Futile Sacrifice

Balhin Payag

I now splatter my dirt on a different wall.

Please link to visualplayground.multiply.com/journals

What would've been my entry to the iWitness Documentary Festival had I not been too busy at Cheaverz. Hehe.. Please Critique.

The thief in all of us

Johanna Michelle Lim

University of San Carlos- Fine Arts

An essay based on Kara David’s documentary ‘Shoplifters’

The oldest street in the Philippines, Colon, deserves to be visited if only for its hodgepodge of people and merchandise. It is the Divisoria of Cebu, an amalgam of eye candy and sound, where one can find everything from cheap hair clips to tractor parts. When walking, it is easy to get lost in a sea of people and faces if that is the intended goal. Until, of course, you scream and find out your clipped earrings has been ripped off your now-bleeding ears.

It is common sight to see in jeepneys, whose route travels the Downtown area, people discreetly taking off jewelry, closing bags and stashing their money in different pocket compartments. I doubt whether the effectivity of such precautions will hamper any attempts however. Potential victims seem to be chosen and targeted expertly. Once a friend and I were browsing the said area in the most plain-looking clothes we could find. We had hoped it was enough to divert attention only to find out when she got home how her bag was slashed in the bottom area, just enough to let the wallet out. Another time, a salesgirl was desperately crying on the streets because she had lost track of a customer who didn’t pay.

It is exactly stories like these that keep me coming back to Colon, looking for cheap finds when really, many can be found in malls or more polished stalls. Infamous to this very day, Colon houses many of Cebu’s youngest and most talented shoplifters, pickpockets and hold uppers. It is a fact that many Cebuanos including I, am well aware of. The street itself is a pulsating life form and the residents, its servants. Danger has become part of the enigma. With danger comes excitement, and with excitement, discovery.

For a 20-year old graduating student who has always been protected by family and friends, stealing, like many things, has always been held in an act of romanticism. Perhaps it comes from reading too many classics where protagonists like Victor Hugo’s Jean Valjean and Robin Hood are held in great light. Maybe the romantic at heart is always reeking to come out or it could be the fact that I have never experienced poverty first hand. Alas, the only thing closest to such rage was a kleptomaniac seatmate at my former Catholic high school who probably stole everything from cheap hair clips to tractor parts.

Nevertheless, there is a tinge of adventure in terms of what SHOULDN’T be done instead of thinking in terms of what MUST be done. I have always digested the act as a matter of choice and not as a last resort; a question of too much WANT instead of too much NEED. It is the perspective of an ‘educated’ being who has never learned physiological desperation, when one comes so close to dehydration or malnutrition, it causes temporary lapses in sanity. No. This is someone who used to wish she was anorexic or had been born in Africa just to lose weight. Like many, society has coursed me to think of such people as simpletons who happen to be just foolish enough to steal for bread and get caught while he’s at it.

Steven Houseworth, a probation officer, stated in his paper appropriately termed as the ‘The truth about why people steal”, of how man is inherently selfish and that the notion of giving in to feelings often resorts to the desire to ‘have’. In other words, it all boils down again to choice; the control or the giving in to desire, which unobtrusively, Houseworth thinks, will result to struggle and ultimately consequential injury.

He further develops this by saying that the correction of the causal condition is not solution to the criminal act. Cure poverty and the person may still steal. Eliminate disparity and losses may still reside. Give education and the act may still give pleasure.

Precisely the reason why street children would rather get back on the streets than work hard at halfway homes or beggars to continue begging even when opportunity presents itself. It is the paradox in lifestyle that people don’t understand. Life is easier, less complicated and less demanding. Out there, the only rule is the one you make.

It is found in the essence of getting without giving back, of successful shortcutting, of moving ahead without laborious measure and the freedom to act without needed permission seen not only in ‘criminal’ acts but in simple things like cutting in line, hiring a fixer for a driver’s license or namedropping at a job interview. It is an essence in which Filipinos, in need or not, are fond, even proud of.

In Cebuano, the lingo used commonly is ‘harbor, in gay language ‘harvat’- borrowing without any plans of returning or worse, what many politely misconstrue as ‘borrowing’ without permission. If there’s one thing all Filipinos love to hear, it’s the word ‘Free’, the idea of receiving something not paid or worked hard for or the getting ahead more smoothly than everyone else is a notion not above even educated individuals who think it is rightly deserved. Such is the stream of consciousness of many. In one aspect, stealing is just exactly that, the free accumulation of a product or service without rendering pay of whatever means.

Are we not one to smile when free passes are given to bars without thinking someone else would actually have to pay for the same pass? Or do we not feel a sense of satisfaction when attention is transferred to us without thinking it was actually stolen from another? That because it is free or is seemingly just a lever to greater heights, there is neither hesitation nor guilty afterthought in terms of whether by taking part in the physical or social transaction, one is in fact, robbing the opportunity out of someone else who actually worked for it. It is never cheating, just ‘madiskarte’. It is not stealing, merely ‘ masipag’. It is not a question of who steals but rather who steals first.

Perhaps that’s what makes the shoplifter and thieves in general, relatable, even lovable at times. They symbolize what all of us find in ourselves; whether consciously or subconsciously admitted, there is sheer pleasure in taking. Were it murder and the thought would have been foreboding, rape and the act heinous but thievery, although still badly held, is not thought of as equally appalling as the latter two.

Because, really, the truth is, we are all guilty.

There is a thief in all of us.

In this context, the act becomes a justifiable trade, bulldozed by a heritage that may very well be inculcated with cultural and material debauchery. Are we then really that surprised if pursuits of shoplifting are at hand? Is this consequence to the promotion of fast progress and debated development where principles are debased for fast improvement?

Will this be the future of a nation so attuned to taking, even applauding it at times?

Judge without malice, an old friend once said. Whether it is by the desperation, compulsion or conscious action to steal is not the issue. Nor is the issue right or wrong. Were morality involved here and the topic would’ve been closed from the beginning. Again, let us not just ask whether stealing is wrong but rather when stealing is massively consequential. And when it is, there is a scope for further understanding rather than directly hitting with colossal rallies and boastful judicial systems.

It is precisely this decree of understanding that made Kara David’s documentary major to me, which seeks more than the act itself but a firm illustration of the act without maliced judgment. Such should be the firm example that we live by.

Judge not lest ye be judged. The Allans and Joans of this world need to be heard. Because at the end of the day, the romantic Jean Valjeans and Robin Hoods of story books pale in comparison to startling reality. May we all make a choice to see.

Finish me.

“When We Dreamed of Green Lawns”

by Johanna Michelle Lim

I had seen it coming but was ill prepared for it nonetheless. There we were, four bodies cramped in a car made for two, silent with our own thoughts. Beside me, Mom positioned her lips into a smile, patting my hand before turning back to the window. She was lost. So were we. In the back of the small minicab was three generations worth of belongings, stacked so high that tree branches rustled when we pass by. I open the window halfway and let my hand feel the wind, soft and humid. At that moment, I had seen my world for what it was, beautiful. It passed by so quickly; it didn’t even have a chance to engulf me. Passed the well-mowed gardens that were once our neighbors’, we trundled quietly like thieves, hoping to merge with the surroundings. But we could not. We didn’t belong there anymore.

I would not cry, I promised myself but the smell of urine and Lysol mixed together in the tiny, two-level apartment was just too much. The landlords must’ve sprayed some on hoping to get the stench out before we arrived. It didn’t work though. I pretended not to smell it, perching the stack of my belongings in the sofa whose vinyl upholstery was bursting up at the seams. At the back of my mind I wondered who could live like this, then as I looked at my parents pushing our mattress in door that was too small, I choked back tears, knowing that we would from now on.

That evening, my sister, Rina, was asked to buy soft drinks at the nearby sari-sari store. We were to celebrate, as my father jokingly said, the start of a new life. I knew by the grimace Rina purposely placed in her face that she didn’t want to. Still, she silently followed with me tagging behind her. I knew she did not want to be touched, and so I awkwardly skidded beside her, the tricycles and trysikads whizzing at my right. The sand they left behind stuck to our shirts and slippers. The sari-sari store, Joy and Janet’s, was small, full of little knickknacks that I would’ve loved as a child. I remembered vividly when Mom used to scold us for buying from outside vendors at the exclusive Catholic school we studied in. From outside, we would watch with childlike fascination at the colorful treasures the toothless vendors had to offer: green mangoes with bagoong, whistle candies, jackstones, hero cards and even goldfishes in plastic packs. Back then, it was like an adventure. Street food, the ultimate rebellion. Rina and I would happily go back to the green lawns of the school façade with small paper bags of peanuts stashed in our pockets. As was tradition, she would tap the huge sign emblazoned on the school gates. NO VENDORS ALLOWED, it read.

Now what faced us was a variety of household items that we find no familiarity in. Nothing seemed to be sold whole, all in tiny plastics from mongo beans down to the dirty-looking cooking oil. Joy or Janet, or whoever she was, seemed busy with her cellphone and had yet to find the time to entertain us. Rina seemed unsure of what to say. It hurt just to look at her. Rina, the overachiever, the confident colegiala whose knack for public speaking won an award or two, was unsure of what to say. Joy Janet took one look at my sister’s mestiza features, signaling what would seem to be a territorial warning. She saw what we still could not see then: We did not belong there either.

Dinner had passed by quickly. Rina and I allowed Mom and Dad to talk between us while we chewed as if food was the most important issue. On and on they talked, about the apartment, about the grease in the pan, about selling more things, about the new neighbors, about us. Then when they ran out, my parents hurriedly rushed to wash the dishes. They weren’t doing a very good job at it though, the soapsuds still sticking to the surfaces even when they tried their hardest to wash it out. I couldn’t blame them. It was probably the first time in the longest time they had to do their own dishes. Before I go to the bathroom to take my evening bath, I look at the clutter of what would be our house from now on. It struck me as funny how it was full of odds and ends that didn’t seem to fit each other, the expensive ceramics sticking out in the plastic containers, the Persian rugs opulent in the vinyl floors and the commissioned painting of our family out of place in the blemished walls.

For the first time since we were children, Rina and I shared a room. In the darkness, I could hear her sobbing, trying to stifle it with a pillow over her mouth. The Snoopy sheets she held on to were damp with her sweat. I could not comfort her. Didn’t know how. So I closed my eyes and imagined I was still in my old room, the clutter of familiar belongings surrounding me. I saw the Nancy Drew books Mom gave to me for my 7^th birthday, the dream catcher I kept at my bedside. So many things. So many. I try to touch them but all I felt were damp sheets.

                                                      *   *   *   *   *   *

I  started this story a few months back.  And ever since then had desperately tried to put an end to it, bu t I realized my attempts would be futile because I'm not in that place in my life anymore. Perhaps when I gain more experience or am more skilled in conjuring affective memory, then I will. Meanwhile, consider this as my junk box. 

I am.

        When I was sixteen, I knocked on every door in our village to let people sign a petition against D.E.A.T.H standing for Divorce, Euthanasia, Abortion, Termination of Life through Artificial means and Homosexual Marriages. It was for a Religious Education project, one that I was determined to finish before the day was over. The task was a tedious one, and my impatience loomed out. I had more important things to do, and honestly I really didn’t understand much on what I was petitioning against except from research on the Net.

        Many refused to sign. Their belief system declined to do so. This girl who rudely slapped the gate shut in front of me and shouted expletives a Catholic schoolgirl didn’t have the right to hear was one I remember very fondly. I didn’t understand her or people like her then. Perhaps she saw my being there as an insult because her own life was offensively scrutinized by a mere acronym. It was her act of defiance. When that happened five years ago, I was annoyed. Now, there is only admiration for that neighbor who refused to let politeness or decorum deter her from what she believed in.

        Another neighbor, a very much out-of-the-closet homosexual did the opposite. I grasped how ironic the situation was when I explained to him the meaning of each letter. When the letter H came out, the meaning stuck in my throat and I croaked because the look on his pensive face said I had just blurted something terribly wrong. Still, he signed it. I left his doorstep realizing how my naïve tactlessness couldn’t be as bad as his giving in.

        I don’t believe in the same things I did before. I am a different person now, one I hope who is more open-minded. A school can only teach so much. Like many things, the other side of the coin is often discarded out of convenience. A very wise friend once advised me to judge without malice. How true his words were, because nobody could really understand why an act is done until they’re pushed in the same scenario.

        Recently a friend’s mother just died of cancer. I was there an hour before she died. Looking at her, I realized I wasn’t really looking at the person she once was but the remnants of who she used to be. I wasn’t smelling her skin but the medicine that refused to let her go. I wasn’t listening to the sound of her voice but the grasps of someone fighting to breathe. She and her family opted for DNR (Do not Resuscitate). Looking at her sick frame sink at the hospital bed, I realized I would have too.

        In the same manner that I would rather opt to be a divorcee than let a failed relationship destroy my person. Or see my gay son’s bright face on his wedding day then let morality step in the way of his happiness.

        From here, there will always be doors shut at my face. But I will thrive on them, relish them. Because the more they shut, the more curious I am to see what’s on the other side. That other side will always be waiting for me.

        Yes, I’m not the same person I once was. I am neither better nor worse. But different.

Just different.

Foot on Mouth and Damned Proud of it.

        I am the queen of social faux pas. Once, while dining at a foreigner-laden restaurant, a senior companion watched in horror as I choked on a beef briskette, which I tried to conceal to no avail. The meat landed near a lechon painting, along with traces of vomit and Coke, the latter of which I hurriedly sipped in an attempt to push down the little bugger. Again to no avail. In the end, my two companions, a creative director and an art director, no less, tried to console me with lurid jokes of spitting and not swallowing the next time. When asked why I had “forced” the issue, my colegiala background took over, deeming it impolite to spit the meat out in front of others. What’s worse was that while I was in the bathroom in an attempt to compose myself, a foreigner then approached me and with all sincerity asked if I was all right since I seemed to be crying while washing my hands. I smiled and nonchalantly told him how I just had something lodged in my throat a while ago and was just taking the time to relax. He must’ve misunderstood what I meant because when he passed by our table, he looked at my companions with dagger eyes in hostile warning. Oh boy. I was probably the exploited, abused victim of prostitution he had heard so much about. That, among many (going to formal party where I was the only one in formalwear, dropping a fork while dining at a very posh resto) are the awkward phases that people probably expect of me now. The most recent incident being one that included my boyfriend’s family and a soiled seat. Figure it out. In my mind, I am writing in someone’s scrapbook in the part where they ask about your most embarrassing experiences and in typical high school fashion, I would write only 4 letters: TMTM. Too many to mention.

        The only consolation I take from this is knowing that I’m not the only one with lackluster social graces. Somewhere in this world, there are people as challenged as I am. I’m sure Einstein couldn’t be bothered about knowing what fork to use while he was too busy disheveling his hair on purpose and finding out that E is actually equal to mc² (Dear God. I would dishevel my hair any day as long as you help me understand what that actually means.). Similarly, I once heard a joke about the great Freud who, while purchasing tickets going to Pittsburgh, he noticed the ample bosom of the ticket lady and had unknowingly blurted out his intent for ‘two pickets to Tittsburgh’. Conclusion: The pinions of society aren’t always the best dining companions nor the best speechmakers.

        Backed with selective retention and good shoulders to shrug it all off though, I go forward in this world entitled to live in it because I have made it happier. Lest the boring existence of someone who’s never made a mistake, never finding the need to wash one’s mouth in soap (Make mine bubbly). I refuse to be a poser and pretend I am less in need of. Because somewhere down in my innards is confidence amidst awkwardness.

 

        Besides, the great thing about faux pas is its variation from culture to culture. Meaning, my choking mechanism might be a great asset for me, let’s say somewhere in Alaska where it may be considered an act of insult if you don’t choke on your food. The Eskimo gods may turn sour in seeing that I wasn’t enthusiastic enough in gobbling down the offered whale.

        Now, in an office full of the most interesting people one could meet, I am known as ‘barf girl’. It doesn’t matter though because I choose to surround myself with people who have their own sets of brands and are proud of it.

        Like most great lessons, what I have learned in this series of mistakes is that the series of mistakes themselves offer the greatest of lessons.

        Cape and spandex briefs aside, I set out to conquer the world known as (no snickers please)….Barf girl.

Thick Calves are Sexy

 “Thick Calves are Sexy”

by Johanna Michelle Lim

Had she known yesterday what she knows now, Lani wouldn’t have necked her way to a popped cherry. The sounds of the old house came to life as she came down the stairs, tiptoeing without her slippers, her wet hair still tangled in places. Dawn air has woken up her body while she took a quick bath, squatting in the cold mildew of the bathroom tiles. She was careful not to make any sudden noise although she knew Ate Jane was a heavy sleeper. It was a cold morning, like any other morning. Except that she felt sore from the hips down.

She moved her robust 5’2’’ frame a little slower than usual. It was uncomfortable to go about, although not painful. Lani opens the wooden frame with a soft click, leading to the dirty kitchen. She finds Anton already eating breakfast, his cutoffs tightening on his thigh as he lifts one leg up and eats dried fish with his hands. He barely looks up, eating rhythmically. Lani starts the unwashed dishes from the night before, looking out the window as the morning comes up in orange hues.

“Where’s work off to today?” she asks

“The fields maybe. Ate Jane needs an extra hand. The kabo didn’t show up yesterday.”

“Are you bringing lunch with you or should I prepare some along with Ate Jane’s?”

The soapsuds continue to bubble in Lani’s hands.

“I’m fine. You better hurry or Nang Richel’s going to bite your head off again. You know she hates dillydallying.”

Lani wipes the remaining bubbles off and proceeds to the dirty kitchen at the back of the house. It was made out of old kawayan and rotten nails. She busies herself with cutting tomatoes, scrambling eggs and heating water. The wood from the stack was dwindling as she gets four more to feed the fire. She had to remind Anton of that. Lani sits on the round table where comics were sprawled about. She brought it here to read while waiting when she cooked, although she only manages to read the first few pages so far. When she came back, Anton was already gone. His dish, cup and utensils was washed and dried beside their employer’s.

After cooking for the family and the rest of the household help, Lani moves about the house, straightening crooks, dusting picture frames and piling back magazines. Pretty soon Ate Jane and the children would wake up so she hurriedly makes her way to the garden at the back. Sitting there now, she is reminded of growing up in the mountains where her Mama and Papa would let her tend the vegetation to be sold. She didn’t like selling in the market like all her other siblings. The air was filled with strange smells and she finds customers who haggle too annoying. So instead she volunteers to work on the garden. The carrots always needed the most tending. The kalabasa and sibuyas were just strewn about, the other vegetation too. Everyday, Lani scurries to the gardens where she would weed unwanted outcasts that had grown overnight. She would squat on her small, plastic stool, spending half of the day in peace with the carrots. They didn’t seem to mind although her skin did. From tan, she had turned into a most uneven shade of dark, her face blotches of light. Her calves and ankles had grown thick and muscular from the squatting, bottom heavy from too much work. Meant for childrearing, Mama would look at her approvingly, even when she was still a tender age of 15 then. For some reason, that had seemed important to everyone.

 A few days ago she had not made breakfast on time. Ate Jane and the kids were already waiting on the dining room table while she was still at her room. She excused herself, feeling a little under the weather that morning. Ate Jane had obligingly made breakfast for the family along with Nang Richel. Lani only came down just in time to wait on them as they gulped the last of their milks and waters. She helped the kids with their backpacks, running after them with lunchboxes in tow before returning to wait on Ate Jane, alone now on the table.

“The telephone technicians are coming today. Make sure to watch them while they’re repairing.

“Yes, ‘te. They keys to your rooms are with me anyway. I’ll lock them when they’re finished. ”

Nang Richel eyes Lani a little too long. She had stayed with the Salvadors the longest, and considers herself superior from all the other household helps. Ate Jane trusted her to train the others in cooking and in doing the chores. And train she did. Lani butted with her for the simplest things like glasses without coasters and getting caught watching television during the late nights. But Lani didn’t care. Sometimes when Nang Richel was asleep, she would gossip with all the other maids why the old hag had turned out the way she did. Lani blames it on menopause. The others would say it was because of womanly frustrations. They would giggle like little girls until the old hag would squirm in her bed and mutter for them to shut up.

“…Oging should be careful. That girl’s a tramp. Everyone says so.”

“She’s been asking money from him already, and they haven’t even met personally.”

“Yes…I’m surprised why Oging is so taken with her. Gigayuma kaha.”

“Can you believe it?” Nang Richel laughs, “They just sent each other’s pictures a week ago and now they’re engaged.”

Ate Jane and Nang Richel continue to trade gossip about the field workers, the eggs and fish forgotten, while Lani stands still, once in a while shooing flies with her hand. It was a cold morning, like any other morning. Except that she had worn brand new shorts for Anton to see.

The shorts she bought from a thrift shop in the village. She had seen one of Ate Jane’s kids, the 14- year old, wearing one just like it the day before. Lani was proud to have seen something like it at a cheaper price. She would change into a different pair later of course. It didn’t seem right to use such a nice outfit just for such dirty chores. She was planning to wear the shirt she was wearing for church next Sunday too. But not until Anton shows up. While she was clearing up the table, Nang Richel looks.

“What is it, Nang?”

She smirks.

“You don’t look so sick to me.”

She leaves Lani then, banging the glass on the upturned coaster.

Anton didn’t have to work the fields today. The sugarcane shoots had mostly been planted now and the weather was starting to let up. Now that summer had almost come, it brought with it humid winds and blistering sun. It was perfect for planting. He opened the gate as Ate Jane left in her silver Toyota Corolla. The gate creaked as he closed and he set out into the front garage. Oil drips from the Corolla had been left on the concrete floors. Anton spreads wood shavings to take it off.

He was not allowed to take off his shirt in public. Nang Richel had scolded him for that before. Not with so many ladies in the household. But with such a hot day starting to press itself on his shirt, he fanned himself with the hems. He would never be considered handsome by normal standards; sunburned skin, scabby feet, a strong nose, dark lips and a body that had seen too much grueling work.

Lani looks at him nonetheless.

“Let’s go. The others are eating without us.”

“Wait. I have to change my shirt. Now that it’s sunny, I’m starting to wish for rain again.”

“Well, wasn’t it only yesterday that you wished it stopped raining?”

“Yes, but blankets and jackets can cure cold weather. I don’t even have an electric fan in this hot place.”

“At least you have the whole place to yourself. Try sharing a room with four other people.”

Lani waits while Anton races up his nipa hut where he lives alone. It was near the gate where he could serve as both bodyguard and gate opener. The rest of the household lived in the main house just across his. Aside from the small children, he was the only male in the entire compound. Anton was careful to keep his privacy with so many bustling girls around. His door and windows were always closed even with a hot weather like this. He quickly returns with another shirt halfway down his chest.

“I wouldn’t mind trading places with you. At least you have someone to talk to at night.”

“It’s okay. You’re not missing much anyway. Sometimes the talks can get a little boring. We’re too tired by then to talk about something interesting.”

“As I said, I still wouldn’t mind trading places with you.”

Anton winks at her, which makes Lani laugh.

“Only if you want Nang Richel as bed partner.”

They walk back to the kitchen. But Anton still hasn’t noticed her shorts.

The lines of the moon seemed to make them more tired than usual. Every night this week, the clammy wind had kept all of them awake even in their tired state. Four bodies can take a toll on a room’s ventilation especially in a rickety house with few jalousies. They had sweated and raised their armpits until someone had come out with the idea of playing cards. This was where they were now, in the dirty kitchen with only a small bulb as light, squinting their eyes to make out the numbers. From the first day, they had asked Anton to join them, afraid of the whatevers of the dark. They waited for the evening winds to come, allowing them to rest at last. But today had been one of many long days and longer nights. The rest had given up, leaving Nang Richel, Lani and Anton to finish the game. Nang Richel had won as she quickly faces up the cards on the round table. Lani and Anton follow. But there was still no wind. Finally, Nang Richel makes her way to the stairs with one last look at the pair. Lani had not made any move to follow her.

She suspects, Lani thinks, though this does not stop her from staying.

“Up for another game?” she asks, arranging the cards in her hand.

Anton nods and reaches out for Lani. She scampers to his side, sitting on his lap as they kiss with eyes open. Anton was looking at the stairs and Lani was looking the other way but neither seemed to mind. She was still afraid although her hands don’t quiver as much as the nights before.

She had finally allowed him to reach under her shirt, her breasts surrounded by palms for a few more minutes. He wanted more but Lani was already arranging the disheveled clothing, wordlessly moving for the door. A few seconds after, Anton does the same. The wind had at last gone cold. What would follow would be a cold morning, like every morning.

“You don’t think they suspect, do you?”

“What’s there to suspect? We were only kissing. It’s natural to kiss, Lani.”

“Yes but that doesn’t make it any better. I feel like I’m doing something more even if I’m not.”

“Maybe because you do want more. So do I.”

“Ate Jane would never approve.”

“I have a wife waiting back home.”

Lani knew that. Didn’t he think she knew that? Anton had always gone home for weekends, although the rest of his time had always belonged to them. For Lani, he was just taking a vacation and nothing more. That was one of the reasons why Ate Jane had gladly taken him in. There would be no indiscretions. The girls would be safe, or so she had thought. By then, Lani had started sneaking out to Anton’s hut when all the lights were off. She would lie on her bed, pretending to be asleep until Nang Richel and the other girl’s breathing would rhythmically slow down. She would choose the back door because it creaked less. The first floor where Ate Jane’s room was is muffled by the sound of the aircon’s steady flurry. Lani puts down the slippers from her hands, slowly putting them on as she crosses to the outskirts of Anton’s hut. The door was never locked, she knew, as Lani peeks in in her shorts and sleeveless. Anton would always be there, half naked and waiting.

Later, they would lie down on the cold kawayan floor, staring at artificial light. They smelled like each other but neither seemed to notice.

“You have very big calves. Almost as thick as mine.”

Anton traces what he means up and down with his hands, noticing the embarrassment creeping up on Lani’s face.

“Tell me what your wife’s like.”

“Well, she certainly doesn’t have legs as big as this.” He never spoke her name and Lani never asked. They had always referred to her as She.

Lani slaps his hand away.

“I started working very, very early. It developed my muscles. Even when I stopped working…well, it never really shrank back.”

“You don’t have to explain. I like them.”

“You do.”

“Yes I do. They make you look strong.”

“I don’t want to look strong. I want to look…feminine…and helpless.”

Anton laughed, not fully, cautiously.

“That sounds just like my wife.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

She tries to make light of the conversation and cushions him with her legs.

“You think too much, Anton.”

“And the problem with you, Lani, is you don’t think at all.”

“Yes I do. But I don’t worry like you, and I’m the one that’s supposed to be worrying, you know.”

“Exactly. Lani, haven’t you ever thought about it? I’m married, and I’m not wearing a condom.”

“…And I didn’t drink any regla either.”

Lani looks at him almost proudly.

“Lani, you’re young and healthy. One look at you and everyone can see how you were meant to carry a child.”

Her mother had said the same thing. But it was different then. She didn’t believe it. She shrugs in his chest.

“ Then at least everyone will know you’re not impotent.”

“Lani..Lani, be serious. If you have a child, I’ll never own it. No one will ever know. You’ll end up an old hag just like Nang Richel.”

“An old hag with thick calves and carrots for a husband.”

Anton couldn’t help but laugh, pulling her up together with him. He looks at his watch to make sure the hand did not reach two yet. The rest of the house would still be asleep. They were safe for just a few more minutes. Lani hopes Sarah, the other maid, had not drank too much today. She had the bladder of a fish. If she went out for a piss, she’d surely notice Lani’s bed was empty.

On Anton’s room was a plastic dresser where all his possessions lie. There were cologne, razors, his wedding band and some loose change. Lani uncovers the bottle of cologne and presses it to her wrists, smelling so much like him again. It was the last thing she did before dressing up hurriedly as Anton turns off the lights. She disappears, the shirt a little fuller in her chest.

“I’m going home tomorrow.”

Crop season was over and whatever merrymaking the abundance had brought just as easily disappeared in long envelopes sent to their respective provinces. Lani had sent hers along with a short afterthought letter. The air was beginning to grow thin again. Lani adjusts the hems of her skirts, tucking them in as she wipes unwelcome bubbles off her face. It was Friday and she was washing the household’s clothes, including Anton’s. It was a chore she so enjoyed doing. She had always saved his clothes for last, his briefs and boxers laying on a separate basin, feeling them in her hands once in a while. Lani knew they were few, memorizing each of them in Anton’s body. She had always been careful not to overscrub the thin fabrics. The few he had had holes on them already. Anton comes up behind her, sitting down.

Lani nods in answer, scrubbing still.

“How long will you be gone?”

“For good… I asked Ate Jane’s permission just a while ago.”

In the kitchen window just across from where they were, Nang Richel and the other maids were careful to watch but Lani didn’t care. She and Anton were an open secret to the staff now. Ate Jane was still at the stage of suspicion.

“She’s pregnant.”

Anton acts nonchalant although his hands were scrubbing an unsoaped blouse.

“…Oh. But I didn’t… didn’t think she could.”

“Neither did I. We’ve been married for three years now and she’s never quite enjoyed the act as much as I wanted her to.”

 “Then maybe it’s not yours.”

 “I thought of the same thing but…”

 “But what?”

 “I counted the days when we last spent time together, and that was two months ago. Last week, she sent me a letter. Says her period was delayed but she didn’t know for sure.”

 Lani shrugs but her hands were numb. The scrubbing went on.

 “She could’ve been with someone else the same week she made love to you.”

“So was I.”

She thought of the woman-child Anton had left behind, helpless and frail. Soon the girl would blow up like a coconut and she wondered what Anton would think of her then.

“Yes but unlike her, I enjoyed it as much as you did.” Lani gives Anton a half-smile.

“You don’t have to tell me. I was there when you showed me just how much you enjoyed it. Twice.”

“So this is goodbye then?”

Anton lowers his voice although nobody was anywhere near.

“No. Not Goodbye. Until later.”

“ Until later…”

That night it was Lani who did not hesitate. She came to him although he did not urge her with his body like the nights before. They had quietly taken off each other’s clothes and in one instant, she was naked and so was he.

“I’m going to miss this.” Anton whispers.

She barely heard it as he trails the calves she hated so much. They were more swollen than usual though Anton didn’t stay long enough to notice.

“I’ll come visit you. Not soon. But I will.”

Lani bites the urge to laugh at him for she knew that he never would. Her legs were wrapped around him as she thinks how from now on, Anton would be doing this to his wife. Perhaps she would resume watching television during the late nights. She wondered if the usual soap operas were still on. It had been a long time since she had checked. His neck had smelled of cologne, the one whose bottle was already missing from the table. They didn’t say a word.

Her lips tightened, feeling Anton’s scabby feet curl up. He lay on top of her in one glorious moment. Lani looked at his sweating face, red and tired, then finally she rested.

Everybody had wished Anton farewell the night before. Ate Jane gave him a bonus and some used clothes for the wife and unborn child and Nang Richel had told him to take care of himself. For once she didn’t smirk when she said it. They all had something nice to say to Anton. Today, nobody woke up to see him off. Lani came down the stairs, still groggy from the few hours of sleep. She had sneaked in the house a little earlier than they were used to. Still, she watched as the others slept in their cramped beds. The kitchen was already open and the lights were dim. The figure on the table was already bathed, dressed and ready to leave. Anton was wearing his travel clothes, denim jacket, maong pants and a baseball cap. Two boxes held by plastic ropes stood at the corner. He was halfway through his hardboiled egg and rice.

“Do you want me to cook you something else for the road?”

He nods and reaches out for her across the table. They paw each other for a while, their eyes open in opposite directions. Finally, he lets go, leaving Lani to scurry off to the dirty kitchen. She boils the water with the eggs, covering it hurriedly. The fire was high, the water slow to move. She drums through the comics covered with dust, her eyes roaming through the first page three times. Finally, it was ready.

When she came back, Anton was already gone. His dish, cup and utensils was washed and dried beside their employer’s.

It was a cold morning, like every other morning. She looks through the window, as the sun was dying its orange hues and in quick movement, Lani hurls her whole body on the kitchen sink.

The room felt cold. She laid there, the four bodies still not with her. There would be no quick bath today. She takes off the towel from the hanger and brings the hanger instead. The floor creaked as it always did, her slippers neatly placed beside each other as she enters the bathroom door. She closed her eyes. Anton was there with her. She opens her legs and bites her lips, fighting back her moans, the hanger’s steel rod so cold in her hand. Anton was entering her, in and out, until blood soaks the dirty rags on her feet. The heartbeat had stopped at last. When she looked down, beads of sweat joins the blood where a thick clot lay there on the floor. She cups it with her hands, laying it on her breast. Her baby. Anton looks down at the loving picture, and he disappears. There were screams of joy in the air as Nang Richel sees the proud mother. A smile crosses Lani’s face before she sleeps, the baby safe in her chest. She had been meant for childrearing after all. Mama would be so proud.

Skipping Home

Ever since anyone could remember, Minda has always walked herself home. Between the soles of her feet lay a heavy layer of sweat and dirt as she walks the two blocks to her everyday destination. On the way she thinks of the long haul of the evenings when her grandmother would nag everyday trivialities like unkempt socks and high electricity bills. She would look ahead and never at anyone, once in a while catching a glimpse of motion at the corner of her eye. She is tempted to look but something stops her. Tiredness or indifference perhaps. No one really knows.

  

Instead Minda focuses on the long gravelly road ahead where she glides left or right whenever met with a passerby opposite her. When she blinks long enough, sometimes she could see the greenness of the lawns and the ups and downs of buildings. Otherwise the staring contest resumes in her mind. And she trods like a blindfolded horse guided by an invisible kutsero.

 

Once in the summer when the leaves were dry enough to be crunched and the unrelenting sun seemed to be enjoying himself did she remember that she had once been happy. Usually the walk would take Minda fifteen whole minutes, she had calculatingly timed it before, but during that particular summer’s day it had only taken her nine.

 Like all the other students in their uniforms, she was always sifting her shoulders with the uncomfort of leftover starch and time. It had never grown on her like it did all the other girls. When she allowed herself to see, really see, she would look at the others who still looked liked models even when garbed with all that blinding polyester and cotton. Then she would look down at her own. A button was missing at the very end of her blouse.

 

In her mind’s eye, she could see herself guided by a line that was a less glamorous version of Dorothy’s yellow bricks. Surely no one walked the way she did nowadays, striding, bouncing really, tiptoeing on the wide flatness of her manicured toenails. Her high school friends had made fun of the way she walked before. They had pointed out how she unusually strides with the pressure on the front of her feet, giving the illusion of someone who is about to jump from a diving board, falling then rewinding the stance all over again. Bouncy, they had called it, almost as if on euphoric mode all the time. Now, in remembrance, she levels down to the ground and shifts her weight in balance, dragging her feet and her already thinning soles.

Because their place had neglected the convenience of sidewalks, Minda and all the other passersby would bob up and down like piano keys on the hands of a master. Up. Down. Up. Down. The unevenness of the house entrances with its wide variety of heights and textures humming on the edges of the whizzing cars. It was beautiful to look at, really, if only because it is only then that Minda ever breaks the monotony of her steps. She looks at each one of those cars, their backs turned towards her, snubbing her existence. It doesn’t matter to her what color they were. All she could see are blurs, leaving dust and wind, framing her hair into her face. She shivers. There was silence still, even when Minda is faced with the chitchats of a group of construction workers and security guards who strolled back and forth. 

The village gardener would greet her once in a while when he would look up just in time from his weeding or planting. She had asked for his name several times, mostly from her grandmother, but always, when she is ready to say it, it sticks to the upper grids of her mouth while her tongue traces its outline only to be broken into pieces. Minda had already predicted the“Good Afternoon” he cheerfully calls out to her week after week, month after month. “Good Afternoon, Nong”, establishing a tone born from familiarity would be her reply. It was by then that she would be forced to put on a smile to reinforce the greeting. Everyone never seemed to be content with just the latter.

When he isn’t doing his usual chores, Minda would often see the village gardener towing a bike with chipped red paint and a squeaking attached cart. His kids would be there, two perfectly naïve little children who were still at the age where little indication could be seen whether they’d look like their father or not. One, whose hair was upturned in one way and spiky the other way, was pushing at the back as if he seemed to be enjoying it, the other would be looking back at his brother, beaming while he sits comfortably on the wooden seat. This one, Minda thought, would surely grow up to be the manager of the family. She didn’t have the heart to say slacker.

Emerald City, she would think to herself every time the gates of her home gobble her up. Minda lived in an odd-shaped house architectural books would have a hard time describing. In the garden, patches of brown and greens stood out in what was supposedly the lawn. The plants were free to roam about wherever they chose, and in strategic places stink bombs were left by the family pet. Rubbles of adobe would disturb Minda’s path from the cracked edges of their driveway. Emerald City. She feels stillness in the air although small creaks and sighs travel through it. She closes the gate in one pulling motion and lets the annoying sound of its unoiled hinge run through her for just one more minute.

The house was livable. It had seen many coming-ins and going-ons ever since it was built thirty years ago. Some would refer to it as ‘character’. In the table, Minda spots the familiar plastic containers, which contained leftovers from breakfast and lunch. It was ultimately to be her supper, cold rice, pork chops, scrambled eggs and processed corn beef. Lizards scampered about, running their flat stomachs on the torn plastic tablecloth before disappearing under the unused oven beside the table. Minda grabs a cut of pork chop, which she nibbles before leaving the dim kitchen, dropping her bag on the adjoining dining room table. On the far end of the right hall, she sees a light under the door crack and slippers disheveled on the white floor. She licks the last of the chops in her fingers before turning left.

The blinds in the room were slightly open, remnants of the afternoon sun pushing through. In the semi-darkness of the room, Minda flops on the bed with the pink comforter. She breathes deeply into its fabric. It no longer had the scent of her mother although the room was still very much hers. These days though, more of Minda’s things were peppered on the dressers and adjoining closets, a deodorant here, Minda’s age-old rubber shoes there. Since six summers ago, her mother has been dividing her time between staying here and with the family business at the other island, about 8 hours by boat. By the end of the first summer though, traveling took its toll on her will, and the visits became less and less. Minda feels guilty for not missing her as much as she should, although she says she does every time her mother asks.

She let’s her mind drift for a while before spotting the figure at the door. Mamita, her grandmother was standing in her housedress.

“Your cousin didn’t attend school again today.”

Minda stares at the glow-in-the-darks at the ceiling.

“He’s been hanging out with Jun again. If that kid’s not careful, he might turn into a pothead just like him”

“How do you know Jun’s a pothead? He looks fine to me.”

“His mother. She asked me to pray for Jun. Says he’s been stealing things from their house again.”

“Oh.”

Minda wonders how glow-in-the-darks could still glow without the lights on. She looks at her grandmother with a prayer book in her hand.

“Maybe you should talk to him. He listens to you.”

The figure on the bed shrugs and hopes it was enough answer for Mamita. Apparently it was. Mamita plops up the bed, giving Minda’s leg a final squeeze before entering the hallway, starting another prayer under her breath.

The steel gates of Emerald city felt cold against her back. She was staring through space wondering what to say to her cousin. The air was misty, tasting of gray. Minda hugs her legs and tucks her chin, watching the village gardener pass by, his red bike in tow. She stares and stares, her feet getting restless and drumming themselves on the cracked driveway. The gutter where canal water and recent spit ebb through have now turned to pristine liquid. She dips a finger in and a reflection of a sunshine city ripples in response.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Minda nods and feels the smile from the voice beside her.

“It’s not far away, you know.”

“How far?”

“However far you want it to be.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“What does make sense? Miles? Kilometers? Time?”

“Could be.”

They stay quiet for a moment. Minda looks at the child in a white balloon dress, a bonnet in hand and primitive slips that fell to her knees. How strange, Minda thought, she would’ve looked so out of place except she looked so right, sitting there.

“How far is it from where your mom is?”

“About six hundred kilometers.”

“It’s not that far. Come on. I’ll take you there.”

The air has grown more somber and when Minda dipped her tongue in the water, it tasted of the unkempt socks Mamita always scolded her about.

“I can’t.”

She dipped her head lower on her elbows. The child was tugging at her hem.

“I can’t”

“But why?”

“Because I can’t walk on forever.”

There was a soft laugh in reply as the child massaged Minda’s calluses, running her hand back and forth its scaly texture.

“Well of course you can’t, silly. You’ll be skipping there.”

Minda is now confused.

“How long has it been since you last skipped, Min? You used to love it when you were a kid. You and me both.” the breathy child’s voice puts in.

She falls silent and lets Minda swim in her own thoughts.

“I don’t know. It’s just one of those things you outgrow.”

“Like what?”

“What’s what?”

“Well, what other things did you outgrow?”

“You.”

The child looks at her reflection in Minda’s irises.

“Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Yes. But I really do wish you’d leave me alone.”

“You are alone, Min.”

“I know.”

She had been a child herself when this visitor of hers had once appeared. They had built their very own yellow brick road with limestones and crushed sunflower petals. Now, as Minda recalls, she had gone the same time her mother had.

“You miss her.” she says.

Minda is still.

“She works hard for you, you know. You should be proud.”

“I am.”

“It isn’t your fault things turned out the way it did.”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t your fault you asked them to drive you home that day either. Even your dad doesn’t blame you. He’s happy, Min ”

How perfectly quaint to talk about the accident this way. Minda turns towards her small visitor eerily.

“He’s happy because he’s dead.”

Minda starts to stand up, thinking of Mamita’s voice calling her soon.

“Come on. I’ll take you to her.”

There was an awkward first step on Minda’s part as she looks unsurely at the extended hand. The child walks to the center of the yellow brick road and slowly, as if by some internal chant, she starts to skip away. Away from Emerald City.

Her clacking feet stops just enough for Minda to catch on. Again, she extends her hand.

“Let’s go.”

The child was striding, bouncing, tiptoeing with the pressure on the front of her feet. She was about to jump from a diving board, falling then rewinding the stance all over again. Again and again she does this until she is halfway down the path away from Minda.

In the distance, as far as Minda’s eyes could see, she spots the familiar red bike. The village gardener is calling out to her. In the cart, her mother sits on the wooden plank, her legs crossed and her body twisted, looking straight towards her. Her eyes pierce Minda lovingly, beckoning.

Her feet start to walk, seeing nothing else but the distance and her mother’s scent, so strong it almost pulls her. She turns her back, her head sloping downwards. She looks at the calluses, hopping first on one foot, the flat side of the foot balancing her, shifting to the other then back again. Desperately, she relearns how to skip.

Minda looks back at the solitary figure almost halfway to the mountain. The child resumes her own way, her back away from Minda. She skips to an invisible source of music that is clearly hers alone.

Wait, Minda thinks. She hugs her legs, willing them to move, be restless as she tries again. But she loses her balance, her toes folded by the pressure.

“Wait. Please wait.”

The child feels the palm of Minda’s hand, warm. She laces their fingers together and takes Minda to the center; the bricks cool under her soles. Slowly, they start to hop, side by side, their heads bobbing up and down like piano keys in the hand of a master.

She looks further up the distance where her mother and father were waiting, their arms grasping the air in front of their chest, hugging her even before she reached them. They reach closer and closer as Minda looks down her own feet. The voice beside her laughs a bell of crystal, and Minda laughs with her. Dorothy lets go of her hand as they skip side by side, their legs pumping in perfect unison. They brush high in the air, Dorothy’s dress catching the wind and flying to Minda’s side. They land in a thud and pump higher each time. She can hear the music now, the mountains passing, blurring, and the features of the red bike, chipped and beautiful in her eyes. At last, at long last, Minda is finally skipping home. 

Hey Guys! This is a story I've been working on for two whole days now. Tell me what you think. It's a little hard to understand. Thanks. I'd appreciate comments if you have the time.

Price Mark Down on Audacity

This afternoon, despite pouring cats and dogs and all the other animals the race has to offer, I barged on to my nearest Ukay-Ukay haven and found the cutest bolero made in the history of man. It is a silent rule to the UK association, a secret society of all Fine Arts affiliates, never to reveal whether their clothes are from Ukay-Ukays or not. However, I, on several occasions decided to break that rule because no. 1: I am not disturbed by the fact that some of my clothes are from thrift shops, no. 2: I take a sense of pride assembling decent enough ensembles with 40 pesos in tow ,No. 3: somehow roaming in department stores doesn’t give enough satisfaction as finding a really cute top from haphazards that smell like mothballs and pesticides and finally, I’m assured of uniqueness. Every time I scrounge on the streets of Colon, I am always met with cynicism. Tinderas seem to have a secret grudge on me because they never seem to bite on my haggling skills. If there is a history of my lolo’s lolos stealing their neighbor’s lola’s nephew’s chickens, then please tell me now. Such things like rat-pattied burgers would’ve been understandable.

 

But there is one tindera, Nang Betty (her name reminds me of prostitute nurses from Gray’s Anatomy), who seem to have taken me close to her heart and once in a while would let me bring down the price 5 to10 pesos lower. Whether it’s because she’s taking pity on my pathetic attempts to haggle or the fact that she has only one eye, Nang Betty leaves me with a smile on my face. Recently, she has also become my lab rat in experiments to finding right haggling techniques. Once I resorted to call her ‘miga’ and her brother ‘gwapo’. At that time, it seemed easy enough and everyone was doing it. Of course, she just saw right through me. Her usual poker face gave way to a surfacing smile as she politely told me my finds were worth 200 freaking bucks! Darn transparency! After that, it was back to the usual Nang Betty.

 

Experiment no. 2 was the tough act technique. A friend once told me that as long as one stood their ground and set a steady price, the tinderas would fall bait and discount here we come! So that’s what I did. Giving Nang Betty my puppy-eyed, glazed look, I told her ‘Nang, 30 nalang ni!’. Of course, being the professional that she is, she steadily replied how all prices were set. ‘Singkwinta man jud na sya,day’. Not one to be fazed easily, I justified how I could and would buy more if only she brought down the price. Me: Sige na, Nang, daghan bitaw ko’g paliton. I continued to flip here and there so she’d have reasonable time to think about my offer. After all, isn’t that what ethical businesswomen do? Come paying time, I gave her one last grin and assertedly pulled out a 100 and 20 peso bill. ‘Di traynta na ang usa, Nang, ha?’. I handed her the balled up bills and waited for her reply. ‘Day, kasab-an man gud mi ni ma’m kung amo ipa.ubos and prisyo. Kami ang makabayad nya makwaan ni gikan sa among swildo. Gamay ra baya kayo amo swildo diri. Tindira ra baya ko.’, Nang Betty gave me a steady gaze as she flattened out Quezon’s face and whoever it is that’s in the purple 100. Oh God. Here it comes. That feeling that starts in the back of your throat. Guilt. Pure, heart retching guilt. It was inevitable as I lowered my face and proceeded to fish out more bucks in my pocket. She gave me a beam that resembled the Virgin Mary’s as she handed me a bundled plastic bag. How could anyone stay tough to that?

 

My recent experiment was the ‘Too-poor-to pay’ look. With nothing but my white shirt, the plainest shorts I could find and my Toeberry slippers, I trotted on with a bit of shyness on my steps as I rummaged through piles of garments. Attacking the streets of Colon with just my flip-flops and spit in every corner was plain disgusting. But for the sake of reasonable prices, I decided to push through with it. The other tinderos and tinderas seemed to buy the act, and my finds were down to 40 pesos. I was happy. I was beaming. I was gaining confidence. That was before I found out our helper to whom I taught where all the best Ukay-Ukays were got her stash for 20 damn pesos from the same people! Traitors! But Nang Betty, God bless her one-eyed soul, was just her usual self with her usual 10 peso standard for discounts. Sometimes I wish tinderas were like politicians who could just be bribed. Then I could trot on with sopas and the cheapest Jollibee Twirly Cone for my favorite Nang Betty.

 

Of course, this blog has got me all the more confused and twisted now. What was the point of haggling something that’s about 1/8 the price of my usual purchases anyway? I mean, wasn’t I saving anyhow? After all, were I a normal person (which I’m not), I would’ve just flocked with all the other stereotypes to the mall where I’d buy the same shirt as 40 other people would. Are we really just natural hagglers? If people buy blood, would they haggle doctors for it too? (Stream of consciousness: Doc, Uska gatos nalang nang pakete beh. Naa na bitaw nay HIV. Namaligya pa jud ko ug dinuguan.. Ilisan tika’g uska pack para ana.Di ra bitaw mailhan’)

 

I guess we are. Natural Hagglers, I mean. For some reason, there’s always fulfillment in bringing the price down no matter how cheap to begin with. Blame it on intuition or on present economy. But when you come to think about it, Nang Betty, like all other tinderas, are really just earning a living. Plus, there’s competition to think about. It’s not like these people are selling something especially unique like virginity restorizers or self-solving Rubix cubes.

 

So with one last tearful bid to my former self, I will willingly chant my new mantra: I will not haggle anymore. I will not haggle anymore…I will not..I will…I will cook sopas for Nang Betty!

 

For recommended psychiatric advice, call Hagglers Anonymous at 555-2131. Call now for the ten-day 2 for 1 shrink consultation offer. We’ll even throw in the Sushi kitchen knife set, the self-inflating rubber duckie and a lifetime supply of Prozac.

 

Offer is limited to areas where Jonggai is.

Toast to Eve

Several times a day I catch myself thinking: Had I been happier if I were a guy?

 

Would shopping be simpler? Would there be less hearts broken? Would there be less spit in the sidewalks? One less toilet left opened? Or one less avid whistler for every time someone who resembles a girl walks by?

 

The thing is, I find myself brewing the idea how more sensitive the alpha male would be had I been one myself. If I were, I’d tell them how crappy it is to be chosen before having the right to choose, how sometimes being ‘one of the guys’ is much more insulting than being joked about for hitting like ‘a girl’, how even feminists need to have doors opened once in a while and how women say things they don’t mean and mean things they don’t say; that ‘I’m okay’ is just a defense mechanism and ‘I love you too’ is second best to ‘I love you.’

 

If I were a guy I’d make love to someone and not just screw, realize that sometimes people need beautiful lies than painful truths, eat like there’s actually still a tomorrow, appreciate how difficult it is to wear heels, cry just because. And remember to take premenstrual syndrome as a valid excuse for anything.

 

No. This isn’t just another feminist libertine speaking nor is this a spat to any Y- chromosomed being. God knows guys should be given credit too. I’m glad I’ll never have to experience the awkwardness of peeing next to someone, in a standing position at that. But then again, maybe it is. Maybe the only option right now so as not to get beat is to join. It’s probably just bruised ego talking. Or the fact that, somehow, the world has a history of being cruel to someone with a triangle instead of a stick, if you know what I mean.

 

But then again, as I’m writing this, I start to think just how much I could do, or change, or be if I were a man. Would my individuality be as cherished? Would my need to prove others wrong be just as strong? Would I be just as crazy? The latter of which is extremely important because after all, no sane woman has ever been remembered in history for being, well, sane. Would I be less lonely? Less happy? Less Moody? Less free?

I’d be less. Because then I wouldn’t be me.

Above all, that’s what I cherish: the right to be me, regardless of gender.

If I were a man and not a woman, I’d be memorizing basketball stats instead of my monthly cycle; I’d know the difference between a 1946 and 1952 Jaguar instead of knowing the difference between fuchsia and pink; I’d spend all my free doe on computer time instead of clothes. I’d know what FIFA would stand for and memorize all of David Beckham’s teams from here til yonder. I’d watch butts instead of faces and speed up instead of slowing down------ In other words, I’d be considered as the gayest man alive because in no way do I have or ever will have the intention of knowing those things in this lifetime.

No Thanks.

 

Id’ much rather be the bigger man in this picture by being the bigger woman.

Remind me to stop blogging.

People don’t realize how terribly exhausting it is to be faced with an empty sheet of paper and thoughts jumbled in your head. What if there’s nothing original to say? Or nothing significant? What if writing is just a mix of rats following broken pied pipers or a generic flyer about synthetic carburetors and pine- flavored lubricants? I wish I were one of those people in movies where voiceovers are being dubbed while their thoughts lie for everyone to just listen to. I can’t do that. Because the world doesn’t work that way. And if it does, I’d just be wishing that it would be the other way around.

 

Some people think writing is therapy. Writing is, dare we say it, fun. But if that were true, how come every time I write on the back of cardboard boxes and wrapping papers, nothing comes out? Just a sense of nostalgia of what used to be. What is wrong with me? I can’t talk. I can’t write. I can’t. Exhaustion is a stab in the back. It’s just there. Hugging with viselike grips in subsequent rushes of power.

Sometimes I wish angst and schizophrenia would just bite me already, then I’d have something significant to write. That if I were a slasher or a druggie or too clingy, I’d have something to say. Something. Something intellectual. Something grotesque. Something deep enough for people to just read. But No. My Life is perfect. Love is my happy pill. And suburbia is my home. If it were any other way, the keyboard would be clacking away right now.

 

Come to think of it, it’s only the craziest of people who’d think their lives were perfect. Because that’s when they realize that something is missing after all. But if a body was already missing a foot from birth, how could it realize that something’s missing at all? They just become used to it really. Why do people always talk in metaphors and allusions like what I’m doing now? Why can’t they just say that it’s them? Like a kid talking to the parent and starting with ‘Okay, I have this friend see…’. Please. Don’t be so obvious. God. There goes another allusion.

 

I wonder if the Phoenicians knew just how powerful the Alphabet would be, if they’d still want to take credit for inventing it or would they have had invented it in the first place? How can someone know if the mixes of the Alphabets that make up sentences is art or shit? As far as I’m concerned, there’s the thinnest of boundaries in between. Sort of like my receding hairline.

 

I’d better set a memo in the palm of my hand to not fool myself. But reality is just subjective really. Sometime in my dreams, I had the impression that Oprah was talking to me in vernacular and the conversation went like this:

<O> Ni.ana sila nangiti ka ug ink?

<Me> Mao bitaw. Akong tae kay ink kay sige man kog sulat.

<O> Bitaw? Di daghan kayog tao magpalibang para magpa.refill

ug bolpen?

It doesn’t take a Freudian fanatic to analyze that. Then again, the analysis of the dream is probably just obvious to me. Oh God. Somebody sedate me. Am I making shit or art?