Easy Does It! - Silliman University

Easy
An • thu • lu • ge :
Does
Easy It!
Does It
Poetry & Prose
from The Fellows of
The 50th Silliman National Writers Workshop
An • thu • lu • ge :
Easy Does It
Poetry & Prose
from the Fellows of
The 50th Silliman National Writers’ Workshop
Editors: Eva B. Gubat and Christine V. Lao
Book design and cover art: Alyza May T. Taguilaso
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Contents
6 • Foreword
Shane Carreon
7 • from Tales From the Village
Christine V. Lao
8 • Revision
Philline P. Donggay
9 • The Slow Road to Bitchdom
Eva B. Gubat
17 • writers’ village
18 • My Mother as Widow
Jeffrey B. Javier
19 • Roommate
21 • To The Young Minotaur Inheriting My Maze
Rogelio Garcia, JR.
22 • The Writer
Allen B. Samsuya
28 • “She doesn’t know, but I know...”
29 • Song to a Recently Uploaded Photo
Marius Angelo G. Monsanto
30 • An Attempt at Poetry
Jasmine Teh
31 • One Glass
Elaine Michelle M. Tobias
32 • Lexulous!
Andrea N. Macalino
37 • Benediction
Miel A. Villaruel
40 • The Master
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Contents
Alyza May T. Taguilaso
42 • Leviathan
48 • The way we wound ourselves
Emmanuel Lean P. Lava
49 • Monkey Games
Miguel Antonio D. Sulangi
53 • Waiting
Glenn L. Diaz
59 • I know you
60 • Tennis Fans
64 • About The Fellows
66 • Acknowledgements
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Foreword
An outsider might view the fellows of the 50th Silliman National Writers’ Workshop as a motley crew. Twentyand thirty-something writers marooned on the foothills of Mt. Talinis without any distractions is quite a spectacle. Cabin
fever and quarrels over literary opinions may set in. But nothing of this sort happened. The golden fellows have formed
a bond forged by love for words and love for the writers behind the works. Where else can you find a refuge where you
can talk to like-minded people unabashedly about writing, writers, and written works for hours?
This anthology serves as a homage to the craft of writing; a testament of our gratitude to Mom Edith Tiempo,
Dad Ed Tiempo, Mom Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas, and to our lauded panelists; and a humble output from our threeweek sojourn. It wasn’t easy; for one, we had to come up with a title. An • thu • lu • ge is uttered with a cool twang at the
end. It is our cheeky offering to all the dogs at the Writers’ Village that we collectively named Doggê. Easy Does It pays
tribute to Robert Frost’s admission to Mom Edith about why he repeated the line, “And miles to go before I sleep” in his
poem Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. The reason for this celebrated repetition? Easy does it.
As we prepare to leave Writers’ Village, laughter still rings in the open spaces, and trees still hold the rush of
our thoughts. We shall remember the great and small events we shared: heady scent (and taste) of angel’s trumpets or
katsubong, banter during workshop sessions, moonbathing during a blackout, the subtle fire that tickles our throats from
nightly drinking sprees, habal-habal rides, and sunset-tinged stains on our arms from the sulphuric rocks of Pulang Bato.
As early as now, we are fantasizing about the next 50th anniversary for our batch reunion.
How we wish for years to go by at lightning speed. In the meantime, we go our separate ways, eager to live out
Frost’s philosophy, easy does it. Easy does it.
Eva B. Gubat, aspiring poet
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SHANE CARREON
From Tales From the Village
The dead were found the next day
Bees from nowhere, hundreds of them
on the floor, at the porch, a dark swarm
of wings, antennae, and a thousand legs.
We armed ourselves
Cautiously opening our screen doors
holding brooms and dustpans, listening
the disturbed buzzing not far enough away.
Nobody said anything
How last night neighborhood dogs howled
at the house at the dead end road
where a girl, after a visit to Siquijor,
was wrapped with chills
in her room beside a balete tree
blooming out of season.
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CHRISTINE V. LAO
Revision
A boy in a house by the provincial highway. Virginia Woolf ’s Death of a Moth is on his lap. He looks with longing at the cars whizzing past. How has he managed to imagine the families speeding toward their summer destinations,
the new car smell of their vehicles, the manicured gardens, the pool beside the beach, the hotel beds and their smooth
clean sheets, the luxury of silence in a resort that has no equivalent in his slow-moving now by the darkening road side?
Everything he imagines is lit by the “pure, enormous energy of the world”, that “thread of vital light thrust in his frail and
diminutive body”. He takes out a notebook and writes:
A spider lives in the frailest of houses — its imagination. It
believes its own genius and the beauty of its work. It does
not care to know that a child could destroy the universe
with a wave of his hand.
He does not know what it means, but believes it is how he feels. He fancies himself a prodigy and falls asleep
satisfied.
Years later, in love’s afterglow, he shows these words to his aging lover, an established poet.
“What is your ambition?” the poet asks, “What is your intention?”
And after a long pause: “Don’t you think this is a bit cruel?”
He has never thought about these things before. He looks for words to hide behind, as though scrambling for
clothes. But he cannot find the right ones to stop their drift toward uncomfortable silence. They buy separate tickets out
of the city. The poet joins a revolutionary movement and is never heard from again.
He travels to sacred ruins overgrown with shady, unsilent jungles. He is absorbed by the chatter of unseen monkeys and invisible birds. He imagines he can hear the leaf-covered earth breathe. At night he retires to a two-star hotel.
They warn him against staying out too late. A tiger has been sighted near the road. He turns over the poet’s questions in
his mind. He remembers his lover’s voice.
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One night, by the light of a gas lamp, he takes out the old notebook and writes:
In bed, my lover tells me the strangest things. Tonight, he
said:
I was picking firewood with my friends in the forest. When I
looked up, I saw those yellow eyes. It was as if the entire
jungle was on fire. I ran. That was five years ago. Now I am
a man.
How I loved him for his story. How I envied his treasure,
this encounter with a tiger.
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PHILLINE P. DONGGAY
The Slow Road To Bitchdom
Somewhere, somehow, somebody sympathizes with someone else’s quest for bitchdom, because a strong, opinionated bitch is
way better than a sad and miserable victim.
A Fluttering Butterfly
When you survive an almost fatal accident, you feel a profound sense of gratitude to the Universe and to your
Maker for allowing you to have a second chance at life. You feel the air, you listen to yourself breathe it in, and you feel
wonderful. Fresh out of the hospital, you walk through your days with a special feeling of lightness and an extra sense of
surrounding beauty like a fluttering butterfly over a field of spring flowers.
But something happens that halts that well-being. You get detained at the airport metal detector and are stuck
having to explain in sign language to a non-English speaking immigration officer how you got that metal inside your abdomen. He doesn’t immediately trust the piece of paper you say is the medical certificate from your surgeon. He makes you
wait for half an hour for a lady officer to come and search you. In that half hour, your mind goes on overdrive, and you
remember things you don’t want to.
You remember the friend who convinced you to engage in the sport that led to your injury. You would have remembered her fondly, if not for the fact that she prevented you from getting that one thing that could have avoided your
accident – an instructor. You think about this and start to get angry at yourself for listening to a clueless sponge-of-a-friend
who has now left you feeling used and abused with her lack of gratitude and sense of accountability, even abandoning you
alone in a foreign hospital.
You talk to your boyfriend hoping for some form of release. You go on an emo trip that eventually has him irritated to the bones. You sense this but know you cannot stop the emotion, even if your life depended on it. (It might have
even.) So you just keep on until he bursts and tells you the worst things you can hear in such a situation: That you were
stupid to have gotten into an accident and that you have no right to feel sadness and self-pity when you have caused so
many people worry.
The butterfly you thought you are has just been smashed to the ground by a wicked little girl and beaten into pulp
by an atrocious little boy. Suddenly, life doesn’t seem so precious and you think it would not have been a bad idea if you
had just gone toward the light.
Idiots on Facebook
The routine things you do start becoming trivial. The people you used to identify with on your favorite networking site suddenly turn into this irritating bunch of shallow idiots with posts about lizards on the ceiling, a new Michael
Jackson outfit, a creepy stranger on the bus, Poker wins, Farmville harvests and mob wars. WTF!? So you decide to lay
off social networking for a while, and without intention, weed out the so-called friends from the real ones.
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You spend quality time with your loved ones. You go spiritual with a series of retreats, you surround yourself
with love and positive things alone. And you write for catharsis, you write like a columnist on a deadline, you write with
candid honesty about everything you’ve been through so far. You start feeling good again.
You complete your writing and show it to a writer friend who reads it and tells you it’s good work and should be
published. You feel elated. You send the story to a publisher, soaking your manuscript in positive vibes before postage. You
have great faith in the goodness of the universe.
You start seeing friends. One group after the other, you train yourself to not cry when you retell the accident
story. You hardly cry, and you are pleased with yourself.
That Little Shit
You decide to join your mother for a fellowship of her church group because you know you owe the members a
solid ‘thank you’ for helping pray for your recovery.
You are introduced as the daughter who got into an accident, and you pass your thank-you’s around. Two of them,
considerably older and more talkative than the rest, ask you, in that old lady tone that can sound incredibly irritating like
when they would ask you: “When are you getting married my dear, you’re not young anymore, you know?” This time they
ask you, “Why on earth did you not get an instructor when it was your first time?”
You force a smile but say nothing because you’re afraid that if you do, you would start to cry. You are saved when
the program starts, and you excuse yourself to cry inside the car. You drive aimlessly for a while. You wonder why such a
simple, almost expected question can be such torture to your psyche.
To avoid the torture, you fantasize about how you could ask the culprit clueless friend to make a recording about
why you went skiing in the first place and why you didn’t get an instructor. That was her call. Why shouldn’t she go
through the torture of having to explain to people instead of you? That little shit’s life must be a hundred times easier than
yours now. You start to feel envy then feel anger again.
That night, you dream about her. You used to send her postcards from all your travels. In the dream, she sends
you one, signed in her real Indo-Chinese pre-immigrant name. You wake up, and you don’t remember that name.
More “F**k’s” Than A Bruce Willis Movie
Your brother tells you how low he thinks of your EQ that you’re so affected with comments like the ones made
by the two old ladies. Your parents, especially your father, the rational person that he is, tells you to let it go because you
are bound to hear more of these kinds of reactions. You have to detach yourself from the emotion. Of course, you agree
he’s right but you know it’s very hard to do. Who has the Moving On For Dummies book? You want a copy fast!
Eventually, you stop talking to your family. You don’t want to have to worry them because they’ve already been
through so much. You stop talking to your friends, too, since you recognize they are tired of your drama. They put up
with reading your emails but have ceased to comment too much, probably avoiding even more drama. You can only deduct
so much from an email. You realize you are driving away many people who care about you. You are to drive away one
more.
Your boyfriend reads the story you wrote and tells you it’s full of hate. He further says that he believes you’re out
on a vengeance for that little shit you used to call your friend.
You know you didn’t mean to sound hateful so you become defensive. You tell him you only wrote what transpired. And yes, there were hate and anger involved, but you didn’t do it for vengeance! You did it to let your feelings out
and feel better. He doesn’t buy your explanation, you start feeling like he cares more about the little shit than he cares
about you so you lash out at him.
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He ends the conversation and you lash out further, writing an email that’s so nasty you used more “fuck’s” than
a Bruce Willis movie. For the first time, you feel good about swearing so much. If he were sitting next to you, you know
you would have gone violent, too, like break and throw things, kick something so hard until your toes bleed.
He replies and tells you he is saddened that he doesn’t know how to talk to you anymore. He tells you he’s tired
and that he’s very unhappy with you. Your heart sinks. After three days of thinking and crying, you start feeling noble.
You know you love him and only wish him happiness so if he says he’s unhappy with your relationship, what do you do?
You let him go. You send him an email to say that. You ask him not to reply anymore, not to call, and not to communicate
because you know it will only make your resolve harder to complete.
There, You’ve Said It. Now You are Depressed
When you cry yourself to sleep thinking of the easiest ways to die, then you know you have a problem. Depression is a mysterious Queen, sitting on her throne in quiet indifference. You do something to offend her or to shower her
with praises, but she doesn’t care. She is confident in her power and is completely unaffected by what you think you can
do against her or for her.
You try to ignore the Queen altogether, hoping that by ignoring her she goes away. You go back to your old ways,
as much of them as possible, given your injury. You deny her existence, but it is an act of futility. She manifests herself in
places other than her throne in your head. She shows up in your heart, you cry even more now. She’s in your stomach, you
throw up for no apparent reason. She’s in the largest organ of your body: The perfectly soft and smooth skin you used to
have has been replaced by blotches of tiny, red blisters that came out of nowhere.
Depression. There, you’ve said it. You are depressed. You’re depressed because you’re no longer in perfect health,
you’re depressed because you’re indebted by a huge amount to people who helped save your life, you’re depressed because
you can’t find work to help pay that debt. You’re depressed because you need to live with the shame and the ridicule
brought about by the accident. You’re depressed because the boy whom you thought loved you could not love you enough
to see you through this ordeal. You’re depressed because however much you agree with people who tell you to ‘look at the
bright side’ it’s still so difficult to do. You’re depressed because your friends are tired of you, you’re depressed because you
can no longer talk to your family about your woes. You get depressed just thinking about worrying them further in case
you do. You’re depressed because you couldn’t fight your depression and consequently had to admit you had it.
And why do you think things would be better if you just left this world? First, you have no family you need to take
care of, no child to feed, no husband, and now, not even a boyfriend. You work for your father who can really do away
with your position. You know he’s disappointed in you and your free-spirited ways. He’s the overachiever that you never
were, why choose to disappoint him further? Nobody needs you, nobody depends on you, you practically have nothing to
lose. Your passing might even be beneficial to the circumstances. You’re insured by a considerable amount that can pay for
the money you owe from your hospital stay. Your family does not have to continue to house and feed you while you yield
to your whims for travel and your dreams about writing. The world will be a better place without you.
Hiring a Professional Friend
You pride yourself with having many friends, but as they say, friends will end up disappointing you at some point.
Maybe that was all the friendship they could offer. Maybe they could only love the happy positive you, the youthful vivacious you, the pleasant and beautiful you, the pre-accident un-depressed you. But that girl is gone now, gone with the
wind. And with her, some of your friendships.
You log back into your favorite networking site, feeling you are ready to go back to the world with the hope that
your somewhat return into society will help you forget. But the Idiots are still there, their lives went on as usual even
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when yours seemed to have disintegrated in front of you.
Now that you’ve acknowledged your depression and the state of some of your friendships, you think, why not
hire a professional friend? Someone to listen to you and give you advice based on proven medical techniques. Sounds like
a plan.
On the morning you decide to find a therapist, the customary breakfast random verse your father reads was one
from the Book of Matthew that talks about worrying: Worrying what to eat, drink, or what to wear for tomorrow; that
Life is more than food and the body more than clothing, so why worry?
You feel your Maker has just spoken to you, and you say a prayer of thanks for the attention.
Your mother takes you to get your rashes checked. You don’t have the heart to tell her the following: “This is just
because of my depression, Mom.” As she buys the expensive medicines prescribed by your allergiologist, you tell her she
doesn’t have to, that you’ll be better soon. The medical practitioner that she is, she shuns you for thinking this way. She’s
already made you win that big argument when she flew you to the Southern Capital to get your first major post-operation
check-up and you refused one expensive procedure the doctor requested. She won’t let you win this time.
You drink your first two tablets out of the seven you need to drink in a day, and your Mom tells you she’ll be out
on an errand for the afternoon. You grab this chance to secretly visit the clinic of the only psychiatrist in your city.
You get there and man, are you in the WRONG place! The long-haired druggies and the mini-skirted sluts occupy the entire waiting area with their mothers who are in obvious misery. And then the lady receptionist makes you fill
out forms and asks “What’s your problem dear, annulment?” You think “Shit! I seriously don’t belong here!” You scurry
out and leave.
Forgive Yourself, Bitch!
One of those friends-who-did-not-give-up-on-you calls. She helps you decide to pursue that trip you were planning, originally to see your boyfriend and to get job interviews. You had earlier decided not to go, you felt you had no right
to be on a trip. And besides, what was the point when you have no interviews and the boyfriend no longer exists?
But she’s good at convincing. Perhaps in the same way your little shit ex-friend was. But this friendship has
proven longevity and passed far greater tests than what you had with the little shit where you both failed. You realize you
are happy to accept this long-time friend’s offer to visit her and have a good time.
You call your best girl-cousin and tell her the story about your search for a therapist that ended in a disaster. She’s
been depressed herself over her own annulment so she understands you more than any of your family members. Now she’s
vowed to get you through this phase in your life, in lieu of the shrink she doesn’t believe you need. She tells you not to be
too hard on yourself, not to be too pressured to achieve the goals you’ve set in order to fix the circumstances after your
accident. She agrees that you should go on that trip, if only to de-stress yourself. She also tells you, in quite a dramatic
fashion, with an equally dramatic effect on your psyche, she tells you how you need to forgive yourself first.
Yeah! Forgive yourself, Bitch! How do you expect to feel better when you can’t even forgive yourself? How do
you expect to be okay about forgiving others who did not ask for forgiveness when you can’t even pardon yourself?
Well, now you have a goal. Forgive Yourself.
You are seated on the plane. You open your bag before pushing it down under the seat. You check all three books
you got from your cousin to read: two Christian books, one a set of Encouraging Words for Women, the other a book on
Choosing Wisely in Life. And just for kicks, the third book is the story of one Legendary Bitch, Imelda Marcos.
You are on the plane to your ‘vacation’ of sorts. You fasten your seatbelt when the PA announces the names of
the pilots. The captain is named Motoyoshi, a Japanese. You smile and start to remember your Japan trip, but this time,
only the good parts: apology for the world written on the memorial tab in Hiroshima Shrine; the fresh, soft-pink blooms of
sakura in Ueno Park; the Mild Seven-smoking tuna slicer in Tsukiji Market; the fluffy and perfectly white snow in Nikko.
You recall the beauty of what is now your favorite country with a smile before drifting off to sleep for the long flight.
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Little Shit Does It Again!
It is exciting to be back in the city where you worked and lived merrily for two years and where you also found
love.
You had your chance to perform an act of random kindness when you held the hand of the lady who is riding a
plane for the first time. A bitch can take pleasure from these kinds of deeds, too.
You give a big, warm hug to your long-time friend as she meets you at the door. You haven’t seen each other for
eight months. You catch up, some of your stories make tears well up in your eyes, but you’re happy. You’re happy until
she hands you a package that contains winter clothes, a jacket, scarves, and a set of gloves that smells of stale French perfume.
The Little Shit does it again!
What planet is she from? Who the fuck borrows clothes and returns them unwashed?
You were already upset when she waited two months to pass the stuff to you after telling her that the gloves were
borrowed from another friend and you wanted them returned right away.
If you had no sense at all, you know you would have gone and beat her silly with that nylon jacket and stuff the
scarf inside her big mouth.
Dumb Shit comes to Tokyo in the middle of winter with nothing inside her bag but summer clothes. You notice
it, and she giggles saying she had always planned to borrow from you. So you give her everything she needs and even takes
her emergency shopping scouring 24-hour stores that sell winter boots when she broke her summer flats in the Kyoto
rain.
Her cluelessness and idiocity are beyond words.
Come to think of it, you had always known and even thought it cute. You are amazed how fast that impression
can change with your post-accident depression.
You wonder how people deal with friendships falling out and not just any falling out but a bitter angry end to
what used to be a deep and happy one.
Pick Me Up Color
Your long-time friend makes sure you have a good time. A cousin joins your vacation, too. To make things a little
less complicated, you decide for the next few days to come into a conscious effort to feel good.
You also decided to wear your prettiest dresses in your pick-me-up-color, yellow. It helps. A lot.
Nostalgia, though, can break the spirit. You see places and things and have grown fond of the memories with a
former love or an ex-friend. You feel heavy because of the thought that times with them would never happen again. Ever.
The relationships are over not by intention but by circumstances beyond your control.
Could you have helped from feeling bad because you decided to do everything to make the ex-friend happy on
that trip you took together only to find out she was not worth it when she abandoned you after the accident?
Could you have helped from feeling bad because your former boyfriend thought you ridiculous at your request he
visit you in the hospital where you stayed alone for two weeks?
He had a one-month window plus two-week recuperation time to visit you but he never did. He could’ve at least
visited when you returned home to your family, but he never did. He tells you it’s a waste of money when you know you’re
okay. The statement ‘You are a waste of his money’ goes right through the heart.
Your illusions of his grand love are just that, illusions. And nostalgia is something you decide to fight against with
alcohol. Lots of it.
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For Once, Not a Bad Boy
In the middle of your vacation while you were calling to follow up on job applications, your parents call to check
up on you. They ask about your friends, the only two you have allowed yourself to see are doing fine, you say.
And then they ask about your boyfriend.
For reasons you are too exhausted to explore and consequently comprehend, you never told your family that you
had broken up with your boyfriend. In a way, you know they would be heartbroken, too. They liked him after all. You
picked a good guy to introduce to your family.
For once, you didn’t fall for a bad boy.
What you couldn’t tell your family were things you knew could destroy their image of him and your relationship.
You couldn’t tell your family that he didn’t want to have children. Your parents are so fond of kids, they’d be
disappointed to hear it.
When your parents couldn’t get their Japan visa expedited fast enough to be with you at the hospital after the
accident, they asked if your then boyfriend was planning to come, considering he didn’t need a visa at all. You make up a
story about his assistant being pregnant, just to save him from the bad impressions they would create if they knew the real
reason.
All you wanted your family to see was the good guy with the good heart that you had fallen in love with. You did
not want them aware of the culture clashes, the differing values.
He Ass, You Idiot
You had stopped yourself from writing six more sections about him. You were just a nudge in his bedpost, why
make him six sections in your blog? Why?
You know he doesn’t deserve it but can you really stop from wondering why it just couldn’t work?
So he thought you silly for singing too much while doing grocery shopping or got irritated whenever you become
chatty with cab drivers on long taxi rides, you still could have made it work! So he got embarrassed that you cry too much
at the movies, got incredibly irritated that you say ‘thank you’ too often, and hated how you want to travel every chance
you get, you still could have made it work!
He belonged to a culture that put more importance in men’s roles of being financial provider rather than emotional support. But the love alone could have made it work, couldn’t it? Apparently not!
You remember sharing a dream of living on the southernmost tip of Spain. You could sell refreshing halo-halo
while he would make yummy and filling minced meat noodles. You would make decent money while enjoying your time
together because that’s really all that counts. Both of you enjoy the sun, the wind, the surf, and the water from the only
part of the world where the Atlantic and the Mediterranean meet. You look across to the Rock of Gibraltar. Morocco is
just 10 kilometers from the coast where you stand...
He takes a bite. “What makes you think I can make minced meat noodles?”
Ass. That should have been your cue! He Ass, You Idiot for dragging it on.
You still have to talk to him because you needed to pass the gifts your family and friends had given him. At the
end of the conversation, he tells you to take care of yourself. You try so hard to maintain the pitch of your voice even when
your tears start to flow.
What is it with you and airports? All your three heartbreaks culminate in them. You didn’t think there would be a
fourth, but there you are, sniffing and with head bowed. The song you listen to is called, Your Ex-Lover is Dead. Oh, stop
this fucking drama, you say to yourself. You let yourself cry for the three-hour flight and a few more moments then after.
And you feel better.
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You work and work and have more to look forward to now.
A Strange Year
It was a strange year. This time in 2009, you were living in a different country; you were invincible; you were in
love. You felt considerably youthful then than you do now. A lot can change in a year. Especially a kind of year when you
get a brush with death. This was the year when you were most valued by your family and good friends; the year that allowed you to isolate the people who care about you the most; the year that helped you determine the few important things
in life.
The switch from ‘seemingly invincible’ to ‘perennially injured’ was something that affected you greatly. Before
the accident, you were never admitted to a hospital for over a day. Not only have you broken that record by two weeks,
you have been operated on, are scarred for life, with embedded metal coils to boot. How you survived all that being alone
in a foreign country, you are sure now, was divine intervention. It was the universe combining the power of all the prayers
and all the well-wishes people made for you from all over the world to give you strength to survive. You are humbled at
the thought, yet strangely proud at the same time.
The change from ‘hopelessly in love’ to ‘earnestly heartbroken’ was the bigger shock for you. It took all your
courage to let go of the boy you had planned to spend the rest of your life with. You needed to make a decision after realizing he had other priorities. However painful the admission might have been, you weren’t one of them. You felt strangely
ugly inside out. It was a new feeling, and it was unwelcome. You felt angry, you felt sorrow, you felt utter despair you
never felt before. Recently, you found out what you went through was clinical. The flashbacks and nightmares, the anger,
the guilt, the helplessness, the impatience and irritability on what used to be your normal life — all these were part of
something called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
But you didn’t know then. You just wanted to keep being angry, keep being hateful. Until eventually, you just
wanted to end your life. How you got through that episode makes you strangely pleased with yourself. But you couldn’t
have done it if you hadn’t surrounded yourself with family. You realize now you are lucky with the one you have. You’ve
also short listed your friends. Some helped you through, some helped you get over. You are blessed to have all of them.
You’ve counted all your other blessings. Before your birthday, you go through them one by one and you see how beautiful
life can still be. Letting go of things that kept you back and held you down even if it included love and friendships is part
of the process.
And about Bitchdom, you learned a bit on how to be bitchy along the way. But in the end, what is it for? Life is
strange but magical: One day you are down on your knees; on other days, happiness is within reach. We shouldn’t ruin
ourselves for these moments.
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EVA B. GUBAT
writers’ village
The search for Home begins with a point of departure and a destination. In between there are poems.
– Nerissa del Carmen Guevara
after today’s
grind and grain
against word
worlds in verse
and prose
siege of rain blesses
this mountain’s shoulder
rivulets of sky
of moonshine
of ancient light
wet angel’s
trumpet blooms
and grant arms of grass
a measure of pure slate
in the morning
green limbs stand tall
(despite trample and trek)
around a boy
looking down –
a giant stalk
bowing to inch-tall
might
17
My Mother as Widow
Cars blink back, hold
a rush of sharp light
and clear their throats.
I wonder if passengers
have read obituaries lately.
I try to pull words from memory
but recalling is slippery
as my hold on thoughts, people.
You carved spaces
in your life for orphans,
dogs, feeding programs,
my movie critiques, my poems.
Your leaving was an implosion —
finally, a real word —
a cosmic event that shakes
the wind off its weight.
I need to move my body, steer it
toward the house by tonight.
I look up, espy birds confused
in their flight. I recall, finally,
a night after a concert five
or six years ago
when you asked, “Isn’t the last
song just darkly sad?”
and I said, “It isn’t!”
How trivial words become
when years sharpen edges down;
when light loses its quick
quiver of tail.
That song was dark and sad,
I agree. Now.
But where is the nod,
where is the thumb heavy
on the rip of my core?
18
JEFFREY B. JAVIER
Roommate
In the room we share,
two double-decked beds
stand opposite one another:
you occupy the one by the wall
while I sleep on the one by the door.
No one takes the upper bunks
except cobwebs, shoeboxes,
and ghosts we rarely talk about.
On rainy days, the upper bunks
become your laundry rack.
You would slip your shirts on the hangers
and fasten the hooks on the rails.
Even when it is cold, you always turn on
the fan so high, pointing it at the wet clothes.
It is so cold that my toes tingle.
In my veins, other forms of aches,
like hidden rivers,
rush, tremble and shiver.
On rainy Sunday afternoons,
when our housemates are back
in their hometowns,
when you speak of nothing but
the girl you left in your town,
I would pretend to sleep.
Then I drown in your longings for her,
sink in the coolness of my pillows,
go down with the smell of wet shirts
drying fragrant around me,
scent of your soap escaping
from the weaves and threads
that bind this quiet friendship.
19
I feel your stare pressing on me.
Do you always watch me sleep?
You would then force a yawn
and pretend sleepiness,
tiredness and bitter chill your excuse.
But instead of your own bed,
you slip into mine.
A warm companion,
sharer of brief Sunday grief—
is that sweat
steaming from your neck?
I facing the wall
you facing the other,
our backs merely touch,
your shirt drying fragrant around us.
Then the ghosts stir in the upper bunks.
The rivers swell and
both of us dream and drown
in this unbridgeable divide.
20
To The Young Minotaur
Inheriting My Maze
What keeps us alive
within these walls that
hold a secret door is
the promise of sky.
If there is no way out,
only dead ends and
endless turns, the
only thing to do
is to fly.
21
ROGELIO GARCIA, JR.
The Writer
Awakened by the throbbing pain in his head and a muscle cramp in his right leg, he feels dizzy and thinks that his
entire room is swirling around him. He stares at the ceiling for a couple of minutes since he is not strong enough to stand.
Heavy stones seem to be heaped all over his body. This must be how it is for the dead laid to rest six feet in the ground.
Maybe he has died in his sleep. His nose catches a putrid smell. He cannot tell where it is coming from. Maybe it’s just the
stench of his dead body. He hears Gloomy Sunday still playing on his stereo; he forgot to turn it off last night. It has been
playing constantly in his mind for days. It’s the kind of song with eerie lyrics that makes him feel sick when he listens and
still he listens because of the beautiful music from the piano. Why should he complain? It was his own curiosity, prompted
by his art professor, to listen to this song composed by a depressed Hungarian. It was said to have caused hundreds of
suicide incidents in the 1930s. Well, I’m still alive, he thinks, and I’m not thinking of death.
That nauseating smell again. He wants to vomit. He stands up still feeling heavy, walks unsteadily toward the toilet and tastes terrible bitterness from the pit of his guts to his gorge, then to his mouth. It’s like chewing mahogany seeds.
He gets sick at the color of his puke. Yellow. He flushes it.
He looks at his aquarium. Dead fish. They have been floating in water which has already turned brown. So that’s
where the smell is coming from. He looks closely at the fish and examines what parts of their bellies are already rotting
and presses his face against the glass to peer at the expression in their eyes, rather than stay away from them and from
their awful smell. If it would only be possible to know what you felt as you were dying, he whispers so softly, afraid that
the sound of his voice might bring them back to life.
He has been busy writing Freudian criticism on Gide’s The Immoralist, D.H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers and
Joyce’s Ulysses for days. He hates his professor for forcing him to do Freudian analysis on Ulysses when he really wants to
examine it under the Formalist lens. Freud was absurd, yet he was right that art is a form of neurosis. He does not feel like
cleaning up the aquarium.
He takes a piece of white cloth and gently wipes off the dust from his typewriter on the table. Until now, it’s still
a question to him as to why he’s keeping it, why he cleans it every day, why he prefers to use it when he writes. Probably
because he wants to remember how angry he is. Like a blind man, he runs his thumb over the engraved initials, R.J.P.. The
contact with the cold machine sends a feeling of warm sensuousness radiating from his fingertips to the rest of his body.
It’s like caressing the body of a woman. That bastard. He left his family in exchange for his ambition. But he turned out a
big loser.
He remembers the time when his father gave this typewriter to him. It was his thirteenth birthday and a vintage
typewriter was not really what he wanted for a gift. What he wanted was for him to quit drinking and find a decent job
rather than sit in front of his typewriter and catch metaphors. That was the second to the last time he saw him. The next
was when he saw him already in the state of decomposition after they received news that his missing father was found dead
and floating near the seaport. Loser. Loser.
He does not have the appetite to eat breakfast. On wobbly legs, he walks out of his flat and takes Hesse’s Steppenwolf in hand. Again, he forgets to turn off Gloomy Sunday. After walking two blocks, he feels his stomach turn sour.
It’s good that there is no sun. Sunshine is too glaring and might make his migraine worse. He is visiting his best friend.
22
Sunday is gloomy
My hours are slumberless
Dearest the shadows
I live with are numberless
Damn that song. Why is it playing so loud? He knocks. Wil opens the door and looks at him as if seeing an apparition of his dead father. He recoils from the ghastly pallor of his friend.
“Lazarus? Risen from the dead! What the hell happened to you?”
“Shut up. I’m fine.” He pushes him out of the way, slumps on the couch and searches for the middle pages of Steppenwolf.
“You come into my apartment looking like a beggar who has not slept for years, with your unkempt hair and
bloodshot eyes, in your dirty clothes and you tell me you’re fine. What’s this, huh? You smell like garbage!” Wil offers him
a sandwich.
“I don’t want to eat. Do you have vodka? I want vodka.”
The shadows I live with are numberless
Little white flowers
Will never awaken you
“No way. No more drinking for you.”
“You will give me vodka or I leave!” He faces Wil with a grimly resolute look in his eyes. Hypnotism. Wil gives
him a bottle and sits beside him as he ravenously quaffs the vodka. It’s too bitter, and it burns his stomach. He vomits again.
Wil hands him Kleenex. He wipes his mouth.
“Wil, kiss me, here” he says, pointing to his lips.
“Now, you’re not funny anymore. What has come over you?” Wil laughs, puzzled.
“I’m serious. I couldn’t be more serious. Don’t worry. I’m not what you think.”
“Of course you’re not” Wil laughs again and starts to worry. They have been best friends for fifteen years and
have known each other like fish know how to swim. This isn’t the first time his friend is acting weird. But he has never
acted as extremely absurd as now.
“Don’t tell me this is one of your lucid intervals again. I’m not gonna buy it.”
“Kiss me or I tell your Mom you didn’t enroll for the bar review.”
“Oh, come on. What’s this all about, huh? You’re writing again, aren’t you? You’re severe, dude. You’re hopeless.”
“I’m dialing her number.” His heart begins to thump furiously, and his hands start to feel cold.
“Hey hey! No jokes like that. I’ll kiss you all right.”
And they kiss. Long. Torrid. Passionate.
My heart is telling you
How much I wanted you
Gloomy Sunday
Wil tastes the bitterness in his mouth and thinks how awful it has become because of fasting and drinking for
days. So this is how it feels to kiss a man, the lunatic thinks. Did Achilles and Patroclus feel the same sensation? He has
a growing suspicion Jonathan and David also did the same thing. He knows he needs the kiss. He wants to know. Feel.
Taste. And explore. They both throw up on the floor.
“Thanks dude.” He walks away, forgetting Steppenwolf on the couch, leaving Wil dumbfounded and confused.
The sun shows up and hurts his eyes. He feels tiny sweat trickling from his armpits, and he starts to feel hot. He
enters a small grocery store. The security guard hesitates to open the door for him. The cashier stares at him with a suspi-
23
cious look.
His legs tremble as he hears the groaning of the air in his stomach. I feel good, he murmurs. Wil is a good kisser.
He stuffs his pockets with chocolate bars. He is very careful so nobody would notice. He implores: Catch me, catch me.
He takes two cans of beer which he will pay for in the counter. But the chocolates have to pass through safely, unpaid. He
tries his best to maintain a facade that will expel all doubts. The cashier eyes him with an inquisitive manner. He begins
to feel fear, and he loves the feeling of it. But he should not be caught. His arms turn cold, and the beating of his heart
becomes faster and louder. His intestines rise toward his lungs. He prays. No. The chocolates have to pass through safely.
They must.
“Are these all?” the cashier asks. Does she possibly know? Does she sense this stupid crime? He wants to have a
hint.
“Yes, only those.” He answers flatly. She doesn’t know.
The beads of perspiration on his temples turn cold, but his intestines relax and he feels better. He goes out of the
door with careful and mechanical strides. He has to come out safely. He does. The security guard wonders why he is running away with too much joy. What triumph. What elixir.
Dreaming, I was only dreaming
I wake and I find you asleep
In the deepest of my heart
He meets his girlfriend in the public square, in a place where all the passers-by should witness this great performance. But is he brave enough to hurt his life’s only giver of meaning? A sacrifice – that is how he sees her at the moment.
And he is determined to hurt her.
“Are you okay?” She fixes his hair and wipes the traces of puke on his left collar.
“Let’s stop this.” He hands her the can of beer.
“Stop what?” She smiles.
“Stop loving me.” He feels sad because she is starting to get confused. Just the way he wants it.
My heart and I
Have decided to end it all
Soon there’ll be candles
“Haha! You’re a lousy comedian. You must be very tired. I think I should really move into your place. I want to
take care of you.” He gives her the chocolates.
“I’m serious. These past weeks, I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you this. You see, I don’t love you
anymore.” And he wills the tears to rise to his eyes. He waits for her to cry, too. She must.
“No. You’re just kidding.” She smiles bitterly and looks at him in the eyes and sees that they are sincere. What
she sees there bothers her, and she feels afraid. Her eyes become warm and hazy as if stung by bitter smoke from burnt
plastics.
“No, how could you? I didn’t do anything wrong, right?” She breaks into sobs. The people passing by are looking
at the crying woman. The dagger has begun piercing his heart. Deeper. Deeper, he says, relishing the feel of the dagger’s
point. He needs this. He has to know how painful it is.
He forgets his sour and bitter stomach. This divine madness strengthens him. He leaves her without a word, without even turning for a last glance. He is no longer hearing Gloomy Sunday in his mind for he is singing it with his lips.
Let them know that I’m glad to go
Death is no dream
For in death I’m caressin’ you
With the last breathe of my soul
24
He remembers Michel in The Immoralist who abandons his wife to fully experience pleasure or sensuality. He
laughs at himself for he can hardly determine if his is the same case. But I am not like my father, he thinks. That loser. He
feels an urge to cry but isn’t brave enough to do so. Hemingway was a bastard. Why did he ever believe him when he said
that happiness for the intelligent was the rarest thing he knew?
He reaches the cathedral. The three o’clock mass has just pronounced benediction. In a short while, people start
to come out. He hates the sight of them. For he can see them taking away the masks they wore inside the church. Hypocrites. Pharisees. Sadducees. Jesus was a fine man. But this bunch of idiots is an abomination. He wants to puke at all of
them.
After ten minutes, silence begins to pervade the whole cathedral. What peace. He hears the chirping of birds from
distant trees. He even thinks he can hear the gust of wind blowing gently to his face. He searches for the confession room
and finds it. He locks himself inside feeling the thrill since nobody is around. He massages and presses his crotch with his
left hand. He sharpens his ears, closes his eyes and transports himself to the middle of the woods where Mellors and Lady
Chatterley satisfy their lust for each other. Oh if only he would be caught. He unzips his pants. The short, crisp sound of
the unzipping is like Mozart to his ears about to begin the 41st symphony. Or is it only his heart in crescendo? He takes his
cock out of his white briefs.
He opens his eyes again while his left hand begins to pump with increasing speed. Fast angry drumbeats resonate
in his chest, his heart quivering like a caged bird wanting to fly. Faster and faster. His close-set eyes blaze, roam around and
gaze at the replica of Bernini’s Ecstasy of St. Theresa. Her sensually opened mouth, her arm and legs, her body, in complete surrender to the angel piercing her altogether turn him on. He looks at the ceiling and sees the Creation of Adam.
Ah, those fingers will never meet. An inch is an eternity. Man will never find God. Why is it taking him long this time?
He pumps using his right hand and soft moans come out of his mouth. He hears some footsteps coming. He pumps
harder because he can feel it coming. The footsteps become louder. He pumps and pumps. Harder. Faster. The priest is
coming. He is coming, too. His feet twitch, and his breathing occurs at short intervals. His breathing stops for a moment
and then explodes in a prolonged release. Aaaaaaaaah. There. He remembers Onan blessing the field with his semen, hot
and plenty, sparkling like silicon. The earth receives the vital fluid of life.
Shit. No tissue. He looks around for something to wipe his mess. “I’m sorry Jesus, but I would like to borrow your
shroud just this moment” he apologizes.
He wipes the floor with the shroud and puts it back on the statue.
He goes out of the confession room and heads for the main door of the church. He feels sick once again. Now, he
has just sealed his ticket to eternal damnation. He washes his hands with holy water to cleanse the sticky substance in his
hands.
With the last breath of my soul
I’ll be blessin’ you
Gloomy Sunday
He wants to go home now, tired from all the foolishness he did all day. But, he asks, are the materials enough to
build a masterpiece?
He passes by a lady’s boutique. He decides to buy a curly brunette wig, cosmetics, a red silk dress, and a pair of
two-inch silver stilettos. He enters his depressing flat with Gloomy Sunday sounding more melancholy than before. And
the putrid smell has become even more disgusting. He sits in front of the mirror and applies rouge on his face, mascara on
his eyelids, attaches a pair of false eyelashes and puts on a blood red lipstick. He has studied many times how this is done.
He no longer looks pale. He undresses himself down to his briefs. He notices his ribs sticking out of his chest. He has
abruptly lost weight this particular week. He slips on the red silk gown and is delighted how it fits him. Now the heels and
then the wig. He can’t seem to believe it is still him looking at himself in the mirror. He has become a different person, a
beautiful person.
25
Gloomy is Sunday
With shadows I spend it all
My heart and I
After three hours, he takes a taxi and arrives at the Neon Fantasy Avenue. The prostitutes look at him as they
would a neophyte, a new face. He thinks, now is the time for the greatest performance of my life. He mingles with them
and talks to them in a woman’s voice, flirting occasionally. He listens to the different stories of their lives. He can feel how
horny the male prostitutes are while the bitches treat him with subtle hostility.
One of the girls asks for his name. He does not say it. A pot-bellied man with a dirty moustache approaches him
and whispers something in his ears. Obscene. The man caresses his butt, and he pushes him in an instant out of reflex. The
man turns livid with rage and punches him in the eye, tearing his left brow so badly. It bleeds. A commotion starts. The
man utters curses as he leaves while the prostitutes help him to stand. But he is oblivious of everything now for the sensations he feels are more powerful than anesthesia to numb him. He tastes blood that drips to his mouth. He has mistaken it
for sweat.
He feels an intense desire to go home immediately, drunk with too many images and sensations. He thinks he has
accumulated too much ambrosia more than enough to earn him a pass for immortality. He forgets how tired and lonely
and hungry he is for the stories turn into myriad sensations he alone understands. It fills him. And nourishes him.
He does not change his clothes or erase his makeup or remove his wig or cure his wound or wipe the blood from
his face for fear that the divine inspiration of the muses might not linger long. He goes to his typewriter and begins to hit
the keys. When he glances at the mirror hanging on the wall in front of him, he is for a moment startled, failing to recognize the image. He looks around to check if there is another person in the room. But it is only him. He stops typing and
stands up, approaches his image and turns aghast at the sight of it. He stands in front of the mirror closely, peering more
intently. Before him is an image he no longer knows. Who am I? Who am I? He whispers. His bloody face and disheveled
hair and tired body reveal to him a complete stranger. In an instant, he feels how tired and sad and depressed and lost and
miserable and hungry and thirsty and alone he is. Like a child, he feels a strong urge to cry. And before he knows it, tears
from his eyes have already dripped down to his neck and to his chest. He holds the mirror in front of his misery. What is
happening to me? He asks himself.
Violently, he breaks the mirror and pushes the aquarium and overturns and throws everything around him, all
except the typewriter on the table. Gloomy Sunday seems to have become even louder.
With shadows I end it all
My heart and I
Have decided to end it all
He stops to stare at the broken pieces of the mirror. There, he can see his shattered self. Aaaaaaaaaaaargh! He
screams – a primal scream torn from his guts. He picks up one of the broken pieces, feels how sharp it is with his finger and
with resolution, begins to cut his wrist. Blood. Plenty of blood. He cannot feel the pain. Oh, death, where is thy sting?
There is no wound painful enough to hurt me, he cries. Tonight will be the end. He laughs convulsively until the laughter
becomes a hoarse croak of a whimper.
Soon there’ll be candles
And prayers that are said I know
Let them not weep
Let them know that I’m glad to go
Death is no dream
He becomes weak. He is losing too much blood. He feels the coldness of the water from the shattered aquarium
flowing to his feet. He reels, loses his balance and falls on his typewriter behind him but is quick enough to stop it from
26
crashing on the floor. He puts his typewriter back on the table. He feels his heart constrict when he sees the initials R.J.P..
He touches the letters with his bloody hand. You bastard! You bastard! He cries silently, his mouth open but soundless. I
will never be like you.
He stops. And smiles knowingly. The muscle in his right cheek twitches in complete disbelief from his realization.
How foolish he has been. Right in front of him is the very material he has been looking for from the very beginning. And
then all at once, like giant waves mercilessly and violently tossing a ship in the middle of a furious storm, the images and
sensations come back to him, possessing him.
He sits in front his typewriter and begins to hit the keys once again. Faster. He tears a segment of the dress and
ties it around his bleeding wrist. The thousands of images can no longer wait. They flash successively in his head.
The feelings and sensations seem to electrify his whole being: the nausea, the serendipity of that exhilarating kiss,
the fear and triumph inspired by theft, the mixed feeling of love and extreme pain he felt by hurting the person he loves
the most, the ecstasy of his intense masturbation and the thrill of almost being caught, his hiding behind the facade of
looking like a real woman, the throbbing pain of the wound near his eye and his bleeding wrist, and the faces and stories
of prostitutes that swirl inside his head. All are waiting. To be captured. And harnessed. To be immortalized with him on
his way to Olympus.
After hitting the last key and before closing his eyes to sleep, he turns off Gloomy Sunday. Tomorrow, he will
atone for the love sacrificed in his lucid interval. Tomorrow, he will try to forgive the person who caused him his life’s misery. Tomorrow, he will take his sole responsibility to heal himself. But for now, he smiles at the certainty of an inevitable
and predestined baptism of fire ushered by no more than this opus magnum: The Writer.
27
ALLEN B. SAMSUYA
“She doesn’t know, but I
know...”
She doesn’t know but I know
how she still has the hots for me —
How she keeps her hair kempt
and smelling of warm gin
and citrus so she’s sure
she intoxicates me
despite the distance she claims
to have between us. And how
she wants me to take her hard
against something, a wall perhaps,
or a closet, or a king-sized bed.
This, I can tell by the way she walks
away — the shape love takes
when nurtured in secrecy poised
on the curve of her waist.
But she walks away, anyway._
28
Song to a Recently Uploaded
Photo
This time, there are only your eyes —
your gaze, fixed intently into space
as if searching the air for lost light waves,
digital owls, a revelation of vagrant angels.
I turn my laptop towards the window
so you too could see a band of moonlit clouds,
some apple trees, and at a distance, a pack of griffins._
29
MARIUS ANGELO G. MONSANTO
An Attempt At Poetry
and i’ll remember this your weight upon my being,
and the way your fingertips
run through the fabric of my shirt,
the softness of your lips,
the wet contours of your tongue,
the warm tones of your sighs,
the scent of your hair
that weaves the blackness of this night,
how the lips of our pores
converse of it all...
and i’ll write about this after everything has settled
(but, before we become too old)
and realize how stupid it was
thinking about love
when we were far too young
far
too
young...
30
JASMINE TEH
One Glass
Friendships
are forged between
weak links,
partaken over smooth swigs:
A single core filled
with spirits, chased
by a sweet after-taste
of late banters.
Words that were
unbridled, urgent
whispers against crystal rim of
our warm trade - all shall
imbue our sensibility:
Staining, trickling into our
memories beyond dusks.
31
ELAINE MICHELLE M. TOBIAS
Lexulous!
It takes me 42 seconds to think of a longer word, and BEAT is all I can muster. I place it at the center of the
board. Double-word, 12 points. I suck. My opponent, he’s a 42-year-old cow-nipple pincher from Worcestershire, England. “I have a little farm,” he says. “My wife and I milk cows and turn them into money.” I say I’m a foot reflexologist
from Manila, Philippines.
I am a fictional character living in a fictional country filled with other fictional characters like Wendell Capili and
Jessica Zafra.
He adds ACK to make TACK, C on a triple-letter score, 16 points. “Philippines,” he says. “It’s just as lovely as
I’ve seen it on TV.” Have you been here, I ask. “No,” he says, and adds a smiley. “El Nido looks really nice though.” That
polysyllabic place you live in, I say, I’ve never heard of it before. Where is that exactly? “Midlands,” he says. “Central
England.”
Given the choice, Wendell Capili chooses to be an optimist. Jessica Zafra chooses to be a pessimist. Together they
annihilate each other.
I lay AMEN down KA, double-word down and across, 24 points. “How long have you been here?” he says. He
meant here in Scrabulous. I say I’m a noob. I haven’t played Scrabble since high school. What about you? “Been here a
couple of weeks. Just for fun, really.” Married with children, I ask. “Yes,” he says. “Two kids.” A boy and a girl. The girl’s
in high school, the other works in a dairy factory. “Must be nasty working with people’s feet.” He tiles WEB up the B of
BEAT, and makes loser points of 9. Not really, I say. I disinfect them before the massage. Depends on the area you press.
Heals illnesses. What’s your foot like, I ask him. He laughs and says, “I’m big boned. My feet are pale. I wear socks every
day.” Does it stink? I type a grin emoticon. He grins back. “Sometimes. When the weather’s really cold. My feet sweat in
my shoes.”
In this construct I choose to be a foot reflexologist. In the UP Diliman construct, Capili is a professor. In the
construct of the writing industry, Zafra, is, well, a writer—a critic, a fictionist, a postmodernist.
I place QUEEN across the double-word grid from AMEN. I rack my brains, wince, and change it to ELOQUENT, T a blank tile. Scrabble! 104 points. “Not bad for a beginner,” he says. WOOT, I type. I break into a Dance
Revo. “You are EVIL EVIL EVIL. I hate you. I quit.” He LOLs and ROTFLs. Hey, I say, What’s your name, by the way?
“Chad,” he replies. “You?” My brain hangs for five seconds then I type, Call me Patrick. “WTF, you’re a guy?” Pause.
“Not meant to insult.” Pamela, I type. I was kidding.
In Scrabulous I am Pamela, my vital statistics 36-25-36, all of which are perfect squares. My wardrobe hues are
mostly red, pink, and purple. I wear catlike eyeglasses. Capili wears glasses. Zafra wears glasses. We all have defective
genes.
Chad tiles HME to spell HOME down a triple-word score from ELOQUENT, 39 points. “How old are you?” he
says. 24, I say. “Do you have a family?” I prefer to be single; I have converted myself into a public temptation. I type in a
smiley. He laughs and says, “If I visit the Philippines, will you tour me around?” Sure, why not, I say. I’ll even give your
bony feet a massage. “That would be nice,” he replies with a smiley. I’ll open your Qi, I say, your energy field, and grant
you a horrible disease. LMAO. “Do that,” he types back, “and I might kick you with my other foot.” Grin.
We’re all but a mental construct of our own creations. Sometimes it manifests, sometimes it doesn’t. Writers cre-
32
ate worlds: comprehensible inkblots printed on white paper. Like black coffee and white sugar, black defense and white
offense in chess, the world is really black and white. What you see in old television screens are really gray people and gray
objects. Color is just a human invention. I choose to color my world in the form of writing. Chad chooses to be a cownipple pincher in the idyllic construct located at the other side of this fabricated planet. The Earth doesn’t really resemble
the shape of an orange. It’s shaped more like a pumpkin, squashed at both poles.
I lay OX below the E of ELOQUENT, X on a double triple-letter score, 50 points. Your wife, I stress, where
is she? “Fixing dinner.” What’s she cooking? “Steak and white asparagus with truffle soup.” Sounds appetizing, I type. I
don’t know what truffle soup tastes like. “Some sort of mushroom,” he says. “Sharp and oily. Delicious. It stinks though.”
Laughs. “What do you do on your free time?” I filter my interests and say, I read cult fiction or hike mountains. “Wow,”
he types. “Mountains here. Windy. Occasional blizzards.” Sucks to you, I say, laughing. Do you have snow? “Sometimes.
Weather’s erratic out here. Cold. Around 8 degrees.”
The truth resides in our heads. Or high up above in the realm of Forms and Ideas. What is Truth? The truth is,
nobody really knows. Nobody even knows the truth “nobody really knows”. Reality: me, voluptuous. Capili, pillowy
midsection, Zafra, similarly pillowy midsection.
He tiles WEEP across WEB, P on a triple-letter score, 15 points. The score’s 190 to 79. “What book are you
reading right now?” I glance at the stack of books at my bedside table and type, How to be Idle: A Loafer’s Manifesto by
Tom Hodgkinson. “What’s it about?” Freedom and fine art of doing nothing. He ROTFLs and says, “Doing nothing? Interesting. You’re a loafer then?” I work smart, I say. I’m a sybarite. He doesn’t reply to this so I ask, Do you read? “When
I have time. Crichton, mostly. And some detective novels.” I’ve read Next, I say. DNA manipulation and stuff. “Really?”
I work on my tiles, wait for him. “Yes,” he says a minute later. “I just checked my bookshelf. I have Next. But never get
the chance to read it.” You should, I say, The plot’s complicated though.
Do you know me? You know me, you know Chad, only in the confines of this text. You know Capili drinking
milk in the fictional dimension of the television screen. You know Zafra in the character of her books. Beyond that, what
makes you think we’re real?
I place L to make LEX, and spell the word TOOL on a double-word score, 18 points. “My wife is spying on me,”
he types LOLing. What did you say to her? I ask him. “I said I’m playing Scrabble with someone from the Philippines.”
He pauses a moment, then types again, “It’s been 20 years and I’m still in love with her.” Why are you telling me this? I
type but scratch it out, backspace. I key in a smiley and say, That’s nice. Then I continue with: I don’t believe in marriage,
apparently. “Everybody says that. You’ll never know until you find the right person.” I mean, it’s just paperwork. “You
have the right to your opinion.” And kids, I point out. I’m not fond of kids. He laughs again, says nothing.
You look out the window in the night and you see the moon. It’s shaped like a coin cut in the middle. The other
half must’ve been hurled elsewhere in outer space. The moon isn’t really a chunk of rock rotating around this pumpkin
planet. It’s really just a large coin of silver with elves on the surface, adding and removing bits of it each day. Literature,
science, the internet, Discovery Channel, everybody else led you to believe it’s a satellite influencing the tides of the sea.
He affixes SLEDGE across the E of WEB, L scores double-letter, 9 points. “It’s fun skiing with the kids once in a while.”
I’ve never seen snow before, I say. I only see them from my freezer. He ROTFLs then types, “You should see my son.
Pretty boy with blue eyes.” I laugh out loud and ask his son’s name and age. “Roland. 21. Skinhead and races a horse.”
Interesting. “His current girlfriend is a black racehorse named Pauline.” He wonders what I look like and asks for a photo
to email it to him. I fabricate an exotic babe in his head: chocolate skin, long hair, brown eyes, slender. I say I have a birthmark on my shoulder the shape of a goat. He finds this amusing.
Another fictional character creeps in. Roland, six letters. Standing upright, one head, a torso, two arms, two feet.
He has ten fingers and ten toes. He also has a penis. But then again, Roland is just a name that exists in this text.
I tile GEY on double-word, and make WEEP an adjective, 27 points. Is your son around? I ask. He tells me
Ronald’s out, but he’ll be home before 9. It’s 30 minutes past 7 at Worcestershire, 7 hours behind Manila. Then his email
address appears on my screen. “My son would like to see what you look like,” he says vaguely. Your son, I say, mistyping
LMAO. What makes you so sure I’ll like him, or he’ll like me? “Just a hunch. You sound like a nice lady to bring over
here.” Scenes of white Christmas, windmills, verdant meadows, and a legion of cows pop up in my head. Then I see myself
33
thirty years later, in rubber boots wading through cow shit and yanking cow nipples into filthy buckets of milk. I laugh,
typing, I don’t even have a passport. I have never stepped out of the country. Chad adds S to make STOOL, and doublewords STAG vertically, T a blank tile, 13 points. Then he asks, “Aren’t you sleepy? What time do you work?” Freelance,
I say. I freelance foot work. I post ads on bulletin boards and restroom cubicles, then people call me. “Why reflexology?”
The kicks, I say. I get lots of tips using lip service. All these things, I make it all up.
Me, Chad, Roland, Capili, Zafra, and the moon, we are characters representing two worlds apart from the realm
of Forms and Ideas. In this world of words, we are mere inkblots structured in such a way to convey meaning. In the
realm of Reality, we are materialized in the minds of other people, in documents that support our existence. To be is to be
perceived. Or so deluded philosophers say. I would also like to believe I am deep and intellectual.
I take out a J and score 18 points beside an O from STOOL. You know your energy field, I type. I can sense your
chakra’s at the abdomen level. “Which means?” he says. I pause and say, Which means you have a lot of sexual energy. He
LOLROTFLLMAOs and grins two times. “My wife and I,” he says, “We’re active individuals.” I’m happy for you, I say.
Not all people get to that point.
That a stool isn’t really a piece of excrement or furniture; it only produces a shape and texture in our heads. That
a stool isn’t really brown; it only produces a color of brownness in our eyes.
He spells DRIFTS up the S of SLEDGE, triple-letter double-word. That makes 24. My mom and dad, I say,
they have zero sexual energy. They have lots of mental energy though, their chakra. He doesn’t comment on this. All this
chakra talk gets boring, so I ask him, Do you sell milk then? “We sell most of them. We leave something for ourselves. To
make cream, yogurt, and ice cream.” Cool, I say. What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream? “Cantaloupe.”
That ice cream isn’t really cold and sweet; it only produces a sensation of coldness and sweetness in our tongue. That milk
isn’t really white; it only produces a color of whiteness in our eyes.
All my tiles at the base point of 1, I write a double-word RUIN from DRIFTS. A sucky 8 points. I almost forget
what cantaloupe looks like. “But it’s out of season. So we always have vanilla instead.” I like vanilla, although I like chocolate better. Generic flavors, I think to myself. I grew up on dirty ice cream. I ask, Do you know the flavor ube? He doesn’t.
I tell him ube’s a purple yam unique to the Philippines. I’m not sure about it, but I tell him that anyway. I say it tastes like
gabi or kamote. “What are those?” I laugh, saying, I forget their English variations. I’m not good at naming vegetables
and plants.
That this sentence only exists when you are looking at it, and when you’re not there to see it, it disappears. That
ideas only exists when you’re thinking of them, and when you’re not, they die out.
He puts SHIRT at the end of ELOQUENT, same 8 points. “We tried garlic ice cream once,” he begins. “Then ginger ice
cream, for their nutritive value.” Ginger and garlic, I type. GROSS. How was it? “Awkward-tasting but is okay.” Speaking
of garlic, I remember my paper about vampires from Popular Literature class. “You go to school?” Oh shit. I mean, back
in college, I say, gathering my composure. The vampires, the concept originated from England. Bram Stoker’s Dracula,
you remember?
Tom Hodgkinson’s How to be Idle: A Loafer’s Manifesto, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Michael Crichton’s Next, Wendell Capili’s Mabuhay To Beauty, Jessica Zafra’s Twisted Series, and this article I am writing, these things are in one way
or another, an advertisement. All writing is a form of advertisement. What do you think am I selling?
I lay AGREE at the triple-word score at the bottom left of the board, extra word OE, 23 points. He says he’s seen
the 2002 film version. “What about vampires?” We have the manananggal or half-segmenter. A vulture-woman who tears
her upper body from the waist and flies off at night to suck fetuses from pregnant women. He LOLs at this and comments,
“I heard of a half-segmenter breaking into two,” then adds, “breaking vertically.” Gross. If that were a guy, I tell him,
where will his penis go? Chad tiles a synonym of pimple, ZIT at RUIN. Double-word score, 24. He laughs out loud. “I
don’t know. Probably be sliced down the middle.” We laugh and ROTFL and LMAO.
Fiction is the lie that tells the truth. But fiction is a lie, nevertheless. Together they cancel out each other. One minus one?
Zero? What makes you so sure zero exists?
I add S to ZIT, and place SAC across a double-word, 23. Do you play every day? I ask him. “Yes. Two hours average.” You have buddies around here? “Just a few. About three or four. Most people don’t want to chat while playing.” 34
Suddenly, my four-year-old niece bangs at my door in the middle of the night, and enters my room in her rumpled
pajamas. In a raspy voice she says, “Tita.” Eyes droopy, hair tousled, she continues, “I need to poo.” I tell Chad to wait
for two minutes. Nature calls, and he says “Ok.” Kaira, my niece, she takes more than two minutes to crap her long dark
brown turd. “Keliit-liit mong tao, kelaki-laki ng tae mo,” I kid her. We laugh in the bathroom. I wash her butt crack and
when that’s done, she runs into my room. I wash my hands. I find her punching the keys and “fdftthgjgffllk’;;l” appears on
the chat screen. Sorry about that, I tell Chad. My cat just walked over my laptop. I shove Kaira out my room.
Whether this game happened or not, how can you be so certain? I am creating this fictional world in this arbitrary
text where I pretend to be a character of my own making. A fictional character in a fictional text in a fictional world in a
fictional idea. A lie within a lie within a lie within a lie.
He spells a variation of idiot down the L of SLEDGE. LOUT, U on a double-letter grid, 5 points. “You have a
cat?” His name is Tubby. I picked him off the street as a kitten. “Cute,” he says. “How old?” One year. Apparently I left
my door open. He’s sprawled on my bed now. Do you have pets? “We have some sort of lizard at the kitchen counter,”
he says. “He lives in an aquarium and changes color depending on the curtain.” Coolness. What do you call him? “Lizzy.”
Very creative. We LOL at the same time. GRUNT double-word across from GEY, I score 14. “My wife,” he says. “She
needs to lose weight.” Then continues, “Can you lose weight using reflexology?” I laugh and say, Yes. But if you press
or squeeze it the wrong way, she’ll inflate and soar to outer space. Grin smiley. He ROTFLs. “Seriously.” Never done it
before. Has she tried apple cider vinegar? “What about it?” You mix two spoonfuls with half a cup of water then drink it
before meals. “Does it work?” Yeah, I lost 25 pounds in two months.
I am a compulsive liar. What makes that previous statement true?
He triple scores the word BOOT, 18 points. Apple cider also has other magical properties, I tell him. “Magical?”
It cures some superficial illnesses. Headaches, menstrual cramps, constipation, and stuff. “I’ll google that later.” Erectile
dysfunction. He laughs. How fat is she? “Not cow-fat or obese-fat,” he replies. “She just doesn’t look what she used to be.”
LOL. She must be hot back then. He tells me he met her in the church. Sings in the choir, beautiful voice. Until now? “Oh,
she still sings,” he says. “But she only sings for me.” That’s so sweet, I write. My heart melts, somewhat. I spell MIRE
from AMEN, double-word with a bonus double-word IN, 16 points. Christian? “Anglican.” Active? “Very.” He pauses for
a while then asks, “Do you believe in God?” I am a radical atheist but I type, Yes. We are a Christian country.
Our world greatly relies on words alone. That without words, there wouldn’t be history, no culture, no society,
no Pamela, no Scrabulous, no Weaving Words, Weaving Worlds, no Roland and his penis. The Bible is a necessary fiction.
He tiles WIRE up from WEEPY, W on triple-letter, 11. “Christian country in Asia,” he says. Philippines, East
Timor, and some parts of Indonesia, I say, Christian countries. “East Timor,” he types. “Where is that?” It’s beside
Mexico. “What?” he says. I’m kidding; I have no idea where that is. Poor sense of geography. He grins. Do you travel? I
ask him. He says he hardly leaves England. He’s scared of riding airplanes. Why, I say. His parents, he tells me, they died
in a plane crash back in the ‘80s. I say I’m sorry with a sad face. “It’s O.K..”
What do you make of this world if words are removed entirely? No labels on the streets, no libraries, no internet,
no signs, no symbols, no texts? We’re all just lizards, really. We camouflage; we lie.
Double-word YOUR crossing the word GRUNT, I get 14. We’re almost out of tiles, I tell him. You’re losing!
Our score is 321 against 180. “I quit!” He LOLs and ROTFLs. “You’re good.” Just my luck, I say. Seconds of boredom
pass. Did you know, I tell him, Did you know there are erogenous zones on the foot... that give genital stimulation?
“What?” He laughs and says, “You are kidding me.” Would I lie to you?
What is real? What is truth? A pregnant woman faces her husband and asks, How do I look? Her husband says,
You are beautiful. In his mind he says, You look like a cow.
PIT across from the end of LOUT, I in triple-letter, he scores 7. “I don’t know.” He laughs. “Your turn.” It’s what
keeps my customers coming, really, I type. He laughs again. It’s like being a prostitute, in a way. He ROTFLs, saying,
“You’re telling me, the foot is connected to the genitals.”
Truth is found only after obliterating words and symbols that produce arbitrary meanings. But really, the foot is
35
connected to the genitals. Imagine a foot right there in your genital. That’s how it’s anatomically connected. Why is the
recreation organ situated beside the excrement organ? Babies and feces, they’re a membrane separate from each other. If
babies had flashlights inside the womb, they’ll see translucent fecal matter floating from the wall they’re pressed against.
Two words FA and AY from the word YOUR, I score 14. The blood flow at your foot, I say, if you want to be scientific
about it, it’s connected to every organ of the body. “I don’t know if I should believe that.” He grins. Ever wonder, I type,
how most food supplements are geared towards maintaining perfect blood circulation? He laughs, saying, “Just don’t know
how you do that with the foot.”
Would you prefer to see the Emperor naked? Of course you would. You like seeing naked people. We’re all animals, really. The only difference is that we’re intelligent and we wear clothes. We make everything complicated. When a
child sees crap in the toilet, it is soft, brown, disgusting, and stinky. But when we see our crap in the toilet, we see the food
that we ate, broken down in our intestines, its nutrients distributed to the cells in the body. We see food converted into
energy. We see why we get up in the morning and do the things we do. With this picture of crap, we see that we need to
eat to survive. Crap has the same connotation as existence. And once we die, our bodies rot, intermingle with the earth,
and become minerals for plants, which would then be eaten by people and animals. The cycle goes on. Crap isn’t just a
crap. Literally, it makes sense: Life is a piece of shit.
LAWN at the W of WIRE, L triples, he gets 8 points. I laugh and continue, the blood flow, it pumps from the
heart, ends at the foot, and goes back to the heart. “Your point being?” I don’t really know the science behind it, I tell him.
You just have to have faith somehow. “I would like to try that,” he says. “Just to prove you wrong.” He LOLs and says,
“Look, we’re running out of tiles. Can I have your email?” I place VIA down the top center triple-word score, 18. All right,
I say. I invent an email address in my head then type, [email protected]. I’ll just send you my picture then.
Ideas, Reality, and Words, they are similar and distinct, the same and different. Think of the word “I”. In your
mind, “I” is the totality of yourself: your repressed childhood memories, your experiences from cradle to grave, your
atomic and anatomical structure, your complex emotions, your thoughts and imaginations and dreams and aspirations. It
would take a thousand writers to summarize your “I” in a library of books. Your “I” is an entire universe of its own. In
reality, you’re just an intelligent monkey wearing clothes. In words, “I” is just black pixels in the shape of a vertical line.
Ideas, Reality, Words: the person you love isn’t the same person who loves you isn’t the same person represented by the
word ‘person’. That the sum of the parts does not equate to its whole. The truth is, a triangular sandwich tastes better
than a rectangular one.
END down the E of BEAT, he scores 4. The game is almost over. “That would be great.” He keys in a grin
emoticon. “Do you chat? YM? Webcam? So you can see my son.” I add a letter I on the triple-letter grid after the H of
SHIRT, 7 points. “It would be nice if I could chat with you again,” he continues. “Outside Scrabulous, I mean. Cos I suck
at Scrabble.” He ROTFLs. I LOL again and say, then add me up, footwork96. Grin. Somehow, deep inside, I feel a pang
of guilt.
I am Pamela and I exist only in this text. Somewhere in the future, words are going to be added in this text saying
that Chad and I met in England. That he is white, fat, wrinkly, and wears five layers of clothing. You ask yourself, did this
really happen? It did. It happened in the pages of this article.
He adds D to HI to make HID, 7. Ha! I say. You are over mister. “Wait,” he says. “Before you put the last tiles,
when will you be online?” I can’t tell. You have my email anyway. I put in a smiley. Any last words? “Uhm, you get some
sleep now. Nice meeting you, Pamela.” I LOL at the name and say, You too, Chad. I tile AID on triple-word score from
HID, I get 12 points. The game automatically logs out and the final score pops up on my screen. His remaining 4-point
tiles are transferred from his score to mine. Final score, 406 against his 213. I win.
36
ANDREA N. MACALINO
Benediction
First published in Heights: The Official Literary Publication and Organization of the Ateneo, Vol. LII, No. 1, school year 2009-2010 and
revised for the 50th Silliman University National Writers Workshop
When the Archbishop proclaimed that only women — true, anatomically authentic women — could join the
Santa Cruzan, Alan had expected his family to throw a party. Upon hearing the announcement, he had imagined his uncles
carrying in a small lechon, his aunts gathering around the pancit, and his cousins preparing the buko juice or perhaps buying a bottle or two (or three or four) of Coca-Cola. The alcohol — or rather, the absence of it — would prod gently at the
edges but would do nothing more, he imagined, because having a party in itself was blatant, but risking drunken insults
would be careless.
It was without question that the Ladies of the Parish would obey the Archbishop’s proclamation, forgetting the
countless years when women — and those who believed they were women in the very core of their souls — had paraded
down the narrow streets wrapped in stiff, glittering dresses or soft, flowing gowns, but always bejeweled and smiling with
their escorts.
Just the same, there was no question about Alan’s father partaking in the parade this year.
Alan stood up from having watched a few moments’ worth of television while munching on a pan de sal and
headed towards the kitchen to start with the morning chores. It was something he had long grown accustomed to ever
since the day after he and his father arrived four years ago, having just parted ways with Alan’s mother, who had finally
admitted to her heart and to her family that having a gay husband — albeit a loving, caring, almost polished-to-perfection
gay husband — was just not her cup of ginger ale tea. He had quickly learned that his father was no more welcome in this
house than he had been at the house of Alan’s relatives on the maternal side, but that bore little significance in the face of
the fact that there had been nowhere else left to go.
Still, even the temporary relief of finding a place to stay — even if the place was full of sneers and side comments about his father — had to pass. The signs of the times — the suspicious economy and the perennial tensions in
government—were tightening their grip on the family’s throat and bleeding wallets dry. Like a silent assailant on the
prowl, the demand that one family member be sacrificed and sent to work in the Great Overseas was a constant murmur,
slithering through the paper-thin walls of the house and caressing the recesses of its residents’ minds. Unfortunately, being
a gay, single father with a low-paying blue-collar job fulfilled all the requirements of this silent, insistent whisper and as he
gathered the dirty dishes from the table, Alan pictured his father’s plane ticket, passport, and necessary papers piled neatly
atop the small desk he kept in his room.
What he could not imagine however, was his own father, who had not come out of his room since the Archbishop
made his announcement and the Ladies of the Parish, with their quiet nods and equally silent lips, gave off all sorts of signs
foretelling of their obeisance two days ago. There was the Flores de Mayo, it was true, but Alan’s father would have gone
by then, serving a people whose culture he neither knew nor loved.
Mourning the loss of one last chance to don his stunning blue gown before he rode a plane and became one of the
faceless thousands of men and women abroad, Alan’s father remained in his room, doing goodness knew what. Or rather,
he stayed in his room doing whatever it was that everyone else except his own son knew of, for Alan had not been allowed
37
inside his father’s room since the voluntary isolation had begun.
This voluntary isolation, the silence of all the other members of the family about it, the constant newscasts about
various reactions to the Archbishop’s announcement — Alan suspected that these were the reasons why the pain inside
him felt like a tiny ball of half-hardened clay, throbbing quietly and trembling at every feather-light touch. But it was a
pain which Alan could not even begin to unweave, for it was a kind of mourning that seemed to grow complex at every
moment of each passing day.
It seemed inhuman to tear his father away from the place where stars are hung on trees and houses at Christmas
time and where children and adults alike press their foreheads to the backs of their elders’ hands. And it seemed especially
insensitive to tear him away from the place where, up until recently, men and women, whether in i or otherwise, formed
a procession under seemingly dim stars and yellow-orange streetlamps during the Santa Cruzan, their smiles bejeweling
their otherwise weary faces.
But all these thoughts, these seedlings of a still-budding nationalistic emotion, bundled as they were with the
pain of losing his father to another country, were made all the more strange when Alan thought of what a mind-boggling
isolation his father had brought upon himself. Indeed, what a strange isolation it was! For, as proven by countless cousins,
aunts, and younger uncles who had been tasked to bring food to his father at proper times, the door was not actually
locked at any time of day. And yet that one time when Alan had tried to go inside, the eldest aunt had shrieked and pulled
him away, telling him that he was not allowed to see.
The day went on, consisting of more chores, an hour or two of chess with some cousins, a few errands to the sarisari store, and then watching what was left of the obligatory noontime show after washing the lunchtime dishes.
But in the afternoon, there was the one thing he always looked forward to: basketball. It was not much of a game,
really, especially considering that he and his cousins played at the makeshift court in the backyard. Still, it was the only
time that his cousins actually treated him as they would any other player in the game, and his muscles itched for the movements of the game as he tied his laces.
When they started playing, Alan had started to think that it was one of the best games he had ever played. True,
it was more a variation of kanto basketball, with no calls of violations like foul or traveling, and with only three-againstthree, but it felt like the championship all the same.
It was around half an hour into the game, and all of them were covered in a sweaty sheen, hair plastered on foreheads, when Alan felt a surge of adrenaline; his teammates who were also his younger cousins, Lex and Jason were hopeful. They were five points ahead. The other team, which consisted of the older trio, Lan, Alex, and Jasper, were wearing
scowls on their faces.
Jason passed the ball to Lex. Lex attempted a three-pointer but almost lost the ball to Alex. Luckily, Alan
swooped in from behind, just underneath the ring. He made a feint, pretending he was going to shoot, and then darted
when three pairs of arms tried to grab the ball. He ran, gauging the distance, and in the blurred vision of his eye saw his
chance. He raised the ball to take aim and—
Woomph! Lan, the eldest of the bunch rammed his elbow into Alan’s gut. The court was dotted with balls of black
in front of Alan, dropping and spreading in his vision like thick raindrops of slow, heavy darkness. Eventually he realized
he had let go of the ball and that his teammates were standing around him, not daring to help him up as slow notes forming
someone’s voice thickened and slurred in his ears.
“…shouldn’t have to lose to someone whose dad wears panties.”
Afterwards, when the older trio had walked away and his teammates gave him sympathetic pats on the shoulder,
too scared of what Lan would do to them if they actually helped, Alan drew his knees to his chest, still feeling the pain in
his gut. He wanted something, but was too scared to think exactly what. But it was clear to him that only sweat and sun
cloaked him now.
Dinner was lonelier than usual, just as it had been the last two nights, with his father’s chair empty still. He always
thought that it was loneliest at supper without his father, but this time Alan found his head snapping up the moment his
eldest aunt nodded to a female cousin, signaling that it was time to bring food to the voluntary prisoner.
38
The sudden movement by Alan, however, did not go unnoticed. Instead, it caught the eye of his eldest uncle who,
after a moment’s pause, put up a hand before the female cousin could turn around with the tray. Alan watched his face,
transfixed, knowing at the back of his mind that each spoken word, each little act in the long thread of moments thereafter
would somehow be determined by whatever it was that his eldest uncle was about to do or say.
Masticating slowly, his eldest uncle let his gaze fall first on Alan and then on the face of his wife. Having caught
her husband’s gaze, Alan’s eldest aunt managed to achieve the wide-eyed look of someone who had just been told there
would no longer be any obligatory noontime shows or evening dramas. But Alan’s uncle nodded nonetheless.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Everyone else has done it except him. It’s about time he saw.”
“It’s about time he saw”— those, too, had been the words of his mother one day long ago when a fight had broken
out between her and Alan’s father. At that time, Alan had been oblivious to everything. He had not known the reasons
why his mother continually snapped at his father for the smallest things, had not understood the creeping tensions taking
hold of their family’s life. “It’s about time he saw”—those were the words his mother had said, hands on her waist and lips
forming a tight line as she demanded that Alan help her organize the closet in the master’s bedroom.
“No,” his father had insisted, standing in front of the huge closet, an unexplained fear in his eyes and a kind of
stern resolve in his limbs. Still, Alan’s mother had marched to the closet doors and had pried them open just as swiftly. On
the right side had hung all of his mother’s blouses — blue, yellow and off-white amidst a couple of slacks, some skirts and a
few Sunday dresses. “Look, son,” his mother had said. “This is my side of the closet — and this,” she had gestured to the
left, “is your father’s side.” Her eyes had sparkled with a kind of momentary malice. “Can you tell the difference, baby?”
Alan’s eyes had wandered over to the disarray of colorful tank tops, knee-length cocktail dresses, and flowered
shirts he had never seen before, all of them squeezed to one side of the closet by the more familiar line of old sports jackets
and round-necked shirts. He remembered wondering how a particular pink blouse would look hanging about the lanky
frame of his father, although he also remembered wondering how he was going to fix this closet of secrets — did his mother
want him to arrange the clothes by length? By color? By occasion?
But most of all he remembered the unspeakable sadness he had seen clouding over his father’s eyes when he had
looked up at him, confused and fearful, unsure of what was being asked of him in that situation. He had not even noticed
his mother walking out, although he could remember the strong arms of his father lifting him up, telling him not to let it
bother him. Still, it had been too late, too late, too late because he had seen, he had seen, he had seen.
It had been at that moment years ago, Alan realized, when it had all started to make sense. It had been at that
moment when he had somehow, although not fully, understood the reason why his mother always seemed to be on the
verge of tears while she cooked or cleaned or sung him a lullaby to sleep.
It had been at that moment when Alan had understood why there was not enough comfort in the world for his
mother, for his father, and for himself.
Now Alan stood with the tray in his hands, feeling a rush of relief when he heard his eldest aunt telling everyone
else to resume their meal. Upon reaching his father’s room, he set the tray down on a small set of drawers that stood near
the door and knocked, hearing no reply. Alan paused, waiting and pushing away all thoughts of bringing the tray inside.
Quietly, he reached for the knob, turned it slowly, and peered inside.
There, wearing his stunning blue gown that fit him on the waist and cascaded like a shining blue bell down his
hips, knelt his father, arms outstretched on either side of him. On one hand, he held a white plastic rosary by its cross so
that its immaculate white beads seemed to flow like stiff tears from the fingers that held it, tears so unlike the ones which
streamed from his father’s eyes and down his weary cheeks.
His gaze was fixed on the statue of the Virgin whose eyes, Alan thought, seemed ready to spill with tears of her
own.
39
MIEL A. VILLARUEL
The Master
The gold paperweight calendar covers 50 years from 1999 to 2048. It is 2.5 inches in diameter and 1.5 inches thick.
The rotating plate is divided into four parts: The top slice shows the months, the bottom holds the dates. The left has an
engraving of a ship wheel while the right is etched with a sailing vessel. The heavy platform underneath contains the years
on the outer rings and the days on the inner circles. “PLACE YEAR OVER MONTH”, commands the plate’s centre.
The captain makes similar commands. “ALL ABOARD!” He would call out from the front door to his wife
Adelita when he was ready to leave the house for a family affair, seemingly unmindful that they have four young children
queuing to be dressed. These days, his signature shout would be met by a barrage of protests from his “pahabol” 19-yearold daughter. His two older sons, age 34 and 32, have their own families now. The 30-year-old son is not always accessible,
and the 28-year-old daughter simply rolls her eyes.
The captain is a jolly and funny man. He plays three-chord guitar songs like Pearly Shells and Tiny Bubbles and
sings with gurgling sounds. He listens to medley tracks that include Sad Movies, Tell Laura, and Paper Roses during road
trips, and sets the car’s CD player on repeat against the unified objection of his five grandchildren. He belts out a less than
dignified “Ayehihuy! Aruy!” when he pulls a hamstring during physical workouts. He makes tango look like a foxtrot.
During photo-ops, he does not look straight at the camera, for dramatic effect.
Early in his marriage, the captain was a heavy drinker. But aside from the smell and the snoring, his wife had no
complaints. His drinking buddies were his co-members in the Catholic group Knights of Columbus. As his three sons approached adolescence, his wife finally confronted him: “Would you like them to grow up with this notion of their father
– a walking robot running out of battery at night?” That was enough to make him stop.
The captain’s K of C buddies have also been his long-time tennis mates. At sharply 3:00 o’clock in the afternoon,
he disappears from his wife’s sight and heads gleefully to the Puerto Galera Tennis Alley right across the Immaculate
Conception Parish Church. Now that he’s a senior citizen, he returns home promptly at 7:00 o’clock in the evening, right
on time for dinner. This is true for weekdays. On Saturdays, however, it is still an ongoing debate whether he would stay
for another match or join his wife in attending the anticipated Mass. Sometimes tennis wins. His wife is quick to point out
his “sin” but lovingly gives in. The captain’s reasoning is humorous in its practicality: There is always Mass the next day.
And as he wakes up early, he never misses.
The captain wakes up much earlier than any one of us. When he stays with us in the family apartment in Manila,
he jogs at 5:00 o’clock in the morning to the Cultural Center of the Philippines and Harbour Square. On his way home, he
buys pan de sal from a family-owned bakery. He always has two glasses of cold fresh milk ready to drink when I wake up.
One is for himself, the other for me, his 28-year-old “little girl”. It makes him happy just sitting beside me at the breakfast
table, both of us drinking. It makes me very happy, too, so I never told him that I am lactose intolerant.
Captain Renato Maliksi Villaruel, a master mariner, is my father. He grew up in the small island of San Antonio
in Puerto Galera. As the only elementary school was located in Poblacion on the main island, he would paddle his way
on a small outrigger boat from San Antonio to Muelle Bay where the main island’s port was located. His daily baon was
a generous serving of rice and fish, plus a few coins. He would reach school just in time for the flag ceremony, smelling of
sweat and saltwater. My mother, Adelita, was his classmate.
40
My father, the first of eight children, came from a well-to-do seafaring family. His father, Captain Macario Villaruel, owned seven M/V Aries passenger and dry goods ships that sailed around Visayas, Marinduque, Mindoro and
Palawan. He originally came from Iloilo, and on his first trip to Galera caught sight of the young and soft-spoken Lucina
Maliksi. They eventually got married and settled in San Antonio. Having looks and money, my grandfather attracted
many women. And he was lured by them. Later on, he succumbed to gambling. My father recalls how my grandfather’s
fortunes were taken away from him. My mother said it was God’s hand at work. The ships sank or burned down one by
one. Then my grandfather had a stroke which left him paralyzed from the waist down. He spent the rest of his life on a
wheelchair and died when I was five. There were no savings except for a large woven basket filled with crumpled bills and
dozens of coins that my grandmother Cina was able to stash.
Fifty years ago, when my brown-skinned father was a mere boy of 14, he was already very attracted to my Spanish
mestiza mother, who is nine months younger than him. The pimple-marked, young Ronnie could not sing or dance, and
the freckled-faced, petite Jeth was the star singer and dancer in town. He did not express his admiration right away. He
waited until he was 20 and has started working as a seaman. His first job was removing rust on steel ships. He became a
captain at 25 – an age seen as young for a Filipino seaman that time. He was featured on a national paper, and my mother
secretly kept the clipping. Unfortunately, it was lost in a flood. Their courtship spanned eight years as my father promised
my grandfather that he will not get married until he has sent his two youngest siblings to college. My mother did not mind
the wait. She, too, was paying for the college tuition fees of her two younger brothers.
When I was sixteen, my mother shared to me a true story that my father never once mentioned. It happened in
1981. My father was on board the wooden M/V Ace sailing from Galera to Batangas when a furious squall struck. Waves
angrily hit the hull, and the small ship was perilously tossed in all directions, causing great fear among crew and passengers who were screaming, crying, praying. Seeing the local captain in a state of shock, my father took over the wheel and
bravely manoeuvred the ship to the nearest cove. When the squall subsided, he stepped aside and let the ship’s captain take
over from there. No life was lost. My father was a hero.
I admire my father more for not telling this story to us. He is a healthy and fulfilled 65-year-old man now. He could
have chosen to retire much earlier, and my brothers and I have pleaded him to go home for good, but his current company
asked him to train younger captains for another year. Besides, he becomes restless when he is not out in the sea. It is his
home, too.
In 2048, I will be 65. If I am still alive by then, I would be looking back to the lovely times I shared with my father. I wished I brought here in Dumaguete the Pelican Bay nautical calendar that my father gave me in 1999. With it, I
can turn back the years. 1988: Captain Ronnie is dictating simple words to his daughter Miel to spell. She writes ‘bred’ for
‘bread’, and when he reads it, he smiles, gently rubs her left ear lobe with his right thumb and forefinger and says, “That’s
very good, anak, you missed only one letter.”
41
ALYZA MAY T. TAGUILASO
Leviathan
1
When I was born, my eyes were wide open.
Grandmother served as witness and storyteller to this. She believed it a sign of an eagerness to see the world – even when
trapped in that aqueous womb. Years later, I am shown how this doesn’t mean anything special. My vision was good with
color but poor with clarity: I ended up wearing glasses, mistaking particular things for others.
2
Somewhere in between learning to read and memorizing all known types of dinosaurs, I am given pet goldfish. Eventually
they die from my carelessness as a child.
This was one of the ways I was shown how water could wound our bodies: silently and without the violence of waves.
3
When my younger sister was born, I immediately despise her.
She is quiet and pretty. I am wont to making noise and frowning.
One way to see this is to think I reacted
from pure, childish jealousy: no longer
being the only child. No longer being the only one
to warrant love. Another way to see this is: Years later
my sister will push me into our pond, bruising my legs and knees
because she believed me better off as a fish,
convinced that contact with other fish would turn me
into a mermaid.
42
4
I took to stories about mermaids and water, my eyes suddenly used to the color blue and the sight of a thousand tiny scales,
my nose sniffing the saltwater mother helped me make in the kitchen sink.
But sometimes I’m not sure if this memory is accurate. My mother didn’t always love me and there wasn’t always as much
salt in our house.
5
I did not always have many friends. As a child I talked little, kept to myself, took to stomping on puddles, and tried to
follow fish on my free time.
Eventually we couldn’t keep as many fish as I wished. One after the other, they started dying as if a plague had infested
our pond.
So I started looking to the sound
of human voices, water would no longer fill
the empty cup
I possessed.
6
The first time I almost drowned, it was to get attention from my father.
I remember being surrounded by bodies and water – people and their multicolored swimsuits sprinkled all over the pool.
It was a bad time to decide to die. I held my breath until I couldn’t remember what it meant to breathe (vision blurring,
insides unused to air). A mess of gurgles and foam, I was lucky when someone was kind enough to notice the flailing of
my limbs in that shy spot of blue.
Dad never noticed. So I took this
as a sign: Death is a funny thing.
Do it for someone you love, and you might actually succeed.
7
I read somewhere that the person we love is made
of 72.8% water. I think this permits me the possibility
of drinking you up (all soft skin and bones), disregarding
what you possibly taste like (discounting
43
the death of this fantasy –
all with a single gulp), discarding everything
I do not need: cannot consume.
I do not understand the makings of our bodies,
why must we be made of water? All finicky,
fickle, and fluid: insides a mess of flotsam –
flimsy waves of desire pounding
within the walls of these vessels
about to burst
from so little love.
8
Riding a boat across salty waters, I tossed a coin out into the sea.
This is sin and sacrifice: I am convinced I am dreaming and in my dream you are lost, drowned. The coin is an offering to
the waters (its steel voice echoing Please bring him back, as it flows down, down, down into those depths) and also an act
of trespassing: permeating the surface to create a passage.
9
You can live a longer time without food than water. Fourteen days is all it will take before you expire. This is what scientists say. Being a firm believer of science, I am convinced this is true.
10
The first boy I loved was named after a shade of the water. He was twice my age when we met. I recall finding his fingers
endearing: pale, thin strands of threads perfectly laid resting on the moonlit sand that one time we slept beside each other
in a beach in Batangas.
I remember leaving as morning light crept in, having been more frightened
of being the one left alone: the sound of water jolting me into waking.
11
At this point I would like to tell you:
my grandmother has died,
but already that story was spilled
44
in another poem. Let me tell you instead
of the other things that could have killed her:
Her inability to swim; the water
that eventually welled up in her lungs
as she grew sick. This terrified me –
the thought of drowning on dry land.
12
There is a story about the loneliest whale in the world.
They said none of the other whales could perceive the exact pitch of its voice so despite every plea to be found by something its gigantic body could call familiar, to this day the whale wanders the ocean alone, ears slowly growing deaf to the
sound of its own song.
This is no different from you and I.
In dreams our mouths are so used
to calling out each other’s names
yet upon waking, I find my desire
washed away, diluted by fear,
my inability to call you by your name.
13
The few times I considered dying, I always tried it with a bucket of cold water.
The rule was to dip your head in it until the air departed from your lungs.
I never got beyond getting my hair wet.
14
Years ago, a man made his way to this country as a stowaway on a ship. War had broken out on the holy soils of India and
he was too weak to fight those wailing demi-gods and deities. That man was my great-grandfather. When he died, they
scattered his ashes in Manila Bay, hoping to ease his way into the glorious underworld of the Ganges (because water will
find a way to seek itself, become a single mass, how our souls will dissolve). But I think he is still here, bits of his body
resting under that blanket of water. I have resolved to track all of him back someday. Reassemble his body and be told
stories from the dead – bones built into boats, voices gathering water, constructing a path leading to places baffling human
vision.
45
15
I have written you a hundred letters, sent each one out to sea because I know how dearly you love the water but at
the same time I am afraid of how little the water knows of love (like me), giving in excess, spilling secrets at the wrong
time.
For example: consider how we fall
in love so easily. How deeply
we drown: our hands so graceful despite the absence
of life: bodies drifting in the quiet water.
16
If our bodies are really composed of water, then all I ask of you is this:
Drink me up and be careful not to spill a single drop.
17
We met in the Year of the Flood, held mud-caked hands while piling away the aftermath of the deluge, one house at a
time. We both feared seeing someone’s dead limb poking out from the remains. You wrote stories and I had a penchant
for watercolors. Together we were going to make a book about floodwater and skeletons. Somewhere within the flow
of the passing days into weeks into months into a year, we lost track, memories growing muddy, promises turning into
the past.
18
I wish my words would turn into water.
That would be the only way you would listen to me: when it’s all liquid and lucid; distilled droplets trickling to surround
you, no lines to read between, no commas and ampersands to skirt around.
Just my voice: the shyest of leviathans.
19
At one point in my life, I decided the best way to deal with sadness was to cry once each year regardless of how I felt.
That way tears become kinder elements. You fixate more on tasting salt, how it takes the tongue to discern what the eye
is trying to say.
46
20
It is possible to drink yourself
to death in one sitting.
21
Someone said sound travels faster in water. I find this difficult to believe. Already, I have spent more than enough attempting to lengthen my breath underwater, just so my impaired eyes could see if my words were headed the right direction.
22
Imagine facing the emptiest of seas during a dark night, feel
waves crash – pleading with the skin of your feet,
each movement of water a coax coated in song
attempting to convince you that there is something good
despite the coldness
of the ocean. Imagine how all flotsam and seaweeds flow
into dry land reminding our bodies of distance –
how forever involves a movement through liquid walls,
and wreckage is merely a pause in the message
I repeatedly inscribe in sand: a space
between the continents of a map sewn in skin,
how water easily washes all wounds away,
flecks of light flooding
our eyes as we drown deeper.
47
The way we wound ourselves
without knowing why – I’m not talking
about severed spines or bruised elbows (no,
we get too much of that these days:
all injuries and sutures
people eventually pick at, things
I’d rather you not see). Darling, please listen
and look, I’m trying
to tell you something,
I didn’t mean to break
your wife’s teacup collection
when I went drinking
because you refused to answer
the telephone (really can’t tie
this distance between us, gaping
like a hole in our chests, calling
attention, ringing like an emergency),
the soft creaking of a door
being closed at night.
48
EMMANUEL LEAN P. LAVA
Christmas Monkey
There is no Santa Claus. That is what Jacob found out two years ago, and Christmas has been a little sadder because of that. One of Jacob’s friends discovered that Santa was not real and decided to tell every kid he knew. No one likes
being depressed alone, so his whole group – five disappointed eight-year olds – had a bad Christmas. This would be Jacob’s
third Claus-less Christmas. Only the thought of new toys, cool video games, and school vacation made him excited about
the holidays. His parents never asked whether he still believed Santa was real, so he never told them about his discovery.
Starting then when he received gifts from “Santa”, he felt bad, because it all seemed like a prank – a mean joke that the
world of grown-ups shared.
This Christmas was even worse, because his parents were going on a business trip to a small town in Pangasinan
and would return only on Christmas Eve. Until then, Jacob would be stuck at home with his younger brother Junjun and
the house help, Yaya Doray.
Yaya Doray and Junjun were not the best company for a ten-year-old on Christmas--at least that’s what Jacob
thought. Yaya Doray didn’t speak or read in English well and always had difficulty counting her change after buying
something. She sometimes seemed to enjoy watching cartoons more than Junjun did. She talked fast in Tagalog and used
strange expressions about saints and susmaryoseps. Jacob barely understood her. Meanwhile, Junjun was a mix of kid and
baby like most seven year-olds. Quite smart, he loved to read science books but still believed that Superman was real. He
explained to Jacob: “We have so many stars. There has to be aliens there! Superman is an alien.”
Yaya Doray was watching her noontime shows, so Jacob decided to bug Junjun in their room. When Jacob came
in, he saw Junjun crying. Thinking this was another one of Junjun’s childish tantrums, Jacob rolled his eyes.
“What is it? Worried about what gifts you’re going to get?” Jacob teased.
Sometimes he thought Junjun required too much attention. Junjun loved getting his way. He always got the last
slice of cake, ate most of the delicious food, and chose when and where the family went during weekends.
Junjun sniffled and tried to stop crying.
“No, this is serious,” Junjun spoke through his clogged nose. “Jacob, Santa might not be real!”
Jacob did not know what to say. He did not expect Junjun to learn this anytime soon. After all, how many seven
year-olds knew this? He could see how much this was bothering his little brother. He remembered how disappointed he
was when he found out this fact.
“Who told you?” Jacob asked.
“Ryan from school...” Junjun answered. “Kuya, is it true?”
Jacob couldn’t look him in the eye. Before he could speak, the door to their room opened and in walked Yaya
Doray.
“Oh, Junjun! Why you crying?” She gave Jacob a curious glance. “Come Junjun, time to take bath.”
Jacob was too confused to say anything. As Yaya Doray led Junjun out, the little boy looked at him with sad eyes,
waiting for an answer. Jacob said nothing.
Jacob always took his job as a big brother seriously. He always wanted to protect Junjun. And now, he had a
problem. Should he tell the truth like he was always taught to? He didn’t know. He decided to watch t.v. to forget about
the problem for a while.
49
Yaya Doray entered the room quietly after a few minutes.
“Jacob why your brother cry?” she asked.
Jacob said. “Yaya, Junjun asked me if it’s true that there is no Santa Claus.”
“Hala! You say ‘No Santa Claus’?” Jacob shook his head.
Yaya Doray looked at him for a few seconds. “You want to tell noh, that there’s no Santa Claus’?”
“I don’t know. It’s bad not to tell the truth, right?” Jacob answered.
Yaya sat there thinking hard for a minute. “It’s like our tree, special tree in my province.”
“What tree?” Jacob asked.
“Long time ago in Dapnan where I live, there is big fiesta. A family lose their baby during the celebration. They
look for baby all day. No baby. They run around and around and find baby under tree. They say there’s good spirit in tree.
So, they leave food, alahas, money, letters under tree. Next day, no more food, no more money. Magic.”
Jacob did not understand what Yaya Doray was trying to say.
“One night, I went to tree to see what spirit look like... You know what I saw? Monkey.”
“Monkey?”
“Monkey.” Yaya Doray answered. “Monkey eat food. Monkey take letters and papers, and money – everything. Monkey.”
Jacob felt Yaya Doray did not make any sense as usual. He got up, ready to leave. Yaya Doray gently held his arm.
“I did not tell about monkey.”
“Why not?” Jacob asked.
“Monkey and Santa Claus. They make people pray... be good... be happy. It is the same.”
Junjun’s voice interrupted them.
“Yaya, I’m done!” Jacob smiled. Yaya Doray smiled back, stood up, and said, “Monkey good, not bad.” As she
stepped out, Jacob decided on a plan.
After a few minutes, Junjun walked into the room. The little boy’s fat cheeks were pink, and that made him look
cuter than usual. Junjun sat by the bed. Jacob sat beside him.
“So what did Ryan tell you?” he asked.
“Santa isn’t real,” Junjun replied.
“What else did he say?” Jacob asked.
“He said his Santa’s gift was from his mom. The writing on Santa’s letter is like his mom’s.”
“That’s all?” Jacob asked to make sure.
“Yes, that’s all. Do you think Ryan’s mom gives us those gifts too?”
“Well... You’re old enough to find out.” Jacob said. “Santa Claus is REAL.”
Junjun looked on hopefully.
“Santa gives gifts ONLY to the kids on the Nice List, remember? But there are a lot of naughty kids. Mama’s and
Daddy’s of these kids do not want their children to be sad on Christmas, so they leave gifts for them like Santa would.”
Junjun listened attentively. Jacob continued.
“They think their kids are happier and these kids continue trying to be good and nice for the next year, so maybe Santa will
put them in the Nice List again. But when a bad kid finds out that he is in the Naughty List, he isn’t happy. So he chooses
not to believe in Santa, even if he is real.”
Junjun seemed to be thinking about his story.
“Your friend Ryan, is he a good boy?” asked Jacob.
“No! No he’s not! He likes to throw rocks at dogs and cats!” Junjun shouted.
Jacob saw his brother’s face light up. “So maybe Ryan is on the Naughty List. He’s doesn’t want to believe he is
on the bad list, so he just says there’s no Santa Claus anymore.”
“Oh no,” Junjun gasped. “Am I on the Naughty list? Is Mama the one giving me gifts?” Junjun narrowed his
eyes.
50
“No, no. I don’t think so.” Jacob did not expect that question. “I don’t think you’re on the Naughty List. Don’t
worry. The good thing is, there’s a real Santa!”
Junjun’s silence made Jacob nervous.
Finally Junjun said, “I know what I’ll do! Kuya, I’ll ask Santa to write me a letter to prove he’s real! If he writes
to me, then Santa is real.”
Relieved, Jacob thought he could do that easily. He would write that letter, so the handwriting would be different
from their mother’s.
“Then,” Junjun continued, “I’ll change the gift I asked for. I won’t ask for the Ben 10 action figure anymore.
I’ll ask for a remote control car. If Santa’s gift changes, then I’m in the Nice List! If not, then maybe I’m in the Naughty
List.”
Suddenly Jacob grew worried. Who will buy the new toy? Mom and Dad were far away, and they didn’t know
about the new toy Junjun wanted. He was in trouble.
That night, Jacob sent a text message to his mom, explaining what he told Jacob.
She texted back, “I’m sorry you already know, anak. For Junjun, I left Yaya some money. Tell Junjun to play at
the neighbor’s house. You and Yaya can buy the car. Love you.” So, the plan was set.
The next day after leaving Junjun with the neighbors, Yaya Doray told him that they would not be taking a taxi.
“No money for taxi. Just jeep and trike.”
Jacob had always been driven around by his father. He had taken taxis before, but had never taken a jeepney or
tricycle ride.
But it was much more fun than he thought! There was a lot of smoke and it was hot, but when the tricycles and
jeepneys went fast the rush of air kept Jacob refreshed.
Yaya Doray seemed different on that trip too. She found the right jeepney, knew how much money she needed
to pay and the exact change she should receive. She shouted: “Mama, tabi lang!” She knew exactly where to go and how
to get there. She didn’t look confused at any time and Jacob felt safer than he thought he would. When they got to the
shopping mall, he did not recognize it. He always knew he was at the mall when they were in the enclosed parking lot. He
had never entered the mall through the front entrance before.
Inside, there were so many people. His mother would have been so irritated that it was cramped everywhere, and
they would have walked so slowly through the crowd. But Yaya Doray was different. She zoomed past the people left and
right. She found spaces and passed slow walkers so quickly. Jacob thought if she had a basketball with her, she’d make an
excellent player! They got to the toy store, bought a nice blue remote control car, and got home in under two hours. Yaya
Doray saved the day.
Once at home, as he went off to take a bath, Jacob whispered, “Thanks Yaya.” Doray smiled.
The next day, Jacob asked Yaya Doray to wrap the gift. He spent the whole day distracting Junjun and himself.
They played Nintendo Wii the whole day.
Time passed quickly and before Jacob knew it, Mom and Dad were home. They hugged and kissed. While Junjun
talked to their mother and father, Jacob went to Yaya Doray’s small room by the kitchen. The small, white door was open
as always.
“Yaya, are you done wrapping the gift?” Jacob asked softly as he walked in.
“Ay, yes po.” Yaya Doray said. She opened a closet and pulled out the beautifully wrapped gift. The shiny white
silver wrapping and red ribbons looked perfect.
“Yaya,” Jacob said. “I was thinking of the monkey in that tree. Did the other people see it after you did?”
“I don’t think so,” she answered as she checked the gift to see if there was anything wrong with the wrapping. “I
never saw it again. But magical things happen every year.
“But you saw the monkey,” Jacob insisted.
“I saw monkey. One time only. But spirit, I feel everyday. Do you see God Jacob? No.” Yaya Doray put down the
gift and looked at Jacob. “But! You feel it. You know. Di ba?”
Jacob smiled. He did not see how wise Yaya Doray was. Even though she had taken care of the boys for almost
51
two years now, he never realized she was a different kind of smart. She didn’t need books, Math, or perfect English to be
that kind of smart.
“Please put the gift under the tree before twelve, okay Yaya? And put this on top.” Jacob handed her the note he
wrote on behalf of Santa. Jacob left the room smiling inside.
When he came back to his parents’ room, everyone was asleep. His parents lay on the bed snoring beside a sleeping Junjun. Jacob did not feel like sleeping. He thought about his previous Christmases. He would wake up his parents at
11:58 pm and feel angry if they didn’t start opening gifts right away. He would get mad at Junjun, if he took so long opening
his gifts when they took turns. This Christmas was very different and Jacob knew that.
This time, once the clock struck twelve, Jacob gently shook Junjun awake. He didn’t want to wake up his parents,
who had a long and tiring trip. Junjun woke up and said, “Is it time? Is he here? Is he real?”
“Shhhh...” Jacob said. “Come on.” He led Junjun out to the Christmas tree in the living room. Under the tree sat
the silver white and ribboned gift from Santa with a huge green and red Christmas card. Junjun ran to the gift and grabbed
the letter to read it out loud.
“Dear Junior, Yes I am real. I hope you did not think I wasn’t. This year you are in the Nice List again, but remember to try to be good every day of the year. Merry Christmas!”
Junjun’s face was filled with pure joy. He shouted, “I knew it! I knew it!!! You’re real! Mama! Daddy! Look!”
As Junjun celebrated, Jacob felt something he hadn’t felt before. He felt happy not for receiving a gift but for giving one. Junjun danced as he opened his gift and hugged his brand new blue remote control car
All of a sudden, Jacob heard an old man laughing and the tinkling of bells. Junjun stopped dancing and looked
at his brother. Then, there was a loud thud on the roof. The ringing of bells got softer and softer until they couldn’t hear
anything anymore. Jacob was extremely confused as he looked at the ceiling where the noise came from. Junjun restarted
his dance and then shouted, “Merry Christmas Santa!”
Before Jacob could run out to check on the sound, something caught Jacob’s eye: something shiny behind the
Christmas tree. It was a big gift wrapped in red cellophane. With a note on it that said, “To Jacob, From Santa.” Jacob
grabbed the gift and started ripping the paper off. He opened the box hidden inside and found in it a stuffed animal: a
monkey.
“Mama and Daddy couldn’t have known about Yaya’s story and Yaya was with me the entire time at the shopping
mall,” he thought. He ran to Yaya Doray’s room, where she sat at the edge of her bed.
As he held the stuffed monkey in his hands, he felt something slowly changing in him. His Christmases had
changed forever. He thought maybe he did believe in spirits and monkeys. Maybe he believed his own story about Santa.
Maybe he believed that this year... he made it back to the Nice List.
The funny thing was Jacob received the best gift of all – better than Junjun’s or any other child’s gift in the world.
He felt bad for having such a wonderful Christmas.
“Yaya Doray,” he said, then held the toy up – a gift from him. “Monkey.”
52
MIGUEL ANTONIO D. SULANGI
Waiting
Gregorio is smiling, despite the intense heat and glare that forced him to grudgingly wear those Divisoria-bought
knockoff Ray-Bans that his girlfriend Annie had given to him as a birthday gift. Just moments before, his passenger told
him, “Kuya, it’s all right, just keep the change.” He had run out of coins in his tricycle’s glove box and fumbled in his
pockets for coins for what must have seemed like an eternity and was on the verge of running to the corn vendor nearby
to exchange his paper bills for a boatload of coins when the passenger—a tall, pretty girl who studies in the big university
across the road—offered him some reprieve. He thanked her profusely and was apologetic about the whole thing. She
smiled and said, “It’s OK. No problem,” then went off inside one of the restaurants that dot this busy thoroughfare.
Fifteen extra pesos don’t come this easily, he thinks.
He likes it when those students from the nearby universities call him “Kuya” or “Pare.” “Manong” has always
struck him as too stiff and reverential, and besides, he is still very young. He is twenty years old and on his third week as a
tricycle driver. Right now he is still getting used to the hot sun, the dust and grime, and the rivulets of sweat flowing on his
forehead. He gets his handkerchief, wipes his face, and glances at his mirror. He doesn’t look like the guy in the ID picture
hanging inside his vehicle anymore. When he had that picture taken, a day before his first day as a tricycle driver, he was
a pale-faced, well-groomed man. Now his hair is disheveled, his clothes are crumpled, and his face has acquired the color
of chocolate milk, the kind his mother used to buy for him and his sisters when they were little, when they didn’t have to
leave the confines of their dinky home in Quezon City. He combs his hair with his fingers and smoothes the creases on his
shirt. He is happy, though, that he still looks like a twenty-year-old; he can accept the growing absence of the neatness that
had characterized him as a child, but he will not countenance the loss of his youth.
There are five tricycles ahead of his in the line at the terminal. It is two forty-five in the afternoon, and business
is very slow. He goes off to buy a stick of fish balls and a few pieces of candy. The other drivers are taking breaks as well:
One is smoking a cigarette, alone in the corner; two others are having an animated conversation about the latest college
basketball game; and two are sleeping on their motorcycles. When he first started working, he found it easy to hang out
with this bunch of drivers, despite the fact that nearly all the others were considerably older than he was. They all treated
him like a kumpare, but only after they had exhausted all the easy jokes about his age, pale complexion, and college-boy
appearance. “May gatas ka pa sa labi, tsong,” said the resident jokester among the drivers on his second day at work. To
Gregorio’s eternal regret, he came up with his comeback only much later, when it was too late, and even now he thinks it
probably wasn’t even that funny.
Nobody took on a mentorship role for him. He had to learn the ropes all by himself, but this was a task he was
used to ever since his father left his wife and children for the charms of a much younger woman and he was forced, at the
age of eleven, to be the man of the house. He found the experience unnerving at first: After all, his job is to drive a very
light three-wheeler along a street that, at certain times of the day, is chock-full of fifteen-ton delivery trucks, not all of
which are driven by upstanding citizens. He also initially found it hard to deal with pedestrians who would dither at busy
street crossings. In the hopes of getting some advice, he tried to talk with the other drivers about the basic protocols of
being a tricycle driver, but instead they regaled him with tales of arcane traffic rules, spoilsport MMDA personnel, city
ordinances that banned them from Katipunan one week and allowed them back the next, and passengers who would argue
endlessly with the drivers about the fare. If anything, those horror stories gave him a clear idea of what kind of driver he
53
should become: careful, polite and very, very patient.
Slowly the tricycles in the line begin to fill up with passengers, and before Gregorio knows it he is at the front of
the line. A tall, heavily built young man enters and says, “Gonzaga, kuya.” After nineteen days at work, he now has an
intimate familiarity with the places around Katipunan: Gonzaga is that old, dirty-white building in the university where
the students are dropped off and, later in the day, picked up by their drivers. Every noon, he’d see hordes of students waiting for their cars, bored beyond relief. He has little idea about what goes on inside the building, other than the fact that
students take classes there. He says to the young man, “Come in.”
Katipunan at that time of the day resembles a vast, desert-like ribbon of asphalt, tempered slightly by the verdant
lushness of the university. The road plays host to few cars, and this empowers Gregorio a bit—he’s used to getting stuck
in traffic now. He puts on his earplugs—he likes listening to the MP3s that Annie put on his cellphone while driving—
and starts his motorcycle’s motor. He makes a U-turn, and after a couple hundred meters enters the university gates. He
enters—like clockwork—into the lane for vehicles without the required sticker for easy access and has to endure twenty
seconds of nothingness.
Waiting, waiting, waiting…
He has learned to deal with waiting by singing. Underneath the shade offered by the towering acacias, he sings
“Don’t Stop Believing,” a song that has been his favorite since he was eight, when his father brought home and played a
cassette tape that, he boasted, cost more than three days’ worth of his wages; that tape contained a selection of popular
tunes from the Eighties. He knows that his passenger knows that he is singing. He knows that the guards know that he is
singing. He does not mind. When it is his time to pass by the gate, he nods at the guards, and they nod back, in recognition
of this driver whom they see several times a day, a man who looks as though he should be in school, not ferrying people
around it.
Further down the road, a guard holds out a “Stop” sign, and Gregorio complies. He waits. A gaggle of pretty girls
crosses the road. He quietly mutters, “Damn.”
The passenger hears it, laughs, and says, “You’re new, right? Clearly you’re still not yet used to the sights here.”
There was a long pause. Gregorio pulls out his earphones. Then he drives past the crossing and says, rather
loudly, “Yes, I’m new here. Third week here so far.”
The conversation stops there; it is getting too loud inside this vehicle.
One of the girls in that crossing looks exactly like Annie, he thinks. Short in stature and with long, flowing hair,
fair complexion, lovely round eyes, and those pale pink lips—they could have been separated at birth. Annie is in school,
too, although it is not as nice as this one. She is studying nursing. When they would see each other, she would tell him that
once she had graduated from college, she would fly off to California and be a nurse there. Then after a year, she’d have him
come over as well. He’d have a great job, she’s sure. Then they’ll get married there, and they’ll have kids, and they’ll live
happily ever after, far from all the problems they have right now in this country.
Of course, Gregorio doesn’t think that this will ever happen. He had read in the newspapers that foreign countries would eventually tighten their standards for nurses. He knows that Anita probably won’t cut it in California—her
school had just been embroiled in an academic scandal, and had its reputation forever sullied. And as for him, he’s sure he
won’t find a good job in California, much less live happily ever after there.
He was sixteen, a junior in high school, when his mother summoned him and his sisters to her bedroom. She had
bad news: Her income was not enough to send them all to college. All she had was enough for the three to complete high
school. After that, they had to work. His sisters took it badly and cried. Meanwhile he stood there for several minutes,
frozen in stoic denial, waiting for somebody to wake him up from this awful dream.
Finally, after a few minutes, the two find themselves at Gonzaga. The passenger hands Gregorio twenty-five pesos and smiles. Gregorio says, “Thanks,” then makes his way to the tricycle terminal, where, for the fourteenth time this
day, he will have to wait in line for yet another passenger. It is three in the afternoon.
54
**
It is three in the afternoon, and Lisa stares through the space in front of her. She takes her pen and taps it gently
on her desk, her mind in a sort of half-conscious state: She knew not to disturb the teacher in front of her, but at the same
time she couldn’t help but mark each passing second with a dull thud from her Bic pen. She looks outside the window,
needing a break from her notes and lectures her mind was being burdened with right now. She gazes upward and looks at
the sun, its blaze partially blocked by the leaves of the acacia tree beside the classroom. Then she hears her teacher utter
the word “cathartic,” and that is enough to rouse her from her drowsy state and make herself write a couple of sentences
in her notebook.
After a few minutes of listening intently to the teacher, she begins tapping her pen again. She pinches the skin on
her hands, and she does this discreetly, so that no one notices. She returns to taking down notes. Then the teacher asks a
question; a classmate raises her hand and gives her answer.
In that moment, she reminds herself why she is here, why she chose to take a class in this cramped room with the wheezy
air conditioner. Her family expects a lot from her: graduating cum laude, at the very least, for her four years as a political
science major; admission into both UP Law and Ateneo Law, the redundancy needed even though she knows her parents
want her to go to Ateneo; yet more honors at law school; a clerkship for a Supreme Court Justice; a top-ten place at the
bar exam; an entry-level job at a prestigious law firm; a master’s from Harvard or Yale; and finally, a glittering career as
a high government official. She would have to start all this, though, by taking a smattering of literature classes—one law
school required incoming students to take eighteen units of literature subjects, and it was common knowledge that that
school was quite strict with this requirement—and, for some reason that she doesn’t understand even to this day, she chose
to take Literature 137: Introduction to Poetry Writing.
Was I drunk then?
Did I select the wrong class? Did I click on “Confirm” without thinking?
I’m not a poet, dammit!
Looking back, though, there were only a few decent options left for her. She could have enrolled in a Cultural
Studies class, but she was sick and tired of all the Postmodernism and Objectivism and Feminism and all those Isms from
her poli-sci subjects that she simply ignored that course as she scrolled down the list. There was no way she’d study Critical Theory as well; lit should be fun, not work, she had reasoned. The Introduction to Fiction Writing class—a subject she
thought would be a closer fit with her law ambitions— was already full. And she had already taken the core courses for
her minor in English Literature.
I’m not a poet!
“Um, Lisa, are you all right?”
Rafael is nudging Lisa’s left forearm. Then Lisa comes to her senses. Cecilia whispers to her, “Did you just fall
asleep?”
Lisa responds by shaking her head gently while looking at the blackboard. She sees the professor stare at her for a
short while—did he spot me getting drowsy and shit? The professor seems to pay no heed, however; he turns his back to the
class to scribble a bunch of poetry terms in his squiggly handwriting. Her transgression barely registered in her professor’s
mind, and all seems to be normal.
Then the professor writes in block letters the word “HOMEWORK” on the top left corner of the blackboard,
and declares, in a loud, booming voice that belied his short stature, “Since some of you would rather sleep in my class than
listen to me, I’ll let you do all the dirty work yourselves. Write a five-page paper on how the poetry of T.S. Eliot uses these
literary techniques, and submit it to me on Friday.”
Fuck this.
“The paper is single-spaced, by the way.”
Fuck this. She could see the professor smirk at her. There is no hiding it.
The bell rings. She packs her bag. She is seething. She wants nothing more than to blurt out obscenities at the
55
professor, a bespectacled, sixty-something writer of international renown. Then she closes her eyes for a few seconds, and
looks up.
She glances at Cecilia and Rafael, sees their worried faces, and shrugs. “I’m all right, guys. Slept at four in the
morning. Econ paper,” she says to them. Rafael asks her if she’d want to join him and Cecilia for some coffee, but she says
no. She tells them that she has to go to the mall to buy some presents for her boyfriend Martin’s upcoming birthday.
They say goodbyes to each other. She walks, in quick succession, through slowly dimming hallways, underneath
tall trees, past the college chapel, and, finally, amid throngs of students rushing to attend whatever it is that is happening
around campus. She doesn’t care; there are more important things to do. She would have to go to the tricycle stand. After
that, she’d ride the LRT to the nearby mall, where she’d buy a polo shirt, a couple of books, and a music CD, and have
them wrapped up in glittery paper. She would then buy a bunch of cards on which she would later write in her practiced
cursive, “To Martin. Happy birthday! With much love, Lisa.” Then she’d call her family’s driver to pick her up at the
entrance of the mall nearest the hulking sports stadium, and she would go back to her Mandaluyong home and sleep and,
perhaps later, log on to Facebook for a half-hour of respite before working on the three papers she has to submit by the
week’s end. Should she call Rafael and Cecilia for some help later?
She had known the two since freshman year, when the three found themselves in the same classes and became
fast friends. She took all her literature classes with them. Like her, they aren’t literature students—Rafael and Cecilia are
both economics majors—but unlike her, they studied literature because, well, they liked it. No, they loved it. She’d make
small talk with them before and after class, but she always hid the awe she felt for the two, who seemed to have a natural
affinity for the beauty of language and poetry, who seemed far more interested in writing than in the careers their major
groomed them for. Meanwhile, she’d coast in her subjects and get A’s in most of them—but she never felt any passion for
them. It wasn’t entirely her choice, though: Given what she is expected to do with her soon-to-be-awesome lawyerly life,
writing really good poetry just isn’t going to cut it.
The tricycle stand is full of green and white tricycles, waiting in a disorganized line of sorts. No waiting for Lisa
this time. A tricycle pulls up to her and the driver, a young man who looks barely older than she is, asks her where to take
her. She says, “Ministop.” She sits inside the tricycle and gazes at her reflection in the tricycle’s mirror. Seemingly content
with herself and her place in the world—at least for this moment—she smiles.
**
Gregorio sees her smile from the corner of his eye. It isn’t unusual for him to witness somebody smile in his
tricycle. Everyone is vain deep inside. He had installed the mirror two weeks ago because he knew, from his countless
rides inside tricycles and jeepneys, that nothing keeps a bored, sweaty passenger more entertained than seeing his or her
reflection, suitably well-lit (of course) by the sunlight from the outside. He had to pick the mirror that flattered the passenger the most; in the hardware store he looked at what must have seemed like a dozen mirrors before picking this one, a
polished metal thing of beauty. As a result of this he had seen a wide variety of people leave his tricycle with strange smiles
on their faces, everyone from the pretty mestiza girls who looked like—or probably are—commercial models to the most
gruff-looking professors. He knows that the reason is the mirror.
This time is no exception. He could see part of her face from where he is sitting, and he could see her lips curled
up in a faint crescent shape. She is attractive, with her pale skin, prominent cheekbones, short hair, and eyes shielded by
thick-rimmed glasses, but in his opinion she won’t hold up well next to Annie’s beauty. He won’t remember her long after
this day has passed—he had seen far too many students already to remember every single one of them, even the loveliest
of them. The passenger looks well dressed for class—white tank top, black cardigan, tight dark jeans, and slip-ons. He’d
seen Annie wear clothes like that on their monthly dates at Trinoma and SM North, where they would window-shop and
never actually buy anything. Ever since he started working here, it had occurred to him several times that Annie may well
have been living beyond her means when it came to buying dressy clothes.
They are nearing the gates. A mild traffic jam has started to form near the point where the narrow university exit
56
meets the arterial road, and he slows down. This is around the time when the high schools in the area start releasing their
students, causing massive traffic jams later. He looks at his side-view mirrors; he sees a couple of his fellow tricycle drivers weaving across the road, popping up in gaps between cars, in a mad rush to get to KFC or Ministop or whatever. He
smiles. He doesn’t like doing that—there is barely any point, he thinks, in shaving a few seconds off the total travel time.
He and his passenger will get to the destination safely, period.
At the avenue, the traffic has started to turn heavy, like molasses. He calculates that the trip that normally occupies him six minutes will now take up ten minutes of his time. And now that time seemed to have slowed down around
him, he now has a little more time to think about the food he’ll have to buy for him and his mother later. His mother had
injured her hand in an ironing accident a few days ago; she had no idea that the iron was plugged in. She had a few severe
burns on her hand—nothing life threatening, though—but it did mean that for a few days she wouldn’t be able to cook
the turon and banana cue that is starting to become well-liked around the nearby state university’s campus and the food for
family dinner. He wonders where he should buy food. Definitely not Jollibee or McDo—they’ve had their monthly treat
at Jollibee just a week ago. He had been buying her food from the neighborhood karinderia for three days straight—maybe
she was sick of it? Maybe Mang Inasal? Mmm. It would mean getting in an extra jeepney ride before going home, but it
has been a while since he, Ella, Rose, and their mother ate there. Plus his mother likes their chicken meals. Anyway, when
the next week comes it will be Ella’s turn to buy food for their mother. She’s seems to be doing pretty well as a shop girl at
SM North.
He wonders for a moment what his passenger eats for dinner everyday, but he brushes that thought aside.
The sky is a glorious blue, with barely any clouds. The road is caked with dust. A cacophony of car horns emerges
in response to a car that had swerved suddenly, only for it to get caught up in the tide of the other cars. He can’t hear the
music in his earphones; the gentle piano ballad he is listening to seems to fade into the surrounding noise. Gregorio maneuvers his tricycle away from the bottleneck and gets himself into the U-turn. Finally—just a straight-as-an-arrow kilometer
of mildly annoying but tolerable traffic to go.
Then, what? He would drop off this young lady, then return to the end of the line near the convenience store.
After a considerable amount of time another passenger would ride his tricycle, and he would have to traverse the entire
length of Katipunan once more. And the cycle goes on and on.
Is this all there is in life for me?
Then he feels a twinge of regret for even thinking about this.
I’ve got a family to feed.
He sees something move in the corner of his eye. He turns his head slightly, toward his passenger.
**
Lisa sees the driver’s head move slightly. Up to now she had ignored his presence entirely, in the way she always
had in those rare occasions when she would find herself commuting. In the past few minutes all she did was brush her short
hair every now and then, look at the people and cars outside, and stare at her reflection in the mirror. And every time she
looked at her reflection, she smiled.
But all this time she had been oblivious to the presence of the driver.
She had distracted him by fumbling inside her handbag, looking for her ringing cellphone. It seems to be urgent.
The caller turns out to be her father, who asks her what time she will be arriving home. She says, “Around six o’clock, po.”
She hangs up her phone, and starts sporting a look of annoyance in her face.
For Christ’s sake, I’m twenty-one fucking years old! I’m not a kid anymore!
Then she sees the driver look at her for a short while, and she remembers that there is a man sitting mere inches
away from her. He smiles, shrugs at her, and says, “Really bad traffic, don’t you think?”
She is taken aback. “Yes, kuya” is all that she can say.
Her standard protocol whenever commuting is to erect a barrier that protects her from intrusion. She almost has
57
it down to a routine: Whenever she would ride on the MRT and the LRT, she would sit far away from the other passengers; put her iPod’s earphones in her ear; place her handbag on her lap, clutching it tightly; and close her eyes and pretend
to sleep. Her scheme would fail during rush hour, when her personal space would be invaded by, say, a man who reeked
strongly of cheap perfume, or a middle-aged lady who would chatter away noisily with her kumare, but she never rides
public transport on rush hour anyway. Come to think of it, she barely rides trains anyway—she only rides them when
her car is banned from leaving the garage on a certain day in the week because of some accident in the LTO office that
endowed it with a plate number that ended in “4.”
With tricycles and taxis it was pretty much the same thing: Tell the driver where to go, sit, and shut up. However
it was easier for her to maintain her solitude and personal space inside a tricycle, where the noise isolated you from the
indignity of making small talk with someone who in all likelihood isn’t that interested in your life story anyways. This she
knew from the long hours spent in traffic with Simeon, the family driver, back in high school. Whenever they made small
talk, it was exceedingly awkward—every time she told him something about school, all while punctuating her Tagalog
with English phrases (almost uncontrollably), he’d sit in silence and nod, then after ten seconds or so, “Yes, ma’am,” after
which there would be even more silence.
Is it because we were, on some level, fundamentally different? Doesn’t he have children of his own with the same
stories as I have? She used to ask those questions when she was younger. Now she doesn’t care.
But now that he had seen the driver, her attention is drawn to his face. It only occurs to her that he looks like a
rather handsome teenager—and perhaps might actually be one. She feels the incongruity in the way a man-child like him
is made to play around with toys for the big men for a living. She had been so used to the idea of the friendly neighborhood
manong drayber as a boisterous, mustachioed, pot-bellied forty-something man who had seen all the interesting bits of life
that she finds the possibility that a kid, a guy roughly her age, could do something that men do, hard to stomach.
She looks at his ID, dangling from the roof of the tricycle. There he is, looking fresh, well-groomed, and pale for
his 1x1 picture. His ID tells her that his name is Jose Gregorio V. Alonzo, that he lives near Krus na Ligas, and that his
permit was issued on January 12, 2011, roughly a month ago. Aside from that, not much else. Nothing in the flimsy card
tells her the true reason for his choice of jobs. Nothing to tell her why this young man is driving around students instead
of being a student himself. No clues at all. All her education in politics and law and literature and philosophy has turned
out to be useless in trying to plumb the depths of a stranger’s personality.
The tricycle stops at Ministop. “Ma’am, we’re here,” the driver says. She hands out twenty-five pesos to the
driver, who smiles at her and says, “Thank you.” She smiles in return, as though complicit in some secret known only to
the two of them. She proceeds to walk to the LRT station when questions start flooding her brain.
Why this, Gregorio? What do you want for yourself ?
She knows what she wants for herself. She will become a lawyer someday. Martin the future hotshot businessman would marry her in a grand ceremony in Tagaytay. They would have three wonderful kids (two girls and one boy,
she insists) and live in a large mansion in a gated subdivision. They will have prominent careers: She will become a lawyer
specializing in international law, and Martin will one day take the helm of a big corporation as a CEO. They’d take their
kids to soccer and basketball practice on weekends. On their wedding anniversaries she and Martin would go on vacations
in such places as Paris, Prague, and Barcelona. She and Martin will grow old together. And then…what?
She stops and turns around. For several moments she is engulfed by smoke from cigarettes and exhaust pipes and
the ceaseless din of all the cars and jeeps driving past her and the stench of the gutter beside her. She doesn’t care. She
doesn’t know what to feel about herself. Or Martin. Or her parents. Or her dreams.
Then she sees Gregorio. But he doesn’t see her.
He is now at the back of the line, waiting for yet another passenger.
58
GLENN L. DIAZ
I know you
I.
know I am looking at you looking at him unmindful of boulders under our feet. I know you know because you look away
in that instant and insisted instead on the coincidence of gazes that your eyes just happened to land on his face smiling
the fields of his cheeks the rolling valleys and crevices of his mouth his nose the delicate balance of angles and curves that
caught your attention
perhaps even made you happy. Do not apologize for the arbitrary lingering of sight in search of light. I hope you know it
was not suspicion you spotted. My negotiation with this daisy chain your eyes like mirrors on the verge of breaking from
the majesty the rich river of his hair the twin gulfs of his ears his chin the ocean of sadness cradled by eyelids. But there
is little to gain in this
II.
wordless conversation of orbs untrained in this dance, back and fourth motions. Accusations. Limbs and extremities can
be bound but there is no way to leash vision keep it from attacking what it deems fit what it feels will satiate its hunger
for wholeness. Not even love perhaps not even the tenderness of a bowl of chicken soup in a stormy night not even my
hand.
He must
be beautiful to deserve this your eyes like feather falling inevitably into the ground natural instinctive needless of compasses. It is harmless fancy you tell me like when our troubles were simpler and we talked about books and our imaginations one day melting together a small apartment a king-sized bed surrounded with shelves. Great Expectations Sense
and Sensibility maybe even God
III.
of Small Things. But I am afraid of harmlessness the uneasy aftermath of fire the brittle silence when your eyes had little
choice but to meet mine looking at you not wanting to look back. Into it therefore. Transform those eyes into hands.
Caress his hair. Cup his cheeks. Cradle his chin as you would cradle mine before a kiss. Surrender is one thing but I have
long come to terms with the
brevity of things. Now there is the matter of books to be returned the phone number to be deleted sheets to be washed
to unlearn your scent. There is the morning after. There are curtains swaying the electric fan whirring the sun shining.
There is the struggle to get out of bed suddenly too big for my meager frame. There is a long future planned and deserted. There is there is there is.
59
Tennis Fans
Alas, prayer was not enough. There was a lot of it, multitudes, from all over the globe, in different tongues and
varying degrees of obscenity, wailed and whispered, some not reaching linguistic articulation at all.
“Out out out out out. Out please lord god Jesus.”
Only a split second elapsed in the crucial trajectory, but it was more than enough for the legions of invocations
to pass lips, a collective attempt at telekinesis, mentally willing the green ball to hit the line, impossibly thin as it looked
now.
“Or Buddha. Allah. Confucius. Zoroaster. Joseph Smith?”
The ball landed out, and a stillness crawled inside the living rooms of stunned Federer fans, in freezing Swedish
pubs and in musky Melbourne Park, like the sound of a merciless flat line, so final and cold, forbidding any reaction as it
rang. Ex smiled, convincing herself that her prayer worked. “Yeah right,” she whispered, before laughing out loud.
“3. 2 –-”
The phone rang.
“He has intestinal flu,” the meek voice on the other line protested.
“Do you hear that?” Ex asked.
“What?”
“Tectonic plates, they’re shifting,” she taunted. “Federer Age officially ends tonight, January 25, 2008. That was
rough!”
“No, it isn’t! He isn’t well! This is not fair.”
Ex clipped the handset between her shoulder and head, so she could fish a cigarette from her half-empty pack.
“This can’t fucking be.”
She laughed her deep, masculine guffaw, before lighting the malevolent stick between her fingers. “Hey since
when did you start cursing?”
“This is not fair, Ex. This is not happening.”
“In an alternate universe, it’s not happening. Somewhere far, far away.”
“Quit it!”
“Distant. Remote. Far-flung. We’re talking light years.”
“Shut up!”
“Like Alabang or Pacita.”
She excitedly waited for that shrill giggling she so loved, any semblance of entertainment or comprehension from
Mindy, but all she heard was heavy breathing, creeping through the handset like mist blowing on glass.
“Like Fairview?” Ex ventured warily, in her final attempt.
Uneasy glee turned into outright terror when instead of laughter she next heard sobbing, her best friend’s meek
voice stuttering unintelligibly between sobs and abrupt gasps for air. Ex flinched, watching her cigarette drop to the floor,
its fiery end diminishing in its descent.
This isn’t one of those phone calls, she had to remind herself, bending to pick up her fallen cigarette. She tried to
60
shrug off a memory, long buried and laden with cobwebs until then, of her in a uniform she detested, standing in the middle
of the principal’s office feeling the room collapse unto itself.
Snapping back, she managed to say, “Mindy, put down the phone. I’m coming over.”
Christmas lights still, in January, adorned the high walls of Mindy’s bungalow. Ex admired the blinking outlines
the same way a hungry child salivated over ice cream on the ground. A far cry, she noted with a noncommittal shrug, from
the drab, dreary De Jesus residence, with its curtain-less windows and nondescript gate of indeterminate color and reliability.
She let herself in with the key in the mailbox. Debbie and Kimmie, the family’s Rottweilers, raised their heads in
anticipation, only to shrug off the familiar visitor, disappointed. She tiptoed along the spotless granite floors of the massive
living room, amid the porcelain elephants and golden Buddhas, the miniature fountain and earthen urns, conspiratorial
in their nightly vigil. She turned the knob and pushed the door to Mindy’s room, the creaking momentarily slicing the
silence.
“Minds?” she called out, feeling her way through the darkness. She stepped on something hard-edged and nearly
lost her balance, before leaning on a familiar desk and finding the switch. “Damnit,” she whispered, looking sternly at the
culprit, a wayward pen holder, its former contents dislodged not far from where it sat in the middle of the carpeted floor.
Ex called out again, softer but more urgent this time, “Minds?” She then espied a figure lying on the floor, on the
tiny gap between the bed and the pink wall. She near-screamed when the figure twitched and got up with a start.
“Oh my god you scared me!” Ex gasped, her face crumpled to a frown. “I almost ran to your parent’s room!”
“You really need a new expression. What atheist says, ‘Oh my god?’“
“What the hell happened?”
“Nothing! I dozed off while waiting for you,” Mindy said, transferring to her bed. She added casually, like an
afterthought, “And only dad’s in their room. They’re splitting up, and mom’s staying in a hotel in the mean time.”
“What? Since when?”
“Since we found out he lost all our money in the casino last night.”
“Oh my god!”
“So she’s drinking again.”
“Oh no.”
“And Chester knocked up a girl from work.”
“What? Who? How–”
“And now Federer lost.”
The last item was a period, a command for a full stop, the ensuing silence the only apt response to this thread of
tragedies, rattled out mechanically, like a grocery list. She had no answer for Mindy, her attempt to wrap her mind around
it going nowhere. Things can just fall apart, she reasoned in her head. It’s an inherent capacity.
“I’m sorry to break down like that,” Mindy said, after a while. She stood up to retrieve the pen holder. She
methodically retrieves her pens, scattered like gems. Gently, she placed the holder back atop her wide desk, where she
designed interiors of houses more or less like this one. “Maybe you’re right about this whole religion business, after all.”
Ex often taunted her in jest, “Why trust a god who created a bunch of people then asked everyone to love him,
a needy, insecure tyrant who bragged about free will but held grudges anyway, supposedly merciful but punished like a
scorned lover.”
Instead, Ex believed in a cosmos that was just in its own way, and it helped her, especially in situations where
divine motive seemed painfully absent.
“Don’t say that,” Ex halfheartedly protested.
“Shouldn’t I?” Mindy said, her lips thinning into the most pained smile Ex had ever seen.
Hence, she didn’t rob Mindy of explanations. She thought: If the outcome of a tennis match 4,000 miles away
made sense of her maladies, let her believe so. If the loss of the best player in the world eased her own losses, by all means,
let her take comfort in that.
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And if she was now collapsing unto Ex’s arms, as she was, a shaking heap of helpless sobs that transformed into
blood-curdling howls that reverberated in the quiet house, she let her fall apart.
Her own test came some ten years ago, when, after being plucked from geometry class and brought to the principal’s office, she threw a cell phone to the linoleum-lined floor, where it laid in bits and pieces, the disembodied voice somehow still reverberating in her head. She then found herself in a funeral chapel where two coffins laid beside each other.
Her 15-year-old mind couldn’t find a name for the abrupt free fall, the feeling of the ground underneath her vanishing into thin air, her feet flailing, and failing, to find solid ground. She remembered breaking free from the meaningless
embraces, the dozens of urgent palms that grazed her back, the voices that registered as a faint murmur. She thus knew
futility if she saw it. In the face of tragedy, attempts at appeasement, without remedy, are pointless.
Exaltacion de Jesus now cradled Mindy in her arms. Without thinking about it, a rogue desire crossed her mind,
so swift and strong it scared her, anything at all at her frail disposal to take away these unfair pains, trembling, quite literally, so close to her own heart.
“Fine,” she said, mustering all strength, “Roger has intestinal flu,” and Mindy looked at her with disbelieving
eyes.
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63
THE FELLOWS
...Welcome to Shikihorrr!
Shane Carreon
Shane is the proud President of Miggy’s Fan Club ♡
Glenn L. Diaz
Hangad ni Glenn ang pag-ibig para sa lahat ♡
Philline P. Donggay
Philline is not shallow, she’s just not deep.
Rogelio Garcia, Jr.
Roger is cool and hot.
Eva B. Gubat
Eva hibernates then goes out for more tagay; the original esophagus who turned Jeff into a one-time lesbian.
Jeffrey B. Javier
Jeff, once a whore who woke up on the shore of Siquijor.
Christine V. Lao
Tin is elsewhere held but lingered.
Emmanuel Lean P. Lava
Unrequited lover of the arts. Frustrated fictionist. Frustrated. Guarded optimist. Guarded. Man for others, particularly
girls. Serious Joker. Son, brother, father figure. Almost a writer.
Andrea N. Macalino
Andy loves cats. She has a crush on Gregorio del Pilar. One day these two things will be connected. But not today.
Marius Angelo G. Monsanto
Marius is:
 a procrastinating bastard
 has too much to say
Allen B. Samsuya
Allen is almost sure that one of his co-fellows is secretly a plant-- not katsubong.
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Miguel Antonio D. Sulangi
Miggy’s height is 5’ 11” but he prefers to think of it as 6’ -1”.
Alyza May T. Taguilaso
Lyza will write you a postcard & send you the news from a house down the road ♫
She likes whips, dislikes the movie Wall-e, & hears the word Prosaic far too often.
Jasmine Teh
Jasmine is:
 Singaporean
 loves eating balut
Elaine Michelle M. Tobias
Tobey wakes up elsewhere.
Miel A. Villaruel
Closet nun. Ultimate absorber. The Vanishing.
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Acknowledgments
Thank you Mom Edith and Dad Ed for creating this family we are now a part of. Mom Weena, whose gentleness
made us feel right at home.
Our panelists: Sirs Jimmy, Sawi, Ricky, Krip, David, DM, Bobby, Kirpal, and Tony; and Ma’ams Susan and
Myrna.
Silliman University’s Cafeteria, English Department, workshop organizers, Kuya Mo the Charmer, Misha, Ian,
the student ambassadors for the 50th National Writers Workshop: Patrik, Alfie, Marian, Glenna, Shanice, Ela, and Patti.
The Writers’ Village’s Manong Fred, Manang Beebee, Manang Jo, habal-habal drivers. Dogge.
Your presence has made our experiences in the writers’ family literally one for the books.
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