I Hate to Repeat Myself
I was named after my mother’s father who died at 82 years old when I was in grade three. Like most Filipino youth, I once dreamt of becoming a doctor. So I studied hard and had honors until grade four. In grade five I got a 75 in home economics class for not having learnt to stitch well enough. The grade not only proved a sorry sight on my report card. It also tore through my secret ambition. A surgeon must know how to stitch things back. Good bye, med school.
I never wanted to be a writer. But you thought I totally abandoned my wish to get into medical school? No. after high school I studied medical technology, the best preparatory course for medicine, they say. I had a great time with general education subjects, especially English because it proved very easy to me. Or, perhaps the teachers themselves were all too easy.
But I took Algebra and Quantitative Chemistry twice and was poised to take Physics a second time. Then I realized I’d had enough. The semester before that the College Dean had warned me: “One more, and out you go.” So I went as I was told. I was on the brink of quitting college altogether out of shame and remorse toward my parents. But a Blakean vision of sorts showed me a life on the lam like my cousins. I forgave myself and resolved to turn my life around.
A cursory look at my class cards showed that English was the only course I excelled in. So I made up my mind to take the line of least resistance: I studied English.
Then I met Leoncio Deriada, who came over to lecture at my college. He infected me with a disease from which I’ll never recover. Looking back on that fateful poetry workshop episode I don’t know whether to love or hate him for setting me up to a life that is least remembered. Leoncio Deriada made me a writer.
Why I write
I write to survive. I may be one of the few writers in the country today who obstinately write for a living. Most writers in the Philippines lead double lives, writing being the other life. We’ve heard of bloggers earning three times as much as print journalists, but that’s from a specialized kind of writing meant for search engine popularity. The best poem and novel in 2010 may not land on page 1 of Google if these aren’t written by a SEO expert.
Reality check: Printers that put out literary titles run no more than a thousand copies per author. Royalty from sales is 1 peso a copy, that’s what I’m told. Unless you write a reviewer, inspirational or a textbook, second edition and bestsellers are unheard of in the Philippines. And, you have to content with a non-reading public.
But I continue to write in spite of this. To adopt to the demands of the times, I educate myself on what kind of writing sells. So I find myself writing customized content for specialized websites. The glitch is, you have to abandon creative writing altogether to be able to do this. This is dummy down writing for Internet readers who want information fast and correct. You can forget about figures of speech. This piece is proof of that.
I continue to write because it’s the only thing I can do relatively well. Even this is debatable. I write in English and my work is read by native speakers. And there are times they can see my Filipino hand showing up in my sentences. They’d say, “This is English, all right. But not North American English.” They don’t mean grammar. Most times the rules escape them. In fact, we’re more grammar conscious than many Americans. It’s the way we put words together, the way we mean our sentences that betray us. For the chance to gauge my register in the English ear, I love my newfound job.
If anything’s going to stress me and push me around without me complaining, it has to be writing. Other than that, you have to pay me big time, if I like the work at all. I’ve met young and aspiring writers who debate about writing for the audience or writing for one’s self. The subject once appealed to me. As for me, I just write for money.
What I write about
I have a soft spot for the outsider, for things on the periphery, the ignored, the unrecognized. I champion the cause of second fiddles. When everyone writes about the same stuff and says pretty much the same thing, I’d rather not bother writing about it. Cirilo Bautista gave up writing poetry in 2000 saying we live in a prosaic world. I tend to agree so far as our predictable lives go. But a poet should be able to see through appearances. Let me clear up what I men by poet or artist here: You don’t need to create poems to be a real poet or artist. How you live your life makes you so. Those who go against the grain, those who dream empires on an empty stomach, those who abandon their families in exchange for love and lust, those who sing in the throes of tragedy, are the true poets.
On a related note, I’ve read somewhere that security of tenure is the lowest form of existence.
I amplify awkwardness, alienation, resentment, loathing, desire and failure. I trivialize the hypocritically serious and structured. Pardon my negative vibe, but I was taught skepticism is the beginning of knowledge.
How I write
Unlike many self-styled poet-philosophers, I have no pre-writing and post-writing rituals. By my own reckoning, however, I seem to write more cautiously (thus better) when I write with a pencil. I’m not very good at taking down notes. Or, I may be too lazy to keep up with what’s unfolding. Instead I depend on my mind, which most times acts as my subjective camcorder. My mind is a hybrid audio-visual machine on DoPE.
Writing on DoPE
This is step 1 of my writing process. I describe DoPE as Depth of Perception and Emotion. Not all events and things my mind records and replays turn into my material, though. My mind closes in on an episode and gets to the bottom. It chooses the line of most resistance because my mind takes a confrontational stance. During my post-workshop phase, I taught my mind to think in metaphors to catch the poetic as my mentors would have me believe. Mommy Edith Tiempo would call these fleeting moments “reverberations”; her own impression of T S Eliot’s “juxtaposition of disparate ideas”—her objective correlative. My issue with this is, the poem stays on the page and is far from being able to speak directly to the reader-audience.
I wrote the poem below a year after I attended my first major workshop and reading it now you can easily tell I’m not speaking in my own voice. I wrote this using the traditional process: canned subject going ahead of actual writing. Results? A cut-and-dried work that miserably fails in delivering urgency, spontaneity, angularity, sincerity and resonance. Anybody could have written a poem like this.
Spectral
I am an open window in an empty house;
human to the touch of flailing curtains,
steel and glass to the wind.
It is raining.
The lights are out, what with the looming dark
and forked lightning.
The sound of rain against tin,
rain against concrete and rain against itself
lifts a thousand verses from the Book of Revelation
and fans across a sea of roofs.
The door, the clock, the Arabian rug,
they’re here and nowhere.
I see through them and come face to face with the
wall.
But even this is only an idea.
There is a storm, all right,
but I take a walk outside.
That much holds up in the mean time.
Before writing my first word on the page, I ask myself: Has this been said by anyone before? If the answer is yes, I tell myself: Well, I’ll say it like it’s I who said it first.
Post-workshops circa 1995, I went craft-shopping. I tried out (and thought it worked well) various poetry writing techniques: surrealism, fluxus, beatnik, Black Mountain School, Avant Pop, New York School. Of the latter I believe Mark Strand and Charles Simic are the best and therefore worth emulating.
Jose Rizal Before The Fall
Between the bullet and the bone
is the last word pale like the gunmen’s skin.
Its sharp tongue breaks syntax and translation
and hits where it’s aimed at.
The sky dries up like blood;
the sun turns upside down.
It’s as simple as a crack”
The sand cracks under the soldiers’ boots, too;
or it could be the mind rapping
in the doomed man’s ears.
But there are birds in whose sudden flight
the word bores into the chest
and stirs a ripple in its chambers.
It’s like butterflies in one’s stomach.
This man’s fall is as good as a clear day:
bent trees take root in shadow and light.
How To Tell Your Friend Is A Fool
When he dumps his girl in favor of my books and beer
the hinge has hung loose.
The frame he’s in, however small and seamless,
squares up with the shape of the world,
and he’s hard put to stretch his limits to make another.
He is sharp with names and mouths off with flourish
rhymes of inner ruin and bliss in whining gospel soul.
In the street of concrete knowledge
he seeks the escape to speed as an excuse to reason,
his boyish defense not to mean anything but our father’s death.
At the flyovers of our search for God, he takes beggars
for bearded philosophers whose lungs pump solely on solitude
and such wisdom as the logic of murky water.
In my midnight watch of the immortal hour he turns up
with a piece on an aunt’s mad seclusion.
There he stands over his head going up on a puff of
rant and candy clouds.
Rising out of reach, he is blessed first and loved last.
Until I came across Robert Peters’ “The Great American Poetry Bake-off” in 2003. I was back in Iloilo and teaching English for a pittance. I spared no chance in stealing the book from the library. Robert Peters is an unknown poet-critic who takes pot shots at the literary greats and can stand up to it. He sets the works of the privileged and famous side by side with those of the unheard of and the ignored. And lo, the bias and merits are clearly blinding.
Robert Peters re-introduced me to Charles Olson and projective verse—writing with the rhythm and spontaneity of everyday speech. It was how I found my poetic platform, once more with feelings. That’s what you see at work in the poems below. But how I fish for images isn’t anchored on projective verse poetics. It’s purely my own. I’ll let you in on a secret: I hate to repeat myself. That’s why I shout with Ezra Pound: “Make it new! Make it new!”
Forest Lake Phantom
There should be a forest and a lake somewhere here
if we take the grass for water, headstones for trees.
But the dead don’t buy our shallow humor.
They lay stiff all their lives.
The ground aspires to rise to the afterlife.
It lets us see what is not there: the serpent hanging
from the Tree of Knowledge; the chambers of the heart on fire.
I have no doubt I can go that far
even while the here and now is all of your hair and a handful of sky.
That’s what this place will come to stand for.
When we close ourselves to light
love makes us invisible.
To An Uncle Who’s A Cyclist at 71 And An Invalid A Year Later
I watched you do an arcane breathing pattern
lifted from Bruce Lee’s book.
You assumed the stance of fowls and reptiles
in your white underwear.
The Master’s much-rumored one-inch punch
and his eight-foot kick were well guarded shows
only for my eyes.
I was six and a big fan of Kung Fu movies, but uncle,
your hand combat heroes wrenched my Jet Lis and Samo Hungs
into pants-pissing losers.
Sundays you tore the country road in full biking gear.
You were mainly alone save for a clove of garlic
and a piece of God in all of this.
The humps and holes didn’t scare you, nor the heat
that could fry your soles into rubber patties.
I cheered you on as every septuagenarian
from our gene pool did.
When aunt’s sugar-coated blood failed her kidney
and puffed her cheeks to a photograph,
you pedaled into our afternoon naps
and rolled race tracks out of them.
On an evening bath a telex from deep space
bleeped in your ears.
It droned on and pulled at your face:
Groove out, grave in, groove out, grave in…
What I think of writing
I view writing in the most practical terms. I do it because I want to earn from it. If I could do something better I’d abandon writing. But I’m not good at most other things. I can teach English but the return investment I get is a few moments of swelling self- worth and genuine pride. Cash can make these feeling last a lot longer. Like I said earlier, creative writing in the Philippines is more like a hobby than a career.
Until my dream college lounge rises and opens for business, I’ll keep writing and doing odd jobs.
There are a few sincere and well-meaning writers I know of. They are here today and we’ve stuck it out through thick and thin. Thank you for coming here and putting up with us.
Leoncio Deriada had infected us with the writing disease. God knows what I can infect you with.