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heights vol. 62 no. 1 Copyright 2014 heights is the official literary and artistic publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila University. Copyright reverts to the respective ­authors and a­ rtists whose works appear in this issue. No part of this book may be r­ eprinted or reproduced in any means whatsoever ­without the written permission of the copyright holder. This publication is not for sale. Correspondence may be addressed to: heights, Publications Room, mvp 202 Ateneo de Manila University po Box 154, 1099 Manila, Philippines Tel. no. (632) 426-6001 loc. 5448 heights - ateneo.org Creative Direction and Layout by Cheska Mallillin Photography by Geraldine Fajardo Cover and Dividers by Nina Atienza, Lazir Caluya, Yuji de Torres, Ellan Estrologo, Geraldine Fajardo, Patty Ferriol, Guigi Galace, Iya Iriberri, Cheska Mallillin, Ianthe Pimentel, Troy Ong, Chelli Reyes, and Renzi Rodriguez Typeset in mvb Verdigris


Contents Jam Pascual   3 Everything’s Good Francine Sta. Ana   5 Swamp Things Reina Adriano  7 Sigma Jeivi Nicdao   29 To the boy who is suddenly surfacing and haunts: Josh Uyheng   34 love on the banks of the tigris-euphrates Christian Benitez  38 Bugtong   49 Adan at Eba   50 Liham Kay Orpheus   54 Mga Tagpong Hindi Nasasaksihan ng Tungkung Langit Mirick Paala   39 Sa Olongapo   41 Ang Pugot


Ariane Lim   42 Mga Milagro sa Ilalim ng Bilog na Buwan Abner Dormiendo   51 Sa Antipolo Ako Unang Nakahawak ng Kamay ng Babae   52 Sa Antipolo Naganap ang Isang Sikat na Masaker   53 Sa Antipolo Walang Estadistika ng Pagpapatiwakal Paolo Tiausas   55 Napakaganda ng Mundo


Art Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan  63 Froth   66 Vitamin and Mineral from Tablet (series) Chi Punzalan  64 Paranoia Sara Abrigo  65 Passing RJ Dimla   68 Dalawandaang Dangal Therese Pedro  69 Volatile Kassandra Kim T. Co   70 [Untitled] from New Year’s Eve Series Therese Nicole Reyes   71 Meiji Westernization Lorenzo Torres Narciso   72 From Afar (sequential work in three parts)


Editorial In April this year, students and faculty members of the Ateneo who passed by the corn field were exposed to Niccolo Jose’s Blue Eagle’s Nest. The installation easily attracted attention: a mound of soil framed by branches, and topped with spheres constructed from the same material allowed for a multiplicity of interpretations. The organic installation marked the location upon which the Areté building—what will eventually become the home of the arts in the Ateneo—will be erected. Much excitement was garnered upon announcement of the Areté. Many offices were involved in this project, including the Ateneo Art Gallery and the School of Humanities, and benefactors were eager to fund the project. However, the announcement was also met with complaints—there were members of the student body who were particularly vocal about this. There are students who feared the possibility of a connection between the announcement of the building of the Areté and the rise in the school’s tuition fees. Concerns about paying more for a new building were valid, but this highlighted that the way some members of the community viewed art was as a non-priority. This was to be expected, of course: to make such a provision for a specific sector of a community may seem to other groups as an act of estrangement. This is not the case, and it never should be. The arts are not separate from society; rather, they are grounded in it. The construction of the Areté is a concrete acknowledgement of this dynamic: that art is engrained in the society it moves around in. It draws from the society, and responds back into it but art had long been seen only an accessory to the everyday. Even today, there is still the tendency to view the arts as separate from real concerns

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because we find ourselves in positions that force these. Why should there be a concern for paintings and sculptures and books when some people struggle to find enough money to eat? Are not health plans and financial aid more important concerns? Art becomes delegated to the status of a luxury. The world around us has moved in such a way that this way of looking at art is no longer sustainable. Today, art can be utilized beyond that. heights believes this, and heights believes that the Ateneo believes in this, as well. The university’s president, Father Jett Villarin, SJ, said that with the Areté, there can be a more active, a more conscious, integration of disciplines, not only of the fine arts. Perhaps a better, more inclusive way of saying this is that it is an acknowledgement or creativity and its necessity to the changing world. Creativity, of course, draws from the artist’s creative endeavor. This endeavor refers to both the attempt at being creative, that is: ingenuity, thinking “out of the box.;” and to the assumption of the role of the creator . We find ourselves doing these already; in fact, it is demanded of us. As students, we create constantly: papers, projects, pitches. Creating is not at all foreign to us yet the creative process has not been given its due credit. The institution within which we function has acknowledged this involvement of creativity and art in an increasingly interdisciplinary world. Problems that our society face, such as the perpetually inefficient state of traffic, perhaps one of the many symptoms of the ever-present threat of poverty, can no longer only be addressed by the sciences or businesses alone—the creative endeavor must be applied should innovations hope to be made. The changing world necessitates synthesis, not a separation of skills; solutions

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to address real-life problems traditionally looked at only behind sheets of numbers and statistics call for a new perspective, a creative approach. This is a moment that calls for celebration. For such a change—one that is not only cultural, but also reflected physically, through the building that is to be, and through this folio—to occur at this point in time is one that should be celebrated. It is not simply an acknowledgement, however. We celebrate because it signals that now is the time to create opportunities and to share perspectives. Now is a time to change the way people view what it is they do and how this fits into a bigger perspective. The Areté is a very physical indication of this change. This is a moment of celebration for those already actively involved in the literary and art scenes of the Ateneo (and perhaps, beyond the Ateneo). This celebration is not exclusive. In the same way that there is now a need for an artistic influence in other disciplines, the arts cannot exist purely independently. heights stands by the bet that the Ateneo has made: to continue to foster the growth of our homegrown artistic talent while simultaneously involving art back into the society from which it was drawn out. There is constant encouragement from members of heights for their friends and colleagues to submit works to the folio. Talks and projects are organized yearly. There is a continuous effort to make a space for art because we believe that the arts are relevant to you, and at the same time, you are just as relevant to art. We believe in your capacity to be creators, to be co-creators, or, at the very least, to be open to the creative endeavor. Many of the contributors to this folio are not unfamiliar names to the publication; they have previously shared their works with us, and with you, our readers, and they continue to do so— for this, we are grateful. Congratulations are also in order for the contributors who are being published for the first time in this folio. We commend them for being at the forefront of our joint commitment to each other, not only for their skill, but for also being proof that the arts have a place in all disciplines.

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To be open is a beginning, and sharing in the changes that are to come necessitates an openness to new ideas—to see art as something that can contribute more is a big step towards this. At the core of this, however, as Father Jett so simply put it, is that to be open is to put hope in creativity, to celebrate the human spirit. Manuel Iùigo A. Angulo August 2014

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jam pascual

Everything’s Good My grades are decent and I can roll joints as fat as markers. I sleep on my back, I take notice of things left on the floor, I pick them up. My friends do not suspect another episode from me. I suppose they will have to look for entertainment elsewhere. There were, apparently, no hidden cameras anywhere, or ninja film crews crouching behind garbage cans, poised to catch instances I talk out of turn, masturbate to something unusual, or allow a priority to simply slip my mind, and other such things that might play on a 32-inch screen when I meet St. Peter, or whoever is in charge of determining who deserves

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to get back good given. When that happens, I’ll be glad to give back this rented suit of skin and nerves, no rivers branded on my palm, no strangers to climb the stairs of my backbone. It’s an empty room up here. My friends don’t suspect this, which is probably why they keep ringing the doorbell and running and laughing to themselves. No one ever comes out to make jokers feel guilty about harmless pranks. Stray water balloons thrown and bags of warm shit waiting at the doorstep. I am waiting at the doorstep with all the things I’ve ever done playing behind the wall.

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francine sta. ana

Swamp Things Esther’s brother Joel has disappeared. The fog covers the marsh, waiting. Murky water greets Esther’s eyes. Their old house wants to break. Beware of ‘gators, Joel would tease. She prays to the saints. Old trees, cattails, moss, heavy water. Old Moses’ banjo broke yesterday. Beware of snakes, she would say, Joel would swear and laugh. Esther’s lamp swings in her hand. Shadows hide in marshes, waiting. She trudges among tall grasses. Mud and water kiss her feet.

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The frogs sing. Herons cry nearby. Fog can reveal nasty things. Beware of ghosts, Esther prays. Beware of ghosts, Joel whispers, floating.

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reina adriano

Sigma* My father taught me how to add numbers in my head. With the way he trained me, the things that happened in the study room provided recurrence. He would take ten die in his hands, the edges bumping each other against his palms. Upon release, an instantaneous impact of the cubes would bruise the floor. Miniscule dots clustered on a black and white impression, all spread out. To add them together was the only thing needed to be done. The instructions, hinted one by one, were not so easy to forget. No struggle to hold the pencil or to count with fingers. No voices too. Leave the eraser untouched, he pointed out. Response should be in a single breath, hesitations were not welcomed. There was an obligation for me: to think of the digits as a family, the carry-overs an extension. It was when the scene repeated—by minutes, by hours, by days, by years. 8 The piano in our living room had 88 keys. My feet, barely reaching the floor, dangled at the sound of compliments. Relatives would then ask me to do a short performance. The music I played reached their ears, but there was nothing that reached me back. To train a child at a young age was to witness the transformation of a butterfly. My parents would play humble at the mention of prodigy. A scientific study would intrude the * To be published in the forthcoming issue of Plural Prose Journal

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conversation between an aunt and an uncle. They claimed that music and numbers are connected—both had something to do with the counting of beats and measures. My mother’s fantasy of becoming a pianist herself was my cue to leave. To accompany solitude, I would replay the same version of her story in my room. The piano teacher, who waited beside my favorite instrument in the afternoons, would usually perform a Beethoven for me to follow. Once the page was turned to a new piece, I should have been able to play the last one without looking at the sheets. All that was needed was a pause to encounter the tune in my head, then a signal to play it from memory. At the age of 12, my high school education in Manila pushed us to move out of the house—the old piano left behind, engulfed by the silence of years to come. We had the house rented, but no one among the new inhabitants expressed interest in playing in the piano, save for an occasional glide of the fingers across the keys. Loose sheets from my music book fluttered to the ground like broken butterfly wings on a summer’s day. The piano served as an ornament of class and prestige. Bringing it with us would be carrying the burden of the past. My parents bought a new one instead, along with a violin for a change. The piano in freshly-coated varnish resonated even better

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than the one before, but there was something different that was hard to point out. Maybe it was how my foot could reach the pedals, or how the praises were already directed to me instead to my parents. The last time I touched the old piano from a visit, only 80 keys were working; the other eight yielded to the silence. +

3 There were several tables set on stage, three kids for each. The committee provided papers and pencils, markers, then a whiteboard. The banner bearing the title for that year’s competition hung above their heads. The next question was read. Stillness entered the room with the simultaneous bowing down of heads to write what could be written. The light shone on the performance —the vigilance of ears, time as the only sign of movement. No calculators allowed. If one could see the minds at work, everything would be a blur. On stage: arms folded across her chest, one girl, around 10 or 11, tilted her head toward her teammates and murmured the answer. There was no sign of a solution on her paper, much less of an evidence that she even held the pencil. But not one of the two boys wrote what she said. They continued scribbling equations down, trying not to make a fool of themselves.

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It was taught to them that the mind was a dangerous tool and yet the faster one compared to the pencil. When the bell rang, they lifted their board up, clean. The answer announced was the same as the one the girl said. From the front seats, I heard a barely audible complaint escape: “I told you so.” They replied it didn’t matter; only three points were lost. They were confident enough to risk a difficult question in the midst of a mental calculation. Ignorance loomed heavier in the atmosphere than the mistake itself did. When the contest ended, the rest of the audience never saw their names engraved on the plaque. No one ever remembers the mark of a pencil, much more the absence of it. +

2 The chapel spoke of a presence. A statue’s outstretched hand was wiped with a handkerchief. It was an age-old custom that could not be questioned for a scientific basis. In reverence, my younger self lifted the handkerchief to my lips. To define a prayer, I let one dissolve into silence. My mother, a devotee of the immaculate figure in white, taught me to ask for favors from Her. Surrender means to borrow one of the Virgin Mary’s many titles—a religious tradition passed down and kept. Many others named Pilar, Carmela, Lourdes, Dolores, or Fatima had the same case. My

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name signified royalty, but there was nothing at the sound of it that made it special. Back home, I traced the belly of my mother with my fingers, hoping my new sister would be aware of my existence on the other side of the womb. I loved to think how our fingers would be aligning themselves, a mere assurance that the prayer would be granted. There would be another queen in the familythe third one, in fact. She would be the next one to be trained with numbers. The study table would be noticing my increasing absence and her prolonging presence beside my father. First names shared among siblings meant commonality, a sisterhood. But I regretted the moments when my father would call me out at home; two others would look at the same direction. +

2009 I saw my first dead man at the age of 13. There was no point in trying to find familiarity. The ashen face, the perfectly kempt hair, and the unparted lips did not make up what I thought to be my grandfather. When I peered into his coffin, it was an effort not to remember. What remained of my memories of him were fragments. Lolo had the fine ability of creating warrior kites and carving a particular Bicolano wooden toy gun, the sumpak. The moment he made mine

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a few years back, I brandished it like a weapon ready for battle. The sound it made frightened chickens in the backyard more than the small pieces of paper that I fired toward them. Until a crack made its way in the middle of the polished wood, I never let dust settle on it. When he died, his other grandchildren clutched the toys he made tightly to their chests, as if he would rise from the coffin and take it away from them. But my life was already robbed of the pieces that bound the fragments together: his smile that revealed itself whenever the tobacco slid out of his mouth, the kites that flew hundreds of feet high and slit each other in the air, as if death should be in view of the public, and the sumpak that was supposed to be used as a weapon but ended up in the toy carts of children. My memory now betrays me. His face keeps on changing, like stories told a little too short or too long. But I remember the last number on his epitaph. It read: 2009. I have never been to the province since. +

19 My father promised he’d put my medals together in a frame. Photographs of him up on stage were a rarity; the ones where my grandparents would put the medals on him were scarcer. For remembrance, they instead kept a collection of his achievements: a surge of inspiration; but also, an air of pride. As to 12


why he had not framed mine yet, he believed there would be more to come. Prior to moving out of the house for the third time, he wanted to let go of things that didn’t matter much. We’d been sorting out papers—previous issues of magazines, unsent letters, wrongly categorized documents, quizzes with no stamp of excellence—to be sold to a nearby junk shop. Empty bottles of wine and tin cans came next. Something heavy shuffled inside a box. Stacked together in smaller boxes, the years accumulated like the dust that invaded them. Dad asked me, “How much are we selling these?” I laughed, taking it as a joke. Maybe he didn’t mean it the way I thought he would. He counted 19 of them, quickly, as if they were old and valueless coins he couldn’t wait to get rid of. All were engraved with the same name. Not a title bearing Good Deportment or Most Honest could be read. Each contained an experience from a distant past—the sound of deafening applause, the warmth of a hand grasped too quickly, the smile of a child. We kept segregating the other materials we found. The medals went along with the other junk in the warehouse of our new home, isolated, untouched. +

25 It was a Tuesday when I saw my friend in the cafeteria. Instead of listening to his professor in the classroom, he was handing 13


his payment to the lady behind the counter. In his hands was a tray that weighed under a plate of his favorite meal: the bagnet, a whole cup of rice, and a glass of water. Somewhere else on the other building, a chair remained unusually empty in the middle of a discussion. No one would ever notice; if someone did, a bathroom break would be a perfect reason. Neither of us liked the topic; to say it was beyond our capability to understand was a surrender of intelligence. But there was a difference between cutting the subject and taking it a semester in advance. Escape could be in many different forms. Upon seeing me, he put down his meal on the same table where I was. I asked him, “Don’t you have a class?” He smiled and said nothing as he shoved the spoonful of rice in his mouth. I ate lunch with him that day. Many times before, among the company of friends and food, we wondered where we would be without the burden of numbers. Calling it a gift is already an insult to ourselves. If we could separate our way of thinking from the computations we do, or in the usual case, from the half-filled answer sheets we submit to our professor. If we could be defined by our attempts, not by the final solutions we had written. Perhaps, there would be fewer times of laughter among failures. To lose more of what we are in the

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hopes of wanting less. When he finished his meal, he told me his break was over and went back to the classroom. His seatmate would lend him the notes he missed. I checked my watch; twenty-five minutes have gone by. Life doesn’t need forever to think of what could have happened. +

20 On the desk fell two stacks of exam papers with a loud thud. The height of one stack was five times higher than the other. Although the sight was nothing new, the two lopsided towers of papers sent shivers down the students’ spines. To get used to it was the only way to survive. The professor was the type who would match his students’ name with their scores instead of their faces. That was how he knew us all. He would hand back the papers in order of the number of red marks on them, the least to the most—as if numbers could define one’s identity. He believed that ranking propelled his students to push themselves further. The evening of Valentine’s Day was spent skipping questions I didn’t know. It was hopeless trying to study the notes when the professor would give out an entirely different exam. I met unacquaintance when I ended up reaching the back page without actually answering anything. It was doubtful

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to claim which could have been emptier: a day without a rose in hand or the sight of the answer sheet left nearly blank. I knew my own paper belonged to the larger stack, but when I received it, I laughed at the big red mark at the top of the page. Nightmares for me meant not even reaching half the total score of an exam; I had one that day. Necessity then invents reasons. To redefine failure, I counted twenty more people called after me. I sighed in relief. After the shock subsided, the professor proceeded to draw the capital letter sigma on the board. A string of terms ran across the board—increments of difficulty. His equation challenged us to add them all up in the shortest time possible, the least tedious manner. I wondered how. +

71 He lived up to the age of 71 before flowers were strewn over his coffin. Mood swings and old-fashioned thinking were always the result of senility. My high school teachers challenged me to change my views. The professor emeritus had earned their respect when he taught them years ago. Pioneering the course I was about to take was a large contribution in the field of education. It was a suggestion when they told me to take him and see for myself, but in fact, it was an opportunity they offered.

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Some days before he bid us goodbye, a cap of a marker fell from his hand. His posture suggested fragility. And yet, perseverance: the computer chair, which transported him from his cubicle to the classroom, was empty beside the desk. The handwriting on the board looked weary, but it did not waver through the long equations solved in such fine discipline. The lecture, abruptly halted, made silence linger. The absence of his voice on the lapel added to the tension that crept to us faster than the numbers did. His lip trembled. To look at the whole class in embarrassment was not in the image of a professor. It took us seconds to understand his message through his eyes. A classmate who was only nudged went in front and retrieved the cap for him. He then continued where he had stopped. When the plaque bore his name and the dash in between the years he endured, I didn’t have the courage to enter the chapel. There, his body lay in the coffin; now, in resignation, in peace. Seventy-one years of intelligence, and I didn’t get the chance to learn it all from him. +

105 I woke up to the sound of shouting. Many times were like this. The engine revved from the outside, although that was not the cause of the noise. Vehicles sped past on both

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windows of our car, but my parents’ words against each other were faster, sharper. I picked up keywords: tuition fee, weekly allowance, electricity bill, rent. None of them mattered to me. Nowhere are lies, but verities staining good memories. Distance, both physical and not, varied in and out of the car. My sisters and I were at the backseat. To distract myself, I tried adding the numbers on a car plate before it disappeared behind another. The answers becoming automatic to me defeated the purpose. In a matter of seconds, the argument in the front seats intensified, now including more words such as grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. I then started converting the letters to numbers. My sister, upon waking up, joined my little game. She confessed that she could only add the three numbers on the plates. I let her. Compared to my parents’, our voices were whispers. The largest number she could get was 27, as far as three 9’s could give her. I did not get past 105 as our car stopped in front of our gates. Soundless. +

116 Morning offering: 1 minute; Prayer before and after meals: 1 minute; Angelus/Regina Coeli: 2 minutes; Visit to the Blessed Sacrament: 5 minutes; 3 sets of Hail Mary, plus the Prayer to the Guardian Angel before going to bed: 5 minutes; Mass: 30 minutes; Rosary: 25 minutes; Evening meditation: 30 minutes; Bible reading:

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15 minutes; Examination of conscience: 2 minutes. Daily. One hundred sixteen minutes subtracted from the day. In the jeepney, I lost count in an attempt to recite five decades of Hail Marys without the beads. I saw vignettes that would be haunting me: old ladies’ shadows melting behind the wax candles, their voices echoing in the midst of chanting Latin prayers. Sometimes, even when remembrance demands attention, forgetting seems easier. The end of the semester was about to announce freedom. But there were other things I had to think about—broken commitments, family arguments, unknown solutions, deficient funds, unanswered prayers—and I tried to compose myself by witnessing another sunset of the year, which was so surreal to exist in a place where pollution filters the light and turns it into a violent shade of orange; and then I wondered how many more sunsets should I see before— “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was a week ago. I’ve been too lazy in my studies for the past few weeks. ” The sins absolved: 1.) Neglect. 2.) Ignorance. + 639154221533 It was past 9 in the evening when my phone started vibrating. Unregistered

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number strangely revealed a familiar voice. Slurred, yet recognizable. If scent could be transmitted like sound, I would have instantly known cigarettes and alcohol were involved. His musings came in proper order: apologies, a hush, some laughter, explanations. He said he dialed my number because that was the first thing he could think of. Or remember. No questions were asked. I imagined him twirling his hair as we spoke. He could memorize a string of numbers in one try, especially if it belonged to me. He found himself outside the door to freedom; how it happened, he tried to recollect. He claimed that blinding lights flashed before his eyes. I wondered whether he was becoming a poet or that was what he really saw. There was a way of knowing whenever he consumed too much alcohol: “I love yous” sent in the middle of the night; in the morning, a question, “Did I say something wrong?” Sent items deleted. Memory clean. He seemed to be an equation I could not solve. Adding certain parts of him did not make up a whole; perhaps there was more to him that I could barely point out. A few years back, I read out loud the question from the book, to which he, half-listening, only nodded, as if he would rather check the answer at the back. He asked me what I thought about the problem. With confidence, I mentioned the formula

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to be used. He nodded again, but my hands didn’t move across the pad in front of me. “I don’t know how to apply it,” I sighed in defeat. It was when remembering became meaningless; he showed me that following the method would be more efficient. He flipped to the chapters we needed and solved the problem just by learning the examples. Resentment now materializes like smoke—in scrolls of confusion and acceptance vanishing into the evening sky. We talked long enough the cigarette smoke could waft in between our distance. Too many “Do you remember?” and “What about the time when...?” made us forget even more. The next morning, he received a violation from the furious dorm manager. He read one of the rules stuck to the wall.“People under the influence of alcohol are prohibited in the Kalayaan dorm.” +

6 I go up the stage at the announcement. The scene seems familiar, but it doesn’t, not at all. The committee congratulates me for a job well done. Quick words of praises replace the tap on the shoulder. I look back at six months of training and smile at the fruits of the effort. Not bad for a first-timer, they say. I stand small beside them, the giants of their expertise. The medal they give to me feels cold in my hands, its long blue ribbon lacing

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around my fingers. It is unlikely that six months could create a moment of holding a tangible achievement. The champion goes up the stage upon the call of his name; by the steadiness of his walk, he is probably nervous but at the same time, excited. Applause drowns the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. The keynote speaker, the former president of the university, nods at me. I meet the child in the center of the stage as he bows low enough in anticipation. By the time he looks up, the medal will hang on his neck. It glints in the sunlight that passes through the roof of the stage. The boy smiles at me. I hear a whisper: “Thanks, Coach.” He proceeds to shake hands with the committee before going back to his seat. In his eyes, I saw an entirety of a moment. Some things cannot be contained for too long. I find it more liberating to pass it on. +

10 When numbers only present loss, I start using words. There is a tableau in the jeepney I ride; a still life in the midst of the busyness of a city. It only changes every minute or so, when the sound of “Para!” breaks the silence, or a hand unfreezes to pass back the change from the driver. Excluding myself, I could make stories about the strangers in the jeepney. Two are sleeping, on opposite 22


corners. One huddled against another, hands entangled. Someone is on the phone. Another: earphones in, voices out. That woman near the edge, a mother. She needs to stop over the grocery to buy the food her son’s been craving for. Then again, she maybe going to the nearby bingo place. The student is depressed from a flunked exam—he escapes to music; maybe, the new album of his favorite band has been released. A couple gets back together to create the perfect jeepney love story; no, a couple is seeing each other for the one last time. Someone is missing—his or her phone cannot be reached, or: a long-lost relative finally found somewhere in the province. It’s amazing how one could be two things at the same time, how a life embeds itself in another. In a single moment, one could live in several ways. All that was needed were stories to pass the time. +

1/7 Perhaps Daan Tubo, Katipunan is capable of rendering imagery to the place itself. Its walkway is too narrow for vehicles to pass through. The residents claim that a long and winding pipeline underneath stemmed throughout the area. Cracks on the ground create scars on the surface of the road. While walking along the street, the smell of the detergent could be caught from the clothes that hung on the windows of the homes. Water drips down on anyone 23


who passes by. Their shirts taste bitter from all the soap. Plywood creaks from every sway of the wind. Living there would seem constricting in the middle of a town where high-rise buildings triumphed as the norm of luxury. The entrance to the house I am to visit looks dark from the outside. The grandmother who welcomes me boasts that the flood never reaches the house. A miracle, she exclaims, by which the altar of the Holy Family in the corner provided hope in the most destitute of times. My fellow tutors ask where the mother is. “Gone. Cancer,� the grandmother replies, as if the words were a piece of gum stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her daughter-in-law died two years ago. The father is working in a construction site. She then points to a bench where we all sit. It was where they last lay her body. Everyone jumps in fright. On the floor lay three kids. One of them, my student, is answering those addition flash cards. Upon inquiry, she exclaims math is her favorite subject. There are medals hanging down the frame of her graduation photo on the wall. I help her out in flipping the cards as she recites the answers. She gets them all correctly. The small blanket shared by them wrinkles underneath. Her brother rolls to the floor. Piles of clothing too large for any of them lay on top of the iron board rusting

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away near the kitchen. The grandmother explains she presses clothes for boarders near the place. How many customers, I ask. She raises two fingers; one, a teacher from the school across; the other, a student living in a condo. When we stepped out, there was a little less of the sunlight. We reached the point where the other children met us halfway, their clammy hands wrapping around our arms. The drunkards belted out a song, sitting down on monobloc chairs and raising their bottles of beer in the sky. I would be devoting one day out of the seven every week for them. +

15 There are three angels perched on top of the Quezon City monument. They evoke benevolence, resembling omnispective gods admiring the panoramic view of the surroundings. It takes an hour for the sunlight to reach the hem of their robes to the top of their head. Space is reduced in a second: through a telescope from a nearby observatory, you’d be able to see their faces, so close that the cracks on their cheeks would resemble a crevice on the surface of the moon. What should have been an evening of measuring the distance between celestial objects became hours of admiration for

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spiritual beings. I estimated 15 degrees from the horizon to the foot of the angel facing my direction. It was less than the distance between the Moon and Jupiter, but it was enough. Fifteen degrees already meant freedom from the rest of society. About thirty feet below, the festival of lights helped me see through the expanse of darkness. The simulacra of childhood and romance appeared in the form of a child’s foot up on a carousel and a pair of shadows lengthening on the benches.

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Some months ago, the government authorities had the monument reconstructed. The crisscrossed metal bars of the scaffolds enclosed the angels in cages —their wings folded instead of pointing out towards the sky. Paint dripped down on their faces and a new layer of foundation was added to make the edifice last another decade. There was the irony in that—divine creatures held captive and forced to watch over humanity. One of the faces seemed frowning the last time I viewed it from afar.

(After the equal sign, there is no meaning in adding the digits anymore.) On the desk, a familiar scene: pencil unsharpened, eraser reduced to half. I tried to hide the solutions that came out of my mind. In frustration, my wrist went raw, my left thumb red. The smudge of graphite’s refusal to be removed was an act of stubbornness. I accused mental math as the fugitive to conceive the voice of my father: next time, restrain. I once tried enumerating the people, places, and things that started to slip away from my memory. Perhaps, a pattern would emerge, and expecting would become unnecessary. But when loss becomes the pattern, one just learns to stop counting.

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Some things slowly fade away before they can be passed on. Impermanence generates loss, and loss comes back not in words, but in numbers.

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little drummer, proclaiming He must be here now! I lied: I am not waiting. I’m barring as much as I could

for the closeness, the itch in my fingers for when you arrive, the thrums in the street, the drumming of the town’s

When you are realized, asphalt perspires and the streetlamps find a way to congratulate me mockingly. I am waiting

clamor has licked its name upon moist windows and my knees have tasted these floors.

Let me fumble with my house keys for a while. It has been a while since the last time

To the boy who is suddenly surfacing and haunts:

jeivi nicdao


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except it has been years and the cupboard is decaying. I forgot how to offer

drink? What would you like? I can only offer some tea, some coffee, the usual—

door, the crumbling porch, the Atlases we call posts. Your hand wakes. Come in, please, would you like to

When you knock, your fist recreates this house: its holy, its haunted, its haunting, its body, my body. Begins to wake what is left of the wrecked

asking you to leave? The chandeliers chant and I remember having to remember you have yet to come. Soon the storm comes; this house’s howling calms.

again. If I ask you to walk away, will you call on a deluge, screaming? Will you scream until I stop

from the inside. Even the carpets now are whispering The waltz might yet begin, the waltz might yet die


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because unwritten. Let me teach you to dance, and you will be given whatever story you ask for. You answer: sip the dirt from under my nails, nibble

childhoods. I am the ogre mask, the drunkard elf, the flightless fairy whose ruin was forgotten

willing to be crownless, headless, spinning like the jaded ballerina in a music box from long ago? I am not a lost child but lost

dance, will you be a jester, a deranged knave, a promise of unironic laughter, the king in his preschool pajamas? Will you be

stillness. So: touch or revolt. Or both—this convulsion, this resistance, ours. Will you hold? If I ask you to

whatever it may pass, whose passage blesses whatever it may warm, whose warmth condemns

what I have. What remains untouched revolts. We remain aching for the stroke whose slowness blesses


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as we wrote and writhed and gasped and thrashed, how you crawled through murmurs, how you murmured protest after protest

narratives of long ago rugburn: how you taught me friction in the midst of waking gargoyles and thunderclaps, how you taught me fiction

on the mantelpiece. Sniff. You may smirk or sneer. You may revel in this allowance. Dislodge fragrance from spillage. But let me spill

in my ear. You dangle your feet, dallying with decay before nailing a maelstrom to my dress and taking a front row seat. Hang me

You near my spit like you would a decapitated mannequin’s limbs; I wear you like a ringing

laugh. The multiple-choice question when your fingers begin to traverse my skin: fangs, feather duster, ice pick, gaslighter. Shall I be grated, gnawed at, or dusted? Pierced or gaslit?

at my callouses until I am new again. I don’t. Won’t. You still turn new. Now the refusal only serves to make you


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whenever I pleaded. I am not pleading now but waltzing. You are still in the front row.

to stay; take.

We second-guess the dawn as we suck the wisps of prolonging. Let us keep second-guessing. Already I give you the freedom

What remains untouched revolts. We remain, we ache for time. We let each other let this happen. Again I let you happen. The morning happens.


josh uyheng

love on the banks of the tigris-euphrates i. we were born without eyes. scions of a fugitive, here was the mark which would render us. which would be the warning of threat of sevenfold revenge. the hand of God in the voids of our orbits. the promise. the curse. we were born without sound, or speech. for does not God remember: our father in the fields, while his father, his mother slept in the tents. invitation to reconciliation, wind blowing through ears of corn. smoke dampening on the altar. dawn. faraway bleating of sheep. uncle. does not God remember, and does not He forgive. but did we not also love. in our disability we had learned. we did not shudder back into formlessness; instead, contact. touch became illumination; skin, light. voices. children of his children, life of his life, we found each other. and we learned to build: what we might call shelter, what we might call home. we would not wander the earth forever. for did we not also love. ii. let me teach you a little of the universal syntax of our skin: follow how i whisper with a skewing of my fingers,

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or scream with a flick of my wrist. help me: tell me a lie with the crook of your elbow. show me: where to put my hands when i must tell you it will be okay. write me: a poem with your lips. save me: deception must precede language. in the beginning was the Word, but the Word was with God, not us. before we had learned it, we must have been without it. without God. deceiving each other. all serpents here walking amongst the trees in the Garden. but come, and become caduceus with me. surely, we will not die. but be like the Most High

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iii. and still we dreamed of heaven, here in the city we had built on the banks of these rivers. dreamed to witness it, to walk in the Garden once again. heretofore: every morning, the warmth of sunlight. and sunset, the evening breeze. but what would it be to know the passage of days where there was no passage. to walk with God through eternity. to know His face. and so we began to build. together, the children of the forgotten son. how we labored in our darkness, sought out the promise of a light we did not know. only touched. how a city of the blind could congregate in a singular yearning to see. a tower in the middle of our city. a tree at the center of a garden. and so the tower rose, day by day, ascending slowly into the sky the way we reached our fingers out in greeting, or to know each other’s names. perhaps an invitation to reconciliation. perhaps an arm extended in the ardor of desire, the desire to know our father. perhaps to reach out to heaven the only way we knew. perhaps to touch God. iv. how to tell the story without coming to its end. how to tell a question from its answer. how to know our tree had borne fruit. deception preceding language. how to recognize the Word when you hear it. His face moves upon the face of the deep. form from chaos. chaos from form:

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and God said let there be light. planets cast into orbit, quiver of air. birth of a star, awakening. and God said let there be light. but did we ask for light, did we desire it. and was it good. but God said let there be light. v. centuries from now, this would be how they will tell it. the fall of man. they will breathe into the dust of the remains of our tower, and tell it in a language that was never ours. that we did not want. they will tell our story in all the languages, all of them, cast us out back into our formlessness with the Word, render us. speechless. but how i will remember it will be this: your hands. how in the building we desired never to be apart. universal syntax: the tightness of our grip. the lucidity of our wrists, pulse. how it quickened at the first taste of the clouds. how we believed in the sky. how i knew you by the spaces between your fingers, the softness of your name. did we not love. the beginning of the end: how God would undo our creation. with this apocalypse. revelation. the horror that blossomed in the caverns of my throat, memory of a fruit long swallowed, still caught. the vibrations in the air, the shudder in your lips. how you drew back your hand. how i turned to you with gaping eyes, and knew the face of God. how you spoke my name.

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christian benitez

Bugtong Pagkuwa, palihim ipinunas ng bata ang sumirit na katas sa laylayan ng suot niyang puting kamiseta. Malagkit ang mga daliri, naramdaman niya ang pakiramdam na hindi maisasalin sa kanyang dila.

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mirick paala

Sa Olongapo Pinatuloy mo kami sa iyong bahay at sumalubong ang iyong ina kuya anak. Humingi ka ng tawad dahil ito lang ang meron ka: maliliit na laruan sa sahig mantsa ng baha sa dingding larawan ng pamilya sa salamin. Nilatag mo ang banig at hinintay kaming makahiga bago ayusan ang sarili. Suklay pulbos cologne at saka ka umalis. May konstelasyon ng sapot sa kisame. May napigtal na pakpak ng gamugamo sa bumbilya. Sa ‘di kalayuan palapit nang palapit ang mga alon sa dalampasigan at palayo nang palayo ang tingin ng mga anino. Nagising ako. Umiiyak ang iyong anak. Madaling-araw nang makabalik ka dala ang isang supot ng pandesal. Agad mong inahon ang iyong anak 39


at hinila pababa ang blouse: ang nangingitim na pasa sa kaliwang suso, tinatakpan ang hindi maikakailang marka ng kagat.

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Ang Pugot Nagpupumiglas ang baboy ramo pero mas mahigpit ang kapit ng mga kalalakihan sa kaniyang binti, likod, leeg. Pista sa bayan at siya ang pinakaaantay sa piging. Wala akong magagawa. Kasing tinis ng tili ang talim na inaaral ang kaniyang balat. Ano ang nakikita niya sa kinang ng itak? Hindi ko magawang tingnan ang paggilit sa kaniyang leeg ang paulit-ulit na pagwasiwas ng itak ang pagtilamsik ng dugo ang pagkabasag ng buto. Makikita ko na lang na nakasampay sa poste ng kubo ang ulo. Tahimik ang agos ng dugo. Payapa kung mangisay ang binti, likod, leeg. Nang biglang magsisigaw ang pugot. Dilat na dilat ang pares ng matang sinasabing Hindi ako magsasalita.

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ariane lim

Mga Milagro sa Ilalim ng Bilog na Buwan magsisimula ang ating kuwento sa isang pitik ng posporo sa ilalim ng bilog na bilog na buwan. Pumitik ang tilamsik bagaman saglit, agarang naglaho ang mga anak ng apoy dahil sa malamig na hangin ng gabi. Puwera na lamang sa isang naibigan ni Inang Buwan. Hindi lamang tayo pinagmamasdan ng mga tanglaw sa langit. May sari-sarili rin silang libangan sa kalangitan. Habang mahilig paglaruan ng kanyang kapatid na si Araw ang mga anino, hilig naman ni Inang Buwan ang pagkolekta ng liwanag—kita sa rami ng mga bituin na kanyang kasama sa kalangitan. Ito ang dahilan kung bakit higit na matingkad ang mga ilaw sa gabi. Sinusubukang ipamalas ng bawat isa ang kanilang lakas at ganda, inaasahang mabasbasan ng dakilang buwan at mabilang sa ‘di mabilang na bituin sa langit. Ngunit ibang angking liwanag ang hanap ng buwan, at tila nakita niya ito sa isang batang anak ng apoy. Nagmistulang baga ito sa delaryong sahig, lumalamlam sa bawat ihip. “Alab,” bulong ng hangin mula sa dagat. “Humayo ka, Alab.” Sumiklab ng asul ang baga sa mga salitang iyon; unti-unting huminahon habang tumingkad ang pula kay Alab. Dumilat siya, sa wakas, at nakita ang bilog na bilog na buwang tila lumulutang sa ibabaw ng dagat. Ganito talaga isinisilang ang mga anak ng apoy. Hindi na lamang natin nakikita. Natuto na tayong gumamit ng posporo’t puyusan. Natuto na tayong pakainin sila ng kahoy at sabuyan sila ng langis upang hindi magmaliw ang alab na ating ginagamit. Hindi na natin kinailangan ang milagro ni Inang Buwan tulad ng ating namasdan. *

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Humila si Inang Buwan ng mga hibla ng hangin—tatlong maiingat na simoy na magdadala kay Alab sa isang karihan kung saan pinakamaraming gamit ang mga anak ng apoy katulad niya. Nakita ng batang apoy ang mga liyab sa ilalim ng mga palayok at kawali. Pinakukuluan nila ang sopas at ginigisa ang baboy. Nais tumulad ni Alab sa mga malalakas na mga anak ng apoy. Ngunit hindi niya masabayan ang kanilang sidhi o matapatan ang tingkad ng kanilang asul. “Masyado ka pang mahina, batang apoy,” sambit ng isang asul na dila. “Hindi mapantay ang pagkakaluto sa isda!” Nang lumaon, nilapitan ni Alab ang kanyang mga kapatid na nasa pinakaitaas ng mga kandila, sa dulo ng nakatirintas na mitsa. Iniilawan nila ang mga pasilyo’t ginagawang kaaya-aya ang liwanag sa mesa. Nais tumulad ni Alab sa mga maririkit na mga anak ng apoy. Ngunit hindi niya makuha ang kanilang katahimikan o magaya ang kanilang malumanay na kulay. “Masyado ka pang malikot, batang apoy,” sambit ng isang dilaw na dila. “Mabilis nalulusaw ang mga kandila!” Nilisan ni Alab ang kusina’t kainan. Pumunta siya sa pinakalikuran. Kung kaya lamang umiyak ng mga anak ng apoy, luluha siya. Lahat ng mga liyab may silbi puwera na lamang sa kanya. Naghasik sa galit ang batang apoy. Sumiklab ng pula na isinaboy. Hindi siya malakas o maganda. Sino ang hahanap ng tulong niya? Tumingala si Alab na nagtatanong ngunit wala ang tanglaw ni Inang Buwan sa kalangitan noon. *

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Isang gabi, higit malamig sa rati, may inihatid na banyera ng isda sa likod ng karihan. Nag-uumapaw ito sa pira-pirasong yelo upang mapanatiling sariwa ang mga isda. Marahil ‘di pag-iingat, marahil dahil sa bigat, marahil dahil sa ihip ng hangin ang pagkakahulog ng isang piraso ng yelo mula sa malansang banyera. Tumalbog at dumulas ang naturang piraso papunta sa tabi ni Alab. Kasimbilis ng kanyang pagdating, kasimbilis din ang kanilang paglayo. “Aray!” hiyaw nilang pareho. Nanginig si Alab at napaso ang piraso. Dumilat ang kakatwang kristal na umuusok ng puti. Natakot si Alab at nagkubli. Naglinga ang batang kristal sa kanyang kapaligiran at nanibago. “Nasaan na ako?” iyak ng kapiranggot na yelo. “Naku, naku, naku,” lumuha ang kristal. “Nawawala ako!” Nanginig siya’t nagtubig ang kanyang mga mata; agad ding sumanib dahil sa lamig niya. Umiyak ang munting kristal nang napansin niya ang liwanag na papuslit-puslit sa ‘di kalayuan. “Sinong nariyan?” tawag ng yelo. “Maaari mo ba akong tulungan?” Nagulat si Alab sa kanyang narinig. May humihingi ng kanyang tulong! Ngunit nagalak man, hindi nagpakita ang munting liyab. Natakot ang batang apoy na hindi siya sasapat. “Hindi ako malakas. Hindi ako maliwanag o maganda. Marahil mas mabuting maghanap ka ng iba,” tugon ni Alab sa kanya. Malamig man ang kanyang mga salita, hindi umalis ang kakatwang yelo’t napuno pa nga siya ng pagtataka. “Napaso mo nga ako dahil sa iyong init. Kay liwa-liwanag mo, hindi nga ako makalapit.” Nagpakita si Alab, kahit kaunti, upang dinggin ang nawawalang yelo. Tumindi ang init na naramdaman ng kristal. Lalong nasilaw ito. Tila nagliyab na rin siya sa kanilang pagtatagpo. Kumislap ang yelo dahil sa aninag ni Alab sa kanya. Nagmistulang prisma ang bawat pumuslit na sinag. “Ako si Agwa,” pakilala ng kapiranggot na kristal. Nautal si Alab sa kanyang nakita. Bagaman nanghihina ang kanyang liyab dahil sa kanyang lamig, unang natunghayan ni Alab ang kanyang angking init. Tila kay lakas nga ng kanyang liyab. Napapalayo niya ang munting yelo. Tila kay ganda nga ng kanyang 44


liwanag. Napapaganda rin niya ang munting kristal na ito. May pagkasabik na papitik-pitik ang liyab ni Alab noong siya’y muling lumapit. Tumingkad ang pula kay Alab at muling nagkubli. “Ako si Alab,” ang kanyang ngiti. Nagkakilala ang dalawa. Anak ng tubig si Agwa. Dati rati’y malaya siya. Napuntahan na niya ang pitong dagat at sinakyan ang mga kulay ng bahaghari. “Nabihag ako ng lamig at naging yelo,” malungkot na kuwento ni Agwa. Hindi na siya makasayaw katulad ng kanyang mga kapatid sa dagat. Hindi na siya makalipad tulad ng kanyang mga kapatid sa alapaap. Tumingkad ang dilaw kay Alab nang naisip niya kung paano niya siya matutulungan. “Hindi ko alam kung paano kita dadalhin sa alapaap ngunit malapit lamang ang dagat!” Masayang tugon ni Alab. “Talaga?” sabik na sabik na sagot ni Agwa. “Tatlong simoy lamang ang layo. Halika!” Kahit kailangan nilang maglayo habang naglalakbay, doon nagsimula ang pakikipagsapalaran ng dalawa. Tatlong simoy lamang ang layo nila sa dagat. Ngunit para sa munting liyab at munting yelo, kasinlayo na ito ng buwan at ng mundo. Naghanap sila ng hibla ng hangin na maaari nilang sakyan. May isa ring tumigil sa kanyang pag-ihip upang sila’y tulungan. * Ibinaba sila ng unang simoy sa gitna ng sansalansang bloke ng yelo. Bumigat ang pakiramdam ng simoy at humiga sa mga mapuputing kristal. Nagiging hamog ang mga dumaraang hibla ng hangin. Nawawala ang kanilang tulin. Pati si Alab nanghina na rin. Nararamdaman niyang tinatangay ang kanyang init. “Kailangan nating umalis sa lamig,” tugon ni Agwa. Kinuha niya ang kamay ni Alab upang makatakas sa pakapal nang pakapal na hamog. Dumaloy ang init kay Agwa. Bagaman binigyan siya nito ng kaunting tulin, nanghina ang munting kristal. Lumuwag na ang hangin at nanumbalik ang lakas ni Alab. Nautal muli ang batang apoy. Nahiya na siya pa ang sinagip. Natakot 45


si Alab na papaalisin siya muli. Ngunit walang imik si Agwa’t nakatingin lamang siya sa malayo—sa sansalansang bloke ng yelo. Tumingkad ang pula kay Alab nang makita niya ang isang blokeng inukit wangis sa isang sirena. May isa pang bloke na hugis gansa’t isa pang balyena na ilang bloke ang haba! “Marami pala sa inyo ang nabihag!” ang sabi ni Alab na naging asul sa gulat. Mahinahong umiling si Agwa habang pinagmamasdan ang iba pang blokeng inuukit sa wangis ng kung anu-ano pa. “May iba akong kapatid na nawiwili sa pagiging kristal. Bukod sa kanilang ganda, napapanatili nilang sariwa ang maraming prutas at isda. Napapababa nila ang lagnat ng isang musmos na bata.” Hindi lumaki si Agwa sa maputing usok ng mga yelo. Lumaki siya sa karagatan at alapaap kung kaya’t inaasam-asam niya ito. Napansin ni Alab na nawala na ang puting usok na pumalibot kay Agwa dahil sa init niyang dumaloy sa kanya. “Salamat nga pala,” sambit ng liyab na nanliit sa hiya. “Walang anuman,” tawa ni Agwa na itinatago ang kanyang kamay na nalusaw na. Umiihip na muli ang hangin. Kay tulin bigla ng mga simoy na kanina lamang parolyo-rolyo sa lamig. Sumiklab si Alab upang pumara ng isang hibla. Sinakyan nila ang mabuting simoy na may kaunting alat ang amoy. “Pangako: dadalhin kita sa dagat,” wika ni Alab. “Mawala man ang aking liyab!” Kung biglang bumigat ang naunang simoy, ito namang isa, biglang tumulin. Dinaanan nila ang isang kalye na puno ng ihawan. Nasasabik sa init ang mga hanging dumadaan dito. Ang sinakyan pa nga nila hindi makaihip nang maayos dahil sa lumilipad na abo. Nahulog ng pangalawang simoy ang dalawa diretso sa isang ihawan na nagbabaga. Hindi na nag-isip pa si Alab at agarang binuhat si Agwa papalayo sa mga siga. Kahit wala kay Alab ang ganitong init, si Agwa naman ang nanghina. “Malapit na,” tugon ni Alab na nararamdaman ang bawat saglit ng paghina ng munting kristal sa bawat patak na tumulo sa kanya. Nasagip pa ni Alab ang kapiranggot na yelo na lalong lumiit dahil sa aksidenteng ito. “Kaunti na lamang. Pangako,” bulong ni Alab na kailangang muling lumayo. “Kaya ko pa naman,” ngiti ni 46


Agwa. “Salamat sa iyong ginawa.” Hindi na nagsayang ng oras si Alab at tumawag ng susunod na hibla. Lumiit din ang liyab ni Alab dahil sa pagtulo ni Agwa sa kanya. Ngunit ipinangako niyang makakabalik si Agwa kahit mapuksa ang huli sa liyab niya. Dumaan ang dalawa sa ibabaw ng hilera’t hilera ng nakasabit na ilaw. Halos dinaig ang mga bituin sa langit dahil sa kanilang tanglaw. Kumislap muli si Agwa tulad noong una silang nakita. Tumingkad ang pula kay Alab na lalo pang sumiklab nang natanaw niya ang dagat na paroroonan nila. Ibinaba sila agad ng nagdalang simoy. Masyadong malakas ang ihip ng hangin sa dagat, baka masyado siyang mapalayo. Maisama pa si Alab sa dagat. “Narito na tayo! Tingnan mo,” sabik na sabik na hiyaw ni Alab. Ngunit pagbaling niya sa kanya, natagpuan niyang nalulusaw na si Agwa. Nagulat si Alab at nanliit. “Hindi ako makalakad, Alab,” malungkot na ngiti ni Agwa sa kanya. “Hindi! Halika!” Sinubukang hilain ni Alab ang kamay ni Agwa na yelo pa ngunit naglaho’t ito natunaw na. “Hindi ko na kayang sumulong pa,” tugon ni Agwa. Walang makatulong sa kanilang hibla ng hangin. Hindi sila mapara dahil sa tulin. Nanlisik ang mga mata ni Alab. “Hindi! Ipinangako kong makakauwi ka!” Hinila muli ni Alab si Agwa kahit rinig ang pagpuksa sa liyab niya. Tumingkad ang dilaw. Sumiklab ng pula. Sumabog ang asul sa paghatak niya! Hindi mapawi ang pag-asa ni Alab! * Isang milagro ang nangyari—isa ring hindi na natin gaanong namamasdan o napapansin. Sumanib ang mga napupuksang liyab ni Alab kay Agwa. Dumaloy sa kanya ang kanyang init at pag-asa. Iniwan ni Agwa ang delaryong sahig. Iniwan ni Agwa ang pagiging tubig. Sumingaw sa init ni Alab si Agwa’t naging alimuom sa langit! “Lu-lumilipad ako,” bulong ni Agwa na ‘di pa rin makapaniwala. “Napalipad mo ako!” Nautal si Alab sa nangyari, sa kanyang nagawa. Makakauwi na si Agwa sa alapaap tulad ng ipinangako niya! Tinangay agad ng hangin ng dagat si Agwa sa 47


himpapawid. “Salamat, Alab,” hiyaw ni Agwa nang paulit-ulit. “Salamat, kaibigan!” Sinubukang habulin ni Alab si Agwa kahit munting liyab lamang siya’t hangin na siya. Nakita niya muli ang bilog na bilog na buwan sa langit kung saan alam niyang masaya na si Agwa’t sumasayaw kasama ang kanyang mga kapatid. Kung kaya lamang umiyak ng mga anak ng apoy, lumuha na siya. Ngunit mapagbigay ang buwan sa mga mabubuting nilalang tulad niya. May ipinaihip sa kanyang gantimpala. May naganap muling milagro—isang makikita lamang natin dito. “Alab,” bulong ni Inang Buwan. “Humayo ka, Alab.” Sumiklab ng dilaw si Alab. Sumabog ng pula. Naging purong asul na tilamsik siya. Iniwan ng batang apoy ang delaryong sahig. Lumipad siyang walang tulong ng mga hibla ng hangin. Bumulusok siya patungo sa himapapawid. Hinabol si Agwa sa langit. Nagmistula siyang bulalakaw mula sa lupa. Pataas, pataas lamang ang punta. Isang silakbo ng busilak na liwanag. Isang ulan ng tilamsik. Isang paputok ang namulaklak sa langit—malakas at maganda tulad ng pinapangarap niya. At sa muli, nagkita ang dalawa, bagaman iba na ang anyo nila. Sumaboy ang mga tilamsik ni Alab na agarang sinalo ng mga anak ng tubig sa bawat ulap at alon. Naramdaman nila ang pagmamahal at pag-asa na nanunuot sa kanyang init. Agaran ding nawala ang ilaw ng mga tilamsik dahil sa malamig na hangin ng gabi. Puwera na lamang sa isa na sinalo ni Inang Buwan. Si Agwa naman ang nautal at napaluha sa nangyari: iniluklok ni Inang Buwan ang piraso ni Alab sa kanyang tabi kung saan naging bituin siya sa langit. Kaya kung mapapatingala ka’t mapapatanong kung bakit may bituin na minsan dilaw, minsan pula’t minsan asul, si Alab lamang iyon, ang dating batang apoy, na nakikipagkuwentuhan kay Agwa kung nasasaan man siya napunta o anuman ang kanyang anyo ngayon.

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christian benitez

Adan at Eba At hinawi ng mga diwatang insekto ang kadilimang bumabalot sa damong ligaw upang bigyang daan ang mga katawang nahihimlay sa ilalim ng kabilugan ng buwan. Nagtatalik ang tunog ng katahimikang umuugong, ang alingawngaw ng siyap ng mga kulisap, at ang sagitsit ng ahas na nanonood sa di-kalayuan. Huwag nang pag-usapan pa ang pag-ungol na maririnig: halinghing ng hatinggabing palihim na nagmamasid sa lahat ng nangyayari sa dilim, saksi sa hiwagang nagaganap sa pinakaunang pagkakataon. Ang iba pang detalyeng naroroon: ang kahubdan nitong mga bato at iba pang mga bagay na mapupulot: buto ng hayop, lamog na prutas, mga tuyong dahon; ang lupang magaspang at walang-malay, pitak-pitak na naghihintay sa biyaya matapos ang tag-araw; ang amoy ng damo matapos ang pagpatak ng unang ulan; ang pailan-ilang kislap sa sayaw ng mga alitaptap, ang kanilang aninong nangungutya sa kadiliman; ang mga nakakalat na kagamitang hindi na mahahanap pagdating ng kinaumagahan: bestidang gawa sa dahon, salawal mula sa balat ng hayop. Ito ang tunay na paglaya dala ng kaalaman ng mali at tama. Matapos ang kawalang-malisya at pagtakwil mula sa paraiso, narito ang kuwadro ng kamusmusang puro: marikit na pagbabalik sa kapusukan ng kalikasan.

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Liham Kay Orpheus Sa akin: huwag na huwag ka nang lilingon pang muli sa akin, aking iniibig; ipagpatuloy ang pagdaloy ng mga mata sa mga inukit na titik, ibaling lamang sa paroroonan ang iyong tingin, hindi kung saan tunay mong matatagpuan ang pag-ibig: minsan, sa isang piging, pinuno ng mga bulaklak na mahalimuyak at musikang nakaaantig, isang salusalong patunay ng pag-iisang dibdib sa pag-ibig; naisin mo mang balikan, aking mangingibig, ang mga alingawngaw ng mga nakaraang araw ng pag-ibig, matutunang idinig ang pagkalumbay sa iyong lira’t mahimbing: minamahal ka ng musika tulad ng aking pag-ibig, at hindi ka nito iiwan tulad ng aking pananambitan mula sa kabilang daigdig—nakikinig ka ba?—sapat nang mapatda ang mga diyos sa ating pag-ibig, ang yanigin ang dalawang magkaibang daigdig, kaya’t hindi na kinakailangang balikan pa ang mga salitang nasambit—makinig ka sa akin: ang lahat ay pawang alingawngaw, padayo’t pasulong ang dapat puntahan, o pag-ibig, hindi sa paglingon matutunton ang tadhanang dapat sapitin; nakikinig ka ba?—huwag na huwag ka nang lilingon muli, iniibig; ipagpatuloy mo lang ang pagdaloy ng mga mata sa mundong tahimik, punuin ito ng tunog ng iyong lirang mapang-akit, alalahaning ako ay nariyan pa rin sa iyong tabi, umiibig, maglaho man sa iyong maling pag-ikot, sa iyong pagtingin; nakikinig ka ba? makinig ka sa akin—sa huling liham na ito, ilang beses ko na nga bang nabanggit ang mga katagang mahal o pag-ibig? Huwag na huwag ka nang magtatangka pang bilangin: ang bumalik muli sa simula, ang bumalik muli sa akin.

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abner dormiendo

Sa Antipolo Ako Unang Nakahawak ng Kamay ng Babae Gusto kong burahin ang mga linya sa palad ko kapag naaalala ko iyong gabing iyon. Niloko ako ni Kathleen pero hindi ako galit sa kaniya. Minsan nalungkot na rin ako at naiintindihan ko siya. Kung matatandaan mo noong sinigurado kong wala ni isang pulgadang hindi nadampian ng aking labi sa buong likuran mo. Sa totoo lang, gusto ko noong mangibang-bayan, sumakay sa isang jeep hanggang sa pababain ako ng tsuper sa galit, ngunit maawain ang Maykapal. Binigyan niya ako ng puso. Binigyan niya ako ng napapagod na paa. Inilayo niya sa aking katawan ang Laguna kaya hinabol ko ang Laguna. Madalas gumigising ako sa gitna ng gabing malamig ang mga daliri. Gusto kong magsimula muli. Baka gusto mong haplusin ang noo ko at sabihing sisikat ang araw mamayang alas-singko ng umaga. Gisingin mo ako kapag nangyari iyon. Gusto kong makita ang mukha mo sa liwanag.

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Sa Antipolo Naganap ang Isang Sikat na Masaker Ang tema ng buhay ko: si Cesar Montano habang hinahabol si Dawn Zulueta sa talahiban ng Sitio Kulasisi, Barangay San Luis. Ang tema ng buhay ko sa ikalawang pagkakataon: ang ulo mo habang natutulog ka sa aking balikat. Mamamatay tayo kapag mamamatay na tayo, ngunit para bang nahihinuha ko ang walang-hanggan sa daliri ko habang sinusuyod ang buhok mo. Salamat sa Diyos. Sumasampalataya ako sa buhay pagkatapos nitong buhay na ito. Ngayong Linggo, aakyat ako sa Simbahan ng Antipolo at magtitirik ng kandila sa ngalan ng lahat ng namatay para sa pagkakataong ito. Cecilia, ipanalangin akong umiibig sa babaeng may nunal sa talampakan. Minsan gusto kong tumakbo palayo tulad niya, ngunit kapag naaalala ko ang pangalan ng kalsada kung saan ka nakatira ngayon, pakiramdam ko parang may nakaambang itak sa aking leeg. Kapag tinulaan kita sa pang-ilang pagkakataon na, baka hindi na ako magising pa.

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Sa Antipolo Walang Estadistika ng Pagpapatiwakal Tumawa ako nang sabihin ng kaibigan ko na ang kabaliktaran ng ‘laslas’ ay ‘salsal.’ Walang tumawa noong duguan siyang nakita sa kaniyang sariling kuwarto. Baka nasa masayang lugar na siya ngayon, ngunit iniisip pa rin kitang nagbibihis pagkatapos mo maligo. Alam ko lagi mong nakakaligtaang punasan ang tubig sa pagitan ng iyong mga hita, pero mahal pa rin kita. Minsan naghahanap lang ako ng ebidensiya na buhay pa ako. Una kong binabalik-balikan ang katawan ko, kaya hindi ako hihingi ng patawad kung palagi kitang hinahawakan sa iyong siko at hinahalikan ang sampung dulo ng iyong mga daliri. Ibig sabihin lang noon hindi na naman ako makatulog kagabi. Kagabi, natakot akong mamatay kaya nanaginip akong binabaliktad ko ang lahat ng bagay sa Antipolo. Sa panaginip ko, damuhan ang mga kalsada. Tahanan ang bawat tindahan sa gilid nito. Buhay ang aking kaibigan at nagsasalsal siya ngayon sa kaniyang kuwarto. Sa panaginip ko, nasa loob ng mga kasoy ang kanilang sariling buto, mahimbing na natutulog sa malambot nitong puso.

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christian benitez

Mga Tagpong Hindi Nasasaksihan ng Tungkung Langit Tinatalunton niya ang kahabaan ng lungsod nang walang nakikilala sa kanyang maaliwalas na mukha o sa bakas na iniiwan ng kanyang mga mahinahong yabag sa lupa: sa naipong tubig-ulan sa kalsada, mga saluysoy na bumabasag sa mga salamin ng abong kalangitan. Pinaghahanap ang mukhang ito ng mata ng bagyo, ngunit muli at muli, napupuwing ang bagyo sa kariktan nito. * Patuloy pa rin ang pakikipagtaguan niya mula sa kanyang minsang sinamba at minahal, mula sa anino ng mangingibig sa nakaraang tinatakbuhan, lunurin man ang bawat kanto ng siyudad at lamunin man ng tubig ang mga sulok na hindi rapat maabot kailanman: mawalan na ng silbi ang mga kanal, daanan na ang mga ito ng tubig-itim at tubig-patay, ngunit hindi pa rin siya patitinag mula sa bathalang nalulumbay. * Habang nagluluto ng hapunan para sa isa, Hindi ako pahuhuli, ang awit niya sa sarili, sabay ng marahang pagkulog na tila pagkulo ng buong langit sa narinig. Isang kidlat ang tumama kung saan sa sansinukob, sinilaban ng kung anumang pagkapikon galing kung saan. Mahinhing sagot niya rito: Kahit babae ako, at ano pa’t nagpatuloy lamang siya sa kanyang paghihiwa ng gulay.

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paolo tiausas

Napakaganda ng Mundo Totoo na kung tripleng ulit kayong magkukurus ni Inay ng daan sa Sabadong wala ang buwan, kayo’y bibiyayaan ng langit-langit na pera. Nasubok ko na. Inilista ko ang mga utang saka hinayaang bumungang buo ang perwisyo nang magkasaysay ang napakaganda na gayuma. Kaya ako ngayon ang nanay at ang suma total. Hardin nitong mga kasalanan ang aking balat. Ibinenta ko na ang natitirang kamalayan para sa larong hindi matatapos kailanman. Sinong nagsabi na lalakad ako kailanman na dala ang singsing ng inay, ang mata ng itay sa kanang bulsa ng aking maong? Ang pamasahe patungo-pabalik-patungo sa nais kong mundo. Itong kuwento ay walang tauhang nababaliw kundi ako? Ilang balat pa ba ang susukatin? Lagimlim at galit—ibig sabihin—walang halip sa katawan kong napapagal na sa kaiisip na bawat ruta, bagong panaginip. Ekis-ekis sa mapa ang inilalagda sa napakatipid na landas ng barya-baryang butil. Papuntang langit.

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Art Editorial heights celebrates the Ateneo’s response to the community’s interest in art, concretized in the Areté. Though still in the starting stages of its construction, its presence reminds us that art has a place in the community and that it will always have a place in the Atenean’s endeavor for excellence. Art is a form of communication, a means of engaging with an audience. Artworks are not only rich in color but in meaning, intended by the artist and interpreted by a viewer, as well. They are created to concretize an individual’s depiction of reality but they are realized when an audience’s depiction of reality changes because of it. Art has the potential to form a network of ideas and a community of change. With this, excellence can be realized. What you will see in the following pages are a diverse set of works ranging from traditional paintings to digital photography. heights wishes to showcase these artworks, not just as the products of leisure, but as the artists’ different interpretations of what it means to be excellent. Alfred Marasigan’s Tablet series makes use of patterns and textures to let us see vitamins and minerals in unusual ways; Sara Abrigo’s Passing tells us of the strangers that we pass by; and Therese Reyes’ Meiji Westernization gives us a glimpse of Japan’s past using symbolism and technique. These are only some of the works featured in this semester’s folio. Whether they are photographs or paintings, they all manage to talk about different topics in previously unexplored ways.

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We hope that as you browse through the artworks of this folio, you will not only engage with the artist, but find meaning and inspiration to create change and find excellence on your own terms as well. Regina Ira Antonette M. Geli August 2014

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Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan. Froth. Acrylic on canvas. 12 x 12 in.

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Chi Punzalan. Paranoia. Digital photography.

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Sara Abrigo. Passing. Digital photography.

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Alfred Benidict C. Marasigan. Vitamin from Tablet (series). Acrylic on canvas. 16 in. (diameter).

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Mineral from Tablet (series). Acrylic on canvas. 16 in. (diameter).

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RJ Dimla. Dalawandaang Dangal. Digital photography.

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Therese Pedro. Volatile. Mixed media.

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Kassandra Kim T. Co. from New Year’s Eve (series). Digital photography.

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Therese Nicole Reyes. Meiji Westernization. Ink and digital coloring. 11.75 x 8.25 in.

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Lorenzo Torres Narciso. From Afar (sequential work in three parts). Mixed media.

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Lorenzo Torres Narciso. From Afar (sequential work in three parts). Mixed media.

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Reina Adriano (3 BS/M Applied Mathematics, Major in Mathematical Finance) Reina is struggling/wishing/trying to make sense of the numbers as well as the words in her life. Despite imperfections, she is thankful for the people who have supported her in every step of the way. Salamat sa munting pagtulak. Sara Abrigo (AB European Studies 2014) Sara Abrigo is a graduate of ab European Studies 2014. Keep smiling. Keep moving. Keep living. Christian Benitez (3 AB Literature–Filipino) Naging fellow si Christian Benitez sa 19th Ateneo heights Writers Workshop, 14th iyas National Writers Workshop, at 12th Ateneo National Writers Workshop. Nailathala na ang ilan sa kanyang mga tula sa High Chair, heights, at Transit. Nagpapasalamat siya sa kanyang mga guro, kaibigan sa loob at labas ng heights, at sa Bagwisang Filipino, noon at ngayon, lalo na kina Selina, Pao, at Abner. Muli, para sa kanyang mga magulang. Para na rin sa lahat ng mga posibilidad, pagtataya, at sandali ng pagkamangha.

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Kassandra Kim T. Co (1 BFA Information Design) “Learning is beautiful.” —Natalie Portman There is something so fascinating about life and every single bit that’s in it. Stars in outer space. Life under the sea. So many things to wonder and dream about. And there are still a gazillion things we have yet to discover. How wonderful is that? I’m Kim. I love to laugh. Stars fascinate me. Looking at the twinkling stars at night, with the cold breeze brushing against your skin, and nothing loud to disturb you—it’s one of the things that I miss the most. We don’t have stars in the cities. (Well, visible stars). And we can’t sing and dance in the rain here, too. There are just too many buildings and cars. I love art. And music. And science. I love kids and I love their simplicity and their intelligence. I love old people and their wisdom. But I ‘specially love my crazy, big family and God. RJ Dimla (4 AB Interdisciplinary Studies) Maging bukas. Abner Dormiendo (AB Philosophy 2014) Sa Antipolo umuuwi si Abner tuwing Sabado at Linggo. Sa ibang araw, nasa Laguna siya, nagtuturo ng pagkakaiba ng magkasingkahulugan at magkasalungat sa mga bata. Sa pagitan ng kaniyang pagbiyahe sa slex, tumutula siya. Kung wala na talaga, tumutulala na lang. Hindi totoong tao si Kathleen. lagimlim.wordpress.com 80


Ariane Lim (4 BFA Creative Writing) Magtatapos sana si Ariane Lim sa kanyang kursong Creative Writing sa taong ito. Mapalad siyang nakasali sa 19th Ateneo heights Writers Workshop, 12th Ateneo National Writers Workshop, at 10th Virgin Labfest Fellowship Program sa kanyang pamamalagi sa Ateneo. Malaki ang utang na loob niya sa maraming tao. Hindi lang halata. Baka kasi Chinese siya. p.s. Mahal niya ang nagmamahal sa kambing. Sa palagay niya, dapat ipagpatuloy niya ang pagsulat sa yosi, huwag lang siya magyosi. Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan (Fine Arts Program) Alfred Marasigan graduated magna cum laude from the Ateneo de Manila University in 2013 with a bfa in Information Design and a Loyola Schools Award for the Arts (Visual Arts: Graphic Design). For his undergraduate thesis, he implemented HistoRiles, a public design installation that aims to disseminate historical trivia via commute. In 2012, he has placed 2nd in the Maningning Miclat National Art Competition, and has participated in group exhibitions such as Insectosize (Maitland Regional Art Gallery), Sining sa Kongreso 3 (House of Representatives), and more recently, False Faces (Big Bad Wolf, One Manila Gallery), a back-to-back show with Pam Celeridad. Last June, he became a semifinalist in the Metrobank Art and Design Excellence (made) Painting Competition. Now, while working as a part-time faculty member of the Ateneo Fine Arts, he is racing against time, resources, and himself to get an mfa. He would like to thank his parents, friends, and colleagues for always getting him through tough times and intense contest deadlines.

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Lorenzo Torres Narciso (2 BS Psychology) The thing about watercolor is that you can’t always force yourself to control everything. Sometimes, in order to get nice results, you just have to play with it, and then see what happens. I’ve been needing a way to remind myself of that recently. Jeivi Nicdao (3 AB Psychology) This space is for lease. Mirick Paala (BS Management Engineering, Minor in Creative Writing 2013) Nagtapos si Mirick Paala ng Management Engineering, Minor in Creative Writing noong 2013. Kasalukuyan siyang nagtratrabaho sa gobiyerno bilang tagapangasiwa ng mga pambansang proyekto. Hindi rin siya tumitigil sa paghahanap ng pagkakataon upang mas makapagsulat. Nailathala na ang kaniyang mga tula sa High Chair, heights, at Paper Monster Press. Inaalay niya ito sa kaniyang pamilya. Jam Pascual (4 BFA Creative Writing) Jam Pascual is currently a senior studying Creative Writing at the Ateneo de Manila University. He was a fellow for poetry at the 18th Ateneo heights Writers Workshop. He has been published in heights before, and some of his poems are set to be published in the next issue of Paper Monster Press. Sometimes he performs spoken word. You can find his rough drafts and panic attacks at slowdowndilettante.wordpress.com.

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Therese Pedro (2 BFA Information Design) “Honestly, if you’re given the choice between Armageddon or tea, you don’t say ‘what kind of tea? ’”—Neil Gaiman T is a person who likes tea (among other things), particularly tea mixed with coffee—because who doesn’t need that much caffeine? She’d like to thank her family for always giving and her dog-friend (a Doberman named Big) for always howling. Chi Punzalan (5 BS Applied Physics with Applied Computer Systems) Perpetually trapped in a state of wonder. Therese Nicole Reyes (BS Psychology 2013) During the Meiji period (1868-1912), Japan began to open up to Western culture. A lot of policies, technology, and ideologies were adopted, which caused tension between those who called for internal preservation and external growth. Meiji Westernization was inspired by the wood block prints made at the time, where in Victorian dresses were depicted alongside Japanese kimonos, and symbolizes the prevailing tension with the surrender of flight. Due to the artistic community and madness one acquires in heights, Therese is currently pursuing a Certificate of Fine Arts-Major in Painting at the University of the Philippines, Diliman. She hopes to be brave enough to own the title of ‘artist.’ Her work has been published in heights a number of times since 2011 and her work has garnered the Loyola Schools Awards for the Arts in Illustration in 2013. For my family, the people who keep my world spinning, up cfa block z, heights, and those who live Art, you all inspire me.

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Francine Sta. Ana (3 BFA Creative Writing) “Curiouser and curiouser!” — Lewis Carroll , Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland Third year Creative Writing major currently living in a world of her own. Likes newspaper comics, writing poetry, drawing, daydreaming, theatre, wasting time on the internet, and lemon squares. I’d like to thank my family, my friends, the people around me, and Tori Amos. Paolo Tiausas (Fine Arts Program) “Maliit ang mundo ng mga patay.” —Eli Rueda Guieb III, Ama Nagtapos si Paolo Tiausas ng kursong Creative Writing sa ilalim ng Fine Arts Program ng Ateneo de Manila University noong 2013. Naging fellow siya sa tula sa Ateneo heights Writers Workshop noong 2010, sa Ateneo National Writers Workshop noong 2012, at sa iyas National Writers Workshop ngayong 2014. Kasalukuyan niyang hilig ang magdisenyo ng mga libro. Josh Uyheng (3 BS Psychology) To the people for whom these things matter: To J., companion in placelessness, pronoun. To I., jiggly bones, coffee boomba personified. To G., all the muttering in the background. To H., all the nondeterministic polynomial time. To P., love, war, and their permutations. To S., yes, Eevee doesn’t have to evolve. To K., this whirlwind. To P., who still reads everything, was mad enough to let me behind the wheel, drive. To everyone I’m missing. For everything I’ve learned this year, have yet to.

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Errata In heights vol. 61 no. 3, the third line of the fourth verse of Gwen Bañaria’s piece, “Flora,” should read “napalitan ang halimuyak ng pagkaanta” instead of “napalitan ang halimuyak ng pagkanta.” In the same folio, a portion of Angelo Juarez’s write-up was erroneously cut off. The heights editorial board would like to apologize for the aforementioned mistakes.


Acknowledgments Fr. Jose Ramon T. Villarin, sj and the Office of the President Dr. John Paul C. Vergara and the Office of the Vice President for the Loyola Schools Mr. Rene S. San Andres and the Office of the Associate Dean for Student Affairs Dr. Josefina D. Hofileùa and the Office of the Associate Dean of Academic Affairs Dr. Ma. Luz C. Vilches and the Office of the Dean, School of Humanities Dr. Remmon E. Barbaza and the English Department Dr. Jerry C. Respeto and the Fine Arts Program Dr. Joseph T. Salazar at ang Kagawaran ng Filipino Mr. Allan Popa and the Ateneo Institute of the Literary Arts and Practices (ailap) Mr. Christopher Fernando F. Castillo and the Office of Student Activities Ms. Marie Joy R. Salita and the Office of Administrative Services Ms. Liberty Santos and the Central Accounting Office Mr. Regidor Macaraig and the Purchasing Office Dr. Vernon R. Totanes and the Rizal Library Ms. Carina C. Samaniego and the University Archives Ms. Yael A. Buencamino and the Ateneo Art Gallery The mvp Maintenance and Security Personnel Ms. Mara Cepeda and The Guidon Ms. Dyan Francisco and Matanglawin Mr. Melvin A. Apo, Ms. Karen Lyn A. Lopena, Mr. Josef B. Dawana and Ateneo High School’s Pugad Mr. Ariel Lavilla and the Ateneo Chemistry Society The Sanggunian ng Mag-aaral ng Ateneo de Manila, and the Council of Organizations of the Ateneo And to those who have been keeping literature and art alive in the community by continuously submitting their works and supporting the endeavors of heights


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

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


Staffers Art 

Dyanne Abobo, A. A. Aris Amor, Ariana Asuncion, Richelle Amponin, Eunice Nicole S. Arevalo, Kitkat Barreiro, Nicole Castañeda, Samantha Chiang, Ysa Da Silva, Jikka Defiñ0, Isa de Vera, Lasmyr Diwa Edullantes, Patty Ferriol, Corrine Angeli G. Golez, Justine Joson, Nichele Cassandra Li, Samuel U. Liquete, Marion Emmanuel P. Lopez, Celline Marge Mercado, Moli Muñoz, David Nacar, Lorenzo Torres Narciso, Veron Oliva, Kimberly Que, Mick Quito, Robyn Angeli Saquin, Sigourney So, Nicole Soriano, Bagani Sularte, Yuri Ysabel Tan, Krizelle Te, Ali Nadine Timonera, Alexandria Tuico, Jen Venancio, Nikki Vocalan

Design 

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

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

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

Production 

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

Web

     

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


20th ateneo heights writers workshop august 23 – 25, 2014 Riverview Resort, Calamba, Laguna Panelists Mark Anthony Cayanan Conchitina Cruz Allan Alberto N. Derain Carljoe Javier Allan Popa Dr. Edgar Samar Dr. Benilda Santos Dr. Vincenz Serrano Martin Villanueva Fellows Selina Ablaza [kuwento] Reina Adriano [essay] Billy Atienza [poetry] Patrick James Cruz [tula] Reia Dangeros [kuwento] Alexander Dungca [kuwento] Angelo Galindo [poetry] Jeivi Nicdao [tula] Juno Reyes [poetry] Ayana Tolentino [essay] Workshop Director Jenina Ibañez


Workshop Deliberation Committee english Deirdre Camba James Soriano Fidelis Tan filipino Japhet Calupitan Nicko Reginio Caluya Michael Orlino Workshop Committee Jonnel Inojosa [assistant director] Christian Benitez [logistics head] Patty Ferriol, Micah Naadat, Matthew Olivares, Bianca Sarte, and Josh Uyheng [logistics team] Drama del Rosario, Mick Quito, and Betina Santos [promotions team] Manuel Angulo and Nikki Blanco [web and documentation team] Finance Moli Mu単oz Design Cheska Mallillin Moderator Allan Alberto N. Derain


(2014) Heights Vol. 62, No. 1  

The AY 2014-2015 First Regular Folio. Heights is the official literary and artistic publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila Uni...

(2014) Heights Vol. 62, No. 1  

The AY 2014-2015 First Regular Folio. Heights is the official literary and artistic publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila Uni...

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