(2017) Heights Vol. 64, No. 2

[Title Page]

heights vol. 64 no. 2 Copyright 2017 heights is the ofďŹ cial literary and artistic publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila University.

Copyright reverts to the respective authors and artists whose works appear in this issue. No part of this book may be reprinted 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 p.o. Box 154, 1099 Manila, Philippines Tel. no. (632) 426-6001 loc. 5448 heights - ateneo.org Creative Direction by Ninna Lebrilla and Marco T. Torrijos Cover and Dividers by Marco T. Torrijos Layout by Dianne Aguas, Kim Alivia, Rico Cruz, Justine Daquioag, Zoe de Ocampo, Anfernee Dy, Miguel N. Galace, Ninna Lebrilla, Arien M. Lim, Marco T. Torrijos, Jonah Velasquez Folio Launch Team: Jill Arteche, Ponch Castor, Anja Deslate, MM Lopez, Anton Molina, Luigi Reyes, Max Suarez, Alexandria Tuico Typeset in mvb Verdigris

Contents Carlomar Daoana 1 History of a House in 21 Fragments Jerome Flor 5 Visitor 39 alas-dos Angela Natividad 6 Correspondence from the Azotea for Crisostomo Regine Cabato 8 Inappropriate Muzak for the Doctor’s Office Tracey Dela Cruz 13 notes on seeing and a guide to remembering Janelle Paris 24 The god of gravity Joshua Uyheng 26 Prayer Marco Bartolome 28 The Narrow Road to the Interior: Excursions Patrick James Cruz 29 Siklo Kimberly Lucerna 30 Heidegger 31 Levinas Paolo Tiausas 32 Sa Dekada ng Pagsasarili Jonnel Inojosa 34 Katipunan Jose Medriano 36 Régla Reina Krizel J. Adriano 37 Pagkaabala sa Nakasanayan

Allan Popa 40 Burador Corinne Garcia 41 family blues John Alexis Balaguer 42 Lightworkers (series) Victoria Barcelon 45 DĂŠpaysement from spaces of the self: a walk through Singapore (series) Jill Arteche 46 the Palengke 60 Rehab (series) Alfred Marasigan 47 Locale 2 Ida de Jesus 48 Day 29.53 Mark Christian Guinto.

49 embody light from Lifetimes diffused (series) 50 In this forest from Lifetimes diffused (series) 51 Traveler??? from Lifetimes diffused (series) Ariana Asuncion 52 Goliath The Monolith 53 Dreamfriends (Somnus meets the tourists) Madellaine Callanta 54 RC99ST9ual08 from (cysticspeak) (series) Arielle Acosta 55 Ladies Room Marco T. Torrijos 56 wiwi tata suka (series) Sam David Felix 59 i from On Loneliness (series) Micah Rimando 64 Hubad na (Katotohanan)

Editorial As heights approaches its 65th year, we are constantly reminded not just of the history of the publication, but of the history of art and literature in the Ateneo. As stated in the last editorial, art and literature are forms of expression as a response to stimuli. Over the years, both our ways of responding and the stimuli to which we respond change and evolve, and history is a testament to these changes. It is important to look back on history to see how rife it has become because of the plurality of experiences and responses as manifested in art and literature.

However, when looking back, we tend to forget that the past does not stay in the past—history also informs the present and the future.

There is an endless exchange between previous concepts and forms and present ones, creating an interplay that makes history less linear and more like a complicated web. Simultaneously, we are constantly shaping and adding to history in the present. As readers, writers, and artists, we must always ask: What do our works say about the social consciousness of the time? What are we adding to the body of art and literature that already exists? We must be conscious that we are readers, writers, and artists with a specific context, a context that follows and makes itself evident in our work, a context that can be compared to others that have been and will be.

In recent years, heights has received mostly works that are personal in nature. Narratives tend to grapple with personal experiences regarding the self and family, whether fictional or nonfictional. Meanwhile, artworks display how artists have translated their experiences to and created meaning out of forms. There is nothing wrong with having such personal work, as these kinds of pieces provide insight regarding individual experiences of our generation. The personal will always reflect, to some extent, the social realities present.

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In heights vol. lxiv no. 2, the works are no different. Tracey dela Cruz’s “notes on seeing and a guide to remembering” is about the narrator’s relationship with her mother. “RC99ST9ual08” from the (cysticspeak) series by Madellaine Callanta confronts the challenges of womanhood, filtered through the artist’s encounters with her sister’s ovarian cancer. Meanwhile, Paolo Tiausas explores nostalgia for the past by comparing it to the present in “Sa Dekada ng Pagsasarili.”

There are a few exceptions—works that tackle more societal concerns and that acknowledge a community in which they belong.

“The god of gravity” by Janelle Paris contemplates on the tension between religion and science by questioning the reliance on religion during times of conflict. Alfred Marasigan places art directly in the middle of a community using Locale 2, and the effects of this choice show how the work, and perhaps art in general, is understood by the community. The installation and its interaction with the audience challenge how art is defined. Hubad na (Katotohanan) by Micah Rimando shows how local political issues—in this case, Martial Law and the candidacy of Bongbong Marcos in the last presidential elections—are correlated with global, historical issues—the Holocaust and the idolization of dictators. It is with these works that we see the interaction of the author/artist with concerns outside of themselves, revealing important and relevant societal problems of the time.

Given that, heights challenges the Ateneo community to make more apparent their awareness of our participation as readers, writers, and artists in the shaping of the social consciousness of our time. It is important to consider how our art and writing deepens what is already present in the field—whether we create something personal or otherwise. What we write and create are not contained in bubbles and they contribute to art and literature of our time— whether or not we choose to show our work to someone else, and whether or not our work is published. Even readers have the power to dictate the kinds of art and literature that are important. Our role in the community does not simply involve and stop at the creation and consumption of art and literature, but bleeds into how these works vi

operate on a much larger scale. This is why a word puzzle theme was decided upon for this folio: to show that our words coexist with others’, that our words intersect with others’, and that because of this, there is a challenge posed upon us to solve: How do my words fit in with what has already been said?

It is also a challenge for heights to be conscious of what works are included, and what publishing each piece means. What is published in the folio will stand the test of time as a representation of Atenean art and literature—from technical skill, to form, and to issues explored in the works. It is up to all of us in the artistic and literary community to be continuously conscious and mindful of our involvement and contribution, both as individual units and as parts of a whole.

Ida de Jesus April 2017

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carlomar daoana

History of a House in 21 Fragments i.

Here was the bahay na bato (wooden legs, stone skirt)— Two floors held standing by post and lintel—facing Obliquely to the east, so the ascending sun flickered ii.

Between the clapboard slats of its brown walls.

The windows, louvered, slotted into grooves, adding Further transparency to the house, likewise recalled iii.

The porousness of wood. You could see passing bodies Sliced neatly by spaces between panels and exercising Decisions that resembled free will. A careful study iv.

Might reveal something ordinary, transgressive.

It was the boy who had all the time to observe, leaning Into the floor, getting glimpses of flesh submissive v.

To water’s clarifying assault. On the sills of windows, Pots of sampaguita and oregano shedding Their leaves on the jutting first floor roof endowed

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vi.

With rust and hardened excrement of cats. The boy Would broom off the offending material, meaning He was ready to be humiliated by the world. Whose ploy vii.

Was it but his own? The sky relentlessly poured Its worry through cracks, holes, slits, missing Nothing but the space under floorboards. Should viii.

You claw open the slats, you would see balls of dust, White scorpions, strips of foil. The boy, conducting His own investigation, found orphan earrings, last ix.

Decade’s stamps, Bagong Lipunan coins. It was a house Where nothing was ever thrown out, making everything Difficult to find: matching pair of socks, towel with cow x.

Print, a precious ring of uncle. Was the ring lost or pawned?

But Jesus Who Follows You with His Gaze surveying From the wall near the stairs would have known xi.

The culprit. The mirror, however, did all the talking, But only in the span of the event, never sharing In retrospect. It was the old woman’s, deflecting xii.

What it wished to forget. Among the broken furniture, The mirror had the most wisdom, rectangularly revealing The moment by moment crisis, the terrible future

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xiii.

Awaiting the house: fire. When she saw plumes of distant Smoke, she assuredly packed her meager belongings— Dresses unworn through the years, a large metal can xiv.

Of tailor’s chalk, threads. The mirror was never more wrong.

Workers armed with machetes and crowbars, loosening Nails, smashing foundations, swinging their strong xv.

Hammer force on every surface, made the house cave in.

The house opened to more sky and neighbors’ eyes, letting The wind to have a more organic shape, not countering xvi.

The sun’s unremitting claim on 150 square meters Of once sovereign space. By then, its dwellers were riding In a cargo truck, jostling with beds, coffee makers, xvii.

Sewing machines—anything to see all of them To a more fortunate life—foolishly investing Their faith on separate dwellings in apartments, xviii.

Condominiums, almost shanties. In less than a day, The house was sequestered in junkshops, transitioning From the actual to the archetypal, which is to say xix.

It is no longer load-bearing, site-specific. Its freedom Resembles nothing of its old self, allowing The sky to claim it as its singular hearth, domed

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xx.

With a perpetual glow that will never leak. Once a room Is entered, another disappears, swinging At the back of the head like a slim dream. Zoom xxi.

Further in and you see the furniture gold-leafed, All the mirrors opaque. The once lost ring Is returned. Only the old woman has never left.

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jerome flor

Visitor Settle in the end with suitcase of limestone.

Walk until nerves remain memories.

Walk away and let longing leave, * Unpack a cure for coming back.

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angela natividad

Correspondence from the Azotea for Crisostomo And the sage leaves, seven years dry, held by your hat After we swam in the river, our skin shining, your mother’s arms around us both— as if drawing us together for life. Your words So near to me, under pinned piña cloth and pointed butterfly sleeves, my embroidered lace the keepsake of your Only letter. Then, the motherland calling you: church bells pealing and islands sighing to bring you home to me, To the house of my father. We were children then, promising love, and still I tremble as if I am young with yearning, mapping your face In every dream. I imagined how you would return to me every morning, gentle like you’ve always been, how

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big your hands must be now. Marriage promises your heart to me, that you will ďŹ nd home in my hands. Remember my lips on your every journey, waiting to warm yours at every hero’s return.

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You tell me to tell you when the operation is over, so you can call. I don’t, wishing you would worry. My father tells me to stop being so melodramatic, men are dense and they can’t read minds. I don’t make you read my mind, only the books I lend, the headlines I send, the passive-aggressive refrigerator notes that tell you what I’ve packed for your lunch, and instructions for the dress code to so-and-so’s baby shower, or christening party, or divorce. Still, you are married to your work.

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Inappropriate Muzak for the Doctor’s Office

regine cabato

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I’ll never tell my father about the scare and the search for medication, but really, the calendar was reliable, it was not that window, the wrong window—relax, we went in through the right one and got away with it. All the drugstores were out of stock, the monthly subscription had not arrived in a week. Consumed by guilt you counted backwards; you sat in a bell tower, ringing

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I think of how in a few hours they will open my chest and find the cyst. I offered my breast, and I gave you my heart by accident. Stop dragging, stop dragging, stop dragging it around— pen dragging itself across prescription and crossword. I buckle with the weight of the words, but my father holds the weight upright, holds the walls of the waiting room upright, holds even the speakers with the blasted elevator music, inappropriate minutes before a surgery, upright. The house is kept upright.

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the false alarms. When I looked for pills, you footed the bills, you offered to come to the check-up, and I said no. I love you too much to have you sitting in the waiting room, to be killing you softly with this song. My father would have killed you softly with his terrible playlist for waiting rooms, he finds the selection funny: It’s about hearts failing and murmuring and eclipsing, hearts fixing and ceasing to beat, the organ going on, near, far, wherever you are—I’ll sit here and do it for you. Our whole lives in these words: In retrospect, this was the most concerned you have ever been. Eventually the negative came up. And I know not to think of it, I try not think of it, but months after the removal sometimes I can’t help it: If it had been otherwise, would you have stayed?

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Sometimes I forgive you just for the sex.

I know it isn’t sustainable, I know I should be really fed up, but we’re young, reckless, reluctant adults. I just got health insurance. My father always tells me to cross-check the fiancé’s medical history, to know what is at risk: stds, asthma, diabetes. In my family: coronary heart failure. I am not the first one to have my chest opened for inspection. I have yet to ask you yours; it might mean we are engaged. We’re selective with our responsibilities—commitment is a gray area, off the charts, we want it one moment and then we don’t. We swap analytics on its trade-offs, map investment schemes. I pay my monthly insurance installment and you keep a spreadsheet of all your expenses, from office supplies to the gifts you buy me. You say it’s responsible financial keeping; I say, stop counting. We kiss and make up, and making love to you hurts so good, and sometimes love doesn’t feel like it should, love feels like waiting in an elevator, the silent lurch of the gut from inertia when it propels itself upward, and the sudden fear of heights. It feels like waiting to get off on another floor. Shouldn’t it be the floor, stability, the ground under your feet? Sex makes the most

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The anesthesiologist knows best: You can’t argue with a guy who knows his needles. More than anything else, the beeping of machines is what makes this uneasy listening. Now playing: a certain single cuts like a knife, cuts away the heart—that troublesome thing, that high maintenance thing. I go through my charades, but how can I disguise absence? I submit to the hands of nurses. In a few minutes they will wheel me out of this limbo and into sanitation. They will open my chest and ignore the heart. This operation is not a bypass or transplant. They will turn to the breast and I will wonder if they are indeed solving what hurts. I’m under the lights, under the knife, my father holds his composure upright and my body together, he prevents my chest from spilling too much outside of itself. He plucks the source of trouble.

The cyst is benign.

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of the flight, the fear of heights, jumpstarts the heart from failing, like a temporary bypass. I know it isn’t sustainable, but until a better prescription, I’ll swallow the bitter pill and wait for you to call.

tracey dela cruz

notes on seeing and a guide to remembering i. my first memory is sound. My mother’s voice wanes into whispers as she reads to me the Pied Piper of Hamelin while we are curled up in bed. We haven’t reached the page about the Pied Piper luring the children away from their parents and into some mysterious place, so I nudge gently at her arm to wake her. I don’t remember the words but I remember the startled, strangled noise she made as she snapped back to attention.

It could have been a dream. What I mean is, my memories of then are taking on a more ethereal quality. In her moments of lucidity, my mother tells me stories of what I was like as a girl, shortly after the surgery that allowed me to see. Last week, she talked of how I had caused trouble in a museum, running around to touch all the statues and paintings I could. My mother said she just had to take pictures of the security dragging me out of the building. I don’t remember it. Digging through old photo albums the other day, I could find no evidence to confirm her story.

The more I think about then, the more the memories seem to slip.

But there are moments, catching myself in the almost metronomic rhythm that comprises the bulk of everyday—the car revving through highways, dicing onions to prepare a meal, the tap-tap-tap of the keys as I transcribe interviews for work—a memory surfaces, pierces the sheet of tedious repetition, and, as if shooting from a trance, I remember. ii.

She held my head in place by her fingertips. Ten cool, trembling spots on my face as the bandages were unwrapped. She wanted to be the

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first thing I saw, as if it were necessary I imprint. The way she held me, like I were breakable, that maybe if she pressed a tad bit more I somehow might crack. I suppose this is how it always goes when it comes to things of marvel, when one is held together by nothing except expectation. A breath might prove the moment too fragile.

How to describe what it was like to see a face for the first time? To see a face and not have a name for what I was seeing, or a name for the face itself? The oval head framed by shoulder length black hair. Lines on the corners of her eyes and mouth. Deep brown irises. Upturned nose. Freckles on her cheeks. Smudges of pink lipstick on her teeth.

At that time, I could not draw the line between name and thing.

Sight. Mother. iii.

There are wrinkles on my mother’s face that have become permanently etched from worry. Her shoulders are hunched constantly, betraying her tightly wound insides, that occasionally, in my youth, unstrung itself to lash like whips. One afternoon when I was eight, after an argument about some thing or other, I decided to go to the store to buy chips without telling her. I had, in my frustration, miscounted perhaps a step or a turn to my house as I was walking back. I doubled back but missed again. And again. Until no scents or voices were familiar. I sat on the sidewalk trying to squelch the rising bile at the back of my throat. From the changing impressions the light left, I could tell the afternoon moving to dusk. She found me a couple of hours later. She threw her nervous arms around me, apologized profusely as warm tears trailed down my neck. It was the only time she ever cried in my presence. iv.

It’s been three weeks but Michael and I still haven’t finished unpacking our boxes. Save for some of my late stepfather’s things, my childhood home hasn’t changed: old rose-colored walls decorated with my mother’s embroidered flowers and watercolor paintings of boats, white double-pane windows with brown vinyl exterior

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shutters, leather couches, a granite countertop that marks the boundary between kitchen and dining room, the oak table where my mother used to help me with my homework.

We are stowing the future inside the past, I remember telling Michael shortly after we moved in, in between negotiations of what to keep, what to give away, and what to store. The guest bedroom was the first to go, converted to a darkroom for Michael to process his films. We’ve replaced most of the framed paintings with his photographs. My old room is slowly turning into my study with most of the carpentry being undertaken by Michael’s brother. It was painful to have to pack my mother’s wood ornaments to store in the cupboard under the stairs, but we needed to make space for the tokens we’ve collected from our many travels. Going through the mementos of my childhood and reliving old memories make the task long and difficult, painful at times. An uncovered photograph, a music box, my old braille writer. I pause, recall, and tell Michael the stories. v.

I didn’t see her face in the hospital. At least, not right away. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that my first memory of sight was light. After living in darkness for twelve years, everything appeared too bright; it was like noise. The world overexposed. In blur. Then slowly coming into focus, not in a matter of seconds or minutes, but days. (Remember, days.) Not the hospital but my room. Under the bed. The lights turned off, the windows sealed shut, the curtains drawn, and still there was too much light. I shut my eyes and pressed my hands into my face.

Marie.

My mother’s face. She is on her knees and palms, her forehead crumpled. Her huge eyes staring at me—embarrassed? Worried? Her lips open.

Can you see me?

The voice is familiar. The mouth twitches in odd ways.

Can you see me, sweetheart?

The mouth a straight line, then a kiss, then a gaping hole.

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Are you okay? Can you see me?

My mother’s voice becomes when her mouth moves.

I close my eyes—blindness.

Marie. vi.

Caught in the moment, one might not realize the gravity of an event and how it will define your life forever. It’s only retrospect that illuminates certain importances later on. But I remember the exact moment I knew I would be a travel writer; it bore into me with the force of destiny: the summer of 1986, riding a bus with my mother on the way to the pier of Caticlan where we would take a boat to Boracay.

The bend of the mountainside gave way to the vista of a beach. The water rising above the tree line, then waves crashing against rocks, then the sandbar coming into view. It was breathtaking. I took a picture of the cliff face using my mother’s camera, to carry wherever I go. I’ve been to more than sixty countries, lived in three, and still my mind always returns to that first view of the ocean. vii.

It’s been happening more frequently that my mother doesn’t recognize me. Yesterday, she thought I was her sister, who died six years ago of cardiac arrest. We were preparing for a double date in 1960. You’re so beautiful, she told me, applying the last few touches to my cheeks. You’re going to have so much fun with Jonathan. Not too much fun though, she added with a wink.

It’s often heartbreaking to watch my mother’s mind deteriorate, when she mixes up dates and people, forgets the passage of time, but it had been pleasant. She giggled like a teenager and fussed about my hair, complained about our parents who “just don’t understand our generation,” her face lit with all the hope of youth, all the possibilities before her.

That was who she was, before me and the two husbands she outlived, before she crunched numbers, and before the hundred thousand or so hours of perfecting her recipes, of adjusting each item in the house for easier navigation, before the constant care over 16

her blind daughter creased her skin and hunched her shoulders, transformed her forever, before I learned to see. viii.

The utensils placed three fingers away from the plate’s rim. The toothbrush with toothpaste four fingers on the right side of the sink.

The shoe rack and a small stool two strides away from the front door.

Nothing blocks the stairs. Nothing ever left on the steps. Laminate study desk opposite the bed that is pressed against one wall. Top shelf: books. The shelf below that: braille writer. Dresser first drawer: underwear, second drawer: shirts and shorts, third drawer: balled up socks. Mother’s room three strides to the right of mine, her door always left a crack open. Bathroom located at the end of the second floor corridor. Toilet is the first thing to stumble upon when entering.

Shower to the right. The heater always set to 2 out of 4. Your bottles on the bottom row of the bathroom shelf. The smell of strawberries to indicate shampoo, an antiseptic scent for conditioner. Bar of soap in its nook. Towel on the rack nearest to the shower, arm’s length away when you turn to your left after a bath. xi.

At first, I thought certain colors were attached to certain objects, as if by their essence they emitted it. When this proved untrue, I figured some shapes must go hand in hand with some textures. Or some colors with some smells. To understand my surroundings, I felt inclined to associate what I saw with what I felt, marry one sense with another, unify them all if I could. I needed to feel the sharp cut of the blade to know it was a knife, to understand that it was danger; needed to feel the flow of warm blood to recognize that this red thing from my palm was my blood. I closed my eyes and recognized the world. I opened my eyes and everything was alien to me. Mother’s voice did not match her face. My hands were not my own. I needed to shut my eyes to know that I was home (in my house, in my skin, in my mother’s arms).

In gaining a new sense, I regressed into childhood. I lost the words for toothbrush—for example—and table, and chair, doorknob. I 17

relearned them only once I’d used them for their function because that was how I became first acquainted with them. The next day I would forget again, be unable to match the word to the object.

Every morning and every night, my mother would sit me down and hold up the things in our house. Hairbrush, she would say, then comb my hair before she tucked me in. Lamp. Then she would turn the lamp on and off. She’d touch everything. Toilet. Flush. Soap.

Shampoo. Name them, show how they worked. Onion. Tomato.

Garlic. She let me smell them. Knife. Dangerous. Before slicing the onions, tomatoes, and garlic to prepare our dinner. Spoon. Fork.

Then we would eat. Stove. Oven. Hot. Don’t ever touch. I couldn’t help it. I touched the oven one time when my mother was pre-heating it to make cookies, just to know what it felt like. Second degree burns. It would be weeks before she let me in the kitchen again. x.

My mother likes to cook. On her more sensible days, she is allowed to help the staff at the nursing home prepare meals. They tell me she moves about the kitchen with a self-possession they never see in her, not even on her best days. This doesn’t surprise me. I had grown up to the smell of her concoctions wafting from the kitchen, and, whether or not it’s a myth that the other senses are drastically heightened in blindness, my senses were certainly sharpened from being her cooking assistant. She would make me taste her food and guess the components. I’ve learned to detect even the barest hint of cilantro or chervil, tarragon from a single whiff, differentiate between savoy and red cabbage from texture alone. She may have joked once or twice (maybe I was the only one who thought it was a joke) that we should have our own catering business, start a mother-daughter partnership.

As I adjusted to my sighted life, I devoted more time to writing than to cooking. Graduating from the pointed simplicity of braille, I had to learn the alphabet, how to read the lofty squiggles and hold a quivering pencil the proper way to draw the shape of a letter in between two lines. The mountain of the capital A. The pregnant

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belly of the B. The simplicity of C. Letters in between two blue lines.

D - desk. E - earring. F - faucet. G - gate. When I mastered how to write in cursive, my mother finally allowed me to use the computer in her room. I typed away at the keys while she stirred the stew in the kitchen. xi.

The walls of my childhood room are plastered with creme wallpaper dotted with flowers of deep purple and pastel pink, but I know underneath they are painted a gaudy orange, something my mother picked out back when it didn’t matter. Some six months or so after my surgery I had asked her if we could paint over the walls with a softer color, maybe mint green, maybe a light beige, something more me.

She had looked at me strangely then—I still don’t have a name for it—and that inflection of her voice—As if you’d know what’s you. xii.

My husband once told me that one of the things that piqued his interest was my habit of staring. He first noticed it when we were assigned to write a feature on Siargao. The way I took my time with everything, especially new sights, like I had to take each piece of what I saw, one at a time, and simply assemble the fragments in my head.

It’s like photography, he told me, you frame a part and hope that it’s enough to illuminate the rest of what you can’t see.

There are still instances when someone’s face is not a face but skin. Sometimes a detail becomes so sharp, the clarity of a whole becomes irrelevant—a chip on the porcelain bowl displayed in the living room cabinet, the scraggly strand of hair growing from the mole on Michael’s nape, the foam of cappuccino, a bleach stain on my mother’s dress, flakes of dandruff on an employee’s button down shirt. The detail stretches, expands, until it fills the image. The world obliterated by the gradient of single petal. How easy then to lose one’s ground. How easy to be absorbed, to indulge the self, be uprooted and carried away by the dazzle of minutiae. Or remain transfixed

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while the world proceeds as it does, the movie playing continuously until the credits while I just sit there, fascinated by the speck of dirt on the screen. xiii.

It wasn’t like the movies where the blind man who gains vision is all of a sudden delighted, rejoices in the miracle of sight, this wondrous gift. You had this retching feeling. Even after months of daydreaming and preparation, doctors explaining what it would be like, a voice in the dark reading a primer for those on the verge of seeing, the unveiled world still caught you off guard, made you panic and scramble off the chair. You shut your eyes, and ran to somewhere you could feel safe.

You had spent night after night listening to your mother’s voice as she told of all the wonderful things you were about to see, and still you screamed and cried, like a fetus ripped from a womb.

You shut your eyes and allowed to be led into the cab that took you home. You ran to your room with your hands pressed against your face, knowing the number of steps, the turns to get there, and holed up under your bed. You closed your eyes and refused to open them again. xiv.

For my birthday Michael gave me an original G— N—. As per the artist’s signature, the photograph was punched with scripts of braille, with the conceit that a seeing spectator and a visually impaired one will have to rely on each other to fully appreciate the artwork, pointing to the limits of perception and understanding. The photograph belongs to his Nude series: the blindfolded woman’s body is explored by the blind artist’s hand. In the one that Michael gave me, two hands are intertwined, the legs of the woman blur into the background, on a sheet of white. The angle of the shot and the shadows in the corners of the frame suggest they were standing on the bed or a futon.

This is you and me, Michael had said. But we’re better.

In the decade we’ve been together, my husband has grown accustomed to my habits as I have grown used to his. His shyness

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about his works in progress that he passes as artistic pride, the glacial pace with which he undresses, his almost compulsive tendency to leave the last bite of food on his plate or the last sip of a drink. In our first months, he had asked, gingerly, why I like to close my eyes when we fuck, didn’t I want to see him up close? Half in jest, did I miss being blind? These insecurities have given way to the implicit trust we vest in our most cherished ones. I’ve never had to explain that I recognize the world best at arm’s length, at once remote and intimate, held at a distance. He had simply understood. xv.

From the store: using your walking stick, feel your way down six steps. Turn right. Walking at an average pace, take forty-three steps.

If morning, the smell of gasoline and the sound of utensils hitting plastic plates confirmation to turn right. If evening, the smell of coal and animal innards being grilled confirmation to turn right. Pause when the cheery voice says “good morning” or “good evening” or “hi, Ate.” That’s the man who works at the carinderia and once helped you up when you tripped on a crack on the sidewalk. Turn and smile.

Small to be polite. Width will call for invitation. Walk thirty-six paces. Be careful of cracks. Pay attention to the smell of the garbage pile on the side of the road. Walk around it. Don’t trip. Walk on the left side of parked cars lining the sidewalk. Don’t mind stepping on the occasional roadkill, dog shit, or bubble gum. Take a right. Seven steps. Feel around the neighbor’s potted plants. Stop at your door.

From the school: Ask the security guard by the gate to walk you to the usual jeepney stop. Ask the barker if the jeep will stop at your street.

Sit nearest the driver, if possible. Track the turns: right, left, right, right. The smell of gasoline confirmation to go down. If unsure, ask the driver to stop at your street. Just to be safe, always ask the driver to stop at your street. Trust that cars won’t run you over when you cross the road. Sometimes the dogs will bark but don’t run or else they’ll chase. Take a right. Seven steps. Feel around the neighbor’s potted plants. Stop at your door. If lost, press the first button to speed-dial your mother.

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xvi.

Photographs demonstrate ways of seeing, therefore also an impaired vision: you frame a part and the rest recedes into darkness. Always there is something that escapes the frame—the reverence with which Michael develops his films, my mother threading needles and stroking brushes to make art her blind daughter could not appreciate, the swell of feeling watching the waves slam onto the rocky shore.

There is a picture of my mother that I uncovered last night while shuffling through old notebooks. In it, she rests her chin on her knuckles while she looks at something, off-frame, I don’t know what, maybe a person, maybe an interesting show, or perhaps she had simply remembered something pleasant. She isn’t smiling, not really, perhaps the crawl of a smile, near but not quite touching the lips just yet. Her face rests, serene. How could I have forgotten something so precious? All these years tucked between two pages and boxed away, thrown into the dark of forgetting.

I handed her the photo this morning during my visit. That’s you, I said, as she stared at it, uncomprehending. I told her that I took it when we went to Boracay the first time.

I’ve never been to Boracay, she said.

I took it because I thought you looked pretty. Sitting in the shade alone, looking far off. I don’t think you knew I was taking your picture. I like it because you could have been anyone on the beach, just another woman enjoying herself, unattached. No daughter to worry about, no grief to nurse. You could’ve been a tourist, could have been a local. You could have been a doctor from the city taking a break from the stress of the surgery room. Or a resident who, living so near the sea, could not resist the pull of it on such a fine day. Or maybe a mermaid, washed up on shore, having traded her tail for legs. Any variety of permutations, a woman of all pasts and all futures, on the cusp of everything.

She apologized and said she doesn’t have a daughter, that she and her husband have been trying but with no luck. But thank you for the picture, she said. I’ll keep it. She took a book from her bed stand, and, before slipping it between the pages, raised her eyes to see me

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watching her. There was—I believe, hope—the faintest recognition.

She opened her mouth to speak, but just as quickly it was gone. Her forehead creased deeper and I could tell she was about to cry at her sudden confusion.

I asked if she’d like to eat with me, to which she said yes, yes, she would. She had spent all morning cooking creamed chicken with the people in the kitchen. She hoped I would like it.

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janelle paris

The god of gravity This rain in Berlin is unforgiving, water cold As icicles; I brought with me no coat, only my Mother’s sari, my father’s recipe book, a suitcase, Prayers. Before I left Mumbai, I went to the Temple of Ganesha to pray for rain; perhaps My god would give way to downpour. It had grown Too warm in my country, my people dropping Like flies. There is a heat that makes the brain Delusional; blood dries up along stunted straits; The heart halts.

On the news, we hear, India heat wave death toll tops 2,000, and you ask me for the first time If my god ever answered my prayers.

There is a pain a platter of offerings can Not account for. I drape a garland around The elephant-faced god, and a boy in Punjab clutches at his neck in thirst. I leave Bananas at the temple, then two thousand Becomes three. Mantras are death hymns in denial.

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You tell me to turn, instead, to your language of Sense. Yet how can a particle exist and not Exist at the same time? And surely gravity Keeps us down for a reason, but your laws Don’t tell you why. Here I am in Berlin, Smelling marigolds and cow dung amid this Steel-skied rain, and you trawl through theories For a semblance of logic. Why do you Propose that we contend? This is how I know: Prayers are as methodic as equations; And physics, just another word for faith.

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joshua uyheng

Prayer Our father who was a good surgeon. Our father who sewed up our torn hands. Our father with those hands which seemed always on the brink of shedding skin. Our father from whose skin we inherited our brightest discolorations. Our father who liked to wear dark-colored polos and leather shoes and cologne that so smelled like his reasonableness. Our father who was reasonable in eight different languages and spoke each of them with the same voice—seamlessly, one into the gap of another—when he was wrathful, one tongue.

Our father who taught us wrath so often acts as the beginning of belief. Our father who taught us belief out on a highway on his father’s motorcycle when we were little: the oversized helmet digging hard into our head pressed back into his chest but he insisted we keep it on if only to teach us another lesson. Our father who when we screamed asked us if we could not trust him. Our father whom we trusted. Our father who in his black Montero always picked us up without fail: whether we asked him to or not, whether we knew he would or not, at all the places we told him we were going, even the places we really went. Our father who once gave us a gold crucifix to wear under our clothes, saying one day he could no longer be everywhere. Our father who still looks back at us when we hurry past mirrors. Our father whom we are too often told had been a looker in his youth. Our father who in his youth loved a woman whose name he withheld in varying degrees whenever he told us how he came to know

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our mother. Our father who despite our mother went off to smoke in the bathroom every New Year’s Eve, while everyone else was covering their ears or giving each other wet kisses as the sky burst into ames.

Our father who never liked the noise. Our father who never heard us sing. Our father who liked to practice his swing in the back garden, whom we watched nightly at the window, silently loved and hid from.

Our father who every Sunday promised to take us somewhere nice after our mother took us to mass.

Our father who never believed in a God, though once he came into our room in the night, sat down at our bed, asking us why we ever did, imagining in the dark we must have been asleep. His hand on our chest.

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marco bartolome

The Narrow Road to the Interior: Excursions The dragonfly: / one whom I had chanced to meet / under my heel. A rook roosts: / His face is very nearly. My dead wife’s comb, in our bedroom / on a bare branch / only eye! The piercing chill I feel: / That too goes out, and now— Fallen petals rise. / Autumn dusk. / A butterfly. Some can’t. / But slowly, slowly! The next room’s light / has settled, and is fast asleep, / is lost in haze. Back to the branch—I watch / backward I gaze; New Year’s morning— / the snow is melting / the old pond; A frog jumps in— / and the village is flooded. O snail / as the two halves of a melon / some can sing.

Everything is in blossom! / Don’t imitate me; With children / climb Mount Fuji / on the temple bell; The chill of night. / The sound of water. Even with insects— / it’s as boring / I feel about average.

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patrick james cruz

Siklo Ang tanging payo mo: pagmasdan ang nalalabing patak ng tubig sa dahon matapos ang bagyo bago ang pagbagsak sa lupa at muling pag-angat nito

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kimberly lucerna

Heidegger nagising ako isang dapit-hapon ang malamlam na sinag ng papalubog na araw ay tumatama sa aking mukha kapayapaan, katahimikan kaginhawaan nais kong muling umidlip ngunit waring may tumatawag sa akin sa di kalayuan tumatangis magaan ang katawang bumangon sa aking pahingahan nilibot ang paningin sa paligid ngunit tanging anino lamang ang nakita

pinipilit alalahanin

kailan ako huling pumikit?

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Levinas nagpunta ako sa dulo ng walang hanggan upang masilayan ang huling sinag ng sukdulan natanto ang kalahatan upang muli lamang bumalik sa pinagmulan

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paolo tiausas

Sa Dekada ng Pagsasarili makinang ang kutsilyo sa platito, totoong bakal. May bakas ng tsokolateng icing mula sa cake. Dumadagundong ang bulong sa mall. Naaaninag ko, mula sa inuupuan ko, ang hidwa sa pagitan ng tao. Malalayo ang tingin. May ritmo sa pamamasyal. Sa lamig ng mall, nanunuyo ang balat, nangangati ang mga pulo-pulong langib sa braso. Pagkutkot ng kuko, isang sugat‌ Sampung taon ang nakaraan, binaybay namin ang paligid ng village. Wala pang sapat na taong gulang, pinagpipilitan ang pawis sa naninibagong palad. May klase pa ako bukas, sampung taon ang nakaraan. May klase din siya. May gate ang kanilang village.

Pakanan at pakaliwa ang kanto ng bawat kalsada. Natutukoy ang pagkakasunod-sunod ng mga bahay. Inabangan ko ang lipon ng bata pag-upo namin sa swing sa playground. Takipsilim at napakalalim ng mga halik. Palalim at palalim.

Ngayon, sanay na sa aircon. Nagdagsaan ang naglalakwatsa.

Matatangkad na binata at dalaga. Natural ang paglabas ng cellphone, natural ang pag-akbay, ang tela ng long sleeves sa balikat ng kasintahan. Natural ang expression sa mukha. Natural ang kapit sa handbag. Dati ko nang nabasa ang kanilang mga usapan, sinundan sa kathang-isip ang tagisan ng pagtitinginan, ang away at bati, ang manibela sa kotse, ang silid. Nahihigit ang aking tingin sa napakayuming ritwal, pag-ibig, talim‌

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Ibang gabi—grabe ang pawis bago sa wakas makakapit sa bartolina ng jeep, saglit, at matutuyo rin sa hangin. Pelikula ang pagdaan ng mga puno’t ilaw-poste. Noong may isa pang nakisabit, tinanong niya ako tungkol sa ruta ng nasakyan. Hinablot ko ang isang tenga ng earphones at sumagot. Natawa kami sa sitwasyon. Pumupulso ang dugo sa aking palad, nangangalay sa sariling bigat. Kaunti na lang. Pelikula tungkol sa pag-uwi, o kinabukasan, o kaya, tuwing minamadali ang isang sandali.

Sampung taon ang nakaraan, sinabi niyang sumakay kami ng taxi pauwi. Kinalimutan ko ang minemorya na ruta. Umupo sa likod ng taxi. Hinawakan niya ang aking kamay, nilimot ang damit, inilapat niya sa kanyang katawan‌

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jonnel inojosa

Katipunan Lumisan na ang lahat sa tikom niyang bibig.

Paluwas ang mangingibig.

Nakadagan sa pagal na buntonghininga ng gabi: bigat ng hindi masabi. Sabi sa paskil, bawal daw tumalon. Kung tatalunin ang pagkakataon, magkanong sisingilin?

Kapwa sila nakaabang sa magkabilang gilid.

Namamagitan ang katahimikan. Naunang dumating ang tren sa kabila. Pinuno sa agam-agam, piniling hindi sumakay ng sinta.

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Habang siya, aninag na ang ilaw na paparating. Saan hinahagip ang salita?

Bumuka ang bibig ng humintong pinto. Dito umuuwi ang lahat.

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jose medriano

Régla Birtúd sa iyóng bâ-bâ, Buwánang iluluwâ.

Dadáloy ang dahambâ.

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reina krizel j. adriano

Pagkaabala sa Nakasanayan Wala pang kalahating segundo nagtatagal ang pagkurap ng mga mata. Maraming pandama ang nakasuson sa ilalim ng ating balat – isang himala, kumbaga, kapag inuunahan ito ng pagpuna. Reex, ika nga ng agham, ang imboluntaryo na nagiging boluntaryo sa isang hudyat. Kusang sumasara ang mga mata tuwing nakararamdam ng pangamba, tinatanggap ang panandaliang kadiliman. Mabilis ang pagpikit ng mga talukap, sabay pa minsan ang noo at mga kilay sa pag-irap. Hindi ito tulad ng pagkindat o ng papansing pag-akit; mabilisan lamang ang intensiyon ng pagkurap. Walang kontrol ang pansamantalang pagkibit, o pagkisap, o paghaltak. Hindi ito tulad ng paghipo, ang pag-alis ng mga daliri sa sandaling daplis ng balat sa kumukulong takure. Walang pagkiskis na nagaganap sa pagitan ng balat at bakal dahil wala naman talagang ganito; hindi bakal ang tatama, hindi balat kundi laman ang dapat protektahan.

Walang tinatago, ni hindi ang pag-inda ng panandaliang sakit sa mas panandaliang haplos. Ni hindi ang pagkalat ng hapdi dahil sa sandaliang pagtanggap nito.

Pinag-uusapan ang pagdilat bilang pagkamulat. Laging kinatatakutan ang pagkabulag ngunit hindi ang pagmalas.

Nakatatawang isipin na pinaglalaruan natin ang mga sariling pandama: ipinipikit ang mga mata upang hindi makaramdam ng sakit. Sabi nga ng ibang romantiko, takot masaktan ang mga mata.

Kumukurap ang mga mata upang tanggapin ang kirot kung sakali mang dumating ito. Siguro nga kaya ginagawaan ng talinghaga ang mga mata: iniinda ang maaaring maramdaman ng buong pagkatao, nagpapakatao ang mga mata. Ngunit, tuloy pa rin ang nakikita sa pagdilat. Walang nawawala, walang nawawaglit. Kung may napansin mang kakaiba ang mga mata, marahil natutunan na nitong salubungin ang kaibahan.

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Hindi na ito usapin ng agham. Ganito ang bugnos ng alaala, dibuho ng nakalipas, hagayhay na panakas. Sapagkat natututo ang mga matang hindi makakita. Marahil natatakot makadanas ng kirot o lungkot. Marahil hindi kayang angkinin ang sakit para sa buong katawan. Marahil natatakot makakita. Marahil natatakot. Sapagkat itong takot ay may kaakibat na pagkalinga. Itong sadyang pag-iwas, itong pag-igkas sa pangambang makadama. Marahil sakim ang pagkurap ng mga mata. Pinipili nitong isara ang sarili ngunit kaya pa ring madama ng katawan ang hapdi. Kung mayroong isang kamay na nasa akto ng pagsampal o pagpalo, ang pagpasok ng dumi, itong pagkapuwing na nagdadala ng abo, o ang badya ng hangin o ang wisik ng tubig. Pati ang bulabog na hindi nakagisnan at ang ilaw na marahil ay tinanggap nang lubusan, hindi kayang ikubli ng pagkurap ang senyales ng darating. Sa hindi darating o sa maaaring dumating, pinipiling pumikit upang iwasan ang pagkamulat.

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jerome flor

alas-dos Nahihimbing ang mga kalye at poste, Ang mga bahay at bangketang naidlip, Mga kalsada’t tindahang nakasara.

Ang pamilya sa kanilang tahanan: Sina nanay, tatay, lola, bunso Pati na ang alagang asong bantay.

Doon sa may kanto, ang tanod.

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allan popa

Burador Noong bago masanay manghuli ng gagamba para patulayin sa tingting at paglabanin, may sandaling ninais kong hawakan ang kariktan ng kanilang sapot sa pagitan ng mga sanga sa paraang pinakamarahan ngunit pinigil ang kamay at pinagmasdan lamang na umalon ito sa pagdaan ng hangin bago ko sirain.

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Corinne Garcia. family blues. Photography.

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John Alexis Balaguer. Lightworkers (series) i. Photomanipulation.

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Lightworkers (series) ii. Photomanipulation.

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Lightworkers (series) iii. Photomanipulation.

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Victoria Barcelon. DĂŠpaysement from spaces of the self: a walk through Singapore (series). Digital Photography.

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Jill Arteche. the Palengke. Digital Painting on Canvas. 4 x 6 ft.

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Alfred Marasigan. Locale 2. Elastomeric paint on canvas. 180 x 66 x 4 in.

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48 Ida de Jesus. Day 29.53. Photomanipulation.

Mark Christian Guinto. embody light from Lifetimes diffused (series).

Photography.

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In this forest from Lifetimes diffused (series). Photography.

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Traveler??? from Lifetimes diffused (series). Photography.

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Ariana Asuncion. Goliath The Monolith. Acrylic on canvas. 12 x 16 in.

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Dreamfriends (Somnus meets the tourists). Acrylic on cardboard. 26 x 19 in.

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Madellaine Callanta. RC99ST9ual08 from (cysticspeak) (series).

Digital (MS Paint).

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Arielle Acosta. Ladies Room. Digital Photography.

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Marco T. Torrijos. wiwi tata suka (series) i. Ink on paper. 10 x 14 in.

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wiwi tata suka (series) ii. Ink on paper. 10 x 14 in.

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wiwi tata suka (series) iii. Ink on paper. 10 x 14 in.

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Sam David Felix. i from On Loneliness (series). Digital Photography.

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Jill Arteche. 1 from Rehab (series). Digital Painting on Canvas. 4 x 6 ft.

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2 from Rehab (series). Digital Painting on Canvas. 4 x 6 ft.

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3 from Rehab (series). Ink and Colored Pencil. 8.5 x 11 in.

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5 from Rehab (series). Ink and Colored Pencil. 8.5 x 11 in.

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Micah Rimando. Hubad na (Katotohanan). Photomanipulation.

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Arielle Acosta (4 BFA Art Management) Ladies Room is for and features my mother, who I witnessed battle with the conditions of womanhood in front of a mirror, on the toilet, over the sink, inside the shower. For all the women in my life—you are my greatest inspiration.

Reina Krizel J. Adriano (5 BFA Creative Writing) Kasalukuyang kinukumpleto ni Reina ang kaniyang ikalawang kurso sa creative writing. Nagtapos siya ng BS Applied Mathematics with specialization in Mathematical Finance noong 2016.

Isang pasasalamat sa Bagwisan 2016—kina Mark, King, Oey, Cymon, Elija, Dorothy, Paco, Danilo, Jerome, Gerald, Jelmer, Josh, at Martina. Lagi-lagi.

Jill Arteche (4 BFA Information Design) Jill Arteche is a Filipino visual artist, illustrator, and graphic designer based in Manila, Philippines.

Ariana Asuncion (5 BFA Information Design) They are a fourth year who’s been here too long. Likes progressive rock and pictures of bugs.

John Alexis Balaguer (AB Communication 2012) Remember who you are.

Victoria Barcelon (2 AB Development Studies) Describes herself as a toyomansi girl in a ketchup mustard world.

Armed with snacks, a camera, and unbridled optimism, this 5”3 girl likes to walk around like she is much taller than she actually is. She also likes to write occasionally, when the pen calls instead of the camera.

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Marco Bartolome (4 AB Literature-English) “I forget things too. It makes me sad. Or it makes me the saddest.”

—Claudia Rankine, Don’t Let Me Be Lonely Marco is a senior literature major. He hopes the walking Pokémon feature from HeartGold and SoulSilver will make a return someday.

Regine Cabato (AB Communication 2016) “Being in love means being willing to ruin yourself for the other person.”

—Susan Sontag http://medium.com/@RegineCabato Regine Cabato currently works at cnn Philippines, where she writes for both broadcast and digital platforms. She graduated from the Ateneo de Manila University in 2016 with a degree in Communication and a minor in Creative Writing. Her poetry has been published in Kritika Kultura, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, and Cha Literary Journal. She hails from Zamboanga City. “Inappropriate Muzak for the Doctor’s Office” is from her undergraduate creative writing thesis.

Madellaine Callanta (5 AB Literature-English) Madel dedicates her paintings to her sister who is fighting ovarian cancer.

Patrick James Cruz (BS Chemistry 2015) Nagsusulat ako tuwing may mga patlang sa pagitan ng aking pag-unawa at mga ganap na pangyayaring humaharap sa akin. Sa pamamagitan nito, nasusubukan kong maitulay ang sarili pabalik sa pinanggalingan. Hanggang ngayon, sinisikap ko pa ring ito’y mangyari.

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Carlomar Arcangel Daoana (Department of Fine Arts) Carlomar Arcangel Daoana is the author of four collections of poetry, with Loose Tongue: Poems 2001-2013, published by the UST Publishing House in 2014, as the most recent. His poems have been anthologized in the Vagabond Asia Pacific Poetry Series, published by Vagabond Press which is based in Australia. He received First Place and Second Place honors in the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature in the English Poetry category for his collections, The Elegant Ghost (2012) and Crown Sonnet for Maria (2013), respectively. A regular columnist for the Arts and Culture section of the Philippine Star, he teaches at the Fine Arts Department of the Ateneo de Manila University.

Ida de Jesus (4 BFA Information Design) Thank you. Have a listen: 1. Redbone – Childish Gambino 2. Break Apart (feat. Rhye) – Bonobo 3. Beyond Love – Beach House 4. Walk Away – lany 5. The Middle – Wet Tracey Dela Cruz (5 BS Psychology/AB Literature-English) I lose umbrellas a lot.

Sam David Felix (BS Environmental Science 2014) Alone in a foreign country.

Saved by grace.

A work in progress.

Site: davidfelix.format.com Jerome Flor (4 AB Psychology) Mama’s boy.

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Corrine Garcia (4 BFA Information Design) Corinne can usually be found on benches outdoors, smelling of mosquito repellent, studying by herself, or conversing with a friend.

When she doesn’t do this, she paints. And when she doesn’t paint either, that means she has gone to the world.

Mark Christian Guinto (5 BS Chemistry with Materials Science and Engineering) The series of photographs, taken under a microscope, features CH 3 NH 3 SnI x Cl 1-x perovskite crystals grown on glass. This perovskite belongs to a class of hybrid organic-inorganic materials that have recently attracted interest in photovoltaics research due to the rapid progress in power conversion efficiency (PCE) of perovskite-based solar cells and their relative ease of fabrication.

Mark has captured some interesting images while investigating on the crystal growth of this material for his senior research. He really thanks Block M/M1 and the whole EPE research group for a meaningful year of learning and yearning.

Jonnel Inojosa (BS Legal Management 2016) Kasalukuyang guro si Jonnel ng asignaturang Filipino sa Nakababatang Mataas na Paaralan ng Ateneo de Manila.

Kimberly Lucerna (BS Chemistry 2015) Unang napaibig si Kim sa pilosopiya noong estudyante pa lamang siya ng Ateneo. Nahulog siya sa ideya ng mga pilosopo: sa angst, sa walang hanggang pag-ulit, sa eksistensyalismo, sa kawalan.

Inaalay niya ang “Levinas” kay Patrick, na siyang unang nagkagusto sa tula at tumulong sa kanya sa pag-aayos ng kanyang mga ipinasang akda. Ang “Heidegger” naman ay para kay Gwennie, na tinawanan ang orihinal na bersyon nito sa Ingles.

Huli, nais niyang magpasalamat sa inspirasyon. Salamat, honey.

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Alfred Marasigan (Fine Arts Department) Alfred Marasigan (b. 1992) is a Filipino visual artist.

He combines painting with assemblage, found objects, and installation to convey placelessness. Negotiating a multicolonial past with a global, developing present; shuttling between provincial Batangas and urban Manila; and growing up in quotidian subdivisions, dormitories, and expressways influence Marasigan’s fascination for context, landscape, and environment.

Born and raised in a country replete with such cultural extremes, pastiche, and disconnect, Marasigan attempts to construct his own narrative using abstract, basic, and makeshift pieces that hinge on notions of space, place, and navigation. Ultimately, finding groundedness in transit informs his artistic practice.

Marasigan’s works have been exhibited and published in France, Thailand, Australia, and the United States. In June 2015, he became a First Round Winner of Art Olympia: International Open Art Competition in Tokyo, Japan. Locally, Marasigan has shown in the Metropolitan Museum of Manila and recently had his first solo show entitled Places in the Cultural Center of the Philippines. He is currently taking up his mfa in the University of the Philippines-Diliman and teaches full-time in the Ateneo de Manila University.

Jose Medriano (3 AB Political Science) Wawerz. Hi, Laish!

Angela Natividad (5 AB Philosophy) “The work of wings was always freedom, fastening one heart to every falling thing.”

—Li-Young Lee, “One Heart” Angela is a supersenior double majoring in Creative Writing and Philosophy. She hopes to create a bird sanctuary someday.

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Janelle Paris (4 AB Communication) I aspire to be kind.

Allan Popa (Kagawaran ng Filipino) Tubong Virac, Catanduanes si Allan Popa. Awtor siya ng sampung aklat ng mga tula kabilang na ang Incision (UST Publishing House, 2016), Drone (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2013), at Laan (De La Salle University Publishing House, 2013). Ginawaran na siya ng Philippines Free Press Literary Award at Manila Critics Circle National Book Award for Poetry. Nagtapos siya ng mfa in Writing sa Washington University in Saint Louis kung saan siya nagwagi ng Academy of American Poets Prize at Norma Lowry Memorial Prize.

Kasalukuyan siyang nagtuturo sa Ateneo de Manila University at direktor ng Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and Practices (ailap).

Tinatapos niya ang ph.d. in Literature sa De La Salle University.

Micah M. Rimando (3 BFA Information Design) Kasalukuyang nag-aaral ng ďŹ ne arts si Micah. Patuloy siyang umiibig sa sining, disenyo, animasyon, at pelikula—at pangarap niyang pagaralan at paglingkuran ang nasabing mga larangan pagkatapos ng kolehiyo.

Madalas na napupukaw at nag-aalab ang kaniyang damdamin sa paggawa ng mga sining na tungkol sa mga sakit ng lipunan.

Nais niyang mamulat at magmulat gamit ang sining, disenyo, at pamamahayag.

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Paolo Tiausas (Fine Arts Department) Paolo Tiausas holds a bfa in Creative Writing from The Ateneo de Manila University. His poems and essays have appeared in Kritika Kultura, Likhaan: The Journal of Contemporary Philippine Literature, heights, Softblow, PLURAL: Online Prose Journal, Art+ Magazine, and The Philippines Free Press. He was shortlisted for the Purita Kalaw Ledesma Award for Art Criticism in the 2015 Ateneo Art Awards, and he was an awardee of the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature in 2016. He is currently teaching in the Department of Fine Arts of admu.

Marco T. Torrijos (3 BS Management) Hi to Mom, Pops, Diko, Ats, and Frank.

Joshua Uyheng (5 BS Mathematics) “…he knew they were a little bit afraid and that his being out there with them so late in snow and darkness made the fear itself a keener pleasure.”

—Alan Shapiro, “That and This” To the mornings we kept going back and forth from all the graves. To when I could still outrun you.

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Errata In heights vol. 64 no. 1, Luigi Dela Peña’s piece should read “Gamugamo” instead of “Gamugamu,” and Louie Jon A. Sánchez’ piece should read “Sa Pag-aabang ng Traysikel Isang Tanghali” instead of “Sa Pag-aabang ng Isang Traysikel Isang Tanghali.” In the acknowledgments page, the name “Marin V. Villanueva” should read “Martin V. Villanueva.”

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. Ma. Luz C. Vilches and the Office of the Vice President for the Loyola Schools Dr. Roberto Conrado Guevara and the Office of the Associate Dean for Student Formation Dr. Josefina D. Hofileña and the Office of the Associate Dean of Academic Affairs Dr. Benilda S. Santos and the Office of the Dean, School of Humanities Dr. Isabel Pefianco Martin and the English Department Mr. Martin V. Villanueva and the Department of Fine Arts Dr. Joseph T. Salazar at ang Kagawaran ng Filipino Mr. Allan Popa and the Ateneo Institute of the Literary Arts and Practices (ailap) Mr. Ralph Jacinto A. Quiblat and the Office of Student Activities Ms. Marie Joy R. Salita and the Office of Associate Dean for the Student and 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. Ma. Victoria T. Herrara and the Ateneo Art Gallery The mvp Maintenance and Security Personnel Ms. Issa Yang and Kythe-Ateneo Ms. Katherine Culaba, Ms. Athena Carangan, and the Sector-Based Cluster Dr. Vincenz Serrano and Kritika Kultura Ms. Angela Natividad and WriterSkill Mr. Luis Francia and the Department of Fine Arts Ms. Mariel Alonzo and Babaylan Books Ms. Frances Christine Sayson and The Guidon Mr. Rambo Talabong and Matanglawin 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 Associate Editor Managing Editor for External Affairs for Internal Affairs for Finance Art Editor Associate Art Editor Design Editor Associate Design Editor English Editor Associate English Editor Filipino Editor Associate Filipino Editor Production Manager Associate Production Manager Heights Online Editor Associate Heights Online Editor

Anna Nicola M. Blanco [ab com 2017] Micah Marie F. Naadat [ab com 2017] Meryl Christine J. Medel [ab lit (eng) 2017] Yuri Ysabel G. Tan [bfa id 2018] Robyn Angeli D. Saquin [bfa id 2018] Ninna D. Lebrilla [bfa id 2018] Marco Emmanuel T. Torrijos [bs mgt 2018] Gabrielle Frances R. Leung [bs ps 2019] Michaela Marie G. Tiglao [bs psy 2019] Reina Krizel J. Adriano [bfa cw 2017] Martina M. Herras [ab lit (eng) 2019] Alexandria T. Tuico [bfa am 2018] Ma. Diana Therese G. Calleja [ab com 2018] Janella Grace H. Paris [ab com 2017] Nolan Kristoff P. Sison [bfa id 2018]

Head Moderator and Moderator for Filipino Moderator for Art Moderator for English Moderator for Design Moderator for Production Moderator for Heights Online

Allan Alberto N. Derain Yael A. Buencamino Martin V. Villanueva Jose Fernando Go - Oco Enrique Jaime S. Soriano Nicko Reginio Caluya

Ida Nicola A. de Jesus [bfa id 2017] Juan Marco S. Bartolome [ab lit (eng) 2017]

Staffers Art

Arielle Acosta, Eunice Nicole Arevalo, Flo Bolivar Balane, Victoria J. Barcelon, Jayvee A. del Rosario, Lasmyr Diwa Edullantes, Karl Estuart, Corinne F. Garcia, Fernando Miguel Lofranco, Anna Nieves Rosario A. Marcelo, Arianna Mercado, Celline Marge Mercado, Lorenzo Torres Narciso, Kimberly K. Que, Kristelle Adeline C. Ramos, Andrea Micheline Ramos, Enzo M. Samson, Jose Carlos Joaquin W. Singson, Alexandria Tuico, Fleurbelline Vocalan, Dexter L. Yu

Design

Dianne Aguas, Kim Alivia, Rico Cruz, Justine Daquioag, Zoe de Ocampo, Inya de Vera, Anfernee Dy, Gianne Encarnacion, Miguel N. Galace, Maxine Garcia, Arien M. Lim, Richard Mercado, Tea Pedro, Jeanine Rojo, Gabby Segovia, Jonah Velasquez

English

Rayne Aguilar, Cat Aquino, Alec Bailon, Sophia Bonoan, Danie Cabahug, Karl Estuart, Jamz Gutierrez, Arien M. Lim, Daniel Manguerra, Ryan Molen, Monica Nery, Lia Paderon, Janelle Paris, Andy Reysio-Cruz, Frances Sayson, Reina Tamayo, Alie Unson, Joshua Uyheng, Nigel Yu, Tim Yusingco

Filipino

Jerome Flor, Danilo Gubaton, Mark Christian Guinto, Cymon Kayle Lubangco, Gerald Manuel, Jose Alfonso Mirabueno, Jelmer Jon Ochoa, King Reinier Palma, Dorothy Claire G. Parungao, Paco Rivera, Elija Torre, Loreben Tuquero, Joshua Uyheng

Production

Jill Arteche, Katrina Bartolome, Ponch Castor, Luisa dela Cruz, Anja Deslate, MM Lopez, Theosanti Martinez, Anton Molina, Luigi Reyes, Max Suarez, Neil Vildad, Pia Zulueta

Heights Online

Denise C. Ang, Jose Gabriel C. Amantoy, Marianne Antonio, Anne Nicole R. Dolfo, Corinne Garcia, Janelle Kaela Malig, Patrick Henderson T. Ong, Janine Ysabel B. Peralta, Neil Vildad

22nd ateneo heights writers workshop february 4 – 6, 2017 Riverview Resort, Calamba, Laguna Panelists Mark Anthony Cayanan Dr. Conchitina Cruz Faye Cura Luis Francia Gabriela Lee Allan Popa Dr. Vincenz Serrano Fellows Nikki Blanco [nonfiction] Tracey Dela Cruz [nonfiction] Bee Leung [nonfiction] Wella Lobaton [tula] Cymon Lubangco [tula] Kurt Marquez [poetry] Ryan Molen [fiction] Chaela Tiglao [fiction] Alie Unson [nonfiction] Jolo Urquico [poetry] Workshop Director Marco Bartolome

Workshop Deliberation Committee english Tina Del Rosario Carissa Pobre Cedric Tan ďŹ lipino Christian Benitez Nicko Caluya Rachel Marra

Workshop Committee Alexandria Tuico [assistant workshop director] Karl Estuart, Martina Herras, Anna Marcelo [logistics team] Eunice Nicole Arevalo, Justine Daquioag, Dexter Yu [promotions team] Janelle Paris, Mayan Antonio [online team]

Finance Meryl Medel

Design Anfernee Dy Marco T. Torrijos

Head Moderator Allan Alberto N. Derain

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