Sugá
Suddenly, a slice of incandescent light, with a radiance Miguel has never seen before, comes in through the entryway, basking their tiny space with illuminating brightness. A pair of tall figures create shadows in the stilt house as a voice calls out his mother's name and says, "Maayong buntag, magtaod mi sa inyong sugá." (Good morning, we're here to install your lights.)
That voice was Jovie Montajes', and he carries with him not an unidentified threat, but the light of hope, one that is equally unknown to the forgotten citizens of a supposed thriving city. The brave boy, Miguel, is not real, but his story is. This anecdote tells of a life lived every day, replicated a million times in a hundred thousand neglected communities. Whilst we get overly concerned with the resolution of Netflix episodes, and huff over the crisp connectivity of our Zoom calls, just a few kilometres from where we sit inside our well-lit houses and bright corporate buildings, are human beings of the same race with similar needs and equal entitlements that barely know the difference of a light switch and a drawing board.
We wake up to daily comforts of light bulbs that brighten our paths, optical fibres that help us keep our remote jobs, and light-emitting diodes that ensure our children's safety. We live with basic luxuries that are lifelong fantasies for other families, existential needs for pandemic-torn homes, and forgotten human rights for our very own neighbours. Jovie is not alien to both kinds of life, but as the union of opportune circumstance and dedicated hard work carries him out of living in the dark, he has not forgotten those who still thrive in an endless pool of despondent bleakness. Now a licensed engineer and an entrepreneurial founder, he has taken hope back to the harrowing realities of unlit communities and obliterated worlds.
Sometime in the summer of 2020, the sparks of the universe and the stellar map of the cosmos led author, S.D. Waterhaus, to philanthropic planet warrior, Jovie Gil Montajes. Presently working together to bring illuminating solar torches to underserved homes and enlightening revelations to shrouded truths, the minds behind The Antiserum Trilogy and Cloudgrid 1.0 carry the colossal weight of assuaging human suffering one book and one lamp at a time.
Project Durācara. is massively stronger as it partners with Light of Hope, and together we thank you ahead for your continued support of our joint efforts in bringing sustainable light and reawakened hope to each and every home. Learn more about the clean energy advocacy via their webpage www.lightofhopeph.org and their social media channels, Light Of Hope PH and @lightofhopeph.
Penned by Zane
Choose Your Story.
Originally written as a personal cathartic medium of healing against the pains brought by COVID-19, The Antiserum Trilogy now opens its heart to the public, its pages incessantly bleeding from the most hard-hitting pandemic. By giving 100% of its global sales and royalties, the published work turns your patronage into the hand that keeps the suffering from completely walking into the dark abyss and surrendering into hopelessness, suicide or slow, painful death.
The author has created partnerships with UPC, Red Cross Youth, DepEd, PNA, DSWD, LGU, Tangke Grassroots Org, LYDO, and Light of Hope. With their voluntarily invested time, your support reaches those who have lost their jobs, their sanity, their access, their health, their education and their right to safe practice. These people continue to stay in the front lines of our global biological battle, despite facing the enemy naked and unfed.
The Antiserum Trilogy. A fictional book series written from heartbreakingly real stories. It is now on your newsfeed to ask you to help it heal unfathomable pains of living, barely breathing people. Or maybe, even heal you.
Project Name:
This is not an ad. They are truly hurting. Will you help them?
Penned by Zane
A Frontliner Before It Was Cool
I roll off the bed, my feet land on the cold floor. I amble in the dark and trudge to the washroom in a trip I do half-asleep every two hours through the night, expecting the edge of a couch, as I make my way in the dark. But today, there is none. A few hours ago, I sold our daybed to its new parents, it now sits somewhere unknown, in its new home. In the many years I’ve moved my habitat around the globe, I have never, not once, gotten attached to a couch. But this time is notably different. The gaping space that pulsates in the middle of my living hall speaks to me of change, one that excites as much as it scares me. I walk to the bare floor where a four-legged cotton chair once lived, and I lay on the cold ground. I grabbed my mobile to check the time, it is 04:24. I scrolled my albums to get a glimpse of the source of my longing once more, and find myself staring at this photo.
Suddenly, everything is irrefutably, indubitably, wonderfully okay. This woman’s smile, this mother’s eyes, this friend’s laughter. Similar to the stream of loneliness that came upon me like a wash of rain I was unprepared to soak in, another flow of warmth starts in the core of my heart, plants a seed of comfort and grows into an ocean of solace. I am okay. Because of walking angels like Bee Anne, a lot of those who feel a private form of sadness they don’t talk about feel less alone. Because of mothers like Bee Anne, children who would have grown lonely and alone bloom in the nourishing soil of a family that circumvents constraints, for always, they grow as one. Because of nurses like Bee Anne, suffering people who wake up not knowing the difference of living another minute and taking the last breath find their healing, regain their strength, and revive their purpose. When do warriors like Bee Anne seek to be recognised? I tell you, not today, not tomorrow, perhaps, never at all.
Ruby Anne. I have known the woman behind this name for sixteen years, yet, seemingly longer. I have gotten equal amounts of large doses and tiny snippets of the evolution she expertly unfolds, a mystifying transformation greater than dress sizes, career choices, continental crossings, and mutating viral strains. In 2004, I watched her walk into class, her white uniform tightly clinging to her body, immaculately kept as it tries to hold in all of her merry energy. In 2010, I saw her step into the corporate floors I similarly stand in, her business clothes failing to contain the inspiring shades of spritely energy that continue to shine through her eyes. In 2018, I looked as she takes a leap of faith from the height of comfort to the mysterious waves of the unknown in chase of a dream she no longer chose to forget. And in a tumultuous happy turn of events, she restarts. Bee Anne is now back in her white uniform, tightly clinging to her body, immaculately kept as it tries to hold in all of her merry energy and the growth from that tiny human being that once lived in her belly. Yes, Bee Anne is now a mum and like she always was, a curiously unbreakable, undoubtedly impassioned, insanely optimistic nurse.
From year one, Bee Anne has always been a source of funny conversations, dependable thoughts, and surprisingly wacky shenanigans. Fast forward half a dozen exhilarating years later, I find her in my inbox. A few more years roll by, I put her in my Wordpress. A couple of days come and pass, and you see her on your newsfeed, in a nondescript moment of your life. You do not know this yet, but this woman’s story carries with it a breath of inspiration and comfort, and finds you where you need it, when you need it. Not all of us have the courage to say that, and not all of us ever will. But much as we often miss to see it, our hearts know a lot better. It has grown and recovered from the energy we get from courageous women and the confidence we gain from supportive friends. Inspiring it is to see that there are people who walk our dying earth with enough love to revive it, and heartwarming it is to recognise that there is a woman in my life who touches my heavy heart with enough sincerity to resuscitate it.
Thank you, Bee Anne. Your support of my book is already an immeasurable act of kindness on its own, and create a significant impact to those who heal from your generosity. Your naturally given encouragement of my dream bears an even stronger force that puts a tangible dent in the demons that sometimes haunt me. I know you have changed countless more lives, inspired a lot more dreams, doused a greater number of sorrows. In behalf of all the hearts you have caressed with your caring hands, I thank you, and hope that, likewise, someone holds you as selflessly as you do us, too. You were my frontliner, Bee Anne. It is time that I tell you.
Penned by Zane
Entry # 03.
Expressive Writing.
A liberating craft, unconstrained by structure, a cornucopia of content. Three dozen kids come together, most to develop their writing skills, some to seek avenue for their material, a few to find solace in the company of like-minded souls. Theoretical talk is centered mostly on the art and science of expressive writing, how it tinkers with the brain and how our mushy self-aware organ responds to the cathartic craft. Sound knowledge is conveyed, questions answered, sentiments ignited. Finally, it is time to put the pen on fire.
The meeting room goes quiet, screens go blank, the humdrum of activity from facilitating a class is dwindled to the sound of migrating birds, lapping waves and humming centralized air vents. I am once again in my apartment, although I never truly left. Half an hour of time back to myself, I pondered on my learners. They were curious, interesting and still completely unknown. Ultimately, not for long.
Screens zip back up, the class once again reconvenes, and the next minute it diverges. It is fun assimilating the intricacies of modern day learning, and as I am still dizzy with enthralment in the newness of online teaching, I get ushered into a smaller meeting room. More intimate, more pronounced. They read. One by one, they read. The personal masterpieces organically created from the brief period I gave them, fresh from the coaxing of a session born out of a craft that is not entirely new, are poured out to fulfill the hungry listener, to feed the wanting ear. My learners read their material. They welcome us into their minds.
Imagine thirty-two stories painted with words, each one unique, each one emotionally authentic, each one heartbreakingly true. I wish I can read them all to you, but for now, we take it easy, and instantaneously, somehow hard. Let me show you Entry Number Three.
"In Silence.
On the day that the city announced classes would be suspended, my friends and I ran as quickly as we could to get our thesis printed and submitted. It was a Friday, and I remember we were forced to come back to school on the next Monday and Tuesday just to have our finals over with. Although that plan never pushed through, we spent weeks finishing up projects to be submitted online. I would’ve been fine with it. I’m lucky I’m privileged enough to own gadgets where I could comfortably do my work. Sometimes, I could even use it to practice my art and earn money from it. However, I do go to a public school. The words “online classes” still ring in my ears, but I’m sure I have classmates who haven’t even heard of the news yet. I had friends who didn’t know that we weren’t allowed to come back to school on the next Monday, friends who were not able to have their name listed on projects because they weren’t able to help, even friends who live in at risk areas, but we don’t know how they are. I didn’t really bother with this thought at first. I was just excited and angry. Excited that the finals would be cancelled, but angry that the government didn’t do anything earlier. Because I didn’t think about it a lot back then, I would usually find myself doing one productive thing every day during March, then scroll through Twitter just to pass the hours. As much as I tried to tie myself together with the fake illusion of productivity, I was falling apart at the stories of underprivileged Filipinos who have been arrested, who barely have anything left to eat. Of course, I had to voice out my opinions. To be honest, I was never into politics a few months back, but ever since I was tasked to debate in class, I witnessed many different stories that are better resources than official publications and scientific journals. I don’t understand why it’s so easy for other people to believe scientific evidence, but cannot believe real life stories. I cannot fathom how people can look into someone else’s eyes and doubt what they go through. Throughout the next three months, I have been very vocal about my stand regarding politics and how the government is not able to provide for the unprivileged. I try to speak, but all others do is shut me off and say “I’m not doing anything to make the situation better.” It pains me that it has to be that way. It pains me that all I can ever do is listen to stories on the Internet. Stories of real people that cannot be heard from a high horse. I wondered, is the world really just all about money? Is that how selfish everything is? I didn’t agree with any sentiment made, but I stayed quiet. There’s no point making an effort for a future that won’t arrive. If we aren’t allowed to work on it now, fix whatever is broken in the system, then I don’t think it’s worth living up to. I guess that’s why my past three months haven’t been productive at all. I’m out of hope that any of this will ever make sense, or if any of this will ever be worth it, or if any of this will ever end. I wish we hadn’t walked all the way to the print shop on the last day of school under the hot summer sun, just to get that thesis printed and submitted. There’s hardly any point in its existence now. I wish I had said something else."Author does not wish to remain anonymous, so we create her image and picture her name in the thousand-and-some words that came before this. But if you wish to know more about her, we ascertain that you can. All you have to do, is read her work again. For that is what we gain, when we embrace Expressive Writing.
#dancinginthestrain
Penned by Zane
We are at Crowdfunder.UK
As COVID-19 takes us to a whirlwind of possibilities, we are also inching closer and closer to realising the mobilisation of our project goals, giving PPE's to our under-protected frontliners, giving alimentation to our exposed homeless, and giving back life to those who have been left hopeless by the inescapable tentacles of our present-day pandemic.
We are almost there.
Head on to this link to give us your support:
Incognito Strength
Looking around the festive hall, we gather like swarms of locust around her, dwarfed by the amber-lit high ceiling vestibule and the brassy chandelier. I do not know if everyone who wished her merry years, or whisked her to a dance onstage with one of the eighteen roses, or gave her treasures she was meant to keep for the rest of her life truly made her evening, but she looked happy. That was 15 years ago. She probably does not recall as much of the details as I do, that is if I even really do. From an era where debutante balls perfuse social dictates, it is almost hard to tell which one is from the other. But why do I remember hers? The next bit is probably as new to her as it is to you, because I never got around to telling her, but that was the night I said yes to the man I would marry eight years later. Now that marriage may have been short lived, but my friendship with her thankfully eluded the temporal nature of constant companionship.
People do not see Kath and I walk around the campus , elbows locked as we galavant through the halls, or share late-night shots in bar tables in our college uniforms, or go to rock concerts hours before midterms, burning lungs instead of eyebrows. No, they did not. I did those nonsensical youthful prances with some others, while Kathleen spent the turbid years quietly, outside the prying eyes of social judgment. Or did she?
This is Kathleen now. In the last two decades I have known her, I see the child behind the curious eyes, the woman behind the regal smile, and the soul behind the pained but strong tears she does not show she cry. Of all the many friends I have kept and those who have kept me, Kath is one whose connection I have with, I daresay, is transcendentally cosmic, or just probably odd. Absent of daily chats or naughty memories or shared lifelong dreams, ours is one that is a category on its own. One that makes me send her a message when I feel that she needs it, and one that makes her endearingly welcome me when I am just being sociably pesky.
Because this is Kathleen. Like the people whose imagined existence are now as tangible as the pages of Antiserum, its readers bear very real narratives of very real lives. Like she holds the book in her hands, Kathleen is a breathing character whose agonies and victories inspire the words, evoke the emotions, and create the humanity behind the fictional story. Like how you read this publication, families and cities and nations will know the genuine tribulations of your world, for the made-up names tell your story, the ones no longer waiting to be heard.
I also write this to tell you something else. Outside of the words that I try to keep lightly is the strong message that I am a bit of my friend, Kath, as I feel she is a bit of me. I identify with her inner conflicts, personal wars, and human heartaches, and if you have someone in your life like that, please remember to drop her, him, all of them, a line. One day, it may just be more than that.
Penned by Zane
Generosity, Unld.
Our relentless troop of volunteers once again find their busy hands full answering to the call of nature - for cleanliness. Earlier this Saturday, like they do every weekend, the infamous Tangke Volunteers march into the sandy shores of Talisay City scouring for filthy remains that mask not human faces but the beach's stretch of land that we proudly call pristine.
At a time when the rest of the world are too occupied with staying away from contact contagion that even disposal of their own rubbish is often neglected, our faceless superheroes shoulder the responsibility and voluntarily come to the rescue. From today, with this publication and your greatly valued attention, they shall remain faceless no more.
Meet our indigenous breed of present-day Avengers, who do not wait for a ring on the private red phone or a bat-shaped distress signal beaming to the clouds from a searchlight to be on the frontlines of the War of the Waste Worlds. Armed only with the bravery in their hearts and the blue triple-layer gauze that, in no way, bury their smiles, they inhale the malodorous air that makes it through the filter and trade their personal discomfort for clean public shores. Once or twice every weekend, while we decide what Netflix show to watch, they are out there, functioning as the valiant arms and legs of people who, unfortunately, either do not have the capacity or the heart to leave the shores as cleanly as they found them.
Hundred-and-some words later, I imbibe all readers to unite towards a cleaner Mother Earth. In the same way that we distance ourselves from the contagion, let us all inch closer towards a more sustainable planet, one that will continue to happily welcome us when we come back out from the dark ages of COVID-19.
Penned by Zane
More Than An Excerpt
..but this line is more than an excerpt.
It is the true and fatal story of a beating heart that stopped before it can be spared, and is the living tale of another, one that can still be saved.
Let us Kill COVID-19 With Kindness. Join our advocacy where every book tells the fallen’s story while funding the help the rest of the ailing world need. #dancinginthestrain
Find the pages @ https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B089M6161C
Penned by Zane
Uncover The Cover
What’s behind a front cover? Before the written words that sprawl over filled pages, is a story that begs to be told.
Like the message it bears, the elements of this photo are of very organic sources. No model paid for, no accessories orchestrated, no spurious poses rehearsed. Conservatively styled with contagion gear later actually used to walk the COVID-19-riddled streets, and a plumeria plucked from the muddy dirt be-flowered by the fallen but unforgotten, it is a symbolism of the pandemic’s unadorned truths.
Image Copyright: Author
At the core of this indigenous art is the kind of hope that is fatally elusive, but no less, existent. In his nakedness, man lie equally exposed to the alien virulence, unprotected by neither social stature nor fiscal strength. From the net of safety brought by powdered rubber gloves and filtered surgical masks rise the existential need for relief, for reprieve from the protective articles that prolong our existence but dim out our lives. The pivotal search for the golden elixir that heals the incurable eventually drives man to unexplored heights and unprecedented sacrifices.
The untold is now spoken, our race stop at nothing until we hold in our own hands, the ambiguous Antiserum.
Opening Day!
On its online launch on the 6th of June, Antiserum becomes a humble recipient of congenial support from our generous audience.
Already making attractive performance on the charts from day one, it starts from a promising point in the path towards the fulfillment of its philanthropic mission.
With gratitude that escapes mundane words, the author thanks you from the emotionally-imploding bottom of her prismatic human core.
Because of you, the world is becoming a better place, one book at a time.
Penned by Zane