Saturday, January 31, 2009
inculcating Dr. Isagani Cruz's lesson one Saturday morning
I believe I can write about stories of falling in love,sacrifice,betrayal,losing,dreaming,friendship,family, but not about politics. I believe my work will be published. I believe I can write better than Sheryl Germain, Jeffrey Archer, Kimi Tuvera, Butch Dalisay, Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo, and other authors I read. I believe I can write a piece for Palanca. I believe I can write better, if not, then I wouldn't be writing.
Friday, January 30, 2009
A Reading of "Family Legend"
Family Legend is a quatrain which I view as satire in approach, yet reveals the truth about tragic violence; that it exists even in the family we thought could keeps us safe. It is showing rather than telling while action keeps constantly in motion. It introduces characters by exhibiting them in action like in drama. It concerns more in stirring the emotion of the reader than with the matter of the story whether if it is complete. And because the poem is brief, quick and pointed, which resides in its suggestiveness of deliberate details, it draws me to look over again and introspect.
/Once lost, a child buried itself in a pile of lace/ gave me a picture of a child wrapped or hidden in lace. The mother must needed succur or something more divine when she /searched in vain for her rosary/; an implication of tension or an impending conflict.
The second and third stanza summons up an image of a place or setting, probably near the water with some formation of rocks, where the father has fled, and armed with bullet shell - because I didn’t take the crab literally. I also find difficulty imagining the tiny semi aquatic fetuses in my mind. But seeing the father on the cliff, I thought that he is seeing the tiny water vessels or boats that look like semi aquatic fetuses from afar. But then again, it seems odd. The gaps in the story tends to lose the logic of event, when from the cliff, /he summoned the woman and drew his gun/.
When the rosary, which is, maybe, made by coral beads scattered, I pictures the mother fell down, and soon died. /When a bullet dropped into the ocean/, it made me think the killing must be done on the shore for the bullet to have dropped into the ocean, but the father was still on the cliff, did he went down when he summons the mother? The transition of the scene was not very clear, and therefore hard to follow.
But collaborating with the narrative leads me into thinking that the father, the villain, walks away from his crime just like how the sea washes away evidence of the crime.
Again, it leads me more into thinking that this poem is also a dealing of every family we belong to: society, church, country, our own family etc., and the conflict is an inevitable part of it that we must survive on.
/Once lost, a child buried itself in a pile of lace/ gave me a picture of a child wrapped or hidden in lace. The mother must needed succur or something more divine when she /searched in vain for her rosary/; an implication of tension or an impending conflict.
The second and third stanza summons up an image of a place or setting, probably near the water with some formation of rocks, where the father has fled, and armed with bullet shell - because I didn’t take the crab literally. I also find difficulty imagining the tiny semi aquatic fetuses in my mind. But seeing the father on the cliff, I thought that he is seeing the tiny water vessels or boats that look like semi aquatic fetuses from afar. But then again, it seems odd. The gaps in the story tends to lose the logic of event, when from the cliff, /he summoned the woman and drew his gun/.
When the rosary, which is, maybe, made by coral beads scattered, I pictures the mother fell down, and soon died. /When a bullet dropped into the ocean/, it made me think the killing must be done on the shore for the bullet to have dropped into the ocean, but the father was still on the cliff, did he went down when he summons the mother? The transition of the scene was not very clear, and therefore hard to follow.
But collaborating with the narrative leads me into thinking that the father, the villain, walks away from his crime just like how the sea washes away evidence of the crime.
Again, it leads me more into thinking that this poem is also a dealing of every family we belong to: society, church, country, our own family etc., and the conflict is an inevitable part of it that we must survive on.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
A reading of "Mananahi'
The indirect approach is suggestive without identifying the thing to which allusion is made. The title, Mananahi, is a distinctive character that orients the reader immediately. It jump-starts by introducing the conflict right away. The first and second line of the poem becomes more than mere description; by using Simile as a poetic tool, it adds dimension to the subject, arousing the senses of sight and kinaesthesia.
Parang digmaan ang pagpasok ng sinulid
Ubod hirap sa tuwina’y may balakid;
The third and fourth line uses a device of repetition called the normal refrain wherein it repeats the exact idea of the first and second line.
Sa karayom na butas ay napakakitid,
Oras lilipad walang tagumpay na hatid.
The second and third stanza illustrates hardship, persistence and dissatisfaction making it the incremental repetition of the first stanza.
The poem maintains a uniform rhythmical pattern by a recurring beat in the end of each line. The last words of first and second line of first and third stanza uses a triple exact device: sinulid -balakid, matusok – mapusok.
My initial interpretation of the poem depicting a general idea of achieving a dream the hard way was drawn into a more specific interpretation of a sensuous resolution. The choice of words has a sexual implication: karayom, sinulid, hubad, ipasok, bukana. The significance of the implied attitude, brought by words lifted, appears as the poem develops, and showing rather than telling takes precedence. It resembles the erotic poetry of Stephen Corey called Redundancies, where it means to arouse without using any statements, or words, that are directly or exclusively sexual, yet it is clear, simultaneous, and mysterious.
I think that the indirect allusion is subtle, assuming that I am close to what the poem wants to tell. The word digmaan for instance, is a strong word, connoting two parties struggling for something. The first line of second stanza introduces another character, other than mananahi as the subject, by using the word “iyong”.
The last two line of the poem is a personification of a couple making love; karayom and sinulid becomes two characters personifying a man and a woman with ardent emotion and intense passion, and captures the experience of sex through words.
Hangang sa hubad na sinulid at karayom
Ay magsanib. Magniig. Sa sugat na hilom.
Parang digmaan ang pagpasok ng sinulid
Ubod hirap sa tuwina’y may balakid;
The third and fourth line uses a device of repetition called the normal refrain wherein it repeats the exact idea of the first and second line.
Sa karayom na butas ay napakakitid,
Oras lilipad walang tagumpay na hatid.
The second and third stanza illustrates hardship, persistence and dissatisfaction making it the incremental repetition of the first stanza.
The poem maintains a uniform rhythmical pattern by a recurring beat in the end of each line. The last words of first and second line of first and third stanza uses a triple exact device: sinulid -balakid, matusok – mapusok.
My initial interpretation of the poem depicting a general idea of achieving a dream the hard way was drawn into a more specific interpretation of a sensuous resolution. The choice of words has a sexual implication: karayom, sinulid, hubad, ipasok, bukana. The significance of the implied attitude, brought by words lifted, appears as the poem develops, and showing rather than telling takes precedence. It resembles the erotic poetry of Stephen Corey called Redundancies, where it means to arouse without using any statements, or words, that are directly or exclusively sexual, yet it is clear, simultaneous, and mysterious.
I think that the indirect allusion is subtle, assuming that I am close to what the poem wants to tell. The word digmaan for instance, is a strong word, connoting two parties struggling for something. The first line of second stanza introduces another character, other than mananahi as the subject, by using the word “iyong”.
The last two line of the poem is a personification of a couple making love; karayom and sinulid becomes two characters personifying a man and a woman with ardent emotion and intense passion, and captures the experience of sex through words.
Hangang sa hubad na sinulid at karayom
Ay magsanib. Magniig. Sa sugat na hilom.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
my letter to an author
Dear Mrs. Tuvera-Quimbo,
You would probably wonder why I am sending you an email when I can simply write to you on your Facebook wall or leave a two pages letter in your pigeonhole. Alright! I confess, this letter is for a requirement in my creative non-fiction class. But I hope you won’t get me wrong. I wanted to let you know how much your stories and our brief encounter influenced me in my development as a reader and as an aspiring writer. But it is always harder to tell all that in person because I am naturally shy, beside that I don’t know how to approach you. In fact, I am glad that my professor made this as a requirement because I know it will serve a double purpose.
When I read your short story collection, Testament and Other Short Stories, I want to know whether you are aware (when you were writing the story) that you are creating characters portraying a sense of loss, and decided to carry the theme for the whole collection? The Flight, for instance, where the main character recalls her memories of her Uncle who left when she was only nine; Testament, where the protagonist broods over her inability to bear a child, and that no one, after her, will validate her existence when she dies; Marion and A Passing Life seemed to have depicted the same sense of losing someone. Right! I know I really need not to summarize. But, you see, I try to read the stories thoroughly as I studied how they were structured, not just scan through them and show and tell my friends an autographed copy of your book. I realized I wanted to emulate those authors I read by borrowing their style as I continue to develop my own, and maybe someday someone will want to borrow mine.
Thinking about what’s happening in the stories, the next question I had in mind is that whether they (the characters) are imagined people or somehow a self depicted portrait of the author. Though I guess that it’s a little bit of both, I realized as what Stephen Koch said in his book, The Modern Library Writer’s Workshop, “It doesn’t really matter much whether your characters are modeled on yourself, on somebody else, or on nobody at all. It is in the realm of invention that you invent every single one of them in exactly the same way you invent the story.”
I remembered, I once mentioned that I particularly like Marion and A Passing Life among the other stories. However, when I reread all the stories in the collection, I realized how I under-read the Testament. It must be something special to think that it carries the title of the book. True enough because I noticed how the foreshadowing of the impending conflict was written in a subtle way, maybe it’s the same reason why I needed to look back over and read again. It must be what Shirley Lua also meant when she noted about your style:
Her strategy of holding back is decisive to suggest something more, to bid the mind still before taking a leap, to stand still on the edge and see the vast timescape. The silences between words, as much as the deliberate details, allow readers space for introspection. (Reframing the nation By Shirley O. Lua Inquirer)
Reading it the first time, I thought that the conflict lies with the character’s not being able to sleep or her being insomniac, but it is in giving the story a closer look that I discover a much deeper need of the character. It’s good to understand by what you mean, when you commented on my story, on how to create a character; that we don’t think of them as “characters” but as living, breathing people we’ve met or could possibly meet in real life with all their complexities and contradictions; that being inside their mind is just like magic.
Now, when I try to invent my own story, and get stuck in the middle, I read again more stories; yours and others. I haven’t given up on Jeffrey Archer, but I move on reading and discovering works of other Filipino writers.
You know when I decided (though I honestly think that I’m a bit too late) to study Creative Writing, almost a year ago, I wasn’t expecting to see you sat in front of the class, because the form that bore my class schedule stated that my professor is a Mr. But for a departmental or whatever reason, you turned out to be my mentor, and that made all the difference.
P.S.
I chose A Passing Life to be my subject for my Psychoanalysis Study in Lit Crit class last term. Maybe it wasn’t that bad to get a grade of 3.00. And one last thing, will you sign my copy of The Jupiter Effect?
You would probably wonder why I am sending you an email when I can simply write to you on your Facebook wall or leave a two pages letter in your pigeonhole. Alright! I confess, this letter is for a requirement in my creative non-fiction class. But I hope you won’t get me wrong. I wanted to let you know how much your stories and our brief encounter influenced me in my development as a reader and as an aspiring writer. But it is always harder to tell all that in person because I am naturally shy, beside that I don’t know how to approach you. In fact, I am glad that my professor made this as a requirement because I know it will serve a double purpose.
When I read your short story collection, Testament and Other Short Stories, I want to know whether you are aware (when you were writing the story) that you are creating characters portraying a sense of loss, and decided to carry the theme for the whole collection? The Flight, for instance, where the main character recalls her memories of her Uncle who left when she was only nine; Testament, where the protagonist broods over her inability to bear a child, and that no one, after her, will validate her existence when she dies; Marion and A Passing Life seemed to have depicted the same sense of losing someone. Right! I know I really need not to summarize. But, you see, I try to read the stories thoroughly as I studied how they were structured, not just scan through them and show and tell my friends an autographed copy of your book. I realized I wanted to emulate those authors I read by borrowing their style as I continue to develop my own, and maybe someday someone will want to borrow mine.
Thinking about what’s happening in the stories, the next question I had in mind is that whether they (the characters) are imagined people or somehow a self depicted portrait of the author. Though I guess that it’s a little bit of both, I realized as what Stephen Koch said in his book, The Modern Library Writer’s Workshop, “It doesn’t really matter much whether your characters are modeled on yourself, on somebody else, or on nobody at all. It is in the realm of invention that you invent every single one of them in exactly the same way you invent the story.”
I remembered, I once mentioned that I particularly like Marion and A Passing Life among the other stories. However, when I reread all the stories in the collection, I realized how I under-read the Testament. It must be something special to think that it carries the title of the book. True enough because I noticed how the foreshadowing of the impending conflict was written in a subtle way, maybe it’s the same reason why I needed to look back over and read again. It must be what Shirley Lua also meant when she noted about your style:
Her strategy of holding back is decisive to suggest something more, to bid the mind still before taking a leap, to stand still on the edge and see the vast timescape. The silences between words, as much as the deliberate details, allow readers space for introspection. (Reframing the nation By Shirley O. Lua Inquirer)
Reading it the first time, I thought that the conflict lies with the character’s not being able to sleep or her being insomniac, but it is in giving the story a closer look that I discover a much deeper need of the character. It’s good to understand by what you mean, when you commented on my story, on how to create a character; that we don’t think of them as “characters” but as living, breathing people we’ve met or could possibly meet in real life with all their complexities and contradictions; that being inside their mind is just like magic.
Now, when I try to invent my own story, and get stuck in the middle, I read again more stories; yours and others. I haven’t given up on Jeffrey Archer, but I move on reading and discovering works of other Filipino writers.
You know when I decided (though I honestly think that I’m a bit too late) to study Creative Writing, almost a year ago, I wasn’t expecting to see you sat in front of the class, because the form that bore my class schedule stated that my professor is a Mr. But for a departmental or whatever reason, you turned out to be my mentor, and that made all the difference.
P.S.
I chose A Passing Life to be my subject for my Psychoanalysis Study in Lit Crit class last term. Maybe it wasn’t that bad to get a grade of 3.00. And one last thing, will you sign my copy of The Jupiter Effect?
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Text a Poem
This is indeed a fun challenge!(as if poetry wrkshop with Dr. Marj is not challenging enough...Ugh)=)
Join Tex Tula for Arts Month 2009! 01.22.2009
As part of the celebration of the National Arts Month-Philippine International Arts Festival 2009, the National Commission for Culture and the Arts and Sining Gising TV program launch "Text Tula."
Text Tula invites all Filipinos to send a quatrain (four lines) in Filipino languages and dialects. Entries must be on the sub-theme "Sa Sining, Bida ang Pinoy sa Galing."
Five winners will be selected weekly who will receive P500 worth of load for mobile phones.
Entries can be submitted to the following numbers:
(for Smart/ Talk and Text) 0920-9514916 / 0928-3482991
(for Globe and Touch Mobile) 0926-6562210
(for Sun) 0923-3553719
Or email through sininggising@yahoo.com
Winners will be announced and posted weekly.
For queries, please contact Mr. Wilyan Maglente at 5272192.
Join Tex Tula for Arts Month 2009! 01.22.2009
As part of the celebration of the National Arts Month-Philippine International Arts Festival 2009, the National Commission for Culture and the Arts and Sining Gising TV program launch "Text Tula."
Text Tula invites all Filipinos to send a quatrain (four lines) in Filipino languages and dialects. Entries must be on the sub-theme "Sa Sining, Bida ang Pinoy sa Galing."
Five winners will be selected weekly who will receive P500 worth of load for mobile phones.
Entries can be submitted to the following numbers:
(for Smart/ Talk and Text) 0920-9514916 / 0928-3482991
(for Globe and Touch Mobile) 0926-6562210
(for Sun) 0923-3553719
Or email through sininggising@yahoo.com
Winners will be announced and posted weekly.
For queries, please contact Mr. Wilyan Maglente at 5272192.
Monday, January 26, 2009
on Diet
I always promise myself that I will start a healthy diet, but I cannot simply do it. With all the temptations lurking in the corner plus friends with a hearty appetite around... My promises are only expected to be broken.
I heard about this banana diet and I wonder if I give it a try.
A new diet born on the Internet in Japan
As elsewhere, people in Japan who are trying to lose weight gather together on internet forums and social networking sites to pick up diet tips and give each other support. Recently on Mixi, one of the most popular social networking sites in Japan, the diet musings of one of the members and the enthusiastic contributions of others in the community coalesced to produce a new and simple diet program that has jumped into the mainstream Japanese media and resulted in three books and many magazine articles. This diet was dubbed the Asa Banana Diet. Japan is known for kaizen, the gradual refinement and improvement of manufacturing and other processes, and the Asa Banana Diet is in effect Japan’s kaizen of a diet classic, the Banana Diet.
http://morningbanana.com/
I heard about this banana diet and I wonder if I give it a try.
A new diet born on the Internet in Japan
As elsewhere, people in Japan who are trying to lose weight gather together on internet forums and social networking sites to pick up diet tips and give each other support. Recently on Mixi, one of the most popular social networking sites in Japan, the diet musings of one of the members and the enthusiastic contributions of others in the community coalesced to produce a new and simple diet program that has jumped into the mainstream Japanese media and resulted in three books and many magazine articles. This diet was dubbed the Asa Banana Diet. Japan is known for kaizen, the gradual refinement and improvement of manufacturing and other processes, and the Asa Banana Diet is in effect Japan’s kaizen of a diet classic, the Banana Diet.
http://morningbanana.com/
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The Don'ts of Writing Nonfiction
Lessons and tips for working on specific aspects of your writing.
—From WD's Writer's Workbook section
1. DON’T LIE OR EXAGGERATE in nonfiction.
2. DON’T SWITCH NAMES OR DETAILS without checking your editor’s policy for editorial changes.
3. DON’T TRASH SOMEBODY IN ANGER and rush those pages into publication.
4. DON’T ASSUME everybody likes to be written about or will appreciate your portrayal. (Some private people hate even positive mentions of themselves in print.)
5. DON’T TELL ONLY ONE SIDE of a story or character. Murderers and monsters often had horrible childhoods that might illuminate their pathology.
—From WD's Writer's Workbook section
1. DON’T LIE OR EXAGGERATE in nonfiction.
2. DON’T SWITCH NAMES OR DETAILS without checking your editor’s policy for editorial changes.
3. DON’T TRASH SOMEBODY IN ANGER and rush those pages into publication.
4. DON’T ASSUME everybody likes to be written about or will appreciate your portrayal. (Some private people hate even positive mentions of themselves in print.)
5. DON’T TELL ONLY ONE SIDE of a story or character. Murderers and monsters often had horrible childhoods that might illuminate their pathology.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Anxiety Levels for Writers
What if the Office of Homeland Security developed a color-coded warning chart for the anxiety level of writers?
THOREAU SYLVAN GREEN
Your muse not only polishes story blobs into sparkling gems, but also repairs your car’s transmission and mends your relationship with your parents. At night your muse nestles beside you in bed and whispers sublime opening lines to new stories. Every morning she makes you hand-squeezed orange juice and pancakes in the shape of Alfred Nobel’s profile. She never leaves your side.
MARK TWAIN RIVER BLUE
What a promising pile of index cards, napkins and gum wrappers you have! They’re filled with evocative words like “penance,” “revenge” and “lust.” Before you begin writing each morning, your muse makes you an iced coffee. She massages your back as she guides your cursor across the screen. Before she leaves you alone at night, she murmurs, “Fear not, Word Warrior, you shall win this battle.”
FLANNERY O’CONNOR PORCH LIGHT YELLOW
One morning you find your manuscript lying in the cat’s litter box. Your muse swears a gust of wind must have blown it in there. She says you’re a talented and soulful writer, and she would never, ever disparage your words. Your tabby cat jumps up and down on your desk and points his paw at your muse. She picks him up and coos, “Ah, sweet little kitty thinks you’re a fine writer, too.”
VIRGINIA WOOLF ORANGE SUNSET
It’s 3 a.m. Your computer screen is snow-blind white. Your notebook pages are slick with your own drool. The blinking cursor hypnotizes you into mumbling, “I should have gone to business school.” Your muse steals your cell phone and chats for hours with other writers she considers far more talented than you—some living in Bulgaria. You only receive an occasional text message: “R U NUTZ?”
EDGAR ALLAN POE BLOOD RED
You run into an ex-classmate from your “Beginning Fiction” workshop. He’s the twit who always confused Raymond Carver with Raymond Burr. He says he’s just sold his first novel for $1 million. “Wanna tend bar at my book party?” he asks. A black limousine pulls up beside you and the driver lowers the window. It’s your missing muse! She blows you a kiss and drives away with your ex-classmate.
Check link for more interesting article http://www.writersdigest.com/
THOREAU SYLVAN GREEN
Your muse not only polishes story blobs into sparkling gems, but also repairs your car’s transmission and mends your relationship with your parents. At night your muse nestles beside you in bed and whispers sublime opening lines to new stories. Every morning she makes you hand-squeezed orange juice and pancakes in the shape of Alfred Nobel’s profile. She never leaves your side.
MARK TWAIN RIVER BLUE
What a promising pile of index cards, napkins and gum wrappers you have! They’re filled with evocative words like “penance,” “revenge” and “lust.” Before you begin writing each morning, your muse makes you an iced coffee. She massages your back as she guides your cursor across the screen. Before she leaves you alone at night, she murmurs, “Fear not, Word Warrior, you shall win this battle.”
FLANNERY O’CONNOR PORCH LIGHT YELLOW
One morning you find your manuscript lying in the cat’s litter box. Your muse swears a gust of wind must have blown it in there. She says you’re a talented and soulful writer, and she would never, ever disparage your words. Your tabby cat jumps up and down on your desk and points his paw at your muse. She picks him up and coos, “Ah, sweet little kitty thinks you’re a fine writer, too.”
VIRGINIA WOOLF ORANGE SUNSET
It’s 3 a.m. Your computer screen is snow-blind white. Your notebook pages are slick with your own drool. The blinking cursor hypnotizes you into mumbling, “I should have gone to business school.” Your muse steals your cell phone and chats for hours with other writers she considers far more talented than you—some living in Bulgaria. You only receive an occasional text message: “R U NUTZ?”
EDGAR ALLAN POE BLOOD RED
You run into an ex-classmate from your “Beginning Fiction” workshop. He’s the twit who always confused Raymond Carver with Raymond Burr. He says he’s just sold his first novel for $1 million. “Wanna tend bar at my book party?” he asks. A black limousine pulls up beside you and the driver lowers the window. It’s your missing muse! She blows you a kiss and drives away with your ex-classmate.
Check link for more interesting article http://www.writersdigest.com/
Friday, January 23, 2009
sojourn in national bookstore
When I need to be away from the four corners of my room, I go either to Power Book or National bookstore. Sometimes I go to buy a book. Other times I just run my fingers through the cover after reading the synopsis. Most of the time, I sniff between the pages like a heroin addict. But, today I did the whole thing. The buying part was not actually in my plan but my determination not to fumble a single cent in my pocket was only an unsuccessful attempt.
I bought Marne Kilates's Poetry Collection, Mostly in Monsoon Weather, and Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo's Passages Selected Travel Essays.
Getting ready for my travel narrative for CNF and Poetry Workshop class! =p
I bought Marne Kilates's Poetry Collection, Mostly in Monsoon Weather, and Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo's Passages Selected Travel Essays.
Getting ready for my travel narrative for CNF and Poetry Workshop class! =p
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Free Writing
I did one of the exercises in Newman's book "Writing from the Heart". It is a technique in which I write for a certain amount of time without stopping. Actually, the idea is not speed writing, but write continuously.
So here it goes
I am inside my room, lying on my stomach as I write this. I am trying to do at least two exercises from Newman's book each day. It is five minutes before 1 o'clock in the morning. My brother is still watching the inauguration of Barrack Obama on TV. He is the one who always tease me. I told him that I have a job interview tomorrow in Paranaque and asked him to give me some money. He went to his room to get his wallet and gave me fifty pesos."What!"I said, "How will i get back home with fifty pesos? I might not even reach the office with this." He just said "take it or leave it". So, I took it. I must sleep early tonight for the scheduled job interview tomorrow. He jokes about missing my 'shift' tonight. Remember he gave me the title of being the'lady guard of the house,' because I stayed up so late. He also thought that that I am living the life of such. Maybe he feels good when he is being mean to me or maybe he thinks he is being cute. I wonder when will he grow up or if he will ever grow up. He acts as if I am older than him. He doesn't feel embarrass of doing silly things like talking to himself or pretending of having a dialogue with my 2 years old nephew, who isn't with us and actually living in Dubai. He would call him(my nephew) "bebes" to mean baby facing a picture frame on top of our television set. That is just one of the silly things he does. He used to bug me to download music to his mp3. Now, he bugs me to find a job immediately, so I can buy him a PSP (slim Type). And what do I get in exchange? fifty pesos. Oh god! Please help me so I can buy my big brother his PSP, so he would stop calling me "the Vamp" (short for Vampire) or the " night-shift lady guard".
So here it goes
I am inside my room, lying on my stomach as I write this. I am trying to do at least two exercises from Newman's book each day. It is five minutes before 1 o'clock in the morning. My brother is still watching the inauguration of Barrack Obama on TV. He is the one who always tease me. I told him that I have a job interview tomorrow in Paranaque and asked him to give me some money. He went to his room to get his wallet and gave me fifty pesos."What!"I said, "How will i get back home with fifty pesos? I might not even reach the office with this." He just said "take it or leave it". So, I took it. I must sleep early tonight for the scheduled job interview tomorrow. He jokes about missing my 'shift' tonight. Remember he gave me the title of being the'lady guard of the house,' because I stayed up so late. He also thought that that I am living the life of such. Maybe he feels good when he is being mean to me or maybe he thinks he is being cute. I wonder when will he grow up or if he will ever grow up. He acts as if I am older than him. He doesn't feel embarrass of doing silly things like talking to himself or pretending of having a dialogue with my 2 years old nephew, who isn't with us and actually living in Dubai. He would call him(my nephew) "bebes" to mean baby facing a picture frame on top of our television set. That is just one of the silly things he does. He used to bug me to download music to his mp3. Now, he bugs me to find a job immediately, so I can buy him a PSP (slim Type). And what do I get in exchange? fifty pesos. Oh god! Please help me so I can buy my big brother his PSP, so he would stop calling me "the Vamp" (short for Vampire) or the " night-shift lady guard".
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
just a bite
I wrote another poem, wishing, at least, it could be considered as one and not just another effusion. I called it A Bite
I swallowed the beast I used to tend
too late, now I'm sure my life will end
One bite and then I see
A naked man before me
As if my eyes were opened.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Understanding Poetry
I attempted to understand a friend's poetry.
Agas
Munting Katawan sa init ay salat,
Basurang sa damuhan ikinalat.
Puting lampin dapat nakabalot,
itim na plastik ang naging saplot.
Nanay sana ang kaulayaw,
Nakapiling ay ang mga langaw.
Karupukan daw dito ang kanilang paliwanag,
sa mga obligasyon lamang daw sila ay naduwag.
Sa tulad ba nila'y anong nararapat?
Ang isang patawad lamang ba ay sapat.
I am more familiar with its synonymous term ‘agos’,which means a swift current or a sudden flow. In this context, it connotes human impulse or an act of whim. Here, it creates a deeper take of its meaning by using it as the controlling idea in the poem. Meaning, the image that the poem represents, as a whole, connects the central idea of which has been signaled by the title.
The synthesis of the idea and image works in an intuitive and symbolic way therefore, giving an insight of the entire poem:
/Puting lampin dapat nakabalot,
Itim na plastic ang naging saplot/.
I associate “puting lampin” to a “newborn” supposedly clothe not by black garbage plastic. With the synthesis, I understand the context of the poem by association.
Another thing I want to highlight is the emotional tone impressed towards the end of the poem. It ends with a question directed towards the mother(s) of the unborn child/ (children). Yet, the poet’s intention is neither to condemn nor to rebuke, but to awaken sympathy for the unborn child/children supported with the images beforehand:
/nanay sana ang kaulayaw.
Nakapiling ay ang mga langaw/.
The emotional significance is endowed by Irish’s imagination when she employs vivid images and description. Consequently, appealing not only to the visualizing power, but also to the heart and soul of a reader as I find balance between the emotion and idea of the poem.
Agas
Munting Katawan sa init ay salat,
Basurang sa damuhan ikinalat.
Puting lampin dapat nakabalot,
itim na plastik ang naging saplot.
Nanay sana ang kaulayaw,
Nakapiling ay ang mga langaw.
Karupukan daw dito ang kanilang paliwanag,
sa mga obligasyon lamang daw sila ay naduwag.
Sa tulad ba nila'y anong nararapat?
Ang isang patawad lamang ba ay sapat.
I am more familiar with its synonymous term ‘agos’,which means a swift current or a sudden flow. In this context, it connotes human impulse or an act of whim. Here, it creates a deeper take of its meaning by using it as the controlling idea in the poem. Meaning, the image that the poem represents, as a whole, connects the central idea of which has been signaled by the title.
The synthesis of the idea and image works in an intuitive and symbolic way therefore, giving an insight of the entire poem:
/Puting lampin dapat nakabalot,
Itim na plastic ang naging saplot/.
I associate “puting lampin” to a “newborn” supposedly clothe not by black garbage plastic. With the synthesis, I understand the context of the poem by association.
Another thing I want to highlight is the emotional tone impressed towards the end of the poem. It ends with a question directed towards the mother(s) of the unborn child/ (children). Yet, the poet’s intention is neither to condemn nor to rebuke, but to awaken sympathy for the unborn child/children supported with the images beforehand:
/nanay sana ang kaulayaw.
Nakapiling ay ang mga langaw/.
The emotional significance is endowed by Irish’s imagination when she employs vivid images and description. Consequently, appealing not only to the visualizing power, but also to the heart and soul of a reader as I find balance between the emotion and idea of the poem.
Monday, January 19, 2009
draft
I wrote the first draft of the poem. I want to make the image of lightning vivid.
I call it "A Stroke of Lightning"
His voice, like thunder
rumbling through my head -
frightens me, trembles me,
occurs when the lightning
splits the heaven and
strikes the earth.
At night when I sleep
the roaring thunder creeps -
feigning like a lullaby;
silencing an outcry
pinning me down
far deep
When morning comes,
an uproar fades -
the lightning hits
the same spot twice;
leaving no blister
not even a trace
Yet, when mother asks me
not to tell a soul -
I see the stains
on the hem of my skirt, and
feel the flare
burning even more.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
5% magic
I enjoy putting my nose between pages of books. Each book has distinctive smell. Maoui says I might develop an Asthma, but I don't believe her and not even care. Anyway, my favorite, so far, are the pages in the hardbound book of Harry Potter (book7) which smells like a fresh morning in Australia (it's sad that the smell of morning in the Philippines has gone stale). I found out the pages were made of 30% post consumer recycled fiber (whatever that is!) and 65% came from the forest. The other 5% was not revealed, but I guess it was the magic that enables me to transport from one continent to another.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
write a poem
I want to write a poem that will juxtapose an image of 'lightning' to a subject of incest. I will call it "A Stroke of Lightning".
Friday, January 16, 2009
reading vs. job interview
I was supposed to have a job interview in Mandaluyong, but I chose not to go. Instead, I took a bath, put on a clean clothes and continue my attempt to 'close read' Mookie Katigbak's and Sid Cruz's poetry.
I read a new book called 'Writing From the Heart' by Leslea Newman. Reading her introduction made me feel that what I have to say matters.
I read a new book called 'Writing From the Heart' by Leslea Newman. Reading her introduction made me feel that what I have to say matters.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
billion pages
I have written my close reading of Joel Toledo's Makahiya, hoping at least I had given it justice. I was hunting symbols around the text and thought that the art of reading symbolically is, in itself, creative.
My eyes sore and teary. My consolation is that all these unfinished assignments, fragmentary thoughts and effusion still has worth (so much that I am writing about it) and is completing another purpose in my journal (alright! blog then). But more than the grade this journal/blog promised, I aim to write from top to bottom of the page until not one page is left blank. Not because I have so much to say, but if there is something I can be good at, then I want to be good in writing. Maybe, if I learn the craft and write on a thousand, million, billion pages, then maybe I can be good at it.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
close reading
I spent the day reading the books I borrowed from the library: Understanding Poetry Through Imagery, The Criticism of Poetry, Arts and craft of Poetry and Poetry Criticism and Practice.
I'm sure I could use all these in critical reading for my Poetry workshop class. All these reading, pondering and writing made me feel so hungry. I thought shifting career is challenging, but to do a 'close reading' of poetry is unforgiving.
I'm sure I could use all these in critical reading for my Poetry workshop class. All these reading, pondering and writing made me feel so hungry. I thought shifting career is challenging, but to do a 'close reading' of poetry is unforgiving.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
charged to experience
Even without a day job, I felt dead tired like someone who has gone for work. Yesterday was exhausting. The series of exams and interviews took one day. The office is located at 9th floor Tektite Bldg. I applied for a Curriculum Developer position (sounds good eh?). If I would get the job, my responsibility is to draft a syllabus and design modules/lessons suitable for Koreans who wants to learn to write and speak English.
Irish came home with me last night. Yes I made it home. The 3 one hundred bills were spent, but the lose coins were intact. Irish was staying in Ortigas, a couple of cartwheels and few strides away from Tektite. So I guessed she must be so bored or she must be working on an experimental study - Ways to go to Ortigas: train, bus or van. Which is faster? cheaper? safer? - or perhaps preparing for her travel narrative in our Creative non-fiction class.
I learned that we both have Batangueno's descent in our blood. It was actually a delight to have her. My mother thought she was nice and cheerful, someone you can depend for a comic relief in a 'not so funny' day. I remembered her commentary about the lady in the office where we applied in. She said how much she wanted to do her(the lady's) make-up so that she'll be more presentable. Her comment was way too honest, but not necessary true. Later, we found out that the lady was the HR Head of the company. Irish couldn't believe it. We were laughing secretly in the waiting area. I knew Irish has somethiing to say. She was very natural and spontaneous, things I like most about her. Her youthful energy was contagious. We blended well regardless of our six years age gap. With her, there was no dead air. My listening skill was put to test (if you know what I mean).
At 6:30 in the morning, we were both set to go. We headed to the school library to do our research and reading. We then proceed to Ortigas after we had lunch. After we passed all the exams and interview, we thought we were good. But, turning down the offer made us even better. I thought it's good to set certain standards and stick to it because we have worked our way to earn what we are worth.
Irish came home with me last night. Yes I made it home. The 3 one hundred bills were spent, but the lose coins were intact. Irish was staying in Ortigas, a couple of cartwheels and few strides away from Tektite. So I guessed she must be so bored or she must be working on an experimental study - Ways to go to Ortigas: train, bus or van. Which is faster? cheaper? safer? - or perhaps preparing for her travel narrative in our Creative non-fiction class.
I learned that we both have Batangueno's descent in our blood. It was actually a delight to have her. My mother thought she was nice and cheerful, someone you can depend for a comic relief in a 'not so funny' day. I remembered her commentary about the lady in the office where we applied in. She said how much she wanted to do her(the lady's) make-up so that she'll be more presentable. Her comment was way too honest, but not necessary true. Later, we found out that the lady was the HR Head of the company. Irish couldn't believe it. We were laughing secretly in the waiting area. I knew Irish has somethiing to say. She was very natural and spontaneous, things I like most about her. Her youthful energy was contagious. We blended well regardless of our six years age gap. With her, there was no dead air. My listening skill was put to test (if you know what I mean).
At 6:30 in the morning, we were both set to go. We headed to the school library to do our research and reading. We then proceed to Ortigas after we had lunch. After we passed all the exams and interview, we thought we were good. But, turning down the offer made us even better. I thought it's good to set certain standards and stick to it because we have worked our way to earn what we are worth.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Fishing A Job
I wrote this entry while waiting for Irish. We agreed to meet at 8 o'clock, but I miscalculated the time (coming from cavite gave me an excuse). Although I am 30 minutes late, I still arrived earlier than her. I was sitting at Mc Donald's beside a man feasting over a hearty breakfast. The smell of the freshly fried chicken made my stomach grumbled a little. I was in a hurry to take anything before I left the house. The smell continued to seep through my nostril. I was suddenly counting my pocket money in my head: 3 one hundred bills and some lose coins. Going to Ortigas by one of those 'kolorum' vans cost 70 pesos, maybe another 70 going back (if I'm lucky to spot the same van later which is hardly going to happen). If not, then I may have to choose the long way (and more costly), unless I walk from Robinson's to MRT Station. Yaiiks! I couldn't even afford a cup of coffee, ah! no not coffee, because i don't drink coffee... French fries. I wished Irish Arrive soon. I hoped we are lucky enough to fish (god! I must be hungry) some job.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Let me suffer alone
I am neither a churchgoer nor a devotee of any saints so I stayed home like my other usual Sundays. I checked my email, greeted friends on ym and search for new job ads. I chatted with Irish whose left hand is still in cast. We agreed to meet in Ortigas tomorrow for a walk-in application.t'
I supposed Sunday is always a lazy day. But what I like most about it is that our house is all quiet. It's the day of the week when people around the house hibernates. Every one else stays in their own room; tatay watches tv in the bedroom, Jerick plays PSP in his bedroom (headset plugged in his ear, in maximum volume), nanay works in the market on Sunday, Kuya helps her. And I, in my room of course, wrestling over a blank page, a sign outside the door that says "LET ME SUFFER ALONE!"
I just finished reading Alice Munro's A friend of my Youth. I noticed that her stories were more character driven rather than plot driven. I found it interesting... a lot of psychologizing.
I supposed Sunday is always a lazy day. But what I like most about it is that our house is all quiet. It's the day of the week when people around the house hibernates. Every one else stays in their own room; tatay watches tv in the bedroom, Jerick plays PSP in his bedroom (headset plugged in his ear, in maximum volume), nanay works in the market on Sunday, Kuya helps her. And I, in my room of course, wrestling over a blank page, a sign outside the door that says "LET ME SUFFER ALONE!"
I just finished reading Alice Munro's A friend of my Youth. I noticed that her stories were more character driven rather than plot driven. I found it interesting... a lot of psychologizing.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
keeping my eyes on the ball
I woke up at 5:30 in the morning with only an hour sleep. No, it's not that I'm too excited for my first day of class, but it was because my sleeping habit went topsy-turvy. My brother often teased with this and said I could pass as a Call Center Agent and immediately demoted me to a night-shift lady guard. He also said we no longer needed our three dogs for I could do the job without the need to buy Pedigree. One morning, (although it was already quarter past twelve) he greeted me good morning (which he rarely did!). I thought he finally realized his meanness and decided to be nice as his Ney Year's resolution. He was watching "Underworld" then, back to back with "The Queen of the Damned" on dvd. He told me he would no longer call me the "lady guard of the house" ever again. I felt like giving him a hug and offered feeding his African love birds. I was happy that he realized the tag didn't suit me just because I stayed so late until the next morning. However, in the middle of watching movie, he said he finally knew what title really suit my lifestyle: The Vamp, he said. I smiled at him and thought he was only flattering me, with Kate Beckinsale who was seductive in the Underworld and Alliyah, hot in the Queen of the Damned all pictured in my head. Finally, I thought my brother was making sense. I was already planning to feed the birds for the entire week. But not until he said that "Vamp" was short for "Vampire". I must really needed some sleep to ever think that my brother learn how to be nice.
It was still 5:30 in the morning anyway, all quiet and cold (nights are colder). Unfortunately, we didn't have a hot and cold shower (common abodes I've known never had one, so maybe it's not that all unfortunate), so I had to boil water in the kettle for my morning bath. Before the sun stretched out its sun rays, I was already set and prepared to attend my morning class at 8 o'clock. It was already 6:30 in my watch. Living in Cavite required me to allot one hour and a half to two hours going to La Salle. The people around the house sleep in during weekends so it was still all quiet when I left. I closed the gate behind me and strode off. The street was still empty of young kids who found the long stretch of Onyx Street as playground for their childhood games of throwballs, hopscotch and skipping rope. A young boy on a bicycle, peddling his hot pandesal, passed me by as he squeezed a horn he was holding near the break. It only took seven minutes, by feet, to reach the subdivision gate, and the main road, another three. A guardhouse was built in the middle of the road before the bright yellow painted gate, framing wires of fence like a honeycomb. I bumped into my former tennis coach the moment I turned right in the corner. I learned tennis many years ago. I once wished of becoming the Sharapova of the Philippines or break records like the legendary Williams sisters. But because the hours I should spend training must be the hours spent earning, I left te tennis court before I even made it to the nearest Barangay Open.
We stood in the street for a little while. We exchanged how are yous and post holiday greetings. He was stil wearing that same genial smile (when off the court) that formed lines in the corner of his eyes. Although his hair had turned all white, his good posture and fit body were undeniably the product of all those single back hand and volley. He used to lend me his spare tennis racquet when I was learning the basics; how to hit the ball, at least, at the center of the racquet. A week after continuous practice, I bought a 'Head', similar to Agassis's by half the price. And like cell phones, new models came out, and they came out fast, making mine outdated if not obsolete, nonetheless, served the purpose.
With all the things he taught me, from foot work to proper swing, one thing that stuck in me was to keep my eyes on the ball. One training day would not be complete without him telling me this six words - keep your eye on the ball- in a manner where you can see veins sticking out his neck.
Now, I'm no longer bothered by the aching sore of tennis elbow and my muscle memory had forgotten the right swing, but I still kept one lesson when I left the tennis court because I chose to pursue a different match.
It is also a challenging pursuit, takes practice without a net and requires the same discipline of an athlethe. My opponent is myself and my fear of a blank page. My racquet is my pen, lighter in the hand, yet as powerful as winning aces of Williams and Sharapova combined.
It was still 5:30 in the morning anyway, all quiet and cold (nights are colder). Unfortunately, we didn't have a hot and cold shower (common abodes I've known never had one, so maybe it's not that all unfortunate), so I had to boil water in the kettle for my morning bath. Before the sun stretched out its sun rays, I was already set and prepared to attend my morning class at 8 o'clock. It was already 6:30 in my watch. Living in Cavite required me to allot one hour and a half to two hours going to La Salle. The people around the house sleep in during weekends so it was still all quiet when I left. I closed the gate behind me and strode off. The street was still empty of young kids who found the long stretch of Onyx Street as playground for their childhood games of throwballs, hopscotch and skipping rope. A young boy on a bicycle, peddling his hot pandesal, passed me by as he squeezed a horn he was holding near the break. It only took seven minutes, by feet, to reach the subdivision gate, and the main road, another three. A guardhouse was built in the middle of the road before the bright yellow painted gate, framing wires of fence like a honeycomb. I bumped into my former tennis coach the moment I turned right in the corner. I learned tennis many years ago. I once wished of becoming the Sharapova of the Philippines or break records like the legendary Williams sisters. But because the hours I should spend training must be the hours spent earning, I left te tennis court before I even made it to the nearest Barangay Open.
We stood in the street for a little while. We exchanged how are yous and post holiday greetings. He was stil wearing that same genial smile (when off the court) that formed lines in the corner of his eyes. Although his hair had turned all white, his good posture and fit body were undeniably the product of all those single back hand and volley. He used to lend me his spare tennis racquet when I was learning the basics; how to hit the ball, at least, at the center of the racquet. A week after continuous practice, I bought a 'Head', similar to Agassis's by half the price. And like cell phones, new models came out, and they came out fast, making mine outdated if not obsolete, nonetheless, served the purpose.
With all the things he taught me, from foot work to proper swing, one thing that stuck in me was to keep my eyes on the ball. One training day would not be complete without him telling me this six words - keep your eye on the ball- in a manner where you can see veins sticking out his neck.
Now, I'm no longer bothered by the aching sore of tennis elbow and my muscle memory had forgotten the right swing, but I still kept one lesson when I left the tennis court because I chose to pursue a different match.
It is also a challenging pursuit, takes practice without a net and requires the same discipline of an athlethe. My opponent is myself and my fear of a blank page. My racquet is my pen, lighter in the hand, yet as powerful as winning aces of Williams and Sharapova combined.
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