All four were fellows for poetry during the 42nd University of the Philippines National Writers Workshop in Baguio sponsored by the UP Institute of Creative Writing, held from the April 20 May 3. Accomplices were further named as follows: Allan J. Pastrana (alyas poet/pianist/papa primero), Salvador "Badong" Biglaen (alyas poet/porno-king), Kristian Cordero (alyas poet/porno-priest), Lee de Guzman (alyas poet/pornographer), Leo Rey Almero (alyas poet/pornography personified), Erwin "Wasi" Lareza (self-declared "makatang makatas"), Ronald Atilano (the Richard Merk of Contemporary Philippine Poetry), Patrick Bilog (the Romnick Sarmienta of Contemporary Philippine Fiction), Marites Pederio (the Valentina of Contemporary Philippine Fiction/suspected SARS victim), Alfonso "Fonsie" Dacanay (the Teletubby of Contemporary Philippine Drama), Eleanor Reposar (it’s EleAnor, not EleOnor), Riza Babaran (fictionist/champion of talabas), Ava Palmaria (fictionist/actress), Rebecca Khan (fictionist/boxer), U Eliserio (fictionist/punching bag/toilet prophet), and the master/mother-mind of the group, audacious 36-year old Janet Villa (attorney at work).
A healthy, diverse – if rather riotous – bunch of kids we were, a considerable number of whom came from the University of the Philippines, some from the University of Santo Tomas, Ateneo de Manila University, De La Salle University, the Mapua Institute of Technology, the University of San Carlos, Colegio de San Agustin in Bacolod, and – lo and behold – the Holy Rosary Minor Seminary.
Father-figure Virgilio Almario led the creative exodus well past salt and spray, parting ominous waves with the giddy fellows behind him. And more rockstar-prophets too, a constellation of luminaries: Bien Lumbera, Charlson Ong, Vim Nadera, Butch Dalisay, Fidel Rillo, Carla Pacis, Marne Kilates, Delfin Tolentino, Neil Garcia, Jing Hidalgo, Jimmy Abad, Marra Lanot, Chari Lucero, Jun Cruz Reyes, Rene Villanueva, Anton Juan, Domingo Landicho. Then the organizers who made sure we were all comfy and safe: Elyrah Salanga who is the daughter of god; Jay Fernando who resembles the trickster-god; Tony Serrano who is god(father, a la Al Pacino). Oh what a shameless catalogue of panelists I have done. Oh such names more numerous than ukay-ukay purchases in a sack!
There wasn’t much ukay-ukay for the fellows this time of year, what with fear of SARS, plus heat and all. (In addition, Bilog protested that clothes stalls in Cubao offered lower prices for better apparel. No one dared to argue with the master-japormer himself, of course – professor emeritus from the school of cool.) To make up for what little torrid trekking we did in the afternoons post-session, on Session we toured at night in search of the perfect pub or videoke turf, eventually found in the darkly lit den of SD Bar & Café where Pastrana in a contest one night won for his friends a plateful of sisig for his striking, though sudden, swing of singing. Not much complaining either from the other fellows who, days prior to the SD occurrence, were wowed and wooed by the wondrous Pastrana at a bar called Kwago, where Atilano et al drank and sang to their hearts’ content.
On to alcohol-related mishaps and accidents then, as when Eliserio got socked on the shoulder twice by crazy Khan’s fist of fire in a friendly, if flagrant S&M display of affection while the others were having swigs of tapuey with BenCab and crew fore and past a literary reading at Tam-Awan Village, where, over peanuts and kropeck, all were treated to a healthy dose of dancing, chanting, and jazzy performing courtesy of fellows in starlit stupor and frenzied fervor. And on: nightly nostalgia-tripping on the corridor and at the fire exit over rum Coke and gin as per De Guzman’s constant request, card games and whatnot, walk-out incidents care of Cordero, driving drunk past memory lane with talks of child stars and actresses, odd showbiz couplings as committed to memory by Almero and Palmaria, thence obligatory revelations of romance bordering on the absurd, some of which were possible, though mostly plain improbable.
Which is not to say that the workshop wasn’t a serious workshop at all. Golden nuggets of wisdom were of course exchanged, one gigantic one was given us by poet-magician and all-time favorite Jimmy Abad who declared, "The imagination is the strictest of consciences." Then eventually followed by something that went like: "When you make love, you are in the land of the dead, in the age of myths." Whoa. On to debates on the use of cliché, the objective correlative, existentialist ek-ek and feminist flimflam, post structuralist chinggerling, homemade analects by the founder of Eliserianism himself, the prime mover of Eliserian Theory, U Z. Eliserio, most beloved son-in-some-inexplicable-way of Janet Villa, celestial author of near-flawless tales.
Our stomachs were fed with food as good as the nourishment our hungry brains were able to absorb. UP Baguio’s Blue Skies canteen was way better than any other eatery in sight. And who could forget the visitors who adorned our celebration: the poet Butch Macansantos who could manage a Simon and Garfunkel song with a mug of beer in hand; the poet Dai, who could still manage to scare us with her long black hair in mimicry of the dreaded Sadako at night; the poet Silay who could manage to, um, do a lot of things like hang out with the fellows before sleeping and stuff, even make some of us feel what may be one of the oldest clichés in The Big Book of Fuzz. Oh, and there was zany poet Bebang of the million zany jokes too, among many others.
No doubt no one would forget the fellows’ horrendous presentations either during Fellows’ Night at Bistro Salud. All of us were divided into groups, the first of which delivered a series of thematic jokes just as ridiculous as the deliverers themselves. The second was a revelation, having done what seemed to be some sort of unintentionally avant-garde if not altogether postmodern form of ritual-dance featuring a gallant Cordero swish- and swirling about like an eel with Reposar singing her rendition of Till There Was You, which turned out to be just as strange. The third group proved to be more successful, however, what with a cleverly done spoof of all works taken up and discussed during the previous week. And lastly, the pioneers of prolonged self-deprecation themselves, group four, staged – or attempted to stage – an Eliserian play titled Aba, Komunista,! which every now and then would showcase the dashing Biglaen absurdly bursting into song.
Not to mention we also happily got our freebie share of books, el cheapo denizens of Baguio that we were. And with these books in our bags filled with jam and peanut brittle, packed knowledge and insight, we walked on in solemn sway towards Café Legarda, favorite spot for yearly workshop farewell dinners, where, of course, everything was fatefully bound to reach its fruitful end. Past graduation and serial speeches from organizers, shocking performances from the fellows themselves, Neil Garcia’s anticipated annual rendition of Vincent, and the traditional, much-awaited drunken variations of early, mid-, and late 60’s music by better-left-unnamed panelists, the cosmic rock of conclusion was weighed down on our already weak and weary shoulders. Strangely, the following day, going down this mountain of memory was every bit more difficult than climbing it towards the city.