First Reading

They think it's a comedy.


It's the first reading of "Isang Araw sa Karnabal" a one-act play I wrote in time for the Writers' Bloc Virgin Labfest V.

There is always discoveries in these readings. When I write the script, I often have strong ideas on how the scene is going to be played. In the reading, the playwright is often amazed that there is more to what he wrote than he thought.

It helps that I have great actors-- Skyz Labastilla and Paolo O'Hara. And a very skilled director, Chris Millado. If you come to the shows (June 27 and 30 at 8pm; June 27 and July 1 at 3pm, at the Huseng Batute Theatre) we promise to share with you an intimate story about a young and confused couple dealing with desaparecidos in their lives.

Blood Extraction Junkie

Kaibigan,

It helps that I have an HMO that covers the procedure. In days where I feel low or frustrated, or feel fat, ugly or unwanted; or I have an unexpressed rage or self-loathing—I don’t binge on fatty sisig while bathing in (as my friend, Luna Sikat, refers to as) selfpitypathos. I turn to the needle.

Before, I used to walk the black and blues away. Malate, Recto or Chinatown were my favorite destinations. But the city has become so polluted. Last time I walked, I turned—I kid you not—into a quasi-taong-grasa, in two hours. The road asphalt literally stuck on my hair, face, shirt and exposed arms. The malls don’t offer any relief, either. The Hollywood movies are bland; the sale items are stale; the food offerings starchy, oily and overpriced; and the crowds are far too noisy and restless.

So, instead of browsing the fake blue ray porno disks at Makati Cinema Square, I walk, hop and skip over to the Makati Med and get a doctor’s approval for a blood test. I am telling you, it is safer than bungee jumping.

Usually, I start thinking about the blood test on a Saturday night when the week’s frustrations weigh heavily and clear. I’m in my room thinking, “What am I doing in my room thinking? I don’t have the energy to find out where my friends are hanging out. Most often, earlier that day I baled out on an invite to play badminton.

Come Monday morning, I’m up and chirpy. I skip breakfast to continue the 12-hour fast I started at 9 p.m. the previous night. I make sure I make the early trip to avoid the parking lot glut at the hospital. Once I’m inside the hospital, I calm down. I walk briskly to the blood extraction department, settle on a chair along the narrow hallway, making sure that I don’t sit opposite the comfort room. (This is also the section where urine and stool samples are given over the counter. So please excuse my paranoia. I always imagine the whiff of piss and turd whenever the comfort room doors swing open.)

When my number is called, I stand up like I’ve been called valedictorian. I smile and acknowledge the applause from the crowd—except that it’s just in my mind. I push the door that says “Blood Extraction Patients Only”. Most of the time the room has three people sitting side by side in various stages of distress. There are times when a child will be there sitting on the lap of a concerned parent.

I wait for my turn. The medical technologist confirms my stats. I extend my arm trying not to smile too much. The flat rubber cord is tied around my right upper arm. I clench my fist. Tap, tap, tap goes the med tech sweet-talking my veins to appear. The disposable syringe is undressed from its anticeptic wrapping. A final dab of alcohol on my skin. The needle is unsheathed from the protective covering. Then my favorite part of the ritual. The prick is poised above. The instruction to take a deep breath is given. I look as the sharp point connects. The thinnest and sharpest of metals slides into my skin as smoothly as a fork tong slides into a caramel colored leche flan. A vortex of feelings rises over me.

Whereas before, I was only capable of entering into one state of sensation at a time—pleasure stored in one box, in another, pain—needle piercing skin produces a relentless barrage of information that produces all feelings, all at once.

The physical self yields to the reality of mortality and eternity. I am no longer a mere human experiencing ice cream on the tongue on a hot summer day at age 6. The needle inside my skin finding its way to into the minute cavity of the vein triggers memories and realities and in all time frames. I am young and I am old; in the past and in the future. Emotions spurt and gush like blood filling the syringe. I am pulled by the hair and kissed at the same time; I am tied and let loose; I panic and cannot breath, but I also fly and am free, no longer dependent on air. You want it to stop, but you also want them to take more blood. It is penitence and charity mixed in the same pot.

And that’s what makes it addicting.

Chance Encounters at the National Library

Kaibigan,

The National Library is 121 Years Old. According to Director Prudenciana C. Cruz, it was in August 12, 1887 when a Spanish Royal Decree created the Biblioteque Nacional. A slew of subsequent legislations led to the evolution of what is now known as the National Library of the Philippines, of which she is the current head.

The building of the NLP was one of the handsomest buildings in the area when it was first built in 1961. It has withstood time and the harsh earthquake of 1990. Its original elevator is still what ferries passengers and books between the floors. And if you love high ceilings, speckled marble floors, old wooden tables, and helpful librarians who know their books, you will find your heaven here. The left wing of the building is occupied by the Archives Management Office. Why it is there is another story.

The two men represented in the sculptures found in front of the National Library are not the first librarians of the Philippines, contrary to what I heard a guide once say to a bunch of Japanese tourists. Maybe he had that idea because in both sculptures, the figures are seated as if ready to catalogue a book and whisk it off to shelving. But if he had looked closely enough, he would have found out that the statues had nothing to do with the National Library and more with the streets fronting the building -- on the left is Teodoro M. Kalaw and on the right is Apolinario Mabini.

When a balikbayan cousin comes to visit Manila, you might want to use the NLP as a boasting point. The original manuscript of the Noli Me Tangere (yes, the one handwritten by the Dr. Jose P. Rizal) is part of the collection of the National Library. Understandably, it is kept in an airconditioned vault where it may be better preserved against the harsh heat of the tropics.

I don’t know about you, but I love books. I collect them like I do shoes or prints of old maps. Sometimes, I buy books for the aesthetic pleasure of their arresting covers, their content, or their age. Sometimes, I find myself very lucky to find these three elements in one book. In one of my forays to the second hand bins in a Recto bookstore, I picked-up the original language version of Henrik Ibsen’s Peer Gynt published in 1951. I bought it en seguida, even though I don’t speak a word of Swedish. What made my purchase compelling was that when I was still a freshman, I had the honor of translating this particular play into Filipino (from the English version) for Tony Mabesa’s Dulaang UP Production.

I crave handling books in my hands. Like an anthropologist with an artifact. In between reading the chapters I spend time feeling the book’s paper, admiring the binding and sniffing that weird mixture of dried ink and glue that wafts up as you open and close its new pages. With an old book, specially those which are older than me (and at my age now, I find this happening less and less), I become reverential. How can one not, when these old books carry words which have traveled through time. I begin by clearing the table of all other things before placing the book exactly in the middle of the space. I contemplate the cover while letting it breathe and become familiar in its new place. I imagine the people whose hands have handled the same book. When it is time—when the book signals me to begin—I affectionately and carefully turn over the cover and travel through its pages.

When beset with stressing deadlines, other people smoke, drink or overeat. Me? I visit the second hand book sellers along Recto. Sadly, these bibliographic forays have yielded less and less gems in the recent years, the bookstands’ wares slowly giving way to standard second hand textbooks and novelty store sex aids. My suking Manong doesn’t even sell erotic magazines anymore. The accessibility of images in the internet has adversely affected their market.

The next best thing for me is to go to the rare books section of the National Library, where many a rare book or manuscripts is just waiting for chance encounters. The last time I went there, I had a look see of Harper’s History of the War in the Philippines. As you know this book is one of the few narratives on the Phil-American War. The copy found in the NLP is book number 45 of only 550 book in print. This book was published in 1946 and reads like a fact book with pictures of the era. Here’s some of the interesting pictures between its pages.

Censorship in the Palanca

Kaibigan,

Whatever other people might say, the Palanca is still the most sought-after literary prize in this country. On September 1 this year, the only place to be was at the Rigodon Ballroom of the Manila Pen where the literary stalwarts toasted the year’s winners. All came in what they thought best expressed their individuality. In similar social situations, the consensus among celebrities is to exude glamour, youth and sexual energy. At the SONA, it is all about power enveloped in staid stateliness. Here at the Palancas, it is—as Sting advices in that song about the queer Englishman—be yourself, no matter what they say.

There were winners who dug up gowns from their prom; A-line numbers in dainty aquamarine. While others were more experimental. One guy from the south wore a Barong adorned with a rainbow scarf pinned with peacock feathers. A fashionista who flew in from the US, wore a baby pink suit complimented with fly-away hair which perfectly suited his personality. They didn’t seem to mind being gawked at by the others. They reveled in their unique flamboyance, I could tell.

Playing fashionably safe were Ms. Debbie Tan, Tara FT Sering, Eman dela Cruz who dressed in black, except for Mr. Allan Lopez who has found his new black in fire engine red. I espied many who wore the traditional Barong (among them Mr. Dennis Marasigan and Mr. Ian Casocot, their jusi crumpled just right from all the congratulatory hugs. While Mr. Danny Untalan, who came from Ilocos, popped up the volume wearing a shiny silver version in see-through vertical stripes so popular in many a Santacruzan. Mr. Butch Guevarra was Saville Row through and through with his properly fitted three piece suit and bright pink tie. The shy types wore what they thought would be inconspicuous street clothes in brown or black paired with matching dungarees. When they went up the stage, we thought that they accidentally stepped onto the stage and were now forced to wall through from stage left to right. Instead they bashfully, almost hesitantly received their certificates or medals. The audience cheered them, nonetheless, with yelps of encouragement as if acknowledging that simple looks are deceiving.

This democratic rainbow is what I’ve always admired about the Palanca. In the years that I’ve had the great fortune of being invited to the awards, I have noted that the topics covered by the entries are as colorful as the people who claim their prize. The Palanca judges have hailed works regardless of content and never withheld a prize (as far as I know) on the grounds that it would offend general public sensibility or for political considerations. Peruse the works in the past entries and you will find a gold mine of plays, poems, essays and stories that mirror the circus of our life.

The Palanca has given prizes to writers of outstanding works denouncing political repression or advocating acceptance for severe homosexuality. Traditionally, the Palanca has been the space with no sacred cows. This, I think is the strength of this competition. More than its longevity and—some say—the inconsistent quality or reputation of the judges, the Palanca, has always been the literary Plaza Miranda, a bastion of the right of free expression; the venue for free-thinking.

I hope that people will not forget that the Palanca stands not only for literary merit, but as the symbol of freedom that continues to strengthen and encourage writers to speak of human experience and to speak out against tyranny in many forms (of which our society, alas, has not run out of).

The Palanca family has been very generous in throwing a yearly party and welcoming the family of writers regardless of how they are dressed. May that they continue to honor the writers by respecting what they have to say.

Cinderella's Midnight

Kaibigan,

Knowing where Lea Salong has been, seeing her do Cinderella is like watching Nadia Comaneci doing the jungle gym in a children's park. It's too easy for her.

Don't get me wrong. She sings her best and reins nothing in. But the songs of R and H in this musicale were not meant to bring out Ms. Saigon’s musical bravura. There is a lack of challenging solos, interesting duets or breath-defying choral arrangements in this light musicale. I could imagine this musicale being well done by advanced theatre students of the Philippine High School for the Arts, but not with Ms. Salonga. She could have best done this role during her Repertory days when she was as young as, say, Monique Villonco. With a few exceptions, women’s bodies change after childbirth. And in her case, no matter the draping, the widened hips showed. (Surprisingly, this was not the case, though, with the Rajo Laurel gowns she wore in her in her recent Manila concert. Maybe the production should hire him as a consultant.)

The cast played out their roles as best as they could, except for the Prince Charming who delivered his speaking lines with too much tremolo. My seatmate, grandmother of five, thought he sounded like Robert Goulet in some ancient production of Camelot. Nonetheless, the children in the audience seemed taken by the set and costumes which were colored like birthday cakes from Goldilocks Bakeshop, down to the last confectionery swirl. But when the audience was let out, after a long two hours with intermission, no one seemed interested to buy the stuffed rats being peddled at the lobby. Being sold for P600, who would?

Driving home, I realized that Cinderella is, actually, the Disney version of Insiang, the movie that catapulted Lino Brocka in Cannes. Funny, no?

It's Like "Mano Po", Only Better

The movie Mano Po was a watershed for Philippine movies, as it seems to be the first Filipino movie done about the Chinoy experience. The movie delved on tradition, modernization, assimilation, filial obligation and individuation. And as far as I can remember, Mano Po is one of the two movies (the other being Ganito Kami Noon, Paano Kayo Ngayon) which frames the question of Pinoy identity in terms of hyphenated terms. Mano Po became immensely popular that it had spawned a franchise, the most recent incarnation of which was the hystercally unpallatable Manay Po, a slapstick comedy centering on gay Chinoys that did not uplift the gays or the Chinoys.

I was trying to be flippant about the one line review. And all the people whom I've relayed it to seemed to get a sense of the joke but were as equally confused as to what exactly I meant. Indeed, in laying down the comparison, was I referring to the first Mano Po with all its freshness? Or was I mocking The Golden Child by ascribing it to be better than Mano Po, the deteriorating franchise? When I blurted out the one-line review to Rody Vera, he burst into a series of guffaws. Ditto, Liza Magtoto and the members of the Writers Bloc. Let me explain.

At the break after act 1, people were streaming out of the Little Theatre gushing about the set, the costumes, Art Acuna’s snappy accent as Eng Tieng-Bin, and Irma Adlawan’s perfect comic timing as the bitchy first wife. A veteran director observed that general lack of stage action. And Act 2 had more of this static blocking. Characters sit and stand in the vicinity of their original place as if they had an invisible chain attached to the table or chair. It could be that the ingenious set mainly made of gauzes and screens (divided into symbolic pavilions of the three wives placed around a courtyard) demanded a less than busy stage business. But on the whole, the scenes played well.

At the end of act 2, there was an enthusiastic response, but not gushing applause, contrary to what I expected. I went to the show determined to like the play. I have been a fan of DDH ever since I saw Behn Cervantes play Gallimard in the Dulaang UP’s production of M. Butterfly; been happy for his Pulitzer nominations, too. I’ve developed a real admiration for the sharpness in which Hwang dramatizes and dissects race relations. The Golden Child is a cleverly written play. Despite character types, it avoids the pitfalls of melodrama (although one could see it peeking in the sidelines). The repartee is crisp and entertaining. When the characters talk to their dead ancestors—a running devise in the play—the philosophical tone reminds me of scenes from the Greek tragedies. The plot points are suspensefully paced. Hwang structures the scenes evenly among the wives and the excellent actresses each claimed their star turn.

But as all of these elements are building up, the play seemed to end abruptly with the monologue of Eng soon after the death of the third wife (theatrically dramatized using Peking Opera references). After that scene, the play goes back to the present where Andrew, the grandson of Eng (also played by Acuna) is suddenly illumined by the moral lesson of the past. The play’s text sufficiently opens several platforms for discussion. But lack an emotional closure worthy of Andrew’s realization. Golden Child raised the audience’s expectations but—like a banquet that did not serve steamed crabs—it left us craving for some explanation.

Theatre Alert

Loy Arcenas, stage designer and director, is deep in rehearsals for Tanghalang Pilipino's production of Golden Child. Exciting, too, is David Henry Hwang's visit to Manila in time for the premier on 08 August 2008. After watching the opening of the Beijing Olympics, rush down to the CCP Little Theatre for the event.

If you don't know Mr. Arcenas or Mr. Hwang, you're probably not from the theatre. They are famous as famous can be. Among Mr. Arcenas credits is the design and direction for The Romance of Magno Rubio, which was shown in Manila a few years back. Mr. Arcenas (who is the tall guy in the picture) is the resident theatre designer for May-I Theatre Company headed by my friend, Ralph Pena (who incidentally, is not the other person in the picture. I found the photo of Loy and friend in the internet. Send me a message, please, if you know who took it or who is the beautiful girl in black so I can properly credit the same.)

Mr. Hwang is arguably the most famous Asian playwright in the US today. Known for plays that deal with the Chinese experience of America, he has also written an interesting libretto for a muscial sci-fi, 1000 Airplanes on the Roof, with music by Philip Glass.

CCP has also scheduled a meet and greet via a a forum with these theatre mavericks on 09 August 2008. I don't know about you, but I'm looking for my copy of M. Butterfly, FOB and other plays by Hwang, thinking about two questions to ask the gentlemen, re-charging the batteries of my digital cameras and getting ready for my photo op.