SCRIBE
SCRIBE Volume 25, May 2022 The Literary Folio of The Spectrum Published by the students of the University of St. La Salle All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or any part or form.
LITERARY EDITOR Immalie Rose E. Cafifge LAYOUT ARTISTS Perlyn Joy L. Suganob Mikey Vincent T. Vicente ILLUSTRATORS Josh Aldrich B. Diola Carl Hason T. Gerale Jaziel Ann V. Seballos Perlyn Joy L. Suganob Mikey Vincent T. Vicente COVER CONCEPT AND DESIGN Carl Hason T. Gerale Jaziel Ann V. Seballos Set in Minion Pro and Gyahegi Style
“Sometimes misery befalls all at once, sometimes it’s in phases—in short flashbacks and heavy exits—but like the changing of the seasons, I will learn the same.” – Proud of Me (From Mise-en-scène musical) My, my, who do we have here? A theater buff? A drama-lover? Are you here for the recital, dearest onlooker? If so, grant me this chance of a lifetime to hum cordial minstrelsy before I vanish into the bottomless depths of thespian art. On a midnight unmeant for grander pursuits, a casual beach trip with friends, or a sunset picnic of wines and potlucks—has the question ‘why is life worth living?’ ever crossed your mind? In the most mundane acts that move you every day, have you ever thought about how many selves carried on war, only to find their demise in your hands? I’m as perplexed as you are, dear reader, but one thing is certain: the ghosts of your past needed to descend at their last stop for you to continue what they’ve begun and find answers to your questions. Perhaps, you may wonder if the purpose of your mortal coil dwells in the nooks and crannies of these theatrical pages. I cannot say for sure; however, may you descry a mirror and see yourself underneath the pivoting letters of anthems in smithereens. A script, a stage, and an act—this is your mise-en-scène: minute cuts of revues that makes you, you. The pirouette of an anti-hero does not summon a curtain call, nor does the defeat of the almighty dragon. True beatitude has been kept hidden inside the sheathes the entire time, and it takes a slew of deaths to realize it. Fret not, for the addendum of an old self is only the beginning; but remember, you must heed when it learns to prance in a state of quiescence, or it will pull you to an Elysium of perdition. When the stage’s spotlight illuminates with grief upon your forehead, tilt your head higher than the touchstone of lifeless dispositions, and know by sight that you triumphed over lost voices of yore.
There is much to uncover, yet I leave the rest to you. And so, take your vintage carnet and grasp the flamboyance of mise-en-scène! The actors have trodden the boards and the theater has been booked. It demands nothing but your presence. Unbosom the heart’s carol. Hearken the artist’s blues. Seize the metamorphosed sheets of the sacred Scribe. To live is to die a thousand times. I don’t know which ghosts you dance with, but I dance with mine. The prelude shall begin. Lights, camera, and… action! Keeper of the final curtain, The future Malie
C ontents PRE-PRODUCTION Of copper women and irrefutable truths................................................................2 Hoy, Biboy!.................................................................................................................5 Dumulugok sa Tig-ilinit...........................................................................................6 A Review of [Un]Related Literature........................................................................9 Requiem for the Old House’s Ghost......................................................................10 Step Print..................................................................................................................12 Ang Intermisyon ng Mandudula...........................................................................14 Ghost Limbs.............................................................................................................18 Coda..........................................................................................................................21 Hiraya Manawari......................................................................................................22 Behind the Curtain..................................................................................................23 In situ Self Sculpting in the Postmodern Era.......................................................25 PRODUCTION almost, felina............................................................................................................30 Mga Palamangkutanon...........................................................................................33 Soirée.........................................................................................................................35 Of the Unseeing Eyes..................................................................................................36 Unsent Letters to Alfredo.......................................................................................39 Kalimutaw.................................................................................................................44 Basal na rehas...........................................................................................................45 Haunted.....................................................................................................................47 When Stars Burn Out..............................................................................................48 Musings of a Curious Creative...............................................................................51
C ontents POST-PRODUCTION scars of the theatrics................................................................................................56 On the Precipice of Damnation..............................................................................59 On the Wayward Path...........................................................................................61 At the Docks, You Shall Rest................................................................................63 coup d’état.................................................................................................................64 Sa susunod na pahina..............................................................................................66 Jezebel, Darling........................................................................................................68 A Great Disguise.......................................................................................................71 Curtain Call..............................................................................................................74 vaguely.......................................................................................................................75 SCRIBES & SCRIBBLERS................................................................................77 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS................................................................................88
Of c opper women and irrefutable truths By naicha Below, I watch how your eyes linger while the crowd cheers a toast to the man you love most and your dearest sister; how your hand trembles as you raise the glass, the flute clutched to your chest as you rewind the past. The moment eldest daughters were born, we were taught this: we are the house’s breadwinners, molded to rebuke with iron fists. We were raised not to live, but to survive— to claw our way to the top so long as we stay alive. It’s funny how he views himself as sly when his pocket is lined with dreams and dust— his charm laden with lies. From his immaculate reflection, flaws were bound to show. The moment fissures ruptured to fragments, you knew it was time to go. Eliza, bless her heart; there she is! Suddenly, you understood: he is yours, but you will never be his. The moment we were born, we were taught to share: our food, our bed, our love. Life as the eldest was never meant to be fair. Putting others eventually became a reflex, an art style we have perfected after decades of duty breathing down our necks. 2
Of c opper women and irrefutable truths By naicha Eliza as the first priority, Peggy as the second. “But where does that leave me?” A third, defiant voice reckoned. Greed was quick to rear its ugly head; a wound was cut open, then we bled, and bled, and bled. The moment we were born, we were taught to keep mum, to tuck our agony neatly behind the hems of our dresses, ‘til we are forced to succumb. Yet late at night, left with no one but our thoughts, the apples present themselves to our feet: dollops of rubies—tempting us to ponder which ones we would keep. As I shine brighter while you begin to fade, Life began to reveal a secret closely guarded for decades: Women like us— of bronze, copper, and stardust— need not be vilified simply because the world failed to leave us satisfied. 3
Photo by Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman
!Hoy, Bib oy! Ni Drexel John N. Amit Oh, Biboy! Ang aga mo naman atang gumising? Ay, oo nga pala! Ikaw pa ay magsasaing. Pagkatapos magsalang ay gagayak sa panaderya, bibili ng pandesal at kapeng panimpla. Oh, Biboy! Nagmamadali ka atang lumabas ng kubeta? Mahuhuli ka na ba sa pagpasok sa eskwela? O sadyang ikaw lamang ay nagpapa-aga, upang may oras pang maigugugul sa librerya? Oh, Biboy! Ampogi natin sa bagong plantsang uniporme ah! Ipares pa ang matingkad na ngiti at mga matang puno ng sigla. Nagbunga ata ang iyong agarang paghahanda! Nakikini-kinita ko ang hinaharap mong kasiya-siya! Kaya alam mo, Biboy? Ako’y hanga sa’yo: sa sipag, tiyaga, at katatagan mo. Nawa’y patuloy kang maging huwaran, at lahat ng minimithi ay iyong makamtan. Pero teka, Biboy, anong nangyari? Tila yata naiwakli mo ang iyong sarili. Saan napunta ang iyong pagpupunyagi? Maibabalik pa kaya ang dati? Hoy, Biboy! Bilis na’t ika’y gumising! Hoy, Biboy! Ikaw pa ay magsasaing! Hoy, Biboy! Pumunta ka na ng panaderya! Hoy, Biboy! Bumili ka na ng kape’t magtimpla! Hoy, Biboy! Bumalik ka na! 5
-Dumulugok s a Tig-ilinit Ni Bjørn Bang! Bang! Bang! Tatlo ka segundo nag-untat ang akon ginhawa. Sa ikaapat, wala gihapon may nag-ilig halin sa ‘kon kaundan. Alangan—kay indi ako ang kasumpung sang mga diyos sang de-armalayt. Magapadayon ila operasyon, samtang magatinir ako sa pulungkuan. Ang mga landong nag-inupuray sa idalum sang tig-ilinit; athag ang dalag nga balhas sang isa ka soltero. Sul-ob ang lubog nga unipormi, nagabitay ang paniro sa iya abaga. Kag sa iya pagkapilason, maabot ko—pinasahi siya nga soldado. Abi isugid, soldado, kung paano indi maglaylay ang uniporme sa akon lawas? Paano ginhurma kag ginpatig-a ang mga butkon mo nga madamol? Ukon nangin mapintas lang ang pagtuga sa akon? Kay sa magamay ko nga dagway, mga paghinulsol indi ko makamol-kamol. Bang! Bang! Dalagan, soldado, kay akon huna-hunaon kung ikasarang sang akon tiilan nga magpalagyo sa kaput sang kamatayon. Kung magaabot na ang akon lahog nga katapusan, ikasarang bala sang akon sag-ang ang singgitan nga gabagrong? Daguob sa liwat—matinis, maabtik, makalitik. Samtang gatiyog sa banglid, nagalagas ka sang imo ginhawa. Ang kada tapak sang imo botas akon ginapiyungan—ginapamatian Kung bala magadungan ang musika kag mga bala nga galinapta. Ah…ang kaamyon sang isa ka baganihan. Sa masami, wala na sang may ikalipay imo ginikanan. Panigurado, imo lang sulat ang ginahulat sang imo kahigugma. Sa matuod, ni isa wala ako sing may maprotektahan. 6
Dumulugok s a Tig-ilinit Ni Bjørn Bang! Ginbaha ang kadudulman sang palakpak, kag napundir ang tig-ilinit sa akon pagtangla. Tion na para ihulog mo ang lahog nga nawong; ang kurinot sa imo agtang ipatapan agud madula. Duko sa tuo kag sa wala, natapos na ang panugiron. Ah, sagad ka sa papati!—ina lang ang mahambal ko. Sa lain nga tig-ilinit, mangin sin-o ka naman? Sa lain nga banglid, ikaw bala mangin akon kapareho? Nakakadlaw ako sa binuang nga handum. Indi man sa talawan ang akon corazon; Ugaling, may yara lang gid tig-ilinit nga mahapdi. May yara tig-ilinit nga indi magapabor sa akon. 7
Photo by Bjørn
[ ]A Review of [Un] Related Literature By Joshua Martin P. Guanco How can fingers translate thoughts when its tips are the mind’s peripheries? How can static pulses be encoded with words, as if beauty personified or oblivion incarnate? How can symbols— without spine, but of carbon— be immortalized while its progenitor expire? How can flesh— feeble and minute— dwell perpetually on this rock, when it only translated thoughts through its fingertips? 9
, Requiem for the Old House’ ’s Ghost By Ferry Lyra B. Fronda The wintry wind of the night caressed my cheeks as my soles traced the path of the place that once reared me. Passing through its tottering door, walls splotched with the naivety of life bled ruins of bygones in these dust-covered halls. I braved gravity to reach the rooftop over a twirling stair on the brink of collapsing. The screeching of the rats hinted at an orphaned edifice—without a breath. This place has evolved profoundly. With stoic grace, the moon bathed me in its light as if it yearned to blanket my thoughts. Stretching to the terrace, I roved at the paint-stained balustrades and the solid ground that once carried these pirouetting feet like a sentinel. Everything was at my fingertips in this space. Yet, at that moment, it was devoured by air, leaving me bare. Relished memories and old dreams protruded from every nook and cranny: the kids speeding through the halls pretending to be superheroes, the walls that relished the family’s joys in frames, and the rooftop where I basked in the moonlight as the wind sang the trees to sleep. This familiar haven encased little promises, little slips, and little phases one wished to tell. The nostalgia rushed in as I laid my eyes on the doorstep where warm, tight hugs once awaited me whenever I earned five stars on my tests or when I was simply having a tough day—the gentle hands that touched without wounding. Still, I cannot fathom how my old, frail body could have held so much love and hope. This misty air missed the soap-film bubbles I once blew in the wide grass while reveling in the moments before they burst. Oh, how I can go on a day boasting about those trivial wins! 10
Requiem for the Old House’ ’s Ghost By Ferry Lyra B. Fronda Buried in my rapt musing, I searched for the discarded tires that lay beneath the layers of soot and mud. They once carried me through the bumpy alleys—leaving me bruised but unbound. I died in the clutches of guilt, which formed claws and tugged my mind incessantly. I died on the mighty edge of youth while the birds cried. I died in the passion of naive lips caressed by deceit. At this point, I have learned to build my own tombs. At the stroke of midnight, I felt myself fade from afar. Being here struck some turmoil within, reminding me of my spirit that had been laid to rest. The chaos is what makes it—above and beyond what my heart could ever hold. It houses memoirs of youth; it both fears and celebrates its demise, mocking destiny. Tonight is another new moon bound to shift phases and will end when the universe decides to do so. What life uncovers, time will soon recover. So let there be no arias of misery, neither repressed spirits draped over the casket of history nor whimpering harps of regret. As the ominous clouds shrouded the pitch black sky and the wind whipped my unbound hair in deafening gusts, my soles traced the path towards a renewed phase—heavy from the farewell’s touch parting between my skin. 11
Step Print By Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno Eyes of quicksilver pierce through the sludge of a dirty grin—I smile grotesque. But under my featherless weight, your presence drops mercury. Gradually. Like two different earths meeting at the same gravity. Like the nicotine fumes welling up in my throat. Like my patina-scraped heels skidding over lethal doses of petroleum and dye. The vapor lamps bounce the green off of a leather settee to an unoccupied ottoman. It relishes in its creases. It dances along to metal screams as the curtains trail the hand clutching a cigarette under the table. But the smoke and LEDs engulf me whole. In prayer, in cacophony, I am an aphrodisiac for the heathens. And every synagogue I’ve romanced has kept my tongue wet in the confession of my delusions. Spinning enough yarn to twist a tale of another you—my mechanical startle response. It’s an unresolved dogma building a dim chime that rings across the bell towers. You sing along to its novena. I run to the fire exit. Still, I’ve learned to drink gasoline instead of burning my shoes at a bus stop. Allow it to relinquish the view from the cliffside and then throw it to sea. But I died again today in vignette clips from a step print film—unbeknownst to me, blue is not a color for the highway. There is no groan from the leg pressed dead under mine. The settee remains in superposition. My mouth is dry. 12
Art by Jaziel Ann V. Seballos
Ang Intermisyon ng Mandudula Ni Mari EKSENA 1: INT. KAPEHAN - UMAGA Lumutang ang halimuyak ng kape sa hangin habang pabalik-balik ang mga taong may tig-iisang hawak na paper cup sa kapehan. Sa gitna ng matrabahong araw, makikita sa isang sulok ang isang estudyanteng naghahandang simulan ang kanyang sanaysay. Binuksan nito ang kanyang laptop at mariing napatitig dito. MITHI Ayoko na. “Ayoko na,” bulong ni Mithi sa kanyang sarili habang binubura ang mga walang kabuluhang salita sa kanyang laptop. Kung bakit napagpasyahan niyang tumambay sa kapehan ay dahil usap-usapang mabisa itong pampagana ng utak upang mas matulin ang pagsusulat. Ngunit anong tangka niya mang makapag-isip ng ideya, ilang oras na ang nakalipas ay blangko pa rin ang mga pahinang hawak-hawak ng dalaga. Wala siyang ibang natamo kundi ang paglagok ng tatlong tasa ng kape at isang dokumento sa Microsoft Word na walang laman. “Hindi na lang ako mag-reretiro,” reklamo nito sabay buntong-hininga. Ilang araw na ang nakalipas at magulo pa rin ang kanyang isipan. Naghahanda na ito para sa kanyang panghuling yuko pagkatapos ang matagumpay na 25-taong karerang puno ng mga parangal sa larangan ng pagdudula. EKSENA 2: EXT. BAYBAYIN - PAGLUBOG NG ARAW Sa ilalim ng gabing kalangitan, masusulyapan ang isang mag-amang tahimik na nakahiga sa buhangin. Sa kabila ng gulong dala ng mga taong naghahabulan at nagtatampisaw sa tabing dagat,ito ang bagay na pinakamalapit sa langit para sa kanilang dalawa. Palipat-lipat ang tingin ni Mithi sa pagitan ng kanyang kompyuter at sa mag-amang nakahiga malapit sa kanya. Makalipas ang ilang araw, natagpuan na naman nito ang kanyang sarili sa tabing baybayin ng kanyang tirahan. 14
Ito ang kanyang proseso ng pagsusulat: ginagalugad nito ang kanyang probinsya—nagbabakasakaling makahanap ng inspirasyon para sa kanyang susunod na obra maestra. Hindi siya kailanman nawawalan ng ideya hangga’t nasa labas siya ng bahay. Nasasaksihan niya ang lahat ng mga pangyayari sa kanyang araw- araw na pakikipagsapalaran: mga kabataang naglalaro ng Chinese garter, mga nagngingitiang taga-tinda ng taho, at maging ang away ng mga basagulero sa kalye—patunay na ang mga pangyayari sa kanyang bayan ang mga pangunahing paksa ng kanyang matagumpay na karera. Hindi pa lubos na kuntento sa kanyang naisulat, nagpasya na si Mithi na umuwi na lamang upang pakalmahin ang kanyang isipan bagama’t labis itong nangangamba na hindi niya matatapos ang dula sa oras. EKSENA 3: EXT. PARKE - DAPIT-UMAGA MITHI (habang nakatutok sa isinusulat) Kumakaluskos ang mga dahon. Malamig ang hangin. Ayaw kong tumakbo at nagugutom ako… Nakasimangot niyang ibinalik ang telepono sa kanyang bulsa nang mapagtantong mga muni-muni niya na ang kanyang naisusulat. Tila siya’y mababaliw na. Maya’t maya’y tumunog ulit ito at isang text mula sa kanyang ahente ang kanyang natanggap. Nagpapaalala itong ilang oras na lang ang natitira upang tapusin ang kanyang sulatin. Halos sinubukan na niya ang lahat ng ideya para ipagpatuloy ang kanyang pagsulat, ngunit hindi pa rin ito umuusad. Dismayang napauwi si Mithi at ibinagsak ang sarili sa kanyang kama. Ang tahimik na bahay ang pinakahuling lugar na gusto niyang mapag-iwanan dahil dito dumadalaw ang pinakanatatakutan nito: ang rumaragasang mga kaisipan. Walang anu-anong napuno ng takot, gunita, at mga palaisipan si Mithi. Muli siyang hinabol ng mga guniguni ng nakalipas: ang unang napanood na dula na isang lokal na produksyon ng Hamlet kasama ang kanyang ina, ang pagtanggap ng kanyang unang typewriter, ang unang panalo ng parangal para sa kanyang debut play, ang paghihiwalay ng kanyang mga magulang, at ang kanyang unang pagkakataong magmahal. Ang lahat ng ito ay patuloy na bumabagabag sa kanya. 15
Dulot ng bugso ng damdamin, hindi na namalayan ni Mithi na napaupo na ito sa harap ng kanyang kompyuter habang sunod-sunod ang taas-baba ng mga daliri sa teklada. EKSENA 4: INT. KWARTO - HAPON “Kakaiba ito ah,” ani Mithi sa kanyang sarili. Kailanma’y hindi niya naranasang maudyukan ng mga ideya sa loob ng isang masikip at ordinaryong kwarto— taliwas sa kanyang karaniwang proseso ng pagsusulat. Marahil, baka oras na ito para sa pagbabago. INA Bilisan mo! Mahuhuli na tayo. Sa tunog ng boses ng kanyang ina, naalimpungatan ang batang babae mula sa pagpapasariwa ng kanyang sarili at pag-aayos ng kanyang mabulaklak na damit. Nasasabik itong mapanood ang Hamlet ni William Shakespeare sa malapit na teatro kasama ang kanyang ina. Labas sa kaalaman nito na dito rin mismo magsisimula ang kanyang mga pangarap. BATA Papunta na ako! Patuloy ang pagdagsa ng mga salita habang tinitipa ni Mithi ang kwento ng kanyang buhay. Ito na ‘yon. Ang kanyang.retirement piece: isang coming-of-age na salaysay tungkol sa isang makikipagsapalarang bata na mahilig gumawa ng mga kwentong hango sa kanyang paglalakbay—tulad ng kanyang sarili. Sa tagal ng panahong paghahanap ni Mithi ng inspirasyon mula sa ibang mga bagay, kanyang napagtanto na ang pinakadakilang inspirasyon ay ang mismong sarili. Patapos na ang intermisyon ni Mithi, subalit dito pa lamang magsisimula ang kanyang paglaki higit pa sa pagiging isang mandudula. Ngayon, oras na para sa kanyang huling yuko. 16
Art by Josh Aldrich B. Diola 17
Ghost Limbs By Meryl C. Sigaton Butterflies and luminous skies haze the meshed horizon of haute and murmur. What pleasure should greet multitudes of pre-dinner boredom; must they dare spectate my condemnation? Emerging from the velvet veil no red more brilliant, silk organza glisten the molting layers of my grief. Applause. She would arabesque by herself— raise a weathered leg up the highest shelf— cherished by the muses; while I am not the resident Giselle, neither local Odette, nor favorite Clara. “ You’re not tinted, not refractive, un-kaleidoscopic.” “ You’re just this—just plain glass.” Now I contrast to that limelight a chasm—a dry empty space. Your crescent pointes’ absence desiccate the waxed maple of this fragile paradise— you sleep instead, the world’s deepest, in overpriced oak; pacified by the anodyne gods: Advil, Alaxan, Medicol. In futile mimicry, I flit away from your monolithic shade of flawless twirls to moaning ivory keys. “Cease this passé.” In the crimson obscurity of the unsunned theater, patience is in the living. 18
Ghost Limbs By Meryl C. Sigaton Bending my toes to the harp, the wine— pure musical ambrosia. To love it, even without the tolerance. Resolute in splendor; nevertheless, in beauty. Brittle trembling bones and mica contort grin upon grin, unwinding myself from the rust of this meat-bone machinery— opposing to crumble to reservoirs of pain, enough to suffocate many months over. “If you can’t trust the tutu, the leotard, then why face the mass?” a minor C, a major D, and then a rest; So much stillness—an easing peace in this haywire hall. Holding the stance like a pin betwixt prim fingers; clasping a while longer in the hot graces of the spotlight; a hairpin with no immaculate pendant, no blue jewel—and I whisper to myself, “Yes, I shall adorn you. I will dance with you again.” 19
Photo by Ma. Micah Dearielle V. Trajera
C o da Ni Bjørn Ang padiit ng aking mga paa ay mayroong lihim na itinatago. Kasabay ng mga hakbang na hindi mapalagay ay ang bumibilis na ritmo ng aking puso. Sino bang hindi mahihibang sa mga mata mong nag-iilaw ng tila prisma, kung sa tuwing ang pangalan ko’y iyong binabanggit, ako ay bulaklak sa tagsibol? Sumasagitsit—umiinit— sa tuwing nagkakalapitan ang mga kamay. Yumayanig sa mga patlang ng aking paghinga ‘pag ang mga mata nati’y nagsasalitan. Nais kong ipabatid ang aking inggit sa mga linyang iyong kinabisa. Dahil ang kurba ng iyong ngiti— ang hindi mo pag-imik—ay kabisado rin. Ah, kailan pa ba hihinto ang walang dulong mga utos? Marahil ay hindi mo matukoy ang aking paggiliw sa mundo kong pilit na pinalabo. Pero sigurado—ang tanging malinaw sa mga linya ng ilaw ay ikaw. Kahit dumating ang dulo ng kwentong katha mo, magpapatuloy ang kumpas ng lihim ko. 21
Hiraya Manawari Ni Esther Joyce M. Limbaña Handa, hindi pa handa. Daan-daang palakpakan at hiyawan ang salubong, kasabay ang sapantahang hindi mabubuksan ang telon. Kakampi ang munting saglit na maglalantad sa bagong akda. Bubungad, hindi bubungad. Bawat patak ng oras, ako’y nananalangin— sinasambit ang mga nanlalamig na pagsamong sana’y dinggin. May pag-aalinlangan man o wala—sansinukob—ika’y magsalita. Hihintay, hindi hihintay. Kabisado ko na ang bawat salita ng aking mga hiraya. Binubulong sa hangin na ako’y piliin at tugunan. Hindi sigurado, ngunit sana’y makamtan. Titimpi, hindi titimpi. Kahapisan man ang nanaig sa puntong ito, batid kong may naghihintay na entablado— isang yugtong tatanggap sa ‘kin nang walang agam-agam. Uumpisa, hindi uumpisa. Kahagkan ko ang buwan na naghihintay sa umaga, marahuyong nag-aabang sa maikling panahon upang gawaran ang mga nakatalaga kong teatrong likha. Pagmamasdan, hindi pagmamasdan. Nagniningning ang aking mga mata sa mundong dinadalangin— nakatitig sa tagpuang handa kong palagian. Gayunman, maghihintay pa rin hanggang takipsilim. Aarte, hindi aarte. Naririnig ko na ang daan-daang palakpakan at hiyawan, kasabay ang sapantahang magbubukas ang telon. Paanyayang tugma nga ba ang aking tanghal sa tamang panahon? 22
B ehind the Cur tain By Perlyn Joy L. Suganob 23
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In situ Self Sculpting in the Postmo dern Era By The Pawn It’s a mess. The widow’s peak is a few degrees off from perfection—a structural blasphemy to the Golden Ratio. The navel is half a coin’s breadth too deep. The phalanges aren’t anatomically accurate—seventeen, eighteen atoms too steep, and the liberated thumping—the arrhythmia—won’t please the museum clientele. This will not do. Glean your tools and lean on the sculptor’s stool. The Mirror is the Muse Where is the mess? Why is it a mess? The sculptor himself knows his own art best, far more than the most respected art connoisseurs. Only you can swerve the chisel blade with utmost truth when the sculptor is the sculpture—when the mirror is the muse. Eureka! It’s the mind. It’s the heart. It’s the tall stack of cans. As the Chisel Switches Sheathes The centerpiece is ready. Slowly, from the leather scabbard, the chisel is delivered, then sheathed anew into your reluctant grip. As the moon beams collapse over your tainted marble skin and burn the unreachable blueprint on the floor, you begin to trust the impulses of a true artist. With a hammerfist trembling faintly on your temple, the chisel touches the art. Behold, the centerpiece—ready evermore. Marble Youthanasia Limestone dust fills the room as the crack on the skull reveals no signs of life–just tangled threads of copper lumped into a sphere of metal. Multicolored circles with smiles and hearts plague the interneurons. You try coaxing the crown with tender human touch, then a kiss, before caressing it to a close. The rib cage hangs low—macabrely majestic, exposing the pulsating clockwork at the center. The cogs dissonantly grind against each other, creating clanks instead of whatever life should sound like. You twist the golden linchpin until the sculpture is in tune. 25
In situ Self Sculpting in the Postmo dern Era by The Pawn Thump. Thump. Thump. Everything climaxes into a seething swell— the heartstrings have come back to life. In the liver thrives a vineyard—where godless briars bear fruits of abhorrence. One thorn after another, the cutting edge culls the horror until the scene becomes tamed and the sculptor becomes sober. As the chisel blade inches slowly towards the final adjustment, the mirror objects for the work is done. When the sculptor redefines his reflection, he buries his old self and revels in his newfound semblance. The Glass Box Then there you laid, an alluring mess in a glass box. Your widow’s peak—a mural of the alps touching the bosom of the moon; your navel—a snuggly beachside grotto; and your patternless heartbeat—an anthem to a collarless hound. As the phalanges unsheathe the chisel and draw it back into cold leather, everything became clear: the call was yours to make and yours to heed. Eureka! Your worth lies beyond the applause from the museum clientele, unbound from this fragile glass frame. Step off the sculpture’s stool; go ahead and clean your tools. 26
Art by Perlyn Joy L. Suganob
almost, felina By Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno i. death comes break the shotgun— hit me point blank with soot, blood, and clay. eyes on trigger, tongue on barrel, for your bullet, i pray. dilute coffee, down gunpowder, sepia hinge milked gray. fervid climax, buff my fangs blunt, bite a tongue off-stage. silver medals, like cutlass—sends madmen to their graves. but a lamia, in her eighth hum, shan’t die the same way. ii. death stays my veins stretch an epoch— enough rope to tie a noose. still, i cut my bones open and then spin my yarns loose to knit golden egos, needle-pricked fingers bruise. each stab, a hangman’s token, the shadowed tree of spruce. 30
almost, felina 31 By Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno a life, a lie, guano— seeps, digs deep; a recluse sings the hunchback’s requiem then breaks branches askew. adrift along almosts, dead loss rings me a truce. second best is suicide; what i win is god’s abuse. iii. death leaves gasoline banks, my murky fur burns— arching out a smoke briquette. the lake of fire, all but moribund, Lazarus in a theater play. a minor lead, mediocre and bent, muted chorus, i cannot say. holy water, i wring out my skin— of incantation beway. almost mortal, “felina, up, front,” the auburn moon fails to wane. silver shotgun and death’s consolation, but i shall never decay. Art by Carl Hason T. Gerale
Photo by Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman
Mga Palamangkutanon Ni Immalie Rose E. Cafifge Diin naghalin ang pinalian sang mga palaligban? Diin pakadto ang naga-ikis kag kitid nga dalanon? Gaano ako sa duog sang peligro? Ang sugilanon: Sa yab-ok ako igabun-ag, kag sa yab-ok ako magabalik. Ang pamangkot: Pila ang balayran kung ibanhaw ang gikan sa minatay? Kaangay sa ginlubong nga bulawan—tubtob dos metros padalom. Abir, hamili bala ang uyang sang tiyempo sa ngaralngal sang mga huna-huna? Sa akon paglingi sa pangpang nga akon ginakatin-katin, magaduaw ako sa lugar nga disunado; magasimhot sang hangin nga indi pamilyar sa ilong; magatampisaw sa lutak nga wala marka sang anuman nga tikang. KAKAPOY— Skwela. Agwanta. Kurisong. Obra. Nguy-ngoy. Guya nga gabanaag sa punong sang disyerto; wala sing pangadtuan. Pagadal-on ayhan sang pagkutkot ang kasanagan? Isa ako ka dumuluong sa akon landong— nagabitbit bagahe nga puno sang palamangkutanon. Makatilingala, apang diin ang mga tul-an sang akon unod humalin tuig 2018? Diin makita ang ala-porselana nga panit, kung ang mapintas nga haplas sang nagligad ang nagalugos sa pagpamatbat sang subong? Sa ulot sang siyudad kag kabukiran, diin ako nagakabagay? 33
Mga Palamangkutanon Ni Immalie Rose E. Cafifge KAHILIDLAW— Saot. Alaba. Kanaw. Odoy-odoy. Ngirit. Wala sing eskriba nga nakataklad sa kabungyodan kung diin ang labhag sing dapa-dapa nakasulat sang elehiya para sa naghamyang nga kalawasan. Makabayad bala ang bagras kag lap-ok sa dalanon nga akon ginlaktod? Mas gustuhon ko magtingkaya pabalik sa akon ginsuguran. Sa pihak sang nagatunod nga adlaw, may paghidait bala nga gahulat sa lapyo nga nawong? Diin ako halin? Diin ako pakadto? Gaano ako sa duog sang peligro? Wala ako kabalo. Pagkatapos sang tanan nga bulubaliskad kag liko-liko, isa lang ang akon nadangtan: Wala na ako sing balikan. 34
S oirée By Ivee E. Manguilimutan i have tea parties with the skeleton in my closet. pale white brittle bones sipping teacups, sensing forlorn. clad in frilly victorian dresses— pondering, why was i even born? devoid of emotions, mr. skeleton shook with haste. a pile of bones trembling— he muttered, “not to live is such a waste.” i spill tea and see truth, what do we have to live by if we keep fearing? hollow eyes steel with resolve, he answers: “my dear, life favors those who are daring.” tea parties won’t always be exclusive; skeletons are bones that once took a breath; the grim reaper sharpens his blade; until we are finally sentenced to death. but the in-between of these subtle things, the ones we fear, the ones we dread, may also be the reason we choose to live instead. 35
Of the Unseeing Eyes By Ferry Lyra B. Fronda I’m sick of the irony— yet everyone sees my burning in pitch black of glitter and oil that drips from what has scathed me. Whereas… When mind denies reality of boundaries, fantasy stashes the brutish and the hideous. My desire surges as the figment breeds within, unconquered by an uttered verse—numbed of meaning. I muse these thoughts as I create my own prose: a vision. My one dream… This body of mine in feeble black and basic white flee from the glorious threat of fleeting time. I shall harness the force of the Arcadian night to seize the fugitive colors and sunlight. I ache for the play of prodded verbs: a redemption. Turn to the trail of certainty… For there exists no beauty unblemished. Life is a balance unlearned yet well-meant. A deep-seated ego contrived me to forge everything twice tall, and I toil for the price. A string of rhyme woven in deception: an illusion. And be haunted by what might have been… Hushed inside, but the truth still seeps in this disconcerting tenderness of existence and of extremes. I chase a life apart from my own in a drunken stupor. A dream left to starve and explode in the abyss— but even fragments have their own alternate world: a salvation. In this world where light cannot pervade… The darkness shall soon engulf a life coveted but not possessed. I will burn anyway; and there will be no rest in the igniting fire. This is my tale—my show: a prophetic pretense cloaked in disguise before my eyes. 36
Art by Mikey Vincent T. Vicente
Photo by Ma. Micah Dearielle V. Trajera
“ Unsent Letters to Alfredo” By JK First letter to Alfredo: They asked me, My Alfredo, if I like you, and what do I like about you? I kept silent. I let silence rule over the secret rooms and secret sessions with those who were curious. And I guess I should keep it this way, to keep them guessing. What do I like about you? Oh, my Alfredo, my heart knew. And though I am silent, I could let my pen and sheet speak. Of how you are the sun, and your light takes over the darkest parts of me; you effortlessly make me brand new. And since you are the sun, who can resist you? How can I ever resist you? My Alfredo, I bet you don’t know; in my eyes, you are as perfect, and as beautiful, as the sunrise, sunset, and everything in between. I could never resist you. Alfredo, my sun, if I could tell you straight, I would. That if universe permitted and in the absence of my fears, I’d touch you endlessly, and it would be my pleasure to have my heart burned. Yours, Marayah 39
“ Unsent Letters to Alfredo” By JK Dearest, Oh Alfredo, do you know what joy you bring when you’re with me? Your smiles somehow awaken the butterflies inside my soul. You make me laugh even with the simplest things you do. And what matters most is that you’re here in front of me—that you are near. You are so near, my dear, but only in sight, for you are too far for my hopeless heart to reach. And it hurts me, oh Alfredo, it hurts me so bad that my heart aches but still, I am grateful that you are near. I thank the heavens, my Alfredo, that I am still here, alive, and breathing the same air you breathe. If I had the guts, I would tell you now how I feel for you— that you make me happy, and that you are my cure. But you are laughing and this is perfect. So I’ll just sit here and laugh with you and try my best to be as perfect as you are, and imagine we’re good for each other. What a fool of me, to love you this much that I want to ask: How are we not more than friends? Love, Marayah 40
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