#cicadacries

Albums to listen to:

Freight Train and Other North Carolina Folk Songs and Tunes by Elizabeth Cotten

Crying Laughing Loving Lying by Labbi Siffre

Today is my Lola's birthday. She's 87 years old and still surrounded by her dearest friends at the long table on her front porch. They've been together since her time as a professional teacher at an elementary school. A lot of them are as old as her. And a bunch of them make my Lola laugh a lot still. One of her favorite friends is in a wheelchair but she's still able to stretch her arms and reach heaven. I, on the meantime, am seated at our dining table typing a short Tumblr post as an attempt to resuscitate this feeble skill of mine. I am terrified that I had lost it. But the waves of the sea brought it back for me. For the longest time, I have been drifting on top of the ocean - the sunlight zone - whichever is the layer that allows a small leaf to float atop. Every wave was a push to the shore. Every wave, a rinsing of my skin.

Last May 1 to 2, I was with my whole family - yes, my whole nuclear family - from my ate to my niece we were complete, surprisingly. To even out the luggage carrying cars and resist sorts of tension that may bubble up inside the car (as I think it could have), we had different cars on the way to the hotel located somewhere near San Juan. I volunteered to ride with my kuya and ate-in-law because my niece was with them. I would spare you the details because I did mention this to be short, but we were able to mingle with one of the business locals staying in Little Cangu. She was a lady in her mid-50s (maybe) with salt and pepper hair in a bun and micro-bangs. Based on the way she dressed - tight cotton backless tie-arounds and shorts shorter than my skirt - she "immersed" herself in the arts. The business - i mean, art business of course - particularly catered to wealthier people though. Behind her was a row of reworked "authentic" clothes deconstructed and stitched back together; dyed with added fringes to betray the original boring cotton shirts she swore was their old life. I wanted one of them. It was a Jimmy Hendrix camo shirt with pink fringes at the back. Would it have fit me? Absolutely. It's oversized!

Anyways, back to mentions of the sea and metaphors of change. I bought a pearl necklace for P300 pesos from the shore-vendor that took our family photos. The pearl necklace will serve as a reminder for me. An ephemeral one I am sure.

But what sort of reminder? To write a manifesto of some sorts. An archive of my philosophy. A plan for a kingdom of my thoughts. I have to write it down somewhere and cease the existence of a graveyard of my mind. I am very thankful for the trip.

It was a calm night during our stay in La Union. There were no late-night parties because my siblings have grown out of it. No late-night excursions to fancy restaurants because my parents don't have the budget for it. It was just my family and I taking turns dissing each other's mannerisms and talking about potentially cancerous moles we may have hidden from my medical student sister.

Vigan was another story. It reminded me of my purpose and cemented my need for a manifesto. For now, I will look at the trees and stay for their touch. The pearls of the ocean will feel my game from a thousand miles away.

Your fish,

just for now, i am inside my childhood bedroom. stripes painted lovingly with hands that may have seen the future... maybe! could they see me sat underneath the sun and its peeling sky? could they see the pile of books, decades worth of words scattered like leaves? do they see an angel taller than them or the one with pigtails running across the cold brick floor?

my mind's been all over the place. i see people get killed by bombs on my timeline every second and i feel so fucking helpless. i don't know what to do to help them besides posting about it! and i'm trying to pray for them too although i don't believe god exists in a world like this anymore.

speaking of god not existing, sometimes i think the prophets and the saints and mother mary were all delusional yet kind human beings. they were afraid of the world– saw it for what it was and resorted to hallucinations for comfort. wah.

you kill yourself obviously! at least for a couple of days, enough for you to hear that slow cacophony of eulogies, trying your best to glance at their body language, wondering if they're telling the truth or if their eyes glare when they hear another quote from the internet. ultimately, kill yourself! i mean! what happens if love Isn't enough to save you when it's been the world's antidote for everything. the world's most beloved placebo. the world's cure.

you try to turn to hope most likely– another deadly medicine. i suggest you don't. i suggest, for the time being, that you stay rooted 6 ft. under the ground. you absorb the poison capitalist monkeys have been injecting in our land. you absorb the cold nutrients the dead flowers give. you bathe in the bones of our beloved dogs and cats and humans. you listen to the marching of the ants, the jumping of the fungi, the worms looking for you.

it's easy to look for you. you have a grief's worth of love seeping from your pores. from every orifice. tangy, bitter, powerful. they are gonna love you. they are gonna rejoice! they have seen the sun again.

unless i guess, when you feel the bite. and the worm gives you the deadliest reality– that you are going to die with love. you are going to leave the earth with it. you, are in itself, a cocoon filled with placebo. and you will crack the seeds. and you will bathe the trees. and you will become part of every human being.

isn't that beautiful. but you don't want to be beautiful anymore do ya. so you scream, and the people unbury you, and the worms become sad, and the flowers die cold and the poison will never meet its match.