It has been one hectic of a week working on my new job as a feature writer somewhere in Ortigas area.
I never thought, or rather expected, that after languishing in our subdivision's streets loitering without end, playing billiards and cards, getting drunk and just plainly bumming around for more than a year, a job has finally occupied my time at last.
Nevertheless, this new writing job seems something fate has designed for me. I knew then, even when I was still desperate to land on a good job, that there is something good that awaits for me. The only question that preoccupied my time then was when would it come. But fate really works in mysterious way. Here am I now, one of the numbers in the statistics of those employed.
Going back on the fast-paced, hectic week that was, I mostly spent my time infront of the computer, researching and writing for hours. Since the company which I work in now is not a legitimate publishing house in nature, our (us writers) work and worth as writers is gauged by the output that we produce at the end of the day. So our managing editor, on his suggestion to appease our demanding business-oriented boss, is to type-away/speed-write any article that has the possibility of being included as articles for future issues of our line-up of magazines.
Well, I don't have any problem with that. I can yak and pound on the keyboard without end (though the quality of the text is expected to be replete with grammar and syntax errors.)
The only time when I felt down was when the article I wrote with all seriousness and with the critical eye of a pretending veteran writer returned to me with lots of corrections -- murdered to use another term. It seems, I still have not learned my lessons in writing well.
But that can be dismissed easily with an alibi that I'm still warming up, still finding my groove in writing.
The only thing that I can brag about my attitude on this new writing job is my willingness -- longevity can aptly be used -- in working for twelve hours straight. For several working days now, I would stay till the office is about to close, using all my time to write a rush article and going home just to sleep. Then when I wake up the following day, I would just take a bath, take a sip of coffee and probably even a couple of cigarettes and off I go again to work.
It is, indeed, hectic working days with this kind of working style. But I cannot find myself getting tried or grumpy during the past days that I have been doing this. I can even say that everything I do in the office is a respite from the lack of nothing to do I suffered during the previous year.
Probably, I'm just compensating for the time I lost and wasted then. Can be.
Well, I just want to say that I feel good that I am being paid to write, and can call myself employed.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Some Changes
It is funny how, like in a flick of your fingers, your circumstances just altered.
For two days now, I've been working -- yup, working, as in employed and being paid -- for a writing position. (Though, pessimist as I am when it comes on having a job, I've programmed my mind on anticipating any moment of notice for my termination -- I guess, that's what past experiences do on your psyche, especially if those experiences are similar to mine.)
What made this new circumstances finally sink in in my consciousness is when I visited a blogsite where I frequently drop by to update myself on local the literary scene. I was looking for list of books which I could write prodding me to check the previous months' postings.
Then, like a cold wind that breezes on your skin to trigger the recollection of the recent past, I chanced to read a blog post that told me nothing, nothing, nothing but the total change of my circumstances; that, hey, you're writing, yet somebody is paying you to do it.
For two days now, I've been working -- yup, working, as in employed and being paid -- for a writing position. (Though, pessimist as I am when it comes on having a job, I've programmed my mind on anticipating any moment of notice for my termination -- I guess, that's what past experiences do on your psyche, especially if those experiences are similar to mine.)
What made this new circumstances finally sink in in my consciousness is when I visited a blogsite where I frequently drop by to update myself on local the literary scene. I was looking for list of books which I could write prodding me to check the previous months' postings.
Then, like a cold wind that breezes on your skin to trigger the recollection of the recent past, I chanced to read a blog post that told me nothing, nothing, nothing but the total change of my circumstances; that, hey, you're writing, yet somebody is paying you to do it.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Definitely Not a Writer's Block
I want to write something. Anything. There's an itch tingling on my spine and body urging me to get a pen and papers and start writing. After spending sleeping the whole day the previous day, I just want to write and vent my frustration over performing badly on an exam for a writing job (why the fuck haven't I seen sooner that the sentence How quick Mary runs should be How quick does Mary run? and the other sentence He and she were good friends should be They are good friends. Why the hell that I always turn into a clueless lousy writer when faced with the opportunity to get a writing job or, if am already have the job, I would always regress into that old me who writes haphazardly, in haste thus producing badly written articles whose grammar mistakes are so atrocious my editors would always love to hate and kick me out the job and out of their professional lives?) I just want to write to prove and tell myself that I know how to do it, and do it very well.
The force driving me almost mad is so intense that I rush to my chaotic room, where books, piles of papers in which unfinished stories, stories needed for revisions, draft essays, scratch copies of my blog postings lay splayed on everywhere. I rummage for the pen and papers. I got a couple of used papers but there is still free white space to write on on the back so I take it. I pay no attention on the computer at the corner which is basically dead and useless for several months now. It's harddisk bogged down and I have no extra cash to purchase a new one.
And then I promptly sit before the table, raring to write, something. But, wait. I fidget for several seconds and strare at the white space of the paper, holding the pen in the stance of writing: I HAVE NOTHING IN MY MIND TO WRITE ABOUT.
My mind runs fast and I cannot get hold of something, any idea for a subject to write about. There is nothing in my head. Nada. There is only the urge to write. The terrible, frustrating feeling to write. I can hear myself saying: You can write. But there is nothing; there is only a meaningless transparent air around me, and that desperate urge to write.
I have been in this situation before. The realization is like a deja vu, and I know very well that I could sit and think and force myself to write something for hours on end on the blank papers staring mockingly at me and, still, nothing will come out of it. Nada. I would still produce nothing.
I don't know what I should call this experience, but it definitely is not a writer's block. For how can I call it as such, when I am NOT even a writer in the first place.
The force driving me almost mad is so intense that I rush to my chaotic room, where books, piles of papers in which unfinished stories, stories needed for revisions, draft essays, scratch copies of my blog postings lay splayed on everywhere. I rummage for the pen and papers. I got a couple of used papers but there is still free white space to write on on the back so I take it. I pay no attention on the computer at the corner which is basically dead and useless for several months now. It's harddisk bogged down and I have no extra cash to purchase a new one.
And then I promptly sit before the table, raring to write, something. But, wait. I fidget for several seconds and strare at the white space of the paper, holding the pen in the stance of writing: I HAVE NOTHING IN MY MIND TO WRITE ABOUT.
My mind runs fast and I cannot get hold of something, any idea for a subject to write about. There is nothing in my head. Nada. There is only the urge to write. The terrible, frustrating feeling to write. I can hear myself saying: You can write. But there is nothing; there is only a meaningless transparent air around me, and that desperate urge to write.
I have been in this situation before. The realization is like a deja vu, and I know very well that I could sit and think and force myself to write something for hours on end on the blank papers staring mockingly at me and, still, nothing will come out of it. Nada. I would still produce nothing.
I don't know what I should call this experience, but it definitely is not a writer's block. For how can I call it as such, when I am NOT even a writer in the first place.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
The Little Mystic Indian Inside My Red Horse
I had already down a bottle of Red Horse and flushed without doubt, taking deep, lungful of cigarette smoke.
I could not sleep then; the socket of my eyes were tired begging for that final snap of my consciousness, the letting go to arrive at the dreamland, and my head also throbbed in intense stream of pain and jadedness. So I decided to haul myself up from my bed, go straight passed the living room into our small store and get a couple of Red Horse. If I could get myself drunk, then probably I could sleep. Cut the waiting period for my consciousness to snap so I can finally sleep. When my head hit the pillow, I expected that I would quickly black-out.
I was on my second bottle, smoking without letup as I sat before the cases of SMB and Red Horse stacked in our kitchen, when I saw a little mystic Indian smoke signalling inside my bottle of Red Horse. The smokes of bubbles rose upward in the liquid space of the strong beer, and there at the top, the smoke formed into white benevolent clouds of galactic universe of suds.
I smiled, drew my face near the bottle and trained my eyes at the world of the little mystic Indian inside the bottle of my Red Horse. I smirked and drank the liquid universe with dreamy eyes.
After a while, I knew already that I was tipsy. I was wading amidst the jungle of this world's dreamscape, steadily pushing my legs ahead, groggily tearing the heavy growth of grass and accumulation of dried leaves. I was about to stumble and fall to the ground yet I kept on with the direction in my head, from where I could feel the invisible vibration and stream of radiating flow of oneness came from -- the One. And I was heading towards His direction, to finally, at long last, rest my tired soul in his presence.
I could not sleep then; the socket of my eyes were tired begging for that final snap of my consciousness, the letting go to arrive at the dreamland, and my head also throbbed in intense stream of pain and jadedness. So I decided to haul myself up from my bed, go straight passed the living room into our small store and get a couple of Red Horse. If I could get myself drunk, then probably I could sleep. Cut the waiting period for my consciousness to snap so I can finally sleep. When my head hit the pillow, I expected that I would quickly black-out.
I was on my second bottle, smoking without letup as I sat before the cases of SMB and Red Horse stacked in our kitchen, when I saw a little mystic Indian smoke signalling inside my bottle of Red Horse. The smokes of bubbles rose upward in the liquid space of the strong beer, and there at the top, the smoke formed into white benevolent clouds of galactic universe of suds.
I smiled, drew my face near the bottle and trained my eyes at the world of the little mystic Indian inside the bottle of my Red Horse. I smirked and drank the liquid universe with dreamy eyes.
After a while, I knew already that I was tipsy. I was wading amidst the jungle of this world's dreamscape, steadily pushing my legs ahead, groggily tearing the heavy growth of grass and accumulation of dried leaves. I was about to stumble and fall to the ground yet I kept on with the direction in my head, from where I could feel the invisible vibration and stream of radiating flow of oneness came from -- the One. And I was heading towards His direction, to finally, at long last, rest my tired soul in his presence.
What Time is It?
In quantum mechanics, time and space is one and the same. So, if somebody asked for the time of the day, it is acceptable to reply: "It's 32 km already, baby."
Farewell
The talk was under way. I sidled toward the last pew of the chapel and there took my seat. From my vantage point, I looked over the shoulders and head of the audience on the speaker seated at the center, behind her the marble altar and the huge wooden cross lingered as if letting her take the priveledge of using the venue for secular purpose founded on basic moral religious grounds the Church in the first place believes in.
I had to lean forward, resting my chin on my palm, attracted by the clear, rhythmic voice of the speaker resounding inside the chapel -- I could not recall whether she was using a microphone or not but the voice came clear and lean.
The subject of the talk dealt with then on-going peace process between the Ramos regime and the moro Islamic secessionist groups; an urgent, important subject to tackle upon, without doubt. Yet, my person could not deny the presence of a much more important factor of the talk: the speaker herself.
Her wiry hair, dropping eyelids which says as if she had a sleeplessness night reading tomes, would shine in a matter-on-fact mien as she untangled the intricate knots of the subjects into simple thread of ordinary man's terminologies; her benevolent professorial voice would pause to give way for full absorption of her statements. But her delivery was not the sum importance I could tangibly felt then. Rather, her delivery showed the tip of the iceberg of her real nature, the essence of her importance.
Her fragile, sage-like physiogonomy cland in flower-designed loose blouse -- her presence alone, so to speak -- could fill the whole chapel with strong positive energy of Intergrity. It was so strong that the audience could feel the invisible stream of grace and bliss running and seeping into the pores of their skin deep into the marrow of their tingling souls.
As I raptly listened to her, I had no doubt that I crossed path with one of the extraordinary persons this country had ever produced. Being with her at a same place, breathing the same universe as hers for a short time, listening and seeing her talked, it was the secular version of blissful experience of having a glimpse of the Pope.
That was more than a decade ago. Now the speaker left this earth to where she could be close to God. On her journey to this place, I bid her Godspeed.
You had walked upon this world Ms Haydee Yorac radiating with the power of inherent Integrity, and many have learned and been inspired by your example. Thank you. And farewell.
I had to lean forward, resting my chin on my palm, attracted by the clear, rhythmic voice of the speaker resounding inside the chapel -- I could not recall whether she was using a microphone or not but the voice came clear and lean.
The subject of the talk dealt with then on-going peace process between the Ramos regime and the moro Islamic secessionist groups; an urgent, important subject to tackle upon, without doubt. Yet, my person could not deny the presence of a much more important factor of the talk: the speaker herself.
Her wiry hair, dropping eyelids which says as if she had a sleeplessness night reading tomes, would shine in a matter-on-fact mien as she untangled the intricate knots of the subjects into simple thread of ordinary man's terminologies; her benevolent professorial voice would pause to give way for full absorption of her statements. But her delivery was not the sum importance I could tangibly felt then. Rather, her delivery showed the tip of the iceberg of her real nature, the essence of her importance.
Her fragile, sage-like physiogonomy cland in flower-designed loose blouse -- her presence alone, so to speak -- could fill the whole chapel with strong positive energy of Intergrity. It was so strong that the audience could feel the invisible stream of grace and bliss running and seeping into the pores of their skin deep into the marrow of their tingling souls.
As I raptly listened to her, I had no doubt that I crossed path with one of the extraordinary persons this country had ever produced. Being with her at a same place, breathing the same universe as hers for a short time, listening and seeing her talked, it was the secular version of blissful experience of having a glimpse of the Pope.
That was more than a decade ago. Now the speaker left this earth to where she could be close to God. On her journey to this place, I bid her Godspeed.
You had walked upon this world Ms Haydee Yorac radiating with the power of inherent Integrity, and many have learned and been inspired by your example. Thank you. And farewell.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Invitation for Story Tellers
Since I already mentioned the project anothology book of another blogger, Vin Simbulan, I might as well give the details of the project here for the benefit of stray bloggers stumbling on my virtual space in the net.
Open Call for Submissions - A Time for Dragons: An Anthology of Philippine Draconic Fiction
Specifics:
1. Word Count. For fiction, anywhere from 2500 to 6000 words. For poetry, short or long form is acceptable. Englsh language only.
2. Language & Setting. English language. Can be set in original imaginary worlds or the "real" world, not necessarily the Philippines (as Dragons are "universal"). Absolutely no fan fic.
3. Number of Entries. Each author may submit up to two (2) submissions.
4. Format. Only via email. Attach as a Word Document - just make sure your submission is virus-free. Please email all submissions to: viniquest(at)yahoo(dot)com
5. Cover Letter. Kindly include a cover letter that includes the title of your submission, the word count, your full name, contact details including contact numbers, as well as a list of your previously published work, if any. New unpublished authors are more than welcome to submit.
6. Compensation. Each author whose work becomes part of the anthology will receive two (2) author's copies of the final publication. Similar to Dean's anthology, the Dragon antho is completely self-funded - except that selected authors may also avail of special discounts at Comic Quest and Petty Pets (right, Dean?) ;)
7. Deadline & Publication Schedule. All submissions must be received before midnight of January 4, 2006. Authors of selected pieces will be informed thereafter. The book will be released by the first quarter of 2006.
Open Call for Submissions - A Time for Dragons: An Anthology of Philippine Draconic Fiction
Specifics:
1. Word Count. For fiction, anywhere from 2500 to 6000 words. For poetry, short or long form is acceptable. Englsh language only.
2. Language & Setting. English language. Can be set in original imaginary worlds or the "real" world, not necessarily the Philippines (as Dragons are "universal"). Absolutely no fan fic.
3. Number of Entries. Each author may submit up to two (2) submissions.
4. Format. Only via email. Attach as a Word Document - just make sure your submission is virus-free. Please email all submissions to: viniquest(at)yahoo(dot)com
5. Cover Letter. Kindly include a cover letter that includes the title of your submission, the word count, your full name, contact details including contact numbers, as well as a list of your previously published work, if any. New unpublished authors are more than welcome to submit.
6. Compensation. Each author whose work becomes part of the anthology will receive two (2) author's copies of the final publication. Similar to Dean's anthology, the Dragon antho is completely self-funded - except that selected authors may also avail of special discounts at Comic Quest and Petty Pets (right, Dean?) ;)
7. Deadline & Publication Schedule. All submissions must be received before midnight of January 4, 2006. Authors of selected pieces will be informed thereafter. The book will be released by the first quarter of 2006.
So there you go.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
On 'Complimenting' Our Own
You have surely encountered on local print and broadcast media the penchant for branding our talents with such titles like 'Hemingway of the Philippines', 'William Safire of the Philippines', 'Frank Sinatra of the Philippines' etc.
Methinks, this is a blatant self-deprecating act of putting ourselves inferior and relegating ourselves as mere copycats of those of the West. Worse is, those people in the media who should know better are the ones guilty of propagating this style of 'complimenting' our own talents.
One must understand that, for example, a painter from Italy or Spain or from any other Western country is no different from the painter from our local shores. The Westerners may be popular and famous but you must consider that this fact is brought about mostly by the supplementary benefits of their economic power. Same thing applies to other disciplines.
One instance when this issue is put on its rightful place and perspective, though through a corollary matter, was when in an Asian Pacific Economic Cooperation (APE C) conference, question regarding the Asian consumer purchasing power was deemed be gauged by the price of a McDonalds burger. Then Prime Minister of Malaysia, Mahathir Mohamad stood up and said that the question is better answered not by the price of a McDonalds, BUT rather by a Jolibbe burger.
Methinks, this is a blatant self-deprecating act of putting ourselves inferior and relegating ourselves as mere copycats of those of the West. Worse is, those people in the media who should know better are the ones guilty of propagating this style of 'complimenting' our own talents.
One must understand that, for example, a painter from Italy or Spain or from any other Western country is no different from the painter from our local shores. The Westerners may be popular and famous but you must consider that this fact is brought about mostly by the supplementary benefits of their economic power. Same thing applies to other disciplines.
One instance when this issue is put on its rightful place and perspective, though through a corollary matter, was when in an Asian Pacific Economic Cooperation (APE C) conference, question regarding the Asian consumer purchasing power was deemed be gauged by the price of a McDonalds burger. Then Prime Minister of Malaysia, Mahathir Mohamad stood up and said that the question is better answered not by the price of a McDonalds, BUT rather by a Jolibbe burger.
Monday, September 05, 2005
I've Read It Already
I've read it already.
Who cannot tell the circumstances, motivations and aspirations behind the full text that smacks of a familiarity and path over-trudged upon by aspiring writers with nascent writing talent. I can even smell concretely the pervading atmosphere that brought the text into its final form and substance.
It cannot escape my proving eyes used to these kind of babblings. I did brushed elbows and mingled with my contemporaries during my college campus days who had the same artistic pursuits and goals (me included). I know exactly the crux of the matter regarding these attempts to 'feel.'
So what precisely is the thing that I'm discussing here?
I'm making my point on the usual practice of novice writers on their attempt to delude themselves that they are cut to be writers on the basis of their pretensions of suffering from some turmoil of social or self alienation or spiritual distress. (Of course they wont admit to it, and they may even be probably not aware of what they are really doing.)
They desperately, upon realizing that they want to be writers or poets, try to rummage amidst the chaos of their memories for something painful experiencesor circumstances that they can claim themselves to be in duress. Worse, others create an imagined crisis of their spirits besieging their existence day in and day out. And when you read the text of the latter case: it reeks of phoniness and pretensions as can be seen on his obvious attempt to be literary and writerly in his delivery of his 'pain.'
Usually these are the young aspiring writers and poets you would bump into in college and university campuses; mostly those who are staff writers for their college papers and those hangers-on who surround them.
They assume this gibberish on spiritual alienation and destitution or on whatever suffering it might be, as a shortcut on opening their pores and sensibilities to human sufferings and conditions. Another reason is to give justification for them to continue to write; since they are in pain and suffering then they have something important to share to humanity.
Sadly, they even assume that the more and deeper their pains are, the greater the possibility of writing a better piece -- as if their present endeavor, if done in a state of misery can keep par as far as quality vis-a-vis for example Slyvia Plath's Bell Jar.
Don't get the impression that I deny the ability of young writers to experience and understand true human conditions. I would say these kind of writers are usually the ones who don't subcribe to the tactics mentioned above. I met several of writers of this kind, and all I can say is when you read their prose or poems is was as if they were old souls in young men's body.
I say, aspiring writers should not mind if they don't suffer from any obvious pain. Or if they don't feel such kind of pain stated above means they are not cut for a writer. Everybody can be a writer. It only takes a decision to be so. Going back to the subject of pain: Pain will come along on every writer's path. That's for sure.
Note: The experience that pushed me to write the above piece comes from reading a blog posted by a young, intelligent college student who tries to force or pretend that he suffers from spiritual alienation and he fears for the future, yet it is obvious from her credentials and achievements that he is highly a functional young adult. Well, the blog's text betrays him of his intention... Though I may add, that young student writes better than me. Hehehe
Who cannot tell the circumstances, motivations and aspirations behind the full text that smacks of a familiarity and path over-trudged upon by aspiring writers with nascent writing talent. I can even smell concretely the pervading atmosphere that brought the text into its final form and substance.
It cannot escape my proving eyes used to these kind of babblings. I did brushed elbows and mingled with my contemporaries during my college campus days who had the same artistic pursuits and goals (me included). I know exactly the crux of the matter regarding these attempts to 'feel.'
So what precisely is the thing that I'm discussing here?
I'm making my point on the usual practice of novice writers on their attempt to delude themselves that they are cut to be writers on the basis of their pretensions of suffering from some turmoil of social or self alienation or spiritual distress. (Of course they wont admit to it, and they may even be probably not aware of what they are really doing.)
They desperately, upon realizing that they want to be writers or poets, try to rummage amidst the chaos of their memories for something painful experiencesor circumstances that they can claim themselves to be in duress. Worse, others create an imagined crisis of their spirits besieging their existence day in and day out. And when you read the text of the latter case: it reeks of phoniness and pretensions as can be seen on his obvious attempt to be literary and writerly in his delivery of his 'pain.'
Usually these are the young aspiring writers and poets you would bump into in college and university campuses; mostly those who are staff writers for their college papers and those hangers-on who surround them.
They assume this gibberish on spiritual alienation and destitution or on whatever suffering it might be, as a shortcut on opening their pores and sensibilities to human sufferings and conditions. Another reason is to give justification for them to continue to write; since they are in pain and suffering then they have something important to share to humanity.
Sadly, they even assume that the more and deeper their pains are, the greater the possibility of writing a better piece -- as if their present endeavor, if done in a state of misery can keep par as far as quality vis-a-vis for example Slyvia Plath's Bell Jar.
Don't get the impression that I deny the ability of young writers to experience and understand true human conditions. I would say these kind of writers are usually the ones who don't subcribe to the tactics mentioned above. I met several of writers of this kind, and all I can say is when you read their prose or poems is was as if they were old souls in young men's body.
I say, aspiring writers should not mind if they don't suffer from any obvious pain. Or if they don't feel such kind of pain stated above means they are not cut for a writer. Everybody can be a writer. It only takes a decision to be so. Going back to the subject of pain: Pain will come along on every writer's path. That's for sure.
Note: The experience that pushed me to write the above piece comes from reading a blog posted by a young, intelligent college student who tries to force or pretend that he suffers from spiritual alienation and he fears for the future, yet it is obvious from her credentials and achievements that he is highly a functional young adult. Well, the blog's text betrays him of his intention... Though I may add, that young student writes better than me. Hehehe
Dragon Tales
There is another anothology being cooked, now by another blogger Vin Simbulan and it is titled A Time for Dragons: An Anthology of Philippine Draconic Fiction.
The story I did sent to Dean Alfar got the rejection slip, but this does not daunt me on participating in any upcoming anthology. So, I'm bracing myself now for putting an entry, no, probably two entries (as it is the allowed submission per contributor) on Vin's planned anthology.
There's already a good story brewing in my mind right now about dragons, and I hope, come January 4 next year my entries will be ready for submission.
Yeah, another writing assignment adding up on my to-do writing list.
The story I did sent to Dean Alfar got the rejection slip, but this does not daunt me on participating in any upcoming anthology. So, I'm bracing myself now for putting an entry, no, probably two entries (as it is the allowed submission per contributor) on Vin's planned anthology.
There's already a good story brewing in my mind right now about dragons, and I hope, come January 4 next year my entries will be ready for submission.
Yeah, another writing assignment adding up on my to-do writing list.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Bilog ang Mundo
Nobody had seen it coming. That is if you asked the neigborhood of Cityhomes over the destiny that had embraced Ignacio Guevarra. Who can, in the first place, notice such talent about to take by storm the local literary scene and the international as well, when a man's worth is gauged by his material success seen through the eyes of drivers, welders, office employees, accountants, secretaries, housewives, and, well, bums. They did not even know such professions such as writers exist. For them, it seemed, taking a supervisory position in a small company is proof already of outstanding and uncanny talent.
Well, who could have thought Ignacio Guevarra was groomed for something greater than they ever had thought. They never paid attention to him as he burned the streets, day in and day out, in his tribike delivering softdrinks and beers to the stores in the subdivision. For them, Ignacio was merely another man breaking his back and stubborn against the elements to put food in his grumbling stomach.
They were times when they heard Ignacio talked about who he really was, or what the future that awaited him. A new customer asked him once if he had skipped going to work as he put the cases of softdrinks at the back of the store. His reply was: "I'm a writer. I don't work."
"Oh, what do you drive then?"
"No, sir," Ignacio said. "I'm a writer that's why I just stay at home."
Yet, nobody really took his pronouncements seriously. Ignacio, afterall, had been a delivery boy for several years now, and this kind of pronouncement coming from a person such as he, could only be attributed to delusion of grandeur.
Probably, if someone who had known his for the first time his claims would be given thought and consideration. But it was inevitable that after weeks he would be seen sweating under the noonday sun paddling desperately to carry the load of his tribike. Then they would eventually gauge him as another nobody dreaming for an unreachable social importance.
So during those times when they found themselves sitting beside Ignacio in some neigjhborhood yard boozing, they would let him put himself a little higher from his social status as a delivery boy, listening halfheartedly to his style of wisdom.
At first, they usually would mock his statements by sarcastic rejoinders to put him to his right place: "Then how can you explain your life?" they would ask and convulsed in a fit of laughters. But Ignacio was quick to parry these blows by enigmatic counter-rejoinders such as: "I dont have to explain myself because nobody can understand somebody who understands everybody."
So they let him be with his sense of grandeur. Anyway, they thought, he's harmless. What can little grandstanding done by a dregs of society do to them. Nothing. The fact is he is still a delivery boy no matter how hard he tries to claim as somebody, their collective judgment concluded.
Then one day, a couple of sleek cars began to pull over by the front of Ignacio's house. Neighbors would see well-dressed and groomed individuals came and went out of his house, and one neighbor even spotted a television personality he could not put anywhere in his map of showbiz people. Probably, somebody important, the neighbor thought.
These were the times when Ignacio's presence in the streets paddling his tribike diminished until nobody could no longer see him delivering softdrinks and beers. They thought Ignacio went bankrupt.
It took sometime before somebody could give explaination as to what Ignacio was up to those days. A neighbor reading a national broadsheet chanced him on its pages. There on the glorious pages of a national broadsheet, Ignacio had written a column, with a picture of his darkened face brought by too much sun, smiling pedantically beside his byline.
It was then when everybody in the neighborhood started treating him differently, and with seriousness now. They were all, in fact, would do anything even if it meant forsaking their lives just for their names to land on the pages of a newspaper. And, Ignacio had done it without doing something as imaginable as that.
Then Ignacio moved out of their neighborhood. The last thing that they heard about him was he had published six books, three of them novels which some of their children in college read for book reviews, and had been jet-setting around the world as a respective writer lecturing on modern human conditions and literature.
Well, nobody among them had seen it coming until it happened.
Now, when they drink during weekends and talk about the past years, they never forget to mention in their conversation about the delivery boy who used to claim himself as a writer. Twist of fate, they would say. One of them aptly put it: "Kunsabay, bilog ang mundo."
Well, who could have thought Ignacio Guevarra was groomed for something greater than they ever had thought. They never paid attention to him as he burned the streets, day in and day out, in his tribike delivering softdrinks and beers to the stores in the subdivision. For them, Ignacio was merely another man breaking his back and stubborn against the elements to put food in his grumbling stomach.
They were times when they heard Ignacio talked about who he really was, or what the future that awaited him. A new customer asked him once if he had skipped going to work as he put the cases of softdrinks at the back of the store. His reply was: "I'm a writer. I don't work."
"Oh, what do you drive then?"
"No, sir," Ignacio said. "I'm a writer that's why I just stay at home."
Yet, nobody really took his pronouncements seriously. Ignacio, afterall, had been a delivery boy for several years now, and this kind of pronouncement coming from a person such as he, could only be attributed to delusion of grandeur.
Probably, if someone who had known his for the first time his claims would be given thought and consideration. But it was inevitable that after weeks he would be seen sweating under the noonday sun paddling desperately to carry the load of his tribike. Then they would eventually gauge him as another nobody dreaming for an unreachable social importance.
So during those times when they found themselves sitting beside Ignacio in some neigjhborhood yard boozing, they would let him put himself a little higher from his social status as a delivery boy, listening halfheartedly to his style of wisdom.
At first, they usually would mock his statements by sarcastic rejoinders to put him to his right place: "Then how can you explain your life?" they would ask and convulsed in a fit of laughters. But Ignacio was quick to parry these blows by enigmatic counter-rejoinders such as: "I dont have to explain myself because nobody can understand somebody who understands everybody."
So they let him be with his sense of grandeur. Anyway, they thought, he's harmless. What can little grandstanding done by a dregs of society do to them. Nothing. The fact is he is still a delivery boy no matter how hard he tries to claim as somebody, their collective judgment concluded.
Then one day, a couple of sleek cars began to pull over by the front of Ignacio's house. Neighbors would see well-dressed and groomed individuals came and went out of his house, and one neighbor even spotted a television personality he could not put anywhere in his map of showbiz people. Probably, somebody important, the neighbor thought.
These were the times when Ignacio's presence in the streets paddling his tribike diminished until nobody could no longer see him delivering softdrinks and beers. They thought Ignacio went bankrupt.
It took sometime before somebody could give explaination as to what Ignacio was up to those days. A neighbor reading a national broadsheet chanced him on its pages. There on the glorious pages of a national broadsheet, Ignacio had written a column, with a picture of his darkened face brought by too much sun, smiling pedantically beside his byline.
It was then when everybody in the neighborhood started treating him differently, and with seriousness now. They were all, in fact, would do anything even if it meant forsaking their lives just for their names to land on the pages of a newspaper. And, Ignacio had done it without doing something as imaginable as that.
Then Ignacio moved out of their neighborhood. The last thing that they heard about him was he had published six books, three of them novels which some of their children in college read for book reviews, and had been jet-setting around the world as a respective writer lecturing on modern human conditions and literature.
Well, nobody among them had seen it coming until it happened.
Now, when they drink during weekends and talk about the past years, they never forget to mention in their conversation about the delivery boy who used to claim himself as a writer. Twist of fate, they would say. One of them aptly put it: "Kunsabay, bilog ang mundo."
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Toothache
I have this toothache for several days now and by the look of it, it seems there's already an infection. The right side of my jaw is swollen, though not that much, and my gums feel itchy. Gingivitis? I don't know.
During the onset of the pain in my molar on the first night, I had taken 1,500 ml of Ponstan yet without any relief. I must attribute the failure of the painkiller on the Red Horse that I had prior to the attack; drinking an ice-cold beer when you've already a controlled toothache will set off the pain again with an intensity no painkiller could neutralize.
Well, tootaches are one of the pains of living. Anyway, this kind of pain rarely falls on me so I just have to bear it.
But when swollen is gone I go directly to the barangay health clinic and get the pesky molar pulled out. The only problem while I wait for it is the throbbing pain that runs up to my temple.
Ah, this pesky toothache
During the onset of the pain in my molar on the first night, I had taken 1,500 ml of Ponstan yet without any relief. I must attribute the failure of the painkiller on the Red Horse that I had prior to the attack; drinking an ice-cold beer when you've already a controlled toothache will set off the pain again with an intensity no painkiller could neutralize.
Well, tootaches are one of the pains of living. Anyway, this kind of pain rarely falls on me so I just have to bear it.
But when swollen is gone I go directly to the barangay health clinic and get the pesky molar pulled out. The only problem while I wait for it is the throbbing pain that runs up to my temple.
Ah, this pesky toothache
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