IT'S THE SUIT!

"It's the suit!" the phrase we constantly heard at the 2009 World Swimming Championship in Rome. Thirty-eight world records were crushed! Less known Olympic swimmers, who were wearing the new polyurethane suits, were taking the glory away from Beijing Olympic medalists. Certainly, those polyurethane-suited world champions were ecstatic; however, the phrase, "It's the suit!", is surely giving them a bitter taste.

As I listened to the American commentators, I learned that this new swim suit gives the swimmer more buoyancy. It helps them move faster in the water just like a sea glider.

The suit was an issue again just before the most awaited 100-meter butterfly took place this Saturday. The California-trained Milorad Cavic of Serbia, who earned the silver medal in Beijing and very vocal that he should have been the gold medalist for he out-touched Michael Phelps at the finish, wore the new suit. Michael Phelps decided to wear similar suit, the LZR Racer suit, he wore in Beijing. Did this self-proclaimed 100-meter Serbian swimmer finally convinced the world that he really was the winner in Beijing? He had an advantage. Unfortunately, he did not. He still ended up behind Michael. Finally, Cavic accepted his fate by saying, "He(Michael) is the man!"

Certainly, advance technology helps people get ahead of others; however, the way how one nurtures a God-given talent to the fullest must never be looked down.

ON PUBLISHING #2: Copyright & Other Rights

My book contract for my manuscript, PRAISING ALL SEASONS LONG: Haiku Verses, was sent through UPS the other day. I went through the 7 pages thoroughly before I signed them. Then, with too much excitement, I shared the news with my online friends. Many congratulated me, from Namibia to the Philippines. Any friend from Down-Under? Hello, do I still have friends down there? (LOL) Some already told me that they are going to get their copies. (G.C., a history teacher-friend in Italy promised to get his copy even before I pitched the work to the publisher). Some told me that they'd mention the upcoming book to their friends. To all of you, thank you.

Anyway, B.K., a friend in U.K. asked me yesterday what I mean by exclusive right. She feels that it is unfair for the publisher to have total right to somebody else's work. One proviso of the book contract is a 7-year exclusive right to the publisher. So allow me to write something about copyright and rights.


A writer publishes his/her work, may it be a book or article, for the consumption of the public. While the work is in circulation, there is a tendency that somebody can plagiarize it(i.e. copy or publish it in his/her name). Copyright protects the writer for such suckers.

Technically, copyright is secured automatically when the work is set down for the first time in written form.(How to Write & Sell Your Life Experiences: 1993.148). The writer doesn't have to register it to a copyright office. However, by registering your copyright, you can bring suit against someone for infringing your copyright. In the USofA registering a copyright will allow the writer to recover attorney's fees and some damages from the defendant. (The Writer's Essential Desk Reference: 1991.38).

Further, there are other rights that a writer has to consider once his/her work is being negotiated for publication. These are what we call "All or exclusive right", First Right, Secondary Right, One-Time Right, and Subsidiary Right.

The signed contract to my manuscript, "PRAISING ALL SEASONS LONG: Haiku Verses", has a proviso for a 7-year exclusive contract. This means that the publisher have the ownership of my manuscript. I have to wait until the 7-year "all right" expires before I can sell or reproduce the manuscript again to another publisher. Again, one advantage to an "All Right" is that the writer does not have to spend (except time to proof-read galleys, etc.) any money from printing to marketing. Transaction of "All Rights" must be completed with a signing of written statement (contract). Without a written contract, the author only gives "One-Time Right" to the publisher, which is much like "First Right".

Wonder why you see some articles appear in several magazines? The reason is that the author has the First Right to his/her work. First Right means that the writer has the freedom to sell reprint or "second" right the work to another publisher, even before the work is published. Turning in or publishing the writer's article to a magazine publisher usually have this arrangement. It doesn't need any signed contract. The publisher notifies the writer and the readers by including the statement in all copies of the magazine.

Subsidiary Right usually is included as another proviso in a written contract. And, according to a Denver lawyer, David Weinstein, (Writer's Essential: 34) this is one of the most common book contract problems. An author has to pay attention to such proviso. Subsidiary right means the publisher has been given the right to make transaction for other income-generating businesses with another company with the intent to produce the work in another medium, such as movie, audio, etc. Some unscrupulous publisher would not spell this out in the contract. I am just thankful that the contract that I have with Comfort Publishing (CP) has a proviso that assures me that should a compensation received by CP for publication of extraction or for serial use, audio recordings,etc., it would be divided equally between the author and the publisher.

Again, thank you very much. I am counting for your all-out support in this literary odyssey.


NOTE: My book, KOILAWAN (KOI-lah-ONE), is still available in 21 countries. Also, watch for my other book, THE EXPERIMENTAL DASANG (Hey Poem) and 45 OTHER POETRY FORMS:An Anthology.

On Book Publishing

I'm deeply humbled by APinoy of U.K. when he told me, in my Great Pinoy profile page, that he is sending over his personal copy of my book, KOILAWAN: Letter and Poems of a Jungle Dad-Mom, for my signature. Then, another request from a Kababayan (a fellow Filipino), was posted seeking advice on how to go about publishing. Such requests make me feel a successful writer; hence, I thank you all for that.

Thursday, Sept. 18, was a big day for me. Comfort Publishing emailed me that it has officially accepted my manuscript, PRAISING ALL SEASONS LONG: Haiku Verses, for publication. This will be published as an illustrated gift book. Please join me in thanking God, and hope you will continue to support me in this endeavor.

Now, let me address the request on publishing. KOILAWAN was my first published book. I have no book published in the Philippines. The only publications I have in our country were social research articles published in academic journals, such as the Philippine Journal of Society and Culture of University of San Carlos. I also have some magazine articles which were published by AGLOW Magazine. I have no book publication credentials, while I was down there. Therefore, allow me to blog something on publishing based on my experience here in the U.S.

Nowadays, there are several avenues to publish a book.

1) Traditional Publishing- We all know this one. It is publishing a work upon the invitation or decision of a book company, who, after promoting or pitching the manuscript to them, decided to publish it. Pitching could be either done by you or your hired literary agent. For aspiring writers, this is very hard to come by. Publishers, being profit-oriented companies, usually offer this to writers, who already got a name and hundreds of thousand fans.

2) Self-Publishing- This is an avenue for a writer, who has the money to spend, time to promote and market, and room (in your house) to stock copies of your book. One advantage is that you don't want to convince anybody but yourself that your book should be published and you can have a total control of the publishing process (even the procurement of ISBN, the International Standard Book Number) and marketing (even the book price). If you feel that there's a demand or are able to create a demand for the book, this avenue is the way to go.

3) Vanity or Subsidy Publishing- Some consider these as two separate things; however, they actually are just synonymous to each other. Again, money, time, and space are needed here. The writer has to pay to be published, time to spend in marketing, and space to stock the books. It differs from self-publishing, because the book company simply applies its ISBN to the writer's book. The author also receives a few copies of the book and is promised, which usually doesn't come true, royalties on those copies that might be sold by the subsidy press. Many vanity presses also require the writer to purchase, at least, a minimum number of copies as part of the contract. I don't recommend this to anybody. It's purely enriching the publisher, plain and simple.

4) Publish-on-Demand (POD)- In POD, the book is digitally set up and is only printed every time there are orders. This is the reason why, in contrast to vanity publishing, POD publishers do not require, but encourage, the writer to buy copies of the books. Some offer the writer 60% off the book selling price. But again, the author have to pay the publisher from $400-$2000, depending on the book printing quality and the package. Book inclusion in the company's book catalog, printing of posters or bookmarks to promote your book are some items that could be included in a package.

5) E-publish or Audio Publish - E-publish means your book is only available in the internet. People pay to listen to it. It started in the mid-90s, however, it seemed to fade, not until recently, when college students have started using the internet for their research. The problem, though, is that students cannot afford to subscribe to a book, which is not either their textbook or a one of the required readings of a course. This also is not the way to go in publishing, because very few readers would spend many hours in the internet to read a whole book.

In audio, you manuscript is in CD-format. You buy it just like your DVD or CD music.

My book, KOILAWAN, is a POD book. It is my first book. No marketable name yet, so the best way is to POD. I have to start somewhere. Before I decided to go POD, I pitched the book to a literary agent in New York. It was accepted, however, upon knowing that it would take many months, even years, to see it published, if ever the agent would be successful in pitching it to a publisher, I decided to go the POD way. As I mentioned in my social networking page, the book was included in the TOP 100 bestsellers in some online book outlets for several weeks.

My second book, The Experimental Dasang (Hey Poem)and 45 Other Poetry Forms: An Anthology, which would be in the market, hopefully, sometime in December, is also a POD book. Yes, I still have to shell out some "old presidents"(dollars)to the publisher.

This third book, Praising All Seasons Long: Haiku Verses, will be published without any expenses on my part. My royalty would be somewhere between 8% to 12% of the sale. Well, I actually still awaiting for the contract. If I am satisfied whatever is in the contract, then, I could sign it and Comfort Publishing(CP) would begin the printing process. CP will design the book cover and look for pictures to illustrate some of the verses.

I currently am pitching my other book project, Bedtime-Pastime: Collections of Short Stories and Bukidnon Folktales, to literary agents and book publishers. Hopefully, this also would be printed as a traditional book. Bedtime... is co-authored by Dr. Genoveva Melendez-Ablanque of Bukidnon State University. You could read the list of content and a few of the short stories and a folktale on Webook.com.

I also was one of the 20 Christian writers, who were invited to contribute 2 articles in a Webook book project, XPRESSION: On Saving Grace. My article and my blank poetry, "What Now...? Am a Polygamist?" and "A Love to Surrender", respectively, are still in first draft. To meet the deadline that I promised to our project leader, I also have posted them on Webook.com. They can be read-for-feedback. Please go and check them out. You'd know that most of my first draft need lots of polishing to do. This would give you an idea that writing is a challenging job.

NOTE: If someone would like me to address other issues on publishing through my blog, send me a message in my social network page or email me, edMindustan@gmail.com.

Civet-Excreted Coffee: The Priciest, but are we Sure?

There's a seven-feet coffee plant with limbs laden with black, deep crimson, red, orange, and yellow green berries that's growing in front of our house here in California. While looking at it yesterday afternoon, I cannot help but to think of two things: the most expensive coffee in the world and my childhood coffee experience in Mindanao, the second biggest, of the 7,100, islands of the Philippines, and just few hundred miles north of some Indonesian islands.

Yes, the Indonesian Kopi Luwak has been considered as the world's priciest coffee. Due to it's exotic extra flavor and the high demand from Japanese, British and American coffee drinkers to its low supply, the market dictates a whooping $500 for a pound or $50 for a cup,once brewed.

Kopi Luwak, as we probably all know by now, are collected on the ground from the excreta of the wild palm civet cat. Its passing through the animal's digestive system is believed to give its extra flavor. However, like the US-based food and drink critic, Chris Rubin, I question this marketing blitz. Is it the very unique process of depoding or the perfect ripeness of the berries, that only the palm civet cats know, gives that added musty flavor?

With more than thirty coffee plants robustly standing tall in our backyard, while growing up in southern Philippines, my friends and I usually were having fun racing to trees with lots of deep crimson berries. Why? I tell you why. Deep crimson berries means that they are fully ripe; hence, their pulps are very sweet and easy and soft to depod. But not only that! They also signify that there are lots of coffee beans on the ground that bats, rats, and (who knows) four-legged or two-legged (?) civet cats excreted or dropped on the ground for our picking.

We usually picked those fallen beans first before climbing up those 50-foot, more or less, coffee trees. Most of our coffee plants were Coffea arabica, and very few Coffea robusta (the shorter plant with smaller berries). We preferred to take the risk of (or enjoy)climbing those tall trees, because the pulp of arabica is sweeter, the marble-sized berries are enjoyable to pop into our mouths, the Chinese coffee buyer in town buy it few centavos more, and most of our parents preferred the flavor of brewed arabica more than that of the "commercial", shorter and smaller robusta.

Oh, yes, these five- to ten-year old two-legged "civet cats" climbed up those trees with tin cans strapped around their waist first thing in the summer morning, happily perched on those berry-laden sturdy branches, often times moving from one limb to another, while depoding those deep crimson berries with their mouths. They often tell jokes and horsing around by shaking the limbs hoping that their friends will move away. Holding ones dear life and laughing with five to ten berries in ones mouth were not a good combination, because many times, these two-legged "civet cats" ended up swallowing the slimy coffee beans. (Oh, yes, they have constipation the next day... and some would either pushed hard to poop while up the coffee tree or come-down and dig a shallow hole underneath those trees.)

If we just have known before that these coffee beans that pass through someones digestive system have very high market value around the world, we could have not strapped those cumbersome tin cans around our waist anymore. We could have just swallowed both the sweet nectar of those deep crimson berries and all the coffee beans for our picking the next day. Oh, well, the information is out since December of last year. Some two-legged "civet cats" are surely going to be young secret "millionaires". Secret or secrete "millionaries"? Just an insinuation! Don't puke!

Seriously, those who know (and are very sure) that the priciest coffee beans are from a four-legged wild palm civet cat excreta, please stand up!


Note: The short story, "The Coffee and the Two-Legged "Civet Cats", is included in my book project, Bedtime-Pastime: Collections of Short Stories and Bukidnon Folktales.

Jokes: Why They don't Click Cross-culturally?

As a Filipino, who resides in Los Angeles County, I regularly watch Channel 18's Kababayan LA, the only locally produced Filipino TV program in the USofA. While watching it on Thursday, July 17, I was intrigued with the response of Allan K, the well-known Filipino comedian and a mainstay of the #1 Philippine noontime TV showEat Bulaga, when he was asked on the difference of the Filipino from the American jokes. Allan K shied away from the question by saying that Filipino audience are very sensitive that comedian should be tactful when cracking jokes with them.

Trained to systematically observe social interaction among members of society, I never considered Filipino sensitivity, per se, as a difference between American and Filipino jokes. Every member of society has his or her sensitivity. Why? I tell you why. When a message is sent, the receiver has to sift it through his/her culture (i.e. language, morals, values, educ., arts, etc.)and his/her psychological self. The person's culture and psychological make-up make the difference in understanding and responding to a message. Whether you are a Filipino, British, or American, the process of communication is still the same.

A joke is a humorous message. The audience needs to understand the joke to respond appropriately. Culturally, we, Filipinos, usually crack jokes with antic. We also tend to repeat or explain the punchline. The antic and the premature unveiling of the punchline make Filipinos laughing, and allow me to exaggerate, even before the joke is said and done. Americans don't (although I have been seeing changes nowadays, when I watch the TV program, The Last Comic Standing); they say the punchline once, at the very end of the joke. Then, the comedian stops. Those whose mother tongue is English and those completely assimilated to the American society, could laugh right away in response to the joke because they imediatley get the message; for those whose mother tongue isn't, they tend to smirk. They consider it unamusing. Why? Because the culture (i.e. the language,morals, etc.) and the intellect (i.e. the grasping of the meaning) take awhile to process the joke.

Ability to understand the language used in the joke is highly important with how people respond to it. Sensitivity (maybe the best term is cultural norm) is just part of it. I bet you, many American English speaker would find this British joke unamusing: "I used to dress off the peg, but now my neighbours take in their washing at night." Those who don't know that peg to British is a clothespin would respond to this joke differently.

A Folktale Blog

I would like to thank all those who sent me messages through email and facebook in response to my short story blog. A couple mistook it as an awful folktale, probably because of its title; probably because I mentioned that it was a juvenile. Others commented against too much non-English words and phrases that made it cumbersome to read through. One from Finland politely said that because he's feeling down, he didn't finish reading it. (Bless your heart, my dear friend. LOL) Others considered it as a good or 'very cool' short story, which could still be improved. One thing I appreciated most was the suggestion on how to improve it. The text that I posted was an early draft to encourage my friends and the readers to send in their comments. And promise, the final manuscript have minimal 'vernaculars' (most would still be printed as endnotes), and the story is more cohesive and evocative.

Since some mistook "The Magical Mat" as a folktale, I am posting one of the folktales in my book project, "Bedtime-Pastime: Collections of Short Stories and Bukidnon Folktales. Again, your comments are appreciated. So, please send them in.

Thanks guys.

THE MAIDEN AND THE SKY

Edmund Melig Industan

(A very common cosmological folktale narrated through the eyes of an observer.)


“Imagine a Laga (maiden). She has a nigu (winnower). She balances it on her head. She is flirting with the wind as she pertly swings her hip left and right, walking briskly toward the wooden mortar,” my mother, who was a grade school teacher, introduced differently the most common cosmological story of our tribe.

The children, who were sitting on the mat, which my mom spread out on the floor in front of her, laughed. They squeezed tightly like a canned sardine, but immediately quieted down, to let my mother go on with the story.

“It was very late in the day. The world would soon to be pitch black. Her family, who went to the river to fish, would soon be coming home. She needed to cook the rice; the soonest, the better,” my mom paused, calmly sat on a chair, glanced outside before she looked at the children.

“See, Laga was not a typical Bukidnon maiden. She was pretty than anybody else and her body was curved as a bottle of coke. She also was the fairest. Even the frogs would crook if they would see her walking. How could she not have a fair skin when she just wanted to stay inside their bark-walled hut, stringing hundreds of colorful beads on a thin silvery twined manila hemp, while her friends and family were out either in the field, in the river, or in the forest to gather food? She also was the tallest that, if she would jump an arm-length off the ground, she could already hit the sky. Why? Because during her time, the sky was still real low, very close to the ground. Another thing with Laga was that…she always wore her ruggedly etched crescent bamboo comb and her heavy colorful necklace made from hundreds of neatly strung beads,” my mother said as she showed a bamboo comb and a bead necklace.

The kids were all ears. A pin would probably be heard by everybody if someone drops it on the school’s cement floor.

“Upon reaching the wooden mortar, she tilted the winnower to pour the dried golden unshelled rice three-quarter of the mortar’s hole. Then, she put the oblong winnower on the ground and picked up the wooden pestle, which was a little bit shorter than her height. But Laga was afraid to break her newly finished necklace from constant body quivers while pounding the rice! So…she took it off. She also took the comb off,” my mother said with hands in animation. “But she also was afraid that the chicken and the pig that always lurk around indiscriminately would pick and snort the comb and the necklace! So…she placed them at the other end of the pestle, hoisted the pestle, and glued the comb and the necklace, one at a time, onto the sky.”

“Hala ka! (Oh, goodness!),” many of the girls exclaimed as they slightly flinched their shoulders and covered their mouths with their hands. The boys laughed at their reaction to the story.

“S-h-h-h-h-h!” my mother pressed her right index finger onto her lips as she looked at all of them. “Listen to this,” she whispered, her hand glided on to her right cheek. Then, when she already has all the children’s attention back, she resumed onto her normal tone. “Laga started pounding the rice: thump……thump……thump… thump……thump……Thump…thump….thump…Thump! The maiden gently pounded the rice to avoid spilling. Then, Thump…thump…THUMP! Thump….thump….THUMP! Thump….thump….THUMP! Laga maintained that regular pestle sound for several minutes, intermittently interrupted by “TOK!” as she tapped the side of the wooden mortar to level off the rice. As more grains were unshelled and not so jumpy anymore, Laga got excited and gradually pounded the rice harder. Thump…Thump…THUMP! Thump…Thump….THUMP! Faster and harder: Thump! Thump! THUMP! TOK! Thump! Thump! THUMP! TOK!” My mother paused for a couple of seconds and she hushed, “The maiden forgot her comb and her necklace. She forgot how low the sky was. Mesmerized with the sing-song of the mortar and the pestle; harder the pestle went. BUT to do that, she had to lift the pestle higher. AND THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! TOK! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Finally, she stopped; wiped her forehead with her knuckles, winced, put her hands on her hip, stretched, and flexed backward. ‘Whoa!’ she exclaimed, eyes wide opened. She saw the sky so high already. She tried to reach for her comb and necklace, with the use of the wooden pestle, but the pestle was not long enough. She jumped high and swung the pestle hard. She hit the comb and the necklace, but…she hit them so hard that the necklace snapped scattering the beads all over the sky.”

“And that’s the reason…” my mom looked at all the children smiling as she prolonged the last sound of the last syllable.

“…why the sky has the moon and the stars at night!” the girls completed my mom’s sentence in chorus.

The boys stood up together and in unison said, "THE END!”

My mom smiled. All the children got up. They were laughing and clapping as they went back to their desks. Two of the girls stayed behind to roll the two mats; each looked like 3-arm length suman (SEW-man), a rolled rice cake wrapped with a strip of banana leaf.

“Now, the two of you must have to show me how Laga tried to reach for her bamboo comb and bead necklace,” my mom told the two girls in order to wrap up the story time.

The girls smiled, held the two rolled mat on one end, and started jumping as high as they can to tap the ceiling all the way to the back corner of their classroom, as the others clapped their hands.

The Magical Mat: A Short Story Blog

Hi guys,

One of my teacher-friend requested me sometime if I could post one of the short stories that's included in my book project, Bedtime-Pastime: Collection of Short Stories and Bukidnon Folktales. He would like to share it with his children and his English class. Hence, here is The Magical Mat. Sorry guys, it's juvenile. Reason is, I don't know the age-level of his kids. Anyways, if I could get some comments from you, I would post another one. Probably the short story, Dangerous Proposal, a proposal that could have killed a selfless school teacher should the forces of nature have not interfered.

Please note that all the stories in the book, including those of my co-author, Dr. Genoveva Melendez-Ablanque of Bukidnon State University, have ethnic themes. There are some Bukidnon words and phrases that I included to add realism to the story. I included the closest layman's phonetic equivalence to read them; an English free translation to understand them. Let me know if the inclusion is cumbersome. If possible throw in some suggestions either on how to go about it or to improve the entire story.
Thanks guys.

THE MAGICAL MAT
Edmund Melig Industan
(Exhausted from a long day hike, a teenage boy dreamed and unraveled fiendish Sudsuda (SUED-SUED-DAH), a malevolent spirit making havoc in the once peaceful village.)


“We is very sorry, we only has stewed chicken, rice, and stir-fried bok choy. No one has gone to town to get some canned sardines,” our hostess apologetically said as she put the delicious-smelling, steaming enameled bowls of food right in front of us. Then, she tenderly tapped my head and said, “Don’t worry, your apu (grandmother or an endearment for an old man/woman) is gonna tell you a nanangenen (folktale) right after we cleaned up.”

It was dusk and the deliciously prepared stewed organic chicken was a welcome sight. The simple cooking preparation: a whole knotted stalk of crushed lemon grass, fresh and newly grounded black pepper, salt, garlic, lots of newly picked green onions, tomatoes, and a little squeezed of turmeric juice, just made the chicken meat so gastronomical. The smoke of the firewood also added to its flavor. The village visits allowed me to get away, for a little while, from commercially and chemically raised poultry and canned sardines. Canned sardine was a typical substitute for chicken to many townsfolk. It is available everywhere, even in small grocery stores. The difficulty to raise chicken in a densely populated town and less time to fix a meal from scratch made it more practical to just buy a commercially packed food; hence, rural folks always thought that it was the Bukidnon urbanites’ food preference. Further, the opportunity to listen to folktales from people older than my parents has been an added motivation. That were the reasons; I always look forward going with my dad when he was invited to visit a remote village for an evangelistic meeting. I did not mind walking six hours trekking the mountain and crisscrossing river. The foot blisters and muscle pain seemed nothing when we get there. The folk’s warm and reverent hospitality, the food, and the opportunity to listen to folktales told by old women just relieved me from them all.

However, the long walk today was too much for me, a 12 year-old chap whom father wanted to follow in his footstep as an evangelist. It was only a four-hour walk after we got off from a crowded rickety public transportation jeepney, but the seemingly unending climb of that last dry, grassy mountain under a scorching tropical sun squeezed my heart so tight and took all the juice off me. It was like an eternity walking the rough narrow trail that, when we made our second stop to rest, I still did not see the crest. My father warned me before we left home about this long and arduous 6,000 ft. climb; however, he did not discourage me to come, because he wanted me to learn the rope and know the joy and pain of being an evangelist. He constantly motivated me to keep on moving by telling stories and promising me half of the chicken breast at dinner time if I made the crest in another hour. He further told me that I would have the opportunity to listen to the best story teller in the world, since the mother of our host has been known throughout the Bukidnon province plateau as the best ever.

As promised, dad gave me three portions of stewed chicken, which if glued together would be equal to half of the breast. After a short prayer, he told me to start dipping my spoon onto my bowl of rice drowned with the light yellow soup, embellished with the green bok choy and onions, and thin, red skin of ripe tomatoes. The soup was so delicious that I already was sweating when I finished off my dinner, doing what the host did- yank the bowl onto my mouth and gulp the leftover soup.

I could hardly get up from sitting in a lotus position. Since we arrived, three hours past noon time, I spent most of my time sitting on the bamboo floor beside my dad in the living room as he and other elders of the church talked about anything: the village, the problem of the church, the logging incursion, and the threatened livelihood. Nevertheless, I have to get up anyhow so that somebody can mop the bamboo floor with wet rug to spread the two-arm-length and an arm-and-a-half length ikam (EE-COME), (mat), my dad and I will have to sleep on later. My dad and our host moved to the small verandah to talk some more about some other problems of the church and the community, while I immediately sat back on the mat that was now rolled out. Some village children came and sat on the mat, but a little bit away from me. The soft and cool texture of the mat and the bloated stomach made me sleepy. There was only a scant of red-dyed reeds, which were mixed with its natural color, hence, the dyed spots looked like a pair of eyes and zigzagging mouth to me. It was weaved so tight that I was intrigued to slip my fingernails in between those flattened reeds and tried to loosen them. Sometimes, I flapped my right hand to enjoy its texture; sometimes I strummed the joints of the reeds. I began to yawn and decided to lie on my side. “Na` Ino`! /NA` ee-NO`/ (Come on, Mother!) The boy is tired and sleepy.” I heard our host requesting his 65-year old mother to begin the story.

“Es, dian (dee-yan) ka man ki Utu (uh-TU`), tagnguhugon (TAG-ngu-hoe-GOON) pa piru (PEE-ROE) mapangal (ma-PANG-al) bumulig (boom-UH-league) hu amey (ah-MOI) din.” (Oww, there is this young chap, he still has runny nose, but he is a good helper to his father,” the mother started the story with a typical Bukidnon opener. The other children, who came to listen to the story, and I laughed. She went on with the folktale about Utu`(uh-TU`) and the Kalibarut (KAH-lee-bah-ROOT). I listened, but I also continued to entertain myself strumming the mat. She really was a very good animated story teller. She paused calmly to end a section of the story. She also prolonged the pause for a few more seconds when she started the section with an alliterative “Na….” which always made us to hold our breath and, to some, biting their nails as they waited for her to continue. However, my tired body gave way that I was in and out of the story.

I felt everybody left for church. It was quieter and cooler in the house. The mat was all for me. It seemed that I was dreaming when I heard the first song at the church. I heard clapping of hands and stumping of feet. I heard the song “Hi-ay, hi-ay, katungkay ag’kalipay. Hi-ay, hi-ay pinalangga a kandin. Pinalas din sa sala ku. Makadiya a ta langit. Padayen ag’kalilipay. Hi-ay, hi-ay, hi-ay.” (Oh! Oh! I am very happy. Oh! Oh! He loves me. He washed away my sins. I (now) can go to heaven. Onward on I am happy. Oh! Oh! Oh!)

Few minutes after the singing, I heard sobbing and crying. It was an evangelistic meeting, a time for some villagers to renew their relationship with God and with fellow villagers. It also was the time to exorcise, albeit there were rare cases of this. The sobbing was common, especially when my dad talked about feuds, selfishness, jealousy, and adultery as some of the sins that destroy a village and send some people out of sync with God. However, the early sobbing was so uncommon. I presumed that the villagers, who were mostly members of the church, were experiencing some pressing problems.

Surprisingly, I also heard crying coming from far away. I heard wading in the marsh. I heard the straining and snapping sounds of the sudsud (SUED-SUED), reeds, when pulled off, the ‘gluck-gluck’ of boiling water in a 20-gallon can where the reeds were dyed, the thwacking of the dried reeds when flattened, and the screeching of the reeds when individually flattened by the weavers. Moments later, I heard a shrieking fiendish laugh along a threatening voice, “Hehehehehe…laliman (lah-LEE-man) aldaw (AL-THOU) na-an (nah-AN) do` agbungkagen (AG-boong-KA- gun) kud (code) sa-ini (sah-EE-knee) baryu (BAR-YOU) dan. Hehehehe. ” (Hehehehe… five days more (and) I am going to destroy this village. Hehehehe…) I looked around. Nobody was with me in the house. I looked around again. I still did not see anybody. I tried to go back to sleep by feeling the softness of the mat again…AND…in a little while I felt a prick in my finger. I immediately got up. I checked if it was bleeding, but did not see any. Then, I heard the shrieking laugh again, “Hehehehe….” It was coming from the mat. I looked down. Lo and behold! I saw a red reed wriggling and squealing its way out of that mat. Then, it stood in front of me, a lanky 6-footer, slightly levitating in the air, a little below its top end; its color was profusely dripping like blood. “Your father is busy trying to keep the church and the village together. He is pathetic. The culprit is not in church. He is right here! Sudsuda` (SUED-sued-DAH)! Hehehehe…. Laliman (lah-LEE-man) aldaw (Al-THOU)! Hehehehe… Laliman aldaw (five days)! Hehehehe….,”and he flew away like a slow-moving streaking arrow, out of the house, still laughing, slowly disappearing and fading, heeding towards the swamp. A reddish glow brightened the places that it passed by.

I was known to be a cry baby, while growing up; however, I learned to grow up fast when my mom died 5 years ago. Instead of screaming, I felt standing up, with fisted knuckles and angry voice, I said, “Nobody abuses my dad. GOD, HELP ME!” Immediately, I felt the entire mat, which I was standing on, jerked and glided. I felt a force held my shoulder and slightly pushed me down to sit. Off the ikam (EE-COME) went; off I was out of the house, hovering the village, following the lone lanky fiendish reed.

As I was riding the ikam, the zigzagging red reed, which was left in the mat told me to watch down-under, especially when we get to the marsh. I knew that we were already closed, because the red, lanky sudsuda, swooped down like lightning, turning the area reddish bright. The mat also told me that, besides gathering wild lanut (LAH-NOOT), Manila hemp, mat weaving was the other village commercial product. We finally got to the place. We hovered around like a big kite flying smoothly with the wind. Then, I saw Sudsuda` getting into the mouth of a quiet and aloof woman, who, I saw, talking to herself while plucking the fresh reeds. Suddenly, her face turned red. Her eyes stared like a knife ready for a kill. Then she took her bolo from its sheath, and attacked the other women, who were, at that moment, boisterous and loud. As they saw the quiet woman running amok, they ran away fast, leaving their harvested reeds. A booming fiendish voice chased them, “Sugud (SUE-GOOD) iman (ee-MAN), hari (ha-REE) kew (cow) en on makapanginsudsud (ma-ka-PANG-gain-SUED-SUED)! Mga (mang-AH) ki-at! (kee-AT) (From now on, you cannot gather reeds anymore! Women with no finesse!)

Streak of light still illumined the village when the mat began to take me back. I saw the people in commotion. Women complained about not able to keep up with the town’s mat orders. Every time they tried to go out towards the marsh, the quiet woman would go berserk and wild. She would chase them with anything sharp. I saw that, one time, the men tied her, while sleeping, with a rope on a house post, so that the women could go to the marsh. Nevertheless, when she woke up and found that even her mother was not home, her eyes turned red. She got mad. Her jugular muscle and jawbone tightened, and at one strain, she freed herself. She followed the women and chased them all away from the swamp. Since then, the village life was in chaos. I even saw her going to the school, shooing the school children and the teachers away. She was given malarial medicine by the village chief thinking that she was bitten by an anopheles mosquito when she was in the swamp, but it did not help at all. Many families were frustrated and scared that they have decided to leave the village. That was the main reason why the village chief and the elders of the church decided to request my dad to hold an evangelistic meeting.

I woke up sweating to the hilt. I sat down, looked at the mat, and strummed my index finger through the reeds. I checked the dyed part of the mat. I tried to loosen every reed. It was as tight as before; hence, I learned that it was just a dream. Few moments later, I heard the church singing a postlude, but the whole village left the church with their gas lamps on, so quiet and somber. When our host and my dad arrived, I told them of my dream and the name, Sudsuda. My dad squeezed my head and said, “God has given us the name. Now, we can prepare the hearts of the entire village for the casting out of the evil spirit, before my son and I will leave in five days.”

I looked at the mat again, smiled, and said, “Thank you, God, for this magical mat.”

(copyright applied)

U.S. Presidential Candidate: Walk the Talk

November 4 will be the U.S. Presidential Election day. More people are becoming skeptics on the economic plan of Republican candidate John McCain, particularly on his plan to continue on Pres. Bush's Tax Cut Program; more are beginning to question the feasibility of Democratic candidate Barack Obama's spending plan.

Following the sociocultural innovation approaches, McCain's plan is leaning towards discovering new information and altering what is present (which may only have some changes in semantics); Obama's plan, though trying to discover, is more leaning towards inventing a plan seen by many as out of reach that even Isabel Sawhill, an official of former Democratic President Bill Clinton's Office of Management and Budget said,"...the plan does not add up."

I understand where Sen. Obama is coming from. As an innovator, he likes to portray a radical plan. Nevertheless, in the political arena, an innovator should also learn how to listen and how to see reality, especially if it involves expenditure. Sen. Obama has to remember that an innovation, whether by invention, discovery, diffusion, or alteration must be based on the environmental and internal factors.

The U.S. economy is ailing today. It is in recession. It can't afford ostentatious spending. As a presidential candidate, one has to promote austerity. One must help save money by deciding to give an acceptance speech at a 21,000-seat Pepsi Center, where the 4-day convention is to be held. Spending more money for a 76,000-seat football stadium just to give an acceptance speech is enough to question if the candidate will really walk the talk.

Let us hope and pray that the elected president come November will really walk the talk.

Here are two clerihew verses for all of us.

Democratic Candidate Barack Obama

Yahoo, Sen. Barack Obama
Enough of these convoluted blah-blah!
"Spending plan doesn't add-up," said Sawhill.
Be realistic if you don't want to go downhill.


Republican Candidate John McCain

Hey, it is Sen. John McCain
Short of money for his campaign
Yet onward he goes, an old army, persevering
That’s the president we need when economy is ailing.

(c) edmund melig industan

Rehabilitating Incarcerated Men: A Mismatch of Expectation?

Hey guys,

I am posting one of my early poems, which reflects the concern of almost all incarcerated me whom I talked with, while I was a volunteer-in-training at the Mark Stiles Unit in Beaumont, Texas.

THE CAGE AND I

The big cage chained arms were gently opened
Releasing learned bird for a crisp, fresh air
Expecting trees with welcoming spirits
Hoping acceptance;forgetting the past.

'The big cage gave me opportunities,'
Said one, 'I realized my immorality!'
Repented and treated, while at the pen,
Ready to enjoy freedom with the sage.

Indeed, for a short time, I enjoyed liberty
Soaring up the sky, chirping good old songs.
Climate changed, my spirit gloomed!
Freedom wasn't good; the cage I now longed.

Flying 'round the forest looking for a tree
To understand me. All now abhor me.
Forget-me-not closed itself completely.
All I thought before, she still needs me.

Heart yearnings for a better tomorrow
Like forget-me-not, leaves curled, became hollow.
Distance myself even to my fellow swallows..
In solitude, ended up crying in the meadow.

Comfortable niche was hard to find
Skills learned at the cage, unappealing.
No more free banana; no one's providing.
I ended up flying from tree to tree maligned.

Hunger took its toll consequently;
Dreams of the cage coming relentlessly.
Thoughts of abundant food, it pushed me...
Hit again a tree to go back in rapidly.

The big cage is surely my place to be.
Limiting, but I'm feed abundantly.
Freedom outside isn't nectar or a tea.
Trees don't want me. Please don't blame me.

(c)2007 edmund melig industan

I will never forget that day when a caucasian guy in his 40s, who's soon to be released. He tightly held my hand before I prayed for him. Then, he said," Please keep remembering me. There are times that I am afraid to think that soon I will be free. I don't know how the outside world would accept me. I am afraid that I won't survive. I learned more livelihood skills while here; however, I am afraid that nobody would give me a chance to use it and better myself."

Now, what's wrong with such feeling from a tough guy?

With rehabilitation as the goal, the American criminal justice system has been providing educational services and opportunities to the incarcerated men. Some even received their associate and baccalaureate degrees while at the pen. Don't you think there is a mismatch with what the justice system has been extending to rehabilitate those in the pen and the society's treatment with those, who has been out of the pen?

Needing More Space in Jail? Don't Make it as a Dormitory of the Privilege!

Anna Gorman, a Los Angeles Times staff writer, wrote last Sunday, June 22, 2008, that the L.A. County is expanding its screening at the county jail. The main goal is to determine who needs to be deported after serving time. The subsidiary goal is to free up jail beds.

Deportation is a good way of freeing up jail beds, but one more thing that the state has to consider is the privileges that it is currently giving to these incarcerated men and women. While ACLU/So. California's legal director reported on April 24, 2007 that the current jail conditions is inconsistent with basic human values, thereby, associating the L.A. Men's Central Jail as a version of Devil's island, my observation in the mid-90s of the American prison is the complete opposite.

I know that the condition, at least, at Mark Stiles Unit in Beaumont, Texas wasn't despicable and inhuman. I regularly visited the unit on weekends in mid-90s, as a volunteer chaplain, who later became a member of an interim committee of the unit's proposed literacy program. There was a time that all the volunteer chaplains-in-training were invited to dine with the inmates as part of the orientation. Being my first, I immediately was shocked to see the place. The entire jail and the inmates were clean, and the mess hall was excellent. As I saw the food, I forgot that I was in a pen. I thought that I was in an immaculately clean fast food restaurant. There were lots of steaming food: mashed potatoes with gravy, corn on the cob, meat loaf, steak, fish, vegetables, and dessert. As a family man and a newly-hired Filipino teacher with the Port Arthur Independent School District, my mind immediately contrasted what I saw. American prisons are a paradise, while Philippine jails (and pretty sure, other developing countries) is a Devil's island, a place where inhabitants are deprived of food, sleep, and sanitation. American prisons are first-class dormitories, while the Philippine jails are pigpens. American prisons have five-star restaurants; most Philippine jails do not even have a closed mess hall. (Incarcerated men squat, while eating. They do not have enough food to go around, just like what people see in the TV program, Prison Break. A group of the prisoners, with the closed watch of armed prison guards, even have to push carts around town to collect any leftovers from the restaurants in mid-day.) Incarcerated men are well-fed, while averaged working people outside the pen can even hardly get by with the salary they receive at the end of the day. Incarcerated felons in the U.S. are the privileged ones; most working people, who pay taxes to keep bad people off the streets are impoverished. No wonder, most of those felons that I have dealt with on one-on-one counseling, were ambivalent in terms of getting out of jail. They knew that life at the pen is easy and care-free than life outside the pen. No wonder, recidivism is high. The Los Angeles Times reported in May 20,2008 that there were 16,000 inmates in Los Angeles county, who were rearrested ( and charged with new crimes)since the large-scale releases started in mid-2002.

Don't you think it is high time for us to really consider how to properly treat our incarcerated men and women? Rehabilitation is our main goal, but that does not mean we have to pamper them with all the 'goodies' while at the pen, that they would rather prefer to commit another crime, soon after they are released, because life outside the penitentiary is harsh and tough. Pampering them with all the amenities, that even those law-abiding citizens have been deprived of, is not rehabilitation at all. Having them realize that life at the pen is a punishment and not a dormitory of the privileged ones would surely bring them to their senses...to think twice before they'd commit another crime. This way, we might have more beds in jails.

A QUATERN ABOUT AN ELUSIVE PEACE

Hi guys,

My good Swede friend, Peter, sent this clip to me two days ago. Please check it out.



Here's a quatern for you. It is one of the poems included in my upcoming book, 150+1 Poems on THE EXPERIMENTAL DASANG (Hey Poem) and 45 OTHER POETRY FORMS: An Anthology. (Note: Quatern is a French poetry form composed of 4 quatrains (4-line verses). It's unique feature is the repetition of the first line of the first quatrain in all succeeding verses.)

PEACE, WHY ARE YOU SO ELUSIVE?

Peace, why are you so elusive?
Like a bird chirping melody
Yet so far to hear you clearly
And translate your notes correctly.

We love to give you sweet embrace
Peace, why are you so elusive?
You flap your wings; you exude grace
White plumes flaunt to attract and tease.

We think of you day in and out
Hope olive branch is dropped en route.
Peace, why are you so elusive?
Guileless victims now in a clout.

Everyone's dreaming to hold you
Hoping never to let you go
Alas! we wake up without you.
Peace, why are you so elusive?

(c)2007 edmund melig industan

Peace is achievable, but it is so sad that, obviously, it is difficult for mankind to achieve. Why? Is it because...
1) People, since time immemorial, love conflict? The Biblical Cain, out of jealousy, ended up killing his twin sibling, Abel.
2) People are so competitive? Generally, we want to outdo and outsmart others. We are like a snake who crawls cleverly to hiss and snap at somebody, then, slithers quietly away as if it hasn't done anything wrong.
3) People, as economic men, are so greedy that we will resort to staging a war to maximize our benefits of the scarce resources at the expense of others? Along the way, we victimize the innocents. While functional theorists see society as interdependent and consensual, conflict theorists see society in the arena of war, fighting for power.
4) People are coward to accept their weakness, that we use conflict as a defense mechanism?
5) It is the end time? (Matthew 24:1-14; Mark 13:5-11)
6) The aging world is so rotten that it has to be crushed and ruined completely for a new world to come and evolve? ( Revelation 21:1-5)

Let me hear from you, my friend. SHALOM! And I mean it from the bottom of my heart. Or maybe man's heart is bottomless? We communicate peace, but actually, it is just at the surface to cover our wickedness.