Endings Of A New Kind

Mga bagay na aking haharapin sa pagdating ng bagong buwan:

---

bum sister doing nothing to find a new job.




half-brother suffering from an old and fatal illness.




family business still in peril (and on the verge of collapsing).



how to let a tiny enterprise take off.

---

Marami ang kailangan pagtuunan ng pansin at marami ang mga bagay na dapat asikasuhin. Subalit sa mga nangyayari ngayon, tila hindi ako handang maglayag sa malawak na karagatan ng buhay na aking kailangan tawirin. Sakaling ang hangin ng tadhana ay umihip kontra sa aking lupang nais marating, palaisipan kung saang dalampasigan nito ako dadalhin.

---

Photos taken from inside the Pacific Plaza Towers in Fort Bonifacio. Three weeks ago, a classmate from the Masters offered her place to have our second to the last essay writing workshop.

Describing her home as elegant is an understatement. My eyes have never cast its gaze to such wondrous opulence like what I've seen around me: Wooden carvings of Buddha from Indochina; silver dining set brought from London; fine linen draping over her rounded glass dining table and bottles and bottles of red and white wine from around the world stacked in her minibar. Never will I forget the huge forest mural clinging against the wall across from where I sat; and her state-of-the-art flat screen TV whose dimensions rival those of my double-size bed.

Lucky I am to be given such opportunity, for I know, it may never happen again.

And in times my reverie affords me a time for remembering, it will be the same memory I will keep playing over and over in my head in hopes that someday,



These still images wills me to claim them for myself.

Diwata | Dream Journals Twenty

Barely Fifteen Minutes Ago:

Me: Kuya Ed, Magandang Umaga! Busy ka? May kuwento ako sayo.

Kuya Ed: Mabuhay! Kuwento!

Me: Ewan ko kung may relation to sa kuwento mo last night pero napaniginipan kita sa gubat (doesn't remember if he was rapeling or something, but I know it was raining and thick dark clouds hover above. It must have been late afternoon) tapos for a split second may narinig ako sa background na nagcha-chant na matandang babae na never ko pa narinig ang chant. Tribal siya no doubt. Kinuwento ko sayo kasi mamaya baka mawala sa tenga ko yung part ng kanta. Kinilabutan ako.

Kuya Ed: Write what you remember! In detail. Tapos kuwento mo. Write muna!

Me: Part ng chant ng matanda eh may salitang ya'ah'weh. Paulit ulit yun bago ako nagising.

Kuya Ed: Wow Yahweh.

---

Over dinner last night at TGIF, Pastor Ed Lapiz was telling us how he was able to record using audio equipment 33 hours of T'Boli epic which no one has ever done before. He said that at first, the chanters would hesitate their performance. It took him two days before they were convinced to chant their tribal story and they never stopped after.

According to the T'Boli elders. The diwatas of the forest (which they claim were around them at that time) told the chanters that Pastor Ed "was one of them."

Pastor Ed has this advocacy of preserving oral tradition, which he fears, would be lost to the nation if he doesn't step up and collect them.





As expected, I lost the chant, which kept playing in my head just when I was about to publish this entry.

It must have been something.

Piy Margal

Floods are not uncommon in where I live. As a kid, the mere sight of roads submerged in knee-deep waters thrilled me, especially when the jeep I was riding would have to wade across its murky depths. When a heavy downpour threatened to overwhelm our house in Santa Mesa with brackish water overflowing from a nearby kanal, expect the elders at home scrambling to stack the cushions found around the sala and the kitchen on top of one another upstairs. Meanwhile, we kids would sneak out of the house on our boots or slippers to waddle and dash across the baha as its waves splashed against walls and passing people obviously upset for being hit most likely, by fecal materials floating in those waters.

Back then, we never realized how gross our activities were. And to think, I used to sail my toy boats in a flooded basketball court in our neighborhood.

Two decades later, the sight of muddy water overflowing from manholes and open canals, or cascading from a higher place to the catch basin below still thrills me. This time however, the thrill doesn't come from the thought that I could waddle across knee-deep floodwaters again, but from the thrill of leaving the scene without having to walk on those waters that used to be my monsoon playground.

All for the things that is holy, it is never my dream to get sick just because a rat piss entered the pores of my skin.

There was a brief downpour in parts of Quezon City and Manila this afternoon. Fortunately, I was already inside the FX going to Philcoa when rains began to fall somewhere in UN Avenue. However, realizing that we have to pass Espana in order to get to Quezon Avenue; and knowing how notorious Espana is for being submerged even in the slightest of drizzles. I knew I would be in deep trouble.

And thigh-deep trouble it was.


A few steps away from Blumentritt, the FX began to jerk as if its engines would go kaput.

Not now Lord... Not now.

"Pasensya na po pero mukhang titirikan tayo sa gitna ng daan. Konting unawa na lang po pero meron sa ating kailangang bumaba at magtulak."

Not in this flood please. I don't wanna die!!! This is the first time this week that I wore my slightly new leather shoes. I still have to find a new sponsor to buy me a new one if I have to dip it in these waters.

"Sigurado kayo manong, kailangan naming bumaba?" Asked one of the passengers behind the driver.

"Nakikita niyo naman, dumudulas na ang transmission ng sasakyan?" No, I cannot see how the transmission slips. I don't even know where the transmission is.

"Paano yung binayad namin, ibig sabihin eh hindi kami makakauwi?" Asked a female passenger seated in the trunk seat.

"Ano hong magagawa natin eh sa talagang ayaw na umandar ng sasakyan." The driver was insistent that there's a problem with his vehicle.

"Manong naman, Philcoa pa ako! Wala pa tayo sa Rotonda eh masyado na akong lugi niyan!" I finally butted in.

The argument went on for a few minutes with the driver blaming the traffic, his jerky FX, his operator and even Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo for the floodwaters. Had he mentioned Global Warming as the bane of our suffering, I would clutch the door handle and walk out of the vehicle for being well-informed of manong driver about global issues.

And then there was silence. Manong driver made another attempt to wade his vehicle across the knee-deep black waters. This time he succeeded.

The story ends with me asking the driver to stop the FX just behind PLDT Tower in Espana. He made a wrong turn and instead of finding his way to Mayon Street, we emerged on a one-way road that leads back to Blumentritt.

No way will I ever let myself come close to those virus-infested waters again.

For his efforts, I never asked manong driver for a refund. It was enough that he sacrificed his engines just for us to be spared from pushing the FX, as waves upon waves of floodwaters hit our legs.


I left Malate at around 2:30. Classes begin at 4 in the afternoon and I arrived in Diliman 15 minutes before 5.

Aklat

There are three other gentleman aside from me in J. Wendell's class every Tuesday.

The first is a proud Bicolano and is the son of a Philippine National Railways manager. The second is a nerdy-looking guy who works for a book publishing company. He usually leaves with a rugged guy who waits for him outside the room when our class ends at seven. The third is the eldest in our batch. He is a plump guy who prefers dressing up in a monochromatic attire and chooses his words carefully when he speaks. Rest assured however that when he talks, his words are heavy with profound insights that leaves me awed and inspired for days after our class had ended.

I rarely speak in class or participate in subject discussions. Instead, I spend my time gazing blankly at the lone tree outside our consultation room's window and contemplating on our professor's words of wisdom that inspires harmony and compassion in our daily lives.

"Some writers become successful in their careers, but when they retire, these writers realize that they did not make any friends..." J. Wendell told us during our recent meeting. "You know why?"

"It's because they establish their prominence by destroying other people's credibility." The eldest guy, who I will call Mongol for this entry would solemnly nod his head to agree to our professor's statements. He would sometimes expound what J. Wendell said by sharing his experiences after meeting different writers throughout his life.

These past two weeks, my attention shifted from my nerdy-looking classmate who was always accompanied by his guy "bestfriend" going home, to Mongol, whose thoughts resonate with what our professor loves to discuss in class. It's like attending a healing therapy session and not a creative writing workshop once a week. On the contrary, when I applied the lessons in those "sessions," it felt like I was able to grasp the depth of my subjects better. Take for example my entry 700; I take away grammar lapses of that piece and the entry still gives me goose pimples whenever I read it.

Going back to Mongol, I always have this impression that he is an accomplished person. He appears to be well-connected, (a national artist used to invite him for breakfast at her place and he rejected the idea of being seated next to GMA on several occassions) poetic, (he once said to Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo that being in her class is like riding a Rolls Royce, one will not settle for anything less) and his thoughts struck deep when he talks about life. One thing that keeps me mystified about him is that of all my classmates in Wendell's class, he is the only one who never said anything about his profession. I initially thought that he runs an advertising firm based from what he vaguely said when we were introduced in class. All I know is that he seems to be a powerful person who keeps everything under wraps by showing modesty to class, which gesture made me interested to find out more about him.

So when did I first notice Mongol's presence?

It's actually during our second meeting, when he was greeted by a chinita friend who turns out to be her classmate in another subject last semester. Suddenly, the reserved chinita who was talking to me earlier turned babaeng bakla when the two of them began talking. It didn't catch my attention, since what really caught my gaze was the hunky late-twenties guy who passed in front while waiting for our professor to arrive. I remember having a conversation with my lesbian classmate about the guys I dig. This guy suddenly appeared out of nowhere and crossed my line of sight. Since I needed a perfect example for the lesbian to get the picture I tried to describe, I nudged her to look at the hunk in front of us. Next thing I knew, the guy turned out to be Mongol's assistant.

Admittedly, I sense something in Mongol that I tried to repress but the more we get to talk, the more he validates my suspicions. It is well known that there are only a handful of straight guys enrolled in my program. If I believe in the spoof written on our university paper last semester, it is possible that the real straights are actually marginalized in my university. Anyway last meeting, Mongol and I had a small talk. He asked me why I don't have a kikay kit inside my bag when all the gays he know have one - that is how I understood his question. I told him that I just came from the gym and what's inside my bag were my gym attire.

Our topic shifted from kikay kits to gym places.

He told me that he used to work out in Fitness First.

"Hmmm.. daming PLU dun ah." I said to myself.

To cut the story short, I told him about my gym and how it was different from other work-out places. I said that we never do cardio workouts but instead focus our training in weight lifting. I tried to guess where the conversation would lead to. It happened many times before and with absolute confidence I thought that I was close to getting my validation.

That Mongol is actually one of us.

"So did you go out last Saturday," I asked him subtly, hinting whether he went to the White Party in Malate or not.

"What's with last Saturday? Is there a big event that I am not aware of?" He replied, trying to grasp what I'm trying to get to.

"I mean do you go out during weekends, you know, to unwind in bars or watering holes." I answered defensively, knowing that I might be wrong with what I was sensing.

"Oh I'm passed that age. I prefer to stay home, read books or write poems."

Very lucky for me, I decided never to get direct with my statements. Had I been tactless that afternoon, I would have embarrassed myself to epic proportions.

Because as Melanie Marquez once said, "Don't judge my brother, he is not a book."

After spending the evening yesterday researching in Google all the available information about Mongol. He turns out to be a high-profile Pastor who leads a huge Christian Ministry. He is well connected to National Artists not because of his personal merits but because of his advocacy to "redeem, restore and rededicate Art to God." Now I understand why his profound words radiate with grace whenever he speaks in front of class.

How malicious my assumptions were.

For the first time, my Gaydar had betrayed me,

Big time.

Once There Was An Expedition - Nurturing Instincts

Classes began yesterday despite my mental unreadiness to open a new chapter in my academic journey. I woke up at around 11 in the morning to have my haircut done. I'm back to being skinhead again. I returned home to eat my lunch and then went to the gym to do my workout before heading towards the direction of Diliman for school. I arrived past four, but the professor hasn't showed yet. Instead, I met two petite ladies who were waiting outside the classroom. One was a skinhead lesbian, an ex-classmate in The Great Milflores' class last semester. The other one was a chinita who works for Summit Publishing as a writer. Anyway, the chinita told us that she took up Journalism in her undergraduate. Perfect. Somebody can relate to the painful adjustments I had to take when I shifted from being a Journalist to being a Creative Writer. She even agreed when I mentioned to our lesbian friend that back in Journalism, we were never particular with words or grammar. What was important in our field was how we were able to acquire the information that our readers wanted to know. Every sentence needed to be economized and the use of flowery words and metaphors were strongly discouraged. How unfortunate that I never found that Diliman was offering a graduate program in Journalism. Had I known earlier, I would have taken it instead of Creative Writing.

The professor finally arrived after thirty minutes. I will be under J.Wendell Capili for the rest of the semester. To say that my professor is funny and light-hearted is an understatement. He is the exact opposite of The Great Milflores, who I observed as icy-cold and direct in his words. With Wendell, I expect to have a very fabulous semester this year. Not only does he refer to J. Neil Garcia as the diva, they were even friends since high school. Now I understand why they chose to remain in Diliman despite getting a better paying job elsewhere.

Lifetime friends never leave each other.

We were asked to introduce ourselves in front of the class. For reasons only Wendell knew, he kept referring to me as "J. Neil's favorite student." I don't why. In fact, I think the essays I submitted to J. Neil Garcia were all crappy and lacking in essence. Wendell said that his friend enjoyed my perversion, but I swear, I was never one in front of him. Nevertheless, to be remembered by one of the geniuses of Post-colonial Literature was a great honor. I hope that I'd be able to spread his legacy when my time to shine comes. Now back to Wendell, he's expecting more students to show up in class. We're still waiting for that poor classmate of ours who was asked by The Great Milflores to drop out for submitting an atrocious essay in his class last semester. I am also expecting to see another gay classmate, who I saw at the Dean's office, making beso to every women there after he was asked by Wendell to do before signing the documents he brought.

And so we never really discussed anything relevant to the subject yesterday, unless I would consider the five elements of a good non-fiction narrative, which I already heard from J.Neil before. Instead, we spent the whole time listening to Wendell's recollection of his advertising stint last weekend. He said that he was invited to a photo-shoot, where he would endorse a powdered milk brand in exchange for a talent fee that was slightly higher than what he gets from the university. Oh well, who earns big from being a writer these days, I bet even my idol Conrado De Quiros doesn't get much either.

Class was dismissed at past 7. On our first day, I've learned so much about Wendell - from his studies abroad in Cambridge and Australia to his endless battle with insomnia. He was a very extrovert person - just like what Siege Malvar said the last time we met. If I learned anything about his teaching style - which I think I should apply when I become a teacher myself is the importance of giving the writing students their own space to breathe.

According to Wendell, the challenge of young writers today is the tendency to become a clone of another writer. He said that what these writers needed is a place to nurture their creativity, their talent in words that is flowing like warm nectar inside their souls. Workshops are there, not to put down a talent but to encourage it to grow and have its own voice.

With his wisdom still producing sparks inside my head, I began this entry hoping that his arrival would finally inject that much needed confidence I lost when the Great Milflores almost told me in the workshop that my writing is hopeless.

Once There Was An Expedition - Project Kalidasa

Working Title: The Heart Of Sensation: Lives of Hao-Shao Reporters in Police Beat Reporting.

Genre: Non-Fiction

Synopsis: The project aims to give more depth to sensationalized news that prevails in Tabloid Writing. The writer will immense himself among Beat Reporters and Hao-Shao Journalists as they try to make a living writing news for their respective tabloids. It is also the aim of the writer to render to render news stories worthy of becoming a work of creative non-fiction. Plan would include talking to a tabloid publisher in hopes of being allowed to be immersed among his/her reporters for the creative work to begin.

Writing would take a semester to an entire school year to complete.

Initial preparations for this project include reading tabloid news as well as creative work related to the project. It includes reading a list of autobiographies of newswriters of the past and the present.

Enrichment of vocabulary is a must.

Adoption of different writing styles is also recommended.

Once There Was An Expedition - Hope For The Gutterflower

After A. Hidalgo

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And I call him the great Milflores.

There is no doubt that such nickname would raise some eyebrows from my classmates. But surely, they would all agree that he is great - no matter how his teaching methods seem brutal and cold-blooded in many ways.

He is our teacher in one of the subjects I took up in the Master's Program this semester. It is a special subject addressing the problems of writers in reaching out to their target audience. The great Milflores thought that the problem lies with the writer's lack of grasp of the history of the nation and so for the most part of our course, he discussed in class the underlying literary theories that should serve as a guide for us to understand our readers.

The great Milflores tried to awaken the burning nationalism in each one of us. In my case he successfully did.

But my problem was never my national consciousness in the first place. He even said that among his students, I was the most accommodating when it came to embracing his concepts. My problem is with my writing. He said that what I lack is the mastery of the language and also the literary register to serve as the foundation of my works.

When my time to be critiqued in class drew near, I felt his eagerness to crush whatever faith I still have with my writing. A previous workshop before, a classmate submitted a fiction which received some scathing remarks, not only from class but from the great Milflores himself. She was asked to drop out of class that same evening for reasons everyone found too harsh for him to do. He said that her writing was so terrible, she shouldn't have been admitted to the program in the first place.

What saved me was my Filipino essay, which he said was far more tolerable than the English ones I submitted to class. He even suggested that I should transfer to the Filipino Department instead since my talents would prove more useful to them than in the department I am right now.

I told the great Milflores that I would seriously think of his suggestion. After all, I am not merely receiving a suggestion from a teacher, I am also receiving a suggestion from the publisher of so many successful books who has years of experience being a grammar police of a broadsheet, a Palanca winner for several consecutive years and a column writer for several newspapers. He has all the right to stomp me to the ground as he wish, for I accept all the failings he pointed out to me.

Nevertheless, after getting a bone-crushing advice from him, the great Milflores in the end said I still have hope.

In six months, 24 weeks and 47 days, I stood my ground by humbly accepting my hierarchy in the class. the great Milflores seems to have judged me according to the strength of my essays. But so long as I have my Filipino Essay to prove that I'm not as a bad writer as I thought I am, I listened to what he would teach us and smile at others who were having a hard time coping up while their egos were being crushed by him.

In fairness to his draconian methods, I learned so many things from the great Milflores that my other teachers did not emphasized to me. One of them is Post-Colonialism and the Theory of Hybridity, which state that writers like me should expand our horizons and write as many subjects as we want. That is, so long as we would always keep ourselves rooted to the "point of anti-colonial rupture" as our reference. He also made me proud of my roots by encouraging me to write in the language I am most comfortable using which is Filipino. Finally, he taught us to be honest when it comes to writing. The truth behind my classmate's expulsion in class was revealed this evening after he told us that though some of us maybe lacking in skills, he honestly felt that we were true to our work - except that one person he asked to drop out of his subject.

---

Today was our final meeting in his class.

And after weeks of speculating whether I would be able to finish his subject after all the troubles of the world had suddenly crushed me, Mami Athena's timely intervention this morning had saved my essays from utter shame. The truth is, I owe her my existence in the Master's Program because she is the one who tirelessly correct my works when my own familiarity with the language begins to fail me. Many times I wondered whether she should be the one to take my place in the academe. But at some point in my own little internal awakening, I realized that there must be a reason why I am in the Masters. Perhaps, I carry not only my dreams but her dreams as well. Maybe in some future, I would become the Athena, Mami should have always been.

With just one more paper to go, I would be cleared of my responsibilities for this semester. A semester more next year and I'm ready to take the final plunge, where I would start working for my MA Thesis. A few years ago, I would think that the thesis is the end of my project. But the great Milflores changed my way of thinking.

Looking back, I would remember him seated at his armchair that his wife used to occupy. His stiff figure, bald hair and silver-rimmed eyeglasses reflect the firmness of his personality. He would look at his paper before delivering his speech in class, while those of us who are present would gape at his every last word. With our jaws wide open, he would end his discussion by saying "Frantz Fanon said..."

The yellow brick road leading to perfection is now open. It may take years or even forever to further improve my language. But I swear, time would come when images would come alive by merely using words I would paint inside my head.

Once There Was An Expedition - Tongue Twisting Bilingual

Ayoko sanang isipin
na matapos kong pag-aralan
ang wikang Ingles ng napakahabang
panahon ay lilitaw lamang na
higit na mas magaling akong magsulat
sa Filipino.

Ngunit sa aking nakikita, mukhang
tama nga ang sabi ng aking propesor
na manlilimbag ng libro.
Tunay na napakalaki ng sablay ko
sa wikang Ingles pero napahanga siya
sa aking galing sa paggamit ng Filipino.

---

And it sometimes makes me wonder.
Would I shine brighter if I have taken
Filipino, instead of forcing myself in
the English Creative Writing program?

But it's too late now.
With only a remaining semester to go
before my Master's Thesis, all I could do
is accept whatever my shortcomings are,

While hoping that I could catch up
on the race to become a better English Writer
before I find myself just a single dash away
from the program's finish line.

Pupil

Once upon a time, there was a kid named Jose.

Jose was in elementary studying in St. Joseph's College. He was in Grade Six when this story happened. His classmates saw him as the weird kid who was too strange for their own understanding and his teachers thought that he was misunderstood. He was too detached and too strange as a student in their classes. The teachers had probably thought to leave him alone as long as he doesn't get into trouble with others.

The bullies would torment him during recess by shoving and pushing him out of the canteen lines. After all, he couldn't defend himself against them. The populars were even more cruel. Their myopic eyes couldn't see that he exist. For them, he was way too backward to even pose a threat to their quest for popularity. These populars left him alone. However, when it was time for them to look for someone they could make fun of or look down to in order to please their ego, Jose was their favorite target.

His so-called friends - who were mostly geeks and loners in his class left him alone as well. After all, who would forge bonds with someone who wore shabby uniform going to school, who doesn't cut his hair for half a year and who doesn't take a bath every day? Their only form of contact only happens when these kids would need his assistance. After the deal was done, it was back for him to his own little world

Yet Jose didn't took seriously what his classmates thought of him - except this one time when he created a commotion in the queue during the flag ceremony. As the story goes, one of his classmates complained that he stunk. Others went closer to validate what his classmate had just accused him. In the end, everyone was telling him "ang baho mo. lumayo ka sa amin yaak!!" Jose, in his silence flustered out of embarrassment. Even the pupils from the other section avoided him that morning.

Despite Jose's tormented existence at school, he found an unusual solace in his solitude. His class ends at 3 pm. The school bus that would take him home leaves at 3:30. He doesn't often take the first trip going home, except if he feels watching Peter Pan on Channel 2 at 4:30. Instead, he buries himself under piles of books in the school library and he learned a lot from his readings.

At an early age of 12, he was already aware of the Greek, Egyptian and Roman civilization, especially their warships. He knew the different Dinosaurs that walked the Earth millions of years ago. In fact, he was way too advanced that he knew the difference between the Jurassic and Cretaceous era during those Prehistoric times. In those days, nobody among his classmates would have known that such epoch in the planet's history exists. Who would have known, it wasn't discussed in class.

He had read books about local folklores written by Maximo Ramos. Later in his life, such books would remind him after his professor mentioned some titles during their discussion in class. At Grade Six, he was cataloging the different house plants and medicinal herbs that he collected from his wanderings. The books in the library provided him the names of those plants he had sneakily pulled out from someone else's pot.

After his stay in the library, he would sneak out of school and walk several blocks to commune with nature in a place called Little Banawe. His classmates gave the place such name, but its residents, who were mostly artists in different fields called the place Cathedral Heights. It was a small community at the back of Saint Luke's Hospital. Being secluded from the hustle and bustle of E. Rodriguez Avenue, the place had a certain feel of tranquility in it.

In Little Banawe, Jose would pull little plants to put them in plastic cups filled with water before transporting it home. In just over several months, his baby milk formula aluminum containers that he used as pots had doubled. He became the envy of housewives who were avid gardeners in his neighborhood. At the same time, doubts began to float whether he was an effeminate kid who has a future of becoming gay someday or a simple kid who simply finds passion in Gardening.

The question would be answered many years later.

---

As Jose's snapshots of life showed, he never really had a good elementary life. He was a loner, a kid who was bullied and was laughed behind his back because of his strangeness in attitude and how he saw life.

However, despite the bitter memories he had in elementary, he remembers those days with wonder and humility because it was in his most tranquil solitude that he learned to enjoy being alone. He found out that he doesn't need company to become a better person; that he only needs himself to see life in angles his classmates in those days had never seen.

That's why two days ago, he decided to pay homage to the school which he still considers his beginnings. Things have changed with the passing of time, but his respect and admiration to those who had shaped his childhood simply grew stronger.

"My name is Jose maam, I was your student back in 1994," he said to Miss Chua as he presents himself to his class adviser in Grade Six who is now a supervisor in the Filipino Department.

"Ah oo nga, natatandaan kita. Ikaw yung mabait at tahimik na estudyante ko na laging nakaupo sa harap ng klase? Kamusta ka na?" Miss Chua said a few seconds later, after she tried to recall the face of the man who suddenly showed up in front of her.

"Ok naman po ako. I was nearby St. Jo so I decided na rin to pay a visit."

After a few more exchange in pleasantries. Miss Chua introduced Jose to her colleagues who turned out to be his other teachers when he was still studying in elementary. Looking around and reminiscing his early days, he whispered to his now aging adviser,

"Things have changed maam, but I'm so glad you're still here..."

Alternate History (First Part)

May isang guro ang nagsabi sa akin na ang taong hindi marunong tumingin sa pinanggalingan ay hindi makikita ang patutunguhan. Masyado kong dinibdib ang sinabi nitong gurong ito dala na rin ng mapusok kong damdamin noong aking kabataan. Dagdag pa dito, natatandaan ko rin na ang unang librong nabasa ko mula simula hanggang sa dulo ay ang aming libro sa Sibika at Kultura noong Grade One. Masyado ko ngang minahal ang librong iyon at hanggang sa ngayon ay nakatago pa rin ito sa akin.

Noong High School, lumitaw ang pagiging mahina ko sa Math. Dito ko naranasang mapahiya sa Drafting nang sabihan ako ng aking guro na isa daw akong kalawang sa aming batch. Dala na rin ng matinding kompetisyon sa aming paaralan (kung saan halos lahat ng mga estudyante ay nagtapos na valedictorian o kaya naman ay salutatorian sa kanilang elementarya) maaga kong natanggap na ang aking tanging laban sa kanila ay kung magiging dalubhasa ako sa Kasaysayan. Hindi kasi ako honor student noong elementary kaya mababa na ang tingin sa akin ng mga tao. In fact, tingin yata sa akin ng mga guro ko noon ay isang patapon na estudyante.

Fourth year high school. Nagkaroon ako ng guro sa World History na lubos lubos kong nirespeto. Ang pangalan niya ay Miss Co (Huli man daw sa karera ay nakapag-asawa pa rin siya limang taon nang ako ay nagtapos sa high school. Forty years old na siya noon) at ang estilo niya ng pagtuturo ay talaga namang gumising sa aking utak. Gawain niya na magpa-recitation sa klase tungkol sa mga nangyayaring current events noong kapanahunan namin. Dahil wala sa mga kaklase ko ang nanonood ng balita (lalo na ang CNN), laging ako ang bumibida sa kanyang subject. Ako ang kanyang unbeatable whiz kid. Sa mura kong edad na kinse anyos, nako-connect ko ang mga pangyayari sa kasalukayan sa kanilang nakaraan. Kumbaga, wala man sa bokabularyo ko ang Postcolonialism na pinag-aaralan namin ngayon sa Masters, ngunit noong mga panahong iyon, bukambibig ko na kasalanan ng mga imperyalista bakit masyadong sopistikado ang mundo ngayon.

Lingid sa kaalaman ng marami, noong mga panahong iyon ay adik na adik rin ako sa larong Civilization. Itong larong ito sa PC ay matatawag na strategy game kung saan ang objective ng player ay protektahan ang kanyang kaharian laban sa ibang mga bansa gaya ng India o Amerika o kaya naman China. Ang maubusan ng mga cities (dahil na-occupy ng kalaban) ay talo. Ang unang makapagpadala naman ng space ship sa Alpha Centauri (isa itong bituin 4.2 light years mula sa ating araw) ang panalo sa laro. Dahil napakaraming konsepto na kailangang intindihin para maappreciate ng isang manlalaro ang game, unti-unting naging daan para palawakin ang aking kaalaman sa kasaysayan. Dagdag pa rito, nangangamba rin akong maging repeater sa Fourth year dahil sa aking kabobohan sa Algebra. Narealize ko na kung nais ko man ilaban ang aking huling taon, kailangan kong maipakita sa lahat na mahina man ako sa numero pero eksperto naman ako pagdating sa Social Studies.

Nagpay-off naman ang aking mga paghihirap. Nang magtapos ang Second Quarter ng taon ay ginawaran ako ng Commendation sa World History. Ibig sabihin, ako ang nagkamit ng pinakamataas na grade sa subject na iyon sa lahat ng Fourth Year students.

Hindi ko natanggap ang certificate sapagkat late ako sa flag ceremony nang tawagin ng prinsipal ang aking pangalan. Marahil ay nagtatago ako sa boy's CR o kaya naman sa talahiban sa likod ng aming high school upang huwag mahuli ng mga kadete na nangungumpiska ng ID ng mga late. Noong quarter ring iyon ay nakakuha ako ng grado na 72 sa Algebra. Napalakol ako at adviser ko pa naman ang teacher sa subject na iyon.

Simula noon ay hindi na niya ako pinansin sa klase. Higit naman akong naging mas close kay Miss Co.

---

-tobecontinued-

Once There Was An Expedition - Lessons On Craftsmanship

Lesson Number One: Taking up graduate studies is not really my dream. I always think it is God-given. It is not really my aspiration to get into the masters program, the program accidentally found me.

Two years into the masters, and I still owe everything to luck, and probably to my modest talent in writing. Much as I would like to give up and do other things in life, the program gives me a sense of higher purpose besides my career. It is an opportunity that I do not want to waste.

Lesson Number Two: In high school, we had only two subjects that addressed our issues with the technicals of the English language. In college, we only had one. In the days preceding Diliman, grammar had never been an issue - nobody questions me with the tenses that I used. Nowadays, my technical ineptitude has become the greatest blunder in my academics. The thought that I might be committing mistakes I am not aware of due to my lack of grasp with the shifting tenses, nouns, pronouns and prepositions distracts me from expressing my thoughts freely.

Lesson Number Three: Journalism did not teach us to read and appreciate good books and novels. Our noses were all over Philippine Daily Inquirer, Time Magazine and News and Information Programs on TV. Journalism taught us to be sensitive, nosey and aware of our surroundings. Creativity comes second in our chosen field.

The major taught us to be detailed in our story, straight in telling it and our story should always have a reference in history. If I knew I would take Creative Writing when I was still in the undergrad, I should have taken Literature instead.

Lesson Number Four: I should always remember: Several months before I was admitted in the master's program, I was denied thrice in my application for Internet Content Writer. Now I understand that the reason for such failure is because I was forced to write without my heart into it. I was like a drone writing something I was never interested in the first place. Learning my lessons from it, I should never write for money.

Lesson Number Five: People tell me that I should read books - novels, short stories and essays. I would love to, the problem is, reading books is not my passion. In fact, the only reason for me to read is because I was forced to by my subjects. Someday, I would like to change my style and make book reading a habit. The problem is, how could my reading compete with my very short attention span? How could I read, when I love to write most of the time?

Lesson Number Six: Writing should be a free exercise. So long as a person can express his thoughts and his voice coherently, nobody, not even the best writer should have the right to tell him what to do. After all, the reader have all the freedom to ignore the things that person wrote.

Now, if the budding writer wishes to learn the craft, then he should pay attention to what the mentor is telling him. He should be patient and humble enough to follow the mentor's instructions. When the mentor says he should expose himself to the books other great writers have written in their times, then he should follow.

The budding writer should be ready to accept constructive criticisms, especially from those who have perfected their craft through such very harsh and very demoralizing workshops before him.

---

The essay that I submitted last week has already received its first flak from the professor this afternoon. His criticisms, which were not only directed to me, but to everyone who submitted that day were pretty harsh. I would not go into details, but I remember this metaphor he said to us. He said that writing is like building a house. As long as we don't learn how to use the saw, the nails and the hammer, the house which we are building will never be completed at all.

He was extremely disappointed because he thought we were professional writers; that we were admitted in the Creative Writing Program because we know how to write. In his opinion, he thinks otherwise.

My essay is set to be workshopped next week in class. I know that it is a lousy essay, which I never thought of as a good piece to begin with. Lacking the time to embark on a writing spree intended for my subject, I handpicked several entries from the blog and made a theme out of it. Knowing that it was written for my own story, I never bothered to elaborate it, flesh out the characters and the plot, or present it as an essay intended for everyone to read.

The countdown before the grilling begins tonight.

And I promise, even if my dignity and pride will be hit hard by such unforgiving workshop, Lesson Number Six, which I wrote above is my assurance that there will never be surrendering at all.

I intend to finish this course alive. Even if I get burned because of what I have written, then let my ashes be my very own resurrection.

Hacked Fate

It is sometimes ironic how God rewards his servants. Everyone is disheartened including our family. My mom was close to tears when she found out and was partly angered why man so pious was allowed by God to dealt with this problem. If this was our reaction more so I think for the couple and their children. This is indeed a big blow to our community. Whatever this test of faith to them and their family including our whole community. Everyone is praying for them....

- A Sad Fate, Gripenmanila

---

Ironic how lives are lived and how fate plays to bring us into a certain situation we are not ready to face ourselves.

Take for example the events that happened to me today. As you all know, the dreaded report in one of my class in the graduate school took place this afternoon. The assignment was given more than a month ago. However, certain distractions at home and at work prevented me to focus on things that I must immediately do. It includes preparing for my school assignments, which I only took seriously when the first day of New Year arrived.

God knows I wasn't prepared to present the report last week. I also do not have an essay to submit in class because I was so focused in cramming for my report. So to buy me some more time, He intervened in my behalf and urged the regents of my university to declare a school holiday on the day I was supposed to present my report. Since it was the centennial celebrations, might as well double the fun by forcing the students to have a day break, the regents must have realized.

It was my chance to arm myself for the incoming deluge. But instead, I was in Eastwood City, helping my sister find a job that hopefully, would boost our dwindling resources. It was a promising enterprise for us, but a week after it all happened, we haven't found a suitable conclusion to her job-hunting story.

We are still searching... waiting. I hope fate would lead my sister to her calling.

---

Fast forward:

Yesterday, I didn't report for work. I complained of muscle pains and mental fatigue due to work-out excesses I did since last week. It was an excuse of course, for even if the mental fatigue and the muscle pains were there, the real reason for my absence is to cram for school. In truth, the cramming did not materialize. Instead, I used up the whole day to sleep... and let myself drift in the currents of G4M, hoping to find a lasting resolution to what I am shallowly searching for.

Despite the earthly distractions, I managed to finish the half part of my school requirements for today. Much as it was hard and difficult to comprehend what those Postcolonialist gods were trying to tell me in their Literary Theories, I managed to cut and paste all their ideas. It was the foundation of my report this afternoon,

And I read it all in front of the class.

But the events leading to the fated reporting was not as easy, as things should have unfolded: The Word Document I used to write my report wasn't compatible with those used in Internet Cafes around my neighborhood. Mine was 2007, while theirs were of lower version. Lacking the funds to finance my project, I had to borrow from our house helper, unless I can endure an hour's waiting for the queue to disperse at the sole ATM booth near my place.

The tribulations never ended there. The whole afternoon, it was time that was against me.

If not for my sheer determination to see things through, I would have let things pass and accept my fate as a failure. But I have had so many wrong decisions in the past to let this one spark of light flicker without dodging the wind. I knew fate was challenging me, and all I have to do is to face it squarely in the battlefield called life.

---

I arrived 15 minutes late in class. The professor was furious at me and as a consequence for my once-in-a semester tardiness, I got a minus .50 in my grade even before I started presenting my report. On the plus side however, not only was the professor impressed with my analysis; I was one of the handful of students who was able to submit a complete essay on time in his class.

Now the question remains whether those entries I plucked here in my blog would pass as a work of a great literary mind to satisfy him. The feedback seems gloomy, but I know,

I will survive.

---

At the beginning of this entry, I included a quote from Gripen's most recent blog entry.

As those of you have read, one of the key Ayala people who would be prosecuted by the government in relation to the Glorietta blast is actually his neighbor. What's surprising about this man is that according to Gripen, he is a kind-hearted and pious person. He gives most of his earnings to the church and he tries to live as a civic-oriented individual, who inspires others to follow his lead.

Despite his enduring brilliance, a great tragedy has befallen him and his family.

Like most of you would ask, why does a good man deserve such fate? Is God really challenging this gentleman's mustard seed faith?

In all honesty, I would feel betrayed if such tragedy had befallen upon me. I would ask myself why I deserve such destruction, when I'm already humbling myself in the presence of the Creator.

Of course, these are just initial reactions to such a blow. Much as it is hard to accept, life and humanity must still bloom even in the toxic of wastes.

Now you ask me, what is the relationship of my story to Gripen's entry?

The answer is simple: I've been whining about my little troubles the whole day and the past weeks in this blog. But beyond my capacity to understand life itself, there are those whose lives are being violently shaken now that these thoughts form in my head.

Mine was just a little shake. It won't even register an intensity point 50

What if the big quake suddenly rocks my world?

Could I still proclaim my allegiance to God?

Could I still tap my little mustard seed faith?

Sometimes I wish I could simply renounce the world, so that I would never have any trouble detaching myself from material and physical enhancements.

But I'm just human.

The least thing I could do is to be aware of others, especially now that fate seems to still be, smiling at me.

Petiks In The Office

Sa mga oras na ito, kadalasan ay tambak ako ng trabaho.

Ngunit dahil matumal ang pasok ng mga messages galing sa aming kliyente, narito ako't petiks sa aking dalawang account.

Nakakapanibago?

Medyo...

Kasi nasanay na akong laging nasa panic mode tuwing uupo ako sa aking station ng alas-dos.

Nasanay na rin ako sa mas demanding na bago kong work cycle.

---

As usual may topak pa rin ang aking computer. Nalugi talaga ako sa pagkamahal-mahal na purchase na nagawa ko sa sobrang atat maka-pag Sims 2 muli.

Nalaman ko kahapon na maari ko na sanang pinambili ng laptop yung perang ginastos (at gagastusin kong pambayad sa credit card) para sa lecheng unit ko. Ngunit ganun talaga, so long as I won't know what a bad deal is, I will never learn how to be "wais" when it comes to biz transactions.

Ayoko naman samantalahin ang warranty dahil sa bukod na nasira ko na ito, hindi ko makakayang mawalay sa aking computer sa loob ng dalawang linggo.

So kailangan kong magtiis pansamantala habang hindi ko pa napapa-check kay Kaibigan Oso ang motherboard ng computer. Tutal, napapakinabangan ko pa naman ito.

As long as hindi ko gagamitin ang DVD Drive o kaya naman ay ang extra hard disk nito, walang masyadong binibigay na sakit ng ulo ang computer. Sabi ni Kaibigang Oso, maaring ito ang dahilan ng palagiang pag-hahang at resource spike ng PC.

Sa muli naming pagtatagpo, doon ko pa lang malalaman ang real deal tungkol sa topak ng aking PC.

---

Hindi natuloy ang class namin kahapon. Na-suspend ito dahil sa centennial celebrations sa Diliman na ginanap noong tanghali.

Tamang-tama naman sapagkat bukod sa hindi ako handa sa aking report, wala pa akong matinong essay na masusubmit sa professor.

Sa ngayon, back to the drawing board ulit ako. Kung tutuusin, hindi biro ang mga topics na pinapa-report sa akin ng guro. Sabi ko nga sa utol ko, "I'm not a literary critic, I just write." Kontra naman niya, "you must learn how to be a critique in order to be a good writer."

Ewan ko ba, para sa akin kasi, dapat ay maging malaya ang isang manunulat upang madiskubre niya ang kanyang tunay na boses. Totoong dapat na may panuntunan sa pagsusulat. Ngunit kung ang mga panuntunang ito ay higit na makakasakal sa halip na magpalaya sa isang manunulat,

mabuti siguro'y magsulat na lang tayo para sa ating sarili. Sa ganitong paraan, at least wala tayong icoconsider na mga bagay na magiging sagabal pa para sa ating paglalahad ng saloobin.

---

Pista pala ngayon ng Nazareno. Kung nalaman ko lang ng maaga (at kung hindi sana nakitulog si Phanks sa amin kagabi) Balak ko sana gumawa ng essay at i-document ang buhay sa paligid ng Plaza Miranda sa loob ng isang magdamag. Ito ang essay na isusubmit ko sana sa aking isang klase.

Ang title ng piece ay "One Night Stand in Quiapo."

Ngunit dahil gahol na ako sa oras at tinatamad rin akong lumabas, maaring sa blog ko na lang lumabas ang entry balang araw.

Tamang-tama sapagkat pakiramdam ko minsan na walang social relevance ang mga entries ko dito.

Puro ako na lang ang bida, pati na rin ang maliit kong mundo.

---

I miss the good old days when my eyes were fixed outward - on things that I see around me. Lately, I feel that I've been constantly searching inward for something that is missing.

Strange thing is that I don't really know what I'm looking for.

Once There Was An Expedition - Night Landing Turbulence

The truth is, I don't want to study anymore.

The graduate school is getting boring. I don't have any concrete plans if, and ever I graduate from my Creative Writing Masters Program and my new work schedule somehow distracts me from my old academic drive.

I'd rather spend the nights partying and wandering around Manila rather than worry about the reports, readings and essays that are threatening to crush me all the way this January.

School will start tomorrow. But I made up my mind and decided not to attend my class in the afternoon. I need time to reflect - and catch up with the readings that I should have done during the holiday season. Yet, I never listened to my conscience. The fact is, I preoccupied myself whining about my hopeless computer.

Besides the report, I don't even have an essay yet to pass on Tuesday. Goodluck na lang sa akin.

It is obvious that I have become complacent after my entire body clock has been turned around fifteen days ago. Instead of doing something, I spent most of the time on the net, watching TV or comparing the difference between my life in the morning shift and my life now that i'm in the afternoon shift.

However, I started turning things around by going to the gym two nights ago. It was followed by my less sugar and carbohydrate intake which has been ongoing the moment I woke up yesterday. If and ever I could keep up with my workout routine later, I am fairly confident that I can declare one aspect of my life reclaimed. It's time to move on to the next phase of my reorganizing which will involve my academics.

Despite harboring feelings of procrastination, it is evident that there is no choice but to go on and do what I should do in order to complete my subjects this semester. Honestly, I'd like to return to the hills of Antipolo to remind myself of the promises I made when Diliman gave me this break. But time is against me and competing for my full attention towards my readings are some social and family duties which I cannot simply turn my back against.

Like accompanying my sister tomorrow for her first-ever job interview at IBM in the afternoon.

The readings are somewhat technical, and I would need a Literary Criticism expert to explain to me the terms that I need to explain in class on Tuesday. But without anyone to run to, I might as well put all my energies into exhorting the Filipino National Identity in myriad of ways - which my subject is all about.

The point is. I wrote this entry to serve as a battle cry for me to push myself and complete this endeavor:

I have come a very long way and there is no turning back.

To remember a time when I won't even get considered for a web content writer job should be enough as a reminder for me not to quit.

Today I would read all my readings. And research about them tomorrow. I will try to come up with a piece that I would submit in the same class on Tuesday.

If not, I'd pull something interesting from this blog.

The expedition of the armada continues. The journey resumes now.

Once There Was An Expedition - Banana Leaf Journey

After Dr. L.R. Tope

---

Our journey began in China, where you made us realize that the Chinese think in dual perspective. They adopted a Yin-Yang outlook, which calls for balance in everything. For them, an object can be seen in two ways. You told us that in times of plenty, they follow the Confucian way. Filial piety is what's important for them. However, in times of great hardships, they surrender everything to the ways of Tao and the Eightfold Path. "Only in surrendering material things, shall we find true happiness." you told us. In China, we were forced to read an entire novel in three days - The Dream of the Red Chamber to be exact. Before, it would take me three weeks to finish a book half the pages of the novel you required.

Such achievement marks the beginning of my affair with literature.

---

When we were in Japan, you told us that beauty is imperfection. The Japanese believe that beauty is a constant improvement of an object. Once it has achieved perfection, the object loses meaning; it becomes utterly useless. I would always remember the story you shared to class between a Japanese and a foreigner. In a tea ceremony, the foreigner took the glazed, regular-shaped cup. For the foreigner, it symbolized beauty. However, the Japanese took the cup that is not only irregular in shape, it had an earthly signature in it. For the Japanese, nature is the closest thing there is to perfection.

The novels told us the Japanese are a melancholic bunch. They pride themselves in using nature to express their emotions. It was difficult to interpret the symbols used in the Tale of Genji. Not only they were sublimely poetic, the characters spoke of "Cherry blossoms" and "restless twilight" throughout the entire novel.

For them, the closer you are to nature, the more you become one with yourself. They even coined the phrase Mono no aware to describe the transience of all things, and the gentle sadness at their passing.

---

The journey turned a westerly direction. We found ourselves being immersed in Indian culture after spending half the semester mingling with the yellow folks and their nature-centric orientation. The Indians are a happy bunch. They are expressive, colorful, loud and very heterogeneous people. In the Ramayana, we learned that the monkeys and the demons were actually the Dravidians - the Aryan's lesser brethren (and oftentimes enemy) in the South. In the Inheritance of Loss, we delved in critical issues ranging from poverty, post colonialism, Indian diaspora and the impact of centuries of British colonization in the modern Indian psyche.

Despite these scars, which they love to use as subjects in their modern literature, The Indian culture remains strong and their patriotism extremely high. Their wars with Pakistan and China were even a point of contention; a source of divergence in every postmodern novel that I've read about India.

---

Before returning home, we made a brief stop-over in Singapore and Indonesia. You assigned us to read the novel Fistful of Colors to learn the history of Singapore. We learned the country's past as it was weaved in the story and through the characters' family background as they all sought their identity at the end of the novel. You even invited the book's author, Suchen Lim to discuss how Singapore's recent history had been quietly altered in order to hide the bad elements of its past.

Progress has a price to pay sometimes.

In Indonesia, we learned how they suffered greatly from Dutch colonization. Like us, they were treated like second-class citizens in their own homeland. The novel This Earth of Mankind resembled our very own Noli Me Tangere in plot and characterization. Unfortunately, you only assigned the first of the four books that tells of Minke's story. I felt hanging after I read the novel.

---

Looking back, all it takes is a semester to transform someone to a new person.

Unarmed with any literary backgrounds or theories, you injected an Asian sensibility into my psyche. I am like a tabula rasa becoming more oriental after being touched by your shining hands of wisdom.

And I became enlightened.

Many semesters from now, other literary inroads will be opened. In order to become a truly good writer, one must be aware of the foundations - the essence of literature. Despite the possibility of being swayed to other directions, your ways has already taken root.

Someday, when I become a better writer, what you taught us will find its way into my writings. The Asian experience that you shared with us will pass on to many people, even if you are not and will never be aware of it.

Finally, I will spread your example of humility. Your friend revealed last night in the dinner that you hosted that the global community sees you as an authority; a prominent scholar in South East Asian literature. I sensed it in class, but I never expected the magnitude of your brilliance.

Indeed a mark of a true genius lies in her ability to be humble in spite of her overwhelming greatness.

Humanity is wisdom.

That is all that I need to learn.

---

"Nakapili ka na ba ng mga subjects mo? Check this list kung anong gusto mong kunin diyan," Dr. Mooney hands me down the subjects list. For the past three semesters after I have been accepted in the masters program, she is the person I consulted.

She is the admiral of my entire fleet. Whatever suggestion she makes, I follow.

The afternoon I visited her, she had a visitor with us. She was a mid-forties plumpy woman with short hair, large bead necklace and a very pleasant and calm aura. She sat quietly in the arm chair while Dr. Mooney assisted me in choosing my subjects.

Dr. Mooney's consultation room was wrapped in silence. However, it was abruptly broken after she asked me if I have taken any electives before. "Bakit hindi mo i-try mag-CL (Literary Criticism) para maiba naman?" She was right. I had not taken any reading subjects before.

Before I could decide what CL subject to take, Dr. Mooney pointed her finger at the visitor who was still seated in the armchair. She felt embarrassed after the spotlight was suddenly turned to her.

"Ayan o, kunin mo yung CL240 (Asian Literary Criticism) niya. Marami kang matututunan diyan." The visitor smiled at the prodding of her friend. "Yun nga lang 8 novels ang babasahin mo sa loob ng isang semester, pero matututo ka talaga" she further added.

Much as I would like to look for other options, I felt that it would be rude to decline Dr. Mooney's suggestion. I could make an excuse and tell the ladies that the class schedule would conflict with my work. However since I am very familiar with Asian cultures and I was already aware that reading would improve writing .

I decided to take the subject. It was the turning point of my entire first semester.

Final Hours Of The Semester

Kahit six hours delayed ako from my target time,
nakikita ko na ang katapusan ng aking mga
papers.

Hindi man ako nakapag-general cleaning ngayong gabi,
masasabi kong ang tagumpay ay ilang oras at pahina
ko na lang bibilangin.

Nakapagpasa ng thesis ang utol ko.
At bilang paggalang sa aking mga sakripisyo, hinayaan
niyang ma-control ko ang kalahating bahagi ng
aming munting bahay. Binigay niya sa akin ang monopolyo
sa katahimikan.

Hindi ko man sigurado
kung ano ang magiging resulta ng aking mga subjects,
ang mahalaga'y tapos ko na ang semester.

I'm halfway done with my masters.

Last Stand At Golgotha

Today begins my so-called hell days.

With four revised essays to submit and a 20-page literary criticism paper to begin with, I am uncertain whether I could finish the requirements before the deadline. The four essays for my Non-Fiction writing demands a major overhaul. At for for the literary criticism paper, I haven't finished yet the book which I will do a thorough study.

One major barrier for my progress is complacency. It prevents me from focusing my energies on what must be done and achieved. The objectives are very clear, but laziness, and misdirected creativity spent usually in blogging leaves me deadlocked when beginning to write my piece.

It would have been easier if I am in high-spirits while doing my papers. However, with the criticisms I received yesterday about the memoir I submitted in class, doubts about my writing capabilities had resurfaced once again.

The essay was my most ambitious project for the semester. Entitled Trinoma, it is a ten-page memoir about my crafty attempt to move on from an emotional turmoil last summer. My resolution was to use myself as an instrument to accept the situation. Darkstar, my imaginary alter-ego played a huge role in this essay. Apparently, the "jury" felt betrayed by the fact that after reading Trinoma up to a third of the piece, they discovered something that they did not expect; they were rudely surprised by the fact that the author was nothing more than just having a conversation with himself.

Others claim that my piece was more of a fiction than a non-fiction. Fortunately, the "moderator" defended me by saying that although the essay appears more of a fiction, its very earnest nature gives a hint that the writer was emotionally distraught during the time he was writing the essay. In the end, they all agreed that in dealing with the piece, I should apply more discretion on my emotions. A classmate suggested that I should put subtle hints before the final revelation of Darkstar.

The instructions were very clear. But personally, I do not know how to pull an ingenious device to please their suggestions. It is always hard to rewrite something you believed to be perfect already.

Rewriting would have been a bliss, if my computer is in perfect order.

But I just found out this morning that it was infected by a malicious Trojan virus. I strongly suspected that it was Phanks' file that infected it. When he accessed the file last night while doing his project, the Trojan was passed to my PC. The AVG anti-virus, which I installed in my computer the last time its operating system was reinstalled never saw the virus coming.

Although the computer is still operational, I have to endure the significantly slow processing speed that resulted from it being infected. I also have to bear in mind that since a virus spreads in my computer's system, the entire platform remains very unstable it could just shut down when I least expect it.

I could call a technician anytime to reformat my PC. However, I promised myself to have a very ambitious computer upgrade after I complete this semester. To reformat the computer now would only be a waste of resources. Therefore I have decided to risk all my efforts in finishing my papers rather than spending unnecessarily for a premature upgrade.

It will just distract my attention - especially knowing that I could play Sims 2 endlessly once my computer's processing speed significantly increases.

And so the last days of the semester begins. I would try my best to update my blog as religiously as I used to be. I should consider such postings a break from forceful creative thinking. When this is all over, I will upgrade my PC as promised. I will reward myself handsomely for a job well done. I will also have a major room clean-up and a wardrobe overhaul to prepare for the coming holidays.

For one last time before getting started with the business of closing the semester, I close my eyes to imagine my room all tidy after a day-long cleanup. Pressing the eject button, I put my Sims 2 Bon Voyage expansion cd in the DVD tray. My PC, which is twice as fast as what I am using today effortlessly load the game to the operating system.

I have the whole day for myself;

Me, finally getting a deserved rest.

How I wish 15 days could just happen in a blink of an eye.

Fully Booked

I slept at around 3 am last night.

And then I woke up at 10 am this morning. Since it was my day-off, I took all the leisure to oversleep until I realized that I have a Ramayana to finish and that I have an English 101 training to attend at work.

After finishing a chapter of the Indian classic, I slept again, only to wake up an hour before the training. So I hurried dressing up, asked the driver to drive me to work before going to Malate to renew our AUV's LTO registration.

The first day of training was a mere introduction to the entire course. Since Mami Athena edits my essay before I submit it to class, she knows that the training will benefit me well. Though, I did get some dubious remarks after some colleagues found out that I will be having that kind of training, I generally saw the training as a way of self improvement. Who cares if they find it ironic that I study creative writing in graduate school, while still displaying obvious lapses in grammar? At least the university sees my creative potentials even if I have shortcomings in the technicals of the language.

We still have five days to go before we complete the training.

---

At school, the requirements get more demanding as the semester draws near. In my Asian Literature class alone, the novels that we have to read (so we could submit a reaction paper a week after the book was required for us to read) get longer and more difficult to understand. The readings does not include the term paper we have to submit at the end of the semester.

On J. Neil's class, we are required to submit an essay on Wednesday about a review of anything interesting - whether it be a restaurant, film or concert. Last semester, I wrote a review about some gay hang-out places outside Malate and Makati, which the class (especially him) did appreciate.

This semester he asked me to write a review about a particular video game. Since I have always been a Sims 2 fanatic, I told him that I would be writing a review about that video game. It turns out, I have to outbid a classmate who also likes to do a review of Sims 2. If not for my claims that "I collected all its expansion packs in its original disk," Neil will not give the green light to me.

On my way home, I realized that Sims 2 could be my hidden passion. Now, I'm thinking of twisting my piece to address a gay readership. Who knows, it might be the missing piece that could end up in a book someday.

---

As the month comes to an end. I feel the school demands eating up my time. The pressure is building up, for I discovered that if I could finish this semester without any back subjects, I am already halfway towards completing my master's degree. When September begins on Saturday, work in the office will increase ten-fold. There will be no napping for me in the next two weeks. Tardiness, in any forms (including the "i'm-not-feeling well-maam-may-i-request-for-a-half-day-instead) will not work anymore. Cigarette and internet surfing breaks when bored will come to a complete stop.

And the night-outs and meet-ups... will have to be shelved out again. When I look at the worst projections, I am afraid that my social life will come to a complete stop. There is simply too much to do and to many things to finish that when you sum up your objectives, you begin to ask yourself where to get the superhuman ability to manage one's own time.

Even a seven-hour sleep becomes a luxury already.

Floor Filler (Just Thinking Out Aloud Sessions Six)

One of the things I really hate doing is delivering a report in front of the class.

I stutter most of the time, and to discourage myself from getting too conscious of myself, I have resolved to put some coins inside my shoes.

It works temporarily, but most of the time, my mind gets blank at the middle of an explanation. I have some problems too speaking in a foreign language so most of the time, I use Taglish to drive home my point.

Today, after preparing for my book report for two weeks, (it includes the very memorable trip back to Cloud 9) I will present the book in front of the class. Halfway towards completing the presentation materials, I sincerely hope that my presentation would be complemented well by my visual aids.

Good luck na lang sa akin.

Nevertheless, if teaching is part of my long-term vision someday; If I decide that UST or UP must really become part of my future, then I guess I have to get used to this.

How can I teach a rowdy class of forty, if I cannot deliver a presentation in a group of five professional students?

---

Epilogue:

I have done my report and I am not satisfied with my performance.

I have literally, read what I wrote on my guide. There was no explanation; i could only afford to mention the highlights of the story.

The entire class got bored, half of them almost fell asleep. I ate my words, I stuttered most of the time. Fortunately, the professor intently listened to what I was saying. She knows her subject very well you know, and I am fortunate that I chose her as my moderator. Literature has never been this fun before.

In the end, I realized that I am no good in public speaking. If I am a teacher, I would have driven half of the class to sleep. I know all it takes is practice. But when your performance is in question, how can you drive home your lecture, if you yourself do not know how to share your wisdom to others?

An Invitation

After the classes in my Creative Non-Fiction was concluded last night, Neil, my mentor approached me with an interesting invitation.

Prior to this, a classmate sought him to sign a copy of LadLad 2 of a friend, which apparently he co-authored. As he signed the book, I mentioned that I have been a non-straight for five years already, yet I don't have a copy of that book. He turned to me with a puzzled look and then returned to signing the book. As he was finishing his dedication, Neil remarked, "magkakaroon na kaya ng Ladlad 3?"

As we walked towards the door, he mentioned that he is planning to gather some budding gay writers and encourage them to contribute an essay about their hidden passions that they religiously keep. He said that the book aims to out these people in a manner, which does not really talk about their gay outing. Instead they will out their interests that define them beyond the stereotype.

Last night, amidst the criticism I receive every time we have a workshop in class, he invited me to become one of his book's contributors.

The invitation itself, knowing that it came from the great J Neil Garcia is enough to make any budding gay writer giggle with excitement. The invitation is a great honor considering that I never see myself worthy of publishing my own book, nor merely being included in any in the first place.

I should have felt what a typical writer would react when the invitation was handed down to him, but because of the fear that immediately overruled my thoughts, my initial reaction was.

"But sir, I don't know any hidden passion or interests I could think of."

My response was so anti-climactic diba?

The truth is, I really cannot think of anything as a passion. Unlike my other classmate who is gay (and a very prolific writer who submitted an essay about his fascination with old churches in the country as an informative essay), his interests in architecture and history are well defined. In fact, the essay that he submitted will be included in the book which Neil will publish.

I kept this classmate's essay in hopes that I could emulate his style and words one day. But as I reread it over last night, I realized that I do not have anything that could match his passion for churches.

I could talk about herbal gardening for all I want. I think that I am knowledgeable enough about plants that it could already be considered a passion. However, until I have successfully raised a plant on my own with the dedication and fervor that I used to have before, I guess that I have no right to share the inner Farmer Joms in me.

My familiarity with old-school alternative music can bring me closer to any straight or masculine guy that I can come across. I do know that only a few PLU can sing a Dishwalla or Smashing Pumpkin song by heart. This passion could be translated into a good story, but so long as I have not joined any groupie, I think that I am still lacking in spunk and character that drives home my passion in music.

I could write several anecdotes about my interests in expensive cars like Volvo or Jaguar, walking around the city and discovering a secret restaurant or shop that I can share to others, playing PC games like Civilization 4 or Sims 2 all day long and so on. When I think about these passions I intimately keep to myself, the problem of contributing an essay to the book is not an issue anymore.

I do not even see the repercussions of being outed because of the book an issue as well.

I think my fear all boils down to the fact that I might fall short of expectations when I start writing for my contribution piece. I am afraid that my passion will not be enough to convince me or whoever reader that would stumble upon my work that mine is genuine and my knowledge about my passion is wide and far-reaching.

So until my muses lend me the right words and thoughts to express, or my inner, higher writer emerges from its cocoon again, I will have to look for other passions, which I might be keeping in me. I have another month to convince myself and prove to the gods of my department that I am ready to join the ranks of being a writer.

The wish for my name to appear in a book can still remain a dream for now.