Huhuhu. I cry. For the irony of it.

Sheilfa, some questions don't have answers. One of those questions is why people we think we love do not love us. I have asked myself that question too, and as I get older I ask that question just for the fun and irony of it - to get me going. It is such an intriguing question. There is no answer. There is nothing personal about it, yet ironically it feels the most personal of all rejections.

a seedy thing

I have thought it over. I think it is just my ego. Nothing to do with love. Grudge maybe. Gets back at you as a need. A seedy thing.

I may have never loved you. They are right, your friends. It will never do. It is not because I will never have the dollar bills or the car to purchase you with. More because if I had, it will never be for you. I will always leave and arrive at my own time regardless of what happens at the waiting station. Maybe they are really more loyal to you than I am or ever could be. I sometimes envy the love they have for you. It is enough to make a good decent burial when all this will be over.

Thank you for the friendship you tried to proffer to me. Coming from you it already meant a lot. Sometimes it felt like sunshine. It made me happy.  I still don’t know what you meant by it didn’t work. Like I don’t know what you meant by done or winded and all those retirement house words. I still hurt when I think of the words you spat my way. I hurt even more when I think of the words you chose to forget and not say. But I must have done worse. Besides, your judgments and morals stand on the wisdom of the century; I cannot really measure up to them.

I love you. I have to say it. Maybe it is not true. Maybe tomorrow it won’t be true. Maybe today it is not true already. It is not true. Just the same, I want for it to live, coming as it is from me. Perhaps my love is like the moringa seedlings I am growing in this dumpsite toxic with discards and rusting steel. Perhaps it is just literary, like what I am doing now, which is not the same as loving. Paper thin. Something you can make a ball with and throw into the garbage bin at your feet without you looking. It will find its way to the garbage truck without you caring.

Whatever, I just have to decide what must survive and what shouldn’t be long before you and I will be gone.

Happier with a hammer

Had flattened mounds full of garbage into a picnic lawn. Planted it with carabao grass. Now I’m into rocks. I should have been a mason or a carpenter. I’m happier with a hammer.

an unmailed unfinished letter

Dear Sara,

Because as a documentor and writer I have always been taught that the world is something that happens before my eyes, or before my lens, I have to admit that it rather surprised me, even disoriented me a bit, what was it that you were trying to ask of me. Aspects of my life that will emerge? That what I am going to do is about me as well? Rather totally refreshing. So much for the collective pronoun, so much for the third-person plural when I had to stay clear of it all each time, stay clear of it all all the time.

I would venture to say that “risk” has always been an irrevocable part of my life. My head always on the line for what I venture to say, whether in prose, or in poetry, even in what should otherwise be plain accomplishment reports, what I try to write or what people ask of me to write in the vital world of work and transactional politics. Edginess is how my poet friends put it, and not always in appreciation, and while as a writer-documentor,  this trait of mine distinguished me ("sharp"", “vitriolic,” “acid” or just “the crazy one”), this has also, over the years, cost me a lot professionally. It’s never remunerative to be critical; people, as a rule, don’t care about analysis, they only want to be absolved; or worse, they only want your gratefulness your apology, your servitude, in other words. In my work, I always crossed boundaries and broke taboos, sometimes deliberately, but often, in spite of me. It had cost me, again and again, the friendship, the patronage, of important people who had taken it upon themselves to be the moral guardians of certain cultures and political turfs.

bile

There is something I have swallowed. A  little sac filled to full capacity with little people with little names crowding themselves in for credit. I feel like throwing them out. They need a good bath, they need a little sun.

Something there is not

There is something I did not tell you.

Did I mention to you I once have a shaman friend? She read my palms and said there are so many broken life lines, and that I had died before once, everything in my life gone. I said true. Must be the time I was marooned at Green Meadows and friends would come to take more of my remains. I could not recall the so many other deaths, the little deaths that come with every loss I make, with every slap in the face that I take. 

And men they all will leave you, she said. 

Now that really hurt. I would like to think that I have very good male friends, only I did not want them in my life, never needed them, and so I made them leave, they did not leave out of their own volition.

Yes, you made them leave, they could not take you, she said. 

How we had a good laugh at that, and I had a moment of what it was like to be in a witch coven, big ladle held in my witch’s hand, a black vat a-boil, men drowning in their fates, as I stir, stir, the way I feel when I am with you sharing a laugh about stories you concocted of men grumbling in the kitchen, hauling in the grocery bag, while you work at your table, in your women’s room. 

Stories that hurt the ones that we otherwise would not let go, if only they loved us well enough.


My mother was no shaman, but she it was who first said that to me. She looked at my palms, maybe I was ten, soon after my father died, or eighteen, a few years before we would find out she had cervical cancer, three months to go. She said my palm looks like hers, the lines are separate, it is better that I became a nun and did not marry, I will just suffer, like she did with my father. I did not promise anything. Then, as now, I perhaps had wanted to be loved, did not want her life, the lines that she found. I must have wanted to be better than the very best that she wished for me. Aren’t all daughters like that? They all want to do better than Mother.

This shaman I knew, she also said to me, Your friends, they will bar you. I fell stumped. By then that had become a recurrent theme in my life: a shipwreck of plans, dreams gone to naught, precisely why I was there, before her, palms laid open, at her seer eyes’ fine mercy.

She did not tell me whether over the long haul my friends will succeed to obliterate me or I will overthrow.