(2015) Heights Vol. 62, No. 3

heights vol. 62 no. 3 Copyright 2015 heights is the official literary and artistic publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila University.

Copyright reverts to the respective ­authors and a­ rtists whose works appear in this issue. No part of this book may be r­ eprinted or reproduced in any means whatsoever ­without the written permission of the copyright holder.

This publication is not for sale.

Correspondence may be addressed to: heights, Publications Room, mvp 202 Ateneo de Manila University po Box 154, 1099 Manila, Philippines Tel. no. (632) 426-6001 loc. 5448 heights - ateneo.org Creative Direction by Cheska Mallillin and Lazir Caluya Layout by Lazir Caluya Photography by Geraldine Fajardo Cover and Dividers by Cheska Mallillin Typeset in mvb Verdigris

Contents Gian Lao 3 Explaining Summer 6 Reasons Abner Dormiendo 7 Tadaima Regine Cabato 9 Overture Luis Wilfrido Atienza 12 Contact Apa Agbayani 13 After Eden / After Noon Mayelle Nisperos 14 Pureza Rene Carlos Piano 16 The Secret is to Fry the Crab in its Own Fat Krysten Alarice Tan 28 School Slambook

Jenina Ibañez 30 Prayers Dyanne Abobo 32 How I Met My Father Arin Mukhi 40 Genesis 3:6 Jam Pascual 42 Darwin Making Excuses Mark Anthony Cayanan 43 A fatal error has ocurred Joshua Uyheng 45 As original sin Alaina Reclamado 49 Tikbalang Jim Matthew Ham 50 Ang Balete sa Cordillera Jonnel Inojosa 56 Sa mga naiwan:

Arsenio Armas 57 Sa Taluktok, Sa Paanan Paul Jerome Flor 73 Bababa na ang mga tala Jeivi Nicdao 74 Itong Kadalisayan Kristian Sendon Cordero 79 Veronica Marc Lopez 81 Taong-grasa Jose Delos Reyes 82 Ika-22 ng Disyembre, 2003 83 Ika-23 ng Disyembre, 2003 Julz Riddle 84 Ilang Bersiyon ng Isang Paglimot Christian Benitez 91 Mahirap Akong Maging Kaibigan Allan Popa at Marcus Nada 93 Siyam-Siyam

Ariana Asuncion 100 Happy Stinky Bagong Taon Camille Basa 101 Suburbia Postcard Adrian Begonia 102 [Untitled] (series) Mo Maguyon 104 Nawa’y Mahimlay Nikki Vocalan 105 Goodnight JV Calanoc 106 Linearscape (series) Erica Panganiban 110 Unwind Corrine Golez 111 Mole Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan 112 Reverence 116 Taxonomy

Andrea Beldua 113 Orifice Angelo Juarez 114 Pa-hinga Carl Cervantes 115 Midnight in Satsaraya Celline Marge Mercado 117 Facade Justine Joson 118 We Were Not Made For Water Joan Lao 119 Look Robyn Angeli Saquin 120 Into the Sky

Editorial For 62 years, the heights folio has acted as a witness to transition: the growth of the arts pays homage to the past as it treads on to the future. There are no set periods of change, no linear progression we can trace back to and anticipate from. Rather, growth of the arts can be seen as dispersive. As an idea goes through this movement of creation, it will bend and split. I invite you to look into those single points of dispersion. Should we assume that what is constant in this scenario is the human experience, infinitely in negotiation, then the artist acts as the prism—experience fuels multiple possibilities of creation.

If we look, however, into the why of this dispersion—Why does the artist respond? Or, stepping back even outside the realm of the arts: Why do people react? Why do people pursue?—we realize resonance. It is because something had resonated strongly with a person that they are compelled to respond; art-making can be one of these resulting acts. It can be argued of course that all art is created in response to something. Ultimately, dispersed light can converge again and form and form the original beam that had passed through. What this folio offers, however, are the beams that escaped this convergence.

They go beyond, offering intimately personal renditions of such human themes.

The theme of the family, for instance, is explored in many forms in this collection. Krysten Tan’s poem, “School Slambook,” grapples with a tense dialectic between familial pressure and faith.

A similar interrogation of the family dynamic is presented through exposition and metaphors by Rene Carlos Piano in “The Secret is to Fry the Crab in its Own Fat.” Notes of estrangement are undercut

by Dyanne Abobo’s “How I Met My Father” as she elaborates on how she came to know her father through extensive narration of her experiences. viii

Some pieces in this folio also offer results of the artist’s or writer’s introspection. Justine Joson’s “We Were Not Made For Water,” simultaneously represents her fear, and the urge to move beyond that. This understanding of the self is present also in Gian Lao’s “Explaining Summer,” where he articulates on a love that has ended, and the persona’s resolution after that. On the topic of love: Alaina Reclamado’s “Tikbalang” utilizes the form of the echo poem to present an interesting duality.

This folio also presents works that respond to more external stimuli. Alfred Marasigan’s “Reverence” and “Taxonomy” share similar concerns, bringing together different elements and stimuli grounded in his understanding of local traditions and practices. Jose Delos Reyes attempts something similar. “Ika-22 ng Disyembre, 2003” and “Ika-23 ng Disyembre, 2003” are the aftermath of a calamity that struck Eastern Visayas in 2003 rendered in the poetic form. He negotiates with what is left behind by the tragedy.

Perhaps, in the end, this is what this folio will be: something left behind, something else added to the legacy of the Ateneo only to be forgotten amongst all the other accolades and projects that will come after its publication. Perhaps, after a number of years, other lights will be shining brighter than those presented here. But we hope in another possibility: that what is left behind is added and kept safe in a repository of our community’s dreams, a collection of things fought for that we are constantly adding to lest they slip away.

A constant diffusion can lead only to expansion. While art-making may be solitary and personal, it draws from experiences beyond only us, and touches more than we can anticipate—you will not know how far your work will reach, how much it will be read.

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The pieces in this folio are diverse, anchored in tradition, though one cannot say that they are homogenous—they are drawn from similar themes, yet this collection is replete with multiplicity in their responses. It is a sincere hope that this folio acts as a lens that will allow your pieces to reach the Ateneo community. From there, we look forward to another series of diffusion, another period of growth.

Manuel IĂąigo A. Angulo February 2015

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gian lao

Explaining Summer On the first day of existence, the sun chose us. That was that.

He’s got a street address now and a delinquent tax record.

Let me explain. I am lying to you because it is cold where you are.

Cold and far and snow and darkness and chilly hands. Or maybe not.

But such dichotomies are easier.

And who are you to stop living multiple lives and occupations in the snowstorms of my mind?

Teacher and farmer and secret poet.

I need to tell you I don’t love you.

I just need to stop falling in love with you each time a cool breeze rushes past the tips of my fingers.

Or revising another novel I will shred in the hidden office behind my rib cage.

As if my entire body were a mob front.

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But isn’t everything a front for something?

How, in my world, cold weather is nothing.

Only a history of you. Remember that talk?

The gulls? The Baskin Robbins in winter?

I said: Anger is almost always shame in an existential crisis, writing poetry in a café, shielding its notebook from each passing stranger.

Oh, I might as well be talking to myself.

Besides, I theorize that you will only read this in one of a thousand possible universes. If not here, there.

Or in the warmth of my skull. Imagine that: One goddamn poem for each world in which our lives intersected.

Like hairs tangled in sunlight.

What’s not to like? What person would say no to zipping from body to body on some madman experiment, taking notes on the many cuisines of love, giving each of them names like they were your children.

“Instead of love, why not sky?

A species of bird? Or the changing 4

climate of the heart?� I give up.

I am thinking of names now as a breeze passes and I do not love you.

I am merely enjoying the cold in the national park of myself.

As if the origin story of something entirely unimportant were about to begin.

A new sub-breed of sparrows.

An alternative to happiness.

Curtains raising to a new color of sky.

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Reasons I travel because those girls in Vladivostok asked me: “Is there no vodka in your country?” as if they really wanted to know why I had a basket of ten different brands, including the one infused with ginseng. I speak no Russian, but imagine I do: “Yes. We have vodka. But what I want is what your father keeps on your dinner table.

What he swigs when the sadness in his mouth overflows, and he walks into the snowstorm to confront a bear. Warmer than his wife, da?”

Was that too much? Breaking into their homes in my imagination? Still I want to walk to every city whose name I can’t pronounce.

I want to silence every household with my knuckles on their doors and taste the dishes of mothers on days they are far too tired to smile.

Because the church bells in Manila retell too many stories. Because someone in the outskirts of Nakhodka is changing a tire while looking into the familiar greenery, thinking: “The game is starting soon. And I am fucked.”

Because there is vodka in my country but there is vodka in your country too.

If it tastes exactly the same, isn’t that something we can toast to? Let me hoard the damn things.

Let me photograph your sky. Let me breathe in the Vladivostok air, keep it in me as long as possible, and let out a Cyrillic sigh. Izvinite. Pardon.

I don’t have a reason that will make you happy.

They can only make you confused. Or if I’m lucky: sad and somber in the exact same way I am.

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abner dormiendo

Tadaima Meaning, I am home; meaning at some point I have left home; meaning to know home I must go somewhere else. Here, I have known the language of arrivals and departures, an almost native eloquence in the language of precision: trains shuffling, blossoms showing their blush, everything unfurling as if on schedule. Since I bore the name foreigner, every day had been winter in this country— a cold so constant, even anodyne. My body shivers, hands seeking shelter other than the flaps of my coat or the gloves I bought miles back.

Every night I return to this place I temporarily call home, utter my presence like a prayer to the sleeping furniture, mute walls and windows unresponsive, save for the tap dripping welcome in intervals. But days like these, when leaves from the tree outside spin like so many green cocoons, heavy with anticipation, when they turn just enough for sunlight to grace through these dusty windows, I dream of the city where you are right now, how time is measured in an almost carefree manner, loose like sand on the cracked asphalt—by how construction cranes align their shadows to the ground, the many warm-skinned trees punctuating the boulevards, their branches conducting a music sung by the tropical breeze, jeepney barkers with names of places resting on their tongues, their throats burning with the promise of home. I wish to be there, beside you, my hands cupping your face like light 7

against the cheek of a fruit, the warmth a sign that this is home. And if you ask me where I have been, I will answer: Love, I never left.

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regine cabato

Overture You caught me in medias res. I teeter on a bridge gnawed by wind and rain, walk it as a tightrope. I’m no bird—I grasp balance like a helium balloon with string too thin for my fingers. I would like to be a great American condor, save myself all this trouble. Instead I have hands too sweaty for a grip and a Geronimo! crouching at my mouth like a skydiver with no parachute. This is how you enter the scene: You cut the rope, I snap back to the hall with the ground beneath my feet. Nod in acknowledgment, because it is proper. How do I begin to propose that you and I be more than recurring characters in the other’s narrative, that we do more productive things, like exchange lunch, or tell each other the time? The cricket on my shoulder chirps a warning: Watch your step, how dangerous the ground you tread on. Love is only a trick of the light. Mirages taunt, sidewinders threaten

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to send me to another planet. The fossils of fish whisper, The sea no longer floats me, and the desert never looks the same even when it is always empty. How frightening it is to be lost in a place with no consistency.

But how thrilling—that we may find the remnants of an ocean, concern ourselves with equations for turning matter into gold, tally the suspects for whoever stole our footsteps, wonder how on earth we got here. You will say to yourself, It is as if I have been here before, and I will agree, recall vaguely a voyage with somebody else. But my dreams are aurora borealis, dancing out of reach; the temperature neither winter’s nor spring’s. Woolly mammoths have migrated to a Great Somewhere I can only guess, have left behind their tusks. I am predisposed to follow, and you are inclined to stay. Or maybe it is the other way around—but what do you say? All for this fork in the road and the one-way crossing between question

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and answer. I say: You need only come with me this far—up to here is enough, until what remains is only a You and an I, and the adventure that passed between them.

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luis wilfrido atienza

Contact The surfaces of our hands are rough, down to the atom. We can grip, and push, and pull but it is more difficult than we think to make contact. This is why we cannot climb walls like lizards, who have enough hairs on their feet to stop them from slipping, and pull them, molecule by molecule, up.

We are trying, I think, to be like the water in our cells. Huddled close enough together to float a leaf, or a paperclip, and yet we skitter like drops of liquid nitrogen, clouds of steam between us and the floor.

It is because of this I can dip my fingers in molten lead, if I dip them in cold water first.

I should have enough time to pull them back before I get burned.

I can take my hand, put my fingers between yours, and squeeze.

I can try to wait for the steam between us to disappear.

I don’t know if I could make contact before you try to let go, but if you stay for long enough, I’ll try to keep your skin intact.

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apa agbayani

After Eden / After Noon It’s a languid affair sleeping off the afternoon with you—sun creeping through the blinds, skin on glowing skin in balmy May. Even after you’ve left, your silhouette lingers in salt, long into the purple night, birds of paradise in a blood red tangle.

Even after I kiss you, for the last time, your taste lingers in salt, dim glow of a new moon at the back of my mouth.

If we fell in love before the Fall, before our eyes were open, then perhaps stillness would feel less like a cage, and more like sunlight in the Garden.

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mayelle nisperos

Pureza* I was born at the height of the dead season, when monsoons dilute canes to shriveled, tasteless bark.

You learn early on

to stomach the bitter and spoiled.

My mother taught my hands to braid tractor wires before they understood needle and thread. Observe proper posture when loading the trucks. Perfumed me with gasoline, powdered me in soot— Understand this: by no means is sugar

the lazy man’s crop. Not even the carabao feeds on hollow grass.

Summer is an exercise in patience. Never be too eager to fertilize, lest you

burn the canes prematurely.

I imagine if my mother had learned restraint

the way you learn to fertilize,

she would be raising her wineglass to a newly wed son and daughter -in-law.

*First published in Ant vs. Whale (2015)

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The church bells sing a wedding song for the haciendero’s daughter. The town gathers for merienda, but there is no time to spare. Milling is about to begin.

I strike the last stalk with a rusted espading; it hangs on splinters. Listen to the parched fields guzzle the raw sugarcane juice, drunk and slurring,

“Ferment it into liquor,

you bastard!”

Snap the cane by the roots, and then twice more.

“No one will notice.”

A toast! To the happy couple, to a bountiful harvest! My virgin tongue

now saccharine drunk; burn my throat, curdle my liver—

Drinking is an exercise in patience, now

let the monsoon sober me.

Pureza (spa.) – adj. 1. a technical term in sugar farming referring to the sugar concentration of the canes, “sweetness” 2. purity, chastity 15

rene carlos piano

The Secret is to Fry the Crab in its Own Fat One “These crabs smell!” I take a furtive whiff from the pile of blue river crabs my 22-year-old cousin just bought. “They’re not fresh at all.

How old are they anyway?” The crabs in the cheap plastic bucket on the floor are still clattering over the bodies of their kind that had died in the April heat. Those who had survived had a grip on others trying to climb out of the bucket. A crab freed itself from its prison in the bucket. It was free for a glorious moment, before I grabbed it and put it back in the bucket, before being sent to its sizzling wok hell. That’s odd. How can they smell so bad when some are still clearly alive?

They are meant for a potluck lunch. Big feasts are traditionally prepared for those who come by and visit us for Easter.

This is a chance for these prodigal sons and daughters to return to their roots in Bicol, in the southeast of Luzon. The crabs stare back at me. Would it be enough to feed the whole clan we gathered? I shrug, and just hope that everyone else brought enough.

I grab a pincer and dangle the whole crab a few inches from the scrunched up muzzle of the one hundred-fifty-pound mastiff lying at my feet. He agrees with me with a derisive snort. “Go stay by the couch.” He doesn’t move an inch, and instead assumes a Sphinx-like pose. How stately this dog is, with all the slobber hanging precariously from his jowls that affords his pose. How I wish I could be like him, with a lineage that could make me proud. He’s descended from other dogs prized by their owners for their rump, haunches, posture, and bloodline I’m witness to right now. My cousin and I wish we had that

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same assurance. The family we belong to is a hodge-podge of success and un-success, a story of how the previous generation frustrated its own dreams, and how we suffer their mistakes now.

Two A chopping board is taken out from a cupboard, and a knife is brought out and sharpened. The sound of the whetting stone—kriiik, kriiik, kriiik—fills in the silence of the kitchen. Rinse, sharpen, and repeat.

Satisfied with the blade’s edge, the maid starts to chop the more pungent ingredients and sets them aside. I watch her do it, playing with the mastiff now under the table with my foot. Maids, how the family can’t live without them. This thought silently fringes on my consciousness like how the tuko calls out then retreats back into the tree branches that keep the kitchen cool. It brings to the forefront of my consciousness the people we still employ across generations; in fact, they all come from the same family tree. Being a landed family with a history that goes back to some ancestral Spanish conquistador arriving in the southern ports of the country, in search of their fortune in copra and abaca, we had to rely on Filipino hands. Rough hands that cooked and cleaned the large houses my ancestors lived in, calloused hands that chaffed at the reins of horses used to herd the cattle we had, thin hands familiar with counting the rent we collected from tenants in the town center. We just couldn’t live without them.

My grandfather even married a servant. I don’t blame him for doing something that dragged the family name into the mud, and what would eventually become the gossip of the whole town, even up to

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now, long after he died. He married the grandmother I’ve always known. But it wasn’t always this way. He married someone from the same “class.” Whatever that meant. Mestiza and beautiful, she was an obvious choice for him, coming from the same background of land and lineage. But she died giving birth to his second daughter, my mother. Her death sent my grandfather into a depression exacerbated by his manic-depressive personality; it was cruel enough to make him play classical music before he went into one of his fits that ended in him being restrained or drugged. So he had to find a replacement.

He found one right away. She worked in my grandfather’s household as a maid, that household that never stopped speaking Spanish even till after the war, and forbade the local dialect from being spoken in those walls, on my Spanish grandmother’s strict orders until the day she died. She never got any education, coming from the lowly ranks of servants the family kept on the ranch.

Devoutly Christian with an undercurrent of animism still found in the provinces today, she would bring my cousins and me to the miraculous church in the mountains that would make us grow healthy and relieve any pains caused by the imposed regimen of milk on our lactose-intolerant bodies. She’d say hello to the priest, and then head over to the medicine man next door who’d put spittle on our navels and rub a bottleful of oil and herbs all over our bodies. She was the type of lady that would prescribe you to eat a whole cockroach to cure your asthma permanently. In hindsight, she was what that broken family needed. But this was more than enough to make my grandfather achieve pariah status, with his relative wealth only saving him from being absolutely shunned by the people around him.

Three I stir the garlic and lemongrass in sesame oil around the wok, breathing in the fragrance of it all. Pungent and fresh scents drifting into my nose and on to the exhaust fan gently humming above. My dark-skinned grandmother, the only grandmother I had ever come to know, walks by the dirty kitchen where I’m at work, telling me how 18

delicious this dish was. My cousin made it for her last week, but she said we got the wrong type of crab. You should have gotten at least two kilos of mud crab, not those tiny saltwater ones. How can you feed everyone now? I tell her that it’s the thought that counts, and it’ll taste just as good. She nods her head, and gives me an unsure smile before saying, “Can you leave some for me?” I tell her yes, I can send the maid after with the crab. I go back to the wok and, remembering my cousin’s instructions, I wait and gently stir the fresh garlic to fry until golden brown.

White to brown, that’s what happened. The plump, dark-skinned grandmother I know gave birth to a mestizo son, with my fair-skinned grandfather. A son that was full of contradictions and paradoxes: both brown and white, both privileged and of the masses, a child of someone who came from the fields and into the master’s bedroom. How can he, the son of a servant and her employer, be incorporated into the family business without being vehemently rejected? Half-brother to my mom and my aunt, he was a way up and out of the situation his less fortunate relatives were in. But those who managed the family’s investments in real estate saw him as an obstacle. How could he be trusted? They might as well have given in to the demands of their laborers and see the land they carefully husbanded for real estate slowly sold off to pay for incurred debts and cockpit bets. Abaca and copra were virtually worthless since the early 1930s, and the wealth from the initial enterprise of our enterprising Castilian ancestor had slowly dissipated. No longer could we afford to live beyond our means and expect to survive. But we still had land; huge tracts of coconut land that stretched into the foothills bordering the volcano. They, those who “thought” of the future, could not risk poverty and ruin by including a possible traitor! He would know too much and change the whole dynamic where they would not end up on top.

He was deemed dangerous by the family because he was brilliant enough to do that. Having the mind he inherited from his top-notch barrister-father, he went through the home library, the same way he raced through the talahib in his childhood on the 19

family ranch, with the same people who would seize that paradise in the name of the New People’s Army in the late 70s. He wove the ideas found in the many books his father bought from Carriedo Street, where the better bookstores were found in post-war Manila. Books about animals and plants, atlases about all places, guidebooks to anything and everything, novels that ranged from pulp fiction to classics; any book that his father could find, he consumed and eventually found some utilitarian purpose in his life.

Even the late night stories told by his superstitious mother by the kitchen fire would entrance him with the fantastic and otherworldly beings, dwarves and souls that inhabited the towering, ancient trees that stood on the shadowed outskirts of the family property, and eventually found their way into his thoughts as a provincial spirituality and respect for everything around him. Stories still survive up to now through my mother, his half-sister. Stories about how his teenage room always smelled of Singer sewing machine oil and stainless steel bolts, in his quest of taking apart the prized Japanese transistor radio to see if there were miniature people working inside it broadcasting the Manila Sound he danced to or the anti-Marcos protests he closely followed.

He was my grandfather’s favorite, being the unico hijo and my mother’s favorite sibling despite not being fully related to him by blood. He, being a mestizo in the very sense of the word, went against all the preconceptions he faced from others. Everyone knew that the household helper should not be trusted. You cannot trust them with anything, they’re too ignorant, too unappreciative of the finer things in life, too low-brow. They’ve lived too long in the backward mountains to understand. That was common knowledge in town.

The town did not like contradictions like him. This mestizo gave it too much of a headache trying to find the reasons of finding him a place in the pantheon of our family. To them, he was nothing but the product of a lustful marriage; “He would never go far,” they kept saying.

It was simpler to denounce him in private, while accommodating his person in public. I wish I had the chance to meet him.

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Four Onions. The best part of this dish, the ingredient that binds all the flavors up into something that the garlic and lemongrass could never do. I tip the heirloom crystal bowl that held them into the steaming wok, and I watch them give up their flavor until they are rendered soft and translucent. I ask myself if they count as vegetables. How odd for something like this to come across my mind while I’m sautéing them.

By my mother’s books, it does. And that’s all I needed to know.

“Or else you might end up like Pocholo,” she would often say when the vegetables on our plates didn’t end up in our stomachs.

Pocholo, that was her half-brother’s name. He would die a painful death at the age of eighteen, from colon cancer. He was a bright, young college student in La Salle during the late 70s, seeking relief in the faith healers and medicine men his mother knew, finding no release from the pain till he died in Manila, away from his hometown in the province. But he made the right friends, meeting the kind of people that would be with him on his deathbed till the very end. He found a friend in a certain Danny, who grew up with him and went to the same college with him in the capital. He would be right next to him when he gave up his last breath, a privilege my grandmother didn’t even have, missing his death standing outside his hospital ward. I remember Danny coming by a few months ago to say hello.

His own best friend’s mother could only look at him queerly, trying to put a name to an all too familiar face lost in a different time and place, before saying, “Danny, you’re back!” They talked for a long time, and I could hear stories about the past where Pocholo was still alive. Those stories that were too painful to remember barely made it past the bamboo slats of the hut. Those whispers might have invoked the ghosts of the past and asked her what happened to her once bright future.

My dark-skinned grandmother always talked about how he was so handsome and tall and so mestizo in the fullest sense of the word. He was the sole hope of climbing up the wretched social ladder, of giving a chance to her poor relatives in the countryside, 21

of a better life. The chance to own property and how to rise above the label of “squatter” to “landowner,” a voice in changing how they were treated by us, their amo. “At last, we have someone that could prove the matriarchs and patriarchs that we are worth something,” she would say. But life gives and takes, even from those who need it the most.

Oppression and deception are all too familiar techniques that my forefathers have employed to maintain the status quo. Up to now, her relatives still remain in our employment as carpenters, construction laborers, cooks, and nannies, all people we are indebted to for our lives, safety, and success. And for my dark-skinned grandmother, she lives in a nipa hut while her stepdaughter lives in a beautiful house, a proper house a few meters away. And all she has left of her son are a few clothes in corduroy, his vintage Lacoste shades, and his graduation photo hung up on the wall next to the Virgin Mary, another image she prays to, to console her desolations. He isn’t even buried in the grand mausoleum with the rest of his ancestors, despite sharing the same lineage with them. The world is full of assholes like us.

Five Pincers. Legs. Shell. All dismembered crab. I fish out the rotten crab and it quickly goes into the compost pit in the backyard. It’s been dead too long and if I hadn’t been careful, it could have gone into the dish.

Having taken care of the threat, I take a knife and remove the gills from all the others. I tip the limbs and bodies into the wok, hoping that the garlic, lemongrass, and onion mask the smell of the dead.

How easy it was for crabs to spoil after a few hours out in the sun.

All life goes bad after too long in this world.

I have an aunt who ended up in a bad marriage and had equally toxic relationships with cannabis and Valium, leaving behind children who have at some point in life, been threatened with a butcher’s knife by their own mother in the middle of the night.

How else could she deal with feelings of being told of her own mother’s death, almost nine months after? I heard she locked herself in a closet, refusing to come out. When she did finally come out, 22

she was different, blaming the baby sister that took her mother away from them. And she wasn’t even five. At her hands, my cousins barely coped with their own childhood. I grew up with them hearing things like “Mom taught me how to shave,” or “Don’t call me that anymore. We’re using Mom’s maiden name now.” They have to turn out right for their mother’s sake. She’s turning sixty soon. It’d be a pity for her to die alone. I try to avoid thoughts like that. This is her kitchen after all. I can still hear her talking to me a few minutes ago about how Hannibal Lecter’s a brilliant man, who tries to explore everything that’s possible for him. “Have you watched him take a human leg and cut it up into osso bucco, and then actually prepare it so that it looks even better than the osso bucco I make?” I choose not to answer her. I offer her a smile instead. I’d rather not know what a human being tastes like. Then again, that’s what most people in this family are: man-eaters.

I turn the crabs over in the heat. They’re cooking quite nicely, turning that beautiful shade of red that makes you want to crack them open and devour the flesh expertly hidden in the crevices of their shells. I can almost see my uncles who would tear into the crab and smash and scrape and suck out all the meat until only bits and pieces of broken-up crab would be left on the plate. I know a couple of uncles who would be ready to do the same to others in the family, just for a little bit more money and clout. It’s all a game for them, you see.

They were those who were talented enough to do their best in life.

And with that talent, made the right choice of college education, career, and spouse. These people didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of the past and their parents. They are very much capable of success, often at the expense of others. This puts them in a position of power over the others.They lord over the lesser relatives, turning themselves into a new class of oppressor and creating a new class of serf that they could rely on not to run off with their money, or give away secret recipes we keep locked inside a box. I am quite aware of what they could do: They could trick you into signing a seemingly harmless contract that castrates you from any benefits from the land that you rightfully own. When you find out, the contract has been signed 23

and your property taken, and they blame you for not reading the fine print and its implications. They quickly change their tone, and say things like, “You now have a share in the investment. Without us, you wouldn’t have been able to make any money at all.” Quietly, I agree with them. The previous generation is not familiar with the concept of the future.

There are those in my family who have given up on bettering themselves. They have settled for living on shoestring allowances from their parents, despite being parents themselves in their 40s and 50s. I wish my own parents wouldn’t have to carry my burden till they’re ninety. These shoestring uncles and aunts were all promising directors, managers, and real estate agents in their youth in the 70s and 80s. They worked out in swanky hotels uptown, and had their choice of upper-crust wives and mistresses to take to the discotheques of fashionable Manila. They have all ended up in relative physical and spiritual poverty, trapped by a misinformed and misplaced sense of who and what family is. Every time they come over, they wax lyrical about the past and whine for the better times, when everything in the world was in their reach, and they only had to reach a bit more to take it for themselves. What else can they do? Some people are only supposed to live till they’re forty before the only good thing left for them is to die.

The best of us have all fled from this situation. My own sister is now an American citizen, living a life that paid her a little bit less but allowed her to live a lot more. She saw how things unfolded back home and realized that a life in America is a lot more bearable. When I was asked the question if I would follow in her path, I answered, “Of course I’m staying here. There has to be someone that looks out for our interests. We will not allow ourselves to be fried in our own fat!” I am told to do well in school and in life so that I can fight back, and hold my own. If not for my children, then for my siblings who have chosen not to face this situation head on. I am carefully involving myself in family affairs, trying to gain a place at the negotiating table.

I sigh, and look out the kitchen window that shows me the mangroves in the estuary and the shallow, muddy sea beyond it. What kind of 24

person do I have to be to survive in this family? A long resonating bark from the mastiff brings me back to the crab and to the reality that I might end up burning the kitchen down if I don’t pay attention.

Six The marinade I poured in earlier is now being reduced to a thick, sweet sauce in the wok that coats the crab in a distinctly Asian flavor.

The key here is to constantly turn the crab over in the sauce, never letting it settle in one place. It really does look and smell good. I’ve never tried crab like this before. My cousin drops by and asks me how I’m doing. “Smells good man, like how you kind of know the sugar and oyster sauce are going to make it sweet and salty, with the citrusy brightness of the lemongrass masking the smell and taste of the crab.” A pat on the back is the affirmation I get for preparing a dish my cousin thought up. A newer, better generation is at hand.

Sooner or later, we’ll have to take part in the family business, deal with the same assholes, and wrestle with this suffocating dynamic, while we maintain the facade of prosperous social-climbing middle-class, or the image of the socially-minded civic leaders who use their business acumen to benefit others while using that as an opportunity to be more shrewd and calculating with the masses that troop into their shop houses. But it has always been hard to see them as heartless and cold and brutal. Knowing the secrets and the mechanics of being in this family is bad enough. It’s a cancer of the soul that eats you from the inside, leaving a shell that cannot be kind, gracious, and loving to anything or anyone else. No matter, it will be different this time. We’re taking on more responsibilities now, like cooking for the Easter potluck lunch, and keeping it free of any conflict over land titles and rental rates. I turn my mind away from these thoughts because they are difficult. I was raised right, I was always told to respect and love the people who cared for us when we had nothing to our name. I could not talk ill of the people who taught me how to read from Winnie-the-Pooh picture books and gave me that same desire for eloquently written and spoken words.

25

These were the same people who took me out sailing on the gulf with the catamaran and fishing for marlin and tuna. I cannot forget that they brought me Fisher-Price sets, Tonka trucks and Lego blocks from abroad. It is difficult for me to condemn them, despite who they are and what they did, because I risk betraying what I hold as true and beautiful in the world. I am not prepared to risk my happy memories of childhood just to appease a self-righteous mind. I brush away the shame building in my heart, and I find peace that I have chosen to still think highly of them, that the figments of my imagination have not taken over the truth I know in conscience. They too have some degree of humanity left in them. They aren’t completely lost.

They are still family after all. “Cover it with a lid Caloy, so that the steam cooks it even more.” I nod my head, and put a lid on the wok.

The crab is almost done.

Serve hot.

Well, not exactly. The party is a thirty-minute drive away from where we made the crabs, in another beach house. But it wasn’t always this way. Up until last year, all the “Manila people” as we would like to call them, would spend the entire week here at this other house by the coast, where they would be rowdy playing beach volleyball and going on mountain hikes. But things happen, like screaming at the dinner table and people saying, “I’m never going to talk to you again.” Now, Holy Week happens a bit farther away, at another beach in another part of the province, a fresh place to start tradition again.

“Is it still called tradition?” I ask my cousin in the driver’s seat.

He shrugs and says that things can never happen again. I nod in agreement, and the rest of the drive is filled with a weightless silence, punctuated by the screeches of car tires negotiating the sharper curves on the road. When we arrive, we kiss everyone’s cheek and compliment something, anything about him or her. I tell one aunt how her summer dress suits her quite well. I whisper into an uncle’s ear, telling him how his wife had kept her shape despite two years of married life. I even tell the little kids how they’ve all stayed the same 26

since last year, and I seem to be the only one growing bigger among them. Everyone now is waiting to sample our crab.

“Ouch! You didn’t cut out the spines. My finger’s bleeding.

Now I have to suck on the insides with my other hand. And it’s a bit on the salty side. Next time, please, do us all a favor. We’re hypertensive and we’re not going to get any better.” I tell her as politely as I could that I appreciated her feedback. Good-natured banter ensues and we continue eating.

She then asks for the recipe. Incredulous, I look at her greedily licking her fingers and sucking on a broken claw as if there could be more meat or juice left in it. She reaches for the last piece of crab without even thinking that I could have very much poisoned the food and she would have been dead in a few minutes.

“Don’t shit where you eat, you ingrate.”

Eyes all turn and look at me uneasily. I realize a thought had escaped the grip of my mind and found the freedom a crab could never have in the company of its bucketed kin.

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krysten alarice tan

School Slambook We fold our hands to pray, close our eyes, shutting them tight, our minds try to find a signal to heaven, a distant connection where God may be sitting on a cloud, watching us on his TV. I come home with a card that has my grades for the quarter, and I present it to my mother. I stand still, my eyes not shut, but my hands folded behind my back, as I look at my mother’s face and pray to God on his fluffy cloud that I could go back and push that 86 to a 95 before she could stand up to lift her hand.

We, in our purple uniforms, fill the pews of the parish. We are told to kneel, our hands clamped, our eyes shut tight and our mouths shut even tighter. The man in a colored smock walks over to the mic with an open book and we recite along with him words that we are only allowed to open our mouths for.

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My mother cooks dinner, a plate full of shrimps with oyster sauce, garlic, and ginger.

She sets it down on the table, and after prayer, we sit down to peel and eat. Her hard work for the day, we then inquire about. To this she shrugs and points to the food and tells us to be quiet.

We fold our hands to pray, we do not bother with our eyes, looking down at the ground, our minds waiting for the words to pass. And God on his cloud somewhere in a different dimension sits and looks at us, trying to believe that we believe he knows.

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jenina ibañez

Prayers The Chinese have a way of speaking to the dead. Tossing sheets of paper into flames, the smoke carries their voices and disappears into this other world.

An old woman saunters with her incense to the altar, sending the fragrance of churches to the ghosts.

At every revolution, the heaps of burned books—documents, maps, poetry offering: “Make a spark from the old flints for me,” and “I can speak for your dead mouth.”

A few years ago, the mountain of garbage caught fire from a tripped over candle from a food forager— they say the young couple was fighting: tossing the kitchenware, rearranging the furniture, trapping themselves in the fury of the flames they set.

Their neighbors ran, hands over their noses.

A woman turns her head, thinking about the fury of a God, her limbs still as pillars.

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In Saigon, a monk sets himself on fire on the intersection.

We keep the ashes of our lost loves in jars, in lockets.

In the other world, wisps of smoke must reappear, carrying prayers, verses, the spires of cities and their sins, rising like laughter among the rubble. The monk’s prayer undressed from the body he left behind on the intersection, a prayer both silence and protest offered to the dead, then the living.

31

dyanne abobo

How I Met My Father Our first meeting: I was four years old—standing hand in hand with my mom on an escalator in naia. My siblings were on the step in front of us, eagerly watching a wave of people through the glass balustrade. As the escalator slowly descended, my mom let go of my hand for a second, and in no time I was out of sight. It was easy to squeeze through the people in front of us with my small body.

My mom panicked. There were dozens of people coming from and going to the waiting areas, and losing me there would have been much worse than when she lost me in Ali Mall just a few weeks earlier.

She didn’t wait to get to the escalator landing to jump off before running to a guard with my siblings at her heels.

As she was describing me to the guard, she saw my dad— whom we were supposed to be welcoming back from his flight—with me in his arms. He claimed that I ran straight toward him out of the crowd. I had never met him in person before, because he went to France for a job a few months before I was born. I had only seen him in the photographs that he sent to us, taken while he was tending to the irises and red poppies in the front yard, eating with French people on a wooden picnic table in the garden, or posing in front of the Eiffel Tower in his favorite brown coat. I ran to him like I had known him all my life. My mom always said it was lukso ng dugo.

Many of my relatives tell me that this is their favorite story of my dad. The truth is, I have no real memory of this event.

My mom told me the story when I was in grade school, and somewhere along the way I started to believe that I remember experiencing it myself. Now that I think about it years after, I realize that I can only see it through my mom’s eyes. The perfect memory I had of meeting my dad for the first time, of lukso ng dugo, of such a romantic testimony of our natural connection, is not even mine. I didn’t meet my father that day.

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* Our first meeting: On an indeterminate day when I was four years old, a vast, dusty passage appeared in a wall of our house. My mom made me up with a new haircut and a white dress that day, so I knew I had no business walking through dusty passages, but I was compelled by a picturesque ray of sunlight streaming through it from the other side.

Time slowed down. Church bells tolled and angels sang hallelujahs.

I closed my eyes as I stepped into the other side, bathed in light, and I felt ethereal.

All of a sudden, a banging blare came from my left, and I saw a man in a dirty white sando and boxer shorts, hammering at slabs of concrete by the hole. He looked at me and waved an outstretched hand, making small circles in the air. I wondered why he was breaking down our wall. I frowned. I scratched my elbow. I was donning the bob cut my mom always gave me to make my face look less plump, and a white dress I later realized was just a lengthy tank top.

When I look back on this memory I know that the person I saw was my dad, but only because I know it now. That was only a few days after he arrived from France, when he was joining the two houses that made our current one with an archway in the connecting wall.

My four years of knowing him as a photograph made me unfamiliar with him in the flesh. When I looked at him in that moment, I saw a stranger who was pounding on our wall, who spoiled my angelic movie moment by swinging a rusty sledgehammer in his most pambahay outfit. I didn’t meet my father that day. *

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Our first meeting: I was ten years old—my siblings and I sat around the circular dinner table with food already on our plates. We very rarely had dinner together as a family, because each of us arrived home at a different time of the night. My parents would arrive at around 9 p.m., by which time I would be preparing for bed. My siblings and I did arrive home from school at about the same time, but more often than not, we chose to eat on our own time, probably because no one obliged us to do otherwise. That night, though, my brother insisted for the three of us to sit together for dinner.

It was terribly awkward. I tried so hard to make small talk only to get meager replies. There was a shard missing from the glass tabletop that I never noticed before, and as we quietly sat there eating sinigang, which clearly lacked a splash of patis, I played with the bubble of spilled broth that seeped under the glass through the cavity. When the rice was mostly finished on our plates, my bumbling somehow led to the topic of our dad.

“Nasaan si Papa ngayon?” I asked my brother.

He took a bit too long to swallow the mouthful of kangkong he was chewing. Around that time in December, my dad had been diagnosed with leukemia for nine months and was admitted at St. Luke’s Hospital. There were a few times when he was allowed to go home, but these didn’t last for long because we believed it was better for him to stay admitted after his chemotherapy sessions so he could rest properly. Come November, he was staying at my aunt’s house in Makati so he could be constantly monitored and cared for.

That time at the end of the year, it was difficult to keep track of where he was because he periodically went back to the hospital.

“Nasa Marikina,” my brother answered. I reckoned my dad was in our salon in Parang.

“Sa may H. Bautista?” my sister asked, but my brother only looked at her.

She motioned to collect her plates and cutlery though she wasn’t finished with her food. All of a sudden, dinner was over. The air became too tense to make small talk. My sister exited to her study area out on the veranda, and my brother asked me to come into my room to talk. Confused, I simply obliged.

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After closing the door behind us, we sat in silence for a while as I made a list in my mind of the things that could have gotten me in so much trouble that he had to reprimand me privately, along with the ways to get around them. I was still going through it when he put his hand on my shoulder.

“Wala na si Papa,” he said.

What a humble way to put it. No dramatic warnings, overused metaphors, or stale Christian euphemisms. Wala na si Papa.

My brother put his arm around me and leaned me on his shoulder. My mind was empty. When I was ten, I couldn’t even confidently spell the word leukemia.

Our dad was in Marikina because his funeral was being held in King’s Funeral Homes near H. Bautista Elementary School.

On her way home that afternoon, my sister was standing on the bus home and she caught a glimpse of the black banner with my dad’s name hanging outside the building.

Later that night, my mom called me and told me to put on a white dress and to fix my hair to look presentable. Time slowed down when I saw the coffin. The sharp white light from the funeral room streamed out into the dark hallway of the building. I thought that I could live the rest of my life easier if I didn’t see him in that moment, but I was compelled by the pixelated picture of him on the white coffin. I had almost forgotten what he looked like with hair on his head. The photograph was the only thing that made me continue putting one foot in front of the other. I didn’t know what to expect.

As I looked down on his face, I smiled.

He was wearing pink lipstick. For the last appearance he ever made on this earth, he was made to look like one of those glosslipped teenage male celebrities on the cover of magazines aimed at prepubescent girls. It was silly, but I was relieved that he didn’t look pained. He was quite vibrant for someone who was not living; he even looked like he was smiling back.

“Hello, Pa.”

35

After years of looking back on this memory, I can’t help but reckon that I first met my father when I was looking at him through the glass of his coffin. It’s almost like an encounter with someone new.

As you walk closer, you look at them from head to toe—their apparent disposition, how they present themselves. No matter how hesitant you are to meet them, you find a reason to keep walking: perhaps the relatable quote on their shirt, a haircut that makes a statement, or simply your social instinct. You set your own expectations and disprove yourself after a hello and a handshake.

I could have shaken my dad’s hand that night and felt the same way.

It’s certainly a reasonable claim, as it was after my dad passed away that I got to know more about him and what he was like as a person, much like getting to know a new friend. For years, people in my family couldn’t talk about him without getting tears in our eyes, but when we finally realized that silence doesn’t mean respect, we became more open to it. I find that my mom’s cue for this is when we’re sitting in the car. So many of the stories I know about my dad came from these exchanges.

For one, I never really knew what he did when he was in France. I assumed that the beautiful house with the beautiful garden he had in his photos was his house, and the French people he ate with were his buddies. I found out that he worked as a helper for the quaint old couple who owned the estate. They let him do what he wished with the garden and invited him to have picnics with their grandchildren.

He grew to love them and they grew to love him, but he was never really paid much for his work.

My mom claimed my dad didn’t have the big dreams that she did. When he came home from France, he was bent on being a taxi driver albeit being a certified engineer. My mom didn’t humor him though; she coerced him to study photography and artistic framing, which were inclined with his talents, and he made a living out of these since then.

She also told me that our house in San Mateo wasn’t supposed to be our permanent residence. My mom wanted to get a nice place in Marikina, but my dad objected to it.

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“ ‘Ayaw mo na yata akong pauwiin e,’ ” she said, quoting my dad’s response to the idea. “Ang gusto ko kasi mag-aaral kayo sa magagandang school sa Manila. Siya, gusto niyang bumalik sa Borongan; sa Leyte Institute na lang daw kayo mag-aral.”

At first it was disconcerting to talk about him in a less than positive light. The stories I had heard from my mom before were always about how blessed she was that she married my dad, how he respected her, became her foil, and made her change for the better.

The new discoveries were far from all negative though, and she never stopped speaking well of him. I also found out that my dad was the sort of husband who insisted on coming with my mom to buy soy sauce from Aling Josie’s store just a few paces along our street. I could imagine him saying, “Sama ako, Ma,” playfully and yet seriously, like he couldn’t be separated from his beloved.

Although the supposition of a posthumous meeting is reasonable because it follows the pattern of a new friendship, I couldn’t help but feel that it fails to take into account all the crucial moments of our relationship. My dad is not made up of stories.

Dwelling in the afterward separates me from the dad I grew up with.

The body in the coffin might have been his, it might have been smiling back, and it might have been the closest image to his old photographs that he had been in months, but he was no longer the great man I spent six years of my life—and yet already half of my life—with.

I did not meet my father that night. * I was ten years old—when my dad was in the hospital, I didn’t get to visit him a lot because he insisted that we not let his condition get in the way of school. For all his months stuck in the hospital, he and my mom succeeded in making me feel as though it was nothing serious, by not letting us see him in his emaciated state. The few times I visited him, I was more focused on my curiosity about hospital food. The first time I tasted a peach was when he offered it to me from his meal.

It was in a small plastic bowl about the size of my ten-year-old hand, 37

and it was the only item that had color in his liver-friendly lunch.

I remember thinking that if he didn’t need dessert, he couldn’t be too sick. I later found out that the many sores in his mouth made him averted to sour food.

In October, he was allowed to go home after he finished his chemotherapy sessions. He stayed in the house all day because he was still too weak to travel. It made him aggravated that he had to be responsible of himself above everything else. He was the kind of man who, given a day to relax at home, would look for something to fix or to make, and his having experienced cancer didn’t change that. The house was always clean, no gaskets loose or light bulbs unchanged, the plants were healthier than he was, and he made a few projects, including three wooden papag and a wooden chair up on our sampaloc tree. He sawed wood like a true carpenter though his wrists were thinner than the dos-por-dos he was hacking. He sweat it out in the noonday sun even though he was so short of breath that he couldn’t complete a yawn.

The few weeks that he spent at home that time of year was the closest I ever got to him. Before he got sick, he was always in our salon with my mom for most of the day, and the only time we spent together on weekdays were the brief goodbyes when they went off, and the welcome kisses when they got home. In the early afternoons that October when he wasn’t working on his projects or busy with the house, he stayed in bed to watch the afternoon primetime teleseryes he never really cared for. I would run to him, carrying his daily bowl of mashed potatoes with milk, and after he ate, we would cuddle until it was time to prepare dinner. I would feel his short breaths and later become breathless myself, because I had unknowingly synchronized my breathing with his. Every so often he would fall asleep to the theme song of Daisy Siete, and I would stay a little longer, close to his chest, where I could get a whiff of the morning Ensure that he always managed to get on his collar.

The afternoon my dad made the wooden chair in our sampaloc tree, I came home upon the laundry hanging in rows of wire in the front yard. Before I got into the house, I heard a familiar 38

psst from behind the laundry. I searched for him, peeling away layers and layers of clothes and sheets, but I couldn’t find him. He kept calling my name and giggling as I went around in circles. Finally, I passed through all the laundry to the end of the yard, where he sat on a chair about two meters up the sampaloc tree. He made the steps by nailing bars of wood in intervals on the trunk of the tree. I reckoned they were leftovers from his previous projects; they were not of the same length.

He implored me to climb. I hesitated; I had no business climbing up a tree in the crisp, white uniform I was going to use the next day, but he implored me to climb. The light from the orange sun streamed through the leaves, making dancing shadows on his face.

When I got up to sit beside him, the tree swayed in the breeze. I felt like I was sitting on clouds. He pulled me to his side and embraced me as he sang the song he used to lull me to sleep.

Kapirasong langit, sa lupa’y nahulog; kinandong ng dagat, sa dibdib binusog.

Liwanag sa gabi, buwan ang nagsabog.

Hangin na kay lamig ang nagpapatulog.

Nakikita kita kahit nakapikit.

Yakap-yakap kita ‘pag nananaginip.

Diwang lumilipad, may pakpak ang himig.

Ang awit na ito ay galing sa dibdib.

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arin mukhi

Genesis 3:6 When the First Man was born, when he burst fully-formed and glorious out from the bowels of the land, swept together by God’s careful fingers, he thought he was the Prince of the Earth. The serpent, who had clawed feet and shimmered in the night spaces, thought, what a presumptuous little fuck, and knew it had to disabuse him of the notion very quickly. It had been cast out, after all, to this world, to do with as he pleased—Adam would be prince of nothing until he had learned failure, and from there, came to know vengeance.

The darkness above was beginning to thin with the pale cream of dawn. The First Man sat bare under the dusty desert sky and studied the expanse of his body, free from the coarse constraints of the clothing God had deigned to leave him before kicking him out of his home. Upon creation, he had been already handsome, in God’s stiff-sculpted-marble sort of way, but beyond the chiseled plaster he had been hollow. Now substance bubbled inside him, cooling and hardening.

Inside their tent, which sagged towards the left, Eve was napping, prickly bush-leaf hastily thrown over her wide body. Her breaths were deep and matched his, and her fingers were tucked tightly into her hands. Adam was not watching her. Adam was looking out at the expanse of unconquered, uninhabited, un-anything land that stretched out all around him, but that he could not run to.

He did not want to go back inside and play husbandfather. He wanted to continue his battering ram assault against the unfeeling, unaffected sky. Now that he had created, he wanted to destroy, tear all of creation apart—but he could not do as God did, and be cruel to the miniature world he had brought into existence.

After the fruit, but before the fall, he had stood awkwardly before Eve in his nakedness, face heating up with the knowledge that a piece of God’s powers slunk along their hips. He felt no desire for 40

her at all, but how could they stay still, thrumming with the newfound sense of coming triumph?

With the seed of his loins sleeping in her, he felt like he had finally struck a blow against the Heavens, but watching the sun seep into the horizon, he knew they had not even cracked.

In the Garden, when she had opened his mouth with her thick brown fingers stroking his tongue with the forbidden fruit, he had thought, this tastes like shit. This was a thought he formed only after being aware of thinking it—all he knew was that he recoiled and spat out the juicy fruit-flesh, and then he was on his knees scraping it off the ground and shoveling it down his throat. Because that thought had been completely his own, and the fruit had caused it. He knew it was his own because he heard it in his own voice—at the very least, he thought was his own voice, no, was sure it was his own voice— and not God’s.

His thoughts before had been cloudlike, simmering in a gold haze through which gusts of gentle wind blew. It had been soft and quiet inside his head, his mind seemingly wrapped in down the way baby animals were wrapped in down so as not to hurt themselves.

When his mind formed the words this tastes like shit the texture of the sentence had been solid and grainy, like hardened tree sap pockmarked with dead insects. It had felt ancient and bitter and cynical, and he felt himself growing into it like it was a second skin.

He had begun to shed his down.

Eve had laughed at him on all fours on the ground, fingers grubby and grimy, mouth caked in mud. “You could have asked me for another one,” she said, and as she leaned toward him cradling another bite of paradise in her hands he knew that the both of them could do just as much as God could if only they knew how to do it.

The fruit would tell him. And so he ate.

41

jam pascual

Darwin Making Excuses Let’s go back to the beginning.

I’ve been scuttling on the seafloor of your heart like a trilobite. I’ll grow extremities, a pair of lungs, maybe even a backbone so all the things I’ve ever told you can walk upright.

I can trade scales for something softer.

Look a little less like a cockroach, clean myself up just enough so when you see me your first instinct isn’t to throw a shoe at my face.

But it isn’t my fault I’m Gregor Samsa.

If you look out from any flyover on a rainy day, you’ll see dozens of cars, their windshield wipers waving around like antennae, precise as metronomes, different beats in different machines. Going to work, going home, either way salvaging. It’s not my fault I’m hungry for garbage. Whatever’s bound to rot.

People like me exist because an ecosystem demands it.

So if you’re waiting for my skull to swell and swing down from high-hung vines and sweep you off your feet, you’re sorely mistaken. I’m still fascinated by fire.

All my hands can do is weaponize. Fashion this stone into a blade. Cut open stomachs, pull entrails out and play them like bass strings to the tune of creation, cut you open so learn how to fill your wounds, with fruit, pig’s fat, tobacco leaves, music, small and fragile hands. And when I’m done, I’ll throw those stones back into the earth until everything is teeth. This is hunger.

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43

Before that the cigarette ash left to darken on the wooden bench.

Before that a man driving past stops meters from you and brings out his terrier from the backseat. Before that the man

who shows you his inverted nipple. Color of ought. Today God has died again, and the wicked are contrite again, razor-bladed and raw

again. Before that blood stains on the stairs, and the stories you have to construct to make them probable. Before that the hawker

tells you you’ve got a beautiful face, then shows you his bag of maps.

You unfold one and there it is, the park bench you should’ve come back to.

Before that the mojito with too much mint, too bitter. Tell him it’s the best you’ve ever had. Before that your name, how he holds it up,

and in too many languages too many greetings all at once. Before that a pregnant woman says it’s OK to not give up your seat, shame as

giving as a yeast infection. Before that the email to end all emails, the hyperbole clawing its way out of the screen, tearing chunks off your face,

wiping its maw on your bed sheet. Before that the fork in the road and its lack of symbolic value, and what this means about your life.

The sun pinpricking your forehead. Before that his averted gaze when

A fatal error has occurred

mark anthony cayanan

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after months of not speaking you stand at his door to say good-bye.

The unprecious minutes. Before that the two minutes within drunken small talk when your life without preamble finally makes sense.

Then the time after that. Before that an uncle offers you a slice by bringing the knife to your mouth. Before that when, presented

with a choice between valor and obedience, you taunt the fat girl as she bites into her apple. Before that a kid calls you a fag. He is stupid,

you tell him so. Also that he would die poor. Before that and for every night in your room: how have you learned—there you are, waiting

to be rewarded for weeping—and what you keep doing with it.

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canopy, the patterns they would later render on our skin,

visible: here, there are darker entanglements. The warmth

of your navel, for instance, in the hollow of your uncorrupted

Bathed in the silver storm of a million stars, in clearest night, starkly

shoulder. What there now drips from the corner of your lip.

your brow. What of the sluice of mud upon your naked

their reticent impending. What of the murk that attends

yet unbroken by the silhouette of elder trees, their dappled

in the light that knew never shadow, nor impediment. Our bodies

confirms this: in the neonate hours, where were we, there

Deny me the reason ruin beloves retrospect. Our mythology

As original sin

joshua uyheng

46 its garden trails, what foreign glades. Deny me the alibi, the memory

feathers, the trembling of every clearing in the woods. How the minnows

in our wanderings. Where every drizzle at dawn meant another search

to dance. Where each blossoming flower marked another place to revisit

Where each sprig, each sapling, only meant for us another reason

like eons, after all this time. And does it behoove you.

still gather in the water and flee at my touch. How the eons still pass

brushing cool against my belly. The songs of robins, their shaking

strands, do you not know: The morning grass, unfettered by dew,

the hint of her clarity peeking between insistent strands. This insistence

of her rosy fingernails. Deny me her laughter, her tempestuous locks,

resembled the sinking moon. The forest of your shank, and where

your scapulae. The round of your hip that in my vanished hand

rib. The clefts of your spine, where they forked beneath

47

narrative to deny. When his footsteps came and his voice deluged

to name me. Was not mine the first tongue which caressed

in that single moment, and was my promise of deliverance ever unmet

anything but reconciliation. Was my hand not joined with hers,

was sweet. For was it ever not an open gesture. Did I never intend

in their shade before my blood first knew the taste of poison

your skin. And did the trees not coalesce, not shrivel, not cover us

your unthinking heel, will you not ask yourself: Did you not delight

with satisfaction. Before you once again crush my head beneath

Were your fingers not bedlam. And did your eyes not cower

our paradise, where could the rest of my hand withdraw.

But deny me origin, and every reason to look back. Deny me even this

Where things still enjoined invention, and never did seek a helpmeet.

headlong branch. We would invent these things, in the beginning.

for a hiding place, for someplace safe. For a rustle in the bushes, another

48 in flesh, in bone, his legs, these arms. Did you not one day remember

the planet—with his divine mouth, yawning, stretched open,

When he cast you beyond the citadel, and the horizon of our untouched

is once more silver, new, and wholly present, will you answer me this:

of the seraph’s sword swung first. And in those desolate crags

Are you still not haunted with remembering.

did the grass first grow. And where did the minnows go.

did you not there make a life. But in which direction

sky, what did you find. Did you one day discover where the flames

hanging wide like a snake’s. When that day comes, and your body

to lick your lips, and swallow the fruit like he will one day swallow

for your redemption. Was he not then like you, and you like him:

and the glory forever. Did he not one day die for you, pour out his blood

and find true love, and make thine the kingdom, and the power,

with gratitude. For eventually, did you not also win immortal life,

alaina reclamado

Tikbalang Namamangha ako sa kanilang umaasa dahil hindi ko alam kung kanino ako dapat sumamo at manalangin na sana ang pangako ko ay maging sapat at hindi mag-iwan ng panibagong sugat; sapagkat sa dilim may tikbalang na hindi palaso ngunit balaraw ang itinatagos sa mga katawang nakatayo na lamang ngayon sa mundo ng mga estatwang umiibig at hindi nakikilala ang halimaw na nagparusa sa kanilang paulit-ulit na humihingi ng paliwanag.

Sa anino mo ako iwan at balang araw tayo iibig sa liwanag.

49

jim matthew ham

Ang Balete sa Cordillera I Limang araw nang naglalakad sa gitna ng gubat. Mula sa La Trinidad ay nagtungo siya sa sinasabing tahanan sa ilalim ng nag-iisang balete sa kagubatan. Limang araw na siyang walang nakikitang balete.

II Inisip niyang mabuti kung ang balete ay nabubuhay sa kabundukan ng Cordillera. Ilan na nga bang tao ang nagmalupit sa kanya, ilang nilalang na ang lumabag sa kanya. Pati ba naman ang kanyang mga kasama, gagaguhin siya?

III Naalala niya nung unang araw niya sa Crame, pinaupo siya sa gitna ng isang silid. Walang bintana, walang silya, walang mesa. Isang ilaw sa ibabaw ang nagpapaliwanag sa karimlan na kanyang sinapit.

IV Maliwanag naman sa Cordillera, kanyang nahinuha. Malamig ang hangin. Isang malawak na espasyo na hindi siya pagkakaitan ng kahit ano. Nakabaon sa lupa ang limang kamote at dalawang kangkong.

V Sa kolehiyo, isa siyang matalinong bata. Uno sa karamihan ng kinukuha niyang kurso maliban na lamang sa otsenta porsiyento ng mga kurso na ito. Sa bagay, mas maganda nga naman magbasa ng mga gawa ni Dostoevsky kaysa mag-aral ng Physics.

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VI Putang ina, sinambit niya bigla. Bigla siyang nagtaka kung bakit may kangkong sa bundok, lalong-lalo na sa kalagitnaan ng Cordillera.

Alam niyang hinding-hindi sa bundok tumutubo ang kangkong.

VII Kinuha na lamang niya ang kangkong at kinain kasabay ng kamote.

Ipinampunas ang dala niyang dilaw na panyo sa mga ito para magmukhang malinis kahit hindi na mabanlawan. Kung may babanlawan man.

VIII Huli siyang kumain sa Star CafĂŠ. Masarap ang kanyang kinain: pansit. Habang kumakain, tumabi sa kanya ang isa niyang kasama at binayaran ang inorder niya. Binigyan siya ng mapa at ng kuwaderno.

Bahala na raw siya.

VIIIa Ilan na nga ba ang kanyang kinain na pansit sa tanan ng buhay niya?

Paborito niya ang habhab kapag ang pamilya nila’y napapadaan sa Lucban tuwing umuuwi sa Bondoc Peninsula.

IX Kay tagal din niyang inisip kung aakyat siya sa bundok. Limang taon din siyang pinilit ng kanyang guro sa kanilang unibersidad na sumali sa kilusan. Ilang taon na rin siyang nakababalita ng mga namamatay sa bundok.

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X Naubos na ang kanyang biniling Marlboro sa Rosario. Kinulang na ang pera niya kaya’t isang karton lang ang nakayanang bilhin. Iyon, ubos kaagad makalipas lamang ang tatlong araw.

XI Sinara na niya sa huling pagkakataon ang pinto ng kanyang apartment sa Sta. Mesa. Nagsilid sa nakasabit na pantalon ng kaunting salapi para sa kanyang kapatid na kakaalis pa lamang. Nagmurahan muli sila ng landlady.

XII Naiwan niya ang kanyang gamit na condom sa banyo sa bahay ng syota niya. Putang ina naman, sinambit ulit niya. Aalis na nga lang ng Maynila ay mag-iiwan pa ng katarantaduhan.

VIIIb Masarap din ang cup noodles. Hindi nga sariwa, ngunit kung limang gabi ka nang nag-aaral ng mga leksyon tungkol sa Magnus Effect ay magiging masarap na rin.

XIII Umakyat siya sa taas ng puno ng niyog. Wala yata ako sa Cordillera e, may kangkong kanina, may niyog naman ngayon. A, gutom lang ‘yan. Buti may kamote’t kangkong na akong kakainin, may iinumin pang buko.

XIV Wala siyang kapote. Naiwan niya ito, dalawang araw na ang nakakaraan sa kanyang huling tinulugan. Kung hindi nga siya mamamatay sa ulan ng bala ay sa sobrang lamig ng panahon naman.

52

VIIIaa Sa Bondoc Peninsula pa lamang tinatawag na siya na umanib sa kanila. Ayaw niya silang kausapin, nandoon ang mga magulang niya. Sa Maynila na lang tayo mag-usap, sabi niya nung isang gabi sa General Luna.

XV Naubos na niya ang kangkong. Masarap din pala kahit papaano.

Hindi kasinlasa ng kangkong sa Laguna de Bay. Hindi kasinlasa ng sapatos ng Metrocom sa mukha na tumadyak sa mukha niya.

XVI Buti na lang at duling ‘yung sundalong nagpaulan ng bala sa kanya at siya’y nakatakas pa. Papaano ba naman, kakana ng tao e alas dos ng madaling araw, wala pang ilaw. Sino nga ba namang makakatama nang matino.

XVII Katangahan ang kanyang pagsali habang nasa Maynila, kilalangkilala ka kapag ginawa mo ‘yun. Isang raid lang sa Sta. Mesa ay yari ka na. Parang siya, isang raid lang sa Sta. Mesa, muntik nang makana.

Buti na lang at nasa Alabang siya noon.

XVIII Magaling din pala si Rilke magsulat ng mga tula. Ayos na rin, kahit wala siya minsang maintindihan. Pero paborito pa rin niya si Rimbaud, kahit anong mangyari. Kaya nga niya bitbit ang mga aklat nila.

XIX Puno ng pasa at nanlilimahid sa dugo nang makarating siya sa bahay ng kanyang syota. Buti na lang at may naiwan pa siyang condom sa wallet niya, kundi ay baka may anak na kaagad siya.

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XII.1 Sira ulo ang nag-imbento ng withdrawal. Walang kahit anumang kasiyahan ang naganap. Henyo ang nag-imbento ng condom, hindi na kailangan ng withdrawal. Kahit naiwan niya ang condom, ayos din, masarap naman.

XX Anim na araw na siyang nasa Cordillera, wala pa rin sa kahit anong aninag niya sa kapaligiran. Sino nga ba namang maglalagay ng Balete sa kalagitnaan ng malamig na klima? Nagago na naman siya, iniisip niya.

XXI Maghahanap na lang ulit siya ng makakain, bahala na. Kahit ‘yang putang inang kamote na isang daang taon na yata niyang kinakain, papatulan na rin niya. Kahit may tumubo pang putang inang cactus dito, lalamunin na rin niyang parang buwaya.

XII.2 May telegramang inabot ang syota niya sa kanya matapos nilang magbayuhan. “Galing kay Dante”: ‘Magtungo kang Baguio, huwag kang maniwala kahit kanino.’ Ngunit mas masaya tirahin ang babae, kaya tuloy pa rin ang ligaya.

XXII Anak ng—. Sigurado siyang nagago na siya. Sa sarap ng pakikipagtuhugan e hindi niya naintindihan ng matino ang sinabi ng telegrama. Ba’t ba siya nakinig dun sa lalaki sa Star Café. Sarap-sarap ng pansit dapat kinain na lang niya nang matiwasay.

XXIII Dalawang hakbang mula sa tinulugang puno ng niyog ay bigla niyang nakita ang puno ng balete. Eto na, hindi naman pala ako ginago. May balete nga naman pala. Pa’nong hindi niya ito nakita sa sobrang laki nito.

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XXIV Nilapitan niya ang balete. Tao po, wika niya. Ka Romy, andyan po ba kayo? Unti-unting nilapitan ang malaking balete. Sa wakas, may lumabas na tao. Nilapitan pa niya. Dumilim ang kapaligiran.

VIIIc Ang hindi niya maalala ay ang lasa ng pansit palabok. Kahit ilang beses na siyang nagtungo sa bahay ng kaklase niya sa Malabon, walang-wala siyang malasahan. Para bang wala siyang kakayanang makatikim ng lasa.

55

jonnel inojosa

Sa mga naiwan: Bago sumilip ang silahis ng araw sa mga puwang ng durungawan, ihahanda ang tambo ng pambubusisi. Sa araw na ito, iuusal, walang kikilalaning alikabok ang mga sulok ng dingding. Kahapon na ang agiw na sa kisame’y naglambitin. Lumot na lamang sa alaala ang babara sa lababo. Kasingkintab ng hinugasang plato ang sahig ng banyo. Ganito: una, pagsikat ng araw, magwawalis sa salas— sa likod ng telebisyon, sopa, at lamiseta. Nang hindi na dumikit ang gabok, gamit ang basang lumang damit, pupunasan ang mga gilid-gilid. Uulit-ulitin ito hanggang umaliwalas ang paligid. Ganito rin sa kusina hanggang sa mga kuwarto. Dadakutin ang anumang kalat at dumi. Walang ligtas ang mga pingas at putik sa tabi-tabi. Pupunasan ang aparador, ang lamesa, at kama nang magmukhang bago at kaaya-aya. Huli ang banyong nangangailangan ng paninipat. Hindi sasapat ang karaniwang pagsalat. Pagkabuhos ng tubig, magkakalat ng bleach. Hilod sa inidoro, lababo, at sahig. Saka muling bubuhusan ng tubig. Pagkatapos, wiwikain sa sarili: malinis na. Malinis na ang lahat.

56

arsenio armas

Sa Taluktok, Sa Paanan mga tauhan lalaki – matagal nang sinusundan si babae babae – matagal nang tinuturo kay lalaki kung saan pupunta manlalakbay – lalaki, matagal nang naglalakbay ang tagpuan Sa gitna ng isang bundok Oras: Dapit-hapon. Panahon ng ekinoksiyo—araw-araw naman kasing panahon ng ekinoksyo.

May isang puno ng bayabas na walang bunga sa may ng entablado.

May isang bayabas sa sahig nito. Kumakalat sa buong entablado ang mga basura ng mga nakaraang paglalakbay—mga lata, mga plastic bag, styrofoam, at iba pang mga kagamitang naiwan na. Maririnig ang hangin, ang paggalaw ng mga puno, at ang kahol ng mga lobo.

Bubukas ang ilaw ng entablado. Papasok ng entablado si LALAKI, may nakataling lubid sa baywang, ang kabilang dulo nito, nasa labas ng entablado at hindi makita. Makikita ni LALAKI ang bayabas at pupulutin. Susunod naman na papasok ng entablado si BABAE. Nakatali sa baywang ni BABAE ang dulo ng lubid. lalaki

Gaano katagal na?

babae

Matagal-tagal na.

lalaki

Di nga?

Hindi sasagot si BABAE. 57

lalaki

Nasaan na ba tayo?

babae

Malapit na. Onti na lang.

lalaki

E kahapon?

babae

Onti na lang din.

lalaki

Bukas?

babae

Onti na lang din.

lalaki

Nasa taluktok ba tayo o nasa may paanan?

babae

Hindi ko alam.

lalaki

Anong hindi mo alam?

Hihilahin ni BABAE ang lubid. Madadapa si LALAKI. babae

Kasi hindi ko alam! Hindi ka na ba nasanay?

Lakbay tayo nang lakbay, alam mo naman na wala nang nagbago at hindi ko pa rin malalaman kung malapit na tayo o hindi.

Patlang. Tatayo si LALAKI. babae

Kailangan pa rin nating maglakbay.

lalaki

Sandali lang. Nasaan na nga ba tayo?

babae

Baka papuntang taluktok. O baka papuntang paanan. Ewan.

58

lalaki

May oras ba tayo magpahinga?

babae

Wala rin namang magbabago.

Uupo si LALAKI sa sahig. Lalapit si BABAE sa puno ng bayabas.

Patlang. lalaki

Tingin mo ba, may pag-asa pa tayo?

babae

Hindi mo ba narinig ‘yung sinabi nila? Makakaalis din tayo.

lalaki

Hindi ikaw ang nagsabi. Paano ako maniniwala?

babae

Tigilan mo nga ako.

Patlang. lalaki

Ano’ng sinabi ng nasa taluktok?

babae

Nasa paanan.

lalaki

At ano naman ang sinabi ng mga nasa paanan?

babae

Nasa taluktok.

Patlang. babae

Tara na, maglakad na tayo.

lalaki Sandali lang. May pagkain ka?

Maghahanap ng pagkain si BABAE mula sa bag niya. Maglalabas siya ng isang bayabas.

59

lalaki

Bayabas ulit?

babae

Ano pa ba’ng mahahanap natin dito? Sa susunod, ikaw ang maghanap ng pagkain.

lalaki

Kung bayabas lang ang mahahanap ko sa letseng bundok na ‘to, ‘wag na. Kay laki-laki ng bundok, kay rami-raming puno, tapos wala kang mahanap na makakain kundi bayabas.

Hindi siya papansinin ni BABAE. babae

Ano kaya ang sasabihin nila pagdating natin doon?

lalaki

“Nasa paanan!” Sabi ng mga nasa paanan, nandito.

“Hindi, mali sila, wala rito. Nasa paanan!” Sa tingin mo ba, mahahanap talaga natin?

Hindi makakasagot si BABAE. lalaki

Siguro sila rin ang nagsabi na may labasan dito para panoorin tayo. Para tayong mga asong nakakita ng kotse. Pag nahuli na natin ‘yung kotse, hindi alam ang gagawin.

Kakagat si LALAKI mula sa bayabas niya. Pagkatapos, bibigyan si BABAE. Katahimikan. lalaki

“Dalawang tao lang ang makalalabas!”

babae

“Wala rito ang pag-asa ninyo! Nandoon!”

lalaki

“Nasa taluktok ba o nasa paanan?”

babae

“Nasa paanan!”

60

lalaki

“Hindi. Wala rito, nasa taluktok!”

Magtatawanan ang dalawa. Patlang. lalaki

Ano na?

babae

Sandali lang.

lalaki

Ano?

babae

Sandali lang.

lalaki

Akala ko ba nagmamadali ka?

babae

Hindi ko sinabing—

lalaki

Nagdadalawang isip ka na?

babae

Hindi naman ganoon—

lalaki

Nawalan ka na kaagad ng pag-asa?

babae

Hindi ako nawalan—

lalaki

Bakit hindi na lang tayo tumira sa taluktok o sa paanan?

babae

Hindi ko sinabing—

Hihilahin ni LALAKI ang lubid. Madadapa si BABAE, pero tatayo agad-agad. lalaki

Sa tingin mo ba may punto pa itong paglalakbay natin?

61

babae

Oo!

Patlang. babae

Bakit mo ako ginaganito?

Papasok ng entablado si MANLALAKBAY, may suot na lubid sa baywang, ngunit putol at kitang-kita ang dulo ng lubid na umaabot lamang sa paa niya. Mag-aatubili siya bago siya lumapit kay LALAKI at BABAE. Katahimikan. manlalakbay

Pasensya na ho. nagsisigawan.

May

narinig

po

akong

lalaki

Kami iyon.

babae

Patawad. Ano ho’ng narinig ninyo?

manlalakbay

Wala akong naintindihan. Narinig ko lang ‘yung ingay at pumunta ako rito. Akala ko, baka may inatake ng mga lobo. O baka may magnanakaw.

Dumarami na nga raw sila sa may taluktok.

Patlang. lalaki

Dumarami nga.

babae

Magpahinga na ho muna kayo, o.

manlalakbay

Kailangan ko na ring umalis.

lalaki

Saan kayo nanggaling?

manlalakbay

Dito lang din ho. Nanggaling ako sa paanan nitong linggo lang—o sa taluktok ba ‘yun?

62

babae

Ano ho sabi nila roon?

manlalakbay

Nasa taluktok daw ang sagot—o sa paanan ba?

Pare-pareho rin ang sinasabi nila.

lalaki

Iyon din ang sinabi sa amin.

Patlang. Maiilang si MANLALAKBAY, hindi alam ang gagawin. manlalakbay

Ngunit, bago ako makarating dito—kanina nga lang—ewan ko kung narinig niyo ang kahol ng mga lobo, pero doon ako nanggaling. Doon, may nakausap akong manlalakbay ding tulad natin.

Inatake siya ng mga lobo at naghihingalo siya.

Bago siya mamatay, binigyan ko siya ng tubig, at may sinabi siya sa akin. Sinabi niya sa akin kung saan talaga mahahanap ang sagot sa tanong natin.

babae

Marami naman pong nagsasabi ng mga ganiyan.

Sesenyasan ni LALAKI si BABAE, hihilahin ang lubid. Kukunin ni LALAKI ang bayabas mula sa bag niya. lalaki

Gusto niyo ho ng bayabas?

Mag-iisip muna si MANLALAKBAY, matatakot sa inaalok ni LALAKI. Pagkatapos ng ilang saglit, kukunin niya ang bayabas. manlalakbay

Salamat ho.

lalaki

Ano ‘yung sagot?

manlalakbay

May binanggit siyang lugar. Sinabi niya sa akin kung nasaan ang labasan.

63

Patlang. lalaki

Nasaan?

manlalakbay

Sa lugar ho kung saan nagkikita ang taluktok at ang paanan, at makikita lamang daw siya sa oras ng pagkita ng araw at ng buwan. Araw-araw, dalawang tao ang nakalalabas dito. Pagkatapos, mawawala na ito, at nasa ibang lugar na ito. Sa susunod na araw, kailangan hanapin ang lugar ng bagong labasan.

lalaki

Alam mo kung nasaan ang lugar na ito?

manlalakbay

Oho. Papunta na ho sana ako roon.

Patlang. manlalakbay

Aalis na nga rin ho dapat ako.

babae

Kaya mo ho kaming dalhin doon?

Patlang. manlalakbay

Oo, ngunit isa lang sa inyo ang makakalabas kasama ko.

Patlang. Kakagat si MANLALAKBAY mula sa bayabas. Dadalhin ni LALAKI si BABAE sa gilid ng entablado. lalaki

Makakalabas na tayo.

babae

Ha? Sabi niya, dalawa lang ang puwedeng tumakas.

lalaki

Oo nga. Isa lang sa atin—kung tatakas din siya.

64

babae

Ano?

Hindi sasagot si LALAKI. Patlang. Maiintindihan ni BABAE. babae

Hindi ‘yan tama.

lalaki

Gusto mo bang maghiwalay tayo?

babae

Hindi, pero—

lalaki

Ako ang lalaki mo at ikaw ang babae ko. ‘Yan ang sinabi mo sa akin, di ba?

babae

Oo.

lalaki

Hindi tayo puwede maghiwalay, di ba?

babae

Wala siyang ginawang masama sa atin.

lalaki

Sinabihan niya tayo na may labasan, tapos sinabi niya na isa lang sa atin ang makakalabas. Pinaasa na nga niya tayo, gusto pa niya tayong paghiwalayin.

Binigyan natin siya ng pagkain, nagtiwala tayo sa kaniya, tapos ‘yan ang gagawin niya sa atin?

babae

Hindi pa rin ito tama.

lalaki

Hindi tamang paghiwalayin niya tayo!

Hihilahin ni LALAKI ang lubid. Masasaktan si BABAE. Mapapatingin si MANLALAKBAY. manlalakbay

Kumusta ho kayo riyan?

65

lalaki

Ayos lang, salamat. May pinag-uusapan lang. (kay BABAE) Pag hindi mo ‘to ginawa, mag-isa tayong maglalakbay. Gusto mo ba iyon?

Patlang. lalaki

Bayabas pa?

manlalakbay

Nako, nabigyan niyo na ho ako.

lalaki

Sige na, o.

Iiling si MANLALAKBAY, pero tatanggapin pa rin ang bayabas. manlalakbay

Salamat.

Ibibigay ni LALAKI ang bayabas na nakagatan niya kay MANLALAKBAY. manlalakbay

Masyado ho kayong mabait sa akin. Hindi ko alam kung paano kayo mababayaran sa malaking utang na loob na ito.

lalaki

Walang anuman. Tama lang na maging mapagbigay sa iyong kapwa.

manlalakbay

Tama ka nga ho.

babae

Gaano katagal na ho kayong naglalakbay?

manlalakbay

Nako, hindi ko na rin mabilang kung ilang beses ko nang nalakbay ang bundok na ito.

Patlang. Titingnan ni MANLALAKBAY nang mabuti ang dalawa.

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manlalakbay

May kasama nga rin pala ako noon. Kayo ba? Matagal na rin ba kayong magkasamang maglakbay?

babae

Oho. Nagkita po kami sa taluktok—(kay LALAKI) o sa paanan ba?—a, hindi ko na rin po maalala.

Ilang beses na rin naming nalakbay ang bundok na ‘to. Kahit kailan, hindi ho kami naghiwalay.

manlalakbay

Yung kasama ko dati, parehas kami. Ganiyan din katatag, kung hindi mas matatag pa. Ilang beses sumirko-sirko sa bundok nang walang napapala sa lakbay. At noong simula, wala rin kaming paki kung ano mangyari. Basta’t magkasama kami.

babae

Kung puwede ko ho itanong, ano ho ang nangyari sa inyo?

manlalakbay

A. Kasi, matagal na kaming magkasama sa lakbay.

May mga kaibigan kaming gumamit ng ibang daan sa kanilang paglalakbay, may mga kaibigan din kaming hindi na naglalakbay. Siya naman, napagod.

babae

Napagod ho?

Patlang. manlalakbay

Oo. Nasa paanan na siya ngayon—o nasa taluktok ba? Basta, kasama na niya ang mga ibang hindi na rin naglalakbay. Alam mo namang iyon ang mahirap sa buhay natin. Kahit anong gawin ninyo, isang araw, darating kayo sa puntong pinagdaanan namin. Nangailangan kaming mamili: tutuloy ba kami o hindi? Tumuloy ako. Siya, hindi.

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Katahimikan. Hahawakan ni MANLALAKBAY ang lubid na nakatali sa baywang niya. Hahablutin ni BABAE ang lubid niya, mapapalapit si LALAKI sa kaniya. babae

Hindi kami ganoon.

manlalakbay

Baka nga.

lalaki

Matatag kaming dalawa.

manlalakbay

Mukha nga ho.

lalaki

Pinagdududahan niyo yata kami.

manlalakbay

Hindi naman po ganoon.

lalaki

Bakit mo kami minamaliit?

manlalakbay

Ay! Hindi ko ho kayo minamaliit! Iyon din kasi ang sinabi namin dati.

Patlang. manlalakbay

Minahal namin ang isa’t isa. Wala kaming tinatago at parati kaming magkasama noon. Noong isang beses, papunta kaming paanan—o taluktok ba?

Hindi na importante—bigla kong sinabi sa kaniya na mahal ko siya. At totoo iyon. Minahal ko siya noong una kaming nagkita, minahal ko siya noong nagsimula kaming maglakbay, minahal ko siya noong sinabi niya sa akin na hindi na niya kaya.

Hanggang ngayon, minamahal ko pa rin siya. Siya ang nakikita ko sa paglalakbay.

Katahimikan. Mahigpit na ang hawak ni MANLALAKBAY sa lubid niya.

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manlalakbay

Ang lakbay ang nagbigay sa amin ng pagmamahal.

lalaki

Kami rin!

manlalakbay

Pansin ko nga ho. Ngunit, sa lakbay rin niya nalaman na napapagod na siya. Nakakaubos nga rin naman ng lakas ng loob ang walang katapusang paglalakbay.

lalaki

Pinaghihiwalay niyo yata kami, a!

manlalakbay

Ay, hindi ho! Pagkatapos niyo ho akong bigyan ng pagkain ninyo? Pagkatapos niyo ho akong pagkatiwalaan? Ginoo, hindi ako taksil.

Dadalhin muli ni LALAKI si BABAE sa gilid ng entablado. Walang mapapansin si MANLALAKBAY sapagkat nakatingin lang siya sa lubid niya. Mahigpit ang hawak niya at halos maluha na siya sa alaala. lalaki

Nakikita mo ginagawa niya sa atin? O, sino ngayon ang tunay na taksil?

babae

‘Wag kang ganiyan.

lalaki

Ipagtatanggol mo siya? Gusto mong paghiwalayin niya tayo?

babae

Tama na.

Iiwanan ni LALAKI si BABAE sa gilid. lalaki

(Kay manlalakbay) Nasaan ang labasan?

Magugulat si MANLALAKBAY sa biglang sinabi ni LALAKI. 69

manlalakbay

Sino sa inyo ang magiging kasama ko?

Patlang. lalaki

Kaming pareho.

babae

(pabulong) Ano?

lalaki

(Kay babae) Dadalhin kita roon, tapos mag-isa ka na.

babae

‘Wag kang ganiyan.

manlalakbay

Dapit-hapon na at malapit na hong mawala ang labasan. Gusto niyo pa ho bang sumama?

babae

Gusto niyo pa ho ng bayabas?

Hahalungkatin ni BABAE ang bag niya, ngunit wala nang makukuhang bayabas. manlalakbay

Maraming salamat, ngunit mukhang wala na yata tayong oras para kumain.

lalaki

Dumidilim na nga po.

Magsisimulang mag-impake si LALAKI, ngunit hahablutin ni BABAE ang lubid niya at dadalhin siya sa gilid ng entablado, malayo kay MANLALAKBAY. babae

Ano na ang gagawin mo?

lalaki

Sinabi ko na. Sasama tayo hanggang labasan.

babae

At pagkatapos?

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Hindi sasagot si LALAKI. babae

Pagkatapos?

lalaki

At doon tayo magpapaalam.

Katahimikan. manlalakbay

Tara na ho?

lalaki

(Kay manlalakbay) Sige po.

Pupunta si LALAKI kay MANLALAKBAY, maiiwan si BABAE sa gilid ng entablado. babae

Iiwanan mo ako?

Bago makasagot si LALAKI, hihilahin ni BABAE ang lubid. Madadapa si LALAKI at itatali ni BABAE ang lubid sa leeg ni LALAKI at sasakalin siya. Lalaban si LALAKI, sisigaw at magtatangkang makawala, ngunit masyado mahigpit ang hawak ni BABAE sa lubid. Matutulak niya si BABAE, na mawawalan ng hawak sa lubid. Makakatakbo si LALAKI, ngunit hihilahin ulit siya ni BABAE at mas mahigpit na ngayon ang magiging tali ni BABAE sa leeg ni LALAKI. Unti-unting mawawalan ng hininga si LALAKI, ngunit patuloy pa rin sa paglaban hanggang mawalan na talaga ng hininga. Pag nakasigurado na si BABAE na patay na ang kasama niya, bibitiwan na niya ang lubid. Gulat lang si MANLALAKBAY na nanonood sa gilid, hawak ang bayabas na binigay ni LALAKI sa isang kamay, at ang putol niyang lubid sa kabila.

Katahimikan. Halatang napagod si BABAE sa ginawa niya. babae

Ako ang babae niya, at siya ang lalaki ko.

Mapaluluha si BABAE, ngunit mapipigilan ang sarili. Puputulin niya ang lubid. Katahimikan.

71

babae

Sa ngayon, ikaw na ang lalaki ko at ako na ang babae mo. Naiintindihan mo ba ako?

Lalapit si BABAE kay MANLALAKBAY at itatali ang dulo ng lubid niya sa dulo ng lubid nito. babae

Kailanman, hindi mo ako iiwanan at hindi rin kita iiwanan. Ako ang mangunguna, at ikaw ang susunod sa aking yapak.

Patlang. babae

Gumagabi na.

Mapapaiyak na si BABAE. Yayakapin niya si MANLALAKBAY. Pagkatapos ng ilang saglit, matatapos si BABAE sa paghagulgol. babae

Tara na.

Mag-iimpake si MANLALAKBAY at si BABAE. manlalakbay

Saan tayo pupunta?

babae

Sa taluktok. Sa paanan. Basta. Lakbay lang nang lakbay.

Lalabas si BABAE ng entablado. Bago lumabas si MANLALAKBAY, ilalagay niya ang bayabas na binigay ni LALAKI sa katawan nitong wala nang buhay. manlalakbay

Lakbay lang nang lakbay?

Lalabas siya ng entablado. Didilim. Wakas.

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paul jerome flor

Bababa na ang mga tala Hindi magugunaw ang daigdig sa baha. Hindi sa paghulog ng mga tala mula sa langit. Hindi sa pagdami ng mga hayop at mikrobyong papatay sa tao. Hindi sa paglipol ng sangkatauhan mula sa kapabayaan, digmaan, at sakit. Hindi sa muling pagkabuhay ni Hesus para labanan ang halimaw na may pitong ulo para sa ikalawang hudyat ng digmaan. Matatapos ito sa kabilugan ng buwan. Magkatabi na tayo sa kama. Nadaramdam na ang ritmo ng isa’t isa. Nakatingin lang ako sa malayo pero bubulungan mo ako ng “tulog na,� sabay halik.

Magugunaw ang daigdig sa pagpikit ng aking mga mata, kapag kapiling na kita at hindi ko na kailangang tumingin nang malayongmalayo sa bintana.

Magandang gabi.

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74

Ilaladlad mo ako sa lupang malamig, pupunasan ang putik sa aking paa’t binti. Hahayaan din kitang bumukadkad at bawat pulgada nitong kakahuyang sasakupin ng iyong katawan ay sisipingan ng lason. Magiging atin itong dawag. Sa paglamlam ng iyong mga mata, mauunawaan ko ang lahat ng kailangan nating hindi na hagkan. Ipagkakanulo natin ang sariling mga pangalan.

Bibinyagan kitang pagano at hinding-hindi na kakaligtaan ang pag-awit ng ating dugo. Sa halip, lilikha tayo ng lungaw ng mga kundimang tinawag nila noong makasalanan.

May hapdi ang dampi ng hamog. Habang dahan-dahan niyang binibihisan ang alapaap, ikinukuwintas din sa atin ng umaga ang kaniyang paalala. Ngunit tatangkain pa rin nating tikman ang pagtakas. Sa hagod mula balikat hanggang balakang, ating hinihilod ang balat at ganap na ihinuhubad ang pagkakakilanlan.

Inaangkin ang paglalaho ng ating mga mukha.

Itong Kadalisayan

jeivi nicdao

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ng paglublob at pagkalunod. Iduduyan tayo ng tubig, at ang pagsasalit nito ng dahas at hinahon ang magpapamulat sa ating malapit na ulit tayo

ang kaniyang panaghoy at magsisilbing ating kumot. Kalaunan, makikilala natin ang himbing sa batis, sa sandaling nasa pagitan

Hindi na kailangang magtakda ng tipan, tayong tapos nang umilag sa ilang.

Hindi na rin sisinghap ang naliligaw na ambon, bagkus babanayad

*

Basag na orasan.

Mga haligi ng aklatang napalitan na ng guwang.

Mga boses nilang buhol-buhol, alingawngaw na walang magawa kundi humabol.

Sa hapag na huling hinarap, dalangin nilang patuloy.

Sa kuwartong hindi makatatanggap ng dalaw, mga botelya ng pabango.

Tinuping bangkay ng mga mariposang hindi na nagkasya sa ating bulsa.

Lahat ng larawan ng sariling ninakaw at ipinako sa unang punong nalagpasan.

Ilang kilometro na ang nakararaan, pinaliyab na kawayang tulay.

Mapang kay bilis binitiwan.

*

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Kung saan mag-aalay ka ng koronang kamya sa akin, hindi na mababasag ang bawat halinghing. Sa tuwing ipagkakaloob mo ang iyong mga labi, makaaalpas mula sa anumang salita ang bukang-liwayway at agaw-dilim. Ibibigay ko sa iyo ang huling patak ng dala nating alak. Mula sa pisngi pababa ng leeg, mula leeg hanggang balikat, papahirin ko ang iyong pawis at tatawagin kang lantay

*

Ipaparatang sa atin ang mga katha mong alamat: silang naglaro ng taguan at hindi na natagpuan ay inampon ng mga paniki.

Ginawang kaakit-akit. Ginamit na pain sa dilim. Pinagtaksilan ng liwanag, siyang mag-isang naglayag. Nakaaninag ng kakatwang parola. Nanalig at hindi na kailanman nahanap. Ang paralumang namitas ng bulaklak sa harding handog ng mahal, hindi inalintana ang bawat talulot na tangan.

Napuwing sa mawo’t nabulag. Nadiwara ang diwata. Nangulila ang bulkan, taos na nanawagan at naabo ang lahat. Nang magtugma ang pagkauhaw nilang mga halimaw, umamo ang gubat.

Ipaparatang sa atin ang mga katha mong alamat. Walang hahalakhak.

*

sa pampang. Ikaw at ako ay aahong ikaw at akong panibago. Hubo’t hubad, sa bangin tayo matatapos maghanap at doon natin yayakapin ang magdamag.

77

Pupulutin mo ang anumang hubog na mukha nang hinog at sa akin iaalok.

Minsa’y tatango ako, minsan nama’y hihimukin kang umapuhap ng mas mainam na bunga. Kung susuong ang kamay mo sa dingding ng mga tinik, sisipsipin ko ang iyong mga daliri.

Kung aayain mo akong tumakbo pa nang tumakbo, papayag ako sa pangakong ikaw ay magkukuwento pagkatapos. Magkukuwento ka’t huhugasan ang aking buhok.

Tuturuan mo akong lumikha ng mga bitag, tuturuan kitang mabuhay nang walang sibat. Nang walang tinutugis, masisila natin silang maiilap.

Sa paglalang ng mga balag, mababatid rin natin kung paano manood nang taimtim sa pananim, magpaubaya sa dikta ng hangin.

Matatandaan hindi lang ang kamandag kundi ang armonya sa sagitsit ng mga ahas, hindi lang kung aling baging ang may lason kundi ang matamis na lagaslas ng mga dahon.

Iinog tayo sa ganitong rupok.

nang paulit-ulit. Sasabihin mo sa akin na marami pa tayong kailangang matutuhan, marami pa tayong aalamin sa araw-araw.

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Muli’t muli, sasamahan mo akong magbanlaw.

*

Sasalagin natin ang mga buwitre at aatasan silang turuan tayong hindi magutom.

Magluluwal tayo ng unos at walang makaaalam. Sa mga gabing bubuhayin ng iyong halik ang mga paltos, haharayain ko ang walang patid na hingal nilang mga naiwan. Pangahas. Ilahas. Hangal.

kristian sendon cordero

Veronica Maniniwala ka ba kung sasabihin ko sa iyo na mukhang hindi ito ang kanilang mukha.

O mananatili ka na lamang sa paniniwalang ito ang ipinamumukha sa ‘yong mukha.

Huwag mong ipamukha sa akin na nababagabag ka ngayong hindi ka na nakatitiyak kung sino ang kamukha mo sa ngayon.

May inaasahan ka pa bang ibang mukha ng pag-asa?

Ano ang iyong panukala? Ikaw ang aking deboto at sa hawak kong mukha matagal mo nang sinasabi ang iyong magkakamukhang dasal, ang mga walang kamukhang alinlangan, at pagkukunwaring may mukha kang laging ihaharap sa akin, o sa amin—sa hawak kong mga mukha.

Nakikita mo ba ang aking mukha? Sa akin din ba ang mga tingin ng pagpaaawa? O lagi’t laging hindi naman ang mukhang hindi naman ito ang kanyang mukha ang nakikita—kundi ang ating mga mukha dahil kapwa tayo magkamukha, dahil parehas sa ating ipinamumukha na wala tayong mga mukha. Maliban sa kanyang pinahihirapang mukha.

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Mukhang naniniwala ka na sa nakikita mo?

Mukhang naniniwala ka na sa naririnig mo?

Mukhang naniniwala ka na sa nararamdaman mo?

Mukhang naniniwala ka na sa naaamoy mo?

Mukhang naniniwala ka na sa naiisip mo?

Mukhang naniniwala ka na sa mukha mo?

Mukhang naniniwala ka na sa mukha ko?

Totoo, ako ito, o kami ito, ang gusto kong ipamukha sa ‘yo.

Na hindi mo kailangang manghiram ng mukha sa aso, kabayo o pusa o sa mga ginawang maskarang magkakamukha o santo at santa na binaog ng mga himala’t hinala.

Tingnan mo ang hawak kong panyo.

Ipinamumukha nito na tulad mo, wala akong pangalan, at wala akong mukha maliban sa kung anong mukha ang naitala sa telang lino: pawis at dugo ang regalo ng diyos na dakila at nagpakadukha, at ito ang mukhang aking kamukha, ang utang kong mukha sa kanya, at ito rin ang iyong mukhang kamukha nang minsang ipinamukha natin sa lahat ng mukhang makakapal ang mukha na walang silbi ang kahit anumang mukha, kahit kamukha ka pa ng maykapal na lumikha ng lahat ng mukha at naging magkakamukha na tayo ng kamukha ng kamukha ng kamukha ng kamukha sa kapal na tulad ng wika, ng salita, ng tula at dasal, na hinuhubog ng laksa-laksang mukha ng dahas, nananatiling eternal ang pagkakamukha ng mukhang maykapal.

80

marc lopez

Taong-grasa Itinapat niya sa araw ang pisong hawak— sisipatin ang taglay na kislap ng metal—

kung talaga ngang

may ikikislap pa.

Wala siyang nakita roon kahit anong ningning.

Sa halip, dilim lamang at tanging dilim ang nasumpungan sa likod ng barya, sing-itim ng balat niyang putikan, libagin.

Ngunit inaliw siya ng sinag na bumalot, pumalibot sa hugisbilog na rilim.

Nakita niya, mata sa mata, ang pagsikat ng araw nang di binubulag ng liwanag.

81

jose delos reyes

Ika-22 ng Disyembre, 2003 Dinggin—sa pagitan ng along dumuduyan sa baroto, sa hanging katabi ng matatabang luha ng ulap sa kapote ng bata, sa mga patlang ng panginginig ng kaniyang ngipin —ang dagling atungal ng katahimikan.

Binaling ng bata ang tingin tungo sa pinagmulan, sa islang anino sa ilalim ng mas madilim na ulap.

Labis sa kaniyang mata’t isip, umaagos ang anino ng anino.

Kinakain, nilalamon, kinukumutan ang daang-daang taong pinalaki’t kinilala.

Nagdarasal. Natutulog. Umiiyak. Sumisigaw.

Naghihintay.

Bubusalan pa rin ang mga bibig hanggang sa pagtulog.

Pinikit ng bata ang kaniyang mga mata, ngunit naroon pa rin, umaalingawngaw, sa kabila ng lahat ng ingay sa mundo, ang di mawaring atungal.

Nang di dahil sa panahon, nanlamig ang bata.

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Ika-23 ng Disyembre, 2003 Tahimik ang taumbayan.

Ang mga labi’y alaalang nilunod sa pag-anod ng bundok.

Bumubuhos ang ulan sa mga kamay na dumudungaw mula sa lupa.

Nakalaylay ang binti sa ngipin ng trak na nagbabadyang umapaw.

Tumatanaw ang mga tao sa dagat, hinahanap ang kanila.

Ang mga lambat ay dumuduyan sa mga bangkay na pinagpiyestahan ng mga isda.

Mga katawang kinolekta’y buhay na binalangkas sa tinta ng papel.

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julz riddle

Ilang Bersiyon ng Isang Paglimot* iisa lang ang tiyak na naaalala ni Sabrina tungkol sa mahiwagang babae: na minsang sinabi nito, malilimutan mo ako.

Habang sinusuklay ang basang buhok ng anak na si Ada isang gabi, napagtanto ni Sabrina na tama nga ang babae. Hindi niya tuluyang nalimot ang mga kuwento tungkol dito, isang maganda at mabait na babaeng nakatira sa bundok malapit sa dati nilang tinitirahan. Lola niya ang nagkuwento ng mga iyon sa kaniya, habang sinusuyod at tinitiris ang mga kutong nagsitira sa mahaba niyang buhok. Naaalala pa rin niya, kahit paminsan-minsan, kahit hindi buo, ang mga kuwentong iyon—ang mahiwagang babae at mga mangangahoy, ang mahiwagang babae at mga luyang nagiging ginto.

Pero limot na niya ang sariling kuwento kasama ito, ang kuwento nilang dalawa.

Tuwing tinitingnan niya ang asawa, naiisip niya kung nakalimot na rin ito. Madalas, natatagpuan niya ang sarili na pinagmamasdan ang mga kilos nito, sinusubukang hulaan ang mga iniisip nito. Pero hindi siya magtatanong, hinding-hindi magtatangkang alamin kung alin ang mga naaalala pa ng asawa.

Nagpakaabala siya sa mga gawaing bahay, sa pag-aasikaso kay Ada. Tuwing nararamdaman niya ang pabugso-bugsong pagnanasa para balikan ang kuwento ng mahiwagang babae, nagdidilig siya ng mga halaman. Nagbabasa ng mga komiks sa Liwayway, nililibang ang sarili. Nililinis ang mga perlas na tanging laman ng kahon niya ng alahas. Natuto siyang makinig nang mabuti sa asawa—sa mga kuwento nito tungkol sa trabaho at politika, sa mga reklamo nito tungkol sa presyo ng kuryente’t gasolina, hanggang sa mga hinaing nito tungkol sa numinipis at pumuputi nang buhok. Hindi hinahayaan ni Sabrina ang sariling maupo sa isang tabi nang walang ginagawa, nang walang iniisip. *Unang inilathala sa Likhaan: The Journal of Contemporary Philippine Literature 7 (2013)

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Pero natitiyak niya, may kuwento rin ang asawa tungkol sa babae, kasama ang babae. Natitiyak niya iyon sa tuwing tinatapunan niya ng tingin ang asawa habang ipinagtitimpla ng kape, o habang hinuhubaran ito ng sapatos at medyas sa tuwing darating sa bahay, o habang nakikinig sa mahihinang yabag at kalabog na nililikha ng pag-alis nito para pumasok sa trabaho. Ang kuwento ng babae sa bundok, parang mga lugar na hindi nila pinangangahasang marating, mga bahagi ng isa’t isa na hindi sinasaling tuwing magkasiping. Gaano man sila paglapitin ng mga kuwentong binubuo nila nang magkasama— kuwento ng pagluwas nila sa Maynila, ng pagkakatanggap ng asawa bilang guro sa isang Catholic school, ng pagbubuntis ni Sabrina, ng pamumunga ng mga kamatis at siling tanim nila—may isang kuwento pa rin na hindi nila pinagsasaluhan.

Sa mga darating pang araw hanggang sa mamatay sila, pagsasaluhan nila ang maraming bagay: iisang kama, iisang pinggan, iisang opinyon sa mga balita sa telebisyon, pero hinding-hindi ang kuwento ng babae sa bundok.

Pinakamatindi ang mga sandaling tahimik, sa tuwing hindi sila nag-uusap o nagniniig o naglalaro kasama ang anak.

Pinakaalangan ang mga Sabado, tuwing nasa bahay lang sila at halos hindi nagkikibuan. Abala sila sa umaga. Sa bakuran, maglilinis ang asawa ni Sabrina ng mga sapatos, sasakyan, electric fan, at iba pang kagamitan sa bahay. Siya naman ay magbubunot sa loob, pakikintabin ang sahig nilang gawa sa kahoy. Sa tanghali, tutulungan din siya ng asawa na magkusot at maglaba at magsampay ng mga damit. Ako na, hindi, ako na, iyon lang ang kibuan nila habang pinag-aagawan ang bigat ng mga gawain.

Mula Linggo hanggang Biyernes, hangga’t maaari ay dinadalasan nila ang pag-uusap. Namamasyal sila, nagkukuwentuhan tungkol sa kung ano-anong bagay. Tungkol sa kaklaseng 85

nakipagsabunutan sa anak nila. Tungkol sa kapitbahay na natanggap na bilang engineer sa Dubai. Tungkol sa diary ni Tiyo Cardo na ngayon ay tatlong taon nang nasa ibabaw ng TV ni Almira. Tinatawag nila ang pangalan ng isa’t isa, ‘Brina, tingnan mo ‘tong drowing ng anak mo o, Abel, para yatang may mabait sa likod ng kalan natin, Sabrina, namulaklak na pala ‘tong orchid mo, Abel, telepeno, Sabrina!

Abel! Sabrina!

Panay guwang ang isip ni Sabrina, palagay niya. Ginugulat siya nito sa tuwing may maaalala nang hindi inaasahan. Isang beses, habang nagbibilad sa pampang ng dagat kasama ang anak, habang nilalaro ng alon ang mga daliri niya sa paa, para bang nawari niyang alam niya ang pakiramdam na iyon, kilala ng mga sakong at bukong-bukong niya, kahit hindi maalala ng paningin o pandinig niya kung kailan o paano o ano ang nangyari.

Ganoon naman palagi, parang hindi nagkakasundo ang mga pandama niya, para bang may kani-kaniya silang alaala. Kung minsan, kinukulit siya ng mga binti niya, ipinaaalala ang dating lamig ng tubig sa ilog sa paanan ng bundok, noong bata pa siya’t mahilig magtampisaw doon tuwing hapon. Sasang-ayon ang balat niyang hindi pa rin nakakalimot sa ginaw, sa mga basang piraso ng buhok niyang nagsidikit sa mga pisngi niya’t leeg. Gagatong pa ang pang-amoy, amoy gugo, ginuguguan siya ng kung sinong may malalambot na kamay pero hindi niya tiyak kung sino, walang maalala ang mga mata niya kung sino, gaano man niya katagal isipin. Wala rin siyang tinig na naririnig. Pira-piraso ang mga eksena sa alaala ng katawan niya.

Nandoon din si Abel, tiyak siya (doon ang laging tagpuan nila), amoy gugong kagaya niya, giniginaw ring gaya niya pero gaya niya ring tatangging umahon kahit pinauuwi na sila ng kani-kaniyang mga lola. Minsan, naiisip niyang tanungin si Abel, sino na nga ‘yong kasa-kasama natin? Hindi naman ang Lola ko; ipinagbabawal niyon ang pagpunta sa ilog. Hindi rin ang lola mong takot maengkanto.

Iyon ang naiisip niyang sabihin kay Abel tuwing nagkakape sila, o magkatabi sa harapan ng maliit nilang Honda, o gising pa at magkatabi sa kama, tahimik at wala nang masabi sa isa’t isa.

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Ewan, sabi niya sa sarili, malilimutin na talaga siya noon pa man. Nalilimutan niya pati pangalan ng mga tauhan ng drama sa telebisyon, kung ano na nga iyong nangyari sa komiks na ‘to noong nakaraang linggo. Tuwing nagbabantay ng tindahan ay nalilimutan niya kung magkano ang ibinayad sa kaniya, mali-mali kung magsukli kaya’t nakagagalitan ng bumibili. Tuwing nasa palengke ay laging may nalilimutan siyang bilhin. Nakagawian na tuloy ni Abel na ilista sa isang piraso ng pad paper ang mga kulang sa kusina at banyo nila bilang paalala.

Sinusubukan din niyang ikuwento sa anak ang mga ikinuwento sa kaniya noong bata pa, tuwing sinusuklayan ng lola niya ang buhok niya bago siya matulog—mga engkanto, mga tiyanak, mga kuwento tungkol sa mahiwagang babaeng namimigay ng ginto at pera—pero hindi niya na maalala. Simulan man niya, lagi namang kinakapos at hindi niya na maisip kung ano ang kasunod. Tuwing matutulog na si Ada ay kailangan niya ng mga paalala, mga kuwentong nakasulat at may larawan pa, hindi nabubura sa pahina, nasa mesang katabi lang ng kama para sa mga gabing nagpapakuwento ang anak niya.

Marami rin sa mga gamit nila sa bahay ang hindi niya na alam kung saan o kanino nanggaling. Ang iba, tiyak niyang regalo ng mga tiya—mga baso, pigurin, kobrekama, punda. Pero may mga gamit din na hindi niya mahulaan kung sino ang nagbigay. Biglang may panyong hindi niya kilala ang burda, suklay na hindi niya na naaalala kung kailan nabili. Naiwan kaya ng bisita?

Ang pinakanakapagtataka sa lahat ay iyong mga perlas na hikaw sa tokador nila. Tuwing Lunes, nililinis niya iyon at pinakikintab, saka inilalagay sa palad. Ikinikiling-kiling para maglaro ang kislap. Sa pagkakatanda niya, iniabot iyon ni Abel sa kaniya sa araw bago ang kasal nila. Ipinahiram daw ng isang kaibigan.

Hanggang ngayon ay hindi pa rin binabawi.

Muli, hindi niya tatanungin ang asawa.

Ganito kung ikuwento ni Sabrina ang kasal nila sa mga kamag-anak, sa mga kaibigan, pati sa sarili: Umuulan noong gabi ng bisperas, pero tumila pagdating ng umaga. Para bang dumating 87

ang araw para lang sa kanila. Bukod doon, wala nang masasabing espesyal tungkol sa araw na iyon. May handang lechon at pochero.

May maliit at puting cake. Nakabarong si Abel. Hiram ang trahe de -boda. Wala siyang suot na alahas.

Alam niya rin na darating ang araw na itatanong ng anak kung paano sila nagkakilala ni Abel. Dati na niyang inuulit-ulit iyon sa sarili, bahagi ng pagtalunton niya sa kasaysayan nilang dalawa, kung sakaling kailanganin niya mang ipaliwanag ito kahit kanino: Magkapitbahay sila at magkaklase na buhat pa noong unang pumasok sa eskuwela. Ganoon nga, sabi ni Sabrina sa sarili, sasapat na siguro ang kuwentong iyon sa sinumang makikinig o magtatanong, at iyon at iyon din ang ikinukuwento niya sa sarili.

Ang inaalala niya lang ay kung ganoon din ba ang magiging kuwento ni Abel sakaling ito naman ang magkukuwento. Alin sa mga kuwento nila ang ikukuwento nito? Alin sa mga iyon ang mga pipiliin nitong limutin? Mabibilang lang sa daliri ang mga bagay na kay Abel ngunit hindi kay Sabrina, at sa kasamaang-palad, isa sa mga iyon ang gunita.

Paano kung simulan ni Abel ang kuwento nila sa umpisa?

Sa mga pinili niya nang limutin, o kung hindi man kayang limutin ay piniling hindi na isalaysay ulit sa sarili? Paano na kung sabihin nitong nagsimula ang lahat noong mga bata pa sila, mga lima o anim na taon, kapuwa wala pang alam sa pinsalang dala ng pag-alam?

Si Sabrina, matagal nang nagpasyang hindi ulit balikan ang bersiyong iyon ng pagtatagpo nila. Nang matagpuan nila ang isa’t isa, parehong tumakas mula sa kani-kaniyang mga bahay sa oras ng siesta. Parehong naghahanap sa isang mahiwagang babae na naririnig lang noon sa kuwento ng matatanda.

Paano kung sabihin ni Abel na sabay nilang natagpuan ang babae sa mga pambatang laro nila noon tuwing hapon? Ang sabi ng lola ko ganito, at ang sabi naman ng lola ko ganiyan, nagkuwentuhan sila hanggang sa isang araw, nagpasiya silang hanapin kung saan siya nagtatago. At natagpuan nila siya, natuklasang higit pa siya sa lahat ng hinaka nila. At sa mga pambatang laro nila, hindi pa sila iba sa kaniya, kasali pa sa mga habulan at taguan ng mga kapre at 88

tikbalang at duwende, kabilang pa sa mga kuwentong hindi nila akalaing malilimutan, mapapalitan ng mga kuwentuhan tungkol sa mga gustong pasukang eskuwela sa Maynila, sa gustong maging trabaho, hanggang sa mga di pinagkakatiwalaang politiko, sa presyo ng galunggong at talong sa palengke, sa mga hayop na namahay na sa kisame.

Kilalang-kilala nila noon ang isa’t isa. Wala pang mga sariling kuwento, mga kuwento lang ng mga diwata sa bundok, mga tiyanak o aswang, mga nuno sa punso. Wala pa ang mga tanong ni Mrs. Chua o ang panunukso ng mga kaklase sa kanila, bakit kayo laging magkasama, ano’ng ginagawa ninyo riyan, ha? Hindi pa minamanmanan ng kani-kaniyang pamilya sa tuwing lalabas, hindi pa pinipigilang lagi’t laging magkita dahil nagdadalaga’t nagbibinata na. Limot na ni Sabrina na dati, naliligo sila nang hubo’t hubad sa ulan, hindi kagaya ngayong magkita lang nang nakatapis ay nagkakahiyaan, o nagkakatinginan nang makahulugan.

Sasabihin ba ni Abel na si Sabrina ang unang pumiling makalimot? Siya ang unang nagsawa sa mga kuwentuhang walang katuturan. Siya, sa kanilang tatlo, ang unang nangiming maligo sa ulan nang hubo’t hubad. Paano kasi’y siya ang unang dinatnan ng mga pagbabago sa katawan. Hindi lumobo ang dibdib ni Abel, hindi lumapad ang balakang. Ang mahiwagang babae naman, nanatiling bata. Si Sabrina ang unang nakaramdam sa tingin ng mga dahon ng mangga, ng mga bulaklak ng sampaguita, ng mga tuko at sawang nakapaligid sa kanila.

Aaminin ba ni Abel ang hindi inaamin ni Sabrina sa sarili?

Na tao lang sila, kaya kailangan nilang bumuo ng mga kuwentong pantao lang, gaya ng mga kuwentong binubuo nila ngayon? Halos nagawa nang paniwalain ni Sabrina ang sarili na walang mahiwaga sa kanilang dalawa ni Abel. Walang bahagi ng katawan nilang hindi kayang pagurin ng mga gawain sa bahay at opisina, walang hindi pinakikislot ng sakit o masasakit na salita, walang ligtas sa unti-unting pagtanda.

Pero ayos lang iyon, sabi ni Sabrina sa sarili, ayos lang.

Ayos lang dahil wala ring mahiwaga sa kahit sino sa mga nakapaligid 89

sa kanila. Walang kamangha-mangha sa mga magulang nilang patay o nakaratay na, o sa mga kapatid nilang nangibang-bansa na, sa mga naging guro at kaibigan, sa iba pang magulang na nakikilala sa pta meeting ng eskuwela ni Ada. Wala nang nakagigimbal sa mga balita sa diyaryo at TV, sa mga tanim nilang sili’t kamatis, sa mga ipis at dagang tuwing umaga ay natatagpuan nilang kumagat sa bitag ng flypaper o Racumin.

Pero hindi rin kikibo si Abel. Gaya ni Sabrina, para bang limot na rin nito ang bersiyong iyon ng kuwento nila. Magagawa pa nilang ipagpatuloy ang bersiyong binubuo ngayon. Tahimik si Sabrina habang sinusuklay ang mahabang buhok ni Ada.

Tuwing Sabado, tinatanaw ni Sabrina ang asawa sa labas habang binubunot niya ang sahig nilang kahoy. Alam niyang kapag hindi siya nakatingin, pinanonood din siya nito. Sa mga sandaling iyon, kapag tahimik, batid niyang isang kuwento ang sukat ng pagitan nilang dalawa, isang kuwentong hindi na bibigkasin kailanman sa sarili o sa isa’t isa.

At muli, aabalahin niya ang sarili, pakikintabin ang sahig, masinsing lilinisin lahat ng mga sulok at pader na para bang may inililihim ang mga ito sa kaniya. Hindi na pansin ang kiliti ng hangin sa batok niya, ang pagkaway ng mga sanga ng mangga sa bakuran, tila tumatawag sa kaniya na para bang matagal na siyang kakilala.

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Madali lang naman akong maging kaibigan: pagkatapos ng unang beses makausap, Marahil maaalala na kita. Matatandaan ko ang mukha mo, kaya magiging masaya ako Sakaling samahan mo ako sa pagdayo sa mga tagong sulok ng lungsod, kung saan Susubukan kong makahanap ng mga mumunting aklat na hindi na iniimprenta Ngayon. Alamin mo sana ang mga pamagat ng mga tulang kinabisado na sa panahon, Tulad noong tungkol sa hiniwang kaimito. Mayroon ding tungkol sa pag-ibig na bawal At kupitang naligwak, na minsan ko nang sinubukang sulatan ng panagot na tula, Pero malalaman mong wala, hindi ito nabuo dahil hindi ko pa talaga alam Ang ginagawa ko noon. At marahil, hindi ko pa rin talaga alam ang ginagawa ko Hanggang ngayon, tulad nitong pag-upo-upo ko sa loob ng mga kapihan kahit pa Hindi naman talaga ako umiinom ng kape, dahil tsaa naman talaga ang gusto ko.

Ganoon pa man, nananatili akong nakaupo sa loob, pinapanood ang abenida sa labas.

O nagbabasa ng tula. O nagsusulat ng mga tal창. Ngunit ang kailangan ko lang talaga, Kausap. Kailangan ko ng mapagsasabihan ng lahat ng mga hinaing ko sa mundo, Kailangan kong masabi na hindi ako galit, na hindi talaga ako nakararamdam Kailanman ng galit, kundi pawang lungkot lang. Na naniniwala pa rin ako Sa kabutihan ng lahat matapos ang lahat. Nakakatawa, pero totoo. Kaya biglang Magbibiro nang hindi maging seryoso. Tatawa tayo, pagkatapos, mananahimik.

At sa lahat, itong katahimikan ang ninanais. Kung kaya kukunin ang iyong kamay,

Mahirap Akong Maging Kaibigan

christian benitez

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Dadalhin sa mga galerya at museo, at sa harap ng mga kuwadro, sasabayan akong Tumulala. At marahil, bumuo ng isang tula, ng kahit anong tula, may sukat man O wala. Mananahimik tayo sa loob ng silid at hindi mamamalayan ang paglipas Ng oras. Magiging maayos para sa atin ang lahat-lahat: hindi natin iindahin Ang kawalan ng mga salita dahil marunong tayong makuntento sa pagpapaubaya Sa wala. Magkakaintindihan tayo rito. Tatawa tayo dahil may mga bagay na nakakatuwa Para sa atin at para sa atin lang: walang makakakuha sa atin, ngunit para sa atin, Malinaw ang lahat. Sasabayan natin ang mga kantang paborito, tatayo’t sasayaw Nang wala sa ritmo dahil aangkinin ang isang sariling ritmo at papangalanan itong Tayo. Iikot tayo nang iikot, hanggang sa mapagod ang ating mga binti at paa, At mapapaupo na lang tayo nang basta. Titingin nang mata sa mata, ngingisi dahil Basta. At ayos lang kahit hindi natin maipapaliwanag ito sapagkat maliwanag naman Sa atin itong lahat. Maayos ang lahat kahit pa hindi ka parating sasang-ayon Sa akin. Makikinig ngunit hindi bumibigay nang ganoon lang kadali: sasalungat ka, Sasabihin ang mga bagay na gusto mong sabihin dahil alam mong higit sa lahat, Katapatan. Ngunit sa huli, pagkakaunawaan. Kapatawaran. Mga bagay na kailanman Hindi mahahawakan ngunit mga bagay na ating patuloy na panghahawakan. At siguro, Sa isang punto, hindi ko na rin mauunawaan ang sarili ko, kung saan ako magtatapos At kung saan ka mag-uumpisa, ngunit handa akong maniwala, ilan beses pa mang Nabigo at pinaniwala. Marahil, ito ang dahilan ng lahat ng landas, ng lahat nitong Pasikot-sikot na pinagdaanan ko sa loob ng mga araw na hindi ko na mabibilang pa.

At sa pagsapit ng gabi, sa ilalim ng mga salasalabid na kawad, sabayan mo ako sana Sa paglalakad sa tabi ng kalsada nang hindi ako mag-isa. Ang ibig ko lang sabihin: Huwag ka sana munang umalis.

allan popa at marcus nada

Siyam-Siyam

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Ariana Asuncion. Happy Stinky Bagong Taon. Acrylic and fabric paint on canvas.

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Camille Basa. Suburbia Postcard. Photomanipulation.

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Adrian Begonia. (series): Multitude. Digital photography.

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(series): Ravel. Digital photography.

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Mo Maguyon. Nawa’y Mahimlay. Digital photography.

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Nikki Vocalan. Goodnight. Digital.

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JV Calanoc. Linearscape (series) 1. Archival paper and ink.

9 7/8 x 9 7/8 x 2 in.

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Linearscape (series) 2. Archival paper and ink.

9 7/8 x 9 7/8 x 2 in.

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Linearscape (series) 3. Archival paper and ink.

9 7/8 x 9 7/8 x 2 in.

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Linearscape (series) 2, 3 (detail).

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Erica Panganiban. Unwind. Digital photography.

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Corrine Golez. Mole. Digital.

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Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan. Reverence. Assemblage. 18 x 12.5 x 1 in.

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Andrea Beldua. Orifice. Photomanipulation.

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Angelo Juarez. Pa-hinga. Digital photography.

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Carl Cervantes. Midnight in Satsaraya. Colored markers.

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Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan. Taxonomy. Plastic toys, pins, and acrylic on canvas. 36 x 36 in.

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Celline Marge Mercado. Facade. Mixed media.

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Justine Joson. We Were Not Made For Water. Ink and digital.

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Joan Lao. Look. Digital photography.

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Robyn Angeli Saquin. Into the Sky. Ink and digital.

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Dyanne Abobo (3 BFA Creative Writing) For my mom and dad, for my family, for eight years of wordless writing.

I would like to thank Ma’am Rica and the fifteen lovely people who sat around the long table with us. We will have that barbecue party someday! I’ll bring the hummus.

Apa Agbayani (AB Communication 2014) Apa joined his school’s varsity hide-and-seek team the day after his eleventh birthday.

He has yet to be found.

Arsenio Armas (4 BFA Creative Writing) Unang beses mailathala si Arse sa heights. Senior na si Arse sa bfa Creative Writing, pero may isang taon pa siya. 8 pa lang si Arse nagsusulat na siya. Hindi siya tumigil sa pagsusulat. Ngayon, hindi na makaalis si Arse sa teatro at sa arsenicintransit.tumblr.com.

Ariana Asuncion (3 BFA Information Design) Ariana Asuncion is a 3rd year BFA Information Design student.

She is, well, least at the moment, she is this. Her works can be found at Flywood @ behance.net. She goes by the name Flywood in many places.

Did you know that the Philippines has approximately 121 endemic species of fish?

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Luis Wilfrido Atienza (4 BS Biology) If you feel like I should be thanking you, I probably should. Just in case: Thank you.

For those that deserve double thanks, (or “props” or “big ups”) you may claim them at your leisure. If you are not sure that you qualify, please consult my wall chart.

If you would like to appear in my next bionote, call me. We can work something out. Fair warning: they are few and far between.

Camille Basa (4 BS Communications Technology Management) Camille is currently a senior finding happiness in the pursuit. When she’s not busy making design-y stuff, she tries to be more social.

Submitting her work to this publication was her first attempt at being published anywhere (thank you, humans of heights!!). You can see her flailing at koala-ty-stuff.tumblr.com.

Adrian Begonia (5 BS Chemistry and Materials Science Engineering) Adrian always looks up. If he didn’t, half of his photographs wouldn’t have existed. He is forever grateful for the trees for being there when he looks up, or even when he doesn’t. Follow him on theothersideoftown.tumblr.com. :3 Shout-out to my mom and dad for half of an awesome camera!

Thank you! To my sisters who patiently wait and smile while I take pictures of them! Salamat! To all my very hardworking mip and NatProd lab mates! Maganda kayong lahat! To the #clique! Hashtag pa more! To the isda core team 1415 and members! lululululu!

And to chicken, turon, vlogger, bigote, higuys, wallclimber, durian, road bike, crocs, vco, epoxyradar, volflask, tbc, dinosaur! Thanks for a) listening, b) making life worthwhile, c) inspiring me to live life to the fullest, d) all of the above, e) others.

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Andrea Beldua (4 BFA Information Design) A fellow of the Ateneo heights Artists Workshop. Disturbing the comforted and comforting the disturbed, ala Banksy.

Uncensored. Irreverent. Unadulterated. Unapologetic.

Without Wax. theandreabeldua.tumblr.com Christian Benitez (3 AB Literature—Filipino) Para sa mga nanatili.

Para sa pagkapatda at sa mga sandali ng pagkamangha.

Regine Cabato (3 AB Communication) “How many young people among you are like this: You know how to give and yet you have never learned how to receive. You still lack one thing: Become a beggar… learn to love and be loved.”

—Pope Francis, addressing the youth in his first Apostolic Visit to the Philippines Regine Cabato is a journalism student pursuing a minor in Creative Writing. Her poetry has been published in Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry, Philippines Free Press, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, and heights. She hails from Zamboanga City. The last year has been terrifying and terrific, light landing in all the proper places.

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JV Calanoc (BS Management 2013) JV is a self-taught paper artist who finds inspiration in man’s pursuit to imitate nature. His minimalist style, which is influenced by Japanese aesthetic, is achieved through multiple layers of handcut paper to produce intricate designs that play with light and shadow.

His Linearscapes series is his attempt to merge illustration with paper art to showcase depth, distance, and direction.

He dedicates this to all the heights seniors, most especially Moli.

Mark Anthony Cayanan (English Department) Mark Anthony Cayanan is the author of Narcissus (admu Press, 2011), Shall we be kind and suffer each other (High Chair, 2013), and Except you enthrall me (up Press, 2014). He is hoping that the universe would grant him enough free time to work on a new manuscript, which already has a wordy title—“I look at my body and see the source of my shame”—but no actual content.

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Carl Cervantes (4 BS Psychology) Ha. Ayan, storge.

Kristian Sendon Cordero (MA Filipino 2011; Social Sciences Department, Ateneo de Naga University) Kristian Sendon Cordero is a poet, fictionist, and filmmaker.

He has written five books of poetry in Bikol and Filipino and has edited three anthologies of essays on Naga City, a children’s story book, and contemporary Bikol poetry. His recent poetry collections are Labi (Ateneo de Manila University Press) and Canticos: Apat na Boses (University of Santo Tomas Publishing House), both released in 2013. He has received recognitions from the Don Carlos Palanca Awards in three categories, the 2006 Madrigal Gonzales Best First Book Award, the 2007 ncca Writers’ Prize, the 2009 Maningning Miclat Poetry Prize, and the 2014 Gintong Aklat Awards. His current projects are translations of selected poetry of Jorge Luis Borges to Bikol and Filipino, which was awarded by the Programa Sur of the Ministry of Culture and Education, Republic of Argentina, and the Bikol translation of Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis.

He writes a regular column for Bicol Mail and is an assistant professor in Ateneo de Naga University.

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Jose Delos Reyes (4 BFA Creative Writing) Si Jose Delos Reyes—o, Soc sa kaniyang mga kaibigan—ay nasa huling taon (sana) ng pag-aaral ng bfa Creative Writing. Hindi talaga siya makata. Sa totoo lang, unang pagkakataon pa lang ito na malilimbag ang kaniyang mga tula, kaya malaki ang kaniyang pasasalamat at tuwa. Yehey. Isa talaga siyang mandudula. Naging kasapi siya sa Virgin Labfest 8 Writing Fellowship Program ng ccp noong 2012. Naitanghal na rin ang ilan sa kaniyang mga dula, kabilang ang Saan Ang Punta? (Virgin Labfest 8 Writing Fellowship Program Showcase), The Conversationalist (Drafts 2: Works-inProgress; Shaharazade Theater Company), Dugtungan (Ateneo Fine Arts Festival; Playwriting Thesis), at Barya-baryang Bata (ta Lab: Tanghalang Ateneo). Nais niyang pasalamatan ang Tanghalang Ateneo, ang Block e 2014, ang Arbiters (mga salbahe kayo), mga kaibigan, ang kaniyang Craft Buddies, at ang kaniyang mga guro, partikular na sina G. Glenn Mas, G. Allan Popa, at Doc Gus Rodriguez.

Abner Dormiendo (AB Philosophy 2014) I’ve never been to Japan. lagimlim.wordpress.com Paul Jerome R. Flor (2 AB Psychology) Para ito sa mga ipinagdarasal ko bago matulog. Maging matamis sana ang pamumuhay nila ng mga pangarap, nasaan man sila ngayon.

Corrine Golez (2 BFA Information Design) Corn is a starchy grain who enjoys drawing and dressing up as characters. She’s very fond of cute patterns, sports anime, and her 3ds. Her favorite food is gyoza curry.

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Jim Matthew Ham (2 AB Political Science) Isang mag-aaral ng Agham Pampulitika si Jim Matthew Ham. Mahilig siyang magsulat ng mga tulang walang kapasa-pasa, at mga kuwentong puno ng kalokohan. Kapag hindi siya nagsusulat, nagbabasa siya ng mga aklat pangkasaysayan, pinapanood ang mga eroplano sa himpapawid, at palaging nag-aabang.

Jenina Ibaùez (4 AB Literature—English) Jenina is a senior lit major. She was a fellow of the 18th Ateneo heights Writers Workshop and several of her poems have been published in heights.

All my love and thanks to Block b for the past four years of great fun and getting each other through the stacks of readings. Almost there!

To the English Staff in all its variations in the past four years, who taught me how to read well and love literature even more. To the heights eb, who showed me that these crazy talented and smart people can also be the kindest. Thank you to my writing professors, especially Sir Vince, Sir Martin, and Sir Allan Popa. Thanks for being great.

Jonnel Inojosa (3 BS Legal Management) Tubong Lucena si Jonnel.

Taos-puso ang kaniyang pasasalamat sa kaniyang magulang, mga ate: Ynah at Joy, at mga malalapit na kaibigan.

Para kina Nay: Shannon, Jay, at Mayeng. Salamat ngay.

Sa mga naiwan.

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Justine Joson (4 BFA Information Design) JJ dreams of swimming with whale sharks someday, but she is afraid of deep waters. This great dilemma is something she will overcome soon. Wish her luck and pray for her safety, friends.

All randomness aside, she would like to thank her family and her friends for the constant encouragement and support. :D Angelo Juarez (BS Management Engineering 2014) Para sa ate ko. Salamat sa bigay mong camera. Miss ka na namin ni Mama. At para kay Mama. Salamat sa pagiging model. Ikaw ang pinakagusto kong subject.

Gian Lao (BS Communications Technology Management 2010) Gian Lao will be self-publishing his first collection of poetry this year.

Watch giancantdance.wordpress.com for updates and occasional poems.

Joan Eunice Lao (1 BFA Information Design) Joan “Yuni� Lao is a full-on weaboo and closet artist from the Kingdom of Bahrain, who enjoys drawing topless men and dismembered hands. She is also known for her cosplay and freelance illustration works in Bahrain. blog: joaneunicelao.tumblr.com ig: yuniowl

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Marc Lopez (3 AB Literature—Filipino) Isa na ngayong mag-aaral ng Panitikan si Marc. Matapos ang ilang mga kabig at pagbabalik-loob, hindi pa rin nawawala ang kanyang trust issues. Gayunman, natutunan na niyang humingi ng tulong paminsan-minsan at mamuhay sa mga ‘minsan’…paminsan-minsan.

Para ito sa mga taong nagturo sa kanya na walang halaga ang pinaka-mahahalagang bagay sa mundo.

Mo Maguyon (AB Humanities 2013) Mo spends her time drinking with hippies and swimming with cetaceans and cephalopods. But on the off chance that she gets to hold a camera on shore, the model’s clothes start disappearing for some reason. Huh. Magic.

Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan (Fine Arts Program) Alfred Marasigan is a visual artist from the Philippines. He graduated magna cum laude from the Ateneo de Manila University in 2013 with a bfa in Information Design and a Loyola Schools Award for the Arts (Graphic Design). For his undergraduate thesis, he implemented HistoRiles, a public design installation that aims to disseminate historical trivia via commute.

His artworks are included in various exhibitions such as the Galerie Métanoïa’s Un Seul Grain de Riz: A Small Format Graphic Art Competition (2014-15), Metropolitan Museum of Manila’s met Open 2014, Metrobank Art and Design Excellence (made) Painting Competition Exhibition (Semifinalist, 2014), Maningning Miclat National Art Competition (2nd Place, 2012); and publications like Fordham University’s cura Magazine, sfmoma’s Tumblr, and Ateneo’s heights.

Now, he is a full-time faculty member of the Ateneo Fine Arts.

For updates, check him out on artistbynecessity.tumblr.com.

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Celline Marge Mercado (1 BFA Art Management) I create, wander, and stare in an attempt to break the enigmas. I just want to see the night sky in its full brilliance and wonder.

Celline is currently a freshman majoring in bfa Art Management at the Ateneo de Manila University. She loves art, trailer music, and Marlon Brando. She hates her hair.

She would like to thank Club Shrew (her group of deranged friends), for continuously inspiring madness, laughter, originality, and creativity in her.

Arin Mukhi (1 BFA Information Design) Arin Mukhi haunts the Rizal Library in the form of a faintly whispering cloud of black fog for up to four hours a day, five days a week.

Marcus Nada Marcushiro is an artist by profession and a musician by passion.

Like/follow his fb page: marcushironada.

Jeivi Nicdao (3 AB Psychology) Matagal maligo.

Mayelle Nisperos (3 BS Legal Management) Mayelle is currently pursuing a major in Legal Management and a minor in Creative Writing. She misses Bacolod for 10 months and yearns for Manila for 2 weeks. “Pureza� is her first published work. She would like to thank her family, friends, and most especially her professors.

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Erica Panganiban (1 BFA Information Design) Erica Panganiban, a freshman student, currently takes up bfa id in the Ateneo. She works as a freelance graphic designer and photographer. Her main interest is portrait photography. Reach her at ericamhp@yahoo.com.

Jam Pascual (4 BFA Creative Writing) Jam Pascual is a senior Creative Writing major. He should be graduating this year, assuming he’s gotten his act together. He has about the next two years of his life planned out. What happens after is anyone’s guess.

A slightly different version of “Darwin Making Excuses” was published in his thesis poetry collection, entitled “Vestigial.”

Rene Carlos Piano (4 BS Health Sciences) I needed to write this to help me make sense of where I came from.

So I ask for forgiveness from everyone back home who have made me who I am.

Allan Popa (Kagawaran ng Filipino) Si Allan Popa ay autor ng sampung aklat ng mga tula, kabilang na ang Drone (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2013), Laan (dlsu Publishing House, 2013) at Maaari: Mga Bago at Piling Tula (up Press, 2004). Editor din siya ng antolohiyang Latay sa Isipan: Mga Bagong Tulang Filipino (ust Press, 2007). Nagwagi siya ng Philippines Free Press Literary Award at Manila Critics Circle National Book Award for Poetry. Nagtapos siya ng mfa in Creative Writing sa Washington University in Saint Louis kung saan siya nagwagi ng Academy of American Poets Prize at Norma Lowry Memorial Prize.

Kasalukuyan niyang kinukuha ang PhD in Literature sa De La Salle University-Manila at nagtuturo ng panitikan at pagsulat sa Ateneo de Manila University.

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Alaina Reclamado (4 AB Psychology) Sumusubok.

Julz Riddle (Kagawaran ng Filipino) Babae Robyn Angeli Saquin (1 BFA Information Design) Robyn is an 18-year-old art major by day and wishes she was a vigilante crime-fighter by night. She likes getting her hands dirty with any kind of traditional medium, but is (very slowly) attempting to learn how to make digital art. You can usually spot her around campus sporting anything floral and being excessively happy whenever someone manages to spell her name correctly.

She also can’t believe she got published.

To all the people who had to deal with the constant self-doubt: thank you for the patience, the support, and the belief in me.

Krysten Alarice Tan (3 BFA Information Design) Krysten is not actually a writer or an artist.

This is to unpacking the suitcase and to believing a little better and a little more.

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Joshua Uyheng (3 BS Psychology) For everything still milling around the yard.

Hic sunt dracones, etc.

Nikki Vocalan (3 AB Psychology) In my experience of making art, it’s always a constant battle between your ideas and your desired standards.

Often, I find that I barely reach it. But the output would always have more to say, than the imagined. When that’s done, maybe we can proudly go on and say “Okay, next project!”

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Errata In heights vol. 62 no. 1, the final line of Jeivi Nicdao’s poem, “To the boy who is suddenly surfacing and haunts:,” should read “to stay; take.”

The misspelling of Sara Abrigo’s name was overlooked in the Table of Contents and in the caption of “Passing ” (page 65).

The misspelling of Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan’s name was also overlooked in the caption of “Vitamin” (page 66).

The heights editorial board would like to apologize for the aforementioned mistakes.

Acknowledgments Fr. Jose Ramon T. Villarin, sj and the Office of the President Dr. John Paul C. Vergara and the Office of the Vice President for the Loyola Schools Mr. Rene S. San Andres and the Office of the Associate Dean for Student Affairs Dr. Josefina D. Hofile単a and the Office of the Associate Dean of Academic Affairs Dr. Remmon E. Barbaza, the English Department, and the Office of the Dean, School of Humanities Dr. Jerry C. Respeto and the Fine Arts Program Dr. Joseph T. Salazar at ang Kagawaran ng Filipino Mr. Allan Popa and the Ateneo Institute of the Literary Arts and Practices (ailap) Mr. Christopher Fernando F. Castillo and the Office of Student Activities Ms. Marie Joy R. Salita and the Office of Administrative Services Ms. Liberty Santos and the Central Accounting Office Mr. Regidor Macaraig and the Purchasing Office Dr. Vernon R. Totanes and the Rizal Library Ms. Carina C. Samaniego and the University Archives Ms. Yael A. Buencamino and the Ateneo Art Gallery The mvp Maintenance and Security Personnel Ms. Mara Cepeda and The guidon Ms. Dyan Francisco and Matanglawin Ms. Isabelle Lee and tugon Ateneo Mr. Joseph Angelo Benitez and Ateneo peers Ms. Sam Cruz and the Ateneo Mathematics Society Mr. Jeremy Joson and Kythe-Ateneo The Sanggunian ng Mag-aaral ng Ateneo de Manila, and the Council of Organizations of the Ateneo And to those who have been keeping literature and art alive in the community by continuously submitting their works and supporting the endeavors of heights.

Editorial Board Editor - in - Chief Manuel Iñigo A. Angulo [ab com 2016] Associate Editor Jenina P. Ibañez [ab lit (eng) 2015] Managing Editor for External Affairs Elijah Ma. V. Pascual [bfa cw 2015] for Internal Affairs Catherina Maria Luisa G. Dario [bfa cw 2016] for Finance Moli Mae C. Muñoz [bs ch - acs 2015/2016] Art Editor Krysten Alarice K. Tan [bfa id 2016] Associate Art Editor Regina Ira Antonette M. Geli [bs cs 2015] Design Editor Tanya Lea Francesca M. Mallillin [bfa id 2016] Associate Design Editor John Lazir R. Caluya [bfa id 2017] English Editor Luis Wilfrido J. Atienza [bs bio 2016] Associate English Editor Ayana Camille L. Tolentino [bfa cw 2016] Filipino Editor Selina Irene O. Ablaza [bs com tech 2016] Associate Filipino Editor Christian Jil R. Benitez [ab lit (fil) 2016] Production Manager Aaron Marcus A. Del Rosario [ab com 2016] Associate Production Manager Micah Marie F. Naadat [ab com 2017] Web Editor Regine Miren D. Cabato [ab com 2016] Associate Web Editor Anna Nicola M. Blanco [ab com 2017]

Head Moderator and Moderator for Filipino Allan Alberto N. Derain Moderator for Art Yael A . Buencamino Moderator for English Martin Villanueva Moderator for Design Jose Fernando Go - Oco Moderator for Production Enrique Jaime S. Soriano Moderator for Web Nicko Reginio Caluya

Staffers Art Dyanne Abobo, Richelle Amponin, Ariana Asuncion,

Eunice Nicole S. Arevalo, Kitkat Barreiro, Samantha Chiang,

Ysa Da Silva, Isa de Vera, Lasmyr Diwa Edullantes, Patty Ferriol,

Corrine Angeli G. Golez, Justine Joson, Nichele Cassandra Li,

Samuel U. Liquete, Marion Emmanuel P. Lopez,

Celline Marge Mercado, Moli Muñoz, Lorenzo Torres Narciso,

Veronica Andrea A. Oliva, Kimberly Que, Mick Quito,

Robyn Angeli Saquin, Sigourney So, Nicole Soriano, Bagani Sularte,

Yuri Ysabel Tan, Krizelle Te, Ali Nadine Timonera, Alexandria Tuico, Nikki Vocalan Design

Nina Atienza, Sean Bautista, Louie Cartagena, Angela Chua, Juan-C Concepcion, Ida de Jesus, Yuji de Torres, Isa de Vera, Ellan Estrologo, Geraldine Fajardo, Patty Ferriol, Guigi Galace, Iya Iriberri, Ninna Lebrilla, Richard Mercado, Julian Occeña, Troy Ong, Therese Pedro, Ianthe Pimentel, Chelli Reyes, Renzi Rodriguez, Krysten Alarice Tan

English

Rayne Aguilar, Jeremy Willis Alog, A. A. Aris Amor, Ma. Gemma Carmen Arambulo, Helena Maria H. Baraquel, Marco Bartolome, Bianca Ishbelle L. Bongato, Regine Cabato, Dionne Co, Ryanne Co, Catherina Dario, Reg Geli, Jenina Ibañez, Leona Lao, Gabrielle Leung, Samuel Liquete, Jeivi Nicdao, Elijah Ma. V. Pascual, Carissa Pobre, Bianca Sarte, Frances P. Sayson, Natalie Ann Unson, Josh Uyheng, Erika Villa-Ignacio, Kazuki Yamada

Filipino

Rox Angelia, Shiph Belonguel, Pat Cendaña, Alexander Dungca, Mark Christian Guinto, Jonnel Inojosa, Ariane Lim, Marc Lopez, Kimberly Lucerna, Jeivi Nicdao, Matthew Olivares, Bernard Patrick L. Pingol, Marian Pacunana, Karla Cherryne Neliz Quinita, Ray Santiago, Micheas Elijah Taguibulos, Roanne Yap

Production

Ida Aldana, Clarissa Borja, Clara Cayosa, Daniella Celis, Sam Cruz, Anja Deslate, Eugenie Huibonhoa, Jonnel Inojosa, Lara Intong, Alyanna Jordan, Meryl Medel, Paula Molina, Arielle Pizarro, Kristelle Ramos, Beta Santos, Max Suarez, Charlene Tiausas

Web

A. A. Aris Amor, Billy Atienza, Leona Lao, Ashley Martelino, Meryl Christine Medel, Mayelle Nisperos, Michelle Ann Parlan, Kristoff Sison, Jaclyn Teng, Ameera Tungupon

5th ateneo heights artists workshop november 15 & 16, 2014 Riverview Resort, Calamba, Laguna Panelists Aldy Aguirre Valerie Chua Ian Carlo Jaucian Alfred Marasigan Meneer Marcelo Claro Ramirez Jr. Fellows Ana Batiller Andrea Beldua Celline Mercado Christian Benitez LJ Miranda Lorenzo Narciso Mark Christian Guinto Matthew Vaughn Lacambra Moli Mu単oz Therese Pedro Workshop Director Krysten Tan

Workshop Deliberation Committee Ja Cabato JV Calanoc JPaul Marasigan Workshop Committee Lasmyr Edullantes [assistant director] Marion Lopez [logistics head] Patty Ferriol, Corn Golez, Ali Timonera, and Nikki Vocalan [logistics team] Manuel Angulo and Regine Cabato [web team] Drama del Rosario and Kristelle Ramos [documentation team] Finance Moli Mu単oz Design Lazir Caluya Moderator Allan Alberto N. Derain