Home is where we are

And hopefully we find ourselves
in a city apartment we can afford,
With windows large enough to welcome
the sunlight to saunter in
and join us for breakfast;
We'd bask in these slow, 
quiet Saturday mornings
advertised by gentrified developers
whose names sound too stiff
to our provincial tongues

Never mind the down-size, 
as long as there is space
to place our jars of salt, grain, and sugar,
our books and knickknacks,
maybe a twin-sized mattress,
and if we’re lucky — a pet bed —
We can call it home

Here every square inch will be maximised
to hold room for things
lost to a realtor’s eye;
All awkward cuts and corners will be filled
with unmeasured banter 
foreign to an eavesdropping outsider;
In a familiar flick, shelves and cupboards 
will become portals
to multiverses —
Inviting friends and other lifeforms
to the warmth of our kitchen
thick with the fragrance of squash
simmered in coconut milk and shrimp paste

But while we’re still saving
for that downpayment,
I don’t really mind
repairing the weathered flat
doing its best to comfort us 
for the hours lost in Metro Manila commute.
Maybe rearranging the furniture
can cheer up the house gnomes
who keep us company
when the other is timezones away.
And what about the regular calls
we receive from elderly neighbours
eager to sell the day’s catch and wares —
Who would now open the awning for them
and beckon them home?

Really, my love, we don't need much.
It is enough
I get to dream with you
on that single-bed safely rafting us
through torrents of life transitions.
Home is where we are.

Medical Jitters

Today, I found out that my MRI was meant to rule out an intercranial tumor. My doctor probably didn’t want me to panic, so he did not include the initial diagnosis in the laboratory write-up. Alas, my healthcare provider insisted to know. I had to call my doctor and explain that he needs to resend the write-up.

It was a bit of a shock – particularly at the part where I had to tell the medical representative the initial diagnosis shortly after reading it myself,

“Uh…it’s intercranial…tumor”

I know the procedure is just to rule out its possibility, and the best thing to do at the moment is to keep calm and cross my fingers. But a part of me is also afraid – particularly if this would involve surgery. Would life still be the same? Would I ever be able to do the complex things Im doing? Will I go dumb? It’s one of my deepest fears: to lose my sensibilities

If you have ever read Flowers for Algernon, the most agonizing part for me is when Charlie slowly regresses. The awareness that your faculties are slowly declining and that you cant do anymore the usual things you do is painful – how do you adjust from here? What will become of you? Will people still treat you the same? I dont have answers for any of these questions. Not yet.

Or maybe I do, but I just dont want to acknowledge it yet. I already know the feeling of my body crumpling instantly from pain; when my tongue is bereft of words; when my grip suddenly loses power. During those moments, the only thing that matter is how to cope and survive the day.

For now, I cling unto hope. And to resignation – just because i dont want to put all my eggs in one basket. If all goes well, thank god. If this is a start of an uphill battle, we’ll muster all the courage we can get. But right now, im just here. Breathing. Being. Appreciating the pot of orchids in the waiting room.

Life has been good to me.

What Ifs

A/N: Recently had a catch-up with my closest university friends, and both of them are now engaged! We spent the whole day trading stories, ideas, and memories. While we’re all happy with our current partners, we couldn’t help to wonder what if we had an alternate universe where we would have ended up with our first loves instead.

Reflections on Self Expression

Ever since I stopped working, I took it upon myself to rediscover the creative side I have lost when I was still teaching. It’s not that there is no creativity in being a teacher. There is. Lots of it. Every waking day is a hands-on experience: sprucing up an old concept, making sure keynotes are visually aesthetic, designing (and most often than not, improvising) activities that students would love and learn from, etc. Teaching is definitely not a blackhole of artistry. But there were also countless nights when I felt drained (or at times, even suicidal) right after I clocked out from work.

Maybe it was because of the religious nature of the school that I was in, but teaching eventually became a tedious chore for me. I knew that everyone meant well, but I felt that my being as a teacher was constantly judged from the moment I stepped inside the school grounds down to those random nights when colleagues would politely ask me about the choice of memes I shared. There were weekends when my students would randomly spot me strolling in a mall with my friends, and I would get anxiety attacks about what I just wore or how appropriate my behavior was. It was as if my life became a 24/7 reality show.

It took me some months to realize that as much as I enjoy having others appreciate my craft, I also need an outlet where I can express myself without any need of validation or approval.

Of course, I turned to poetry for recluse. The stories I wanted to share, but felt I would be called out for, made its way into a figurative line or two. What made it fun was the ambiguity and the fact that I could hide behind it. There will always be two or more interpretations to a seemingly indecent line ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), so it was never brought out into the scrutinizing glare of light. It became a safe space for my other self that only a few people acknowledge.

When I quitted the academe, I vowed to focus my creative energies on poetry. I spent quiet nights in a nearby cafe, customized a notebook to call forth the muses, and even went for a social media detox. I mustered all my mental energy for a provocative imagery.

Alas, there were no ravens nor vultures. No lightning at the tip of my fingers. I didn’t have any words.

It took again a considerable amount of time to unpack that my poems are external manifestations of my internal turmoil, and that I couldn’t write because I am not tensed anymore. I have wrote about my life—one that is peppered by abuse, loneliness, and general sadness. Having cut myself away from all known triggers (a sudden live-in arrangement with ze partner did the trick), I found myself bereft of verses. Just how would I describe this new experience I have right now?

…

I used to maintain an acquaintanship with peace and joy. I knew how to spot them from the sidelines. They were regulars at this yoga studio I used to frequent in before. I ran at them in quiet coffee shops and other creative spaces. They were a hippy couple—one that has a million or so followers in Instagram. When I started living with them, I found out that I had missed so much.

It is so cliche to say this, but they are all about the small details: waking up without being hurried, having a clear agenda of what I need to do, and being patient with household chores. The day ends in gratitude, resting in the knowledge that I have accomplished everything I had to do, and that my palms would not run out of any basic need. The sleepless nights I sacrifice for achievement seem measly compared to the bliss I get every time I sleep without worrying about tomorrow’s performance.

…

I find it hard to write about peace and joy because fuck, I’ve been gloomy and anxious for the past x years of my existence. I am not prepared for it. I still have no words to capture the sunlight that radiates into my bedroom. Or the feeling of being safe after a long while. Unlike pain which operates on hiding behind ambiguity, happiness runs on a different language. It is sublime, but it does not rub itself on one’s face. It is bold, but at the same time does not draw attention to itself. It illuminates instead of making a material more sinister than it seems.

This is something I have to learn and get used to yet. Not only as means to channel creativity, but also as a way of conversing with life.

Meanwhile, I turn to other mediums for self-expression. In the absence of familiar structures, we learn to adapt to whatever form that is available. Or even create new ones. Journaling about the mundane helps a lot. Photography is an awesome method too (although I have to borrow ze partner’s camera from time to time). Cooking is my all-time favorite.

I will write about cooking the next time I have the chance to.

Postcard

I am writing this as I wait for dinner to be done. Tonight my partner cooks. He is still busy configuring out the basics of bistek, a local beef stew dish. Meanwhile, the kitchen air is filled with the aroma of simmered soy sauce and caramelized onions. The soft hiss of cooking pan is faintly heard next to the croon of his favorite artist.

This has been a typical night for both of us.

It is still surreal that a few months ago, I would clock out at eight and still be at lost as to what I should be doing after work. Well, for one, there was more work— occupied by keynotes needed to be animated, grades that must be computed, assessment tasks that should be drafted or conceptualized. It was not surprising that I have developed a tendency for procrastination— after repeatedly being advised to work smart, not hard. Well, foine. If you really insist to turn off all lights at six, maybe I should get life after work.

The alternative life would mean signing out at five and exploring whatever city life has to offer for a poorly paid yuppie. Having moved out from my parents and settled at my friend’s couch, a fringe benefit entitled me to a lot of unsupervised free time (well, saved from those nights when my host needed me to tutor her kids, but you get the drift). I entered the wonderland of dating, and boy was it magical.

Still, the spell would wear off at the strike of a certain hour or on particular days when a date suddenly ghosts, and I would find myself brooding and listless at social media. What to do now?

It took me three specialists, two mental breakdowns, and a barrage of office memos to finally realize that what I need is more than a break. I need a vacation.

Now that I think about it, I haven’t really had a legit vacation ever since I graduated college. After being hurled out screaming from my alma mater’s, I focused on one thing I was weaned to do: survive. I moved from one job to another, traversed cities, and even entered graduate school— all for the dream of being this sophisticated self-made woman.

What I am right now is SO far-fetched from the ideals I had imagined back when I was a graduate. For starters, I am currently unemployed. I try to scrape out an income by tutoring from time to time. Fifty percent of my purchase power is fuelled by my parents’ unconditional(?) love for me. I secretly live with my partner to regain the sanity I lost when I was teaching. My media subscriptions are all on hold. Aside from some books, I have nothing else valuable except time…

…which I am learning to enjoy indiscriminately. I used to abhor how time runs so fast while I, weighed by responsibilities and personal demons, trudged far behind it. Now that I am on an indefinite vacation, time stretches like a wide paved road, and I have the option to stroll wherever I please.

It is very ironic to have found my sense of routine in a space devoid of rigid structures. Without any morning commitment, I now regularly wake up at nine. I am slow in preparing food, but always make it in time for lunch. Afternoons are spent either responding to mails, playing video games, or napping. At five, I go to my tutee and we would have a productive time learning together. I usually arrive home at eight, just in time for me and my partner to decide on what we are going to have for dinner. My routine is a tad boring than what I used to do, but I overall feel alive, accomplished and happy.

To add, this has been going on for two months- the longest I am able to sustain a routine without any sort of internal revulsion.

Do I want this to last forever? Partly. But I am also aware that there is life after this LIFE. ;). After all, I am an adult who has bills to pay, plans to save for, and places to travel to. Staying permanently in this utopic set-up would prolly defeat the purpose of being human. So yes, I will soon be returning to the throng of mass workers who digests Metro Manila traffic for breakfast. This time I clutch dearly onto my souvenir: a better sense of what I should do and what my work is worth for.

Meanwhile, I relish the remaining time I have here while ze partner is setting the table for dinner.

Pilgrim

My feet are scarred from all the walking.
I have treaded pebbled paths
sharp enough to leave a trail of my own blood;
I have pitched my tents on cracked soil
that begs for the company of my tears;
I have lied awake at the roadside
patiently waiting for death to pass
but was only sustained by crumbs from strangers.

It is still surreal to believe
that this hardened earth-
also lends itself to the existence
of lush forests whose grass tenderly kiss the blisters on my soles;
of loam that yields itself to the turn of the seasons;
and of fine sand still clinging even if i shake them off.

The heart of a pilgrim
is always indecisive.
Torn between making a home in a place you feel loved,
and knowing that there is no permanency on any land.
Only continuous walking.

Contemplations While Waiting

3 days off sertraline and im having thoughts of dying again at the age of 30. The difference: last year i thought i would die by work burn out. This time, im thinking of dying after ive YOLOed myself out.

To be honest, i dont think if it is a good thing or a bad thing.

What I want my death to be like: i want to leave a funny life behind. I want my writer friends to make a funny novel/comic about my story— something that readers can find connection and comfort with. Of course, all comedies are tinged with sadness, but i dont want people to be hung up anymore at my passing. I just want them to feel that i have burnt so bright, that i had to go away quickly. Something like that.

Of course, my mother tells that when i die, i would end up in hell. And it is still not a comforting thought. If there’s something i would like to be after death, it is to be a fairy godmother. Or just a wandering spirit that grants wishes to the less fortunate. There are so many things that i think i could do without the worries of everyday living and physical decay.

Before i die, i want (at the very least) to experience what *romantic love* is like. I want to wake up at dawn and just gaze at my lover sleeping beside me. I want to make poems as he quietly snores. After writing, i would get up and make breakfast for the two of us. I want to spend lazy weekends with him— doing nothing in particular. Or doing separate things but also being comfortable at the presence of one another. There would be lots of fucks given to one another. Goddamit, i want lots of sex.

If the sex is good, i would probably consider extending for five more years.

I also want to have a daughter, but i think it would be selfish of me to leave her behind at such a very young age. So I dont know if I would have one. If my partner and I would accidentally have one (or should we both decide to give parenting a shot), I would prolly extend ten or twenty more years for her. It is such a responsibility to raise a kid— and I want mine to grow up as a happy and functional member of society. She can do whatever she wants with her life as long as it would not hurt others.

Other than that, i don’t think i have much to live for. Graduate school doesnt interest me as it did before, and Im still contemplating whether to continue pursuing it or to shift to creative writing. Right now, i find teaching fun IF the student-teacher ratio is smaller— so i’ll prolly switch to tutoring in a few years time. Or being a reading consultant— whatever is available or more lucrative. For now, my “long-term” goal is to have my parents’ retirement plan ironed out. So i still need to hustle for that house+lot+business in Davao.

I may not be able to travel around the world, but I want to see the northern lights in Iceland and to experience the weeabo life in Japan. Kek. I want to see a lot of stage plays / dances performed in different spaces and feel. I would probably cry a lot, but I want to cry rivers of tears out of catharsis and not out of loneliness or rejection.

I am in the period of waiting— and while waiting for death to arrive, I would not be passive. I would put myself out there, remain raw, and live the life the way I envision it to be. Prolly not as picture-perfect as I write it here, but nonetheless happy. And when I am at the height of contentment, when there is nothing else to worry about, I will slip away and cast this shell of my body behind.

Random Reminders for Sanity

1. If you’re going to die at 30, make sure to live a life that is well-spent. Live a rich life, and let others find humor and solace in your story.

2. That means to say, let go of all things that keep you from flying. Sometimes, courage is exhibited in quitting. If pride is the only thing that makes you stay, it is not a worthy cause. Let go and let the universe take you to new places. We are all pilgrims of realms.

3. Pursue the authentic. Deside first what is authentic and go after it with all your heart (Erdrich, Advice to Myself).

4. As you grow older, you would notice that your body isn’t as sharp or as efficient as it was before. Forgive yourself and put your focus on things that matter. You cannot multi-task now, but you can always prioritize.

5. Never apologize for being too intense. If s/he couldn’t handle the heat of your flame, s/he is not worth burning for.

6. Always turn hurt into art. If there’s a gift that you need to practice, that is to recycle negativity into beauty.

7. See the good in people. Everyone deserves to be given the benefit of doubt.

8. Kindness and persistence cultivate the heart. You would have already been dead if not for people who took you in, spoonfed you with warm food, and treated your wounds.

9. After all the heartache, strive to remain soft. There is hidden strength in being raw and vulnerable. But don’t forget prudence.

10. Listen to your anger. It is sadness that has not been grieved. Breathe it out without causing harm to others.

Thirst

What makes me grateful on a rainy Tuesday afternoon
is this parched throat—
dry of saliva, tonsils sore
tongue scraped dry from overuse
still hungry for some form of affection
that it couldn’t give to itself.
No sweetened juice could quench it.
No honey can ease the pain
for every lump of rejection it has swallowed:
forehead kisses and unreturned calls.
 

Meanwhile rain pounds on glass windows
in fat desperate drops,
pooling the balcony floor
until it can find its way in
until the unwilling invites the persistent visitor
and water comes and drowns the room
making heavy furnitures float
washing all pressed memorabilia
and breaking open doors
that have long been shut
because its hinges are in desperate need of oiling.
 

A tongue sticks out as an extended hand
Waiting.

Providence

Nights like these:
when the last traces of sunlight radiates
from your hand
into my cheek.

Salt in tears:
the base ingredient
for both joy and sorrow.
Felt in our tongues,
twisted layers of silent repining-
something we had to share
and go through
to realize the bittersweet taste
of departures.

Comfort of solitude:
Wandering through the desert,
making homes in makeshift tents,
acknowledging the fire within my body,
and finding means to tend its flames.

The gift of birth pains:
Learning the art of breathing
as water breaks from within.
Just when I was about to drown
in an ocean of self-induced penitence,
Life springs forth from the swell,
bursts the bubble,
and cries out for my name.