Heights

Volume liv Number 2Ateneo de Manila University

2007

heightsVolume liv Number 2Copyright © 2007

Copyright reverts to the respective authors and artists whose works appear in this issue. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced in any means whatsoever without the written permission of the copyright holder.

This publication is not for sale.

Correspondence may be addressed to:Heights, Publications Room, Gonzaga Hall, Room 206Ateneo de Manila University, p.o. Box 154, ManilaTel. No. 426­­­–6­­­001 Loc. 5089thinking_chair@Heights-Ateneo.orgwww.Heights-Ateneo.org

Heights is the official literary publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila University

Cover Design Stef MacamDesign and Layout JPaul Marasigan Katrina Alvarez

Printed in the Philippines by Midtown Printing Co., Inc.

iiivol. liv no. 2

Editorial

t was a bright summer day when I found it, behind

boxes full of folders and stacked notebooks, worn from

use and dusty with age. My childhood possessions

again see the light of day: plastic bead necklaces and friendship

bracelets tucked alongside Lisa Frank stickers and colorful statio-

nery, treasures ransomed for maturity and things more grown-up.

I was nine, content in the company of my imagination, my hands

sticky from glue, immersed in securing the double knots on my new-

est little trinket—a pink and violet piece held together by safety pins

and love. I spent my afternoons finding the prettiest color combi-

nations and adding as many beads and sequins as the flimsy nylon

string could handle. Until one day the string broke, and all was for-

gotten until today.

To be a child is to be awed by the world. More than just catching

our eye, all manners of working, existing, functioning called us to

play and poke and discover. I ended up spending many lazy after-

noons of my summer making those bracelets. Indeed, what I loved

I

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more than the sense of accomplishment was finding out what else

was there and what could be. Ordinary beads, crystals, and string

soon became one-of-a-kind creations of blue and silver, bright red

with gold, pale pinks and orange—my little rainbows.

But as rainstorms soon replace rainbows, we come to learn that

not all things are bright and sparkly. These scraps and oddments

began to be looked upon as child’s play, a filler, and a stopgap until

we learn enough to focus on more “important things.”

We at Heights believe in the value of taking a second glance. Look

back, you won’t turn into a pillar of salt (I hope.) and re-experience

what you’ve always known. Realize that child-likeness is not child-

ishness when we see the world through newly-opened eyes. As you

look through these pages, we invite you to wander with us, to won-

der with us as we share to you what we have stumbled upon.

Audrey Trinidad Editor-in-Chief February 2007

vvol. liv no. 2

ContentsPoetry Louise Bacoy

  For My Husband, Coming Home from His Lover

  When it is Night, I Think of You

Santy Calalay

  You Saw Me at the Holocaust

Miguel Escaño

9 Poems of Humor and Wonderment

Julio Junongbayan

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

Ali Sangalang

Jaywalking

Fiction Miguel Escaño

The Man on the Moon

Essay Camille Pilar

The Magayon Woman

3

5

6

8

10

11

15

29

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Art Gallery Migs Mercado

Down the Rabbit Hole

Danie San Pedro

Alice Gets Lost Again

Pancho Alvarez

Reming Visits Albay

Elie Javier

Lover’s Own

Alana Intal

Tricks

Joanna Ruaro

While You’re Sleeping

JPaul Marasigan

Anong Meron?

Maurice Wong

Traveler’s Tales

Kim Bartolome

Furusato

42

43

45

47

48

49

50

51

52

Poetry

�vol. liv no. 2

Louise Bacoy

I am your have to have.

I am yours like air--

Touching your skin,

Around you, inside you, in your mouth

(when you sleep with it wide open).

I carry our vows

Like an overfull glass,

Careful not to spill

A drop of us outside the bed.

There is no waking up at midnight;

No pushing fists inside

Dirty trouser pockets

Searching for lost letters.

For My Husband, Coming Home from His L over

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For I know

That when we were cleaved

To make one whole,

We left parts of us behind,

And your goodnight kisses

Are pieces from her I must collect.

5vol. liv no. 2

I think of you in the manner I think

Of the words of my evening prayer:

Guiltily rushed but earnest in that

Dear Lord if at morn I do not wake,

This tired soul that clings to my body

Like heavy bedding

Would find itself woven (anew)

Into dreams that watch over your sleep.

When it is Night, I Think of You

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Santy Calalay

You saw me at the Holocaust,

We spoke with our old tongue.

They forced us to wear coats,

Made from the mud of our streets

Where we told the ghosts

Of our children to play,

Where the ashes of our people

Whipped past our faces

Then scattered in the air.

We breathed in their screams,

We breathed in their prayers,

The remains of people’s names

At the moment of last breaths.

We walked on withered planks

To the hovel where sleep is done wide-eyed,

You Saw Me at the Holocaust

7vol. liv no. 2

Where we were fed the idea of meat.

We sat, washed with mud and water,

We passed and broke last week’s bread.

We sang on stolen temple wine,

Took the wailing violin player’s instrument,

And lit it for our warmth.

We took nervous puffs

From the saboteur’s cigarettes

Before we slept and dreamt

Of new cities below old stars.

And one day when those men

Took you away, I could not help

But smile “not I.”

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Miguel Escaño

I must compliment

The lowly water dipper

For catching the moon.

Passing overhead,

The nightingale shares with me

It’s evening droppings.

Turning from my wife,

I listen to the mewling

Outside our window.

In the deep twilight,

A moth asks the falling leaves,

“Are you my lover?”

9 Haikus of Humor and Wonderment

9vol. liv no. 2

In a dusty room

Of the old temple, the mice

Gnaw the Budda’s feet.

In the stone garden.

The wooden statues raise hands

Eaten by termites.

The water strider

Glides between lily buds

Of the sleeping pond.

I have forgotten

A seed in my sake cup---

It is now a rose.

Beneath a new moon,

Paper lanterns leave a trail

Of curious fireflies.

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Julio Julongbayan

Kinalabit

Ng kinupit kong halik

Ang gatilyo ng ’yong galit

Kaya nakitil

Ang pintig

Ng ating pag-ibig

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

11vol. liv no. 2

Ali Sangalang

WALANG

TAWIRAN

NAKAMAMATAY

Jaywalking

Fiction

15vol. liv no. 2

Miguel Escaño

fter the first Filipinos climbed Mount Everest,

children started planting flags everywhere. They

climbed the water tower. They hiked up the hill out-

side town. They climbed trees in their backyards. They climbed roof-

tops all over the neighborhood. They would have climbed skyscrap-

ers if there were any nearby.

It was a race among the children. It was a game to reach the high-

est point. Filipinos had conquered Mount Everest. The Philippine

flag was planted on the peak of the world’s tallest mountain. The

children asked each other, “What have you climbed lately? What

have you conquered today?”

To mark their ascent, the children placed flags at the top. At first,

they planted small Philippine flags. Later, they used flags with their

names written in big colorful letters. Some flags were one color. Oth-

The Man on the Moon

A

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er flags had more colors than the rainbow.

Children beamed after planting a flag. Parents felt proud when

they saw their child’s flag around town.

Not all children felt the same joy. Not all parents felt the same

pride.

Edmund felt small when he saw the children’s flags above his

head. His mother felt glad when she did not see her son’s name on a

flag as she walked about town.

The other children teased Edmund for not planting flags like

them. Parents wondered why Edmund was not climbing places like

other children did.

Edmund was named after the British explorer Sir Edmund Hilary.

He was the first man to reach the top of Mount Everest. His father

died when Edmund was a baby. A mountaineer, Edmund’s father

died while rescuing others during a landslide.

After her husband’s death, Edmund’s mother wanted her son to

stay away from high places. “Keep your feet on the ground. Be safe at

all times,” she always reminded him.

His classmates teased him everyday. “Edmund’s afraid of heights,”

they said. “When he looks at his feet, he gets dizzy,” they joked

Edmund grew tired of his classmates teasing him. He felt envious

of the other children as they climbed high places and planted their

flags on top. He grew angry at his mother for not allowing him to

17vol. liv no. 2

join the other children in climbing expeditions.

“I’ll show everyone how brave I am,” said Edmund. “I’ll show them

how high I can reach.”

One afternoon after school, Edmund stopped by the store. He

bought a simple red flag. He wrote his name in big black letters on

the cloth.

Edmund looked around town. He wanted to plant his flag at the

highest place he could find.

Colored flags were everywhere. Flags were planted atop the wa-

ter tower. Flags marked the hilltop outside town. Flags dangled like

fruit from the branches of trees. Flags decorated the rooftops like

snow.

The surroundings grew darker as Edmund walked. He looked up

at the shadows of the trees. He looked up at the shadows of the roof-

tops. He looked up at the shadow of the hill outside town.

“What is higher than everything else?” the boy asked himself.

He looked above the trees. He looked above the rooftops. He looked

above the hill outside town.

Edmund stared at the full moon in the sky. The moon was higher

than the trees. It was higher than the rooftops. It was higher than

the hill. It was higher than a skyscraper. It was higher than the tall-

est mountain.

Edmund smiled more brightly than all the stars in the sky. He

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skipped all the way home. The moon jingled in his mind like a pol-

ished silver coin.

His mother waited for Edmund at the front porch. “Where did you

go?” she asked her son.

“Exploring,” Edmund answered.

“Did you join the other children in climbing high places?” his

mother asked.

“No, I was just looking at the moon,” the boy said.

His mother smiled. She ushered Edmund inside the house.

The next morning, Edmund went to the balloon shop. He brought

a swollen piggy bank. An old man made the balloons at the bal-

loon shop. He had been making balloons since he was a kid like Ed-

mund.

The boy placed the piggy bank on the counter. “Sir, I want to buy

the biggest balloon in this shop,” Edmund said to the balloon mak-

er.

“I need a big balloon to carry me to the moon,” he added.

“Only astronauts travel to the moon. Do you know what you’re do-

ing?” the balloon maker asked.

“Of course. I want to be the first kid on the moon,” the boy told the

balloon maker.

“That’s nice,” said the balloon maker. He took the piggy bank from

Edmund. He said the balloon would be ready after a week.

19vol. liv no. 2

Edmund returned to the balloon shop after a week. He brought

a backpack with sandwiches inside. He also brought a red flag with

his name written on the cloth.

The balloon maker stood beside the giant balloon. The balloon

was big as a narra tree. The balloon looked like a giant red lollipop.

The balloon was tied to a string. The string was tied to a large rock

on the ground.

The balloon maker tied Edmund securely to the giant balloon. The

boy carried a backpack of sandwiches in one hand and a red flag in

the other.

“Once I untie the string attached to the rock, you’ll fly into the

sky,” said the balloon maker.

“Are you ready?” he asked the boy.

“I’m ready,” Edmund answered.

“Don’t stay up there too long,” the balloon maker said. He untied

the string.

The giant red balloon rose quickly into the air. The old man grew

smaller and smaller until he became tiny as an ant. The houses grew

smaller and smaller until they resembled toy houses.

As the balloon rose into the air, children pointed at the sky. They

pointed at the giant balloon that resembled a red lollipop. Edmund

waved at the children below. They soon grew tired of staring and

pointing at the sky. Edmund frowned when he saw the children ig-

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noring him.

The Earth grew smaller and smaller until it became the size of a

basketball. Edmund looked up. The moon was as big as a bowling

bowl. The surface was gray and had many holes. The surface glowed

with a strange yellow light. His teachers taught Edmund that the

moon borrowed the light of the sun. The moon produced no light of

its own. Seeing the moon glowing with its own light, Edmund felt

proud. He knew something his teachers did not know.

After Edmund landed on the moon, the first thing he did was plant

his flag. “I’m the first boy on the moon,” he said proudly.

Edmund looked at Earth. He looked at his town. Children were

playing outdoors. Their eyes were turned away from the sky. Their

eyes turned away from the moon.

The boy on the moon grew angry. He threw moon pebbles at the

children. After the pebbles hit them, the children looked up at the

sky. They rubbed the places where the pebbles had landed. They fled

inside their houses.

Edmund watched the children go indoors. He removed his flag on

the ground and waved it angrily at everyone on Earth. No one was

looking at the sky. No one saw the young boy on the moon.

Edmund threw his flag into the sky. The red flag drifted away into

outer space.

The boy sat on the ground. He was pouting. “I’m better off without

21vol. liv no. 2

everyone else, Edmund said.

The boy started eating a sandwich from his backpack. The aroma

carried in the wind.

After some time eating, Edmund heard a voice behind him.

“Excuse me, may I please have a sandwich?” asked a strange man.

His skin glowed with the same color as the moon’s surface. He was

wearing funny clothes. On his head was a cap with a knotted tail

that disappeared behind his back. His shirt was made of red silk and

the sleeves reached his wrists. A pair of dragons was embroidered

across each other on his chest. His pants and shoes were black like

outer space. He wore no socks.

“Of course,” said Edmund. He took out another sandwich from his

backpack.

The glowing man smiled. He sat down beside Edmund.

Edmund gave the sandwich to the glowing man. The man’s eyes

were tiny and sharp. His eyes glowed brightly as he at the sand-

wich.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked.

The glowing man frowned. “It’s strange. It’s been so long since I’ve

talked to another person that I’ve forgotten my name,” he said.

“Do you live here?” Edmund asked.

“Yes but I used to live on Earth,” the glowing man answered.

“Why are you glowing?” the boy asked.

22 heights

The glowing man smiled. He said, “I used to have skin like yours

when I lived on Earth. My skin started glowing after I learned to

eat the mushrooms here on the moon. The caves under the surface

are filled with glowing mushrooms. They make the moon glow at

night.”

The man took out the mushrooms from his pockets. The mush-

rooms glowed as brightly as his skin.

“Why are you here?” the glowing man asked Edmund.

Edmund said, “I wanted to be the first kid on the moon. The other

children teased me because I did not climb high places like them. I

wanted to impress all of the children. I brought a flag with my name

and planted it here. It’s gone now. I threw it away. Nobody was look-

ing up here anyway.”

“When are you going back?” the glowing man said.

“I don’t want to. I’m better off without anyone else,” Edmund an-

swered.

The glowing man straightened his posture as he sat on the ground.

He looked toward Earth. There was a faraway look in his eyes that

Edmund found familiar. His mother had the same look in her eyes

whenever she told him about his father.

The glowing man said, “My parents were astronomers. They were

always looking at the stars. I wanted their attention. I flew here to

the moon in a large kite. I wanted them to see me when they looked

2�vol. liv no. 2

through their telescope. I wanted to remain on the moon until my

parents went here to look for me. I waited for a long time. Time

moves differently here on the moon than on Earth. When I went

back to Earth, a long time had passed. My parents were dead. They

stopped looking at the stars when they found out I was missing. They

searched everywhere for me. They kept searching until they died. I

had no family to return to. I decided to go back to the moon and stay

here.”

The glowing man looked at the last piece of his sandwich before

he placed it inside his mouth. He chewed slowly before swallowing.

The lump if sandwich traveled down his throat like a mole descend-

ing deep underground.

“Go back to your family. Don’t make the same mistake I did,” the

glowing man said to Edmund.

The boy nodded. A lump had formed in his throat.

“Before you go, I have a gift for you. Wait for me here,” said the

glowing man. He stood up and left Edmund.

When the glowing man returned, he was carrying a large kite

twice his size. A fire-breathing dragon was painted on the canvas.

The dragon’s skin was covered in emerald-green scales and a pair of

paper antlers poked out from its head. It spread sapphire-blue wings

that became the kite’s body. Fire spewed from its mouth and became

the kite’s tail. The tail was made of diamond-shaped strips colored

24 heights

red, yellow, orange and blue.

The colors of the kite danced in Edmund’s eyes. The glowing man

handed the kite to the boy.

“This kite will remind you of me. Keep your feet on the ground

while looking at the stars. Fly high but always return to Earth,” the

glowing man said.

Edmund said thank you. Before he left, he gave the rest of his

sandwiches to the glowing man. He waved at Edmund as the boy

flew into the sky.

It was dark when Edmund landed back on Earth. His mother wait-

ed for him at the front porch of their house. His mother had a wor-

ried look on her face.

She smiled when she saw Edmund. He was carrying a large kite.

She asked her son, “Where did you get such a beautiful kite?”

Edmund answered, “The man on the moon gave it to me.”

“You have such a colorful imagination,” she said and kissed Ed-

mund on the cheek.

“Come inside. Dinner’s ready,” his mother said to Edmund. Mother

and son went inside the house.

After Edmund started flying a kite, the other children stopped

planting flags and joined him in kite-flying. Some kids bought kites

at the store. Others built their own kites using sticks of wood and

colored paper.

25vol. liv no. 2

It was a competition among the children. Every child wanted the

largest and most beautiful kite in town. All of the children wanted

a kite as large and as colorful as Edmund’s. They asked him how he

got such a beautiful kite.

Edmund looked up at sky. It was early in the afternoon. The moon

was nowhere to be seen. Edmund wondered about the man he met

on the moon. Was he looking at the earth right now? Can he see the

beautiful kite I’m flying?

Edmund smiled as he looked up at the sky. He said, “It’s a gift from

the man on the moon.”

Essay

29vol. liv no. 2

Camille Pilar

* * *

I awoke early one June morning in 1999 with my forehead stuck to a

cold, clammy window of the Cagsawa Transit Line bound for Legaz-

pi, Albay. The bus was moving at an unsteady speed, alternating be-

tween five-second bursts of hastiness and deliberate drags, potholes

and pebbles slowing us further to a safe crawl. My eyes adjusted to

the unfamiliar scenery that spread flat across the bayan roads, past

Camarines Sur and entering the outskirts of Naga, where dusty green

fields stretched below the horizon before vanishing into a grayish-

The Magayon Woman

M agayon is the Bicolano term for beautiful and

a few years ago, I knew of a beautiful woman.

Today, she is beautiful still.

�0 heights

blue arch of cloudless sky.

Goats and cows dotted the plains and two punctual farmers did

their daily stretching activity to the side, extending arms up for three

counts, extending forward the next three. This world was much too

quiet. The stillness was new to me for I had never set foot outside

my birthland, a somewhat noisier Cebu, until last night. Mama had

shaken me in my sleep and she dragged my sisters and I to the Mac-

tan airport where we boarded a flight to Manila, only to climb onto

a bus twenty minutes after thick metropolitan smog assaulted our

senses.

The Cagsawa Line’s ancient air conditioner rattled overhead and

drowned the snores and occasional muttering of passengers still

deep in sleep. The blast of chilly air from it smelled moldy because

the stench of yesterday’s vomit was still traceable by the nose. It was

an unnatural morning, and I was misplaced. And soon, I thought, I

would be seeing the Mayon Volcano.

My eyes darted away from the window and scanned the length of

the bus interiors. There was Lola on the seat in front of me, sleeping

with her chin touching her chest, her bony thumb paused over the

bead of the fourth mystery. My two younger sisters from across the

aisle had their heads halfway buried in their oversized jackets. Then I

saw Mama who was wide awake, a glazed, almost ghastly expression

on her face, and she looked directly at me. Suddenly I felt sick.

�1vol. liv no. 2

Lola’s house, we soon found out, had a brick exterior, a sliding door,

a potted garden, and best of all, a huge balcony with a majestic view

of Mayon. My heart throbbed at first sight and the volcano seemed to

throb with it. I stuck my hands into the air hoping to hold the Mayon

on either of its slender sides, or run my fingers across its velvety sur-

face. My eyes melted into the royalty of its blue; not even the sky could

touch it. This was my first encounter with perfection; what else could

this beauty be if not alive.

At lunch, I dodged all the sili on my plate but the laing was deli-

cious. My sisters and I soon forgot about the clumsy meals we had at

the airport and on the bus. In the middle of our meal, Lolo came up

carrying with him our suitcases, followed by the big, brown boxes. I

then remembered why we were here and I burst into tiny sobs unseen

to anyone.

The next few weeks became a parade of introductions: meet Tita

Cion, cousin this, cousin that, all of whose faces had the same wide,

gap-toothed smile and knowing eyes. “Magayunon na mga aki,” they

repeated in crisp and rapid Bicolano and my ears strained to catch

even the slightest meaning out of the foreign sounds. The introduc-

tions continued when Mama enrolled us in the Academia de Sta.

Iñes where she studied as a young girl. In St. Agnes, as the school is

called now, my sisters and I were pinched on the cheeks and kissed

on the forehead by these fast-aging old maids in need of affection

�2 heights

who I learned later were the same set of young and snobbish teachers

Mama had in her day. You have beautiful girls, they all said.

Every day since, my sisters and I would take on an early commute,

our first time, to St. Agnes, which was thankfully only three blocks

and a bakeshop away. We hired a padyak, this curious and colorful

bicycle with a sidecar attached on the right, to bring all three of us

to school for five pesos. I was dismissed the latest and I had to walk

home alone. When it rained, Lolo would come to pick me up; oth-

erwise, it was just my shadow over the ordinary streets of my new

home.

Adjusting came rather naturally; it was acceptance that bit me

hard. In the mornings, I would delay opening my eyes for a few sec-

onds, hoping that when I do I would be back within the blue walls of

my bedroom in Cebu. There was nothing wrong with Legazpi, this

I admitted, but the boxes—those big, balikbayan boxes—perturbed

me like nothing else. The sight of them in the corner of the bedroom I

shared with Mama contained me, consumed me. They bore a strong

impermanence when they were packed full with things; but a hope-

less destiny when they were emptied which, by the way, they were.

Neatly stacked one on top of the other, there was emptiness after

emptiness.

I would take a good look around the house and see nothing in it

that was mine. Instead, everywhere I saw faded pictures of Mama,

��vol. liv no. 2

her old Nancy Drew Mysteries collection, her set of china dolls, her

first room, her cross-stitched portrait of a cat, and even her Mayon

Volcano. I was moving in a world that revolved around her existence

and hers alone. I was a simple figure in the presence of undeniable

truth because I belonged to her, too.

It was terrifying to see Mama’s world clearly during the day. How-

ever, the most sickening part crept in during the dead weight of night.

In the darkness and silence, which not even crickets dare break, I

could not tell myself apart from Mama’s possessions. It was at night

that I would be welded completely onto her world. My breathing

would become her breathing; my thoughts would somehow become

her thoughts. All the pillows felt like blocks of stone and I hardly ever

fell asleep. I knew that Mama used the nighttime to caress my con-

science. She left Papa and she knew I did not forgive her for that.

Most of all, it was during the night when I missed Papa terribly.

I would think about him: was he asleep at that moment or was he

watching re-runs of “Miami Vice” on tv again? The stone pillows

would soften at the faintest contact with my tears but still the bed

forever groaned in his absence.

In July, a small ash plume formed around the Mayon’s crater and

soon it had started spewing lava, spitting out burning rocks, sending

tiny tremors down the villages by its feet. We felt the earthquakes

in Lola’s house and they grew stronger by the day. One morning, we

�4 heights

awoke to a loud bang! and the beds shook uncertainly beneath us,

Nancy Drew quivered in the bookshelves, the dishes clattered in the

cabinet and one of them crashed to the floor. The Mayon was no-

where in sight. In its place were monstrous black clouds that clawed

through the sky, the streaks of lava, bloody veins.

Amidst the volcanic unrest was a personal unease welling up in-

side me and I clutched my stomach and ran to the maid’s bathroom,

which was closest. My relatives thought it funny that I had my men-

arche on the same day a volcano erupted and I cursed all of them

under my breath. I felt ridiculed and betrayed but most of all, beaten,

because Mama had embraced me and told me it was nothing to be

ashamed of. I gave her a fierce stare that she returned with kindness.

We did not speak until the week after.

The months fell off the calendar one by one and the daily activities

resumed, schoolwork begun to pile up, and even the Mayon seemed

to have settled into a grumbling rest. Everything was comfortably

back into its niche except for me who never found one. I learned to

speak the native language quite decently and made friends with the

locals but I was still a stranger to my mother.

Months fell off the calendar, days slipped away, each day lost that I

would never regain, and before I even got to unpack myself into this

home, Graduation Day was over and I was hurriedly folding clothes

and wrapping belongings into suitcases and boxes once more. A year

�5vol. liv no. 2

had passed so quickly. Papa had come to take me back to Cebu. I

noticed that he had aged reasonably since the last time I saw him;

untidy stubble rested on his chin and his cheeks looked unwashed,

pointy and sullen. I wrote Lolo and Lola a letter of gratitude and I

embraced them for the first time before I left. Lola made sure to stick

her rosary in my pocket.

The last morning I spent in Legazpi was exactly the same as the

day we first arrived—dusty green fields and grayish-blue sky. I kissed

my sisters goodbye and promised to write them from week to week so

they could practice their reading. I glanced at my mother, who I saw

for the first time without careful make-up, but she looked away and

we spoke no words, not a whimper, not a sigh. She was sleepy and was

devoid of the cheerfulness she wore around my sisters and the sight

of her yawning stung my chest.

I clambered into the front seat of the white Sentra Papa had leased

as the rest of my baggage was loaded in the trunk. Soon all doors

were shut and the car engine grunted to life. I did not roll the window

down and since then, I never looked back. When the sun would rise

tomorrow, not even the islands would cover the distance between

Mama and I.

I fell asleep and woke up two hours later and the view outside was

smeared and indistinct at about 6­­­0 miles per hour. Papa was whis-

tling a tune as he steered the wheel calmly and he greeted me a good

morning. Surprise struck my body full force and I swerved around,

craning my neck as far as I could, but the Mayon Volcano was no-

where to be found.

Art Gallery

�9vol. liv no. 2

Art Editorial

dults are often fascinated with children’s imagina-

tions because their thoughts are not often “rational”.

We are amused with the depth of their imagination

and creativity in terms of how they knit fantasy with reality; as we

would often hear them say that pregnant women swallowed balls

that would eventually turn into babies, and that fishes don’t drown

because of bubbles made by mermaids. These are things children

think of to make rational a seemingly irrational world.

Dwelling on the theme All Lies in Wonderment, the art gallery of

this issue tries to be nostalgic and to bring back the child in all of us

who is longing to speculate once more. Our need to fill in the gaps

using our wild imaginations makes us see the world in a different

light, sometimes veering away from logic while at other still com-

promising with reality. The drive to wonder is often fueled with the

curiosity with the unknown as what the artwork of Mercado sug-

gests. Upon seeing the mysterious, we are faced with the dilemma of

satisfying our curiosity or abide by the rules of society and remain

A

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still. Ruaro’s artwork tells us that in some occasions, our childlike

imagination convinces us that the fairy tales we hear or read are

true and the characters would even visit us in the most unexpected

times. Intal’s digital work on how sometimes our astonishment is

brought about by artificial means and because of shock, we tend

to let reality fade away and see everything as magical. The eye sees

what it wants to see, as the saying goes.

Experiences of wonderment could be vicarious. As legends are

passed to us by our elders from their journeys and childhood, our

minds begin to welcome new thoughts we never thought could ex-

ist, though these things don’t essentially have to be good ones. As

seen in Wong’s artwork, stories from elders can both be amusing

and foreboding, giving us words of caution.

The theme can also be associated with fantasy, on the realm of

magic. The rendering of San Pedro’s work, basing the subject and

format on a famous fairy tale puts Alice into the modern and yet

another world of enchantment. But these experiences do not exist

in tales alone. Bartolome’s drawing gives us the mood of dreams,

of how the world seems to bend and give us wings to explore the

breadth of imagination.

As the artwork of Javier says, being near someone special, the un-

certainty of the moment between whispering lovers asking “what’s

going to happen next,” can truly be thrilling. But anticipating what’s

41vol. liv no. 2

going to happen next can also be tormenting, like thinking about

our lives in the aftermath of a storm. Alvarez sympathizes with the

victims of Albay through his work and joins them in asking why.

In general, the theme for this folio is very light and refreshing. This

gallery is a celebration of the lost, or to put it sharply, the sleeping

childlike perspective of the world.

J Paul Marasigan Art Editor February 2007

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Migs MercadoDown the Rabbit HoleWatercolor on Board and Digital9�.98 x 152.40 cm (72 dpi)2007

44vol. liv no. 2

Danie San PedroAlice Gets Lost Again

Ink29.85 x 22.86 cm

2007

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Pancho AlvarezReming Visits AlbayInk29.85 x 22.86 cm2007

47vol. liv no. 2

Elie JavierLover’s Own

Ink on Paper28.58 x 20.32 cm

2007

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Alana IntalTricksDigital Mixed Media30.48 x 55.88 cm (300 dpi)2007

49vol. liv no. 2

Joanna RuaroWhile You’re Asleep

Ink and Pencils on Paper19.69 x 11.43 cm

2007

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JPaul MarasiganAnong Meron?Colored Pencils on Paper17.78 x 15.88 cm2007

51vol. liv no. 2

Maurice WongTraveler’s Tales

Charcoal and Chalk Pastels on Paper21.59 x 22.86 cm

2007

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Kim BartolomeFurusatoPencils and Colored Pencils on Paper15.88 x 22.86 cm2007

Contributors

55vol. liv no. 2

Pancho Alvarezii ab Political Science

Nature’s left hand has been released transforming bodies into tormented souls that wander the earth searching for justice with the chilling reality of Reming deeply imprinted within their sensitive entity. In their search, may they find light and may their spirits finally rest in peace.

Louise Andrea Bacoyiv bfa Creative Writing

wonders what the hell Peter O’Toole should do for him to win an Academy Award.

John Santy Calalayiv bfa Creative Writing

“20 years a writer. 20 years of non-glamourous.”

Kim Darby Bartolomev bs Electronics and Communications Engineering

It’s time to go. —ece Wireless logistics group ’07 aka bucol Inc.

Miguel EscañoManagement, major in Communications Technology Management ’02English Department

has learned a lifetime’s worth from his students.

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Noelle Alana Intalii ab Management Economics

Is there a limit to imagination?

Thanks to Marion of nighty-stock, spiritsighs-stock and the photobreed team for stock used.

Eliana Laurice Javierii ab Economics

You are a child of the universeNo less than the trees and the starsYou have a right to be here

Julio Benigno Julongbayani ab History

Alam mo ang aking pangalanAlam mo ang aking itsuraNgunitKilala mo baAko?

John Paul Marasigan iii bfa Information Design

Sining ang aking asawa. Disenyo ang aking kerida.

57vol. liv no. 2

Miguel Mercadoi ab Interdisciplinary Studies

Follow the white rabbit.

Camille Kimberly Pilariii ab Communication

Camille is an ab Communication major with a minor in English Literature. She once wanted to become an astronaut.

Joanna Victoria Ruaroiii ab European Studies

This is for Jerome who always believed and supported me!Ü You are my happy thought!

Danielle San Pedroiii ab European Studies

This is a glitch in the system.

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Ali Sangalangii ab Interdisciplinary Studies

Salamat kina Mars, Anne, Brandz, Ginoong Brion, at kay Erika.

Unang nakilala bilang matinik na kuwentista si Ali bago sineryoso anng dibdibang pagtutula at pagiging makata. Nagsimula siyang sumulat noong dekada nobenta, sumubok mag-ambag sa komiks, naglakas loob mag-audition sa Willie of Fortune, magpinta ng mmda art, krumopeck sa Zakuska, makipaglabing-labing sa tricycle na may kurtina, tumikim ng Buena bonita buy-one-take-one, mag- “water na lang” sa Bo’s, mangolekta ng libreng cr ticket sa Promenade, ma-adik sa minesweeper, magpatuyo ng kili-kili sa Loyola Bookstore, mabuwisit sa paulit-ulit na theme song ng pcsd, magparefill ng magparefill ng Tang hanggang mapa—“Tang I** ikaw na naman!?!” na si ate, jumaywalk at jumingle sa edsa, maging Citizen Patrol, hanggang hiranging patnugot ng Buy & Sell magazine kamakailan.

Sa kasalukuyan, patuloy siyang nananaginip at umaasang buhay pa si Tupac.

Maurice Wongii bs Chemistry - Material Science Engineering

Dreams are made winding through my head. —System of a Down, Spiders

59vol. liv no. 2

Acknowledgments

Fr. Bienvenido F. Nebres, s.j. and the Office of the PresidentDr. Maria Assunta Cuyegkeng and the Office of the Vice President for the Loyola SchoolsMs. Miriam de los Santos and the Office of Student ActivitiesMs. Karen B. Cardenas and the Office of Research and PublicationsMr. Rene San Andres and the Office of the Associate Dean for Student AffairsMs. Lourdes Sumpaico, Ms. Kat Faustino, and the Office of Administrative ServicesMs. Elizabeth Aquino of the Central Accounting Office and the Purchasing OfficeDr. Leovino Ma. Garcia, Ms. Angeli Tugado, and the Office of the Dean, School of HumanitiesDr. Maria Luz Vilches and the Department of EnglishMs. Corazon Lalu-Santos and the Department of FilipinoFr. Rene Javellana, s.j. and Mr. Xander Soriano of the Fine Arts ProgramDr. Benilda Santos and the Ateneo Institute of Literary Arts and PracticesMr. Danilo Reyes and Mr. Alvin Yapan for being part of the Heights Writing SeminarMr. Rodolfo Alayban and the University ArchivesMr. Rodney Cordova and the Matteo Ricci StaffMs. Christine Bellen, Mr. Gino Bagsit, Fr. Nick Cruz, Mr. Andrew Ty, and Mr. Alfred Yuson for facilitating the Creative TalksCompany of Ateneo Dancers for performing during the launch of Volume liv Number 1Ateneo Association for Communications Technology Management and amp for being part of SerenataAteneo Special Education Society for being part of the Art Charity

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WorkshopMs. Rhodora Violan and Midtown Printing Co., Inc.Evita Veronica Guinto and The GuidonJoseph Edward Alegado and MatanglawinSiddharta Perez and LitSocThe Gonzaga Hall maintenance personnelHigh Chair, up Writers Club, and dlsu Malate Literary FolioAnd to all those who continually support Heights projects and to those who submit their works.

DividersPancho AlvarezJPaul Marasigan

61vol. liv no. 2

Editor-in-ChiefAssociate Editor

Managing Editor

English EditorAssociate English Editor

Filipino EditorAssociate Filipino Editor

Art Editor

Internal Secretary-GeneralExternal Secretary-General

Special Projects Manager

Business Manager

Moderator

Audrey Phylicia N. TrinidadLouise Andrea S. BacoyAnne Kimberley C. Ong

Louise Andrea S. BacoyFidelis Angela C. TanGeriandre M. PiqueroKevin Bryan E. MarinJohn Paul F. Marasigan

Cherie Ann T. LoJoanna Victoria D. RuaroYasha Bianca G. Barretto

Jose Edru T. Urcia

Edgar Calabia Samar

Editorial Board2006 - 2007

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Santy Calalay . Marguerite de Leon . Meriam Esmenda Antonio Habana . Arkaye Kierulf . Marie La ViñaMadeline Ong . April Sescon . Martin VillanuevaTimothy Villarica

Lester Abuel . Victor Anastacio . Karen BrillantesAnne Calma . Twinkle De Los Reyes . Brandz Dollente Chuck Marin . Jason Tabinas . RG TanchangcoRoselle Tugade . Chester Valdellon

Pancho Alvarez . Kim Bartolome . Elie JavierMigs Mercado . Danie San Pedro . Mau Wong

Katrina Alvarez . Garet Garcia . Stef MacamFidel Pamintuan . Earl Perlas

Jay Alim . Francis de Guzman . Alex JhocsonMaria Karaan . Jac Ledonio . JL Limsico . Petra Magno Jonats Pascual . Mikes Quijano . Jomel SalasDanie San Pedro

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