diary jam

continued from diary seed 

I missed it. Sigan’s turn was already done the last time. I learned the group castigate him for excessive sentiments.

Before the class was about to end, and with last two sessions to go before summer vacation Dalisay, casually told the people around that writers are made and are not born.

One can find a five year-old musician, painter or a mathematician, but one cannot find a five year old writer. More or less that what was he shared.

To me, what he said was a congregation of how proud yet humble he is about his profession. He indeed is precise with his observation. Most in the room seemed to consent to what he said. I remember reading somewhere that only aged 50 years old and above should write a novel. I think it was a conversation in a story and sorry, I forgot the title.

Because the character remarked, how would young people write about the truth in life if they were young? They have to experience the world first.

I am about to read The Diary of a Young Girl and somehow it contradicts what Sir Dalisay told us.

The Diary of A Young Girl is Frank diary; the teenage Jewish girl who scribbled her tribulation, desires, passion, and angst on paper with no intention of sharing her mind to the world.

You see, a number of people claimed it is impossible for a teenager to write with style and quality of an adult. However evidences time and again proved her ingenuity even in courtrooms.

While writing this, I recall Sigan shared an incident when he was a kid, he wrote a poem, passed it to his teacher. But his teacher didn’t believe he crafted the words and sentiment his poem instilled.

Maybe we are all born writers.

Maybe we don’t have to reach 50 in order to write the Next Great Novel, we could always wonder and wander about the future and similarly about the past.

But if a young writer fears wondering about something that he is not, cannot and couldn’t is similar to dishonesty, he has no choice no but to live a life full of extraordinary experience and then tell it to the world.

Yet again, what does it takes to have an extraordinary experience?

Watch a toddler play the spaceman he always wanted to be, riding on milk boxes, and his mother’s comb as his ray gun to protect him when the reach the hostile planet called dining area. But observed deeper, one could see the boy perspiring and his skin cold to the delight and uncertainty his adventures brings.

Knowledge is always inside the box, everything outside is imagination.

Truthfulness to emotion, honesty to the state of the feeling and disregard of time, what makes writing unbelievable. 

It is our attachment to the circumstances that made a story a good story and unique,

 or a poem made of rain and mud reaching for the stars that no wisdom could ever explain.

I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been able to confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support.  – June 12, 1942 by Anne Frank

diary seed

continued from diary harvest 

Now that Sigan and I were inside on one of the units of the tall, massive blue twin towers, more once-in-a-lifetime kicks na similar sa shabu ang nangyari.

No, it wasn’t the flowing red wine, or Sigan’s beauty queen classmate, or the jaw dropping luxurious condominium of the host. No, it wasn’t the tiny, cute common restroom on the foyer where it had an excellent view of Manila Golf Club. (Taking my leak inside that restroom were heavenly, the Venetian blinds slightly opened, magnifying the glory of the afternoon sun as it passed thru it. I was like performing a ceremony of golden harvest in some Mayan times. But for the record, I didn’t visit the tiny room that much, though I surely miss now the magic it brings. I was really cautious with my projectiles for I don’t wanna deconsecrate the squeaky clean and divinely scented place. It appears I can’t get over with it.)

What really brought me jumping up and down were Sigan’s teacher and classmates.

I was sit next to their professor, Butch Dalisay, in the dining table but from a third person point of view, I am obviously a saling ket-ket. Anyway que ver lang, what really matters were the overflowing pop corns and peanuts. Then the good host placed a cornucopia of salami, ham, cheese, and other ingredients I can’t name in the middle of the table. Sandwich all you can daw. Oh my!

I didn’t exactly pig out myself making sandwiches; I was still amaze with the place and the constant graciousness of the host filling up our glasses with red wine. Though looking back I wished I pig out way back then.

Soon the dining table started to fill up with the rest of Sigan’s writing peers arriving. Overall there eight students (if my memory serves me correctly) in the class.

Here I was, sitting and listening to a master crafting his minions. Students who were writers in their own rights

Butch Dalisay told a insightful lot on how he experienced the rule of martial law, he was 16 or 18 (can’t remember eh) when he was picked up by the military and imprisoned.

Sigan’s classmate, Margie Moran also narrated how a beauty contest defied the curfew imposed during that era. General Fidel V. Ramos, being a member of panellist of judges, used his influence to extend the curfew by an hour, because the Binibining Pilipinas hadn’t able to draw its winner yet. Another proof that pinoys are indeed have flamboyant affairs about beauty pageants eversince. Or is it Ms. Margie is like Helen of Troy, could command an army? =). She also recalled being detained by the military for a night.

The discourse about martial law begun when this certain guy who looks like Gigi Manicad from GMA-7, and have the same surname by the way, read a chapter of his biographical novel, which told his life overseas during the Aquino’s administration. He was in Cambodia (?) when he learned a coup d’etat happened in Manila. All he could was listening to the radio and try to live normally in a foreign land.

Interesting glimpse of the 1980’s. But the listeners agreed it missed the point of being enough to sustain interest.

Butch and rest of the class, usually scrutinize constructively the works of each student.

One student, read an excerpt about his childhood, getting sick and everything that goes along with it and carried the trauma. He was trying to correlate a childhood memory to toys/toy store. The author received overwhelming comments for his work, for lacking good grip on emotions but the critics emphasize it has a promise of a good story to tell.

Sigan informed me, his turn was over from the previous session. I was really waiting for his part. I’m proud of my friend, though minsan tamad sya magbasa at magsulat, and worst mahilig syang mag-cram.

If ka-emohan ang pag-uusapan, I bet Sigan would stand out winner, with flying colors, angels wings, a spotlight and harness to pull him off the stage, as if ascending into the heavens—as a finishing act.

Surprised, I learned the group castigate his work for excessive ka-emohan. What the! =)

to be continued…

diary harvest

Like any randomness, most events in our life simply occurred randomly no matter how we planned for the future. You get to learn a lot from people you barely know and you didn’t even bother knowing because you basically had no about them.

It is one of those days, my friend Sigan invited me to come over and sit-in in one of his class. Frankly I envy Sigan, he is intelligent and talented. He has this opportunity and time to hone his skills. Talent without skill could only get you as much unless anak ka ng diyos. But Sigan could be sometimes so humble, it could be annoying. I never told him that, of course, luckily he hasn’t discover my new blog yet. Again, Sigan could be so amazing.

Sigan is taking his Master’s in Creative Writing in the University of the Philippines, and I was really thrilled when he told me that he is bringing me along in one of his class. First I have worries specially how to behave on his class since he already confirmed my appearance to his professor and host of the class.

Host? Wait!? My mind was set that we would be heading for Diliman but it turned out we were going to the Fort. One of his classmates hosted in her home. She lives in one of plushest, if not the plushest among the plushest condominiums in the area.

No worries, Sigan told me exuberating confidence that started to wear off as our taxi approaches our destination.

He was twice as thrilled as me.

I remembered when we were having one of the walkatlhons in the city, we found ourselves inside Fort Bonifacio Global City. I mentioned to him I wanna get near to that tall, massive blue twin towers, among the first buildings in the converted military base, and so we decided to follow the course leading to the massive blue twin towers. But we only get just as close.

We both feared or I thought we both feared being mistaken for probinsyano or something.

Then suddenly, Sigan and I were here, boarding off the taxi and walking on our way to that hell of a tall, massive blue twin towers in the Fort.

It’s kinda one of the once-in-a-lifetime event na may kick ng shabu. Hey I haven’t tried and won’t be trying shabu.

But more than the tall, massive blue twin towers, madami pang another once-in-a-lifetime event na may kick ng shabu ulet ang nangyari.

to be continued..

rainfields

There is no such word as rainfield, but in my dictionary it is define as an extraordinary place to play, to laugh and be free, and of course, to have sex if I’m lucky.

A secluded venue or at least where people won’t be present for an hour or two. It could be in the park, willow trees abound and empty wooden benches lining the trails. It could be atop a hill, a field opening up to the sky, surrounded by forest with a view of the mountains or a lake. It could be inside a soccer stadium, after everyone have gone home.
 
Grasses is a must in order for it to be called rainfield, but not tall, domineering grasses, all it need are just plain garden grasses.

But a rainfield is not just a place but also a period in time. It happens after storm passes by (not thunderstorm huh), but the clouds still gray, promise of more rain to fall or vision of clouds breaking up painfully slow. It could be while rain is falling too.

The perfect moment begins when you jump on the field and the heel deep water splashing clean and free. The cold, soft caress of grass blades sends shivers even to the very spirit. Ohh! The laughter and giggles it instil on me.

I could just lie on the ground alone, rinse and washed in time, facing the sky, waiting for airplanes to pass by. Half of my body submerged in the water, completely sleepy, and the other half gathers the sentiments of the atmosphere of my care free hours.  And if I’m fortunate, if some parts of the rainfield is knee deep, I’ll seize the moment and be the Olympic swimmer that I’ll always wanted to be. I’m thinking of diving on it too. But it’s for me to find out if I could dive. But altogether it would be fun. Laugh all the time, chasing dragonflies or jumping like a frog, then chasing dragonflies for dinner. Yay!

Or I would make love to this guy, not necessarily someone I love, but someone I would intimately pressed my body over. Both our clothes soaked. His legs spreading, giving way to my thigh, feeling his manhood trying to escape the fly of his denims. He is biting his lips, in his most charming stare, he watches me trace his chest with my fingers over his cotton white shirt. There is no stopping us as we listen to our breath escalating.

That’s what rainfield means. Supposed to mean.  Even though I think my definition would not work as a definition per se. Yet still my dictionary could be soooo Wikipedic sometimes.

I am Argunn.

And in tradition of all beginning, I wrote about rainfields, but there’s more to rainfields inside my head—more than the desire, I have aspirations, experiences, thoughts, and boldness of what I am made of that I am about to tell.

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