LIV 2

Heights

Volume liv Number 2 Ateneo de Manila University 2007

heights

Volume liv Number 2 Copyright © 2007 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, Gonzaga Hall, Room 206 Ateneo de Manila University, p.o. Box 154, Manila Tel. No. 426­­­–6001 Loc. 5089 thinking_chair@Heights-Ateneo.org www.Heights-Ateneo.org Heights is the official literary publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila University Cover Design Stef Macam Design and Layout JPaul Marasigan

Katrina Alvarez Printed in the Philippines by Midtown Printing Co., Inc.

Editorial

I

t was a bright summer day when I found it, behind boxes full of folders and stacked notebooks, worn from use and dusty with age. My childhood possessions

again see the light of day: plastic bead necklaces and friendship bracelets tucked alongside Lisa Frank stickers and colorful stationery, treasures ransomed for maturity and things more grown-up.

I was nine, content in the company of my imagination, my hands sticky from glue, immersed in securing the double knots on my newest little trinket—a pink and violet piece held together by safety pins and love. I spent my afternoons finding the prettiest color combinations and adding as many beads and sequins as the flimsy nylon string could handle. Until one day the string broke, and all was forgotten until today.   To be a child is to be awed by the world. More than just catching our eye, all manners of working, existing, functioning called us to play and poke and discover. I ended up spending many lazy afternoons of my summer making those bracelets. Indeed, what I loved

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more than the sense of accomplishment was finding out what else was there and what could be. Ordinary beads, crystals, and string soon became one-of-a-kind creations of blue and silver, bright red with gold, pale pinks and orange—my little rainbows.

But as rainstorms soon replace rainbows, we come to learn that not all things are bright and sparkly. These scraps and oddments began to be looked upon as child’s play, a filler, and a stopgap until we learn enough to focus on more “important things.”

We at Heights believe in the value of taking a second glance. Look back, you won’t turn into a pillar of salt (I hope.) and re-experience what you’ve always known. Realize that child-likeness is not childishness when we see the world through newly-opened eyes. As you look through these pages, we invite you to wander with us, to wonder with us as we share to you what we have stumbled upon.

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Audrey Trinidad Editor-in-Chief February 2007

Contents Poetry

Louise Bacoy For My Husband, Coming Home from His Lover

3 5

When it is Night, I Think of You Santy Calalay

6

You Saw Me at the Holocaust Miguel Escaño

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9 Poems of Humor and Wonderment Julio Junongbayan

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Kiss Kiss Bang Bang Ali Sangalang

11

Jaywalking

Fiction

Miguel Escaño

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The Man on the Moon

Essay

Camille Pilar

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The Magayon Woman

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Art Gallery

Migs Mercado Down the Rabbit Hole

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Danie San Pedro Alice Gets Lost Again

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Pancho Alvarez Reming Visits Albay

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Elie Javier Lover’s Own

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Alana Intal Tricks

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Joanna Ruaro While You’re Sleeping

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JPaul Marasigan Anong Meron?

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Maurice Wong Traveler’s Tales

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Kim Bartolome Furusato

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Poetry

For My Husband, Coming Home   from His L over Louise Bacoy

I am your have to have.

I am yours like air-Touching your skin, Around you, inside you, in your mouth (when you sleep with it wide open).

I carry our vows Like an overfull glass, Careful not to spill A drop of us outside the bed.

There is no waking up at midnight; No pushing fists inside Dirty trouser pockets Searching for lost letters.

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For I know That when we were cleaved To make one whole, We left parts of us behind, And your goodnight kisses Are pieces from her I must collect.

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When it is Night, I Think of You

I think of you in the manner I think Of the words of my evening prayer: Guiltily rushed but earnest in that Dear Lord if at morn I do not wake, This tired soul that clings to my body Like heavy bedding Would find itself woven (anew) Into dreams that watch over your sleep.

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You Saw Me at the Holocaust Santy Calalay

You saw me at the Holocaust, We spoke with our old tongue.

They forced us to wear coats, Made from the mud of our streets Where we told the ghosts Of our children to play, Where the ashes of our people Whipped past our faces Then scattered in the air.

We breathed in their screams, We breathed in their prayers, The remains of people’s names At the moment of last breaths.

We walked on withered planks To the hovel where sleep is done wide-eyed,

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Where we were fed the idea of meat.

We sat, washed with mud and water, We passed and broke last week’s bread.

We sang on stolen temple wine, Took the wailing violin player’s instrument, And lit it for our warmth.

We took nervous puffs From the saboteur’s cigarettes Before we slept and dreamt Of new cities below old stars.

And one day when those men Took you away, I could not help But smile “not I.”

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9 Haikus of Humor and Wonderment Miguel Escaño

I must compliment The lowly water dipper For catching the moon.

Passing overhead, The nightingale shares with me It’s evening droppings.

Turning from my wife, I listen to the mewling Outside our window.

In the deep twilight, A moth asks the falling leaves, “Are you my lover?”

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In a dusty room Of the old temple, the mice Gnaw the Budda’s feet.

In the stone garden.

The wooden statues raise hands Eaten by termites.

The water strider Glides between lily buds Of the sleeping pond.

I have forgotten A seed in my sake cup--It is now a rose.

Beneath a new moon, Paper lanterns leave a trail Of curious fireflies.

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Kiss Kiss Bang Bang Julio Julongbayan

Kinalabit Ng kinupit kong halik Ang gatilyo ng ’yong galit Kaya nakitil Ang pintig Ng ating pag-ibig

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Jaywalking Ali Sangalang

WALANG TAWIRAN NAKAMAMATAY

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Fiction

The Man on the Moon Miguel Escaño

A

fter the first Filipinos climbed Mount Everest, children started planting flags everywhere. They climbed the water tower. They hiked up the hill out-

side town. They climbed trees in their backyards. They climbed rooftops all over the neighborhood. They would have climbed skyscrapers if there were any nearby.

It was a race among the children. It was a game to reach the highest point. Filipinos had conquered Mount Everest. The Philippine flag was planted on the peak of the world’s tallest mountain. The children asked each other, “What have you climbed lately? What have you conquered today?”

To mark their ascent, the children placed flags at the top. At first, they planted small Philippine flags. Later, they used flags with their names written in big colorful letters. Some flags were one color. Oth-

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er flags had more colors than the rainbow.

Children beamed after planting a flag. Parents felt proud when they saw their child’s flag around town.

Not all children felt the same joy. Not all parents felt the same pride.

Edmund felt small when he saw the children’s flags above his head. His mother felt glad when she did not see her son’s name on a flag as she walked about town.

The other children teased Edmund for not planting flags like them. Parents wondered why Edmund was not climbing places like other children did.

Edmund was named after the British explorer Sir Edmund Hilary.

He was the first man to reach the top of Mount Everest. His father died when Edmund was a baby. A mountaineer, Edmund’s father died while rescuing others during a landslide.

After her husband’s death, Edmund’s mother wanted her son to stay away from high places. “Keep your feet on the ground. Be safe at all times,” she always reminded him.

His classmates teased him everyday. “Edmund’s afraid of heights,” they said. “When he looks at his feet, he gets dizzy,” they joked Edmund grew tired of his classmates teasing him. He felt envious of the other children as they climbed high places and planted their flags on top. He grew angry at his mother for not allowing him to

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join the other children in climbing expeditions.

“I’ll show everyone how brave I am,” said Edmund. “I’ll show them how high I can reach.”

One afternoon after school, Edmund stopped by the store. He bought a simple red flag. He wrote his name in big black letters on the cloth.

Edmund looked around town. He wanted to plant his flag at the highest place he could find.

Colored flags were everywhere. Flags were planted atop the water tower. Flags marked the hilltop outside town. Flags dangled like fruit from the branches of trees. Flags decorated the rooftops like snow.

The surroundings grew darker as Edmund walked. He looked up at the shadows of the trees. He looked up at the shadows of the rooftops. He looked up at the shadow of the hill outside town.

“What is higher than everything else?” the boy asked himself.

He looked above the trees. He looked above the rooftops. He looked above the hill outside town.

Edmund stared at the full moon in the sky. The moon was higher than the trees. It was higher than the rooftops. It was higher than the hill. It was higher than a skyscraper. It was higher than the tallest mountain.

Edmund smiled more brightly than all the stars in the sky. He

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skipped all the way home. The moon jingled in his mind like a polished silver coin.

His mother waited for Edmund at the front porch. “Where did you go?” she asked her son.

“Exploring,” Edmund answered.

“Did you join the other children in climbing high places?” his mother asked.

“No, I was just looking at the moon,” the boy said.

His mother smiled. She ushered Edmund inside the house.

The next morning, Edmund went to the balloon shop. He brought a swollen piggy bank. An old man made the balloons at the balloon shop. He had been making balloons since he was a kid like Edmund.

The boy placed the piggy bank on the counter. “Sir, I want to buy the biggest balloon in this shop,” Edmund said to the balloon maker.

“I need a big balloon to carry me to the moon,” he added.

“Only astronauts travel to the moon. Do you know what you’re doing?” the balloon maker asked.

“Of course. I want to be the first kid on the moon,” the boy told the balloon maker.

“That’s nice,” said the balloon maker. He took the piggy bank from Edmund. He said the balloon would be ready after a week.

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Edmund returned to the balloon shop after a week. He brought a backpack with sandwiches inside. He also brought a red flag with his name written on the cloth.

The balloon maker stood beside the giant balloon. The balloon was big as a narra tree. The balloon looked like a giant red lollipop.

The balloon was tied to a string. The string was tied to a large rock on the ground.

The balloon maker tied Edmund securely to the giant balloon. The boy carried a backpack of sandwiches in one hand and a red flag in the other.

“Once I untie the string attached to the rock, you’ll fly into the sky,” said the balloon maker.

“Are you ready?” he asked the boy.

“I’m ready,” Edmund answered.

“Don’t stay up there too long,” the balloon maker said. He untied the string.

The giant red balloon rose quickly into the air. The old man grew smaller and smaller until he became tiny as an ant. The houses grew smaller and smaller until they resembled toy houses.

As the balloon rose into the air, children pointed at the sky. They pointed at the giant balloon that resembled a red lollipop. Edmund waved at the children below. They soon grew tired of staring and pointing at the sky. Edmund frowned when he saw the children ig-

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noring him.

The Earth grew smaller and smaller until it became the size of a basketball. Edmund looked up. The moon was as big as a bowling bowl. The surface was gray and had many holes. The surface glowed with a strange yellow light. His teachers taught Edmund that the moon borrowed the light of the sun. The moon produced no light of its own. Seeing the moon glowing with its own light, Edmund felt proud. He knew something his teachers did not know.

After Edmund landed on the moon, the first thing he did was plant his flag. “I’m the first boy on the moon,” he said proudly.

Edmund looked at Earth. He looked at his town. Children were playing outdoors. Their eyes were turned away from the sky. Their eyes turned away from the moon.

The boy on the moon grew angry. He threw moon pebbles at the children. After the pebbles hit them, the children looked up at the sky. They rubbed the places where the pebbles had landed. They fled inside their houses.

Edmund watched the children go indoors. He removed his flag on the ground and waved it angrily at everyone on Earth. No one was looking at the sky. No one saw the young boy on the moon.

Edmund threw his flag into the sky. The red flag drifted away into outer space.

The boy sat on the ground. He was pouting. “I’m better off without

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everyone else, Edmund said.

The boy started eating a sandwich from his backpack. The aroma carried in the wind.

After some time eating, Edmund heard a voice behind him.

“Excuse me, may I please have a sandwich?” asked a strange man.

His skin glowed with the same color as the moon’s surface. He was wearing funny clothes. On his head was a cap with a knotted tail that disappeared behind his back. His shirt was made of red silk and the sleeves reached his wrists. A pair of dragons was embroidered across each other on his chest. His pants and shoes were black like outer space. He wore no socks.

“Of course,” said Edmund. He took out another sandwich from his backpack.

The glowing man smiled. He sat down beside Edmund.

Edmund gave the sandwich to the glowing man. The man’s eyes were tiny and sharp. His eyes glowed brightly as he at the sandwich.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked.

The glowing man frowned. “It’s strange. It’s been so long since I’ve talked to another person that I’ve forgotten my name,” he said.

“Do you live here?” Edmund asked.

“Yes but I used to live on Earth,” the glowing man answered.

“Why are you glowing?” the boy asked.

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The glowing man smiled. He said, “I used to have skin like yours when I lived on Earth. My skin started glowing after I learned to eat the mushrooms here on the moon. The caves under the surface are filled with glowing mushrooms. They make the moon glow at night.”

The man took out the mushrooms from his pockets. The mushrooms glowed as brightly as his skin.

“Why are you here?” the glowing man asked Edmund.

Edmund said, “I wanted to be the first kid on the moon. The other children teased me because I did not climb high places like them. I wanted to impress all of the children. I brought a flag with my name and planted it here. It’s gone now. I threw it away. Nobody was looking up here anyway.”

“When are you going back?” the glowing man said.

“I don’t want to. I’m better off without anyone else,” Edmund answered.

The glowing man straightened his posture as he sat on the ground.

He looked toward Earth. There was a faraway look in his eyes that Edmund found familiar. His mother had the same look in her eyes whenever she told him about his father.

The glowing man said, “My parents were astronomers. They were always looking at the stars. I wanted their attention. I flew here to the moon in a large kite. I wanted them to see me when they looked

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through their telescope. I wanted to remain on the moon until my parents went here to look for me. I waited for a long time. Time moves differently here on the moon than on Earth. When I went back to Earth, a long time had passed. My parents were dead. They stopped looking at the stars when they found out I was missing. They searched everywhere for me. They kept searching until they died. I had no family to return to. I decided to go back to the moon and stay here.”

The glowing man looked at the last piece of his sandwich before he placed it inside his mouth. He chewed slowly before swallowing.

The lump if sandwich traveled down his throat like a mole descending deep underground.

“Go back to your family. Don’t make the same mistake I did,” the glowing man said to Edmund.

The boy nodded. A lump had formed in his throat.

“Before you go, I have a gift for you. Wait for me here,” said the glowing man. He stood up and left Edmund.

When the glowing man returned, he was carrying a large kite twice his size. A fire-breathing dragon was painted on the canvas.

The dragon’s skin was covered in emerald-green scales and a pair of paper antlers poked out from its head. It spread sapphire-blue wings that became the kite’s body. Fire spewed from its mouth and became the kite’s tail. The tail was made of diamond-shaped strips colored

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red, yellow, orange and blue.

The colors of the kite danced in Edmund’s eyes. The glowing man handed the kite to the boy.

“This kite will remind you of me. Keep your feet on the ground while looking at the stars. Fly high but always return to Earth,” the glowing man said.

Edmund said thank you. Before he left, he gave the rest of his sandwiches to the glowing man. He waved at Edmund as the boy flew into the sky.

It was dark when Edmund landed back on Earth. His mother waited for him at the front porch of their house. His mother had a worried look on her face.

She smiled when she saw Edmund. He was carrying a large kite.

She asked her son, “Where did you get such a beautiful kite?”

Edmund answered, “The man on the moon gave it to me.”

“You have such a colorful imagination,” she said and kissed Edmund on the cheek.

“Come inside. Dinner’s ready,” his mother said to Edmund. Mother and son went inside the house.

After Edmund started flying a kite, the other children stopped planting flags and joined him in kite-flying. Some kids bought kites at the store. Others built their own kites using sticks of wood and colored paper.

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It was a competition among the children. Every child wanted the largest and most beautiful kite in town. All of the children wanted a kite as large and as colorful as Edmund’s. They asked him how he got such a beautiful kite.

Edmund looked up at sky. It was early in the afternoon. The moon was nowhere to be seen. Edmund wondered about the man he met on the moon. Was he looking at the earth right now? Can he see the beautiful kite I’m flying?

Edmund smiled as he looked up at the sky. He said, “It’s a gift from the man on the moon.”

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Essay

The Magayon Woman Camille Pilar

M

agayon is the Bicolano term for beautiful and a few years ago, I knew of a beautiful woman.

Today, she is beautiful still. ***

I awoke early one June morning in 1999 with my forehead stuck to a cold, clammy window of the Cagsawa Transit Line bound for Legazpi, Albay. The bus was moving at an unsteady speed, alternating between five-second bursts of hastiness and deliberate drags, potholes and pebbles slowing us further to a safe crawl. My eyes adjusted to the unfamiliar scenery that spread flat across the bayan roads, past Camarines Sur and entering the outskirts of Naga, where dusty green fields stretched below the horizon before vanishing into a grayish-

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blue arch of cloudless sky.

Goats and cows dotted the plains and two punctual farmers did their daily stretching activity to the side, extending arms up for three counts, extending forward the next three. This world was much too quiet. The stillness was new to me for I had never set foot outside my birthland, a somewhat noisier Cebu, until last night. Mama had shaken me in my sleep and she dragged my sisters and I to the Mactan airport where we boarded a flight to Manila, only to climb onto a bus twenty minutes after thick metropolitan smog assaulted our senses.

The Cagsawa Line’s ancient air conditioner rattled overhead and drowned the snores and occasional muttering of passengers still deep in sleep. The blast of chilly air from it smelled moldy because the stench of yesterday’s vomit was still traceable by the nose. It was an unnatural morning, and I was misplaced. And soon, I thought, I would be seeing the Mayon Volcano.

My eyes darted away from the window and scanned the length of the bus interiors. There was Lola on the seat in front of me, sleeping with her chin touching her chest, her bony thumb paused over the bead of the fourth mystery. My two younger sisters from across the aisle had their heads halfway buried in their oversized jackets. Then I saw Mama who was wide awake, a glazed, almost ghastly expression on her face, and she looked directly at me. Suddenly I felt sick.

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Lola’s house, we soon found out, had a brick exterior, a sliding door, a potted garden, and best of all, a huge balcony with a majestic view of Mayon. My heart throbbed at first sight and the volcano seemed to throb with it. I stuck my hands into the air hoping to hold the Mayon on either of its slender sides, or run my fingers across its velvety surface. My eyes melted into the royalty of its blue; not even the sky could touch it. This was my first encounter with perfection; what else could this beauty be if not alive.

At lunch, I dodged all the sili on my plate but the laing was delicious. My sisters and I soon forgot about the clumsy meals we had at the airport and on the bus. In the middle of our meal, Lolo came up carrying with him our suitcases, followed by the big, brown boxes. I then remembered why we were here and I burst into tiny sobs unseen to anyone.

The next few weeks became a parade of introductions: meet Tita Cion, cousin this, cousin that, all of whose faces had the same wide, gap-toothed smile and knowing eyes. “Magayunon na mga aki,” they repeated in crisp and rapid Bicolano and my ears strained to catch even the slightest meaning out of the foreign sounds. The introductions continued when Mama enrolled us in the Academia de Sta. Iñes where she studied as a young girl. In St. Agnes, as the school is called now, my sisters and I were pinched on the cheeks and kissed on the forehead by these fast-aging old maids in need of affection

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who I learned later were the same set of young and snobbish teachers Mama had in her day. You have beautiful girls, they all said.

Every day since, my sisters and I would take on an early commute, our first time, to St. Agnes, which was thankfully only three blocks and a bakeshop away. We hired a padyak, this curious and colorful bicycle with a sidecar attached on the right, to bring all three of us to school for five pesos. I was dismissed the latest and I had to walk home alone. When it rained, Lolo would come to pick me up; otherwise, it was just my shadow over the ordinary streets of my new home.

Adjusting came rather naturally; it was acceptance that bit me hard. In the mornings, I would delay opening my eyes for a few seconds, hoping that when I do I would be back within the blue walls of my bedroom in Cebu. There was nothing wrong with Legazpi, this I admitted, but the boxes—those big, balikbayan boxes—perturbed me like nothing else. The sight of them in the corner of the bedroom I shared with Mama contained me, consumed me. They bore a strong impermanence when they were packed full with things; but a hopeless destiny when they were emptied which, by the way, they were.

Neatly stacked one on top of the other, there was emptiness after emptiness.

I would take a good look around the house and see nothing in it that was mine. Instead, everywhere I saw faded pictures of Mama,

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her old Nancy Drew Mysteries collection, her set of china dolls, her first room, her cross-stitched portrait of a cat, and even her Mayon Volcano. I was moving in a world that revolved around her existence and hers alone. I was a simple figure in the presence of undeniable truth because I belonged to her, too.

It was terrifying to see Mama’s world clearly during the day. However, the most sickening part crept in during the dead weight of night.

In the darkness and silence, which not even crickets dare break, I could not tell myself apart from Mama’s possessions. It was at night that I would be welded completely onto her world. My breathing would become her breathing; my thoughts would somehow become her thoughts. All the pillows felt like blocks of stone and I hardly ever fell asleep. I knew that Mama used the nighttime to caress my conscience. She left Papa and she knew I did not forgive her for that.

Most of all, it was during the night when I missed Papa terribly.

I would think about him: was he asleep at that moment or was he watching re-runs of “Miami Vice” on tv again? The stone pillows would soften at the faintest contact with my tears but still the bed forever groaned in his absence.

In July, a small ash plume formed around the Mayon’s crater and soon it had started spewing lava, spitting out burning rocks, sending tiny tremors down the villages by its feet. We felt the earthquakes in Lola’s house and they grew stronger by the day. One morning, we

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awoke to a loud bang! and the beds shook uncertainly beneath us, Nancy Drew quivered in the bookshelves, the dishes clattered in the cabinet and one of them crashed to the floor. The Mayon was nowhere in sight. In its place were monstrous black clouds that clawed through the sky, the streaks of lava, bloody veins.

Amidst the volcanic unrest was a personal unease welling up inside me and I clutched my stomach and ran to the maid’s bathroom, which was closest. My relatives thought it funny that I had my menarche on the same day a volcano erupted and I cursed all of them under my breath. I felt ridiculed and betrayed but most of all, beaten, because Mama had embraced me and told me it was nothing to be ashamed of. I gave her a fierce stare that she returned with kindness.

We did not speak until the week after.

The months fell off the calendar one by one and the daily activities resumed, schoolwork begun to pile up, and even the Mayon seemed to have settled into a grumbling rest. Everything was comfortably back into its niche except for me who never found one. I learned to speak the native language quite decently and made friends with the locals but I was still a stranger to my mother.

Months fell off the calendar, days slipped away, each day lost that I would never regain, and before I even got to unpack myself into this home, Graduation Day was over and I was hurriedly folding clothes and wrapping belongings into suitcases and boxes once more. A year

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had passed so quickly. Papa had come to take me back to Cebu. I noticed that he had aged reasonably since the last time I saw him; untidy stubble rested on his chin and his cheeks looked unwashed, pointy and sullen. I wrote Lolo and Lola a letter of gratitude and I embraced them for the first time before I left. Lola made sure to stick her rosary in my pocket.

The last morning I spent in Legazpi was exactly the same as the day we first arrived—dusty green fields and grayish-blue sky. I kissed my sisters goodbye and promised to write them from week to week so they could practice their reading. I glanced at my mother, who I saw for the first time without careful make-up, but she looked away and we spoke no words, not a whimper, not a sigh. She was sleepy and was devoid of the cheerfulness she wore around my sisters and the sight of her yawning stung my chest.

I clambered into the front seat of the white Sentra Papa had leased as the rest of my baggage was loaded in the trunk. Soon all doors were shut and the car engine grunted to life. I did not roll the window down and since then, I never looked back. When the sun would rise tomorrow, not even the islands would cover the distance between Mama and I. I fell asleep and woke up two hours later and the view outside was smeared and indistinct at about 60 miles per hour. Papa was whistling a tune as he steered the wheel calmly and he greeted me a good

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morning. Surprise struck my body full force and I swerved around, craning my neck as far as I could, but the Mayon Volcano was nowhere to be found.

Art Gallery

Art Editorial

A

dults are often fascinated with children’s imaginations because their thoughts are not often “rational”.

We are amused with the depth of their imagination

and creativity in terms of how they knit fantasy with reality; as we would often hear them say that pregnant women swallowed balls that would eventually turn into babies, and that fishes don’t drown because of bubbles made by mermaids. These are things children think of to make rational a seemingly irrational world.

Dwelling on the theme All Lies in Wonderment, the art gallery of this issue tries to be nostalgic and to bring back the child in all of us who is longing to speculate once more. Our need to fill in the gaps using our wild imaginations makes us see the world in a different light, sometimes veering away from logic while at other still compromising with reality. The drive to wonder is often fueled with the curiosity with the unknown as what the artwork of Mercado suggests. Upon seeing the mysterious, we are faced with the dilemma of satisfying our curiosity or abide by the rules of society and remain

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still. Ruaro’s artwork tells us that in some occasions, our childlike imagination convinces us that the fairy tales we hear or read are true and the characters would even visit us in the most unexpected times. Intal’s digital work on how sometimes our astonishment is brought about by artificial means and because of shock, we tend to let reality fade away and see everything as magical. The eye sees what it wants to see, as the saying goes.

Experiences of wonderment could be vicarious. As legends are passed to us by our elders from their journeys and childhood, our minds begin to welcome new thoughts we never thought could exist, though these things don’t essentially have to be good ones. As seen in Wong’s artwork, stories from elders can both be amusing and foreboding, giving us words of caution.

The theme can also be associated with fantasy, on the realm of magic. The rendering of San Pedro’s work, basing the subject and format on a famous fairy tale puts Alice into the modern and yet another world of enchantment. But these experiences do not exist in tales alone. Bartolome’s drawing gives us the mood of dreams, of how the world seems to bend and give us wings to explore the breadth of imagination.

As the artwork of Javier says, being near someone special, the uncertainty of the moment between whispering lovers asking “what’s going to happen next,” can truly be thrilling. But anticipating what’s

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going to happen next can also be tormenting, like thinking about our lives in the aftermath of a storm. Alvarez sympathizes with the victims of Albay through his work and joins them in asking why.   In general, the theme for this folio is very light and refreshing. This gallery is a celebration of the lost, or to put it sharply, the sleeping childlike perspective of the world.

J Paul Marasigan Art Editor February 2007

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Migs Mercado Down the Rabbit Hole Watercolor on Board and Digital 93.98 x 152.40 cm (72 dpi) 2007 42

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Danie San Pedro Alice Gets Lost Again Ink 29.85 x 22.86 cm 2007 vol. liv no. 2

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Pancho Alvarez Reming Visits Albay Ink 29.85 x 22.86 cm 2007 45

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Elie Javier Lover’s Own Ink on Paper 28.58 x 20.32 cm 2007 vol. liv no. 2

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Alana Intal Tricks Digital Mixed Media 30.48 x 55.88 cm (300 dpi) 2007 48

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Joanna Ruaro While You’re Asleep Ink and Pencils on Paper 19.69 x 11.43 cm 2007 vol. liv no. 2

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JPaul Marasigan Anong Meron?

Colored Pencils on Paper 17.78 x 15.88 cm 2007 50

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Maurice Wong Traveler’s Tales Charcoal and Chalk Pastels on Paper 21.59 x 22.86 cm 2007 vol. liv no. 2

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Kim Bartolome Furusato Pencils and Colored Pencils on Paper 15.88 x 22.86 cm 2007 52

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Contributors

Pancho Alvarez ii ab Political Science Nature’s left hand has been released transforming bodies into tormented souls that wander the earth searching for justice with the chilling reality of Reming deeply imprinted within their sensitive entity. In their search, may they find light and may their spirits finally rest in peace.

Louise Andrea Bacoy iv bfa Creative Writing wonders what the hell Peter O’Toole should do for him to win an Academy Award.

John Santy Calalay iv bfa Creative Writing “20 years a writer. 20 years of non-glamourous.”

Kim Darby Bartolome v bs Electronics and Communications Engineering It’s time to go.

—ece Wireless logistics group ’07 aka bucol Inc. Miguel Escaño Management, major in Communications Technology Management ’02 English Department has learned a lifetime’s worth from his students.

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Noelle Alana Intal ii ab Management Economics Is there a limit to imagination?

Thanks to Marion of nighty-stock, spiritsighs-stock and the photobreed team for stock used.

Eliana Laurice Javier ii ab Economics You are a child of the universe No less than the trees and the stars You have a right to be here Julio Benigno Julongbayan i ab History Alam mo ang aking pangalan Alam mo ang aking itsura Ngunit Kilala mo ba Ako ?

John Paul Marasigan iii bfa Information Design Sining ang aking asawa. Disenyo ang aking kerida.

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Miguel Mercado i ab Interdisciplinary Studies Follow the white rabbit.

Camille Kimberly Pilar iii ab Communication Camille is an ab Communication major with a minor in English Literature. She once wanted to become an astronaut.

Joanna Victoria Ruaro iii ab European Studies This is for Jerome who always believed and supported me!Ăœ You are my happy thought!

Danielle San Pedro iii ab European Studies This is a glitch in the system.

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Ali Sangalang ii ab Interdisciplinary Studies Salamat kina Mars, Anne, Brandz, Ginoong Brion, at kay Erika.

Unang nakilala bilang matinik na kuwentista si Ali bago sineryoso anng dibdibang pagtutula at pagiging makata. Nagsimula siyang sumulat noong dekada nobenta, sumubok mag-ambag sa komiks, naglakas loob mag-audition sa Willie of Fortune, magpinta ng mmda art, krumopeck sa Zakuska, makipaglabing-labing sa tricycle na may kurtina, tumikim ng Buena bonita buy-one-take-one, mag- “water na lang” sa Bo’s, mangolekta ng libreng cr ticket sa Promenade, ma-adik sa minesweeper, magpatuyo ng kili-kili sa Loyola Bookstore, mabuwisit sa paulit-ulit na theme song ng pcsd, magparefill ng magparefill ng Tang hanggang mapa—“Tang I** ikaw na naman!?!” na si ate, jumaywalk at jumingle sa edsa, maging Citizen Patrol, hanggang hiranging patnugot ng Buy & Sell magazine kamakailan.

Sa kasalukuyan, patuloy siyang nananaginip at umaasang buhay pa si Tupac.

Maurice Wong ii bs Chemistry - Material Science Engineering Dreams are made winding through my head.

—System of a Down, Spiders

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Acknowledgments

Fr. Bienvenido F. Nebres, s.j. and the Office of the President Dr. Maria Assunta Cuyegkeng and the Office of the Vice President for the Loyola Schools Ms. Miriam de los Santos and the Office of Student Activities Ms. Karen B. Cardenas and the Office of Research and Publications Mr. Rene San Andres and the Office of the Associate Dean for Student Affairs Ms. Lourdes Sumpaico, Ms. Kat Faustino, and the Office of Administrative Services Ms. Elizabeth Aquino of the Central Accounting Office and the Purchasing Office Dr. Leovino Ma. Garcia, Ms. Angeli Tugado, and the Office of the Dean, School of Humanities Dr. Maria Luz Vilches and the Department of English Ms. Corazon Lalu-Santos and the Department of Filipino Fr. Rene Javellana, s.j. and Mr. Xander Soriano of the Fine Arts Program Dr. Benilda Santos and the Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and Practices Mr. Danilo Reyes and Mr. Alvin Yapan for being part of the Heights Writing Seminar Mr. Rodolfo Alayban and the University Archives Mr. Rodney Cordova and the Matteo Ricci Staff Ms. Christine Bellen, Mr. Gino Bagsit, Fr. Nick Cruz, Mr. Andrew Ty, and Mr. Alfred Yuson for facilitating the Creative Talks Company of Ateneo Dancers for performing during the launch of Volume liv Number 1 Ateneo Association for Communications Technology Management and amp for being part of Serenata Ateneo Special Education Society for being part of the Art Charity vol. liv no. 2

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  Workshop Ms. Rhodora Violan and Midtown Printing Co., Inc. Evita Veronica Guinto and The Guidon Joseph Edward Alegado and Matanglawin Siddharta Perez and LitSoc The Gonzaga Hall maintenance personnel High Chair, up Writers Club, and dlsu Malate Literary Folio And to all those who continually support Heights projects and to those   who submit their works.

Dividers

Pancho Alvarez JPaul Marasigan

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Editorial Board 2006 - 2007

Editor-in-Chief Associate Editor Managing Editor English Editor Associate English Editor Filipino Editor Associate Filipino Editor Art Editor Internal Secretary-General External Secretary-General Special Projects Manager Business Manager

Moderator

Audrey Phylicia N. Trinidad Louise Andrea S. Bacoy Anne Kimberley C. Ong Louise Andrea S. Bacoy Fidelis Angela C. Tan Geriandre M. Piquero Kevin Bryan E. Marin John Paul F. Marasigan Cherie Ann T. Lo Joanna Victoria D. Ruaro Yasha Bianca G. Barretto Jose Edru T. Urcia

Edgar Calabia Samar

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Members English Santy Calalay . Marguerite de Leon . Meriam Esmenda Antonio Habana . Arkaye Kierulf . Marie La Vi単a Madeline Ong . April Sescon . Martin Villanueva Timothy Villarica Filipino Lester Abuel . Victor Anastacio . Karen Brillantes Anne Calma . Twinkle De Los Reyes . Brandz Dollente Chuck Marin . Jason Tabinas . RG Tanchangco Roselle Tugade . Chester Valdellon Art Pancho Alvarez . Kim Bartolome . Elie Javier Migs Mercado . Danie San Pedro . Mau Wong Design Katrina Alvarez . Garet Garcia . Stef Macam Fidel Pamintuan . Earl Perlas Special Jay Alim . Francis de Guzman . Alex Jhocson Projects Maria Karaan . Jac Ledonio . JL Limsico . Petra Magno Jonats Pascual . Mikes Quijano . Jomel Salas Danie San Pedro

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