The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata

By Gina Apostol

It was a bolt – a thunder bolt. A rain of bricks, a lightning zap. A pummeling of

mountains, a heaving violent storm at sea – a whiplash. A typhoon. An earthquake. The
end of the world. And I was in ruins. It struck me dumb. It changed my life and the
world was new when I was done. And when I raised myself from bed two days later, I
thought: It’s only a novel. If I ever met him, what would my life be? I lay back in bed.
But what a novel! And I cursed him, the writer – what was his name – for doing what I
hadn’t done, for putting my worlds into words before I even had the sense to know what
the world was. That was his triumph – he’d laid out a trail, and all we had to do is follow
his wake. Even then, I already felt the bitter envy, the acid retch of a latecomer artist, the
one who will always be under the influence, by mere chronology always slightly suspect,
a borrower, never lender be. After him, all Filipinos are tardy ingrates. What is the
definition of art? Art is reproach to those who receive it. That was his curse upon all of
us. I was weak, as if drugged. I realized: I hadn’t eaten in two days. Then I got out of bed
and boiled barako for me.

Later it was all the rage in the coffee shops, in the bazaars of Binondo. People did not
even hide it – crowds of men, and not just students, not just boys, some women even,
with their violent fans – gesticulating in public, throwing up their hands, putting up fists
in debate. Put your knuckle where your mouth is. We were loud, obstreperous, heedless.
We were literary critics. We were cantankerous: rude raving. And no matter which side
you were, with the crown or with the infidels, Spain or Spolarium, all of us, each one,
seemed revitalized by spleen, hatched by the woods of long, venomous silence. And yes,
suddenly the world opened up to me, after the novel, to which before I had been blind.

Still I rushed into other debates, for instance with Benigno and Agapito, who had now
moved into my rooms. Remembering Father Gaspar’s cryptic injunction - “throw it
away to someone else,” so that in this manner the book traveled rapidly in those dark
days of its printing, now so nostalgically glorious, though then I had no clue that these
were historic acts, the act of reading, or that the book would be such a collector’s item,
or otherwise I would have wrapped it in parchment and sealed it for the highest bidder,
what the hell, I only knew holding the book could very likely constitute a glorious crime
– in short, I lent it to Benigno.
Padre Faura Witnesses the Execution of Rizal

(by Danton Remoto)

I stand on the roof

Of the Ateneo Municipal,

Shivering

On this December morning

Months ago,

Pepe came to me

In the Observatory,

I thought we would talk

About the stars

That do not collide

In the sky:

Instead, he asked me about purgatory

(His cheeks still ruddy

From the sudden sun

After the bitter winters

In Europe.)
 And on this day

With the year beginning to turn,

Salt stings my eyes.

I see Pepe,

A blur

Between the soldiers

With their Mausers raised

And the early morning’s

Stars:

Still shimmering

Even if millions of miles away,

The star itself

Is already dead.
 APO ON THE WALL

by Bj Patino

There’s this man’s photo on the wall

Of my father’s office at home, you
Know, where father brings his work,
Where he doesn’t look strange
Still wearing his green uniform
And colored breast plates, where,
To prove that he works hard, he
Also brought a photo of his boss
Whom he calls Apo, so Apo could
You know, hang around on the wall
Behind him and look over his shoulders
To make sure he’s snappy and all.
Father snapped at me once, caught me
Sneaking around his office at home
Looking at the stuff on his wall- handguns,
Plaques, a sword, medals a rifle-
Told me that was no place for a boy
Only men, when he didn’t really
Have to tell me because, you know,
That photo of Apo on the wall was already
Looking at me around,
His eyes following me like he was
That scary Jesus in the hallway, saying
I know what you’re doing.