Essays – Page 2

Deadline

00:01 PHT, #TheBank MPR Flr 8

Hours ticked as fast as my fingers tapping the keyboard. My eyes were hovering over the number of tax lot breaks all throughout the first half of my day, while a simple glimpse on the phone that never stopped beeping with mail alerts, hours before the cut-off.

Just like New York Stock Exchange, hopeful workshoppers placed their bets on their craft, wishing to be part of this second citywide workshop.

And at the struck of midnight, I sent the last email response:

“Kaibigan, magwagi!

Ikaw ang pinakahuling nagpasa ng akda para sa ikalawang palihang panlungsod ng Pasig!

Mangyari po lamang na hintayin ang anunsyo kung kayo po ang isa sa mga napili na magiging fellow sa darating na 2nd Pasig Writers Workshop.”

Then at 00:01: a radio silence.

Bidyoke Sa Gedli

Pagkatapos ng PRPB Book Talakayan, sumama ako sa mga kaibigang dumalaw sa Silingan Coffee. Ang sabi-sabi, may kaunting pa-party ang mga may-ari. Dahil masyadong maaga kami dumating, nakita ko ang pagse-set up sa labas ng tindahan: laptop at speaker, mic, camera, mga mesa at upuan. Hindi pa fully ready, kaya naghapunan muna kami.

Pagbalik muli sa kapehan ay nakita namin ang kainitan ng kantahan ng mga kababaihan ng Silingan— mga nanay, lola, at ate; mga human rights advocate, trauma counselor at jounalist — mga babaeng naging kaibigan at kaanak ng mga biktima ng EJK. Lumapit sa amin ang isa at nag-anyaya na kami’y makikanta at makisayaw sa kakantahin nila sa bidyoke. Maya-maya lamang, siya’y nagsalaysay tungkol sa kanyang lalaking anak na pinaslang ng pulis; tila ang tingin sa kaniyang buhay ay walang saysay. Kahit masaya syang may lumipad sa Hague, bumuntung-hininga siya at sinabing, “Wala namang araw na hindi mabigat. At alam nating simula pa lang ito ng mahabang laban.” Pero biglang kumabig at nagsabing, “Ngayon, hinga muna at pagbigyan ang sarili. Mag-celebrate sa little win.”

Habang kinakanta nila ang Tatsulok, hindi ko mapigilang makikanta at isigaw ang “Hangga’t marami ang lugmok sa kahirapan, at ang hustisya ay para lang sa mayaman!” Batid ko, kasama ng sanlaksang kababaihang nakiki-jamming, na mahaba pa ang laban. Na kailangan nating mas maging matatag. Sa araw-araw, tapang ang ating tangan.

Tila bumulong muli ang tanong ng author sa pinanggalingang panayam, “Ella, hindi ka rin ba nasusugatan?” Kasabay ng biglang pag-alala ay ang aking paghawak sa mukhang tila nilamig ng minsanang hangin ng gabi.

Yun pala…
May mata nang tumubig.
May luha sa pisngi.

Kung Hindi Ako Banker, Ako Ay Writer

14 February 2025
16F Social Lounge #TheBank

Dear M—,

I saw these people and they seem to mock me at my introduction with this newest director in the office:

“Hi, I am Ella. And I am humbly bragging that I am the first woman that US onshore team hired in Managed Platforms Services — and still not moving about! If I am not a banker, I will be a writer — Shaping Pinoy Literary landscape, one story at a time.”

Masama kaya ang magkaroon ng ganoong klaseng vision sa mundong ginagalawan ko? Pasalamat nga sila hindi pa ako nagre-resign eh. I protect my work-life balance because I don’t want to be like them: working long hours and getting hungry, and for zero net benefit. Puyat ka na nga, surang-sura ka pa.

Goodness, I am even underpaid at this point! CPAs within my circle are the leads of professional diaspora and brain drain. Exploring Singapura, Malta, and Luxembourg! Those who stayed have other mouths to feed because they chose to have it so, and yet, they flourish in their respective family lives.

Bigla kong naiisip yung si Nase, the “Pinuno” behind the Ppop sensation. Way back before 2016, he went to UP and attended that Phil-Korean Friendship Summit, came out with a passion and a purpose: na sana, ang Pilipinas ay parang South Korea. Namamayagpag ang export ng sining at kultura, at nagiging source ng turismo ang bawat kanta.

Naisip ko, ganito rin ba ang naiisip nya nang sumubok sya sa auditions ng ShowBT? Habang nilalagari ang paghahanapbuhay bilang Corporate Slave at paghabol sa pangarap, paano siya lumapit sa mga kapamilya niya para lang maging dedicated sa kanyang craft? Pareho naman kaming may suntok sa buwan na purpose sa mundo ah! Hindi naman siguro masama yun. Gusto ko rin ang reach ni Bob Ong mismo! Si Bob Ong na malakas pa rin ang hatak sa mga mas batang henerasyon, ang humubog sa millenial generation sa pamamagitan ng pagkatha ng iba’t-ibang istilo ng pagkukwento.

“Shaping Pinoy Literary landscape, one story at a time.” May mga araw talaga na feeling ko hindi na ako meant dito sa workplace, pero I cannot afford to leave. If that guy has a family to go back to— I don’t. I honestly don’t. In a world where there is class A employee who can simply retire and be a stay-at-home wife, I cannot afford to fail. Heck, I cannot even afford to marry and have a kid! I am old to birth a son, too old to date men poorer than what I earn, and I am heaving in this long apocalypse of hyperinflated prices and a hyperventilate-inducing anxiety.

Gusto ko lang kumuda nang ganito kahaba para lang mawala na ang pagkaasar ko sa tingin ng mga tao sa akin na hindi naniniwala sa pagpapakilala ko sa tao. Kung ayaw nila maniwala, eh di hatdog sa kanila. Basta ako, may purpose na ako. Ito ang paraan ko ng pagbuo sa sarili ko at dahilan sa bawat pagbangon.

Radyo Core Memory

Noong elementary kami, pinagsulat kami ng tula sa schoolpaper tungkol sa diwa ng EDSA. Apat kaming gumawa ng korido na pinuno ng pagtutulad at metapora, tapos may dalawa pang additional entry na solong gawa. Nang maipasa yun ng teacher namin sa DZRH radio, naging segment pa ang aming likha na ibo-broadcast ng Sabado, alas-diyes ng gabi.

Mahirap ang recording pala. Paulit-ulit. Hindi namin alam ang magiging tunog namin sa airwaves. Kaya nang sinabi ng host na dapat may bigat ang pagbigkas at may alimpuyo, nailabas ko lahat ng hugot at practice ko sa sabayang pagbigkas. Nang marinig ng pamilya ko ang broadcast, nagulat din kami kasi parang tunog ng galit na umiiyak ang naitula ko. Hindi ko ni-recite ang tulang likha ko; tula sya ng kaklase kong hindi makakarating sa araw ng recording. Ika nga, backup vocal ako. Ang tula niya ay pagkukwento ng mass movement circa ’86, kung saan nag-krus ang mga manggagawa at mga sundalo na tila aso’t pusa, at may isang bathalang saksi na hindi mawari kung ito ay tutulong o hindi.

Ngayon, hindi na ako mahilig mag-radyo, kasi napakadaling access na ang spotify at youtube para sa mga video podcasts at tugtog. Natunaw na ang pagba-bonding sa radyo. Tila katulad na rin ito ng pagtunaw ng diwa ng People Power: nagkawatak-watak, naghati-hati, at ang Mama Mary sa EDSA corner Ortigas ay nakatunganga lang… at nananatiling saksi.

“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.

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 2×2 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.

Bubble outside the Bubble

So in the next few years of my life we shall spend in silence? Like minding ourselves be sucked in our respective worlds, watching our own interests in a nook called a mobile phone? What about the conversations that I used to have? He does this every time! Every time that I talk to him…He buffered it with GenX jokes that are not really funny for a millenial? And when I tried to engage in sharing stories, he jests at it again with humor that isn’t funny anymore, especially when it gets repetitive, a routine unconscietiously performed after days—fuck it, months—of absence? It feels convoluted, meeting this person. Does this mean that I learn to settle in this dynamic that bears no joy, not even a high, at the moment?

Wait, am I thinking about ending things? How many encounters have I counted in my mind, thinking about an ending?

As I take mental notes and as I journal the introspection on the window side of the bed, he watches a youtube about idiotic people challenging boxers. It feels weird, when I want to be cerebral about things, he wanted to simplify otherwise. Does this reflect our daily realities? I understand that I became an automaton in #TheBank, while he is totally focused in the ER, akin to a workaholic attitude of a corporate slave.

He gets up, went to the toilet, all in silence. I don’t know what he is thinking at the moment,or if he is even aware that I’m writing.

I have a book with me, but I am a bit demotivated to read. It’s about the probability of Love, hitting the quota only one out of five. Am I part of the quota, or am I part of the other side of the norm? I don’t know, perhaps I am both. Meanwhile, my tummy still feels full, after chomping the baby back ribs, five hours after I woke up today. He jolted me awake earlier. He called at high noon, asking if I was ready to go. I was ready (but sleepy), all the while thinking that we’ll only spend a late lunch via take out, taking the sentimentality of a stolen time in the middle of this Pandemic.

Lo and behold, we are a moving bubble that has moved a bit outside of a bigger bubble, invoking the “Do Not Delay” card and reaching a reclusive space where no other guests are checking in overnight. We are one little bubble secluded outside the bubble.

I hope that we can keep the bubble safe. After all, he mentioned that we are not the usual impulsive jejemons of the before; we are a couple one notch up. Not sure if that even means a term of mutual understanding, or a socio-economic strata.I remember Mama told me, that we are not part of the biblical verse stating “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” And true, no matter how much downplaying I do, I am not a part of the urban poor anymore. I maybe part of a working class, but—anyways, this working class is a huge chunk of category for me. It also includes the underground economy, the corporate slaves, and people managers who can afford housing and healthcare. Petit burgeoisie is also incorporated in this classification. Hmmm, maybe mama is right. We are a petit-burgis couple who opted to be childless, because we cannot afford to be poorer than our established comfort zones. We are slaves of our respective professions. Vulnerable walking time bombs: too liquid for offers of a Life Insurance yet too insolvent once Covid hit our respective bodies. Good thing he’s fully vaccinated, he has his additional protection. I wonder when will I be fully vaccinated? Why does this Pandemic go on and on, and people are dying day by day? Facebook becomes obituary, Twitter becomes a prayer rally, Instagram becomes, well, being instagram. A long display of a seemingly-decade-ago luxury?

I have too many things in my mind and I still feel agitated at this simpleton beside me…Why am I having this again?

In any case, he invited “One g!” and when I answered back “I am writing, wait.” He went back to his phone again, now browsing about luxury motorcycles, to which I don’t even know if he can afford to buy one without a proper medical insurance.

Maybe this is what a couple looks like.

Authentically Play Pretend

Four weeks have passed with no clear-cut news returning to our normal lifestyle, whether it is about going to the office, or malls for grocery shopping. Summer is here and it is getting hotter. As an extrovert, I have tried almost everything — housekeeping, rendering additional WFH hours, being the grocer for the family, reading the books I bought from the last Big Bad Wolf sale… and my ultimate escape, talking to people online.

At day 32 of the Enhanced Community Quarantine, I saw a tweet that “TIL that there is a Facebook group about being an ant, so why not engage in being one?” This may be her detox route: joining in Facebook groups. Being in a tribe and play pretend. Because after all the little realities in the outside world, I am still antsy and anxious about the current social climate. That at this point, we are stuck in the complete standstill. No stable aid, no mass testing.

In the Ant Colony, there is No Bureaucracy. Not even a Democratic realm. Upon entry, you will be given an ID (AntElla-4651) via filling up a Facebook comment, then you can go and select your role if you are a soldier or a worker ant. And, you will S E R V E the Queen with no further questions. Early posts contain candies to lift, juices to drink and carry to the Hill, and help others when they are lost. You are not allowed to speak with a complete sentence, only key words. Some action words being invoked in the commentaries are the following:

LIFT

CARRY

ASSIST

SLURP

CHAIN

BITE

I shared it with a group of new-found-friends who are also into memes and definitely bored in the ECQ, and instead of tiring ourselves monitoring the daily news and President’s sessions. We relax our critical mindset and go with the flow of being an ant – serving the unquestionable Queen. We never knew who is the real Queen, or if there was an uprising; not even a log of a massive dissent. We just engaged with the flow, keeping the ant line intact. Escaping the critical thinking and acting as pawns.

I did not sustain the group in the next five days.

When I saw other Facebook friends and common connections going into the group, I left it, feeling too normie with the bandwagon. I wish to be excluded in that tribe, disassociating and cleansing myself of a collective narrative. Also, what is the end-all if I just keep saying L I F T or keep forming a C H A I N when you see your outside world in a suspended chaos? Whether I lift or not, the DSWD is still insufficient with their aids. PNP is still selective with their suspects, and NBI is still favoring the purveyor of fake news.

It is time to level up and make it local, mirroring the online engagement with the Outside World. After all, there was one group page when I was yeeted because of a seemingly snarky comment:

Kung ikaw ay DDS, I have nothing to say to you.

What if I was the President? I can propose laws, or solutions, even create a poll to check the real pulse of the Netizen while we are stuck in our homes, and wait for directions.

And so I came upon this page where I pretend to be the head of the Republic: What if I am Duterte?

Immersion started in the first 24 hours, reading and ingesting the current memes and statuses, getting acclimatized and being on standby, checking if there is any space to express dissent, or at least suggest solutions. Or even vent my personal frustrations. I may live a middle-class home, but I feel accountable to give a voice to those who are unable to air out their cry for help.

Sadly, there was none.

What I saw are memes about E-numan sessions, or another round of Delawan vs DDS Dichotomies. Normie trends of Buttercup and Directed by Robert Weide videos are rampant. I felt disgusted at the Polls of “Who you gonna vote in the upcoming 2022 elections?” like the fate of the Philippines is in the hands of the heart and angry reacts. It’s another pulse check of who’s Delawan and who’s DDS. If you become less critical and supporting of the President’s decision, you are a red DDS. If you are critical with the refinement of explicating the social climate, you are automatically red-tagged, a notch higher than Big D E L A W A N energy. There is no in-between, not even a third panel of merely thinking Filipinos, socially aware and capable of change. My first 48 hours was an antithesis: I was acting not as a President; I was acting as Duterte.

At hour 72, a plot twist was uncovered: an underground mass party for those blind loyalists for the current regime. If a user has an online footprint of actively supporting President Duterte and reacted on the poll, the other users engage in reporting and blocking the profile, making sure that we are cleaning DDS trolls and sweeping them clean. You see a blind supporter, you report. In addition to commenting critically via twitter and engaging in other online discussions, being the online sweeper made me feel like a contributor in making the online world a better place.

If this is the “New Normal”, I definitely dig this gig.

I survived the next two weeks of being in the underground, attending mass reporting parties and reporting false accounts. Sadly, with the current profile picture wearing yellow, I was unable to infiltrate a DDS group and be an Intel; I was not suit to be an undercover. But hey, gone are the days of sheer boredom. Eyes wide open, mind fully awake: I am your social-justice-memer. I felt the drive pulsating, I was inspired. I cannot believe that the mere clicks and few minutes of reporting and blocking users will be much helpful. And all these were done in the comfort of my home. When there is another cult of mass reporting party, I ride it like a wave, clicking and checking profiles, reporting as hate speech, sometimes spam, and never forgetting the block option. I was empowered in few clicks; I was enamored with the truth that I am contributing to a little change. I challenge the standstill of chaos from the outside world, by shaking the world within.

But then, there was a sudden Halt.

“Ayoko na po mag-stay sa page na ito pagkat hindi ko na alam ang totoo.”

A random Facebook user, posting a candid status update received a backlash for being sincere and being self-aware. Instead of respecting the decision, a noise ensued. Instead of giving support, it was negatively criticized. He was done, he doesn’t want to be in a never-ending battle of memes, blind loyalist commentaries and underground spying. He had enough. But what he did to me personally was a jolt, waking me up and take a look again from the outside. The world was still chaotic yet suspended. Still lacking aid, short with concrete updates. No legitimate mass testing.

I left the group quietly that night, not making any noise. No goodbye notes to another comrade who joined the mass reporting party. No tweets, no dissent.

There were nights of introspection, when the dark comes and throws you a flavorful plethora of anxieties. Sometimes I don’t want to be critical anymore, sometimes I don’t want to care. Sometimes, I just want to be mute, merely checking or monitoring the world, watching it implode. I just want to be a kamote, really.

So it is.

When an online friend said that we can create a world where we can be only be a vegetable and be a peace, I was in. This time, I created such world.

It sucked. Haha! What do you expect? Talking vegetables?! Heck, we aren’t even Vegans in the first place. I created the group for the sake of friendship and showing support by creating fun content. But how can you create content in an inanimate being? They don’t show dissent, the plants are not even critical or compassionate. There were just there – existing.

No goal. No end.

Suspended and at standstill.

Anxiety was brewing again.

Back to the drawing board. Back to zero. Back to the times when I die of sheer boredom, with lots of time in my hands brought about by a week-long leave. How can I help by showing fun and compassion, and actually, with lesser negativity brought about by the chaos of the outside world? I am really tired of being too critical, of listening to the news and Presidential announcements. I am tired of this Pandemic ruining my daily life, merely getting by.

Then one random Saturday, we saw a post in a local group page containing constitution and its provisions for tribunals and by-laws. It was the same group page who yeeted me! Muted for my candid reaction, just because I expressed my dissent. In that realm where members should be “Empath” and often misunderstood, they should be the bigger person who can understand the context. And yet, they made a mini-government out of it. Was the page fun after that? I cannot answer, I was blocked two days ago.

Which is why when someone proposed a jump-start of spreading care and fun in this stagnant daily life of Enhanced Community Quarantine, I was up for it. I joined in the promotions of spreading an overwhelming care.

It was a Saturday, most of the people are in rest. It was nearing Prime time, that is why more are focused in their handheld. A massive invite was begun. Not only in the local setting, but also in abroad. With lots of people staying home and investing in the social media, the tags and invites were rampant. Make a comment witty and do the plug, easy peasy. Membership count was rad, 88 members in the first hour, then at Monday it exceeded the 420 mark.

As I am typing this, the membership goes to 867 and counting!

A huge play of pretend for me, I was not an INFJ. I was an Ne-dom. “The Great Debater”. ENTP. Known for “possessing a wikipedia-like of ideas, critical thinking and charismatically empathic”. But when you think about it, this psuedo-science of knowing one’s MBTI type is not meant to put oneself in a box, but to actually learn the cognitive function stacking and to understand people. In that way, you equip yourself on how to authentically put the care.

One hurdle we have faced when building this little realm was convincing the true INFJs to join the group. After all, why do they have to pretend? What if they get bullied with their weaknesses? But I digress, the group page is to actually say what if EVERYONE was one? Will we make the world a better place? Or will it burst out due to the lack of authenticity? Are we simply watching the world burn? This simulation was answered by a paradox:

Just using INFJ logic here, so pardon me. If this group was made to “Bully INFJs”, How could we bully them if we are “pretending to be INFJ”? Wouldn’t a bully go to where the INFJ’s were already instead of making a page where “everyone pretends to be an INFJ” in hopes they will join so they can be bullied?

So no, we are not aiming to bully people. We are actually exposing the negative qualities and making everyone aware of themselves. After all, the first step to self-care is to be self-aware. Perhaps most of the non-INFJs are playing pretend at this point still, but sometimes the satire crosses over as truth, and albeit the care may trigger the skeptic, we learn to critic which is healthy and the unhealthy; filling ourselves with an overwhelming acceptance, with an authentic amount of care. My stay-home lifestyle was a little lighter, a little happier.

Is the Philippines still at standstill? I am not 100% sure, all I know is that there are movements in bits and pieces; awareness on the outside world is getting higher. Help is somehow on the way, testing to the OFWs is mobilized. Information dissemination is ongoing. The President, even though it is not enough, starts to finally care.

Or maybe, the outside world plays pretend.