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Tuesday, February 9th, 2016

Subject:So.
Time:12:01 am.
Mood: amused.
Nainggit kay Tin. Available ang pangalan. Matagal nang plano. Tapos ang kwento.

Versions of violence.

Subok lang. Malay natin, sumaya 'ko. :)

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Tuesday, January 31st, 2012

Subject:#occupythepage, The 2011-2012 Philippine Collegian Anthology Call for Submissions
Time:1:18 am.
Mood: optimistic.


At a time when revolutions are born in cyberspace and global thought is summarized in hashtags, the artist is in limbo: empowered by a supposed democratization of culture but now rendered more placeless (useless?) than ever. And in the advent of a worldwide expression of rage against greed, who else but the artist must sound the alarm?

The Philippine Collegian, the official weekly student publication of UP Diliman, is now accepting submissions for its upcoming literary folio. Short fiction, poems, essays, and graphic fiction in English and Filipino are welcome. We are also accepting photographs and artworks.

Email your submissions as an attachment (.rtf for texts and .png or .jpeg for images, at least 300 dpi) with a short bionote to kulelitfolio@gmail.com or bring them to our office, Room 401 Vinzons Hall, UP Diliman. The deadline for submissions is March 15.

PS. Marjo and I will be editing! With some help from Jayson Fajarda and Caloy Piocos. Submit!
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Thursday, December 1st, 2011

Subject:--
Time:3:13 am.
Mood: blah.


From here.
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Monday, November 21st, 2011

Subject:--
Time:9:13 pm.
Mood: better.
I miss you, LJ. :)

I think I will go back to you soon, prodigal son-, player who eventually settled-style.
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Saturday, September 24th, 2011

Subject:--
Time:9:41 pm.
Mood: OK.
If you know any Collegian alumnus who might be out of the loop:

More than writing

Was bullied by Melane to come up with something, to boost publicity and shit. Please disseminate!
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Tuesday, August 9th, 2011

Subject:Kiligz powhz.
Time:5:40 am.
Mood: headache.
Beautiful night; the poet whose collection I did my final paper on not only asked for my number, she asked me to send her my paper, and, upon leaving, approached me to say goodbye and make beso. A couple hours earlier, newly arrived Kat was like, "Hello! 'Di ba ikaw si Mabi David?" HAHAHAH. Starstruck! Tongue-tied. She was so nice! Calm, calm. Also: new literary crush, but will shut up about that. After Ilyong's, went over to fetch Alaysa for celebratory yogurt because Ninotchka Rosca commented on her status on Facebook. Then went over to watch Norwegian Wood with Alan. Bought pan de sal with chunky peanut butter. Beautiful night! Thanks for the company, Tin!

Thanks for the beer, and good luck, Chingbee!

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Sunday, August 7th, 2011

Subject:Rain at 4:30 in the morning, and this:
Time:4:48 am.
Mood: restless.


which sounds, for some reason, dear Adele, victorious-empty. Pyrrhic, almost. Like the boy she found can make her happy, but he can't take the gloom out of her. Oye, overreading. Nothing in the text suggests so. But the tone, the tone. Going for calm, obviously, and maybe smugness, but crossing over to something else. A ewan.

There is always someone

At some point, the city becomes his lover, traffic his lullaby, torrential rain a surprise burst of emotions running down pavements, its damp cheeks. He tells the driver his destination, a word meaning intelligent, then a big hospital as additional clue. But in the coffee shop he cups the warmth like the concave of someone’s mouth and the city beyond the sweaty glass becomes a memory. There is always someone in the vicinity whose warmth he thinks of: the one behind the expensive laptop, the one buried in books, the one who is always there, in that spot near the terra cotta pots, as familiar as the various routes available in case of flooding, in case of unusually heavy volume of cars on the road. He imagines taking the seat across him with the boldness that only intimacy affords, a swell of love, a cursory “Where were we?” and the many words we assign to the task of continuing where we left of.

Grrr. Chingbee-wannabee!

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Thursday, August 4th, 2011

Subject:Stuffs XXII
Time:2:35 am.
Mood: bouncy.
  • Am writing a lyric sequence. Hmm, really like how that sounds. Also, like the requirement itself, surprised as we all were that will be workshopping a series of poems, and not disparate ones. To prepare for it, took up sequences by Shakespeare, Donne, Rilke, Hughes, Sexton, Olds, and Gluck. Lots of Gluck. Requirement is 20 poems with thematic center and movement and shit. Myth with confession. Calendrical, chronological, or narratological. Plot or depth.
  • Prof warned that will be an obsessive project. Something that requires prolonged dwelling. Was told to stay out of topics that can push selves toward brink of insanity, e.g., one's distant father, one who got away, etc. So decided to do Bakla in the City sequence. Hope not as frivolous as it sounds, though. "City" is ongoing preoccupation, while bakla will, oversimplification aside, be about being tiny fish in ocean of gayness, i.e., search for love, sex, happiness, etc. Afraid it won't be as personal as necessary, but that is the point.
  • Have to come up with 3 poems by Wednesday. Oh dear. Maybe will recycle poems? Is it not self-plagiarism?
  • To prepare for grueling process, have been reading poem sequences and listening to Adele's 21 album. Starting to contemplate on - brr - past attempts at love, and happiness and, today, being alone in no uncertain terms. O lord. Finally see what prof means. But maybe will end sequence on positive note: like how 21 ends with I Found a Boy. See? Positive.
  • Meanwhile, deadlines for fiction and nonfiction workshops also this week. Fiction (non-realist) is lame attempt at speculative, alternate reality about reversed political pecking order. Non-fic is about Cubao, and the city's violence rendered unseen by its ubiquity. Prepared to get criticism that non-fic doesn't have enough I, and prepared to yell to rest of class, That is the bloody point.
  • Planned, in this barrage of requirements, to banish self from online stuff, although option rendered impossible as works are submitted and even critiqued online. Grr.


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Thursday, July 28th, 2011

Subject:--
Time:2:34 pm.
Mood: lungkot.
Sa ‘yo, kaibigan
(Kay A)

Alam mo naman ang halina ng pag-upo
sa lupa sa panahong ito, kung kailan
ginugupo tayo ng mga dambuhalang
nakatayo at nakatitig nang may buong
pagmamalaki. Ang tawag ng paglapit
sa lupang unang gumuhit ng kapalaran
bago tayo umibig, at inibig, nagkamali
sa pinili, at winaglit ng pumili sa atin.
Alam mo rin ang maglakad sa dilim
nang may kamay sa palad, at tinig sa
taingang nagsasabing, “Masdam mo
ang buwan sa langit at pakadamhin
ang init ng katawan, at lamig ng ihip.”

Ngunit ngayong nasasadlak sa bukas
na walang tugon, sa paglisan na walang
pag-amin, kaibigan, alam mo naman
ang mga paraan at daan tungo sa akin,
ang mga pasilyo at siwang na hindi
kailanman ipipinid upang madaluyan
ng iyong luha, tumulo man ito sa lupa
o iwaglit sa hangin. Sa isang buntong-
hininga ako ay darating, bitbit hindi
ang pangakong maaampat ang sugat,
ngunit ang pagsalok sa dugo upang
inumin at magpalakas sa pagal na 
pusong iibig muli, at iibig, at iibig.


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Thursday, July 21st, 2011

Subject:Stuffs XXI
Time:10:01 pm.
Mood: :|.
So:
  • My friends know: when I'm feeling restless, worthless, and other-less (aw), I like planning trips and itineraries. Knowing what I know now, it's an attempt to visualize space and distance and perspective. Then someone alerted me to a Cebu Pacific promo and voila! I am headed to Cagayan de Oro in October. Have alerted Philline! Excited! Whee! Although:
  • Booking for one. The story of my life.
  • On second thought, maybe should've checked academic calendar first. Hope no finals stuff scheduled. Speaking of which, the three workshop classes I have this sem have decided to play a trick on me, i.e., pegging all workshop slots/submissions on August 5. Awesome. Hoping for a three-tracked mind.
  • A poem:

    The Garden
    Louise Glück

    I couldn’t do it again,
    I can hardly bear to look at it—

    in the garden, in light rain
    the young couple planting
    a row of peas, as though
    no one has ever done this before,
    the great difficulties have never as yet
    been faced and solved—

    They cannot see themselves,
    in fresh dirt, starting up
    without perspective,
    the hills behind them pale green,
    clouded with flowers—

    She wants to stop;
    he wants to get to the end,
    to stay with the thing—

    Look at her, touching his cheek
    to make a truce, her fingers
    cool with spring rain;
    in thin grass, bursts of purple crocus—

    even here, even at the beginning of love,
    her hand leaving his face makes
    an image of departure

    and they think
    they are free to overlook
    this sadness.
  • Packed day tomorrow. Raket in Makati at 9, then class at 1 until 7, then Philline in Katips/everywhere else until 5 the following day. Worse, will be in corporate attire the whole time, unless get the energy to haul nice shirt, shorts, and tsinelas (highly doubt it).
  • Alan asked about plans for second sem and mind was blank. Oh no, are we back to direction-less malingering? I thought-- Need compass. Or paperweight. Or another. So sad.


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Tuesday, July 12th, 2011

Subject:Color him gone.*
Time:3:38 am.
Mood: calm.
Ang lamig ng sahig. Hindi ito metaphor. Observation lang. Nung pinanuod namin ang Once noong isang linggo, pagpasok na pagpasok ng vacuum cleaner sa eksena, heto na si Alan, "Metaphor yan! Metaphor yan!" Hay, sabi ko sa kanya, kaya pirmi tayong restless dahil dyan! Sabi nga ni Neil sa klase, sa totoong buhay naman, naiisip mo lang ang mga metaphor 'pag patulog ka na at naisipan mong mag-isip-isip. Pag pilit mong nilalapatan ng metaphor ang mga bagay, ang tawag dyan sa fiction, heavyhanded. Haha.

Tapos nag-crash ang laptop. Bigla na lang nag-shut down tapos pagbukas ko, na-wafaz na lahat ng laman. Syempre nalungkot ako nang ilang sandali, mga ilang minuto kong inisip habang gumagawa ng kape. Tapos OK na. Medyo nakakapanghinayang yung mga kwentong halfway, pero ano pa bang magagawa ko. Move on na, Glenn, hello.

Tapos: natuklasan kong hindi pala nawala/winala ang mga file. Naka-hide lang, para siguro hindi matamaan ng virus. Syempre, ang usapan naging, Ay, parang tao lang, pag nanganganib na masira ang mga memorya, kinukubli, para mailigtas, tinatago para balikan sa hinaharap. Peste lang di ba? Kaya hindi tayo sumasaya e! Dahil sa mga ganitong usapan! Tulad ni Mel, na nagtatali lang ng buhok tapos may naiwang isang strand. Aba, ang sabi naman, E ganoon naman sa buhay, laging may naiiwan.

Ang dulo, naibalik ni Om lahat ng files ko. Bahagya akong nalungkot, dahil handa na ako na magsimula sa wala. O ayan, metaphor na talaga yan. Files at baggage -- "the one you can't check in" (Resil Mojares, 2006 ata).

*Pasintabi kay Bb. Streisand, walang kinalaman ang awit rito; mood-setting lang talaga ang melodrama at pagbirit, i.e., Theseeee are the eyeees that watched him as he walked away, color themmmm greeeyyy!

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Wednesday, June 29th, 2011

Subject:Once.
Time:8:47 pm.
Mood: blank.
So, so tough to be zen these days:
  • A retired cardinal had v. succinct, erudite comments on the whole gay people marrying in Baguio, namely, "Yuck" and "Kadiri." The local bishop, meanwhile, said the participants had "mental problems." Hmm. Pajero.
  • A couple of weeks ago, this LGBT group invited me to read some poems for a fundraiser in Conspiracy. I regretfully declined, as I fear I didn't have anything remotely representative of the cause (also, my poems are, like, pangit; no false humility here, just stating a fact). But now I am so, so mad, I wish I had said yes.
  • Alan, Aling, and I saw Once a couple of nights ago in her and Om's place. Aling and I sang along. Aling, beautiful and clever and nice, couldn't sing for shit.
  • Bought three polos a couple of days ago. It's one of the few times when they appeal to me. Also, I've been wearing more and more baggy stuff lately. This, potentially, has existential roots, something about acceptance, but it shall be the last time I touch on anything resembling fashion.
  • Started on that two-week whole wheat cereal diet, and today, Day 2, cereal had started to taste like dirt.
  • SONA coming up. Noynoy's incompetence and utter, utter lack of analysis when it comes to key issues (and silence, which is worse, on others) are maddening, and I will see you there.
  • Realized one of the few things that could set me off is whole art-for-art's-sake thesis, that beauty, and artfulness, are ends in themselves, that "high art" is inherently classist. O baka kasi kaibigan ko ang nagsabi. Ang sasabihin ni Tel dito, history lesson plez.
  • Saw Wit earlier in class. Probably the third time I've seen it. Films like Wit, they remind me why I like writing. Stories.

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Friday, June 24th, 2011

Subject:Perspective.
Time:1:04 am.
Mood: broken.
Say this television program, there is an old woman, plump and sad and crying, who was imprisoned for a pack of marijuana worth P10. It wasn't hers, she says, she doesn't even smoke cigarettes. What crime, the host asks, can the aged and infirm commit?

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Tuesday, June 21st, 2011

Subject:Lull.
Time:1:14 pm.
Mood: OK.
Or lol.

Right now, Nadal is playing some anonymous qualifier in the first round of Wimbledon. I remember telling Om, that one week we stayed in his house in Baguio, how people seemed calmer, tamer in the city, owming perhaps to the cold weather, and how it renders people paralyzed into inactivity and by extension apathy (as in, mahirap maging agit kung nanginginig ka sa lamig). That explains why, here, in my couch, coffee and tennis, in the aftermath of a 37-page paper on judicial assessment and reform, there is peace.

OK, said qualifier (who, upon closer look, resembles Will Ferrel) just took two consecutive dives to reach for the ball, never mind that he is 1-0 set, 4-1 games down. The audience laughed and cheered: screaming effort, in the face of certain, crushing defeat, is admirable (and bloody hilarious).

I was in Davao last week for a raket, and it was depressing: first time in Mindanao, and you stay in your hotel for four days. Amazing. Plans to meet up with the Magnolia boys were sidelined, because after several interviews and the discovery that Grand Regal is on the other side of the city from UP, I was too kapoy to even think about it. Heck, we couldn't even swim, and the bloody pool was on our bloody floor. (Raket itself is amazing, crash course in ARMM politics and invitations to visit municipalities by mayors themselves, the bloody pile of deliverablse notwithstanding).


Overworked; sana overpaid din. Hi, Katt!


The bad news was, I had to skip first week of school. Good thing nonfiction class didn't meet, so I only had poetry and fiction to worry about (thanks to classmates Eva and Alan, I've a clue what happened; in fact, will go later to SC to photocopy what I expect to be dangkal-thick readings). Yes, I've decided to encroach on all three genres this sem just to see how each one feels. But will most probably stick with fiction. I know me: I need all the motivation in the world to produce, and threats in manner of potential tres or singko are a good start.

In this regard, ha! I might be included in a poetry anthology. I am a fucking poet! Haha. Hahahaha. Kapoy.

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Monday, June 13th, 2011

Subject:32 Questions Book Meme
Time:5:44 am.
Mood: odd.
I am also having trouble sleeping (because of all the legal/development/neoliberal ideas in my head). Gacked from Alyza.

****

1) What author do you own the most books by?

It's a toss up among Murakami, Amis, and Atwood. But I've given away one Amis and one Atwood during Duma so probably Murakami (although my Kafka on the Shore is with someone I no longer remember and wished were more honest).

2) What book do you own the most copies of?

I'm not one of those people who collect several copies of their favorite books. I consider it selfish and pointless.

3) Did it bother you that both those questions ended with prepositions?

No.

4) What fictional character are you secretly in love with?

Toru Watanabe from Norwegian Wood and K from The Trial (odd combination, surely?).

5) What book have you read the most times in your life (excluding picture books read to children; i.e., Goodnight Moon does not count)?

Bridget Jones's Diary 1.

Read more...Collapse )


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Tuesday, June 7th, 2011

Subject:These days.
Time:3:51 am.
Mood: bouncy.
It's two in the morning and I just ate a plate of greasy fried rice and corned beef. Gahd, and I wonder why I'm fat and lonely.

****

Then again: I have a new pre-owned book.



And: that little scribble on the upper right portion enlarged for your benefit.



Lest this be misconstrued as fangirling, let there be no doubt: it truly is. Haha. Also, there's a huge chance that Chingbee will get insanely famous in the future (from famous-in-writerly-circles today) and things like these will be akin to Nick Joaquin's copy of, say, Uncle Tom's Cabin. In other words, magiging mahal 'to in 20, 30 years' time (although brr, that would mean 2031, 2041, and there's an idiom about the premature counting of heads of fowl that I want to invoke here).

****

My days in Dumaguete would begin with something like this.



V. long and sappyCollapse )

One of these days, I will write something with isms naman. Parang hindi naman ako marunong mag-teyorya nyan kung puro motherhood statements at Hallmark-variety truisms lang ang minomode ko about writing.


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Wednesday, June 1st, 2011

Subject:Tonight.
Time:10:43 pm.
Mood: zen.
Definition of zen:

One early evening, you find your Smartbro thingamajig missing and you literally turn your (queen-size, years-old, dusty) bed over in search for it (you are lazy and fond of surfing lying down). After an hour (sweaty, tinkering on the brink of asthma and allergic rhinitis), it is still nowhere to be found and you start to harbor theories involving portals and alternate universes (or early signs of Alzheimer’s). In the process, you have found (1) your passport, (2) two pairs of headphones, and (3) a filled out notebook Maro gave you for your birthday four years ago (containing, among others, the first drafts of several stories).

Unsuccessful, you find yourself, curiously, laughing, and chiding yourself, “O ano na, Glenn?” then more masochist chuckling. There was no amount of remorse or regret (at the futility, the wasted time, etc); instead, justifications and – dare we say it – attempts to look at proverbial glass half-full. V. weird. Then you go to the living room and it is there, not so inconspicuously, atop the center table. There was more chuckling and a strong urge to shower, but, weirdly, no desire to give the heavens the finger or anything of the sort. Surrender comes to mind.


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Friday, May 27th, 2011

Subject:25
Time:2:23 am.
Mood: awake.
I was with Melane earlier when I realized it has been five months, to the day, since I quit my last day job. It's something I like telling people to impress them, pretentious and annoying as it sounds now: "Five months ago, I quit my job because I wanted to just write." It's true. With neither savings nor plans, I quit, and, walking around Megamall earlier seeing the uniformed office people, I felt like gloating, although my bank account is a humming zero and in my wallet nothing over P1,000 (which is the reason why I'm pestering former clients for receivables and heading off to the Free Press office tomorrow to pick up a check).

There were a lot of talks of the universe-conspiring-to-get-here variety during the workshop, and, with the scent of a guy fresh in my sheets, I concede that I am not ready to admit my reality to be so: that at 25, I will be fat, jobless and having sex on my parents' house. But "It is what it is," Tin had been prone to counsel, and I believe her. Fatalist and lazy, I know there is little to gain in fighting it. In the past five months, I've had one workshop, two published short stories, and another upcoming in a (frankly super big deal) anthology. Yes, if ever I become famous in the future (highly unlikely, given my wanton laziness and waking-up-at-12-noon itinerary), I can say that I quit my job and, in so doing, got anthologized, and who's the hack now?

Then again: I am so broke.

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Saturday, May 21st, 2011

Subject:Back. :)
Time:9:59 pm.
Mood: amused.
Of course, you don't cry when saying goodbye, in the bus or in the writers' village. You do when everyone is gone, and you are at the airport, alone, and a blind man is singing Paminsan-minsan.



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Sunday, May 1st, 2011

Subject:We are in Duma!
Time:8:45 am.
Mood: blah.
Landed in Dumaguete yesterday. Since workshop doesn't begin until Monday, was billeted in hotel room in the mean time. Since only guy among early birds, got one room to myself (four other girls in the other room). Right now Troy is on HBO and Hector just killed Agamemnon and Greek army is barreling toward Trojan defense while Priam, Hecabe and Helen look on. This movie (and Iliad) always depresses me. Futility of everything and all that shit.

Initial impressions/observations:
  • Scary ass airport/airstrip. So close to the sea. So on final descent, you look out the window and it's all water, and slowly, you descend, and still there is no land, until final split second when land appears. Scary, but talk about character.
  • Was picked up at the airport by sea shell necklace- and tarpauline-bearing group of Sillimanians. And what a group. Our handlers included an Iranian, a Danish (not, like, the pastry), a Belgian, and a Pinoy (boo, lol). Said Iranian looked like a cross between David Archuleta and Daniel Radcliffe. V. conio group, though, not, thankfully, the annoying kind.
  • City itself not unlike Bacolod, except roads are smaller and there is no SM/Starbucks (odd, right). Think downtown Manila without the gloomy undertones. Hmm, just had a two-minute power interruption. WiFi might be down. Will go down now to get breakfast.

This time yesterday, was munching on chocolate croissant while waiting for boarding call, then day before in far-flung Fairview interviewing a couple of doctors for an annual report. Hmm. Slightly amused at turn of events.

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LiveJournal for Glenneth.

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View:Friends.
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