The Nomads Quarterly - March 2013 Issue by Erik Tuban

Issue #1

Master of Puppets Senior Editor Managing Editor Assistant Editors Art/Graphics

Erik E. Tuban Jona Bering Cindy Velasquez Mark Anthony Daposala CD Borden Johanna Michelle Lim Micko Suarez

Publisher

Dexter Sy / Bomba! Press

The Nomads Quarterly is a literary and arts magazine. It is

published quarterly by Bomba! Press. The Nomads Quarterly

welcomes unpublished poems, essays, short stories, manuscripts,

reviews, art pieces, etc. Financial contributions are also welcome. You may contact us at nomadsquarterly@gmail.com. Please visit our official website at: http://www.nomadsquarterly.com Cebu City, Philippines. 2013

The Nomads Quarterly V O L U M E 1 . I SSUE 1 . MARCH 2013

PUBLISHED BY BOMBA PRESS

To Th e R e a de r : What started out as a drunken discussion topic and sudden euphoric post-sober delusions eventually turned into what you are holding right now, the very first issue of The Nomads Quarterly. When we first proposed the idea of putting out a “literary” magazine to mentors and fellow writers in the local arena more than a year ago, we knew it was going to be a long and dark road ahead of us. We knew putting out an independent magazine with no academic backing and corporate sponsorship wouldn’t be easy. Also, during the ensuing discussions, we were met with the usual fare of standard questions on the how’s and what’s of putting out such a project. Such questions thrown into the table were: 1) who to do the layout; 2) where to get all the funding during pre and post production of this endeavor; 3) how to convince people to submit works to our publication without dismissing us as suffering from delusions of grandeur. And most importantly, what person in his right mind occupied with more pressing matters at hand will read or even pay attention to this rag? So we gave them the talk, “Chillax, guys. Right now, that’s not the thing to think about. The important thing is we believe that if each of us is willing to lend a hand or two into this project, we can really pull this thing together.” Or something really convincing. But since it was mostly the beer talking, we forgot all about it after waking up the next morning. Not until early this year, a similar drunken high-pissing contest occurred and all of a sudden, the topic of creating a literary publication was brought to the table once again. But this time, all of us were full of hopes and the possibility of really pulling this thing together further invigorated us. So we decided we were ready and really going for it this time. With less than 3 months of preparation, we pulled what available sources we could into action. Meetings were called in order to discuss and address issues and concerns. And the fact that we received a lot of support from fellow writhers and writers further inspired us into putting out this very first issue you are about to read.

We would like to personally thank those people who helped and inspired us to complete this issue. Those kind individuals who submitted and allowed us to persistently bug them asking for essays, interviews, short stories, poems, artworks and what-have-yous. There is no need for individual namedropping as each one of them is equally important here and I am sure you will be reading them shortly (I hope you are excited). In behalf of The Nomads, I welcome you dear readers and fellow warriors of the written word to a beginning of a wonderful time in Cebuano writing history. To aptly borrow Butch Bandillo’s words in his interview (included in this issue), “[I am] sorry for sounding grand and pretentious. At times it just feels right.” Right now, we feel right and it feels really good. And what’s so bad about feeling good? To wanders and wonders,

Erik E. Tuban

TNQ All Around Good Guy

Artwork: Bartbombs

http://facebook.com/bartbombs

Contents EDITOR’S NOTE ............................................................................ 5

INTERVIEW

Vicente Vivencio Bandillo ................................................................

FICTION

Marie Dominique de la Paz, Mikee .................................................. 11 Michael Aaron Gomez, Cyrrhosis .................................................... 70 Johanna Michelle Lim, Entries of the Small Spaces ......................... 52

POETRY

Cesar Ruiz Aquino, 3 Poems ............................................................ Nikay Paredes, Dear James Franco .................................................. Mark Anthony Daposala, Amidst the Chaos .................................... Corazon G. Rua, 3 Antipoems ......................................................... Lawrence Ypil, Botanica Filipina ................................................... CD Borden, 3 Poems ...................................................................... Iryne Kaamino, Mouth ....................................................................

ESSAYS

Gratian Paul Tidor, The Universe of the Ordinary ......................... Karlo Antionio G. David, Animasola Analysis ............................... Januar E. Yap, Erpat’s Kiampao and the Black Beans Ghost ......... Jona Branzuela Bering, To Siargao’s Tres Marias ............................

17 20 21 27 37 68 82 23 30 39 45

PHOTO-POEM

Genica Mijares / Anne Lorraine Uy, Hunas (Ebb Tide) .................. 55

ARTWORKS

Eric Francisco, Bridges .................................................................... Eric Francisco, Bridges II ................................................................ Flaime, A.T.M. ................................................................................ Jan Sunday, myopic pygmy ..............................................................

9 16 26 43

Contributors .................................................................................... 84

“Bridges”

Eric Francisco 11

ART WORK: M abelle Lequin

Mikee

MARIE DOMINIQUE DE LA PAZ

i. Mikee is diddling herself and watching an infomercial. With her other hand, she is smoking a cigarette. She does both absentmindedly and without any real pleasure. I look at her, and I am scared. I tell her to stop touching herself. “Shut up,” she hisses as she clamps her thighs together to squeeze out a half-hearted orgasm. Mikee sleeps naked with all the sheets coiled around her like pet snakes. In the morning, her eyes are red and her hair is a nest of venomous asps. She is Medusa, my Gorgon. She gives me head violently, as if she means to cut it off. I love her so much. Ever since Mikee was a little girl, she’s wanted to be a zoologist or a veterinarian. Animals are her first love. They are better than humans, she says, because at least when they betray each other, there is no malice. That is why she wants to be a zoologist or a veterinarian or a vegetarian, at least. Instead Mikee is a call center agent and her favorite snack is balut.

She likes it with the beak and feathers already formed, so I can hear the chick crunch in her mouth. Mikee knows it makes me queasy. She is as savage as an alley cat with rabies. She looks at me as if she wants to claw my eyes out. There is a picture of me in her wallet. There are a few strands of hair too. Mikee is an avid practitioner of barang. She is always threatening me with hexes and spells. She says that if I leave her, she’ll cut down my entire family tree and dig up the roots. At night, Mikee sleeps with her hand around my neck, pet snakes all coiled around her milky, vulnerable body. I kiss her and kiss her. Mikee loosens her grip. She knows that leaving her is the farthest thing from my mind. She dreams of pulling a thorn out of a jaguar’s paw. She dreams of eating only fruits. She dreams of being tender. I crush her against me while she sleeps.

ii. Signals curling on an open plain, rolling down the track again. See the sky about to rain. — Neil Young, “About to Rain” Monsoon season is smoking season. That is what Mikee says when I ask her why she is going through two packs of Marlboro Reds a day. She says “monsoon season is smoking season” and grins at me with her yellow teeth. I try to tell her she is killing herself. I try to tell her she is killing me— passive smoking and all. I ask her if she knows what the World Lung Foundation says: tobacco will kill one billion people in the 21st century. Mikee points out that more people will die of natural causes. In the summer, Mikee smoked outside, on the tiny veranda our apartment has. She sat there for hours on end with her guitar and a mug of instant coffee. Her favorite songs to play were all of Neil Young’s, “What’s Up?” by the Four Non Blondes, and Aegis classics. As if she is not blatantly lesbian enough. She yelled at our neighbor’s cats.

“Pusanginangbotakteshet!” *** The rain is different in Manila, Mikee tells me over dinner (dried squid, instant noodles, and rice). In Cebu, the rain comes in gasps and shudders—very Maria Clara. “In Manila,” she says the city’s name wistfully, like some sort of lost love, “the rain falls like a drunken bum pissing against a wall that says Bawal umihi dito.” After she says that, she does not say another word for two or three hours. Instead, Mikee goes into her corner, plucks half-heartedly at her guitar, and smokes. She is building a mountain made of cigarette butts. It reminds me of when I met her. I was on vacation and at a friend’s gig, and Mikee was working on a similar, tinier version of the pile she has now. It was in some really shitty bar somewhere in Makati, I think. The specifics are hazy. Next thing I remember, we were in bed together, and she was following me to the airport, and then we shacked up. That old coconut shell. Mikee fell hopelessly and deliriously in love with Cebu. She was even in love with the tiny apartment we live in and our raucous neighbors. She tried out the guttural vowels and sharp consonants of their rage.

“Baho ka og bi-LAT!” *** Mikee has stopped talking. She does not touch her guitar. She drinks coffee and drops cigarette filters into her already sizeable pile. The smoke curls up from her nostrils. I squint into it for some sort of message, as if she were sending smoke signals. All I can see is the rain.

iii. Mikee likes to fuck. She likes to fuck a couple of times a day. She fucks like the girls in pornographies. She quotes Anaïs Nin.

“I will always be the virgin-prostitute, the perverse angel, the two-faced sinister and saintly woman.” Mikee writes about fucking. She likes it because it’s easy and it’s messy; and afterwards, if you do it right, you get so tired that you don’t think about much of anything else, except how good a fuck Mikee is. Fuck is probably Mikee’s favorite word. It is an adjective, a noun, verb—a question, command, plea. When I am inside her, she says it over and over and over again. She is begging me to fuck her. She is begging me to fuck her and to keep fucking her, even though it’s over and all we do is fuck around. Mikee calls me at the office and asks what the fuck I’m doing tomorrow night. The answer is always fucking. Mikee lights a menthol afterwards. And another. And another. I ask her why she smokes so much. She tells me it’s because the cigarettes remind her of little dicks. Little dicks burning in Mikee’s mouth. Mikee likes it that way. Mikee tells me about that time she spent four months with a cunt. She was the dyke in the relationship. It’s hard to imagine Mikee with a clit in her mouth instead of a dick. She makes chewing gum look phallic. One time at Handuraw, she sucked the narrow end of a wireless microphone like a dick. She almost got us thrown out. Mikee makes me want to love her. But we don’t like the word love. Love is hard and clichéd, although in many ways it’s just like the word fuck— an adjective, a noun, verb, question, command, plea. I guess they’re kind of synonyms. Fuck Mikee.

iv. I saw her again. Mikee—who still has the wild hair and the shifty eyes, who still has the sentences that cut off right when she starts getting somewhere.

She said, “I’ve been going to sleep earlier, and I’ve been going to the doctor, and he’s been giving me meds for—” And then she trailed off, waving her hand vaguely around, gesturing to random things in the mall as if they held the explanation to everything. She was Mikee as I first met her, not Mikee the bitch—clinging to the last death throes of our relationship and her sanity. This was the Mikee with the nervous laugh, eager to please; not the Mikee that ranted about her brain being too humid. Mikee was a stranger again. We talked about her taking up her master’s, about me getting married, about Cebu and how she was back in Manila, about the weather. Then we went into the nearest, seediest motel we could find and did it for old time’s sake. We did it on a weird, lumpy, stained mattress, even though I told her I would pay for a hotel. She said she wanted it this way: dirty and disgusting, like the act of infidelity I was going to perform on top of her. Afterwards, I crushed her against me and told her that I still loved her, even though we both knew that wasn’t true anymore. She knew what game we were playing. Mikee had played this game with all her past lovers a dozen times before. Even that fattish girl from her Sapphic phase. My wife called me, and I had to go. Mikee bummed a cigarette off of me and asked to borrow fifty pesos. I gave her five hundred. For a minute, she seemed angry and insulted. Her eyes flashed. In that moment, she was Medusa again, Gorgon—making me rock hard. Then she sucked me off for one last time, told me she was sick of my face, and told me to go away. The TV was blaringan insipid game show in the background. I remembered that time on the couch: Mikee diddling herself, the infomercial talking about firmer breasts, the serpentine hissing. I saw Mikee again today.

3 Poems by CESAR RUIZ AQUINO SHE WAS TRANCE She was trance itself. A single glance at her Was pilgrimage – though it were once in a New Moon, forever in a blue. She blew My mind. I’d fall invisibly behind Rainmaker fool, and spring an ambush bushwhacked By her face – in Bethlehem, in Mecca. She was hush, she was twin sister of hello Hair curling to the hips. Fata morgana A smile on her lips, being all the while Hair-trigger, stranger, to flee. Pynchon’s V Except visibler and in that sense, V-er? When will I see her again, pretend Rain, of a sudden, made me run or turn Or stay – among the beasts at the Kaaba?

KALISUD A LA SUPERMAN Yet if the fire returns And yes Turns Around end to end The sand Of time I’ll take your hand In mine Then like ghosts or sorcerers We shall Walk through wall Find the eye And park the whirlwind Tiptoe upon the waters And bid the living Rise

TEXT MUSE Indeed all things go Not for a season Or reason That we know And nowhere. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve learned To hide My life turned like a tide Like a flotsam And jetsam Of ghost Houses. Yesterday the moon went After the roses. Yesterday I said The world has lost That certain mist, I have paid Dearly, Or so I feel Spent. Yet how Suddenly They could steal Their way back The world is misty When I wipe my eye Glasses that I Wear today, wore Frightened at first The roses a burst On the floor,

Pieces of white Bond Crumpled up As I write And ransack Without end. The moon a shadow In my cup. And the lifelong someone And no one, You for an instant On the phone

NIKAY PAREDES Dear James Franco

after a Gucci advertisement featuring James Franco I have stories about the hollow nuances of your face, the slope on your jaw, and your moist maw that can only speak of truths. James Franco, can you see me seeing through your wet black shirt, through your infallible chest where rests your heart, wherefrom my heart is pegged or nailed to, as if dogma, stating: Say the name and send fingers grazing over warm collarbones. My dearest James Franco, The tenor of your tongue sends me blazing to a cinder You are, and I ignite.

MARK ANTHONY DAPOSALA Amidst The Chaos Sprouts A Rose

In memory of Ja’s Ground, the little Sodom and Gomorrah I thought about that night, how we ended up in some jam-packed bolgia in Corrales Avenue. Your heart lingered at the sound of cymbals crashing like beer bottles shattering on a bed filled with gravel. You had a way of scanning the scene, peering through the lens of your horn-rimmed glasses, like nitpicking parts of the innards of a frog, while fixing strands of your hair behind your ears as the E-note of the Bass spooked a passing stray dog. The guitar’s distorted notes flew like flies dissipated in a fog of tobacco, fuming from mouths of fiends in vintage shirts and tattered jeans fresh from retail. Scenesters from canto to canto, whipped their Ramone Hairdo’s, as mohawks oi’d their way through the crowd. Fists and feet flew towards faces. Bodies tumbled from one bum to the next, bathing in sweat and mud,

a bunch of grandstanding mob of muck! And all for what? Sex, drugs, rock n’ roll, or some excuse to ease the ire living in this city of nowhere. You were barely 16 sipping a can of coke with a straw. You exclaimed to me your view of anarchy, “Can you see it now? Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose” I fell silent. All I saw was you.

T h e Universe of the Ordinary Gratian Paul R. Tidor Raul Moldez’s universe is the universe of the ordinary. Ordinary things, people, places, experiences, memories, encounters. Understanding the complexities, depths, and importance of and behind this ordinariness is the key to Moldez’s new poetry collection, “Mga Taho Gikan sa Akong Uniberso.” In this collection, the poet doesn’t wish to impress us by walking on a tightrope. Or talking of grand things. He only wants us to pay attention to the quotidian, to the small, to the ordinary. Small things and happenings that we often take

for granted. He only wants us to realize that there’s complexity in the ordinary. And that it is possible to find the truth and the answer to the mysteries of life just by paying attention to the small details of our lives. The language used in the poems is simple, direct, unpretentious. A language comprised of words that are deemed ordinary. Words that we use daily. At home, or in the streets. Words that we often hear in the conversations of our neighbors, of the by-standers at a

sari-sari store near where one lives, of the sikad drivers playing dama on the sidewalk, or of a mother convincing her son to eat. Words that are easy to read and understand. But one should not equate ordinariness and simplicity with shallowness. Raul Moldez’s poems are like a crystal clear river that look shallow at a glance, but are actually deep. So if you immediately swim the poems without precaution, thinking that they’re shallow and easy to swim, chances are, you’ll drown before you even realize their actual depth. The use of such language reflects the kind of people or persona that lives in the poet’s universe. And in this universe, we once again encounter the different kinds of people we meet daily in our world. Here, we meet our own mother, son, daughter, neighbor, friend, even ourselves. Here, we’ll learn to understand and sympathize with the ordinary people, the masa. A child who is witness to how his stepfather castigate his mother. A GRO who wishes to quit but can’t because of monetary needs. A father happily carrying his first child. A probinsyano who

wishes to find greener pastures in the city. An OFW who is ashamed of her mother tongue. . . In Moldez’s universe, we also meet the small things that we see daily in our own universe. Even at home. In the collection, there are poems about a wound, a tattoo, a postcard, an American frog, a toilet, a poster on the wall. In this universe, the wound makes us nostalgic because it transports us back to our childhood: “Akong gikalot hangtod nangapawot / Gibuboan ni Nanay og arkohol / Hapdos / Labihang kahapdos / Nakahilak kos kahapdos / Ug nakasinggit/ Nakasinggit / Nakasinggit” (Dihang Mibunok Ang Uwan Usa ka Hapon sa Agosto). It is a universe where the toilet bowl speaks and tells us to clean it after using. Where a dead American frog that has been eaten up by the drunkards still gets his revenge, even in death, by declaring that he’s poisonous. A universe where ironies and social realities fit in on a postcard: “Samtang sa daplin / sa Fuente Osmena, amang ang mga punoan / sa Acacia nga misaksi sa pangaliya ni Dodong: / Limos mo, sir, mam” (Poscard Gikan sa

Sugbo). Where loneliness and solitude are present even on a simple poster on the wall: “Ilalom sa payag / hilom ang iro nga nagkitkit/sa bukog / Way imik silang tanan/nga mihuot sa poster nga / gipapilit duol sa bentana / ning mingaw kong lawak.” And where fierce tattoos become a symbol of one’s downfall, or a reminder that no matter how powerful we are, like Ozymandias, we’ll lose our power and strength, too, in time: “Apan karon, human gitukob sa kagahapon / ang pito ka dekada, ang iyang kalagsik / napadpad, mikuyog sa langaw nga / way pamahaw. Mga bukton nawad-ag umoy. / Ug sa mga bagang sapot siya nagsapaw / kay nahadlok sa bulhot sa panuhot / ug kupog sa tun-og. Ang iyang likod, / sa osteoporosis gipugos sa pagbawog. / Ug tin-aw ang gitug-an sa panahon: / Ang agila kaniadto nahimong maya karon.” Raul Moldez’s universe is a universe where the most personal is also the most universal. Here we encounter feelings that we have gone through: pain, love, nostalgia, fear, loneliness, joy. Here we are reminded of a childhood memory that we have long forgotten, or of a feeling that we thought we’ll never feel again. Like how it feels like to be stung by a lapinig, as narrated in the poem Sa Pagsum-ok ko sa Kakahoyan: “Nanginit akong lawas pag-abot sa balay. Gihilantan. / Sayong nakapahuway. Pagkaugma, nanamin kos sala. / Ug hapit wa ko

kaila sa akong nawong nga nanghupong.” It is a universe where things, people, memories, and experiences that we have intentionally or unintentionally forgotten, neglected, or taken for granted find their way back, and in the process, make use more mature in how we view life in general. In this collection, Moldez takes us to his personal universe. But at the same time, as one would realize after reading the poems, he also brings us home. To our universe. To ourselves.

“A . T. M . ” FLAIME

3 Antipoems by Corazon G. Rua Door # 1 We rendezvoused somewhere private and far away, in an oasis at the Sahara desert, at the top of the Giza pyramid, at the bottom of the Amazon River scaring the teeth out of the little piranhas, but no, not really. We’re just behind door #1, sipping peppermint tea, perusing newspapers by moonlight, talking furtively about extraterrestrial beings, or when we’re too exhausted, about the latest show biz gossip. What exactly is door #1? You are discombobulated. You want to know. I do too. Some say, it’s the scrotum of an extinct mammoth which existed 30, 000, 000 Before Christ. Some say, it’s God’s bead of sweat. Some say, it’s a scientific research facility located at the tip of your tongue. Some is mistaken. Some is forever clueless. Some should just shut his trap and padlock it. Some should also build a vault over his mouth while he’s at it. I’m assuming “some” is a “he”. I apologize to each and every one if “some” turns out to be a “she”. Listen: We know all about you. We’ve watched your growth since you’re a zygote. We’ve seen your progress, updated anthropoid! Your first diarrhea attack, and other shameful acts. In fact, we spent the whole summer laughing at your latest heartache. You’re a puppet on a string. You’re just a wind-up toy. You’re a substandard edition batteriesnot-included. Your accumulated knowledge is an antique store inside a defunct junkshop. We have access to your DNA code. We can alter your double helix. We can delve deep into your brain and make you go loony. We have the most sophisticated technology, we know every digital dialect. We have the controls. We can unplug your breath any second we want. Although, second means a thousand years when converted to our own conception of time. There! I’ve shared our cosmic secret. We are the aliens! We are the Enemy! Are you scared? Are you petrified? Well, don’t be. You can always turn on the television or play poker or join the sport Polygamy or be a goddamn politician and forget all about us. We’re alright here in the dark, minding our own business. Mind yours, too.

The Exact Same Different They’re wrong about me: I’m not the greatest pugilist of the 21st century. I’m just his doppelganger, I told them. But they wouldn’t listen. They wanted to abduct me at the zoo where I worked as a gorilla. Yeah, that’s right. There ain’t no gorilla at the zoo. Surprise, surprise! It’s just me all along. A fat guy wearing a mascot suit. It’s a decent job, if I may add. Anyway, when I refused their offer (i.e. to fight the reigning pound-forpound world champion) they poked me quick in the head with this blunt instrument the size of a banana or a battleship, and when I woke up, lo and behold!, I was in the blue corner beside my blind coach and his deaf assistant. What’s going on here? My mind was asking nobody in particular except itself. The bell rang and there was nothing to do but to stand up and meet my opponent. Who’s he? Who’s he? I took a peek under my closed eyelids. Oh, Susmaryosep! He was none other than, Edwin Valero, the eight-divison world champion, the knock-out artist extraordinaire. 28 wins, 28 KO’s, and not a single loss. He is southpaw and dangerous. He would easily beat me into a pulp. Or into a chicken enchilada with a lot of salsa. Or whatever. We stood face to face in the middle of the ring. The crowd, thousands of them, applauding, cheering and screaking different languages all at the same time unnerved me I thought I was in Beijing. There were wild ducks flying backward everywhere. There were a lot of Chinamen riding their China-bikes. They all wore red like they’re Communists, or it must be the New Year, their New Year. Kung Hei Fat Choi, fellas! I greeted them. They all replied with a shrug. And then I saw the dragon. It was mythical and so real it was spitting out real fire. I was frightened yet I let it lit my cigarette. Now back to the ring. What ring? Well, back to the zoo. Yes, the zoo! I was a gorilla in the zoo, in a cage, at Oprah, Cebu, thinking about pugilism and China and maybe a bowl of noodles or a glass of punch would be nice, I guess.

Don’t Tell It Like It Is, Tell It Like It Will Be It was a perfect day to be at the rooftop with your rod and a basket full of worms on the side fishing for something up in the clouds until you caught an angel’s boot or a spare-key to the Kingdom of Heaven. Or there is always The Museum of Famous Tongues right across the street in front of Blind Al’s Barbershop. You could, for instance, scrutinize Jose Rizal’s tongue through a glass-cover, among others. They all looked the same but what the heck. An unknown caller telephoned, saying that I had dialed a wrong number. His last words, before he hung up, were, “I’m on the list.” I was completely baffled. It was like a crazy riddle told, probably, by someone who is confined to a psychiatric ward, or, probably, someone who works there. It might be one of the nurses, perhaps, or the doctor himself. It is really not impossible. Nobody ever examined a doctor. He’s in charge of that kind of thing. “Love,” someone called behind my back. I turned around, but there was no one there. It was such an anti-climax. It was just the wind rippling the curtains. “It happens all the time,” Adarna, my parrot, spoke inside his aquarium. Somehow, her voice reminded me of my friend, Pedro, who had vanished into thin air while we were tinkering on an Ouija Board. “The spirits took him,” a psychic told me during a séance. “They wanted him to marry their queen and be crowned their new king.” I was happy for Pedro. He was the luckiest man in town, in my own humble opinion. I imagined him mounting his spirit steed, all proud and mighty, with his blushing spirit bride at the back, on their way to a spirit sunset. I never dreamed of him though. And it made me wonder why.

Animasola Analysis Karlo Antonio G. David Animasola (One Who Flies Alone) The Teaching

It was never a question of grandeur But of some secret power, hinted at by the Slight quiver of wings before the flight At the thought of conquering vertigo or the fear Of being lost in that sea of blue intensity, And the unforeseen encounter with angels. There is always a point to be reached Higher than moon or brightest star, the unmarked Heights that counterpoint this rootedness, Magnetic pull ascertained by the heart At the sight of these farther reaches. You would leave the learned and loved things Of previous flights, maps rendered useless by another desiring, for worlds change accordingly. 32

It is our personal universe, this impenetrability: Ourselves not knowing what alien moon and stars Are in the dark of this not knowing ourselves “We should not wait but seek to seize That sudden luminosity.” It took a while to learn to look the sun in the eye, to burn and then to fly.

The Memory

And there is no question of going back Only a matter of going further, Each perspective of height presenting The pale landscape of the past reflecting The peculiar glow of memory: our gestures Were horizontal then, and intimate – Hands clasping, arms locked, bodies melting; In recognition of one’s own kin, this human feasting, But in this spaciousness, self unmoored, There is one theme to flying: to fly alone. For in the rarer regions only dying stars collide And survival lies in the tracks of one’s singular orbit. Solitude is the necessary caliper With which we chart our present reach Or measure the feel of infinity. “If you are to fly in no time at all From here to the eternity of stars, The exact measure of the distance spanned Is the point where you are.” The wings of the luminous bird beat alone. I feel it, even now, deep in my bones.

The Flight

No more is it a question of defying gravity But of skies waiting. self spread between Wingtip to wingtip, the beak perfectly aligned With its aim, we probe the heavens For dust particles, debris of ancient explanations For this longing to explore worlds and know them, As self is, by name, known. We can never foretell what it is that waits,

We are divers, respecting our fear for the vast and deep Yet knowing, back of this fear is our own daring for coral kingdoms outspread and glowing Or sirens chanting secrets between the reeds. But again, we may find a white nothingness only And our eagle eyes go blind with knowing Such fatal purity. Perhaps we shall fall upon The void of black stars and we shall feel them When we lose all sense of being And this precious luminosity of wings is swallowed in a quiet singing.

The soul’s solitary quest to discover self and universe is the subject matter of Marjorie Evasco’s Animasola. In three parts, the poem chronicles the soul’s departure, discovery of solitude and the uncertain immensity that awaits, experiences and speculative ruminations solidified in the image of a bird that flies alone. This solidification is present in aphorism that is nevertheless metaphorically centripetal, making the poem a prime demonstration both of the poet’s distinct humanistic erudition and of her deft skimming of metaphor over meaning. The first part, entitled “The Teaching,” begins at the eve of the soul’s departure and with her discovery of the greater things waiting. These greater things, described as a “secret power,” are not something readily obvious but are only hinted at both by an instinctive feel (“a slight quiver of wings”) and by the possibilities of being successful (“the thought of conquering vertigo”) or of being overwhelmed (“the fear of being lost in that sea of blue intensity,” a transforming image of sky as sea, and “the unforeseen encounter with angels”). This awareness for the greater things waiting leads the soul to realize the heights she must aim for, the heights waiting to be scaled (“There is always a point to be reached, higher than moon or brightest star”). Pursuit of these unknown heights (pursuit of any new aim in life, in fact) will lead the soul leave behind many things, including the things she once pursued (“you will leave the learned and loved things of previous flights, maps rendered useless by another desiring”). This departure from old loves is not a sign of inconstancy but a natural result of the soul’s own self discovery (“worlds change accordingly. It is our own universe, this impenetrability”). The heights towards which the soul must fly thus becomes her own unknown self, the flight becomes a quest to find herself, and it is the

soul’s unknown universe that awaits her searching. This is strengthened by the repetition of the image of moon and stars, “ourselves not knowing what alien moon and stars are in the dark of this not knowing ourselves.” That “secret power” of possibilities thus lies in the soul herself. But the challenge of to discover, and to actualize, the self is a daunting challenge, and in spite of the inner urgency to set out (“we should not wait but seek to seize that sudden luminosity”) it will take time before the soul comes to terms with her own possibilities, “to burn, and then to fly.” The second part, entitled “The Memory” continues the soul’s departure, but begins with a focus on the “learned and loved things of previous flights” left behind. Because there is “no more question of going back,” the soul is now detached from these “maps rendered useless by another desiring,” and she perceives it from a removed distance, “a pale landscape of the past” that nevertheless “reflects the peculiar glow of memory.” A relationship with another, perhaps the center of the life left behind, is established with the beautifully solid line, “our gestures were horizontal then, and intimate.” “Horizontal” both implies gestures made while lying down (on a bed, perhaps, in intimate union) and directionlessness, in contrast to the vertical upward direction of the image of flight thus far established in the poem. this union with another, described with images of intimacy (“hands clasping, arms locked, bodies melting”) is described as “recognition of one’s kin and a “human feasting.” But in the face of the possibilities waiting, and in light of the detachment she now has on these experiences (“self unmoored”), the soul has given up these kinships, for “there is one theme to flying: to fly alone.” It is only in solitude that one can tell what one is capable of, and only with solitude can the soul feel the infinity of possibilities waiting before her. This is stated in the poem’s most powerful aphorism, “solitude is the necessary caliper with which we chart our present reach, or measure the feel of infinity.” And because it is the infinity within her that she must set out to seek, the soul must seek alone if she is to discover herself. That this insight is at the heart of the poem is telling. While it is the climactic realization of the soul, it will not be her ultimate, as we get a sense of return to “horizontal gestures” in the dusk of life, hinted at by the line “only dying stars collide, and survival lies in the tracks of one’s singular orbit.” What in the twilight years, when it is no longer a question of survival but of dying? Perhaps only the young can experience infinity, but perhaps too this is the secret to youth: to be ever aware of the infinity waiting before the solitary self-searcher.

But in this youthful struggle for survival and knowing self and universe there is a luminosity to knowing the freedom offered by solitude, and this “secret power” is further hinted at by the soul’s excitement of measuring what she is capable of. The infinity of self knowing and knowing the world waiting before her is what awaits the soul in the poem’s third part, entitled “The Flight.” The awareness of this infinity further liberates the soul, for, with the existential liberation into being-for-oneself, it is now a matter of the challenge and not of being challenged. There is a complete surrender in this flight, as solidified by the line “self spread,” as if the bird is offering all itself to its own searching. There is also a singular focus on the aim to discover (“the beak perfectly aligned with its aim”). The quest will also be to answer the soul’s drive towards knowing self, universe, and the infinite (“explanation for this longing to explore words and know them, as self is, by name, known”), and although the flight is forward-bound, the soul will look back at the world’s past, perhaps seeking ancient wisdom (to step out of the metaphor for a while, “dust particles, debris of ancient explanations” may involve books on ancient philosophy). The soul is also aware of the linguistic nature of her knowing, as she is longing to “explore worlds and know them, as self is, by name, known” – her drive to learn self and universe is a drive to name the unknown, to write “maps of a new desiring.” Then there is a return to the transforming image of sky as sea, the bird becomes a diver, and there is an admission of fear “for the vast and deep,” and the awareness of the uncertainty that waits. But there is a reaffirmation of the soul’s own daring “for coral kingdoms… or sirens chanting secrets between the reeds” (a fantastic solidification of the unknown wonders the imagination is searching for in the universe that waits). That the poem’s end could be auto-antonymous in its ambiguous meaning demonstrates the utter uncertainty of the soul’s quest for the Infinite. On the one hand, the “white nothingness” could be God (The Infinite has always been described as emptiness in Eastern spirituality, particularly in Buddhist thought), and like Paul the Apostle after encountering Christ in the road to Damascus, the soul’s searching eyes are blinded by the purity of the Infinitely Unknowable, and the soul’s flight is reduced to a singing surrender (a religiosity, to put it bluntly) to this blinding purity. On the other hand (and this interpretation I am more partial to), the soul will find, in her search for self and universe, only the emptiness of the Absurd. She will be reduced to an “unbearable lightness of being,” and the impassioned flight will be reduced to the prudence of “singing nonchalance,” the dandyism of

Oscar Wilde or the removed involvement of Albert Camus. “The traits of the solitary bird are five: first, it seeks the highest place; second, it withstands no company; third, it holds its beak in the air; fourth, it has no definite color; fifth, it sings sweetly.” - St John of the Cross, Sayings of Light and Love #121 By some literary accident involving one poet, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, and the memory of another, Artemio Tadena, I discovered this quote by St. John of the Cross. Sir Sawi Aquino was quoting it in the Taboan 2013 activity at Dumaguete’s Foundation University honoring Tadena, and he was comparing the late poet to the solitary bird. Had I heard the quote in normal circumstances, I would have taken time to connect this quote to the poem. But at the time ma’am Marj Evasco was seated behind me, and the poet’s presence instantaneously reminded me of her poem. I looked at her immediately when sir Sawi uttered the quote’s first part, and with a meaningful smile she confirmed the saying’s connection to that old favorite. Animasola, it seems, was written with its central image of the bird patterned after St. John of the Cross’s five traits. The greater part of “The Teaching” talks about the heights the soul seeks, how these heights are “hinted at” by intuition and possibilities, and how the pursuit of these heights “counterpoints rootedness.” this discussion of height corresponds to the concern of St John’s first trait. Much of “The Memory” talks about solitude and the need for it in the search for self and universe, corresponding with the aversion for company of the solitary bird in the second trait. The beak’s alignment, the specific concern of the third trait, is explicitly mentioned as an image in the first half of “The Flight.” The encounter with nothingness, blindness, void, and the loss of a sense of being (and on the stylistic level, the mention of the non-colours of white and black) that follow this all subtly point to the colorlessness of the bird in the fourth trait. The poem concludes with the fifth trait’s specific concern of singing, and it is interesting to note that the interpretation of God in the poem’s auto-antonymous ending corresponds to John of the Cross’s discussion of the fifth trait (“it must sing sweetly in the contemplation and love of its Bridegroom.) Here is a case of “debris of ancient explanations” used to describe the conditions of the solitary soul-searcher!

Like most Evasco poems, Animasola’s image skims between the realities of metaphor and tenor in seamless form. “An Evasco poem,” writes Myrna Peña Reyes, “as it moves down the page, shifts constantly and seamlessly back and forth between her perceptions of a material, tangible world reality and of a metaphorical reality of higher consciousness.” While the central image of the poem is that of a bird soaring alone, the persona’s human character (strengthened by the fact that the persona ends up addressing all of humanity) emerges from the poem. But this is not to say that the poem’s language relies solely on ambiguity, as it contains many lyrical and sold lines as well. Lines like “maps rendered useless by another desiring,” both lyrical and solid, make the poem at once musical and transformative, “brightness moving,” to use the Jose Garcia Villa term (or to borrow from the poem’s own diction, “it has a soaring luminosity that urges the soul to take flight”). But like all solid poems, Animasola is better lived than read about, and this is particularly the case with this poem, which has a tendency to be koanic in its wisdom. Indeed, Animasola’s magic happens (and it has happened to myself several times already) when, at the eve of departure, one ends up muttering the poem’s very lines, “It is no more a question of defying gravity, but of skies waiting.”

LaWRENCE Ypil Botanica Filipina A flower in one hand was a flower in another, sister to sister. Who’s to tell? A chair became a table when reversed. The sea, a tapestry. If there was a theory of the world, it was at the level of a fold, or a rose. A pose was nothing in particular. A smile could lean against the wall. When a petal faced the floor where it could fall, no one would need to bear the consequence. A sleeve became a cage that held the arm hostage. A hair bun from the back could be a face. Who’s to seal the mouth with studio tape? As long as one eye’s still kept open. Tell me the difference.

Artwork: Johanna Michelle Lim

Erpat’s Kiampao and the Black Beans Ghost J

a n u a r

a p

n my father’s eyes, his only son was light-weight, a stooping pile of bones with oversized pants and big ears. When I was a kid, he served me beer and balut at night and confounded me on the sofa to watch Friday the 13th the way grandmothers badger kids to night rosary. He wanted his boy to be man fast enough, he thought he’d put a clock on the table and said I should be able to clear my plate, veggies and all, when the small hand reached thirty. It was not fun. I’d bury the morsels of pumpkin under a mound of rice so that just in case he’d glance at my plate, he’d be relieved to see I’ve finished off the disgusting gourd first.

It was tough, made worse in the head by a discerning nine-year-old who thought it was the height of irony: grub as some sort of comeuppance. It became a constant battle, the father doing his rounds like a Gestapo, the son essaying a few tricks out of the chamber. It was always that for a period in the young years, until some amount of grace miraculously fell to both of us—his holy, steamy kiampao, studded with mighty black beans. Hail holy kiampao, kiam on the palate, pao on the pout. Kiam fiery as hell pao. Blessed be the kiampao of yore, the kiam of lore, the pao in the pore. The kiampao ushering forth bromance with the old man, his son restored, devouring his plate as wolf sucks on moon milk. Kiampao and the black-beaned ghost restored trust to dining. The lad evolved to manhood, with the wild gusto of a famished beast straight smack from Mars. And he seated at the right hand of his father. It was perfect formula to reunite father and son. And so I ask what was that enigmatic concoction that transformed the slippery baby stingray from a smelly slab into one creamy cubist cuisine? The uninitiated thinks stingrays are poisonous. Well, stingrays are not and, in fact, a to-die-for dish, such as in the image and likeness of Malaysia’s and Singapore’s skewered versions, lit by lightning by a deluge of sambal. My father’s was a coconut-creamed feast, stewed and tender, with a coil of brownishness from black beans. But, really, it’s the crushed ginger and the sword pepper that exorcised the baby stingray of its pungent demons. The freshly-crushed peppermill and the black beans will finish it off. The coconut cream serves as base, complementing the white and delicate flesh of the ray. I’d grow up to discover the recipe and try it myself, but mine only serves to illustrate a contrast to the old man’s precision. It was either timing in the sauté, the manner of stirring spices, the quick and slow fire, the black beans brand, the quantity of coconut cream, the Teflon, etc., that could have done the magic for him. So you set your prime exorcists: skinned, crushed ginger; deseeded, julienned sword pepper. Squeeze your grated coconut to extract your puree, and set it aside as your final kicker. But sap the bagasse again with water to make your simmering stew. This could be, I surmise, the old man’s formula.

Ingredients Stingray, deboned and cubed Ginger, crushed Coconut milk, puree and milk Sword pepper, sharp and mystical as Excalibur, deseeded and julienned Garlic and onions Freshly ground black pepper Salt Black beans How to pique the ghost. - Saute garlic, onions, ginger, sword pepper, black beans. - Put forth your cubed baby stingray, sauté. - Add the coconut milk, boil. - Add salt. - With your stingray already cooked, add the coconut puree, simmer for a few minutes. - Serve. As you can see, I have not prescribed the amount and cooking time. For the nitty-gritty of it you just have to seek inspiration or enlightenment from my father’s ghost. I have explored the possibilities: slow fire, fast fire, conflagration, you name it. At times, pouring forth the black beans last, believing the strong flavor will give it the final wallop. Still, it doesn’t quite match the gustatory memory of my old man’s moveable feast. I hardly noticed the irony then: how the stingray, whose infamous tail formed the urban legend of being a terrifying barb for rambunctious kids, could actually put life to my childhood eating habits and my bond with the old man. I was not alone in having a misconception about the stingray, which sports a sci-fi form, like low-flying phantoms emerging in agitated sand. Once, a magazine in the 1930’s called it the “vermin of the deep,” and it took some time for society to earn appropriate stingray literacy. Soon, deep-sea divers would become a fan, stripping the good old shark logos to give way for stingray patches. A dive site would soon be called Stingray City.

There’s a Maori myth about the stingray that I like best. “Once upon a time, an enchanted stingray named Whaitere was born in the northern part of Maui. The story went that she woke up one day to learn her parents were gone, taken by hunters. A chance journey brought her to a strange place where fate takes the dead. There she met her parents, and swore she’d stay there. Her parents had the better imagination though and brought her to the eternal spring. She was made to lay on a rock directly above the source of green light. And as the young Whaitere rested on the rock, her skin assumed the color of the rock and the green light. Whaitere’s father told her: “The overworld and the underworld are inherently connected, without one there will not be the other.” The mother went on, “You’ve chosen as a guardian for the overworld, teach others to respect your home as you do.” And so going back to my stewpot, I dip a ladle and scoop a steamy ounce of kiampao soup. Ah, the taste of worlds. My erpats would soon breathe his last in an intensive care unit. A year now has gone, but the black beans will draw forth my father’s ghost from the underworld. Amen.

“m yo p i c py g m y” Jan S unday 45

To Sia r ga o â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

Tr e s M a r i a s w i t h Tw o F i l - A m B r o t h e r s T ext and P hotos :

J ona B ranzuela B ering 47

Everything starts with strangeness and being estranged: unfamiliar faces in the resort’s restaurant, unfamiliar laughter on the beach, a familiar sleeping position on an unfamiliar figure in the airport lobby, a familiar driving on an unfamiliar road with unfamiliar hands behind the wheel. Everything starts with strangeness and being estranged. It took a confident “Hi, where are you from?” at the resort’s restaurant to make strangeness and being estranged less intimidating. A simple hi, when permitted, can superficially lead to adding yet another friend on Facebook or can favorably lead to a serious conversation. It was “Hi, where are you from?” that brought me to two Filipino-American brothers in Siargao: David, “the open, never-ending book” to use his own words and Brian, “the opposite.” David echoed my sentiment that our country is both blessed and cursed by being a nation of so many islands. In other countries, he said, it was so much easier to hop on a bus, motorbike, or pedicab to get to a new place and experience some diversity. In our country, it is to jump on a plane and see another island, after already seeing a similar one. But I wanted to contend it is the beaches that look similar—especially the tourism-infested. Islands are never the same. Cebu can never be Siargao. I cannot be convinced otherwise. Indeed, there are only so many beaches one can take. But really, it was not the beaches, was it? They play as backdrops or postscripts that can be skipped without feeling guilty. It is the company and the experience that linger, matter, and tease the memory once the soles have kissed another similar-looking shore.

Not Entirely Barren Naked Island

“There is nothing here!” exclaimed David. “There is! Sand!” I countered. From General Luna’s port, the boatman brought us to a yet another naked island. Brittania, Surigao del Sur has its naked island; Bohol, Batangas, and Cebu have their respective virgin islands. It will not be surpris-

ing to know there are five or ten islands named naked and virgin in our country. These islands ironically do not live up to their names. Naked islands—which are too narrow and often become invisible when tide arrives—are the home of small, often unnoticed, living things; while thousands of feet beat up virgin islands. Siargao’s Naked Island, might be the less charactered compared to Guyam and Daku, but it is far from being naked. It has patches of greens, tourists taking their pictures, crabs escaping to their holes, a dead log lying on the shallow waters, empty beautiful shells that would soon join the plurality of my shell collection. It is—from the chest-deep water—like a caricature of an old man’s head with receding hair, with three or four strands standing erect on his crown.

Blue Green Daku

“Tell me they are not terrorists, right?” Brian kidded while looking at the masked men aboard a fishing boat docked on the shore. Indeed, they could be mistaken as such. Some faces were covered with worn-out -shirts, some wore a smirk. But their audible banter and laughter—not to mention the buoys and nets aboard—gave them away. Their fishing boat roared. They left to fish in the vast Pacific. I jokingly heaved as a sign of relief since I am commonly mistaken as a scorched Korean traveler. Brian heaved. For real or jokingly, I could not tell.

Mindanao—especially its northern shores where Surigao del Norte is part of—does not convey the stereotypes of this easternmost island in the Philippines: dangerous, terrorist-infested. It is rather friendly and comfortable where everyone speaks my language with a sexy curb, where strangers do not hesitate to share a joke or two, where I do not doubt when locals say “sakay lang og motor padung Dapa, ’day ( Just ride a bike to Dapa, ’day).” We took a dip with the kids and saw a huge cockle farmed by a fisher. It was my first to see a cockle as huge as that. Daku is the Bisaya for big, and aptly, it is the biggest among the three. Unlike the other two islands, the palms-cocooned Daku houses a friendly community. At four in the afternoon, everything looked green, blue, clear. Momentarily, I wanted to believe that their mother’s homeland could offer happy colors, green trees, blue sky. And the rest does not matter.

Guyam at Dusk

Guyam, meaning little, is a green dent in the sea visible from General Luna’s boulevard. Unlike Naked, Guyam must pride itself on being honest. I surmised it would only take five minutes to round the islet. Its shore fronting General Luna is the platitude of tropical white-sand, its other side rocky. “I-dritso palang ni nila sa Guyam, (If only they could connect this [boardwalk] to Guyam)” I heard a teenager said to her companion at GL’s boardwalk, a day before I encountered Brian and David. Connecting an island to an islet with a boardwalk seemed like a romantic idea that appealed to me.

HOW TO GET THERE

There are no direct flights from Manila to Siargao. One can

fly from Manila to Surigao del Norte instead and take a ferry to Dapa, Siargao. Another option is to fly from Cebu. Direct flights to Siargao are available on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays.

From Guyam, GL looked wadable. With the presence of Brian and David, I broke off from the notion of islands being cut for romance. Traveling is a season of encounters. It is a season to let the strange be familiar, the familiar strange. Meeting them made me confirm that “often the poorest people are the richest. Though they lack in material belongings, they prosper in the more important things like serenity. Being content with little things is priceless.” Say, the timid sliding of the sun behind Siargao’s horns—an ordinary, priceless scene on this side of the world. And as we waited for their mother’s homeland to turn dusky one April day; theirs—approximately 8 thousands air miles from the Philippines— just had the same sun peeks behind high-rises.

TIPS

Major establishments accept credit cards, but it is for the better to bring cash since ATMs are not readily accessible in the tourist belt. Summer is the best time to bump around. For surfers and surfing fanatics, -ber months have the most adventurous waves. Surf boards can be rented for P300 a day and surfing tutorial costs P500 an hour. Aside from Guyam, Daku, and Naked Islets, the other side of Siargao has natural beaches worth visiting. Magpupungko Lagoon is yet another beauty for water lovers. To experience a unique island culture, going to Siargaoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s benefit dance must not be missed.

Entries of the Small Spaces

johanna michelle lim

Dear Monday, You are not the start nor are you the end. I don’t know why I insist on writing you like a novel when that is not what you are. What you are is some bullshit form of therapy Hao insists on having, to make me change my mind. But you and I both know I will not. I’m knocked up, not continuously stupid. Sure, I have my moments of haphazardness, not surprising why I got into this kind of trouble in the first place. But what I want is the dream, the chance to make it before 31, the age when Sylvia Plath killed herself. I want the nervous breakdown. I want the depression. I want the burning. Not this. They were two strugglers sharing beer on the sidewalk, looking at the debris people left behind. His tattoos were beautiful and he picked from the pile of trash at his side, making spontaneous verse for each one. A Coke can. A torn shoe. Election paraphernalia. She smiled because she knew all these were supposed to impress her. It worked.

Dear Tuesday, Today, after consuming half a fried chicken and then some, I laid down on the same bed where you are in now and stared endlessly at the fluorescent bulb that keeps on flickering like a woman’s thoughts. Soon after, I went around the room, killing mosquitoes with a copy of Marquez’s Melancholy Whores, quite apt, and loving the sound of their bodies being squashed and smudged all over my white walls. Empowering. How easy it was. She talked about her love for Kidlat Tahimik and how she cried every time there were Il Postino reruns on the Hallmark Channel. He talked about his contempt for existentialism, absolutism, egotism and all the other isms she thought could never be attached to a word. He confessed other’s porn were his erotica. She found this romantic. When they made love, they made sure to do it in small spaces, small rooms to make sure all other thoughts were left behind the door. Finished, she’d think about how she would write about this later. He thought about how waking up with her seemed to make him forget about the Arroyo administration. He wrote on her palm, Fuck me, then marry me. She only answered the first one.

Dear Wednesday, Sigrid asked while we were sipping our coffees outside the office, How would you know how it would feel if you haven’t really done or even thought of doing it? What she meant was raising this thing. Well, Sigrid, you don’t have to be hit by a bus to know how it feels.

versus subtleness. All sorts of dead philosophers coming to life at the mouths of drunk companions while she sips her iced tea and Hao keeps watch. She wonders if through the night, they could resurrect all of them, Greek, Roman, forgotten TV episodes, to conjure the fate of the living.

Dear Friday, Hao will be here soon, and after this, The day she stopped by twice for you and these stupid thoughts will be fast food, he bought her a home forgotten only to be taken out of the junk pregnancy kit. There it was. Two lines staring up at them while they trunk when it serves me convenient. The huddled on the floor. They laughed boss gave me the whole week off to take care of matters. I told him someone in about how the pharmacist asked my immediate family just died. Who Hao if there was any particular knows how this will affect me. Maybe brand he preferred. Then she I’ll regret it one of these days, and I locked herself in the bathroom. will cry myself to a stupor. Maybe I’ll want this someday, and it’ll be too late. Dear Thursday, I tried to write something I’d remem- Maybe. But I just can’t give up my life ber from this experience. This is, after now. all, supposedly a turning point in my life although I still have no idea Once again, it was a small space. It struck her funny how she always where it is I’m supposed to turn. So seemed to end up in small spaces. She far, all I have are these three lines: didn’t know where she was. Only that Tongues act. Unending Seizures. a kind old lady was stroking her hand, Tasting Vulgarity. Hao insists that leading her to a makeshift bed. This if I could just hear the heartbeat, was her operating room. The setting I’d immediately change my mind. I of her befores and afters. Smoking probably would, and maybe that’s why it’s important for me not to hear. outside, he was thinking about what Why is pro-choice so hard to under- he can no longer experience: mounting hospital bills, a photograph of his stand? Why can’t tomorrow come arm tattoos carrying a small body, sooner? waking up next to her. She was thinkFriends insist they could do a Juno. ing about how she would write about this later. She looks the part, they pointed out. They talked about the theories of art versus domesticity. Greatness

H U N A S ( E B B

T I D E )

Photos: Anne Lorraine Uy Poem: Genica Mijares 57

Walay madungog nga hagawhaw sa dagat Inig hawok sa bawod sa tiilan sa baybayon. Sa layo, ang suga sa lampara sa mangingisda Murag mga gagmayng tuldok nga lamyon Sa kangitngit matag hunghong Sa habagat ug mga damgong nangapalid. Pipila ka lakang pa sad ang lakwon sa hunasan Kon baktason nimo paingon sa lawod Apan inig bangon sa adlaw sa sidlakan Moabot ang lab-as nga bahanding magkisikisi Diha sa mga barotong gihatod sa naghaguros Nga taob. Nagdagan, nagdasig paggakos Sa parat ug tam-is nga baybayon. 58

Not a whisper can be heard asea As the waves kiss the foot of the coast. Afar, is the flicker of the fishermanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lamp That seem like tiny dots swallowed By the ebony night every time The habagat passes blown-away dreams. The tide pool still has a few measures to tread If you walk towards to sea. But as the sun awakes in the east Glimmering fresh bounty arrives Aboard outriggers swiftly returning With the tide. Crashing, warmly embracing The salty-sweet shore.

AN INTERVIEW WITH

BUTCH BANDILLO Vicente Vivencio “Butch” Bandillo is considered “The Father of Modern Cebuano Poetry” . He is the author of two books of poetry in his native tongue: Sanglitanan sa Kalipay ug Kasakit (Oquaib & Gaual, 2003) and Tsinelas nga Nalubong sa Danaw (Oquiab & Gaual, 2010), and one book in English: Earth Alive, Moon Eternal (Libro-Italiano, 2001). Lauded as “The Mark Strand of the Philippines”, Mr. Bandillo or Nyor Butch, as he is commonly referred to by his fellow writers, young and old, has published hundreds of poems, some of them were translated into different languages. He has won numerous international awards and grants. Nyor Butch works at the Department of Foreign Affairs as a Deputy Chief of Protocol. A Cebuano by birth, he currently lives in Manila. The Nomads Quarterly: How are you? What’s keeping you busy lately? Vicente Vivencio “Butch” Bandillo: Pretty good, just busy 24/7. My present assignment here in Manila keeps me incredibly occupied. There are lulls every now and then, though, giving me time enough to scribble a few lines or so. TNQ: You’ve mentioned that you started writing at a young age. Please tell us what that was like. Who influenced you to start writing and who encouraged you to keep on?

VVB: You know, a child finds wonder and delight in everything—as Wordsworth’s “Ode on Intimations of Immortality” would tell us. Not only the natural world of “meadow, grove, and stream” but also the inner world of thoughts and feelings. I must have been 8 or 9 when I first wrote Cebuano poems in imitation of the ones I read in Bag-ong Suga, Bisaya, and similar publications. But my delight in words then was not any more than my delight in the many other tangibles and intangibles around me. It was just one of those things. In high school I started writing in English. Desultory at first. Then, when I was in fourth year, I bought a slim book from the ship MV Logos which then docked in Cebu. It was entitled Ten Contemporary Poets or something, and it carried the poems of Eliot and Yeats, among others. I read, half-comprehending, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and “Sailing to Byzantium”, and knew that I wanted to be a poet. TNQ: Being one of the first bilingual poets (to write both) in Cebuano and English, how do you decide which particular language to write each of your poems? VVB: That’s an easy one. “Bilingual” is not exactly applicable to me now. For many years I wrote and published poems in English only. Now I write and publish—and dream—in Cebuano only. The period of transition from English to Cebuano which lasted several years—that was when I could have rightly been called bilingual. I’m aware of the irony of me now using the English language to explain how I don’t write poems in English anymore. I offer no apologies. I fell in love with the English language long ago and I still love it as much. Having acquired a passable level of mastery in it is something I will always feel good about. And I don’t have to say how my grasp of the language has helped me in my day job. But art, writing poetry, is another thing. When I turned 30, and having by then published close to 300 poems written in English in publications here and abroad, I was slowly getting uncomfortable with the idea of being a “sharecropper” in the English language, as N.V.M Gonzalez put it. I can’t exactly remember which brought about which, but this was around the time when I became more involved with Bathalad—which culminated in my allowing myself to be

cajoled into accepting the position of president of the group, thanks to the persistence of Ernie Lariosa. In my foreign assignments, being among people speaking a veritable Babel of languages, I found an enlightening sense of comfort—no, safety— in my native tongue. TNQ: I would like to believe that you favor writing in the native tongue. Do you encourage it to young writers as well? VVB: Definitely. In fact, I’d welcome non-Cebuanos writing in Cebuano. By all means, our young writers should learn English—and Spanish and French and Arabic and Chinese, if they have the gift for languages, so they can read literary works uncompromised by translation. And, while we’re on the subject of learning, they should be open to learning other things as well: politics, history, economics, science and technology. There’s nothing more disgraceful than a dumb poet. TNQ: Calling you a major influence in the local literary scene is a big understatement. I believe that your poetry has helped in building the pillars of Cebuano literature. Was there any conscious effort on your part to push and help establish what we call the Cebuano poetics? VVB: I would say so, yes. I set out to revitalize Cebuano poetics, but early on I realized I couldn’t do it all by myself, and certainly not right away. I envision a Renaissance of sorts in Cebuano letters, hopefully in the near future. Realizing this dream is a task that falls squarely on your shoulders and those of like-minded dreamers of your generation. Sorry for sounding grand and pretentious. At times it just feels right. TNQ: We have this assumption that male Cebuano poets always have this “loverboy + bugoy” persona in their writing; while on the other hand, their female counterparts have this strong and resilient voice. Do you agree with such a generalization? What do you think is the reason behind this? VVB: I haven’t really studied differences in persona and voice of Cebuano poets along the gender divide, but this assumption—if indeed it exists— must stem from the profusion of works produced by either gender with the attributes you just mentioned. I would say that I haven’t read enough,

nor reflected enough on what I have read so far, to give you a categorical answer. Or perhaps it’s not a matter of masks in their writing but their masks as persons. In this connection, am I correct in my perception that male Cebuano poets outnumber their female counterparts 2 to 1? We should have more female poets. And more poems written by them. TNQ: Your first collection, Sanglitanan sa Kalipay ug Kasakit, remains one of the most influential books in modern Cebuano poetry. What was it like writing that book? Was there any deliberate plan or thought to collect it into a single book long before you wrote those poems included in the collection? VVB: Thanks. That book was somehow tentatively put together. There was no preconceived theme, not even the thought of coming up with a book. In fact, I decided to divide it into four parts to make it look less like a miscellany. The title was a catch-all phrase meant to provide a sense of organic unity to the collection. Although some of the poems had been lying around for some time, more than half of them were written during the twelvemonth prior to publication. If I remember right, the book—as book, not as collection—took some time to take shape. A piece of trivia: I counted the book’s number of pages and the number of lines per page. When I finalized the draft, I found out that I was one page short. So I added another page to one of the poems, all the way to the last line of the page. I could have added more. I intended the book to show that poetry can be written in many different ways. Thus, too, the part on translations. TNQ: How did you chance across [Lucas] de Loyola? VVB: It’s taken from one of his poems included in Sugboanong Balak / Cebuano Poetry, the two-volume collection of Cebuano poems with English translations published by the Cebuano Studies Center in 1988. I did a good number of translations for that book, although the poem from which the epigraph was taken was translated by Jun Dumdum.

TNQ: Was there any significance to that particular quote/epigraph? VVB: Well, the quatrain defines the art of poetry, describes the poet as wordsmith. Something I wholeheartedly subscribe to. Also, I was particularly drawn to the way that the rhythm of the lines perfectly exemplifies what the poet is saying. The choice of the quote was also meant to be a bow to tradition, a recognition of the tradition which, with the book, I was breaking into. TNQ: Most of the characters or speakers in your first collection have a childlike persona. What was growing up like for you? Did it provide ample material for your writing? VVB: There are still snatches of my childhood that I hope to be able to write about someday, but with that book I feel like I’ve succeeded in expelling the more spiteful demons of my growing up years. I’d say I had a normal enough childhood, but the intensity of every moment, even those moments that seem prosaic in retrospect, was unbearable. Surviving the agony and ecstasy of childhood is a minor miracle. TNQ: Poetry or even writing as of late has been out of touch with the ordinary people, the masses, to the point of it becoming more “elitist/exclusive.” What can you say about this? VVB: I don’t know what parameters you have in mind, but artistic expression will, per definition, always include a subset that may not be of interest to “ordinary people”. My understanding is that poetry pervaded the everyday life of our pre-Hispanic forebears, and that somewhere along the way it became elitist, as you put it. I’m all for regaining the status of poetry as a currency of the population as a whole. TNQ: Do you think, being a poet, that it is our duty to convince people to turn to poetry or art? VVB: “Duty” seems to me to be too heavy a word to ascribe to every artist who, perforce, fondly imagines a world whose denizens share his regard for the relevance of art. All I can say is that as an frequenter of other worlds (from which I derive solace and sustenance as I blithely live out my self-imposed membership in our place of residence, the world of

art) I feel that succeeding as an artist is one effective way of convincing people to allow art to occupy a greater space inside them. The quality of our work should first and foremost be the instrument with which to compel attention. TNQ: You mentioned that you also paint (or used to)? Is/Was that, in any way, an extension of your (I hate to use this term) “artistic or poetic process”? VVB: In my teens I painted as feverishly as I wrote, perhaps even more so. Though both painting and poetry appear to gush from the same spring, the psychic processes involved are actually very different. Clearly, my painting complements my poetry, but so does my drinking. TNQ: How many works have you painted? Are they still with you? VVB: I painted quite a few, mainly in my late teens and in my late twenties when I quit teaching and had not yet joined government. I’ve sold most of my works. Some I gave away. I might still have a canvas or two at home, and half-finished ones, lost in mountains of unsorted items. TNQ: Being a diplomat, what is one thing you’ve learned that you can also apply to writing/poetry? VVB: Nothing really, nothing from being a diplomat per se. The diverse experiences afforded by a diplomatic career, though, I can only call invaluable to one who would rather be remembered as a poet. TNQ: What are your thoughts on writing workshops? VVB: I love workshops, and by all means let’s hold them. It’s not for everyone, though. I know that some of us are averse to criticism while some are hungry for praise. Still some others are doubly disabled. As to whether it’s a learning process, that’s all up to the workshop fellows—and the panelists. But let me say it again: let’s attend writing workshops. Angels do. TNQ: On literary contests and awards?

VVB: If we were to choose between having workshops or literary contests, hands down I would campaign for the former. To me, literary contests are more bane than boon. Speaking of contests in general, I have no problem with sports—most especially those events where performance can be measured with certainty. But poems? I’ve commented on this topic elsewhere so I won’t repeat my take on it, which has not changed. TNQ: You have said that it does not matter how many bad poems we write for we will always be remembered according to the good ones. I agree with your statement, but on the other hand, wouldn’t that promote a stunted improvement in one’s writing as well? VVB: I don’t mean that a poet may anytime just write a bad poem, a poem which he himself knows to be bad, and nonchalantly affix his name to it. What I meant by bad poems are those poems that the author thinks are good enough but actually are not. In spite of our good intentions, some poems we write are, sadly, not worth the paper they’re written on, and it may take us years to realize that. If I recall right, in our earlier talk I gave the example of William Faulkner who in his youth wrote eminently forgettable novels. In all likelihood he didn’t think they were as bad as he would later on assess them, or as the verdict of history would have it. TNQ: Do you think that there will come a time when people would eventually run out of things to say or write? VVB: Can’t imagine it. Well, maybe—after eons when humans will have evolved into a life form that’s indistinguishable from the rest of creation. TNQ: I know this question may sound too cliche, but what advice can you give to young writers who want to hone their craft? VVB: Read and write. Poems. Other stuff. Live in the real world. Laugh. Cry. Be wholesome. And—I read this somewhere—don’t think you’re a genius.

3 Poems by CD BORDEN PROTÉGÉS OF THE VANGUARD The search for meaning doesn’t wear other people out. It’s what drives their whole lives. Lucky for us, we are unlike them. Every little thing has its depths. Or maybe it doesn’t. I wasn’t too sure about that. Neither do the birds in the trees. It might be the arrangement of the stars that drew us together, in the night, at the park where I found the keys to your house. Who knows? The old master sat still. He wouldn’t break his silence. He wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. We twisted every key until the lock clicked and turned but it was no use we just kept opening more doors. Morning came without a quibble, save its own enchantment which we couldn’t understand a bit. So we let it be.

CIRQUE DU VIE Met an old man, A crown of thorn on his head, Begging to be crucified At every passing stranger.

The nasty little devil From the house next door Shoots me pointblank With his water pistol. My blindfolded lover Is on the tightrope again. Her twin sister sets herself afire For the sake of revolution. It is my final birthday. I invited not a soul, Except for this stray cat Who keeps scratching the wall.

GRAY CHICKENS Stepping on footprints The same size as your shoes Down the dirt road That leads to the house Without doors Just glass windows Ablaze in the sun Which made you squint Made you avert your gaze And saw gray clouds Converging into a chicken On the horizon.

Cir rhosis

M icha e l A aron G om e z Up in bed, at this ungodly hour—3 AM—I might as well be living alone. My wife has her back turned to me, as usual, snoring loudly like the wheezing of an asthmatic dog, mindlessly scratching herself every once in a while, dreaming away happily. Earlier in the night, I tried to get her to have sex with me, but I was met with the usual answer: No. Each time sounded more emphatic than the last. Now, the sex itself was actually a secondary issue—I only wanted to confirm for myself whether she was still my wife, or just another woman who happened to be living in the same house as me, who happened to be sleeping in the same bed as me. When you get to be my age, you hardly care about doing it anymore. You just want warmth, the warmth of a living and breathing human being, but even that has been barred from me. Hell, the last time I had sex I paid for it. This was last week, I think. The girl was some cute lass I had met while passing by the quiet, dimly lit sidewalk in my car. I stopped, and she walked up to my window. She was lightly made-up (which was rather surprising), only her lipstick shone bright red. “Hi, want a good time?” She had asked. “How much?” “It’s not cheap, baby, but it’ll be worth it. I do hand jobs, BJ, everything.” “Good enough. Hop in.” I’d gone home after the whole thing feeling decidedly disgusted with myself and disillusioned with the world: to think, that a man once strapping and dapper, would be reduced to shelling out a couple thousand bucks for a quick fuck! It almost made me want to cry. Yawning, I got out of bed, went to the kitchen, and pulled out a

bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. About half of the stuff was left. I emptied the bottle, thinking of the sex I never had, and subsequently, the kids we never had. “What’s the point? We won’t have kids anyway,” My wife had retorted after another failed attempt at sex the night before. “And what’s that got to do with anything? Just because we can’t have kids doesn’t mean we can’t have sex anymore. I’ve told you that so many times.” “Sorry, but I’m not an animal like you. I don’t like sex just because. I keep telling you that, too, why don’t you listen?” “Goddammit, woman, I have needs too. I’m a man.” “So go fill those needs somewhere else.” “I swear to God, one day, I’m going to pack my bags and get the hell out of this house.” My wife fell silent. “I don’t care,” she said, turning her back to me. For a moment I couldn’t say anything. “You don’t care?” “You heard me. I don’t care if you go. If you want to go, then go!” Shit, I said to myself. Then to her, at the same time laying a hand on her shoulder: “Listen, it’s nobody’s fault we can’t have any kids. All I want is for us to, you know, share each other’s warmth, just like we used to. Is that so hard to ask?” She brushed my hand off. “And I don’t want to waste our time, dear.” Defeated, I sat up and scratched my head. After that, I left the bed, went to the living room, fired up the video deck and then jerked off to the porno DVD a friend had lent me. After my latest sexual defeat, I went to the jazz bar I frequented and ordered a glass of whiskey, on the rocks. The bartender—who had lent me the porno DVD—stayed for a while, and we talked. He also owned the place, which was the only bar that bothered to play live jazz in the city—something I appreciated very much. This shared fondness for jazz made us fast friends. “Still tough going at home, huh?” My friend asked. The guy was bald, but he was also rather good-looking, clean-cut and fair-skinned, had clear blue eyes and a charming smile. Snappy dresser too, he always went to work wearing a tuxedo vest and a bowtie. Well, he did own a jazz bar, after all. “Same old song. Wife doesn’t put out, I don’t get any.” “Ever thought of having an affair? Nobody’s going to blame you for it,” he said.

I drank my whiskey, pulled out a pack of Marlboro’s from my shirt pocket and lit up. “No, I’ve got more common sense than that.” “But what’s your little buddy got to say about it?” He added, smiling wryly. “Of course he’s not happy. But no use screwing up a marriage over him.” “Got that right,” he replied. Certainly, I couldn’t blame my wife for refusing to have further sex with me. Years ago we had found out that she had some liver condition, preventing her from bearing children. I wouldn’t advise you to have kids, the doctor had said to us as nicely as he could manage, your wife’s liver wouldn’t be able to take the stress, and, I’m sorry to say, childbirth could even kill her. Don’t risk it. My wife and I didn’t speak a word to each other on the car ride home. She was depressed for weeks—who wouldn’t? I was saddened too. One of the reasons we had married was to start a family, after all. Those discussions at the dinner table about how many kids we wanted to have, what names we were going to give them, if we wanted them to be all boys, or all girls—all those possibilities had just been hurled out the window. I myself wanted a son. And a month after that, my wife didn’t want to have sex with me anymore. We had only been married for two years. And I had finally gotten enough to support a family. So there, two years of paternal disappointment and sexual frustration—at the height of my manhood—roiled and fermented inside the cask of my soul, only to be let out in short bursts, creatively, surreptitiously. But that wasn’t enough to take away the pain. It was more like removing the stitches and tacking them back on again, over and over and over. “She still doesn’t want to adopt?” My friend the bartender asked as he came back from another customer. He slid another glass of whiskey over to me. I pulled a drag out of my cigarette, chugged my drink, and grabbed the new one. “No. It wouldn’t be the same, she said,” I answered. “But you have been thinking about it?” “I have, but I’ve got to agree with the wife. It won’t be the same if we don’t make one ourselves.” “You have a point,” the bartender said, “but you’re not getting any younger.” “We’re not forty yet, you know.”

“Soon you will be.” “Ten years is a long time.” My friend smiled, and then went to a new customer who had just come in. I listened to the jazz band onstage, playing Lullaby in Birdland. George Shearing, I remembered fondly. The lullaby was ending when the bar door swung open and in came a tall woman, elegantly dressed—a slim leather coat over a long blue dress, nice heels, shiny earrings and a tiny necklace—who sat down on the stool beside me. She clipped a rather thick book under her arm. I stubbed out my cigarette on my ashtray and emptied my glass. She plopped her book down on the counter, waved to the bartender and ordered a vodka tonic. After that, she opened her book and started reading. I snuck a peek and saw that the book was a medical textbook. Weird. I observed her for some time, mindlessly. She never noticed me. “Another whiskey,” I called to the bartender. A closer look at her face told me that this woman was quite beautiful, indeed. Long, silky hair, clear, intelligent eyes, perfectly sculpted nose, lush lips, flawless skin. She wasn’t the type of woman you’d normally see drinking alone in a little jazz bar, unless you were in a Hollywood movie or something. And, of course, that’s leaving aside her choice of reading material. She lifted her eyes from the book and extracted a pack of cigarettes from her coat pocket. The cigarette was long and thin. Her fingers moved gracefully as she lit up. My latest drink arrived. I took small sips. And then I lit another cigarette. “What are you looking at?” The woman asked. I never realized that I was looking at her all that time. “Nothing, sorry.” “I’m studying,” she said matter-of-factly, pointing at her thick book. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow. If I don’t pass it, I’ll fail the class.” “You’re studying medicine?” “No, just nursing.” “Oh,” I said, gulping down my whiskey. She, in turn, sipped her drink. And then I added, “Pretty weird place to study for exams.” “I know. I just ran home and picked up my book. I totally forgot about my exam.” “In that dress?” “I just came from a party. Formal, with all those dresses and stuff.”

I puffed my cigarette and exhaled the smoke. She did the same. I said, “You could have just studied at home. No need to go all the way out here. You didn’t even change.” She tucked her hair behind her left ear, revealing its pink and fleshy entirety. Her earring shone and dangled beautifully. “I study better with music. And I like jazz.” “Oh, really?” I said, quite impressed. The jazz band began to play an old Charlie Parker tune. I don’t remember which. “Really. I’m the only one I know who likes jazz, though.” “Well, it’s not exactly what you’d call modern music,” I said. “Too bad.” “Yeah, it is too bad.” With nothing else to say, I turned away from her and listened to the music. The woman returned to her book. Seeing and talking with this attractive young woman, barely out of college, expectedly fueled my everdormant physical urges—in other words, I had an erection. A solid one, hard as a slab of concrete. I crossed my legs to hide the fact, even though it was hard for her to see it, given our angles. “How old are you?” I asked her after a while. I had finished my drink. She looked at me flatly. “Twenty-one.” “Oh.” The woman studied seriously for about two hours, then left. I followed an hour later. Dinner the next day found me staring at a couple of suitcases stationed outside our front door. I had just come from work, I was stressed, the last thing I needed was yet another problem, but here they were, standing in front of me like patient dogs waiting for their master to come home—I came closer and saw that the suitcases were mine, at that. What the hell did I do this time? I entered the house and looked for my wife. She was in the living room, watching the evening news. Her usual calm yet distracted expression greeted me as I walked in, as if nothing was happening, as if this was just another day in the life of a middle-class housewife. I sat down beside her on the sofa. “What’s with those bags?” I asked. She turned to me, her eyes dull and unfazed. “Didn’t you tell me that you wanted to leave? So there, I packed all your bags for you.” Exasperated, I hunched up on the sofa and cupped my face in my hands.

“Jesus, what’s wrong with you? I never said that!” “And what’s wrong with you?” She shot back rather harshly. Her brows were furrowed now, and her emotions showed through her face more clearly. “Why are you so insensitive? Don’t you respect my feelings? I married a sweet and caring man, not you. You’ve changed. Why, because I won’t have sex with you anymore?” “That’s not the point here, God damn it.” “No, that is the point. You’re clearly not satisfied with this marriage. So I’m giving you your freedom. You don’t want to be with me anymore, I don’t want to be with you anymore either.” In the background I could hear the neighbor’s dogs barking at each other. I focused on that sound. If only those dogs could continue barking forever. “You’re being childish, you know that? I never said anything about all those things. You’re worrying too much about a tiny, tiny problem. Damn it, I don’t even care all that much about it anymore.” “Care about what?” My wife’s gaze was sharp, unflinching. “Sex! I don’t give a damn about it anymore. I’ve been whacking off for two years, I can take more. Besides, I’m too tired.” “That’s why I’m letting you leave, right now,” she said, her voice shaky yet stern. “I don’t want to live in the same house with someone who has a problem with me.” “No, that’s not it! Can’t you just listen to me?” My wife didn’t say anything to that, as though she really were preparing to listen. And then she said, “We will never have kids, don’t you understand that?” It was my turn to fall silent. “You think you’re the only one who has a problem. Why can’t you think about me for a change? It’s because of me that we can’t have kids, that I can’t be a mother. You don’t know how much that hurts. You have no idea.” I inched closer to her and held her to me. She laid her head on my shoulder, and I could feel her tears soaking my shirt. “All right, calm down. I’m sorry. We’ve made this thing work for two years, right? We’ll make this work for years more.” She said nothing, she just sobbed away on my chest. After she calmed down, I let go of her and made for my suitcases. I dragged the two of them—heavy bastards—back to the bedroom and returned their contents to their cabinets. It was on the next weekend that I saw my beautiful nursing stu-

dent again. Except for her slim leather coat, she was dressed differently. Even the book she had with her was different—she tucked a paperback under her arm. Under the coat she had on a simple white T-shirt, and then tight-fitting jeans, plus white sneakers. A cigarette was hanging from the edge of her lips. I was at my usual stool on the bar, sipping my third scotch-and-water. Upon seeing me, the nursing student came over and took the next stool. This time a jazz trio was onboard. They were playing Bill Evans’ My Foolish Heart. “Hi,” the nursing student said. “You’re early tonight.” “I’m always early.” “Don’t tell me you’re already drunk, mister.” I raised my glass and said, “This is just my third drink.” “Hmmm,” she murmured. “What are you having?” “Scotch-and-waters.” She blew out cigarette smoke and asked, “You think that’s too strong for me?” “Maybe. You won’t know until you try.” The nursing student stared at me, examined my face as if trying to root out the finest grains of a lie. She said, “Okay, I think I’ll have one too. Get it for me, mister.” I raised an eyebrow. “Why?” “It’s gonna be your fault if I get drunk. So get it for me.” Stamping out my cigarette on my ashtray, I said to her with a slight snicker: “But I’m not the one drinking it. Wait, you’ve got no money, don’t you?” She frowned. “You’re not very nice, mister. Of course I’ve got money. I just want you to buy me one drink.” “All right, all right.” I waved to my friend the bartender and got her the drink. I lit up another Marlboro and watched the pretty student hesitantly sip the scotch, gauging its strength, slowly getting herself used to the taste, until she took down about half an inch of the thing. The strong liquor made her grimace. She immediately puffed on her cigarette to lighten the taste. “How was it? Too strong?” I asked. The girl put out her cigarette on my ashtray before replying, “Not so bad. I’m not used to this stuff.” “But you were drinking vodka last time you were here.” “That’s different.” Looking at her this long eventually gave me another rock-solid

erection. I shifted positions a little on my stool and crossed my legs, again hoping to keep the student from seeing it. I smoked my cigarette and glanced at the girl’s book. “Another exam?” I asked her. “Nah, just a novel I’m reading.” “You don’t like to read at home?” “Too noisy. And they don’t like to see me smoking. I like to smoke while I read.” “And drinking too, I bet,” I said. “Not all the time,” she replied blankly. “Nice place you got here, mister. I’ve heard about this place before, but this is actually pretty nice. I’ve never been to a jazz bar before.” “I don’t own it, but it is a pretty nice place. There aren’t any other jazz bars around.” “How old are you, mister?” I smiled and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “All you need to know is that I’m older than you.” My wife and I went to the doctor the following day. One of her monthly check-ups, to see whether her liver condition remained stable or not. In the hour we spent inside the doctor’s office, my wife looked at the guy with a visible glint of contempt, or maybe resentment. Recently that’s mostly been the way my wife looked at anything, even me. The doctor didn’t mind her and told us smilingly that her condition was stable, and that she should maintain her medication. Since that day he had advised us not to have kids, the doctor never brought the subject up again. In the car ride home, my wife was silent. I tried to start up a conversation, but to no avail. She wouldn’t budge. Giving up, I gripped the steering wheel and looked straight at the road ahead. Traffic was horrible down the highway, and we ended up spending half an hour stuck there in the sea of cars, motorcycles, and jaywalkers. We moved in centimeters. I noticed her glaring at the car in front of us, with a sticker on its rear window that said BABY ON BOARD. I turned up the radio. I didn’t care what it played, I just wanted it loud. “What do you think about adoption?” I found myself asking. In an instant her icy glare shifted from the car to me. She stayed that way for a time, and I was left to glue my eyes on the road. Then she said, “We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we? I told you it was out of the question. It’s still out of the question now.” “I just can’t stand to see you like that.” “See me like what?”

“You were looking at that car,” I began, pointing to the car with a BABY ON BOARD, “like you wanted to kill everybody inside. The same with that doctor. You were looking at him like you wanted to strangle him.” “Oh, did I?” She retorted rather indignantly. “Now you’re saying I can’t even get mad anymore? Is that it?” I sighed and massaged my forehead. “No, I’m not saying that. I just don’t want to see you in pain. I can’t stand it.” My wife lifted her gaze from me and returned it to the aforementioned car. “I can’t adopt, I have a bad liver,” she said. “What?” “I can’t take care of a kid, my liver can’t take the stress. Didn’t you hear me? Didn’t you hear the doctor?” Another sigh. “I know what you think about raising a kid that’s not ours,” I said, “but we’ll just have to compromise. I’m sure it won’t be too bad. Why don’t we call up an agency when we get back home?” My wife shut her eyes as though she never planned to open them ever again. And then she yelled, punching the window at the same time: “God himself doesn’t want me to be a mother, you idiot!” She buried her face in her hands and started crying. Her sobs rocked her shoulders, and I could almost feel the car itself shaking in time with her. “Screw God!” I yelled back. “Damn it, can’t we be happy anymore?” She didn’t say anything, just kept crying in a muffled voice. We ended up not calling an agency. When we got home, my wife changed clothes first and then went to work on our dinner. I sank down on the sofa, slipped my shoes off, turned on the TV, and smoked a cigarette. We’ll never have kids anyway, I thought, so why worry about secondhand smoke? “Doesn’t sound good,” My friend the bartender said, wiping the countertop. A week had passed since my latest argument with the wife. It was nine o’clock in the evening, he had just opened the bar, and I was the first customer inside. Even the jazz band wasn’t there yet. I had my first drink—a simple glass of red wine, for starters—plus a lit cigarette in my mouth. “Sometimes I wish I’d taken those suitcases and left,” I said. “And why didn’t you? You look terrible.” “I don’t even have time to look at the mirror anymore.”

The bartender clicked his tongue. He fished around in his pockets and found a pack of Hope regulars and a lighter. He lit up and breathed in the smoke, which he exhaled slowly. “So, do you really want a kid? You need to make up your mind.” “I do.” “I wonder if having a kid will really do you any good, though.” “What do you mean?” “At this point,” the bartender said, slipping his cigarette back between his lips, “it may not even matter anymore.” “Hmmm,” I murmured simply. “Well, just enjoy yourself tonight, okay? Those lazy bastards should be here soon.” “All right.” A few minutes later, the jazz band did arrive, a quartet this time, and they soon set to work arranging their instruments, going over their set, warming up with some quick tunes. Soon after they arrived, the first trickle of customers entered the bar. None of them sat down near me. And then the band started playing: Herbie Hancock’s Cantaloupe Island. I sat there, nursing my red wine and smoking my cigarette, and soon found myself waiting for my pretty nursing student to arrive. I thought about the past conversations we’ve had, the erections I’d gotten. Sturdy, raging erections (which of course I took care of myself ). And I even wondered what kind of book she was going to bring tonight. Frankly, I missed her, I didn’t even mind now if she saw my erection. She did arrive, about an hour later. I had moved on to my familiar scotch—this time straight—I had a new cigarette in my mouth, and the band had started another song. Her attire was almost exactly the same as last time, including the paperback under her arm and the cigarette between her lips. And, same as always, she took the seat next to me and ordered her drink. A Salty Dog, this time. “You’re always early, mister,” she said once she had received her drink. “I’m usually the first one here.” The student looked quite impressed. “And yet, I’ve never seen you drunk.” “I’m pretty proud of my alcohol tolerance.” “You’re having the same drink?” “I love scotch,” I answered, raising my glass. “Want me to buy you one?” She smiled. Wonderful, I thought. She said, “Okay, but maybe later.”

I pulled a long drag out of my cigarette, exhaled, and tapped out the ashes on our ashtray. She did the same. After that, I sipped my drink and said, “A new novel?” “Yeah,” she replied. “I just started it. It’s really good.” “I don’t know many kids who like to read so much.” “Me neither. I hate those nursing textbooks, though.” I chuckled, while she drank and started reading. I silently let the hours pass. “Let’s get out of here, mister,” the student suddenly said to me. “I’m bored.” “Where to?” I asked. Our ashtray was filled with butts and blackened with ashes. I had pitched a tent inside my slacks. “Anywhere. I don’t really care.” “You sure you’re not drunk?” “I’m as sober as they come. Come on, let’s go,” she insisted. I thought about it. “What the hell, let’s go.” And so we stood up, went out of the bar, and hopped in my car. My friend the bartender gave me a sly smile as we left. The pretty nursing student, sinking into the front seat, told me my car was nice. I told her to fasten her seatbelt. She didn’t ask where we were going—which was good, since I had no idea where to go, either. We drove around aimlessly, listening to the radio. It wasn’t jazz, but it was good enough. She said nothing as we roamed around the brightly lit metropolis, only offering vague comments about the passersby, the buildings, even the stray dogs that crossed her vision. I listened to her intently, all the while nursing my new erection, which she probably didn’t notice. Finally, after maybe an hour of driving, I decided to go the boulevard, by the sea. The night was cold, but she didn’t seem to mind. I parked the car at an office building. We walked toward the seawall and sat there, looking out at the waves lapping at the rocky beach. We smoked leisurely. She was the first to talk. “You’re married, right, mister?” “I am.” “Are you happy?” “I don’t know,” I said. “After a certain point, you don’t really know anymore.” Puffing on her cigarette, she appeared to mull this over for a while. And then she asked, “Do you have kids?” “No.” She threw her cigarette onto the beach, where it was devoured by the waves. “You know, my boyfriend’s crazy about sex,” she said. “We go on

dates, but all he can think about is having sex with me. And that really is all we do when we get home. I don’t know, it feels good and I like him, but I think I’m gonna break up with him.” I said nothing to that, and flicked my cigarette onto the beach. The waves swallowed it. And then I said, “There are other men around. You’re a pretty girl.” “Thanks,” she replied, smiling. “Are you crazy about sex, too, mister?” This made me chuckle. “In a way, all men are crazy about sex.” “That’s kinda disappointing. But, you know, it really does feel good.” “Yeah, I suppose it does.” A windy silence, smelling of the sea, washed over us. She lit another cigarette as we both stared at the dark sea, the tiny lights dotting it, the harbor where a large ship was docked. After which she asked, her voice serene: “Say mister, why don’t we have an affair?” Smiling, I turned to her and answered, “My wife will kill you.” “I don’t mind,” she said, flashing me a smile of her own. I said nothing. I found myself recalling that whore I had slept with some weeks ago. “Hi, want a good time?” She had asked. “How much?” “It’s not cheap, baby, but it’ll be worth it. I do hand jobs, BJ, everything.” “Good enough. Hop in,” I had said.

IRYNE KAAMINO MOUTH Ajar. Your mouth is a store selling squash seeds that grows into a castle underneath the soil. Its subterranean turrets pointy, like a newly sharpened pencil losing its life little by little as it scratches on paper so white and clean and smells of freshly washed linen swaying on the clothesline held in place by tight-lipped clips.

Contributors Dr. Cesar Ruiz Aquino is a fictionist and poet. Sir Sawi has published a book of short stories: Chronicles of Suspicion (Kalikasan Press, 1988), and two books of poetry Word Without End (Anvil Publishing, 1993) and In Samarkand (University of Santo Tomas Press, 2011). A four-time Carlos Palanca Memorial awardee, he lives in Dumaguete and teaches creative writing at the University of Silliman. Jona Branzuela Bering scales mountains, treks rivers, combs beaches, hops towns, takes photographs, and, yes, searches for stories, stanzas, and silence. No amount of diabetes or insomnia can hinder her ardent love for black coffee, unlimited rice, and books. For now, she travels to write. CD Borden lives in Budlaan, Talamban, Cebu City. Karlo Antonio G. David has been accurately described as a “literary whore,” having been to the literary orgies of writers workshops (AdDU writers in 2010, Iyas in 2011, Silliman in 2012) and having prostituted himself liberally as volunteer manpower to many literary events. He is currently taking up an MA in CW at Silliman University, but remains an Ateneo de Davao graduate at heart, a euphemism really for his quarrelsome tendency. His soul yearns to return to his hometown of Kidapawan to set up a literary brothel. Eric Francisco currently lives in Ontario, Canada. Michael Aaron Gomez is a writer, and at the same time he is not. Iryne O. Kaamino lives in Davao City. Mabelle Lequin is a dreamer who can’t help but create and create to release her individualistic and romantic inner world. She portrays it with words, lines, and color. She sings a little and wanders a lot (both in mind and body, but mostly in mind). She suspects she is a beautiful weirdo clutching on her boomerangs. Johanna Michelle Lim is a 25-year old freelance graphic artist and copywriter from Cebu City.

Nikay Paredes is a second year MFA candidate in Poetry at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, New York. Her poems have appeared in The Electronic Monsoon Magazine, Philippine Daily Inquirer and Tuesday; An Art Project. Corazon G. Rua teaches Special Education at the Children’s Paradise Montessori, H. Abellana St., Canduman, Mandaue City. She is also a part-time hand model. Gratian Paul R. Tidor is a poet, visual artist, and musician from Dipolog City. He has published a collection of poems entitled of “Dakop-dakop sa Kahayag ug Anino Anne Lorraine Uy is a 23 year old self-taught professional photographer specializing in creative commercial photography. She is best known for my personal work called “Photostories” and other times for magazine editorials, marketing campaigns and the like. Januar Yap teaches at the University of the Philippines Cebu. Page editor and columnist for SunStar Cebu. Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awardee for Cebuano Fiction. His works appear in various anthologies, such as the “Sugbuanong Sugilanon” of the Ateneo de Manila University Press and “The Cebu We Know” of Anvil. Lawrence Ypil is the author of The Highest Hiding Place. He is a Palanca Awardee and received an MFA in Poetry from Washington University in St. Louis under a Fulbright Scholarship. He is now with University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing Program.

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