I'm the Prince of York, Cubao

Physics

I have just finished Watchmen the comic book, assigned as a required reading in my pop lit class eons ago but I didn't bother to read. It was a pleasure actually, considering the efforts of the comic writer (Alan Moore) and artist (David Gibbons)(411 pages!) What sets this book apart is that its heroes are a bunch of loonies and psychopaths.

This week I also bumped into an article on the most baffling superheroes around the world wherein two out of six came from the Philippines: Flash Bomba, Mars Ravelo's paraplegic tikbalang-killer; and Zsa Zsa Zaturnnah, Carlo Vergara's non-flying, tranny Darna.

Still, my loyalty remains to Superman since he's, like, Super. Duh. He does not even deserve membership to the Justice League since he can do everything his colleagues can. With one hand.

This letter

is filed in the folder of prayers of vanity, wherein you, no doubt, have put hundreds of requests, thanks to your parents who gave you the worst of the genes. There is, for instance, a request for white, porcelain, glowingly flawless skin, since yours is oilier than the cheapest margarine and has been programmed with acne and a suite of allergies. One day, after watching a Colgate commercial of some handsome guy, you also clipped that wish for a killer smile and better set of teeth, since yours are chipped and easily turn yellow. But to save ourselves time, let us just enumerate all the major requests: larger, round eyes (light brown), normal vision (20/20), thicker hair, sexier masculine voice, additional 10 inches in height, additional inches in length and width (bird), non-hairiness, bigger arms, pinkish-white feet, longer fingers, six-pack abdominals, to become American (2001), Taiwanese (2003), Korean (2008), etc.

We regret to inform you that all your requests since 1995 have been rejected. According to the book of fate, you've been irreversibly bestowed all the potentials to become a middle-class educated professional who looks like a smelly foot. This was done so you can tell the world the beauty of being a middle-class educated professional who looks like a smelly foot. And please, don't be zealously envious of male models in fashion magazines. They make a living by wearing clothes, while you do so by thinking. It's not that bad.

We hope you understand.

External Division

Institute of Beauty

Prayer Avenue corner Love Street

3rd Heaven, Heaven, 7777

Twenty Five

starts

when

insecurity

runs into

your bedroom

door. It comes in

the form of

serpents,

their faces

bearing those

of your

friends.

"Seniors,"

they hiss

like in a choir,

batting their

lashes and

shaking their

fork tongues.

"We are

seniors now".

Promptly you

draw the pistol

from the

bedside table,

lick the barrel,

and aim at their

mouths. Then

one by one,

the slithering

fades, followed

by the smoky

revelation

of blood

and brains.

"Tomorrow,"

you say.

"I'll clean you up."

You turn off

the lamp, take

off the

sheet, and

plunge into

dreams,

hoping to

find a

chamber

made of

crisp

dollar

bills.

Dear Ate Charo,

I'm writing you a letter because I'm a subaltern. Yes, we subalterns don't speak, but we can write. You see, I strongly feel that I'm interpellated by societal forces (ideological state apparashits, you call them but the term's dated) to consumerist (or capitalist, again, dated) tendencies.

Anyhow, maybe my position can elucidate the problematique of my story. I am a single, male, queer (sexuality is fluid), Catholic, higher lower class individual working as a blogger (or writer, for orthodox journalists) in one of the offices at The Fort. You may say that the circles I'm in is not bad at all, since I'm in the center geographically (Manila), spiritually (Catholic), academically (UP).

But that's not the point. My apologies if this letter is full of digressions, Ate Charo, because my writing self is abnormally separated from my speaking self. Is this heteroglossia? Or perhaps a type of Jungian neurosis? I don't know Ate Charo, I think you're annoyed with the switches of my linguistic codes by now. Perhaps I'm just afraid of Grandma Orly's belatedness syndrome. Help me to write myself, Ate Charo, because I'm attempting to come up with an epistolary poem.

Academe Nostalgia

Holy Week's a time to contemplate about life. Since people are bored to death and showing off their brain libraries on Facebook, I've remembered bumping into a Bachelor's in Creative Writing reading checklist for UP eons ago and decided to measure how much I've read in this messy Philippine literary canon.

Fiction

(Novels and Short Stories)
Javellana, Stevan - Without Seeing the Dawn (novel) read, unfinished
Joaquin, Nick - The Woman Who Had Two Navels (novel)
Santos, Bienvenido - The Man Who (Thought He) Looked Like Robert Taylor (novel)
Gonzales, NVM - A Season of Grace (novel)

Joaquin, Nick - Choose 3 stories from either
Prose and Poems
Tropical Gothic

Santos, Bienvenido - 3 stories from You Lovely People or The Day the Dancers Came or Brother My Brother
Gonzalez, NVM - 3 stories from Bread of Salt or Look Stranger on this Island Now or Children of the Ash-Colored Loam
Arcellana, Francisco - 5 stories from The Francisco Arcellana Sampler
Alfon, Estrella - 3 short stories from Magnificence or Stories
Jose, F. Sionil - 3 short stories from Waywaya or Platinum
Benitez, Paz Marquez - 2 stories
Sulit, Loreto Paras - 2 stories
Latorena, Paz - 2 stories
Arguilla, Manuel - 4 short stories from How My Brother Leon Brought Home a Wife
Tiempo, Edith - Blade of Fern (novel)read, unfinished
Polotan, Kerima - The Hand of the Enemy (novel)
Bulosan, Carlos - America is in the Heart (autobiography/novel) read, unfinished
Brillantes, Gregorio - 5 short stories from The Distance to Andromeda and the Apollo Centennial
Fernando, Gilda Cordero - 5 short stories from Butcher, Baker, Candlestick Maker or A Wilderness of Sweets (both books are re-issued as Story Collection)
Polotan, Kerima - 3 stories from Stories
Rosa, Ninotchka - 3 stories from Bitter Country or Monsoon Collection
Hidalgo, Cristina - 3 stories from either
Ballad of a Lost Season
Tales for a Rainy Night
Where Only the Moon Rages
Rosca, Ninotchka - State of War (novel)read, unfinished
Yuson, Alfred - The Great Philippine Jungle Energy Cafe (novel)
Castillo, Erwin - The Firewalkers (both the nouvella and the stories included in this book)
Hidalgo, Cristina - Recuerdo (novel)
Dalisay, Jose V. - Killing Time in a Warm Place (novel)
Gamalinda, Eric - Confessions of a Volcano (novel)
Dalisay, Jose - 3 stories from Old Timer or Sarcophagus or Penmanship
Gamalinda, Eric - 3 stories from Peripheral Visions
Ong, Charlson - 5 stories from Men of the East or Woman of Amkaw or Conversion

Enriquez, Antonio - 3 stories from Spots On Their Wings or The Night I Cry
Casper, Lindy Ty - 3 stories from Common Continent or Hazards of Distance
Dayrit, Joy - 3 stories from The Walk

2 stories each from the following writers - 10 stories total
Rotor, Arturo - The Wound and the Scar or The Men Who Play God
Tiempo, Edith - Abide, Joshua
Ford, Aida Rivera - The Chiefest Mourner
Ayala, Tita Lacambra - Pieces of String
Torrevillas, Rowena Tiempo - Among the Willows

Not part of the original reading list, but Manuel decided to put it in anyway:
Sitoy, Lakambini - Mens Rea and Other Stories

Essays and Non-Fiction Narratives

2 selections each by 10 of these writers - 20 essays total
Lopez, S.P. - Literature and Society
Icasiano, F.B. - Horizons From My Nipa Hut
Cristobal, Adrian - Pasquinades
Ventura, Sylvia - Ragtime in Kamuning
de Quiros, Conrad - Flowers from the Rubble or Dance of the Dunces
Nakpil, Carmen Guerrero - Woman Enough or A Question of Identity
Polotan, Kerima - Author's Choice or Adventures in a Forgotten Country
Mayuga, Sylvia - Spy In My Own Country or Essays For A Decade
Zafra, Jessica - Twisted or Womanagerie or Twisted Too
Dalisay, Jose Y. - The Best of Barfly

Hidalgo, Cristina
I Remember
Five Years in a Forgotten Land
Skyscrapers Celadon and Kimchi
The Path of the Heart

Garcellano, Rosario - Mean Streets

Ocampo, Ambeth
Bonifacio's Bolo
Aguinaldo's Breakfast
Mabini's Ghost

Abad, Gemino - State of Play

Drama

Joaquin, Nick - Portrait of the Artist As Filipino

One of the following plays:
Guerrero, Wilfrido Ma. - Condemned; Wanted A Chaperone
Alfon, Estrella - Forever Witches
Juan, Anton - Death in the Form of a Rose
Florentino, Alberto - The World is an Apple
Nolledo, Wilfredo - Turn Red The Sea

Poetry

Three poems by each poet - a total of 153 poems
Glora, Angela Manalang
Tarrosa-Subido, Trinidad
Zulueta da Costa, Rafael
Villa, Jose Garcia
Santos, Bienvenido
Daguio, Amador
de Zuñiga, Oscar
Ilio, Dominador
Arcellana, Francisco
Viray, Manuel
Joaquin, Nick
Tiempo, Edith
Demetillo, Ricaredo
Angeles, Carlos
Moreno, Virginia
Hufana, Alejandrino
Francia, Hilario
Ayala, Tita Lacambra
Lumbera, Bienvenido
Torres, Emmanuel
Dimalanta, Ophelia
Tinio, Rolando
San Juan, Epiphanio
Guillermo, Gelacio
Espinao, Federico Licsi
Abad, Gemino H.
Bautista, Cirilo F.
Cabalquinto, Luis
Pena-Reyes, Myrna
Alunan, Merlie
Lanot, Marra
Yuson, Alfred
Lacaba, Jose,
Francia, Luis
An Lim, Jaime
Garcellano, Edel
Salanga, Alfrredo Salanga
Lacaba, Emmanuel
Torrevillas, Rowena
de Ungria, Ricardo
Kilates, Marne
Sunico, Ramon
Evasco, Marjorie
Banzon, Isabella
Cortes, Fidelito
Gamalinda, Eric
Arcellano, Juaniyo
Lim, Fatima
Aguilar-Carino, Maria Luisa
Remoto, Danton
Garcia, J. Neil

Loser

refers to grade-conscious freaks. They don't miss their assignments, have a year's supply of quiz pads (1/4, 1/2, 1 whole), and hate Physical Education classes. They're the reversals of boys who bring beer and girls who breathe make-up. Too afraid to retaliate to tirades and insults, they believe that walking into the guidance counselor's office will be the end of life.

"They're just good in memorization," said the teacher who identifies herself as cool. "They ace their exams, but they won't succeed in life."

"The real champions are those who know diskarte."

And perhaps she's right. Maybe they're plain losers with above-average memory skills. Because after two decades of study, you still can't define what that word means. You're hopelessly hunting for and enjoying pieces of reaffirmations, wishing that one day, you suddenly bump into a street sign, leading you to a landscape of nipa hut beside a rice field, in front of a mountain, below the yellow smiling sun.

Third World Ninja

Siopao

Becomes your brain after kneading a dough of words on the board of memory. "Cook four," says the chef who busies himself with culinary calculus. You promptly roll each slice into a ball and fuck it with egg and semantic filling, making sure that no customer will say it tastes like manila paper. You gather the sides, pinch them together, and twist. The chef begins to snore. You place the rolls in the steamer. Whistle and wait until the froth from his mouth rises. Once he does, switch off the stove and let the dreams subside. Put the buns in the plate and serve. Estimated time is 12 hours. Get a free bag of flour for overtime pay.

Block

Tonight I'm writing you a poem made of a paragraph. A paragraph because, among other things, lines and stanzas speak of lyrical realities, and my life does not have those. It is an ugly chop of wood with itchy fibers and rotten worms. You see, even my metaphors fail effortlessly. Because five years from now, when I'm a 30 year-old semi-bald swine with yellow teeth, I want to remember this night when my fears only revolve around the allergy on my face, the credit card debt, and losing weight. Gripping the cock of time from point B to point A is a consolation prize. Tonight, maybe there's happiness I refuse to see. Perhaps life is much better.