& remember

My father gifted me with a copy of Strunk & White's Elements of Style when I turned 13. It was the best gift my father had ever given me only because I don't count books he bought as pasalubong from trips to the United States as gifts. I've been using it more and more often, lately. It's the only book I have on my work/study table and I've never left it on my bookshelf for too long. I'm sure my father sees it in my room (it is silver and hard to miss, a small bullet to my memory). I wonder if I keep it out and within sight so I never lose sight of something more important. I do not doubt my father forgot he gave it to me, with a handwritten note to boot.

a few things for which i am unabashedly ashamed

1. the (growing) list of unread books tucked away in several places in my room.
2. the way my mind blanked when a friend said he met someone from my recent past.
3. the way I talk about things in the wrong way, or in a manner that mildly offends people.
4. the way my memory fails me, the way I can't remember places and faces and names and having to admit that I only remember people when they either offend or impress me. 
5. the way I remember other people because my perception and opinion, while fully formed, are often unfair and unkind and less forgiving 
6. the way I tolerate myself and inconsistent behavior
7. the way it takes me (too) long to start or finish (don't read that the way Kat does, with her feline grin, a second voice that coaxes out the subtext)
8. how, despite my best effort, new things tend to scare me. 
9. how, last night, I didn't know what to say to a friend. how often this happens.
10. how last night I peeled peanuts and wanted to weep for her because I didn't think she deserved the truth or the last few weeks. how I wanted to ask another friend to justify his completely logical claim to a 'vocal minority'. how I wanted her to be angry because anger is easy. how i wanted her to react how I did because that was something I understood. 
11. the little I can do to change what matters
12. how I continue to rely on friendship to fix everything.
13. how I convinced myself that talking it out is the best way to solve something, the best way to arrive at understanding something, when talking very rarely factors into my creative process
14. the tally of grudges I hold

 Comrade if you read this, this is what I couldn't say last night:

1. I hope you are well and the kind of comfort I want to offer isn't rooted in understanding because we are, still, in vastly different places at this point and no ship will bear me hence. Points if you got that reference.  
2. I think you are incredibly strong. I hope that helps; I know you will move past this.
3. I hope you write about this. I've read some of what you've written and I know whatever you have will be intimate and (magnificent isn't the right word) insightful, maybe. Painful. Necessary. If we're lucky, it will help. 
4. Blood doesn't obligate you to forgive anyone. Good people do bad things, commit heinous mistakes, and survive the consequences. No good that they have ever done exempts them from responsibility.
5. I don't have a book for this. Yesterday, I wanted to give you  copy of Chabon's Manhood for Amateurs but even that won't help, I think. 

Blogging from elsewhere

1. The word elsewhere reminds me of the poetry collection I bought from a table at Dela Costa, Ateneo. 
2. It cost me, at that time, enough money for three meals and several desserts. I remember I gave that collection to my then lover, a poet himself, who was, at that time, a sophomore with even less money to spend on expensive books. Expensive being a relative term. 
3. I am blogging from a familiar spot. When I say familiar, I also mean both comfortable and quiet. 
4. Today I attended Ferdinand "Gwapo" Jarin's book launch, a project I spearheaded. It was, truthfully, my first foray into publishing and although the author himself thanked me (in front of a crowd of writers and editors, no less) and called me an associate editor (a title, I admit, I didn't bother to correct), I want to tell him he didn't have to thank me, not one iota. He doesn't owe me anything. In my opinion, he earned every minute I devoted to that project. 
5. The above statement hard-earned after months of correspondence, rethinking deadlines, answering text messages at every hour of the day and night.

A list will help

1. When I run my hands over the ink on my shoulder, there are the valleys and peaks of the Cordillera stamped with a gentleness that is strong and insistent and leaves tracks.
2. Sometimes I worry that the tattoo hasn't healed right because I look at pictures of the pythons on other people's skin and they are smooth as their namesake.
3. A friend of mine said she and some of her friends were going to journey up to the tiny village high in the mountains where my friends and I bled together.
4. Everyday, there are two clear moments: the second I decide to wake up and the haze of writing something that sounds natural.
5. Everyday, too, I look forward to tho things: the silence of my room locked against the world and the right things to say.
6. Everyday, too, I wonder what kind of life I'm building.
7. A coursemate asked for book recommendations on writing poetry. I didn't have to glance at my bookshelf to know I was the wrong person to ask.  
8. I keep thinking my body was made to be touched, too, yes? A dip here, an empty space for what, a hand? And it is warm and pulsing, too, and in some places even beautiful to look at. And then I wonder, too, what will happen when a lover discovers the ridges of an unfamiliar terrain, maybe slide a hand up to my shoulder and find there the goosebumped flesh, the ridgeline of a scar. Maybe the lover will hesitate then pause to ask does this hurt? 
9. And I will say of course not, not anymore. Where were you when my body cushioned all the hurt, then? 
10. I keep thinking my body was made to be touched, too, yes? But I don't want anybody to look at it, appraise it for its net worth, judge its ungainly shape. I don't want you to misjudge me, see, for what I have done to myself. You are here with me at a singular point in time and still learning, we orbit each other now and for a while we will go nowhere, sacrifice that, to orbit each other and discover all the angles. 
11. I keep thinking my body was made to be touched, too, yes? I don't want you to think I overestimate sex. It is what it is. Fear will overwhelm you if you do not understand it and prefer ignorance. The act is neither sacrosanct nor devious, only natural and necessary. It must burn to think of something so outside the realms of our comprehension as to defy all moral judgement, but. Here, touch this and do it this way. Sex is only a way to communicate what? That you are hungry, too, for touch. In the end, love is also touch and intimacy, the eradication of closeness. But I hesitate to believe love must consist also of perfect understanding, only maybe the mercy of compromise, that habit of compromise that will pull you out of an argument for the sake of sleep and an uneasy peace.  
12. I've returned to writing The Hand She Was Dealt but the story keeps changing or else I haven't come up with anything good enough. It burns that my process is so slow and so cumbersome and so goddamn difficult. I am difficult. 

A list will help

1. Ashamed to report I haven't returned to writing The Hand She was Dealt since I finished the first fifteen hundred words or so. 
2. Not sure if this is the result of my suddenly busy schedule helping out with an event and reading other manuscripts.
3. Or if I've given into my laziness (again). 
4. Watched Zodiac (2007, dir. David Fincher) and Wreck it Ralph (2012, dir. Rich Moore). Both enjoyable although they further my education not a mile. Not an inch, actually. 
5. I emailed Ace about certain insecurities. I am tempted to apologize (I apologize too much) but I restrain myself. 
6. Zadie Smith finished her first novel before she finished her undergraduate degree and she published it by the time she was 24. 
7. Been keeping an eye on  Ace and her budding romance. 
8. Not sure if I want to keep writing The Hand she was Dealt. Should I move on? I like the language and I think, at its core, the story isn't half bad (it only needs to be executed properly) so I should stick with it. I will. That was easy. Lists do help. 
9. Massive nasty fight with Ma. I'm not sure if I've moved past thin ice and onto more solid ground.  
10. The more I stay home, the more incapable, powerless I feel. 
11. I have a meeting with my boss in a few hours. I feel like going to the office and not coming back. I should take my laptop with me to work elsewhere but where will I find a socket and wifi? 

A list with help

or Things my lover will do for me and Things I will do for my lover, in return

(& remember)

Today, I caught myself thinking I need someone who will listen without judgement, someone I can call home and I remembered what couples in steady (healthy) relationships advise: how you shouldn't be in a relationship when you're vulnerable or when you're looking for a specific kind of person to deal with your personal shit. I find myself besieged by the feeling of loss, a spiky, hard-boiled resentment towards everyone and every possible art form that has ever fucking preached this message.

As much as I advocate a healthy relationship and the importance of finding and permanently residing in that sane space before you commit to taking care of another human being, the argument that you must not depend or expect or, god forbid, carve out a specific role for your human fails to impress mostly because it's unrealistic, the at of cleaving completely natural, and because I fail to understand how a functioning relationship works without a level of co-dependence.

I've mentally berated myself for relying on an ex-lover, for depending on him, for wanting to be a bigger part of his life, for being dissatisfied with what time he could/would (let's not bicker) set aside for me. In the end, I pulled the plug and realized that I needed something more than the vague promise of seeing each other 'next week' (it was always next week) and for those who have never heard me say it before: I did it. I broke up with him. And then, yes, I begged for him to come back. Kudos to my exlover for never taking another step back toward me. It would never have worked and here's why: because despite the garrulous objections toward a co-dependent kind of love, here it is, I need it. I need to depend on someone. I need someone in my life everyday. And let me be clear: everyday means every single day. At least once every twenty-four hours. I need someone who will check up on me once in a while, who will care about the commute, who will say let's have lunch on a Tuesday (or if he's a real keeper, on a Monday).

I think we end up creating needs that only a specific romantic partner will provide; it can be something trivial (like someone who arranges your socks)  or something completely life-changing (someone whose opinion matters enough to sway your choice of residence or career path or meal order). I want that. I crave that. I'm not going to beat around the bush and deny that twenty years or so of socialization hasn't made me want that. I say all this because I don't want to be a commitment-phobe. I don't want to be afraid of my needs. I never want to be ashamed of what I need. I never want to feel pressured into unnecessarily or evilly compromising my expectations. Even as I type this, it feels harsh and already I second-guess myself.

And by co-dependence, I include the corollary: I also advocate giving in to your partner's quirks provided it doesn't hurt anyone. I advocate relying on each other because you want to, because you trust each other enough to provide these things, because it is the space between you that you fill with these needs and wants and these harmless little inside jokes. I advocate co-dependence in a sense that I want to be relied upon and I want to fulfill my end of the bargain: I want to be there. It sounds strange and a little selfish but there it is. A little violence is always beautiful.

Today--

Despite my faults (a nonexistent sense of direction, the propensity to get lost and to walk faster than my companions, and occasional flights of fancy that find greatest release in sidewalk monologues), 2013 has consistently gifted me with companions (compatriots) who appreciate more than disdain my chatter and humor. The prospect of meeting people and summoning a relationship from thin air has always seemed daunting and terrifying to me. It’s never easy to initiate conversation and more often than not, I go out on a limb when I assume—based on body language like bobbing knees, the frequency and duration of sidelong glances—how certain people gravitate toward food or cooking or metallurgy. And often I prefer to ask questions. Whatever you might think, the only honest truth is I never fully recovered from the shyness of a closeted fifteen year-old recluse. But today, by some happy coincidence, a friend of mine introduced me to one of her colleagues who possessed, in no small amount, the same spark and sense of humor, sense of adventure, that I find most appealing.

The cynical (jaded?) part of me has always (and will always) believe that making friends will become more and more of a challenge as we grow old(er). Already, I’ve learned not to compromise, how much to concede, and how to stand my ground. But as we sat close together on the bus home (the first one we saw whose placard advertised SM Fairview, Cubao, EDSA, a hasty choice I wish I could unmake),I stared at the flowing lights of the metro fall away. Although all day I had felt the resistance of an immutable and smooth barrier against real talk (the kind that makes you want to stay) or the natural hesitancy behind which everyone hides behind, and although I had clenched my fists ready to beat against it or make an ass of myself trying, by the end of our dinner, I finally felt it dissipate, dissolve, wash away in the steady and steadily growing warmth. Bright blue and lit somewhere far away, like the neon glow of the mall sign we followed across an empty lot, it was something that exists still in some future, netted and clasped in circumstance like the promise of fate or the fruit of a conspiring and undulating universe.

I glanced around at the unfamiliar smile of another person I had roped into stories, woven anecdotes around, formed opinions about, a boy I had tried to impress because he was friends with someone I had, all along, been trying to impress.  

(originally posted on Smallest Giant)

(how it is with people)

1. I feel it all the time with some people, betrayed by the harmless ticks of their bodies: how they slouched their fine shoulders, how instead of looking up at you they scan your face and then look away, how the last sentence of their words come out clipped and chased by breath and silence. You hit a glass ceiling, your friendship peaks, and you encounter an invisible barrier, irresolute. It exists with some people, with most people, the way you structure a relationship against the mast of their expectations.
2. You wanted to write him a letter and now you're terrified because words don't matter where he lives and you have nothing. When he reads this, he will scan the (half) page. Hooded eyes, the same lips as yours turned down, unimpressed, and his barren silence is the only answer and even then--unlike you--he won't ask what it means. He will, simply, and--like you--without much forethought face you with the gravity and earnestness of his cramped handwriting. Tight, knotty curlicues like strangled hands refusing to let go. His face will register nothing. He hasn't heard a word.  

A list will help

"drafting The Hand She was Dealt 2"

1. Using subhead titles for the first time ever. I'm particularly fond of the second header: "eight & eight  & eight & eight"
2. Instead of referring back to my notes for important plot points each section should discuss, I listed them all on subsequent review bubbles. 
3. Don't be fooled. Although total word count says just above four thousand words, I've written only about six hundred. The rest are from the first draft, not featured on this post. 
4. Finally told my mother how I've seriously suspected I have a mild form of dyslexia. Not sure how I feel about uncharacteristic nonchalance on her part.  
5. I have a post in the pipelines for Tadanori Yokoo's contribution to my revisions for The Hand She was Dealt.

"research & (story) development"

Icaro

The dream began in the same tattoo parlor in Eastwood where Fran and I decided to get inked. I was talking to a faceless artist who held up his hands and said the tattoo should be this big and my only fear was that my body would not accommodate it properly. I said, no it can only be this big and I countered with my own hands. We both looked at my body and Apo Whang-Od's tattoo on my left shoulder. The tattoo artist pointed at my inner thighs and said dyan na lang and I quivered, threatened and afraid. So I said no, put it on my chest instead, like this. Icaro, to me, looks like a bird. 

& remember

You write because you were once a very lonely little girl with nowhere to go except back, up, to your room.

A list will help

1. Lists targeted towards 20somethings (including 20 things You Need to Accomplish) alternately make me cringe with serious guilt or make me rethink my life choices (such as they are). I would like to confess, also, that hours on TC led me to passable articles I will doubtless need to reread in the future. Starting with this one about healthy relationships.
2. I spent my last twenty four hours trying to formulate a plot for my next story and thinking of ways to get another job (because much as I love working from home and having enough time for my MFA, I need to fess up: I need a job that will get me out of my parents' house). To that end, I've decided to apply for a teaching position at a local chapter of an international college with a course proposal (why do I feel like writing this down will help me get to grips with the reality of applying for a job). I also want to apply at my alma mater but I've already spoken with Sir Mark who said that they want to prioritize their tenured faculty.
3. Teaching at a college in BGC will mean I have to face commuter death every week or I will need to move out of our home. Either way, the decision is scary. I should probably also think of applying to other, smaller schools. I want to pass an application to Ateneo but I'm too chickenshit. 
4. I (have always felt that I) had been relegated to some strange middle-ground. This island contains everything I've ever done and all the hard work I have ever imagined, everything I have ever hoped to accomplish. I feel like I've been banished or sentenced to a life with a glass ceiling. Whoever comes across this in the future may well skip to the fifth item:
5. I hate having to "pray" for opportunities because it feels like without divine intervention--that is, from my own hard work and dedication and craft and talent--I have no hope of success.

Failing Better

The only real New Year's resolution I made at the beginning of this year was to try (and to try hard). Four months in, I can pat myself on the back. According to my diary, I have at least two more stories to revise and proof and pass to different local publications. My diary also informs me I made a pact with myself to try submitting to international publications, too. So, if anything, my twenty-fourth year will mean tears and bloodshed. But, at the end of it, absolutely no regrets.

To that end, I began a digital library of visual story pegs for upcoming revisions including The Hand You Are Dealt, Six, and to help begin drafting that weird alternate world story I've always wanted to read (and write, apparently).

I've decided I am attracted to moody, suggestive pieces, characters stuck in medias res, with backgrounds and color palettes highly suggestive of mood and tone. High contrast images with a lot of action. Busy pictures that ask why, why, why?

At this point, let me also remind you, because you will need the reminder come September:

1. Remember how it felt, the weight of the manuscripts in your hands the night before submission. 
2. Remember your dreams and the short evening you spent trying to convince your mother that you have no future in this business. She only faced you with the same determination and (God-given) stubbornness (pigheadedness) that you inherited (from her and from your father, both). She looked at you and said you should keep trying, rejection be damned. There will be no end to them.
3. But, back to regular programming: Remember how you got lost on your way to the Palanca office. 
4. Remember you wore the yellow, adventure backpack.
5. Remember you were proud of yourself and that you have cause to be proud of yourself. Because, after all, didn't you write two wonderful stories? You have to get them out there!
6. Remember, too, that you printed out your curriculum vitae but you couldn't reread the entries, there. 
7. Remember, too, that you had May all to yourself to work on several revisions, several drafts, and a twenty-page media theory paper. 
8. Remember, this too shall pass. Glory and pain both. 

Remember there is no end to your story.