PLURAL Issue 03 - June 2015

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E D I T O R I A L

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T E A M

Carlo Flordeliza carlo.flordeliza@pluralprosejournal.com

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Erika Carreon

erika.carreon@pluralprosejournal.com l

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Neobie Gonzalez

neobie.gonzalez@pluralprosejournal.com

Lystra Aranal

lystra.aranal@pluralprosejournal.com

Wina Puangco

wina.puangco@pluralprosejournal.com l

Erich Velasco

erich.velasco@pluralprosejournal.com l

July Amarillo

july.amarillo@pluralprosejournal.com

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PLURAL is an online journal that caters to fiction, nonfiction, and criticism geared towards prose.

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CO N T E N TS ISSUE

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3

JUNE

2015

Neobie Gonzalez

Arby D. Medina

Abner Dormiendo

Anya Lofamia

Jov Almero

Tom Whalen

Amiel dela Rosa

Miguel Paolo Reyes

Mesรกndel Virtusio Arguelles

Noel Villa

Joel Donato Jacob

Joshua Uyheng

Hannah Romey

Martin Villanueva

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FEATURED ARTIST

DANIEL ESTROPIA

Daniel Estropia is a well-rounded visual communicator with a Bachelor’s degree in Multimedia Arts from De La Salle - College of St. Benilde. In his undergrad program, he was granted 100% scholarship as an active artist of the Office of Culture and Arts. He gained a holistic design and arts training as a previous member of Dulaang Filipino where he led in directorial, production and visual design. Currently, he is the Senior Visual and Information Designer for Evident Communications, an agency specilizing in communication strategy and digital marketing.

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I N T RO D U C T I ON

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In How to Write, Gertrude Stein goes: “Forget grammar and think about potatoes.” and if you do think about potatoes, think about them one by one, as parts, pieces, units and how they just are: every curve and scratch of their skin, the bruises inside them as they’re peeled yellow, their eyes, their weight – think about them as not whole and whole, each potato on its own and all potatoes together, maybe assembled in a bag that conceals their potato-ness, a bag that without them would just be a bag.

But Stein also talks about stitches, in bags, on skin, as stitches in sentences, stitches sewing surfaces shut, closing up wounds. Stitches not only for their function, but also their form, and where one tug of a thread results in an unraveling, or a breaking off into something else: a new piece of string to stitch with.

h What if we were all strings?

h There have always been thoughts about the process that brings prose into being.

In interviews with writers, you will never fail to see: • • • •

What is the inspiration behind your novel/story/essay/poem?

How did this novel/story/essay/poem come to be?

Where do you get your ideas?

How do you write?

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The questions assume a secret, but the answers differ in degrees of need: to say something, to trigger, to explore, to echo, to misbehave and tempt, to mourn, to move, to still. Or maybe there aren’t any real answers, only words: like how the word “prose” was tossed to us already meaning “direct” and “straight-forward” and “without ornament.” But that’s not really what we have here now, and that’s not the kind of prose we’re going for anymore. It’s not always what we get either, because here we lean towards what we’re not used to, we go with what is different. We get what is strange to us, what we wouldn’t have been able to conceive on our own. We have prose with ornamentation, style, and sometimes honesty.

h “A narrative is in revision a narrative is in division a narrative is in reconciliation a narrative is in destination a narrative is in is in able to say pansy.”

h The What-If Game begins with the decision to transform something into another something, which may resemble the first thing/alter it entirely/remain transitory, like a ghost.

The What-If Game was invented to address what unnerved us: the situations we found ourselves in, whatever the world laid flat and stinky by our feet, that sharp unease for stories. Sometimes we used the game as a writing prompt. Sometimes it was just a game, usually on days we didn’t want responsibilities.

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There aren’t any tangible rewards to be gained from The What-If Game. Maybe it allows us a sense of control, gives us a chance to re-make.

The What-If Game is just one line and what happens after.

h In a conversation about style, we ask what it means to have “too much.” There must be a spectrum, with one end being “What’s going on???” and the other: “I don’t know what’s going on, but it makes sense and I like it.”

In this conversation, we urge you towards the latter.

h What if something needed to not-be for something else to be? What then?

h We’d like to think of ourselves as settling within that stage of becoming, more or less, or becoming more of and less of. Of what – who knows? It’s like that word: “liminal” and how it quavers the tongue, gives it the pleasure of instability.

Maybe this stage is what helps us make sense too, the way Stein makes sense when she says: “This is why there is this very well I thank you thank you.”

Neobie Gonzalez Editor

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There once lived a Boy who wanted to stop dreaming. You see, the Boy was having nightmares, always waking up in a panicked sweat. He had asked his parents, his friends, and even Sally (the girl next door), and none of them knew the answer to his question. Having exhausted all his 10 year-old-options, the Boy turned to the interwebs.

The Boy types: How to stop dreaming?

The interwebs responds: 1.

Pull out all baby teeth.

2.

Bury teeth in fertile soil.

3.

Let tree grow overnight.

4.

Eat fruit from tree.

The Boy does as the interwebs says. He ties each tooth to a door knob and slams the door. His teeth pops out one by one. Once done, the boy goes up to his bathroom mirror and smiles.

The Boy crosses the street and buries the teeth in the empty lot. The next day, the Boy finds a tree sticking out of the ground on the spot where his teeth was buried. At the foot of the tree, he sees a blue apple. The Boy eats the apple—it leaves a lasting bitter taste in his mouth. Since that day, the boy ceases dreaming.

Years pass, and the boy has fallen in-love with Sally. Remembering how effective it was the last time (he had gotten used to the bitterness), he consults the interwebs.

The Boy types: How do I make a girl love me?

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The interwebs responds: 1.

Collect your mother’s tears.

2.

Take your father’s morning cup of coffee.

3.

Set her tears ablaze.

4.

Put flames out with coffee.

The Boy does as the interwebs says. He tells his mother that he is in love. Realizing her boy has grown up, the mother sheds a tear. The Boy wipes his mother’s cheek and pockets the handkerchief. He stops by the dining table, he knew his father was out late last night ‘cause his mother had prepared coffee for him (it was one of those nights). The Boy swipes the coffee cup.

The Boy goes back to the vacant lot.

He burns the handkerchief and drops it on the ground. He panics at the sight of the flames—the Boy did not think this through. From behind, Sally grabs the cup and dumps it in the fire.

More years pass, the Boy is no longer a boy, he has grown into a much bigger boy. Just as the interwebs said, Sally had fallen in love with him. They eventually move into a house built on the vacant lot where the Boy burnt his mother’s tears and planted the dream tree. The Boy and Sally have a few good years together.

Eventually, Sally falls ill and passes on. The Boy consults the interwebs.

The Boy types: How do I see Sally again?

The interwebs responds: 1.

Make a bed out of the dream tree.

The Boy types: How do I make a bed?

The interwebs does not respond.

The Boy goes and takes an axe from their shed and starts hacking at the dream tree. The tree eventually falls. Not knowing how to make a bed, The Boy decides to bring the dream log into their bedroom and sleep on it as it is.

The next morning, the Boy wakes up with splinters all over his body. He doesn’t remember dreaming about anything, but he knows he dreamt of Sally.

– For K.

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Matagal na rin noong huli naming narinig ang lagaslas ng ilog na dumadaloy sa silangan ng San Roque. Madalas nag-iingay ito tuwing Agosto hanggang Nobyembre, kung kailan malakas ang ulan at hindi kami makapagsaka. Sa mga panahong ito, binubulungan kami ng ilog ng isang babala: hindi mainam tawirin ang ilog, ni paliguan, ni paglabhan ng damit. Kapag tapos na iyong panahon ng tag-ulan, marahan na ang kaniyang bulong. Parang sa kaibigan lang na nagkukuwento, umaawit, nanghahalina, pinalalapit kami sa kaniya. Makislap na uli ang tubig sa ganitong panahon, hindi na pulos tuyot na dahon at di na kulay-burak sa tubig-ulan at putik na humalo dito. Kapag ganoon, iyong mga inimbak naming gulay ay itinatawid na namin sa ilog papunta sa bayan para ibenta habang nagsisimula nang maglaba ang mga ina ng mga damit at ang mga bata nami’y parang mga isdang ngayon lang ulit nakawala sa kani-kanilang mga kulungan, humuhulagpos sa mababaw na pampang ng ilog. At ang ilog, walang imik na sumasaliw sa kanilang tawanan. Kapag gabi nama’y pauwi na kaming mga nanggaling sa bayan.

Ibababa namin ang aming mga buslo’t uupo sa tindahan ni Aling Minyang malapit sa ilog at mag-aawitan ng kung anong kanta habang tumutugtog si Ka Litong ng gitara. Kapag ganito, nakikihuni ang ilog sa amin.

Ngunit noong mga panahong iyon bago ang Dakilang Unos, kalagitnaan na ng Agosto’y wala pa ring ulan. Para bang inihahanda kami sa parating pa lang noon na tuloy-tuloy na pag-ulan. Kaya naman noong panahong iyon, walang imik ang ilog. Ni mahinang pagsagitsit ay wala itong inilalabas. Namamatay na ang mga pananim nami’y di pa rin namin alam ba’t hindi umuulan. Walang nagawa ang aming pagtataka sa dahan-dahang pagbabaw ng ilog.

Pumunta na ang ilan sa aming mga kabaryo sa bayan upang maghanap ng kung sinong maaaring tumulong sa pagkamatay ng aming pananim, o kahit papaano’y makapagpaliwanag sa kung ano man itong nangyayaring ito. Nagsimulang tawirin ng ilang mga kalalakihan ang ilog, na madali nilang nagawa ngayong napakababaw na ng balakid na tubig na namamagitan sa dalawa. Ilang araw din kaming naghintay sa kanilang pagbabalik sa bayan, at habang nagaganap ito’y mas bumababaw ang ilog, mas umiikli ang aming pasensya, at mas dumarami na ang mga halaman na namamatay. Pati hayop ay nanghihina na. Nagkasakit na ang kaisa-isang anak ni Aling Dioning, kasabay ng pagkamatay ng hile-hilera niyang petsay. Pati ang kambal nina Mang Justo’y nangangayayat na. Lumilipas ang mga araw at habang nasasaid ang ilog, nasasaid na rin ang aming pag-asa.

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Nakabalik ang mga ipinadala naming mga tao mula sa bayan mga isang linggo mula noong umalis sila. Lahat sila’y may kani-kaniyang bitbit na kahong sisidlan, iyong ginagamit ni Ka Goryong sabungero kapag dinadala niya ang kaniyang mga manok-panabong sa bayan. Kaming mga naiwa’y tuwang-tuwa na sinalubong ang mga lumuwas, napatayo na parang naapula ang panahong unti-unting umuupos sa aming pasensya. At bagaman nagtataka kami sa daladalang mga kahon ng aming mga kasamahan, hindi na namin pinag-isipan ito nang kung anong masama, lalo na’t malamang sa hindi’y ito ang magiging solusyon sa aming suliranin.

May kung anong mahinang pagkaluskos sa loob ng mga kahon, na parang sumasalamin sa kutob na humuhulagpos sa aming mga dibdib.

Tumalon ang laman ng kahon ng buksan ni Temyong at ni Kadyo ang isa sa mga ito: kulay-lupang tuta na may maliit na buntot, kumakawag na parang inaasahan kaming mga sasalubong sa kaniyang paglabas. At oo, hindi ito ang inaasahan namin. Karamihan sa ami’y nagitla’t hindi nakapagsalita habang binubuksan ng ibang tao ang iba pang mga kahon, na ganoon din ang laman: mga tutang nagsilundagan palabas, ikinakampay ang mga buntot na parang hindi nila alam ang dahan-dahang pagkasira nitong lugar na kanilang pinagdalhan. Mga tutang iba-iba ng kulay, hitsura, laki, ngunit hanggang sa pinakahuling kahon ay tuta pa rin ang laman. Naghuramentado si Aling Dioning, lalo na’t naroroon ang kaniyang kaisa-isang anak, hindi makagalaw sa papag dahil sa gutom. Ang iba’y nagitla lang at hindi nakapagsalita sa gulat.

O marahil sa pagkamangha: paano namang makakatulong itong mga tutang ito sa pagdurusa namin ngayon?

Nang hingan namin ng paliwanag silang mga nagdala nito mula sa bayan, wala silang nasagot. Wala raw silang maalala. Ang alam lang nila’y may nakausap silang matandang bulag sa kaliwang mata na nagbigay sa kanila ng binhing lumalaki kahit walang tubig, at matapos noon, nakasalubong nila ang isang lalaking putol ang kanang binti at ipinagpalit nito ang kaniyang mga alagang sisiw sa binhi na kanilang nakuha. Kung saan-saan na raw dako ng bayan sila napunta, kung kani-kanino nakipagpalitan ng kung anu-ano, hanggang sa hindi na nila namalayang tuta na ang kanilang inuuwi. Mas lalong nag-amok si Aling Dioning sa kaniyang narinig.

Sa pangkalahatan, wala sa aming nakakaalam kung paano ang gagawin dito sa mga tuta. Kaya hinati na lang namin ang mga tuta, isa sa bawat sangkabahayan. Ang mga sumobrang tuta, mga tatlo o apat, ay pinaghati-hatian ng pamilya nilang pumunta sa bayan. Isa si Sitang sa mga tahimik na nanguna sa pagkuha ng aso. Palibhasa’y balo’t wala nang kasama matapos malunod ang asawa sa ilog matagal nang panahon ang nakalilipas, para bang buong puso niyang tinanggap ang kung anong kaibigang maaari niyang matagpuan sa tutang ito.

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Kumuha din ng isa si Aling Dioning, at baka lutuin na lang daw niya’t laman-tiyan din. Kahit labag sa loob naming lahat, hindi namin siya pinigilan sa kaniyang balak. Dinala namin ang mga tuta sa aming mga bahay-bahay, ikinadena sa aming mga poste, at sinubukang pakainin ng kung anong kakarampot na pagkain ang makita namin.

Ilang araw pa’y tahimik pa rin ang ilog. Nawala na ang mga ibong dati’y nagsisihuni malapit dito, marahil nagsilipatan patungo sa kabilang ilog na malamang ay namamaga sa dami ng tubig na dumadaloy dito. Ngunit napalitan naman itong mga tunog na aming nakagisnan ng tahol nitong mga tuta, mga matitinis na kahol na sumusugat sa malamig-lamig na umaga. Nilalagyan namin ng pagkain ang kanilang mga plato sa pag-aakalang gutom lang sila, ngunit hindi tumitigil ang mga tuta sa pagkahol, tumatahol nang pagkalakas-lakas at nang sabay-sabay, na parang galing lamang ang mga tahol sa iisang napakalaking aso. Nag-iisa ang kanilang mga tinig sa hangin at animo’y bumubuo ng isang dakilang, dambuhalang tahol. At kahit maghapo’t magdamag silang magtahulan ay walang nagrereklamo sa mga kapitbahay.

Pakiramdam nami’y hindi sila tumatahol; para silang koro na iisa ang pag-awit sa isang wikang sila lang ang nakakaintindi. Ngunit para sa aming dayuhan sa kanilang pinag-uusapan, isa itong himig na nagpapalubag sa aming nababagabag na kalooban. Ang kaba’t pag-aalangan na naglilikot sa aming mga dibdib ay natahimik. O, kung papakinggang maigi, nakikisabay sa kahol ng mga tuta na, kahit na mumo na lang ng kaning lamig ang aming napapakai’y lumalaki pa rin sa isang pambihirang paraang hindi namin maintindihan.

Sa puntong iyon bago ang Dakilang Unos, bilang na lang ang mga araw bago namin tuluyang masaid ang aming mga sari-sariling kaban ng pagkain. Nag-ikot-ikot na ilang araw pagkatapos niyon si Mang Justo, nanghihingi nang kakaunting pagkain para sa kaniyang kambal at sa kaniyang asong pinangalanan niyang Igme. Si Sitang din na wala nang kabuhaya’t nagsimatayan ang pananim ay nanghingi na rin ng pagkain para sa aso niyang si Gigi. Pati si Aling Dioning ay nahihiyang lumapit sa mga kabahayan, naghahanap ng tira-tirang maaari raw ipakain sa kaniyang tutang si Abo, iyong kaisa-isang abuhing aso mula sa mga tutang nakuha namin. Kung bakit naroroon pa rin ang aso’t hindi pa niya nakakatay tulad noong sinabi niya ilang linggo na ang nakararaan, hindi na namin tinanong. Inabutan na lang namin siya ng tutong na kinaskas namin sa aming mga kaldero na parang pakonsuwelo, para lang di namin uli siya makitang naghuhuramentado.

Ilang araw pa matapos noon, dumating na ang ulang matagal nang hindi napaparito sa aming bayan. Nag-abo ang mga ulap noong hapong iyon, at mas lalong lumakas ang kahol ng mga aso, mas tuminis. Mas numipis ang kanilang mga tinig at nag-isa ang kanilang mga kahol hanggang sa hindi na namin mapaghiwalay ang kahol ng aming sariling mga aso sa aso

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ng kapitbahay namin, ang kalansing ng kani-kanilang mga kadena sa sementadong sahig na nagsisilbing kampanilya sa orkestrang ito ng mga tahol. Na para bang alam nila na may paparating. Na, katulad namin, ay hinihintay din nila ang pagdating ng tag-ulan.

Sa wakas ay bumagsak na ang unos, lagapak sa natutuyong bato-bato sa pusod ng ilog, bubungang-lata na pumapalatak sa dila-dilang tubig na bumabagsak. At patuloy pa ring kumakahol ang mga aso, na parang malugod na binabati ang pagdating ng ulan, na parang ang isang buwan nilang pagkahol ay isang pag-aanyaya sa ulan upang bumagsak. At kami, na marahil dahil sa tagal na naming paghihintay sa isang bagay na akala nami’y di na darating, ay masyadong pagod at nalilito upang magdiwang sa pagbagsak ng ulan. Naupo kami sa aming mga bintana, pinanood ang isa’t isa, ang dalusdos ng ulan sa mga malalapad na dahon ng palmera, at pinanood ang ilog na dahan-dahang lumagok mula dito sa nakabibiglang biyaya.

Tuloy-tuloy ang pag-ulan sa loob ng halos tatlong araw, na humihina paminsanminsan, bago muling lumakas, nag-iipon, bumubuwelo. Kapag humihina ito, lalakas nang bahagya ang pagkahol ng mga aso. Kung noo’y mukhang paanyaya, ngayon ay parang naghahamon. Lalabas ang ilan sa amin at titingnan kung tumaas na nga ba nang tuluyan ang ilog.

Ilang pabalik-balik din ang nagawa namin, at sa pagitan ng paglakas at paghina ng ulan, napapansin naming dumarami na ang tubig sa ilog, bumabalik sa dati. Nabaon na sa ilalim ang batong pinagsawaan na naming tingnan noong natuyot ang aming baryo. Buong akala nami’y magiging masaya kami sa pagbalik ng tubig sa dati—at oo, masaya naman kami, dahil bumabalik na ang aming mga nagsilantahang halaman sa dati nilang sigla—ngunit marahil masyado na kaming nasanay sa kalungkutan nitong mga nakaraang mga buwan para maalala kung paano nga ba magsaya. Kakaunti na lang ang mga batang lumabas upang maglunoy sa pampang ngayong may matatawag na uling pampang. Bihira na naming nakikita ang isa’t isa sa bakuran ng bawat isa, nag-aayos ng sinampay o nagbubungkal ng lupa. Iyong tindahan ni Aling Minyang ay wala nang dumadalaw tuwing gabi upang punuin ang aming baryo ng awitan. Huli naming nakita si Ka Litong gitarista kasama ang kaniyang dalawang tuta. Kahit ang mga manok ni Ka Goryong mananabong ay hindi na tumitilaok sa umaga. Sabi ni Temyong ay pinakatay na raw niya upang ipakain sa aso niyang si Puti. Ngunit ilang linggo na rin iyong huling balitang iyon. Wala nang nakakaalam sa ginagawa ng bawat isa sa amin. Wala na ring may pakialam. Kung mayroon man kahit kakarampot lang, hinuhulaan na lang.

Nagpatuloy ang palakas-pahinang pagbagsak ng ulan ng isang linggo. Sa panahong iyo’y bumalik na nang bahagya ang sigla ng ilan sa aming pananim. Nakataas na ang ilog sa dati nitong normal na lalim. Patuloy pa ring kumakahol ang mga aso, na ngayo’y nakaririndi

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na sa kanilang monotono. Bagaman masasabi naming masaya pa rin kami sa ganitong kakaibang biyaya, nabawasan na ang mga nagtatampisaw sa tubig upang maligo o maglaro mula sa kung anong kakaunting mga batang naglalaro dito. Hindi rin dahil nagsawa na sila sa ulan, kundi dahil naririnig na uli namin ang matagal nang hindi naririnig na bulong ng babala ng ilog: huwag lalapit. Natahimik na ang pangambang kumakaluskos sa aming dibdib at napalitan ng panibagong kabang hindi namin mapangalanan. Matagal-tagal din bago mawala itong kaba na ito, ngunit hindi bago umigting ito.

Bahagya nang humina ang ulan noong araw na iyon. Isa-isang kumatok sa aming mga pintuan si Mang Temyong, na hinahanap ang kaniyang aso na kulay tsokolate’t malaki ang tengang halos nakatakip sa mga mata nitong ubod ng itim. Nagkakakahol pa rin ang mga aso naming nakakadena nang lumabas kami sa aming mga bahay upang hanapin ang kaniyang aso na pinangalanan niyang Takip dahil sa mga tenga nga nitong nakatakip sa mata. Nakalas raw ang kadena ni Takip noong nakaraang gabi’t nagising na lang siyang wala na siya roon. Hindi na ligtas lakarin ang pampang ng ilog noon, kaya iilan na lang silang naghanap kay Takip sa bandang iyon ng aming bayan.

Maya-maya, tinawag kami ni Ka Lucia, na nakatanghod malapit sa mataas nang ilog.

Nang lumapit kami, nakakita kami ng parang basang kumpol ng balahibo, kulay-tsokolate, litaw na litaw sa kulay-kapeng ilog, nakalutang. Napaikot ito ng daluyong at tumambad sa amin ang dilat na dilat na si Takip, pinamaga ng tubig ang kaniyang katawan. Walang imik na hinango ni Mang Temyong ang aso sa tubig at tahimik kaming sumunod sa kaniya—maliban sa mabilis at mababaw na paghinga ni Aling Dioning—patungo sa isang puno ng kamatsile malapit sa ilog. Dumating ang kaniyang anak na lalaki na si Onyok na may kalawanging pala at naghukay ng libingan para kay Takip. Hinintay naming matapos itong maliit na seremonyas, habang naririnig namin ang mga aso sa aming mga bahay na tumatahol pa rin. Ngunit animo’y hindi sila tumatahol para makisimpatiya o paglamayan ang pagkamatay ng kanilang kasamahan. Matapos mapatag ang kumpol ng lupang pinaglibingan kay Takip, at tirikan ng patpating krus ni Ka Temyong, ay lumakas na uli ang ulan. Nagsibalikan na kami sa aming mga bahay upang magpatuyo’t magkape, na parang wala kaming nakita, walang nangyari. Umupo kami sa tapat ng aming bintana at pinanood ang pag-akyat ng ilog patungo sa paanan ng mga puno ng kamatsile sa tabi nito.

Nang magising kami kinabukasan, napakataas na ng tubig sa ilog, mas mataas kaysa sa noong nagdaang araw. Umabot na ito sa silong ng tindahan ni Aling Minyang. Mabuti na nga lang at may tayakad na nagpapaangat dito kaya hindi nabasa ang sahig ng kanilang bahay.

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Ngunit tumanghod pa rin kami sa bintana’t tinawag si Minyang upang siya’y kumustahin nang tumambad sa amin ang paiyak niyang pagsilip pabalik sa amin. Nakita na lang ni Aling Minyang ang kanilang asong si Mei-mei na tumalon pababa sa ilog bago pa nila mapigilan ito. Wala silang nagawa kundi panoorin ang paglitaw-pagkawala ng maliit nitong puting ulo sa tubig ng ilog. Hindi na namin hinanap si Mei-mei, lalo na’t delikado na ang nibel ng ilog. Tulad ng mga nakaraang araw, umupo kami sa tapat ng aming bintana at pinakinggan itong patuloy na pagkahol ng mga aso. Itong pagkahol na hindi na basta kahol na parang pinag-isa. Para na itong malalim na paggaralgal, isang mala-halimaw na pagsigaw, animo’y may gutom na kailangang mapalubag agad. Hindi na nito pinapakalma ang kaluskos ng kaba sa aming mga puso, kundi sinasalamin na. Nagtahulan kasabay ng pagtangis ni Aling Minyang na ngayon ay nagtago na sa kanilang bahay.

Lumakas nang lumakas ang tahol ng mga aso habang lumilipas ang mga araw, kahit nanghina na nang tuluyan ang ulan. O dahil nanghina na nang tuluyan ang ulan. Hindi mapakali ang aming mga aso kahit na punuin namin ng pagkain ang kanilang mga mangkok.

Hindi sila mapanatag sa isang problemang hindi namin malaman kaya hindi mahanapan ng kasagutan. Hindi na rin mapanatag ang lumalagong kutob sa aming mga loob, na parang kami mismo’y may kung anong problemang hindi namin matugunan.

Ilang araw pa, dumarami na ang nababalitaan naming mga aso na nagsikawalaan: ang kambal na tuta nina Mang Juli, ang matabang alaga ni Aling Trining. Pati ang alaga ni Rick na asong may tatlong kulay—si Lucky, dahil daw suwerte ito. Tumawag si Kadyo mula sa kaniyang bahay: habulin daw ang aso niyang si Popo at tumalon na ito sa ilog. Wala pang isang minuto ay lumubog na ito, at lumutang na lang ilang minuto pa nang tumama ito sa isa sa mga tayakad ng bahay nina Aling Minyang. Ang puti nitong balahibo’y nagkulay-ape dahil sa tubig-baha, ngunit ang leeg nito’y parang nilaslas. Nalaman naming nagwawala na rin pala ang ibang aso sa kanilang kadena, nagsusugat sa leeg sa ganitong pag-aalsa. Kaya, kagaya ni Kadyo, kinakalas na lang ng ibang tao mula sa pagkakatali nito. Pagkawala nama’y bigla na lang tatakbo ang mga aso palayo papunta sa rumaragasa pa rin na ilog, mawawala ang kanilang maliliit na katawan sa tubig na bumubulong pa rin ng babala, katulad ng nangyari sa aso ni Kadyo: basta na lang daw tumalon sa ilog kahit na bumubulong ito ng babala, na para bang iyong wika ng ilog at ng aso ay hindi nagtutugma. Ilang araw pa’y nakita namin ang pagtalon ng isang aso mismo sa aming mga harapan: si Igme, ang aso ni Mang Justo, na tumalon na lang bigla sa gumaralgal na ilog na parang hindi nagdadalawang-isip, tahimik na nagpalamon ang maliit nitong katawan sa bunganga ng nagngangalit na tubig. Na parang hindi dahil sa magkaiba ang wika ng ilog at ng

24 | Issue Three

mga aso kaya sila nagkakamatayan, kundi dahil nagkakaintindihan na nga sila. Parang hinahalina, hinahamon, o di kaya’y pinauuwi sa kung saang tahanan. At parang itong mga asong ito, nagkakahulan ang aming mga pangamba sa aming dibdib, may gustong sabihing hindi namin mawari.

Dahan-dahan namang nabawasan ang pagkahol sa San Roque habang unti-unti ring nalalagas ang bilang ng mga aso. Ang mga natitirang nakakalag ay patuloy pa ring nagpupumiglas, kumakahol hanggang parang halos mapunit na ang kanilang mga lalamunan. Hindi na sabay ang kahol ng mga natirang aso, kundi mabangis na, nagsasalitan, nagsasagutan. Parang mga lobong nakaamoy ng sisilaing hapunan. Kasabay nitong pagkamatay ng mga aso’y, humina ang ulan. Ganoon man, hindi pa rin kami nagsisilabasan. Nakaupo pa rin kami sa aming mga tahanan habang nag-aalimpuyo ang ilog sa paanan ng mga kabahaya’t hile-hilerang kamatsile sa pampang. Mukhang hindi bababa ang ilog hanggang hindi pa lumulundag doon ang pinakahuling aso, hanggang hindi pa nila naikakahol ang pinakahuling kahol.

May ilang ganito ang paniniwala: sina Ka Goryo na pinakawalan na ang kaniyang aso dahil sa takot na hindi bumaba ang tubig sa ilog, si Felicia na siya mismo ang naghagis ng kaniyang aso sa baha sa tapat ng bahay niya, kahit na mukhang tatalon din naman ito sa tubig tulungan man ni Felicia ito o hindi. Ngunit hindi natitinag ang ilan at gusto pa rin nilang itago ang kanilang mga aso. Si Aling Dioning, nagsugat-sugat ang mga braso matapos pigilan ang kaniyang asong si Abo nang minsa’y pakawalan ito ng anak niya at muntikan nang lumundag palabas ng bahay at tumakbo papunta sa ilog. Labis na pinagpapalo ni Dioning ang kaniyang anak, at ikinadena pabalik si Abo, na pilit nagkukumawala’t pinagkakalmot ang bisig ni Aling Dioning. Si Sitang din na lubha nang napamahal sa kaniyang tuta ay hindi ito mapakawalan.

Ngunit nakakapagod ding maghintay sa pagbaba ng baha. Sa puntong iyon, handa na kaming gawin ang kahit ano para lang mawala ito.

Isa-isa kaming nagpuntahan sa mga bahay at pinakiusapan namin ang ilan sa mga kabaryo naming may aso na pakawalan na sila: si Aling Rosing na alangan pa noong una na pakawalan si Efren, isang asong mataba at kulay itim; si Primo at ang kaniyang kambal na kapatid na si Nicanor, na nagdadabog na pumayag sa aming pakiusap. Hindi sila makatingin sa mga mata ng kanilang aso habang palabas ito ng bahay at tumakbo patungo sa ilog. Nag-amok naman si Aling Dioning nang puntahan namin sa kaniyang bahay at pinakiusapang pakawalan na si Abo. Halos saktan na kami ni Aling Dioning bago siya mapigilan ng tatlong lalaki nang puwersahan. Wala siyang nagawa kundi manood habang kinakalag namin si Abo sa kaniyang kadena at nagmamadali itong kumarera papunta sa tubig.

Plural | 25

Mahinang-mahina na ang ambon sa puntong iyon. Sa wakas, kay Sitang na lang ang pinakahuling asong kailangan naming pakawalan. Mabigat ang aming puso nang katukin namin ang bahay ni Sitang. Walang sumasagot, ngunit may mahinang pagkaluskos sa loob kaya puwersahan naming binuksan ang kaniyang pinto. Nakita namin si Sitang, nakahukot sa isang sulok, yakap-yakap ang aso niyang nagtatahol, nakamata sa aming papalapit sa kanila. Nanginginig siya habang mahinahon kaming nakikipagrason sa kaniya. Umiiling-iling siya, hindi tinatanggap ang aming paliwanag. Palibhasa’t wala ring nakasama nang matagal kaya naman hindi niya mapakawalan ang aso. Kaya parang wala rin sa loob naming hablutin ang aso mula sa kaniyang nangungulubot na mga kamay.

Malakas ang pagtanggi niya sa aming pakiusap—kesyo raw may mga kasama kami sa bahay, o na wala rin sa aming mawawala’t ayaw na niya uling mag-isa. Sa totoo’y hindi namin alam kung paano ang gagawin namin. May kumakaluskos sa aming dibdib, matindi, na parang nagsasabing huwag nang lumapit sa balong ito. Na hayaan na siya kasama ng kaniyang aso.

Hindi na rin namin alam ang pinatunguhan ng aming diskusyon, ngunit binitawan din niya si Gigi matapos siguro ang ilang oras na pakikiusap. Lumayo kami mula sa matandang balo at nagsitabi habang ginagawa na niya itong pamamaalam niya sa aso. Hinalikan ni Sitang si Gigi, na biglang tumigil sa pagtahol, bago ito tuluyang pinalaya sa kaniyang pagkakatali. Umiiyak si Sitang na naupo sa kaniyang tumba-tumba sa may bintana, at tumayo kami sa likuran niya, hinarap ang nasa labas nito: ang mga puno ng kamatsile sa malayo na nagkikintaban ang mga dahon sa butil-butil na tubig, ang bumabagal na ilog, ang asong unti-unting nilalamon ng distansya, ang kaniyang paliit na paliit na anino sa namumulang araw, ang katawan niyang lumusong sa ilog, ang tahimik nitong paglubog at pagtanghod hanggang sa wala na kaming natanaw kundi ang tubig, wala nang narinig kundi ang ilog mismo, ang kaniyang tahimik na paghuni, ang kaluskos sa aming dibdib na humihina na rin, ang pagtila ng ulan.

26 | Issue Three

Plural | 27

28 | Issue Three

You cannot position yourself to a shadow, said my elbow. I laughed. And it laughed and I laughed and I handed it a Kleenex. And it laughed. Listen: when you are twenty, you develop the ability to walk on walls. When you turn twentyone, you learn to walk on the ceiling. At twenty-two, your parts talk (often against you). My right elbow said it hated everything I scratched it into: the black varnished table in my grandmother’s house, the aged chalkboard in my 3rd grade class, the cold metal stairs in the house. This elbow is rude, and sometimes I like to intentionally scrape it into jagged surfaces – but it hurts. You see, today it told me that I am every defaced sign in the streets. As if in response, my eyes winked at my feet. And my toes nodded. And my knees agreed. And my left hand told my right hand to give me a Kleenex. What do we—ah, disassembled, that’s how we call it here: when your parts misplace themselves, when you misplace them.

Plural | 29

Tomorrow, I turn twenty-three. Mother said at twenty three, your parts shut up but—What? Everything you eat is transported somewhere. Where? Anywhere. Once, mother ate a croissant and it was sent to her father’s study. You can’t control where the body sends the food, she said. You can swallow a spider and you won’t know where you’ll find it next: in your locker, in your purse, in your pocket perhaps. But how far can the food travel? I asked her. Can I send it to the moon? I’d have to wait until tomorrow to know for sure. Listen: at twenty-four, mother said that all these, you either forget or not forget. Clearly, she remembers. Clearly, I will, too. My elbow scoffed.

30 30 || Issue IssueThree Three

Plural Plural|| 31 31

32 | Issue Three

In bed, wearing a pair of boxer shorts that barely hug his hips, Juan Thomas ‘J.T.’ Asuncion McCreedy scans the ceiling for something, anything, to carry his weight. Instead he sees a lizard the size of his middle finger, flirting with the dull fluorescent bulb. This triggers J.T.’s memory of a song popular when he was in grade school, fresh off his exile from San Francisco.

J.T. hums himself to sleep.

J.T. nurses his second serving of strawberry ice cream, while his father stands next to him in a restaurant terrace overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge.

As if the Golden Gate Bridge suddenly lost its charm, his father fixes his gaze on J.T., says “Hey.” J.T. looks at his father. His ice cream melts quicker under his father’s gaze, so he licks faster, afraid for his father’s eyes to overtake his tongue.

He feels something cold tickle the tip of his nose. His father gestures that J.T. has ice cream on his nose. J.T. wipes it away with the back of his hand.

J.T. wakes up with lizard shit smeared all over his face. He takes off his boxer shorts and wipes his face and the back of his left hand with it. Now in his birthday suit, he crawls out of bed to his desk, opens his laptop. Youtube. com. Agaw Agimat. Kissame. He listens to the song over and over, for hours.

When he finally gets tired of the singer’s croaky voice, he browses through the recommended videos and clicks Crazy Lizards. He watches a ten-minute video of a lizard in a fish bowl, crawling around and around a small prickly cactus. He watches it again and again.

He moves on to a clay animation Godzilla wreaking havoc on a cardboard city, sending a gang of stray felines into frenzy. Then, cats. Lots of cats.

Cats being chummy to dogs. Cats being bitchy to dogs. Cats falling. Cats flying.

Cats on catnip. And, of course, Cat Stevens. The best of Cat Stevens. Where do the children play. The first cut is the deepest. Can’t keep it in. Morning has broken. Moonshadow.

Plural | 33

J.T. fetches an almost empty jar of Nutella and the last three slices of Gardenia from the fridge. He eats his breakfast in front of his laptop, which is still on Youtube, showing girls in skimpy Halloween costumes wrestling against each other in an inflatable pool filled with Jell-O. Next, Jell-O videos. How to make Jell-O. Funny Jell-O commercials. Wacky Jell-O conspiracies.

JLo dancing in a jungle-studio while green laser beams caress her hourglass outline. Waiting for tonight. On loop. The night comes too quickly.

J.T. doesn’t even notice the sun set.

JLo, still. Jenny from the block. Don’t be fooled by the rocks that she’s got, she’s still Jenny from the block. It takes multiple viewings before J.T. is convinced.

From Jenny to Genie. Christina Aguillera’s Genie in a Bottle. But not the music video with Christina Aguillera writhing on the beach like the Lizard on the ceiling; this Genie in a Bottle video shows a bottle— clear, inanimate, run-of-the-mill, glass bottle—that stays clear, inanimate, and run-of-the-mill throughout the duration of the song. Who uploaded this shit?

An instant message pops up on screen.

Congratulations for being the 420th viewer. You are now

entitled to 420 wishes. Do remember that wishes should

be things than can be carried with one hand. And your

privileges expire after 72 hours.

Who are you?

Dr. Z Ali, genie in the bottle.

ROTFL

What’s so funny?

Luke, you douche. How’d you hack my computer?

This is not Luke. I’m the genie in the bottle.

ROTFL

What’s your first wish?

World peace. J

Is that something you can carry with one hand?

Why do you get to decide the rules?

Because I’m the genie in the bottle. What’s your first wish?

34 | Issue Three

A frickin’ gun, man. LOL

Try to be more specific, man.

Okay you’ve proven your point, Luke. Now tell me

how you did it.

For the last time, I’m not Luke. What kind of gun do you

want?

Heckler & Koch USP. That good enough for you?

One down, 419 to go.

The doorbell rings.

J.T. looks into the peephole. The corridor is deserted. Naked still, he opens the door, walks the length of the corridor all the way to the fire exit, Uturns and traces the opposite direction that leads to the elevators. The entire floor is empty, until the elevator doors open and out spills a group of inebriated nurses in their white uniforms. First, they giggle at the sight of J.T.’s nakedness.

Soon after, they cover their noses.

Sitting on his doorstep is a Heckler & Koch USP. J.T. picks it up, his hands shaking. He slam shuts and double-locks the door. He lets the pistol rest on his bedside table, crawls back in bed, and scans the ceiling for the Lizard he saw the other night. The Lizard has abandoned him and the fluorescent bulb flickers once, twice, thrice, as if to call last night’s companion.

J.T. falls asleep.

J.T. stands on the Golden Gate Bridge with his father. They stare down below, admiring the San Francisco Bay. His father tells him the bridge is held together by at least one million steel rivets. J.T. asks what rivets are. His father answers think nails, only more awesome. What happens when we remove the steel rivets, J.T. inquires. This whole thing will collapse, the father answers. And we all fall down below, J.T. quips. Exactly, the father agrees. We need to get going, he adds.

J.T. wakes up to a text message from a three-digit number.

Plural | 35

We need to get going.

Who are you?

Dr. Z Ali, genie in the bottle.

This is getting creepy.

We need to get going.

With what?

With your wishes. We’re done with the first 24 hours

and you still have 419 wishes left.

Sure. I want a Skullcandy Gaming Headset,

Cool.

Chillblast Fusion Uzi, Google Chrome Cast, iPhone 6 Plus, Panasonic’s SC-NT10, Anker Astro E4, Looxcie HD Explore, GoPro Hero4, Bionic Bird, the latest 15 inch MacBook Pro, and ten pieces of Philips Hue Connected Bulbs.

J.T. crawls out of bed and heads to the kitchen for breakfast. It is seven in the evening. He opens the fridge. It is gutted. Empty.

The doorbell rings.

He opens the door and his wishes greet him in neat boxes and paper bags. He scans the corridor for a stranger. Or strangers. There’s no one there, except for a polka-dotted Chihuahua sitting idly in front of his neighbor’s door, staring at his bags and boxes, tongue dangling from its mouth. Chihuahua barks three times and the neighbor’s door opens to welcome the dog.

J.T. transfers the loot into his unit, stacking them on the floor like Lego bricks that don’t quite add up. He stares at his boxed-and-bagged wishes for a long, long time, as though willing them to unravel on their own.

He picks the iPhone box and rips it open: the iPhone comes to life.

How do you like your new gadgets?

What have I done to deserve this?

You are my 420th viewer.

Are you Oprah?

36 | Issue Three

I’m more Bono than Oprah. ROTFL You still

have 399 wishes.

Food, please?

Be specific.

Ten boxes of pepperoni pizza, twenty boxes

of Honey Stars, thirty cans of Libby’s

Vienna Sausage, ten 1-liter packs of Magnolia

full cream milk, five 2-liter bottles of Coke, five

pints of Ben & Jerry’s Strawberry Cheesecake

Ice Cream, and sixty servings of microwaveable

meals. Nothing with vegetables in it, I’m

allergic to vegetables.

You are down to 269 wishes. Your first 48 hours

have expired.

J.T. stands unsteadily on a stack of monobloc chairs on his bed. He reaches for the half-dead bulb on the ceiling and replaces it with one of his new Philips Hue Connected Bulbs, making sure it fits securely into the socket; making sure it won’t fall and break at an ungodly hour when the last thing he needs is a random wakeup call. Once done installing his new overcast lighting—configured to his liking via his new and dependable iPhone—J.T. sits in front of his new and equally dependable MacBook Pro and commences his Walking Dead marathon. He averages five slices of freshly delivered pepperoni pizza for each Walking Dead episode. Halfway through the latest season, J.T. has already consumed five boxes of pizza and has downed an entire bottle of Coke.

J.T.’s senses jolt back to life. He hears the neighbor’s Chihuahua barking directly at his wall. He squints his eyes against the glare of his MacBook Pro’s monitor. He feels bullets of sweat grazing his skin due to the heat generated by the gadgets simultaneously charging in his box-like, poorly-ventilated unit. He tastes something rancid on the walls of his mouth, stuck between his teeth, and under his tongue. He smells the stench of his own breath, the filth of his own skin. For the first time in weeks, he is bothered by the fact that he has been lounging around naked.

Plural | 37

J.T. sends Dr. Z Ali’s three-digit number a message containing a long list of wishes.

J.T.’s unit is now swamped in all sorts of department store items; clothes, shoes, accessories, toiletries, and housekeeping supplies. When he makes his way from bed to bathroom—new Dove liquid soap, new Pantene bottle, new Colgate tube, new Colgate toothbrush, new bottle of Listerine mouthwash, new loofah, new Gillette razor, new Gillette shaving cream, and new towel in tow— he carefully drops his steps through the stretch of vanishing space lest his feet crash something fragile among his fulfilled wishes, most of which are still in unopened bags and boxes.

J.T. shampoos his thick hair, covers the whole of his body with thick soapsuds, and scrubs his thick skin with a rather coarse loofah. He rinses himself off with warm water, and repeats the process two more times before judging himself clean. He stands before the sink mirror, lathers generous amounts of shaving cream onto his face, and shaves his three-month-old facial hair. He brushes his teeth, his tongue, and the interior walls of his mouth, for way beyond dentists’ recommended minutes, and finishes off the whole oral assault with ten long gargles of non-diluted Listerine.

J.T. rummages from his fresh set of wardrobe for something to wear for the night. He picks a pair of white Uniqlo boxer shorts and black Uniqlo socks, a pair of black Topman pants and a white long-sleeved Topman shirt, a black Calvin Klein coat and a black Calvin Klein tie, and a pair of black dress shoes from Hush Puppies.

He lavishly sprays himself with Clinique Happy.

J.T., all dapper and deadly, goes to the door, but only to double-check that it’s been double-locked.

He sinks back into his reprod swivel chair and continues his Walking Dead marathon. He puts on his new Skull Candy Gaming Headset so as to be spared from the noise of the neighbor’s Chihuahua incessantly barking at his wall, bent on ruining his Friday night. He scarfs down pizza and swigs coke while zombies get obliterated on screen, their rotten organs spilling out of wide and deep holes punched in their decayed bodies. J.T. has always rooted for the zombies.

J.T. has always rooted for naps.

A croaky voice blasts out of J.T.’s Skull Candy Gaming Headset.

38 | Issue Three

“You are down to your last wish and your last three hours.”

“Why’d you wake me up? Who are you?”

“Dr. Z Ali, genie in the bottle.”

“You do sound like Bono.”

“You do sound sleepy.”

“J.T. wants to sleep.”

“If you sleep, you might forfeit your 420th wish.”

“I’m on my 420th already?”

“Look around.”

“Can I return some of the dishwashing liquid?”

“Return policy doesn’t apply. Wishes uttered are wishes fulfilled. What’s your last wish?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it now. Or you’ll wake up later regretting not making the most of my services.”

“I can’t decide. I’m too sleepy.”

“Think.”

“Okay…how about…an amulet?”

“An amulet?”

“Yes, an amulet.”

“Be specific.”

“I’m not sure. I want to sleep.”

“Come on. Think.”

“Amulet against…I don’t know.”

“Think.”

“Zombies?”

“Zombies?”

“Yes. Zombies.”

“Why zombies?”

“Zombies don’t sleep.”

“Your wish is my command.”

J.T. crawls back in bed and sleeps with his mouth wide open.

Plural | 39

J.T. stands alone on the Golden Gate Bridge. He looks down below at the San Francisco Bay and shouts his father’s name, again and again, until his voice fades, dragged to distant shores by the cold California breeze. He cries too hard, too silently, he starts to choke.

J.T. wakes up choking. A black leather band with a bullet pendant rings his neck. He tastes a foul and earthy texture in his mouth, which he spits out once, twice, thrice, but to no avail. He sees the prodigal Lizard on the ceiling, right above his head.

The Lizard takes another dump and shit falls on J.T.’s chin. The Lizard crawls toward J.T.’s new overcast light bulb and circles it again and again and again.

J.T. grabs the pistol from his bedside table and takes aim at the Lizard. The Lizard, perhaps sensing danger, takes cover behind J.T.’s overcast light bulb. J.T., perhaps overcome by sympathy, hesitates and lowers the pistol.

J.T. turns up the light bulb’s brightness using his iPhone. Perhaps in protest over J.T.’s choice, the Lizard climbs the bulb, hugs its crystal crown, and croaks loudly.

The sound of the croaking Lizard sends shivers down J.T.’s spine. He raises the pistol, points it at the Lizard, and clicks the trigger. There is only a dull thud.

J.T. drops his arm. With his other hand, he reaches for his throat and loosens his black tie. His fingers brush against the bullet resting subtly in the slight, beating the hollow of his throat. He mechanically yanks the bullet off the leather band that rings his neck. With his hand holding the pistol, J.T. thumbs a button which dislodges the empty clip, into which he inserts the bullet; the bullet fits perfectly like a slow song on a Sunday.

The Lizard is still hugging the crystal crown of J.T.’s bright bulb. J.T. raises the pistol, both his middle and index fingers ready on the trigger. He points the mouth of the pistol against his target.

40 40| |Issue IssueThree Three

Plural Plural|| 41 41

42 | Issue Three

The Language School is the report of a student in southern Germany attending a German language program housed in a building that, two centuries ago, was an orphanage and now seems equal parts ordinary school and baffling mystery. This might have been expected, considering the narrator’s difficulties with learning German. But what couldn’t have been expected, among other things, is his admiration for, and adoration of, his teachers, or some of his teachers, or the strange things he hears them saying to one another and that they say to him, or the rumors about the teachers spreading through the hallways, hovering on the thresholds of the classrooms, in the vestibules, the faculty lounge, outside and within the WCs. Who are these teachers Thomas so admires? What are they?

His “favorite teacher” calls herself and them “gossiping little she-goats baaing around the coffee machine, though there are times when I can find a particular pleasure in our perversities, something about us that makes us more than figurines, indeed almost human. […] We are strange creatures, Thomas.” She and the language school have radical mysteries in store for the narrator.

1. Juliette Frist hasn’t been seen …

Juliette Frist hasn’t been seen in the language school this week. One day she was there and the next not, nor the next, nor the next, with no mention aforehand of her taking a vacation. So is that why the rumors had quieted, in order to let reality catch up with them? Since she’s no longer my teacher I wouldn’t be surprised if her body washed up in the copying room, throat slit with her own fingernail file, a golden object that frequently appeared in her classes, but only for the use for which it was designed. I try to be precise with my German, but my thoughts outrun the words and I stutter and stumble and flop to a stop. Given the chance, we might all have been suspects. A week later she’s on indeterminate leave. A week after that rumors begin to outpace reality again, and she has been confined to an institute for Germans in need of a rest cure. I understand how this might be helpful; many a time I’ve wished for servants of a less phantasmal nature than those that wait on me assiduously

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when I’m at home. In fact, all the teachers in the language school deserve a paid leave, and if I could give them one, I would. I myself found, and find, Juliette a stalwart figure of an age we would call young only in a manner of speaking, though also not old. Her dark purple blouses I found becoming, though I would have forgone the pearls. As with all the teachers in the language school and myself, I try to imagine what Juliette will look like in ten years, and, barring illness, I don’t see much change. I trust this thought would please her, should she happen to read this report on my time in the language school and what occurred therein, whereas I can see clearly how Ingrid Mag, my favorite teacher, will age and yet remain ageless. This is achieved through a variety of magical means drawn from fairy tales both Italian and German, tricks of the hand, of the eye and mind, love, fate, salient lessons early-learned. Teaching at its best is instinctual and her instincts were better than sound, as were, at times, those of all or almost all of the teachers in the language school. The criteria for being hired to work in the language school remains a mystery among many mysteries regarding the school and the institute of which it is a part. I know the teachers need have no degree in pedagogy, which is all to the good, Gott sei Dank, as far as I’m concerned. I assume all the teachers in the language school go through some sort of orientation and training, if only for a day or a week or a few hours, though about this I might be mistaken. I can easily imagine the teachers of the language school stepping into the classroom, armed only with textbook and colored pens to write on the white board, no prior experience necessary except that of having been students themselves once upon a time. Is this not where the teachers in the language school received their true formative training? Don’t we all? What my teachers write and draw and dream on and through the white board, yes, that must take months, years, decades for them to produce the words and images I saw or think I saw on the white board, in front of which, months earlier, my favorite teacher detained me after class and asked, “Thomas, why are you in the language school?” I explained to her, with as much detail and clarity as my poor German would allow, my current situation and the events that had led me to Germany and eventually into the language school. This took only a matter of minutes before I had exhausted my vocabulary, though not my expressiveness. We sat together for an hour that day and several days afterwards, she listening to me and I to her, exchanging stories, family histories, married lives, ongoing for her, a few months over for me. Saving lives is an occupational hazard for the exceptional teacher, which without hesitation I can say my favor-

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ite teacher was and is, for she certainly saved mine. The burden this places on the exceptional teacher—who in fact, despite what my reports might suggest, is really an ordinary person in that she is prone to all the afflictions of the body and character we all are: envy, sloth, anger, greed, pride, callousness, indifference, colds, flus, afflictions of the foot, the lungs, etc.—is immense, and it is not made less by students like myself who wish to monopolize her during and after class, which I can say with absolute certainty my favorite teacher never allowed.

With a flick of the wrist or raised finger or press of the delete key she kept me from exceeding my proper bounds in all but my imagination. Never was my favorite teacher anything but professional and polite in her dealings with me, whether we were sitting on a bench in the Hoppenlau cemetery or lying in the grass on Schlossplatz or wandering the Bohnenviertel or shopping for DVDs in Saturn or CDs in Einklang or books on Hegel in Wittwer or dishes for me in Tritschler (her advice: keep it white and simple, which I did) or correcting my error-prone assignments with grace and lots of check marks or smiley faces for those passages or words that pleased her. “No,” she said when I carefully broached the issues surrounding the departure of Juliette Frist, especially those that suggested she had something to do with Juliette’s rumored bizarre behavior during the weeks before her temporary departure (glassy-eyed rant at a student for confusing anthroposophy with theosophy; dead cat she claimed someone put in her purse; rampaging paranoia, i.e., full-fledged breakdown in the faculty lounge; etc.), “I had nothing to do with any of that, despite what you may have heard or overheard. Yes, I noticed you listening to us as we spoke to one another in the corridor or on the stairs, perhaps you even listened in on us when we were alone together in the faculty lounge or in the copying room.

That sort of behavior doesn’t become you, Thomas. It smacks of Lermontov or some of those trashy women’s novels you seem always to be reading. Generally,” she said, generously sugaring her espresso that had just arrived, “we call barbarous what is different from our own behavior, not what is truly barbarous.

We women should look after, not berate, one another, don’t you think?” I said I could not speak on the topic with the authority she did, but that, yes, I thought in general she was right. She looked at me across our table at the Alte Kanzlei as if she were assessing the extent, if any, of my irony. Seemingly satisfied she had found none or not enough to matter, she nodded and downed her coffee in two gulps. What really happened to Juliette Frist, I wanted to ask my favorite teacher, though sensed she considered the discussion over.

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I took my time with my cappuccino in order to stretch out the afternoon, which, alas, in frequency was becoming rarer and rarer—she had her life, I the exam course. I paid for both of us—no, it was her turn; she paid for both of our meals, then I walked with her back to the S-bahn station at Stadtmitte, and she caught her tram home to Esslingen in one direction and I mine in another.

2. What is the language school …

What is the language school, I sometimes wonder, but a house of rumors that wind and wing their way along the corridors, up and down the stairwells, into the chambers and classrooms and minds of the students and teachers? In the niches the rumors pause, linger and grow like a culture in a Petri dish, like mold on cheese or bread. They grow and spread, they float like clouds that descend into our blood to rise again as clouds in our heads. That I myself might have been the subject of rumors I do not deny, though never once did I hear any that pertained to me, nor could any have been produced with any truthfulness that bore even a resemblance of inappropriateness regarding my behavior during my time in the language school or on the behavior of the teachers, except for those few incidents when the teachers’ methodologies failed to meet basic standards of competency, which were so rare that I am almost ashamed for having mentioned them.

A house of rumors, yes, or courthouse where clerks and prosecutors and judges pondered our cases, decided whether we would be allowed to continue in the service of the school or be put on a train or plane back home. Are we students in the language school mere servants of the state? Are we learning German or only a semblance of German, a facsimile Deutsch, which is all the institute wishes us to learn? What we obtain beyond this, the German we learn that does not apply to our roles as students or servants, we must keep to ourselves, we must never let our teachers hear or read.

I, on the other hand, am willing to show my teachers almost anything I write in German. Always, I think: here, with this slip of a prose piece, I have written a German so perfect that no one could fail but admire it, a German without flaw, like a cloudless sky in early spring, not even the suggestion of a cloud, not even a wisp to mar the blue. With these 200 words I have at last reached my goal of having my teacher say nothing to me when she hands it back free of correction. She will only look at me for a moment, as if to say: Did he write this or did he have help from his German friends? What was written in

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German, what merely translated into German? Does he ever really think in German? I have the feeling that he may be trying to hoodwink us, to pull the wool over our eyes. But we are not sheep or falcons, we wear capes not hoods when we step out of our houses or apartments or penthouses or cars or into the big yellow trams that weave us into and through and out of the city. We can recognize the real article when we come across it. The question is, is this one of them? And then she will look at me a while, her expression no longer speaking to me, or, if so, in a language I do not understand.

Yes, that’s what I believe each time I turn in one of my assignments, such as the following:

In speaking of the arcades of the language school, I have endeavored to draw your attention to the elegant shops we students may enter, should we wish, before commencing our daily lessons. In speaking of the arcades of the language school, I have endeavored to suggest that within the language school one does not need an umbrella. In speaking of the mirrors of the language school, I have endeavored to suggest that they be placed at the end of each hallway, so that we can see the teachers more clearly as they walk down them, so we can learn to mimic their every graceful gesture, their stride, the way they bow their heads as they listen to what a student is trying to tell them, the way they hold their smart phones in one hand, leaving the other free to gesture and console. We are the unprepared for whom the arcades were built, as Walter Benjamin would have said, had not an Illustrated Guide to Paris already said it in 1852; all he could do was quote it, though not in the context of the language school, which he never had the opportunity to visit, having met an end to his life that Germany daily should openly mourn.

What my teacher gave back to me the next day, as I awaited her recognition and praise, was a sheet filled with more mistakes than she had room or time to correct, cleaned up by me in the translation above, a translation that also reveals how deluded I was about my German skills, but in the language school, I came to learn, as in life, temporary states of delusion may be a survival necessity.

But then so was direct experience of reality, which we students relished when we found it. To this extent the rumors that circulated in the inner and outer chambers and hallways and stairwells and landings and WCs and faculty lounge and office and copying room of the language school peeled back layers of illusion we hadn’t known were there. Was that their intent? To tell us that nothing made sense even when it did? Was this also part of the planned learning experience for us students during our time in the language school?

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I can’t help but ask that question, since the dedication and general thoughtfulness of the language school and its helpful, lively, tired, but never morose, never despairing teachers were, in my experience both in and outside the classrooms, unparalleled. For example, where else have I seen such punctuality in teachers? Classes always or almost always began on time and the breaks seldom lasted longer than specified and the teachers never left early, or seldom left early, though sometimes we students left early because we had jobs to go to or children to take care of or bureaucracies to visit, where we stood in line or along corridors longer than any I had seen in the language school, waiting for our letter or number or name to be called and our visas extended or denied.

In these corridors where I stood alert as a mouse at midnight and at the same time as if adream, I thought about the rumors I had heard or misheard about the language school and its teachers, about their wages and sorrows, their trips to other planes (planets?), their languages and affairs. How ___ had ___, before she had ___ and ____, leaving ____ only to ____. Or: ____ during her crisis with her ____ situated in the ____ of ____, remarked in passing that ____ had ____ in the Kunstmuseum last ____ before the guards ____, insinuating that ____ had ____.

Then one day I realized I hadn’t heard any new rumors for some time.

The hallways still whispered, but I couldn’t make out or even speculate on what they were saying. When two teachers saw me trailing behind them, they immediately stopped talking or else began to talk louder about innocuous matters.

I listened to what the other students were saying, but they talked only of their lives back home. I listened, or tried to listen, to the words behind the words our teachers spoke in class, but my skills were not up to such linguistic gymnastics. I even listened outside the faculty lounge, when I slowly walked past its door, but heard only laughter or nothing, though once I did hear a sobbing that made me want to rush in and console whoever it was crying, but this I did not do. Instead, I did my best to maintain my role as student, which was not hard to do, except when my teachers’ behavior forced me out of it.

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1: Rumor tells us that that entrance you call a cascading door don’t mean anything.

2: I even asked myself what they could steal here. I’ve told you before we went live, this isn’t a bank.

My friend mailed me that the burger joint that she has become has the most human crew, as her friends and neighbors would argue. She might never sleep again.

She was just there one midnight, taking everyone in, when a crewmember stopped thanking this customer. Finished the order, then sipped soda. What’s funny was the customer didn’t notice a thing, until he cursed at the sight of his wet notebooks, probably to protest against a news reporter who was curious enough to question usually-seventeen-to-umpteen-year-olds who stay late.

She wished someone went inside with a cow.

1: What exactly is in this place?

2: There isn’t much, except for a forest of papers. Some people petitioned for the lobby to be walled off and air-conditioned, so we had those open spaces fenced.

One night, I and another friend spotted a stranger, who turned out to be the customer from Ms. Burger Joint, she said. At first he looked like a gang member, taking pictures, thinking hard on how to lift the cascading door. He got the idea to call him a gang member because every security officer in the world has protocol paranoia, and also because that stranger cannot answer who the elected officials were, which wasted the chief ’s time by asking the stranger more questions.

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After they let the stranger go, my friend was joking about him, recalling what the stranger was struggling to tell them—that he felt it necessary to compare a picture of the cascading door he once saw in a photo album with a body of water.

1: How so?

2: Wait, let me try to paint it for you. By the way, I’m simply imagining this—no fuck it, I’ll try to ask him. (time passes) 1: Now what?

2: He feels there is a canvass hanging invisibly a couple steps in front of the cascading door, most vivid when it’s closed at night, and most frightening when it’s around seven in the morning, he told me.

Sometimes that canvass looks like a PowerPoint slide without text. The contents of which vary from person to person. What’s wrong with a bit of entertainment before you go? Sometimes they smile when all of them must go to wherever they need to be minutes later; if they’re not watching it, they check phones or read parts of books. But when he was explaining himself a week later, he was looking for something spontaneous, certain, volatile.

Looking back, he said one of the visions that he wants to photograph is a scenario wherein it’s like summer without sand, but leave that body of water with a person. A close friend of Ms. Burger Joint once saw the stranger take photos of fences of said friend.

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I asked him, “How could it be dramatic when you’re the only one who’ll get the idea?”

“Someone was there. I’ll attach the reference photo, or maybe a really bad sketch,” he replied, facepalming.

“No. And you expect the whole thing to make sense?”

“No.”

“Only two, four, five people will understand this, if they’re lucky.”

“I’ll give you that, plus it’s better that way.”

“You know what, I want to doodle light trails, ‘cause my parents don’t advocate illegal drugs.”

I got impatient, sorry.

1: Dammit, you didn’t even answer my question.

2: Oh. Don’t sulk on these, please. Honestly, I don’t want to be involved with this.

Come on, I merely scream around all these other places with the lights and advertisements. I’m here, that’s it.

Fine, I’ll answer it. When I asked him that, he replied this:

“I was once looking at a body of water, when someone stood close to where I was. He also looked at it, breathed deeply, then took his shirt off, then his slippers, then his shorts, then put it in a plastic bag. After that, he started walking towards a boat in the horizon. When I first saw the reference photo, which is a different thing,

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I wasn’t supposed to do anything but stare, stunned, like I lost what I was supposed to keep. Maybe it’s better to picture the place instead of what I’m after.”

Selfish bastard.

1: Did he really talk to you?

2: CCTV keeps my memory sharp. Mind you, it can recognize mouthing and I can reverse-engineer my questions from whatever he was saying, so no problemo.

Then he left notes, some crumpled and some soaked.

I’m telling myself, “What for?”

Then people up north called me up, saying they saw him walking down the rain, like a procession.

1: So this is the wonder of CCTV? Have it in HD or 4K to serve us better.

2: If you have the hard drive space for it. I mean, come on, you don’t need to remember everything. Unless you obsess with these kinds of powers mages cannot conceive, like the people who run this place.

Quarter to seven. I need to yawn.

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Tulad ng maraming nangangarap maging tambay habambuhay, mahilig si Jaime na tumunganga sa kalangitan tuwing bahagyang maulap ngunit maaraw ang panahon. Kadalasan, ginagawa niya ito habang nakahiga, kadalasan sa mga madadamong lugar ng kanyang pinapasukang unibersidad. Mahilig siyang mangilatis ng mga dumaraang ulap, lalo na iyong mga hugis-hayop sa kanyang paningin.

Iyon ang kalmadong ginagawa niya sa may field ng kanyang pinapasukang unibersidad isang hapon. Inaantok siya noon; wala pa siyang tulog dahil nag-aaral siya mula noong nakaraang gabi hanggang umaga nang araw na iyon para sa isang exam na katatapos lang niyang ibagsak. Naramdaman niya ang kagustuhan ng kanyang mga namumulang mga mata na matakpan kahit saglit lang. Ngunit bago siya tuluyang makaidlip, napatitig siya nang halos maluwa-mata sa isang ulap na kanyang nakita. Kawangis na kawangis kasi nito ang isang ulap na namasid niya dalawang taon na ang nakalipas sa pwestong sa oras na iyon ay inuupuan ng isang lalaki’t isang babae.

“‘Yun, kamukha ‘yun nang aso kong namatay two years ago pagkatapos mabangga ng tricycle na walang preno,” bigkas ng lalaki habang nakaturo sa ulap na nagmumulto kay Jaime.

“‘Wag mo ngang banggitin ang patay at aso sa isang sentence please. Kamamatay lang ng aso ko last week. Ano bang klaseng stalker ka, di mo ‘yun alam. O baka naman nananadya ka, gusto mo akong paiyakin ngayon para magkaroon ka ng dahilan para mayakap ako. Style mo talaga, bulok na bulok!” Sabi iyon ng babae nang malakas at dirediretso.

Dilat na dilat ang mga mata ni Jaime at bahagya siyang napanganga pagkatapos niyang mamalas ang palitang iyon. Eksaktong ganoon ang naging palitan nila ni Anita noong sila ang nakakita ng lumilipad na asong iyon. Para siyang nanonood ng isang dula o taping ng isang teleserye, kung saan dating siya at ang babaeng dati niyang kinahihibangan ang mga tagapagganap.

“Pasensya na, hindi ko alam. Tara, punta tayo d’un sa chapel ngayon, ipagdasal natin ‘yung kaluluwa ng aso mo. Alay natin ‘yung isang bulaklak kay Mama Mary.”

“Ang tanga-tanga mo talaga. Ikaw na lang pumunta d’un. Ako pupunta sa sakayan ng jeep, sasakay palayo sa iyo. Sayo na ‘tong mga bulaklak na luray-luray. D’yan ka na nga!”

Para silang nagbabasa mula sa script na halaw sa mga binigkas noon nina Jaime at Anita. Sa oras na iyon, mistulang may panibagong gumaganap na manliligaw at nililigawan sa dulang posibleng isinulat ng tadhana; sigurado si Jaime na walang nakarinig sa palitan nila ni Anita noon dahil, katulad ng pinaggaganapan ng kanyang pinapanood, bakasyon ang mga estudyante noong panahong iyon.

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Tumayo ang babae habang tinatapon ang hawak niyang bulaklak sa may paanan ng lalaki at naglakad nang mabilis palayo. Dali-daling sumunod ang lalaki sa kanyang sinusuyo.

Naisipan ni Jaime na sundan ang dalawa. Tumayo rin siya mula sa kanyang kinahihigan, mabilis ang tibok ng puso at di maipinta ang mukha. Ang tanging laman ng kanyang isipan ay ang mga alaala ng panliligaw niya kay Anita.

Nakita niya ang dalawang nakatigil sa harap ng pinakamalaking gusali ng College of Engineering. Nagtago sa likod ng puno si Jaime habang lumuluhod ang lalaki sa may paanan ng babae. Hindi nakaharap si babae kay lalaki. Tinignan ni Jaime ang mukha ng babae. Pinanood niya ang mga labi ng babae na wari’y sinasabi, “Tumayo ka, ano ba!” at pagkatapos, “Saang pelikula mo nanaman ba ninakaw ‘yun?”

Tuwing dumadaan si Jaime sa building na iyon, naaalala niya ang ganoong kakornihang ginawa niya dati. Malamang, naisip ni Jaime, ginamit din ng lalaki ang baduy na linyang galing sa isang baduy na pelikulang Tagalog na nahiligan niyang panoorin pagkatapos niyang magkagusto kay Anita. Magkatulad na magkatulad nga kaya sila ng lalaking iyon? natanong niya sa kanyang sarili. Pareho silang tumatawa nang ubod ng lakas, halakhak na parang nananakot tuwing nininerbyos—gawaing ginawa ni Jaime pagkatapos siyang tanungin ni Anita ng tinanong ni babae kay lalaki, gawaing ginawa rin ni lalaki sa ganoon ding punto. Noong nakita muli ni Jaime ang mukha ng lalaki, kinilatis niya itong mabuti. Hindi sila magkamukha. Ni hindi sila pagkakamalang magkapatid na pareho ang mga magulang. Ngunit parehong-pareho ang paraan ng pagkunot nila ng noo at pagkagat nila ng labi. Pareho silang mukhang ‘di naturuan kung paano gumamit ng suklay at mahilig magkamot ng batok. Nakakita si Jaime ng isang taong natatakot siyang lapitan, isang banta sa kanyang sense of individuality, isang nilalang na tila bagay sa panitikang Ruso.

Gayunpaman, nagpadala siya sa kanyang sense of curiosity. Ginusto pa rin niyang sundan ang kanyang double, at ang babaeng hindi niya mapagkailang double ni Anita, noong sila’y nagsimulang maglakad ulit. Talagang magkapareho ang ayos ng buhok at paraan ng pananalita ng babae’t si Anita. Kahit ang mahigpit na pagpikit ng mata sabay hilot ng mga pisngi gamit ang dalawang hintuturo, gawaing akala niya noo’y natatanging pangingilos ni Anita, ay ginagawa rin ng babae.

Nakita niya silang umupo sa isang bangko. Nagtago si Jaime malapit sa kanila, sa likod ng ilang mga madahong halaman. Pinanood niyang maglabas ng isang pirasong papel ang lalaki. Inabangan ni Jaime na magsimula ang lalaki na magbasa ng isang tulang sigurado siyang likha ni Cummings, pagbasang alam niyang magreresulta sa paghalakhak ng babae habang nakapamewang.

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Ngunit bago niya ito masaksihan, may narinig siyang pabulong ngunit nanggugulat na “Jaime!” galing sa likod niya.

Tumalikod siya’t nakita si Marco, ang nagpakilala sa kanya kay Anita. Napansin kasi noon ni Marco na masugid na stalker ng kanyang kaibigang si Anita ang kanyang kaklase na si Jaime, kaya’t naisipan niyang pagtambalin ang dalawa.

“Gawain mo pa rin ba ‘to? Sinong natitipuhan mo, ‘yung lalaki o ‘yung babae?”

Pinagsalubong ni Jaime ang kanyang mga kilay at sumimangot siya bilang sagot.

“Ano ka ba Jaime, di ka na mabiro. Iiwan na kita sa paboritong pastime mo. Pinapakamusta ka nga pala sa akin ni Anita.”

Pinigilan ni Jaime ang kanyang sarili na ihampas ang hawak niyang notebook sa mukha ng kumakausap sa kanya.

“Sayang talaga kayo. Bagay na bagay pa naman kayo sa tingin ko. Sabi ko kasi sa iyo sundin mo ‘yung payo ko. Sige na.”

Naglakad palayo si Marco. Dahil wala nang mang-aagaw ng kanyang atensyon, muling tinutok ni Jaime ang kanyang mga mata sa bangkong kinauupuan ng mga pinagmamasdan niya. Pero kung saan kanina’y naroon ang mga pawang clone niya at ni Anita, mayroon na lamang mga mayang nagsisipagtalon at nagsisipagtuka.

Napamura siya habang tumitingin sa kanan at kaliwa ng bangko. Nang hindi na niya masilayan kahit ang anyo nila sa malayo, naisip niyang maglakad na papunta sa kanyang dorm.

Ngunit bago nabuo ang kanyang isip na umuwi na lang, naisip niyang alam niya kung saan sila pupunta, kung totoo ngang tugmang-tugma ang mga pangyayaring nasaksihan niya ngayon sa mga naranasan niya. Nagbakasakali siya. Dinala siya ng kanyang mabibilis na paa, hita’t binti sa harap ng mga mesa sa labas ng kasasara lang na cafeteria ng kanyang kolehiyo.

Nadatnan niya roon ang eksenang katulad ng isang alaalang ayaw na ayaw na niyang maalala. Lumapit ang babae upang tanggalin ang isang malaking langgam na gumagapang sa balikat ng lalaki. Pagkadikit ng daliri niya sa lalaki, hinawakan ng lalaki ang kanyang kamay.

Biglang hinalik-halikan ng lalaki ang likod ng kamay ng babae. Sinampal ng babae ang lalaki, tapos sinampal niya siya ulit nang mas malakas, at sa huli, pagkatapos niyang sampalin ulit ang lalaki, halos tumakbo siya palayo habang unti-unting dumidilim ang paligid.

Noong nabalitaan ni Marco ang ginawa ni Jaime, pinayo niyang puntahan ni Jaime si Anita’t humingi ng kapatawaran sa tulong ng bulaklak at teddy bear. Dalawang araw niyang pinagnilay-nilayan kung may pag-asa pa nga siya kay Anita pagkatapos ng pangyayaring iyon.

Ang naging konklusyon niya ay bahala na. Ngunit bago pa siya makabili ng rosas at stuffed toy, nakita niya si Anita na may kasamang isang lalaki na nginingitian niya habang namumula

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ang kanyang mga pisngi. Napanood niya silang magpaalam sa pamamagitan ng mahigpit na magkahawak na kamay. Simula noon, hindi na siya muling humingi kay Anita ng pagkakataong makipagkita.

Minasdan niya ang lalaking lugmok habang nakaupo. Naisipan niyang bigyan siya ng payo, dahil maaring tinadhana siyang hindi magtagumpay kay Anita upang may matutunan siya, kaalamang ngayo’y magagamit niya. Isinulat niya ang kanyang payo sa isang papel na pinilas niya mula sa kanyang notebook. Tiniklop niya ito sa hugis ng eroplano, at sinulatan ng “buksan mo ako” sa mga pakpak. Itinapon niya ito sa direksyon ng lalaki. Sakto! Pinulot ng lalaki ang eroplanong papel na tumama sa kanyang kaliwang tenga. Binuksan niya ito, at dahil malamang sa desperasyon, nangiti siya sa nakasulat at tumakbo papunta sa sakayan kung nasaan ang kanyang nililigawan.

Sinundan siya ni Jaime. Pagkakita niya sa kanilang magkasama, nagtago siya sa likuran ng punong malapit sa dalawa. Pinanood ni Jaime ang pagsunod ng lalaki sa kanyang payo. Nakita niya ang lalaki na humingi ng tawad sa hindi niya magawang pagpigil sa sarili.

Nagkatitigan ang dalawa. Mabilisang sumugod ang mga labi ng lalaki patungo sa mga labi ng babae. Sa puntong iyon, lumabas si Jaime mula sa kanyang pinagtataguan, naglakad na parang namamasyal lang at nakita ang eksena ng lalaking sinusubukang halikan ang kayakap na babaeng pinipilit makawala.

Tinulungan niyang makawala ang babae. Tinuhod niya sa sikmura at sinuntok niya siya sa ilong ang lalaki. “Tumakbo ka na o tatawag kami ng pulis!” sigaw ni Jaime sa kanyang walang-labang kalaban.

Tumakbo palayo ang lalaki. Katulad ng inaasahan ni Jaime, isa siyang malibog na duwag, katulad na katulad ni Jaime noon. Tinignan niya ang kanyang katabi, ang babaeng kaugaling-kaugali’t kasing ganda ni Anita noon.

“Ayos ka lang?” tanong ni Jaime.

“Oo,” sagot ng babae, habang ang kanyang mga kumikinang na mata ay nakatingin sa mga mata ng kanyang tagapagligtas.

60 60| |Issue IssueThree Three

Plural Plural|| 61 61

62 | Issue Three

(novel excerpt) Ang nakapagtataka’y hindi lamang magkapangalan ang dalawang manunulat kundi marami rin silang pagkakatulad. Halimbawa, pareho silang 37 na taong gulang sa kasalukuyan. Parehong may anak, pareho ring namatay na ang kanilang mga ama. Pareho ring manunulat na sa pangunahin ay makata, ngunit pareho ring ayaw angkinin ang turing na ito. Hindi nila maisusulat ang salitang ito pagkatapos ng kanilang pangalan. Mas madali sa kanilang angkinin, bagama’t bihira rin itong mangyari kung nangyayari man, ang pagiging manunulat. Para sa kanila, generic ang salitang manunulat, hindi kasing-tiyak, at kasing-bigat, ng salitang makata.

Bilang manunulat, pareho nilang gusto ang tunog ng kanilang pangalan. Ang aliteratibong katangian nito dulot ng dalawang titik a, dalawang titik r, at tatlong titik e. May taginting din sa pagbigkas ang magkapanunod na pantig sa hulihan ng pangalan at sa unahan ng apelyido.

Bukod dito, kapwa rin nila gusto na salitang Kastila ang kanilang pangalan at mayroong tiyak na kahulugan. Kaunti lamang ang may alam nito, lalo pa’t hindi na nga itinuturo sa mga unibersidad ang wikang Kastila. Sa mga taong nakilala ko, ilan lamang sa kanila ang nakaaalam at agad pinansin ang bagay na ito, na ang pangalan nila ay salitang Kastila, sa sandali mismo ng kanilang pagkakilala sa dalawa.

Minsan, inulit ang pangalan ko ng isang makata na binibigyang-diin ang tamang bigkas ng salita, ang presensiya ng pahilis na kudlit sa ibabaw ng titik e, nang magpakilala ako sa kanya sa kanyang opisina sa Tomas Morato noong 1998. Alam mo ba ang ibig sabihin ng pangalan mo? kaswal na dagdag niya. Baka nga naman ni hindi ko alam kung saan galing ang aking pangalan.

Marami ring hindi nakaaalam na ang makata at ang kilalang kritiko pala ay iisa. Higit pa, na lalaki pala ang makata kahit pambabae ang kanyang pangalan. Pero iisa nga ba ang makata at ang kritiko? Kung ang una ang tatanungin, malamang hindi ang isasagot niya. Dahil kung hindi, bakit niya isusulat ang tulang “Ang Makata at Ako”? Pero ang makata ang sumulat noon, hindi ang kritiko. Kung gayon, ang makata sa tulang nabanggit ay hindi ang aktuwal na makata, ipagpalagay nating may aktuwal ngang makata, kundi ang kathang makata ng aktuwal na makata, na siyang ang “ako” sa pamagat at hindi ang kritiko. Gayunman, malinaw sa tula na pinag-iiba at magkaiba ang makata at ang kritiko na siyang tinutukoy na “ako” sa pamagat.

Kung gayon, inaangkin ng makata sa simula pa lang na siya rin ang kritiko, bagama’t hindi naman nga automatikong ibig sabihin nito’y iisa sila.

Plural | 63

Maaari rin namang ganito: Maláy ang makata na sagisag-panulat lamang siya, iba sa mga heteronym ni Fernando Pessoa, sa pagtula ng kritiko. Na ang totoo, ang kritiko naman lahat ang sumulat ng mga tula ng makata. Nakapangalan lamang sa makata. Ang pangalan ng makata ay pangalan lamang. Na kahit ang kamalayang ito ng makata ay kamalayan ng kritiko.

Iba ang kaso sa tulang prosang “Borges at Ako” ni Jorge Luis Borges na masasabing padron ng “Ang Makata at Ako.” Bagama’t pinag-iiba at magkaiba nga sina Borges at ang “ako,” magkapareho naman sila ng pangalan. Parehong Borges. Kaya pagdating sa dulo ng tulang prosa, ang paggamit mismo ng anyo ng tulang prosa ay indikatibo ng pagsasama ng dalawang hindi kailanman magiging isa pero nagawang magsama, ganito ang pahayag ng persona: Hindi ko alam kung sino sa amin ang sumulat nito.

Sabi ng isang nobelista, nagpapakilala ang tagapagsalaysay sa unang panauhang pananaw, sa ikatlong panauhang pananaw, hindi. Gayunman, dagdag niya: Lahat ng salaysay ay nasa unang panauhan.

Ang pangalan ng makata ay pangalan lamang. Ngunit hindi ganap na totoo ang pangalan lamang. Ang pangalan ay pangalan. Ang pangalan ng makata ay pangalan ng makata. Mayroong halaga ang pangalan at pagngangalan. Sa ilang pagkakataon, may mga pangalang mas mahalaga sa iba o sa marami gaya halimbawa ng pangalan ng makata, pero ibang usapan ito.

Kahit ang mga bagyo ay binibigyan ng pangalan. Para madaling matandaan, para sa pagtatala at kasaysayan. Sa Pilipinas, karaniwang binibigyan ng pangalan ng babae, para maging mahina ang bagyo dahil sabi nila, mas mahina ang mga babae sa mga lalaki. Sexist at maling lohika.

Ang naitalang isa sa pinakamalakas na bagyo sa buong mundo na tumama sa Pilipinas, “Yolanda” ang ibinigay na pangalan. Hindi “Yolando.”

May sinusulat akong mahabang mahabang sanaysay. Dahil tamad kang magbasa, yung notes ko lang ang ipakikita ko sa yo. Belat.

1.

Gusto ko ang tunog ng Yol. Pag tinatawag akong Yol, may naririnig akong tigsh tigsh tigsh tapos biglang nagkakamirror ball sa kuwarto tapos ang ganda

64 | Issue Three

ng abs ko at may kaakbay akong mga babaeng nakasuot ng leather at sinasabi sa akin ng mundo: Wassup Yol? Biglang magkakaroon ng religion sa Sudan na ang pangalan ng diyos ay Yollah. Sa mga drug store, lumilitaw ang mga botelya ng gamot para sa cancer na may pangalang Paracetayol. Sa Espanya, tumitirik ang mata ng isang babae habang ginagawa sa kanya ng kanyang mangingibig ang Yollatio. Isang beses sa isang taon, pinapatay ng mga tao ang ilaw sa kanilang bahay para sa Yol hour. Yolicious! Sabi ng isang Pranses matapos matikman ang ginawa niyang pasta. Sa isang pajama party, kinikilig ang mga Assumptionista habang naririnig sa pelikula ang mga linyang Yol complete me! Shut up, Yol had me at Hello!

2.

Allan dapat ang pangalan ko ngayon. Nung ipinagbubuntis pa lang ako ng nanay ko, ito ang napagkasunduan ng mga magulang ko na itawag sa akin.

Pinagsama nila ang unang mga pantig ng kanilang palayaw. Al mula sa Alice ni Alicia, at Lan mula sa Lando ni Yolando. Kaya lang, nung malapit na akong ipanganak, biglang nagkaroon ng matinding pagnanasang magkaroon ng Junior ang tatay ko. Ayun, bininyagan akong Yolando B. Jamendang Jr. Naiisip ko ngayon, buti na lang nagkaganoon kasi tatlo na ang Allan sa opisinang pinapasukan ko. May Allan Derain, may Allan Popa at may Allan De Vera. Exag na kung may Allan Jamendang pa. Sobrang hassle sa tuwing may darating na estudyante at magtatanong: “Puwede po kay Sir Allan?�

3.

Noong lumalaki ako, hindi ko masyadong naramdaman ang pagiging magkatukayo namin ng tatay ko. Nunoy ang ipinalayaw sa akin ng nanay ko (sa Bicol kasi, lahat ng batang lalaki Nunoy ang tawag), at Lando naman ang ipinantatawag ng mga kainuman sa tatay ko. Sa paaralan lang ako tinatawag na Yolando, at Mr. Jamendang naman ang tawag ng mga guro sa tatay ko kapag dumadating siya para sa PTA meeting.

Naaalala ko lang na magkapangalan nga pala kami ng tatay ko kapag naririnig ko siyang nakikipagkuwentuhan/nakikipag-inuman sa mga kapitbahay

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namin. Dyunyor (katunog ng pabor) ang ipinantutukoy niya sa akin, at may nararamdaman akong pagmamalaki at ewan ko, paghanga siguro kapag binibigkas niya ang salitang yun. Lagi niyang ikinukuwento na napapagod raw siya kapag Recognition Day dahil sa dami ng medalyang isinasabit sa akin. Pinagtatawanan niya ang kabarkadang hindi ako matalo sa chess kapag nakakalaro ko sa mga araw na walang pasok sa eskuwela. Minsan nga, kapag may kausap siyang ibang tao, hindi ko siya naririnig na nagkukuwento tungkol sa ibang bagay, lagi na lang tungkol sa akin. Na para bang ang tanong na kumusta ka ay kumusta na ang anak mo, na ang tanong na anong pinagkakaabalahan mo ay anong ginagawa ng anak mo.

Tuwang-tuwa ako dati kapag naririnig siyang ganoon. Ninanamnam ko ang bawat papuri niya, na pasekreto kong pinakikinggan sa tabi ng bintana malapit sa lugar ng kanilang inuman. Sa tuwing sasabihin niya ang salitang Dyunyor, ewan ko ba, pero nakikita ko sa isip ko ang isang eksena sa Voltes V kung saan niyayakap ng umiiyak na Steve at Big Bird ang tatay nilang si Dr. Armstrong. Hindi ko alam kung may ganung eksena talaga sa Voltes V o Dr. Armstrong talaga ang pangalan ng tatay nila, pero sa isip ko, kapag naririnig ang Dyunyor sa tatay ko, may tatay na Dr. Armstrong ang pangalan at niyayakap siya ng umiiyak na sina Steve at Big Bird. Hindi ko maintindihan kung bakit pinatitigil siya ng nanay ko sa pag-inom at pinapapasok sa bahay namin para matulog.

4.

Alam mo na to, nangyari na sa yo to. Unang araw ng pasukan, tapos tinatawag ng guro ang buong pangalan ng mga estudyante. Alam mo ang unang titik ng apelyido mo kaya alam mo, more or less, kung kailan ka matatawag.

Hinihintay mong magtaas ng kamay yung magandang babae sa front row para malaman kung anong buong pangalan niya, para maipagtanung-tanong mamaya, o mai-google at mai-search sa Facebook isang gabing wala kang magawa. Kapag tinawag na ang pangalan mo, itataas mo ang kamay mo, at malalaman na ng guro na pumasok ka.

Parang ganyan din ang simula ng mga school year at semestre ko noon, may pagkakaiba lang nang kaunti. Jamendang, YOLANDO Jr. B. ang buo kong pangalan, at sa hindi maipaliwanag na kadahilanan, lagi na lang, lagi’t lagi na lang na Jamendang, YOLANDA Jr. B. ang tinatawag ng guro. Noong una,

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tumitingin muna ako sa paligid dahil malay ko ba, baka meron akong kaklaseng Jamendang, YOLANDA Jr. B. ang pangalan. Tapos saka ko sasabihin sa guro na mam, YOLANDO po, hindi YOLANDA. Kinalaunan, hindi na ako tumitingin sa paligid. Sumasagot na ako agad, gamit ang pinakamalalim kong boses, ng ser, YOLANDO po, hindi YOLANDA. Kapag may tumawa, bubulong pa ako ng tangina, may Jr. na ngang katabi e. May YOLANDA bang Jr., pakshet.

5.

May nakahanda akong dalawang sagot kapag may nagtatanong kung bakit YolandO ang pangalan ko. Kung teacher o kaklaseng halatang walang kausap sa bahay ang nagtatanong, sinasabi ko lang na Ewan, tanungin mo si Yolando Jamendang SR. Kung chicks na may dimple at maputing kilikili ang nagtatanong, medyo nagdadrama ako nang kaunti. Sinasabi kong nagkasakit kasi ang lolo ko dati, fifty-fifty ganun, tapos napagaling siya ng isang doktor na nagngangalang Yolando. Tapos sabi ng lolo ko sa kanya, pangako, kapag nagkaanak ako uli, ipapangalan ko siya sa yo. Ikaw ang ninong ha. At ayun, nang ipanganak ang tatay ko, Yolando ang naging pangalan niya. Ako naman, dahil panganay na anak, napangalanang Yolando Jr. Tapos sasabihin kong so, sigurado akong hindi lang ako ang Yolando sa Pilipinas. May at least dalawa akong katukayo—yung tatay ko, at yung doktor na gumamot sa lolo ko. Sabay pa-cute na ngiti at tingin sa mata ng chicks na may dimple at maputing kilikili.

6.

Sa totoo lang, natutuwa ako dati na Yolando ang pangalan ko. Madaling matandaan, lalo na pagkatapos magkamali ng mga teacher ko. Okey lang na hindi ako ipinangalan sa isang santo o sikat na artista o bayani. Napakabigat na pressure naman kasi kung may kapangalan kang nagpapagaling ng ketong, makalaglag panty ang kaguwapuhan o sumulat ng nobelang nauwi sa isang pag-aalsa. Ayoko nun, parang lagi kang tinitimbang ngunit kulang. Lagi na lang may mas astig na taong may-ari ng pangalan mo. Mabuti na ring wala akong kapangalang kriminal, kontrabida sa pelikula ni FPJ/Valiente o MaraClara/Bioman. Hindi ko kakayanin ang pang-aasar ng mga kaklase ko kung nagkaganun.

7.

May isang joke na naririnig ko bawat taon, oo, bawat taon sigurado yun, sa iba’t ibang tao:

Plural | 67

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Yolando.

Yolando who?

You think you own whatever land, yolando‌ Si Mark Mabanglo yata ang pinakaunang nag-joke nang ganun. Ilang araw din akong kinakantahan ng Pocahontas theme matapos ang joke na yun.

Minsan, kapag bigla na lang napatahimik ang lahat sa kuwentuhan, may isang kaklaseng mapapatingin sa akin at magsasabing, Knock, knock‌ 8.

Noong nasa hayskul na ako, natanggal sa trabaho ang tatay ko. Pumasok kasi siyang lasing at nang utusang iparada ang kotse ng amo niya, naibangga niya sa kotse ng isa pa niyang amo. At ewan ko ba, pagkatapos nun, lalo pa siyang nahilig sa pag-inom. Nadagdagan pa ang mga kainuman niya dahil nang lumipat siya sa pagiging taxi driver, napupuntahan niya na ang mga kamag-anak sa Tundo. Dahil madalas siyang lasing, may mga araw na hindi ako makapasok kaagad. Hindi kasi sapat ang naiuuwi niyang pera sa gabi kaya magbibiyahe muna siya sa umaga bago ako mabigyan ng pamasahe at pambaon.

Minsan, habang naghihintay, tinangka kong alalahanin ang mga araw na pasekreto ko siyang pinakikinggan habang nakikipagkuwentuhan sa mga kabarkada. Pero ang layu-layo ng alaalang yun, hindi ko na maabot. Mas malapit sa akin ang mga araw na inihahampas niya ang mukha ko sa kama dahil hindi ko mabasa ang isang pahina sa aklat/pamphlet na ABAKADA. Nararamdaman ko ulit ang init sa bukol ko nang batukan niya ako matapos makitang nakikipaglaro kina Marvin at Nunong sa tambak ng mga lupa noong hinuhukay pa ang C-5 at Kalayaan Avenue. Naririnig ko uli ang tunog ng pinto sa kusina namin nang itulak niya ako dito dahil Most Polite lang ang nakuha kong award nang magtapos sa Kinder. Habang naghihintay, naalala kong ako pa ang pinakukuha niya ng sinturon kapag papaluin niya ako.

Nang bumalik sa akin ang mga alaalang iyon, hindi galit ang naramdaman ko. Takot. Na baka magpatuloy ang ganitong pattern sa buhay ng tatay ko at

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tuluyan na akong hindi makapag-aral. Na baka maging isa rin akong lasenggong security guard na matatanggal sa trabaho at magiging taxi driver na hinihintay ng anak para magkaroon ng pambaon.

9.

Tuwang-tuwang ako isang araw nang tawagin ako ni Jayson Arvin Salazar na Yol. Yol, sabi niya, at hindi ko na narinig ang iba pa niyang sinabi. Busyng busy na kasi ako sa pagpapasyang magmula noon, Yol na ang pangalan ko, at hindi na you think you own whatever land yol fucking lando.

Noong Abril, 2009 pa ang blog post na ito. May 24 na comments. Sinubukan kong mag-comment. May lumabas na CAPTCHA. Please prove you’re not a robot. I’m not a robot.

Nakatitiyak tayo na anuman ang naging pangalan ng bagyong Yolanda, “Haiyan” ang internasyonal na pangalan nito, ganoon pa rin yun kalakas. At yung mga namatay dahil sa bagyo na hindi mabilang-bilang bilang patay ng pamahalaang Aquino, dahil sa adyendang pababain ang bilang ng mga namatay para gumanda ang kanilang imahen sa publiko, dahil hindi (pa) tukoy ang kanilang mga pangalan, patay pa rin sila, at higit sa lahat, tao pa rin sila—tao—mapangalanan man o hindi. Ang rosas ay rosas ay rosas.

Mahalaga ang pangalan, dahil una, simula ito ng pagkakakilanlan. Para makilala. May larawan ng lalaking inihulog sa mga pagitan ng hawakan sa MRT sa kung anong dahilan, malamang napagkatuwaan lamang, kung ibig na makilala, sisimulan sa pagtatanong kung ano ang kanyang pangalan at iba pang mahalagang impormasyon. Pero walang mag-aabalang gumawa nito. Mananatiling walang pangalan ang larawan ng lalaking yun sa mga pagitan ng hawakan sa MRT. Kung ibig mong makilala ang manunulat sa panahon ngayon, simulan mo sa pag-Google sa kanya. Hindi siya umiiral kung wala sa Google. Ang mundo sa panahon ng Google. Google ang mundo. Hindi ganoon karami, pero may ilang lahok para sa manunulat, kabilang na ang mga kapangalan, na hinahanap mo na sapat para pagsimulan. Sa pangalan ng manunulat, ang ikalawang entri, pagkaraan ng unang entri tungkol sa kanyang account sa Facebook ay dadalhin ka sa isang blog ng isa ring manunulat, sa entri na may pamagat na “Disappearing Acts.” Tungkol ang lahok sa mga aklat na gumagamit ng pamamaraang pagbubura ng umiiral na teksto upang makalikha ng bagong teksto. Ang may-ari ng blog ay ang may-akda ng aklat na Disappear. Sa isang tula sa aklat na ito na binubuo ng mga talababa, sabi niya: Ganito ang sumpa ng pook na

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ito: pag ipinikit mo ang iyong mga mata, ito ay maglalaho. Ang pook na tinutukoy ng persona sa tula ay kabaliktaran ng Maynila sa mundo ng mga bata sa kinalakhang bayan ng hinahanap mong manunulat. Doon, para sa mga bata, kung gusto mong makita ang Maynila, kailangang pumikit ka muna at ipakikita ito sa iyo sa iyong pagmulat. Siyempre, ito ay isang (masakit na) biro.

Butiking Pasay! Masakit na biro sa akin ng mga kaklase sa paaralan. Hindi ko alam kung bakit sa dinami-dami ng lugar sa Pilipinas, taga-Pasay ang butiking ipinambubuska sa akin. Gayunman, alam na alam ko kung bakit butiki—ang ibig sabihin, payat o payatot. Na totoo naman.

Totoong payat akong bata simula noong tumuntong sa paaralan. Ngunit hindi totoong payat ang mga butiki, pagtataka ko sa paghahanap ng katotohanan sa ipinamamansag sa akin. Sadya lamang maliit na nilikha ang mga butiki. Baka naman payat nga ang mga butiki sa Pasay. Na siyempre, hindi ko rin mapatutunayan sapagkat hindi pa naman ako nakatutuntong man lamang sa Pasay. Ni hindi ko alam kung nasaan ito. Basta ang alam ko, ang Pasay ay Maynila at ang Maynila ay Pasay.

Madalas akong makakita ng bus tuwing naglalakad sa tabing haywey pauwi mula sa paaralan na may signboard na PASAY. At wala pa akong nakitang bus na may signboard na MAYNILA o MANILA. Ergo, ang Pasay ang Maynila. At tulad ng lahat ng kanayon, gusto kong makarating ng Maynila. Ibang klase ang Maynila. Hindi ko pa ganap na mawari sa aking imahinasyon kung ano talaga ang Maynila pero alam ko na ibang klase ito. Dahil kung hindi’y bakit pa gusto ng lahat na makarating dito. Meron ngang pilyong biro tungkol dito ang mga bata lalo kapag panahon ng sinturis. Matapos makapagbalat ng sinturis, maghahanap ng batang mabibiktima ng biro, yung wala pang alam tungkol dito. At kapag nakahanap na, tatanungin ang biktima: Gusto mong makita ang Maynila? habang nakahanda ang hawak-hawak na piraso ng balat ng sinturis na itinatago ng nagtatanong sa kanyang likod. Kapag sumagot ng oo ang madalas ay nagkakainteres na tinanong, sasabihan siyang pumikit muna at sa kanyang pagmulat ay makikita ang Maynila. Pag ginawa niya ito, agad itatapat ng nagtanong ang balat ng sinturis sa mga mata ng biktima at pipisilin ito sa sandali ng kanyang pagmulat. Sisirit ang naipong katas ng balat ng sinturis kapag pinisil ito at mahapdi sa mga mata. Ito ang may kasamaang biro ngunit marahil ay di-sadyang babala na rin: ang naghahangad makakita ng Maynila ay mahahapdian lamang sa kanyang mga mata. Hindi ako kailanman nabiktima ng salbaheng birong ito kahit pa gusto ko ring makita ang Maynila. Maaga kong natutuhan ang paalalang mag-iingat sa mga iniaalok lalo ng mga taong hindi ko kilala o ganap na kilala. Paglaon, matatanto ko pang kadalasan, hindi ko talaga makikita ang gustong makita.

Makikita mo rin ang entri tungkol sa sariling blog ng manunulat na may url na www.akosiyol. blogspot.com. Iba ang “ako si” sa “ang pangalan ko ay.” Sa ikalawa, ang diin ay sa salitang pan-

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galan hindi sa mismong pangalan na siyang diin ng una. Pangalan bilang isa sa pangunahing mahalaga sa pagbubuo ng “ako” o ng “sarili.” Pangalan bilang, ayon sa noo’y isang batang-bata pang makata, “pangunahing tatak ng isang tao sa pamilya at lipunan at mundo.” At “[k]atulad… ng sulo ni Liberty o ng bandila ni Juana ng Arko o ng sibat at kalasag ng mga mandirigmang Igorot. Alisin ang mga ito sa kanila at mistulang mawawasak ang buo nilang imahen…” Pag pinuntahan mo ang blog, naglalaman ito ng maiikling tala tungkol sa mga pelikulang napanood ng manunulat. Ang pangalan ng blog, Geronimo, ay ang eponymous hero sa lumang pelikulang pinagbibidahan ng isang Pilipinong aktor na ngayo’y isa nang senador.

Sa isang entri sa blog tungkol sa isa ring eponymous na karakter, si Cyrus, ganito ang nakasulat: Si Cyrus nakakatakot si cyrus (jonah hill), ang tinutukoy sa pamagat na cyrus (2010) ng duplass brothers. si cyrus yung tipong maaari talagang mamaril o manakit ng kapwa anumang oras na topakin. si cyrus yung 21 taong gulang na labis ang timbang na musikero na anak ni molly (marisa tomei) na isang single mother na nakatagpo ng pitong taon nang dibors’yadong si john (john c. reilly) sa isang party na dinaluhan din ng kanyang (si john) dating asawa at partner nito. si cyrus yung kasama pa rin ng nanay niya sa bahay kahit pa nga binata na siya (maaaring sabihing kasi nag-iisang anak lang naman siya). si cyrus yung nagsabi kay john: “don’t fuck my mom” bagama’t nagbibiro lang daw siya, alam naman natin ang kalikasan ng biro, at mula rito ay mahihiwatigan na ang nasa kabila ng kanyang banta. banta na isinagawa at nananatili hanggang sa dulo. banta na pilit pa ring susuungin ni john sa kabila ng lahat ng maaaring mangyaring hindi maganda sa kanya at sa kanilang dalawa, o sa relasyon nila, ni molly na tila nagbubulag-bulagan sa resulta ng kanyang maaaring “saliwa” na pagpapalaki at pagkalinga sa solong anak. banta na babakahin para sa pagtatangkang maging maligaya, na kadalasan, siya na mismo nating trahedya bago pa man maganap ang totoong trahedya.

Wala pa akong nakakatagpo na kapangalan ko. Hindi ako nahirapang kumuha ng NBI clearance dahil wala akong kapangalan. Hindi gaya ng iba, sampu-sampera ang dami ng kapangalan. Yung bayaw ko, Joel Dela Cruz. Konti na lang Juan Dela Cruz na. Kung may kapangalan kang may di-magandang rekord, kailangan munang tiyakin na hindi ikaw ang kapangalan mo.

Mahirap, lalo kung kriminal ang kapangalan mo. Subalit sa loob ng mahigit 30 taon, hindi

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naman na talaga zero ang paghahanap ko ng kapangalan. Hindi naman talaga masinsinan ang paghahanap ko.

Nang magbakasyon ako minsan sa sinilangang bayan, nakatagpo ko ang batang sinasabing kapangalan ko, ng palayaw ko. Kombinasyon ang tunay na pangalan ng bata. Ang ikalawang pangalan ang kapareho ng aking palayaw. Nabatid ko na malayong kamag-anak namin ang mga magulang ng bata. Tiningnan ko ang tila mahiyaing bata. Hindi siya nagpakilala. Estrangherong lumayo. Parang ako sa sinilangang bayan.

Wala akong alaala ng Agdangán. Walong buwan pa lang daw ako nang umalis kami roon para manirahan sa bayan ng aking ama, sa Candelaria, na higit tatlong oras na biyahe ang layo mula roon. Lahat ng larawan ko ng Agdangán ay binubuo lamang ng mga kuwento ng aking ina, mga kamag-anak, at mga kapatid kong doon lumaki, at ng dalawang beses kong pagbalik doon: una ay noong grade six ako at isama ng isang tiyuhin sa bakasyon at ikalawa ay noong nasa kolehiyo na, nang mamatay ang kapatid ng aking lola.

Bayan ng aking ina ang Agdangán, isang maliit na munisipalidad sa lalawigan ng Quezon.

Mayroon lamang itong higit 11,000 populasyon ayon sa sensus noong 2007. Baka nadoble na ito ngayong 2015, pero maliit pa rin. Sa wika ng nanay ko, halos magkakakilala ang lahat ng Agdangánin, at hindi ito nakapagtataka lalo pa’t mas maliit ang bilang ng mga tao roon nang nagdaang panahon. Binubuo ito ngayon ng 12 barangay ngunit dati ay isa lamang itong baryo ng kalapit na bayan ng Unisan. Nahiwalay ito sa Unisan noong Abril 1939 nang lagdaan ni Pangulong Quezon ang batas sa paglikha ng Munisipalidad ng Agdangan.

Nakabibighani sa pandinig ko ang pangalang Agdangán. Mahiwaga ang rehistro ng tunog na nalilikha ng salitan ng mga letrang a, g, at n—tila katulad ng rehistro ng tunog na nalilikha ng salitan ng mga letrang a, c, at t sa Aracataca na sinilangang pook ni Gabriel Garcia Marquez sa bansang Colombia. Tunog na nagbibigay sa akin ng impresyon ng mga pangyayaring mahirap ipaliwanag sa isang lugar na tahanan ng iba’t ibang nilalang. Gayon nga ang mga kababalaghang madalas kong marinig sa aking ina. Halimbawa, hindi ko makalilimutan ang kuwento niya kung paanong inihatid ng malaking baboy-ramo ang aking lolo. Inabot daw ito

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ng madaling-araw sa kung saang pagpupulong at nang pauwi na’y hinintuan ng baboy-ramo na nagsalita pa umano: Sakay. Sumakay naman ang aking lolo at nang nakarating na sa bahay ay saka tila nahimasmasan sa inangkasang baboy-ramong nagsasalita.

Nang una naman akong makabalik sa Agdangan, pinagalitan ako ng mga tiyuhin ko nang malamang pagkadating pa lang namin doon ay naipasyal agad ako ng isang pinsan sa malaking ilog, ang Malagunlong. Tiyempong katatapos lamang ng baha noon; malaki at rumaragasa pa ang agos ng tubig na nasaksihan ko habang nakatayo sa malapad na pulang batuhan o dapì sa gilid ng ilog. Pinagalitan ako, dahil sabi nila’y nangunguha ng estranghero ang ilog at maaaring hindi ako kilala nito bilang tagaroon. Kung sabagay, isa nga akong estrangherong anak ng aking bayan.

Mas matagal namang panahon ang inabot bago ko nalaman na may kapangalan ako sa tunay kong pangalan. Aksidente lamang ang pagkakadiskubre ko at hindi ko naman nakatagpo o nakilala ang taong kapangalan ko. Kamakailan lamang, tumitingin ako ng mga music CD album sa Odyssey. Di-kawasa’y napadako ang tingin ko sa isang bahagi ng salansan ng mga CD. Napako ang tingin ko sa isang partikular na CD na naglalaman ng mga instrumental na musika. Intimate Sax 1 ang pamagat ng CD, mga awiting tinugtog sa saxophone. Sa ilalim ng pamagat nakasulat ang pangalan ng manunugtog: ang pangalan ko, kaparehong-kapareho, maging ang pahilis na kudlit sa titik a. Wala nga lamang apelyido. Parang Bono o Madonna.

Hinawakan ko ang CD. Pinagbali-baliktad. Tiningnan ko kung may iba pang impormasyong nakasulat sa likod tungkol sa manunugtog. Pero wala nang nakasulat doon maliban sa mga pamagat ng mga kasamang awitin sa album. Isang awit ang alam ko, track 4: “Memory,” pero piraso lang ng liriko: Burnout ends of smoky days / The stale, cold smell of morning / The streetlamp dies in the cold air.

Inisip kong bilhin ang CD. Pero hindi naman ako mahilig sa instrumental. Nanghinayang ako sa pera. Sa huli, nagpasya na lamang akong kunan ng larawan ang CD gamit ang lumang cellphone. Pagkauwi, sinubukan kong hanapin sa Google ang CD album at ang manunugtog.

May isa o dalawang entri. Pero walang anumang mahalagang impormasyon. Hindi ka umiiral kung wala sa Google. Ganoon lang. Pakiramdam ko’y may tumawag sa pangalan ko na agad ding naglaho sa aking paglingon.

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Sa isang panayam, tinanong ang isa sa dalawang manunulat: “Hindi ka ba natatakot sa tuluyang paglaho ng salita sa iyong mga tula? Hindi ka ba natatakot sa puwersa ng espasyo?” At ang kanyang sagot: “Napakalakas nga ng puwersa ng espasyo, na puwede ring sabihing katahimikan/ pananahimik, at sa malao’t madali ay tuluyan tayong lalagumin nito. Totoo, nakatatakot ang tuluyang paglaho ng salita, subalit hindi tayo dapat panghinaan ng loob, lalo na bilang manunulat. Kailangang mapanaig ang awit, ang tula, ang minsang pagsasatinig/pagkakaroon ng tinig sa pahina gaano man kalakas ang puwersang maaaring pumipi at ganap na magpatahimik dito. Kaya lubhang mahalaga ang maingat, masusing pagpili ng mga salitang ihaharap, palulutangin, patatatagin sa espasyo—patlang/kawalan/katahimikan—kailangan ding mismong sa espasyong ito, balintuna, maiahon ang mga katagang makapananatili sa kabila ng/at laban sa di-naglalahong panganib ng ganap na paglalaho. At para tahasang sagutin ang iyong tanong: oo, natatakot ako sa paglalaho ng salita sa aking mga tula, ngunit sa isang banda, ang patuloy ko pang pagsusulat ay tila patungo rin sa hangaring hindi ko na kailangang magsulat pa pagdating ng araw.”

Status post ng isa pang manunulat sa Facebook: When I write, I disappear.

Hihinto na lamang siya sa pagsusulat, isang araw. Magtutungo sa isang lugar na walang nakakikilala, estranghero lahat. Saan yun?

Sa Aniban, taong 19--, hindi ko na maalala, tumira kami roon. Maraming ahas sa Aniban.

Madalas makakita ng pinaghunusan sa paligid ng bahay. Minsan, kahit sa loob. May isang ahastulog na matagal na palang nakikitulog sa matagal nang hindi nabubuksang sulong ng aparador kaya nanorpresa nang minsang mabuksan ang sulong. Nabulabog ang buong bahay gayong hindi naman tuminag ang ahas dahil tulog nga. Isang ahas naman ang hinabol ng tiyuhin ko at hinukay pa ang lungga nito para lang mapatay. Matiyagang hinukay ang butas sa lupa na pinasukan ng ahas na para bang ginto ang hinuhukay. Matiyaga silang nag-abang na para bang mayroon ngang gintong tatamaan ang piko.

Maiksing panahon lang ang inilagi namin sa Aniban, wala pa yatang isang taon. Nang araw na umalis kami roon, natanaw ko mula sa kinalululanang dyip ang isang patay na sawa na naka-

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latag sa halos tatlong pinagdugtong-dugtong na bangko sa tabi ng daan. Umano’y napatay ito makaraang ibuwal ng dumaang bagyo ang matandang punong manggang matagal na nitong pinamumugaran.

Sa Tanza, sa isang pampublikong elementarya, masyadong matigas umano ang ulo ng isang batang lalaking mag-aaral, ayon sa narinig kong kuwento. Siguro’y pasaway talaga. Kaya hindi na nakapagpigil ang guro, isang tanghali, na ikulong ang bata sa lumang bodega ng paaralan bilang parusa sa kung anumang kasalanang ginawa nito. Ikinandado ng guro ang bodega bago iniwan. Kay laking kabawasan marahil sa kanyang ngitngit ng kanyang ginawa. Sa mga oras na yun, wala muna siyang sakit ng ulo. Sa unang pagkakataon buhat nang maging mag-aaral niya ang bata, ngayon lamang siya muli nakapagturo nang matiwasay at magaan ang pakiramdam.

Nang mag-uwian, magiliw siyang nagpaalam sa mga mag-aaral. Maingat niyang binura ang pisara upang maiwasang mapunta sa kanya ang alikabok ng yeso. Masinop niyang ibinalik isaisa ang kanyang mga gamit sa bag. Bago tuluyang lumabas ng silid, tiniyak niyang maayos ang hanay ng mga silya, nakalapat ang mga bintana, at nakapatay na ang mga bentilador at mga ilaw. Pagkalabas, ikinandado ang silid. Ang kanyang silid-Sampaguita. Paglapat ng kandado— klik!—saka niya biglang naalala.

Hangos siyang nagtungo sa bodega. Mabilis ang taguktok ng takong ng kanyang sapatos sa kongkretong daan. Hindi niya halos mapagkasya ang susi sa kandado ng bodega. Ilang ulit din niyang nabitiwan ang susi. Nang sa wakas ay mabuksan niya muli ang bodega, may konting nginig sa kanyang labi na tinawag niya ang ngalan ng bata. May tumawag sa pangalan ko. Mahina ang kanyang pagtawag, parang ayaw lumabas ng tinig, ngunit alam niyang sapat lamang ang lakas ng kanyang pagtawag upang marinig ng batang ikinulong niya roon. Kung ito ay naroon pa. Subalit wala siyang maaninag na anino ng bata dahil sa noon nga’y magtatakipsilim na. Halos sibat-sibat na lamang ang liwanag ng araw na lumulusot sa mga siwang-siwang ng dingding. Hinahati ng liwanag at anino ang kanyang mukha.

Inapuhap niya ang switch ng ilaw sa gilid ng pintuan. Klik! At tumambad sa kanya sa isang sulok ng bodega kasama ng mga tambak doong mga silyang pilay o laylay ang patungan ng kamay, mga bakbak na pisara, mga basag na pasô, mga lata-lata at bote-botelya ng kung ano-ano,

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at iba pang samotsaring sirang muwebles at materyales, ang isang malaking sawa na halos hindi makagalaw sa kabundatan ng tiyan. Nakatingin ito sa kanya na tila hindi nagulat sa kanyang pagdating. Siya nama’y napatda at napanganga, subalit walang namutawing salita sa kanyang bibig. Pagkuwa’y napaatras siya at muling nabitiwan ang susi.

Tumakbo siya palabas, palayo. Naiwan ang sawa. Naiwan ang kanyang mga sapatos. Tumakbo siya nang tumakbo hanggang mawala sa katinuan.

Ang totoo’y wala na roon ang bata, subalit hindi ito ang nilulon nang buo ng sawa kundi ang kambing na nakatali sa katabing bakuran ng paaralan. Matutuklasan ito pagkaraang mapatay ng mga tao ang sawa at ipasyang biyakin ang tiyan nito. Gayunman, walang nakaaalam kung saan napunta ang pasaway na bata dahil umano’y hindi na ito umuwi sa kanilang tahanan mula noon at kahit na patuloy ang kanyang pamilya sa paghahanap.

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Review by Bong Odong, literary critic extraordinaire According to research conducted by Filipino quantum-psychologist and onetime welterweight division champion in slam poetry Jeffrey F. Matabangkilay, more commonly known in his social circle as Jeklay, flashbacks occur in the fictional mind approximately a hillybajillion times slower than it would in a regular narrative timeline. The basis for “regular” time is still under dispute considering post-Einsteinian discourse, which argues that light moves faster in Palahniuk than in, say, Wallace, but the fact still stands: Roman Bildungs drinks piss and can’t write for shit.

Allow me to substantiate this occurrence of ad hominem by addressing the problems of his novel, which I shall get to after I explain why I felt the need to insert Jeklay’s discourse into this review despite it having no bearing on the topic at hand. I feel that it is necessary to equip one’s self with highfalutin theoretical concepts before engaging with worldly tasks, like say, drinking piss and writing unfinished novels, two activities which may seem equally distressing to the healthy adult mind. (Don’t get me wrong; whether or not you drink piss is surely none of my business. Furthermore, I am a firm adherent of hedonism so if it floats your boat, then sail that piss boat wherever you may please—so long as you keep other people off your deck. But not even one-man yacht parties can hinder criticism, my puerile friends.)

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Dung (name shortened henceforth to avoid unwarranted effort,) may think he has outsmarted us all by publishing a book without a center. That’s right, friends. Dung’s debut novel aptly and grossly titled The Unfinished Novel sports a giant rectangular cavity right where the text should be located. One needn’t look past the book to see its humongous, gaping plot hole, although looking past the book may be quite unavoidable as it is. Attached to this review is a .doc file containing my Dung impression: Oh look at me, I’m a self-important neophyte who wants to make a statement about literatureeee; being meta is soooo fab nowadays. Does the hole represent the readers’ insatiable hunger for words insomuch that they would devour the pages? Does it represent the debilitating effects of censorship on works of art and literature? Does it mean to say that unfinished novels have nothing worth saying or everything worth saying? So many queschuns, sooo little time on this earth! Ta-ta, scrubs! See you after my Iowa writing grant! xoxo. I’ve seen illiterate dogs write better treatises on the state of literature. Pweh!

The review is close to conclusion and no review is to be found. Such is the fate awaiting Dung’s The Unfinished Novel. I wonder what literary greats will grace the shelves of Rizal Press come the following days. I am—positively—anguishing.

This review was sponsored by Jeffrey F. Matabangkilay. Order his book Amorphous Visages: Musings on Fictitious Superposition and Psycho-Entanglement at www.fatbrows.com today, or yesterday, depending on your time zone.

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It rained one sweltering July afternoon, non-stop and well into the evening. My Chinese friend said, “Like summer rain…” as if there was something to follow. I stared at him blankly.

“You know, like the saying, “Like summer rain; when it rains, it pours.”

“Oh,” was all that I could reply. My entire life I have used the idiom incorrectly and out of context. I thought it was like Murphy’s Law only by intensity instead of timing. I would have said, “When it rains it pours to refer to the influx of workload as the Bundy clock approached the hour to go home. But instead, I learned it was about the inverse proportions of rarity and intensity. So my statement would have only been right had I not been working all day when the influx of work came in and it didn’t matter when it came in, as long as it came in in stark contrast of little of it there was otherwise. It was so Filipino of me to have used an idiom with no idea what it meant. I took a mental note to gloat over the next Filipino who would make the same mistake.

It rained today in Shanghai. In my room, listening to the skipping cadence of rain on roof, I could have been in Makati. The weather woman smiled on TV and followed a blue arrow behind her with a stiffly opened hand. She could have been telling the story of ancient sailors going back home to their families: I understood nothing she said. But based on the shapes I recalled from Mr. Malabanan’s class in high school, I knew what they were supposed to mean.

Despite this, it looked as if her hand was the wind pushing clouds from the Philippines to China. It rained Philippine water in Shanghai. The streets hissed, giving up after a half-hearted fight; the concrete sighed a hazy mist; and the city is rescued from the torture of early summer. But it could not have known the relief I felt.

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I pulled out the last blazing laughter we shared, tucked hidden in my chest. It was but a melancholy ember of a smile then. I cupped it in my hands and pursed my lips into an almost soundless whisper, “Whooooooooooo?”

I crackled and roared back to life: You.

I have cursed the kilometers between us; but I learned that without this distance of seas, I would not have come to stretch my arms to reach for you. For too long, I have let my hands fall feeble and useless at my sides when you were but an arm’s length away.

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It took wavelengths to broadcast what I should have said all along.

When I said I was miserable, I meant, “Make me happy.”

When I said I was happy, I meant, “Let’s stay together a little longer.”

When I said I was leaving, I meant, “Make me stay want to stay.”

I will be back and thank you so much for the rain.

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As you are walking down the streets of your hometown, you wonder whether every other scholarship boy must be fated to write of his own homecoming. Your feet overtake each other on the asphalt, and in the back of your mind plays the scene you watched as a child: steamrollers outside your gate lumbering by and fixing the cracks in the road, your eyes wide and uncomprehending through the screen of the old-fashioned jalousies. It is all instructive: the smell of exhaust, the beeping of trucks, the heat of the afternoon. Dust, everywhere, escaping into the sky. n

The streets in your village are named after birds. Eagle, oriole, nightingale, dove, pelican, maya, kingfisher, flamingo. You remember how you recognized this as a child, and asked your parents why, never getting an answer. You’ve never seen more than half of the winged creatures these names are supposed to correspond to. But you imagine they must be beautiful; your tongue holds on to these words. n

To wit: what it’s like using your own toilet again after sharing one with the fifty strangers-now-acquaintances-maybe-friends on your dormitory floor. The brand of tastelessness unique to your own household’s drinking water. Your room cleaner than it’s ever naturally been, save here where your brother’s toys sprawl with sincerity in the corner. A bath towel prepared just for you. New curtains. Clothes folded at the foot of your bed. Fresh sheets. Rearrangements made to the inside of your closet which betray most fully the honest pronouncement of your absence, the life-goes-on reshuffling of things that more viscerally than gathering dust has begun to insinuate itself into the space you’ve left behind. The creaking of the gate, falling flecks of dried paint. n

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At the back of the chapel, there used to be a playground. It is still there, in a sense, but now mostly just by name. Beside it, a basketball court. And further, a tennis court. As you walk closer, on the grass: the slides dismantled, the monkey bars overturned, the seesaws no longer even there. Only the swing sets seem to remain, suspended on the same chains you remember twisting into insolent caduceuses whenever you’d gotten tired of the endless back and forth and instead wanted dizziness, vomit. The chains are rusted now, you observe more clearly as you approach, your feet trudging on damp soil. And the seats shrunk, perhaps with time. n

Somewhere along this stretch of sidewalk, two names etched into concrete. A heart between them. You imagine: perhaps, during some romantic hour of the night, two lovers spelling out their names on wet cement, the moon the only witness to their wickedness as they clasp hands, laughing as they bolt into the next street corner. n

The whiteboard bulletin behind the parish office is now worn with age: not in fading, but in the persistence of ink long outliving the messages it must have once borne the meanings for, a time-lapse history. Announcements of goodwill that will not be scrubbed clean.

Condolences for the weeping relatives of a resident who had years ago moved out. Solicitations for generosity among the congregation. Requests for prayer. Mass celebrations, anachronisms depending on when read: Easter in December, Advent in May, all on the same board. The risen Christ flogged at the foot of His own cross months before He is even born. n

Of the chapel itself: the statue of Christ serene upon the cross, his arms open as if in benediction, or perhaps in invitation to an embrace. The saints encased in their respective frames. The carved bowl of holy water. You remember asking your mother what would happen to mosquitoes that tried to breed there. The shush of her glare, pay attention to the priest. It has been a long time since we’ve been to mass. n

Nearby, a grotto in honor of the Virgin Mary. Colorful fish in the water. Surrounding it, slabs of marble made into benches. All around the ground, tiny pebbles and stones. You used to

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skip them across the benches, counting how many they could bounce off of before ricocheting off course. You used to walk across the benches with your arms outstretched, leaping across the spaces in between: perhaps to imagine you could fly, perhaps to imagine you were a pebble. n

It is a sign to catch yourself when you find yourself thinking all the children in my village are grown now. You know this is not true because, it seems, every five minutes there is another insufferable gang of them speeding past you in their colorful bikes. You walk over a road hump, and casually reminisce about how you and your brothers and your cousins used to do the same thing. Before everyone else did, you add and smile to yourself, continue walking. n

You used to jog here, on this road, in circles. Avoiding the collapsed bodies of dead frogs, rotted dry in the sun, the occasional crushed shell of a snail. On the side of the road, a metallic fence that marked the boundaries of your village—beyond it, a great pond where fish are bred. When you first saw it as a child, you believed it was the sea, and you were enthralled to suppose it could be so nearby. You remember how it was the first time you were captivated by the smell of it, and you wondered why anyone would ever want to fence it off. n

A young man is walking a dog on the opposite side of the street. You meet his eyes, and you smile at each other as if in familiarity, recognition. He is wearing a bright orange shirt, and shorts that end just above his kneecaps. Earphones. He mumbles song lyrics into the air while the dog buries its nose into the tufts of grass that grow on the cracks in the sidewalk. You lose sight of them as you round the next corner. You try to guess what breed of dog that was. n

It comes to you almost too late as you turn at this intersection, the memory of the man who lives behind the red gate. Katong buang, you say in your dialect, the madman sitting at the stool by the car, while an older man you assume is his father watches television in the garage.

He is always outside at this time of day. He is always speaking. He is always calling out to someone who is behind you, where there is no one. But you must continue walking, and do not mind the apparent warning embedded in the howls of his laughter. Run, if you must.

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n

You decide to rest a while, and you sit on the sidewalk. A few cars pass, a few motorcycles. But mostly, more children. This particular bunch: tiny ones all crammed into the passenger’s seat on a tricycle, their equally tiny comrade pumping his scrawny legs down the pedals with all his might, cheeks puffed, driving around the same bend in the road and returning, their motley crew exploding intermittently in squeals of delight. Another: two sisters sharing a small bicycle, one sitting on the chair while the other does the pedaling, her butt in the air.

They are laughing too. Nearby: a woman in a scarf taking her wide-eyed toddler out for a stroll, practicing her steps. In the distance: the orange-clad young man walking a different dog now, emerging from an adjacent street, still singing to the air a song no one can hear but himself. n

The sky eventually grows dark with the threat of rain, and you realize that you haven’t brought an umbrella. With your eyes to the heavens, you get up. You decide to return, and as you round this final bend, you wonder to yourself why you’ve never seen the distant hilltops from this angle before, suddenly so big, like they’re rushing toward you in a dream.

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The chili calls my attention. I am afraid.

To it, I am a fly, enamored by the light, the unconcealed secrets on, under, and through its skin. The chili is not always red. It is sometimes green, yellow, orange, white, or almost black. It comes in different forms and sizes. It can take the shape of a heart, a bell, a punched fruit, or a punched heart. The chili can have a tail, a protruding end, and a cap on its head like a tomato’s. Sometimes, a chili may seem dry as if life’s been sucked out of its body, leaving its skin wrinkly like a finger soaked in water too long. But it isn’t dry, dead, or at the very least, useless.

There is something frightening about holding the chili. Hands keep from gripping it too hard because the hands know that it is like a grenade. It feels as though it can burst and burn anytime, yet it is cold and has tough skin that packs the fire in a tight fix.

It beckons. I want it, but I cannot have too much and a little is too unsatisfying that it deludes me into taking much, much more. There is joy in tearing it apart. The chili cannot be peeled. Instead, break it into pieces, pound on it, mince it, and extract all that can be extracted. Its seeds can be as thin as paper, strokes, or spaces in between letters.

Innovations with the chili should not be mistaken as recreation of the chili. There is no such thing as creating a chili, there is only accommodation. The chili is a foreign species; it offers something totally different. We must seek, dig, and attempt, but the chili exists on its own; separated. A chili is not independent; oftentimes, it needs a partner. But it is not dependent either; a chili is not a human. Humans depend.

Humans need to be understood. Humans must understand— even when things cannot necessarily be understood easily.

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The chili has been passed down from generation to generation. It has always been with humans. Early people used chili in their drinks; perhaps they could understand the chili. I refuse to believe that the chili itself has anything to do with it being forgotten, people turning indifferent. It is only our fault that understanding the chili has been set aside; the chili left unknown. Oftentimes, the chili is the bits left homeless on a corner of a plate, left to be washed down the drain or thrown out, as if it belonged with trash. It is here now: on my table, on my wall, on the screen, in the bookshelf.

It’s in your house. It is everywhere, often unnoticed, forgotten. I share it on the table with friends and the ones I call my mother, father, and brother. Eyes stare blankly, empty, and coldly. I cannot look into the eyes of indifference for too long.

Indifference—not ignorance—is the chili’s murderer because indifference makes us forget.

But I love the chili.

I have used chili on wood before. I’ve watched my dog slowly stop chewing and licking the leg of my chair where I rubbed the chili. He lifted up his gaze and I anticipated a whimper. I checked his eyes. He licked and licked and licked his nose, sniffed the leg, then walked away. He did not understand. I couldn’t blame him. I shouldn’t. After all, I didn’t understand either. Not enough. Not yet. At least, he tried. So will I.

I know eating the chili is a decision. It does not deal kindly to visitors. One must be an explorer, a traveler—brave and bold—a digger. Stay. Remain. Linger like it does. The longer one waits for the chili, more of the chili is found.

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Once chili is eaten, there is no turning back. There is no way to lessen the impact. Once it touches a taste bud, it will erupt.

It alerts the mouth; the mouth will try to hose down the chili with saliva. The chili itself does not spread but it feels as though it does, like an infectious disease, burning nearby taste buds.

Sometimes the chili burns sweetly, but only in the company of its lovers.

Sometimes, the fire reaches the eyes. See, the chili also affects our eyes and not just the tongue. Eating the chili can be like standing in front of a crowd, selling your art on that day you declare yourself an artist, while your mother asks what day it is. Sometimes, a chili can make your eyes sting, causing it to water.

In the midst of eating chili, one inevitably approaches a time for a second decision: to swallow the chili or to spit it out. I remember hearing the words, “That won’t get you anywhere.” In a flutter of courage, I choose to swallow. The chili cannot stay in the mouth forever. The moment I make that decision, every part that my breath touches begins to sting.

It can make me feel like a dragon, welling with frustration.

When the chili finally reaches my throat, I can breathe fire.

When I do, I become indifferent to indifference. The chili wins.

But this—feeling the temperature—is a mere accident. What is it about the chili? Why of all manifestations, it chooses to be so unsettlingly hot? The only way to relief is through a gulp of milk or a chunk of chocolate, which is why I cannot understand the idea of chili filling in chocolate; there

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should be no such thing. Is the chili there only to be pacified by the chocolate? Is it there for the adventure?

Consider milk and chocolate again. Do they understand the chili? In their presence, the chili is silent. Not dead, just silent and pacified, at rest. They give an illusion that the chili belongs, that it is not so foreign to the mouth that is meant for tasting. I know someone who eats bars and bars of Chocnut while reading texts of Roland Barthes. She says she has to, in order to understand. But if milk and chocolate can only understand the chili by remedying the heat, maybe milk and chocolate are just as unknowledgeable about the chili as humans are.

I can eat the chili the same way I gaze at the Spoliarium. To it, I am but a speck. All are unworthy to actually taste the chili. Now I face my dilemma with the chili: is it still true consumption if we—or I—do not, in fact, consume all that the chili is? The chili is a testimony of an ill-fated relationship between consumer and a subject. Consumption of the chili should mean a full experience of the chili, but the chili is not meant for tasting. It seems to have no taste, no flavor. The chili only makes one feel.

I guess whenever we refer to the chili; we can only refer to it as being felt—never consumed. The chili is felt by those willing. Some refuse to go back to the chili after one try.

“There’s no need for that,” they say. “We can live without it.” But I admit to insatiability, in the hope of never becoming indifferent. Forgiving: not even the sting, the burn, or the welling fire can make others turn their head to behold the chili like one can. Justifying: we cannot fully speak the chili’s language. We cannot consume everything. We cannot know everything. Now, I cannot tell which is more painful: fire or illiteracy.

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They left me alone on a rock, halfway between the mouth of the cave and where A. would join the rest towards where the bats were plenty and a waterfall awaited. She had insisted on the need to go deeper, the darkness too compelling. Her eyes widened when the guide began pumping gas into the one lamp we had with us.

The trip, a good half a full day’s distance from Manila, transpired the summer after I graduated from college and the one before her senior year. Nothing compelling made lazier days in Manila worthwhile, and I was not in much of a hurry to be employed, having just received a decent sum of graduation money from ninongs and ninangs.

Perhaps Sagada for A. and I, too was a way for us to know what we had gotten into being with each other. For my 22-year-old self, at least, entertaining her desire to escape from where things for her seemed hopelessly grim felt part of some test of how much I was willing to do. Further, Sagada seemed to be about ideas I had dreamt to live for ever since I picked up Kerouac’s On the Road. The lead up to graduation, as colored by peers, professors, and parents, had seemed to be about fear and possibility, the latter the catalyst for the former. Everything seemed to have the tremendous implication of what had been called real world, and therefore the stuff of people who wanted to view things responsibly. A., on the other hand, a year still removed from such talk and with an estranged relationship with her parents, didn’t need to think of the abstractions of future; the immediate seemed pressing enough, and it called for a dramatic change of scenery.

I was in that cave with her because that was who we thought we were and wanted to be, not like the tourist mother-son tandem that shared our guide with us, but the young couple who ran away from the city and its concerns, to hobo on up to the mountains where lodging was uncertain, much more a warm bed, and where joints were smoked around impromptu campfire jam sessions with rum to warm stomachs. Stubbornness had led me this far, 12 hours away from where anybody knew me. Going further down into that cave was a final test.

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As in many other things in my life, conditions of health would influence how events transpired. A childhood disease left me with a bum left leg, and the right one that compensated for it, along with my arms, turning me into a three-legged crablike caver, pained too much from all the bending, slipping, and anchoring myself from rock formation to rock formation, traction made difficult by smooth, moist surfaces. We were advised to leave our flip-flops behind at a certain point, assured that barefooted we had a better chance of not slipping. Sometimes we would sit down on the rocks and slide down, the easiest and safest way to descend in particularly tricky areas. There came a point, however, when I knew I’d be smart to stop. Fearing further hurt to my leg, I begged off the final descent, volunteering instead to wait alone. The guide handed me a small flashlight with a lever that needed constant turning to recharge its batteries. And so I waited, for two minutes at a time my small light exploring the darkness I knew I would never again return to, a place A. felt very much at home in. Not one for the kind of prayer that came with fear, I uttered one nevertheless while waiting, the rustling and flapping of wings above my only company.

When the guide first emerged again from underneath, he looked to me and gave the kind of thumbs-up that asked to be reciprocated. A. emerged a few seconds later, her shirt and jogging pants moist and clinging to her body, her mouth the closest it had been to a smile in what felt like months. I waved to the both of them, saved my smile for the mother and son who emerged moments later. The climb back up out of the cave was excruciating. I knew, however, that the pain would eventually go away.

We walked back to town up a winding road we were told had once been but dirt. A. had been to Sagada a few of years prior with her father, and she had told me of how different things had already become, with paved roads and parked private vehicles by the sides of the road. This was a nostalgia a mere four years old. My father had spoken to me of the Sagada of his youth 30 years prior, that of no electricity and the kind of isolation that A. and I could now only dream of.

Sagada is nestled in a valley along the Cordilleras, 5,000 feet above sea level, 400 kilometers north of Manila. We had taken a 10 p.m. bus from Pasay to Baguio, a six-hour trip with rest points conveniently every two hours or so. We arrived in a very sleepy yet beautifully lit City of Pines before dawn, around 3 a.m., and took a cab from the airport-like Victory Liner Station to the Lizardo Station at the old Dangwa Station, a roofed parking lot with a small office with a window, located behind Center Mall on Magsaysay Road. There was no one around when we arrived. It took an hour or so for a small crowd to gather. We all waited for the blinds of the ticket booth to open and for the light from inside to be switched on.

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It was 5 a.m. by the time we boarded a small open-air bus, the first of several that leave Lizardo to Sagada hourly up until around noon. The route to Sagada follows the sharp bends and bumpy roads of the Halsema Highway, passing through La Trinidad, Benguet, and Bontoc.

I would discover on that second six-hour trip that I had the weaker stomach between A. and I. Whereas the poor small boy who sat in front of us could not hold things in, puke running up and done the aisle of the bus the whole winding way, I tried to make do with swallowing, deep breaths, water, and closing my eyes in hope of sleep taking over. Fancying the escape we had contrived, A. took to borrowing my point-and-click digital camera and took as many shots of the mountainsides and rice terraces along the way. Her constant moving only aggravated my sickness, and she seemed irked by inability to keep it all together less than a day into our journey.

It was I, however, who woke her up when we approached Sagada. No one needed to tell me that we were near; my incessant research on the Web familiarized me with the cottages that marked our proximity to the town proper. When we caught sight of the main stretch of road in town, the one that continued on down to where we would end up at the caves later that first day, sickness and irritation gave way to excitement. Further down from the transport terminals was a fork in the road. The right side led to an elevated plane of larger, bustling places of lodging and small stores. The left side led down a valley, the long narrow street passing through the municipal hall and several smaller houses, stores, and places to eat. We had arrived. The weather was how we liked it—very cold, and yet the sun was up. We quickly lunched on sandwiches, dropped off our bags at an inn we were lucky to find had empty rooms, and we were directed accordingly to the municipal hall a few paces away, where guides were available for whatever it was we wanted to do.

We had arrived to town with a couple of tourists and some locals, but by the time we returned to the middle of town after caving in the afternoon, more buses had come and dropped off even more tourists, mostly foreigners and Manila people celebrating the long weekend.

Squeals over the cold, weak cellphone signal clamor, calls for picture-taking, and bickering over accommodations became overwhelming.

To encounter tourists in these parts is to yearn for a yesteryear you had only heard about through stories: how once the hospital on the hill had offered travelers their spare beds; the seminary did so too, if homeowners preferred privacy for a change. Seemingly lifetimes later, homeowners had come to call their houses inns, their kitchens that of bistros; an internet cafe stands steps away from the municipal hall, from where you can buy a map and hire a guide.

The town had been so much about families adopting wayward travelers for days at a time. This

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we were told by a passerby as we waited in a boisterous long line in front of the best place in town for thick yoghurt and good strong coffee. We felt an affinity towards that kind of nostalgia. I am aware now of the contrivance of our conceits. Perhaps it was born out of the need to believe in the Sagada of stories. Perhaps we needed the quiet to simply be with each other, away from the others, to figure out what it had seemed we needed to figure out. Sagada was supposed to be just that.

After caving, before returning to our room, we had an early dinner at a small cafe consumed by travelers adjusting to the English that the proprietors insisted on using. We sat quietly by the window where we could see a long line of people trying to get in. The noise, as it would have back home, provided for us an excuse not to speak. A. asked to borrow the flimsy notebook I was carrying around. She ripped out a page, borrowed a pen, and started to take down notes on her lap. She too fancied herself a writer, but it was so unlike her to outwardly display the act of writing in front of me, what I would discover was her most private, closely guarded activity. Afterward, she folded the piece of paper and put it away in her damp pocket.

She returned my pen, and I figured that it was the opportunity to talk. We did not.

We had lucked out in finding a clean empty room on the second floor of a house that was locked from the first for the sake of privacy. The second floor had a living area, and since the other bedroom had no guests, the entire level was ours. That first night, we took turns taking a bath, allowing ourselves a laugh since hot water came out of only one hole in the shower’s otherwise large head. With our bodies aching, we went into our bedroom and pushed the two twin beds together.

In the morning, we were in better moods. She had brought an electric water kettle from Manila. We plugged into a socket beside the door to our bedroom so we wouldn’t have to use the kitchen downstairs, where we could smell the homeowners cooking their own breakfast of fried dried fish. We contented ourselves with instant noodles in our second floor living room.

We sat on rattan chairs cushioned with thin foam, our legs resting on a coffee table. We kept the curtains drawn, the fabric thin enough for the light to warm the wood of the walls and the floors—we walked around barefoot so that the homeowners wouldn’t know we had woken, and just because we could.

A. too was feeling the pain from the previous day, so we simply walked around on Day 2. We went up the road on which we drove into the town proper the day prior, and we reached a point where a sign told us to go off the road to proceed to the waterfalls we had read about. Forgiving of my physical state, she conceded that we need not go. Instead, we walked back towards town, past the Episcopal Church and up to the cemetery where the landscape was striking—a

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carpet of green surrounded by pine trees, dotted with white graves of different sizes. A winding path took us to where we figured was this place we had heard of, where the reverberation of voices would echo strongly and throughout the entire valley. The weakness of my bum leg did little in helping my balance during what I imagine to be a simple trek for those more physically able. A. patiently held her hand out for me as we trudged along. We reached a comfortable landing on the side of the hill towards Echo Valley and we figured that that was that, that where we were was what was advertised. We settled for our momentary isolation and the pleasant view of coffins hanging from the side of a cliff, where the loved ones of the deceased believed Heaven was most attainable from.

The prior custom was that the coffins were to be made by simply hallowing a block of wood, the dead placed inside in the position in which they came into the world. Coffins constructed conventionally with planks of wood nailed together would eventually become common. Chairs hung from the cliffs as well, as there are those who opt to have their loved ones seated as they awaited their ascent.

I do not remember much more of the second day, as I imagine it was as low key as walking around a sleepy place can be. In other words, at the time, it was my kind of day in that it was uneventfully spent with her, and the silences seemed most free of subtext, and it felt we had arrived in Sagada.

We wouldn’t last the year. n

In Manila I would learn that the café where we had sandwiches on the first day of my first trip was named after an important photographer. Eduardo Masferre was born in Sagada but would spend several of his formative years in Spain. Upon returning, he began taking photographs that would become an important documentation of the lives of the Igorot: a squatting man with a pipe, peering straight into the lens, his entire body tattooed to like reptile skin, like ornate weavings, the lines as distinct as the wall of sticks tied together behind him; a little girl, a piece of cloth tied around her waist, a beaded necklace, a smaller boy wrapped around her back, a cigar; a group of village people bathed in sun, cloth around their loins, huddled around the viewfinder of a camera that points to the one that frames them.

John Berger once wrote that “whereas remembered images are the residue of continuous experience, a photograph isolates the appearances of a disconnected instant.” Consequently, photographs have meaning because we as viewers are “lending it a past and a future.” It is an

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act of lending when we use words to make up for the ambiguity inherently present in all photographs when we as viewers are without access towards information about context and original intent.

What to make then of a bowl of yoghurt, of a crowd of people in front of a window, of a table with a plate of grilled meat, assorted lettuces, and bottles of beer, of an upward trail with pine trees lining either side, of the girl and the boy that figure in all of these. n

An old man with long gray hair, wearing a red sweater, boots, and goggles, biked towards one of two tents pitched on a grassy landing overlooking a valley and Sagada’s town proper. He waved back at two little kids. A young, pretty mestiza wrapped in Gortex gear sat cross-legged between the two tents. She smiled at the old man affectionately. The old man inverted his bike and let it stand against a makeshift wooden rack. He then took out a jug from one of the tents and poured himself a cup of water. He took big gulps after offering some to the mestiza, who continued to smile while watching intently as the old man went about starting a fire before sunset.

I was watching all this from the top of a hill. K. had gone caving with M. and R., something I had tried the year before and promised my body I would not try again. I had told them to not worry about me, told them that I had been to Sagada before and that I knew my way around and how to keep busy. I spent some time in the Episcopal Church, light streaming in from the openings of the high stone walls, just below where the wooden beams on either side slanted upward to meet at the apex of the ceiling.

There I recalled the previous year’s trip and how the months after unfolded and eventually fell apart. It was hard to color any of what had happened in a definitive way. I became a teacher, she remained a student. And for some reason this difference in and of itself—that I had chosen the same profession as her father—was enough to draw us further apart. In that church I had gotten over the need to contextualize thing further. I spent much of the prior trip searching for a place from stories. That we returned to the city, and that I had found work and thus found stories and time for them harder to come by seemed to confirm that we are but the stories we tell ourselves, and that we eventually learn that we needn’t be.

Further down a path from the church I squeezed through the gates of the school grounds. I found a semi-secluded outdoor amphitheater, and there I sat and spent much of the afternoon, taking pictures of the unspectacularly small performance space from different levels

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and odder angles. Another path would lead me to the hill overlooking the two tents, where I would take pleasure in observing the old man and the mestiza. He looked very much like a local. By this I refer to stereotype: long hair, beaded accessories, woven shirt under a jacket that looked very much used, much like his leather boots; he knew his way about a campsite. If he was not from Sagada, he must have been visiting from Benguet or Baguio—a Cordilleras mountain man for sure, I figured. But who was the mestiza? Where was she from? Was she on vacation, or was he visiting the old man? And who was he to her? A father, a lover, some local she had befriended on the bus or in town? And whose were the kids? The way she watched him spoke of a kind of admiration. It was easy to imagine a tender kiss, whether one on the cheek or close enough to the lips. I enjoyed breathing life into the observations, imagining the way the scene would unfold when I would leave, when the narrative would cease to matter. I continued to think about them as I walked back past the church on the way to town, my imagination occasionally distracted by children running about waving palm leaves around like weapons, wielding little stories of their own.

K. and I had spent the entire first day together. Having grown up surrounded by mountains, pineapple fields, and an outdoorsy family in Mindanao, K. had planned this trip away from Manila partly to relive some of the activities she has had to do less of ever since she left home for college and work in the city. The trip was planned only a month or so after we started seeing each other. Not wanting her to hold back, I encouraged her to join her roommate M. and their college buddy R. on their first hike. K. insisted that the long trip had tired her. M. and R. went on to a steep two-hour trek through a maze of fog-laced rice terraces, at the end of which awaits the Big Falls, featuring a 150-foot drop and stunningly cold water. K. decided to spend the first day just walking around with me.

I took K. to the places that I was familiar with. I took her to the Episcopal Church first, then to the cemetery where we walked around slowly, as if she would acknowledge all those buried by silently reading the names inscribed on the graves we passed by. I noticed that she was one to take her time with noticing things. It didn’t have to be large to catch her attention.

An oddly shaped stone. A tiny shard of glass buried between blades of dry grass.

In the city, where we had quickly developed a liking for sitting along the steps of the bank building in front of her apartment, she’d pause from recounting details about her favorite mountainside haunts where she used to hike with her father and brothers to point toward the part of the midnight sky that peered from between high rises, teaching me the word nimbus, for example, as she held out her hand for me to hold, so I could compare the tips of her nails to the shape of the moon. She held my hand too as we carefully made our way to Echo Valley,

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but once we were there and she was assured that I had good control of my balance, she stepped a few paces away, closer to the edge of the path before a steep drop, and she would close her eyes. Just as patient as she was to notice things, she was insistent in her need to soak it all in.

What seemed then like some spectacle may have been a lesson that I would never come to fully appreciate in time.

From Echo Valley, instead of following the same path back, K. insisted that we explore the area around the cemetery and the school. The sound of children laughing and shouting led us to a covered basketball court overlooking a valley. A coach with curly red hair and an Australian accent guided around a dozen boys through soccer drills. We watched practice for a while, K. the whole time narrating stories of her mother and grandmother back home, pausing only to laugh or when a stray ball bounced our way. Rain would keep us there much of the afternoon.

As sunset neared and the rain calmed, we thought it best to start heading back to the center of town. As we proceeded to walk it began to rain hard again. We sought refuge for a while under a small shack reeking of defecation by the side of a road. Unable to bear the stench, we walked back to town in the rain, laughing senselessly at the scene we had found ourselves in, the first of many stories we would be able to retell.

The following day, after coming back from caving, K. was very cautious about showing her excitement about experiences we did not share. It did not matter, though, since M. could not hide her giddiness and ended up recounting their whole day. I listened and watched K. light up every time M. recalled some amazing thing they did or saw. When K. caught me looking at her, I told her it was okay. Through her, I was able to see the underbelly of the cave, details withheld from me during my prior trip. They had descended to a sharp drop down in the cave, a rope their aid as they lowered themselves further. The payoff was a series of huge caverns where they jumped into underground rivers where they swam in freezing waters, light from kerosene lamps bouncing off the walls that had been carved with the names of several people, giggles and squeals met with high-pitched squeaks and the beating of wings of dark furry bodies above.

These details were excitably told, and K. showed me pictures taken from a waterproof camera.

The cave formations looked as soft as wet clay under warm light. K. would point out those that had been assigned names: the lion, elephant, the chocolate cake.

That evening, we went up to a large house that had been reputed to being a fine cafe.

Posters around town had indicated that a drum festival would take place near there, featuring performers from around the world. Unfortunately, the blackout that had fallen upon town (which we had only noticed when the sun was down) as well as some issue about permits ruined festival plans. We never did find out if it pushed through elsewhere or if it was simply canceled.

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Regardless, K. and I, along with M. and R., settled on the cafe patio amid a starless night and had a candlelit dinner with wine. This was quite agreeable with me, the leading up to something unspectacularly quiet.

Out on the grassy landing in front of the cafe, the locals had begun making a fire. A white man whose long red hair was braided took his place on a tree trunk with his handmade drum. A local drummer sat next to him, and they started beating away, as if they were breathing life into the fire in front of them. A small crowd of locals and foreigners alike began to gather. We got up from our tables and moved out onto the landing. The white drummer’s eyes widened as the fire began to roar.

He began to sing a song about freedom and the locals joined him, Bob Marley very popular in these parts.

A boisterous local artist arrived to the cheers of some of the locals. He had brought his small guitar with him, and he wanted to jam. He started strumming violently and senselessly, hopping and skipping around the fire. The white drummer was annoyed, and for a time everyone became a bit tense, wondering what would happen between the two. A singer from Manila, whom we recognized from the bus ride in and from old folk rock videos, silently danced towards the artist and whispered into his ear. The artist calmed thereafter, and he began strumming still off-tune but calmer and in rhythm with the white drummer’s beat. The singer started a chant, the words to which I did not need to understand. A joint was passed around amongst the strangers who had gathered, and so too shots of brandy. A figure began swaying her body in front of me, the light from the fire as if flickering off her skin. Everything became a bit glassy. For a minute, I could make out only drums, a guitar, and a voice. Sagada had taken over.

K. started to laugh, turning around to face me to collapse momentarily into my arms. We moved closer to the fire, and I noticed that the small crowd had come closer to the warmth as well.

As the glass of brandy continued to be passed around, K. began swaying her body some more. It was the most loose I had seen her in public, and I was nervous. Her head sought refuge in what she would begin to call her nook, my collarbone. n I would encounter Sagada again through poems. There’s one where two rows of words float on either side of a third row that gently hinges “words” and “images,” “Light” and “Measure,” “I” and “You,” towards a thousand-year reckoning with “rendering / Silence,” “staining / Sound.” In the other, we are introduced to a couple who pass the time in their cabin after dinner reconstructing entire films from memory, paying special attention to music, dialogue, the transitions between scenes, the focus on

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the room, the close-up of the lovers’ faces. “Distance makes artifice possible,” says the speaker.

“Someone may impute melancholy when there was none.”

I used to think that my trips to Sagada offered the clarity I sought, that it had the power to condense that which had been dragging for months as well as that which would frolic across wonderful years into the two or three nights I could afford to stay. I am beginning to think it has less to do with the trips themselves but the memories born out of them—or the way we can wield the details into a bearable nostalgia, on occasions that we are unable to forget.

“Memories emerge from, then disappear into, the folds of artifice: long take, depth of field, dissolve.”

As K. and I sat in the living room of our lodge after returning from the landing in front of the cafe, M. and R. were alternatively going back and forth from their bedrooms and the bathroom outside. We were all tired. K. went to her room and returned dressed for bed. She curled up with me on the couch, my arms wrapped around her. I had not changed out of the damp clothes I had spent the entire day in. The smell of smoke, alcohol, and rainwater clung to my shirt. K. had more stories: how she and her father used to go camping not too far from the pineapple fields near where she grew up; how she would lay down at night talking to a character she had encountered in a piece of writing she read in a school folio because she was convinced that he was the only one who could truly understand her.

We slept together in the living room that last night in Sagada. And in the morning we talked, for the first time, about picket fences and the eternal dungheap of forever. I told her of a dream I had of us laughing and talking in the garage of our house in old age. I described it as a crazy dream. She smiled. She had always been the better listener, the more willing with noticing details, the best at taking the time to soak it all in, the storyteller you want to believe because she allowed you your own, and thus made it okay to share them.

We would last two years.

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EDITORIAL TEAM

CARLO FLORDELIZA Jose Carlo C. Flordeliza received his Bachelor of Arts in Literature and Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing degrees from De La Salle University-Manila.

He was a fellow of the Iyas Creative Writing Workshop in 2008 and the Silliman University National Writer’s Workshop in 2010. His works have appeared in the Malate Literary Folio, Ideya: Journal of Humanities, the Philippine Free Press, and the Philippines Graphic. He has also been anthologized in A Treat of Short Shorts and the Iyas Anthology. He is currently completing his first collection of short stories while revising his first novel.

ERIKA CARREON Erika M. Carreon is currently working on her thesis as a Creative Writing masters student at De La Salle University-Manila, where she also graduated with a bachelor’s degree in Literature. Her poetry was featured in Philippines Free Press and High Chair Issue 15, and her short story “Two” was published in Kritika Kultura’s 23rd issue.

NEOBIE GONZALEZ Neobie Gonzalez is a student at De La Salle University–Manila, taking up her Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing. Her works have appeared in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Broke Journal, Used Gravitrons, and New Slang. Her essay Voices from the Village (2013) won a Carlos Palanca Memorial Award for Literature. She is currently crafting her own collection of fiction, perhaps a few memoirs, and an igloo to stay in.

LYSTRA ARANAL Lystra Aranal is an MFA Creative Writing student at De La Salle University-Manila and is the 2012-2013 Fiction Fellow for the DLSU CLA-RAS and BNSCWC Mini-Grant Recipient for Creative Writing. Her fiction, essay, and poetry have been published in the Philippines Free Press, TAYO Literary Magazine, Esquire Philippines, and other contemporary Philippine anthologies. Her short stories Bright Lights (2012), Rén (2013), and her one-act play Debrief (2013) won her three Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.

She is in the process of completing a collection of short stories.

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WINA PUANGCO Wina Puangco is a young, relatively unknown fictionist and zine maker. She was Prose Editor for Malate Literary Folio in 2010 and won a De LaSalle University Literary Award (Short Story) in 2012. She has been previously published in Stache Magazine, Driftwood Press, and Plural Online Prose Journal.

Her series of short stories, “Science Lessons” is going to appear in TAYO Literary Magazine‘s 5th Anniversary Issue this coming April. She also manages MoarBooks, a tiny independent press.

ERICH VELASCO Erich Velasco is a writer and graphic artist currently pursuing his Masteral Degree for Creative Writing at De La Salle University-Manila. Some of his works have been published in Malate Literary Folio. He is currently in the process of writing.

JULY AMARILLO July Amarillo is an essay collection away from completing her MFA degree in Creative Writing at De La Salle University-Manila. She’s also a layout designer whose most recent works include zines, online journals, and poetry books.

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PLURAL is looking for new writing, particularly fiction, nonfiction, and literary criticism. We welcome original and previously unpublished manuscripts ranging from short stories to novel excerpts.

Visit our website to learn more about our submission guidelines. Our second issue is also available for download from there in .pdf, .mobi, and .epub formats.

To know more about what kind of work PLURAL is interested in, check out our blog for book reviews and blog posts by PLURAL editors.

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