glabella. ISSUE SEVEN
CONTENTS
Screw it! Carl Lorenz Cervantes
Afterbirth Howi Bakunawa
Notes from the Metro Manila Underground KWLN
HALF/HALF Jill Chan
Subjunctivemoodswings: Gentle Reminders @submoodswings/Rissa Coronel
Riot Boys Yona Tayona
(From Jill Chan’s HALF/HALF)
NOTE: Copyright reverts to the respective authors and artists whose works appear in this issue.
Sometimes, I worry about how many people would actually care to flip through this. I think that a lot of possible art is wasted on an irrational thought: people think that nobody might care
reaction is also appropriate: to do
about what they do so they would just not bother doing anything at all.
the true freedom to do whatever you like! (Of course, if it bothers anybody then that becomes their problem too and they will care.) What matters is that passion must never die: that for lack of motivation, discipline must take its place. We will push on.
I began this zine as a pet project early this year. But after the fourth issue, I sort of lost steam. Glabella is a oneman project with virtually no incentive, aside from the fun of publishing something pretty. There is no practical reason for it to exist nor does it have a steady audience willing to view its contents. We shouldn’t even bother doing this at all. But there is already so much art abandoned by people who care about the fact that nobody cares. So much art is scrapped because of this: Writers tear out their pages because they figure, “Who’s going to read my book?” Musicians stop writing songs because they think, “What radio station is going to play this?” Painters let their empty canvasses lie in a dusty room, bothered by the question, “Who would want to exhibit my work?” This is to exclaim the anxiety of a fate worse than death: oblivion. This has bothered me for some time. But now, I am thoroughly convinced that there is another way to handle this anxiety. I still accept the fact that nobody cares about what you do as much as you do. Most of us react to this by just not doing anything at all. But the opposite
whatever it is you want to do, to pursue all manner of humane passion, regardless of the possibility of wealth or fame. If nobody cares anyway, that is
So, I’d like to welcome you to this new issue of Glabella. Many artists have already shared their work in previous issues. You will see some new and exciting stuff in this issue by people who inspire with their creativity and passion. This issue is dedicated to you and to all the artists who rage against oblivion. With love,
Carl Lorenz Cervantes, the Maker
AFTERBIRTH by Howi Bakunawa I remember in the distant past there was only emptiness, the darkness of a room air suicide silence uncharted emotional territory. there are none who can escape sharpened corners loneliness anger, frustration, desperation, biting, gnashing delicate pain – a gray shoal, a blank slate I will try to destroy the remains – joy, ecstasy, sorrow, weakness, acceptance, strength exhume consume but never break, the earth is fed by red flesh, blood, death further – I can create nothing on a whim. blessed are those who sleep and are dead, caught in a dream and in the visicious afterbirth of eternity
Who the fuck is Howi Bakunawa? He could be anyone you’ve met. Despite his attachment to routine and the regular paths he walks, you could have seen him standing across you in the LRT, sitting wrapped in the darkness of the cinema or sleeping in the libraries or ranting secondhand Lacanian drunk up and down the street: “I experience my own identity”, “the ego is just this narcissistic process whereby we bolster up a fictive sense of unitary selfhood by finding something in the world with which we can identify”, etc, etc. He is a person with thoughts, pretty much like the rest of us. He doesn’t want to be too different.
KWLN NOTES FROM THE METRO MANILA UNDERGROUND
Hinintay Kita
Rudy Matias Nakatunganga, mukhang tanga, sa ilalim ng tulay– binibilang ang oras sa magkabilang kamay. Inaabangan ang pagdating mo para makasakay palayo mula rito, nang makabalik sa balay. Dinadala ako ng amoy ng niluto ni nanay, tinatawag na ako ng yakap ni tatay. Nasaan ka na, kanina pa akong naghihintay sa wakas dumating at ako’y biglang humandusay. Natamaan, tinamaan, pisting yawang may sungay! Mapuli na gid ko–yun nga lang, sa pagkamatay.
Stranded with you in a fast food restaurant I used to love
Arthur Nevera The best thing I could recall from my childhood was the sweet taste of Jollispaghetti. Until now, I have no idea what they put in it. I used to look for the square sausage: every spaghetti plate I’ve ever ordered has the little slice of square sausage. I often wonder if my parents are sick to death of Jollibee food. When I was younger, whenever we’d go out as a family, I’d force them to feed me the distinctly sickly sweet tartar that could only be found in that place. I told you this. I told you all of this. I told you about my childhood. I told you about everything, and I shared everything with you: things I loved (but most of all, I loved you). It was a rainy day and the closest and cheapest restaurant was Jollibee. We ran to the restaurant and shivered as we entered–we were wet and the aircon was turned up. I ordered the usual: Jollispaghetti, the sweet taste of my childhood, I wanted to share it with you. You shook your head. For the first time, you shook your head. We always shared things. Silly things, simple things. I offered, and for the first time, you declined. You said you weren’t hungry, but I could see something else bothered you. The rain was getting louder, but seeing the way you looked at me that day, my heart beat louder than the rain, and I could hear it–the sudden worry, the fear. And then you spoke: “I think,” you said, “that we should just be friends. This won’t work out.” All of a sudden, the spaghetti turned sour. We lingered in the restaurant, awkwardly sitting together, unable to leave because of the rain. I couldn’t eat. So it was there, on that day, stranded in a fast food restaurant I used to love, that I got my heart broken for the first time. The memories of my childhood too, of that sweet red meal: turned sour because of you. I’ve stopped eating in Jollibee. It just reminds me of you. You made me hate something I used to love. I could never forgive you for that.
Stations
B.L. Ong
Santolan Station Here it must begin: part of the ceaseless movement that’s going nowhere.
Katipunan Station Beneath the city where it is humid and dark one may find oneself.
Anonas Station In between stations sure and unsure of all things— we are always lost.
My Darling Jewelled Pet
Frankie D. He adored her with lavish gifts of jewels and bright clothing— some she wore that paired with her own colorful soul. He placed her in a condo high up in city, wide windows overlooking the bustling metropolis, the most expensive area he can afford, far from the gnawing labyrinthine city below, reserved only for his lady (or rather, for the lady who wasn’t his wife). But, he figured: this one was worth it, a welcome distraction to the dullness of monogamy. And so he thought, like bright colorful chains that she, like the pretty parrot that, in complimentary imitation, stays in her cage. But when he visited, she wasn’t there. Why, he exclaims! She is mine, isn’t she! My darling, draped in beauty bought! I bought the jewels for her, that she might accentuate her beauty! I bought the condominium for her, to contain this beauty! So he wandered around the city, the suffocating labyrinth, asking the disinterested people if they’ve seen his darling jewelled pet. He walked through the posh areas, places where the rich flaunt their richness–surely she’d be there! But she was not looking at shoes, she was not looking at bags. He then walked through the business districts, and a strange suspicion growing in the back of his mind as he watched businessmen go about their business: what if she left me for one of these stiffs? No! It cannot be! Finally, tired, he returned to the condominium, finding her, his pet, draped in his jewels and in his colorful clothes. She was watching the flickering lights of the city below, and he saw her, silhouetted in the night, radiant. Where have you been the whole night? she asked. I’ve been looking all over for you! he said. Why are you so worried? she laughed. The heat of rage swelled up at the back of his neck. And so he confronted his darling pet— his darling, wearing his jewels and his colors: You’re mine! I have spent a lot for you! I bought this place for you, an expensive place in an expensive place!
As long as you wear what I’ve bought, as long as you live in my house, you are mine! She shrugged, in strange amused indifference, shaking the jewels as she does. Mine! she laughed. Oh, the word is absurd. The jewels, the colors, they glistened as they fell to the pale floor. And so she walked out, clothed now in her own skin, slamming the door behind her. He turned around, watching the flickering lights of the city below, and a creeping realization rises within him: earlier, he thought she was lost in the city, now it seems that he is.
KWLN Rudy Matias Rudy’s full name is actually Rudolf. He has had a terrible childhood, being the butt of many unfunny Christmas jokes all year round. Arthur Nevera A cute, sad trash prince who is, quite literally, dying every day. Bertrand Lee Ong When I found myself that was when I realized: I was never lost. Frankie D. Babae.
HALF / HALF THE SCANS OF JILL CHAN
I’m Jill Chan, a 20 year-old Health Sciences major / photographer based in Manila; and I’m mostly fuelled by liquid calories found inside coffee tins, tea cups, and Arizona bottles. Socrates once said that “an unexamined life is a life not worth living”. I strongly subscribe to this philosophy, hence my obsession with passion for documenting life (and then some). My blog (jillxchan.tumblr.com) is where I get to share my narrative with the world, with which I make sense of my existence. My medium of choice is digital / film photography, but I also like to incorporate some doodles and the occasional journal pages into my sets to keep things interesting. TL;DR I’m pretty much just your average scatter-brained and sleep-deprived teenager young adult. (Frankly, I don’t really know how to define myself all that well so let me just take the easy way out and quote Oscar Wilde when he said “to define is to limit.”) Let’s work together! Shoot me an email at arminajillchan@gmail.com.
SUBJUNCTIVEMOODSWINGS: GENTLE REMINDERS by Rissa Coronel
SUBJUNCTIVEMOODSWINGS is an online effort to uplift creative talents and stories in terms of their mental health awareness. We hope to fill this space with compassion. We’re on Twitter @submoodswings. If you have something to share (art, essays, or poetry), related to mental health, you may contribute to: subjunctivemoodswings.wordpress.com.
Rissa Coronel is constantly undergoing revision. She writes and rewrites around the place, for fun. She’s (sort of) active on proclockwatcher.tumblr.com.
Yona Tayona is a photographer from Katipunan. His photo diary, eels fall from the sky, exhibits moments of love, loneliness, and friendships [set against something something coming of age] in the city.
glabella. “Glabella� is the space between your eyebrows. Those who are given the ability to see through the veil of reality into the metaphysical know that the third eye is located at this very same spot. More secular-minded people, on the other hand, know that this spot has the pituitary gland,
which
is
responsible
for
our
dreams.
Glabella is the pet project of Carl Lorenz Cervantes, a psychology graduate from the Ateneo de Manila University who acts, sings, hosts events, and writes. He is also a finalist from season 6 of the reality show StarStruck on GMA-7.
You
may
follow
@sicarlcervantes
or
him on
on
at
ginoongcervantes. He also has a blog at sloppydasein.wordpress.com.