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This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.

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Wednesday, September 27, 2023

entry arrow7:00 AM | Poetry Wednesday, No. 154.



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Sunday, September 24, 2023

entry arrow3:30 PM | Dear Anonymous Man Hiding in the Shadows



I bumped into you because I clicked on the YouTube link from the Twitter account of The Weekly Sillimanian, because the title of the video they were teasing intrigued me: “Tingog sa Kahilom: Silliman University During Martial Law.” [ Link ] I know all about voices in grim quiet—that is in essence life in the Philippines—and that was a great hook for a title. It promised to be a short documentary by Silliman campus journalists dealing with a fraught time in the university’s history—with an entire country in darkness as a backdrop—and which remains largely unwritten about and unexplored in local historiography.

I was wondering if the documentary would get the details right.

Things like Rev. Joel Tabada being the first Sillimanian arrested right after Martial Law was proclaimed on September 23, a Saturday. The very next day, because it was his turn to mount the pulpit at the Silliman Church, he delivered a sermon titled “Burn!”—which he based on Luke 24:32, a hopeful message about Christ’s disciples giving each other uplift after his crucifixion. It was a relatively harmless sermon—until the knock came that midnight, and seven fully armed soldiers were at his door to escort him to the PC barracks, with a short detour to his office at the church, where they questioned him about the possible subversive contents of his library. Finally, in the barracks, he was interrogated ceaselessly, and when he was finally placed in the general holding cell, he met many other Silliman students already in detention, who all expressed surprised, and delight, to see him—until a badly mauled man was suddenly thrust into their company. “[The man] was nursing [a] bloodied mouth,” Rev. Tabada wrote of that night. “Then a drunk guard outside shouted invectives against ‘activists’ who were responsible for the present troubles of the Martial Law. He came to the stockade and pointed his gun at us and to the cowering students, shouting: ‘Unsa, mosukol mo? Ha?!’ Then he cocked his gun, but he was prevailed by his companions to leave.” [ Source ]

Things like all media and all the schools all over the country being closed down—and only allowed to open much later, on October 14, at the government’s behest. Silliman University was closed down, which everyone thought was going to be temporary—until the administration found out that it was still being closed down, even when universities were now being permitted to open up. Silliman was one of four schools padlocked during Martial Law, the so-called “Infamous Four,” which included University of the Philippines units (including its Institute of Mass Communication), the Philippine College of Commerce, and the Philippine Science High School.

According to Dr. Crispin Maslog, “Silliman campus activism had caught the attention of Malacañang Palace no less. President Ferdinand Marcos himself scolded the university during a speech in Dumaguete, noting that members of the opposition, including Senator Jovito Salonga, Juan Liwag and Benigno Aquino Jr. were invited to speak on campus. He warned Silliman University: ‘Do not engage in partisan politics because you are supposed to be an academic institution. You may regret it.’ Did we ever regret it.” [ Source ]

It took Acting President Proceso Udarbe all that he could to summon diplomatic skills and beg Malacañan to reopen Silliman. Finally, it was allowed to reopen, contingent on several demands: among them, the resignation of the entire faculty, and the fencing of the campus.

[The fencing of the campus was significant. An American school by design, Silliman was known for having an open campus without any fences—with only gumamela bushes to mark some of its boundaries. For it to be reopened during Martial Law, the bushes were uprooted and in their stead were placed chicken wire fences. It was to restrict the traffic in and out of campus, with official sentries posted in the new gates to monitor everyone’s coming in and going out of the school. There were dissents from the community, but what could it do? It was deemed a necessary compromise. I still remember those chicken wire fences growing up in Dumaguete in the 1980s. I never thought of them as markers of the Martial Law—and when they gave way to the sturdy concrete and wire fences we have now, they closed up the university for good, making it an insular place sometimes removed from the goings-on of Dumaguete life. The fences truly are a dark psychological mark on the Silliman spirit, a remnant of the visible signs of oppression from those murky times.]

Things like the curfew, and not being allowed to meet in groups of five or six or more—with the students somehow finding a way to circumvent all that by doing instant slumber parties in whatever homes they found themselves in for the night when curfew rang; and by gathering at the basement of the Silliman Church, called the Catacombs, where they were able to gather in larger groups in the name of culture-making: hence, the many artists borne of those Catacombs years that thrived in singing, acting, writing, painting, and the like.

Elsewhere in Negros, terror reigned in the next ten years—often underreported or unreported, and often denied—and the tentacles of that climate of fear touched all the levels of society in various ways: the ordinary workers were oppressed and had no voice, and many of them left to die in regular purges by the military who considered their fight to have decent lives “subversive” and “communist”; and the rich who were badly affected abandoned their lands, and those with means migrated to greener shores.

You were the first figure I saw on the video. You were right smack on center screen, the shadows of the room you were in obscuring your face, with the only illumination coming from the lights fleeting in from the blinds behind you. Your voice was distorted. You clearly wanted to hide in the shadows of anonymity.

And, at first, I thought: Are you the literal “tingog sa kahilom” promised by the title? Why is this documentary privileging you by making you its introduction? That bothered me.

When you finally spoke, you made the following points:

First, you said that the Martial Law was “necessary because of the separatist movement in Mindanao,” and that “President Marcos did this for us to remain one and united here in the Philippines.” Second, you said that if it were not for the declaration of Martial Law, “we might be a communist country now, and Joma would be our president.” Third, you said that the Martial Law “was very peaceful,” like what your grandparents told you. Fourth, you said that there was a “significant increase in our economy” during the Martial Law. Fifth, you said that it was a golden period because “different infrastructures [were] built during the Martial Law." Sixth, you said that it was all “very good,” that it was “constitutional,” that it was “for the people,” and “for the country.” And lastly, you made some awkward accommodations, saying that “somewhat some abuses done during the Martial Law, [and] we can never deny that.”

And I found myself sighing, because these were overly generalized positive assertions about the Martial Law I have heard before, which have long since been answered and rebutted by fifty decades of investigation and scholarship. They are lies. But why do these lies resurface again and again? Because that’s the nature of the lie: relentless regurgitation somehow give them a sheen of “truthiness.” It was the Nazi propagandist Joseph Goebbels who first stumbled on that unfortunate effect: “Repeat a lie often enough and it becomes the truth,” he once said. [ Source ]

There is a reason why in the past decade or so, the machinery behind the Marcos renaissance has deployed a battle of narratives especially through social media—designed to obfuscate truth and render as dubious all the journalism that have been done to document two decades of corruption and abuses.

I see your eight points, and I cannot help but feel these are items regurgitated in recent years in a widespread effort to perfume the reputation of the Marcoses, in an effort to rewrite the past, and in an attempt [now proven successful] to reinstate the family in power. They are easily debunked, of course. Hundreds and hundreds of books have been written by our foremost scholars, historians, economists, political leaders, and creative writers that have painted an era that is far from the golden one you espouse. [I can provide you with a substantial list, if you care to read and learn. I compiled a quick bibliography of all these things in 2016 when Duterte said “there are no books about the Martial Law.”]

Points 1 and 2: Marcos did use the “communist threat” posed by the newly founded Communist Party of the Philippines and the “sectarian rebellion” of the Muslim Independence Movement as one of his primary reasons to declare Martial Law—but opposition figures of that time, including eminent statesmen like Jovito Salonga, Lorenzo Tañada, and Jose W. Diokno accused the president of exaggerating these threats, and utilizing them as “a convenient excuse to consolidate power and extend his tenure beyond the two presidential terms allowed by the 1935 constitution”—the real reason for the declaration. [ Source ] In fact, before the 1972 declaration of Martial Law, CPP-NPA-NDF membership was around a measly 60. It ballooned to 25,000 near the end of Martial Law. So statistics and history would point out that the Martial Law actually exacerbated the communist insurgency instead of quelling it. [ Source ]

Point 3: Was the Martial Law period “peaceful”? Marcos liked to dub his martial regime as a kind of dictatorship with a heart. And people now parroting this line usually do refer back to their grandparents when they say that period was “peaceful.” Was it? I guess it was, the way we understand cemeteries to be a bastion of peace and quiet. In an era governed by fear, wouldn’t you be cowed to into silence? And wouldn’t people who did not immediately bear the brunt of the abuses often mistake that silence into peace? There has been debates that “peace and orderliness” of those times was a privilege only enjoyed by those with advantage—but many were not so lucky. In fact, many of those who did run afoul of the regime were suddenly using their connections and privileges to get themselves out of trouble: “Everybody is a cousin of a friend of a public official to exempt themselves [from] the law or gain favors. Kapag may gulo, palakasan ng kakilala sa gobyerno,” one Jacob Alc surmised. [ Source ]

Historian and University of the Philippines Third World Studies Director Ricardo Jose also recalls: “It seemed peaceful for the first few years, maybe the first four or five years, because there was censorship going on, because people were willing to give it a chance actually, because it was so different from the pre-Martial Law days where you had all the rallies going on.” But the regime’s true colors were ultimately revealed, and those who bore the brunt of the quelling of opposition would not consider what happened to them as “peaceful and orderly” at all. [Source]

Point 4: The early years of the Marcos regime saw respectable economic growth, with the GDP growing at an average of almost 6% per year from 1972 to 1980. But studies have shown that the ways of strongman rule actually help the economy [see China today], especially in the initial sprinting stage, because dictatorships often streamline the economic process because of a hostaged bureaucracy—although this remains a controversial position. [ Source

But what we need to know is that in the latter years of the Marcos regime, the family’s systemic plundering of the economy [of which there are thousands of evidences, each one more glaring and flabbergasting than the last], alongside that of the greed of their cronies, eventually weakened the economy country. People forget that the dire effects of corruption are not immediate, but is felt in the cumulative. By the early 1980s, the country plunged into its worst postwar economic downturn, with the GDP shrinking by 7.3% for two consecutive years, 1984 and 1985. And this downturn was so large that it took the country more than two decades to recover to the level of GDP per person in 1982. In other words, the glamorous parties that were being thrown in the early days to signal a flimsy success finally gave way for the stark reality to bite everyone’s ass when corruption and systemic economic instability could no longer be denied. [Source]

Point 5: As for the increase in “infrastructure,” many books and articles have been written about the Marcosian edifice complex, which had a hefty price. Economist Emmanuel de Dios wrote in 1984 that the bulk of the construction projects made during the Martial Law “were not very productive and many were outrightly wasteful,” and that while some have cultural value, other projects consisted of “overdesigned bridges, highways, public buildings or large energy projects designed to secure a political constituency, to get a commission, or to corner a contract.” And which required the country to borrow money, which according to expert estimates, will take the country up to 2025 to fully pay the debt incurred during the Martial Law. [Source]

Point 6: Was it all really good, was it for the people, was it for the country? Or was it about a family wanting to extend its powers beyond the limits given to them by the constitution of the country, and amass untold wealth in the process—which has resibo, which has been proven in various court, which has been historically affirmed as true. It was not good at all for the country. [Sources: There are too many, but here’s one that gives a good summary]

And finally, that dismissive acknowledgment of the abuses, dear sir, makes me wonder what kind of morality you have. As if the souls of all those who died, and the troubled memories of all those who suffered but lived to become witnesses, are mere “footnotes” in your insistence of Marcosian glory. The dismissal reminds me of another bloody dictator, Joseph Stalin, who once said: “A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths are a statistic.”

But here are some statistics, anyway, which I’m sure you will dismiss. The Human Rights Victims’ Claims Board currently recognizes 11,103 victims of the Marcos regime. Out of over 75,000 claimants of martial law victims, 11,103 were processed by the board as eligible persons for financial assistance. [Source]

The numbers for each approved claim are as follows:

Killing and enforced disappearances: 2,326
Torture (rape and forcible abduction): 238
Torture (mutilation, sexual abuse, involving children and minors): 217
Torture (psychological, emotional, and mental harm): 1,467
Cruel, inhumane, and degrading treatment: 182
Detained (more than 6 months): 699
Detention (15 days to 6 months): 1,417
Involuntary exile (violence and illegal takeover of business): 579
Involuntary exile (intimidation and physical injuries): 2,739

Last September 21, to commemorate the 51st anniversary of the declaration of Martial Law, we honored those 11,103.

I helped DAKILA Dumaguete screen the documentary 11,103, directed by Mike Alcazaren and Jeannette Ifurong, for the Dumaguete community, and we showed the film at the Luce Auditorium. The filmmakers included my family’s story in a separate but powerful segment they’ve titled “Negros Martial Law Stories,” which included the stories of Joel Abong [the boy who died from malnourishment, and became the grim poster boy for the Martial Law shenanigans regarding Negros sugar], the Negros 9, and the Escalanate Massacre. The film itself unspools with the stories and faces of various victims of Martial Law, just a few of the 11,103 or even more that suffered tremendously during those times. They told us stories of torture and hardships and persecutions and massacres by the military. Who knew about the massacres in Mindanao? In Mindoro? In Samar?

I think of these people in the film—and how they readily gave their unwavering witness with their voices undistorted and their faces clearly seen. While you, dear anonymous man in the shadows, prefer to hide your face in shadows and your voice distorted. Which is telling. If you think you have the handle on the “truth,” why hide?

Truth to tell, I’m still overwhelmed by the response to the screening of the 11,103 documentary at the Luce. That Mike and Jeannette were able to beautifully tell the story of my family and the loss of our land during Martial Law is something priceless, and my family is indebted to them for telling our story in a very sensitive way. The Negros Stories portion was all of a piece, and all four stories really managed to paint our island as one of the worst hit in terms of abuse. All the other stories were also compelling, and made me teary-eyed. Who knew?

I’ve written so much already about this subject, so I’m just going to make the remainder of this article about thanksgiving and acknowledgments. A huge thank you, of course, to the filmmakers, and to producers Kara Magsanoc Alikpala and Zonia Bandoy for persevering! Thank you to all friends and students who carved out a portion of their work/school day to commemorate September 21 with this film! [I know it wasn’t easy, and I know that many of them were also denied the chance to see the film because of the authorities immediately above them. Binawalan!] Thank you to Dakila Dumaguete for organizing this, and for making sure everything ran smoothly. And thank you to Diomar Abrio for the graciousness of helping us screen this film at Silliman.

The talkback portion of the program essentially consisted of people wanting to tell their own Martial Law story, and students responding emotionally to the stories on screen—which was all very moving. Mike said something in the end about the film urging all of us to “start small” in our own projects of remembrance, and to “find our own stories” about what happened in our country decades ago, which still divides us all until today.

“Ask your family for their Martial Law stories, like what Ian did,” he said. That is important, I think, because right now, what we face is really a battle of narratives—but the truth of history is in our side. Merong resibo.

But it’s important to find and tell the stories.

Because the stories are what will reach people. People like you, dear anonymous man in the shadows, do not care anymore about facts and statistics—all readily available for you to study, but will probably ignore. But you might care for stories, and you might be moved by them.

Many of the subjects on the film [as well as some of the people who gave their stories during the Q and A] were united by one thing: their Martial Law story was something they never talked about for years and years, until now. [In the documentary, a son tearfully confronted his father on camera: “Why did you never tell us that they put a sack over your head when the military picked you up?” His father's response: “I didn’t say anything because it was too painful to tell.”] And in our audience that day, Atty. Whelma Flores Siton-Yap felt compelled to tell the story of her father [which I won’t repeat here because it is her story to tell]. She said in a rejoinder: “I’ve never told anyone this story before, until now.”

It was the same with my family: kay “family writer” man ko and I was a baby when all these happened, I asked endless questions about the painful chapters of my family’s past to overly reticent members of it, and I dug deeper, and out of that came the viral essay, “Raping Sugarland.” When the documentary crew came over two years ago to film us, I was even surprised to find that my brother Dennis, normally a very quiet and non-political dude, had a lot of things to say about my family’s experience. I saw that as him grabbing the chance to talk about dark things in his past he had long since suppressed.

But there are so many Martial Law stories left untold, and that generation of witnesses are becoming old and dying. For that alone, I’m glad I said yes to taking part of this documentary project.

This is for history, this is for remembrance.

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Friday, September 22, 2023

entry arrow10:41 AM | Rebelasyon



I’m still overwhelmed by the response to this afternoon’s screening of the 11,103 documentary at the Luce. That Mike Alcazaren and Jeannette Ifurung were able to beautifully tell the story of my family and the loss of our land during Martial Law is something priceless, and my family is indebted to them for telling our story in a very sensitive way. The Negros Martial Law Stories portion was all of a piece, and all four stories [which included my family’s story, and that of Joel Abong, the Negros 9, and the Escalante Massacre] really managed to paint our island as one of the worst hit in terms of abuse. All the other stories were also compelling, and made me teary-eyed. Who knew about the massacres in Mindoro, in Samar, in Mindanao?

I’ve written so much already about this subject, so I’m just going to make this post about thanksgiving and acknowledgments. Thank you to the filmmakers, Mike and Jeanette, and producers Kara Magsanoc Alikpala and Zonia Bandoy, for persevering! Thank you to all friends and students who carved out a portion of their work/school day to commemorate this day with this film! [I know it wasn’t easy, and I know that many of you were also denied the chance to see the film because of the authorities immediately above you. Binawalan!] And thank you to Dakila Dumaguete for organizing this, and for making sure everything ran smoothly. And thank you to Diomar Abrio for the graciousness of helping us screen this film at Silliman.

The talkback portion of the program essentially consisted of people wanting to tell their own Martial Law story, and students responding emotionally to the stories on screen — which was all very moving. Mike said something in the end about the film urging all of us to “start small” in our own projects of remembrance, and to “find our own stories” about what happened in our country decades ago, which still divides us all until today. “Ask your family for their Martial Law stories, like what Ian did,” he said. That is important, I think, because right now, what we face is really a battle of narratives — but the truth of history is in our side. Merong resibo

But it’s important to find and tell the stories. 

Many of the subjects on the film [as well as some of the people who gave their stories during the Q&A] were united by one thing: their Martial Law story was something they never talked about for years and years, until now. [One son even tearfully confronted his father on camera: “Why did you never tell us that they put a sack over your head when the military picked you up?” His father’s response: “I didn’t say anything because it was too painful to tell.”]

In our audience today, Atty. Whelma Flores Siton-Yap felt compelled to tell the story of her father [which I won’t repeat here because it is her story to tell]. She said in a rejoinder: “I’ve never told anyone this story before, until now.”

It was the same with my family: kay “family writer” man ko and I was a baby when all these happened, I asked endless questions about the painful chapters of my family’s past to overly reticent members of it, and I dug deeper, and out of that came the essay, “Raping Sugarland,” which went viral When the documentary crew came over two years ago to film us, I was even surprised to find that my brother Dennis, normally a very quiet and non-political dude, had a lot of things to say about my family’s experience. I saw that as him grabbing the chance to talk about dark things in his past he had long since suppressed.

But there are so many Martial Law stories left untold, and that generation of witnesses are becoming old and dying. For that alone, I’m glad I said yes to taking part of this initiative. This is for history, this is for remembrance.

[Photo by Joan May T. Cordova]

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Wednesday, September 20, 2023

entry arrow7:00 AM | Poetry Wednesday, No. 153.



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Monday, September 18, 2023

entry arrow3:14 PM | A Note on Mental Health

The good thing about getting properly diagnosed for one’s neuro-atypicality is that it explains a lot of things about you and why things happen in your brain — and you’re not left alone to flail about thinking you’re just crazy or lazy, and you’re unique and everything’s your fault. Like, why am I triggered to anxiety with emails and phone calls? Why the debilitating panic attacks? What's the deal with suicide ideation? Why do I give long background answers to simple questions? Why do I tend to disappear when the going gets tough, when all I can do is open up about my difficulties and misgivings? For the longest time, I thought it was just me. And then when I got diagnosed with Adult ADHD, I found out many of my frailties actually spring from that disorder. And because I now know they are symptoms, and not character traits, I can actually find ways to work around these mental tendencies and still function superbly. [For example, I have someone I trust answer most of my messages for me, especially requests. The buffer helps disperse the feeling of being overloaded.] But it takes effort to arrive at that juncture of one’s mental health journey: going for help and finding the best psychiatrist suited for you is already a difficult but significant first step. [People with ADHD find it hard to seek help.] Navigating one’s relationship with meds and therapy is another. But I’ve learned to process things more now because I know why my brain acts in a certain way, and knowing is what matters most. So go and find help if you feel you need it! Let’s break the taboo about talking about our mental health.

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Thursday, September 14, 2023

entry arrow10:22 PM | Everything Taken Together Has the Weight of Heaven



My story is now online! [Click here.] What do you do when you regret the things you have given up in the name of love? [But not exactly how you think this will go.]

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Wednesday, September 13, 2023

entry arrow7:00 AM | Poetry Wednesday, No. 152



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Tuesday, September 12, 2023

entry arrow10:07 PM | Be Gone, People-Pleasing Ian

When I went back to teaching, I made myself a promise to change one personality trait that has been my own demon since forever: because I am a people pleaser, I never divulge to anyone my own debilitating circumstances whenever they request me to do something. I just act okay, and I say yes! I may be under a rubble, but if somebody asks me to give a lecture [often unpaid], I'll say yes. I may be bleeding, but if somebody asks me to design something [often unpaid], I'll say yes. Once I slipped and broke my ankle so bad, but I still went hobbling to a lecture I was hosting, and nobody knew, and I only found out how badly fractured my ankle was when I forced myself to go to the ER after the lecture was over. Another time, I had a raging fever, but I was curating a photo exhibit, so I got up from bed Monday, finished preparing the exhibit and its materials by Wednesday, and readied the opening by Friday. Nobody knew I was sick. These are the good instances, because they were successful despite my frailties and accidents. But if I get overwhelmed, my ADHD [only recently diagnosed] refuses to ask for help, so I usually just ... disappear. I once laid out a literary journal that I worked my ass off on [and it was beautifully designed too!], only to find out that the materials the editors gave me were not edited. Then they presented me with a copyedited proof that was FILLED to the brim with red-inked edits and post-it notes. My heart sank. I did not complain, I did not ask for help; I ... disappeared. I was also laying out another journal, where I was technical editor, and I was given materials for a very difficult-to-edit issue where the editors were noting things on the margins like, "Complete this," or "More explanation, please" or "Format to APA" — to me, the layout artist, not the editor. In other words, I was being asked to render work that was not my work. [Although, to be honest, I could still do it.] I did not complain, I did not ask for help; I ... disappeared. But not anymore. I'm tired of that Ian who does not feel the need to express difficulty. Now, I WILL START complaining, I WILL START asking for help, and I WILL START telling people what inconveniences me at the moment, and I cannot condone too much people-pleasing anymore. Because I am actually very good at my work [writing, designing, conceptualizing, etc.], but please give me the best possible time and circumstances to work in. Thank God for therapy for these realizations.

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Wednesday, September 06, 2023

entry arrow7:00 AM | Poetry Wednesday, No. 151.



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Friday, September 01, 2023

entry arrow8:28 PM | Escape to the Hills



I had no plans to read this book today. But I was coming off from my first day of renewed research for the literary history of Negros Oriental that I'm currently writing/finishing, and while I was searching for other things, I stumbled on an online copy of James and Ethel Chapman's wartime memoir Escape to the Hills (1947). [The Chapmans were missionary teachers at Silliman.] I scanned the first pages just because — but soon found myself riveted by its very engaging writing. I found myself reading it. It is so good, so thrilling. I loved having a fantastic mental picture of Dumaguete right before World War II broke out in the Pacific in December 1941. I loved the details of the inhabitants preparing for the war to come, rationing food and preparing shelter in the mountains. [Abby Jacobs was a super woman! Asteeeeg! University President Arthur Carson's order was for all the women and children to immediately evacuate Dumaguete when Pearl Harbor was bombed by the Japanese, but she stayed behind in campus with the men, and went about the task of publishing The Daily Sillimanian, to print factual information about the war for the Dumaguete community, in order to combat the hysterical fake news they were already being bombarded by. She stayed on that job right until the very end, when she was forced to surrender it. Together with her family, she was eventually ferreted out of Negros via submarine, but stayed in Australia and found work with the military. She was with the liberation force that entered Manila in April 1945.] I loved that even with the war going on, James Chapman was still the fervent biologist that he was, going about their evacuation places still collecting plants and animals for study. [The section on ants is endearing! And the section on food was strangely delicious, and enlightening!] I loved that despite all the dangers, they still found time to set-up a "Jungle University," catering to the education needs of their neighbours in the mountains of Negros. I am truly amazed by the bravery and the resourcefulness of our early Silliman teachers. I have yet to go to the section that details their eventual interment at the University of Sto. Tomas in Manila [yes, they were eventually captured by the Japanese], but already I'm loving this book! Sillilman University should be reprinting this valuable memoir. It's sad that we only know them now as buildings: Ethel Chapman is a building for nursing students, James Chapman is a science building, and Abby Jacobs is a residence hall.

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Wednesday, August 30, 2023

entry arrow8:21 PM | Lito Aro



Cornelito “Lito” Aro is one of Dumaguete's best homegrown visual artists, and I wish his work gets more attention. I first met him when he was a resident painter at Antulang. He was painting a seascape, and I was so enthralled with it and must have been so effusive in my enthusiasm, that he picked up the painting from his easel and gave it to me. [This was a long time ago, and I could not afford to buy any artwork at all!] This one is titled “Magbibingka,” and it currently hangs at Residencia Orlina. Somebody should give him a solo exhibition soon!

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entry arrow7:00 AM | Poetry Wednesday, No. 150.



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Monday, August 28, 2023

entry arrow11:00 PM | 30

And with that, high school reunion season comes to a close. We had our farewell dinner at The Vineyard, and capped a reunion that included three wildly different dinners [last night at Hayahay was apparently dedicated to old-time debauchery], a community outreach program, and a parade. I missed our 25th year reunion, but resolved to join our 30th because it was such a milestone. It turned out to be pretty much an emotional one for everyone as well, and I’ve noticed that everyone was so ready to be vulnerable, to tell everyone we love them and miss them, to express gratefulness, to give endless hugs. Tonight, near the end of the dinner, the host made us do an impromptu communal singing of “That’s What Friends Are For,” and after initially giggling because it was so corny, everyone nevertheless gravitated towards forming a large circle, and — holding hands and swaying to the melody — we sang the song out loud with what I sincerely believe to be heartfelt gusto. When will I ever see these people again? Who knows? That’s the beauty of life’s flows and impermanence: they make nights like this meaningful and beautiful.

Happy 122nd Founders Day, Silliman University!














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Sunday, August 27, 2023

entry arrow9:00 AM | What is the Silliman Spirit?

A good friend of mine who’s been based in Dumaguete for years but has never studied at Silliman University playfully wondered out aloud during a meeting: “What is the Silliman Spirit?”

Frankly, I don’t know. No one does. It beggars definition, but—it’s a feeling? A kind of zealous but quiet loyalty? It’s definitely a strong bond that exists between Sillimanians even if they are separated by generations. It’s “school spirit,” yes—but that terms also barely covers what it means. And it has nothing to do with camaraderie over sports teams either, like many other schools do.

It’s a whole collective nostalgia for school life defined by similar milestones and landscapes, which can go pretty wild sometimes. It’s singing the “Silliman Song” in a crowd and feeling immediately emotional because of the resonance of everyone singing out with gusto. It’s loving the cafeteria cheese bread, and fried chicken, and pork chop, and fruit mix—and beelining to partake of these the moment you get back to Dumaguete after a long absence. It’s Silliman Beach memories, and fresh milk from the Silliman Farm, and teasing girls at Edith Carson Hall. It’s getting the so-called “Hibalag fling.” It’s the ghosts of Katipunan Hall, and the shade of the acacia trees. It’s the swelter of shows at the Luce—where, years after graduation, you realize you were spoiled for culture and took it for granted while you were a student. It’s going to other places in the world and then you bump into a resident who finds out you’re both Sillimanians—and they drop everything to be the perfect host, even if you barely know each other. It’s looking out for and taking care of each other because of a shared matricular identity. It’s feeling like a native Dumagueteño, even if you’re not from Dumaguete and you haven’t been to Dumaguete in years—but you always long to “come home.” It’s the feeling of having a home. It’s the trek hundreds take from all over the country and the world, every August every year, just to celebrate Founders Day, which is actually not a day—it’s a whole month of activities and parties and reunions, all coming to a heightened frenzy in the last two weeks of the month. [And nobody really holds classes, although officially classes are still on.]

Founders Day is weird because it is a weeks-long fiesta that probably has no other equivalent in the world: it is a compendium of events that run the gamut of a beauty pageant, various scholarly talk and symposia, a booth festival that hosts pop-up restos, concerts, etc., a horror chamber [yes], a cheering competition, a sunrise service, a sports invitational, an all-city parade, a host of cultural shows, a barrage of high school reunions [with their own schedule of events], an awards ceremony celebrating accomplished alumni, and a community dance. And lots and lots of food.

And the whole thing radiates to the entire community! All hotels in Dumaguete are full in August. All restaurants feel the impact of the influx.

As a collective of events, Founders Day can be exhausting, and no one really manages to take them all. I think Founders Day can be a strange thing to behold to an outsider, but it’s so ingrained in the Sillimanian identity, it’s impossible to divorce August from our sense of self. I mean, take a look at one Founders Day tradition [see photo]: this is the “Pamahaw Sillimaniana,” where students and alumni regularly trek to Silliman Hall to partake of free breakfast for an entire week, just to mingle, and just to soak in that indefinable Silliman Spirit. Who else does that? Free breakfasts for everyone for an entire week?

I doubt I have managed to make a definition of the Silliman Spirit here. But it’s a lot like catching sunlight: you can’t, but you feel its warmth on your face, and you know it’s there.

See you at 6:30 AM for breakfast tomorrow!




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Friday, August 25, 2023

entry arrow11:00 PM | How to Survive a High School Reunion





First, before you go to the reunion—especially if it’s for your thirtieth year—take time to scan your old yearbook. Take a look at the faces of former classmates, and most of all, take a look at the names. Study them. Because you’re past your mid-forties now, and memory has lately been playing tricks on you. You will not remember everyone’s names, and the faces have definitely changed. Consider the yearbook quick-scan a preparation for the barrage of faces greeting you.

“Do you remember me?” a beautiful, familiar-looking woman greeted me when I entered Brooke’s Place, which was hosting my high school reunion welcome party.

“Of course I do,” I said. Because I really did.

“Then what’s my name?”

Ladies and gentlemen, I forgot Lovely Villaflores’ name—although we were pretty chummy in high school. [In my defense, I have the memory of a gold fish: names of people I haven’t seen in six months I cannot at all recall, and not because I’m a terrible person. It’s just the way my brain is.]

Second, don’t be conscious about having gained weight. Strut your stuff, and project the utmost of looking good—because everyone has gained weight anyway, but they are all still looking lovely. The good thing is, no one in a reunion really does the Filipino hello of “Nanambok lagi ka.” Which is a surprising thing. At the reunion, only one person ever commented on my weight by patting my belly—and I replied by squeezing his equally generous belly back.

Third, don’t be afraid to load up at the open bar. Cocktails loosen your nerves and make you sociable. It helps cut down on the uncertainty of having to bridge social relationships with people you haven’t seen in ages—and often the only thing you have in common is a shared school both of you graduated from together. But the alcohol makes you giddy; the alcohol makes you love everyone, and your hugs become generous; the alcohol loosens the memories of all the shenanigans you used to do together when you were young and largely an agent of chaos in the world.

Fourth, soak up on class lore before you get to the reunion—and that way, you will win all the prizes for the trivia questions that are bound to be part of the program. What was the name of the school secretary? Who stole the cassette tape of one group before an inter-class dance competition? How did you terrorize that poor substitute teacher? Alas, none of these became trivia questions, but this one did:

What is the title of your graduation song?

No one remembered the title of our graduation song. Daunted by everyone’s amnesia, the host who was grilling us with all the questions, gave us clues:

“It’s composed of two words.”

“‘I Believe‘?” we replied.

“No. The first word is ‘My.’”

“‘My Way‘?”

“Dear God, who would use ‘My Way‘ as a graduation song? ‘And now, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain…’ Whaaat? The second word has two syllables!”

We had no idea.

It turned out, it was something called My Tribute. And everyone was like, “Huh?”

You will not remember your graduation song thirty years later.

Fifth, take it all easy. It’s your thirtieth year after high school graduation, and you are surrounded by old friends who know your secrets and who knew you when you were a sweaty little brat prone to mischief. That recall of your old selves is such a divine social leveler. In a high school reunion, no one “cares” [and I mean this in a positive sense] if you’re an award-winning writer or a very rich businessman or a mayor or a successful scientist or an important banker or a respected physician—you’re still that kid from high school everyone teases. And it is such a delight to find out that the Class Goat who made class history for flunking classes left and right is now a food maven in Vegas. Talk about having an arc! So be free on reunion night. Take all the grace in and enjoy yourself. Dance. Dance like no one’s watching. Dance the lambada, like you used to do in your JS Prom. Sway to Roxette’s “It Must Have Been Love.” Do the country line dance to Billie Ray Cyrus’ “Achy Breaky Heart.” Sing your heart out to Madonna.

And lastly, be grateful. Be grateful to the organizers who have done a great job at an often thankless task of gathering old classmates for a reunion. Be grateful that you’re still around after all these years, and that you have all these people around you who are still your friends by the default of youth and memory and shared camaraderie.

You think of old classmates that have gone—the late Jacqueline Piñero-Torres, our valedictorian, most of all—and you realize you being in this reunion is a tribute to her and the others. You are saying, “You are missed.” You are saying, “I’m here to celebrate you.” You are saying, “Thank you for all the memories.”





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Wednesday, August 23, 2023

entry arrow4:39 PM | Remembering Handulantaw, 10 Years Later



Ten years ago, we published this mammoth work of cultural history — a comprehensive book dedicated to mapping out and writing the entire artistic history of Silliman University from 1901 to 2013, in time for the 50th anniversary of what was then the Silliman University Cultural Affairs Committee [now the Silliman University Culture and Arts Council].

It had never been done before. I was editor and main instigator, and Diomar Abrio was my managing editor [and stress buffer], and we were helped by so many people who contributed articles, who made the art, who did the photography, who helped design the book, and who made the backbreaking work of research. Research was particularly hard because Silliman is actually notorious for being lax about archiving cultural work, and part of the work was being horrified by the discovery that we lost so much to termites, to fire, to World War II, and to plain neglect. [We documented an Amorsolo painting, for example, that was found neglected in the Buildings and Grounds Department. Albert Faurot's library was lost to termites. Et cetera.] Choosing fifty cultural movers that shaped Silliman culture was also a test of will and politics, and involved a lot of compromise. Creating a timeline of art-making in campus [literature, visual arts, dance, theatre, music, architecture, cinema and photography] was next to impossible — until we found out that Rodolfo Juan had been collecting programs and various memorabilia from all campus events since forever. Writing a definitive history of all the fine arts in Silliman was also hard, given constraints in space. We left out so much material actually, I swear I can devote 100 more pages to include them.

I'm proud of this work, even though this project almost killed me. [It made me fat actually, because food was my only recourse and pleasure after so much stress making this. I was thin and lean when I started this. The weight I have now can be traced back to this project!]

I really had no idea what I was diving into when I pushed for this project all those years ago. Sometimes being naive helps, because you are fearless. We also got a fantastic grant of P1.5 million from Tao Foundation, and that compelled us to finish the project once and for all. But it's done. This has been my enduring contribution to Silliman [and Dumaguete] culture, the text with which people will consult to understand the evolution of local arts.

Thank you to everyone [Julio Sy Jr., Moses Joshua B. Atega, Jacqueline Veloso Antonio, Annabelle Adriano, Leo Mamicpic, Elizabeth Susan Vista-Suarez, Warlito Caturay Jr., Isabel Dimaya-Vista, Ben S. Malayang III, Sherro Lee Arellano, Greg Morales, Yvette Malahay-Kim, Jeric Fernandez, Ian KS Malayang, Ron Calumpang, Sonia B. SyGaco, Myrish Cadapan Antonio, Dessa Quesada-Palm, Earl Jude Cleope, and all the writers, artists, photographers, researchers, and historical consultants] who made this possible.

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entry arrow7:00 AM | Poetry Wednesday, No. 149.



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Saturday, August 19, 2023

entry arrow7:47 PM | Birthday Returns



After the ravages of the pandemic, I’ve now found myself back to teaching. It was a very long hiatus from that part of my life which had always defined me. When I took the leave without pay, it was essentially to take care of my spiraling mental health, but it was also to find my footing in a world that suddenly felt alien. And now that I have come to the end of that long tunnel, here are some thoughts and some confessions.

There was a huge part of me that felt the leave was going to be permanent. When 2020 came around and we were on the precipice of the coming pandemic, about to jump into the abyss, I was already feeling burned out—although I must admit I was trying my best to ignore the symptoms.

In 2010, I had come back from the United States after a fruitful fellowship at the International Writing Program with so much vigor and many ideas, and then in 2012, I finally earned the MA I had been postponing for about a decade, and then I was appointed founding coordinator of the Edilberto and Edith Tiempo Creative Center, with the creative writing program now fully back on as an academic offering—after decades of it being a neglected part of departmental concerns. Everything was full of promise. The work was fulfilling.

It was a joy to teach creative writing. Even the fact that I was the only creative writing teacher on the roster—although with an esteemed and retired faculty filling in as adjunct professor for poetry—did not bother me at first. [I was told there was a freeze in hiring given the uncertainties of K12.] I did not mind for the most part, because I genuinely loved teaching. I loved having the opportunity to mold writers at the beginning of their creative prowess. I loved that the efforts of those years produced so many books by my students, with two of them winning the Palanca for plays workshopped in my classes. [For my teaching purposes, I considered the Palanca and similar platforms, like the Virgin Labfest, my equivalent of a board exam—which is just the kind of professional marker denied graduates of creative fields.]

But the toll of all that eventually got to me. Workshops are not easy classes to teach; they require blood and sweat from both student and teacher, and immense amounts of concentrated time—and part of that difficulty was my fault: I was a demanding teacher, meticulous to a fault, and I also allowed the work to swallow me, sometimes giving up my own free time just to be able to workshop all the stories and plays submitted for consideration, with all the attendant revisions that come with them. I was also ignoring the fact that in that immersion, I was letting go of my own practice of writing—and then, like a cancer metastasizing, I secretly began to begrudge all the time taken away from my own pursuit of crafting fiction. I would find myself feeling defeated when a work that had been previously workshopped did not bear any effort at revision, and I’d think: “We spent all those hours talking about this work so that it can be improved—and yet nothing? What a waste of time!” Still, I worked myself to the bones. I did not take any sabbatical in a decade, nor did it occur to me I should. I was constantly told to pursue my Ph.D., but every year I was also given heavier loads to teach—and with the creative writing program still in the process of being fully formed, I felt the need to stay. During one schoolyear, enrollees to the creative writing program actually topped all the other programs being offered by the department—and I felt a sense of pride in that. But unbeknownst to me I was also slowly cracking.

The pandemic, with all its Zoom classes, broke me. In 2020, I thought making lecture videos for all the classes given to me would be the best way to go. As usual, I went about it with unsustainable effort that sprang from my undiagnosed ADHD: I was crafting meticulous scripts for every lecture, designing meticulous graphics to go with them, and waking up at 2 AM every day to record my spiel without the distraction of outside traffic to mess with my sound design. I wanted my videos to be topnotch, information-wise and design-wise. And I was making at least three lecture videos a day. It was a heavy burden that I was somehow able to “sustain”—until I contracted COVID-19 and was so sick, I could barely continue.

When I recovered from COVID two weeks later, I found I could not regain my footing—my anxiety was a deep maw I could not overcome; my brain was forever distracted like glass shards in perpetual limbo; my physical capability was limited and I could not move properly; my hair was falling out in clumps, I thought I was going bald; and my every day was defined by waking nightmares I could not begin to comprehend. Which was when my boyfriend finally forced me to seek psychiatric help.

I was diagnosed with adult ADHD—and it made perfect sense. It gave me an idea why over the years I was often forgetful, why I was often feeling overwhelmed and panicky, why I needed specific boosters to carry me through even tasks I could usually finish in an hour, why I hated answering text messages and emails, why it took so much to muster motivation for things that were quite easy for me to accomplish—but also why I also had a thousand brilliant ideas, and why, when the condition is properly managed, people with ADHD also say their mental singularity is a superpower. It was all that, and then multiplied to a greater degree because of the pandemic. [My therapist told me she was beset with so many mental health cases when the pandemic happened. “It is unprecedented,” she said. It was often difficult to set up therapy appointments with her, given the high demand on her time.]

For a while the psychotropic drugs I was prescribed to take helped. I cannot even begin to describe the perfect feeling of being on Ritalin. The way it massaged my brain. The way it made me feel secure. The way it made everything so clear. This is the thing: every single day for a person with ADHD is like having a brain that’s constantly full of static—but most of us learn to live with that kind of chaotic brain chemistry it feels almost normal. Ritalin, on the other hand, was all about calm, steadiness, and focus. Taking it was like being a person with bad eyesight finally putting on a pair of prescription glasses and seeing the world perfectly for the first time: you notice the outline of the green leaves of the trees, you notice the subtleties in the shadows, you can read signs from far away. The sky is bluer, the sea greener. Ritalin gave my brain breathing space, and its gift was concentration. I could remember things now; I could follow through tasks; I was no longer nervous about messaging anyone. [In fact, my first act on Ritalin was to respond to and purge all the unanswered emails on my inbox.]

And so the drugs helped, until they didn’t—because, truth to tell, I was feeling their efficacy waning out with every passing month, even as I slowly became physically dependent on the drugs. There were times, when my prescription was running low at the end of each month where I’d panic because I was running out of medicine to take—because the withdrawal was often severe. And the medicine was also very expensive.

Eventually, because of this and other circumstances, I made the decision to manage my condition without medicine. It felt unsustainable. When I made that decision, it was the month I was due to receive an award from the Cultural Center of the Philippines, which was recognizing me for my work as a writer and as a cultural worker. I remember giving a speech in a televised ceremony at the Luce Auditorium—but feeling like my brain was flying elsewhere, especially in the panicky clouds that was secretly smothering me. But there I was on stage, acting as if I was perfectly fine; inside me though there was a dervish threatening to spin out of control.

Around this time, I made peace with myself about no longer teaching, because going back gripped me with so much despair. There were also circumstances that made my heart harden, like my department hiring the worst possible person in the world to be my replacement—and also finding out that in my gravest hours when I could not function, they could actually hire more people to teach and share the creative writing load. It was a dark time, and I admit my mental condition made many of my actions irresponsible—but never once did I feel my former colleagues reach out to me. [Some did, privately—but not the ones who mattered.] I had no plans of going back. A dear friend, Karl Villarmea, advised me however not to entertain thoughts of retirement or resignation: “Take a leave of absence instead, and then find out later if this is something you truly want to do.” I was at that time completely incapable of making definite decisions, and I am grateful that he went beyond himself to facilitate things for me as a representative of my teacher’s union. [In moments like this, you find out who your truest friends are.]

That was also the time I decided to focus on finding myself, and on pursuing writing without baggage. That was also the time I made the choice to step away from things that felt superfluous. I remember Renz reminding me: “You have done so much already, Ian. You don’t have to prove yourself anymore. You can just be yourself.” So I exiled myself to the proverbial desert for three years, turned my back on almost everything I used to hold dear, and leaned only on my creative endeavors for sustenance. It wasn’t utopia. Like I said, there were often psychotropic meds involved. And there were a lot of failures and disappointments, as well as unexpected successes.

I learned discernment.

I now know how to map the ebbs and flows of my mental challenges, and to recognize the whole thing as being not a flaw of character but as a health condition that can be managed. [Still working on this.]

I now know how recognize the honest promptings of my heart, and to obey it. [In other words, to trust your instincts. Because they’re often right.]

I know now how to calibrate expectations. [To under-promise, but over-deliver. Still working on this.]

I now know to disregard the entrenched worship of the institutional.

I also now know who friends truly are.

I have learned that I’m at my happiest when I write and create. [The exile was an extraordinarily productive time, creative-wise.]

I have also learned gratefulness, forgiveness, and the delicate balance of the adventurous yes and the self-preserving no. [Always saying yes burns you out; always saying no makes you lazy and uncreative.]

I do still need to work on replying to people in a timely manner [I get overwhelmed so easily by the volume I get, compounded by debilitating ADHD], but I’ve set up a structure that will help manage the flow.

Above all, I hope I don’t have to go back to the desert again. It wasn’t bad, but life I’ve found is more than just a metaphorical abundance of sand.

In the first faculty meeting I attended after being away for three years, my fellow teacher Rina Hill led a short reflection before we tackled the formal business of getting ready for a new schoolyear. She gave us a piece of paper with a question on it, which she asked us to ponder on. The question read: “What motivates me to work and work ‘with all [my] might’?”

It felt like the perfect question for my first day back as a teacher. What motivates me indeed? I found out that I’ve never lost my passion to teach—all the lectures and seminars and cultural tours I’ve given while in the “desert” prove that—but I just needed rest, and a new way of looking at things. My resolution now is to teach the best that I can without losing sight of myself, and my time, and my health.

Around June this year, while I was counting down the days before my official leave of absence was set to expire and I needed to decide once and for all what I wanted to do by the time August came, two friends approached me, each on their own, which motivated me to teach again.

The theatre artist Dessa Quesada-Palm, who teaches theatre directing, came to me and said: “Ian, my students need you as their playwriting teacher”—and explained why I needed to come back. Alana Narciso, a fellow literature teacher who was sitting in as chair of the department, also made an effort to meet with me, and told me over coffee: “Ian, you have so much to give our students as a creative writing teacher. Please come back.” She explained why I needed to come back. I thought of their implorations, and my heart began to melt. Sometimes the reassurances of friends are enough to make you reconsider things.

So here I am, back again. Scarred, but think wiser. The desert taught me well.

I celebrated my 48th birthday soon after the current schoolyear started. Birthdays are usually fraught with the blues for me. My dark days usually start right around the end of July and only lets up at the end of August, a monthlong commiseration about disappointments and growing older.

This year, I decided to let go, to let others in, to swim with the flow, and to reconsider once again my life’s work—and for all that, this turned out to be the happiest birthday I’ve celebrated since forever. Understated, but so full of meaning. May we all have this kind of birthday revelations.

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Wednesday, August 16, 2023

entry arrow12:44 PM | Reflection From the Exile

Here's a pre-birthday reflection. After the ravages of the pandemic, I’m back to teaching after a very long hiatus to take care of my mental health — and here are some thoughts. I exiled myself to the desert for three years, turned my back on almost everything, and leaned only on my creative endeavors for sustenance. It wasn’t utopia, there were often psychotropic meds involved, and there were a lot of failures as well as successes — but I learned discernment. I now know how recognize the honest promptings of my heart, and to obey it. I know now how to calibrate expectations. I now know to disregard the entrenched worship of the institutional. 𝕀 𝕒𝕝𝕤𝕠 𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕨𝕙𝕠 𝕞𝕪 𝕗𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕖. I have learned that I'm at my happiest when I write. [The exile was an extraordinarily productive time, creative-wise.] I have also learned gratefulness, forgiveness, and the delicate balance of the adventurous yes and the self-preserving no. I do still need to work on replying to people in a timely manner [I get overwhelmed so easily by the volume I get, compounded by debilitating ADHD], but I’ve set up a structure that will help manage the flow. I hope I don’t have to go back to the desert again. It wasn’t bad, but life is more than just an abundance of sand.

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entry arrow7:00 AM | Poetry Wednesday, No. 148.



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