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?
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.
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.
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.
[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.
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.
First Draft of Ani41 Submission.Names are deliberately changed so that those who knew the characters will not be stalked. Him and his self-absorbed social media footprint.
It was Day3 of the Vietnam itinerary. Desert sunrise trip cancelled because of the rain from the prior day, so we opted to visit Cu Chi tunnels. All tours are unavailable, so we embarked ourselves on a DIY trip. We used to do conversations in transit so on the bus ride, we continued in our nostalgic narratives.
Of course, with our senses at jumpstart, we re-discussed the day’s logistics, expected expenses, and re-calculation of the ETDs and ETAs. Where to eat will come at a certain point, we were not hungry yet. Then comes those wishful thinking about goals for the family. I mentioned, “As long as buhay si Mama, I soldier on”. He planned to create a grander ancestral home, a big place for a reunion whenever he comes home.
Today, I wonder if he is into that goal still or he just say it to symphatize with me and my large family…?
It suddenly got shifted to the books we read (and I knew at once that he is not a reader, he was just saying the books he curiously browsed in his younger years), Game of Thrones memes (because I have little interest in doing a marathon of the whole series), and next travel plans (Dubai on November 2020, Tokyo on Olympics was also proposed).
“Si Grace andun sa Japan.”
“Grace? Ex mo?”
“Oo, yung pinakahuli.”
Then he goes along with their backstory, on how a third party came into equation, who’s losing who, and how the new boyfriend overlapped their “sila pa” episodes. He also explained the little things that caused the breakup: lapses in video calls, zero “I love you” declarations, and the fail of the routinary Hello and Goodnight’s. He then stated about being too noisy in facebook, about relationshits being very glaring in social media.
“Kaya ba ganyan ka-self-absorbed ang Facebook and Instagram mo?”
“Oo. ang hirap bumalik sa nakaraan at isa-isa mo syang binubura. Kamukha nun si Mikee Cojuangco, alam mo ba yun? Dalawa dimples sa labi.”
The actress got me triggered. I was that Mikee Cojuangco!!! I remembered my parents saying those because of the similarity with my smile.
“Tumingin ka saken nang maayos! Dalawa rin ang dimple ko, may naruto dimple pa nga ako oh! Biloy lang yan! Alam mo, ang kailangan mo ay hindi [Move on], kundi [Move forward]! Ang kailangan mo ay ang taong makakatanggap ng past mo na yan.”
I was a that point that I wanted to hit him with this punchline “Kasi ako, tanggap kita!”
But I can’t.
I just looked out at the window, a boiling passion dissipated. Clouds from this little black kettle meddled with thin air. I just stared at this motorcycle city called Ho Chi Minh, hoping he felt what I wanted to say.
All I sensed was silence.
Perhaps, that’s how it should all end: with silence.
Rats. There’s the conjuction [pa], a tone of freedom, of a luxurious item called time.
As I look again into this old site, the latest post was a summer affair with Siri Hustvedt. After that is years of silence. Let’s say, life happened in between. So fast – you cannot afford to stop and list them all down. Either that, or you are too tired to remember.
After all, the moments that we write are those we want to remember.
And please, let’s demystify writing. It is a creative thing, yes, but it is also a laborious work. It takes more than five minutes of sitting down and construct ideas in your mind, put all the tone of angst or a passive nuances on the events happened through you and you let your hands do the work. Or in my case, letting my fingers type in my laptop.
“Wala na, wala na kasi akong oras eh.”
Perhaps, what added up to the katamaran are distractions. Measured distractions. Measured, in a sense that I can just put my emotions and frustrations in a cohesive thought, filling the screen with 160-230 characters, or a simple photo with a short caption. Or better yet, getting offline and get a move – either thru reading, or immersive travelling.
Siguro, that blast from the past who came around four years later made me see my younger self again. What was I like before? Was I happier? Was I angsty before? Well, I am still angsty but in terms of being soci-politically woke, but maintaining that persona on a personal note is a tough job. I am too Tita to function now. Too tita, too much #Adulting.
But it feels good to write once in a while. It feels good now. This felt good. I do hope I can write more, just about anything. Not just about the books I read, but also the personal lessons on my travels. and I do hope I learn not to take the shorter route of 230 characters, and make it a blog post. Like this.
Thank you, Cyrus. And as I see your site, it’s time to update yours. 😏
mariaellabetos.com 