Wednesday, December 03, 2025
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 268.
Labels: poetry
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, November 26, 2025
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 267.
Labels: philippine literature, poetry
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, November 19, 2025
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 266.
Labels: poetry
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Sunday, November 16, 2025
5:55 PM |
I'm Feeling Better
It has been a week since I got sick. The fever was terrible, and I mostly slept the days away. I’m well now, but I still don’t have my sense of taste fully back on. Most things I eat still taste bland, and it’s not fun. Not exactly sure what that was. The flu? A new COVID strain? Who knows.Labels: life
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, November 12, 2025
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 265.
Labels: poetry
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Sunday, November 09, 2025
9:00 AM |
The Dream of City of Literature, Fulfilled
I still remember that fraught week in August 2024 when I had to churn out the preliminary bid for Dumaguete City as UNESCO Creative City of Literature—about six pages of questions that needed thorough answers, which resulted to almost 30 pages of the final bid.
I was actually set to enjoy Founders Day in Silliman University when then DTI Negros Oriental Director Nimfa Virtucio and then DTI Creative Sector Specialist Anton Gabila invited me and Renz for “a cup of coffee” in Adorno Galeria y Cafe. Abi nako coffee lang, but it turned out they were keen on submitting Dumaguete for the distinction and was roping me in to help them. Of course I said yes. I had already articulated too many times before how much I dreamed of Dumaguete getting this distinction—and they knew.
The catch was, I only had about one week to put together the pre-bid, because the deadline was on August 31! Oh, the pain! But that fraught week also made me realize, when I was formulating the responses in the portfolio, that Dumaguete actually could do this, that we really had everything [except, ehem, publishing houses and translation projects]. The closest example I could get to comparing Dumaguete with was Iowa City, also a small city—but its literary heart was big.
We were able to submit the pre-bid to UNACOM on time, on March 3. And then I forgot all about it.
Until UNACOM, the Philippine Commission for UNESCO, contacted us sometime in November 2024 to happily inform us that we were on their final list of recommendees to UNESCO, alongside Quezon City for Film.
That galvanized us to do the final bid, from December 2024 to March 2025, again fretting over the final questionnaire and other things to do. Together with then Dumaguete City Tourism Officer Katherine Aguilar, we formed a think tank of about 20 people, to make the bid truly community- and sector-driven.
There were sacrifices to be made in the pursuit. I let go of finishing several of my books actually slated for publication in 2025 just to be able finish the bid. Then there was the toll on the body and mental health. The sleepless nights were abominable. The anxiety was formidable, and I actually went back to taking Ritalin after being off-meds for two years.
We submitted the bid on time, but we never were able to do the planned video documentary to supplement it. There was just no time. Days and months later, the thought that plagued me was that I could have done more, especially for our website, which was at best nice-looking but quite rudimentary in terms of laying out what literature was all about in Dumaguete. There was just no time. In the end, I just hoped the bid itself would suffice for UNESCO. Truth to tell, I was prepared to receive bad news. I dreaded the coming of October 31. Please forgive me if I cried Friday night when I received the news. It was my body heaving a sigh of relief.
I was in a Halloween party being hosted by Renz Torres last night, but October 31 being World Cities Day – which meant UNESCO was going to announce the new cohorts of its Creative Cities Network – was always lurking in my consciousness. This was the exact second, captured perfectly by the quick phone camera of Tita Melisa Maghanoy, when I read the message from Anton Gabila, one of my co-conspirators in the bid for UNESCO City of Literature for Dumaguete City ... And then I burst into tears, with Renz comforting and congratulating me and the team behind this endeavor. [Photos by Melisa Towers]
Because what does one do with joy that comes after such a long and uncertain wait? When the news broke that Dumaguete had finally been named a UNESCO Creative City of Literature, I was gobsmacked. I read UNESCO Director-General Audrey Azoulay’s words describing the new designated cities: “UNESCO Creative Cities demonstrate that culture and creative industries can be concrete drivers of development. By welcoming 58 new cities, we are strengthening a Network where creativity supports local initiatives, attracts investment and promotes social cohesion.” I couldn’t believe that our small city—with a big literary heart—was among these.
I felt the exhaustion of a year’s worth of labor turn into something like grace.
I thought of the many nights trying to map out what made our city’s literary soul unique, and map out what else we could do to make it a vibrant creative sector. I thought of the countless writers who had, across decades, quietly built the foundation that made the bid even possible—from the Silliman Universityi National Writers Workshop that Edilberto and Edith Tiempo began in 1962, to the new voices emerging from the Buglas Writers Guild, to the poets scribbling verses on napkins in our ubiquitous cafés.
I remember the labor, but Dumaguete becoming a UNESCO City of Literature was never about me or even about a single institution. It was about articulating, finally, the long story of a city that has always written itself into being. Dumaguete is a city that breathes literature. This recognition from UNESCO simply affirms what we have long known in our bones: that our words matter, that our stories shape us, that the act of writing here is both heritage and hope.
I do need to remind everyone that the designation—which comes up for review every four years—is not a medal to polish and display, or a “forever title.” Like how I’ve said it before, it is a promise, perhaps even a burden—to make sure that this literary city remains worthy of the name. To be a City of Literature means committing ourselves to nurturing new voices, to making sure that the next generation of writers from Dumaguete will have more platforms, more spaces, more readers, and more courage. It means making literature not just an elite preoccupation but a living conversation with the community—with the tricycle driver who recites tercets, the fisherwoman who tells her grandchildren stories by the shore, or the student learning to find her voice in the classroom.
I echo what Dauin writer Michael Aaron Gomez said about the responsibility of getting this distinction: “To me, it clarifies the purpose of writers in the city: one must be able to look clearly at the successes and failures of Dumaguete and the conditions shaping itself and, more importantly, its people in the modern century. Because ultimately the reader is what it comes down to. I hope the title clarifies instead of obscures what a Dumaguete writer must do in the face of the rushing waves of what we call progress and development.”
It means that Dumaguete’s literary map must expand beyond its old boundaries. We need to champion our writers in Binisaya, not just those who write in English—and even in all the in-between languages that reflect who we are. We must find ways to publish locally, to translate, to reach readers beyond our islands. The irony of a City of Literature without a strong publishing ecosystem [which Dumaguete alas suffers from] must be addressed, and this designation gives us the mandate to do so. The hope is that soon, we will have more independent presses, more bookstores, even more literary residencies, and that Dumaguete will once again become what it was in the golden decades: a true haven for writers.
When I think of what lies ahead, I recall how the bid itself was written—by many hands, each adding a sentence to a shared story. For our technical working group, we got creatives, teachers, students, government workers, cultural workers, publishers, and bookstore owners who came together to define what “literary” means in a place like Dumaguete. The process was itself an act of literature: collaborative, imaginative, and deeply rooted in place. It showed me then that literature is not confined to the printed page. It can also be policy, advocacy, and vision—the very work of imagining better futures for our city.
So yes, I cried. Because Dumaguete’s recognition as a UNESCO City of Literature is both culmination and beginning. It is the acknowledgment of decades of literary life, and the invitation to write its next chapters. We have joined a global network of cities that believe culture can transform communities— Edinburgh, Jakarta, Melbourne, Iowa City, Prague, Reykjavik, Wonju—and now, Dumaguete.
But what makes this achievement extraordinary is how intimate it feels. It’s not a distant honor bestowed from above; it’s a story that began with a simple “cup of coffee” in Adorno. From there, a city dared to dream on paper, and that dream became real. I think that’s the truest metaphor for writing: to wrestle with words until the world shifts a little closer to what you imagine.
Labels: city of literature, dumaguete, life, philippine literature, UNESCO, writers, writing
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Saturday, November 08, 2025
I just went on an unfriending spree, because Facebook was telling me I had reached my maximum, and because my friends' list really needed culling. Because why am I friends with restaurants and hotels and organizations [some of which are gone, and should really just use Pages], and buildings, and ... pets? Also unfriended dead friends, which was particularly sad.Labels: facebook, friends, life, social media
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, November 05, 2025
It has been more than two weeks since we arrived from Frankfurt. The lingering feeling that I still have is the camaraderie—the bonding, the shared experience, the fact that we were genuinely there for each other and for the country. I met writers, publishers, and creatives I wouldn't otherwise have met, even here in the Philippines. Having extended breakfasts together for ten straight days can do that to you.Labels: frankfurter buchmesse, life, philippine literature, travel, writers
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 264.
Labels: philippine literature, poetry
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Friday, October 31, 2025
9:00 PM |
Wake Me Because I Must Be Dreaming! Dumaguete is Now UNESCO City of Literature!
We got it. My hands are shaking.
I still remember that fraught week in August 2024 when I had to churn out the preliminary bid for Dumaguete City as UNESCO City of Literature – about six pages of questions that needed thorough answers, which resulted to almost 40 pages of the final bid. I was actually set to enjoy Founders Day in Silliman University when then DTI Negros Oriental Director Nimfa Marcos Virtucio and Anton Gabila invited me and Renz for "a cup of coffee" in Adorno Galeria y Cafe. Akala ko coffee lang, turned out they were keen on submitting Dumaguete for the distinction and was roping me in to help them. Of course I said yes. But I only had about one week to put together the pre-bid, because the deadline was on August 31! Oh, the pain! But that week also made me realize: Dumaguete actually could do this, we had everything [except, ehem, publishing houses and translation projects]. We were able to submit the pre-bid to UNACOM on time.
And then I forgot all about it, until UNACOM contacted us sometime in November 2024 to inform us that we were on their final list of recommendees to UNESCO, alongside Quezon City for Film! That galvanized us to do the final bid from December 2024 to March 2025, again fretting over the final questionnaire and other things to do. Together with then Dumaguete City Tourism Officer Katherine Aguilar, we formed a think tank of about 20 people, to make the bid truly community- and sector-driven. I sacrificed finishing several of my books slated for publication this year just to finish this bid. The sleepless nights were abominable. The anxiety was formidable, I went back to taking Ritalin after being off-meds for two years. We submitted before the midnight of March 1, the deadline. [We never were able to do the planned video documentary to supplement our bid. There was just no time.]
I always thought I could have done more, especially for our website – so I was just hoping the bid itself would suffice for the judges. But, truth to tell, I was prepared to receive bad news. I dreaded the coming of October 31. Please forgive me if I cried Friday night. It was my body heaving a sigh of relief.Labels: city of literature, dumaguete, dumaguete writers workshop, life, philippine literature, silliman, UNESCO, writers, writing
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, October 29, 2025
2:38 PM |
The Frankfurter Buchmesse in Four Group Photos
From arrival to the handover ceremony, it was ten days of hard work representing Philippine literature and publishing. And with this last photo dump, I'm signing off while I process my liquidation...
The Qatar Airways group arriving at the Frankfurt Airport, October 12.
At the Messe Frankfurt on our second day, October 13.
After the kickoff brunch at Alex, October 13.
After the handover ceremony at Forum 1, October 19.
Labels: books, frankfurter buchmesse, life, philippine literature, writers, writing
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 263.
Labels: philippine literature, poetry
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Tuesday, October 28, 2025
8:54 PM |
Reading 'Quezon' Between the Lines
Since Jerrold Tarog’s Quezon came to movie screens everywhere last October 15, the debates it has initiated have been fruitful, but also wild. Is the film respectful or disrespectful of its subject matter? Shouldn’t the family have been consulted? Where are the merits of Quezon’s presidency in the film? What’s history and what’s fabulation? Should heroes remain on pedestals, or should they be brought down to our level? The simmering discourse finally erupted when a Quezon descendant took the director and his actor, Jericho Rosales, to task during a recent post-screening Q&A, accused them of being reckless and unfair, and dropped his mic in a dramatic huff. No one has exactly the same take on the film, although everyone has suddenly become an armchair historian.
I do believe most of these questions could be answered if only people bothered to supplement their viewing with the book tie-in published by Anvil Publishing—Quezon: The Story Behind the Film. For example, for those who have penned defenses of Quezon by saying that the film used mostly American colonial sources, here’s a quote from screenwriter Rody Vera from the book: “We decided to use Carlos Quirino’s Quezon: Paladin of Philippine Freedom as our template, which was by far the least hagiographical of [all the books we’ve read for our research] and covers a lot more detail that probably even other books might have referenced.” That’s hardly an American colonial reference.
The book is a small tie-in volume to Tarog’s long-awaited conclusion to his “Bayaniverse” trilogy, but I think it is more than just a supplement; it can create real conversations. Because everything you want to know or have questions about the film—the intent, the quarrels, the historical liberties, the controversies brewing in the echo chambers of Facebook, X, and Reddit—are all here, in the quiet candor of words. Here you will find the story of the film laid bare, and its intentions illustrated—all our myths about heroes, all our compulsions, all our complicities.
The book has nine parts, including an introduction by the historian John Ray B. Ramos; a producer’s notes written by Daphne O. Chiu-Soon; a message from the director which he had sent to every preview screening in the country; a section on movie stills and photos; a timeline of Manuel Quezon’s life, career, and legacy; a list of key references for those who demand historiographical integrity; and a timeline references—all very helpful, of course. But reading the book, I was more drawn to two specific sections of the film’s making: Rody Vera’s screenwriter’s notes, and an extensive interview with Jerrold Tarog, where he lays bare his intentions in making the film, his struggles in crafting it, and his hopes over what audiences might finally get from the story.
Vera’s essay reads like a confession. “Adapting into film the life story of any historical figure requires focus,” he writes. “It’s like confronting a huge slab of stone, the stone being the whole life of the real person, and chiseling away what is irrelevant.” It’s the best image anyone has ever written about screenwriting. You cannot put everything about your subject matter in the film! And as metaphors go, you realize it’s also how nations are made—chiseled, curated, reduced to fit the narrative of convenience.
Quezon, in hindsight, is less the hagiography we were taught in history class [if at all] and more an excavation of the man who shaped the architecture of our political soul. The screenwriter recalls reading Recah Trinidad’s ominous line from Kasaysayan: The Story of the Filipino People: “Quezon laid the groundwork and the precedence for the declaration of Martial Law and the establishment of dictatorship by Ferdinand Marcos in 1972.” That realization, Vera says, became the film’s premise for him—and you can feel the pulse of that realization on every scene.
What the film does quite well, and so with this book, is restore nuance to a figure we have long turned into a statue. In Tarog’s story, Quezon is not just the dashing Commonwealth president of gargantuan monuments and of cities and provinces named after him—he is also the cunning tactician who invented our brand of politics: cronyism as governance, charm as statecraft, charisma as national hypnosis. “It was thrilling,” Vera admits in his essay, “to apprehend that while Filipinos were given the opportunity toward attaining self-rule in a colonial setup, socio-political criticism was never lagging behind.” That observation hums like both celebration and elegy.
Tarog’s own message reads like a director’s meditation on faith—faith in cinema, faith in conversation, faith in the possibility of understanding history through art. “The whole idea behind this trilogy,” he notes, “is the exploration of the concept of Bayani.” Then, in one perfect passage, he writes: “We are removing them from their statues, from the giant monuments erected for them, and we are bringing them down to our level as humans.”
It’s a mission statement that could also describe what this small book achieves. The pages strip Quezon, Luna, and Goyo of their mythic varnish and leave us with the humans underneath—flawed, luminous, sometimes monstrous, always Filipino. Tarog insists: “History is a series of events where good people do good things, good people do bad things, bad people do bad things, and bad people do good things.” That sentence, simple as it is, might be the most honest distillation of the Filipino condition.
And yet, the essays in the book are not content to stay in the archives of the past. They hold a mirror up to our present. “If you read books about Quezon,” Tarog tells Anvil in the interview that rounds off the collection, “it feels like you’re reading about what’s happening now.” It’s true. Every page feels like déjà vu—political strongmen, moral gymnastics, the endless pageant of power and spectacle. When Tarog says, “It’s only a democracy in name, not in practice,” you can almost hear the sigh of an entire country.
The brilliance of film [and book] is that it refuses to simplify. Vera’s notes brim with self-awareness: “Is Quezon’s story therefore an allegory? Allegory, I guess, in this case is pointless. I think the film is more of an ‘origin’ story, that helps us understand why we are what we are as a nation.” To read this is to realize that every nation is, in fact, a genre film—revised, reshot, rebooted by every generation, with the same plot: a people trying to become a people.
The book also delves into the struggles of the film’s making. In Tarog’s interview in the book, you can sense exhaustion in his answers, but also grace. He recalls how “it probably took me a year or more” to compile a timeline of Quezon, Osmeña, and Aguinaldo, threading through “more than fifty books.” He admits the film’s limitations: what had to be cut, what could never fit into two hours of cinema. “Honestly,” he says, “Quezon’s life is very complex to study. Every decade of his life has something interesting, something dramatic that could be turned into a film. So to do justice to Quezon’s story, it would have to be a miniseries.” That miniseries will probably never happen—but we can imagine one with the expanded universe of a national soul, a patient curation of thought and struggle, of humor and disillusionment.
Tarog’s honesty is disarming: “Maybe [Quezon] was the only guy we had back then, or maybe he was the only one who could win over everyone else.” That may also be the secret horror of Philippine history: that our heroes were often just the best players of terrible games.
For those still bracing for controversy—those who suspect Quezon will be accused, as Heneral Luna once was, of reflecting too much of the vagaries of our present politics—the answers are already here. “Viewers will always watch through their own lens,” Tarog reminds us. “Life is messy and complicated.” The film does not impose judgment, especially on its characters; the book reflects this. For Tarog, it simply presents, with startling clarity, the continuum of power we have chosen to inherit.
But what lingers most for me from the book are the quieter insights. Vera muses on the camera itself as a metaphor, since the beginnings of Philippine cinema is a vital touchpoint in Quezon: “[Cinema] is but merely a projection of how its producer wants to be perceived, how he wants the truth to be told.” The line could describe Quezon, or any politician, or any filmmaker, or all of us, caught between image and self. “Who was that Filipino politician,” he asks, “who once said: ‘Perception is real, the truth is not’?”
I like how the book serves as a good footnote to how we have viewed the film. It reminds us that the film is really about us—our appetites for heroes, our addictions to myths, our uneasy laughter in the face of impunity. Tarog writes, “Ideally, our action is in the real world, not in the comments section.” And maybe that’s the invitation the film, and its book, gives us: to step out of the comments section of our history, and into its pages.
Labels: film, heroes, history, philippine cinema, philippine history
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Sunday, October 26, 2025
9:00 AM |
I Like Serendipity
Alas, carefully laid plans had changed. I was no longer Baguio-bound after I touched down in Manila from Frankfurt, after attending the Frankfurter Buchmesse. The itinerary had been clear: no rest in the capital after arrival in NAIA, straight on to a bus station in Pasay to take me to the mountains for a book event—my first ever in the City of Pines in more than 15 years.
But, as life often reminds me, certainty is a fragile illusion. The event was canceled at the last minute, leaving me stranded in Manila for three days before my scheduled flight back home to Dumaguete. I could not change the booking, since it was the National Book Development Board who did that for me as part of my grant as a delegate to the Frankfurter Buchmesse. I was also left scrambling to find a hotel, which proved to be a futile exercise: nothing decent within my budget could be had in the days I was set to be in Manila. I was, of course, also disappointed over the fact that my dream of a return to Baguio was suddenly for naught—for I always felt like that city lived inside a poem, and I had been craving its air after the gray, efficient cold of Europe. I also missed writer friends who lived there, and I was eager to see them once more.
But I had also learned, with time and years, that derailment is not always a disaster. Sometimes, it can be the beginning of something else.
When I arrived in Manila on Tuesday, near midnight, “home” was a word that felt more like a placeholder than a destination. I got out of NAIA past midnight, bleary-eyed and body aching after the long anxietry-ridden wait at the luggage carousel. I had thanked the heavens that I had not yet booked a hotel in Baguio. Friends from high school came to the rescue, offering me their place in Bonifacio Global City. I remember standing under the shower, washing away the travel fatigue, feeling grateful to be grounded even in an unplanned stopover. There was some comfort in the unplanned, a quiet relief that the universe, despite its odd sense of humor, still managed to catch me when things fell apart. Plus: did I even think about what I would do lugging my heavy luggage around to Baguio?
So what do I do in this unexpected layover of four days?
The next day unfolded like a gentle surprise. I had been an Anvil Publishing author since 2012, with two books to my name that they have published—Heartbreak and Magic in 2012 and Don’t Tell Anyone in 2017—yet this was the first time I had ever stepped into their offices in Mandaluyong. Finally, I could put faces to the names that had lived for years in my inbox: managing editor R. Jordan P. Santos, marketing maven Page Jose, and senior editor Arianne Velasquez. Page, Arianne, and I had already spent a week together in Frankfurt—“bonded by trauma,” as we liked to joke—and now, back in Manila, we found comfort in the familiarity of shared exhaustion and laughter.
That evening, upon the invitation of Anvil publisher Xandra Ramos, I joined the Anvil team for a special screening of Jerold Tarog’s Quezon at the Metropolitan Theater. Jericho Rosales, with whom I exchanged some pleasantries and shook hands with, played the titular president, and I was struck by the film’s almost farcical tone—fitting, I thought, for a story about the roots of Philippine patronage politics. “We really had no choice to have the kind of government we have,” I told the interviewer who asked us about our reactions after the screening. “From the very beginning, we were already wading in the mud.” Afterward, our publisher treated all us to a late-night dinner at The Aristocrat, joined by fellow Anvil authors Yvette Tan and Danton Remoto. The conversations ran deep into the night—about Frankfurt, about writing, about life. It was one of those rare, luminous evenings when fatigue dissolved into fellowship, and I remembered why I chose this life of words in the first place.
The following day, October 23, should have found me already in Baguio, talking to readers in a book event, but instead I was in Quezon City, meeting with Vibal Publishing’s managing editor, Gelo Lopez, to discuss a book project that had been nearly a year in the making. The meeting brimmed with creative energy, filled with the kind of spirited exchange that made the long delays and rewrites worth it. Had the Baguio event not been canceled, I would have missed this moment of quiet progress—a reminder that detours could be productive, too.
I spent my last day in Manila mostly indoors, catching up on work and correspondence, the city humming faintly beyond the windows of my borrowed apartment. Looking back, I realized that the entire episode—the canceled trip, the scramble for lodging, the chance reunions—had unfolded like an orchestrated accident, each piece falling into place as if by divine mischief.
This year itself had been relentless—a wild pendulum of highs and lows, a roller coaster I could neither predict nor pause. But as I turned fifty last August, I have found myself embracing these unpredictable turns with something like grace. I wanted to be more fearless, more grateful, less anxious about the things beyond control. Serendipity, I realized, often arrived disguised as inconvenience.
What seemed at first like a disruption became an alignment: a canceled bus ride turned into reconnections with friends; a missed mountain event became a reunion with my publishers; an unexpected pause opened space for new beginnings. Perhaps that was the quiet lesson of the week—that the world had its own way of rearranging our plans toward small, necessary miracles. In the end, what I thought was lost time became found time, and the story I had meant to tell in Baguio began to write itself, instead, in Manila.
Labels: books, life, manila, travel
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Friday, October 24, 2025
5:21 PM |
Last Full Day in Manila
Last full day in Manila, and after being out to do some chores, I’m staying in to dive back to work after all those days in Frankfurt. I’m lucky to have this temporary home in BGC, owned by very good friends from high school, who answered my distress call after unsuccessfully trying to book a hotel in Manila for this lengthy [three days!] unexpected stay. I do think the whole thing proved to be serendipitous. All’s well that ends well.Labels: life, travel
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Thursday, October 23, 2025
11:00 PM |
Some Reckonings
What a year this has been, and there are two more months to go. The highs have been really high and the lows have been really low [and sometimes a weird mix of both], mura’g roller coaster ride. I like that it coincides with my 50th birthday, where I’ve resolved to be more fearless, and grateful. I’ve always been the busy sort, but this year takes the cake. I do wish I spent more time writing though. That’s my goal in November. More writing and reading, less event-making and doing and attending.Labels: life
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, October 22, 2025
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 262.
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Sunday, October 19, 2025
3:00 PM |
In Frankfurt
So this is Europe, Germany specifically. First off: it’s cold, but not too cold—it has been perfect autumn weather, requiring just a jacket, since we arrived. I have never been to Europe before. I’ve been to Malaysia, to India, to Singapore, and to Thailand for conferences or for pleasure. I’ve spent months in Iowa [and elsewhere] in the United States as the Philippine representative to the International Writing Program. I’ve lived and studied in Japan. But Europe for so long had always been a tantalizing dream, the kind that makes you go wistful and say, “Someday…,” ellipses included. So now I’m in Frankfurt, Germany—after 28 hours of travel, from Dumaguete to Manila to Doha to here, I’m loving the pleasurable peace and quiet of my nice hotel room.
This trip is not for pleasure—although pleasure can be had in visiting places, in meeting people, in the partaking of the culture. It’s for work. I’m one of the 500 or so delegates representing the Philippines, which is Guest of Honor this year at the Frankfurter Buchmesse [or the Frankfurt Book Fair]. I am tasked to be part of several panels to introduce the European public to specific things about the literary culture of the country. By the time this essay sees print, we would be at the tail-end of this international book fair, which began last October 15, and is slated to end, today, October 19. It has been a whirlwind trip, ending much too soon. [But that’s how life goes.] A short trip—but something from which I have learned a lot: lessons for my writing life and practice, and lessons for valuing the culture that we produce.
As of this writing, I have done some touristy stuff, and have gone around the Dom-Romer Quarter, the so-called “new old town” of the city—essentially a cluster of beautiful heritage buildings reconstructed only in the 1980s from the ruins of World War II. But I have yet to see the museums though. I’ve sampled the currywurst, apparently a must-have in Germany. Did this on our second day in Frankfurt, right after our kick-off brunch with all of the national delegates to the book fair.
On our third day, I got my wish: to visit Heidelberg for a day trip—a bucket list item checked with so much satisfaction. I was advised that if I could, I really should make a side trip to Heidelberg, an hour south of Frankfurt, and do a pilgrimage for Jose Rizal. This place was, after all, the setting of his poem, “To the Flowers of Heidelberg,” where he studied ophthalmology at the world-famous university, and where, in the nearby village of Wilhelmsfeld, he wrote the final chapters of Noli Me Tangere. There’s a monument in Wilhelmsfeld dedicated to him, and also the house where he lived, still perfectly preserved. I was apprehensive about taking this particular trip because it would take more than a half a day [and the official opening ceremony of the Frankfurter Buchmesse was scheduled at 5 PM the same day]. It was also of considerable expense [a one-way Uber ride is roughly a one-way plane ticket between Manila and Dumaguete]. Pero kebs. When will I ever be here again?
Truth to tell, this Heidelberg visit was mostly an impromptu, organic trip. I was down for breakfast at my hotel when someone whispered to me: “Jay Ignacio is organizing a trip to Heidelberg, and he’s in the lobby now to wait for an Uber!” I hurriedly consumed my breakfast, called Jay on Messenger, and did not even bother to take a shower. While we were hammering out the logistics at the lobby, the historian Ambeth Ocampo wandered into our midst, and started advising us where to go.
Jay said: “Sama ka na lang sa amin!”
And then Ambeth said, “Okay.”
What? To be toured around Heidelberg with our eminent Rizal historian?
Then Ige Ramos also wandered into our midst, and we told him what’s afoot.
“With Ambeth?” Ige said.
“Uh-huh,” we said.
“Let me just get a croissant and then wash my face,” he said.
And so off we all went, around eleven of us, to Heidelberg, where we also met other groups who had the same plans. I do like Frankfurt, but I was surprised to find it very quiet and with almost no bustle, the hum of the financial capital of Germany very sedate. [Maybe that’s the sound of money?] The buildings are also very modern. In Heidelberg, however, I finally got a sense of an old European city, and when I was walking down the narrow cobblestone streets surrounded by very old buildings, I couldn’t help but yelp: “Mao ni ang Europe sa akong imagination!” Compared to Frankfurt, Heidelberg was bustling, with the old feel of the architecture perfectly balanced by the youth that populate the city, since it is very much a university town, like Dumaguete—and looming over us like a charm, the beautiful Heidelberg Castle. I loved that Heidelberg the old town and Heidelberg the university felt like a seamless fit, classrooms and shops sharing space. And for all the Rizaliana that embraces this city for us Pinoys, I actually began wondering how come no Star Cinema romcom had ever been filmed here. Because it is so freakin’ beautiful and deserves a movie! [But maybe I should write that screenplay...]
We got back to Frankfurt that day, just in time to change into our Filipiniana for the opening ceremony—where the Philippine Madrigal Singers sang, where Senator Loren Legarda gave a fantastic speech, and where Dumaguete poets Merlie Alunan and Marjorie Evasco read excerpts from their poetry, together with Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta. Truth to tell, nanimbarot akong balahibo to hear Binisaya in a poem uttered in that huge auditorium filled with book sellers from all over the world, in the heart of Europe. I resolved right then and there to enjoy my stay in Frankfurt—and most of all to meet people I would never otherwise meet in ordinary circumstances.
For example, upon entering the Philippine Pavilion after the opening ceremony, I bumped into indie filmmaker and National Artist for Cinema Kidlat Tahimik, wearing his signature wanoh [bahag]! When I was a college freshman back in the day, I chanced upon a VHS copy of Mababangong Bangungot [The Perfumed Nightmare], which he directed. I remember being floored by that film. It was a bootleg copy, but nevertheless I was hooked by this man’s spirit and philosophy captured meticulously and spritely on film. I’ve never met him before, so bumping into him, and chatting with him, was quite an experience. I wanted my Frankfurt experience to be a series of that kind of encounters.
Another example of that kind of meeting came a two days later. I sat down for breakfast at the hotel, and I found sitting in front of me this beautiful older woman with white hair—who turned out to be Noelle Sy-Quia, the great grandniece of Jose Rizal! She was part of the national delegation to represent the family of our national hero. Of course, I asked her about her lineage, and she readily whipped out this family tree, which she had prepared the day before to answer just the kind of question I was asking. She’s the descendant of Rizal’s sister Maria, via her son Morris, then his daughter Caridad, who is Noelle’s mother. She told me she’d been to Dumaguete before, and said she enjoyed the food immensely. She lives in Barcelona now, and I told her: “You’re living my dream life!” We talked about many other things as well—really just a nice chit chat over bacon and eggplants and scrambled eggs and cappuccino.
But there was also the work, of course. I was tasked to be part of four panels—one on “First Books, First Writing Workshop” [with Patricia May Jurilla, where I was tasked to talk about the Silliman University National Writers Workshop, the first writing workshop in Southeast Asia], another on “The Haunting of the Regions” [with Genevieve Asenjo and Darwin Absari, where I talked about uncovering the folk literature of Negros Oriental], another one on “Ladlad, The Optics of Gender” [with Danton Remoto, Blaise Gacoscos, and Chuckberry Pascual, where I talked about my work as a queer writer as something that embody the third wave of Philippine gay literature], and the last one on “Fictionalizing Time” [with Jose Dalisay and Robin Sebolino, where I talked about my work as something that explores both a sense of place and a sense of time]. I also read poetry with Nicolas Pichay and Ned Parfan for one segment of the “Poetry for Freedom, Justice, and Peace” series, where I read from my own poetry [in Binisaya], as well as the poetry of Dumaguete-based Pakistani writer Mohammad Malik, and, in tandem with Nick and Ned, a poem by Eric Gamalinda. All my panels were held at the cavernous Philippine Pavilion at Forum 1 of the gargantuan Frankfurt Messe, a dedicated exhibition space designed by Stanley Ruiz and curated by Patrick Flores.
The main action for us, however, is at Hall 5.1, where the Philippine National Stand is located—and here, surrounded by other international exhibitors at the Frankfurter Buchmesse, the Philippines and its book publishers have taken center stage, occupying a large area where the books of various publishers are exhibited—ready for rights to be sold. I am in Frankfurt as an author under Anvil Publishing, for my book Don’t Tell Anyone: Literary Smut. I am grateful to Anvil’s Xandra Ramos for including the title in its roster, although it was published long ago, in 2017—because the truth is, I never prepared any of my books for this book fair, nor asked any of my publishers to put them forward as part of the official catalogue. I honestly didn’t think I’d be here in Frankfurt, and had no plans to be here: I didn’t apply for my spot in the national delegation, because I’m not really a joiner—and I knew the paperwork would overwhelm me. My invitation from the National Book Development Board [NBDB] came late, only at the beginning of August. By then it was too late to have my recent books prepared for publication but Anvil nevertheless included my 2017 book in the display—so, yes, this is the book I have been representing in Frankfurt, and also actively talking about while I’m here.
This was my first time to see up close the business [capitalist?] side of book-making, and I have been quite the sponge: listening to pitches, observing how writers market themselves, detailing how publishers display their books, listening to talks about copyright, etc. I have been happily flailing around as a noob—but what I’ve learned thus far, a lesson that needs marinating in, is really how to put value into my work as a writer. One other thing I liked about being part of the national delegation: getting to know your own publishers up close! Now they know your faces! It really helps to have a personal connection.
The Frankfurter Buchmesse is huge, encompassing many halls, and I am grateful for having the foresight to come with sensible and comfortable walking shoes, gifted to me by Golda Benjamin, who told me: “Frankfurt is all cobble stones! And the venue of the book fair is big and punishing and you need good shoes!” So she bought me a pair of classic Stan Smiths from Adidas—perfect for traversing the long corridors separating the various venues—and I had all the intentions to visit every single hall. After my first panel on October 16 at the Philippine Pavilion, where I presented a brief on the Silliman University National Writers Workshop—which felt very appropriate for my first talk at the Frankfurter Buchmesse—the only plan I had for the rest of the afternoon was to do an interview with media, then attend one event, and then go to Hall 6.1. But I bumped into Apple, a cousin I had not seen in years.
I abandoned all my plans to that we could spend most of the afternoon talking about her life in Germany, over Vietnamese food we found in the grounds of the Frankfurt Messe. Afterwards, there was the reception at the Philippine National Stand back in Hall 5.1. Receptions are little parties every country stand is expected to throw. [On my first day, I had laksa courtesy of the Singapore National Stand, a stone’s throw away from the Philippines National Stand.] But the Philippines threw quite a party for its reception last October 16. The food and drinks overflowed. Pastil! Ube Yema! Tanduay! It was quite a reception. Doing the Frankfurter Buchmesse is kind of fun because of such things—but alas it’s also quite a relief to get back to our hotel at the end of the day.
The work we did here has been immense and, indeed, tiring—but for some reason, this German stay had been somewhat restful for me. I was very surprised that for someone like me who kept very nocturnal, very erratic hours back home—sleeping at 2 AM and waking at 10 AM on the regular—my sleep here had been deep and uninterrupted, usually 7-8 hours. I’d be sleepy by 9 PM and wake up at 5 AM. I mean, was my body keeping European time all along?
Labels: books, frankfurter buchmesse, life, philippine literature, publishing, writers, writing
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, October 15, 2025
1:00 PM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 261.
Labels: philippine literature, poetry
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
I'm very surprised that for someone like me who kept very nocturnal, very erratic hours back home, sleeping at 2 AM and waking at 10 AM, my sleep here has been deep and uninterrupted, usually 7-8 hours. I'd be sleepy by 9 PM and wake up at 5 AM. I mean, was my body keeping European time all along?
Labels: europe, germany, life, sleep
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
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