Slip of the Pen

[Warning: Not for children.]

Summer came, summer left. Like a steamy, five-minute quickie (you know what I’m talking about), the passing of summer has left me fatigued and short of breath, yet extremely gratified. Though I must apologize for the rather obscene comparison I’ve used, I won’t take it back for a Pulitzer. No other act in the world can offer such a faithful embodiment of my summer experience than a speedy act of making love. Yep, sex and summer are both hot; however, the similarity ends there.

You see, I had two things officially going on these past two months –- my OJT work and STS class. But a closer look reveals that I was actually doing three more off-the-record tasks –- taking charge of UP ACM’s bid for the ACM International Chapter Excellence Award, writing articles for SUMS+UP’s Substance and Simulacra magazine, and planning a better UP Parser for the incoming academic year. Not to mention coming up with my second blog and personal website.

I’m actually surprised I was able to survive summer without falling ill (sue me, but I say this is akin to surviving an ‘encounter’ without suffering from, uh, impotency). Yeah yeah, ‘tis good I got through with it. And I did it with style. (If you’re someone I personally know and you tell me otherwise, I’ll kick your arse.)

So that’s it, it’s over; the fat lady has sung for summer. Two months burned by the Corsarius’ blazing might. Come to think of it, it’s not just a couple of months which went by in this fleeting, blistering fashion –- it has been three years! A trifecta of mindless, drudgery-filled years in a course I simply don’t love.

I didn’t stay in my course to emerge as a world-class computer scientist; I stayed to prove myself. I stayed to prove that I can perform well in one of UP’s toughest courses. As a result, I didn’t just burn away three years of my life. I burned away the potential to become a good journalist, full-fledged writer, or historian –- these are the careers I would’ve liked to have.

In fact, I may have just burned myself.

This minute, even as my mind conjures fantastic analogies between summer and sex, I’ve realized one thing.

I’ve become Corsarius the Self-Immolator.

It’s too late to change courses now. I’m entering my final year in ComSci, I have part-time work at the CS department, I have positions in CS student organizations, I handle the CS publication, and my CS grades are pretty decent just to trash. All of these things have become too important to throw away. If I were to shift, I should’ve done it years ago. So now the only thing I can do is look back at what’s happened, go through the five stages of mourning, and then ponder my next move. A waste of time, isn’t it?

I hope you guys don’t have these same regrets. If you don’t want to have them, plan ahead. Chart your life. Place your hand upon your chest, feel what’s beating inside, and follow that same beat, that strong dub-dub-dub. It’s corny, it’s passé, it’s cliché, but follow your heart’s desire.

And if you do have these regrets, come join me. Let us join forces and burn the world with our combined frustrations. Or die trying.

Till next quickie, er, summer then.

I am all of these names. I am none of them. I am a multifaceted gem sparkling a thousand dreams, a thousand nightmares. I am your buddy, your adversary, your comedy, your tragedy, your prose, your poetry, your life, your death, your unlife.

I am Phillip Yerro Kimpo Jr. A typical complete birth certificate name — a first name, a mother’s maiden name, a surname. And a Jr. to mark me as a successor to some throne, a nominal rip-off even. To my utmost joy, there is no second name attached to Phillip, the ones generously given by the queer parents of my generation. Luckily I didn’t end up as Phillip Alexander (which would’ve been bad, considering I want my son to be Alexander the Great and me Phillip of the Philippines), or Phillip Paul (which would’ve been bad, because that’d mean I was just another Christian name-clone, and of course, Phillip Paul simply sounds awful), or even (heaven forbid) Phillip Giovanni. Without a second name, this chap’s truly inimitable in his generation — Phillip Jr. Wait, does Jr. count as a second name? Damn.

I am Philos Stormblade. The hero of my swords-and-sorcery fantasy saga. You’re thinking, what an insipid name. But isn’t that the case with your name? Or mine for that matter. Philos means love; Phillip means lover of horses. Stormblade is a pedestrian high-fantasy surname denoting a, yes, blade of the storms; Kimpo is supposedly Korean for port of gold. What’s the diff? Absolutely none. It’s not in the meaning of the name; it’s in how you put meaning into it. It’s not about carrying the name; it’s about living it.

I am Phillip Kimpo Jr. A name without a middle name. There’s no reason to put it there, for she is not here. Give explicit credit where credit is due, and implicit discredit where discredit is due.

I am Kidlat Karimlan. The Dark Lightning. The hero of my Tagalog short story for social change. The title is a paradox, lightning is chaos. Enough said.

I am Phillip Kimpo II. The II makes me an Emperor. Didn’t you know? Philip of Macedon was Philip II. Told you, my son is going to be Alexander the Great. And do you actually think Emperor Phillip Jr. is going to strike fear into the hearts of my foes? Jr. is for the boys. I am a man.

I am P.Y. Kimpo. A dreadful, uncalled-for imitation of T.S. Eliot. Makes me feel like a famous writer already. And yes, it is a nifty shortcut. Downside? My mother’s partaking of the fame.

I am Kimpo. To my friends, there’s no Phillip; there’s only Kimpo. Good morning, Kimpo! O Kimpo, kamusta na? Bwiset ‘tong si Kimpo e! It’s alright; after all, I am my family. I am the Clan within the Man. Kimpo — Korean or Filipino, it matters not. I am a nation of my own.

I am the Corsarius. Simply, a corsair. Captain of my own ship, terror of Life’s seedy ports. Tavern of preference — The Crimson Pen. Barmaid of preference — any of the Greek Muses. Molded by twenty years of pain and hardship, and prone to moments of deep angst. I do throw tantrums, but tantrums of the pen. I am a corsair, not a pirate. I am a swashbuckler, not a buccaneer. I express my angst with panache and wit, not with demented aggression. With the pen as my cutlass, I will set sail and claim the seven seas as my own.

I am PYKJ. I am Phil the Insipid-titled. I am the Junior. I am Light Darkning. I am the Second. I am P.Y. Eliot. I am Kimps. I am Cors. I am all of these names. I am none of them.

I am who I am. I am who I! I am who? I am.

I.

No, I’m not getting fat! Rather –

It’s official. The Corsarius, yours truly, now has his own website.

Curtains up!

Though up and running for several weeks now, I wanted to tweak the site until I was satisfied with it. Now, I believe it’s ready for full public ‘consumption’.

But that’s not all. Very recently, I’ve started a second blog, christened the Crimson Crux. It will house my ’serious’ writings and papers. Don’t worry. Slip of the Pen will still be my darling.

So if you have the time, please drop by these two sites. I’d really, really appreciate it. Thanks!

[I'd like to express my deepest gratitude to my bestfriend, Sophia, who designed these two sites. She is what I'd call a webmistress extraordinaire. I'm just the content guy. I've got near-to-nil layout and graphics skills. Again, thank you so much, Ia-chan!]

[Another old post -- I hope you won't take my indolence against me. Written almost exactly a year ago. This essay's theme fits one of my recent moods. I'll post something cheerful and spanking new next time, when my body feels better.]

I’m not supposed to write anything today. I’m dead tired, having had to enroll in the morning for my third year in UP. I’m double dead tired, having had to stroll about SM North Edsa in the afternoon with my ComSci ‘gang’. As soon as I got home, all I planned to do for the evening was to have a good supper, plop down in front of the TV and watch Game 5 of the Lakers-Timberwolves playoff series, take a quick face-wash, then finally catch a six-hour sleep to prepare myself for another grueling enrollment day. Yet something happened along that planned schedule, something that even in my enervated state the ‘writer’ in me still wanted to scribble.

Something which they call criticism.

They say criticism is all about weighing the merits and demerits of a certain topic, person, work, or object. But let’s face it; for many of us the word ‘criticism’ carries sinister overtones. No merits, only demerits. For the layman, criticism is crap, or I’ll eat my pen. But I digress.

Half-asleep on the sofa, watching the first half of the Lakers-Timberwolves game tick down to the final seconds, my father arrived from office amidst the fanatical yips and woofs of our four dogs. As I opened the door to let my dad in, he laid his eyes on the TV, and it all began.

“What’s this?! All you watch is basketball, nothing but basketball. You’re such a useless kid,” he growled.

Huh? So what? Give me my short summer break. After surviving a semester of hoop abstinence (resulting in my being a Dean’s Lister for the first time) and a grueling summer of Math 55 classes, I only had two weeks to reward myself for my perseverance and small triumphs. And now I get this from my dad, who of all people have seen me disappear from the world for several whole days (locked in my room studying for every big exam), who have shared my passion for Michael Jordan’s sport (though he dislikes the Chicago Bulls), who have known and claimed to be proud of my victorious semester?

But no, I wasn’t angry with him –- at least not yet. I was ready to let my dad’s comment pass, just to keep my promise to our parish priest that I’ll practice restraint and calm. But lo and behold, my father followed up his jab with a furious uppercut, sending any Christian tendencies of mine out of the house.

“What you should watch is the ANC interview with Patricia Evangelista. Imagine — the best English speaker in the world! You’re nothing compared to her,” he snickered while trying to keep our big, wacky Dalmatian from toppling him over.

That ticked me off. Hell, I didn’t even know Ms. Evangelista was to be interviewed. I’ve read and watched about her dazzling triumph as the world’s best English Public Speaker in the news tidbits on TV and dailies, and I have nothing against the girl, who’s a fellow UP student, a batchmate even. I’ve seen her quite a lot in the Palma Hall lobby. She’s a pretty lady, and I only have admiration for her world-class feat.

There was nothing wrong about her being brought up. What my dad was insinuating –- there’s my big problem.

I’m not trying to be a paranoid git here, but I know my father. Yes, he loves me, but he also likes to point out that I don’t aspire to be the best. He always does that. Maybe he’s doing it for my own good, but hey, too much of a whipping tongue makes a child grow angsty and foul-faced, especially if what the tongue’s saying is just not true.

Contrary to my dad’s estimation, I want to be the best in the disciplines I’m fondest of, or at least one of the best. The best in basketball? No chance. I’m too short and scrawny. Asthmatic too. The best in Computer Science? I did get good marks in my classes, but I don’t love my course. I like ComSci, yet not enough for a heartfelt pursuit of excellence. I don’t see in myself the vaguest shadow of Bill Gates or Linus Torvalds, or even the Pinoy programmer who supposedly wrote the love-bug virus. The best in writing? I’m truly, madly, deeply in love with writing, so I should be well-nigh proficient in this art, right?

But no. Problem is…writing’s not enamored of me. I’ve got a great deal of troubles in my writing; I keep producing pieces whose quality I doubt. If it takes me an hour to finish an essay, I can likewise waste a whole day of reading, re-reading, and revising it. Nevertheless, I still write. I practice, because it’s the only way I’ll improve. Who knows? Maybe someday the line ‘I am the best’ will cease to be a silly, delusional claim and turn to reality, and then my father would be mightily pleased.

So in the end, unable to restrain myself, I shot back at my dad (I forgot what I said verbatim) and went up to my room stomping, the combined might of his two criticisms making a mess out of my manly composure. I know my English is flawed, my speech isn’t to be emulated, and my writing is run-of-the-mill, garden-variety stuff. I know I won’t win any Pulitzers for essays like this. So dad, quit rubbing salt in my wounds, okay?

Damn. Criticism can really cut you to ribbons with its razor-sharp truth.

How do I get spurned by thee? Let me count the ways:


The Immaculate, circa 1997

Over the phone line. “I’m sorry, Corsarius. You see, I’ve got a guy friend. He’s so kind to me. He buys me ice cream everytime.”

I say, “Aw, shucks.”


The Angel, circa 1999

Written on perfumed stationery. “I’m sorry, Corsarius. I never thought you had those intentions for me. I just want to be your friend. I mean, we can still be friends, right?”

I rip the letter to shreds.


The Princess

Strike One, circa 2002 - Dark hallway in PSHS, half-wishing something nasty would happen between us. But — “I’m sorry, Corsarius. I just don’t want to have a boyfriend, and you’re not of my religion.”

Wish not granted.

Strike Two, circa 2003 - Araw ng Kagitingan, UP Diliman. On the main library’s steps. Sunset. Romantic. But — “I’m sorry, Corsarius. I should’ve told you this a year ago. There was no spark. Nada. Nunca. Wala. Now get out of my sight, you sorry git.”

I get out of her sight. Head unbowed, chin up to the dying sun.

Still romantic.


The Corsarius, circa 2005

“I’m sorry, too, Corsarius, for having been a lousy suitor unworthy of your swashbuckling title oozing with machismo — or so I imagine.”

Oh joy.

And it’s not even Valentine’s Day.

At least, it’s the fourteenth.

[A crap of a space-filler, methinks. Rummaging my mind for some bright idea. Till then.]

1985. People have written about their visions for the roll of years. Take Orwell’s 1984 for example. Well, they should’ve written something for 1985.

May 1985, to be exact.

It’s the tenth day of the month. Some hospital in Quezon City, the Philippines.

Amidst the tension in the ER, the silent apprehension in the mind of a thirty-something man, and the shrill shrieks of a thirty-something woman, a new Filipino is added to the Swarm.

But God decides to make him stand out from the rest.

He says, “Give this boy some spunk, some funk, some luck. It will be a good brew. Then give him a cool weapon, let’s say, a flaming cutlass. In that way, he can set sail and conquer the world in his own little raiding ways.”

And so —

“Wait, let’s give him one more thing,” God adds. “Give him some angst. Yes, angst. A little angst along the way goes a looong way.”

And so at 8:52 PM, it becomes official.

The Corsarius is born.

*****

I’ve come a long way.

First, I had a single-digit age. Then I went on to 10, 11, 12. Finally, I became a teenager; this-teen, that-teen. I technically became an adult when I hit 18. Nineteen, that’s a transitory age; I barely had enough time to realize that I was 19. I know, I know — I had one whole year. But a year can zip past you faster than a Maglev train.

Now, the ‘1′ has been replaced by a ‘2′, and the suffix ‘teen’ casually dropped.

The Corsarius is now 20.

I’ve come a long way.

Many events have transpired, especially in the last three years — my stay in college. Those events are so abundant, that they’ve made me forget all those childhood memories.

Yes, the Corsarius is an asshole. He shrugs off the past, to ruthlessly focus on the present.

But God always finds a way to make a person touch base with his past.

An hour ago, I attended mass with my dad at our parish church, Our Lady of Fatima. Being the one-week fiesta of our parish, the song for the Virgin Mary of Fatima was sung by the choir at the mass’ end.

As soon as I heard the first note, my heart started to melt.

That song, the one which I haven’t heard for several years until now, was my perfect childhood song.

When I was in my mid-elementary years, my neighborhood ‘gang’ used to attend the daily summer catechisms at the same church. Before the day’s catechism, we would go around Barangay Don Manuel, picking the best flowers to offer later to the Lady of Fatima (at the catechism’s end). Yes, we were all little boys, carrying around bougainvilleas from street to street, but so great was our respect –- not devotion, that’s for adults old enough to understand its true meaning –- for Mother Mary.

At the day’s end, while we gave Mama Mary our day’s collections, we would sing a hymn for her — yes, that very same song.

So you didn’t expect the child Corsarius to be this cheesy?

I didn’t, too. That’s why as I sang the hymn, I struggled to keep my voice from breaking.

This day, as I truly become an adult, I find a young Corsarius tucked inside the old — happy, innocent, and unperturbed by the harsh realities of life.

*****

There. It’s 8:52 PM.

It’s official.

The Corsarius is now twenty.

Finally! The website of our paper, The UP Parser, the first and foremost publication in UP Diliman’s College of Engineering, is alive and kicking once more!

After a century of technical problems, The UP Parser now has a dual presence on the Net — the main site, and the Parserblog. Please do visit both sites; the latter has recently become a head-turner.

Kudos to the Parser webteam!

You, yes, you, you who have her, greet her. Give to her what’s due her — a kiss, a hug, a Hallmark card. Bake her some cookies. Wash the dishes. Take her to the movies. Spare her your irksome, childish manners, even for a day. Better yet, give a simple, heartfelt thank-you for all that she has sacrificed for you.

Ask yourself, How old am I? Don’t add, don’t subtract. Keep that number exact, keep it in your mind. For that’s the number of years she has cried, toiled, and felt happy for you.

Be grateful. Feel fortunate that you can greet her today, unlike some others. You, yes, you, you who have her.

After all, the ‘you’ isn’t a mere literary device.

It’s a revelation.


[Look for the revealing line here.]

[Eng'g (pronounced "eng") is of course UP Diliman's College of Engineering. This old piece, meant to be published in the college paper but cut due to space constraints (and some say, controversies), is some sort of tribute to my college of three years running. Is the main character in the story yours truly? Partly yes, partly no. Non-Tagalog readers be advised: the dialogue is in my native tongue.]


10:17 AM

“Oi una na ‘ko, may klase pa ako sa Eng’g,” you tell your friends. The group’s conversation breaks up as you start to descend the AS steps.

“Hey, wait lang! You naman o, basta na lang aalis,” Ciara says in between puffs of her cigarette.

“Late na ako e,” you say, scratching your head.

“Why, what’s that ba, majors?” she asks. You nod in response.

“My gosh, i-cut mo na ‘yan! It’s more fun here than in Eng’g, no! Bulok dun, and you don’t get to see girls like me there, di ba?” Ciara giggles, and your other high school buddies follow suit in enticing you to stay. You think it over for a while, but in the end you reach a decision.

“Sorry talaga…di ko ‘to pwedeng i-cut. Alam niyo namang second take ko na, at ayokong ma-dehado ulit. Bawi na lang ako sa inyo sa susunod,” you tell them with a sheepish grin on the face. Without waiting for their consent, you sprint down the stairs and bolt for the Beta Way.

Walking briskly towards Eng’g, your mind can’t stop chewing over Ciara’s words. She and the others have always had a biased view towards your college. How could they judge Eng’g without having experienced Eng’g life? You can’t understand their love for the crowded corridors of Palma Hall, where unknown, hostile faces blend into a single nebulous mass. The building they fondly call ‘A-S’ isn’t your home; there you’re a mere a tourist in a distant land, out to make new acquaintances, out to plumb the mysteries of philosophy, history, geography, name it -– subjects which are mere child’s play compared to what you’re wrestling with everyday in Eng’g.

But now, walking across the Academic Oval, far removed from Palma Hall, you can make out the imposing figure of the home of UP’s best minds -– your home. In paper it’s called Melchor Hall, but to you and many others it is simply…Eng’g.

12:24 PM

You storm out of the classroom, spewing out curse after curse. “Punyeta namang test ‘yan o,” you hiss.

A girl at your side sniggers. “Magmumura-mura ka ngayon, e sino bang may kasalanan kung bakit ka bumagsak?” She frees a piece of crumpled paper from your clenched hand and un-crumples it. A 27% encircled in bright, red ink stares out at you.

“Ayan, Eng’g Cup pa kasi inuuna,” she softly says. “Aral muna sa susunod, ha? Saka na yang basketball.”

You sigh as she hands back your creased test paper. “Opo, sige na po. Kung di lang kita bespren…”

“‘Yan naman gusto ko sa ‘yo eh…madali turuan. Uy, di pala kita masasamahang kumain ngayon. Pupunta pa ako ng tambayan. May ExteCom meeting e.” She presses your hand and flashes a smile. “Sorry…”

“Okay lang no,” you assure her. “Sige, kita na lang mamaya.”

With that your bestfriend leaves and disappears amongst the throng of people flocking towards the stairs. Hunger threatening to make you keel over and die, you hunt the hallways for a monay vendor. You find one, and for ten pesos your mutinous tummy is calmed down. You can imagine Ciara telling you, ‘Monay?! How cheap! Don’t dare go out with me again!’, but your wallet is a lean, worn-out thing and the sizzling tenderloin at the Eng’g Caf is something which you reserve for merry occasions, such as a 3.0 classcard in any ES subject. Besides, monay tastes fine. You don’t need beluga caviar to make your day.

It is in this time of munching your ‘cheap’ meal that you walk around Eng’g. Unlike in Palma Hall, the corridors here are decked with familiar faces, smiling, winking, and sticking out their tongues at you. Friends, coursemates, even people whom you’ve just been classmates with for one semester –- all of them, you consider to be family. They’re all around you, and their mere presence eases the pain of a flunked exam.

01:53 PM

You can see your classmate Marvin rushing towards you. He’s shouting: “Yahoo! Tara na tsong, basketball tayo!”

“Ano? Basketball?”

Marvin nods giddily while befuddlement sweeps over you. “Ha? May class pa tayo. Wag mong sabihing mag-ka-cut ka?” you say in a reproving voice.

“Timang ka talaga. Wala si Sir ngayon, naka-post sa dep’t na may sakit siya. O ano, sama ka na! Pang-practice na rin ‘to sa Eng’g Cup. Andun na sina DJ sa Molave.”

You shake your head and wonder why no week passes in Eng’g without any of your professors missing their classes. You’re about to take Marvin’s offer, seeing basketball as an ephemeral escape from acads, but suddenly the memory of your bestfriend’s gentle scolding jolts you back to reality.

“Naku tol, pasensya na. Punta akong library sa baba, medyo kailangang kong mag-aral…pramis ko kay Bea ‘yon e,” you grudgingly admit.

“Bea? Ikaw ha, di pa nga ‘kayo’, e ander de saya ka na,” Marvin jeers.

“Sira!” You punch him on the arm.

03:24 PM

Somehow you feel good that, for the first time this semester, you’ve managed to study in the Eng’g Lib for at least an hour. You proudly walk up the stairs and pass by your bestfriend’s tambayan, merely wanting to boast that you had kept your promise. But Bea has other things in mind, and she drags you into a three-hour ride with her org. At first you have misgivings, but trepidation soon gives way to delight as you find out how fun it is to be in an org. Laughter, jammings, gossips and new persons to include in your Eng’g ‘family’ –- you’re surprised at what you’ve been missing. You’re already in third year and have steered clear of organizations, all because you’re too lazy to undergo those hellish application processes. But now it seems your outlook is changing.

During a short lull in the tambayan, you whisper to Bea, “Huy, pwede pa bang mag-apply?” to which she gives you a quizzical look.

“Malamang oo! Teka, ano bang nakain mo’t gusto mo na ngayong magka-org?” she asks.

“Wala. Monay lang naman.”

06:30 PM

You stand beneath the waiting shed near Eng’g. Every UP-Philcoa jeepney you flag down is brimming with passengers. Bea and her orgmates are still in the tambayan; her dad’s going to pick her up late. Ciara of your HS-buddies had texted you a message: “dearie, go hir nman s haws ko, d2 n lhat ng guys…club-hoppng l8r”, and so you forced yourself to leave Melchor Hall.

But now, your eyes can’t stop darting from Eng’g to the approaching jeepneys. Something just doesn’t feel right.

Your thumb hovers over your cellphone’s keypad. “Erase message?” the display asks. You press “OK”. Ciara and her club-hopping escapade vanish into electronic nihility.

You walk back towards Eng’g. You walk back towards home.

The Association for Computing Machinery (ACM) is the world’s oldest and largest educational and scientific computing society, having over 80,000 members. Based in the USA, ACM International has 750 Student Chapters spread over 27 countries. The Philippines is home to only one chapter.

It is the UP ACM.

Now stronger than ever, the Association for Computing Machinery University of the Philippines Student Chapter (UP ACM) launches its website, which is uniquely Filipino and uniquely UP.

My friends, I tell you, I am very proud to be an officer of this organization. A peek into our website will show you why.