Dionela Aesthetics

"Bawat Kislap ng Mata Mo ay Ano?" 
Lo-fi Aesthetics, Lyrical Obscurity, and the Construction of Meaning in Contemporary OPM

The fluorescent lights of a specific supermarket in Estancia Estates buzzed, casting a sterile glow over the meticulously arranged aisles. It was a Sunday afternoon, the air thick with multiple aisles of household needs — meat and vegetables, to kitchen cleaning items, up to the beauty section in the middle of the toiletries and toilettes. I was there, ostensibly for groceries, targeting a PHP 1,500 spending, but to make my chore a bit interesting, I tuned to the melancholic melodies of Dionela, a new discovery, his music streaming from my phone, a small island of calm amidst the consumerist chaos. 

"Marilag" played, the familiar intro washing over me. But this time, something was different. I noticed the faint echo of an FM radio broadcast in the distance, a disembodied voice announcing the date: "September 20, 2005." This unexpected intrusion, this ghost of a past broadcast, piqued my curiosity. Why this date? Was it a deliberate inclusion, a hidden message, or simply a sonic artifact, a byproduct of the lo-fi aesthetic that permeated his music? This seemingly insignificant detail, however, foreshadowed the disorienting experience that would soon unfold as I delved deeper into Dionela's discography.

Dionela's music, with its hazy textures and melancholic undertones, had quickly become the soundtrack to my life. It was the perfect accompaniment to my grocery shopping, the background music for my sacks of rice, the sonic balm for my anxieties with processed chicken and beef. Yet, as I delved deeper into his discography, a nagging unease began to surface.

The lyrics, while undeniably poetic, often felt… elusive. Lines like "D'Amalfi in a bar" and "Au in a Goose" floated by, intriguing yet ultimately meaningless. They were like cryptic messages in a bottle, beautiful in their obscurity, yet ultimately unsolvable. Was this intentional? Was Dionela deliberately aiming for ambiguity, inviting listeners to project their own interpretations onto his enigmatic verses?

This question, I realized, was the crux of my dilemma. Dionela's music, with its emphasis on atmosphere and sonic texture, seemed to prioritize ambiance over narrative. The lo-fi aesthetic, with its intentional imperfections and grainy textures, created a sense of intimacy, a shared secret between the artist and the listener.

However, this emphasis on the sonic experience can sometimes overshadow the lyrical content. At its core, lo-fi is about finding beauty in the imperfect and unrefined. It is a counterpoint to the hyper-commercialized, overly produced content flooding mainstream media. Instead of striving for perfection, lo-fi embraces the raw, the unfinished, and the nostalgic. This emphasis on authenticity, on the imperfections of analog recording and the embrace of sonic imperfections, creates a sense of intimacy and authenticity. It invites the listener to "get closer," to appreciate the nuances and subtleties of the sound.  

While the lo-fi aesthetic champions the beauty of the imperfect, it should not come at the expense of the authenticity of the lyrical message. Furthermore, the listening experience was disjointed by my own tendency to mishear lyrics. I vividly remember mishearing the line "Ibigin ka'y drama sa teatrong upua'y limitado, Bawat kislap ng mata'y kawalan, oo" as "Ibigin kita'y drama sa upuang ginawa mo, bawat kislap ng mata mo ay ano?" This mishearing, while seemingly minor, significantly altered the meaning of the song for me, highlighting the importance of clear and concise lyricism in conveying the intended message.

In Dionela’s “Sining,” the phrases like "Pinasala’y ikinamada / mo Binibining may Salamangka" felt incongruous with the otherwise smooth flow of the music, as if a disaster should be manually organized by fictitious persona. The juxtaposition of the archaic 'ikinamada' with the modern, almost casual phrasing of 'Binibining may Salamangka' creates a sense of dissonance, undermining the intended emotional impact of the song. This disjointedness, further exacerbated by the occasional miss of the musical beat, hinders the listener's ability to fully connect with the lyrical message. Moreover, the phrase "You’ve turned my limbics into a bouquet" felt not only grammatically and medically impossible (limbic system is a singular noun that controls (1) Behavior, (2) Emotion, (3) Motivations, and (4) Memory), but also metaphorically jarring, its attempt at poetic flourish coming across as pretentious and ultimately distracting.

This elusiveness, while perhaps intentional, can be frustrating for listeners. In a world saturated with information and instant gratification, the demand for immediate comprehension and clear meaning is strong. Dionela's music, with its emphasis on ambiguity and the subjective interpretation, can challenge this expectation, potentially alienating listeners who crave a more direct and accessible form of communication. "Oksihina," in particular, became a personal pet peeve. Aside from gender-bending the Tagalog word for the Oxygen, the song title has been stylized in a Filipino slang that can be mistaken as a Japanese loan word. In my mind I asked, “If the muse is Oksihina, then what is the persona – a Carbon Dioxide?" The lyrics, we felt, were fragments of thought, poetic musings that lacked a cohesive narrative. They were beautiful, yes, but ultimately frustrating in their ambiguity. Also, the deliberate insertion of the bridge to mask it as a hidden message is only a reversed typeset of the first stanza from his lesser famous song “Musika”. It may be amusing to the other listeners (and can highly be mistaken as a regional language), but what is the intent of inserting a totally different concept and not even a tangent with the muse being the reason of existing? Am I missing the point? Am I too caught up in the search for meaning, for a clear and concise narrative, to appreciate the beauty of the ambiguity?

Perhaps this was the point. Maybe Dionela was not concerned in telling stories in as much as he was interested in creating moods, in evoking emotions. Maybe the music was not about conveying a specific message; it was about creating an atmosphere, an emotional landscape for the listener to explore. The "meaning" was not in the lyrics themselves, but in the quirks between the notes, in the way the music interacted with the listener's own internal world. These lyrical oddities, while perhaps intentional, served to disrupt the flow of the music and hindered my emotional connection with the song. It felt as if Dionela was more concerned with impressing the listener with his gimmicky vocabulary and hipstery-malalim-na-tagalog allusions than with conveying a genuine, authentic message. These seemingly random and often obscure references served only to distract and frustrate. They felt like buzzwords, designed to impress rather than to communicate. I found myself constantly searching for hidden meanings, trying to decipher the cryptic messages, but ultimately feeling more lost than enlightened.

Dionela's linguistic gymnastics, reminiscent of Facebook and TikTok influencers using deep words and non-vernacular vocabulary to seemingly uplift the authenticity of the work, ultimately backfired. The artificial mix of old Filipino words with a totally new slang, coupled with the misalignment of lyrics with the musical beat, created a sense of dissonance that disrupted the intended emotional impact. This "brain rot pattern," as I have come to call it, was further glazed with a low fidelity tune that becomes relaxing and numbing between the left and right ears, subliminally making you ignore the poetics of the craft. After all, lo-fi is supposed to vibe and not critic.

After picking that 5-kilogram sack of Jasmine Rice, I went straight to the cashier. The musical experience mirrored my tape receipt. The spending of PHP 3,343.18 doubled the initial budget, driven by a strange impulse fueled by the same kind of "lo-fi" experience – the soothing background music, the dim lighting, the effortless flow of the shopping cart. I emerged from the supermarket with a mountain of unnecessary items – a surplus of paper towels, a collection of hair ornaments I did not need, and, most tragically, no broccoli for my planned stir-fry. My Sunday experience mirrored the effect of Dionela's music – a pleasant, even enjoyable experience, ultimately leading to a sense of disconnect from my original purpose and a slight feeling of regret.

Perhaps we are in a dystopic social media phase where we must re-engage with an art that numbs us from the realities of the world. The allure of the lo-fi aesthetic, with its promise of authenticity and intimacy, can inadvertently mask a deeper engagement with the art itself. In the pursuit of creating a "mood," we may be inadvertently sacrificing the power of storytelling, the ability of art to challenge, to provoke, to truly resonate with the human experience.

2025 is Tenacity

In the surrounding cacophony of the tooting torotot and booming boga, I am here in the little paradise of my high-rise home with the happy beats of Cup of Joe and Maki. I was supposed to write a long entry to welcome 2025 but at the moment, all I can think are the movements I did across the year 2024:

a. Attended PRPB Book Talakayan inasmuch as I can

b. Submitted essays to the first citywide Writing Workshop

c. Participated in Bookish Festivals 

d. Became a reactor in another citywide Writing Workshop

e. Became a judge in an online writing competition

f. Binge-hiked the Japanese Alps

g. Celebrated Christmas and a beach getaway with the siblings 

I used to tell colleagues and friends that my personal measurement of success is movement, because this gave the freedom I craved in this long apocalypse of late-stage capitalism, rampant corruption and chaotic cultural divide. With this year's salvo of Tank & Gank, I was able to tank in the negativity and gank with the little victories I trekked along the way. As 2024 ends, I do hope that I can transcend this personal movement to the little pockets of community that I belong with. With the minutes before 2025, I wish you all a healthy and safe and bountiful year ahead. 

2025 will be my year of Tenacity, and it will be definitely tested as I introspect on how to continuously instill foundations for the retirement life of writing that I so long desire. But for this moment, we drink and be merry! 

Timestamp. Screenshot. Pagninilay. Pagtatahi.

Alam mo ba M—,

Grabe! Napakainit! Hindi naman ganito noong mga bata pa tayo. O baka, tinitiis lang natin ang init at hirap ng paglalakbay mula sa bahay papuntang school dahil wala naman tayong sapat na baon. Naalala ko pa noon na 100 lang ang baon ko sa bawat araw sa PUP, at ang klase natin ay naka-schedule mula 9AM hanggang 9PM, nang may pagitan na tatlong oras mula 12-3PM. Nakakaloko, kasi kahit Php5.50 lang mula Boni Ave to Stop and Shop, eh hirap pa rin akong pagkasyahin ito sa dalawang beses na kain sa buong maghapon, at sa pagbabayad ng mga pa-xerox natin ng mga assignment at papa-print ng feasibility study. 

Bigla kong lang naalala ang ganitong mga sandali ng buhay-estudyante nang ako'y mag-grab car mula rito sa aking maliit na condo papunta sa isang coffee shop na namumutiktik ng mga estudyanteng isang sakay lang mula sa Katipunan. Ang ganda ng lugar, grabe. Samu't-saring upuan, malamig at maaliwalas ang ambience, at naisip kong pwedeng mag-book talakayan. Mabigat kasi yung akdang naka-toka sa akin, kaya naisip ko na maging #teata at pumili ng espasyo na okay at pwedeng magwalwal ng kaisipan, kayang maghimay ng tema at pagnilayan ang ingay at gulo ng aklat na tungkol (raw) sa untold stories (kuno) ni Magsaysay (as the backdrop). Nang makita ko si J—, sinabi kong dito na kami magtatalakay — at wala na akong pake kung tingin ng mga batang miyembro ng book club ay isa na akong matandang babaeng may big anteh energy at MC (main character) complexity, ang madalas na staple ng Overheard in Manila memes. 

Nang makaupo si J—, nagdaldalan kami about sa pag-hi ko sa kanyang Tita at pagtanong ko kung pwede ko syang maging Ninang sa kasal, kahit wala pa akong fiance na ikakasal. Nabanggit rin ang kaunting sipat ng pamilya, at ang dinamiko ng mga pag-uusap ng mga magkakapatid. Sinabi niyang huwag ko raw syang daldalin, kasi plano niyang magsulat sa conducive coffee shop na yun. 

Anong ginawa ko, aba'y syempre, lalo kong dinaldal. HAHAHAHAH

Kaya ako nag-hi kasi may tatlo akong agenda: 1. Maging Ninang si Tita; 2. Magpasa ng manuscript ng mga sanaysay; at 3. Kapag ang dalawa ay palpak, mag-invest sa negosyo nya. (Siguro pang-apat ang gawin itong Publicly-listed Corporation at magkaroon ng ticker AVND sa Stock Exchange, pero sobrang suntok sa buwan na 'yun). Sigurado na ako M—. Paninindigan ko na ang pagbuklat ng lahat ng liham na hindi mo mababasa at ilalahad ang ilang mga personal na lihim sa madla. 

Nagsumbong ako tungkol sa paggawa ko ng sanaysay. Nagrereklamo? Siguro? I-english ko - I ruminate about the conversations of Call to Action. These panelists (who I believe are peak GenX) told me about the traditional forms of essay-writing. Essays are engines of persuasion. What they need is the spirit of the call to action. They were asking about my composition. Yes, the tone is very entertaining and very understandable. Yes, the world-building and the register of experiences are everpresent. But where is the soul, that echo of a call to action? Qiqil. 

Kailangan ba sa bawat sanaysay ay may ganitong panawagan? Peak millenial ako. I am better with breaking norms, katulad nating ang mga batang binabaklas ang mga nakagisnang kamalayan noon. Utilizing websites and social media to store the signs of times, like putting it in a time capsule and preserving a little piece of sub-culture. Anong call to action? Hindi naman ako college student noong EDSA Revolution. Ginawa ako noong EDSA nina Papa at Mama. Pero paano ko kung sasabihin kong hindi pala espiritu ng EDSA ang labing-labing moments nila, kundi isang episode ng sigawan at sisihan ng unwanted pregnancy, just because the medicine has been forgotten by the mommy and the event is being gaslighted by the daddy? Paanong magkakaroon ng pormal na panawagan, kung tayo ang epitome na tagatanggap ng mga trauma ng mga boomer nating mga magulang? Jusq M— hanggang ngayon ang mga magulang ko ay hindi marunong mag-sorry. Dahil hindi yata kinamulatan. Trabaho ko ba bilang superwoman ang manawagan, o magpataas ng antas ng kalinangan ng panitikan, or whatever have you? Unang-una badang, mga accountant tayo. Kung tutuusin, MS Excel ang ating main software sa propesyon at hindi MS Word. Bigyan ko kaya sila ng vlookup jan, eh.

= VLOOKUP,("Nasaan ang Call to Action?",1965-1980,1 panelist,TRUE)

= #NA

O diba, error. Pero sige for transparency:

= IFERROR(VLOOKUP,("Nasaan ang Call to Action?",1965-1980,1 panelist,TRUE),0)

= 0

O diba, nganga!

So yun nga, pwede bang kaysa maging shrill us sa power of persuasion ay chill lang mga bebegurl at bebeboi? Lalo na at ang binabaklas natin ay ang bulag na paniniwalang matatag ang istrukturang gumagana noong unang panahon. Hello, di ba nga naniniwala pa sila sa diwa ng EDSA noong Presidential campaign ni Leni Robredo? Pero anong nangyari? Nabasag ang pilosopiya nang manalo ang gaguhan ng pagboboto. Either may pulis na nang-iintimidate, o may 31Mn na hindi tao (kundi data) at nagpanalo sa tao. Narito tayo para ipakita at i-call out ang mga i-call out. And tbh, hindi ko kaya ang panghahamig at paghihikayat na manawagan ng rebolusyon. Dahil baka mawalan ako ng trabaho. Kapag walang trabaho, walang pambayad ng condo. 

Naisip ko sa lahat ng hanash ko kay J—, ang trabaho ko bilang moderator (ng bookclub) at bilang budding writer (wow, sarap pakinggan!) ay magpamulat sa mambabasa sa pamamagitan ng paglalahad. Maipakita ko kung gaano kabaho ang isang bulok na sistema. Again, as a peak millenial, what we have are collective traumas, frustrations, and a tendency of resignation. At ang tanging paraan para maipamana natin sa batang mambabasa ang kritikal na pag-iisip ay ang paano tatahiin ang lahat ng timestamp at screenshot. We are really nearing the breaking point: GenX are slowly becoming boomers, Millenials are now the leaders, and GenZ are the emerging voices who call for immediate action, in a federated and sub-cultural way. All this while boomers stay boomers and out of touch from the lores of the post-pandemic, and Alpha Gen is facing the education crisis and polarizing realities.

Naniniwala ako sa GenZ na kaya nilang pagtahi-tahiin ang lahat ng rehistro ng wika at ng mga kamalayang sub-cultural at meme-ish dahil mabilis rin ang daloy ng impormasyong gawa ng social media. Sa instagram pa lang, mas ma-post sila sa stories na 24 hours compared sa ating mga millenial jejes na ang hihilig mag-post! Bawat ganap, may post, may caption. Hindi sa binabatikos ko ang posterity measures natin; nasasabi ko lang na magaling talaga tayo magtala ng mga kaganapan ng mundo. At lagi ko ngang sinasalmo recently na "Ang kasaysayan ngayon ay umuusbong sa huntahan ng mga tsaa at tsismisan." Magaling ang millenial sa huntahan at tsaa at paano ito ire-record, at naniniwala akong mas magaling ang GenZ at iba pang batang mambabasa na sipatin ang lahat ng record at maging mapanuri, at mapagtahi ito sa isang kasaysayan ng pagbabago. 

 

Working Material: Mandala

Noong 15 years old ako, may Filipino teacher kami na direktor sa isang tableau. Maganda raw yung role ko as the Principal, convincing acting daw. Kinabukasan, nagkaroon ng rebyu ng mga linya sa dula at anu-ano ang pormal at di pormal na mga pangungusap. Nahiya sya siguro nang mai-call out ko ang mali niyang paghimay sa subject at predicate ng isang di pormal na pangungusap. 

Inaway ako. Sinabing por que principal ang aktingan ko ay pwede na akong maging mapagmataas. Tinuro nya ang suelas ng sapatos nya at sinabing, "Aba ineng, hanggang dito ka lang." 

As a passionate fire sign who hates liars: Eh sir, itong kuko ko, nakikita nyo? Hanggang dito ka lang. Nag-walk out sya. Makailang saglit ng katahimikan, naghiyawan ang mga kalalakihang kaklase. 

"Gago, Ella ang anangas mo dun!" 

"Yown, bukas guidance na."

At na-guidance nga ako. Tapos, 75 ako sa third grading period. Pull-out sa list of honor roll ng mala-annex ng Science High School. 

Isang dekada nang lumipas nang magulat siyang nag-apply ako sa Beda Law. "Hala, babalikan pa yata ako" ansabi nya sa isa ko pang kaklase. Sa facebook niya nakita yung entrance exam results ko sa San Beda. 

Ayun, bading pa rin si sir. At hinahanting sya ng sarili niyang multo. #amwriting #memoir #MrTanAsanKaNa

Tsaa sa Palihan

 Hui M—,

 

Alam mo ba, ha? Ang saya pala ng mga workshop! Parang may masterclass at may libreng pagbabalik sa Filipino lesson. Na-miss ko ito, legit! Wala naman kasing ganito noong college tayo. Puru worksheet at mga numero lang. Grabe kapoy ra gyud! At dahil mas nangibabaw ang #TitaHits, sa sobrang pagod ko buong weekend ay derecho ako sa tulog ahahaha. Alam kong bampira ang timeline ng buhay ko, pero bakla, kagigising ko lang at gusto kong isulat ang aftermath ng mga ganap, pero mas gusto kong i-mention itong hanash na'to.

So eto na nga. ALAM MO BA, HA!

Sa mismong palihan ko pa na-meet ko yung naka-swipe ko! Bigla na lang nag-light bulb nung Sabado kasi sabi ko sa sarili ko, "Wow, he looks family!" Alam mo yung pareho kaming nag-kagulatan na ok naman pala yung tao, pero takot akong sabihin ito nang harapan kasi mas writer sya, kaya mas mabuting gawing flash fiction ito under my pseudonym... Ayun lang, dahil nai-share ko sa karamihan ang aking pen name eh di may takot akong muli na hanapin niya ang ikalawang persona ko sa panulat tapos bigla kong naisip, hindi naman siguro lahat ng tao mala-stalker ang galawan? At alam nating lahat na sa bawat akda ay may kwento, at sa bawat persona ay hindi personal ang atake.

Perso single daw sya eh, mag-isa lang din yata sa bahay at sa buhay.

So ayun, naikwento ko na sa iyo at kina T— kasi ayoko na rin mang-jinx at bigyan ito ng malisya, (hello, 37 ka na teh!) pero andun talaga kasi ung kagustuhan na kapag magkita kami, at kapag may fellowship / inuman sessions, ilalabas ko ang unhinged behavior ko at aaminin na na-swipe right ko sya... na hanggang pag-follow back lang sa instagram ang naganap. Sinubukan kong makipag-ugnay sa kanya dati sa online dating app, pero alam mong hindi ito magwo-work kasi iba ang ariba ng isang nakakasalamuha mo offline, lalo na at una mong nakitang footprint online ay isang katha, o isang rehistro ng wikang kayo lang ang nakakaalam (aka memes).

Pero matanong lang, paano nga ba ulit hanapin ang dati mong naka-swipe right dito? HAHAHAHAH talagang hinanap ko pa ih, feeling ko rin naman deactivated na ‘yun sya. Sana lang hindi awkward kapag nagkabukingan na kasi mataas ang posibilidad na aware din sya sa aking ‘tsura at sa paraan ng aking panulat. KASI, BAKIT PUMASA YUNG GAWA KO, ABA?!

Itanong ko ba? HAHAHAHAH

Okay fine, most likely, sasabihin mo lang naman na maganda ang gawa ko as a writer ng Personal na Sanaysay — OO NA, HINDI NA GINAGAMITAN NG BIAS AT EMOSYON ANG ISANG KATHA SA PAG-QUALIFY — peeerrro, malay naman natin? Kanpidens naman ang baon ko rito eh, dahil alam nating pareho na walang pang nag-lathala ng isang babaeng boses ng middle class at may bigat at danas ng isang batang mulat sa Home Along da Riles (both in sitcom and in real life).

Hilig ko talaga sa slowburn, no? Kakabasa ko kasi ito ng The Solitude of Prime Numbers ni Paolo Giordano at One Day ni David Nicholls kasi ito eh. Pinanindigan ko na talaga na may mga eksenabells sa aklat na nagma-manifest sa tunay na buhay. Life Manual lang, hehe. Kaya heto, ang buhay ko ay Mga Pagsasanay Sa Pag-iisa: Mga Sanaysay ni Egay. Iba sa iyong buhay na hirap na hirap sa anak mong parating naisusugod sa clinic.

Pero at least, may micro-family ka na.

Ako rin naman, may micro-family. Kasama ko itong mga bagong usbong na mustard sprouts at ang mga basil na tuluy-tuloy lang sa pagtubo, kahit kinakain ko sya matapos ko itong iyakan (as a therapy session). Naku, nabanggit pa naman nun ni sir na yun kung paano ko raw naitatawid nang mag-isa ang pamumuhay sa concrete jungle where dreams are made of na ito. Syempre sinagot ko, may minsanang iyak. Feeling ko, hindi mawawala sa isang peak millennial ang ganun. We are the generation that experiences a collective feeling of resignation, na kahit mulat ang kamalayan sa “call to action” eh hindi natin magawa, kasi alam nating ang sistemang ito ay ginawa para sa paulit-ulit na batuhan ng comfort at reklamo. Sa sobrang mulat natin sa pag-ikot ng mundo, mas nanaisin na lang nating hintayin ang mga kaliwa’t-kanang sigwa at matutunang itawid ang bawat krisis na ito. Ganyan na ganyan rin ang naging kumento sa akin ng isang panelist sa workshop na sinalihan ko. Kailangan ko raw pumili ng pwesto. At kailangan, sa bawat katha ay sana hindi lang neutral ang tono.

Pero magagawa ba yun sa isang liham na tulad nito? Ang gusto ko lang naman ay magtala. At minsan, mas gusto ko na rin lang umiyak para kapag napagod kakaluha ay may mas masarap na tulog. In short, naitatawid ko ang araw-araw as minsang baliw, madalas workaholic. Pero hindi mawawala ang pagsasanay ng pagsusulat. Kasi ito lang din ang aking release. Siguro katulad nya? Mas malikhain lang ‘yung sa kanya kasi kaya niyang bumuo ng isang eksenang may maraming tao at may format ng isang script ng dula't pelikula. Tapos itong sa akin, pilit na binubuhay ang isang artistikong paglalahad ng saloobin na unti-unting pinapatay na ng social media.

So heto, sumusubok ulit sa liham na hindi mo na mababasa. Pwede itong ilagak sa kategoryang "Mga Minsanang Kapansanan ng Pagmamahal". Odiba, aken lang yan! Inaantok na ako atm at ito na yung challenge ko sa malikhaing pagsulat, lalo na sa mga personal na sanaysay: paano itatawid ang thesis ng pagtatala sa pagmamahal, at paaano idurugtong ang katotohanang ang bawat katha ay isang sining din ng pagmamahal? Ah, heto: masasabi nating ang tunay na tala ng kasaysayan ay nagsisimula sa huntahang puno ng tsaa at tsismisan. Minsan, hindi sa isang pagtitipon. Pwede ring palipad-hangin sa algoritmo, parang post sa facebook. O maaaring maging liriko tulad nung pambansang ritmo ng pagpapaka-sadgurl at sadboi - yung bagong Frustrated Poets kineso. At ang isang pakikipagtalastasan ay isang pagtatala ng mga kwento mula sa isang taong nagmamahal…

Pero antok na antok na ako.

Hays, heto na naman tayo sa episode ng isang internal na tunggalian: uunahin ko bang i-address ang gutom, o itutulog ko na lang ang lahat ng ito? Babalik na naman ako sa sirko ng comfort at reklamo, at ang panandaliang kabaliwan ng pag-o-overthink sa mga "what-if" kahit alam naman nating pareho, may bumibisitang doktor at magluluto ng adobo. Ngayon, nasaan na ang ulam ko? Hays, wala namang ibang magluluto ngayong umaga kundi ako...

O siya, dito na lang muna. Kapag may bagong workshop ulit, balikan ko ito tapos dagdagan ko pa ng mga tsaa. Tutal, hindi lang naman ikaw ang makakasipat nitong munting tsismisan. Baka pati mismong si Mr. Playright... na magiging Mr. Right?

 

PS: Gutom lang ito. Ignore. Naku ilalagay na naman ito sa #MinsanangKapansananNgPagmamahal. Makapagluto na nga!

Nagising ako tapos...

"So is it like... Love because of proximity? Because it is convenient?" 

Dear Tope, 

Minsan, naiisip ko rin ito.

Lalo na nung iniwan kita kasi hindi ka naman sumasagot noon. Baka nga ang tingin ko sa pag-ibig natin, convenience. 

Pero nang iniwan kita, mas nakilala ko rin ang sarili ko. Hindi mo maibigay yung maliliit kong hiling, at tama lang na bigyan ng espasyo ang ating mga sarili para maghilom at maging buo, kahit papaano. Kahit sa sandali natin, matutunan nating tumanggap ng mga taong dadaan sa atin, makilala silang saglit, at maintindihan na hindi lahat ng uri ng pag-ibig ay nauuwi sa romansa. Isang malaking lesson yun na natutunan ko sa Singapura. Na minsan, sa pag-iisa, nakukuha ang sansaglit ng Singularity: lahat ng karanasan ng nakaraan, nararamdaman ng kasalukuyan, at baka-sakali ng kinabukasan. Akala ko kasi ang Singularity, sa kasal lang nararamdaman.

Ngayong ganito ulit tayo, magkasama, may mga araw na hindi mo maibigay ang maliliit kong hiling. Pero ngayon, mas kaya kong i-manage. Nakakatulong ang walang label, dok. Sobrang nakakatulong. Nakakapagbigay sya ng kahulugan na tayo ay malayang mamili: magpapatali ba tayo at magpapatalo sa lungkot? O maluwag na mas mapipili natin ang ating mga sarili sa paglaban sa araw-araw? 

Wala na ito sa kung hindi ka pa annuled, or doktor ka at accountant ako, or magkaiba ang address natin at schedule natin, o dahil saturated na ako sa trabaho at gustong mag-abroad. 

Hindi ko rin mapipilit kung napapako na ang pangako. Kung may panata ka sa akin at sa sarili mo, hindi naman yun sinasambit lang sa hangin, ginagawa yun. Minamano-mano. Binubuno. Habang ang mundo ay patuloy na umiikot. Ang gusto ko lang, kung tayo man sa dulo, ay maranasan natin pareho ang mapagpalayang pag-ibig.

Pero sa ngayon, kung kailangan kong maglayag bilang manlalakbay ng buhay, hayaan mo ako. Sa sansaglit na kalayaan hayaan mo muna akong makalayo. Nangako ka rin noon, na ikaw ang aking Minato (ang aking parola sa pagdaong). Handa kang maghintay sa aking magiging kwento. 

Hindi ko maipapangako ang magarbong pakikipagsapalaran, pero asahan mong sa pagdating ko, ako ay muling buo. Muling buo ang loob na magkukuwento at magmamahal nang taos-puso.

Feminism Hugely Digressed

Pukiusap by Liv Strömquist
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Pukiusap is the Filipino translation of Liv Strömquist's Fruit of Knowledge. The first edition cover contains a woman in ice skates with a blood stain in her panties. That created a buzz in bookstores way back 2018. I only have the second print, showing the woman on the upper-right side of the cover (no more of that stain). Still, the font of Pukiusap filled the whole cover and should be easily seen, but for some reason, the bookstores have hidden those copies behind the cashier, or only releases them upon buyer's request.

I applaud the Pride Press and the Anvil Publishing to invite Bebang as the translator because she has established the Filipina voice about the female reproductive organ and the culture around womanhood. She has forged her way through her collection of essays titled It's a Mens world that detailed her personal experiences of her younger years and of her coming of age. Perhaps because I know her from her own works (and through our interactions in the Pinoy Reads Pinoy Books bookclub), she has assimilated herself in Liv's art. And it was nice really! It feels like a friend is talking to you. I even imagine her tones in reading some of the comic strips. What separates her voice from Liv's is the repetition style that the latter intended in her panels. Liv's narrative bar has that one statement, and yet a character has a speech balloon repeats that same statement, and that irks me at times. Maybe she made it as an agency to male readers, or to those youngsters, or some netizens who has slower reading comprehension skills.

I liked the art, very economical. Most of the panels are made in black and white, but Liv made some important points to be filled with color. It gave variety and somehow a palette-cleanser. Somewhere, some panels are really taxing to read maybe because it was filled with too much text (and APA citations) and some are panels with repetitive snapshot with the same positioning of speech balloons, a deliberate copy pasta paneling for me.

I guess in the end, this feminist novel gave me more insights on how fucked up our culture, religion, and studies are because it was centered around men and authored by men.

Sa ka(lala)k(i)han Ito na lang masasabi ko:

MGA PAKSHET KAYONG LAHAT!!!

(Assunta Da Rossi, Jologs 2002)

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Happy Old Year, 2023!

This year, progressions are out and about. In my immediate family alone, us siblings have ventured into all sorts of adventures. Kuya progressed his career from PH to DE, Emman shifted his lights and sounds from the land (Okada) to the seas (Norwegian Cruise lines). Kiteh left the hipster career path of a Physicist-Gym instructor-content creator and married the love of her life. Jedi graduated as Cum Laude and now venturing into Corporate gig. And I (finally) became an Associate in #TheBank and uprooted from the family bungalow to my high-rise concrete jungle. 

With all these series of movements and life events, pauses are hard to find and to appreciate because of the ever-changing social climate: inflation, wars, and daily commute. But it is actually the little things that opened my discovery of “Ma” (間). This may mean a negative space if taken literally, but in Zen, this is the pause in between the motions. And there's beauty in this pause.

I still remember the moments in between these life events. And even they may seem bizarre to you, this hits the perfect Ma to me: 

The hugging and crying in Marina Bay Sands;

Tiktok steps of the newlyweds;

Happy sighs from the book discussions;

The perfect sight of Mayon at 7AM;

Pulag tales of the travelling sack of rice; and 

Sanding the gypsum wall of my tiny home.

2023 is also my year of creations, and I was grateful that I write more frequently than the last year. I was also able to read more than a dozen of books, and able to watch feel-good animes. I was able to learn to cook and pay the bills on my own, taking all the life-hacks of #Adulting. 

As I flash my smile in one of my big creations this year (the background is the accent wall I painted last Summer), I wish you all the successes with the moments of pauses, and have the luxury to see and appreciate life's beauty. Let us enjoy the moments of closing this old year and embrace the new. We are too tired of tanking in struggles of the daily, perhaps we need to take a moment and just breathe. #HappyNewYear #Amwriting #CreativeNonfiction 

Read and Hated Book for 2023

My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Being a white New Yoker with a passive income and having a huge inheritance and a very detached upbringing and gaining an alienating feeling from a vain mother and a dying father (of cancer) does not give you the privilege to be an ass. Scapegoating your will to live with a cocktail of sleeping pills and anti-anxiety medicine, while having a best friend getting tired of your hipster lifestyle does not even give you a pass to weaponize your sickness in how you live your life.

A Mental Health issue is not a badge, you daft.

I believe that a Mental Health problem is a collective symptom, just like my first 2023 read has been themed upon. And the only way for us to address it is to make steps collectively, or even gain connection of oneself through our very human ways (as Laing mentioned, made through art).

This White Anglo-Saxon Protestant is very antithesis of my own psyche. My Year of Rest and Relaxation was supposed to make a full circle trip of New York, since Laing's The Lonely City is my first read this year. And her stark constrast with my very Filipino physique dwelling in a dismal third world nation and continuously tanking inflation feels like a slap to my face, like WALA KANG KARAPATANG MA-DEPRESS KASI MAHIRAP KA, WALA KANG EXTRANG KITA, AT HINDING-HINDI KA PAGMAMANAHAN NG MAGULANG MO. Feels like an outright dismissal of my ugly crying sessions, or how I manage my anxieties and my languishing lifestyle.

I do not recommend reading this book if you have not felt detached first. Or maybe if you are a WASP like this woman, maybe you can really relate. Heck, you might even try those downers and lull you to sleep for two months. Basta huwag mo akong lapitan; ayoko sa lahat ang asal-hayop na kaburgisan.

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The Big C

It was a night of

c(ult-like) bonding of books,

c(onversations) about life, and

c(ounting) the hoardings we gathered in our bookish escapades. I finally appeared, after months of

c(owering) in my little

c(ave), saving all the

c(urrencies) and

c(oins) I can gather, both online and offline. I

c(ounted) the roster, and I was the only person representing the cunt of this population. I wonder,

c(an) I really down cans of beer and shots of liquor, not minding my mouth zipped by the silence and the lonesome days of surviving and tanking the bills? Or maybe I was lacking the

c(ourage) of appearance; I used to have unhealthy banters and

c(ounter-attacks) with one of the book club members.

I was the only woman in this room and we are

c(ounting) down 6 liters of Sex on the Beach.

C(onversations) traversed from the life updates, to the attendances of the book events, to who were the ever present throughout 2023, or if the members and moderators of the old days are still grinding the questions to the writers and navigating the discussions and for somewhat reason, perhaps the magic of those drinks we are nearly drowning of, a magic c was being asked.

Pre, sa totoo lang, saan ba yang clitoris na yan?

I do not even remember any mention of a porn material, or a smut read, or even a notation of Vagina monologues or Pukiusap by one of our dear member-writers.

This talk is filled with

c(unts) now, I thought to myself. With a

c(onscious) effort to hound at them and saying that this

c(litoris) talk is getting out of hand, I stood up, leaving the bench of the roster just because one

c(annot) find the precious letter 'C'.

I went to the restroom of the women and the men; I saw the men's section with a dozen cubicles as compared with women's - only with four. People are asking, "Why are the women taking so long in the restrooms? Looking in the mirrors,

c(hecking) their getups. Looking at their shorts if it is still intact. If their

c(ondoms) are still there or not. All the while, men are just bustling: going in and out just because they relieve all their stresses or whatever resources they have - work, life, academic, or whatnot.

And then I realized, I also looked for the big letter 'C'; that big

C(ash) that I am indebted with. I am a laughing sixteen thousand amounts of

C(redit card) debt every month, and yet in the big

C(orporate) that I am working with,

c(annot) sustain such.

This year, I never felt so tanked in and even without a

c(ancer) as a recorded ailment, lots of

c(ash) have been flowed out of my accounts. I really need to save up, save more.

C(orporate) and c(ondo) swallowed me whole and I left myself with a little financial and time freedom. Sometimes, the time off is awarded to oneself as a

CHARITY.

I really am tired with all the adulting, and these sorts of conversations with folks is what I needed – clitoris or otherwise.

Ma-edad

I woke up at 1, felt the hungry pangs at 1:30, and ugly cried at 2 AM. This is me in the last few hours of my life at 37 years old. Before I cried, I made sure to cook myself a survival meal, grabbing the last 2 pieces of cheese dog and the last two eggs from my fridge. Told myself that before any breakdown, I need to have a build-up. After eating and cleaning up, I hovered to my little bedroom, and there it was. That sack of Jasmine rice, being part of my sundo from the tiresome trek. Took a good long look, before happy-crying again.

I suddenly remembered an Instragram reel about the Japanese Kanji called Ma, where there is stillness between the sounds, or a moment of suspension in the middle of a motion. You can depict it in pauses before you speak, in understanding of poetry, or in my case, sitting in the right side of the black van, traversing SCTEX at 3AM while staring at a moonlit sky with a huge cumulus cloud that seems to be not moving, just staring back at me.

At these little moments of travel, I feel like I was in a snippet of a Japanese anime film, when the main character is in transit, while the sunny sky and cottony white clouds are just there. Ever present. Omniscient.

This year is about these moments. The Ma. I saw life events unfold before my eyes. I saw my youngest brother finally graduating and starting the grind of the corporate. I saw my only sister living the hipster lifestyle and getting married before flying to Tokyo. I saw my eldest brother uprooting from his first and only IT firm in PH, and venturing life in DE. I saw my younger brother digging the lights and sounds from the solid ground called Okada to a moving boat of Norwegian Cruise lines. And I saw myself moving out of the family bungalow and moving in to this new high-rise enclave. In the middle of all these moving parts, the stillness is my mode of surviving: normalizing the daily life of adulting while seeing my life savings getting tanked in. In the online world, I saw two endings and a beginning. I saw two colleagues from graduate school died, for different medical cases and reasons, and one close friend from graduate school gave birth, days before her birthday. In a wake, I decided to see old classmates and co-officers, and ended up explaining my phase of why I decided to unfriend them all and just lie low in the ground zero called Facebook. With a coffin at the background of our conversations, I found myself in aghast of a life event recently disclosed by a colleague, to the point that I even guffawed at my school crush who is afraid to look at the face of his dead friend, while he is trying to psychoanalyze me of my corporate woes. (He knows. I just don't tell it to his face that I was fond of him. Anyway, he is a far away memory — a note different from this Ma I was traversing.)

I was traversing my existential dread, two nights before my birthday. And after almost two years of getting cancelled and deferred of this trip, I was able to finally get out of this little world of toiling for my mortgage and just hike. That highest peak in Luzon. Pulag. Finally having that little time and financial freedom I have frequently craved.

And somewhat, at the back of our heads of us all, there is also something moving — this big sack of rice at the back of the black SUV, traversing tollgates and expressway, perhaps to celebrate my milestone, meant to be eaten and shared with people who matter.

The one driving is the matter.

"San ka punta?"
"Mt Pulag. Isang taon nang delay so itutuloy ko na, finally."
"Ingat ka. Pagbaba mo, payat ka na."

I wish.

The black van I was riding took more than six hours of trip, as I was sleeping in and out of the zigzag motions and waking up with fuzzy feeling of being lost as I see a new pick up point. The last stop seems so far away. From Baguio city, it's another 3 hours bypassing the Agno river protected landscape and finally arriving at DENR office of Bokod, Benguet. The van ride was an ordeal of sorts: sitting in a third row, feeling the motions of the wheel, like riding a roller coaster and experiencing prolonged centrifugal force. That, plus the intermittent internet connection, another solace (or addiction) that this geriatric millennial possesses.

From our breakfast place, we went to see a doctor to check out our general health as a hiker. He put his almost-depreciated blood pressure counter, before issuing the medical certificate that I am not hypertensive or asthmatic, and fit to climb. He mentioned that I need to watch my breathing as I see his trodat stamping the Php150 piece of paper with his signature and dry seal fixed in. I almost told him not to worry much about me, but worry more on buying new medical gadgets for his profession. I walked out of the clinic a bit disappointed, as the patient-doctor engagement is shorter than my quality checks in my investment banking gig. I reminded myself to stop vaping minutes before a medical checkup, so that my veins will not contract and the stress I currently carry will be more transparent and sincere. Plus, to buy myself a BP and heart rate monitoring machine. After all, I decided to live independently (and with minimal cause of concern for the immediate family).

This piece of paper went to the tour coordinator, and we proceeded inside the DENR office. We registered our names, listened to the reminders of the rangers, and hovered over to the souvenir section and across it, an altar of sorts. Thousands of 2x2 photo ID, expired licenses, and some print-out profile pictures of people who hiked Pulag in older years. I don't remember seeing this seven years ago. I don't even imagine that this is just a fraction of the people who hiked since the first time I got here. Ma: these friendly and excited smiles, threaded by staple wires and make-shift paper strings, inviting me to come join in the experience. Rats, I forgot to bring my own photo.

Final stop for this arduous moving is a homestay situated near the edge of Kabayan, Benguet. If I trek from this house to the jump-off point of the Ambangeg trail, it will be another 40-minute walk. Far from the maddening crowd of tents and noisy waterworks of their barangay hall, I slotted myself in a little sofa within the common area, while waiting for the other occupants of my would-be bedroom for the night, hoping that I can get the lower bunk for the space, or at least a spot where I can peacefully snore at the top. Hikers before us are moving in-and-out of the bedrooms and toward the washrooms, cleaning up their muddy pants, socks and trekking shoes, rushing to pack all their other things, as they are more than two hours overtime. No clearing today, someone says. A whispered warning, perhaps, that not all hikes are awarded with the sea of clouds by the Gods. Maybe there was one person trash talking the mountain as they trekked, as they left the homestay with long faces and a backdrop of a rainy afternoon.

That rainy transition was a haze as I write this long prose of my sentiments; I don't exactly remember what happened. I took a shower. I thanked the Lord for the working heater. I dozed off like a log. And then I woke up with a cloudy night sky of Benguet.

Early night. Either I read, or make a small talk, or just listen in with my hike mates, or chime in with little stories of my hike from the pre-pandemic years. "Pre-pandemic" sounds so long ago. Just like my birth year. Archaic. I was born in the waning years of the old millennium, where the first peaceful revolution erupted in the ASEAN, ousting the dictator who robbed us of opportunities and future leaders, and burdened us with ODAs in form of TRAIN Law. Goodness, is the millennial age group traversing the same tropes of the Gen X now? Maybe this is why I do scheduled breakdowns and reminded myself that it is my life mission to break this generational cycle of trauma...? Is it really?

So this millennial called out solo joiners (like me), and did a scrabble game. Few rules to play by on this one round: (1) No scoring as when the letter tiles run out we end the game, (2) Two-letter words are doable, (3) No acronyms, no colloquial, no memes, and (4) No yeeting or throwing off tables. A tricky round, as three of us aren't as much verbose as writers of New Yorker, and two of them are happy with just putting letter N to complete the article AN across, and the proposition ON down. The most complicated word on the board was THRASH, and I even explained the nature of this english word. Told them it was not just about bad-mouthing, or cussing. It was whipping, it meant pain. I placed the tiles signifying violence. And some flashbacks of my younger years in #TheBank meant confronting bad managers who just lolls about, earning six-digit figures and flexing about golf and girls, a boasting personality that I loathed in my old household. Thrashing. Some people do needed thrashing. But with the energy I have to give just to inflict violence is not worth it. My retirement pay is on the line. It is better to be resigned, both to the feeling and the daily minutiae of the cruel capitalism. Does Ma exist in a capitalistic climate? Can we achieve Zen in a seemingly selfish activity? That, I cannot answer. What I believe is this: this activity requires a system of check-and-balance, a metric of quality, and a clause of reciprocity. If that is Zen to some, maybe there is Ma. Perhaps it can be seen as a month-long production without errors, and without PnL impacts, and keeping our performance bonuses optimal. #TheBank is a fast-paced world where the expectations are asinine, but our compensation is somewhat saline.

For me, Ma is seeing beauty outside of this spectrum of profiteering. It is also outside the mode of grinding, or the life hacks of adulting. It is appreciating beauty in the never-ending flow of energy. A pregnant pause in a long monotony of routine.

Ma is this hike. 

So after dinner, I prayed for a peaceful sleep, and lesser rain for the night, for us to manage the dark trail in the wee hours after midnight kicks in. I settled on my top bunk and set aside my hiking bag, filled with worry on the nonstop rain, and a hope for a less grueling summit chase.

I remembered waking up at exactly midnight, and a note to self that I needed to change into my hiking apparel. Three layers of clothing — a dri-fit shirt, a waterproof jersey, and a fleece jacket. Then this long pair of stockings, a pair of black leggings, and another pair of socks to absorb the shock from my low-cut hiking shoes. My headlight filled with used AAAs about to die in four hours, a medical kit in terms of wounds, medicine and other first aid needs, and a liter of water — half the initial advise of rehydration. DENR estimated that the night-hike takes five hours of assault and four hours of backtrail descent, but I gave myself a total of 10 hours to do this task. With half liquid intake and a heavy jacket in tow, I had to take note that my stamina is not the same as my first climb seven years ago, so the steps should be slowly but surely. I am also not letting myself be rested for more than 15 minutes, as I get sleepy legs easier, now that I am way past the adult puberty phase. My lower back is there like a haunting machine, and my weight bears all the stress from living the concrete jungle (where dreams are made of). Adding up to this were my pre-menstrual pains in my lower belly.

In the night trek were absent views of flora and fauna, and the tendency of the trekker was to focus more on the footsteps and the grip of the shoes as it stepped on the muddy earth. You got to be conscious of your light source, on your sense of balance, and your breathing patterns as it kept changing in the thinning air of the trail. I was part of the tail-end of the pack, while declaring myself as a medic for the team, I made sure that I have the access of the sweeper guide since I have the slower pace. From the jump-off point to Camp1, you can make it in 30 mins. I did it in an hour, with lots of 2-minute breaks. From Camp1 to Camp2 is a long 2.5 hours of hike on the mossy rainforest and thinner air, and I did it for 3.5 while my headlight is dwindling. From Camp3 to summit takes 1.5 hours of a 45degree gradual assault, traversing Pulag's lesser famous peaks. I did it for more than 2 hours. It was a long walk of ASMRs of heaving sighs and gasping breaths, of gulping little portions of water, wind hustles as strong as the sea waves, sounds of the poncho repelling the rainwater and the early morning dew, and rustles of the fleece jacket getting heavier as it captured more drizzles than what was initially designed to. The darkness triggered my survival mode. I tried my best to catch up with the others, felt anxious as I was feeling my heartbeat and breathing patterns. Icy cold wind froze my fingertips and feet felt the stings of the cold splashes from stepping on the mud mistaken as a stone path. The hike was not fun at night, and it exhausted in the same way with the auditor energy from the current production day onsite. Where was the beauty in doing this grueling rite of passage? Had I been budol-ed? But rather than thinking about disappointments, I waited for more light, pushing on to the highest peak with grit and with fear of hypothermia at the back of my head. At 7AM, I still wasn't at the summit, but finally there was light. There was no need for me to depend on the headlight that was declared dead an hour ago. I took a long look on the last stretch of the climb to the top, and of those colleagues who went before me, battling the cold and the fog, and the sad reality of another day of No Clearing. No sea of clouds. There is wonder in watching the hikers facing the challenge head-on, and it inspired me to push through the pursuit. Ma is that weak light of the morning sun as we are all walking within the fast-moving clouds drifting through the dwarf bamboo grassland.

At the summit, I took my picture with the group and my own person in the DENR stone mark. After seven years, I conquered the highest peak in Luzon the second time around. My phone vibrated: it was him.

"Msg me immediately. Need mag-book ng hotel? I need to go back by Tuesday kasi."

I saw this message and I was like — Was he even serious? — I do plan to stay in the City of Pines after the hike to rest my tired knees and manage the other trip home during my birthday. I did not reply. Instead, I just looked at the landscape tagged as Playground of the Gods. Were they playing me? Was I trash-talking during my assault and so they went on thrashing at my feelings of hope? Why did they grant me this beauty when all I faced at the onset was a path full of mud and a climate full of drizzling cold? 

Well. 

I started the descent more consciously. Another patch of ASMRs of heaving sighs, gasping for thin air, and gulping a little portion of water. This time around though, I see the beauty of the mossy rainforest, them being there as I back trailed the humble beginnings of my night trail hours earlier, and backtracked the story of the doctor who flew away without telling. Maybe he is trying his best to woo me and win me back. After all, he came to my tiny home a few times after I unblocked him to send a random cat meme from summer. After four hours, I finally touched down the jump-off point and I was ready to go back to the homestay to clean up the mud, to get myself a hot shower, and to pack up the rest of my things and go back to Baguio.

At the city of Pines, the phone dinged from all his messages of hotel location, activities to do next, and asking if I preferred a room service instead. I replied no, as I deserved a dinner from a pretty place since my birthday arrives in few hours. I went straight to the hotel and upon there, I realized that I was never sure as to what name did he book the room with. Heck, just wing it. I texted back the confirmation and the room number, and upon him knocking, we went out to a bistro across the hotel, with a nice view of the city and grabbed some good lasagna.

We caught up with each other's stories of charts, medicine launches, research reports, latest Pulag situation and plans to re-hike it with him, my dilapidated trekking shoes, my muddy trekking pants, and his retail therapy of checking in deals from Japan to window-shop some hiking gears and apparel. I also disclosed about fast-tracking my savings and apply for an EU visa to visit my brother, and Japanese visa to visit my sister. He wished for a time freedom, as he also wanted to see his mom and sisters in Japan, and finally able to shop for Gundam merch. In the middle of all these story telling, I zoned into his watch, seemingly new, counting the moments of our togetherness, right in the middle of the influx of families and couples taking their respective dinners and desserts.

Happy birthday, bb.

It wasn't even midnight and yet, this greeting made me teary-eyed. I appreciated this gesture of picking me up in this cold city and decided to stay with me overnight. At least for that night, I will feel less lonely and less alone, and not succumb to the downward spiral of negative emotions and ruminations of pain. After long weeks of total immersion to the banking profession, I felt seen. I was visible in his eyes. And he took notice.

We were about to get to the hotel lobby when he immediately remembered grabbing something from his car. It was chilly and I was feeling more sleepy, I sheepishly went with him. Suddenly, he opened the trunk to grab a warmer pair of shoes while showcasing his most pragmatic present: a half cavan of an export-quality Jasmine rice. All the way from the Marikina central market. I shouted excitedly about this huge sack of a gift as I remembered my rice stash now down to less than ten cups, left in my tiny home.

Ma. Such beauty to be able to receive an expensive treat. When I was younger, I would laugh at him and reject it, preferring more to a bouquet of flowers since I can afford to buy my own food. But now that I am also a victim of hyperinflation and large debt-to-equity ratio, anything that can be eaten is good. Especially if that food is top quality. What a huge help to save more and push through the travel abroad for next year. I hugged him and told him my thanks, and I imagined this sack of rice is also like me, two days before.

Ma is that sack of rice in motion. It served as a witness of this little milestone. Ma is grabbing the opportunity of feeling happiness in unconventional ways, falling fast and hard and hurting bad, and yet going back to falling again. Ma is retracing the hurt and the wounds of the past, acknowledging toxic traits and traumas. Ma is creating a path for personal healing while figuring out the future. Ma is us just listening to each other, attuning to each other's thoughts and re-asking ourselves of our personal dreams.

Ma is him choosing to be an anchor of an evermoving Me. 

Dear Therapist

(Jotting this; I was planning to create a long writing material of my random conversations with the midnight therapist as I share my rants and realizations with the daily grind in the corporate and having only few moments. I used to talk to him during lunch breaks, while walking home, and even before falling asleep.)

---

Dear therapist, 

Bahay pa lang itong inaayos ko, pero ramdam ko na yata ang depresyon ng nanay ko nang inaalagaan kaming mga anak nya. Parati syang pagod, but she has to keep going. Naalala ko na hindi sya kinakausap ng tatay namin dahil busy sa graduate school, at busy rin sa pambababae, at busy na laitin ang nanay ko na walang alam sa tech at gadgets.

I never felt that isolation before, until this series of come and go, movements sa condo. Kung paano yung sukat, paano pagpantay. "Paki pantay naman ang laminate!" Paano yung grace under pressure, at lahat yun, wala kang ka-share.

Ang hanap ko na lang sa buhay minsan ay yung may ka-share ako ng struggling and thriving moments, yung sa pagtatapos ng araw, kahit antok na antok ka, may tatapik sa iyo (in a lover's way) and will tell you, "bukas, laban ulit." Ito yung mga moments na iniiyakan ko madalas sa pagtulog, kaya siguro hindi rin maganda ang tulog ko recently. Gets ko yung "meron namang iba jan", "laban lang", pero iba talaga kapag galawang jowa te. Mas may hugot, mas may pag-ibig. 

Charot ORAYT NALULUHA NA NAMAN AKONG EWAN HINDI KO NAMAN REGLA PERO HORMONAL AKONG EWAN

Feeling ko kapag si SG guy ang magsabi ng "goodjob" saken, maluluha na lang din ako, kasi naiconsider ko syang asawa before. Sobrang craving for a lover's touch ang nangyayari saken. But it will pass, sabi nga sa fleabag. So ayun.

Bayaran kita sa therapy mo hahahaha

(Dear Ella, 

First of all, pwede natin itong gawing podcast na ano?)

Bayad na! hahahaha

Four Years

Happy four years, dok. 

It has been four years since we first met. Ito yung mga panahong nanood tayo ng Aladdin, at nagvideoke sa Centerstage kahit isa't kalahating oras lang ang nai-enjoy.

Andami mong sinabi noon, mga pangakong nariyan ka lang. Magkukwento, makikinig. Pero lumipas ang apat na taon, nagkasakitan na tayo, at ngayon, parang convenient fuck lang ang lahat.

Sabi mo may nararamdaman ka pa sa akin. Poot kaya ang nararamdaman mo sa akin? Mas gusto mo kasing hindi magkwento kasi nasaktan na kita, takot kang masaktan ulit. 

Pero ano ang aasahan ko sa one-way communication? Ni kwento mo nga ngayong araw eh wala akong alam.

Kumusta ako? Ito, nagpapaka-fleabag. 

Remember the SG guy? We recently talked again. Last night. Gave me an advice to keep the drive. Naikwento ko kasi na pagod na ako, pero masigasig pa rin ako sa pag-aayos ng condo, kasi gusto ko by July 1, ready na lahat.

Sinasabi ko sa iyo ito kasi ito ang kulang na kulang sa iyo, ang makipag-usap. Hindi dahilan ang ka-busyhan mo sa pagdo-doktor dahil parang hindi mo nirespeto ang katulad mong may titulo at pinanghahawakang propesyon. Mas naiisip kong wala akong halaga sa iyo, lalo na at kapag tinatamaan ako ng kawalang-kumpyansa sa mga bagay.

May nararamdaman pa ba ako sa iyo? Meron man, pero pagkauhaw. Uhaw na uhaw sa presensiya mo. Sa hawak mo, sa boses mo, sa pagtitig mo.

Itutuloy ko pa ba itong pakikipaglandian sa iyo? Hindi ko rin alam, wala kasi akong napapala ngayong taon eh. Siguro sex. Sex lang? Siguro. Hindi ko alam. Siguro mga danas ng iyong pakikipagkita, pero mas marami ang danas ng iyong pagkawala. Hindi ko nga alam kung totoong busy ka eh, paano, wala kang sinasabi. Susubukan mo pa rin ba yung isang buwan na hindi ako kausapin? Eh para saan pa at nakipagkita ka sa akin?

Kailan ka lalabas sa kuweba mo, at kailan mo itatapat sa akin yang sakit na nararamdaman mo? Kung kelan mamamatay ka? Inuulit ko ha, hindi ko alam kung nasaan ka kung mamatay ka. Wala akong balita sa iyo, at wala akong kakilala na malapit mo sa buhay. Kaya kahit anong galit man yan na tungkol saken, itapat mo na. Tapos, ikaw na magtapos nito. Sinubukan kong tapusin, pero hinahanap ka ng katawan ko. 

Mas mabuti siguro na ikaw na ang tumapos. At least alam ko na sa dulo ng lahat ng ito, may closure. Baka nga closure lang talaga ang hanap ko sa iyo, at hindi ang pagbabalik sa kalbaryo.

I don't know if it's still right to say I love you but I do, 

Ella.

Dream Journal on a Tiring Tuesday

Weird dream.

I was in a girl group of agents — like Charlie's angels — and selling our services to spy a husband and give two options : kill without a trace, or full restoration of relationship via marriage counselling. So many conversations in between, most of those I have forgotten. Nagkunyari kaming real estate agents when I found a potential client na iniistalk ang asawa sa building. So what I did was to look for evidences to corroborate na nanloloko talaga ang asawa, before we roll the spiel — that selling point. 

So I went to a room acting as a maid like Maid in Manhattan and found a lipstick and a lingerie. And she was crying. When I suggested the services, she was conflicted. Told her we won't give her demands, and we can refer her to another agency who can give other "friendlier terms".  

I wasn't able to tell what she wanted, but she was in tears when she finally decided the terms. However, when we gave her the form, another agent gave me a NDA document and in it—I found the doctor's family home. 

Then I woke up with Timmie's cries to let him out of the bedroom, and I write this in haze before I go back to sleep. 

Orayt, goodnight!

bb, bakit?

Maybe it's my hormones talking (since I am in Day x of the heavy flow), but I wanted to lash out at you. We know that way back, we have our topsy-turvy feelings in sync. We feel each other intuitively if we are craving for lusts of each other, and find some keywords — a go signal to fully consume it.

The moment you summoned those words, I was thinking of you for the last three nights, on how you touched me and turned me on... that passionate kiss and skin-to-skin embrace, that act of intercourse, and that pulsating after-sex rhythm between my legs. On how you rested your head on my chest after you climaxed, and how I touched you hair and kiss your forehead, and whispered the words "I love you, bb" to the heavens.

But that night, all I ever did was reply back, "Can't. Marupok tayo pareho but we can't." Then I looked myself in the mirror and I saw myself ugly crying.

Is that how I come to you now? Rather than giving yourself that boundary and self-respect, you have stooped so low and settle to be my fuck-buddy? Is that how things work now, bb? No vision on the self to at least get yourself to therapy before reaching out to me? Or at least send an invite to talk to me properly? Have the closure that we really need? Bakit ganun, bb? Bakit ganito na ang nangyayari sa atin? I was distancing myself from you, working on my best to do self-healing and shadow-working; have loony conversations with a pseudo-therapist; became a cash auditor to a wedding; nearly flirt an asexual gay— twice at that— and yet, I cannot help but think about you and our little moments of togetherness, happy in our little moving bubble.

I was craving for sex, yes, but I am also craving a romance that I do deserve. I also deserve the respect of being a woman who is pursuing her dreams, and trying to wing at adulting. And yet, at this point in time, you just wanted to fuck me? Is that it?

Alam kong bawal ang mang-judge ng mga ganitong set-up sa panahon ng genZ na normal na ang kabaklaan, pagkalakal ng katawan, at mental health, pero bb naman. We aren't genZ at all. Isa kang Gen X. At ako, geriatric millenial. We don't settle for these tropes anymore. Wala na dapat talking stage ulit. Wala na dapat situationshit. We distance ourselves, heal ourselves, build ourselves, BUT SEPARATELY. So that years down the lane and we see ourselves again, baka this time around, we can make the renewed relationship work.

In one of my conversations with the midnight therapist, he asked if I know my boundaries. I said yes, and he asked something to test it out,

"Oks guguluhin ka ng idea na 'to, pero at some point I really wish he could wait for me kapag nawala ako nang matagal just because feel ko magkuweba."

My reply to that was this, "I don't have the tenacity to wait if I feel abandoned. Goodbye, ganern. Kung may respeto ako sa partner ko, mas mataas ang respeto ko sa sarili. Dun at dun ako babalik. Sa pagiging ako. 

At gusto ko, ako ay buo."

Let me be whole again, bb.

Maybe we need to meet to actualize what was in the November 2022 email. Provide ourselves the closure we really seek. Years from now, if you are also whole, perhaps we can meet again. Not as total strangers, or mere fuck buddies, but as exes with lesser baggage of the past and decided to be friends (from the distance).

I always pray for your healing. And I know that loneliness can be overbearing at times, but hold on to the beautiful moments around you. Kaya natin ito. We can be alone but not lonely again. 

Laban lang. 

Offer Letter to JAL, CPA

 Dear J—,

Thank you for accommodating me.

When we were starting talking online, I used to think of our younger years, on how we might have crossed our paths albeit not mindfully, or maybe you might have seen each other in one of the long queues of cashier, or maybe I saw your name in the Dean's Office or you maybe saw my name in the JPIA office. Oh how young and driven we were! That world is so small and so simple, we just manage our grades and, in your case, your scholarship allowances.

Sixteen years down the lane, we see ourselves still managing — our careers, our families, our personal crises, and our mental health. If you add that with our daily engagement with the social media and online traffic, we forget to look at spaces five inches beyond the handhold phones.

Now that we have traversed the threshold of authenticating our connection from our handheld to our senses, I see you as one of my go-tos whenever I might need something in SG. I'm sorry for being overbearing at times, but I offer something in return — something practical and itemized to navigate the asinine corporate world. We may be these #chikitingpatrolSG ants in a capitalist society, but if we learn how to go around the system with our sanities intact, I think we can keep this connection (and perhaps, a closer friendship) as we grow more mature and more thriving.

Never gonna lie, I did feel sad that the plan A (we do the dating gig) did not work, but this plan B is glaringly more feasible than before. Perhaps you see this as transactional; pareho na tayong pagod maging accountant. Pero dito at dito talaga tayo bumabalik, sa pagtutuos. I intend to keep our connection / friendship / transaction in any way that I can. But if I really see someone, and the deepest romantic wishes of my heart has been found, it is in your hands to either continue or terminate this contract.

If you wish to stop this connection, pray tell. I am scarred with ghosting. Hindi ko na alam paano ima-manage ang pagkawala ng mga nasa paligid ko, mapa-online o offline. If you wish to detach and set boundaries, let me know. I do respect you not only as a friend, but also as a peer, and kapwa manggagawang-uri.

Muli't muli, maraming salamat sa ganitong pagkakataon.

The banker gamer,

Ella

Diaspora sa Singapura

Majulah, Singapura. 

March on, Singapore. You were a port of tea before, then you became "The Asia layover", and now, you were an option for my forevermore.

That is, until you crush me with the difficulty of taking investment bankers in and paying New York-ish rent, plus the fact that what we are is a legally-permitted ant. An ASEAN worker who has no right to invest in your reclaimed lands. This is what I learned upon checking-in with a guy I met in an instagram meme, as he was looking for a fund manager (and all the while I thought he was looking for a corporate-type, alas, he needs a freelancer).

Upon arriving in Singapura and seeing that vortex waterfall of recycled chlorine in colored LED, I ask myself again, "Why do I go here? What is your plan? Is you plan to meet him? And then what? Are you proposing something in mind? Something in kind? Just something...?"

I guess I went to meet him not only because of me exploring this as a setting of my personal rendition of "brain-drain" tropes, or maybe it's not only because of me being left out by the siblings who went halfway across the world just to explore a better healthcare and greater chance of saving money, but also because I was imagining a vision of us together, renting a bedsit in the OG HDB Estate teeming with Singapura storylines of struggle, strife, and finally, thrive.

That is, when he mentioned in passing that he isn't really looking for a partner at a moment. Or maybe in the near future. Or maybe, in forever. He won't look, period. Ganern. Disappointed, but kind of expected. After all, we are too busy assessing if we really are in a thriving place — if our current careers are okay, or if our savings are intact... Or in my case, if I can afford to go to TWG and have a jasmine tea whenever I wish to rant about this foolish situation of the world. (The Climate change commission estimated an ealier end btw, way earlier than our projected first run of the Manila subway project in 2078).

We are too busy to heal, to dream, to grind separately. After all, we just met in a meme.

"Tell me where you are right now, no kidding." was that meme. I was in my office cafeteria, blindly taking a snapshot of the false greenery of the pantry, introspecting how corporate that is— green sofas, like the old plants uprooted in BGC, to give way to our payable carparks, and limited slots for driving employees. A shout of "Slot is full!" for every time an FTE wishes to avail a free parking in the night. Alas, most of us work at night.

The meme went and so our conversations ensued. From August 2022 to moments of crisis and anxieties of earning, progressing with careers, to emotional emergencies of breaking up and how to deal and how to heal, and scheduled breakdowns, to net worths, grit of the grind, IG stories and madam bebi branding. Until Lazada 12.12 sale offered an ad about flying again. After all, it has been two years since my last scheduled flight and subsequently cancelled because of Covid.

We took our conversation outside the usual platform, and I find ourselves that in moments of silence, we still stick to the noise. Rather than dropping the phone and look at each other, we hover our eyes to the blue lights and its radiation; I don't even know now if too much can cause an eye cancer. Brain-drain, I guess. The mental health kind, not the economic diaspora kind.

And so I mull again on this diaspora idea and he was saying that I should stick to this current gig as it gives me what I need without moving out of the comfort zone. And I felt antsy again, because that sentiment came from a thriving man who went all the way to uproot himself and remove from the anxiety of being the great breadwinner. An anxiety that I keep on managing, as long as I stay in my family home. I still stay, because I was too busy and too tired to deal with the paperwork of applying renovations and seeing to it that every design fitted the japandi aesthetic. The design was there, the paperwork wasn't. It still wasn't. Just like the doctor who was emotionally absent from the time he became physically absent from Manila. He doesn't deserve to be included in my treasure trove of dating fails, but I guess he really is a dating fail. He set the benchmark of the profiles too high, but he crushed the vision bar too low, it became six feet under.

I don't even know if there is still a single soltero with a PRC license, a crossover with automatic transmission, and a net worth of at least Php5 million (financial notes came from that auditor, not from this banker). That, plus a desire of not having a kid. Will I ever find that in Manila? I mean, most of these men are (1) not hitting the profile, or (2) desiring to make a child, or (3) that doctor: a single father. Wala bang (4) none of the above? I mean, I am still optimistic, but if the market is so limited in Manila, perhaps I can start looking for one in Singapura...?

So we circle back to this Majulah Singapura, together with my unique #chikitingpatrolSG hashtag and ubiquitous learning about content-creation and noise-cancellation. Back to the re-imagining the vision, or perhaps time to learn algorithms and python?

Let's see.

Mga Sulating Di Pormal na ang Diaspora muna ang Nakakaalam

2022 flew like a haze. When we met last April, everything seemed confusing. In the middle of a passionate movement, our passion for each other dwindled down. He recently passed the Internal Medicine licensure exam and decided to specialize in Neurology. But after two months of having a 36-hour duty in East Ave Medical center, he changed.

It triggered his depression. He hears his thoughts too loud, found himself hard to sleep, let alone rest. A voice saying that he should give up on life. "Buti na lang hindi ako humantong sa self-harm" 

He said he's guilty of our situation not progressing much since the start of Pandemic. He's worried that he is not attaining the "provider status" he longed in his younger years.

Then nag-disappear for two months. He resurfaced after me non-stop bugging him, having anxieties of our future together and the what-ifs, lalo na nang masabi ko na gusto kong sumubok ng OFW experience. Diaspora trope, just like the 70s. 

"Do what makes you happy. If you want, you can even meet men; just let me know. Even though it hurts."

Ansakit pa rin, grabe. Ngayong taon, mas marami ang pagkakataon ng pangungulila at yung pakiramdam na wala kang kinakapitan. Walang angkla. Walang kasiguruhan. Kumakapit ka sa pag-asa na baka magsimula siya na umahon sa lugmok ng depresyon, at makita nya na may liwanag sa kabilang dulo. Kahit hindi ako yung dulo. Tanggap ko naman na hindi ako priority. 

Pero habang tumatagal, nasasanay ako sa pag-iisa at nabanggit ko ang inggit sa ibang mga mag-boyfriend na nakakapag-celebrate sila ng anniversary nila.

In our three years, we never had any celebration of sorts. Walang marka ng milestone. Parang walang direksyon. He even blocked me on social media before sa tindi ng selos. Tinanggap ko pa rin yun, kasi malaki ang trust issue niya. 

Pero yung katotohanang parang hindi ako nakikita sa side nya, masakit. Mahirap maging invisible. Mahirap tanggapin na kapag namatay siya, hindi ako makaka-attend ng burol o ng libing niya, kasi walang nakakakilala sa akin — sa side niya. Kung anong kwento ko sa pamilya ko ng aking kasintahan, kabaligtaran ang sa kanya.

Parang akong kabit na ewan. Pero tanggap ko yun, andami ba naman niyang pinagdaanan. Nirespeto ko yung decision niya.

Naiiyak pa rin ako, sorry. Ang sakit ng feeling na ghosted ako. Kaya nung sinulat ko yung break-up letter, sinubukan kong i-send sa email. Kasi hindi niya binabasa yung Line app — yung tanging gamit namin sa pagke-kwentuhan. 

Kaya nang sumagot siya... Hindi ko masikmura. Tinanggap lang niya, hindi man lang ako inilaban. Nakakainis na nakakalungkot kasi pakiramdam ko hindi ako karapat-dapat. I was shaken and affected that even little snide remarks of officemates that I used to ignore, eh nagko-cause ng unhealthy anxiety. Nilubog ko ang sarili ko sa work, pumapalo ng 13hours ang stay ko sa opisina na hindi naman dapat.

Dapat medyo magaan na ang lahat, kasi nagkakaroon ulit ng reset. Na-solidify ang timeline sa sarili. Pero kapag nakikita ko yung mga sinulat ko tungkol sa amin, napapa-ugly cry na lang ako.

Ang masaklap, parang ini-invalidate ng mga magulang ko yung pinagdadaanan ko. "Jowa-jowaan". Ganun. Parang laro. Kasi walang accountability. Hindi ko ba talaga deserve ang makatarungan at mapagpalayang pag-ibig? Breadwinner na lang ba ako forever? Ang bigat pa rin, kahit pinipilit kong i-compartmentalize bawat araw. Ni sa sariling kama sa family home, hindi ko pinapakita yung pag-iyak ko. 

Feeling ko invisible pa rin ako.

Mga Sulating Di Pormal na ang Diaspora lang ang nakakabasa

Ah doctor ba sya? We have this notion na He should know how to overcome depression...

Ngayon ko lang nabalikan ito. Sorry, swamped with work and with compartmentalizing crises in my life. I mean, asa sadgurl phase ako recently that I long for connections in the office. And yet, apektado ako sa mga napupuna nila sa akin na bibo ako and hyper sometimes, especially when overjoyed.

35 na ako pero grabe yung apektado ako ng narinig kong comment from my immediate manager. Tas naisip ko, mahirap ngang makakuha ng authentic friendship sa corporate environment because of competition (na sometimes, hindi healthy).

And honestly hindi ko alam if he can overcome that depression even though he gets medicated. Hay. I just don't know anymore. Baka i-break ko, baka hindi. 

Alam mo yung feeling mo na nasa limbo ka, or nasa crossroads ka pero nakatambay ka lang ng mga tatlong buwan, hindi mo alam saan liliko. I just wanted the waiting to end and let my time start moving.

Sorry, trauma dumping. I shouldn't do this to you. Baka itsismis mo pa ako tapos ma-bash pa sa mga tao hahaha

Although, thanks for hearing me out (or reading this, I guess?) Nakakagaan rin ang isulat ang mga naiisip ko at the moment para mawala ang bigat na nararamdaman ko. Also, it is helpful to share some things with a total stranger. May ibang insight na mapupulot. Or even a presence is enough. Na somehow, visible ako. 

So yeah. Maybe from time to time I might write things here, so heads up na rin sa iyo. Haha

I'll stop waiting for you.

Because bb, it doesn't make sense to me anymore. 

In our three years of this romantic interlude, I never felt more lonely since you went away, and not telling on when you will come home. 

You are amazing. I wish you knew that. You made me feel like a woman in our humble beginnings. Pero ngayon na gumagalaw ang oras natin at hindi kita nararamdaman, lalo lang ako nalulungkot, at nari-realize na hindi ko kayang panindigan ang paghihintay. 

I am breaking up with you, K—. Hindi nga yata ito ang tamang pagkakataon para sa atin. Ang daming komplikasyon, ang daming drama. Ang hiling ko lang naman noon ay isang partner na makakasama ko sa mga maliliit na bagay tulad ng pamamalengke at pagluluto. Pero kahit ang simpleng gawaing-bahay na pangarap ay hindi natin maisakatuparan. 

Gusto ko na makalaya sa ganitong kalungkutan. At ngayong unti-unti na akong natututong muli sa pag-iisa, hindi ko na yata kakayanin ang muli mong paglitaw at pagsasabi ng mga pangarap na pilit tinatanaw. 

Let me know if you have something of mine in your possession and I can request a courier / grab delivery to get it sorted. As far as I am concerned, wala ka namang naiwang gamit dito sa bahay, or sa aking mga lalagyan. 

I pray for you, and I wish you happiness and healing. Hope you can wish for mine, too. 

Respectfully yours, 

E—