CONTENTS
save us, liza soberano
by Andrea Panaligan
Kaharap ang Huling Araw ng Bakasyon Here at the End of All Things
ni Paolo Tiausas
by Regine Cabato
December 21, 2012 by Ticia Almazan Isa Iyong Pambihirang Pagkakataon
ni Rommel Bonus
Bea Osmeña rediscovers the agency of both body and heart in her debut book of poetry “Artificial Limbs” by Jam Pascual Bababa na ang mga tala
ni Jerome Flor
The moment I encountered the word ‘guillotine’
by Alfonso Manalastas
Noong Nalaman Nila Na Hindi Na Kailangan Matakot sa Kamatayan ni Carissa Natalia Baconguis It All Ends Here
EDITORS Jam Pascual Ralph Fonte EDITORIAL TEAM Bea Amador Fiel Estrella Gaby Gloria LAYOUT ARTIST Gian Nicdao
by Earl Carlo Guevarra
CONTRIBUTORS Ticia Almazan Rommel Bonus Regine Cabato Jerome Flor Earl Carlo Guevarra Alfonso Manalastas Carissa Natalia Baconguis Andrea Panaligan Paolo Tiausas ART Marx Reinhart Fidel Megel Joshua Ramiterre Myla Rodrigo Ennuh Tiu
COVER by Myla Rodrigo
EDITOR’S NOTE
Art by MARX REINHART FIDEL
We’re not endorsing pessimism, but urgency. Contemporary apocalypse discourse is characterized, I think, by a recognition that the ideologies we’ve come to trust have failed us. Capitalism and neoliberalism have helped create a society in which only a handful of people hold a majority of the world’s total wealth, and are able to cling to this wealth by exploiting vulnerable bodies and natural resources. Our ongoing climate crisis spells the end of human civilization in the next few decades. Fascist leaders sponsor genocide. This ain’t no 2012 Mayan calendar shit. These are real lives, beset by real lethal things. Our last issue of The Youth Is On Fire operated on the key word “Rage,” and writers and artists like you responded in kind with pointedly anti-Duterte, anti-corruption works. So we put ‘em together and put ‘em out in the form of what I think was one of our strongest issues — an incandescent, hazardous-to-evil art bomb. This was 2017, and certain issues were still very fresh, and we were energetic and busting high kicks and flailing pom-poms for the future. And then we got tired. By we, I mean, we at the office. Bursts of outrage are always going to come in waves, consuming and receding. And when death is abundant and life is precarious you get into the habit of tending gardens. And there were so many gardens to tend that weren’t The Youth Is On Fire. Some of those gardens weren’t work-related. In the face of doom, we built protective fences around the sources of our joy, sought friendship and community, mustered megawatts of strength every morning just to get out of bed.
Not a lot of people understand how exhausting this side of cultural work can be. The argument could be made that half of lifestyle journalism is made of ads, and media partners, and sponsorships, and the half-hearted endorsement of products and personalities that pacify more than invigorate. The other half of that work is keeping an eye on current events, popular culture. And well, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change says total ecological ruin is possible within our lifetime. And our current lineup of senators is full of killers and crooks. So what happens when today’s issues tell you that wholesale social collapse can totally happen before you can apply for a senior citizenship card, and that the current systems, mechanisms, and policies in place won’t do much unless we actually get around to guillotine-ing the rich, Robespierre style? You get tired. You get cynical. When living a moral life looks impossible, you work a little less hard. Again, we’re not endorsing pessimism, but urgency. I’d like to think that at the end of the day, in our heart of hearts, we know that fighting for a better world is some thing we need to do, maybe even want to do. But there is value, I think, in assessing how the idea of the apocalypse affects our inner worlds. When we think about the end of the world, how does that influence the way we feel sorrow, anger, or even joy? This issue of The Youth Is On Fire was born not just from the little respite we got from our extended hiatus, but also from our contemporary existence, laced with the looming possibility of the end of all things. It’s a good one. So don’t cry, dear reader. We’re still alive, despite everything.
TEAM YS
TALA NG PATNUGOT
Anim na taong gulang ako nang una akong makaligtas sa Gunaw. May gabing bigla akong ginising ng mga magulang ko sa rurok ng madaling-araw at madaling binuhat pababa ng hagdan kasama ng aking kapatid. Niyakap nila kami nang mahigpit habang magkakasama kaming nakaupo sa sopá. Nakikiramdam. Nakamatyag. Yumayanig noon sa dilim ang buong paligid. At tandang-tanda ko ang katiyakan kong nagugunaw na ang mundo nang dahil sa Y2K Bug, na anumang iglap magbibitak-bitak ang kisame ng bahay namin at mababaon kaming lahat sa semento. Wakas. Huling taon ko naman sa kolehiyo nang makaligtas akong muli sa Gunaw. Bukambibig noon na ayon umano sa Kalendaryo ng mga Sinaunang Maya, magtatapos ang daigdig sa ika-21 ng Disyembre, taong 2012, kasabay ng pinakamahabang gabi. Ngunit gumising kinabukasan ang Sangkatauhan. Walang ligaw na buntalang sumalpok sa Daigdig. Walang malatalang bumulusok at umuka sa lupa. Natuto akong tumula at nagtapos kina-Marsuhan habang namumulaklak ang mga ikaklit sa UP Diliman. Pinabulaanan at pinagtawanan ng mga dalub-agham noong 2012 ang mga bulung-bulungan hinggil sa napipintong Katapusan; ngunit ngayon, mga dalub-agham na mismo ang mga propeta ng Wakas. Anila, ayon sa Agham, magwawakas ang kilala nating kabihasnan pagsapit ng dekadang 2050 kung hindi magbabago ang Sangkatauhan. Babagsik nang babagsik ang mga bagyo. May mga bansang lalamunin ng alon. Huhungkagin ng nakamamatay na init ang mga lupain. Pagdidigmaan ang ilang patak ng tubig. Malinaw ang mga salamisim ng ating tadhana: ang palubha nang palubhang init sa tag-araw, ang pagkupas ng kulay ng Great Barrier Reef, ang maninipis na kalansay ng nangalusaw na glasyar sa Artiko, ang Amazonas na inaabo ng apoy. “To be honest, we’ve survived the end of the world so many times,” ani Guevarra sa sanaysay niyang I t All Ends Here, “that we’ve come to think of the end-times as nothing but a source of laughs and memes.” Totoo nga naman. Sino nga ba talaga ang sumeryoso sa babala ng mga Maya noong 2012? Sino nga ba ang pumikit noong ika-21 ng Disyembre ng naturang taon nang hindi inaasahang magbibiro kinabukasan tungkol sa pinanaigang Katapusan? Sa anyo man ng mga biro at meme, naiukit na nang malalim sa kamalayang kultural natin ang usapin ng Gunaw. Kaya hindi na natin kailangang ipagtaka kung ano ang tinutukoy ni Almazan sa maikling katha niyang December 21, 2012. Minsan na nating napanaigan ang katapusan ng mundo. May disaster film nang pinamagatang 2012. May kanta pa nga.
Ngunit wala nang natatawa ngayon, kailan araw-araw nang maiisip ang ating kapuksaan na tayo rin mismo ang nagtakda at nagtadhana. Saan pa nga ba babaling ngayong katiyakan nang nakaukit sa sinag ng araw ang Gunaw? Araw-araw tayong naiipit sa kalso ng trapiko, pinanonood umilanlang patungong langit ang makamandag na singaw ng mga sasakyan – ang init at ang usok – at ang nagkalat na plastik sa mga bangketa, at walang magawa kundi mamintana at bilangin ang bawat mabigat na sandali bago muling makauwi, bago muling magdusa sa byahe, bago sa wakas magunaw ang mundo sa wakas. Napakaangkop, sa gayon, na Ang Katapusan ng Mundo ang paksa ng labas na ito ng The Youth Is On Fire. Sapagkat kaninong tinig nga ba ang dapat pakinggan, kaninong pananaw ang dapat sipatin, kundi ang tinig at pananaw ng mga taong daranas at papasan sa pagdatal ng Gunaw? Ganito ang larawan ng ating hinaharap ayon sa mga artikulo sa internet: lulubog sa dagat ang Maynila at magiging disyerto sa init ang nakalalaking bahagi ng Pilipinas. Ngunit ano ba ang mukha ng katapusan sa isip ng kabataan? Kailangan ba nating iligtas tayo ni Liza Soberano? Magmimistula lang bang bakasyong pantagaraw ang katapusan? O madadala ba natin ang ating teknolohiya sa mga kagila-gilalas na antas bago tayo biguing mailigtas nito? Pagsasaluhan man natin ang dusang kalakip ng Gunaw, napakahalagang alamin ang mukha ng Wakas para sa bawat isa sa atin, dahil daranasin natin nang kani-kaniya ang sari-sarili nating katapusan. Narito, sa gayon, ang ilan sa pinakamahuhusay at pinakamalilikhaing guhit ng Katapusan ng Mundo na ipinasa sa at kinalap ng mga patnugot ng siping ito ng The Youth Is On Fire. Lasapin na natin ngayon ang lasa ng haka at haraya. Lumusong sa baka. Dahil darating ang araw, magkakatotoo ang mga hinuha at matitikman natin ang tagaktak ng pawis sa mapamaslang na init at ang tilamsik ng nakalalasong dagat sa dalisdis ng dating mga bundok habang pinagmamasdan ang mga guho at abo ng kabihasnan nating tayo rin ang nagwasak sa tanglaw ng dapithapong lungtian. Setyembr 2019 Maynila, Pilipinas
RALPH FONTE
Art by MARX REINHART FIDEL
Photo by ENNUH TIU
save us, liza soberano B Y A N D R E A PA N A L I G A N
1. 2.
two things. the first one: alone/together is a horror movie. and sure, i mean it in the failed true-love-will-neverstop-haunting-you way (at least i think so — my idea of love is an amalgam of things i’ve read and people i’ve watched; my definition of it is always a borrowed one, an improvisation. but the way people talk about having loved and having lost, i assume it’s horror-movie-scary), but mostly i mean it in the way our protagonist sits at her office desk, unmoving, unblinking, unmotivated, and we — also unmoving, also unblinking — stay with her, and nothing happens. ugh. i shudder just thinking about it. 3. the movie, from the get-go, is filled with jump scares: regrets, losing a job, losing a love, losing a passion, losing a self, (losing my point…) 4. however, the greatest scare, the one that made me cower in my seat, the one that made me want to scream like you would in a horror movie but this isn’t a horror movie and it’s not socially acceptable to scream at this so i just cried, i cried in the way that’s closest to a scream, is when our protagonist, only twenty-seven, was sitting at a fancy table, tears pooling in her eyes. “i am a child,” she argues, “but why do i feel so old?” 5. in the words of your typical filipino gen z twitter user (aka me): atake. 6. two things. the second one: i am eighteen. 7. ah, i imagine you say. that makes sense. it makes sense that my writing sounds so unnecessarily angsty, so melodramatic, so emblematic of instagram oh-you’re-in-my-veins poetry. because i am eighteen. 8. i wish it didn’t make sense. sometimes i wish i didn’t discover writing until i was in my 20s, when i would be less unbearable (i hope). i wish i didn’t have to go through this embarrassing phase in my writing, where i sound like every other tumblr user in the world. i wish i skipped right to the sharply written thinkpieces, well-researched op-ed articles. who ever benefited from adolescent poetry other than our own egos? 9. today one of my mom’s co-workers asked me how old i was. i said i was eighteen. “ah, ang bata pa.” 10. and that shocked me, blindsided me almost, because i never really saw myself as young — only inadequate, or incompetent. 11. anyone can do anything on the internet, and that includes careers. isn’t the highest-earning youtuber a seven-year-old? and while i’m thankful for the existence of a platform that quite literally makes anything possible, i can’t help but feel anxious about the existence of a platform that quite literally makes anything possible.
12. or: in the world of self-made creatives, i find myself asking, why can’t i make it? 13. i want to be many things. my love is the kind that’s frequent, and i’m generous with it. there are so many things i want to do, and that’s good, that’s good, right? especially because i have access to a platform that quite literally makes anything possible. 14. i keep seeing all these people that are doing the things they want to do, and there are many of them — many people doing many things. and i keep pressuring myself to be like them, to be many people, to be many things, and i am enveloped by this constant frustration when i am anything less than what i fantasize myself to be. 15. the fear of being less than what i dreamed myself to be makes me idle. 16. my fear of being idle makes me feel like i am less than what i dreamed myself to be, etc. etc. 17. i keep seeing all these people that are doing the (many) things they want to do, and i keep forgetting they’re older, they actually have journalism degrees, they actually went to art school, etc. etc. i keep forgetting that i’m eighteen, and eighteen is so young. so, so young. 18. sometimes i feel like i grew up on a pedestal, that people always expected me to be mature — i am a woman (girl)/oldest child/former top of the class/former journalism prodigy, after all (all these “former” titles make me wonder when exactly i lost them… what was the tipping point that made me suddenly stop being these things? probably when i became a teenager and started spending all my time writing oh-you’re-in-myveins poetry, but i digress) 19. sometimes i feel like i grew up on a pedestal, that people always expected me to be mature, to be the adult, that now that i’m actually becoming the adult, i feel like i’m running out of time. 20. i’m running out of time, e.g. i only decided on my major on the day i was filling up my college application form, and in turn only applied to that one college; i abandoned a blog i’ve had since i was twelve because i was unhappy with the lack of opportunities it was giving me, and started looking for a job where i could prove i could make it as a creative, even with my shaky, oh-you’re-in-my-veins writing, because the ~starving artist aesthetic~ is only cute when you’re young — when you’re older it’s not really an aesthetic so much as it’s a failure, at least according to everybody else. and i didn’t want to be a failure in the eyes of everybody else. 21. and i get so angry at myself for not knowing my major,
22.
23. 24.
25. 26. 27.
28.
29.
30.
for not having opportunities. i get so angry at myself for being aimless, as if being eighteen is not the literal synonym of being aimless. and i get so scared sharing this, this specific anxiety, especially with actual adults, especially in the form of writing, because it makes me feel childish. it makes me feel foolish, naive. you don’t know the half of it, i imagine you all saying. and that’s right, i don’t — i am a child, after all. so why do i feel so old? where has all the time gone? i think to myself. i turn nineteen in a little over a month. then i realize: no time has passed at all. i turn nineteen in a little over a month, and then a year later and i will turn twenty, then another year and i will be twenty-one, then twenty-two, then twenty-three, then many, many more, or maybe not, who knows. i keep forgetting that i exist on my own terms, and i exist at my own pace. i exist how i want to exist, in as many or as little forms as i want. i’ll keep writing you’re-in-my-veins poetry until i’m forty if i want to. and god, now that i’ve said it, i’m kinda, sorta hoping i would. i wrote this essay in bullets originally for three reasons: (a) it makes it look edgier, and as an Adolescent Pulsating With Angst, what more could i want; (b) it masks the fact that i don’t actually know how to write a proper narrative essay; and (c) i wanted to subvert The Form or stick it to The Man, or something. but now i’m realizing this is me allowing myself to be young, to be childish, to be foolish, to be naive. thirteen-year-old me would’ve written this in bullets, in all lower-case, and eighteen-year-old me shares her sentiment, or at least wants to pay homage to her. let me be angsty, let me write you’re-in-my-veins poetry unironically, let me be childish foolish naive, because i have every right to be. each rejected job application feels apocalyptic, every ten less views on my instagram insights feels like meteors falling down the earth, every unanswered pitch feels like tremors shaking me to my core, every failure feels like a countdown. and you know what, let the world end. let it break itself into pieces, and let it take me with it. let me run out of time, let me be aimless, let me misunderstand the book of revelation in the distinctly teenaged way i misunderstand everything. may my last breath be a sigh of relief; i’ll see you on the other side, or maybe not, who knows.
Kaharap ang Huling Araw ng Bakasyon B Y PA O L O T I A U S A S ART BY MARX REINHART FIDEL
Kasing-init ng pisngi ko ang bakal na pisngi ng CPU samantalang patuloy pa rin ang hinaing ng garalgal na boses: will you tell all your friends you’ve got your gun to my head? Nanlalagkit na itong sofa bed. Walang patid ang pagpapawis. Hinipo ko ang gilid ng monitor na tila pinakikiramdaman ang makinang lagnat, saka nagdesisyong hablutin ang saksak. Mahabang laslas sa panahon, hiling kong magpakita ka na. Gumuhit ka ng mga larawan sa mga astronomikong aklat at ipakilala mo sa akin ang mga dapat ko nang makilala. Bukas, magigising ako nang nakahanda na muli sa bag ang mga bagong biling kuwaderno at lumang kuwento, at sa sandaling uupo ako sa mesang nakalaan sa akin alam kong magpupundi na naman ang mga bumbilyang naging kaibigan ko sa mga gabing pagkasingaw ng init nagiging hanging galing sa isa na namang dimensyong hindi ako kabilang. Tayo. Will you tell all your friends? Na muntik ko nang ibalibag ang PC noong tumirik ito, na naramdaman kong mababali ko ang keyboard kung isasalpak ito sa tuhod gamit ang buong puwersa ko? Mahabang laslas sa panahon, alam ko, na alam mo, na alam ko ang pinakita mo sa akin noong araw na iyon. Saliw lamang ng teka at sandali at sige ang bakasyon. Ang bawat planeta, bilog na may tahimik na hiwa sa gitna. Tutugtog ang kanta. Patuloy lang tayo sa paghilata.
Here at the End of All Things B Y R E G I N E C A B AT O
You would not believe how many people abandon
to close the pipe when we blew off a tap by accident.
their pets. The pet store was clearing shelves, so I took a bone
I think of my exes, even the one I never call my ex.
and a dog and drove. The news delivers until it can’t —
I think of the neighborhoods I have lived in, their flower pots
a few hours before it happens, the last station broadcasts
and stray kittens. I turn them over in my head,
its last goodbye: Thank you, and good night.
empty their alleyways to walk my ghosts in them.
The end will be live tweeted, anyway.
How must they be doing, I wonder, here at the end of all things?
At my office carpark, I call my parents
I thought when it would arrive I would be angry; instead, I am
to tell them I love them. I hit the road
tired. But we have our afterlives for tiredness. Today
with an eighties playlist. But there’s a traffic jam
is for walking as far as you can. The orchestra played “Autumn”
here, at the end of the world, so I get out and walk the dog
right into the ocean as the Titanic sank. In the morning
to nowhere. I thought that I would at least be busy
we will all be frozen. I find my friends in our favorite picnic spot,
with paperwork, or sex. Instead, I am looking for my friends
blanket spread, spreading strawberry jam on bread, overlooking
in the last diners, the last gas stations, the last
the end. I pull up a chair. The dog chases a butterfly.
Korean supermarkets. They are always in the last
Here at the end of all things, I am looking over the edge:
place you look. I think of my bullies,
Everything is still. The world flickers, like a mirage —
including the senile landlady who refused
or like a television channel, right before the static.
December 21, 2012 BY TICIA ALMAZAN
He thinks it’s all bullshit. He thought it when he first saw the post on Twitter, then Facebook, then Instagram. Sure, he got a little scared when he started seeing it on The Guardian, BBC, and National Geographic, but he still thought it was bullshit. This is why during his lunch break, he didn’t think twice about going on his usual 10-minute walk to the nearest McDonald’s to eat. The sky looks gloomier today, but Jay dismisses it as usual December weather. The streets of BGC are noticeably far less crowded, free of tired employees accompanied by their clouds of manmade smoke. His face contorts with frustration at the possibility of people choosing to stay inside. It’s despicable, he thinks. He can’t wrap his head around the idea of adults being scared away by an internet hoax that’s most definitely not true. He arrives at McDonald’s and orders spaghetti with fries and a glass of coke. His order doesn’t take long to process, so within five minutes he finds himself already reading at his usual table by the window. His book of choice this week is The Road by Cormac McCarthy, which he’s nearing the end of. He’s figured out from countless lunches that reading for around ten minutes is just the perfect time to let the food cool down, leaving him with about forty minutes to eat, read, and walk back to the office. As he’s eating his pasta, he suddenly thinks he hears something ringing. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks, but no one’s calling him. He surveys the nearempty restaurant, but none of the four other occupied tables seem to be the source of the sound. Since the other people in the fast-food chain don’t seem fazed by any sort of ringing, Jay decides it’s probably just an effect of him being in the office all day, answering calls.
He downs the rest of his coke and checks his watch: 1:37PM. He has around eight minutes to spend reading his book. His eyes follow the words at the top of the page. He reads them again. Again. He can’t seem to dismiss the ringing he’s still hearing. It’s faint, but at this point he’s sure it’s there. The ringing starts sounding familiar, and it unnerves him enough that he decides to stop reading and start walking back to the building earlier than he normally would. When he steps out of McDonald’s, he notices that the ringing sounds louder than from inside. Jay realizes that it sounds like it’s coming from the kind of bells schools use to indicate the end of a period. He looks around to see if other people notice, but there’s no one else there save for a man on the end of the street, who’s practically jogging to the nearby convenience store. Jay notices that the ringing sounds grow slower and slower the closer he gets to his building. It sounds just like a church bell now. The ringing gets clearer. He walks faster. Faster. His legs shake from the realization that the ringing is coming from the ground. He remembers the headlines. He runs.
Art by MEGEL JOSHUA RAMITERRE
Isa Iyong Pambihirang Pagkakataon BY ROMMEL BONUS
—bumaba siya sa tinutulugang komportableng kuwarto At tinahak ang pinakailahas na kalsada ng lungsod; Umaasang makikita niya ang dapat na makita: Kung totoong mundo itong napipintong magunaw. Unang pagkakataon ding hindi siya kiniskis ng ngitngit Ngayong naiipit sa nakababagot na trapik Pagkat ang paghinto ay pagkakataong magmasid. Sa labas ay pinipigang pawís na tuwalya Ang batok ng matandang lalaking nagtitinda Ng Good Morning towel; Nag-aalok sa mga nakapilang nag-aabang ng dyip. Mga lalamunan iyong walang malunok ni kaunting ginhawa, Mga gulugod at binti iyong araw-araw na sakmal ng ngalay Ngunit init man at págod iyon sa mata, Hindi iyon madama ng sariling katawang Inaalo ng aircon ng kotse at de-gutsong upuan At hinihimas ng malamig na mineral water ang lalamunan. Sa kaliwa ay isang pampasaherong bus Ang nagsamuhon sa gitna ng ayaw umusad Na daloy ng lungsod; Karga-karga ang mga nakatayong walang magawa
Kundi ang mahalin ang kaunting hangin sa paghinga. Mga dibdib iyong kalkulado ang galaw, Mga ilong iyong hindi na makakapamili ng masisinghot. Ngunit siksikang pugon man iyon sa kanyang paningin, Wala, pagkat ang puwesto niya’y biniling Maluwag na espasyo at malamig na hangin. Nang makausad nang kaunti ay napansin niya ang mga gilid Ng abenida na eskenitang ang tunton ay looban At parang awtomatikong nag-play sa isip niya— Tila nagmumula sa mamahaling stereo ng kotse— Ang sabi-sabing sa mga masisikip daw na lunan na iyon Sinisingil ang buhay ng ordinaryo, pinadadanak ang dugo Para tumibay ang pundasyon ng mapayapang lungsod. Ngunit dahas man iyong nambigla sa sandali ng isip, Nabibili niya ang sagradong buhay At payapang nakatutulog sa mariwasang bahay. Pag-uwi niya ay ihinilata Ang katawang nilinlang Sa kunwaring panlalata, Muli niyang isinuksok ang paniniwala sa ulo: Hindi ako dapat na mabahala, Hindi pa nagugunaw ang mundo.
Bea Osmeña rediscovers the agency of both body and heart in her debut book of poetry “Artificial Limbs” B Y J A M PA S C U A L
There is a complicated but necessary discussion to be had about the relationship between the artist and pain. From personal experience, I’ve noticed that many artists among my peers, including myself, take a masochistic delight in converting our emotional aches and hang-ups into fuel for artistic ends. We turn ourselves into chugging engines, messengers of pain. Inner demons are raw material, poetry is the product, but can we call that a good thing? One can say the creative process is therapy in itself, but that isn’t true for everybody. What must the artist make of their pain? Bea Osmeña’s debut book, a collection of poetry and photos called Artificial Limbs, doesn’t give definite answers, but it demonstrates something resembling a miracle. In five painstaking acts, Bea reconstructs for us a relationship frayed at the seams by distance, shared trauma, and other kinds of hurt that probably warrant a content warning. “You had me convinced: / love and pain go together / like a horse and a strick,” Bea writes in “Emotional Masochist.” Amazingly, she resurfaces. She comes back alive. Artificial Limbs is catharsis fixed into an object you can hold in your hands, infinitely easier to hold than an actual feeling. That’s the miracle. In an email interview, I spoke to Bea the way one speaks to a friend who’s been through it: we talk about what was, what is, and what’s to come. So, the first time we met was in a creative writing class in college. Now you have a book! How is the writer you are now different from the writer you were then? What changed? What stayed the same? Honestly, this is the first thing I published in five years since our thesis chapbooks. In that span of time I admit I strayed away from poetry, my track in college, focusing more on fiction for children (both in script and short-story form) for a company that does custom books for clients, and non-fiction for various online and print publications. For a long time my poetry was just written for
myself. I think a lot of what has changed in that five years is that I’ve learned to see vulnerability as a strength instead of a weakness. I still struggle to call myself a poet or even a writer (at least outside the professional realm), but the only way I figured I could fix that was to put my work out there, no matter how scared I am of being judged, of not being good enough, of being laughed at, and so on. I think this year I decided I’m more scared of never doing it. You graduated with not just a BFA in Creative Writing but a minor in education as well, and are a creative arts teacher! How has working as an educator affected your relationship with art, with writing? Absolutely. I’ve come to realize that the art that we encounter, whether as children (though especially as children), or adults (and really, now that I am an adult, I really feel like adults are really just children in bigger bodies), leaves its imprint on us. I think a lot about how artists have a responsibility to understand the context of their work outside of themselves, understand how it can be understood in the context of the audience. Which may be obvious for some, but sometimes when people get caught up in the process of creating, people lose track of that. Being a teacher has allowed me to open myself up to the viewpoint of others, whether I’m trying to understand the approach of a parent, child, another teacher, or whomever. I think it’s allowed me to be more empathetic, or so I’d at least like to think. It’s made me reevaluate why I write, and to ensure I am within that reevaluation mindset so that I don’t get stuck. There are poems in the book that make references to foreign countries and idyllic sceneries. What importance does travel hold for you, not just as a writer but as a person? As much as I am riddled with anxiety about new experiences (and the writing of this book intersected with my first seeing a psychiatrist and getting diagnosed with anxiety and depression,
which are also themes in these poems), I do relish the chance to learn something new. I think that travel broadens our perspective in that way, if you let it. I think that the relevance of Scandinavia was more than just its timing of my having visited and taking photos there while I was working on this book. It became a reflection of the breadth that I found within myself during the writing process, with its vast landscapes and endless skies. For a long time while I was suffering through my anxiety and depression undiagnosed, I felt as though I had been in a sort of prison. Recognizing what it was made me feel seen and less limited. The launch of the book has also been timed with your migration to the US. Where in the US are you staying, and what do you hope to experience in this new place? I’m now located in Portland, Oregon. For a long time my health had been suffering because of the pollution in Manila. I developed eczema and lung problems because of it (and I don’t even smoke, but I’m certain I have the lungs of a smoker at this point). So both on a superficial and metaphorical level, I moved to the US to find space to breathe. I’ve only been here two weeks and it’s been quite lonely in that time, trying to navigate a new place and culture that are very much outside my comfort zone. But I also hope to prove to myself that I can adapt outside my comfort zone, because I do think that just outside that zone is where you find the most growth. So fingers crossed.
realized that admitting those parts out loud was what I needed to start letting them go. The beginning of forgiving myself, forgiving others, and moving on. I do think that any growth in any field entails growing pains. I think for me, I use writing poetry to articulate my feelings that I have difficulty putting a pinpoint on. And the process can be painful, oftentimes it is, but in the end it is illuminating, and I’d rather have that. What advice would you give to writers or artists who want to negotiate with traumatic, painful experiences with their work, but aren’t sure how to go about it? I think that the most important thing is to be honest, both with yourself and with your audience. I think people can see right through insincerity, and no one appreciates when someone thinks they can pull the wool over their eyes. Letting go of ego and the need to be right or great or impressive or any of that, and just wanting to say something truthful that you hope others can connect with is the best advice I can give. What’s next for you? Are there more books on the way? I’m still trying to figure that out myself! I do hope to write a poetry book for children, something that I’ve yet to do. But who knows, maybe that will take yet another five years. I’ll keep writing and see where it takes me.
“I realized that admitting those parts out loud was what I needed to start letting them go. The beginning of forgiving myself, forgiving others, and moving on.” Obligatory question about influences: who are your favorite writers? And are there works of art that inspired you and figured into your creative process when you working on the book? Toni Morrison. Sylvia Plath. Shel Silverstein. Kurt Vonnegut. So many. My writing has gone from the more self-centered navel-gazing that I find is honestly a very natural place for young writers to start, to searching for more universal experiences within that nuance. I look up to a lot of female writers who gave no shits about the status quo and wrote from their true experiences. And any writer who can invoke irreverence into their work, well, it’s something that I aspire to. Life’s too short be taken it too seriously. It’s hard to talk about Artificial Limbs without risking the reopening of old wounds, so forgive me. I imagine that writing this book — because it is about a painful experience — required you to revisit some dark places. How did you negotiate with your emotions and experiences when you were writing this book? What can you say about the relationship between art and pain, having coming out of this project alive? A lot of literal tears came with the process of reliving trauma, and I grappled with sharing those particular aspects in the book. But I
“Artificial Limbs” can be found in the following stores: Kwago (Warehouse 8-A, La Fuerza Plaza, 2241 Chino Roces Ave., Makati City) Respite (84 Scout Fernandez, Quezon City) Mt. Cloud Bookshop (001 Yangco Road, 2600 Baguio City) Berl’s Brooklyn Poetry Shop (141 Front St Brooklyn, New York) Book Thug Nation (100 N3rd St. Btwn Berry St and Wythe Ave Brooklyn, New York) Belmont Books (3415 SE Belmont St. Portland, Oregon)
Bababa na ang mga tala BY JEROME FLOR
Hindi pala magugunaw ang daigdig sa baha. Hindi sa paghulog ng mga tala sa langit. Hindi sa pagdami ng mga hayop at mikrobyong papatay sa tao. Hindi sa paglipol ng sangkatauhan mula sa kapabayaan, digmaan, at sakit. Hindi sa muling pagkabuhay ni Hesus para labanan ang halimaw na may pitong ulo para sa ikalawang hudyat ng digmaan. Matatapos ito sa kabilugan ng buwan. Magkatabi tayo sa higaan. Nadarama na ang ritmo ng isa’t isa. Pinagmasdan ko ang mga nalalabing bituin, pero bubulungan mo ako ng “tulog na,� sabay halik. Magugunaw na ang daigdig kapag nakapikit na akong kapiling kita dahil hindi ko na kailangang tumingin nang malayongmalayo sa bintana. Magandang gabi.
Nailathala ang unang bersiyon sa Heights Folio Tomo LXII, Blg.3
The moment I encountered the word ‘guillotine’ B Y A L F O N S O M A N A L A S TA S PHOTO BY ENNUH TIU
I confused it for gluten and spent weeks wondering what new brand of Keto diet had decided to pay my generation a visit
after the pope, who knows? For now, I am inclined to believe when Dr. Joseph-Ignace Guillotin invented the device
this time, when my city crumbles, I imagine it to sound like snapping a biscuit in half, the kind that forms
that would cause thousands of heads to fall from the thousands of bodies they once belonged to —
in the mouth the exact moment the word fuck is conceived, how it trips and knots at the throat but still manages
all of them presumed murderers and thieves disloyal to the crown, traitors to the French monarchy, heretics and false gods, you
to swim up to the surface, breathe, take a life of its own, maybe even get married one day and name one of its children
name it; noblemen and the poor both bleeding the same red — he must have slow danced his wife and whispered to her ear I promise, this will all be good.
Photo by ENNUH TIU
Noong Nalaman Nila Na Hindi Na Kailangan Matakot sa Kamatayan B Y C A R I S S A N ATA L I A B A C O N G U I S
Ginawa nilang kodigo ang ating mga alaala: Para sa mga panahong nasunog na ang ating katawan, Maari pa rin tayong maglipat ng kamalayan. Sabihin nating tumawa tayo noong sumabog ang mundo. Kinuha natin ang mga katawan ng mga marinero, Sapagkat sinabi ko sa iyong hindi ko pa nakikita ang karagatan— Pagmasdan kung paano naalala ng mga buto ang bawat katal ng agos, ngunit wala tayong nalalaman sa kanilang alaala. Hanggang paa, braso, at kapangyarihan lamang sa karagatan. Pagkatapos sinabi mo sa akin na hindi mo pa nakikita Ang lungsod, kaya kinuha natin ang katawan ng mga estudyante At sumakay ng mga tren at bus. Iniwan natin ang gubat—o Kung anumang natira sa harding iyon. Iniwan natin Ang mga dati nating katawan, hubad at nananabik. Sa sinumang makakakuha sa kanila, pagmamanahan lamang nila Ang kapinsalaan. Sa ganitong paraan mo rin nabanggit Na hindi mo pa nakikita ang planeta. Kaya kinuha natin Ang katawan ng mga astronawta. Pinasukan ang kuwitis. Sinabi natin na suwerte tayo. Sa buwan natin pinapanood ang planeta, ngumiti ka
At ngumiti rin ako pabalik. Tapos, sumabog na ang mundo. Tayo nga ang sinuwerte. Akalain mo iyon, mahal? Mukhang dapit-hapon lang ang pahayag. Napakalayo na natin sa ating tahanan. Napakalayo ng ating panaginip. Kaya hinanap ko ang iyong mga mata At wala na ring natira sa mga dati nating pagkakilala sa isa’t-isa. Mga mata ito ng estranghero. Hipo ng banyaga. Sunog ang langit. Lagi tayong nagbabago, mahal, hindi na natin nakilala ang kasiyahan. Maaaring tumatawa tayo ngayon. Sinasabi ko na mahal kita Ngunit hindi ko alam kung anong balikat ang sinasandalan ko. Wala nang natira kundi ang alaala. Walang mga estatwa, Walang mga bundok. Hanggang itong mga mortal na katawan lamang. Kahit ang iyong mga mata ay kalawakang hindi pa nauunawaan. Subalit kapag wala na ang mga bagong katawan, matututunan natin Maging pamilyar— papatayin tayo ng himpapawid, At nauubos na ang oksiheno para makasalita. Kaya tiningnan kita. Tiningnan kita habang lahat ng mga labi Tumutudla patungo sa atin. Sa mga dapit-hapon na ganito, Naalala ko na minahal nga kita.
It All Ends Here B Y E A R L C A R L O G U E VA R R A
Every year, someone proclaims that the end-times are near. Back in 2012, they said that the Earth would be destroyed by an asteroid. Rasputin once predicted that a storm would take place on August 23, 2013, killing all life on Earth. In 2017, David Meade predicted that Nibiru would become visible in the sky and would soon destroy the Earth. To be honest, we’ve survived the end of the world so many times that we’ve come to think of the end-times as nothing but a source of laughs and memes. Jokes aside, what is the end of the world? How does it look like? Does the world end in a bang? Does the Earth end in a sudden catastrophe? Or does the apocalypse come in installments? This is a broad question that many have been asking since the time when humans lived on this planet. Sure, many of the Holy Scriptures gave different versions of eschatology; however, they seemed to be so far away from the human imagination that a good number of us dismissed them as mere myths. Yet, as I grew up and broadened my horizons, I realized that we humans are just as responsible for the state of our world right now. From irresponsible people throwing garbage on the road to multinational companies wrecking Mother Nature; from heartless persons who spread chaos and discord to a general decrease in the level of our political discourse, it seems that we are slowly building up our path towards our damnation. To be honest, while I believe that something of that sort would happen at an undetermined date in the future, I’m more occupied right now with the day-to-day challenges that I have to face in my life. My own version of a cataclysm is this: Losing my job, losing the chance to fulfill my dreams, losing my loved ones, losing my heart and losing my way in life. When I lose all of those things, I could pretty much say that I’m done with this life. Then, there would be no more need for me to see a solar flare, get my head popped by a missile explosion, get hit by an asteroid or become a zombie. I would pretty much be included in the ranks of the lost and the damned anyway.
However, in the case that I survive life and actually got to see our final days on Earth, I envision the end of times as something that comes gradually. There might be a small, subtle sign here and there; a couple of inexplicable phenomena, followed by some events that would defy imagination. Finally, I guess it would end with a bright splash of a thousand hues, splashing its majesty and strength as it burns everything alive, turning them back to dust. I always thought that there would be some time before the crack of doom rains upon this blue and green planet. I guess I would just turn off the television, open a large bottle of iced tea, sit calmly with my family and just recollect all the good times that we’ve had before that day. I would open up our photo album, watch videos with my future kids…maybe even play some video games and make some dessert with them. Then, when the inevitable event horizon arrives, we’ll just say a silent prayer to each other, even as everyone is panicking and hysterical outside our home. Afterwards, we will wish ourselves the best of luck, hoping to see each other in whatever version of the afterlife we’ve thought of. I want to go to a bright, beautiful place – I just want to be with my loved ones forever. I could say that life is about enjoying and cherishing the things that you hold dear the most. Besides, it won’t matter if the end days catch you as long as you’re certain that you were trying to fulfill your existential purpose. Maybe the end of the world is already upon us…and we are just oblivious to the fact that we’ll see the end of our world soon. When doomsday comes, we all know that one line. It all ends here.