Finally, I’ve finished reading “Whirlwind,” the sixth and last book in James Clavell’s great Asian saga. Containing more than 1,200 pages, “Whirlwind,” like the other books in the saga (except King Rat), is also a “heavy” read with many interweaving subplots.
I’ve been reading the book since last week, and I just finished it the other night. I could have finished it long ago, but I decided to read the book leisurely so I could prolong the pleasure of Mr. Clavell’s company.
I love to do a comprehensive review of all of JC’s books because I’ve learned a lot from them but it’s not possible at the moment because the other books are with Dad. So for the time being, I’ll just focus on Whirlwind.
With some elements of espionage and religious issues, “Whirlwind” is a story of violence, deception, betrayal and great love at a time when men and women, young and old, had to barter for their lives in their desperation to survive heartbreaking odds. Set in Iran between February 9 and March 4, 1979 during the civil war, the story depicts a time when to trust is to risk your life and that of your loved ones, and deceit is the name of the game.
It all started when the Iranian government was toppled by the revolutionaries, which were composed of people and groups from different political (and even religious) affiliations. With the crumbling of the government, the struggle of the different factions of the revolutionaries to gain power over another started, hence the beginning of a civil war highlighted by summary executions of those perceived, rightly or wrongly, as pro-old government and therefore anti-new regime. During this period, brutal acts were committed by people and groups blinded by their twisted interpretations of Islam.
Trapped in this internal conflict is a British aviation company and its multiracial team of pilots and mechanics. As the old government crumbled, life became hellish for these foreigners. The new regime and most of the Iranians believed that the Americans are the personifications of evil. And, although the other nationalities were treated a bit better than their American counterparts, all of the foreigners had their share of harassments from the Iranians who loathed everything foreign — foreign people, foreign ideas, foreign way of life. One pilot was kidnapped to fly his kidnappers so they could do “God’s work,” another was forced to illegally fly an Iranian official and his family to the country’s boarder, while the rest had been either shot at or harassed in the streets and in their homes or bases.
No one was safe, not even the Iranians, but the pilots would not leave the country. Billions of US dollars were at stake. They knew that if they left, their company would fold. At the same time, two of the foreign pilots were married to Iranian women whose families were rich and influential. But the women’s families, in the end, were more of a liability than help to the couples, because deep inside the other family members was a deep-seated loathing for the foreigners.
So as things changed from worse to worst, the foreigners eventually conceived an escape plan. Highly dangerous and beset with many difficulties, the plan was codenamed “Whirlwind.” The plan was simple: all pilots were to fly their respective planes (the 212s only; the 206s were to be left behind), including all foreign mechanics and some valuable spare parts out of Iran. But to do that, they would have to revert back their registration to British (the planes were Iran registered even if the Iran government hadn’t paid the planes yet), some of the pilots would have to overcome their captors/kidnappers, and outwit their ‘harrassers.’ On top of that, they would have to secure permit to fly (they couldn’t fly without permit) without rousing suspicion from the Iranians authorities, obtain their passports which had been confiscated, and make sure that they would not be arrested in their new host countries and extradited back to Iran. Moreover, the pilots who were married to locals also had a lot of score to settle with their wives’ families, especially because their wives couldn’t go back to the country if they left without papers.
Even with the multitude of what-ifs and obstacles, the pilots were all committed to put the plan into action, except the two who were married to Iranian women. The first wouldn’t leave because he wouldn’t leave his wife behind (though he helped his colleagues in the first leg of their escape), and the second was still trying to outwit and overcome his captors then save his wife at the time of the escape, and therefore did not know of the plan.
With all of its problems, the one sure thing that could make the plan fail is if one or two of the foreigners stayed behind because they would definitely be used as hostages by the new regime so the escapees would go back to the country.
So what to do? Read the book at find out.
Verdict
Even with just its convoluted plot, “Whirlwind” is already a very interesting read. But add to that the political, cultural and religious clashes that James Clavell deftly weaved into his novel and it becomes a must-read. I agree with The Washington Post Book World that “James Clavell does more than entertain… he transports us into worlds we’ve not known… drawing us into a grid of interlocking tales teeming with characters and sweating with action and surprise.”
On James Clavell’s Books
I find it hard to decide which of the books I like best because I love them all. I noticed something worth mentioning though. Where in Noble House, Gai-Jin, Taipan, and ShoGun, I learned a lot about the values, belief systems and thoughts of the host countries (Noble House – Hong Kong; Gai-Jin and Sho-Gun, Japan; and Taipan, China and Hong Kong), James Clavell seemed to have not positively appreciated the Iranian politics and culture. In “Whirlwind,” there was not a single positive Iranian trait he highlighted. Everything seemed negative — the Iranian characters’ twisted interpretations of Islam, their absurd “logic,” and their business ethics and traditions. The only thing that is positively portrayed is the Iranian women’s demonstration in which the women bravely renounced the wearing of chador and demanded that their right to vote be upheld.
But like his other novel, Whirlwind has the James Clavell signatures I so love — convoluted plot and his style of slowly unraveling “secrets” and important information as each chapter develops. Unlike most authors, JC does not wait until the end to reveal “secrets.” What keeps me gripping each of his book until the very end is not finding out the “what’s” or even “why’s” but the how’s”of the story — how the information and motives are going to affect the other characters and the circumstances; how the problems are going to be resolved; and so on. Then I come to the ending feeling like I’ve read several books in one — fiction, history, and sociology, among others.
Ah, James Clavell is definitely my favorite author of all times.
Some Asian Concepts and Glimpses
(Pre-lude to my Comprehensive Book Review)
One thing I like about JC is the strength of his characterization and how well he has captured the idiosyncrasies of the Asian culture. Below are some of the concepts I came across in his books:
Face. This concept is similar to our present concept of face, like when it is used in the phrase, “saving face.” But it seems that this concept has far greater significance in (old) Chinese than our present-day usage. As I understand it in JC’s books (Noble House and Taipan), one loses face when one fails to make another person do what he wants that person to do. Like in Noble House, when Casey spoke a perfect Cantonese to a Cantonese hotel boy (hoping that the Cantonese would be impressed that she learned a phrase of his language within 24 hours or that the Cantonese would perhaps teach her), the Chinese pretended not to understand Casey’s Cantonese, forcing Casey to switch to English. Which of course she did, making the Chinese feel triumphant for having successfully made Casey “lose face.”
One also loses face when one cannot do what he has said he would, even if what had been said was just a slip of the tongue. When one says he would do something, he must do so if he is to save his face, even if that something is ludicrous in the first place.
Joss. Someone was killed in a fire. Joss. You lost in a bet, joss. Someone meets an accident while walking on the street, joss. You missed your train, joss. I do not know how it could be translated to Philippine language, but it seems that joss means “it’s meant to happen.” The Chinese folks in the books (Taipan, Noble House) find it easy to accept bad circumstances because of joss.
This concept, if I am not mistaken, is similar to or the same as the Japanese concept of karma (as used in Sho-Gun and Gain-jin) and to the Iranian expression, “As God wants” (Whirlwind).
Samurais and Seppuku. One thing I loved about Gai-jin and Sho-gun is the glimpse I was able to get of the Samurai thinking and discipline. I find the concept of seppuku much too harsh a punishment for mistakes, and I also don’t like the fact that a samurai’s life and that of his family lie at the whims of his or her liege lord, but I appreciate the samurai tradition of creating death poems and writing or reciting very short poetry to pass the time. In Sho-gun and Gai-jin, I learned a lot about how a very short verse could be interpreted in so many ways.
On Sex. In all of James Clavell’s books, it was portrayed how Asians (Japanese, Chinese, Malay, and Iranians) talk openly of sex, how it is a natural part of living. I was so shocked to find out that it is the Caucasians who had lots of qualms about sex, that it is they who would squirm in their seats when their preferences are asked. (A teacher in high school mentioned this in class before — that Filipinos used to be very open about this topic, that discussing body parts and sex used to be just like talking about the weather.)
On Proper Hygiene. In JC’s books, especially in Taipan and Sho-gun, I learned that the whites used not to take a bath (nyehehehe). They used to think that taking a bath (or shower) makes one sick, so they do it only once a month. They also would not change their clothes, so they stank. Waaaa! In Tai-pan, the Whites learned to take a bath daily from the Chinese; in Sho-gun, the Caucasian hero, John Blackthorn, was forced to take a bath and to change everyday. Then, as he was becoming more accustomed to physical hygiene, he eventually realized that his comrades stank and that they were undisciplined
//Sherma E. Benosa
27 November 2007
Saturday, December 01, 2007
"Volcanic" Eruption
KA-BLAAAMMM!
The volcanic explosion was so loud it woke me up from my peaceful sleep, heart thumping wildly. I looked around, searching for my brothers who slept next to me in our bed but they were no longer in their places. I remembered my five-year-old brother Mans (I was six then) waking me up earlier but I just said okay then went back to sleep.
I smelled trouble. I just knew everyone was already engaged in productive activities. I started to make the bed, although a big part of me still wanted to go back to sleep. But sleeping in is against house rules; everyone is expected to wake up early. The last person to wake up makes the bed.
As I collected the strewn pillows, a thought hit me: how could there have been a volcanic explosion when there was no volcano near us? I searched my mind what made me think that what I heard was a volcanic explosion. Then I remembered: just last week I asked Dad about volcanoes and asked him to describe how strong their explosions were.
Feeling very silly, I decided that the explosion I heard was just a part of a dream. Then cries from outside brought me back from my reverie. They were calling out to me to go down at once.
I looked out the window and saw only my then four-year-old brother, Ogie, standing near the window, half-crying as he was desperately calling out to me. “Manang Jing! Manang Jing! Bumabakan a! Mananngggg!”
My heartbeat doubled. I was really in trouble, I thought. I had woken up an hour later than our scheduled wake-up time. I searched my mind which of my duties should have been done at that hour.
“Agkupinak pay!” I answered back and ignored what he was saying. What everyone else was saying, which I could not comprehend. I just knew they were telling me to get down at once. I wondered what the rush was. I searched my mind: “Ania ngata ti basolko, Apo?” I asked myself.
I continued fixing the beddings, thinking I would be in more trouble if I leave the beddings unfolded. Then all of a sudden, Ogie was already in the room. He took me by the hand and forcefully dragged me and together we got out of the house. Then he pushed me down.
My body ached at the contact with earth. I swirled around, deeply annoyed at my brother, but then he was down, too. He was madder than I was.
“Nagtangken ta ulom. Bumabakan kunak ket!” he said, crying still.
“Agkupinak pay, kunak met!”
He answered back, but his voice was drowned by the noise that suddenly erupted.
BRATATATATATATTATATATATATATATAT!
I stared at my brother, shocked. We were in the middle of gunfight!
I began to understand him, to be overwhelmed with gratitude for my brother for bravely coming to the house to get me to safety. But he told me to keep quiet and motioned for me to crawl to the other members of the family.
It was then that I started to worry about them.
We crawled for a few minutes, until we got to where my five-year-old brother, Mans, who was protecting our youngest brother, Ryan, then one year old. My cousins, Benmar (3), Manong Boyet (7), Manang Babet (9), and Manang Nanet (10) were also there. Inang was also holding Ryan. And Amang was not far ahead, holding Benmar. Mans was both annoyed and deeply relieved seeing me.
“Ditoytayo pay laeng, Annakko,” I heard Inang’s whisper. “Nataltalged ditoy, uray no mapuruakan ti granada dayta balay.”
It was then that I started to cry, realizing my stupidity; how worried I made everyone, and how much danger Ogie put himself just to get me to safety. But Ogie and Iding hushed me. “Shhhh… mayaten Manang. Safe kan. Saankan nga agsangit.”
But I cried harder, until my brothers hugged me.
We waited for hours until the shootings stopped. Then Uncle Nestor, Dad’s youngest brother who has gone out early to check our pagay and was with our nearest neighbors, about 100 meters away, started shouting instructions to us. He told us we should try to go to where he was as it was safer there.
We didn’t know which way to go. Should we cross the ricefields? Or walk on the street? He signaled we use the street to let the shooters know we were civilians. Amang carried my one-year-old brother while Inang held Benmar and beckoned us to go with them.
IT WAS ALREADY way past lunch time when it was decided that we could go back to our place, but not to go inside the house yet. We were to stay only at the front yard.
So that’s what he did. Amang settled under a mango tree, and made banban. Inang helped him. Uncle Nestor was the only one who dared go inside the house and brought out food. We kids played, the horror of the morning almost forgotten by our young minds.
Caught in our game, we did not notice anyone approaching. But as I was about to lift something, we heard a hoarse voice, shouting: “Ni Kapitan?”
Five or more armed men were standing in front of Amang and Inang, their long guns aimed at us.
“Siak, Apo,” Amang replied.
I did not know what I expected Amang to do, cannot even remember what he did and what passed between him and the men, but soon we were serving them food. I remember that even as they ate, their guns were still pointed at us.
IT WAS ALREADY LATE afternoon, and we were still not daring to get near the house when Dad, Mom and Aunts and Uncles arrived, white-faced. They broke down with joy when they saw us, still alive. They were afraid, and almost sure we were all dead. They were extremely happy it was our smiling faces that greeted them, not the carnage they feared they’d see. They relayed they rushed to us the moment they heard news of the “encounter” on our hill, but authorities barricaded the entrance to our barrio. They pleaded the authorities to let them pass, saying all their kids were there, vacationing, but they weren’t let through. “Too dangerous,” they were told.
Hugs and words of love were exchanged. My waking up very late that morning was even forgotten. Everyone was just so happy that we were alive.
But I cannot forget the guns. I look back to that part of my young life and I can see clearly those long barrels aimed at us.
I realize that episode represents my first memory of fear.
The volcanic explosion was so loud it woke me up from my peaceful sleep, heart thumping wildly. I looked around, searching for my brothers who slept next to me in our bed but they were no longer in their places. I remembered my five-year-old brother Mans (I was six then) waking me up earlier but I just said okay then went back to sleep.
I smelled trouble. I just knew everyone was already engaged in productive activities. I started to make the bed, although a big part of me still wanted to go back to sleep. But sleeping in is against house rules; everyone is expected to wake up early. The last person to wake up makes the bed.
As I collected the strewn pillows, a thought hit me: how could there have been a volcanic explosion when there was no volcano near us? I searched my mind what made me think that what I heard was a volcanic explosion. Then I remembered: just last week I asked Dad about volcanoes and asked him to describe how strong their explosions were.
Feeling very silly, I decided that the explosion I heard was just a part of a dream. Then cries from outside brought me back from my reverie. They were calling out to me to go down at once.
I looked out the window and saw only my then four-year-old brother, Ogie, standing near the window, half-crying as he was desperately calling out to me. “Manang Jing! Manang Jing! Bumabakan a! Mananngggg!”
My heartbeat doubled. I was really in trouble, I thought. I had woken up an hour later than our scheduled wake-up time. I searched my mind which of my duties should have been done at that hour.
“Agkupinak pay!” I answered back and ignored what he was saying. What everyone else was saying, which I could not comprehend. I just knew they were telling me to get down at once. I wondered what the rush was. I searched my mind: “Ania ngata ti basolko, Apo?” I asked myself.
I continued fixing the beddings, thinking I would be in more trouble if I leave the beddings unfolded. Then all of a sudden, Ogie was already in the room. He took me by the hand and forcefully dragged me and together we got out of the house. Then he pushed me down.
My body ached at the contact with earth. I swirled around, deeply annoyed at my brother, but then he was down, too. He was madder than I was.
“Nagtangken ta ulom. Bumabakan kunak ket!” he said, crying still.
“Agkupinak pay, kunak met!”
He answered back, but his voice was drowned by the noise that suddenly erupted.
BRATATATATATATTATATATATATATATAT!
I stared at my brother, shocked. We were in the middle of gunfight!
I began to understand him, to be overwhelmed with gratitude for my brother for bravely coming to the house to get me to safety. But he told me to keep quiet and motioned for me to crawl to the other members of the family.
It was then that I started to worry about them.
We crawled for a few minutes, until we got to where my five-year-old brother, Mans, who was protecting our youngest brother, Ryan, then one year old. My cousins, Benmar (3), Manong Boyet (7), Manang Babet (9), and Manang Nanet (10) were also there. Inang was also holding Ryan. And Amang was not far ahead, holding Benmar. Mans was both annoyed and deeply relieved seeing me.
“Ditoytayo pay laeng, Annakko,” I heard Inang’s whisper. “Nataltalged ditoy, uray no mapuruakan ti granada dayta balay.”
It was then that I started to cry, realizing my stupidity; how worried I made everyone, and how much danger Ogie put himself just to get me to safety. But Ogie and Iding hushed me. “Shhhh… mayaten Manang. Safe kan. Saankan nga agsangit.”
But I cried harder, until my brothers hugged me.
We waited for hours until the shootings stopped. Then Uncle Nestor, Dad’s youngest brother who has gone out early to check our pagay and was with our nearest neighbors, about 100 meters away, started shouting instructions to us. He told us we should try to go to where he was as it was safer there.
We didn’t know which way to go. Should we cross the ricefields? Or walk on the street? He signaled we use the street to let the shooters know we were civilians. Amang carried my one-year-old brother while Inang held Benmar and beckoned us to go with them.
IT WAS ALREADY way past lunch time when it was decided that we could go back to our place, but not to go inside the house yet. We were to stay only at the front yard.
So that’s what he did. Amang settled under a mango tree, and made banban. Inang helped him. Uncle Nestor was the only one who dared go inside the house and brought out food. We kids played, the horror of the morning almost forgotten by our young minds.
Caught in our game, we did not notice anyone approaching. But as I was about to lift something, we heard a hoarse voice, shouting: “Ni Kapitan?”
Five or more armed men were standing in front of Amang and Inang, their long guns aimed at us.
“Siak, Apo,” Amang replied.
I did not know what I expected Amang to do, cannot even remember what he did and what passed between him and the men, but soon we were serving them food. I remember that even as they ate, their guns were still pointed at us.
IT WAS ALREADY LATE afternoon, and we were still not daring to get near the house when Dad, Mom and Aunts and Uncles arrived, white-faced. They broke down with joy when they saw us, still alive. They were afraid, and almost sure we were all dead. They were extremely happy it was our smiling faces that greeted them, not the carnage they feared they’d see. They relayed they rushed to us the moment they heard news of the “encounter” on our hill, but authorities barricaded the entrance to our barrio. They pleaded the authorities to let them pass, saying all their kids were there, vacationing, but they weren’t let through. “Too dangerous,” they were told.
Hugs and words of love were exchanged. My waking up very late that morning was even forgotten. Everyone was just so happy that we were alive.
But I cannot forget the guns. I look back to that part of my young life and I can see clearly those long barrels aimed at us.
I realize that episode represents my first memory of fear.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
TRUST AND DECEIT
Almost everyone professes to be honest, to value honesty, but if everyone truly practices what he or she professes, then why are there so many lies staring us in the face?
Lies and damn lies — they are what make the world go round. And I’ve been too naïve not to know it. Too stupid to insist on speaking the truth, when the way to getting through the maze of life is to say what people want to hear.
To say things in spite of your convictions.
To flatter people even if you don’t believe in what you are saying.
Why did I let the shell I so carefully built around me be broken by the sweet voice of the angel of pretense? Why did I take the seemingly soft and reliable hand offered to me when every sense of my being was shouting “beware?”
I should have heeded my instinct. “Angels are too good to be true.”
I should have listened to reason. “You love logic; be logical.”
But I didn’t and now I am here. I trusted and now I’ve just been proven wrong. Why did I choose to throw away caution when I knew it is the only thing that is reliable both in good times and in times of trouble?
I should have known better. I should have never lowered my guard.
My whole being still aches from the punches I just received. But my heart hurts more from the betrayal of the one person I thought was a friend.
Ah, I think I have to put on my protective shell once again.
//Sherma E. Benosa
22 November 2007; 2:05am
Lies and damn lies — they are what make the world go round. And I’ve been too naïve not to know it. Too stupid to insist on speaking the truth, when the way to getting through the maze of life is to say what people want to hear.
To say things in spite of your convictions.
To flatter people even if you don’t believe in what you are saying.
Why did I let the shell I so carefully built around me be broken by the sweet voice of the angel of pretense? Why did I take the seemingly soft and reliable hand offered to me when every sense of my being was shouting “beware?”
I should have heeded my instinct. “Angels are too good to be true.”
I should have listened to reason. “You love logic; be logical.”
But I didn’t and now I am here. I trusted and now I’ve just been proven wrong. Why did I choose to throw away caution when I knew it is the only thing that is reliable both in good times and in times of trouble?
I should have known better. I should have never lowered my guard.
My whole being still aches from the punches I just received. But my heart hurts more from the betrayal of the one person I thought was a friend.
Ah, I think I have to put on my protective shell once again.
//Sherma E. Benosa
22 November 2007; 2:05am
Thursday, November 15, 2007
MEMORY OF YOUR KISS
Your warmth around me, your breath against my cheeks
Dreamy sighs, racing heartbeats; murmurs of sweetness
Gentle caresses, my name softly escaping your lips
My soul warms at the memory of your tender kiss.
Quiet whispers, your voice crooning to my senses
Feather-light touches brushing the softness of my hair
Your fingers delicately tracing the contours of my face
My heart flutters at the thought of your embrace.
Your body pressed to mine, your lips on my forehead
My spirit responds to the rhythm of the wilderness
I close my eyes, as I drink the breeze of your scent
My soul warms at the memory of your tender kiss.
I reach for your hands, firmly encase them in mine
And bring them to my lips as into your eyes I gaze
There, I see mirrored, my lips twitching into a smile
My heart flutters at the thought of your embrace.
For MCP…
Extended version of a poem previously posted as a 12-liner poem.
//Sherma E. Benosa
14 November 2007; 1:40am
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Transient Blossoms
Evanescent blossoms I chased
And cherished like a goddess
But now that in the vicissitudes of time they’re lost
I wonder: what’s the point of all of this?
Bright dreams had become mere illusory
Shall I wallow in misery?
Transience I was too blind to see
The wheel has rolled, where will I be?
Groping in unlit alleys
Fumbling for something to hold on to
Wishing for a door to open
But will someone hand me a key?
The sun has eclipsed on me
All that’s left is a void that was once me.
I walk farther, farther down the hall
Until the shadows stop hounding me.
Inspired by a sad poem I stumbled upon this afternoon.
//Sherma E. Benosa;
November 13, 2007; 7:20pm
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Dumbledore is Gay!
Like my friend Salve, the thought that Dumbledore (respected headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the Harry Potter series) might be gay never entered into my mind, although I always wondered why he wasn’t married. And I also did not read this line by Dumbledore: “You cannot imagine how his ideas caught me, Harry, inflamed me,” to mean anything other than deep respect for a fellow genius, for a bright mind. But now, apparently, there is more to it than I initially thought.
The person Dumbledore is referring to in that line is Gellert Grindelwald, a dark, powerful wizard who, in his adulthood, terrorized the wizarding world much in the same way Lord Voldemort was to do decades later. In their youth, Grindelwald and Dumbledore were best friends, until Grindelwald showed to the wizarding community his true color and Dumbledore had to fight him off. Their duel is one of the greatest duels in the history of the wizarding world.
With JK Rowling’s revelation, I now better understand why Dumbledore was very much taken by the “ideas” of his friend and why he delayed battling with him. Being in love sometimes can make some people do stupid things.
Ah, well. I still adore Dumbledore. I think more so now that he is “out!” (And I understand re-reading the whole series is in order! I think I’ve missed a lot of the finer points of the whole series. Arggggh!)
____________________
Here are some more revelations from JK Rowling:
Neville Longbottom married Hannah Abbot.
Hagrid never married.
Snape’s portrait was put in the Headmaster’s office.
Is Snape good or bad? Here’s Rowling’s take:
“In many ways he really wasn't. So I haven't been deliberately misleading everyone all this time, when I say that he's a good guy. Because even though he did love and he loved very deeply and he was very brave, both qualities that I admire above anything else, he was bitter and he was vindictive... but right at the very very end, he did, as your question acknowledges, achieve a kind of peace together and I tried to show that in the epilogue.”
Okay, so there you go.
The person Dumbledore is referring to in that line is Gellert Grindelwald, a dark, powerful wizard who, in his adulthood, terrorized the wizarding world much in the same way Lord Voldemort was to do decades later. In their youth, Grindelwald and Dumbledore were best friends, until Grindelwald showed to the wizarding community his true color and Dumbledore had to fight him off. Their duel is one of the greatest duels in the history of the wizarding world.
With JK Rowling’s revelation, I now better understand why Dumbledore was very much taken by the “ideas” of his friend and why he delayed battling with him. Being in love sometimes can make some people do stupid things.
Ah, well. I still adore Dumbledore. I think more so now that he is “out!” (And I understand re-reading the whole series is in order! I think I’ve missed a lot of the finer points of the whole series. Arggggh!)
____________________
Here are some more revelations from JK Rowling:
Neville Longbottom married Hannah Abbot.
Hagrid never married.
Snape’s portrait was put in the Headmaster’s office.
Is Snape good or bad? Here’s Rowling’s take:
“In many ways he really wasn't. So I haven't been deliberately misleading everyone all this time, when I say that he's a good guy. Because even though he did love and he loved very deeply and he was very brave, both qualities that I admire above anything else, he was bitter and he was vindictive... but right at the very very end, he did, as your question acknowledges, achieve a kind of peace together and I tried to show that in the epilogue.”
Okay, so there you go.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
"Bumship" Report: How Am I Faring?
It’s been two months since I became a freelance writer. My life has considerably become much simpler and less stressful since I left my fulltime job. In fact, I have managed to see a good part of my province, and I’ve written a travel piece about it. I’ve likewise managed to squeeze into my daily itinerary (which consists mainly of writing, eating, and talking to my Dungngo) occasional walks in parks and aerobics.
How have I fared during the past two months? Let me see.
In the first two weeks I wrote one medical article, though I spent most of my energy relaxing and being with the family, and getting to know more about my home province. I also spent a lot of time with my nephew Pau.
In the last three weeks, I’ve written another four magazine articles for publication (two medical and two travel), finished my term paper (thanks, Dungngo), and conducted some researches on magazines where I can contribute. I’ve also watched a play at Greenbelt 1 and attended an art exhibit at UP Vargas Museum. Likewise, I’ve polished my pen (poetry and essay). So far, I’ve written about three essays, one Iluko short story, one english short story, and several poems. I’ve also made two videos (thanks again, Dungngo), edited my Dungngo’s short story and co-authored a nobe-nobela at my blog in Iluko.com. Right now, I am writing an article and I’ve got another one lined up for next week.
I think I’ve been productive during the past two months of my “bumship.” Only, most of my outputs are for personal pleasure (blog posts for blogger and iluko.com… hehehe). So while in the next two months I think I’d be doing pretty much the same, I’d endeavor now to write more “for publication” pieces. Practice time is up. I think it’s about time I churn out more publish-worthy pieces.
________
I think I’d still try to find a part time job — one that would give me regular assignments but won’t ask me to regularly report for work. (Kung bakit kasi puro full-time ang offer! Waaaa!)
How have I fared during the past two months? Let me see.
In the first two weeks I wrote one medical article, though I spent most of my energy relaxing and being with the family, and getting to know more about my home province. I also spent a lot of time with my nephew Pau.
In the last three weeks, I’ve written another four magazine articles for publication (two medical and two travel), finished my term paper (thanks, Dungngo), and conducted some researches on magazines where I can contribute. I’ve also watched a play at Greenbelt 1 and attended an art exhibit at UP Vargas Museum. Likewise, I’ve polished my pen (poetry and essay). So far, I’ve written about three essays, one Iluko short story, one english short story, and several poems. I’ve also made two videos (thanks again, Dungngo), edited my Dungngo’s short story and co-authored a nobe-nobela at my blog in Iluko.com. Right now, I am writing an article and I’ve got another one lined up for next week.
I think I’ve been productive during the past two months of my “bumship.” Only, most of my outputs are for personal pleasure (blog posts for blogger and iluko.com… hehehe). So while in the next two months I think I’d be doing pretty much the same, I’d endeavor now to write more “for publication” pieces. Practice time is up. I think it’s about time I churn out more publish-worthy pieces.
________
I think I’d still try to find a part time job — one that would give me regular assignments but won’t ask me to regularly report for work. (Kung bakit kasi puro full-time ang offer! Waaaa!)
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Amang Roman and Inang Pacing:
IN MEMORIAM
I have always been aware of Death. I have never doubted that he’s real and that he’s such a powerful being, no one can escape his might. I’ve always been aware of the indescribable pain and stark sense of loss that are his marks; and of the bottomless void and utter emptiness that he always carries with him wherever he goes.
But for a long time, Death was just a mythical presence in my mind, like Santa Claus who goes around giving gifts to every child on Christmas, but somehow manages to always overlook our house. I had always concluded that our house was so remote Santa Claus could not possibly find us, which was just fine with me because I was never concerned about receiving gifts from him. I had, in fact, been thankful that our house seemed to have been left out in the maps of the deities, especially whenever I would think about Death. Every time I let my mind wonder about him, I would envision Death having a hard time finding our house and that of our extended family. I would then smile to myself, thinking that somehow we had been tricking Death for sometime without him knowing it.
But not for long. Death eventually located where Inang (grandmother) and Amang (grandfather) lived. One night in December 2005, without warning, he forced entry into Amang and Inang’s door, and took my lovely Inang with him.
It was my first time to see Death up close. He was a gory sight, a horrible presence that sucked up happy emotions and thoughts, replacing them with despair and gloom. I felt awful being that close to him. Still, I tried to stand between him and my Inang and defiantly challenged him not to prey on the weak. But Death knows no dignity. He simply looked down on me, telling me there would be a time he’d deal with me, but not just yet. I smelled his putrid breath as he spoke; it was all I could do not to puke. I stared hard at him, and a chill ran through me. I noticed there was no heart inside his ribcage. He must have lost it some time ago; or maybe it was never there.
I watched as Death walked out of the house, carrying my Inang who was blissfully lost in her dreamless sleep. We knew we were defeated; there was nothing we could do. Our only consolation was that Inang didn’t seem to know what had happened; she looked so peaceful and at peace in her sleep.
The moment Death and Inang left, darkness enveloped the house, but this, we did not readily notice. We didn’t have the strength to go and switch on the lights; we were all consumed in our loss as we struggled to console Amang, who was so calm, having already surrendered everything to the God we prayed to every night. That night, though, life refused to flicker in Amang’s eyes.
My great loss threw me into a bottomless pit I never knew existed. I felt I had drowned or suffocated. My pain and loss gnawed at my very soul and ate a big piece of my being. Every time I felt the need to unleash my pain, I would let out all the water in the overflowing dam of my aching heart.
Then a new kind of fear enveloped me, realizing and anticipating that Death was not yet done with us. He would be back, and in my heart I knew who he would take with him first. Since Inang’s departure, a kind of panic always enveloped me every time I looked at or thought of Amang. So I tried to be home more often and spend as much time with him as possible.
Death did come back, much sooner than I had thought. In May 2007, just over a year after he took Inang away from us, Death showed up at Amang’s door. He neither knocked on the door nor acknowledged us. He just went straight to Amang’s bed and gathered him into his cold, unfeeling embrace. How we shouted at Death to let go of Amang, how we tried to pull Amang free of the unwanted visitor’s powerful grip. But slowly, gradually, we lost. Death had Amang lying limp in his arms, and though they lingered a while longer, they too eventually left; leaving us to mend the shreds of our shattered hearts.
Life went on. We managed to accept our great losses. But life was never the same again for us who have been left behind. Where before I could simply go home and share a laugh with Inang and Amang, all I have left of them now is a memory — so alive Amang and Inang seem, so tangible are their images I swear I can feel them in my arms and hear their sweet laughter. But still, deep within me I know they are just shadows trying to ease my pain.
I will forever be thankful for the good memories that I have of Amang and Inang, but my heart sometimes can’t help but wish for more. The only thing that gives me strength when I think of them is the thought that they are together now — never to be separated from each other again. Death, afterall, is the beginning of a life which never ends. A life that has no place for Death and his utter nothingness.
//Sherma E. Benosa
31 October 2007; 8:35pm
I have always been aware of Death. I have never doubted that he’s real and that he’s such a powerful being, no one can escape his might. I’ve always been aware of the indescribable pain and stark sense of loss that are his marks; and of the bottomless void and utter emptiness that he always carries with him wherever he goes.
But for a long time, Death was just a mythical presence in my mind, like Santa Claus who goes around giving gifts to every child on Christmas, but somehow manages to always overlook our house. I had always concluded that our house was so remote Santa Claus could not possibly find us, which was just fine with me because I was never concerned about receiving gifts from him. I had, in fact, been thankful that our house seemed to have been left out in the maps of the deities, especially whenever I would think about Death. Every time I let my mind wonder about him, I would envision Death having a hard time finding our house and that of our extended family. I would then smile to myself, thinking that somehow we had been tricking Death for sometime without him knowing it.
But not for long. Death eventually located where Inang (grandmother) and Amang (grandfather) lived. One night in December 2005, without warning, he forced entry into Amang and Inang’s door, and took my lovely Inang with him.
It was my first time to see Death up close. He was a gory sight, a horrible presence that sucked up happy emotions and thoughts, replacing them with despair and gloom. I felt awful being that close to him. Still, I tried to stand between him and my Inang and defiantly challenged him not to prey on the weak. But Death knows no dignity. He simply looked down on me, telling me there would be a time he’d deal with me, but not just yet. I smelled his putrid breath as he spoke; it was all I could do not to puke. I stared hard at him, and a chill ran through me. I noticed there was no heart inside his ribcage. He must have lost it some time ago; or maybe it was never there.
I watched as Death walked out of the house, carrying my Inang who was blissfully lost in her dreamless sleep. We knew we were defeated; there was nothing we could do. Our only consolation was that Inang didn’t seem to know what had happened; she looked so peaceful and at peace in her sleep.
The moment Death and Inang left, darkness enveloped the house, but this, we did not readily notice. We didn’t have the strength to go and switch on the lights; we were all consumed in our loss as we struggled to console Amang, who was so calm, having already surrendered everything to the God we prayed to every night. That night, though, life refused to flicker in Amang’s eyes.
My great loss threw me into a bottomless pit I never knew existed. I felt I had drowned or suffocated. My pain and loss gnawed at my very soul and ate a big piece of my being. Every time I felt the need to unleash my pain, I would let out all the water in the overflowing dam of my aching heart.
Then a new kind of fear enveloped me, realizing and anticipating that Death was not yet done with us. He would be back, and in my heart I knew who he would take with him first. Since Inang’s departure, a kind of panic always enveloped me every time I looked at or thought of Amang. So I tried to be home more often and spend as much time with him as possible.
Death did come back, much sooner than I had thought. In May 2007, just over a year after he took Inang away from us, Death showed up at Amang’s door. He neither knocked on the door nor acknowledged us. He just went straight to Amang’s bed and gathered him into his cold, unfeeling embrace. How we shouted at Death to let go of Amang, how we tried to pull Amang free of the unwanted visitor’s powerful grip. But slowly, gradually, we lost. Death had Amang lying limp in his arms, and though they lingered a while longer, they too eventually left; leaving us to mend the shreds of our shattered hearts.
Life went on. We managed to accept our great losses. But life was never the same again for us who have been left behind. Where before I could simply go home and share a laugh with Inang and Amang, all I have left of them now is a memory — so alive Amang and Inang seem, so tangible are their images I swear I can feel them in my arms and hear their sweet laughter. But still, deep within me I know they are just shadows trying to ease my pain.
I will forever be thankful for the good memories that I have of Amang and Inang, but my heart sometimes can’t help but wish for more. The only thing that gives me strength when I think of them is the thought that they are together now — never to be separated from each other again. Death, afterall, is the beginning of a life which never ends. A life that has no place for Death and his utter nothingness.
//Sherma E. Benosa
31 October 2007; 8:35pm
CAVERN OF DEATH
I first read some updates on the Glorietta blast before reading one of the novels in my collection: a somewhat romantic but definitely political novel (Of Love and Shadow by Isabel Allende) set in a Latin American country on the grip of dictatorship, and this is what I’ve become — utterly DEPRESSED. As the main characters in the novel discover the cavern into which the bodies of the desaparecidos (missing people) were thrown, images of those who died in Glorietta and the skeletons of the dug bodies in the novel kept flashing in my mind. So chilling are the sights I conjured that demons started beseeching me to write this depressing piece.
Echo the strangled moans
Of the shadows lurking
In your bottomless pit
Where dried tears of broken
Hopes walk with the fallen
Leaves of the dreams I
Once nurtured in my depths —
Now dried and breathless:
Just mere remnants of what
Could be that did not become.
Let go of the dark, thick liquid
In your crevice, threatening
To burst anytime and flood
The abyss of your nothingness.
The once-pulsating optimism
That fired at my veins and
Lighted my waking moments —
Now still and lifeless:
Just mere illusion that acquired
Flesh; already beaten and dead.
//Sherma E. Benosa
27 October 2007; 3:37am
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Zooming In and Zooming Out:
Life events and our perspectives
I am no visual artist, but among the skills I tried to teach myself when I was fresh from college and work did not yet demand so much of my time, is graphic design. Armed with some how-to articles I could find in the internet, I tinkered with Photoshop, in the hope that one day I’d be able to create personalized and especially-made cards to send to my friends or some good images with which to decorate my photo albums.
Years after those hours of tedious self-instructions, I would find myself very thankful that I had the sense to make my spare time productive by trying to learn things that, during those times, had seemed daunting (hence, better left to the real artists) and even useless. Not only was I eventually able to create passable designs for simple invitations and even coffee table books for family and close friends, but my little knowledge of the process also tremendously helped me perform my job when I got to a publication where, from time to time, there arose the need for me to know what is visually appealing and what is not.
But that is not all that I am thankful for. There is also something in the process of image editing that helped me better grasp the idea that there is a great design of things, of which we only see a part because of our limited perceptions. Let me elaborate.
There are times when, as I work on an image that need to be retouched or edited, say a picture of a smiling girl holding a bouquet of flowers but whose arm is smudged with few patches of dirt — nothing that simple editing cannot correct — I need to zoom in the object to have a much closer view of the part that need to be edited.
Looking at the object this close and seeing just the part I need to work on, it often seems to me that the part I am looking at doesn’t make sense at all. There are moments when I have a hard time imagining how that particular part is related to the whole object, even if I know what it is, having seen it in its entirety before zooming in the image.
I zoom in the object some more, and it becomes blurry and all the more senseless. It looks like just some pixels or dots thrown in together at random, with no connection with one another whatsoever. At this view, it is hard to connect the pixels and imagine what they might form.
Then I zoom the object out a little, and a little more, and I get a clearer view of the part I am viewing on my computer screen. I will now recognize it as a part of something, although at this view, I may still not see it as what it really is in connection to the whole picture — how indispensable this part may be to the whole.
I zoom the image out once more and, now seeing the whole picture again, I see what the part exactly is, how it is connected to the whole picture, and just how relevant it is. Then I start feeling like an idiot for failing to recognize it and make sense out of it when I was looking at it at “close range.”
There are still times when I find the time to sit down in front of my computer and do some image corrections. But even now, I am still mesmerized each time I get on with this process of zooming in and zooming out, especially when I connect it with the idea I adhere to when trying to grasp life and its many mysteries. Each time I do this process, or think of it, I see some sort of parallelism between how differently we view an image when we see it up close, focusing only on a single part, from when we see it in its entirety; and how differently we view a life event when we are in the thick of it from when we are simply observing it from a distance.
When something happens and we are personally involved, or someone close to us is, it is often hard to see things more objectively. We tend to be emotional and subjective. But when we aren’t involved, we can be more objective and are more able to keep our emotions in check.
There are also times when, as something is happening, we don’t understand what it means no matter how hard we try to analyze the events leading to it. Then, at a much later date, in some mysterious way or another, we get to understand what happened, how it happened, and why it happened. And as understanding dawn upon us, we say, “Ah! Kaya pala!”
So yes, I am thankful that I know a little about tinkering with images. Because with this little knowledge that I have, I understand that like everyone else, I may also have a limited perspective of things. And every time I sit down and work on an image, I am reminded that in many instances, I may not be seeing things in their proper perspective; that all I may be seeing is just a part or several parts of a whole. So I am more open to other people’s ideas —understanding them, analyzing them, testing them — instead of dismissing them outright. And so I write this piece, realizing that all I am presenting may just be a part or an aspect of a whole.
//Sherma E. Benosa
27 October 2007; 2:01am
I am no visual artist, but among the skills I tried to teach myself when I was fresh from college and work did not yet demand so much of my time, is graphic design. Armed with some how-to articles I could find in the internet, I tinkered with Photoshop, in the hope that one day I’d be able to create personalized and especially-made cards to send to my friends or some good images with which to decorate my photo albums.
Years after those hours of tedious self-instructions, I would find myself very thankful that I had the sense to make my spare time productive by trying to learn things that, during those times, had seemed daunting (hence, better left to the real artists) and even useless. Not only was I eventually able to create passable designs for simple invitations and even coffee table books for family and close friends, but my little knowledge of the process also tremendously helped me perform my job when I got to a publication where, from time to time, there arose the need for me to know what is visually appealing and what is not.
But that is not all that I am thankful for. There is also something in the process of image editing that helped me better grasp the idea that there is a great design of things, of which we only see a part because of our limited perceptions. Let me elaborate.
There are times when, as I work on an image that need to be retouched or edited, say a picture of a smiling girl holding a bouquet of flowers but whose arm is smudged with few patches of dirt — nothing that simple editing cannot correct — I need to zoom in the object to have a much closer view of the part that need to be edited.
Looking at the object this close and seeing just the part I need to work on, it often seems to me that the part I am looking at doesn’t make sense at all. There are moments when I have a hard time imagining how that particular part is related to the whole object, even if I know what it is, having seen it in its entirety before zooming in the image.
I zoom in the object some more, and it becomes blurry and all the more senseless. It looks like just some pixels or dots thrown in together at random, with no connection with one another whatsoever. At this view, it is hard to connect the pixels and imagine what they might form.
Then I zoom the object out a little, and a little more, and I get a clearer view of the part I am viewing on my computer screen. I will now recognize it as a part of something, although at this view, I may still not see it as what it really is in connection to the whole picture — how indispensable this part may be to the whole.
I zoom the image out once more and, now seeing the whole picture again, I see what the part exactly is, how it is connected to the whole picture, and just how relevant it is. Then I start feeling like an idiot for failing to recognize it and make sense out of it when I was looking at it at “close range.”
There are still times when I find the time to sit down in front of my computer and do some image corrections. But even now, I am still mesmerized each time I get on with this process of zooming in and zooming out, especially when I connect it with the idea I adhere to when trying to grasp life and its many mysteries. Each time I do this process, or think of it, I see some sort of parallelism between how differently we view an image when we see it up close, focusing only on a single part, from when we see it in its entirety; and how differently we view a life event when we are in the thick of it from when we are simply observing it from a distance.
When something happens and we are personally involved, or someone close to us is, it is often hard to see things more objectively. We tend to be emotional and subjective. But when we aren’t involved, we can be more objective and are more able to keep our emotions in check.
There are also times when, as something is happening, we don’t understand what it means no matter how hard we try to analyze the events leading to it. Then, at a much later date, in some mysterious way or another, we get to understand what happened, how it happened, and why it happened. And as understanding dawn upon us, we say, “Ah! Kaya pala!”
So yes, I am thankful that I know a little about tinkering with images. Because with this little knowledge that I have, I understand that like everyone else, I may also have a limited perspective of things. And every time I sit down and work on an image, I am reminded that in many instances, I may not be seeing things in their proper perspective; that all I may be seeing is just a part or several parts of a whole. So I am more open to other people’s ideas —understanding them, analyzing them, testing them — instead of dismissing them outright. And so I write this piece, realizing that all I am presenting may just be a part or an aspect of a whole.
//Sherma E. Benosa
27 October 2007; 2:01am
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
FOR REAL
A garden that knows no flowers
A mind devoid of thoughts —
Tell me they’re unreal;
Just some kind of a nightmare.
A pencil that refuses to write
A book that hates being read —
Tell me you’re kidding;
You’re simply pulling my leg.
A heaven that's not home for angels
A sea that harbors no fish—
Tell me they don't exist;
Just myths, some horrid tales.
A sun that shines just for me
A moon wishing for my smile —
Tell me; whisper them in my ears
But only if they’re for real.
//Sherma E. Benosa; 23 October 2007; 2:50am
Saturday, October 13, 2007
PAGARIEK KADI?
Pagariek kadi't bitek ti kaunggak
Ket isemak ididiayam nga ayat
Ta kayatko metten nga agsarday
Nasalemsem a rabii; isem a natamnay?
Ngem kasano no sika ket maysa
A batibat, mangay-ayam kararua;
Sipnget a mangisangbay al-alia
Naruay a samuyeng ken lulua?
Kunaekto kadi lattan iti bagik
Tunggal umapayka iti lagip:
Balay a diak koma pinagnaedan
Tagilako a diak koma ginatang
Sarsuela a diak koma binuya
Aweng a diak koma inggin-gina?
Pagariek kadi't buteng iti kaunggak
Tapno saem ken panaas maliklikak
Ta diak kayat nga aglangeb ti langit
A makipagrikna iti puso a masakit?
Ngem kasano no sika ket maysa
Nga ayat, mangbiag puso a naiwawa;
Ima a nalailo, mangisangbay namnama
Napnuan kaipapanan nga agsapa?
Kunaekto kadi lattan iti bagik
Tunggal umapayka iti lagip:
Napintas a libro a diak binasa
Nangayed a buya a diak kinita
Umno nga addang a diak insayangkat
Napateg a sagut a diak inawat?
//Sherma E. Benosa
13 October 2007; 12:35pm
NANGLIPAT A KARI
Bay-am nga ipasimudaag
Di pay namurmurayan a bigat
Salemsem naglabas a rabii
Inkur-it dagiti nanglipat a kari.
Kari nga intedmo, napnuan sudi
Linagam a balikas, naumbi;
Kasla nalamuyot a dayyeng
Gayam, manglimlimo a samuyeng.
Bay-am nga iparangarang
Ti nakamirduot a tangatang
Dagensen simmangbay nga agsapa
Intugkel dagiti ubbaw a sapata.
Sapata nga impaidulinmo, nalailo
Insawangmo a sao, nadungngo;
Kas da la namsek a binatog
Gayam, daniw a ‘di makabsog.
//Sherma E. Benosa
13 October 2007; 1:04am
Di pay namurmurayan a bigat
Salemsem naglabas a rabii
Inkur-it dagiti nanglipat a kari.
Kari nga intedmo, napnuan sudi
Linagam a balikas, naumbi;
Kasla nalamuyot a dayyeng
Gayam, manglimlimo a samuyeng.
Bay-am nga iparangarang
Ti nakamirduot a tangatang
Dagensen simmangbay nga agsapa
Intugkel dagiti ubbaw a sapata.
Sapata nga impaidulinmo, nalailo
Insawangmo a sao, nadungngo;
Kas da la namsek a binatog
Gayam, daniw a ‘di makabsog.
//Sherma E. Benosa
13 October 2007; 1:04am
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Transparency and Self-betterment
I believe that it is our responsibility as humans to know ourselves very well — our strengths and weaknesses, our potentials, our purpose. To capitalize on our strengths to become a better person; to actualize our potentials and to use them well; to acknowledge our weaknesses and make up for them, or to correct them if they prove to be something about which something can be done. To know our purpose, to try to understand what we are here on earth for, and to work hard to fulfill that purpose. To try to reach the higher plane of understanding, of living, of dealing with ourselves and with others.
Weaknesses are not a reason for us not to do good, but only a reminder for us to seek guidance when we are faced with things that seem to be bigger than us. They are not here for us to use as an alibi for the mistakes we commit, but to remind us that we have to constantly try to make ourselves better.
If everyone could look at a single thing and be able to look at it in its entirety and view it from every angle possible, then what a better existence we would have. And if only we try to understand every aspect of a thing first, before we make conclusions, then how much easier life on earth would be.
But often, we are already judged even before we have had the opportunity to be known better. By a single word that came out of our lips, by a single act that we did before, by these we could already be judged. People tend to remember us as we were, forgetting that we are dynamic and that, by the time they would look at us again, we may have changed, hopefully for the better. People tend to think of us as photos; still and unchanging. Pity, but often just by the “snapshots” people have of us, they already think they know us well, and that their judgment of us is right.
I agree it might be nice to be transparent; maybe if we were, people would just take one look at us and they would readily have a good grasp of who we are as a person, as an individual. But the truth is that we are multi-faceted, multi-dimensional. Each of our dimensions may be transparent, but when put together, they make a very complicated totality that is us, and so we become veiled. Veiled, but not necessarily wearing pretentious masks.
I like looking at individuals, and wondering what kind of a gem they might be inside. I like peeling things slowly, patiently, layer by layer, my heart filled with wonderment at every discovery I unearth in the process. I like looking at things from different perspectives, recording my observations, yet withholding judgment or making conclusions, knowing that what I am seeing is just a part of a whole.
I am well aware of my weaknesses and I am doing something about them. I know my strengths, and I thank God for being so blessed. I am perfectly happy with who I am, despite my scars and my failures. From time to time I make evaluations of myself, making corrections where I’ve erred. So yes, my quest in this life is to become a better person; and if I could, to help others become better, too. To put to good use the things I am gifted with, and to overcome my weaknesses. Yet I am veiled, not in perspective, but where transparency is concerned. I share myself, but not everything of me. Not for fear I may be misunderstood, but because I am reserving it for the people who would want to come to know me better. It is my way of inviting people to come closer, try to know me more. And to be invited in return, so that I may also learn about them, from them.
I am also transparent in some things, but hard to decipher in many others. One moment, I am somewhat this thing, yet showing traces of other qualities at some other moments. At times I am easy to figure out, at other times I am difficult to fathom. I am veiled, but I don’t wear masks.
To be transparent (or be seen through and through) is a beautiful thing; I will not deny that. But so is being veiled. There is nothing wrong about withholding some parts of us, and showing only glimpses of the deepest recesses of our being from time to time, to the select few, if we so choose. For being veiled (as opposed to being transparent), for me, is not such a bad thing. Not being able to look at things from different perspectives yet making judgments too soon is.
//First posted in Ms. LJ Galleta's blog in Iluko.com
Weaknesses are not a reason for us not to do good, but only a reminder for us to seek guidance when we are faced with things that seem to be bigger than us. They are not here for us to use as an alibi for the mistakes we commit, but to remind us that we have to constantly try to make ourselves better.
If everyone could look at a single thing and be able to look at it in its entirety and view it from every angle possible, then what a better existence we would have. And if only we try to understand every aspect of a thing first, before we make conclusions, then how much easier life on earth would be.
But often, we are already judged even before we have had the opportunity to be known better. By a single word that came out of our lips, by a single act that we did before, by these we could already be judged. People tend to remember us as we were, forgetting that we are dynamic and that, by the time they would look at us again, we may have changed, hopefully for the better. People tend to think of us as photos; still and unchanging. Pity, but often just by the “snapshots” people have of us, they already think they know us well, and that their judgment of us is right.
I agree it might be nice to be transparent; maybe if we were, people would just take one look at us and they would readily have a good grasp of who we are as a person, as an individual. But the truth is that we are multi-faceted, multi-dimensional. Each of our dimensions may be transparent, but when put together, they make a very complicated totality that is us, and so we become veiled. Veiled, but not necessarily wearing pretentious masks.
I like looking at individuals, and wondering what kind of a gem they might be inside. I like peeling things slowly, patiently, layer by layer, my heart filled with wonderment at every discovery I unearth in the process. I like looking at things from different perspectives, recording my observations, yet withholding judgment or making conclusions, knowing that what I am seeing is just a part of a whole.
I am well aware of my weaknesses and I am doing something about them. I know my strengths, and I thank God for being so blessed. I am perfectly happy with who I am, despite my scars and my failures. From time to time I make evaluations of myself, making corrections where I’ve erred. So yes, my quest in this life is to become a better person; and if I could, to help others become better, too. To put to good use the things I am gifted with, and to overcome my weaknesses. Yet I am veiled, not in perspective, but where transparency is concerned. I share myself, but not everything of me. Not for fear I may be misunderstood, but because I am reserving it for the people who would want to come to know me better. It is my way of inviting people to come closer, try to know me more. And to be invited in return, so that I may also learn about them, from them.
I am also transparent in some things, but hard to decipher in many others. One moment, I am somewhat this thing, yet showing traces of other qualities at some other moments. At times I am easy to figure out, at other times I am difficult to fathom. I am veiled, but I don’t wear masks.
To be transparent (or be seen through and through) is a beautiful thing; I will not deny that. But so is being veiled. There is nothing wrong about withholding some parts of us, and showing only glimpses of the deepest recesses of our being from time to time, to the select few, if we so choose. For being veiled (as opposed to being transparent), for me, is not such a bad thing. Not being able to look at things from different perspectives yet making judgments too soon is.
//First posted in Ms. LJ Galleta's blog in Iluko.com
Monday, October 08, 2007
Why We Aren't Made of Glass
(Excerpts from my posts in Iluko.com during a discussion of transparency and self betterment)
"If we were made of glass, we would easily break. And once broken, there’d be no more hope for repair. And though we would be transparent in good condition, we would become hazy in extreme environment, like when we are exposed to dust, humidity, and smoke. We would be very fragile and won’t be able to withstand great pressure, strong heat, and opposition. We won’t be able to bend. We would be strong and tough, but only up to a certain point.
If we were like glass, we would be easily affected by hearsays and indifference. We would not stand a chance against the much tougher circumstances of life."
"If we were made of glass, we would easily break. And once broken, there’d be no more hope for repair. And though we would be transparent in good condition, we would become hazy in extreme environment, like when we are exposed to dust, humidity, and smoke. We would be very fragile and won’t be able to withstand great pressure, strong heat, and opposition. We won’t be able to bend. We would be strong and tough, but only up to a certain point.
If we were like glass, we would be easily affected by hearsays and indifference. We would not stand a chance against the much tougher circumstances of life."
Sunday, September 30, 2007
'All that Matters': An Uplifting Read
A young woman who just attempted to end her life. Her father who did not only have time for his family, but actually turned his back on them in favor of his Hollywood career and a younger woman. Her Nana (grandmother) who would not give up on her granddaughter.
These are the three main characters in Jan Goldtein’s debut novel, All that Matters, a story of hope and redemption.
Jennifer Stempler felt she had no more open door to turn to. The love of her life left her, her mother died in a tragic car accident, and her producer father had a new wife and a new-born girl. No, she would not be missed. So she pursued oblivion on the beach near her home in Venice, California.
But oblivion, it did not come. When Jennifer opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the “worn and wrinkled face” of her Nana, the one person she was sure would be deeply hurt if she died; and the last person she wanted to see her in her present state.
But here she was, deeply caring and loving that soon, when Jennifer's choices were narrowed down into three: stay in a psychiatric institution, or stay with her father (whose new wife made it known they wouldn’t have time caring for a suicidal woman), or stay with her Nana, Jennifer chose the last, against her father’s will.
And, though at first she was oblivious to her Nana’s love, warmth, and determination, she was soon beginning to re-embrace life. But just as she was starting to trust, love, and hope again, her Nana dies. With her Nana gone, the challenge now for Jennifer was to keep going on.
Deeply moving, All that Matters shows that deep love truly can move mountains and help lost souls find their way again. It affirms that, indeed, there are doors that are always open for us; all we need to do is look. And that even those that are closed will open, if we only learn to knock.
Let me share some of the quotes in the book:
“Across the street Jennifer observed a driver trying in vain to park her SUV in a space half the size she needed. It was the story of her life. She simply couldn’t wedge herself into a space in life where circumstances out of her control had left her no room.”
Jennifer (looking at something through her camcorder): “You want to see the real world, you have to shut off all distractions. It’s a matter of focus. Most people only think they see what’s going on.”
Gabby (Jennifer’s Nana): “The world isn’t in that damn lens. You’re so busy focusing, only you’re missing everything that matters.”
“Gabby: This rock has seen many storms. Here it stands exposed to the elements, covered with the scars of its past. But one thing that always gave me comfort in coming here—it has not crumbled. It is still standing at the water’s edge, facing the wind and the sea and whatever the future will bring.”
“Sometimes the gifts come wrapped in pain and the other times they hit you smack-dab in the pain when you are totally unprepared.”
“Like the pages she had yet to fill in her journal and like the white surface of the ice beneath her, Jennifer could see her future, as her Nana had said, was intriguingly blank and full of possibilities. It was waiting for her to write it, to fill the pages of her tomorrows with the life she alone could create.”
"All that Matters" Abstract
These are the three main characters in Jan Goldtein’s debut novel, All that Matters, a story of hope and redemption.
Jennifer Stempler felt she had no more open door to turn to. The love of her life left her, her mother died in a tragic car accident, and her producer father had a new wife and a new-born girl. No, she would not be missed. So she pursued oblivion on the beach near her home in Venice, California.
But oblivion, it did not come. When Jennifer opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the “worn and wrinkled face” of her Nana, the one person she was sure would be deeply hurt if she died; and the last person she wanted to see her in her present state.
But here she was, deeply caring and loving that soon, when Jennifer's choices were narrowed down into three: stay in a psychiatric institution, or stay with her father (whose new wife made it known they wouldn’t have time caring for a suicidal woman), or stay with her Nana, Jennifer chose the last, against her father’s will.
And, though at first she was oblivious to her Nana’s love, warmth, and determination, she was soon beginning to re-embrace life. But just as she was starting to trust, love, and hope again, her Nana dies. With her Nana gone, the challenge now for Jennifer was to keep going on.
Deeply moving, All that Matters shows that deep love truly can move mountains and help lost souls find their way again. It affirms that, indeed, there are doors that are always open for us; all we need to do is look. And that even those that are closed will open, if we only learn to knock.
Let me share some of the quotes in the book:
“Across the street Jennifer observed a driver trying in vain to park her SUV in a space half the size she needed. It was the story of her life. She simply couldn’t wedge herself into a space in life where circumstances out of her control had left her no room.”
Jennifer (looking at something through her camcorder): “You want to see the real world, you have to shut off all distractions. It’s a matter of focus. Most people only think they see what’s going on.”
Gabby (Jennifer’s Nana): “The world isn’t in that damn lens. You’re so busy focusing, only you’re missing everything that matters.”
“Gabby: This rock has seen many storms. Here it stands exposed to the elements, covered with the scars of its past. But one thing that always gave me comfort in coming here—it has not crumbled. It is still standing at the water’s edge, facing the wind and the sea and whatever the future will bring.”
“Sometimes the gifts come wrapped in pain and the other times they hit you smack-dab in the pain when you are totally unprepared.”
“Like the pages she had yet to fill in her journal and like the white surface of the ice beneath her, Jennifer could see her future, as her Nana had said, was intriguingly blank and full of possibilities. It was waiting for her to write it, to fill the pages of her tomorrows with the life she alone could create.”
"All that Matters" Abstract
Friday, September 28, 2007
FREELANCING HOBBIES
Now that I am free from the shackles of a fulltime job, I can already start doing the things I’ve promised myself I’d do when I have the time. I am listing here the things I want to accomplish (besides work) as a reminder for myself.
Travel. I love going to places. It has always been my dream to see different parts of the country (and of the world?), meet people, experience different cultures, and write about them. For me, travel writing is one of the most enjoyable writing jobs on earth.
Photography. Travel articles will never look good without good travel photos. There is no ugly subject, only lousy photographers. I hope I can eventually cross the line between amateur and pro-like.
Videography. With the advent of photo-editing programs, it should be easily doable now. And with my online tutor (hehehe) to help me, I’m sure I’d soon be able to make loads and loads of good videos. (Hey, please give pointers, guys!)
Dressmaking. No, I am not planning to eventually put up a dressmaking business. All I wanna do is sew my own and family members’ dresses. I hate going from one boutique to another, and not being able to find a dress I’d love to wear. Often, in RTWs, there is one element I don’t like, like color, or button, or the hem, or the length, or whatev.
Writing. I am not talking about blog posts. Not even the magazine type articles that I write. I am talking about fiction. Short story. I hope I could sit down and really write soon.
Travel. I love going to places. It has always been my dream to see different parts of the country (and of the world?), meet people, experience different cultures, and write about them. For me, travel writing is one of the most enjoyable writing jobs on earth.
Photography. Travel articles will never look good without good travel photos. There is no ugly subject, only lousy photographers. I hope I can eventually cross the line between amateur and pro-like.
Videography. With the advent of photo-editing programs, it should be easily doable now. And with my online tutor (hehehe) to help me, I’m sure I’d soon be able to make loads and loads of good videos. (Hey, please give pointers, guys!)
Dressmaking. No, I am not planning to eventually put up a dressmaking business. All I wanna do is sew my own and family members’ dresses. I hate going from one boutique to another, and not being able to find a dress I’d love to wear. Often, in RTWs, there is one element I don’t like, like color, or button, or the hem, or the length, or whatev.
Writing. I am not talking about blog posts. Not even the magazine type articles that I write. I am talking about fiction. Short story. I hope I could sit down and really write soon.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
IN A HURRY
“Para ho, Mama!” I called out to the driver and immediately got off the FX when he pulled over. He seemed annoyed. “Sorry ho,” I mumbled apologetically, then walked away, not bothering to explain why I had to get off almost as soon as I boarded.
I cursed myself. It’s the third time in six weeks that I’d forgotten something. Last week, I forgot my research paper at the office, and only remembered to check it when I was almost at the school. Of course, I did go back to the office to retrieve it (I had no choice because it was the last day of submission) and missed nearly half of the lesson. I was also marked late.
This time, it’s my wallet I’d left. I would have decided not to go and get it, but I had nothing in my pockets. My only consolation is that I realized it while I was still a walking distance from my apartment.
I checked the time. It was already half past nine in the morning. I should already be at the MRT station by now. I walked faster, telling myself for the nth time to prepare everything I needed before leaving the house. But then, I realized I did prepare my things last night. I was just very much in a hurry this morning that I forgot to put back my wallet into my bag after pulling out a small bill. It must be lying on the bedside table.
I walked faster. But as I did, familiar words rang in my head: “Apay ngamin aya kabsat ta kasla ka la agapura nga ania. Dumanonkanto met laeng dita, patiennak. Madmadi man no apuraem amin a banag. Ad-adu ti mapukaw mo no kua ta madim’ maappreciate ti panagbarom. Iti panagbiag, kasla ka met la agdaldaliasat ket. No agap-apura ka a kankanayon, dim’ maapreciate dagiti malabasam. Ken ad-adu pay ti malipatam no kua! Baka isunto’t mapanmo subsublien!”
I cringed. Those were my words to my youngest brother, Ryan, when he contemplated getting married at the young age of 22. I wondered what he would tell me if he learned I’m also afflicted with “ap-apura” syndrome (though it’s of different form) and how hopeless my case is. “Manang, ti panagdaliasat, kasla met laeng panagbiag ket. No apura ka nga apura, ad-adu ti mapukawmo ta adu’t malipatam. Baka isunto ti subsubliam! Dimo la ngaruden maappreciate dagiti malabasam, sayang pay ti bannog ken pamasahem. No intedmo la koman a nayon ti igatang iti gatas ni Pau-pau (his son), di isu pay!”
“Oy, Sherma, ba’t ka nakangiti?“ It was Rose, my next-door neighbor and a good friend. Already dressed for work, she was just getting out of her room. I felt my face go hot. I realized I had already passed through our gate and I was already standing right in front of my door, stupidly smiling alone.
“Wala girl. I was just in a hurry,” I said, laughing, and ran into the house, leaving her deeply puzzled.
I cursed myself. It’s the third time in six weeks that I’d forgotten something. Last week, I forgot my research paper at the office, and only remembered to check it when I was almost at the school. Of course, I did go back to the office to retrieve it (I had no choice because it was the last day of submission) and missed nearly half of the lesson. I was also marked late.
This time, it’s my wallet I’d left. I would have decided not to go and get it, but I had nothing in my pockets. My only consolation is that I realized it while I was still a walking distance from my apartment.
I checked the time. It was already half past nine in the morning. I should already be at the MRT station by now. I walked faster, telling myself for the nth time to prepare everything I needed before leaving the house. But then, I realized I did prepare my things last night. I was just very much in a hurry this morning that I forgot to put back my wallet into my bag after pulling out a small bill. It must be lying on the bedside table.
I walked faster. But as I did, familiar words rang in my head: “Apay ngamin aya kabsat ta kasla ka la agapura nga ania. Dumanonkanto met laeng dita, patiennak. Madmadi man no apuraem amin a banag. Ad-adu ti mapukaw mo no kua ta madim’ maappreciate ti panagbarom. Iti panagbiag, kasla ka met la agdaldaliasat ket. No agap-apura ka a kankanayon, dim’ maapreciate dagiti malabasam. Ken ad-adu pay ti malipatam no kua! Baka isunto’t mapanmo subsublien!”
I cringed. Those were my words to my youngest brother, Ryan, when he contemplated getting married at the young age of 22. I wondered what he would tell me if he learned I’m also afflicted with “ap-apura” syndrome (though it’s of different form) and how hopeless my case is. “Manang, ti panagdaliasat, kasla met laeng panagbiag ket. No apura ka nga apura, ad-adu ti mapukawmo ta adu’t malipatam. Baka isunto ti subsubliam! Dimo la ngaruden maappreciate dagiti malabasam, sayang pay ti bannog ken pamasahem. No intedmo la koman a nayon ti igatang iti gatas ni Pau-pau (his son), di isu pay!”
“Oy, Sherma, ba’t ka nakangiti?“ It was Rose, my next-door neighbor and a good friend. Already dressed for work, she was just getting out of her room. I felt my face go hot. I realized I had already passed through our gate and I was already standing right in front of my door, stupidly smiling alone.
“Wala girl. I was just in a hurry,” I said, laughing, and ran into the house, leaving her deeply puzzled.
Friday, September 14, 2007
If Life Were a Novel
I’ve read somewhere that the people we cross paths with were put there by a divine hand, not at random, but very carefully, because they have a role to play in our lives. Some of these people will play significant roles, while others will have a very brief appearance because they play larger roles in others’ lives.
Lately I have been thinking, if the people that come to our lives and the events that happen were plotted by a divine hand, then our life is like a novel where the divine hand is the author, and we and the people that come to our lives are the characters.
For a while, this idea seemed acceptable to me, until another came to my mind: if our life was plotted from the very start, then we are simply acting out a role that has been given to us, and we are merely voicing out words that have been put to our mouth.
At this thought I became restless. I’ve always believed that our thoughts, feelings, actions, and words are ours. Because if they aren’t, then why would we be answerable for them to the very author who has willed us to think, feel, say, and do them? If we are only acting out a role and saying words that aren’t our own, then why would we be responsible for their consequences? With these thoughts, I realized that there is a glitch somewhere.
At first I suspected that the idea that someone has authored our life might be wrong. But I also found it unacceptable for it to be otherwise. After all, if our life depended entirely upon us — on our actions and that of others — then why are there things that are beyond our control? Why are there instances when, even with meticulous planning and execution, things just don’t happen the way we planned them? Why do we get to meet people we had not thought of, and had not even planned to meet? And why were we made to trudge this wilderness, with the family we had not picked to be born to, under certain conditions that had not been our own choosing?
With these thoughts swirling in my head, I came to the very same realization I had come to in my previous attempts to grasp man’s existence: that life is too mysterious for the human mind to fathom; that to attempt to do so would be like trying to put all the waters of an ocean into a hole the size of the human head.
But even with this realization, I still would not want to give up the attempt, not because I think I have what it takes to comprehend heavenly designs, but because I believe that having a picture of what we believe to be the design would be better by far than having nothing at all. After all, we are only as worthy as the value we put to ourselves. Our life is only as good as the meaning we ascribe to our existence.
At the moment, I still think that life can be likened to a novel, with the divine hand as the author, and us as the characters, except that this time, the author is understood to be unlike any mortal writer. Though like ordinary authors, He has chosen all the characters and the setting and has prepared the outline of our story, He has left the details to us — the characters. He has endowed us with the gifts of reason and insight to know right from wrong; giving us different ways on how we can proceed, and presenting us with options. And now thus equipped, he has allowed us to have a say in our story, of which we are both a character and a co-author.
______
The plot that is my life? Let me see. I’ve walked over valleys and plains, I’ve stumbled and tripped over humps many times, and I’ve been swept off by strong winds on some occasions; but I’ve also basked in the sun, sniffed sweet-scented flowers, and walked hand-in-hand with peace and happiness. So I believe I have a good life; my life is a fairly good book.
//Sherma E. Benosa; 29 August 2007; 2:29am
Lately I have been thinking, if the people that come to our lives and the events that happen were plotted by a divine hand, then our life is like a novel where the divine hand is the author, and we and the people that come to our lives are the characters.
For a while, this idea seemed acceptable to me, until another came to my mind: if our life was plotted from the very start, then we are simply acting out a role that has been given to us, and we are merely voicing out words that have been put to our mouth.
At this thought I became restless. I’ve always believed that our thoughts, feelings, actions, and words are ours. Because if they aren’t, then why would we be answerable for them to the very author who has willed us to think, feel, say, and do them? If we are only acting out a role and saying words that aren’t our own, then why would we be responsible for their consequences? With these thoughts, I realized that there is a glitch somewhere.
At first I suspected that the idea that someone has authored our life might be wrong. But I also found it unacceptable for it to be otherwise. After all, if our life depended entirely upon us — on our actions and that of others — then why are there things that are beyond our control? Why are there instances when, even with meticulous planning and execution, things just don’t happen the way we planned them? Why do we get to meet people we had not thought of, and had not even planned to meet? And why were we made to trudge this wilderness, with the family we had not picked to be born to, under certain conditions that had not been our own choosing?
With these thoughts swirling in my head, I came to the very same realization I had come to in my previous attempts to grasp man’s existence: that life is too mysterious for the human mind to fathom; that to attempt to do so would be like trying to put all the waters of an ocean into a hole the size of the human head.
But even with this realization, I still would not want to give up the attempt, not because I think I have what it takes to comprehend heavenly designs, but because I believe that having a picture of what we believe to be the design would be better by far than having nothing at all. After all, we are only as worthy as the value we put to ourselves. Our life is only as good as the meaning we ascribe to our existence.
At the moment, I still think that life can be likened to a novel, with the divine hand as the author, and us as the characters, except that this time, the author is understood to be unlike any mortal writer. Though like ordinary authors, He has chosen all the characters and the setting and has prepared the outline of our story, He has left the details to us — the characters. He has endowed us with the gifts of reason and insight to know right from wrong; giving us different ways on how we can proceed, and presenting us with options. And now thus equipped, he has allowed us to have a say in our story, of which we are both a character and a co-author.
______
The plot that is my life? Let me see. I’ve walked over valleys and plains, I’ve stumbled and tripped over humps many times, and I’ve been swept off by strong winds on some occasions; but I’ve also basked in the sun, sniffed sweet-scented flowers, and walked hand-in-hand with peace and happiness. So I believe I have a good life; my life is a fairly good book.
//Sherma E. Benosa; 29 August 2007; 2:29am
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The Traveler
Unpaved, the path’s long and winding
Curves abound and humps are plenty.
The trek’s arduous, the journey’s taxing
And the trail, narrow, rough and thorny.
You walk still, despite that your lane
Present you no refreshing scenery.
And your companion, a searing pain
Of your fruitless search, your misery.
Then finally you learn to listen
You start hearing your heart’s melody.
Then your eyes, you learn to open
The beauty around you, you begin to see.
You notice the compass guiding you
And the northern star lighting your way.
The open arms reaching out to you
Marking your track so you won’t stray.
Things, no longer do they seem bleak
The clouds that hovered above, now part.
The beams of light you used to seek
No longer elusive, now inside your heart.
You walk on; the journey’s not yet ended.
Beckoning, cheering you not to concede
Is destiny, waiting for you up ahead.
You take her hand; her voice you heed.
//Sherma E. Benosa;
11 September 2007; 1:26am
Curves abound and humps are plenty.
The trek’s arduous, the journey’s taxing
And the trail, narrow, rough and thorny.
You walk still, despite that your lane
Present you no refreshing scenery.
And your companion, a searing pain
Of your fruitless search, your misery.
Then finally you learn to listen
You start hearing your heart’s melody.
Then your eyes, you learn to open
The beauty around you, you begin to see.
You notice the compass guiding you
And the northern star lighting your way.
The open arms reaching out to you
Marking your track so you won’t stray.
Things, no longer do they seem bleak
The clouds that hovered above, now part.
The beams of light you used to seek
No longer elusive, now inside your heart.
You walk on; the journey’s not yet ended.
Beckoning, cheering you not to concede
Is destiny, waiting for you up ahead.
You take her hand; her voice you heed.
//Sherma E. Benosa;
11 September 2007; 1:26am
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Dead End
I cannot pass through you
but I can make a way around you.
You deter my progress
but you cannot stop me.
You are the slow-down sign,
the check-your-way reminder
in disguise.
You are the detour arrow
That makes me try another road.
Like a hump,
you stand on my way
so that I may not go too fast.
So I step on the brakes
To re-examine my road map.
And I halt a moment
For a well-deserved rest.
You are a dead end.
But my trek does not end with you
nor am I dead because of you.
‘Coz I’ll find another way.
And I’ll walk on.
//Sherma E. Benosa
August 29, 2007; 11:45pm
but I can make a way around you.
You deter my progress
but you cannot stop me.
You are the slow-down sign,
the check-your-way reminder
in disguise.
You are the detour arrow
That makes me try another road.
Like a hump,
you stand on my way
so that I may not go too fast.
So I step on the brakes
To re-examine my road map.
And I halt a moment
For a well-deserved rest.
You are a dead end.
But my trek does not end with you
nor am I dead because of you.
‘Coz I’ll find another way.
And I’ll walk on.
//Sherma E. Benosa
August 29, 2007; 11:45pm
Monday, August 27, 2007
One memorable experience
Johnny Hidalgo, Aida Tiama, SEB, F. Sionil Jose, Jovy AmorinMy first thought when I read Manong Johnny Hidalgo’s invitation to a poetry reading where I was to read three Iluko poems with other Iluko writers at La Solidaridad Bookstore, which is owned and managed by National Artist for Iluko Literature, F. Sionil Jose, was that it would be a good learning experience for me. So I excitedly said yes. I did not even bother to ask pertinent questions about the event.
It was only the following day, when Jake Ilac sent me a text message informing me he couldn’t go, that
I learned that the event to which we were invited was an exclusive poetry reading with PEN (Poets, Essayists, Novelists — an association of writers in English and Tagalog) members. It was then that it hit me: I am no poet! And I haven’t done nor watched professional poetry reading before. Could I possibly do it? Slowly, feelings of inadequacy started welling up inside me, but I immediately bottled it, telling myself it would be easy and that I could do it.My psyching up effort must have worked, for soon I was again excited about the whole idea. That is, until I got another message from Manong Jovy Amorin asking me if I was going to the poetry reading tomorrow. I was puzzled, because in my mind, the event was days away, only to realize that I got the date mixed up. (I thought August 25 was next Wednesday pa.)
I started to panic, because I did not have a poem by any Iluko poet ready, and I wanted to practice a little so I would not mess up. I wasn’t sure if I had any anthology of Iluko poems at my place (I remembered I’ve given some of my books to Dad). Good thing my ever reliable Dungngo is always there for me. He did not only re-schedule his hospital appointment so he could be with me before my performance, but he also looked for short poems for me.
While talking online, I asked Dungngo to listen to me as I practiced. Until now I can still imagine him shaking his head every time I mispronounced a word, or made a wrong intonation. I almost concluded that not only can’t I write a good Iluko poem, but also can’t even read. It took me several tries before he said I was getting better, although he still didn’t think I was doing great. Hmp!
The poetry reading? It was great! No, I'm not talking about my performance. I'm referring to the whole experience. Manong Jovy, Manang Aida and I felt so glad and honored we were invited to the event. We are all looking forward to another one like it. Me especially.
_______
Caption:
Other photo Writers Domingo Landicho, Juan Hidalgo, Jr. and Playwright Malou Jacob;
Sunday, August 26, 2007
A chapter lived... and completed
We’ve finally wrapped up our September issue of H&L last Friday, after all the delays and hassles and nasty stress we’ve been through, caused by the holiday (last Monday was Ninoy Aquino day) and the floods last week which prompted management to cancel work on Wednesday and Friday.
As I watched our layout artist, Manong Gary, save the PDF files onto a CD, I heaved a sigh of relief. One issue down! Then I realized it was to be my last. Suddenly, surprisingly, I was enveloped with melancholy.
I've always known I would feel sad about leaving my friends behind. But the melancholy I felt last Friday was more for the realization that, starting September 3, I will no longer hold the reins of H&L. Another chapter of my life finished. I corked that thought, reminding myself that this is what I’ve always wanted.
Having worked for the company for almost three years, I think I've learned enough for the next phase — my ultimate career goal: to work freelance. Now, I’m ready to move on. I hope.
I do understand that in this new stage, I will be facing a different set of challenges, foremost of which is the fact that there will no longer be regular paychecks. I hope the preparations I’ve done would help me get through at least the first three months of my “bumship.” After that, I should be okay. I should have already settled by December. I hope. I pray.
As I watched our layout artist, Manong Gary, save the PDF files onto a CD, I heaved a sigh of relief. One issue down! Then I realized it was to be my last. Suddenly, surprisingly, I was enveloped with melancholy.
I've always known I would feel sad about leaving my friends behind. But the melancholy I felt last Friday was more for the realization that, starting September 3, I will no longer hold the reins of H&L. Another chapter of my life finished. I corked that thought, reminding myself that this is what I’ve always wanted.
Having worked for the company for almost three years, I think I've learned enough for the next phase — my ultimate career goal: to work freelance. Now, I’m ready to move on. I hope.
I do understand that in this new stage, I will be facing a different set of challenges, foremost of which is the fact that there will no longer be regular paychecks. I hope the preparations I’ve done would help me get through at least the first three months of my “bumship.” After that, I should be okay. I should have already settled by December. I hope. I pray.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Publishing Responsibility and Paper Integrity
(Malu Fernandez and her 'Diva-ciousness')
I initially did not want to write about it because I thought if I do, I’d just make the person in question — Ms. Malu Fernandez, a Manila Standard Today society columnist — become even more famous (she is now a big name in the Pinoy blogosphere because of a controversial article she wrote for People Asia, a monthly lifestyle magazine).
So many hurtful words have been hurled at her in practically every blog where her name is mentioned, that I don’t think I’d be adding any more effect if I also lash at her. So I try not to (although I admit that to be really nice in this case would entail a lot of effort).
What made me decide to write about her any way, despite my initial restraint, is the fact that most of the bashings I’ve read about her infamous article had been directed at her. How about the magazine that published her piece?
If her piece was self-published (meaning, it appeared on her blog), I would have simply called it rubbish and I would have just moved on to another blog. I would not even waste my time leaving a comment on it. But her piece appeared in a glossy magazine, for goodness sake! What were the editors thinking paying for and publishing an article that contains nothing but bitching and whining, and reflects the author’s palpable insecurity?
If the editors of People Asia had been doing their job, the article should have gone straight to the trash can. There simply is nothing in the article that's worth publishing; I wonder why they published it anyway.
The editors of Manila Standard Today are also not blameless. They should have advised Malu against writing her 'apology' which isn't an apology, but a defense of her earlier article. Could they have not known that her statement would further infuriate the public? I doubt it. I'm sure they have foreseen it.
The editors of both publications (primarily People Asia) may say that what they published are solely the author's opinion, not the paper's, but editors can always choose not to publish a piece if they think it would compromise the paper. That's primarily what editors are for, in the first place.
Another reason I decided to react to her "apology"is the fact that in it, she did not really apologize. She stood by her article, calling her piece “funny and witty” and insinuating that those who found fault in it were either simply stupid or belonging to the “have-nots and wannabe’s” [read: poor]. Her original article is already condescending to the highest level you'd think she cannot get any worse, but you read her subsequent statement and you know you'd just been proven wrong. Her "apology" is so unbelievably full of vile.
Before reading her statement, I thought I knew humor and wit, but now I am not sure. And I don’t think I’d still want to be called witty or funny if to be either or both would mean writing rubbish materials. I think I’d rather be a dullard and a bore.
Ay, wait lang. Didn't I say I’d try to be nice?
_____________
Click on the following links: First page, Second Page to read Ms. Fernandez’ piece published in People Asia.
Read Ms. Fernandez' subsequent defense of her piece (published in her Manila Standard Today column): Defense
UPDATE
It looks like as I was posting my piece, Ms. Fernandez was issuing an apology. Please read her apology below:
"I am humbled by the vehement and heated response provoked by my article entitled 'From Boracay to Greece!' which came out in the June 2007 issue of People Asia. To say that this article was not meant to malign, hurt or express prejudice against the OFWs now sounds hollow after reading through all the blogs from Filipinos all over the world. I am deeply apologetic for my insensitivity and the offensive manner in which this article was written, I hear you all and I am properly rebuked. It was truly not my intention to malign hurt or express prejudice against OFWs.
As the recent recipient and target of death threats, hate blogs, and deeply personal insults, I now truly understand the insidiousness of discrimination and prejudice disguised as humor. Our society is bound together by human chains of kindness and decency. I have failed to observe this and I am now reaping the consequences of my actions. It is my fervent hope that the lessons that Ive learned are not lost on all those who through anonymous blogs, engaged in bigotry, discrimination, and hatred ( against overweight individuals , for example ).
I take full responsibility for my actions and my friends and family have nothing to do with this. To date I have submitted my resignation letters to both the Manila Standard and People Asia, on that note may this matter be laid to rest."
I initially did not want to write about it because I thought if I do, I’d just make the person in question — Ms. Malu Fernandez, a Manila Standard Today society columnist — become even more famous (she is now a big name in the Pinoy blogosphere because of a controversial article she wrote for People Asia, a monthly lifestyle magazine).
So many hurtful words have been hurled at her in practically every blog where her name is mentioned, that I don’t think I’d be adding any more effect if I also lash at her. So I try not to (although I admit that to be really nice in this case would entail a lot of effort).
What made me decide to write about her any way, despite my initial restraint, is the fact that most of the bashings I’ve read about her infamous article had been directed at her. How about the magazine that published her piece?
If her piece was self-published (meaning, it appeared on her blog), I would have simply called it rubbish and I would have just moved on to another blog. I would not even waste my time leaving a comment on it. But her piece appeared in a glossy magazine, for goodness sake! What were the editors thinking paying for and publishing an article that contains nothing but bitching and whining, and reflects the author’s palpable insecurity?
If the editors of People Asia had been doing their job, the article should have gone straight to the trash can. There simply is nothing in the article that's worth publishing; I wonder why they published it anyway.
The editors of Manila Standard Today are also not blameless. They should have advised Malu against writing her 'apology' which isn't an apology, but a defense of her earlier article. Could they have not known that her statement would further infuriate the public? I doubt it. I'm sure they have foreseen it.
The editors of both publications (primarily People Asia) may say that what they published are solely the author's opinion, not the paper's, but editors can always choose not to publish a piece if they think it would compromise the paper. That's primarily what editors are for, in the first place.
Another reason I decided to react to her "apology"is the fact that in it, she did not really apologize. She stood by her article, calling her piece “funny and witty” and insinuating that those who found fault in it were either simply stupid or belonging to the “have-nots and wannabe’s” [read: poor]. Her original article is already condescending to the highest level you'd think she cannot get any worse, but you read her subsequent statement and you know you'd just been proven wrong. Her "apology" is so unbelievably full of vile.
Before reading her statement, I thought I knew humor and wit, but now I am not sure. And I don’t think I’d still want to be called witty or funny if to be either or both would mean writing rubbish materials. I think I’d rather be a dullard and a bore.
Ay, wait lang. Didn't I say I’d try to be nice?
_____________
Click on the following links: First page, Second Page to read Ms. Fernandez’ piece published in People Asia.
Read Ms. Fernandez' subsequent defense of her piece (published in her Manila Standard Today column): Defense
UPDATE
It looks like as I was posting my piece, Ms. Fernandez was issuing an apology. Please read her apology below:
"I am humbled by the vehement and heated response provoked by my article entitled 'From Boracay to Greece!' which came out in the June 2007 issue of People Asia. To say that this article was not meant to malign, hurt or express prejudice against the OFWs now sounds hollow after reading through all the blogs from Filipinos all over the world. I am deeply apologetic for my insensitivity and the offensive manner in which this article was written, I hear you all and I am properly rebuked. It was truly not my intention to malign hurt or express prejudice against OFWs.
As the recent recipient and target of death threats, hate blogs, and deeply personal insults, I now truly understand the insidiousness of discrimination and prejudice disguised as humor. Our society is bound together by human chains of kindness and decency. I have failed to observe this and I am now reaping the consequences of my actions. It is my fervent hope that the lessons that Ive learned are not lost on all those who through anonymous blogs, engaged in bigotry, discrimination, and hatred ( against overweight individuals , for example ).
I take full responsibility for my actions and my friends and family have nothing to do with this. To date I have submitted my resignation letters to both the Manila Standard and People Asia, on that note may this matter be laid to rest."
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