Malate Literary Folio tomo XXXV bilang 2

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO

TOMO XXXV BILANG 2

HULYO 2019

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO Tomo XXXV Bilang 2 Karapatang-ari Š 2019

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ng Malate Literary Folio ang opisyal na publikasyon ng sining at panitikan ng Pamantasang De La Salle - Manila, sa ilalim ng awtoridad ng Student Media Office (SMO).

Ang mga komento at mungkahi ay maaaring ipahatid sa:

E-mail address: mlf@dlsu.edu.ph Website: issuu.com/malatelitfolio Facebook: fb.com/malateliteraryfolio Twitter: @malatelitfolio 503-Media House, Bro. Connon Hall, De La Salle University-Manila, 2401 Taft Avenue, Malate, Manila.

Nananatili sa indibidwal na may-akda o may-dibuho ang karapatangari ng bawat piyesang ipinalimbag dito. Hindi maaaring ipalathala muli o gamitin sa anumang paraan ang alin man sa mga nilalaman nang walang karampatang pahintulot ng may-akda o may-dibuho Ang tomong ito ay hindi ipinagbibili.

Ang pabalat at disenyo ng folio na ito ay likha ni Armando Miguel Valdes.

INTRODUKSYON

For what is a body without visibility? For what is a voice without audibility?

O body swayed to music, O brightening glance How can we tell the dancer from the dance?

–W.B. Yeats, “Among School Children”

Oftentimes, intentions are what thrust us to act. We may nonetheless find ourselves in circumstances that we did not will or choose for ourselves, akin to rain keeping us indoors and unmotivated. An overwhelming sensation that washes over us and renders us paralyzed amid it all. The difficulty then is how we hear what we are feeling but cannot express these sentiments.

It is as if our own environment dampens what we need to say.

The need to voice ourselves out; the need to be in motion.

That the voice is merely in the form of thoughts, without any sonic characteristic, which gives the impression of silence. But the necessity to create, out of all the confusion and jumbled ideas, acts as our impetus. In this sense, our voices become manifest.

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That the body begins as immobile yet the voice prods us to move and to choose the medium to do so. We might then be able to define our actions as what we desire. And soon, we feel contented in our own skins, in our own shells, such that emptiness does not fill us but rather, it is emptiness that we fill up. In this sense, our bodies become spatial.

In this issue, Malate Literary Folio and its contributors enjoin the reader to reflect on one’s concept of home through reconciling the voice with the body. And with this, weathering any environment whether it be clear skies or overcast from within or which surrounds. May the reader relate a home not only to a physical place but also to a specific space—a self-defined niche.

And perhaps we are all dancers, finding comfort in the dance, swaying to the music in our own time, brightening our glances ever more slightly with each increasing lux of clarity in our minds.

NINIAN PATRICK SAYOC Punong Patnugot

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NILALAMAN Introduksyon

Prosa

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Bagong Barbie Cathleen Jane Madrid

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Maria Stephen Amiel Argente

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An Insight by the Two Sides of the World Gerik Raffertee Tan

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Profanity

Francis D’Angelo Mina

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Five Minutes Abigail Batan

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Flay Querix Keershyne Recalde

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Sining

Justified Gerik Raffertee Tan

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Steward Nicole Kathleen Garay

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Please be Brave Luis Antonio Pastoriza

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Wick Within Bea Mira So

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Pagbunyag Jamie Shekinah Mapa

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Tula

Hapunan sa Tag-Ulan Fernando Belloza

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Likas Paula Bianca MaraĂąa

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Banyo Kween Waya Ayco

Apostropiya Allan Popa

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Kumot Adrian Neil Holgado

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The Wind-Up Ballerina Claire Madison Chua

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Afterthoughts After Afterthoughts Ninian Patrick Sayoc & Armando Miguel Valdes

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Gumamela

Christine Autor

Retrato

Mitosis

Adia Pauline Lim

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Hantad

Erika Zenn Ang

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Habulan

Isabella Alexandra Bernal

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Sari-sariling Mundo Kyle Noel Ibarra

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Pagbuhos, Pagtila at Pagbuhos Muli Beatrice Julia TriĂąanes

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Pasasalamat

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PATNUGUTAN Ninian Patrick Sayoc Punong Patnugot Patnugot ng Tula Armando Miguel Valdes Pangalawang Patnugot Patnugot ng Sining Jared Rivera Tagapamahalang Patnugot Patnugot ng Prosa Beatrice Julia TriĂąanes Patnugot ng Retrato Cheyenne Grace Espiritu Tagapamahala ng Pagmamay-ari

MGA SENYOR NA PATNUGOT Maria Gabrielle Galang Stephen Amiel Argente Philippe Bernard Cabal

MGA TAGAPAYO Dr. Mesandel Arguelles Mr. Vijae Alquisola

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MGA KASAPI Sining

Retrato

Nicole Kathleen Garay Phoebe Danielle Joco Chaunne-Ira Masongsong Jamie Shekinah Mapa Bea Mira So Gerik Raffertee Tan Cielo Marie Vicencio

Isabella Alexandra Bernal Joaquin Dimayuga Danish Fernandez Alexander Flores Kyle Noel Ibarra Adia Pauline Lim Brandon Kyle Pecson

Tula

Prosa

Christine Autor Waya Ayco Claire Madison Chua Adrian Neil Holgado Paula Bianca Maraña Andre Joshua Cordero Sy Megan Kim Torrente

Abigail Batan Cathleen Jane Madrid Francis D’Angelo Mina Querix Keershyne Recalde Alyssa Mari Vitug

STUDENT MEDIA OFFICE David Leaño Director Jeanne Marie Tan Coordinator Ma. Manuela Agdeppa SECRETARY

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MGA KONTRIBUTOR ALLAN POPA Si Allan Popa ay Assistant Professor sa Ateneo de Manila University. Awtor siya ng sampung aklat ng mga tula kabilang na ang Damagan (UST Publishing House, 2018), at Narkotiko at Panganorin (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2018). Ginawaran na siya ng Philippines Free Press Literary Award at Manila Critics Circle National Book Award. Nagtapos siya ng MFA in Writing sa Washington University in Saint Louis at Ph.D. in Literature sa De La Salle University.

LUIS ANTONIO PASTORIZA Antonio Pastoriza is a 22-year-old AB-Psychology graduate from De La Salle University, Manila. There, Antonio was an Art Staffer for the Malate Literary Folio where he had his artwork published. He has also had works sold and exhibited at events such as the Xavier Art Fest 18-19’, Sulo: Art & Music Fest 18’, Bloom Arts Festival 18’, New Wave 19’, and Suspended Indecision 19’. Antonio continues to explore various art movements and mediums while further developing his own identity and style. With an inclination towards abstraction and his background in psychology, Antonio wants to create artworks that evoke and portray human emotion, thoughts, feelings, and situations through a visual medium. Antonio’s purpose in creating artworks is to help himself and others better perceive the complexity of the human experience, the mind, and its processes. Additionally, he aims to celebrate and show the beauty of the human psyche.

ERIKA ZENN ANG Si Erika Zenn Ang ay dating kasapi ng Malate Literary Folio kung saan nailathala ang ilan sa kanyang mga gawa, ang “Purge,” “Tanaw,” at “Ang Biography, 2016.”

Nagtapos siya ng BS Biology sa De La Salle University - Manila at patuloy niyang isinusulong ang kanyang edukasyon sa kursong Medisina bilang isang iskolar ng CHED sa Cagayan State University.

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FERNANDO BELLOZA

Hapunan sa Tag-ulan Bumuhos ang ulang tila rehas na kinukulong ang mga tao sa loob-bahay.

Sumasagitsit sa mga bubong tulad ng aking ginigisang pagkain para sa sarili.

Sa mga panahong malamig tulad ngayon, kulang ang sabaw na magpapainit sa buong katawan.

Hinanda ang lamesa: isang plato, isang baso, kumaing mag-isa.

Nang tumila na ang ulan, unti-unting kumalat ang mga bitwin sa langit: “mabilis magbago ang panahon� ang kanilang inukit.

Kaya sa gabing ito, aking sinumpa, sa sibuyas nalang ako maluluha.

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ADIA PAULINE LIM

Mitosis 2

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CATHLEEN JANE MADRID

Bagong Barbie

Sabado na naman – ang paborito kong araw sa linggo. Kapag

Sabado, bawal mag-away si Mommy at Daddy. Bawal magalit, bawal sumimangot. Dapat masaya lang palagi – walang iyakan, walang reklamo.

Kaya paborito ko ang Sabado. Perpekto kasi ang lahat kapag Sabado.

“Shania, tara na, aalis na tayo!”

Sinuot ko na ang aking pink na rubber shoes at pinagmasdan ko ang mga ito. Rubber shoes na bulaklakin, tatak Barbie. Bigay ni Daddy noong kasama ako sa mga honor student sa Grade 1. Parati ko na siyang suot lalo na nung pumasok ako ngayong taon sa Grade 2.

Hindi pa naman siya masyadong luma.

Pero Sabado ngayon.

Paborito ko rin ang Sabado dahil sa araw na ito dinadala ako nila Mommy at Daddy sa SM. Sa bawat linggo, parati akong may “bago” sa aking mga gamit. Bagong laruan, bagong sapatos, bagong damit. Hindi nakukumpleto ang araw kung wala akong nabibili. Maliit man ‘to o malaki na bagay, kailangan may nabili ako sa mall. Kailangan parating may bago tuwing sasapit ang Sabado.

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Bagong Barbie

Lumabas ako ng bahay. Nakaabang na si Mommy sa may pinto.

“Ma, bili tayo ng sapatos ngayon.”

Tumango lang si Mommy, tsaka pumasok kami sa kotse. Una muna, kakain kami. ‘Tas ‘yun, shopping na. Maghihiwalay kami sa Department Store - si Kuya kay Daddy, ako kay Mommy.

Dahil sa linggo-linggo naming pagbili, halos nakakabisado ko na ang mga daanan sa Department Store. Kadalasan kami ni Mommy bumibili ng sapatos sa Barbie. Doon kami papunta ngayon.

Ang babaeng tumutulong sa ‘min sa Barbie ay mabait. Sa linggo-linggo na pagpunta namin, natandaan na niya ang pangalan ko. Babatiin pa niya ako ng Ma’am Shania. Ang sarap pakinggan na tawagin ako ng babaeng mas matanda sa akin na “Ma’am”. Noong unang pagkakataon na ginawa niya ito, sinabi ko sa sarili ko na peyborit ko siya sa lahat ng babae sa Department Store.

Dahil sa kulay asul at puti na suot niya, pulang mga labi at nakataas na buhok, nagiging kamukha na niya ang iba niyang mga kasama. Pare-parehas kasi silang lahat. Naka-heels, magkakatulad na uniporme, madalas maputi, walang mataba. Pero natatandaan ko ang babaeng nasa Barbie kasi may malaki siyang nunal na malapit sa labi. Sayang nga na may nunal siya sa mukha – para bang nasira ang kagandahan niya dahil dito. Pero salamat din dito ay natatandaan ko siya. Tuwing nakikita ko na ang magandang babae na may nunal, alam ko na nasa parte na kami ng Department Store na kung saan makikita ang mga kagamitan sa Barbie.

Pero dumating na kami sa puwesto ng Barbie, at wala pa rin siya. “Pumili ka na diyan, Shania,” utos sakin ni Mommy. Tiningnan ko ang shelf kung saan nilagagay ang mga sapatos. May high heels, may rubber shoes, may boots. Pero hindi ako makapili.

“Mommy, asan kaya si Barbie?”

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Kung hindi naman namin makita ang babaeng may nunal, tinatanong ni Mommy sa mga babaeng nakaasul at nakaputi kung nasaan siya. Tawag ni Mommy sa kanya ay Barbie. Laking tuwa ko nung narinig ko ‘yun. “Pangalan niya Barbie, Mommy?” tanong ko.

Narinig ko din ang tawag ng mga babaeng naka-asul at puti, “Si Barbie daw, nasaan si Barbie?” Magkakaroon ng sigawan sa pangalan ni Barbie, at sa ilang saglit, dadating din ang babaeng may nunal. Pero kung siya nga si Barbie, bakit siya may nunal? Bakit hindi siya blonde, tulad ni Barbie?

Kakaiba din ang pangalan ng mga kasama niya. May Disney, may Elle, may Oshkosh. At ang mga pangalan nila ang nakatahi sa mga damit na ibinibenta nila. Siguro nga ganoon. Kung ano ang pangalan mo, iyon ang pangalan ng binebenta mo. Nilapitan ni Mommy ang isa pang kasamahan ni Barbie. Sa pagkakaalam ko, ang pangalan niya ay Elle. Maganda rin siya. Nakikita ko sila ni Barbie nagbibiruan.

Parati siyang nakangiti, minsan nakakatakot na. Pero ngayon hindi siya nakangiti, nakasimangot siya. Ngunit Sabado ngayon, wala dapat ang nakasimangot.

“Miss, nasaan yung sa Barbie?” tanong ni Mommy. Tumingin si Elle sa mga kasamahan niya.“Sa Barbie raw! Sa Barbie, pa-assist!” sigaw niya. Nagkatinginan ang mga kasama niya. Lumipas ang ilang saglit, bago may dumating na babae. Tinaas ni Elle ang mga kamay niya,

“Barbie daw.”

Lumakad papunta sa amin si Barbie. Tutulungan niya ako mamili ng sapatos. Alam na kasi ni Barbie ang mga gusto ko, ang style ko. Siya pa nga namili nitong bulaklakin na rubber shoes na bigay ni Daddy - ang unang pagkakataon na nakilala ko siya. Mula noon, tinutulungan na niya ako mamili ng sapatos. Yung black shoes na binili ko noong pasukan, siya rin tumulong sa akin mamili.

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Bagong Barbie

Ngunit sa paglapit ni Barbie, nakita ko na hindi pala siya ‘to.

Oo, matangkad, payat, maputi, maganda, nakataas ang buhok, pula ang mga labi, naka-uniporme na asul at puti. Pero wala ang nunal. May nunal si Barbie. Hindi siya si Barbie.

“Yes, Ma’am, ano pong gusto nila?” tanong niya.

Hindi siya si Barbie. Dapat kumukuha na siya ng sapatos na alam niyang magugustuhan ko. Pero hindi siya si Barbie. Hindi niya alam.

“Nasaan si Barbie?” tanong ko sa kanya. “May sakit po ba siya?”

Halos parehos lang sila ni Barbie ng tangkad, ng kilos, ng ganda. Pero hindi siya si Barbie. Hindi siya kumibo. Ngumiti lang siya sa ‘kin. Magtatanong sana ulit ako pero inunahan na ako ni Mommy.

May inabot siya sa akin na sapatos – pink na boots.

“Eto, Shania, baka magustuhan mo ‘to,” sabi ni Mommy.

“Ano pong size niya?” tanong ni Barbie. “Tingnan ko po if may stock.”

Hindi siya dapat magtanong. Sa ilang linggo ko pa naman na pagpunta dito, alam na ni Barbie kung ano ang sukat ng mga paa ko.

Pero hindi siya si Barbie.

“Size 6,” sabi ni Mommy, sabay abot ng boots.

Umalis ang babae kasama ang boots. Agad kong tinanong si Mommy.

“Mommy, nasaan si Barbie?”

“Umalis na.”

“Bakit siya umalis?”

“Pinalitan na siya.”

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Pinalitan? Bakit naman papalitan si Barbie? Maganda naman siya, matangkad, mabait. May nagawa ba siyang mali? May minasama ba siya? May inaway ba siya? O siguro dahil sa nunal niya sa mukha?

Hindi pa siya masyadong kagandahan kaya siya pinaalis?

“Bakit siya pinalitan, Mommy?”

Hindi na nakakibo si Mommy. Hinintay na lang naming dumating ang sapatos ko. Ilang minuto ang lumipas at bumalik din ang kapalit ni Barbie, dala dala ang sapatos ko. “Ako na magsusuot sa ’yo,” sabi niya sa ’kin sabay ngiti. Pinaupo niya ako. Habang sinusuot niya ang boots sa aking mga paa, pinagmasdan ko ulit ang kapalit ni Barbie. Maganda siya pero nakita ko naman na madami siyang marka sa mukha. Bakit naman ito ang kapalit ni Barbie?

Pero sa pagtingin ko sa kanya. Naisip ko na lang, sa tuwing Sabado, palagi akong may bago. Bagong sapatos, bagong damit.

Ngayon may bagong Barbie.

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PAULA BIANCA MARAĂ‘A

Likas Ayon sa kinikilalang kutis-artista na kasing puti ng kutis ang lahi niya, ito raw ang mga dapat gawin “Para sa likas na ganda ng Pilipina.�

Kunin ang kahel na sabon at ikuskos sa sarili hanggang sa makudkod ang kulay.

Kayurin ang balat hanggang sa matularan ang batayan.

Unti-unting burahin ang kayumanggi sa katawan.

Huwag pansinin kung sumakit, at ipagpatuloy lang ang proseso ng pagbubura.

May dahilan ang kasabihang tiis-ganda.

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Tingnan kung may sulok sa katawan na nakaligtaan, at kung meron man, banlawan.

Unti-unti ring lalabas ang itsurang inaasam-asam.

Maghintay ng isang linggo, at sa mga araw na ito, tunghayan ang pagkawala ng itsurang sinilangan.

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Sa abot-kayang halaga na trenta pesos lamang.

Malate Literary Folio

ERIKA ZENN ANG

Hantad 10

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WAYA AYCO

Banyo Kween Naglalarawan ang malaking salamin.

Kapansin-pansin ang plakado niyang kilay habang nagpapakakikay sa paglalagay ng kulay. Makulay ang blouse na nanggaling kay Nanay.

Sabay paypay ng makulay na pamaypay Na nagmimistulang butterfly.

Sa sandaling iyon, ang buhay niya ay tunay.

Ngunit ngayo’y oras na para umuwi siya ng bahay.

Dali-dali niyang binubura ang plakadong kilay, katawan ay pinagtitibay, hinuhubad ang blouse ni Nanay.

Tumatawag na si Tatay.

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GERIK RAFFERTEE TAN

Justified digital collage

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STEPHEN AMIEL ARGENTE

Maria

The Virgin Mary looms over them, a white shawl over her head, blue

cape flowing from her back, palms open and welcoming, with eyes of polished stone—hard, but seeing. They gather at her barren feet, the devoted whispering prayers and wishes, tears flowing deep from their eyes, while the others whisper words to each other, eyes searching and staring. Biding their time, they walk over to the wooden pews, sitting close to each other in huddled murmurs, still staring, searching, whispering, praying. Their voices reduce to silence as the priest raises his arms, words of light and truth pouring from his mouth.

The glass eyes of the people remain fixated on the priest, his voice booming through the cavernous room. Their heavy breaths lie hung in the air, barely heard over his preaching and the steady hum of electricity through the walls. He droned on and on about angels and sins; of death and the price of life, of sacrifice and rebirth. As he went on, a cry split the silence of the room, and for a moment, the spell broke—the masses snapped out of their haze, their blank stares and dozing consciousness turning into confusion, searching for the

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Maria

distraction. At the opposite end of the room, a mother stands, carrying a wriggling baby in her arms, lips trembling, and noise pouring from his gaping mouth. Their eyes land on her like predators hunting for prey, and the priest falters from his preaching for a moment. He squints at the woman, unappreciative of the intrusion from his preaching. The remaining worshippers turn their heads to the woman he’s eyeing, and in a state of pressure and panic she gathers her things. She shuffles hurriedly to the end of the row, knocking knees and stepping on feet as she went along, trying hard not to hit any of the other sickened women. The priest’s thunderous voice changes to a piercing glare, waiting for the baby to stop, or an apology from the woman for her child. She turns around and makes her way to the back of the chapel, as the child’s deafening cries continue to echo through the chamber.

The priest continues, attention divided between the woman slowly walking to the last bench, and the words of his god, until she lifts her shirt. Exposing herself, she offers the child to suckle on her bare tit, and the priest pauses, his words replaced by inaudible gasps and bated breath. All eyes are no longer on him but instead preying mercilessly on the woman—men start snickering among themselves, old dames with eyes in shock, younger women murmuring disgust and revolt to each other. In the myriad of hushed voices, she can hear their tongues crackling obscenities with temper, how dare she, what kind of mother is she, a woman should never expose herself in public, disgusting, she must be out of her mind, looking for attention, what a whore, where is the father, she’s too young, I heard the story differently, she asked for it, don’t tell me she didn’t enjoy it a little bit, why didn’t she stop, did it even really happen, she’s making up stories, what clothes was she wearing, she’s to blame too, a woman shouldn’t be drinking anyway, should never be out so late, should never dress that short, should put on more layers, never go outside, do housework, stay in, care for the family, make her husband happy, should be like this, should be like that, too naïve, too wild, it’s her fault, serves her right, why didn’t she do anything—

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—I did, he was a blessing, a gift, someone to care for, someone to raise, someone I could watch grow, what do they care anyway? After all we’ve been through, I wanted to have him, I decided to keep him, after all he was mine, all mine. Still feeding her baby, she stands up, their words still hanging in the air, rising more violently and with nothing else to hear ringing in her ears. With her head held high she walks to the entrance of the white walled chamber, her back on the people robed in white and adorned with crosses. On her way out, she faces the sunlight streaming into the hall, following her as she leaves—the statue of the Virgin Mary no longer stone, with nothing standing in its place.

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NICOLE KATHLEEN GARAY

Steward digital art

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An Insight by the Two Sides of the World GERIK RAFFERTEE TAN paglalarawan ni Gerik Raffertee Tan

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An Insight by the Two Sides of the World

In philosophy, there are two certain perspectives which

are very similar, but different in application. There is Existentialism, and there is Zen. The West and the East. Each side with their own interpretations of the individual in relation with life as a whole.

Throughout the essay, there will be three sources of knowledge which will be referenced in both philosophies. The first is instinct.

Instinct is referred to as the body. It is what keeps us alive. It is our body’s responses, automatic bodily processes, and our feelings. In the animal world, it is what drives the animals to survive. It is what tells us that we are hungry, that we are sexually frustrated and aroused, that we are feeling happy or sad, that we are tired and sleepy. It is every sensation and every emotion. The second is intellect. Intellect is referred to as the mind. It is the logical, the analytical, the computer.

It is what makes decisions, what calculates odds and probabilities, it is what observes, what collects information and uses that information to guide our future. The definitions will temporarily stop here and continue later on since it is in intellect where the basis of the concepts of Existentialism lies.

The idea of Existentialism revolves on the individual.

There are two schools of thought about life and the future. These are: Essentialism and Existentialism. Essentialism is the idea that the essence of an object existed first before the object itself. An example of this would be regular objects. The thought process of the inventor of the wheel probably went like this. First is the experience of a problem. The inventor encounters the problem of the difficulty in transporting heavy items. The inventor must find a way or invent something to transport the heavy objects with ease. Second, the need for a solution is conceptualized. The inventor thinks up of ideas that would make such task easier. He or she conceptualizes a round object which can roll and transport the heavy items with greater ease. Finally, the execution. The inventor executes the solution by creating the wheel to solve the previous problems.

While such interpretation of the creation of the wheel can

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be highly inaccurate, the conceptualization of everyday objects is similar. Inventors and designers think of the essence or the purpose of the object first before such objects even exist in the first place.

Once the object is created, it serves that purpose and fills the required role that it was intended to do so in the first place. Sometimes, it even goes beyond its intended purpose. Before a table exists physically in this world, its purpose already exists. Thus, when the table is born in this world, it is destined to serve such purpose in its life forever.

Sometimes, the table can even go beyond its purpose and become an area to sit on.

On the other hand, Existentialism is the opposite. The object will physically exist first before its purpose in this world exists. When we are born, did our parents give as a purpose to fulfill immediately in our lives? In reality, some may say yes, some may say no, some may say maybe a little. Yes, because there are families who pressure their babies and kids into becoming a doctor, or a lawyer, or an engineer.

No, because we were given the free will to choose what we wanted to do with our lives by our parents. Maybe a little, because we are not forced, but encouraged, or we were conditioned to fulfill this “destiny� of ours. We may think that when our parents, or family, or society shapes us into being something when we grow up, we are living a life of Essentialism. No. Society and parents are not powerful enough to direct the very fabric and laws of time and space. You may be shaped to be a musical prodigy or a successful doctor in the future, but anything can happen in the future. Your past may be set in stone, but your future is as fluid as you make it to be. This is where Existentialism occurs.

When one adopts an existentialist way of thinking, they become the master of their own future. It is to focus on yourself as an individual. To do things based on what you want. Essentialism entails that your whole life and timeline is set in stone, that you cannot change what will happen in the future. Existentialism entails that your future is based on what you do now. However, the problem with these beliefs is, since we cannot see into the future, then how do we know 19

An Insight by the Two Sides of the World

if our future is actually controlled by us? What if we believe that the future is controlled by our own decisions, but that belief was just part of a pre-determined destiny that the universe or a god set for us? Well the truth is, no one can know. Maybe in the future, there can be a way to know. However, in the first place, we should ask ourselves if it is actually beneficial for us to know?

It’s always been a common trope that when it comes to philosophy or deep conversations, we ask ourselves what the meaning of life is. It can be thrown around easily, but that question is actually so powerful. What is the meaning of life? Such question holds so much power since if there really is a purpose for our existence and that we have been living a life of Essentialism, then who is to say that everyone will enjoy the purpose of our existence. This purpose can be known as the Absolute Purpose, or the hypothetical meaning of our existence, whatever that may be, whether it exists or not. If there is an Absolute Purpose for us and there is a group of people that does not agree or see the significance of this purpose, then they will throw away their existence. This brings up the question, if we leave the question, about the meaning of life, unanswered, then does that mean that it is better for us to live in an illusion? The illusion, in this scenario, can be the proposed purpose of existence in our lives given by religion, or the purpose that we give ourselves. Through these illusions, the former goes back to Essentialism, and the latter, Existentialism.

Overall, we now have conceptualized three different forms of purpose. First is the Absolute Purpose. The purpose of our existence.

The meaning of life. We do not know if this truly does exist or not, but if it does, then it will be the purpose for which human beings were created for. Second is the purpose given by religion or any system of belief. This can be called Religious Purpose. This can range from any form of religion or belief which attempts to provide a meaning for our lives. Finally, there is the purpose that we make for ourselves.

We can call this the Individual Purpose. This is Existentialism. Us as the captain of our ships. The determiner of our destiny. No god or

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universal force can tamper with the power that we have to control our future. It can be noted that while this is Existentialism, the concept of Absolute Purpose and Religious Purpose are both beliefs of Essentialism. While the Absolute Purpose and the Religious Purpose are different in their source, it is safe to say that their differences can be considered as minor factor. This is because in a hypothetical scenario where our Absolute Purpose is actually discovered, then what is stopping the belief of that source of Absolute Purpose to become another form of religion or belief. People will still be free to deny that source and that Purpose, especially since not everyone may favor the Absolute Purpose set for them. It can be declared as a fact, yes. However how strong are facts really to the test of time and belief ?

What was factual thousands of years ago can now be considered as myths. Facts are not absolute, they can be classified as accepted beliefs due to the reason of such phenomenon to seemingly occur every single moment. Yet just because it occurs now, does not mean that it will occur in the future. Laws change, theories debunk each other, different factors affect the physical world in ways which we would have never imagined in the past. We can safely say that when we drop an object with mass, gravity will pull it downwards. How long will such fact stand the test of time? Sure, it can be said that over multiple millennia, objects with mass have fallen due to gravity, but for how long will that remain true? Who knows in the future?

Who truly knows? No one knows what the future holds. The future is open. Thus, the blank future is like a canvas, and each of us is given one. We are all given a canvas to play with. Do we want to paint it with beautiful colors? Do we want to destroy it? Do we want to do something unique with it? It can all be up to us. It is true that we will truly never know if we live in a life of Essentialism or a life of Existentialism. However, would you rather live a life believing that the universe has ordered you to live in a certain way? Or would you rather believe that you are not trapped within the walls of destiny. That we can craft our own destiny. Ultimately, that decision is up to you. Which do you think will be better for your life? This is not a guidebook to life, only a guide to a realization about the possibilities of life.

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Earlier, it was stated that intellect is the basis of Existentialism.

Recall that intellect is the decision-maker. The analyzer. The logical being that resides in our minds to make choices for us based on past experiences and conditioning. Existentialism relies on intellect. Since we are free to make decisions for ourselves, the intellect is superior.

We are not controlled by our emotions, or cravings, or our sensations.

We are the intellect. A recurring belief in Existentialism is that “man is the sum total of his actions”. Whatever we decide, that is us. That is Existentialism. When we decide to make a crucial choice that leads to success, that is us. Our achievements, our small decisions in life, our thoughts, that is us. However, along this comes our failures, our mistakes, and our loss of control. When people say that Existentialism is doing what we want and what we decide to do, it is not a free pass to do whatever we want. Well you can actually do whatever you want.

You can be lazy and not work, you can be rude, you can kill. In reality, no matter how much society engraves in our minds that it is wrong to do certain things, we can have the capacity to, for example, murder.

Along with that action, however, comes the responsibilities that you have to live with. Freedom always comes with responsibilities. You can murder all you want, but remember, you are the sum total of your actions. If you murder, you are a murderer. You will be jailed.

So that means you really are not the controller of your future? Yes. That is reality. The sooner that one accepts that they cannot control everything in their lives, the better.

So, what is the point of Existentialism when there are many factors in our lives that we cannot control? Existentialism is not a guidebook on how to live one’s life. It is a realization. It is to realize that while there are factors that you cannot control in your life, but do not let go of the factors in your life that you can have control over.

When we cheat on our diets or slack off in our exercise, who is in control? Our instinct. Our emotions. Our cravings. It is up to us, to recover that with our intellect. Part of Existentialism is to realize selfhonesty. We cannot blame our mistakes and failures on our emotions or instinct. When one hits someone because they were angry at the other? It is the fault of the self. Blaming one’s emotions is to separate 22

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oneself from something that is a part of the self. Worse, blaming others for one’s loss of control is the disregard of one’s responsibility of over the self. When one disregards one’s responsibility over the self, then they become like an animal. Controlled only by instincts and emotions. But we are not animals, aren’t we? We are intellectual beings.

When one has attained self-honesty, there is no insecurity, no bullshitting others and the self. Only pure criticism and acceptance of one’s actions and its effects. As stated by my philosophy professor, “you can see other people’s bullshit, but to see one’s own bullshit is something totally different”. It is a beautiful moment. To see one’s own flaws and failures and to accept that wholeheartedly as your own. In self-honesty, we see our flaws and we can work on them.

We do not deny them. In knowing ourselves and being honest with ourselves, whether be it our flaws or positive qualities, we gain internal strength. Through internal strength, we can remain rooted and certain of ourselves. No insults nor any sharp words can penetrate you when you are so sure of who you are as a whole person. To see one’s own bullshit and to laugh at it is truly a beautiful moment.

Earlier, it was mention that the two philosophies of the East and West have their own ways of interpreting life and the individual.

There is Existentialism which believes that through intellect, one can harness the control over one’s future at the cost of the responsibilities that comes with freedom and acceptance of self-honesty. Then there is Zen, the Eastern way. It is similar to Existentialism in a way that we are free to forge our own paths and that we must take responsibility for it. However, instead of intellect, it uses another source of knowledge. Something instantaneous, like instinct. It is not instinct though, it is easy to use our instinct. Instinct is automatic. When the Instinct is hungry, the body makes a sound and it tells us. When it is sad, we feel sad. When it feels a sensation, the body goes through automatic processes in the nervous system to signal us about the sensation. Intellect can also be easily used. We just think. We are in an intellect-dominated society. Through conditioning and knowledge, we 23

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are shaped to use our intellect more. Be less emotional in decisions, use hard evidence in reasoning, use only facts in rationalizations.

When the instinct is hungry, the intellect decides whether to satisfy the hunger or not based on factors such as diet, money, time, etc. In our everyday lives, we seem to notice that we use our intellect a lot.

Reflect on your daily routines. For example, what made you decide to start reading these texts? Was it out of pure emotion or instinct? Was it out of your intellect which tells you that you must read this text for whatever reasons? What keeps you from putting everything down late in the evening so that you may enjoy a good night’s sleep? In that scenario, it is your instinct that tells you that you are sleepy, while it is your mind which tells you that you must suppress that sleepiness for whatever reason or requirements that you must remain committed to. In our modern society, it is the intellect that drives us. Majority of our decisions, we make based on our mind. We must save money, so I will not eat. We must finish all my requirements, so I will deny my body any form of sleep. We must choose a course that will make us rich in the future, therefore I will suppress my passions in life.

The intellect-dominated society has told us to suppress the instinct and develop the intellect. However, should instinct be suppressed in the first place? Suppression creates manifestations.

Recall what instinct is again. It is emotions, it is sensations, it is automatic bodily functions. Why should we suppress something that is natural for us human beings? When we feel sad, it is natural for us to respond in ways that express sadness. When we are angry, we feel angry. When we are happy, we feel happy. While the realm of the intellect has no say in deciding whether automatic bodily functions should stop or not, we still suppress our emotions and our sensations.

Here comes Existentialism belittling instinct, dominating emotions into submission, messing up our bodily processes by denying food to the hungry instinct. Zen, however, does no such things to instinct.

Zen actually raises instinct up. Zen proclaims, “Can you not see how great and amazing instinct is?�

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Instinct does not have to go through a long thought process or make decisions on whether or not the body is hungry. If it is hungry, it is hungry. If it is sad, it is sad. It is not like intellect who, when a drop of sadness starts to form, goes to the body and says, “no, you must not be sad for whatever factors or reasons”. Does this mean that this is a free pass to act on whatever our desires and emotions are? No. There is a difference between feeling or expressing emotions and acting out of emotions. Zen is not like that. Zen praises the instinct since it does not have to decide what it wants, it simply is. Existentialism refutes back, “Through intellect, you can have decisions, you can decide for whatever you want to do in your life. Do you want to be someone who is controlled by their emotions and sensations, or do you want freedom?” To which Zen replies, “Are you sure that the freedom to choose means that you are truly free?”

Many people may say that to have freedom is to have the freedom of choice. However, Zen states that in choice, you are still imprisoned by the decisions. You are not truly free since you are barred by these decisions that you have to make. You are closed off with your options when in reality, the future is open. Anything can happen, yet the illusion of the freedom of choice imprisons us to the options that we limit ourselves with. In Zen, you do not have to decide, you simply know. What is a source of knowledge that needs to think and decide to know something, compared to a source of knowledge that simply knows in an instant? This source of knowledge? Intuition.

Intuition, or the “gut-feeling”, is the source of knowledge that wants you to forget about knowledge. Forget about what you know. You should know nothing. In knowing nothing, you experience everything all over again. When you find the humility to let go of your knowledge and conditioning, you will experience everything this world has to offer with great fascination and innocence. Through intuition, there is greater sensitivity to the world. That is why those who harness intuition simply know. There is no decision to be made.

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They simply know. Who are these people then who seem to have harnessed a heightened source of knowing? Mainly Zen masters or Zen Buddhists. The whole concept of intuition is that, similar to the other bodily functions and instinct, the mind is natural. The mind is designed to deal with complicated tasks and problems. However, through conditioning of the mind by the intellect-dominated society, the mind becomes desensitized. Therefore, in letting go of our knowledge, and through the eyes of innocence and fascination towards the world, our minds become sensitive once again. How do we achieve this? I don’t know.

Intuition is a difficult concept to grasp due to our intellectcondition minds. We rely so much on the logical, the evidence, the rational, that intuition may seem like something that is supernatural.

It does seem that way knowing that Zen states that intuition is always right. How is this possible? What explanation can Zen provide to say that intuition is never wrong? Those questions are created by our logical intellect. Zen will say that if we keep looking for something, it will stray further from us. Intuition cannot be achieved through thought. It is through silence and stillness, innocence and sensitivity to the world. It is through the innocent child-like eyes wherein intuition will come to us.

In seeing the world with through a child’s eyes, we also anticipate the future with fascination and great sensitivity. While Existentialism sees the future as something we can control, Zen considers the factor that the future is not entirely in our hands. It considers the problem of facts being high possibilities instead of absolute occurrences. In doing so, the future, for Zen, is open.

Anything can happen; therefore, we must accept the future with an open mind. We must not expect the future to go our way. In planning for the future, we destroy the different possibilities of an open future.

It is truly unknown, and Zen accepts and embraces it. Zen knows even though it faces the unknown. Yet being open does not only apply to the future.

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Earlier on, it would seem like I am degrading instinct sinceit is pure emotion and no intellect. Later on, I suddenly change and praise instinct and intuition while seemingly making Existentialism and intellect the enemy. That is what happens when we see through lens. In society, we put on different lenses to view the world. We may say something that is good now can be bad later. That is part of our human bias. It is our subjectivity. When it is established that we should be open to the change of facts, what more something that is subjective. In Zen, there are no lenses. Zen sees people for who they truly are. Zen sees the world for what it truly is. Existentialism can be used for good when we make beautiful realizations of ourselves and our lives, or it can be bad when we abuse its philosophy and beliefs.

The same thing can be said for anything else. Zen does not color the world through black or white or even gray. It sees the world as the whole spectrum of colors.

These concepts of Zen can all sound supernatural while requiring us to leave our comfortable lives to attain such concepts.

This is because it is beyond what our logical minds can conceptualize.

It should not even be thought of at all, it must only be done. So, does that mean that since we are conditioned by this intellect-dominated society, we are at the wrong path to intuition? Zen says that the fact that we use our intellect means that we are in the right path. While intellect may seem like it is looked down upon by Zen since it suppresses instinct, the intellect, to Zen, is actually a bridge. It is what connects our instinct from intuition. We are in the right path, but it is our choice whether we choose to stay on the bridge, or to further explore the realm beyond the logical, beyond the scientific, beyond the intellect.

It may all seem like to achieve intuition means to be enlightened.

However, to be Zen does not mean to be a monk. One of the concepts of Zen is that we are all one as a whole. While Existentialism values self-honesty, Zen values the concept of mindfulness. This is why intellect is the bridge to intuition. After we have realized who we truly are as a whole person through self-honesty, we must now realize that 27

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we are not alone and that we do not own ourselves fully. In Zen, the concept of mindfulness means to realize that everything is connected and balanced. We are all part of one community. Therefore, we must be mindful with our own actions. We do not only do our actions for ourselves or for our family or for our friends. We do it for the wellbeing of all, or the whole, since we are all part of the one whole. One can say that a piece of trash on the street is just tiny. Another one can say the same. Then another one. Then that one becomes many. Then that one piece of trash becomes many pieces as well. As one, it does not do much harm. As a group, it clogs drainage systems, destroys the environment, spreads diseases. One can say that one vote in the elections will not affect the outcome. That is mostly true when you see this perspective an individual. However, when you view this with a perspective of one being part of a community and that you are not the only individual who has that mindset, then a large chunk of the votes will be lost. Our whole existence is a lake, and no matter how tiny the rocks thrown in the water are, it will always form ripples.

Ultimately, Zen and Existentialism can go hand in hand in interpreting how we live our lives. These philosophies can be applied in our daily choices and small tasks and can reach all the way up to questioning the meaning of life. The overall purpose of this essay is not to be used as a guide on how to live your life, but for it to be a reflection and a realization of what life has to offer that is beyond our usual perception of it. Ultimately, who am I to say how you use this essay in your life. It is for you to decide what to do with insights that you may or may not have acquired. It is you who decides what to do with your life. Ultimately, you alone will not be the sole stakeholder of your decisions and actions. We are all part of the same community and the same world that is all connected. Ultimately, while we are one within ourselves, we are still part of one whole.

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Profanity FRANCIS D’ANGELO MINA paglalarawan ni Kyle Noel Ibarra

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What about the rain?”

“What about it?”

“Do you think it will end?”

Then, with a prayer, an upward glance: “Sometime, child.”

The moon had long risen and the sweltering heat of the night, along with that of the gaslights, melted skins. The other bamboo huts were lifeless, thanks to the unhelpful sea breeze, as some of the victims preferred to stay outside and lie outside to wait for a cooler wind. The boats the Foragers used were docked afloat, empty. Over this cloudless night blanketing a dying earth, there was no sound, and the waves merely murmured.

“You’ve been reprimanded by your father again, haven’t you?”

Atiban asked, rubbing her eyes.

Abal nodded, eyes downcast. “He says I have been getting unruly and disobedient.”

The older woman scoffed. “It is a good thing he has not hit you. He thinks he has the gall to order people around, more so his own daughter.”

“He is the chief, after all.”

“Yes, but that’s beside the point. It’s those people surrounding him, feeding him rumors,” she retorted.

“You think? Even your fellow Witness?”

“Yes. Isaya has a whole conclave of acolytes that do her bidding,” Atiban said. “And not just them-you still have Awalan and Anap sticking their tongues out at you. What a bad bunch.”

“But Papa won’t get me! And even if he did, that old fart would turn the village against me.” She crossed her arms.

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“The silken voice showed me everything and I tried to warn them, yet they wouldn’t listen.”

Atiban did not reply, instead, she inspected her granddaughter.

A few more summers, and she’ll be a fine, headstrong woman. Maybe a few fingers taller, and lesser suitors. But first, this business of storms.

“Those people will humiliate me again. They’ll prove me wrong,” Abal ranted on. That incident seven days ago, the one with the dream of an expanding sea and a whole lot of accusations from self-proclaimed blessed men – “Blasphemer!” and wise women – “Infidel!” left the girl in tears.

“I believe in you, child, I still do,” Atiban comforted, patting the girl’s head. “It’s surprising you aren’t insane yet. I am convinced the gods are telling you something. These visions, these signs, they may be important. They may be giving you a glimpse of our future.”

“Why?”

“They see you as a potential messenger. You, a descendant of the First Ones, were chosen!” Abal could see the elder’s features clearly–she was grinning! Her brown, prune-like face was scrunched up with amusement, her scar on the left cheek reddening of grim.

“Everyone is a descendant of the First Ones. Why didn’t the gods choose them?”

Atiban chuckled. “More than two hundred and fifty people here, and you were picked. There are others from the far-flung villages, hidden in the mountains and the islands… Apangyari and his fellows work in mysterious ways.”

“I do not want this, grandmother. This is too much for me.”

She presented herself with dismay. “How can this girl be of any use to the gods, or to the people? Am I only a pawn? How did it come to this?”

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“To be honest, I don’t know!” Atiban said enthusiastically.

“Let’s go to the hills tomorrow and find out together.”

Abal raised her eyebrows. “How can you come with me?

You are old, and the way is perilous. It will be hot. You might strain yourself!”

“Girl, I’ve been climbing those hills way before you were born, and I still know them by heart and by bone.” Atiban’s eyes were renewed with vigor and excitement. “There is no way you can stop me, child.” Her sudden playfulness surprised the girl.

“If you say so. I won’t be responsible for your injuries,” she grumbled, yawning. “I may leave you for dead.”

“Then you have done the world a service,” Atiban followed, and embarked on a long rant on how a rotting relic like her could contribute to the village. She then drifted on different scenes of her fiery past–this one about exotic seas and angry, gun-wielding fishermen. Having heard it all before, her grandmother’s droning voice hushed Abal to slumber, slow and sure.

It’s the same routine every night for the past year: the voice like silken fire thundering over a lower sky, the mass of dark clouds convening above an agitated sea, the waves roaring and the rain raging, pounding on and on like drums, no sight of land, only floating people, sinking boats, repentance, and on her lips, cold rain.

“Since we are here, we might as well pay our respects,” Abal said, kneeling near the marker sticking out of the ground. Etched on the wood was the word “Ingni”, and a short prayer to Mataya, gatekeeper of Down Below. She laid down a beaded bracelet made from canned fish bones, a reminder of Mama’s Forager life.

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“I hoped you had given a better excuse,” her grandmother whined, wiping her forehead with a dirtied cloth. The sun had folded its arms wide open, and the heaviness of the dry spell was taking its toll. She fished out the waterskin from Abal’s sack and took a few sips.

A quick look at the formations, then: “It would be a longer walk.”

“I got careless, alright? Papa interrogated me before I could leave, and Isaya too. It was the best I could come up with.” Abal stood and looked around for any sight of Papa or his guards, but all she saw was a wide patch of dried grass filled with graves. North to south the buried were lined, scattered with unremembered white bones.

“What did she say?”

“You need to stop those devils from twisting your mind, or you will bring harm to yourself and the village,” Abal said, pitching her voice higher to mimic Isaya’s.

The elder smirked, yet her movements became agitated.

“Come on, we have done enough.” She hurried on, Abal following her tail.

Two hours later, they had passed an emerging, sweeping field, Atiban stopped in her tracks, and her exhausted panting became heavier. “I told you not to come. You need a break,” Abal chided, rubbing her grandmother’s backside. Her raggedy dress was sweaty and smelling.

“Don’t mind me, child,” Atiban looked at her and smiled, “it’s these places; they are bringing me back.”

She pointed back at the plains and muttered, “I remember when my legs were agile and strong. My parents and I, we used to run across that. People like us, northerners, we ran alongside each other.

There were a few trees in those parts before, so we knew where we could catch our breaths. But we never did. We ran and ran, until some of us whose legs gave up gave in to the fire, and it was everywhere.”

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When they started climbing, the old woman could not keep her mouth shut. Moment upon moment of her wild yesteryears she recounted, from the night she and her family escaped the peopleeaters in the caverns to the day young Agata was raided by chariotriding scavengers. Atiban trudged on quickly, never pausing for the changing air. Abal did not listen – “Those are nothing new to me,” she said to herself, instead, she scanned the views.

The Ikat hills crept slowly to the wide plains, from the higher, rugged mountain ranges of the east, cut off from the other sea. They were known to be lush and full of greenery, where the trees grew tall and strong, and birdsong came ringing from the bright leaves. The highest hill, Akit, was the home of an ancient tree that, for some reason, had survived storm and fire, and whose roots extended to the abyss of the youthful earth. The ancestors revered it as a source of power, and they harnessed it to perform miracles and travel to places beyond the extensions of reality. The hills were a holy place, and thus it was preserved for generations.

At least, that’s what grandmother said. There came a time that the ancestors, in their pride, forgot the many uses of that tree. The drought had affected the hills severely, and there were a few forest fires a couple of years back, but before that, they were neglected and abused by those who did not understand the power. Atiban had not been around by then, and certainly not Abal, and it was beginning to dawn that the accounts had truth. Today, the hills were bald and dotted with stumps, and no hint of green, save for tufts of grass, regained its former beauty. Legends of people disappearing and encountering the specters of the First Ones spread across the village.

Only the ancient tree remained, and its name was forgotten, and it was dying. The hills were a cursed place, and thus it was avoided for generations.

The stumps increased in number. They were halfway to the summit, and from there a respectable horizon of the beaches and the cliffs near Agata, and the sea in midday rest. Atiban halted her 34

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storytelling. A few steps later was the destination: a plot of short grass sown with jagged stones and scrap metal, and near the edge, a sick, ancient tree loomed. The girl walked closer and held her hand against it. “Older,” she inferred. The brittle bark was a common brown, and different phrases and figures were scrawled in a dead language. Its branches bore no fruit nor leaf. A summoning. “Misfortune and ill will.”

“Yes, that is tragic–” But the voice that spoke was not Atiban’s – Abal’s attention was diverted from the foggy years to the direction of a wet wind, behind the tree, behind the hills, reaching far and closer and closer to the forsaken mountains, as if a mirage: dilapidated concrete spires that tore the sky protruding from a gray desolation, the gale threatening to topple columnated ruins on each other. Decaying structures of different colors and sizes, probably homes and workplaces, came close to crumbling. Roads were blocked and destroyed by the wreckage, and giant, torn illustrations were written with that peculiar script, showing the likenesses of men and women in their unusual white skin. In between the havoc, a hazy river snaked.

“How it stank,” the voice spoke in its (it was somewhat male) polished tone. “For two years, this once beautiful, progressive place reeked of death. Your grandmother should know.” Abal turned to Atiban, but no one was there, realizing that her eyes had been closed the entire them and fell into a stupor, vision filled with shifting, radical colors.

He carried on. He wasn’t there, but he was. “The First One built that city. They were wealthy, and they fashioned marvels and wonders you and I have never imagined. What they did with their creations brought them beyond. It is a shame. That city had a name, yet it is forgotten, as well as all of the names that came before it.”

Abal’s chest tightened – she took a deep breath, and everything came to faint light; the sky came swooping down on her face. “Nevertheless, they were punished. And you will be, too.” His words were close. The clouds collected, and the wind picked up its 35

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speed, nearly pushing her off the edge, and when she regained her stance, her ears burned with the howling of the phantom lights and the pitter-pattering of a shower.

“We are not finished.” The hairs on the back of her neck stood and, in the horizon, an eastern wave, cold and swift, rushed on the beaches and the village and the plains and the mountains until it consumed everything and blinded the world to darkness, and no one heard a scream. Her lips were wet, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the rain.

“Rain, rain! Repent, and you will be saved, for a showering of tears will bless this land and a promise of a new world arises.”

“Igpit, what nonsense has she been talking about?” Awalan spat. “Is this how you treat your daughter, by teaching her falsehoods?”

The chief eyed the Keeper with contempt. “No, Awalan.

This is her own doing.”

Anap.

“How could you be so mad to believe this prophecy?” queried

“I never said I believe it,” Igpit snapped at the Head Forager.

“How many times do I have to repeat myself ? Don’t place the blame on me.”

“This,” Isaya shrieked, pointing a thin finger at the girl, “is the reason why the other towns are at our heels! Heathens are flocking to the village to hear the promises of a liar.” She and her healer apprentices had assembled after Abal had stood in the center of the village and cried in a shrill, weary voice: heresy. Iyasa had to confront her fellow Witness Atiban that night, but the other found no wrong in the rambling girl. “The drought has been for years, and there is no way this girl can bring back the wet! If she had been telling the truth, we would have seen rain.”

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Igpit studied her wretch of a daughter. A mass of entangled hair, reddish eyes from the lack of sleep, torn dress, inattentive stare, sitting in the middle of the squabble. They had thrown their tirades, bawled their eyes, and one of them dragged her around by the hair, but the girl had said no complaint. Yet she heralded both the arrival of a blessing and a catastrophe, such that her following expanded in less than three months, no matter how Igpit convinced her to stop.

He peered from the hut. Them, waiting for their messiah to reveal herself. From the south they had journeyed. Trade had flourished, a market had been created, and Agata was now a bustling town of merchants and curiosities. Then, every week end, later, Abal would lead her fans to the highest hill with the ancient tree to pray and weep and fast for the afternoon. Mother would be one of them, believing and absorbing every facet of imaginary rain amidst the scorching sun. You have disciples with their faces tattooed with the prophecies, and now also going around declaring visions of deluges and apparitions of gods. Of course, the blessed ones like Isaya and her ilk were pissed that their influence on the village was sabotaged by this young upstart. They will find a way to get rid of her.

“That is enough!” Igpit shouted. “You three, stop taunting the girl. I had hoped that we would be reaching a conclusion rather than arguing like children.” The council members looked at him with spite. Her daughter only stood up and exited the hut, the crowd cheering.

“See what I mean, Igpit? Her spirit needs to be cleansed.

What sort of demons are deluding her? Apangyari help us.”

“These fantasies must stop. They are not good for Agata. One of the neighboring tribes might stage a raid, kidnap your daughter, and keep her as a trophy in exchange for our rations.”

“The Foragers do not need any more problems. Listen, if the outsiders ever take up residence here, it would be the end of us.”

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“I am aware of the consequences. Still, let us not be rash with our choices. Do not make me decide on things that we would all regret.” Igpit scratched his head. “What would you have me do? Lock her away? Set her out to sea?” Abal’s firm forecast resounded outside.

He cannot punish her.

“No. You will have no part in it,” Isaya said, nodding to the others. “Her days as a young girl are over. She has grown into a troublemaker, and she has made her decisions, and we have made ours because, it turns out, you cannot handle her. Why don’t you let us try?”

Half a thousand chanting people were plodding the dirt of the hill. The devotees from Ayo waved their dyed tapestries made from their uncontaminated farms. Morose litanies, led by a shabby zealot named Bana who held his head high in hopes of the first drops of rain fall to his lips, haunted the barren forest. Her Holiness Abal was in the front, eyes blinded (for clarity), barefoot (for familiarity), arms wide open (for completeness) to the naked sky and the harmonies, leading the procession to the summit of the hill.

Atiban stood by her granddaughter, watching her in case she trips and falls, or worse. Amazingly, the girl never misstepped, feeling her way across stone and soil. In three months, she has witnessed her transform before her very eyes, from a naïve, indecisive child to that quiet, willful woman. Atiban remembered when Abal complained and worried about her future. She never became the Forager of the Healer she knew she wanted to be, for Abal, in her bedraggled renown has never been so certain of herself. She opened her mouth only when she has received more warnings. Her hoarse voice became softer, and her eyes not present–has she really seen the beloved gods? Or is she enslaved by some spook, enthralled in their whims?

“You must love her so,” Isaya whispered in her ear. Her

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colorful robe contrasted with the tattered, sweat-stained clothes everybody else was wearing.

“She is my blood. I have never been so proud,” said Atiban, not unkindly. “You should be, too.”

“To think that Her Holiness,” she said, tongue stuck in her throat, “once tested herself in becoming a healer. She had shown promise, yes, memorizing the names of the gods and the history of the First Ones, yet failed to find the gates to Spiritual Plane. Now, she has ascended way above her station.”

“I agree, friend, yet you should not accuse her of devilry just because she has exceeded you,” Atiban bit back. The other woman did not reply, instead shoving people to get forward.

The singing horde had arrived and formed a circle on the summit–the unfortunate ones were left behind on the road, unable to see the afternoon spectacle. Some of them had never seen a tree, so their eyes were glued on the woman caressing its trunk. Once she had stopped and taken center place, Bana gestured for the crowd to calm down. Abal sat motionless on a space of rock and rust, breathing heavily. The worshippers observed her and decided to hold hands and make offerings to the silence.

The crowd jumped back in shock as Abal removed her blinds and stood high, tears flowing down her cheeks, shouting: “The Last Storm is coming. Repent, or you will be damned. The gods are coming.

Repent, and you will be saved. The Last Storm is coming.”

“Witch!” cried a familiar voice from the rejoicing.

“You traitor, you devil-lover! You lie!” roared another one.

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“Blasphemy!” hollered a third.

A large thud, then a loud groan; Atiban looked around for

Profanity

the hecklers, but more of those irritated voices piped up, and the crowd broke apart. “Abal!” She scrambled for her granddaughter as the throng rushed away from the chaos hurting, a few protecting Her Holiness, their faces bloodied, others plunging from the height, bang! bang! They were so many, she had to push herself through to see the girl being pelted with rocks the size of fists.

“Abal! Abal!”

No further please. The insults and the stones flew and fell all over her, throbbing and burning, slowing to numbness. Her sticky hands struggled to steady herself, but a rock had hit her below the nose. The shouting proceeded: sacrilege! Impiety! Profanity! Those people who had fired their guns to shield her collapsed too, bless their souls, my, my, Apangyari, what have I done?

Outwards, the sun dimmed, yet it was barely dusk. Atiban, grandmother Atiban, I am sorry. A puddle had formed. Papa forgive me.

“But they are not finished,” she whispered roughly. A heavy rumbling came from above, and a blind light charged on the sky and left a red, then a black stillness. Her lips were wet, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the rain.

A drop of water fell on Atiban’s head. She looked up, head weighty, still clutching the girl’s hands. Dark clouds had amassed, and impending steps, like the dropping of small beads, drenched the passing world, wafting the height with a new scent.

“Rain, rain! O Abal, herald of favors, we give praise to you!” they celebrated, sticking out their tongues and dancing to the pitterpattering, but when they saw that broken body being cradled, their spirits dampened. Bana assisted the old woman by carrying Her Holiness’ body, lowering his voice in an unknown lament. Everyone joined in, humming to the senseless tune, all the while scuffling to

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touch a dead prophet.

Igpit tore his hair out after examining his daughter’s corpse sprawled in the middle of the village. He cursed to the darker heavens on Abal’s death, yet after seeing the waves crash and the land coming to life, he prayed and wept with his people. That night, the rain weakened to a drizzle, and the chief summoned the traitor Isaya and six of her apprentices. A trial was held, and the seven faced the firing squad and thrown out to sea.

For six days the sky mourned, and on the final day, Her Holiness Abal, harbinger of the Storm was laid to rest beside the ancient tree on the highest hill. At the same time, the old woman Atiban had disappeared. Agata prospered, for they begun preaching her words and performing miracles in her name, and the world lost its summers to the coming storm, pounding on and on.

“What about the rain?”

“What about it?”

“Do you think it will end?”

Then, with a prayer, an upward glance: “Sometime, child.”

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LUIS ANTONIO PASTORIZA

please, be brave acrylic on canvas - 36 x 48 inch

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ABIGAIL BATAN

Five Minutes For mama, my home, mauli na ako.

My mother once told me time is relative. I asked her what

she meant by that and all she said was “An akon karuyag sigdon kay ayaw na pagpilosopo.” (What I meant to say was, don’t take things literally). This was after I counted down from five after she told me to give her five seconds to fix her hair. Although despite any system she created, one remains to be an exception.

Five minutes is 300 seconds long. It is the usual snooze time of my alarm. It is approximately the length of my mother’s favorite Ambrosia song. It is the gray area and uncertainty with our measure of time.

Even in my childhood I have understood that five minutes was not actually and exactly five whole minutes. No one was checking the time or counting the seconds passing by. So I would play patintero in the streets even as the sun had already called it a day. I would hear my mother’s leveled voice calling for my name. “Uli na. Nagtitikasirom na.” (Go home. It’s starting to get dark). Five minutes, I would shout

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back as a new game ensues. By the time I finish, the sun had officially gone leaving the streets dark and my mother folding her arms and raising her eyebrows. “Sing ko ba five minutes la?” (I thought you said five minutes) I give her a smile and a hug to soften her scowl. She would let it pass time and time again. Besides, the practice seems to be a shared culture between the two of us.

I used to always end up falling asleep or doing my homework in the waiting shed of my school because of her five minutes. She had taken it upon herself to be the one to bring me to and fetch me from school ever since I had started. I always saw my classmates riding in shiny cars or with yayas waiting outside. We did not have a shiny car or a yaya. My mother would commute to me and hold my hand tight as she would teach me the mechanics and techniques of riding the multicabs. On numerous occasions she would have to grab me by my shirt as I would almost be completely dragged by a wave of people in the downtown area. Soon, she would then promise me, I would start to do this on my own. As a kid, I would only hold her hand tighter, furrow my eyebrows further, and protest to this seemingly outrageous news.

When I finally became a high schooler I had mastered the multicabs and pedicabs of my hometown. I knew how to get to almost anywhere as long as I had the money for it. At this point, it was no longer me using the telephone booth in school trying to reach my mother asking her how long it will take her to get to me. It was my mother flooding my phone with text messages asking how long it would take for me to get home. Five minutes became my default response. I always knew she got home pretty late anyways, so I always thought of it as some sort of race. As long as I got home before she does, the length of five minutes did not matter.

Most nights, I win. On other nights, I hadn’t even reached our door and I could already hear the One Eighty album of Ambrosia blasting through our old speakers. Just by hearing what song was

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playing, I could tell how screwed I am. So I would beg the universe that it was not beyond the fifth track, because if it was, I knew that when I enter she would already be setting up the table for dinner. I would pretend it was no big deal and try to keep the image of nonchalance.

During these occasions, she would ignore me but still give me a plate and some food. She would finish first and leave me on the table, but still wash all the dishes. When I hug her and kiss her cheek, her voice is soft but cold as the December air when she tells me, “mationan-o ba kaiha it imo five minutes?” (how long is your five minutes?). I would only hug her tighter and slip my apology in her hands as I tried to take the dirty dishes and wash them myself. She would just look me in the eyes with her eyebrows raised as if to say, just this one time I would let it pass. But it worked everytime.

By the time I graduated high school, I got a scholarship in a prestigious university in Manila. This meant I only got to go home and see my mother after every few months. This meant phone calls became the primary form of communication between us. At first, I had thought we built a routine. Around 10 PM, she would call. I would answer. And for the first few weeks, I would cry. In her tired voice, I can hear her comforting smile. She always assured me of my ability to adapt. It was a humble brag on her part to proclaim my capability in building my own spine from scratch, because she was the one who taught me how. Then there were times silence was the conversation that took place. There would be a sigh or a deep exhale that would be heard every now and then. This distance meant words were our main source of communicating. I could not form my arms into an apology around her. She could not make her hands reach me to absorb all my saltwater. We were never really good with words. So we let the quiet do the talking, and occasionally, the faint tune of an Ambrosia song from her end. This only meant she had been crying.

As time went by, my mother was right. I have grown a new spine—one that allowed me to live the college life I had wanted. This came at the expense of our phone calls. There was always something

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to do, and I was always chasing something new. I have found friends I can talk to and cry with in for all of my struggles that I no longer needed to call my mother every time it gets difficult. Soon my recent contacts shift. New names find themselves on the top. Meanwhile, my mother holds the record of missed calls. I would always text her saying, Sorry I was busy. She would reply asking what time she could call. Five minutes, I would reply. We both knew what this meant, but she hoped anyway.

When I finally call after days of forgetting to, she answers with a voice like a howling wind in a hurricane, kaiha ba hin imo five minutes (Your five minutes takes so long). My apologies have become a broken record of excuses, but my mother listens to them like they are a favorite song she hasn’t heard in a long time. These days, the phone calls were shorter. There wasn’t much to say, so we have resorted to talking about the weather.

“Makusog na it hangin kahuman hin kapira nga adlaw na mapaso,” (There’s finally strong winds after days of really hot weather) my mother says in a tired voice. I don’t realize it but I end up replying in silence, so she adds, “dida ba?” (how about there?) I don’t know how to tell my mother that I am exhausted from an all-nighter and already in my bed at 10 in the morning. I know she will just tell me to get some rest and end the call. “Oo...” I finally reply. Then, a silence, which I can tell is just her nodding. Ending the call would have been just fine if only this isn’t the first time in three days that I had not missed her call. “Makadto ka kanda tita Maricar, ma?” (Are you going to Tita Maricar’s?)

“Bangin diri na...” (Probably not...)

“Kay?”(Why?)

“Kay pirmi nala ako nakadto, human diri man kinanglan.”

(Because I go there every time, but then it turns out I didn’t even have to.)

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“Siring baya ha news makusog kuno hin duro ini nga bagyo.”

(But it said in the news the this typhoon is really strong.)

“Ay sus, pirmi man ito ginsisiring ha news. May-ada bagyo, ano pa’t bag-o?” (That’s always said in the news. So there’s a typhoon, what’s new?)

“Ma... Mag-usa ka la baya dida.” (But you’re all alone there.)

“Ikaw man gihap. Ayaw na pag-alala. Kaya ko na ini. Ha 50 na ka-tuig na akon kinabuhi kadamo na’t bagyo akon naeksperyensyahan, adi pa man ako.” (You are too. Stop worrying. I can do this. In my 50 years of existence, I have experienced numerous typhoons, and yet here I still am). I sigh and resign myself from her stubbornness. I am too exhausted to go in circles, which I can tell was the direction this conversation was going. Besides, I believed her somehow. I always do.

It’s like the moment in the airplane when there’s turbulence, and the passenger besides me starts to panic, and I think I should as well, but I just simply cannot. I have always ridden the plane alone and every single time, even through storms, I always get home safely. So despite myself, I just believe my mother and have unwithering faith that she’ll be okay because she can do anything. At least that’s what she’s made me believe since I was young. So I give in to my exhaustion and close my eyes. Just to rest them from staring at my laptop screen for hours.

“Asya ito, ikaw gihap mag-ingat. May-ada ka ba dida pagkaon ha imo dorm? Nagpalit ka hin mga gamot? Bangin diri ka nanaman prepared.

Ambot nala kun ma-ano ka dida...” (That’s why, you should also take care. Do you have food in your dorm? Have you bought medicines?

You might not even be prepared. I swear, if something happens to you I don’t know...) And as mothers go, she went on. She taught me to never worry about her but she wears her worry for me like a badge.

I muttered my mmhmms or whatever resembles an agreement despite the fact that her words are slipping through my mind like raindrops crawling through the skin. And slowly I drift off...

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Five Minutes

I only realized I have fallen asleep the moment I wake up.

Even then, it takes a moment before I could even remember what was happening before. I guess I expected sunlight to greet me once I have woken up. But instead, I was greeted with confusion and the absence of any sort of sense of time. I simply came to the conclusion that it must have been night with all the darkness that hung, to which I realized that my mother must have been upset when I just stopped responding. I wonder then if my mother must have been worried with all the typhoon going on and absolutely no word from me. So almost instantly after that realization I am overcome with worry as I scramble through my bed looking for my phone that I must have dropped somewhere. When I check my phone, I see that she hasn’t tried calling me in the past few hours. Relief almost takes over, but then I hear the ghostly wind from the hurricane and realize how I only thought of how she would have worried about me but not how she was in this storm. So I dial her number right away and wait for it to ring. It takes a while, but I reckon the storm must be contributing to the bad signal.

This is normal, I tell myself. She told me not to worry, but—

The subscriber, my mother, rarely misses my calls. But she promised she would be okay and I know how she hates being wrong.

So you know what she just probably cannot be bothered at the moment. Or maybe she finally got tired of waiting because I haven’t really reached out. It’s probably not as bad as it may seem. Please let this be some form of cruel joke to get back at me. It’s going to ring eventually, and she will answer. I’ll just have to give it a little more time before I try again. Everything is fine... She will laugh at me later and tell me she got me. Everything is fine, I tell myself out loud to compete with the restless beat of my heart.

I needed a distraction, I thought. Just something to calm myself down and get my mind of things before I go overdrive. So I turn on the wi-fi on my phone, and soon enough, my phone kept buzzing. Messages from concerned friends filled my inbox. I checked all my social media accounts, and it’s filled with news reports. I could

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see my hometown repeatedly plastered on every headline, both local and international. It was accompanied by the words “Typhoon Yolanda” or “Typhoon Haiyan”. I was not sure whether to be amazed or distraught. So I laughed. I wasn’t sure why. I wasn’t exactly happy.

But I guessed it was funny actually. Before, when people asked me where I was from, my answer was always met with lost and confused expressions. “Sa Bicol ba yan?” I was asked more than once. But then... Who knew a disaster would be what would make my hometown known?

I caught up and read through what had transpired within five hours of the calamity, but the words just floated in my head. There were so many numbers and terms that I could not process, but what I knew Yolanda was, beyond technicalities, science, statistics, and whatnot, was a visitor my hometown will never forget. She has made it famous and remembered, but for reasons a lot of us would like to forget. She may have been horrendous, but the aftermath was vicious.

When she finally left, I could not call my mother. For days, all I could hear from the other end is a monotonous voice telling me to try again later. For days, I kept my connection with my mother by watching the news, even though I no longer watched TV. I imagined maybe while they flash scenes of the tragedy of this super typhoon, I would see my mother and know she is alive. I imagined maybe a reporter will approach this woman who is distraught for having her only home destroyed, but what matters is that she is still alive. This woman will call out to me and tell me not to worry because she survived. But being my mother, she will only smile through the screen hoping that can substitute for assurance. So I subscribed to news channels and their social media sites. I pretended the headlines were her greetings, and the articles were her answer to how it’s been.

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“Kamusta ka man, ma?”

Five Minutes

— Mental health, infections main concerns in Tacloban City—

“Kadugay na kita diri ma-contact...”

(I couldn’t contact you for a while...)

— Smart, Globe services in VisMin ‘interrupted’—

“Kumaon ka na?” (Have you eaten?)

— Nearly 50,000 victims in Tacloban receive food aid—

“Kay-ano ini naghitabo? Sing ko ba kaya nimo?”

(What happened? I thought you said you’ll be okay?)

— ’Storm surge’ not explained enough – PAGASA official—

“San-o man kita matatawagan?” (When can I call you?)

— Globe, Smart: 2-3 days to restore services—

“Waray man gihap...” (But I still can’t...)

— NTC: Cellphone signals to be fully restored in Yolanda-hit areas by end of January—

“Ma...”

— Typhoon Haiyan leaves 1,774 dead, ‘hideous’ destruction—

“Mauli pa ako ha December.”

(I’m still going home on December.)

— Yolanda death toll 4,011 but hundreds not in tally—

“Sorry na...”

— ’10,000’ feared dead in Leyte – police—

“Mauli na ako. Kikitaon na kita, ha?”

(I’m going home. I’ll see you, okay?)

— Burial of Yolanda casualties must wait – health official—

“Ginmimingaw ako ha imo...” (I miss you...)

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It took a week before a call was answered. For a moment, I felt the entire world go quiet. I could only hear myself exhale when I heard it ring as if I have been holding my breath the entire week. With all that time waiting, I have prepared myself for the worst of news, and hoped for the best possible outcome. I wasn’t ready for the in between, but in the 1 minute and 21 seconds of that phone call I had to be. I was told she was in critical condition, but they’re still waiting for help. In the moments after the call got cut off, I found myself praying to a God I had forgotten. Five minutes more, I whispered to heaven knows where.

Five minutes is how long it takes for my mother to finish her coffee. It’s how long it takes her to decide on her order but still end up with her usual. It’s how long it takes her to laugh and get over lame jokes. But it’s also how long before she gets the joke. It’s how long she can actually stay mad at me, and how long it takes me to apologize. It’s how long she hugged me at the airport while she was clearly trying not to cry. It’s how long her favorite Ambrosia song is.

My mother’s favorite Ambrosia song is Biggest Part of Me. This is the last track in the One Eighty album that my mother plays every morning. It is the only song in that abum that reaches 5 minutes.

I would always wake up to her drinking coffee as this is already playing in the background. She is always done with the chores and already eight songs ahead of me. Once, she told me this is her song for me.

I only laughed in response. So she played the song and lipsynced the chorus. I only shook my head and rolled my eyes, because it was a love song. She told me to listen more carefully to the lyrics, but I only thought it weird to dedicate a love song to your daughter. So she told me about how this used to be the only song that kept me from crying at night. This was my lullaby. When the song finally ended, she told me how this was her lullaby too. She told me that this is what kept her going on the toughest of nights when she thought of giving me up. I never could quite match my mother’s sentimentality, so when the song ended I was already rushing to leave for school and told her to tell me the rest of the story later. But I never really found out the rest of 53

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the story. All she got out was a joke of how the chorus goes, “Make a wish, baby, and I will make it come true” which she found fitting because I was a literal baby then, and no matter what I asked for, she provided. But knowing her, she still meant it ‘til now. She would do anything for me to the point that it breaks my heart sometimes, because I feel like I can never reciprocate. So I tried not asking for much while growing up.

But if I could still make one more wish from her, I would ask just five more minutes. I would wake up and hear that song playing.

And when I exit my room, there she is perfectly fine sitting with one leg up while reading through the horoscope section of the newspaper and drinking coffee. I will sit beside her in silence and let the song wash over me. And when the song ends, I would play it again and put it on loop. I will not let this five minutes end. And when she starts telling me her stories I would let her go on, even when she repeats herself. When she sings out of tune, I will sing with her. When she has nothing left to say, I will hug her and not be the first to let go.

And when she asks, “Naaano ka man?” (What’s wrong?) I will tell her, “Five minutes.” All this will happen as her favorite song plays over and over and over and over and over...

Got a feeling that forever We are gonna stay together From now until forever You’re the biggest part of me You’re the life that breathes in me—

I had been so entranced with this wishful thinking that I almost forgot this was the ringtone I assigned my mother’s number. So in an instant— “Hello? Ma?”

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ISABELLA ALEXANDRA BERNAL

Habulan para kay Lola Beth

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ALLAN POPA

Apostropiya Munting mariposa na naligaw sa bintanang minsan na lang buksan, hindi ko na alam kung paano kita kakausapin na dating kay dali.

Paano pa muling paniniwalaan ang sarili sa tinig ng batang kinakausap ang sarili sa ilalim ng mga sanggalang na unan upang tumahan.

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ADRIAN NEIL HOLGADO

Kumot Tumindi ang hangin; tumindig ang balahibo.

Nanunuot na ang lamig mula sa kadiliman ng silid Sa pagpikit ng aking mga mata, naramdaman ko na ang mga nagmamasid, palapit lang sila nang palapit, tila pilit na ako’y nagpalit ng aking posisyon nang hindi ko namalayan ang paglagpas ng kamay sa isang sulok ng kama. kanila’y agad itong minamataan sinundan ng sugod ng lamig

parang may nakahandang magdakma’t manghila mula sa itong pagkalaylay sinagip ko kaagad

gamit ng kumot

pabalik sa kama ang aking kamay

at sa gulat ay

namulat ako sa kadiliman ng silid at lamig na nanunuot.

Tumindi muli ang hangin, tumindig muli ang balahibo.

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BEA MIRA SO

Wick Within digital art

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QUERIX KEERSHYNE RECALDE

Flay

Add. One. Add. Five. Add. Ten steps. Applying layers upon

layers of products, trying to cover every fraction of ugliness that the reflection looking back at her possesses. It doesn’t work. The ugly multiplies and becomes clearer as she blinks. Proud. Glaring. The mirror has her undivided attention while she formulates a solution to her problem.

After retrieving her tool of choice, following the ghost trails of her surfacing wrinkles—peel—connecting the dots of her acne and beauty mark constellations—peel—her huge open pores ready to swallow her whole—peel—scars that reminds her of past wounds— peel—again—peel—and again—peel. No, it did not hurt. Nevermind the crimson liquid and the slight sting. One by one, all the unpleasant parts are subtracted. She doesn’t stop there, it’s uneven, she peels some more, she peels it all. All her facial skin now removed, only plump red flesh on display. New. Better. A smile crept up her face as she thought—beautiful.

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JAMIE INSERT SHEKINAH ARTIST’S NAME MAPA

Insert Pagbunyag Title Here watercolor medium and /gouache other info on paper

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CLAIRE MADISON CHUA

The Wind-Up Ballerina “Today was the day.

The ballerina felt jittery, Wound almost a bit too tight— But give me this moment, she whispered, To dance; to make you love me.”

First footfall on hardwood, And a single tap echoes across the stage.

Bending, breathing, readying, I leap.

Free, my arched prance Sends me bounds across, I cover the distance with my shadow Blurred gray under the spotlight.

I hit the ground, but do not dwindle I spin, move, keep moving, Arms like ribbons fluttering around me I will not be still.

Legs turn, hips twist, A hurricane at full force in motion Before limbs slow, careful, then all at once Frozen

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Poised with one foot in the air And one grounded to the stage; Head raised to countless others in front of me.

Seconds pass in quiet awe until: Cheers and applause boom in full force.

I beam, basking in the high of their praise, They love me, they love me, they really do— —then curtain falls. Then silence.

Wait— “But she was already painted porcelain, Suspended with hand outstretched To the world that only loved her As long as the key kept turning.”

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KYLE NOEL IBARRA

Sari-sariling Mundo 63

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NINIAN PATRICK SAYOC

Afterthoughts After Afterthoughts Ilustrations by Armando Miguel Valdes

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At the breakfast table, and again I watch my little brother throw a paper airplane and it takes flight… maybe I’ll board a real one that would break above the clouds,

then maybe I could transfer to a spaceship that would venture even higher until I’d be looking out from the International Space Station (ISS):

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an astronaut out there in the coldness of space, with all the silence the world could never contain Malate Literary Folio

and I’d even have a miniature version of Earth all to myself, within reach, that I could slice

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—then the paper airplane cuts across my face—

like this mango on the table: I cut one into pieces and its scent wafts and lingers, that Bilang maybe I should Tomo XXXV 2 just settle down and enroll in some planned ‘mango school’ in an island;

maybe it doesn’t sound so great compared to a news feature about a space capsule bringing me back from the ISS after a months-long mission,

anyway, I’ve always been afraid of heights and gravity and silence and suits and crashing…

but again, the paper airplane doesn’t land smoothly.

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BEATRICE JULIA TRIÑANES

Pagbuhos, Pagtila at Pagbuhos Muli Hindi ko pa nararanasang magtampisaw sa ulan. Noong

bata pa ako’y talaga namang kinatatakutan ang kulog at kidlat. Kinaiinis ang mga mantsa ng putik sa puting medyas, at hinihintay na muling sumilip ang araw upang matuyo na muli ang mga kalsada. Tila isang balakid ang pagbuhos nito.

Ngayon pa lamang ako natututong harapin ang biglaang pagdilim ng mga ulap. Ang mga patak ay nagsisilbling paalala na ito’y parte lamang ng isang siklo – na ito’y titila rin. Grasya, at hindi balakid.

Ang muling pagdating nito’y sasalubungin nang may galak.

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69

Insert Title Here

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71

Pagbuhos, Pagtila at Pagbuhos Muli

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73

Insert Title Here

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CHRISTINE AUTOR

Gumamela Nanumbalik ang sigla ng Gumamela matapos maubos ang kanyang mga talulot;

ang mga ito’y mistulang dinadaluyan ng dugo sa tingkad ng kanilang pagkapula, pinalitan ang dating maputla.

Marahan siyang umusbong ngunit marilag nang muling namukadkad mula sa sandaliang pahinga.

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PASASALAMAT Nais pasasalamatan ng Malate Literary Folio ang mga sumusunod-mga kaibigan, kapwa manunulat, at mga mangingibig ng sining.

Dr. Mesandel Arguelles, at Mr. Vijae Alquisola; Mr. David Leaño, Ms. Jeanne Tan, Mrs. Ma. Manuela S. Agdeppa, at ang Student Media Office; Ms. Dinah Roma at ang Department of Literature; Dr. Ernesto Carandang II at ang Departamento ng Filipino; ang Bienvenido Santos Creative Writing Center; College Editors Guild of the Philippines; Mr. Joey Baquiran, Ms. Chingbee Cruz, Mr. Allan Derain, at Ms. Rosa May Bayuga para sa pag-gabay sa Malate Writers’ Workshop; Ms. Christine Chung, Ms. Jel Suarez, Mr. Kevin Roque, at Ms. Dennese Victoria para sa pag-gabay sa Art and Photo Camp; Ms. Clarissa Villasin Militante sa pagbahagi ng kasaysayan ng Malate; Ms. Nelca Leila Villarin at ang Office of Student Affairs; Dr. Lily Ann Cabuling at ang Health Services Office (Taft); DLSU Bookstore; DLSU Student Co-Operative (SCOOP); Council of Student Organizations (CSO); Office of the Legal Counsel; Finance and Accounting Office; Security Office; Mr. Michael Millanes at ang Student Discipline Formation Office; Ang Pahayagang Plaridel, Archers Network, Green Giant FM, Green & White, The LaSallian, at ang Student Media Council; Magicus Junctra Corporation Printing; Maraming salamat, Igoy Dimaano, sa pagmamahal na ibinibigay mo sa Malate.

At higit sa lahat, sa mga kasapi’t kaibigan na patuloy na umaalalay sa paglalago ng Malate Literary Folio.

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