For
Tiff and Catherine and Tanya; for Jam and George, Jake and Baby H, Miggy and
Arlene; for JMax and Renz and Lendz and Gillian; for Parts and Mo; for Jimmy
and Gimmy and Sawi and Krip and Wendell and Neil; for Susan and Grace and DM
and Ian—the first of many pieces sure to come. I have nothing but immense gratitude.
I write this now that I am two islands, three
provinces, and hundreds of miles away from Dumaguete. It’s been three days
since Miggy and I left on that early morning plane. The weather had been
balmy—a far cry from the stifling humidity plaguing where I am now—and as I
made my way across the ramp to the parked turboprop, the Cuernos de Negros had
at last unveiled itself, those olive-green peaks stripped of the cloud cover
that had concealed them for the past two weeks. The only clear thought I
remember having at that time—for I had admittedly been worn out by the previous
night’s game of beer pong (my first time, and our team lost twice!)—was how
perfect, how right, that the mountains should finally reveal themselves during
my last few precious minutes in the city. I was in the right place at the right
time.
I write this now that I have taken the time to sit
back and take in the breadth and depth of the past two weeks. Had I tried
writing this much earlier, the result would have undoubtedly been a sort of
incoherent wreck, for a part of me had wished, right there on that tarmac, that
I never had to leave; just the thought of this whole workshop experience
wrapping up was enough to get me teary-eyed (and those who know me well enough
know I don’t tear up easily, but let’s not dwell on this).
This was, in a manner of speaking, my final shot at
getting into the workshop. And I almost didn’t get to submit my application—so
thank you, I suppose, to the screening committee for extending the deadline,
for giving me ample time to spruce up “In Teresa” and finish the first draft of
“Manchester Boys”; for the time to get myself lost in the glass-and-metal
heartland of Ortigas on a wet November day in search of the office of Dean
Alfar, who had obligingly agreed to write my recommendation. Were I a more
fatalistic person, I’d go as far as to proclaim that deadline extension the
sign that jumpstarted my way to Dumaguete.
And there I finally was, one late Sunday afternoon:
the last fellow to arrive for the 56th Silliman University National
Writers Workshop, after two delayed flights and almost four hours in the
sweltering marketplace that was Mactan Airport. There I finally was, in the
right place at the right time, almost a decade since I first heard of this
workshop’s existence.
* * * *
I had planned to blog about the workshop on a
day-to-day basis, but this was the only thing I came up with.
“Second night
in the Writers Village in Valencia. The signal here is basically next to
nothing. No Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Messenger—which does not bode well
for my obsessive-compulsive nature. So this is why the workshop is called a
retreat. Evenings here are gorgeously chilly in the way evenings never were
back in Iloilo. This morning I awoke to find my glasses all fogged up. I’d been
having a weird dream about some malevolent force my cousins and I had to escape
from (spoiler: one of them didn’t make it) when this rhythmic knocking slowly
drew me back to the mundane. Turned out to be a hen and her chicks outside my
window, which reminded me of that rooster that never failed to wake Justin and
I up during our time in Bailen last year. Jam and George, my cottage-mates, had
declared the previous night their unwillingness to sleep alone, so I have a
room to myself. Our cottage is supposed to be the “Tikbalang” cottage, but by
now I’m pretty sure I have no third eye. Also, I sleep in complete darkness.”
Mornings in the
Writers Village quickly acquired a semblance of routine. George would be the
first to wake up, and the flushing and splashing from the bathroom would be my
alarm clock. Est. 6-6:30 for five consecutive mornings—a record of sorts for my
post-med school self. I’d be bathed and clothed by 7-ish and would head to the
common hall for breakfast, where some of the fellows would already be gathered ‘round
the table on the terrace. Every now and then, a cacophony of crickets (or were
they some sort of bird?) would break the hilltop silence; the mountain breeze
would descend upon the village and rustle every leaf, bush and stem to life.
Sirius Black and the other dogs would start the day’s loitering. Between the
pine trees, we’d spy the urban plains in the distance, and across the bluish
blur of the sea, Cebu and Siquijor.
On our last morning,
I was awakened by the mooing of the village cow on its way to pasture. On our
last evening, we discovered the gems behind the portrait (of a plant? a vase of
flowers? I can’t remember now) in the common hall: a pair of huge-ass tokay
geckos straight out of my childhood nightmares.
* * * *
Before joining the
theater section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, I had already been dabbling
in poetry, having had a few pieces published abroad (but, ironically, never hereabouts).
In a way, I view this workshop as a warm welcome back to literary writing,
though I found fiction a more accessible, if not easier, means of return.
Certainly, one of
the highlights of the first week was the Dorina-Laviña tag team of Sir J. Neil
and Wendell, except one never splashed the other’s face with a glass of
something. (I suspect, had we gotten the two of them drunk enough, they would
have hurled literary theory and vocabulary words at each other instead.) Sir
Jimmy and Sir Gimmy instantly came across as mild-mannered grandfathers you’d
want to adopt. Sir Sawi was ever the poet, at times seemingly lost in some
landscape only he had access to.
My notes in the manuscripts, in fact, contain
mostly quotable quotes that would probably make for flavorful dialogue in a
play—from the unwarranted inclusion of certain panelists’ mothers in the conversation
to the labeling of an essay’s narrator as ‘spoiled,’ ‘condescending,’ ‘judgmental’
and ‘Messianic.’
The second week’s sessions exuded a different
energy. Now, we had the feminist eye of Ma’am Grace and Sir DM’s uwian-na summation of every piece, among
others. Now, we had panelists who would jam, mid-session, to “The Age of
Aquarius” from “Hair” without batting an eyelash. Now, as well, we were more
confident in diving straight into the heart of the piece, and more comfortable
in articulating our thoughts without fear of hurting the author.
I’d spent the past four-and-a-half years reviewing
other people’s works; now it was my turn to be “reviewed.”
* * * * *
How many times can a band of writers be almost left
behind by a ferry in a single day?
9:15 on Saturday morning. While Jake and Kuya
Mo—the oracle of Silliman—stayed behind to purchase their tickets for the next
ferry, the rest of us languidly made our way to the Dumaguete passenger port
terminal. The woman behind the terminal fee counter was moving at the speed of
a snail on its way to lunch. If ever there were a competition on who could
count bills the slowest, she’d be a sure win.
What we didn’t expect was that we also had to line
up for seat numbers at a different counter inside the terminal. We ended up
literally running all the way to the ferry.
In a café across the main plaza of Siquijor, Kuya
Mo told us about the time Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta, then a fellow herself,
visited the island with her batchmates and returned to Dumaguete with extra baggage.
She had fallen ill—a man in dark clothes was supposedly following her
around—and she was told by one of the healers to go to a body of water in order
to “release” the spirit. I spent much of the first leg of the jeepney ride just
conceptualizing a specfic piece out of that anecdote.
At the oldest convent in Asia, Kuya Mo pretended he
couldn’t understand Bisaya and led our party into the building, which was closed
for restoration. The second floor was a dusty open space with wooden floors punctuated
by wide, unsightly posts.
“Ganito kasi
ang kuwento,” Kuya Mo said, referring to the posts.
Then he proceeded to grope his way around the post
like a virginal damsel in distress, all the while delivering the day’s most
hilarious piece of dialogue: “Father
huwag po, Father huwag po.” I stubbed my thumb on one of the walls, by the
way, so the blasphemy’s been paid for.
We crossed the street to the church, where a
funeral was taking place. Kuya Mo insisted on having a photo shoot involving
the confessionals.
Later in the day, after we’d left Salagdoong Beach
Resort to catch the 5:15 ferry, only to return in a state of mild panic to
retrieve Baby H’s mobile phone, and then head back to the port (on the other
side of the island) with only 45 minutes to spare, Kuya Mo was the perfect
example of joie de vivre, as Jam called it: on the back of the jeepney, singing
at the top of his lungs.
We ran, once again, all the way to the ferry. At
the crucial last minute, Jake couldn’t find his ticket, so we had to pay the
officer on the spot to issue him a new one. (We later found his ticket inside
his bag.)
We arrived in Dumaguete on a drizzly evening, the
whole batch complete—and without extra baggage.
* * * * *
Dumaguete reminded me of the Iloilo of my
childhood, back when things were still slow and simple. Sunday mornings were
spent in the public park by the port, where my brother and I would gaze at the
majestic ships tethered to their docks, and watch the smaller motorized pump
boats make their way across the Guimaras Strait. Some afternoons were spent at
the airport, in a park—it would be hyperbolic to even call it that, for it was
no more than a small patch of concrete opened to the public—beside the control
tower, where we would wait for the planes to land or take off. Else, we passed
the hours on our rooftop; our house was right along the path of the planes, and
those stately kings of the skies never failed to leave us wonderstruck as they
made their way closer to land.
On our second (and last Tuesday), I decided to take
a solitary walk. My inner Catholic voice had been reprimanding me for not
having paid a visit to the cathedral since my arrival. I began at the Silliman
Church, where the lawn seemingly stretched all the way to the sea, this
unobstructed view framed by towering acacias on both sides. Along Hibbard
Avenue, tricycles plied their routes beside shiny private vehicles, but even
their chaotic crisscrossing exuded the kind of gentleness the city is known
for. Ahead of me, a bunch of Caucasian tourists wearing almost nothing stopped
every now and then to check out the wares being sold by the stores lining the
street.
After the cathedral, I briefly walked
around Quezon Park, before deciding to hail a trike back to campus. There was none available, however, so I decided to walk further east. The Boulevard was
lit with a faint afternoon glow, the waters calm, the air a tender mixture of
salt and smoke. Two kids no older than five made their way across the waters,
and for a moment I could almost see their sweet innocence drip off their tiny
bodies into the ripples of their trail. The acacias hardly moved; age, after
all, eventually strips us of the capacity for wonderment.
* * * * *
I write this now that I have allowed my emotions to
settle. But every now and then, the thought of Dumaguete, of the Silliman
Writers Workshop, bursts into my consciousness, and so I do nothing else but
remember.
I remember my roommates, the boys of 314: George,
both genius and gentleness, the Christine to my Phantom, a fount of endless
jokes ranging from downright unexpectedly funny to downright pun-ny; and Jam, rock
star, who always took the quickest baths, whose poems glimmered with measured
musicality and demanded to be spoken. I remember thinking how fortunate I was
to have shared my first time living in a dorm with these men.
I remember the boys of the other room: Jake, whose
geekiness could match my own, whose expansive knowledge of space and spacecraft
could fill a conversation alongside my love for the Boeing 787 and the A350;
Baby H, whose writing reminded me of my own when I was his age, who was the
first to dare break our batch’s goody-two-shoes image one Sunday night in Hayahay, who assumed the role of icon of devotion during the impromptu
procession up four flights of stairs in Vernon Hall; and Miggy, one of the
coolest dads I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, period.
I remember Tanya’s elegant silences, how it all
translated into this workshop’s most elegant writing; Tiff’s self-professed
love for bread, and all those moments spent talking about the theater, Edward
Albee and Tennessee Williams, Repertory Philippines and Tanghalang Ateneo;
Catherine’s self-professed dipsomania. I remember Tiff and Catherine and our AA
meetings at Ciao Bella and Hayahay and Allegre. I remember Arlene, “oh yes,
absolutely,” and wonder how she must be doing right now, an ocean and thousands
of miles away.
I remember Parts and her serenity of speech; JMax,
her unparalleled coolness, and our covenant to fill the world with our spawn, and
the moments spent trying to outgross the other (she always won!); Lendz and how
what I initially perceived to be shyness turned out to be something entirely
opposite; Renz and his peerless fabulousness.
I remember those games of Resistance, where we
tried to out-Oscars each other while doing our best not to replicate that time I
oversold my innocence. I remember that final night in the Village, how the
aftertaste of tubà resembled fresh
oysters.
I remember Monday night watching Nana perform, her distinctly breathy sound something I could listen to over and over again; Melody Enero and
her soaring, altogether lovely rendition of “La Vie en Rose” and “Falling in
Love with Love” during our closing ceremonies.
I remember the Acacia Picnic, how George and Ian
turned into a tree, how we all passed the afternoon on mats on the grass,
listening to music and poetry, while the sea ebbed and flowed behind us, the
sun neither too warm nor absent.
I remember all of these people, with whom I could
watch “Alien: Covenant” on a Sunday afternoon and emerge from the cinema ready
to launch into a discussion of its merits; with whom I could talk about Steve
McQueen’s “Shame” at length; with whom I could fanboy over Michael Fassbender
and Tilda Swinton; with whom I could debate, late at night, whether
“Arrival” or “Interstellar” is the better film (the answer is “Arrival”).
And in my head, I hear Sir Sawi’s voice chiding me from
the dreamscape, “Now you’re just making a list!”
But what was the workshop, after all, if not an
idyll, a place where time and the life beyond stopped; where nothing else
mattered but the literary work at hand and the literary work demanding to be
put into page; where I could take stock of the passing of the minutes and of
people, could make a list of the fortune, both tangible and intangible, that
had landed on my lap, and say to myself, yes, I am happy—here, as I was
before I came here.
I remember these two beautiful weeks in Dumaguete
and can only consider myself the rarest form of lucky for deciding, all those
months ago, to give this workshop one last try. I came to Dumaguete with three
pieces of fiction, and left with a thousand more stories to write, most of them
made with the most gracious people, all of them memory of the purest, most priceless
form.
* * * * *
P.S. I don't think this piece is very coherent, but I do hope it contains saysáy,
soul, and datìng. [Exit with Sir
Gimmy’s signature, smiling “Aha!” pose with pointed thumbs and index fingers.
Mic drop.]
P.P.S. “I have now become Wendellian and very
anecdotal.” –JNG
P.P.P.S. “You horrid crook! Let me speak!” –GA
P.P.P.P.S. "I love germane!" –Anonymous
P.P.P.P.S. "I love germane!" –Anonymous
Plus 10 more photos:
Pre-morning session at Writers Village.
Krip Yuson cutting up a pig alongside other literary luminaries.
Chin-Chin, Tiff and Tanya at Lab-as.
On the jeepney in Siquijor.
Hezron at Scooby's.
Chin-Chin and her idol somewhere in Looc.
At the Beyonce room in Top Hits.
Tiff at Cana's Retreat in Amlan.
Lendz, JMax, Jake and Renz on the final night.
Room 314.
