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:

1. 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.
2. 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.

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.

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

On Basketball and the Local Scene

It has been said and repeated often: there is no sports in the Philippines that is closest to the hearts of the Filipino than basketball. We may lack in physical speed and height to be competitive internationally in the game, but we compensate this with an avidity as shown by the proliferation of makeshift basketball courts in almost every streets and fields all over the country – a sign of how fanatics we are really about the game.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.)

flying over clouds....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Happy Holidays!

It's the middle of the Yuletide week, Christmas has come and passed already and New Year is just several days away. These holidays, being free from my work, has given me free time (though with less money since my last pay for this year had been delayed until the 2nd of the coming year) which means a lot of time to do whatever I want to do -- but again, reading On the Road by Jack Kerouac and History and Culture by the late St. Nick is something I have to exert an effort to do so (like literally tying myself to the post of the house so I can stay inside and just sit and read those two books).

Literally, it has been a fast-paced holiday slash vacation for me. I barely could hold of the events and happenings unfolding as each day passes by. Yes, a lot of boozing. It was only on the eve of Christmas that I can recall that I really had a rest -- I slept early that night only to wake up the following day, Christmas, with coffee and cigarette morning ritual that lasted until I had my second stick before a neighbor set up a beach umbrella and several chairs in front of his store and, grinning, challenged me already for a morning Christmas boozing.

The 26th was the birthday of my father, and, as expected, another bout with boozing.

Yet, it is already the 27th and the exhilarating atmosphere of Christmas still lingers in the air much stronger.

Happy Holidays to all! Hehe

Possibility of Being Published

Several days ago I received an email from the editor of the Read magazine. The editor was requesting if I could provide them a two to three-sentence write-up about myself. She said there is a possibility that my piece (Sentimental Yakking, a post on this blog which I polished and submitted to them a month ago) could be used by Read magazine for its Reader's Write section. I could not hide my glee and premature celebration that they, most likely, will published my essay/personal-emotional-outpouring. I even asked the favor if they could, if ever they used my piece, compensate me by giving me Ignacio Padilla's Shadow Without a Name or Italo Calvino's Difficult Loves. Though a second email was sent to me to inform me that the book that will be given to me, in case they use my piece, depends on the promised book prize mentioned in the previous issue of the Read magazine. Nevertheless, that is a non-issue. Being published by them, for that alone, is enough compensation that they could give me. Wow! I said to myself. The magazine of my favorite bookstore, Powerbooks, where I have done a lot of free reading, got a work of mine and implied their interest on publishing it. Now, that is a good news, no doubt about it.

Assumption

When I was a kid, I had an idea that when a person advances in age so is his acquisition of wisdom that by the time that he reaches, say, 40’s or 50’s above, his view about the world and everything in it could be at par with the eyes of a mystic or a sage.

This process of journey to mysticism can start when he is in his twenties, and by the time that he gets to be thirty, everything about this world – and the marvelous worlds within it – has already beginning to take shape in his mind.

This is the reason why, for some reasons, I treat everybody around me with mutual trust that they are moving towards this end. And, frustratingly, all I come across are people who got stuck somewhere along the way.

What I mean is it is like listening to music. Most generations usually are tied down to the music of their hey-days. They no longer continue their then juvenile adventurousness towards discovering new sounds, new music. And by the time when their children grow up and have their own ‘generational’ music, the ‘stuck’ old man could only grumpily berate the youngs as people with no real appreciation for music. So the gap and misunderstanding. If only the old man continued his growth in music, then this gap is bridged.

People only mature in terms of age. Not in terms of wisdom.

Usually, I can spot people who have stopped growing. These people usually are those people who have already built a fortified assumption of the world; they don’t and would not care to listen to new ideas. When you say something new or beyond their understanding, they grimace to rebut you that what you have just said is stupid.

Their map of reality works for them, and they no longer care to revise it. They stick to what they already know, or appear to know. The only danger these people pose is when they are in power – and usually those in power or those enjoying a relative success are the ones who exhibit this kind of trait.

Probably, one short-cut for acquiring wisdom, far beyond what a doctorate in humanities can give, is deprivation, distress, depression and the likes. There is nothing that can give the soul or the spirit a test to bring forth a better perception of the world than these havocs thrown on him.

Yet, sometimes, especially when these tests are still being endured, the person under duress cannot dispense the wisdom that is already growing within him.

Being for a while in this world, I only have met a number of people who are conscious of the growing up that they continually have to undergo to be a better person – yes, until they inhale their last breath.

Pertaining on my assumption that old age equates on the acquisition of mystical wisdom, there is nobody so far whom I have met who fulfills this assumption. Though, there are some people whom I read on books.

But crossing path with them in flesh and blood? None.

Not My Magazine

When the responsibility of handling The Edge (then still named Success Today) was thrown at me, I considered the task as a personal mission to create and conceptualize my kind of vision of what should be a magazine, themed politically, looks like.

I must admit that I created a lot of enmity in the hearts of my peers as I stubbornly ventured to accomplish this personal mission. Not once did I make 'enemies' among them -- though this enmity as my superiors would soon say to me was a product of a misunderstood man like me.

I heard this several times: "Ern, the magazine is not yours."

It meant I should not slave myself or fight everybody and go against them hard just to create a 'visionary magazine' that I thought of.

Now, after several months of working on it, I learned to let go and get some people have a say on how the magazine would look like. It even came to a point when I no longer care. I just let them do the job on the magazine, totally distancing myself or if possible severing my relationship with the magazine.

I don't know whether my interest has already waned, or I just got tired of my don Quixote's mission to produce a magazine according to my vision.

Anyway, I'm just a green horned 'editor.' There are still a lot of things that I have to learn in producing a good magazine.

Now, I barely hear anybody calling the magazine as mine. Which is something good. All I have to do now is focus on my articles and write-ups, and not getting my job complicated with post-production and everything else when in the first place I don't know anything about. I stepped back a little and let myself learn from the people around me. I'm not a god in the first place to know everything.

Tomorrow, the fresh hot copies of The Edge will be out. And usually, my boss give the credit to the editor if the final product of the magazine is very good.

Will I take the credit for it?

I doubt it. It is appropriate to pass the credit to those people who really worked on the post-production of the magazine. And, certainly, my participation in that aspect is at the minimum.

If there is something that I would be happy or proud about the magazine is the write-ups that I did for it, the good damage controlled that I applied so the magazine would look and exude as a political magazine, plus the line-up of articles that I conceptualized for it. The looks, the design, the details beyond the text of the articles are for my peers to take credit for.

Ah, it has been a long road on The Edge's production. And, I hope, all the mistakes and lessons to be learned has been noted and hopefully will not be repeated in the succeeding issues.

Romantizing about my own magazine, at last, is finally over. The Edge is simply not my magazine. I am only working for the magazine.

Skipped Work

Skipped going to work today. Been up since five in the morning but I felt groggy and my limbs seemed to have been deprived of rest for several months that I felt so beat up and lay again on my bed to steal some time before going to work. Though, when I had been laying prostrate for sometime and getting an unexplainable need for a rest, I decided to hell with work but gonna sleep myself until noon. My sleep was only sporadically cut by the call of LilFeather and asking me why did I skip going to work.

"Tired," I mumbled on the mobile. "I need to get a rest."

So it was already past one in the afternoon when I got off the bed. Had my ritual of coffee and dose of nicotine, smoking several Winstons without letup under the tree under the heat of a noonday sun. It felt fine, felt nice not to worry anything, just letting my head clear up, though I could not help my mind stray on the pending works I had to do in the office. There were a lot of things I still I had to write, articles, essays, and my column.

But what I was really looking forward for was a time to finally take time to read On Road by Jack Kerouac which I bought a couple of months ago but work hindered me to do. Plus I also had a book by the late St. Nick History and Culture.

Now, it is already early evening and I haven't done anything.

I spent my whole waking hours, loitering and talking shit with the young people in our street. Drat! There was no good convo that went on, just talking about nothing, doing nothing.... the young people in our street just whiling time goofing around, not the kind of an intelligent goofing around, but the kind which people do when they had nothing to do or say or talk about something important. They were just plain letting the hours fly by, staring at the passersby. Good God! They even tried to drown an ant out of nothing to do.

Things just got interesting when the Deo arrived, though still talking about shit, a subject more shit but interesting though.

Together, we roamed the subdivision looking for some actions. The damned Deo wanted to do nothing but walk, and the jerk kept us both walking under the drizzle, not wanting to take a cover.

The man only left me when I went to this net cafe to check my blog and email. He could not understand anything that had to do with computers.

Drat! I still have to write at least an essay for our mags before this day is over.

The Edge on the Printers Already

Finally, The Edge is already on the printers. And the long wait to get a fresh copy of almost a couple of months of work is already killing me. By the week's end, we'll have the copies here na. though dont get the idea that the magazine is already got rid of errors and typos. there are still. and worse, we discovered them just when there was already a blue-print. hinabol na lang ung mahahabol. So for those who may soon get a hand of a copy of the mag, spot the typo, (hint: a big one - literally).

Midnoon Journal

I haven’t tried this for a long time but I’m gonna do it now just for the sake of yakking. I have half an hour to do this before my time expires renting this pc in a net café near us. Begin. Before going here, I had a terrible urge to read, to write, to pick a pen and start writing, or probably go to my sister’s house to use her PC and pound on the keyboards, just plain gonna yak something, something that would come to my mind, a kind of release for my urges. I want to fly, soar; there’s tension in my limbs, eagerness to do something. Yes, probably just something. So I went to here to write (that was my first goal) but checking my mails and visiting my blogsite and checking the traffic plus the uncontrolled straying on other blogs among my links ate my time. I was thinking of starting over, or rather, continuing to write that planned short fiction for Vin Simbulan’s planned Dragon Anthology, but I don’t know where I had put the draft of the story that I wrote. Probably, got thrown away with all the garbage of papers that for months had been cluttering my room. Maybe after I’m through with renting this PC, if I have nothing better to write, journal or a new fiction, I’m gonna make myself like a madman rummaging in the piles of papers in my room to look for that unfinished draft of a story. Anyway, got real thing going on with my job (though the fucking magazine still could not hit the printers because of the whims and fickle mindedness of our boss who kept on changing things about the magazine.) Drat! Really want to pound on the keyboard and say something special, hoping that as I go along there would be some enlightenment, a good phrase, a good piece of wisdom hitting my head and be put on the virtual paper. Just wanna yak. Oh, before I forget, reading Jack Kerouac I stumbled on something special. Here it is: No courting talk – (just) straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious. Damn! Good piece of mystic wisdom... TIME REMAINING: 8 minutes (though before I start the first sentence when I wrote BEGIN I first roamed the downloaded MP3s in this PC to get the right sound, a fast one, loud, that would stir my soul real hard to write and just yak.. Anyway, back about work. Pretty appeased when my managing editor gave in to my request to replace the content of my column for the magazine. The previous subject and content-wise is really a piece of shit. God! I was planning then before the magazine to hit the magazine racks in National Bookstores to apologize for the senseless, pretentious, green-horned bull that I was for writing such a political reading of the country. For weeks prior to the change, I had been writhing in disgust about my column, and damned trying to hold myself from talking hard on my managing editor (who had been working real hard about all the magazines under her) to give in to my request. Though much that I avoided having a hard talk about her to change the content, the frustration about the magazine and how things had been happening on the process of improving it hit me real hard that I flared up. Drat! I went out of the office and along the corridor, with all my might, all my frustrations, all my souls, all anger, threw the dummy of the magazine on the carpeted floor. Damned! It was a good release. Really good. Then after that a terrible, angry yakking inside the office. Though in the end, I got what I wanted. Finish.

A Couple

I was on my way home from work. As the escalator inside the MRT station brought me down on the waiting platform, I spotted, among the jaded corporate peons eager to get a ride and escape the heat that was so pervasive in the air, a young couple embracing each other. The young couple was oblivious to the people around them.
The young lady, in spectacles, looked classy in her black tee and pants, and you don’t have to stare too long at her to notice that she was pretty. The young man on the other hand had his long hair tied.
I could have forgotten about them after the train arrived and I waded through the throng of passengers to get a seat. But they happened, by chance, to stray on their way before me. The couple stood before me who by then had a seat already. They continued displaying their sweet embracing. They were in love.
I could not help took furtive glances at the young lady. She was pretty indeed; but not that kind of prettiness that you get tired of staring at after sometime.
I heard her soft voice, and I knew then that this lady belonged to those who can do her shopping anytime in Hong Kong or Singapore or even New York. And throughout the duration that they stood before they alighted at Ayala Station, I knew then that I saw and experienced magic.
Their movements had magic. Everything they did was magic. Not because they were in love. There was just magic in all their moves. It’s like the way when you see a famous genius or an artist. Every move has magic in it; beauty. This couple by their very person alone exudes beauty. They were young, confident, and simple but astonishingly stand taller than the rest.

For those who visit this blog from time to time, you probably already noticed the long silence between each postings. I don’t know whether I can attribute this to laziness, or to the fact that I make a living writing.

I don’t know. I just cannot find time now to pause doing my job, settle before the computer and write something to post on this blog.

Umm… just cannot feel the juice pumping in my head.

Gonna go to Mexico

gonna go to Mexico to kill ignacio padilla... (or is he in Spain right now?) he's the man

Remembering the Now

I’m the only one remaining in the editorial department of our office. Half of the work force of the company has already left for home, yet I still have to linger for a while, waiting to complete my eight-hour stay.

Relative silence has already set in, the air getting colder, and there’s a palpable stillness among the rows of computer monitors around me.

Then, it hits me. Actually, it comes when Rivermaya’s hitsong 214 first notes seeped out of my earphones. I know it already. The stillness and silence of the place add even to this strange feeling of nostalgia for the 'now' – a now that eventually will become the past.

So right now, as I sit before my monitor, I know already that sooner or later, my presence in this place, this job that I have now will end; that this space in the universe will soon be out of the trajectory of my orbit.

To start, five people whom I come to know in this company have already left for various reasons. So this fact only reinforces my anticipation for my inevitable departure in this company.

I’m trying to recall when this feeling of ‘endless wandering in space and time’ started. For sure, when I was in college down to my nursery days, I felt everything would stay forever as it was; that there would be no parting of ways, the place and everything that came with it will stay forever with me.

Was it when I first dropped out of college? Probably.

Right now, everything is ephemeral. Nothing last long.

And while the people who walk and move around me, busy with their work, and even the interior of this office, I would watch and stare at them with distant, dreamy eyes of one reliving a past; everything that is happening right now around me is a past already.

It is as if I’m already in my senile life, staying in some cramped place, and remembering the days of my youth.

And right now, I’m experiencing with all my senses, the memory of the ‘past’.

Sentimental Yakking

Somehow, I know I have to let go. There's no point in entertaining the thoughts of any positive result that would come my way if I would pursue my interest. How did I say it as we walked back to the office: "People come and go," trying not to look at her since it would only pain me seeing her face as she ambled as if she did not care anything about the world she would leave.

I still tried to goof around, fishing a candy out of my pocket and stealthily, as if she would not notice it, I held her hand and gave the candy, smirking. Or did I winked. Or grinned sheepishly at our own little joke about my perennial need for it.

How did she take it? She said she would keep the candy. A souvenir. A token of our tempestuous short professional relationship replete with everyday argument of my pestering whines to raise the bar a little notch higher than what we could do. But when she said she would keep the candy, it came to me as if she said: "I'll wait for you." Or something like "You mean a lot to me. I care also about you."

But thinking about it now, I sure had mesmerized myself with her charming civility. Interpreted something that had no meaning as a reciprocation of my implicit attraction to her.

Didn't I react with great surprise upon hearing her leaving, or rather the news that she had left already. I got my worn-out cell phone and sent her my disappointment and feeling of lost. I asked her arduously where she was then. I got to see her. If not, my heart would stop as if freezed by cryogenic liquid; the too heart brittle to the point that another beat would break it into pieces.

Haven't I said that I rushed down the building, walked/ran the street to find the place where she said she was having a lunch with her best friend. Rushed of blood in my head, panting, I longed to see her for the last time.

Nevertheless, that is over. There is no point delving too much on the details of that overwhelming sad day.

She defined my several later after she left when we chanced our selves on the net; E for Endearingly annoying; R for romanticizing about my magazine; N for Naughty but deep, like a raging ocean. She should have said raging in furious explosion of gaseous elements forming a huge galactic nebula in the universe.

Yeah. I gave some parts of my soul to her. As if she would really know me. Dig me. (Though she said it didn't mean that if she did not care that she could not understand me. But my question was if she understood too, why the clash between our professional relationship.)

Ah, nonsense.

She is gone. For good.

The promise! So what about it? That we would find time to share our soul over bottles of light beers. Nah! It would never happen. T'was the trick created by a peek (or a show off) of an old battered sould to an an excited young one trying to find her place under the sun.

I tried didn't I. But I ended up a pesty bugger under her nose. "Pasensya na po. Don't worry, I will never bother you again. Pasensya na po uli."

Probably, I denied the obvious fact that there had been/was/is never been a natural common ground by which we can call ourselves really close.

To yak about it is really senseless. People come and go, didn't I say?

Right now, there is nothing better for me to do than try to take off, being a young writer.

Ah, what did Jack Kerouac said?

Somewhere along the line I knew there'd be girls, visions, everything; somewhere along the line the pearl would be handed down to me.

Nice said. Indeed, nicely said.

Goodbye Ruby Tuesday

She would never say where she came from
Yesterday don’t matter if it’s gone
While the sun is bright
Or in the darkest night
No one knows
She comes and goes

Goodbye, ruby tuesday
Who could hang a name on you?
When you change with every new day
Still I’m gonna miss you...

Don’t question why she needs to be so free
She’ll tell you it’s the only way to be
She just can’t be chained
To a life where nothing’s gained
And nothing’s lostAt such a cost
There’s no time to lose, I heard her say

Catch your dreams before they slip away
Dying all the timeLose your dreams
And you will lose your mind.
Ain’t life unkind?

Goodbye, ruby tuesday
Who could hang a name on you?
When you change with every new day
Still I’m gonna miss you...

No really sure if this song catches or holds the essence of someone who flitted by before me. Anyway, would I drink a Red Horse or a San Migs Lights after posting this... not sure... but probably not better to but just move on.

Stressed Out but Not Out

Ever since I took over the helm of our new magazine The Sun, stress have set in into me.

The primary concern is how could I apply the vision that I see for the mag, since as planned I would take over on the next issue not in the maiden. I thought of giving the whole line-up of articles a complete overhaul, since when it was conceived, the magazine would tackle the success people in every fields, so for the scratched title Success Today.

The first night was horrible. And even the brainstorming that came the next morning totally made my face haggard at the great responsibility of what I thought I should do to the magazine to make it politically and corporately themed mag.

My co-writers failed to see the great load bringing my shoulder literally down the floor. Worse, I could not tell them what my vision for the magazine was.

In the end, I compromised and let go of some of the obvious flaws I see in the line-up. Let it pass, they implied.

Nevertheless, the stress is not the thing that I avoid. It's is welcome. I had been just used in bumming around. So, I just have to adjust to a more active life, or in short having a job.

What I'm frustrated at and dread about is how will the magazine look, content included, when it hit the magazine racks.

I promise the next issue will be better. And, for sure, have the semblance of the vision that I have in mind.

A Thank You

For those people who shared their thoughts about blogging in the country with me (since I'm writing an article about it) thank you. You know who you are. :-)

Some Passing Thought

Deadlines for my contributions for other magazines in publication comes near, like a clock ticking inevitably to tell you that finish or not finished, you have to pass your work, if ever you have one. This is not counting the writing works that I still have to meet for my own magazine.

It seems day are fast passing by without any writing production from my part. Those pieces I finished, I've marked as 'draft', considering that I wrote them all in haste or just to fulfill the publication's quota of written work.

*****

If I would have my way, I would buy an ice-cold san Migs lights right now, stare at its beauty and cherish gulfing down the universe that it can offer. Can't help it. I know the ground beneath my feet cracked and its maw is slowing pulling me downward in spiral plummet down the abyss of eventual death of somebody cherished for so long and the immediate happeniness of just seeing somebody close to you with something between her ears. Life. Yes, life's intricacies. But every moves she makes is magic, no doubt about it.

The Journey Continues

A while ago, for sure brought by a bottle of a san mig lights, I was planning to yak about the concerns of the heart (specifically mine)... but it seems it does not matter now. The effect of the beer has waned and I can right now think of my true concern, the concern that define and the reason why in the first place I'm here in a small publishing trying to hone my language.

Though, I can say that I write everyday, I say that those written productions are really not the product of the soul by rather the product brought about by the necessity to perform to continue call myself as one who is employed.

So far, my language, inch by inch, is evolving (I think). Compliments come from my peers about my prose, though, of course, as they say, there are still some slight adjustments that I have to do, especially on my choice of words. On this matter, I recall what Dean Alfar commented on my rejected entry for his speculative fiction anthology that I had a bad choice in picking words or to that effect.

Well, what can you do. The journey still continues. Everyday, I hope, and see to it, that one way or another, I'm learning something new.

As I mentioned to one of my officemate here, I'm not really working for the money. What I can't say to him is I'm doing an apprentice job of learning the basics of the language.

Concerning about money, that will come sooner. Or probably not. But the beauty of it all is knowing why you are here in the world in the first place. Knowing the vocation that God or fate has bestowed on you.

And so the journey continues.......

Still a Tropical Paradise

A pensioner with wisdom of a homespun philosopher and with whom i share small talks about community going ons never forgets to pepper his speech with litany on distrust and loathing at the bureacracy of the government. The private corporate world, even, does not escape his scathing criticism over its unreliability in terms of reciprocating its employees loyalty. He would say: "They are just going to use and exploit you." I can't help but remain mum as he goes on with his spiel of street-wisdom commentary/monologue. Though, I sometimes think this is brought about by the previous night's lousy shag.

Yet, if this country is would turn into one big television show and the main actors are the whole population of the archipelago, the show can aptly given the title The Withering Banana Republic. Every actor's scripted lines will express nothing but how pitiful and miserable it is to live in this country. It basically no redemption on its continuous spiral plummet down the abyss of national destitiution.

Indeed, wherever one goes, at a small street caucus of grumpy old men, inside the transport vehicle one rides to go to work and back home, along the street where on the newstand scream the stark headlines on the country's abject political state, and even in your own home where the radio blares the voices of news commentators, the general outlook of the Filipinos leans toward a pessimistic attitude and hopelessness about the country.

I never cease to hear from the mouths of old people their feeling of nostalgia for the "good old days." They would harp like out of tuned violin that 'those days were better compared to now.'

They complain about the bad social and health services of the government; the rampant and increasing rate of crime; the unbridled corruption done by politicians; the blatant abuse of power by the police authorities; and with a stark, fearful belief that the government exists only to rip them off.

I have no recourse than keep my silence and bear listening to their complains since I have nothing to offer as a salvation to their deluded life-enforced perception about the country, and even about the world.

They are, in a way, the products of the messy mismanagemet done by the leaders of the past generations.

But the worse, for me, that you can hear from them is: "Buti pa sa America mas maganda buhay." Then begins another litany of how good American life is.

If only these people have seen the documentaries done by the filmaker Michael Moore about the true state of the streets in the States, probably they would reconsider their paens to the global empire that has a role in their hard, miserable lot.

There is one modern social wisdom appropriate on this case; every citizen of a country almost always complains about his own country. True, indeed.

For I rarely hear any good thing about a certain country unless the ones who are speaking are the diplomats and ambassadors or their advertising work force under the payroll of their department of tourisms.

Methinks, if you cannot bear the shortcomings of this country, and you really feel the urge and passionate about what you see as wrong, and you want a change, get your butt off the couch and do something about it. Go on a hunger strike along the middle of Ayala Ave. if need be to drive your viewpoint. (But that is already an exaggeration.)

Warts and all, this country is still, and is, a beatiful tropical country. Just consider the prevalent weather throughout they year.

Hey, every day is almost summer here. You can just go around in comfortable t-shirt and jeans. If that is ot a paradise of a country, I don't know what is.

Nothing to Write, Just the Urge to Read

Right now, there is no subject that stir my fancy to write about. I am not even in the mood to write. Yet, I feel the need to read anything that I can lay my hands on. It's like I've exhausted all the energy to write and discuss a subject, and the time calls for me to take a sit, relax, and just read a book. Learn again the texture of the printed words ... and probably after then, I can write something worthy on telling.

Need for a Good Rest

Slowly, the view of the darkening city, neons and car lights turned on already, outside the window and the view inside of the office is slowly merging into a twilight palimpsest of images. There is nothing that I want to do right now but to go home and finally have my deserved rest for working vigorously during the previous week. (Didn't I say that in my previous post?)

All I need right now is rest and a long time of sleep to get myself recharged.

Ahh, I want to post something longer but I think this is what happen when you have the resources to post on your blog for free.

Simple Blabber

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

So there you go.

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.

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

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.

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."

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