Malikhaing Pagsulat - UPLB

b a n g u n g o t

1.      Higaan (Bed)

Maging mga bisig ko ma’y di ka magawang yakapin

Sa mga panahong ika’y alipin ng pag-iisa.

Maging mga paa ko ma’y mistulang walang buhay

Patuloy tayong magiging iisa.

Sapagkat sa pagsapit ng gabi aking mahal,

Ang pagniniig ay hindi kailanman masisilayan ng umaga.

Sapagkat sa ilalim ng buwan at mga bituin,

Hindi na siya ang iyong kapiling.

Walang salita, walang damdamin.

Walang dahilan, walang dapat na sabihin.

Ako ang saksi sa iyong bawat pagluha,

Ako ang iyong kasandal tuwing ika’y nakatulala.

Ako ang susi sa bawat hiwaga;

Hiwagang nanahan sa iyong di nagungusap na mukha.

Ako ang daigdig mo sa pagtakas ng huling silahis ng araw,

Ang daigdig mong kailanma’y hindi magugunaw.

Ako ang halimbawa ng salitang walang hanggan,

Sapagkat simula iyong pagkabata’y ako na ang iyong tahanan.

Panginoon ako ng panahon, panginoon ng iyong alaala.

Imbakan ako ng iyong kabataan, ipunan ng iyong kinabukasan.

Hindi mo masisilayan ang hindi mo naman nauunawan,

Sapagkat ako ay ikaw.

At ikaw ay ako.

2.      Unan (Pillow)

Ako ay isang kawatan

Na dumarating upang nakawin ang lahat.

Ang iyong mga pangamba, ang iyong mga

pagluha, ang iyong mga maling pag-asa.

Sa lambot ng aking katawan,

Mistula itong sumasayaw kasabay ng bawat

mong paggalaw.

Wala man akong mga kamay

Upang hawakan ang buo mong katawan;

Ako naman ay nakasisiguro,

Sa isipan mo ako ay tumitimo.

Ako ay isang kawatan.

Hindi ka hahayaang mahulog sa kawalan.

Ang samyo ng iyong buhok,

Ang kinis ng iyong mga pisngi,

Sa tuwing dumidilim

Sa aking mukha, ito ay unti-unting dumadampi.

Hindi mawari kung saan nagmumula,

Mali kong pagkahumaling sa pagsilip sa iyong alaala.

Hindi maunawaan kung bakit naghihintay,

Na ako ay tapunan ng panahon bago ang aking pagkamatay.

Lilipas ang araw at mawawala na ang liwanag.

Sa dilim lang kita mahahawakan,

Sa dilim lang kita mahahagkan.

Sa dilim ako ang iyong pag-ibig,

Sa dilim ako ay hawak mo sa iyong mga bisig.

3.      Kumot (Blanket)

Kulog.

Kidlat.

Ako ang langit at dilim ang aking hatid.

Ako ang madidilim na ulap na bumabalot sa iyong katauhan.

Ako ang gabi.

Sa liwanag ako ay iyong nililimot,

Sa liwanag ako ay tinatanggalan ng buhay.

Sa liwanag, hindi ako ang iyong minamahal.

Kaya kong balutin ka sinta, kaya kong hawakan ang iyong kabuuan.

Kahit sa akin ay hindi ka tapat,

Mayakap ka lang sa akin na ay sapat.

Kahit na hindi ako nag-iisa,

Kahit na sa gabi ay kapiling mo siya,

Patuloy kitang hahawakan, patuloy na iingatan.

Ito ang pangako ng isang panaginip,

Ito ang pangakong sa iyong kaluluwa ay sumasagip.

The Act of Manipulated Divination [Writing the Future and Rewriting the Past]

This is a paper I was required to submit for my ENG 106 - Creative Writing class.

            When asked about how an individual came about writing; typical answers would include “it made me realized who I really am”, “it inspires me to be happy”, “it changed my life”, “it saved me from pain”, and a lot more typical answers we could only fit into this typical introduction. My story as a writer, or as someone who considers herself a writer, is no different.

            It has always been my biggest issue that at a very young age, I should already be making my parents proud. So, I ventured into a lot of fields hoping I could find a place for myself and for my self-proclaimed talent. I enrolled in a ballet class for one day; it did not work for me. I also took guitar lessons for one day and I could not see myself being a musician, so I quit. I involved myself in theatre productions way back in elementary, choir competitions, student governance, beauty pageants; I even thought, I could be a historian. All of these attempts, regardless of the outcome, led to disappointments. I could not still me myself being happy doing all of these and making my parents proud at the same time. It was a stage in my life where I felt like a misfit; a misfit in epic proportions.

            My first writing competition came about as a surprise. I was chosen to represent the school into a division press conference and was categorized under editorial writing and feature writing. I specifically told my coach that writing is not something I do very often, but she merely replied, “Pwede ka na siguro, magaling ka naman sa English”. With that, I started my training but at the very last minute, they made me compete in Filipino. Although I do not agree with their choices, I still have to compete because it was what I came for.

To cut the long story short, I was in the 5^th grade and I lost; my first defeat. I know I could blame my coaches for making me change the game plan at a very crucial stage but I did not. I blamed my lacklustre performance and my arrogance. So there, I made a vow; to compete the following year under any medium and win.

            First element to being a writer is practice. Writers are made and not born; this is because I believe that something so beautiful cannot spring from the netherworld; something as pure and as sacred as writing is developed and achieved through rigorous efforts.

Through the course of my preparation for my next competition, I saw how my parents supported me in every way imaginable.  Finally, it looked as if it was a panoramic view of a huge puzzle and at long last the pieces are coming together. I reached a point where I submit at least three articles a week for critiquing; I would let my coaches and my division superintendent read my works and give inputs.

Then, it hit me. One of my most respected mentors said, after having read my editorial about education crisis in the Philippines, “I saw you compete in Spelling bees, Quiz bees, Slogan making contests and even choral competitions; but never have I seen you this driven. You are in the place you are supposed to be”. It was a note in red ink at the back of my piece and it gave me the realization that my very first defeat fuelled this drive for me to do what I believe I want to achieve for myself.

The competition came, and I competed under Editorial Writing English; results came out and I won. Winning the competition led to me trying out for the Editor-in-Chief post in our elementary school newspaper “The Vehicle”. I ended up getting the position and making me even more fired up to carry on on this journey; a journey I knew would be worth it.

I entered a science-oriented high school and was qualified for the Special Science Curriculum. Ironically, for my MAPEH class, I decided to join the English school paper “The Isabelan”. For a 12 year old, I could say, I was pretty brave. I submitted an essay as an audition piece for the Editor-in-Chief position; a position they would normally give to someone older and more experienced. After a week, I got a call from my adviser congratulating me for being the youngest Editor-in-Chief in the long line of Editors-in-Chief our school paper ever had. It was a confirmation that I am on the right track. My orientation as a writer originated from a strong leaning towards journalism but entering college, an element about creative writing shifted my attention.

Much of my writings revolve around some common and recurrent themes; but what is clear is that I write better with any emotion so powerful that it almost consumes my entirety; that nothing else matters but finishing a specific piece. It does not have to be pain, it just has to be strong enough to shut everything down and make me focus on one goal.

I remembered taking college entrance exams and deciding that I would be taking any prelaw course; because I also love discourse and being a lawyer would help me nourish that love for speech communication. I qualified for the BS Accountancy degree program of the University of Santo Tomas, the same degree program of the Far Eastern University and the BA Communication Arts program of the University of the Philippines. This became the time when I started doubting my calling as a writer. I wanted to pursue Accountancy and in my most helpless situation, my mother asked me a striking question, “Why are you being indecisive? Don’t you have your heart set on writing?”.

The following day, I mailed my confirmation letter to UP and now, I could say, I could not have chosen a better school, a better degree program, and a better career path.

Second element I learned essential to being a writer is humility. Words humbled me in a very deliciously ironic manner. There are only two things I take with utmost seriousness: my academics and writing. My writing has been misunderstood for the longest time; people think that my poems and my short stories are mere debased versions of already existing emotions and I only make parodies about them. While I cannot say that accusation is completely false; I take writing very earnestly.

Writing is therapeutic. It’s not exactly a panacea but it gives more than the euphoria people get from alcohol intoxication. Writing catapults me into an alternate universe; a universe where I know I could be somebody my parents could be proud of; a universe where I am doing not only what I think is right for me but what I know is what I am meant to for the rest of my life. Again, this falls under the long list of trite statements people say writers should avoid but it could not have encapsulated the message better. Writing is not what other people outside this sacred circle say it is; it is not a lame pastime. It is a career; it is a way of life.

However, writing was not always inspiring for me. The power of being the gatekeeper of which articles are to be published and kept inside the confines of our dusty, putrid staff office got into me pretty fast. A series of articles aimed at bashing our school’s administrative system, bashing my fathers’ enemies in the academe, bashing my own enemies, etc. I am not proud of these. I became sorry for using the power I had in a way that I know is not proper and for probably tarnishing its sanctity.

It is a composite discipline. The ability of writers to bring together a perfect concoction of passion, pain and the tasty irony of anonymity and total emotional nudity is illuminating. Sometimes, it is not a requisite that the writer has a full grasp of what he or she is writing about; the motivation just has to be crystal clear. When the motivation is clear, there will be an automated transmittal of the writer’s intentions transcending the sturdy defenses of the page to the readers’ minds.

This only proves that writing holds that huge amount of power. A writer can be the priest or a priestess of reinventing what is to come in the future and making the world have a taste of that reinvention. Writing is a form of witchcraft; it borders between the good and the evil and it is the witch’s or the wizard’s [writer’s] choice where to use this power and so writing becomes an act of manipulated divination; an act of writing the future and rewriting the past.