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.

Dream Journal on a Slow Sunday

Nanaginip ako.

Kasama ko yung kalandian ko, pumunta kami sa PUP Sta Mesa para manghingi ng tulong sa President Prudente sa hindi mai-explain na dahilan. Hindi ko alam kung may kaso ba ako, o feel ko lang mag-walk down the memory lane. 

Dala niya ang convertible, dumaan kami ng Pandacan Oil plant at Osmeña Highway at nagtaka siya bakit dun ako nakatapos ng college. Nang sinabi kong idaan sa pusod ng Sta. Mesa, mas nakita nya ang bangis ng kaligiran ng Altura at Teresa, nang biglang may tren na dumaan at nabangga ang Vios. Nang kami na ang tatawid sa riles via pinalawak na Teresa street, nakita ko mula sa kanang side mirror ang kotseng nabundol. Pipi, parang silver car na nilapirot at nangitim.Pagdating namin sa gilid, sinabihan kami ng isang volunteer na magtestify sa barangay hall dahil isa kami sa saksi. Kinabig ko si ate na pupunta muna ako sa Presidente at siya'y tumango sabay sagot ng, "Sakto, 69. Yan din ang bayad mo sa parking dito sa gedli, ako na mismo magbabantay."

Takang-taka ang kadate ko nang magulat siyang kilala ako. Retouch ng red Mac matte finish, konting reapply ng Joe Malone, pumasok ako sa gate nang pinatigil ang kasama ko. "Hindi ka namin kilala. Alumni ka ba rito?" Nagalit yung kasama ko kung bakit hindi in-allow pumasok at hinanapan pa ng written explanation dahil wala naman siyang ID, at nagsimulang umapila dahil pumasok lang ako nang walang pasubali habang titig na titig sa aking bibig. "Babalik po ako, samahan ko lang po sya nang mabilis." 

Dumaan kaming catwalk. Nagtaka siya at ang konti ng mga tao. "Wala bang pasok?" Ang naisagot ko na lang, "kakaulan lang siguro at katatapos lang ng baha. Or maaaring online class sila today." Pagdating sa South Wing, nagkaroon na ng sariling pwesto sa Sampaguita Canteen ang tagagawa ng Chicken Ala-King rice meal at FEWA, at may videoke na rin sa  loob. Nasabi ng date ko na dun siya maghihintay at hahanap ng kausap, at maghahanap sya ng sasagot sa tanong na bakit hinahanapan ng written explanation ang hindi naman alumni. "Hindi ba dapat ang edukasyon ay bukas sa lahat!? At bakit parang kilalang-kilala ka rito? Sabi mo sa BGC ka manager. Grumadweyt ka lang at nagka-CPA eh ang asta ng paligid ay parang may-ari ka ng school eh."

Iniwanan ko siya sa canteen, tinanong ang isang lalakeng patapos nang kumain kung saan na ba ang office ng President Prudente. Sumagot ng "mam baka andun pa rin sa Cashier Office, parang nagmamadaling galit." Tinanggal ko ang mic sa videoke at sinabi kong, "siguro kapag tinupi ang cord, gaganda ang tono at echo" saka ito ibinigay sa kanya.

Naglakad akong muli at naamoy kong muli ang pinaghalong sangsang ng Ilog Pasig at nasusunog na petrolyo mula sa Pandacan. Bumati sa mga guard, sa mga ateng nagwawalis sa kabilang dulo ng West wing, bago ako napadpad sa Cashier's Office. Pagkakatok ko, dahan-dahan akong pumasok, at namataan ko ang presidenteng suminghal, mukhang katatapos lang ngumawngaw. Lumingon at nakita ko, sabay sabing "Hello."

Tapos nagising na ako. 

Givvup. Chirrup.

 Dear M—, 

Nagtitipid ako ng kuryente, kaya nagpapahangin ako sa balkonahe. Konting moment kasama ang natatanaw na magaang trapik ng C5. Just vibing, nakatingin sa galaw ng mga sasakyan. Pero boring din, kaya nag-ML ako. Isang round ng rambol. Habang naglalaro, hindi ko mapigilang lumuha. Kapag tinanong ako sa work anong ginawa ko sa weekend: 

Umiyak.

Gusto ko lang iluha ang lungkot this weekend. Iluha sa taong hindi mamumuna kung bakit ako ganito, o magpapayo, o maghahanap ng solusyon para maibsan ito. Ilabas ang hapis sa taong hindi ka ija-judge. Hormonal siguro, o maaaring matagal nang naikubling damdamin sa paglaban sa araw-araw. 

Nai-imagine ko na may tatabing tao rito sa akin, o magsatao man lang itong basil, ipakita niya ang marikit niyang anyo, tapos pupunasan lang ang pisngi ko. Sabay sa ingay nitong C5, dudungaw din sya at makiki-vibe. 

Tapos tatanungin nya ako ng "Why you sad, why?"

Sasagutin ko, "Marami. Ito yung mga moment na naiisip kong napag-iiwanan na ako ng mga kaibigan ko. Leftover na sa circle of friends ko."

At sasagot sya nang may pag-along ngiti, "Give up."

Bigla akong makakarinig ng mga maliliit na huni mula sa mga snake plant at sasabat ng, "Give up eks! NO NO NO NO. Chirrup."

Cheep up pala.

Baler Moments - Initial Draft

Ikatlong biyahe ko na ito sa probinsya ng Aurora: 
1. Taong 2010 nang maliit pa ang Bay's Inn at literal syang bungalow na may maraming kwarto at lugawan sa gitna. 
2. Taong 2019 nang unang umiyak sa takot na masaktan ng jowa-jowaan; at
3. Ngayong taon, dala ng inggit. 

Hindi ko mai-deny sa sarili na biglang naglilipana ang mala-Bathalang kasalanan ng inggit at tila linta kung kumapit. Naiinggit ako sa mga walang dala-dalang utang; sa may kakayanang mag-abroad nang walang inaalalang kaperahan; lalung-lalo na sa mga nakakapagsulat kahit sila ay nakatago sa sulok ng kanilang day jobs, o sa pagiging estudyante, o sa pagiging anak lang. Ganun. Andami kong planong isulat, gawing dumpster ang facebook. Pero kung ang profile ko ay magiging sanaysay ng mga reklamo, hindi maganda ang magiging ambag ko sa mundo (mapa-online o offline), at magiging footprint ko bilang user nito. 

Pero kalma lang kasi, Ella. Nai-address mo na yung isang linta ng inggit. Nakaligo ka sa dagat, naasinan ang sarili. May manaka-naka pang kaunti pero hindi pa naman niya nasisipsip ang kabuuan mo.
Eka nga ng manager ko kamakailan, "Ella, the world is your oyster." Ang nasa isip ko paglabas ng napakahabang mentoring (at therapy) session ay "Kailangan kong kainin yang oyster bago ako lamunin ng mundo". Kaya lang, walang oyster sa Baler. Calamares lang. 

Baler looks like a nice laid-back retirement place of passive income, surfing, and writing reflections. Siguro ito yung "if hindi kaya ng budget ang Iloilo" plan D ganern. 

Plan A: Delulu route to Europa
Plan B: Singapura wife at 66
Plan C: Chill Iloilo Auntie from Pasig

Pero bago ang mga delulu is the onli solulu lore, narito na at kahit paano'y naasinan na rin ang isang linta. Tignan mo, nakagawa ng maikling sanaysay. Iwo-workshop na lang pag-uwi sa bahay. Lamnan ng mga detalye ng biyahe bilang chance passenger, ang biglang pagkonti ng mga pasahero pa-Baler, ang ingay ng radio static ng bus na parang nagsesend ng morse code sa mga alien na nakaparada sa mangilan-ngilan na bituin, bago sila takpan ng ulop at bumuhos ang ulan, habang binabaybay nyo ang kahabaan ng Central Luzon expressway na tila minadali ng San Miguel Corporation kaya may kaunting bako kung saan. 

then Mama commented on facebook. this should have another session of writing workshop on a weekend.

SocMed Mulling

Andami kong nababasa sa IG feed about being burnt out sa buhay corporate at ng payong gumawa ng wala  (Alamat ng Gubat, 2003) pero heto na naman ako sa doom scrolling about JIRA tickets, millenial rants, and capybara memes and plushies. 

Kaadikan na ba talaga ang nararanasan ko? Nakatutok ako sa phone kakatingin ng travel itineraries at nalulugmok sa inggit, pero yung gusto kong retirement career sa pagsusulat eh nahihirapan akong bunuin. Parang namamatay ang kagustuhang lumikha sa bawat salimuot na nakikita ko sa social media. Pagkatapos, muling nanghihingalo ang kagustuhang sumulat dahil sa kalakaran ng malaking book fair sa kamaynilaan na ang gusto lang ay kumita, walang bisyon na palawakin ang demokrasya at access sa mga aklat. 

Gusto ko ring lumaban, sa paraang kaya ko. Pero bakit yung kagustuhan at unti-unting napapatay ng mga ingay sa loob at labas ng algorithm? Anong reset ang kailangan ko? 

Do I need to touch grass as a sigma girl-boss, before my consciousness gets yeeted into the Ohio dawn? (Elle Cordova, 2024)

May Tula Tapos May Iyak

Kung Maaaring Lumutang by Christian Jozel Ason
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Written last 12 May 2024, main reason why this book got on-boarded on Goodreads website
TW: Too Much Crying.

"Bakit walang ISBN? Sayang Goodreads reading challenge score!" Ang nasa isip ko nang makita ang aklat na ito ni Ason. Nakikilala ang aklat at ang akda sa mga barcode at numero. Nakikilala ang sukat at ang metro, ang kapal at nipis nito, at mas mabilis matukoy ang pagkakahulma nito.

Operative word: Kilala

Kaya siguro, sinadya muna ni Ason na ilimbag ito agad. Baka kasi, gusto nya maranasan ang hirap at saya ng paglikha, at pagiging pisikal ng mga katha. Masasabing reading retreat ko ito dahil walang sukatan ang mga sulat. Walang stars na igagawad. Walang judgment kung saan nahuhugot ang mga salita.

Hindi ako magaling tumingin ng tula, o magsabi kung maganda ba ito o hindi. Pero kaya kong sipatin sa pamamagitan ng pansariling danas. At hindi ko inaasahan na ang pagbabasa ng mga tula ay tulad rin ng karanasan ng paglalakbay patungo sa mga alaalang pilit iniiwan ngunit bumabalik, at mga sansaglit ng pagbabalik pero parating nawawaglit.

Halos dalawang taon na nang magsimula akong tuluyang bumukod at matutong mamuhay ng pag-iisa, at hindi ko maikakailang may mga nakikilala akong life-skill, o mga maiingay na pagninilay. Madalas kausap ang sarili sa maliit kong bahay, kaya minsan, may mga binabasa akong pilit kong inuusal, binubuka ang bibig. Pero sa ibang mga tula ni Ason, hindi bibig ang kumikilos, kundi mata. At madalas, lumuluha nang hindi sadya.

Kalbaryo ba talaga ang minsanang pagbabasa ng tula? Kaya ba hindi ako nagbabasa madalas ng tula dahil ba sa mga di inaasahang naaalala? Retreat bang matuturing ang pagbabasa tapos luluha?

Ni minsan, hindi ako umoo sa anumang anyaya ng dilim at ang gawad ng pagkalutang nito. Siguro nakakatulong ang dami ng ilaw sa paligid at sa katotohanang kahit paano, may tapang ako sa bawat haharapin. Pero minsan talaga, may mga alon na sobrang bigat, at wala kang magawa kundi tumunganga. At sa kaso ko, madalas, iniiyak. Kasi sa pag-iisa ko lamang natutuklasang yakapin ang mga damdaming hindi madalas nakikita ng madla.

Nahuli ni Ason lalung-lalo na sa ibang mga katha ang therapy na pilit kong idine-deny sa sarili. Baka ito nga ang retreat na sinasabi: magnilay at umiyak, damhin ang bawat saglit, bago muling suotin ang pragmatikong pagtingin ng bawat rason ng pagbangon.

View all my reviews

To: Dennis (cc: Kim)

Kumusta? 

Minsan, nape-pressure ako kapag ano ang dapat isulat sa araw ng kasal, pero siguro unahin ko muna ito: salamat sa pag-imbita. Sakto, nasa estado na ako ng buhay na wala na masyadong pake kung gaano kalayo ang wedding destination, basta't makasama ako sa espesyal na araw na ito. Gusto mo ba isulat ko pa kung paano tayo naging close sa opisina? Actually, I cannot answer that, because I used to be not close to workmates as I compartmentalize my social life. And I used to separate authentic friendships within and outside the office. Mas "friendly employee" ako kaysa sa "office friend". Iilan lang ang mga nagiging kaibigan ko sa workplace, lalong-lalo na kapag hindi ko ka-transaksyon o ka-relyebo sa workload. Isa pa, si Lyra at Jhana pa lang ang naging amiga ko na naging training buddy and non-work buddy ko over the years. Pwedeng ikaw na ang nasa third place. 

Siguro dahil kalog ka, o kapareho ko ng work ethic, o dahil sa minsanang boy's talk over vape sesh natin, dun ka naglalabas ng sama ng loob at mga nadarama sa loob at labas ng opisina, at naging saksi rin sa kwentong puso ko na medyo komplikado. Baka susi mo sa pagiging friend ko ang pagkakaalam ng kwentong puso ko, katulad ng pagdinig ko sa kwentong puso mo. Tingin ko, sa ganitong pagkakataon ko nakilala si Kim. Noong una, nakikita ko lang sya sa mga daily reporting mo at sa mga instagram stories mo. Millenial dating mindset rin kayo, unang nagkadaupang-palad sa social media. Akala ko sobrang mahiyain lang sya, pero nang makita kong nagiging daily chill pill nya ang jeje kong Instagram stories ay mas lalo ko sya nakikilala bilang kalog at masayahing kasama. Iba ang kinang ng mata nya kapag kasama ang kanyang mga malalapit na amiga, at lalong lalo na kapag kasama ka. 

Masaya rin ako na dumalaw kayo sa bahay kong kulang-kulang pa noon, at handang makinig sa mga naging proyekto ko (lalong-lalo na ang pinagmamalaki kong gypsum wall). Mas natuwa ako nang magbigay si Kim ng mga halaman para may makasama ako sa araw-araw na pag-iisa sa bahay at tumatangke ng gastusin sa bawat pamamalengke at paggamit ng tubig, internet at kuryente. 

Ngayon mo siguro maba-vibe ang samu't-saring sansaglit ng Singularity: lahat ng karanasan ng nakaraan, nararamdaman ng kasalukuyan, at baka-sakali ng kinabukasan. Natutunan ko ito kakapanood ng Kamera Trilogy ni Jerrold Tarog, lalung-lalo na sa pelikulang Sana Dati.  Hindi sa dahil pareho kayo ng kwento ng bida, at hindi dahil kasing gwapo mo ang groom na nahihiya sa SDE, at lalong hindi dahil sa lugar kung saan kayo ikakasal ni Kim. 

Kanang, usa lang akung palihug (wow, bisaya!): be patient and simply surrender everything today. Because today is a sensory overload of sorts. Not everything will be up to the T, and not all SLAs will be at 100%. Also, learn to have the romantic eye on moments that you tend to overlook, and just enjoy the relief after the ordeal. 

That way, you savor the singularity, and you will realize that all those days of hardships and anxiety will be worth it, as you close the old chapter of your respective lives and open a new one — conjugal version na haha! 

Singularity rin ang karanasan naming mga magiging saksi sa inyong pag-iisang dibdib, mula sa aming mga mata (at sa pamamagitan ng mga SDE at camera) na makakaipon ng maliliit na alaala sa kwento ng inyong buhay. Sa tuwing uma-attend ako ng kasal, naalala ko ang naitanong sa akin ni Lyra, "Tayo rin kaya, magkakaroon ng ganoong klaseng pag-ibig?" at sa mga minsanang saglit ng pag-iisa, ako'y naluluha. Minsan dahil sa inggit, minsan dahil sa awa sa sarili, pero parating luha dahil sa ligaya. Kasi sa bawat pag-iisang dibdib ay ang katotohanang lahat tayo ay may pagkakataong magkaroon ng kakampi at kasangga, at hindi araw-araw ng ating buhay ay pagsasanay sa pag-iisa. 

Congratulations and best wishes!!! 

Reminiscent of TSOB and Sabaw Conversations / Crisis Management circa 2022

Epistolary Exposition: Introduction

Dear M—,

Kumusta? 

Huling 1-on-1 moment natin ay yung kababalik ko lang sa Mumbai noong 2016, tumaba dahil sa stress at kaakibat na katotohanang lahat ng pambayad ko sa ibang bayan ay via credit card, kasi lahat ng 500 at 1,000 rupees na hawak ko ay naideklarang worthless ni Modi. Wala akong kapasidad i-withdraw ang sumunod nitong paper bill: ang 2,000 rupees. Pagod na pagod rin ako sa pagtuturo ng simpleng proseso pero mahirap na konsepto ng NAV Operations, at kahit kanino yatang hindi accountant ng bangko ay mahihirapan akong ipaliwanag ito. Ganun yata talaga, may mga bagay na mahirap ring ipaliwanag sa kakaunting saglit at bilang ng mga salita. Ganun yata talaga kapag tagapagtuos. Pitong taon na, M. Nasabi ko rin sa iyo na gusto ko nang tumanda sa pagsusulat at talikdan ang nabuong pagkatao sa natapos nating kurso. Nasabi ko sa iyo noon, na kapag manager na ako, saka ko ito ulit iisipin. 

Ito na yun. 

After a year of being a manager repackaged as an Associate, narito na naman ako at susubok na patayin ang unang pagkatao: ang pagiging CPA. Sakto, malapit na mag-expire ang lisensya at PRC ID ko, at hindi naman nag-practice ng audit sa loob ng sampung taon, at saktong nasa estado ako ng trabahong lahat ay kaya kong hamigin at panindigan. Yun lang, hindi na ako bingi at bulag kapag ako ay nababalya at inaasahan bilang dalawang tao in terms of work load. Baka ito na nga ang taon para gisingin muli ang kislap ng panulat. Ang ikalawang pagkatao na nagsusulat ng karanasan, at maisapubliko ang aking boses na may halong laya at kalkulado. Hiling ko ang mga sumusunod:

1. Maaari ba kitang gawing recipient nitong aking mga liham? Balak kong buuin at bunuin ang sampung liham sa loob ng lampas sampung taon ng pagba-boxing ng aking damdamin, ng aking hinaing, at mga silip ng ating pakikipag-usap sa sariling punto-de-bista? Tandaan, ang pangalan mo ma'y totoo, pero ang copyright ay sa akin nang buong-buo. 

2. Hahalungkatin ang aking alaala mula sa ating nawawalang notebook, at gumawa ng mga kwentong napapanahon, kahit nilipas na ito ng mga taon. All-encompassing but retrospective application. Pero ano pa bang alam natin sa accounting practices kung pareho na tayong hindi praktisado? 

3. Kung ang pagkatao mo ay biglang nanalamin sa ibang tao (sa anumang paraan ng pagkakabuo), nawa'y ibigay mo ang kalayaan sa aking kamay na maisulat ka bilang musa at bilang kontrabida. Kung mamarapatin, ibabaldado ko ang napakakisig mong alisto at tatapyas ng gilas sa iyong pagkatao. In short, your demeanor will be cut short. Who will be the main character? This is what I have to explore. This is why I ask for your concurrence in my long letter. 

Ito na siguro ang introduction ng aking epistolary exposition. So, ano na? 

written in Sarah's after RT's Book Talakayan, 02 March 2024

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.

Dear M–

Dear M–, 

Passing thought talaga ang sulatan ka sa mga pagkakataong gusto kong ibaybay ang mga naiisip sa daan, o sa mga pagkakataong nakakapagnilay ako sa paglalakbay. Ganitong-ganito rin ang aking ginagawa sa ating shared notebook, na pumayag ka rin naman kasi: 1. Alam mong crush kita at masaya nga naman ang undivided attention, at 2. Nahihiya kang talikuran ang potential na bunga ng pagkakaibigan sa panulat. Scratch that, alam kong hindi mo lang alam paano ako tatanggihan kasi bibihirang pagkakataon na ang bigyan ka ng liham, lalo na ngayong tadtad na tayo ng memes sa social media. 

Btw, belated happy birthday ulit. At oo, nawawala pa rin ang ating artifact na mga notebook. 

Nabanggit ko na nga pala sa iyo na hindi na sa Makating naging Taguig (na naniniwalang magiging Makati muli) ang aking permanent address. Nakaraang 2022, dito na ako bumalik sa Pasig. Andito ako sa Bagong Ilog, yung barangay na katabi ang Pineda. Katabi ko ang ospital kaya may kapag magkaroon man ng hika sa kaka-fire exit stairs (dahil sa lindol o sunog) eh may mabilis na Emergency Care access. Unless, may dalawang libo katao ang makiki-access. 

Anyways, masasabi nilang maswerte itong concrete jungle ko. Mahal, pero isang grab lang papunta sa trabaho ko sa BGC. Isang session ng lakad papuntang Pineda wet market. Isang jeep papuntang SM Megamall. Ang mahirap lang nito, kapag pang-umaga ang work, nakamamatay ang commute. Ito talaga ang labyrinth ng bagtasan. Lahat ng manggagaling sa Tiendesitas o Antipolo papuntang BGC, sa Bagong Ilog dadaan. Kapag galing ka naman ng Pinagbuhatan at pupuntang Ortigas, sa Bagong Ilog na rin dadaan. Kapag namulat ako ng 7 AM sa tingkad ng sunrise showcase sa balcony ng maliit kong bahay, makikita ko ang C5 bridge na nagmistulang ilog ng mga mababagal na sasakyan at walang tumal na ingay ng busina. Yan na rin ang Vitamin D dosage ko sa araw-araw: ang pagtanaw sa daanan at trapik, kasabay ng pagdidilig at pakikipagdaldalan ko sa basil, thymes at mga Snake plant na biyaya ni Mama. 

Tapos babalik-tulog ulit. Aba, ano pa bang magagawa kung tuwing 4PM naman ang simula ng work? Sayang skincare para lang magpuyat. I always need a nap. 

Alam mo bang naging childhood address ko ang Pineda? Wala na akong maalalang mga ginawa ko noong kabataan ko, pero ang kwento ni Mama about Pineda ay yung nagkasya ako sa ilalim ng traysikel noong 3 years old. Nang ako raw ay naglalaro sa labas, at sumusunod kay Kuya na may mga kalaro nang hapon na yun, biglang may dumaan na traysikel, at imbis na ako'y mabangga, eh yumuko ako at nagkasya sa ilalim. Na ikinagulat ng traysikel drayber. Akala siguro's nakapatay ng bata. Pero paglampas nya, ngumiti pa ako sa kanya. Aba, ang amazing ay. Hindi ko naman maalala yun. Kahit yung mga kwentong palo sa pwet at sinturon blues ni Mama. Naalala raw yun ni kuya, pero hindi malinaw ang memorya niya. Hindi na rin nya maalala ang Pineda Nursery School kung saan siya nag-Kinder. Ang naaalala nya ay ang pagtawid namin sa Ilog Pasig mula Pineda papuntang Zero Block kung saan sasakay ng Jeep papuntang Pembo, patungo sa aming magiging family home noong dekada 90. 

Nahihiya akong magtanong-tanong kung meron pa bang bangka mula sa Pasig papuntang West Rembo (kung nasaan ang Zero Block). Nang minsang dumaan ang sinasakyan kong grab sa mahabang Mrr Street at Sta. Teresa de Avila Street, wala na akong makitang terminal ng bangka, o mga lumalangoy na bata sa ilog. Wala na ring namamangka. Dahil ba alas-tres ng hapon ako napadaan run? Katirikan ng araw, perfect time ng siesta, at wala masyadong commuter na midshift sa loob ng barangay Pineda. Baka kada umaga lang ang biyahe? Ito yung mga naiisip ko habang inaatake ng nostalgia sa nakaraang bungi-bungi na sa personal kong alaala. Siguro, napatay na nang tuluyan ang industriya dahil may Kalayaan bridge na patawid ng Uptown. Substitute tulay ng mga taong yamot na sa malawak na C5 bridge. 

In fairness naman sa C5, ibang administrasyon kasi ang gumawa nito, panahong may pake pa sa mga naglalakad at walang pambili ng kotseng ipapang-trapik rin lang. Sa Kalayaan bridge, nakakairita ang kitid ng daan ng mga tao. Bawat hike dun ay may kalakip dapat na dasal na sana hindi madulas ang mga sasakyan at biglang lumiko sa nilalakaran mo. Ganyan ang urban planning ng isang engineer na walang pake. Siguro tingin sa tao (ng mga gumawa ng Kalayaan bridge) ay mga squammy ng Pasig at hindi deserve na magkaroon ng trabaho sa "relatively safest business district of the country". 

Isa na ako sa mga naglalakad papuntang opisina, lalo na kapag sobrang namamahalan sa grab. Wala pang 30 mins na upo sa tsikot na may aircon pero lalagas na ng halos 200. OA na nga ang pamasahe, kaya nagkukunyari din akong tindera o construction worker na tatawid sa Pasig Boulevard mula sa condo, at ilalakad ang C5 bridge. Minsan, partnered ng Gym playlist sa spotify, pero madalas, mga pipip ng sasakyan. Nakakatuwa ring may nakakasabay ako sa paglalakad, at nari-realize kong hangga't may construction worker ay may thriving na underground economy. Makakamura ng pares at mami sa mismong c5 bridge, at tuwing alas-kwatro eh nagbubukasan na ang parang pitstop ng mga truck driver at ng mga rider. Nakakawili ang kulay ng mga suot ng mga nagmo-motor: Madalas blue at green, pero may orange at may dilaw ring minsanan. May red na rin, tapos kamakailan eh may biglang violet na. Hindi naman sikat yung kulay ube sa Pasig-BGC area, kaya ang cool lang. Parang trying hard hipster sa pop culture. Pero sa huli, jejemon rin pala hehe.

Ang nakakatuwa sa paglalakad sessions ko ay naitatawid ko ang 10,000 steps na magiging exercise quota ko for today. Mahilig ako magbasa, hindi ako mahilig mag-gym. Baka ibang Betos ang nasa isip mo na mahilig sa gym. Nasa Japan na yun sya, kahit paano raw ay okay naman siya dun. Alam rin niya at ng mga kapatid ko na naglalakad ako sa C5 bridge kapag papasok ng work. Wala naman silang alma, puru paalala lang ng "Ingat!" at minsanang "Dumaan ka kasi sa bangka dun sa Pineda!" Kaya lang, nang madulas ang bunso at naikwento sa mga magulang ko ang aking daily adventure, nasagot na lang nila na "Either mamatay ka sa pasahe ng grab, o mapatay ka't mabangga sa daan. Either suffer the fare or go to a country with an effective public transport." Ang burgis ng take, di ba? Dalawang elemento agad ng kaburgisan: ang maglagas ng sweldo sa grab car, o tumakas sa Labyrinth ng Bagtasan (at mag-abroad). Siguro, nakita nila ito kay Kuya na nasa Germany na, at kay Kiteh na nasa Japan na. Mga bansang may matinong bus at tren, at mahal ang bumili ng kotse kasi OA ang presyuhan para lang sa parking. Axis powers unite na rin siguro, kasi parehong pro-pedestrian ang mandato ng gobyerno nila. They move the public efficiently. Unlike sa Pinas, Presidente lang ang moving effectively. Helicopter-helicopter para lang sa Coldplay concert na nagtutulak ng environmental kineso. 

Sobrang balintunay talaga minsan ng buhay. Gusto ko na ring takasan, punta ng Singapura siguro. Makaranas man lang ng mabilisang byahe at mag-TWG tea kasi gusto ko lang rin mag-inarte. Tamang burgisan blues lang naman, bago bumalik sa mala-purgatoryong paglalakad sa Labyrinth ng Bagtasan sa araw-araw (o hapon-hapon, kasi midshift ako).

So ikaw, kumusta?

First Pinoy BL Experience

Ang Lihim sa Tore ng Sinagtala by Steno Padilla
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Munting Paunawa: Hindi ako matatas magsulat ng mga book review sa wikang Filipino. Patawarin nawa ako ng mga mambabasa. Madalas ang aking sinusulat ay nasa wikang ingles, o Taglish. At kung mamarapatin, maaari akong mag-code switch sa bandang gitna o dulo.

Una kong nakilala si Steno sa isang facebook live ng UP Likhaan kasama si Kwesi at si Patrice. Sila ay naglahad ng kanilang mga binabasa noong lockdown. Nanood ako ng online presentation kasi ako ay nagkaroon ng reader's block. Hirap akong magbasa ng mga nobela at koleksyon ng maiikling kwento dahil sa sobrang takot at pangambang dala ng Covid-19. Hindi nakakatulong ang kawalang-piyansa kung magkakaroon ba ng bakuna, at ang naging kalakaran na kakaunti lang ang nailaang araw ng pahinga kapag ikaw ang tinamaan ng pneumonia. Nakatulong sila na ipamulat sa akin na munting pahinga sa pagiging aligaga ang pagbabasa ng mga magagaan na nobelang pambata. At saka nabanggit ni Steno na ito ang ginawa nyang istilo sa libro niyang Lihim sa Tore ng Sinagtala.

Kung sa BL rin lang naman, matagal na akong mulat (bilang ang kuya ko ay bading elementary pa lamang) sa LGBT at sinisikap maging updated sa mga usaping SOGIE. Tinuturing kong ako'y isang ally kahit hindi nila alam, haha! Ang una kong exposure sa BL bilang isang art form ay sa Japanese anime na Dokyuusei (Classmate) sa youtube noong 2016, at hindi ito katulad ng mga mahahalay na yaoi o yuuri o iba pang Rule 34 ng online manga. Ang anime ang unang nagpakita sa akin ng BL genre na tigib ng pagdanas ng samu't-saring nararamdaman, pagkilala at pagkilatis sa sarili, at pagpapakita ng dalisay na pag-ibig. Ganito rin ang Sinagtala, kaya deserve niya ang Lampara Prize. Naniwala si Steno na sa pamamagitan ng kanyang maiigsing mga chapter at mabilis na engagement ng mga karakter, mananatili sa pokus ng kwento ang mga kabataang mambabasa, at mauunawaan ang bawat sandali; makikisimpatya sa bawat tanong, at madadala sa bawat emosyon. Mataas ang naging benchmark na iginawad ni Steno sa akin bilang supporter ng Pinoy Lit — hindi na ako basta kikiligin sa mga likhang may iba't-ibang font color at wrong grammar na nasa Wattpad. Hindi na rin ako basta mai-impress sa bastang fan-servicing ng mga karakter, o madali ko na ring mahahalata ang mga plot device ng kwento.

Nakakatawa na nakakatuwa bilang isang ally ang kanyang mga fan-servicing mechanisms para sa kanyang target market. Maaaring awkward ito sa hetero/cisgendered male readers kasi, malamang sa alamang, ito ang una nilang mapupuna bilang kahinaan ng aklat. Ilang halimbawa ang Battle of Rebels: Tactical Angels — BORTA for short at JhusKho, ang pinagsamang pangalan ng mga tauhan ng nobelang ito.

Iikot ang kwento hindi sa mundo ng laro, kundi sa mundo buhay nina Jhustin at Makho. Inilahad ni Steno ang simpleng ganda ng school life at gawain ng mga kabataan, ang kanilang mga samahan, mga pakikipag-usap sa kapamilya, at ang kanilang tambayang Tore sa Sinagtala, isang main setting at malaking pag-imbita sa akin (bilang mambabasa) na tuklasin ang kanilang mga saloobin, mga tagong lihim at damdamin.

Nakakatuwa rin ang tiwalang binigay ni Steno sa kanyang target market (ages 13-18? Itatanong ko ito kay Steno sa aming book discussion), na kayang dalhin ang bigat ng mga dulong kabanata, at mga plot twist na kaiba sa mga BL manga na na-encounter ko. Sa mundo ng social media, malaking saklaw at problema ng kabataan ngayon ang kahinaan ng focus at kababawan ng diwa dahil sa mga dagli at putul-putol na status updates, memes at misinformation ng ground zero (aka facebook). Naniniwala siguro siya (gaya ko), na kayang mamulat ng mga kabataan sa mga isyung napapanahon, at maging maalam sa kabuktutang ginagawa ng mga nakatatanda, at handa silang gawin ang lahat para ito ay maitama.

Muli't-muli, dasurb talaga nito 'yung Lampara Prize, at nakakatuwa na may mga ganitong akdang Pinoy na handang ibigay ang gaan, ang bigat, at ang kakanyahan at kadalisayan ng buhay.

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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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Thanks to Thursdays

Mr. Thursday by Emily St. John Mandel
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

What a treat.

It was featured in Future Tense, an anthology of sorts and can be accessed via Slate.com
If you are into a break of reading too many romance, or wattpad, or self-help, this is a good antidote and a palate cleanser.

Last weekend, I was telling bookish friends that I am not yet a completist of Emily St. John Mandel, and I was planning to be one, because she writes easy and yet the subtleties move you (as a reader). And I told them that she can be categorized as a millenial writer like Sally Rooney and Jenkins Reid, the women writers who can be shelved separately as "born in the waning years of the old millenium". The time period in their works assures you that you are part of their generation, regardless of their genres.

I was amazed that she keeps on writing and venturing to scifi/ specfic, rather than her old style of Canadian noir (which feels saturated since Noirs existed before we both were born, lol).

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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. 

The Tay-Tay of Literary World

Daisy Jones & The Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Antagal bago ko natapos! I even attended a birthday party and talked about this book before I went on a slump. Reading a fiction in an oral history with all the characters written is a very tricky style, it dies the hype and the joy of just reading. It's different from plays, when the intent is speaking on a first-person POV. Oral histories shouldn't have even insertion of an author notes, it will somehow be converted as a dissertation.

At least that's how I felt with the gimmicky writing, a dissertation trying hard to be an oral history. That's why it became boring at the mid-part. It gets repetitive.

It's my first time reading Taylor Jenkins Reid, and I actually applaud her for fleshing out women characters in a setting filled with men. Rock-and-roll is about men and them dominating music in a rugged muddy and Americana style while taking drugs and alcohol and getting their high, before deciding to settle down. That's how the world was before— it was all about them. It also toned the character of Daisy being born out of burgis pribilej, being a prodigy with less effort because she wasn't thinking about rent or the money she will spend on what healthy food to eat. She has an access to a lot of things. And even so, she has to claw her way just to be recognized and seen.

I am still a bias of Jennifer Egan and Sally Rooney being the GenX and Millenial female writers, but maybe this Taylor thrives in the GenZ demographic, especially with her songwriting savviness and able to translate her book with all other forms of media. She was able to put content in Spotify and Amazon prime by merely rehashing her slam poetry into Americana-esque songs with the vibes of that Taylor's Folklore, and reaped tons of royalties and rights with it.

I am envious of the utility of her creations, and she is really a talented Zennial/GenZ writer. Looking forward to her other works, but lesser of the gimmick.

View all my reviews

Hormonal Woe

 Dearest K—,

I cried last night. 

I saw a video of a couple sitting on the beach with their director's chair and I messaged you actually requesting that we can do the same: just go to the beach and just sit using my director's chair that I bought for the guests. 

I haven't sit on the chair that I bought leisurely. I tried that once to test its durability. After that I just kept them under the cabinet and just pull them out when needed.

And I realized, yung mga ganitong hiling o simpleng ligaya na tatanga sa dagat kapag gusto eh hindi ko na magawa. Hindi ko rin magawa kasama ka. Hindi ko magawa nang mag-isa. Ano ba ang humahadlang? Bakit parang pati yung kagustuhang pagpungko at pagtunganga sa dagat eh kailangan pang ihiling? Why do I have to beg for such a simple pleasure?

And I realized hindi pala tayo katulad ng dati. Ang propesyon natin ay hindi tulad ng sa iba, at ang mga desisyon natin ang lumamon sa sistemang mahirap makahanap ng oras para sa simpleng ligaya. At dahil ayaw na ayaw ko ang nagmamakaawa, nainis ako sa sarili at naluha, at tuluyan na lang naiyak. 

Kailan ko kaya mararanasan ang simpleng hiling nang kasama ka? Mararanasan ko pa kaya? Siguro kay Lord ko na lang iaasa lahat ng bigat ng nararamdaman ko, kasama ng pagiging hormonal kasi magkakaron na ako.

Umiikot-ikot lang itong nararamdaman sa iyo. Galit, lungkot, saya, lungkot. 

Pero sa panahong lalong wala ka: lungkot, galit, lungkot, lungkot.

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.