Recently, a task was given to me as a prerequisite in getting employed as a freelance writer for a not-too-small publishing house. The task at hand was to write three chapters of what to be a novel in the long run. The project was a romance pulp fiction – the kind stereotypically known as the pocketbook maids and helpers read. Not that there is something wrong with it except that the language that I would employ is Pilipino.
For a stubborn writer like me who sticks with the strength of a benny addict to the English language as his preferred vehicle of expression, this was an alien, almost unimaginable, task that I would venture in. I never in my whole writing career wrote in Pilipino. Nor I have secretly dreamt of getting a career in writing in Pilipino. But I needed the extra money so I thought why not give it a try.
Gauging by the writing style expected of the job, I estimated that I could easily whip up, not just three chapters, but the whole novel in a week. That was how confidence I was regarding the matter.
Another underlying purpose as to why I wanted to try my hands in the project was to loosen up my stiff tongue in telling a story. With the casual, formulatic style needed to accomplish the work, I deemed it a good venue to practice making my writing stamina stronger.
But unknown to me, there were lessons, valuable lessons, that I would learn while carried out the task.
First, I was able to connect with the Pilipino language, as if finally finding my true self, my own language, my own voice. Writing in Pilipino is so natural for me it seems I was just merely chatting with a neighbor, telling him a story about matters of the heart.
I have been writing for more than a decade in English and never did I automatically, on the first try, felt at ease with the language the same way I experienced writing in Pilipino. God knows what a backbreaking labor I had undergone just to acquire this relative proficiency in the English language.
I can still recall those desperate, almost hopeless, days when I would scout a corner in our old house to set up a table with my papers and pen and get on toiling for long hours trying to write a decent, simple sentence in English. Those days were difficult and hard – I usually ended up mentally exhausted and sleepy.
This lesson was followed up with a clearer perspective regarding both languages and the inherent tendency of Filipino writers when he uses either of the two.
Probably this tendency is best summed up by the late Rolando Tinio when he described his relationship with the two languages. It went something like this: “When I write in English, I tend to be flowery. But when I write in Pilipino, I write simple and true.”
The late writer could not say it better than that.
When I scanned my electronic copy of some parts of the short fictions that were recently published by a new literary magazine and I could not help but notice the glaring similarity on how those featured writers used the English language in telling their stories.
They all used big, heavy words and their sentences are almost a forest of flowery sentences that can only reek of hyterical artificiality. If by any chance these fictions will be read by natural-born speakers of the language, I don’t blame them if they all throw-up because of the stories’ excessive wordiness.
With these new insights, I appreciate once again my native tongue and at the same time looking at the English language as no different animal altogether.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Barely Writing
I barely write nowadays. Anything you can see in this blog that is posted for the last several months are only the product of my fervent desire to stay in shape. And all of them I wrote during those moments of desperation when I was in need of something to say just to avoid drowning in the state of inability to think. Thus they tend to be gibberish than saying something meaningful at all.
I can only attribute this sparse writing output on my deficiency to continuously read. I say my writing output is proportionate on how voraciously I read. The more I read, the tendency is that I can write more. But lately, I barely read at all.
There is even not one book that I totally consumed this past year (oh, okay, there’s Stainless Longganisa, but it’s really not to be counted at all). Right now, there is a slew of books that is begging for my attention and waiting to be read in its entirety: Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago, which I dream of pulling out of it a novel someday; Jerry Oppenheimer’s Front Row, about the story of Vogue’s editor-in-chief Anna Wintour, and which was the prize I received from Read Magazine for contributing an essay; Ernest Hemingway’s Across the River and Into the Trees; and Nick Joaquin’s Culture and History and The Woman Who Had Two Navels – the latter a re-reading after more than a decade of having read it during my college days.
With only this short list of books waiting for me to be read, I cannot help but realize how far I have gone sterile in stimulating my mind. And I cannot be surprised at all if I find myself not writing lately. What even gets my goad over my obvious wanton laziness is to read in another blogger’s site a long list of books he had read which I ever imagined I could read in a year; and it explains why his high writing output and adept use of the English language.
We can say then that reading is like fuel to cars which is writing. If one stops reading, it is inevitable that one cannot continually write. One will agonize on finding that he seems not to know how to write. And I’m experiencing it now.
I can only attribute this sparse writing output on my deficiency to continuously read. I say my writing output is proportionate on how voraciously I read. The more I read, the tendency is that I can write more. But lately, I barely read at all.
There is even not one book that I totally consumed this past year (oh, okay, there’s Stainless Longganisa, but it’s really not to be counted at all). Right now, there is a slew of books that is begging for my attention and waiting to be read in its entirety: Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago, which I dream of pulling out of it a novel someday; Jerry Oppenheimer’s Front Row, about the story of Vogue’s editor-in-chief Anna Wintour, and which was the prize I received from Read Magazine for contributing an essay; Ernest Hemingway’s Across the River and Into the Trees; and Nick Joaquin’s Culture and History and The Woman Who Had Two Navels – the latter a re-reading after more than a decade of having read it during my college days.
With only this short list of books waiting for me to be read, I cannot help but realize how far I have gone sterile in stimulating my mind. And I cannot be surprised at all if I find myself not writing lately. What even gets my goad over my obvious wanton laziness is to read in another blogger’s site a long list of books he had read which I ever imagined I could read in a year; and it explains why his high writing output and adept use of the English language.
We can say then that reading is like fuel to cars which is writing. If one stops reading, it is inevitable that one cannot continually write. One will agonize on finding that he seems not to know how to write. And I’m experiencing it now.
Monday, November 27, 2006
We Are All Alone
We are all alone. Who was the sage who said that we are born alone and alone we will die? We may also add to that that we are going to live our lives alone until our last breath. This stark bit of wisdom is hard to accept but it never fails to ring a bell to those who have stumbled consciously on this reality.
During our formative years, we are deluded that we are never alone. Our parents are always there beside us, plus we are constantly surrounded by other relatives and friends. In school, besides developing the notion that we are immortal, we believe that we would enjoy till eternity the companionship of our classmates and best buddies. We have the faith that the bond that we have formed with our college friends will deliver us from separation.
It will be too late and seems to soon for us to realize that there is an end with our friendship with our classmates. Right after graduation, we know now that each one of us has to take different path in life. Even if we stay in touch with them once they are in the real world, the connection thins out especially if they got into marriage already. They pass on the get-togethers and informal reunions then, finally, they just disappear out of the circulation.
The idea that we are alone will only dawn on us after several stints in various jobs. When we go to our first jobs and if asked one of the reasons why we want the job, we may answer that we want to meet new friends. Like a habit we have formed in our schooldays, we are deluded that this job will be our last and the co-workers we befriended here will be there beside us forever. But unlike in school, our tenure in this job depends on many factors and it is not unexpected that we may lose it any day. And when we lose our job we lose also our friends there. We are no longer part of the organization and we will find ourselves alone. Friends in the work place come and go as we transfer to different organizations, and there are there mainly to give us an itinerant companionship.
There may come the time when we will also get married and find our partner in life. The hope of making the relationship last until both of you grow old is intense and grave. Probably, if separation or annulment is avoided, you’ll reach the autumn season of your lives together. But somehow, as it is inevitable, one may go first in going back to the Creator. And the one who is left behind will find that he is all alone after all.
Can we say then that the one who past away first never lived alone? Does the fact that he or she died beside his/her partner mean so? On the contrary, the dead person at the hour of his death gets the illumination of his circumstances that he has been alone all the time as manifested by his departure; he was born alone and will die alone.
We are all alone.
During our formative years, we are deluded that we are never alone. Our parents are always there beside us, plus we are constantly surrounded by other relatives and friends. In school, besides developing the notion that we are immortal, we believe that we would enjoy till eternity the companionship of our classmates and best buddies. We have the faith that the bond that we have formed with our college friends will deliver us from separation.
It will be too late and seems to soon for us to realize that there is an end with our friendship with our classmates. Right after graduation, we know now that each one of us has to take different path in life. Even if we stay in touch with them once they are in the real world, the connection thins out especially if they got into marriage already. They pass on the get-togethers and informal reunions then, finally, they just disappear out of the circulation.
The idea that we are alone will only dawn on us after several stints in various jobs. When we go to our first jobs and if asked one of the reasons why we want the job, we may answer that we want to meet new friends. Like a habit we have formed in our schooldays, we are deluded that this job will be our last and the co-workers we befriended here will be there beside us forever. But unlike in school, our tenure in this job depends on many factors and it is not unexpected that we may lose it any day. And when we lose our job we lose also our friends there. We are no longer part of the organization and we will find ourselves alone. Friends in the work place come and go as we transfer to different organizations, and there are there mainly to give us an itinerant companionship.
There may come the time when we will also get married and find our partner in life. The hope of making the relationship last until both of you grow old is intense and grave. Probably, if separation or annulment is avoided, you’ll reach the autumn season of your lives together. But somehow, as it is inevitable, one may go first in going back to the Creator. And the one who is left behind will find that he is all alone after all.
Can we say then that the one who past away first never lived alone? Does the fact that he or she died beside his/her partner mean so? On the contrary, the dead person at the hour of his death gets the illumination of his circumstances that he has been alone all the time as manifested by his departure; he was born alone and will die alone.
We are all alone.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Mental Calisthenics and Looking Back
Mental Calisthenics
Waking up late in the morning to the shouts inside the house between my parents who both manned the store at the front of the house, asking each other what was the price of a certain items were, I opened my eyes resolute that the day ahead is the day in which I have to start working on my writing. There was nothing left for me to do, and it seemed the task had been waiting for me ever since I began my self-imposed exile from real work.
I have to write, I said to myself. I have to do some mental calisthenics, flex my writing muscles. And what I had in mind then was the 15-page requirement a student of Creative Writing has to finish before the end of the semester. Indeed I will never be a writer, with a book to boost, if I cannot even pull that simple feat.
I have to write. Write again like I used to do without bothering anything about the world outside since my last refuge and salvation is with writing. Yeah, I will write. I will write those things that I saw and heard and felt and those things that I learned.
There is no other way.
Looking Back
When I started out this personal blog a couple of years ago, my agenda, like the usual blogger out there, was to utilize this free space in the vast universe of the Internet as a venue where I could post my peripatetic musings about life. Of course I cannot deny that I intended also to use this blog to hone my writing skill with the aim of perfecting the art of essay writing.
With excited, controlled pounding of my heart, I tried to set a goal of writing at least an essay in a week, pretending that I have a column here in the net which I need to maintain. (To think, I just have to mimic what I normally do for almost a decade in which I maintain a personal journal in my computer which unluckily had been deleted by an unscrupulous hacker.) The only question that hung in the air was whether I could stick and beat my imagined deadline.
And the answer to that, after all this time, is that I fall short. My postings are like erratic downpour in a summer season. Though I can blame that to the demise of my computer – which is now like a chop-chop vehicle with its memory chips, video card and harddisk dismantled from the CPU. With nothing to write with, my mindset of delivering to my own expectation has gone wayward.
Nevertheless, the aim of using this free space as a venue for honing my writing skill does not change. Right now, I’ve begun, like an old boxer, training for the task ahead. Anyway, as long as blogging is free and my postings are safe in the virtual world of the net, then I will write and post them here.
About an-essay-in-a-week thing, I’m still trying to gather my momentum then I’ll go ahead performing the task.
Waking up late in the morning to the shouts inside the house between my parents who both manned the store at the front of the house, asking each other what was the price of a certain items were, I opened my eyes resolute that the day ahead is the day in which I have to start working on my writing. There was nothing left for me to do, and it seemed the task had been waiting for me ever since I began my self-imposed exile from real work.
I have to write, I said to myself. I have to do some mental calisthenics, flex my writing muscles. And what I had in mind then was the 15-page requirement a student of Creative Writing has to finish before the end of the semester. Indeed I will never be a writer, with a book to boost, if I cannot even pull that simple feat.
I have to write. Write again like I used to do without bothering anything about the world outside since my last refuge and salvation is with writing. Yeah, I will write. I will write those things that I saw and heard and felt and those things that I learned.
There is no other way.
Looking Back
When I started out this personal blog a couple of years ago, my agenda, like the usual blogger out there, was to utilize this free space in the vast universe of the Internet as a venue where I could post my peripatetic musings about life. Of course I cannot deny that I intended also to use this blog to hone my writing skill with the aim of perfecting the art of essay writing.
With excited, controlled pounding of my heart, I tried to set a goal of writing at least an essay in a week, pretending that I have a column here in the net which I need to maintain. (To think, I just have to mimic what I normally do for almost a decade in which I maintain a personal journal in my computer which unluckily had been deleted by an unscrupulous hacker.) The only question that hung in the air was whether I could stick and beat my imagined deadline.
And the answer to that, after all this time, is that I fall short. My postings are like erratic downpour in a summer season. Though I can blame that to the demise of my computer – which is now like a chop-chop vehicle with its memory chips, video card and harddisk dismantled from the CPU. With nothing to write with, my mindset of delivering to my own expectation has gone wayward.
Nevertheless, the aim of using this free space as a venue for honing my writing skill does not change. Right now, I’ve begun, like an old boxer, training for the task ahead. Anyway, as long as blogging is free and my postings are safe in the virtual world of the net, then I will write and post them here.
About an-essay-in-a-week thing, I’m still trying to gather my momentum then I’ll go ahead performing the task.
Bday
Lil Feather said that the sad thing today is the evidence that I’m growing old. (Yup, today my dear friends is my birthday though I don’t mean the date when I post this, but the date when I wrote this). I’m growing old indeed still without nothing to prove to the people around me and also to myself. This is the sad, hard fact of my more than 30 years of existence.
This morning, I woke up earlier than the usual, with the bad collective recollection of the years that had gone by. Drat! I said to myself, I haven’t done what I was suppose to do these past years and here I am rotting in my parents house. And this followed by the sutble pain in the stomach and sudden urgency to do something or else I will be in dire straits until my old age – and it is coming sooner than I expect it to be.
Then while channel-surfing I caught on the cable the 1997 NBA Finals between the Bulls and the Jazz. I could not imagine that it was almost a decade since that momentous time. I recalled how time flies by when then a document analyst and was having a fast, easy-go-lucky kind of life never bothering about the future. Arg! The year 2006 was a non-existent time for me and either as a goal for whatever undertaking I had then. Then suddenly, it stirred me that I was seeing this year as a gauge of what I have done so far.
And so far, nothing it seems.
Then like a thunder of hope, I realise that it is not true that I have not done anything. My long-time dream of writing for a magazine and being a columnist, even just for a single issue, has come true. That is already a feat for a 21-year old then who could not write a decent sentence.
I have gone a long way so it seems.
The only trouble with my struggle is that I cannot take off completely but it is obvious that I can do something as a writer. Yes, I cannot take off completely. But, mother of all hopes, I am getting there slow it may be. I know I will get there.
Probably, this guilt of having done nothing is caused by the my relative absence of work for sometime now. And, probably, it is.
Monday, November 20, 2006
On Reading Stainless Longganisa
Usually the moment I open my eyes when I wake up every morning, my head is swimming in the murky, deathlike impression of another long day. I guess this feeling goes along with the realization that I don’t have a job and days inevitably are going nowhere mfor me. Add to that my passion for serious readings that makes my face worn-down as I wake up because of some memory of last night’s failure to decipher those difficult text by my favorite writers.
Then one day, like a grace showering on me, I wake up with a sunny and bright impression of the day without a trace of grudge against the world. I even afford to smile and grin from time to time feeling no heavy burden on my shoulders as if suddenly freed from long years of imprisonment. Life is beautiful and what a blessing it is to read and write and dream and be whatever you want to be; and yes, what a blessing it is to be able to read and live.
This quick turn from my usually stern outlook about life is the byproduct on reading Bob Ong’s Stainless Longganisa.
I long have known Bob Ong by my perennial visits to the bookstore but have never tried opening one of his books, which usually stare at me from the bookstore shelves of the Filipiniana section. I am never fond of novelty books, which gauging by the way his books are marketed are one — though his Ang Paboritong Libro ni Hudas stirs the interest of the serious reader in me.
It just happens that my one of my sisters bought Stainless Longganisa and the book aroused my curiosity of what kind of a writer really is Bob Ong since my sisters kept on flashing their pearly white teeth and making that strange upward curve on their lips while reading the book.
As I find out, Stainless Longganisa mainly tells in casual Filipino text the experiences and philosophy of Bob Ong as a local writer – but don’t be misled by the word ‘philosophy’ as a hint that this book is a heavy read. It is one light read that is hard to resist to put the book down without reaching the last page. Another thing is the book is an intelligent read with mischievous and constant fooling around by Bob Ong.
The grim clouds in my head vanishes the moment I start reading the book. For one, this book is a sort of an inspirational book for the regular guy who dreams of becoming whatever he want himself to be. Written in subjective anecdotal tone, replete with jokes, Bob Ong never misses his mark in stating that his readers are important, beautiful Filipinos.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Blisters in the Sun
Blisters in The Sun is the first punk hits that I learned how to pluck in my guitar. I post this video to share this upbeat song by the band Violent Femmes.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
An Evening Shower in the Rain
On September 28 the storm Millenyo whipped the National Capital Region with strong winds and heavy rain. Halfway through the day, people working in the city were ordered to go home. On their way home, and days later, we would hear how they’d seen billboards along the length of EDSA were blown down and electric posts put to the ground by the merciless storm winds.
As the storm progressed on that day, our place in Cavite promptly revert to the Dark Ages, literally, as electricity was shut down. Gauging by the force of the storm, I anticipated a complete black-out in our place for at least a week, or two at the most basing from the past storms that debilitated the electric service in our place.
The problem when there is no electricity in our place is that it means there is also no water for us. The centralized water pump that gives service to us relies heavily on electricity as there is no generator to give power to it to pump water from the ground and thus supplies us with water for our domestic needs: for washing our clothes and utensils in the kitchen and bathroom. It also means we will have no means to do basic health hygiene like taking a bath.
The next day, like a joke from heaven, the sky cleared up. The day presented a hot, sunny one that kept us sweating inside our houses where the electric fans didn’t work. (Yes, after only a day of a passing strong storm, the electricity had still not returned.) The whole neighborhood was a packed of oily herd on the brim of doing a rain dance to wash away the collected dirt in our bodies.
Then evening came. I retired inside the adjacent house that we had and tried to spend the slow dark hours reading under a candle light. I heard a soft rain pelted on the tin roof. Before I noticed it and firmly sank into my consciousness busy with my readings, the rain that started minutes ago intensify into a heavy downpour sans the lash of strong winds. It was just pure rainwater from heaven pouring on the earth.
I heard my mother outside in the rain trying to fill every container we had with rain in frenzy. And when I went out to help her out, bringing an umbrella with me to protect me from getting wet, I scanned the street outside. Some of my neighbors were in reverie taking a shower in the rain; the teenagers running to and fro with pails and bringing water to their house. There was no doubt that I had to throw away my umbrella and partake with the blessing of heaven soaking the earth with rainwater.
I put away the umbrella and let myself got drench. And good God! The rain was pouring heavily to my heart’s delight. I ambled in the street bonding with my neighbors as we find roof gutters gushing with bitingly cold rainwater. I trained my eyes at the street and I could barely see the end of the street because of the downpour. It was like New Year’s day with the rainwater as the firecracker smoke and with the same celebratory mood.
For once, for at least an hour and a half, I became a boy again gleefully taking a bath in the rain. And to add to the experience, I was doing it – for the first time – during the night.
As the storm progressed on that day, our place in Cavite promptly revert to the Dark Ages, literally, as electricity was shut down. Gauging by the force of the storm, I anticipated a complete black-out in our place for at least a week, or two at the most basing from the past storms that debilitated the electric service in our place.
The problem when there is no electricity in our place is that it means there is also no water for us. The centralized water pump that gives service to us relies heavily on electricity as there is no generator to give power to it to pump water from the ground and thus supplies us with water for our domestic needs: for washing our clothes and utensils in the kitchen and bathroom. It also means we will have no means to do basic health hygiene like taking a bath.
The next day, like a joke from heaven, the sky cleared up. The day presented a hot, sunny one that kept us sweating inside our houses where the electric fans didn’t work. (Yes, after only a day of a passing strong storm, the electricity had still not returned.) The whole neighborhood was a packed of oily herd on the brim of doing a rain dance to wash away the collected dirt in our bodies.
Then evening came. I retired inside the adjacent house that we had and tried to spend the slow dark hours reading under a candle light. I heard a soft rain pelted on the tin roof. Before I noticed it and firmly sank into my consciousness busy with my readings, the rain that started minutes ago intensify into a heavy downpour sans the lash of strong winds. It was just pure rainwater from heaven pouring on the earth.
I heard my mother outside in the rain trying to fill every container we had with rain in frenzy. And when I went out to help her out, bringing an umbrella with me to protect me from getting wet, I scanned the street outside. Some of my neighbors were in reverie taking a shower in the rain; the teenagers running to and fro with pails and bringing water to their house. There was no doubt that I had to throw away my umbrella and partake with the blessing of heaven soaking the earth with rainwater.
I put away the umbrella and let myself got drench. And good God! The rain was pouring heavily to my heart’s delight. I ambled in the street bonding with my neighbors as we find roof gutters gushing with bitingly cold rainwater. I trained my eyes at the street and I could barely see the end of the street because of the downpour. It was like New Year’s day with the rainwater as the firecracker smoke and with the same celebratory mood.
For once, for at least an hour and a half, I became a boy again gleefully taking a bath in the rain. And to add to the experience, I was doing it – for the first time – during the night.
Untitled
“Lucia, would you please do me the favor of pulling off the curtains,” Gabino Santiago rasped on his bed. “I want to see the outside.”
An ordered tangle of sensory cables and tubes connected to the pulsating machine, which gave readings in numbers, ran all over his body.
“I’ve been expecting to do that as I have been doing for months, old Santiago,” the nurse said. She put his breakfast of oatmeal, glass of milk and a piece of banana on the movable table before him and walked toward the window and pulled the curtain. The weak natural light from outside washed into the room.
“A favor for you, my love,” the nurse said in a tender, teasing tone.
He heard how lovingly the nurse called him ‘my love’, but it did not matter a bit to him. All he wanted was to see the outside. He pushed a button beside the steel railing and his bed adjusted propping him halfway up. He looked beyond the glass window, over the spacious green lawn, at the line of old mango trees that hid by its rich foliage a creek, then past the shrubbery knoll to the jagged outline of the city. Soon the sun would rise over those glass and steel buildings and perennial light crafts zooming in and around the labyrinthine streets of the city.
“Eat your breakfast now, my love.”
He continued staring at the view outside, not hearing anymore what the nurse was saying to him, until the blue sky turned lighter and lighter and he stared at it wantonly knowing that he was visually feasting on something beautiful beyond description, at something he would never forget.
He could have done watching the sunrise by closing his still sleepy eyes by automatically switching on the nanochip in his brain and recall the same, familiar view. But why settle for something artificial when you can have the natural fresher one, he thought.
He squinted from time to time as if to absorb the invisible spirit of the view. He knew this experience would never be orphaned, forgotten memory. He would always remember it the way he experienced it the first time.
Everybody in the world remembers everything now, he thought, smiling bitterly.
Anyway, the version of his nanochip memory was the still reliable Super MemSoft III that could store fifty more years of experience, if he ever reached that length. His wife had the latest PulseSoft version 6.0 which had the capability to tap it onto televisions and share her visual experiences in hologram media.
He winced when he thought about the fact.
In split seconds the atomic circuitry in his memory chip calculated that it was almost five decades ago, or to be more precise 48 years, three months, seven days and 16 hours since the 27th of December of the year 2252. He was a century-and-a-half years old then, and around the globe during that time China suffered a death toll of two thousand who perished when a meteor hit their controlled colony in Mars; the Philippines signed a ten-year agreement with Indonesia, Singapore and Malaysia on a space venture to explore Pluto; an earthquake with 7.5 intensity in the Richter scale hit Brazil that virtually severed the country into half as the ground opened a maw of twelve meters wide and several miles long with half a kilometer deep in the gash.
It was during this time when an inexplicable obsession to recall something in his childhood forced him to consult a memory nanochip specialist.
Dr. Artemio Baltazar, who sat at the other end of the table, shook his head with stoic, industrial coldness in his mien which could be interpreted as a lack of interest in Gabino’s trouble.
“There’s nothing we can do about it,” the doctor said, leaning on the backrest of his black leather swivel chair as if announcing a terminal verdict on the case.
“Do you mean there’s no way to retrieve it?” Gabino asked, refusing to comprehend what he had just heard.
“The problem is that the experience occurred prior to the implant,” the doctor said rocking gently on his chair, then added, “You must understand that the chip’s function is not to absorb and interpret your pre-implant experience. It just does not work that way.
“There’s still no technology capable of decoding an already imprinted memory in your brain cells. Our science is still too young to pull that kind of thing.”
“There must be a way, somehow.” Gabino mumbled feebly.
“Have you tried the old science of regression? Practitioners of this ancient method are now rare. But I bet you can find one. As they fondly say: The soul remembers.”
Gabino strayed off his sight from the doctor, on toward the wall where wooden plaques of scientific achievements by the doctor hung, and composing mentally the right words to express his sad, frustrated thoughts.
To be continued…..
An ordered tangle of sensory cables and tubes connected to the pulsating machine, which gave readings in numbers, ran all over his body.
“I’ve been expecting to do that as I have been doing for months, old Santiago,” the nurse said. She put his breakfast of oatmeal, glass of milk and a piece of banana on the movable table before him and walked toward the window and pulled the curtain. The weak natural light from outside washed into the room.
“A favor for you, my love,” the nurse said in a tender, teasing tone.
He heard how lovingly the nurse called him ‘my love’, but it did not matter a bit to him. All he wanted was to see the outside. He pushed a button beside the steel railing and his bed adjusted propping him halfway up. He looked beyond the glass window, over the spacious green lawn, at the line of old mango trees that hid by its rich foliage a creek, then past the shrubbery knoll to the jagged outline of the city. Soon the sun would rise over those glass and steel buildings and perennial light crafts zooming in and around the labyrinthine streets of the city.
“Eat your breakfast now, my love.”
He continued staring at the view outside, not hearing anymore what the nurse was saying to him, until the blue sky turned lighter and lighter and he stared at it wantonly knowing that he was visually feasting on something beautiful beyond description, at something he would never forget.
He could have done watching the sunrise by closing his still sleepy eyes by automatically switching on the nanochip in his brain and recall the same, familiar view. But why settle for something artificial when you can have the natural fresher one, he thought.
He squinted from time to time as if to absorb the invisible spirit of the view. He knew this experience would never be orphaned, forgotten memory. He would always remember it the way he experienced it the first time.
Everybody in the world remembers everything now, he thought, smiling bitterly.
Anyway, the version of his nanochip memory was the still reliable Super MemSoft III that could store fifty more years of experience, if he ever reached that length. His wife had the latest PulseSoft version 6.0 which had the capability to tap it onto televisions and share her visual experiences in hologram media.
He winced when he thought about the fact.
In split seconds the atomic circuitry in his memory chip calculated that it was almost five decades ago, or to be more precise 48 years, three months, seven days and 16 hours since the 27th of December of the year 2252. He was a century-and-a-half years old then, and around the globe during that time China suffered a death toll of two thousand who perished when a meteor hit their controlled colony in Mars; the Philippines signed a ten-year agreement with Indonesia, Singapore and Malaysia on a space venture to explore Pluto; an earthquake with 7.5 intensity in the Richter scale hit Brazil that virtually severed the country into half as the ground opened a maw of twelve meters wide and several miles long with half a kilometer deep in the gash.
It was during this time when an inexplicable obsession to recall something in his childhood forced him to consult a memory nanochip specialist.
Dr. Artemio Baltazar, who sat at the other end of the table, shook his head with stoic, industrial coldness in his mien which could be interpreted as a lack of interest in Gabino’s trouble.
“There’s nothing we can do about it,” the doctor said, leaning on the backrest of his black leather swivel chair as if announcing a terminal verdict on the case.
“Do you mean there’s no way to retrieve it?” Gabino asked, refusing to comprehend what he had just heard.
“The problem is that the experience occurred prior to the implant,” the doctor said rocking gently on his chair, then added, “You must understand that the chip’s function is not to absorb and interpret your pre-implant experience. It just does not work that way.
“There’s still no technology capable of decoding an already imprinted memory in your brain cells. Our science is still too young to pull that kind of thing.”
“There must be a way, somehow.” Gabino mumbled feebly.
“Have you tried the old science of regression? Practitioners of this ancient method are now rare. But I bet you can find one. As they fondly say: The soul remembers.”
Gabino strayed off his sight from the doctor, on toward the wall where wooden plaques of scientific achievements by the doctor hung, and composing mentally the right words to express his sad, frustrated thoughts.
To be continued…..
Friday, September 22, 2006
Saturday, August 19, 2006
There has been a long period of time when I did not write nor read because I could not. It was during those times when I asked do I still what it takes to be a writer. There is nothing I wanted in this world but to be a writer and nothing but a writer. And when those times hit me, my world suddenly lost its color and I could not even find any purpose in my life.
Nevertheless, here I am again, trying to write inspite of my semi-cerebral paralysis.
Nevertheless, here I am again, trying to write inspite of my semi-cerebral paralysis.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Assessment of Pending Works and Blackhole
Assessing my work at hand under the rate that I am doing it, it seems it will take a decade before I can finish them into something that can occupy some space in bookstore shelves.
Here's a run-down of my projects:
Here's a run-down of my projects:
- Short Fictions: 1.) An untitled short story about a nightmare and love is already on its first rough draft. Its status is shelved until I find the right time to polish it and improve the storytelling style. 2.) The Adventure of the Man They Called Mariano Torres is an old story that I rewrote wall-to-wall in long hand and waiting to be transferred into the word processor.
- Novel: 1.) The Gulag Experience. I have been thinking of imitating Ignacio Padilla on writing about a foreign country from my own, veering away from the usual local subject or theme, and writing it with a history as a backdrop. But it seems Alexandr Solzhenitsyn have exploited that subject. 2.) Wasteland (Tentative Title). My whole being has been revving up to write this just finished research I did and plunged into for more than four years. But my mind is not yet ready for it is still recuperating from too much use/abuse of using an "articifial force" when writing. I still have to get used writing again in my normal state. I have the story in my head already and it is only time before I can it - I hope soon. And also practicing to get my wind back.
* * * * *
"Me a black hole and everything is being sucked by my strong gravitational force. Can you believe that? And is the comeuppance coming soon?" Thyrone Slothrop talking to the Kenosha Kid.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
To my Brother Syd
How I wish I can say you're here now, brother Syd, because everything has just began. The psychedelic colors that you've wished and experimented before, though for me its the marvelous architectural formation of the novel, is just starting to get form.
The niggers in my dick and monkeys are all off my back now -- an almost three years of subtle planning and scheming with a help of a friend. I took the risks, didn't I? I tried to force the condition (again) through articifial means, but unlike you, I have learned how to swim and avoid getting drowned, which you, fortunately did.
My brother Syd, we are dreamers -- dream chasers -- and on how far my journey will take me to fulfill my own, may the soul of the universe Sila stand by my side and guide me with her words: Sila ersinarsinivdluge.
The niggers in my dick and monkeys are all off my back now -- an almost three years of subtle planning and scheming with a help of a friend. I took the risks, didn't I? I tried to force the condition (again) through articifial means, but unlike you, I have learned how to swim and avoid getting drowned, which you, fortunately did.
My brother Syd, we are dreamers -- dream chasers -- and on how far my journey will take me to fulfill my own, may the soul of the universe Sila stand by my side and guide me with her words: Sila ersinarsinivdluge.
Monday, June 26, 2006
A Trace of A Planned Stealth Writing
The place is already a ghost town, and now finally the story will be told. Don't know it I can or how long I can give it a try to get a crack at it. Drat! Can't write without the "it."
Nevertheless, this song is apt to get the muse going while I acclimatize myself to the lower ground.
Lose Youself by Eminem
Nevertheless, this song is apt to get the muse going while I acclimatize myself to the lower ground.
Lose Youself by Eminem
Friday, May 12, 2006
On Basketball and the Local Scene
It has been said and repeated often: there is no sports in the
We have our own professional basketball league: the PBA, which spawned cagers like Jaworski, Samboy Lim, Dondon Ampalayo, Alvin Patrimonio and lately Fil-Ams players like Eric Menk, Asi Taulava, Mark Caguiao and Danny Sigle. It is only sad to confess that for years now I stopped following the league.
During my childhood, I would sit beside my uncles, who drank beer, while glued on the TV set entertained by the exciting plays brought by the local cagers and imports (Billy Ray Bates coming in my rusting memory.) Now, my excitement of the old days for the PBA has waned ever since NBA penetrated my basketball geography. Blame it on Michael Jordan who paved the way for the NBA to turn into a global sports entertainment with his graceful aerial repertoire of dunks and jump shots. Blame it too on those people behind the telecast of NBA games, especially the Finals, to the local tube. Lately, the games in the whole season are already available via cable.
Though I one factor my appetite for patronizing the local league waned was the observable slowness in how our cagers move and execute plays in the court. When you just have watched an NBA game, especially the Finals, then switched later to watch the local league, you can spot right on this matter and the difference in the quality of the game.
Another thing that started to turn me off from the local basketball league is the numerous championship tournaments played in a year (there is three tournaments I think in a year.) When this is the case it becomes tiring to see repeatedly a handful of teams vying for championship that is happening every three months. It diminishes the gravity and importance of the title to think that anyway a team can take a shot again at it come next tournament.
Yet, there is an unflinching hope in my heart that someday, somehow, we can produce local cagers that can slug/shoot it out with the foreign ones, and eventually make the list of the NBA roster.
A short glimpse lately, on how our local cagers move the ball on the court, I observed improvement, especially in the terms of speed. Right now, there is no 6’6” who can move and leap like a regular NBA forward, still there is no telling that there will be no Filipino cagers that be of this mold.
Monday, May 08, 2006
On Writing
How I wish I can easily weave stories. There are those writers who tell how surprised they are when rereading their works that probably some alien entity had got in the process of the writing that they can't believe that they were able to write some parts of it. Me, how I wish that these entities really exist. Even a doubleganger would do. It would sit before my writing table and scribble good, publishable stories while I sleep in my bed dreaming of penetrating the literary scene, even just the local.
I used to practice writing, on the goal of someday (when?) I can say I'm ready to write those stories running in my head, by keeping a journal. Unfortunately, the journal, which spanned more than a decade and sadly lost and deleted in my old PC by a hacker, can be summed up as mere whinings about my inability to write.
Now that I avoid staring at a blank paper, still sleepy and in need of a nicotine fix early in the morning, fearful of being bashed again by the reality of failing to write anything, I recall a college classmate who said something about writing stories that it sounded so easy anybody who is literate can do it.
"'Tol, magkukwento ka lang."
How I wish it is that easy.
I used to practice writing, on the goal of someday (when?) I can say I'm ready to write those stories running in my head, by keeping a journal. Unfortunately, the journal, which spanned more than a decade and sadly lost and deleted in my old PC by a hacker, can be summed up as mere whinings about my inability to write.
Now that I avoid staring at a blank paper, still sleepy and in need of a nicotine fix early in the morning, fearful of being bashed again by the reality of failing to write anything, I recall a college classmate who said something about writing stories that it sounded so easy anybody who is literate can do it.
"'Tol, magkukwento ka lang."
How I wish it is that easy.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
On Stealth Writing and Some Concerns
A relative long silence broke in this blog, interspersed with sporadic short posting that meant nothing but gibberish talk pointing at nothing.
I mentioned about the process of stealth writing: the process of hiding and keeping to oneself what he is writing at the moment. This is far from the so-called “guerrilla writing” where the writer does his work anytime he sees an opportunity. Well, stealth writing poses as a silent bomber, a kind of a puzzle or anticipation-maker for the reader what the writer is working on.
Don’t show a rough draft of your piece to anyone. Never. This is a lesson Gabo learned when he was establishing himself as a story teller, unencumbered with the expectation of his growing followers. The act has nothing to do with the readers. The beneficiary of this contained humbleness and secrecy is the writer himself.
Letting the readers, even one, get a glimpse of what the writer is pursuing somehow, and probably for sure most of the time as experienced, get the inspiration to write blow like a bubble. When somebody a rough draft, prior on finishing the piece, especially if the writer is wrestling with himself the jumbled storyline thrown at him, the story get stuck up, or worst never reach the culmination of being finished.
I would say the catharsis, the inner driving force of the writer, is vented too early. Some steam has escaped and the momentum to go on is lost, if not forever.
Straying from this discourse, though not totally out of line, I tried to keep my mouth shut from telegraphing the projects that I had been trying to finish last April. But sad to say, out of the three major projects that I had set, only one was able to beat the deadline of submission. (I mentioned in the previous post that it was mainly because of lack of internet access/PC brought by financial difficulties.)
Nevertheless, rummaging without reason inside my room this afternoon, I found old stories I had written four years ago. It was a surprise for me. I never thought that I had written a number of stories then and now is ready-made material to be my new projects. Of course, a wall-to-wall rewrite is needed to polish it and apply whatever lesson have I learned so far since writing them.
Furthermore, there are several new stories, essays crowding and vying for my attention like bees buzzing in my ears and mostly the thoughts try to stir me during the wee hours of the morning when household rules forbid me to turn on the lights.
Anyway, I’m still in the process of holding myself from writing essays and journals and the likes. Whenever I feel the urge to write those kinds of stuff, I bury myself in my bed and try to sleep off the inspiration. The time for practicing is over. I have to control myself now on taking head on the task which in the first place is the reason why I’m writing.
I mentioned about the process of stealth writing: the process of hiding and keeping to oneself what he is writing at the moment. This is far from the so-called “guerrilla writing” where the writer does his work anytime he sees an opportunity. Well, stealth writing poses as a silent bomber, a kind of a puzzle or anticipation-maker for the reader what the writer is working on.
Don’t show a rough draft of your piece to anyone. Never. This is a lesson Gabo learned when he was establishing himself as a story teller, unencumbered with the expectation of his growing followers. The act has nothing to do with the readers. The beneficiary of this contained humbleness and secrecy is the writer himself.
Letting the readers, even one, get a glimpse of what the writer is pursuing somehow, and probably for sure most of the time as experienced, get the inspiration to write blow like a bubble. When somebody a rough draft, prior on finishing the piece, especially if the writer is wrestling with himself the jumbled storyline thrown at him, the story get stuck up, or worst never reach the culmination of being finished.
I would say the catharsis, the inner driving force of the writer, is vented too early. Some steam has escaped and the momentum to go on is lost, if not forever.
Straying from this discourse, though not totally out of line, I tried to keep my mouth shut from telegraphing the projects that I had been trying to finish last April. But sad to say, out of the three major projects that I had set, only one was able to beat the deadline of submission. (I mentioned in the previous post that it was mainly because of lack of internet access/PC brought by financial difficulties.)
Nevertheless, rummaging without reason inside my room this afternoon, I found old stories I had written four years ago. It was a surprise for me. I never thought that I had written a number of stories then and now is ready-made material to be my new projects. Of course, a wall-to-wall rewrite is needed to polish it and apply whatever lesson have I learned so far since writing them.
Furthermore, there are several new stories, essays crowding and vying for my attention like bees buzzing in my ears and mostly the thoughts try to stir me during the wee hours of the morning when household rules forbid me to turn on the lights.
Anyway, I’m still in the process of holding myself from writing essays and journals and the likes. Whenever I feel the urge to write those kinds of stuff, I bury myself in my bed and try to sleep off the inspiration. The time for practicing is over. I have to control myself now on taking head on the task which in the first place is the reason why I’m writing.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Some Developments
The deadline for submission of entries in this year Palanca Awards is over several days ago. Now, of course, everybody in the literary community knows it already so the first statement of this post is sort redundant and of no use.
Anyway, I just mentioned it since for weeks, or months? this is only one of the times when I got to sit before a PC, with an internet access, and post something in this blog of mine.
My target for this year's Palanca is two short stories of different genre, but unfortunately (because of financial and internet access) I had no choice but to miss finishing those pieces.
Though I still have an ace in my sleeve in terms of writing contest. I've submitted an essay to a contest sponsored by Newsbreak and World Bank. Hopefully before this month ends, finalists will be given a note if they have made it to this first time held essay contest.
Anyway, I just mentioned it since for weeks, or months? this is only one of the times when I got to sit before a PC, with an internet access, and post something in this blog of mine.
My target for this year's Palanca is two short stories of different genre, but unfortunately (because of financial and internet access) I had no choice but to miss finishing those pieces.
Though I still have an ace in my sleeve in terms of writing contest. I've submitted an essay to a contest sponsored by Newsbreak and World Bank. Hopefully before this month ends, finalists will be given a note if they have made it to this first time held essay contest.
Monday, April 17, 2006
The Laughing Buddha
During the simmering heat of Holy Week, giving in to my excesses and indulging in small-time gambling like a Jew waiting for Christ to take his last breath on the cross, the idea of receiving Blessing and Grace in the duration of the Holiday was far from my mind. Anyway, when was the time that I expected such blessing to bestowed on me? Memory fails to recall an instance.
On the cable, I caught a psychic talked about the benevolence, blissful Lenten Season it would become. He explained about the occurrence of a fullmoon on Holy Thursday for the reason; witching hour that will bestow Grace and Blessing not just for those gifted in paranormal talents but also for the rest of the humanity.
If I would follow the pronouncement of that psychic, there was indeed some lessons/wisdom learned/given to me.
Nighttime, during Easter, the mind cluttered with small concerns and boredom, my channel-surfing landed me watching with curious fascination an Indian woman talking calmly about life. (As of this writing, memory fail to recall what she had beautifully said. But the next guess, an old causasian woman, an American and also a writer, who obviously belonged to the same spiritual organization of the previous guess, gave the stirring piece of wisdom that unexpectedly, came to feed my soul and spirit.
The sentences that came out from her lips were spoken as a matter of fact wisdom. The lesson learned cannot be attained without a journey. Nevertheless, the journey, no doubt, can only make you tough.
And the telltale signs of reaching the wisdom she was saying is when... A question: Have you heard about the Laughing Buddha?
On the cable, I caught a psychic talked about the benevolence, blissful Lenten Season it would become. He explained about the occurrence of a fullmoon on Holy Thursday for the reason; witching hour that will bestow Grace and Blessing not just for those gifted in paranormal talents but also for the rest of the humanity.
If I would follow the pronouncement of that psychic, there was indeed some lessons/wisdom learned/given to me.
Nighttime, during Easter, the mind cluttered with small concerns and boredom, my channel-surfing landed me watching with curious fascination an Indian woman talking calmly about life. (As of this writing, memory fail to recall what she had beautifully said. But the next guess, an old causasian woman, an American and also a writer, who obviously belonged to the same spiritual organization of the previous guess, gave the stirring piece of wisdom that unexpectedly, came to feed my soul and spirit.
The sentences that came out from her lips were spoken as a matter of fact wisdom. The lesson learned cannot be attained without a journey. Nevertheless, the journey, no doubt, can only make you tough.
And the telltale signs of reaching the wisdom she was saying is when... A question: Have you heard about the Laughing Buddha?
Saturday, April 08, 2006
if any one of you are a bit curious as of why the silence in this blog for sometimes... it's because i'm practising a kind of writing. if there's such a thing as guerilla writing... then mine is a stealth writing... (details of what i have been busy with during this long silence will be told in the future post, if i still feel like writing about them.)
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Friday, March 03, 2006
Remembering Now: The Story
The last deal which made his mind writhed in silent agony over how to make the best of three number pairs had had an overwhelming unbearable weight on his shoulders – considering his bet was what remained of his hundred pesos – that when he got home and upon entering the front door the first urge for him to do was slump on the sofa. Laying his body on it, his back felt strained and fatigued, and wearily stared his eyes at the ceiling.
He had lost before. More in fact. More than a hundred pesos. Though surprisingly, this time had a similar bitter pang of losing several thousands. Or, perhaps, even more.
“There’s still a next time,” he tried to console himself.
He felt the stereo’s remote dig behind his ribs. He groped for it and turned the stereo. All the time exhaling with bass moan, unloading the pressure within him and trying to slow down the adrenalin left in his veins.
“Turn the sounds low, Ignacio,” a female voice commanded from inside a room and added, “You took so long. Just put the milk on the table.”
He turned the volume low. Just enough for the music from the radio station wafted smoothly through the air.
A love song seeped through the speakers. The song made popular years ago by a female artist whom Ignacio could not recall the name. He could not also recall whether he was in his puberty or late in his teens when the song first hit the airwaves. The song was a sad one, but he was clueless why it was so since he was not particular on listening to the lyrics. He just knew the song was a sad one based on the melody.
The volume and the song fit perfectly well. There lingered a grace of ethereal fluid of nostalgia in the air. The soft wisp of cool, music-laden air brought tingling in his skin. He began the pressure within him disappeared. His limbs relaxed. As if he was hypnotized. Though, there stayed deep weariness in him. His eyes squinted sleepily.
He looked at his arm, hand, then the fingers. He softly scanned his prostrate body on the sofa, down further at the couch next to it. Then he moved his eyes toward the barren crass white-painted wall of the house.
He felt an odd nostalgia. It was as if he had been here, in this position, in this same time and place feeling the same experience. It was as if he had already gone to an unspecific time in the future where he was at peace. He was there now as he was now here, on this sofa he was laying on. He was looking back enigmatically at this present time. Like thrown back through time, he was experiencing and feeling a past, a memory: the mood, the atmosphere, the soft touch of air. His present experience seen not from the state of Now but of the future.
Then the feeling snapped like a cut rope. It was gone.
The music stopped.
“Where is the milk?” asked the woman clutching a baby.
“Uh?”
“Where’s the damned milk?”
“Oh, I forgot. I’ll go buy it now, hon,” he said.
Ignacio pulled himself up, dazed, and strode for the door. Once outside, he brushed his hair using his hand, wondering what it was he had remembered a while ago.
He had lost before. More in fact. More than a hundred pesos. Though surprisingly, this time had a similar bitter pang of losing several thousands. Or, perhaps, even more.
“There’s still a next time,” he tried to console himself.
He felt the stereo’s remote dig behind his ribs. He groped for it and turned the stereo. All the time exhaling with bass moan, unloading the pressure within him and trying to slow down the adrenalin left in his veins.
“Turn the sounds low, Ignacio,” a female voice commanded from inside a room and added, “You took so long. Just put the milk on the table.”
He turned the volume low. Just enough for the music from the radio station wafted smoothly through the air.
A love song seeped through the speakers. The song made popular years ago by a female artist whom Ignacio could not recall the name. He could not also recall whether he was in his puberty or late in his teens when the song first hit the airwaves. The song was a sad one, but he was clueless why it was so since he was not particular on listening to the lyrics. He just knew the song was a sad one based on the melody.
The volume and the song fit perfectly well. There lingered a grace of ethereal fluid of nostalgia in the air. The soft wisp of cool, music-laden air brought tingling in his skin. He began the pressure within him disappeared. His limbs relaxed. As if he was hypnotized. Though, there stayed deep weariness in him. His eyes squinted sleepily.
He looked at his arm, hand, then the fingers. He softly scanned his prostrate body on the sofa, down further at the couch next to it. Then he moved his eyes toward the barren crass white-painted wall of the house.
He felt an odd nostalgia. It was as if he had been here, in this position, in this same time and place feeling the same experience. It was as if he had already gone to an unspecific time in the future where he was at peace. He was there now as he was now here, on this sofa he was laying on. He was looking back enigmatically at this present time. Like thrown back through time, he was experiencing and feeling a past, a memory: the mood, the atmosphere, the soft touch of air. His present experience seen not from the state of Now but of the future.
Then the feeling snapped like a cut rope. It was gone.
The music stopped.
“Where is the milk?” asked the woman clutching a baby.
“Uh?”
“Where’s the damned milk?”
“Oh, I forgot. I’ll go buy it now, hon,” he said.
Ignacio pulled himself up, dazed, and strode for the door. Once outside, he brushed his hair using his hand, wondering what it was he had remembered a while ago.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Drat! I've Just Been Published by Read Magazine
This news is just fresh from reading my e-mails. My "article" Sentimental Yakking has just been published by Read Magazine. As a gift, besides being featured by this magazine I admire because it is published by Powerbooks (my pseudo-private own library where I read for free countless of books, especially of Jack Kerouac and Italo Calvino), I will receive the book Front Row by Anna Wintour and a complimentary copy of the issue.
Wow!! It's just like winning an award. And that persistent urging in my head to continue writing because you have what it takes to write is never been louder than before.
Yipeeeee!!!
YuriGligoric will run immediately to the nearest Powerbook branch and gonna ogle seeing my "article" hugging a space of the Read magazine.
Wow!! It's just like winning an award. And that persistent urging in my head to continue writing because you have what it takes to write is never been louder than before.
Yipeeeee!!!
YuriGligoric will run immediately to the nearest Powerbook branch and gonna ogle seeing my "article" hugging a space of the Read magazine.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Eulogy for Saint Caloy
The last time I heard about the indefatigable freelance photographer Carlos Sanchez was several years ago. He was featured on prime-time news and an anchorman slash reporter held a microphone before him, getting a statement from him. Caloy sat on a hospital bed, thinner as a skeleton that he was and strands of his unkempt long hair stuck on his gaunt countenance. He spoke at the microphone in low gnarl voice, making a plea for financial help from his colleagues in the media. He was battling tuberculosis, which by then seemed at its advance stage.
But this was not the worse that Caloy had to deal with. It was being forced physically from doing what he loved best: capturing through the lens of his camera the political and crime drama unfolding everyday in the metropolis. Inspite of being confined on his hospital bed, he passionately expressed his impatience to get back to work, to bolt out, to rush to where another scoop is happening in the city, click the shutter of his reliable camera and produce, once again, the next day’s front-page photo.
That was the last time that I heard of him, until a couple of days ago when somebody informed me that he would and could never again use his camera. His camera had retired, finally. Because Caloy Sanchez had passed away already several years ago (he probably succumbed to TB).
I got a close-up look at the man when I did my practicum at WPD. Quickly, an impression formed in my young mind, something that I could not name then but only now. Though my arrogant practicum handler seemed to see differently since he would diss in passing Caloy, as if here a pesky beggar, a useless dreg in the press corps loitering in the corridors of the WPD. Well, Caloy indeed looked like a beggar with his disheveled hair, unshaved face, and with an outfit of soiled, worn-out clothes.
He would usually sit quietly on the floor, unmindful of everybody, just starring with his saintly stare at nothingness. His style of sitting showed his idiosyncrasy and rarity as a media man; he sat on the floor as if he were about to shit – this is the squat that became his trademark.
Though, whenever I would look at him, I knew that his dedication and passion toward his work, his vocation, was of a saintly embodiment of personal integrity, which I can compare and comparable with that of Haydee Yorac.
This saintly infectious persona he exuded – I spotted it right away and could not help myself grin with the view – when it would manifest on how the guys in my group would sit Caloy-style on the corridors of WPD, stare at nothingness, unmindful of those god-damned ordinary, no-good cops passing by, as if silently saying in cool, haughtiness: Damn, we’re gonna grow up like Saint Caloy.
Caloy had a collage of photos showing him, camera dangling around his neck, in black blazers, side by side with top political honchos whom he had chanced to cover and meet. These were displayed right next at the door of the office of the press corps. Caloy, like a boy who had met the big boys populating the highest strata of political stratosphere, was proud in his achievement of meeting and recording in photos the political hotshots he met.
But I think, it should be the other way around. These top politicos should be the one who should feel proud of having their photos taken and meeting the saintly hoodlum-looking Caloy.
The impression of saint Caloy which I could only name now: another damned crazy diamond who knew how to swim.
Wherever you are now, Saint Caloy, saludo ko sa yo, ‘tol! A well done job; and finally, your camera can have its much needed rest.
Rest in Peace, Saint Caloy.
But this was not the worse that Caloy had to deal with. It was being forced physically from doing what he loved best: capturing through the lens of his camera the political and crime drama unfolding everyday in the metropolis. Inspite of being confined on his hospital bed, he passionately expressed his impatience to get back to work, to bolt out, to rush to where another scoop is happening in the city, click the shutter of his reliable camera and produce, once again, the next day’s front-page photo.
That was the last time that I heard of him, until a couple of days ago when somebody informed me that he would and could never again use his camera. His camera had retired, finally. Because Caloy Sanchez had passed away already several years ago (he probably succumbed to TB).
I got a close-up look at the man when I did my practicum at WPD. Quickly, an impression formed in my young mind, something that I could not name then but only now. Though my arrogant practicum handler seemed to see differently since he would diss in passing Caloy, as if here a pesky beggar, a useless dreg in the press corps loitering in the corridors of the WPD. Well, Caloy indeed looked like a beggar with his disheveled hair, unshaved face, and with an outfit of soiled, worn-out clothes.
He would usually sit quietly on the floor, unmindful of everybody, just starring with his saintly stare at nothingness. His style of sitting showed his idiosyncrasy and rarity as a media man; he sat on the floor as if he were about to shit – this is the squat that became his trademark.
Though, whenever I would look at him, I knew that his dedication and passion toward his work, his vocation, was of a saintly embodiment of personal integrity, which I can compare and comparable with that of Haydee Yorac.
This saintly infectious persona he exuded – I spotted it right away and could not help myself grin with the view – when it would manifest on how the guys in my group would sit Caloy-style on the corridors of WPD, stare at nothingness, unmindful of those god-damned ordinary, no-good cops passing by, as if silently saying in cool, haughtiness: Damn, we’re gonna grow up like Saint Caloy.
Caloy had a collage of photos showing him, camera dangling around his neck, in black blazers, side by side with top political honchos whom he had chanced to cover and meet. These were displayed right next at the door of the office of the press corps. Caloy, like a boy who had met the big boys populating the highest strata of political stratosphere, was proud in his achievement of meeting and recording in photos the political hotshots he met.
But I think, it should be the other way around. These top politicos should be the one who should feel proud of having their photos taken and meeting the saintly hoodlum-looking Caloy.
The impression of saint Caloy which I could only name now: another damned crazy diamond who knew how to swim.
Wherever you are now, Saint Caloy, saludo ko sa yo, ‘tol! A well done job; and finally, your camera can have its much needed rest.
Rest in Peace, Saint Caloy.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Found It
After a long time of not-searching yet searching, I already found I have been preparing for since I started writing. Probably it will take me two years just to make a draft of the project. But it is already definite. It hit like a thunderbolt, and hit me really hard.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Some Fine Lessons
Lesson No. 1 -- A college degree, even if he/she earned a masteral, does not equate a person into an educated one. Formal education only teaches a specific field, nothing more. And sometimes, one's understanding of the world that can be compared with the wisdom of a mystic/sage, to this person is almost nil.
Lesson No. 2 -- Being put in the position of a leader does not guarantee a leadership quality whose main goal is to understand and bring out the best in every member of his group. A shallow understanding of leadership is forming a clique in the group (when this is the goal of the leader he/she obviously is afraid to stand alone on the top, fearful of relative height, of being misunderstood. The tool he/she uses to get the job or the goal right is through PR and camaraderie, which unfortunately has the downside of hesitating to get his/her members hurt or bruised. But, unknown to him/her, the function of letting the members of the group get bruised and beaten, is making them tough in pursuit of excellence.
Lesson No. 3 -- People always treat everything personally. And when you treat everything personally, you learn to hold grudge, blur the capacity for objective judgment.
Lesson No. 4 -- Those who avoid threshing out misunderstanding through talks, open communication are usually those who are afraid to expand their understanding.
Lesson No. 2 -- Being put in the position of a leader does not guarantee a leadership quality whose main goal is to understand and bring out the best in every member of his group. A shallow understanding of leadership is forming a clique in the group (when this is the goal of the leader he/she obviously is afraid to stand alone on the top, fearful of relative height, of being misunderstood. The tool he/she uses to get the job or the goal right is through PR and camaraderie, which unfortunately has the downside of hesitating to get his/her members hurt or bruised. But, unknown to him/her, the function of letting the members of the group get bruised and beaten, is making them tough in pursuit of excellence.
Lesson No. 3 -- People always treat everything personally. And when you treat everything personally, you learn to hold grudge, blur the capacity for objective judgment.
Lesson No. 4 -- Those who avoid threshing out misunderstanding through talks, open communication are usually those who are afraid to expand their understanding.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Vignettes
What else could we do then? Laugh our stupid laugh at our own stupidity. Mike had you by playing with your paranoia. “There’s cops outside!” Lights and the tube quickly turned off to shut down the universe. You felt for the cold floor, scrawling like a marine, ordering panickly Mike to do the same who then at that time was grinning, trying not to squiek a guffaw as you peer endlessly and moved furtively in the dark, through the stairs onto the second landing. The rest of the group had a good laugh when we heard the story, story that we really didn’t understand then. We didn’t know better. We were playing with your battered soul.
*
We had just inhaled the rolling white universe, when you stood up, firm or was there that perennial smirk in your lips. Trouble, we knew. Let it go. “Just let it pass,” Eric tried to calm you down. But, as I said, you were firm. You walked out of the gate into the darkness. Eric, Mike and I stared at each other. You madman. Mad that you probably would have wanted to die. “Stop him!” someone from us yelled. What did you do then? As you approached the dark small wooden bridge into the squatter area, seeing Balbon, you tapped him from behind. The moment he turned his face, your fist greeted him. He staggered for balance, as you, smirking that madman smirk, turned around for the kick, your foot landed on his guts. He thrown against the empty water containers in the corner, and the women started yelling, calling the tanods. There is no such thing as the wrath of man with talisman running in his blood, you thought. But you failed to think that Balbon had an evil twin, lurking in the darkness, and quickly the shadow bearhugged you. Drat! You could not move, as Balbon gained his footing, and shadow dancing in the dark, aiming for straights and hooks and uppercuts. Trying to parry and wiggle yourself free, the three of you had the curacha dance. Swirling, gravity pulled the shadow and you on the ground, and you saw (yes, you said you smirk this time) the creek a foot from you and you planned to maneuvered by a quick veer to the right, when Kapowwww!!! A kick broke your ribs and sending you, rolling in a quick plummet down the mud of the creek. Caked by shit and putrid soil, you saw above, a toilet bowl hanging in the air against the sky, then a woman’s voice crying loud: Wag! Maawa kayo! The pang of Death suddenly opened its maw on you and you said you knew that you would not die, that the bowl would not be thrown at you, or if ever, what was your arm doing, solid, firm and hard as a steel you bragged, drat! that smirk again.
*
We had just inhaled the rolling white universe, when you stood up, firm or was there that perennial smirk in your lips. Trouble, we knew. Let it go. “Just let it pass,” Eric tried to calm you down. But, as I said, you were firm. You walked out of the gate into the darkness. Eric, Mike and I stared at each other. You madman. Mad that you probably would have wanted to die. “Stop him!” someone from us yelled. What did you do then? As you approached the dark small wooden bridge into the squatter area, seeing Balbon, you tapped him from behind. The moment he turned his face, your fist greeted him. He staggered for balance, as you, smirking that madman smirk, turned around for the kick, your foot landed on his guts. He thrown against the empty water containers in the corner, and the women started yelling, calling the tanods. There is no such thing as the wrath of man with talisman running in his blood, you thought. But you failed to think that Balbon had an evil twin, lurking in the darkness, and quickly the shadow bearhugged you. Drat! You could not move, as Balbon gained his footing, and shadow dancing in the dark, aiming for straights and hooks and uppercuts. Trying to parry and wiggle yourself free, the three of you had the curacha dance. Swirling, gravity pulled the shadow and you on the ground, and you saw (yes, you said you smirk this time) the creek a foot from you and you planned to maneuvered by a quick veer to the right, when Kapowwww!!! A kick broke your ribs and sending you, rolling in a quick plummet down the mud of the creek. Caked by shit and putrid soil, you saw above, a toilet bowl hanging in the air against the sky, then a woman’s voice crying loud: Wag! Maawa kayo! The pang of Death suddenly opened its maw on you and you said you knew that you would not die, that the bowl would not be thrown at you, or if ever, what was your arm doing, solid, firm and hard as a steel you bragged, drat! that smirk again.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Intro: I Wish You were Here, You Crazy Diamond
It was more than a decade ago, penniless and tipsy under the shadow of a close store, facing the barrenness of the grassy field under the starlit sky, when you said that you can smell mysticism blowing in the winds, that good God! you can smell its rose-smell tingling the spine on your back; us, not knowing if you’re up again in your smart-ass intelligent talk, or probably the bottles of Red Horse, splayed on the gutter and on the street, had too much an effect on you that you’re imagination and the poet in you was talking, trying to create and impress ripples in our inebriated minds. You said, like a hint of what your soul would then take on as its journey, that you can tell heaven and hell. “You’re just drunk,” Mike said. But, you didn’t take it seriously. “We’re going to be a great band,” you prophesied, “we’re going to conquer the world; Pinoy-style music from the pits of my soul.” So, we let you go on with your dribble-talk, not taking any fancy thoughts about it since we knew anyway that you knew what you are yakking about, the leader of our band, our composer of metaphysical songs, our sleek lead guitarist, the older among us, the one who had read more books than us.
We stood nearer to the sun, its obliterating electric sunshine melting our faces. “Tingnan mo kung okay yung tunog,” you asked Eric. “Okay, okay.” Stoned and calm as a deep ocean wave, we faced the maw of hell as it broke loose and pushed on the surface the carcass of junkies megadeath. There was no blacker or as black as that that stood in front of us. Then, you said you saw white gold started flying in the air, its velocity and altitude the perfect parabola of what you had been imagining and seeing in your dreams, the perfect rainbow color, for they all landed on the stage soundless as they hit the wooden floor, violet-hue flowers. “Putang-ina nyo!” You turned around and walked away cool and grinning, still strumming your Fender.
“Pa-byahe ka pa,” you ordered, “katorse na lang.” You were an insatiable beast. “Tang-ina, pahinga naman tayo,” Mike would say. Days were turning more and more into gray color. Drat! I could not even see the blue beyond the clouds, or really couldn’t I since we were probably holed for days in your house, eating nothing, playing our new songs, your new songs, your new eulogies to the universe as you put them. Ivy wanted to go home already. But you did not want her to.
We stood nearer to the sun, its obliterating electric sunshine melting our faces. “Tingnan mo kung okay yung tunog,” you asked Eric. “Okay, okay.” Stoned and calm as a deep ocean wave, we faced the maw of hell as it broke loose and pushed on the surface the carcass of junkies megadeath. There was no blacker or as black as that that stood in front of us. Then, you said you saw white gold started flying in the air, its velocity and altitude the perfect parabola of what you had been imagining and seeing in your dreams, the perfect rainbow color, for they all landed on the stage soundless as they hit the wooden floor, violet-hue flowers. “Putang-ina nyo!” You turned around and walked away cool and grinning, still strumming your Fender.
“Pa-byahe ka pa,” you ordered, “katorse na lang.” You were an insatiable beast. “Tang-ina, pahinga naman tayo,” Mike would say. Days were turning more and more into gray color. Drat! I could not even see the blue beyond the clouds, or really couldn’t I since we were probably holed for days in your house, eating nothing, playing our new songs, your new songs, your new eulogies to the universe as you put them. Ivy wanted to go home already. But you did not want her to.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Time for Real Writing
As another issue of The Edge magazine is in the works now -- the job becoming more and more easier as we get accustomed to deadlines and preparations for the line-up of articles -- I cannot help but feel relieved. As those who have followed the struggle we had to hurdle when coming up with the premiere issue, this time it is almost like a walk in the breeze (though there are still one article, the main cover story, that I still have to cover much less make a final appointment as politicians and their press people are prone to be treated as if you cannot catch them to talk to them, always delaying their approval for the coverage.)
Though, there is a relative success in my professional work as writer slash editor slash art director, I'm being bugged by my inability to write short stories or any story for that matter that can metamorphosized later on into a book form or the like, like being included in an anthology.
Bereft of time to think, to look at the sky, or even at the ceiling, and even to read fiction books to recall the cadence and form of how to write fiction, my artistic juice would not flow like it used to. Just a simple gibberish sound in my head is totally absent.
Yet, probably, sometimes, somehow, I will find time to write something. Or rewrite, wall-to-wall, old stories I wrote a long time ago. It is just time. It is just time that I need. Probably silence to hear again the pulse and flow of my artistic juice.
Drat! There will be time for this artistic goal I'm sure. I just have to be patience in waiting for it. And once I find it, I will grab it by the horn and shit do everything I can do in that limited time.
Though, there is a relative success in my professional work as writer slash editor slash art director, I'm being bugged by my inability to write short stories or any story for that matter that can metamorphosized later on into a book form or the like, like being included in an anthology.
Bereft of time to think, to look at the sky, or even at the ceiling, and even to read fiction books to recall the cadence and form of how to write fiction, my artistic juice would not flow like it used to. Just a simple gibberish sound in my head is totally absent.
Yet, probably, sometimes, somehow, I will find time to write something. Or rewrite, wall-to-wall, old stories I wrote a long time ago. It is just time. It is just time that I need. Probably silence to hear again the pulse and flow of my artistic juice.
Drat! There will be time for this artistic goal I'm sure. I just have to be patience in waiting for it. And once I find it, I will grab it by the horn and shit do everything I can do in that limited time.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Shine On You Crazy Diamond
Remember when you were young,
You shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes,
Like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
You were caught on the crossfire
Of childhood and stardom,
Blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter,
Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!
You reached for the secret too soon,
You cried for the moon.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night,
And exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Well you wore out your welcome
With random precision,
Rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!
Like your buddies/friends who have seen you shine you crazy diamond, my admiration and somehow close affiliation with you in the mystical blowing of fate; as Jim Morrisson classic song Break on to the Otherside you have successful done it. Hey you, Syd! Enjoy, suffer, fear and learn from it. May your soul learn the psychedelic reality.
You shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes,
Like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
You were caught on the crossfire
Of childhood and stardom,
Blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter,
Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!
You reached for the secret too soon,
You cried for the moon.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night,
And exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Well you wore out your welcome
With random precision,
Rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!
Like your buddies/friends who have seen you shine you crazy diamond, my admiration and somehow close affiliation with you in the mystical blowing of fate; as Jim Morrisson classic song Break on to the Otherside you have successful done it. Hey you, Syd! Enjoy, suffer, fear and learn from it. May your soul learn the psychedelic reality.
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