Notes on What is Filipino: Filipinoness and Politics in Literature

In the advent of globalization and cultural contamination among countries, plus the fact that our nation is a byproduct of continuous colonialism of countries which have settled on the Philippine shores since time immemorial, we are still confronted, as much as we are confounded, by the seemingly endless question of “What does Filipinoness mean in our literature?” The query seems easy to answer at face value, what with the usual references on the various native images, experiences, and events that one can write about and allude to. If one is steeped in the works of our literary forefathers, the answer to the inquiry may skirt around the notion of bayan and other problems it entails; images such as the bamboo, the bucolic fields, towns and lives rendered on the page in tones of sepia and hints of nostalgia; and the quest for our Filipino identity, which is forever molded in the numerous historical situations we were once in, or in a desired past which we hark back to.

But despite, or maybe because of, these possible definitions of Filipinoness, a discomfort is becoming palpable among writers, especially the youngish ones who seem agitated and ever-dynamic towards the developments unfolding and penetrating into the Philippine literary landscape. There is a growing number of writers who are born and bred in the busy life of the Metro; writers who may belong to certain ethno-linguistic groups yet plucked out from their provincial towns to be tempered with cosmopolitan education; and writers who are globally exposed to cultures of different countries, among others. Indeed, the kinds of writers we have are getting more varied now, what with all the inescapable and unavoidable hybridity and intertextuality happening in this shrinking world.

Now more than ever, the definition of what is Filipino becomes more complex and more exciting. Gone are the days when being Filipino meant writing just about the nation, about “our scene so fair,” about our cultural roots, or about the poverty and the embittered complexities of life in our seemingly forsaken country. To my mind, I would like to think that Filipinoness means writing about what is essentially and resoundingly Filipino to me; that is, what I know about this land, its people, and its events. Or it can also be about my personal thoughts and interpretations about the ever-changing terrain in which I belong. Part of a generation that is both open and receptive to the social realities of its time, to the individual anxieties and perplexities on love and other relationships, and to the ubiquitous pressures and pleasures brought about by technology, I feel that the meaning of being Filipino moves from the native to the cosmopolitan, from the idea of nation building to nation re-inventing, from being inwardly indigent to a more outwardly global one. Simplistic as it may sound, I however would also like to believe that Philippine literature covers any text, whether in English or in Filipino, that is written by a Filipino or someone who associates himself or herself to what is Filipino. Filipinoness is not limited to themes that concern our country and the experiences of its citizens; it also tackles the many facets of being a Filipino anywhere in the world.

Having said all these, and being able to clarify my own stance on what truly is Filipino in the context of my own writing and the other writings produced in this country, why does the other part of me still remain iffy on the question posted above? Instead of asking whether a text is Filipino or not, I am more interested and thrilled in the query “What now if it is Filipino?”, since it tries to break the confines of labels and probes into the nature of literature in general. After all, it is the form and content of the text, and not the limiting tags that we lace them with, that would transcend and, therefore, make sense to us.

Which leads me to the role that literature plays in our society. In this country where most of us even need to seek for ways and means just to keep the harsh, apparently desperate realities tame and bearable, where a lot of kids do not even know how to read and write because of utter poverty and inefficient subsidy from the government, where the main priority after graduation is to get a decent job that can help make ends meet, and where the allegedly present reading public would seem more interested in logging on to the Internet, or watching TV, or strolling in the mall, or just even preoccupying themselves with other activities deemed more leisurely and pleasurable—does literature still even matter in this sun-soaked country or, more accurately, to its hungering, economically-restrained people?

Much has been said about the purposes of literature. Most of which are wishful; some are often fatuous. We have heard about literature as a mode of reconstructing reality, with its nature of mirroring life or reimagining a slice of it. It also has the power to ferry across ideas to its readers and eventually generate provocations and big ideas that can sooner or later answer their diverse concerns. Literature also orders our chaotic world by providing a sequence to it, by simplifying life into a beginning, middle, and end, and by pinning down our humanity on the page and embellish it with form and beauty through the power of language. Sure, these are fascinating functions of literature, especially now that this country is almost always bereft of harmony and an inspired imagination to produce critical thought for the benefit of the majority. But still, at back of all these purposes is a lingering question: Do readers care about them at all? Or, to begin with, are there enough people reading for them to be noticed?

There is no doubt that literature takes a big function in the society, as much as how other forms of art like architecture and music have their own necessary roles in the formation and reformation of a community. The key players involved—which translates into the writer and the reader, basically—must just know how to start the conversation, the dialogue between producer and consumer. Of course this is easier said than done, given the various factors enclosed in between the gaps separating the two. But as long as the mode of literary production does not stop, and writers themselves (and the ideologies which they perpetuate) do not surrender in carving out their own space in the readers’ minds, literature’s role will always have its own spot in the lives of people, even withstanding the pressures of economic survival.
So how can practitioners of the craft forward literature’s role in the society? In accomplishing this, I believe knowing one’s audience is a totally significant step. If one writes or speaks to a particular reading public (which need not be the students whom the writer/teacher is teaching to, or the small group of friends whom he or she is scratching backs with), more or less, sooner or later, that audience might come out to the fore and speak back. Thus, the start of a conversation.

As to the question whether literature needs to be political—which means it must necessitate itself to talk about the concepts related to bayan, to champion the rights of the oppressed, to uncover our leaders’ scrupulous behaviors, among other societal concerns that need to be addressed—my stance is this: as much as I believe that this must be highly encouraged and demanded from writers, I do not dispel the fact that there are also other possible and plausible topics that can be dealt with and written about.

It is clear to me that any form of art bears its own politics, and even the most personal writer carries his or her own stand towards matters. For me, the mere fact that one writes, that he or she is brave enough to imprint his or her thoughts on the page and let other people read it, is a political act in itself. By means of presenting one’s thoughts, succinctly digested and impregnated with method and meaning, the writer and his or her output is already pushing a statement, or a specific manner on how to look at things. Literature becomes propagandistic when it leans too much on the political. If a writer truly cares about the craft in which he or she breathes in and out, he or she must then be careful in maintaining the balance between image and statement, content and form, subjectivity and objectivity. Forcing literature to become just political is to undermine its other functions.

Clearly, Filipinoness does not only refer to our original native selves. At this time and age of our history, I think it is appropriate to think that we are already part of the global world, and that we are a product of the plentiful forces surrounding, contaminating, and tempering us. The many definitions that are being attached to the term only shows how culturally dispersed we are as a people. So do these definitions symptomize the various issues on class and identity that are evidently present between and among us? Perhaps. If this is the case, writers then need to address, through their writings, the many needs and wants of these variegated kinds of audience. Given this, the burden of the writer is to spur a dialogue between his or her works and his or her particular audience. Hopefully it is through this rapport, this connection, that the individual/private (writer) would successfully latch itself on the communal/public (reader). And it is in this strong, continuous relationship where I rest my hopes for the beautiful functions of literature to flourish and never flounder.

Emerging from the Mess: Writing and Revising Poems

At the surface level, the beauty of a poem is first felt before understood. With this I mean poetry that affects the senses before engaging in a cerebral and even technical dialogue between reader and text. To the new reader of poetry, this could mean getting the overall feel of the poem without any effort of probing into the poem’s technicalities. What then emerges is a shallow and restricted communication between the text and the reader, who is unable to exhaustively experience the meaningfulness that a work of art carries.

It is with this concern that poetry should be experienced not only with one’s own personal feelings and taste but also with the proper knowledge of the matters interplaying in the nooks and crannies of it. It doesn’t suffice that one just feels it; in order to live and interpret it one must see how its anatomical parts perform on the liberal spaces of the page. Indeed, the writing and reading of poetry becomes more momentous and pleasurable once it is understood based on its sets of function, with its various techniques being unlocked in the mind of the consumer himself.

As a person attempting to write poetry, I make sure that I communicate with my reader, which means to say, I aim for accessibility and understandability. While fully aware of the divide between “accessibility” and experimentation, I would like to think that I operate more, fortunately or unfortunately, with the former. It is a deliberate effort on my part to write “the seemingly easy poems,” which bear coherence and clarity in both image and meaning. I have high regard with the craft that I really pay attention, no matter how difficult and taxing, to the images, the statements, and the meaning of the whole poem. I would like to see my poem come to life in its sheer vividness, equipped with the ability of sparking a conversation with its reader.

The way to achieve all these of course is through the act of revision. To be honest, I didn’t give much premium on the act of revising back when I was just starting to write poetry. Maybe it was smugness on my part, or maybe it could just be my ignorant self. After all, I was young to give too much effort on thoroughly and endlessly assessing and re-assessing my work. Perhaps I was too scared to face the fact that revision, then and now, means facing one’s own ugly and pathetic work. Needless to say, it was as if revising would dishearten me in pursuing the craft of poetry. Maybe I was just too blinded by the fear that I wouldn’t succeed had I tried chucking out those soggy lines and even “slashing and burning” the whole poem itself, along with its utter shakiness, absurdity, and heavy-handed melancholy.

But times have changed, and sure enough I am way past my innocent, hard-headed days. I have been kinder to myself and more open to the countless possibilities that such discipline as revising has in store for me. If not for the creative writing and comparative literature classes I enrolled in, I wouldn’t be more absorbent to and keen on criticism. Now, it is easier for me to confront and review my works, in all their starkness and incompetence. While revising, I often assure myself that for every word that I alter, or every sentence that I tweak, or every poem that I delete in totality, the more I hone myself as a writer and thus do service to literature in general.

In revising however there are factors that I need to contend with, if only to successfully emerge from the act with my aim of being a poet still intact in its proper place. It is here where I realize that being a writer, as it is in any serious profession, is not just a breezy walk in the park. Rather, it is a discipline that needs hard-work, focus, intellect, and a dogged desire for learning, all of which become one’s defense in moments of discouragement and failure in achieving beauty and effect.

During the act of revising, I need to have faith in the piece that I am working on; faith that it can still improve and meet the standards of poetry. It’s only with this that I can go about with revising and never easily surrender to all the taxing demands of the act. Having the faith also means laboring all night and not watching TV and not surfing the net just to get things done and over with. On the other hand, having no faith in the work means not recognizing even a single word or phrase that may carry promise. I just click the delete button and say goodbye to a seemingly desperate piece without any feeling of remorse.

For me, the questions “Where am I?” and “For whom am I writing?” are valid queries that I always take into consideration. They help me in deciding on what to write about and the treatment in which I should function. These two questions also situate me as a poet, giving me the opportunity to probe into my poetics, if any, and ascertain whatever notions of poetry I have to begin with. This also means clarifying whatever ideology I have, whatever picture of the world I have, or whatever portrayal I would like to achieve in my work. It is from here where I proceed to “touching” the poem. Touching a poem means weeding out the unnecessary “events” in it, tightening the syntax and the thought, keeping in touch with unity and coherence, and asserting the poem’s relevance and urgency.

Moreover, the processes of writing and revising entail good amount of reading. In my case, I read the poems that speak to me and which raise questions that I want to answer. The equation seems to be easy: read the poems that talk to you and write the poems that talk back. In an attempt to carve out my own space and search for my own voice amid all these noise happening around the literary landscape in this country, I try to grapple with the many challenges surrounding me. This I do by first establishing myself—that is, my voice— in my works and try to infuse my own language and thinking in it. There are times when I am not contented with the end results, but most often than not, they turn out decent enough to make me happy.

Indeed, the poems in this collection are created around this set-up. They have been written under these circumstances, plus the fact that they are penned under pressure as they are requirements for class. Adhering to traditional forms has also been a challenge. Being a writer who is more comfortable with open forms, I needed to write these poems with great struggle.

But surely, this writing life will continue and, with the help of my muses, flourish. Writing after all is a choice. It is up to me whether to sail on or not, do good or not.

In the meantime, the search for my own space goes on as I learn more things from artists and non-artists alike that surround me. And as my current works are put under the tough scrutiny of some “fellow-feelers” of the craft, the more I realize that there are a lot of things to catch up. So far, the writing process for me is on the borderline between tribulation and joy. But I need not be afraid and weakened. What make me stay are the real experiences that I get from both writing and revising, from both creating and re-creating. For in the end, it is a new me—intelligible and creative—that will emerge from all this mess, like a charming flower after a rainfall.

“What else was there to want?”: Life, Pleasure, and Identity in L. Lacambra Ypil’s The Highest Hiding Place

(An excerpt)

Collected into what is now the book The Highest Hiding Place (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2009), Lawrence Lacambra Ypil’s poems show a collective yearning for desire, voice, and identity. They tackle the various topics that move us and shake us in this sun-tanned country of ours, such as childhood, love, alienation, gayness, and other discoveries that an individual enamored and challenged by both the demands of art and memory confronts day by day.

The beauty and pleasure that one can meaningfully experience from L. Lacambra Ypil’s first poetry collection is hinted on the book title itself. Through the poet’s perspicacious and artistic eye, a reader is brought and introduced, in fits of nostalgia, surprise, and humor, to the varying zones of the present and past, to the characters of a different time hooked up to the now, and to the various events packed with sincerity and frivolity that one may only witness, albeit in a stealthy distance, in “the highest hiding place.” There is certitude in the vibe and rhythm of these poems, one that affects the reader as he or she flits about from page per revelatory page, inflicting him or her, fortunately or unfortunately, with a sense of regularity and occasional surges at the heart. The Highest Hiding Place seems to be a collection borne out of internal longings, of wishful remembering, and of attempts at memorializing people, places, and events that are once confined in and need to liberate from the landscapes of childhood and current memory.

In this collection, Ypil carries his readers back on to what the poet Merlie Alunan calls the “infinite dimension of the world we experience daily.” We see in this book a swarm of unnamed individuals (boys or girls alike in their sheer playfulness and drama), the plain sensible things and events (a picnic, a revisit to an old, alienating place), and the many ruminations on both reality and art—all of which become the poet’s ultimate sources of topic. Also, the pieces in this book seem to be engaged in a sort of dialogue—dueling or otherwise—with one another: talks between mother and son, father and son, among men, among men and their significant others, etcetera. It is in the highest hiding place that the poetic eye finds a vantage point to watch all these and, consequently, lock them in the mind. Ypil constructs a world that is able to evolve and come to life, disturbing or placating the reader with both the personal and the private, the spoken and the unutterable.

Needless to say, the book’s primary goal is to celebrate memory, as it always is in literature, no matter how excruciating or exciting the modes of memory are. It thrives in emotions and associations, affirming the confluence of pain, seduction, fear, love, and desire that the poet feels about the world and the people filling it up to the brim, including himself. Because most of the incidents that the poet yearns to reminisce are interminable, they crop up us mere semblances—dramatic and symbolical as they are—of the actuality of things, presented with restraint and wisdom, and become the total interpretations that transform from the real to the imagined.

(Dis)placement, (Dis)covering: Life and the Self on the Page

Within the context of The Highest Hiding Place, the search for, or the assurance of, identity is what’s being contended with. Identity here is hinged on several personages and its evolution on the relationship it has with them. Through these relationships, the reader takes a glimpse on the pieces of the self as it forms and coheres into one unified whole. Because of these private moments of being a son, a friend, and a poet, the poems live a life and open themselves to the public sphere. The reader will soon realize that the poems, despite their intimacy and isolation, are not really too personal, because these are the same roles and relationships that he has in reality.

An example of this construction of identity is seen in the poem “Being a Son”. Ypil relives his childhood which was filled with expectations from his dad, who is a doctor. He starts this memory with his dad as the central character and describes how he was subjected to a repetitive life of “touching other people’s/ bodies, opening, holding a stick/ into a woman’s mouth….” This same life was what seemed to be expected of him back then. But he chose to stand at the “Edge of the bed./Edge of the world as I knew it./And I could be anyone” despite being “part of [his father’s] making, part of his wish.” At the tail end of this poem, Ypil suggests his personal preference of art over the medical profession. He writes:

I could be anything, really.
Even if I knew I was part
of his making, part of his wish,
part of the bad dream he could not wake up from
when he was young, in an old afternoon,
sleeping, the well outside his house
opening its secret mouth, deep into the world

where he knew fish were moving,
the earth shifting its feet, and his son
of many suns of many years
to come was making
his mind move the wind. (Stanzas 5 and 6)

Ypil also presents the dichotomies between the past and the present, youth and maturity, loss and life. Ypil tries to reclaim, recall, interpret, reason out, and reveal a life that is far-fetched in reality but can always be present in the poet’s mind and, consequently, on his works. As he walks down memory lane, he conjures up the places and things of remembrance. In “Visiting Danao”, for instance, Ypil tackles alienation and detachment from a childhood province, from its people, and from its ways. He goes back to a town whose language he does not know, and where he is confronted by people’s bucolic manners and beliefs. Having no cable, aimless talks under the heat of the sun, plant syrups as medicine for an itch are some of the specific situations that Ypil glosses over. With a tinge of resignation and pity, he concludes: “At the back of the knee was the space/ for the breath of a word: Taga-diri./ At the back of the head was the roof/ of a lonely, lonely mouth.”

Indeed the poems are often internal moments, shifting from one terrain to the next, from one frame to the next, described in a poetic vision. We feel the palpability of these thoughts and events and revel in their comfort and familiarity. And as readers, we “become the eye/ that shouldn’t be. The one/ that stays awake when no one sees” (“My Mother’s Dolls”). The life that exists on the page reflects our own and pulls us toward the nexus of art and reality. Ypil shows that whatever the poems talk about, act out, and live are the same circumstances that we, the readers, share and go through.

The Highest Hiding Place evidently carries Ypil’s deepest ambiguities and certainties as a poet. From one poem to another, an overall identity is formed through the various recurring and converging images, situations, and personages introduced. It seems that in most part of the collection, Ypil’s gaze is towards the past and to the various people coloring it. The physical and mental spaces that these poems inhabit move from the province to the city as the memory of the poet flits about from the then and now.

One can never get enough of Ypil’s chartering of the self and of identity. After all, his concerns are also ours. When he writes about his family, he also talks about our connection with our family, however embittered or impassioned it may be. When he deals with displacement, and aloofness, and amazement, aren’t those the same feelings or conceptions that we have as we embark on an alienating journey in the city? When he tackles lust, desire, and the stealthy life and love of a gay man, aren’t those the same surges of intensity that we, the desirer, feel towards the desired? Aren’t those the same quandaries that we share as we stand in the crossroads of our lives?

Indeed, most of the poems in Ypil’s collection are rich in identity. They try to carve out their own discursive space in the way they are presented. Through the narratives that Ypil meshes up in his poetry, we make sense of the identities inherent in them and, concomitantly, are able to map out the insights about their experiences. These poems carry a voice, recognizable and so true, that reverberate in the same fields of experience that we have. The self in these poems partially becomes the selves that we contain in us.

Helen Vendler writes: “Poetry is the great means in which one identity reaches out to another, tries to explain itself to another, brings up images to clarify itself, finds a diction that speaks its mind, and finds a stylized form to enact its appeal.” Because poems are merely constructions, they reflect the poet’s milieu and thought processing. And given the many factors found in the poet’s everyday lives that are akin to one another, it is the poet’s responsibility to emerge from all the stereotypical identities and modalities surrounding him.

Almost always, silence is what remains after reading Ypil’s poems; an evident technique that the poet employs in order to leave a lasting impression on his readers. Louis Simpson writes, “I believe that all true poets feel a sense of dedication, and that this comes to them in solitude and silence…. To apprehend the silence of the universe is to wish to break it, to speak to those who are in the same boat with ourselves.” Ypil’s poetry “feeds on silence” and indulges in it; that when a word, or phrase, or stanza, or even a whole poem crackles and extends its playfulness on the page through its imagery and sound, one relishes the occasion with equal or greater satisfaction.

Every poet’s task is to recreate into words the ruminations carved out from silence. Poetry is a strong compulsion, a need—an overflowing of emotions, as Wordsworth once put it—that must be extracted, painstakingly or not, from the mind of the poet, who now accepts the sole role of being the conveyor, the medium of this force. What is admirable in Ypil’s poetry is being able to establish itself—its tone, its images, the shifting personas speaking behind every poem—amidst the complex calmness of the writing process itself.

Lastly, Ypil’s poems bring his voice to the fore and let it speak the identity it bears. This ownership of voice and identity in the poems of L. Lacambra Ypil is surely the start of its ascension into being one of the better works published and read in our country today. And in the light of the voices and identities being heard and seen in the Philippine literary landscape, it is up to Ypil how to sustain its own self and remain steadfast with whatever it has impressively started.

To Articulate the Meditations: Attention and Astonishment in Joel Toledo’s The Long Lost Startle (UP Press, 2009)

While there is so much promise in Joel Toledo’s second collection of poetry, The Long Lost Startle, the kind which can be “considered a major work in Philippine poetry,” why do I still feel doubtful and uneasy after reading the poems, despite them being in touch with nature and the human spirit, beautiful moments and figures contrasted against a world “on the brink of annihilation”? Toledo prefers to handle topics that deal with the natural and spiritual world, childhood and fatherhood memories, the writing life, and the urban landscape, serving as chronicler of the ubiquity of the world’s wreckages that inhabit our daily lives. There seems to be a deliberate negotiation happening among the pages of this collection, since there is a sameness that evidently floats and flutters in these poems: animals (birds, dogs, crickets, frogs, etcetera) that recur, the image of God (or the sense of Him) that insists, the city’s terrain that tries to re-emerge amidst childhood nostalgia. The details here are almost always persistent, teeming in comfort and familiarity, coming from the similar strands of beauty, hope, and despair.

It is undeniable that I am amazed by the way Toledo shapes his poems. There is a stimulating mood in these pieces, nudging the reader, from time to time, to look around his surroundings and gasp at the sheer presence of the “all many rising objects revealed only by refraction” (“Dusting”), or grieve at “the complete corrosion of all things beautiful” (“Ruin”). But what makes me unconvinced here is the way Toledo wraps up his poems; that after realizing the pattern that Toledo is following, I end up feeling unmoved, almost vindicated. Also, at some concluding parts, there is a feeling that the poet attempts to teach me an insight—perhaps something moral, perhaps something unknown. Take for instance the final lines of “Time”: “So that our children,/alive with their bursting blue souls,/could once again leave us inside, staring/ out of windows and growing even older.”Or “Equatorial”: “So that/encountering the heart along the way…I can bear/the chaos and stand in the middle,/pointing to sure land.” It is funny that when, in the preface, Dr. Gemino Abad collated some of the “strong” lines in the collection to constitute his introduction, he seemed to be writing an editorial about the human condition.

But to be sure, the poems here are not all written in this vein. In finer poems such as “Attachment,” “The Same Old Figurative,” and “The Past Imperfect,” among others, Toledo asserts his deftness in crafting form and content, as reflected in his mellifluous lines and razor-sharp images, events that “lead the blind to occasional vision” (“Drunk Leaning into the Poem”). The Long Lost Startle arrests the world, pins down its elements on the page, laces them with meaning, and infuses them with astuteness. Here, the “eye again trains itself to vision”, showing both the intensity of life and the various forces that both fail and flourish around it. Toledo shows that the most mundane things can still reclaim their spot in our own disorderly world.

Indeed, this collection possesses a certain charm and is aware of its own methods to madness. The insights and the artistic skill are intact in this book. At their best state, the poems make us encounter imagination anew. It is with this that the reader feels uncomfortable whenever laxness in language arises. If only Toledo could add more texture to some poems and be watchful of identicalness, this collection will surely surpass the state of perfectibility and be able to claim the attention and praise that it rightfully deserves.

The Coffee of My Memory

Any cup of coffee can be a taste of pleasure. Take away the deep white cup, the small pack of powdered coffee, the steaming hot water, the granules of sugar, the powdery cream, what else is left for me in a night of hard research and review? Given the tons of work I am subjected to each passing day as a student, there really needs to be a reliable companion to this entire quandary. Time and again, it has always been said that a student’s life is both fun and taxing. Once exams, quizzes, and research works get into the picture, one can just expect to stay up in the stillness of the night, laboriously accomplishing all the work that need to be finished.

I am a self-confessed grade-conscious student. The idea of having high grades after every semester thrills me to no end. I am very willing to stay up late in the night, or go to the field for more extensive research, or hole myself up in a cold corner of the library just to get things done and over with. Needless to say, I really don’t mind skipping breakfast, lunch, merienda, or dinner just to fulfill whatever responsibility that needs to be achieved. Indeed, all for the good academic record!
But despite all these, I really don’t waver much since a cup of coffee can always be a reliable remedy to all these stress and gastronomic sacrifices.

Outside my favorite library in the University of the Philippines—Diliman, there is a coffee machine ready for any thirsty soul who yearns for a minute of comfort and satisfaction over a cute cup of warm coffee. One time in the library, in between an excruciating headache and a looming deadline for a subject I sincerely dreaded, I was having a hard time concentrating on the things that I then needed to do. So I first decided to step out of the library, head onto the Nescafe machine outside, and have my much-deserved coffee break.

Amidst fellow students who were also busy studying, I sat down on the library steps and contented myself with hearty sips from my cup. As I was finishing the brown mixture, I scanned my surrounding and looked up at the gunmetal sky, then turning indigo, gradually transforming into nighttime. It was around 6pm, and yet I was still there together with fellow harried students of my university.

Upon further scrutiny, I noticed that most of them were also holding cups of the famous coffee that we students always turn to before, during, or after our daily grind in school. Then it dawned on me that apart from being an individual thing, the habit of drinking coffee has also transcended into a social event which peers share with one another in either high or low times!

Ever since childhood, I have always been fascinated with coffee. I remember that during breakfast, before going to school, I would usually insist for a cup or two. In hindsight, this interest in coffee might really have been borne out of curiosity, since I would always see my parents concocting their own mixture (too sweet! too bitter! without sugar! without cream!), adjusting the taste based on their own personal liking.

During weekends, when my parents would be out of the house or inside their room, I would silently sneak into the kitchen, boil my own water on the stove, and carefully tear out a pack of coffee. Afterwards, I would excitedly rush back toward my room, onto my bed, with the flavorful cup tugged toward my chest.

Back in our province, drinking coffee has been a custom among my family members. When I was a kid, my parents and other family members would usually gather around the dining room to share stories in between cups of coffee. I still remember how delightful it was to see the white china mugs and the old thermos alongside with the little packs of coffee, cream and sugar on top of our round Narra table. Furthermore, I have even stood witness to both my grandparents’ and my parents’ way of welcoming visitors with brewed coffee and oven-fresh buns of pandesal during summer afternoons.
As I entered high school, a big part of my student life was also spent during coffee sessions in houses of classmates, in cafes, or even in school. Before group meets or play rehearsals, I, together with my classmates or friends or both, would often go to the grocery store and buy packs of coffee for us to indulge in. Back then, we unanimously agreed that there was—and still is—something about coffee that energized our dampened emotions.

Until now, I personally believe that above anything else, coffee has that element which maintains relationships, smoothens rapport among friends, and elates the weary mood in times of pressure.

My mom has also gotten used to the right mixture of coffee that suits me. Whenever she learns that I need to accomplish several school requirements—all of which require me to stay up till the wee hours of the morning—she would surely go out of her way and wake up in the middle of the night and prepare the ingredients of my coffee drink. When the moment comes that I feel tired and drowsy, I would just go out of my room and go straight into the kitchen. There, I would prepare my own mixture and derive pleasure from the aromatic steam rising up in a paisley pattern from the cup’s brim.

As the irresistible aroma smothers my room, I would again feel rejuvenated and ready to face work. Inhaling the sweet scent and letting it settle on my veins is like going back to my childhood’s breakfast table, in the middle of an engaging conversation with my parents and siblings, embraced by the alluring steam of early morning coffee.

Now that I am in college—and at a tough university at that—I have proven more that coffee is not just a drink; it is a companion. Upon learning that coffee is rich in antioxidants and that having the right dosage everyday is beneficial to one’s health, I have even gotten more addicted to it, making sure that I can’t last a day without a cup or two. Moreover, I also make sure that each cup is a savor of quality and contentment. With the perfect brand, a cup of coffee can always be divine!

And now, as a student battling the daunting challenges of college life, I still find the old familiar relief in my favorite drink anytime, anywhere. It has aided me during sluggish mornings, in ravenous afternoons, and in languid nights. Certainly, it is one of the factors that fuel my efficiency as a student. There are times when it is very easy to just close my eyes and fall asleep in class; but because of the promise of coffee, the burden of non-sleep becomes so easy and manageable.

Indeed, the coffee of my memory will always be full of nostalgia and fondness. It will always be connected to my own notion of family and home, friends and school. Definitely it plays a vital role in my study habits, as it helps me sustain my impetus in staying up late without the fear of having a headache the following day. Moreover, it also never fails to give satisfaction for every group gathering that I have with friends. Then and now, coffee has surely been a source of joy.

Apart from being a family tradition, coffee—or the art of drinking it—also remains a personal favorite. In many ways than one, it is part of my student life, my personal life, and indeed, my humanity at large. Each flitting day, I wake up in the morning with that wonderful taste of coffee in mind. I rise up from my bed, rush down toward the dining table, and prepare my own cup of coffee. And for every careful sip of my own warm concoction, I still look up with delight as I savor the unique flavor of coffee that settles on my tongue and slowly trickles down my throat.
Once again, I am back to the landscape of my sweet old childhood.

From Flashing Panties to Reality TV: The Concerns and Comfort in Carljoe Javier’s And the Geek Shall Inherit the Earth

If there’s one thing impressive about the essays in Carljoe Javier’s And the Geek Shall Inherit the Earth, it is the swooping and ascending energy that trails and clings from page per geeky page. While reading these pieces, the senses are attuned to the explosive happenings and experiences that are about to unfold, such as the infectious viral outbreak in the world of computers, his ruminations regarding the divide between the rich and the poor, the pressing dilemma on peeing, among others. These are essays loaded with novelty and character, the types which comfort you while waiting for progress in the middle of a traffic jam, or maybe those kinds that keep you in company while having your daily bout inside the wash room. Indeed, these pieces bear the hilarity of a self-confessed geek and the reflections of a man steeped in the social ineptitudes of his time.

Javier’s concerns are diverse on the one hand and predictable on the other. Undeniably, there are fits of laughter and pleasure in store for the reader. “Hilarious essays on diverse topics” promises the publisher on the back cover. No contest with that. There are times, however, when one can just cringe and drop the book for a while, to mull over whether one’s still on the right track, guided by the sharp humor of the author or blinded by the sheer comfort of the texts. From being a certified geek to flashing panties of celebrities to teaching at a school for girls where “residents turn to their own sex of titillation” to rock bands and regurgitated adobo in toilet bowls—the range seems wide in scope and varied in humor. But despite the variety, one cannot just be alienated from the experiences; after all, these essays know its readers, speak to them, and somehow share their concerns.

The danger with these personal essays though—and I am quite sure that in our habitual shores they are many—is how they end up like decadent confessions on the page. To use Cristina Nehring’s words, in her essay Our Essays, Ourselves: In defense of the Big Idea: “A frenzy for cozy, complacent, and oddly insular self-revelation.” These are essays that usually recount the firsts (first year in college, first sexual experience, etc.) and other whatnots in a writer’s life. These are pieces that lack that punch and pull, stir and shake— ideas that attempt to challenge one’s perceptions and beliefs toward particular certainties. Ultimately, these are works that look at themselves inwardly, indulging in their own immensity, and contenting themselves with the plain activity of navel-gazing.

Though the essays in Geek are personal—often cute, sometimes jarring—these are works that question and provide situations open for pondering and interpretation. As one flips the final page of the book, several inquiries and realizations race to the fore. Concerns regarding the society, one’s self, and even the mode of literary production in the country linger, albeit in mute hints. To be sure, this book is not just for certified geeks but also for people who suspect on the possibility of being one. And for those who in their lifetime have never dared to question nor seek answers of whether they belong to the whole shebang that is the Geekdom, now is the chance to negate or confirm that unidentified self.

Writing the Truth, Writing the Personal

The writing process has never been easy to me, given that I consider myself as a relatively incompetent writer and a late-bloomer as far as literary concerns are involved. Being a probinsyano, I really didn’t have the exposure to books that are considered literature. Except for the various textbooks that we have had back in elementary and high school and the other children’s books at home, there was no excitement in my mode of reading. Needless to say, my appreciation for such books was also equally boring. Most of the time, our teachers would teach a poem or a story in terms of the morals and values one could gain from it. During English month, we were even obligated to memorize lengthy poems by William Wordsworth or Alexander Pope. But, on hindsight, my teachers didn’t really give much time in explaining and letting us experience the pieces.

It is with this background in which I have molded and transformed the way I currently write my works. A huge chunk of my time goes to reading, arguing, and opening myself up to other literary pieces available within reach. Indeed I am still swinging myself from both sides of the spectrum just to keep up. However, it is this ineptitude that has challenged me to push myself to the limits, however slowly or rudely, if only to pursue and hone my craft as a writer.

Now, after almost two years of being part of a writing organization in UP and having the chance to be a fellow for poetry in the 10th UST National Writers’ Workshop this year, I can say that I have somehow decided on the general manner in which I write. Most of the time, it starts right after a cool bath at night. This surely needs to be part of the routine, since a day’s dust and smoke makes me feel irritated and, therefore, easily distracted. So my writing process occurs during the maturity of the night, when the lights are low and the bed is inviting for a comforting sleep. Nighttime offers a certain calmness, which is a prerequisite before I start to write.

As a young writer who is sometimes ambitious but always struggling, I admit that the range of my topics isn’t still that diverse. Mostly (and this I know by intuition and self-assessment) the themes of my poems revolve around my personal experiences and observations. From time to time, they are products of my wild and often bizarre imagination. Moreover, I often choose my topics based on their nearness to me; the closer the experience, the more possible for me to write it down. Usually my poems touch on the subjects of memory, city living, childhood joys, family, lost loves, etcetera. Indeed there’s homogeneity, and this, in the long run, could turn out as a drawback for me.

But I believe that this indulgence in personal matters is a natural problem among beginning writers. While there is that ambition to cobble up something “new”, I still find it difficult to escape from the confessional mode, mainly because of its ability to devour my incompetent self, letting it sink in in the comfortable crevices of nostalgia. Nonetheless I am optimistic that there is more to come and more to achieve as I go on in writing.

Writing has always been pleasure to me. I am the type who finds bliss in seeing a poem take shape on the page. But while others enjoy the sheer sight of ink blooming on the whiteness (or yellowness) of paper, with each swoop and ascend and curl of the letters adding delight in the writing process, I prefer not to write in longhand. There’s something in it that stresses my mind and therefore, derails my train of thought. Especially when my emotions are too strong to handle, writing a poem on paper, with the additional effort of dragging a pen across the page, seems to disrupt the impetus. So I use my laptop instead in encoding my works. For me, it is more convenient (and environmental) to go digital in terms of writing. Also, it is easier to correct one’s work when using a computer. By just pressing the backspace or the enter button, the intended effects of those enjambments and gaps can immediately be seen and assessed. No more confusion in scribbling words, or any ambivalence of how my poem would look exactly, once finished, on the page.

After writing a poem, I make sure that I neither publish it on my blog nor let my writer-friends read it right away. From the moment of typing the last word of the piece, I usually save the file first and incubate it for a day or two. It is during incubation that I mull over the things going on in the poem. Questions regarding the images, the luminosity of lines, and the compactness of the whole piece come to mind, often leading me to uncertainty toward the unfinished work. However, it is with these unsure thoughts that I find enlightenment on how to better the work—form and content wise.

Moreover, getting back on the work after the incubation period would be like confronting the hard reality that I am indeed a sordid writer of poems. Here I usually frown at those buckling words, hackneyed images, loose lines, and cluttered ideas. Mostly it is also at this stage where the dilemma of whether to revise the poem or to completely forget about it confounds me. Fortunately, I often choose the former since I still consider my work, no matter how ugly it is, a work of art. I often ask myself: Wouldn’t annihilating the whole poem in just one blow be so rude? And despite the self-confessed lack of skill, shouldn’t I still be my own number one fan?

In my own writing process, I consider my poem “sharable” once I have already concretized what I want to say. Furthermore, being able to understand the internal messages and the theme of the poem is also essential. However, I also make sure that my poem, to some extent, still contains its mystic. As the writer, I want my work to possess parts where even I feel unsure about. I believe that a poem needs not to be filtered into perfection; for me, a little nuance and grit makes it more communicative, more emotionally appealing. After all, a poem is a mode of expression rather than impression.

I also understand that the writing process does not end in publication. But one needs to publish his works in order to move on to the next project in mind. Like a parent who needs to set free of his child once it reaches full maturity, writers must also let go of their works and allow them to be seen and read on the page, virtually (through the Internet) or physically (through books, magazines, etc.), ready for the scathing eye of their readers or critics or both.

In conclusion, writing is learning and exploring both at the same time. It is a search for what has not yet been said or what cannot be contained in ordinary speech. It is both an attitude and a discipline, where the main motive is to look at things in a different and refreshing light, transforming them into well-wrought, meaningful art. Giving life and essence to the written word—isn’t this the writing process is all about?