On the first annual conference of the Philippine Society of Literature and Narrative Medicine
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Minutiae of my every day since 2004.
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Why are there many doctors who are writers, too? "I think that just like everyone else, in whatever profession or stature in life, doctors have the need to express and share their own experiences, and be heard, whether this expression is in the form of music, poetry, or children’s literature," says Liangco. "It’s wonderful whenever we are able to create avenues for these stories."
In 2020, De La Salle University held a CNF (Creative Non-Fiction) Writers' Workshop for Doctors, which Liangco participated in as one of the selected writer-doctors. It is part of the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center's efforts to "boost collaborations and critical/creative exchanges between scientists and artists; to train medical practitioners in the art of life-writing; and to help immortalize the stories and contributions of our front-liners to this nation especially during these precarious times." The Philippine Society for Literature and Narrative Medicine was later created and spearheaded by Dr. Joey Tabula, one of the doctor-writers who served as a panelist in the workshop.
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The Philippine Society for Literature and Narrative Medicine will be having its first annual congress today, December 30, via Zoom, at 4-9PM, open to doctors and medical students. Registration is free.
The theme is: Rehumanizing the Art and Practice of Medicine through Literature and Narrative Medicine.
Registration link here. See you!
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Frank Bruni's essay, Our Semicolons, Ourselves, is brilliant.
Writing is thinking, but it’s thinking slowed down — stilled — to a point where dimensions and nuances otherwise invisible to you appear. That’s why so many people keep journals. They want more than just a record of what’s happening in their lives. They want to make sense of it.
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Over recent days, I took on a daunting task — but a delightful one. I reviewed all the passages of prose featured in the For the Love of Sentences section of my Times Opinion newsletter in 2023 and tried to determine the best of the best. And there’s no doing that, at least not objectively, not when the harvest is so bountiful.
What follows is a sample of the sentences that, upon fresh examination, made me smile the widest or nod the hardest or wish the most ardently and enviously that I’d written them. I hope they give you as much pleasure as they gave me when I reread them.
Alexis Soloski described her encounter with the actor Taylor Kitsch: “There’s a lonesomeness at the core of him that makes women want to save him and men want to buy him a beer. I am a mother of young children and the temptation to offer him a snack was sometimes overwhelming.”
In Pinoy culture, we call this tendency "acting like a tita." The English word, "aunt," doesn't quite deliver the nuance of the Filipino, "tita." For some reason, I remember my friends Carla Barbon, Bea Uy, and Everly Ramos. And Racquel Bruno! I hope to meet you soon, friends!
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We had Ma'am Mervie and Ma'am Babette for dinner a few days ago. It was their first time to visit our home. They were our former English teachers, school paper advisers, and speech coaches. They have become dear friends we intermittently reconnect with in our chat group called "Intermediate Family"—not immediate family, because we weren't genetically qualified to fly out to an intimate Boracay wedding intended for Feve's closest family.
Ma'am Babette spoke in a journalism workshop on editorial and feature writing when I was in elementary, which led me, happily, into the rabbit hole of writing and publishing. In high school, she also wrote my speeches for the Population Commission contests, which we won. Those speeches were printed in legal size paper, on double-spaced text in Times New Roman, justified, in 12 point, using an Epson dot matrix printer. At the KNCHS English Department Office, usually in the afternoons, she carved out time to polish my delivery. She taught me how to make hand gestures—nothing grandiose (or "bombastic") but natural. Two hands in front, with palms facing upward, the arms pushed outward quickly to make a point, accompanied by a smart nod.
Ma'am Mervie was my school paper adviser. She had brilliant ideas for The KNCHS Recorder, whose office I often frequented because it had a working computer, a dot-matrix printer, and good airconditioning. (I miss dot matrix printers!). Joining press conferences was a riot because she was around—a young, cool teacher with a rebellious streak and a gift for words and dry, crazy humor. She wrote my winning speech for a national speech competition organized by a veterans association.
I owe so much to them. Too bad they're not teaching in the classroom anymore. They now occupy crucial positions in DepEd offices. They shine, wherever they go.
Manong prepared cold cuts and aperol spritz as aperitifs, and, for the main course, lasagna, pork ribs, and three desserts, including pecan pie and tiramisu, which were hits. We told them, "We don't eat like this on a regular basis, but because you're here, we're pretending we're quite sophisticated."
Ma'am Mervie said kids these days write differently. "Lain na gid sila magsulat. Their subjects are dark and depressing. In our generation, we used to write about good, happy, colorful things." This gave me pause.
Labels: daily
UNFOLD thy face, unmaske thy ray,
Shine forth, bright Sunne, double the day.
Let no malignant misty fume,
Nor foggy vapour, once presume
To interpose thy perfect sight
This day, which makes us love thy light
For ever better, that we could
That blessèd object once behold,
Which is both the circumference,
And center of all excellence:
Or rather neither, but a treasure
Unconfinèd without measure,
Whose center and circumference,
Including all preheminence,
Excluding nothing but defect,
And infinite in each respect,
Is equally both here and there,
And now and then and every where,
And alwaies, one, himselfe, the same,
A beeing farre above a name.
Draw neer then, and freely poure
Forth all thy light into that houre,
Which was crownèd with his birth,
And made heaven envy earth.
Let not his birth-day clouded be,
By whom thou shinest, and we see.
After getting a pedicure, Nanay says to me, "I'll tell you something." She had to wait for her turn to get a haircut in the salon. A seven-year-old girl was getting her hair and make up done for—she overheard—a mini debut. Nanay says, "What was her mother thinking?"
I say, "But that's their money to spend."
She says, "Sabagay."
I often discover this when I go home on weekends to be with family. Despite the six-lane highway, friends often stop, wave, and smile when they recognize you. They ask you how the parents are. They tell you how this friend has gout and yet won’t stop his daily dose of beer, or this former classmate whose blood pressure is way up the stratosphere but won’t quit smoking. They tell you how they met old teachers who haven’t aged a bit. They offer you turon kag bandi. They welcome you to their homes like a long-lost brother. They share triumphs and heartbreaks, secrets and anecdotes. Of course, the constant question about marriage and spreading of genes [smiley].
This is the sort of kasimanwa (town mates) I grew up with and got to stay connected after many years.
Summers then were quite punishing in Marbel. I remember the times when brownouts were frequent; we had to stay outdoors often, under the trees, beside a brook, or at my uncle’s farm in Barrio 8. But the start of the rainy season was a welcome relief; the heat was more tolerable, and the constant pouring in the afternoon was an invitation to run around in complete abandon. Since most roads then were unpaved, we had individual puddles in the middle of the street that became exclusive wading pools.
Happy birthday, Dr. Noel! What a gift you are to the world.
Early morning of December 27. Read about bees and Elon Musk on my previously unread New Yorker magazine copies. I subscribed many months ago so I could get the tote bag. The magazines would arrive three months late. The tote bag never came.
Lulled by the early coolness, slept on the couch. Awakened by Nanay who, at 3 am, opened the gate. Her new routine: walking while it's dark. Manong Ralph made coffee. I tinkered with my blog's CSS. Reverted back to the classic Blogger template designed by Douglas Bowman. Had problems with resizing the image width. Asked ChatGPT to help me with the coding to make the images responsive (that is, they don't exceed the width/margins of the text). The code worked. But the text appears after the footer and before each blog post.
.post img { max-width: 100%; height: auto; padding: 4px; border: 1px solid #ddd; }" which appears in the footer.
I'm stuck. But I like the raw aesthetic of the blog. A lot of design decisions here have been dictated by whim. Blogging should feel like playing. Writing too seriously removes all the fun. No wonder why I haven't been posting anything here lately.
Meanwhile, here's Paul, the darling of the neighborhood. After Simbang Gabi, our Catholic neighbors who passed by the house would call out to our dog, "Good morning, Paul."
That night, I proceeded to read the first story, Sa Lalaking Naligsan sa may Interseksiyon. I was hooked right away because there are themes about politics of teaching and academic promotions and allusions to Murakami stories I am familiar with. The cadences of language are different and nuanced. Binisaya is beautiful. And so is English. I keep on rooting for the narrator, even as I write this. He seems like someone who actually exists in the real world: an educator who commutes to work and struggles with providing for the family and eking out a good life for himself. I hope he gets his promotion, completes his PhD, get married, and have a great life.
Labels: books/reading
I overheard my mother's friends praying over the speakerphone as I did a third round of review of my suitcase. It usually takes me three iterations to trim my clothes to the bear minimum. I'm a light traveler. The past days have been crazy. I won't bore you with the details of the commitments I've gotten myself into—a hospital's tumor boards, a small group discussion in med school, a lecture on the coagulation pathway for biochemistry, a research collaboration, and many personal matters, such as the death of a high school classmate, my reunions with friends I haven't met in a while. Nanay and her friends meet on Facebook Messenger at 4 am daily, except Sundays, to pray. Auntie Cecil, who's like a second mother to us, thanks God for people who are arranging my quick trip to Davao City for a research contest for doctors that I'm judging today, the safety of my flight tomorrow and the health of the passengers around me, and all the small details I forget to praise God for. It amazes me, therefore, that there are people interceding for me, and I should do the same, too: praying for others, looking over and beyond myself, and be intentional in my thanksgiving.
And thanks be to God for my work space, a place of quiet and peace, with excellent lighting and various options for writing, both analog and digital.Labels: daily
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I woke up thinking of Conrado de Quiros for no reason, then a quick Google search brought me the news: he passed away on November 6. I grew up reading There's the Rub, his opinion column in the Inquirer, and I loved how he weaved words and phrases. Because of him, I wanted to own my own column, too, thinking I would have the energy and words for it. I'm now looking for copies of his books. Amazon and the online retailers indicate that this books, including "Flowers from the Rubble," are out of print. Please send me a note if you have any leads where I can get them.
Ambeth Ocampo's column in the Inquirer is about bookstores.
Looking back, my earliest memories of bookstores were of Popular Bookstore on Doroteo Jose which was the carrot my father dangled to get me into a dentist’s chair. Popular Bookstore didn’t have children’s books, but I liked just being in it as my father browsed the latest engineering texts for his classes in Mapua and University of the Philippines Diliman. The bookstore where I remember buying a childhood book was Ato Bookshop along Session Road in Baguio. It was located in the basement of a building and I remember scrimping on horseback and merienda allowance to save up for my first Filipiniana book, “Creatures of Midnight.” Maximo Ramos published an illustrated catalog of all the aswang, tianak, manananggal, kapre, and mangkukulam in Philippine lower mythology. This book taught me how to detect these creatures and I memorized, by heart, all the methods to dispose of them.
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Met Willie, Mayche, Katty and her little boy Mark last night for dinner. Small pockets of reunion are ideal for catching up with my high school circle. Willie lost his Uber privileges because a driver in a small town in America gave him a low rating because he charged his phone in the car without asking permission. Stuck in an outlet store miles away from his hotel, he booked a taxi instead which cost more. After her extended yoga session, Mayche spouted theories about interracial marriages but says she's not getting married soon. We didn't get too much into politics, but Mayche's eyes were fiery when the subject of confidential funds was brought up. Katty remembered the times when we were the ones left at Precious Child Learning Center because our sundo, Manong Elvic, was late again because his tricycle broke down. Katty proudly shared that Manong Elvic eventually did send his children through college. What I remembered most about him was his extraordinary kindness and his ill-fitting dentures.
Had to ditch all plans to catch up on pending work to watch All the Light We Cannot See because of Prof. Marj's recommendation. Beautiful, even the opening music. It kept me up all night. Only made it to the first two episodes, though, because I was too sleepy. When I woke up this morning, I read my copy of Anthony Doerr's book. As usual, Manong Ralph's judgmental reaction was, "Ay, wala mo pa gali nabása na?" So all I talk about now are Marie and Werner. When I'm absorbed in a particular story, I always say the names of the characters, like how some people repeatedly hum a tune of a song they'd just heard. They look older in the Netflix series but they're 16 and 18 years old, respectively, in the book. I look forward to finishing the series today.
Labels: books/reading
Most people know that something is going badly awry with the next generation.
It’s not often that an executive summary from The Journal of Pediatrics ricochets around the internet. But this week we saw just that with the findings of a study from three researchers entitled “Decline in Independent Activity as a Cause of Decline in Children’s Mental Well-Being: Summary of the Evidence.”
The broad thesis is that, while many factors have led to the national emergency we are seeing with adolescent mental health, there is one major factor that is insufficiently recognized: the decline in unstructured, unmanaged, and unsupervised play.
It turns out that play and exploration are essential for what it means for us to thrive as human beings. And by play, I do not mean organized sports or hobbies (while those are important). I mean the sort of unstructured freedom to independently encounter obstacles and problems—and overcome them. And to pursue this for its own sake, not to put an item on a college admission application or a résumé or even to gain status with one’s peers.
This might look like spending a day wandering through the woods, playing an impromptu stickball game with the neighbors on a city street, or combing the neighborhood looking for arrowheads or lost coins—without a hovering parent in sight.
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The red Binacol bag was woven by malingkatweaves run by Fawziyyah Maridul of Sulu, who had become a friend after I gave her & her weavers a copy of Dreamweavers. She also printed the gift tags. The Binacol design is the Tinggian Mandarawak’s blanket, although the one for healing is pure white. The coffee is “Café de Nueva Vida,” & Dr. Miñosa, retired anesthesiologist who now runs Buenaventurada Farms in Carmen, Bohol, personally delivered them. The Ube Kinampay pastel from Osang’s Baclayon was delivered to Amarela personally by Pie Maristela, who now runs her mother’s heritage pastry house.