Growing a penis

You should have seen me the other day, my first day as a Blue Collar. I climbed the construction ladder and installed the cork screw somewhere near the rooftop. I didn't even know if that was called a cork screw or a hook screw, I have to ask Ja again. Ja has become my capatas. I elected him to that post because I said I had to learn to do things right before it was too late. 

He was a bit wary because he knew me as quite rebellious and unruly, someone "too argumentative," he doubted if I could even follow a simple instruction. But I told him my secret. I said I wanted to be a man doing some real manly job. I was already sick and tired of being a woman, I was totally done with it, I said. I even dragged him to the Ace Hardware to buy that ladder, the kind I saw being used by construction workers. It cost P2,999.95 and I told him it would be an investment for the future. He stared at me. To prove to him that I was serious, I even tried the ladder myself. I took off my shoes and asked the sales staff if I could climb it to see if I won't fall. I did not tell them that I had fear of heights. I climbed fast and made it straight to the sixth step, where I suddenly felt my chest tighten, my breath shortening. I could feel some tingling somewhere in my legs and my hands would have begun to shake and lost its grip but I tried to calm my hands down. I said, take it easy hands, you are the ones holding on to the ladder.

I managed to climb down and we began to ask if the ladder was too heavy to carry. They took the ones still wrapped in plastics and handed it to us. It was very light. You could just tie a red ribbon around it and gift it to me on Mother's Day. Karl should have handed it to me [instead of the chocolates he hurriedly bought from Seven Eleven], saying, Happy Mother's Day, Ma! I would have been so happy!

But the ladder cost that much. When I was about to pay, Ja again gave me that look. He dragged me outside the store and told me he would just borrow one from the staff of the hotel. 

So, early morning the following day, he brought in the borrowed construction ladder, already weather-beaten and well-used, with splotches of paint all over it. 

The whole morning, I was installing hook screws on the beam near the roof of the apartment terrace. It was quite a balancing act, another skill to master. When I was up there on its uppermost rung, I can't just move any way I wanted to because it was very easy to lose your balance.  Ja said he never expected me to be a good worker. He said I could follow instruction well and learned very fast. He said I would really thrive as a Blue Collar. Maybe, one day, I may even grow a penis.

I also installed lightbulbs on the ceiling--and all while the electric switches were on. We did not know whether the switches were off or on, so I told Ja it was better to pull down the plank because it was safer. But he would not do that. It was too much a bother for him to cut all electricity in the house, even for just a few minutes while I installed the bulbs. So, I would still be turning the bulb with my hands to install it in its socket when suddenly, it would light up. That's when we knew the switch was on. Every time that happens--lights lighting up the bulb I was holding in my hands, I would panic. The same feeling I get when it was already past deadline and the Manila desk was already asking for the story, but the story was nowhere to be found because of some missing crucial details that I still had to extract from sources who would not even answer the phone. That's the way it felt.

You should have seen me climb the ladder. It was a real milestone for me, a real social climb. We've already returned it when I realised I should have taken photo of me in it. I should have taken a real Selfie. 

But now, I'm at my desk, forcing myself to write. I can't write.

What my desk looked like in November

 

My desk during the pandemic

 

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.

Missing Files

There's a full moon outside.  I went home, excited to open the new USB that Ja just mailed from Davao, thinking I'd finally find the missing journals that I thought would make my life complete.  But just as I suspected, Ja got it wrong again. I was looking for the 2015 and 2016 journals which have been missing in my collection of files which started back in 2008. So, I asked him to do the impossible thing of having my old USB cleaned by a technician.  It did not take very long for him to do that.  He soon texted me saying all my files, including my journals, were safe inside. I discovered, though, that all that the flash disk drive contained were useless files.  The drive only contained all my attempted projects for Adobe Premiere that would no longer open because their photos have been moved somewhere else. Suddenly, I  felt very tired. I opened my old photo files and found that even the photos can make a journal. This picture, for instance, says it was taken on March 7, 2016, a Monday; when I was alternating every two or three days going home to B'la to find out how Ma and Pa were doing.  It was the height of the drought but I couldn't sit down long enough to write.  I wanted to connect the drought happening in this part of the world with the melting of the glaciers somewhere in the Himalayas. That drought took rather long and I saw grass and vegetation begin to wilt.  But life, for me, was also speeding very fast.  The drought ended while I was inside the buses, or aboard a SkyLab on my way  to Bansalan and back.  The days moved even faster than a click of a camera shutter, a blink of an eyelid.  I mastered all kinds of public transport about this time. I also went to all kinds of strange places, saw all kinds of sadness and horror,  met lots of beautiful people, among them was the driver named Benny, who told me never to leave my Pa, no matter what. Did I follow what he said? I felt I did, though, I also felt I did not, and would sometimes feel bad about it.  But most of the time, I feel that I was right. 
I met lots of people who were kind and eager to help at times I least expected help. [I have to stop now because I'm having a sore throat that threatens to be a full-blown flu. I feel I need to rest. I think I'm sick.]

Things that fascinate me

NOTES FROM MY JOURNAL
September 13, 2012 

What did photographer Nick Onken say in his book “photo trekking?” 

Choose the subjects that interest you. 

Don’t only photograph subjects just because you are paid to do it  but explore also those that naturally fascinate you and attract you for some reasons.

This is how you develop your style, he wrote. 

Just a bit like writing, I think. But what are the things that really fascinate me? 

Alleyways. Skies (although I just found  how their colors change at different hours of day, as Ja used to point out to me). Mirrors. Doors. Windows. Labyrinth. Churches. Buildings. People. Roads. Shapes. Sillhouettes. Books. Shadows. Ceramics. Jugs and Jars.  Signs and writings on the walls. Cats.

Roads. Especially roads.

Rivers.

I discover this journal because I was looking for traces of Pa among the things I wrote before.