just a thought

If we're tired of being asked questions, perhaps it's because we failed to give clear and precise instructions. Just as it is imperative to answer (even to questions we'd rather sweep under the rug), it is equally necessary to spare one another from constant second-guessing. State all intentions and interrogations clearly. We are not psychics.

goodbye, buster

This morning, I received news from home that Buster passed away. He would have turned six on August 6, 2020.

I was in Bohol over the weekend, and just a few hours before heading to the pier to return to Dumaguete, I noticed him lying in his bed, unwell. He was the shy type, but this time he was just suddenly too quiet, too still. Sat next to him and repeated his name, and he would slowly lift his head, answer me with a soft, feeble sound. Long, slow blinks and all. Offered him water, but he only lowered his head toward the bowl and never drank, as if still trying to be the obedient boy he always was. Then, very slowly, he walked away, turned his back to me, and faced the garden, as though telling me to not see him like that.

Before I left Bohol, I asked my sisters to take him to the vet. Arrived in Dumaguete last Tuesday night uneasy and heavy with worry. Kept asking for updates the following day. His vitals did not improve. Today, February 19, he is gone.

Now, who will I sing my Bebe Buster song to? When will I ever hear my mother say, “Bus-ter-teeeer!” with that unmistakable delight whenever you gently wandered into the room? Who will my sister look for as you playfully hid under the dining table? Where will we see those ice-blue galaxies in your eyes again?

Dear Buster, my last image of you is that afternoon before I left—your back turned, weak and in pain. But today, I choose to remember you differently: resting on a pile of leaves in the garden, your favorite, facing the early morning sun, just as I would always find you whenever I came home, with the light catching your fur, turning it the brightest of whites, glowing, as if our days were blessed by your presence.

Buster, we will miss you so much. 💟

[ more photos here ]

dumaguete pedicab 0483

Earlier this afternoon, I picked up a box of donated toys from a friend for our museum’s “Give a Toy, Share a Joy” project. Instead of just walking to the museum and lugging the box around, I hopped on pedicab 0483.

As we passed a group of protesters along the boulevard who were calling for justice, denouncing corruption, the wastewater spill in Bais, and other forms of neglect, the driver noticed me taking a video. He turned to me…

Driver: “Bisa’g unsaon nila’g singgit dira, dili gihapon na sila masabtan. [laughs]”

Me: “Sige lang. Naa man silay placards ug streamers. Makabasa ra ang tawo.”

Driver: “Gibayran siguro na sila noh? [laughs]”

Me: “Dili man. Kung mahuman kos akong lakaw ron ug dili ko kapuyon, muapil siguro ko nila.”

Driver: “Wala diay nay bayad?”

Me: “Wala. Pero kung ganahan ka, pwede ka muapil.”

(He fell quiet for a moment.)

Driver: “…So bahin diay na sa kamatuoran ug kaayohan sa katawhan?”

Me: “O. Para asa pa man diay ning gipangbuhat natong tanan?”

He stayed quiet for the rest of the ride.

Sometimes you don’t need to fight fire with fire. But you also shouldn’t shrink and allow yourself to be subjected to ridicule. Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is hold your ground—calmly, firmly—and offer a clearer view of what others have long refused, or never had the chance, to see all their lives. 

After my trip to the museum, I walked back home, passed by the protesters again to take more photos and videos. I didn’t get to join them this time, but I am with them. 

until next time

There are good news and there are bad news.

*

I am fiercely loyal to friends, the very few people I trust.

*

Last Thursday, November 14, while moving photos from my phone to a flash drive, I found a video from July 20, 2013. Edwin and Sancho had just moved to a new apartment, and they were trying to cheer me up with a small wooden artist figure. I remember that day. A Saturday in Manila, when I felt the world tightening around me. The usual culprits from college were silent. Edwin and Sancho, knowing what I was going through, pulled me out of my head and asked me to help them pack. These two, in their own way, saved me.

They were always more level-headed than I was. Always saying things will pass. And life happened, I returned to Bohol. On August 18, 2022, Edwin told me Sancho had passed away. 

Watching that old video again, I thought of messaging him, to catch up. Based on his social media, he’s into badminton, and he’s good at it. Before I could send my message, I rushed out of the house for a conference.

*

On November 16, as I was readying for my return to Dumaguete, a friend messaged: “Not sure if you heard about Edwin...” I immediately knew what it meant. One of my fears had arrived. He passed away the night before. The message I meant to send stayed as a draft, unsent. 

*

On November 19, we should be celebrating Sancho’s 40th birthday. 

*

Two of the few people I trusted most are gone. Two who steadied me whenever I faltered. Edwin pushed me to explore. Sancho, an artist through and through, urged me to write more so we could one day create a book together. For years he sent drawings and ideas, but I kept saying no, afraid to try new things. It took time to unlearn that fear, after numerous times of being rejected, lied to, maybe even gaslighted, by someone who I thought cared. 

*

This morning, November 17, after the flag ceremony, the museum announced my achievement for literary arts. I know, without Edwin and Sancho, none of this would have happened. I would still be that man filled with uncertainty.

There are bad news, always. But there are good news you can hold on to.

Aside from my family, friends, and my partner, I am especially sharing this win with you two. 

Thank you, Sancho.

Thank you, Edwin.

Rest in peace. And I’m sorry. I really am sorry.

we will remember

Like many kalag-kalag seasons, we did things a bit early to avoid the huge crowd of cemetery-goers on All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days. On October 30, we visited the graves of family members and loved ones in Dampas, Loon, Maribojoc, and Dauis. It was a long day of traveling back and forth, and we weren’t able to make it to Serenity Park before it closed at 6PM.

I’ve always had an affinity for trips like this, especially with my mother who is a storyteller. She recalls stories with remarkable detail, particularly those from the Flores Valles and Torralba sides of the family.

One of her accounts is about a parish priest, apparently the great-grandfather of my grandmother, Mama Pila. Sometime in the early 1820s, Mount Hibok-Hibok (then called Catarman Volcano) in Camiguin erupted so massively that residents were forced to flee. Some Mambajao locals resettled in Bohol, including my soon-to-be ancestor, a woman with the family name Roldan. She settled in Dauis, where she became a cantora, or church singer. Like in many unfortunate tales, she was impregnated by a Spanish kura paroko or parish priest and bore an illegitimate son named Jose “Eping” Flores.

The priest was later reassigned to Maribojoc, bringing with him Jose, now grown up. Jose eventually became mayor of the town and was fondly known as Kapitan Eping. Their ancestral house once stood behind the Maribojoc Church, built on what was originally a small islet separated from the mainland by a narrow river flowing toward the Cebu Strait. When the priest became the town’s parish priest, locals—especially churchgoers—were tasked to haul kuta or coral stones to fill the gap, gradually linking the islet to the main coastline. My mother recalls visiting that house during town fiestas and Holy Week as a child, its cavernous living room floored with wide wooden planks and filled with religious relics.

Another story my mother told me was about a war veteran in the family, Panfilo Torralba, the youngest among my grandfather Papa Iyan’s siblings. He enlisted during World War II and, like so many others, never made it home. He died young, one of the countless Filipinos who perished during the Japanese invasion in Luzon in 1942.

His remains contained in a casket were sent back to Bohol in a separate stately aluminum box, which was kept in my grandfather Papa Iyan’s silong, the open space beneath the floor of their house in Tamblot. The box was kept for several more years in that silong even after the casket was buried. When my mother was a child, she would often see that box while playing in the area. One day, out of curiosity, she and her playmates pried it open, only to find a serpent coiled inside. That sight alone was enough to keep them away from the silong for good.

There were so many tales and fragments to take in. Some haunting, some simply human. Like many family stories, ours seems to begin with something that lingers between memory and myth. My mother said my uncles have written records and more to tell. Maybe it’s time to look into them. 

[ More photos here ]

just a thought

 When your vision is so small, you will mistake a window for the world. The small of sight always finds its horizon in a box.

new year, same problems

Climate change has been a serious concern for many, many decades, and we simply brush them off anyway because, you know, we keep telling ourselves, “What could happen here?”

Duh.

Despite the increasing number of signs—raging storms, beached whales, earthquakes, droughts, wildfires and blizzards, a flower blooming its last bloom—we simply laugh.

Or we drink. We take selfies. We share memes. We say, “Happy New Year!” We smoke our cigarettes. We desire the latest iPhone. We drive our third cars. We make more babies. We travel because “we travel not to escape life but for life not to escape us.” We eat our cakes. We mine our mountains. We make “art.” We shoot the birds in the skies. We ridicule those who clean up beaches and hug trees. We cut more trees. We swim with whale sharks. We fume at the protesters and rallies in the streets. We share our “thoughts and prayers.” We go to the movies. We say, “We are only human.” We say, “Whatever makes people happy.” We dance and sing. We gossip over wine and cheese. We elect the same shit. We throw our trash anywhere. We pee everywhere. We do not talk to our exes. We continue with our lies. We maintain multiple profile accounts on Facebook. We update our Spotify playlists. We “move on.” We dramatize the same sunset. We look at the full moon. We feel #blessed.

Meanwhile, corporations and our leaders and our governments take advantage of our collective indifference, our misgivings, our lapses.

Now we face the consequences.

happy 2020

Yes, we all want peace, the comfortable, the quiet. But when resistance and unclouded introspection are needed, we must break the silence. 2020 is our chance to not only correct our mistakes but also to magnify our collective voices for the common good, for the common people.

Heads up, guys. It's going to be a bumpy ride.

one chapter down

Nothing elaborate. No new me. No kilometric year-ender essay writing contribution. Just a photo of me to remind myself, perhaps a year later or so, that there was a moment in this life that I have a genuine reason to smile. Let’s just say 2019 is hard, and a majority of the 2010-2019 decade harder, but thanks to everyone who endured with me both delightful and agonizing experiences, these affairs eventually accumulated to that reason. Hope to see you all again in 2020 with much better reasons to smile.

midterm elections 2019 thoughts and tidbits

Election day is perhaps one of the few days to get your hands dirty. Well, just a fingernail actually. 

* 

You can’t mock and shame people for posting photos of their inked fingernails on social media, regardless of who they voted. They did a mighty job fulfilling their duty as a responsible citizen. Kudos to them, kudos to everyone!

If it’s up to me and it is completely legal to have all of my fingernails doused in COMELEC-issued indelible ink, I’d gladly grab the chance and take hundreds of pictures of my nails for posting on every social media account I have. Kebs ninyo.

*

Woke up at 5AM to get to our precinct before 6AM. Arrived at Eastern Cogon Elementary School, double-checked my name in the lists in Cluster 33. Took the queue; I was the third person in line. Early bird, right? At exactly 6:15AM, I accomplished my ballot.

Funny thing was the machine accepted and scanned our ballots (mine and my sister’s), but once the ballot receipts were printed, the screen on the machine showed this “paper jam” error message. Thankfully though, the receipt correctly mirrored our votes. The inspector called a technician for assistance, but all the technician ever did was shake and slap the machine. You know, like what people do with old TV sets back then? All the slapping and shaking curiously worked, and so the machine readily receives another ballot. But then another paper jam message will show up. Another round of shakes and slaps. It was like this for every ballot inserted. The machine is basically faulty or broken. The Philippines is one gigantic comedy show.

*

I voted as early as 6AM because I needed to watch Game of Thrones hours later without guilt. After the show, it saddens me when I realize that what just happened on Game of Thrones today is basically like Duterte-era Philippines.

So guys, I pray, please vote wisely and with the future in mind. We can truly change this.

31

My heartfelt gratitude goes to everyone who remembered and greeted me on my birthday yesterday.

People say you become wiser with age. Although wishful thinking dictates it has a smidgen of truth, I just think you become equal parts jaded, dumbfounded, and generally exhausted, especially with all the happenings in this world.

But the fortunate thing here is that (if you are fortunate enough) you find people around you who are as jaded, dumbfounded, and exhausted as you are. Kidding aside, what I want to say is that you have to have a support system, and I am thankful I have my family with me and very few friends who I can genuinely call friends throughout these years. And pinpointing them out is hard, TBH.

Many fear the coming of 31, that it’s like jumping over a cliff with unknown heights, or finally crossing the three decades prior with inadequate life skills and experiences to prepare you for the next decades or so. I guess some of these are true, some not. There will always be questions that will continue to nag you. Have you done enough?

Have you corrected and made peace with the errors you’ve made in life? Are the choices you make benefit you and you alone? And after everything you have achieved, are you truly happy?

These are valid questions, concerns. Ultimately, to me, what matters is that you know deep within your compass that you know where you are supposed to be, what you are supposed to do, whatever your age is. To hell with where the rest are going and are doing.

To borrow and paraphrase a few words from our queen mother RuPaul, shantay wherever you want to sashay.

birth month

The Two-Headed Calf
Laura Gilpin


Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.


*

I am drawn to this poem by Laura Gilpin again and again in the past few days and I still couldn’t prevent myself from being pierced by what it is trying to convey. This is one of the few poems that has the same effect on me as “Allowables” by Nikki Giovanni and “The Diameter of the Bomb” by Yehuda Amichai did when I first read them. It just leaves me like a massive wreck, my nose stuffy and my eyes puffy.


*

Perhaps the reason why I gravitate to this poem lately is that there is this one revelation last year, in 2018, that keep recurring to me in the present. It is the shock of finding out, as I was cleaning my contact list on Facebook, that a person—a person who is once close to me—now has a profile that is labeled “Legacy Contact.” The term meant a person has passed away.

The information came to me in 2018. The actual person left three years prior. The thought bothered me the past few days because, on the year of the person’s departure, I received a message from this person and I chose to ignore it. It was a one-worded message: “Fred.” It was like a call, it sounded like a concern, or an opening to a confession that needed attention, but I kept silent for reasons that were deemed appropriate during that time.

Today I wonder what would have been our conversations like if I had responded to the message. I will never know.


*

I didn’t give it much thought until recently, when I had been to several birthday gatherings of friends and family in just two weeks, that I realized this month, March, is my birth month. Yes, I am turning a year older in a couple of days. How fleeting time is, right? How short-lived the days could get when you fill them with distractions in an effort to finally say you accomplish something right in your life.

So this begs the question: Is this all there is to it?

Will there be another time in this repetitive existence when we (both) look up into our respective skies and see there are twice as many stars, as usual, and feel everything is all right? Still all right? One could only hope so.

looks familiar

Two weeks ago, while I was at the bank one afternoon and was waiting in line to pay for this month's bill, a woman in her early 50s—who was two persons ahead of me in the queue—tried to catch my attention. I had my earphones on, listening to Pharrell Williams and Janelle Monáe being ecstatic about jalapeños, so I wasn't sure if it was actually me she was eyeing at.

But she kept craning her head towards me. It was starting to feel awkward. I removed my earphones, smiled, and acknowledged her presence. “Is your family name Torregosa?” she asked me directly, although in a tone that seemed already certain. “Oh no,” I replied. “Do I look like someone you know, ma’am?” She nodded, and she added that I have these features of a Torregosa. She told the same thing to the lady next to her, who I was very sure she just knew while waiting also in line, as if for reassurance.

I gave her a smile. I put back my earphones on, and scanned mental pictures of any Torregosa that I may have met or known in this lifetime. I couldn't recall a single Torregosa. I have nothing against the Torregosas in this world though. I do get this a lot, anywhere in this country—Metro Manila, Dumaguete, Tagbilaran, Cebu, etc.—being mistaken for someone else.

Before it was my turn at the counter to hand over my cash and payment slip, I fully realized two things: 1) I think it is not wrong to start believing now that I may have an extremely generic face, and 2) I am really bad at small talks.

Pharrell and Janelle continued singing they're hot.

opinionated

So here we are again. I chanced upon a conversation that seemed pointless, all thanks to the tired excuse of saying “It’s just my opinion.” Although it is true that everyone is entitled to one’s opinion, let us be reminded that there are GOOD OPINIONS and there are BAD OPINIONS.

In short, not all opinions are created equal, and not all opinions carry the same weight of logic, relevance, and constructive intent. And before we forget, opinions are still informed by facts, shaped by study and discipline. These days, many opinions are just meant to spew hate and confusion. To make my point clear, let us take these examples:

“I like chocolate-flavored ice cream. It’s my favorite.” (good opinion)
“I like chocolate-flavored ice cream. It should be everyone’s favorite.” (bad opinion)
“She is gay and she doesn’t like to party. But it’s all right.” (good opinion)
“She is gay and she doesn’t like to party. She has no right to be gay.” (bad opinion)
“I think we need to water our plants regularly.” (neutral to good opinion)
“I think we need to kill all suspected criminals without due process regularly.” (bad to extremely bad opinion)

It's simple, right? It doesn't take a Master's degree from some university in Norway to understand the varying degrees of an opinion's nuances. Now you know.

the cold still lingers in summer

Anti-Love Poem
Grace Paley


Sometimes you don’t want to love the person you love
you turn your face away from that face
whose eyes lips might make you give up anger
forget insult     steal sadness of not wanting
to love     turn away then turn away     at breakfast
in the evening     don’t lift your eyes from the paper
to see that face in all its seriousness     a
sweetness of concentration     he holds his book
in his hand     the hard-knuckled winter wood-
scarred fingers     turn away     that’s all you can
do     old as you are to save yourself     from love.



***

We all have reasons to turn our faces away, even if sometimes we would expect that no matter the direction, we would still see what we have worked so hard to refuse to see. But that is how things go on from now. Decisions are made, and we must stick to them. Else, the fear of returning to the very beginning.  Else, the pains both necessary and unnecessary.

cold

Love Poem
Richard Brautigan


It’s so nice
to wake up in the morning
all alone
and not have to tell somebody
you love them
when you don’t love them
anymore.



***


You know what’s sharp? The words of a poet. It is July, and the ground is damp, and the air is cold. Unfortunately for some of us, some hearts are colder you could hear them crack like thin sheets of ice stepped upon by angry feet. Look, the last leaf of a tree has fallen. Look the other way.

flower vendors

Mauro Malang, born on January 20, 1928, died yesterday, June 10, 2017. It is hard to believe. I remember back in Grade 3 or 4, how I first saw his works in the arts section of a newspaper one evening, how I was floored by them all, like something in me clicked, like something just fell into the right place. There was one artwork that stuck in my head, and today I searched for it online. It is that painting above.

As a child, I enjoyed copying works that simply attracted my short attention span (Hallmark cards, cartoons, encyclopedia illustrations, even drawings by my older siblings), but the moment I saw Malang’s paintings, or at least a photographic rendering of them, I think I said to myself, “This is different.”

There was this cockiness in his lines, this wild assuredness in this brushstrokes, this mixture of humility and simmering strength in the simplicity of his subjects’ faces. From here on, I believe his artistry is what guided my methods in visualizing idea and memory, and are, along the way, further enriched upon encountering the works of Pablo Picasso, Vicente Manansala, Jose Joya, Ang Kiukok, and several other is the abstractionist vein.

Finally, I saw a couple of Malang’s works in person, in the National Museum in Ermita, Manila several years ago, and I remember being massively emotional. Today, writing this, it happened again, but this time for an entirely different reason. .

changes this christmas

I’m on Day 17 in this foreign land, with 1 day or 24 hours left before Christmas (which also happens to be my mother's birthday), and just 7 days before I welcome another year in this lifetime. It is a privilege to be here, to be in new light (the sun springs out of the shadows at five in the morning and hides back in darkness only at nine in the evening), to be thousands of kilometers away from a country that does not seem to run out of emotional upheavals, political grievances, personal (ir)responsibilities.

It is, at the same time, bittersweet to be away from my family, relatives, the usual culprits who I’ve spent many holiday seasons with in the past. Never have I been so faraway that my skin tingles at the thought of ice-cold winds in a sunny summer alone. It is like living in Baguio or Tagaytay—only taken several notches higher.

But “change” is the word that is incessantly heard all throughout this year. Like a bell that never stops tolling, it demands to be noticed. It insists to be as relevant as ever that it now verges on a kind of desire or an ideal that seems so close to our reaches but always slips out of our hands. Perhaps this time it didn’t slip, perhaps this is the change that the universe has afforded me.

It is not without hesitation though, this change of scenery. Coming here brings a baggage that is not easy to carry, both figuratively and literally. When you live in the now, there is no denying that the past is close to the present, that yesterday is just a stone’s throw away to the next day. Hence, despite the overwhelming expanse of this country, one would never know when the ugly head of the unexpected goes peeking out of a corner.

Nevertheless, the past few days have been kind, have been brimming with beautiful possibilities. Fluctuating temperatures, jet lag, and change of time zones be damned! Some people have asked me, a genuine worry in their voice, if the place is too quiet for me. I gladly respond it is what I need: Peace from all the noise of this world. From Hamilton to Matakana, from Mission Bay to Royal Oak, from Matamata to Onehunga, from Tauranga to Ngatea, from Western Springs to Rotorua, from Queen Street to Bay of Plenty, so far so good. I have the say the travels are eventful. There’s more to come, and the season’s cheers and excitement are already feeling like close to home. Christmas is here to stay, in our hearts, and I will enjoy the holidays no matter where my feet take me to.

Happy Christmas, everyone!

questions to ask

Last Sunday at church, during the evening worship service, I was a bit disappointed with the pastor’s sermon that I felt my heart drop into the pits of my stomach. The pastor kept referencing to Rodrigo Duterte’s methods, especially his so-called War on Drugs, as a way to achieve peace. There are many brilliant ways and references to discuss peace, and I think he should have thought of a better analogy. As I was listening to him, I wanted to grab him and tell him, “Pastor, that’s why it’s called a war! It has never been peaceful! It always results to unnecessary pain and bloodshed!”

Of course I couldn’t do that. So I remained on my seat and dismissed the thought of not sitting through the entirety of the sermon. But then there was his slight condemnation of celebrity Agot Isidro for her famous remark on the President’s insistence to end foreign aid to the Philippines. Isidro said on her social media account, “Ayaw naming magutom. Mag-isa ka nalang… You are not a bipolar. You are a psychopath.” The pastor went on criticizing her for that because, he said, she doesn’t think carefully about the implications and severity of her words. That Agot Isidro is downright insensitive. Excuse me, pastor, but have you actually heard any of the words that came out of our President’s mouth recently and in the past? Remember that rape remark, pastor? Pu**** i** diba, pastor? Bang diba?

This pastor then added that the Philippines really do not need any help from the U.S. or any foreign nation because we have our own rich resources, and that we should show to the world how we can sustain on our own. That’s another problematic statement for another post. I couldn’t believe I was hearing this inside a church. I wanted to ask him again, “Pastor, have you heard that Duterte is actually rubbing elbows China and Russia, two examples of a foreign nation?”

I thought this was the end of it, but he continued rallying for peace, that it could only be achieved by measures as drastic and sinister as Duterte’s. It was as if he suggested that drugs are indeed the sole root of all evil in this country. But what about mis-education, what about poverty, what about the rising lies, hate, pride, and intolerance advocated by our current president, the very anti-thesis to peace? It all left me thinking: did this pastor just support the idea of extra-judicial killings? Did he just imply that those thousands of deaths are okay and justifiable?

There was a lot of contradiction in his sermon’s message that I was left confused, my head spinning in all directions. It was like witnessing firsthand a brainwashing propaganda. I know each of us in that congregation has a personal political inclination, but I personally believe this pastor should’ve kept this inclination outside the church. Because the church should teach compassion, not confusion. The church should encourage love, not hate. This pastor must have forgotten about the separation between the state and the church.

I shared this sentiment online, and as expected, a Duterte rabid supporter entered the picture to argue with me, and I quote: “Bring out the thought police! Bawal ang personal opinion ng pastors! We should jail this pastor and anyone else for that matter! In fact, I find your speaking out about your intolerance for his intolerance intolerable. You should be jailed. In fact I find my speaking out about my intolerance for your intolerance for his intolerance quite intolerable. I too should be jailed.”

Pretty long, right? I would’ve laughed so hard on this rabid Duterte supporter’s comment if it was funny and witty, but unfortunately, it was not. It was flat and all noise. Just look at those exclamation points. Like many of his kind, this Duterte supporter once again missed the point. So I told him that he missed my point, and that there is no need to bring out the thought police. Why? Because we are already imprisoned by the thought that these rising number of deaths are okay.

This is not the first time I am accused of being intolerable, but for cases and causes such as this, yes, I will gladly remain intolerable. But truly, I am saddened. Because when a religious denomination suddenly sides a political ideal, whether it is Catholic or not, I think that church limits itself to only seeing things in black and white. No grey areas. And when a church somehow implies that killing is necessary to achieve peace, I think this church is not peaceful at its core.

After the service, as I left the church that evening, I felt something heavy inside me that was painful as heartbreak. For the first time in a long while, I felt betrayed by someone, something so important to me.

the kill list chronicles

I’ve always made a point to recount my day’s activities and musings on a journal before I go to sleep. Sometimes I’d skip an evening or two, but I would return to these missed journaling assignments and remember as much as I can how things have gone by, no matter how mundane they are. Lately, though, the blank spaces are creeping up and crowding the pages.

There are several reasons why: laziness, procrastination, too tired to even lift a pen, too many distractions and temptations, there is nothing new to say. Of course, everyone has something new to say. Filipinos are born to always have something to say, even to the point of being pointless. But living in this life right now, in the middle of a political climate that is downright suffocating, any interest to continue pushing through can easily be pronounced dead. Or killed, by default.

To make my point clear, let’s consider the latest man in highest office in our country, a man whose ego is as fragile as Chinaware (no pun intended), who also seems to be an enabler of hate and prejudice, and a champion for lack of empathy and common sense. Because of his irreverent methods on getting things done, there is no hiding the fact that the Philippines has become a bloodied den of vigilantes, injustices, and foul brazen language.

Years ago journal writing has been my refuge, my way of assessing my sanity each day. It’s like an anchor that keeps me put. But today, I do not even know where my sanity begins and where its opposite lies. All the time I track myself if I am functioning properly. Recounting my day that is preoccupied with so much hate and horror again and again can take its toll. That is why for the most part of a week I would try hard as hell to ignore the news like a former paramour who just left you without explanation but returned several years later to get your attention. You know how evil can get under your skin. There is no understating that each week leaves me sore and beat. It doesn’t also help that there is this barrage of noise from social media that could render me—or anyone, rather—emotionally and spiritually mangled.

And there is still six more years to go. I hope I could still muster the energy needed to recount what is needed to be recounted. If only it could bring back the dead.


*


My work “Poetry as a Lesson in Dwelling” is featured in The Kill List Chronicles, an online repository of the continuing protest literature in the Philippines. I’ve read to a small audience in a café an early version of this poem during the International Day of Peace last September 21. It was a celebration across the globe to commemorate the peace we have right now and the peace we want to achieve for the next generation. Coincidentally, it was also the very same day that former president and dictator Ferdinand Marcos declared the bloody Martial Law in the Philippines 44 years ago.

The contradictions, at least for me, were just hard to wrap around my head. 44 years have passed and yet here we are still trying to value and teach the meaning of freedom, respect, and decency. When people are supposed to keep in heart to never forget and to never repeat the history that once broke us, many backtrack instead to the primitive desire to kill without the slightest thought of implications.

This piece took me countless shots of struggling hours to get through. The poetry is personal, and the personal apparently is political. And that is hard. I always consider my works as drafts, and it has always been that way even if they are released to the open for any possible reader to stumble upon. But for this particular work I’ve had the feeling I ought to let it go, that it needs to be separated from my being. Thankfully, it found a place. I do hope we’ll find each other’s peace soon. I hope we will all learn how to dwell to get the dwelling we deserve in this country and in this world. I hope.