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.

Kilome-kilome-kilometer Zero

"Ella, kahit wala kang kotse, bakit kabisadong-kabisado mo ang dinadaanan natin?" Ito ang naging tanong ng isang officemate nang hinatid ko papuntang Ugong, ang barangay malapit sa aking maliit na bahay. Nang mabanggit kong nabatak ako ng patok jeep hits ng Stop N Shop-Cogeo ay natawa na lang sila dahil sa kwento ng nakabibingin biyahe na tumatagal dahil sa tindi ng trapik.

Tulad ng aklat na ito, ang haba ng binayahe ko:

1. Nakita ang sample sa Philippine Book Festival

2. May nagchismis sa PBF na mahilig magparaffle ang manunulat (kaya hindi binili)

3. Umasa sa Nakita sa Booksale pero Hindi Binili (wala pa rin akong badge!!!)

4. Nagdownload ng PDF format mula sa page ni Josue Mapagdalita (pero ang gulo ng PDF stamp sa bawat pahina)

5. Umasa ulit sa ikalawang raffle ni Nakita sa Booksale keme ang dami ko pang nai-tag na tao, nandamay na

6. Nanalo ng ibang libro sa Akdang Pinoy

7. Nag-binge hike sa Japan

8. Sumuko na at bumili na ng signed copy (salamat sa pa-message! sobrang na-appreciate ko!!!)

Ngl, nang mabasa ko ang unang kwento, nasa isip ko na baka pang-Young Adult ito — typical for teenager readers. Samahan mo pa ng makulay na pabalat ng aklat. Mapapa-uwu ka if teenager ka, pero sa tulad kong konting pikit bago ang kwarenta ay medyo na-weirduhan sa sarili. "Clickbait ba ito? Baka puru ganito, hugot na naman ba ito? Recycled content na ata ito eh!" Pero katulad ng bawat commute, samu't-saring danas pala ang maba-vibes mo sa bawat kwento. Best to read the book one story per commute. Maganda talaga syang bitbit sa iyong byahe, na kaysa maburyo ka sa pagpila sa terminal, or mapasinghal ka sa puru pulang kotse ang nakikita sa daan, eh mahihigop ka sa mga sansaglit na sentimyento ng bawat dagli. Bigla kong naalala ang Suong ni Gerome Nicolas Dela Peña - ang koleksyon ng kanyang mga tweet. At gaya ng sa Suong, pwedeng simulan sa gitna ang aklat, tapos pwedeng mag-lipat-lipat. Dahil kung tutuusin, ang bawat biyahe natin ay hindi isang sprint, kundi isang marathon — isang combo ng samu't-saring uri ng lakad at takbo.

Nagustuhan ko ang mabilis na dama ng sensibilidad, dahil naging intensyon pala ng manunulat na walang gender ang mga tauhan. Without gender assignments, we can lure ourselves in the stories with the touch of our personal histories and sagas. At mas nagustuhan ko ang "alingawngaw" ng koleksyon. Mula sa personal na hugot ng pag-ibig, lumalawak ang boses sa mas malaking mga bagay sa paligid: ang iba't-ibang baitang ng manggagawang uri; ang hindi pagtuong-pansin sa ating personal na lagay (Mental Health) sa ngalan ng pag-grind; ang pagtalikod sa pinagmulang bayan at pangarap sa ngalan ng mas maalwal na buhay; at ang natitirang pait ng mga lumisan sa iyong buhay (Side note: sobrang nadali ako ng kwento na may biyaheng Sucat, nalungkot ako sa sarili kong mga college friends na hindi na nagkikita mula noong rehimeng Duterte, pero bago ang 2016 ay ang hilig na naming magreklamo kapag papuntang Town).

Sa larawang ito, nasa likod ng librong ito ang aming barangay hall. At base sa google maps, 18km ito mula sa Kilometer Zero. Wala lang, share. Pero maraming salamat sa akdang ito. Na-pwera-usog ang kagusutuhang kumpletuhin ang personal na sanaysay ng mga ligalig at lakbay (na hopefully, matapos ko nang matindi-tindi kasi puru pa rin sample size ang naipapasa, haha!)

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. 

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.

Chaotic Family Home

 M—, 

Pagbigyan mo muna ako magreklamo. 

Wag mo munang husgahan ang kahit na ano. 

Sa totoo lang, gusto ko lang magkalat ng mga saloobin ko kasi ilang araw na akong hindi nakakapagsulat ng mga akdang ipapasa. Lalo na't kinumusta ako ni mama kanina:

"Kumusta ka?"

"Ito, okay lang. Naiirita sa init at ingay."

"Eh ang pagsusulat mo, kumusta?"

"Wala pa rin, ang hirap magworkshop ng mga unang nilikha eh."

Andami ko nang written prompt sa totoo lang. Dagli man o maikling kwento. O mga gawa-gawang guni-guni mula sa espiritu ng illuminati. Pero yung isang nasimulan ko, nilagyan ko lang ng ending... yung gitna, bali. Naka-parenthesis pa rin. Kasi kahit anong ingay ang mga nasa isip, hindi ko naman mailapat at maitawid, hindi rin maidugtong sa simula patungo sa huli. 

Kanina, pumunta ako sa family home. Ang init, ang ingay. Paano, sinosolo raw ni papa ang aircon. At ang buga — lumalabas sa loob ng bahay. Umaabot hanggang sala. Siguro si papa ang epitome ng kawalang-pakialam. Basta sya matiwasay, kahit lumpo na ang iba pang mga tao na nasa bahay, g pa rin. Tapos nang bumaba para kumain, tiningnan yung magic sing ni mama. Kaysa purihin ang mismong asawa, sumigaw pa ng, "Hindi ba napapalitan ng background yang kinakanta mo? Paulit-ulit yung view na nakikita ko!" Yung sa irita ko hindi ko na ring mapigilang sumagot, "Minsan ka na nga lang magsalita, kahunghangan pa... po." 

Ngayon ko lang mas naa-appreciate ang maliit kong kweba at mga pagsasanay sa pag-iisa. Dati, napipilitan pa akong gumastos para lumayas. Solo-backpacking, kuno. Pero ang totoo, gustung-gustong magpakalayo. Mula sa masalimuot na mini-Pinas ng ingay at away at init at irita at gulo sa loob ng bahay. Ngayong nakabalik na akong muli sa maliit kong kweba at rinig ko ang white noise ng gaming laptop habang ramdam ang ginhawa ng pinamanang aircon ni kuya, mas nagiging proud ako sa sarili ko. Kahit medyo baldado ang sweldo sa pagbayad ng condo, hindi na ito basta pagtakas, kungdi isang pagpili: isang buhay ng payapa at pag-iisa nang may minsang lungkot at gunita ng mapapait na alaala. 

Not that MD, the Other MD

Hi M—, 

With the deadline of multiple submissions looming, it is hard to Zen and just write in Filipino. Or maybe in my case, a code-switch between Tagalog and English. I've listed down multiple writing prompts and plot devices relating to a contest or a call for submission, but I cannot seem to start things. 

Am I, yet again, on another episode of writing slump? 
Or, was this because I was enjoying (or suffering) this hot summer?

For context, while everyone was so busy with visitors coming in-and-out of our corporate site last week, I was so excited to get to know them and talk to them. Coupled with the PRPB discussion of Nick Joaquin and the essence of reading his works, my extrovert energy was fully recharged. While the workloads were overwhelming, talking to people, hosting and merely networking is another form of therapy for me. I got to have my "Ako nga beh" moments with them, sharing about the doom and gloom of massive layoffs while asking for lifehacks on how to be a millennial leader, et cetera. 

Over the last week, a Managing Director visited us to "check on the shop". The usual reporting of our developments from last year, some metrics here and there, and corporate decisions that will prep us for greater heights. But I am writing now not because of those pains; I am writing about his stay. And I was so ecstatic when he gave me snippets of wisdom on writing fiction and self-publishing, and a pragmatic "You know that you won't earn much from writing, right?" and I rebutted him, "I don't want to be filthy rich, I want to be remembered." That sheer assertive tone I gave to him was a kindred-spirit-exchange of sorts. Maybe he wasn't like those leaders who embrace capitalism as thick as one's own blood, maybe he has that same working-class awareness. 

When we have yet encountered each other on the "spARC conversations", he opened that he was indeed a scholar, an immigrant to the foreign land, and lucky to have a wife who writes and leads. He sends money back to his homeland, supports a passion project pro-bono, and disconnect by listening to podcast as a white noise in the commute. That reinforces the idea that "hey, maybe you are indeed like me". I am a moderator in a book club (pro-bono project), a graduate in a State University (aka "iskolar ng bayan"), and previously lived in Mumbai and London because of work (maybe this can count as a short-term immigrant). I don't have a wife, but I write and I lead (in my own little bubble).

After those discussions I came to him and gave my thanks:
"Thank you for having the same sensibilities of an immigrant and of a millennial."

He answered back, "No worries, as long as our minds are in sync."

I know deep down, I have multiple competitors to add him in a roster of mentors, someone to look up to in terms of digging the corporate gig. I gave them that. They might needed that drive to push through the daily. I am as happy as-is: looking afar from a safe distance, remembering that somehow, we have had that reciprocity of a little conversation about life. 

And if you get to read this little letter someday, I hope this anecdote can get you even on your heavy days. 

See you around, 
E—

PS: By the way, let me brag: he gave me the wife's email address!!! So my assignment now is to read her work — both fiction and non-fiction — and be able to formulate questions. Chat to you soon!

Timestamp. Screenshot. Pagninilay. Pagtatahi.

Alam mo ba M—,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

= #NA

O diba, error. Pero sige for transparency:

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

= 0

O diba, nganga!

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

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

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

 

Working Material: Mandala

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

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

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

"Gago, Ella ang anangas mo dun!" 

"Yown, bukas guidance na."

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

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

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

Tsaa sa Palihan

 Hui M—,

 

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

So eto na nga. ALAM MO BA, HA!

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

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

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

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

Itanong ko ba? HAHAHAHAH

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

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

Pero at least, may micro-family ka na.

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

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

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

Pero antok na antok na ako.

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

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

 

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

#PasaherongBuhay

#pasahero: mga nakikisakay na sanaysay by Joselito D. Delos Reyes
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Simula nang mapagdesisyunan kong pag-aralan ang iba't-ibang istilo ng pagsusulat ng malikhaing sanaysay at creative nonfiction, nakita ko rin ang mga akda ni sir Jowie sa Abante online at sa mga mahahaba niyang hanash sa facebook. Bigla kong naalala, sumusulat rin siya ng sanaysay maliban sa mga maiikling kwentong nai-print ng Visprint noon.

Sakto, nang bumisita ako kay Mama para kumuha ng dagdag babasahin sa maliit kong bahay, nakita ko ang librong ito mula sa mga naitagong hiram na aklat sa aking family home. Hindi ko alam kung binigay ito kay Bebang, kasi may pirma pa ng author. Siguro. Kung bigay man, sana all.

Makapal ang koleksyon ng mga sanaysay. Noong una, akala ko tungkol lamang sa mga kwentong pagsakay at paglalakbay, pero napadpad na rin sa kwentong pamilya at pamumuhay sa probinsya, sa kanyang maybahay at kwentong turismo (lalo na sa mga gustong mamasyal sa kanyang bayan, o karatig-bayan). Meron ding tungkol sa social media, kwentong socio-politikal, at kwentong kultura.

Hindi ko mawari kung bakit, pero mas tumatagos sa puso ang kwento ng mga random na mga taong nakakasalamuha niya sa daan, at sa kanyang pagbabiyahe. Mabilis lang dumaan ang kwentong Duterte, o ang kwentong SONA, siguro dahil ayoko na ring balikan ang mga ganoong klaseng kahunghangan ng mga pulitiko at kurap na nilalang.
Mas nanaisin kong kausapin ang manggagawa ng sapatos at bag na may tindahan sa Espanya, o yung mga mag-inang nag-aaway sa bus habang pauwi si sir Jowie ng Lucena.

Kanina, first time kong sumakay muli ng jeep nang isang mahabang biyaheng Pasig-Quiapo. Pagkatapos ng halos labinlimang taon, sinuong muli ang pagkomyut gamit ang OG jeep (No to phaseout!) at napansin ko na sobrang malala na ang trapik dahil mas dumami ang kotse. Mas mausok, mas maingay, mas matrapik. Payo ko sa mga pasahero ng jeep, ugaliing mag-mask. Hindi na biro ang buga ng mga tambutso. Sinubukan kong magnilay, at maghanap ng kwento sa mahabang biyahe at matagalang pag-upo. Sa kasamaang palad, wala akong maisip at mainilay. Partly, because of antok and partly because of anxiety. Nakakakaba na baka bigla akong madukutan sa Kalentong, sa VMapa, sa Altura, at sa Bustillos. Sa dami ng mga kotse na nakakadagdag sa paghaba ng tindi ng trapik, baka hindi mo mamalayan na wala na sa iyo ang pitaka. Dito ko rin napagtanto kung paano unti-unting nawala ang aking tapang sa pagsuong sa ganitong paglalakbay dahil nasanay na ako sa Grab car, o dahil sa lapit ng bahay sa opisina (na kayang itawid gamit ang C5 bridge). Ganun na rin ba ako sa ibang sangay ng aking buhay, nawawala na ang kisig at sigasig sa pagsikhay?

Lahat tayo ay pasahero ng buhay. Sana, maisip ng bawat pasahero na maging makatarungan at maging makatao, at hindi dumaragdag sa araw-araw na perwisyo. Sana, maging mabait tayo sa kapwa at sa bawat salubong at pagkikita ay may mapupulot na magagandang kwento at aral na pwedeng itanim sa puso.

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Sigh Prayer

Lord, please guide us and let us walk towards the path of healing. Some days are really unbearable, akala ko expert na ako sa pag-compartmentalize ng mga damdamin at buhay. 

Tila alon talaga minsan ang kalungkutan. Bumubulusok nang hindi mo nalalaman. I have this huge fear of being abandoned again because I inflicted this hurt. Pero para saan kung hindi ko maramdaman ang pagiging malaya sa pag-ibig...?

Natatakot akong lumubog sya sa sulok at ako'y maiwan ulit. Kung alam niya lang na gustung-gusto ko nang maging buo ulit. Maging ako ulit. Pero may mga pagkakataon na ako'y nababasag, at walang tutulong sa akin para pulutin ang mga bubog. Ako lang makakapulot, magkakasugat, at magkakapeklat. Sana lang, ang mga lamat na ito, tuluyan nang maghilom, hindi yung paulit-ulit na mabububog. 

#

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

RT BT: Aftermath

Pag Mabilis Na Umalis Baka Di Naman Talaga Dumating by Rolando B. Tolentino
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

To be honest, I am not familiar with sir RT except for that one post about call for submissions to Daang Bakal way back 2022. Let me digress (and I have mentioned this in our most recent #BookTalakayan), I was too intimidated to submit my personal entries even though I have had drafted (and subsequently trashed) my entry about my younger years in the PNR, and how it has made me aware of the little social reality outside the catwalk and beyond the words of the PUP Hymn. He was one of the editors of that project — that has been now a shelf-item, all because of the lack of material, or maybe because of carcentricities of our cities.

Maybe it was titled as At Iba Pang Kwento because it contained not only some straight-forward short story-telling, but it also included some writing exercises ("Ang Magnanakaw"), or a splash of reflective essay ("Ang Presidente sa Palasyo"). I even imagined a TedxTalk content ("Kwento ng Kapital"), assignments and other guide questions included. When I first read the introduction, it kind of justifies his attempt for this collection. This has more of his personal touch, glimpses of his little realities, and some snippets of his reflections to the social standing and current climate of the middle class. He also went back-to-the-basics; used very structured way of writing a short story in some of the pages. It's vibing very differently from his second collection "Fastfood, Megamall at Iba Pang Kuwento sa Pagsasara ng Ikalawang Milenyum" where he employed an experimental form and used a different language dynamic (I searched and read just now an english version of Fastfood, archived from his personal blog). I confessed to RT that this is my first encounter of him and his work. I asked, "Yung pagbabalik po ba sa tradisyunal na porma ng maikling kwento ay isang regression, o maturity na rin ba yun in a way?" He wasn't taken aback; he didn't even answered condescendingly. Maybe it helped that I introduced myself as a banker and a Corporate slave, with no background of Filipinolohiya / Philippine Studies course. He simply answered, "Lahat ng pagbabalik ay patunay rin ng pag-usbong, ng maturity". It also made me realize that maybe, just maybe, I can go back to the old days of my high school, simply writing whatever I see outside my own circle and young world.

Of all these story collections, what I liked the most is "Tapat sa Uri" as it details the collective realities of a middle class: from being a college student, its subsequent years of being detached from the old barkadahan and forging life separately as a young professional. May inom dito, inom doon, sometimes bardagulan and sometimes hanash of a collective rants of how society works. That story kind of stings to me. It's not hard to veer away from being a Corporate Slave, but it is so damn hard trying to have a hipster vibe and a self-sustaining lifestyle. I stick to the system of the old, the system that works for me. In short, I really cannot get out of this system, I only game around it.

In the #BookTalakayan group chat, I disclosed to the rest of the friends & members that I might feel intimidated or have to do a rain-check of sorts, because I never met him, or haven't seen his personal hanash in facebook since I don't use ground zero much. But when I saw him, I saw myself plotting a personal plan: I have to start grinding this retirement career and focus less on the current. In the next couple of months, I must re-sbumit this essay collection I have kept for years (and passed multiple workshops but only attended one). He displays a demeanor of a middle class professional who created a personal repository of inspiration via the academe. As a previous dean for College of Communication and have had experiences with the UP Film Institute, his personal wealth of material to write never ends; a coming-in-and-out of experiences as stable as monthly rent and GSIS pension. Now he sits as a VP for Public Affairs, a well-deserved and very okay side-gig while grinding the writing. He also reminded me of a new-found-friend I met in Singapura, the same demeanor of a Nueva Ecijanon, with the same inflections of kuan and some manerisms of undressing professionalism while talking to us as a simple writer of life. Having these book discussions made me realize that sometimes we can game around the daily grind. Simply engage, listen, and have fun.

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Gising Kahit Lasing

written in Sarah's, 02 March 2023; hauled from PRPB Trivial matters group chat, for posterity and record-keeping. 

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.

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 

4-Year Old Exchange Gift

Love Poems by Editors of Canterbury Classics
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I still remember the first time I had this and I was laughing out loud because of its cover in pink and it was a christmas gift from a lover as we celebrated the Christmas day together.

Little did I know that it was a treasure trove of poetry from the old times. My most favorite piece here was Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breath and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breadth,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

View all my reviews

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.