Love? What Love?
For you and I, there is only Survival. About time
you woke up from your dream.

Takut-Takut

That you should get back at me. Or I at you. Was it 1995 when I went there with Mimi? The stench of sepsis permeating the air. I could not think right. My migraine wouldn’t leave me for days on end that Mimi had to invent a medical excuse just so I could go back to Zamboanga and get some clean air.

What I felt then was fury. And I wrote Jim, the comrade I once knew and who was with me when I went to Jolo in 1986. Your friend Fatima’s dearly beloved Bangsamoro revolution has come to this, Jim, I had said, a shitload of garbage and human excrement that stinks to dear Heavens. The rest was relief: that I was forever out of it, Bangsamoro revolution, shitloads and all.

But like what poet-bum Viktor said, I’m a peripatetic. I keep on coming back for more of things long lost to me. Like Jolo. Which should be my first sight of revolution. The camp that warmly welcomed us was an armory of weapons, something I cannot say of the other revolution I got to know later where I was made to carry a .20 shotgun among a squad of ill-equipped dog-howled sniggering combatants. I felt like turning on my heel, to shoot birds, and leave the hukbos alone to do their guerilla warfare without me. Which they of course did, much much later, except that I didn’t take to shooting birds.

Nineteen-eighty-six was when I first set foot on the island. We went to Maimbung, Indanan and Patikul. The walls of the ruined mosques, edifices of the 1972 bombings, accused: Moros, not Filipinos! I was one and twenty then. No. One and twenty-two. I walked fast, thought slow. Rolling hills is all I recall of the terrain. Then we climbed a steep incline. Reaching the top and resting on a huge rock, our host, Fatima, would tell me that we were standing on what used to be seat of the Sultanate of Sulu, and that the rocks were hauled up all the way from the riverbed below by the sultan’s slaves to make a fortress. As I said, I was young and credulity was my strongest point. You couldn’t hear me arguing against anything you knew about the universe, much less about riverbeds drying and earth rising. And I wasn’t overly conscious then. My world so narrow I romanced everything I knew next to nothing about. I was also so earnest you couldn’t hear me laughing about floods and people drowning twin towers toppling.

Fast forward to 2011 and I’m back to where I first made the first cut. The people I used to know are no longer there. They have gone over to the other side, occupying the seats they once wanted to overthrow. It’s still the old town I used to know, only, none of the backdrop countryside romance. Dashed hopes, armies in disarray, corrupted one way or the other. Hungry people savage in their demands, shameless in their despair.

My luck that I had been properly warned, aptly armed.

Catholic doctrine, Flannery O’Connor: The Kingdom of Heaven is a violent one, and only the violent will bear it away.

There goes my love

Oh, my life for the moment?

Nothing romantic here. Just plain old class love.

And there goes my Maggie. Slinking away like she didn’t want to be held down by conversation dialogue lecture. Keep on raving, she messaged me. Not quite like L. who makes a fortress of Herself and keeps herself in, a form of apologia pro vita.

My heart goes out of me to see them over. May they live, the both of them, and not die wearing three-piece suits smelling of naphthalene balls.

my friends my foes

They're retailing their country piece after piece. Now it's for board and lodgings. Calling it drop-in center. Cadre support, No. Work No. They will shoot you down whatever you do. Not because you do wrong but because you are doing things they know they should be doing, only that they're too beat to even try. So they tell you, You kidnapped the kids, you divide the race.

Noong minsan

Nung minsan, umalis ako sa amin, pumunta ng pulo, sumama sa auntie ko, hindi alam ng tatay ko. Alam lang ng nanay ko. Nasa laot na ako nang magpaalam sa nanay ko. Akala ng nanay ko, hindi uuwi ang tatay ko.

Biglang dumating ang tatay ko. Na-surprise, naghanap sa akin. Nasaan na si Merilyn? Hindi sila nakasabi ng totoo. Sabi ng kapatid ko, Waypa muwi, Amah. Hindi pa umuuwi, laung niya, galing sa town. Sabi ng tatay ko, miyatay, sige lang, antayin ko muna siya bago ako kumain. Tapos, hinintay ako ng tatay ko, matagal. Hanggang gabi. Tapos, sabi ng tatay ko, Saan ba talaga nagpunta? Samahan mo ako, puntahan natin. Sabi ng kapatid ko, hindi ko alam, laung niya, kung saan yun siya banda. Yung nanay ko, hindi na niya talaga matiis, sinabi niya yung totoo. Pagkasabi niya, nagalit ang tatay ko, nagwala. Sabi niya, patayin ko kayo, ilabas nyo ang anak ko! Pag hindi pa nakauwi hanggang bukas, papatayin ko kayo, susunugin ko ang bahay na ito!

Tapos, tumawag sa akin. Sabi sa mga Auntie ko, pag hindi nakabalik yang anak ko hanggang bukas, papatayin ko ang kapatid ninyo. Ang asawa ba niya. Tapos, nakipag-usap siya sa akin.

Sabi ko, Hello? Laung niya, ano ang gusto mo, pag-uwi mo dito patay na ang nanay mo? O uuwi ka ngayon din? Umuwi ako kaagad. Mamamatay yung nanay ko. Mas gustuhin ko pa na tatay ko ang mamamatay kesa nanay ko.


(an excerpt from an interview)

Everyone has a stake at royalty. I very recently discovered Royalty at Takut-Takut, that garbage dump where, to quote a dreaded poet-aristocrat's line, my kind breeds like rats. He happened to be a prince, maybe a little god. And I'm buckling, because in history's configuration, if I dare configure, he will make a slave out of me, if I wasn't already.

Already, he made me clean the latrine and then fired me.

They call us kids

They call us kids.
All the time.
We're chameleons.
We change names.
We change looks.
We age.
Then are young again.
We have only our lives to commerce.
For your purchase.

Anyone with enough ambition to create and not to take away is someone who deserves respect. There are those who are better at it than others. There are some who have severely large amounts of enthusiasm who are prolific as hell, spewing out a million products a year. Year products. Ten percent good 90 percent crap.

Then there are those who spend years studying other peoples’ works because they don’t have a chance in Hell to produce anything with a hint of talent. Yeah talent. But like I said no one should be denied the privilege to create and some people most certainly do not need the fear of whether their goods are better or worse than the Best or Worse. They can find out for themselves.

Kurdt Cobain

We had been there all along had we not? At least in the last decade when, with our consent and silences and active collaboration we invaded their fiefdoms bringing with us our best intentions which we all jammed down their throats

yeah talent

Grass is greener over here

Bruises on the fruit
Tender age in bloom

Grass is greener over here
Leads to burning bridges clear
Reinventing what we knew
I can’t wait until I’m sued

You’re the reason I feel pain
It feels so good to feel again

Feeling so sedate think I’ll just give in
I got so high that I scratched till I bled
It’s safe to say don’t quote me or that

It is time now to make it unclear
To write off lines that don’t make sense

I am neutered and spayed
I’m on a plain I can’t complain
Concerned advice
Pre-packaged corporate rebellion
It’s so relieving to know that you’re leaving as soon as you get paid


Tar pit trap

Kurdt Cobain, real estate, and puppets fucking

Culture Review:

"The movies were typical gore slash shit along with puppets fucking, oh and the psychic TV-like effect of ARTY subjects turning and floating in a meaningful surrealistic sense. bullshit. it was like watching a real estate seminar, but it set a nice background for my MTV direction towards god. God. God. God. I’m crosslegged, Rosary to the left of me, Bible to the right, here I am stuck in the middle with you. Stuck in the middle with you…

God only knows there’s no facts to be learned about all these worthless ripoff nostalgic bands of the 80s.

clinging to existence about my life as a professional reminiscent my memory is already SHOT, from too much POT

acid wash pants and jackets so many yrs advanced in the art of shopping and sipping café au lait matching outfits from the luxury of selection Watch out for the leaflets & flyers on your windshield informing you where to acquire a credit.

I’m happy for you. Pls reproduce. We’re doing all we can over here as well.
Prepare yourself for the full search as you enter back through the border
cheap way to get an immediate laugh

surrender or face hours of torture through cliché onwards, puns in relation to everyday objects

I’M SO UGLY BUT THAT’S OKAY ‘CAUSE SO ARE YOU!
I'M A DYSLEXIC IDIOT SAVANT WITH BAD HEARING LOAD UP ON GUNS AND BRING YOUR FRIENDS THE SECRET HAND SHAKES PRETEND

We can say have some more
Nature is a whore

Pagkatapos ng workshop

Si Nadz, sa unang araw pa lang ng training-workshop, nagpaalam na. Na siya ay hindi sasabay sa mga uuwi pabalik ng Jolo sa susunod na gabi, magpapaiwan siya sa Zamboanga, sa bahay ng kapatid na babae na naghahanapbuhay dito (nagtitinda ng banana cue), para maghanapbuhay rin ng ilang araw (magbabantay ng mga sasakyan ng mga papasok sa mga bars at diskohan). Umaga sa Girls Quarters ng Youth Hostel ng PNRC Zamboanga, nagronda na si Tu Tia (espanyol ng Kah Sheh), "Uy, yung mga ayaw umuwi, yung mga gusto muna mag-agogo dancer, mag-waitress, magprosti ng ilang araw, magsabi na, habang nandun pa sa ibaba si Jo at di pa nakaalis para bilhan kayo ng inyong mga tiket!"

Walang nagtaas ng kamay. Sa disisiete na sumakay ng barko galing Jolo pa-Zamboanga, minus kay Nadz at saka kay Tu Tia, ang kinse ay uuwi lahat pabalik sa pinanggalingan. Aba, ang babait ng mga anak ng tinalupan, uuwi silang lahat as scheduled?

Magtatanghali at tapos na ang sesyon, pati photo op at mga gudbay ceremonies, naipamudmod na ni Jo ang mga tiket ng bawat isa, pati na ang four hundred and twenty na katumbas ng pamasahe ng isang tao pa-Jolo ni Nadz, enter Vaness, Merz at isa pang mokong (si Coms yata, na may kapatid rin sa Zambo): Hindi raw sila muna uuwi, tira raw muna sila kay Nadz ng isang gabi. Talaga, ha. Ang bahay ng kapatid ni Nadz ay medyo wala walang kuryente at doon sila magsusumiksik makitira? Ano ang kanilang plataforma.

Pinarefund ang mga tiket nila.

E di nagka-cash sila. Yayamang walang per diem hah.

Buong hapon na nangawala at nang bumalik alas singko, ang iba me nabiling relos na dilaw na plastic, ang iba singsing na gawa sa lata, at ang iba ay hindi ko na inalam. Kung kanino ipapaalam siya ring uutangan.

Habang ang iba busy sa pag-iimpake, at ang iba pa ay isa-isa nang nagsialisan papuntang pantalan, heto si Vaness, nakaupo sa katabing higaan, mata sa bandang paanan, explaining at explicating. Kulang na raw ang pambayad nila sa barko. Si El Presidente Jovene, sa bandang likuran, mamata-mata.

Ang totoo, gusto kong tumawa. Si Kah Hulma ay galit na lumayas nang hindi man lang nagpasalamat, ni hindi sinagot ang tanong ko, kung siya ba ay kumain na o ano, tapos heto ang mga tinamaan ng lintek, at jajamingin na naman kami after enjoying their shopping at window-shopping rights on a cancelled ticket na ngayon ay kelangang i-repurchase.

“Mag-unu kami, Vaness? Magdagang bilat a kapitan sin kappal?” Punch in si Jo.

“Kulang na ang pamasahe namin, hindi na kami makauwi.” Kapag si Vaness in distress, she looks every inch in distress, heartbreaker po talaga.

“Na sige na, kausapin nyo ang kapitan ng barko, mag-service muna kami ni Jo, makatawid lang kayo pa-Jolo.Buti sana kung type kami nun, mas type kayo nun!”

Si Merz sa likuran na kanina ay feigning concern, feigning seriousness, napangisi.

Si Vaness maiiyak na.

Sabi nga ni Anj, “We love your kids!” Pakiramdam ko nag-Mother of the Year awardee uli ako. Kung alam lang nila.

Ang totoo, feeling ko, na feeling ko lagi, I could have done more. Na puwede ring unawain as, I could have done worse. Pero siguro, siguro nga, gaya ng lagi kong sinasabi sa sarili ko, bilang pakonsuwelo de bobo dahil bobo naman talaga ako, the meagerness, the poverty, the unaccomplishment, is what made all the difference. Kasi kung hindi, baka nga matagal na akong itinapon sa dagat.

Hindi ganito ang ideya ko ng pagoorganisa. Ni wala talaga akong balak magorganisa ng mga lesbiana sa Jolo. Mga kaibigan ko nga na ngayon ay nasa Caritas na, o sa Asian Women Bureau na, aghast. Por dios por santo, anila, bakit hindi sa CDO, o sa Manila, o kahit sa Cebu, mag-LGBT rights campaign ka lang din, of all places at of all dako ng kabihasnan, bakit sa Jolo pa bakiiiit???

Hindi ko masabi sa kanila ang totoo. That I love the craziness of it. And that I’m doing it maybe because exactly of the impossibility of it.

“Are they well-off?”, ani Fechi. Naka-dressed to kill kasi si Merz. Natural, mangibang bansa kaya sila, magpa-Zamboanga Hermosa, e di nagpa-handsome, naghiraman pa, showdown talaga. Kahit naman sa Jolo, pag me party, o kanduli, papahandsome talaga ang mga leche. Invest nang invest on pleasure and good looks, hedonists of the highest order. Maybe to fetch well-off girls, or maybe, counterpoint to so much poverty, to so much pain.

Si Ridz, halimbawa, na days back iika-ika, nakawhite polo shirt, bagong pair of blue jeans at white imitation rubber shoes.

“Ba’t ka nakasapatos, yung sugat mo!” Ayaw aminin na nakuha niya sa pagtakbo habang naglalako ng shabu. Nahulog raw siya sa pantan. E di nahulog.

“E, sabi ni Merz, e, eto daw isuot ko.”

Sa barko pa lang patulak ng Zambo nag-order na sa akin. “Kah Sheh, wala akong dalang brief, penge namang pambili ng brief, o.”

The night after and an hour before departure time, “O. Nakabili ka ng brief mo?”
“Hindi nga e.”

"Di bale na. May naka-MU ka naman sa Paseo del Mar."

Hindi ko na tinanong kung nang ligawan niya yun kagabi, binaliktad ba niya ang brief niya, o wala siyang suot na brief?

“Pero peks man, ang guapo-guapo mo talaga ngayon. Nakakainlove.”

“Oo. Bagay na kayo.”

Love ko talaga si Vaness kapag sumabad, in line! Pati ka-MU nga niya minumura ako sa text, bat daw ako hanap nang hanap kay Vaness.

“Kasi akala niya girlfriend kita.”

“Sana sinabi mong hindi, na love lang talaga kita wala kang magawa.”

“I love you more.”

Ganyan si Vaness. Ayaw magpatawad. Pulot dito, pulot doon ng ingles.

“I love you, Vaness.”

“I love you so much.”

Di ka mawewendang niyan?

Pero ang mas nakawewendang, peks man, si Merz.

Ewan ko kung kagagawan ng Rainbow Rights training, pero imagine Merz transmorphing into a girl? Parang gusto kong magsulat ng dula: Ang Pagdadalaga ni Merz Jamad. Ang tagal sa shower, mas matagal nagbihis. One full hour yata before departure time, girdle, underwear, sanitary napkin, baby powder, lotion. Me papasyal-pasyal pa around the ward nang nakatapis ng malong to socialize. Pati si Jo ay nawerla. “Naunu na in subul ini?!?!?”

Macho supremo kaya ang self-packaging ni Merz. Kahit naglalakad sa sahig-higaan o sa taytayan, tikas ang tayo nun, sure ang hakbang, at tiim lagi ang bagang. Wag mong masagi at baka susuklian ka ng straight cut to the jaw. Ang mahal pa ng ngiti. Pasalamat ka kung matingnan ka. Fazed ako. Ang huling gusto kong maka-engkuwentro sa Jolo ay ang classic super-chauvinist Tausug macho. At si Merz, every inch going that way.

Tapos ngayon, heto: Bababa lang ng function room, akala mo magdedebut. May needle pins pa to pleat his polo back and sides, which he didn’t want hanging loose out of place, buti hindi tinusok ni Sheeba na ginawa niyang sastre cum yaya at fashionista.

Kanina sa diskursong SOGI, feminine daw siya, kasi nga hindi naman raw puwedeng habang buhay ay ganito tayo.

Ay ano tayo? Nag-alsa ang tinggil ko. Putanginang palaka, Merilyn, akala ko ba, kaya ka tomboy na basagulero dahil derstand mo what political status comes with masculinity? If I had to ram it down her throat I will, o bagsak lahat ng aking plataforma.

Masculine ka, Merz.

So at recess time, she corrected herself at naglodge ng motion for reconsideration kay Jo. Relay naman si Jo. Hindi raw yun totoo, Sheh, na hindi permanent ang pagkalesbian niya. Sinabi niya lang daw yun dahil nahihiya siya. Kasi nga hindi nila alam na puwede pala yun.

Dinner time, sit ang Merz sa bed ko. Kah Sheh, you’re the best talaga. Sabay cut in ng medyo naligaw sa tono na You came into my life…

Fasten your seatbelt. Don’t panic, Tu Tia.

Pa'no ko ba papaliwanag sa kanila na The house is on fire the firemen all dead

usaping intellectual intercourse

At kanina, pati si Karlo nang-alaska. Heterosexual ka pa rin yata, aniya. Hindi ako napatawad sa aking kawalang-pitagan na pangdudusta sa kanyang pagkadakilang anak ni Allah, at lalong di ako napatawad nang hindi ako humingi ng tawad sa mga nabitiwang di-namumuri na mga salita.

Excited ako na nagbalita sa kanya na nakatanggap ako ng sulat-pahiwatig mula sa dating kasama.

“Kinikilig ka pa rin o. Hetero ka pa rin yata e.”

Ganun ba yun?

“Hindi. Naghahanap ka lang yata ng intellectual intercourse e. Busy ako e. Gabundok na mga gawain, o.”

Shocked ako. Akala niya yata, dahil galing ako sa isla ng medyo siraulong Bangsamoro, wala akong naka-intellectual intercourse doon, dahil nga sa Manila lang nangyayari ang intellectual intercourse. Pag minsan, gusto kong mag-parrangsabil kay Karlo. Akala niya, intellectually attracted ako sa mga latay-burgis na kauri niya. Pa’no mo kaya i-explain sa mga overeducated na katulad niya na mas intellectually stimulating na kausap kaysa sa kanya si Ridz, si Mherz at si Khumz?

Si Ridz na disinuebe na magsasabi, Babae ang nagi-initiate, hindi kami. Sila ang unang nanghahalik, nangta-touch, tanggap lang kami. Si Mherz na disiotso, bansag na basagulero. Hindi naman sa ayaw namin ng Sama, hindi naman sa nagdi-discriminate kami sa Sama kung kaya puro kami Tausug sa barkada. Kaya lang siyempre pag ka nabubuhay sa kalsada, ang hirap kaya nung may isa sa hanay na ayaw ng gulo, na sa harap ng paparating na kaaway tatakbo.

Oo. Madi-demoralize at matatakot pati iyong lalaban sana, sang-ayon pa ni Ridz.

At Si Khumz na disisiete at Grade Four lang ang natapos at ayaw magkuwento ng tungkol sa buhay at sex life niya, the temerity para lektyuran ako.

Kahit anong gawin mo, babae ka pa rin.
Babae ako, Khumz?
Babae ka pa rin ba.
Hindi lesbian?
Babae. Lesbian.
Naman pala e. E, ikaw babae pa rin ang tingin mo sa sarili mo?
Hindi. Lesbian. Ngising aso.
E, sila Mherz at Sara, babae o lalaki ang tingin nila sa mga sarili nila?
Ewan ko sa kanila. Itanong mo kasi sa kanila.

Sister golden hair surprise

The games that they play. The games that we play!
Looks like I will not survive my first brush with the law of the glop.

And Mags said today, “But you are also playing games with their minds!” The point that I missed, since I didn't know that I really am the one who has the resources to be throwing dices.

"You have a career to look after, Sheilfa, you have so much to lose." When all the while I had been making so much of myself, believing I have only so much to give with none to lose.

You scare me, she said. Told her that I spoke to her girlfriend telling her I’m in love with her girlfriend.

“You have to take into account their emotional maturity in dealing with competition, what they can do to you. My God, you don’t know them!”

“They”, I wanted to tell her, is of my kind. Poor, gutterbred. Therefore, there was not much to know. And there was not much to fear. But of course, that is only my point of view. The “real” gutterbred think nothing of me. The real gutterbred think of me a bourgeois shithead trying to lay a dirty hand on their virgin souls.

“Don’t put yourself in a very vulnerable situation. This isn’t the love of your life, is it? You are just there for the adventure, I suppose?”

Damnshit. Would that I would just call it an itch.
But if they're getting themselves some experience, shouldn't I be glad I am of help?



26 december 2005

Beyond the Ash Rains

When the desert refused my history,
Refused to acknowledge that I had lived
there, with you, among a vanished tribe,

two, three thousand years ago, you parted
the dawn rain, its thicket monsoon curtains,

and beckoned me to the northern canyons.
There, among the red rocks, you lived.
I had still not learned the style of nomads

To walk between the rain drops to keep dry
Wet and cold, I spoke like a poor man,

Without irony. You showed me the relics
of our former life, proof that we’d at last
found each other, but in your arms I felt

singled out for lost. When you lit the fire
and poured the wine, “I am going,” I murmured,
repeatedly, “going where no one has been
and no one will be. Will you come with me?”
You took my hand and we walked through the streets

of an emptied world, vulnerable
to our suddenly bare history in which I was,

but you said won’t again be, singled
out for loss in your arms, won’t ever again
be exiled, never again, from your arms.

Agha Shahid Ali

The Peace Zone

"The The Peace Zones comprise barely barren ground. While it may be simplistic to mock the concept as offering no more than a future in which the archipelago might resemble a jigsaw of sanctuaries and withdrawal areas, the proposal can nonetheless appear static and unimaginative in the broader context of Philippine politics.

"But there is a far more sinister problem: The Peace Zones represent the antithesis of political debate and threaten to depower the very people they aim to protect."

Peter Sales (1992, p. 32)

Ending up in Istanbul on a train off for Siberia

"Over a number of years spent ruminating on the distinctive characteristics of the Celts, I began to wonder if their legendary nomadic ways arose from an inner need. An involuntary response, rather than a pragmatic one; a restlessness that had its roots in an insatiable curiosity.

"I suspect it was my growing awareness of my own wanderlust and curiosity that made me aware of the real sense of connection I felt to the Celtic lineage, as part of that New World extension of a people who ranged so astonishingly far and wide. And the more I learned of Pan-Celtic culture and its unexpected turns and twists, the more I was drawn to learn about the Celts’ contemporaries, which in turn set me off on tangents which might have little or no connection to the Celts themselves.

"In casting your inspirational net as an artist, you become familiar with the humility that comes with watching your best-laid plans veer sideways, and recordings becoming something other than what you expected. So, you set out to travel to Rome and end up in Istanbul. You set off for Japan and you end up on a train across Siberia. The journey, not the destination, becomes a source of wonder.

"In the end, I wonder if one of the most important steps on our journey is the one in which we throw the map. In jettisoning the grids and brambles of our own preconceptions, perhaps we are better able to find the real secrets of each place; to remember that we are all extensions of our collective history."

William Butler Yeats

dead men walking and feasible joys

A diary entry, March 11, 2009:

Gwenola, poor rebel bitch. No University post in Paris and so she flew herself in. Every other minute she bewails, What am I doing here? Fuckinggodforsaken country.

....

Distance. Something I am comfortable with. But I don’t think of you anymore. Or maybe it’s just that you were never there to be thought of and you wanted it that way.

So this is how it is. To stand in the desert Unstormed

....

Kerima Polotan:

The world moves because there are enough of us who willingly face the doom of being common and ordinary and humdrum, struggling within the hedges to achieve not the bliss of the Gods but something humbler, a more feasible joy.

A cop-out haha.

I only want to be the odd paragraph and write before I die the single essay.

....

Jules has taken to the lectern. Doesn't think of herself as famous. Like Christine Delphy or some of those she calls racist feminists. Lesbianism not as sexual preference or alternative lifestyle but as a fundamental critique of the dominant order and as an organizing principle for women, she said. Wait. Did Jules say that or Adrienne Rich said that? Maybe the both of them. Jules should be an improvement from the last tribe. What's the craziest she said? She dreams of a lesbian-led revolution.

Germi doesn't think much of lesbianism. Her circumstances do not warrant it, got no uses for it. Daphne says she doesn't want to be any of that, that LBGTQI frak-frak. Who wants to be an L or an I or Q. Who wants to be a frac-frac.

But what can anyone who wants to succeed in at least anything do? Downplay the old constructs, throw away all analysis, and to insist on entering, rough and tumble, the games that men are playing? The suffragists won the vote by capitalizing on women’s supposed greater nobility of spirit. I think I will puke.

But Audre Lorde now sounds like a dead man, using words like feminism and oppression and liberation and genuine change the old tools indeed.

Advocating tolerance, says she, is the grossest form of reformism. There ought to be community. Without community there is no liberation, only the most vulnerable and temporary armistice between an individual and her oppression.

“Pray Miss, write no more!”

Mary Wollstonecraft said that, in 1789, not I.

Paminsan-minsan

Paminsanminsan, nami-miss ko rin naman ang buhay ko. Noong akoy isa pang dakilang lumpen proletaryo ng Green Meadows, halimbawa. Magbabike pakanto para bumili ng shampoo at sampung pisong ulam, dadaan sa panaderya para bumili ng limang pisong pan de coco? Cool kaya yun. Tapos, haharangin ka ng mga batang kanto. Kol, pabolkit kas bike mo, Kol? Kahit di mo kelangan ng bolkit, sasabihin mo, O. At sa halagang sampu hanggang dalawampu, parang natahing muli ang butas mong puso. Uuwi kang parang saranggola sa saya, makikipagharutan sa mga pokpok girls na mapapagkatuwaan kang banggain, harangin sa daan huwag lang na di mo sila masayaran ng nagnanasang tingin.

Mean mean Me

People are mostly monsters of selfishness and egotism and vanity. It’s nice to be poking fun at them, giving them different shapes and fates other than what they like to be famous for.

If you are hatching something illegal, or at least mildly bohemian, like smuggling yourself out of unpaid rent, or giving your landlord a to-your-face shot for getting a crush on you, or dumping your luggage in your brother’s house for your sister-in-law to see to while you gad about planning lesbian conventions and cultural productions sans funding and sans bus fare money, surely, your making-both-ends-meet friends and poorer relations – no matter how iconoclastic or subversive they think of themselves theoretically – are the last persons you can discuss life with, much less map out escape routes with. Right?

Right. Better hire your landlord’s househelp, instead.

Jean Genet and me

The American health care system, Time or Asiaweek says, is tops at the higher end. I would end up a bag lady if I were there.

My poet friends there went into carpentry, care giving, backhoeing, then one, the best of the lot, to business writing for a computer company, and then real estate. Real estate doesn’t make her a real estate broker, only rich; she is a poet and will always be.

Jean Genet was a thief and his distinguished compatriots who think highly of their radicalism call him poet-thief, sometimes, criminal-poet. I asked, why not a broker- poet? If you want to distinguish yourself as a poet-fuck, sheilfa, said she, that’s your business.

I sometimes wish I were just plain me. Then maybe, just maybe, she can love me?

But maybe Jean Genet was just a mediocre thief, and like me he only stole books and bric-a-brac to get free board at the penitentiary. A place to be warm in, with table and chair, warm bodies, too, that he may write the plays he wrote.

And that’s why he never completed a novel; prison term didn’t allow him that breadth.

kung minsan naghihinala sila

The most violent wars are fought on the ideological plane. Bakit kaya ayaw nila aminin yun. Kaya yata kapag gumagapang na mga salita ko papalapit sa usaping kapitalismo, umiismid at umaawit na si Ganet. Sila lang kaya ang may karapatang magsalita laban sa di-matakasang pananalanta ng dambuhalang korporasyon. Usurper, dapat magpaka-socdem ka, sa isip, sa salita at sa gawa, magpaka-western feminist, stop na ang pagpretend-pretend na may pakinabang ka sa usaping tunggaliang uri.

Hindi ako napatawad nang dalhan ko ng Puti na feminista at isang bag ng female condoms. Ni hindi ako nagkaroon ng pagkakataong sabihin sa kanila na ang pangalan niya ay Gwenola, at tulad nila ay may boypren na Maoist na karantso ni Joma at may mga sinu-subsidize na mga foot soldiers ng The Shining Path. Doon pa ba naman nag-opensiba sa upisina nila ang mahadera. Nilektyuran ang cashier na walang ideya tungkol sa usaping programa sa birtud ng pagpuputa, na hindi malayo, aniya, sa kalagayan ng maraming asawa at asa-asawa. Sex workers nang sex workers, e di nagalit sila. Prostituted women, ayon sa kanila, ang dapat itawag sa mga babaeng nagbebenta ng aliw. Ka-classist third person impersonal plural. Hindi ko raw kasi alam ang sinasabi ko dahil hindi ko alam gaano kadumi doon sa putahan. Ang dapat pag-isipan pa'no iahon ang kababaihan mula doon.

Parang si Lobregat ang programa: Ahon Badjao.

my last duchesses hanging on the wall

From Marge Piercy

Excerpts from her novel, He, She, It


We are tool and vessel and will. We connect with powers beyond our fractional consciousness to the rest of the living being we all make up together. The power flows through us just as it does through the tiger and through the oak and through the river breaking over its rocks, and we know in our core the fire that fuels the sun.
….

What we cannot name, we cannot talk about. When we give a name to something in our lives, we may empower that something, as when we call an itch love, or when we call our envy righteousness; or we may empower ourselves because now we can think about and talk about what is hurting us, we may come together with others who have felt this same pain, and thus we can begin to try to do something about it.

Every life is new. Every word is constantly speaking itself for the first time: birth, love, pain, want, loss.

Every mother shapes clay into Caesar or Madame Curie or Jack the Ripper, unknowing, in blind hope. But every artist creates with open eyes what she sees in her dream.
….

I have stood on Rosh Hodesh in the darkness of the wood by the whispering river, and I have called powers through me to blast into life what has never before been… I am the maharal and I make the golem with my whole life’s best and most potent moments, and so does Avram, and so, perhaps, my darling, may you. Creation is always perilous, for it gives true life to what has been inchoate and voice to what has been dumb. It makes known what has been unknown, that perhaps we were more comfortable not knowing. The new is necessarily dangerous.
….

The ability to see vision is one of those human talents that flourishes when rewarded by a society and withers in most of us when punished by society. That is, whether the ability to see the hand of Ha-shem writing on the wall secures you pleasant notice for your religious and prophetic acumen, or whether it gets you locked up in the local nut bin, will determine how many people in a society form the habit of seeing what other people are wont to think is not there.
…

At any moment in history, certain directions are forbidden that lie open to the inquiring mind and the experimental hand. Not always is the knowledge forbidden because dangerous: governments will spend billions on weapons and forbid small sects the peyote of their ecstasy. What we are forbidden to know can be – or seem – what we most need to know.

... But how sometimes the near impossibility of carrying out an action makes it irresistible. I must do it because I cannot do it: because it is both forbidden and held to be unachievable.
…

As a woman who spends her days creating fictions and monsters, how can I feel I am committing calumny against Judah [for creating this golem]… I cannot always distinguish between myth and reality, because myth forms reality and we act out of what we think we are; we know on many levels truths that are irrational as well as reasoned or experimental. Our minds help create the world we think we inhabit.
…

For a human being to make another is to usurp the power of Ha-shem, to risk frightening self-aggrandizement. It is to push yourself beyond the human. It is dangerous to the world. As soon as the mind conceives of a possibility, it wants the possible to be actualized. It wants to be doing, no matter what the cost or the damage.

never mind i like it rough

a friend sent this in as a birthday gift:

September 3 is the day of the mold breakers.

Because their work is often of a visionary nature, exceptional people born on this day can be way ahead of their time and must understand if others are sometimes slow to approve of their methods. Fortunately, most of these mold breakers display great patience, as well as confidence in the value of their work. Thus they are well-equipped to endure years without recognition while continuing on with their endeavors. Their path to wider acceptance can be a bit smoother, however, if they take time to explain to others, in everyday language, what their objectives are and how they intend to get there.

Ha Riin in Praktis?

Noong isang araw, nabulahaw ako. Alasais ng umaga nag-ring ang telepono. Si Coms, umiiyak.

Hindi na raw siya makakasali sa rap, ke ngayon, ke kahit kelan (choke, choke), masakit na masakit raw ang ulo niya, mamamatay na yata siya, at ngayon ay may dugo na lumabas sa kanyang taynga. Panic ang lola.

Kung bakit kasi sa kung saan-saang aspalto nagsisirko. Katanghaliang tapat, kung kelan nagpupuasa ang mga tao.

“Ang titigas kasi ng ulo ninyo! Tigil na kasi yang rap-rap na yan!”

“Ayaw namin.”

Kanina si Coms uli.

“Me lumabas na namang dugo sa taynga ko, Kah Shei.”

“Lecheng tenga iyan...“

“Pero hindi na masakit ang ulo ko!”

“Bahala nga kayo sa buhay nyo!”

Kasisira kaya ng form. Heto at kaboses ko na mga nanay nila. Mas maganda pa nga boses ng mga nanay nila.

Para mo silang mga anak sa iba’t-ibang lalaki, sabi ni Berkis, habang nakangising tinitingnan ang mga shots na kuha niya.

Wish lang nila yun.

Dahil pag akoy naleche, pangtatalian ko sila, pangtatapon sa dagat.

Baka saka na sila maibenta.

Neruda and pedophilia

He doesn’t have a High School Student affairs division daw. I’m disappointed. Now there he goes tuning out at my literary citations before I could remonstrate that hey Child Rights guy, I don’t have either!!!

But there’s not much of it in literature, is there? There’s a plethora of Dickens on lice-infested street shits but who cares about Dickens. I do like Sappho though: You Monkey, I have loved you for long, even when you just seemed to me a small ungracious child. And Ensler: Huwag, Ate, ah ah ah ah, and a little of Wilde, though I can't recall any line for now. I had not read Lolita, and didn't read enough of Neruda. I only know that Neruda had a wife, way way far younger than him who went crazy living with him and went worse when he left her, for another woman, probably older. It was Jules who tipped me, and No, she was not arguing against inter-generation love, she is for it, more so if it's lesbian. Jules just loves some of Neruda, but perhaps his poetry cannot abscond him from his crimes, no matter how true how good it was.

What did Neruda write?

Love is short, forgetting is long. Because I dont love her, maybe I still do.

Seryusly wala naman tayo

Seriously wala naman tayong maboteng pinagsamahan, no, I don’t even remember your 17 years back until you reminded me. Mas maalala ko si Florante mainly because it struck me that he apologized to me that night over his brother’s impregnating and abandoning a first cousin’s cousin. Takot siguro isumbong sa hukbo hahaha. By that time, 1993, nangamatay na lahat ng hukbo ko kaya wala nang babaril sa kanya, ako na lang.

Kung minsan nasusuka na ako. And I just tell my friends, puwede ba you settle accounts with your men? Mga problema nyo sa mga lalaki ninyo huwag nyo na dalhin sa akin. Mga anak nila puro reklamo na kesyo they’re being turned into pawns sa fights ng mga parents nila. Kung minsan mas matatalino pa iyong mga anak nila telling them to divorce if they like and live their lives as they like my mistakes are my own you can’t live my life for me, Mom.

Parang yung sa kanta ni Carly Simon, my friends from college they're all married now, their children hate them for the things they're not, they hate themselves for what they are, and yet they drink they laugh, close the wounds hide the scars, but that's the way I've always heard it should be, so it's time we move in together, so let's drown in love's debris.

But no. Some of my friends they're actually happily remarried, four or five to men getting their second chance at post-revolution family life. Some are into lesbian relationships. The root of their pain now, as often happens when the new spouse doesn't have an expat salary to buffer the hard crunch, the refusal of their exes to take financial responsibility for the children's upkeep. Iyong ibang lalaki kasi iyon na lang paraan nila to get back at their ex-wives who they see as better off after the divorce. Kaya pagdating sa singilan ng pangtuition pahirapan talaga. Nakakapagod makinig. Leche at bakit sa akin ninyo dinudulog yan, ano ako, family court? Or can’t you at least keep the ledgers to yourselves?

Men and their horse-hung romance. From persuasion to blackmail. Meron pa iba diyan, tinenkyu mo lang at pinauwi ng bahay, pupromote pa bigla mga sarili nila: from spurned lover to literary critic. Why all pains? Why all resentments? Sabi nung isa, in bad grammatical construction at that. Why not write about joy? Sa Legaspi Street, sa San Pedro at sa Claveria marami akong Joys na kilala, ikako, gusto mo ipakilala kita? Twenty years in America and right now on psychoanalysis, babalikan ka lang para hingan ng joy and peace and love? Ano ko, Parish Bulletin?

Writing is about one last thing that when I do it, sabi nga ni Lia Lopez-Chua na seryusly wala naman kami, I feel more, rather than less, of myself.

Booby traps

In the 60s the men paid more attention to the manifesto you held in your hand than your boobs. Or so DP claims, the booby trap. They would be working till morning in their shorts and kamisetas giving their all to the statement of the hour and no one minded or noticed if someone’s nipple is leaking. Now that you are working and single and you go to work braless people think you are making a statement. You wish you can tell them that you are 39 and that you work hard and you don't give a shit about issuing statements.

a journal entry, february 13, 2003

He cannot read.

At least P can read. At least E can read. So they both know that I am both dangerous and in danger. He doesn’t.

But P and E don’t deal with me, he alone has the temerity to engage with me on everyday basis. So it’s him alone I can engage with in everyday terms. Praxis. With E and P no engagement is possible. No praxis.

But he oh my so ignorant beyond rescue. Only a little better than B the stupidest and the densest of the tribe. I should stop seeing them. A life gone the dogs.

I wrote Johnie. Douglas responded.

I said when you’re one who doesn’t separate your life from your study, it’s very hard to forgo the issue of your own class and sex.

It spoke to me, Douglas said.

Later, Johnie said: Oh. Your issues, which are emotional, sexual, and political.

Earlier, I wrote to Johnie something he could get: I’m back to Stupid Princess cut. He responded: So how did you look as Princess? Must be a pretty sight.

Oh The Impotent One.


A poem:

Where is the hangman’s
noose?
tie the pig.
Where is the hangman
he stole my cookies
Where is the hang
I don’t quite get the hang
Where is the hanger
things are strewn on the floor
My clothes
Yes they’re your clothes

How mad.
Dear
I must go to bed
Slip under the sheets
Under the bed
Some place
where one doesn't slip
Sleep
Oh Sleep
Big Brother
of Death


Assignment: Locate the oppression of women in the heart of capitalist dynamic by pointing to the relationship between housework and the reproduction of labor.

….

One night a dragging rain

Six o’ clock on a Friday germi messaging she’s at dunkin. She was all over herself with excitement the lady mayor punching a sheriff over a demolition and what about our i-can’t-write-fiction group we are forming. She made an announcement at fb and she got messages indicating interest, did I know, so not to object please. Then it rained. A slow dragging rain.

An hour of standing under the san pedro wing of rcbc and still I couldn’t get a ride. I got inside a net play station and checked my mails. When I got out an hour later the crowd waiting for jeepneys was thicker and the rain not any slower. Water has risen ankle-deep on the street. After another close to an hour of waiting I decided to get a ride at magallanes, pay for both ways, and so when I saw a jeep that had a puan ulas signboard I boarded it. It was on its way to r. castillo, way over the main thoroughfares. Passengers were disgorged one by one along the way until I alone and another passenger beside the driver at the front seat remained. With rain and flood bearing down on the old raggedly jeep I couldn’t help but feel like Noah’s black crow unwilling to go out to check on the world.

The jeepney got to an unloading station right by the shed and the driver turned to me. Asa man ka? I explained my case. He didn’t look unduly harangued. We’re not taking another trip back to the city! We’re parking here and are heading home! He didn’t register surprise or annoyance. Was even sympathetic. You can get a ride here, wait, we’ll find you a jeep you can take, he said.

I handed him my fare and went down the road foggy with rain.

payback time

Paminsan-minsan dami kong whatifs-whatifs, pero hinahalinhinan ko lagi ng hah, what if not, what if i didn't! Matagal ko na kasing tinalaga sa sarili ko na hindi pagpapakabuting babae at pagpapakabuting ina ang pakay ko sa mundo, kaya ayaw kong maguilty.



Ang explanation ni Indah, kaya raw walang tumulong ipamudmod ang kanyang mga tula, tungkol sa rape, sa mga abuso, mga pangungurakot ng mga upisyal ng gobyerno ng Sulu, at mga pagbubulag-bulagan na mga ustadjes at mga henyo sa NGO, dahil wala namang kita sa pagmumudmod ng poesia. Aminin na natin ba na wala nang ibang values ang mga tao ngayon liban sa gadji. Walang suweldo walang gagalaw na buto.

Fund-driven. Dati kakatakot na salita iyong fund-driven. Ngayon, iyon na ang order of the day. Sabi nga ni Tess, admin ng isang establisado na sanang research institution sa Mindanao, kaya ngayon, ang tindi ng tagisan ng talino, pagandahan sa konsepto, nakawan ng ideya. Ang me sabi sa kanya nun, ang dating boss niya na nasa funding agency na ngayon nagtatrabaho, na sigurado ako, kalahati ng merits kung kaya nakarating siya sa posisyon na iyon, dahil sa pagkadalubsaha sa pagnanakaw ng konsepto at mga hirap ng iba: mga sekretarya niya, admin assistants, researchers at mga writers niya.

Iniisip ko ito habang nagkakalkal ng ulo, kaiisip saan kaya ako magnakaw ng pang-absuwelto sa mga paniningil ng mga gelpren ko sa Jolo. Kasi nagkamali ako ng hakbang, nag-step yes step yes step no I love you, kaya heto, medyo sumasakit ang ulo pa’no takbuhan kapag hindi nabalikan ang mga naumpisahan.

Hindi na raw talaga nagwu-work ang charms ko, matagal na, sabi ni Miss Indah, at lalong hindi magwu-work sa no money-no honey policy ngayon ng mga tao. Aminado naman po si ako. Matagal na. Kung minsan lang nagmamatugas in u. Kaya nga yung huling lipad ko sa Jolo, sabi ko, last na ito, ayaw ko nang bumalik rito, kapag may mga gagawin pa ipapasa ko na lang sa mga old hands dito, at least kung uusad o sasalampak kaya, dih ko dusa. Hindi ko kasalanan.

Ganun kasamang intension, kaya siguro pinaparangalan.

Nasa bunkhouse ako, isang sakay mula sa pantalan, nakaupo sa Army cot at nagpapapak ng kuko, salamat sa isang daang pisong halaga ng isang gabing pagpapahinga at buong araw na pagkatutunganga. Goodbye Jolo, ayaw ko na, ayaw ko na talaga sa iyo. Nang magring ang aking mumurahing telepono. Si El at si Coms, naghahanap, nangungumusta. Kah Shei, huwag kang magpapalit ng numero ha?

Nakapromise tuloy ako.

Mga batang kalsada. Nangungutong lang ba, namemera ng totoong mamera. Pangload, pangtext, pangtugis ng barya-baryang ligaya. Payback time, Rayang, sabi ni Indah.

Feeling superior kasi ako sa kanya sa aking choices sa buhay. Hindi nag-asawa, at ngayo’y nagpakalesbiana. Sinasabi niya at ng mga kaibigan ko noon sa Abused Children network na siguro, kung nag-asawa ako, street children ngayon lahat ng mga anak ko. Lahat ng mga anak ko? Andami naman yata nun? Abortion rights advocate kaya ako, kahit pa ba matay ko mang isipin, pano kaya naging rights yung abortion, eh kahirap nun. Pero ang true, I did have mother rights and served time in the scullery, and please, when I was a mother, Mother of the Year awardee kaya ako. Peks man, sa kapanahunan ko. Until nagdisayd na in case of contradiction, one really had to go. So Go si motherhood.

Huling update, si Mikhael hanggang second high lang ang inabot ng talino at buto, si Maika outstanding sa Maryknoll High. Paminsan-minsan dami kong whatifs-whatifs, pero hinahalinhinan ko lagi ng hah, what if not, what if i didn't! Matagal ko na kasing tinalaga sa sarili ko na hindi pagpapakabuting babae at pagpapakabuting ina ang pakay ko sa mundo, kaya ayaw kong maguilty. Tapos, noong minsan, sa bunkhouse, nakarumeyt ko si Judith. Na dating taga-TFD. Nagdisayd daw siya na magpahinga, kaya nag-lawyer. Ngayon, you could say she has everything na, at least in the way of comfort, pero gusto niya sa PAO pa rin magtrabaho, hindi sa corporate law. You have to pay back to life somehow, sabi niya.

Kung minsan, kinikilabutan ako. Iniisip ko, for all that life has given me, and now that I have nothing and everything before me, ito na ba ang payback time ko?

Pa'no nga uli maging lesbiana?

Ang hirap kaya. Sabi ni Kah Dar, sabay ismid at sulyap sa akin, piyasaran na ba. Will do. Nagi-gerlan siya sa akin. Sa kabataan niya raw kasi, sigang-siga siya, gelpren niya ang pinakamaganda at pinakaseksi sa eskuwela na anak ng Assemblyman. Sibu ra daw in lesbian sex, masarap rin daw , at iyong pagpapaligaya na kaya ng lalaki, kaya rin nating gawin, pero mula ulo hanggang bewang sadja. Sa baba noon, di na natin kaya, way kita sinapang.

Wala raw tayong sandata.

Pero sa kulumpon ng mahigit dalawangpung lesbiana na nakikinig sa kanya, si Berkis lang yata ang tumawa. May pagkasinauna kasi mag-isip ni Berkis. Kasalanan raw kay Allah ang maging bantut o lesbiana, pero di bale na daw, kung saan ba ako maligaya.

Araw-araw nawawalan ako ng pag-asa, nadidismaya. Hindi raw dapat ibroadcast ang tungkol sa gang rape sa Jolo at lalo lang nahahati at nasisiraan ang lipi. Inuulit-ulit niya kapag ko siya kinukulit na mag-aral, mag-imbestiga, sumasakit daw ang ulo niya kapag nag-iisip siya, buti pa raw noong panahon ng kanyang lola, noong walang pumupunta sa eskuwela at walang nagbabasa, wala rin daw nagnanakaw, walang gahaman sa pera. Kelan kaya iyon, noong panahong ang halaga ng isang salup ng bigas ay beinte-singko sentimos pa? Naabutan ko pa yata yun. Seis anyos ako at akay-akay ng aking lola. Ang ulam ng kapitbahay ulam mo rin. Wala ngang perang pag-aawayan ang mga tao noon.

Walang pagpapatayan.

Hindi iyan makakapasok ng area, pagbabawal ng isa.

Aykaw magtumbuy-tumbuy dih, ayna, patayun kaw ha dan! babala naman ng isa pa.

Ang totoo, hindi ako naniniwala sa kamatayan. O naniniwala, pero hindi iyon ang kinatatakutan ko. Bakit? Chaos is a friend of mine, Violence a goodly neighbor, Death an Acquaintance. Close to 50 at bihis-Bajau? Kahit Abu Sayaf di ako seseryosohin. Pero kahit pa seryosohin ako, ang mas worry ko pa ay, siyempre, baka mag-insist si Berkis na embalsamahin ako sa Zambo at i-ship sa Davao ang body ko, mabubuking ng friends ko na wala akong burial plan, ni walang SSS o Philhealth plan. Nakakahiya yun, di ba. Ewan ko. Pakialam ko. Petiburgis yun. Buhusan na lang ng gas, silaban, kesa embalsamahin, economical na, mas sanitary pa. Pero hindi ko na worry yun, by that time baka busy na ako kala-lobby kay San Pedro na paakyatin ako. Kahit hanggang porch lang.

Kanina

At kanina, may natanggap akong sulat, isang maliit na mensahe. Doon pa mandin isiniksik sa chatbox ng blog ko, kahalo ng mga basurang mensahe ng mga taong puro galit at suklam lang ang kayang isukli sa lahat ng paghihirap mo. Tatlong salita, sa ingles pa mandin. Parang double code sa akin iyon, iyong paraan ng pagpapadala ng mensahe at ang pagi-ingles. Pahiwatig-kasama, gusto kong isipin, kahit pa man wala na siya ngayon, o wala na ako ngayon. Dahil noon, lahat ng mensahe, sa maraming kamay dumaraan, sa upisyal na daluyan, ikanga, at kahit minsan noon, ang nagpadala noon, hindi talaga nagi-ingles sa akin. Wala naman talaga siyang sinabi. Kaya siguro mahalaga sa akin. Walang sinabi dahil walang masabi, walang magawa, kung kaya walang gagawin. Ibang pangako iyon, di ba. Ibang talinghaga, ibang paniniwala.

The first act of the Taliban

DID YOU KNOW that the first act of the Taliban was to hang a rapist?

The word talib means student; the original Taliban were born in the chaos of Afghanistan’s civil war. In 1994, a group of righteous seminary students, many of them schooled in Pakistan, rose from the countryside around Kandahar to challenge the predatory warlords then ripping Afghanistan apart. The Taliban’s first act was to hang an accused rapist from the barrel of a tank.

I think of this as I leave Jolo on the second day of the Ramadhan. It was my third visit, the last was three months back when I first met up with the lesbian community there. Now, I bear away full of bad news.

Alyssa, the 17-year old dyke who lived everyday of her life aboard a motorcycle was married off to another 17-year old boy with whom she had been spending lots of time for weeks months on end. The boy, lean and handsome with thick black brows and set jaws, is well-mannered and quiet in a deep way. He once had her maulers salvaged, Alyssa said, and an ex-girlfriend's brother tortured, his nails pulled out, for having slapped him in the face. The ex-girlfriend ditched him after self-administering an abortion, with Coke on mornings without end. Yes, says Alyssa, he is more than good enough for her for a young man,something she cannot say of the silly girls she is dating.

Mherz is also nineteen, reigning king of the road for sometime now until a week back when she got mauled by a gang of boys. Nobody utters a dirty word against Mherz and he friends, they will get a good beating. But nowadays, Mherz is a little depressive, left eye swollen and walks out on friends a lot.

Sadder still is what happened with Vaness. She was the wild thing, you could not ask her to vend candies and cigs for loose change. Last December she beat two boys one after the other in two boxing matches at Kasalamatan. No, trust me, said she, when I expressed misgivings about going with her to a videoke on my first visit, the both of us looking like grandmother and granddaughter dykes. They will come after us, I had said. Not at all, they're afraid of lesbians here, she'd insisted. Sent out of the house by a mommy who adopted her, she now had to go rural where the family that adopted her, the parents of her pretty girlfriend, had to teach her to pray, five times a day.

The last time I saw Kah Weng, the tomboyish barangay captain we had on board, she was all spunk. She escorted the young dykes to a camp-out cum hiking to Bud Datu, jamming it up with the Army officers who had set up defense facilities there. Now she sits at the porch, struck down by breast cancer.

I don't know what else happened on board while I was away thinking, just thinking. Of the impossibilities, the hopelessness of it all, the mulcting, the ribbing, the thieving, the petty but seriously mean fights among the NGO women managers over the loose change and discard goodies that get there, but each time I think of Mherz and the anger in her eyes, in her set jaws, a little hope lives, lives in me.

everytime i get the apartment to myself

photo: kiyong jumli



I don't really know how I got here but here I am
drowning in pointless pussy.


by Kristine Kaye Antonio

I seem to be having a hard time writing at the moment. It could be because I haven't been drinking for a while now. I'm on medication for my tonsilitis and I just don't think it's a good idea to mix antibiotics with alcohol. So here I am forcing words out of my head before I run out of excuses. For the entire week I could not construct anything. Not even a goddamn predicate. I need pot. I haven't smoked the green substance since April and for some reason I am not looking forward to be reunited with it either. Everytime I get the apartment alone to myself, I drink. These days, I prefer to get inebriated by myself. Somehow getting inside my head is more interesting than drinking with my drinking-friends and listen to their worthless, banal monologues. Theirs is trivial compared to my mine.

I don't remember the exact moment how everything changed, I just know it did. In the land of lotus eaters, time plays tricks on you. One moment you are dreaming, the next your dreams have become your reality. I don't really know how I got here but here I am drowning in pointless pussy. I exiled myself leaving behind an engagement I wanted to nurture. Then I flashed forward and now I break mainly because I cannot imagine you speaking of me with some affection and longing. But how can you now? Your lover is a child in an adult's body, caring for nothing and everything at the same time. Noble in thought, weak in heart.

Of dyke shoes and pneumonia

Left des hommes office in a foul mood, the sub-office girl acting out her pettier side, having a buyers’ remorse over a fifty pesos purchase of print material I made her pay. I took down the anti-feminist poster they hung at the boss’ door, a shameless suck-up to big daddy (big daddies, rather: there are two, the white man, and the wog) by some whore in the workplace. The office sec tried to stop me, nicely, the niceness almost succeeding in making me feel guilty. Weren’t they hospitable people by all means and by all appearances with a heap of grievance against my impudences? I rolled up the canvass poster, wanting to rip in the middle Nancy Smith’s womanhood, from the bottom up. It was an effort to stride briskly out of the office and into the asphalted road aboard my cousin’s ship-size leather shoes.

My cousin in the army stole my dyke shoes and replaced it with a second-hand which he rather grew tired of. Bastard, how I kept on cursing, all day long, having thanked the old couple his parents who were tasked to talk me into taking his shoes. May he slip on it, may it never fit, I kept on praying, missing his sister my friend and her gift of feet. Knowing I am once more broken-hearted, she sent me a brand new dyke shoes, the right oversize, and he is wearing them, my manhood stolen and strutted out. I can imagine him bragging to his pals in the army. It belongs to my commie cousin just home from cuba the ungrateful bitch who would not give. I know I should have not accepted it but my auntie, who was now 70 and a little shamefaced about crimes committed against daughters slaving it out in HK, was anxious not to be found out. So I pretended I didn’t know, for people after all are not supposed to care about dykes whose obsessions begin and end with shoes. Jealous they all are that the daughter sister would support my faith in my life and hers against all family advice and would still be sending something expensively special for me when graces for them dropped low since the day she found out.

I wore it anyway, like I take it all, all, the insults the injuries my friends and family alone can gift me with, because the way I live hurts, betrays them. Denies them the pleasure of making me take, take from them what they want to give me shove down my ass. Wearing the pair hurts, like one was walking on loose hinges. Then on my way to buy a ticket a downpour had me stranded. Water rose ankle-deep. The friend at the travel agency was close to screaming, am I paying for my ticket or not, am I flying or cancelling it altogether. I walked into the waters angry at the world always playing a bad joke at good good me. To my surprise, the cousin’s discarded shoes kept me dry. And Nancy Smith’s canvas poster, how helpful it made itself for me, like that was all the service she really owed every woman who didn’t like her little piece of mind: save their heads at least from getting wet in the rain that they may not die of pneumonia.


21 july 2011

Wassalam, Jolo

photo: MM Jumadil






My Kerala is how Germelina put it. Romancing that shitload of an island. Hey Germelina, Kerala is way up there in my political imaginary, green fields, windmills of hope, women in their right minds, something Arundhati Roy only hinted at in her novel, and who knows, I may actually be all wrong.

Maybe my Calcutta? But I don’t claim it as mine. And I’ve never been to Calcutta either, so I don’t know the place, how could I compare. It doesn’t flood much too often in Calcutta, does it? And no gang rapes?

Now the crazies in the island are still dreaming up sultanate and royal families, some thinking they are royalty, not me, makes me wonder if I am the one out of touch with reality.

The way I understand it, I had no permission. Last time I went I had to be presented to so many principalities I would otherwise not pay homage too, had I the choice. The dress is not my strongest suit, says Aida the musical, so I kept on bumping into the wrong tree. One mistake led to another, and somehow out of the so many mistakes, something kept on turning and turning into another thing like some wonderful widening gyre.

Dear Jolo, Salam to you Old Friend.

The rain in Spain is only on the plain

Today at the bank. i caught LT flirting with the clerk. i felt like sniggering. Hihihi the old cow. Likes her things young! But how humanly possible she looked.

Maybe she was not really flirting. Just taking time to converse with girls a little awed by her money. She looks an old boy almost past her time at it. Like she’s got a wife and children at home who don’t know and stopped really caring where she put her dick now. The clerk was smiling, tense, like being flirted with by a lesbian is something she finds extremely flattering and will never know the handle of. Because LT was discussing to her things like players in the financial market and bail-out, like she were a friend already she can talk business with, stuff she really didn't give much thought, she’s just there on a job. She glanced my way, LT, and had a two-sec pause. I made out like I did not see or recognize her. I actually was filling out a withdrawal slip and I wanted to scream because my account was about clean, but there she was the rich bastard cold bitch of an old girl grateful that I didn’t remember she it was whom I called stupid policy in her own office before all her slaves.

06 july 2011

At the workshops

photo: from sawi



Sometimes this is what they tell young writers: that man does not live by words alone, he has to make bread too.

I find it very unsettling. The spectre of the starving artist conjured up like a scarecrow by old men who fear only a day without food. So art can't be larger than life? Sure, even a writer has to stand in line at the bread queue, but what does she say before she gets there?

It sounds to me like a paean to mediocrity.

Salamat Kuya

photo: pinoy estacio




ni Ramille Andag

Dear Kuya: Sabi mo na-misplace lang yung TV sa bahay. Kanina nakita ko ang papel de ahensiya. Alam ko namang ginawa mo yun for safekeeping purposes. Uso kasi ang nakawan ngayon sa ating neighborhood. Salamat, Kuya.

Edwin M. Salonga: Ang motorsiklo, naibalik na ba ki Kuya?

Kaici Sanchez: Miss u Mader Ramil. . .

Ramille: Ay Edwin, sabi niya naka impound sa LTO, di lang daw niya matandaan kung saan specifically. Pero feeling ko for safekeeping purposes din. Wala kasing parking sa amin.

Edwin M. Salonga: Pantas! Napakabait talaga ni Kuya. Buti na lang ang phone at laptop mo, katabi mo lagi kahit sa pagtulog. Baka kasi next time na malingat ka, naipa-safekeep na rin ni kuya.

Ramille: Sabi ni Kuya hindi daw worthy na i- safekeep kasi medyo old models na daw ang dalawang items na yun. Bongga talaga si Kuya, may expertise sa gadgets.

Nathaniel Nicart Doligon: Hahaha! Loko yan si Kuya ah!

Edwin M. Salonga: Haha. Ayos! Sabagay, may logic ang explanation ni Kuya. Kumusta naman ang pera mo sa wallet?

Ramille: Ay yung sa pera, alam mo namang color blind ako at mathematically challenged. Feeling ko laging mali ang pagbibilang ko, so mali ang baseline.

Edwin M. Salonga: Sabagay. Kaya pala ang dalas mong mag-withdraw. Baka naman ang iniisip ni Kuya, siya na bahala sa savings at investments ninyo. Long-term planning! Iba talaga si Kuya.

Ramille: Win si Kuya ano?

Edwin M. Salonga: Siya na nga talaga. Kayo na. Lock and key kayo. For that, lucky ang relationship ninyo.

Ramille: True ano? OMG! I feel so warm and fuzzy with that thought! Hahahahahaha

Kaici Sanchez: Eh sino yung kasama ni Kuya sa kama kanina? Sabi niya pinsan daw niya? Saang side? Mother side o father side? In fairness borta yun ah.

Edwin M. Salonga: Haha. Pinsan talaga iyon ni Kuya. Iyong isa kasi, pamangkin naman daw niya. Close lang talaga sila kaya ganoon. Sanay silang sa iisang kama natutulog, mula bata pa.

Kaici Sanchez: Sana pala kasabay ko din sila tumanda! Hahaha para nakapagbahay-bahayan din kame nila Kuya. . .

Ramille: Oo, nakasanayan lang talaga nila yun.

Sheilfa: Ramille, may i syndicate this exchange?

Gerald Ferrer: Di ako sure Ma'am, pero si Kuya parang member ng lipat-bahay gang. Nakabili ka na ba ng bahay at unti-unti niyang hinahahkot gamit mo?

Edwin M Salonga: Haha. Baka naman surprise iyon ni Kuya para kay Camille. Bagong bahay, kaya sinimulan na lipat ng gamit.

Ramille to Juliet: Ma'am nakita ko na ang bahay. Bongga! Ang taray ng lighting, tapos may security guard. May nakasulat Villarica Pawnshop.

Donita Culala Tenorio-Roberts: Ahahaha nasanla talaga?

Nest Zamora Lucas: Ay Ma'am nasa palamigan lang daw ang tv at motor. Nag-overheat e.

Bohn Benedict Vergara: HAHAHA. Ang peste ng sharing na ito... SWEAR!

Ramille: Pero mga Ma'am, maliwanag talaga! Maganda ang blue ba color sa malalaking letra na VP.

Ihna Figueroa: Sistah, nakilala ko na si Kuya, di ba? Yung nagkita tayo sa BPI tapos nakamotorsiklo ka niya na sinundo? Hala, talagang masinop si Kuya pala!! Kung di sa bangko, andoon, nasa isang bahay safekeeping!!

Butch girls

"I love butch girls. Girls with slick, shiny, barbershop haircuts, trimmed so short your fingertips can barely grip it. Girls with shirts that button the other way. Girls that swagger... Girls who get stared at in the ladies' room, girls who shop in the boys department, girls who live every moment looking like they weren't supposed to. Girls with hands that touch me like they have been exploring my body their entire lives... It is the girls that get called sir every day who make me catch my breath, the girls with strong jaws who buckle my knees, the girls who are a different gender who make me want to lay down for them." - Tristan Taormino -