAW NI SELYA

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“Ma’am, magsasara na po kami.” “Magku-curfew na po.” “Balik na lang po kayo bukas,” sabi sa kaniya ng mga saleslady. Subalit ubos na ang huling araw ni Selya sa labas. Nang sumunod na araw nagising si Selya sa tinig ng anak na OFW, naka-videocall sa cellphone ng apo. Hinanap ni Selya ang araw ngunit walang bintana sa inuupahan. Handog ng mag-ina ang isang cake, buo’t bilugan, na may mensaheng Happy 60th birthday, Lola! —from apo and anak Hinanap ni Selya ang araw. Inalok sa kaniya ang isang piraso at ngumiti siya. “Busog pa ’ko, apo.”

Bistarai, Bistarai (Slowly, Slowly)* Pat Labitoria

“BISTARAI, BISTARAI DUBDAI chu timro maya ko sagar ma ma” (Slowly, slowly drown me in the ocean of your love) Four of the tips of my fingers in my left hand are painful with blisters; my forearm is hurting, too. It is my fourth day of learning a song in a guitar I borrowed from my cousin to have something to pass the time with during the community quarantine. And time really does fly by when you are so focused—“in the flow” is what psychologists described the state. I need this. It is only with the coming of the dark and my fingers becoming more and more painful that I notice that hours have passed. As I traverse my hand across the frets, so too does the day, together with the COVID-19 caseloads in the country, the terrible news of unemployment, and so many other injustices. I am not a complete beginner in playing guitar. I can play songs with the most basic of chords and have challenged myself once in performing in front of about a hundred people when I lived in the US to show a little bit of our culture. I told the audience that Filipinos were romantic, so I was playing a love song while they ate * Translations by Saryu Chitrakar ANG HULING ARAW NI SELYA

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lumpia and vegetarian tinola. With this, I thought, then, that I would learn a new song in about a day, but here I am in my fourth going on fifth, still struggling in every way, my fingers confused as to what to do. It is not only the return to a hobby that is difficult here: My fingers have lost the calluses that protect the tips from the pressure of the metal strings, hence the pain. The song I am practicing is also a challenge because it is in Nepali language—a ballad called “Bistarai, bistarai”—a cheesy one that reminds me of sweet Filipino songs. And so apart from learning the chords and plucking of stings, I need to learn to speak unfamiliar words while studying the tune as well. It is confusing and there are so many things happening at once, proving the amazing capabilities of the human brain to juggle tasks. “Dukha asu sabai bisera. Ramna chahanchu timro nyano angalo ma maa” (I want to forget all the pain and tears and rejoice in your arms) I have never been to Nepal, but Nepal is special for me. At the end, when I can already play the song, I will send a video to my Nepali friends back in Seattle. I want them to know that I am thinking about them in this time of the pandemic, and there is no better way to do it than learning their language through songs. During the darkest times of my one and a half years in Seattle, it was my Nepali friends whom I turned to. With them I spent long summer nights watching the sun set and went to walks to see the stars and to hike mountains. They taught me Nepali food and a way of life I would never have known. I danced with them in a colorful sari in different festivals, and though I do not understand songs, I felt them. Some things really do transcend language. I was drawn as they showed me there is more to Nepal than the Himalayas with the image of prayer flags in the wind. They have many stories, and my favorite are the ones when they are little kids running around the country of high mountains encountering wild animals, getting lost in the forest, and flying kites. We also have so many similarities that, if we put a picture of their hilly areas beside our own Cordilleras, it will be hard to tell them apart. As with any Third World country, their struggles reflect our own as well: Every day, 10,000 Nepalis depart from their country to work in another, a Nepali researcher told me, and I am reminded of the plights of our OFWs. Like us, many of them also think that leaving their country is the best achievement. As the pandemic hits, they return home, much like our kababayans working outside the country. We look the same as well: I have been mistaken as a Nepali, and they have been mistaken as Filipinos.

“Khula pankha fijai aakash ma ude ko chari mukta huna chahanchu ma” (I want to be free like the bird soaring in the sky with its wings wide open) And so, I am here on the other side of the Pacific, confined in the four corners of home, remembering friendships sealed off with the drinking of hot and spicy chai, of cold Pacific Northwest days made warm by momos, a Nepali dumpling. The memories are powerful in pushing me through the blisters and pain of guitar, and the emotional turmoil of our new normal. I have come a long way, for I am also learning the language and the Devanagari alphabets. It is difficult but it has become a hobby, a refuge even for when days go dark, which usually happens these days. I will memorize new words to channel my mind away, to clear it from depressing news about the state of our country, discovering new adventures in a faraway linguistic journey. We cannot travel right now, and, I guess, with cases going up rather than down, we will not be able to do so for a long while. But travel and journeys apply to learning as well: a new skill, a new recipe, a new song—learning is a journey that teaches us about life, about ourselves, our values, and about our relationship with other people, as well as with our country, or another country, for that matter. Slowly, slowly like the title of the song, I am learning each day: This new language, a new song, how to be closer with friends, though we are apart now and will be for a long time. One day, when we see each other again in person, I wish to be able to speak and sing in their language. I want to be able to read signs written in Nepali. It is with this that I want to thank them for overwhelming kindness and generosity they showed a person of another nationality. Bistarai, bistarai. I will learn, in time, about the world—how different and how similar we are. Slowly, slowly the world will heal, and we will see each other again, after difficult and painful times.

BISTARAI, BISTARAI (SLOWLY, SLOWLY)

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Bal-bal

Levei Len Bigcas & Nikki Teng

BAL-BAL

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Daan Mirick Paala

IUUWI KA NG estranghero sa silid na pinalilibutan ng salamin pero walang bintana. Sa iyong mundo ito ang katumbas ng pagmamahal. Alam mong alam niyang kahit saan ka man tumingin, hindi ka nakatingin sa kaniya o sa inyong repleksyon. Kinakalas mo ang sinturon, ibinababa ang pantalon, brief, na parang pinipilas ang lahat ng pagpapanggap—isang silid ang katawan at wala ka nang ibang maibibigay. Papapasukin mo siya at papasok siya nang dahan-dahan na parang binabalikan ang tahanang matagal nang iniwan. Doon madadatnan niyang muli ang guho at ang nagkalat na bubog. Pupulutin niya ang mga ito, titipunin saka iaabot sa iyo ang sugatang mga palad. Hindi kailanman masasaling ng salamin ang inyong pagkabasag.

DAAN

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Patagong hinila ng katabing estranghero ang iyong kamay at isinilid ito sa pagitan ng kaniyang mga hita na parang hindi kayo nagiisa. Hindi kayo nag-iisa. Sa bus nakatanaw ang mga pasahero sa lungsod samantalang binabantayan mo ang kanilang bawat galaw bawat tingin dahil hindi nanlaban ang iyong kamay hindi nito alam ang tama at mali pagdating sa posibilidad ng pagmamahal. Hinding-hindi mo na maiuuwi mababawi ang kamay kahit ilang ulit mang magdasal magsalsal ilang ulit mang maghugas gaano kahigpit mang ikuyom lagi’t lagi ka nang hihilahin ng mga guhit sa palad sa mga kalsadang nagsasanga-sanga pasikut-sikot at walang patutunguhan kundi kapwa estrangherong naliligaw rin sa daan.

DAAN

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Ano ang silid na makapagsisilid sa kalawakan kawalan ano ang silid na hindi pa nakikita pinapakita nagpapakita at sino ang nahihimbing doon sino ang ginigising tuwing gabi pinaliliguan sino ang hinuhubdan sa kasinungalingan saka hahalikan tuwing mauubos ang liwanag para matapos ang paliwanag kanino ang kaniyang kamay mata lalamunan kanino ang kaniyang arawaraw normal moral mali pagkakamali kasuklam-suklam kanino ang kaniyang ligtas sekswalidad sinusunod na batas kanino ang kaniyang diyos makinarya lungsod.

DAAN

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Manipis ang kumot na nakalatag sa inyong katawan. Parang pangalawang balat ang desperasyon na umaangat kasabay ng paghinga. Mahimbing ang kaniyang tulog. Bumangon ka ingat na ingat na parang anumang sandali ay maaaring may mabasag. Sa bintana titingin sa malayo bagaman nakaharap sa pader ng katabing gusali. Wala kang makikita diyan—hihilain niya ang iyong kamay. At parang mabuting anghel ikaw ay tatalima mamumugad sa kaniyang dibdib magtitiwalang ligtas ang mundong inyong malilikha.

DAAN

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Mula Lote Patungong Pintuan Roi Yves H. Villadiego

MULA LOTE PATUNGONG PINTUAN

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A Lament While Holding Your Photo of the Sun in the Horizon Kervin Tabios

What should have been gazed at from a distance Stayed dimmed right here in my hand, steadied By the thought of how needless it would be To determine the day’s weather, or whether The morning was peeking or the afternoon Was gradually lulling itself to sleep— Then layers upon layers the rays beamed through The horizon of that thought, as if gently lifting The lids of my sight, imposing their presence With the orange warmth conveyed by the breeze Upon the blurry lake in my eyes, resisting Fading and blazing, as your tempered warmth Became my skin, your light a twilight bulb In my chest. And since you were gone, I learned To understand moderation after being fed With too much light. But I still wish I were In this photo, and this was the remaining slice Of the day that even the dark would shy from taking From us, and you are eternally still, still with me.

Instagram Stories Hans Pieter L. Arao

WHAT HE WANTS to say in a letter, an e-mail he most probably would not send, something nonchalant, skating around the issue of their failed romance: Today, while walking back home from the supermarket, I saw a discarded glove lying on the sidewalk. Right by its fingertips was a white flower, as dashed and soiled as the glove that was so tantalizingly close to touching it. I don’t think this means anything. I just found it so random, but also so ordered. As if I was meant to encounter it. I’m sure it should remind me of something, but I don’t know. I hardly remember anything. I hardly see anything, even. I’ve been navel-gazing a lot these days. I see navels everywhere! I’d been trying to remember the name of the bacteria-like things that floated before my eyes because of the sun’s glare. You told me the name before. Had to Google it. Google is the Book of Knowledge, remember when you said that? Or was it me that said it? I just typed “name of bacteria-like things that float before eyes” and lo! like a scroll rolled down from the heavens, the answers were before me. Floaters. Talk about being literal. How’re you, btw? But who reads letters these days? So, instead, he pokes on Facebook Messenger. Then a wave, the yellow hand spasming after the subscripted check mark that confirms the message has been sent, that means he has lost a battle he’s been waging with himself of Who Texts First. Followed immediately by, “Howdy!” since the Rubicon’s been crossed, anyway. Even with the green light inset of her avatar on, the one that indicates she’s active, the message will not be seen. Seen, the dreaded word that, when followed by the gaping absence of a reply, is like a death sentence on the hopeful and needy. INSTAGRAM STORIES

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Meanwhile, there’s the not seen, more devastating than its counterpart, because it gave false hope—that the recipient is merely busy, that she just hasn’t had the time to see yet, what with her running about, her constant attempt to live life to the full. But with that green light on, he knows that she has in fact seen but ignored his message. Feigned ignorance, in fact. Feigned disappearance. Enforced it. Desaparecida, only she isn’t missing or dead. In fact, it is he who’s dead. Dead to her, anyway. Or maybe he’s assuming things. He hails it as a minor miracle that she hasn’t even blocked him on social media. It says so much about her nature, and an overwhelming sadness crashes over him as he is reminded of how massively he has bungled things. Maybe he should just send the email. Or PM it, as a follow-up to his pedestrian greeting earlier. Slide into her DMs, as people call it. Anyway, it’s what most everybody does these days. He craves someone to talk to. Who is he kidding? He needs her to talk to. There has been no dearth of people to have conversations with these past months. It’s all everyone has been doing, in fact. Talk, talk, talk, long rants filled with simmering anger punctuated by memes whose hilarity only makes the rage they try to capture cut deeper. The lockdown has made sure of that. Another letter, maybe, something more direct. He reaches for another cigarette, then props his feet up on the horizontal bar of the balcony’s railing. From his perch seventeen stories up, he can hear the laughter of the children at the depressed community below, beyond the wall that bounded the condominium building. He envies how oblivious they can be of the isolation that has been imposed on everyone else. Then he decides he isn’t giving the children too much credit. Surely, they’re acutely aware of the tightening of the belt, the uncertainty of finding food on the table. Their parents are probably among the folks who lined up waiting for the city’s dole-outs, a few paces from where they are playing. He takes a long drag on the stick until there’s nothing left but the filter, holds the smoke in, then expels it slowly, a kind of meditation that he knows will kill him, but he cannot now shake off. His hand poises tentatively over the packet of cigarettes. Should he have another? He decides against it. To keep his fingers busy, he fidgets with the matchbox instead, twirling it like tricksters do with coins. A beer would be nice, he thinks. By some stroke of luck, he had anticipated that a liquor ban would be put in place, and he had managed to stock up on booze on the weekend before the mayor proclaimed the prohibition, to the chagrin of both the people and the liquor industry. His supply is dwindling, and he hopes the city would lift the ban soon, just like the others already have recently. This day there simply has been nothing going, and even the sky seems to agree. Does the despondency that has settled over the hearts of so many affect the

weather, or is it the other way around? These days, with the rains of May coming almost daily, he’s realized that one can smell and taste the onset of rain even this high up from firm earth. Out on the balcony, he is convinced that the dense clouds that have obscured the vista of the Sierra Madre, which has cleared since the economy ground to a halt, are descending and creeping towards him. So, he just has to have one. To wash the feelings down, just like the impending rain will cleanse the grime off the potted plants that he has lined up against the railing. The need to have one, which will escalate to more shots, more bottles, to the point of drunkenness, has increased in frequency as the weeks sweep by, the days un-nameable. It simply doesn’t matter as much to count the hours and the passing of days with so much of nothing going on. No end in sight, no cure, no help for the great number that need it. The alcohol-induced blackouts are the only comfort he can find in the absence of touch, the crisis of intimacy that he used to be able to address with his almost nightly flings pre-quarantine. * He was smitten the first time he had seen Helena—luminous despite her dirty scrub suit, her hair pulled tight in a ponytail, not a strand out of place despite the lateness of the hour. Her limbs were so pliant she didn’t so much move as float as she checked on the patients, whose flagging faiths were probably restored by her holy apparition. When he would later recount the story to others, he would say it was like the scene in Godfather, Mikey Corleone being hit by the thunderbolt upon meeting Apollonia while she traipsed the Sicilian hills during his exile. He had been in the hospital’s charity ward by chance. He had gone on a whim, acting out of boredom. Holding a paper bag containing a quarter pounder meal he had brought for the curly-haired OB resident who was the new tenant of 1728, which was right beside his bare-bones pad. She had struck up a conversation with him just a week ago, when they found each other smoking in their respective terraces. Which was really just a two-by-four-foot ledge, bounded by a concrete and iron barrier that reached up to his chest to prevent accidental falls, which had not nevertheless stopped any deliberate falling, the suicide record for the past year alone reaching five. Helena was a ray of sunshine. She really was. She could light up the room with all the smiles she elicited whenever she entered one. And warm, so warm you could feel the heat in your cockles just watching the way she shared the joy over every little good thing that happened to anyone. Everyone gravitated towards her. She wasn’t the cloying kind of nice, not the kind that made everyone else talk behind her back because the kindness didn’t seem genuine. She held the hands of friends or strangers, whoever it was she thought could do with a kind gesture. INSTAGRAM STORIES

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She loved singing, and he treasured the instances, quite numerous, that she sang to him. The first time she did, they had clambered out the window of her room to sit by the concrete awning of their house to read. It was her spot, especially during sunsets when the area was soaked in gold, and the dita trees that lined their street would cast varied shapes as the rays passed through the leaves and flowers. She recalled that she would conjure names for the figures that danced on the surface. Then her lips had brushed his forehead as she crossed her hands to cradle his head by the crook of her neck. Her lips lingered by his temple, and the mist from her breath felt cool and warm at once. I wish you bluebirds in the spring to give your heart a song to sing, she crooned to him. He knew, then, that that moment would be branded into his soul. That he would take the memory of that December day, the air laced with the blossoms that sprayed their ephemeral scent as the sun dipped beyond their sight, to the grave. He would cling to it for hope. The dita tree by their gate loomed large as dusk snuffed the brightness from the sky. All of a sudden, his spirit sank from the melancholy the shadow had evoked. In a bid to bring back the feeling that had just recently buoyed him, or at least lighten the mood and dispel the heaviness in his heart, he said, “Did you know that dita seeds are psychoactive?” “No. And how did you know that?” She ruffled his hair as she said this, her fingers making a trail across his scalp that made his skin erupt in goose pimples. “You know. You read something here and there, then an opportunity to use it in conversation pops up once in a while. I’m a repository of useless knowledge.” She repeated the phrase, uttering each word as if she chewed on them and mulled on their meaning. “Was that in a movie? It sounds like a line in a movie.” “Maybe. Honestly, I don’t remember. But who cares if it is? There are no original ideas. Also, somewhere in Bulusan people prefer dita wood for their coffins.” “I do not know what to say to that,” Helena said. “This, I think, is the first time I’ve shut you up.” “I could think of other things to say, but none that would continue this talk on dita trees. Unless you want to up the stakes and talk about mortality, since we’re talking about coffins anyway. I could give you stats, even. Hospital ones, at least,” Helena said. A passing car blared its horn, and he fixed his eyes on it as it approached with its headlights on high-beam. Helena clasped his head tighter and kissed him full on the mouth. She tasted tangy from the unripe mangoes she had just eaten. He could taste salt and the fire from the chilis she used as a dip, and something indescribable, distilled, potent, that ran straight from her tongue to his. That same essence seemed like gasoline poured on their desire, or maybe it was that all-consuming conflagration that could be called love that surrounded them, that made his mind’s eye see nothing but brightness despite his awareness that twilight had taken over.

* Helena hated cheating to her core. One time, as he rummaged through her medical kit, she dug out a scalpel from its depths and, brandishing it before his eyes and letting the light glint off its thin blade, she swore in all seriousness that she would cut off his balls while he was asleep if she ever so much as caught a whiff of cheating off him. He asked her why she hated cheating so much. “Well, obviously, if you have some love to spare and decided to share it with others, that just means you’re not giving me everything. I’ll either have love in its totality, or none at all.” They had been lounging in the patio of the old Spanish Center on Kalaw Street then. He had fetched her straight from duty to show her the place. She loved movies and meant to visit the cinematheque that had just been set up in a section of the same place. The patio had two benches facing each other. In between was a well upon whose surface vines had crept, with a pail, red paint still fresh, on the end of a frayed rope that was hanging from a piece of rotted wood. The patio and its manicured lawn gave a dash of color to the otherwise dreary aspect of an old building, the dark, foreboding corridors of which were filled with furniture homogenized by the decades of dust and neglect that had settled over them. That, and the cafe and restaurant just a few steps from where they sat, which still operated to host events held mostly by geriatrics in stiff barongs and heavily-powdered matrons. “I think it’s going to rain,” he said. It had taken him moments to reply, fumbling for words as he looked around for a topic he could latch on to among the remnants scattered in the corridor behind them and the low-key bustle of the cafe’s aging waiters. A fine drizzle fell shortly, but as he looked at Helena, tilting his head as a wordless gesture to ask if she wanted to move, she shook her head, almost imperceptibly. The smell of grass and earth and dust and wood and fresh paint had lent an air of movie romance. He felt compelled to say something earnest—a declaration of love, a proclamation of faith. He removed his fogged glasses to stare straight into Helena’s eyes, then said, “Here’s a promise. I’ll never cheat on you.” Even as he said the words, he knew they rang hollow. Helena remained silent, and he wished he could retrieve the past moment back. You should have just shut up, he told himself. * He had meant to fulfill his unsolicited and unnecessary promise. In the first place, what reason was there for infidelity on his part? He had nabbed the woman that, though previously unexpressed, had all the qualities he ever sought in a partner. He got the unicorn, the ever-elusive ideal. What more was there to ask for? INSTAGRAM STORIES

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But perhaps it was that knowledge that had been his undoing. The thought that perhaps everything had been too good to be true burrowed its way into his consciousness and took him unawares. It ate away at the foundations of his selfbelief. After all, what was he before he met Helena? He had nothing to show for his life. A degree that couldn’t land him a job he could love, a business idea he had no gumption and, more importantly, enough capital that he could gamble to pursue. The one thing he could do with a fair measure of aptitude leading him down a path that meant he sided with the powers that he knew in his heart he must rail against. Because that was where the money was, and where he could see a future that did not entail having to live a diminished lifestyle that he knew he would never get used to. His gravest mistake, he knew now, was in thinking that all the things he counted against himself would be of any consequence to Helena and her choice of loving him. He had always prided himself as an excellent reader of the nature of others—this was, after all, the value added in his line of work, that he could see the fears and aspirations of people and manipulate these to elicit a favorable opinion for those he worked for. Helena had been the puzzle he couldn’t solve. What motivation could she have for being with him with all that he had, which to his mind amounted to negative credit? He kept all this to himself, away from the prying eyes of the world, a nugget of self-doubt that tainted everything. Would things have taken a different turn had he communicated the insecurities he nursed with Helena? Surely, he could have asked her what she saw in him, what redeemed all the shortcomings he perceived in himself. What did he do that finally turned Helena away? Over time, the ore of uncertainty had hardened into an obsidian of self-hatred that he used to justify the commission of various indiscretions. And it had been too easy. As if all that was needed was for him to decide he was unworthy, so that he could sever the tethers of loyalty that he had roped around her and revert to his old habits. Just as Helena was the unspecified standard, so he had come to conclude that the life he had had before he met her was him subconsciously knowing that he did not deserve the kind of love she showered on him. He had never been caught, their professions and the large chunks of time it demanded from each of them made sure of that. He had assiduously clung to the minor traditions that their relationship had established. Sunday brunch with her parents, which he looked forward to, anyway, because they were such a delight, truly decent people whom their daughter had obviously taken after. Breakfasts at the old diner as much as their schedules permitted. Coffee, movies, bookstore trips, museums, lots of them.

The veneer of normalcy was such that everybody had been ribbing them about the next step. His deception was so effective that he had come to fool himself, believing that perhaps the things he was doing to prop up his shattered self-belief was sustainable, that he could use his unchecked transgressions and the sense of conquest he derived from them to build an ego that was capable of receiving Helena’s love. But maybe he wasn’t too good at concealment. He could not now discount that he might have placed some distance between them, that his sincerity was unable to escape the impenetrable walls he had built around himself, and Helena had sensed this, and much more. He had been genuinely surprised when Helena had dropped the bomb out of nowhere. It was a week after her graduation from residency. The campaign had been in full swing and prevented him from attending the ceremonies. He was truly sorry for that, but he tried, and he simply couldn’t go. Frost had been a word he never could associate with Helena—she just didn’t seem capable of denying others her warmth. But that was the by-word for the whole week it finally took for him to get back from Mindanao and meet with her. There had been no preamble. No testing of the waters. He had arrived before her at their favorite coffee shop in Makati and chosen a table at a spot outside, beside the adelfas whose crowns of pink flowers were bowed close to the ground. These were the sort of things she’d gush about. The astringency of the fresh-cut grass was a pleasant counterpoint to the sweetness of the adelfas’ perfume; the adagios playing through the speakers mounted on the ceiling filtering at a decibel that was just above muted, but still clearly heard. But she had gone straight in— he had texted where he was seated—and just stood before him. She stood rigid by the chair he had set aside for her. Her hands formed a number four, one hand by the chair’s back-rest, as if she would be needing it shortly for support, the other crossing her chest to link with her dangling arm. She looked radiant as ever, much more now, with the breakfast-hour sun coruscating on her face. Yet there was a hunch to her shoulders that concaved her chest, which left the impression she was withholding most of the abundance of light he knew she had within her. “I’m leaving for Spain.” Without so much as a by-your-leave, she resolutely turned her back on him and walked out of the coffee shop. He wondered if the course of events would have changed to his favor had he called after her instead of sitting back, masking his inner turmoil by sipping from the cup he had emptied before she arrived, whose dregs seemed to make a mockery of his attempt at recovering dignity that was unseen to the rest of the people lounging outside. Could he have found it in himself to have pleaded? Could he have let go of his pride to hold on to the perfectly good thing that was escaping his grasp?

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* Highlights. It’s an Instagram feature that allows for the user’s stories, which expire after 24 hours, to be stored in an album or more indefinitely. It acts like an active memory bank, only it’s much more reliable than one’s own memories, more exact, much more accessible—remembrance at the click of a button. Helena’s stories are archived in labeled folders. As the yoke of the quarantine bears heavier on him, his only source of comfort has been looking at Helena’s page. I want to see how you look at the world. Wish granted. So, this is what you see. This is what you want to see. This is how you see things and people. No filters on everything, except for the filters of her mind itself, what others see being what she’s chosen, the rest of her thoughts unknown to the world. As the days blur into each other, the only thing that can passably be called his way of keeping time is the ritual of opening Instagram on his phone, then obsessing over the photos and video snippets Helena has shared of her life in Barcelona. The old man in wayfarers on a wicker chair sunning himself on the street. Countless selfies of them both, together on a bench, her big toothy smile making her eyes mere slits, the man posing awkwardly, but looking clearly pleased at being the subject of a pretty lady’s constant attention. A massive lintel cracked and baking under the evening sun. A sheet of white cloth hanging on a clothesline, a sole clothespin keeping it from being blown away by the wind. If he pressed either of the volume buttons on the side of his phone the video clip would be unmuted, and he would hear the wind’s whisper. She loved the wind—he knows this from the past. She loves it still—the wind was a recurrent theme in her gallery. The hanging sheet of cloth. Wildflowers swaying in a field. Her battered summer hat suspended against the stark blue air on days at the beach, the stray fibers on its brim stirring ever so slightly. Rustling leaves, on branches during spring; golden, scattered by deciduous trees on the cobblestone path in autumn. Her laughter, tinkling in the crisp air as she’d goof off, before petering out as she descended a tunnel. It hurts him to look at the photographs and videos. He sees the gaps nobody else will notice—photos that had included him, deleted, since filled out. Instagram’s configuration means that the spaces he occupied could be removed and no one would see the void. Not with the re-adjustments, the photos re-shuffling, virtually papering over the cracks. It anguishes him, this screaming presence of his absence, his recession from being a person of significance in her life into a blot of something she wanted to forget. The six-hour difference between them stresses the fact that they are both in each other’s past, and while he cannot wean himself off her memory, the truth is clear to him and leaves him feeling sucker-punched. Here he is, in his today, watching in the morning how her life has passed. There, in Spain, she lives her present while her own country lurches forward, pulled down to perdition by its

leaders, leaving her in the past. He knows that to save them from being relegated to each other’s memory, one of them has to cross the sea and the invisible meridians that part them so their timelines can be corrected, put in sync. And he would do that, cross the sea, he would. For another shot at rectifying things. Of course, correcting the passage of time isn’t a guarantee that their paths will ever intersect again. In fact, he knows this deep down, no matter how he wishes for it not to be true—she is irretrievably gone from his life. So, this is all he can do. No matter how it hurts, hold down on the frame as the mini-reel of her daily life flashes before him, to delay even by a split-second the second-hand knowledge before it expires, to be replaced by the next day’s record of events. He draws strength from the way she can celebrate the mundane even as everything in the world is going to muck, her adopted city included. She is needed here, in the country of their birth, but perhaps it is a blessing that he has caused her to leave. Because to stay here would have meant that she had gone to the frontlines without regard for her well-being, and in this country the service of healers means a tacit agreement to total sacrifice. When he gets to the end, he presses to the left to repeat. Then goes to the highlights, the segments of what she deems worthy of remembering, repeats the process. This, he knows, is a way to insinuate himself into her consciousness. But that’s merely supposing that she bothers checking who has viewed her stories. She has too much life to live, and she is devoid of such vanities as to care whether she’s being watched or not. Then he clicks on her name that will lead to her gallery, to look at her photo essays. These, these too, will last a while. Every day is a reminder of how much pain he had caused, how much he had lost because of it. But with so much lost there was also something gained. As if each new thing he learns about Helena were a bright star, and under the canopy of stars he could find bits of himself that he could still salvage to come up with a new self he could be at peace with. He is going to send the letter, he knows that now. He knows what he will say— knew it all this while. He would hit “Send,” and there would be no turning back. She might answer, or she might not. She need not, in any case. He will not try to convince himself he would be unaffected if she didn’t. He will be, and maybe the time he wouldn’t would never come. Nevertheless, it’s one of those things where reciprocity wasn’t required.

INSTAGRAM STORIES

POINTS OF CONTACT

Mao Zeong at Iba Pang Dagling Rebyu Tilde Acuña

TALA: BAHAGI ANG mga piyesa rito sa proyektong may tentatibong pamagat na Mga Lazadagling Shopeelifted ang kinahantungan ng problematisasyon ng awtor sa pagturing bilang “coping mechanism” (o mas malala, “eskapismo”) sa anumang pagtangkilik ng merch at/o mga bagay na may kinalaman sa kulturang popular dahil “play” ito o “fun,” imbis na seryosong “work” upang mapabuti ang sangkatauhan— partikular ang mga laro (games!), laruan (toys!), anime (cartoons!), at iba pang komoditi (kakacomputer mo yan!). Sa kabila ng di-maitatangging pagkakagapos ng produksyon at konsumpsyon sa kapitalismo dahil ang lahat ng masasakmal ng Kapital ay pinanghihimasukan nito, sinisikap ng mga sampol na interbensyong textual na nasa set na ito na maglamat, gaano man ka-limitado (o mas malala, halos wala o nakapagpapalakas pa sa saklaw at marketisasyon?), sa interface mismo ng aktuwal na apps ng konsumerismo (partikular sa Shopee at Lazada; mas sa una dahil mas nagagap ng awtor kahit papaano ang “gaming” ng sistema ng cashback at coins nito). Maipapalagay na piyesang “installation” at literal na “site-specific” ang mga prosang itong aminadong “niche” ang target na mambabasa, lalo at sumasangguni sa mga partikular na serye; bunsod ng limitasyon sa espasyo, hindi na nabigyangpuwang ang mga tala para sa “uninitiated.” Gayumpaman, sa proseso ng seleksyon at pagpangalan sa bawat entry, sana ay maging makabuluhan ito sa sinumang mambabasa. Nagpasyang panatilihin hangga’t maaari ang mga screenshot nang walang gaanong edit (sa imahen man o sa texto) at walang anumang dagdag maliban sa pamagat at cropping—upang magsilbi ring dokumentasyon ng espesipikong mga sandali. Nagsimula bilang espontanyong pag-aliw sa sarili ang mga “dagling rebyu,” pero sa kalaunan kinonsiderang isailalim sa kurasyon at ipinepresenta rito bilang sabayang kritikal at sa isang banda ay pampanitikang pagsusuri, gaano man ka-indirekta, sa lipunang Pilipinong sadlak pa rin sa kasalukuyan hindi lang sa pandemya kundi maging sa patindi nang patinding pasismo at karahasang tema rin ng mga palabas na pinaghalawan ng mga aytem na binibili, binebenta at pinoproblema ng awtor-antolohista. Upang maisakatuparan at mapalampas pa sa fanbase ang kritikal na mga interbensyong ito, sisikapin ng mga set na bubuo sa Mga Lazadagling Shopeelifted na magbigay ng mas pamilyar na angkla tulad ng mga pamagat sa set na ito at mga anotasyon o mga meta-rebyu naman sa isa pang nagawa nang set. Tila mga talang pansarili ito, subalit ibinabahagi sa pagbabakasakaling hinggil din ang mga personal na reklamong ito sa mga kaganapang sitwasyong pambansa ang saklaw.

MAO ZEONG AT IBA PANG DAGLING REBYU

POINTS OF CONTACT

Mono-eye-roll

Galak, gulok

Patoleo

Riple, ripple

MAO ZEONG AT IBA PANG DAGLING REBYU

POINTS OF CONTACT

Pulalakaw

Mao Zeong

Tigil-pasada Marvin Joseph E. Ang

MATAAS NA ANG sikat ng araw ngunit mahimbing pa rin ang tulog ng dyip ni Mang Boy. Mag-iisang oras na niya itong sinusubukang buksan, ngunit wala pa ring kaimik-imik ang matandang sasakyan. Nakailang padyak na siya, pero hindi pa rin ito nagigising. Hindi na mapalagay si Mang Boy. Muli pa niyang sinubukang i-start ang sasakyan. Umubo nang kaunti, subalit bumalik din ulit sa paghimbing. Siraulong sasakyan, sa isip-isip niya, hindi pa man nagsisimula ang araw e hapó na. Wala na siyang nagawa kundi bumaba at buksan ang talukap ng sasakyan. Sa tinagal-tagal niyang minamaneho ang dyip na ito, kahit kailan e hindi siya natutong magkumpuni ng sirang sasakyan. Basta’t kakahol-kahol ang makina, agad niyang aakayin ang sasakyan papunta sa kabilang kanto, sa talyer ng kanyang kumpareng Alfredo. Kutkutin man niya ang turnilyo ng sasakyan, buhusan ng tubig ang makina, o punasan ang mga kable, alam niyang wala sa kanyang mga kamay ang lunas sa iniindang sakit nito. “Sige na, bumukas ka na,” bulong niya’t pagsusumamo, “gutom ang aabutin namin kung hindi ako makabiyahe ngayong araw.” Isinara niya ang makina, sa pag-asang diringgin nito ang panalangin niya. Marahan niyang pinihit ang susi, mariing pinadyak ang pedal ng gas. Bumunghalit ng kaunting usok, ngunit ayun, bumalik ulit sa pagtulog. Tatlong salinlahi na ng angkan ng Angeles ang ipinaghanap-buhay ng sasakyang ito, kaya hindi na kataka-taka kung nais na rin nitong magretiro. Minana pa ni Mang Boy ang dyip sa kaniyang ama, na minana pa nito sa ama niya. Sa isip-isip siguro nito, ma’nong sapat na ang higit limang dekadang serbisyo TIGIL-PASADA

POINTS OF CONTACT

sa kanilang angkan, at tuluyang pagpahingahin na. Pero ano nga ba ang silbi ng sasakyan kung hindi ito aandar? Sa katagalan, unti-unti na ring nilalamon ng kalawang ang sahig nito’t mga rehas, at kalas-kalas na rin ang spring ng mga pedal nito. Inaanay na rin ang tabla ng mga upuan, kaya araw-arawin man niya ang pagpapaligo, hindi na niya magawang tapalan ang mga senyas na nalalapit na ang takda nitong panahon. Kaya kahit mga anak niya, kinukumbinsi na siyang pagpahingahin na ang dyip, at magbaka-sakali na lang sa ibang trabaho. “Mabuti sana kung ganoon kadali maghanap ng trabaho rito,” sagot niya sa tuwing nauungkat ang usaping ito. “Matanda na ako’t wala ring tinapos. Sino ang tatanggap sa akin?” Kaya kahit parami na nang parami ang iniindang sakit ng kanilang dyip, hindi niya magawang hindi ito pakinabangan. Plano pa sana ni Mang Boy na ipamana ito sa kaniyang panganay na anak, subalit sa kasalukuyang lagay nito, baka sa junk shop na lang nila ito mapapadpad. Sariwa pa sa kanyang alaala ang panahong katuwang pa siyang barker ng kanyang Lolo Into kapag bumibyahe ito. Sa umaga, ihinahatid siya nito papasok ng eskwela, at pagkatapos ng klase, aabangan niya ang kanyang lolo sa kanto ng Raon upang tulungan sa pagkuha ng pasahero. At dahil batang-bata, wilingwili ang mga komyuter sa matinis na boses na sumisigaw ng, “Biyaheng Quiapo! España! Sakay na!” Tandang-tanda niya pang malawak na talahiban lamang ang kinatitirikan ng mga naglalakihang gusali ngayon sa kahabaan ng Commonwealth. Ibang-iba rin ang hitsura ng Maynila noon; inabot nilang mahigpit na kakumpitensya sa mga pasahero ang mga kalesa. Naaalala niya, kamuntik-muntikanan na siyang matadyakan ng paa ng makisig na kabayo nang pabiro niyang hampasin ang puwitan nito habang umaandar ang dyip. “Kapag ikaw nadisgrasya, wala akong pamalit sa mga magulang mo,” sabi sa kanya ni Lolo Into. “Eh di gumawa ulit kayo ni Lola,” biro niya sa matanda. “Aba, pilosopo ka ha. Sige,” pagbabanta nito, saka bigla-biglang haharurot na tila pag-aari nila ang kalsada. Magtatawanan sila, at saka tutuloy sa pagbyahe hanggang gabi. Nang tuluyang magretiro ang kanyang lolo at ama, siya na ang nagpatuloy sa pagpasada ng kanilang pinakamamahal na dyip. Dahil bata pa lang ay kasa-kasama na siya sa pagbyahe, kabisadong-kabisado niya na ang pasikut-sikot ng mga kalye ng Maynila, ang taas-babang malabulubunduking bahagi ng Quezon City papasok ng North Fairview. Tantsa din niya kung anong oras maluwag ang mga pambansang lansangan, kung saan madaling makakalusot kung trapik sa kahabaan ng Quezon Blvd., o kung saan makakaiwas sa baha kung malakas ang ulan sa España. Noong panahong iyon, punung-puno rin ang Quiapo ng mga naglalakihang larawan ng mga pelikulang talagang dinudumog ng mga tao. Hindi pa uso ang

mga billboard; lahat ay metikulosong ipininta, bawat pelikula’y kani-kaniya ang pakulo upang bumenta. Ngayon, halos wala nang natira sa mga sinehang ito—o kung meron man, iilan na lang at notoryus pa sa mga kakaibang aktibidad. Saksi rin si Mang Boy sa ebolusyon ng mga pasaherong sumasakay sa kaniyang minamaneho. Mula sa mga nakabestidang dalagita na tila pandesal ang pagkakapusod ng buhok, binatilyong naglalawa sa pomada ang ulo, mga batang laging may bitbit na kendi o laruang nabili sa kahabaan ng Raon, hanggang sa mga kabataan ngayong walang ibang pinagkaabalahan kundi pagdudutdot ng kung anu-ano sa selpon. Aminin man niya o hindi, totoong nakakasabik ang dating harana ng mga halakhakan ng mga taong nagkukwentuhan sa byahe. Ngayon, ang tanging mga imik na maririnig ay tunog ng pinapanood sa selpon. “O, di ka na nakaalis,” bati sa kanya ni Misis nang maabutan siya nitong nakatulala sa makina. “Di yan aandar kung makikipagtitigan ka lang dyan. Dalhin mo na ke Pareng Fred. Sige na, akayin mo na ang huklubang sasakyang ‘yan.” Puta’ngna, sa isip-isip niya, di pa man nakakabuena-mano ngayong araw e abunado na agad siya. Makalipas pa ang tatlong oras bago nakaresponde ang kanyang kumpareng Alfredo. Iiling-iling ito habang sinasabuyan ng tubig ang makina ng matandang sasakyan. “Brad, putol na ang turnilyo’t napakatigas na ng hose mo. Kinakalawang at marupok na rin ang karburador. Mas malaki pa kikitain mo kung ibebenta mo na ito hangga’t makinis pa ang tingga ng gulong,” balita ng kanyang kumpare. Agad siyang nanlumo—paano kaya tatanggapin ng misis ang masamang balitang ito? “Palitan mo na kasi. Si Anoy nga, de-aircon na ang kanya. Hayahay na ang biyahe. Araw-araw na tuloy naliligo ang damuhong. Pinupulmonya na nga raw,” biro ni Mang Fred. Natawa na rin si Mang Boy. Ilang beses nang inalok si Mang Boy, at mga kasamahan nitong drayber sa asosasyon, na kumuha na ng bagong modelo ng dyip, iyong moderno. Makailang beses din silang nilapitan ng mga ahente para alukin ng mga bagong dyip na ito. Huwag na muna raw isipin ang pera dahil maraming paraan para bayaran ang mga ito, at mas magiging flexible ang alok ng gobyerno kung pipiliin nilang bumili ngayon nito. Kumpara sa kakarag-karag at kinakalawang nang lumang dyip, mas pangmatagalan at kumportable sa byahe ang mga bagong modelong papalo sa 1.6 hanggang dalawang milyong piso kada yunit. “Five years to pay” naman daw, kaya hindi gaanong mabigat sa bulsa. At dahil mas malaki ang kapasidad, mas malaki rin ang maiuuwi nilang kita sa kani-kanilang pamilya, kaya posible ang kanilang pag-asenso kung kukuha sila ng dyip na ito. Sa katunayan, higit anim na oras nagtalo ang mga opisyales ng kanilang asosasyon nang pagdiskusyunan nila ang kanilang pasya. Marami ang tutol, lalo’t ang ilan ay nakikipasada lang sa mga operator, at natitiyak nilang tataas TIGIL-PASADA

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ang kanilang boundary kung matuloy ito. Baon na nga sa utang ang karamihan sa kanila, mababawasan pa ang kanilang kita. “Imbis na kontrolado mo oras mo, ngayon, mangangarag kang bumyahe nang bumyahe sa laki ng kailangang kitain kada araw. Aba, eh di sana umaandar na lang mag-isa yung dyip na ibebenta nila,” mariing pagtutol ng isa sa kanilang board member na si Felix. “Saka saan naman tayong pwet ni satanas kukuha ng ganoong kalaking pera?” pagsang-ayon ni Mang Boy. “Naku, yung ipambabayad ko roon, ipangkakain na lang namin,” sagot pa niya sabay pagpag sa good morning towel. “Saka kukuha ka pa ng kundoktor doon. Imbis na solo mo ang kita, may makikihati pa. Ano na’ng natira sa’yo?” Bagaman nagkaisa ang kanilang asosasyon laban sa planong ito, may mangilan-ngilan nang operator sa kanilang ruta ang nagsimulang kumuha ng mga bagong dyip. “Dapat talaga magprotesta na tayo eh,” bulalas ni Felix. Aniya, hindi makatarungan, o makatao, ang ginagawang agarang pagpapatigil sa kanilang pamamasada. Marami ang sumang-ayon sa kanya, subalit ani Mang Boy, gawin na lamang nila muna ito kapag nanatiling walang pakialam sa kanila ang mga kinauukulan. Hindi na mapakali si Mang Boy. Hindi naman ito katulad ng TV na katukin mo lang nang kaunti, o di kaya’y buhulin ang wire, aandar na. Ngunit sa isip-isip niya, wala na rin namang mawawala sa kanya. Kung bumukas, salamat sa diyos; kung hindi, ayos lang, ayon naman na siguro ang kapalaran ng sasakyang ito. Binuhusan niyang muli ng tubig ang makina, pinatiktik nang mabuti’t saka isinara. Sumakay siya at buong-ingat na ipinihit ang susi’t pumadyak sa pedal ng gas. Dahan-dahan, sabi niya sa sarili niya, bubukas din ito. Tiwala lang. Umubo nang kaunti ang dyip, ngunit ayun, sisinok-sinok na bumukas. Napahiyaw siya ng “Yahoo!” sa saya. Nang makita niya ang asawang pabalik ng kanilang bahay, buong-loob niyang ipinagmayabang ang “magic” na ginawa niya sa matandang sasakyan. Agad siyang humarurot papuntang terminal. * “Nahuli ka yata ngayon,” natatawang bati kay Mang Boy ni Nonoy, barker sa kanilang terminal. Madalas na nauuna si Mang Boy sa pila dahil maaga itong bumyahe, ngunit ngayon, mahaba na ang pila’t nasa kadulu-duluhan na siya. “Mahabang kwento,” pagod nang sagot ni Mang Boy. Tinanggal niya ang gate sa likod ng kanyang dyip at saka naghintay sa pila. Mabilis namang napuno ang dyip ni Mang Boy nang siya na ang nasa unahan kaya ilang minuto lang, nakaalis na agad siya ng terminal. Malaki na sana ang ngiti niyang makatlong beses na napuno ang dyip wala pa man sa kabilang terminal, subalit kakarag-karag na kumahol ang sasakyan sa gitna ng highway at napundi nang tuluyan ang makina nitong umuubo-ubo ng puting usok. Wala siyang

nagawa kundi pababain ang mga naipong pasahero’t mag-isang itabi ang kanyang sasakyan sa bangketa. Mabuti na lang at may nadaang tow truck ng MMDA kaya napakiusapan niyang ihatid siya pauwi ng kanilang tahanan. Madilim at walang kailaw-ilaw nang datnan ni Mang Boy ang kanilang bahay pag-uwi. Pilit man niyang ikaila sa sarili niya, alam niyang tuluyan na silang naputulan ng kuryente. Tatlong buwan na ngayong buwan ang utang nila sa Meralco, ngunit hindi niya mabawi-bawi sa pagpasada ang pambayad nila ng kuryente dahil sa pangkain pa lang, salat na salat na sila. Kung minsan, napapaisip si Mang Boy, sinira niya lang ang buhay ng kanyang misis na pinangakuan niya ng langit at lupa nang sila’y ikasal. Kahit payak, di hamak na mas maalwan ang buhay nito sa probinsya, katuwang ng ama nito sa pagsasaka ng lupain nilang kung hindi sa pagkakasakit ng kanilang ina’y kanila pa rin hanggang ngayon. Ngunit nang hingin niya ang kamay nito, pakiramdam niya, posible ang lahat, na kahit sa limitado niyang pag-aaral at kakayahan, maibibigay niya ang lahat ng pangangailangan nito. Mabigat at pagod na ngiti ang bati ni misis nang madatnan siya sa pintuan. “Kumain ka na ba?” maingat niyang tanong sa namamayat at ubo nang ubong asawa. Umiling lamang ito at marahang kinuha ang sardinas at miswang dala-dala nito. “Umiinom ka ba ng gamot? parang tumitindi lang yung ubo mo ha.” “Ayos lang ako. Balita ni Kumareng Linda, wala na raw pag-asa ang dyip. Ano na’ng balak mo?” “E, makikipasada na lang muna ako. Pumayag na si Pareng Lito, dadaanan ko na lang sa kanila ang dyip bukas.” “Malaki mag-boundary ‘yun ah.” “Hindi na bale, basta makabyahe’t wag lang mawalan ng trabaho.” “May trabaho ka nga, pero halos wala ka namang kikitain. Nagsasayang ka lang ng pagod mo.” Napapikit si Mang Boy, buong lakas na pinipigilang ibunton ang lahat ng emosyong nadarama niya sa umaatungal niyang asawa. Naiintindihan naman niya ang alinlangan at mga agam-agam ng kabiyak, subalit wala rin naman siyang maisasagot, ni masisiguro, dito. Kahit siya, kinukwestyon ang sarili sa mga nangyayari sa kanila. Subalit ilang ulit man o gaano man kalalim niyang paglimian ang kanilang sitwasyon, alam niyang dudulo’t dudulo pa rin ito sa katotohanang kailangan niyang patuloy na magtrabaho’t suportahan ang kanilang pamilya. “Pasensya ka na,” biglang nasambit ni Mang Boy sa kanyang asawa. Malalim na ang gabi ngunit hindi pa rin siya makatulog. “Para saan?” sagot ng asawa. “Dito. Sa sitwasyon natin.” “Hindi mo naman kasalanan...” “Kahit na. Responsibilidad ko pa ring buhayin kayo. Bigyan kayo ng maganda at maalwang buhay. Hindi ko na alam kung paano ko magagawa iyon.” TIGIL-PASADA

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“Huwag mo nang sisihin ang sarili mo. Mula’t sapul, ito na ang buhay natin. Saan man tayo magsusuot o dumaan, dito pa rin ang kahihinatnan natin.” Pautal-utal at uubo-ubo si Misis sa bawat salita nito kaya hindi maiwasang sisihin nang husto ni Mang Boy ang sarili. “Matulog na tayo,” bulong pa sa kanya ng asawa bago tuluyang makatulog. Sumilong na rin siya sa kanilang kumot, at nangako sa sariling gagawin niya ang lahat ng makakaya umahon lang ang kanilang buhay. * Mag-aalas dose na ng tanghali. Pahaba na nang pahaba ang pila ng mga pasahero, ngunit nananatiling matatag ang bawat isa sa kanilang makiisa sa dyipney strike. Malawak ang naging partisipasyon ng bawat isa ngayong araw, at ayon sa mga balita, paralisado ang biyahe hindi lamang sa Maynila kundi sa buong bansa. Napilitan tuloy ang ilang siyudad na magsuspinde ng klase, habang ang ilang kumpanya’y hindi na muna nagpapasok ng kanilang mga empleyado. Jeepney Phaseout! Ibasura! Serbisyo sa tao! Huwag gawing negosyo! Dumating na rin ang ilang mga taga-midya, kumakapanayam ng mga tsuper na labis na maaapektuhan ng tangkang modernisasyon ng dyip at pag-phaseout sa mga lumang modelo. Jeepney Phaseout! Ibasura! Serbisyo sa tao! Huwag gawing negosyo! Maya-maya, nilapitan ng isang reporter si Mang Boy, hinihingi ang kanyang sentimyento ukol sa isinasagawang pagkilos. Kalmado ngunit may diin ang bawat salita ni Mang Boy, tanda ng kawalan niya ng pasensya sa bigla-bigla’t tila hindi pinag-iisipang gawi ng mga politikong ipagbawal ang mga tradisyunal na dyip sa lansangan. “Hindi naman ho kami tutol sa modernisasyon. Sa katunayan, may katotohanan namang kinakailangan nang palitan ang ilang dyip namin ng mas bago. Subalit sana’y gawin naman nila ito sa mas makataong pamamaraan, at may pagsaalang-alang sa kalagayan ng mga drayber na katulad namin. Hindi naman kami bumibiyahe para magpayaman, bumibyahe kami para may maipangkain sa araw-araw sa aming mga pamilya. Kaya sana, dinggin ng gobyerno ang aming hinaing.” Jeepney phaseout! Ibasura! Serbisyo sa tao! Huwag gawing negosyo! * Maagang nagising kinabukasan si Mang Boy. Sa hindi niya maipaliwanag na dahilan, magaan ang kanyang pakiramdam ngayon. Pagkaligo niya’t pagkabihis, sumakay siya sa kanyang dyip at sinubukang buksan ang makina nito. Katakatakang bigla itong bumukas, tila ipinahihiwatig sa kanyang nakapagpahinga na ito kahit papaano’t handa na muling kumayod.

Walang pag-aatubiling ibiniyahe niyang muli ang kanyang dyip. Ngunit hindi katulad noon, iba na ang rutang kanyang tatahakin—kasama ang kanyang mga kapwa drayber, sa landas na iilan lamang ang nangangahas tumahak.

TIGIL-PASADA

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Mga Bagong Kasabihan sa New Normal Geraldine Gentozala-Juachon & Kel Almazan

MGA BAGONG KASABIHAN SA NEW NORMAL

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MGA BAGONG KASABIHAN SA NEW NORMAL

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Joey and the Bengali Taxi Driver Raymund P. Reyes

THE BEAT-UP GREEN Chevrolet turned left from the main road into the driveway fronting a block of flats with the sign “Single Staff Housing” planted on the lawn. It stopped beside a man standing on the sidewalk. “Assalam’alaikum!” The driver waved a hand in greeting. “Salaam!” The other man answered as he opened the door on the passenger’s side. His nose wrinkled at the odor of mingled sweat and spices that filled the inside of the car. “How are you? My name Abu Sayeed,” the driver introduced himself. The two shook hands. “I’m fine. Shukran jazilan. My name is Joey. And how are you today, sadikh?” “Al-Hamdu lillaah! Very fine, my friend. Downtown, we will go, yes? You a Filipini, my pare?” “Yes,” Joey nodded smiling. “I see from your face and skin and I said to myself, this man Filipini. Thank you for your calling my taxi. This my first time to see you. Where you get my number?” Abu Sayeed asked as he maneuvered the car back to the highway. “From my friend,” Joey answered. “Also, a secretary from the same company as me. Mr. Perez, do you know him? He just also got your number from your father-inlaw, Rafi. We usually call Rafi but when we called him earlier, he was not available. He said to call you, instead.”

“Oh, yes. My father-in-law in Makka today. Hajj, you know? I go last Ramadan, so now I no go. Kalas, finished. See my head? Still no hair because I go umrah last Ramadan. Now, many Muslims go to hajj in Makkah. Many, many, from all over the world. Television say four millions this year. You and Mr. Perez, work in same company, Samref? “Yes, but I am new. I’ve just been here in Rabigh for a couple of months. You took long, Abu Sayeed. You said five minutes on the phone. I’ve been waiting for about fifteen minutes for you there on the sidewalk.” “I’m sorry, yes. Forgive me, pare. Anaa fi mushkila. I had problem. I have this one passenger before I come for you. One lady… no good. She no cover her face. Only her hair and she ride alone also. Mebbe, she from Masr. I’m sure, she not Saudiyya woman. Saudiyya woman no go out alone and no go out with no cover. So, I said for myself, this no good lady. “This lady, she don’t make up her mind. When she call, she said she go McDonalds, you see? Then, when we arrive McDonald’s, she no go out. She said, no stop. Drive around the block. Then, drive another circle. Two time we going around. I thinking, no good. Mebbe, she looking for somebody and the somebody not there yet. I don’t know, but just I thinking, bad lady. But of course, I only drive. What’s important is she pay money. I just, huduu’, you know?” Abu Sayeed motioned by putting a finger on his lips. “Finally, we no stop at McDonald’s. She ask me to drive to Al-Nawa. This another place. So now I leave her there in Al-Nawa. Later, I come back later to get her. So I was late to you. So, so, so sorry, pare. No more late next time. Wa’llah.” “It’s okay, I understand. Not your fault. Hey, what’s that they’re building? Do you know?” Joey pointed to a complex of buildings being constructed beside the road where their car stopped for a red light. “That? A big supermarket.” “A new mall, you mean?” Joey corrected the driver. “No, no mall. Just supermarket with only one floor. Not like in Jeddah. In Jeddah, big supermarket has four floors. That you can call mall. In this city, so many supermarkets. Every block has a supermarket. Where there is mosque, there one supermarket. This difficult for driver like me. Passenger want to buy one thing here, another thing in another supermarket, then another in next supermarket. Why they can’t just put all in one place, I don’t know. This not big city, really. No need for one supermarket every block.” “Maybe because they have a lot of money and they need to spend it,” Joey suggested. “Yes, much money, much money, this Saudi Arabia,” Abu Sayeed answered. “My father-in-law, he tell me that before five years when he come to this place, all this place just desert. Here desert, there desert. Now, city growing fast because this now King is a good King. He spend much, much money to build this city. Now, JOEY AND THE BENGALI TAXI DRIVER

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Saudi no strict like the other King before, the one who died before a few years. You understand, Mr. Joey?” He glanced at his passenger. Joey nodded, although he had been straining to comprehend much of what the driver had been saying in his nasal-toned and broken English. “This new king now allow many to come to Saudi. The country much, much open now. Many work, many new building, many from other country coming, and many school now they make. They want Saudi children to go school and learn, you see? School now important for Saudi. Not like before twenty or thirty years. But now they very rich so school now very important. Even the women have their own school now. But the bad thing about this many schools in the kingdom today? Soon, when all Saudis finish school, they will not need people like you and me to come here and work.” “How long have you been in Saudi Arabia?” Joey asked. “Two years now,” Abu Sayeed answered. “I know speak Arabic, English, and my own Bangla language. You speak English, no problem with me. Filipinis, good people. I have friend, he live near my house so we talk sometimes. He has Filipini boss. He know some Filipini language, this friend. He told me, Filipinis good people. So, I trust Filipinis. I have other passengers from your company also. Some Pakistani, some Masr, some Indian. They call, I no answer mobile phone because I no like them. I answer first time, maybe, then I drive them. After, I tell myself that I no like them. So the next time they call, I no answer. Just!” “I thought you said the money was important, Abu Sayeed?” “Not always money, you know, Mr. Joey? People, also. Some just not nice like others. You store my number, okay, Mr. Joey? Next time you call, no problem. I like Filipini customers. Nurses, you know? In all hospitals and clinics are many, many Filipini nurses.” “Yes, Filipino nurses are everywhere in the world.” Joey answered. “How many percent nurses in your country?” “I don’t know,” the passenger laughed at the driver’s question. “I just know that we send a lot of nurses to all countries in the world, especially Saudi Arabia.” “Like Bangladesh, ninety percent all farmers. The vegetable you buy in supermarket, it come from Bangladesh, I’m sure. We bring all our vegetables here. In Philippine, you bring all your nurses here. You want me to look for you Filipini nurse girlfriend? I know many. You married or single, Mr. Joey?” “No, I’m not married. I’m still single,” Joey replied. “But I’m getting married soon. That is why I’m here in this country. I’m saving money for marriage. Maybe next summer when I go home to the Philippines, I’ll get married.” “Inshallah, you married next summer? Good. Me, I’m married. Before two years. I came here after married. My wife, seventeen years today. When I married, her age fifteen years.” “That’s so young!” Joey couldn’t help showing surprise.

“All Bangla women they marry the same age. Fifteen and sixteen for Bangla okay for married. No problem. I married because my mother sick, you know? My father he died a long time. I was a child then. My mother work in cloth company. She make shirt and dress. Me, the first, and then two sisters after me. When mother get sick, I have to come to Saudi. “Mother married me to Rafi’s daughter. After I married, I come to Saudi and work. My father-in-law sponsor my visa and he find me my sponsor family here, where I work now. I work for madam. I drive the children to school in morning, then drive them to house in afternoon. After that, no more. I drive taxi part-time. Sometimes, madam call me when she want me to buy something. She call me and I get it for her. Sometimes, madam say she want to go with children to park. This park, special park only for women and children. Mr. Al-Ghamdi, her husband, not in the house yet so I drive madam and the children. But not always. Madam no like going out too much. Only inside the house most of the time. Saudi woman like that. Only want to stay inside the house. Eat, watch TV, and make babies. I get salary, two thousand from my sponsor family, and I get bigger from taxi, you know? It’s okay with madam. Madam, very good to me. She know I work outside. I thank Allah my madam very good. “I have one child. She one years old. Now I work hard because I have daughter. Also, I have the two sisters I tell you before. I take care my wife and my two sisters in Bangladesh. I work hard because I am like guardian now. I take care all of them. I send money to wife every salary…” Abu Sayeed paused as he stopped the car at a red light. Suddenly, a gray car passed beside theirs and cruised ahead in spite the stop signal. “Crazy! You see?” Abu Sayeed exclaimed, shaking his head and thumping on the steering wheel. “You know? I no like this job. Why? Because this driving not safe. Saudis not good in driving. Like that one, a Saudi man I am sure. Saudi man not know how to follow rules. He know he own the country, so he do what he like. These Saudis, they are rich so they not worried. But what about like me? I always have to take care driving because Saudis they not care. They will crash in accident but they okay because they pay the hospital, the driver, everything! But what about like me? So I have to take care. Sometimes I thinking: what if I meet an accident? I thinking about my wife, my daughter, and sisters in Bangladesh. Very bad, this work.” A phone suddenly rang, interrupting Abu Sayeed’s talking. The driver reached for a mobile on the dashboard. “Aloo? Aiwa? Misa’a al-khayr!” Abu Sayeed talked on the phone with one hand, steering the car with the other. While the driver was deep in conversation on the phone, Joey rolled down the window on his side to let the fresh air in and looked out towards the Red Sea bathed in moonlight. The sea was calm. He inhaled the smell of saltwater in the air. JOEY AND THE BENGALI TAXI DRIVER

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Traffic was thin because it was prayer time. He could hear the faint echoes of an imam chanting from the loudspeaker of a mosque somewhere calling the people to Isha, the last prayer of the day. The wind was chilly. It reminded him of his father who had always liked the cold winds of December. It made you feel the spirit of the holidays more, his father would say. Joey thought of his three sisters. They would be going home to their parents’ house for Christmas Eve. Elsa, their eldest just had her first child last September, so there would be a new addition to the annual family Christmas dinner. This year they would celebrate without him. “That was madam,” Abu Sayeed had finished his call, cutting short Joey’s reverie. “She call me to buy something. Now, after I send you home, I go eat dinner, then I go to her. Right now I’m very tired.” “Where do you live?” Joey asked him. “In Radwa Four, near Al-Shafa hospital. You know Radwa Four?” “No, I’ve only been here for two months,” Joey shook his head. “I don’t know my way around the city much.” “Next time you call me, I drive you around. No extra pay. Just you see all city you like, okay? Yes, I have own flat and I have my friend with me. I pay half, he pay half. He also work for a sponsor family. He my only good friend here. Rafi, my fatherin-law, we not really friends. Rafi is like a very big man, you know? We not talk so much. My years twenty-six. Rafi forty years more, mebbe. I don’t know, forty-six, forty-five. Very big man, my father-in-law so I only talk sometimes with him and serious talk only. No fun fun joke joke. What ‘bout you? How old you, Mister Joey?” “I’m turning twenty-seven next month.” “Oh, we almost the same! You also twenty-six right now, just like me. But my birthday still before five months.” “Here we are. I can get off here,” Joey tapped the dashboard to call Abu Sayeed’s attention. “Just drop me by that Western Union over there.” “Do you want me come back later and bring you home?” Abu Sayeed asked him. “I’ll just call you at about ten. I’ll shop around after finishing with the bank. Is that okay?” “Okay, I now go to my house, then go to madam. After that, I get the girl I talk to you about before. Then, I just wait for your call. Mafi mushkila.” “Yes, shukran, my friend. Nice talking to you.” “Afwan, Mr. Joey.” Joey took the end of a long queue extending from inside the bank to the sidewalk outside. The line was made up of Filipinos, Indians, Pakistanis, and Bangladeshis waiting for their turn at the remittance counter. It was five days to Christmas.

Bakasyon Grande Ferdinand L. Eusebio

Tagaktak na ang pawis ng matumal na umaga, isang Linggo ng Mayo, ngunit di pa rin bumabangon ang piyon sa construction na si Jun. Bago pa lámang siya nasasanay sa panibagong tugtugin ng nakababagot na katahimikan. Wala ang dating kalantog ng pála, rudela at kutsara upang marahang humagod ng halong semento sa pader ng industriya’t kaunlaran dito at doon na araw-araw man ding kanyang kapiling. Ang tiktak ng bawat sandali sa nakatanod na orasan ay para bang isang uyaying sa kanya ay naghehele. BAKASYON GRANDE

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At dahil bakasyon grandeng maituturing ang ganitong panahon ng biglaang lockdown, ano ba naman ang sandaling magtúlog-mantika muna siya? Muling nagpikit si Jun at nag-inat na parang nasa hotel sakâ nanaginip ng magandang búhay, rangya at magandang bahay na kanyang hinahangad para sa kanyang mag-anak. Subalit biglang tumunog ang pamilyar na eksena at gulantang na bumalikwas ang pobreng construction worker. Sabay-sabay kasing umalingawngaw ang busina ng trak ng butihing maybahay at anim na batàng makina ng cement mixer na kangkarot na tumatakbo sa bawat sulok ng hotel na barong-barong. Tulad ng kanyang pitaka, wala pang laman ang sikmura ng asawa at mga bata. Dahil sa bagong katahimikan, lalong dumálang ang dating kalantog ng payat na tinidor at kutsara sa nangungulilang pinggan. Walong pinggan, sa katunayan. Noong isang araw pa hulíng kumulo ang gusgusing kalderong binusóg ng ayuda kayâ ngayo’y kumukulo ang tiyan at dugo ng buong mag-anak niya. At napilitan si Jun na tapusin ang nabiting panaginip upang muling harapin

ang mga bangungot at hinagpis. Sapagkat ang buhay nga naman ay di kasingganda ng isang pangarap, muli siyang lalabas ng bahay at dedelihensiyang pilit. At kung siya’y susuwertehin, alin man sa dalawa ang kanyang masusumpungan sa gaya niyang nabakanteng kalsada: libreng sakay sa mobile ng pulis o ang jackpot na hatid ng viral na sakít.

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PHANTOM TRAIN Raya de Leoz

THERE’S A FILM called Inception and throughout the film Mal, a projection of the protagonist, says, “You’re waiting for a train. A train that will take you far away. You know where you hope the train will take you, but you can’t know for sure. Yet it doesn’t matter.” Trains have a system of their own, I suppose. Nothing truly disrupts its tracks, which are run by tiny mechanisms of rusty iron. There was one train travelling at the speed of lightning, filled with eccentric strangers, and the seats were all mismatched and patched and vintage, some made of fake leather and some real—one was even a plastic chair. It depended on who sat on it, I think. No one was bewildered to find men in wigs and long capes with sheaths at their hips and leather boots. One tall woman wore lime-green robes and had her black hair pulled back tightly, emphasizing her tall nose and bonyfeatures. She resembled a phoenix, fearless and strong. There were children much younger than you and me, running around the compartment and cats lounged on random tables or on the backs of people’s unpredictable chairs. But none of their footsteps made a sound. They looked as solid as us, only there would be a slight tremor when they spoke to you or when you sat beside them. They would feel this, too, and shiver. Perhaps it was me; I was not fully like them, but they treated me the same. There was one boy with cancer who didn’t speak much but liked to comb the tabby fat cat by his

chair—it had a white sheet with astronauts floating about. I thought one even waved. He sometimes held my hand and applied pressure on the center and looked up at me expectantly for a reaction. I noticed two lovers in the back of the train: One was an old man and one a young woman. They embraced and I felt their tremor. It was as though the young woman had been waiting for the man to board the train. I’d boarded this train once, and when I first arrived, I asked a girl not far from my age where we were headed. “That depends on you,” she said and returned to reading her book. I was there by accident, see. I explained that to all of them, but silence filled our compartment, even the two lovers’ tremor died down for a second as I said it, and they told me no one got on this train by accident. One gaunt man told me he had been waiting to board forever. TB was torture, he said, but the cigarettes didn’t taste the same here. “The ice running down your throat disappears. That’s the only thing I miss in the platform,” he said. There was a blind man wearing a top hat, long coat buttoned-up in the center of his abdomen and a wooden cane held between his legs as he told his story. He said he had been happy: He’d been a good son and was lucky to have good parents. He didn’t pursue a woman until he was 28 because of his loyalty to his family. He met the perfect girl, but she died during childbirth. “But I have not seen her board yet, so I’m still waiting,” he said. He hadn’t always been blind, but if it hadn’t been for the war, perhaps he would’ve made more of himself. But even then, he didn’t seem to mind his tragedies. When he told the story of how his parents died, tears fell down his colorless eyes and I placed a hand on his. It seemed I had been there for days. I hadn’t slept but I was far from tired. I was petting a fluffy white cat when I noticed an old lover of mine sitting alone by the window, watching the foggy unending scenery. When he saw me, he seemed terrified. “You shouldn’t be here.” “You’re not happy to see me?” I teased. “You shouldn’t be here yet.” “I might want to stay.” He leaned in his chair, a warm brown couch with plaid patches, just like the one he had in his home, and I watched him look out the window. The view was foggy and gray, like it was about to rain. In his eyes were vivid captures of his moments from when he was an infant to moments before he boarded. Eventually he closed his eyes and said, “They’re waiting for you, you know.” “It would be strange to get off now. I think the platform would feel colder than here.” “This isn’t your stop. Not yet. I’ve been on this train for a while now. I was like you when I first came in, curious. It’s the life, isn’t it? Not worrying about school PHANTOM TRAIN

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or seeing that professor you hate, coming home to a dirty home and to a drunk brother. This seems like paradise. It’s not.” I looked around our compartment, the old men and the young men, old women and young women, children with no hair and children with hair that fell to the floor, their movements silent and light. I looked back at him and his eyes were still closed. He seemed at peace. I told him, “I don’t understand.” He didn’t answer. He kept his eyes closed. He’d always been difficult to understand. He always made it difficult for others. “Riddle, just what do you mean? Why don’t you want me here, why shouldn’t I be here? Don’t you want me here?” His eyes fluttered open. “Honestly I don’t. All I know is you’re too early. I can’t drag you out of here, that’s not how this works. The train doesn’t stop but you can always get off. “The next time I see you I want you to be gray and frail. When I look in your eyes I want to see the long life you’ve had and listen to all your heartbreaks, how long it took for you to mend yourself, to find yourself, and eventually someone good. But you’re too early to be sitting here with me, although this might seem great, there’s truly not much to do but talk about the platform and stare at the haze. That’s the difficult part. We may be here but all we see is our platform. That sounds redundant, but the more I watch, the more I wonder, Had I boarded too soon? Was this really my time? If I hadn’t left, if I had waited and walked on just a little longer—who would I meet? Who would I kiss? Who would show me and teach me all the things I was too arrogant to learn? This long ride could’ve waited, right?” He rubbed his temples and closed his eyes again. His brows knitted together, as if in pain. He licked his lips. “Admittedly there are moments where I understand why I’m here. I put myself here, after all. But like you, I wonder, How are things on the platform, all that I left behind—all the people—are they all right? How many of them grieved for me? How many of them still say my name as if I were still with them? And how often? Am I still visited? It’s all self-centered but I can’t ever know. None of these people know. That’s why they’re here for so long.” He looked at them almost pitifully, then at me. “You could leave too, you know. You don’t have to be here. You can get on the next train.” He shook his head. “I told you, I’ve rushed things. I’m waiting for my friends— but I didn’t think I’d see you this early. I don’t wish for any of them to be here this early.” He paused. “If you go, I’ll wait for you to come back and we can get on the next train together.” Riddle smiled and I could feel everyone’s eyes on us, even the cats, as the tremor reverberated through the seats. Beneath us, I think the wheels of the train almost came to a halt.

I looked down at my palms. “I don’t know if I’m ready to go back.” “So, don’t.” “But I know I can’t sit here forever, with you, though that sounds pleasing.” “It will get frustrating.” “I think being here has made you more patient. Maybe it will do the same for me.” “It hasn’t, and it won’t.” I finally looked up at him. He was a young man and an old man. But his hands were the same. I wanted to reach out and touch him. I looked up and he was leaning forward. He held my chin gently and smiled. His eyes were clear of his memories, and the reflection of myself in his eyes was more vivid than his past. “It’s a long life,” he said. “But this isn’t your stop.” There were no clocks there and no one talked about time or dates unless they talked about the platform. I don’t know how long I stayed. There was no sun. The scenery was always in between rain and shine. I didn’t go hungry. There weren’t even saucers or glasses displayed anywhere, but many of them had cigarettes and one young girl even had a yoyo, but their cigarette smoke didn’t clog the compartment, and when they spoke, no smoke came out, nor smell lingered in their breath. I sat with Riddle, but he was always quiet and looking out the window or closing his eyes. He rarely smiled or spoke to the other passengers or even petted a cat. He would only open his eyes to look at me to see if I were still there, I think. He would stare at me for a long while. Sometimes I would feel his gaze when I spoke to the other passengers, but other times when I looked at him, he wasn’t really there. He was becoming an old man. I was sitting across from him at first. No one ever sat beside each other here, always across, but this time I sat on his warm sofa anyway. The train shook. The lights hanging from the ceiling were swaying as though treading on water and the chairs rattled and the tables with no saucers or glasses shook under the hum of passengers’ conversations and the floor seemed ready to fall. Riddle didn’t open his eyes. I touched his hand, and the sofa we sat on seemed ready to throw us out. I brushed his hair off his forehead. He opened his eyes and looked at me. He looked so tired. I leaned forward and he seemed surprised and uncertain, but he didn’t turn away. The lights hanging from the ceiling fell to the floor. The train went black. I opened my eyes. The sheets under my hands were cold and the sheet over my body did little to keep me warm. The only place that felt warm was around my lips, and something warm lay on my bandaged wrist but no one was there. I closed my eyes again.

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Then I looked out at the sky. I lay sprawled and my bed was a moving train, beside me was Riddle. We didn’t speak. We only watched the sky transcend from morning to night. The sun, though looked at directly, never burnt our retina. I closed my eyes again. I am sitting in a train once again and an attendant asked me if I’d like something to eat. I ordered a cinnamon bun and a cup of black coffee. I was halfway through it when my manager slid to the chair across from me, firing away at me about the lack of security detail at the bookstore I would be visiting. “There’s fifty people already waiting for you!” he said, his eyes bulging. “Fifty! The bookstore hadn’t expected it. Said they never even heard of you and your book!” “It’s all right, Asher—” “Never heard of you, my ass!” I let him speak and stared out the window. “Also, I wanted to ask you,” were the next words I heard Asher say that dragged me to the present. I looked at him. “Why did you want to take a train? I could’ve easily booked us something with a more accommodating atmosphere than this.” “I don’t know. I like trains.” The wrinkle between his brows deepened. “You’re so secretive. Even when I first read your book, I knew it’s supposed to depict a part of you, but I still didn’t understand you. I didn’t understand what it all means.” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” “Try me.” I considered telling him. I looked out the window again. The sun was at its peak and the scenery of trees and houses and people were clear. If you go, I’ll wait for you to come back and we can get on the next train together. “Trains just remind me of someone I once knew. He wanted me to age before we met again.” “Sounds like a good man.” I looked over at Asher. He seemed to be listening intently. He seemed genuinely interested. “The truth is I have no idea if what we had was real, if I had not dreamed it all. I mean, I do have dreams but I wonder if it’s just … some form of nostalgia or yearning. Because I had desperately wanted it to be real and when I sleep, it’s all my mind wants.” “Maybe it’s what your heart wants.” I chuckled. Asher’s brows shot up. I rarely ever smiled these days. “You make me sound like some teenager pining over her first unrequited love. I’m too old for that. That’s why I find this whole thing ridiculous. Maybe it’s why I even wrote that book in the first place.” “You’re not that old yet,” was all his reply was. “We’re forty, Asher.”

“Not dead.” He took a sip of my coffee. It must’ve gone cold but he didn’t seem to mind. “You’ll see him again, don’t worry.” The next time I opened my eyes I was still sitting in the train, resting my head on a shoulder. “Are you awake?” Riddle said. I looked down at my hands, so dotted and wrinkled that the scar on my wrists blended fine with my sagging skin. I looked at him and he was smiling at me. “I’m sorry it took a while,” I told him. “I’ve met a lot of my friends. You’re the last one I’m waiting for.” “Should we go now?” “We still have time.” “I don’t see any clocks. How will we know when to get off?” He looked at me. “Are you sure now? You won’t change your mind?” “I’m old and gray, Riddle, what more do you want?” I laughed. He took my hand and together we stood up. “We don’t get off,” he said. “We just move to the next compartment.” There was no one there. We sat down and I noticed light shining through the fog. Riddle asked me about the platform, and I told him every detail. We didn’t eat. We might not have breathed. We talked endlessly. Eventually I asked him, “It’s an even longer ride now, isn’t it?” He held out his smooth palm. “Come here.” I slid beside him and rested my head against his shoulder. “We should sleep,” he said. “You must be tired.” “I should say the same to you. How long have you been sitting in that same compartment?” “There are no clocks, like you said. Not even here. Especially here.” “What’s the use of them if the weather doesn’t change?” He didn’t say anything and closed his eyes. I watched him for a while and counted his lashes. “What’s the difference between here and there?” I said. With his eyes closed he said, “Here, light shines through the fog.” I rested deeper into his embrace and we slept. By the time light reached our window, the seat was empty.

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Untitled

Louise Sejera

Page 2 of 3, Hospital Bill for Room 232 Daniel Sebastianne Daiz

IT WAS 3 A.M. when the nursing attendant knocked on the door to tell me to prepare for my surgery, which would take place at 7:30 a.m. later. She was wearing typical blue hospital scrubs, along with a yellow raincoat-like personal protective equipment (PPE), which has been part of their typical dress code since the pandemic began. She told me the following instructions in exact order: take a bath, since I might not be able to do so for at least three days; strip naked and put on the laboratory gown—which is unusually small for my size, so I offered the night before if I could wear my Bio 11.1/Chem 16.1 laboratory gown instead, but it was denied since it was not sterile; and wear adult diapers. Mother, who was required to sleep in my hospital room, had hastily awaken, too, to help me prepare. But she had to leave an hour later for she had work that day. It was a Wednesday. It was now 5 a.m. I was not advised to eat the rationed breakfast before the surgery, but I was advised to do so afterwards. Moments later, another nurse came in. She was still wearing the same PPE, now donning new surgical gloves. Clutched in her left hand was this metallic, cubic box containing a bottle of alcohol, a rubber tourniquet, a glass canister full of iodine-infused cotton balls, a roll of one-inch-thick micropore tape, a needle, and a one-liter dextrose solution. I always hated injections, or just the sight of needles near me. In fact, before I was admitted to the hospital the night earlier, they had to draw blood from me, which caused me to get anxious and my blood pressure to go up. My hand’s blood PAGE 2 OF 3, HOSPITAL BILL FOR ROOM 232

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vessels were visible enough, luckily, so the nurse had little struggle with finding an appropriate vein to insert the needle. I told her to choose my right hand since I am left-handed, which she happily obliged. After swabbing the back of my hand with alcohol and iodine, she carefully opened the syringe and plunged it in all at once. It was not painful. She tucked the other side of the syringe with the dextrose bottle and set the right drip pace. I knew blood was oozing out of me since I saw somewhat coagulated, pink blood near where the syringe and the dextrose tube met. Whenever I gently tapped the tube, however, the blood came back inside my vein. It was nearing 7 a.m. when Dad, who had taken mother’s place in watching over me, turned the television on. The television was tuned in to Mike Enriquez’s morning newscast on DZBB. Mike was about to phone-patch interview someone regarding the ABS-CBN shutdown, which had happened just five days earlier, when the sound of metallic clanking overcame the television’s noise. Two knocks later, a utility guy from the hospital wheeled in a stretcher, which would be used to transfer me to the operating room. I happily sat and lay on the stretcher, clutching my brown blanket, which the guy said I could bring with me. Then I was off. I thought the operating room was far, but, to my surprise, it was just the room in front of mine. The utility guy parked my stretcher at the main lobby of the operating room just as I heard water gush out from an adjacent room, and my doctor’s voice. Typical of a surgery, surgeons scrubbed the nooks and crannies of their whole arm, so they were sterile up to the elbows. Moments later, I was wheeled into Operating Room Two, which had this small bed in the middle and some medical equipment tapered to the walls. The air reeked of iodine and alcohol–typical of a hospital-grade disinfectant. My surgeon, already in his green PPE, asked someone to grab his iPad mini and plug it in to the operating theater’s speakers. I heard classical music. Lying on the operating table, my surgeon introduced me to the anesthesiologist who asked me to sit and bend my back. I felt a swirl of cold, wet cotton ball near my lumbar, which he pierced with a needle containing anesthetics, numbing the lower half of my body. Within a few seconds, it was as if all my lower body strength had been drained off of me. One of the nurses assisting the doctors strapped my right index finger onto a pulse oximeter and my right arm with a sphygmomanometer. Immediately, the room was filled with constant beeping of the monitor displaying my blood pressure and pulse. Yet little did I know that nurse was a friend of mine, one of our neighbors when I was still a child. Julius introduced himself just minutes before the anesthesiologist injected into my IV line a vial of propofol, fondly called “milk of amnesia,” which knocked me off in less than 10 seconds. It was not a complicated surgery, anyway. The operation would simply excise an infected patch of tissues underneath my left thigh, due to a wound that had gone

bad. The doctor, prior to the surgery, told me that it would only last about an hour or so. Initially, we had planned that I would be awake during the surgery, yet, at the last moment, the anesthesiologist observed that I was too uneasy for the surgery. The signs were there: My pulse was irregular, my breathing quick. It was my first surgery. I had the most vivid dreams with the cocktail of drugs: Unicorns were dancing in a Katy Perry music video, a giant one-eyed creature devouring my physics professors, and a murderer loose in the hospital trying to kill me with a pistol, which failed to fire and was eventually caught by my sister. Reality, on that operating table, had been totally muddled. In fact, those dreams were so vivid and imaginative that I can still recall them in detail. Funny how human tinkering with these class of drugs could lead to such memories that are so detached from reality. Joke is on the so-called milk of amnesia, when I can still remember such dreams months after the surgery. Or, maybe, is it a side effect of propofol to create lucid dreams? An hour later, the doctor had finished the operation. A gentle tap on my shoulder, I was awakened. Groggy, but I was conscious. I was wheeled back into my room, around 9 a.m. already, and the first thing I did was grab my phone, message my editor that the procedure was already done, and I could already go back to my duties in the publication. Except that I was not. I was still dizzy, and my message saying that I was fine was mired in typographical errors. The effect of the drugs was indeed so profound that I simply dozed off until 4 p.m. later, when I had my first meal that day. The procedure, for all its incidental psychedelic effects, was only a part of the bigger struggle towards recovery. Staying in the hospital, with literally only one person allowed to accompany you at any time, makes the psychological part of the recovery even more dreadful. Medical workers, too, cannot dwell inside your room to make small talks, for they are at risk of contracting or spreading the virus. Even at the most unholy hour–like for my 1 a.m. and 4 a.m. antibiotic IV injection–nurses still take exceptional care so as not to have contact with any respiratory or bodily fluids. It gets lonely since medical staff must be furloughed for two weeks as a precaution if they have caught the virus. The number of patients in the hospital remain the same, if not steadily increasing, while the nurses and utility personnel get cycled. While, luckily, I only had to stay three nights in the hospital, it took the hospital’s staff, as shown in my hospital bill, 32 pairs of gloves, 8 pairs of PPEs, and 42 pieces of face masks, including five N95 masks, just to keep their distance just from me, to keep us safe from the virus. When the doctor finally advised that I could be discharged, he simply left a prescription notice of what antibiotics and pain relievers to take, when to return to his clinic. Within five minutes, my doctor was gone. We were like that, anyway. Of PAGE 2 OF 3, HOSPITAL BILL FOR ROOM 232

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the three visits he went on to my room, he never stayed for more than 10 minutes. But he did the honor of changing my bandages, which he did nonchalantly, without speaking. Fear of contracting the virus, he said. About an hour later, another utility guy came to our room carrying a wheelchair. But this time, I declined to be wheeled out of the hospital’s labyrinthic ramps. Instead, I walked. I rode the elevator going down, walked, left my colored hospital tag at the security guard’s desk. And then, that was it. For three days, I had sought to have myself cured only to realize that people had to keep their distance from me. This notion of distance has been so convoluted lately. For medical staff, it means a piece of hopefully impermeable, tightly sealed material between you and possibly dangerous outside air–distance which could possibly mean life and death these days. That, of course, was not my fault.

Crematoria Brixter Tino

Pinapaslang ko ang mga natutong lumaban gamit ang alinsangan at alinlangan. Tumutunaw ako ng testimonya at tumutupok ng testigo. Walang magtangkang magpatotoo sa aking kalabisan at kakulangan. Halimbawa, anong eksaktong lapnos ang inihaplos ko sa balat ng isang magsasaka? Anong eksaktong ningas ang inilapat ko sa bungo ng isang aktibista? Paano ko pinaltos ang dibdib ng isang estudyanteng napagkamalan? Paano ko pinulbos ang gulugod ng isang mamamahayag? Sadyang matalim ang dila kong apoy at sadyang mag-aapoy ang matatalim ang dila. Bakit ba nila tinutuligsa ang binubukbok kong pundasyon at kinakalawang kong pugon? Bakit nila pinupuna ang malamig kong temperatura kapag katawan ng mga banyaga ang nakasalang? Ano naman kung iluwa sila ng aking hurno sakaling dumulas sa kanilang katawan ang aking init? Ako lang ang may kapangyarihan na magtakda ng katapusan at katubusan. Sa iilang mapalad lamang nakalaan ang pagkabuhaymuli. Ang karamihan ay itinadhanang maging upos, amag, libag at alikabok. Pabayaan na lamang nila akong maging tagapaglitis at tagapalinis ng mga nabubulok, hindi alintana ang inaagnas kong sarili. CREMATORIA

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Espasyo ng mga Gunita JT Trinidad

ESPASYO NG MGA GUNITA

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ESPASYO NG MGA GUNITA

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WEAR A MASK/ KEEP DISTANCE SIX FEET AWAY Elmer Omar Pizo

House Fly Upon the stay-at- home order Fueled by a spontaneous spark of rage, I slap the rolled cloth on the space where the fly is taunting me with such arrogance and contempt. Its body caught by the edge of the tablecloth, swirls as it drops. On the windowsill, a platoon of tiny black ants break their single-line formation and rush to get near where its lifeless body landed. They surround it the way soldiers do to their captive—as fast as they can, One, I assume their leader, stays in front, maybe, to guide and to give them further instructions. Two others stay a few inches away from the back of their group pushing the body of the fly. Crawling from left to right—maybe, it’s their proven tactic to protect themselves from any attack by unknown enemies, or by enemies from within their ranks.

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A Slice of Life Before the Pandemic Moanalua Valley, Oahu, Hawai’i Seated on a stone bench, you wipe off the beads of sweat from your eyebrows using the back of your right hand. The day is at 90 degrees F. One by one, you break from their stems the sweet-smelling flowers of the Puakenikeni. You pulled one of its low-lying branches, twisted and broke it off after you entered the main gate at the Moanalua Gardens. Aside from several posted signs that read: “Please, Don’t Pick Flowers,” you ignored the silent protestations of the bees and the butterflies toiling around the clock to collect, maybe an ounce of the flowers’ juice they need to sustain their strength. The pale-yellow flowers in the palm of your right hand, its back supported by your other hand. You move your head close to your palm, sniff at them with your eyes closed. For once, you’re now a monk in a far-flung monastery engaged in a solemn meditation on the significance of flowers in their relationship with our day-to-day living. Your eyes open, you place the flowers in your left breast pocket, stand up and take a few unhurried steps towards the twin Koi ponds where some mildmannered Japanese tourists compete for a better view. They are snapping pictures of the stout, bright-colored fish bobbing up and down in the dark, green water.

Some boys and girls in their company giggling, saying something in their native tongue, are chasing each other in and out of the clusters of aging monkey pods towering over them. Some smaller ones are contented sitting on a bench licking their ice cream stacked five inches high in their sugary cones. People looking at them are amused. They’re wearing swimming goggles. Maybe, their next stop is the beach. Your lips showing a conservative smile, you bow your head, empty the Puakenikenis from your breast pocket, and offer them to the elderly lady on a motorized wheelchair beside those smaller children. Taken aback by your gesture, she bows her head twice in acknowledgement of your gift. The slight wrinkles in her face can’t conceal how she’s moved by your kindness.

The flowers grow on small trees (or large bushes), sometimes growing six-feet tall and about four-feet wide. They are white to light yellow to rich orange-gold in color. If you pass by Puakenikeni when they are in full bloom, you will notice the powerful sweet smell.

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Bell Ringers In memory of all COVID-19 victims all over the world If I could reach my hand out to you now, would you take it? —Craig Morgan Teicher, author of Mortality

There’s no long procession of solemn-faced mourners dressed in every shade of black imaginable. Only a handful of the dead’s immediate family are walking behind the porcelain-white casket. Black masks, face shields cover their faces. They’re now halfway through the church’s front yard approaching the life-like statue of Christ. He stands by himself on a massive rock. At the base of the rock are the flowering petunias. He’s clutching his bleeding heart. Giving it all my strength, I pull the yellow, nylon rope tied to the bottom of the bell clapper. Swinging like a pendulum, the clapper hits the rim of the copper bell. What resonates: the sound of sorrow—heart-tugging, spirit-crushing. I pull the rope once more: Sorrow comes rushing out, again. I pull the rope nine more times: Sorrow is resounding inside and outside the church. This is a prescribed, strictly-observed rhythm by the Catholic church when ringing a bell for the dead. Without any warning, You, the dead one, appear in front of me and make a pulling gesture. Scared, I nod, leaving the rope hanging for you to grab. The muscles in your forearms swelling, you pull the rope. The clapper hits the side of the bell. To my surprise, the sound is heavier than what sorrow already is. Its timbre one of gloom and despair. You flash a half-open smile. The mask on my face conceals my nervous smile. You wave your hand. Before I can wave my own, you disappear.

The Claw Hammer (and the music of a carpenter) One can dismiss this outright as flat and monotonous, not worthy of comparison to jazz or rock or pop music— the successive sounds of tap-tap-tap-tap coming from the rhythmic, repetitive but calculated swinging of his claw hammer. To get a clearer picture, I want to stretch the situation to a greater degree— it’s like listening to an unknown musician in an impromptu concert arranged unwittingly by a homeowner (taking advantage of the stay-home order to do some home repairs and small projects) who hired him to build a ten-by-twelve-foot storage at the back of his yard and to replace the posts and railings ravished by termites on her front porch. If by chance, a handful of people in that neighborhood who feel tormented by the noise of hammer banging on wood come forward, and yell at the top of their lungs— “Damn it!” “Son-of-a-bitch!” to the homeowner and her carpenter. That “He’s making a lot of noise,” it doesn’t sit well with me. For my sympathy is with her and the carpenter.

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Why is it difficult to understand that the tap-tap, krrreecccchhh, whhrrrrrrr, hmmmm from his nail-pounding, nail-pulling, screw-driving, lumber-sawing, although they can be ear-drum shattering-it’s the only kind of music a good carpenter knows when he gets on further into his work. That when he plays his own kind of music, he’s into a league of his own.

The Sole Truth About Nails Unsolicited advice to would-be carpenters when they work with nails A nail, no matter how thick or thin its shank is, no matter how rigid or soft its shank is, no matter how long or short its shank is, can’t stand on its own. It always needs your thumb and forefinger to hold its shank steady before you can deliver a succession of calculated blows to its flat, brainless head. Unless, we’re using a nail gun instead of a claw hammer. A self-respecting carpenter, not taking for granted his uncommon gift of common sense, makes it a point to leave a handful of them inside his nail bag, takes only what he needs, and drives them into the wood one at a time in a calm, calculating manner. He’s so much aware if he shoves a handful to his mouth anything can happen. He knows if he’s rushing to deliver his blows anything can happen. It often ends up as a hit-and-miss thing. The flesh, the nails in his thumb and pointer finger— blue and black, courtesy of blows that land on unintended targets.

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Displeased with the way they’re being treated— some of those nails, even if they’re objects without wings, they know how to fly all over the place. Even if they’re objects without brains, they’re intelligent enough to flee from his temporary loss of sanity! More often than not, some of those nails are also quick in telegraphing their anger and disdain. In response to the rush of hard blows to their heads, and as a form of revenge, they bend their bodies so severe that he’ll have a difficult time pulling them out from the wood. The more he pulls, the more damage he incurs into the wood! It leaves his clients shaking their heads in disgust and disbelief!

ARMAGEDDON AND OTHER TIME LOOPS Paulo Lorenzo Garcia

ARMAGEDDON AND OTHER TIME LOOPS

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Binge Eleven’s the new dawn; midnight the new noon. What noise is made, the trysts with Netflix in the dark, the clatter of a spoonful of vice, the head-splitting silence that follows. The vision of no-go zones and deadly contact with doorknobs and basket handles, anything innocent, anything unnoticed, anything that leaves the body bolting or sidestepping disaster. The reek of antiseptic encroaches personal space. A figure shrinks in the safety of a living room, routinely sleepwalking through death tolls and daily tedium. This secret life Of a specter on the move, scuttled by the shyest hint of light.

Contagion Under the gaze of an all-seeing eye: places that bustled are now watched by ghosts. A crowd of facemasks aimlessly walk by. The brave can’t help but live boldly and fly, across the country, across foreign coast – under the gaze of an all-seeing eye. When panic trumps need and those who can buy, cheats turn manic demand to profit grossed – a crowd of facemasks aimlessly walk by. Nurses on call raise their pleas to the sky: They think of miracles; those they love most under the gaze of an all-seeing eye. Women in habits on prayers rely, Father keeps distance, hand cradling the host – a crowd of facemasks aimlessly walk by. Our boon is coming now, you must not cry. Palace’s promise is no idle boast. Under the gaze of an all-seeing eye, a crowd of facemasks aimlessly walk by.

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Grocery Run When someone in line stirs the mind flares; Matters of distance are best calculated with cold, self-preserving caution. Sharp eyes sweep across the perimeter for signs of invasion. Three meters, no less. Bare-faced shoppers, stay home. Stop and wait for your reading. Those qualified are threatened with spritz bottles. Be warned, he is authorized to use force! Once the dribble is caught by the palms, scrub your shoes against the rug. Welcome! The infallible algorithm, a measure that doesn’t account for the slow jog home, the threat of grime collecting at the sides of an everyday shoe, and what horror it kicks up.

Routine The crisis came. We welcomed it with disbelief and shocked awe later. We stood paralyzed. We practiced solitude. and wrought color from the walls of our home. We assembled the day from fragments: a cup of coffee and a piece of history here and there. We gazed at our reflection with newfound care and a desire to continue. We sipped and swallowed slowly. We listened for noise and strained from our chairs. We read, our eyes attuned to tragedy. We wrote, our words approximating fine spearpoints. We got consumed by some semblance of the ordinary: perfunctory nods to neighbors at shy distance, the limbo of trivial pursuit, the whir of sedentary grind and the face-first flop onto our beds. We wove morning hopes nightly before forgetfulness put us to sleep. We rise and live the day in circles. ARMAGEDDON AND OTHER TIME LOOPS

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The Forgotten Summer sneaks in and sweat stains the collars and sleeves of our shirts, our faces flushed underneath our masks. We serve with hand-drawn smiles and lie through our eyes while watching people come and go; praying between our labored breaths that all who enter are able and just as well. All day the people come for their weekly raids; the goods fly off the shelves and plop down on shopping carts at a rate no blinking eye can follow. After a round in a vast expanse of cardboard and soup can jungle, We’re reminded to keep clean, lather, rinse, repeat. We’ve no thought of tomorrow today. Once the alcohol seeps into our hands We think only of walking Until we reach the place we swore to keep. And as we hose ourselves down to the point of drowning, we hope to God our footprints aren’t soiled as the forgotten’s were when the world first caught wind of this disease, this stone god threw to make man stand still.

Yanong Libingan R.B. Abiva

WAGAS KUNG MAGMAHAL Ang aripuen pagkat di hangal LIKAS NA MALIKOT ang mata ni Duyaw. Kinagigiliwan niya sa Hilagang bahagi ng kural ang isang dambuhalang puno ng mangga at narra na pinupuluputan ng makakapal at sala-salabat na baging, uway, at mga ligaw na ugat. Palatandaan ito ng katandaan. Bago pa maging aripuen si Duyaw ay nakatindig na ang mga punong ito. Mga piping saksi wika nga ng mga baki at manggagamod. Ang mga dambuhalang dahon ng mga ilang na damong tumubo sa kanyang paanan ay matagumpay na ring naabot ang taluktok na bahagi ng mga sanga ng puno. Para silang mga antik na patung-patong. Tuwing hapon ay madalas itong tambayan ng mga pipit, maya-mayahan, sitsitok, batu-bato, at perroka na namamahinga marahil mula sa kanilang maghapong pakikipagtagisan sa mga ‘di nakikitang batas at hangganan ng alangaang. Sa tuwing mataas ang sikat ng araw, nagsisilbi namang silungan ang ilalim nito ng mga hayop na apat ang paa gaya ng kambing, kalabaw, tupa, at baka na madalas ay ipinapastol sa lugal—maging ng labuyong aso rin. Sa tuwing malakas ang ihip ng hangin mula sa gawing silangan, naglalaglagan ang mga tuyong dahon nito sa lupa na siya namang lumilikha sa isang kahangahangang tanawin. Pambihira itong tanawin.

YANONG LIBINGAN

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Lalagutok muna na parang buto sa kasukasuhan ang mga sanga nito tsaka maglalaglagan ang mga tuyong dahon na wari’y mga napilas na bituin sa langit. Ngunit nakapagtatakang sa loob ng kulang limang taong pananatili ni Duyaw sa kural, isang beses lamang niya itong nasaksihang mamulaklak at mamunga. “Kakarkarna!” wika minsan ng mga baki. Sa may gawing yaon, sa may bandang Hilaga pa ng kural ay makikita ang mabundok na bahagi ng Raniag at Bulalakao. Doon ginawa, isinilang, nagkamalay, namulat, at nagkasala si Duyaw. Nagkasala? Oo. Pinaratangan siyang isang rebelde ni Don Buakao. Ang lugal na yao’y tatagos ang tila bituka ng manok na mga bundok sa mga karatig-bayan gaya ng Essem, Ladingit hanggang sa timog-kanlurang bahagi ng Rag-o. At tuwing gabi, ang mga liwanag na nagmumula sa mga lugal na ito’y nakalilikha ng mga aandap-andap mula sa mga kingke na tanaw sa mga bintana ng kalapaw. Sa dami nito’y tila mga kulalanti sa dilim ang liwanag mga munting liwanag. Gamot ito sa sugatang alaala ni Duyaw. Ngunit maraming pagkakataon na nagagapi nang makakapal na hamog ang liwanag sa mga bayang yaon. Nilalagom kasi ng langit ang lupa. Madalas ito. Madalas magutom ang langit at para itong sawa na nilulunok-nilalamon ang lahat. Malapit nga sa kural ang isang puno ng binatilyong Akasya. Madalas, tambayan ito ng mga sitsitok, perroka, maya, at langaylangayang malaya kung lumipad. Dito na rin sila namumugad. Dito na rin sila nagsisipagligawan, naglalandian, at nagsisipagtagisan ng giting na liparin ang alangaang. Dito na rin sila nagsisiping at nangingitlog sa mga pugad na nabuo gamit ang tagpi-tagping retaso ng mga tuyong sanga at dahon na may kasamang laway. Matiyaga itong hinabi ng inahing ibon. May panahong nasaksihan ni Duyaw kung paano bantayan ng isang inahing ibon ang kanyang mga itlog laban sa mga mananakop na kung hindi gaya niyang ibo’y ahas at bayawak. Pinapalaki at pinapalapad nito ang sarili sa pamamagitan ng pagpapatindig sa kaniyang mga balahibo. “Ah … bahagi na nga sila ng buhay naming mga aripuen sa bawat araw na lumipas,” usal minsan Duyaw. Saksi nga ang maraming aripuen hanggang sa dumating ang panahong sila’y mapisa. “Kay sarap pakinggan ang iyak at piyok ng mga bagong pisang sisiw na animo’y tinig ng mga anghel,” wika madalas ng tuwang-tuwang si Duyaw. Humahanga din si Duyaw sa pagsisikap araw-araw ng inahing ibon na mapakain ang kanyang mga inakay. Matapang nitong sinusuong ang sukal at bangis ng kagubatan at kabukiran at ng banos upang sa gayo’y makakita ng ipapakaing labuyong bulate at maliliit na insekto.

Pagkadampot gamit ang matatalim niyang kuko’y kanyang buong lakas na ipapagaspas ang kanyang mga pakpak na waring sa isang limbas. At sa kanyang pugad ay naghihintay ang kanyang mga inakay. Mga sabik sa bulate! Mga gutom sa bulate! At sa muli nitong pagdapo sa pugad ay masayang iaangat ng mga munting inakay ang kanilang mga pipitsuging tuka upang kanilang kainin ang handog ng kanilang ina. Pagsasaluhan nila ito sa ispirito ng pagiging mga magkakapatid. “Ah … isang fraternidad … isang solidaridad,” pansin minsan ni Duyaw. Ngunit isang gabi’y umasalto ang isang malakas na bagyo. Inalog ng malakas na hangin ang binatilyong puno ng akasya’t sinabayan pa ng malakas na bugso ng ulan. Sa dilim ng paligid ay nagmistulang tinakluban ng itim na telon ang paligid. Walang ibang maririnig kundi ang pagaspas at bagsik ng bagyong buhat pa sa Pasipiko. Nagdasal ang mga aripuen, si Duyaw, na sana’y nasa maayos ang lagay ang mga kapilas ng kanilang buhay. Subalit si Duyaw ay ewan at nausal niya kung kumusta ang mga ibon na namumugad sa tuktok ng akasya. Ewan kung bakit itong si Duyaw ay isinama sa kanyang dasal na sana’y makaalpas ang mga inakay at kanilang ina sa delubyong dala ng kalikasang alam ng bawat isa kung gaano ito makapangyarihan. Ah … nang gabi ngang yao’y gumagapang ang kilabot sa dibdib ng mga aripuen. Oo. Ng mga aripuen. Ang katawan niyang sa pagal, Init, lagablab, digmaan, at paggawa’y nagtagal. Kinaumagahan, tumambad sa mata ng mga aripuen ang lagas na mga sanga at puno ng akasya. Sa lupit ay parang napaaga ang panahon ng tikag. Waring nayuping bakal ang tatlo nitong malalaking sanga. Naglaho ang mga makukulay nitong dahon kasama ang parang bayong na pugad ng mga inakay na madalas umawit sa tuwing matagumpay na sumisikat ang araw sa Silangan. Winalis nga ng bagyo ang lahat! Nalungkot ang mga aripuen. Wala na ang humahalina sa kanilang mga mata. Wala na ang mga umaawit na anghel sa Hardin ng Eden. Hanggang sa pangahasan ni Duyaw na magpaalam sa gwardiya ng kural. “Ser, pwede po bang itapon ko ang basurang ito sa labas? Nangangamoy na po kasi,” palusot niya at himalang pumayag naman ang gwardiya. Pinalabas siya sa kural. Ang akasya’y nakatayo nga sa may gilid lamang ng basurahan. Habang isa-isa niyang inilalabas ang laman ng puting sako ay siya namang YANONG LIBINGAN

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paggala ng kanyang mga mata. Nagbabakasakali siyang makita pa ang pugad ng mga inakay at kung may mga nakaligtas sa mga ito matapos ang isang gabi nang pananalasa ng bagyo. Ngunit wala siyang makita sa ibabaw ng mga damo. “Matagal pa ba ‘yan!” pasigaw na tanong ng gwardiya. “Matagal pa ser! Nagkahalu-halo po kasi kaya mahirap paghiwahiwalayin,” muling palusot ng nanginginig na si Duyaw. Kumbisido naman ang gwardiya kaya nagsindi muna ito ng sigarilyo at naupo sa tuktok ng dambuhalang bato. Lihim naman niyang pinagmamasdan si Duyaw sa ‘di kalayuan. Nakasalikad sa kanyang balikat ang kanyang armalayt. Kasado na ito at handa siyang iputok sakaling magkamali ng kilos si Duyaw. Hanggang sa maispatan ni Duyaw ang isang bahagi ng pugad. Wasak ito. Wasak na wasak. Sinundan niya ito hanggang sa ituro ng mga tuyong sanga ang kinaroroonan ng mga inakay. Itinaas niya ang dahon ng gabi sa ibabaw ng mga amorseko at kanyang nakita ang mga basang katawan ng mga inakay kasama ng kanilang ina. Nakayakap ito sa kanila habang balot ng malapot at makapal na putik ang kanilang mga balahibo sa katawan. Ang masakit, wala na silang buhay. Malamig nang mga bangkay ang maganak. Ang mga dating nagsilbing taga-awit sa tahimik na alangaang ng mga aripuen ay wala na. Ah, wala na ang mga anghel ni Duyaw. Sa isang gabi ng sakuna’y naubos ang mga anghel ng mga aripuen. Nahabag siya. Nadurog ang kanyang puso. Ano ba’t kailangan niyang iyakan ang mga pipit na ito, kapilas ba ito ng kanyang buhay? Dinampot niya isa-isa ang mga inakay at isinunod ang kanilang ina. Inilagay niya ang mga ito sa ibabaw ng isang malaking dahon ng gabi kung saan kasya silang lahat. Maingat niya itong binalot at tsaka siya naghukay sa lupa. Magsisilbi itong libingan ng buong mag-anak. Sa kanya namang dalumat ay waring nangabuhay ang kanyang nakaraan: Nakita niya ang imahen ng kanyang Ina. Nag-aagaw buhay. Umuulan din noong siya’y bawian ng buhay. Sa yayat na kandungan niya namatay ang Ina. Makailang beses pa niyang inalog ay wala ni isang imik na itinugon ang kanyang Ina na tinutong-tinuyo ng magdamagang paggawa sa bukiring pag-aari ni Don Buakao. At habang siya’y nakatitig sa luhaa’t dilat na mata ng Ina’y kitang-kita niya rito ang pinakamasayang kaarawan sa tanang buhay niya: niregaluhan siya ng kanyang Ina ng isang paris ng ibong maya. Tuwang-tuwa siya. Pero ngayon ay wala na ang pinakamagandang ibon sa kanyang buhay.

Nang ganap na niyang mahukay ang lupa na may lalim na anim na pulgada’y inilibing niya ang mga bangkay. Pagkababa lahat sa loob ng butas ay dahan- dahan niya itong tinabunan nang malamig at maputik-putik na lupa. Tsaka siya tumayo. Kinuha niya ang puting sako ng abono pagkuwa’y naghanda na siyang umalis sa kanyang kinatatayuan. Humakbang siya ng isa pasulong. Pagkuwa’y muli siyang lumingon sa libingan. May mga ibinulong siya sa hangin tsaka umalis pabalik sa loob ng kural. Dasal? Hindi ko alam. Daniw? Hindi ko rin alam. Saniweng? Mas lalong hindi ko alam. Tahimik si Duyaw na pumasok sa kural. Mabigat ang pasan niya sa dibdib. Subalit baon niya ang kung anong lagablab na namuo sa kanyang utak. Ang gwardiya nama’y dagli ring sumunod. Salikad pa rin ang nakapasulong niyang sandata. Lumakatak ang kandado ng kural. Waring namatayan ng kapwa aripuen ang mga aripuen.

Mga Tala: Uway - Iloko ng yantok. Baki - Katutubong pari sa Kordilyera. Manggagamod - Iloko ng mangkukulam. Antik - Langgam na naninirahan sa kagubatan. Perroka - Ibong bukid na kumakain ng sili at tae ng kalabaw. Sitsitok - Isang uri ng ibon na paboritong kumain ng bulaklak. Kakarkarna - Iloko ng kakaiba. Raniag - Iloko ng liwanag. Bulalakao - Iloko ng bulalakaw. Buakao - Iloko ng gahaman. Essem - Iloko ng ngiti. Ladingit - Iloko ng hinagpis. Rag-o - Iloko ng magdiwang. Kalapaw - Iloko ng dampa. Kulalanti - Iloko ng alitaptap. Banos - Tawag sa isang maliit na parsela ng lupang sinasaka. Tikag - Iloko ng tagtuyot.

YANONG LIBINGAN

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CLOISTERED FITTINGS Jose Martin V. Singh

The bed What is this cushion called rest? It is soft through the night yet hard through the day. An appeasement to deceive an insatiable yearning to sleep a sleep never to be disturbed even by comfort and all it’s worth. The bed becomes odious and whispers through immaculate sheets: What does the earth feel like?

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The rope I am a rope, tied to a knot, Till broken and irreparable. Of holding together

Pulled on both ends The fibers that assured me

Knot’s embrace with a

Gave out, bristling the

No one can fix me for

Heated let go in disgrace.

To a wasteland,

I am hexed to oblivion,

useless.

The pew

So the prayer went: I defy you sun In the hour I choose to lay my head to rest. You shall shine while I recline to the soil where temples meet a fate dissimilar to death. Lest I destroy myself, I must crawl out of the night which I have entered and rest my head under the sun’s rays so that I might become light. I dissolve as the pages of Ecclesiastes turn and float once the chapter ends—the passages are thin, naught compared to the entire book it is a part of. But when the pages are shut, all would be over. I would have been done. The wind will blow and continue to be as none.

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The bell It peals as a man propels it to gyration, A maniacal clanging of steel. It turns before the congregation Who looks up and trill their indignation. It wishes to live forever. It cries out while perched on its high tower. It is unhinged and threatens To fall down, into the merciless ground For its final sounding, A day of silent mourning.

Kiosk

James Atillo

KIOSK

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MIDDLE-CLASS ANGST, MIDDLE-CLASS VALUES Marlon De Vera

My Aircon— —is a refrigeration machine, a cousin of the engine. I am embarrassed, as a supposed engineer, for not knowing, or perhaps forgetting, the mechanics of how it works. —has rotary dials, not buttons, for its thermostat and fan controls, not a remote, it yearns to be touched. When turned on, it hums, rhythmic, monotonous, gentle noise. —is a guilty pleasure, like desserts, like the luxury of not needing to cook, clean, and wash clothes, back turned away from the window, from the world, into this impenetrable bomb shelter. —keeps my room cool, in this unbearable heat, so I can think of maths and poetry, instead of slitting throats, or stealing bread, or taking up arms, of philosophy, pedagogy, and boredom, instead of hunger, oppression, death, disease. —conditions and stabilizes me, extending my shelf life, like meat and produce, cons me into worshiping the meditative quiet, insulated from the gunshots and screams, the slavery and murder, of the war outside.

MIDDLE-CLASS ANGST, MIDDLE-CLASS VALUES

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Chocolate The other day I woke up at 4 a.m., with a stabbing pain in my stomach, second greatest suffering of my life, next only to when I dislocated my left kneecap. Persisted inexplicably for several minutes, enduring, pressing my abdomen, thinking it was the worst time for appendicitis. These days, getting admitted, to a hospital, is either impossible or deadly. Most times I cherish the freedom, of living alone, but not in times of illness. There was one other time, without a caring hand to rub my shoulders, I had to stand and walk through muscle chills to turn off the AC. It must have been the chocolate, I thought, I should not have insisted on eating it, It was already past its best before date, but chocolate is my cure for loneliness. The night before, I remembered you for no reason, I wondered, what were you doing, or thinking, Were you also staring at a blank wall? Was it one of those nights when you wonder what you survive for? That day when I was closest to you, I brought you to Chocolate Kiss for lunch, and we talked for hours, and when it was time to leave, I let you walk ahead, so I could see your back, your nape, the swaying of your hips. Chocolate Kiss, what a powerful sarcastic vision, two of the best things in the world, for someone who is loved, but not for the miserable, unrequited soul, who only gets the chocolate, but not the kiss. But, beloved, the few vague, sweet memories of you, are worth all the bitter nights when I die from missing you, and the madness of every banal thing, every shallow breath, reminding me of you. Thank God for chocolate!

A Day Nowadays, a day (every day) means – waking up around seven thirty, cold to the bones, sometimes from an incoherent dream, but rarely, it’s my mild sleep apnea, which deprives me of the deep kind of sleep, but not to worry, the nights are still restful, if I sleep on my side. Then, drinking three cups of water, my morning therapy, before opening my laptop, to start typing off my day (keyboards are like cigarettes), emails, spreadsheets, one-pagers, slides, conference calls, and – not much of anything else, really. Then, refilling water bottles, putting on a face mask to pick up my food delivery. Then, washing my feet, and my hands, with soap that deposits a germicide in your skin, for residual protection. Then, into the microwave, a merry-go-round for my lunch, which I eat back in my desk. Then, back to typing off my day, (fingers are like sausages in a factory conveyor), before taking a shower break, late in, the afternoon, drags itself into evening. Then, watching some Netflix, or working briefly on some personal projects – my teaching, online doctorate, writing, these non-things, then again, into the microwave, a torture chamber for my dinner. Then, calling my best friend, or my family, or my other close friends, MIDDLE-CLASS ANGST, MIDDLE-CLASS VALUES

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my night therapy, before laying in bed, looking up at the endless universe, through the ceiling of my death row prison cell (I only imagine the starless sky, and the hostility of outer space, as my ceiling is opaque). On Saturdays I splurge on food that’s somewhat more indulgent than usual. On Sundays I go out for a quick drive, or a grocery trip, but rarely, (fear and distance are incestuous brothers). Come to think of it, except for the commute, the physical remoteness, and mundane details, pretty much like most of my days, for several years now. Perhaps this is what the virus of being thirty means – what the disease of being thirty brings – some recognition, some dull fatigue, some blandness, a surrender, with no resistance, an intimacy with repeated tedium. an elegy for my youth – ambitious aspirations, dynamic energy, fresh bodies, original thought, sweet inspiration, personal creativity, passionate love. Nowadays, a day (every day) is – not anymore, about the true, the good, and the beautiful, but about making a living, pushing pencils, being content, aiming for what’s real, navigating through a world of billions of people, all roughly the same, threading, just enough to save oneself from drowning, in the turbulent waters of not knowing what it all means, one ordinary day at a time, brick by brick, building the temporary edifice of an ordinary life.

Surprisingly, I feel, and think, and believe, there is much comfort, and no shame in this. Perhaps the virus of being thirty, the disease of being thirty, also brings some commonplace wisdom.

MIDDLE-CLASS ANGST, MIDDLE-CLASS VALUES

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Sitting in Bed, Looking Around My Room, With Nothing to Do Intense summer heat, high noon, shadows under feet, if we were out there. This fan sings to me, blowing verses of no meaning. Five empty bottles of rubbing alcohol, lined up like toy soldiers, a firing squad aiming at a tissue roll, a hot pack, a lonely credit card. Childish yoga poses from a past life, my bed is my lotus tree, a palanquin without shade, or my ocean, where I float, but way too finite. A couch, a collage of random cloths, glass and plastic, three bags of shameful riddles, leaking bottle of lavender scent, atomized sleep. Coat hanger, in a Japanese bow, hollow burdens to bear, like dreams of youth, frozen for forensics, in the middle of falling apart. Doors that open to the inside, orifice of wooden flesh, filthy blind window, beads of cleansed light, a shelf of ashened doctrines, and suicidal ghosts. My room, is the sense of poetry I lost, a laughing child, an obsessive lover, a self, vanished, with all pain the antidepressant took away. Forgive me, I did what I thought was best, that night, I was to throw myself into a moving car, a widow into a warm grave, death my husband. Months, after my last pill, the muse never came back, but I am living, licking my lips, tasteless and numb, trying to write a requiem, again, for the first time.

Cleaning Lady Sunday morning, the cleaning lady came, knocking at my door, around two hours late. Let her in, looked at her with a lukewarm sigh. Almost lunchtime, tucked my hunger in. Got dressed, went out for a drive, Same roads, same horizons, now empty. The void echoing, My old and tired playlist caressing the silence, but alienated. Drove to the place— my only place— The university where I first met you. Where I tried to build a life, piece by piece, with my jittery hands. Held me captive, through the years, and even now, in a redundant sense. That day it began, a black hole, spiraling deeper and deeper, into your eyes of grief. MIDDLE-CLASS ANGST, MIDDLE-CLASS VALUES

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This light, these streets persist, stubborn, like your voice and your face, I hear and see Everywhere, when I am here, or elsewhere really. You see what I see now? The sky too blue, and the clouds too perfect, unmoving despite the wind. Leaves rustling, sunlight piercing through, illuminating some wild yellow flowers. The amphitheater, now more than ever, is a spaceship, that will take me to wherever you are, Fueled, by a whisper, of your name. Your sweat is perfume, hand into your wide mouth, pull out your soul, unwrap your body. Dear (G)od, I beg you, grant me, my sinful prayer, as I drive back. Let me come home, a spotless apartment, the cleaning lady already left, all traces of him gone.

SA TEMPLO NG APOY AT IBA PANG TULA Rommel Chrisden Rollan Samarita

SA TEMPLO NG APOY AT IBA PANG TULA

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Sa templo ng apoy Dito pala ang hantungan ng libo-libong namatay sa biyolohikal na digmaan. Bago painitan ang kaluluwa sa walang hanggang dilim o liwanag ng kabilang -buhay, sa Templo ng Apoy unang pinaiinitan ang kaluluwa. Habang kinakain ng Nakaraan ang daan-daang araw ng kalendaryo, araw -araw nginunguya ng Apoy ang libo-libong bangkay. Sa buhay na baga naluluto ang mga patay na baga. Sa lagablab nakababad ang nasusunog na katawan. Sa langitngit ng langis ng nangingitim na kalansay namamatay ang milyon -milyong kagaw na nag-aagaw buhay buhat ng digmaan ng mga selula, Hanggang ang lahat ng organismo at organo ng tao ay maging abo, patunay na laman ang bukod -tanging pagkain ng Apoy. Habang ang aking kaluluwa ay namamanhid sa usok ng insenso sa Templo, bigla akong napaso ng kaisipang “kailan mabubusog ang Apoy?”

Talikuran mo ang mundo Tama ka. Hindi na natin bakas ang buhay dito. Hindi na maalala ng ating laman ang pagkalampag ng bakal. Wala nang kemikal na lumalabas sa bunganga, o usok na binubuga ang makina. Isipin ang mga tunog. Isipin ang Tunog. Bago ito, narinig ko ang nakabibinging katahimikan ng isang daang libong obrero. Narinig ko ang bugso at paghinto ng mga pulso ng mga makina sa araw-araw na pag-inom at pagsinghot ng mga lason ng kahirapan. At ang mga ito? Tama ka. Ito ang mga kulay ng kanilang laman-loob—ang polikrom ng namamagang baga at bituka ng mga bayang dinungisan ng mga patay na obrero. Tulad ng nanlilimahid na dumi, ang kinakalawang na ideolohiya ng pabrika ay matagal nang idinikit sa tansong memorya nang tiisin ng katawan ang umaalingasaw na kalakaran ng kapital. Wika nila “Nabubuhay at namamatay kami na parang basura sa kapital.” Pakinggan ang mga larawan. Pakinggan ang Larawan. Pakinggan ang sigaw ng Katahimikan. Talikuran mo ang mundo!

SA TEMPLO NG APOY AT IBA PANG TULA

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Livestream Kagabi, nang tuluyang sinakop ng dilim ang aking silid, isa-isa kong tinawag at pinulong ang aking mga demonyo para hanapin ang sanhi ng paninikip ng dibdib. Buong gabi naming ginalugad ang kadiliman, at wala kaming natagpuan. Nitong umaga, sa linaw na hatid ng liwanag, habang hinahabol ang hininga, binuksan ko ang aking cellphone. Habang nakatutok sa livestream, lalong sumidhi ang paninikip ng dibdib nang masilayang nagtatalumpati ang demonyong sanhi ng lumulubhang sakit. Isa-isa niyang tinawag at pinulong ang kaniyang mga demonyo. Utos niya “Hanapin at dakpin ang sinumang tutula tungkol sa pananakit ng dibdib!” Kaya nang pinatay ang livestream, dali-dali akong nagsuot ng itim. Nagpatihulog sa gulugod ng dilim nang hindi matagpuan ng mga demonyo ng liwanag ang mapanganib na tula sa dibdib. Tandaan: Limot na ng mga nasa liwanag ang kanilang madilim na nakaraan. Hindi na nila kilala ang kadiliman.

Ang kapanatagan ng mundo Kung sa pagmulat: umaalon ang sahig at mga haligi ng kwarto… lumulutang at bumabaligtad ang katawan at gamit sa ward… tinatangay ang dalumat na nakatanim sa iyong utak… ipikit mo ang mga mata! Iayon mo ang paggalaw ng iyong kaluluwa sa ritmo ng paggalaw ng mga isda sa alon, sa ritmo ng paggalaw ng mga ibon sa sigabo. Ang pananalanta ay lagi lamang pansamantala. Muli, babalik ang kapanatagan ng mundo.

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Oratio Imperata Ngayong masidhi ang takot sa dibdib, sisindihan ko ang kandila sa silid. Hahayaan pumasok sa baga ang usok na magsisilbing panibagong lakas ng mga naghihingalong selulang nagsisundalo sa daan-daang digmaang nagaganap sa kaibuturan ng katawan. Pagmamasdan ko ang apoy. Susundan ko ang galaw ng liwanag na animo’y ritmo ng pagtadyak ng bagong-silang na Verbong muling magliligtas sa mundo. Ngayong tuyo na ang balat at nanghihina ang laman, ilulublob ko ang mga kamay sa palanggana. Tulad sa benditahan, dahan-dahang ipapahid ang agua sa noo: ang templo, sa pisngi: ang haligi, sa labi: ang matriks ng salita. Hahayaan pumasok ang bendita sa guwang sa rabaw ng aking mukha. Tubig ang magpapagalaw sa bibig na muling bibigkas nang taimtim ng oratio imperatang dalangin ay makarating sa Emperatris ng Daigdig.

Afterword

Ang Antolohiya sa Pinakaubod Polynne E. Dira

SINIMULAN ANG ANTOLOHIYANG ito ng mga tanong, ngunit hindi natin inaasahang magbibigay sa atin ang mga likhang sining ng kasagutan sa kung paano babagtasin ang distansya. Gayunman, isa ang malinaw: May pangangailangang punan ang mga agwat sa lipunan na pinapalawig at pinapalalim. Tinatahi ang antolohiyang ito ng mga akda at obrang pumapaksa sa kalungkutan, ligalig at kawalang kasiguruhan, pangungulila, at pagluluksa na resulta ng matagal nating pag-iisa at pagkakabukod-bukod. Sa pagdalumat sa mga damdamin at karanasang ito, nabigyang diin ang pagkakahiwalay, hindi lamang sa pisikal, kundi sa materyal nating mga kondisyon. Matagal nang umiiral, at nagpapahirap, ang di pantay na akses ng lipunan sa mga rekurso, at lalo lamang itong inilantad at pinasidhi ng pandemya. Doble dagok, halimbawa, para sa mga maralita ang COVID-19 dahil kailangan nilang sabay na sagupain ang emosyonal at pang-ekonomikong kabigatan ng pandemya. Iba ang pagkabagabag ng pamilyang nawalan ng mapagkakakitaan at napuwersang manatili sa tahanan, o di kaya ang paghihirap ng estudyanteng walang angkop na gadyet para makapag-aral. Kung gayon, hindi lamang itong distansya sa pagitan nating mga indibidwal ang dapat nating pawiin, bagkus ang agwat sa pagitan ng mga uri—itong nagtatakda sa magnitud ng ating kahirapan sa panahon ng pandemya. Marapat na alisin ang distansya ng taumbayan mula sa mga pampublikong serbisyong dapat nilang nakakamtan. Imperatibong gawing aksesible ang mga pagamutan, gawing abot-kamay ang hustisya para sa mga biktima ng karahasan at ninakawan ng buhay. Mahalagang bagtasin ang distansya ng karanasan at kamalayan nating relatibong komportable mula sa mga napag-iiwanan at nasa laylayan, isulong ang pagkilos tungo sa lipunang pantay-pantay at walang agwat. Habang may bisa ang mga panulat at obrang magmulat, sa huli’y hindi matatawaran ang mas aktibong pakikisangkot upang pagdugtungin ang ating pagkakabukod-bukod, iyong ipinataw ng mga may-kapangyarihang malaki ang interes sa ating pagkakawatak. Ang antolohiyang ito, sa pinakarurok, ay patnubay lamang sa pagbaybay sa mga polisiya, protocol, termino, at iba pang konseptong AFTERWORD: ANG ANTOLOHIYA SA PINAKAUBOD

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basta na lamang itinapon sa atin. Ito ay pag-asang mapaghiwalay natin ang mga buhol sa lipunan, mapagtahi ang koneksyon ng bawat isyu, at sa gayon, simulang pag-isipan ang nararapat na pagbabago sa lipunan upang tugunan ang mga ito. Ito ay pagnanais na gambalain ang kampante, at paginhawain ang nababalisa--na siya namang namang esensya ng literatura sa mundo. Magkakaroon lamang ng bisa ang ating mga sining kung iigpawan ang paglikha para lamang maging bentahe. Magiging makabuluhan lamang ang ating pagod at sakripisyo sa pagkatha kung tatagos ang mga obra higit sa papel bagkus sa kalye, sa mga pagawaan, sa mga pamayanan—at ito ang magiging ambag natin sa pagbabago. Kritikal ang pagkilos at pagkakaisa ng mamamayang Pilipino sa panahong tumitindi ang krisis sa bansa at tunggalian sa loob mismo ng mga naghaharinguri. Kahingian sa atin ngayong lumikha ng sining na may katuturan, at higit, makiisa sa laban sa lansangan.

CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

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Si R.B. Abiva ay nagsusulat sa wikang Ilokano at Filipino. Siya rin ay tagasalin, editor, musikero, pintor, at iskultor. Siya ang awtor ng Tuligsa at iba pang mga tula (Pantas Publishing, 2018), Agaw Agimat (Pantas Publishing, 2019), Po(e)(li)tika: Mga Tula (MRC Printing Press & Publications, 2019), Kapatiran ng Bakal at Apoy ( Pantas Publishing, 2020), at Paltiing: Mga Piling Tulang Prosa (Southern Voices Printing Press, 2020). Writing Fellow siya ng 58th UPNWW (Tula), 11th Palihang Rogelio Sicat (Maikling Kuwento), 6th Cordillera Creative Writing Workshop (Tula), at 9th Pasnaan - Jeremias A. Calixto Ilokano Writers Workshop (Daniw). Ang kanyang mga malikhaing akda ay nailathala na rin sa iba’t ibang magasin, pahayagan, at antolohiya. Ang Saniata Prize 2019 (Ikalawang Gantimpala) at Salip Iti Daniw Ti GUMIL-Oahu, Hawaii (Karangalang Banggit) ang pinakahuli niyang nasungkit na pagkilala. Noong nakaraang taon ay kanyang itinatag ang Samahang Lazaro Francisco sa lalawigan ng Nueva Ecija. Kasapi siya ng Concerned Artist of the Philippines (CAP), Samahan ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas, Inc. (KATAGA), at Gunglo dagiti Mannurat nga Ilokano iti Filipinas (GUMIL- Filipinas). Kumukuha siya ng MA Malikhaing Pagsulat sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas-Diliman habang aktibo siyang opisyal ng Knights of Rizal (1911) Cabanatuan City Chapter bilang Chapter Archivist na may ranggong Ikalawang Digri. Sa ngayon ay may dalawa siyang libro na paparating, ang Parmata at iba pang prosa kontra-hegemonya (Pantas Publishing, Quezon City) at Sardam: Mga Berso de Peligro/Sardam: Verses on Dead Season (Hoaeae Publications, United States of America).

Bukod sa amateur snapbuilder, coursepacker din si Tilde (Arbeen R. Acuña) sa Departamento ng Filipino at Panitikan ng Pilipinas - Unibersidad ng Pilipinas. Nasa Shopee at Lazada ang libro niyang Oroboro at Iba Pang Abiso (UP Press). Nasa Dx Machina (“Anti-IATField...”) (2020) at Community Quaranzine (“Damnit...”) (2021) ang dalawa pang “set” ng mga “lazadagling shopeelifted.” Sa panahon ng kawalangkatiyakan, tiyak siyang hindi pa tapos ang proyektong ito at dapat unang tapusin ang rehimen ni Duterte. Fidel V. Agcaoili Peace negotiator. Writer. Author. Poet. An advocate for migrant workers, being one himself. An activist who endured one of the longest stays in detention during the Marcos era. A grandfather and “Tatay” or “Tats” to a lot of people beyond his children. A dreamer who believed in and worked for a world that lives as one. We remember him for a lot of things he was and the words he imparted, among them being, “You have to look at the world not as something that oppresses you but as something you discover.”

Si Kel Almazan ay isang graphic designer na nais matutong magsulat. Kasapi siya ng KATAGA Samahan ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas, Inc. at nagtapos ng Visual Communication sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas, Diliman. Kasalukuyan siyang nagaaral ng Development Communication sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas, Los Baños. Naging bahagi siya ng Philippine Collegian bilang layout artist noong 2011-2013.

Mag-aaral ng panitikan at malikhaing pagsulat sa Departamento ng Filipino at Panitikan ng Pilipinas sa UP Diliman si Marvin Ang, kung saan siya’y kasalukuyang nasa huling taon ng kanyang pag-aaral. Sumali siya sa Collegian noong 2016 bilang manunulat sa Kultura section.

Nicolas Antonio is studying psychology at the University of the Philippines Diliman. You may reach him at ncbantonio@gmail.com.

While Hans Pieter L. Arao writes for a living, he has only started writing fiction in 2017. His short stories have so far been published in the Philippines Graphic Magazine and Manila Times Sunday Magazine. A story of his was also an honorable mention in the 2019 Nick Joaquin Literary Awards for Short Fiction held by the Philippines Graphic Magazine.

James Atillo is an illustrator and also a comic artist who aims to tell stories through pictures.

Kasalukuyang kumukuha si Leo Cosmiano Baltar ng kursong BA Journalism sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas – Diliman. Nagsusulat siya ng tula sa Filipino at Ingles. Nailathala na ang kaniyang mga akda sa The New Verse News (New York), Hong Kong Protesting, proyekto ng Cha: An Asian Literary Journal , Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine (Hong Kong), Katitikan: Literary Journal of the Philippine South, & (Ampersand), Vox Populi PH, Dagmay.online, SunStar Davao, INScapes, at sa iba pang lunan. Mababasa rin ang kaniyang mga artikulo sa Tinig ng Plaridel. CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

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Lex Banaag ang pangalan niya sa panulat. Siya ay Bulakenyo, 49 anyos at kasapi ng Communist Party of the Philippines. Nasa ikatlong taon siya ng kursong Electrical Engineering sa UP Diliman at miyembro ng tsapter ng League of Filipino Students sa kampus noong 1991 nang lisanin niya ang pamantasan para mag-full time sa armadong rebolusyonaryong kilusan sa Kabikulan. Ang kanayunan ng Bikol na ang naging tahanan niya mula noon.

Si Levei Bigcas ay mag-aaral ng University of the Philippines na kumukuha ng BA Multimedia Studies. Manunulat din siya ng Philippine Collegian, sa ilalim ng Kultura section. Maaari siyang kontakin sa kaniyang e-mail address: ldbigcas@up.edu.ph.

Kyle Cajucom-Uy is a student currently enrolled in UP Diliman’s BA Sociology program. He writes as an ever-growing hobby. His short fiction has won him a top 40 placement in Reddit’s r/WritingPrompts 20/20 Contest out of 320 entries and he has pending poetry submissions to magazines like New Letters and 50 Haikus. Like most of his peers, he spends most of his time stuck at home in this quarantine. When he’s not writing, reading, playing games, or staring at his screen for online classes, he likes to play with his two beagles and generally contemplate our existence as a species. He occasionally uploads his pieces to r/WordsByCaju and he can be contacted at kylecajucomuy@gmail.com.

Mikhaela Calderon is currently taking BS Civil Engineering in UP Diliman. She also served as an illustrator for the Philippine Collegian. Some of her hobbies include composing songs and creating digital art content.

Maria Christina Calachan is a licensed professional teacher who used to work at the Department of Education and in some higher educational institutions as a former college instructor. She is currently a full-time student-in-residency at the University of the Philippines Baguio, enrolled under the program Master of Arts in Language and Literature (MALL). Her research interests include Pangasinan language studies, as well as deconstructive standpoints in literary criticism.

Sasha Dalabajan works as a media and communications officer for a local nonprofit organization. She has received her bachelor’s degree in Social Sciences (major in Social Anthropology) from the University of the Philippines Baguio. She is currently based in Iligan City. When she’s not thinking of her dog and her bike in Quezon City, she spends her time training for a half-marathon. She can be contacted at sasha.nadeshna@gmail.com.

Raya de Leoz is a 20-year-old nursing student, who endeavors in different art forms in her free time such as writing, making videos on her YouTube channel, and reading novels by Haruki Murakami, Khaled Hosseini, and Dan Brown, to mention a few. The Kite Runner is her current favorite book. During her freshman year of college, she was the Literary Head of her school newspaper, Trinity Observer, and is currently the Head Writer. This is her first published short story. Visit her online on Instagram (@rayadl), Twitter (@rawaitforitya), and her YouTube channel, Raya de Leoz.

Si Mina Deocareza ay isang manunulat na nakabase sa Mandaluyong City. Nagtapos siya ng kursong BA Creative Writing sa UP Diliman at kasalukuyang kumukuha ng MA in Language and Literacy Education sa UP Open University. Naging writing fellow siya sa UST National Writers’ Workshop noong 2019. Kasalukuyan siyang nagtatrabaho bilang copy editor sa International Business Times at editorial director sa Sinaya Cup.

Si Ferdinand L. Eusebio ay manunulat at musikero mula sa Los Banos, Laguna, ngunit kasalukuyang nagkukuta sa Lungsod ng San Pablo, Laguna. Miyembro ng ARTIST, Inc. (Arts Research and Training Institute in Southern Tagalog, Incorporated). Kasalukuyang pangulo ng Kataga, Samahan ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas, Inc. Naging fellow sa Dula noong 2019 sa ika-12 Palihang Rogelio Sicat. Kapag may panahon ay muling nagbabalik sa paggawa ng kanta.

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Daniel Sebastianne Daiz frequents hospitals. In his infancy, he was a frequent visitor of the neonatal intensive care unit. Later on, he has memorized the tang of the vapors of nebulizers and oxygen tanks. Now a staff writer for the Philippine Collegian and a physics major, he is fascinated with small-world networks, which might explain why he is pursuing a first-year medical student, akin to the very same people who let him live for 20 years now.

Marlon De Vera is a writer, poet, full-time corporate professional (consumer goods purchasing, manufacturing, and supply chain management), part-time university lecturer (UPD Department of Chemical Engineering, 2017-present; UPLB Philosophy Division, 2020-present), chemical engineer (BS Chemical Engineering summa cum laude, UPD, 2011), philosophy enthusiast (MA Philosophy, UPD, 2018), and communication scholar (Doctor of Communication, UPOU, 2019- present). His essays have been previously published in Kritike, The Mabini Review, Philosophy Pathways, Symposion, Social Ethics Society Journal of Applied Philosophy, Philosophy for Business, Philippine Social Sciences Review, and Annals of Studies in Science and Humanities. His poems have also been previously featured in the Philippines Graphic.

Si Aaron Matthew (Aa. M.) Gabao ay laking Malate, Manila na Catholic school graduate. Mga maikling kwento ang sinusulat niya.

Paulo Lorenzo L. Garcia is a teacher and a writer. He is currently pursuing his MA Creative Writing at the University of Santo Tomas. Some of his poems have appeared at The Literary Yard, Revolt Magazine Ph, and most recently, at Novice Magazine’s Chastity Issue. His essays have appeared in Paperkat Books’ Quarantined Thoughts Vol. 2, and in Novice Magazine. He hopes to publish a poetry collection in the future.

Si Geraldine Gentozala-Juachon ay nagtapos ng SMPF at BA Araling Pilipino sa UP Diliman. Nagtrabaho bilang writer sa telebisyon, pelikula, ahensiya, events at turismo. Napabilang sa Palihang Rogelio Sicat 12 at nailathala ang mga dagli sa Liwayway at Agos. Natanggap ang mga akda sa antolohiyang Locked Down, Lit Up ng UP Manila, Hinaharap sa Isang Iglap, at Aruga. Isa siya sa mga nagwagi nitong 2020 sa AAG-KFLI Essay Writing Prize at QC Essay Writing Competition. Kasapi ng Kataga, Samahan ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas at UP Mountaineers.

Och Gonzalez is a writer from Manila, Philippines. Her work in nonfiction has earned a Palanca Award for Literature, as well as first prize in the 2019 Coalition of Texans Against Disabilities’ Writing Competition. Her writing has appeared in Esquire Magazine, Brevity Journal of Literary Nonfiction, Panorama Journal of Intelligent Travel, Lunch Ticket, Complete Sentence Lit, and elsewhere. She is also the author of “Every Sunday,” a children’s book published by Kahel Press.

Ana Algabre Hernandez is a book author, painter, poet, and advocate of patriotism, peace, goodwill, and women empowerment. She is an AB Behavioral Science cum laude graduate at the University of Sto.Tomas, former Airline Inflight Manager, Rogelio Sicat writing fellow, Associate Professor of Sook-Myung University (Seoul), and inspirational speaker. Her books are “Binibining Stewardess: Mga Kuwento ng Flight Attendant at Iba pa” (2013) and “Welcome Aboard” (2015). Her artworks have been exhibited in Seoul, Ankara, Angeles City and a number were donated to institutions abroad to promote the Filipino story. Manila, Hong Kong, The Hague, Xiamen, Vancouver, Seoul, Ankara are some of the places she has lived as a diplomat. She was the first President and one of the founders of the ASEAN Ladies Circle in Ankara (2020). Currently, she has two children and is the spouse of the former Philippine Ambassador to Turkey, Georgia and South Korea. With her personal theme, “Fly high with a purpose,” she believes that we all have gifts and talents so that we can be the best version of ourselves—to inspire and help others for God’s glory.

A graduate of BS Environmental Planning and Management, Pat Labitoria has been involved in cosmology research, environmental education, development of a Philippine Green Building Rating System, and biodiversity and wetlands conservation. She was also a corps member and then a volunteer specialist in Earth Corps, a Seattle, WA non-profit where she did hands-on environmental restoration work. She is the communications assistant for NexCities at the moment, a project that aims to convert sewage into fertilizer for Filipino farmers.

Marcy Lioanag is a student, studying sculpture in the College of Fine Arts at the University of the Philippines. He was an illustrator for the Philippine Collegian from 2019 to 2021. He also participated in gallery shows at MAD Manila Cafe, Start 101 Art Gallery and the College of Fine Arts Gallery. He can be contacted through his email, lamarlioanag@gmail.com. CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

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Si Gretle Mago ay kasalukuyang estudyante ng Associate Arts in Malikhaing Pagsulat sa Filipino sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas - Diliman, Quezon City. Nagbabakasakali lang. Maaari n’yo siyang padalhan ng mensahe sa kaniyang email address, gcmago@up.edu.ph.

Christian Ryan Ram Malli is a creative writing student at the University of Santo Tomas where his suites of poems previously won awards in the Gawad Ustetika. He has bagged prizes in several poetry slam contests including the Tanghal Makata slam during the Performatura Literary Festival 2019 of the Cultural Center of the Philippines. One of his short stories, Recoil, also won the Kilig to the Books contest, and it will soon turn into an audiobook. His poems have appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, Dapitan, Metamorphosis, and the fourth issue of Dx Machina: Philippine Literature in the Time of COVID-19. Outside of writing, he is helplessly fascinated by anime and kpop fanfictions, webtoons, and recently he has developed an unhealthy fixation on video games.

Raniella Grazell L. Martinez is a third-year student from the College of Fine Arts majoring in Visual Communication at the University of the Philippines Diliman. She was also an illustrator for the Philippine Collegian.

Jose V. Ogatis-I is currently a faculty member of the Department of Arts and Communication of UP Manila. He is a collector of comic books and toys. He dabbles in poetry as a hobby and thanks his dogs for keeping himself sane during the pandemic. He looks forward to the day that the Philippines gets a wise and caring government.

Kasalukuyang tinatapos ni Mirick Paala ang kaniyang MA sa Malikhaing Pagsulat sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas Diliman. Dati na siyang naging fellow sa Ateneo at UST National Writers’ Workshop. Lumabas na rin ang kaniyang mga akda sa mga sumusunod na publikasyon: High Chair, Revolt Magazine, Heights, transit online, at Katipunan Journal.

Si Precious M. Paglinawan ay Teacher III mula sa Marangal National High School sa San Jose del Monte, Bulacan. Nagtapos siyang cum laude sa University of Caloocan City. Upang higit na mapagyaman ang kaalaman sa pagtuturo ng asignatura, kasalukuyang kumukuha siya ng Master of Arts in Filipino (MAF) sa Polytechnic University of the Philippines - Graduate School.

A resident of Ewa Beach, Oahu, Hawai’i for the last 30 years, Elmer Omar Pizo is now working as a handyman after working as an Outreach Worker for the Hawai’i Department of Health’s Tuberculosis Program and as an Inspector for its Vector Control Program for almost 16 years. He was a poetry fellow at the Vermont Studio Center in February 2006, and at the Silliman National Writers Workshop in the Philippines in 2000. He was recently a featured poet at the Hawai’i Book and Music Festival in Honolulu; the Asian American Literary Festival sponsored by the Smithsonian Asian Pacific American Center in Washington, DC; and the 5th Filipino American International Book Festival sponsored by the Philippine Artists And Writers Association and San Francisco Library in San Francisco, California. His poems have been published in several print and online publications in the US and the Philippines, including Bamboo Ridge Press, Hawai’i Review, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Maganda Magazine, Tayo Literary Magazine, Crate Literary Magazine, MiGoZine, Mutual Publishing, PAWA, Inc., Likhaan Online University of the Philippines-Diliman Creative Writing Center, Our Own Voice Online Literary Journal, and Philippines Free Press. His debut collection of poems, Leaving Our Shadows Behind Us, was released by the Bamboo Ridge Press in April 2019.

Raymund P. Reyes currently lives in Ottawa, Canada. He has published his works in several literary journals such as ANI and AGOS, and anthologies including Philippine Speculative Fiction, Diaspora Ad Astra, Science Fiction: Filipino Fiction for Young Adults, and Mga Piling Dula Mula sa Virgin Labfest.

Rommel Chrisden Rollan Samarita is a teacher, researcher, poet, and poetry translator from the Philippines. His poems and translations have appeared and are forthcoming in Ani, Artis Natura, Comma, Highwind Press, High Shelf Press, Kasingkasing Press, Parentheses Journal, Performance Research (Routledge by Taylor & Francis), Philippine Collegian, Rattle, Sirena Books, Squircle Line Press, Taj Mahal Review, and The Coil by Alternating Current Press. CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

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Louise Sejera is studying at the College of Fine Arts in UP Diliman. She was an illustrator for the Collegian.

Jose Martin V. Singh is an undergraduate student of Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines Diliman. He had written news for the Philippine Collegian until only a few months into the pandemic. Some of his essays have appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer, Inquirer.net, and & (Ampersand). He has a poem forthcoming in Revista Filipina’s Cuaderno Palmiano. He lives with his family in Marikina City.

Si Jose Monfred Sy ay mag-aaral sa programang Master of Arts (Araling Pilipino) sa ilalim ng Departamento ng Filipino at Panitikan ng Pilipinas, Unibersidad ng Pilipinas – Diliman, kung saan siya ngayon ay nagtuturo. Nagtapos ng B.A. Comparative Literature sa parehong pamantasan. Nagsisilbi rin siyang guro sa Bakwit School para sa mga kabataang Lumad katuwang ng Save Our Schools Network.

Kervin Tabios is still struggling to find words (or God) for his confusion these days, particularly amid the pandemic and the ominous events that unfold every time. He graduated from the University of Santo Tomas where he had joined the 4th Thomasian Undergraduate Writers’ Workshop. He was formerly a member of the Thomasian Writers Guild and the Thomasian Engineer, the official student publication of the UST Faculty of Engineering. Due to the unavoidable dangers of COVID-19 outdoors, he left his QAQC engineer post in the project site and he chose to train in building information modelling so he could work at home to reduce the risks and to check on his mother and little brother. You may contact him at kennethtabios123@gmail.com.

Si Nikki Teng ay mag-aaral ng University of the Philippines na kumukuha ng BA Visual Communication. Nagsilbi siyang ilustrador at litratista sa Philippine Collegian. Maaari siyang kontakin sa kaniyang email address: nikkieryka@gmail.com.

Tubong Perez, Quezon si Brixter Tino at kasalukuyan siyang kumukuha ng Journalism sa Polytechnic University of the Philippines.

Mag-aaral ng pelikula si JT Trinidad sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas Diliman. Dati siyang litratista ng Philippine Collegian. Paminsan-minsan ay nagsusulat siya tungkol sa at ng pelikula para sa Sine Liwanag, UP Cinema, at Freecut Productions. Unang inilathala noong 2018 ang sanaysay niya sa Metro, antolohiya ng mga fellow sa Campus Tagaan 3 na palihan ng Kataga. Kasalukuyan siyang nagtatapos ng pelikula sa Batch 25 Screenwriting Workshop ni Ricky Lee. Lumaking maarte sa puso ng Maynila subalit natutuhan din namang mahalin ang pasikot-sikot nito. Nais niyang magkwento sa pamamagitan ng mga litrato, tunog, at salita—pelikula.

Natapos ni Roi Yves H. Villadiego ang kaniyang pag-aaral ng kursong BA Communication Arts, Major in Speech Communication sa UP Los Baños noong 2019. Kasalukuyan, nag-aaral siya ng MA Art Studies (Art Theory and Criticism) sa UP Diliman. Natutunan niya na ang paglikha ay isang lenteng nakapagpapaintindi ng mga problema sa lipunan. Naniniwala siyang dadating ang panahon na ibabahagi niya ito at ang iba pa niyang natutunan sa pamamagitan ng pagtuturo.

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ABOUT THE EDITORS

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Issue Editors

Taong 2015 nang sumali si Sheila Abarra sa Kulê bilang Kultura writer. Naging Managing Editor din siya noong 2017 hanggang sa maging Editor-in-Chief ng Rebel Kulê noong 2018. Sa ngayon, iginagaod niya ang itinayong local newspaper sa Sorsogon, at paminsan-minsan ding nage-edit ng Kultura sa Kulê.

Richard Calayeg Cornelio studied materials engineering at UP Diliman and is finishing his master’s thesis for a degree in environmental science at the same university. He was a fictionist and has also contributed reports, features, and culture and opinion pieces to the Philippine Collegian, covering democracy and development, since 2017. His creative works have been published elsewhere. He has worked with international nonprofits. Unemployed, he needs a man with bookshelf carpentry skills to build his books a new home for free.

John Kenneth Zapata is a visual artist, professionally serving five years in various fields of media. During his undergrad years as a Visual Communication Major under University of the Philippines Diliman’s (UPD) Bachelor of Fine Arts program, he served as a staff Illustrator for the Philippine Collegian (2015-2018) and led the Graphics Team in Rebel Kulê (2018-2019). He has fulfilled key roles in producing prominent titles such as The Last Manilaners, which bagged the Best Documentary award and other nominations at the Asian Academy Creative Awards and Asian Television Awards.

Managing Editor

Sumali bilang Kultura writer ng Kulê si Polynne Dira taong 2018. Higit dalawang taong lumipas, siya ngayon ang tumatayong Punong Patnugot ng publikasyon sa ika-99 na taon nitong paglalathala. Kasalukuyan niya ring iginagapang ang kursong economics, kasabay ng paghahanap ng magiging saysay niya sa mas malaking iskema ng mga bagay sa labas ng unibersidad.

Layout and Cover Art

Isang propesyonal na digital journalist at graphics artist sa TV5 Network Inc. at Cignal TV Inc. si John Reczon Calay. Umuupo siya sa kasalukuyang patnugutan bilang panauhing patnugot sa layout section. Naging tagapamahalang patnugot ng Philippine Collegian noong 2016-2017. Nagtapos ng Bachelor of Arts in Journalism sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas Diliman; kasalukuyang mag-aaral ng Master of Arts (Araling Pilipino) sa UP Diliman din. Hangad niyang makaambag ng karunungan sa peryodismong nasa Filipino. Nagtuturo rin siya sa University of Rizal SystemAngono ng mga kurso sa journalism at communication.

Kim Yutuc is currently taking up Visual Communication in the College of Fine Arts, UP Diliman. Having joined Rebel Kulê in 2018, they then served as an illustrator, features writer, and layout artist of the Philippine Collegian for a time. They were the Collegian’s editor-in-chief in its 98th year and are currently the Graphics Editor for Illustration of the publication. Outside of this, they are also a freelance illustrator specializing in narrative work and sequential art, having worked on various tabletop role-playing games, board games, independent gaming journals, and the like.

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PHILIPPINE

COLLEGIAN The Official Student Publication of the University of the Philippines Diliman Kamia Residence Hall University of the Philippines Diliman 1101 Quezon City phkule.upd@up.edu.ph

Polynne E. Dira EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Sam Del Castillo ASSOCIATE EDITOR Kim Yutuc GRAPHICS EDITOR Marvin Ang KULTURA EDITOR Richard Calayeg Cornelio OPINION EDITOR Bei Zamora GUEST EDITOR FOR FEATURES John Reczon Calay GUEST EDITOR FOR LAYOUT

Nicolas Basilio Antonio Daniel Sebastianne Daiz Kent Ivan Florino STAFF

Gina Bakukanag Amelyn Daga Trinidad Gabales AUXILIARY STAFF

www.phkule.org @phkule

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PHILIPPINE COLLEGIAN LITERARY ANTHOLOGY 2021