And be so until the day I die:
The next Benilda Santos, perhaps, although not just quite yet maybe? What about the Oscar Campomanes sans the overabundance of jouissance (HAHA) or the awkward, fashionably impoverished version of a Mark Cayanan? I’d also gladly follow in the steps of the deity Maximino Pulan — if He allows me — only I wouldn’t be climbing mountains and keeping orphan frogs inside my office; of Teresa Tinio who is fiercely brilliant and respected; of the poet Vincenz Serrano whose seemingly amazing lifestyle I wouldn’t mind having.
But in the end who am I to emerge as but a Dana Torio? The point is that I believe I know that one thing I could do for the rest of my life without getting anything in return, only more of that “loving struggle with the text,” with the world, and with words.
