full circle

On Twitter:

Preparing for brother VJ's wedding in San Agustin Church. Our parents got married there so their story will come full circle this afternoon.
12:29 PM May 2nd via Ping.fm

Bulacan unreal-ism

Long-time residents of San Rafael, Bulacan, say that this small chamber in their Old Church was where the boy on whom Rizal based the character of Crispin was locked up, whipped and died. There are no signs outside the church indicating this piece of literary history.

I found the church using tips from Tito Doc and Tito Ante. When I reached the church, I saw that the main entrance to the convent was locked and I reached the hidden room by climbing a flight of stairs at the back of the convent and passing through an empty kitchen, dining area and local museum.

Village elders say that after the Revolution, one could still see handprints in dried blood on the walls- now only a painting of the Noli's chapter 15 gives a clue to the historical significance of the place.

It was while walking through this church- the museum, choir loft, and belfry- when I finally had a dream- a flash like lightning- and pictured the answer to the question of the young woman in a green dress, about her husband's other son.

What's he like?

Just like in our school days, I saw that he remains a stylish dresser, someone who wears obscure, but well-crafted brands (like IWC). In the past, there were days when he and his best friend would wear black-rimmed glasses, though they didn't need to: many of us in the class didn't know it was geek chic, they were that sartorially advanced.

He was always smiling and pleasant to talk to- I never heard him say a bad word about anyone. We made small talk whenever we met- nothing serious, so I really didn't know much about him. Neither of us knew then that both our grandparents came from the same province.

He had an active social life and loved to party at night.

He wasn't very confident about his study skills, but I pictured that he discovered his unique intelligences later on. His visual intelligence, in particular, is very advanced: he sees patterns of form and color that escape ordinary people. One sees it in his sartorial choices- clean, simple, and stylish clothes- as well as the way he composes pictures with his camera: he loves minute details, patterns of lines, and reflections on water. He runs in the city's marathons.

I saw the relationship blooming at the height of his father's popularity and his birth a few months after Marcos declared Martial Law. He is now married and has two kids. He lives a private life.

family

When my friends Michal from Poland and K. from Korea arrived in the Philippines, I had the chance to introduce them to my entire extended family. My concept of family is organic and porous: since I was a child, I would spend a few days, or even a few weeks, with an aunt or an uncle on my father's side, and while growing up I lived with various cousins, nephews, and nieces of my mom.

Before climbing the Pinatubo volcano, the three of us spent the night in Village Inn Cabanatuan, a special place. While growing up, I spent summers here learning how to swim in the pool. This was where I recuperated each time my cousin Kuya Dondi and his dentist friend pulled a wisdom tooth: my nurse-aunt, Tita Violy, would then give me arroz caldo (Filipino rice congee) which always made me feel better. As an undergrad, Village Inn was where I nursed a broken heart (though I wasn't aware of it then). It was also where I reviewed for law school's entrance exams (which Prof. Disini said I topped).

At 5 in the morning, seeing the faces of my friends aglow with peace in the inn's garden, I knew that the magic of the place had descended on them too. Later, they would both say it was meeting my family that was the highlight of their trip.

The magic of Village Inn- and perhaps of my experience of Cabanatuan itself- is a product of the love of two people, the hotel's founders Tita Violy and my uncle Tito Doc (shown serving coffee and papaya fruit in the picture taken by Ric Lopez above). It's a love that radiates like the sun to their many relatives and friends, even entire clans and communities.

People would sometimes ask why I'm close to them- especially to Tito Doc- and I think part of the reason is we had the gift of space, both geographical and psychological. One can be blinded or get burnt by staying too near the sun too long. We spent just enough time to enjoy each other's company, appreciate each other's achievements, and look forward to our next get-together.

Tita Violy and Tito Doc are a blessing to me.

When choosing my course and campus as a high school graduate, I sought their advice: my life with its twists and turns, I imagine, would've turned out straighter and much less interesting had they answered my question differently. And after I became a lawyer they helped me rediscover my old avatars of writer and editor, as well as create new ones: photographer, videographer, website designer, and entrepreneur. They had faith that I would excel in anything I set out to do- not because I had already proven myself (oftentimes, they were my first clients in a venture, my angel investors or evangelists), but because they chose to believe in me. I realized myself as an artist- and as a human being- because of their love and imagination, their rare gift of suspending disbelief. Aside from being a refuge, Village Inn became my laboratory for creative projects my project associates and I would later develop on a national and international scale.

One morning after mass in the cathedral that they're helping build- it would be the largest one in Central Luzon when it's completed- I gave them my copy of The Intangibles That Make a Nation Great signed by the author Jovito Salonga. While we were in the car, I thanked them for our adventures- our many happy moments.

Always comfortable giving- I sensed, much more than receiving- they were quiet for some time.

They were already thinking of the next challenge they would give me.

Tatang

During one retreat in this Mindanaon monastery, I asked for permission from Father Col to join the monks in their labora or manual labor. All guests are welcome to join communal prayer during certain canonical hours starting with Lauds at 3:30 AM, but I was the first ever to volunteer to help with farmwork: I wanted to follow the community's motto of ora et labora (pray and work) as fully as possible during my stay, to see what spiritual fruit I could harvest from the experience.

I was given a straw hat and a bolo knife and assigned to help a monk cut wild grass and vines in one of the orchards. These contemplative monks have a vow of silence, but I do have a propensity- by my mere presence- for getting people to talk and pretty soon my companion was chatting about monastic life: how they grew much of the food on their table and sold their corn and coffee beans in the market; the financial challenges of running a monastery and farm; and their bemusement when another religious order which was prohibited by its rules from working begged them for food and alms.

That afternoon, while avoiding the bees the buzzed merrily around us, I remembered my late paternal grandfather (he appears with my brother Ojee in the picture above). Tatang was a rice farmer in Sapang Putik his entire life: with the support and business sense of my grandmother Inang, he was able to put all of their seven children through college.

Years later, while doing research for a book, I found out that he was also part of the Resistance during World War II- our family farm is in the heart of what was then called the Bulacan Military Area or BMA. During the War, no enemy soldier reached his guerrilla camp and lived to tell the tale. After the War, since he had fought as a guerrilla, his eldest child- my Tito Doc- received financial benefits in college from the government.

During lunch one summer while I was vacationing in Bukid, Tatang told my cousins Marc and Marcy and me to remember the hands that were responsible for our rice and food. He himself farmed the rice fields, but we his grandchildren were not asked to join him (he'd say it was too hot under the sun). He was a quiet man who hardly spoke, which was probably why his lesson of putting just enough food and eating each grain of rice on one's plate stuck. These days, for better health, I stop eating once I feel full, but not without first hearing Tatang's husky, gentle voice reminding me to feel grateful.

From the afternoon of labora in the monastery, guided by Tatang's spirit, I learned about the beauty and dignity of working with one's hands in tune with nature and the seasons. It was one of my happiest afternoons: I resolved to learn more about gardening and agriculture.

Tito Doc said that Tatang, while working in the fields during seasons of drought, would sometimes sigh, and his sigh would turn into a prayer: "Diyos ko, huwag Niyo pong pabayaan ang aking tanim." And it was a powerful prayer, for each time, a cloud would be seen floating toward Tatang's fields, stopping to hover above them and bring rain to the thirsty plants.

During one discussion about religion, I heard Tatay give an even better description of Tatang's simple faith: it was his work, labora, itself. For Tatang, as it should be for us all, laborare est orare- to work is to pray.

Tarlac unreal-ized 1

I woke up before dawn today to see outside my window a sky with pink and rose hues and- without the aid of my glasses- bokeh sparkling on the branches of a mango tree. And then I saw her again: the young woman wearing a green dress sat on the chair beside my bed. She said "hello" and waved a pale hand: in the half-light, her fingers looked like butterfly wings.

"It's a big day tomorrow, isn't it?" she asked. "Who are you voting for?"

And then she asked, "Do you remember going to school with my husband's son?"

I said I didn't- I never studied in the Ateneo (well, except recently for some short courses).

"No, no, think again- you were classmates."

I closed my eyes to try to remember, but when I opened them, I was alone in the room and a warmer, golden sunlight was streaming through the window. I looked at the alarm clock: it was already past 7 AM.

I first met her last year on my favorite stretch of highway in Tarlac. It looked new, and not many cars were passing through it yet. It was around noon- a sweltering first day of August- and I was going back to Manila from Cabanatuan.

Right after I passed through the toll gate, I had a flat tire, which two highway patrolmen helped me replace with my spare. When we were done, one of them asked if I could give a young woman a ride back to Manila. He pointed to the back of their white pick-up and I saw her looking out a back seat window. She gave us a shy smile- I thought she looked vaguely familiar, someone I may have already met.

"Sure," I said distractedly.

I was in a hurry to get home and I forgot to ask for her name or tell her mine. I had the car radio on, and several times we heard "Salamat Tita Cory" radio ads. I told my companion I thought it was a nice gesture: letting someone know she's appreciated, to give her the strength to overcome her illness. The young woman remained quiet and just looked out the window at the fields outside- she seemed lost in her own thoughts.

We reached the gas station where I usually buy halo-halo. I asked if it was alright if we just rested for 15 minutes.

Before stepping out of the car, she asked about the gadget I was charging in the compartment below the radio.

"It's an iPhone," I said.

"Can it check the Internet?" she asked. "Could you please look for the name of someone I know?"

I typed the name she gave me in the phone's Safari browser and read a message that stunned me: "My lola's in a better place now. Thank you Philippines..."

I checked my friends' status updates on Facebook. That was when I understood what the radio ads were about- when everything changed.

I went to the washroom and splashed cold water on my face, then quickly returned to the car and waited for the woman to return. When after 30 minutes she didn't come back, I tried looking for her in the shops. But like a fey spirit of earth and air- or a figment of one's imagination- she was gone. Until this morning, I did not see her again, though in the next few months I would hear her voice in my dreams.

ilustrado

Macmillan held the international launch of Ilustrado by Miguel Syjuco in Manila and Cebu this past week. The novel won the Grand Prize for the Novel in English at the 2008 Palanca Awards (with Mr. H as chair of the panel of judges). In November of 2008, it won the Man Asian Literary Prize.

I got to meet the author "Chuck" when he was still preparing his manuscript for publication. I found him articulate, friendly and down-to-earth. Here's a picture I took of him with two other lovely people: London-based poet/ actress Mida Azada and National Book Development Board (NBDB) executive director/ fictionist Andrea Pasion-Flores.

Some interesting articles on the global launch are here and here. A great interview on the writer's life and work habits is here.

Ilustrado's US book tour schedule is here.

Join what Miguel Syjuco calls the "great discussion" by getting your copy from Amazon (European/ Canadian cover or Philippine/ American cover) or from National Book Store (at a special introductory price of Php 308, 20% off the SRP of Php 385, until the end of April).

Get inspired to write and create!

summer fling