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. 

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.

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Mga Teorya ng Pagkahulog: My Personal Reading Experience

Minamahal ang Dinadala Mo sa Paglisan: Mga Pagsasanay sa Pagsusulat at Pag-iisa by Edgar Calabia Samar
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Last 15th March 2021, it was confirmed that I was a close contact of a random employee in the 18th floor who was COVID-19 positive. With that, I asked my manager not to go to #TheBank and subjected myself to the standard 14-day self-quarantine while I do WFH. I find myself having a hard time dealing with isolation and being alone, being an extrovert and a bubbly girl who craves attention and connection. During these times, I write. But not as lengthy as a novella or a short story. Even with writing, I find myself hard to sit down and type (or write) my daily nothings and musings.

This time, I also started my first podcast episode in Anchor app (that auto-links to Spotify), and yet, the content was just me trying hard to get a grasp on sound production, recordings and random rants about surviving the personal lockdown. I told myself that to be able to continue this passion project, I needed structure—even when the outside world lacks of it.

When Manila has its increasing cases of Covid-19, recording hotspots of variants and registering deaths, I looked for solace in researching lessons about sound production and creative content via Podcasts. I installed Audacity app for windows and watched multiple Youtube channels on how to record and modulate and mix the voices and sounds; I was too engrossed and getting myself equipped with the program that I almost read all the hyperlinks in the Audacity online manual. After that, I tried ingesting all the episodes of The Linya-linya Show, Wake Up with Jim and Saab, Covid Diaries, and even the Booklaban (who I believe became a shelf item when the ECQ started). It is when I encountered Glenn and Egay’s Anong Kwento Natin, a podcast to which they talk about the books they read and how they relate it with their experiences in the outside world. When I told myself that the tandem might have a nutritious content but lacks the magic of music, it is only then that I discovered Egay’s personal podcast, Mga Teorya ng Pagkahulog.

I was hooked. The intro and outro were soothing! From the looks of it, the content was long at first. However, as I listened to the first episode, a transition was heard in the middle part of the podcast, a commercial of sorts. It was only on the second episode that I was sold into buying the book from the Santinakpan site, and I opted to read the PDF copy instead of the EPUB version.

Putting the PDF version is tough. If I can name one weakness, this is it. There are pages where the font is too small. When you zoom it in Amazon Kindle, it gets tougher to pan left and right, just to get the reading done. I tried reading the essay in my laptop, but the monitor was too big and bright for me, the letters were so large. Plus, the kinesthetic activity of turning the page was elusive; laptop kind of sucks the fun in reading the book in your hand. So, I squinted my eyes and played the podcast in full volume, getting myself into the mood of reading.

Reading the essays with Egay’s voice feels like a conversation with him talking and me taking mental notes. Inasmuch as I can, for every episode, I take down notes and quotable quotes (with my phone) and share it to him through the Instagram stories. Funny, he suddenly asked as to why I was listening to the three episodes in one go—May pinagdadaanan ba ako? He may not know my 14-day quarantine (which extended for an additional 7 days because Duterte declared another wave of ECQ without ayuda), or my internal frustration with the current government, my angst with the current leaders, and my anger with the apathetic and apolitical colleagues. He may not know that my partner (who is a frontliner) deals with positive COVID-19 cases, long queues of patients and almost everyday code red & ALS. I just answered his question that I was on the middle of a research for podcasts and sound production.

But I think he knew.

Or maybe, I believe he knew all this because my feelings were validated in his essays. Even though the book was written in 2020, the sentiments resonated until today. Even my lack of motivation to write, or my anger to what is happening outside, and the need to call for the mass movement; these were all seen and heard in Egay’s book and podcast! I may not relate about the stories of paglayo at paglisan, but I felt the moments of being lonely and alone (which is so much different from not lonely; alone). There were quotes that acted as Easter eggs, too. Some, I remember seeing them in twitter. Plus, reading the passages in Filipino language bear weight. I kind of etched into my heart. These little tidbits gave more magic to the reading experience.

Ang mahalaga, mukhang makakapagsulat na ulit talaga ako.

And true enough, I wasn’t even consciously looking at what I typed just now, I was able to write. Finally, I am able to write again. Even though I start with this humble book review.

Egay, if you are reading this… I thank you for your creative works. It inspired me to do one, too.

View all my reviews

Whatever REMAINS of us?

Hello mga jejemon! 😁 

Flexing this book in the Tuloy Po Kayo 2021 of CCP

I've recently read Remains by Daryll Delgado and I hope you will indulge me in this long post. But first, I want to personally thank you for patronizing my adventures in writing online journals, book reviews and for listening to my podcast! You can actually hover to your spotify app and click this link.

Pero kung tinatamad ka, you can simply read along in this entry.

I've collated my discussion notes and other hanash from our Buddy-reading spree with Kwesi, Neil and Jessie in a Facebook group page. If you are a student looking for some additional ideas or notes, I hope you can find them here. 

Honestly, I enjoyed reading Remains. It is one of the disaster fiction in the world of Filipiniana, and this has sold me to explore more of Daryll's works. The dynamics of the characters, the conflict and struggles of Ann, and of the people around her. It has evoked some of the emotions that I even thought I was deaf of. Or dead of, if that word works. I hope by collating my notes you will also be excited to have this reading experience. 😄

SECTION 1: CHAPTERS 1-7

• Okay ba sa inyo ang paghalo ng Waray, Filipino, at English sa nobela?

As to the language, being multi-lingual, I think it's fine. It made me appreciate the mother tongue my father considered dead when he moved to Manila during his high school years. And ako, who personally do not know the language, was curious on how the dynamics went if English and Waray was combined in some sentences... Groovy pala, parang coño bisdak rin lang hehe

As to its pacing, hindi sya mabagal like The Quiet Ones. Malaman kasi sya. Andaming mga pahapyaw na mga kwento. Parang fill-in the blanks ang atake. Or jigsaw puzzle. Enjoyable read, and medyo may mga snippets of family drama + nostalgia. Yung laman, mas bumibigat bawat kabanata. Atat ako makilala si Mrs. Suarez in the first four chapters, tapos malaman-laman ko biglang lumayas ang bakla (sa mga sumunod na chapters)

• Na-intrigue din ba kayo? Ano meron sa backstory ni Ann na interesting sa inyo? Ano kaya mga tinatago ng kanilang parents, no? 

Yung backstory ni Mrs. Suarez ang nacurious ako sa umpisa. Bakit may pagpapanggap? Bakit may piging? Sino si Tito Jun? Magbeshie ba talaga si Atty. Suarez at Manong Paterno? MAY LOVE TRIANGLE BA?!? chos, eme. Hindi ako masyado curious ke Ann at sa ex nya at sa kung anuman ang meron sila ni Ben. Altho, interesting take rin yung dynamics nila ni Alice. And nakakatuwa, kasi kahit magkaiba sila ng ugali, nagkakausap pa rin silang magkapatid. Stark contrast with some sad realities na dadalawang magkapatid na lang, hindi pa nagpapansinan.

• Kung ikaw ba na i-interview, ganon ka ba mag-desribe ng situation mo? Or baka dahil lang din sa translation ni Daryll Delgado? Or do you think since fiction naman ito, okay lang na maging literary ang transcript? What do you think? Ano pa kaya ang mga ginamit na instances ni Daryll para mabigyan ng historical context ang setting sa nobela?

Kung iinterview-hin rin ako ni Ann bilang isang ina na may nawawalang asawa, feeling ko katulad rin ako ng nasa transcript. Mananawagan, ipapakita picture, magra-rant ng "Bakit hindi kami sinabihan? Kesyo huli na?" Share ko rin lang, may gantong istilo ng panawagan ke Ms. Karen Davila from Real, Quezon. Bagyong Yoyong. Dami ring namatay, tapos iyak-iyak si nanay. Buhay daw sila ng anak nya, ganun. The translation in English kills the spirit of the original transcript. Ewan ko ba, ang pakiramdam ko kasi, binalik ako sa fictional aesthetic ng nobela. Or ako lang siguro ito.

Tip: Next time, I shall not read the Translation. Just skim and check the words that I didn't understand the meaning.

SECTION 2: CHAPTERS 8-13

• Somehow, na-reveal na ang backstory ng nanay. Kung sino siya. Pero hindi pa rin buo yong family drama. Kung bakit sila iniwan, yong mga secret. Si Paterno. Do you think may similarity ang nanay kay Ann?

These shifting narratives are not 100% seamless, pero as to the history of the family, parami nang parami yung nailalahad. Pero bakit parang kulang, ganun? Dahil ba passive si Ann? Parang ewan si ate, hindi ko alam kung edgy in her own way or trying hard Daria to hide any sign of a childhood trauma. Ongapala, narinig pala yung putukan nang mategibam si Tito Jun.

• I hate manipulative people! Feel ko talaga Sagittarius itong si Anne. What do you think?

Ang hindi ko matanggap ay ang gago ni Ann sa mga lalake. Dahil ba kinamulatan nya mga bruskong lalake, kelangan brusko rin sya sa larangan ng jowaan? Hays. Tingin ko, mana sya sa mama nya. Or, because of her hate with her mom, nae-emulate nya yung pagiging passive ng nanay nya sa kanya. Kinamulatan eh. Feeling nya mas physically and emotionally present ang papa nya, kahit may pahapyaw na mas maka-Romualdez si Attorney kesa sa kanyang misis. If polarizing beliefs ba ang mag-asawa, eh, hindi ko pa rin ma-solidify. Pero grabidad yung isla sa Leyte kung saan magpa-party mga burgis. Malalakas talaga ang alon para yung mga simpleng mangingisda, hindi makakasilip sa party ng mga Alta. Jusko, ansarap ipalamon sa mga alon.

KWESI NAMBABASH KA NG SAGS EH SAGITTARIUS ANG ZODIAC KO AT HINDI NAMAN AKO GASLIGHTER?! (lol, I just want to emphasize  that it is not fully based in the zodiac as to the person's character)

• Talking about psychology, malaki rin ang role ng trauma sa kwento, no. Pero hindi ko pa alam kung saan pupunta yung collective history X collective trauma. At kung paano nako-connect yung historical context sa mga nangyayari sa Yolanda. Ano masasabi niyo doon? For example, na-survive ang buong pamilya kasi napasa ang memory ng kanyang grandparents regarding the warning sign: three waves. Agree ba kayo? 

May nakita akong facebook or instagram(?) post ni Daryll about writing fiction relating to disasters. And, magandang literary(?) device yung mga transcripts. Dahil first-person narrative ang pagkakalahad, ramdam mo yung emotional trauma. 

And ako, as a reader, wanted to help. Remembering stories help.

Especially the kwentong bayan of three waves? Totoo yun. Kwento ng Matatanda yun. Taga-Isla Verde ang nanay ko, kaya nang tinanong ko yung tatlong bugso, alam nya rin yun. At alam ng mga taga-isla ang matiktik na alon (yung maraming puti, like sa gitna ng laot) versus sa maputik (lesser seawater, seafloor more visible). Kapag maputik, "aba'y umakyat ka na." 

Note: nanay ko katagalugan. Kaya hindi sya basta in Visayas region. It was a learned lesson of the ancestors. Personal narratives. And again, remembering stories help.

To echo yung hanash mo about the setting, visual treat ang eksena sa libingan. Ang linaw ng pagkakalahad. Dama ko yung awa sa mga bata. At ramdam ko ang kawalan ng tubig. Yung nilagay ni manong yung bottled water sa puntod ng asawa nya, huhuz galore. Grabeeeee

SECTION 3: CHAPTERS 14-20

• Uhm. That was so anticlimactic. Do you think may pasabog pa sa dulo ng libro? Ano na feel mo? Na-satisfy ka ba? Feel mo nabuo ang pagkatao ni Ann at ni Paterno? 

Gg ako nang may spat sesh si Ateng mo! Worthy to mention lang yung page 232:

"You don't need to do anything, Dins. Just drive for me, okay? That's all, that's what you're here for, that's what I am paying you for—"

PUCHA. CLIMAX DEAD. In that one statement, dito ko napagtanto, walang magiging closure.

• Hindi ko pa rin kilala ang parents niya. Hindi ko pa rin kilala yung ibang character. Si Alice. Si Paterno. Sino mga yon aside sa connection nila sa kaniya?
• Grabe, last night na sa Tacloban. Pauwi na si Ann, pero same with her ang mga hanash ko, I don’t know what is this all about. I don’t know bakit pa siya naghabol na mag-investigate kung ganun lang pala. There is no reason. Just plain coincidences. Ganon ba? Ano na so far ang assumption niyo sa nobela bago matapos? 

At dito ko rin narealize na, this book is not about solving mystery, but about facing the bitter reality. Hindi man sya hard-slapping truth, pero may mga pahaging na eh. Ayun lang, because Ann refuses to accept it, or maybe because the people around here knows that she's too vulnerable and traumatized to face it.

Some disclaimers as these are my personal opinion — 

Gagu yung attorney talaga. Gunman goon talaga yang si Manong Paterno na yan, kaya nung nakapagbayad na sya para humaba ang buhay ni attorney eh parang feeling nya naitubos na niya ang sarili nya. A case of absolution, ganern. Kklk this life.

SECTION 4: CHAPTERS 21-25

• Do you think mas magustuhan mo ba ang libro kung naging plot-driven siya? 

If I am to choose the ending... Ako, gusto ko makita mag-suicide si Mano Pater, ganern. Magpapalamon sa dagat. Para may drama!

• Feel ko nalunod lang ako doon sa paranoia na nararamdaman ng character. At feel ko, yun naman ang punto talaga ni Daryll. What do you think? Ano ang pagkakaintindi mo doon sa kwento?

Pero yung may chapter talaga ng Sex part eh. HINDI KO GETS BAKIT MAY SEX PART PA WAHAHAHA 

Mas nagustuhan ko yung mga salaysay on chapter 25. May affirmation na walang naaamoy sa bahay. Yun lang naman talaga ang kailangan ni Ann eh. Assurance. Solace, ganyan. Weakness talaga yung nasimulan ako sa mga disjointed puzzles about the family history. Mga tanong na walang closure, charot. Pero kapag ginawa mo kasing plot-driven, nawawala naman yung central theme ng nobela.

I am so torn. 😣

• May masasabi ba kayo sa mga transcript bilang collective memory, ano? Collective history?

Dito ko rin sa mga huling chapters ng libro ko napagtanto na yung book ay Remains ay tungkol sa kung anuman ang natitira kay Ann, sa Tacloban, at sa ating mga naaalalang kwento at kasaysayan. Medyo nag-dawn lang sa akin ngayon na ganun na lang talaga ang natitira sa historical context. Hindi na maipangalan ang diktador, o yung shift ng mga tao sa galit ng kawalang kwenta ng dating gobyerno sa pagtulong at pagbangon. O yung mga kwento ng mga yumaong kaanak ng mga biktima ng bagyo. Tapos, ganun na rin lang yung mga natitira sa taong naging saksi sa isang pagpatay. Ramdam nila sa sarili nila, patay na rin sila. O may pinatay sa kanila.

# 

Your Resident Jejebuster is Coming!

Hello! 

Time flies so fast, and we all know most of us are getting by, merely surviving the pandemic. 

I have nothing to offer, no lifehacks or any prep tips to survive an apocalypse, but hey, it's March 2021!

and... I am just dropping by to showcase my little podcast! 

This is one of the ventures and one of my coping mechanisms to get out of the rabbit hole of anxieties and depressive thoughts. Say hello to this little baby, as I am planning to have them finally kick off by 13th March, together with my game streaming site in Facebook.

This is Your Resident Jejebuster — and wala kang karapatang maging jejemon, ako lang! LOLJK 

Hope you can drop by my sites soon!