THIS IS WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU TURN IT OVER TO (REAL) ARTISTS

By: Iris P. Concepcion

First off, this writer did not expect anything to happen given the propensity in this country to get haywired over non-sensical things, i.e.: billing atrociously for a stage with monotone lighting.

I am spooked beyond my already flagrantly spooked self. I wonder why the cornkids are nowhere to be found in their usual folding beds. They had warned me before they shall try knocking on doors hostile to them. I said pooh to it. I mean I could not unleash a bunch of frail and healthy kids onto vultures. They do not go in uninvited but I can assure you one thing: they have impeccable manners. They would not shred your clothes out of spite. Wink.

I did not know they had been camping in their sweet detractors' den, providing them unusual sparks. Admit it, they are extremely lovable.

I have to scratch my eyes sometimes, suspending disbelief and fractiously held in abeyance. I sometimes slap my own face facing the not so ignoble realization that bygad, they are truly transforming the country slowly into art enthusiasts. From plain shrieking kibitzers, we are pushing this excited mass into culturally-rabid fanatics with surprise, free social ameliorations.

I had a strange postulation in the past about the people who can lead this fray of reforms. I wanted the world brought upside down by artists, philosophers who can teach the construction builders how to build the best artworks. I had batted for this.

Upclose, you'd drop a tear by how they protect the wall of professionalism amid all the carnage of unprofessional irritants. They conduct themselves as would James Joyce himself. The deadpan look, the articulation of facts in well-formed words and delivered in impeccable prose. They may blush a little but it is not make-up. They would tell you how language behaves; how visuals can become verbal statements. Bono once shook hands with the Pope, peddling his economic ideas. These people are treading the exact path.

I am a crazy dreamer. I did not know the kookie way worked. And it did.

One of the miniature kids when pushed did not know what to do being gentle soul that he/she is. What she did (he too) was to extract his/her vocal chord into full volume, complete with probing eyes and wrestling grunts.

One word and he/she zapped these people:

"FIGHT!!!!!!!!!"

In live performance, THIS is priceless.

I admire writers and I admire writers. This one came from my town, one of the few who understood me in that small place. Yes, we can write like this without fear of being attacked by the more established writers who think of us as plague from Mordor.

From my town, here, to your vast city!

Tales of Three Women by Three Women
By Junn Grande
March 12, 2008


Oh, I do read books written by men, from Shakespeare to Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It’s just that it seems to me there’s something in women, when they splatter their heart and soul on the blank page, that makes the storytelling, and especially the creating of characters, a lot different, if askew, in a riveting way uniquely feminine, making it strangely attractive to avowed misogynists. Anne Tyler, Isabel Allende, Flannery O’Connor, to me, are names that stand out like jagged wind-swept trees atop a crag in the otherwise smooth fiction landscape. Arundathi Roy can of course be any bookworm’s name to drop, for sheer style, or sometimes, on the part of the name dropper, for plain display of erudition bluff. And there’s the classic Virginia Woolf and Gilda-Cordero Fernando---before she turned to writing all those cookbooks and aswang chronicles---who are themselves icons in modern imaginative writing (do I hear dissent?). But my present excitement narrows down to just three names: Tyler, Allende and the formidable O’Connor.

Breathing Lessons, when I came to the last page after two days of unrelenting reading, just holed in like a hermit crab in my room, turned out to read like nothing else---only from all the others I have read, of course, it’s not a New York Times claim---the way Anne Tyler wrote it: sweeping, breathlessly agile. Its narrative ease just flows and flows and before you know it, the story has ended. The story is decidedly Maggie’s, an any-housewife-on-the-block character out to chart everybody’s life, especially that of her husband’s, children’s and grandchild’s. Ah, here’s some character, one would say. Yet in the hands of Tyler, Maggie had transcended that otherwise predictable stereotype because the author gives her dimensions so deceivingly thick the reader almost wants, nay, desires, to give her his unanimous empathy vote, making him exclaim, Hey, so what’s wrong with someone as endearing as Maggie? She is, she is...just a bitch, that’s all. And it is this very bitchiness of Maggie, so expertly hidden in layers upon layers of humane character traits, that makes the book a feel-good read. So feel-good that, after putting down the book, I almost wanted to make a quick trip to the General Santos City public cemetery with a bunch of pink and burgundy bougainvilleas in my hand, lay them at the tomb of my dead mother, and forgive her for having been a Maggie to my Jesse, Maggie’s son who she practically wanted so much to turn into a reluctant Galatea.

In Wicked Girl from Isabelle Allende’s The Stories of Eva Luna, Elena is another such bitch, differently the same as Maggie, as far as manipulativeness is concerned. A woman trapped in a girl’s body, like Elizabeth Taylor, they say, Elena started out as a “scrawny whelp of a girl with the dull skin of solitary children, a mouth revealing gaps still unfilled by second teeth”, into someone who “knew every corner of the (boarding) house (of her mother) and her long training in spying led her to the perfume bottle behind the packets of rice and tins of conserve on the pantry shelf” till she became as obsessed herself as her mother Sofia was with their virile boarder Bernal. Many years after reading the story, only one scene stood out in my memory, if for no other reason than that this scene led to another character’s life, that of Bernal, drastically altered. It is the scene where Elena finally made it out with Bernal while the latter was fast asleep: When she saw him so asleep there on his bed in his undershorts only, “all the fear and impatience that had accumulated for days disappeared, leaving Elena cleansed, with the calm of one who knows what she has to do.” Potentially gratuitous a scene, it would have turned out just that in the hands of, say, Harold Robbins, or most paperback romances writers. But this one’s Allende. Her description of the scene almost had the finesse of a Lino Brocka sex scene, artfully executed, yet with none of the sexiness lost. Anyhow, the incident lodged heavy in the conscience of Bernal for years and years, knowing he had abused, or, more properly, had allowed himself to be abused, by the innocence of Elena who was just on the verge of puberty, my God. And this on top of the fact that he and Elena’s mother Sofia are having an affair, albeit clandestine. Only to find out, much much later, when Elena was grown up and with a boyfriend of her own, that the girl had not remembered at all what happened. There’s the bitchy part. Makes me remember when I was in second year high school and there was this guy who practically knelt in front of my elder sister on a Christmas eve, face shamelessly awashed with tears, begging my sister not to dump him, which she did, anyway. But that’s another story.

And then there’s the Grandma in Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man Is Hard To Find. She is every inch the classic bitch. Linearly told, with very minimum or no flashbacks at all just like Breathing Lessons and Wicked Girl, the story is that of a family: grandma, dad, mommy, three children, going out on a trip one sunny day, along the way figuring in an encounter with three killers on the loose, and all of them getting killed in the process.

The matrix of the dramatis personae is the flamboyantly drawn character of the grandma: flippant, artificial, gaudy in every sense of the word. Before she got shot pointblank by the leader of the killers, she provided the story with its discordant refrain through the line, “Treat me well. Look, I’m a Christian lady”, or words to that effect, because I can’t quite quote exactly from the book now, having lent it to someone who chose to own it. Anyway, that line provided the symbolic sarcasm of the story, I should say, about advertised nominal Christianity which the unnamed grandma represents successfully. She spoils her bratty children to a fault even when they wickedly and knowingly maltreat, ridicule, malign, and all that jazz, “unbelievers” along the way. And she manipulated the family outing such that the itinerary would be diverted to an alleged abandoned house where an alleged treasure was hidden. Avarice, vanity, pride, you name it, the grandma had all eight of the seven deadly sins. So that, when she died towards the end of the story, and in the hands of criminals at that, one feels like promptly screaming, You had it coming, woman! The accompanying catharsis is so strong, so irresistible, as to leave the reader completely involved. Churchgoing for me afterwards became an exercise in suspicious surveying of every feminine figure in church that even remotely resembles the grandma: impeccably dressed up to the nines, and with very polished, much too polished speech.

Yet, unlike Maggie---because Elena is a league of her own--- the Grandma’s character in O’Connor’s tale is layered theatrically, meaning, the reader is aware of the sarcastic device in creating the character, that she is not what she seems to be. Nevertheless, it is not to say that O’Connor is a lesser caliber writer as far as creating a character is concerned. Nor is that tantamount to saying that Allende is a more sophisticated word wielder.

Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth and Portia, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ Agueda, I’m sure, would be entirely different literary beings in the hands of Tyler, Allende and O’Connor. Tyler might make the bloody Queen of Scotland not sleepwalk in dishabile at all, but in designer shopping attire. Or Allende might paint the Marquez matriarch a little bit more offbeat, like making her abandon her family after her husband went nuts. Or O’Connor would rewrite Portia entirely and make her the Devil’s advocate, sort of a Shylock alter ego.

Literary slant and point of view as influenced by a writer’s gender notwithstanding, for me these three women writers makes me look at women a little more differently, if patiently, and accomodatingly. Imagine if Silas Marner were written by Charles Dickens? And Oliver Twist by George Elliot, who, we all know, is Mary Ann Evans? Or, for that matter, if God Almighty had the story of Adam and Eve recorded, not by Moses, but by his wife? What a heyday for Bantam Press.

THANK YOU STAR FOR GIVING WRITERS THEIR DUE, EVEN IF IT IS JUST A DISCUSSION PLATFORM
By: Iris P. Concepcion

The Philippine Star's series on writing has formally ended earlier. I probably learned more about the monetary aspect of scribbling from these people more than the hundreds of books written on the matter.

This time around, Star's resident scribbler Mr. Butch Dalisay discussed about how to improve one's writing craft. When the parody is done, it is all back to business. As one poster near a musical store declared : "My Chemical Romance: We Are Shooting The Killjoys."

There is a longer Q and A in this episode (it is like a film; this could be a good documentary series just to increase our cultural awareness by several points). I finally sat in one of the white chairs reserved for attendees and found a book by Conrad de Quiros sitting beside me. Its cover was torn and I had to hold it least I'd be shot by the writing gods for being such a louse. This writer can articulate in manifold ways what I can only conjure feistily in my head. He is so Star in that regard. When he was faced with some editorial skirmish, he wrote this. I copied the quoted line from the held book:

"I kept my cool throughout most of this, preferring to get back at them by sipping their expensive wine and nibbling their delicate cheeses which they kept bringing out to demonstrate the extent of their prosperity or back in crawling out of the hole."

Mr. Dalisay is an articulate speaker, being an educator himself. He was as subtle as a gentle breeze can possibly be, parrying in his simple demeanor the aesthetics of being a local John Updike. His spiel was informative especially on the existing costs and brawls happening in publishing houses. I was looking for an upturned pebble on the beach to get covered by moss interaction, but the guy shifted the discussion to how creative writers, them who are often open to vultures, can guard themselves from abuse. The insight was most helpful.

What is happening in music or arts in general is definitely taking a long time to germinate in the publication area but rest assured, people like him can start a movement towards that end. I have listened to writers, those who toiled like beggars, who are are not protected by their employers. Someone from the audience questioned the worthiness of news reporters and the quality and content of news (finally), as Mr. Dalisay can rouse only the importance of a novel as a big, fat book that could travel out from the hands of the publishing houses to the readers.

I did not realize "binabarat talaga ang mga manunulat sa bansang ito." It is demeaning in a sense and numbs the senses but you listen to him or read de Quiros and you know somewhere, you could no longer be bullied by unnecessary kibitzers. I am alarmed that writers here do not have contracts with their employers and are mostly hired through a network of, well, friendship. I was framing my question along that line: How do you deal with a buffet taunting you that some can write badly but can afford immaculate pools? It was comedic, but in a heartwarming way.

From a fellow writer, there was tact and understated imagery of comfort coming from these writing practitioners (the panelists include the owner of National Bookstore Miguel Ramos, BBC's Rico Hizon and film maker Pepe Diokno who said quite a creative mouthful as someone else). When Mr. Dalisay said New York-based Vintage is a vanity publishing house but is a smartass page deliverer, I almost raised my hands up for a glorious halleluiah. My favorite writer Dave Eggers was picked by this house and I was the more richer in inspiration for it.

I hope everyone on the road can discuss heated topics like this out in the field--it is better than regaling about the traffic and pestilence when cornered. It was a democratic exchange. I may not agree with some of their views but at least, they are handled like true gentlemen of the profession.

My God, I said. There is furor and buzz about sculptures, paintings, installations and writers in this country. I could not even get to Mr. Dalisay. The line was long (one of my kids, in a eureka-like, stupid cameo, joined the fray and sought an autograph from him). I just placed a book on surfing on one distraught lady's face as they swarmed the writers.

Kathy Moran, in her usual sentence-gushing self, developed a crush (I think) on Pepe Diokno. This is the only showbiz laughter we got and it was cute as hell.

Thank you Philippine Star for this gift of intellectual sustainance; you know it is a celebration. Philippine Daily Inquirer's publisher, Mr. Isagani Yambot was even there to question the guys on stage. He asked pointed questions himself. A guy from Business Mirror was extolling the beauty of having an exclusive school of journalism in this country, and how to retrain the existing crop of news reporters. It was an eye opener.

Kudos to the practitioners of the craft. You have come a long way gentlemen and ladies.

Henceforth, you get the drift. Yes Mr. Hizon, sexyfying the news is hard but better that, than soft.

ART IN THE FIELD OF MASS CULTURE

By: Iris P. Concepcion

When I returned home in Mindanao almost six years ago, the city that I can have ready access with in terms of travel distance is Davao City. Its feisty mayor, Rodrigo Duterte, has thouroughly combed its streets off criminals, hoodlums and other misfits that hamper its growth economically. Once these were laid down, its cultural resurgence gained grounds.

I have seen a giant statue of David erected in one of its seashore landmarks. The city was then caught abuzz with cultural gossip. It was sensational in an intellectually enriching manner. The city councilors brought to the plenary halls important debates, primarily involving the morality or lack of it, of the nude David.

The thread of contention was whether or not David's extremity (his vital male member became prime suspect for length dimension) should be covered or not. The church raised a howl. Caving in to the array of cultural debates, an innovation was introduced. A leaf covered that part of the statue, cemented as it was by the furor of cultural bickerings. Its local news were filled with art, art, art and art. The discussions turned hilarious at one point  as politicians brushed up their knowledge of the aesthetics to join in the exciting cultural roar.

I thus postulated a premise: art can only thrive freely in two extreme conditions. One in absolute desolateness, the other in a wild and free environment where hoodlums could not get in the way of the artists' horns and invention scalpels.

I experienced this vibe of cultural re-awakening last night.

I have watched an ultra spectacular presentation of an artwork straight from an O. Henry novellete. I know the best part shall boomerang on my psyche like a Colette ending. Short but unforgettable.

I am referring to the unveiling of the Quatrromondial statue at the Quadricentennial Park at the University of Santo Tomas.

It is a curious installation. For one, it created a talk reserved only for the likes of world-class cultural pioneers like J. Bieber. I am kidding.

Students milled around waiting for big-named moviestars to appear. They shrieked. Medical men pushed wheelchairs gushing about "Oh my, I saw..........," namedropping a box-office star.

I could not figure out much of the programme prior to the unveiling. I looked at the majestic blue and yellow lights hanging over at the main building, a Christmas imprint that remains bold and bewitching. Of course, you likewise see balloons tied up somewhere looking quite forlorn and out of place.

I am equally fascinated by these facts.

Students stayed with the unveiled statue more than the entertainment hoopla being staged nearby. As the golden yellow veil was pierced like a corporate identity defrocked in legal suit, slowly pulled down to reveal the art piece, a suspended excitement and captured awe drummed up the visceral psyche of the audience.

The yells and excitement are befitting a rockstar's ascent on stage.

When finally disrobed, it was the best triumph of art in a broadbased setting. It was magical and soulful.

The cherry pie has finally arrived. An artwork is elevated to the stature of an entertainment box-office hit. I am sure Krip Yuson will find solace in the company of these hoodwinkers. What you did in that mall is spreading like rabbits in universities. It is horrifying!

My cellphone could not do justice to the installation. You have to view it as is.

Its shining structure is unlike the somewhat uneven texture of the EDSA shrine. You suspect its creator can improve the Ninoy busts better. It is truly enthralling. The domed globe is carried by four representations of the university's educational thrusts. Bold but tasteful.

Unlike the University of Philippines' oblation landmark that represents nationalism at its peak, symbolizing that human freedom is addressed by its state of undress, the four giant structures held a book, a cross and a right, yes, this is the art shock of the century, breast. Yes, a boob. A left boob, to cite its exact location. It is tasteful nonetheless. Freedom of flesh rendered intellectually as the late Ophie Dimalanta would have it. She fought hard for this kind of leverage in the past and got censored. She got the better deal this time around.

Inside the globe are hues of blue and green, in jade-like jewels. I am excited how the natural lights shall play out on this come sunny weather or dawnbreak. Its reflections could vary. It invites a foreplay to a heated, visual passion.

The great crane, with SS on its logo carried this (see picture), made sure this piece was installed. Yes, Filipinos can erect something celebratory like this piece.

If you prefer mindless hilarity, you can swift your eyes to a giant screen where an entertainment program is screened singing a popular ditty about being belonged. The art enthusiasts debated on this too, like they would Van Gogh.

I am overwhelmed by this victory.

A statue ultimately dislodged, in that askewed manner, a Billboard Number One Specialist Song through an educational mass psychology of the aesthetics.

When students chose to have their pictures taken with the artwork instead of the moviestars, that eventually sealed my day as a scribbler, literally and figuratively.

STREETFOOD

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Along a street strait where sausages and hotdogs are cut, dunk in oil and fried, eggs dipped in sticky cornstarch are coated and peddled for hungry tummies to be satiated.

Centered in this palate oasis is an old bookstore, Merriam-Webster. This encyclopedia-named nook does not sell much books these days. It has sanitary napkins and hair conditioner sold beside writing papers. This place has retained its merchandise arrangement since its, I assume, inception.

I was looking for handy notepads for me to dawdle my ink with. I have phrases readily flying like bats in my cranium that could not be contained sometimes. They must be written down at once when thought of. I also went inside this bookstore to buy a kid her plastic envelope since her old one gave in to the weight of her school books.

Daily, I train my eyes on objects that are worth scribbling about. I found one whoopee discovery in this bookstore.

I found a notepad (pictured above) that brought flashes of flashback in page form, turning leaves of sentences and scrawls as a tot, a petite kid wielding a pen instead of a doll. I imprinted these on bond papers, pads and eventually the enticing openness of walls. The Golden Gate sketch is a masterpiece; it is the same as it was, entirely.

I created a story using this writing paper via comic-form with the cliffhanger "Itutuloy" for the needed sequel on my thread. I though this pad is no longer existent, lost in the archive of manufactured goods.

When I saw this, I almost hit the roof out of my unmeasurable fulfillment. It only costs P5.00. as if I were transported back to that period where Teem was my favorite softdrink of choice, priced at measly 50 cents that time.

Thus, this particular pad is both a journey way back to my scribbling life through affordable access, comprising a series of historical glints and happy memories. I am glad it has retained its design, color and name tag.

I can connect this to a story of my childhood of yonder: I was born atop a dining table in a wooden house facilitated by a town physician and a midwife. This enabled me to write about my winged creature, Meth. I was a genesis of a dining experience, literally.

This is the reason why I am titling my piece "STREETFOOD". I came from that long line of germinating thread.

Some of the best dishes may be devoured in places where you need to walk to. It is worth the trek. I have tasted the worst fillet fish that could not come at par from a restaurant near FEU. I also found its counterpart from a street vendor. I have eaten siopao, palabok, chiffon with heavenly fillings and all forms of chicken parts priced below P50.00, accidentally discovered while striding.

My palate transaction here consists of suggesting better sauces as the vendor ferociously defends his concoction.

With this, I am adding thank you to my note list of daily blessings. This notebook, the affordable food and even as non-sequitur, my hunky Dads. And Moms.

An explanation to pictures:

The artwork of Cory has bats flying (Batman) and this was exceptionally rendered. For once, you thank the PCSO for using its coffers wisely. The third picture is a sketch of myself by myself in zigzagging strokes (similar to opaque cubism). I love my hair here.

The last one was an installed bag by the better other. The figurine wearing this had lousy clothes; the bag rocked mercilessly though. You must see this live. It could bring a neat smile to your face.

You can also read an article on today's Philippine Daily Inquirer that is not carried by its online version re: UST being the oldest university in the Philippines. It is written by a La Sallian historian, printed on front page.

LAWYERING

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I had amply essayed on this blogsite the ordeals I had to undergo in taking the Bar Exams. I had flunked it in the most discomforting manner, missing just 2 points and thereabouts. Bar examinees could never see their notebooks after the exam; they would not know where they went wrong.

You must petition the Supreme Court to have your examination booklets opened. This is arduous. It is likewise pointless indirectly instructing the Highest Tribunal that it had mistakenly corrected your notebooks.

I did not bother to get re-acquianted with my law books again. They wallowed in all forms of disarray. They had been flooded and torn. I had my Joaquin Bernas' book on Constitution embedded by a poem of H. Francia on its hard cover. You can already see that I was already impassioned to brace the two facets of my learning: one rigid, the other, ethereal. This book was stolen while I was having croissant and coffee during my law review. Along with my P3,000.00 allowance during that time. This has script written all over it.

I could write a novel out of this if I can already afford an electronical notebook.

Instead, I worked, met people whom I again remet during exciting times.

I therefore welcome the recent En Banc resolution of the Highest Court of the land to finally enact the Bar Exam reform bill. The Supreme Court finally approved the proposals brought before it. It shall now adopt the MCQ (multiple choice questions) type of examination with the essay portion limited to these aspects:

1. One such essay communication shall require the candidate to prepare a trial memorandum or a decision based on a documented legal dispute. (60% of essay).

2. Another essay shall require him to prepare a written opinion sought by a client concerning a potential legal dispute facing him. (40%).

This truly makes sense. MCQ is used all over the world. This also makes the correction of papers easier since they may be done electronically. I especially applaud the essay topics. This is the better test.

If I may recall, I was asked a question in a Legal Ethics class if I am for the scrapping of the essay type or am I moving forward to the MCQ-type line of questioning. I chose the former, being the wordy woman that I am. I argued that the profession is basically a writing-driven occupation. The preparation of pleadings takes almost 80% of the practice. Hence, the subjects of essays are just but apt.

I am overeager to know what other branches of government can institute invigorating steps like this one to keep pace with worldclass standards. To quote the SC resolution:

"A third recommendation opts for maintaining the essay-type examinations but dedicating this to the assessment of the requisite communication skills, creativity and fine intellect that bar candidates need for the practice of law."

I likewise recommend Philippine Star's report on Cory Aquino's birthday. The online version was lost. Get hold of the hard copy instead.

Enjoy your country at this time. There are a lot of productive changes from within: the implementation of social benefits to institutional reforms. They are for free, you just need to welcome them. This President is no wimp nor a flashy talker. He really implements things.

Do not listen to hyper people sowing misinformation and pestilence. If you lose water or light, just wait for the alternate sources which can give you better but cheaper service. I go out and the streets have the superficial traffic clogs to infuriate you. Take the train, it is faster. Let us just wait for the implementation of more railways. That too shall come.

The markets in Albay and Mindoro now look like supermalls, with elevators and escalators. If that is a bad policy, I do not know what a good policy is.

Hence, I praise the recent SC resolution. The bar examinees can now heave a sigh of relief. The exams, moreover, shall be simultaneously held in Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao. It means less cost for students dreaming to improve this country's judicial system.

AN OPEN APPEAL TO MY ALMA MATER

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I do not think I shall be capable of being astounded by the University of Santo Tomas after having stayed there for four years in college. When I entered it again, it was by an invitation from no less than a Far Eastern University professor who enthused passionately about its Miguel de Benavides library.

This peculiar direction was well intended. Its partitions have structures of books within, similar to the New York Metropolitan Museum.

I was impressed, mentally bugged and inspired.

Its hospital is likewise impressive. Its ward section can afford to have medically advanced gadgets to treat its destitute patients.

I have read UST's current brochure aptly titled Campus Tour. I suddenly miss Ophelia Dimalanta's burrowed frowns and eyebrow twitch. I wonder how she would critique the words on the compact pamphlet.

It is worth the read. I am groaning for more viscerally moving sentences though. I am blessed to have been classroomed in this university by individuals who can do justice to the campus' European structures. It would be interesting how my classmate (Allan Lorenzo) , currently in Indian transcendental meditation, would wield his grammatical acrobatics in this present opulent surrounding. I would likewise be excitedly curious how Jim Libiran, that documentary specialist, shall train his lens on this outrightly, worldclass visual treat.

The Arts and Letters department where I came from published a student organ, The Flame, which could give the more established magazines at that time a run for their money. It housed immensely disciplined (technically) writers under the helm of Miss Dimalanta. I am sure that with that European tradition of rigid clarity in design, the word "Welcome to the Pontifical.........." would be stricken out entirely from the brochure's introductory vocabulary bin.

These writers can craft a more exciting presentation: Lito Zulueta, Vim Nadera, Rhoneil Panganiban. Have them wield their words there.

I am itching to read how Mr. Lorenzo and his coterie's words can outdo the enormous visual opulence of this retinally appetizing school. I am turning nouns into adjectives. Never mind the gaffe.

I am sure they can do it for free given their semantics for poesy.

With that in mind, do visit its library. It is aesthetically fulfilling. If you are lucky like me, you may even get to meet one of its regally intelligent woman, a petite lady who is conversant both in Spanish and English. Do not snag from her actions for trips and gadgets though. Not even sneakers or guitars. She will direct you to fix the water pipes instead.

P.S. I just read this, possibly written by one of the writers I had mentioned above. Thank God for this fast wielding of technically abundant writing.


UST’s staying power

Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 04:07:00 01/25/2011

Filed Under: University, Anniversaries, Education, history

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Filipinos may strike their breast for their short memory and notorious “ningas cogon” attitude, negative traits that hamper their efforts at unity and authentic nation-building; but they don’t have to look far for inspiring examples of visionary enterprise, sense of mission and commitment to it, along with resilience, tenacity, and sheer staying power. This week the University of Santo Tomas formally starts its year-long celebration of its 400th anniversary as Asia’s oldest university, and whether one is an alumnus or not, one must join in the thanksgiving for, as UST Rector Magnificus Fr. Rolando V. de la Rosa, O.P., put it, UST has indeed been a “gift” to the Philippine nation.

It is a gift because for a people unsure about their national identity and bereft of institutions to reflect their worth and pride as a people, UST has been a paragon of institution-building. Older than the Philippine republic and practically the oldest institution in the country after the Roman Catholic Church, UST is the alma mater of the founders of the Philippine nation (Jose Burgos, Jose Rizal, Apolinario Mabini, Emilio Jacinto, Felipe Agoncillo and nearly all the framers of the Malolos Constitution) as well as of four presidents (Manuel L. Quezon, Sergio Osmeña, Jose P. Laurel and Diosdado Macapagal), and of patriots and nationalists (Claro M. Recto and Fernando Ma. Guerrero), several Supreme Court chief justices, jurists and lawmakers.

UST was founded by the intrepid Dominican order. The small seed that was to become UST was sown on the death-bed of the third archbishop of Manila, the Dominican friar Miguel de Benavides who, before dying in 1605, bequeathed his personal library and his meager personal fortune of 1,500 Spanish pesos for the establishment of a college-seminary for the training of priests. It was only five years later that his Dominican confreres were able to gather enough extra donors and start the college.

Starting as a school for the sacred sciences, UST later branched out to the civil disciplines so much so that today, UST sports proudly all of the superlative titles as far as age is concerned—oldest law school, oldest medical school, oldest school of pharmacy and of other health sciences, oldest journalism school.

Of course, it has become a cliché to call UST “older than Harvard,” a tag invented not by the Dominicans but by the American governor-general, Cameron Forbes who wanted to measure every Spanish-bred institution in the Philippines based on Anglo-American yardsticks.

Some critics pigeonhole UST as a Spanish colonial relic that hasn’t kept up with the times. But even the Jesuit American historian John Schumacher has noted that the quality of education provided by UST in the Spanish period was comparable to that of Europe, else how could Rizal and the other Filipinos who continued their studies there have adjusted very well to the European curriculum? Else how could UST have given the Church the Dominican theologian Ceferino Gonzales, who became cardinal-archbishop of Toledo and primate of the Spanish church, and who became the adviser of Pope Leo XIII in the universal revival of Thomism in the late 19th century? Else how could UST have provided Europe the Dominican thinkers Norberto Prado and Francisco Marin Sola, who occupied one after the other the theology chair of the University of Fribourg and who became top theologians of the first half of the 20th century?

Moreover, while Harvard is heavily subsidized, UST is not. In fact, it has not historically received any subsidy—not from the Spanish monarchy or colonial establishment, not from the Americans, and not from the Philippine republic. Despite all this, UST is, according to the Professional Regulation Commission, the best performing private school in licensure exams and the biggest provider of Filipino professionals. Among private schools, too, it has the highest number of programs declared as Centers of Excellence and Centers of Development by the Commission on Higher Education.

Amid the vicissitudes of history, UST has forged on, with its overriding vision of Christian humanism and Thomist optimism, which looks at nature and everything as vehicles and bases of grace. But when one looks today at UST’s sprawling campus in Manila—with its classic earthquake-proof Main Building, its two hospitals, one of which is the biggest private charity hospital in the country, and its magnificent art-deco church—one comes into contact with a sight not Thomistic, but Augustinian: it is the vision of the City of God on earth. It is a vision that all Filipinos should aspire to.

Happy birthday, Uste!

BEING THROWN WITH A BALL FOR PICTURES LIKE THESE

(How Lucky Can You Get)

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Not much had been written about the refurbishing done in Luneta. The lighting is now all blue which pretty much sums up why this was accomplished fast and without much talk and publicity.

It has undergone a major landscape surgery. The dancing fountain is a free visual treat for thousands of revelers and sightseers alike. It reminds me so much of the film Forrest Gump with that Bob Dylan scene: that strait toward Capitol Hills.

I am puzzled by the uppermost photo. The one I took had no potholes on them; just disregard the photoshop of the impugned. This is a cool place to be in.

Prior to this, I attended the Concert At The Park titled Forest Murmurs in celebration of the 200th Anniversary of Franz Liszt. The semi-verandah like frontage of the venue needs a make-over. The pianists started from an off-key rendition (the background is similar to a gay beauty pageant and it spooked me out) but it soon graduated into a soul-seeping performance on keys. All transcriptions and arrangements were done by Mary Anne Espina and Jonathan Arevalo Coo except for the Don Juan Fantasy which was arranged by Mockwitz.

The emcee, in a prelude to a piece, extolled: "Imagine this played with white and sandy Boracay beach in mind, seeping wine by the shore."

This is titled Consolacion No. 3 and it was dreamy, haunting and musically transcendental. I liked this the best. The next one is The Wild Hunt (Transcendental Etude No. 6). There were a lot of potshots taken for the organizers but it was as usual, a foray into the musically conscious and another slap on misplaced, living theater. I saw a pair kissing as if they were in front of a moviehouse. Kids were munching cracklings and pork rinds and I saw some tourists eyeing them with curiousity.

When the final piece was played (Hungarian Rhapsody No. 6), a cat went on stage, oblivious to the interlude happening on stage.

Upon seeing the Quirino Grandstand with its new "look", I am sure this venue shall be given a material facelift for a cozier accomodation of those keyed-in B flats and majors. I also wish they do not have to sell a lot of junk food there. This was a carry-over remnant of whoever was handling the National Park office in the past. I saw the brands and soon got the drift. Overall though, the place has truly gone cosmo, to say the least. The people were orderly. They brought mats, picnic-like. And when the free viewing of fountains shone, there was awe.

What touched me was a kid whose kite did not fly because of some root. I removed those myself and his toy flew, well, freely. These young ones can explore the wind and the huge playground without them being bumped.

I have, perhaps, briefly interacted with some of these innovators. They sometimes get by without food or drink. They carry their coffee in little plastic popsicle containers. You see now why they have to embrace that kind of lifestyle: there are millions out there who need to be given life's surpluses, even if briefly.

Did I cry? Yes. A little bit. I do that only when I am angry but this time around, it was for glee. Seeing those hundreds of people having leisure as a social benefit for being citizens of the Republic of the Philippines is enough a wring for a tear gland to function.

And to those guys who hit me with a ball? You are just a bunch of pissed off cowards. Believe me, you have never been gayer than this.

(See my post below).

BASTARDS

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I was walking towards my quarters when these boys of young age, deliberately threw me a basketball. I am glad it did not hit my face. They did not even attempt to say sorry.

Look at their colors.

ACTUAL ARTWORK

By: Iris P. Concepcion

On top is a superb song atlas done by a wanderer of dreams. The lower portion is by a six year old kid.

Life is indeed all google.

WONDERFUL FORAY UNTO THE MIND PLAYGROUNDS OF KIDS

By: Iris P. Concepcion

It is very interesting to note that in these times of virtual interactions, we see kindred spirits in obscure places doing their thing amid the hustle and bustle of latent, often funny, consumerism.

Philippine Star has launched a series of literary discussions off the editorial boardrooms and out into the malls. They prove to be huge hits if only for the free coffee and donuts that you can mouthfully devour as you see the wordsmiths verbalizing their craft, even when parodying earthlings not themselves.

It is eerie. It is horrific even. These writers act superbly in live performances than the renowned actors themselves. I already wrote somewhere here Krip Yuson's remarkable portrayal as a primetime anchor (articulate and not so dense).

Earlier, I watched Jessica Zafra (her hair resembles mines in distraught times of cholera and the outbreak of centipede measles) grill Star writers and have them regale about their favorite books. Truth be told, I did not get much of what the spewed titles were. The sound system was quite bad. The tone of voices were familiar though.

The venue is at the ground floor of a mall, in front of a spacious comfort room.

Quark Henares (thank God, he is what he is in any given surrounding: goofy in shirt) was showing off his favorite book illustrations similar to the pictures I took above. Beware, the airplane and the colored matching clothing were done by a six year old (quite my braggart underling). Scott Garceau of the paella cuisine hybrid, brought his thick books. He was the most articulate of the lot and the most poised.

Erwin Romulo was acting like a politician where I normally see him in dung form off Divisoria, sleeping in his beat-up vehicle. Celine Lopez gained a timbre lower than her usual dipthong and she was immaculately pretty like a doll. This girl can talk sense, believe me. Kathy Moran was tightlipped and hilarious in that seemingly busy way as events coordinator. Igan D' Bayan talked nonsense as usual, parodying a dead skull.

Beneath all these, of course, you see their works outside, in spectacular renditions of the previously rejected. These writers are imparting that reading is important as maximizing business space. Inno Sotto, another reactor, spoke about getting ideas from a hairpin or something that it sticks out like a nagging mole in his creativity. The genesis though is they all read. They may look like bums in other life forms but they love reading. I surmise they get their high from witty slogans in catsup bottles.

Look at the exhibits above. That pizza is a book about pizzas actually. The shoe thing was a free rendition of an ad for a longtime women's wear store. The one with robot is for an eyeglass brand. Yes, Virginia they rendered the creativity for free. One rugrat singlehandedly halved the costing of these productions (with much superior effect) that is why he is now pretending to be deaf.

This writer's better other splashed his shoe installation beside another brand and there is symmetry, or divine intervention, in the creative match-up.

The funniest was Wilson Lee Flores and a gay reactor who sprung out of nowhere reciting the merits of his Parisian page. Flores talked in a sing-song manner. Beside the silkworm book and the invasion of German Army in that array of discussion, he proved better than Chiquito in his otherwise "malaman" take on words, on top of writers loving David Sedares.

I have always maintained my thesis that to be truly funny, one must be well-read and well-versed. To act dumb competently, one must be exceptionally smart.

This is a group that seems to be having fun writing and working and reading and doing cookbooks and drawing eyes and sponge bobs. They wished more books are displayed and in various forms too. They had silently prayed for these things to happen.

I think they are gaining some ground now. They could write about offbeat things without censure or without being laughed at.

That airplane sketch (done beside a laundry nookie) stands a chance to be magnified in those billboards of gigantic faces.

Yes, they are worthy to get paid.

THE USELESS NOTION OF PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I wish women writers shall delve much deeper into the psyche of aging, not much to look at men who abuse women verbally and indirectly who could not fight back.

I have a way out of pricking the conscience of these people. Do not take on seriously the bimbo threats: underneath that facade is a murky slate of medical records and facial operations to well, improve their faces.

I do not know why they must resort to that when personality could always get in ahead of the pompous exterior. They thrive because the people surrounding them allow them to be rude. That is like pegging your penny for something that is losing anyway.

The science behind it is not even worth mentioning. Power drugs them to insensibility where words could make them look good, heftier and loud. Usually, fight women shut them off. And for good reason.

You do not pair them off with men.

You blast them via powerful women who say it as is.

It always works.

ON FILMS

By: Iris P. Concepcion

A fellow scribbler, a chip off her mom's cookie jar, a google on the skidding toes, indirectly praised a cob for being a movie snitch. Not exactly a reel squealer. None of that blah.

He took pleasure from reading her reviews. Her mind is a series of celluloid blimps and cuts and zooms. According to him, she makes the pro blush, similar to that Bette Davis' eyes song. That is how far her mind can recollect the lyrical montage of visual clips and sentences.

I can certainly empathize with this creative dynamics.

First off, my peripheral engagement with a screen event is to find myself at the autumnal, spring-like, brainiac-vortex of the director. I no longer am sitting in that darkened room like a duck critic waiting for a scene to happen. I am watching films with an invisible camera on hand myself.

How would one film the Grapes of Wrath? Difficult.

Thus, I watched Gulliver's Travels where Gulliver did not actually travel but talked in musical allusions, splicing School of Rock with hoodwinkry. And two elderly couple (viewing mates), out of nowhere, muttered the now evolving word of the century: "Tsu". This served as a buffer to my viewing space when invaded by women in E-cups. My Galahads. It was weird.

Actually, I am already taking on movies for their opulent sceneries, yachts, furniture, cars, jewelry and gowns. They are hot stuff, similar to the news item I had read earlier about fact-finding missions used as junkets for incessant travels abroad. There is your lush, lush, lush script genesis.

If Jack Black is developing a character who is closer to the national radar, it takes a little time to improvise and "we" make do with unnerving lines and upfront familiarity. Witness the operative word "we." I am part of the process not as a viewer but as a sparkplug to that colorful, visceral blitz. Even letters are color coordinated now. Sample on a graffiti by the riverbank: Limp(black) Wet (blue).

Hehehehehehe.

Who started this?

Since I am on this, I truly, genuinely thank the mall owners who suddenly opened their halls for offbeat, quirky ideas and art installations. They are fun and true to the original constitution of mall spirit (Article One: Thou Shall Not Be Boring). My cheeks enlarged when I saw an exorcised woman with boobies the size of Neptune brought forth to life outside one of the cinemas I had recently visited. It is not staid. Shocking as it may sound, I am appreciative of the risks taken to have these young 'uns show their wares instead of the pre-approved murals that lack life, the very onus of buying stimuli itself.

Even their rejected copy ads are gobbling spaces in huge splashes. What an archaeological find! They are better than the existing ones! They should be worth millions of pesos!

Mall owners: Thank you for taking that creative curve.

I would not be surprised if these creators were giving them away for free.

That is how "our" circus works. Wink.

Thus: Jack Black removed his shoes on top of his luggage as if saying: "Hey, I act better when sleeping." If this were a dream, just head to the airport. It is one huge, sprawling Cinemax.

No, this was not in the film. It was acted in a living, breathing theater.

And if by chance you have not seen The Tourist, watch it. A mesh of Bond-like thriller and espionage done tastefully. It could rattle some nerves but that is the keypoint to the theme. The visuals are worth dying for.

(My apologies to the 8th wonder of the world for missing the lunar landing on the wall and the immense amount of grins spread in the neighborhood of hits and misses and subdued eccentricities. I go there for coffee. The elite club of the flying troubadours. I love this group very much.)

DEFINITELY NOT A G-SPOT
By: Iris P. Concepcion

In the tradition of long-drawn history that had us educated on Van Gogh's chopped ears; de Sade's sanity flying to cuckoo's nest in his warped sense of the lurid and the macabre; the ultimate smoked-up versions of highly talkative hotdogs discussing the merits of mustard and/or catsup on them, I was posed a query on how to detect poseurs who may view history as a series of blips and selective memory.

My test is simple: I usually detect it through the language. The temporary pauses in between sentences. The grasp of a word, somehow missing on a page of the Thesaurus. There is a gap of unrecognizable stalling and hesitant recall.

I usually know it but keep the badge unto myself.

This is also my criterion in relationships and what not. The center of this blog never gets queasy nor awkward when you talk to him. He speaks fluently and is prone not to brag. He does not speak much, preferring the lunar way of dissecting things.

My criterion when someone is pissed off with this writer is also simple. When they talk about your genitals, they are pissed. When they say you are crazy, chances are, they are losing their grip on reality more than you do. So you have butterflies flying over your head confessing: that's a nutty remark. Silently, I laugh with my people, in that visual kind of build-up, like a duck quack on feet when awful visuals appear on screens. And I write and talk about Rembrandt to diffuse the mental tensions brewing.

If you take the nitty gritty of relationship building, those who have invested time instead of shallow forging of friendships can take the punches harder. They can be depended on sturdily even without the glare of public scrutiny.

I have to write this down for fellow women: when you are undermined like you are a paid whore, politely tell them you are not that. Say, "I love Adler With 5 Cents In My Pocket." I do not think that is Pegasus material but you do get my drift.

And stay away from those who are injured by leisure sports. They understand balls more than people.

I am keeping the tabs and I know who had been genuinely helping. They are a delight to watch.

MEET THE FOCKERS (THE REPRISE)

By: Iris P. Concepcion

There are at least three Hollywood films currently showing that bear watching if only for their content value (Gulliver's Travels, Fockers, The Tourist).

I am a fan of this franchise film since Robert de Niro and Dustin Hoffman pit each other's acting skills like you would two giants grabbing a lone planet circling around a stage. De Niro's Santa spiel and Hoffman's flamenco drift are equally hilarious.

It is also worth mentioning that I have enjoyed movie advertisements (for phones) better than the spate of trailers during this screening. They are salaciously cunning and understated.

Ben Stiller is one of my all-time favorite comedians: that dorky but cutting spiels. He has a deadpan motion onto himself that I could not exactly pinpoint where he excavates from. He delivers lines like a goofy sage. He does not come out fake nor manufactured. Seldom would laughing clowns comment on social conditions without coming too stand-offish; Stiller does this even when sleepwalking. He is brilliant and romantic and nerdy and perfect for this package of film rundown.

I enjoin film buffs to view this film if only to reacquaint ourselves with the beauty of having Moms, of having a normal family, of appreciating the innate goodness of people.

Try your luck; thespians of the world stage might just give you a peekaboo straight from a smiley chair.

Yes, I love Greg Focker. There is something Mary-ish about him. And he wants to have babies, tutoring himself about parenthood and pregnancy. Better than lounging in nocturnal places huh.

Forget the last sentence.I want to write like a mainstream beast.

I never knew John Irving was in town. He was looking for a location where kids are the circus performers.

He could try the tots here. They have suddenly developed communal fever. They are barfing like ferris wheel of cold, mumps, chicken pox, hiccups and perhaps, leprosy. the worst part of it all, they are freaking mad. The youngest removed her right slipper and whacked it into a pool of her sibling's newly-produced mouth cesspool. The slime got stuck into its sole. She said: "Wala na!"

True enough, the barf disappeared. This, while she is coughing like a lunie.

There is a way to give them medicine. Their fever subsided; they are speaking in tongues and they are already cutting papers, wearing crowns, oversized shirts and slapping each other's faces. They are chaotic as hell and if you think they could not change the face of the world in the future, think again.

The little tot will find a cure to stop this barfing; the crazy one will keep on megging; the rest shall just continually nag their mother to produce another baby that they could kick in the butt, again.

I think they would be wrestlers. or muscle curators. Or boob peepers. Or professional mud lovers.

What I know of is they speak forth the truth; they are funny as hell and they do not turn their revenge into personal vendettas. They, instead, construct skycrapers, busting bad men's balls and turning this world into a more buoyant and bouncing world.

"Thy lover's middle name is mean." ----Indelible Curious on Gamma Metamorphosis.

COMMERCIALS AND DOUGHNUTS

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Inspiration begets inspiration.

I went to a newly-built mall and saw these ads in stores. One is for a locally-made high end denim wear; the other is for a famous luggage company.

There was a sofa in front of these adjacent stores. I sat beside a Caucasian-looking man who dozed off. Over bags or the distraught faces of those who had passed by this creative output---I could not keep tabs, definitely. Nothing shocks better than a curve down the alley of productivity; the luminous eyes of welled-up tears; instant recognition of the wall clocks and the rewind of bygone days, long spent, as if, on endless searches of pleasures and material meanderings.

I have done an exact replica of this when I cut out some pictures to speak for me when the abdominations begun, undermining my own sense of selfhood in exchange for these trespasses. Often times, I find myself backed up by odd people who are not familiar with my own territory of thinking.

They are definitely sensible, prudent, overtly smart and uncouth.

I was sitting here like a corn flower (wild flower to a kid who put this installation) and busied myself memorizing the frowns and eyebrows raised when this over-the-top, visceral defense crept in.

It was fun. Especially when they saw who I was sitting with, enjoying the full view.

Actually, I went there for a poetry reading facilitated by the renowned poet Krip Yuson.

I do not know what a doughnut stand and a coffee joint do in gathering like this. I saw the poet signing autographs in direct, hilarious competition with a breakfast staple/dessert/pastry. As everyone went overtly frenzy grabbing the dessert holes, Yuson was furiously signing books, mussing up his bag and talking to a short-haired woman about---perhaps, Borges.

The real poets were mouthing verses straight from Grade 2 learning center (this was laughable: If Mr. Remoto who had nabbed poetry credentials from Britain could speak like a soap opera penner, I would have reversed the whole world altogether) while big named stars performed verses like flying butterflies. They were overshadowed by their looks and well, previously commercial reputations.

It was equally grinnable (not a word) as they did an Ian McEwan reversal of roles (remembering the short story about heterosexuals getting discriminated instead of gays). The real poets fumbled; the non-poets spoke like verses themselves. Note to Seminal Gangster: I know how to connect that favorite water story to this huge, huge, huge live performance of the literati. It was silly and tickling, this..............."You know, Ian McEwan" as if I miss the whole point of critique.

It was especially cruel and enormously sweet that I have to find copies of Gunter Grass novels displayed prominently in a popular bookstore being read by your normal wanderers. This, while I was squatting in front of Yuson the poet looking, acting and speaking like a billion-buck movie star. The eloquence, the gestures, his ballsy and Hopperish grabbing of the mic by himself as the anchor disappeared unceremoniously. Instead of products, he was discussing his poetry session like a goddamn de Niro. It was eerie, sensational, scary and hilarious, displacing the habitues of numbed buyers. They must have wondered who the comedian on camera is.

My usual suspects---the plathing (not a word either) were having fits of dramatics themselves and there is just an intelligent vibe all around the place. The knowledgeable merely laughed, winked and were upfront in delivering the message: You have met the poseurs and we are the real thing. They were given leaflets and they simply refused them.

They do not belong to the tricycle bunch of rowdiness, that is for sure.

Of course, they are with me and they are for this would-be Little President.

This is an organized, overtly smart and creative bunch.

That is the reason they kick asses.

ERA OF CREATIVE BREATHING

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Luckily, I was at the NAIA-3 airport around midnight and had explored the new facilities with very few passengers trickling in. The viewing area is immaculately spacious and similar to a stage for an orchestra. I could sleep here all my life without complaining.

There are advertisements of the curious lot on the massive wall. It bears watching like trailers. Whether or not you take them as microcosm of felt work depends on your aesthetic judgment.

As usual, you take glimpses of how others operate this kind of transportation haven and how these glitches are addressed, comparably. What I have noticed, passengers can lug their baggages themselves: the carts are for free, wheezing their wheels up to the nearest taxi and bus stations. I am wondering why this was not given much fanfare by the media. It operates efficiently and at first brush, unchaotic. The maintenance people know where to go and are conversant with areas. Very different from the offhand remarks of "ay dumating na ata yan kanina." No need to get frantic. The flight schedules are computerized. You do not need reading glasses for this. They are printed hugely. Checking in takes less than ten minutes; there are no bumping off shoulders and backpacks. The whole arrival and departure areas are designed for easier mobility of Skywalkers and Darth Vaders alike with their stormtrooper bags.

Now I get it. It is not crowded because there are no porters around grabbing your bags like it is a snatching race. It does free up the walking zones. Use the elevators in going down; they only provide escalators when you go up. I mean, that must be the parallel hassle one must undergo in another setting.

I wish they could service more international flights; it is in the works. If I were a tourist visiting this country, I may not be overwhelmed by it since efficiency is the first rule of law from my country of origin. At least, it wouldn't be a bad impression as no hagglers and fixers and atrocious prices zap the exploring soul. For providing competition to a deeply mired and quite emotionally-charged sector, I am glad this was built. I am for quality all the way.

Moreover, it is pleasing to the eyes. I read that the primary airline carrier using this facility provided an access to a passenger winner, being its 50 millionth passenger. That is quite a lot of air space.

http://www.philstar.com/Article.aspx?articleId=645983&publicationSubCategoryId=63

I had interacted with some foreigners in the past and they had likewise bewailed the brooming and sweeping manually right in front of their faces, the dirt off the airport ground. I had likewise observed this.

Thus, when I saw this rocking gizmo (picture number 1) knocking down dust unobscurely, I just took out my cellphone and took this. By gad, it was neat.

I have read somewhere that airports are great pieces for film ideas. I agree. In this visit, I saw trash cans that eerily resembled R2-D2 of Star Wars. They were carried (by cart) in that manner and blinnnngggggggggggg I thought: why not highlight these miniscule works of pleasantness.

I know that the people behind this do not pay for publicity stunts. Their products speak for themselves. They do not hog the limelight; in fact, they credit their wonderful works to other people. It is a neat jab at the creative impasse that had dumbed our lot for a long period of time.

As an aside, I think I was educated on how some enterprising Lotharios use airport exits like motels. It was funny. Like a Gulliver looking for her own island, I turned up my radio phone with the emphatic words:

"We are young and we are we are we are.....superstars."

Something like that.

I encourage every Filipino, if budget permits, to hop inside this terminal. You'd feel unharrassed.

Actually, you'd feel more like you are billeted inside a beautiful house. In fact, if you can't afford Switzerland, this is the place to best ski. It was sheer wisdom they consulted some German guy for this.

We must, at all times, compete only with the best. This actually sums up a message that I had seen on a shirt. Worn by a hybrid of the better other and a Dad. It proclaims, singlehandedly and in cute font (none of those large prints in our language that are difficult to read). Here:

"RESOLUTIONARY". Resolutionary. I think he is a Rembrandt revo, in a more positive, thinking way. More of my turf this time.

P.S. If you are wondering over the second picture, this is momentous. Only Van Halen and the rustles of guitars and muzak could understand why I sometimes get lucky, in an odd way.

I also do not know why everyone is dozing off. Probably the time.

THANK YOU MR. PRESIDENT FOR ALLOWING PEOPLE LIKE ME TO DEVELOP A CRUSH ON GOVERNMENT, FINALLY

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I admit to being a whiner for the most part of my life. I howl over bad service, incompetent people, slow processing of anything, from papers to eyebrow plucking.

Before this President was elected, I have already felt a certain "tangible" shake-up from within that had me reversing my previous pronouncements in the past. It is not backsliding. I fathomed that I could not just be gritting my teeth over lapses forever. How to address these concerns merited another look. Cutting the chase, I started writing (and talking) about these "dreams" to people who could and might just listen to the voice of the marginalized via my own warped interviews with them.

It was not done overnight. Cocooned in a habitation of domesticity for the longest period of time, the toilers were doing their own, global work outside just as I had wished it.

Once I stepped outside, I have seen the spectacle of my rather gauche and pseudo State Of The Nation address being hooked realistically----out there in the field.

Slowly, these people had silently used cement, steel and other industrial equipment to places where they should be used and seen. I did not realize they had been dejected oftentimes just because they do not spend much on lobbying.

I think this is my participation: I had nagged them to do more. They had responded with equal vigor and passion. One of these workers termed it beautifully as "we are a bunch of poet-writers, marchers, workers, artists, gays, lesbians, businessmen who found a common ground." Very Ian McEwan in description.

Thus, in my daily interactions with these people, budget is a non-issue. I started revelling on the qualities of this new movement. I even encourage skeptics to explore them without biases this time around. I had been known to gloat over films. It felt weird gloating over things as traditionally staid as public edifices.

I was knocking my head off before how to term this desire of mine in a huger scale.

Now I found the gist.

I merely wanted those who are less fortunate to gain access to mall-like amenities without paying horrible club-like entrance fees. Or if they do pay, they are at least affordable. Hence, I welcome this palengke in Bicol having an elevator and an escalator. I read that people there (millions) had their first visual delight in years. Who would have thought, really. It is spreading happiness to more people rather than be constricted with clubhouse mentalities meant only for the select few.

I was moreover astounded by the fact that they really do not cost much; or that they could really be built. I mean, at least I saw a park with Spielberg-like reproductions of dinosaurs but that is, clearly, an imagination working. You see, public service need not be crappy, unexciting and substandard. In fact, they should be the best. After all, government is the hugest conglomerate of source funding in this universe, wherever you may be.

If I see a striking of balance between the private sector and public sector's offers of services, I am just simply, wholeheartedly, gleefully thankful that the public sector is no longer lagging behind in terms of creative output. It could construct comfort rooms like what is seen in hotels; it could build structures like a topnotch architect had built it; it could make passport processing a breeze; it could have vision statements that are offbeat, funny but direct. For all of Imelda Marcos' flaws, at least she had been crazy enough to maintain the whole CCP complex in aesthetic majesty.

Public officials, let us see more of those parks and wildlife, unchaotic roads. Invest on discipline and well, patriotism.

It is cool to be watching this republic into a Warhol burst of excitement. Doubly exciting for me as these people never hog the limelight. Just as I like it.

FIGHT FORWARD

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Over at the radio, meanwhile, inanities still pervade via jammed waves.

And thus I heard the enigmatic and sentence-zapping words: "How much does your rehab cost?"

Children of the corn can answer this query, off the bat, straightly and even without wearing winter fur. They had built their entire writing life dissecting themselves and the medium is much richer for their forthright materials. They do not shrink to capitalize on these real dramatics versus the covered-up ones. They could coin words like: "Hungry For Love? Eat Our Ribs." Compare this with an ad for a financial institution with picture squares splattered over the entire commercial canvass and you get my point.

A Balenciaga snob can be a serious threat to the power psyche. Most especially when the ostracized Tondo guys were given tickets as invites but chose to spend time protecting a bird from guys with terrible accents.

I do not know what is more important. A nod, or a snub from above?

I am neither down nor up so I do not know how to answer this question.

TOP TEN

By: Iris P. Concepcion

1.) Revolution from creation

Nobody was questioning the content of information fed to us before. We are quite numbed by accepting things just because they are "there" and looks spectacularly powerful. No one was providing competition. Closely observing the taglines and billboards, it sure looks like status quo couldn't be so facetious about what it had been routinely doing. The world is watching and it is using scalpels to reach out to examine their brains. The new forerunners are getting heard and seen and they are wearing shorts.

2.) Affordable finds with impossibly low price tags

Either they do not rely on advertisements or they are not just too greedy to make an easy buck. You get these deals if you are fastidious enough in scouting the odd, ubiquitous and the unprinted. I just follow my directions. It involves a sign, a sculpture and a vehicle that asks:"Where are you going? I can take you there."

3.) Expertise rests even unto the unknown and the young.

They are flapping their wings. They invade the roads with weepy memories of productive cognition. Beware of literati power masquerading as bums. It studies the framework of mass conceptualization: it can rather be lethal and mouth-zapping. I am not talking about crass tussles here. Men and women in this select echeleon of saberwriting no longer do images, they do psychology. They do not even fight back. They create these massive edifices with kickass, subliminal matches and I go: "Pow-wow, what the hell was that?" I just realized too many smart people are peopling this country and they are just getting noticed. We can be a brain tank of the universe for crying out loud.

4.) Sprouting parks and prettily designed buildings.

These are chosen areas: spacious, closer to nature, wild and unboring and ridiculously brave and upfront. Go to art hideaways. You can have match set (this) and (that) games in your aesthetic sensibilities. See what tingles your spine afterwards.

5.) Triumph of common sense over ridiculous extortions via boom voice.

They are extracted from the ground: nobody beats silence and knowingness.

6.) Music with melodic sense, finally.

Just condition yourself to not sleep when catching these butterflies of notes. If you are jammed, simply switch off. The kindred voices always come back.

7.) People weeping over music and billboards.

I do not know why. Better than watching celluloid and theater plays.

8.) 15 peso films of the terrible horror genre.

They star almost all the movers of media in some form or the other.

9.) Sidewalks and pathways that put greater distance between me and the zooming vehicles.

Good work always wins over mere blah. Always.

10.) This ability to answer back among those who had been extorted, blackmailed, betrayed and abused.

They are finally getting their just due via heavenly wands. There is justice here. If not tangible, then, at least for the most potent part, psychologically.