After the Apocalypse: Rowena Tiempo-Torrevillas’ “Sunday Morning” (Like THE HUNGER GAMES only with Filipino Characters)

• Even after the Apocalypse, people still remember The Beatles (“Did I tell you, Nina, how the rumor spread in 1977 —  forty years ago this year! —  that someone was paying the Beatles six million dollars just for one night of singing together?”)
• They can recite the Book of Job,  from memory (“My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, and are spent without hope.  O remember that my life is wind . . .  What is man, that thou shouldest magnify him? and that thou shouldest set thine heart upon him? . . .  I will say unto God, Do not condemn me.  Hast thou eyes of flesh?  Or seeth thou as men seeth?  Are thy days as the days of man?  Are thy years as man’s days?”)
• Among the last vestiges of civilization:  a ’51 Chevrolet pick-up truck (“The truck had already been on the mountain when the first resident, old Ben Boggley, now dead, built his hut on Ragged Mountain.  No one knew how it had gotten there, or to whom it had belonged.  But on the rusty tailgate which used to hang by one hinge, there, in crude letters over the pale flaking paint which used to be blue, were the names Cesar and Rosalie.)

Here’s a beautiful, descriptive passage:

On the final hill overlooking the slight hollow where the cabin stood, they stopped, and Pedro Aguinaldo set his child down so that they were both facing the northwest.

Large, wet blue stars quivered in the sky, and the sharp wind that blew from the northwest seemed to set the stars rocking.

“Look, Papa, they’re so many,” she said, pointing.

P.S.  Self fell asleep while waiting for “Justified” to come on.  Woke with a start, saw it was already 10:45 p.m.  YIIIKES!  Hurriedly switched on the TV, saw Neil McDonough’s arm in Timothy Olyphant’s arms.  Obviously, something unspeakable had just transpired.  Oh, thank goodness self didn’t have to witness the blood spatter.   McDonough dies, but self loves that he does not over-dramatize.  Mostly, what he projects is shock (Self would react in exactly the same way if she ever saw her arm detached from her actual person and hanging on to some other person’s anatomy)  . . .

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

Bataan Day/ Discovering a Book List

Bataan Day is tomorrow, April 9.  It is the 70th anniversary of the surrender of combined U.S. and Filipino forces to the Japanese Imperial Army during World War II.

How sad is this day?  The husband’s grandfather, a brigadier general, was one of those who surrendered on the Bataan Peninsula.  He made it as far as Fort Santiago, but disappeared shortly thereafter.  No one knows what befell him.  He was simply gone.  His eldest child, the husband’s father, was 16 years old.

Self was reminded of this very important anniversary by Hyphen Magazine.

Self also discovered this list of novelist Abha Dawesar’s Favorite All-Time Books.  It is a very eclectic list. Self decides to print it out so that she can start reading the books on it.

Towards the bottom of the list, self finds her second collection, Mayor of the Roses.  It follows right after Zack’s second book (after Rolling the R’s), Primetime Apparitions.

Mayor of the Roses, the title story of self’s collection, was published in Hyphen Issue # 6.

The list appeared in Hyphen Issue # 7.  Which must have been some time ago, for now Hyphen‘s current issue is # 24.

Self is tickled pink to be included on a list that begins with:

• The Symposium, by Plato
• The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde
• Notes From the Underground, by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

The Joy of Reading Luning Bonifacio Ira

Luning Bonifacio Ira, Filipino writer, has passed away. In her honor, pinning this post to front page:

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Self has discovered a new kindred spirit and Filipino writer!

Of course, this writer is very well known in the Philippines, but self only discovers her now.  She is Luning Bonifacio Ira.

Self is reading her story, “Tell Me Who Cleft the Devil’s Foot,” in The Best Philippine Short Stories of the Twentieth Century, edited by Isagani R. Cruz.

Self promised to finish this book, finally, this week, but every time she begins a new paragraph in the aforementioned story, she has to stop, it is so beautiful, and fills her with so much nostalgia.  (The phone rings, a rare occurrence.  Self lets it ring.  She will check momentarily to see who it was that just called)  Take, for example, this paragraph:

Rounding Luneta’s manicured acres, she turned right at Del Pilar, left at Padre Faura, and right at a side street whose new name she could not recall.  She felt at home in this part of town.  South Manila was was where an ambience was compounded of old acacia trees which shed their leaves gently like confetti, breezes that might carry the tang of salt (for, south, the sea was never far away), and a tranquil quality which went by the name of “Before the War.”  She parked her car in the shade of an acacia which trailed lush green fern plants, for sale by sidewalk vendors parked there day after day.

Dr. Twig’s clinic was in the back portion of a hotel which had bloomed before the advent of tourism and was now shrunken in the shadow of the skyscraping internationals.

“Dr. Twig will see you in a little while.  Please be seated,” said the mini-skirted young receptionist.  She looked fifteen, though of course she couldn’t be.  Filipino girls just looked younger than their age.

Dr. Twig’s equipment had always impressed her, even aroused a proprietary feeling due partly, she supposed, to all the past bills she’d been paying.

Her last visit had been when she’d had reading glasses fitted two years ago.  But when Dr. Twig came in, lean, stooped and shiny-domed, she was not prepared to find him so aged.

(Boy, and what self wouldn’t give to be one of those young-looking “Filipino girls.”  Right now.  But, alas, here she is in northern California, where the dry heat robs the skin of its elasticity and results in hundreds of minute lines at the corners of both self’s eyes —  Ahem!  Where were we???)

Self now checks the phone:  No blinking message light.  Perhaps a solicitor?

Self was dealt a cruel blow in the wee hours, when she received the bad news that son would not be able to go with her to Bacolod.  The news was so dire it quite put her in a depression.  Everything she does there, really, is to preserve a legacy for the future —  which is to say, for sole fruit of her loins.  But he has many, many responsibilities now.  He will go another time.

And now self can’t seem to stop wondering:  Who was it who just called?  Who?

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

2nd Weekend of February (2012)

This morning was chilly and overcast (although, after experiencing the frigid nights of Dharamsala in January, self thinks she will never complain about her unheated house, ever again), but now the sun’s come out.  It is Friday!  Oh happy happy joy joy.

The Grammys are this weekend, though self is not as excited as she was for the Golden Globes.  Adele will clean up, that’s all she knows.  Maybe Lady Gaga will delight with a particularly outré outfit.

They caught Madonna’s stalker.  Apparently, he was an escaped inmate from a mental asylum — ?

No rejections yet today (though she hasn’t checked all of her e-mail).

The husband thinks the Ancient One is on her last legs.  Self sees the deterioration.  Her pet doesn’t even react to a piece of bacon put right under her nose.  It seemed to have gotten worse while self was in India.  One more stretch of not seeing self, and Bella will keel over.  Self prays it doesn’t happen when she is home.  One dog’s expiring (April 2011, Gracie) was awful enough.  Perhaps the husband can do death duties this time.

One thing that always made self curious was why “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy” was nowhere in evidence in the last Golden Globes.  She thought Gary Oldman’s and Tom Hardy’s performances were very fine.  Did the omission have something to do with cut-off dates?

The Denzel Washington/ Ryan Reynolds thriller opened today.  Self still wants to see Liam Neeson punch out wolves in “The Grey.”

Want to know something?  Self is really, really, disproportionately happy today.  She has decided to finish The Best Philippine Short Stories of the Twentieth Century (in English), which she started reading years —  this is truly pathetic —  ago.  Currently, she is on p. 448, which means she is right in the middle of the Cirilo F. Bautista story, “Ritual” (Nice title, that!).  Here’s a short excerpt:

There was a knock on the door followed by the entrance of a dark-skinned man carrying several books.  His white trousers and white shirt were spotless; the electric bulb was reflected on his shoes.

“Carlos Dayleg, in charge of the fourth class,” Father Van Noort said to me by way of introducing the newcomer.

“I think we’ve already met,” Dayleg said, extending his hand.  It was only then that I realized he was the man I asked directions from a few hours ago.  He must have noticed my surprise.  “Yes, we met this morning.  In this place it is not uncommon for natives to change to more civilized attire.  As for me, I do it only on special occasions.”

Here are a few thoughts that occurred to self while she was reading the above:

• It is very hard to keep a white shirt and white trousers clean, especially in the tropics.  But that’s what characters always seem to wear in the tropics, even the ones in Somerset Maugham.
• Self has already completely forgotten where this story is supposed to be taking place (though the name “Dayleg” sounds vaguely Igorot — ?)
• The presence of the word “native” is excusable because the “native” is calling himself “the native.”

Here’s yet another passage, from several pages later:

Three school terms I had worked with him but I knew nothing about him, except his preference for canned food, his indifference to women, his love for the rice terraces.  Not that he was reserved or aloof —  he was sociable — but his sociability revealed merely the outer encumbrances of his personality, much as the sphinx revealed merely the outer characteristics of its animalism, but the mystery that shrouded it amidst the burning desert sands few could untangle.  Perhaps the metaphor was far-fetched; perhaps he was enigmatic, not because I could not understand him, but because I was analyzing him from an irrelevant angle.  Luisa had told me that I was always inclined to be poetic.

Last night self attempted to inveigh sole fruit of her loins to visit Bacolod with his girlfriend.  An idea which son does not seem to find particularly attractive, self knows not why.  But one cannot have everything, in this world!  One can simply live, as best as one knows how to.  Back to her reading.

Stay tuned.

Short Story “Jesters,” Live Now at Used Furniture Review!

Oh, exciting news this Friday morning, dear blog readers (Self would like to add, as an aside, that the weather today is gorgeous, just gorgeous!  Self walked The Ancient One, whose walk now resembles a wave surge more than anything else.  That is, the top half of her body is aimed forward, she looks purposeful and determined, but her legs and knees hardly move at all.  Oh, poor Ancient One!  Perhaps in a decade self, too, will be like you:  surging forward, but with failing limbs. AAACH, self, there you go again with your endless digressions and peregrinations!  For heaven’s sake, can’t you just get on with the  announcement of your piece on Used Furniture Review?)

Um, yes.  The endlessly fascinating Used Furniture Review snagged “Jesters.”  A short story she wrote while she was in VCCA.  All the book titles mentioned in the piece?  They were the titles of actual books in the VCCA library.  Hmm, maybe self should let the VCCA folks know?

VCCA was helpful in so many other ways:  That is where she met Drew the classical composer (formerly of Yellow Springs, Ohio, now of New York City), Lucille Colin the photographer, and Patrick Somerville (Her single most indelible memory of her time at VCCA was of walking from her studio in the barn to the main house, in complete darkness, hoping she didn’t step on a racoon or a fox or anything that might be lurking in the area, and finding a little square of light, not moving, a few yards to the side.  So, inching along the lane, self was able to verify that the square of light belonged to a laptop, and the face that hovered intently just a few inches from the screen was Patrick Somerville’s)

WHAT.  A.  LOOOONG.  DIGRESSION.  THAT.  WAS!!!  Phooey!

And now  — TARA! — an excerpt from self’s piece:

A strange morning. You woke to a new light, grayish and cool. No longer the intense white glare of the past weeks. Blue mountains now hazy in the distance. Someone told you what they were called, but you immediately forgot.

Sit.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

From Self’s Story “Picture” (in Her 2005 Collection, MAYOR OF THE ROSES)

This is a story about self’s parents.  It was in Mayor of the Roses, her second collection, published by Miami University Press:

The woman leaning forward is self’s mother.

She’s leaning forward, as if to kiss him.  There’s a mark on his cheek; perhaps she’s done it already.  They are both smiling.

These were my parents in Manila, circa 1956.  They were happy:  they had always been happy.  The happiness of their marriage was like a reproach.

I didn’t think he looked that ugly, but I hear a voice saying, over and over, La unica problema es que no es guapo. It’s a woman speaking, her voice is thick with fury.  It was probably my grandmother.  This, at least, was what my mother led me to believe.

*     *     *     *     *

I am collecting old pictures now.  I don’t know what this tells me about this stage of my life.

Here’s a picture self drew when she was about five.  Who is that woman and why did self draw her wearing a green kimono?  Who knows.  Dearest Mum had the picture framed.

The 5-Year-Old Artist

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

The Writing Disorder Bookstore

Today self goes tra-la tra-la tra-la and wanders all over the web, culling the gold from the dross, all for the benefit of dear blog readers.

She checks out The Writing Disorder Bookstore, which she hasn’t done in some months, and — Hoooly Moly! They have quite interesting books for sale!  To wit:

• Matt Thomas’ Resetting the Armageddon Clock (Boxfire Press)
• Tina May Hall’s The Physics of Imaginary Objects (University of Pittsburgh Press/ Drue Heinz Literature Award Winner)
• Wodke Hawkinson’s Catch Her in the Rye (CreateSpace)
• Self’s Mayor of the Roses (Miami University Press)
• The Writing Disorder Anthology, edited by C. E. Lukather (168 pages of fabulous, may be ordered from Lulu.com)
• Michael Burns’ Where You Are (All Things That Matter Press)
• John Oliver Hodges’ War of the Crazies (Main Street Rag)
• John Kilgore’s The Blunder (Bridgeway Books)
• Vanessa Libertad Garcia’s The Voting Booth After Dark (Fiat Libertad Co.)
• Self’s Ginseng and Other Tales From Manila (Calyx Press)
• Gretchn Mattox’s Buddha Box (Fiat Libertad)
• Amy Newlove Schroeder’s The Sleep Hotel (Oberlin College Press)
• Yu-Han Chao’s We Grow Old:  53 Chinese Love Poems (The Backwaters Press)
• Sudha Balagopal’s There Are Seven Notes (ROMAN Books)

And they also sell the cutest “How to Draw a Novel” T-shirts!

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

Worship in the Philippines

Self bumped into Charles Tan at the Manila International Book Festival today.  Also, Ambeth Ocampo, very busily engaged in signing copies of his books while being deluged by worshipful citizens.  Also saw:  Nadine Sarreal, Gwen Galvez, and Karina Bolasco.  These women give credence to one of Dearest Mum’s sayings:  “In the Philippines, women don’t grow old.  Only the karabaw do.”

If self really cared about her appearance, she would move to the Philippines (which is terribly impractical; if not impossible)

In the meantime, self is engaged in reading a book called:  Horacio de la Costa, S. J.:  Selected Essays on the Filipino and His Problems Today , edited by Roberto M. Paterno and published in 2002.  Fr. de la Costa, who taught at the Ateneo, was a great Filipino historian and writer.  In one of the essays, called “The Role of Religious Women in Asia Today,”  self gleans this fascinating nugget of information:

“When the Spaniards first came to Maynila, they found the women worshipping a wooden image in a pandan grove in what is now the district of Ermita.  It was the image of a woman, and the Spaniards very naturally presumed that it was an image of the Virgin Mary, brought by some wandering Franciscan missionary around the time of Marco Polo.  They dressed it up in velvet and cloth of gold and put a crown on its head and called it Nuestro Señora de Guia.  But some time ago an architect got permission to cut a small piece from the base of the image and test it; and he found that it was molave, which suggests that it was carved in the Philippines and was not brought here from Europe.”

Fascinating, isn’t it, dear blog readers?

Stay tuned.

Just Out: THE LOTUS SINGERS, Companion Volume to ANOTHER KIND OF PARADISE

One nice thing about having a blog is that you can do favors for friends who’ve been nice to you, who’ve shared their hopes, joys, and success with you, and who regularly and tirelessly keep on writing, editing, anthologizing.  In the miasma of economic despair that is currently California, such friends should be cherished, coddled, supported, applauded, and embraced, at every opportunity.

So, here are a couple of supporters who self would like to acknowledge today:

• To the Editors of Used Furniture Review:  You made self’s day!  Thank you for taking “Jesters” (and for waiting patiently while self cleans up her interview with Karen Llagas)
• To Randi Shapiro of The White Whale Review (published “Dumaguete”)
• To Isagani Cruz, editor of Best Philippine Short Stories in English (included “Lizard,” self’s altogether strange story about a “shadow” attached to the narrator’s beautiful mother) —  Isagani, where can self acquire additional copies of this book, preferably in paperback?  Many’s the time when she’s wanted to haul a copy with her on a trip but —  egad, the hardcover weighs three pounds, if not more — !!!
• Trevor Carolan, editor of Another Kind of Paradise (Boston:  Cheng & Tsui)

Here’s information about Trevor’s new anthology, The Lotus Singers:

The Lotus Singers is an anthology of contemporary stories from India and the South Asian region.  It’s the companion volume to Another Kind of Paradise, the collection of stories from East and Southeast Asia that was published last year.  Here’s a link to the publisher’s website.

The stories come from Bangladesh, Bhutan, India, the Maldives, Nepal, and Pakistan, and explore the themes of social upheaval, gender inequality, economic and spiritual struggle, and challenges to cultural orthodoxy.

And, dear blog readers, self has just decided that she’s going to head back to the lovely lovely island of Negros, soon.  Because that place is just magic for self.  And once you’ve found magic, you know, like in Woody’s new movie, you’ve just got to hang on to it.  Because life is not a dress rehearsal.

Stay tuned.

A Classic: Philippine PEN Conference, Cebu 2010

Self would be hard put to identify each and every writer in this photo.  She’s in touch with some of them still  —  on Facebook, as well as  on e-mail.  Did she forget to mention that she had such a good time gabbing with old buddy Wendell Capili, and that Ferdie Lopez helped her out when she was lost and wandering around the Cebu terminal, looking for Gate 7 for her flight to Bacolod?

Self thinks she must have been dreaming:  Cebu, Montebello Villa, the judge who writes poetry about birds, the waiters handing out ensaimada with ube inside, hanging out with other writers, Bacolod, Dumaguete, Siquijor, Hinobo-an, Cubao X, the Balay Daku on Burgos Street, meeting with Francis and Zack in Greenbelt.  She was imagining all that, right?  And Gracie is not actually sick.  And son’s girlfriend Amanda did not just fall from a horse and receive a concussion, and self did not get the call from son, early this morning, in which he delivered the extremely terrible news that, for the first time ever, he will not be coming home for Christmas.

No, self never left;  she was here all the time in Redwood City.

Maligayang Pasko, everyone!

Stay tuned.