bopis

Comic Books and Graphic Literature

1. Zsazsa Zaturnnah, by Carlo Vergara
2. The Bastard: Photostory, by John Jakes
3. Real Stuff, by Dennis Eichhorn and various artists
4. Sandman X: The Wake, by Neil Gaiman
5. Identity Crisis, by Brad Meltzer and artists Rags Morales and Michael Blair
6. Marvel Knights: Spider-man, vol 1, by Mark Millar and artists Terry Dodson and Frank Cho
7. The Killing Joke, by Alan Moore, and artists Brian Bolland and Mark Higgins
8. Batman: Haunted Knight, Jeph Loeb and Time Sale
9. Batman: Dark Victory, Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale
10. The Forensic Files of Batman, Doug Mench

Plays

1. The Shadow Box, by Michael Cristofer
2. Everything in the Garden, by Edward Albee
3. Bacchae, by Euripides, translated with extensive notes by Paul Woodruff

Poetry

1. Pukinggang, by Emmanuel Villajuan Dumlao
2. Pana-panahon: Isang Tanong, Isang Sagot, at Iba Pang Tula, by Aida F Santos
3. The Trilogy of Saint Lazarus, by Cirilo Bautista
4. Angels and Fugitives, poems by Emmanuel Torres
5. Dark Hours, by Conchitina Cruz
6. Poems New and Collected, by Wislawa Szymborska
7. Pessoa & Co. , by Fernando Pessoa, edited and translated by Richard Zenith
8. Harvest Poems, by Carl Sandburg
9. White Shroud: Poems 1980-1985, by Allen Ginsberg
10. The Unswept Room, by Sharon Olds
11. The Talking Tree: poems in prose, by Artur Lundkvist
12. Worlds Afire, by Paul B Janeczko
13. Vanishing Lung Syndrome, by Miroslav Holub
14. Fox: Poems 1998-2000, by Adrienne Rich
15. Rilke: Poems, by Rainer Maria Rilke

Fiction

1. Barabbas, by Par Lagerkvist
2. Einstein’s Dreams, by Alan Lightman
3. The Light of Day, by Graham Swift
4. In Our Strange Gardens, by Michel Quint
5. Live from Golgotha, by Gore Vidal
6. The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, by Stephen R. Donaldson
7. The Lightning Thief, by Rick Riordan
8. An Unfortunate Woman: A Journey, by Richard Brautigan
9. Revenge of the Lawn, by Richard Brautigan
10. Ficciones, by Jorge Luis Borges
11. Where I’m Calling From: The Selected Stories, by Raymond Carver
12. The Basic Kafka, by Franz Kafka
13. After the Quake, by Haruki Murakami
14. A Model World and Other Stories, by Michael Chabon

Philosophy, Science, and Other Supposed Non-fiction

1. A Brief History of Everything, by Ken Wilber
2. The Tao of Power: Lao Tzu’s Classic Guide to Leadership, Influence, and Excellence, translated by RC Wing
3. Chuang Tzu in a Nutshell, by Chuang Tzu edited by Robert van de Weyer
4. The Use of Pleasure: Vol 2 of the History of Sexuality, by Michel Foucault
5. Natural Theology: Selections, by William Paley
6. Ideas in Psychoanalysis: Castration, by Ivan Ward
7. Words from the Myths, by Isaac Asimov
8. The Rant Zone, by Dennis Miller
9. The Knowing is in the Writing: Notes on the Practice of Fiction, by Jose Dalisay Jr.
10. The Right to Write: An Invitation and Initiation into the Writing Life, by Julia Cameron

She likens herself to fruit but which fruit I cannot say. There must remain private things. She likes listening to two songs at the same time, and her metaphor for this was rice and viand. The left earphone stems from her I-pod, the right from the player of her mobile. Not exactly correct to claim that she listens to different songs. For example, the song by Abbasil Valdez. For example, The Beachie Boys. She hates having only one song in the air. She would rather hear nothing. Silence could be many songs at once, she said to me. In turn, I said that there was this cliché I hated reading but always had to anyway – me being a writing teacher with ten fingers having no hold over one hundred and forty ballpens – and that cliché was “deafening silence”. But after I said that, there was silence. What kind of silence, I cannot say. Private things, still. For example, there was once a rose between us that neither of us ever saw before. Also, neither of us knew how to call it anything further than “rose”. I was about to volunteer something like “new rose,” but her suggestion buzzed in like a hungry bee, “Let’s you and me keep its variety a secret!” Okay, I said. It was the best secret too, perfect for keeping because neither of us possessed it. We loved having nothing to betray. But then, after this our more recent silence, she asked me, “How are you?” Me, I thought I knew where the croon in her voice was leading to. I said I was happy. I said it to kill that birdie strain of her voice. “If he’s cheating, leave him,” I said, and then and there, having said more than my happiness, I grew unhappy. “His metaphor for it was side dish,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m happy,” I told her. Felt for me the most honest thing to say. In hindsight, only one sound there ringed the truth: “I’m”. Which “I’m,” I’m not sure. “Me too, also sorry,” she said. Maybe more truth to her sounds. To this day, I can’t tell where her inquiry led to. Wherever it was, I hope she’s there. I know I’m not.

Etiquetas: woman19

It had been a slow day. It was still a slow day come early afternoon at the Freedom Park. Beautiful and slow. As if the day was posing for a picture and was curiously particular about the bend and angle of its back. And the naturalness of its pout. As if I had all the batteries in the world, all the film rolled into a pocket Mobius strip. But I had, in truth, no camera with me. Took me a long while to consider if maybe the day could instead fancy me writing it down. I decided to buy a pen and pad, the store was just a walk away, out the campus, and the items were not as expensive as a camera. That was what I told myself. Still what I keep telling myself. Costly. Perhaps I should have been less frank and just said that the items were less bulky than a camera, or that I was an idiot even with cameras that had only one button to speak of, or that I was never a thief of souls, or that I was predestined to travel light, lighter and lighter until the shattering of a whiff of air and it would have been more difficult to dispose of a camera than a sheet of sparkling poetry. With candor or none, I had to say something to myself, because it was a beautiful and slow day, because that same store a walk away sold cameras, because after failing to walk back to Freedom with one, I found the day either sighing or swooning – who could tell the difference on an afternoon with bad acoustics? Also because during the second I arrived, the second when a camera with a soul button would have clicked the day in, I had only written “It”. Or maybe just the “I” of that. Probably less. I spent evening until midnight to get it right on pen pad, “It was a slow day.” Then I went from there to several weeks of trying to get it right in one paragraph. Bought more paper for the purpose of my hours. Week upon week of writing and throwing away and trying to get it right and always coming back to Freedom to recapture a single day. But it had swooned or sighed its last. Getting it right does not amount to getting anything. Except older.

Etiquetas: woman19

God I hate that I should call you Kuya when I do what I have to do, but there's the irony that I have to consider. And the thrill of a long chase. This is not your consideration, I know. Makes your life easier. Makes my life a hell to know yours is easier. Me, I have to write you down while all you have to do is strike. Now that I know I have your eyes, there's a tidbit I should tell you about. I want you to breathe. You ought to feel safe. Now that you let me know that I have your eyes, I can tell you this: you are not as unpredictable as you want to believe. Only the desperate enemy is unpredictable. Even the enemy who desperately wants despair but does not possess it is not really unpredictable. Now I know what she is to you. A shield. A shield, therefore you are not really as desperate as you want to appear, are you? Did you just sigh your relief, Kuya? Because I won't hit someone with glasses on?

Etiquetas: warcousin

Lighted night when we walked the campus. We were discussing the hypocrisy of transparent Christmas trees in the Philippines when I out and told my friend how much I hate the University’s season design and that I didn’t love her. She said that she actually adored the decorations. For one, the Christmas-lighted and enMangered Carabao Park seemed to her an inside out elementary classroom where each kid is tasked to bring a decor, and the teacher has to make art bloom from the jingle jumble given her. She was never successful. I wanted to offer the word “eclectic,” but I wouldn’t know how to defend three hard C syllables if she decided to shoot them down with yuletide spite. I just said that I couldn’t afford affections for any campus adorned like so. She nodded. Sometimes a person’s nod means that she wants to say something, and she’s cutting you off with her chin to say her something. Sometimes it means that she’s thinking and isn’t paying attention to what you’re saying, but there’s her nod to comfort you into ignoring the fact that she’s thinking outside of you saying. Then the times when a nod means yes. Times like that don’t always amount to holidays.

Etiquetas: woman19

1. Slept through most of my dreams again. I miss my lucidity.
2. Today's all about editing my current story, checking the twenty sentences times sixty students of Hum160, and reading the pieces for tomorrow's workshop. Must also adjust the lesson plan. I can do some of these things out of the house.
3. Father and his brother out at the bad place.
4. Somebody's sick. I want her out of the bad place.
5. I heard of a monastery in Bukidnon where the monk is an excellent chef and Sunday means hearty - or should I say soulful? - breakfast.
6. Wherever I decide to work today, I won't be there.

1. Slept through most of my dreams again. I miss my lucidity.
2. Today's all about editing my current story, checking the twenty sentences times sixty students of Hum160, and reading the pieces for tomorrow's workshop. Must also adjust the lesson plan. I can do some of these things out of the house.
3. Father and his brother out at the bad place.
4. Somebody's sick. I want her out of the bad place.
5. I heard of a monastery in Bukidnon where the monk is an excellent chef and Sunday means hearty - or should I say soulful? - breakfast.
6. Wherever I decide to work today, I won't be there.

Students in my cubicle. Many, so I had to Indian sit on my desk. The more perceptive ones asked Why did you leave the previous school? The more audacious ones asked If you loved teaching so much, why did you even leave? Was it because it was only your scratch paper school? Were they guinea pig students? Your colleagues, were they books walking, motherboards talking, Bunsen burners out to blue lunch? Almost a chorus, they asked You wanted all of that shelved? I could not say No. Although technically, those were not my exact reasons. But before I could say what I felt the most convincing among my motivations, they had already allowed the questions to run rampant. Did you just discard it like that? Your scratch paper school in some university wastebasket? Before I could say my indefinite No or my equally irresolute Yes, they had already asked Did your co-teachers dislike you? Did you dislike them? Would you rather they were in glass jars of formalin? Your students, did they mutate? Your guinea pig students, did they mutate right out of your computations like numbers exceeding the Excel sheet, leaking out of the plastic monitor frame, invading the room, your guinea pig students? Did they mutate? Did they die? After they said that, there was a hush, and maybe that meant it was my turn to speak No! Surely, they have not died. That was the last thing they'd do. You see, I left the school because of a delinquent classroom. It just would not cooperate, would play with the lights, never allowed the installation of fans. Room blackened its walls at noon and relaxed its ceiling when the rains came. Played with the acoustics so I had to shout sometimes, whisper sometimes. Room changed board from green to white at will. I had to use a knife to get anything written down. Then the classroom disappeared, a no-show at the final exams. Got everyone expelled, me included. Not an honorable exit for any of us. The door left before I could say goodbye. I said, expecting to end the telling. The more perceptive ones were respectful, let me finish, gave the polite smile. Then they looked at the audacious ones who were squirming with their silence. The glance seemed like a cue. They all began wondering out loud Did they multiply with a drop of your water? Did they develop extra elbows, spiral belly buttons? Your guinea pig students, did they shrink or did they evolve out of reach?

Etiquetas: woman19

Back in Makati, remembering things. That’s what I do. I remember things for a living. Past always grows so I’m never at a loss. If I somehow run out of resources, well, that would be a day to remember. Job and all, time still sucks. Wanted to wake up an hour or, okay, two after midnight. Got up at five despite a series of unsleeping alarms. First on my list of things to do was to write up a list of things to do. Then, answer the phone messages, some almost a week old. One advised me: smile, smile, and not to get too addicted to the work. Followed the first two while I set my other things in order: pen, pad, hot chemicals, sugar. While stretching some, I thought of several replies. None of which would fly. One unhatched answer: the work stays after the people go. Neurotic approach to life, people could say. Sensible observation too. Could do me good, had I time to listen. Listen sounded like a cuddly word to put on the list. So I put it there, right after remember things.

Etiquetas: woman19

Verge of a new week. Still in Manila but Laguna in a couple of hours. It's December, yes, but there's a taste of watermelons in the air. I sniff some. Turn my head three sixty. My hopes for the week has been standing there, watching what I'm typing about this door to the week. "I'm here," he says. I see you are, I type. "Are you afraid?" he asks. Why should I be afraid of you, you're my hopes? I type and before I realize I just answered a question with a question which sometimes seems intelligent. But how to be intelligent when your hopes is looking over your shoulders, watching what you're doing? It pains me that I just typed another question. I'm this student thinking out loud, one mistake after another. My hopes for the week's beard grazes my shoulder. "What disappoints you more? That your hopes turned out to be old? Or that he's not a lady?" I was disappointed. But since he cushions my morning with questions, I think I can live with him. He'll just be in for a week. I may lose my hopes in the thick of things anyway, maybe by Thursday. Don't mind me, I type. You're a good one, you can watch TV, stay in Makati or Los Banos, I type. Wherever, I type. I can give you fare if you want to go to Rizal. I can... But I cannot. The taste of watermelons is not around anymore. Such a tasteless air. Maybe I should fry danggit all morning. Make lots of coffee.

Etiquetas: woman19

1. I grow increasingly fond of Taralets (tara tara tara lets!)
2. Lian, Batangas is a breath away.
3. There is a blow to be struck and I’m not supposed to deal it.
4. About a girl.
5. Cancel them sticky keys.
6. A cat came in the house last night smelling the tuna that did not exist until I cooked it into the pasta this morning (with Lian just a breath away). Naturally, I shooed her last night.
7. My packs are bagged, Batangas or not.
8. I got my pillbox, my billfold, the soundless pen-pad combo, the charger without bothering with the phone, and pages of the next book which I hope to drown before it drowns me.
9. The striped tail either belongs to the cat or to the girl.