My aunt made sure that his visiting father takes the same flight with me, though we didn’t save gas getting to Pearson since they came from Hamilton but it would mean the world to her if he has someone to accompany him falling in line.
I got there first, ten minutes to nine, people could start checking in. A text to turn around arrived shortly, I see them a dozen people behind me, it seems so far because of the massive luggage or boxes between passengers. I waited in one corner after I was done, Terminal 3 was also getting crowded. This is where planes take off to get half way across the world, midnight flights mean morning arrivals. His luggage is too heavy, like clock-work the suitcase is set aside, unlocked and unzipped, my aunt takes out a bag and puts in another, presumably lighter. She’s not getting on but carries a large gym bag, as per routine. Her father is embarrassed by the scene of squatting and exposed clothes, the staff takes it casually. He says, I don’t even know these people. Tay we have to make your trip count, my aunt asserts. There are four or so more clusters of precise negotiating of souvenirs’ weight Unofficially, this is another reason why have to arrive three hours early.
A college batchmate in Vancouver, once posted in Facebook that she wants to be swallowed by the floor when waiting in line in counters assigned to the Philippine Air Lines. This stubbornness and chaos should be left at back there, she goes on, I didn’t read about the part on identity, values, progress. I choose to overlook the mess whenever I see the exhausted eyes of homecoming. Our generation of quick virtual replies just don’t have the same experience of distance.
Finally seated in the boarding area, I initially planned to spend all my remaining Canadian coins on vending machine junk or even tourist trap maple cookies, maybe order shawarma from the Middle Eastern restaurant manned by chefs chatting in Tagalog. But after the long lines, my aunt’s father had a lot to say I can’t do it, he muses on his six-month stay, Even with family around, this place is not for me. To lighten the mood, I asked him the first thing he will eat when he gets back. We got up when passengers seated in our rows were asked to fall in line, I bought my ticket earlier so we’ll be far off from each other. I’ll see you in Manila then, he joked. We waited again for our turn to enter, my pockets still heavy with change.
The plane waited for awhile, some already fell asleep. I was in the middle aisle, three vacant chairs to my left. Two women were catching their breaths as excused themselves into their seat, along with an irritated toddler. We got last minute tickets for a funeral, the grandmother said by way of apology, the security pried us about the formula milk in our hand carry. They attracted a few stares while being settled, two attendants assisting them, the overhead compartment locking a little louder. It’s all fine now, I said, sorry for your loss. One of their large bags is squeezed in the spot where I’m suppose to stretch my legs, but I never brought it up. The plane starts taxiing, while the captain announced that this trip will be shorter. There will be no stop-over in B.C., we will be flying over the Arctic, he concluded proudly.
As expected, after two movies, shapes in my screen became a blur, similarly after the second meal, the taste also became hard to discern. The daze in the cabin was finally lifted when declaration forms were handed out. People were excitedly asking to borrow pens, and no one seems to remember what they wrote the last time. A woman behind were talking about Siargao, now much more developed in heavily accented English, how a few more years would turn the whole country similar to Davao City. She was already wearing a floral dress. This flight usually lands at eight in the morning, but distant windows showed the streetlights in the capital to be still on. The nudge of hitting the runway provoked soft cheers at first, that spread throughout the cabin. I imagine that batchmate in Vancouver cringing as I find myself clapping as well.
A section of Terminal 3, Toronto Pearson International Airport. Image from here.
I turned down an extra shift, but still had to get up early to catch the first Lakeshore West GO Train running every hour on a holiday, instead of the usual thirty-minute interval. The same smell of coffee in the platform, now not as crowded, excitement on children’s faces.
Getting off at University Avenue and Queen Street West, it was apparent we needed more bodies for our contingent. but the anxiety was quickly dismissed with smiles and embraces. Casually dressed with hand painted banners, and a small megaphone, it will have to do. Crowds spilling into the street are wearing matching t-shirts, following respective trucks with drums and lead dancers. Today’s actually a chance for unions to show off, my friend said to my confused expression. Burning effigies or flags on the street would land you in jail here, another one joked.
We started walking along mostly closed shops, careful not to trip on streetcar tracks. People who also got up early are watching from the side walk, the groups before us were outdoing each other on giving away treats and occasional pamphlet. Clip broads with copies of the petition against the killing of Kian were prepared, though the parade was basically a stroll, the pace was too fast to explain the drug war’s link to labor export policy. I don’t think Filipinos are in the crowds this morning, the person holding the other end of the banner shared, they’re barely even in downtown. Time and half is also hard to refuse, I added.
It was fairly warm as we crossed Dufferin Street Bridge to Exhibition, the march was after all just the start of May Day. Echoes of the hosts welcoming us as we approach the gates, “These folks are doing important work, organizing places employing mostly immigrants!” The moderate applause was buried by another boom of fighter jets flying in pairs above us.
Image of the Canadian National Exhibition 2012, by Kotsy – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, from here
Last year I received the honor of reading the draft of Rene Boy Abiva’s latest book Parmata, a collection of prose pieces. It was released last June and is available purchase at Popular Bookstore or at the author’s Facebook account.
Sharing my full blurb here,
“Parmata, Ilocano for signs, is a bricolage of a society in crisis, made visible by linking scenarios commonly ignored; a countryside that is both idyllic and cruel, humanity found in inhuman spaces of prison, alienation through the daily grind in the hectic and impersonal streets of Manila, the rarely spoken about violence in supposedly safe homes. Light and dark, dawn and twilight, are recurring motifs as they signal moments of doom – a bloody drug war operation, burning of a slum community, but also of hope – survival of a deluge, peasants coming together to till a better future. Abiva’s language is a direct heir to tradition of an earlier time, a Filipino realism brutal and bare, tied together by corporeal metaphors, composing a milieu of precarity and struggle. At a glance, this might seem kitschy to a contemporary audience, disenchanted and soaked in minimalism, but upon deeper engagement to the narratives, its resonance is a stark evidence that things haven’t changed that much. These short prose pieces are vignettes of a suspended order, whose contradictions are repressed instead of resolved, with the possibility of rupture at any moment, at any place. In this way, they also serve as guideposts to us readers, who in the final instance are also Abiva’s characters, on what is to be done.”
I wasn’t exactly busy, I’m actually under the impression that I’m working less these past months. Lockdown fatigue is catching up, I guess. The semester is over a few weeks ago, and a research assistant gig is almost done as well, so I think I have no more excuses to be inactive here. Barely any new works recently, whether fiction, poetry, or reviews. However, I can do an inventory of sorts of my pandemic writings so far.
This blog was inactive for several years while I was living abroad, and I also pushed myself to a similar ‘let’s get down to business’ mood back in early 2020. The lockdown happened shortly. I posted two fictionalized episodes from my life in Canada, which were basically the seeds that would become my zine, Mga Migranteng Sandali, released in November that year in time for the book fair in Iloilo City. Circumstances under lockdown has become another push to get me writing again, and fortunately, several pieces have found homes beyond this personal blog. Rejection emails still out-number the ones conveying acceptance, but these opportunities mean a lot to a literary nobody like me.
Whether to consider the pandemic as a writing prompt is of course still open to vicious debate, especially from positions of relative privilege. I have experienced, and continue anticipate, periodic money troubles, but generally, I’m okay. I try my best not to feed off other people’s misery, but I recognize I can’t be the judge if any of my writings has done the same.
Another reason for this blogpost is the boom in online publishing locally has been very exciting, but also a bit overwhelming. Knowing digital consumption, many people, myself included, probably can’t keep track of everything. I have several pdfs downloaded but still unread, pages bookmarked but unopened or completely explored. This even extends to anthologies or projects I’m a part of. I’m still adjusting to the scene, and there’s a lot to be discuss regarding digital publishing especially in the country’s context, but I really hope this dynamism will be sustained in the long run.
I will talk about eight projects I’m happy to be a part of and would very much like to invite others to check them out. This is an inventory, but also a shameless plug.
Kasingkasing Nonrequired Reading in the time of COVID
Western Visayas’ Kasingkasing Press released four volumes of a digital poetry magazine, from March to April 2020. The early issues are relatively slim and featured mostly writers from the region, then it expanded. The tone was set, cultural workers had a lot to say, and they needed a venue. I have two poems in the final volume, ekphrastic poems on Lino Brocka’s Ina Kapatid Anak (1979) and Ishmael Bernal’s Nunal sa Tubig (1976). Previously posted here, but the spacing and line breaks look better in the magazine. I was devouring films during the few months of the lockdown, something I have not sustained when the work from home set-up was formalized. All volumes still available for download; Issue 1, Issue 2, Issue 3, Issue 4.
Revolt Magazine PH
Another important indie online publisher is Revolt Magazine, which deliberately aims to shake things up in the local literary scene. They cater to both established and emerging writers and have published a few of my poems. I even have an author’s page. I also have reshared some of their posts here, both my own and works by others. They were able to organize a zinefest recently, along with their sister site, Vox Populi. Selected titles are for sale, some are available for download. So far, I have read and greatly enjoyed Zea Asis’ Strange Intimacies: Essays on Dressing Up and Consumption. They appear to be on a hiatus at the moment, but the site is full of gems. Accessible here.
PGH Human Spirit Project
Another early call that attempted to document and make sense of the pandemic is UP Manila’s PGH Human Spirit Project, with calls for submission coming out in April 2020. Unlike Kasingkasing Press, they set the works to be thematically about the pandemic. This move drew accusations of capitalizing on the misery caused by COVID-19 and the state’s botched response. To a large extent, I think this is true. I however, still sent two poems. Made up of three volumes with the first one dedicated to frontliners affiliated with the Philippine General Hospital. The other two, where my poems are found, is for the general public, but only for those with links to the UP system. I haven’t read all the volumes cover to cover, but a quick browse revealed the plurality of creative responses to the pandemic, many of which I find wanting if not problematic. I still think the volumes should be read, debated, and see how they hold up. They are available for download here; Vol. 1 Pagkalinga, Vol. 2 Paggunita, Vol. 3 Pagninilay.
49-Philippine Language Poets in Translation in The Loch Raven Review
The Loch Raven Review’s Issue 1 for 2021 has a section of Filipino poems in translation, guest edited and introduced by Kristine Ong Muslim. I have one poem, which previously appeared in Revolt Magazine, translated by Eunice Barbara C. Novio. I also translated the poems of Orland Solis and Rene Boy Abiva into English. Many firsts here; publication outside the country, as a poet and as a translator too. This is a big deal as well since the journal has a putting out very impressive folios of translated poetry, edited by Danuta E. Kost-Kosicka, of which I greatly liked the one on Kurdish writers.
Ani 41 Lakbay
First paid publication in a long while. I sent a suite of poems also about life in Canada, written in English. Rejected several times by various publishers from different parts of the world, one poem made the cut in the journal with the theme of migration. Not sure what happened to the bookstore I am referring to in the poem, it was facing fierce legal battle against gentrification in Toronto last time I was there. I also still have the book mentioned in the poem. I received the acceptance email while attending a human rights day mob in Iloilo City. Then got home and read about the crackdowns on journalists and activists on December 10 itself. Contradictions of being a writer in this country. Available for download here.
Busay (Year 43)
First time the College of Arts and Sciences student literary folio went online and asked for contributions outside UP Visayas. Busay has a very special place in my heart, as several of my works appeared here during my undergrad years. It’s either this blog or Busay. My book review of Rommel Rodriguez’ dagli collection is reprinted in this issue. I think this publication is important because just like other many cases, student folios serve as refuge for writers because of the lack of publishing opportunities in the country. Previously, Busay has published works from revolutionary poet Mayamor to award-winning Hiligaynon writers like Alice Tan Gonzales. The issue is edited by two of the most impressive young writers not just of the campus, but of the region, Orland A. Solis and Jhio Jan A. Navarro. Available for download here.
Kwentong Covid/Kwentong Trabaho
Prepared by labor NGO Institute for Occupational Health and Safety Development, edited by the Teo Marasigan. One of country’s sharpest critic, who I have been reading since my undergrad years. I have also shared his Kapirasong Kritika columns, both in English and in Filipin, here several times. This one is an anthology with a much more militant framing regarding the pandemic and workers’ experiences. My story is a fictionalized online chat or conversation with a friend, also a young faculty, about concerns in the academe and beyond. I consider it to be unfinished, as I have more virtual exchanges, with friends, relatives, and students, that I think has important documentary value. As this pandemic drags on, I fear details from these quick check ins will be forgotten soon, if not already. Pieces in this project also perform a similar testimonial function. Available for download here.
Katitikan Issue 4: Queer Writing
I have been reading Katitikan for a while, but first time for a thematic call to be a fit to one of my stories. I edited and expanded the third story from my zine, Pag-alala kay Jose Garcia Villa. Story about lives that queer, migratory, and ultimately literary. I consider this a success in my efforts to try to get my Canada stories to other literary venues. Full issue could be accessed here.
Hello there! I am a self-confessed book junkie who has an eclectic taste in books and loves to explore book shops & libraries. Have a look around and hope you enjoy it.
"The poems are the work of a profoundly serious temperament and a professional translator of world into word"-- Michael Salcman, Judge, Harriss Poetry Prize
Jacob Laneria 