EXCELSIOR

New Substack essay is up!

Un piso propio (A Flat of One's Own--so obviously a Virginia Woolf reference): I talk about living alone in Spain for the first time, pre-grieving losing my first big girl apartment in a few weeks.

I aim to publish more on Substack (I'm weirdly so shy about being perceived, something I need to unlearn as a writer, lol) so expect a few more essays (also: life updates) that are not months apart.

First post on Substack is up! I talk about breakfast. You've probably, at one point, seen me and churros. We're kind of in love. I'm in a steady relationship with silog, though, but tostada is catching up...

Remember, you can subscribe to your email for free or pledge your support if you have the means. I write about life in Spain, food, and my usual prose. Of course, my Tumblr will remain active, but I would love if you could read my work from there, too.

See you soon! Cheers.

All the love,

It's my 9th anniversary on Tumblr 🥳 (since December 2014)

Almost a decade, wow! Excelsior by mariellewritesalot is a writing blog I started as a teenager to fully embrace the fact that I wanted to become a writer. I wanted my own "website" or at least a home for my words. "Excelsior" is my favorite word, and I was a bit obsessed with it back then, given that it meant going ever upward. "mariellewritesalot" was just something I thought of while watching cartoons where one of the characters had "a lot" attached to their name (I believe it was Sir Yipsalot). I could cringe, but honestly, I'm not too bothered enough to change it. Maybe it's part of its charm.

Suffice it to say, this has been my longest relationship so far, haha. We've had our ups and downs, terrible lulls of writer's block when I would be too busy with life or too paralyzed with fear that I'm not good enough to actually post something here.

I started writing early on because I was the kind of child who read everywhere and owned a Kindle since I was 12. I joined essay contests and wrote fan fiction until I was in the middle of my teenage years. I loved Total Girl Philippines, and eventually became a Jr. TG Staff Writer for one week in the summer of 2012. I won a Palanca when I was in senior high school. I dabbled, of course, in campus journalism for many years. Editor-in-Chief for some publications. I wrote news, features, opinions...even UAAP sports! I then created a Facebook page for my blog to expand my audience. I was fortunate enough to land a spot in UP Diliman where I took a certificate course on Malikhaing Pagsulat sa Filipino (loved working on my Filipino writing skills) and eventually, my Bachelor of Arts degree in Philippine Studies, where I also majored in History. I wrote my undergraduate thesis on Filipino food in Filipino-American restaurants based in the United States, guided by my love for Doreen Fernandez essays and curiosities about the diaspora; so I could also help these restaurants map out their histories. During the pandemic, I worked on a practice Young Adult novel called, Don't Write Me Off.

I started working freelance and interning for some publications like PhilStar Life and Esquire Philippines. I've been a part of college organizations in UP Diliman, where I honed my skills in leadership, writing, and research so that I may be able to do talks and workshops about writing in different schools and provinces in the Philippines. Last year, I became a Creative Nonfiction fellow for the 61st Silliman University National Writers Workshop, which has been a dream of mine since, well, I was in high school and deeply obsessed with 'the scene.' I got to belong with my chosen family in the fellows with whom I shared the once-in-a-lifetime experience in Dumaguete. We have since joined the Cebu Art Fair last year with our zine, Saudade: A Study on Longing, which features two of my works. As a collective, we're always collaborating on something. Watch this space!

Nowadays, I'm living somewhere in Spain, and I'm working on my first book. It's a collection. It's (too) vulnerable. I think you'll like it. I believe that I will probably be in pursuit of more knowledge and skills as a writer for the rest of my life, so despite my wanting to be a mysterious private person, I think you'll be hearing (reading?) a lot from me on various platforms. Hopefully.

While we're here, I have something new. Since we're losing Tinyletter next month, which was where I used to send out my newsletter of truly vulnerable, exclusive pieces, I have decided to "move houses" and finally join Substack. I'm going to talk about some facets of my life here in Spain, food, and the usual prose. Essentially, a lot of my stuff will be free to read there, but I would appreciate pledges if you can. I will still update my Tumblr from time to time, of course, seeing as this is my main site. No worries!

This year, I'm also going to work on creating an Instagram account for my writing. I have beautiful plans I can't wait to share with you. I'm hoping you'll come along for the ride.

Thank you, lovers, for this milestone.

Always,

Sometimes I still feel like a teenager in my twenties.

Except not really, because I turn 24 in a few days and I find myself in a small town in Sevilla, Spain with my own apartment just a 6-minute walk from the high school I'll be working in for a school year. I'm doing adult things, like going to the local bakery to order a cake for myself and two boxes of pastries to share with the faculty, paying my own bills, cooking all my meals, booking train tickets for the holidays, and reserving a table at a restaurant in full Spanish without panic. My real teenage self had different dreams fed to her by the innate trophy-daughter urge to please her parents: go to law school, find a nice Catholic boy to marry, and stay in the Philippines forever.

You might have seen it on social media, the teenage girl in her twenties meme. It's a revival of everything we've ever loved growing up as girls together. It's a nice thing, this reclamation of girlhood. An attempt to somehow heal our inner children and reminisce on the times when we were only imagining what it would be like to be an adult. The mythical womanhood. A real 13 going on 30 dilemma. I wish we weren't in such a rush to grow up, but that's the irony of it all. As a grown woman, I often wonder about the girl I was, because despite all this I know I will never be her again.

She was ambitious, naive, too nice, but also a little arrogant it intimidated a lot of people with whom she could have been really good friends. I try to think fondly of the girl I was, and I honor her by preserving some of her interests that will never really go away, even now. I remember every young adult series I was ever obsessed with, alongside the sitcoms with each season I had saved on my netbook. I used to make physical mix CDs and now I curate Spotify playlists. I still get a little excited when a One Direction song plays out of the blue. I hear an indie song from years ago, like now as I type this while Cigarette Daydreams by Cage the Elephant is playing, and wish I could hear it for the first time again. I see old Facebook posts made by teenage me and chuckle at her drama. I unironically consume the Twilight Saga media when I feel a little sad, no matter how cringy people make it out to be. I love pink, books, letters, and stickers. I know every High School Musical song by heart. I have a weirdly specific knowledge of R&B and Hip-hop songs inherited from my brothers. I pray the same prayer at night, the one taught by my parents when I still shared a bedroom with them until I was fifteen.

A little confession: sometimes, despite loving the fact that I am wildly independent, I still miss having my mother around; even if it means having the occasional petty fights. Along with the tiny resentments of never fully living up to the image in her head, failing some of the dreams she also had as a girl, and rejecting the projection. I'm the most stubborn person I know, but sometimes I wish I could crawl under her table at her old office as I did so many times before, and cry before taking that nap I so vehemently refused but always took.

I look at old photos of myself as a teen and wish I was kinder to that girl, so I could unlearn the mean things I think about myself on occasion. One night on a casual doomscroll on Twitter, I read something along the lines of us seeing different versions of ourselves over the years and yearning for those times, how we never fully appreciate the current version until they become another face in a photo from years ago. A memory you didn't know you'd create.

I think about the people I had in my life then: friends, mentors, crushes, classmates, crappy boyfriends (ugh), and want to forgive her for the poor life decisions. She was forgiving to a fault after all, but she still makes me so proud when I remember how she learned her boundaries and stuck with them in the most crucial moments. The ones who were meant to stay are still with me to this day, the others who left have also left their mark on this version of me now, in some way. Some people have already arrived and others I'm looking forward to meeting soon. The growing pains feel especially potent as I continue to learn that change is constant and that sometimes who or what I want isn't necessarily good for me. The universe makes it known too often; I have to learn it by heart at some point.

Ultimately, I'd like to think she'd be so proud of me. Maybe, I turned out better than she hoped. I could also be such a stranger to her, a disappointment; her preparation for the real world. I still have a lot of work to do before I'm the adult she would have trusted and aspired to be, but knowing I'm on that path makes me confident that I can handle my problems like a grown-up. Being in my early twenties is to straddle the line between too young and too old, wanting to always do the mature thing, but sometimes still feeling like I'm a kid playing the role of someone who has it together. I don't. I don't think anyone does, really, not even older adults I know with much more interesting stories and problems. I try not to control everything and let things be because sometimes it's the only thing to do. Plans do fail, but somehow, things always work out for the better.

When I think of that transition from being just a girl to an adult with actual consequences, I remember Rory Gilmore crying in front of her grandfather at the end of Gilmore girls season 5; when she realized that she was no longer the golden child she was, but a young adult that might not be good enough for all of her aspirations.

I think about such tender moments of my girlhood, all the times I was teased for being chubby or having curly, unruly hair that earned me nicknames like Lion King or Hagrid. The first time I ever wore eyeliner to a family Christmas party, an uncle commented with such disdain, thinking I was doing it for attention. I'm weirdly familiar with terms like "malandi" or its English variations, even when I was just being friendly. In my first high school relationship, people gossiped about how my then-boyfriend was only with me so he could get higher grades, not for my looks. I know how they talked about a relationship they knew nothing about, completely overlooking how much I was hurt by this boy they adored just because he played some sport. I remember being a teenager, learning what it means to be attracted to another person romantically, and having a relative tell my mom, "Marielle's so into boys, ano?" even when I was single at the time and didn't really care for anything but starting college. There were weird older men who were creeps, and yet somehow I was made out to be some kind of a mastermind that lured them in. I was just a girl.

The beauty and innocence of girlhood are also marred by these moments of misogyny, sadly looking like a rite of passage every girl I know has gone through--one way or another.

At 16, all the pain I felt then felt like the rest of my life. A few days shy of 24, I realize that some pains are just too great that they will always stay, faintly, but life is so ridiculously unpredictable that there is no way we'll live on without incredible moments to show for it.

I look back on the year I just had in disbelief because so much has happened, most of them completely unexpected while others were dreams I worked hard to make my reality. I finished my undergraduate thesis on Filipino food and restaurants in the Filipino-American diaspora and graduated Magna Cum Laude from UP Diliman. I was in love with someone who I thought fit me so perfectly and felt the full aftermath of that heartbreak, lamented the impossibility of long-distance relationships, and believed I'd never do better; only to discover more about myself in the next few months and move on to a more beautiful love I never thought possible. I got into the 61st Silliman University National Writers Workshop, on my first (and could have been last, because I didn't know then when I'd be back in the PH) try, and spent two magical weeks in Dumaguete learning more about writing with the most amazing group of writers I now consider another chosen family.

I also outgrew some close friends. I had to process this unworldly form of devastation by going through all the stages of grief a million times over. I've reflected on what I can do better to nurture my relationships, and grown more appreciative of the unconditional friendships I have that continue to withstand time. I kept learning Spanish for two years and moved to Spain to explore more opportunities. It's been one of the most interesting years of my life so far, the emotions rising and falling like waves that sometimes consumed me whole. I've been through so much in year 23 that I'm both thrilled and horrified for the big 24, a year away from my expected quarter-life crisis.

I've always loved birthdays, by the way, and maybe I'll move on from it the older I get. I always look forward to the sweet messages and spending time with my friends and family. I like welcoming another year as an opportunity for me to try and do better. For this year, though, I don't have solid plans. It's on a Monday and I have classes to teach until 2:30pm. I reserved a cake with flowers all around it and a dedication written in Spanish, something the lady at the bakery wrote for me. I might take a few pictures with my film camera, invite some work colleagues for drinks, and cook Filipino spaghetti the way my mom does it. Maybe I'll call her, think of the ending to the movie, Lady Bird (2017). I could take the bus to the city center or enjoy a nice dinner alone with my Kindle. I might take calls from my friends and cry over their messages, miss everyone a little deeper.

I'll never be the girl I was, but she's still inside me somewhere. There's comfort in the growth. How to Say Goodbye by Paul Tiernan is playing through my laptop speakers. Someday, I'll look back to this time and remember what it felt like to anticipate my 24th birthday in Spain: a little lonely, slightly thrilling, and inevitably different.

Reposting from The Silliman University National Writers Workshop's Facebook page:

𝗠𝗘𝗘𝗧 𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗙𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗪 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗙𝗜𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡:

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀 𝐁. 𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐙𝐎𝐍 is a writer and children’s rights advocate graduating in 2023 with a BA Philippine Studies degree from the University of the Philippines-Diliman, where she also obtained a certificate for Malikhaing Pagsulat sa Filipino in 2020. She has by-lines in publications such as Esquire Philippines, PhilStar Life, Youngblood of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, Mega magazine, among others. In 2017, she won her first Carlos Palanca Award for Literature in the Kabataan Essay English category. Aside from fostering her work through campus journalism since high school, she started writing poetry and prose online in 2014 through her blog, mariellewritesalot. Currently, she is studying Spanish at Instituto Cervantes de Manila.

The 61st season of the oldest creative writing workshop in Asia will be held on June 26 to July 7, 2023 in Silliman University, Dumaguete City.

Marielle Fatima B. Tuazon

There are so many ways to kill time.

I could write this poem and refuse to sleep, adding three to each hour I stay awake. I could meet up with you in my dreams where we have every intention to speak but don't, where we are miraculously in the same place at once. I could walk as far as I could every day with music blasting in my ears, thinking, how many days will it take until I reach 6291 kilometers? If I could somehow keep your weight off me. If I could take up the same space in your head. I could live in a routine you'd hope for me. I could travel to all the islands in the Philippines, be in close proximity to the water you love; be everywhere but there. I could go on airline websites and check fares but never book anything. I could live in our perfect July. Our perfect December. I could live an entire life you'd never hear about but check in on in silence once in a while. I could live in any of those alternate universes we talked about, where we find each other in each one; isn't that beautiful? I could live in another country of my dreams, the one you told me where Mundaka is in Basque Country, the one where a room for you waits in Madrid, with a plaza for us to meet in Sevilla. I could imagine every scenario, even the bad ones, and feel fine. Maybe. I would never know. I could visit every church and knock three times for a wish. I could pray for you every day like a never-ending novena. I could look at 4 on the calendar every month and ache. I could rewrite postcards in my head. I could pick up the phone and not call. I could live pretending I don't know you, even if I would recognize you anywhere like a mirror before me. I could wake up one day and be a complete stranger, kiss men, keep them at arm's length. I could wake up one day and decide to be a nun if no one ever came close. I could elope with someone else and always wonder. I could write to the point of permanence. I could go back to the time you said, "You're the only person I talk to in the way that I talk to you." I could go back to the time my friend showed me a video of Olivia Gatwood's spoken word performance, the one with the sublime ending, "I have so much beautiful time." I could pretend not to love you. I could carry your heart, like e.e. cummings scrawled on the back of our receipt. I could move forward. I could forget you ever happened. I could get lost. I could find a way back home.

Red hair. Sense of adventure. The headstrong urge to move away from home. The romantic girlie determination. The name that rolls off your tongue with the L sound at the end...the only difference is @hallebailey will give you goosebumps when you hear her sing Part of Your World, while staying at home with me for the past few days after seeing this film will annoy you into getting the song stuck in your head because I've been singing it randomly (and badly).  Prince Eric (@jonahhauerking) is also SO gorgeous, you can't miss watching him all shy in Kiss the Girl.  

Arcade Fire said it first, “Afterlife, oh my god, what an awful word.”

@taylorswift​ also asked the important question: “And if I’m dead to you why are you at the wake?” 

Finally, Paul Guest in his poem, "1987": Some nights I wake and everything hurts a little. It is amazing how long a ruined thing will burn.

-

Happy to announce that I will be one of the creative nonfiction fellows of the 61st Silliman University National Writers Workshop this year, June 26 to July 7 at Silliman University, Dumaguete City! 💛 Submitted my manuscript in January, around the time I was also finalizing the edits for my undergraduate thesis in UP Diliman. I had low expectations of getting in, hence, I only informed my mentors, two of my friends, and my mother of my decision to try out. Stoked that the efforts paid off and eternally grateful for the people who helped me attain this personal goal in writing. Muchas gracias!

(Boungainvillea at someone’s house I found breathtaking)

I’ve been on my feet a lot since you left.

The first few days, I started wandering around the neighborhood I grew up in, admiring the way the sky changed color as the sun came down. I think about how I’ve lived here for 23 years, and I’m about to move away soon without truly knowing the place. I would pause to take photos of plants I found interesting, take mental notes of houses with designs that made me wish I lived in them---or at the very least, be capable of creating something that aspired permanence. I soon found out that the one plant that grew like vines in my camera roll was called Bougainvillea, often big and pink with the sunlight peeking through its leaves. The perfect contrast to the sky blue and white. I looked up a lot, comforted by the idea that we are smaller than we think we are, in the grand scheme of things. I listened to folklore and evermore by Taylor Swift on these walks. I felt heavy, like I carried around rocks in my pockets. If I was in the water as often as you are, I would sink.

I think of Taylor singing, “If my wishes came true, it would have been you,” I reject the idea of pining, the concept of missing someone who was never there. 

The ground is always there for me. It’s solid, it makes me feel real. I could go through bumps or roads that could use fixing, but at least I know of its consistency. After a loss, we all cling onto something constant to keep ourselves grounded. I might have taken it too literally. 

I started running a little bit after those first few days of just walking. So much so that two of my old rubber shoes broke down, an indication that I’ve been moving around a lot more than I was and I didn’t wear them enough back then that they just gave up. My parents, not alarmed at all about this old/new hobby, got me a new pair. New Balance. I’ve been using it almost every day. I would go for 10,000 steps or more, obsessed with the numbers on my step tracker, and always wanting to one-up myself. I wear my black puffer jacket and a headband, my shockingly pink Aquaflask in hand. I went from walking for thirty minutes until sundown, running in the dark after five, to a person who goes for a walk and then runs 3km-5km all before eight in the morning. I went to the beat up track and field oval near my house so much that the guards recognize me every morning, and we greet each other like friends. Sometimes I arrived as I normally do, and the oval would be closed for an event or two for a few days. At one point, they got my number so they could let me know, and I could ask them if I needed to. Even when I miss a couple of days, I find myself still coming back.

I discovered other pains, like chafing and muscle aches. I have a little jar of petroleum jelly, now as important to me as sunscreen. By the end of February, my hair was back to copper. I got a job. I learned to ride jeepneys again. I breathe a lot better. I wake up around six in the morning unprompted.

(El Cato! Sleeping on the grass!)

A middle-aged woman named Rebecca complimented me one morning, noticing that I’ve been around, and that in her eyes I lost weight. We briefly say hi to each other when we’re there at the same time now. At one point, for fun, I joined the regular morning Zumba before I ran around the oval because an old man from that community invited me to try it. I befriended a cat, let my Instagram followers name it “El Cato,” and even after finding out she was a girl, stuck to the bit. I used to be afraid of touching cats in fear of getting scratched. Now we take photos and I speak Spanish to her. I’m relieved whenever I see her sleeping on the grass, and worried when she’s nowhere to be seen. I try and take the feeling of missing you and putting it towards her, a worthy opponent for my affection.

One morning, my friend Mon joined me for a jog around the academic oval in UP, and we’ve started looking into doing this at least once a week. In these runs with him, I forgo my earphones. We talk the entire time, even when the jog sometimes leaves me out of breath, and he matches my pace when I go slow. We pass my water bottle back and forth. We sit at Sunken Garden and eat taho, I told him I will miss that sweet soy and tapioca with syrup delight the most when I move to Spain in September. I get my stuff from Ate Beth and we buy kiosk snacks from her, usually kwek kwek and cheese sticks. Some days, I join him and his girlfriend, Gia, for lunch. 

On my runs alone, I listen to music and internalize everything I feel. I think about the life I’ll live in Spain, and the one I’m living now in the Philippines where I try to be as present as possible because it’s also the only one I know. On runs with a friend, I learn to verbalize these without dissolving into a puddle of tears. I admit to things I don’t want to believe. I worry out loud about the vast future, the one I’ve been working towards--so near that it terrifies me. Truth be told, a lot of things have been going well for me. I’ve been moving forward, as I should. Like I promised you, because really, what else is there left to do?

(A beautiful pink sky at the oval I jog in)

When I think about admitting to you on the last time we spoke that I think I was in love with you, I sometimes wish I never said anything that vulnerable it makes me want to throw up. I hate that you knew me like that. I hate that I could never hate you. I hate that it was true and I can no longer take it back. It makes me think of Rory Gilmore in Season 3 of Gilmore girls, receiving that silent phone call during her graduation from Chilton with Jess Mariano on the other line, where she tearfully admits, “I think I may have loved you, but I just need to let it go. So, that’s it, I guess. I hope you’re good, I want you to be good.”

Sometimes I run until I feel like if I don’t stop, I’ll cough my lungs out. In one of those articles I found on the internet, I read that sometimes it helps to not listen to music during my time with nature. To be mindful, I need to be present. I focus on my breath, the feeling of sweat rolling down from my forehead, and the noise around me. I look up a lot. The Acacia trees around the oval at UP are so beautiful it hurts. There are days when I wish I could have taken you there, when I wish we had more time. Sometimes I feel like you’re the only person who would get it, whatever it was I wanted to talk about.

On other days, I’m relieved that we’re an ocean apart. It’s like that Michael Ondaatje quote from The English Patient, “Half my days I cannot bear not to touch you. The rest of my time I feel like it doesn’t matter if I will ever see you again. It isn’t the morality, it’s how much you can bear.”

Nowadays, if I can walk to a place, I walk. Three kilometers is beginning to feel too easy. The heat is unbearable in the summer, though. Sometimes, my left shin starts hurting, and I have to shake my leg out--only slightly paranoid that I pulled a muscle. When I’m at the gym, I do the 3-12-30 method on the treadmill, which is essentially walking uphill at 12 incline and the speed on 3 for 30 minutes before or after weights. I still do yoga, though not as consistently as I’d like. From exclusively listening to sad songs, I’ve been listening to songs that make me feel good. I resist the urge to dance around or sing out loud when I take the jeep so I could make it to work in time. I go out on Friday nights, for a drink or dinner, and maybe soon, a date. I imagine you’d laugh, in a way that isn’t cruel, but in that way where it’s like a private joke between us.

(Clouds in one of my late afternoon walks)

So, no, I am not sitting around at home feeling sorry for myself. I’ve been through heartbreak so many times that I know how to care for myself the way I need to be taken care of. I make it a point to always bounce back. On our accidental first date, we asked each other: “For what in your life do you feel most grateful?” You smiled at me when I said, “My grit. Before, if something didn’t work out or a guy broke my heart, I would be inconsolable--”

“Inconsolable?!” You repeated teasingly.

I laughed, “Yeah! But now I just know that it’s going to work out for me, anyway. God has a better plan, something like that. I just try to be better.”

I swear I’m trying so hard. We were playing 36 Questions. We only got until the 15th question because we were talking so much. The next set of questions, we played the last time we saw each other. Maybe we shouldn’t have played it, knowing how much it revealed to us that night, but I couldn’t resist getting to know you. You couldn’t resist it either, that pull. No matter how much we insist that we don’t know each other that well, one thing I’m sure of is that no two people have connected as easily as we have. At least there is that.

So I’ll keep walking. I’ll run harder if I have to. I’ll drive myself crazy keeping track of the steps I take every day. I’ll keep counting down the days, feel a little ache every time it’s the fourth of every month. I’ll move to a continent where the time zone is eight hours behind yours as opposed to just three. I’ll keep praying for you. I’ll keep telling myself, “Know it’s for the better,” like Phoebe Bridgers sang in Waiting Room, when I feel like it never will be. I’ll wonder if we could truly ever be just friends, in the purest sense of the word, if we could ever forget how it felt. I’ll wonder if I would ever see you again. 

Most mornings I wake up to the sound of my alarm and then fall asleep after half an hour before I respond to messages. I say good morning and I mean it. Today, I wrote a poem on my phone while it plays the song I woke up with in my head. The next few mornings, I’ll miss the shit out of you, possibly.

And that’s okay. As it should be.