maelstrom

pagpatak ng alas-siyete, aalis ka

kilala ka na ng mga barker ng jeep

na pare-parehong pagod sa biyahe

mga noong nakakunot, mga pangang

matitigas at mga kalyadong kamay

“dalawa pa, dalawa pa”

at sasakay ka, dahil kailangan mo nang pumasok

uupo sa madalas na pwesto,

sa dulo ng jeep

para makita ang iba’t-ibang ilaw

at marinig ang alingawngaw

ng inaantok na siyudad

walang mintis ang pagkanta ng ale, di mo alam

kung lasing ba o may hinanakit lang sa mga tao

nasaan ang baril kapag kailangan mo?

wala ring mintis ang away sa kalye ng mga barumbadong

sinapian na ng espiritu ng alak na nagtatalo

kung mananalo ba si duterte o papatusin si binay

duterte nalang daw,

dahil marunong gumamit ng baril

walang mintis ang mga solvent boys sa gilid ng 20th avenue

nakapormang bilog ang mga bata, akala mo’y

naglalaro ng “bubuka ang bulaklak”

pero iba pala ang ibubuka -

isang plastic, tila sumasamba sa diyos

kanilang mga namumugtong mga mata at

lalamunang uhaw para sa milagro ng rugby

walang mintis, walang mintis

ang mga sukbit na bote’t dyaryong guwardiyado

tila buong buhay ay nakasalalay

konting barya para makabili muli

sapat na'ng kalakal ang nakasabit,

wag lang sa baril kakalabit

paulit-ulit ang mga nakikita sa dalawang taon ng

pagsakay mo sa torpedong dyip

na may bukas sinding pulang ilaw

at sirang “pull hir 2 stop,”

paulit-ulit

ulit-ulit

patay-sindi

ulit-ulit

at sa loob ng dyip na dosehan daw

pero bakit dalawa ang kalahati lang

ng pwet ang nakaupo

at sa loob ng dyip na madilim

na paulit-ulit ang nangyayari

ay may bago

may anino ng diyosa na nakaupo

sa gitna ng dyip at nakatingin sa kawalan,

kahit hindi maaninag ang mukha

ay nakakaakit ang balingkinitang katawan,

ang yabong ng dibdib na yakap ng pulang blusa

at mga brasong nais ko sanang ipulupot

mo sa akin

nang mabilis na kumabig ang dyip sa kanto

ay nawala ka sa balanse, mga kamay na

naalis ang kapit sa mahaba’t, matigas

na metal, inayos mo ang iyong buhok

at naaninag ko ang singkit mong

mga mata na mas lalo pang

sumingkit noong nailawan ng cellphone

ang iyong mukha

naaninag ko na

ang ganda mo, ikaw ang tanging ilaw

sa dyip na mapanglaw

naaaninag ko na

ang mga kamay

na hinihimas ang metal

sa bintana

pero hindi ito sayo

naaaninag ko na

ang mga kamay

at hinablot ang cellphone mo

at biglang nawala ang postura mo,

na-praning ng ilang segundo at bumaba

sa dyip, walang sumunod sa iyo mula

sa jeep na dosehan at may dalawang kalahating pwet

humingi ka ng saklolo sa mga batang hamog

na tinawanan ka lang

at humarurot ang torpedong dyip

iniwan kang mag-isa sa kalsadang masukal

di man lang ibinalik ang bayad

paulit-ulit

ulit-ulit

patay-sindi

All my life, all I wanted to do was write. Deep within my bones, I knew I was born for doing it. I was born for writing stories, giving faces to the people who I knew resided only in the back of my mind. For a while, I had the time and the opportunity and even the overflowing inspiration to sing through pens and papers and the rhythmic tapping of my keyboard. I used to give soul to the fragments of other people’s realities and fantasies. And it used to be so easy. 

Now, I haven’t even touched a camera. Or even written something that I could be proud of. There are no more poems. No more scenes in my mind. No more metaphors, no more anything. I’m sad and frustrated that my life has come to this bland mix of scurrying between days and sleeping when the sun starts to set. It’s so tiring to see stories slip away from my fingers when I know that I could give life to it, when I could talk to another body and write her reality, when I am capable of taking photos with wild eyes and writing short poems behind scratch papers. 

I’m not sure where I left off. All I remember are the years of constant typing and scribbling that slowly became sporadic musings and isolated fictions. A lot has been going on lately and a lot of words have already taken different shapes. A few years back, ‘sleepless’ meant differently than it does now. It used to be fatigue and longing, now it’s warmth and conversations. A lot of bodies have already come and gone, while some people chose to remain, and it is through them that I’m trying to find this voice, my voice, again. 

I see how your lips curl every time you look at her.

Remember that night when she was standing in the dark, below heavy clouds, amidst other people’s smoke and laughter? She opened a new pack of blacks and was about to strike a light when you stepped in. You saw her with her cigarette still hanging between the lips that, right there and then, you wanted to kiss. You saw her fumbling with her lighter, just as she always does whenever she’s unsure - if she’s going for another stick, if she’s going to touch you. She always fumbles, you thought: fumbling with lighters, with your hands whenever you walk along dark alleys, with coins, with your unruly hair every single time you’re together. 

You took slow steps to savor her image in that corner when all you wanted to do was hold her. I saw your lips curled when you saw her and she didn’t notice you. I saw it again when you were taking your third step and you suddenly remembered how her tongue tasted that night when you told her you loved her. 

I saw that smirk disappear when you remembered that she told you she wasn’t ready. I understand that it hurts. Everybody will agree that it was necessary for you to lose that ghost of a smile on your face. Why wouldn’t they? You told her you loved her when you were both in bed. You on top, her lazily combing your hair back, both of your breaths alcohol-laced, tongues menthol-blazed. I heard how you whispered that it wasn’t just the booze and the lack of sleep. I heard her silence. I heard you break it. I heard you tell her that you’d wait. I heard her sigh and kiss you and I heard the creaking, moans, and deeper breaths on the lower bunk. I heard you both silently inhaling each other’s scent, her on your chest, and your nose on her hair.

She looked up and saw you. With a little wave of her hand, your lips curled again. The sullen memory of that night went awash. You remembered why you’re staying despite her silence. It might be different with her, you whispered to yourself. She cares and she cares and she cares and maybe that’s love for her. Maybe love resides in the bottles of beer you both share, or those you drink when she has already surrendered. Maybe love is in the sticks you light or the moments between you take your next puff. It might even be in the conversations in smoking areas, red-lit motel rooms, tables at the middle of a bar. But I’m sure that love can be found in the nights when you ask her if she’s already tired and you pull her closer, kiss her forehead, and sleep. It’s in the morning after when you just lie awake and talk until both of your alarms go off.

You heard your name escape her lips and you hastened your pace before she lights her next cigarette without you. You took a step closer. 

I’m back and I’m taking it one slow, sure step at a time.

It’s been almost a year since I wrote here, except for some small musings on the books that I’ve read, but even those were dismal in number.

The truth is that since I graduated from college, I’ve lost my touch - in writing, in society, and with myself. Maybe it’s because I was too eager to skip from one point of my life to another. Even before marching to get my diploma, I was already a month into my job in an amazing non-government organization. I was productive and eager and I was certain that this is the path that I want to take. I wanted to be in development work where I can help farmers, communities affected by disasters, the marginalized, the oppressed, the very people that I have served in my four years in college.

At first, it was nice that I was trying to make a dent in the world and make it a better place. Along the way, however, I lost track of what I really wanted to do and who I really wanted to be.

Let me tell you a short story. March has been a very difficult month for me. All the burnout, the stress, the self-doubt that I’ve been burrowing in for a year has reached its peak and it culminated in a month of binge-drinking and lack of motivation. I was lost and I don’t know how to find my way back to the old me. 

The old me was sure that she wanted to write and to serve communities. The old me wanted to take part in battling the ills of the world. The old me knew her advocacies and knew how to offer the skills that she could. The old me could write, could take photos, could devour books, could get in touch with herself if she wanted to. The new me is now degraded, demoralized, and without a vision. 

Like I said, March has been a very difficult month for me. Last week, my dad returned home from Dubai. I was sleeping in my room, still unsure of what to do that day, and he woke me up suddenly.

“Know first what you want to prioritize and do. If you want to prioritize your career, yourself, or your relationships. Be sure,” he said, out of the blue.

I didn’t know how he knew. But I guess it showed somehow. And I’m thankful that it did because his words literally woke me up. 

I need to go back to that person that I once knew, albeit with changes, new ties to cut, and new ropes to hold on to. 

I’ve downloaded all my mindfulness and guided meditation apps again. I’ve bought new books which I genuinely want to read and have started to read the old ones that have been stuck on my dust-caked shelf for months. I’ll try to fix my closet, or rearrange my room, or change the sheets, or drink a cup more of water. 

I may not be in sync with what I want to do as of yet, or the changes that I want to see in the society, or the part of the world I want to be in, but I’ll take it one step at a time - slowly, surely. 

So to me, here’s a reminder that things will go your way. It may not be as planned or as you wanted it, but it will be where it needs to be. Allow yourself to celebrate your tiny victories and your light will shine through, leading the way to where you will be in the years to come. 

After Dark by Haruki Murakami

I don’t even know why I keep reading Haruki Murakami. His books almost often leave me disappointed and annoyed and yearning for more - such is the case of After Dark. It was published in 2004 and is quite a short read. After Dark explores the life of sisters, prostitutes, frustrated lawyers, and crews of a love hotel all before the crack of dawn.

His one night concept is a refreshing take on most novels, but Murakami fails to utilize it. His prose, as usual, is spot on, but the narrative and storylines aren’t. It felt too rushed. It lacked closure and wrapping up of plotlines. What the hell ever happened to the Chinese gangs? Or to the guy who beat up the prostitute? Or to the manager of the love hotel?

After Dark left a lot of questions, which is disappointing because Murakami allowed us to have more than a glimpse in the lives of these people. However beautiful these short glimpses may be, they are just that, beautiful glimpses and failed montages.

Reading this book will feel as if someone met you up in some sadly lit diner, talked to you about the earthly things that you adored, walked beside you as you ventured streets and corners and forgotten paths, and as the night came to a close, left you.

A Little Life, Hanya Yanagihara

The novel talks about friendship, the families we make, the hurdles we needed to burn, or the skin we needed to tear away to make our lives a little bit better than what we deserve it to be.

Before picking this book at our local bookstore, I already heard so much about it. Friends, mutual friends, people I didn’t know were praising it. They vowed that it was beautiful, that it was “the great gay novel,” it was devastating, and will change your life.

However, I didn’t feel those things while I sifted from page after page.

Don’t get me wrong. The first 200 pages of the book was captivating. It really sold to me the idea of four young men whose friendship could just change the world. If you know me, these kinds of literature are what I’ve been craving for. But that tiny ray of sunshine was not really fleshed out in the entirety of the 700-page novel.

For me, the whole book felt jagged but it kept dragging you by your feet. It focused on Jude, the life he led, and was forced to lead. It highlighted his pain and the already obvious tragedy. It also moved us with him, how he coped, how he found the life we was born to lead. From paragraph to paragraph, we met the people that Jude met and made his life more than what he makes it to be. 

I loved that aspect of the book. It had fleshed out characters and their stories were interesting enough to get you by. But that wasn’t enough. What was missing were their interactions, the little images of the gang while they found their way through New York and made their own names, or how they found solace in one another, how Jude bakes and cooks for them, or how JB draws them in their most fragile. We didn’t get that throughout the novel, just bits and pieces of what we could have had.

What was lacking in the friendship sense, however, redeemed itself in the family. Those were the most beautiful scenes. The ones with Harold and Julia. The ones where family isn’t who you give birth to, whose blood flows in your veins, but family is where and what and who you choose it to be.

This book isn’t the greatest, nor is it bland. It was a long, painful read because of the tragedies on top of another on top of yet another. You need to suspend your disbelief because of the unbelievable pain porn that it will present to you. The impossible circumstances of the testosterone-filled gang, how they found their way up the ladder, how they used their (already present) privilege, and how it makes us believe that this is somehow something melancholic and something that we must be in awe with. 

It had a shallow understanding of gender and racial identity. It wasn’t talked about, not given enough color, not given enough issues, not resolved. The issues were only cherries on top, sprinkles on a cake - not necessary, just needed to make it seem better, worthwhile.

The book sold itself through friendship, fluidity, family, identity, trauma, childhood. It tackled so much -- too much -- that it wasn’t able to get a hold of what it really wanted to say. 

I wouldn’t force you to understand how ruthless, how insane - lonely - these past few days were because I know that it might have been the same for you.

And I couldn’t, wouldn’t force you to understand why silence was the only route I could go, just so I can stay a little bit longer, just so we can - eventually, hopefully - find our way back.

Why is it that the more we try to build and re-build, the more we collapse? The more we try to grasp on loose strings, the more we unravel.

Pinto Art Museum, 2015

But I never once thought that this eternal tiredness thriving between my skin and flesh, that the numerous cracks in my bones and spine could render me useless again - after I’ve tried so hard for them not to. 

Or maybe it’s just because those who prop me up are away, or maybe my body has found another way to dismiss myself and cage whatever progress I had. The borders I built around those I love are now crumbling down. Everything is crumbling down again, and again, and again. 

The borders are nothing but hollow, rotting wood now, ready to be consumed by the fire I vehemently kept away from it.  

To those I love: I’m exhausted, tired, and keen on moving away from everybody. My body needs to distance itself, my mind needs to row away from this, but I hope you can cast and pull me back. 

to the thunders that roar the familiar hum away,

always remember that the waves of long ago, differ from this hour's

no mind the heaviness of the brine or the depth of its trough

and as it swells again (always remember) and as it swells again, desperate, yearning (always remember) and as it swells again, desperate, yearning for light like a lost sailor