I don't even know somebody's reading my work

HISTORY OF THE BLOG

Two years ago, I had a mental breakdown that of course, my parents doesn't know (but I reckon they felt it) because it's not my thing to be communicative nor say what I feel. In either way, nobody will ever care. I grew up with apathetic parents.

HOW IT ALL GOES DOWN

So I had a second Facebook account that does nothing but to talk of my poetic angst. Looking back, it sounds like a middle-schooler's diary—but I never wouldn't mind. I just know that I need to let it out, for I lack a circle that can console what I feel. I am aware that a twenty-year-old woman is far too early for doing anything crazy; though sometimes I am thinking about being a rebel myself (but never had a courage to try).

So what I did was to write, write, write.

WELCOME, LOSERS!

So far, I already have a 1,000 page views this month. ONE. THOUSAND. PAGEVIEWS. Perhaps, I need to be more responsible with my words here. Well, I lack followers and each blog entires have no comments but as a devil-may-care word spitter, I need to be careful in what I utter, which emotion will I let out, or what perspective will I share to common readers. My blog starts to receive (somewhat decent) amount of page views. Congratulations, self!

"Meh" mood

“The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.”

― Elie Wiesel

The Tale of the Unknown

I control the information I share on any media. However, I hate those who makes a string of inaccurate stories about me just to fill the gaps they don't understand. They are not supposed to understand.

I'm starting to think everything can backfire on me any minute now. Where's my plan?

We cannot grow if we are not ready to be uncomfortable. Accept the chaos.

At the very least, I should have an idea what I'm doing—but I am running back to what I've started, trying a leap in a fake progress. Wrapping my head around a career building at the expense of crushing other people makes me feel substandard.

I'm human and I have a couple of morals. Please pretend to be surprised.

Paghihintay.

Magkikita rin tayo. Sa pagitan ng mahinhin at malandi, mahalaga at di mahalaga, mini skirts at make up, matataas na gusali at kapitalistang banyaga, kasabay ng lahat ng obligasyon, at ambisyon na mayroon tayong dalawa. Nangangarap kasi tayo--sobrang taas, na hindi ko alam kung may puwang ba talaga ako para sa iyo. Kung naiisip mo pa ba ako, hindi ko alam. Magkikita rin tayo.

Sa ngayon, mangarap ka muna.

POEM: The Ladder

My eyes are starting to wander,
let my mind grow asunder!
I wear so much shame in my head.
but gods must've love to see me bled
or, I don't know.
maybe its a responsibility they bestowed.
( must I lay myself upon their Pantheons? )
I don't care anymore,
let thy name lose its reputation,
somebody should stop settling the score.
there's nothing really special up the ladder.


(Danica Ann Niegas)

People and Choices

“Neither of those men realized your worth,

because you failed to value yourself highly enough.

A man does not know a woman’s value.

She is the one who determines her value.

The higher you price yourself,

the more he will realize what you are really worth…”

( Woman at point Zero, Nawal El Saadwi )

------- 0o0o0o0 ------

When people walks up to you, their first impressions of you will stick in them. Some may be satisfied by what they see, others not. Some lunatics might follow you around, know every corners of you and even chase who you are and why do you act as such. It doesn’t stop. The extent of a man’s determination to know your soul is both pitiful, charming, and impressive—all at the same time.

But there will be a time when you can’t hold the game anymore—that you need to put your foot down so the truth will eventually spit out. It’s not that you’re whining, nor demanding; not even in the slightest hint that you are being cruel. It’s just that in relationships, people must know where they stand. Who you are in their lives. Which parts are real and which are lies.

People without labels are only better off in their separate ways. At least, they can play their dangerous games without hurting each other so much. 

Lumpiang Hangin

Sa pagkabagot noong isang alas-dos nang hapon

Humiling ang isip ko ng kaunting atensyon

Kaya’t suot and kupas na damit at tsinelas

Kahit hindi ko alam kung saan, naisip kong maglakad.

Minsan hindi sa pagpaplano makahahanap ng solusyon

Hayaan na lang natin ang paa’y mahapo

O makakuha ng ideya sa pagsosolo

Makahanap ng lugar ang modernong bandido

Nakailang kanto pa lamang

Mga mata ko’y naumay agad

Sa halos dalawang dekadang paghakbang

Iisang tanawin pa rin ang madaratnan—

Ang tindahan ni Lola Baneng sa labas ng eskinita;

Sa aming lugar siya ang Panginoong May Lupa

Kahit sa katandaan naaninag pa rin ang ganda

Ngunit sabi ng ilan ay tumanda nang dalaga.

Ang kapilya kung saan ako lumaki

Makita ko agad sa aking pagtawid

Kilala ako nang lahat ng pumupunta dito

Mula bata, hatak-hatak ni nanang tuwing Linggo.

Kumaliwa sa katabing kabahayan

Naglakad kahit pudpod na ang swelas

Dito raw matatagpuan ang tindahan

Nahahanap ang masasarap na lumpia.

Sa pakiramdam ko’y hindi naman ako pagod

Ngunit tila ang dila’y nais na ring magtrabaho

“sige na nga”, utal sa sarili

Hinatak ako ng aking paa sa isang lamesang may tabing

“oh, ikaw na ba yung anak ni Ralf?”

Dalaga ka na ah! Bulalas ng isa.

Anong gusto mong bilhin? Nagugutom ka ba?

Isa pong samalamig, at isang lumpia.

Ilang taon ka na iha? Anong year mo na?

Hindi sila magkamayaw sa kanilang bisita.

Kamukha ko daw si papa, sabi nang lahat.

Lalo na’ng dalawang tindera sa aki’y tuwang-tuwa.

Masarap ang samalamig;

Matamis, maraming sago

Malamig, maraming yelo

Sa ginaw ay parang lumuluha ang lalagyang supot

Pagkagat ko sa lumpia

Ako ba’y iiling o tatawa?

Sabay sa pag nguya ibinaling ang tingin

Ang hindi ko nabasa sa karatula’y “Lumpiang Hangin”.

Para saan pa ang suka kung wala namang toge?

Bakit hindi ko nasulit ang tangan kong bente?

Naisip ko tuloy na lugi ako sa dose

Balat lamang ang aking nabili

Hindi na ako nakinig sa kanilang bali-balita

Sa likot ng isip tinitigan ko ang Lumpia

Bakit nga ba binibenta ang Lumpiang Hangin?

Nakabubusog ba ang balat kong nakain?

Kung nagsasalita lamang ang Lumpiang Hangin

Kakausapin nya ako’t manghihingi

Ngunit wala ako ng kanyang hanap na toge

Na pupunan sa kanyang pagkakakilanlang pagkain

Kung makikipag-usap ito, siya’y tatanungin ko rin:

Anong pakiramdam nang wala kang silbi?

Patuloy kang ibebenta sa ilan

Ngunit alam ng lumpia na sila’y nadadaya

Sa malutong na balat at walang lasang harina

Sa taglay na lutong may mga nabubulag

Pagkatapos ng magandang usapan

Hindi ko nasabing ako’y nadismaya

Salamat na rin sa lumpiang walang laman

Naisip kong ako’y katulad rin pala nya.

Lumakad muli at nagmasid

Bukas ang isip ngunit mga bibig ay pinid

Hindi ko nasabing wala akong napala

Sinalubong ako sa kalsada ng libu-libong ideya.

Pagdating sa bahay naupo sa isang lamesa

Kumuha ng papel, inihayag ang karanasan

Masaya, dahil muli napagbigyan ko

Natalo ang pagkabagot noong isang alas-dos nang hapon.

BOOK REVIEW: Bright, Catholic, and Gay by Danton Remoto

Switch channels and change your tabloids—we are already tired of cold headlines and passive-aggressive remarks of public personalities. Media has been a way for different perspectives, including the miscued and over-the-top.

Luckily, we have something that oozes with brilliance and fresh ideas. A book with 21 essays, Bright, Catholic and Gay by Danton Remoto offers us witty, disturbing, and even provoking issues that keeps you intrigued until the last page.

Being known as a founder of Ladlad Partylist, the book focuses on LGBT about everything—political stands, successes, closet lives, and social “scarlet letters”. After reading this, conservative Filipinos will get the somehow full picture of LGBT life. What’s so unique about Remoto is his (or her, there’s no politically correct pronoun yet) narrative of how ordinary gayness is. Their love of God. Partners with risks of HIV.  Finding love. The harsh and unmoderated comments on the internet. Coming out and liberation. Everything.

Back cover

Aside from that, there are queer literature and erotic fiction featured, reviewed by Remoto himself. As if a beginner’s book, it propels the readers to dig deep into the life of pink warriors. Easy-read yet sensitive, it excites you have a leap of faith delving to the almost outcasts.

Personally, I don’t have a lot of gay/lesbian friends because I barely have friends at all (haha). My circle of networks are small and neat. However, the “pink community” amuses me a lot, and the book has become a way to understand them better. They have an equally colorful lives, maybe more. Fighting against the common stereotypes, they bravely shed denial, shame, guilt, and self-loathing. As a feminist (yes, you read it right), we are in the same page on sickening gender biases and our supposed “place” in the society.

(The Breakfast Club, 1985)

Gathering his stories from all walks of life, Bright, Catholic—and Gay is a fresh look on LGBT life… from shadows, out into the light.

The Blurred Vision Disorder

        Ushering him outside the museum, she could almost feel his irritation. His anxiety like his emotions are now her clattered bones, as they both strut against the pale ample marbles beneath the soles of his shoes, her heels. Their footsteps jive with the hushes of people, whispering here and there, over the artworks, arguing and praising over sculptures and paintings, with a  companion or a mere stranger. The couple has always been this silent; and whenever they are not, they’ve been arguing.

            With sweaty palms and cold hands, she attempted to reach for his shoulder, like a child keeping up with her mommy, trying to apologize, while he hastened his steps against the col pavement. Yet, with the repulsiveness of both of their behavior, an amusing smile dashes across her perfect lips; because then, with the last remarks she heard, feigning anger is much harder to restrain.

            Amused and entertained, she tried to keep the private joke to herself—because at least, she knew a secret that finally, cannot fathom his sharp senses.

-------- 0o0o0o0 -------

            The sizzle from the ignited match always revived the same memory.

            James, 36, has been living with stiff ethical values. Before he lived with his family, with a wife and two kids, he lived in a voiceless, sanitized apartment with his solitude, commandeering his television set and cold furnitures. No pet greets him. He had no friend across the neighbor. No exchange of pleasantries. Always busy with his thoughts, he walks like a zombie, with glazed eyes and a mumbling mouth. James dashes himself into the corporate society every day, as his tie dangles around his neck like a noose, strangling him into an exhausting day, making himself a guinea pig in a tiresome treadmill. A taxi has always been waiting at the footsteps of the building, catering him and the rest of the high-salaried slaves of the city.

            He is always aware of his own legacy, his own name. He claims, that the confined spaces of his own workplace is the only thing worthy of his aesthetic, imaginative viewpoints.

            On a tiring Monday of December 2002, while the wind pass upon their puffy cheeks, as he lit a matchstick to puff an air to his cigarette, his wife finally pose a concern she’s itching to ask for months.

“Museum?”

“Yes, museum.”

“BAH! Why do I need to?”

“Nothing. Just trying to make you flesh and blood.”

-------- 0o0o0o0 -------

          He forgot his eyeglasses.

            Stomping around the halls, James entertained no colors and figures around the museum gallery. With a grumpy face, he stalls, stares and walks away with the slightest mumble of discontent. I shouldn’t be here, he thought, while he keeps track of tomorrow’s list of mundane paperworks.

            He regrets forgetting his eyeglasses. He continues to cry the imperfections of the place, condemning and criticizing each artwork, not even dared to glance at the constellation of architectures at the ceiling; thinking, at his discretion, that the whole museum was an apparent misuse of money, space, vacant lots and Boysen inks.

            Finally, with an air of superiority against the hues around him, he stopped at a frame then finally complained to his wife, “Look at this painting! The work doesn’t clearly resemble any imaginative talents! The subject is boring, and meaningless! The focus of the painter is at the wrong spatial perspective, and his subject is wrinkly, boned to death, and had a poor stance!”

           

            An amusing smile dashes across his woman’s perfect lips. Amused and entertained, she tried to keep the private joke to himself. If only he knew, that the last thing he tried to demean, and that he loathe most, considering as the worst work of art, was a huge mirror showing his own reflection.