It is what it is

Books for breakfast

2012-03-07T02:38:00.002+08:00

Yesterday

[one love affair] by Jenny Boully

Today

Post-colonialism and Filipino Poetics, by J. Neil Garcia

Books for breakfast

2012-02-23T08:43:00.000+08:00

Today's menu

life.after.theory: Toril Moi (edited by Michael Payne and John Schad)

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Can I claim Toril Moi and Virginia Woolf and Gayatri Chakraborty Spivak as my mothers too?

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In other news, L is back, safe and sound, from Singapore; we had a nice chat last night about postcolonialism-as-lived--inevitable, really, once you've come back from a place outside our own--the PC experience being the current project I'm trying to approach, sideways.

Writing now, at my age, is living--this is life-after-theory for me. And yes, it's a big deal, having been a female Filipino Philosophy student who had, at first, studied, and then lived, and thought in terms of theory all these years, impatient for the real thinking to begin. And then life happened, and thought gave away and disappeared, and now there's writing, which is also thought.

Now I see why I couldn't have continued the Philosophy after college (and didn't). Now I'm glad I didn't, because I think it's probably one of the major reasons why it's taken me this much time to live what for me is a human life.

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I had chosen my college course to enlist for a course on Philosophy of Woman, which, of course, was not offered during the four years I sat through the course. I heard that it was taught (or there were plans of having it taught)--by a man (likely a priest).

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A certain 'male-ness' and 'female-ness' in ways of thinking, of writing. I feel guilty thinking and describing lived experience in these terms. But what other words are possible to describe?

Books, books, books today

2012-02-20T20:12:00.000+08:00

Menu

Postcolonialism and Filipino Poetics: Essays and Critiques, by J. Neil Garcia
A Spivak Reader, by Gayatri Chakraborty Spivak

Books in Bed

2012-02-20T10:21:00.001+08:00

Menu

21st Century Modernism: The "new" Poetics, by Marjorie Perloff

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Khlebnikov. And how sound becomes a name, i.e.,

"The word leads a double life. Sometimes it simply grows like a plant whose fruit is a geode of sonorous stones clustering around it; in this case the sound element lives a self-sufficient life...At other times the words is subservient to sense, and then sound ceases to be "all-powerful" and autocratic; sound becomes merely a "name" and humbly carries out the commands of sense..." ("On Contemporary Poetry," 1920; Khlebnikov 1987:373, cited in Perloff, p. 139)

Alam na.

Books, books, books

2012-02-17T17:55:00.001+08:00

Today's menu

life.after.theory: Jacques Derrida, Frank Kermode, Toril Moi, Christopher Norris (edited by Michael Payne and John Schad)

A Spivak Reader, by Gayatri Chakraborty Spivak

Seeing

2012-02-17T00:56:00.000+08:00

So.

The draft of the poetics essay has been written, and comments obtained, mainly from someone I respect very, very much. And he identified the thing that made me increasingly uncomfortable while I was completing the draft (even though I didn't mention it): That is: To write as I do now is a good thing, but it has remained insular. If I truly believe that writing helps me escape from my ego, I haven't really been able to escape it completely, or even very well.

I think this is partly due to the fact I didn't have the skill to write about the other, or about things that matter. But, as it turns out, it is also because I doubt I can be able to write persuasively from an other's point of view. This would be a failure in imagination, wouldn't it? And the reason behind this failure to imagine is a decision not to attempt to find a way of re-imagining one's reality (which is all in one's head).

The classes in psychological realism in fiction have helped me move beyond the place where I started writing (which is the concern of a particular mind). And this entire experience of studying creative writing might actually help me engage with society instead of continually failing to do so.

It's funny how writing continually reveals to me the weaknesses in my own thinking and behavior, and pushes me toward confronting them, once and for all.

Accountability Report

2012-02-17T00:13:00.000+08:00

So.

Hello, February. Two new poems; pretty solid--though I need to work on one a little bit more.

But the year's first published work is an old (though unpublished, un-workshopped) poem I'd been planning to send out to an international market.

But a friend got to it first.

It now appears on page 7 of the Valentine's issue of the Philippine Collegian. Many thanks to Kule and Glenn Diaz for publishing it. Glenn's poem appears on page 6; and his column about Adele is on page 10.

Books for Breakfast & Bed

2012-02-10T09:14:00.001+08:00

Menu

21st-Century Modernism: The "New" Poetics, by Marjorie Perloff

Once again, something I appreciate very much; may lead to third project.

After reading the second chapter (Gertrude Stein): I understand Lydia Davis much better. And I think I now know what I and a couple of other people are/have been attempting. (Yes, I don't know much of what I've been doing. Which is a good thing, apparently, at least according to Stein.)

And dear members of my self-baptized School of Colegiala Poetry: Meet Lola Gertrude, our other mother (the first mother, being Mother Superior--haha).

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Also: The eroticism of Stein's "chair and plenty of breathing." Wow.

Books for breakfast

2012-02-06T14:08:00.000+08:00

Philippine Food & Life, by Gilda Cordero Fernando

Got this at a steep discount from the publisher last December. It's pure poetry--that's all I can say about it. I think GCF writes best when she writes about culture.

This, and History of the Burgis, and The Body Book and The Soul Book, were the books I grew up with. They don't seem to have aged at all--but I have.

Disjointed thoughts over breakfast

2012-02-02T10:18:00.004+08:00

Yesterday, we took up Graham Greene's The Basement. Chary Lucero confessed that it had been the story that had pulled her back to write something after 20 years of silence. All those 20 years spent raising children.

During this period of silence, NVM Gonzales had pulled her aside one day and asked, "Why aren't you writing?" And she said, "I can't seem to write like you anymore." NVM said, "There's only one NVM Gonzales."

It was obvious she treasured that encounter, because NVM was, in his own way, telling her, "There's only one of you, Chary Lucero."

The punchline, as she took it was: "Write like yourself."

But it also meant, "You'll never write like me, NVM Gonzales."

*
The more I think about it, the more I realize that many "established writers"where I come from go through a period of silence. Yesterday, Chary Lucero's confession; a few weeks back, Butch Dalisay's (before writing the noir story he shared with our class, he said he'd been silent for 10 years or so.) Maybe many established writers around the world go through that too (ex. Louise Gluck; George Oppen).

But I wonder whether people here stop writing not only because they are busy raising money or children, but because establishment has elevated the activity of writing into a kind of high art that only a rare breed of individuals can practice--simply because these are the people who have proven themselves worthy of practicing this art. That the only kind of writing that's acceptable--that's literature--is to write "like NVM".

So that those who can't seem to write like NVM simply give up. And raise money or children or plant camote instead.

Good for Chary Lucero that NVM was able to tell her what he did.

But what about the others who aren't so lucky?

*

"It's the natural law of attrition." -- That's what my supervisor at the law firm said, when I mentioned that some new graduates were worried about the firm's high turnover rate. The unspoken assumption being that the ones who remained were the best (the smartest, the most competent, the most hardworking) and most deserving--the ones who bail out weren't worthy of remaining in the firm, or making partner.

But see, the ones who do remain are not necessarily the best or most deserving--only the ones who were perceived to serve the firm's interests best. Some of the really good lawyers opted out, unable to take the internal politics, the law firm "culture" that demanded face time in addition to office hours, that deified the woman lawyer who goes to office even as she is already in labor (true story; held up as a model to be emulated).

Every associate serves the firm's interest by making money for the firm. Where I used to work, each associate was required to turn in at least 7.5 billable hours of work everyday (I usually turned in 4 or 5 hours more than that)--which doesn't seem like much, but is, when you factor in the time one needed to waste to instruct your secretary or the messenger, chit-chat with office mates over lunch, or with a lonely law-firm partner in need of comfort, or attend one of those endless non-billable meetings you were required to attend for "professional development"--things you needed to do to build friends and allies within the firm. And you needed those allies. Otherwise, it would take you 13 instead of 6 years to make partner. If you ever got to be partner at all. (Some who stay on never do.)

*
But what purpose does it serve to facilitate such attrition when writing is concerned? To make it seem that everyone ought to write like NVM Gonzales, or not write at all? Whose interest does it serve to get rid of the beginners who seem like so much dead weight?

I suppose nature has its own wisdom, and one simply follows the natural law. Let only the fittest survive.

But what if the old law office is neither efficient nor effective? What to do with voices that do not fit, but require guidance, nevertheless?

What if the establishment churns out brilliant writers, who then stop writing, silenced by the establishment's demands, and their own interior discomfort with the system?

The assumption that those who stop writing are weak and never were meant to write in the first place might just be as flawed.

*

What do you want from me? the teacher asks the troublesome student, What?

*
From where I stand, most students seem to be interested in figuring out his or her (writing) intentions. What am I trying to say? Am I saying it effectively? There will always be something in canon that resembles their latent desire, their hidden intention--but they do not realize it yet.

And so I wonder whether it is the best way to browbeat young writers into believing they cannot write literature--I suspect many of them are not thinking about themselves as writers-of-literature. Most likely, they are only thinking of learning how to do something they love (or read and enjoy). Some are more advanced or ambitious than others. But I believe this (learning how to write, because they love writing) is the starting point.

*
But I suppose, if you are already in a graduate studies program for creative writing, you ought to be concerned about writing literature. The school is the cradle of establishment, after all.

That, or you're interested in subverting establishment, and are on some strange quest to know it intimately first (know its weaknesses, etc. etc.). But there is always a risk that before you can even do this, you'll be eaten alive by the very monster you are trying to subvert. Besides, it's too much effort, requires too much time. Who has the time or energy to wage a guerilla war? Why even do that? We are all already dying. Better to spend the rest of our days making the stuff we believe in, creating the things we love.

*

A guerilla war. It's pointless when your starting point is love--love for literature, love for creating through the written word. It saddens me when pedagogy couches even the act of writing, the vocation of writing, the craft of writing, in terms of war--in the language of natural law.

Autotomy, by Wislawa Szymborska (1923-2012)

2012-02-02T08:58:00.001+08:00

In danger, the holothurian cuts itself in two.
It abandons one self to a hungry world
and with the other self it flees.

It violently divides into doom and salvation,
retribution and reward, what has been and what will be.

An abyss appears in the middle of its body
between what instantly becomes two foreign shores.

Life on one shore, death on the other.
Here hope and there despair.

If there are scales, the pans don't move.
If there is justice, this is it.

To die just as required, without excess.
To grow back just what's needed from what's left.

We, too, can divide ourselves, it's true.
But only into flesh and a broken whisper.
Into flesh and poetry.

The throat on one side, laughter on the other,
quiet, quickly dying out.

Here the heavy heart, there, non omnis moriar--
just three little words, like a flight's three feathers.

The abyss doesn't divide us.
The abyss surrounds us.

Notes from Last Week: Yesterday, Today, & Tomorrow

2012-01-21T06:05:00.002+08:00

[I thought I'd posted this last week, but just found out I'd just saved it as a draft. But it records things important to me, so I'm posting it again, anyway.]

Yesterday was a good day. The little one woke up at 6 am, and we decided to walk around the place we live and go bird-watching. I had the energy to make a good breakfast and run at the gym, then finish yesterday's homework (long, and I prepared myself to report something in front of the class), and attend a good class (poetics).

Poetics is so interesting. We're reading different writers' writings on writing and I am so happy to read about them asking the same questions I have about writing, and coming up with answers that help me move along in thought and on the page. They also help me identify which writing I really want to do, and clarify why I want to do that.

I prepared a report on an excerpt from Annie Dillard's Living by Fiction--one where she asserts that fiction "interprets" the world by presenting itself as an object of interpretation, rather than a vehicle for the (direct?) revelation of insight; and where she states her own aesthetics regarding fiction--it's good fiction when there are not less than two layers to a story (she doesn't say this; I am paraphrasing rather clumsily)--the surface, and the author's interpretation of the world, which the reader is intended to come to by the end of the reading (meaning, this interpretation is perfectly concealed and yet utterly convincing, without the reader knowing that she has been led to conclude about the world what the author has previously concluded). To ensure that the reader does not get fixated on the 'beautiful surface' of the work, the author must have sufficient expressive power (a "tension of tone") that incites the reader to examine where the tension (rather than ease) in expression is coming from. I liken this to the power of love--haha--and this perceived congruence between love and the expressive power of which she speaks makes writing fiction a more attractive challenge to me.

She also distinguishes between fiction and lyric poetry, in that the latter's content is often unfabricated (she says) and lyric poetry is a vehicle for the revelation of insight (after reading the text, you are led to insight). But I wonder whether this is a false distinction she makes between lyric poetry and fiction. I don't agree that the content of lyric poetry is real life, even if she prefaces her statements to this effect with the word "often". Isn't everything already an interpretation, so that the content of which one speaks in lyric poetry is already mediated and transformed by us when we transform it into language?

And I don't know that lyric poetry can't also have the two-levels of meaning that good fiction, according to Dillard has; or that lyric poetry is a moment, rather than a created world (as fiction is, she says). I recall reading certain poems required by a certain teacher, and feeling that whenever I read one of these poems, I had fallen into her world (a kind of viewing the world and feelings about that world/view). Poetry creates worlds, too. Not with the versimilitude of classic modern fiction, but the expressive power of a poet makes real a world of moment and feeling.

Sorry for my fuzzy thinking. Sorry for my engrrish.

Yesterday, too, we got back the results of the little one's quarterly exams; she had passed everything, and the results were good.

Today. Two new works to be workshopped at Butch Dalisay's class, both from winners of national writing prizes. :)

The story I worked on over the break was workshopped last week. BD was very supportive of the piece, and for that I am very very grateful. The text was inspired by Nick Joaquin's After the Picnic, in terms of story devices and themes.

"That's ambition," he said--which I took to mean, it's easier to fail when you are overtly dialoguing with the giants of Philippine literature. I did intend to engage in a dialogue with NJ, but didn't think much of it that way, having approached the work as an exercise in exploring the possibilities of many points-of-view in one story (which worked splendidly in Joaquin's genius story, but which violated a cardinal rule in short-fiction writing). Besides, we are always talking with other writers/texts in our heads.

But he's right, of course--you reference NJ, try to make your text worthy of the source text. And now that I've done my little exercise on POV (which some of my classmates seem to have appreciated too, thank you!), it's time to turn the text into a real story. There is a major revision I have to do regarding a character, and a slew of little ones to clarify the 'real story' under the surface story (Dillard, Lucero). This story layer isn't clear right now because my interpretation of the world needs to be clarified (haha--poetics has given me a language to talk about my 'own' writing).

The thing I love about this class is that BD seems like a very astute judge of character, in people, real and imagined. I'm afraid I don't have that quality in real life, and so perhaps that is why I am challenged writing the kind of fiction he is so gifted at creating. So much to learn from him, too.

Atsara for Breakfast. Or Lunch. Or Dinner.

2012-01-19T09:08:00.002+08:00

A couple of posts back, I mentioned making some atsarang ampalaya (pickled bitter gourd). The day after that, I used the same method to make atsarang mustasa (mustard greens). Thus far, this is the only way you can get me to consume a lot of ampalaya and mustasa. I prefer the ~~ampalayang~~ atsarang mustasa, which reminds me of kimchi (texture) and wasabe (taste). Yum.

I cut the ampalaya into thin rings and soaked them in water for about an hour, after which I dumped the water into the sink and salted the rings, left those to stand for about another hour. Meanwhile, I boiled a cider vinegar-muscovado sugar solution--1 part vinegar to 1 part sugar, and then let this cool. I washed off the salt then dumped the vinegar/sugar solution over the ampalaya and let this stand in the refrigerator for a bout 12 hours (overnight).

As for the mustasa: Cut off the roots and wash in water to get rid of the little bits of soil that cling to the stems. Squeeze (wring) out the water from the leaves. Roll the leaves so that they resemble rolled up carpets then slice lengthwise. Dump the raw leaves in a deep bowl. Meanwhile, boil the 1 part vinegar-1 part sugar solution. When this has cooled, dump it on the raw leaves and refrigerate overnight.

Thoughts for breakfast

2012-01-19T08:27:00.005+08:00

Woke up thinking that I haven't started writing poetry yet, that everything that had gone before, everything that I had written thus far (and especially of late) are only finger exercises: How does one cut a line? What does one do with metaphor? How does one manipulate syntax? Voice? Play with a multitude of voices? With points of view?

And I felt this a beautiful, liberating thing: The thought that I had never before written poetry, the feeling that it is possible that the true poems will come, and that they are coming soon (hopefully; parang sine).

I suppose I always knew this, which is why I am putting myself through school at this stage in my life--school, being, not an institution, but the time and space to listen and read and think, to consider the thoughts of those who have gone before you, and those with whom you find yourself on this, well, journey.

Likewise, I think I now see how much more can be demanded from fiction, and what needs to be done to create not just stories, but great stories--none of which I have been able to do as yet. (Hopefully, I persevere and learn enough to do just that one day.)

And that, too, is a wonderful realization.

To be at the beginning, and knowing this. To be at the beginning and finally getting a view of what you're up against.

To be ready, at last, to begin, without ever having stop the writing that has been and is already taking place.

In other words: I am such a nerd.

What's cooking

2012-01-15T16:45:00.001+08:00

Worked on a story dialoguing with (hopefully) an old, pre-WWII story by Nick Joaquin. Quite well-received during workshop, but because everything in it stands for something else (as does everything in the original), things need to be clarified--a constant struggle I have with all my first drafts (therefore, I always benefit from incisive readings shared by other people. Thank you, dear beta-readers, you know who you are.)

Because this is an attempt to dialogue with canon, this is a meditation on nation, I've been trying to grapple with ways of thinking about the nation, without succumbing to the trite explanations of ours being a damaged colonial culture. There are academic treatises that have been written on this, but I am looking for new ways of re-imagining what can be re-imagined, re-stating the obvious in a different way, maybe; mostly I am trying to figure out what I believe in. It's the first time I've tried this 'dialogue-with-canon'; it's a very very interesting experience, craft-wise, and it makes me see better one way by which fiction can "interpret the world" (see, Annie Dillard: Living by Fiction).

---

In the course of trawling the web, I came across this article on narcissism and self-esteem approaches in nursery school that may foster narcissism instead of 'healthy' self-esteem in pre-school children. Ex: Activities that end with the teacher asking the students, "What did you like most about..." instead of, "What interested me most about this activity was..."

This made me recall a recent article making the rounds on Facebook, on how the popular instruction to the young to "follow your passions" and the school's emphasis on honing them in useful skills do not always translate into meaningful work/a fulfilled life, because the young are not used to identifying a problem to which they can apply their passions and skills.

In the most meaningful job I ever worked at, my boss told me that it was easy to find young, talented lawyers, who were educated at the very best schools around the world--but difficult to find people who could spot the law-and-development issues (the weaknesses) in existing legal systems. One of the things we were tasked with was to try to help these lawyers (mostly lawyers with backgrounds in banking and finance) become better at identifying these issues and creating solutions that would strengthen not only the country's financial systems, but quality of life and basic rights. We sort of struggled at this task for a variety of reasons, and often asked ourselves, whether this kind of attention (and interest) (like virtue), could be taught.

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And so, my head, full of high-falutin' theory and readings on nation and narcissism, felt very heavy by mid-afternoon. Decided to make atsarang ampalaya (picked bitter gourd) following a recipe for pickled papaya, and will be off in a little bit to make a peach refrigerator cake. Tomorrow, will take care of the delicate mustasa (mustard greens), most probably by pickling it. Today also was the day I had my first taste of fennel. :)

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Pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Nothing quite like it to remind you the world is bigger than what's inside your head.

Material for the mind factory

2012-01-06T08:29:00.002+08:00

At yesterday's poetics class with J Neil Garcia

1. He said: Anti-fiction fiction (i.e., realist, cf Margaret Livey) has made our literary world smaller, in that we expect authors to write of experiences of their own--i.e., no more Gustave Flauberts who can claim to write Madame Bovary; the use of the "I" point of view also demands this, somewhat. It feels funny to us when an academic tries to write from the point of view of a, say, security guard, or maid. It seems inauthentic, now that we demand authenticity.

And so those who wish to reclaim the other worlds silenced by our dedication to realism turn to fiction that pretends to be nothing other than fiction ("fiction-fiction"), i.e., the tale, for example, or magical realism, speculative fiction. The imagination has an out, an excuse to go wild, because, well anyway, it's not pretending to be real in this mode.

Thank you, J Neil Garcia; thank you Margaret Livey.

2. He said he caught this on Oprah--Some eastern thinker comforting a woman mourning the death of her disabled son in a freak accident:

"We often think we are humans undergoing a spiritual experience, when in reality, we are spirits undergoing a human experience."

Not quite Catholic doctrine there, but I can see why the thought was so comforting, enabling the woman to let go of her grief and move on.

Thank you, JNG, thank you.

Call for Submissions, Silliman National Writers Workshop

2012-01-06T08:14:00.000+08:00

Had an awesome time in Dumaguete last summer, at the 50th workshop.

Manuscripts being solicited for the 51st workshop until 10 February. Details here.

Books for Breakfast

2012-01-06T08:04:00.000+08:00

Yesterday's Menu

Wallace Stevens: The Plain Sense of Things, by James Longenbach

Links for breakfast

2012-01-05T08:48:00.000+08:00

Over at Facebook, sungazer sent a link to Alex Daly MacFarlane's take on war, and Adam David is meditating on end-of-times fiction as imaginings of a post capitalist world. Interesting, both.

Fascinating link from io9

2012-01-04T10:13:00.001+08:00

The link, as promised:

Here be the entrance to the underworld.

Books for Breakfast

2012-01-04T09:22:00.002+08:00

Today's Menu

A Native Clearing, edited by Jimmy Abad

The mean reds

2012-01-03T21:29:00.001+08:00

Only the third day of January, and here they are, lurking where you least expect it.

Having realized one is not doing what one is interested in doing; that one has been doing what one is not interested in doing.

Having realized one has wasted one's time, when there is so little time left to waste.

Oh well. Must keep moving forward.

And once again, begin.

Books for Breakfast

2012-01-03T19:18:00.000+08:00

Today's Menu

The Dream of the Unified Field, by Jorie Graham

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Here's what happened after The End of Beauty: I left for poetry class and ended up at the UP Main Library looking for the anthologies, Man of Earth; A Native Clearing; A Habit of Shores.

There are no copies of Man of Earth that you can take home from a UP Library. All copies are now at the KAL library, for room use only. Don't let OPACC tell you otherwise. I should know. I went to three UP libraries today, including the Main Library.

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Filipino poetry in English. What a strange creature we are.

But so are they and their many other Englishes.

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In other news, quarterly exams for the little one.

Philippine Speculative Fiction 7 (PSF7): Lineup Announcement

2012-01-03T19:11:00.000+08:00

The Wishcatcher has just announced the Philippine Speculative Fiction 7 (PSF7) Lineup .

Thank you, Kate and Alex Osias, for accepting my story.

See you all at the launch!

Books in Bed

2012-01-02T09:33:00.000+08:00

Yesterday's Menu

Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption, by Stephen King

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Not quite a novel, and barely a novella. But all good.

Books in Bed

2012-01-02T00:08:00.003+08:00

Yesterday's Menu

The God Equation & Other Stories, by Michael A.R. Co
Fairy Tale Fail, by Mina V. Esguerra
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Was only too happy to finish up The God Equation on one of the three beds at the cottage we rented at Sonya's Garden (two queen-sized, one king-sized, not counting the daybed inside the main room, and the daybed inside one of the cottage's two bathrooms. Have never seen so many beds in embroidered, luxury linen.). I still like the story, "In the Eyes of Many," the most. Maybe because in this story, the speculation required by speculative fiction is about the law. I think it's an excellent piece of work (with shifting POVs, which is something presently of interest to me).

Also pleased to have re-read in this collection, The Off-Season, which, together with The God Equation, made me think that I should send Ma'am Chary Lucero copies of these stories (she's looking for noir-ish stories written by Pinoys).

And because I wasn't that sleepy yet (far from it) when I finished the collection, I decided to re-read the delightful Fairy Tale Fail by Mina V. Esguerra, who happens to be Michael A.R. Co's wife. This couple's amazing.

Up next: Jorie Graham!

So many books, so little time...

2011-12-31T10:34:00.000+08:00

Logging off in a bit to enjoy what little left there is of 2011. Other than suffering through a breaking-and-entering incident at the latter part of the year, we were more fortunate than most.

It looks like I'll be preparing reviewers for the little one. But I'll try to squeeze in some time in the garden for some poetry. Planning to start on Jorie Graham. Hello 2012.

Books at BonChon, Books in Bed

2011-12-31T10:29:00.000+08:00

Yesterday's Menu (and New Year's Eve Reading)

The God Equation and Other Stories, by Michael A.R. Co

You can purchase it here.

Beta-read the carrier title, which went on to share the 1st Gregorio Brillantes Award for Fiction (the Philippines Graphic Fiction Award co-sponsored by Fully Booked). Upon reading it again last night, I couldn't help but feel awed by the craft that went into the story. Apart from this, I'd only read one other story by Mike--which I love too. And so, I'm really excited to read the rest of the collection this new year's eve!

Mike, you should publish more stories!

Books for Breakfast, Books in Bed

2011-12-27T08:35:00.001+08:00

Yesterday's Menu

Hateship, friendship, courtship, loveship, marriage, by Alice Munro

------------------------

The first story didn't appeal to me when I first got the book, and so it gathered dust on my shelf for quite a while (too much bleak Ontario and deliberately ugly, hard, seemingly unlovable characters). Neither did the Alice Munro story we discussed in Chary Lucero's class (Child's Play) strike me as anything other than weird--there's a hardness in some of her characters, who seem to be struggling with a lot of guilt, and ending up with so little redemption. But Chary Lucero gave such an inspired and enthusiastic reading, introducing us to the genius devices used in the story--and Alice Munro has been mentioned over and over in all my classes, and in all the recent books I've read--so I decided to give HFCLM another go.

And guess what, what I've read so far is compelling to say the least (I skipped the first story though). This book's on my bedside till the end of the year.

Meanwhile, Michael A.R. Co's The God Equation is loaded on the Kindle, and up next. :)

Books for Breakfast

2011-12-24T09:44:00.000+08:00

Yesterday's menu, part 2

The Art of Time in Fiction: As Long as It Takes, by Joan Silber

Now this book is genius. Not yet done, but completely riveted. Torn between beginning writing assignment (due on the 30th; would profit from reading further) and finishing this book.

------------------------------

A few more cryptic words:

Time in the Philippines/Filipino time; shame

Books for Breakfast (and on the Kindle, yay!)

2011-12-22T08:24:00.001+08:00

Today's Menu

Love Your Frenemies, by Mina V. Esguerra

Loved the character development--which was a challenge, I'm sure, for the author, as the protagonist, Kimmy Domingo, was the villain in a previous novel. There were passages that made me laugh out loud, and there were passages, too, that made me tear up. (Example: A tiny detail about Kimmy figuring out that her best friend took her wedding-color-scheme from the walls of the first house that friend had called home.) The transitions between chapters were seamless, even as the novel mainly had a now-then-now-then movement (except for the start and end, of course). She also ends every chapter with a memorable line--so very Kerima Polotan (as my Fiction 210 teacher would say).

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Started off on Stephen King's On Writing and Louise Gluck's Meadowlands. Casting about restlessly these days for ideas regarding the story due on the 30th, coming up with nothing much so far. Looking toward the shore to get some direction.

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Meanwhile: Blindness; insight; tragedy.

Books for Breakfast

2011-12-21T01:54:00.000+08:00

Today's Menu

The Art of Recklessness: Poetry as Assertive Force, by Dean Young

I'm not liking it as much as I thought I would--but I'm only halfway through and it's actually getting better at this point. It's more Donald Revel rather than Ellen Bryant Voigt (he dedicates the book to both), so maybe it's the tone of the book I am reacting to, rather than its substance/content. There are brilliant passages.

Thanks Lyza, for lending your copy. :)

Books in Bed, and then some

2011-12-20T08:26:00.001+08:00

Last night's menu
Proofs and Theories, by Louise Gluck
Trying to wrap my head around poetics. (But dear T., if so, why are you reading poets on their poetry, and not fictionists on their fiction? Hm?)
Note to self: Now you know where some of M's comments came from. It's always enlightening when one turns over the sampler and examines the back stitching. I like Gluck, and find some resonance with her adolescent anorexia (haha), her desire to move away from romanticism (therefore the simple words, therefore the insight, above all things, including the ubiquitous poetic power line). This makes her an ascetic; and although their writing styles are so different from each other, she reminds me too, of Annie Dillard. Both writers scare me, actually. But their devotion and asceticism is so attractive.
Postmodern American Fiction, A Norton Anthology, edited by Paula Geyh, Fred G. Leebron, and Andrew Levy
Heavy stuff, reading also for poetics, and as some sort of propeller for the Book of Names project.
Yesterday I also re-read short fiction:
Cesar Ruiz Aquino's 'Stories' (1989) and Butch Dalisay's 'Oldtimer' and 'Merlie'. Trying to work up some inspiration for my class assignment (the "realist" fiction workshop) due on the 30th and to be workshopped on the 6th.
The good news is, I'm done with the other class (noir fiction) requirement (due first/second week January), which, I decided to have the feel of noir, but not all the elements thereof, aside from a kind of existentialism. Wagering a non-realist ending will be acceptable (to be sure, I did my research and came up with good realist underpinnings just in case, i.e., hunger = hallucination--though of course, I did not refer to this explanation in the text). Also used a device I used in cat story number 1; am hoping it works. But I don't want to think about the story for a bit.
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In other news, quite happy that it seems like I know how to do line cuts properly now. Thank you, James Longenbach. :) <3

Books of Breakfasts Past

2011-12-09T13:06:00.000+08:00

Haven't been updating as much as I should. Things have been a bit hectic.

Untold Story, Monica Ali
Imagined Communities, Benedict Anderson
Best American Noir of the Century, James Ellroy, et al.

Books for Breakfast

2011-12-07T08:40:00.000+08:00

The Complete Poems, Wallace Stevens

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Occasioned by Jimmy Abad's recitation of The Snowman in class. Beautiful poem. He used it to segue into how one ought to write a lyric poem following through from an idea. It is alright to write about ideas, he said, but what one ought to do is to make sure that the idea carries the weight of the physical world, which becomes the details that push the argument one is making.

I thought this would interest evaluna, whose poems tend toward this, I think, as much as it interested me.

Rocket Kapre reviews 'From The Book of Names My Mother Did Not Give Me'

2011-11-29T23:38:00.000+08:00

Paolo Chikiamco and Mia Tijam have been posting a story-by-story review of the pieces included in the Philippine Speculative Fiction VI anthology edited by Nikki Alfar and Kate Aton-Osias.

This week, they review my piece, "From The Book of Names My Mother Did Not Give Me". Mia also comments briefly on A Girl's Guide to Love in The Big City, which I wrote for Nikki Alfar and Kenneth Yu, and is available at the site, www.philippinegenrestories.com

No, there aren't any spoilers here. Go read the review yourself and find out what they think!

Pao and Mia, thank you for your review. A totally unexpected, but totally appreciated read on a day like this!

Link for breakfast

2011-11-20T08:07:00.000+08:00

Haven't posted in a bit, as in the middle of a deadline and school adjustment period. In bed with a bad cold. So giving myself a bit of time to post this reflection on race and poetics.

Books, books, books

2011-11-10T20:34:00.001+08:00

Today's Menu

The Art of Fiction, by David Lodge
The Art of Fiction, by John Gardner

Books in Bed

2011-11-09T12:53:00.000+08:00

Deep Secret, by Diana Wynne Jones

I found it difficult to get into at first, but things picked up toward the end of the first third of the book. I enjoyed this SO MUCH MORE than Howl's Moving Castle, but I really hate the romantic angle that develops toward the latter third part of the book. (Which is how I felt, too, about the 'romance' in Howl's Moving Castle. It's as if the romance isn't organic to the story, and (at least to me) almost feels like it was put there because, well, there OUGHT to be SOME romance here for romantically-inclined readers.) HMC started off quite nicely (loved the fairy-tale feel of the beginning) but the romantic ending did not sit well with me at all. I might have enjoyed it more if it ended the way it did, but without the romance.

But back to Deep Secret. I admire the story telling and the plot twists in this story. It was virtually un-put-down-able in the end, and I read through it, even if I was too tired (really) to go on (been busy, and sick). Which means I ought to re-read it soon!

Thanks, A, for lending it to me!

And because of this book, I just might pick up hellkitten's recommendation that I start on the Chrestomanci series.

Recollected

2011-11-05T21:58:00.000+08:00

Current boss hauled me into an early morning 'recollection'--something I haven't done since...oh, high school I suppose. Bishop Chito Tagle was the speaker, and my is he charming. And smart. And, best of all, kind, with a wonderful sense of humor.

And he said some things that comforted me about the recent choices I've been making.

A Girl's Guide to Love in The Big City, now up on Philippine Genre Stories

2011-11-03T20:51:00.001+08:00

I truly enjoyed writing this story for Philippine Genre Stories guest editor Nikki Alfar. I hope you enjoy it too.

Many thanks to PGS editor Kenneth Yu and Nikki for having me. It's a great honor.

Books for Breakfast

2011-10-31T08:40:00.003+08:00

The Art of Attention: A Poet's Eye, Donald Revell

The Wild Iris, Louise Gluck

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The first bothers me to no end. I am irritated by it in parts, irritated by its tone; and yet, there are sections which speak to me. I don't know if I should read it again, or if doing so would be a waste of time.

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No, I won't re-read the Revell book; but I did get a few ideas out of it, one involving a Filipino myth and how it relates to my childhood, which was full of (literally) horse shit. And its title helped me revise one of my 'older children'.

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Spent the break tweaking a work-in-progress, and because its sensibilities were similar to two older works, both of which have been published, I'd revised the pair as well. As their new incarnations have substantially departed from the old, I wonder whether I should send them out to new markets.

All in all, there's progress, I think, though I don't detect any "radiance" emanating from the work (as Revell prescribes) as yet.

But the work itself, the time lavished working and thinking of it, is so full of radiant joy, it's as if time doesn't exist at all.

Not glass, but some other metaphor (unfinished meditation)

2011-10-30T09:38:00.004+08:00

Some people liken words to glass, and literature as a transparent crystal goblet that holds up and contains (and, possibly, amplify?) experience so that others, too, might relive said experience when they read what another has written.

This doesn't seem to square with my own experience of words, as words themselves are material, have their own power, bring with them a state of feeling, for example. For example:

1. As a 12-year-old, I was obsessed by the words, 'being' and 'existence', thinking (or rather, feeling) this last held so much more meaning than the trite, 'life'. And this ultimately led me to signing up for a major in Philosophy half a decade later.

2. I remember reading Marc Gaba's How Sound Becomes a Name and understanding nothing, but being overwhelmed by the power of the words that had been used and deployed.

3. Recently, I re-read Dean Alfar's Kite of Stars and thought about how he seemed to understand that words in themselves--Filipino words defamiliarized by turning it into some kind of Italian--exerted their own power on a reader, even if that reader was a stranger to those words. The story made me think of how all those other pieces of literature in my childhood gave rise to a world, a reality, really, other than the one I'm on.

4. And last Saturday, at the LitCritter meeting, Mia Tijam's The Ascension of Our Ladyboy was mentioned as an example of a piece of work in baklese that non-baklese-speaking people (even non-Filipinos; the story was published online and was cited by non-Filipino editors) could understand. (The easy answer was that syntax made it possible for people to make out the meaning of the story, but others who had examined the story closely said that even the syntactical rules employed might be a little bit too far off from the rules of English.)

This story was mentioned because we had discussed another story whose theme was how language, usually thought of as a conduit to communication, often gets in the way of.

5. Here Mabi David employs a/n Ouilipian game on something she's written and the humor generated by the exercise points to a certain power inherent in words in themselves.

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Sure we can talk about words as being receptacles of meaning, just as we can talk about our thoughts as containers for sensory experience (see, Kant) and said experience as a kind of liquid or gas that takes the shape of said container.

It's all metaphorical, I know, because in the end, what is everything at its core but a miracle? What is it that holds electrons and protons together but an energy whose origin is unknown? Strip away context, history, prior usage if you can and a word is empty, is not a word.

Books for Breakfast

2011-10-30T08:43:00.001+08:00

The Wild Iris, Louise Gluck

...and a book by Diana Wynne Jones

Books for Breakfast

2011-10-29T02:11:00.000+08:00

Today's Menu

The Lost Origins of the Essay, edited by John D'Agata
No Fear Shakespeare: Sonnets

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Been feeling a little anxious about certain life choices lately; the D'Agata anthology reminded me why I made those choices. I am thoroughly enjoying the book. Thanks, CC.

Poems for Breakfast

2011-10-26T08:38:00.001+08:00

Good morning.

Sonnet, by Robert Hass

A man talking to his ex-wife on the phone.
He has loved her voice and listens with attention
to every modulation of its tone. Knowing
it intimately. Not knowing what he wants
from the sound of it, from the tendered civility.
He studies, out the window, the seed shapes
of the broken pods of ornamental trees.
The kind that grow in everyone's garden, that no one
but horticulturalists can name. Four arched chambers
of pale green, tiny vegetal proscenium arches,
a pair of black tapering seeds bedded in each chamber.
A wish geometry, miniature, Indian or Persian,
lovers or gods in their apartments. Outside, white,
patient animals, and tangled vines, and rain.

The Gospel According to the Blind Man, by Marie La Viña

“I see people looking like trees and walking,” said the blind man,
after Jesus touched him the first time.
What he said baffled even the human god.
“They are walking around with arms outstretched,” he said.
“Their palms brush the sky. The stars slip through their long fingers.
The moonlight spills into a river and darts away like a school of silver fish
while the leaves moan in the trees in a hundred human voices.
Branches argue with wind. Locusts buzz in the night’s tangled hair.”
He asked in wonder, “Is this the world?”
Then the god lifted his holy palms, wet with spit,
and held them over the man’s eyes.
Twice touched by him, the man muttered, “Wait.”
But already he was healed.

Poem (External Scene), by Dan Beachy-Quick

The field blank in snow. But I mean this page.
Now print mars the surface to make surface
Seen. Sheen only error brings. Perfect rage
So the sun rises. Rage is your slow practice
That makes of every day another day
In whose gathering promise the shy sparrows
Shiver instead of sing. I want to go away.
See these footsteps? These black shapes in the snow?
If there is a word for them, it’s no word
I know. Pursuit?, no. Proof?, no. Don’t call it fear.
Could I cross this white sheet if I were coward,
Edge to edge, margin to margin, never
Referring to anything outside itself?—
Stop that. Stop pointing to the photo on the shelf.

Books for Breakfast

2011-10-25T10:46:00.004+08:00

The Dance Most of All, by Jack Gilbert

Underground Spirit, Volume 1, Gemino Abad, editor.

Our Scene So Fair, by Gemino Abad

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I love how Jack Gilbert's poetry transports you to that some-other-place he is/has been.

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In other news, I met three caciques last weekend. Three. That's a lot of caciques. Weird weekend.

Cemetery round-up

2011-10-23T15:29:00.003+08:00

Yesterday we visited Holy Cross Memorial Park to visit my mother-in-law's grave. It was her first death anniversary. She's buried in the family plot together with my father-inlaw, sister-in-law, and her own sister-in-law. They're the only Filipino family in what appears to us as the Chinatown of Holy Cross. All around them are the tombs with Chinese (-Filipino) names (which, for entertainment, I translate, so that they 'get to know the neighbors'). In front of the plot are a row of mausoleums built like condominiums. Some of us intend to return some time next week to clean the tombs and visit my father-in-law this time, as his death anniversary happens later this month.

Today, I drove my parents to the Chinese Cemetery, which is separated from Manila North Cemetery by a wall. Already, cars choked up the main entrance, as many families had decided to do their undas-duties as early as this week. The complex has gone to seed; I saw a 'caretaker family' living in one of the mausoleums near the one that houses my lolo's tomb (as well as my great-grandfather and a stillborn second uncle).

Already there's talk of moving the remains, as the fees charged by the cemetery are so steep, and the journey to the mausoleum, long and tedious--and that's on a good day, like this one. If it happens, the remains shall be moved to some family crypts at a church nearer our place--the same place where we moved our beloved dead from Bicol about a year ago.

Already I miss the beautiful metal grillwork, the circle entrance and dragons on top of the mausoleum in the Chinese cemetery.

The world is changing. Time is passing us by.

Books for Breakfast

2011-10-23T08:37:00.001+08:00

Underground Spirit, Volume 1, edited by Jimmy Abad

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So blown away by the work of three women writers (Edith Tiempo, Azucena Grajo-Uranza, & Estrella Alfon), I didn't want to ruin the "moment" by reading further.

Which is not to say I'm not looking forward to reading the next story. It's by my former law professor (whose class I enjoyed, and my one regret during law school was I didn't have the chance to take any other subject taught by him apart from the one I took), the brilliant Ruben Balane. In fact, I looked for U.S. Vol. 1 partly because he was in it.

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I do enjoy the introductions to these anthologies, which Jimmy Abad writes with such careful scholarship. It's awesome to know someone has gone through thousands of stories and poems, and thought about them, and how they are meaningful. I am learning much by just reading him, as well as the stories he's gathered. And, he knows his stuff--literary criticism and all.

The introduction to this volume was of particular interest to me because it touched upon what makes someone (usually) classify a work as a short story and as a narrative/lyric poem.

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Despite some not-so-nice things that have happened of late, I am grateful that I've had the luxury of going through this survey of Philippine short fiction in English. It's a good thing too that Cruz, Yabes & Abad have come out with their respective anthologies of short Philippine fiction covering stuff that's been produced since, oh, say Dead Stars. Without those anthologies, I wouldn't be able to self-study the way I'm doing now.

Maybe next year I'll do a self-survey of Philippine poetry in English starting with Jimmy Abad's Native Clearing and Man of Earth anthologies. But maybe I'll be too busy to finish then (there's this even bigger project I'll be involved with until 2013, at the latest).

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wisdom, humility, silence, careful, thought, generosity, listen, dialogue, respect, love, yes, love

There is another way.

Some Notes for/on the Book of Names Project

2011-10-17T08:49:00.005+08:00

Yes, I'm picking this one up, and will devote my nanowrimo month to it if I have to. No, I've never actually turned in anything at nanowrimo, but I do follow friends who do, and pretend (if I can) that I'm working with them.
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1. I've been struggling to find a narrative arc for the project. But instead of narrative arc, maybe, repetition.

2. I hear that reader response to the excerpt published in PSF 6 has been good ("I like it even if I don't know why/what it means,"...that's good enough for me to continue!). The challenge being, will the reader still be compelled to finish a similar but longer version? The opacity of words is not the point of this project. But the opacity of something other is.)

3. The project actually began as a writing exercise with a few constraints:
a. There is a constraint imposed on the selection of names, as hinted at by the title
b. Entries must refer to the name's definition, history, or other popular associations thereof, (example: Erica, the winged love object of Richard in Daimos)
c. Entries under each name, as far as I can recall should be at least 500 words and shouldn't exceed 1000 words--the ideal length being 800 words (the length of a newspaper column).
d. The first five entries' specific constraint was that each of them had to deal, even if only tangentially, with a spec-fic style or trope of one sort or other. I'll probably keep to these constraints, or at least the first three.

4. I know how to end it. Usually, when I do, things come together. I just need to find the time and stamina/concentration to write it out.

I did the math. It won't make the nanowrimo word-count (50,000)--at best it will be 26,000. But let's see what happens. At least I'll get this project out of my system and move on. (Who knows? I might develop the stamina to continue, immediately after, the Ars Poetica project (excerpt published here and another excerpt in the Philippines Graphic (print) issue identified here).

Wish us luck. :)

Books Over the Weekend

2011-10-17T06:20:00.001+08:00

Elmer, Gerry Alanguilan
Radical Artifice, Marjorie Perloff
Underground Spirit: Philippine Short Stories in English 1973-1989, Gemino Abad, editor
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So I finished Perloff; was amazed by Elmer; and surprised by the number of spec-ficky stories in Underground Spirit--but then, perhaps it is to be expected, given that free expression was curtailed at the time--hence the move toward the fantastic, both for practical and allegorical purposes.

I have a half-finished thought about the popularity of speculative fiction in the last decade or so, a lot of which, (I think) is because of the efforts of The LitCritters and online editors, publishers and personalities as The Bibliophile Stalker, Philippine Genre Stories, and Rocket Kapre. And the thought is this: I think the movement, which moves away from the so-called "real" is probably, also an attempt to get away from the image of the real manufactured wholesale by the all-pervasive media (which makes "realist fiction" turn too quickly into cliche).

(CAVEAT: "probably, also"--because this is just me reflecting about Pinoy spec-fic and is in no way reflective of the agenda of the LitCritters, Bibliophile Stalker, PGS and Rocket Kapre, each of which are both (and in different senses) broader and more focused. More likely, the half-finished thought stated above is a description of why I got interested in Pinoy spec-fic as practiced, in the first place. Certainly this is reflective of my own preoccupations as someone who likes reading and writing a particular kind of text--one that is more artificial in construction, more conscious about language or the use of many kinds of language/texts in a text, and tries to escape the reality that I know, the ego [and therefore the world] that I am/know. Impossible, I know, but still.)

Of course the teleseryes have caught on and we've all these fantasy teleseryes to rival (offer variety) to the usual teleseryes these days. But this does not detract from what I believe might be one of the reasons why there was/is a kind of demand for spec-fic.

There's more to say. But, as this is just a half-finished thought, perhaps I ought to write this out in full in another note.

(This reflection brought to you by Perloff, Elmer, and all those Pinoy spec-fic stories written from 1973-1982, all swirling in my mind and troubling, yes, troubling my sleep.)

Books for Brunch, Dinner, & Everything Else in Between

2011-10-15T22:24:00.000+08:00

Today's Menu

Radical Artifice, by Marjorie Perloff

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!!!!!!!!!!

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Also, came from the launch the second edition of Gerry Alanguilan's Elmer. A short 'interview' with the author/illustrator was conducted prior to the book signing, which I found very very charming and inspiring. He talked a lot about the stuff he posts on his website, including a 'museum' of classic Pinoy comics and an essay on how to break into the comics industry outside the Philippines. It was also nice to see The Bibliophile Stalker, The Bullfrog, and Peachy P. who promptly wept when I recounted my last few moments with Trina, our dearly departed kitten.

Books While W8ing

2011-10-11T13:29:00.000+08:00

Heartbreak and Magic, Ian Rosales Casocot
Imagination's Way: Essays Critical and Personal, Gemino Abad

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Guerrilla reading this week, as I am tutoring the little one for her second quarter exams; as it is, I need to squeeze time for the thing-of-beauty project.
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Stayed up until 4 in this morning revising a recently published work, in response to the Longenbach book on the poetic line.

Scene: Interior, Night, by Elizabeth Austen

2011-10-10T00:32:00.000+08:00

one thin wall a narrow world away
he sleeps I pace
morning a narrow hall
one thin wall worlds away
he sleeps I pace one room
between us sleeps a world
away I pace one wall
a narrow bed a world
pole to pole I pace
he sleeps he dreams
a world away

Books in Bed

2011-10-08T13:46:00.002+08:00

The Art of the Poetic Line, James Longenbach

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Fiction fatigue. Therefore something to shift to when I need a break.

Books for Breakfast & Bed

2011-10-08T00:54:00.000+08:00

Today's Menu

Philippine Short Stories 1941-1955

So much to learn from Nick Joaquin (After the Picnic; It was Later than We Thought) in terms of POV and thought in a story; his stories sound so contemporary. ILTWT actually appears postmodern (collage! In 1943!)

I loved Ligaya Reyes (Fruto)'s Christmas Visit.

Also interesting was Ed Tiempo's Gravediggers (as a think piece masque'd as story).

Still in 1943. Progressing slowly, but surely. Thus far, topics that have come up are: Injustice, lives of the poor; marital relations/love (lost love, anticipated love, etc.), war.

Serendipity, You Are Here.

2011-10-07T09:20:00.000+08:00

I just finished re-reading You Are Here, by Mabi David, and several things have helped me along in my growing sense of wonder over the achievement of that book:

1. Earlier this week, G posted his commentary on the book. (A much better one that I can ever hope to write, which is why I link to it instead.)

2. Mabi David herself, just posted a short note on her poetics based on a discussion she and others had at Ateneo de Naga.

3. I've been wondering about those derricks that open the section, Itinerary, and here they all are, apparently.

4. The little one's Aralin Panlipunan recent lessons are about war memorials--Corregidor, Dambana ng Kagitingan, the Leyte Landing Memorial.

5. It's T's birthday! T writes about war memorials and violence too.

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Still thinking about the book. :)

Books for Breakfast

2011-10-06T18:24:00.000+08:00

Today's Menu

You Are Here, by Mabi David.

Commentary on You Are Here by Glenn L. Diaz here.

In the comments section to this blog entry, he says You Are Here "is a gift that keeps on giving". And indeed it is that, and more--a seemingly strange thing to say about a book that tackles violence. But one understands why it is that (and more) after reading the book.

Books for Breakfast, Brunch & Bed

2011-10-01T22:28:00.001+08:00

So next week's menu looks like this:

You are Here, Mabi David
Misterios & Other Poems, J Neil C Garcia
A Lover's Discourse: Fragments, Roland Barthes
Palm of the Hand Stories, Yasunari Kawabata

I don't know how busy I'll be next week, but will try to find the time to blog about the progress of my 'reading'. (Actually, a "re-reading" for two of the four, to learn from them.)

Books in Bed

2011-10-01T20:56:00.000+08:00

The Menu

How We Are Hungry, Stories by Dave Eggers

Interesting; it made me realize that I do want to be transported elsewhere when I read fiction.

The first story, "Another" transported me elsewhere.

Interesting, because some stories are sort of speculative, or otherwise experiment with the narrative form:

"Your Mother and I"

"When They Learned to Yelp"

"After I Was Thrown in the River and Before I Drowned".

And then there are the Lydia Davis/Palm of the Hand stories that interest me as a form:

"What It Means When a Crowd in a Faraway Nation Takes a Soldier Representing Your Own Nation, Shoots Him, Drags Him from His Vehicle and Then Mutilates Him in the Dust"

"On Wanting to Have Three Walls Up Before She Gets Home"

"She Waits, Seething and Blooming"

"Naveed"

"About the Man Who Began Flying After Meeting Her"

--although they are all less quirky, and so much more grim.

Will move on to Kawabata's Palm of the Hand stories next.

Books for Brunch

2011-10-01T12:59:00.000+08:00

The Menu

A Visit from the Goon Squad, by Jennifer Egan

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I finally finished it. The last chapter is SO worth it. The powerpoint chapter, strangely heartbreaking. I'm of a mind to type it all up in block-text form and see if that would have the same effect.

The last Jennifer Egan book I'd read before this one was The Invisible Circus. Paris, hippies, coming-of-age. I thought I'd like it, but didn't.

This, however, is something else. It reads very smoothly.

I'm going to read it again.

The last chapter is SO very worth it.

Books for Breakfast

2011-09-28T10:18:00.002+08:00

The Menu

Best Filipino Stories: The NVM Gonzalez Awards, 2000-2005 (Gemino Abad, Gregorio Brillantes, editors)

Upon Our Own Ground: Filipino Short Stories in English 1956-1972 (Volume 2; Gemino Abad, editor)

Underground Spirit: Philippine Short Stories in English 1973-1989 (Volume 2; Gemino Abad, editor)

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I was blown out of my mind by Cesar Ruiz Aquino's Stories (1989), and am now a Marianne Villanueva fan. I also liked HV Paredes' Alibi at Loleng's (1969). Norma O. Miraflor's Hello Felisa also moved me. Of course everything by Greg Brillantes was brilliant. (I finally read the "original" Fiery Sun, Crystalline Sky.)

Of course these choices speak more of my own predilections (especially since I was reading while sick) and interests (I was also reading to get me into the mood to finish off some stories).

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More on Brillantes' Fiery Sun, Crystalline Sky. It does seem to me that it would have been easier to have re-made Fiery Sun, Crystalline Sky as a cougar-story.

But then again, would that have been too "literal" a (literary) translation?

'Workshop' in the Philippines Free Press

2011-09-24T15:08:00.000+08:00

The fabulous Fred Jordan Carnice and awesome Shane Carreon let me know that my piece, "Workshop", which I wrote for the [insert all superlatives in the dictionary here] Chingbee Cruz's advanced creative writing class (which profited much from Chingbee's comments, as well as the suggestions of my classmates and the panelists of the 50th SNWW--yes, it was discussed there as well), has gone live here.

If I recall correctly, the piece was inspired by Jack Gilbert's Michiko Dead.

Shane's poem, "Ellipses", also appears in the same issue of Free Press.

Story in Philippines Free Press; awesome news

2011-09-23T09:28:00.003+08:00

Just received word from Joel Toledo, literary editor of the Philippines Free Press, that a piece I'd submitted some time back is going live on the www.freepress.com.ph website on 25 September. Will re-announce once it's up. :) Just sharing the joy.

Also, yesterday, Shane Carreon, who was my housemate at the 50th Silliman National Writers Workshop, attended the 2011 Nick Joaquin Philippines Graphic Literary Awards, and came home with an award. Her fiction piece, "Birds", received second prize. HUZZAH!!!

Derrida on my mind

2011-09-22T12:36:00.000+08:00

Hahaha.

Apparently, still not over my graduate studies in Philosophy a long, long time ago. :)

For the Book of Names Project

2011-09-22T07:50:00.001+08:00

To be named after a god: It marks you, makes visible the water with which you were baptized, the oil with which you are anointed. In the context of a world that has either reduced God to little gods (or which is ready to kill for a god, not necessarily yours--and if it kills in the name of your god, doesn't that make things worse?), it is not always beneficial--it can be dangerous, like a yellow star. It describes the largeness or smallness of your parents' world, their hopes and ambitions at the time of your birth.

----------------

Feeling a little bit better. The body doesn't hurt anymore. But still sick.

Still, one is grateful for what's been given.

1081

2011-09-21T22:32:00.001+08:00

And while we're on the topic of thought and imagination, let's tackle memory as well.

Around 2 decades ago, the old college gave me my very first faculty ID: ID No. 1081. I looked at the dean's assistant incredulously (somehow, I had to claim the ID from her).

What's wrong?

Don't you see? Proclamation No. 1081.

No, she didn't see; she didn't know what I was talking about; and maybe it's too much to expect people to remember things relating to Martial Law, when there is so much about it that we want to forget.

No to full military honors at the Libingan ng mga Bayani for former president Ferdinand Marcos.

The Cryptic Album (and in the end, it's all about why I want to go back to school)

2011-09-21T19:02:00.008+08:00

Side A
1. Down with some kind of illness (a kind of flu it seems), and you wonder why your health is suffering, when you've downshifted. But let's face it: Just because you've said no to relatively big bucks and are doing work for charity, mostly, does not mean you aren't under stress. There are deadlines to meet and toxic people to deal with.

2. You've been losing sleep, beating story deadlines amid everything else. Who knew fiction could be hazardous to your health?

3. Yes, there are a number of things that have made you sad these past few days. Just because you have to weather them doesn't mean they don't cause you stress.

4. The weather's been horrible.

Side B
1. Lately I've been spending time with my daughter at her school. She's become a bit bigger now, and isn't as sick as she used to be. When I fetched her today, I saw a few high school girls resting after basketball practice, so beautiful in their languid youthfulness. And for a little while I entertained the thought that my daughter would become like these beautiful creatures one day, one day soon.

2. I did not have the luxury of imagining that, all those years since the day she was born. But now, I wonder if it is good, this new ability to imagine, this pleasure, this hope.

3. One of the things that has saddened me these past few days relates to thinking and doing. Or at least the discourse proceeds as though these things were binary opposites and mutually exclusive from each other. I've been turning over, in my mind: What is the response that ought to be given by someone who finds this issue important? I find I don't have the words yet,the considered opinion to say anything more than (at this point): Thought is important; indeed, one must always think about what one does and does not do, and why. And the funny thing is: I cannot separate the act-of-doing from the act-of-thinking.

(I recognize this is probably because of my particular background and history. And that I might be using words (i.e., "thinking") and categories that mean other things in other contexts (or the context in which the term is used in a particular discourse. I hate that communication risks miscommunication. But it is what it is.)

4. The reason why I intend to go back to school (now that I can put myself and my daughter through school) is that I want the time and psychic space to think about the things that interest, and are important to me. I wonder whether there are new ways to see and talk about establishment, which, truth to tell, intimidated my younger self. There are questions about nation and the self, and the act of doing-that-thing-that-is-the-subject-of-this-discourse, and how they all can come together and help us all imagine a collective future that is different from the stock images that hold us in thrall.

For example: DAMASO!

Isn't there a better way of imagining/thinking about THAT issue?

And maybe I am changing the course of my life partly because I feel that the field where I was (still am) operates on the basis of precedent--what has gone before; things are more rigid there, even when one deals in "reform". The field has gifted me with plenty, including, I must say, the discipline to think things through (and to edit well, once comments are given).

But I want to work more closely with imagination and thought; to become better skilled at thinking, and (hopefully) the act of imaginative writing. Not that there's any assurance that the world will become a better place because of these attempts. I'm not that great a thinker to begin with, anyhow. ("You're a fuzzy thinker," my labor law professor once told me. Yes, "fuzzy", not "fussy"; Or, as my writing teacher told me, "nagsusulat-kutob"--the writing's intuitive, rather than clean and logical; and I've always wondered whether that, to this particular teacher, was a good thing.)

5. But what matters is what one does to fulfill the project one is given. And one's project is not necessarily another's. There was a beautiful story that was taken up during the first LitCritters' session I'd attended, and it pretty much describes how I see the situation:

"As you see I do not, as I see, you disdain. It is big enough."

6. There's more to say, but I'm afraid I speak from a different context, one that relates to the concerns of a certain age, and, well, having a child (which changes the way you see life completely, I now realize). For the most part, I've been an outsider. And an outsider's opinion rarely matters anyway.

7. I hope I get well soon. I don't like it much when I ramble.

Post-book fair

2011-09-17T09:00:00.000+08:00

This year's book fair purchases were really good finds from the university presses (example: huge two-volume set, normally P1,500, now P500; poetry books that I've only heard about and never seen before for P30 (!)--all simply because these were display copies at other bookstores, now returned to said presses).

But more on this later, as there is a child I need to bring to violin class.

Books for Breakfast

2011-09-17T07:56:00.000+08:00

Today's Menu

A Game of Thrones, by George R.R. Martin (bought this for the husband. But he's asleep now. Read through all the Dany chapters. Part of me apparently believes that horrible things that happen in "civilization" are more horrible (and therefore more difficult to read about) than horrible things that happen in barbary.)

Fantastic Women: 18 tales of the surreal and the sublime from Tin House

LYDIA DAVIS! KELLY LINK! Aimee Bender! Miranda July!!!!

Only 4 pages into the first tale, Aimee Bender's "America", and I knew it was a winner!

Links for breakfast

2011-09-15T15:45:00.000+08:00

Today's Menu

About the Typefaces Not Used in This Edition, by Jonathan Safran Foer

-----------

Have been busy with meeting story and work deadlines these days. But the link above amused me.

Books at the Bank

2011-09-13T23:17:00.000+08:00

Under the Storm, An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry (Khavn de la Cruz and Joel M. Toledo, editors)

Books for Brunch

2011-09-11T14:10:00.001+08:00

Today's Menu

Comforts of a Muddy Saturday, Alexander McCall Smith

I was quite taken by the opening (dinner party) scene, and the thoughts of the heroine, Isabel Dalhousie. But there's something in the text that's very old fashioned (which in some books, comes off as charming), tending toward the boring. The 'mystery' that the heroine's supposed to figure out isn't so much discovered by, as it is revealed to her. And there's plenty of interpersonal tension all over the place, none of which is satisfactorily resolved. I wonder if things would have made more sense if I had begun with The Sunday Philosophers' Club, the first book in the series (this is book 5).

There's a special spot in my book-loving heart for books that novelize/talk about thought. Jostein Gaarder's Sophie's World is not a very good one; Muriel Barbery's Elegance of a Hedgehog is a bit better, I think. Unlike these two, Comforts of a Muddy Saturday seems less pedantic, but the story is still not quite as compelling as I'd hope it would be.

That being said, I might keep it to learn how certain scenes play out. And truth be told, I really like the heroine.

---

The book is my little break from 'work'--which, it turns out is two recalcitrant stories and that thing-of-beauty I am trying to put together for the old high school.

Updates-in-Photos

2011-09-10T18:57:00.002+08:00

It's been so busy these past few weeks I haven't really been able to stop and (re)collect myself. And now the little one is down with a bad bug--this keeps me home now; how ironic, then, that it is this sad event that gives me the ~~time~~ excuse to track what's been happening.

(Thank you, everyone, for tagging me on all these photos. Without you, this post would not exist.)

Firstly, the launch of Angela Stuart Santiago's Revolutionary Routes on 20 August, at the Filipinas Heritage Library, a happy meet-up with Hell Kitten (purple shirt) and friends and giancantdance (gray shirt). Author's daughter, Ina, who took care of publishing the book, is the lady in vermilion. (Photo by Rollie Valenzuela, and grabbed from Facebook.) It was a very intimate affair (you could tell it was also a reunion of close family members) with lots of interesting people, and really good food. Review of the awesome book here.

Secondly, the launch of Joel T. Toledo's Ruins and Reconstructions on the last 22 August, at Mag:net Katipunan. Joel had requested I read his poem, Asian; I also read my translation of a new poem of his (not in the book), Molting, which Sir Rio Alma said he enjoyed. (Photo by J. P. Salud; grabbed from Facebook.)

Thirdly, the 2 September launch of Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Filipino Poetry, an excuse to meet up with Jordan (see photo below: gray shirt), Lyza (peach jacket), Eva--all of us contributors--and meet other contributors like Tilde (Johnny-Depp-shades, from whom I bought awesome original comics).

(Top photo, by poet F. Jordan Carnice; Bottom photo, posted by Noelle Leslie de la Cruz, beautiful poet in purple.)

Jordan and I arrived quite early, and were met at the door by Ren, who was very helpful and welcoming. When people began filing in, I saw Doktora ekmisao (stripes), who showed me around the Ayala Museum's Japanese anime/manga exhibit. Lyza soon came after and the doctor and doctor-to-be, both Japanese art fans, bonded over the beautiful beautiful work shared by the Japan Foundation. Charles followed soon thereafter; Eva too. Later, Charles, Lyza, Jordan and I grabbed some dinner at M Cafe, where we met up with blissery and co. (i.e., Jaykie!)--who came straight from the office and her first-prize-poetry-Palanca win. The waiters, however, did not appear to know who she was, and her food did not materialize in a timely fashion. M Cafe made up for the delay with a free glass of iced tea. Tsk tsk.

I must say that Under the Storm-the-book is a thing of beauty. The paper on which the poems are printed is so lovely.

Fourthly, I spent the run up to my birthday treating my parents and brother out at Mann Hann in San Juan, capped by a trip to the Little Store on a Hill for some fresh lumpia. It was sort of a trip down memory lane, as we tried to recreate the menu of things we used to order when we were mostly based in Binondo a long, long time ago. My birthday itself was spent at the State U, taking an exam, and then later, at work, at my old high school--although my husband and daughter met me for dinner at Bizu in the evening. And even that later that evening, the husband surprises me with a short essay dedicating the entire Freddie Mercury discography to me--mostly about love that kills, haha--and ending with his undying constancy and loyalty. Naks. <3

Fifthly, the CCP and NCCA tribute and memorial for Dr. Edith L. Tiempo, who passed late last month. The memorial was held last Wednesday 7 September, at the CCP Little Theater. An account of the beautiful and elegant program here. Videos of the event, taken by Rayvi Sunico, have been uploaded on youtube. The series of video clips begin with the part where national artists offer flowers to Mom Edith.

Now for those who know me, you will likely laugh at me, in the following photo:

Body language. ^

With Ms. Susan Lara, who gave a beautiful tribute, and who was responsible for the preceding photo. (This and next two photos by Krip Yuson.)

I was asked to read a very short poem Dr. Tiempo wrote just a few years ago, on Easter Sunday; the poem served as a Doxology and opened the program.

Mom Wena Tiempo-Torrevillas, seated, center; and Miel (gray and black), co-fellow from the 50th SNWW.

Always so nice to see Gino Dizon! (Thanks OJ Serquina!)

Nikko Vitug played a short piece that Mom Edith 'heard' during a dream, and which was being transcribed by DM Reyes. You can't tell from this lovely photo by OJ Serquina that Nikko and I were weeping a little throughout the program. :P

CCP's Ed Cabagnot played quite a role in making the program as lovely as it was. (And the food was great, too! <3)

After the program and light lunch, Miel and I headed off for some green tea latte. Yum.

I had planned to head over to Carljoe's book launch/birthday celebration (also the launch of Adam's Piso Per Word project) at Sputnik Fantastik yesterday (I had wanted to get Josel Nicolas' Windmills and a print copy of Adam's The Long Weekend--but these, together with Carljoe's Geek Tragedies, had sold out by the end of the evening), but this trip didn't pan out, as the daughter had become quite sick by then.

But I hear you can still download Carljoe's newest book for free at this link.

I hope the little one gets well soon.

Men at Forty, by Donald Justice

2011-09-06T00:01:00.003+08:00

Men at forty
Learn to close softly
The doors to rooms they will not be
Coming back to.

At rest on a stair landing,
They feel it moving
Beneath them now like the deck of a ship,
Though the swell is gentle.

And deep in mirrors
They rediscover
The face of the boy as he practices tying
His father's tie there in secret

And the face of that father,
Still warm with the mystery of lather.
They are more fathers than sons themselves now.
Something is filling them, something

That is like the twilight sound
Of the crickets, immense,
Filling the woods at the foot of the slope
Behind their mortgaged houses.

Book launch tonight: Under the Storm: Contemporary Philippine Poetry

2011-09-02T08:13:00.000+08:00

It's out, finally (or will be, at 6 p.m. tonight, at the Ayala Museum). My poem, "What Ol' Injun told the carnies" happens to sit between Lanot's & (Gian) Lao's. Wows.

Contributors and program here. The event is part of the .MOV festival.

Drop by if you can. The books will be sold at a special launch price.

LitCritters update, re-reading the Philippine canon

2011-08-28T10:36:00.005+08:00

Yesterday, a particularly interesting LitCritter (Manila) meet-up. Dean told us about his recent trip to Guimaras, where he retold one of his stories to 80 teachers and 1 registrar and reduced everyone to tears. He shared part of his lecture--the one that defined the various fields of speculative fiction (sci-fi, fantasy). Kate (with Pao and Charles jumping in) shared the outcome of their meet-up with the Pinoy book bloggers about PSF 6. Both accounts were so interesting--amazing, actually, to receive feedback of whatever kind generated by one's work (more accurately, the work of the community one belongs to) and it was evident that Dean, Kate and the rest were elated at the interest in Philippine speculative fiction. I actually envied the fact that Paolo and Charles--book bloggers with an online presence, and contributors to PSF 6--were able to join the discussion. I miss the workshop setting, and the book discussion they attended seemed like an excellent venue for obtaining feedback about our works and how they're currently received.

(I envy too the talented, friendly and prolific (book-wise!) Mina V. Esguerra, who regularly interacts with her online readers!)

Thereafter, we discussed Kit Kwe's Philippines Graphic prizewinner, The Fires of the Sun in a Crystalline Sky (read it here) and the latest story posted on Fantasy Magazine, Crossroads by Laura Ann Gilman.

As usual, yesterday's discussion, as described above (fueled by Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf sandwiches, cookies, hot chocolate & tea latte), generated some energy to re-read works--this time, works in the Philippine canon (see previous post for source material). I was very surprised to find alternative history by Mom Wena (Sunday Morning; the setting is the Philippines in 2017, now relocated somewhere in the United States), and quite a bit of fiction that could be classified as spec-fic too (example: Marianne Villanueva's Lizard). There's a lot, at least in the Isagani Cruz sampler, that's erotically charged (and by women born in the '20s-'30s too). This last has engendered some reflection about women/bayan, which I need to think about some more before I write about it.

I think it's time I re-read the canon carefully. Jimmy Abad samplers, here I come!

I am amazed at how contemporary a lot of the writing still sounded (well, at least to me, schooled in the canon), some of the stuff, I'd read in high school--Marquez-Benitez' Dead Stars, in particular. I was moved profoundly still by Amador Daguio's Wedding Dance (I remembered weeping over it one summer, in high school, and yesterday, two decades later, it still had the now-married-I sniffling in bed.)

But, could their "contemporari-ness" not only be attributable to the skill of the writers, but by the fact that our collective mindset and imagination has remained the same, since? It's an interesting question. I thought of this, while thinking of how Dead Stars could be re-imagined (if there's any story that's canon, this is it)--the assumption being the reactions of the story characters and the story itself are reflective of the mindset of a people, what we as a people (whatever that means) find acceptable and satisfying in a story.

It's an interesting exercise--all this thinking about the canon and what could possibly lie beyond it.

Books in Bed

2011-08-27T23:15:00.001+08:00

The Best Philippine Short Stories, edited by Isagani R. Cruz

Books past brunch

2011-08-26T19:05:00.000+08:00

An Edith L. Tiempo Reader, G. Abad et al., editors
Six Poetry Formats and the Transforming Image, Edith L. Tiempo

Reading, as a form of grieving. Wonderful teacher. Wish I'd met her earlier.

Read and run

2011-08-22T21:58:00.000+08:00

Long, meeting-filled day, which ended with me rushing off to a friend's book launch to read a couple of his poems, but not before cooking pochero for the hungry husband and daughter.

The book launched was Joel M. Toledo's Ruins and Reconstructions; the launch, at Mag:Net Katipunan. The place was packed. I saw many people in my (feeling) literary past--Ruey de Vera, for example, who sat on the couch just left of the stage (he it was who interviewed me for the Filipino staff of Heights, the old school's literary magazine), and Khavn--then Khan de la Cruz, sans the hat--whom I interviewed for the same Filipino staff three years later. Also present was Pete Lacaba, who edited my copy at the Sunday Times Magazine (and who gave me a private lecture on libel, on the occasion of my writing a series of articles on victims of violence in the mid-1990s). He and Marra PL Lanot both read selections from the book. Their son, Kris, emceed, together with Nette Vizcocho, recent Philippines Free Press Literary Prize winner. Jimmy Abad was there, as were Noelle Leslie de la Cruz and Waps San Diego. I thought I saw Ayer Arguelles in the crowd. Dumaguete people Gino Dizon, Ceres Abanil, Peachy Paderna, and cousin Gian Lao were all there. And just right before I left, I saw Eva B. Gubat.

I'd planned on reading not only the poem Joel had requested me to read ("Asian"), but also a translation I'd made of his poem, Molting. While waiting to be called, I realized that I was standing beside National Artist Virgilio Almario.

Which is why, after reading "Asian", I hesitated before reading the translated poem. I didn't want to embarrass myself before Rio Alma.

But I went ahead anyway. Joel had seemed happy with the translation.

I made my way back to where I was standing before the reading.

Sir Rio asked, "Ikaw ba ang nagsalin ng tulang binasa mo?"

"Opo."

"Napakaganda. Magaling."

Awwww.... Salamat, Sir Rio! <3 <3 <3

(Pero maganda't magaling din naman talaga iyong tula ni Joel.)

...

Too bad I had to rush back home to the husband and little one. When I got home, I still had butterflies in my stomach. But there was still some pochero left over from dinner to calm the tummy.

And it was still hot.

Today's news

2011-08-22T00:42:00.000+08:00

Dr. Edith Lopez Tiempo passed at 5.30 pm 21 August 2011. Her friend, Kerima Polotan, passed just days earlier. Both were literary luminaries who "influenced generations of writers" in the Philippines. Even Malacanang issued a statement on their passing.

Seems like I will be obsessing over the works of both writers in the coming weeks. One way, among many, to deal with grief, and gratitude for the gifts they've given to us all.

Books for Breakfast, etc.

2011-08-21T02:23:00.000+08:00

Today's menu

The Life of Poetry, by Muriel Rukeyser.
Revolutionary Routes, by Angela Stuart-Santiago

Both books are wow. Read through the first four chapters of the first while my husband was at a meeting, and the daughter was reading Cat and Mouse in the Haunted House (she's at p. 80).

Attended the launch of the second. I haven't read through the entire thing, but the first page got me hooked--it begins with the death of a popular Filipino president, which death was the subject of much thanksgiving in the author's family, as in mine--and, apparently, for a very similar--if not the same--reason. My husband, who came to the launch too, was able to read further into the book while I was chatting with some friends at the launch. He, too, was hooked by the narrative. We had a long discussion on imagination and (the) nation(-building) occasioned by the book launch, and the book itself (by the way, book design Adam David) and cover (Mervin Malonzo) are lovely.

Also read bits of:

The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday, by Alexander McCall Smith (couldn't resist the purchase; only P49 at NBS); and

The Graveyard Book, by Neil Gaiman (ongoing research for a half-written story).

Poetry from law

2011-08-19T23:27:00.000+08:00

I've been reading Steve Fama's blog entries on poetry from legal documents, mostly to find my way around the TOR project, which I've had on my mind since 1996. This link takes you to his latest entry on the subject, but midway, there are links to the four previous entries (which are far more interesting to me, at least at this time).

"Towards a conceptual lyric"

2011-08-19T22:13:00.000+08:00

Adam David posted this link on Facebook.

It's one of those things that interests, while simultaneously frightening and depressing, me.

Having a long think about it; and surreptitiously looking for the materials mentioned in the article.

Books in Bed

2011-08-18T20:42:00.000+08:00

Wild Iris, Louise Gluck
Grapefruit, Yoko Ono

The latter, strange to the extreme.

-----------------------------

It's one of those days, days you miss friends you never get to see anymore, friends that fall away from your life, and life, you're unsure what it really is all about, where it's headed,your head, a little bit unscrewed, tilted to an angle, you are afraid it will fall and dangle, un-flatter, your neck, the way you un-flatter yourself so easily, by your every word, every gesture, just another jester ambling clumsily along life's wayside, clumsily like a newborn kitten learning to navigate its way through space and gravity.

Messing around with the Victorian Chain Poem

2011-08-17T00:09:00.000+08:00

Because of Mari Ness's poem, Snowmelt.

Yet another attempt to explore, push, master (the English) language.

Instructional here.

Inventing a Horse, by Meghan O'Rourke

2011-08-15T21:03:00.001+08:00

Inventing a horse is not easy.

One must not only think of the horse.

One must dig fence posts around him.

One must include a place where horses like to live;

or do when they live with humans like you.

Slowly, you must walk him in the cold;

feed him bran mash, apples;

accustom him to the harness;

holding in mind even when you are tired

harnesses and tack cloths and saddle oil

to keep the saddle clean as a face in the sun;

one must imagine teaching him to run

among the knuckles of tree roots,

not to be skittish at first sight of timber wolves,

and not to grow thin in the city,

where at some point you will have to live;

and one must imagine the absence of money.

Most of all though: the living weight,

the sound of his feet on the needles,

and, since he is heavy, and real,

and sometimes tired after a run

down the river with a light whip at his side,

one must imagine love

in the mind that does not know love,

an animal mind, a love that does not depend

on your image of it,

your understanding of it;

indifferent to all that it lacks:

a muzzle and two black eyes

looking the day away, a field empty

of everything but witch grass, fluent trees,

and some piles of hay.

Books for Breakfast

2011-08-15T19:24:00.000+08:00

Philippine Speculative Fiction VI (edited by Nikki Alfar and Kate Osias)

----

Sometimes I feel like my life is turning into a tale from a book. Once you decide to embark ona new adventure, it seems like the universe conspires to take you to the alternate reality of your dreams pretty fast.

Encantada at the CCP

2011-08-14T19:49:00.000+08:00

Watched a restaging of Encantada, by Ballet Philippines. It's still as powerful as I remembered it to be. At the end, I was moved to tears by the thought of all those bodies dancing with so much anger and joy.

I watched it 20 years ago. Then, Cecile Sicangco played the Encantada, and Wendy Panganiban, the babaylan. I don't know who among the players alternating for each role (Encantada: Candice Adea/Georgette Sanchez; Babaylan: Katherine Trofeo/Carissa Adea) performed during today's matinee. In the beginning, I thought both couldn't hold a candle to their predecessors, but by the middle of the first half, the babaylan won me over (her dancing was so clean, the corps de ballet looked bad dancing beside her; Panganiban was more passionate, though). And by the second half, the Encantada was passion herself. Estranjero, played by Jean Marc Cordero, was excellent, as were the dancers who played the chief frayle and the guardia civil.

There seemed to be less dancers in the corps de ballet, and because layered, colored hair is all the fashion these days, the dances where hair became a metaphor for rain and water didn't have the impact I remembered from the original show (hair then was longer, thicker (being unlayered) and uniformly black).

Still, it was powerful--although at the end (I being 20 years older), I began to think about the dance's narrative, which is:

The kababaihan in the mountains are in a trance, controlled by the Encantada; down in the plains, the Spanish friars oppress the ordinary city dweller. The friars and guardia civil behead the people, including a man whom the Encantada and the babaylan's tribe of women save; the women go to war with the guardia civil, who succeed in raping them and destroying the forest. The Encantada sheds tears, which turn into a deluge that kills the guardia civil. And the babaylan, her women and (suddenly appearing), the tribal men dance with each other with great joy.

This is the type of narrative that was rife/that I grew up with in the '90s. But what does it do for our imagine-nation? What option do we have, other than returning to the animistic state, and controlled by nature, or being oppressed by the foreign oppressor? And is the forgetfulness implied by the dancing after the flood indicative of the forgetfulness with which we, as a people, deal with our past, and the people and institutions that have subjected the nation to rape and pillage?

Books for Breakfast, Books in Bed

2011-08-14T04:55:00.000+08:00

Today's Menu

Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson

Only on page 66, but what a beautiful read. The language and images are so beautiful.

It's moved me to tears, several times already--and I've not felt that these tears were jerked out of me through emotional blackmail. I realize now how the situation of a novel (or other piece of work) warrants sympathy, empathy, and all that.

Here's the last true passage (of many) I'd read:

"You feel your obligation to a child when you have seen it and held it. Any human face is a claim on you, because you can't help but understand the singularity of it, the courage and loneliness of it."

It offers up a depiction of poverty that is not poverty porn; it mentions Georges Bernanos' Diary of a Country Priest and the Spanish Flu Pandemic of 1918.

Plus, I hear there's a twist coming my way, somewhere in the middle of the novel.

Thank you, Chingbee Cruz, for recommending.

Poetry Saturdays

2011-08-13T23:23:00.000+08:00

I just discovered Kathleen Lynch's poetry.

There are the poems that read like tales:

Sacrifices
The poem said: Now we must all eat beautiful women.
The poem-cutter cut out that line
and took it home. He read it over and over
then sauteed the words in butter
and ate them.
He ate them and now he is stuffed
with the words he has learned by heart.
He has learned a new hunger
that is an old hunger
and he is covered with shame.
The mother with the book of poems
found that the line was gone,
carefully sliced and taken away.
She knew it meant danger.
She knew it meant danger
so she locked her beautiful daughter
in the closet telling her:
There is a man out there in the moonlight
who is covered with shame.
She locked her daughter in the dark room
and every night now she lays a small poem
on the porch. Eat this, she says,
There are no beautiful women
in this house.

Fishwife
She loves her husband, even though he is a fish. They
both had to make a lot of adjustments to married life.
Her friends and family don't see what she sees in him
and seldom come around any more. He had to leave
all of his friends and the spacious ocean to be carried
around in pans and jars or plopped into the plexiglass
tank in their apartment. Still, they're happy. They like
to watch TV together or listen to music, but mostly they
listen to each other. He tells her of his travels to the
primitive black deeps of the ocean, and of the beasts
which lurk there. He exaggerates, she knows, but she
loves a good story, so she pretends to believe what he
tells her. She tells him everything—she's a real talker.
Of course, they can never have children, but they enjoy
many cool baths together. On the whole, they have a
pleasant relationship. Only her hunger could change things.

Incubus
And it came to my bed
and lay upon me. It pressed
on my body and stretched me
full length. It wrapped me
three times round and turned me
every way of turning.
It spit hot exotic spumes
of breath all about my face
and its voice came from a place
deep in my brain: Wake, it spat,
Wake to this. And it turned me
over and shoved its thumbs
beneath my blades, wrenched
at them, oh, the pain,
and someone yelled, Wings!
And it took all I had
to fling it off, to turn my body
back to the pose of sleep.
And I never said a word.
Never opened my eyes.

And there are the instructional poems:

Love: The Basics
Start with something harmless—
a stone perhaps. Choose one
large enough to sit on, one so heavy
it cannot get up and hit you of its own accord.
After that try loving a leaf—
preferably one lying nearby,
preferably a dead one. Do not taste it.
Next: something with a rudimentary
brain—an insect, or the spider on your shoe.
This is where it gets tricky. The most beautiful
are often toxic and their interest in you
is minimal. When you turn to mammals
hunger becomes an issue.
You can even open yourself
to another of your species, with a brain
and body like yours, capable of anything.
But if you are afraid, stay
with the rock. Remember though—
it will not feed you,
or speak, or answer.

How to Build an Owl
1.     Decide you must.
2.     Develop deep respect
        for feather, bone, claw.
3.     Place your trembling thumb
        where the heart will be:
        for one hundred hours watch
        so you will know
        where to put the first feather.
4.     Stay awake forever.
        When the bird takes shape
        gently pry open its beak
        and whisper into it: mouse.
5.     Let it go.

The poems about her mother:

Circle

My mother gave me my first science lesson:
The sun does not rise and set on you, young lady.
Teachers who came later proved her right,
as did the major and minor desertions of my life.

It is a matter of perception that we see ourselves
as central. Fact is, earth circles the sun.
Fact is, the sun is a small star burning out.
Tongues of hot gas, each larger than earth, burst

from the sun's face. When we catch first sight of it,
we call it morning. These mornings
I pull back curtains, crank up her bed, raise
her face to the light. Wake up, Mom, I say,

the sun is rising. And I want her
to open her eyes, to believe what I tell her is true.
Even though I know the sun stands still and burns.
Even though I know my science.

Yardwork

My mother prowled the yard, winding wires around bare stems
of rose bushes, attaching Woolworth's plastic roses—
her flowered house dress puffed out full,
hair lifting like flames. I watched, embarrassed

by how tacky, how pathetic
but it had been a bad spring all around
what with Dad's drinking and with nothing
blooming, and from where I stood

I had to admit they looked pretty. The distance
between shame and pride is so mutable we use
both words for the same thing:
She has no shame. She has no pride.

Can this be true? By my calculation over forty
thousand hours have passed since that moment
and still I see her and the bell of that dress,
not a scrim in sight, just sheets snapping

on the line behind her, weeds shivering at her ankles.
And the way she moved, the way she went at it
—a driven thing—another of the countless gestures
she would subsume in silence, a look

in the eye we all knew meant: Say nothing.
And when she sank away into the heap of mystery
books on the couch, a theater of colors in the window
behind her—the strange brilliance and juxtaposition

of fake and real—I began to believe in hope
as something that could be invented
even under dire skies, even when wind
sliced around thorns and we waited

for the phone to ring, and for spring
to become spring.

Or her children:

874

You can imagine how ordinary this story is:
I had a baby. He died.
Decades have passed away since and look at me:
I am strong, solid. I step right
into the center of things.
But back then I could hardly recognize my own body
as a woman's when the child bloomed and moved
inside me. There were turnings and tremors
and rigorous shoves. Lunges. I could feel
the ball of my belly and say
This is the head, here is the foot!
Even though I talked to the walls and cried half the night,
I felt excitement, a real connection.
Everything else in my life was undone by this illicit gift.

And then my body clamped down on him,
pushed and cramped and forced him out too soon.
It was not my fault, the nurses said, I was too young,
he was too small. I felt amazed he came here at all,
came through and out of me long enough to let out one cry,
then smaller and smaller gasps. Then silence.
They wrapped him and took him away. Hands
were everywhere, swabbing up the mess, pressing my pulse,
patting me on the shoulder.

None of this matters to me anymore.
I have my story, you have yours. I don't care
that they took his body, poured on water and words
to forgive him. So what if it rained
when his white box went down
into the hole. The only thing I carry with me
is his name. They numbered his grave
because I was unwed. The birth and death papers
list him as Baby Boy. All I want to tell you,
if you are still with me,
is that I named him Joseph.
His name is Joseph.

There too are the realist poems:

Chicken in the Snow
They even had a cabin
Aunt Marie and Uncle Gene
up in Kyburz, the mountains
and that day when I was eight
we drove into the first snow
of my life.
I told them it was beautiful
so beautiful and Thank you
for inviting me. I was too polite
to mention my concern
for the chicken, the crate tied
to the top of the car & how it must be
so cold out there, all those flakes
& the wind blowing
in its blinking eyes.
That afternoon I flung myself
in joy all over their white yard
falling without feeling pain, leaving
my body all over the place
*
As the bright sky started
going down, Aunt Marie
the chicken cradled in her arm
came to the stump I leaned on
& said Back off, Katrinka,
it's time. And the axe
in her other hand moved fast
and it happened, really,
in one fell swoop, the head
on the ground, one astonished eye
blinking. Its little beak opened
and closed, opened and closed
without a sound. And the body
ran round in circles, and blood flew
everywhere, turning
paler & paler as it sank into the snow.
*
Later, Uncle Gene came to me
carrying a large pot.
He said If you want to see some magic
help me fill this with snow
and I will turn it into rice
for dinner.
Well it happened.
The windows were steamed
from that black stove cooking
and I was really hungry
when they came with the food—the best fried chicken ever on this earth
and a miracle: white rice piled
in a deep blue bowl.
That night I had two thoughts
that frightened me. One:
the dead do not die exactly
when you kill them, and two:
God might have made a mistake
putting all the starving children
so far away, and here
where you are practically alone,
all this snow. So much
good food.

Source: http://www.timestenpoets.org/lynch/874.htm

Books for Breakfast, Books in Bed

2011-08-13T07:35:00.000+08:00

The Devil's Details: A History of Footnotes, by Chuck Zerby

Surprisingly engaging.

Changing my life with a wave of [my] hand

2011-08-12T19:04:00.000+08:00

So.

A slew of people are leaving for further studies abroad. Today, in particular, a beloved teacher flew off to New York. Tomorrow, a friend from last summer leaves for Baltimore.

Today I turned in an application for grad school. Although I'm not leaving the country, the application is the first formal step away from life as I know it.

The entrance exam takes place on my birthday.

Wish me luck.

News

2011-08-09T19:32:00.000+08:00

1. Congratulations to blissery/sungazer for winning first prize for poetry in the 2011 Palanca Awards; and to Aste Gutierrez, for winning first prize for Short Story in English. His winning piece, Big Man, was the opening story of Philippine Speculative Fiction 6. :)

2. A very short piece of mine, Revision, appears in this week's Philippines Graphic. Thank you, Bibliophile Stalker, who called to give us a head's up about this.There is a slight error in the typography that makes the piece more confusing than it should be. (The third to the last and last paragraphs should be indented and italicized, the second to the last paragraph, indented even further, and in smaller, bold font.) So if the same error appears in the online version of Graphic, I might eventually post the correct version online (the risks of making a Chinese-box-type of microfiction).

Still, I am very, very, very grateful to Graphic for publishing this work. And the artwork is awesome.

:)

Last night at Ilyong's...

2011-08-09T07:35:00.000+08:00

Joined a crowd in sending off The Curious Couch to Albany NY. "Isn't this fun?" G. says to me as we watch established writers and CC's students belt out songs from the '80s and '90s. Was able to chat a bit with CC & MD, and I saw KD ("every poem is perfection") for the second time in a span of a week or so. It was like the entire world (of UP Writers Group/Kule & alumni & friends) was there.

When I returned home, I found that the little one had mastered the math subject matter she needed to master for her test today (says the hubby, math trainer extraordinaire). We even did get to do a bit of review for the Filipino exam.

G.'s account of yesterday's festivities here. Thanks for the beer, CC! Wishing you all the best!

Now, I'm afraid, comes the downward spiral. We'll miss you!

2012 Clarion West line up

2011-08-05T09:29:00.000+08:00

Over at Facebook, the Bibliophile Stalker posted the workshop panelists at the 2012 Clarion West Writers' Workshop. It's very impressive (and if you look at the roster who have gone to CW (and have read their stories--which are everywhere) even more so). Cost is around $3200. And then there's the plane ticket (around a thousand dollars?) and living expenses. But there's a scholarship being offered by the Carl Brandon Society.

I wish someone could parcel out a scholarship that paid out in increments of time away from family. (How would that work, though? Interesting story in there somewhere.)

In any case, things always happen at the right time. Redjeuelle, a friend of mine now based in NY, seems interested. Good luck!

Books in Bed

2011-08-05T08:40:00.000+08:00

The Menu

Wild Iris, by Louise Gluck

I am loving the conceit that it is all a conversation between the two in Eden, in the beginning, and the One who created them.

Special thanks to syringe1901, who lent me her copy of the book (with notes! i.e., "sooooobbb!"

The Art of Syntax, by Ellen Bryant Voigt

Still digesting this. But this, I think, is the kind of thing I've been looking for. It has a wonderful discussion of Larkin's Cut Grass yesterday, which made me appreciate what was good about it. The lyric is deceptively simple, but actually very complicated, syntactically. Much to think about. Much to ponder. Definitely something to use. :)

The Plain Sense of Things by Wallace Stevens

2011-08-04T14:47:00.001+08:00

After the leaves have fallen, we return
To a plain sense of things. It is as if
We had come to an end of the imagination,
Inanimate in an inert savoir.

It is difficult even to choose the adjective
For this blank cold, this sadness without cause.
The great structure has become a minor house.
No turban walks across the lessened floors.

The greenhouse never so badly needed paint.
The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side.
A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition
In a repetitiousness of men and flies.

Yet the absence of the imagination had
Itself to be imagined. The great pond,
The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves,
Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence

Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see,
The great pond and its waste of the lilies, all this
Had to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge,
Required, as a necessity requires.

Non-controversial blind items

2011-08-04T06:46:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, a good meeting with an artist and renowned book designer with whom I am collaborating on a longstanding project, capped by the good news that he is spending more time painting again. Also the day I happen to: (1) hear the producer of indie films talk about what he and his professional partner-filmmaker had to go through to produce two of the films showing at Cinemalaya sa UP--apparently, half a million pesos is peanuts even in the indie-film producing world, and they spent all their prize winnings from the previous year's indie sensation to produce what is a budget film, even by indie film standards (If that isn't pure love for the art, then I don't know what is.); and (2) in the course of settling one's obligations, see and hear a gifted young writer gush about Jennifer Egan's A Visit from the Goon Squad (now that was too short a meeting).

Mercury may be in retrograde (late night meeting was postponed without anyone informing me; two hours wasted and all that gas wasted traveling from QC to SJ), but I was nevertheless energized when I got home, the energy sufficient to power me through a tutorial session on environmental principles with an 8-year-old, and working on a story until early this morning.

Books for Breakfast

2011-08-03T09:42:00.001+08:00

Today's Menu

The Art of Syntax, Ellen Bryant Voigt

How to Write a Sentence, Stanley Fish

----------

1. Today is meetings, meetings and more meetings

2. Today is obtain application and beg for recommendations day

3. Today is I will start writing down that new story day.

4. Today is I will begin the major revisions day.