Work it out!

I finally started doing some writing today and organizing things in my room. This is such a very big deal to me because it will give me back the feeling that I am in control and so that I will not feel being lost anymore.  I hope this will bring back my momentum. I hope I don't get easily distracted but should instead work until it hardens into a habit.
I need to get some pleasure in doing this so that I keep coming back for more.

Dancing at Dusk at Makati Circuit

How to get to the National Museum

Sunset by the Bridge

Pam and I were on our way to Binondo that day--and were we on a jeepney or a taxi? I could no longer remember very clearly--when I pointed out to Pam this amazing sight as we were passing by the bridge. Suddenly, in a split of a second, Pam went haywire and immediately, I understood the urgency of our impulse. I  went haywire, too.
As if we were in panic, we told the driver to stop and as soon as our feet touched the ground, both of us ran to the edge of the bridge and went crazy snapping photos as soon as we got there, oblivious of all the rushing traffic, which I knew was dangerous.  I remember feeling the bridge shake and ramble every time a heavy truck or even a speeding car passed us by and there were just so many of them, passing us by. I feared that I would drop my camera and lost it forever but I continued snapping photos and did not stop.
I was also in constant fear of falling down--because Jones Bridge was a strange and unfamiliar bridge to me;  its height an unfamiliar height; its location, an unfamiliar place. I just arrived in the capital city that week and I still had to get to know the place and its madness, but there I was, beside Pam, and both of us sucked into that most pleasurable madness, both madwomen in our own right!

An afternoon at the Yuchenko Museum

Where I looked at the portrait of Jose Rizal painted by Felix Hidalgo, read the love letters of Leonor Rivera and was saddened to learn about their heartrending love story; contemplated upon some paintings by the masters Juan Luna, Ang Kiukok, Amorsolo and the contemporary exhibit of someone who appeared to be in a breakdown but had such an amazing art. (I'll tell you more about this later).

A chat with Lorrie

Going home to B'la

My Oregano survived!

Over the weekend, Ja was becoming restless and insisted that we went home to B'la to see the impact of the quake on the abandoned house. We saw cracks on the wall and decided it would no longer be safe if another strong quake struck. Water from the last rain had flooded the backyard and drowned most of the plants with mud but I was grateful that my Oregano under the care of Titing had survived!

Swinging back!

I have to put it on record that I've finally cleaned my room today. I have begun sorting my things out and putting them in order. This is for me such a great achievement, considering how crazy and stressful my schedules (and my struggles) had been in the last nine months. Now that 2019 is about to end, I have decided to take things really easy, to just take one step at a time, to not strain myself too much; to not demand too much of myself, to just be good and forgiving to myself.
Things that make me smile: my peppermint and rosemary have been doing well. I've cleaned the refrigerator and now, I'm eating figs bought from Majid's Kabab while reading Karl Ove Knausgaard's My Struggle, volume 3 alone in my room!

On our way to Dumaguete

We missed the fast craft and so, we were pressed to
take the Cokaliong boat which leaves Cebu city at 12 pm.

Roommate

They would always look for proofs and so, I would deliver these from the ceiling.  They would also ask for testimonies and in that case, I would bring them Carol dela Cruz who used to live in a room next to mine, who got fired by the call center where she worked so, she was spending long hours at the dorm watching TV at our common dining hall. Sometimes, I'd find her there, designing and stitching a gown for one of the roommates who was expecting a party with her Boss. I never knew she could sew but she said she can, her mother was a seamstress, she was born with a needle in her mouth and she grew up designing gowns and dresses. 
In fact, she was able to come up with a gown, using only her bare hands.  She didn't have a sewing machine at the dorm; no one was allowed to.  Even the volume of our clothes and other belongings was closely monitored by Big Brother. She had a boyfriend who flattered her exceedingly on her cell phone. Other people did not like her because sometimes she nagged the guard to change the container of the water dispenser, acting like a mayordoma of the place. The water dispenser already ran out of water (we were not allowed to change these, ourselves), so she scolded the guard, who was always sleepless and overworked and that was how she pissed off the rest of the roommates.
But when I was about to go to the airport, I dropped a hint that it would be perfect for her to accompany me. She was aware that I had been packing for days. That I never had enough sleep, that I never had breakfast nor lunch that day and that my flight was at 3 pm. That I was too tired from all the packing; that  I ended up throwing away my things because they would no longer fit into my luggage.  That I would have wanted to bring along my tumbler and my reading lamp and my mug as a souvenir of my stay at the place but still, I ended up throwing them because they wouldn't fit my luggage. I just made it a point never to throw away the books that I'd accumulated from my almost-two-year stay there and so, I sent them by courier.  The LBC girl who was so snotty and strict the previous day noticed that I kept coming back for more books to send, saw the haggard look on my face and suddenly turned gentle and helpful.
But I was simply too tired and too stressed out to go to the airport, I felt I would collapse.  "How about if you'd go with me? Just take a little stroll?" I asked Carol. "But I don't have any money for fare," she said. "Don't worry about that, I'd shoulder it," I said. That fired up her imagination and she said, "Okay, I just want to take a look at the airport."
She was a really heaven sent on our way to the airport. I swore I could never have lifted my heavy luggages, there were just too many of them, without her. I wouldn't have been able to negotiate with the people to carry our luggages down the dorm to the Grab taxi, I wouldn't have been able to spot the Grab, she was really a perfect Doña Carolina, everybody obeyed her; she was perfect for the role.  I was already crushing under the weight of my emotions but she was the one who brought us both to the nearest McDo at the airport to grab a bite. She even brought me to the chapel while I tried so hard to keep awake.

Old Photograph

Pa was still alive when I took this picture.  He was already stricken, though. I went off to take photos of the landscape during the height of the El Niño and ended up taking photos of my shadow.

Curious Life

This was a portrait of my life on May 27, 2018, the exact date this image was taken.  I lived here for almost a year even if I never really wanted to go to this particular city because I never knew what to expect here. But somebody said I had to come here to get a job because there was no job opening in the place where I lived. So, I tried to make do with myself here.  I never knew I could survive months in this tiny space with just a reading lamp, books and my cellular phone to keep me company--but I did!  (Well, of course, I only lie down here after work; so, that's not exactly accurate.  I only had a few hours to lie down in this tiny space every day). 
Now, when I look back to my life here, I remember all the New Yorker magazines that I've read, all the podcasts that I listened to, the Toni Morrisons and those folded The New York Times on my cluttered bed? Yes, it was such a rich reading life (though, I felt so detached, headless, without my boys).
And minus what I've been going through at my workplace, this tiny space actually brings me good memories, good vibes when I think about it now.  
But at my workplace, it was different. I'm writing that experience, though, because what use would that experience be if I couldn't mine it for a story?

Crystal Memories

In one of my forays to the Legazpi Sunday Market, I once met the Crystal Woman.  She was tall and her rather blonde hair was loosely tied in a bun, some unruly strands falling on her face. She was wearing a faded blue cotton shirt; or, this might just be the way I remember her, I'm not really sure now.
Then, she talked about what she had in her hands in a loving, animated way, that everything around her seemed to dissolve and fade away.  I've been to other crystal shops before--including that one at the Makati Square or another more expensive one somewhere in Binondo--but because I really did not know much about crystals, their rugged edges and abnormal shapes, their shimmering colors and most of all, their staggering prices almost always intimidated me. How could I know the stones they purport to sell are real ones and not synthetically made? I stayed away because I can't keep my eyes off the price tags and I can't trust the voices that I hear.

But here I was, one Sunday morning in the mid of a leisurely crowd of condo dwellers, drawn to this towering Crystal Woman whose explanations were so down-to-earth, I can't help but gasp.  She had asked me if some of those crystals communicated to me, if I can feel their particular pull, I said I was drawn by the ones that were so clear and long but more expensive.  In a moment, I could sense her wanting to give those particular crystals to me. This perception lasted a minute and then, I could feel her going over me, trying to fathom if I was telling the truth about what I felt about her crystals. 
Then, she started talking about the Herkimer and it didn't take long for me to get convinced. "It's so small and yet, so powerful!" she said, putting such a tiny sparkling piece on her palm. "Don't ever underestimate the power of this small crystal!" 

When she handed it to me, she took a bell to cleanse it.  A bell to cleanse a crystal! This really blew me off.  She placed the crystal in the middle of my palm and sounded a bell to cleanse it. Really, it had that cleansing sound.  I could swear it cleansed my soul as well.
[Curiously now, I can't remember ever seeing the the shape of the bell. All I can remember was its sound--and what a cleansing sound!] 

The crystal had stayed with me through thick and thin inside the newsroom.  When I used to get close to an obnoxious energy, I would place the crystal on my palm or in my pocket and the obnoxious energy became bearable.  The crystal worked in a very subtle way.  It worked in the in-between of things so that you could not really claim without a doubt that what you perceived was its work was actually its work. But it worked the way it did with the obnoxious thing (or person) and you begin to wonder why. 

I can't forget my first encounter with the Crystal Woman. Somehow, it changed me somewhere. She made me perceive things in a different light.  She made me think of the energy I encounter and to make good use of energy. She still stayed in my mind somehow.  Sometimes, when I think of Legazpi, I would think of her.  I also think of bumping into her one of these days and when the comes, to talk to her, soul-to-soul.
That day I talked to her, I saw the worried glance on her staff's face when she began explaining things to me.  The staff tried to interpret her sentences, thinking I wouldn't understand her language. But her language transcended human speech and so, when the staff saw that I was entering her world, she slowly retreated away, leaving me and the Crystal Woman alone.
Now, I'm saying this as if there was only me and the Crystal Woman in the whole Legazpi market that Sunday.  Of course, there were lots of other people. One of the listeners, a man with a strong, commanding voice, flaunted his knowledge about crystals, trying to impress her.  This somehow turned her off.
She said she was giving yoga lessons somewhere in Batangas but she said she was getting too busy taking care of her daughter to continue those lessons.  She said she was calling off those lessons soon. I wouldn't be able to attend those lessons, anyway.  I had a hard time going out of Makati on weekdays.  

But her crystal had stayed with me until it got lost one day in our foray with Ja to Samal Island.  The date that it got lost seemed to be a reminder to me about the things that I've forgotten.  [O, crystal, can you just speak to me in a more straightforward manner, please?]
When it got lost, I was so upset that I kept sending it a distressed message. Then, somehow, it shot back its crystal clear message to me: rest now, everything would be okay. 
Thank you, crystal, wherever you are, rescue me when things get so murky here! 

The politics of the ugly

Mother always taught me to see only the beautiful and ignore the ugly.  I was always in trouble with her. It was not really that I had the talent for seeing ugly things--for that is something that I would develop a taste of much, much later.  But early in life, I'd been made aware of the politics of the ugly. "Ugly girl," Father, rest his soul, used to tell me over the dinner table when he was angry and ill-tempered, which he always was when I was a girl. Your own father telling you that. The feeling stayed with me until I grew up and  I had to tell my boy one day at breakfast: "I grew up believing I was an ugly duckling only to catch my reflection on the mirror and discover I was  a swan!"
That startled everyone in the family.
Later, I discovered it was the in-thing to be ugly.  Still, I could not yet bring myself to do it the way that my boy would scrunch his face, distort it before the camera, revealing things inside out.  Will  that make him automatically an artist? Making a canvas out of his own face? 

It merely made me more aware of how much of my own Mother's creature I had become. Was this also the reason I was junked at about the same age she was cheated, betrayed by friends, fellow teachers? corrupted supervisors?

She always gave us the English equivalent of things, although the Cebuano ones had more texture, more color.  Why would I call kamungggay horse radish? Why would I call nangka jackfruit? kaimito, starapple, ampalaya, bitter gourd? My first writing composition, which had to be done in English, did not include the mud that got stuck and dried flaking on the carabao's back, or those that had caked around my shoes--I never had shoes at this point, she only bought me sandals! Mud wouldn't get itself into my writing composition because it was simply dirty, messy, and way below Mother's eyes. She always wanted things to be dainty, like the round white crocheted doilies she put on the table top or the settee. With Mother, I had learned to clean up;  though, her things around the house were always so messy. She never had the time to fix them.

Now, as my adulthood deepens and I've been going through lots of pain and disorientation, I would consciously study the ugly. I would stare at it in the eye and I would not flinch. I should be the one to strip it naked, to describe it inside out. I should be the first to explore its underbelly.  Speaking the ugly truth, this should be my project.

I'm almost back!

A mandala clock I saw at the Art Hunt during the 2019 Kadayawan

Prateeh has moved to Chiang Mai while I got stuck where I am. Of course, that's because she has the courage to jump off the cliff while I stood frozen, staring at the abyss.  Maybe, it might not even be an abyss I was staring at--who knows it could be paradise?! Only that it's too dark out there, I could not see a thing. But what did I say to Badette (Bernadette) before when she was about to go, and just like me right now, was assailed by so many doubts?
I told her, whatever you do, Badette, just follow your heart because it will lead you to the right decision. During the times when you make big decisions and you could not yet see what's far ahead of you, just close your eyes, quiet your mind, and follow what ever it is that your heart asks you to do.  Your heart, not your mind, will lead you to the right path.
Where did I learn this? Since when did I ever start blurting out things from the mystics?
I spent the whole day yesterday in an activity that only reminded me where I am in the scheme of things. Yes, I'm not yet back. I'm trapped. I can't even summon myself to follow what I told Badette. I couldn't even follow Prateeh. I'm not yet completely back. I'm still hovering over some hazy corner of the horizon, watching some YouTube vloggers leading such simple, carefree lives that I don't have.

There are some things that I missed

I am surprised to discover that I only posted five blogs for the entire year last year.  I failed to mark the coming of the new year and the going away of the old because I'd been working nonstop since July 2018, and the workload never allowed me to breathe all through the year. At Christmas and the New Year, I was simply too tired to celebrate. I even remember battling with sickness while I was doing the usual work overload.  My memory comes in fragments now because of fatigue. 
Since I arrived here in July last year, my days have been bleeding into each other,  the nights becoming days and nights into days, I could no longer tell one from the other.  At times--and it's because I edit the stories fast before they go out to the world as news, I oftentimes get the feeling that the headlines are stale when I see them in the morning. I get the feeling that they happen the other day or the day before that, instead of just yesterday. 
Sometimes an excruciating pain shoots up from my back somewhere and I begin to be afraid of things that I don't understand about spines and lumbar column or whatever they are called. I want to read and learn more about them but the breaking stories keep me occupied. The breaking news, they get in the way of everything I do. They even awaken me from sleep in the middle of the night. I long for simple things--like reading a good book at a leisurely pace in the middle of the garden or eating pizza with my boys at a table near a big window. 
The other day, I got a message from Prateeh but I was too busy when it arrived, I can't even put a finger on the goddamn phone. When I replied, Prateeh must have already gone too far away to even see it. I want to sit down and read a book without anyone disrupting me. The thing that I loved most working in Makati was reading The NewYorker everyday and listening to the Fiction podcast until I drowse off to sleep.  Now all I hear in the morning is the sound of gunfire.

What am I supposed to do?

So, am I supposed to tell you my life has become too laid back now? My life? What life? I don't even have a life. If I had, why can't I rest even just for a day and read Fiction? Am I complaining? During times like these, I used to turn to God. But now that my Pa has left, I always turn to him in my thoughts. Where am I going, Pa? Do you think this is the right path to happiness? What were you thinking before, Pa, did you think I was happy? But did you ever think about your daughters, Pa? Why can't I just give up everything and retire under an old Red or White Lauan, one of those which survived the logging era but fast being threatened by thieves and robbers? (This is a picture of our Maranao friend looking at Lake Lanao during our visit to Marawi in 2014, at least three years before the dreadful siege that reduced the beautiful city into rubble.)