Author: Maria Ella Betos

Experiencing the Pocketbook Nostalgia

Book review of Ang Diary ni Joaquina by Joi Barrios

Long ago, I used to read romance pocketbooks through borrowing these Precious Hearts Romances for 10 pesos. This was way back CPA review school years, before Facebook. The old lady was stationed near the Book Sale-Pedro Gil Branch, just across the queues for Guadalupe-L Guinto jeepney. Once borrowed, I read it throughout the commute and return the same novel the next day, after the review classes in Business Law and Taxation (BLT).

Romance tropes are very marketable works from way back late ’90s, and almost all of them are formulaic, with unrealistic expectations, superficial dramas, and yet ends with a “happy ever after”. And even so, my 2007 kilig-kilig chenes era devoured these romantic tropes as an escape from the rigorous practice board exams.

However, if I read Joi Barrios’ Joaquina then, it would greatly elevated my reading progress from mere flimsy and mushy kaluguran daku’s since this piece of craft involves social activism as part of its world-building; these societal issues define the characters and their motivations and motions. For me, this kind of “panitikan ng pakikisangkot” should gain more traction in the Pinoy romance literary landscape. I remember reading the same vibe, albeit in English language, and that was Ana Tejano’s debut novel (with SocDev / NGOs as part of the overarching theme).

Kudos to Gantala Press for reprinting this after more than 20 years. A bit expensive though— considering the paper quality and the font size (reason for a 1 star deduction). Indeed, a main challenge for indie presses is to distribute good books at an affordable prices. I suddenly miss the 10pesos price tag in renting a book (yes, I am calling out the PH Government; please provide printing subsidies for quality books. Better yet, BUILD MORE LIBRARIES!!!)

Workshop Letter of Intent

Submitted an hour later.

Instead of dilly-dallying on how to sell yourself in the “best image” imaginable, just went brutally honest and get on with it. I am even not a good writer in Filipino, so I opted to write in english / taglish instead.

29 November 2025

Dear Ricky Lee and the Workshop working team,

I wish to attend the workshop because I want to learn about scriptwriting and the best practices to apply the life experiences through the script. So far, I am only able to creatively write these sensibilities through the essays I publish in my personal blog, and do some letter-writing to an imaginary person to expand whatever I have in my mind.

In addition, I want expand my social capital and finally, advocate for myself.

You see, I may be a straight woman, but with the current trends of social political climate and men being asses, I desire a “lavender relationship” — a woman being committed to a gay man. Kahit manlalaki pa sya sa labas, ang mahalaga, sa akin uuwi. At pareho naming pagkukwentuhan kung bakit ang gagago ng mga kapwa lalaki sa panahon ngayon. I do have a goal in mind since my 39th birthday, and aside from submitting this entry, is to write to Marvin Agustin and introduce myself, offering whatever I have as a self-sustaining middle class corporate slave, and finally take a step to get to know the creative people behind the show business and expand my network and tackle the desires of my heart.

Wala kasing ganito sa corporate. Lahat gusto kang anakan.

And maybe this is way beyond the usual reasons for applying to your workshop, I do want to gain experience and networks to finally having this creative pursuit as a retirement career from the daily corporate grind of being a Fund Accountant.

Thank you for considering my application.

Yours truly,

MARIA ELLA BETOS, CPA

Then I attached my Creative Nonfiction about my hike in Mt. Pulag and kind of let them what I know about writing. But then again, the letter of intent is as polarizing as my romantic POV in that essay of seeing that happiest thing happened to date. Wala pa ring tatalo sa isang kilo ng bigas. Kung meron man, it will be that black credit card (and that needs to be written as another entry, but I can’t. Because if I write about it, I don’t own that happy story anymore… it will be the world’s.)

Punch at Pat’s

“Dali, Z! Drive this car out!”
“Ito na, ito na!!! Si sir, kumusta? BAKIT TAYO MAY DALANG DUGUAN?!”
“Nakakaawa kasi siya eh. Itakbo lang natin saglit sa PGH, Isaglit lang natin ito. Mahimasmasan man lang at matignan ko. Kahit sa student quarters.”
“Anong matingnan?! Hindi ka pa lisensyado, gurl! You are still a med student!!!”
“Z wag ka nang maingay please, ang first aid ko nandun sa ospital. Andun ang gamit ko. Hindi naman dadaang OPD. ER agad, ako na titingin, ganun.”
“Gurl, bakit ba kasi binitbit pa natin yan?! Tignan mo ‘tong si Lis, namumutla na rin. Don’t tell me dalawa silang gagamutin mo?”
“Z – STOP. Okay girls, sandali.”

Kumalma nga kayo.
Iba talaga kapag mga babae ang mga kasama mo, hindi alam ang mga sinasabi minsan.

“Girls. 1. Si sir, conscious, okay? He hears us. Lasing lang, pero nakakapagsapak. And 2. He saved me, kargo ko siya. So, if you don’t want to help, fine. Magtataxi ako dala-dala ko ‘yan siya.”

“OKAY OKAY JESS OKAY ITO NA NGA OH DADALHIN NA NATIN. LIS OKAY KA LANG, HA? UMINOM KANG TUBIG, MERON DYAN SA GLOVE COMPARTMENT. ITO NA NAGDA-DRIVE NA! AFTER NITO, IHAHATID KO SI LIS PAUWI.”
“Thank you.”

Umuugong ang Never the Strangers playlist ni Z. Kahit papaano, nakakatulong siya para manatiling gising ang lalaking kasama namin. I don’t need saving, sana. Nakapantalon at naka-long sleeve ako. May dala akong jacket. May kasama akong mga kaibigan. Pero minsan talaga sa pagka-machismo ng pagkakataon,muntikan pa akong mabiktima ng sexual assault. Mabuti na lang itong sira ulo na ‘to, kahit lasing, eh nagpaka-knight in shining armor.

Yun lang. Pagkasapak, nasapak pabalik.

Hay. Men.

Nice set, Jessica Patrimonio. Sakto, bukas, may reporting plus duty. Minsan na nga lang maglamyerda, ganito pa. Ano ba naman kasing itong si Z, akala ko hanggang balwarte lang ng Maynila ang aming Girl’s Night Out. Umabot pa talaga ng kyusi. Langya. Isa pa itong si Lis, nagpapaka-Laco. Kung hindi pa aaluin ni Z at kung wala pang dalang sasakyan, hindi pa sasama. Tapos kung saan kakain, eh di ayun, sa bar ko raw. Jess & Pat’s. As if naman ako ang may-ari, dahil pinaikling pangalan ko lang yung lugar.

Patawa ‘tong dalawang ‘to.

“Hi, Z!”
“Gurl, finally, nakawala ka sa hawla mo! Kumusta naman sa ospital? Good thing I waited here in Café Adriatico.”
“Eto, pagod. Palagi naman. Ito nga ako, may eyebags na tinubuan ng mata.”
“HAHAHAHA Girl, you still look stunning. Maswerte magiging boa mo kapag nakilala ka. You both have the beauty and brains! Proud kaya ako sa iyo, girl.”

“Hah, thanks. Si Lis?”
“Asa class pa raw siya. I just want to treat you a coffee overload because I want to invite you somewhere.”
“Ha? Saan ito?”
“May extra kang damit? Tara gig! Matagal na akong fan ng set na ito eh. Sud, at saka yung Flips.”

“Alam mo Z yang mga kinakaabangan mong boyband minsan –”
“Girl, let me tell you something: they are not a boyband! Just. Band.”
“I don’t like the vibe of these men. Hindi ko alam. Nakita ko sila sa twitter. Maingay yung issue sa kanila.”
“Don’t listen to them, they create good music because they are good.”

“What? Good manipulators?”
“Jess, wag OA. Huwag kang papa-manipulate kasi if ayaw mo. Laro-laro lang yan. Maunang mahulog, talo. Wait, I’ll call Lis. She needs convincing that the place we are going is safe. Stay put, order some Americano.”

Showbiz by Never the Strangers
An Excerpt

Sumama ka na sa akin
Dahil bihirang dumating ang pagkakataon
Gusto mo bang mag showbiz
Iwan ang dati mong buhay
Para sa di tiyak na hinaharap

Handa ka na ba magshowbiz
Lumapit ka pa sa camera
Ito ang una mong pelikula

PutanginaHAHAHAHAH

Nice.
Nakakaloko rin itong playlist mo, Z.
Nakakaloko rin yang bandang yan. Hah. If I know, isa rin sila sa mga gossips underground na dawit sila sa mga enabler ng sexual assault. Hindi ko lang alam ha, pero, Diyos ko, kasalanan ba yung maging kaaya-aya ang hitsura mo? Wala naman akong suot na revealing o ano. Maayos ako manamit. Malinis rin akong manamit. Hindi man ako perpekto, pero hindi ako yung mga babaeng naka-pekpek shorts basta may coachella. Pantalon na ang suot ko, may dala nga akong jacket, di ba? Pero putangina. Sa sobrang bait at accommodating ko rin kasi minsan, hindi ko namamalayan hinahalayan na pala ako ng isang basista after ng second set. Ang inosente naming tatlo na nanonood –

Fuck naman, minsan na nga lang ako mag-unwind.

Ayan sir, pumipikit-pikit ka. That is a good sign. You are battling the need to sleep and the pain. Quezon Ave na tayo, lampas na tayo ng Sto. Domingo. Hindi ko lang alam ha, pero kapag naaaninag ka ng dilaw na ilaw sa madaling araw, pogi ka pala. Kahit sira ulo. Gusto kong magpasalamat pero kailangan muna natin i-check ang mukha mo. Sayang, minsan lang ako makakita ng kaaya-ayang tanawin sa PGH. Ayos rin ang waze ni Z. Legit runway ang mga daan ngayon – pagkalabas ng Maginhawa, dere-derecho ang Quezon Ave, Welcome, España, Lerma, Lacson at Taft. She knows her logistics, lalo na’t kapag trapik. I commend her road-savvy skillsets in exploring the insides of the Sampaloc community nang bumiyahe kami mula PGH during primetime.

“Miss, alam mo, kahit hubarin mo jacket mo, okay lang, hindi naman malamig.”
“Okay lang po ako, thanks.”

“May number ka?”
“…”
“Ilang taon ka na, miss?”
“…”
GET OUT OF THIS PLACE, Jess.
Z, look at me. PLEASE Z LOOK AT ME.
Lis, I NEED HELP PLEASE LOOK AT ME.

“Miss, may boyfriend ka na?”
Jess, you can walk away. Kaya mong lumaban.
You know Krav Maga, or at least, remember some methods.
Jess, have courage. WALK AWAY.

“Miss, subukan mo ngumiti kapag tutugtog na kami sa last set. Hindi ako yung singer pero magaling akong mag-bang. Hehehe”
“…”
OH MY GOD THIS MAN FUCK KAYA MO SYANG BALIBAGIN, JESS.
BUT CHOOSE TO WALK AWAY.

“Miss, what’s your name? Nagsisimula ba sa letter J?”
WHAT IN THE FUCK IS –
“Janice? Jasmine? Jas? Jes?”
“…”
“Oh, Jes? I saw your surprised eyes. Jes, the name alone got me excited. Nakaka-inspire tumugtog.”
STOP TOUCHING MY HAIR STOP TOUCHING MY FACE STOP IT STOP IT WALK AWAY JESS SHUT UP YOU MONSTER PLEASE SAVE ME SAVE ME ANYONE PLEASE LOOK AT US LOOK THIS WAY!!!

“Nice music paps, pero tanginamo!”
HARD PUNCH YUN. BLAG. GRABE. YEAH, HE DESERVED IT.

“Putangina mo at sa mga katulad mong magaling mambiktima tangina mo kasama ka sa mga kalipunan na nanggagago ng mga estudyante ko.”

“Hey, stop. Wala na syang malay. Tutugtog pa raw sya!”

“Tugtog nya bayag nya! Okay ka lang?”
“Ha?
“Pareng paradox is what they call me.”
“Ha?”
“Minsan, sir Araullo. Nagtuturo kasi –”

“SIR!!!”
“Sapakan pala gusto mo! Pre, ano?”
“Tama na!!!”
“Jess?!?!”
“Z LET’S GO!!!”

Sir, wait lang, huwag kang matutulog. Huwag na huwag, malapit na tayo! Nasa Lacson bridge na, ilang lipad na lang ni Z sa kotse. Kausapin ko kaya si sir?

“Hi.”
“Hi. Pero wait lang po sir, huwag ka muna magsalita, may sugat ka pa.”
“Okay ka lang, miss?”
“Okay ako, salamat.”
“Wallet ko. Right pocket. Andun ang ID ko.”
“Okay, okay.”

“Okay ka lang ba? Hindi ka ba nagkaka-anxiety? Tremors, or anything?”
“Narito naman ang mga kaibigan ko, nakabantay rin sa akin. Okay na ako. Ikaw?”
“Ito, duguan.”
“Sir naman, nagawa mo pang magbiro.”

“Stop calling me sir, hindi kita estudyante.”
“Ha? Sabi mo kasi –”
“Sid. Ako si Sid. Gusto ko munang matulog, nahihilo ako.”
“Wait lang malapit na tayo nasa Faura na tayo!”

“Saan tayo papunta?”
“I need to check your head. Ide-derecho kitang ER.”
“Ha? Ospital?”
“Oo, Sid. PGH. Asa ER na tayo.”

Poetics: lumang akda, nilapat ko ito noong pandemic lockdowns kasi gusto kong subukan sumulat ng maikling kwento o dagli na dadaan sa kahabaan ng Espanya hanggang kamaynilaan. Sinubukan kong sumulat nang walang quotation marks, pero hindi ko pa kasi kilala si Sally Rooney nang nilikha ko ito, kaya mas pinili kong may quotes para mas accessible sa batang mambabasa ang pagbagtas sa mga daan at sa mismong kwento. Isa pa, ginawa ko ang kwentong ito habang nakikinig sa kantang Alive ng Never the Strangers — mga tatlong oras on-loop. Maganda ang ritmo ng kanta sa bawat tipa at paglabas ng adrenalin rush sa akda.

Diary Entry ng isang Watsons Saleslady

15 Agosto 2025. Biyernes. Alas sais ng umaga. Maulan.

Minsan naiisip ko kung ang pagsusulat ng ganito ang paraan para hindi makalimot. Pero sige na nga. Tatlong araw na akong absent at kailangan ko nang pumasok. Maaga naman akong nagising. Maaga rin ang ulan. Dinig ko ‘yung patak sa yero, parang paulit-ulit na paalala na hindi pa rin tapos ang gabing iyon. Dito sa maliit kong bahay sa Pinedang looban, kahit ang ulan parang may ingay ng galit. Binunot ko ang palanggana mula sa ilalim ng lababo. Hindi ‘yung plastik na puti. Yung isa. Yung stainless. Malamig sa kamay. Mabigat. Parang may memorya.

Noong isang araw, doon siya nilagay. Isang nilalang na hindi pa buo, hindi pa lumalaban.
Nilapag ng nurse sa loob ng palanggana, parang basang piraso ng karne. Walang tunog, pero sa isip ko, rinig na rinig ko ang kalampag — ‘yung tunog ng laman sa bakal.

Plak. Gano’n ba talaga ang tunog ng kamatayan?

Ngayon, nilagyan ko ng tubig ‘yung palanggana. Nilabhan ko ‘yung panty kong may natuyong dugo, ‘yung T-shirt kong may bahid ng sugat galing sa ER. Pati ‘yung bra na pinunit niya noong gabi bago ‘ko tumakbo paospital. Hindi ako nagpasundo. Wala rin naman akong matatawagan. Wala akong kapamilyang malapit. Takot din ang mga kapitbahay. Tinibayan ko ang loob ko at mag-isang umuwi mula Rizal Medical, buti na lang at malapit.

Pero kamakailan lang, tumawid ako sa mismong overpass, gabing-gabi, habang hawak ‘yung puson kong parang pinupunit sa loob. Sa ilalim ng ilaw ng poste, tinangka pa niyang habulin ako. Naririnig ko pa boses niya habang tumatakbo ako: “’Wag kang maarte, ikaw may kasalanan nito!” Gusto ko siyang sigawan, sabihing, “Hindi ako makina!” Pero wala na kong boses. Naiwan na sa bahay.

Pagdating ko sa ospital, duguan na ‘yung shorts ko. Tinanong ako ng nurse kung ilang buwan na. Limang buwan, ‘ka ‘ko. Walang luhang lumabas.

Mula kagabi, dama ko pang parang wala na akong tubig sa katawan. Nilabhan ko na lahat sa luha. Habang kinukusot ko ‘tong panty, naiisip ko ‘yung tunog ng pagkakalapag sa palanggana. Parang hindi siya nawawala. Parang sumasabay sa bawat kusot. Plak. Plak. Plak. Kahit wala na siya, parang naririnig ko pa rin ang paghinga niya, kung meron man.

Hindi ako pumasok kahapon sa Watsons. Pero ngayon, kailangan na. 3-day sale. Nag-text si Ma’am Liza kagabi: “Pumasok ka bukas, kulang sa tao.” Walang tanong kung kumusta ba ako, o kung ayos lang ako. Wala rin naman akong maisasagot.

Magmi-makeup ako mamaya. Light lang. Para matakpan ‘yung pasa sa ilalim ng mata. ‘Yung gasgas sa labi. Sa counter, babati ako ng, “Ma’am, may card po kayo?” kahit ang gusto ko talagang itanong ay, “Ma’am, may pakialam po ba kayo?”

Wala.

Itinapon ko na ‘yung tubig. Itinabi na ang palanggana. Pero alam ko, sa susunod na gabi, baka magamit ko ulit siya. Baka hindi para maglaba. Baka ako naman ang ilagay doon.

Pero hindi pa ngayon.

Ngayon, kailangan ko pang magsuklay. Mag-sanitize ng tester. Magpahid ng lip tint.

At ngumiti.

Kasi wala namang bonus sa pagdurusa. Pero may kaltas sa late.

Poetics: Hinarabas ko ito nang magpost si Nap Arcilla ng isang patimpalak sa facebook. Ang criteria ng dagli: palanggana. Hanggang ngayon, wala akong balita kung nanalo ba ako o anuman. Sayang. Pero minsan, naiisip ko rin ang mga minimum-wage earner katulad ni Ate sa Watsons.

Hajimete no Onsen Taiken

(My very first Onsen experience)

08 October 2025
19:15
Yol Guesthouse
Takeo City, Saga Prefecture

In the same entrance I found myself excited to try this Town’s proof of jumping back to its pre-lockdown years: Onsen is now back for business!

Takeo Onsen is a sleepy town. Like Hida City in Gifu. Two main differences are: Onsen is more famous in Takeo and Beef is better in Gifu.

In the genkan I find myself being lost with two sets of lockers: One for the outside shoes, the other for your phone and other valuables. Turned out, you cannot use your phone inside. Let alone take photos upon entering the Moto Yu bathhouse. I find myself lost, yet again, in a community of obaachans bringing their luxurious soaps and serums, their designer bags locked away with the ¥100 old-style coin locker. Turned out, yet again, I was the most morena and the most fuwa-fuwa (plumpiest) contender to do the ceremony. I was also the dumbest: I forgot my personal care set from the coin locker. I only brought my adaptability life skill and a towel strip for my hair.

At the wash area, there are two huge bottles, free to use. The Liquid body wash and the combined shampoo and conditioner are on standby. I hope I won’t get dandruff agter using these Japanese concoctions on my scalp.

While shampooing I caught myself being stared at by the obaachan on my right. Was she sizing me up? Do I look like gaikokujin enough? Even though I lacked the expertise of reading kanji, I can speak their language… nanto naku. Somehow.

When I was about to execute the script in my head with “Shiitsure desu ne,” or in Tagalog, “Nakakabastos naman ate,” a voice from my far left said something like [Going to the pool]. But with a Hakata ben — a different sound from the Far East Tokyo (and their differing Keigo or Japanglish), or the midwest Kansai region (with statements ending with a meow sound).

Ahh. These obaachans must be friends.

After my intense wash and multiple use of the little basin to acclimitize my overweight physique, I fixed my hair. Then I covered it with the mini towel I brought, And finally, dipped my legs to the 44 celsius Onsen heat. It stings at first, not being used to the very hot pool, together with the risk of being easily dehydrated. Its first three minutes a painful reminder that we do not have this back home — that little posporo condo got no built-in heater in the shower — because I don’t want my electric bill to balloon with my never-ending mortgage! Then comes that soothing comfort, a scene from the anime shouting “woooh!!! kimochii!!!” and then the pause, just chilling and watching the steam take away the fatigue and the bad vibes.

The obaachan from before is about to join me in this large hot pool, yet stationed herself on the opposite end, sitting beside her “friend” (neighbor, perhaps?). Other obaachans went to the cooler section, their backs very red from where I am now seated.

These obaachans, I wonder if they do this regularly? Do they establish a routine of onsen trips? And if they do, won’t they feel awkward?

If Tricia and Lyra and I plan a trip together and go to an onsen as a culminating itinerary and a test of companionship, will they be absolutely delighted? Or will they respond with the polarizing take — being terrified? Aba’y paano na ang test of friendship na yan? Lol. Maybe at this point, it will be harder for it to come true, since both of them are already married — and one of them already have a boy having random fits of kakulitan and temper tantrums.

And maybe instead of waiting for the “culminating itinerary”, I went for it and experience the onsen in solitude.

ALONE X TOGETHER: A beauty that is transient and fleeting in a shared space. Sobremesa can be a nice ring to it, although the spanish loan-word is more apt to a dining table, a perfect setting to the current ordeal of writing a creative nonfiction with a Spanish-Japanese haafu eating bento in front of me. Konbanwa, ate!

I’d like to link this little onsen adventure as a wabi-sabi experience. After all, taking a bath is supposed to be a solitary activity. But onsen made it more unique, akin to a sense of community. Without speaking to each other, you share the same desire of removing fatigue and the same challenge of scrubbing your own back with the little towel one tows upon sliding the door open to the huge hot basin.

Flashing back to the logistics of the hot bath, one obaachan said she’ll go ahead and dry up. Upon standing I saw her very red back, her skin as perfect as the newly-cooked shrimp. Meanwhile, I stared at my legs and it looked like a perfectly roasted chicken: a reddish-brown specimen ready to be eaten. Ano raw?! Hahaha tama na nga! Hmn! I got myself changed and hair dried. Upon buying a cold bottle of fanta I saw the other obaachan and shouted “Oi! Ikku da tou!” Not directed to me, but to an old man watching the weather forecast for the next day, his wet hair too close to the TV.

And after a little post-onsen foot massage for ¥100, I exited the place.
Sleepy, yet tottemo satisfied.

A Love Letter from an Anxious-attached Woman with a Manic Episode

Dearest M,

How is your recent life in Idaho? And why are you not texting me? Do you enjoy your trips on that other side of the world?

So. In the next days of our lives, we shall spend in silence? Like minding ourselves be sucked in our respective worlds, watching our own interests in a nook called a mobile phone? What about the conversations that we used to have? When I tried to engage in sharing my stories, you just dismiss it with a humorless jest, and making it repetitive, a routine unconscientiously performed after days—fuck it, months—of absence?

It feels convoluted, meeting this person.

Does this mean that I learn to settle in this dynamic that bears no joy, not even a high, “for now”?

Intellectualize this: Were you an absent partner on your previous marriage, resulting to a third party you caught in the act? If yes, most likely, your history will repeat itself. You are now on the brink of reprising the role your absent father did to your mother.

And its absence lingered on this timeline.

I miss you.
I am sorry for being this destructive and resentful. It is tough managing an avoidant.

I love you.
But sometimes, I do not love you because of what we have now.
“Out of sight, out of mind.”

And I do not want to hate myself for it. I guess this is how our love works, right?

Sometimes, the kilig comes as a huge tsunami wave whenever you come home and we share the silent space together, and yet, sometimes I am resenting that same silence whenever we independently face our own struggles.

I think this is our kind of love, right? And after all these years, I am still navigating this with sonder and wonder that maybe our storyline is not as unique as the others. Maybe, we have that sentiment that is transcendent, like the novels that we read.

Maybe at the end of the day, loving is about choosing.

And even though moments hurt and memories fade, I choose you.

Break or no break,
E.

Poetics: Actual submission to the JFF25 contest in facebook page. I hope to win free tickets or anything. If I don’t win, meh, then you see my thought process in my current struggle of not seeing my date in the last five months of our lives.

Filipinong Southern Tagalog

Henlo Jesson,

Kumusta ka jan sa Norte? Random: alam mo bang may aklat ng mga tula na galing sa lalawigan mo? Ay kainaman nga! Kailangan ko lagi ng Diksyunaryong Pilipino para lang malaman ang kahulugan ng mga parirala at saknong. Na-realize ko lalong wala akong probinsya. Pinanganak sa Pasay, nag-aral sa Makati, nagta-trabaho sa Taguig, at kasalukuyang nakatira sa Pasig. Mga probinsyudad noong dekada nobenta na naging melting pot ng wika at mga memes at code-switches.

Pero sa koleksyon na ito, parang akong bumalik sa high-school required reading na may trabaho ang paghahanap sa kaluhugan ng mga talinghaga. Bigyan kita ng sampol:

—

POSIBILIDAD
(ni Brixter Tino)

Paano mabalangkas ang paglansag ng tanaw,
ang dungis at ang duklay ng diwarang dahilan?

—

  1. Mga kelangan ng diksyonaryo — lansag, duklay, diwara. Tatlong salitang hindi ginagamit sa NCR. Ay kainaman! (sabi nga ni Mama, ang Batangueña)
  2. Pag-unawa sa metapora (ang galing, pwede palang tula form ang mga tanong sa buhay!) — I digress, bobo ako sa tula at ito ang unang impression: “Paano raw isusuma ang watak-watak na mga pananaw at ang rawness (the “dungis”) at ang hifalutin (the “duklay”) na mga mabusising reasoning (ng tao ito siguro?).” Through possibilities. Galing!!!

Maganda ang mga berso ng tula, pero ang ariba ng diwa, napakatagal. Kaya nakakasura siyang basahin. Pwede talaga ito sa mga estudyanteng sadyang nag-aaral ng linggwistika, or may oras na maghanap sa diksyunaryo, or people who are naturally curious about the work. Sabi ng maraming kumento at blurb sa libro, magaling si Brixter kasi naipon niya lahat ito (at medyo na-intimidate ako sa uniqueness ng #danas niya dito sa kamaynilaan; polarizing kami kasi taal ako ng 🎵🎶 Mahal kong Maynila~🎵🎶).

Actually, malapit na ang Book Talakayan namin dito, July 19 na, sa PUP! Kung bababa ka, magsama ka ng mga friends o bisitahin mo yung Pinoy Reads Pinoy Books tas catch-up naman tayo. Tungkol sa wika o memes o anumang ganap ng mga kanya-kanyang lovelife kineso haha!

Hopefully maka-akyat ako jan at samahan mo naman ako mag-hike sa Ulap! See you uwu!!!

-Ella

Movement and Memento

Book Review of All The Lonely People by Kannika Claudine Peña

In one of our kotse chronicles, dok bb mentioned that he doesn’t cry much because his tear ducts are tinier than any other person. Instead, whenever he feels like crying, it was his runny nose doing the deed. Whenever he feels deep sadness, he said, “kinokotse ko lang. huling hagulgol ko ay yung huling heartbreak ko eh.” I guess at least with movement, he can find his release (without judging his runny nose and his huge mess of used tissue paper).

Movement and mementos are the big themes in Kannika’s first novel of remembering loss and its adjacent emotions of grief, and how we have found ourselves looking for a company to share our loneliness with. With company comes empathy and reason, and may it not be a concrete form of happiness, but rather a release and a relief. Then hope. After all, hope if what gives us tenacity to brave the rage we experience everyday in the Metro.

Mandirigmang imortal, amirite?

If you are burned out from the daily life of the Metro, this time may not be a perfect chance to read the novel. Maybe this book is meant for people who wanted to enjoy the slow days in their homes, or want to relish the feeling of rawness of emotions. I can only opine on my reading experience, since I finished the whole book during the hours when the Globe Internet is down in Pasig area.

The six stories in the novel were done in a “hand-off” fashion, where the omniscient POV is moved from one character to another, its main goal is to share their little sob story. At the center of it all is Marya, and her own history of loss and longing for company, her sentiments poured out to the Lost and Found Logbook of the old Apartelle where she is currently working (and living in).

What I liked about the novel is how the story weaves and how it pulls the emotions out of me. I feel that my chest hurt everytime I read a snippet of their sad histories, and at some instances, I see my persona as a composite from the characters in the novel. I reflected at the what-ifs (like, if I was Gemma, will I still be ok managing my mother if she has Alzheimer’s?) I even see my work colleague in Cindy’s story. I loved how relatable the stories are.
Also, the author has effectively inserted her criticisms in our love for sad tropes (“Sadness that sells because it’s everyone’s sadness”), the dismal commute and horrendous traffic (“This city has no time for your heartbreak. So you move on”), and her leeway to explain why there are tendencies to romanticize this chaotic city (“But perhaps she’s looking for a way to feel again”). The universality of stories and the feelings it evoked within me are remarkable. For less than 30 pages, I shed my tears as if the loss was my own. Good thing I don’t have dok beside me because it is hard to explain why are you crying over a page you just read.

I think what wanes the reading experience for a bit is my introduction to Cindy’s story. It felt abrupt. It’s the sudden insertion, nothing weave-like. I was so used to the chaotic EDSA or slower moments in Pasay (where I think Via is from), and then Cindy opened her story with “Pillow crease on face.” The momentum faltered from there. And just before the novel ended, the connection was made too convenient. Also, I personally felt that the stories of queer characters (Jona and Dan Ian, respectively) are tokens of inclusivity. Nonetheless, they are relevant stories. Including their snippets means that all of us walk and manage the loneliness of everyday.

What redeemed me in the end is the seemingly magical realism / romantic narrative at the bus station that even I (as the reader) was rooting for. That was so effective! It feels like watching the final sequence of Kimi No Nawa, two total strangers on the different lines of trains getting off on stations abruptly and meeting at the Suga Shrine.

“It’s possible to be content with whatever and whoever is right there, even and especially with the knowledge that they will soon be gone, that nothing lasts forever—love, happiness, but also heartbreak, sadness, pain.” And I thank this novel for giving me back my reading groove again, after managing the more challenging novels at the first half of the year. Thanks to Kannika for giving me a chance to slow down and just cry it out and breathe.

Sa baba ay ang Universal Robina at ang C5

Lights Follow (from the Previous Century)

Book Review of What Light It Can Hold Edited by Gerald Burns and Jose Dalisay, Jr.

What Light It Can Hold is a collection of Filipino writers with their stories released after the millenium bug hey-days. I admire the curation, it has representations across the regions and also the male, female and queer demographic (please correct me if I am wrong on this).

I read the collection at a random pace. In one sitting, I read the first and the last story, and in the other days, I pick whatever I feel like reading. The first and the last story indeed tie the theme behind the books title. Casocot’s Things You Don’t know ended in a sunset (or dusk) scene of confessions and a touch of hope, while Groyon’s The Haunting Martina Luzuriaga ended with a new day with its sunbeam erasing the sad past and an epiphany after years of solitude. I appreciate how endings and beginning weave through these respective stories. As the introduction alludes, the book echoed the idea of fragility and illumination.

What I find challenging (aside from my daily Corporate grind) is the search for the contemporary themes that seem to be limited across the collection. I was actively looking for the use of social media, online bullying and cancel culture, the emergence of memes, bekimon vocabulary, or even some snippets of millennial activities of undeground indie bands, collective jogging, and heavy use of technology, or bitcoin grind. Where is the onslaught of the 2008 Financial crisis, or even scamming via Multilevel Marketing? Though the stories are okay with its overarching themes of injustices and powerplay, family bonds, or Love, maybe I was actively reaching for a distinct flavor of a craft (being a millennial myself, overusing parenthesis, oxford commas and em dashes — a punctuation politically being a pet peeve by AI detectors).

What the collection showed me instead are remnants of the B-type movie from 80’s (Tenorio’s Monstress), or early 90’s sea travels (Pagliawan’s Manila-Bound), or late ’90s elementary school bullying (Habana’s The Mop Closet). All of them are marvelous on their own ways — especially the moniker “Monstress” — but these allusions are not in 21st century, but rather, they are remnants of the previous one being carried by the writers themselves. The only hallmark 21st century storyline for me personally is seething through Bengan’s Armor and his storytelling of the Davao Death Squad conflict (if I may say so).

I do hope that there will be another collection that can tackle the more recent events or timelines, or maybe the pens respsonsible for them belong to us now, the contemporary consumers and players of the post-pandemic hyperrealities.

For now, I soldier on.

My question after seeing the dark skies and its looming heavy rainfall