The Artwork

Previously on Phobos and Deimos

"Hi Ai," 

I began tapping the keys of my laptop to send a message on Facebook. It was for my college buddy's wife. 

"Pakitanong naman kay Darrell kung naging prof namin si Galan nung third year college kami."

A few minutes later, she sent a reply from her husband telling me that Ralph Galan was indeed a teacher in one of our subjects that year.

Solving the question with my buddy's assistance was a relief. After all, the inquiry stems from the utter lack of memory of the teacher, save for an oil pastel drawing I did for his Humanities class. 

The topic came up because I took out the paperboard from my wardrobe. It was pinned there for decoration. Its colors have faded, and the exposure of its surface to the elements made it look old and worn out.

Someone might even suggest that I should throw it away.

But with extra cash comes the chance to breathe new life into the oil drawing - to keep it preserved for the years to come. With the Gundam Pilot as my companion, I followed my mother's suggestion and brought the trinket at Central Market. There, an artisan wanted to frame the board in plastic, but I refused her offer. 

I told her to frame it in wood. 

"Mahal na po magpa-frame ngayon sa kahoy." She said. Her caution fell on deaf ears.

"Magkano ba?"

"500 po para sa wooden frame at glass."

"Kasama na ang labor?" I asked. Still, I was ready to go. I would indulge my sentimentality and spend for posterity.  

She nodded.

To this day, I only have vague thoughts of the floral drawing, of its creation and even the grade I was given for that piece of work. What urged me to put it in a wooden frame - aside from having those seasonal Brini Maxwell episodes, is that for all the written works under my name,

I've got only a single oil pastel portrait to call my own.

.    

Phobos and Deimos

In the deepest hour of the night, confess to yourself that you would die if you were forbidden to write. And look deep into your heart where it spreads its roots, the answer, and ask yourself, must I write?

Ranier Maria Rilke

Letters to a Young Poet

I  wrote  poetry  long before I learned to write prose. It was an accidental epiphany, a legacy bestowed  upon us before Ralph Semino Galan disappeared from our memory. In Literature 101, he taught us to play with words.  Brimming with confidence and hubris only a person from Diliman displays,  he let his words soar and dive and play dead in front of the class.   

While the rest paid no attention, there I was trying to make my infant words sing. Like a distant constellation that he was, Mr. Galan never said anything when my words finally became a balladeer. Despite being brushed off, I found myself a companion. In turmoil and distress; in great joy and unspeakable sorrow, my words became poetry, and I wrote them to tell my journey.

The verses were never broken.  They were inked in pages of a Papemelrotti notebook and sang to me in solitude. A few souls were able to read my works. Some were so moved, they wrote their own poetry.  In my desire to immortalize their words, I kept their verses hidden in my treasure chest.

There is infinity in letters. And for four years in the university, I was able to weave stories with nauseating sentences. It was only after I was about to wear my toga that the stanzas were replaced with paragraphs. The prose was born and matured, as sentences upon sentences nourished my blog posts.

To ask me to write poetry again is like forcing me to speak a lie and tell everyone that I'm a virgin.  Gone are the juvenile musings, lamentations of lost puppy loves, and happy words meant to say pain. Everything is spoken straight from the gut nowadays.  I could not even lift a page from my notebook without showing pity to my past works.  With the way I learned to bend words, I fear of desecrating my old language. 

Resurrecting this memory only meant one thing. Like in the past, when poetry seems to disappear, this is a foreword of the things to come. My mind is getting cluttered, and the toils of living steals whatever time I set for reflection. Writing has become an elusive leisure; a time will come I could not afford it.

And so just in case my space becomes silent, you know it was meant to be.  With nothing to write save for a  life snugged between the mundane and the insignificant. 

Expect less words to fill this void from now on.

Once There Was An Expedition - Flagship

It was a pleasant afternoon, days before the onset of Holy Week. I found myself standing in front of the UP College of Arts and Letters Building wondering where I could find the department that I've been searching the whole afternoon.

In years after our publishing business closed down, my mom started encouraging me to take a masteral degree. It was something I never really planned - owing to the fact that I needed money to boost up my personal wealth. But at that moment, something inspired me to drag my ass out of the house to UP so that I could inquire about how I could apply for that graduate course my mom wanted me to take.

I still remember it in detail; one of the clerks asked me what course I would like to take. I humbly told her that I wanted to take up Creative Writing. She then asked me if I wanted to take up an undergraduate course. I said, I have already completed my undergraduate degree in college taking up Journalism. She then recommended that I should aim for graduate studies instead.

With an obvious hint of shyness in the tone of my voice, I asked her if I could be considered for the degree. Smiling back, she told me that there is nothing stopping me from applying. After all, my undergraduate studies is related very closely to my desired graduate course.

So I thought about her suggestion.

---

Looking back eons ago...

It was the last months of my sophomore year in college. Everyone was preoccupied in choosing their intended major for the next school year. During those days, I really wanted to get into the Behavioral Science program, since I always feel that I have this "thing" about people. But my mom said that I should take up Journalism. She reasoned out that I could use all the skills I've learned from it in running our publishing business in the future.

Years after, I've realized that mom was pushing me to take her bet because she saw my potentials long before I realized it myself.

However, I never trusted my writing skills. Even back in high school, one of my teachers in English was wondering how did I get such good talent when she asked me to do a speech in front of the class. The mere fact I was never been a part of a school paper was something very troubling for me. Imagining the people I would meet in that major - poets, talented writers and ever staff members of the various school papers in the university scared me.

---

As a last resort before I submitted my application for the major, I asked my bitchy english professor whether I could have a chance in Journalism or not. That semester, she was our instructor in Expository Writing. If ever she reads the tons of paper I submitted to her for our requirement, perhaps she could gauge whether I am fit for the course or not.

So that afternoon after class, I approached her in the corridor. With the same tone of voice I used for the clerk in UP, I asked her wheter it's okay for me to take Journalism as a major. She simply answered, "why not, go for it?"

My life changed positively after her blessings.

Six months after the next school year, my tropa and I were among the most formidable groups in our entire batch. Combining our thirst for adventure as well as our different talents for innovation and creativity, even the elite group of Varsitarians were having a hard time matching our project outputs.

One reason for that is we are all guys in the group. It wasn't really a problem for us whether we would write our assignment (story) on day or night. Our koboy skills, backed by the resources of our flourishing Publishing Company made us the envy of the batches that followed.

And what's good about us is that the more we are recognized for our achiements, the more we tried to excel on our next projects. We were competitive, and despite our set-up, egos never became an issue for all of us.

All that mattered was that we make the most out of what we do. And for that, added to the fact that we belonged to a very talented batch, our time was unmatched for the years that followed.

---

During those glorious years, there was this one person that motivated us to produce more in-depth write-ups we needed to submit in his class every week.

He used to be our Lifestyle and Entertainment Writing, as well as Broadcast Journalism instructor. Although some of our seniors taunted him as the guy who only reads lead paragraphs, for us, he pushed me and my group to be more dedicated and creative when it comes to our subjects.

In his class, we were able to write a personal profile about Katherine De Castro thanks to the now celebrated reporter Doland Castro - who during that time was merely taking a yosi break outside the confines of ABS-CBN when we spotted him. He introduced us to her and in less than a day, our preliminaries was already completed.

It was also in his class where I got my highest grade in a single article I wrote about ancestral houses' photo exhibit in Vito Cruz. It was a fairly good article which I still keep today. Finally, as a legacy to our overall achievements in journalism, we made an ambitious video documentary about our road trip in Laguna - which took 24 hours to finish. There, we visited some of the more rural and rustic areas of the province. Until now, I still have the copy of that documentary. It was something all of us considers the masterpiece of our group.

---

Part of the requirements I needed before UP can accept my application is to submit a recommendation letter from someone who can vouch for my integrity and achievements. James recommended that I should get my recommendation from my boss or a professor who can back my credibility.

Getting a recommendation is quite easy actually. I could just hang out in my favorite club one friday night and with luck, I could spot the celebrated poet Ralph Semino Galan drinking his glass of vodka while chatting with someone. He used to be my professor back in college and being good friends, I could ask him to vouch for me in my masterals.

However, taking this huge project is something symbolic for me. If ever they accept my application, it means that im deserving enough for those who would screen my samples of creative works. My professor in lifestyle writing, who inspired me was the main reason why I got my writing style. He influenced me to become more of an introspective writer than becoming a hard-news reporter who deals with hard-hitting events every day.

The moment I recieved the requitement about the recommedation letter, he was one of the best candidates I had in mind.

---

I went to the Manila Bulletin this afternoon to find him. At first, I was really nervous thinking he had already forgotten me. After all, it's been four years since we last saw each other. I am not sure if my group had created a deep impression that he could remember us as long as he can.

When I entered his department, he was there alone, waiting for articles to arrive from his writers. He recognized me in an instant and from the looks of his face, he was fairly happy to see me. After a small chit chat about my life after college, I told him the reason for my sudden visit.

"Sir, I'm here to ask if you could recommend me for my graduate course in UP. I will be taking up Creative Writing," I told him embarassingly.

Gladly, he accepted my request. He lifted the small red folder containing the paper he had to sign for my recommendation. He read it word for word and using the computer, he wrote the answers a referree must complete in order for the applicant to be considered for the program.

And it was a very great honor that he had spared some time from his busy schedule, in order for me to have my own possible and better future closer to reality.

---

Fifteen minutes and my visit is over. His remarks were very brief but it was something that came from his heart. Indeed, it was all worth that I set more time to learn and appreciate his subjects. Even though we never had long discussions unlike in a typical classroom setup, the mere fact he sent us out more often to gather stories was something most cherishing to me.

In part, I think my blog owes its continued existence from the things he taught us: Stories, no matter how small and boring it is, can be rewritten in a different angle so that it could become newsworthy.

And for that alone, his signature on my recommendation paper bears not only our good memories but also all those achievements I had - from the first time my article was published in Manila Times Lifestyle Section four years ago to my most recent entry Manuel Quezon III linked to his famous blog.

His signature was my flagship. If ever I tread the oceans of Creative Writing, my fleet is now in a better position knowing that I have a powerful admiral to back me.

after NG Cuartero