Dead Stars, as what Fernandez revealed on her readings, is not only worth a glimmer of tears but a real sense of discovery. Despite years of not having read it, there still lies a certain degree of combined mystery and fascination— the feeling of being exposed repeatedly at something familiar yet it doesn’t fail to give off the sense of new discovery. That is the charm of the short story “Dead Stars” which sprang from the mind of Paz Marquez-Benitez.

We have Alfredo Salazar, the man who, despite the life of luxury he has, is still burdened with this “formless melancholy”. Is it because he impulsively mortgage the hidden possibilities of the future to fill his craving for transient excitement? That the use of force in the hand of Time or of Fate has made him miss the Love? But it is Julia Salas to everyone but Julita only for Alfredo, the woman of his “last spurt of hot blood”. The root of his frequent “neighboring” to the house on the hill that once meant nothing to him. The receiving end of his “something” that he is not free to give. And there’s Esperanza— waiting, the maid who can be in a hurry if only his man does hurry her. The root of Alfredo’s “tumultuous haste” and the receiving end of his “certain placidity of temperament”. In a star-studded sky, which one among shines the brighter? The star that has already been discovered above the “dappled shadow of the trees in the plaza” or the star which has been spotted yet never been discovered above the "open porches of the Martinez yard"?

After the last word has been said, the passage of four years attest that love cannot withstand dignity, expectations and reputation in a society where it is being valued highly. Alfredo marries Esperanza, and he is not somewhere in between wildly unhappiness and wildly happiness— a safe spot for “no stirring up of emotions” which only leads “the man in nowhere”. But that “unforgettable red-and-gold afternoon in early April”, four years ago, repeats itself in the “cool, stilly midnight” of Calle Luz. Julia Salas has not changed much, yet something is gone. Or perhaps, the loss is his?

And as the young moon sets in, he realized that it is all over. The piece of mystery that the other star holds, will be forever in mystery, like Love on his vanished youth— an eternal puzzle that he missed.

Julia Salas, the fire once burned in his heart has now long extinguished. She is Alfredo’s dead love, but she has still a special place in his heart like a star once shone the brightest in the star-studded sky, now long tarnished but still there in its appointed place in the heavens.

Last night, I watched Once in a Summer.

I had no expectations when I started watching it. I hadn't heard about this film before from anyone I know, which is why I might have been just right in a comfortable spot.  Since the preview of this film wasn't available on Netflix and I was too lazy to search for it on YouTube, I just jumped into it right away. In the first few minutes, I was still trying to find my way into it. Admittedly, I was reluctant to continue watching it, wondering if I should push through, as there was a possibility I wouldn't like it once I was halfway through. 

Once in a Summer started with a slow and somewhat enigmatic buildup. The characters who opened the film disappeared as the story progressed. They had their fair share of moments, especially with Byung-Hun, but I don’t think they had any meaningful exchanges. I was hoping for more of his perspective, possibly a closer look at himself in his later years. I can’t recall if there’s a scene in the film that shows significant details about him in his prime, which I wish had been included. Even small moments of retrospection while he shared his past with Su-Jin were absent. Perhaps I badly wanted to witness his process of recalling those memories—to see the joy and remorse of his past etched into his wrinkled face. Those little details, I felt, were overlooked.

Was it because he was a professor at the time, and there was a deliberate effort to create an air of mystery around him? Or was it a conscious decision to provide minimal details about his older self to place greater emphasis on his youth in the flashback?

The reason I say this is that I noticed how he was portrayed with such care—offering only a few glimpses of his identity, which built a sense of mystery for the audience. During Su-Jin's next visit, he asked her to sing for him. The request felt so random that I immediately thought there must be a deeper meaning behind it. Su-Jin sang hesitantly—she looked awkward, yet displayed a small measure of confidence despite her lack of singing skill. Then, a smile flickered across the professor's face, and it was a moment of discovery. He even jokingly told her not to sing again, which revealed another layer of his character. I had assumed he was a stern and solemn man—his voice had given me that impression. I also thought he might dismiss her again despite her persistence. But when she asked if he wanted them to locate someone he had been longing to meet, he paused, and in that moment, I felt something significant was about to unfold.

A long flashback of events appeared abruptly.

I was slightly taken aback by the sudden shift to the past. I immediately thought about the way it was delivered— it wasn't that smooth, and, in a way, it felt like the first part of the flashback was forced. There was just no "solid" premise for it, in my opinion. Anyway, the flashback started with him sitting with other students, raising their fist in the air. They were shouting, and he looked so reluctant. By the look of it, the film started strong in that scene—it almost excited me.

Almost.

However, I was left there in that spot. 

Hanging. 

I was expecting there to be at least enough protest scenes to significantly set this film apart from others of its kind in a similar genre. Or perhaps, I was hoping to be enlightened on why they started that scene with "that" and what it was meant to convey. I also thought the story’s plot would revolve around that theme, and while it technically did, it was only emphasized as lightly as possible. As soon as the flashback transitioned to their arrival in the village, the focus drastically shifted to his encounters with the lovely Jung-In, which dominated most of the film.

Apparently, they drove out there to help the villagers in their rural tasks. I was not sure though if that was an act of initiative for the sense of service or they were asked to go there in the course of their protest. Whatever it was, as soon as they got there, I saw their genuine assistance to the people and how eventually they grew fond to the warmth of the countryside ablaze with the colors of summer. There's a simple touch of once life in every spectacular views of rural sceneries which effectively accentuated by the use of different shades of orange—a color of nostalgia. 

Throughout the film, the story revolved around Byung-hun's mischievous attempts to catch Jung-In.  He was impish and easy to the eyes especially for the older women in the village. However, he was drawn more to Jung-In when he saw her being scolded by the head of the village and was being whispered about by some people there. So, when he saw her walking along the fields without her usual bright face, he pestered her. Then the sky rained over the place, making both of them run and they stopped over that deserted house to wait for the raindrops to calm. I guess, that moment was the first serious one they had. I remember that I did not understand Jung-In's tale to Byung-Hun about the fish and the stone. But I remember when Byung-Hun gave her a stone with a fish-like carve that night when they missed the last bus and they had no choice but to walk for miles. 

Basically, it would be a simple simple film if it weren't for the light touch of the heightened student protest at their time. I just wish it was elaborately laid down more to add depth to the film and to the relationship between Byung-Hun and Jung-In. But it was actually evident that they wanted to set the focus more on the heartwarming romance of the two, with other concepts being in the peripheral of it all. 

I would like to take note of how their moments in the countryside took up the majority of the film while the one they had as soon as they set their foot in the bustling city of Seoul was so brief. As if it was mimicking the slow and gentle life in the rural by the use of the duration, and the more or less thirty minutes was rendered to their scenes in the city which mimics the fast-paced life people have there. 

The title was also trying to imply a sense of longing. The production could have just called it That Summer or something like that but there's the word "once" which we used when we mean that 'at a time in the past but not now or not anymore". It was like saying that that particular summer just passed by, and unfortunately it was only one summer experience which did not happen again or would not happen anymore because it was already gone— the people, the moment, the chance... 

More than anything else, Once in a Summer is a good film to watch at your leisure. It was not heavy but it could move you to reflect on things especially how its cinematography evoked a sense of nostalgia. It will also give you an idea of how's the life in South Korea was in the year of 1920 especially the tension between the country's regime and the prevailing political demonstration led by the students. 

This film will take you back to simple and old good times that was once so gentle but is almost now improbable to reach. 

Widespread electric power outages—comfortably called "brownouts" rather than "blackouts" here in Manila (and perhaps in other places as well)—were never, not even once, an inconvenience to the eyes of a small child.

For me, it was freedom. One of the peaks, if not the peak, of our childhood memories.

"Brownout"—with a lavish stress on the B and R while the rest of the letters were delivered in an almost easy, negligible manner—was, to me, a cherished occurrence and an invitingly comfortable interruption.

Whenever I picture our experiences during brownouts in retrospect, I always recall our world shutting off, leaving nothing but a spooky sight of jet-black emptiness, mottled with flashes of white flashlights. Then, our street would materialize into a candle-lit pavement, instinctively filled with passionate breaths. Through my eyes, I saw the familiar twinkle of candles dancing among the absences of light. Mosquitoes would rise and clamor, playfully leaping in the air. Our eyes seemed to reach into the mysteries of the darkness, lost in fascination. It was mesmerizing. And in those moments, I wished we could gather like that in the shade… not forever, but at least much longer than usual, just to feel that thrill once more, so alive when we were still absorbed and oblivious to the world.

I also remember how it was always so hot and airless. However, as young and lively as we were, we welcomed this kind of "inconvenience" with nonchalance. Rather than being irritated, we saw it as a chance to play even more. Brownouts were our closest ally when we wanted to stretch out our time hanging out with neighborhood friends.

I suppose the reason why kids have a soft spot for this kind of disruption is that brownouts usually happen at night. And by nighttime, as soon as it got dark, we were no longer allowed to play as we pleased. "Siesta na," my grandmother would say strictly as soon as we got home, looking sour-faced, while we were grimy and stinky from playing. I later learned that "siesta" usually refers to a rest after the midday meal, so I’m not sure why my grandmother used it in the late afternoon. But it was only during brownouts that we could have an exception to play outside. Since it was stuffy indoors, we were allowed to step out for some fresh air, which we often took as an opportunity to extend our childhood just a bit longer, now under the thrill of a dim, shadowed night.

And then there was the "Glow Stick Bracelet" (which I only recently discovered is actually called that). It was popular among the kids on our block, and we used it every time there was a brownout. It cost around five pesos back then, which felt expensive to me at that age. Essentially, it was a glowing stick in pretty colors of our choice that we wore as a bracelet. It was such a sight to behold.

After my last memory of it, I never saw it again, not even until now.

The years rolled on without much notice, and my memories of brownouts slipped away. I suppose that’s because brownouts are now rare where we live. And when they do happen, I find myself getting annoyed by them. In the Philippines, it is consistently hot even when it supposedly shouldn’t be, and the inconvenience of a brownout in this unbelievable heat frustrates me, interrupting my focus on work.

The experience just isn’t the same anymore.

I suppose that’s what happens as you grow up. You lose the warmth that once welcomed this inconvenience, and you no longer have the same energy to find beauty in the darkness. You see it for what it is, without the wide-eyed wonder of a child.

Last year, I discovered podcasts.

They were one of the things I found during the pandemic and have since kept me from sinking into my thoughts or dozing off while working. Currently, I’m listening to a few podcasts—all local ones, if I recall correctly. The last podcast I listened to in February was Ang Walang Kwentang Podcast by Juan Miguel Severo and Antoinette Jadaone, which I think also began during the pandemic.

I think everyone at that time, and even now, was trying to preserve each other’s sanity.

Ang Ang Walang Kwentang Podcast isn’t actually a nonsensical podcast. I enjoy listening to others' personal experiences, whether it's their late realizations, reflections on their past selves, or their views on life’s complexities. In this podcast, I like how humor emerges naturally because of the relatable content. But there’s one episode I haven’t forgotten. I can’t recall which episode it was, but I remember how astounded I felt when they talked about the frequent power outages during a certain period.

They shared childhood memories, especialwaly about being told not to do this or that because of various reasons. Then they discussed how brownouts were so frequent in their time that they happened more often than not, and how parents used these power outages to keep their kids home. I’m not sure if they also mentioned the "Kulto" stories and other urban legends that once effectively kept people indoors.

They delved into this topic and considered different angles, even wondering if these interruptions were meant to keep people from the truth.

What if frequent brownouts were just a way for those in power to lurk in the shadows and control something we had no idea about?

After listening to that episode, it struck me how things that seemed simple to me back then could now be seen in such a deep light… now that I’m an adult.

Because, really, it made sense.

I like how the gentle magic of brownouts when I was a kid could also be viewed as something almost bewitching, like black magic.