Essays and Works in Progress

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.

Karag-karag na Lagaw-lagaw

Initial draft of the CNF submitted in the First Pasig City Writers Workshop

Dear M—,

Naalala mo pa noong college, patay na patay ako sa iyo? Nag-confess ako sa iyo Friday night, tapos nag-break na tayo Monday night, sa may catwalk habang naulan nang malakas at maghihintay ito tumila, kasama ng mga tsismosa nating kabarkada? Sa sobrang lungkot ko, naisip ko bumili ng notebook, at magpalitan tayo ng mga liham sa isa’t-isa, ipapahiram ito bawat gabi, at itinatala ang mga ginawa nating pag-aaral sa maghapon? Hindi ko naisip that it would be my writing style; ang naisip ko noon, gusto kitang makilala, kasama ng pagkilala ko sa mga riles ng PNR bilang main transport natin kapag sabay tayong uuwi after class. Kapag may pagkakataon akong sumabay sa iyo pauwi south-bound, isusugal ko ang oras ng commute at ng mahabang pasensya ng paghihintay sa second to the last trip to San Pedro, kung saan standing sa tren at kakarag-karag, mala-Home Along da Riles circa 2004.

Naalala lang kita nang magawi kami rito sa Albay at nakita ang mga riles na nababalot na ng carabao grass, o natatabunan ng aspalto sa National Road para sa sasakyan, at naisip kong sobrang bonak talaga ng mass transit sa Pinas. Hindi mo mae-enjoy ang magkakawatak at magkakalayong rancho at tourist spot ng Bicol region kung wala kang kotse. Malayong-malayo sa Japan kung saan bawat tourist spot eh may train station sa tabi.

Naisip rin kita nang makilala ko si J—. Galing rin sya sa school natin, pero team-dorm sya, hindi team-riles. Puru siya aral, at never nakasakay ng PNR, kaya ibang-iba ang kwentong promdi niya sa mabangis na lungsod. Nasa bansa na rin sya ng may effective bus transit at hyperinflated car prices kasi maliit ang lupain ng mala-NY na ASEAN nation. ‘Kako sa kanya, ninais ko rin sumulat ng kwentong paglalakbay at pagkakaugnay — sa pamamagitan ng paggamit ng tren. Naalala ko na sinubukan ko yun noong college. Sinubukan ko sa iyo noon.

Parang tayong tren: mga riles ang nagdudugtong sa atin mula sa malalayo, riles din ang mahihiwalay sa atin kapag nasa gitna ito ng tawiran. It bridges the far distances to a close, and yet, we break away if we’re too close. Gusto ko ring isulat ang kabalintunaan ng riles, katulad ng kalakhang maynila na napapalibutan ng balintunay: sa bawat barangay may solo-living sa mataas na condo na kapitbahay na class C at D na bahay na bato at lulan ang isang angkan. Parang tayo, na kahit anong pilit kong lumapit sa iyo noon, kapag hindi uukol, hindi bubukol. Ngayon tuloy, hirap kang igapang ang ipon mo sa mamahaling bilihin ng diaper at isasabay mo pa sa iyong hinuhulugang motor.

But that’s another matter of irony. Hindi babagay sa balak kong isulat.

Na-enjoy ko ang Bicol, M. Kaya lang nalungkot ako kasi sa pag-enjoy ko, kailangan pa ng kaibigan kong humanap ng rent-a-car at puntahan ang mga lugar na may magandang view ng Mayon, at pwedeng picture-an pang-instagram. Kung hindi mo nalalaman, ang lakas ko maka-jeje sa social media. Gusto ko parati akong may picture sa travel ko, lalo na ngayong hindi ako masyado nakakapag-travel na. Kaya siguro hirap din sa pagsusulat, dahil hindi na masyado nakakapaglakbay. Adulting is so hard, I am faced with the challenges of purchasing furnitures and fixtures, that I sometimes losing contact with friends, and even losing sleep. Puru labas ang pera, pero para sa investment naman daw ang sabi nila. Parang sugal, para sa maalwal na pamumuhay.

Sana ganun din ang ating gobyerno, marunong sumugal para sa maalwal na pamumuhay ng mga tao. Kahit man lang sa mga bus na on-time, o sa mga LRT at MRT na dumarating na every two minutes sana. Pinakamaganda, ibalik nila ang long-distance rail transit mula Tayuman hanggang Bicol. Hindi yung puru San Pedro. Iabot na nila hanggang dito sa Albay. Better yet, get it done until Sorsogon. Para wala na akong dahilan bakit hindi ako makatawid ng Leyte. Ang probinsya ng tatay kong aning-aning na at hindi man lang death-ready ngayong matindi na ang sakit niya. Hay, nalulungkot ako na ang Pilipinas ay katulad ng tatay ko: lakas mangutang ng pera, pero hindi man lang maglaan sa kinabukasan. Hipak pa ng bisyo.

Sa pamamagitan ng kotseng hiram ay nakarating ako sa Green Hills ng Quitinday. Hindi ito shopping center oi, literal na berdeng burol na may kubo at matatanaw ang perfect cone kapag naiakyat mo ang lampas 100 steps assault. Eka nila, isang Congressman na raw ang bumili nito. Revoked ang ancestral domain. Wala man lang malasakit. Paano na kapag nagkaroon ng 100% ownership sa saligang batas? Hindi ako against sa ganung economic policy, pero kung hindi epektibo ang Tax Code nating circa 1977, paano natin masisingil ang mga panginoong maylupa, di ba? Hindi nga rin effective ang AMLA natin kasi andami paring naglalaba ng pera sa mga casino eh. Laba-pera habang nanonood ng Broadway. Ganun ang burgis way. Sometimes, free check-in for a patron. Oha, maging permanent resident ka lang ng sugalan para tuluy-tuloy ang money integrating. Hindi ko lang alam kung alam mo pa ang ibig kong sabihin; hindi ka na accountant, di ba? Nasa call center ka ng payables-receivables, kung saan mas nakaka-relate ka kung paano magsesettle ng mga credit card bills ng misis mo, kaka-hoard ng mga baby supplies sa Lazada kada buwan.

Sa dami ng gusto kong isulat kapag ako ay naglalakbay, hindi ko na maipili ano ang uunahin ko. Katulad ng paggamit ko sa notebook natin, parang dumpster lang ng mga iniisip ko ang notes app dito sa phone. Mas maganda ang tech ngayon, all of these are stored in a cloud. Hindi katulad ng notebook natin na nawawala na nang makita ni mama ito at itinambak sa kung saan, tapos ayun, Ondoy happened.

I just wanted to write about travel and connections and yet here we are: me trying again to connect to you via this epistolary exposition and you not knowing where I was and what I am doing. Kaya heto ako, nakahigang nagta-type habang tanaw ang mahiyaing Mayon.

So. Kumusta?

Need.

First draft of a poem catered for a spoken-word event that never happened.

19 Feb 20xx

19:20

Hi.

Baler.

Now?

Yes. Now. Need.

You know where I am?

Not yet.

Room 2019.

Drive or grab?

I don’t care.

Basement 2.

Slot 19. It’s empty.

Ok.

I work full time tonight.

19 o’clock.

Til?

Til 2.

Then you do you.

Ok.

Are you sure?

Not for me to say.

Are you sure?

No. But—

I mean, I can. Can’t I?

Always.

So…

See you.

Tonight.

Yes, tonight.

We’ll see each other.

But please—

No more gaps.

We love, and

Give in tonight.

Eye to eye.

No thoughts.

No words.

Just feelings.

And this midnight meeting.

Diaspora sa Singapura

Majulah, Singapura.

March on, Singapore. You were a port of tea before, then you became “The Asia layover”, and now, you were an option for my forevermore.

That is, until you crush me with the difficulty of taking investment bankers in and paying New York-ish rent, plus the fact that what we are is a legally-permitted ant. An ASEAN worker who has no right to invest in your reclaimed lands. This is what I learned upon checking-in with a guy I met in an instagram meme, as he was looking for a fund manager (and all the while I thought he was looking for a corporate-type, alas, he needs a freelancer).

Upon arriving in Singapura and seeing that vortex waterfall of recycled chlorine in colored LED, I ask myself again, “Why do I go here? What is your plan? Is you plan to meet him? And then what? Are you proposing something in mind? Something in kind? Just something…?”

I guess I went to meet him not only because of me exploring this as a setting of my personal rendition of “brain-drain” tropes, or maybe it’s not only because of me being left out by the siblings who went halfway across the world just to explore a better healthcare and greater chance of saving money, but also because I was imagining a vision of us together, renting a bedsit in the OG HDB Estate teeming with Singapura storylines of struggle, strife, and finally, thrive.

That is, when he mentioned in passing that he isn’t really looking for a partner at a moment. Or maybe in the near future. Or maybe, in forever. He won’t look, period. Ganern. Disappointed, but kind of expected. After all, we are too busy assessing if we really are in a thriving place — if our current careers are okay, or if our savings are intact… Or in my case, if I can afford to go to TWG and have a jasmine tea whenever I wish to rant about this foolish situation of the world. (The Climate change commission estimated an ealier end btw, way earlier than our projected first run of the Manila subway project in 2078).

We are too busy to heal, to dream, to grind separately. After all, we just met in a meme.

“Tell me where you are right now, no kidding.” was that meme. I was in my office cafeteria, blindly taking a snapshot of the false greenery of the pantry, introspecting how corporate that is— green sofas, like the old plants uprooted in BGC, to give way to our payable carparks, and limited slots for driving employees. A shout of “Slot is full!” for every time an FTE wishes to avail a free parking in the night. Alas, most of us work at night.

The meme went and so our conversations ensued. From August 2022 to moments of crisis and anxieties of earning, progressing with careers, to emotional emergencies of breaking up and how to deal and how to heal, and scheduled breakdowns, to net worths, grit of the grind, IG stories and madam bebi branding. Until Lazada 12.12 sale offered an ad about flying again. After all, it has been two years since my last scheduled flight and subsequently cancelled because of Covid.

We took our conversation outside the usual platform, and I find ourselves that in moments of silence, we still stick to the noise. Rather than dropping the phone and look at each other, we hover our eyes to the blue lights and its radiation; I don’t even know now if too much can cause an eye cancer. Brain-drain, I guess. The mental health kind, not the economic diaspora kind.

And so I mull again on this diaspora idea and he was saying that I should stick to this current gig as it gives me what I need without moving out of the comfort zone. And I felt antsy again, because that sentiment came from a thriving man who went all the way to uproot himself and remove from the anxiety of being the great breadwinner. An anxiety that I keep on managing, as long as I stay in my family home. I still stay, because I was too busy and too tired to deal with the paperwork of applying renovations and seeing to it that every design fitted the japandi aesthetic. The design was there, the paperwork wasn’t. It still wasn’t. Just like the doctor who was emotionally absent from the time he became physically absent from Manila. He doesn’t deserve to be included in my treasure trove of dating fails, but I guess he really is a dating fail. He set the benchmark of the profiles too high, but he crushed the vision bar too low, it became six feet under.

I don’t even know if there is still a single soltero with a PRC license, a crossover with automatic transmission, and a net worth of at least Php5 million (financial notes came from that auditor, not from this banker). That, plus a desire of not having a kid. Will I ever find that in Manila? I mean, most of these men are (1) not hitting the profile, or (2) desiring to make a child, or (3) that doctor: a single father. Wala bang (4) none of the above? I mean, I am still optimistic, but if the market is so limited in Manila, perhaps I can start looking for one in Singapura…?

So we circle back to this Majulah Singapura, together with my unique #chikitingpatrolSG hashtag and ubiquitous learning about content-creation and noise-cancellation. Back to the re-imagining the vision, or perhaps time to learn algorithms and python?

Let’s see.

A Moment of Gold

Book Review of The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone by Olivia Laing

I don’t believe the cure for loneliness is meeting someone, not necessarily. I think it’s about two things: learning how to befriend yourself and understanding that many of the things that seem to afflict us as individuals are in fact a result of larger forces of stigma and exclusion, which can and should be resisted. Loneliness is personal, and it is also political. Loneliness is collective; it is a city.

Unlike Olivia Laing, I live in one of the Enlisted Men’s Barrios of Makati. I walk everyday to-and-fro my workplace: #TheBank situated in one of the towers of Bonifacio Global City (BGC).

I wish to digress about my ways of opening connections via online and offline, and how I do this while traversing the most gentrified business district of Manila as of late, and how expensively insulated this concrete community is. I wish to give a warning about this SG-citylike sans the efficient commute, and how this concrete jungle is not only filled with deafened dreams, but also filled with realizations and ruminations of my healing heart with bits of profanities whilst walking and having loony conversations with my midnight therapist, memes and IG reels combined.

BGC isn’t exactly like New York. There maybe rats, but they are lurking outside the district, resurfacing in the EMBOs around it. BGC is filled with working class who do not get to enjoy themselves at their breaktimes, thanks to the expensive bistros and limited benches and greenery. There’s also no library, so if I wish to read, you have to locate a gentrified space and pray that there will be no rain for the day. This concrete jungle adds to the loneliness we feel as inhabitants of it. Together with the expounding rise of sibuyas and bigas, it aggravates our need to be in a community of affordable living, or at least a collective ground to air our grievances.

In my Saturday self-care regimes I do walk the city in an introspecting pace, lurking the side streets, people watching. Sometimes, breathing the vibe of stillness in the empty spaces. In a way, I see the street art in its walls, simply being there, or maybe waiting. Just like Olivia mentioning about the gloomy character of NYC, she explains how people cope via their creations. She mentioned Edward Hooper, Andy Warhol, and, in a vast majority, David Wojnarowicz and his activism through the AIDS epidemic. And through these people who breathed loneliness bring a hope to cope, or maybe an opium of attention, for us to know ourselves more, and finally, to give courage to start a connection.

Last Chinese New Year eve, I was looking for a vacant bench to eat my salad and read some more and after a long walk of getting out of a congested High Street, there’s a newly-filled community of expatriates who live in a posh two (or three?) bedroom condo complex. One Meridien Tower houses expats with their little kids, some AFAMs and their wives, and mostly caters bistros filled with working-class Filipinos in bikes, grab food, and what-have-you. All benches are filled, except for one who is occupied by a tired man blankly staring the newly-opened store in gold.

I said hi to him and seated across him, and we had conversations about livelihood, reading, writing, and him being on his precious break time. At first I was annoyed; he keeps accommodating me even though all I wanted was to eat and read. And then after that small talk and me eating in the next 10minutes, I looked back at him and he was stealing sleep.

He was talking to me because he was battling the antok. And I was looking at the newly-opened store, testing the density of the instagrammers, the kids ranting about May wifi po ba kuya?, and the Titas of Manila drinking spanish wine with their amigas. I looked at him feeling the pity, and when he opened his eyes he jolted at me and sheepishly said sorry for I was caught looking at him. Told him that I know the feeling, for we are the same. We are both part of the working class in the concrete jungle — I was just five floors higher. #TheBank

More of Q-and-A here-and-there, and before he stepped out of the bench, he gave me the store’s sample chocolate — the one with the 42%. I said my thanks, but as part of my overthinking spree, I was wondering if he has read Douglas Adams, or if he’s into high fantasy books when he jested “You know that 42 is the answer to everything.”

I know, I read Hitchiker’s Guide.

Be it his way to reconnect or not (in the future), I kind of understand Olivia’s excerpt when she wrote “Sometimes, all you need is a PERMISSION TO FEEL.”

Maybe with all these problematic things in our lives, all we need is to feel… To finally heal.

Solidaridad Soledad Soliman Solosolosol

Book Review of Gun Dealers’ Daughter: A Novel by Gina Apostol

Wow, my reading experience is an adventure!!!

I was tasked to moderate Gina’s another novel, The Revolution According to Raymundo Mata, but since that book is more confusing and more tricky (with its literary styles), I tried searching for her other works in linear form. After her short story in Manila Noir, this came as another alternative. Bibliolepsy, meanwhile is to be re-released next year, by Soho Press.

But then again, this book is not really straight-forward. It composed of puns, reiterating moments, scenes going around in circles, and ending scene with a carousel, taking the circular trip literally and figuratively. The book is about Soledad Soliman and her world revolving around the Alta-de-sociedad of the 70s, with the dictator & his wife on cameo, the latter singing Dandansoy and flexing her aesthetic tastes in music and art. Her parents, Frankie and Queenie, are those visionary businessmen who provides military might, via gun trade. They have a beshie who used to do gangster moves – Uncle Gianni, the soltero who helped Sol recuperate in Europe.

Reading the first part is hard for me, not engaging at times. It only kicked off when she started narrating her piece of story, at around chapter 6. After surviving the first 5 chapters with its confusing POVs, the plot started kicking in. It is not fast-paced, there are parts that circulate. Pages that ruminates. Lines being repeated, or words being reiterated. I liked its lyrical appeal. Also, some scenes are really memorable. The long queue of limousines at CCP because the audiences do not walk, the Philippine Insurgency medallion stirred over a coffee, and the fantasy of Sol and Jed doing the deed while stealing guns.

The ending is not like an action film, but rather an update of these Martial Law babies, and it seemed rather unattached to its full-circle effect. But sometimes this is how our stories play in our mind: sometimes intense, but mostly detached.

I suggest that GenZ should really read this to get our of their petit-bourgeois fantasies and really get a grasp of how the Pinoy society works, especially now that our social climate gets to its primitive dog-eat-dog realm.

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.

August 21st, 1AM

[It was a cool August night, and a rare chance to take a holiday. But instead of being stuck in my bedroom, I pretended to be a doctor that day, inviting resident doctors to a seminar.

But there are other stories that day… about plans for the future, with donuts and black coffee. About nothing, but going up. And there’s this]

Yellow lights glimmer like fireflies in midnight. The city is still awake, while its inhabitants are about to sleep. In the midst of fewer vehicles, walking paces and fluorescent convenient stores, there are two souls sighing their declarations of love and consummation of lust.

There are two pairs of eyes, looking at the city below and enjoying its view.

Two lips entwined, in I love you’s and suppressed moans. Two pairs of hands, touching and owning one another. Two souls thrusting and celebrating a little piece of heaven – that their little bubble has created and contained.

Such is the language of admiration and affirmation; that no matter how noisy the city is at night, these two jejemons, or so-called batang-hamog, enjoy the luxury of being on top of the world, having their little solace and peace.

Sulking and Burrito

Initial draft of the CNF submitted to Anselmo Press

Newsflash: my SoKor trip is now cancelled, thanks to that Daegu cult activity infecting around 80 in one go. It has been more than a year since the girls booked the promo flights, more than a month to check on available hotels and rough-drafting the itinerary (especially Korean skincare shopping). We even got our visas approved, hoping that this new wave of SARS won’t catch us. One of the girls almost got her visa on cancelled status, but was all a bluff — only to find out that we are cancelling the travel 48 hours before the actual flight.

I even prepared for a week-long leave for this, only to realize that the #HeySeoulSistas hashtag will not be appearing on my instagram feed. Hays, andaming tampo na, good thing I can avail this day as a leave.

So, instead of a Seoul day, today is designed to be Errands day. I am tasked to pay all outstanding bills, to recheck all my savings, and to buy groceries and medicine for Mama. After that, I deserve to have a date. You have to take me to dinner. We talked about this: cancel flight = extra moments for us. You said this can be done, “Ano ba naman yang Corona, hindi naman tayo mamamatay diyan.”

Tasks ticked, sunset came and went. I text you:

Nasaan ka na? Bakit hindi ka nagme-message?!

By nighttime, I feel resigned. It has been a day of errands sans date. You stood me up. I have a feeling that you have no reliever on your ER shift (which is most likely, news always mention the lack of medical personnel and our dismal healthcare). Heck, you never replied. It’s another episode of a solo dinner. No, I am so used to eating alone, and so used to promises being kept, this is why I am sulking. Andami ko na ngang tampo, dumagdag ka pa.

Today I learned that: I go to this specific Army Navy bistro and sulk away my clingyness by eating their Burritos. I dunno, if I keep track of all the errands day, this will be the third time. What a perfect night to revolt, actually — I go to that very place you aren’t fond of, like a rebel soldier joining the resistance, eating dishes that you don’t like.

Everytime I go to this place, I have assigned myself a mission. It’s all straightforward, no room for rants and raves. I am drafted to order straight to the counter, taking mental notes of each and every item on the menu. You read the green sign. There’s Steak, Chicken, Carnitas; there’s Vegetable burrito. The more I feel the need to sulk, the more I eat their PI varieties – Adobo Flakes and Sisig baboy. PI may mean Private investigator, but for me, it was my personal trashtalk to the circumstances – Putangina. “Mam paorder po ng putangina burrito – the Adobo flakes, yes.”

I position myself next to the spicy condiments – the Green Chili sauce with one month expiry, the Caracoles ageing six months, and that seemingly artificial salsa hot sauce, with an age of at least two years. Then there’s salt and pepper, the typical couple go-tos when you feel the need for splashing additional taste.

However, I’d still stick to that fresh Salsa by the counter. The same salsa that you loathe, because of its distinct aroma. And you don’t like its aftertaste. Realizing this throughout our dates, my mind blasted to that side dish, took a cupfull and let its smell reek in me. This, I believe, is my weapon, for sulking tonight. I imagine you squirming and telling me to take it away, and I will guffaw at your pathetic defeat. I should eat this with gusto, ASAP.

PI Burrito comes and I look at it: MESSY. But its colors and its variety, it kind of shades my dark mood. The cover, albeit a plain wheat, has a strong mexican aroma. Top it with Caracoles and some splash of Salsa, the mind zones out from sulking and in to munching.

I eat the whole lot in less than 10minutes – swallowing like a real soldier. Suddenly, my sulking dissipated. I don’t feel mad at the world, or at the circumstance of the little reality that caused my sulking. In a span of 10-minute self-diner date, I forgot the truth that I got stood up, and I received a message to confirm it: you are extending your ER shift tonight. I go out of that bistro with a sigh and a happy tummy. After all, “Come in Hungry, Walk out Happy.”

So, sulking addressed and done. I choose to understand. I walk home and turned on the TV. It is only later tonight that my mission changed. No more of the green and white interiors. No more of the status of being drafted. And no more happy tummy. Because my tummy got worried upon the President’s announcement that effective immediately, the whole Luzon is now declared under Enhanced Community Quarantine (ECQ).

There will be no Sulking, there will be no Burrito rebellion. There is only a Pandemic.