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heights tomo 60 bilang 3 Karapatang – ari © 2013 Reserbado ang karapatang – ari sa mga indibidwal na awtor ng mga akda sa isyung ito. Hindi maaaring ilathala, ipakopya, o ipamudmod sa anumang anyo ang mga akda nang walang pahintulot ng mga awtor. Hindi maaaring ibenta sa kahit anong paraan at pagkakataon ang kopyang ito. Maaaring makipag – ugnayan sa: heights, Publications Room, mvp 202 Ateneo de Manila University, p.o. Box 154, Manila Tel. no. 426 – 6001 local 5448 heights – ateneo.org heights ang opisyal na pampanitikang publikasyon at organizasyon ng Pamantasang Ateneo de Manila. Dibuho sa pabalat: Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan & Sara Erasmo Paglalapat: Eugene Tuazon Malikhaing Direksyon: Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan Inilimbag sa mvb Verdigris


Mga Nilalaman Eugene Soyosa  3 Moro – moro  6 Holen Genaro R. Gojo Cruz  7 Sumakabilang – bahay Jason Tabinas   14 Pagtirik ng Kandila Abner Dormiendo   15 Liham Bago Ka Lumisan Aidan Manglinong  16 Tangrib Edgar Calabia Samar   17 Ang Kasiyahan ng mga Isda Allan Popa  18 Aralin Deirdre Camba  20 Sermon Joe Ledesma  22 Poison Jenina Ibañez   33 Silent Treatment Joseph Casimiro   34 Chasing Light


Isabela Cuerva   35 Christmas Song for No One in Particular Jeivi Nicdao  38 Firmament Luiz Wilfredo Atienza   42 The Street Magician   43 The End Sari Katharyn Molintas   44 Being Bookish Brian Paul Giron   48 Corners, 30th and 2nd   50 Waiting for the Locksmith at Two on a Monday Afternoon Nicko Reginio Caluya & Kevin Caballa  52 Mirrors Stephanie Shi  53 Body Stefani Tran   64 Consider the following as universally true


Sining RD Bolinas   76 Lunacy Series: Lunatic 4 / 5 / 7 / 8   92 Lunacy Body Morph Series: 1 & 2 Lester James Miranda  78 Nebula Isobeli Angeli Francisco   79 Mistress Mary   102 “Lifebinder, preserve me.” Angelo Juarez   80 Big Fish Meggie Ong   81 SPACE Series: Untitled 1 / 2 / 3 Jose Tence Ruiz   84 Ganap Mural Luke Lazatin  86 [[[confined]]] Pia Samson   87 Close up of an Orchid  90 Untitled


Manuel Angulo   88 Is it Madeline? Adrian Begonia  89 Feast Alfred Benedict Marasigan   91 The Canonization of Rihanna   96 All Stars Pam Celeridad   94 Cain & Abel Nicole Castañeda   97 Inhale, Exhale Ali Nadine Timonera   98 There’s Always Something Bigger Enzo Dino   99 Ingenuity Amidst Diversity John Alexis Balaguer   100 Aegri Somnia Nicole Maguyon  101 Muro – Ami


Editoryal Malaking papel ang ginagampanan ng social media upang mabuo ang indibidwal at ang kolektibong identidad ng ating henerasyon. Hindi nakapagtatakang naghahanap na rin tayo ng mga interaksyon sa iba’t ibang tao na hangga’t maaari, madali, mabilis, mura, at popular. Kung hindi, mapag – iiwanan tayo. Huli tayo sa balita at wala tayo sa uso. Kung magpapatuloy ito, mamamatay ang presensiya natin sa virtual na daigdig, na sa kasalukuyan, halos kasinghalaga na ng totoong presensiya. Upang mapatunayang nabubuhay nga tayo sa daigdig na likha sa atin ng Internet, kinakailangan nating mag – ingay at magpakita ng representasyon ng mga sarili. Sa pamamagitan ng isang post sa Facebook o Tumblr, tweet sa Twitter, larawan sa Instagram, entry sa blog, e – book o PDF sa Issuu, o video upload sa Youtube, plural ang mga alternatibong paraan upang makapagpahayag ng ideya o damdamin, magpapansin, at makalikom ng mga tugon. Nakapaglaan ngayon ng espasyo upang maging malikhain: makagawa ng meme, makapagsimula ng bagong trending topic, o makapagtaguyod ng sariling komunidad online upang pag – usapan ang pare – parehong interes. Rebolusyonaryo ngayon ang Internet sapagkat isinilang mula rito ang iba’t ibang produktong tinutumbasan na ang kakayahan ng mga produkto ng mga palimbagan tulad ng diyaryo, aklat, magasin, atbp. Higit na nagiging mabisa ang talab ng mga online posts dahil nakapaglalaan ito ng espasyo upang tumugon nang agaran at mabilisan. Bukod sa mga reaksyong pasulat o patalastas, higit pang pinadali ang proseso. Halimbawa na lamang nito ang mga favorites at reposts na tampok at patok sa mga sites na nabanggit kanina. Layunin ng favorite (tulad ng sa Twitter, like sa Facebook, thumbs up sa Youtube, atbp.) na maging isang yunit ng paghanga viii


o pagsang – ayon. Sa huli, bumubuo ang maraming favorites ng koleksyon ng mga pagmamarka ng kung ilang tao ang may gusto ng isang akda o likha. Higit na marami ang bilang ng favorites, higit na popular o gusto ng madla ang anumang post. Lagpas sa paghanga ang hatid naman ng mga reposts (reblog sa Tumblr, share sa Facebook o Youtube, retweet sa Twitter, atbp.) dahil tanda ang mga ito ng pag – aangking – muli ng isang akda. Sa huli, nakaugat pa rin sa popularidad at impluwensya ang epekto ng paggamit nito. Nakikisang – ayon o nakikiisa ang mga taong nagpaskil ng reposts sa anumang ideyang isinusulong ng orihinal na post. Sa ibang anggulo, nagmimistulang inaangkin ng isang user ang iba pang mga user sa pamamagitan ng virtual repossession ng kanilang mga post. Maaari ring tulad ng mga favorite, nasusukat ang katanyagan ng isang website o post kung maraming reposts. Subalit sa kabila ng kagandahang dala ng teknolohiyang ito, mayroon ding masamang suliraning dulot ang Internet, lalo na sa larangan ng kritisismo at pagtanggi. Nilikha ang Internet bilang espasyong walang may nagmamay – ari, kaya may kalayaan ang mga netizen na makapagpahayag ng mga saloobin nang walang restriksyon. Nagkakaroon ng lakas ng loob o kapal ng mukha ang mga taong gamitin ang kalayaang ito sa virtual na mundo upang masabi ang mga komento na hindi lubusang nagagawa sa totoong daigdig. Umaabot ang mga kritisismo sa mahahabang bangayan sa online discussion boards, comment threads sa mga forum. Naisasalin ang kapangyarihang makapanlibak ng mga komentong maaaring hindi katanggap – tanggap sa realidad patungo sa mga social networking sites. May ilang ginagamit ang mismong kritisismong ito upang maging anyo ng pagpapatawa. Binansagan itong trolling, na isa nang sining ayon sa mga netizen. Kaya naman hindi nakapagtatakang naiimpluwensyahan na ng mga kaugaliang ix


nabuo sa paggamit ng Internet ang mga pagpapahalaga natin sa mga bagay at tao sa realidad, sa larangan man ng paghanga o pagtanggi. May kinalaman ngayon ang ganitong mga pagbabago sa pagtrato ng henerasyong ito sa produksyon at ebalwasyon ng panitikan at sining. Nakatuon ang kalidad ng produksyon ng isang likhang pampanitikan o pansining sa samu’t saring pamantayang patuloy na iniluluwal ng cyberspace. Hindi na basta pag-uusapan ang kung ano ang maganda, may katuturan, o may laman. Marami bang naaabot na tao ang ganitong pamamaraan ng pagpapahayag? Saan at gaano kabilis na ba nakarating ang isang likha? Sa huli, nawawalan na ng ingat ang mga tao pagdating sa kanilang mga pagtatasa at pagtugon. Lalo pang lumalala ang situwasyon dahil mahirap nang tukuyin sa virtual na daigdig ang totoo at matapat na kritisismo sa mga patama at pang-aasar lamang. Sa kaso ng heights, hindi matatakasan ang ganitong kawalan ng ingat, sabihin mang hindi sinasadya. May mga bagay na pinalalampas nang hindi pa sinusuri o sinisigurong mabuti, kahit ipinag – iigi ng bawat bagwisan ang deliberasyon ng mga akdang dumarating sa aming tanggapan upang hindi mauwi sa madaling metodo ng ebalwasyong dala ng Internet. Halimbawa, sa pagpapadala ng mga e – mail, maaaring hindi naging malinaw ang paraan ng pag-uusap o hindi muling binalikan ang mga e-mail kung naipadala na nga ang mga ito. Bilang Publikasyon at Organisasyong patuloy na ginagalang ang sinumang nais maging bahagi nito, nais magpaumanhin ng patnugutan sa sinumang nabastos sa paraan ng pakikipagkomunikasyon sa pamamagitan ng Internet. Mula sa paghingi ng tawad, nais pa ring manaig ang aming mensahe ng pasasalamat sa mga patuloy na tumatangkilik sa heights, na malapit nang isara ang pagdiriwang ng ikaanimnapung taon nito. Naging prestihiyoso ang panawagan para sa espesyal na LX Anniversary Issue. Marami sa mga kontribusyong natanggap ang nagpakita ng husay sa kanilang napiling anyo ng pagpapahayag. Ganito man ang kaso, mayroon pa ring ilan sa maraming suliranin ng henerasyong ito ang nakaapekto sa pagbuo ng konsepto at tema ng isyung ito. x


Hindi gaano katindi ang naging pagtanggap ng komunidad para sa panawagan ng regular na isyung ito, lalo pa’t isa lamang itong regular na isyu. Napansin ng patnugutan na marami ng naipadalang akda at likhang – sining mula sa LX Issue, hindi tulad ng kakaunting nakalap para sa regular na isyung ito. Walang ibang nagawa ang patnugutan kundi pumili mula sa iilang kontribusyon. Hindi rin naman nais ng Publikasyong isakripisyo ang kabuuang kalidad ng isyu kapalit ng pagdami ng laman nito. Sa pagkilala sa mahaba ngunit masinsing proseso ng deliberasyon at publikasyon, magsilbi pa ring espesyal na isyu ito upang tangkilikin ng sinumang makapagbabasa o makatitingin. Itatawid at ipagpapatuloy ng isyung ito ang tradisyon ng mga regular. Sa likod ng inililimbag na regular na isyu na inililimbag din naman kahit regular na taon, nabubuo ang napakayamang tradisyon ng Publikasyong ito. Matagal pa man bago tuluyang lumipad ang panitikan at sining palayo sa papel patungo sa mga monitor at mobile screen, hindi titigil ang heights na magtagumpay sa mga pagtatangkang gawing espesyal kahit pa ang mga regular na isyu. Ang mga akdang mababasa at likhang-sining na makikita ng sinumang may hawak ng isyung ito ang magsisilbing iyong pagkilala at muling pag-aangkin sa mga may – akdang piniling magbahagi at maging bahagi nang itinatrato ang regular bilang espesyal. Panahon na upang bugawin ang ating nilalangaw na henerasyon. Nicko Reginio Caluya Pebrero 2013

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eugene soyosa

Moro – moro I Malaon nang nakalimutan ang ugat ng pinaglabanan. Hindi na ito away ng dalawang relihiyon, ng mga dinarang na damdamin sa loob ng daan – daang taon. Ito’y hamak na tuksuhan ng mga kabataang minsa’y nagkakasakitan. Hindi na kailangan ang isang milyong sundalo. Sapat na ang sampu hanggang dalawampung manlalaro. Walang malay ang mga paslit sa pinagmulan ng tawag sa laro. O baka wala na silang pakialam. Bagaman naroon ang mga elemento ng digmaan —  Ang huling humawak sa himpilan, may lakas mambihag ng kalaban. Nakaaakit ang anumang nakaumang. Huling humahabol ang pinakamatapang. Pahaba nang pahaba ang pila ng magkakakapit na bihag habang palapit nang palapit sa bingit ng bitag. 3


II Natutunan nila sa eskuwela ang isang uri ng pagtatanghal noong panahon ng mga espanyol na idinaraos sa isang entablado tuwing pista ng mga santo. Kahit nanunuot sa buto ang init, nakasuot ng makakapal na damit ang mga tagaganap: asul sa mga kristiyano, pula sa mga muslim. Heto ang isang kuwento: ililigtas ng prinsipeng kristiyano ang prinsesang moro. Nadapa ang prinsipe sa pagsagip sa prinsesa. Tumigil ang oras. Tinulungan ng prinsesang makatayo ang prinsipe sa gitna ng nakabibinging tawanan ng mga manonood.

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III Heto ang laro sa lungsod: halos madapa’t sumubsob ang batang lalaki sa pagsagip sa batang babae. Una siyang nataya bago naglapat ang kanilang mga kamay. Kay tagal mag – umpisa ng panibagong laro. Sa sandaling iyon, sapat na sa kanila ang magkakilala.

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eugene soyosa

Holen Nang tumila ang ambon sinalubong mo ang alimuom. Mamasa – masa ang lupang binutas ng maliit mong daliri. Ilang hakbang palayo, ginuhitan mo ang lupa —  sapat lang na pagitan upang subukin ang sarili. Nakatalungko, inilabas mo ang mga holen sa bulsa: mga luntiang mata, lumilibot ang tingin nila sa langit. Tinawag ang iyong pansin ng puno ng aratiles.

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genaro r. gojo cruz

Sumakabilang – bahay di ko alam na may problema pala ako! Wala na si Papa para samahan akong maglaro ng basketbol. Wala na siya para turuan akong magsuot ng korbata. Wala na siya para isuot sa akin ang panyo ng pang-Boy Scout. Wala na siya para turuan akong magdrowing. Wala na siya para tulungan akong i – connect ang mga tuldok sa isang drowing na di pa buo. Wala na siya para turuan akong sagutan ang assignment ko sa Math. Wala na siya na lagi kong katulong sa pagkain ng isang buong pizza. Wala na si Papa para tulungan ako sa lahat ng mga paborito kong gawin. Si Mama na lang ang kasama ko na lagi namang nakakulong sa kanyang kuwarto. Puwede pa lang hatiin ang lahat. Kinuha ni Papa ang isa naming asul na kotse. Naiwan kay Mama ang pula. Kinuha ni Papa ang kanyang mga koleksiyong CD at pelikula. Naiwan kay Mama ang mga binili niya at ang mga paborito kong kartun. Kinuha ni Papa ang kanyang mga trophy, koleksiyon ng mga clown na galing sa iba’t ibang bansa, mga alak na di pa bukas, ang picture frame nina Lolo at Lola na nasa aming sala. Naiwan kay Mama ang aming family picture. Kinuha ni Papa ang kanyang mga aklat at magazine. Naiwan ang mga aklat ni Mama at ang mga coloring book ko.

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Kinuha ni Papa ang lahat ng kanyang mga damit. Naiwan ang mga damit ni Mama sa kanilang damitan. Isang mahigpit na yakap ang ibinigay sa akin Papa nang umalis siya matapos niyang ilagay ang lahat ng kanyang gamit sa aming asul na kotse. Ako naiwan kay Mama. Nangyari ang lahat nang tahimik. Wala man lang akong narinig kina Mama at Papa. Pag – alis na pag – alis ni Papa, tiningnan ko ang dating kinalalagyan ng kanyang mga gamit. Biglang  –  lumuwag ang aming bahay. Nagkaroon ng maraming-maraming espasyo. Natatandaan ko, problema ni Mama noon ang espasyo. “Ang sikip – sikip na nitong bahay natin, Dad. Dapat sigurong magbawas na tayo ng ilang gamit para naman lumuwag itong bahay natin,” sabi ni Mama. “Alin sa mga gamit natin ang dapat alisin?” tanong ni Papa. Di kumibo si Mama. Walang nabawas sa aming bahay. Puwede pa lang mangyari sa akin ang nangyari sa ibang bata. Wala na si Papa. Wala na ang kanyang mga gamit at damit. Bakit kailangan niyang umalis? Dalawa na lang kami ni Mama na nakatira sa aming bahay na parang biglang lumaki. Sa araw – araw, parang walang pagod si Mama. Isa – isa niyang binura ang mga espasyong iniwan ni Papa. Nilinis niya ang aming pulang kotse at iginarahe sa dating garahe ng aming asul na kotse. Inayos ni Mama ang sarili niyang koleksiyon ng mga CD at pelikula, kasama ang mga paborito kong kartun sa dating lalagyan ni Papa. “Bukas, mamimili tayo ng mga bagong pelikula. Anong gusto mong panoorin Pao?” sabi ni Mama. Pinatugtog ni Mama ang mga paborito niyang awitin. Pinunasan ni Mama ang mga dating lalagyan ng trophy, koleksiyong clowns, at picture frames nina Lolo at Lola. Nilagyan 8


niya ito ng aking diploma noong kinder ako, ng picture naming dalawa noong sabitan niya ako ng ribbon at ng aking first birthday, at ng isang magandang flower base. Sa lalagyan ng mga alak ni Papa, pumalit ang mga recipe ni Mama. Sa lalagyan ng mga aklat at magazine ni Papa, inilagay niya ang kanyang mga aklat at ang aking mga coloring book. “Pupunta rin tayo sa book store bukas. Anong aklat ang gusto mong basahin Pao?” sabi ni Mama. Nilagyan ni Mama ng kanyang mga damit ang dating damitan ni Papa. Sa araw – araw, unti – unti, nabura na sa aming bahay ang mukha at amoy ni Papa. Parang talagang di siya tumira sa aming bahay nang matagal na matagal. Sa araw – araw, lalong dumalas ang pagtawag ni Mama sa aking pangalan. Ako na rin ang naging tagapag – alala ni Mama. Sa bahay: “Mama, dumating na ang bill natin ng Meralco.” “Mama, pagagawa na natin ang gripo.” “Mama, ang susi ng kotse nasa estante.” “Mama, family day bukas sa school namin.” Sa supermarket: “Mama, itlog para sa iluluto mong pancake bukas,” sabi ko. “Ay! Oo nga, buti naalala mo!” “Mama, wala na tayong shampoo,” paalala ko. “Buti sinabi mo!” “Mama, sira na ang gripo natin,” paalala ko. “Oo nga pala, sa’n ba makakakita no’n?” “Mama, magbabayad pa tayo ng Meralco!” “Mama, ang susi ng kotse!” Simula noong umalis si Papa, pakiramdam ko, parang bigla akong lumaki agad. Nami-miss ko na rin si Papa at ang mga paborito kong gawin kasama siya. Saang bahay kaya siya nakatira? 9


Sa araw – araw, nakita kong nadadagdagan ang sigla ni Mama. Gumanda ang hardin sa harap ng aming bahay at napuno ng maraming bulaklak. Pati nga mga kabitbahay namin, pinupuri ang gumanda naming hardin. “Pao, halika! Laro tayo ng basketbol sa sports complex!” aya ni Mama. “Marunong kang magbasketbol, ‘Ma?” “Aba! Siyempre! Basketbol yata ang isports ko noong hay skul! Malalaman mo ngayon kung gaano ako kaahusay magbasketbol!” sabi ni Mama habang pinalalaki ang kanyang boses. Namangha ako sa mga kayang gawin ni Mama. Napakabilis niyang naisusuot sa akin ang aking korbata. Kayang – kaya rin niyang isuot sa akin nang walang kagusot-gusot ang panyo na pang-Boy Scout. Kayang-kaya rin niyang ituro sa aking iba’t ibang drowing. Pero sa connect the dots, hinayaan na niya akong mag – isa. “Kung minsan, nakikita na natin ang buong picture sa ating isipan kahit di pa ito talagang buo,” sabi ni Mama. Di ko maintindihan ang kanyang sinabi. “Halimbawa, dito anong nakikita mo sa isip mo?” tanong ni Mama. “Palasyo!” malakas kong sagot. “O di ba? Alam mo ng palasyo ang mabubuo!” “Basta alam mo ang bilang na iko – connect, mabubuo ang picture na nasa iyong isip. Ang mahalaga, nakikita mo kung ano ang natitira sa drowing dahil nalalaman mo ang iyong mga dapat gawin,” sabi ni Mama. Lalong di ko maintindihan ang sinabi ni Mama. Simulan kong i  –  connect ang mga tuldok sa drowing na di kompleto. Nabuo na ang palasyo pero napakalungkot. “Ngayon, simulan mo na ang pagkukulay sa palasyo para magkaroon naman ito ng buhay,” utos ni Mama. Hinawakan ni Mama ang aking kamay sa pagkukulay. 10


Naging isang makulay na palasyo ang drowing na kanina ay di kompleto. Masayang – masaya akong kasama ni Mama. Wala naman pala akong problema. Parang mas naging buo at siyang – siya si Mama nang umalis sa aming bahay si Papa. Kailangan ni Mama ang mahabang bakasyon. Ang dami kasi niyang nagagawa na pambihira! “Mama, bakasyon tayo sa San Joaquin, sa ating farm sa Batangas pagkatapos ng pasok ko,” aya ko kay Mama isang araw. “Tiyak na malaki na ang itinanim kong guyabano roon noong isang taon!” bigla akong nasabik. “Naku! Pao, mukhang imposible ang iniisip mo,” sagot ni Mama. “Maganda nga sanang magbakasyon tayo roon pero kailangan pa nating magpaalam sa Papa mo. Baka may iba siyang plano. Di tayo puwedeng pumunta roon nang basta-basta,” dagdag ni Mama. Pinaghatian na rin kaya nina Mama at Papa ang aming farm sa San Joaquin? O kay Papa na ang farm at kay Mama naman ang aming malaking bahay? Lahat talaga ay napaghatian na nina Mama at Papa. Ako na lang ang kanilang di napaghahatian! Sa iskul, pina – assignment ni Titser na magdala raw kami ng aming family picture. Akala ko, wala na akong mahahanap sa aming bahay. Buti na lang, may naitago pa si Mama. Sabi ni Titser, magkuwento raw ang bawat isa sa amin tungkol sa aming pamilya. Marami sa mga kaklase ko, kasama pa rin ang kanyang tatay sa kanilang bahay. ‘Yung iba naman ay nasa ibang bansa at doon nagtatrabaho. Pero ang ikinalulungkot ko, ang kuwento ni Abby.

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Sumakabilang – buhay raw ang kanyang Papa noong isang taon dahil sa sakit na kanser. Di na raw niya makikita at makakasama ang kanyang Papa. Noong ako na, ito ang sinabi ko: “Ito ang family picture namin. Ang cute ko no! Ang liit – liit ko pa! Kalong ako ni Mama na kasama ko ngayon sa aming malaking bahay. Lahat ng dating ginagawa ni Papa siya na ngayon ang gumagawa. Si Mama ang kasama ko sa paglalaro ng pagbasketbol, sa pagdo – drowing, at sa pagkain ng pizza at pancake. Ako rin lagi ang tagapag – alala ni Mama sa maraming bagay. Si Papa, sumakabilang – bahay na. Di alam kung saan na siya nakatira pero miss na miss ko na rin siya. Pero tiyak kong dadalawin naman niya kami.” Biglang nagtanong ang aking mga kaklase kung ano raw ang ibig sabihin ng “sumakabilang – bahay.” Si Titser ang sumagot. “Ibig sabihin ng sumakabilang – bahay, lumipat na ng ibang bahay. Sa ibang bahay na nakatira. Pero alam ninyo, di lamang sa pagiging buo nasusukat ang tunay na kahulugan ng pamilya. Di man kompleto ang pamilya ng iba sa inyo, ang mahalaga ay ang mga naiwan na patuloy na mabubuhay at magmamahalan.” Suwerte pa rin ako dahil sumakabilang – bahay lang si Papa. Alam kong darating siya isang araw at gagawin namin ang mga paborito naming gawin. Pero sa ngayon mas iisipin ko muna si Mama. Kailangan kong mabuo ang mga di kompletong drowing sa aking coloring book para kay Mama. Kailangan ako ni Mama. Kahit di ko alam ang dahilan ng pag – alis ni Papa sa aming bahay, sa magagandang ginagawa ni Mama sa araw – araw, ayos na! Di na kailangan pang sabihin sa akin ni Mama ang lahat – lahat. Di na namin kailangan pang mag – usap.

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Naisip ko, kung si Mama ang sumakabilang – bahay, tiyak na tiyak na magiging doble ang problema ko. Dahil yung mga nagagawa ni Papa sa akin, kayang-kaya niyang gawin. At ‘yung mga nagagawa ni Mama, tiyak kong di lahat ay magagawa ni Papa.

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jason tabinas

Pagtirik ng Kandila Nang masungkit ang iyong mga damit, isinumpa mo Na sana mamatay ang maygawa. Malalaman natin Kung sino kung saan may nakatirik na mga kandila, Biro ko. Kinagabihan, buong Kamaynilaan ang nagtirik Ng kandila nang mag – black – out. Nag – init ang iyong ulo Sa init at hindi rin maplantsa ang mga natirang damit.

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abner dormiendo

Liham Bago Ka Lumisan Tahimik kitang pinagmamasdan habang tahimik kang nagsasamsam ng iyong mga kagamitan. Sa aking isip marahan din akong nagliligpit. Masinsin kong itinutupi ang mga alaala at isinisilid sa aking gunita. Iniingatan kong hindi sila malukot sa kanilang pagkakatiklop habang ibinabaon ko sila sa limot. Marahan kong binabalot ng katahimikan ang mga salitang hindi ko mabitiwan, maski ngayong ikaw ay lilisan. Baka balang araw kung magkikita tayong muli, mahanap na sa wakas ang lakas ng loob upang ipabaon sila sa iyo. Ngunit paalis na ang sasakyang maghahatid sa iyo palayo. Sa ngayon, ibalabal mo itong aking titig, isuot mo ang aking panalangin, bitbitin ang aking habilin. Mag – ingat ka sa iyong lalakbayin. Sa wakas, isang kaway na lamang ang nagdudugtong sa distansya nating hindi ko na mabalangkas. At ako ay naiwan sa isang tabi, taimtim na inililigtas ang pag – ibig na hindi mabigkas. 15


aidan manglinong

Tangrib Marahil pinili ng mundo na pagpalain ang sulok na ito. Muli, nagiging madali ang pagyapak sa bato; tulad ng paghinga, sumasabay sa paghampas ng alon, na siya ring sumasabay sa pagpihit ng mundo. Isinulat sa dalampasigan ang parabula, latak ng mga salitang namahinga sa ilalim ng dagat, hahagilapin, hahagilapin. Sisirin muli, sa pagsapit ng dapithapon para lamang matutunan muli lumusong. At sa isang mundong dinayuhan mahahanap ang hindi matamong katahimikan.

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edgar calabia samar

Ang Kasiyahan ng mga Isda Wala silang alaala, at hindi nila iyon inaalala. Ang unang kamangmangan ng tao: na sukátin ang panahon, na sabihing may sandali’t saglit —  Hindi ko na nakikilala ang mga ilog na nilanguyan namin noon, bagaman pinapangarap ko ang muling mga pagkikita. At hulihin ang kidlat, ikulong sa bitag ng baboy – damo, kamukha ng mgasinaunang diyos. Walang apoy rito, sa kung gaano kalalim ang pagnanasa. Tutubo mula sa lupa, mag – uugat ang mga alamat ng kung ano – anong puno’t halaman, sapagkat kailangan, sapagkat kailan ba nagkulang ang kalikasan sa lahat ng pangangailangan? (Huwag mo akong tanungin, nahuli akong isinilang.) Umiikot ang usok ng bagong – sinding katol sa pampang. Magkaniig gaya ng mga sinaunang hayop na nangawala na bago pa man nabinyagan ng pangalan. Sumpa ang gunita at ibig nating manumpa.

* Nailathala ang naunang bersyon nito sa Likhaan, Journal of Contemporary Philippine Literature 6 (2012): 126-127

17


allan popa

Aralin Sa gitna ng pamamaluktot ng katawan, ano ang iniingatan na laging nasa bingit ng pag-apaw? Ang mga bata sa labas ng pinto masunuring nakahanay: muli, unang araw ng pasukan. Sa pagsuso sa dulo ng unan kailangan na nilang mawalay. Sa kanilang bulsa, sapat ang pabaon. Pero tila kay daling matastas ng pundang isinukat sa katawan. Napakarupok ng sinulid na pumipigil sa panginginig, tila may magmamantsa sa bawat bagay na mahawakan.

18


Umuwi kang puno ng alinlangan, dala ang sisiw na nabago ang kulay nang mahugasan ng ulan.

19


deirdre camba

Sermon Through the thin wall that separates this room from my brother’s, I cannot help hearing a low drawl punctuated by the letter S: not so much a kettle blowing, but closer to the sound of old women hushing children in church, eager to hear better the sermon of a fat priest, sweaty palmed and swaying drunkenly at the pulpit. The gospel for today is taken from a book according to the providence of the father. Thus the homily will proceed as such: honor him. S as in quite

20


simply. From here, I imagine my brother staring at a shaking head, tired eyes glazed, droplets of spit barely missing his soft face. And what I hear is not a hiss, exactly, but S the way that flesh would burn. S as in the sound of pissing or perhaps as the blossoming of a stench.

21


joe ledesma

Poison snakes aren’t difficult to keep. They just sit there, and the owner’s job is to clean their cage when they take a crap and change their water every day. I live with forty – three snakes of eleven different species. I also care for a large colony of rats and mice. For my largest snake I buy a rabbit every couple of weeks. It can be a profitable hobby. The local pet stores don’t pay the most for snakes, but they’re the most reliable clients and snakes tend to give birth in clutches of 20 to 50. When you live alone in some quiet corner of the world, such company can be a lifesaver. Every once in a while I expand my collection and today, I introduce a new member to our happy family. This new one is so far the most expensive addition; being my first venomous snake I took the advice of some more experienced keepers and bought a few bottles of polyvalent anti – venom at a hundred dollars apiece. Allow me to introduce to you the West African Gaboon Viper. Gaboons are the largest subspecies of puff adders native to almost every region in Africa. This one is about three feet long and as fat as a Pringles can. Its distinguishing traits are the triangular shape of the head and the horn perched on top of its nose; half of what’s in there are the biggest venom sacs of any specie of snake. Even though they don’t have the most potent venom, the sheer quantity they are able to inject in a single bite is enough to kill a man 150 times over. Impressive, isn’t it? But the most attractive quality of Gaboons is their generally docile temperaments. I was very adamant against keeping venomous snakes until my friend let me carry his Gaboon. It felt just like holding one of my boas or pythons, except without any of the erratic movements that gave me little heart attacks when I handled them.

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It even talked to me, just like my other snakes do: “Do you know where my favorite place to lie down is?” he asked me. “In the grass. I wish I got to go out more often.” The voice reminded me of Meg. Once again I came to the possibility that I will never get over her. My new Gaboon, I decided to name Matthias. * I purchased my first snake a few weeks after Meg died, a Boa Constrictor who I named Empress. Now she’s my largest snake, around twelve feet long and as thick as a man’s arm. The decision to get a snake was a little more than a means to cope. They’re the animals that remind me of Meg the most. It happened one night when I got really drunk. Meg confronted me and we argued about my drinking. It’ll get you in trouble one day, she said. I’ll be fine and I can control myself, thank you, I said. The memory has lots of blank spots. I don’t remember everything else that happened, but I remember I hit her. I blacked out. It was five in the morning and the telephone woke me up. It was the police. They asked me how I knew Meg. I said I was her boyfriend. They told me they had bad news and to come to the station. They had my car. “She’s dead.” They told me when I asked what happened. “Come to the station, we can give you all the details.” I called in sick for work, and it slipped my mind to tell my boss that my girlfriend just died. Without my car, I had a long walk to the station. I kept my hands in my pocket and kept my head down as I walked past a hundred others who were doing the same.

23


When I got to the station I was introduced to Police Chief Delaney who oversaw Meg’s case. I saw shifty eyes on all the cops, but no charges were pressed against me and for that I was slightly relieved. The whole time I crossed my arms in front of my chest and kept my head hung low. What officer Delaney told me was this. At around one in the morning a Red Toyota crashed into my BMW on the Cleveland / Monroe intersection. My car was thrown off the road and flipped upside – down. Meg, the driver, and a passenger of the Toyota were killed on the spot. Eyewitnesses appeared an hour later and that’s when the police were called. They kept my car in the garage and told me they had to keep it a few more days for analysis. The doors on the driver’s side were dented, paint scratched off where the other car hit. The hood was bent and a wheel had been de – attached leaving a spool empty. Blood stains lingered on the front seats, and that was the last I ever saw of Meg. * When I got home that day the first thing I did was open all my cabinets. All my beer, vodka, wine, gin, and whiskey stared back at me. In any other circumstance they were companions in sorrow, but now I took them out and placed them all in a cardboard box, later a second cardboard box when the first got full. I taped the sides of the boxes shut. The next day I called my friend and told him what happened. Asked to borrow his spare pickup for a few days. Told him I’d pay for gas and he said it was alright. Called the boss and asked for another day off too after I told him about Meg. He gave me the rest of the week. I drove to the outskirts of the town, the two boxes strapped to the back of the pickup, a trip which took me two hours and ended up on top of a cliff facing opposite the town. I threw the boxes off there. I could hear the sound of glass break every time a box glanced off the side. 24


The rest of the week I travelled. The next day I went to beaches and stared at the ocean. The day after it was the edge of the woods and I watched insects scurry about and fly. I looked at a beetle and saw how small it was compared to my shoe. At that point, only one word seemed to make sense of the universe: relative. * I got Empress when she was small enough to fit my hand. That was five years ago, at the advice of my psychiatrist to help me deal with loneliness. At that point, I had been fired for poor job performance and was living off the pensions in my contract. Initially a snake wasn’t what I had in mind, but when I went to the store that day I realized something: dogs were loud, dirty, clingy, and demanding. Cats were less loud, less dirty, but clingier and way more demanding. I looked at hamsters in the little mammal section when I saw her close by, skin yellow as sunglow and eyes of electric blue, and she saw me. Then she talked. “I know what happened to Meg,” she said. She had a deep, seductive, feminine voice. “You have my condolences, Steve. It must be hard to have the instincts of a warm – blooded animal.” “Hey,” I told the clerk. “Can I see this one?” Sure he said, and in a moment I held her. My hands trembled a bit, the first time I held snake, but in this dance she did all the work, slithering on my hands, up arms, around my shoulder. At one point, she handcuffs both my wrists together and brings her face halfway up between mine. “This feels nice,” she says while her tongue, also electric blue, shot in and out. “Mind if I take a nap here?” “No I’m going to need my hands in a bit, but thank you very much,” I said, which made the pet store guy shoot me a funny look. “By that I mean, I’ll take her.” At that point I thought I’d be over Meg in no time.

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* I didn’t tell my psychiatrist my snakes spoke to me, or that I spoke to them. I did tell him I was getting more. I also told him that I took up painting, and showed him some of the stuff I did. Mostly natural shots since I was no good at painting people. There was one of a seagull with a nest atop the ruins of a crashed yacht, and another one of a swimming pool where crocodiles were basking on top of the blankets instead of people. There was another thing I didn’t tell him. It was already months after Meg’s death, and since then I’d been spotlessly sober. I didn’t think much of it until one of my lemon pastel ball pythons mentioned it. “It’s a real achievement,” she said. “Most people who go cold turkey get crazy by this time, and here you are painting a row of houses without so much an inkling of thirst. I think you deserve a little treat.” “I think I’ve treated myself enough this week Sunny,” I said. “But you’re right. I do deserve a little treat, and a little indulgence now wouldn’t do any harm. In fact, I think it might even help me stay on the path of sobriety, don’t you think so?” So that day I went to the store and bought a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. In my opinion, the most delicious drink one could get without mixing, although the price tag separated me from its taste outside of three different occasions. In all of those, I had finished half the bottle by myself. When I got home, I placed it on top of my cabinet. To be honest, when I left I didn’t plan on getting a bottle, but I saw it on display and got the image of a hunter who hung the head of his latest kill on top of the fireplace. “Well that doesn’t look so good,” I heard a voice say. “Don’t worry Empress,” I said. Her gaze had fixated on the bottle. “I’ll be fine.” To that she just stuck her tongue out and turned away.

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* Now today also happens to be feeding day. I took out the snakes and placed them in a separate bin for feeding. This is to condition them so that they associate dinner time when they’re in the feeding bin and not when I take them out for the occasional exercise. It’s a misunderstood act of mercy that I kill all their prey myself. I get called “heartless” or a “monster” a lot, but the way I kill is painless, as opposed to slow suffocation in the limb of one of my dears. I would place the rat down with a grip on the cervical part of the vertebrae somewhere in the neck, and with my other hand on the tail I pull taut. This was followed by the snap of life and sudden paralysis of death, without so much a struggle or a whimper from the deceased. The most important bit would be to avoid looking at the creature’s face as I killed it. There were a few times that I had to feed baby rats for one of smaller snakes. The rats had these little beds which they’d dig out of their chips, and the babies would sleep there together, still pink and furless. Whenever I stick my hand into the rat’s cage and reach for a baby, the mother would wake up and try to fend me off with her teeth. She would always watch, even as I carried her baby out of their home. She’d look like a prisoner with both paws on the glass and both eyes trailing my hand as I put the little rat on the table and killed it. * It calls to mind the one and only time Meg and I talked about religion. She lay on my bed and I was hunched over the laptop doing some work. We heard church bells toll, and I saw her roll around like a cat playing on its back. “Do you believe in God?” She asks me. “Do you?” “No,” she mewed, and got up. “If God were real, you’d think he wouldn’t leave it to us to find our own meanings. Answer the question.”

27


“Yeah. I believe in God,” I said, typing away and away. “I believe in many gods.” “Really?” She sat next to me and laid her head on my shoulder. “That’s interesting. Hindu?” “No, pagan. My own pagan.” “Shit.” I felt her hands reach over to my shoulders, squeeze. Then she asks: “Do you sacrifice animals to your gods?” Oh Meg. She was a very stupid girl, but sometimes she had these moments of sheer brilliance which I was completely blind to. I had laughed so hard I thought I offended her, but I kept laughing anyway. It wasn’t just that she called them ’my’ gods, but the judicial undertones in her voice, the very same reason I don’t talk about my religion. She knew me, then, for four years. I tell her I’m a pagan and all of a sudden I’m an animal killing freak. Hilarious. * The thought repeats itself for every meal I prepare for my darlings. It starts with Meg’s voice as I kill the rat, and ends with the sound of my laughter as the snake swallows the rat’s bottom and slurps the tail like spaghetti. Thirty times I feed the constrictors and watch them wrap around their prey, their grip precisely aimed to allow the optimum surface area coil. Twelve times the colubrids, who no longer strike the prey but just swallow them whole. Forty – two times I heard Meg’s voice ask me the silly question. When I got to Matthias, I did something different and brought a live rat to his feeding pen just so I could see him hunt. The rat fell into the bin and wandered around, sticking its nose in the air and placing its paws around everywhere. Matthias didn’t seem to care even as the rat touched the upper side of his belly, but a whick of his tongue later the Gaboon tensed himself, raising his head from the floor. Gaboons are ambushers. They lay dormant in the grass as they wait for an opportunity to stumble by. They can wait for days in perfect stillness, a shotgun rigged to blow at the behest of a 28


tripwire. ‘God’s machinery’ is an appropriate term to describe their anatomy. There was no grass here, but Matthias kept still with the impression that his camouflage still hid him inside the olive green Rubbermaid. Then there was a bang as his underscales threw his head off the plastic, baring the fangs with lightning speed precision into the side of the rat. There was a struggle, but the largest fangs of all snake species held strong. The bite was angled such that the rat couldn’t claw or bite his assailant at all. After around ten seconds the rat’s eyes popped out and blood leaked out of its eye sockets while its limbs continued to thrash around the plastic. I watched with a hung jaw. The rat was dead, without a doubt, and there was a puddle of blood left in the bin. Its legs still twitched against the emptiness of its eyes, and this was when I realized that pain can still follow you after death. I coughed once, twice, and looked back to see the Gaboon had turned his gaze to me, rat still in mouth. Something fascinating about Gaboons: they use their fangs like fingers. Unlike boas or pythons which have muscles on the edge of their jaw which maneuver the prey down their throat, a Gaboon’s fangs can spin in their sockets and so their fangs turn the prey and pull it down their mouth. Matthias was in the middle of moving the rat around when he turned to me, and his fang stuck out in my direction, venom still dropping from the tip. “Sorry,” I told him. He regarded me with no response and finished his meal, while the rats in their cage filled the rooms with their cheeps and squeaks. It seemed they were watching the whole thing, so I tapped the side of their cage to make them all disperse. Blood smudged every surface of the container. Some had seeped and stained the edge of his mouth; by now it had surely dried and would be impossible remove until the next time he sheds his skin. Once the mouse had completely disappeared, he turned to me and spoke. Something about the bloody mouse.

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* Sometimes, Meg would say the stupidest things and I’d do my best to erase them from my memory. Of course, this was after I clenched my fists and grit my teeth listening to them. I learned, because of Meg, not to hit people because they were stupid. I learned only after she died for that’s when the revelation came. That psychological mumbo – jumbo that talked about humans adopting preferred behavior from pleasure and pain stimuli? Bullshit. People never learn that way. Meg was still the same stupid girl, no matter how many times I hit her. The core of the lesson was it was never the pain that motivated me to change. It was the drive to get better, and the drive to survive. * “ahh!” Matthias had launched himself an impressive distance, one I thought was safe. The fangs felt like two nails driven into my arm, hitting the sweet spot between both of the bones. Not a second later searing pain had spread in my bloodstream, like my blood had been replaced with burning oil. The Gaboon held on, every second I could feel the tips of both fangs deposit more of the fluid. I screamed again. There is a proper way of detaching a snake once it latches on to you; it involves slowly pushing the snake out following the curve of its fangs. Fuck that. I tore Matthias from my arm and his fangs made a bloody laceration through my flesh. He smacked against the wall and landed on his side. One of his fangs stayed dislodged in my skin, locked in the gap between my bones. I screamed once more as I extracted the rogue fang. Clear drops of liquid made its way down the tip as I held it between my fingers. The pain found its way to my heart and it started to beat so fast I thought it was going to explode. My legs felt like they were going to snap and I sunk to my knees. Blood spurt in little bits from the two cuts in my arm. The hemotoxin took effect fast. 30


I sometimes wonder what the point of everything was, and where I’ll be by the end of it. Meg would say that there was no point, and that’s the lesson she never learned: the drive to get better, the drive to survive. My legs wobbled their way to the table with the anti – venom, and I took one bottle, careful not to drop it in the numbness of my arms. My vision was starting to blur. I filled a syringe with the anti – venom — it was green or yellow, I think — and stabbed my arm just below where one of the fangs pierced my skin. I stifled another scream through grit teeth as the second fluid seemed to freeze my blood. I took more deep breaths before standing up and emptying another bottle. Two bottles later my head was filled with pain, the temperature in my blood fluctuating between boiling and frozen. I passed out. * I had a dream while I was down, but I can’t remember much of it. What I do remember was that Meg was there, and I woke up feeling a new sense of purpose. Matthias had disappeared, but he was no longer my concern. There was a scarlet stain on the carpet beside me though my arm was no longer gushing blood. I placed my wound in a bandage and went to Empress’s cage, where she was curled up into a ball, probably having slept through the entire ordeal. My hands wobbled as I unlocked the cage and brought her out. She was heavy and I was weak, so I fumbled and dropped her on the floor and she woke up. “Steve, what’s the matter?” Her head turned up to meet my face. I smiled at her, and held both my hands behind my back. I realized at that point that I loved Empress, so much, such that my body grew warm and my blood resumed normal circulation. Out of all my snakes, she was the only one to have never bitten me, and she reminded me of Meg’s embrace whenever she’d wrap herself around my shoulders. 31


I stamped her head with my boot. It was odd to see a giant 14 – foot snake writhe in agony; she resembled a worm, squirming as they do when you pick them up and squeeze their heads. I wiped my foot on the floor and spread her scales all around. She went limp. Her head was as flat as a pancake, but cracks of blood had formed between her scales and one of her eyes hung from a sinew of flesh. The other one had burst into mush mixed with the remains of her brain. One look at the rest of my collection and I sighed, resting both hands on my hip. Then I looked down and saw her fangs, which had torn through the roof and floor of her mouth. Unlike viper fangs, a boa’s was a serrated edge that grew taller at the back, like the outline of a mountain ridge. I smiled. * I watched the rest of my snakes disappear into the cracks along the cliff – side face. The last one was a fake coral milk snake, and he bid me good bye as I opened his cage and set him free. I took a deep breath and a seat by the edge of the cliff. With one hand I took the bottle of Blue Label and twisted the cap open. With me all alone the drive back would be difficult, the twists and turns of the mountain side on the forefront of my mind. But that’s okay, life is meant to be hard. “Love the view,” I told the bottle of whiskey as I took it up to my lips and kissed, savoring the taste of someone who died long ago.

32


jenina ibañez

Silent Treatment You are poised with all the elegance of non – speech. Shoulders tense, teeth clenched, fingers flicking cigarette ash out the passenger side window. Outside, the night exchanges words. A window greets the wind with the screeching of its hinges, the man on the intersection motions passage, the trees bow their apologies, cars convene in the perennial murmur of getting there. Even the stoplights attempt words: perhaps warning, perhaps accusation. The quarrel of coins in a boy’s plastic cup makes us uneasy, and we strain to hear the city. Its temporary silences. The rain announces its arrival on the rooftops just to break the syntax. You expel cigarette smoke from your lips as you roll up your window.

33


joseph casimiro

Chasing Light On the window’s glass Bonnard catches sight of his own eyes.

34


isabela cuerva

Christmas Song for No One in Particular Of my living room: white walls & cold tiles & wicker seats: the Christmas tree, forgotten lights: square of the ceiling, pin lights on each corner, chandelier swinging overhead reflected on the picture window: wooden panels, doorframes —  one enters and exits after the other: just outside, the pig sliced vertically from his neck down to his rump —  my father slices fish in the morning: some poor man after some accident or other finds himself on a table — dead  — and some poor man slices him open —  like my father, fish. Let me tell you when I am most accessible: It is 2008, and my heels click against floorboards of a house that would burn down the following year, I am wearing to keep me warm some –  thing resembling a painter’s 35


smock, big white buttons resting against jutting – out collarbones, cheekbones jutting – out when I bump them against aunt after aunt, the final being the one who burns down with the house the next year. I do not remember what she wore that year, but I remember what her daughter wore when she entered my home in ’09: long blue dress that hung off her frame so deliciously: I loved her dress — my final words to her: she died with the house. We keep quiet about these things now. The day my aunt & cousin died they were found tangled beneath rubble — perhaps the collapsed roof — remains of floorboards —  perhaps whatever remained —  the house sliced from its head to its rump —  they were found only to be sliced like fish: clavicles to pubis only to confirm collapsed airways. As if the roof was not enough. We know enough. Let me tell you when I am most vulnerable: 36


last night — half – empty tables, soiled napkins, half –  empty bottles of wine, the waiter picking at a hole in his vest, ice cubes melting in a glass sweating onto the tablecloth, forming rings & rings — & names of the dead reverberating from the hollows of our chests, echoing through the blue of air, and what I really mean to say: we spoke only of people who had left us, and of aloneness: my uncle’s sadness a blooming bruise on Christmas Eve, another scar to join stars: three years down but still the vice grip of mourning will not let him go — how he blames the lights! We keep them shut now, leave the trees to sigh in the dark, waiting for moonlight to slice through the night if only to illuminate them.  

37


jeivi nicdao

Firmament i. you remember dying in kensington gardens. you remember the slow beginning rush, the pull it takes for you to see how to die. how to die completely. you remember dying in kensington gardens but you haven’t died completely. the pull wasn’t enough. nothing ever was. all their promises are just circles. the fountain they deemed sacred. water so murky you forgot what the sky looked like. cobblestone. cobblestone pavements. the blues. the reds. the violets. statues they used to call angels. children. their bicycles with the pretty flower baskets in front. hands entwined. gold maple leaves. dying maples. his promise. nothing. nothing. all just circles. ii. you tell him you feel holy; he rolls you onto your back and says you must only think happy thoughts if you want to taste the clouds. iii. he blows lilies down your jaw to the crook of your neck, draws more down your collarbones. from here, his lips leave a trail of fairydust on their way to your arms. he whimpers lullabies to both your wrists and asks you to forget about autumn.

38


but you can’t. you never tell him this. you just let him kiss you like maple leaves don’t ever wilt. iv. he pretends to know his way, clipping the weatherworn map in his left hand and waving hello to the mermaids with his right. the hurricanes he leaves destroy not much else but himself and yet, all this destruction is so easily forgotten. (to be immortal is to forget.) the Jolly Roger dotes upon him as he dotes upon you but the look on his eyes is one you know so, so well. those sapphires are as familiar as the sirens’ cries but you never tell him this. hands so little, so brittle, eyes so rotten and lips exhausted, the boys have long ago stopped trying. you know he hasn’t. he pretends to know his way but he’s just as lost as they are; the only difference is that the seas still welcome him home. you know he doesn’t know what that word means too. you just want to let him lean his head on your shoulder to tell him your definition of it but you’re scared you’ll be the next one to lose yourself. v. there are days he asks you to cover your ears and try not to breathe too much. these are the days when the mermaids would sing of mangled fairy wings and vanished fairydust; fairy bones that have been offered fatedly to cobwebs. 39


some days he asks you to sing for him yourself. these are the days when he would pierce the thought of growing up with a thousand poisoned Indian arrows. you sing to him with the sirens’ cries in mind (again). the lagoon adapts a different shade of black, and yet the stars still shine blacker. vi. you remember dying in kensington gardens but you forget what dying feels like. you forget paradise. his kisses make you wonder if the flick of his hook across your throat would feel just as lovely. vii. fall returns and you think you want to grow up. he touches you goodbye. you let him kiss you while all the leaves wither with the wind. hush, he smiles. hush, darling. fall returns and you want to grow up but you stay. you stay in the ill interim of his touch and your tattered grace, of his warm immortality and your mortal warmth, of the lost boys’ delusions and the mermaids’ saccharine treachery. you dance in your nightgown and dream of bleeding to desiccation in a fairytale graveyard. viii. “to die will be an awfully big adventure.” he strokes your cheek and you think he promises to take you to never — 

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he never really promises. ix. to be immortal is to forget. but nothing is ever completely forgotten. (you’re eighty – nine and in your deathbed and he’s in another faraway land with another wide – eyed girl but he’s still lost and dying.)

41


luis wilfredo atienza

The Street Magician He passes through closed fists to place quarters, and through walls to amaze. He makes a living like a ghost passing coins through palms until his magic tempers disbelief into fond memories. He carries tricks and the weight of their intrigue carefully, from one street to another. When he levitates, they stare at the ground beneath his feet. He has to hope nobody watches too closely or he’ll have to hope they forget. He knows how easily things can vanish. His life is lived between people in transit who crack concrete and memory with every step. Eventually they forget which cards they picked. It doesn’t matter how many times he tells them to remember. Magic cracks until it becomes as real as sidewalks.

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The End And by the time the birds and the dogs were all free, a year and a half after the people were all gone, I settled on the steps of the last house looking through the wild grass at the sunrise across the river and the dogs running off the Earth All that’s right, or wrong, I can’t remember, has been done so this is the end. The kindness of it is astounding. The only thing left is all I need to live and nothing

43


sari katharyn molintas

Being Bookish * I was raised in La Trinidad, a town adjacent to the city of Baguio. I grew up primarily without a television, one of the many reasons why I remember printed books as my first best friends. Back then, I didn’t realize that books were simultaneously fulfilling a different but far more essential role in my development: books also became my first teachers. Before I learned to read, I only knew books through my mother. Having her read to me helped me comprehend the importance of human speech: the significance of being able to listen and the value in being able to talk. When I finally did learn to read, having the confidence to do so out loud was my earliest training on debating and public speaking. My foundation of communication, from the most rudimentary expressions of emotion to the most complex interpretations of ideas, all stemmed from those early memories. Learning to read printed books helped me gain many other crucial skills, such as the improvement of my spelling and penmanship, and the swift expansion of my vocabulary. This growing awareness of language resulted in my appreciation of the distinct value of each word, and my astonishment at how, when put together, words could transform an individual’s experiences into an almost collective conscience. To me, this revelation made undeniable the influence of language over emotion and the power of words in spurring people into action. It is unsurprising then that reading books also resulted in my delight of writing — what I consider to be the exploration of the abstract terrain of my own ideas and emotions, and their inclusion into the concrete territory of words on print.

*

2nd Prize, Kabataan Essay, 2012 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.

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Needless to say, learning to read changed everything. It equipped me with the tools I needed to better understand the world around me, and to better express the universe inside myself. Amazingly, all this happened before I had even set foot into a school campus. I realize now that printed books instigated my learning experience earlier than formal education ever did, and developed my brain to have the capacity to learn in ways that was necessary for schooling to be possible. In other words, printed books trained my mind to be able to think and to analyze, to imagine and to create — and this is what I believe should be at the heart of education. * College ushered in a new era of education in my life — and it came along with a brand new format of instruction: the electronic book. Prior to my university days, I had no exposure to academic e – books. Neither was I familiar with the idea of downloading readings from online sources, or accessing files from digital libraries. These formats were being praised for engaging a new generation of readers, by utilizing technology they were supposedly more familiar with. Along with these praises came the claims of e – books making learning more efficient. I couldn’t claim the same for me, however. After several failed attempts at using electronic means to study for major exams, it became clear to me that I had to be able to read a printed copy of the material I needed to learn before the information would register completely in my mind. Initially this made me quite curious. After all, essentially both the hard copy and the soft copy of a book contained identical information; why did I seem to be processing them both differently? 45


It took me two years to realize the different reasons why using electronic books made it more difficult for me to really learn what I was reading. For instance, employing features in e – books such as Find made it easier for me to track down a word or phrase in a large volume of text, but it also made it easier for me to disregard in – depth reading or critical thinking. This almost lazy way out to studying isn’t something that was beneficial for me in the long run, since it failed to maximize my potential as a student, and reduced the material meant to be studied to a mere collection of facts. Thus, e – books made it easier for me to access information, but not necessarily improved my acquisition and processing of it. The human mind’s capacity to remember information is influenced by a number of external factors that e – books cannot provide. For example, when I read a printed book, the tactile experience creates several markers that make that particular book and its contents unique to my memory. Like how the embossed title of my battered “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban” is distinctly different from the plastic – coated letters of my university library’s “Introduction to Genetics, 9th Edition.” This kind of detail is lost with e – books, where everything is read from a single source — a laptop, iPad, Kindle or what not — thus making it more difficult for the mind to access external details to aid it in remembering particular information. This is probably why many studies show that the information read from electronic sources does not retain in the mind as long as those that come from printed sources. In a more practical take on the issue, I believe that e – books cannot be relied on as the new medium for education in the Philippines because it is out of the country’s capacity to educate. My recent exposure to a Quezon City public elementary school for my completion of the National Service Training Program showed me that despite the growing popularity of e – books in the higher levels of education, they are still not a viable format for the countless children across the country who cannot obtain even the print version of their text books. How could they utilize e – books — which need expensive 46


electronic devices out of their financial capacity and require amenities such as electricity in order to work — in their studies?

* When I look back now, I realize how much being able to read books at a young age made it possible for me to move towards a better future. I can’t help but compare my younger self to the children of the current generation. I think about the kids I met during my NSTP insertions and wonder if it will be harder for them to attain their inherent right to education, simply because they do not have the financial means to do so. If I was one of them, born in a time when printed books are being considered replaceable by e – books in the pursuit of technological development; a time when cheaper methods to learning are being disposed of by people hungry for the easily accessible — would I be able to ponder and wonder as much as I do? I think not.

47


brian paul giron

Corners, 30th and 2nd There is something terrible about the way these shafts of sun come in through the tall windows. Pouring light on our long table; revealing the line we drew in this corner against a corner, while only adding to the weight of our heavily – entrenched elbows. Something about the stenciled snowflake stuck against the glass and how it will never melt

even after this morning turns tail and an afternoon of quiet gloom passes through without pause.

But I remember most what I didn’t tell you. Because it hung around long after I didn’t say.

When we move past stoplights I sneak glances. When they call your name I catch your fingers flit.

These things. They say:

“A Godzilla – like monster is about to destroy your town.”

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All the while thinking only that there is no remedy for a girl who uses paper – fastening devices to clip her hair.

All the while waiting.

Saving only a paperclip.

49


brian paul giron

Waiting for the Locksmith at Two on a Monday Afternoon I imagine he must be coming from his lunch. This man who unlocks doors for a living. And I suppose he has seen his share of people and the doorknobs they belong to. And many doors too. And knobs. Locks. But I also wonder if any of them talk, and if he bothers to listen. These knobs that are always both inside and outside; no matter if a door is shut. And locks that make people feel safe. This girl spends her evenings staring at herself in the mirror. Talks to her own reflection too. And lately it has been talking back. Across the hall another puts a flashlight in her mouth and swallows light. Thinking herself a black hole. Hoping she will defecate something bright. Behind that one a man who wears his daughter’s clothes because his wife has terrible fashion sense.

50


There a boy smokes dried kalachuchi because he can’t afford pot. Here a woman who takes photos of herself naked everyday so she has something to look back to. Somewhere behind one of these doors grandma has been going on all – fours pretending she’s a cow every afternoon since the first time she saw cattle mating fifty years ago. She moos quietly. I can barely hear her from where I sit locked outside my apartment. The locksmith is here.

51


nicko reginio caluya & kevin caballa

Mirrors And he was told not to look up at night and mapped his own constellations on the floor For each of these he made new myths for each of this founded a library All his lovers he had at day on his ashtray turn to embers before pounding them gray And he was told next time you see the sky you will go blind for the faces appearing as you open the door will be yours Once you return to your bedroom the walls will crumble down In a room with no walls, how do you tell the time when all you have are a clock’s hand, your hands? After so long, with the figure that it held With one stroke, you could trace one star to any other and become the same lover, the same myth. Night has become this.

52


stephanie shi

Body A fine line might distinguish humility, modesty, and chastity from one another; a chain can link them together to render them dependent on each other. Whichever is so, the three have their own characteristics. To tie and knot them to a control bar that is shame, they let the marionette cover itself in a pose: head down, arm across chest, hand over groin, one leg crossed over another. My mind holds that position. My body, although it hasn’t grown weary from years of bearing the weight and grasp of fabric, wishes for air; should it feel stiff from the heat or humidity, it would only be for the greater probability of breaking at a puff or the snap of a string. My clothes didn’t always blanket every inch of me. Naïveté and innocence allowed me to frolic without a clue on what is considered now as flaw, so there was hardly anything to be ashamed of. Perhaps being a child allowed certain avenues of exposure like the sight of legs. The public accept babies in diapers only, so it seems being around that age with some body parts flashed is fine, if not the norm. When I reached pre – adolescence, despite revelling in the signatures of my body’s activities — the little swirl on my thumbprint and the darkened speck right underneath my palms from much writing or drawing — there were spots I tried to keep hidden: two rubicund bumps on the left arm. No strand of hair makes its way out through the light miniscule slashes on the surface. I was always asked what they were; “keloid” demanded more questions as did “scars.” “Chicken pox,” the root of all answers, caused aversion as though its scabs meant its existence instead of its ending. For a while, when I was replying to my peers at that time, I settled with “mosquito bites.” No one ever wondered why they never subsided just like mosquito bites. I wouldn’t have covered the bumps then if it weren’t for the ugliness associated to them. My mother insisted I use a transparent 53


cream that was supposed to lighten and flatten any mark after assiduous application. The scars are on my skin because I popped the white iridescent bubbles out and scraped their vestiges off their red outlines out of boredom and curiosity when I was waiting the days by to recovery. Being signs of childhood exploration and strength, first of all of choice, my keloidal scars were no longer topped with the medicine after a few months, when red turned to beige lumps, a shade darker than my skin tone. Such fancies of mine were not, however, able to aid me against the notions of beauty equivalent to flawlessness, and to the sense of shame promulgated in and by the Catholic girl school where I was studying. * Those who have gardens tend to them by removing weeds and mowing the grass. To ensure healthiness, watering is necessary but only to an extent that the roots of plants, especially the plants themselves, aren’t submerged for too long a time. As with us people, it’s unnecessary to say that lack of oxygen from such drowning will eventually lead to the death of plants. However, watering isn’t just a matter of aiming the hose and shooting water out of it or turning on the sprinklers to rain divine life to the ground. Garden hoses carry water from the spigot and out the other end. For watering plants, a sprayer is a better head than a pistol, since the former produces fine droplets. The gentle fashion from reduced pressure avoids damaging the roots. Nonetheless, it is necessary to dig into the ground and fill it with water. The wet top soil doesn’t mean water has penetrated it, let alone the roots getting the benefits of water. In order to let the roots dig deeper into the ground, one must water in the direction he wants the roots to go. Suffice to say that brushing the hose and spraying water everywhere in the garden would most likely let the roots spread wide, not deep. There, too, is a schedule. Plants are either watered in the cool of the morning or evening when winds are calm and evaporation is likely to occur slowly. An inch – deep pool is needed by lawn grasses each week; 54


soil must be kept moist lest it dry out and deteriorate plant, as well as animal, life. Such times allow one to spray water on the leaves to wash dirt and dust off without harming the plants; water droplets on leaves left in the harsh afternoon sun act like little magnifying glasses that may scald foliage. Disease – susceptible plants are the exception, though. They shouldn’t be watered at night. The presence of a pool for hours will trigger bacterial life to thrive, hence allowing fungal diseases to contaminate leaves, flowers, and fruits. Pests infect one’s property, thereby the invention of pesticides to prevent and destroy them. Pesticides are either made from chemical or biological substances, examples of which are viruses, bacteria, antimicrobials, that have the effect of killing pests like disease – carrying mosquitoes that cause malaria, wasps and ants that cause allergic reactions. By preventing crop losses to insects and the like, pesticides help farmers save money which would be allotted elsewhere rather than spent to replant what’s gone. The idea of banning pesticides was conceived due to side effects that pervade to human health. Minor effects include skin and eye irritation; severe, reproductive problems and leukaemia. A compromise was proposed: to limit one’s pesticide exposure, to use the least toxic pesticide or a non – chemical one — here we have a matter of organism versus organism, but also organism protecting another. * I saw a very tiny black line on my underarm when I was around eleven. Curious, I tried flicking it with my finger to see if doing so would hurt. I’ve seen my mother tweeze in the past; she said there was no pain. I knew from viewing commercials that underarms of women were supposed to be fair and hair – free. Without any tool whatsoever to let me pluck what I couldn’t believe then was hair, I spent hours with my arm up, pressing the tips of my thumb and index fingernails together to get the strand out. When my biceps grew sore, I leaned my arm to a wall and continued. My skin reddened as though I had the rashes; I pinched it too many times. As I finally pulled 55


the strand out, I was much more relieved than I was disgusted; the said tiny hair was only the tip. Two weeks later three strands were jutting out of my underarms, one on the left, two on the right. In panic and fear of the possible extent of hair growth, and in much bashfulness, I sneaked into my mother’s dresser for tweezers. There were two pairs. I stole one — the one with the looser screw to glaze my sin. The hairless underarms silenced my conscience. The tweezers were hardly used; hair clumped elsewhere. There were lines on my legs like stalks on a meadow. Ridding had to be done. My mother couldn’t do so much as to hold her tongue when she saw my unshaven legs — “yuck,” she said. Eventually she bought me boxes of Veet shaving cream that I constantly used. After the first shave, I marvelled at my whiteness. Ironically, without the dark brown (or black — no one notices the difference) hair that impeded the view to my skin and served as an object for comparing hues, my skin looked fairer, even luminous. The two aesthetics that enveloped me produced the same effect. I crossed between the nuances of proclamations like “reveal nothing.” Instinct told me to show my limbs; I did. The idea of waiting to be in my forties, fifties or beyond, when hair growth would’ve slowed down or ceased, or when hair would’ve fallen, to wear a pair of shorts is preposterous; I would’ve lost all mold of youth, gained all the jiggle of age. I may rid myself of the black lines, but lines, much fairer than my skin, would’ve embedded themselves by then. Deep inside me lurked the need to show. Showing meant the propensity of being watched. Being watched opened the chances of being liked — and what was there not to like in toned fair hairless gams? In a way, as my jeans cropped to Bermuda shorts in high school, then to short shorts now in college, clearly following the uprooting of hair, I have been revealing nothing — maybe better: nothingness. I’ve laid my eyes nearly on every spot of my body. On occasion, it was to be amazed at the concavities and to realize that underneath all the hair was something considered beautiful. Immediately after shaving, which eventually turned to waxing since shaving curled the 56


growing hair, there was always a reintroduction between myself and a body, the body with myself. * Scientists have not yet seen the center of the Earth which is about 6, 378 kilometers under mankind’s toes partly because of its soaring temperature ranging from 2, 726.85 to 4, 726.85 degrees Celsius. Nonetheless, they strive to have a closer look at the Earth’s core as it would provide pertinent information about earthquakes, volcanoes, the rise of sea level, the warming of the bodies of water, the different minerals present, and so on. Thus far, scientists have attempted to reach the mantle before going further down. Although in 2005, for the first time, they managed to drill 1.42 kilometers below the ocean floor to the lower section of the crust, the Mohorovicic discontinuity or the Moho, a boundary that marks the division between the brittle outer crust and the soft mantle, remained untouched. The depth of the Moho varies per area, since the planet changes shape due to tectonic and climatic forces. According to the seismic data used to map the varying thickness of the crust, the hole that took eight weeks to drill was a thousand feet off to the side where the Moho could have been reached. I don’t know how the vagina looks like. Images have been flashed: a collage of animated blobs with arrows and labels and bullet points for what each organ in the reproductive system does; videos rolled to feature an infant coming out of a seemingly deranged woman. I always looked away to preserve my innocence, which some would call ignorance. I have bowed my head neither in reverence as one would gesticulate before a holy place nor to finally look at mine, but simply to retract. I was asked how I clean it without looking, as though I needed to see it in order to wash it. It’s simple: Every morning and evening, I bury my middle and ring fingers in places they would penetrate my body and let water in. My left hand clutches the showerhead; it lingers below the spots I feel should be cleansed further, flicks to and fro so 57


that the water shooting upward glides and brushes my skin — a gentle fountain I pray cleans. I haven’t soaped it in years. My body had always jerked when my soapy fingers forced themselves in. When I found out what feminine wash was — I was fifteen when I saw a little pink bottle labelled “pH 5.5” in my parents’ bathroom and read its directions of use — I thought of squeezing out a pea – sized drop for myself; it was about time I used something other than water. Commercials have emphasized enough the cleanliness and freshness gained upon application, always the image of a lady in a light – colored dress that balloons as she spins under the arm of a man who later embraces her while she endorses the bathroom product that allegedly resulted to their intimacy. The bottle was returned, not a drop subtracted. My body has always been fine, I reasoned; I never had an infection. There was no point changing how I’ve done things, especially when I knew nothing about the acidity of skin and my privates. I feared feeling again the burning sensation body soap provided. Although I could have asked or researched on anatomy and washes, I didn’t. My biology teacher taught that feminine washes tend to kill even the good bacteria that protect the vagina, that these soaps can infect and irritate the area. In addition, no one was going to care; I wasn’t going to have sex. Even when I did have a boyfriend, feminine wash still didn’t matter: he was never around. I have always been clean. * A blur of black and beige alternated with each other like the waves of a troubled sea, only frozen; overlapped one another and clumped together like the leaves of an acacia. I should have known — perhaps I did — that the coils of hair that marred the center of my body foreshadowed the convolution of what was beneath it. The details of the reflection on the mirror that I held in between my legs one night when my then – boyfriend told me not to be ashamed of my body, especially the private parts, never imprinted themselves in my mind. The unsharpened image resulted from the lack of focus of squinted eyes, noise from pubic hair never trimmed. 58


In dresses that hug the body tightly, I, like many others, have been bothered by a bulge. Mine’s not the stomach, though. A little triangle protrudes inches below the belly and points to my privates, an arrow, pubic hair, marking the spot. Brazilian wax was never an option, so was laser treatment for pecuniary reasons, nor do I have tools for shaving; the ones from Veet were only for the limbs. Trimming was most feasible in terms of getting hair out, but it didn’t seem hygienic to me to use the same pair of hair scissors as I did my bangs. Hair growth in that area would have posed another burden. It was already cumbersome to schedule a day for waxing my legs: it had to be a few days after my period, never before; when I didn’t have homework to do for the process takes long; my father not around to tell me to cover up; I felt brave and ready to rip strips off my skin (which wasn’t always the case). Cut pubic hair probably meant approximately two weeks of not being bothered by it, as well as a lifetime of having to worry about and tend to the thick sharp ends that would go through my underwear. I’ve settled to flattening it with my hand. As I have managed to live with pubic hair, I have often wondered how matters would have been if I never touched the hair on my legs. Perhaps the color wasn’t so dark against my skin. Maybe the strands didn’t grow more than an inch long and that there weren’t a lot of them enough to have a hayfield on my shins and thighs; my mother did look very closely when she expressed her repulsion. I’ve seen fair girls wear shorts, skirt, or a dress despite having hairy legs; no one seemed to mind. Some of them have a boyfriend; he didn’t seem to mind either. I am not they; they are not I, I have told myself. Not everyone has been endowed with flawlessness or meekness that draws the attention of certain kinds of people, who, upon focusing on a certain individual, disregard all other things. * My hunched and tilted spine from scoliosis resembles the undulating Great Wall. While it may have caused one side of my waist to be 59


unmistakably more curved than the other, alarmed me of the probability of tilting further until I need surgery, scoliosis continues to push me to be concerned with my posture, if not my physical health altogether. Fragile from a spine curvature, I’ve gained an explanation for my inability to fully bend my back, touch my toes with locked knees; saved myself from carrying heavy things and being teased for apparent lack of flexibility. What I’ve come to love are the three little dots on my left arm that form a straight line like the three largest pyramids of the Giza complex that are believed to point to the three stars that compose Orion’s belt. They sprouted on my skin most likely due to much scalding by the sun; they could either be moles or freckles, or perhaps a combination of both. My body has traces of culture. The lines on my belly button form the character for “down” in Chinese, as though instructing whoever would see me naked to look in the said direction — of course, he would have to be Chinese to understand; rather, he’s supposed to be. I once had two moles beside each other on my lower right cheek. I was told that a pair of moles means I have a rival. On the other hand, my grandmother and my mother wanted it cauterized, since it’s believed that a woman who has moles which are in the path of tears will become a widow. They rubbed my cheeks hoping to erase the pair; it remained. Still a child, I was barely bothered by the moles than I was with their constant pinching of my cheek. My classmates didn’t care about them, as they were much too young to have observed such a little detail. Instead, they pointed their fingers and jeered at some other kid who had a button – sized birthmark a lot like a mole on her cheek. She became my best friend in our adolescence and I realized that we weren’t alone having the urge to hide or rid ourselves of our flaws, hairy legs being one of them and thankfully concealed by our long eggplant – colored skirts in school. With the pair of moles that caused alarm gone, I may have lost a rival in that friendship was eventually established, yet I still have it in myself to loathe, to compete. I have other pairs elsewhere: one on the forehead, stomach, and right calf; two at the back of my left arm. 60


Only time will tell of my being a widow that although the moles may or may not have anything to do with it, I’m certain that the spirit behind such an idea will come to mind — a reincarnation, if not resurrection, of a person to an age – old belief to keep me company. A brown scapular embellishes my body, dangles around my neck, and converges at the clasp of a rectangle framing the image of the Virgin Mother and the child Jesus. It has no beads. The string has twirled upon itself in five groups of ten that trickle down my torso — suspended little acorns mimicking beads of sweat. The cross hangs until my navel, blessing my body. Reminiscent of a dagger, it defends me as it reminds anyone who tries to conquer me that body must be nurtured. I feel naked without it. Like a weapon, the scapular must be close to me preferably away from public eye. It should only be used as a last resort hence the need for me to draw a curtain on my flesh to impede view and temptation directed not only to a foreigner but also to myself to dislike and be embarrassed of my natural state, that opulence of hair. * Much digging into the earth leads to finding fossils, bones, these telltale signs of death and decay, harm that occurred during the remote past, lack of protection. People’s attention is directed to the little intricacies that have marred the artifact. After brushing off dirt and dust from bones for instance, archaeologists identify to whom they belonged, as well as investigate and surmise the cause of the cuts across them. Possibilities expand and welcome the archaeologists to another world that once clothed the bones and bound them together until further CT scans, x – rays, and radiocarbon dating narrow these conjectures down and eventually point to, say, a pharaoh and the story of his death by illness, old age, or murder through a sliced larynx deep enough to touch the spine. Of the relic, as it is possessed, there should hardly be any desire toward it anymore. The only physical contact it should have experienced involves the preparators’ scraping off of layers of matrix, 61


reassembling, and gluing broken pieces back together. It is set on a pedestal for all to see; there is no room for selfishness, hoarding, and depriving others of knowledge and insight that can be derived from it. No outsider must touch and violate the artifact. Although many exercise utmost care in its presence, there are those who break into museums and steal. There was a case in 2011 involving nine men who searched for gold in the Egyptian Museum; they seized some mummies out. Upon discovering these did not contain gold, the thieves threw them aside and ran off. The relics, save for the skulls, were pulverized on impact. * Growing up, I was hardly fond of being touched. Most of the physical contact involved spanking and hitting, I suppose the usual punishments for disobedience and unsatisfactory performance in school — the number of spanks equalled that of errors in tests. In music class back when I was in prep, I was kicked (perfect 45s that sent me tumbling) by two classmates for being one of the few to understand and read beats and rhythms. A girl with a sharp Mongol stabbed my arm where, years later, a mole took the place of the nick. For threats and peer pressure to like so and so or do this and that, arms were contorted where begging for mercy did nothing. Although I have evaded the touch of the opposite sex, my body craves to be held. Naturally or not, when a granduncle pinned me on my parents’ couch when I was six, kissed my face, my ears, and my neck, granted I tried to whisk myself away, but I also laughed. His wet lips, his tongue, and his breath against my skin tickled me — a dissonance that has resurfaced after years of assumed dormancy. On the same sofa, another man also held me as I kept my arms around him, or at least tried to lock him in my short arms. I swung my feet whenever he kissed my head. My carnal desires were tempered most probably as a result of wanting to offer myself to God alone or to my future spouse, both 62


for and out of love. Teachings in school emphasizing simplicity and modesty which I took to heart made it easier for me at the time to appear covered and be reserved. Upon being removed from that environment full of maternal figures clearly from a different generation and culture, I currently grapple with time and vanity, am even tempted to display my youth especially to those who only told me about its curse, that certain exposures of flesh mean I’m “asking for it” hence deserving of a life – long burden. I considered ridding myself of some flesh if only to inspire love rather than lust, a taking care, a mounting over me to protect rather than subjugate me. I’ve lessened my food intake. My outline has become more and more evident. My ribcage becomes defined much like my knuckles with impeccable inclines and declines, yet my clavicle and sternum still don’t exude fragility. Nonetheless I’d like to believe that my convex curves fit into someone else’s concave ones; my concave his convex. To ascertain my dazzling an explorer — one who is neither ashamed by anatomy like I — I will have to let him know about my uncharted territories, the facts and superstitions which place my identity, elude the touch in his fantasies for there is nothing on me to touch, let alone desire. That he may be enamored is unconceivable, but I would be titillated were it to happen.  

63


stefani tran

Consider the following as universally true 1. There are two types of coupled transport that occur within a cell. The first is antiport, which involves an exchange of ions across a membrane. The second is symport, wherein a molecule travels against its electrochemical gradient in only one direction. 2. At absolute zero, the entropy of a pure crystalline substance remains at zero. 3. It takes exactly sixty seconds for an erythrocyte to travel one complete circuit through the human body. 4. It is physically impossible to cry and whistle at the same time. 5. Upon hatching, goslings become attached to the first thing they see that is larger than themselves. In their minds, they and the creature or object they have developed an attachment to are of the same species. This phenomenon is called imprinting, and is one of the strongest forces known in nature. More often than not, this bond is for life. 6. Due to the low density of receptor cells on the edges of the retina, peripheral vision in humans is far weaker than in other animals. The goat, for example, has a visual range that is 180% better than that of, say, the average adult male. 7. An element whose d – subshell is incomplete is called a transition metal. 8. Spiders of the genus Nephila are unique in that their silk is yellow instead of white; under the sunlight, the threads shine bright gold.

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9. “Nor again is there anyone who loves or pursues or desires to obtain pain of itself because it is pain, but occasionally circumstances occur in which toil and pain can procure him some great pleasure.” – Cicero, De finibus bonorum et malorum 10. <html> <body> <eyes = “Portrait of Edward James (1937), reproduction.png”> <cardiac muscle = “the Muybridge racehorse.gif ” loop = infinite> <Broca’s area = “Song of Songs [seventh draft].txt”> <mouth = error: File could not be found.> 11. Dark reactions do not necessarily happen at night. 12. Transition metals and main group metals are both good conductors of electricity and heat. 13. Hygroscopy is the propensity of a substance to attract and absorb water molecules. Unlike capillarity, wherein the substance attracts water but is unaffected by it, hygroscopy is characterized by an increase in volume or a softening of the material. 14. Autohypnosis, or self – induced hypnosis, which was first proposed by physician James Braid in his 1850 dissertation Observations on Trance or Human Hybernation, often takes the form of a memorized set of instructions or a repeated mantra. 65


15. A cat in an enclosed box is either dead, or it is alive. 16. Results can only be gained by conducting experiments. 17. <html> <body> <eyes = “eyes.gif ”> <mouth = “Song of Songs [seventeenth draft].pdf ”> <ears = “an apology.wav”> 18. The difference between transition metals and main group metals is that transition metals are more electronegative. 19. There is always a better carton of orange juice / edition of Neruda’s Veinte poemas / telephone number than the one you are holding right now. 20. The person that it is hardest to convince is oneself. 21. We are still on schedule for the annual apocalypse. 22. list, of raw data: 1) eyes = the interesting patterns beer stains make on the floor 2) ears = laughter (not yours) crossing a low – lit barroom 3) hippocampus = an apology loop = infinite 23. It’s been centuries since the Michigan School Moderator. The dog lies there, now with a medical condition that is far more severe than lethargy. The fox, on the other hand, continues to jump — not for the sake of technology, but because it remembers how. 66


24. Suspended animation, or the extreme slowing of biological processes, can be achieved either by effecting a drastic drop in temperature, or by draining the blood from the circulatory system and replacing it with a low – temperature solution. If successful, termination will not occur; however, signs of life such as heartbeat and breathing will be difficult to detect, and there is a risk of the subject sustaining brain damage upon reanimation. 25. The human eye is 50% water. 26. <br> 27. The webs of spiders of the genus Nephila, though beautiful to look at, are in fact a form of aggressive mimicry — luring in unsuspecting bees that are helplessly attracted by the bright play of color. 28. No one rejects, dislikes, or avoids pleasure itself because it is pleasure, but because those who do not know how to pursue pleasure rationally encounter consequences that are extremely painful. 29. Her existence. 30. Occasionally after an earthquake, the crust surrounding the fault plane will attempt to normalize and adjust to the rupture. Unfortunately, this movement only results in another earthquake, or what is known as an aftershock — the intensity of which may be even greater than the original quake. 31. Lorem ipsum is meaningless sound. 32. Fascists to ashes, we all fall down. 33. We used to live in water.

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34. We used to live in the sky. 35. There is a reason why we left. 36. The greater a forceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s distance is from the fulcrum of a lever compared to the load, the easier the load is to move. 37. In the winter, the Siberian hamsterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fur gradually changes from dark gray to white. 38. Option number three: The cat could have been released back into the wild. 39. Breakaway glass, the material used for film and television props, is made from sugar which is dissolved in water and then heated to approximately 150 degrees Celsius. Because it is hygroscopic, it must be used immediately after creation. 40. Breathing is not a requirement. It is a choice. However, it should be noted that failure to do so may result in permanent death. 41. The Mexican flowering plant Agave mitis can grow up to twenty feet in height, but it takes over four decades for it to finally bloom. 42. The only constant is that everything will change. 43. The maximum shelf life of a photograph is pegged at roughly a hundred and fifty years. After which, really, the only thing that can be done is to take a new one. 44. Everyone is capable of learning how to whistle. 45. All it takes is practice.

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Editoryal sa Sining Lagi na lamang nababanggit ng kabataan ngayon na kulang na ang dalawampu't apat na oras kada araw para sa lahat ng kanilang kailangan gawin. Mahirap na kung magugol ang oras para sa iisang gawain lamang. Dahil dito, nauso na ang penomenon ng multi – tasking. Isa sa mga halimbawa ng bagay na kasabay lagi ginagawa ng ibang bagay ay social networking sites tulad ng Facebook at Twitter, kung saan may kakayahan tayo na mag-share, like, favorite, at retweet ng kung ano mang nilalaman. Higit na nagiging madali kung gayon ang pakikipag-ugnayan sa mga taong kapareha natin ng ideya. Higit pa roon, nagagawa natin ang pakikipag-ugnayang ito kasabay ng lahat ng iba pa nating ginagawa, kaya may puwang lamang para sa mga maikli – ito marahil ang dahilan kung bakit kakaunti ang umuusbong na Panitikan ng mga mahahabang akda tulad ng mga nobela at maikling kuwento. Dito papasok ang Sining. Kung ikukumpara ang isyu na ito sa iba pang regular na isyu ng heights, makikita na may lantarang pagdami ang bilang ng mga akdang pansining. Sa isang paraan, nakasasabay ito sa larangan ng social networking, kung saan may Tumblr at Pinterest, na libo-libong mga imahen ang ginagamitan ng mga pagfavorite at pag-reblog sa loob ng iilang sandali. Subalit hindi kasiguruhan ito – sa lubhang dami ng imahen, madaliang pagtingin na lang ang naiaalay ng tumitingin sa sining. Higit pa roon – maituturing nga bang Sining ang lahat na ito? Oo at hindi. Maraming isyu at ideya na isinusulong ang bagong panahon at ang bagong uri ng sining. Isa lamang sa mga ito ang ganoong pagtrato sa sining. Tulad ng mga panibagong ideya at medya sa ating sining pang-lokal, maraming mga isyu at ideya na umuusbong dulot ng pamahalaan, o kaya ng mga relihiyosong institusyon, sapagkat nahaharap sila sa bagong mga uri ng sining – sining na maaaring may mga aspeto na itinataguriang offensive to _______ sensibilities. Kasabay 73


pa nitong pagtingin sa sining ang lahat ng iba nating kailangan gawin sa loob ng dalawampu't oras kada araw. Sa isyu na ito ng heights na may halos tatlumpung akdang pangsining, hinihikayat naming maging bukas ang pananaw at paningin at magugol ng higit sa iilang segundo, upang maintindihan ang bawat akda. Nicole Maguyon February 2013

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RD Bolinas. Lunacy Series: Lunatic 4 / 5. Digital manipulation.

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Lunacy Series: Lunatic 7 / 8.

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Lester James Miranda. Nebula. Photography.

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Isobel Angeli Francisco. Mistress Mary. Digital.

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Angelo Juarez. Big Fish. Photomanipulation.

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Meggie Ong. SPACE Series: Untitled. Print on parchment and embroidery, 11 x 17.

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SPACE Series: Untitled

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SPACE Series: Untitled

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Jose Tence Ruiz. Ganap Mural. Hi titanium latex paint on cement, 1025 sq. meters.

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Luke Lazatin. [[[confined]]]. Photomanipulation.

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Pia Samson. Close up of an Orchid. Acrylic, 20 x 20.

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Manuel Angulo. Is it Madeline? Pressed Flowers.

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Adrian Begonia. Feast. Digital Photography.

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Pia Samson. Untitled. Ink, 10 x 12.

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Alfred Benedict Marasigan. The Canonization of Rihanna. Acrylic, 36 x 36.

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Rd Bolinas. Lunacy Body Morph Series 1. Digital manipulation.

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Lunacy Body Morph Series 2.

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Pam Celeridad. Cain & Abel (Diptych). Acrylic, 3 x 4 feet.

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Alfred Benedict Marasigan. All Stars. Acrylic, 5 x 5 each.

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Nicole Casta単eda. Inhale, Exhale. Digital.

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Ali Nadine Timonera. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Always Something Bigger. Digital.

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Enzo Dino. Ingenuity Amidst Diversity. Acrylic.

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John Alexis Balaguer. Aegri Somnia. Photomanipulation.

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Nicole Maguyon. Muro – Ami. Digital Photography.

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Isobel Angeli Francisco. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Lifebinder, preserve me.â&#x20AC;? Digital.

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Luis Wilfredo Atienza (II BS Biology) Thanks to everyone that I constantly annoy with requests to read my writing. I’ve got a long way to go. “They’re special, no doubt. The amazing thing is, not one of them will ever know.” – Xander Harris Manuel Angulo (I AB Communications) There is a song with a line that goes: “I love you baby, like a flower loves the spring.” That got me thinking, what if the flower loves the spring only because the spring is all it has known? Here’s to letting go of the ’could haves’ and the ’what ifs.’ To embracing everything life throws at me. To moving forward and beyond. After all, it is just my first year in uni. I’d like to thank my family, Hallaback (special shout out to Richard Webb), Block A, my M02ruefriends, Capoeira, and, of course, heights, especially the heights Art Staff Seniors. It’s been a crazy year. (: John Alexis Balaguer (AB Communications 2012, Minor in Creative Writing) I don’t paint dreams or nightmares, I paint my own reality. – Frida Kahlo Adrian Begonia (III BS Chemistry with Materials Science and Engineering) “So, how do they satisfy their sweet tooth when they’re not eating up the small grains of sugar, or the crumbs from your 3 year old’s cinnamon bun? In a rather interesting, yet disgusting, way, ants will milk other insects using their [jaws] to force them to secrete juices” – What Do Ants Eat?, www.antswers.com 107


Robert de Angelo Bolinas (IV BSMS Chemistry) The bounds and interface of the digital and physical space is the cellular matrix of my art. Its movement and task is the exploration of these spaces. Its many souls lie in an earthly cycle, made, remade, interpreted, reinterpreted in this process I describe as the metadigital approach. This is the creative process of documentation, image manipulation, juxtaposition, and recapture  —  all in a repeating cycle. This brings back a sense of tedious and lengthy process as in traditional art, and also creates works of art that both involve my other works of art, and evolve into other works of art over time. This helps the artworks escape that sense of 'finality' in a traditional work — not merely with a sort of transiency, but with a sense of being constantly changing and evolving — in shifting between the physical and digital spaces. Kevin Caballa (IV BS Applied Physics with Applied Computer Systems) Kevin Caballa has spent the better portion of this year looking at clouds. He dedicates this poem to P, who is, always, his sky. Deirdre Camba (IV AB Literature, Minor in Creative Writing) Deirdre Camba is currently finishing her major in Literature (English), with a minor in Creative Writing at the Ateneo de Manila University. She was accepted as a fellow for both the 17th Ateneo heights Writers Workshop in 2011, and the 11th Ateneo National Writers Workshop. Her work has been published on heights and Spindle. Nicko Reginio Caluya (IV BS Computer Science, Specialization in Interactive Multimedia and Games, Minor in Literature – Filipino) All natural and technological processes proceed in such a way that the availability of the remaining energy decreases. In all energy exchanges, if no energy enters or leaves an isolated system, the entropy of that system increases. Energy continuously flows from being concentrated to becoming dispersed, spread out, wasted and 108


useless. New energy cannot be created and high grade energy is being destroyed. The fundamental laws of thermodynamics will place fixed limits on technological innovation and human advancement. In an isolated system, the entropy can only increase. A species set on endless growth is #UNSUSTAINABLE Para sa lahat ng mga tinatanggihan at iniiwang mag – isa. Para sa mga nagsasawang masawi at umasa. Para sa kanya, parati na lang naman para sa kanya. Joseph Casimiro (AB European Studies 2012, European Studies Program) Joseph Casimiro, 21, graduated top of his course in March 2012. He now works for government and teaches a subject on European ideology for the European Studies Program of the Ateneo. His poetry has appeared in publications like Kritika Kultura, High Chair, and the Philippines Free Press. For Sab. Nicole Castañeda (II BFA Information Design) Vice can shapeshift anyone. Pam Celeridad (IV BFA Information Design) なまむぎ、なまごめ、なまたまご。 Genero R. Gojo Cruz Si Genaro R. Gojo Cruz ay naging fellow sa tula sa 2nd ateneo National Writers’ Workshop noong 2001 at saglit din siyang nag – aral ng Malikhaing Pagsulat sa Ateneo de Manila University noong 2000. Isabela Cuerva (IV BFA Creative Writing) Sab dreams in color. Many thanks to JC — my reader, editor, line – cutter, best friend, and 109


lover. Thanks also to Nicko and Martin, the two other people upon whom I inflict my work. You guys rock. For Tita Chit and Trissa Enzo Dino (III BS Health Sciences) Dedicated to my grandmother, Christina Dino, the bravest person I know. If there’s anyone who knew how to face adversity with humor and a smile on her face, it was her. I love you, Nai Nai. Abner Dormiendo (III AB Philosophy) Isang mag – aaral ng Pilosopiya si Abner, at isang frustrated writer. Hinihintay pa rin niya ang panahong mailalathala ang pinakauna niyang nobela. Para sa mga taong ito ang lahat ng aking pagsusulat: Block J 2014, mga kaibigan sa Ateneo Gabay at heights (lalo na sa Bagwisan), mga high school friends (lalo na kina Mimi at Elle), sa pamilya ko (kahit di ko pinapabasa sa kanila ang mga ginagawa ko), fellows, panelists, at staff ng 18th AHWW, at sa iba pa (kilala niyo kung sino kayo). Sa lahat ng naibigay ninyo sa akin, hayaan niyong suklian ko kayo sa paraang pinakaalam ko. “Some call it reckless, I call it breathing.” (Accidental Light, Sleeping at Last) http://lagimlim.wordpress.com/ Isobel Angeli Francisco (AB Humanities, Minor in Japanese Studies 2009) Isobel Francisco is an AB Humanities graduate of Ateneo de Manila University, currently working as Creative Specialist for GMA Channel 7. She spends the rest of her time painting, and organizing art exhibits and live art sessions. You can find her at http://stainedpaper.me. 110


Brian Paul Giron (AB Political Science 2003, Department of History) Brian Paul Giron is a polar bear. He has been happily counting to 6209 and will ask for another when he is done. All the while teaching history, and insisting that koalas belong to the Ursidae. Jenina Ibañez (II AB Literature) Jenina is a sophomore litmajor. She attempts (and fails) to write with a red typewriter she got for Christmas. Thanks to Block B and Lit126.2 A! Angelo Juarez (3 BS Management Engineering) Sana may free cut din minsan ang buhay.  Luke Lazatin (II BS Life Sci minor in French Studies) “Perhaps less room means fewer chances for error?” Joseph Ledesma (III AB Communications) For: Yig, the Father of Serpents. Also for Mother, Father, and Sister. I hope they actually check this section so they can read how much I love them. Nicole Maguyon (IV AB Humanities) Muro – Ami is part of Undertow, a collection of photographs for my senior thesis titled, Impressions of Water: an advocacy for the Philippine Seas. Mo would like to thank Cedric, Kat, and Nikko, for making her Undertow collection possible. For Sam, and your halcyon days. Aidan Manglinong (III BFA Creative Writing) Si Aidan ay nasa pangatlong taon ng kursong bfa Creative Writing sa pamantasan ng Ateneo de Manila. I’m still here because of some 111


people. My thanks to: The cbg Twitter bros, especially Dan, Kim, Nicole, “Ma’am” Erika, Leiron, Gab O Sixx, et al, thanks for the internet study time company. Seriously, bv mag – aral sa gabi if it wasn’t for you guys. Sa mga nagbigay puwang sa kaniyang buhay sa nakalipas na buwan: Matt, Chise, Soc, Skalyx, Sam, Munkii, Juno, AJ, Izo, et al. At lalo na sa pangalawa kong pamilya, ang Commonwealth Boys, na naging karamay sa pighati’t kasawian ng nakaraang ilang buwan. Pasensiya na lagi akong wala ngayon . Alfred Benedict Marasigan (IV BFA Information Design) I would like to thank Mr. Rio Ambrosio of Artes Orientes, Ms. Precy Garcia, Mr. Jerry Respeto, Mr. Ian Jaucian, and most especially, Pam, for making Parables happen. All Stars and The Canonization of Rihanna are pieces from Parables, my two man show with Pam Celeridad last September 2012 and January 2013. I dedicate all my success to the Creator, to my loving parents, to my beloved Heightsers, to my friends Hannah, Maan, Geneve, Mo, Audrey, John, Sab, and Nicko, who have been with me through recent trying times, to all those who have believed in me, to the country so deserving yet so deprived of inspiration, and most of all, to my dearest Khail. May you find your way within. Para sa mga nagmahal at nawalan. Lester James Miranda (II BS Electronics and Communications Engineering) And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.  – Genesis 1:3 Thank you everyone! [oflightpoetry.wordpress.com]

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Sari Molintas (III Interdisciplinary Studies) Sari is a junior who spent two years in the natural sciences before deciding to become an Interdisciplinary Studies major. She still prefers to read real books. She doesn’t think that’s going to change anytime soon. She has her mother to thank for countless reasons, but for two reasons in particular here: for helping her create worlds of words, and for teaching her to be brave enough to share those worlds with other people. Thanks, Mom. Jeivi Nicdao (I BS Psychology) she (ˈshē), pronoun. 1. raw, skeleton, interim.    2. ufo, plot, metaphor. Meggie Ong (IV BFA Information Design) Meggie is learning, always learning. Allan Popa (Kagawaran ng Filipino) Si Allan Popa ay autor ng walong aklat ng mga tula kabilang na ang Basta (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2009), Libot ng Durungawan (High Chair, 2009) at Maaari: Mga Bago at Piling Tula (UP Press, 2004). Nagwagi 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. Nagtuturo siya sa Kagawaran ng Filipino ng Ateneo de Manila University. Jose Tence Ruiz (Ateneo Grade School '69 and High School '73) Jose Tence Ruiz has spent the last 56 years, 36 as a visual practitioner, trying to make sense of the the last 56 years, among thousands of other years upon which he might dwell . He has struggled to make art, in its multiple guises and has been recognized for some work and vilified or ignored for others. He has exhibited close to and very far from where he originated, which is both Sta. Mesa, Manila and

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Cubao and he sees to it that while his body might stay in the present and in the Philippines, that his imagination goes way further. Sagala de Ligalig is his 19th one person show, and is by no means his last. He is drawn to the decoratively tragic. Edgar Calabia Samar (Assistant Professor, Kagawaran ng Filipino) Habambuhay binubuo ang pangalan. Ang domain name, nababayaran. http://edgarsamar.com. Pia Samson (IV BFA Information Design) Pia Samson has been drawing since she could remember. Though she only started painting two years ago, what started as a hobby developed into a real passion. Sometimes she takes pictures and wishes she can be a photographer as well. She tries to dabble in as many mediums as possible because she loves anything that has to do with art and design. Stephanie Shi (III BFA Creative Writing) Stephanie is a current heights member and a fellow for essay in the 18th Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop. She thanks her panelists, professors, and friends (co – fellows, org – and blockmates) for taking interest in her writing. Eugene Soyosa (AB Economincs 2009) why did I reject my life? And I answer Die Erde überwältigt mich: the earth defeats me.  – Louise Glück Sa mga halimaw ng aking pagkabata Sa aking mga iiwan pagdating ng panahon Sa walang hanggang wala. Jason Tabinas (AB Economics 2008) Nalathala ang ibang mga tula ni Jason Tabinas sa Likhaan, High 114


Chair Online Journal, at Philippines Free Press. Ali Nadine Timonera (II BS Computer Science) “Throw it out the airlock.” – Javik, Mass Effect 3 This one would like to thank friends both old and new, and the art staff for opening new horizons and opportunities for growth in art, for the invaluable camaraderie, and for the support to continue scribbling away that I couldn’t found anywhere else. Stefani Tran (II BFA Creative Writing) Stefani Tran regrets to inform you that Consider is the last of all the acceptable poems she has ever written (of which there are two). She would lock herself in the attic to write some more, but since she doesn’t have an attic, she’ll just thank her sister, Erin, for the science facts, and Ariane, Nica, Kat, and Sir Martin for their helpful feedback on said poem back when it was still a wee monstrous thingay. She is not repressed.

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Errata Sa lumabas na Heights 60th Anniversary Issue (Vol. LX No. 2), "A Winter Shade" ang pamagat ng kuwento ni Alfred Yuson (p. 277), gayong "A Whiter Shade" ang orihinal na pamagat. Sa Timeline na kalakip ng parehong isyu, 'Dimanalanta' ang lumabas na apelyido ni Dr. Ophelia Dimalanta. Nais magpaumanhin ng kasalukuyang patnugutan ng heights sa mga nabanggit na pagkakamali.


Pasasalamat Fr. Jose Ramon T. Villarin, SJ at ang Tanggapan ng Pangulo Dr. John Paul C. Vergara at ang Tanggapan ng Pangalawang Pangulo para sa mga Paaralang Loyola G. Rene Salvador S. San Andres at ang Tanggapan ng Kawaksing Dekano para sa Usaping Pangmag-aaral G. Eduardo Jose E. Calasanz at ang Tanggapan ng Kawaksing Dekano para sa Usaping Akademiko Dr. Ma. Luz C. Vilches at ang Tanggapan ng Dekano, Paaralan ng Humanidades Dr. Jerry C. Respeto at ang Programa ng Pinong Sining Dr. Alvin B. Yapan at ang Kagawaran ng Filipino Dr. Edgar C. Samar at ang Ateneo Institute of the Literary Arts and Practices (ailap) Dr. Marianne Rachel G. Perfecto at ang Kagawaran ng Ingles G. Christopher F. F. Castillo at ang Office of Student Activities Bb. Marie Joy R. Salita at ang Office of Administrative Services Bb. Liberty Santos at ang Central Accounting Office G. Regidor B. Macaraig at ang Purchasing Office Gng. Lourdes T. David at ang Aklatang Rizal Bb. Carina C. Samaniego at ang Artsibo ng Pamantasan Bb. Yael Buencamino at ang Ateneo Art Gallery Ang MVP Maintenance at Security Personnel Ang University Physical Plant Office Karlo Amparo, Mark Cinco and the Computer Society of the Ateneo (CompSAt) Bb. Ani Almario at ang Philippine Board on Books for Young People G. Luther Aquino at The Guidon G. Alfie Pe単a at Matanglawin Ang Sanggunian ng Mag-aaral ng Ateneo de Manila Ang Council of Organizations of the Ateneo At sa lahat ng mga nagpadala ng kontribusyon para sa isyung ito


Patnugutan Punong Patnugot Nicko Reginio Caluya [bs cs 2013] Pangmalakihang Patnugot Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan [bfa id 2013] Katuwang na Patnugot Paolo Tiausas [bfa cw 2013] Tagapangasiwang Patnugot para sa Komunikasyon Deirdre Camba [ab lit (eng) 2013] Patnugot sa Sining Therese Nicole Reyes [bs psy 2013] Katuwang na Patnugot sa Sining Nicole Maguyon [ab hum 2013] Patnugot sa Disenyo Sara Erasmo [bfa id 2013] Katuwang na Patnugot sa Disenyo Meggie Ong [bfa id 2014] Patnugot sa Ingles Cedric Tan [bs mgt 2013] Katuwang na Patnugot sa Ingles Isabela Cuerva [bfa cw 2014] Patnugot sa Filipino Jeroshelle Santos [bs ch – mse 2014] Katuwang na Patnugot sa Filipino Ariane Lim [bfa cw 2015] Tagapangasiwa ng Produksyon Audrey Mae Ferriol [ab eu 2014] Katuwang na Tagapangasiwa ng Produksyon Patricia Santos [bfa id 2013] Katuwang sa Pananalapi Maan Mendoza [bfa id 2013]

Punong Tagapamagitan at Tagapamagitan sa Filipino Allan Alberto N. Derain Tagapamagitan sa Sining Yael A. Buencamino Tagapamagitan sa Ingles Martin Villanueva Tagapamagitan sa Disenyo Pepito Go – oco Tagapamagitan sa Produksyon Enrique Jaime S. Soriano


Mga tumulong sa pagbuo ng isyung ito Sining 

Dyanne Abobo, Manuel Angulo, Micah Barker, Adrian Begonia, JV Calanoc, Nicole Castañeda, Pamela Celeridad, Francis Doloroso, Angela Escudero, Monica Esquivel, Momo Fernandez, Yanna Justiniani, Kriselle de Leon, Kimberly Lucerna, Maan Mendoza, Julianna Montinola, Moli Muñoz, Justyn Ng, Sara Nothdurft, Veronica Oliva, Jan Eli Padilla, Shane Ramirez,Nicole Soriano, Ali Timonera, Jenelyn Venancio, Aaron Villaflores, Fleurbelline Vocalan

Disenyo 

Anissa Aguila, Bianca Carandang,Timothy Chuang, Kenzie Du, Bianca Espinosa, Karen Fuentes, Bea Ignacio, Andi Lanuza, Jenny Lapus, Dale Liwanag, Katrina Lontoc, Tanya Mallillin, Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan, Sara Nothdurft, Bea Policarpio, Nicole Soriano, Eugene Tuazon

Ingles 

Paco Adajar, A. A. Aris Amor, Billy Atienza, Tasha Basul, Christabel Bucao, Deirdre Camba Regine Cabato, Gian Dapul, Cathy Dario, Jio Deslate, Adam Eleccion, Javison Guzman, Jenina Ibanez, Leona Lao, Joseph Ledesma, Samuel Liquete, DC Mostrales, Lara Pangilinan, Elijah Pascual, Hannah Perdigon, Carissa Pobre, Andie Reyes, Bianca Sarte, Stephanie Shi, Micheas Elijah Taguibulos, Rie Takumi, Pam Villar, Kazuki Yamada, Noelle Zarza

Filipino 

Selina Ablaza, Chise Alcantara, Ace Ancheta, Japhet Calupitan, Nicko Reginio Caluya, Patricia Cendaña, Luigi Cortez, Dustin Cruz, Abner Dormiendo, Reia Dangeros, Geneve Guyano, Kara de Guzman, Kimberly Lucerna, Mo Maguyon, Aidan Manglinong, Lj Miranda, Hannah Perdigon, Lorenz Revillas, Paolo Tiausas, Roanne Yap

Produksyon 

Kim Ang, Gwen Bañaria, JV Calanoc, Punky Canlas, Momo Fernandez, Jonnel Inojosa, Kriselle de Leon, Ysa Ocliasa, Harvey Parafina, Carissa Pobre, Renzo Santos, Melissa Yu, Cressa Zamora


3rd ateneo heights artists workshop

10 – 11 november 2012 Femar Garden Resort and Convention Center, Antipolo City

Panelists Joel Alonday Yael Buencamino Dan Matutina Jason Moss Leeroy New Claro Ramirez Fellows Nikita Bacalzo [photography] RD Bolinas [photography] Nicole Castañeda [digital illustration] Sofia Dasmariñas [illustration, watercolor] Therese Reyes [illustration, ink] Pia Samson [painting and mixed media] John Tan [mixed media] Ali Timonera [digital illustration] Aguinaya Taguinay [photography] Fleurbelline Vocalan [digital and watercolor, illustration] Workshop Director Nicole Maguyon


Workshop Deliberation Committee Jamie Bauza John Alexis Balaguer Eliana Javier John Paul Marasigan Workshop Committee Assistant Director, Logistics Head: Momo Fernandez Logistics: Jen Venancio and Moli Mu単oz Documentations: Adrian Begonia Finance: Maan Mendoza Design Meggie Ong Heights Art Moderator Yael Buencamino

Profile for Heights Ateneo

(2013) Vol. 60, No. 3  

The 2013 second regular issue of Heights Vol. 60. Heights is the official literary and artistic publication and organization of the Ateneo...

(2013) Vol. 60, No. 3  

The 2013 second regular issue of Heights Vol. 60. Heights is the official literary and artistic publication and organization of the Ateneo...

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