Afternoon Quarantine

Poetry by | March 8, 2021

It was almost dusk.
Filled with lethargy
and sitting on a carapace-themed chair,
I resigned.
I creatively died.

My core muscle aching.
My spirit wasted.
My corporal presence,
a washed, crumpled paperback coupon booklet,
is thrown into a bin.

Dazed and confused,
I look at the octothorpe-themed clock.
(tick, tick, tick, tick)
I then realized that the hours fade away
leaving me motionless and desolate.

As I lifelessly consume chips while on the couch,
An army of ants start their death march from their nest
heading towards my couch in search
for worthless morsels that fall into the ground

My mind feels hollower than an octothorpe on Twitter.
It keeps on numerously bootlegging original yet banal ideas.
I tried to sketch an exact replica of Michelangelo’s ‘Mona Lisa’
But turned out to sketch Kirk Van Houten’s ‘Dignity’.

I further attempted
to reinvigorate my moribund self
by consuming a plate of eggplant omelette
as I believed that through its nutritional benefits,
I will be rejuvenated.

But Alas, it instead turned my mind
into a peristeronic state,
vanilla like a pigeon’s dropping
or eggplant leaves in the summer
that wilt when unnurtured for.

My sense of creative sensibility is watering down
evoking a reverse Cana
turning wine into water
or from Sauvignon Blanc to plain cane vinegar.

I tried to out-muscle my physical limitation.
The atmosphere’s lethargy
however, chewed my motivation,
leaving me mentally immobilized and
also rendering me without a muscle nor a limb
to move or to spare.

***


David Paolo Brigole graduated at the University of Winnepeg with a BA English degree. He grew up and studied in Davao City during his primary years. His passion for poetry stemmed from when he used to play with words as a toddler. He is also passionate about drawing bizarre and beautiful objects and loves to indulge in gastrointestinal delights.

The Journey of Harriet Pat and Her Hat

Nonfiction by | March 8, 2021

Several years ago, I was uncertain where to begin my writing journey. Diving into the writing rollercoaster was overwhelming. Just imagine balancing balls of your ideas with what the reading market wants versus what the publishers expect, navigating the publishing industry, and securing the stability of your finances all in one act. At one point, you will be strained to make a decision and you might end up dropping one ball or two. The question is which one are you willing to sacrifice?

 

In my case, there was no doubt that I was keeping my ideas. I wanted my books to sell but I was more resolved in shaping up the stories in my head. I was unwilling to sacrifice the idea of writing the kind of children’s books that came to me ten years ago while reading to kindergarten students. During that time, I found myself nitpicking the books I used in my reading-aloud sessions. I entertained so many ‘unta’ (the closest translation was ‘I wish’). I wished that the book sizes were larger. I wished that they used bigger fonts that young learners can identify and teachers can read with ease. I wished that they used more vibrant colours. I wished rhythm and rhyme were applied. But my biggest ‘unta’ was wishing for serious life skills to be tackled as I have always believed that children were more perceptive than what we gave them credit for. It was frustrating how adults continued to think that we can put off revealing the harsh realities of our world to children, leaving them vulnerable when these realities hit them on moments when we were not around. As much as we wanted to shield them, children were bound to encounter these realities at some point. I felt that it was best to prepare them early on.

 

During that same period, I was specifically moved by someone very close to me who was pouring himself to make things possible for other people. It broke my heart how he sacrificed everything and left nothing for himself. Back then, I wished that he would hold back even just a little and also take care of himself as he was dangerously enabling others to rely on him so much. The more I thought of him, the more people came to mind. He was not alone. I knew so many others like him who were in the same predicament and who also never had the heart to say ‘no’ or ‘stop’ to those who repeatedly asked for help, to the point that they were taken advantage of.

It was while I was reflecting on how one’s excessive kindliness could breed dependency and subservience that Harriet Pat and Her Hat began to take form. Most children’s books would dabble into the values of helping others but will not dare touch that part of the narrative that discussed the possibility of ‘help’ being exploited. Adults would argue that children are not ready for these topics and such values can be taught later. At a mature age, restructuring values can become tricky however it can go a long way if introduced while still young. The best feature of children’s literature is converting big serious topics into more relatable or easier-to-digest messages by using the lens of a child. With the play of simple words and the lightness that illustrations offer, readers will become more receptive and the said topics will not materialize as being too heavy for children to comprehend.

 

My main character, Harriet Pat, was inspired by that loved one and all other people who selflessly helped others but have forgotten about themselves. These real-life Harriet Pats were heroes but what I really wanted was for people around these Harriet Pats to realize that anyone can be a hero by harnessing their uniqueness (and sometimes they just needed to be shown how). In the book, this uniqueness was represented by a hat – an object that can be made and then put on or taken off, thus an acquired characteristic that a person would consciously choose to create and wear.

 

I elaborated the concept further by injecting diversity with the use of varied names. The decision to use names that were ‘common’ in their respective regions came with the hope of emphasizing that every person was unique. I imagined that this can be a window of opportunity for acknowledging different cultural backgrounds where curiosity can pave the way for new knowledge. Maybe after being introduced to such names, readers will start wondering where they came from, what the people there were like, and what languages they used. They would become curious about other cultures and understand that each person is blessed with a set of characteristics that he or she can utilize for himself or herself.

 

Although I had most of the components set in place, completing Harriet Pat and Her Hat took several years to finish because I had many excuses and dilly-dallied on my decisions out of fear. I was immobilized by my doubts about whether people, other than my family, would be interested to read my book and by how others would perceive it. It was in my 9th year of playing around with the writing project that I finally decided to get the manuscript published. If there was anything that 2020 taught me, it was to stop putting things off and start making things happen. From there on, everything was a blur of movement. My only regret now is that I wasted more time worrying about my book’s reception than the actual time for work that I invested in creating it. On the bright side, this regret is fueling my drive to finish my next children’s book which again will dabble into a big serious topic such as depression.

 

Daniel Ceeline Ramonal,  is a Filipino dance anthropologist, artist, and writer currently based in Serbia. She completed a Bachelor of Arts in Speech Communication from the University of the Philippines and an International Masters in Dance Knowledge, Practice, and Heritage under the Erasmus Mundus Choreomundus program in Europe. She collaborates on various projects which have taken her from the Philippines to Bahrain, India, Tanzania, Hungary, Sierra Leone, France, UK, Morocco, and UAE. To get copies of Harriet Pat and Her Hat, the book is available in both physical and online shops of Central Books. Visit the FB page “The Book Den” for more information.

First sign of land

Poetry by | March 1, 2021

It’s not the flight
nor the landing, not
the wind
slightly fried slapping
at a chapped lip. In the upwind,
the hawk hovers
over new ground
for opportunity, the tides
of its lonely heart bared
against the elements. No,

not the humidity, the sudden
bright but the body. The skin
prickles like a tropical fruit
ripe from sun and swelling
of earth. It is, first,
the tongue flexing,
inside its shell, remembering
the brine that bore
its atrophied heart. From memory,
it calls green by names familiar –
lubi, tanglad, alugbati.
The kamunggay sheds gold
confetti in the rising winds,
home, land
at first sight.

Zola Macarambon is a professor at the Language, Humanities, and Philosophy Department, Capitol University in her hometown Cagayan de Oro City. She has fiction and poetry awarded, commended, and published in various national and international publications.

Words Keep Me (In)Sane: I Count Time By My Mania

Nonfiction by | March 1, 2021

Work 1: this sound is all that lingers, 2.4k words, Pining, No Dialogue

 

Everybody fears the outside. I write of storms, where the thunder and lightning are free to do as they please, where they reach places I’m afraid to want to visit again. I draft my first sentence in the middle of March during the lockdown, when school said we’ll be back by April 12 to have final examinations. Nobody cared, we just wanted to graduate. I draft my first paragraph, I’m still afraid. Teachers are silent even through online chats, and we are left to fend for ourselves. I turn to open a Word document, determined to at least add another word as testament to my nostalgia.

 

Pining: I want. There are relationships lost, conversations halted by distance, hands unheld, aches that I’m hoping are just strictly platonic; but how do I know which one to want first? Am I even given that much liberty? I’m aware I want so much that I still long for. How does one turn feelings into words? You don’t. You slap paper against your chest and hope the words bleed through your skin enough so they’d show in the print. No Dialogue: I have no one to talk to. This is evident in my drafts. The conversations are awkward, I have forgotten how one talks to people, Practice Makes Perfect but I don’t have anyone else.

 

“This sound is all that lingers” is the story proof of my maddening loneliness, my first supposed-upload, but I didn’t finish writing the story in March.

 

Work 2: summer all year round, 4.4k words, Pining

 

I turn 18. Does one choose celebration over limiting the budget so the family would last another week? I turn 18 and I pass UPCAT and some of my friends cry over their own rejections. I turn 18 and there is no pancit, no noodles, no anything that wishes me longevity. I’m lonely and afraid and I finish my first story and I upload it through a weak mobile data connection. I’m afraid. The story’s about wanting relationships and it reeks so much of longing the feeling urges me to immediately start drafting another story.

 

Pining, yet again: These are all the leftover wants I’ve kept buried. Part of these are thoughts of hands holding mine. I think of showing these wants to the world, of coaxing my vulnerability so it comes out to burn under the sun.

 

I finish and upload both stories.

 

Work 3: Take Him Mad, 5.3k words, Greek Myths

 

I start reading Donna Tartt’s The Secret History in hopes of distracting myself. I don’t listen to the news. The television stays off to reduce the bills— no internet connection, no means of reaching out. I have nothing but words and words and a surplus more of words. I find that I grow tired of it easily, that mothers are angered more easily when they’re alone and tired, that you can go mad without going insane; I find myself learning more reading more writing more.

 

Works 4, 5, 6: Greek Myths, a total of 27.3k words

 

“What about the internet connection?” “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.” The next day, our neighbor—my godmother, who remembered me only when I said I had passed UPCAT—gives me a piece of paper with a scribbled code and wishes me luck on college. I start classes and my hair is a blaze of orange dye. I hoped nobody would mind and they didn’t, and I don’t know why but I was a little disappointed. My mind has been empty for so long I struggled to wrap it around the fact that I’m studying again. My mother has a job now: she cooks for someone wealthier in the subdivision and she can afford all the pancit and spaghetti dishes I could ever want as compensation for their absence on my birthday. I don’t want any of them now. Every time she goes out I think of a better alternative to the simple “Take care.” I look for words and prayers that would protect her more than any masks could.

 

Thumbs aching and phone overheating, I know I obsess only because I write under a pseudonym, that I’m maniacally loud only because I have this mask. I learn that my case is called “touch starvation.” I’ve uploaded so many words in less than a couple of months. Writing has become a hobby, a love, and an ache. It keeps me awake long enough to write of the sunrises I witness through my window.

 

Work 7: Hymn Him Sun, Greek Myths, (?) words—Ongoing

 

I go online. I meet other writers and befriend other writers and find happiness with other writers. They’re all older than me but no one mocks me for writing fantasy fiction. They know we’re all in need of escapism, and we offer each other just that. I eat more and my mother is happier and I encounter a plot hole I can’t seem to solve. But despite the busyness I find myself in a state of lethargy, and I just can’t seem to make time for writing anymore. This is trouble; I have readers now. I have comments saying they are waiting for the next installment.

 

I like my course. I get to do what I’ve wanted to do for two years now. But even through this achievement, I’m still afraid and nervous and unsure. There are too many things going on and I’ve been too used to doing nothing. Characters stare at me from the drafts and I turn a blind eye, because I have to write other things now, because I have to prioritize academe now.

 

Everything’s emotionally and mentally the same except for the fact that I now know it hadn’t been platonic aching all along! It took me months to realize that I did not want just platonic hand-holding! I let out a laugh, bitter and cold and a little too throaty to be of mirth. For I honestly thought writing would help me, but I fear it has only served as a self-brewed concoction of what I have been missing. I’ve been tasting my own medicine this whole time.

 

But I am a writer, and in that I have not changed. The awareness of your own cowardice doesn’t magically turn it into courage. Guess what my latest work is about. I think the answer’s clear. Nothing has truly changed, after all, for still I long, I pine, I write.

Blessie Bruce is a BA English-Creative Writing student of UP Mindanao and a content writer specializing in real-person fiction as an outlet for writing exercises. Her work can be read on the website AO3 (Archive of Our Own).

My Last Prayer

Fiction by | February 22, 2021

 It was just a little after lunch and the sun was high up but the forest around felt colder as we ventured deeper, the trees felt as though they had eyes, looking directly at us from all directions, above, the tree branches served as a canopy for the whole area, casting grotesque shadows on the ground and in the river parallel to our path, each step we took wearied us down as though the very earth had little hands that gripped our feet. The wind howled and moved through the plants around, making them dance, I felt as though I was in the middle of some kind of strange ritual, no words were spoken among the three of us since the trip started. I wanted to rest, I wanted to stop, I wanted to turn back. But I couldn’t. I was the one who suggested this, I was the one who invited them, I was the one who asked for this.

A shadow, a sound, a movement in the thick bushes around, the forest seemed to play tricks on us. JC stopped abruptly halting the movement of the whole group. We stood there for what felt like ten seconds or a whole eternity. “Maybe we should rest here for a while,” Irene said. “No, I feel like there’s something bad here. Let’s rest when we get there,” JC replied. It was only two in the afternoon but the forest felt really cold, and my wet clothes gave me chills whenever the wind howled. My head was spinning and I felt like throwing up. I felt like there were chains attached to my feet, and it was the forest holding the handle at the other end of it. We have been walking for two hours but I had a feeling we weren’t any closer to our destination.

 A fork in the road appeared upon us. JC took a minute before deciding which way to go. The path we took went outside the forest and up a slope that was filled with jagged rocks, pain for my exposed foot. The skies opened before us but it was slowly turning gray, signaling rain. The road continued to a narrow path on the side of a mountain where we had to walk in single file, to the right was the face of the mountain, and to the left was a steep downward slope. We kept looking at the sky, praying that the rain wouldn’t come.  The path went down and into the forest again. It was the same forest but this part felt totally different. I felt like it was another world; I felt like it was from a different time, a time long past and forgotten. The trees were bigger, and there was a feel to them that made it seem like they moved every time we weren’t looking, their roots intertwined with everything on the ground, covering everything.

It was dark and I was sure it was close to dusk. Just a little further we walked, and there it was, the tree with the red stripe painted around its trunk, and to its right was the spring, it was dim but the water sparkled, we climbed upwards through the spring rocks, one little slip to what would be a dangerous fall but onwards we climbed, carefully planning each step. It should have been getting lighter because we were climbing upwards into the open space but the light remained the same; it seemed that the rain would pour any minute. My body felt so exhausted, every flex and contraction of my muscles caused me searing pain, and my feet felt like they had needles pinned to them but at last, we were there. Atop the spring rocks was a small cave, the darkness inside of which was a totally different kind of darkness and the light from our matches only managed to illuminate our hands. I felt for something in the darkness with my feet, a rock with a depression in its center that made it look like a moon crater. Beside the rock, was our destination.

“How long has it been, since we last saw you, John?” The words echoed in the cave and sounded like they were not words. The wooden cross beside the rock illuminated by the weak firelight had no words engraved in it, a marker with no name, it lay motionless and dead, like the person buried under the rocks beneath it, but I felt it calling out to me.  My knees finally gave out, maybe it was fitting for me to kneel before it, emotions and memories ran wild in my thoughts, JC and Irene stood there behind me, silent. In the quiet dark I kneeled, In the quiet dark I remembered. In the quiet dark, I started to pray.

__________________

 

Jose Francis R. Sycip is from Bukidnon. He is a 1st year Creative Writing major from the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

Ayuda in Five Acts

Nonfiction by | February 8, 2021

ACT ONE: Homecoming

By a stroke of luck, or divine intervention, I had a pre-scheduled trip home to Mindanao and was already armed with a plane ticket for March 14th. I had been studying at a university in Manila, and decided in early February that I needed a short break from the rigorous academics. Because of that spur-of-the-moment decision, I missed getting caught up in the Manila lockdown by mere hours; my flight was one of the last they allowed to take off. My grandmother and uncle met me at the Ozamiz airport, expressing their disbelief at how close I had gotten to waiting out the pandemic alone and in a city that did not speak my mother tongue.

But I had only traded one prison for another – a cage of smog and neon lights for a cage of the over-familiar. The moment I returned to my hometown, they put me in quarantine – a kinder word than ‘house arrest’, though similar in its rigidity. I was lucky enough to live just ten paces away from my extended family, so though I was a prisoner, I had fellow inmates willing to spend their afternoons playing badminton with me. For two weeks, I was content with watching shuttlecocks arc gracefully over my grandmother’s garden while outside our gates, the town became quieter and quieter.

And then, on the fourteenth day, I was informed that one of the people on my flight home had tested positive, and so my sentence was extended. We waited to see if I would end up on death row.

I paced aimlessly, a nameless, nebulous fear breathing down my neck. The virus had been a distant thing – someone else’s problem – but now it was knocking at my door. All too suddenly, the panic and apprehension that I had only seen on the news were now my own. Obituaries were only words until you recognized the names.

Every small cough was proof against my innocence. My family watched from afar as I obsessively monitored my temperature – the numbers that would determine my fate. Through it all, I could not find comfort in their arms; I was Judas in the garden and my kiss could doom them all.

Eventually, I was cleared of all charges. I did not lose my sense of smell, I did not get feverish, and my lungs did not collapse. But the rest of the world did.

No matter, I thought to myself, trying to scrounge up some inkling of hope as I watched a lone tricycle driver pedal down the empty road from my bedroom window. No matter. This, too, shall pass. 

ACT TWO: Perspective

It could have been worse. I heard it in the weary sigh of my dormmate, a probinsyano stuck in our sprawling dorm complex, doomed to numbly pace the hollow hallowed halls like an addition to its pantheon of ghosts and trickster elves. “I want to go home.” His voice cracked from the weight of his isolation. “I just want to go home.”

It could have been worse. I saw it in the unending march of Facebook posts across my timeline – ayuda, they called out in a colonizer’s language reclaimed, help. I send as much aid as I can to as many people as I can, and still here was another, and another, and another. Ayuda, ayuda, ayudame. Ayúdanos. 

It could have been worse. I felt it in the despair of my fellow citizens. They wasted away while the government wasted time, occupied with senseless nonsenses (many of their own invention). The masses took to the streets – organized, following all protocols, armed with righteous fury and cardboard signs. They were dispersed by the boys in blue whose father’s crimes still go unpunished. And across the country, I languished alone, my nails digging crescent-moon dents into my palms.

ACT THREE: A Video Call

“I know, I know, I miss you, too. It’s been too long since—yes, yes, I promise, after the lockdown, we’re going—okay, okay. How’s your boyfriend? What? What do you mean you broke up? When? Four months ago? Why didn’t you tell me? You could have at least called, you know! … I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m not used to not seeing you every week, I guess. I used to know you so well and now it’s… yeah. Yeah. I know. It’s not our fault. It’s been tough for everybody. Don’t apologize. Don’t be sorry. No, please don’t cry, it’s—Hello? Hello? … Damned PLDT.”

ACT FOUR: Perspective (Reprise)

And life went on. Lockdowns were lifted. People strolled leisurely through the park, their words muffled by cloth masks. I looked outside my bedroom window one day and, for once, was grateful to see traffic. I paid tricycle drivers twice as much as the usual fare, and I toasted to my stranded friends’ homecoming.

And life went on. On my flight home so many months ago, the pretty attendant had gestured to the place above our heads where the oxygen masks would drop down in case of an emergency. “Please mind your own mask first before tending to others,” she’d told us then, repeating the instructions from the laminated manual I had not bothered to pick up. I now understood that, sometimes, the best advice you could ask for can be found on the back of an airplane’s safety information card.

And life went on. Classes were now held online, substituting blackboards with laptop screens, and chalk with Google Docs. I was hounded by deadlines and requirements, but it was better than being hounded by fear.

Still, some days, I found myself counting how many times my classmates got disconnected from a Zoom meeting. I counted how many times they apologized for slow signals and brownouts. I watched news of jeepney drivers begging for food, frontliners begging for hazard pay, teachers begging for time. Because life went on – but not for all of us.

ACT FIVE: Respite

We went to the beach last week. When our car stopped at the edge of the surf, my young cousins were quick to remove their clothes and stumble into the shallows, heedless of their mothers’ cries of, “You forgot your sunblock!” One cousin dove at the other, their small heads disappearing under the murky water for a few seconds before they resurfaced, guffawing. I couldn’t help but smile. I had forgotten how sweet laughter sounded under an open sky.

“Are you coming?” my grandmother asked.

“Maybe later,” I said, and kissed her cheek.

I sat back, watching her wade into the ocean, her little body cutting through the waves with ease. The sun was scorching my skin; I imagined it burning away the paleness I had acquired in my eight months of captivity. I breathed in, out, in, out. I tasted salt on my tongue, felt the sea breeze toying with my hair.

The sea stretched on, farther and farther, into the blue horizon. And though the tide had pulled away, I knew it would always come back to the shore.

 

Kyndra Lei “Kyle” Yunting is from Zamboanga del Sur and currently a BA English student of UP Mindanao. She credits her passion for writing to reading the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series at a formative age, and also to her high school paper adviser.

 

Maria Al Qibtiyya

Fiction by | February 1, 2021

(For All The Sitties And Josephs)

Forgive me, Mother, for I may have sinned. I am with someone.

You taught me to cover my head, which I followed all through my adult life. But one morning I grew impatient. I discovered it was less stifling to let loose some strands of hair. The wind was cold, so I let it through.

Sinned, in the language of Baba. But you, you did not teach me to guard my heart. You encouraged me, in your silence, to find happiness as long as I kept my virtue, especially my faith. I am keeping my word. Would sin then include welcoming into the fold a man who has willingly embraced our beliefs and customs? That he and I shall serve the Almighty together. I am always to remember that Jannah1 is beneath a husband’s feet.

[Photo by Jhoanna Lynn B. Cruz]

Forgive me, Mother, for I may have failed you. I chose someone for myself.

I know the story of Umm Sulaym and Abu Talhah2. I learned how she was told it was better for her that Allah guided one person to Islam through her. I followed the honorable woman of the past like a dutiful daughter. I know the standards, beginning with a man’s religious commitment, seconded by his attitude and then physical attributes and financial ability. Most importantly, I am empowered by our faith to choose my own husband.

I chose well, I must say. Would you still think me as a failure when he has passed the test?

You made sure I was wrapped with royalty. I assure you the sound of the kulintang follows me everywhere. Once, when I visited his home to meet everyone, I thought I heard an agong cheering me on.

They too are royalty. They talked casually about their jobs at topmost government offices and trips to Europe. I saw attractive wood carvings and fine china. The decorations on that particular December night were so refined I invoked Astagfirullah3 for yet again appreciating the season. I invoked Astagfirullah many times as I let myself hum along Christmas carols that danced around me.

How sophisticated they are and well-mannered, the crowd in Montiya would surely be mesmerized. They said my hijablooked delicate and beautiful as my skin. Would you feel betrayed if I say I like them better than some of our inquisitive relatives?

Mother, I wear my dignity like a crown. He has committed himself to Allah so that he can marry me.

Would you dispute the holy words now and blindly call me a sinful woman or a failure of a daughter?

Hear me. Hear this verse as it was constantly recited in the halls of matrimony, “And among His Signs is this, that He created for you mates from among yourselves, that you may dwell in tranquility with them, and He has put love and mercy between your hearts.”

Mother, I have already made up my mind. Please bless us with your consent and acceptance.

 

 

Notes:

1 Paradise. Islam says a woman who prays her 5 obligatory prayers, fasts during Ramadan, and honors and respects her husband may enter Paradise by any of its gates she wishes. Islam likewise teaches the equal obligation of men to live with their wives in kindness and devotion—“the best among you are those who treat their wives well.”

2 One of the finest men in Madeenah during Prophet Muhammad’s time. He converted to Islam to marry Umm Sulaym.

3 Invocation for repentance

Arifah Macacua Jamil was raised in Lanao del Sur. She graduated from the BA English program of UP Mindanao. Currently based in Manila, she likes to talk to children.

 

Dili Nato Pugson Atong Kaugalingon sa mga Butang nga Dili para sa Atoa

Fiction by | January 18, 2021

 

I. Quirino Avenue

Dumarating ang oras na iyon, hindi mo kailanman inanyayahan, ngunit dumarating. Tulad, halimbawa, isang gabi noong Enero 2015 habang nag-aabang ka ng masasakyang jeep mula Quirino Avenue patungong Mintal matapos makipagkita sa dalawang kaibigan. Sadyang mahaba ang paghihintay at sadyang punum-puno ang trapiko sa lungsod – maging sa sariling utak, sintindo, at kamalayan.

Inilabas mo ang iyong cellphone, sinubukan kung makakaya ng kamera nitong bihagin ang sandali sa espasyo ng lungsod kung saan nagdidigmaan ang dilim at panglaw. Malugod mong tatanggapin ang mumunting liwanag ng anino ng mga nagdaraang sasakyan kahit na pilit mong itinatago ang iyong mukha. At saka mo sasabihin sa sariling, “Ngayong gabi, maalinsangan, pinalalaya na kita.”

 

II. Bago Oshiro-Mulig-Manambulan-Calinan

Ipinapalagay ng isang historyador at mananaliksik na Hapones na ang kalawakan ng Bago Oshiro, Mulig, Manambulan, at Calinan ang siyang sinaunang pinaglagakan ng abaca sa dalawang bugso ng pananakop ng mga Amerikano at Hapones sa Mindanaw. Ang plantasyon ang isa sa mga itinuturong dahilan sa tuluyang pagkatiwalag ng mga Bagobo sa kanilang yutang kabilin.

Kung sakaling babaybayin ang ruta ng Bago Oshiro, Mulig, Manambulan, at Calinan gamit ang bisikleta, malalantad ka sa isang daigdig na hiwalay sa kung ano ang nahahagip ng mata sa sentrong bahagi ng lungsod. Malayo sa nagtataasang gusali, maingay na busina ng sasakyan sa trapiko, at epidemya ng sibilisasyon na sa halip na maging makatao ay higit na nagdudulot ng karahasan.

Magsisimula ka sa pagbibisikleta sa Bago Oshiro, babagtasin ang lagusan mula Mintal patungong Toril at saka liliko sa daanan patungong Mulig. Masyadong mahaba ang kinakailangang tahakin na daanan sa bahaging ito. May mga sandaling mapapatigil ka na lang, uupo sa lilim ng puno ng aratilis na humahangos at tumatagaktak ang pawis, at mumultuhin ng realisasyong hindi ka sapat. Hindi ka sapat. Sa pananaliksik, pagtuturo, pangangarap, at pangingibig, hindi lahat ay nananatiling sapat. Patuloy kang tinitimbang ngunit lagi’t lagi, nagkukulang.

Matapos makapahinga, magpapatuloy ang iyong pagpadyak sa bisikleta hanggang Manambulan. Matatarik ang bangin at daanan, walang pangalan ang mga kalye, at tila walang hanggan pa ang babaybayin. Halos isang oras pa na pagpadyak bago mo marating ang Calinan, ngunit hindi mo iindahin ang pakiramdam ng pagod. Sa buhay at pagpadyak sa pedal ng bisikleta, mahaba at pasikot-sikot ang daanang nagbibigay imbitasyon at kumikiling sa pagiging manhid.

Minsan ay dadalawin ka ng isang panaginip: Nasa isang hindi pamilyar at lumang silid ka sa Calinan, walang damit, tumakbo ka ng tumakbo paalis ng silid at nagpatuloy hanggang sa marating mo ang highway na siyang nagdurugtong sa Davao at Bukidnon. Walang tao sa paligid, mapanglaw ang langit, tiningnan mo ang iyong katawan, heto sa balikat ang nunal ng pagnanasa, nasa kaliwang hita ang pilat ng paglimot, at nasa talampakan ang marka ng pangungulila. Ilang saglit pa, tatawa ka ng malakas na malakas. At ang tawang iyon ay para sa lahat ng hindi marunong tumawa.

 

III. Bangkerohan

Matingkad sa alaala mo ang sandaling iyon noong Hulyo 2014, unang araw mo sa lungsod, at napatigil ang sinasakyan mong taksi sa Bangkerohan River. Pamilyar ka sa hugis at anyo ng ilog lalo na’t ilang beses na itong itinampok sa mga pelikulang piniling gawing lunan ang marahas na espasyo nito na nagkakanlong sa iba’t ibang kulay ng krimen sa lungsod. Sityo ang ilog ng prostitusyon ng mga maralitang bata na sa murang edad ay nalantad na sa mga usaping seksuwal sa Imburnal habang ito ang altar ng krimen sa Sheika kung saan pinatay ang dalawang magkapatid na naging biktima ng mapaniil na sistema ng droga at kahirapan.

Isang gabi, matapos makipagtalastasan sa harapan ng gintong likido ng alak – animo’y bumubulang luha mula sa pingas na bibig ng bote – nasumpungan mo ang sarili kasama ang ilang kaibigan sa palengke ng Bangkerohan. Bulcachong ang sagot sa mga gabing tanging alak ang iyong kaniig. Bulcachong ang hihigupin sakaling lango ka sa paghahanap ng kahulugan at sagot. Bulcachong ang pupuno sa lahat ng pagkakasala ng lungsod. Bulcachong ang simula at wakas.

 

IV. UP Mindanao

Malaki ang naitulong ng Unibersidad sa iyong paglago bilang tao. Marami kang natutunan sa mga tao na nakasalamuha mo rito – kaibigan, katrabaho, at estudyante. Kung kaya sa tuwing may nagtatanong kung bakit sa UP Mindanao ka nagtuturo, ang sinasagot mo ay bakit nga ba hindi?

Ngunit isang tanong iyon mula sa iyong ina, “Hindi ka pa ba uuwi dito sa atin sa Laguna?”

Isang beses na bumisita ang nanay at kapatid mo sa siyudad, inihatid mo sila sa paliparan pauwi ng Maynila ngunit hanggang sa gate ka lamang ng gusali ng paliparan. At saka mo nadatnan ang sariling nakatayong mag-isa sa paliparan, hindi lilisan o nagbabalik, kundi naghihintay lamang sa paglipad ng eroplano.

 

 V. Roxas

Apat na punto ang maaari sandigan sa pagharaya sa Roxas. Apat ang maaaring maibigay dahil bumubuo ang apat na sulok nito ng isang kahon, iba sa pagiging limitado at panaklong, kundi dahil sa tatag nitong tumayo mula sa pagkakaroon ng apat na dako.

Unang punto:

Maaari mong libutin ang Roxas kasama si J — at papanoorin mo kung papaano niya kikilatisin ang mga paninda sa night market. Maibubulong mo sa iyong sarili, narito sa harapan ko ngayon, ang tao na gusto kong makasama habang buhay. Natagpuan ko na siya. Ngunit ang pinakamasaklap na realisasyon sa lahat, hindi sapat ang pagharaya. Hindi maikukulong ng bibig sa bibig at kamay at ari ang pagsinta.

Pangalawang punto:

Lalakarin mo ang kahabaan ng kalye habang tuliro hinggil sapagdidiskurso sa pinanood na pelikula, at ilang sandali pa ang lilipas, maririnig ang isang malakas na malakas na pagsabog. Uulan ng pulbura mula sa langit, tataghoy ang hangin, at magkukumpulan ang mga katawan sa daanan. Nag-aanyaya ang mga apoy ngunit magpapatuloy ka sa paglalakad ng mabilis, ng mabilis na mabilis. Bumabagsak na ang mga apoy mula sa bulalakaw at hindi sapat ang pananampalataya sa iisang tao.

Pangatlong punto:

Minsan, naisipan mong tumungo sa Roxas ng mag-isa.Umupo sa hagdanan sa entrance ng isang unibersidad doon at saka tanawin ang lahat ng nahahagip ng mata. Nakakalula ang kawalang hanggahan ng lahat.

Pang-apat na punto:

Napapalitan lamang ang pangalan ng mga nakaupo ngunit iisa ang mukha at anyo ng pang-aabuso at paniniil. Hindi titigil ang mga ibon sa pagdapo sa Roxas hangga’t hindi napapawi ang pananamantala. Magpapatuloy ang paghuni ng mga ibon hangga’t hindi naibabalik ang mga nawawala. At walang hanggan ang paglipad ng mga ibon kahit na walang pakpak.

 

VI. Bajada

Hindi lamang minsan ngunit malimit kang makaramdam ng lungkot. At sa tuwing dinadalaw ka nito, pinipili mong magpakaligaw-ligaw sa ibang bahagi ng siyudad. May panahong nagtutungo ka sa coffee shop sa Bajada kasama ang ilang kaibigan at saka kayo mag-iiyakan tungkol sa lahat ng sama ng loob sa isang daigdig na tila hindi ninyo mawari ang galaw at timbang. O kaya ay ang magbasa ng mga lumang libro sa BookSale at saka manood ng sine. O maaari rin naming magpakalasing sa Secret Shop at Laysa’s upang mapawi kahit papaano ang sama ng loob. At pagkatapos ay kakain ng pares sa Comedor.

Ngunit kapag tapos na ang lahat, kapag wala na ang lahat, mararamdaman mong muli ang pag-iisa.

 

VII. Mintal

Paborito mo ang mga gabing payapa kung kailan marahan, banal, at sagradong dumadaloy ang mga sandali. Habang nakahiga sa kama sa iyong nirerentahang silid sa Mintal, iniisip mo ang iba’t ibang posibilidad at pagkakataon ng pamamalagi sa lungsod. Nariyan ang mga plano sa pananaliksik at pagtuturo, ang pagbili ng lupa sa Marilog kung saan maaari kang magtanim, at ang pagtanda sa lugar kasama ang ilang kaibigan at mga iniingatang gamit. Isang tahanan ang Mintal. Isa itong tahanang malayo mula sa pinagmulan.

 

VIII. Francisco Bangoy International Airport

 13 Marso 2020. Bitbit ang isang maliit na bag na mayroong laman na kakaunting gamit, nagtungo ka sa Francisco Bangoy International Airport dahil sa nalalapit na lockdown na ipapataw ng gobyerno bunsod na rin ng lumalalang pandemya ng CoViD-19. Punum-puno ng pangamba at walang katiyakan ang lahat – maging ang nagsasala-salabid na hibla ng buhay at kamatayan.

Sa loob ng eroplano, habang umaakyat na ito sa himpapawid, tanaw sa labas ng bintana ang kalmado na gulpo ng Davao, naaarawang mapunong isla ng Samal, banayad na daloy ng buhay sa siyudad, at saka ka bumuntong-hininga. At sa isang iglap, dahan-dahang maglalaho ang natatanaw sa lawas ng mga ulap. Tulad ng isang alaala.

 

Kasalukoyang nagtuturo sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas si Jay Jomar F. Quintos. Isa siyang manunulat at filmmaker.