Sunday, March 23


And so, inspired by the invite to a luncheon with F. Sionil Jose as guest, I have attempted to feed my brain by going back to the classiques. Ending up in a room full of writers festooned with literary awards does that to you. It wasn't just F. Sionil Jose in there. Dr. Edith Tiempo was there, too. Two National Artists under one roof. A smattering of other literary movers and shakers, a handful of which had brought home Palancas (since I don't have my notes atm, I can only name two offhand: Cesar Ruiz Aquino and Ian Fermin Casocot).

I felt like the sorest of sore thumbs. I don't exactly aim for awards, and I don't hobnob with the literary giants of this age. Still, one cannot ignore a metaphorical bludgeon to the head. Is the universe reminding me that writing must move the world and not oneself? Why not be great if one can be great?

The writer known as "Frankie" is an impassioned, fiery, supremely critical writer who holds nothing back in his critique on Philippines, Filipinos, and the mentality they call 'colonial.' I'd heard of Mr. Jose, but never read a single word of his work. Yes, it is rather pathetic of me, but I do not pretend to be anything other than who I am: a commercially brainwashed consumerist.

Goal One: Buy the Asus EEE little notebook. And then I shall have no excuse but to inflict my insanity once more on the unsuspecting, uncaring public.

Goal Two: Read something other than escapist drivel. I bought Tess of the D'Urbervilles yesterday at National Bookstore, on an impromptu afternoon jaunt with the lovely Georgie. They were selling it for PhP46.50. Steal!