Observations of a Drinking Man

Nonfiction by | November 18, 2007

If I lie down Saturday afternoons in front of the TV, flipping cable channels – I’m alright. Or, if I close my eyes until the feeling goes away, and wake up at the exact moment my wife is serving dinner – I’m safe.

But the moment I venture out of the house, whether on an errand or after a phone call from a friend – I’m in trouble. The first shots offered are always refused. They are merely bait, dangled by istambays and kanto boys so that I will have the privilege of paying for whatever they’re drinking.

No, the first shot is best savored with a friend (usually the one who called.) The battleground is his sala or front porch with corned beef and lunch leftovers for pulutan, amidst loud laughter or whispering if the misis is around.

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Breakwater Girls

Poetry by | October 28, 2007

Little girls, little girls
Dancing by the breakwater
Their faces bloated like balloons
With electric plugs tucked behind their ears
Their eyeballs starting to fall from their sockets
Smiles turn to sneers
Maggots crawl all over their skin
Skin and bones visible through the naked eye
Blood on their clothes never lie
And whenever people pass the breakwater by midnight
Little girls with decayed teeth, torn-out clothes, electric plugs by their side and holes in their chests
Will come out to play with you
And make you wish they were locked in their baggage.

Kyouka Suigetsu / Mirror Flower, Water Moon

Nonfiction by | October 28, 2007

All your life you believe that you are happy, that everybody in the world is content with his own life. You believe that there is no such thing as being two-faced. You believe that people are like you, gentle and kind. When something bad happens, you forget that incident; that information is stored in a place where nobody else knows. All of you live in a lie and create a façade to cover up the grime. But what you don’t know is that the world mirrors the way you act and the lies slowly begin to build up. These days, the entire world is simply one big fat lie, hiding behind a mask that shows luxury, wealth and happiness. We’re all living in one great illusion, which we all believe is reality.

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Maharlika 23

Fiction by | October 28, 2007

Excerpt from the author’s ongoing scifi epic narrative Maharlika 23.

In a parallel dimension, the eon Sun glistens over Maharlika City, a strategic metropolis in a continent of planet Erthe. It is another morning in the year 2276 for its 3 million inhabitants, considerably among the largest urban areas by 23rd century Erthean standards. The city is an eclectic profusion of newly evolved Ertheans aggrupating from the various continents of the planet, and of interstellar representatives as well. With other metropolises, it is a pilot area for the immersion phase program of Erthe Federation and the Confederacy of Interstellar Citizens (CIC). The city is a virtual melting pot of intergalactic cultures with 4th Dimensional and 5D-evolving SUPERbeings.

Grand Old Man, intimately referred by the local inhabitants to a nearby volcanic mountain, is a silent witness to the growth of the populace. Rising from the terrain ranges of the city’s backdrop, the forests below its revered peaks reflect the early morning sprinkles as they slowly roll down the landscape and into the gulf boundaries of the sea. The evergreen blanket surrounding the city, its profusion of flora and fauna with remarkable species once dubbed endangered yet reviving to a healthy population, attests to the success of a conservation program implemented by Erthean ancestors centuries ago and had since survived even after the Great Upheaval (GU).

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Watch-your-car

Fiction by | October 21, 2007

By the time Jheric got to the car, it was too late. The blue Toyota Corolla had already backed out of its space. Its window rolled down a notch and Vhong’s hand reached out for the coins. Then the car was on its way out of the supermarket parking lot.

“Hey! That was my customer! You know it was!” Jheric shouted.

“Ha! Early bird and all that, runt!” Vhong said. He jangled the coins in his hand.

“It’s mine! It’s mine!”

Vhong held Jheric back at arm’s length. Jheric flailed but his hands barely even reached Vhong’s shoulder. A small crowd of boys had gathered around them. “Go, Jheric! Give him what for!” They laughed. Vhong pushed Jheric. Jheric fell on his butt.

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Usaping Uring-Pinanggalingan

Nonfiction by | October 21, 2007

Kahirap namang kadiskurso ang mga kasama. Sinabi nang hindi pesante at hindi ptb ang uring kinabibilangan ko. Aba, nagsitawa lang sila. Ang lolo ko lang ang uring magsasaka, gentle peasant stock iyon, mind you, pero ang nanay ko, pagkatapos iwanan ang lasenggerong tatay ko at umuwi sa nilakihang baryo na pinagsanglaan ng bahay, lote, at sakahan ng lolo at lola ko, magsasakang manggagawa po, talaga. Ako at ang mga kapatid at pinsan ko, lumpen na magsasaka. Nagnanakaw kami ng tubo, bayabas, singkamas, nangka, pakwan, tinaliang manok, at ligaw na pato; nag-iihaw ng dalag, hito, palaka, aso, at nakikipagbakbakan sa mga anak ng sanggano sa baryo. (Nung nagsilakihan, meron naging sundalo, pulis, CHDF; merong naging titser, madre, weytres, prosti, maid sa HK; merong naging holdaper, inte, at traysikel drayber. Pero di ko na iyon ipinaalam sa mga kasama.) Kahit anong paliwanag ko, ayaw maniwala ng mga kasama. Sa urban poor communities raw matatagpuan ang mga lumpen, hindi sa farming villages. Maiiling sila na matatawa. Iba na raw talaga ang nakapag-aral ng Literatura, nakakaimbento ng sariling mga kategorya.

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Boob Tube Monologue

Fiction by | October 14, 2007

My little brother returned home two days ago from Diliman for the vacation. Now, he sits beside me while I navigate the channels to check what television networks have in store for the summer.

Not a minute passes that David says, “I don’t like that they call our generation the Generation Y.”

I turn to look at David. Only eighteen years of age, a year younger than I, and having to spend two of those years in that university, and look now what he thinks the world is doing to him.

“It’s a slap to our face that we are named so because we have a predecessor that was labeled Generation X. It’s that structuralism thing. You are named this because you are after that. Blah…blah…blah…”

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War Diary

Nonfiction by | October 14, 2007

(Excerpted from the book Diary of the War: WWII Memoirs of Lt. Col. Anastacio Campo by Maria Virginia Yap Morales, published by Ateneo de Manila University Press, Quezon City, 2006)

Grandfather is remembered as the provincial commander Capt. Anastacio Campo (provincial inspector) of Davao, his last assignment before he retired after twenty-four years of military service in December 1939. He was farming when Davao was bombed by the Japanese forces. He promptly joined the United States Army Forces in the Far East (USAFFE) which was organized by Pres, Franklin Delano Roosevelt in July 1941. At that time, the Philippines was in a transition period called the Philippine Commonwealth under U.S. rule. Grandfather was promoted to major during the war. He finally retired thereafter, in July 1948, with an upgraded rank of lieutenant colonel.

After the war, Grandfather lost the strength of both of his legs and walked with the aid of a cane. But he always stood tall and lean, with a straight back owing to his military training. He had deep-set and attentive eyes, a tall nose, and a calm manner. He was fondly called “Tacio” by my Grandmother Remedios whom he called “Meding.” All of us grandchildren called him “Lolo Tacio.”

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