Ghastly weather

photo by jon roberts




brittle broken nails
brittle
broken
me

Have you got yourself an American boyfriend? her friend asks. Why don't she find herself an American boyfriend if she is so fond of them? Old crackpot. Peering at my wallet to see if I stuffed someone's picture there. Now she's ribbing. That tape belongs to my niece. She lives in New York City.

Why are they surrounding me? My God. They're all of a party. Their coldness. The amused interest. The hostility. Don't they have more of the same tapes in New York? Surely they could send a box to the fucks of Digos? I wanted to ask.

What I really want to tell them is, Why do you want to tear my back?

There's no saving a man from a lifetime of wickedness. Says the Commodore to the Pirate. Ghastly weather. The Prince and the Pirate taking turns to save poor Elizabeth, now she cannot run.

We're done now, she says. Margot will take care of everything. I am bored. Past despair past complaint. Love an old sting I alone bit. Please tell Sheilfa thanks for translating my poem I think the translation is better than the original. Tribute. Tribute. Kindness. To love another person is to see the face of God. Really huh. Not to love is to hang one's bones in the desert. She takes back. Does that all the time. Like the poems she keeps on revising and revising. She takes back love and redistributes love. Who does she think she is the Red Cross?

All beginnings end. From end to end it ends. Between beginnings and endings it ends. I am lost. In the beginning and in the end. And in-betweens. Hell. Who is not.

But this pain of knowing. An iron spiral turning and turning. So some people choose not to think. So as not to hurt. All wounds are mental. The wound deepens as you think more and more. Would you rather love? I asked. She chuckles. I'd rather be a millionaire.

What nut would reply to a crazy crier wailing Have you seen La Stranger?
A hard nut.

That's what she is.
A hard nut to crack.

A nice try that.

This place. The air. Laced with the smell of sepsis. Would she weep if she finds out? Like she did when she found out her love was to die?

Oh here. My heres. Even the silences are heavy with blame.
Scabs on my skin. Scratch and they bleed. Stretch and they bleed. Dear Douglas, all wounds speak in the present tense. No such thing as phantom pains.

Sometimes I choke. In my own self-invented pains. For not having seen her lately.

Hey. Have you seen La Stranger?
Hey you have you? Have you? Hey hey!


October 01, 2010, a journal entry

You are

You are nothing beside me You are nothing beside me You are nothing beside me You are nothing beside me You are nothing beside me You are nothing beside me You are nothing nothing nothing nothing beside me You are nothing You are you are you are beside me nothing nothing nothing nothing beside me You You You You nothing beside me me me me me You are nothing nothing nothing beside me nothing beside me nothing beside me nothing You are nothing nothing nothing beside me nothing beside me nothing beside me nothing beside nothing beside nothing Yes You are. Nothing. Beside. Me. You are nothing nothing beside me nothing you are you you you

Noon, ngayon

"Inside the Party, everything. Outside the Party, nothing."


Parang balita sa kung saang baryo nanggaling. Ang broadcaster na medyo bobo at walang opinyon pa mandin ang nag-anunsyo. Ang pagkasabi pa, hiling ng Partido Komunista Pilipinas na pakawalan siya at ang kasama niyang hinuli, dahil pag hindi, hindi sila makikipag-peace talks sa gobyerno. Saglit akong napa-current events mode, pag-aakalang preskong-presko pa ang balita. Iyon pala noong Pebrero katorse pa nangyari. Heto ako hindi alam. Hunyo a-otso, at hindi ko pa alam. Naka-off mode lagi ang tenga sa kawalang-pakialam sa nangyayari sa santinakpan.

Jailed suspects. Ni hindi sinabi o hindi ko nahuli kung saan sila jailed, malamang sa Bicutan uli. Arrested on charges of rebellion and multiple murder. Parang bigla gumewang pakaliwa ang isip ko sa pag-ulit ng pangalan niya. Siya iyon, a. Kilala ko iyon, a. Siguro huli kong balita tungkol sa kanya o nanggaling sa kanya mga beinte-singko anyos na ang nakaraan. Nene pa ako noon. Sipunin, uhugin. Ngayon walang ni isa sa mga nakasama ko noon ang makakaalala na fren ko iyon noon. Ako lang. Tawag niya sa akin noon, Magai. Hiram na pangalan. At Diosme, siya lang ang tumatawag sa akin sa ganoong pangalan, nom de guerre mode! Sinerseryoso ako kahit noon, kung paanong sineseryoso niya lahat ng para sa rebolusyon.

Pero siguro nga, kahit siya man ay hindi na rin ako maalala ngayon.

Sabi ni Carlo, Ha? Partido ng Bayan? Parang muntik nang makalimutan na me ganoong partido nga pala noon. Oo nga, di ba bosing iyon? Taga-Politburo iyon a. Mga kahanay noon wala na, di ba?

Oo nga. Ano na kaya ang hitsura niya ngayong nandito pa siya samantalang ang mga kasama niya ay wala na. Wala na. Na ang ibig sabihin ay, namatay na, pumanaw na, nabaril ng kaaway o kaya ng kasama. Wala na. Kumbaga extinct na? O kung buhay pa nagtatago na lang, kipkip ng pamilya o ng ano pa mang sanay nakakamatay-hiya na anyo ng kaburgisan ngayon.

Sabi ni Jules, bakit ka anti-Party? Sinabi niya iyon pagkatapos niya akong paratangan na gusto ko lang yata mag-abroad, kunyari lang mag-deliver ng paper on feminism, iyon pala maghahanap lang ng Puti na mapapangasawa. Gago siya. Lesbiana na ako noon at di alam na sa lintek na mga mayayamang bansang maaapakan ay legal ang gay marriage e ano saken. Kung hindi ako naniniwala sa kasal at pag-aasawa sa loob ng kilusang mapagpalaya e di lalo na sa labas.

Ano nga bang anti-party activities ang nagawa ko at inakusahan ako ni Jules na anti-Party? Ang mamasyal sa abroad at mag-CP bashing? Siyempre liberalismo iyon. Bourgeois liberalism. Ang mga matitibay na dating miyembro ng Politburo na nage-engage sa ganoong aktibidad tinutugis, ina-assassinate. Buti na lang maliit na langaw lang ako, di kilala, di pinapaniwalaan. Di rin agad masino o matamaan. Buti na lang mas kilala akong sira-ulo, mas mapapatawad nila iyon, marami sa hanay nila ang ganoon. Mas hindi nila ako mapapatawad pag sikat akong kongresista-feminista na hindi nagpapabola sa kanila. Pero kasalanan pa rin iyon, ang mag-engage sa kritisismo sa harap ng mga feminista radikal na dati nang walang tiwala sa kanila. Kasi nga, Inside the Party everything, Outside the Party nothing. Ang magsulat ng sanaysay na nagsasabing dapat pursigihin at ipaglaban ng kababaihan ang kanilang agenda at huwag iasa sa male leadership ng Partido dahil hangga’t ang Gabriela ay male-led at male-guided, walang seryosong pag-aaral at pagsasabuhay ng equality of the sexes na mangyayari sa kilusan, natdem org first of all ang Gabriela at pangalawa lang ito feminist org. Kelan ko ba sinabi iyon, noong panahon yata na hindi pa masamang-masama ang tingin ng mga taga-Partido sa feminismo. Bago sumikat si Lady Gaga, gagang iyon pahamak. Noong wala pang maraming uri-uri at klase-klase ng feminismo sa Manila Zoo. Noong wala pang Sarah Raymundo na nagkakalat ng balita na ang feminismo ay bastardang anak ng putang post-modernismo dahil nga hindi pa siya ipinanganak noong ang mga feminista sa kilusan ay nasa prente ng tunggaliang uri. Ano nga ba iyong paratang ni Sarah Raymundo sa kababaihan? Sabi niya, ang mga feminist raw, nagsasabi, Ay, hindi ako kasali diyan, hindi naman ako manggagawa e, sa women naman ako. Anak ng palakang buntis. Pinasan ng kababaihan ang lahat ng digma ng kalalakihan na parang kanila rin, kahit hindi sila nakikita, hindi nasisikatan ng araw, tapos ganun lang ang sasabihin ng most trusted women cadres bilang pasasalamat sa lahat ng hirap nila? Murder. Murder iyon. Femicide. Pa'no mga taga-Isis lang yata ang kinikilalang feminista e mga fashion models iyon. Si Aida Santos hindi feminista sa kanila siguro dahil matanda kaysa kay Kongresista at di hamak na mas matalino kaysa kay Senadora-Sana. At least si Wilhelmina tinantanan na nila, di na masiyadong tinatawag na big-mouthed feminist. Siguro dahil hindi na siya middle-class after na tinakwil at dinisown ng mother-in-law niya. Saan na kaya iyon? Huling balita namumudmod ng flyers tungkol sa pagbagsak ng Twin Towers. Mamamatay yatang pamphleteer iyon, hindi paparangalan ng Gabriela iyon. Radfem, their all-purpose flour na pangtabon sa ayaw nilang angkinin at kilalaning mga babae. Tsupi. Lalo na't ikaw ay naging lesbiana. Naku, double jeopardy nga naman kapag ang pinakamahuhusay sa hanay ay hindi na nila puwedeng asawahin at anakan.

Wala kang magawa. E sa ganun na. Ganun na ka anti-feminist ang mga taong Partido ngayon. Isisisi sa mga tumiwalag na mga babae ang kakulangang pag-aari at kagagawan nila. Hay, si Kongresista. Susugurin ang Tambara office para magmura at bakit na-publish ang kawalang basis raw na mga paratang. Sino ba ang lecheng iyan, wala naman iyang karanasan sa women organising, walang exposure sa masa. Kaya di ko raw gagap ang kalagayan ng kababaihan. Punyetang feminismo iyan kung ang tingin nila sa masa ang bobobo para magagap ang usaping di-pagkakapantay-pantay ng kasarian. Tagos hanggang siglo beinte-uno ang galit niya. Nanalo na lang uli ng upuan sa Kongreso nagmumura pa rin. “Ano? Mago-organisa siya ng mga lesbiana sa Dabaw??? Hah. Kakain siya ng bato!” Buti na lang nakilala ko na si Rimbaud bago ako napagsabihan noon, alam ko na na nakakain nga ang bato, good for the bones, parang calcium. Ano nga uli ang sinabi ni Rimbaud tungkol sa dietang bato? Baklang iyon. I only find within my bones a taste for eating earth and stones. Vongga! Vongga si kapatid!

Wala. Wala kang maasahan sa mga naiwan. Mga kadre ng rebolusyon dekada sisenta, karamihan ay nangibang-layon na. Nangibang-laya. Si Gene, halimbawa. Malas lang niya, nag-asawa uli, pesante na mercantile petiburgis pa mandin na hindi nagbabasa, wala, hindi niya mabasbasan ng PSR ni Joma kahit kelan, siya pa ang inorganisa at iminulat sa katotohanan ng di-mabuwag na pyudalismo na kung saan siya ang atubiling amo. Pa’no mo mumulatin iyong taliwas sa ipinapangaral mo ang karanasan, iginawa pa niya ng palasyo, engot siya. Material conditions dictate!

Pero paano ba ang makulong sa pangatlong pagkakataon, at sa edad na sitenta sa panahon ng pagkagapi ng pandaigdigang kilusang rebolusyunaryo. O hindi siguro pagkagapi. Pagkabundol-bundol lang. Recession ngayon, salamat sa march forward ng capital with capital C. Dispersal pa ng mga puwersa, kaya siguro nasa hanay ako ng mga feminista radikal natapon, at hindi sa mga babae nila. Mga babae nila. Mga propesyunal na galing burgis na eskuwela at mas burgis na pamilya at pag-aasawa, anak ng tokwa, mas working class pa ako sa mga iyon, hindi mabubuhay ng walang katulong at labandera ang mga iyon a. Pero siya, saan siya? Bosing, sabi ni Carlo. Nasurvive niya ang purge pero wala siyang nagawa nang mangyari iyon. Na ibig sabihin ay marami siyang hindi nasalba, hindi natulungan, kung kaya nga kung buhay pa ako ngayon, hindi ko iyon utang sa kanya. Buhay pa ang marami sa amin ngayon with or without his Partido and despite his Partido. Sabi ni Raffy, hindi siya makakilos, nag-iisa siya e. Kasi tahimik. Wala siyang magawa noong pinagpapaslang ang da bes by da worst in us. Kasi nga tahimik. Ganun naman lagi. Nilulunod ng mga maiingay ang tahimik. Pinapatahimik at pinapatay lalo. Pero iyong buhay pa rin siya at nandito pa rin, napakamahalagang datos iyon. Iyon halimbawa mga kadreng Moro na kaibigan niya, nangibang-linya na lahat. Maktol to death sa kilusan. Parang ako. Pero bigla, sa pagkahuli niya, parang pause ako. Rewind to dekada otsenta. At bigla ay parang napakaliit ng naging mundo ko. Pati gutom at mga katraydoran ng mga sanay kasama sa pakikibaka parang bigla nakalimutan ko. Pati pagkalesbiana ko bigla hindi ganoon kamahalaga. Mahihiya akong aminin sa kanya na ang mahal ko ngayon ay isang tagos-hanggang-buto na burgis na mercantile petty capitalism pa yata ang pinanggalingan at mahal ko lang dahil mas pinapalaya ako kaysa sa minamahal.

At ang mga mamamatay ko kahapon ay kaibigan kasama ko uli ngayon? Punyetang rebolusyon. Sabi ni Lualhati, tutal pare-pareho raw kami na hindi na integrated sa Party work pero gusto pa ring makatulong na itulak pa ang Party work kaya we can work together to do something more. At least alam at naiintindihan ng walanghiya na gaano man kaliit ang ginagawa ko, at gaano man ka “anti-Party”, nakakapagsilbi pa rin sa punyetang rebolusyon. Oo nga naman. Ang mga salot ng buhay ko at gagamitin na naman ako, kikiskisin hanggang buto. Naku. Mag-aapoy ako. Sisilab ang disyerto.

Kailangang mabuhay.

Sometimes you feel like you are on the run. Against capture. On charges of insanity, madness, acuity, maybe conceit, hubris certainly, or just sheer intelligence which most people don't have the forbearance, the patience, the training, the exposure maybe, to withstand.

Dear Menses

Dear Menses, thank you for visiting me, I had been trying to forget you these last couple of months and just when I thought I had discharged you for good, you suddenly pay me a visit. Please don’t be mysterious: I have no time to play games like that. We are not getting any younger.

They say there are only two sexes: male and female. Then the more you know, the less you know about the sexes. Some say it is bio-chemical; some say it’s just genital: you either have gonads or clits. Then others say it’s chromosomal, you are either XY or XXY. And then there’s hormonal: it’s about the amount of estrogens or progesterones in your system that you either have the temper of a man or a woman. I once thought it’s political, and so I liked to tell people my chosen sex is lesbian, dyke, and that’s not female okay? And then these days when my menses just left me or at least took a leave of absence without a by-your-leave, I started growing a mustache.

You guys out there, tell me: Is it a triumph of science or of politics?



Why I Don't Like Going to Parties

Do heterosexual women care about discussing sexual inequality between men and women? Do they care about analyzing the oppression that one woman in their midst undergoes and sees well? Why must I go with men-identified women when I can have better company. By all means I prefer going and partying with women-only groups. That includes lesbians and trans, no bisexuals. Why?

Because in this company the conditions that ruin me and the party are not there. The things that I have to put up with when with heterosexuals do not exist! I know it's crazy, but you see, without guys around I don't have to be constantly on my guard, twist this way and that and betray myself just to keep away from trouble.

In heterosexual settings there will always be a guy who will speak to me as though to a giant mold, like I'm not a human being but a cat on its paw. There will always be a guy who will insult me directly or indirectly, even when I mean to be pleasant to him and speak to him but not in sexual terms. To refuse to flirt with a man doesn't mean I am being unpleasant or overbearing. For me it's just the better way to make a better time of it.

In heterosexual parties, there will always be guys who devour our space that we can't even talk among ourselves. Of course we can speak up to them and ask them not to interrupt us, and sure they will shut up, then we can go on talking. And then this man arrives, and he is cool. He doesn't address us, he just sits right next to us and starts to sing or drum his fingers on the table or drag the chair against the floor, and moves up and down the aisle and yells or stretches himself up or calls a girlfriend or gets himself called by a girlfriend and so on. In other words, there will always be this guy who cannot take it if we do not pay any attention to him.

In these weird heterosexual settings, there will always be people who would look at me like I am some animal from the zoo; who will stare at me as I kiss another woman, to see how I do it, or how I eye the woman, as though I would salivate, like I were some porn spectacle. Worse, there will be guys who would want to participate, guys who would carry on like they could brush bodies with me and be thanked for it!

In these mixed parties, being as I am, lesbian and feminist, there will always be men, and women too, who would go to me and tell me kindly to watch my manners; that as a lesbian I take myself too seriously or make myself too visible, too masculine, too offensively stereotypical; or that for a lesbian I look or act too feminine, or show too much skin, and that I make the heterosexuals uncomfortable.

There will always be people who would tell me that for a feminist I am too aggressive, that I am so quiet, so without humor, too rude, too victimhood, too violent, all the stupid accusations. In short, in these mixed groups, there will always be people “in the norm” who say to me very nicely and very sincerely how necessary it is for lesbian not-in-the-norm Me to always include them in my universe: to always think of them in my words and actions that they may not feel offended, harassed, excluded, alienated, and threatened; that they will be pleased, too!

These “normal” good heterosexual people will always tell me to please hush up hold my tongue; that it is better to leave what I want said unsaid, to leave my questions and demands unasked, because they already know them, and understand them, understand them better than I do, because they know me and understand me. In other words, because I'm a lesbian I'm supposed to have a limited understanding of the universe, even of the lesbian universe that I know, that I live, which they did not live! They know better and they understand better even if they have only reflected about my questions and complaints since two hours ago, because being myself, I do not really go to every party and gathering asking questions and making demands, knowing that I have been invited to their parties and gatherings to be entertained, not to be offended or displeased and have reasons to complain!

But how can I. In these mixed-group parties, there will always be a stuffed guy who will not leave me alone, some rotten brat that I too will have to look after, the poor dear, or I will be in trouble. Some guy who will threaten and harass me if I take no notice of him.

And in these same mixed parties, there will be nice guys, too. Cool guys who do not yell and maybe do not drink, but who will be the ones to reprimand me ever so kindly. Nice guys who do not turn violent but who will violate my being me just the same, with their gentlest words and priestly demeanor. Under these conditions even my close pals do not come to my side to defend me but withdraw because they themselves are not far from thinking that I really am impossible: I belong to another planet, another race, because, for God's sake, when am I ever going to start thinking about other people's rights to exist, too? When am I ever to start thinking that they have feelings, too, that they are legitimate, too???

And in these mixed parties there would be friends who are themselves not just lesbophobes but also sexists and racists and bigots who froth in the mouth and that ruins my day just by arriving and seeing them, more so when they come near me and start broadcasting. Braggarts and bigots who just at the sight of me with my women or lesbian friends will turn in the head and provoke me with their jokes and their sniggers, that i may turn on them so that they may have reason to insult me and drag me out of the territory. Guys who will go mad if I don't reply to them or if I reply to them unkindly if they talk to me as though to a hole. Guys who will freak out if I ignore them or if I don't look at them when I am having an interesting discussion with my friends. Guys who can't stand the look of lesbian Me, guys who can't tolerate it if I don't lower my eyes, or if I don't smile, when I speak to them; guys who can't abide it if I don't leave the party at the moment they want me to leave.

So I can only go to non-hetero parties, where I can quietly entertain myself, and lower my guard, knowing that with women and lesbians and trans like me, I don't have to worry about how I will survive the night with my spirit in tact, just be myself and enjoy myself, because I know that those around me will not speak to me as "to a woman" or "to a homo" or "to a lesbo". In this company, no one will speak to me so as to put me in "my proper place" because I am not behaving myself. I can dance for as long as I like without a guy saying I jumped at him, and I can dress myself up anyway I like, or disappear behind a door.

Then I can be as I am and be touched by those I allow to touch me, or touch someone I like, or kiss and be kissed or go to bed with anyone I like or who likes me.

(lifted and translated from a french text, with thanks to aude of gendertrouble.com)

Do not double-blade me

Farisha is confused. I told her do not double blade me i hate bisexuals and want them dead. Her eyes stopped dead in their sockets. She had said to me she got married because to her surprise a boy liked her. She heard I and Berkis are getting along and setting up a lesbian organisation and wanted to join. Take me in, I’m double-blade, she said. The way she put it, you would think she’s a slasher two-way and had to be applauded twice for it. I spat the bi word and hissed at her face like I saw double-traitor and she froze afraid. Like I was some lunatic she does not know the name of.

I know her from way back, some 15 years ago, maybe more. I was with Mimi. I was to design a health survey for an intervention they were going to do at Takut-Takut, the slum area in downtown Jolo right by the Mosque. The same Mosque GMA wanted to step into, which the Muslim community opposed, which angered the Bishops-Ulama-Conference bigwigs, which made many a Catholic priest not forgive, and so on and so forth. It’s about one edifice in the entire town that still stands big and tall amidst all the garbage surrounding it, but when it rains the waters can go neck-deep everyone had to navigate by rubber boat to go by.

It was a much happier time when we all first got together in 1996. Maybe 1997. Mimi was facilitating the syeyring sessions and we each one of us had been asked to bring something, an object, a picture, whatever that would stand as metaphor of our self. I am a tree, Faring had said. Storm-ravaged, but I am still here. I am this dry twig, Olive Makayug, so-called because she was thin like a reed, said, showing a picture of a leafless branch with a tiny green on its end. Olive  Matambuk, because she was fat, showed us a picture of a refrigerator. I am this because I only keep fresh things. Rotten things – my husband’s unfaithfulness, the way she used to beat me, all the ugly things I had to put up with before – I throw away. I keep only the good things.

Mimi cued me later. Shi, did you notice? The two of us we both chose flowers? Maybe we are no longer the sore thumbs we used to be? She chose Sunflower, because she likes bright happy things, she said, face always sunward. I chose a wild rose for its thorns because I wound those who get close to me, I had said. But what surprised us was Tina. Whom we thought had a terribly low self-esteem. Because there was talk she was a family abuse case, progressive present tense. But Tina showed us a picture of a shampoo girl, long black hair wavy behind her. Malingkat ha, malingkat. She kept on saying. She’s beautiful, she’s beautiful, isn’t she. I want to be like this, I am like this, beautiful. We all were stunned into uneasy silence. Then Sheena spoke up and showed us a rock rough and sharp. Lord, that girl. I am a rock! Mimi enthused. A tomboy, is she?

Now back in Jolo I could not find Sheena. Who was that girl who said she was a rock? I asked Berkis. Berkis could not remember. Now she cannot sleep without Valium. I blame Mimi. She was the one who first gave her the prescription. Medical practitioners’ quick-fix, I accuse. I cannot recall Berkis’ metaphor. I brought a poster of Kurt Cobain, she now tells me. Which I must have rejected then as noisy music punk rock star. And a suicide case at that. I was a relapsed Catholic. Hated drug addicts. Suicide cases more so.

You used to be pretty, Shi, Berkis now tells me. And sweet. I thought she was going to say I used to be so self-righteous. But it is she who has become so conservative. A recidivist Islamist, I tell her, but the phrase escapes her. Now she refuses to read, refuses to hold pen and paper, refuses to use a computer. Interchanges "kung" with "kong", also "ask" with "us". Every other day she threatens to go back to the Bangsa Moro rebolusyon, kill an American soldier, kidnap a thieving colleague, bomb a peace conference.

It was so much better when people did not have school learning, they did not know how to steal, she argues, for the nth time. Her educated friends, she says, now tell her: If you don’t change your ways and forget about principles, Berkis, you will die from hunger. So now she is under her friends’ employ and calls them names -- baisan, kawatan, gahaman and so on.

So what happened to that girl who said she is a rock? I ask Berkis.
Which one, Shi? Hindi ko ba maalala.
Your Valium-addled brain, I say.
Farisha remembers. That was Sheena. The two of them used to go out together.
Yes, Sheena. The tomboy.
She got married.
She got married?
Yes. And died a year after. She haemorrhaged to death.

I can’t recall if they said the baby was a girl or a boy, and whether it lived or died.