What would you do

if you have a violet bill

with an emotionless hero’s face printed on it

On a hot day at school?

Cease your thirst for

2  liters of C2’s Cool and clean tea,

but 500 ml of Nestea has a cooler bottle

and Fit n’ Right’s

the new drink in UPMin.

But who would dare forget

about a 6-peso cost

for a homemade lemonade

at the Castillo store?

Buy yourself two glasses.

Or settle with the softdrinks;

Coke Zero’s mirror image

of Pepsi Max’s sugarless,

diabetic friendly carbonated water;

and Sprite is the freedom from thirst

and lousy commercials

with the new idea

of the dessert turning to a pool.

But they’re the same,

7-up and Mountain Dew.

Or keep it for tonight at Lenar’z

Redhorse beer ‘Ito ang Tama!’

for the happy-go-lucky spenders:

55 pesos for every liter.

And Emperador brandy

Sa Totoong Tagumpay:

finish 375 milliliter of alcohol

and you’re the best drunkard ever.

And spare the ten pesos left is for 6 sticks

of Marlboro sold discreetly

at the stores on the side.

Now tell me you did not imagine

anything I said. Just save that 100-peso bill

to buy yourself a new T.V.

°ooOoo°

            “The pictorial image is closer to the real thing”, as the semioticians would say it. The poem advertises commercials products that can fill a person with a 100-peso bill thirst for spending his cash. As much as possible, I go along with the concepts of signification so that the readers would easily identify the signified, signifiers, and the referent. The sign, which is divided into two, the signifier and the signified, is the one that would play inside the readers’ mind. For example, when I stated, C2, a reader would immediately think of that stout, half-slender plastic bottle of tea-tasting factory made tea-like drink. The concept, or the signified, is C2 green tea and the word ‘C2’ is the signifier for it. And of course, the referent is the object that the sign points to, the tea sold with a handy plastic bottle itself.

I have always been troubled with the arbitrary relations of words, so then, I incorporated the descriptions of the products I mentioned to the culture in UPMin and also the ones that Filipinos see in their T.V. For example, Red Horse ‘ito ang tama!’, therefore the reader would not think of any Red Horse but only the Red Horse that says ‘ito ang tama!’ In that way Red Horse beer = Red Horse beer ‘Ito ang Tama!’ ≠ Any other Red Horse beer in the world. Or Fit n’ Right that was recently sold in the canteen is new at our school, therefore that is the Fit n’ Right that I mean and not any other Fit n’ Right (Fit n’ Right = Fit n’ Right that’s sold at the canteen.) And the same goes for other products that I have not elaborated so just bear with your understanding. I am 90% sure that you would not be lost with the signs in this poem.

The cost of the products I mentioned in 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th stanza are equal to 100 pesos. E.g. 1^st stanza: P50 (2 liters of C2) + P19 (500 ml of Nestea) + P19 (Fit n’ Right) + P12 (two glasses of lemonade) = P100. The poem just tells the readers how to spend 100 pesos but if they don’t want to agree with me, they can just keep the money and watch T.V. so that they’ll know what more things they can spend their money with. It’s all about the thirst for spending a big deal of cash for a normal college student.

Usa ka adlaw sa akong paglatagaw ning syudad nga wa nako ma-ilhi, aduna koy namatikdang mga iro nga arno nga nag-riot sa tunga sa dalang walay ubang nag-labang, ako ra. Kalingaw ra ba jud tan-awon sa ilang pagbinigyanay. ‘Tsoy, unsa’y hinungdan aning gubota?’ nangutana ko sa isa pa ka iro nga nagsabay sa akong pagtan-aw sa mga arno. ‘Aw, nadakpan ni Browny si Lassie nga nag-jer jer kay Barbie kagahapon. Palag kaau mga tribu ASPO bai.’

Sa tunga sa kagubot sa mga baba nga nagkinagtanay sa dalan, sa dihang ni-abot si manong nga taga-dog pound. ‘Gashong! Dagan pareng!’, ang tingog nga wa nako nadunggan kay akong mata napuno sa kahadlok sa kadena ni manong.

Kasamok ba aning higot. Ganiha pa naglingaw ug tu-ok sa akong nag-pula pulang li-og. ‘P*ta! Scooby! Pandak! Tol, asa na man mo?’, ang akong walay pulos nga pag-singgit, kay dili makalusot akong tingog sa baga nga ding ding sa salakyan nga nagdagan. Ang akong kalagot misurok padulong sa tumoy sa akong mga dunggan sa pagkabalo nga si Browny kauban sad nako didto. Ug sa kamalas na lang jud sa akong kalag, sabay pa jud niya iyang mga batos nga mga dagko’g lawas inig mubarog pareha sa ilang leader.

Nipahiyum si Browny sa ako sa iyang pagsulti, ‘Tsoy, barkada man daw mong Lassie daw?’ Apan kalit nako namatikdan ang tudlo sa akong inahan, “Dong, ayaw jud pamakak kay ma-impyerno ka.” Ug nisulti ko kang Browny sa akong kahadlok sa mga pangil niyang nag-siwil sa kangit-ngit sa gabii. ‘Ay, kuys, dili gud.’

Abi nakog kalusot nako sa iyang kalagot sa akong bati nga dagway. ‘Uy, tsoy, nagsabay baya mu tong gi-jer niya si Barbie, kita ta ka sa kiliran sa dalan’, ingon ang dakong baba sa yawa nga akong kaatbang. Sa tinuuray nga storya ako miingon kaniya, ‘Kuys, nilabay ra ko ato.’

‘Ay, ay, sa imong kabayot, palusot ra ka.’

‘Kuys bitaw kuys, wa jud koy labot atong affair nila.’

‘Bakak! Dagway nimo, wa koy makit-ang kamatuuran.’

Wa na nakatubag akong ba-bang nagkurog kay kalit ra ko niya gi-bigyan sa tiyan. Ug iyang mga batos nitabang ug kulata sa akong lawas nga ilang gikaliwa’g pa-ak pa-ak. Usa ka kilo nga karne na ilang nawagtang nako pero wa pa sila napul-an. Kagat diri. Kagat diri na sad. Kagat. Kagat. Kagat.

Ang akong lawas napuno na sa kapula sa akong dugo ug sa kabaho sa ilang mga laway. Kanus-a pa man ni mahuman akong paglisod? Kapait na lang jud ani sa kinabuhi sa irong latagaw. Walay balay. Walay pagkaon. Tripan pa jud sa mga arno. Ma, wa man ko namakak pero ngano man ko na-impyerno??

Wala pud koy mama nga mag-tubag sa akong pangutana kay gipatay pud siya’g kulata ni Browny sauna human pila ka bulan ko niya gi-anak. Mama man gud ba, uyab man unta to sila ni Browny nya nisabay pa jud kay papa. Awa, naanak na lang ko. P*ta! Ngano gi-anak pa ko?

Agay! Agay! ‘Kuys, tama na kuys. Husto na! Husto na!’ ang kapila nako gisinggit sa mga nag-pista sa akong kaluoyng lawas. Ug at last, ni-abot si manong. Ambot unsa iyang gisulti pero naundang man sila.

Nya, gi-isa isa mi’g kuha sa sakyanan ug gidala sa lugar nga wa na sad nako ma-ilhi kung asa. Apan nakasulat sa entrance,

“Polomolok City Dog Pound:

Pagbantay sa Iro,

Iro, pagbantay pud.”

°ooOoo°

            We can see here the struggle of Junar as a wandering teenager dog with nothing else in life but only himself. And also the hierarchy of the dogs in the neighborhood with Browny at the top because of the respect they owe to his strength and his many friends. In a way, a sense of political capitalism is owned by Browny and it serves him the privilege to scorn other dogs’ life. Junar could not do anything with the tormented fate he did not choose to have. The same would be the picture of the millions of Filipino under the poverty line. They did not choose to be poor but still they could not do anything to rise above the many capitalist that continues to intensify their struggle and push their status down in the pyramid of class struggle.

            By the way, I made a flash fiction and used the bisaya language as medium with some kanto terms (e.g. arno, which is similar to the term ‘bugoy’ and equivocal to ‘buang’). Since the characters are stray dogs comparable to the ‘tambays’ and the OSY we see lingering around the streets of the city. Forgive me for the comparing the dogs to the situation of the people in the streets but I guess it’s the closest situation for the story.

            For all the things that happened to our pitiful character in the story, he was innocent. He did not choose to be born, and it is true that when Browny saw him with Lassie f*cking Barbie, he was just a passer by, like how he was in the riot when the guy from the dog pound caught him. But he could not do anything anymore; they had arrived at the dog pound where he will spend more time mauled by Browny and his company and the ‘Repressive State Apparatus’, the dog pound.

            If only, the spirit of communism rules the dogs in the neighborhood of Junar, he could have not struggled with his life. Browny could have used his strength to help other dogs. Everyone could have fair to everyone. Say for example, Browny could have listened to the defense of Junar that he was just a passer by because the little teenager dog had the right to speak and to be listened to.

Last night I dreamed of crows

perching upon a beautiful tree:

her slender trunk that goes down

in a graceful flow to the ground

like perfect curves of a fairy goddess;

smooth and lustrous like velvet cloth.

And her leaves of green that sways

with the slight blow of the wind.

But my dream was about the crows

perching upon that beautiful tree.

Waiting for the green drupes hanging by

her branches that are strong enough

to hold the prettiest fruits I’ll ever see.

I saw in my dream the red berries

she would soon have:

they glittered with rays of the sun

resting on her pleasing stance.

Oh that beautiful tree,

standing in her innocence

upon the verdant meadows.

Helpless in her solitude,

not a knowledge of the crows’ desire

crossed her mind:

they waited perched and caressed

her innocent branches

to slaughter her berries

with no mercy at all.

And there shined a shiny demon

in the middle of that grassy field.

He was black with anger

and became fiery

on the sight of the evil crows

perching upon that beautiful tree.

He thrust his sharp claws

on the crows that perched only

to devour the beauty of that tree.

He grasped them with a clutch

that separated them from their feathers,

tore their flesh and plucked their eyes out.

He opened his mouth

and shouted to all

who would dare go near the tree

“She is mine! Only mine!”

He burned while he hugged

the tree’s trunk and burned her.

He sent her soul to hell

to be with her forever.

Burning the whole place

with an passion immeasurable

even with the heat of the sun.

I then woke up from that dream

with a smile I did not understand why.

°ooOoo°

            It is obvious that this piece would belong to the psychoanalytic criticism, not only for the identifying phrase that I enclosed within parentheses above but also for its elements that would define itself. First and foremost, it is a dream. Which Master Freud mostly concentrated his time on, which, in the more popular term, it is obviously the unconscious state. I did not make this poem while I was unconscious; I just stated that it is a dream to seem like it was such. The events that happened could also make it seem like a dream, the exaggeration, the unity of scene that do not complement each other; e.g. verdant meadows + shiny demon = distorted image.

As I have used the definition dream in this poem, I would like to state about latent content and manifest contest. Latent content is the real desire of the author, and manifest content is the reported dream. Therefore, manifest is the plot while latent is the true meaning based on the author.

            So what is my desire? (We’re talking about author psychology here). Before I answer that, let me state that I am the Demon in this hellish tale. Therefore, my desire is the tree. Or let’s say she (she-who-must-not-be-named). And also to kill the crows that always perch upon that angelic tree(they also correspond to real people in my reality). I don’t know what’s in their minds or what their desires are I, as the demon, just want to kill them and own the tree. Nah, I just don’t want to see them around her. Is this obsession? Yes. And I am mad. And so, that’s a good example for psychoanalysis. (I need a psychiatrist).

I have already said that this poem is just a dream, a desire. Therefore, if we would have this explanation reach the ‘Tripartite model’ in Psychoanalysis, you know, the famous Id-Ego-Superego thing, it is purely Id. Id is the irrational part of a person’s psychology; it is unconscious, which contains secret desires, wishes and fears. Ego is the rational part or the logical, the part that is awake and corresponds to the reality principle. In the dream, ego could not regulate the Id. But when the speaker was already awake, then the ego claims its part. Superego was also absent since social norms mean nothing in the dream.

But why did the speaker smile at the end of the poem? He was just happy that what he desired happened in his dream. If only there is no such thing as ego and superego, the death of the crows is already done by now.

8:00 AM

lots of chores posted on the fridge

the dishes stacked on the sink

the tiles in the bathroom are stinking

dusty cabinet tops and windows

and the duster’s misplaced

the curtains are unchanged

everything’s topsy-turvy in the living room

starving pet dogs howl outside

dried leaves scattered on the ground

the plants in their pots are not yet watered.

8:05 AM

just rose from the bed

a breakfast waits on the table.

the t.v.’s available

no one’s around.

it’s time for morning cartoons

but the remote’s nowhere to be found.

a glass of juice is in the fridge

and ice cream is waiting in the freezer.

everything is a mess.

mom’s out to nowhere

and Dad has gone working

my sister’s inside her room

11:00 AM

it was hot at the market

the ukay-ukay was interesting

new shirts for my son

and a set of blouse for my daughter

the vegetables are not fresh anymore

the fish stinks and water drips on the floor

the pots not boiling yet

the clothes line’s empty

some clothes are yet to be hanged

could not work because of a head ache

but everyone’s still asleep at eight

so then went to the market alone

11:35 AM

have to come back to work at 12

the rice’s still hot

and the soup’s not so tasty

no time to nap

work’s waiting to be done

tired hands and feet

my wife’s sleeping

must have slept her head ache again

today’s salary day

everything’s in order

have to reward my son and daughter

Oopps! have to go now

°ooOoo°

            This poem needs an implied reader to understand it. What I mean here is the ‘implied reader’ that the reader-response critics mean as they define it as someone who is established by the “response-inviting structures” of the text. I assumed that this type of reader would be created to anybody who would try to understand my poem. But if ever, I had not succeeded, let me explain my poem more to you.

            The focus here is on the reader himself. So I made a poem where they no longer can have time to think about the author because they would think more for what is happening in the poem. I would like to force the reader to fill the gaps in this work since that task lies on them in that way, the text would guide them or constrain them. Spoon feeding is a no-no in this criticism. And notice that the first person pronoun ‘I’ was never used. It is so, so that any reader could fill this gap with imagining their selves in the poem as they relate their own experiences to it.

            Since this is an explanation and not the poem, I’ll elaborate the poem. Subjective interpretation is not a crime against reader-response criticism, so assume whatever you want.

But let me clear things out here. There are four characters speaking in the poem, where their minds are being spoken out randomly and with no punctuations, which I guess is how most people think. 8:00 AM, the daughter or the older sibling woke up, noticed the lots of chores in the house and eventually came back to her room. 8:05 AM, the son, the other sibling, woke up, ate breakfast, and watched t.v. 11:00 AM, the mother came back from the market, did the things she had to do, most importantly, his husband’s lunch. She had a head ache earlier but she had to go to the market, forgot about it when she became interested with the ukay-ukay and bought clothes for her children. 11:45 AM, the father came back from work, a 15-minute break, ate lunch immediately, he had no time to think of anything but noticed the good work of his children. Nothing was said from 8:05 AM to 11:00 AM, we can assume that the two siblings did the chores at this time since the father noticed order in their house. Everything’s connected in the poem actually, just read closely to it as a reader who has the role to fill the gaps.

And that’s reader-response criticism for you readers. I believe, as the reader-response critics also believe, that literature should be treated as coexisting with experience. So, in every reading of literature, read with your eyes wide open to fill the missing pieces through the help of your experiences and preoccupations as you read. They are all in you mind.

Colonial Mentality:

you are under the spell of America.

Buy their products and make them rich.

Listen to their music and make them famous.

Follow their culture but you cannot get out of here.

You are in the Philippines,

the land of the would be free people.

Where do you find yourself now?

On the verdant meadow under the shed

of the sky of a mother’s broken dreams

who needs her sons

to fix her wings?

Or in your elusive desire for wealth

in exchange for your identity

as Juan dela Cruz?

Go to America and be their slave,

clean their asses and feed their dogs.

Look to the stripes of red and white,

find among the confusing many stars

your blinded fate to forget yourself.

Tell me they’re better

and I’ll tell you this,

Colonial Mentality:

you are under the spell of America.

The groping grasp of the wings of the eagle

had never freed the ground we stepped on

and its blanketing feathers are still above us

to cover the big sun in the midst of the three stars

on the white background

wherefrom flows blue and red.

Look in your wallet

and find some coins and bills.

Look at the faces who died for your existence

and later, change those cash to green.

Praise America and it will scorn you

for you are a Filipino.

Go ahead and kill our heroes,

kill yourself and kill the Philippines.

For you have in your mind

Colonial Mentality:

You are under the spell of America.

            °ooOoo°

            Postcolonial literature is quite a confusing term. It’s about writing about the effects of colonialism. There had been unresolved debates on what should be the definition of Postcolonial criticism. Should it be against colonialism or should it be not, etc. The question does concern me and I have made up my mind to accept its original definition that post colonial literature are works that are written by people whose country was formerly colonized.

            And this poem is my stand on that. I am against it, which is also the stand of the many critics and writers I know. The poem tells the readers to cease the pull of colonial mentality from their native realization. Colonial mentality is a term I have always been hearing since I was in elementary. It means that when a Filipino tends prefer the foreign ideologies, especially from the America, instead of our very own culture. If this continues, we might forget that we are Filipinos. For example, if you would 10 college respondents if who among them can recite the ‘Panatang Makabayan’, 10 out of 10 (if not ten then a number close to 10, either 11 or 12) would say no. This had been the effect of the colonization since the date unknown when, that they are better, which in a way makes us forget the color of our skin.

            America, our colonizer had helped us. We can accept that, but it should not be that they control and scorn us because we are free. Since we are free, we have the choice to become what we really should be. Let us make the wiser choice.

            And that is postcolonial criticism. A kind of writing that wants an awakening of what should be real and get over the past that impales the present. The present should not be past that enslaved us. It should be us.

1st year high school theme number five, a comment on my memoir draft.

The sharpest words that stabbed me so deep came so fast. I did not expected them to come this early. I felt my blood flow up to my head. I wanted to burst. I lit a cigarette hoping for an ignition so that I might explode. But it did not happen. No one can do such. But I wished I could. I really wished I could have died.

“Can I write?” I ask myself desperately, waiting for a reply in my mind. It answered me back with the same question. An these thoughts never stopped running in my mind. They haunted me until I slept.

What can be more sharper than a sword that can slice through the flesh and straight to the dream I had inside. Those words repeated themselves a thousand times, 1st year high school theme number five, 1st year high school theme number five; slashing my heart to pieces until it felt like dust.

And all through the day I carried that pain in my heart. The voice kept ringing my eardrums. Breaking them. Eating me piece by piece.

Je ne veux pas mourir, I don’t want to die. I always believe that a soul never dies unless it is forgotten. But this dream is being overwhelmed by the worst words I ever received, 1st year high school theme number five.

The class had just started and I realized myself being shattered by the knives of truth. I pause for a moment and wrote these words on a blank page, rise above the flames.

Everything a writer writes is all about himself. Even if its about some issues that are miles away from his personality, the route would still lead his very core. So, whatever may he be writing, his pen is drawing the portrait of himself.

Especially when it comes to memoirs, they’re about the life of the writer, of course.

I’ve written a memoir already. It was for the sake of a school requirement. You know, the “BAE stuff”.

It was about my life, of course, when I came home with a new hole under my lips. The pointed stud I pushed through my skin was a real big issue in our family. My parents and sister are Christians. Formality and decency was at the top of our roof, lighting the insides of the walls that holds the house together. I never thought of myself turning the damn decent light off, but it happened.

One nice afternoon, my mother’s favorite and only son came home carrying with him a wounded “undermouth”. I’m sure she hated it. All of them hated it. But time healed the anger fast and had me get through the guilt. They were kind people. So, after few months, I came home with three holes on each of my two ears.

That was all about the memoir, and now, let talk about the author of the memoir himself.

So, why did I do such pain jerking experiences to my parents?

The term “Object” had also been an itch for me. So I tried to kick it off my image from time to time. I never wanted to be branded as normal, another stereotypical individual in generation Y. I had several piercings and some angst filled stuffs: profanity printed shirt, black nails, a dickies bag insulted by the vandals I put on it, etc. A usual being in the social scope of formality would really think I’m weird. That’s satisfaction for me. But I could not stop thinking about the people who thinks the same way I do. For sure, They’d think I’m another stereotypical guy in our so-called generation.

And so then, I have just discovered, through thorough contemplation and consistent reflection of the mind that nobody in the universe can escape from the frustrating label “OBJECT”.

Even aliens, new species which are not yet fully recognized are becoming objects in the Marxist society, they are termed as “aliens”.

New organisms and things are also termed; like UFO’s,  Unidentified species and whatever.

Punks, Goths, Emos are not really deviant when they are with each other.

So even if you disgrace your mother to be a Punkass kid and get away from the set of normal teen agers, you will still have the label.

On a t-shirt, I onced printed this: “I’m not a punk, I’m not an emo, I’m not a goth, I’m just weird”. But no matter what I did, sigh, I was always an object.

So how can one really escape from the label “object”? NEVER.

“Pierced guy, Punk guy, Emo kid…….

I was smoking alone in silence. The only sound I hear was the sound of my lungs and the air I exhaled. There was not a single sight of companion that came into view. I continued breathing in the thick gas as I kiss the orange butt of my cigarette. And silence continued. It went on like there was nothing that could stop it.

And silence was all there was.

Even the song of the wind was not heard. Everything was still.The trees seemed rested for a while from the dance they use to sway in. Not an insect even dared to break the blanket of silence that enveloped the place.

The table where I sit was weathered as if it had wearied out from serving anyone who chose to use it. Rust shared with the red paint on the surface of its pole, to the pavement until the square roof. That cottage stood there all the time, waiting for a creature to join it. It has nothing to offer but a seat and silence.

The air was cold then. The day turned dark with the heavy clouds that filled the sky. It rained. I reached for another cigarette and lighted the dried leaves at its edge; breathing in the pain to my throat as drops of rain poured hard to the ground. No one can then be with me.

And solitude continued.

The sound of the rain reminded me of the noise that I use to hear. I miss the noise that the wind sings to me. And the dance of the grasses and swaying leaves. And the laughs that colored the cottage with bright red.

I long for a smile to drop by here.

I hope it will be soon.

I continued sitting there until I finished a stick.

I used to spend time at the back of the Admin’s AVR. Just sitting there as I smoke and watch the green masterpiece in front of me. My thoughts float in the air with the swinging leaves of the trees and grasses. It’s awesome how they move gracefully to the rhythm of the blowing wind. It’s peaceful there. Only the silent song of nature is what I can hear. And I float to feeling of solitude that it brings me. Just the space in my day that I needed so I can think how life had gone on with me.

I used to wear a T-square and a bag of triangles and pens before. I was an engineering student. Life was so fast and rigorous then. I had to beat deadlines and sink in to mathematical and chemistry problems. Everyday was a torture.

I decided to stop it.

I used to be the a student writer before I entered college. I wrote editorials, features and anything in the school paper. I always want to share the thoughts in my mind. I always wanted to make something that feels good.

And so I realized; I want to write more.

I always remember this thought when I suffered the complications of being an engineering student. I hated being stucked with a calculator and some bunch of drawing instruments. I’m not happy with it. They led me away from serenity which I preferred to waste myself on. I longed to get away from it and wander on a more beautiful field: something that has my heart. Something that is creative.

I then seek for that place I was looking for.

I used to listen to music everytime. I was hooked to the thoughts it pierces to my soul. The emotions the kind of music I listen made me more eager to find that place where my heart is. I needed to find it, a place that can be imaginative and is full of music.

After a wasted year in college, I then found myself at the back of Admin’s AVR. Sitting there and smoke, looking at nothing and think how I have become. I am now a BAE student. I already found the place I was looking for; the imaginative world of writing.

I always did not know what to do with my life. But as I am often reminded by my thoughts: I want to write more.

And so I knew what to do then, I just want to write.